#cypress dining table

[roadsidefriendly]

Stucco Exterior Ideas for the exterior renovation of a large, traditional beige, two-story stucco house with a tile roof

[easy-coome-easy-go]

Charlotte Dining Room Enclosed An illustration of a sizable eclectic dining room with a concrete floor, white walls, and no fireplace

[the-lonelybarricade]

The Longest Night

A short glimpse into the lives of Rhysand and the Inner Circle on the Winter Solistice, 30 years into Rhys’s enslavement Under the Mountain.

For @officialfeysandweek Day 5: Fated

Inspired by one of my text posts from 2022

Word count: 1k

Read on AO3

-

It was the longest night of the year.

And, by any conventional standard, they had assembled the perfect Solstice dinner.

Someone had lovingly donned a woven table runner across the long dining table in the House of Wind. It's golden thread stood out starkly in the dim faelight, cutting across the dark blue fabric like streaks of lightning on a clear night. Cassian recognised the stitchwork. Its seamstress had threaded her needle through his own skin enough times, tenderly patching him up after long, brutal days in the Illyrian training camps.

His heart ached to stare at her handiwork for too long, so he averted his eyes elsewhere—to the pillars of candles, which rose among the countless platters of food, twining cinnamon and cypress with the scent of roasted meat and spices that was not overall unpleasant, just…

Unwelcome.

Not because Cassian minded the candles, or was ever one to turn away a hot meal. Particularly a spread as fine as the one before him, prepared by the best cooks in Velaris, who had dipped into the preserve of spices that were only saved for special occasions such as this.

No one could claim his discontent was the result of meager effort, or that this was a poor rendition of a Solstice Celebration.

He just couldn't summon any cheer as he snagged his fingers around the stem of his wine glass, watching the dark liquid swirl as he twisted it this way and that. It almost felt like mockery to drink wine, of all things.

Not that he would say such a thing to Mor, who was decanting the final drops of her glass into her mouth. They hadn't started dinner yet, but he couldn't blame her. Instead, Cassian wordlessly slid his glass across the table, wedging it between the fingers of Mor's rested hand, where it splayed nostalgically across the table runner.

When Mor offered him a small, grateful nod, he pushed to his feet. He needed something stronger, anyhow.

Who's idea was this, again?

As he began pouring himself a drink from the decanters at the sideboard, Cassian glanced over his shoulder. His friends were all seated at the dining table, staring mutely at their food or at their drinks. None of them were speaking.

It was a nice attempt, he thought, taking a large swallow and grunting at the heat that spread through him. He felt it burn down his chest and settle heavily in his gut—strong stuff, though he hadn't a clue what it was and didn't think anyone was in the mood to tell him.

Rhys would have known.

That thought slid in like a dagger. Lingered, as Cassian's eyes drifted unbidden to the head of the table.

A place had been set there. A knife and fork and freshly polished plate, waiting patiently beside a full glass of red wine.

But the chair was empty. Just as it had remained for the last 30 years. And no one would be coming to claim it.

For a moment, he considered dashing his drink against the prestine fucking floor and diving out the nearest window to escape this facade they were putting on, as if everything were normal. As if there was anything worth celebrating.

The only thing that subdued the impulse was the sight of Mor's trembling lip as she, too, slanted her gaze to the head of the table. And when that tremble split into a soft keening sound, it was Cassian's heart that shattered on the floor, not his drink.

"Sorry," Mor sniffed, darting her eyes to the faelight overhead as she dabbed at tears and smeared khol with the tips of her fingers. "I know we said no crying—"

"We never said that," Cassian said, sliding back into his seat.

Azriel cast an assessing eye over the admittedly generous pour Cassian was bracing in his fist, but Az reserved his commentary.

"I told myself no crying," Mor acquiesced with another sniff. "I thought 30 years would be enough time for it to not feel so… so…"

Raw, Cassian thought. Mor shrugged without concluding the thought and if anyone else mentally filled in the rest, they didn't volunteer it.

At least until they fell back into silence, and Azriel glanced towards the head of the table and rasped, "Empty."

Empty. Like Rhysand's seat, and his throne, and his bedroom.

Like the training ring in the mornings, when there was no buffer between Azriel's bouts of silence and the static in Cassian's head.

Like the bi-monthly meetings with the people of Velaris, where he watched Amren and Mor act as steward to their people's hardships and concerns, which grew more pressing each year.

Like the market squares in the city center, which were once flush with traders and merchants who were now blocked from entering or exiting the city, stranding them all in this crowded, isolated place.

Or like every aching moment over the last 30 years where Cassian glanced over his shoulder after making some smart comment, expecting to see the smug, if not exasperated, smile of his friend. His brother.

And finding nothing. A ghost of a memory, at most.

Yeah, empty was a good word for it.

-

It was the longest night of the year.

Not that Rhys would know. He spent it inside, between Amarantha's legs. Hardly given a moment to consider the time of year, or how his friends might be celebrating without him.

Amarantha told him, of course. She wanted him to know what she was taking away from him, even as he pretended that he didn't care. What interest did a Dark Lord have in petty little festivities?

Rhys didn't usually invite thoughts of his friends into Amarantha's bedroom—for his own sake, he tried to keep those parts of his life firmly compartmentalized.

But he did take a moment to send a plea to the stars he couldn't see: that his friends were okay, that they could forgive him, that they were happy.

And if the stars could offer leniency to a male who hadn't gazed upon them in years, if they had the capacity to perceive his actions with pity instead of scorn, then he saved a risidual wish for himself:

That this eternal Hell would end before he found a way to end it himself.

-

It was the longest night of year.

Unbeknownst to all of them, across Prythian, in the Mortal Realm, a human girl was born.

As if the stars had listened.

[albatris]

find the word tag!

thank you @illarian-rambling for tagging me in my favourite tag :3

my words are animal, ocean, pick and wall

ANIMAL

"Hey, Nat, where do you get your blood from?" She carried on without waiting for a reply. "I get mine from a slaughterhouse out in the country. Whole place run by vampires. Pretty neat business, super friendly. Do you want me to hook you up?"

Nat’s face scrunched up before he thought to stop it, and he was glad Riley was focused on the TV. "I couldn’t do that. I’m a vegetarian."

"Oh, dude, are you?" Riley said. "That’s fucking unfortunate. Vegetarian vampire. Oof. You squeamish about blood, then?"

Nat hadn’t considered this. "I’m… squeamish about animal blood. As long as I don’t drink animal blood I’m still a vegetarian."

"People don’t count?"

"Nah, I don’t think people count."

"Right on, dude." Riley skewered several aliens on her sword. "You’re so weird."

Nat filled the kettle and put it on.

"Animal blood isn’t as nice as human blood, anyway, hey?" Riley said. "But you’re not, like, killing someone every time you need a meal, right? Right? Nat?"

"No! Of course not!” Nat said. “I have a friend helping me out." A friend whose texts you’re ignoring.

OCEAN

Cypress Heights was one of those suburbs. Filled to bursting point with sprawling botanic gardens and multi-storey houses and boutique stores where everything cost more than Nat’s entire payslip. The streets were gorgeous and the schools were posh, but in the nice way. The way that spat out prim, proper kids born of opportunity, who always made a good impression on everyone and had articles written about them in newspapers. Darwelaide teen’s unconventional new method of cleaning oceans proves most effective world has ever seen!

Not to say all Cypress Heights kids were insanely successful, and not to say all Nats and Lyras were not. But if you scooped up a bucket of Cypress Heights kids and a bucket of Nats and Lyras and compared them as a whole, you could sure see the difference.

PICK

A pulse picked up pace somewhere ahead of him, hammering frantically out of time with his own, as his prey realised the position it was in. Nat started down the hall, footsteps light and springing and utterly soundless. He could hear it all, feel it all, in the vibrations through the building, in the air—the shuffling of a moving body, the swish of clothing in motion, the fearful, rapid press of shoes across tile. His throat ached. His mouth watered. The Garble pushed through his veins, tripped all the right wires in his head, sent pulsating, twitching, radiating warmth through every inch of his body. Rewarding him for the good job he was doing. Urging him to continue.

This was what he was built for. This was the most natural thing in the universe.

Nat broke into a run.

WALL

“Make yourself comfortable!” they said, and headed for the staircase at the far room. “I’ll be back in just a tick—I’m going to put your clothes in the wash.”

“Okay,” Nat said, distracted.

He supposed this was a living room. It looked more like a museum than a house, with its curling arched ceilings and marble floors. A twisting abstract sculpture stood by a set of double swing doors leading out of the room: shimmering blue and green glass, folded over itself like a ribbon, reaching up towards the roof. Abstract paintings loomed on every wall, confusing splashes of colour and shape, including one Nat thought looked rather like a dog chewing on the leg of a chair. Up a short step and to the right of the living room lay a lush dining room, with a marble table to match the floors. The table runner was strewn with candles and flower petals. Soft. Delicate. Nat already felt out of place here, like a scab that had started to itch.

I'm gonna tag @chauceryfairytales @tracle0 and anyone who can see a CAT right now :3

for the words storm, bite, bring and settle!

[bimrwolf]

You Deserve Each Other

steve harrington x afab!reader (32k) Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 warnings: steve and reader are little jerks to one another; 18+ (minors dni) for later parts; swearing summary: You and Steve have been together for five years. He's seemingly the perfect boyfriend, kisses on the cheek, knowing your orders at restaurant. A great lover. Too bad you've had enough can't stand him. a/n: inspired by You Deserve Each Other by Sarah Hogle

The morning sunlight snuck through the window, stealing your plans to wake up later. You scrunched up your face, attempting to block out any light, but the effort failed. A soft whine came out of you as you tossed over. 

A long breath in, the smell of laundry detergent still clinging to the bed sheets mixed with sea salt and wild cypress. You let your eyes flutter open, waiting for them to adjust, taking in the sight of the shirtless boy laying on his stomach. Soft muffled snores came from him that made the corners of your lips tugged upwards. 

You did your routine and counted the freckles on his back as a way to wake yourself up. Twenty-seven. Not including the freckle on his shoulder. But you saved that one for last, always placing a soft kiss before getting out of the bed. 

However, you had refrained from doing so for the past month.You rolled out of the bed, leaving your boyfriend sound asleep. You glared at the window, annoyed. You had asked Steve to hang the curtains you bought three days ago. Yet the box was still sitting on the dining table– unopened. 

It was Saturday, and all you wanted to do was sleep in until ten. But now you were in the kitchen making breakfast at 8:30 in the morning. The scent of freshly brewed coffee stained the entire apartment. It must have woken up Steve because you heard the bedroom door creak open. His footsteps padded down the hallway. 

You felt his presence enter the kitchen, turning around to see him do his morning stretch. He scratched his bare stomach, taking a deep sniff of the aroma. “Mornin’,” he grumbled. His hair hadn’t been brushed, strands sticking up. He rubbed his eyes, squinting at the scenery around him. 

“You need to wear your glasses when you don’t have contacts in.” It was always the same. He refused to wear them, and you nagged that he needed to. 

He had been prescribed glasses six months ago and loathed them. He said that first it would be the glasses and then next it would turn into bifocals and he wasn’t having it. His ego would be destroyed and that was more important being able to see clearly. 

He grunted at the comment, walking over to the coffee pot that had just finished brewing. “You were asleep when I came home last night.” 

You didn’t answer right away, trying to pretend the bacon sizzling was too loud. “I tried to call the shop, but it kept going to the answering machine.” 

Steve poured the coffee in his #1 Dad mug you gave him as a joke when you first started dating. “Yeah,” he drew in a breath, like he was walking around eggshells, careful to say anything that might ensue an argument. The last thing he wanted to do was start his day arguing. But recently, that’s the only thing you had in common. “Went out to the Hideaway with Ed. He had a hard day. Went to go tow a car and the lady demanded someone else… who hasn’t been a suspected murderer.” 

You saw him look at you through the corner of his eye, testing the waters. He knew Eddie Munson was your weakness, and he knew you’d feel like an asshole if you started an argument because of him. So instead, you let out a deep sigh. “That’s fine. But next time call to let me know.”

“I’m sorry. It was last minute.” He took a sip of the coffee. 

You made a sound, but didn’t reply. It was a minor silent treatment. 

He noticed immediately. “You know this wouldn’t be an issue if we got those mobile phones.”

“Okay, let me know when you have the money to do that.” You gave him a sarcastic smile, teeth and all, and you can see frustration flash in his eyes, like a bolt of lightning. 

He’s the one who doesn’t say anything now. But his jaw was clenched. He sat his mug on the counter, the clink against the surface sounded passive aggressive. He turned around to walk away, ending the conversation. 

You took in a breath, turning around as well. “Steve, wait.” You licked your lips which suddenly became too dry. “I’m sorry. Today is stressful because I feel like I have a million things to do around the apartment. And then we have that dinner with your parents tonight and you know how nervous they make me.”

Steve had faced her again, his expression softer. He ran his hand through his hair. “No, I’m sorry. You were right. I should’ve called you from the bar.” He stepped closer, putting his hands on your arms, rubbing them up and down to comfort you. “Tell me anything you need me to do today. I’m all yours.” He gave you an assuring smile. 

Relaxation washed over you, but his touch somehow felt strange. You gave him a soft smile, regardless. “Can you please put the curtains up? That’s all I ask.” 

He rubbed a hand over his face, realizing his mistake. “Yes. Yes. Of course. I’ll get right on it after breakfast.” He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Which smells absolutely delicious by the way.” He reached out and took a piece of already cooked bacon and shoved it in his mouth. “Mmm, babe you bacon me crazy.”

You scoffed, nudging his chest playfully. “Do you have a bad joke for everything?” You continued to cook the rest of the food.

“You’re the one who has been dating me for five years, shouldn’t you know that already?” He teased and snaked his arms around you. 

You were glad how he couldn’t see the sad expression on your face. You slipped from his grasp, playing it off as getting spices for the scrambled eggs. He seemed slightly hurt, but brushed it off and decided to pour himself a new cup of coffee instead. 

You both had finished your breakfast when the phone rang. Steve was the one who answered it as you took the dishes to the sink to wash them. “Hey, man.” He was hushed, like he didn’t want you to hear. But you could. “Come on. What about David?” Steve looked over at you. “Listen man, I can’t today. I know. I know. But…” His silence was loud. The “but” was you. 

You turned off the water to sink. “Just go.” 

Steve’s mouth fell agape, covering the mouth of the receiver. “Sweetheart, it’s fine they need to learn that I can’t come to their rescue all the time.” 

You strode over, taking the phone out of his hands. “He’ll be down in thirty minutes.” You hung up the phone and gave him a pointed look. 

He avoided your eyes, looking over somewhere behind you. “I don’t have to go.” 

Yes he did, because his shop was like a mother with her first child. One minor bump, and it’s like it’s the end of the world. You wouldn’t say that to him though. “You do have to go or we both know the shop is going to be hell next week.” 

“Sweetheart-“

You stopped him. “Just be home in time to go to your parent’s together. You know your mother freaks out when we show up in separate vehicles.” It was fake, but you gave him a sweet kiss on his cheek and went back to washing the dishes. 

Steve stood still, wondering if he should do something before he left. His eyes wandered to the box with the unhung curtains. He had to break his promise for the fourth time and it killed him. Nonetheless, he retreated back into the room to get ready for work. 

***

H&M Auto Repair was Steve’s most prized possession. Three years ago him and Eddie had one too many special brownies that Argyle had baked. They ended up laying in soggy wet grass outside of Eddie’s cabin. They didn’t know their friends had been looking for them for thirty minutes. But they were there, reminiscing when the stars used to look bigger. 

It was Steve who asked Eddie if he could do anything, what would it be. 

And it was Eddie who answered that he had wanted to fix cars. 

So Steve told him, “Fuck it, let’s start an autoshop. Harrington and Munson Auto Repair.”

Eddie’s eyes were pitch black but somehow widened bigger. “I don’t think the residents of Hawkins are ready for Eddie Munson to be the face of a business.” 

“Then we’ll name it H&M!” Steve argued back, not allowing his friend to make an excuse. 

Eddie blankly stared at Steve who had a stupid grin on his face. “But what about you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What do you really want to do?” 

Steve’s smile turned bashful, grinning. “I want to marry her.” Eddie noticed the adoring look Steve made when he looked back towards the cabin. “I’m gonna make sure she doesn’t have to worry about anything.” 

And Steve thought three years later that would be the case. He’d be married to you, living in whatever dream house you wanted. And maybe, just maybe, he’d convince you to start a family. 

But instead, he was only scraping by, living in a dingy apartment. And he really wasn’t sure if you really wanted to be with him anymore.

He sauntered inside his office after having to help his workers. Two of them had called out sick, and there was only so much Eddie could do. He sighed loudly, getting him a cup of water. 

Eddie stomped in, his face covered in soot. He opened the mini refrigerator, grabbing a beer out, popping the tab against the edge of Steve’s desk, the cap rolling somewhere in the room. He sat in the rolling chair on the other side, exhausted. 

Steve flipped through the finance book, shaking his head, and squinting because he had left his glasses at home. 

