#but she just. it happened on tuesday and forty-eight hours later she was dead | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

recurring-polynya · 4 years ago

Note

For the AU request, whichever one(s) you prefer (for RenRuki of course):

the X-Men universe

the Mafia/criminal underworld

the circus

as FBI agents (the X-Files world perhaps)

So, I got this ask, and I immediately wanted to go for X-Files, because I was hugely into X-Files when I was a tween/teen, and I think that my actual first published work of fanfic on the internet might actually be X-Files. (I didn’t even post it myself, I was like 12 and I didn’t have the internet at home, but a friend of mine posted it on Usenet for me, I have no idea whatever became of it). Anyway, I was going back and forth in my head who I wanted to be Mulder and who I wanted to be Scully, and then I got this ask:

@ulkoilla said:

I though the 10 would be full in about 1 microsecond so I didn’t even try :D This is maybe not AU enough for the purpose but I'd love to see your take on Bleach world where the shinigami work among humans as if they were in gigai -> they'll have to balance the supernatural, perhaps violent elements of their life with the modern day laws and such (like in Supernatural). Renji and Rukia have ofc gotten in trouble with the non-supernatural law (meet: Detective!Aizen?) and are on the run…

It suddenly occurred to me, What If: X-Files World, but Renruki are the cryptids. And it suddenly popped into my head exactly who I wanted to be Mulder. Anyway, I am sorry missrambler, if I messed it all up, I hope you like it anyway.

Also, I somehow thought that I would save myself some trouble by combining two prompts, but then it ended up… really long. (Forty! Eight! Hundred! Words! Go to Talks-Too-Much-Jail, Polynya!!)

PS: This takes place in D.C. because it’s X-Files and also because I am familiar with D.C. and I never get to write about places I know about. A half-smoke is a local delicacy that’s halfway between a hot dog and an Italian sausage. They are delicious.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

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Ichigo Kurosaki had known that an office with a view of the Smithsonian might be too much to ask, but he had not expected to take have to take two separate elevators down to sub-basement C, and walk past a storage room, two broom closets and a weird old vending machine full of brands of snacks he swore he hadn’t seen since he was a child.

Maybe Agent Inoue has a huge lab, he told himself. Maybe it needs to be 50 meters below ground because she collides large hadrons down here or so that her work can’t be picked up by spy satellites.

He had to turn sideways to get past a rack of wire shelves full of banker’s boxes, but there, on the other side was a door sporting a handwritten cardboard nameplate reading “Special Agent Orihime Inoue.”

“Come in!” a voice called inside, just as he raised his hand to knock on the door.

Ichigo blinked twice, and then went in.

The office was cluttered, mostly with more cardboard boxes, but books were also stacked precariously on top of boxes on top of books. The walls were plastered with maps and graphs and photographs of hazy blurs in front of staircases. There was a large poster showing a UFO, with the words “I WANT TO BELIEVE” in block caps below it.

A woman with long chestnut hair twisted up into a bun and held in place with three pencils was hunched over a metal box full of diodes and transistors and other things you would buy at Radio Shack. Or rather, that other people would buy at a Radio Shack. Ichigo had never set foot in a Radio Shack in his life.

“Er, good morning,” Ichigo said, as the woman looked up and blinked at him owlishly. “Agent Inoue? I’m Ichigo Kurosaki. I’ve been assigned to work with you.”

“To spy on me, you mean,” Agent Inoue corrected, cheerfully shaking his hand with great vigor.

Ichigo bristled. Yes, he had been directed to ‘provide additional documentation on Agent Inoue’s activities,’ but that hardly counted as spying. She was known to be somewhat scatterbrained, and having an organized person around would probably be a great benefit to her. “If you have any doubts about my qualifications or motivations--”

“Oh, don’t take it personally!” Inoue replied, slotting a lid onto her electronics project, and attacking it vigorously with a jeweler’s screwdriver. “Just because you’re a spy doesn’t mean you aren’t a nice person. Also, I read your file, you have a very interesting background! Degree in literature with a focus on folk legends. Teaching at the academy for the last few years while working on your book.” She took a momentary break from her screwing to fix him with her big, soft brown eyes. “Tell me, Agent Kurosaki, what do you think happens after you die?”

Ichigo froze. “I would be buried? Maybe there would be a funeral first?”

Inoue started laughing so hard that Ichigo was sure he caught a tiny, adorable snort. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t clear!” She sniffed, and wiped a tear from her eye. “Do you believe in continued existence after the death of the body? An afterlife, religion-based or otherwise? The existence of ectoplasm, cold spots, spirit photographs, EVP?”

“Are you talking about… ghosts?” Ichigo asked hesitantly.

“Yes!” Orihime replied with a nod. “Ghosts.”

“We-elll…” Ichigo drew out. “I believe that people believe they observe certain phenomena, as part of the cycle of grief and--”

“Just say ‘no’ if you don’t,” Inoue interrupted him.

“Er, no. I don’t.”

“That’s okay. Are you good at carrying heavy things?”

“Am I... I guess?”

“Perfect!” She shoved the box into his arms, and Ichigo’s knees almost buckled under the weight. “Let’s walk and talk, I want to go get a reading over near Franklin Square before 9 am. We’re gonna pass a really good half-smoke cart on the way, do you like half-smokes?”

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“Take a look at this,” Inoue said, her cheek half stuffed with sausage, jabbing a finger at the LED read-out of her mysterious box.

It was rather hard for Ichigo to see, because he was holding the box and the readout was on the other side, but he did his best to crane his neck around. “What am I looking at? The squiggles? I’m sorry, it looks like nothing to me.”

“Exactly right!” Inoue announced, waving her half smoke in the air. “Not a sniff of spiritual residue!”

Ichigo pressed his lips together. “Um… is that good?”

“It is interesting,” Inoue corrected. “Five days ago, a sixty-four year old woman had a heart attack while sitting in that bus shelter.” On every day since, I have been able to record EMF fluctuations, and on Sunday, I was able to get a voice recording that sounded like a woman reciting a grocery list. But this morning, nothing! Nada!”

“Well, uh, ghosts gotta move on eventually, right? Otherwise, just about everywhere would be haunted, right?” It’s not that Ichigo had suddenly started believing ghosts or anything, but there was something about Agent Inoue that just made you want to go along with her and see where all this panned out.

Inoue shot him a finger gun. “Or, they get moved along.” She shoved a folded paper map at him. “You can put that thing down.”

Ichigo eased the Spirit Detect-O 9000, or whatever it was called, to the grass and accepted her map. It was a street map of DC, meant for tourists, emphasizing all the local transit routes and popular attractions. There was also a great loop marked on it in orange highlighter, zig-zagging back and forth through the city. There was a little ‘x’ marked on Franklin Park, with “Tuesday, early morning” written in a bubbly hand.

“What is this?” Ichigo frowned. It didn’t seem to match up with any of the metro or bus lines. It didn’t even match with the sidewalks, it appeared to cut straight through large buildings like the convention center.

“As far as I can tell,” Inoue said, her brown eyes very solemn, “that is the patrol route of our local grim reaper.”

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“So I actually got interested in grim reapers,” Inoue explained, once they were back in the office, “while I was investigating violent ghost phenomena.” She was eating a bag of corn chips that she had gotten from that ancient vending machine by punching it and then shoving her own arm up the chute. (She’d gotten Ichigo a bag, too, but he was too afraid to eat them.)

Ichigo was sitting at a cluttered table that Inoue had told him “could be his desk.” Half of it was taken up by a large aquarium full of rocks and a water bowl, but no life forms that Ichigo could detect. The other half was covered with back issues of “Ghost Hunter Technology” magazine. “You mean like poltergeists?” he asked.

“Not exactly. Poltergeists are noisy, but they aren’t usually able to kill their targets.”

“Kill? Ghosts can’t kill people, aside from, like scaring them to death,” Ichigo scoffed. “I mean, folklorically speaking. As we established earlier, I am not a ghost-believer.”

Inoue tipped her head to the side. “They do, actually, it just tends to get blamed on something else.”

“By ghost-non-believers.”

“By everyone, really, and that’s what’s so strange.” Inoue pulled a fat binder from a stack of seemingly identical ones, and tossed it open in front of Ichigo. “Edison, New Jersey, 2014. An elderly woman dies ‘of a broken heart’ a week after her husband dies of cancer. Coincidentally, a telephone pole falls on her house the same night and rips a hole in her house.” She turned a page. “Norfolk, Virginia, 2017. A young woman dies in what the police rule as a suicide, despite the fact that she made a 911 call 48 hours previous, expressing fear of her ex-boyfriend. Three days later, the boyfriend is dead of mysterious causes. Coincidentally, his apartment complex suffered significant damages from ‘a wild cougar.’”

Ichigo squinted at the pictures. The walls of the building were scored with what did appear to be scratch marks. “Hell of a cougar.”

“Exactly! And I’ve got dozens of these historic cases. But about four months ago, I was able to investigate one myself-- a young man named Joe Wallace. He lives here in the city, over near Dupont Circle. Wallace had cut off his toxic dad years ago, and refused to visit him in the hospital as he was dying. Four days after his father’s death, a truck crashes into his house in the middle of the night and then drives away before the police can arrive.”

“And he died.”

“No!” Inoue held up one finger. “Scratches and bruises, but he doesn’t die!”

“Okay, great. So what does he remember?”

“He remembers a truck crashing into his house.”

Ichigo scratched his chin. “I am confused.”

“Look at this!” Inoue stabbed a finger at the pictures. “These are claw marks, not vehicular wreckage! There’s damage on the second story window! Wallace had scratches and defensive wounds, as if he had been fending off an animal! And look here, at the damage to the walls of the bedroom!”

“What am I looking at?” Ichigo asked, squinting at a photograph that looked like it had been blown up past the point of recognition.

“There were cuts and slashes in the walls and bedding as though someone had been fighting with a sword.”

“Like a Medieval Times sword? Was the guy a Medieval Times enthusiast?”

“More consistent with a katana. Do you like Medieval Times?”

“No one likes Medieval Times.”

“I like Medieval Times. You’ve probably never even been. But back to the ghost! Why would Wallace remember a truck crashing into his house, when nothing about the scene is consistent with that story?”

“He was...lying?”

“His memories were replaced.”

“His memories were replaced,” Ichigo echoed.

“Yes.”

“By… aliens?”

Orihime heaved a deep sigh. “By a grim reaper.”

“A grim reaper with a samurai sword.”

“How on earth did you come to this conclusion?”

Inoue raised one eyebrow. “Because when I placed him under hypnosis, Wallace didn’t remember anything about a truck. He did remember a monster with batwings and a mask made of bone and his dead father’s voice who tried to kill him, except that he was saved by a tall man dressed in black. The man had bright red hair and fought the monster with a sword that was also a whip and then he wiped Wallace’s memories.”

Ichigo stared at her. “You can hypnotize people?”

Inoue gave him a long-suffering face. Ichigo had the sudden flash that he was going to be seeing that face a lot in the days to come. “Yes, I am a certified hypnotist.” Inoue’s phone suddenly started playing “Tubular Bells”. “Oops, that’s an alarm. Come on, we have a meeting with some important people. Do you like diners?”

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Agent Inoue apparently did not care for public transit, but she walked very quickly. Ichigo was concentrating so hard on keeping up with her that he nearly collided with her back when she stopped very suddenly.

“You don’t mind if we make a quick stop, do we?” Inoue asked.

“You said the meeting was with important people.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them!” Inoue pursed her lips. “You see that bodega right there?”

They were in a part of downtown that was mostly mid-to-upscale restaurants and government buildings and FedExes. But sure enough, there was a dingy little bodega nestled between a Mexican-Indian fusion place and an Au Bon Pain, the windows stuffed with t-shirts from the last administration and a variety of cell phone chargers. The overhead sign read “Urahara Shop.”

“Y...eah…” Ichigo replied.

“That place is a hotbed of supernatural activity.”

“Is it?” Ichigo asked.

“I am almost positive that it is a supply point and meeting place for grim reapers, monster slayers, cryptids, alien hunters, and lycanthropes, but the owner is on to me.”

“I see,” Ichigo said levelly.

“Can you go in and pretend to be a customer? They have lots of good candy you can look through. Inoue dug in her purse and came up with a fiver. “Here. Buy a scratch ticket or something.”

“I’m not buying a scratch ticket, they’re a scam.”

“If the big guy is working the counter, he’ll glare at you until you buy something, so be prepared.”

As Ichigo pushed open the door, he realized he’d never actually agreed to any of this. Agent Inoue’s secret hypnosis powers, once again. Whatever. It was a bodega, there were a thousand of them in DC. They all had the same Nats t-shirts and coffee mugs with pictures of the Washington Monument on them. Ichigo pretended to be interested in a rack of comics. He tended to prefer indy comics over the big publishers himself, but even so, he didn’t recognize any of the books. Maybe they were by local authors.

Up at the front of the shop, a tiny, dark-haired woman was giving whatfor to the man behind the counter, a tall fellow with pale, straw-colored hair sticking out in tufts from under the saddest hat Ichigo had ever seen, a shapeless, battered bucket, striped green and white.

“Well, I can sell you a new battery for your phone, Miss Kuchiki, maybe that would help.”

“Not if it only lasts as long as the last one you sold me! I really need to get in touch with my partner, except that even if I could get my phone working again, his battery is probably dead because everything you sell is the same crap!”

“Ah, that’s too bad! You know, I think Mr. Abarai was in here a few days ago… I wasn’t in at the time, but Jinta said he came in, asking about…”

The man trailed off, and Ichigo glanced up to see the shopkeeper looking directly at him.

“...metrocards. But as you know, we don’t sell metrocards anymore.”

The woman made an aggravated noise. “You’re so useless! If I write him a damned note, will you give it to him if he comes in?”

“Oh, of course! Anything for you, Miss Kuchiki!”

The conversation trailed off as the woman hunched over the counter to angrily scratch out a note.

Ichigo stuffed the comic he was flipping through back on its rack. He skipped the enormous display of bedazzled flip-flops and started perusing the surprisingly extensive selection of gum.

“Here!” the woman finished and shoved her note at the shopkeeper. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Have a wonderful day!” the shopkeeper tootled, giving her a little finger wave.

Ichigo felt bad for the woman. “Er, excuse me?” he said as she passed.

She turned to scowl at him. For such a tiny person, she seemed to contain a remarkable amount of rage.

“Do you need to call someone? You can use my phone, if you’d like.” He held it out like an offering.

The woman blinked at him for a moment.

“I didn’t mean to be nosy! You were just kind of loud and you sounded worried about your, um, partner.”

“I’m not worried about him, I just need to find him.” Her face softened. “Thanks, Mister, but I can’t reach him on a regular phone. Don’t worry, I’ll track him down eventually.” She turned to leave, then stopped to jab an accusatory finger at Ichigo. “And that’s professional partner, not… you know! Whatever!” She stomped out.

What a strange, tiny person.

Ichigo selected a gum and walked up to the counter.

“Oooh, dragonberry lime, good choice!” the man trilled. “Anything else I can get you? Bottled water? Fanny pack? Spare phone battery?”

“I’ll pass,” Ichigo replied dryly.

“I imagine it’s against FBI policy to let a stranger use your cell phone,” the shopkeeper said sweetly.

Ichigo’s brows furrowed. “This is my personal phone. And how did you…?”

The man gave a chortling laugh that sent shivers down Ichigo’s spine. “Because headquarters is three blocks away and only an FBI agent would wear a suit that square.”

Ichigo took his change and his gum and shoved them both in his pocket. “Yeah, well, your hat sucks.”

The man laughed harder. “Doesn’t it, though?”

Once he was outside again, Ichigo handed Inoue the gum and her change. “The owner of that place is a creep.”

“The guy in the green and white hat?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Urahara. You’re right, he’s the owner. Were there any other customers?”

“Just the short lady. You must have seen her come out. She was ripping Urahara a new one for some dodgy cell phone battery he sold her. I think she must have been NSA or something. She said she was trying to get ahold of her partner, but she needed a special phone.” As he said it, Ichigo realized it would be pretty odd for an NSA agent to be buying cell phone batteries from some shady bodega.

“No one came out,” Inoue replied.

“She definitely did! I heard the bell over the door ring.”

Inoue regarded Ichigo very seriously. “Agent Kurosaki. I was standing here the whole time. You were the only person who went in or out.” She looked at the gum. “Ooh! Dragonfruit lime! Do you want some?”

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They were late to the meeting.

Two men were waiting for them in the back corner booth. One of them had pinched, pointy features and piercing blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His chin-length haircut was pretty dramatic, but not as dramatic as his pure white trench coat. A cup of black coffee sat on the faded Formica table in front of him, but it didn’t look like it had been touched.

His companion was an enormous, good-looking Latino who was shoveling pancakes into his face.

“Inoue,” the dramatic guy said. “Who’s this?”

“This is my new partner, Kurosaki,” Inoue replied. “Kurosaki, this is Uryuu Ishida,” she indicated the white trenchcoat guy, “and Chad,” Mr. Pancakes.

“Also known as the ‘Lone Archers,’” Ishida specified. “We are apolitical actors who are interested in revealing the truths that are regularly hidden from the general populace by secret forces that conspire within the machinery of the American government.”

“You can just call me Chad,” said Chad.

“Good morning!” the waitress said. “Can I get you folks anything?”

“Oh, yes! I’m getting mozzarella sticks! Do you like mozzarella sticks, Kurosaki? They’re so good here!”

“So’re the pancakes,” added Chad.

“I’ll just have a coffee,” Ichigo announced. He glanced at Ishida’s cup. “Black.”

“Double mozzarella sticks, please!” Inoue chorused. “And a cherry coke!” She leaned over to Ichigo and spoke out of the side of her mouth. “I’ll give you a mozzarella stick.”

“Do you want some pancake?” Chad offered to Ishida. “I never think to offer.”

Ishida waved him off with a hand. “Agent Inoue. At great personal peril, I was able to obtain a sample of the item we discussed.” He slid a small paper packet across the table. “There are two tablets inside, but one should be sufficient for your purposes.” Ishida leaned forward, his mouth set in a firm line. “I was cautioned very strongly against using this, unless one had a firm plan for handling the… consequences.”

“I understand,” Inoue replied, stuffing the envelope into her purse.

Ichigo wanted to ask more questions, but the conversation shifted very quickly to some USGS floodplain maps that Ishida wanted Inoue to obtain for him that were apparently not available from the public webportals, allegedly because of filesize. Ichigo could practically hear the air quotes around the word “filesize.”

“We’re going to look for Jersey Devils next weekend,” Chad explained, sounding pretty excited about it.

“There’s only one, Chad,” Ishida corrected. “It’s just ‘Jersey Devil.’”

“There could be more than one,” Chad shrugged.

Thirty minutes later, they departed. Inoue had an order of mozzarella sticks in her purse. Ichigo had an armload of backissues of the Lone Archers’ ‘zine, which was, conveniently enough, titled The Lone Archer. There was no doubt in his mind that at least Ishida was completely off his rocker. The jury was still out on Chad… he struck Ichigo as the sort of guy who just went along with Ishida’s nonsense because he was a good friend and also liked taking camping trips and doing layout for ‘zines.

“So what was that thing they gave you?” Ichigo pestered. The idea of that little paper packet had been burning a hole in his brain the entire time.

“You busy tonight?” Inoue asked, raising an eyebrow slyly. “Between 10 and 11?”

“What are we doing?” Ichigo asked cautiously, wondering if he would be able to charge his time.

“We’re going to try and attract an angry ghost.”

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“Are you… sure this is… a good idea?” Ichigo asked for the sixteenth time, as Inoue focused the thermal camera on him.

They were in an old, abandoned lot that had formerly served as a Metro service facility. It was pretty spooky all on its own, filled with train cars too dilapidated for salvage.

It was 10:25pm. Inoue had set up no less than 17 different pieces of ghost detection equipment. Ichigo was questioning his life choices.

“You told me you don’t believe in ghosts. If ghosts don’t exist, then what could possibly go wrong?” Inoue posed.

“Well… that’s true,” Ichigo granted. “And, for the record, I still do not believe in ghosts. But in the Pascal’s wager sense of things, I am considering the ramifications of what happens if there are ghosts that exist, regardless of my belief in them.”

“And?” Inoue asked.

“Well, you said that these ghosts have hurt and killed people before. It seems like trying to attract one without having any method of, um, fighting it, seems kind of… irresponsible?”

“Ah, but you see, I’ve specifically picked this time and location to coincide with the grim reaper patrol routes I’ve been mapping out. Our friendly neighborhood psychopomp ought to show up just on schedule to fight the angry ghost for us. We’re doing them a favor, as I see it.”

“How so?” Ichigo exclaimed.

“It’s not like we’re creating an angry ghost out of nowhere. We’re just attracting an existing one to our location. We’re saving the grim reaper the trouble of having to hunt it down.”

Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was it so difficult to argue with Inoue? Possibly because she was so incredibly earnest in all her beliefs, and all her arguments were in completely good faith, it’s just that her logic came from some other dimension. This woman has solved multiple, high-profile murders, including several that were ice cold, Ichigo reminded himself. So she’s quirky. I am sure I can learn a lot from her.

“Okay, everything is in place!” Inoue announced, placing her hand on her hips. “Go hide behind that pile of moldy seats!”

Inoue took Ichigo’s place at the center of her recording equipment. “Agent Orihime Inoue speaking,” she said, for posterity. “It is 10:28pm. I am crushing one tablet of a substance called ‘Hollow Bait.’” She crunched the little white tablet, which looked an awful lot like an Alka-Seltzer, between her fingers, and then made a flying leap for the rotting pile of damp, orange upholstery that Ichigo was crouched behind.

“So, just out of curiosity,” Ichigo started. “How long would we have to wait, theoretically, with nothing happening, before we would declare this a bust?”

Inoue pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Usually, I would give it about two hours, but if you’ve got somewhere to be, I don’t mind if you leave early. It is nice to have company for a change.”

“No, I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Ichigo replied. “I mean… sleeping, I guess.”

Inoue gave a charming little laugh. “I don’t sleep very well. And hunting for ghosts is more interesting than most of the stuff on Hulu.”

The way that she said it gave Ichigo the distinct impression that Inoue was, well, lonely. But that didn’t seem correct. She was weird, sure, but she was also friendly and talkative, and, er, well, she was extremely cute. Surely she had tons of friends.

“How’d you get into ghost hunting, anyway?” he tried to be conversational.

“Hmm,” Inoue hummed noncommittally. “Let’s just say there was an incident in my teen years, where my memories don’t match up to the property damage.”

Oh. Ichigo wondered if he should apologize, when suddenly, a cold chill ran down his spine and a sound like a roar echoed in his ears, except he didn’t actually hear anything. “Did you hear that?” he gasped.

“It’s the EMF detector,” Inoue nodded, scrambling for the reader and Ichigo realized he could hear a faint beeping.

“No, not the beeping, it was like a… a… scream…”

“You heard a scream?”

“I didn’t exactly…” Ichigo trailed off as he heard two more, coming from different directions. “There’s more than one. Monster screams. Not human screams.”

Inoue stared at him, eyes wide. “I don’t hear anything. Have you ever been tested for latent psychic ability?”

There was a sudden change in the air pressure, and a fetid, rotting smell, even worse than the Metro seats. Ichigo grabbed Inoue by the shoulders and rolled out of the way, just as the pile of junk they had been crouched behind compacted like it had been through a car crusher. Or smashed by a giant foot.

“Whoa!” Inoue exclaimed, trying to push Ichigo off of her so she could see what was going on.

Ichigo blinked through the night. He couldn’t see anything, but there was an area of space that looked thick and hazy, like it wasn’t refracting the harsh glow of the sodium street lights quite correctly.

“We have to get out of here,” Ichigo gasped.

“Can you see it?” Inoue asked, her eyes wide and excited.

“Not-- not really,” Ichigo replied, pulling at her arm. The air blurred, and Ichigo had the sense the thing was jumping at them. He could tell it was fast, but he couldn’t see it, he didn’t know what to--

“Howl, Zabimaru!”

It was both there and not quite there, a liquid blade made of glass and starlight, that snapped through the air at the invisible thing. The monster bellowed, and whipped around, charging at a dark figure standing atop one of the old Metro cars.

“Pick on someone your own size, ugly!” the man bellowed, and as Ichigo squinted, he realized that their savior was dressed all in black. He was tall, and his hair was pulled back in a spiky ponytail. It was bright red. He was also wearing sunglasses, even though it was the middle of the night. They were pushed up on top of his head, to be fair, but Ichigo had a feeling this detail would stick with him.

“You can see that guy, right?” Ichigo asked Inoue desperately. “The guy who’s fighting the ghost? The guy that looks just like the guy in your report?”

“There’s a guy?” Inoue asked. “No. Where is he? Can you usually see ghosts?”

