#circle of quiet cuckoo birds

[moltworm]

ironically, i dont have the heart to speak my complaint out loud. my throat's closed up

[lovebillyhargrove]

Harringrove seasons AU

***

August is running out. It is the time when nights have already started getting perceptibly colder, but days are still so heartbreakingly warm, you don't wanna let go.

Like Steve, who doesn't want to let go of Billy.

Or Billy, who wants to hold on to Steve.

Who desperately wishes to add just a couple of more days to August. Make it thirty-three. Or thirty-five.

At least.

***

One evening Steve sets off to look for Billy, because he hasn't seen him in the last three days. When he asks the magpies if they know where the summer is, they tell him he's wandering around the woods with a big basket searching for something and talking to himself like a madman.

"The summer's gone cuckoo!" - they burst out into chatter and laughter, but Steve isn't up for having fun.

Only close to midnight does he finally find Billy.

The warm simmering light and the sweet smell of burning pine wood have led him on the right path.

Steve sees Billy in the thick of the forest, on a small clearing, surrounded by tall mighty oak trees, so tall that their tops get lost in the dark starry sky above. Stars in August are witchy, it is common knowledge. They are so distant, so sparkly and cold, and they are watching you.

August stars are enchanted just like everything else around. The night is cool and damp, and there is dense fog laying heavy in milky swirls above and around the swamp nearby. Under every leaf there lives a mystery, a story, a creature. Behind one single cloud hides the silver moon, waiting to flood all with its crisp eerie shine.

The stars are twinkling bright, so magically bright, and the chilly, hocus scented air fills the head of a midnight wanderer with clarity and vigor, and anticipation of a miracle.

Steve is trying to be as quiet as possible, not to disturb.

Everything around is immersed in sleepy calm, and only the frogs' drowsy ribbit-ribbitting and distant hooting of a night bird fill the deep silence. The usual night orchestra.

As he is making his way towards Billy, there's a falling star, shooting right above the clearing, and Steve makes a wish - to always find summer.

Billy is busy.

Steve sees a big fire, sparks flying up towards the invisible tree crowns, and Billy's focused face lightened by the glow.

He is constantly stirring something gurgling and boiling in a huge cauldron, muttering under his breath

"Seven red fly agarics, nine orange ones .. three yellow .. thirteen russules, each a different colour .. eight orange chanterelle mushrooms of different sizes .."

With one hand he stirs whatever is brewing in the cauldron, and in the other he holds a thread with dry and semi-dry mushrooms strung on it. From time to time, he stops stirring and plucks the mushrooms from the thread, counting.

"Eleven brown hay mushrooms, one birch chaga, the size of a palm .. where the hell is this chaga .. ??" - he stops stirring and pokes around in the basket standing nearby. - "Alright. Found it. Come here, don't fight it .. seventeen honey fungi .. three aspen mushrooms .. ugh, you are such beauties .. All of you."

Billy looks like a witch. Too bad he's not wearing a spiked black hat and a black cloak

Stirring, mixing that magic

"Wait a second, did I put twelve ink mushrooms .. ? Yes, yes, I did. Ten violet webcaps .. and one whole circle of fairy-ring mushrooms."

"Oh, I forgot you buddy .. one grey spotted amantia, here you go .."

"Okay now for the more serious stuff."

Billy grunts and goes digging in the basket again.

"One satan's bolete .. A set of devil's fingers .. spooky .. And, finally, one pale grebe."

Steve steps out into the clearing

"Oh, do you mean a death angel?"

Billy stops mixing whatever there is in the cauldron and looks up.

"You startled me, pretty boy. And yes, it's the same one, different names."

Steve is still watching Billy in bewilderment

"What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm making a potion. Can't you see?" He answers seriously.

"A potion?" Steve is amused.

"An old owl told me. Who lives in the hollow of a hundred-year-old elm tree, down by the river."

"What is the potion for?"

"For .. making it last a little longer. Stalling the time. See, I don't want to go yet. I want to stay, just a bit more .. It's going to give me the power to do that."

"Oh. But .. Billy, this old owl is so old, she has dementia. I wouldn't trust her on anything she says."

"Well, I've got no other choice."

Steve is amused but he also knows that he has to soothe Billy's unnecessary wilful wanting, once again.

"When will it be ready?"

"In the morning. I should drink it when the first sun ray breaks the sky."

Steve sits near the fire and Billy joins him after some time. The fire is getting duller, the potion stops gurgling and is beginning to settle.

Billy is the first to slide into sleep near the dying flames, and Steve is gazing at the bright live coals, listening to night sounds and Billy's even breath, until his own eyelids become heavy and eventually fall.

In the morning, Steve is woken up by Billy's upset voice:

"No, no! I'm two hours late! .. The sun is already high in the sky."

He is pacing around the grey ashes, looking at the sky and fiddling with his necklace

"No, oh no ..! That's all your fault, autumn. I always sleep longer when I'm with you. I can't drink it now. Do you know how long I've searched for these?? How many woods I have wandered through?"

In a swift fit of anger Billy kicks the cauldron. It falls and tips over. Steve's still on the ground, watching the thick substance pour out of it on a patch of green moss.

"I am sorry, Billy, truly. But .. I am of the opinion that you shouldn't have drunk it anyways."

Billy's looking at the spilled potion.

"Baby. You are such a baby sometimes, Billy."

"I'm just sad. So much work for nothing." - Billy sighs and pouts a little.

"It is only .. really, it is only less than half a year. We will meet so soon, in the northern hemisphere. Aren't you excited?"

Billy is shaking his head, slowly and gloomily.

"I don't wanna leave."

Steve gets up, comes close and gently traces his fingers down Billy's arm.

"You are not leaving just yet. We still have time. We have all the time in the world. But when you do go, think of the moment we will meet again. Because it will happen, it is the way the world works."

They are standing amidst the ever-living nature.

"I need to bring back the pot and the basket. I borrowed them from a barn in the village."

"I will help you."

***

A couple of days later, on the very last August day, Steve takes Billy to the same clearing and shows him the prettiest gemstone of the most amazing colour, sparkling under the rays of soft morning sunshine, crystallized in the shape of a heart. There's moss and some beautiful exotic flowers growing around it.

"It is so pretty, but I am glad you didn't drink the potion."

"I wonder if it's going to stay here till next season."

"Let's hide it."

Steve takes the gemstone, it's rather big and heavy, and carries it to a hollowed out log near the swamp.

"We can come back next year and see if it is still here. It will be our secret."

August and September are my absolute favourite months, and I'm also stuck on the idea of summer and autumn not wanting to part. Billy especially is having a hard time.

Thank you @akioukun ✨💖 for the 💫 magical au

[lleviathansoupsl]

Today, god dammed me to hell— I was on my way when he told me, so there was not far to walk.

I went through the circles.

Satan was a small thing,

With broken wings and a quiet voice.

The bubbling of the eternal pot rang much louder than he, amongst the glooms.

The chamber billowed, the cavernous hallways and plunderous side-cupboards broiled.

These things were more inviting than many earthly broilers.

The warmth thickly built and tickled the tips of my hair,

Like lightning was about to strike—

Shocking and warm.

Doves delivered me back up,

Heaven I went.

I arrived on the threaded wings of a wind-up angel.

I knew that I was very high up because breaths in the air turned into asbestos shards with every exhale.

The skies were big and round like a bowl, and there were no walls, nor ceiling, nor floor.

No little nooks or crooks or cupboards.

Everything was much too big or much too widened.

Love seeped like unwilling geysers—

And I were surrounded by light.

God had simian eyes and a simian face and a simian brow.

God was a monkey

Under a guilten cloud.

I felt like a baby bird in a nest of cuckoos.

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

You Can Hear It In The Silence

Summary: Sneaking around can be fun, but sometimes the silence is just too quiet, or falling in love with your best friend. 

Pairing: Spencer x Fem Reader (SMUT) MINORS DNI 

Word Count: 3.7K 

Warnings: Smut Minors DNI (It’s smut, nothing kinky but very romantic and soft) oral (both receiving), kissing, lovebites and tame scratching, penetrative sex, unprotected sex in a committed relationship(like last time, let me know if I missed anything) 

Author’s Note: Minors please DNI, I have a lot of other fluff pieces that are totally acceptable for you guys to read. I hope that this isn’t too schmaltzy because that just gives me agita. This is based off You are In Love by Taylor Swift and maybe a little bit of Dress

You Can Hear It In The Silence 

It’s a blurry line, going from best friends to dating. There’s nothing like playing that dangerous game of stolen glances and surreptitious touches in a dark room. Eyes ranking over figures decked out in soft cardigans and tweed blazers or black dress pants and silk blouses, desperately wanting to see more, touch more, taste more. The senses could only sated for so long before the desire for more bubbles to the surface. 

Across the table, Spencer watches as Y/N sips the red wine JJ brought over. It’s hard to not watch her; to not completely hone in on the way her eyes are light with laughter, or the way her hair cascades down her shoulder, blending into the dark green color of her dress. Spencer kills himself trying to not look at her because he knows if he does, he’s done. Or rather, he knows that if he lets himself love her openly, he’ll only end up hurting themselves. So, he sits there, in Derek’s backyard trying to pretend that he’s not staring at Y/N. The only thought that comforts him is holding on to the idea that Y/N is doing the same thing. He supposes that’s what happens to relationships that blossom from the shadows of secrecy. In their attempts to not hurt others, they end up almost destroying themselves. 

He decides to pretend to find Garica’s cuckoo clock fascinating. He stares at the wacky colored birds and swinging arms entirely too long. In the corner of his eye Spencer watches the next couple of moments unfold. JJ and Garcia drunkenly bounce over to Y/N; they put their arms around her in a fit of giggles and smiles. Garcia’s arm extends around JJ’s neck and she lets out a loud announcement for a “Selfie” or rather what Spencer can only assume is a photograph of the three of them. The phone, even though Spencer does have some disdain for the invention, sure does serve its purpose. In all the light rays bouncing around and the blinding flash, pure magic happens. Spencer is aware that it makes him sound like a total sap, but he’s jealous of the phone. He’s jealous that his eidetic memory may only allow him to remember the Y/N’s notes in the margins of her case file or the annual “Happy Birthday, Genius” on a Hallmark card once a year. What he would give to just be able to capture her in the light of company, not hanging on to fleeting memories in the shadows.

Lost in his thoughts, Spencer does not notice an unusually drunk Unit Chief wandering over to the empty chair next to him. All of his awkwardness, Spencer is not sure if he should acknowledge his drunken boss or stop staring at his secret girlfriend. It’s at time like these that Spencer resorts to reciting Crime and Punishment or 100 Years of Solitude either seem ironically appropriate. 

“Reid,” Hotch says, leans in close, far too close for the usual uptight and business-like Aaron Hotchner that Spencer has grown to know. 

“Hotch?” Spencer answers, his voice laced with trepidation and anxiety. 

“You gotta stop staring at Y/L/N. You’re gonna rat on yourselves if you don’t stop staring at her like that,” Hotch tells him, his breath might smell like whiskey, but his eyes tell Spencer that he’s a lot more sober than he seems. 

“Like what?” Spencer counters, choosing to play dumb at best as he could, or at least just slightly clueless. 

“That doesn’t work on me, Reid. You should stop looking at her like you love her,” 

Spencer looks at his boss, at Y/N, and back at his drink. Was he seriously that transparent? 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hotch. Y/N and I are-” 

“Spence! Spencer!,” Y/N shouts as she practically runs over to where Spencer sits with Hotch, watching the rest of the team. 

It’s like Hotch isn’t even there anymore, it’s like no one is even there. God, it might sound sappy, but Spencer doesn’t care anymore. It’s going to kill him playing it like he doesn’t care about Y/N, especially considering he’s doing a mediocre job. 

“I have a really bad headache, Spence. And I need you to take me home,” Y/N asks him, and Spencer notices an eager glint in her eyes that tells him all he needs to know. 

“Keep this between us please, Hotch? Just until we figure it out,” Spencer almost pleads to Hotch who answers with a dismissive wave. He leaves them there to figure out their plans to sneak out of Garcia’s undetected. 

“Hotch knows? Of course you know,” Y/N says with a roll of her eyes and a quick wink at Spencer, whose growing embarrassment from the situation is only second to his excitement at the night to come. 

“Spence, go say goodbye for me? I’m going to head to your car. You really gotta sell that I’m feeling sick,” Y/N tells him, standing a little too close and dipping her hand a little too low on Spencer’s waist for this to be a friendly gesture to any of their friends that might pass by. She takes a peak around the room and reaches her hand into Spencer’s pocket. He gives her a startled glance, but they both know that the thrill of sneaking around like this is kind of worth it. 

As Y/N ducks out of the room, Spencer makes his way to where Emily, JJ, Garcia, and Derek sit at the kitchen table taking shots of a clear liquid Spencer thinks is tequila. Great, Spencer thinks. Him and his secret girlfriend, who as far as the team knows is his best friend, have to sneak out of Garica’s place in front of a pile of loud drunks. Spencer feels his phone buzz, altering him that there is a very impatient Y/N waiting in the car for him  

“Uh, Garcia, Y/N’s got a really bad headache. I think it’s an onset of one of her migraines that she gets from red wine,” Spencer lies through his teeth, completely terrified from the way Emily glares at him. It’s like she can see right through him.

“So you’re taking her home?” Derek asks, speeding along the process and for that Spencer considers himself forever grateful. 

“Yeah, you know we are neighbors after all,” Spencer reasons. 