“Need a beer?” Eddie leaned over in a stance that would let him get up easily. 

Steve wanted to say yes. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking up at the clock above the office door. He closed the finance book and pushed away from the desk, rolling a bit while looking up at the ceiling. “No, I can’t. I need to go or my girlfriend is going to kill me.” 

Eddie wiggled his brows. “Ah. I forgot. It’s the big dinner with mom and pops today. You nervous?” 

Steve pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Why would I? We’ve had dinner with them before.” 

Eddie snorted, taking a long sip. “But this dinner you’re going to ask your dad for the ring.”

Steve looked at the ceiling fan above him. It was turned off but he could see the built up dust. “We should hire a secretary.” 

“No no no. You’re changing the subject.” Eddie set the beer bottle on the table. He reached behind him and tightened his ponytail. “Which makes me believe Lord Harrington is nervous about being betrothed to his fair maiden.” It was only a matter of time for Eddie to break out into dramatics. He always did when it came to romantics. 

Steve grumbled, standing up from his chair. It was so unlike him to be so passionless when it came to the subject of marriage. Before, he’d blush and stumble over his words because he couldn’t contain his feelings. Now, it only felt like he had to marry her. It seemed right because after five years, what else was there to do?

Life seemed so stagnant. He hoped popping the question would change that. Steve looked out the window of his shop. He could see Eddie’s Uncle outside with another one of his workers, Bill Higgins, smoking cigarettes, waiting for their next task of the day. Hawkins had been in a long recovery process since Vecna, but Steve hated to admit he missed feeling needed. 

“Why don’t we call it a day? I’ll set up the answering machine and put a sign out that we closed early.” Steve shimmied off his work vest, placing it on a hook. 

Eddie rolled his eyes at his friend’s indifference. He tilted his head, trying to make out what was behind the blank look as he gathered his belongings. “Alright, just let me know on Monday how everything goes.” He plopped his hands on his legs loudly, pushing himself up. 

He then picked up the half-drunk beer, chugging the rest before tossing it in the bin. He was about to walk out until he looked back, mouth open to say something else. He decided against it when Steve was already messing with the answering machine. He looked up at Eddie, giving him a flat smile and waved goodbye. 

***

Steve watched as you bounced your leg up and down, chewing on your bottom lip. “Sweetheart, the pie is going to fall on the floorboard.” He placed his hand on your knee. Which only made things worse because you jumped in the seat. “Woah.”

You let out a shaky breath, gripping the apple pie you had made earlier that day. “Right, don’t want your precious floorboard to be ruined.” It was only a joke, but it came across as passive aggressive. 

“Really? You want to start an argument right now?” Steve noticed a couple of rain drops on his windshield. He wondered if there was an umbrella still in the back. 

You closed your eyes. “It was a joke.”

“Didn’t sound like one.” He shot back. 

“It’s not my fault that your parents make me nervous.” You recalled the first time meeting them. His mom called you Nancy three times by “accident”, and five years later it still felt like she was comparing the two of you. Hell, she was probably comparing anyone Steve has been involved with to you. 

Steve clenched the steering wheel. “Not my fault either.” 

You almost had to bite your tongue. “Never said it was.” 

“My parents like you. How many times do I have to tell you that?” He looked at you briefly, almost forgetting to turn right. 

You laid your head on the headrest, groaning loudly.“I don’t really want to talk about it right now, Steve.” 

“When do you ever want to talk about it?” His voice had risen, and you noticed the vein on his neck protruding. Rarely did you ever see it appear, only when he was agitated from work or when Dustin was around. You had pursed your lips, fighting back tears. He noticed immediately. He sighed and in a calmer voice spoke again, “Hey, I’m sorry… I’m on edge too.” He didn’t explain why. But he knew you’d come up with your own conclusions. “Can we just listen to music and not talk the rest of the way there?” 

You didn’t say anything, just nodded, still upset. You reached over and turned on the radio, tuning out the melody drifting from the speakers. You felt him give your knee a squeeze. You wanted to pull it away out of protest, but that could possibly lead to more tension. So instead, you played the part of good girlfriend, slipping your hand in his. 

For a brief second you felt at ease. His palm burning into yours, making your stomach twist like the first time you had held his hand. His hands had become more tough because of his work at the shop. You remember when it had first opened and you kept getting scratched by the calluses that formed. He would chase you around the apartment, trying to tease you by touching your bare skin. You smiled.

The Harrington household had not changed over the past five years. It was still big and enveloped by cedar trees, taunting the rest of the town. The only damage to their house from the earthquake was a crack in the pool. 

You sat next to Steve at the big oak table in the dining room of his parent’s house. The surface was so glossy you could see your own reflection. Mrs. Harrington smiled at you, setting down a large bowl of chicken stew. She gave herself a tiny clap, beaming. “Connie! Dinner is ready.” She called out to Mr. Harrington who was in the kitchen on the phone. 

The three of you sat awkwardly as you waited for Steve’s dad to come into the dining room. When he did, he grunted in lieu of a greeting. Only smiling when he saw the fresh food steaming on the table. He sat at the end, tucking his napkin on his lap. 

It was quiet at first. Mrs. Harrington had made her husband’s plate and then her own. She frowned when Steve had made his own plate, but kept the comment to herself. “This is delicious, Mrs. Harrington.” You were the one to break the ice.

She smiled, thanking her and then looking at the two men who were eating like it was their last day on earth. Steve had a mouthful of a buttery roll, smiling at his mom. He swallowed. “Yeah, this is great, Mom.”

Mrs. Harrington tsked and shook her head. “My poor son. I noticed you were a bit thin. Have you been eating properly?” She glanced at you. 

“Stop pestering the boy, Martha. He looks fine. He’s been working hard, that’s all. The numbers at the shop have been doing great the past three months.” Mr. Harrington patted Steve aggressively on the shoulder. “I guess my investment wasn’t a complete waste, was it?” 

Steve awkwardly chuckled. “Guess not.” He looked down at his food, hiding the sad expression. 

Empathic, you slipped your hand underneath the table, placing it on his thigh, sending a silent comforting message. He received it because he looked at you through the corner of his eye, a half-hearted smile on his face. 

Mr. Harrington then turned his attention towards you. He had always had a sweet spot for you, making sure you were having a good time. “How has your first semester as a teacher been?” 

You grinned. “Great! It is a little strange to be working with teachers who have taught me. I’m hoping they move me to the high school next year.” 

He pointed his spoon at you. “Anyone would be lucky to have you as a teacher. I bet if you had been Steve’s he would’ve done a lot better in school. Hell, I would’ve too.” Mr. Harrington’s laugh was so obnoxiously loud that it shook your glass of chardonnay. 

“Conrad!”

“Dad!”

Mr. Harrington looked between his wife and son, unsure what he had said wrong. He held up his hands defensively. 

You laughed, changing the subject. “Well, I did tutor him. He’s a lot smarter than he leads on.”

Steve blushed at your comment. 

“I remember when you had excellent grades whenever you were with Nancy.” His mother chimed in. It was like she was holding a fully loaded gun, cocked and ready since the beginning and had finally found the perfect opportunity to pull the trigger. 

You kept your composure, still smiling, although you were metaphorically bleeding out. “I think that’s because she promised him favors if he did well. Where I decided to hold him accountable to do his work.” The fire slipped through your teeth.

Steve’s expression faltered, eyes wide. 

She scoffed, looking at her husband. “Accountable? He nearly had to retake his senior year.” 

“Because he was going through stuff.” You couldn’t let her have the last word. “Maybe if you had been home more you would’ve seen that.” 

Mrs. Harrington scowled, her nose flared. And for a second you felt as if you had finally won the battle. However, she sat up straighter in her chair and cleared her throat. “If I remember correctly, Steve wanted to marry Nancy two weeks after being with her. Yet, here you are… five years later.” She glanced at your bare hand, not needing to say more.

She smiled in satisfaction, taking a sip of her wine as you looked down at your hand, slipping it in your lap. You looked over at your boyfriend who was avoiding any eye contact. It was always the same, never taking your side. You angrily threw your napkin on the table and pushed yourself away from the table. The legs of the chair screeched against the hardwood floor, making the two older Harrington’s cringe. 

You glared at Steve, giving him one more chance to say something. 

Anything. 

You scoffed in disbelief. Tears pricked your eyes. “Enjoy the fucking pie.” You turned around, storming out of the dining room. 

Steve looked at his mother, “Really?”

She only shrugged, unashamed. 

He took a deep breath in before also scooting his chair back, standing up. As he was about to walk out to follow you, he turned back around. “Tonight was important to me.” His voice was full of disappointment. 

“Steve…” His mother closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

He didn’t give her a response. 

You were already inside the car. Rain was plummeting down, bouncing on the sidewalk. The droplets soaked into his sweater, and he cursed not grabbing that umbrella from the back of his car earlier. He opened the door and hurriedly climbed in. 

You didn’t give him a chance to say anything. “I don’t want to talk to you. Just drive.” 

He did exactly as he was told and only drove. This time there was no music. No tears. It was only the sound of the windshield wipers and pitter patter of rain against the roof of the car. The silence between you, however, was louder than both of those things. 

Not once did he feel you glance at him either. You stared straight ahead, arms crossed, chest moving up and down like you were trying to control yourself. Your expression was unreadable, and if it weren’t for your flared nostrils, he wouldn’t have known you were furious. 

He pulled into the parking lot of the apartment, your car door had already opened and slammed shut by the time he had turned off the ignition. He had to jog to keep up with you, afraid you might get inside the apartment first and deadbolt it. 

But you didn’t. In fact, you had kept the door open behind you. 

As soon as you heard him close it, all hell broke loose. “Why didn’t you defend me?” 

He sighed, turning around. “I was in shock.” 

You laughed, except you didn’t really think it was funny. “But you always do that. You always let her get away with saying those terrible things. And you always make up excuses.” 

“You weren’t saying the nicest things either.” He recognized his mistake as soon as it came off his tongue. 

Your eyes flared, glassy and wide. “You will never understand, will you? Every single time I see her, it always feels like a test.” You gasped with realization. “And… oh my god… I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.” You threw your hands up in the air, as if you had had a breakthrough. An epiphany. “I fucking hate it!”

Steve held out his hands, trying to calm you down. “Sweetheart, of course I understand. I feel the same way when it comes to my dad. This dinner was important to me-”

But you weren’t listening. “I think we should break up.”

And suddenly it felt like Steve had forgotten how to speak. He had wondered if had heard you correctly. Or if you had misspoke. “Huh?” His bottom lip started to quiver. “You want to…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. 

“Look at us, Steve. Neither one of us is happy. All we do is argue. I don’t even remember the last time we’ve had sex.” You rang your hands together and bit your bottom lip. “I mean don’t you think if we really wanted to spend the rest of our lives together we would be married by now?” 

Steve had suppressed a sob at the back of his throat. He walked past you, running his hands through his hair, panicking. He caught sight of the box still on the table. “Is it about the curtains? I can hang them up right now.” 

You started to cry. “Steve, it isn’t about the curtains.”

“Then what is it? Don’t give me that we’re unhappy bullshit.” He choked, tears fell down his face. 

You wept, looking away from him because it was harder to think to say out loud. “But we are! We’re miserable. And I feel so lonely, Steve. Even when you’re here. Do you not feel it? Can’t you see we’re not in love any more?” 

The air was unbearable to him. The remaining life he had in him had been sucked out. His heart had dropped and he wondered if he was still alive. He felt like he was in that bathroom at the Halloween party all over again. He had almost forgotten how those words shattered his entire being in less than a second. “Okay.” 

You furrowed your brows. “Okay?” 

Steve looked around at the apartment, taking it all in, remembering everything. “Yeah, okay.”

You wiped your face unsure what to say. He locked eyes with you one final time. His honey colored irises shattered. It made you want to run up and envelope him in a hug, telling him you were only kidding. But your feet betrayed you, too afraid, and too stupid to move from where you were. He took his car keys out of his pocket, clutching them hard enough you could see his knuckles turn white. 

He gave you a curt nod. And he left like he was a stranger. 

***

Eddie Munson lived with his Uncle Wayne fifteen minutes outside of Hawkins. Their cabin was tucked away in the woods and you could only get there by an unmarked dirt road off the highway towards Indianapolis. 

The government had given them hush money when the trailer park had been destroyed, along with settlement money from a defamation of character lawsuit against the town of Hawkins. Wayne thought it was best to use the opportunity to get out of Hawkins, but Eddie wanted to stay, having finally found people who had accepted him.

They rarely had any visitors besides wildlife. So it came to much of a surprise when Eddie and Wayne were at the dining table playing poker, they heard a sharp knock on the front door. Eddie was the one who answered, eyes furrowed when he saw none other than Steve standing there. 

His hair was drenched, clinging to his forehead and in his eyes. He was breathing rapidly, and his eyes were blood stained. He didn’t even greet Eddie. He stormed past him, dragging water inside. 

He went straight to the kitchen, ignoring the hello Wayne had given him. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, popped the tab, put the top to his mouth, and threw his head back to take a large swig. The two Munsons gave one another a look and turned their focus back to Steve who had let out a sigh of relief, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. 

“Am I a good boyfriend?” Steve finally spoke, looking at Eddie. 

The long haired boy blinked trying to process what Steve had just asked. He looked over at his uncle, silently asking what to say. But Wayne was already standing, putting his hands up. “I think it’s time for me to call it a night.” 

As Wayne walked out, Eddie silently muttered, “Asshole.” He looked back at Steve. “What happened?” 

Steve shook his head, taking another sip. “Five years. Five years and this is how it all ends. Would you marry me after five years?” 

“Woah there, lover boy. You need to take me on a date first before we start talking about marriage.” Eddie smirked. Steve wasn’t impressed, blowing a puff of frustration through his nose. He finished his beer, opening the refrigerator to get another one. Eddie registered that whatever had happened was serious. “Hey, what happened? Did dinner not go well?” 

Steve laughed. A full guttural laugh, almost manically, like he had snapped. It went on for a minute, slowly fading out, turning into a sob. He looked up at Eddie, broken, shaking his head. “It’s over.” 

Eddie wasn’t sure what to say. Sure he knew they had been squabbling for a few months now, but he hadn’t realized it was that bad. He refrained from asking about the ring or if he had even gotten that far. He had never seen Steve so dejected and erratic. He felt bad for him. So he did what Steve had done for him five years ago when his life had turned into shit. He offered a hand, giving him a place to stay for the night.

Three days later, Robin burst through the cabin door. “Where is he?” 

Eddie greeted her, his face full of relief. “Thank god, Buckley.” He motioned for her to follow, leading her to the guest room. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna show.” He admitted. 

“I knew it was bad if you were begging me to come.” Robin was right, her and Eddie had a… complicated friendship. They had nothing in common, always bickering about music and how to live life. Eddie had been just as relieved as Robin when she had decided to attend Ohio University, three hours away from Hawkins, only coming down every other weekend. So for him to call her for help meant it was urgent. “I didn’t beg.” 

She hummed, opening the door to the guest room, cringing at the pathetic sight. Steve was dramatically sprawled face down on the bed, only wearing his boxers. 

“Jesus…”

“I know,” he whispered. “Uncle Wayne and the others have been covering for us and I’ve held it off as long as I could, but I need to go back today. Except, I’m afraid to leave him alone.” 

Robin rolled her eyes. “You baby him.” 

“Hey! He’s heartbroken, I’ve never seen him so…” He waved his hand, trying to find the word. 

“Miserable? Pathetic? Pitiful?.” Robin suggested. 

He snapped, pointing at her. “Yes!” 

“You two are loud.” Steve grumbled, shifting to look over his shoulder. 

Robin looked at Eddie, motioning for him to go. Her expression let him know she can handle it. 

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Good luck.” 

Robin leaned against the door frame, raising her brows. Steve made a raspberry, plopping his head back on the pillow. “I’m fine.” His words were muffled, but still loud enough for her to hear. 

“Fine, my ass. Steve, you look worse than summer of 85’.” She entered the room, clothes scattered the floor, but none of them looked like anything Steve would wear. She kicked a Def Leppard tee out of her way. She opened the blinds, letting sunlight wash the room. The manchild on the bed groaned, mumbling incoherent profanities. 

Robin nudged his shoulder. “Get up dingus.”

“Let me die here.” He looked up at her. “Alone.” 

She hit him with a pillow. “Stop being dramatic. Your girlfriend broke up with you, it’s not the end of the world.” 

He narrowed his eyes. “How’s Vickie?” 

She smiled, not taking the bait. “Nice try, bud.” It was a staring match, a battle, and whoever blinks first, would lose and do whatever the winner asked. Steve held his eyes open as long as he could, but he had tried too hard, they began to dry and he felt his eyelids droop down. Robin smiled in victory. “Get up.” 

“Why?” He still wouldn’t budge. 

“Because you’re taking advantage of Eddie’s hospitality. And I drove three hours straight to get here, missing one of my favorite classes. And I’m tired of seeing you look like a talking corpse.” She poked him in the side, his kryptonite. “Get up and get dressed.”