“I don’t even believe in ghosts!”

“Well, maybe you don’t believe in them because you can see them and you don’t want to, did you ever think of that?”

“I don’t think now is the time to interrogate my personal traumas!”

Suddenly, there was another drop in pressure, and Ichigo had the sense of heavy breathing and sharp teeth. “Inoue. I think there’s another one.”

“Well, can you get the guy to come fight this one, too?”

“He seems busy,” Ichigo squeaked.

Something black flashed by his vision, and there was a loud crack and a sound of something screeching in pain. A second dark-clad person had arrived, landing softly on sandaled feet. There was the same unreality to her, a sense that she wasn’t entirely there, as well as a certain familiarity that Ichigo couldn’t place. Her sword was bright in the darkness, like moonlight reflecting on snow.

“Oi, there you are, you big dummy!” she shouted at the first man and Ichigo realized with a jolt that it was the angry woman from the bodega. “I’ve been looking for you for four days!”

“I had a problem with my gigai and maybe you should check your texts once in a while!” the tall guy shouted back. Ichigo refused to think of him as a grim reaper. A grim reaper would not wear sunglasses.

“My phone died!”

“Can we-- ow! -- discuss this later? I’m glad you’re okay, I missed you. Why are there so many Hollows in this train yard?”

“You’re such a sap! And the Hollows are here because some stupid humans got ahold of some Hollow bait.” The woman turned, and glared at Ichigo. Her eyes burned with blue flame, like the burner of a gas stove.

That would have been the last thing Ichigo remembered, if he had actually remembered it, or any of the things that came before it.

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Ichigo was sitting at his desk.

Inoue was sitting at her desk.

The sun was streaming in the window. The clock on Ichigo’s phone read 7:12am.

Inoue frowned. She examined a coffee cup on her desk. She took a hesitant sip, and then made a face. “Why are we here?” she wondered softly.

“I hate to pull an all-nighter,” Ichigo said, stretching, “but it sure does feel good to be caught up on paperwork!”

Inoue regarded him. “Kurosaki,” she said, “how long have you worked here?”

Ichigo frowned. “Well, I guess this is my second day.”

“Right. So… how much paperwork did you have to catch up on?”

Ichigo blinked. He very distinctively recalled working through the night-- his hand cramping, the incredibly spicy Thai food they’d ordered, Inoue’s seemingly infinite Boy Bands of the 90’s playlist. “I… was helping you, I guess?” Come to think of it, why was he filling out paperwork by hand, anyway? His laptop sat next to him, the lid closed. It wasn’t even plugged in.

Inoue’s fist slammed down onto her desk. “Gosh darnit! They wiped my memories again!!”

#wacky au requests #my writing #in my youth i shipped mulder and scully so hard #and now it's like...girl #you could do so much better #it is not possible to do better than gillian anderson

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northwest-writing · 4 years ago

Text

This Week’s Numbers: A Short Play

Four coworkers sit in the breakroom at their minimum wage retail job. TIM, twenty-two, is sitting up in his seat at the breakroom table, shaking his left leg and holding a cup of coffee with both hands. EMILY, nineteen, is leaning slightly back in her chair, looking at her phone. MATT, thirty, leans over the table, writing something down on a piece of paper. KEVIN, thirty-eight, is leaning way back in a chair with his feet up on the table and his hat over his eyes. TIM stares up at the clock.

TIM

D’you guys know if anyone’s ever thought of fixing that clock on the wall?

EMILY

Still looking at her phone

What clock?

MATT

I didn’t even realize it was broken.

TIM

Yeah it’s like always four fifteen? (Beat) Could you imagine if it was always four fifteen?

KEVIN

I tried asking the old store manager about it once. He just said “why do you care about the clock in the break room?” and he had a point so I stopped worrying about it.

There is a silence as TIM stares at KEVIN

TIM

I sort of feel like that story’s not true and you just want me to stop talking before the team meeting.

KEVIN

It’s seven AM, Tim.

EMILY

Yeah, Tim, it’s like seven AM.

TIM

I know what time it is I just--

Enter KATE, twenty five years old, in a good mood one would find inappropriate for a retail employee

KATE

Okay, it’s Monday! You guys ready?

TIM

For the meeting?

KATE

She gets very close to TIM’s face, forcing him to lean back

Tim, look me in my eyes. I’m the store manager. I hate this store just as much as you do, I just get paid ten extra cents an hour to do it. (Straightens back up) NO! I want to know (digging into her jacket pocket) if you guys are ready...for this she holds up a lottery ticket.

Everyone perks up except for MATT, who is still focused on what he is writing down. Even KEVIN moves his hat back to reveal his eyes.

EMILY

Oh shit that’s right it’s Monday!

KATE

That’s right,

as she speaks, she removes her jacket, tosses it onto the table, and begins arranging a chair backwards at the head of the room

which can only mean two things: I am required to hold a team member meeting or I will lose my job, and I bought a new lottery ticket.

KEVIN

Three things.

KATE

And a pack of cigarettes for Kevin

she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and tosses them to KEVIN who catches them effortlessly.

Matthew, whatcha workin’ on?

MATT

I’m writing to my penpal who’s stationed overseas.

KATE

Well put him on hold. This is important.

EMILY laughs quietly

MATT

Hey, would it be cool if I went first this week? I had a really good one last week and--

EMILY

Maybe you should’ve shown up…

KATE

To EMILY Dude--

EMILY

It took us like an hour to close on Tuesday night.

MATT

It was in the schedule--

TIM

He has gotten up and fixed himself a second cup of coffee since he last spoke

(timidly to EMILY) Well maybe if you had actually--

KATE

The airing! Of grievances will take place after the ceremony...or preferably after you’ve stopped giving a shit about them all together. Beat Aaaaaanyway

she climbs up onto the chair she previously set up

I would like everyone’s attention. *ahem* Oh yeah, everyone clocked in right?

TIM EMILY

Oh shit Oh yeah

Begins to leave the room she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her ID card

Hang on one sec Wait, Tim--

TIM looks back, takes EMILY’s ID card, and exits.

All sit silently as they wait for TIM to come back from swiping their cards.

TIM enters and sits down as he hands EMILY her ID card.

KATE

*ahem* Thank you all for joining me today. According to physics, (a collective sigh) there are two major forms of energy: kinetic energy and potential energy. I hold here in my hand one of the greatest sources of potential energy that money can buy from a Seven Eleven. Now, the rules are very simple: everyone will have their chance to tell us what they would do if this were somehow, miraculously, a winning ticket. We will then vote on who has the best version of what one might call The American Dream and then the winner gets riches beyond their wildest dreams and also they get to pick the numbers for next weeks ticket. We will begin this week by hearing from our dear Matthew. Matthew, you have the floor.

She steps down from her makeshift podium and applauds softly, prompting the rest of the room to follow suit as MATT steps up.

MATT

Alright, so pretty much there’s these like buildings in Germany that were built during World War Two that were designed to be these totally indestructible bunkers that couldn’t be blown up, and so now they’re just still there, because you can’t tear them down no matter what you do. Then the other day I went to clean the men’s room (a noticeable shudder from everyone in the room) and some guy had literally shit like all over the wall. Like he had just fuckin’ exploded. So while I’m in there cleaning it up and just wishing I was dead, I thought that’s what I’d do. I’d fill this room floor to ceiling with that indestructible German concrete and turn the whole thing into a big fossil. So that hundreds of years from now when we’re all dead and gone and this whole store has rotted away to nothing, that guy’s fuckin shit stain would be frozen in carbonite forever, like the Han Fuckin’ Solo of shit.

This speech is met with rousing applause as MATT takes a few small bows and steps down.

KATE

I love it! Very colorful, Matt.

EMILY steps up next.

EMILY

(To MATT) That’s kickass by the way. Alright um, ok so Friday, or I think it was Saturday. Yeah so Sat-- no I didn’t work Saturday. It was Friday anyway FRIDAY I was driving into work and I was stopped at that light that’s like right by Taco Bell, and when I went to go, my car started making that noise again. I’ve shown you guys all the noise right?

TIM

I thought you said it stopped making the noise?

EMILY

Yeah because I kicked my hood really hard that one time and it stopped for like two weeks but it’s back now!

KATE

Wait what’s the noise? I haven’t heard it.

EMILY

It’s like a...(she thinks for a second then begins making the most ridiculous sound. Get creative.) or kind of like a (she makes a variation on the first sound. Kevin is laughing hysterically.) It happens every time I like rev the engine or drive with the windows down or like go about forty miles an hour. I think it’s just like a thing. But anyway I was like oh if I won I would totally pay to fix my car right? But then I was like well why would I pay to fix a 2003 Honda Accord that used to be owned by like a heroin dealer and sounds like it was dragged out of a river when I could just buy a whole ‘nother car? Duh. But anyway now I have this like shitty car I don’t know what to do with. What am I gonna do with it? So then I thought I’d hire a bunch of guys to like take the whole thing apart piece by piece...and then put it back together in Todd’s office.

MATT

What if it was in his living room?

EMILY

Oh my god yeah! Yeah and the best part is, it still makes the sound.

The room breaks into applause. As she steps down

Thank you. Thank you.

KATE

Taking it straight to the district manager. Very cool. Very senior prank. I like it. A tough act to follow. Tim, uh, last week…

TIM

(Getting up from his chair) No no, this one’s not as long.

KATE

(As TIM steps onto the chair) Ok cool.

TIM

(Looking at a note in his phone) Ok. I’m not exactly sure if this is like illegal or not but... (shrugs)

uh so I would fake my own death.

EMILY

Oh shit.

TIM

I didn’t really think through like where I would disappear to but I would disappear like super mysteriously. Don’t worry I wouldn’t make any of you guys look guilty and I’d make sure to disappear on like a night when everyone’s busy so you’d all have an alibi. THEN like a year later, after most of the “oh where’s Tim?” has sorta worn off, I’d start sending postcards to the store.

MATT

Oooooh shiiiit.

TIM

They’d all be from different places. Yellowstone, Dubai, the Eiffel Tower, fuckin’...Des Moines. And they’d each have like one letter on them. And over the course of like five years this collection of postcards would build up and detectives would be like trying to unscramble the letters to figure out where I went. But here’s the best part: they wouldn’t spell out anything. They’re just letters. It’s a goose chase.

KATE

OH SHIT!

TIM

Yeaaaah oh shit.

Everyone passionately applauds as TIM steps off the chair and sits back down

Catch me in Barbados or something sipping on a coconut, just writing ‘E’ on the back of a picture of a palm tree.

KATE

Alright. Kevin?

KEVIN

(From his chair) Just like every week. I’d keep all the money and stay working here so all of you’d have to think about the fact that I’m the one sittin’ on it.

TIM

Bummer, Kev.

KATE

I’m confident one week that’ll be the winner. Don’t ever change, Kevin. Beat. She starts to rise Well. If that’s everyone--

MATT

What if we actually won?

KATE

Well we just talked about that. (She points at MATT) Han Solo of shit (points at EMILY) Casa Del Car (points at TIM) Unsolved Mysteries--

MATT

Yeah but I mean what if we really won.

EMILY

Well then whoever we voted--

MATT

Well but that’s stupid.

KATE

Matt--

MATT

I just keep thinking lately like, it’s stupid that whoever has the time to come up with the cleverest way to quit their job gets to have the money if we won.

KATE

Matt, that’s not the point of--

MATT

I think we should give it to whoever deserves it the most...and I think I should get it.

TIM

It’s not--

MATT

No, I’m the best employee here. Like I really come in and do good at my job every day, and I don’t think I’ve ever been recognized for it!

KATE

Matt, it’s not a bonus. It’s just a game.

EMILY

Yeah, besides, you wouldn’t deserve it the most anyway.

TIM

Jeez!

EMILY

What? Matt’s thirty years old and he’s never acted like he’s wanted to do anything besides work here. I actually have a future. If I had the money, I could actually go to nursing school.

KATE

(Making a feeble attempt to reign things in) Ok, this is--

TIM

You wanna go to nursing school?

EMILY

I’ve told you that like twenty times!

TIM inhales to respond

KATE

Tim, please.

TIM decides not to speak

EMILY

Oh come on! Why don’t you ever stick up for yourself!

TIM

Ok fine! I will stick up for myself! I think you’re a bitch! (EMILY gasps) I think you’re bad at your job and you’re a bad friend. (She gasps again) And I think you’d be a bad nurse.

KEVIN

I think I should get the money.

KATE

Oh my god (She crosses her arms and puts one hand over her face)

KEVIN

I smoke like four packs a day. What if I got lung cancer?

EMILY

I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever asked yourself that question.

KEVIN

Hey!

The room erupts into overlapping arguments. Actors should ad lib their own grievances. KATE is irritated but knows yelling will only add to the ruckus. She thinks for a moment, then walks over to the light switch and starts rapidly flipping the lights off and on. The employees become confused and slowly cease their arguing. They all look at KATE.

KATE

God, I knew that would work. You’re all like a bunch of birds! Listen, there’s a woman that comes into this store every day. Her name is Donna. You’ve all rung her up. Her brother had a stroke and he’s in the hospital and they’re not sure if he’s gonna be alright and she doesn’t know how she’s gonna pay the medical bills. And you know what? If this ticket won the lottery, we still wouldn’t give the money to her. Because she doesn’t deserve it.

EMILY

What the fuck, Kate?

MATT

So you think you deserve it?

KATE

NO! Of course I don’t deserve it. And neither do you!

MATT

So who does?

KATE

Nobody! It’s the lottery! Nobody deserves to win the lottery. It shouldn’t exist at all, just like none of us should have to be here every day. The whole system is rigged against us. This is just a dumb game I made up so that we could all survive. Once a week. Once a week we all remind ourselves that if we really wanted to change our lives we could. And then for the rest of the week we can all earn a paycheck not doing it.

There is a long pause as everyone considers KATE’s statement.

EMILY

(Hesitantly) So it’s...like an office holiday party?

KATE

Yeah it's. Yeah.

Beat

TIM

You guys know the guy who comes in every Tuesday and buys a lampshade? And then the next week he brings it back in so he can exchange it for a different lampshade? And he just does that like over and over again every week? Roger? Beat. (He starts to smile. Starting to laugh on the next line) I think he deserves it.

Everyone begins to laugh slightly

KATE

(Laughing still) Why him?

TIM

(Laughing more) I don’t know he just needs something. That guy’s not ok.

The laughter builds with each line

EMILY

(Laughing) What about that guy that always comes in asking if we have any copies of that one Adam Sandler movie?

MATT

(Laughing) Oh Click!

TIM

(Near tears at this point) He gets so mad when we say no!

EMILY

(Struggling to breathe) I think we should give it to him.

KATE

You mean the guy or Adam Sandler?

Everyone is beside themselves with laughter by this point, completely unable to continue for several moments. Banging fists on the table, clapping, etc. KEVIN laughs like an old prospector. Finally everyone settles down enough to continue the meeting.

KATE

Ok…we still need to...we still need to vote.

EMILY

Tim.

MATT

Tim.

KEVIN

Tim.

TIM

(Giggling slightly) Roger.

Everyone lets out one last small laugh.

KATE

Alright. Looks like Tim has it.

She applauds gently and everyone else follows suit.

Emily can you look up the numbers for last week.

EMILY

She has already taken out her phone to look up the numbers

I’m on it.

KATE

Everyone!

She gestures like she is conducting an orchestra to begin, then digs into her pocket and pulls out a different lottery ticket.

Everyone drums on the table, stopping when EMILY begins reading off the numbers. KATE looks at the ticket from last week.

EMILY

Fourteen! Forty-Seven! Fifty-Four!

Everyone looks at KATE who is maintaining a flawless poker face

Fifty-Five! Sixty-Eight! Twenty-Five!

They continue to look expectantly at KATE. Beat. KATE’s face turns to amazement.

KATE

Wow...(Beat) Not a single one.

Blackout

END OF PLAY.

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playquiz · 5 years ago

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Why I didn’t eat for 72 hours

At 2:30 pm on Sunday, February 25, she stopped eating for 72 hours until 2:30 pm today, Wednesday, February 28.

Which raises the question: "Why do you do that?"

why not? I love testing my mental stability, and after all, I read about the benefits of more extended fasting, he was eager to take advantage of the positive effects. Why fast? We eat at regular intervals every day for many reasons, but perhaps the main reason is that we have been adapted this way. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are recognized on the day when most people stop eating, and as if that was not enough, there are also opportunities for food between those meals called "snacks." But there's no fixed biological rule that says we need to eat every 4-6 hours, but we've trained our bodies with these regular eating patterns to feel hungry at these times and because it makes it a more social event. We are told that if we don't eat regularly, all sorts of harmful things that may happen to us for a long time "little and often" is the slogan. But human species would not have survived as long as they exist if regular eating is a necessity. Fasting has never been promoted because it is a concept that no one will make money because it will not contribute to the sales of the comprehensive display of snacks that have become available over the past five years and are worth billions. Many foods in our modern diet (especially cereals and sugars), along with eating always, have made our bodies lazy and have stopped their ability to work in their energy stores. Fasting forces your body to function as it is designed and able to get rid of various sources of fuel. I have tried intermittent fasting for eight years now and have tried many different methods, but so far it has been my most extended speed for 24 hours, usually once a week. The health benefits of fasting As is often known, short-term discomfort can lead to long-term benefits, and this is what attracts me in these crazy experiences, and I like to try them. But much research has shown that there are many benefits to fasting. The body reacts well to acute (non-chronic, which has quite the opposite effect) and exits the other side stronger. Getting out of your comfort zone causes your body to thrive and become weaker as a result of not doing so often enough other parts of our lifestyle, not just in terms of nutritional terms. Self-phagocytosis (literally "self-eating") is central to the benefits of fasting and is essentially a biological process that plays a significant role in the body's ability to detoxify, repair, and renew itself. By activating the autophagy process, your body will start killing or eating cells that accumulate as a result of your lifestyle or cleaning dead, diseased or worn-out cells. But some of these elements are difficult for us to control. It is like our bodies built-in a recycling system that allows us to work more efficiently and help ward off many diseases, including preventing the growth and development of cancer. Not only that, but low autophagy (a condition in which many diets leave us) leads to accelerated cell aging. It's also amazing how much research has focused specifically on how fasting promotes autophagy in the brain and can be a very effective way to slow neurodegeneration that can help protect against Alzheimer's and Parkinson's disease. On top of all this, regular fasting helps reduce chronic pain, rheumatic diseases, high blood pressure and anything related to inflammation. Fasting is much more beneficial than just stimulating the removal of all old cellular parts and damaged toxins, as it stimulates the human growth hormone (which has decreased in my life about 40% since I was in my twenties) which enables our bodies to start producing some of the cells that Recently Renovated, HGH is also responsible for maintaining and building lean muscle mass that when in their forties is not as easy as it used to be. Extended fasting forces the body to use stored glucose and fats, but it also breaks a large portion of white blood cells. If you know the role that white blood cells play about our health, this does not sound good news. Still, the depletion of white blood cells causes changes, even with a short 3-day fast that has been shown to replenish immunity. The system begins with research that indicates the starvation of a kick. The body's stem cells produce new white blood cells, which fight infection. Scientists also found that prolonged fasting also reduces the enzyme PKA, which is associated with aging and a hormone that increases the risk of cancer and tumor growth. But you have to get rid of old things before you start bringing in new ones, so the process of destruction is just as necessary as the process of creation. What stops autophagy? Eating food. It does not take much, and for this, the autophagy is unique to fasting and something. So How do you fast then? Do not eat anything. Drink only water. Not much, not much. • Do the same activity for you. Sleep as much as you feel you need. I went to live as usual (although it was -8 here in Switzerland so I didn't walk as much as I usually do) and did two sessions about right or wrong body weight, one on the first day and the other on the third day. The advice also tends to make sure you spend a week not eating a lot of carbohydrates, reduce your caloric intake a little and try some short fasting. But I always eat more at this time of year and more carbs, so I didn't follow the rules there either. The only thing that I thought was good is that February is not a month of coffee for me, so there are no caffeine withdrawal symptoms for anxiety. What happened when fasting? Sunday at 2:30 pm they ate the last meal Weight: 57 kg The first day: Monday 6:30 am: Wake up, leave the rest of San Pellegrino from last night. Weight: 56.7 kg 7 am: I had to prepare breakfast for the rest of the family and prepare packed lunches that weren't a big deal today because I wasn't hungry at all and usually don't eat until 10:30 am anyway. 8.30–9.30 am a boot camp with mainly bodyweight exercises but few with extra weight. It was 8 o'clock outside this morning, so we made the indoor choice. As I said, the advice is not to participate in any "formal" exercise, but so far, my day is, as usual, I ignored it. Take sips of water throughout the exercise and may only drink 250ml of water. Midnight: The first sign of hunger as I felt (and heard) my destroyed stomach but wore quickly after two cups of warm water. I discussed putting a slice of lemon in there but then decided I didn't want my taste signal to stimulate my body to digest mode. 2.30 pm: 24 hours of fasting and feel good. It's strange because I did a lot of fasting 24 hours (usually one per week), and I'm always happy when it's time, and I can eat again but this time is different. Since I know, I cannot eat for another two days. My body is not asking for food. I am fascinated to see what "real" hunger looks like. 4:00 pm: I went to buy food! How inappropriate it is for my family to keep eating all this time (totally not suitable for children by the way, just in case you thought this was a serious comment). I bought some of the things I used to breakfast and even seeing a tattoo of all the food didn't make me want anything. I have always had a strong determination to take on any challenge that I have seen, and this is no different. I even made banana bread (which I love) and prepared carrots and chickpeas for girls after having a snack at school. 7.00 pm: I'm still not hungry, it's the weirdest thing. It might contain about a liter and a half of water yet. You must be careful not to drink too much. 8:00 pm: Time seems to be moving slower... It is very productive and does not eat. I have accomplished so much! 10:30 pm The second day: Tuesday 6:30 am: I woke up after a perfect sleep but felt a little shaky. He had some warm water and sat for only 10 minutes. After about an hour, I felt normal again. Weight: 55.6 kg 10:30 am: Even though I haven't eaten more than 44 hours yet, I'm still not hungry. Don't worry, though, my mind feels some mystery. I wonder if this is from toxins coming out of damaged cellular material and throwing them into the bloodstream? I don't feel tired or lethargic. 2.30 pm: 48 hours. 24 hours to go! 7.00 pm: Hungry at dinner time, but I still prepare dinner and sit with my family while they were only eating to be social. I love to challenge myself! 8:00 pm: Fasting and hunger cannot be noticed when you are busy, so it was a good opportunity to be truly productive. 9:00 pm The Epsom salt bath was bothering me, so I went straight to bed after 10 pm. The third day: Wednesday 6:30 am: I woke up feeling shaky again and made a decision not to do Bootcamp today... but then I felt fine and changed my mind and thought I would do as little or as much as I could. Weight: 54.6 kg 8.30–9.30 am. I surprised myself and worked pretty much as usual, which I found very strange due to the lack of glycogen in my muscles. He even threw a few batches there! A little excited to eat again later in the day, and I'm glad I started fasting at 2:30 pm, which isn't long to wait for now. Midnight: It seems like the day is going slowly. Strange I don't have these outages in the food, but I think I am beginning to expect this now until my mind gets ready and becomes patient. So, write this blog to keep it busy. 2.30 pm It's over, I did. 72 hours without food. But what is happening now? How do you end fasting? How to end fasting "safely." "Refeeding" is the process of providing food steadily to your body in a way that does not completely break down your system. The most significant danger is something called a refeeding syndrome, as reinserting food increases insulin to the point that causes an unsafe situation. It is often a worry about fasting five days or more, and when you lose a lot of body weight. To prevent this from happening, you must steadfastly resubmit foods to the body over a day or two, and move steadily to the top of how difficult it is to digest something, ending in meat. Some say that you should refeed any number of fasting. But what I find strange is that many tips on fasting indicate that you should start with fruits and vegetables because they are easy to digest. Plants make sense, but fruit? Most fruits have a relatively high glycemic index, which means a significant rise in insulin. I no longer eat a lot of fruit anyway stuck with some green vegetable soup. I'm also going to dynamically relocate the small intestine (healthy bacteria that live inside your gut) in the next few days with some vegetable powders, pickled cabbage and kefir, which are all great sources of probiotics. The next thing on the list is desiccated coconut meat because it is shallow in blood sugar and rich in fat, which is the only significant nutrient that does not increase insulin. What then? Overall, this was a very positive experience. My mentality has been tested again, which I think will always stand well about other challenges that come my way. There were hardly any negatives, and hopefully, the few positives have been entirely animated by the positives. It will be interesting to know how long it takes to replace glycogen and the weight of the water and how it will feel to re-enter the food. As I said, there is an incredible number of health benefits of fasting so I will continue intermittent fasting every day (fasting for 14-16 hours each day and having an 8 to 10-hour intake window is the preferred method). I will probably repeat fasting for three days like this every three months. Disclaimer: As with all self-experiences on your body, they are not suitable for everyone and if you have any doubts, consult your general physician before performing any type of fasting. For example, it is not ideal for pregnant women or children.