The awkward silence in the kitchen is only interrupted by JJ’s quiet humming to the song that plays in the background. Derek and Emily share a knowing glance as Penelope starts pouring the next round of shots. 

“I’ll see you guys on Monday, Y/N is waiting for me in the car,” Spencer says without a further glance to his very perceptive colleagues. 

“You go take care of Y/N, Pretty Boy!” Derek yells as Spencer walks out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him, perhaps a little too eagerly. 

When Spencer gets to his car, he stops himself before opening the door. In the light from the lamppost, Spencer can see his reflection in the back window of his car. He runs a hand through his hair and attempts to fix the crookedness of his tie. Smiling to himself, Spencer gets into the driver’s seat of his car and is greeted by Y/N, who even in the dark makes him feel alive. 

“Hey,” he offers nervously. Even though they’ve been together loads of times, there is a tingle of intimidation that settles in his heart everytime she looks at him. 

Never the one to shy down from a confrontation, Y/N leans in and places her hand gracefully on Spencer’s neck and her face looms close to his ear. Her voice is low and seductive and Spencer swears he can feel himself melt at the feeling of her being this close and him able to touch her. He brings his hands up to rest, one on her upper thigh, placed bravely under the slip of her silk dress, and the other draws circles around her elbow.. 

“Spencer, I need you to drive us home,” Y/N tells him a voice that Spencer knows he could never deny. 

He doesn’t answer her, because the silence speaks for itself. They can hear all they need to know in the silence. The quiet way that their bodies seem to just gravitate to each other. Spencer’s hand cups Y/N’s thigh and her fingers graze the back of Spencer’s neck. It’s those quiet touches that tell the other what they are too afraid to say aloud. 

The quietness settles between them even as they pull into the parking spot. It’s like they’re dance partners, completely a routine of sneaking in the shadows effortlessly. Or like they’re actors in a play, pretending that they’re not dying to play the role in reality. It’s a dangerous game that they play. But all of that is forgotten, pushed to the side as Spencer opens the door and the curtain rises. 

Y/N initiates the kiss, pushing Spencer down on the couch. She straddles his waist, her silky green dress spills over her thighs and Spencer is in awe of how the color contrasts against her bare skin. He’s not an artist, but looking at her he’s sure he has laid his eyes on the most beautiful being he’s ever seen. He might not believe in magic, it’s all just science and mind tricks, but he’s nothing but transfixed at the women sitting in his lap. 

“Spencer, please get these clothes off,” Y/N commands in a voice that gives away how badly she wants him. 

“Wait your turn, Y/N” Spencer says in a teasing tone that brings out Y/N’s sly smile. 

“Then do something!” Y/N shouts, getting even more impatient than she was in the car. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, I-I mean you’re always so beautiful, but you’re just so-” Spencer stammers over his words, and the only thing he’s sure of is that his insecurity is the biggest turn off. But Y/N continues to surprise him each and everyday, and tonight is no less. 

“Slow down, baby. It’s just me. There’s no need to go so fast right now. We have all night,” Y/N soothes, craning down her neck to plant wet kisses down Spencer’s neck. She’s probably leaving marks, Spencer thinks, but his desire to be seen as her’s outweighs the teasing from Morgan on Monday. 

The fact that it’s Y/N perched in his lap, kissing down his neck and wiggling around in a way that she can feel everything does nothing to fend off the adrenaline that Spencer’s high off of. 

“I need to see your face,” Spencer says holding her by the shoulders. He reaches around her as she leans back to unzip her dress. She stands so it falls to the ground in a pool of dark green fabric. Her body is out in the open to him and Spencer’s flushed face must be on fire by now. 

“I need to see your face, Spencer,” Y/N says in a way that Spencer knows that he can’t disobey. 

There’s that silence again. That loud silence, filled with lines of unsaid love poems and quiet love songs. The silence that says the perfect things that Y/N deserves to hear, but Spencer is too scared to say. Three months too soon to say, I love you, Spencer tells himself. His mind spins so fast that he feels guilty for neglecting the naked woman standing before him. 

“If you’re gonna fuck me Spence, we’re gonna do it in a bed. I love you and all but this couch is not going to handle me when I get a hold of you,” Y/N says as she runs off into his bedroom, leaving Spencer dumbfounded in her wake. 

Spencer swallows down his fears and anxieties. He sheds his clothes off during his walk to the bedroom. Y/N lies down on his bed and Spencer won’t let the silence speak for him this time. 

“How are you this perfect, Y/N?” Spencer asks as he crawls in between Y/N’s legs. He rests his hands on her upper thighs and looks at her like expects her to answer his question. Spencer dips his fingers down to the place Y/N wants him the most. In the low light from Spencer’s lamp he can see how his fingers glisten. 

“You took too long at Penny’s Spence, I had to start without you,” Y/N explains, a slight flush to her cheeks reminds Spencer that she too is just as affected by him as he is by her. 

“You touched yourself in my car?” Spencer asks pressing a firm kiss on each side of Y/N hip bones. He dances his long fingers up to her stomach, where her own hands sit as if she’s shielding this part from him. 

“Yeah,” Y/N tells him, slightly breathless from the small kisses Spencer places on her stomach and back down to the softest part of her inner thighs. He tells himself that he’s got to slow himself down before he loses it at the site Y/N wriggling and moaning at his smallest touches. 

“I left you a present in your glove compartment, Spence,” 

“Huh, who knew I had such a naughty girl,” Spencer says with an unfamiliar bravery in his voice. Unsurprisingly, Y/N picks up on this and decides to see how far she can take it. 

“I have needs, Spencer. Do you think you can take care of them?” 

Spencer doesn’t respond, but ducks his head down to drag his tongue across her clit, feeling how wet she is. He refuses to break eye contact and realizes how obsessed he would get if she’d let him do this for the rest of his life. Spencer’s eyes carefully watch how Y/N’s facial expressions morph in intense pleasure. It’s like a science experiment. When he plunges his tongue into her, she closes her eyes. But when he blows softly on her inner thighs then leaves hot, wet kisses her fingers come up to latch onto his scalp. He peers at her and waits for the way she moans when he slips one, then two fingers in her. He curls them up in such a way that he knows drives her crazy. 

“Oh my God, Spencer! Please,” Y/N cries, twisting in the sheets. He continues at the pace he’s set, chasing the blissful feeling of her coming undone because of him. The moments leading up to her release, Y/N tears her hand away from Spencer’s head and connects her palm into his. Holding her hand, Spencer whispers praises and presses small kisses into her pussy. 

“Come here and kiss me now, baby. I need you,” Y/N whispers, grasping onto whatever parts of Spencer she could touch. Her fingers move to cup his face and she holds him like he’s made of glass. In between the soft sheets and even softer touches, Spencer knows what it’s like to feel precious. Y/N cranes her head forward to attack Spencer’s neck with kisses. She relishes in the soft and supple skin of his neck. Once again, Spencer finds himself not caring that she’s going to leave marks. 

“How are you this perfect, Spencer?” Y/N asks Spencer, who for the first time in his life does not have an answer for a question. 

He closes his and lets himself float around in the fuzzy feeling in his brain. All he can focus on is Y/N’s mouth. The way her praises make him believe in forever and the way her kisses litter his cheeks, eyes, chest. 

“You’re the perfect one, Y/N. I don’t even compare,” Spencer says as he watches Y/N twist underneath him and somehow maneuver herself so he lies beneath her. 

“None of that, Spencer” She tells him sharply. Y/N drags her nails down Spencer’s chest, not leaving scratches, just light discoloration. Her head and mouth is dangerously close to where his hardened cock lays leaking between his legs. 

She grasps around the base and just gingerly touches him that Spencer is sure he’s going to be blinded from the pleasure. Suddenly he feels almost self conscious. His anxiety is not unknown to Y/N, who lays a comforting hand in his, mirroring her earlier motion. 

“You don’t have to Y/N. I mean if you don’t want to. I don’t want you to think just because I’m your boyfriend and I did it for you-” Spencer rushes out, terrified of what Y/N’s reaction will be. 

“Look at me, Spencer. Do you want me to suck your cock, baby? Look at me,” Y/N says in a voice that Spencer doesn’t recognize and doesn’t dare ignore. 

“Yes,” he breathes out, his voice shakes as he feels Y/N’s mouth take in his tip. He hisses at the sensation. The smallest movements set him on fire. Spencer’s large hands come up to hover over Y/N’s shoulder blades.

“Don’t be quiet, baby. I want to hear you,” Y/N says before she deepens her hold of. She releases him to glide her younger down the side, sending shockwaves of pure pleasure in Spencer’s entire being. 

“You like that, Spencer. You like my mouth on your cock, baby?” Y/N eggs him on. 

Even though he’s lost the ability to speak, Spencer’s moans bounce around the room. He knows he’s a whimpering mess below Y/N, but he’s chasing the feeling of release shamelessly. 

“Y/N, Y/N. Baby, you gotta stop. Or I’m gonna cum right now,” Spencer chants, tightening his grip on Y/N’s hand. He forces himself to calm down to focus on Y/N, but it’s a little difficult when all Y/N is focusing on him. 

Spencer sat up, his back against the headboard, and he pulled Y/N forward so she rested in his lap. She grins up at him, and Spencer can feel his heart squeeze at the look. She’s going to be the death of him, but at least he’ll die a happy man. 

Much to Y/N’s pleasure, Spencer lets out a lewd moan as she grinds down, pressing her wet pussy to his throbbing cock. He feels a little ridiculous getting so worked up and she’s not even inside him yet. 

“Please, Y/N. I need you, I’m not going to last long,” Spencer utters. He says her name like a prayer, it’s a hymn to her ears. 

“I got you, Spence,” she tells him, sheathing his length into her. 

Spencer pulls Y/N in closer so that their chests are flush together. Among the chorus of moans and mumbles of praise, Spencer reaches down to hold Y/N’s hand. He’s not a believer in soulmates. He was sure that he’d never find his match. Never find the one person who’d share his dreams and become his dream. But sitting there, Spencer cannot deny that he’s tethered to Y/N. Their hands link together and mouths refuse to let go, searching for any exposed skin. 

“Spencer,” Y/N groans, leaning her forehead into his. She looks into his eyes and Spencer dares to wonder if her eyes are glassy because of him. It’s magic how someone like her can make a believer, a dreamer out of a man afraid of living. 

Spencer closes his eyes in pure ecstasy. Y/N sucks along the tender skin of his chest, causing him to flush at her ministrations. He can feel her tighten inside him, so he snakes his fingers down to stroke her clit, exciting moans and more fervent kisses along his chest and up to his ear. 

“Just like that, Spence. You’re so perfect my sweet boy,” 

“Y/N, cum on me, cum on me baby,” Spencer cries, finally able to let go as he feels himself come undone underneath Y/N.

Spencer’s whimpers and constant moans set Y/N over the edge. She mewled into Spencer’s shoulder, kissing and nipping the sensitive skin. As her orgasm rakes over her body, Y/N tugs on Spencer’s hair, suddenly quite happy he’s keeping it almost shoulder length. 

Both of them feel their bodies come back to life, their breathing steadies and their hearts seem to beat a little bit slower. Gone were the array of moans. Gone was the burning desire to chase their release. Gone was the sound of praise. All that stands between Spencer and Y/N is the silence. The silence that says quite enough for them. 

The silence that’s braver than Spencer. 

He’s quiet as Y/N flops to his side, entirely spent and tired from the company of friends and strenuous activities that just transpired. 

“I know what you’re thinking, Spence” She offers, turning to her side to look at him. He gives her a straight faced smile, unsure of how to approach the subject. He knows that she knows what he’s thinking about, sometimes even before he’s thinking about it. 

“I meant it, Spencer. I really do love you,” Y/N professes, finally breaking the silence. Spencer swallows as his eyes scan the girl before him. 

“You’re my best friend, Y/N,” Spencer says quietly, and suddenly realizes that it’s probably not what a girl who just confessed her love for you wants to hear. But he knows that Y/N understands-- she understands him. 

“What I mean is, I want midnight coffee nights with you. I want small talk and deep conversations and everything in between,” Spencer says quickly. “I want you in secret Y/N, but I want you in public too,” 

Spencer watches his confession settle into Y/N’s face. He’s scared for the rejection, for the daylight to break on his dream.

“I’ve waited for you to say that for so long, Spence,” She says, leaning in to close the gap between their naked bodies. Spencer pulls her in to rest his chin on top of Y/N’s head. It’s comforting being there, feeling her heartbeat in the tune of his own. He feels safe, wrapped up around in Y/N.

They’re sweaty and smell like sex, but Spencer doesn’t care. His hair is messy and he’s exhausted, but Spencer doesn’t care. His neck and chest are littered with lovebites and marks, but Spencer doesn’t care. After months of running around in the shadows, months of letting the unsaid say what he desperately wants to say, months of being patient but dying with anticipation, Spencer doesn’t care. Spencer doesn’t care because on Monday morning, Y/N won’t drop his hand when they walk into the bullpen. 

THANK YOU FOR READING!!

Taglist: @calm-and-doctor​ 

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[dionysia-ta-astika]

Hera and the Cuckoo

Never before had a woman refused him. Twice. Numerous times.

Zeus hopped up and down a tree branch, watching forlorn as the great goddess Hera entertained mortals in her mountain sanctuary. They bowed and offered all the greatest gifts of Greece. But he could give her the world. He could lay the entire Aegean at her feet.

Thunder cracked overhead and cuckoo-Zeus sighed as heavy raindrops shook his tree. This woman and her stubbornness was making him lose control.

