#desmond is like the brother-in-law that lives in the house

[teecupangel]

Altaïr and Malik bitching like an old married couple with Ezio standing like🧍in the entrance is peak comedy to me 🤣

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Altaïr & Malik: *bitching like two old gay men married for over fifty years over Altaïr's cats*

Ezio: Do they... Do they always do this?

Desmond: Yep. At least they haven't pulled out the knives yet.

Ezio: ...Scusami, knives?!

(and I bet that at some point these two had a hate fuck.)

The “Altaïr gets a cult but, more importantly, gets lots of cats against his will in Renaissance Italy” idea that is connected tot his.

By the end of it, Ezio has been corralled into the tea room, being introduced to each cat that came in at the smell of food. (Ezio had been worried that the slices of meat were supposed to go with the cookies and tea but no, they were bait to get the cats in the room).

Desmond seemed happy to just introduce every cat to Ezio and they were willing to sit pretty long enough to be introduced before taking a slice of meat and running away.

They could still hear the argument in the courtyard but they were now far enough that Ezio doesn’t know what they’re arguing this time.

“We’ll wait here until they finished throwing knives at each other.” Desmond had said earlier and Ezio was left wondering just how much the two hate each other for them to regularly try and kill each other.

(They don’t. Desmond made them deal with their ‘problems’ by giving each other a time to vent it out while throwing a knife on the poor tree in the courtyard as some kind of DIY “smash these plates to let go of your rage” kind of thing.)

(They did it once, traumatized Shaun the cat who screamed bloody murder after seeing them in the middle of it. It was a weird time for everyone)

[riverdamien]

Climbing the Stairs-Up and Down

The Stairway of Religious Trauma-Walking Up and Down!

"For I handed on to you as of first importance what I also received and in which you also stand that Christ died for our sins in accordance to the Scriptures; that he was buried; that he appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve. After that, he seemed more than five hundred brothers and sisters at once.

"Jesus I often feel like I am lost in a swamp where there is no foothold, I float aimlessly, wounded and hungry. Nurse me with food of mercy even when I resist such nourishment. From the watering depths. I weep. Draw me out of the abyss, dry my wounds, and guide me to dry land" . . ., this is a prayer I often pray, when I find myself falling into the swamp of the trauma of religion through which I work, my own, and of my guys. There are days I am up on the stairs, others I am way down! No medication, or having tons of therapy as I have had, will fix that, it is living the questions!

In the last couple of days, there has been news from the United Methodist General Conference over the change in the laws concerning homosexuality, the laws which have split the denomination, and seeing them change is a hopeful sign. Still, the reality of my trauma, while coming from the United Methodist Church, and the trauma of my youth stems from the overall dogma of churches in general. The major denominations which have become open to queers, change their laws and appear to move on.

It is primarily because their leadership is straight. You give people rights, and everything is then okay, but the reality there are centuries of abuse and trauma left behind.

Like with all minority groups, unless you are a part of one, who has undergone discrimination, you truly do not understand. One can be an ally, and yet at night walk home and forget about where the other stands. One has to live it, to suffer it, to truly understand!

In the last couple of days, my trauma has been pricked, and I feel a lot of darkness, darkness over the "friends" and "family" I once had, and I wonder what my life would have been like if I had been raised as straight or in a way sexual identity was simply a part of life.  Like an alcoholic, I was almost 30 before coming out, and so stuck in my adolescence and acted like a fifteen-year-old.  I had to grow up.  It has been only in the last few years that I am no longer afraid, of the mistakes I have made, ones I still cry over, but more than anything related to myself is the darkness over the hundreds of people who have come through my ministry in the last thirty years, on the street and off, that religious groups have abused. I have sat with many who have cut their wrists, are so depressed, and have lives torn apart, all over the interpretation of a religious group's interpretation of the Bible, written two thousand years ago. I cry suffer, and go sleepless nights, remembering their pain, and where many wound up--on the streets, the morgue, living very lonely lives with really no understanding of themselves, hooked on drugs and alcohol.

Many throw the baby out with the bathwater when they throw the Church out of their lives they throw Jesus out as well,  but my relationship with Christ teaches me his way of love, Jesus is a real presence in my life, and as Desmond Tutu tells us  the heart of the teaching of Jesus, giving life is:

"We are each made for goodness and compassion. Our lives are transformed as much as the world is when we live with these truths."

Reading comments regarding a new certificate in writing on a memoir,  Stanford had developed, one stood out, "I am  a good person, my life is boring, you have to live a dysfunctional life to be in this class." And I wondered and (LMAO) what is this person hiding from, because all of us are wounded, we all live in houses that have broken ceilings, and we all suffer.

It matters not what God, if any, one believes in, we are called to live with love and compassion. All else falls by the wayside when we do that! Deo Gratias! Thanks be to God!