#Why I didn’t eat for 72 hours #healthy food #Food Swaps - This for That #sweet food #fasting #how to lose weight fast in 2 weeks #fast food

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hypnofur1 · 6 years ago

Text

Captivated in Kansas City (Ch.1)

By Hypnofur

Tuesday at 11:30

Hudson Dark had performed before sold out crowds for over twenty three years. At no time during any of those performances had he in any way shape or form flubbed a word, or even misspoke. He was always so eloquent and confident. It was the root of his talent in fact. But now, as he sat across from the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he found himself completely tongue tied

“It’s the house I live in with my parents” the man in his mid forties told the beautiful woman in front of him. “No, I don’t. I mean, they lived there, we lived there. But now we don’t…” Hudson stammered, for the first time since his teens.

Hailey was trying to look like she wasn’t embarrassed for him. She had seen this before with men. God, she had seen it too many times. She had learned how to be nice about it, but it never became not awkward. Men always became stuttering piles of jelly around her.

“Was this property your child hood home, Mr.Dark?” she asked politely, trying to throw him a lifeline.

“Well, not even. My parents purchased it about twenty years ago. My father died shortly after that, and my mother passed away about five years ago. I only lived here for a year or so after college. Then I got my own place, right away.” He said, trying desperately to make this woman think he didn’t live with his parents for any longer than what was considered normal.

“I see, well, I am sorry for your loss” Hailey said.

“It’s better that she’s dead” Hudson said, before he immediately realized how that sounded. What was wrong with him?!! This had never happened. “I mean, it was a long illness. She’s at peace now” he said, trying desperately to recover.

“Well, Brookside has seen huge growth in the property values over the last ten years.” Hailey said, getting back to business. “We’ve sold six homes in that neighborhood already this year.”

Hudson couldn’t believe she smelled so good too. What was her perfume? It was intoxicating. She was intoxicating.

Hailey was getting annoyed. He was just staring with that lovestruck puppy dog look she had seen so many times since Junior High. She prodded the conversation along “I’d love to see the house?”

Hudson pulled himself together, and arrangements were made for her to come out on the following Thursday. He shook her hand professionally and the meeting ended. By the time he walked out of the door of her Real Estate office, a plan was already forming in Hudson’s mind.

Thursday

“Fuck!” Hudson yelled to himself from inside the house. He watched as a Mercedes SL 500 pulled up his driveway. Yes, the beautiful Hailey was inside, but so was some other guy. He was driving. Hudson was fuming. He figured she would come alone. Who was this guy? Was he going to come in too? That would ruin the entire plan that Hudson had spent the last forty-eight hours carefully concocting. Then he saw the man lean over and give Hailey a kiss on the cheek before only she got out of the car. Hudson’s spirits lifted as he realized that the man was going to stay in the driveway at the very least. He was quite pleased to see the car pull away from the house at the same moment Hailey was ringing the doorbell.

Hudson’s stomach flip flopped, the plan was on!

“Hi Hailey, come on in, it’s open!” Hudson yelled. He knew she would be able to hear him through the glass storm door. The actual front door was left wide open. Hailey entered the house through the living room.

“I’ll be right with you, I’m just changing my shirt. I spilled my lunch on it” Hudson lied from behind the door the down stairs bedroom he was in.

“No problem.” Hailey answered as she looked around the house, judging the bones and envisioning how it could be remodeled and updated. “I’ve had a clumsy morning myself. I drove up on to the curb at The Filling Station Coffee. I damaged my tire. My husband had to give me a ride here. He just went to go check on the car. It’s down the road, he’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so.” She said.

Hudson cursed under his breath. That was not a lot of time. Should he abort? Maybe this whole stupid thing wasn’t meant to be.

“Are you a hypnotist?” he head Hailey ask. She had clearly seen the posters and show memorabilia that filled the house. Of course she did. She was meant to.

“I am, yes” he said, still through the door. He resolved he was going to do this. He could make it work in a shortened time frame. He just needed her to take the bait…

“This piece is beautiful, is it one of those things that musician’s keep time with?” Hailey asked, trying to make conversation as she wondered how long it was going to take this guy to change his shirt.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Hudson celebrated to himself. The three hours he had spent carefully lighting the metronome so that her eyes would be drawn to it had paid off. This was going to work.

“Why yes it is. It is called a metronome. That one is especially precious. It was made by the finest Belgian craftsmen. They are known for making exquisite pieces. The weight on the tip of the pendulam rod is actually encrusted with 24 carrot diamonds. That is why it sparkles like that as the metronome ticks back and forth… back and forth.

Hailey noticed he was right. Her husband’s gifts over the last few years had taught her a lot about diamonds, and she could see from the way those stones caught the light that they were at least 24 carrot.

Hudson continued speaking from the other room. “ I use it in my therapy work. The beauty of a metronome is that not only does it give the subject a motion to follow with their eyes, but the rhythmic sound of the clicks also keeps a perfect, hypnotic beat. The subjects listen to the sound of the metronome as it keeps the perfect beat. This is a special beat. A beat of sleep. The subject focuses on the metronome as it swings back and forth, back and forth. They notice the brilliant twinkle of the beautiful diamonds as the metronome swings back and forth, back and forth. They follow the swinging motion with their eyes, but don’t look away. Never look away. Listening to the beat. The beat is so powerful, because it is the same beat as sleep. Listen to the beat as you follow the swinging motion.” Hudson said to her, slowly changing the POV of his words from that of the theoretical subject, directly to Hailey. By this point, he had slowly and quietly come out of the bedroom and had silently move to the doorway of the room she was in.

He was both delighted and aroused by the sight of Hailey standing in the center of the room, completely transfixed on the swinging metronome in front of her. He could tell it was working.

“With every click of the beat, you begin to notice your eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Heavier and heavier with each click of the beat. Every time you hear the beat, your eyelids feel heavier and heavier. Very good, you are following my instructions and hearing the metronome go back and forth, back and forth. The twinkling lights of the diamond beginning to blur in between the slow blinks of your heavy eyes.”

Hudson noticed her beautiful blue eyes slowly blinking as he suggested. He knew how he wanted to pull her under, there was really only one way…

“Isn’t it pleasant… to sleep…. to sleep… deeper and deeper in sleep.” he said, copying the cadence and tone of his all time favorite movie hypnosis scene, from the “Hypnotic Eye”. In fact, this whole induction, putting her under by focusing on a hypnotic device while he was in another room inducing her was all inspired by the “Hypnotic Eye”. It had been one of Hudson’s greatest fantasies for almost 20 years, since he first found the clip on the internet.

Now he had done it, he had induced the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in the same way that Anton had done it in that movie. Her head was slumped down and she was deep in hypnotic slumber. He felt like a king. He wanted to take her right there, he had never been so hard in his life.

But of course, his victory was short lived, as he heard the Mercedes pull up in the driveway. The husband was back. Hudson held his breath for a moment, so nervous that he may come in. Much to the hypnotist’s joy, he saw the husband pull out an iphone and start checking it. It seemed he was going to be waiting in the car. That bought some time. Not as much as Hudson had originally hoped for, but enough to keep the game alive….

About ten minutes later, Hailey smiled as got into the Mercedes. She gave Henry a kiss on the cheek. “You are the cutest Uber driver in Kansas City.” She joked.

“We Uber drivers don’t accept tips, so you’ll have to buy me lunch instead” Henry quipped to his wife as he backed out of the driveway. “How was the appointment?” he asked.

“Fantastic!” Hailey said exuberantly. “The house is amazing, so much potential. The client is fantastic too. I’m so excited about this transaction!” she oozed.

That surprised Henry a bit. He knew she had been wanting to do less residential work, and more commercial/retail kind of stuff. However, he didn’t pay that weird twist much mind. He was starving, and wanted to get a table at Bella Napoli for lunch.

Thursday evening

“Hey, we don’t have anything tomorrow night, right?” Hailey asked Henry as he was brushing his teeth. She was on their bed, surfing on her laptop. They were always together in the same room when they were home at the same time. They truly enjoyed one another’s company.

“No, I don’t think so. Why?” Henry asked.

“I have a tip on a property that is potentially going to be hitting the in the Power and Light District. It’s one of the venues that hasn’t been updated in the area. It’s a comedy club. Anyway, I was thinking it might be a perfect opportunity for the right investor.”

“And who might be the right investor?” Henry said with a smile.

“Well, he’d have to be handsome…” Hailey said. “And good with wireless technology….”

Henry laughed as he looked in her eyes. God she was gorgeous. Even just sitting there on the bed, she was so beautiful. The slightest look she gave him could get him instantly hard. She noticed now was one of those times. She smiled at him and nodded, as if to say “now is a fine time”.

Henry crawled onto the bed and kissed her. She kissed him back. They both laboriously took off her panties. It wasn’t smooth or easy. He lifted up her skirt a bit, and stuck himself inside her. She gasped a bit, and he started bucking. He came within about 30 seconds.

He instantly apologized. She smiled and kissed him, telling him it “was nice”. He dismounted and laid next to her in the bed, pulling his boxers back up as she got her panties back on. Then they continued their conversation about the property and the plans to check it out on Friday night. This was very typical for the couple.

Friday night

They had a great dinner at Yardhouse, the best of the restaurants in that area. Of course, the young twenty something male waiters were completely infatuated and flustered with Hailey there. Henry and his wife were quite used to this, though it always made them uncomfortable. Hailey hated being the center of attention in a room, despite the fact that she usually was.

After the meal, they strolled around the building a bit, checking it out in detail. Hailey had a fine eye for architecture, and Henry only had eyes for her, so he was perfectly happy watching her do whatever interested her.

It was an older building, probably built in the 1930’s. It needed a tremendous amount of work, but had good bones. There were apartments on the second and third floor, and a theater that was now being used as a comedy club on the ground level. As the couple got around to the entrance, Hailey grabbed Henry’s arm.

“That’s my client!” she said excitedly as she pointed at the poster on the wall.

“Hudson the Hypnotist?” Henry asked.

“Yes, that’s him, the one from the other day in Brookside. Wow, that’s so cool. I can’t believe he is performing tonight. Let’s go watch!” she said excitedly.

Henry was a little taken aback by her sudden exuberance, but he was fine with it. The evening was free. They purchased their tickets and went inside. As they waited for the show to begin, Hailey started going on and on about how much hypnosis had always fascinated her. Henry was quite surprised to hear this, as it had never come up in conversation before, despite her new claims of a lifelong passion for it.

The show began and Hudson came out. He was a very average looking middle aged guy. Balding, slightly pudgy. He explained what hypnosis was, and how it worked. Henry noticed Hailey was on the edge of her seat during this explanation. Hudson then asked for volunteers. It was at this point that Henry became absolutely shocked. Hailey gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then left her seat, heading for the stage.

While Henry had been previously in the dark about Hailey’s interest in hypnotism, he was well aware of her disinterest in being in the spotlight. He couldn’t believe she was going up on stage. This was like her number one fear. What was going on?

Henry could hear the murmers in the crowd as Hailey was taking the stage amongst a bunch of slacker looking twenty somethings. Hudson the Hypnotist of course had his eyes glued to the gorgeous blonde as she took a seat on the stage with her brilliant smile. Henry noticed there wasn’t a hint of nervousness or self consciousness in his wife, even as the dorky guy in the Blink 182 sweatshirt next to her gawked and stared. In fact, Hudson had a hard time getting the attention of the volunteers on stage back to him. Hailey was that distractingly beautiful.

She stuck out like a sore thumb on that stage. Her clothes spoke of wealth, while the t-shirt and jeans of the rest of the volunteers spoke of the awkward years after college. For his part, Hudson knew that he had to regain control of this situation. As a very experienced performer, he knew how to do just that. The spacy, new age music played, and Hudson expertly induced his volunteers into a deep trance. Removing the two or three fakers that were easy to spot, Hudson was left with ten deeply hypnotized volunteers on stage. Not that it mattered, as the show would clearly just be about one of those ten. Most eyes were on Hailey, who was now slumped over onto Mr. Blink 182.

Hudson went through all the standard routines, making the volunteers feel like they were freezing cold, having them talk to Martians, and the whole someone farted routine. Henry was shocked to see his beautiful wife up there on stage, clearly, actually hypnotized. There is no way she would have been going along with this if she hadn’t been.

Henry’s stomach was turning. It was unnerving to see his wife in front of all these people, clearly not in control of herself. His stomach knotted a little more as Hudson asked the crowd if they want to “spice this show up”. Of course, the loud applause confirmed they wanted exactly that. That’s when the hypnotist started describing to the people on stage that they were watching a very sexy porno that was playing in the back of the room. He started saying it was the sexiest porno that they had ever seen, and that they would get so, so turned on watching it.

Henry knew for a fact that Hailey had never watched a porno. She had told him in the past that porno’s creeped her out. And sure enough, as soon as Hudson said this, Henry saw Hailey get all jittery, and try to look away from the back of the room. Hudson noticed it too, and he started saying “the film is too interesting to ignore. Even if you don’t think you want to watch it, the sounds and the visuals are just too interesting. You can’t resist checking it out..”

That was enough to get Hailey to sort of peek over with one eye. Just for a second, then she looked away again. But in another brief moment, she looked towards the screen with one eye again. Then two. Then she watched for a moment. Henry was shocked. Soon she didn’t look nervous, or creeped out by it. She had a look that Henry had never seen before. She had this incredible look of erotic interest on her face as she slowly licked her lips. Then her hand touched her neck. She squirmed a bit in her seat. Henry had never seen it before, but it was the single most beautiful, sexy site he had ever seen. He had never seen Hailey so overtly turned on, so sexual. In fact, he had never seen Hailey turned on at all…

Six years earlier

Breaking into the real estate game had certainly proven to be more difficult than Hailey had intended. In fact, as she sat there, locked in a steam room, she actually had decided to quit real estate and get a job at a retail store or something. She hadn’t realized that the steam room would lock like that. Her cell phone was getting no service for some weird reason. She was trapped until someone came into the house. The problem with that, was that her showing wasn’t for another 24 hours. She had come to the empty mansion in the hills a day early to do a dry run. Frankly, she was starting to freak out.

That’s when she heard someone in the house. It took a lot for her to decide to alert the other person to her captive presence. Being alone with some stranger in a house when her phone wasn’t working was not a safe idea. However, she was getting really scared being trapped in there. She was finding she was kind of claustrophobic. She finally yelled for a help and a man responded. She had really hoped it was a woman…

“I’m stuck in here and my cell phone isn’t working” she said through the steam room walls.

“Yeah, that’s why I am here. There is a small tower at the base of the hill that provides services to these homes. I overloaded it. I saw your car and came to alert you. I’m really very sorry.” The man said. His voice sounded kind at least.

“Do you do work on the tower?” she asked.

“Well, kind of.” He said.

Ok, she thought, I’m trapped here with a not so good cell tower repair guy. “Can you let me out?” she asked. She heard him trying the door.

He jiggled it and jiggled it, but it just wouldn’t work. “I’m sorry miss, but the door isn’t working. I could go and try to find some tools or something.” He said.

“You don’t have any with you?” she asked in almost a panic. She was really freaking out now that she knew she was really trapped in that room. The teak walls seemed to be closing in on her.

“No, not on me. Umm, I could go drive for some help?” he said. He could tell this lady was losing it.

“NO!” she blurted out. “Please don’t leave!” she heard herself say. She had never had a panic attack like this before.

“It’s ok Miss, I’ll stay with you until help arrives or they fix the tower. My name is Henry.” He said.

And so from there, they started talking. Hailey calmed down. They actually talked for hours and hours. They laughed a lot. They really hit it off. In fact, they started falling for each other.

However, there were two things that were not divulged in those hours of conversation. Hailey did not reveal that she was drop dead gorgeous, and Henry did not reveal that he sold his first wireless amplification company for 30 million dollars, and had since started building another, even more successful amplification system. (The testing of which had blown the tower).

Hailey’s beauty and Henry’s money had always been the most attractive thing about each. Both were fairly shy in their own right. Hailey had been turning down men’s advances for as long as she could remember, and Henry had only been attractive to women once they found he was rich.

But when that steam room finally got opened, and Hailey looked at Henry for the first time, he could tell she liked him for who he was. It didn’t matter to her that he was a little bit scrawny, and clearly about fifteen years older than her. She had gotten to know his kind spirit. He stayed with her, laughed with her, and helped her before he knew what she looked like. This was the first man ever that got to know her for more than just her looks. Hailey knew full well that she benefited from her unique beauty, but for the most part had always seen it more as curse.

Henry’s jaw hit the floor when he saw her. She was clearly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in real life. Or on tv or in a movie for that matter. The locksmith that had opened the door thought so too. Henry, couldn’t believe his luck, until he looked down and saw a wedding band on her finger. His heart fell…

“It’s not real!” she said quickly as she saw him notice it. “I just wear it to keep from having guys…” she started.

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Henry blurted out.

“Yes!” Hailey said with a smile.

Henry knew that she had mistakenly assumed he was a cell tower repair guy. He had carefully not lied about that during their conversation through the steam room wall, but had also not corrected the assumption. In fact, it wasn’t until he picked her up the next day in his Ferrari that she started realizing he was more than he seemed.

Dinner that night was not in Kansas City, it was in Paris. Six month later, they were married.

Their love was true, and their love was pure. People of course accused Hailey of being a gold digger. That wasn’t the case. She certainly benefitted from the trappings of wealth, but she truly loved Henry, and he loved her. The suggestion that Henry only was with her for the sex couldn’t have been more off base. In fact, the sex wasn’t that great.

Hailey had always been self-conscious about her looks, ironically. Every guy had wanted to jump in the sack with her for as long as she could remember. That made her a little uncomfortable about the whole concept of sex. She wanted to enjoy it more, she just couldn’t really relax and get into it. She always wondered if she was living up to the fantasy, the expectation. Henry, for his part, was a shy man that never felt comfortable with the ladies. He knew he wasn’t much of a lover, and he always wondered if he could live up to the type of lover Hailey deserved. Their mutual insecurities always made their love making tepid at best.

Friday Night

Henry had never been able to drive Hailey wild with lust as this hypnotist had done on stage in front of him as the participants on stage got “really, really into the porno”. Henry had never been more aroused than he was watching his beautiful wife respond to the erotic, hypnotic commands of the maestro. He was jealous, but also rock hard as he watched it.

After the “watch the porno” bit, Hudson carefully segway’d into a “you are in a porno” bit. He told the participants that they were starring in a porno with the sexiest person they have ever seen, and that this person was on their chair and they were to basically fuck the chair. The people on stage were in such a state of arousal at that point from watching the imagined porno that they got right into it, Hailey included.

However, Hudson sensed an opportunity for both a laugh, and a little something for later. He smiled widely to the crowd, and then put his hand on Bethanny’s shoulder. “And to the woman I am touching right now. You’ll find that the sexiest, most irresistible man you have ever seen or known is… Hudson the Hypnotist!”

The crowd went wild! There was laughter and cheers. Hudson played it off to the crowd like a raunchy showman would. “Can you blame me?” he yelled loudly. “I mean, seriously.. can you blame me!?”

Henry could blame him! And he couldn’t believe that Hudson had said that to her. He also couldn’t believe how Hailey was moving. Her hips were slowly and sensually rolling with a sexual fluidity he had never seen. Her head was tilted back she was grinding on the chair, she was clearly lost in a sexual bliss. It was like nothing he had ever seen, and she looked even hotter than he had imagined while doing it. Part of him wanted to stop this, as it was wrong on so many levels, but he had a raging boner that he was quite sure could be seen through his khakis. He couldn’t exactly stand up and approach the stage like that.

Hudson of course knew who Hailey was with that night. He paid careful notice to the fact that the husband hadn’t stormed the stage when Hudson had told her that he was her new sexiest man alive. The feeling of power over the subjects on stage, and the awareness that Hailey thought that she was currently fucking him on that chair, emboldened the middle age hypnotist. Again, he put his hand on her shoulder, “and to the woman I am touching right now. Not only is Hudson the Hypnotist the sexiest, most irresistible man you have ever seen, but he also has the biggest, most powerful, most perfect cock you have ever come across in your life! And that cock is fucking you now! Fucking you now and making you cum! Hudson the Hypnotist is a sexual god who is fucking you and making you cum like no man has ever done!” he said, to less cheers. Some people in the crowd could see he was going too far, but the majority of the group was so turned on by watching the beautiful Hailey orgasm on the chair that they couldn’t laugh or applaud or anything. They were completely transfixed by the scene in front of them.

Henry was horrified, but his heart was beating a million miles a minute. He was so angry, scared, and turned on. There was nowhere else for the performance to go after Hailey’s show stopping orgasm. Hudson got all the parictipants back in line in to their chairs and dropped them into a deep sleep. He told them they would awake refreshed and happy. He also told them that they would find the experience of being hypnotized by him one of the most wonderful of their lives, and that they would desperately want to be hypnotized by him again in the future. With that, he made a joke to the audience about “job security”

When Hailey heard the phrase “…and wake”, her eyes fluttered open. Her hand instinctively ran through her thick blonde hair as she sat up. Her blue eyes took a second to focus with the bright stage lights in front of her, but she soon saw Hudson looking back at her. It was like a jolt of electricity went through her as she lost her breath for a moment. “He’s so gorgeous” she thought, before immediately chiding herself for being attracted to a man that is not her husband. Unaware of the post hypnotic suggestions that were driving this, she found herself quite surprised at her intense attraction to Hudson. She had never gotten like that over a guy before. They always threw themselves at her, but she had never been so magnetically drawn to a man before.

She smiled at him demurely as she walked by him while exiting the stage. She desperately hoped that was not the last time he would hypnotize her. She had loved the experience so much. Stepping down back into the audience, she could feel most of the eyes in the room on her. She was used to that. As per usual, it made her feel uneasy and nervous. As per usual, she focused on Henry to calm her down. However, this time she noticed that Henry looked uneasy and nervous. He was pale and clammy.

“Babe, what’s up?” she said to him. Henry didn’t know what to say. How could he tell her that she was just up on stage acting like a total slut? What would she do if she knew she had just given every single guy in this room a massive boner as she acted more sexual on stage than she ever, ever had with him in the bedroom? Henry panicked.

For the first time ever, he lied to his wife. “Nothing. Nothing’s up. That was really funny. How are you? How are you feeling?” he said, putting on his best game face.

“Oh my god, it was amazing!” she gushed. “I loved being hypnotized by Hudson!” she almost squealed.

Henry looked around and noticed the room was still very much focused on Hailey. He knew he should get her out of there before she realized the state she had the men in. “Do you want to go get some desert or something?” he asked. Hailey never passed up desert. If other women knew how much she indulged in sweets with that body, they’d hate her even more.

Hailey leaned in close and whispered in her husband’s ear. “I’d rather go home. I need you inside of me.” It was the first time she had ever said anything like that to him.

Henry, who was of course so horny already after watching that show, didn’t need to be asked twice. He raced his beautiful wife home and up to their bed. Within minutes, he was thrusting himself inside her. Ramming as hard as he could. He didn’t last long, having been so turned on by the show. However much to his surprise, Hailey actually orgasmed. She had never orgasmed during their love making before.

Henry loved the sounds she made beneath him. He loved the feel of her convulsing in his arms. What a wonderful experience. He knew her mindset was largely due to the hypnotism. He was actually grateful for Hudson’s hypnotic hijinks. In fact, he wondered if the performer could help him experience this sort of sexual intimacy with his wife again. He decided he needed to pay Hudson a visit.

What Henry didn’t know, was that for the first time in her marriage, Hailey was thinking of another man during sex. She was thinking of Hudson. Sexy, powerful, hypnotic Hudson. The sexual god with the biggest, most powerful cock she had ever come across in her life.

Trouble was ahead….

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sarahbethimagines · 6 years ago

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Chapter 13: Get Along

Chapter Log!

Michelle had shown up at house unexpected, and uninvited later on that same Friday. And somehow, someway convinced me that going to the gathering would be a good thing. Sitting in the passenger seat of her 8-year old Camry. I was still trying to decide if she'd been right or not. KISS 95.9 was currently playing on the radio. Love in This Club by Usher blasting through the speakers. And at just number eight on their top-forty countdown, it had me counting the mile markers on I-83. Just praying each one would be the last we'd pass.