He flinched, giving her a dirty look, sitting up. “Fine.” 

She scrunched up her nose. “Jesus, take a shower too.”

He flipped her off as she left the room so he could get ready. 

Steve hadn’t been out in public the entirety he had gone rogue. Small town life meant being recognized and greeted by all of Hawkins. But today, he was irritated by everything and everyone. He hoped his ray bans would disguise him enough to not be approachable.

Robin, who had finally gotten her license four years ago, was the one to drive them to Kitty’s Cafe. It was a fairly new spot, but they had the best burgers in all of Indiana. She was not going to miss the chance to have one before she went back to school tomorrow. 

Steve picked a booth far in the back, hiding his figure behind the oversized menus. Robin snapped at him, pushed the menu down, yanked his sunglasses off, and scolded him to stop acting juvenile. He went back to sulking, crossing his arms. Silently deciding not to eat in protest of being dragged there. 

After ordering her food, Robin allowed the silence to brew, letting Steve grumpily stare at the wall next to him. She took a sip of her Dr. Pepper. It had all been tough love to get him out of Eddie’s cabin. But now, she was able to empathize, feeling the grief he was holding. She reached over and grabbed his hand. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

For the first time in three days he had relaxed, shoulders dropping, his vulnerable state peeking from the stony appearance he had been carrying. He swallowed the thickness, like molasses, in his throat. “I- I think I fucked up.” 

“Why do you say that?” She slipped her hand away, but not in anger. She knew he trusted her. 

He put his face in his hands. “It doesn’t matter.” 

She still didn’t understand. “There’s been so many times that she threatened to break up with you for being an asshole. Can you not sweet talk yourself out of it? Give her flowers or whatever you did to convince her to be with you for five years.” Robin had never beaten around the bush. She was a senior in college and it had turned her more rational, and as irritating as it was to others, it also kept them grounded. 

Steve frowned, feeling that slight pull back to the ground by her words. Except one fact that there were no flowers or sweet talk that could fix the problem. “She doesn’t love me anymore.” He went quiet, regretting that he was too stubborn to order food. 

If Robin had another opinion on the matter, she didn’t say it. “Do you still love her?” 

He was taken aback, leaning over in the seat, tapping his finger against the table. “Robin, I was going to propose. Of course I love her.” 

There was a beat of silence as their waitress put Robin’s food on the table. She thanked her and poked her burger. “Does she know that?” 

Steve’s mouth fell agape, speechless. His body drifted backwards, back hitting the cushioned booth. “Well… I… how could she not?”

“Men,” Robin whispered under her breath. “What are you going to do then? Move back in with your parents?” 

“Why would I do that?” He reached over and stole one of her fries. 

She pulled her plate closer to her, out of his reach. “Because you can’t live with your ex. It’s weird.” 

“You only say that because Nance still lives with Byers and she tells you everything.” 

She flicked her eyes elsewhere. She swallowed another sip of her drink. “Then where will you go?” 

Steve pondered for a moment. He hated that she was right. If this was a real breakup, he couldn’t live with you. He sure as hell wouldn’t move back in with parents. His only option was Eddie, and he had already overstayed his welcome. “I’m not leaving. She’s the one who broke up with me.” 

Robin laughed in his face. “You really think she, of all people, will let you kick her out?” She laughed again, clutching her stomach. 

He narrowed his eyes. “My name is on the lease. I have just the right to be there.” 

“Steve,” she warned him. 

“You know, I think I have a right to stay because I was there first.” 

“Oh my god.” Robin dropped her head. She didn’t like the manic tune in his voice.

“Don’t worry, Buckley. I’m not gonna kick her out.” His smile was painted with mischief. “I’m going to make her feel so miserable living there that she’s gonna want out.” 

Robin wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be worried about Steve's plan. It sounded ridiculous and implausible to turn out how he wanted it to end. “Is your sudden retaliation a defense to her breaking up with you?” 

Steve put his hand up. “No, you’re not doing that psychological bullshit on me.” 

“That ‘psychological bullshit’ helps.” 

Robin was passionate about psychology and she always casually attempted to dissect Steve’s mind. Much to his disdain. However, he hated to admit that he secretly meditated on whatever she had to say, eventually. But it was not that day. His mind was flooded with confusion, hurt, and anger. 

He had tried to remember the past five years and pinpoint when the relationship started to tarnish. He had missed the crack, apparently, because it was like an avalanche, unexpected and now he was trapped, trying to figure out how he had gotten there. It was frustrating because everything he had done was for you. Did you forget that? 

***

You had had a long day. You loved to teach, but middle schoolers were exhausting. It seemed like although they were just kids, they were bored of it and wanted to act like adults. You wondered if your mother had thought of you that way. You had hoped not. 

You walked into the empty apartment. It was always normal to be the one to come

home first. But the silence was almost deafening. You let out a heavy sigh, placing your purse on the counter. It was to fill the air with something other than the fire alarm that needed a change of batteries. 

It was only Tuesday, but it somehow felt like a Monday masked with another name. You sauntered into your bedroom, stripping bare from your work clothes. Who knew taking it off would feel relieving. 

You remember days like this when Steve would come home and see that tired expression on your face, he’d force you to take a shower. You decided to do that, letting hot water stream down your back. You had hoped it would ease your muscles, but a few minutes had gone by and they still felt pinched. 

You remembered it wasn’t the shower itself that had washed away the tightness in your back. It was because he would join you. He would start massaging your neck, slowly working any knots out all the way to your shoulders. 

Nothing about it was sexual or dirty. He would ask you to talk about your day, placing soft kisses on your wet skin, hugging you from behind, promising to one day get you a house with a bathtub. And it helped, because it was Steve. 

But now you were in the shower alone. Staring at the tiles on the wall fogging from the excessive heat, unable to reach your back. And all you wanted to do was cry. 

However, your moment of solitude was short lived. You jumped and nearly slipped when the door to the bathroom slammed open. Your mind raced with thoughts on how you survived years of monsters but it would be being murdered as your way of going out. 

In shock, you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would soon slice you open. 

It took you a minute to realize that whoever it was had not pushed the curtain aside yet. You looked down at your body and couldn't see any open wounds or blood. Your brows furrowed when you heard a small stream that wasn’t the shower.You slowly peeked behind the curtain, gasping at the unbelievable sight in front of you. 

“What the hell, Steve?” You shouted at him. 

He didn’t jump or acknowledge the fury you shot at him. He just stood in front of the toilet. Taking a piss. When he finished he finally looked over his shoulder at you. “Sorry, I didn’t know how long you were gonna be and I really needed to go.” 

You laughed in disbelief. “So you barge in here with no announcement? I thought you were a killer!” 

Steve zipped his pants, fully turning around. His arms were crossed against his chest. He was wearing the same clothes the last time you had seen him, and the hair above his lip had grown out into small wisps. At least he looked like he had taken a shower recently. 

“Why did you think I was a killer?” 

You clutched the shower curtain tighter, because all of a sudden it felt wrong for him to see you naked. “You haven’t been home in three days. How should I have known who it was?” 

A beat went by.

“You’re wasting water just standing in there.” He flushed the toilet and exited the bathroom. 

You yelped in surprise when the water turned cold. It was like icicles piercing your back. You quickly shut off the water and tied your blue cotton robe around your body. You found Steve in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator. “What the hell is your problem?” 

“Hm?” He picked up a brand new container of milk. Twisting the cap off, he brought it to his lips and took a long swig from it. He smirked when he brought it down from his lips, wiping the liquid with the back of his hand, finally looking at you with pointedness. 

Your mouth fell. You were in disbelief. “You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?”

Steve belched, putting the milk back where it belonged. “I don’t know what you mean.” “You’re purposely trying to piss me off.” 

“Are you saying I’m pissing you off?” His face fell. And  for a split second you thought he felt guilty. Until he smiled. “Good.” 

You were at a loss for words, watching as he walked over to the couch, sprawling his body on it, his shoes still on his feet. You tried not to go over and rip them off of him. “Why are you here?” 

He put his hands behind his head. “I live here, remember?” 

“Yes, but… we… it’s weird.” 

“Yeah, it is.”

“So, you came to get your stuff?” 

Steve chuckled, shimmying deeper into the cushions. “Nope.” 

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We both can’t live here.”

“I agree.” 

You were flabbergasted. You knew Steve was stubborn and sometimes difficult, but not once had you seen him act so defiant. “You are such a child.” He didn’t answer. You took a deep breath in, holding the frustration bubbling inside you. You were sure that’s what he wanted to happen. You were not going to play his game. “I’m not leaving either.” 

He shot up. “Then what’s the point in breaking up if neither one of us wants to leave?” 

You looked away, avoiding his gaze because you didn’t want him to be right. “It’s more than that.”

“Right.” He threw his hands up. “I completely forgot about you not being in love with me anymore. I guess you and Nancy do have something in common.” 

You could tell he was trekking in dangerous territory on purpose. The one insecurity you had, even after being with him for five years, was her. And it wasn’t like you and Nancy weren’t friends, or that she ever made passes at him. But she was the only girl he had ever had a serious relationship with before you got together. It was intimidating. “You’re an asshole.” 

He scoffed, narrowing his eyes at you. “Yeah, well at least Nancy wasn’t a bitch.”

You had fought a 7-foot demogorgon before, but nothing hurt worse than the words that came out of his mouth. It was like his tongue was loaded with tiny spears, hitting you all over. You noticed how he immediately felt guilty. His face was softer, and he called out your name in an apologetic tone. 

You, however, closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “Fuck you.” You pivoted and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door, locking it with an aggressive click. 

Steve must have been not too far behind you, he wiggled the handle, knocking frantically. “C’mon sweetheart. I’m sorry. Please open the door so we can talk about it.” 

You almost did as he asked, your hand hovering the lock. You laid your forehead against the frame, fighting back a sob. “N-no.” 

“Please.” He begged you. “Please.” His voice was weak and cracked. 

“I don’t want to see you right now,” you spat. He didn’t know it, but if you did open the door you’d engulf him in your arms, asking him where it all went wrong. “I can’t stand you.”

The door fell silent. You stepped backwards, watching as his shadow paced back and forth in front of the door. He finally turned off the light and you could faintly hear him settle on the couch. You swallowed, walking to the bed, which now seemed way too big. You fell backwards on it, grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. 

You weren’t sure when you had finally gone to sleep. You kept tossing and turning. Your mind wouldn’t stop shouting at you. And any time you had closed your eyes all you could hear was Steve’s words. You flopped over in the bed, looking at the empty space, scoffing to yourself. If he was going to act like an asshole, then so be it. 

Steve Harrington was not going to win. You would make him feel so miserable living in the apartment he would be the one begging to leave. By the end of the week he would have his bags packed, hustling out of the room. And even though you don’t remember the time you finally had shut your eyes, you remembered the wicked smile that lifted at the corners of your mouth. 

***

Steve woke up to the smell of dark coffee infiltrating his nose. He opened his eyes slowly, stretching his body. It ached from the uncomfortable couch. He sat up slowly, rubbing his neck. 

He looked over at the chair in the corner, his mouth fell agape. You sat crossed legged, reading a book and drinking something out of a mug. You were only wearing a big t-shirt, the hem riding up your thigh. 

For a moment, he wanted to spring from the couch and carry you to the bedroom, but he remembered why he had been on the couch in the first place. 

You looked up from your book, smiling sweetly. “Good morning.” 

He cleared his throat, looking somewhere else. “Uh-huh.” 

You smirked, closing the book. “I made coffee.” 

Steve looked over at you again. His brows were knitted together, clearly confused. He wondered if you had thought over everything last night.  He stood up, walking to the pot of coffee slowly, occasionally looking over his shoulder, feeling you watch him. He grabbed a mug and picked up the pot, frowning. “It’s empty.”

You sucked in your teeth. “Yes.” 

Steve set the pot down. “You said you made coffee?” 

“Yes.”

“But there’s none in here.” 

You raised your mug. “All I said was that I made coffee. Not that I made you coffee.” 

Steve faced the wall, closing his eyes. He was right. You had thought over everything and clearly you hadn’t changed your mind. Instead of giving into your morning antic, he opened the cabinet to get what he needed to brew a new pot. He frowned when he saw the usual spot where the coffee sat was empty. 

You made a noise which resembled the mix between a gasp and a giggle. You joined him by the counter.  “I’m sorry! Forgot to mention I used it all.” You gave him your best apologetic smile, but Steve could smell your bullshit. 

“You hate coffee.” He glanced over at you, hoping you didn’t see him look at your bare legs. 

You scrunched your lips playfully, looking at the mug in your hand. “Guess not anymore.” You brought it to your lips, sipping loudly.

He noticed the small cringe of disgust flash across your face when you swallowed. You had really come to win the war. He gave you a toothy smile. He still wasn’t going to give in. “That’s alright. I’ll make myself a coffee once I get to the shop. I can pick up some more on my way home. Do you need anything?” It was a domestic question that people in real relationships asked each other. Except Steve was unsure if you were even friends. 

Your own sarcastic smile never faltered. “I’m good.” 

He stood there a moment, glowering at you. His gaze flickered towards the clock, seeing that you only had an hour before you had to leave. You noticed his shift, and looked behind you to see what he had been looking at. He took the opportunity and sprinted to the bathroom. He could hear your quick footsteps behind him, but he had been successful, locking you out. 

He didn’t need to spend thirty minutes in the bathroom. But that’s how long it took for the hot water to run out in the shower. He stood leaned against the wall, watching the mirror fog from the steam filling the room, not once stepping under the running water. 

He spent the time trying to imagine your expression once he opened the door. He knew you liked being on time. In fact, you always made sure the two of you showed up thirty minutes early to everything you were invited to. 

He wasn’t sure if it was anxiety or you hated the idea of leaving a bad impression on people. Truthfully, he never saw the difference. The two of you always showed up to his parent’s house early, and his mother still treated you the way she did. 

He ran his hand under the water, satisfied with the coolness. He turned it off and walked out of the bathroom. You were sitting at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, jaw clenched. You looked up, scanning him up and down, taking note that he was dry from head to toe.

If you were furious, you didn’t show it. You smiled. “Enjoy yourself?” 

He noticed how you were already dressed. Even your hair was styled in a neat manner. He didn’t take into account that last night you had already taken a shower. He felt like he was three moves behind in this unexpected and unspoken war the two of you were in. It was like you had been masterminding it subconsciously and he didn’t know it. 

It felt like he didn’t know a lot of your plans recently. For example, your plan on breaking up with him. 

He watched you walk into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open because all you had left to do was brush your teeth. Once you finished you looked at the watch on your wrist. He had given it to you on your second year anniversary. It was dainty and on the back it had his initials. You smiled to yourself. “Look at that. I have time to spare.”

You left the room, a new sway to your hips he had never seen before. He wanted to pout and kick out his frustration. But if he did, you’d have more time to think what to do next.

It felt silly acting like this all because of an apartment where the pipes groan in the middle of the night. The walls are thin so he can hear the neighbors. The paint was chipped and peeling because it had been built in the 70s, and no one had taken the time to refurbish it. Yet, it felt like his duty to stand guard. 

But you knew the weakest spots in his armor. You knew where to exactly punch. And that’s why after you had been long gone to work, he couldn’t find his car keys.

At first, he thought he must have misplaced them when he rushed in last night. Maybe he had laid them in a spot that they normally don’t lay in. But when the sunlight bled through the window, reflecting a shiny glimmer on the kitchen table, Steve groaned. 

They were a pair of car keys. They were not his. 

His car had always been off-limits. Only in case of emergencies. And he wasn’t aware of any urgent matters at the moment. 

He thought about driving to the school, parking in the furthest spot from the front door, and exchanging their keys. That plan was scratched when he turned on the car and noticed the gas gauge was a hairline away from being empty. He was always getting onto her by waiting until the last minute to get gas. 

He ignored it as it yelled at him to be fed and drove to work. 

When he pulled into his reserved parking spot, he grumbled obscenities when his employees had confused looks on their faces when they saw him climb out. He slammed the car door, looking at them, scowling. “Get back to work.”

They hadn’t even opened yet. But they were scared, and obliged by messing with random tools in the work shed. He swore he saw David take the broom and sweep the walls. 

He stormed inside his office, going straight to the coffee maker. He didn’t have to look behind him when he heard the door open. He knew it was Eddie. They must have forced him to check on the boss. 

It was silent at first. He just watched as Steve aggressively prepared the coffee maker. “Nice ride, Harrington.” He couldn’t hold it in any longer, snickering. 

Steve wanted to snap around and strangle his friend. Exactly what you wanted him to do. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Yeah.” He stepped back, grabbing his vest off the hook. 

“How’d things go last night? Robin said you were a bit…” He waved his hand trying to find the word. He didn’t finish. Steve wasn’t listening to him. “Is everything okay, dude?” 

Steve opened a drawer with paper coffee cups, pouring himself a fresh batch. He didn’t even wait for it to cool down before taking a sip.  “How hard is it to wire a car so that when you press the brakes the horn goes off.” 