=================================================================================

Fr. River Damien Sims, D.Min., D.S.T.,Director

P.O. Box 642656

San Francisco, CA 94164

www.temenos.org

425-305-2124

Please give: Pay pal, or check

[sansacherie]

all granddaughters are princesses (in their grandmother’s eyes)

Red, puffy cheeks and runny nose, Catalina was far from a dainty crier.

She had barred herself in her room for the past hour or so.  It was all Hugo’s fault.   Robert, Perrianne, and Alys Belmont were visiting them with their lord father. They had been bored, and Catalina conscious of her role as host, suggested they play Aegon and Arianne. Perrianne had smoothed her braid and said she would be Arianne, while little Alys giggled and said their names sounded similar.  

Catalina frowned. “But I wanted to be Arianne.”  She could almost hear her lady mother scolding her, but Catalina didn’t care.  She wanted to be Arianne, especially if Robert was going to be Aegon. Robert was Hugo’s age.  He didn’t look anything like a Targaryen, but he had the loveliest brown eyes and dimples.  He was tall too, taller than Hugo, which Catalina knew secretly annoyed Hugo, who didn't like to bested in anything.

“But I said it first.” Perianne said.

“It doesn’t work like that.” Catalina huffed.  Then she paused, and decided to try diplomacy.  “Let me be Arianne first, then I promise you can have the next turn and Alys too.  It just makes sense for me to go first, because I’m practically a princess too.”

Hugo laughed. “You’re not a princess, Cat.”

Catalina wanted to throttle him.  Of course, she knew that. As always, he was missing the point. “Our father is Prince Desmond, is he not? And our Grandmother was a Queen, and our Great-Uncle a King.”

“That doesn’t make you a princess, though.” Hugo pointed out.  “You know that Northern law says that only the children of the eldest two are given royal titles. So, if Sansa and Wylla were here, one of them should be Arianne, not you.  Even a baby would know that.”

"I'm not a baby!"

“Nor a princess either.” Perriane laughed, and Alys’ cheeks looked like they were hurting from her valiant effort not to smile. Only Robert looked a little sorry for her, but there was a hint of impatience, judging by the restless tap of his foot.  

Lip wobbling, Catalina ran from them.  She knew it was shameful, but all she wanted now was to hide.

"Catalina, may I come in?"

She had told her brother to go away when he had knocked at her door, and refused to open it for either of their parents. But she would open it for her grandmother. Before getting up, Catalina rubbed at her eyes furiously.

Although her proper title was now Princess given her abdication, most people still referred to Sansa Stark as Queen.  To Cat, she was simply Grandmother. Catalina supposed that wasn’t surprising, though.  Catalina’s grandmother had ruled as the first Queen in the North.  She was one of several examples of women with such power. Although Hugo was the heir apparent, the succession laws passed by Aegon the Sixth or the Aegon the Returned or Aegon the Sun’s Promise or Aegon the Last or the Puppet Prince depending on your persuasion, meant that absolute primogeniture was discarded.  Once, Catalina’s nurse had told her he did so to honor his beloved, Arianne of Dorne. The less romantic explanation given by her father was that it was a necessary political move at the time.  Catalina saw the sense of that, but she couldn’t help but like Darla’s story a little better.  

Therefore, this meant that no younger brothers would push Catalina from her position in the succession line. Should Catalina’s older brother die unexpectedly, perhaps while they were still children, or as a grown man without issue, Catalina would be Lady of House Royce. Such a possibility sometimes felt like cold fingers brushing at the back of Catalina’s neck, but it was a possibility her parents wanted to prepare her for.

Grandmother was different from the other queens though, like the Young Wolf’s Queen Jeyne and Queen Krishna, wife to King Torrhen, as she ruled in her own right.   It had been Sansa Stark that managed to preserve the lives of the stubborn Northerners who would no longer kneel to a distant, southern king by finally and bloodlessly securing Northern independence.

Catalina loved hearing stories of her queen grandmother, and her great-aunt Princess Arya, who the singers paid homage to with their songs of her bravery during the War for the Dawn. Catalina’s father said that both Arya and Sansa had become hugely popular names, much in the same way Brandon the Builder did.  Cousin Rodrik who was of an age with Hugo, once wrote in one of his letters that he personally knew of half a dozen girls named in honor of their grandmother, and that Arya’s name was a particularly popular choice among the commons.

Better still than the stories, was seeing her grandmother herself. Catalina’s memory stretched back to when she was four, when Queen Sansa visited her son and his lady wife, followed by more visits in the fifth and sixth years of Catalina’s life.  Now she was seven, and Grandmother was visiting them again.