He hopped off the branch and glided down to the temple, swooping to land in an archway in her eyesight. Ruffling his wet feathers, he chirped once and sat sullenly against the marble. Let her watch his sorrow.

As soon as the thunder sounded, she knew. He had never been subtle.

As the storm raged louder outside, Hera ushered her people to their homes, granting them protection on their walk down the mountainside. She couldn’t do anything for their wet clothes, but she wasn’t to blame for that.

Standing at the pronaos of her temple, Hera watched as the last pilgrim disappeared from sight. With a steadying breath she turned to the cuckoo, clucking in admonishment.

“You silly bird, caught out in this dreadful rain. How fortunate you found my temple for shelter.” She held out her arm. “Now, come to me. Let’s find some warmth together.”

The cuckoo immediately took flight, landing swiftly on her arm to stare intently at her as she walked them to a lit brazier.

In the light and warmth of the fire, Hera took a good look at the wet bird. Its chest was speckled white like marble, but - how unusual for a cuckoo - each brown wing was struck with a distinctive flash of white, like lightning.

How did mortals never know when he was near?

The poor cuckoo hopping up to her shoulder and pressed close, ducking its small head under her chin. The quietest of chirps sounded, and Hera’s lips twitched in a smothered smile. He was charming even when covered in feathers, this wouldn’t do at all.

“You’re not even very handsome for a bird, are you?”

The cuckoo flapped its bedraggled wings, sending tiny drops flying against her skin, and leaned outward to eye the goddess. If a bird could be disgruntled, this one was.

“An eagle is a more regal bird. Suitable for a king, wouldn’t you say?”

The bird eyed her again before hopping off her shoulder and down her arm. She watched as it carefully extended a wing.

One feather glowed so brilliantly bright, Hera had to look away. When she could see again, the feather stuck awkwardly from the cuckoo’s wing, long and stiff, and coloured deep caramel. A feather for a bird much larger than this one.

Feeling bold, Hera whispered, “Could you be an eagle for me, if I asked it of you?”

A pause. A moment’s decision. The cuckoo took flight, circling the sanctuary, before it began to glow.

His brightness shone so brilliantly the goddess covered her eyes with her hands. After a moment Zeus took her hands in his and drew them away, and all she could see in the fire-light was his warm smile and storm-grey eyes.

“I could be anything you want, if you asked it of me.”

“How about a king, then? My king.”

“But I am already king,” he chuckled, reaching to tuck a stray curl beneath a braid in her lustrous hair. “And as king, I could make you-“

“Your queen.” She would accept no less.

“What of all your misgivings?”

“I never had misgivings. I refused to say yes to a question you never asked.”

The rain began to quiet outside, and the faintest beams of light pierced the clouds as hope truly bloomed in Zeus’ mind.

“And what of our parents?”

“They won’t be able to refuse.”

And so, as the Hesperides took up their chorus in the dying light of the sun, the future king and queen of Olympos sealed their fate.

[verdantlyviolet]

Hera and the Cuckoo

Retelling of the myth of Zeus’ seduction of Hera to become his queen. Submitted to @dionysia-ta-astika 2021 competition.

🦚🏛⛈

Never before had a woman refused him. Twice. Numerous times.

Zeus hopped up and down a tree branch, watching forlorn as the great goddess Hera entertained mortals in her mountain sanctuary. They bowed and offered all the greatest gifts of Greece. But he could give her the world. He could lay the entire Aegean at her feet.

Thunder cracked overhead and cuckoo-Zeus sighed as heavy raindrops shook his tree. This woman and her stubbornness was making him lose control.

He hopped off the branch and glided down to the temple, swooping to land in an archway in her eyesight. Ruffling his wet feathers, he chirped once and sat sullenly against the marble. Let her watch his sorrow.

As soon as the thunder sounded, she knew. He had never been subtle.

As the storm raged louder outside, Hera ushered her people to their homes, granting them protection on their walk down the mountainside. She couldn’t do anything for their wet clothes, but she wasn’t to blame for that.

Standing at the pronaos of her temple, Hera watched as the last pilgrim disappeared from sight. With a steadying breath she turned to the cuckoo, clucking in admonishment.

“You silly bird, caught out in this dreadful rain. How fortunate you found my temple for shelter.” She held out her arm. “Now, come to me. Let’s find some warmth together.”

The cuckoo immediately took flight, landing swiftly on her arm to stare intently at her as she walked them to a lit brazier.

In the light and warmth of the fire, Hera took a good look at the wet bird. Its chest was speckled white like marble, but - how unusual for a cuckoo - each brown wing was struck with a distinctive flash of white, like lightning.

How did mortals never know when he was near?

The poor cuckoo hopped up to her shoulder and pressed close, ducking its small head under her chin. The quietest of chirps sounded, and Hera’s lips twitched in a smothered smile. He was charming even when covered in feathers; this wouldn’t do at all.

“You’re not even very handsome for a bird, are you?”

The cuckoo flapped its bedraggled wings, sending tiny drops flying against her skin, and leaned outward to eye the goddess. If a bird could be disgruntled, this one was.

“An eagle is a more regal bird. Suitable for a king, wouldn’t you say?”

The bird eyed her again before hopping off her shoulder and down her arm. She watched as it carefully extended a wing.

One feather glowed so brilliantly bright, Hera had to look away. When she could see again, the feather stuck awkwardly from the cuckoo’s wing, long and stiff, and coloured deep caramel. A feather for a bird much larger than this one.

Feeling bold, Hera whispered, “Could you be an eagle for me, if I asked it of you?”

A pause. A moment’s decision. The cuckoo took flight, circling the sanctuary, before it began to glow.

His brightness shone so brilliantly the goddess covered her eyes with her hands. After a moment Zeus took her hands in his and drew them away, and all she could see in the fire-light was his warm smile and storm-grey eyes.

“I could be anything you want, if you asked it of me.”

“How about a king, then? My king.”

“But I am already king,” he chuckled, reaching to tuck a stray curl beneath a braid in her lustrous hair. “And as king, I could make you-“

“Your queen.” She would accept no less.

“What of all your misgivings?”

“I never had misgivings. I refused to say yes to a question you never asked.”

The rain began to quiet outside, and the faintest beams of light pierced the clouds as hope truly bloomed in Zeus’ mind.

“And what of our parents?”

“They won’t be able to refuse.”

And so, as the Hesperides took up their chorus in the dying light of the sun, the future king and queen of Olympos sealed their fate.

[greenstudies]

Movie recommendations

This is a list of movies I’ve seen with scores!. Used to be a part of my To Watch list, but it got too long. If you’re looking for films to watch, welcome!:

Before we start... Movies with rating 9/10 and higher are highlighted. Movies I didn’t finish have 0/10

🎦 Action

Kingsman: Golden circle  2/10

Spy who dumped me  6/10

John Wick  9/10

John Wick 2  8/10

John Wick 3  5/10

Blade Runer  0/10

Central intelligence  6/10

The Hitman’s Bodyguard  7/10

Constantine  9/10

Point Break  9/10

Charlie’s Angels  5/10

Speed 5/10

Mad Max: Fury Road 8/10

Murder on the Orient Express 6/10

The Old Guard 6/10

🎦 Animated

The Fox and the Hound  7/10

Kubo and the two strings  8/10

Sing  8/10

Sinbad  7/10

Spiderman: Into the Spider-verse  10/10

Toy Story 4  8/10

How to Train Your Dragon 3  6/10

Whisper of the Heart  7/10

Castle in the sky  6/10

Ponyo  6/10

Arriety  9/10

From Up on a poppy Hill 5/10

Tales From Earthsea 5/10

Raya and the Last Dragon 7/10

Mitchels and the Machines 7/10

Soul 8/10

Only Yesterday 5/10

Klaus 8/10

🎦 Comedy

Devil wears Prada  5/10

Bad moms  6/10

Clueless  0/10

Ibiza 4/10

Isn’t it romantic  8/10

Crazy Rich Asians  8/10

Dirty 30  couldn’t find it :(

The Perfect Date  5/10

Someone Great  7/10

Unicorn Store  5/10

Tootsie  7/10

Mortdecai  7/10

I Love You Phillip Morris  7/10

Always Be My Maybe  7/10

Knives Out  8/10

9 to 5 7/10

Fried Green Tomatoes 4/10

Love and Monsters 7/10

Bo Burnham: INSIDE 9/10

Little Miss Sunshine 7/10

The Intern 6/10

🎦 Drama

Passengers  6/10

Joy  9/10

Inferno  8/10

Catch me if you can  7/10

Rush  5/10

Leon  7/10

Bohemian Rhapsody  7/10

The Game  8/10

Alpha  3/10

The Breakfast Club  3/10

Burlesque 7/10

The Judge  7/10

The Godfather  5/10

One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest  7/10

To the Bone 8/10

My Own Private Idaho  4/10

Little Women  0/10

1984  6/10

Devil’s Advocate  10/10

Her  5/10

Walk the line 5/10

Lady Bird 4/10

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood  0/10

Mindscape 9/10

Seven  10/10

Unbreakable  7/10

Split  7/10

Glass  4/10

Much Ado About Nothing 5/10

47 Ronin  5/10

Bend It Like Beckham 3/10

Brokeback Mountain  8/10

JoJo Rabbit 10/10

The Colour Purple 4/10

Now and Then 5/10

Marriage Story 7/10

The Master 0/10

The Truman Show 9/10

The Yards 0/10 

Stay 8/10

The Snowman 4/10

Parasite 7/10

I Care a Lot 4/10

Primal Fear 9/10

🎦 Documentary

Minimalism  6/10

What the Health  0/10

The Social Dilemma 8/10

🎦 Horror

Train to Busan  4/10

The Woman in Black  5/10

Bird Box 7/10

Silent hill  0/10

Doctor Sleep  7/10

Jennifer’s Body  3/10

The Quiet Place 6/10

The Witch 2/10

American Psycho 1/10

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street 2/10

🎦 Thriller

Red Sparrow  0/10 (didn’t even finish it, I’m too pure)

Ocean’s 8  7/10

Bad Times at the El Royale  4/10

A Simple Favour  8/10

Black Mirror: Bandersnatch  9/10

Joker 10/10

Chain Reaction  6/10

Widows  0/10

Prisoners  10/10

Zodiac 8/10

Our Kind of Traitor 6/10

The Girl on the Train 6/10

🎦 Fantasy

The Huntsman: Winter’s War  6/10

Beauty and the Beast (life action)  6/10

Red Riding Hood  5/10

Tomb Rider  2/10

Pete’s Dragon  6/10

Upside Down  2/10

Sleepy Hollow  6/10

The House with a Clock in its Walls  7/10

Fantastic Beasts: Grindenwald’s Crimes  8/10

Mary Popins returns  6/10

Big Fish  6/10

Jack the Giant Slayer  5/10

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey  8/10

The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe  7/10

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug  8/10

Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring 7/10

Christopher Robin 6/10

Into the Woods 3/10

Beetlejuice 6/10

Robin Hood 3/10

Horns 4/10

🎦 Sci-fi

Ghostbusters: Answer the Call  7/10

Fahrenheit 451  0/10

Ex Machina  6/10

Looper  8/10

The X Files: I Want To Believe 4/10

The Island  7/10

The Matrix  6/10

The Butterfly Effect  8/10

Star Wars I: Phantom Menace 7/10

Star Wars II: Attack of the Clones 7/10

Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith 7/10

What Happened to Monday 5/10

🎦 Superhero

Ant-Man and Wasp  5/10

Deadpool 2  9/10

Aquaman  8/10

Captain Marvel  8/10

Spiderman: Far from Home  8/10

Iron man 3  7/10

X-Men: Dark Phoenix  7/10

Birds of Prey (And the Fabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn)  8/10

Venom 8/10

Venom: Let There Be Carnage 6/10

🎦 Romance

How to lose a guy in 10 days  6/10

Love Actually  6/10

The Kissing Booth 4/10

The first time  4/10

Pretty Woman  7/10

Dirty Dancing  9/10

The Notebook  5/10

Just Friends  3/10

Moulin Rouge!  8/10

Call Me By Your Name  6/10

The Lake House  5/10

Carol 7/10

Playing by Heart 2/10

Hope you like some of these!

[keiscait]

Mornings with Shin - Kita Shinsuke x gn!reader

genre: comfort (isn't it always??) // wc: 681 warnings: none, just the reader overworking themselves a/n: I swear I'll try to come up with a piece in a different genre soon SDKJHDSLG but for now I'll try to catch up on reposting my previous drabbles that were paired with matchups, which are pretty much all comfort. Also I really like writing about mundane things, so 🥺

You were sat in your worktable, sketching away the morning. A deadline was fast approaching, so you could hardly allow yourself to rest - so the first thing you did today, as with most days, was work.

The art block hit a few days back. Your nights have recently been filled with drooping eyes and a throbbing headache, and now, they were slowly eating up your mornings, too. You massaged your neck, sore from hunching over your desk so much - all you could at the moment was stare at the newly blank sheet in front of you. You weren’t satisfied with any of the pieces you made, so you always ended up scrapping whatever it is that you were doing.

You were snapped out of your daze at the sound of the cuckoo clock. You noticed that you were gripping the pen a little too hard, causing some redness on your fingertips. A frustrated groan escaped you as your hands rubbed circles into your temples. The morning felt so dull.

The time read 7AM. Two hours on the desk and not a single thing, you thought to yourself. Like clockwork, you heard the door open and close as Kita came back from field work. He stopped in his tracks upon seeing you.