“Uh-”

“Ooh, even better. Is it possible to make it where reverse goes in drive and drive goes in reverse. Or is that too dangerous?” Steve turned around, taking another sip of his coffee. Internally cringing because it was nowhere good as yours. His eyes were serious and somehow innocent. 

Eddie scratched his head, his curls bouncing because he hadn’t put his hair up yet. “Listen man, I don’t know whatever is going on between you and the misses, but I’d rather not get roped into it. Especially if it involves me potentially going back to jail.” 

He frowned. Eddie had ruined his next move in your game. Lesson learned. Next time he’ll keep his plans to himself and figure it out. He bet David or Bill would’ve done it, no questions asked. 

Steve gloomily walked to his desk. He still needed to go over the finance book and there was a stack of paperwork that needed to be done from the three days he was gone. But he couldn’t think clearly. Not with you in his mind. 

Maybe if he banged his head hard enough on the desk all his problems would go away. But in reality, it wouldn’t. He would still be broke, sort-of single, and would have a major headache. He groaned out loud, putting his face in his hands. “She- she’s insufferable! The worst person I’ve ever met. And I had plans to marry her.”

“So, you’re not going to marry her?” Eddie asked him. 

Steve looked up, as if he had just uttered blasphemy. “Of course I’m going to marry her.”

“But you said-”

“She thinks after five years we’re just going to call it quits and that’s it?” He laughed out loud. “Oh no no no no.” 

Eddie felt like he was when Steve first showed up to his house four nights ago. He was scared. “How are you going to convince her to stay with you if you rewire her car?” 

Steve leaned back, plopping his feet on the desk, hands behind his head. This entire time he had tried to fight the blazing fire with more fire, forgetting that this entire time he could be fighting with gasoline. “We still have those full jerrycans in storage, right?” 

Eddie’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. Steve I know you’re upset but you don’t need to burn anything down.” 

He threw his head back and laughed. “Eddie, I’m not gonna burn anything down.” He stood up pointing at the car in the parking lot. It was a piece of junk on four wheels, but you were okay with it because it got you around. Steve smiled, looking back at his friend. “Her tank is empty.”

***

You had driven Steve’s car about as many times you could count the number on your fingers. On one hand. Most of those times it had been because he was too drunk to even register what year he was in. And once because he had gotten in a fight during a graduation party after some kid had called you a whore. You wondered where the Steve who defended you when someone looked at you wrong was. Not that you wanted him to punch his own mother. But simply telling her to shut up would suffice. Was that too much to ask?

You sat in the parking lot of Kitty’s Cafe, stuffing your face with too many fries, purposely passing the time. You had gotten off of work an hour ago and would be home by now. But you wanted to marvel at being behind the steering wheel of the BMW. 

You fully expected the police to show up and arrest you for stealing a car. But then again, if Hopper had been the one to receive the call from Steve, he would’ve laughed in his face and hung up. You had been driving all around town, sinking into the leather seats. The windows were all down, the sharp air kissing your cheeks. Your car’s windows had stopped rolling down six months ago, it was refreshing. At one point you had driven all the way to the “You are Now Leaving Hawkins, Indiana”. It took everything in your power not to step on the gas, leaving Hawkins in the rearview. 

But unfortunately, you had turned around and made your way to your favorite burger spot. 

Steve had taken you there on your first unofficial date. It was unofficial because originally it had been a double date and the two of you weren’t together. You couldn’t even remember the name of your date, but you remembered Steve’s. Patty Evans. The big haired bimbo who had an annoying shrill laugh and was way too handsy. 

Both Patty and your date conveniently had to go to the bathroom at the same time. You and Steve sat in silence for twenty minutes. You looked at the bathroom door and finally said, “I don’t think they’re coming back.”

Steve swallowed his shake, staring at his plate. “No. They left about fifteen minutes ago in his car.” 

You had kicked him under the table. “Why didn’t you tell me? He was my ride. I need to go call my mom.” 

“Or you could stay and finish our food. I’ll take you home.” Steve moved his empty basket to the side, grabbing Patty’s. 

You stared at him. The neon sign from the window illuminated his face. He looked so young and handsome. You couldn’t tell him that of course. He was only a friend– so you thought. You had had many lunches, dinners, and car rides alone with him. But that time it was clear something shifted between you. Because the rest of the night it was stolen glances, heated cheeks, and touches held too long. 

You sighed thinking about how you didn’t remember the last time you had been on a date with him. The memory which was once happy turned into resentment. You crinkled the fry in your hand, sprinkling it all over the passenger seat and floorboard.

Steve would already have an aneurysm if he saw you eating in his car. Just wait until he sees that. You wiped your greasy hand over the steering wheel, like it was a leather napkin. Satisfied, you opened the door to throw away the bag, but decided to throw it in the back instead. 

When you walked into the apartment, your nose was hit with a delicious flavor. For a second, your stomach cursed at you for already eating. You walked up to the stove, taking in the sight. 

“Where have you been?” Steve’s voice cut into your curiosity. You turned around and almost laughed. He stood there, hands on his hips, wearing a ridiculous polka-dotted apron. “You got off work an hour and half ago.”

“So?” 

He scoffed. “So? So, why didn’t you call to let me know you’d be home late?”

This conversation seems strangely familiar, you thought. Did you sound that ridiculous? “Sorry, mom.” You smirked at your comment. 

He didn’t think it was funny. He ripped off the apron and threw it to the side. “I won’t even mention the fact you took my car without asking. But when you hadn’t come home, I thought you were dead.” Steve ran his hands through his hair, clearly worked up. 

“Did you think I was dead or were you worried I did something to your car?” 

“Unbelievable!” Steve proclaimed. However, he paused for a moment, clearly wondering if you might have actually done something to his car. “I’m tired of you always bringing up my car into arguments. We could be talking about random shit like cows and somehow you’d bring her into it. She’s not the problem.” 

You laughed. “Her?”

He ignored the comment, continuing on another tangent. “I filled up your tank by the way. I also changed your oil and rotated your tires. You know, things I told you you needed to do months ago. I even came home early, washed dishes, hung the curtains up like you asked, and made dinner. Yet no word from you.” 

You threw your arms up, your voice going up an octave. “I guess you know how I feel when I spend the whole night alone, having to watch your dinner get cold because I don’t know when you’ll be home. You thought I was dead because for once I took some time to myself? For the past three years I’ve wondered the same damn thing about you. You have no idea how many times I’ve almost put in a missing person’s report.” 

“Sorry to break it to you sweetheart, but sometimes I don’t want to come home. In fact, I dread walking in the door because immediately it’s, ‘Steve, take off your shoes. Steve, don’t forget to put the toilet seat down. Steve, put the curtains up.’” He tried to imitate you as best he could. “It’s always nagging from you.” 

“I wouldn’t have to nag you if you just did it!” 

The two of you were both shouting at one another. You were certain you had woken up the neighbors, practically seeing the outline of their ears against the wall. “It’s never ‘Steve, how was your day?’” He rummaged through the cabinets, trying to find the tupperware. 

She sighed, walking up to the other side of him, opening a cabinet and pulling one out, handing it to him. “You never ask me about my day, either!” 

He poured in the food that was never touched into the container. “I do ask you! But you always answer ‘fine.’ So, I stopped. Because what’s the point if you don’t want me to know. It’s like you stopped wanting me to know.” He paused for a moment, closing his eyes tightly, taking in what he had just said. “I never understood whenever I heard my parents arguing, and my mom would yell at my dad, ‘Conrad, I don’t know who you are anymore.’” He looked over at you. “I do now.”

Your face fell. It felt like it was the meanest thing he could ever say. “You really want to know me? For starters, I hate that green turtleneck you wear. You look like a giant booger.”

Steve furrowed his brows, clearly hurt. He loves that sweater. You had been too afraid to let him know that green was not his color. “I hate that new perfume you started to wear. It smells like my great-great grandmother.” 

The perfume in question was from a co-worker who sells Avon. You had forgotten the name, and you hated to agree it made you smell like an old lady. But now that he said that, you were going to buy ten more bottles of it. You would lather yourself in it. If you had a bathtub, you would bathe in it. “You know what I really really hate? When we have ramen for dinner, and you slurp so loud. Sometimes I sneak off to the bathroom to finish eating because the noise is so unbearable.” 

“That’s disgusting. You’re going to die of an infection if you keep doing that.” 

“Good then maybe if I’m dead I won’t be able to hear your noodle slurping!” Your voice had raised again. 

He chuckled, placing his hand on the counter, leaning in. He dropped his voice into a low growl. “Sweetheart, you’d be going to hell if you died. The devil would make you listen to noodle slurping for eternity.” 

Your nostrils flared. You were furious. It felt like steam was pouring out of your ears. “Before I die I’m going to pour that perfume inside your car.” You laughed maniacally. “Maybe it’ll cover the smell of french fries.”

He started to argue back, but stumbled, his eyes wide. “French fries? What do you mean french fries?”

You gave him a smug look, pushing his hand that was on the counter. He lost his balance holding himself up, his elbow hitting the surface. He clutched it in pain. Satisfied, you started to walk away. But he wasn’t finished. “You have terrible morning breath.” 

You gasped as if it was the worst thing he had ever said. “We broke up. Why does any of this matter? Why won’t you surrender and leave.” 

You had seen Steve shout before. Many times. But you had never seen him seething. His chest was rising up and down, and his jaw clenched tightly. He pointed aggressively. “There’s a difference between we and you. You broke up with me. You never gave me the chance to have my say. A relationship is two people. And we’ve been in this relationship far too long that I don’t think it’s fair you made the decision for the both of us.”

Your mouth fell open. The only other time he had made you speechless was when he had said I love you for the first time. Your mind buzzed with different responses and even some retaliations. You swallowed whatever words were on your tongue and just gaped at him. 

He took a breath of air, like everything he needed to say was out there. He took the food, opened the refrigerator, and placed it in there. He turned back around, facing you. “I’m sleeping in the bed tonight.” 

You think you nodded. He didn’t say another word, retreating into the bedroom. And unlike you did last night, the lock clicked softly. But it felt like the sound vibrated against the walls, bouncing all over the apartment, ringing in your ears. It felt like a sharp knife cutting into you. It felt like a three-course meal of regret and guilt was for dessert. 

But you agreed with him. He didn’t know you. And you weren’t entirely sure whose fault that was this time.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Are there any glass block fans? B/c if you are, this house is loaded with it. You would think that it was built in the mid-century, but it was built in 1995 in Newport Beach, California. There are 5bds., 6ba., and it’s listed for $6M.

I like these columns and the floor. Notice the glass block pony walls. 

This is interesting- There’s a table and bar in the living room.

Like the neon shooting star.

In the evening the living room has red uplights.

View from the stairs- on the left is a built-in light fixture. I still like the columns- they’re like sculptures. 

Here’s a closer look at the bar in the corner of the living room. 

The dining room with a big glass table and mirror feature wall. You’d have to invest in the Windex & paper towel companies if you own this house.

I don’t care for the swirly brown kitchen accents. The brown kind of interferes with the sleek gray, black & white modern color scheme.

The main bd. Looks like the end tables are built-ins. Doors on the right open to a gigantic en-suite bath.

Look at the larger glass block on the walls in here.

More glass block in the 2nd bath. The toilet is discreetly behind a glass block pony wall.

This bd. has sliding doors over the living room.

Very clean modern lines on the garage.

You can actually skate in here. It’s gigantic.

Along the side of the house is just a cement alley way, I wouldn’t call it a patio.

This is the covered patio. Looks like a living room with a kitchenette.

Putting green. No pool, though. Not much of a garden for $5M.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/20301-SW-Cypress-St-Newport-Beach-CA-92660/25477559_zpid/

[foundtherightwords]

The Hollow Heart - Chapter 6

Pairing: Hellcheer, Gothic AU

Summary: To escape her mother's control and the stifling society of Gilded Age New York, heiress Christabel Cunningham impulsively marries Henry Creel, a charming and seductive stranger, and accompanies him to his remote mansion on the West Coast. There, as Henry grows cold and cruel, Christabel must uncover her husband's sinister secret before it's too late. But can she trust Kas, her husband's enigmatic assistant, who seems to be her only ally in this strange place, or is Kas's loyalty to his master stronger than his attraction to Christabel?

Chapter warnings: descriptions of spiders, snakes, and mice, a brief scene of dub-con toward the end (nothing graphic though)

Chapter word count: 6.2k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

Chapter 6 - The Chamber Carved So Curiously

Christabel woke with the feeling that she'd had a bad dream. She tried to remember what it had been about, and could only conjure up an image of cypress trees, hundreds and thousands of them, surrounding her, stretching as far as the eye could see, dark, twisted shapes looming out of the fog. There wasn't anything particularly disturbing about them, yet the memory of the dream lingered, weighing down her limbs, tightening her chest, and keeping her mind exhausted, although she discovered, by a grandfather clock in the front hall, that she'd slept for nearly twelve hours.

In the daylight, Creel House did not improve much. It was probably because daylight could not penetrate its depth. The gloom was worsened by all the dark Victorian furnishings that must have been fashionable when the house had been built—redwood paneling, mahogany furniture, wallpapers the color of raw liver, and blood-red carpets and curtains—which swallowed up any speck of light that was brave enough to come through the tall, narrow windows. If it wasn't for the candle and matches that Kas had considerately left for her the previous night, Christabel doubted she would have found her way downstairs at all. The darkness pressed down on her eyes, making her feel as though she was going blind, so after leaving her bedroom, she'd gone down the corridor and opened every curtain she could put her hands on. Outside, the fog had lifted, to be replaced by a slate-colored sky and drizzling rain, but even the watery light was preferable to the murkiness of the house.

And it was quiet too, oh so quiet. Her footsteps struck the thick carpet with no sound at all, and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock only accentuated the stillness. The silence constricted Christabel's throat, and she didn't even dare call out for Henry or Kas, afraid of hearing only the echo of her own voice.

She paused at the stained glass window for a moment, comparing her pendant with the bigger rose. The light coming through the glass was stained red, falling across her hands like blood. She then made her way to the first floor and down the corridor leading to the back of the house. The first two doors she opened led into a drawing room and a study, both so dark that she could only glimpse heavy furniture and tall shelves lined with books. The third was the dining room. More dark wallpapers and furniture. She'd really have to talk to Henry about updating the decorations and bringing the house into the twentieth century.

Breakfast was being kept warm on the sideboard, though there was only one setting at the table. A note was tucked under the plate, along with a grocery list. Written in a strong, large hand, it read, "Mr. Creel has gone to town on business and asked that you have breakfast without him. If you want any changes to the grocery order, please let me know. Kas."

Giving the list a quick scan, Christabel was struck by how little she knew about housekeeping. She wasn't even sure what they needed on a day-to-day basis. Perhaps Kas would be kind enough to help her.

The stillness of the house seemed to have robbed her of an appetite, so she only spread a piece of toast with some marmalade and nibbled on it while continuing to roam the house. It wasn't as large or grand as her family townhouse in Manhattan. Christabel was glad of that though. She didn't think she could be mistress of a large house anyway. At least Kas seemed to have kept his words, for everything was dusted and polished. Christabel wondered if he'd cleaned all night.

She found two more rooms on the first floor—next to the dining room was the kitchen, which opened into what appeared to be a greenhouse, connected to the main house by a covered walkway, and a parlor, with a bay window looking out into the sea, though of course the view was obscured by thick curtains. It could be a nice place for her to retreat to with her books and her music, while Henry worked in the study next door, or they could share it on cozy evenings when there were no guests. She decided this would be the first room she'd work on.

The second floor contained only bedrooms, but they all appeared to be closed off, other than her own and one at the very end of the corridor, which was locked. It must be Henry's bedroom. Christabel tried not to feel hurt that it was locked. Henry probably locked it out of habit. There was a small door set into the wall just outside this room. Opening it, she discovered a cramped staircase leading up to the attic. She expected it to be dusty and cobwebbed, but it was as spotless as the rest of the house, perhaps even more—it was clearly kept in regular use. Curiosity getting the better of her, she retrieved her candle and went up the creaky steps.

The attic was vast, taking up the entire top floor of the house, stretching back so far into the darkness that the feeble flame of the candle could not illuminate its edges. Shelves and cabinets lined the wall. In the middle of the floor was a large table with a steel top, strewn with glass vials, test tubes, burners, and other scientific equipment whose purpose she did not understand. A desk stood next to this worktop, its pigeonholes filled with papers containing complicated equations and diagrams—Henry's notes on his studies and experiments, she supposed.

Christabel tried a window and discovered they were all nailed shut. She turned her attention to the shelves. Most of them were stacked full of books on every subject imaginable, others were full of bottles of chemicals, all neatly labeled in Henry's slanting hand. Then she came to the far end of the attic, and her steps faltered.

Glass cages were arranged along the wall on sturdy steel legs, their lids secured with padlocks. Most seemed empty, filled with nothing but sand, rocks, and dry twigs. Christabel leaned closer to one, the candle held high. Did she spy some movement amongst the rocks? A twitching black leg appeared, then two, then three, and Christabel recoiled in horror when what she had presumed to be a black rock broke apart into a mass of wriggling bodies. Spiders, hundreds of them, the smallest no bigger than a sesame seed, the biggest only the size of her fingernail, crawling all over the glass to get away from the light.