I'd asked Michelle just about a hundred and seven times since she'd shown up at my door where we were going. And each and every time I did, she gave me the same cookie cutter response. Just a small smirk, and a "you'll see" that had my eyes rolling and my brain contemplating just ending it all. But in Heinz sight, if shitty radio play and a sketchy best-friend were the worst things I had going on in my day, I guess I was doing okay. Still, I impatiently tapped my fingers on my tanned knees the entire remainder of the drive. Only stopping when she suddenly slowed down and pulled off the main road and onto an uneven dirt path. One that certainly didn't look like it was meant for any form of recreational use in the past generation or so. "Okay, where on Earth are we actually going?" I asked at the sight of it. Our small bodies bouncing and swinging around in the cab of her car as it jumped and jostled. Thanking God for the second time in my life for inventing the seatbelt. "Lord, is your patients as thin you are!" She joked, rolling her eyes. And I couldn’t help but start to mutter under my breath for a greater power above to give me some patience. Because if I was handed strength in that moment I probably would have just up and punched her. She was the one that dragged me out to the middle of nowhere and wouldn’t tell me where she taking me to probably get wacked and left for dead. But thankfully for both me, and Michelle's arm a second later she somehow managed to round a brushed corner without bottoming out her little gold car. Pulling into a large open field. We rode down the grass and destroyed patches of road, kept in a straight line by sporadic metal posts till we passed a small white structure caving in on itself. Other cars soon came into view. An array of varying vehicles from little ones like Michelle's to large pickups were parked in a semi-circle, people gathered in the middle. And soon I spotted the most bizarre thing just beyond the group. A towering fifty-foot-tall screen stood sky high. Small white panels pealing at places and completely missing in others leaving nothing but holes or exposed plywood. We were at an old drive-in movie theater. My eyes were probably the size of bowling balls by the time she'd parked her car and turned to me, calling my attention back to her. "You good?" She asked simply. And I looked out through her windshield at the group of people wandering around. Unable to make out exact faces. "I'll be right beside you the whole time if you get overwhelmed." I nodded thoughtfully and chewed on my lip. Not daring to make moves to unbuckle myself, even when Michelle did. There were about twelve or so people in the group if my math was correct. And all things considered, there was probably one person I knew for certain, and only two to three others whom I'd just recognize. "Tweedle Dee?" She called again, probably noticing my internal debate. I looked over to see her now up and out of her car, standing in its open door. "Just remember, all these people are your friends, whether you remember them or not." I nodded my head and forced my hands to move. "You're right" I muttered, crawling out of the car. I tried to repeat Dr. Walker's words in my head, telling myself how this would help me remember. But it was kind of hard to once Michelle ran around to me. She hooked her arm in mine and lead us off towards the crowd, rambling the entire time about how excited everyone would be to see me. But I didn’t need her assuring words for long. Because the second we drew close enough to identify, a long-legged, skunk haired kid was running right at us. "KENNERS!" He screeched, straggly arms waving through the air. A trail of dust being kicked up behind his brightly colored Nikes as he stormed towards us, throwing himself at me the second he could. His sternum crashed into my cheek with full force, knocking me back a few steps and clean into a memory. "Allright, everyone! Listen up!" Jack shouted, from behind me. Causing everyone in our small huddle to turn around and see the raven-haired boy by Alex's truck. His long limbs contorted in strange and certainly uncomfortable ways as he swung himself up onto the dropped tailgate and rose to his feet. Bible in his left hand he'd swiped from the glove box, was then used to tap the beer bottle clutched in the other. Once a gift from Alex's grandmother after his confirmation was now just a prop. His feeble attempts to make any sound fell short. But still, everyone around who hadn't already been watching on turned to see what the commotion was. The air was warm as it swirled around us, ice cold Coronas and Busch Light cans were in everyone's hands as we gathered in the center of our favorite spot in town. The old abandoned Timonium Drive In. It was the core of the summer, and the usually scorching sun just begun to set, dipping slightly behind the large screen which somehow still stood. But Alex's skin was still speckled with sweat as he threw a bare arm around my shoulders. Warm sun-tanned skin sticking to my own. I knew just as well as the boy beside me that the fleeting light wouldn’t stop that twenty-person party from raging on into the night. And as the golden hour shined down on Jack where he towered above us, it was as good of an assumption as any. "Tuesday, July 15th 2005 will be a day for us all to remember!" He shouted, beginning to walk back and forth across the rusted bed. "A day greatness was released from the womb of the greatest band to ever come from the suburbs of Baltimore, Maryland and out into the world!" "Pretty sure were the only ones in the area!" Rian hollered from behind. His arm slung causally around Kara's waist. "Shut up, I'm giving a speech you, turd licker!" Jack laughed, "Today, we as a band, released our first ever full-length album, The Party Scene!" And on that note, everyone started to cheer. Hoots were hollered and beers were sipped but Jack wasn’t quite done there. He kept on talking, pacing and swinging his drink as though he here Charlie Champlin. And our small group of friends were watching his movie. "You don't get much for certain in this life, and we sure as Hell didn't think this little garage band would make it this far, that’s for damn sure!" He drunkenly rambled. "But as I stand here, managing to convince you all somehow that what I'm about to say may have some hidden wisdom or be sweet and meaningful to hold onto and laugh about in years to come. I'll tell you right now, you're dead-fucking-wrong." "Oh, then just get on with it!" Another friend yelled. "Well," Jack popped, coming to a stop and turning to face us all. "I would, but to be honest I forgot what I had to say the second, I climbed up onto this truck. So, I'll just say what mamma Merrick always has. All you're really given is the sunshine and your name!" "My mom doesn’t say that?" Zack chimed in, and not a second later the most miraculous thing I'd ever seen started to happened. As though mother nature was toying with Jack's mention of the sunshine pouring over us all. Not a second more passed before small drops of water began to fall from the sky. And I couldn't even begin to describe just how magical the chorus of our laughter sounded in that moment of time. "Look what you've done now, you fuck!" Rico manically yelled as one drop became two, and then three. And before we knew it large rain drops began to fall all around us from the still sunlit sky. In a matter of seconds, the mere drizzle was a full-blown downpour and people began to scatter. I was ripped from the memory almost as quickly as I'd been knocked into it. Looking up once I could to see Alex holding Jack by the shoulder and rolling his eyes. "You're going to crush her to death if you squeeze her like that!" "Well, I'm not going to apologize for it!" He laughed, turning to me and letting his black and bleached hair fall into his eyes. "I've missed you Kenn, like the dessert misses the rain!" His small, clueless remark made me laugh a little too hard at its relation to my memory. But still, my shoulders instantly rolled back. Now free from his death-like grip and much more relaxed than they'd been just moments before in the car. "I've missed you too, you crazy." I smiled. Not knowing exactly what I'd been missing, but the words felt right as they rolled off my tongue. He smiled at me, big brown eyes glistening in the fading sunlight. I could practically see the sporadic thoughts bouncing through his skull as he tossed an arm around my shoulder and started to walk. "Well how 'bout we say hi to everyone else who's been missing you almost as much as I have." I could hear Alex and Michelle's steps as they followed close behind. Talking softly to one another as Jack lead me by my neck towards the crowd. A few slowly turned around one by one to our direction. But not everyone had seemed to notice us approach, most just carried on with their loud conversations over the even louder music flowing from a Jeep. But one boy seemed to pick up on my presence instantly, a smile spreading across his face I could see clearly from even a foot away how bright and perfect his teeth were. He was a broader man, his head was buzzed, and subtle tuffs of scruff lined his jaw. He didn't look like anyone I'd pictured before, but for some reason my brain drew a connection I didn't even know was there upon seeing that smile of his. "Hey Rian," I waved. His already large smile growing even bigger as he managed to pull me out from under Jacks arm. Tugging me instantly into a brief, firm hug. "How are you?" "I'm good!" He nodded and let go. His smile still so wide I was beginning to think he would start to catch flies soon enough. "How are you, how have you been doing?" "I mean, I've certainly been better." I shrugged, trying to laugh it off like I'd been getting in the habit of doing. He just gave me a knowing nod. "I'm sure, but hey, Alex has been telling us you've been coming along pretty good!" He said motioning to the singer who'd stepped up beside Jack. Already blushing profusely by the time I'd looked over. "Is that true?" "It is..." I dragged. Watching for a second with a smile as Alex kept his hidden before I looked to my other side at Michelle. The shorter brunette shooting me a grin. "I didn't know Alex talked about me so much." "No more than he used to!" Rian laughed, receiving a swift smack to the arm by his shaggy-headed friend. "Alright, well that's enough of a re-introduction to Rian, I think!" Alex cut in right after, deciding that conversation was dead and buried. Being quick to replace Jack's place at my side as he grabbed my hand and hauled me off to the others. Being dragged around that makeshift party and being re-introduced to person after person in my life was a lot of things. For starters, it was outright just a lot. A lot to take in, a lot to digest, a lot of fresh names in the bank, a lot of faces I just straight up didn’t recognize, and a lot that I vaguely did but had no idea of why. It was confusing at times, but fun at others. For instance, when I was put in front of a boy with a rather interesting last name, I remembered him. Not much, but now at least I know Alex Grieco. And that I was assigned to be his guide when he came into Dulaney High just one year after the rest of us. And how we'd laughed the entire time at the fact that even I still didn't know how to get around that damned high school. And the entire time I had someone with me by my side walking me through it all. Either Alex, sipping a beer and sharing a story of something ridiculous and borderline unbelievable I’d done with someone. Or with Michelle, which I almost preferred, not that Alex wasn’t helpful. But purely because anytime someone that didn’t even begin to ring a bell would walk away, she'd turn to me and whisper a juicy bit of gossip on how I'd felt about them back in high school. All of which had the two of us laughing and snickering like immature school girls again. Eventually we'd all found ourselves gathered around Alex's truck. Zack was sat on top the truck's cab. Someone who I'd recognized almost instantly despite his drastic change in appearance from the dark and stormy kid I’d envisioned. I was perched on the tailgate, legs swinging over the edge. Wedged between Michelle and Alex while all the others wereeither sat in collapsible chairs or standing around. Each and every one having a story to share of a time they'd spent with me they just couldn't wait to get out. "And I just stood there, completely shocked," One kid Timmy, a rather robust individual told. "You just slapped the dude clean across the face, no warning or nothing!" "There is absolutely no way I did that!" I laughed along with everyone else. Leaning over and hiding my head in Michelle's long hair once Timmy was done telling his story of me. Large hands up in the air the entire time he explained it. "Oh, but you did, my little fire-cracker!" He pointed at me, exposing my bright red face to the whole group in the process. "Yeah that's a good one," Zack laughed from behind me, hopping down and making the truck jolt just a bit. "But not quite as good as the time we went to Dick's Last Resort!" "Oh, my gosh I almost forgot about that!" Michelle laughed, turning around to look up at Zack as he placed a hand on my totally confused shoulder. Everyone around me beginning to chuckle and nod. Each and every one seeming to recall the moment with ease. I on the other hand was having a much more difficult time. "Why, what happened at Dick's Last Resort?" "Well you know how the whole point of Dick's is that you go, and get those funny paper hats and the waiters basically just pick fun at and mock you the entire time?" Michelle excitedly asked, staring cheerily into my lost eyes. "I mean, kind of, I guess." I shrugged, trying to recall. Still not really seeing how this could lead to a memorable story. Unless my friends really thought a waiter laughing at me was just that hysterical. Which they just might of, honestly. "Well we all went there to celebrate something-" "My birthday!" "Yes," Zack sighed at Michelle's interruption. "And were just downright miserable the whole time! Our waiter was basically bullying you the entire meal. Calling you Scrooge, saying you could drive a preacher to drink with an attitude like yours all this crazy shit!" "Eventually you basically snapped!" Jack chimed in with a chortle. "What did I do?" I asked, genuinely a little worried to hear their responses. But I of course was only immediately answered with a wide variation of laugher. "You made some absurd remark about being able to charm the dew off a honeysuckle or something bizarre like that and went on this hilarious little rant about how cheery of a person you were!" Zack started again, "But then you made the big ole mistake of spewing out that you used to be a cheerleader!" "I was a cheerleader?" I asked, not believing it for a second as I turned to the grinning boy. Scrunching my nose up at his smile. "Not that we knew of!" He chuckled, shrugging a bit. "You cheered for a little later on in high school and hated it they were so bad, but I guess in Boston you were really good at it." "Yeah, you were smoking at the ears practically when our waiter only started to pick on you more, saying that you probably couldn’t get your scrawny legs of the ground!" Michelle laughed, borderline crying she was giggling so hard. "Hey, this is my story for Kenn!" Zack snipped, smacking her lightly on the top of her head. "But yeah, like she said, you were pissed as all Hell, and you made a bet with the guy that if you got up on their stage right then and there and did a back flip that he couldn't say one more word to you the rest of the night!" "I didn’t know I could do a back flip!" I chocked, looking wide-eyed at my boney knees swinging over the tailgate's edge. "Yeah, neither did we!" The boy continued to laugh. "We all thought for sure you were about to eat hardwood when you got up on the platform, but crazily enough you landed it! Still probably the coolest thing I've seen you do." "We did get banned for a year though because of it..." Rian muttered. And everyone started to laugh again. Including me this time. "I don't know, Zack..." Jack sang, taking his turn as he sloshed his beer around in its can. "I think the concerning number of drunk backflips she's done in Gaskarth's back yard would have that story beat!" "I did not do back flips drunk!" I laughed, shaking my head in utter disbelief. "Oh, sweet pea," Michelle sighed, "You've done so many, so far from sober we lost count after fifteen or so." An eruption of laughter exploded through the friend group after that. And I laughed along ever so slightly and I fell, red-faced into Alex's side. "I didn't realize how crazy I was growing up..." I chuckled. So soft probably only the singer had heard. He just sighed and wrapped his arm around my back. Pulling my blushing form closer into him. "It's one of the many, many things we all love about you. Kennedy Paige."

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mca-attack21 · 7 years ago

Text

Target Part 1

This imagine is Lance Sweets x Reader from Bones. It the first part of a six part series (with plenty of angst). The other parts as well as the rest of my writing can be found here. Warnings: Murders, blood, fluff

The Jeffersonian had been your home for the past year. You were Dr. Brennan’s latest intern. From day one, everyone had made you feel like part of the family. It was not unusual for you to get dinner with Hodgins and Angela, or to get drinks with Booth, Sweets, and Brennan. Every case you had, fueled your love for the field. You loved being able to help families find closure and to bring criminals to justice. This was definitely a dream come true.

At least it was, until today.

It was supposed to be just another Tuesday. There was a dead body found in pieces in front of a high school. That was your cue to head to the lab. It was about three pm when you went and set a platform, it was about forty minutes later when the body and your colleagues arrived. Everyone seemed slightly off, but you dismissed it, after all some cases just had that vibe.

“Good morning Dr. B, how can I be of assistance?” you asked as she enter the platform.

“Ah, Miss Y/l/n, please wait for Cam to finish collecting tissue and then proceed to x-ray, clean, and place the bones.” she said before heading to her office. You waited until Cam called saying she had finished, you then began working diligently. You carefully inspected every bone for particulates. Then you cleaned and x-rayed them. One by one you reassembled the skeleton. You called and left a message on doctor Brennan’s phone telling her that the remains were ready for her. You then started to examine the bones, noting anything you found of significance.

When Dr. Brennan arrived, you reviewed your findings and sent you to see if Angela had been able to ID the victim off of the skull reconstruction. You went to her office and walked through the open door.

“Hey Ang, Dr. B was wondering if you were able to ID the body yet?” you asked walking towards her desk. The way that she looked at you, you knew that something was wrong. “Angela, what happened?” you asked bracing yourself. She started crying and you pulled her into a hug.

“Angela, talk to me, what’s wrong?” you asked becoming more concerned. It was just then that you caught a glimpse of her board. There was a picture of your brother.

“I’m so sorry” she said hugging you tighter.

But this wasn’t possible, right? Your brother was supposed to be in California. You had just talked to him last week. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be --. It was all too much. You exited Angela’s office where you were confronted by Cam. She knew. She grabbed your arm before you could walk by. She told you how sorry she was. How we would catch however did this. She explained that she had the FBI send an agent to escort you home, that you should take the time you needed off, and finally that she would be here for you if you needed anything.

You gathered your belongings and got into the car. There was an agent who’d you seen before but never really talked to driving. He didn’t say a word. In all honestly you were glad, you were a complete wreck. You didn’t think this day could get any worse.

Until it did.

When you arrived to your apartment, you thanked the agent for giving you a ride. You were surprised to see it was already eight pm You got inside and set your stuff down on the table. You sat on the couch, no longer able to hold any of it in. Your brother was all that you had left. Both of your parents had died when you were 12 in a car accident. Your brother was 18 and became your legal guardian. He basically raised you through high school and college. He bought you your first drink on your 21st birthday. The two of you had been through everything together. He was supposed to be happy and alive in California. What was he doing in Washington? Who would do this to him?

You had decided that you had enough for one evening. You went upstairs to your bedroom. When you opened the door you screamed. There were a ton of pictures of you pinned to your wall. There were pictures of you at work, pictures at restaurants and stores. There were pictures of you working out and even pictures of you sleeping in your bedroom. You took a step back and hit into the door. You noticed something sticky against your hands. You turned to look at it and shrieked again. In thick blood red letters, it said ‘YOU’RE NEXT’. Before you could think there was a banging on the downstairs door.

You locked your bedroom door and ran to your closet. Your trembling fingers went for your phone. You dialed Booth’s number. Suddenly the banging stopped. You listened as the dial tone went off again and again.

“Hey Y/N I’m so sorry to hear about your brother if there is-”

“Booth” you whispered

“Y/N?” he asked.

“I think he’s here” you whimpered.

“Who’s there Y/n? What’s going on?” he asked confused.

“I’m next.” you said started to lose it, “He’s in my house. They guy who killed my brother, he’s in my house.”

“Y/n calm down, I’m on my way, Sweets just called for backup, everything will be okay, just hold on” he replied, and you could hear the urgency in his voice. You had never been so scared in your life. You heart was racing, it was getting harder and harder to breath. Suddenly, you heard you name being called through the phone.

It was Sweets. “Y/n-” he started, “Y/n, you have to listen to me”. He continued to talk but it was hard to focus. “Y/n we are almost there, just focus on my voice, everything will be okay, you need to calm-”. The phone went dead. Not even a minute later the power went out.

You were sitting in your closet knees pulled tightly to your chest. You couldn’t believe this was happening. Why you? You weren’t ready to die, there are so many things you haven’t done yet. Tears were running down your face. You thought that you heard footsteps. You sat like that for what felt like hours. The next thing that you remembered was hearing your door being kicked down. You just sat in your closet ready to face the inevitable. You could hear all of the different doors of your apartment being opened and closed. Then the door to you bedroom was opened. ‘This is it’ you thought

You were filled with relief when you heard Booth say “Oh my God”. It was a moment later when Sweets called out to you, “Y/n? Are you here?” desperation in his voice.

“In here” you whimpered before attempting to get up. The door to your closet was opened immediately. Sweets helped you up and hugged you tightly. He was so scared he had lost you. Booth was on his phone calling for crime scene analyzers.

Everything from there happened so quickly. People were in and out of your house. Booth had decided to take you back to the bureau where he would know that you were safe. Sweets had stayed to see if he could get a read on the unsub. He wanted to find the motive, this was personal.

Booth watched you as he drove. You were staring out the window. You hadn’t said a word since you left. He didn’t blame you, you had one hell of a day. When you arrived, he set you up in Sweet’s office, and left telling you to call if you needed anything. You sat and stared blankly. Your mind was reeling.

Meanwhile back at the Crime Scene:

It was after midnight when Hodgins and Angela had arrived. They were escorted to your room. They were immediately startled. Sweets was laying on your bed staring at the ceiling. “Sweets, where’s y/n?” Angela asked worriedly noticing the door.

“Don’t worry she’s fine, she is with Booth, it’s not her blood,” he answered without looking away.

“What kind of sick son of a bitch, would do something like this?” Hodgins asked in disbelief as he started to set up his equipment.

“That’s the wrong question” Sweets replied. “It isn’t about what kind of person would do this, we see murderers and psychopaths everyday. The real question is why target Y/n and her brother?” he finished. Angela, who knew how much Sweets cared for you, suggested that he go home and sleep on it.

“After all,” she reasoned, “We need you and that brain of yours rested up, we have a long case ahead of us.”

He reluctantly agreed. He had one of the agents swing him by his office so he could retrieve his belongings and car. He was surprised to see you curled up on the couch in his office. He watched as you lay there peacefully sleeping. Your eyes were still red and puffy. He went and searched around the bureau until he returned with a blanket. He wished that you didn’t have to go through this. You deserved so much better than this. He grabbed his things and went home deciding that he wanted to be here early so you would have someone there for you when you woke up.

#bones imagine #bones imagines #bones #lance sweets #sweets imagines #sweets x reader #lance x reader #bones x reader #bones fic #bones series #lance sweets x reader #lance sweets imagine #lance sweets x you #sweets

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sonofhistory · 7 years ago

Note

Do you have any information on the founding fathers on their deathbeds?

In chronological order:

A few days before his death, Benjamin Franklin, already on his last days began to run a temperature and felt pain in his chest from an imposture in his leg lung. His difficulty in breathing increased until he was almost suffocating. “He rose from his bed,” wrote Benjamin Rush later to Richard Price, “and begged that it be made up for him so that he might die in a descent manner. His daughter told him that she hoped he would recover and live many years longer. He calmly replied: “I hope not”. Upon being advised to change his position in bed, so that he might breath easy, he said: “A dying man can do nothing easy.” The empyema burst and breathing became almost impossible and he passed into a coma. His grandsons William Temple and Benjamin Bache watched him as he died quietly at eleven in the night of April 17th at eighty-four. (Benjamin Franklin by Karl Van Doren.

On Thursday, December 12, 1799, George Washington was out on horseback supervising farming activities from late morning until three in the afternoon, however during this ride it began to hail and rain. The next morning brought a sore throat and Washington’s voice became increasingly more hoarse. Saturday, December 14th, he was seen by three different doctors who bled and nearly suffocated him with drinks and was bed-ridden. At five in the afternoon George Washington sat up from bed, dressed, and walked over to his chair. He returned to bed within thirty minutes and Washington said, “Doctor, I die hard; but I am not afraid to go; I believed from my first attack that I should not survive it; my breath can not last long.” Soon afterward, Washington thanked all three doctors for their service. At ten at night George Washington spoke, requesting to be “decently buried” and to “not let my body be put into the Vault in less than three days after I am dead.” His last words were “’tis well.” Between ten and eleven at night on December 14, 1799, George Washington passed away surrounded by his wife, a few friends, three housemaids and his valet Christopher Sheels. (Washington by Ron Chernow).

After being shot in a duel with Aaron Burr, Alexander Hamilton was rowed across the Hudson and was preoccupied with spiritual matters. No sooner was he brought to the Bayard home, he asked to see Reverend Benjamin Moore, the rector of Trinity Church. Moore balked at giving Hamilton holy communion as he wrestled with death. Hamilton then turned to Reverend John M. Mason, pastor of the Scotch Presbyterian Church. When Mason entered the chamber he took Hamilton’s hand and the two men exchanged a “melancholy salutation”. Hamilton was unable to get it from him either. Mason tried to console Hamilton, “I perceive it to be so,” Hamilton said. “I am a sinner. I look to His mercy.” He then stressed a hatred of dueling “I used every expedient to avoid the interview, but I have found for some tie past that my life must be exposed to that man. I went to the field determined not to take his life.” He then said “My dear sir, you perceive my unfortunate situation and no doubt have been made acquainted with the circumstances which led to it. It is my desire to receive the communion at your hands. I hop you will not conceive there is any impropriety in my request.” He added, “It has been some time past been the wish of my heart and it was my intention to take an early opportunity of uniting myself to the church by the reception of that holy ordinance.” He also expressed his faith in God’s mercy. Lifting his hands, he said, “I have no ill will against Colonel Burr. I met him with a fixed resolution to do him no harm. I forgive all that happened” The next morning, Hamilton’s mind still clear but his body was motionless. Eliza allowed the children into his presence and lined them at the foot of his bed. According to the Doctor, “he opened his eyes, gave them on look, closed them again till they were taken away.” (Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow).