Each time, she would stay for a month or so, and it never felt long enough; but Mother said she should be grateful, as sometimes a person might not see their kin for years and therefore, she and Hugo were very lucky that their grandmother visited them as often as she did.  Catalina didn’t know how that could be true.  Their Northern cousins were the lucky ones, as Grandmother lived at Winterfell and they got to see her whenever they liked.

Grandmother sat down on the bed beside her. “What’s the matter, Catalina?” She asked gently, handing her a cloth to wipe her nose.

It was enough to make Catalina burst into a fresh river of tears.

“It’s not fair. Hugo is soooo mean a-an-d Sansa and Wylla and Rodrik get to see you whenever they like and they’re real princesses too!" She paused, hiccuping. "Well, just Sansa and Wylla, because Rodrik's a boy."

“Yes,” Catalina said miserably. “I know I’m not really a princess. I just wanted to be Arianne.”  She wiped her nose with the cloth. “I wish I was, though.”

“Come here,” Her grandmother held her close.

“Do you know how happy I was when you were born?”

Catalina shook her head.

“I couldn’t stop smiling for days. I adored my three boys, but I always wanted a daughter.”  Grandmother kissed her cheek. “ So I can’t tell you how happy I was when you were born. I would never have a little girl of my own, but I now had a precious little granddaughter.”

“Sansa and Wylla were born two years after me though, so it’s not like I was your only granddaughter for long.”  Catalina couldn’t help but rebut, but secretly she felt pleased all the same.

“That’s true. But you were my first granddaughter. Nothing can take that away.  And all granddaughters are princesses in their grandmother’s eyes.”

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone- Chapter 14

Warnings: possible body dysmorphia, mentions of past trauma and abuse

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @tragiclyhip​

Author’s Note: I have a serious case of extremely low self esteem (thanks anon hate!) and I can’t promise when the next chapter will be out. I’m hoping within the next few days. Fingers crossed!  So I’d post the one I was holding ‘hostage’. 

“I’m not too sure about this, Des,” Esme grumbles from behind a change room door in Bloomingdales.

It’s the last stop of the afternoon before a well deserved lunch; highly praised Thai food at a restaurant near Rockefeller that Desi had to book weeks in advance. It’s been years since she’d been THAT engrossed in a shopping trip; her feet aching and her cheeks hurting from laughing so much and dozens of bags in her possession. For twelve years she’s been caught up in her role as a mother; putting her own needs and wants on the back burner in favour of always making sure the kids never went without. Even with a ridiculous amount of money in the bank, she’d never concentrated on herself; perfectly content with her quiet and unassuming life in Australia, living rather simply and not needing much more than shorts, t-shirts, a small selection of bathing suits and a handful of jeans. It feels strange to be out in something other than her normal and preferred attire; used to choosing comfort over actual style and doing little more than throwing her hair up into a ponytail or messy bun. It had been nice to experience all of that again and had found herself most missing those younger days. When she’d pass the time with hours of window shopping and mindless browsing; daydreaming about all of the designer clothes and shoes and handbags she’d one day purchase if she ever won the lottery. But back then, it had been just that: daydreaming. And she can’t help but feel slightly guilty for splurging and buying things just for the sake of having them; outfits she may likely never wear and will hang in the closet with their original price tags still attached.

It’s hard to break free of that line of thinking; easily remembering the hard times when there’d been hardly any food in the cupboards and there’d been real worry about whether the utilities would be shut off or not. When Millie was still growing inside of her and she’d been trying to adjust to her new life in a new country; living with a man she barely knew but she already was already falling madly and crazily in love with. Materialistic things have never truly mattered; never heartbroken when she couldn’t afford brand new clothes or when their little apartment was filled with mismatched second hand furniture. Despite the financial concerns, they’d been truly happy. Engrossed in a ‘honeymoon stage’ of unbridled passion and lust; finding themselves thoroughly exploring and enjoying one another’s bodies while getting to know each other. It hadn’t been the most conventional of lifestyles; two broken people finding solace and healing in one another in Dhaka, an unplanned pregnancy, and quick and hasty cohabitation. And there’d been hard times; little quirks and hangs up the other had that annoyed them, heated arguments over stupid things, lingering trauma and plenty of nightmares thanks to their harrowing experience in Bangladesh. But somehow they’d made it work; a temperamental and moody Australian and a feisty and over emotional American. Falling in love despite their often enormous differences and making something so beautiful and lasting out of almost nothing.

“I don't know if this dress is my thing,” she frets, and smooths her hands down the side of the ridiculously expensive dress. It’s far more than she’d ever imagined paying for a single piece of clothing; immediately checking the price tag and having a small coronary when Desi had shoved the garment in her direction. Money is of no concern; in a thousand lifetimes the personal bank account will never run dry, nor will there never be a steady flow of impressive income coming in. But it just isn’t who she is; a woman with her wardrobe filled with designer apparel, far more comfortable in sweats from Target and one of her husband’s ratty t-shirts. “I’m just not too sure about it.”