And then, stirred by the light or perhaps the movement of the spiders, the other cages came to life as well. More spiders, mostly the black kind, but also some brown, smooth like a pebble, or furry, some pale like the sand they were hiding in. And there were other things as well, coiling, slimy ropes that slithered and writhed with a whispery hiss, occasionally showing a forked tongue or a rattling tail. Snakes. The cages were full of spiders and snakes.

Christabel stepped away from them, forcing herself to go slowly. The glass was thick and the lids of the cages looked well-made, but somehow, she still believed that if she made a sudden move, those creatures would burst out of their cages and lunge at her...

Her back collided with something. She screamed.

"What are you doing here?" came Henry's stern voice.

Christabel's knees buckled with relief. She leaned against Henry for support, but he stepped away, causing her to stumble. "Careful," he said, and she noticed he was holding a large cardboard box, which rattled ominously. "I ask you: what are you doing here?" he repeated.

She didn't understand why he looked so displeased with her. "I was just—looking around. I know I should've waited for you to show me the house, but I got impatient." She tentatively touched his sleeve. "Was that wrong of me? I didn't mean to snoop."

Henry's eyes glinted in the murkiness. "No, not at all," he said, smiling. "And it's not snooping when it's your house, is it? Come, let me show you."

His smile eased the knot in her stomach. She waited while he lit a lamp over the worktable, turning the wick high so a pool of yellow light illuminated some of the further reaches of the attic. He then set the box down, and, taking her arm, he led her around, pointing out the different kinds of spiders and snakes, listing off their names, black widow, brown recluse, tarantula, viper, mamba, so quickly that Christabel couldn't remember them all.

"Beautiful creatures, are they not?" Henry said. "And so misunderstood too. Their venoms can cure as much as they kill, you know. After all, they're only doing what they must to survive."

He then proceeded to tell her about each of the creature's venom, how powerful it was, what it could do to a victim. Christabel tried to muster up some interest, but found herself unable to. Back in New York, when Henry told her about his studies while they sat in the sun, under the trees of Tuxedo Park, it had been fascinating, enthralling, a sharing of mutual interest. Now, in this darkened attic, surrounded by all those creepy crawlies, the light in Henry's eyes appeared almost feverish, and he droned on and on without paying any attention to her.

"Take the black widow spider," he said, stopping in front of the cage with the black-and-red creatures she'd first noticed. "A single bite is just like a pinprick, you'd hardly even feel it. But just a few minutes, and a numbing pain will spread from the bite, paralyzing you, making it difficult to breathe. In severe cases, it can lead to seizure... and death."

Then, to her horror, he opened the lid and, still holding her arm with one hand, dipped his other hand into the cage, right in the midst of those wriggly bodies and legs.

"Should you—should you be doing that?" Christabel asked shakily.

"Don't worry, darling, they only bite when threatened," Henry said, lifting his hand out. A spider clung to his finger like a drop of blood. "Besides, they never bite me. They know I'm their master." He turned his hand, letting the spider scurry along his fingers. As it moved, Christabel could glimpse a red mark in the shape of an hourglass on its belly, and was suddenly reminded of Henry's costume at the Carvers' All Hallows Eve ball. He extended his palm out to her. "Would you like to say hello?"

Christabel shrank back, shaking her head. She could not understand the hungry look in Henry's eyes.

"No? Well, maybe this would be more to your taste then." He returned the spider to its cage and opened the cardboard box he had brought, which was shaking and squeaking. Christabel soon discovered what was making all those movements and noises—Henry pulled a white mouse out of the box, dangling it by its hairless pink tail. Ignoring the poor creature's writhing and squirming, he lifted the lid of another cage, this one containing a single, fat cobra, almost as big as Henry's forearm.

Paralyzed with fear and revulsion, Christabel could only watch as Henry lowered the mouse into the cage. The cobra raised its hooded head and appeared to be sniffing the air. The mouse, too, seemed to have sensed the predator, for it screeched and thrashed even more violently, in a vain attempt to escape.

"Henry, please—" Christabel begged. Her voice sounded thin, like that of a scared child.

"Shh. Watch."

The cobra fixed its baneful yellow eyes on the mouse. In a blur of movement, it struck. The mouse's screech was cut off abruptly, and the cobra settled back down, its head bulged, the mouse's limp tail disappearing into its mouth like a pink ribbon.

Christabel could take no more. She wrenched her arm out of Henry's hand and ran blindly out of the attic, down the small staircase, and straight into someone.

"Mrs. Creel? What's happened?"

It was Kas, except she couldn't really see him, could only feel his hands on her arms, because all the curtains were closed again, and the corridor was once more plunged into darkness. It was like escaping from being buried alive in a coffin only to find oneself locked in the crypt. Now she knew how poor Madeline Usher must have felt.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, lashing out wildly at Kas, feeling much like the doomed mouse as it was being lowered into the cobra's gaping jaw.

His hands loosened instantly. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Christabel stepped back, trying to catch her breath. Her fear was gone, replaced by embarrassment for having run away and screaming like a child, and that embarrassment turned into irritation.

"Why are the curtains closed?" she snapped. "From now on, I want them open, day and night, do you hear me?"

She stalked into her room and slammed the door behind her. Throwing her windows wide open, she leaned against the windowsill, breathing in the fresh air and daylight until they calmed her.

The door opened with a creak. Christabel whirled around. Henry strolled in, looking as calm as ever.

"What's this?" he said. "You're not crying over some silly mice, are you?"

"No—no—"

"Good, because you know I can't stand tears." He approached her and grabbed her chin, tilting her face up into the light. "And there is nothing to be afraid of. That's just how they feed, the snakes. If the prey is not alive, they will be bored and not eat. It's completely natural."

Christabel nodded slowly. Once, during a trip to the Catskills, she'd seen a hawk snatch a rabbit from the meadow. It hadn't been upsetting one bit. Perhaps she had let the dark and stifling air of the house get to her...

"But must you keep them in the house?" she asked. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Most of them like dark and dry places, and it's too damp to keep them on the ground floor. Don't worry, the containers are perfectly secure." His face turned serious. "Still, I would prefer it if you don't wander about the house by yourself. And stop bothering Kas about the curtains. You'll just have to get used to the darkness."

Feeling irritated again, she jerked away from his grasp.

"Why do you employ him?" she asked. "He told me about his condition. It's positively ghoulish." She knew she was being unfair to Kas, but how fair was it when Henry expected her, the mistress of the house, to accommodate the servant? Shouldn't it be the other way around?

Henry shrugged. "He has his use. And let's face it, if I didn't employ him, no one would take him on, not with that—condition of his."

Christabel's irritation subsided. Well, if her husband employed Kas as an act of philanthropy, then she shouldn't be too harsh on either of them.

"All right, Henry," she said, leaning on his chest. "I promise I won't go into the attic on my own again, and I'll let Kas keep his curtains."

She nuzzled his neck, hoping for a return kiss, something comforting and reassuring to calm her down after the scare she'd just had. But Henry pushed her away—quite literally, like one pushing away an unwanted dish at the dinner table—and, with a brief "Good", went out again.

After lunch, Christabel found Kas in the kitchen. He stood up upon her entering and moved uncertainly toward the windows.

"Shall I open the shutters, Mrs. Creel?" he asked. The house seemed to have some effect on him as well, for he seemed paler, more subdued and diffident, quite unlike how he had been on the train. 

"No, it's quite all right." She held out the shopping list. "I only want to give you this. I've looked it over and added a few orders of my own." As he took the list, she continued, a little stiffly, "And you can keep the curtains closed. No need to change how you've always done things on my account."

"It's all right, ma'am, I'll manage." There was a slight pause, as though he was weighing his words, deciding whether to say them at all. "And I apologize for earlier. This house can be a difficult place to live in at times. I'm sorry if I've made it worse for you."

In response, Christabel only gave him a curt nod, not wanting to show how much his simple words meant to her, much more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

***

It took several days for Christabel to get used to Creel House and its closed, oppressive air. It no longer frightened her as it had on her first day, but she was certain she would never fall in love with it.

Kas kept his word and kept the curtains open for her, having devised some sort of pulley system that allowed him to control them from the door, so he could close them when he needed to walk through the house and open them again behind him. The daylight helped tremendously, though it showed that the house was even more neglected than she'd realized. The furniture was scratched and chipped from careless handling, the carpets and curtains were fraying, and the wallpapers were peeling in places, including a strip in the corner of her room. She was determined to talk to Henry about refurnishing the house soon, and told Kas to order some catalogues and samples from the best furniture makers and upholsterers in town, in preparation.

For some reasons, she felt hesitant to talk to Henry about such things. For a start, she didn't want to throw her weight about too much too early in their marriage, as she kept having a vague but nagging sense that Henry resented her presence. She thought she could understand it, having heard about it enough from her married friends in New York. No matter how in love a man was, a part of him always regretted marriage, always yearned for the freedom of bachelorhood. She should give him time to get used to being married.

But the other reason was that they hardly had any moment alone together. Every morning, Christabel woke up alone and breakfasted alone. Henry was away most days, taking the car with him, and when he was home, he locked himself in the attic with his monstrous creatures, sometimes even forgetting to join her for dinner. He brought back more boxes, boxes that rattled and growled and scratched and skittered, and Christabel remembered the little white mouse and stayed away. But at night, she lay alone for hours, hoping to hear him turn the handle to her door, but he never did. She was tempted to come to him herself, but shyness held her back. She'd already eloped with him, what kind of lady would he think she was if she came knocking on his bedroom door at night as well?

Fortunately for Christabel, diversion soon arrived in the form of her old things from New York. She'd fully expected her mother to have thrown away all of them or perhaps burned them in a fit of rage, so it was a pleasant surprise to come downstairs one morning and find several crates in the hallway, filled with clothes and books and even trinkets from her room. There was no letter from her mother, not even a note, but that didn't disappoint Christabel. If anything, she was relieved.

She spent several happy days unpacking the crates and putting things up in her room, finding comfort in their familiarity. Then she discovered a curious thing, or rather, two curious things.

She was putting her underthings into the bureau when she found something in its bottom drawer—a little cigar box made out of flimsy plywood, all warped and faded with age. The box contained a pair of scratched spectacles and a cheap pocket watch, long dead.

Christabel wouldn't think it strange to find some forgotten belongings here and there in the house, but these two things had clearly been kept together and hidden away, mementos of sorts. Even more curiously, upon closer inspection, she realized that the spectacles were not randomly scratched. Someone had made an attempt to carve two letters onto one of the lenses—F.B. Somebody's initials? The inside of the watch's lid had been scratched too, with different letters—P.M. The spectacles and the watch must have belonged to two different people. So why keep them together?

There was something vaguely familiar about those scratch marks, though she couldn't remember where she'd seen the handwriting before. More than that, they were disturbing, desperate. Whoever made them had clearly been anxious to leave behind some reminders of these people, whoever they were. It seemed to Christabel that those marks were made not only on the surface of the glass and the brass of the watch, but on the barrier of time as well, and at any moment, the owners of these mementos would be able to scratch down that barrier altogether and reach her from the past. The thought made her shiver, and she tossed the spectacles and the watch back into their box, and shoved the box into one of the empty crates to be disposed of. She did not want them around her.

One day, the drizzling rain stopped long enough for the sun to come out and clear the fog. Henry was out again and Kas was shut up in the lighthouse, but Christabel took full advantage of the nice weather by taking a long walk around the island, something she hadn't been able to do since her arrival. She went straight to the grove of cypress trees first, trying to look at them from the same angle from her window, searching for any sign, any irregular shape or formation on their bark that may suggest the figures she'd seen on her first night. There was nothing of the sort. The trees stood still and silent, casting a thick shadow even under the full sun. The memory of those silent trees in her dream came back like a cold finger down her spine. Christabel wrapped her cloak closer to her body and went down the drive, onto the path toward the shore, which had emerged from the low tides.

A soft jingling caught her attention, and she spied a horse-drawn wagon, bright red against the sand dunes, with Melvald's General Store painted in curly gold lettering on its side, rolling down the shore toward Creel House. This must be the weekly grocery delivery. She quickened her pace to catch up with it. The wagon drew up to the shore at the same time she did. The driver, a woman of late middle age, jumped down from her seat at the sight of Christabel.

"Afternoon, ma'am," she said. "You'd be the new Mrs. Creel, I bet."

Her phrasing puzzled Christabel for it indicated that there was an old Mrs. Creel, but she decided the woman must have meant Henry's mother, or perhaps simply that she was a newcomer of Creel House.

"I am," she replied.

"Joyce Byers, at your service," the woman said, taking off her bonnet, revealing a face that must have been pretty once, and was still handsome how, framed by two wings of dark hair shot with silver. "I have your order here."

She opened the back of the wagon and began unloading crates and boxes with an agility that belied her small stature. Christabel lingered about, not wanting to leave the first sign of outside life she'd seen in a week.

"Do you just leave them here, Mrs. Byers?" she asked.

"Please, call me Joyce. Yes, and I'll ring the bell here so young Kas knows to pick them up." Joyce indicated a bell tied to a hook planted at the start of the path, which Christabel hadn't seen on the night they drove up.

"Why don't you bring them to the door? Aren't you afraid they're going to get stolen?"

The older woman regarded Christabel for a moment or two. "Mr. Creel doesn't like people coming to the house," she said. "Besides, it's high tides half of the time. This is more convenient. We never got any complaints about stolen goods. Nobody ever comes out here anyway."

"Have you been delivering to Creel House for long?"

"Nearly thirty years now, even before it was Creel House."

"All alone?" Christabel exclaimed.

Joyce chuckled. "Like I said, nobody comes out here. When I first started working at Melvald's, there was just the lighthouse, kept by old Mr. McKinney."

"Really?" Christabel asked with interest. "Did he leave when the lighthouse was decommissioned?" Henry had told her that after new lighthouses were constructed on the Golden Gate Strait, many lighthouses along the bay were decommissioned, and his father had brought up the land to build Creel House.

Joyce's face turned somber. "No, the lighthouse was decommissioned because he left. After his son, Patrick, died, old Mr. McKinney drowned his sorrow in the bottle. The lighthouse fell into disrepair. After that one ship sank with all aboard, Mr. McKinney was removed from his post as the keeper, and the lighthouse was retired." She glanced at the top of the lighthouse, just visible behind the cypresses. "I'm surprised Mr. Creel kept the old thing when he had the house built."

"I think it adds character to the place," Christabel said, a touch offended.

"Character, yes. Except"—the older woman became hesitant, furtive—"well, I suppose it's not my place to say it."

"What?"

"Nothing, ma'am, it's probably just a silly rumor." She closed up the back of the wagon and attempted to climb back on the seat, but Christabel held her back.

"No, please. Tell me."

Joyce looked at her with pity and heaved a sigh. "People say that young Patrick McKinney died from falling off that lighthouse."

Christabel dropped her hand in shock, not just from the gruesome fate of Mr. McKinney's son, but from his very name as well. Patrick McKinney. P.M. Could the pocket watch have belonged to him? Perhaps the lighthouse keeper, in his grief, had scratched his son's name into the watch as a remembrance... But then who was F.B.?

***

Christabel was curled up on the window seat in the parlor, trying to distract herself with the furniture catalogues and samples of fabrics and wallpapers that had arrived with the groceries that afternoon, when she heard the car coming up the driveway. She expected Henry to go straight up to the attic as usual, and was surprised when he came into the parlor, looking rather displeased.

"What's all this?" he asked, eyeing the samples Christabel had spread on the seat around her.

"Oh, I was just—I've been meaning to discuss this with you, actually," Christabel said, relieved that she'd finally had an opportunity to broach the matter. "What do you think about updating the furnishings of the house a bit?"

"What's wrong with the furnishings?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Except—it's all rather dark and gloomy. I was thinking we could lighten it up a bit. Besides, these curtains and carpets and cushions could do with replacements..." She trailed off, for Henry was still scowling at the samples.

"And who's going to pay for all these 'replacements'?" he asked, finally looking at her.

"What do you mean?"

"I just received a telegram from your bank manager today, telling me I do not have access to your account. I even produced our marriage certificate, but the manager claimed that the account was under your sole name and thus could only be accessed with your permission." She had the feeling this was what he'd come in to talk to her about and was just searching for an excuse to bring it up.

"Yes, that is a stipulation in my father's will to make sure my mother couldn't touch it," she explained.

"But what if something... happens to you?"

Christabel tried not to dwell on the fact that Henry was contemplating her death barely a month into their marriage. "In that case, the money will go to my children. If I have none, it will go back to my mother if she is still alive, or to some distant cousin if she isn't."

"Not to your husband? That's preposterous!"

"You're going to have to take it up with my father, I'm afraid," she said with a shrug, trying to lighten the mood.

"It's a damn nuisance, that's what it is."

Henry's growing irritation was leaving a bad taste in her mouth. "What's wrong?" she asked, trying to stay patient.