A few days before Thomas Jefferson’s death, bedridden, he said goodbye to his family, addressing them each in turn. To an eight year old grandson, he smiled and said, “George does not understand what all this means.” To a great-granddaughter he quotes the Gospel of Luke: “Lord, now wettest thou thy servant depart in peace.” Thomas Jefferson Randolph, a grandson, suggested he was looking better, but Jefferson would have none of it. “Do not imagine for a moment that I feel the smallest solicitude about the result,” Jefferson said, “I am like an old watch, with a pinion worn out here, and a wheel there, until it can go no longer.” He awoke to a noice and wondered wether he had heard the name of the Reverend Frederick Hatch. No, he was told. “I have no objection to see him, as a king and good neighbor,” Jefferson said, turning over. He composed a poem for Patsy alluding to his imminent reunion with his wife and Polly. Lying in his alcove bed, Jefferson mused about the Revolution, telling stories of the great drama. “A few hours more, Doctor, and it will be all over,” he said at one point. A five forty-rive pm on July 2nd, he took laudanum in grog. He was given tea three hours later and brandy four hours after that. He slept fitfully as the clock tinged. In the evening of July 3rd at seven pm, he asked, “Ah! Doctor, are you still there?” before saying “Is it the Fourth?”. The Doctor confirmed this and Jefferson said “Oh God!” before taking more laudanum. Two hours later at nine pm, the Doctor awoke him to give him more but he said “No, Doctor, nothing more.” Three hours later he asked, “This is the Fourth?” and there was silence because it was not, he repeated the question and the man lied to him. “Ah, said Jefferson. “Just as I wished.” During one of his dreams he said “Warn the Committee to be on the alert,” and motioned in the air as if he was writing something. At ten he stirred and stared at a grandson and wanted his head elevated. His lips were then at a request wetted with a sponge. At twelve fifty on July 4th, Thomas Jefferson died with his eyes open mixed upon his alcove. (Thomas Jefferson: Art of Power by Jon Meacham).

July 3rd, 1826 John Adams was only able to utter a few words. Early morning of Tuesday, July 4th, Adams lay in bed with his eyes closed, breathing with great difficulty. Thomas Adams sent off an urgent letter to John Quincy Adams saying their father was “sinking rapidly.” Efforts were made to give Adams more comfort by changing his position and he awakened. Told that it was the fourth, he answered “It is a great day. It is a good day.” Late in the afternoon, he stirred and whispered clearly enough to be understood “Thomas Jefferson survives.” Somewhat later, struggling for breath, he whispered to his grand-daughter Susanna, “Help me, child! Help me!” then lapsed into silence. At about six twenty on July 4th, 1826, John Adams was dead. (John Adams by David McCullough).

On the night of May 14, 1829, John Jay was stricken with palsy, probably caused by a stroke. He lived for three days, dying in Bedford, New York, on May 17. That same day, as John Jay was near his death he was asked if he had any final words for his children. He responded with four words: “They have the Book.” [x]

After his wife’s death, unable to live by himself and forced to sell all his property to pay for debts due to Congress not paying him, James Monroe lived with his daughter Maria in New York with her children and husband. After his wife’s death he also expressed that he would not live the year without her and by December, 1830 it was tough for him to leave his bed. He grew weaker, plagued by a cough. When John Quincy Adams came to visit him in April, 1831, Monroe could not leave his room and cut his visit short. In May he wrote up his will dividing everything equally between his two daughters. In a letter to James Madison, he said his greatest regret was that they would never see each other again. That was the last letter he ever had the strength to write and did not respond to Madison’s letter back. On July 4th, 1831, surrounded by Maria’s family, he died shortly after three in the morning, fully conscious. According to sources at the scene, Monroe’s last words were, “I only regret that I should leave this world without again beholding him.” The “him” Monroe was speaking of was James Madison. (James Monroe: The Quest of Destiny by Harry Ammon).

For six months before James Madison’s death, he was “unable to walk, and spent most of his time reclining on a couch.” My mind, however, “was bright and with his numerous visitors he talked with as much animation strength of voice as I ever heard him in his best days.” May 1836 he roused from bed one final time and talked eagerly about his War of 1812 experience. A few days before his death, Madison spent his time reading Professor George Tucker’s life of Thomas Jefferson. On June 27th, he spent several hours painfully dictating thanks for the dedication of the book to him. It was suggested he take “stimulators” which would prolong his life until the 4th of July and be the last founding father and fourth to die on the famous date. The morning of June 28th, Paul Jennigs, a slave, shaved him and brought him breakfast. Nelly Willis, a niece came to visit with her uncle as he ate, when he had difficulty swallowing, Mrs. Willis asked him what the trouble war. Jennings recalled that Madison replied, “nothing more than a change of mind, my dear” and then “his head instantly dropped and he ceased breathing as quietly as the snuff of a candle goes out.” (James Madison by Ralph Ketcham).

#iamafangirlforeverthing #Flood pressles box

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ph-piecebypiece-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Chapter One

Authors Note: I’ve had this idea bouncing around in my head for a while now and finally decided to try and write it all down. I have a few chapters written, but I’m new to the fandom and don’t know what kind of response it will get. So I’m posting this now to test the waters and see what people think! Hope you enjoy and feedback would be lovely! :)

It was a pain that was unnervingly familiar, but a pain that never got easier to deal with. The physical aching agony from the repeated kicks, punches, scratches, anything he could think of to hurt her and the emotional pain of loving the person causing so much damage. She laid curled up on the floor, people were watching, but no one was interfering. She felt the force of his foot slam into her back and she let out a groan of protest unable to scream like her lungs were aching to do.

“You're such a little bitch, you know that?” She heard him pant, his breath laboured from the effort it was taking to torture her. Once again her only response was a quiet groan. “Answer me!”

She took a shaky breath, working up the energy to respond as he demanded, but suddenly the mood in the room changed.

“Shit, dude. Do you hear that?” One of the bystanders questioned.

“Hear what?” Her attacker paused. With the sudden silence even she could hear the noise that was being referred to despite the ringing sound in her ears. Sirens. “Shit, fuck, hide everything, everyone leave!”

“What are we gonna do about her?”The man asked, gesturing to the heap of a woman on the floor.

“Nothing.”

Without any warning she felt another swift kick from her boyfriend to the back of her head and just as the door slammed open, the room filling with lights and yelling, her vision clouded and she fell unconscious.

January 2013

Everly woke with a start as she always did when she had that dream. It always felt so real and she stretched as her heart rate slowed down, reminding herself that her body had mended and had come so far from where it had ended up that night. A few scars still remained, but the majority of the physical damage had healed.

She sighed as she pulled herself out of bed and looked at her phone. It was just after one in the afternoon meaning she had less than an hour before she had to leave for work. She dragged herself into the bathroom of her tiny studio apartment and looked in the mirror. She looked awful thanks to her restless night with her past haunting her dreams, but she did her best to push the thoughts from her brain and shake herself off. She turned the shower on as she brushed her teeth, letting the water heat up to the almost unbearably hot temperature that she enjoyed. She washed her hair and lathered her skin with her favourite body wash, but just as always she felt removed from her actions as if she was just going through the motions automatically, not really present.

The same detached feeling followed her as she blow-dried her straight hair and browsed through her wardrobe, deciding what outfit to wear. It was a rainy Tuesday which meant the bar she managed would be dead. They were lucky if they served three customers a night on Tuesday and Wednesday and Everly was ninety percent sure the owner, her Godfather, only stayed open so she'd have enough money to survive. She knew they made more than enough to cover their losses on the busy Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights though so she never questioned his reasoning.

Knowing there would hardly be anyone to charm tips out of that evening she decided on a slightly more conservative outfit. A classic black dress, fish net tights, converse and her leather jacket as it was the only coat she had that stood a chance of keeping her even a tiny bit dry.

By the time she was finished getting ready she was running a few minutes late so after grabbing her purse she dashed out the door.

As Everly had predicted the night was passing by painfully slow. She always worked alone on the slower nights meaning she was sat behind the counter in an empty bar from three in the afternoon until midnight or later if they miraculously got busy. Most nights she didn't mind, bringing a book to read or finding something to clean since it was astonishing how filthy the place got on the few nights they were busy. However as she left in a rush today she'd forgotten to bring anything for entertainment and the bar was surprisingly clean.

It was around nine o'clock, when she was mindlessly busying herself by reorganising the liqueur for the third time that evening, that she heard the door open. She turned around, hopeful that there would finally be some work to do, but froze when she saw the man standing by the door. He was looking around the empty room as he shook the rain off of the baseball hat he'd been wearing moments earlier.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the worlds,” Everly started, quoting the famous Casablanca with a smirk on her face. “Prince Henry Charles Albert David walks into mine.”

The redhead's attention snapped to the woman behind the bar. At first his expression was worried by how quickly he'd been spotted, but the worry quickly faded into recognition.

“Everly Cunningham, what are you doing here?”

He quickly strode across the room and settled on a bar stool.

“I should be asking you that, what on earth are you doing in a shitty place like this?”

Harry chuckled.

“I just wanted somewhere quiet where I could have a drink like a normal person and get away from the press whirlwind I've been faced with since I got home.”

“Ah, yes. Captain Wales. I heard you just finished a tour in Afghanistan.” Everly recalled reading something about that on the cover of a tabloid magazine in the grocery store and Harry's nod confirmed it. “Well I think that entitles you to a free drink, your Royal Highness.”

“You don't have to do that,” Harry assured her. “And you certainly don't have to address me like that.”

“It's no big deal,” She said with a shrug, referring to the drink. “What would you like?”

Harry asked for a scotch and Everly picked the nicest one they had.

“Thanks,” He flashed her one of his charming grins before taking a sip. “So do you own this place?”

Everly laughed, shaking her head.

“God, no. I just work here.” She admitted. “My godfather owns it so I manage the place for him. It's not the most glamorous job, but it pays the bills.”

“It seems like a nice place,” Harry lied as he looked around earning a scoff from Everly who was not fooled by his compliment. A silence settled between them as Harry took another sip of his drink. “So, how's the Prime Minister?”

Everly feigned a puzzled expression.

“David Cameron? I wouldn't know, I've never met the man.”

Harry chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“You know what I meant. How's your father?”

“Well he hasn't been Prime Minister for about eight years now, so how was I supposed to know who you were referring to?” She playfully rolled her eyes back at him. “But he's alright. Well I think he is. I don't really talk to him these days. Some, uh, some stuff happened and I needed some space away from my life for a while.”

Harry nodded solemnly.

“I heard about what happened to you,” His voice was soft and comforting, but Everly felt her chest seize up and her mouth go dry at the thought of the conversation that was sure to follow. “I'm sorry you had to go through-”

“It's fine, really,” Everly cut him off. “I'd rather not talk about it.”

Harry nodded and took another sip of his drink, not wanting to push her. Another silence fell between them as Everly picked at the varnish on the bar top. Her entire mood had shifted at the mention of her past and she cursed herself for even alluding to it. Of course he'd heard about it, the entire country had. She was headline news for three months. She shouldn't have given him an invitation to bring it up.

They didn't speak for almost five long, awkward minutes, but just as she was about to make an excuse about having to close the bar early due to how slow it was, Harry interrupted her thoughts.

“I really can't believe I ran into you tonight,” He mused. “It has to have been what? Ten years?”

Everly perked up a bit at the change of topic and thought back to the last time she'd seen the handsome prince.

“Uh, eleven or twelve I think.” She pondered. “I believe it was the marijuana incident of June 2001, just after my fourteenth birthday.”

Harry almost choked on his drink at the title she'd given their last meeting. He'd been almost eighteen and accompanied his father to some banquet that all of Britain's elite were attending. Naturally, the Prime Minister and his daughter, Everly, had been there as well. The young prince had snuck out for a quick cigarette late into the evening and had been surprised to find the perfect spot he'd scoped out earlier already taken. Everly had just beaten him there and was furiously trying to light what Harry instantly recognised as a joint. He offered his assistance on the promise that she would share and forty-five minutes later when the two teenagers returned to the party they were sufficiently stoned. They thought they were hiding it well of course, but the smell was instantly noticed by several people in the room and they were dragged out by their furious father's as soon as word got to them.

“I believe you are correct,” Harry confirmed. “God, I got in so much trouble that night. I don't think I've ever seen my father so angry with me.”

Everly giggled at the memory.

“I barely even got scolded” She smirked. “But I mean, my mom had just passed away so I think my dad felt bad for me. I would have loved for him to lose his mind and actually pay attention to me though, might have helped me more in the long run.”

Harry nodded, not sure what to say to the woman across the bar from him. He'd forgotten about her mother and how they'd both lost a parent so young. She'd been through so much in her life and as he watched her he noticed how sad she really looked behind the front she was putting up.

“Well,” Harry paused to toss back the last of his scotch. “I think this reunion calls for another drink, but you have to join me this time.”

“Harry, I'm working,” Everly reminded him.

Harry chuckled as he gestured to the empty room behind him.

“Not very hard though, are you?” He teased with a cheeky grin that pulled another giggle from the girl across from him.

“Alright, your Highness, you win.”

Everly poured both of them a drink. Another scotch for him and a gin and tonic for herself. Then, knowing no one else would come in for the rest of the night anyway, she walked around the bar and perched on the stool next to him. They easily fell into conversation as Harry opened up about his time in Afghanistan and how much it meant to him to have the chance to go and fight for his country and they reminisced about their wild teenage years and the various ways they embarrassed their families. One drink turned into three fairly quickly and considering Everly hadn't eaten all day she was definitely feeling the familiar alcohol induced fuzziness. Enjoying their time together, Everly formed a plan.

“I'll be right back,” She mumbled to Harry before going back behind the bar. She grabbed the bag of peanuts they kept to fill up the little bar nut bowls, a bottle of cheap gin and her keys from her purse. She left the alcohol and snacks on the bar before walking to the door and locking it.

“Are you closed?” Harry asked, confused by what she was doing.

“No, but no one's going to come in anyway so I decided to close up early.”

“And this?” He gestured to the bottle on the bar.

“It's cheap and shitty,” She answered with a shrug. “No one ever buys it so I figure we may as well finish the bottle.”

She poured them each another drink to demonstrate her point.

“Cheers,” He smiled holding up his glass to her. She did the same before taking a sip.

“Now where were we,” Everly pondered. “Ah, yes. I believe we were discussing a few very scandalous pictures I saw of you last summer.”

A feint blush covered Harry's cheeks.

“It turns out that what happens in Vegas doesn't always stay there...”

Everly giggled, stealing a peanut from the bag even though she knew realistically a couple of peanuts would do nothing to combat the alcohol in her system.

“Well I thought you looked pretty good,” She teased. “I mean, I know having the world see you naked must be quite embarrassing, but at least you looked hot.”

“Yeah?” Harry smirked.

“Yeah,” Everly nodded. “You have a cute butt.”

Harry laughed, his cheeks still pink with embarrassment before a smirk slid on to his face.

“Well, since you've seen me naked I think it's only fair that I get to see what's under your clothes too.”

Everly almost spat out her drink at his proposition, but quickly regained her composure.

“Prince Harry, are you flirting with me?” She asked, feigning complete shock. “What an indecent proposal!”

“You started it!”The smirk stayed on Harry's face as Everly's shock dissolved into giggles.

“I did, didn't I?” She smiled. “Well I'll stop, I'm sure there's someone out there who waited four long months for you to get home who wouldn't appreciate the way our conversation is going.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at her suggestion.

“No one that I know of,” He admitted. “I'm not seeing anyone at the moment.”

Everly suddenly became aware of how close to each other they had ended up. She hadn't even noticed it was happening, but through the course of their conversation they had both been leaning closer and closer.

“Oh, me neither,” She practically whispered as her eyes flitted down to his lips.

“Perfect,” Harry said softly before pausing for a moment, his eyes staring into hers with an intensity she wasn't familiar with. She was just about to ask why it was perfect when he cut her off. “Because then I feel no guilt about doing this.”

Before she could question him, his lips were against hers. The spark that went through her body was intense as his soft lips captured her own. Her hands instinctively wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer and as her lips parted with a soft moan, Harry seized the opportunity and his tongue tackled hers. Their tongues danced for a few moments, but as Everly gently teased the hairs at the nape of Harry's neck, he felt his control slipping. Moving so fast that Everly barely even knew what was happening, Harry's hands found their way to her waist and hoisted her up so she was sitting on the bar and he was stood between her legs.

“Wow, so strong,” She breathed out, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen and Harry didn't even bother to reply before he pressed his lips back against hers. Everly eagerly leaned into the kiss and let her hands wander to the hem of Harry's shirt. She brushed over his toned abs and sighed against his mouth. Moving slightly farther south, she let her hands trace lightly over the skin just above his waist band, feeling his stomach twitch in anticipation and Harry groaned as he pressed farther between her legs so she could feel his growing bulge against her. A quiet gasp fell from her lips as she moved her hands back around his neck as she too pressed herself towards him.

It wasn't until Harry's hands slowly began to slide up her thighs that her mind caught up to her body. As he gently stroked the skin of her inner thighs through the fishnet stockings, images that Everly had pushed to the back of her mind and buried began to pop up. Rough groping, pain, reluctance, self-hatred all flashed through her mind and Harry felt her tense in his arms.

“St-stop,” She stuttered out, her chest tightening as tears filled her eyes. “Please.”

Harry immediately stepped back. His breath heavy from his arousal, but his face showed nothing but concern.

“Are you alright?” He asked quietly, surprised by her sudden change in mood. Her eyes were clenched shut, but single tear slid down her cheek and even though she wiped it away as quick as it appeared, it didn't escape Harry's notice. He thought back to everything he knew about what she'd been through and cursed himself for being so forward, for moving so quickly, and stepped towards her. “Everly, I'm sorry.”

She shook her head, pressing her hand against his chest so he couldn't move any closer.

“It's not you, I'm fine,” She lied. “I just think you should go. This is entirely unprofessional of me. I work here, I shouldn't be about to fuck a customer on top of the bar.”

Harry felt a stirring in his groin at her words, but nodded. He knew her reaction was far more than just her common sense kicking in, but didn't want to push her any more than he already had.

“You're right,” He agreed, stepping back to give her space. “I'm sorry for getting carried away.”

Everly forced a smile and hopped off the bar.

“You're not the only one to blame for that, your highness.”

Harry chuckled, relieved to see her perk up a bit as he grabbed his hat off the bar.

“Well I'd be a fool if I didn't at least ask for your number after that,” Harry admitted pulling out his phone.

Everly's fake smile faded a bit as she mulled over his suggestion and all the possibilities it could lead to, but it was impossible to deny him when he was staring at her with his big, charming grin.

“Alright, I suppose that's fair,” She agreed, her smile sneaking back on to her face.

She rattled off her number as Harry put it into his phone and then, after placing one last gentle kiss on her cheek, he was gone.

#prince harry fanfiction #prince harry fan fic #phff

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xwing-baby · 8 years ago

Text

Poolside (Sam X Reader)

WEDIM Day Fourteen

SAM X READER

WORD COUNT: 2243

WARNINGS: Supernatural type violence, angst?

SUMMARY: When your manager dies mysteriously every one is a bit on edge. Some handsome FBI Agents turn up a few days later and the crazy skyrockets.

A/n: I am currently away on holiday with my college in Sorrento, Italy. If any of you have any requests or wanna message me for any other reason just know I probably won’t reply till Saturday (unless I find free wifi lol) Hope ya’ll are doing okay and enjoy this Adele inspired fic. Inspired by “River Lea” by Adele

Being a lifeguard was not where I saw myself in the future. If you’d asked me five years ago I would have said an actress or a writer. However, dreams change and after a literally life-changing summer camp I realised the true value of the poolside police.

Although it could be boring, there was always something new. And this was definitely something new

I showed up at work, on time as always, to find an ambulance and police car parked outside, Curious, I walked in and went to find my manager Emma to ask him what was going on. Instead, I found her girlfriend sobbing on the floor. I’d only ever met Emma’s girlfriend one but she seemed like a nice, normal girl. Not the one to be sobbing on the floor for no reason.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked as I stepped in the office. Emma’s girlfriend looked up and sniffed. “Is Emma around?”

“She’s gone!” She wailed. “She’s gone,” She began sobbing loudly again, I quickly got down to her level to comfort her.

“Shh, it’s alright. She’ll be back in a bit I’m sure,”

“No, I-I came in this m-m-morning with Em and I went t-to get coffee and when I came back she was�� She’s can’t be dead!” She clutched my side tight, crying into my shoulder. “We were getting married next week!”

My heart dropped. Emma was dead? I was truly shocked. How did happen?

The paramedic’s fished Emma’s body out of the pool and the police took statements from everyone that was there at the time. Everyone was in shock that something so horrible could happen.

We decided as a team to shut the pool down for the day so everyone could go and mourn Emma. We all loved her, she was a wonderful person and an amazing swimmer too. She was constantly showing us up in our monthly staff swim competition. It was all very surreal than she was actually dead.

Days past and the pool was back open. There was an eerie feeling among the staff but we soldiered on none the less. Today was surprisingly busy and I was rushed off my feet all day. At five o’clock I managed to have a break and a shower in staff facilities. I hopped out and back into my uniform then walked back to the office, drying my hair with a towel.

When I walked in, two men in smart suits were standing in the far corner looking through a file.

“Can I help you?” I asked as I walked in. The men looked up and fished their badges out their pockets.

“Special Agent McGee,” The shortest of the pair introduced himself, “This is my partner Special Agent Joplin,”

“W-What can I do for you, Agents?” I stuttered as I suddenly got very nervous.

“We were wondering if you could tell us about the female that drowned here on Tuesday,” The taller one, Agent Joplin explained.

“I don’t know what to say,” I sighed, sitting in a desk chair. “She was a great swimmer, in great shape. She was opening the pool in the morning, her girlfriend went to get coffee and when she came back she was dead. She probably was gone all of five minutes. She shouldn’t have died so quickly,”

“What time did you get here?”

“Half past eight,”

“When you arrived did the pool seem colder than normal? Or any weird smells?”

“No… I don’t know what that would matter she drowned,” I said, confused by the weird question.

“Protocol I’m afraid,” Agent McGee,

“Was she acting strangely at all?” Agent Joplin, “In the days before she died I mean,”

“No, she was perfectly fine. Bit stressed out with her wedding but nothing out of character,”

“Alright, thank you,” Agent Joplin smiled, “I’m sorry didn’t catch your name?”

“Y/n,” I smiled.

“Y/n do you mind if we stick around for a bit, just to monitor activity?”

“No, not all,” I shook my head, “Just go talk to Ben, our executive manager. He’s quite easy to spot- blue hair and short shorts,”

“Thanks,” Agent Joplin laughed. I grinned and walked them out. Their questions had brought all the feelings back up again so I treated myself to a brownie that a colleague made and left in the office. I had a twenty minutes before my next class so I let myself relax and watched some more of the Gilmore Girls episode I was halfway through.

The episode finished just in time for my lesson. I ran out to the pool to meet the small group of seven-year-olds I was teaching. I jumped into the pool with them and set them doing drills across the pool.

As I taught I noticed Agent Joplin watching from the other side of the pool. I blushed and gave a little wave.

“Who’s that man?” One of the girls in the group asked, “He looks like a moose,”

“Ellie! You can’t say that ” I laughed.

“But he does!” She whine, giggling away to herself. Her friends all returned to the starting side ready for me to tell them what to do, Ellie decided now would be a great time to start chanting ‘Moose Man! Moose! Moose!’ and very quickly the entire group was chanting very loudly at Agent Joplin. I tried to stop them but I couldn’t stop laughing.

Agent Joplin caught on that they were calling to him and luckily he didn’t think much of it. He put his hands on his head like moose antlers which made all the kids laugh themselves into hysterics. He smiled and walked back to the changing rooms where he’d come from earlier.

I eventually got the kids to calm down again and carried on the lesson. Forty-five minutes the lesson finished and I got changed out from my now wet clothes. I was locking up tonight, so I grabbed a sandwich from the vending machine and sat in the staff room waiting until seven to shut up. The FBI agents had left at some point during my lesson but had left a message with my supervisor saying they were going to be back later on for some reason or another. That meant that I would have to stay another hour to keep an eye one them, not that I minded. They were nice people and ever nicer to look at too.

Seven o’clock came and the last stragglers finally left the pools. I double checked the changing rooms, locking those up as I left then I went down to the pool to tidy up the inevitable mess left by the pool users.

The bell rang, telling me that the Agents were back so I quickly went back and opened the door for them.

“Agents,” I greeted them as I opened the door. However, this time it was only Agent Joplin. He wasn’t in his suit like before, he was now dressed in dirty jeans and a flannel shirt. Completely different from the smart look of earlier. “Oh, just you tonight Agent Joplin?”

“You can all me Sam,” Sam said with a smile. “And yes, my brother is with a witness,”

“Oh, Agent McGee was your brother. I can see it now,” I laughed. I stepped back from the door and let Sam in.

“Thanks again for letting us come back,”

“That’s alright, I had nothing else to do tonight anyway,”

Sam smiled and thanked me again then went to work.

---

I’d finished tidying up all the floats, putting them back in the correct box when suddenly I heard the door’s, one by one, slamming shut. I stopped what I was doing and looked up. All the doors, which were open were now shut. There wasn’t any kind of breeze that could have shut them and they were really heavy doors so couldn’t be shut with such force on their own. I walked over to one and tried to push it back open again. It was stuck. I tried the next one. Stuck. The next and the next. All were stuck shut, no matter how much force I used they would not budge.