“You’re awake?” His tone was more concerned than surprised. He had witnessed your restlessness these past few days, doing whatever he can to ease your frustration a a little bit. This wasn’t anything new to him, seeing as you were both workaholics, but he couldn’t help worrying about how this deadline was treating you.

You managed a weak smile as you met his eyes. He looked so pretty in the morning light - sweat trickling down his neck, some of his hair clinging to his forehead, lips slightly parted to allow better breathing. It was rare for you to see him like this since he usually gets up and finishes work before you get up. The sight comforted you a bit, as if the bleakness dissipated for a little while.

He walked over to the coffee machine to run it. “Still no luck?”

“I’ve been at it since 5AM.” You let out an exasperated sigh. “I woke up when you went out to work. I couldn’t go back to sleep thinking about it.”

He hummed in acknowledgment. The two of you stayed quiet for a while, with only the sounds of the coffee machine and chirping birds in the background. The peacefulness started to sink in, but only until you were reminded of the stress looming over your head. You let out another sigh.

You were staring down the blank sheet again, sick of the emptiness it posed. With a pen in hand, you tried to mimic the motions of drawing strokes, hoping for a sudden burst of inspiration. Nothing.

Kita laid a cup of coffee next to you. “You barely slept, y/n. At least eat a bit.” That elicited no response from you - all you could do was lean back in your chair, feet put up onto the seat.

Your boyfriend placed his finger under your chin, making you look up at him standing next to you. “Y/n.”

He examined your expression - you were so tired; redness peaked from the corners of your eyes, and your lips were almost pale. “You need food in your system, y/n.”

“I don’t have time to eat, Shin, this is–”

“Food is what the brain runs on. Even a child knows that,” he retorted as he pulled you on your feet and led you to the kitchen table, “Eat.”

You had no choice but to oblige. You plucked a banana from its bunch, munching away while Shin scrambled some eggs. Before you knew it, a full breakfast was spread out in front of you - toast, eggs, fruit, and some vitamins laid beside your plate. Just like grandma would make, he always said. The brown-eyed boy pressed a kiss at the top of your head as you praised him. “I don’t deserve you,” you said with a smile.

“It’s just breakfast,” he chuckled, “and you do deserve me. You deserve the world.”

The world suddenly felt full of color again, and you were ready to face the dreary white that’s been mocking you the whole week.

[fatchance]

In the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting. Presently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the birds, fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly and low. "What, already," said the Rat, strolling up to them. "What's the hurry? I call it simply ridiculous." "O, we're not off yet, if that's what you mean," replied the first swallow. "We're only making plans and arranging things. Talking it over, you know—what route we're taking this year, and where we'll stop, and so on. That's half the fun!" "Fun?" said the Rat; "now that's just what I don't understand. If you've got to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will miss you, and your snug homes that you've just settled into, why, when the hour strikes I've no doubt you'll go bravely, and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that you're not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think about it, till you really need—" "No, you don't understand, naturally," said the second swallow. "First, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us." "Couldn't you stop on for just this year?" suggested the Water Rat, wistfully. "We'll all do our best to make you feel at home. You've no idea what good times we have here, while you are far away." "I tried 'stopping on' one year," said the third swallow. "I had grown so fond of the place that when the time came I hung back and let the others go on without me. For a few weeks it was all well enough, but afterwards, O the weary length of the nights! The shivering, sunless days! The air so clammy and chill, and not an insect in an acre of it! No, it was no good; my courage broke down, and one cold, stormy night I took wing, flying well inland on account of the strong easterly gales. It was snowing hard as I beat through the passes of the great mountains, and I had a stiff fight to win through; but never shall I forget the blissful feeling of the hot sun again on my back as I sped down to the lakes that lay so blue and placid below me, and the taste of my first fat insect! The past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as I moved southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as I dared, but always heeding the call! No, I had had my warning; never again did I think of disobedience." "Ah, yes, the call of the South, of the South!" twittered the other two dreamily. "Its songs, its hues, its radiant air! O, do you remember—" and, forgetting the Rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence, while he listened fascinated, and his heart burned within him. In himself, too, he knew that it was vibrating at last, that chord hitherto dormant and unsuspected. The mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their pale and second-hand reports, had yet power to awaken this wild new sensation and thrill him through and through with it; what would one moment of the real thing work in him—one passionate touch of the real southern sun, one waft of the authentic odour? With closed eyes he dared to dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the river seemed steely and chill, the green fields grey and lightless. Then his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its treachery. "Why do you ever come back, then, at all?" he demanded of the swallows jealously. "What do you find to attract you in this poor drab little country?" "And do you think," said the first swallow, "that the other call is not for us too, in its due season? The call of lush meadow-grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking, and all the farm-buildings clustering round the House of the perfect Eaves?" "Do you suppose," asked the second one, "that you are the only living thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo's note again?" "In due time," said the third, "we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an English stream. But to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. Just now our blood dances to other music." They fell a-twittering among themselves once more, and this time their intoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted walls.

This long passage is one of my favorites from The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame. It is from chapter titled “Wayfarers All.” I loved this book as a boy, but found a much deeper appreciation for it when it was my turn to read it to my own children. Those readings were thirty years apart, and now another thirty years have passed. Maybe it’s time to dust off my copy once more. 

The Wind in the Willows was first published in 1908, and is in the public domain. 

[dizzyeyess-stories]

The Worst First Date Ever! (Remake) - Chapter Four: Arcade Robbery

Disclaimer: The main protagonist Skylar's gender and appearance was purposely left anonymous so you as the reader can use your imagination to fill in those blanks.

After shaking off another humiliating look on my face, Ashlyn and I continued our date to the next stop on the to-do list; the arcade. It was crowded at the main hall but we both intended to head to where it wasn’t so populated; the backside of the arcade where they have a lot of old-school arcade cabinets since we were old-school gamers after all.

We versed each other in a game of Street Fighter II. This is where Ashlyn shines. She was constantly beating me without giving me a single opening to land an attack on her character.

These wins made her a bit too excited. So much so that after one of the matches ended, she accidentally applied one of those in-game punches to my face *POW*. My goofy grin was back alongside some swivelling stars and birdies around my head. My eyes were crossed so I was seeing two Ashlyns apologizing to me yet again. “W-weelll that packed a punnnch duhh” I slurred while waving my fist.

During this time, at the front end of the arcade, a bunch of people bandits wearing ski masks and holding firearms barged in. Everyone including the staff were all terrified with constant screams. The bandits went around and tied up their hostages. This was a heist.

Ashlyn noticed the screaming and quickly dragged my flimsy body behind one of the arcade cabinets. We were both completely hidden and by one of the bandits who was scouting in the backend of the arcade.

My dizziness wore off and I was confused why we were behind a dusty arcade cabinet and why was Ashlyn being so quiet. So, I asked her, *POW* she interrupted me in panic by punching me yet again. But this time, on the side of my head. More stars exploded in my vision as my eyes were rolling around my sockets. The halos of stars and birdies came back with the addition of little figures of arcade cabinets and Ashlyns all circling my head. I gave off another goofy grin with my tongue lolled out. “Mommy…. let’s play……Tweet fighter again...duhh” I slurred out loud.

The bandit heard that and slowly approached the cabinet we were both hiding behind. Suddenly, out of panic, Ashlyn jumped out of the cabinet knocking away the bandit’s weapon and gave a left kick to the chin *WHACK*. The bandit was knocked cold. Eyes were spinning, stars were haloing and giving off a goofy smile. “b-boss…is…gonna…k-kill me…. for…this” the bandit babbled before dropping headfirst between Ashlyn’s feet.

Ashlyn feeling proud she was able to take down an armed goon and decided to play “hero” and went off to the front end of the arcade to take on more bandits.

I eventually woke again from my cuckoo slumber not knowing where Ashlyn was. For a moment, I thought she left me because of how tired she was to see me knocked silly all the time. That seemed to be the obvious reason. However, I later realized I was wrong.

To my surprise, I heard gunshots firing from the front end of the arcade. I rushed over there to see what was going on. I was even more shocked but what I was seeing in front of me.

First, I just came to notice that there were bandits hijacking this arcade out of all places. Cannot say if this heist was a clever idea or a stupid one. Second, these bandits’ bodies were all stacked on top of each other unconscious like a tower of Jenga. They all had stars and planets hovering over their heads. And third, I saw Ashlyn holding one of the arcade’s prizes: a starry patterned metal baseball bat. She appeared to be stacking up another body on top of her tower of bandits.

I could not believe it. Not only did she not leave me behind but instead protected me and everyone else in the arcade by fighting those armed goons. I knew she said that she was a pro at martial arts, but this is beyond amazing.

Everyone who was tied up all cheering in their muffling voices for Ashlyn. I approached behind her to congratulate her victory before *WHAM* she panicky swung her baseball bat undercutting towards my chin. The swing was so powerful that I was sent flying. For a moment, I thought I was a bird-like the ones I was seeing all day and began to flap my arms. *CRASH* my flight came to a halt as I crashed right into the wall. I slid down falling headfirst into a trash can *CONG*. My body was sunk into the can except for my legs which were dangling in the air.

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry for hitting you again. For a sec there, I thought you were one of those goons” Ashlyn exclaimed as she dropped the bat, rushed over to my side and pulled my legs as hard as she can to release me.

Eventually, *POP* she released me at full force causing my body to fling once again against another wall *BASH*. I slid down once again to the floor completely knocked out. My already goofy grin widened while my flopped-out tongue lengthened. My eyes were swirling with multiple stars while also swirling my bumpy head alongside some chirping blue birdies, planets, bells, unicorns, little figures of Ashlyns pounding my head. I could not tell if Ashlyn was purposely knocking me out all the time or that she is just extremely clumsy. That will remain a mystery.

Ashlyn rushed over to my side again when the tied-up hostages began to muffle intensely warning her about something. But it was too late *BONK* there was one last bandit who took the bat Ashlyn left on the floor, snuck up behind her and whacked her on the head.

It seemed it was Ashlyn’s turn to experience the same cuckoo fate as me because of how she looked. Her eyes went cross as a lump sprouted out of her head with stars circling it. “Sooo… this…is…what…. Sky…. was…talking…. about…. pretty stars” she babbled to herself.

This bandit was not finished with her yet. *CONK* *WHACK* BONK* Ashlyn was like a nail being hammered to the ground. However, it eventually was halted by her large bust. The “hero” that the hostages rooted for has now reduced to a mindless bimbo. Her cross-eyes shot out into star shape and were spinning at a rapid pace. More lumps stacked on top of each other with halos on each one consisting of stars, birdies, chimes, planets and little rocket ships circling her concussed head. “weeee…...I'm…an……astwonaut….duhhh” she slurred with a silly grin on her face.

Some time has passed, I woke again from my starry dreams. I saw Ashlyn and the upper half of her body protruding the floor in front of me. I wanted to reach out to her but realized I was tied up and sitting against the wall with the other hostages from before. However, this rope seemed loose enough to wrangle me out of.

Just then, that last bandit showed up from the backend of the arcade with their mask off. The face reveals surprised me because it was no other than that horrible taxicab from before. “Ah, I see you’re finally awake. I remember you two lovebirds. You might be wondering why I am doing this. You see with the up rise of companies like Uber, nobody wants to pay for taxicabs anymore. So, we had to find alternatives to make some extra dough, hence why we decided to rob a dead place like this one. Anyways, I can’t forgive Ms. Hero over here for not only taking down my men but also knocking me out at my cab earlier. She will have to pay the price” the driver said before pointing a gun towards Ashlyn concussed head.

I was horrified by the sight of Ashlyn's life potentially being ended right before my eyes. Even though she has been knocking me out non-stop today, I still had strong feelings towards her.

In a desperate attempt, I quickly wrangled my way out of the rope, grabbed the starry baseball bat that was conveniently left in front of me and rampaged my way towards the driver. Before the driver turned the gun towards me, *WHACK* I slammed the bat onto the driver’s head causing stars to explode and circle around. “Uh...ohh… this … can't… good...duh” the driver slurred while staggering about.

I was so angry that I thought this driver deserves the same medicine Ashlyn was treated to. So, I used the bat and hammered down the driver into the floor *WHAM* *SLAM* *BASH*. The driver was no longer a threat. But rather a joke to everyone watching. Pupils were replaced by spinning stars, lumps stacking on top of each other with halos of stars, birdies, winged angels, cuckoo clocks and little taxicabs cabs. Not to mention the toothy grin the driver was making. “Cuckoo Cuckoo” was the only thing the driver was able to say.

All the hostages cheered once again for taking down all of the goons and saving the day. I untied everyone and wedged Ashlyn out of the floor she was stuck in. However, she was still cuckoo for cocoa puffs. “Yayyyy…. my…. herooo” she slurred.

Police cars were approaching the arcade. I know I should stay for questioning, but I do not want our date to end here even if it may seem selfish of me. I lifted Ashlyn's flimsy body onto my back and set out to our next destination on our to-do list.

To be Continued...