“What is there NOT to be sure about?” Her friend’s voice filters in from the waiting area. “It’s Herve Leger. One of his best pieces yet. And it’s fabulous and it will look even more fabulous on you.”

“It’s too short,” she laments, and tries in vain to pull the hem down closer to her knees. “I don’t have the legs for this.”

“You don’t need legs for days to slay in that dress. And Big E, I’ve seen you in shorts. I know you’ve got killer stems. You can definitely pull this off. You’re worrying over nothing.”

“But it’s too tight. Way too tight.”

Desi sighs in exasperation. “It’s supposed to be tight. It’s a bandage dress.”

“It shows my rolls.”

“Excuse you? WHAT roles? Like you have rolls. Bitch, please.”

“I’ve had seven kids. Believe me, I have rolls. I’m twenty pounds heavier than when I first met Tyler. Twenty-two, actually.”

“And does he give a shit? No. I bet he likes the curves. I don’t see him complaining. Or looking at other women. He only has eyes for you.”

“Most biased man on earth,” she mutters, and studies her form from all sides. Easily remembering what her body had looked like almost thirteen years ago; thin and toned and extremely fit. A far cry from the ‘softness’ she possesses now; dips and valleys and curves where none had ever existed before.

“Isn’t his opinion the only one that really matters? Doesn’t he find you a straight up hottie?”

“That is not the point. He could be just trying to spare my feelings, you know.”

Desi gives a derisive snort. “Isn’t he still tripping over himself trying to get into her pants every available chance he gets? Quit your bitching. You’ve got a beautiful man that worships at the temple of YOU. Now get out here and let me see you.”

“Rolls, Desi. I have rolls.”

“Bullshit. And even if you did, that dress is like a corset. All the different bands built in? They hold everything. And I doubt you have anything to hold in the first place. Don’t make me break down the door and drag you out here. I am not above creating a scene. You should know this by now.”

“Don’t you dare go full queen diva on me.”

“Oh, I will. I will kick that door in and drag your tiny ass on out here for the world to see. Desmond Brownell does not play games. He’s on a mission. And his mission is to see you in that Herve Leger. Don’t make me pull a mommy move. Don’t make me count to three.”

“I tend to go with five, but…”

“Five then. Don’t make me go that direction. Because it will not end well for you. Or me. There’ll be tears. And not on my part. And most likely security guards tossing us both out on our asses. So we do this either the easy way or the hard way. And believe me, you don’t want the hard way.”

Sighing heavily, she smooths down the back and sides of the dress and once more tries to pull the bottom closer to her knees. To no avail. It is so far out of her comfort zone; a woman that insists on always covering her bathing suit with a t-shirt and refuses to remove it. “I am going to sneak into your house at night and kill you in your sleep,” she declares, as she undoes the hook latch on the door and swings it open. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. Keep your eyes closed. Until I tell you to open them.”

“I can’t believe YOU don’t realize that you’re a bonafide MILF. Even if it’s not for you, how bad could it be?”

“Ever seen a sausage when you try and stuff too much into the casing?”

“Have you ever talked to a shrink? You do not look the way you think you look. What DO you see when you look in the damn mirror?”

“I see gray hair, wrinkles, and stretch marks. I see frumpy and plain and boring and just…” sighing, she steps into the middle of the waiting area and frowns at her reflection being cast in several different mirrors. “...old. I see old.”

“I think you’ve done lost your damn mind. Shred brains cell with every baby you had. Because you sure as hell don’t look old. Not even close. Can I look yet?”

“Do you want to be traumatized?”

“Do you WANT me to beat your ass? Tell on you? I’ll tell your hubby. Don’t underestimate me. Then both of us will get on your ass and then what?”

“He’s hardly a good judge. He’d tell me I look good in a garbage bag. He is proof that love IS blind.”

“He is proof that there’s good men out there. Good loyal, faithful men. That love every inch of their woman. Inside and out. You know how lucky you are? To have someone like that? Do you see anyone strong enough to drag him off? I’m sure he’s had plenty of opportunities.”

“If the thirsty housewives back home and the new neighbour had their way, he’d be getting all kinds of ass. All kinds of variety.”

“What new neighbour?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over lunch. But yeah, he’s got a harem of women that would love for him to be tapping it.”

“But he loves tapping YOUR ass. And only your ass. Does he have a brother? Have I ever asked that? A gay brother by chance? Or a gay friend? Bi friend? Help me out here.”

“No brothers. No siblings at all. No gay friends. Not that I know of. But you know who WOULD have a gay friend? My sister in law.”

“I thought he didn’t have siblings?”

“Not Tyler. My sister’s wife. Shaena. She’d for sure have gay friends. And hot ones. You’ve met her.”