I sighed in frustration and went to pull out my keys then I remembered, I’d given them to Sam. Then I had an idea. If I rang the office phone they might pick up and come and open a door for me. I clicked the name of the pool on my phone and waited as it rang.

Answerphone.

I began to panic a little now, but I knew that at least Sam was in the building, he’d notice I wasn’t around and come find me when he needed me. So I sat on the floor and played a game my phone while I waited.

Not even five minutes past and everything went cold. Strange seeing as the pool area was always kept at around 85°F now I could see my breath. I shivered and pulled my arms around my body.

“Sam?” I called out, praying that’d hear. Maybe he was just messing around. I couldn’t hear anything so I stood up and went to the closest door and banged my fists on it as hard as I could. The metal sound echoed around the quiet pool. A loud hissing sound broke the silence and a thick mist began to fill the room. If that was chlorine, I was screwed. I banged on the door. “Sam!” I shouted out as the mist began swirling over the water.

Soon, a figure appeared above the water. I froze.

“Sam!” I shouted louder this time. I hear the door handle next to me rattle.

“Y/n? I can’t open the door,” I heard his muffled voice from the side, “Move off the door,”

“I’m not touching it!” I said loudly, tears threatening to spill as the figure began to move closer. “Sam what do I do!”

I walked backwards away from the advancing figure until my back hit the back wall.

“Have you got any iron?” Sam asked,

“No!” I replied. What kind of a question was that?

Sam hit the door again, trying to get it open but it was no use. The figure was much closer now, I could see it much clearer too. The figure was a woman. She was young and beautiful with long dark hair. She was dressed in Victorian clothes which were ripped down one side. I whimpered and cowered in fear as she came closer. She kept whispering something in a language I didn’t understand, but the angry look in her eyes made me think it was something directed at me.

“Sam!” I called out, crying now.

The woman was now in touching distance but I was too scared to move. I tried but it was like my feet were glued to the floor and my back stuck to the wall. I flinched as I felt a cold hand press against my cheek.

“Eres una chica Bonita, ”(You're a pretty girl) The woman said. The hand moved down to my throat now. I whimpered and tried to move away but her grip tightened, making me choke. “Tu debas pagar,” (You must pay,)

Her grip on me tightened again and I couldn’t breathe. I struggled against her but it was no use. Soon everything was hazy as my eyes began to fall. I could hear the woman scream and a hot feeling on my neck but it was too late. I collapsed onto the floor, falling further into the darkness until there was nothing left.

“Y/n! Damn it, Y/n, wake up. Come on!”

I was alive! I was awake! I opened my eyes quickly, coughing and spluttering as air made it’s way back into my lungs. Sam gave a sigh of relief and helped me sit up. I still felt dizzy and I couldn’t see very well but at least that woman seemed to be gone.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“No,” I croaked. “What the hell was that?”

“A ghost, a very angry one at that,” Sam admitted. “I’m sorry, I should have known she was going to come after you too,”

“Me too? What do you mean?”

“Emma’s death wasn’t an accident, that ghost killed her. In fact, she’s killed about fifteen people in the last fifty years,” Sam told me, “But it’s sorted now,”

“What kind of FBI agents are you?” I asked in disbelief at what he’d just said. Sam laughed and shook his head.

“Me and my brother, we’re hunters. We fight stuff like that all the time,”

“Well, thanks,”

Sam’s phone rang and he quickly answered it.

“Yeah we’re alright,” He said into the phone, he paused. “No, nearly but she’s okay. She’ll be alright,” He paused again then laughed at something Dean said. “No, I’m- Oh fine I’ll ask,” Sam brought the phone away from his ear and looked back at me. “Dean wants to know if you want to come out for a drink with us as a thank you and an apology for you nearly dying,”

“I don’t see why not,” I laughed. Sam grinned and laughed too.

“Yep, we’ll be there in half an hour, see ya!” He said into the phone then hung it up.

After a few a minutes of recovery on my part and Sam clearing up the mess, the ghost had created. Sam helped me up and out his car.

Let’s just say that we didn’t make it to the bar…

TAGGED: @bethanystan @mybittersweetbullshituniverse @lindsaylove1226 @bcr36

#sam x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #supernatural x reader #supernatural imagine #supernatural drabble #WEDIM #WEDIM day fourteen #spn fic #supernatural #ghost fic #supernatural ghost

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void-bee · 8 years ago

Text

Time Moves Around Us

i had to write a first person story for class, so i wrote it about a lesbian baker on the autism spectrum

have a nice read, it’s like 3,000 words

Time was very important to me. Keeping that time in order was very important. The world outside my schedule was loud and chaotic, and how others made it through their days is beyond me. There was order and safety in knowing where you should be, what you should do, and when you should do it. Knowing what needs to be done gave me a tether to the rest of the world, let me interact with those who think differently than I do. It made me feel safe. It let me feel in control.

My planet turned on its axis, orbiting the Earth. That’s how other people felt to me: a world away. My brain turned my small world. My world chimed on the hour and there was nothing more soothing to decipher those chimes. They spoke to me in lists and deadlines. So, on Tuesday, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. like I always do. The laminated list near my bedside gave me clear directions for my morning routine in ten minute increments. The timer on its chain went around my neck, its quiet ticking the most gentle sound in my world.

Forty minutes later found me downstairs from my apartment, in my bakery, nursing a mug of coffee and looking through the orders for the day. I had to get bread dough rising, cupcakes mixed, and cookies cut by five or my whole schedule would be off. There was also an order for a cake that had to be finished by 6 p.m., but my sister got in at noon and would be taking care of most of the leg work. I was glad to have her.

“Drawing Dead” started up right on time, a mix of technojazz and piano comforted me through my cupcakes. Getting into the groove of baking is the secret to making them taste perfect; focusing solely on the pastry and nothing else. Time moved around me and I stayed in place, just me and the desserts. Baking is comforting in this manner; follow the instructions and they’re perfect every time. Emily didn’t like this CD, but it turned always ended before noon. This was one of the many ways Emily and I couldn’t communicate.

Rachel came in at six to work the counter. She was a little slip of a blonde college student, but I didn’t know what she was studying. I knew she didn’t really like me, she didn’t understand me. But she was good as a cashier and I trusted her with the sweets.

“Good morning Miss Westmeyer!” she trilled as she opened the backdoor. I didn’t bother to answer her; I had only twelve seconds before the cupcakes needed to come out. She made a face I saw in the corner of my eye but I couldn’t decipher it so I disregarded it. The cupcakes came out perfectly. They were moist and sweet, iced with three perfect rosebuds each. She tried again to engage me, “Did you have a nice night? What are the specials for today boss?” She had tendency to babble at me and I could barely follow the lines of her questioning. Her world was so loud.

“It was fine.” I motioned for her to follow me to the register and wrote out the specials of mocha fudge, lemon lavender, and rosewater mint for the day’s cupcakes. We were also featuring a red velvet cake and tiramisu. The cookies and brownies were fixed menu items, and we sold three basic types of cupcakes daily. Biscotti was sold before noon. Cakes were sold by the slice. Whole cakes that didn’t get sold yesterday were half-price today. We sold milk, tea, and coffee to go along with the desserts, but the big fancy coffee machines made me anxious. We only had two percolators: one for regular and one for decaf.

Rachel continued to talk at me, but I wasn’t focused on what she was saying. I ferried cookies and cakes and brownies into the displays. There were perfectly painted roses on each sugar cookie and a small rosette on each brownie. Our store was called “Cake Bouquet”, so every treat had a small flower on it somewhere. Emily thought of the name, I just piped the flowers. Rachel quit trying to talk to me, thankfully, and just unlocked the door, started running the presale reports and starting up the cash register. I was glad to have her, chatty as she may be. She knew what needed to be done.

Time moved around me again as I kept up with the flow of orders, baking as needed and frosting constantly. Some more cashiers worked the day shift, but I didn’t attempt to know any of them, and they stayed away from the back other than to keep me up to date on shortages. Emily arrived promptly – I’m always relieved when she does, I get nervous when she’s late – and together we made the birthday cake. I spent three hours making ornate gardenias and tulips and roses for it. It’s the only thing I’m good at. Mrs. Romelia was pleased with her cake and I was pleased with our work. As the hours waned away the orders slowed and so did I. By six, there was no more baking to be done as we tried to push the remaining treats. By eight we were closed. Emily ran the cash register after the last cashier left at five, so it was just the two of us. She didn’t mind our silence and I appreciated that.

I gathered up the remaining product other than any of the whole cakes and left the shop to give them to the shelter two streets over. Emily suggested that we give what we don’t sell to those who can’t purchase it. I liked knowing someone appreciated them. I handed the box over to the heavy black woman who works there. I didn’t know her name: all we say is ‘here you go’ and ‘thank you sweetie’. And then I left. I walked the two blocks back to my apartment above the bakery and I balanced the books for the day and took the inventory. Emily was always gone by the time I got back from the shelter. At 9:30 p.m. I reheated some food that she left me for dinner. At ten I went to bed.

I woke up at 1:51 a.m. like I always do. No, wait, that’s not right, I always wake up at 3:30. I stared at the clock in confusion, wondering why I was awake. The clock said 1:51. What was presumably another crash came from downstairs and it was so loud. It was so loud I must have woken up. I crept downstairs, trying to figure out what was happening. My mind was humming a single note, panic blurring my periphery.

There was a man in my bakery. I stood at the bottom of the staircase in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a shirt and shorts, and my feet were bare. He stood across from me wearing a jacket and boots and jeans and I couldn’t see his face under a bandana, couldn't see his hair under a baseball cap. The kitchen was very, very dark. He said something to me but I couldn’t hear him over the increasingly loud humming in my head which was rising and rising in pitch. And then it wasn’t just in my head, but it was out of my mouth and I was screaming. Waving his arms at me, he took a step closer but I didn’t know what that meant. I felt a thousand miles from him but also so, so close. His planet circled closer and closer until it crashed into mine. Something gleamed in his hand and my legs couldn’t hold me anymore, dropping me to the floor in panic. I covered my ears but kept staring at him. We had locked eye contact until he turned away. I kept screaming and screaming and then I fell away.

When I came back, it was to noise that was too much. There were sirens and they were so loud. Emily was close to me and she wasn’t touching me but she smelled nice and she was close to me, so that was enough. I focused on her and away from the flashing lights that flicked red and blue and back. Someone in a brown jacket approached us and put a hand on my shoulder. They were wearing a jacket and he had been wearing a jacket. I flinched back violently from the hand, I didn’t know who was touching me. I heard Emily shouting again but I was too far away from myself to understand what she was saying. She put her hands over her ears and locked eyes with me. I copied her. It was easier to focus when I couldn’t hear as clearly. As my breathing calmed, everyone backed away from me. Time moved around me.

“-got Asperger’s don’t put your hands on her. She doesn’t react well.” I finally made out Emily’s words. Her tone was calm but she was arguing with someone behind me. “She’s just had a serious shock, she’s frightened, she’s panicked. You would be too, just give her some space.” I was so glad to have Emily. I couldn’t tell whoever was trying to touch me that it was just too much right now. I just needed a minute, or an hour, it was hard to tell.

“Listen, ma’am, I understand she’s panicked, but maybe talking through it will help. It can’t be good to keep all that bottled up.” The voice behind me was just as calm as Emily, but the tone wasn’t aggressive. It was warm. The far edges were still dark but I turned my gaze towards the warm voice. It was a police officer; their badge was shiny. The badge was like a little winking star. The officer had a hat with a wide brim and was wearing a scarf. It looked soft and a shiver ran through me as their winter clothing reminded me that my window was broken while I wore nothing but pajamas. I tugged gently at Emily’s shoulder.

“Emily, I’m cold. I need my shawl. The window’s broken,” I told her, not sure if she’d noticed. Something about her expression changed, but not her mouth. I didn’t know what it meant but she nodded and turned to go upstairs. She and the officer stared at each other. I shivered again and she left. Then the officer stared at me and I stared back. Gently, probably copying my sister like I always do, they knelt down so we were eye to eye.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” she asked. Her voice was warm again, like Emily’s was. If she knew enough to mimic my sister’s behavior, she must have been okay to talk to. Now that I could see her, I noticed that the officer had dark, gentle eyes and dark, soft-looking skin. She felt warm like a star; warm like the sun. She reminded me of coffee and I liked coffee. “I’m Officer Thorpe,” she continued, “and I’m here to help you. I want to know what you saw, so I can find whoever busted up your shop. Is that alright? Can I help you?” she kept staring at my eyes and I tried very hard to maintain eye contact. I didn’t want her to think I was lying, and I know on TV people look away when they’re lying.

My voice was tiny when I said “Okay,” but I didn’t mean for it to be. Maybe I was more scared than I thought. Officer Thorpe smiled. I tried to smile back but it was hard. I didn’t feel like smiling right then.

“Okay, okay, great. You’re doing great. Can you tell me what happened?” she asked. My breathing sped up as I thought back to what had happened. Someone broke into my shop and broke my window and woke me up and- “Hey, hey, hey. Stop that it’s okay I’m sorry,” she said, holding her hands up but not touching me. I realized I was panicking again. I was glad she didn’t touch me. “Hey, hey, okay, breathe with me okay?” I copied her as she breathed slow and steady. I calmed a bit. She smiled at me again and I tried again. It was a little easier this time.

“Can we take it slower?” I asked, voice a little stronger this time. The officer smelled like cinnamon.

“Of course we can.” She moved a little bit closer to me. “Okay, so tell me what woke you up and we’ll go from there.” It sounded very reasonable, the way she phrased that. ‘We’ll go from there’ was promising somehow.

“I woke up at 1:51. Which is wrong, I normally wake up at 3:30.” She was nodding and writing down what I said. I was glad, because that meant I’d only have to tell the story once. I don’t think I could tell it again. “I was very confused and scared. I went downstairs because I heard a crash.” My gaze slid past Officer Thorpe to my kitchen. The crash must have been one of my stand mixers, which was on the floor. It was broken. “I guess it was my mixer. I came downstairs and he was standing across from me. We just looked at each other.”

Seemingly excited, the officer nodded quicker. “Okay, so you did see him! What did he look like? Could you see any of his features?” I leaned back a bit, trying not to let her excitement rile me up. I had to stay calm to tell the story so I could go back to sleep. I still had to wake up in a couple hours.

“It was dark when I came down. He had a bandana on his face, but he wasn’t wearing gloves. He wore a jacket and he wore a hat. He wore jeans and boots. He had a knife, I think it was from my kitchen. He stole one of my knives and he broke my window and he broke my mixer.” I frowned at this. Why would he break my mixer? The officer wrote more slowly and then she looked at me. There was something in her eyes I liked.

“Okay, so he broke in and he knocked over your mixer, which woke you up. He must have knocked it off ‘cause it was so dark.” I was very glad she was explaining this to me. “He didn’t come prepared to hurt anybody, since he grabbed one of your kitchen knives when he heard you. He took all the money that was in the register drawer that I guess was set up for today, but he didn’t mess with the safe. And you’re alright, right?” Officer Thorpe took off her scarf and gently set it on my shoulders while she talked. I didn’t realize I was still cold, but her eyes made me feel warm. The sun was so warm and it came from her eyes.

“Right,” I breathed gently. There was a cough off to the left of me, and I saw Emily standing there with my shawl. She also laid it onto me, but I somehow wished it had been Officer Thorpe. The officer flushed red at whatever expression Emily was making and she rose quickly, flipping shut her notebook.

“Well,” she said loudly, purposefully, “I guess that’s all the statement I need, ma’am.” I put my hand on her knee.

“Avery.” I said. She flushed deeper and Emily rolled her eyes in my periphery.

“I guess that’s all I’ll need, Avery,” Officer Thorpe amended. Smiling was easy now. She smiled back at me and Emily stepped into my line of sight. Reminded of her presence, the officer turned to my sister, presumably to hear her statement also. Emily followed Officer Thorpe to the door after they both gave me an order to sit at one of my baking counters and keep calm. It was easy to keep calm if I was thinking of Officer Thorpe and not the robbery. I wanted to go get coffee because I was tired, and it reminded me of the police officer, but I was told to stay where I was. The sky was lightening outside and I saw a glimpse of morning sunlight catch Officer Thorpe’s profile as she talked to my sister in the doorway. Red and blue looked good on her. Upstairs, my alarm sounded and I fidgeted with the beads on the end of my shawl.

It was 3:30 a.m., time to wake up. I had to get the breads in the oven by five.

We didn’t open the next day, or the day after that. It took two weeks to get my window fixed and to be able to reopen the business. Those were a terrifying two weeks. My schedule was gone and without it, my planet was sent adrift in the chaos of what regular people call ‘spontaneity’. But as my mother used to say before she died, ‘When an anchor rises, the ship sails’. Without my anchor, I could discover something new and something exciting, something terrifying. My new waters came in the form of Madison Thorpe, my sole customer for two weeks. Officer Thorpe came in with the sun every day at 9 a.m. for the first five days, once she learned that I really do appreciate punctuality and routine, to keep me involved with the case. I felt very relieved to be kept informed. They caught the robber after five days and he was sentenced to two years in jail and reparations for my window. And he had to pay for my mixer.

After the first five days, I had no idea why she kept coming in. Maybe she liked the biscotti? After a month, Emily began to suspect she came for my company and she informed me of this, which was both surprising and flattering to say the least. She stopped being Officer Thorpe after two months of coming into Cake Bouquet, giving me a stern “It’s Madison when I’m off duty.” Officer Thorpe became Madison, who came in at 9 a.m. for a biscotti, a cup of coffee with two sugars and no milk, a cookie for herself, and a ‘mystery treat’ for her partner. She became Madison, who liked to make jokes I didn’t understand but didn’t make fun of me for needing an explanation. She became Madison, who tried a sample tablespoon of whatever tea I was drinking that day, but hadn’t found one that didn’t make her face twist up.

Time moved around us. She became Maddie after four months of nine a.m. breakfasts, twelve p.m. lunches, and eight p.m. trips to the local shelter. She became Maddie, who loved sleeping over in my warm apartment above the bakery, but never complained about sleeping on the guest bed. She became Maddie who was bleary-eyed and incoherent at 3:30 a.m., when my alarm woke me. Mornings were accompanied by a soft touch to my face and a garbled greeting when I set a mug of coffee on her bedside table and she went back to sleep. ‘Making Maddie’s coffee’ made its way onto my laminated list. She kissed my cheek at five a.m. when she walked by me in the kitchen to go to work, and she always left with two travel mugs of coffee and six doughnuts. They were only made for her. She moved her things into the closet in the guest room, so mine could remain color coordinated and evenly spaced in my closet. She became the brilliant sun that my tiny planet orbited around. She gave me light and life. I became ‘sweetheart’, ‘darling’, ‘sunshine’, ‘lovely’. She moved into my bed. We became us.

#brinley writes #wlw #i dunno its a gay story #how do you tag stories #short story #there you go

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ecotone99 · 6 years ago

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[RF] Cappuccino

Hi! I'm Greg from Hungary! This is my first story in english. Enjoy!

Now I understand all of it. I could not have wished for better. I don’t miss anything now. Well… maybe some aspirin. I’ve probably slept too much, I feel a little dizzy and have a headache, which is rather surprising considering my condition. Earth gently waves below my feet, and she’s with me and will stay with me. She leans toward me; she seems worried and tries to read my eyes as I’m waiting there breathless for the recognition in revealed in her eyes. She has to feel it, she can’t do it otherwise everything is pointless.

And yes, her lips move and I see the recognition in her eyes. Just like in her hands. This is strange again – I’m blinded as she puts the light toward me but it doesn’t hurt – and I’m overwhelmed by heat because her body is next mine. I want to reach out for her cheeks but I refrain. We have plenty of time – it’s a nonsense thought, however, it doesn’t seem to be impossible now.

I can hardly believe that she only came in the café the day before yesterday. On a rainy Tuesday morning. With the third coffee I try to overcome fatigue that waits for me in the service entrance each morning. I’m making a hot chocolate; the flat milk foam emerges in the cup whirling in a spiral, I make a nice heart out of it in the end. The older ladies are enchanted by that and sometimes the younger ones like it too. I also have my regular favorites – the meek blond who always looks above my head as if her tall boyfriend stood behind me. The French beauty, I assume she’s French because of her accent, who likes it sweet (mocha and pain au chocolat) and who can be as rampant as a rainforest under her sweatshirt. I handle their chilling detachment with the tactfulness of a espresso machine. My namebadge, in accordance with the cordial permission of my boss, reads coffee rapporteur and foam specialist. A small present for those who notice me.

I’m done with the chocolate, and the dragging working hours cast shadow on me. My workmate is mad, however, he doesn’t even know that this job can be a real challenge after earning two degrees. I’m making a face to this fact while wiping the counter, when I hear a considerate and low female voice asking for latte. Latte this time of the day? Have you ever been to Italy darling? You should drink espresso in the afternoon, cara signora. “Good choice,” I murmur the usual sentence and then I look up. A female physician about age 28 in a green surgical apron is standing in front of me. She must have jumped in from the hospital next door. Her reddish brown hair in a ponytail, her eyes grayish blue like the Irish Sea, her lips purple as she is shivering with cold. Her gaze locks with mine as if it was an underground atomic blast; as if an invisible hand slapped my forehead, I turn away and hide behind the espresso machine. This helps me; I realize why I’m here and I look up. My acoustic memory fails, I have to ask. “I’m sorry, what would you like to drink?” “Latte,” she says smiling and the information is lost again. I stare at her and she stares at me. Someone drops a teaspoon before the situation gets out of hand, and I wake up from my dream and set about heating up the milk. My face is red and I’m sweating, I see it in the reflection on the shiny espresso machine. What is going on here? The response to this question is the static noise compiled from the background noise. Transmission failure. The foam is too thick, it won’t be good for a latte, just for a cappuccino. It doesn’t matter though, those two are almost the same in this shop as we are far from being a decent café. I’m about to pour it when I realize that I’ve forgotten to make coffee. I only dare look up again when the brown fluid is slowly flowing from the machine. She was slow, I caught her eyes. She was looking at me! I should be more tactful while being clumsy.

The lights of the shop immersed in the blind spot and the girl’s silhouette becomes clearly separated from the background. The reality content of the 1.5 m meters distance between us has risen above the health threshold limit, at least based on the beat rate of my plunging heart. Love at the first sight? The bubbles of dried foam on the steam wand burst aloud. At forty years old? How could that be? It would be a miracle if I could cast anchor. Not to mention that pretty girls come in in every ten minutes and I’m in love with all of them for that two minutes during which they stand in front of the counter. What the hell is going on with me?

The coffee has been ready for a while, I pour in some milk and refrain from drawing a little heart on it. She thanks it with a curious gaze, I don’t say a word as I know I could only cough up some pathetic sentences. She sits down, almost turning her back to me; I only catch her sight scarcely, she looks out the window, no cell phone at all. Maybe she’s having a break between two surgeries and wants to have a good coffee. She’s got it, more or less; I calm down and turn to the next customer who has been begging for my attention for long seconds. I pay twice as much attention to serve the customer and the next time I look toward the girl I see that her seat has been taken by someone else. She has taken something with her though. It seemed as if the shop had been subject to slow decay; I felt the fresh plaster peeling off, the souring of the milk and the advancing mold on the sweets. The remaining three hours takes a heavy toll on me, I’m unable to do my job properly. At closing time, twenty euro is missing from the cashier; I throw in a twenty euro bill when nobody sees it and I go home. Fresh air wakes me up a little, I read about frequencies and resonance on the internet at home. The entire shook when I saw her, our resonance was fighting each other so fiercely that would lead to collapsing bridges elsewhere. I feel this strange vibration at night while I have a splitting headache; I have not drunk coffee since noon.

The following day I drink a double shot, my heart kicks back wildly. I get in work with unusual joy. I totally forgot about yesterday – the French girl wore no bra under her sweatshirt. I’m overwhelmed by strength and vigor, just in a rustic way. In the lunch break, I remember the vibrations I read about yesterday in some lady magazine. If it’s true, I’m already dead. According to the article, I don’t do what I like. Well, if it’s true, only the radio waves vibrate in a proper manner on this planet. There are exceptions of course, such as the author of the article and not to mention the female physician. Devotedness holds man together at the end of a long day, when a simple barista falls apart like a figure on a Picasso painting. Well, it is not right to expect a lot more from a person who gets up at six in the morning. In the morning, I’m able to do everything after my first coffee, it always occurs to what I should do with my life at lunchtime, I would read until dawn at two in the afternoon and I can only make it home at six if I drink my last coffee.