[dr-gloom]

The Makings of Greatness: Chapter 11

Fandom: Sanders’ Sides

Pairing: platonic logince, platonic moxiety, platonic anxeit, familial ThVi

Tags/Warnings (for this chapter): 

Ko-fi

AO3

Masterlist

Prologue  Ch 1  Ch 2  Ch 3  Ch 4  Ch 5  Ch 6  Ch 7  Ch 8  Ch 9  Ch 10  Ch 11  Ch 12  Ch 13 Ch 14  Ch 15  Ch 16  Ch 17

The mushroom trees provide a dense cover from the light, bathing the atmosphere in shadow. The ground is covered in a soft moss, with the occasional rock, though a metal surface peeks out where the moss has been removed in some patches. The metal of the planet’s surface has grooves in it; lines and circles that seem to follow a nonsense pattern. Particles can be seen floating in the scarce streams of light that break through the mushroom trees’ canopy, the entire scene calm and still, the only thing offsetting the undisturbed natural scenery being the smoking, overturned skiff.

Virgil is the first to regain consciousness, looking around in the dim lighting to see Logan and Roman still disoriented. He grips the lip of the skiff, grunting as he lifts it just enough to slip out, then he positions himself so he’s standing with his back to it, feet braced on the metal surface of the planet, and grips the lip of the skiff again, pushing. He manages to lift it more, turning around to fully push it over and free the two older adults, then sits back down heavily on a moss patch and lets out a tired puff of air.

Logan is the next to fully wake, groaning softly and rubbing the back of his head. He sits up, looking around, his eyes widening as he becomes more aware of his surroundings. He shifts, his hand brushing along the grooves of the exposed metal, and glances down. “Curious….”

Roman wakes up next, shifting to sit up and then standing, looking around. “Well… That wasn’t one of my finer landings.” His face pinches with pain and he clutches his side, gasping softly and dropping into a kneel. Logan rushes to his side. “Captain!” Logan starts to help him up and Roman brushes him off. “It’s nothing, just bruising. I’ll be fine.” He turns to Virgil. “Mr. Shae, the map?”

Virgil reaches into his pocket, pulling out the gold orb and sighing with relief, a smile curling his lips. “Ah, good.” He starts to hand it over and it levitates out of his hand, making a few whirring and clicking sounds, the bits and pieces coming apart-

Only to turn into Morph.

Morph laughs and sticks his tongue out, and Virgil groans. “Morph!” Morph flies around his head, still laughing. “Morph, where’s the map?!” Morph stops in front of Virgil, then turns into a much smaller version of the map and the coil of rope from earlier, then the map tucks itself into the coil of rope.

“Are you serious?! It’s back on the ship?” If Morph had shoulders to shrug apologetically, he no doubt would be doing so. As it is, he looks regretful enough. Virgil grabs at Morph in frustration, the blob slipping between his fingers again and again.

Roman looks up when sounds of an engine catch his ears, muttering to Virgil. “Silence the blob and get low. We have company.”

Virgil looks up in time to see the second skiff sailing slowly overhead; no doubt Declan and his men trying to find them. The three of them duck behind the overturned skiff and watch Declan’s skiff sail by. Roman turns to Virgil. “We need a more defensible position. Scout ahead.” He hands Virgil a solar gun, which the teen hesitantly takes, his expression turning serious. “Right.” Virgil stands, looking around and heading off in a random direction. As he’s leaving, he hears Roman gasp in pain again and what’s most likely Logan helping him to the ground.

“Steady, now. Let’s have a look at that, shall we?”

 As Virgil wanders farther into the forest, it grows darker. The cover becomes thicker, the light more scarce, and the ground slopes downward. He walks hesitantly down a rather large root before just sitting on it and sliding the rest of the way down, finding his feet at the bottom and looking around as he walks. In this part of the forest, it seems like there are more ground-level organisms. They look almost like very large brussels sprouts, though it’s hard to tell if they’re some sort of shrubbery or just infantile trees. The canopy here is much denser; that, coupled with the lower ground, provides a much darker environment, and Virgil finds himself looking around a lot more, wary of any possible threats.

Just because they haven’t come across any native animals, doesn’t mean there aren’t any.

The large stalks of the mushroom trees loom ominously from all directions, stretching into the sky. With as little light as there is, the shadows make the stalks look almost like decaying wood, covered in some sort of slime. Virgil casts his eyes to the ground, his imagination getting the best of him; at least the moss looks the same.

A large root stretches out in front of him, blocking his path, and he has to hop up to sit on it, then pivot himself to get to the other side before hopping down. Unbeknownst to him, someone watches from the shadows, carefully monitoring his every movement.

A rustling comes from a patch of foliage behind Virgil and to his right. He spins around, but there’s nothing there except for the swaying stalks of some strange, tube-shaped plants. Morph titters anxiously and Virgil quietly shushes him, reaching for his solar gun. He turns it on, creeping closer to the stalks as the gun warms up, and peeks into the opening of the biggest one, his heart hammering in his chest. What kind of animal is it? Is it harmless? Does it have fangs? Claws? Does it eat meat?

Something jumps out of the stalk and screams, moving too fast for his brain to process. Virgil lets out a startled cry and falls on his back, the thing jumping on top of him, still screaming. Thin, hard, metal hands clamp down on his shoulders. Thick metallic joints press into his sides and shins. Large, glowing green eyes stare down at him and his first thought is I’m going to die and my dad will never know what happened.

“Oh, this is fantastic!”

What?

The thing sits up, and now Virgil can tell that it’s a very thin, worn-down robot. Its body looked like it’s made of copper, the minimal build of gears and thin limbs covered in dark patches where the shine was worn down with age, or dirt, or rust. Wires stuck out from the back of his head, wiggling around with his movements. His eyes were in a sort of binocular-like setting, the “eyes” themselves screens that lit up bright green, narrowing and widening like actual eyes and with small black pupils that moved around to indicate what the robot was looking at, along with small metal eyebrows that moved just like real ones.

“A carbon-based lifeform has come to rescue me at last! Oh, I just wanna hug you, and squeeze you, and never let you go!” The robot scoops Virgil up mid-crawl in his attempt to get away, hugging him tightly from behind. Virgil lets out a quiet “oof” as the breath is squeezed out of him, extremely confused. He glances at Morph.

Are you seeing what I’m seeing?

Morph looks just as confused, if not a little excited at the new possible friend.

Virgil pries the robot off him, taking a step back. “Alright, wh-” The robot hugs him again, and Virgil once again pries him off. “Jus-” The robot clings to him with his arms and legs like a koala, smiling happily. Virgil pries him off again. “Would you just- stop it.”

The robot takes a step back. “Ah, sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. It’s just,” he puts an arm around Virgil’s shoulders. Virgil leans away, grimacing. “I’ve been marooned for… so long. I mean, don’t get me wrong, solitude is fine! It’s just that, after 100 years, you go a little nuts!” His voice picks up on the last part, practically screaming. Virgil winces at the volume as the robot chuckles nervously. “I-I’m sorry, eh,” He removes his arm from around Virgil, dusting him off and taking a step back. “I’m, uh… My name, is….” He scratches at his head, groaning a little in exasperation.

Morph pops up at Virgil’s shoulder and turns into a miniature of the robot, a cuckoo bird popping out of his head and making the “cuckoo, cuckoo” sound the clock makes. Virgil rolls his eyes and pushes him down, Morph turning back into his pink self with a giggle.

“BEN!” The robot suddenly shouts, grinning. “Of course, I’m B.E.N.! Bio-electronic navigator. But uhm….” He scratches his chin. “I don’t think I like that very much. Oh! Call me Patton!” He slaps his chest proudly, the compass attached to it popping off, only attached by a spring. “Oops.” He pushes it back into place. “And you are?”

“Virgil.”

Patton takes his hand, shaking it excitedly. “Nice to meet you, Virge!”

“It’s Virgil.” Virgil pries his hand off, hunching down to slip past Patton.

“Anyway!” Patton giggles, resting his elbow on Virgil’s head. Virgil huffs and pushes him off, standing straight.

“Look, I’m kind of in the middle of something, okay?” He maneuvers around the robot, walking backwards as he continues talking. “I gotta find a place to hide, and there’s pirates cha-”

“Oh, pirates!” Patton laments, stepping in front of Virgil as he turns to face forwards. He puts a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, the other to his forehead. “Don’t get me started on pirates! I don’t like them.” Virgil shrugs his hand off and keeps walking, and Patton sits on a nearby rock. “I remember Captain Flint- this guy had such a temper!”

Virgil whips around at the name, walking back over to Patton. “Wait, wait. You knew Captain Flint?”

“I think he suffered from mood swings, personally - I’m not a therapist - anyways.” Virgil groans, raking a hand down his face. “Oh, but you let me know when I’m rambling!” Virgil’s eyes widen. Wait, this robot knew Flint. That was good, right? That means…

“That means… you gotta know about the treasure, right?”

Patton grimaces. “Treasure?” He asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, Flint’s Trove? You know… Loot of a Thousand Worlds?” Virgil smiles, gesturing as if the treasure was around them. Morph turns into a treasure chest, opening to show a chest of gold coins.

“I-it-it’s-it’s all a l-li-little-” Patton stutters as he stands, his movements jerky. Virgil frowns, almost concerned. Was there something wrong with him? “Little fuzzy. Wait. I re-re-remember.” His eyes glitch, the green fuzzing out before returning to normal. “I do! Uh… Treasure!” His pupils are replaced by treasure chests. “Lots of treasure!” His eyes turn red. “Buried in the centroid centroid centroid of the mechanism!”

Virgil bites his lip, eyes wide and heart fluttering anxiously. Should he like… stop this? It was freaking him out…

“And there was this… big door.” Patton mimes a doorway, reaching as high as he can. “Opening and closing and opening and closing!” The green of his eyes changes into a triangle, turning green, then black, then back to green, the color shifting like curtains being pulled back. The compass on his chest springs forward, then goes back, repeating the action with Patton’s words.

“And Captain Flint wanted to make sure nobody could ever get to his treasure, so I helped him-“ Patton glitches, the graphics on his eyes going haywire and his body jerking, sparks flying from the gap in the back of his head where the wires stick out. “Ng-aAH! Data inaccessible! And- reboot!Reboot! Reboot!” Where the green would be if he was squinting had turned into a black screen with green text, his whole upper body jerking back and forth like he was the bird in a cuckoo clock. Virgil flinches back, his hands instinctively flying up. More sparks fly from Patton’s head, and Virgil panics and slaps him.

Patton settles, blinks, then squints at Virgil. “…And, you are?”

Taglist: @the5thcoy @dailysandersidesaudoodles @hungry-red-panda @neonb-fly @chemically-imbalanced-romance @punsterterry @dead4sevenyears @metaphoricalpluto2 @tanyatoloni1334

[where-fading-princesses-live]

‘’An Ed Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’’ - EEnE Fanfic

@eene-fangirl Fanfic Weekend Challenge! Just a collection of random Jonny thoughts, and a poem thing at the end. (Raise your hand if you remember video stores.)

 An Ed Flew east, an Ed flew west,

An Ed flew over the cuckoo’s nest.

 -Parody on children’s folk rhyme

             People thought Jonny didn't care. It wasn't true. He did want things. That is, he wanted to want things, even to love things, as much as Ed loved every living thing— every plant, every tree, every bird and cloud in the sky. As Rolf loved things— the soil beneath his hands, the sweat on his back, the wind in his hair. As Jimmy loved things— the creek by the woods, quiet girls in crowded rooms looking inside a mirror or out the window at something unknown but desired. Only Jonny couldn't say what he wanted. It was too impossible now. Wanting anything seemed crazy. There was only one person Jonny could talk to, and it should have filled his craving. Was he satisfied?

           ''Jonny, why do you still play with that stupid thing?'' Sarah asked him one day, oddly concerned for the strange child as she indicated the wooden plaything. In the past, Sarah would have never even batted an eyelid in Jonny's direction.

           ''Cause Plank says so,'' Jonny replied, holding up Plank for her to see. But she didn't look at Plank. She just continued to gape at Jonny.

           ''Really, are you gonna continue to let that stupid board of wood tell ya what to do? Get grip!'' and she stormed off. As long as Jonny was happy, who cared what others thought?

           Eds always seemed to have more fun. It was on one such trip to the video store that Jonny discovered this. Jonny didn’t intend to run into them, but he always happened upon the Eds by pure happy coincidence. He watched as Ed made his way through the rows and rows of shelves, sprinting through the video store like a child at a toy shop. ''Movies, movies! Look at all the movies, guys!'' He yelled and pointed at each colorful video casket cover bearing a different title, a different genre. Jonny smiled at his immature display, in spite of himself. Watching Ed aglow made his heart flutter in warmth, but he couldn't exactly say why. Maybe because it was so different from the eternal smile his best friend often displayed. Jonny found Ed endearing, to say the least.

           ''Now be careful, Ed!'' came Double D’s familiar cautious voice as Ed ran through the seemingly empty store. On a Friday night, it was unusual, but Jonny assumed parents with their small children and families and groups of friends

had already swept the store clean the minute school let out. In fact, they were late to the party. Jonny supposed they were the only four kids in the store. Eddy, too, acknowledged this as he trudged behind Double D with his hands shoved in both pockets, sulking that they would not be out in time to make a trip to the candy store.

           ''Christ,'' he muttered under his breath, ''all the good stuff's rented out.''

           ''Eddy, first of all watch your language in public, and second of all, we're looking for a decent, educational film for Ed, not for us.'' he lectured.

           Eddy sighed at Double D’s usual nagging and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. ''Yeah... forgot. Hey, how this supposed to help Lumpy anyways?''

           ''Because, Eddy, proposing a fun activity can show Ed that learning can be a fun experience outside the classroom environment! Besides, he can apply previous knowledge to new concepts. He's already improved drastically!''