"What's yours is mine, by law. Yet if I need money, I have to come to you hat in hand like some beggar?"

"Married women are allowed to have their own assets, you know," Christabel said evenly. "Have been for nearly sixty years now."

"But I am your husband!" Henry shouted. "It is my right!"

"Your right?!" Christabel jumped up from the window seat, scattering fabric and wallpaper samples all over the floor. "What about your duties? Day after day you leave me in this Godforsaken house, you barely even look at me or speak to me, let alone spend time with me. What kind of marriage do you call this? Perhaps I should annul it on the grounds of non-consummation!" It was a bluff, but Henry's demand to own her money angered her so much that she wanted to get back at him.

For a moment, she thought Henry was going to hit her. But he only ground his teeth so hard she could see the veins popping on his temples, and he bit out, "Pay for your own damn furnishings then!" before storming out of the room. The slam of the attic door came a moment later, hurting her more than any physical blow he could have inflicted.

The parlor door cracked open, and Kas's worried face poked in. "Is everything all right, Mrs. Creel? I heard shouting—"

"Oh, leave me alone! Must you always be underfoot?" She tossed the samples and the catalogues into the wastepaper basket and swept out, not stopping to see the hurt look in Kas's dark eyes.

Back in her room, Christabel got undressed, violently yanking off buttons and tapes, heedless of the tearing sound they made, pulling pins out of her hair, throwing them willy-nilly on her dressing table, all the while trying to fight the hot tears that were choking her throat from rising to her eyes.

So Henry was no different from all the others. He was after her money, had been all along. That would explain his coldness on the train, his neglect since they came to San Francisco. All his sweet talk had been just that—talk. How stupid had she been to not see it? And now it was too late...

A knock on her door jolted her out of her gloomy thoughts. She was startled to hear Henry's voice on the other side, all gentle and sweet, "Darling? May I come in, please?"

Christabel debated telling him to go away. But what would she accomplish by drawing out the tension? After all, they were married, and she was stuck with him for the rest of her life. Best to learn to live with him. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Many married women happily handed their money over to their husbands and they were none the worse for it.

Still, she kept a cold countenance as she opened the door for him. Henry stepped in, taking both of her hands in his. "Listen, darling, I shouldn't have yelled at you like that," he said. "It's only that—when I learned about the bank account, I felt like you didn't trust me, and it hurt." He lifted her hands to his lips in a rather charming gesture of contrition.

"You should've told me that you wanted access to my account," Christabel said, determined not to let him off that easily. "I could've written a letter of authorization for you."

"No, no, it's all right. There's no need for that. It's your money, you should control it. In fact, you should transfer it to a bank here in San Francisco. That would be safer than to rely on a distant New York branch."

She was taken aback by his quick acceptance. Had she been too hasty in condemning him?

"All right, I'll consider it," she said uncertainly.

"As for your accusations," Henry went on, "I have no excuse. I have not fulfilled my husbandly duties. But I'm willing to rectify it right now."

Without waiting for her answer, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was the same way he'd kissed her right before he proposed to her, but somehow, this time, Christabel wasn't swept away by it as she had, or, rather, it now overwhelmed her in an unpleasant way. All she was aware of was how tightly he was holding her, making her corset dig uncomfortably into her hips, how forceful his mouth was, how probing his hands were. Then she felt those hands tear at her back and heard her corset strings snap.

"Damnable thing," Henry mumbled, throwing the torn corset to the floor. "Stop wearing it."

He then pushed her toward the bed, until her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she had no other choice but to collapse on her back, with Henry's weight bearing down on her. He pulled at her clothes and his own, and now his hands were roaming all over her body, his breath quickening. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, trying to remind herself that this was what she wanted. Unbidden, the memory of the hare came into her mind, and she remembered how these hands, the very hands that were groping and squeezing her, were the same hands that had snuffed out the life of that creature, the same hands that had lowered the mouse into the cobra's mouth. Sudden, irrational fear blossomed in her stomach. She struggled against Henry, but he was pinning her down with one hand between her legs and the other in her hair, and she couldn't move.

"Please, Henry..." she whispered, but either he didn't hear her or refused to answer, for the pressure of his hands on her didn't let up.

He thrust into her without warning. A sharp cry of pain was wrung from her lips, only to be drowned out by a burst of the foghorns on the bay. The pain, mercifully, was short-lived, and as it dulled, her cries turned into whimpers, while the horns droned on and on outside her window.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Henry sat up and fixed his clothes.

"There," he gasped. "Let's have no more talk of annulment now, shall we?"

He left the room without a backward glance.

It was some time before Christabel came out of her daze. Slowly, she pulled down her nightgown and sat up. So that was that. The wedding night she'd dreamed of. What a joke, a mockery of love. The pain wasn't even the worst part of it—that she'd known to expect, and it wasn't intolerable. No, the worst, most disturbing part of all was the sense that Henry had no thought for her. To him, she had no more identity than the hare or the mouse, and he'd consummated their marriage only to bind her to him, not out of any desire for her, or even for pleasure.

A chilly breeze came in through the window. The peeling wallpaper flapped, its scratching noise grated at her nerves, taunting her. Unable to endure it any longer, she jumped up from the bed, ran to the corner of the room, and savagely tore the wallpaper off in a long, ragged strip. Clutching it in her hand, she slumped to the floor, the tears she hadn't allowed herself to shed finally flowing.

After a long while, Christabel picked herself up and returned to bed. That was when her eyes caught something on the wall that sent a jolt of fear through her and dried her tears immediately. Picking up the candle, she came up to the wall for a closer look. A section of old plaster was exposed behind the torn-off wallpaper, and carved into it, in the same desperate hand, were the initials "M.M."

[imalittlewoodenboy]

Do you want to read a fantasy story about trans/queer characters?

Do you want a novelized exploration of what it means to be masculine?

Do you have Jesus related daddy issues?

Do you want a story with a gay trans male lead where:

-None of his problems are trans hate related?

-He (spoiler alert) will not die?

-No one gets raped at any point?

Then boy do I have a story for you. I am looking for beta readers to give feedback on my draft. I have tagged properties that influence, and inspire me, hoping that fans of those might also be interested in this.

The first chapter is below, thank you for your time and attention!

Chapter 1. The Heat

The light was warm as the dry evening air. Fires danced over the fabric that draped over support poles of hearty wood. The woodgrain had stripes of a pinkish color, and tan running through it. Cypress. Sounds of laughter and conversation poured from the mouths around the table as the group dined on dry bread, mild cheese, slightly withered fruit and nuts. The wine was warm, but perfect. The evening itself was agreeable compared to the previous hours, even though the air was oppressively hot on tired, weathered bodies. It seemed not to bother the men. All but one. Tone’s broad shoulders were sunken just a fraction lower than most days. Strands of the darkest brown hair fell over his forehead, tickling the slight bump in bridge of his long nose. The hair clumped together with dust and sweat from a day of travel. Many days actually.  His thick black brows furrowed over equally black lashes, and thin lips parted for need of water. It seemed they only had wine. 

The festivities and the men paid no heed to their leader’s shoulders nor brows. They asked him eagerly when they would move on to the next city. Asked his plans. Asked the future- believing he could give it to them. “Lord, we must be growing ever closer to the desert city.” Shari said. She was a thickly built warrior with the darkest brown skin that almost appeared purple in some light, and longest hair, intricately tied in box braids. “What do you see for us there?”

“Surely we mustn’t spend much time there. We could arrange our way back to Dalgen.” Taran cut in. He had a serious brow, that hung down over his eyes, and long curly black hair that contrasted against his rich Sienna skin. He was muscular too. He was the only one of his skin in the group. Foreign even in a diverse group, and the only one who seemed unfased by the opposing heat.

“We mustn’t forget how our people suffer, untreated there.” Early spoke next. He was young, with dirty blonde hair, and stubble all over his face. He had pale skin, like Tone, but where Tone had burned in the sun, Early had tanned, only making his teeth whiter, and his eyes more blue. “When will we go back to dalgen to help them?”

Tone’s eyes, tired, amber, and surrounded by fine lines, were no less captivating beneath their heavy lids. They bounced to each and every party member that spoke to him. They couldn’t go back to Dalgen. A dread filled his mind at the mention of it. Even if he told them that, only more questions would come. Though he could not give them the answers they wanted, he could give them attention. That wasn’t nothing. Was it? Would that be enough for them? to have his gaze for a moment? Did he dare divert it long enough to search their table for a jug of water? Jonathan was from Emor. He was fine featured in a way that made him look near a decade younger than his age. His hair was cut to one length, ending midway down his neck. It hung in big loose waves, dark brown, and soft. He watched from afar, watched the men pour Tone over with questions. Tone looked thirsty. Would he speak up for himself, and stop them wanting more from him? Even Jonathan couldn’t take his attention off of Tone. He had something that commanded everyone’s attention. It was refreshing just to look upon him. He was their leader, not by his own choice, but by his very nature.  “Why must you beg for the future?” His gentle, calm, stable voice finally broke through the group, and settled the clamor. Everyone seemed to exhale, in relief, or maybe satisfaction, and look to the source. Tone was sitting just a little straighter. “As I’ve told you, I am no god. I don’t know the future, and I should not want to. Knowing the future would be a curse, not a blessing. It won’t bring it faster, nor make you more prepared. The future is ever changing, and we have little power over it. All we can, or might do is in the present.” The group listened with baited breath, all eyes on Tone. No one could look away. He looked to their faces a long, melancholy moment. “For instance, you all know that you will die someday, but knowing when, or how, would only inhibit your life. You would wish you didn’t know.” He looked down at the table. 

He’d barely finished speaking, and the clamor resumed. The party looked to each other now, lauding the wisdom of their leader. “I must record that one.” Ayoade mumbled, searching for parchment to write on. 

“He speaks the truth, we must focus on what is at hand.” Taran agreed, speaking to Shari.

Early still looked dissatisfied. Many of them were, but Tone had teased at professing. He did it so rarely, everyone had to take it seriously.

This small speech at least gave Tone a moment where no one seemed to be looking at him directly. The pale shoulders sunk again, and he took the moment to rest. He knew all too well that they would be at him again in moments. How this joyous supper with friends felt like a battle for survival. How weary he was. How hot his face felt. It was so warm, even though the sun had set hours ago. 

As if Jonathan knew, he slowly approached with a pitcher of cool, sloshing water, and poured it into a clay cup in front of Tone, then slowly knelt beside him. This action required the man next to Tone, Taran, to move down slightly. Everyone wanted to sit near Tone, but Taran was his right hand man. He always was there by his side. He moved out of the way of Jonathan with obvious annoyance for such a slight. 

Tone saw the water, and barely seemed to notice Jonathan at first. He was so thirsty. Jonathan even went so far as to hand the cup to Tone the moment he was done pouring. Tone looked in Jonathan’s eyes for just a fleeting glance of true gratitude. It was too short, but no less intoxicating to have his attention. Tone drank deeply. His pale throat bared, and red from the heat. Thin, chapped, pink lips on the beige clay cup. His hand surrounded it remarkably. It was so large. Jonathan’s eyes caught on his pronounced adam’s apple next. It bobbed as Tone swallowed. As he pulled the cup from his lips, a drip formed at the corner of his mouth. Jonathan had a cloth on his belt, and pulled it to Tone’s cheek to get the drip.

Tone felt better, but a drink of water, however wonderful, couldn’t heal a tired body in this hot night air. The cloth could wipe the drip of water, but it would shortly be replaced by sweat. Again, as if Jonathan knew, he took the cloth, and dipped it in the cool water pitcher. “Allow me to try and cool you, my lord.” He offered, and pressed the cool, wet cloth to Tone’s forehead. 

It was perfect. Tone relaxed into the touch slightly, and his next blink dared to be a slow one. The cool wetness of the cloth was just what he needed. Jonathan always had just what he needed. A few of the men around him had tuned back in, and were starting to speak to him again. Tone wouldnt have time to relax. The slow blink would be all the reprieve he could get it seemed. He felt the touch. Analyzed it. Remembered it. Just what I need. He actively thought to himself, but what the others needed was their leader. He caught a distasteful glance from Taran, the man that Jonathan had shifted away from Tone. 

Jonathan drank in the moment that Tone’s body seemed to unclench. That tiny moment that he leaned toward him before the attention of Taran and the others soured it. The others didn't even see him relax, it was so brief, but Jonathan felt it. He had helped for what it was worth.

When Tone glanced around he saw two others looking too. Anders, and Ferdinand. His mind reluctantly gave up the milisecond of relief, and he leaned away from Jonathan’s touch. A frustration grew in him that he knew was misplaced. How could Jonathan know him so well? How could he see just what he needed, but not see how giving it to him would backfire? Why did he always have to fulfill those needs so instantly, when he couldn’t enjoy the comfort? Jonathan, all that is good, must you know me over supper? Tone thought to himself, wishing he could communicate to Jonathan that he was right- he needed this. We’re unwedded, and you’re far too young. This looks inappropriate, and you know it. They already assume things based on your profession. Must you always give me just what i need right here and now? Could you fit all that in a glance? He tried to without letting the others see. More and more attention turned back to him. “That’s enough, Jonathan.” Was all Tone said, a little sharply as he shifted away from him. “… Thank you.”  Jonathan pulled the cloth away as Tone thanked him, then refilled his water, even though it was in short supply. A secretly rebellious statement. A tiny little ‘You deserve comfort’ in response. It didn’t go unnoticed by Tone, as they shared one last minuscule glance. Jonathan left, only seconds after sitting down in the first place, to look after the needs of the other party members. He stood from the pillows on the ground, and his bare legs under his short tunic were between Tone and Taran for a moment before he walked off.  The legs between them were what set Taran off. “I don’t see why you waste your time with someone like him.” He said, barely a moment after Jonathan was out of earshot. It was bold, but Tone trusted Taran more than any of the others for his moral drive. “I can understand the appeal… if someone were interested in young men… but… an Emorian..?” he searched for the right words, trying not to sound judgmental, when he clearly didn’t approve. “I understand and agree with your teachings on treating sex workers with kindness, but for others to see you with him like that…” he trailed off a moment. “To let him touch you so… It doesn’t suit your image. It doesn’t inspire devotion. It makes you look like any other man. Sinful.. mortal.”

Jamie added on. “And he’s Emorian. To be so close with a teenager… especially if he comes from the very race that abuses ours…”  Tone kept his gaze straight forward. Of course what Taran, and Jamie said was understandable, true even. That didn’t mean Tone liked it. It didn’t make it fair. He got more tense with every word. The logic Taran spoke was justified, but his attitude was not. He spoke of Jonathan’s profession with venom. With distaste. Taran thought Jonathan lesser for his past. Jonathan caught Tone’s eye across the space, serving wine to a group of men.. all of them nearly twice Jonathan’s size, and totally ignoring him. As if he were some sort of slave, or object. Nonetheless, Jonathan was smiling. He was sweet. There was a purity of spirit about him in stark contrast to the way all the men seemed to see him.. as dirty. distasteful. As Taran spoke, more of the men turned their attention in agreement. Anger, and fatigue swirled in Tone’s shoulders as they raised, and he snapped at Taran. 

“I’m amazed that men such as yourselves can be so blind.” Tone worked to speak calmly, but heat grew in his words. “We work tirelessly in every town we visit to do what?” He asked rhetorically, looking to all their blank faces. “We help people who’s humanity has been ignored. We feed, we heal, we care for those who have been ignored. How can you work so hard to restore humanity to others, and yet ignore his?” All attention was on Tone again as his voice began to raise.  “There is not a man among you who personifies my teachings such as he.”  “My lord, we have devoted our lives to spreading your wisdom. He has chosen a sinful occupation. One of greed. Surely he is the shallow one..?” Early put forward, and a few were brave enough to agree. Jonathan had been serving the men, but now that all of their group was focused on Tone’s rare heightened state, Jonathan had caught on that the conversation was about him. He made himself scarce before Tone could spot him, but stayed just past some of the colorful fabric of their tent. No one could get far enough from each other on an expedition like this- when all the walls were fabric.  “You’ve misunderstood me then entirely.” Tone snapped, jumping to his feet. His voice had always been powerful, even when it was quiet. It was smooth, deep, and felt like his words were dipped in warm honey. The kind that tastes so good you don’t even mind getting your hands all sticky. But now, it boomed, and excited the listeners. Even though he was mad, it was still beautiful to listen to. “He cares for his fellow human. He doesn’t see it as… demeaning to serve drinks and to cook or clean for us.” His voice boomed. At this point, unseen by all present, Jonathan left earshot. He went to the furthest tent to avoid hearing more. It was almost as if hearing positive words of him from Tone was too much. he felt unworthy of such attention, even if he had wanted it moments ago. It was like looking into the sun. “He just wants to take care. You’re all happy enough to enjoy the fruits of labor that you so despise.” Tone spat, looking to each of them directly. Taran, Shari, Ayoade, Anders, Grace, Early, Qiana, Jamie, Sam, Ferdie. Finally, silence. From all of them.  The moment grew long, and Tone realized how it must have looked. Someone dared to question his interest in a prostitute, and he snapped at the whole group. A rather out of character snap as well. They would certainly have their theories now. Was there even anything he could do to stop them…? No action would have stopped the speculation. Especially now. The effort of the day finally caught up, and Tone realized what he should have known hours ago. “I will go on a walk alone.” He stated to dumbfounded, guilty, and resentful faces. Then promptly turned, and walked out of the tent, scattering a group of servants that had dared listen in to his rare, but beautiful raised voice. His sandals drug through the sand as he stormed off. He was an imposing height that, even though he was quite slender, and docile in attitude, could still intimidate when moving as quickly as he did. He disappeared over a sand dune, and no one dared go after him.  “It is dangerous for him to get so familiar with whores” Grace said bluntly, brave now that their leader was out of earshot. Tone had never yelled like that at him, but he was of the few that weren’t phased by it. Though Grace was the smallest of their group, he could be the most brave. Or brash. Jury’s out.