And then she comes, even smiling at the door. Latte. Suddenly all thoughts seem so inappropriate, however, they are not replaced by new ones. My heart is one drum solo, my movements are masonry work from a block of marble, while my common sense is able to climb that block and read out the name tag of the girl. Kyra. Kyra!!! Kyra…??? Now I realize that I’ve kept thinking about her as Elizabeth. It throws me off balance, so I’ll be able to make her drink. Too much foam again, but it will make a latte if we are not too hard on it. She sits down, turning her back halfway again; service is out of order and the outer world refrains from entering the café with unusual delicacy in the next fifteen minutes.

Upon seeing the arch of her mouth, I suddenly realize that I know how she kisses. Her lips are like Anette’s whose taste has just started to fade away. I make further investigations. Her hair is like Irene’s, my palm still preserves the silkiness of it. Her nose is like Norah’s, resembling the storms of our quarrels, her jaw is like Catherine’s whom I adored so much with words yelled in vain. Her eyes… it can’t be, I smile, but they are truly Martha’s whom I fell in love when I was six. This love was unrequited and beyond hope and I was already sixteen when I let myself be tempted by reality. The latte-drinking girl resembled all of them. Now she’s gone, I can hardly recall her face. It is in the corner of my eye but when I try to look at it, it disappears. Only the well-known details remain - and memories.

On the way home, I feel giddy, so I have to sit down on a bench. I drink way too much coffee. No matter what is happening to me, it came at least twenty five years later as it was supposed to. Now it seems that all my experience is useless, my heart was secretly turned on behind my back and it wants more than making me run. It wants to rule my world by a totally stranger who only told me these two word, “Latte” and “Thank you”. The city around me looks like a setting made of paper; shadows seem more real than the objects that cast them. I feel that I’m fighting for the sanity of my mind but I’m not sure whether I’m on the right side or not. Maybe I should submit to this ecstasy and then everything would be straighten out, like when you get back to the highway from a dirt road. But where does this road take me? I know a beer and a good talk would bring me down to earth, but I don’t feel like meeting with anyone. I’m like Voyager – I left the Solar System and I have to see the next star that would attach meaning to my existence, no matter how long it takes.

I managed to sleep eight hours. I feel good in the morning, only one flat white is enough. I’m waiting for the French girl or the meek blond. I’ll ask one of them out for a date. I don’t care what they reply, but I won’t be mad if they say yes, of course. But they aren’t here, instead Kyra is standing in front of the counter. Damn! I thought she would come later. “Latte?” I ask her in a broken voice. She nods smiling. I commence making her drink, while the ceiling of the café is being lowered. Alright then, I submit to my faith. I had different plans though… I ask her out. It will work. I set up band earlier because of some violinist girl. I want to open my mouth but my lips got stuck together. I clear my throat. I want to speak but she says hello to a friend of hers who is about to leave. I look down and realized that the foam is too thick again, it will be another cappuccino again. What should I say? Dear Kyra, we don’t serve latte today but I know a place where they make excellent latte. She is looking at me and I see expectation in her gaze. I have to say something, maybe confess that I’m not a barista, I just haven’t found out my next move. It is pity that my right arm went numb because of her stare.

She draws her brows gently, but that makes her more beautiful; she’s celestial. After this setting made of paper is blown, it’s only two of us on the scene, as it always should have been, in the original state. It was unnecessary to create time, space and other nonsense around us. My frequency is high in the skies, the journalist would probably be stunned; I would be able to spin the entire planet around its axis. I know that Kyra also perceives my strength – I’m king and she’s my queen. She might be a little afraid by that as I see signs of anxiety on her pretty face. Certain parts of the world appear, people gather around us, maybe to take part in the miracle. Even the chandelier on the opposite was moves toward us intrigued; I totally forgot about that it is there. Strange. Then everything is moved away, only she and I remain. Light comes out of her hand. I’m blinded but it doesn’t hurt, I see her face anyhow, and I don’t care if don’t see anything else anymore.

Nothing is missing. Only my head aches a little. I slept for long but I’m awake now. Nothing happens though. As if I was waiting for the punch line of a corny joke. Hahaha, very funny, I murmur into the light as a test but nothing carries my voice. What direction should I take now? I’ve never felt so well-rested before but I had something on my mind. Not always, just sometimes. On a regular basis. It just nails me to the ground. I hear muffled noise and feel two hands on my chest. Then some light is directed into my eyes. I’m blinded. The light disappears and I saw a familiar face, I’m sure I know this face from somewhere. This is beauty itself! It lifts me up to a place where similar ideas are born. It will be always with me. I know where I’m headed. I just would though as the manifested beauty pushes my chest back to ground with its palm. Then on and on again. What does she want? Push back the toothpaste to the tube? Deep and decade-long disappointment springs from the direction of my stomach. The forehead of the beauty is covered with sweat, her face is disfigured by determination. I would be very grateful if she stopped what she is doing and would smile again. If I succeeded, I would use my first breath to shout at her ear with the power of a newly born baby – I’m ineffably, desperately and irrevocably bored.

Dublin, 1 December, 2018

submitted by /u/GergelyKovacs77 [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2IPml1l

#Blogger #Story

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mikeyd1986 · 7 years ago

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MIKEY’S PERSONAL BLOG 57, June 2017

On Monday, Mum and I attended the Mind Body Spirit Festival as we both had the Queen’s Birthday public holiday off. We ended up driving into the city which turned out to be a very costly decision as we were hit with a $40 parking fee. Driving through the city is something I usually avoid like the plague as my stress levels reach unbearable heights and it’s honestly not worth it. It’s also very unforgiving as we quickly found out after being in the wrong lane and missing the street we had to turn down. But after turning back around, we eventually made it down to the Melbourne Convention and Exhibition Centre (MCEC).

I’ve been to this particular festival about four or five times now. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the crowds or the pushy salespeople but at least I’ve learned ways to cope with both of these things. We started by having a meditation session at Brahma Kumaris Centre for Spiritual Learning, The Peninsula which I nearly dozed off in but felt really good. The host told us that we don’t have to be chanting on the top of a mountain wearing orange in order to meditation. All you have to do is stop and look inside yourself. http://www.bkpeninsula.org.au/event...

We listened to Kathy Ashton at the Soul Kitchen cooking stage who talked about foods that can heal your gut including onions and cold white potatoes. Apparently the resistant starch contained in the potato helps to slow the absorption rate in the small intestine which in turn reduces food intake and aids weight loss. As for the onion, if you remove the inner core section, this will help to prevent the feeling of bloating and having “onion breath”. http://www.livestrong.com/article/3...

Next we visited the White Light Publishing House & Book Shop stand which my workmate Nicky Stokes is now associated with after having her book The Journey published through them. I had a good chat with a couple of the ladies there and even picked up a book called Journey of a Lightworker for $10. https://www.whitelightuniversal.com.au/...

At the performance stage, we saw a Native American Indian named Red Horse doing some tribal dancing and playing a variety of instruments from drums to flutes. He was trying to sell copper bracelets that claim to heal painful joints and other health issues but I took it with a grain of salt. He also talked about his belief in “The Creator” aka God and how it’s related to his tribal dances and being healed via sound energy. http://www.healthline.com/health-sl...

Of course part of my brain thought that his claims were utter horse shit (pardon the pun) but I was still open minded enough to listen to what he had to say. I’m not a true believer in all things spiritual but if it helps me make me feel more positive about life and myself, then I’m all for it. https://www.nativeamerican.com.au/i...

Overall, it was very overwhelming seeing so many stalls, seminars, cooking segments, psychic readings, massages and workshops all happening. We didn’t even see half of it because I felt so drained and exhausted after just three hours. I’m not really a fan of spending all day at a convention but I pretty much saw what I wanted to see and I grabbed a few flyers and entered some competitions along the way. http://www.mbsfestival.com.au/melbo...

On Tuesday morning, I had my Strength Training session with Luke Davey at Breakaway Fitness in Berwick. Typically, my brain was ready to sprout some more anxious thoughts but I decided to speak my mind with Luke today. The biggest worry that I have right now is that I’m not like the others. I don’t have a large ego, I’m not extroverted, I’m not obsessed with Crossfit training, making personal bests and attending competitions, I don’t wear designer workout wear and socially I don’t really fit in.

But I have to remind myself...Is it more important to change myself to be like the others or to continue being myself? Answer: Obviously the latter! It’s more just accepting it and trying to be okay with it. I have to start to believe that there’s nothing wrong with having differences in personality, ego and interests. The “Comparing myself to others” tape isn’t helpful for me at all. I need to focus on myself and my own training. Embrace who I am as a person.

I tend to keep to myself a lot at UFT PLAYgrounds, taking in the training facility around me and waiting patiently for my session with Luke to start. I generally don’t put myself out there socially especially if the trainers and coaches are busy with their clients. I obviously don’t want to bother them. But my shyness can dominate my personality a lot, leading me to hesitate and hold back. I can be really tough for me to make conversation.

The positives are that trainers and coaches do say hi to me and try to make me feel welcome in the UFT PLAYgrounds environment. My personal trainer is actively engaged in my sessions and wants the best for me in terms of achieving my fitness goals. There’s no sign on the door saying “No introverts with severe mental illness allowed”. If that were the case, then I’d simply go elsewhere. I deserve to be here. https://www.facebook.com/breakawayf...

WARM-UP...Today I did my usual forward fold stretches over the box, 3 rounds of 90 weighted squat holds and 3 rounds of 15 weighted glute bridges. I’m certainly improving in all of these movements both in terms of strength and flexibility.

DEVELOPMENT...Back to the dreaded weighted back squats. Honestly, it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the 15 EMOTM workout that I did last time but in terms of weight, it was still tough. I did 5 rounds of eight 60kg back squats. I was trying hard focus on getting my form and technique right and not try to stress about the weight too much. I did have a few moments where my brain went into panic mode (What if I can’t lift the next rep? What if I mess it up?) but I was just being hard on myself as usual. It wasn’t perfect but I was happy that I got through my reps without dropping the bar.

WORK-OUT...Today I learned a new technique and movement, having to lift and carry a 45kg dead ball (Strongman). The hardest part was getting my grip right and managing to hold it without the ball slipping out of my hands. I then had to hold it up for 15 seconds before carrying it a distance of 20m. I dropped it a couple of times and I felt a little embarrassed but I didn’t give up. I managed to complete four rounds, walking 20m each time, which was a pretty big achievement for my first time doing it.

On Tuesday night, I went to my Body Combat class with Cinamon Guerin at YMCA Casey ARC in Narre Warren. The new release has been out for a week now and tonight was my first time experiencing it. Boy was it tough. The middle tracks were easily the hardest for me which involved 4 rounds of mountain climbers and push ups on the foam mat. We also had to do quick lunge jumps which changed direction very quickly. But as always I slowed down when I had to and reminded myself that I’m doing my best. It doesn’t matter how uncoordinated I am or if I mess up a combo, at least I’m trying. http://w3.lesmills.com/israel/en/cl...

On Thursday afternoon, I decided to catch up with Mandi Herauville at Gloria Jean’s Coffees in Berwick. It’s hard to believe that this was the first time meeting in the flesh. I’ve known Mandi since last year as she formally trained at UFT PLAYgrounds and now she’s recently opened up her own gym and PT business at The Yard Strength & Fitness. The thing I really love about Mandi is that she gets what I’m going through mentally and emotionally. She is also blunt and brutally honest which is something I need more of in my life.

The time just flew by as we chatted about our experiences at the gym, doing Crossfit training, dealing with parents and family members, wondering what to do with our lives and talking about our mental illnesses. Two hours later...but seriously I really needed this catch up today. My social life has been so empty lately and I’m glad that I had to opportunity to vent about my personal problems and have a laugh about it. It’s much healthier than keeping it all bottled up inside and being too proud to open the flood gates. I trust Mandi enough to do so.

On Thursday night, I had my second Strength Training session with Luke Davey at Breakaway Fitness. Tonight I was trying harder than usual to think positive and let any expectations go. Easier said than done of course. I pre-ordered my new UFT hoodie from the front desk. In some ways, I hope that it’ll make me feel more part of the community because recently I’ve felt rather disconnected. But tonight’s big mantra for me was Focus On The Positives. These included having brief but significant interactions with some of the PT’s and coaches and feeling better about my performance overall.

WARM-UP...Tonight’s warm-up routine was a bit different than usual. I had to do 3 rounds of 10 “Good Mornings” which are essentially stretches into the lower back, hamstrings and posterior with the bar in a back squat position. It was a little tricky getting the body movements correct but I got there eventually.

DEVELOPMENT...Here I did 5 rounds of 12 deadlifts at 65kg. I felt much more focused than last time and I even learned to touch-and-go which is essentially doing continuous reps. I was pretty tough especially around the 8th or 9th rep and I had to drop the bar a couple of times to recover and re-adjust my posture but otherwise I did really well.

WORK-OUT...Tonight I had to do a pre-programmed workout on the rowing machine which involved 9 rounds, one minute and forty seconds each with a 20 second rest in between. The hardest part for me was keeping my pace consistent at around 700-750. I had a two minute rest after the 5th round and by the last round, I really went for it. I kept those positive mantras flowing (I am enough, I am a champion, I am strong), hitting over 900 at some points.

I tried really hard to not let the exterior conversations bother me. The topics of conversation being around Crossfit competitions, Instagram posts and going out to the movies tonight. It’s tough fitting in when you can’t even relate to the conversations and therefore can’t contribute to them. But at the same time, there’s nothing wrong with not having much to say.

During my recovery walk with Luke outside, I decided to open up to him about what was on my mind. Being jealous of the friendships and social connections within the UFT community was what was really bothering me deep down inside. But overall it’s a combination of: a) being too hard on myself b) having unrealistic expectations c) not fitting in with friends at high school d) being socially under-developed since childhood e) the physical absence of my Dad.

Thankfully Luke understands and was trying hard to encourage me. The fact is that I’d rather be myself than be fake and try to be something I’m not. It doesn’t matter if I’m not everyone’s best friend at UFT. It doesn’t even matter if I don’t talk to everyone at UFT. The fact that I’m there, giving it a go and trying hard to expose myself socially is a massive accomplishment and I need to remind myself of that.

On Friday morning, I had an appointment with my support worker Ally at Colourfield Cafe Casey Central. My financial issues quickly resurfaced after I decided to check my credit card statement online this morning. I’m still only halfway to achieving my goal and it’s been over two months. In that moment, I felt really embarrassed that I hadn’t paid my credit card off yet for various reasons. Dealing with unexpected setbacks, having the occasional splurge on band merch, coffees and food and all the fitness classes have all contributed to this debt.

The good news is that at least I have gone back to square one and maxed my credit card out again so that’s a positive. Now I just need to re-assess my goal and how to achieve it. I’m obviously going to need more time to pay it off completely and I’m going to have to be more disciplined and aware of my spending habits. I haven’t failed yet. Far from it. I’m still determined to overcome this burden of mine and accomplish this goal.

Ally and I also discussed challenging my thoughts in social situations and learning to be more assertive, specifically whenever I feel like leaving and saying goodbye to people. I’m particularly nervous about tomorrow night’s UFT dinner catch-up as I only know a handful of people and I don’t want to feel socially excluded, left out or bored. But at least I’ve got some strategies that I can use to cope and get through the potential anxiety and awkwardness of being in this social group.

On Friday night, I attended a Slow Flow yoga class with Rachel Camilleri at Now, Yoga.. Sadly, I haven’t been to one of Rachel’s classes in months but her style is quite a bit more intense compared to Keren and Kim. That’s no necessarily a bad thing though, it just means I warm up quicker and sweat more often. Rachel has a wonderful, quirky sense of humour and allows us students to slowly explore each pose. We did several different flowing sequences including:

Flowing Sequence 1...Standing forward bend, half-lift, downward facing dog, plank, cobra.

Flowing Sequence 2...Downward facing dog, three-legged dog, low lunge, ninja, open twist.

Flowing Sequence 3...Downward facing dog, three-legged dog, high lunge, warrior 2, reverse warrior, open twist.

Stretches...Butterfly pose, single leg forward fold, wide legged forward fold.

“When the world’s laying you low. Why don’t you let me carry your load? When things get bad, you know you’ve got a friend. All along the road.” Keane - On The Road (2012)

“And straining at the least you’d be a better man. But each time I try to climb I start sliding. Some days I think someone's trying to keep me down. But no it's just my own fear that I'm fighting. I feel knocked down but I won't be broken, I won't be broken.” Keane - Won’t Be Broken (2013)

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nicicles · 7 years ago

Text

Pengator Musings and In-Game Scribbles

Nashville Predators vs Pittsburgh Penguins Game Six June 12, 2017

Penguins lead best-of-seven three games to two

Missed it? Musings capture the game in writing. A written transcript typed during the game, posted and edited about thirty minutes afterward. Based on the RDS French telecast of the Montreal Canadiens game (or some anglo sourced playoff game), Musings take about 23 minutes to read. More detailed than an article, fresher than a looping highlight and good with morning coffee. Or late-night Coke. A unique way to re-experience the game.

(Nashville) - Star defender Ryan Ellis remains questionable for tonight's game. Scott Oake, at rinkside, says his absence would mean a step closer for Pittsburgh to raise the Stanley Cup at Bridgestone Arena tonight.

Subban is shown waiting for everyone to leave the ice after the warmup and he lofts a puck into the empty Pittsburgh net. Reminds me of a similar Montreal tradition that led to a pre-period fight against the Flyers. Playoffs. Late eighties. Two Flyers diving out to prevent the superstitious shot, clean ice glistening. And then the fight.

Chico Resch, backup goalie for the Flyers, was one of those black-clad Philadelphians.

Only a maximum of four games a year are games where the Stanley Cup might be awarded at game's end. This season, the maximum is two. Tonight, the Penguins could lift. Should Nashville win (and they will), game seven on Tuesday would be the second award night. It would almost certainly be awarded that night.

Hey, an OT could go on forever. Couldn't it.

Outdoor Tennessee. A band on Broadway, the sun setting. The lead singer wears a "SMASH" hat, grey fronting, yellow lettering, and white mesh rear. It's a country song.

A shot of a Penguin (possibly Crob) wearing a Stanley Cup-shaped bunch of words. Compete Level. Chip it in. Blah, blah. It's a nice shirt.

It's a huge crowd, subdued for now. Nashville faces elimination for the first time these playoffs. They won series one 4-0 over Chicago Blackhawks. They led 3-1 before eliminating the Blues in six. They drowned the Ducks in six, never behind.

Back in the arena we hear "Let's go Preds!"

Cherry stands, wearing a star-blotched suit, blue. White stars. Cherry backs off on his pick. He said that he originally picked Pens to win in six but he's gotta change his pick. I respect the shift. He says if Ellis plays the whole game (Ellis skated in the warm-ups) and with this crowd ... Nashville will win.

Pens look relaxed in their hallway. Preds look fearful, hesitant in theirs. Nerves. Rinne is one of the last to join the team and he effects a hockey nerve and near-arrogance his teammates need to see.

The Preds have impressed in many ways this playoff. Passing short. Passing long. Quickness. Powerful pace. But deeper than that, something we've only sensed, something we'll see demonstrated tonight, is the team's character.

Ellis is introduced first. He doesn't look himself and takes a sour breath and glances askance. But he'll play.

We're reminded the Cup is in the building.

The (fucking) Cup was in the building that dark night in 1989, too. The only time a visiting team held the trophy aloft on Montreal ice.

Faith Hill sings the anthem. It has nothing to do with the game and only distracts a purist, puck professor or student of the game. Get rid of it. These useless intrusions in our games. They're our games.

Not anybody else's. Certainly not yours.

Murray has a good angle and could knock Hill down. Send a clear message. Matt Murray. Their goalie. There's a fucking "honour guard". Dishonour guard.

Now we must welcome Tim McGraw. He waves two towels and the crowd appears to appreciate it.

Broadway is jammed from end to end if the heliphotos are, um, real.

They are.

Pekka Rinne and Matt Murray are the goalies.

Rinne was pulled in an eventual 7-0 loss last game. But he's back.

First Period Nashville 0, Pittsburgh 0

Crob wins the draw. They bump into one another early and the keystone komedy leads to an unwarranted Pittsburgh entry down the right. Rinne is ready for the less-than-savage shot.

Subban advances four feet past their blue. Murray gets a piece of it with his right pad.

On the other end a mild puck is stopped and held.

The replay of the Kaper shows Josi falling for no reason. Like a scared seven year-old. Why.

Technology can't be-foul me. Neither must hockey art.

Nineteen oh eight left in the first period.

Malkin and Fisher are drawing to Rinne's left.

Subban low.

Coffee is good, at least. I'll be up late long past the game, anyway.

On a different sleep sked.

Puck is into the Penguins zone.

Neither team can show their style. Even the Pens’ languid approach appears more investigative than fearful or detached.

The Predators must begin to breathe. And they do. Fisher is in their middle deep area and shoots. It's into glass and then he turns, the puck far from him. But Josi offers a solid check.

The Predators’ bold cross-town passing game has been slowed or redirected by a fast-checking Penguin team that's matched the Preds' movements with, at times, intrepid commitment.

Preds push in. Chance. Gloved and retained.

Faceoff.

Over sixteen.

The puck ends up on the boards.

The crowd mocks in their purposeful way

PPG Arena interior is shown; filled with Penguin fans. It's pretty cool, yo. Seriously. In 1982, many couldn't have imagined such a thing.

Dead catfish on the ice.

Six tonight according to CBC's (cute) Catfish Counter.

They're tossed down by fans. Florida fans tossed plastic rats onto the surface during their team's improbable run to the final in 1996 (an eventual 4-0 loss to Colorado Avalanche. Roy's Avalanche. The year he was traded. Ya. Mhm.)

I sigh.

Subban hasn't been prominent in the finals nor has he been absent or, worse, a liability. He's played within the system. But he's got room to rake risk. Perhaps he hasn't taken enough?

I'd have to watch some of these games again (and I likely will this summer).

Fifteen oh two.

Another chant.

Sent down. Forsberg, a turning hash shot. Murray is his rubber-legged self.

I quite like him.

He looks on the verge of catching pneumonia, he's bearded, scruffly, too thin and rather inelegant. On the ice he's swift, economical, bent, low and rather seventies in his wide stance. Pads make the man large.

Thirteen and ten.

Like most of the modern goalies, Murray will rest a pad on the ice while guarding a post. It's a current notion. I don't like it. And I think in the coming years it will be shown to be a liability.

Of course, goalies are only getting bigger. And the net stays the same size. Styles are moot when size is prominent. When are they gonna increase the rink size?

The net size discussion is nearly a sacrosanct one.

Banker's crumbs. "You're richer than you think." Condescending. Infuriating. They're far richer than WE think.

Shania Twain is in the rink. Now she's shown. We're told CBC will speak with her later. (I'd say "in the telecast" but this isn't a telecast. Is it.)

Talking to musicians during the Stanley Cup. What have we come to.

The Cup was once held under a trusteeship. And a non-NHL team challenged for it as late as 1952. Around that time, the trusteeship was officially turned over to the NHL. Never should have happened. The Cup is Canada's. Not some league's.

During the lockout of 2004-05, the season canceled, a group of dandies organized and suggested they could put the Cup on offer for other challengers. The league took immediate legal action to quash this.

Leagues are good for a few things. But they're not needed.

How about a rink where anyone could show up any time, 24-hour telecast, a camera on at all times. They just suit up and things happen. Anyone.

Sure schedules are nice. Websites.

But people – fans, would pay players, regardless. And people could organize the rest. Without these mediocre Animal Farm men of money.

Pace increases. Eight and forty.

This game searches for its mood much like a game seven. The Preds aren't sure who to be in this sixth match. And that's unusual.

As I'd said, they haven't faced elimination at all this playoff (yes, I like saying that ... 'this playoff'). And not having faced hockey death, they.... well. May not know as a group who and how.

And so forth.

A Cowboy rolling around the ground (Staubach in thrall), Reggie Miller missing a whole bunch of first quarter shots against the Sixers (Finals-bound) in the first round of the NBA 00-01 playoffs and a humid Als team slowly pulling away at home against a visiting Eskimo team (Ricky Ray in his second pro start) in 2002. These are some of the recent images ingested.

By me.

And now you're all gonna pay. I've been watching a lotta random tape and YouTube. The usual leagues.

CBC shows the verbal exchange between Ekholm and Hornqvist (last game). There's hope for the world, says Hughson. Or Simmy. The exchange, a fight request turned down, was polite.

Ellis looks his usual self. Hagelin is expunged on the hash. Then a puck is cleared deep.

Blowout responses are shown. In 2017, three six-plus losses led to wins in the next games for the losers. But the Preds are the most tentative of each of these teams. Ottawa. Edmonton. Anaheim. Each rebounded with early emotion and intensity.

It's worrisome. If you're concerned about Nashville.

Delayed call. Pittsburgh. Rinne leaves the net. No chances. Puck is touched. Nashville power.