           Eddy just listened to this rant quietly before asking only half-interested, ‘’So if Ed brings up his grades—‘’

           ''Yes, we’ll be back in business, goodness, is that all you ever think about? You'd be surprised, Eddy. I'm very proud of him. In only a month's time, he's come a long way, but he will advance, I'm sure of it. He's a fast learner.'' But Edd stopped himself when he saw Eddy yawning in boredom and moving away to find Ed. Why did he even bother?

           ''Hey, lumpy, didja find something?'' He called.

           And Ed rushed out from behind the Sci-Fi/Horror section with a case depicting a giant green octopus monster. ''Look, Eddy! It Came from Beneath the Sea!'' And Ed pushed the video casket under Eddy's nose.

           ''Get that thing away from me!'' Eddy commanded as he pushed Ed backwards.

           ''But it's so cool!'' Ed pleaded.

           Double D came forward and put a hand on Ed's shoulder. ''Ed, that's very nice, but... may we find something less... dismaying?''

           ''Okay...'' and he reluctantly obeyed and put the movie back in its proper section.

           ''Let's try the family section, shall we? We're bound to find something there.'' Edd suggested.

           And Eddy once again rolled his eyes in besetment. ''Oh, brother...'' he moaned.

           ‘’First impressions always last, as they say. And furthermore-''

           But Ed's voice broke through what Edd was about to say next. ''Look, guys! Elvis!'' And he pointed to the comedy section. ''Elvis is so cool!'' And he held up a familiar title Clambake, a typical 60's beach comedy. Ed, being the devoted Elvis fan that he was, was literally in heaven, for the comedy section held quite a few notable Elvis titles, though Clambake was not the most versatile of them. By 1967 with the Beatles leading the British invasion of new musical performers, the King of the Sixties was in decline at least in his film career. You can tell with Clambake; you would know if you'd seen the film. But to Ed, any B-grade film made no difference to him. Eddy burst out laughing the minute he laid eyes on what Ed had in his hands.

           ''Yeah, right, Ed! Elvis is so yesterday!'' But Ed didn't catch the joke as he laughed along.

           ''I don't know, Ed...'' Double D told him. ''It's a nice thought, but keep in mind that—‘’

           ''Dammit, Double D, you ain't gonna find nothing these days but beach movies, westerns, crime dramas and Dick Van Dyke!'' Eddy said rather annoyed as he threw up his hands.

           ''There must be something,'' Edd tried again, but no sooner had he spoken when Eddy disappeared into none other than the crime section. ''Eddy!'' but when he tried to follow him, Eddy emerged once more from behind one of the shelves and jabbed his finger into Edd’s lower torso, his hand imitating the gesture of a gun.

           ''This is a stick-up,'' he said in a gravelly voice as he pushed Edd back into one of the walls. ''Guess who, Double D?''

           ''Haha, very funny, Clyde!'' he mocked as he pushed Eddy’s hand away, catching on.

           ''C'mon, Sock Head, you're no fun! Bonnie & Clyde is da shit!''

           ''I doubt Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway is a good influence for —‘’

           But before he could finish his reply, Johnny 2x4 interrupted them. They both jumped clean out of their skin, expecting to see someone else, but they sighed in relief upon seeing the small child with his board of wood in tow. Neither Ed had even known Jonny was in the store with them.

           ‘’Watcha guys doin’?’’ Jonny inquired in his usual piqued curiosity. Eddy was about to tell him to get lost but Jonny continued on. ‘’Why be couch potatoes, huh? Plank says there’s gonna be a solar eclipse tonight.’’

           Ed, who had briefly returned from his movie hunt, gasped and repeated to his friends, ‘’Did you hear that, guys? Plank says there’s gonna be a solar eclipse tonight!’’

           Eddy only snorted. ‘’We don’t need an echo, Ed, we heard him the first time.’’

           ‘’PLANK SAYS!’’ Ed protested.

           ‘’Yeah, right! That stupid piece of firewood don’t know jack shit!’’ Edd was about to chastise Eddy once more for his cursing but Jonny cut him off.

           ‘’Says you!’’ Jonny accused. ‘’Plank knows everything!’’

           ‘’Yeah, Eddy,’’ Ed defended, ‘’you’re gonnna hurt the poor lil guy’s feelings! Plank told me my birthday’s Feburary 27th! That proves he knows everything!’’

           ‘’Ed,’’ Double D piped up, ‘’your birthday is always February 27th!’’ then he turned to Jonny, also skeptical of Plank’s prediction. ‘’And besides, we already had a solar eclipse last month!’’

           ‘’So?’’ Jonny challenged him arrogantly.

           ‘’So,’’ Double D emphasized, ‘’total solar eclipses only occur every eighteen months on average, and it is estimated they reoccur at any given place only every 360 to 410 years… generally speaking. So another solar eclipse couldn’t possibly occur tonight, Jonny, it’s not possible! Science would forever be changed.’’

           ‘’Yeah, what he said!’’ Eddy shot back.

           '''Fine, who needs ya guys anyways?'' Jonny snapped and stormed off with Plank in tow.

             Ed was the only one who believed Jonny—er—Plank, and went over to his house that night to prepare for another total solar eclipse. Eddy and Edd stood by their skepticism and hung out in Edd’s bedroom, finishing their homework (or at least Edd was doing homework, Eddy was reading comic books if Edd recalled correctly). They were both proved wrong when the sky suddenly darkened and when they ventured outside, they were both amazed and shocked to see a total solar eclipse occurring right before their eyes! Jonny and Ed never let them hear the end of it, feeling superior to any scientific proof.

           ‘’We told ya so, we told ya so!’’ they chanted every day.

           Edd couldn’t explain it—all the books and mathematical calculations could not prove how Jonny—or Plank, in this case—could have possibly predicted another solar eclipse, a month after an eclipse had already occurred! Solar eclipses were rare events— a pair of eclipses occurring two months in a row had never happened before—it was just not possible!

           I am a collective soul who prefers to keep a small inner circle around me. Too many is overwhelming and misguided. I have my books, my parents, and Plank. What more do I need? I have my Masters, the Blue Light, and the voices of my angels ''singing songs'' in my head. I don't need any friends (that's a lie), I don't even need myself (that's the truth). My best friend is and always will be Plank, unaccompanied by my mirror- - a friend I have known my entire life. And now I am proud to say that I consider you a close friend, though distant through the years, and far away. One does not need to face a good friend in order to feel each other's heart beat in the darkness. One may never meet, and feel closer to them than a person they had known seemingly for a thousand years. That being said, I can sit in my room alone in the company of the shadows on the wall. My mother could be in the next room or not there at all, and I'll still feel her presence through the fibers of my skin. I can be sitting here reading an e-mail, and though separated by a glass screen, it would seem as though you were sitting there before me, reading the words aloud to me in your voice full of wit and wisdom.

           I prefer the quiet conversations of the trees to the chorus of voices in a crowd. I prefer the blood in my veins to the water in the pond. One must learn to be lonely, and learn to live life alone. One who is always in need of more than two friends is insecure and has low self-esteem. It is not healthy to live one's life completely in seclusion, but one must also embrace the beautiful moments of alone-ness, and will come to appreciate a passion for life in which the world rejects when surrounded by one too many faces. Plutarch once said, '' I don't need a friend who changes when I change and who nods when I nod; my shadow does that much better.''

             Thankfully welcome.

[trudiblog]

The Dawn Chorus The wail of Red throated divers and the piping of common sandpipers heralded a gorgeous pink and purple sunrise on the first Birdsong & Breakfast walk this morning. Curlews were ‘curlewing’ further along the shore, and a pair of Eiders added their Frankie Howerd “Owooooo” calls to the chorus as we gathered outside the bunkhouse at 5am in the pink dawn light. We headed off along the shore, then into the woodland at the back of the castle, where chaffinch, robin, wren, great tit, chiffchaff, willow warbler and goldcrest all clamoured from the treetops as we negotiated mud and tree roots beneath them. I played a blackcap recording under the trees, but there was no answer. Many summer breeders are late this year due to the delayed spring. Past the powerhouse, the track took us around the back of the old walled garden with woodland on both sides. Blackbird, song thrush and cuckoo were added to the list, with the cuckoo sounding tantalisingly close, yet never visible. On the trail of the grasshopper warbler I heard last week, we headed for Croft 3 and the North Side Trail, clocking up blue tit and meadow pipit on the way. I nearly missed it, but the grasshopper warbler was singing its fishing reel song not far from the Croft 3 craft shed, exactly where I’d heard it before. It sang in short, quiet bursts though, not the loud, extended churr of last week, so unfortunately, not everyone got to hear it. Walking along the bottom of the croft, we heard a distinctive gobble from the other side of the fence. The male turkey raised his tail feathers and treated us to a display, while ravens gronked overhead and chased some hooded crows up into the air. Coal tits and redpolls joined the list as we looped up onto the top path above the croftland. Beautiful Scottish black-moss grows along the fault lines of a sandstone outcrop here, looking like an abstract painting, while down in the grass, we saw flowering patches of milkwort, dog violet, lousewort and butterwort. A high-flying heron caused momentary excitement, as we thought it was an eagle until we got the binoculars on it, but a showy, singing willow warbler made up for it. The bird-cherry trees were in blossom, and marsh marigold and cuckoo flowers bloomed in the wet meadow. As we approached the end of the walk, a greyish bird flew out of the trees by the SNH agricultural shed. I managed to get the binoculars on it, thinking it was probably just a wood pigeon. It circled the shed and remained in the open long enough for everyone to spot that it was a cuckoo on the wing! At breakfast in the hall, whilst devouring bacon rolls, we wrote down everything we’d seen – we clocked up 25x species of bird, plus 3x domestic species (cockerel, turkey, goose) and 9x interesting plants. A very successful first Birdsong & Breakfast walk: it was well worth getting out of bed at 4.30am! Trudi Clarke Ranger Isle of Rum May 2018

[molisematters-blog]

Sunshine and Skinks

Here on the Celano to Foggia Tratturo which meanders its way across Molise the water from an old spring dribbles and drips into a large stone trough, and whilst exploring there with friends the other day, we came across a rather unusual reptile called a SKINK.

With a history stretching back almost 140 million years the SKINK is a type of lizard, but over time evolution has seen the disappearance of its legs, although apparently they sometimes they do still have them. 

Although not rare they are not usually seen at this height in Italy. 

Our smallholding sits at just over 600 metres or 2000 feet, amidst woodland and meadow, scattered with Olive, Apple,  Almond Trees, and a small vineyard.

Now in the throes of spring, we are drenched in a symphony of colours, yellows, pinks, purples, blues, and whites.

The meadow beside our house is littered with flowers and plants now establishing themselves after laying dormant over the winter.

Bright yellow flowers adorn the Mustard plant which grows in abundance on our land. Now only small it grows to more than a metre currently towering over everything else around it. 

Other blooms sit nestled amongst the grass, the bright pink Italian Orchid, strands of Purple Vetch, and the Clover is just beginning to burst forth.

Walking the dogs across the field and brushing the leaves of mint the aroma is quite delicious. This herb, not the only edible plant which grows here. 

Wild Asparagus can be found in the woodland here and makes a welcome addition to an Omelette or Italian Frittata.

As yet I am unable to identify many of the others but have started to pull little tasty scallions from the sandy soil on the hillside. They make a welcome addition to a soup or salad.

A quiet tranquil place, sitting here at the computer the only sounds are birds singing their songs with the glee. 

The Cuckoo has begun to sing this week and although a rather mischievous, even perhaps evil bird, it's distinctive call is unmistakable. 

Sitting in the large Fir just outside my window I can just see a tiny blue breasted Blue Tit join the chorus before it darts off once again with a start.

Dominating the terrain here the Buzzard swoops, drifts and circles eyeing the ground below searching constantly for a meal.

Fortunate enough to reside on the edge of the Tratturo there is a wealth of nature at my feet.  

 Thanks mostly to Carlo Meo, and Angela Damiano, who manage the LIPU nature reserve in Cascalenda, I have learnt a huge amount about the local environment here, and continue to do so.

[newstfionline]

Running Free in Germany’s Outdoor Preschools

By Alice Gregory, NY Times Magazine, May 18, 2017

ONE EARLY MORNING this past February, before the frost melted or the sun fully rose, 20 small children gathered in a scabby municipal park in Pankow, the northernmost borough of Berlin. The sky was gray and the ground was gray, but the children’s cheeks were bright and so were their moods. They ran in circles, shrieked with delight and spent a great deal of time rolling around atop frozen soil as traffic whizzed by just meters away. Their parents, shivering and anxious to get on with the day, paid them little mind. They smiled absent-mindedly and took sips of coffee from environmentally friendly stainless steel to-go cups.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

At the sound of the bird call, mimicked loudly and with eerie accuracy by a man in his early 40s named Picco Peters, the children gathered together and formed a tight circle. A spirited round of songs, sung in both English and German, began and was finished off by a chorus of wolf howls. The circle then dissolved and the group’s 15 older children, ranging in age from 3 to 6, marched past a community garden and toward a busy intersection. (The remaining children, who were younger, stayed in the park.) A woman named Christa Baule led the way, carrying a backpack with a three-foot-long branch sticking dangerously out of it; Peters took up the back.

The children continued to chatter until the public bus came, at which point they wordlessly formed a single-file line and climbed in. Ten minutes later, the bus stopped. Everyone was deposited at the entrance of an 84-acre public park and proceeded to run amok.