Taran nodded “I am devoted to our leader and our cause- you know I would only have brought it up because of outside perspective” He pointed out. “If the crowds start to see him as not following his own ideals… well it puts us all in danger.” 

“It doesn’t help our cause, you’re right” Jamie said through squinted eyes. His pale skin had freckled in the sun, and left his face covered in spots. Though many of them had European skin, his seemed the most out of place here under red hair.

“He’s right.” Anders said through the conversation, and people perked up to listen to him. Anders had long dirty blonde hair, and pale skin.“He has taught nothing but humility. We are quick to judge Jonathan’s profession, but slow to realize that few people would choose that profession.” he seemed to think out his words carefully “Perhaps… we don’t like Jonathan because he makes Tone seem too human.” he realized. “He makes him just a man..” he trailed off. Some seemed to take this in. Some heartily disagreed.

“Just a man.” Shari said with a soft laugh. “As if you could really believe that of Tone.”

“Just a man or not, the public thinks him a god. It only helps us to maintain that. If they realize he’s not, they’ll call him a liar.” Taran argued.

“He never said he was.” Ferdie pointed out. 

“You think that matters to a mob?” Taran retorted.

The conversation slowly began to pick back up, several debating about Jonathan, never checking to see if he was even still there. The sky was purple and cloudless against indigo dunes, and the horizon stretched out in all directions. Their camp was comprised of 3 tents. One large, colorful, and open, where they had their supper, then one larger tent where all the followers slept together on their individual mats. The remaining tent was for some servants, their faithful pack ferret, and food storage.  Tone had retreated far enough to a high dune that overlooked the little valley which their camp was set up. He stood with their tall pack ferret. The very first one they had got when they set out on their journey. He was old and grey now, with white hairs littering his lively face. Tone leaned his head against the big creature. He had carried their bags and tents so dutifully for so long. Tone wondered if it was time for their old friend to retire. His mind went to Jonathan next. He felt a guilt over his treatment. Jonathan had come and given him such refreshment, such reprieve, and Tone didn’t offer anything in return but frustration. He would need to remedy this. 

Torches of fire mimicked the many stars in lovely yellows offset by the blue shadows of night. The air was still oppressive, and Tone wondered what options he had for the night. He had to return soon, both in need of rest, and to quell any question that he was off with Jonathan somewhere. They all had seen him all hours of their time together. They knew well that Tone had no time alone, not to mention enough time alone for a prostitute’s services. He slept in full view, with all of them there in the communal tent. Though spacious enough for them to have their own corners, there wasn’t privacy. All could be heard, and most could be seen. When he went back, he would surely face the group, and have to withstand more conversations, and questions. If he didn’t��� he’d not be able to lay down. That motivated him to make the trek back to his bedroll. Back down the hill to the welcoming firelight. There was light on the horizon too, he noticed. They’d be in a town again by the next night. Chapter 1.1 Chapter 1.2 Chapter 1.3 Chapter 1.4 Chapter 1.5

[whitepolaris]

New Orlean’s Haunted Mansion

by Troy Taylor

For generations, the LaLaurie Mansion of New Orleans has been considered the most haunted house in the French Quarter. The stage was set for the ghostly tales that surround the mansion, when Dr. Louis LaLaurie and his wife, Delphine, highly respected and renowned for their elegant soirées, moved into their newly built home. Madame LaLaurie was the most influential Creole woman in the city, and she pampered her guests with the best of everything. Friends would note her extraordinary kindness, but there was a dark side to the woman-a side that some merely suspected but others knew as a fact. 

Maintenance at the ornate LaLaurie residence was the job of dozens of slaves. Many guests remembered Delphine’s sleek mulatto butler: a handsome man who wore expensive livery and never ventured far from her side. In stark contrast, the other slaves were thin and hollow-chested and moved about the house like shadows, never raising their eyes. 

Stories began to circulate about Madame LaLaurie’s cruel treatment of her staff. It was said that she kept her cook chained to the kitchen fireplace, and that many of the slaves fared much worse. Also, many of these poor unfortunes seemed to leave, never to be seen again. 

One woman in the neighborhood witnessed the death of a young slave girl who jumped from the mansion’s roof to escape Delphine’s whip. The woman also claimed that she later saw the girl being buried in a shallow grave beneath the cypress trees in the garden. The authorities who investigated were appalled by the condition of the slaves, who were then impounded and sold at auction. To their misfortune, the slaves were sold to relatives of Madame LaLaurie, who in turned secretly bought them back. She explained to her friends that the death of the girl had been a horrible accident, but so many people remained skeptical that the LaLauries’ social standing went into decline. 

House of Horrors

It was a terrible fire in April 1834 that exposed the LaLauries for who they truly were. In the chaos, Delphine’s only concern was her valuables. When asked about her slaves, she snapped at her neighbors needn’t interfere with family business. When neighbors and firefighters disregard her and began to search for the slaves, they discovered a locked iron-hinged door leading to the attic. After Dr. LaLaurie refused to open it, they broke down the door. 

What greeted them was almost beyond human imagination. More than a dozen slaves, both male and female and all naked, were chained up to the wall of the confined chamber. Others were strapped to makeshift operating tables or locked in dog cages. Human body parts were scattered about the room, and bloody organs were placed haphazardly in buckets. Bones and human teeth were stacked on shelves and next to a collection of whips and paddles. 

According to newspaper and eyewitnesses accounts, the slaves had been tortured. Worse, torture had been administered in such way as to make death occur slowly. Fleeing the scene in horror and disgust, the rescuers summoned doctors, who rushed to the slaves’ aid. 

News of the atrocities soon spread throughout New Orleans, and angry crowds gathered in front of the mansion. It was believed that Delphine alone was responsible for the horrors, with her husband turning a blind, if knowing, eye. 

Those who had first broken into the attic made formal statements to the authorities about their discovery in the attic chamber. And a female slave testified that Madame LaLaurie would sometimes inflict torture on the captives with the couples’ guests dined and danced below. But before any arrests could be made, Madame LaLaurie and her family escaped, never to be officially seen in New Orleans again. Nor she was ever tried for her crimes. 

Her flight so enraged the crowd that they took their anger on the house Madame LaLaurie had left behind. By the time authorities arrived to store order, the contents were almost completely destroyed. The mansion was closed and sealed and remained silent, uninhabited, and abandoned. Or did it? 

Wailing Spirits

The stories of hauntings at 1140 Royal Street began almost as soon as the LaLauries fled. The mansion, which remained vacant for a few years after its sacking by the mob, fell into a state of ruin. Many people claimed to hear screams of agony coming from the empty house at night and to observe apparitions of slaves walking on the balconies and grounds. Some stories claimed that vagrants who had entered the mansion seeking shelter were never heard from again. 

The mansion was placed on the market by the LaLauries’ agent in 1837. But the man who bought it lived there only three months, plagued by strange noises, cries, and groans in the night. He tried leasing the rooms, but the tenants stayed for a few days at the most. The new owner gave up, and the mansion was abandoned.

After a turn as an integrated high school, then a school for black children, the mansion once again became a center for New Orleans society in 1882, when an English teacher turned it into a “conservatory of music and a fashionable dancing school.” That ended after a local newspaper apparently claimed the teacher engaged in some improprieties with female students, and the school was closed. 

The mansion was abandoned again until the late 1890s, when it was bought and converted into cheap housing for a new wave of Italian immigrants. For many of the tenants, not even the low rent was enough to keep them there-hardly surprising, given the strange occurrences. One main claimed to have been attacked by a naked black man in chains, who then suddenly vanished. Others claimed to have found butchered animals in the mansion. Children were attacked by a phantom with a whip, and others saw strange figures wrapped in shrouds. 

One night, a young mother was terrified to find a woman in elegant evening clothes bending over her sleeping infant. The mysterious woman vanished when approached. Aside from the ghost sightings, the sounds of screams, groans, and cries-said to have come from the locked and abandoned attic-regularly reverberated through the house at night. After word spread of the strange goings-on, the mansion was deserted once again. 

A Temporary Lodger?

In the late 1880s, rumors tied the eccentric son of a wealthy New Orleans family to the LaLaurie Mansion. Joseph Edouard Vigne supposedly lived secretly in the house for several years until his death in 1892. He was found dead on a tattered cot, apparently having lived in filth. 

Hidden away in the surrounding rooms was a collection of antiques and treasure. A bag containing several hundred dollars was found near his body, and another search uncovered several thousand dollars hidden in his mattress. For some time after, rumors that the mansion held a concealed treasure circulated, but few people dared to go in search of it. 

How much of the tale is true is lost to time. Still, was Vigne’s ghostly voice once of the many that frightened later inhabitants of the cursed house? 

A Succession of Owners

The mansion later became a tavern, then a furniture store. The tavern owner, taking advantage of the building’s history, named his establishment, The Haunted Saloon. The owner even kept a record of any strange things encountered by patrons. 

The furniture store didn’t fare so well. The owner first suspected vandals when, on more than one occasion, he found all of his merchandise covered in a dark, foul-smelling liquid. He waited one night with a shotgun, hoping the vandals would return. When dawn came, the furniture had been ruined yet again, even though no one had entered the building. The owner soon closed down the store. 

The mansion changed hands several times until 1969, when a retired New Orleans doctor bought it. He restored the house to its original opulent state, though with a common living room in the front and five luxury apartments in the rear. While he was able to attract new tenants, not all of them lived in the mansion without incident. In the early 1970s, a tenant named Mrs. Richards claimed to have witnessed a number of unexplained events in her apartment: water faucets turning on by themselves, doors opening and closing, and assorted minor annoyances. Other tenants spoke of a young girl’s screams coming from the courtyard at night. 

These stories lived on for years. Only after the mansion became a private residence did the strange occurrences cease. Many in New Orleans believed the hauntings had simply faded away with time. That is possible, of course, but only if spirits born of a tragedy so horrifying could ever find their rest. 

Epilogue

A number of years ago, the owners were remodeling the LaLaurie Mansion when they found skeletal remains in a large pit beneath the wooden floor of one of the back rooms. The haphazard positioning of the remains suggested that the bodies had been dumped unceremoniously into the pit. 

Speculation is that this was Madame LaLaurie’s own private graveyard-that she had removed sections of the floor and hastily buried the bodies to avoid detection. While the discovery of the remains answered one question, it unfortunately created another. Solving the mystery of the sudden disappearance of many of the LaLaurie slaves made some people wonder just how many other victims Madame LaLaurie had claimed-and tow wonder how many of them might still be lingering behind. 

[annwynisland]

Furniture Catalogue

Item names spelled in US English. Ctrl+F (find keyword) recommended. I can customize with Cyrus if specific color variant(s) desired.

ACNH Nintendo Switch

Alto saxophone

Analog kitchen scale

Anthurium plant

Antique bureau

Antique chair

Antique clock

Antique console table

Antique mini table

Antique wardrobe

Arcade seat

Artsy table

Baby panda

Ball

Baobab

Basic teacher's desk

Beach ball

Beach chairs with parasol

Beach towel

Bidet

Board game

Book

Book stands

Bottled beverage

Box corner sofa

Box sofa

Broom and dustpan

Bunk bed

Campfire cookware

Camping cot

Candle

Candle chandelier

Cans

Cardboard box

Carnations

Casablanca lilies

Cassette player

Cat grass

Chainsaw

Chalkboard

Champion's pennant

Changing room

Checkout counter

Chessboard

Clipboard

Clothes closet

Clothesline pole

Coffee beans

Coffee cup

Coffee grinder

Coffee plant

Colorful juice

Cone

Cooking tools

Cool sofa

Corner clothing rack

Counter table

Covered wagon

Crane game

Creepy skeleton

Cruiser bike

Cuckoo clock

Cup with saucer

Cushion

Cute chair

Cute DIY table

Cute sofa

Cute wall-mounted clock

Cute wardrobe

Cypress bathtub

Cypress plant

Decorative bottles

Deep fryer

Desk mirror

Dessert carrier

Diner counter chair

Diner counter table

Diner dining table

Diner neon clock

Dinnerware

Dinosaur toy

Director's chair

Dish-drying rack

Display stand

Document stack

Double-door refrigerator

Double-edged sword

Double Gloucester cheese

Double sofa

Drapery

Dreamy bed

Dreamy rabbit toy

Dreamy wall rack

Dual hanging monitors

Elephant slide

Enamel lamp

Evergreen ash

Exam table

Exercise bike

Exit sign

Fan

Fancy violin

Fax machine

Festival zongzi

Fireplace

Floating-biotope planter

Floor light

Floor seat

Fluorescent light

Folding floor lamp

Fortune-telling set

Freezer

Froggy chair

Garden faucet

Garden gnome

Garden lantern

Gas range

Gears

Glass jar

Globe

Handcart

Hanging cube light

Hearty ramen

High-end stereo

Homework set

Hourglass

Iced coffee

Imperial bed

Imperial chest

Imperial decorative shelves

Imperial dining chair

Imperial dining lantern

Imperial low table

Imperial partition

Ironing board

Ironing set

Judge's bell

Karaoke machine

Kids' tent

Kimono stand

Kitchen counter

Knife block

Lab-experiments set

Lantern

Large covered round table

Large magazine rack

Lily-pad table

Long bathtub

Magazine

Magnetic knife rack

Marimba

Metal can

Metal pot

Meter and pipes

Microwave

Mini circuit

Mining car

Mixer

Mobile

Modern cash register

Modern office chair

Monstera

Mop

Moroccan lights

Moss ball

Mounted blue marlin

Mr. Flamingo

Mrs. Flamingo

Mug

Oil barrel

Oil lamp

Outdoor air conditioner

Outdoor bench

Outdoor folding chair

Owl clock

Painting set

Papa panda

Paper-chain ceiling garland

Paper lantern

Paper tiger

Patchwork bed

Patchwork sofa chair

Pendulum clock

Pennant

Pet food bowl

Pinball machine

Pine tree

Plasma ball

Plastic canister

Pop-up book

Pop-up toaster

Popcorn machine

Porcelain vase

Portable radio

Pot rack

Potted starter plants

Premium nigirizushi

Pro coffee grinder

Puppy plushie

Rattan armchair

Rattan end table

Rattan low table

Rattan stool

Rattan table lamp

Rattan vanity

Rattan wardrobe

Retro fan

Retro stereo

Rice cooker

Rock guitar

Rocket lamp

Rotary phone

Round light fixture

Round pillow

Round space heater

Salad bar

Sandwich plate meal

Schefflera

School chair

School desk

Scooter

Scrapbook

Screen

Serving cart

Set of stockings

Sewing machine

Sewing project

Shaded floor lamp

Shaded pendant lamp

Ship-wheel door decoration

Shopping bag

Short file cabinet

Shoyu ramen

Silver confetti blower

Silver mic

Simple kettle

Simple panel

Simple shaded lamp

Simple table

Simple wall shelf

Siphon

Skateboard

SLR camera

Small mannequin

Small vase

Soft-serve lamp

Spaceship control panel

Spinning wheel

Square bathtub

Standing toilet

Strapped books

Studio spotlight

Study carrel

Study chair

Study desk

Study sewing box

Super-premium nigirizushi

Surfboard

Surichwi tteok

Table lamp

Table with cloth

Tabletop record player

Tangled cords

Tape deck

Tapestry

Tea set

Thank-you Mom mug

Throwback container

Throwback dino screen

Throwback gothic mirror

Throwback hat table

Throwback rocket

Throwback skull radio

Tin bucket

Tin robot

Tissue box

Titan arum

Tool shelf

Toolbox

Torii

Toy box

Traditional tea set

Train set

Transit seat

Tricycle

Typewriter

Upright speaker

Utility sink

Vacuum cleaner

Velvet stool

Vertical banner

Wall-mounted candle

Wall-mounted LED display

Wall-mounted phone

Wall-mounted TV (50 in.)

Water cooler

Weight bench

Winnowing machine

Wood-burning stove

Wooden pendant light

World map

Yucca

Yule log

[art-appreciation2024]

Unity is the appearance of being one or united. I believe a good example of unity in my everyday life would be the design in my living room. I utilize color to compliment my future and the way it appears as one.

Variety is an element that provides diversity and difference. A prime example of variety in my life would be my 5 kitty cats! They all have different colors and personalities therefore they boldly represent diversity.