“Both her and your sister are fine as hell. I wouldn’t mind getting in the middle of THAT. Hook a brother up. Make it happen. I’ll be at your little Aussie Christmas. Score me a date for then. In the meantime, can I open my eyes now? Don’t leave a brother hanging.”

“As long as you promise you won’t laugh.”

“I am calling you a psychiatrist. You need help.”

“Fine,” she turns her back towards her friends, hands perched upon her hips. “ Look. But no smart ass comments and no laughing. My confidence can’t take it.”

“Your confidence needs a serious makeover. Now let me see.”

She watches through the mirror as his eyes flutter opening; slowly widening as far as they possibly can, followed by a dramatic collapse back into his seat and a hand placed over his heart.

“Fuck…” she grimaces. “...that bad?”

“That bad? That GOOD. Desmond Brownell approves. You look…” he gives two chef’s kisses. “...delicious. I’d bang you. And I have high standards.”

“I’ve seen some of your dates. Your standards are questionable at best.”

“You wound me, Big E. Mortally wound me. That…” he nods in her direction. “...was made for you. Your body is tighter and hotter than you obviously realize. Curves like a back road. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

“You don’t think it’s too much? Or should I say, too little? I am forty-one.”

“Who gives a shit? You look amazing.”

“I’ve had seven kids.”

“Especially amazing for someone that’s popped out that many crotch goblins. Sold. The dress is sold. This isn’t up for debate.”

“I can’t buy something like this. It’s just...not me.”

“It damn well is YOU. I’ll buy it for you. A little extra Christmas gift.”

“A thousand dollar dress is hardly a little Christmas gift. And it’s a little pricey, don’t you think? For fabric?”

“Honey, you really need to get out of Target and up your shopping game. I know how much money you all have, I know you can afford it. I know you could probably afford this whole store. And then some.”

“It isn’t about money. It’s about me. And being out of my comfort zone. I don’t dress like this. I live on the beach. In Australia. We wear shorts and tanks and never wear shoes. Where the hell would I wear this?”

“Date night.”

“Like we have places I could wear this to. I mean, I guess we could go to Cairns. I’ve seen women in some pretty expensive clothes there. I could always talk him into a weekend away. It wouldn’t be hard. And we are going to Santorini in April.”

“That’d be perfect for Santorini. Hell, just wear it in the house. In the bedroom. Just to spice things up a bit. I’m sure he doesn’t see you dressed up very often.”

“Try like never,” Esme laughs. “Okay, maybe that’s a lie. I DO wear makeup when we go out. And cute little sundresses.”

“What about when you got married?”

“I wore something off the clearance rack at a bridal store in Sydney. Cost a hundred bucks. It was nothing fancy.”

“But you wore a little tiara and veil and all that, right?”

“It wasn’t that kind of wedding. I was five months pregnant with Millie. It was a little wedding chapel. We had six guests. It wasn’t fancy.”

“E, you’ve been robbed. You need that bride moment. What about the first time?”

“Las Vegas. Even more casual. Zero out of five stars. Would not recommend.”

“Oh no, honey. No. That’s wrong. So wrong. You deserve so much better. You deserve a big day. You deserve to be a bride. A REAL bride. Poofy white dress, little bling in your hair, fancy little shoes…”

“Seven kids and I’m going to wear white? I think not.”

“I’m having a serious talk with that man of yours. Vow renewals are a thing you know.”

“He’s brought it up. A couple of times. Which is weird, because I never thought he’d ever think of something like that. This is Tyler we’re talking about. This is a man that can kill people with his bare hands. Who has his own brand of romance. Which I love, by the way. But it’s very odd he’d bring up something like that. Getting married again.”

“Maybe he wants to see you all done up. Looking like a bride.”

“Trust me, Des. Tyler doesn’t care about that stuff. That isn’t him.”

“Maybe he’s come to care about that stuff. Maybe he’s getting a softer side to him. Or, his soft side is getting even more soft.”

“Don’t ever tell him that. He’d kill YOU with his bare hands. Do you really think I should get this dress?”

“I think you’d be stupid not to. And you, are NOT a stupid woman. Treat yourself. You deserve it.”

“You know what? I do. I DO deserve it. And I think he’ll really like it. Maybe I’ll even give him a little sneak peek later. You know, to judge his reaction to it.”

“Oh I think I know what his reaction is going to be. Don’t wear any underwear. Just let him yank the dress up and have his way with you.”

“Maybe you know him better than I realize,” Esme laughs. “Fine. I’ll buy it. But if he hates it, I am totally throwing you under the bus.”

“Alright...alright…” Desi holds his hands up in surrender. “...I’ll take one for the team. Now get your little ass in there and get changed. This big man needs to eat.”