Robin Hood Waldkindergarten, which opened in 2005, is one of more than 1,500 waldkitas, or “forest kindergartens,” in Germany; Berlin alone has about 20. Most have opened in the last 15 years and are usually located in the city’s parks, with a bare-bones structure serving as a sort of home base, but others, like Robin Hood, rely on public transportation to shuttle their charges daily out into the wilderness, where they spend most of the day, regardless of weather. Toys, typically disparaged at waldkitas, are replaced by the imaginative use of sticks, rocks and leaves. A 2003 Ph.D. dissertation by Peter Häfner at Heidelberg University showed that graduates of German forest kindergartens had a “clear advantage” over the graduates of regular kindergartens, performing better in cognitive and physical ability, as well as in creativity and social development.

The American journalist Richard Louv, who coined the term “nature-deficit disorder” in his 2005 book, “Last Child in the Woods,” is cited often by Robin Hood staff, as is “Coyote’s Guide to Connecting With Nature,” by Jon Young, Ellen Haas and Evan McGown. (“Savage Park,” by Amy Fusselman, is another book that chronicles uninhibited play and was inspired by a visit to an adventure playground in Tokyo.) The pedagogical philosophy of waldkitas, which privileges outdoor play and hands-on environmental learning, comes originally from Scandinavia, but, as one teacher put it to me, “they don’t make a big fuss about it like they do here.” The trend’s non-Teutonic origins are somewhat surprising: There might be nothing “more German” than a state-funded preschool based primarily in a forest.

Germany has nearly three times as much protected land as the U.S., proportionate to the countries’ sizes, a nontrivial fact that highlights the way much of the country thinks about nature and its role in the emotional health of its citizens. “It’s terrible that kids today know all about technology but nothing about the little bird outside their window,” Peters said, gesturing out toward the woods and sounding like any number of quotable Germans, from Goethe to Beethoven to Bismarck, all of whom have rhapsodized on the psychic benefits of spending time in the forest. He continued: “In life, bad things happen--you lose your job or your partner or everyone just hates you--but you’ll always have this.”

AT AROUND 9 A.M., one child discovered a gruesome scene and pulled Baule over. “Ah,” she said, beckoning everyone else over. She pointed to the ground, where a pile of dark feathers lay lumped beneath a fir tree. She asked the children to guess who “killed” the blackbird. One small boy suggested that it was maybe the work of a fox. Baule, the school’s director, pantomimed exaggerated thought. “Well, no,” she said. “See how smooth the quill is?” The boy ran his fingers along the feather and nodded. “That means it was plucked. So the blackbird was killed by a bird of prey, not a fox.”

Within a few minutes, the children were spread out over an expanse of at least 10 acres. Some were jumping from boulders; others were dragging logs through marshland. Most were sucking on filthy icicles that had fallen from the eave of a greenhouse. At Robin Hood, the children are allowed to be out of eyesight of their minders, but not out of earshot. “Being secretive is good for child development,” Peters said. But whenever an adult called out “cuckoo,” the children all dutifully returned from whatever dangerous thing they were doing, which on the day I spent with them included climbing at least 10 feet up a tree and sliding unsupervised across a frozen pond.

“We used to bring very simple things, lengths of rope for instance,” Peters said. “But soon we realized even that wasn’t necessary.” The lack of toys, he explained, means less fighting and more inclusiveness. “They realize that they need friends if they’re going to play.”

By the time a secluded spot had been chosen for breakfast, the childrens’ fingernails were black with dirt, and although it was exceptionally cold nobody was complaining. Instead they all arranged their backpacks into a circle and wandered off in various directions to pee semi-privately, each one undressing out of their snowsuits without help. They returned and took out small Tupperware containers full of fresh produce from their backpacks. Two girls, both under 5, began arranging the fruit into an elaborate mandala atop a wooden tray. They piled carrot coins in the middle and surrounded them with concentric circles of tangerines, bell pepper slices and cucumber sticks; dates went in one corner and apple chunks in another, with a scattering of walnuts on the opposite side of the plate. Baule had encouraged them to organize the food “neatly” but provided no further instructions. The girls did all this slowly and wordlessly, rearranging items when they didn’t like a particular combination. The end result was as beautiful as anything you’d see in a restaurant.

As it is on most mornings, breakfast was eaten in complete quiet. Children took turns silently presenting everyone else with the tray from which they each chose a single piece of fruit until it was all gone. For months, they had been reminded that by not making any noise at all while eating, it is more likely that a deer might approach them, and at the very least they’ll better hear the bird calls. In over 45 minutes I didn’t hear a single giggle. When they were done, Baule excused them. There were sudden laughs and yelps and everyone vanished into the forest.

THERE ARE SCATTERINGS of forest kindergartens in the U.S. as well as in the U.K. Even in Japan and South Korea, where education is famously strict, waldkitas are becoming increasingly popular. They have spread mostly through word-of-mouth among parents. And in Germany, it’s not just the wealthy--or the eccentric--who send their children. Like all other preschools in Berlin, tuition at Robin Hood is covered by the government for kids aged 2 through 6 (apart from a 100 euro per month fee because it’s a private school). New York City preschools can cost upward of $40,000 per year.

Though it was below freezing and we had been outside for five and a half hours by the time we made our way to the bus stop, nobody--besides me--wanted to go back inside. When we returned to Robin Hood’s modest three-room building, which is filled with indoor plants and wooden forts, the children immediately kicked off their boots and stripped off their snow clothes. I suddenly saw them as they really were: tiny. In every case, their volume had decreased by at least 60 percent. They ran into the main play space where a long table had been set for them. Ceramic plates were heaped with salad and polenta, which they devoured with real flatware. One particularly squirmy boy was gently instructed to “please sit properly” five times. For dessert, every child was given a mug filled with elderberry juice, made from fruit that they had picked the summer before.

After lunch, Baule showed me a photo album, filled mostly with pictures taken in the last couple of years. A few children got interested and came over to sit in her lap, excited to see themselves “as babies.” One photograph captured the image of a towheaded boy of about 3, stripping bark off a stick with a jackknife. In another, a different boy was crushing walnuts with a log. A third picture depicted four children walking across a gravelly path, completely naked and covered with mud.

The room, which was warm and lined with pillows and books, suddenly seemed stuffy. The children would be picked up in about an hour, but I left early. I hailed a cab, and within five minutes regretted it. I rolled the window all the way down, and stuck my head out.

[readbookywooks]

WAYFARERS ALL

The Water Rat was restless, and he did not exactly know why. To all appearance the summer's pomp was still at fullest height, and although in the tilled acres green had given way to gold, though rowans were reddening, and the woods were dashed here and there with a tawny fierceness, yet light and warmth and colour were still present in undiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitions of the passing year. But the constant chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk to a casual evensong from a few yet unwearied performers; the robin was beginning to assert himself once more; and there was a feeling in the air of change and departure. The cuckoo, of course, had long been silent; but many another feathered friend, for months a part of the familiar landscape and its small society, was missing too and it seemed that the ranks thinned steadily day by day. Rat, ever observant of all winged movement, saw that it was taking daily a southing tendency; and even as he lay in bed at night he thought he could make out, passing in the darkness overhead, the beat and quiver of impatient pinions, obedient to the peremptory call.

Nature's Grand Hotel has its Season, like the others. As the guests one by one pack, pay, and depart, and the seats at the table-d'hote shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal; as suites of rooms are closed, carpets taken up, and waiters sent away; those boarders who are staying on, en pension, until the next year's full re-opening, cannot help being somewhat affected by all these flittings and farewells, this eager discussion of plans, routes, and fresh quarters, this daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship. One gets unsettled, depressed, and inclined to be querulous. Why this craving for change? Why not stay on quietly here, like us, and be jolly? You don't know this hotel out of the season, and what fun we have among ourselves, we fellows who remain and see the whole interesting year out. All very true, no doubt the others always reply; we quite envy you--and some other year perhaps--but just now we have engagements--and there's the bus at the door--our time is up! So they depart, with a smile and a nod, and we miss them, and feel resentful. The Rat was a self-sufficing sort of animal, rooted to the land, and, whoever went, he stayed; still, he could not help noticing what was in the air, and feeling some of its influence in his bones.

It was difficult to settle down to anything seriously, with all this flitting going on. Leaving the water-side, where rushes stood thick and tall in a stream that was becoming sluggish and low, he wandered country-wards, crossed a field or two of pasturage already looking dusty and parched, and thrust into the great sea of wheat, yellow, wavy, and murmurous, full of quiet motion and small whisperings. Here he often loved to wander, through the forest of stiff strong stalks that carried their own golden sky away over his head--a sky that was always dancing, shimmering, softly talking; or swaying strongly to the passing wind and recovering itself with a toss and a merry laugh. Here, too, he had many small friends, a society complete in itself, leading full and busy lives, but always with a spare moment to gossip, and exchange news with a visitor. Today, however, though they were civil enough, the field-mice and harvest-mice seemed preoccupied. Many were digging and tunnelling busily; others, gathered together in small groups, examined plans and drawings of small flats, stated to be desirable and compact, and situated conveniently near the Stores. Some were hauling out dusty trunks and dress-baskets, others were already elbow-deep packing their belongings; while everywhere piles and bundles of wheat, oats, barley, beech-mast and nuts, lay about ready for transport.

`Here's old Ratty!' they cried as soon as they saw him. `Come and bear a hand, Rat, and don't stand about idle!'

`What sort of games are you up to?' said the Water Rat severely. `You know it isn't time to be thinking of winter quarters yet, by a long way!'

`O yes, we know that,' explained a field-mouse rather shamefacedly; `but it's always as well to be in good time, isn't it? We really MUST get all the furniture and baggage and stores moved out of this before those horrid machines begin clicking round the fields; and then, you know, the best flats get picked up so quickly nowadays, and if you're late you have to put up with ANYTHING; and they want such a lot of doing up, too, before they're fit to move into. Of course, we're early, we know that; but we're only just making a start.'

`O, bother STARTS,' said the Rat. `It's a splendid day. Come for a row, or a stroll along the hedges, or a picnic in the woods, or something.'

`Well, I THINK not TO-DAY, thank you,' replied the field- mouse hurriedly. `Perhaps some OTHER day--when we've more TIME----'

The Rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a hat-box, and fell, with undignified remarks.

`If people would be more careful,' said a field-mouse rather stiffly, `and look where they're going, people wouldn't hurt themselves--and forget themselves. Mind that hold-all, Rat! You'd better sit down somewhere. In an hour or two we may be more free to attend to you.'

`You won't be "free" as you call it much this side of Christmas, I can see that,' retorted the Rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of the field.

He returned somewhat despondently to his river again--his faithful, steady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into winter quarters.

In the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting. Presently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the birds, fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly and low.

`What, ALREADY,' said the Rat, strolling up to them. `What's the hurry? I call it simply ridiculous.'

`O, we're not off yet, if that's what you mean,' replied the first swallow. `We're only making plans and arranging things. Talking it over, you know--what route we're taking this year, and where we'll stop, and so on. That's half the fun!'

`Fun?' said the Rat; `now that's just what I don't understand. If you've GOT to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will miss you, and your snug homes that you've just settled into, why, when the hour strikes I've no doubt you'll go bravely, and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that you're not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think about it, till you really need----'

`No, you don't understand, naturally,' said the second swallow. `First, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us.'

`Couldn't you stop on for just this year?' suggested the Water Rat, wistfully. `We'll all do our best to make you feel at home. You've no idea what good times we have here, while you are far away.'

`I tried "stopping on" one year,' said the third swallow. `I had grown so fond of the place that when the time came I hung back and let the others go on without me. For a few weeks it was all well enough, but afterwards, O the weary length of the nights! The shivering, sunless days! The air so clammy and chill, and not an insect in an acre of it! No, it was no good; my courage broke down, and one cold, stormy night I took wing, flying well inland on account of the strong easterly gales. It was snowing hard as I beat through the passes of the great mountains, and I had a stiff fight to win through; but never shall I forget the blissful feeling of the hot sun again on my back as I sped down to the lakes that lay so blue and placid below me, and the taste of my first fat insect! The past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as I moved southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as I dared, but always heeding the call! No, I had had my warning; never again did I think of disobedience.'

`Ah, yes, the call of the South, of the South!' twittered the other two dreamily. `Its songs its hues, its radiant air! O, do you remember----' and, forgetting the Rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence, while he listened fascinated, and his heart burned within him. In himself, too, he knew that it was vibrating at last, that chord hitherto dormant and unsuspected. The mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their pale and second-hand reports, had yet power to awaken this wild new sensation and thrill him through and through with it; what would one moment of the real thing work in him--one passionate touch of the real southern sun, one waft of the authentic odor? With closed eyes he dared to dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the river seemed steely and chill, the green fields grey and lightless. Then his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its treachery.

`Why do you ever come back, then, at all?' he demanded of the swallows jealously. `What do you find to attract you in this poor drab little country?'

`And do you think,' said the first swallow, `that the other call is not for us too, in its due season? The call of lush meadow- grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking, and all the farm-buildings clustering round the House of the perfect Eaves?'

`Do you suppose,' asked the second one, that you are the only living thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo's note again?'

`In due time,' said the third, `we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an English stream. But to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. Just now our blood dances to other music.'

They fell a-twittering among themselves once more, and this time their intoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted walls.