Balance is equal distribution or equilibrium in art. A prime example of that in my life is my wine cabinet, as we organize our cups by size and height- giving a a balanced appearance.

Emphasis is an element that is utilized to draw attention to a specific area. An example of that would be the layout of my home, as we have it organized in our dining room for your attention to be drawn to the dining table upon entering our dining room!

Subordination is the opposite of emphasis. They both go hand in hand, as subordination neutralizes certain aspects so more attention is drawn to the point of emphasis. A prime example of this is a continuation of my example for emphasis, as we have the surroundings of my dining room appear less interesting so your focal point is our dining room table.

Directional forces in art are pathways for our eyes to follow in a piece of art. An example of that would be in Van Gogh's painting "The Starry Night" as the waves in the night sky create a path for our eyes to follow throughout the painting.

Repetition is the usage of one or more elements in a repetitive pattern. An example would be my floor as the tiles are all the same size and color, and repeat through my home.

Rhythm is quite similar to repetition and utilizes different elements in sequence. Van Gogh's "The Starry Night" is another prime example of rhythm with the patterned waves in the starry sky.

Scale is the size difference of one object to another. An example would be "The Wheat Field of Cypresses" by Van Gogh as you analyze the size different between the trees.

Proportion is the relationship between sizes and the overall scaling of different objects within a piece of art. Same as the scale element, a prime example of this would be "The Wheat Field of Cypresses" by Van Gogh among the trees.

Links of artwork examples:

"Starry Night" by Van Gogh:

"Wheat Field with Cypresses" by Van Gogh: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/436535

[texasfurniturehut]

Looking for the perfect dining room sets in Houston? Look no further than Texas Furniture Hut. Our extensive collection features dining room sets that are designed to make a statement. With options ranging from contemporary glass-top tables to rustic wooden designs, you’re sure to find something that fits your style.

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[grandparkhotelvancouver]

An Urban Oasis: Discovering the Best of Vancouver

Nestled between the majestic North Shore Mountains and the sparkling waters of the Pacific Ocean, Vancouver is a vibrant metropolis that effortlessly blends urban sophistication with breathtaking natural beauty. This world-class destination beckons travelers to uncover its hidden gems, from lush urban parks and celebrated culinary delights to a thriving arts and cultural scene and trendy neighborhoods. Vancouver offers an unparalleled experience for those seeking a harmonious fusion of city life and outdoor adventures.

Immerse Yourself in Nature's Embrace

At the heart of Vancouver lies Stanley Park, a verdant oasis spanning 1,000 acres of lush rainforest, sandy beaches, and winding trails. This urban sanctuary invites visitors to immerse themselves in nature's embrace, offering a respite from the city's hustle and bustle. As you explore the park's well-maintained hiking trails, towering cedars and Douglas firs provide a canopy of tranquility, filtering sunlight and creating a serene atmosphere.

Discover the iconic totem poles, standing as a testament to the rich cultural heritage of the region's indigenous peoples. These intricately carved wooden monuments depict stories and legends passed down through generations, offering a glimpse into the vibrant traditions of the Coast Salish people.

For convenient access to this natural wonder, consider staying at one of the vancouver airport hotels with a shuttle service, making it easy to explore Stanley Park without the hassle of navigating the city's streets.

Uncover Vancouver's Culinary Delights

Vancouver's diverse and vibrant food scene is a true feast for the senses. From locally sourced farm-to-table restaurants to international flavors spanning the globe, this city is a culinary paradise. Explore vibrant neighborhoods like Gastown, Chinatown, and Commercial Drive, each offering unique culinary gems waiting to be discovered.

Indulge in the freshest seafood caught from the Pacific waters, savoring the delicate flavors of sustainable salmon, halibut, and spot prawns. Savor the fusion of flavors from Vancouver's multicultural communities, where you'll find everything from authentic dim sum to mouthwatering curries and wood-fired Neapolitan pizzas.

For those with a passion for culinary innovation, Vancouver's chefs continue to push boundaries, creating cutting-edge dishes that combine locally sourced ingredients with global influences. From molecular gastronomy to vegetable-forward tasting menus, the city's dining scene offers an array of experiences to delight even the most discerning palate.

Embrace the Outdoor Adventure

With its abundance of outdoor activities and scenic landscapes, Vancouver is a playground for adventure seekers. Lace up your hiking boots and embark on trails winding through lush forests, offering breathtaking vistas of the city skyline and surrounding mountains. The North Shore's rugged trails, such as the Grouse Grind and the Baden Powell Trail, challenge even the most seasoned hikers with their steep inclines and rewarding panoramic views.

For a more leisurely outdoor experience, kayak or paddleboard along the city's waterways, catching glimpses of playful seals and majestic bald eagles soaring overhead. Explore the picturesque False Creek or venture into the tranquil waters of Deep Cove, surrounded by towering cliffs and forested terrain.

When winter arrives, Vancouver's nearby mountains transform into a winter wonderland, perfect for skiing and snowboarding adventures. Grouse Mountain, Cypress Mountain, and Whistler Blackcomb offer world-class terrain for all skill levels, ensuring an exhilarating experience amidst stunning alpine scenery.

For those staying at vancouver airport hotels with a shuttle, many of these outdoor pursuits are just a short ride away, making it convenient to experience Vancouver's natural wonders without the hassle of navigating unfamiliar roads.

Explore the Arts and Cultural Scene

Vancouver's rich arts and cultural offerings reflect the city's vibrant and diverse community. Immerse yourself in world-class museums like the Vancouver Art Gallery and the Museum of Anthropology, showcasing captivating exhibits and collections that span centuries of artistic expression.

At the Vancouver Art Gallery, marvel at the works of celebrated Canadian artists like Emily Carr and Lawren Harris, as well as thought-provoking contemporary installations. The Museum of Anthropology, located on the University of British Columbia campus, offers a fascinating exploration of Indigenous cultures from around the world, with an emphasis on the First Nations of the Pacific Northwest.

For a dose of live entertainment, attend performances at renowned venues such as the Vancouver Opera House and the Commodore Ballroom. From classical concerts and ballet to cutting-edge theatre productions and comedy shows, Vancouver's vibrant arts scene has something to captivate every audience.

Discover the city's street art and public installations, which add bursts of color and creativity to the urban landscape. Explore the alleys and side streets of neighborhoods like Mount Pleasant and the Downtown Eastside, where murals and graffiti art transform ordinary walls into canvases of artistic expression.

For visitors staying at vancouver airport hotels with a shuttle, many of these cultural hotspots are easily accessible, allowing you to delve into the city's artistic heart with ease.

Unwind in Vancouver's Trendy Neighborhoods

Vancouver is a mosaic of diverse and lively neighborhoods, each with its unique character and charm. Explore bustling Gastown, where Victorian-era buildings house trendy boutiques, galleries, and lively eateries. Stroll along the cobblestone streets, admiring the steam-powered clock and stopping for a craft cocktail or a locally roasted coffee.

Venture into vibrant Chinatown, indulging in authentic Chinese cuisine and experiencing the rich cultural heritage of this historic neighborhood. Visit the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden, a tranquil oasis designed to evoke the traditional scholars' gardens of ancient China.

Discover eclectic shops and cozy cafés on Main Street, where independent businesses thrive amid a laidback atmosphere. Or soak up the beachy vibe of Kitsilano, renowned for its yoga studios, organic markets, and the vibrant energy of Kits Beach.

For visitors staying at vancouver airport hotels with a shuttle, these trendy neighborhoods are just a short ride away, making it easy to immerse yourself in local culture and discover hidden gems around every corner.

Conclusion

Vancouver is a true urban oasis, where the city's pulse harmonizes with the beauty of nature. From lush parks and outdoor adventures to its celebrated culinary scene, vibrant arts and cultural offerings, and trendy neighborhoods, this exceptional destination offers something for every traveler. Whether you seek rejuvenation in nature's embrace, an immersive cultural experience, or a taste of the city's culinary delights, Vancouver invites you to discover its hidden treasures and create unforgettable memories.

Plan your adventure today, and consider staying at one of the convenient vancouver airport hotels with a shuttle for a hassle-free and enjoyable visit to this extraordinary city. With its unparalleled blend of urban sophistication and natural beauty, Vancouver promises an experience that will captivate your senses and leave you yearning to return time and time again.

[terracotta-retreat]

Ultimate Guide to a Family Retreat in Wimberley, TX: Top Activities and Attractions

Are you planning a family retreat and searching for the perfect destination? Look no further than Wimberley, Texas. Tucked away in the heart of the Texas Hill Country, Wimberley offers a picturesque setting and a myriad of activities that are sure to create lasting memories for your family. In this ultimate guide, we’ll explore the top activities and attractions in Wimberley, making your family retreat an unforgettable experience.

Explore Natural Beauty

Wimberley is blessed with stunning natural beauty. Begin your adventure at Blue Hole Regional Park, a scenic oasis with hiking trails, swimming holes, and picnic areas. Don’t miss the breathtaking views from the summit of Old Baldy, a local landmark.

Enjoy Outdoor Adventures

Embark on an outdoor adventure with your family. Rent kayaks or canoes and paddle along the Blanco River, or try your hand at fishing. Take a hike through Jacob’s Well Natural Area and discover the beauty of Cypress Creek and the iconic Jacob’s Well, a natural spring-fed swimming hole.

Visit Wimberley Square

Explore the heart of Wimberley at Wimberley Square. This charming area is lined with unique shops, art galleries, and restaurants. Browse local handmade crafts, artwork, and souvenirs. Indulge in delicious Texan cuisine at one of the family-friendly restaurants.

Dive into Culture

Immerse yourself in Wimberley’s vibrant culture. Visit the EmilyAnn Theatre & Gardens, where you can catch a family-friendly play or stroll through the beautiful gardens. Experience the Wimberley Valley Winery and enjoy wine tastings while overlooking the vineyards.

Indulge in Local Flavors

Wimberley is a haven for food lovers. Sample mouthwatering treats at the Wimberley Pie Company or cool off with a scoop of homemade ice cream at The Wimberley Cafe. For a unique dining experience, head to the Leaning Pear, a farm-to-table restaurant with delectable dishes crafted from local ingredients.

Relax and Unwind

After a day filled with adventure, treat your family to some relaxation. Visit one of the local spas for a rejuvenating massage or indulge in a yoga session amidst nature. Alternatively, find a cozy spot by the river and enjoy a picnic while taking in the tranquil surroundings.

Attend Festivals and Events

Wimberley hosts a variety of festivals and events throughout the year. From the Wimberley Arts Fest to the Wimberley Market Days, there’s always something happening. Check the event calendar to see if any exciting celebrations align with your family retreat.

Stay in Unique Accommodations

Enhance your family retreat by staying in one of Wimberley’s unique accommodations. From charming cabins and cottages to spacious vacation homes, you’ll find the perfect lodging option to suit your family’s needs. Wake up to scenic views and enjoy quality time together in a home away from home.

Wimberley, TX, is a hidden gem that offers the perfect backdrop for a family retreat. With its natural beauty, outdoor adventures, cultural experiences, and delectable cuisine, there’s something for everyone. Start planning your family getaway to Wimberley today and create memories that will be cherished for years to come.

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep33

Micro Brew Macro Data

In any other city, the property overlooking a monumentally beautiful lighthouse such as the Battery Point Lighthouse would be worth billions of dollars. There’s definitely a cognitive dissonance associated with staying at the Oceanfront Lodge. Our room has a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean from the spacious patio. Battery Point Lighthouse stands proudly on its own little island about 100 meters off shore. It is as iconic and beautiful as the Golden Gate Bridge or the Lone Cypress. If that lighthouse was in Santa Barbara or Malibu, my hotel room would cost $2000 a night, and feature Three Michelin Star dining and a world class golf course. But here we are, for under a hundred dollars, with chipped paint on the walls and a shit brown duvet. It’s hard to believe that tourists and property developers haven’t discovered this place yet. But clearly … they haven’t.

I’m unpacking my pannier on top of the cheaply veneered desk, River has her pannier on the luggage rack. The six drawings are sprawled out across one of the beds and River is on the other bed trying to wiggle her way out of her motorcycle boots. She lets out a little squeak as she’s trying to get the boots off, so I offer my unsolicited help by grabbing the heel of her boot and pulling it off. It reminds me of being a kid and helping my dad take off his boots after work.

We freshen up pretty quickly. River pulls on fresh jeans and sneakers, then rolls the drawings and snaps a rubber band around them. There’s still plenty of light left in the sky, so we decide to walk into town to find something to eat. The front desk attendant recommends a Thai food place located just across the harbor, an easy walk, maybe 15 minutes.

Front Street is a straight shot heading east from our doorstep and that’s where we’ll find the Thai food. Between us and dinner there’s a misnamed Beachfront park (it is clearly a Harbor-front park) filled with beautiful windswept coastal cypress trees. We decide for a romantic walk through the park, but our plans disintegrate about a quarter of the way into the park when River spots a building bustling with activity and a big sign out front that reads “SeaQuake Brewing Company.” Thai food will have to wait for another day.

The hostess tells us there’s a wait unless we don’t mind sitting at one of the communal farm tables in the middle of the dining room. “Sounds perfect to me!” River tells her and we’re quickly whisked away to our seats. We’re sat at one end of a long, hightop table with a butcher block top and barstool seats. There’s a lively crowd here tonight. Led Zeppelin is playing over the loudspeakers and there’s football on the big screens. Everyone seems friendly. It’s a brewing company, so we order flights of their in-house beers for tasting plus calamari strips and garlic cheese knots for a starter. For dinner we share the Thai chicken salad as a sort of consolation prize for not actually getting Thai food. After the waitress clears away our plates, we order more beer and River uses her napkin to wipe down the tabletop so we can look at the chalk drawings without ruining them. River removes the rubber band from the roll of drawings and lays them on the table.

“Let’s recap …”

“Somehow you made your way north along the coast and ended up at Fern Canyon, that’s this drawing with me in Fern Canyon and me setting with Dave Jr.” she observes.

“RIP Dave Jr.”

We toast and take a gulp of beer to commemorate the passing of my beloved potted fern.

“Then, clearly the picture of me in the red flannel is actually Paul Bunyan” she muses.

“Yes, and the portrait of your face matches the wood carving of Paul Bunyan’s girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I gotta be honest with you, that portrait wasn’t the most flattering but now it makes sense.”

“That was the one drawing that never made sense to me. Why would I have drawn you to look wooden and lifeless?? I think you’re gorgeous.”

That comment elicits a warm smile from River and she leans across our little high top table to give me a kiss.

“That leaves Thor’s Well, which we know is north of here, plus the picture of me rolling around in the tulips, and the portrait of me somewhere in Europe.”

“Thors Well, okay. I get that. You rolling in flowers, sure. That could be anywhere. The Europe connection I just don’t understand.”

“That’s the one that has definitely got me stumped … for sure.” says River as she’s arranging and stacking the pictures on the table so she can re-roll them and put them away. The most flattering shot is the one of her rolling around in the tulips so she places it on top and leaves them on the table for a minute while she finishes her beer. The waitress checks in on the table and sees the drawing.

“Wow, beautiful! Did you draw that?’ she says in amazement.

“I did. Yes.”

“Amazing. So much detail. Are you a professional artist?”

“No. It was actually after a night of … well, let’s say it’s just a hobby. A new hobby we’ll call it.”

“That seems awfully modest. I’ll bet it’s more than a hobby.”

“Thanks.”

“Where y’all from?”

“Monterey.”

“You two must be coming back from the tulip festival then?”

River’s eyes light up.

“Tulip festival?”

“Yeah, in Skagit Valley. Isn’t that were you drew this? That’s the only place around here where you find tulips like that.” the waitress proclaims. We are both in absolute amazement. Could this be the clue we’re looking for?

“Actually, we’re trying to solve a bit of a mystery here. I bumped my head and I can’t remember where I drew this.”

“Like, amnesia?” the waitress asks.

“Well … not like amnesia” I tell her “It’s actual amnesia.”

“Wow that’s crazy. I’ve never met anyone who has actually had amnesia before. I thought that was just in the Jason Bourne movies. So what are the rest of the drawings?”

“We’re trying to retrace our steps since I can’t remember the last month.”

“Oh wow, that’s crazy. Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Please. We’ll take all the help we can get.”

The waitress flips through all of the drawings and then asks “Okay, looks like you were on a journey. Were you going north to south?”

“No, south to north.”

“Okay, so you’ve already figured out Fern Canyon, and Trees of Mystery then?” the waitress asks.

“Yeah, and we figured out Thor’s Well too” River adds “It’s the last two we can’t figure out.”

“It looks like you came up the coast, went to Fern Canyon and Trees of Mystery, then passed through here on your way to Thor’s Well. Then it looks like you went through Leavenworth on your way to the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival.”

“Leavenworth?”

“Yeah, Leavenworth Washington. It’s a little Bavarian themed town in the northern Cascades. It’s where all of the Pacific Crest Trail hikers stop for groceries.”

“There’s a Bavarian village on the way to the tulip festival?”