*****

“So this neighbour you mentioned,” Desi says, as he nods his appreciation at the hostess who seats them at their table, then gallantly pulls Esme’s chair out and waits for her to sit. “What’s that about?”

She rolls her eyes. “Natalie. She just moved in a few doors down. Her and her little girl.”

“Are you talking about the blond that has the goddamn gall to wear real fur?” Desi slides into the seat across from her. “The one that needs a chisel to take off her makeup at the end of the night?”

“That’s her. The one who looks like Sephora threw up on her face. Too bad you can’t apply makeup on the inside to make something more attractive. Because she is a real peach.”

“Bottle of your best house red,” Desi requests, and then flips open the leather bound menu placed in front of him. “How’d you meet her?”

“Well, it turns out she doesn’t just have the gall to wear real fur. She also has the gall to go after married men. And in this case, MY man.”

“Uh oh. Something tells me this didn’t end well.”

“I’m very protective of what’s mine. Maybe some people would call it possessive.”

“I definitely would call it that. Not that I blame you. I’d be the same way. Hell, I’d probably never let him leave the damn house.”

“I know what a good thing I have. I know how hot my husband is. I’ve seen him naked. Many times. What’s underneath? Even better than what’s on top. And what’s on top? That’s really damn good, know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean. And I’m just saying, I wouldn’t protest if you sent me nudes of him. Our little secret.”

“My husband IS hot. And he’s beautiful and he’s amazing and he’s this walking study in masculinity. But he’s just that. MY husband. I don’t share. With anyone.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve spent three years begging you just to let me cop a feel.”

“So I don’t appreciate some thirsty female from five doors down, honing in my territory. No one is pissing in my front yard. No one. And it’s not just that I’m possessive and there’s no way in hell I’m sharing great dick, but Tyler isn’t like that. He doesn’t do shit like that. He is a lot of things, but a cheater is not one of them. That is one thing I’ve never had to worry about. He is loyal. Fiercely loyal. And he’s had his chances. If he wanted to stray, he would have. Easily.”

“Never struck me as the type who would. He’s way too in love with you. Way too faithful. I see the way he looks at you. Stars and hearts in his eyes. He definitely thinks rainbows and butterflies fly out your ass. So this Natalie…”

“They met at the park. He took Tanner there; after their morning out. And this Natalie was there. Tyler made small talk. And small talk is even exaggerating. Tyler doesn’t do small talk. Any talk, for that matter.”

Desi nods in agreement. “Took me damn near a whole weekend just to get him to say two words. That voice though? Woody. Instant.”

“Well I guess Natalie took his small talk for something else entirely. Which I don’t get, because Tyler is civil, at best. He’s just not a people person. He tries. But you know what he’s like. How he comes across. He’s very rough around the edges and doesn’t take shit and doesn’t care for formalities. He’s a man of very few words. Whatever words he said, she read way too much into. She showed up at the house. Looking for him.”

Desi looks up from his menu, a scowl forming on his face. “She did not.”

“Oh, she very much did. And get this. She made him cookies.”

“What kind of cookies?”

Esme stares at him pointedly.

“I like details. I’m detail oriented. I can’t help it.”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

“The most traitorous cookie out of them all. For shame. I’m disappointed. If you want a man to climb in your bed, you don’t lead with oatmeal raisin. Please tell me your man don’t like that shit.”

“Rest assured, he hates them and your opinion and lust for him can stay intact. But you can believe that? She came calling on my husband. She brought him cookies. And I’m pretty sure if he’d been home, she would have offered him HER cookie.”

“Probably just as nasty as the ones she makes. Probably got cobwebs and dust bunnies and all that shit. Maybe even a barbed wire fence blocking the entrance. So what happened?”

“Well, she got the cold shoulder and snarkiness from Millie first.”

“That’s my girl.”

“And then I talked to her and she was bitchy and off hand and she’s lucky I didn’t throat punch her. She had all kinds of snarky things to say. About my name, about my appearance, about having so many kids. I let her know that I wasn’t having any of her shit. That I was onto her. I told her I didn’t know what kind of married men she was used to, but my husband isn’t one of them. That he wasn’t...and never would be...interested.”

“And?”

“And she left. We fed the cookies to the dogs. Or tried to. Even they didn’t like them. Man’s best friend, indeed.”

A waitress brings the wine; cheerfully introducing herself before taking their orders. Desi waits until she leaves before uncorking the bottle and filling both glasses. Offering a toast to a warm and safe Christmas holiday and the perks and perils of love and friendships. And they’re in the middle of sharing stories of his last trip to Australia -his encounters with the both the ‘friendly neighbourhood Aussies’ and the wildlife that so freely roams and enjoys their stretch of land- when her cell phone loudly vibrates within the confines of her purse. Had Tyler not been out with all of the children and it not been a common thing to often run into some kind of issues with handling so many bodies, she would have just ignored it. And she wishes she had; frowning at the number splashed across the screen and then dropping the phone back into her bag.