Restlessly the Rat wandered off once more, climbed the slope that rose gently from the north bank of the river, and lay looking out towards the great ring of Downs that barred his vision further southwards--his simple horizon hitherto, his Mountains of the Moon, his limit behind which lay nothing he had cared to see or to know. To-day, to him gazing South with a new-born need stirring in his heart, the clear sky over their long low outline seemed to pulsate with promise; to-day, the unseen was everything, the unknown the only real fact of life. On this side of the hills was now the real blank, on the other lay the crowded and coloured panorama that his inner eye was seeing so clearly. What seas lay beyond, green, leaping, and crested! What sun-bathed coasts, along which the white villas glittered against the olive woods! What quiet harbours, thronged with gallant shipping bound for purple islands of wine and spice, islands set low in languorous waters!

He rose and descended river-wards once more; then changed his mind and sought the side of the dusty lane. There, lying half- buried in the thick, cool under-hedge tangle that bordered it, he could muse on the metalled road and all the wondrous world that it led to; on all the wayfarers, too, that might have trodden it, and the fortunes and adventures they had gone to seek or found unseeking--out there, beyond--beyond!

Footsteps fell on his ear, and the figure of one that walked somewhat wearily came into view; and he saw that it was a Rat, and a very dusty one. The wayfarer, as he reached him, saluted with a gesture of courtesy that had something foreign about it-- hesitated a moment--then with a pleasant smile turned from the track and sat down by his side in the cool herbage. He seemed tired, and the Rat let him rest unquestioned, understanding something of what was in his thoughts; knowing, too, the value all animals attach at times to mere silent companionship, when the weary muscles slacken and the mind marks time.

The wayfarer was lean and keen-featured, and somewhat bowed at the shoulders; his paws were thin and long, his eyes much wrinkled at the corners, and he wore small gold ear rings in his neatly-set well-shaped ears. His knitted jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches, patched and stained, were based on a blue foundation, and his small belongings that he carried were tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief.

When he had rested awhile the stranger sighed, snuffed the air, and looked about him.

`That was clover, that warm whiff on the breeze,' he remarked; `and those are cows we hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing softly between mouthfuls. There is a sound of distant reapers, and yonder rises a blue line of cottage smoke against the woodland. The river runs somewhere close by, for I hear the call of a moorhen, and I see by your build that you're a freshwater mariner. Everything seems asleep, and yet going on all the time. It is a goodly life that you lead, friend; no doubt the best in the world, if only you are strong enough to lead it!'

`Yes, it's THE life, the only life, to live,' responded the Water Rat dreamily, and without his usual whole-hearted conviction.

`I did not say exactly that,' replied the stranger cautiously; `but no doubt it's the best. I've tried it, and I know. And because I've just tried it--six months of it--and know it's the best, here am I, footsore and hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southward, following the old call, back to the old life, THE life which is mine and which will not let me go.'

`Is this, then, yet another of them?' mused the Rat. `And where have you just come from?' he asked. He hardly dared to ask where he was bound for; he seemed to know the answer only too well.

`Nice little farm,' replied the wayfarer, briefly. `Upalong in that direction'--he nodded northwards. `Never mind about it. I had everything I could want--everything I had any right to expect of life, and more; and here I am! Glad to be here all the same, though, glad to be here! So many miles further on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart's desire!'

His shining eyes held fast to the horizon, and he seemed to be listening for some sound that was wanting from that inland acreage, vocal as it was with the cheerful music of pasturage and farmyard.

`You are not one of US,' said the Water Rat, `nor yet a farmer; nor even, I should judge, of this country.'

`Right,' replied the stranger. `I'm a seafaring rat, I am, and the port I originally hail from is Constantinople, though I'm a sort of a foreigner there too, in a manner of speaking. You will have heard of Constantinople, friend? A fair city, and an ancient and glorious one. And you may have heard, too, of Sigurd, King of Norway, and how he sailed thither with sixty ships, and how he and his men rode up through streets all canopied in their honour with purple and gold; and how the Emperor and Empress came down and banqueted with him on board his ship. When Sigurd returned home, many of his Northmen remained behind and entered the Emperor's body-guard, and my ancestor, a Norwegian born, stayed behind too, with the ships that Sigurd gave the Emperor. Seafarers we have ever been, and no wonder; as for me, the city of my birth is no more my home than any pleasant port between there and the London River. I know them all, and they know me. Set me down on any of their quays or foreshores, and I am home again.'

`I suppose you go great voyages,' said the Water Rat with growing interest. `Months and months out of sight of land, and provisions running short, and allowanced as to water, and your mind communing with the mighty ocean, and all that sort of thing?'

`By no means,' said the Sea Rat frankly. `Such a life as you describe would not suit me at all. I'm in the coasting trade, and rarely out of sight of land. It's the jolly times on shore that appeal to me, as much as any seafaring. O, those southern seaports! The smell of them, the riding-lights at night, the glamour!'

`Well, perhaps you have chosen the better way,' said the Water Rat, but rather doubtfully. `Tell me something of your coasting, then, if you have a mind to, and what sort of harvest an animal of spirit might hope to bring home from it to warm his latter days with gallant memories by the fireside; for my life, I confess to you, feels to me to-day somewhat narrow and circumscribed.'

`My last voyage,' began the Sea Rat, `that landed me eventually in this country, bound with high hopes for my inland farm, will serve as a good example of any of them, and, indeed, as an epitome of my highly-coloured life. Family troubles, as usual, began it. The domestic storm-cone was hoisted, and I shipped myself on board a small trading vessel bound from Constantinople, by classic seas whose every wave throbs with a deathless memory, to the Grecian Islands and the Levant. Those were golden days and balmy nights! In and out of harbour all the time--old friends everywhere--sleeping in some cool temple or ruined cistern during the heat of the day--feasting and song after sundown, under great stars set in a velvet sky! Thence we turned and coasted up the Adriatic, its shores swimming in an atmosphere of amber, rose, and aquamarine; we lay in wide land-locked harbours, we roamed through ancient and noble cities, until at last one morning, as the sun rose royally behind us, we rode into Venice down a path of gold. O, Venice is a fine city, wherein a rat can wander at his ease and take his pleasure! Or, when weary of wandering, can sit at the edge of the Grand Canal at night, feasting with his friends, when the air is full of music and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash and shimmer on the polished steel prows of the swaying gondolas, packed so that you could walk across the canal on them from side to side! And then the food--do you like shellfish? Well, well, we won't linger over that now.'

He was silent for a time; and the Water Rat, silent too and enthralled, floated on dream-canals and heard a phantom song pealing high between vaporous grey wave-lapped walls.

`Southwards we sailed again at last,' continued the Sea Rat, `coasting down the Italian shore, till finally we made Palermo, and there I quitted for a long, happy spell on shore. I never stick too long to one ship; one gets narrow-minded and prejudiced. Besides, Sicily is one of my happy hunting-grounds. I know everybody there, and their ways just suit me. I spent many jolly weeks in the island, staying with friends up country. When I grew restless again I took advantage of a ship that was trading to Sardinia and Corsica; and very glad I was to feel the fresh breeze and the sea-spray in my face once more.'

`But isn't it very hot and stuffy, down in the--hold, I think you call it?' asked the Water Rat.

The seafarer looked at him with the suspicion go a wink. `I'm an old hand,' he remarked with much simplicity. `The captain's cabin's good enough for me.'

`It's a hard life, by all accounts,' murmured the Rat, sunk in deep thought.

`For the crew it is,' replied the seafarer gravely, again with the ghost of a wink.

`From Corsica,' he went on, `I made use of a ship that was taking wine to the mainland. We made Alassio in the evening, lay to, hauled up our wine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long line. Then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as they went, and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks, like a mile of porpoises. On the sands they had horses waiting, which dragged the casks up the steep street of the little town with a fine rush and clatter and scramble. When the last cask was in, we went and refreshed and rested, and sat late into the night, drinking with our friends, and next morning I took to the great olive-woods for a spell and a rest. For now I had done with islands for the time, and ports and shipping were plentiful; so I led a lazy life among the peasants, lying and watching them work, or stretched high on the hillside with the blue Mediterranean far below me. And so at length, by easy stages, and partly on foot, partly by sea, to Marseilles, and the meeting of old shipmates, and the visiting of great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting once more. Talk of shell-fish! Why, sometimes I dream of the shell-fish of Marseilles, and wake up crying!'

`That reminds me,' said the polite Water Rat; `you happened to mention that you were hungry, and I ought to have spoken earlier. Of course, you will stop and take your midday meal with me? My hole is close by; it is some time past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there is.'

`Now I call that kind and brotherly of you,' said the Sea Rat. `I was indeed hungry when I sat down, and ever since I inadvertently happened to mention shell-fish, my pangs have been extreme. But couldn't you fetch it along out here? I am none too fond of going under hatches, unless I'm obliged to; and then, while we eat, I could tell you more concerning my voyages and the pleasant life I lead--at least, it is very pleasant to me, and by your attention I judge it commends itself to you; whereas if we go indoors it is a hundred to one that I shall presently fall asleep.'

`That is indeed an excellent suggestion,' said the Water Rat, and hurried off home. There he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes. Thus laden, he returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman's commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside.

The Sea Rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued the history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from port to port of Spain, landing him at Lisbon, Oporto, and Bordeaux, introducing him to the pleasant harbours of Cornwall and Devon, and so up the Channel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long contrary, storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first magical hints and heraldings of another Spring, and, fired by these, had sped on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea.

Spell-bound and quivering with excitement, the Water Rat followed the Adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him with a regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he desired to hear nothing.

By this time their meal was over, and the Seafarer, refreshed and strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with the red and glowing vintage of the South, and, leaning towards the Water Rat, compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked. Those eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping Northern seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the South, beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation. The twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast red, mastered the Water Rat and held him bound, fascinated, powerless. The quiet world outside their rays receded far away and ceased to be. And the talk, the wonderful talk flowed on--or was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into song--chanty of the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of the shrouds in a tearing North-Easter, ballad of the fisherman hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, chords of guitar and mandoline from gondola or caique? Did it change into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical trickle of air from the leech of the bellying sail? All these sounds the spell-bound listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint of the gulls and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the protesting shingle. Back into speech again it passed, and with beating heart he was following the adventures of a dozen seaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant undertakings; or he searched islands for treasure, fished in still lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand. Of deep-sea fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the mile- long net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, or the tall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead through the fog; of the merry home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights opened out; the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the splash of the hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the comforting glow of red-curtained windows.

Lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the Adventurer had risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with his sea-grey eyes.

`And now,' he was softly saying, `I take to the road again, holding on southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last I reach the little grey sea town I know so well, that clings along one steep side of the harbour. There through dark doorways you look down flights of stone steps, overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a patch of sparkling blue water. The little boats that lie tethered to the rings and stanchions of the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those I clambered in and out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap on the flood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides and foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and day, up to their moorings or forth to the open sea. There, sooner or later, the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its destined hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. I shall take my time, I shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting for me, warped out into midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing down harbour. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then one morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily in. We shall break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have begun! As she forges towards the headland she will clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing South!

`And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and never return, and the South still waits for you. Take the Adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes!' 'Tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new! Then some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for company. You can easily overtake me on the road, for you are young, and I am ageing and go softly. I will linger, and look back; and at last I will surely see you coming, eager and light- hearted, with all the South in your face!'

The voice died away and ceased as an insect's tiny trumpet dwindles swiftly into silence; and the Water Rat, paralysed and staring, saw at last but a distant speck on the white surface of the road.

Mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket, carefully and without haste. Mechanically he returned home, gathered together a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of, and put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about the room like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips. He swung the satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his wayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped across the threshold just as the Mole appeared at the door.

`Why, where are you off to, Ratty?' asked the Mole in great surprise, grasping him by the arm.

`Going South, with the rest of them,' murmured the Rat in a dreamy monotone, never looking at him. `Seawards first and then on shipboard, and so to the shores that are calling me!'

He pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged fixity of purpose; but the Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed and set and turned a streaked and shifting grey--not his friend's eyes, but the eyes of some other animal! Grappling with him strongly he dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him.

The Rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with closed eyes, trembling. Presently the Mole assisted him to rise and placed him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into an hysterical fit of dry sobbing. Mole made the door fast, threw the satchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. Gradually the Rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened Mole; and from that he passed into a deep slumber.

Very anxious in mind, the Mole left him for a time and busied himself with household matters; and it was getting dark when he returned to the parlour and found the Rat where he had left him, wide awake indeed, but listless, silent, and dejected. He took one hasty glance at his eyes; found them, to his great gratification, clear and dark and brown again as before; and then sat down and tried to cheer him up and help him to relate what had happened to him.

Poor Ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? How recall, for another's benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him, how reproduce at second-hand the magic of the Seafarer's hundred reminiscences? Even to himself, now the spell was broken and the glamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed, some hours ago, the inevitable and only thing. It is not surprising, then, that he failed to convey to the Mole any clear idea of what he had been through that day.

To the Mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away, and had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the reaction. But he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the things that went to make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant forecastings of the altered days and doings that the changing season was surely bringing.

Casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the Mole turned his talk to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over bare acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling of cordials; till by easy stages such as these he reached midwinter, its hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became simply lyrical.

By degrees the Rat began to sit up and to join in. His dull eye brightened, and he lost some of his listening air.

Presently the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his friend's elbow.

`It's quite a long time since you did any poetry,' he remarked. `You might have a try at it this evening, instead of--well, brooding over things so much. I've an idea that you'll feel a lot better when you've got something jotted down--if it's only just the rhymes.'

The Rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet Mole took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time later, the Rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately scribbling and sucking the top of his pencil. It is true that he sucked a good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the Mole to know that the cure had at least begun.