Jim Hughson. “First goal could be important”. I type and then edit some tart remarks. I mean, c'mon.

Ninety seconds later, a cleared puck ends the first sequence. Then the Preds lose it on the deep hash, left.

Lines change.

Järnkrok. Arvidsson.

I struggle with getting closer to the game, myself.

The distance keeps me from staring at the screen too long, allowing the old habit of staring at the words on the laptop.

But I finally suck it up and stay on the main screen. Penalty ends.

Subban round his net.

Players have superstitions. And, more comically perhaps, so do fans.

How can a viewer believe their coffee mug influenced a game's outcome, thousands of miles away. Yet some do. Guilty as charged. It’s in my past now.

Players, invested in intricate daily patterns encompassing meal-times, sleep-times, practice and all manner of preparation (video, nutrition, exercise) and playing as many games as they do (82 a season) can't know precisely which detail led to the win or which didn't. Coaches break down film to show exactly why and how. But players are left with mystery. Why did the puck go in THAT time? And not THAT one.

And so, some pay attention to details they CAN understand. That perhaps, they CAN control. Tie up the left skate first. Spit out your gum before you take the ice. Cuz the last time I did, we won. The last time I did, I had a goal. And so forth. Until the pattern leads to nothing. Or worse. Then the pattern is changed.

Three and twelve.

Clark should join me in due course. Here in this musing station. This fairly comfortable basement. Clark Kent, we call him.

Puck stays on the boards.

I can't believe it’s scoreless. Penguins are waiting to lose this game. And the Preds don't know how to take it. This has happened before this series. Pendead hockey and Predator Hezator. Their puma pause.

Now they rise. A shot. Murray, across. Around the boards. Crowd the maw. Murray has it.

Neal saw the puck emerge off a skate on the crease lip and got too little on it.

Lotta tough talk from the Canadian usuals, both teams. But when the fire is needed; ... like now ... where are they. Where is Neal. Where is Cullen.

Rinne save. Shifted right, table-hockey style, and he stops the low slot shot next.

Hagelin.

Faceoff to his right. Forty-five point eight.

Entry. Wind-up. Slapper. And the high glove.

Cherry remains sharp. How does he do it. He's earned back a chunk of my respect these playoffs. Like that better? He's been fair. He's been big-hearted. He's been apologetic. Both directly and in his way.

Crob fires a "rocket" and Rinne got the glove on it. He looks normal again. Getting pulled is part of the game. But it's hard to manage. Even to discuss from a distance. At least for this scribe.

First Intermission Nashville 0, Pittsburgh 0

Coaching kickers. Coaching keyboardists. Can it be done?

In decades past, they'd say no. Nowadays, kickers and punters, both have position coaches. Keyboardists? Well. Just ride in the other bus, son.

PJ Stock was in line to be the next Cherry. CAN there be a next Cherry? Probably not. CBC has personalities and people who can fill the void. They'll take it in another direction. And they should. Stock, among others, was let go a year ago. Stock was wearing the Cherry high collars and saying unprovable things. He’s likeable but the schtick wore thin. He also appeared regularly (and in galling fashion) on Reseau Des Sports (the French TSN).

Ron asks (and leads) Don with questions about the tenor, the events.

Cherry wishes Nashville had gotten a goal. He adds that Pittsburgh seems loosey-goosey. Both agree. Preds are nervous.

Cherry is fighting a cold, I'll guess. He's a bit pale and clearing his throat often.

Earlier today or yesterday, Cherry got down to Predator practice.

He hands the mike around and Nashville players and coaches greet their families. Two Finns, too. Yup. Don is, what, showing his true colours? Or evolving. I'll say the former. His irritating brand of bombast (the one we're used to) has long hidden a fine hockey mind; opinions that don't match with his public ones.

Kids ask for specific bedtime stories. To be read in the prescribed manner; the tones and exclamations or possible asides (footnotes, appendices) to be identical to the last reading to a well-remembered ideal reading performance. Parents know. And to deviate (in any way; omission, increased speed or absent accents) is to be told to repeat the passage correctly.

Kids choose the feelings they'll feel in this way. They'll choose, say, three books, three distinct feelings, to close out the day. It's a prescribed experience. And nothing wrong with it. We do the same; a favourite song. A favourite recipe. (A favourite taped game)

But in watching THESE games, THESE narratives, particularly playoff narratives is a risk. Having seen so many games (as many of us have) we know what an ideal game one feels like, looks like. Same with game two, three and on down the line. We know what surges and drops to expect.

But games and series rarely match the ideal pattern we (might) demand. Games disappoint, bore or appall.

This game leaves me with an electric disdain.

(Another catfish)

This game isn't the three-nothing first-period jump from Nashville I expected. And that changes what I might expect from game seven. If there's a game seven. It changes everything.

And that's as it should be. So should I demand a retelling of the tale?

I sigh and consider my hundreds of taped games, a collection begun in 1986, made up of CFL, NHL, NFL and NBA games. And some boxing.

Second Period Pittsburgh 0, Nashville 0

Murray gloops one. It falls. Whistle. The puck rolls. And it's poked in. Crowd reacts. Of course it won't count. We all heard the whistle.

Forsberg, deep on the left, his offwing

Wait. Whistle was mistaken. Should have counted. Sissons was robbed.

And there's nothing they can do. Fisher is arms spread and irate. Fans swear at volume. Nothing in the rules to save it.

We saw an early whistle in the Pens-Caps series that cost Ovechkin and company a late crease jam-session that could have led to a tying goal. But no.

I'd like to say "that's hockey". Or "that's sports". But I can't. I won't. It's preventable. THAT. Was preventable.

Thaaaattt. Is the question. Did you like Hamlet? My colleague Columbo hates Hamlet. Mostly cuz Hamlet the character pisses him off. Too hesitant or something.

Another shot. More booing. Murray silts it about in his glove before handing it over.

I wonder if the context will prod reach the Predators. But they're on their own. It' a rare hockey crowd that cheers or exhorts when the team needs it. Most cheer or exhort after the team has produced something desirable. Nashville fans, still relatively new to the game (the team entered the NHL in 1998), is still capable of original encouragement. Surge times unique.

They're not on offer just now.

So many problems with the Rogers set-up. Like Microsoft they don't have to compete. They just protect their monopoly. Funny that Conservative parties claim to be pro-business. Pro-competition. They're just pro-monopoly. Pro-collusion. Too scared to compete legitimately in their own lives (they cheat or lean) they support the very same mediocre or worse entities in their policies. Pill-pushers. Lard-gurglers.

Three and a half gone.

Rinne looks sharp. His movements are Price-like tonight, ahead or flush with the play, each movement precise and no more than needed. No panic. Rinne isn’t a panicked goalie, typically. He just moves like Price tonight.

Save. Save. Move. Save. Slide. Rise. Save.

Nashville two-on-one.

Rinne has helped write the emotional texturing for his team.

Tripping. Sheary. Arvidsson goes to the dressing room. To be checked.

Preds power.

C'mon PK. Then the camera shows the young fella. He's on with Ellis on the blue, Ellis, a rightie on the left point.

Forsberg. Colin Wilson. Fisher. Unusual first trio.

But it's been earned (or lost; or both).

First entry is rebuffed.

Hainsey interrupts. Quick return. Forsberg, perhaps their most dangerous shooter just sends it wide of the post, to Murray's left.

Another failure.

Now they set up. Sissons. Järnkrok. Neal. Ekholm on the blue. Ekholm has it. Poised. Twenty seconds. They're set up for the first time in a long time.

But the passes aren't quick. Nor precise. Out of character, the team surrenders another failed power-play.

Beards don't win playoff games.

Hughson notes Forsberg's shot was dangerous.

Commercial.

Future generations (and there should be, Kim Jong-Il or no) will disdain airbrushing and gloss. They'll call it evil. These faux pleasant car commercials. [Ed note: It's Kim Jon-un, now]

Thirteen oh two.

Crob. Hagelin. Crob. Shot. Pad extended. Rinne is the team's heart. When he's on, the team feels safe. And the rest works. How many times has the Predator squad saved Pekka Rinne these playoffs? When he's off? Once, maybe. I think none.

Twelve and twenty-six.

Rinne is thirty-four years old and is, at times, the best goalie in the world. For most of these playoffs he was. But the finals changed that. The Penguins and their sinister backhand shots changed that. Rinne and his unit allowed eight goals on the thirty-six first shots against after entering at about 0.935. Since then, the Predators have fluctuated. Good. Tentative. Great. Error-prone. Relaxed. Hurried.

Prior, they were one tone. One sound. A grand electric symphony, fat, shimmering, patriot yellow. Tweed country.

Ten and fifty-five.

They could be again but it won't be sustained. The Penguin limousine has rolled onto their countryside. This series will remain unique among Nashville's four chapter-sets.

Still scoreless.

Malkin and Sissons to Rinne's left. Malkin, a cursory gesture. Into the back boards. Penguins briefly control.

Where are the Penguins.

Sissons. A man just behind him. We wait. We wait. Sissons fakes and then tries the left pad. No.

On the other end, long diagonal passes stretch and shrink the icy floor. Rinne matches. Ligament and length.

More Pens.

Munged up.

Five Pens return and keep the puck on the boards.

Lines change. Fresh birds.

Penguins lead on shots ten to six.

Crowd begins another chant.

Whistle. Hand-pass. Crosby.

Murray got across for Sissons’ deke and shoot. Sissons was too slow.

Clark should be by shortly. And possibly Mook.

Eight and seventeen.

Sheary tries to get around Josi. Around the net they go. Sheary gets the step and keeps the puck but can't control for a shot.

Hughson says Crosby has it from his office as Crob views action from under the end line to Rinne's right. That's not quite his office. (One of his known “sweet spots” is next to the post, at their end-line, back to the boards.)

Mookie arrives. I let him in and set him up. You know. Beverage.

Shot. Murray. Arvidsson slams the glass in irritation.

Mookie says the TV is high-tech. Merci.

Arvidsson was upset because he couldn't get enough on the puck. Preds lead on faceoffs 20-11. At least they've fixed that from last series. Of course, this series' matchups are different. I chuckle.

Left side entry. Murray mops. Some words, Kunitz and Smith.

Faceoff to Murray's right. Three on two, Pens.

Slot chance. Mookie says "it's a goal". But for a leg.

Mookie asks me about Crosby's "tremendous game", mentioning the Kid's three assists. I say it wasn't a tremendous game, rather Crosby had a great first eight minutes. Maybe three, four shifts. post. A drawn or caused penalty. A goal. A near goal. And then a settling into his usual game.

He won't do that again this series, I say.

Three and thirty-six.

I ask Mookie if he saw the Cleveland game. He hadn't and I inform him the Cavs set an NBA Final (perhaps playoff) record with 86 first-half points. En route to staving off a sweep. Mookie asks if I think they can maintain this erection for the rest of the playoffs. What.

I ask him again. Ya. He said it. Hey, sports and sex don't mix. Mookie finds my churl amusing.

Slot. Mookie exhorts Preds to shoot. They do. Into bodies. Then a long puck and whistle.

Mookie reminds me that the Cavs came back from 3-1 down last season. I remind him that the personnel are different this season. Still, I wonder. And I really don't know.

Watching the Sixers and Pacers last night, I found I could follow. The movements and patterns were predictable. I could better understand what I was seeing. What is the change that I can't understand the game anymore? Today's game.

Sullivan calls timeout.

Pens. On-ice din. Jerseys shimmer. Ding. Pinkkk! But nothing certain. No doom.

Then the puck is back out.

Twenty seconds.

Pens can't prong it into their ice. And the period winks out.

Second Intermission Nashville 0, Pittsburgh 0

Friedman says it should have been a goal, adding nobody feels worse about it than the ref that missed the call. The Sissons poke-in.

Mookie mentions that Moog was the goalie in 90 and 88 (for Bruins) when Edmonton won. Andy Moog and Grant Fuhr was once on that same Edmonton team, two Conn Smythe-calibre goalies on the same team.

Mookie insists that Kelly Hrudey was once an Oiler. A backup. In the nineties. Really?

CBC cameras roll. Musicians. Interviews. Cage the Elephant. This is a music town, alright.

Scott Oake is seated beside Shania Twain. She's ha a couple of beverages. “I'm so proud of our national sport in Canada!” Hilarious.

The earnest housewife. It's endearing because it's Shania. Timmins native. Scott talks about the new single. Shania’s eyes narrow as she expands on it. She claps and expresses delight.

So, a new album. Good, good. Shania Law.

Respect to housewives. If that's what they honestly wished and chose.

If.

The Sissons goal. He flopped forward, stomach poke at a roller across the blue-streak crease. And it went in. Ref lost sight of it and whistled immediately. Too bad.

Third Period Pittsburgh 0, Nashville 0

This Acer with its top-heavy monitor. Detachable. Techward awk.

These companies need more complex controls and regulations.

Mookie marvels again at the size of the crowd on Broadway. It’s curb to curb for blocks.

Mookie shows off his knowledge, mentioning Winnipeg's move to Phoenix, Quebec City's to Colorado, Hartford to Carolina and others. Mookie moved to Alberta from Africa in 1984, in time for the Oilers' big Cup win over the four-in-a-row Islanders. He's been Oil since. (He’s been a TO dude for maybe 25 years.

The Penguins seem absent. The Preds can't do much. The Penguins are absent offensively only, however. They're watching lanes and keeping the Preds from their floe.

Entry pass. Stood up.

Kunitz with an offwing shot. The Pens are playing a conservative brand normally seen when a team is short-handed. And they're playing it well. Now Yannick Weber. Keeps past the hash. Around the net to the other hash. And lost. But Wilson comes up with it. Pressed against he boards. Määttä took it away from him.

Shoot dat, says Mookie. We don't just want random shots, i say with some pepper. We want good ones.

Tocchet's tablet is away. Trainer a few feet to his right, towel on his shoulder. Good beard.

Preds get a shooting lane. Left point. Long shot. Stopped and retained. Mostly yellow in the crowd. Not quite Sea of White. But close. Sea of White was Winnipeg's legendary demo. It's not the same these days. But we'll see. Playoff appearance may evoke the same. We'll see.

Wilson. Walrus dribble from the corner. Three Preds behind their end line.

Penguins are happy to eschew offensive involvement. It's almost like a rope-a dope. Frustrate em frustrate em frustrate em. And then come out.

Also you're lulling them.

It's ugly.

Hainsey with a long point shot.

Stopped. Held.

It’s effective.

It's almost as if the Pens feel they can afford to play tied or from behind. Well maybe not from behind.

Post. Crossbar. Mookie says these guys aren't getting any luck, are they. Preds.

Kessel is an ex-Leaf, Mookie asks. Ya yp.. Ex-Bruin, too.

Four advance. Pat the hash. But Rinne is there.

We return to the Preds yelling during commercial break. Their fans.

Thirteen and ten.

Ellis moves a man off the disc. Diagonal pass. Neal. Left hash. Retained. Whistle.

Faceoff to Murray's right.

Tinny Subdivisions tune on the organ. Cute.

Thirteen.

The old feelings come over me. In those days, this kind of score and circumstance would mean putting away the whistles. Määttä knocked Arvidsson over. Mookie says it shouldn't have been called. I saw tripping. Replay shows Mookie is right.

Faceoff to Murray's right. No matter, Sullivan is quiet. and the Preds go to power..

Diamond. Two in the low slot. Lotta bumping. Finally Neal falls over. Is he pretending? Shot into the back boards.

Ekholm.

Roman Josi. They work the umbrella. Ekholm, a blast. Off a body, high.

They move it. Mookie exhorts, looking for a set up. But the puck is out down the boards. Fifty seconds.

PK is on. Behind his net. He carries it out.

Be the hero? Or play the system.

Thirty-three.

They dig on the boards, deep left. Daley? What.

Five on three.

Let's see.

Roughing. Really, I say out loud.

Ok. Stick to the face (Ellis). Then a punch in the face. Ok.

There's been nothing against Preds? No calls? Yep, no calls against Nashville. This game will be interesting to re-watch..

Thirty-two seconds; two-man advantage.

Phil Housley. Shown behind the bench. Preds assistant. I remind Mookie of the 3-1 lead the Jets had over Oil in 1990. He smiles with some guilt and some joy. Edmonton came back to win the series. They went on to win the Cup.

Mookie asks about “the last Leaf coach”. I nod and smile. He means Carlyle. Mookie adds that he was the last to not wear a helmet. Carlyle was a Jet defenceman in 1990. [Ed note: Following Carlyle, the Leafs had a brief, horrifying period under Peter Horacek; 9-29-5 before Mike Babcock was hired for the 15-16 season.]

Back to five on four.

Ten and thirty-seven.

Ekholm and Josi.

Around the back boards. Josie advances. Backhander dig around the right.

They retain. Under a minute.

Cross-slot pass. No. Then a long shot. Murray finds it. How did he pick it up through all that traffic, asks Simmy.

Preds lead on shots seven to three. I wonder aloud where Clark is; is he at Contender? Mookie chuckles.

Thirty-one seconds in the power-play.

Offside entry.

I wonder what Laviolette is thinking. Saying.

He's got a knee up. He exhorts. The moment I wondered, the camera found him. I’m as Hindu as I need to be.

Twelve.

Subban. Left side. Lost on the hash. Kunitz clears it.

Nine and eleven.

Nashville is oh of four.

Twelfth time in SC final history that home team won first five games.

Long Predator puck. Touched.

Laviolette is still talking, more red-faced. Preds lead on faceoffs 33-16. Crob wins it. Powerful backhanded draw and the torqued puck eludes Crob’s defenceman on the right point. Pens manage a quick re-entry and shot. Rinne is adroit.

I must believe, must accept the score. It's zero-zero. How.

How many more hockey games am I going to (have to) see like this one? Enduring zero-zero is cool when you don't give a duck. When you’re half in, half-out. When the teams don’t matter. When the outcome isn’t meaningful.

Mookie raises a fist and mentions the "kid line". He just saw the irritating Simpleson. He should have stayed on the ice. Givin us nothin in the booth.

Seven and a half.

I do smell overtime, tho, Mookie says as his fingers tap with nerves or impatience on one of my steel lamps. Ting-ting-ting.

Preds control.

Off the post. High slot. Sissons.

Off the outside of the post to Murray's left, a one-timer.

Six oh three. Pass from the left point to Crob on the hash. Timely stick. Fisher. And the puck is up and out.

Could be worse. Imagine if the Sharks had somehow snuck in here.

Eight catfish, now. The catfish count graphic makes me smile.

Faceoff to Murray's left.

It's looking like one goal may be the ....

Swings of panic as the puck crosses the low slot. My own concentration improves as I see this.

Where IS Clark.

Five and twelve.

Clark Kent.

Sometimes Bruce.

Are we going to see changes from these teams or are we going to see the same styles of hockey replicated.

Four and thirty-one.

The puck remains on the boards. Suddenly a toothy blade appears at Murray's right and nearly pots it.

Then it's out. Shots are tied 27, each.

C'mon! I yell. Then I apologize.

It's too much.

Lemieux is shown in the upper level.

If that guy was healthy, he would have erased all of Gretzky's records, shares Mookie, a bit to my surprise.

Mookie yawns and I tell him it's not time to be tired. Under three.

Rinne waits on a long dribbler. He doesn't play it with a glove. He waits. Then sends it along its way behind his net. Preds carry it out.

Two and twenty.

I guess a clam-down would not have been wise.

Kunitz. Trying to get around Josi. Nope.

It feels like a Montreal moment and I accidentally exhort, "C'mon les boys”.

Hornqvist flukes one in. Dropped behind Rinne’s shoulder. From behind the end line. Ugly. Fortunate. Opportunistic.

Hockey shock on Ellis’ face. Same as Subban. The back board shot popped and was slapped in off Rinne's back.

This is why we don't like 0-0. This is why we don't like game sevens. Or game sixes like this one.

Laviolette will challenge. But there's nothing. Goaltender interference is what he’s looking for.

The Sissons non-goal looms larger.

Mookie says it's a waste of a challenge. I respond that they have to do it.

Clark calls to say he'll be by in fifteen.

Pittsburgh's arena is shown erupting.

Legal goal. Pittsburgh 1, Nashville 0

Ninety seconds.

Yeah, you have to take the goalie out, I answer Mookie. And Rinne soon leaves.

Offside entry.

Crowd is quiet. We can hear player voices.

Well. Stranger things have happened.

The crowd recovers. One and ten.

Just score.

If this. If that.

Rinne, mostly.

Into Penguin ice.

Just at the blue. Turned and shot. Long Penguin puck.

Forty-six point four.

Mookie messes around with my lamp. Removes the bulb to show (and remind me) it's a black light.

Hagelin gets free. Scores. Empty net.

Somebody kisses Mario. Looks like his mom. But it was on the lips.

It's not as bad as the Flames loss.

Malkin is feeling joy.

Crosby, arms up.

Pittsburgh 2, Nashville 0

A woman is red-faced and tears streaming down her cheeks. Predator jersey.

It could be worse, I think, even as I fill my den with some tart phrases and thoughts.

I wonder if Mookie has ever heard me talk like that.

Long puck. Turning shot. Three point one.

Penguins win the Cup. Predators win the trade.

They crowd together on the ice. Who's Kühnhackl? [Ed note: Tom Kühnhackl (born 21 January 1992) is a German ice hockey right winger who currently plays for the Pittsburgh Penguins of the National Hockey League (NHL); from Wikipedia. And did you even care at that point?]

Letang is on the ice in uniform, I think.

No equipment.

Hugs.

Laviolette and Sullivan shake hands. What disparity.

Throughout, I think it could be much worse. The Penguins are acceptable. And it's easy to prove Crob wasn't the guy. Despite whatever awards are given.

Final Score Pittsburgh 2 Nashville 0

HDS Stars: Pekka Rinne, Matt Murray, Colton Sissons

Penguins are awarded the 16-17 Stanley Cup for scoring more goals in certain games.

They line up to shake hands.

Why is Letang in the handshake line? He didn't play.

Did he? [Ed note: No. You were there. He didn’t. Not a minute.]

The players hold up their sticks to their fans. Clapping. Penguins have to wait a few moments.

Penguins and another ugly goal. And another undeserved win.

Hornqvist says it's obviously the biggest goal he'll ever score

Sometimes the wrong team wins.

Guentzel deserves the Conn Smythe but they'll make sure to give it to Crob. It'll be undeserved. Just as last season's Conn Smythe was.

Hornqvist is shown crying shortly after the win. Seated on the team bench, time on the clock, yet.

Commissioner’s carpet. Bettman and his politics. Booing. He commends the town, their fans. He builds up to the MVP award.

Crosby is given the trophy. Conn. And it IS a con. The awarding of the Conn Smythe has been degraded in recent years. In order to present Crob as "the face of the league", Bettman and company have stooped to NBA levels. But purists tend to know this.

Pens are first repeat champs since 98's Red Wings.

Crob. And his legacy.

It'll take years to get close to a truthful narrative for the mainstream. But it'll happen.

Malkin nearly falls with the Cup. Holds on.

Malkin was also more valuable than Crob. Murray.

Mark Streit carries it.

Clark arrives. I set him up with red. Grapes.

Clark says it's too bad the best team didn't win. He says he hates it when that happens.

Clark sets up his USB stuff. I got some music for him.

Scott Oake says it's the most difficult trophy to win in all of sports. This leads to den derision and a series of questions from Mookie about minutes played by player (forwards 18 mins, say; defencemen 24 mins). Mookie cites soccer as an endurance piece.

Sullivan holds it up. Then Tocchet. Then Martin.

Is Sullivan the dumbest head coach to hold up the Stanley Cup? Possibly. Modern times, certainly. Lemme think on it.

Martin earns several loud cheers from the players for his hoist. Better believe he's the smartest guy on the coaching staff.

Mookie: “Somebody should be throwing a catfish on the celebrations there.”

Casual dress-shirted Mario Lemieux holds up the chalice. His now-thin frame, his rich smile. He owns 40% of the club; 25% is Ron Burkle.

Subban is interviewed. He's subdued and philosophical. He says there's been tears and that's how it should be. People cared.

Some of what he says is mildly contrived but a lotta Canadian kids get a free pass for that. He thinks they'll be back.

They won't.

I've thought that for some time.

Amber interviews the real Conn Smythe winner. Guentzel is young and grateful.

Pittsburgh is awarded the Stanley Cup after six games.

(This night’s musing features a mixture of Canadian and American English use.)

#Montreal Mystique #HDS #Homme de Sept-Iles #Pens #Preds #Stanley Cup #Musing #Musings and In-Game Scribbles #Penguins #NHL #Predators #PK Subban #Peter Laviolette #Evgeni Malkin #maple syrup #Gary Bettman #Stanley Cup playoffs #game summary

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