“Your mom again?”

Nodding, she takes a swallow of wine. “Third time already today. Only four or five more to go. Maybe she’ll even make it an even dozen before sundown.”

“Can she not read the signs? It’s quite obvious you don’t want to speak to her. What’s her issue?”

“It’s probably easier to ask ‘what isn’t her issue?’. There’s many. So very, very, VERY many.”

“I already know about what she was like you when were growing up. I’m surprised you turned out as normal and sane as you are. It’s more than that?”

“So much more, Des. Where do you want me to start?”

“Start with the biggest one. Or most recent.”

“She hates Tyler. With the passion of a thousand fiery suns. The seventh layer of hell? I don’t think that even burns as hot as her hate for him.”

“Why? He’s a good guy. Treats you right, loves his kids. Will fight like hell to protect what’s us. Die for it, even. What’s to hate?”

“So you know how Tyler and I met. The whole ‘pretend husband and wife’ thing.”

“Yeah, to find Ovi and save him. What about it?”

“Well you also know what happened. During those five days in Dhaka. Between Tyler and I. Believe me when I say that I’m not normally like that. Spend nearly a week banging a guy I barely know. Unprotected, at that. And at the risk of too much information, Tyler was only the third guy I’d ever been with. Sexually speaking. So what happened between us? Totally uncharacteristic for me. It was unconventional. How we met. But, it worked out. We wanted more. We wanted to get to know each other. See if we could make something out of nothing. And we did. We made a life. A beautiful life. And seven little human beings.”

“And she’s got a problem with that because…?”

“After what happened on the bridge, I decided to stay. At the hospital he was flown to in Mumbai. It was touch and go and he didn’t have anyone else and if he wasn’t going to make it, I didn’t want him to be alone. He deserved better than that. And a week later they brought him out of the medically induced coma and he was breathing on his own and he woke up and he was so happy to see me. You should have seen how he smiled at me, Des. He has a beautiful smile. But that? That smile he gave when he realized I was real and I was actually sitting there? By his bed? I had never seen anything like that and I’ve never seen anything like it since. He was happy and relieved and he wanted me there. He even said he was scared to close his eyes at night because he was afraid I wouldn’t be there when he woke up.”

“He was already head over heels for ya. Guess that was his way of telling you.”

“When the hospital said they were shipping him to another back in Australia, he asked if I would go with him. By then I was already invested. I mean, it was three weeks later and I’d already spent time helping him feed himself and getting him on his feet and to the bathroom and taking him to in-patient physio and all of that. I was already in love with him. Of course I was going to Australia. It was never in doubt.”

“And let me guess, it ruffled your mother’s feathers.”

Nodding, Esme takes a long sip of wine. “She wasn’t in control. Of me. And she couldn’t stand it. Neither she or my brothers no longer had in any say in how I was going to live my life. The Esme they knew? She died on that bridge. Or maybe she was left behind. I had a chance. To make a new life for myself. And I took it. I went to Australia and I decided that was where I wanted to be. I wanted to be with HIM. So I took what money we had and I got us an apartment and he put me in charge of handling everything; medical decisions, financial stuff. And then, I found out I was having Millie. Which, to be honest, wasn’t a huge surprise because what do you expect when you spend five days having totally unprotected sex? And I told Tyler and I gave him a choice. If he didn’t want me or the baby, I’d walk away and I’d go home and I’d never contact him again. I told him I didn’t expect anything from him. And I didn’t want him feeling obligated to me or the baby.”

“That must have went over well.”

“Well, needless to say, he wanted the baby. And me. So I stuck around. I was by his side through his whole hospital stay and through all the therapy and his stint in rehab and then we settled down in our new life. And we got married and had Millie. My family? They couldn’t stand it. They couldn’t accept it. They couldn’t accept HIM.”

“All because you decided to make a new life for yourself?”

“That was it. Tyler became public enemy number one. My mom convinced everyone that he stole me away. That he was manipulative and abusive and that I was scared to leave him.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Right? Tyler is so far from manipulative or abusive. He lived that life. He was on the receiving end of that. And he’s tried his hardest not to walk in his father’s footsteps. And believe me, he’s nothing like his old man. Not in the slightest. But no matter how much or how hard I argue, she doesn’t listen to me. She sees him as this horrible person. That took her baby girl away. And when he had the nerve to stick up for me? Against her and my brothers? That made things worse! You think they would have been happy. I found this amazing man who’s totally in love with me; who sees past all my bullshit and my ugly parts. That should have been enough for them. A guy that’s made me the centre of his universe. Who makes me happy and who I love more than I ever thought I COULD love someone. Who helped me make seven incredible little human beings. Why isn’t any of that enough?”

“I don’t know,” Desi says. “I wish I did. I wish I had the answers. ALL the answers.”

“Yet they practically idolize Mark. It makes no sense. They knew what he was like. They knew he was abusive. And they enabled him. They gaslighted me just as much as he did. And I would have left a thousand times over had they not constantly pressured me into giving him another chance. Had they not convinced me that everything was my fault. My mom stayed friends with him. Right up until he died. What kind of sick person does that? Stays friends with their own kid’s abuser?”

“You hit the nail on the head. A sick one.”

“Constantly kissing his ass and making him out to be some kind of white knight yet having all this shit to say about Tyler. They hate him because he refuses to be like them. Because he stands up to them. Because for once, someone loves me enough to have my back. That’s it. That’s why they hate him. And the things they’ve said? Especially since finding out he’s a mercenary? Constantly wishing death on him? Saying him dying would be the best thing to happen to me and the kids? Who says things like that? I almost lost Addie because of her. I came back from Ireland because I found out I was pregnant and my mom got on her bullshit and I almost lost my baby. Tyler came all the way back just to make sure I was okay. He wouldn’t have done it if he’s even a fraction as evil as they claim he is.”

“You realize it that isn’t really about him, right? That it’s all them. Because they don’t have that control. Over you.”

“I thought it would be all over and done with when we kicked my brother to the curb. I thought once he and Tyler had it out and Tyler kicked the shit out of him, that would be it. That we’d never hear from any of them again. You know how peaceful it’s been? Five years of no phone calls, no text messages, no emails. Five years of pure bliss. And now this…” she nods down at the purse sitting in her lap. “...her on my ass every day, multiple times a day. Isn’t it enough that I acknowledge that the kids received their Christmas gifts? That I showed appreciation and I said they’d send thank you cards? You think that would be enough. Our lives have been so good. Quiet and happy and peaceful. And it’s like she knows that. It’s like she knows how good things are and just has to screw it all up.”

“Normally I say just ignore them. Just wash toxic people out of your life and keep them out of your life. But if she’s as determined as she is, it’s only going to get worse. She won’t stop trying to get a hold of you. And as hard as it’ll be to talk to her, that might be the only way to get her to stop. Let her know. Say ‘thanks, but no thanks’.”

“I can not allow her back into my life. OUR lives. I can’t allow any of them back in. I will NOT have my kids surrounded by that ugliness. I will not have people around them that talk shit about their father. Because you know what? I know he’s not perfect. I know he has his issues. He’s the first one to admit it. But he is an amazing dad and he is totally devoted to those kids and they love him beyond all comprehension. And I won’t allow people to talk about him like that. I won’t allow them to break my kids’ hearts…” her voice cracks with emotion, and she takes a swallow of wine to clear away the lump sitting square in her throat. “....I won’t let anyone talk about Tyler like that. He’s not a perfect man, but he’s a good man. And he loves me and he loves his kids. He saved me, Des. In every way a person can be saved. And I won’t let anyone disrespect him like that.”

“Tell them that. Tell them EXACTLY that.”

“I have. I have said it until I was practically blue in the face. They don’t care. They say I’m ‘defending my abuser’. In what alternate universe is he considered an abuser? He has never...ever...raised a hand to me. He’s always said he’d kill himself before he ever let things get that out of control. That he’d never be able to live with himself if he even thought about hurting me like that. And maybe in a way, I DO understand some of the way they think. He’s lived a hard life. A violent life. First the military, then as a mercenary. Yes, he’s killed people. With his bare hands. But he’s never done it because he wanted to. Or because he enjoyed it. He did it because he HAD to. Because it was either him or them. He is not a monster. Regardless of what they think. Or even he thinks sometimes.”

“You’ve never been scared of him?”

“Never. And you know what? If he WANTED to, he could do some serious damage to me. He could kill me. No question about it. But that thought has never, ever crossed my mind. I’ve never been afraid of him. Not even at his worst. When he went back to drinking all the time and abusing the pain meds and we fought constantly. And yeah, there were times he DID lose it. Where he put a fist through the wall or grabbed me trying to stop me from walking away or trying to calm me down and talk some sense into me. But I’ve never been scared of him. Because even at his worst, I knew he loved me. I knew none of his issues were about me. That was him and his brain and not knowing how to cope. And they just don’t get it. They think he’s somehow frightened me into sticking around. That he’s been forcing me to have children. Because it somehow keeps me around.”

“Sounds more like they have the issues. Not you guys.” Desi reaches for the bottle of wine, refilling both their glasses.

“We’re not perfect. And Lord knows we have had some really shitty times. Where we didn’t think we were going to make it. But you know what? We did. We fixed our shit and we made things work. We both busted our asses to change. And he still busts his ass every day to make up for all the bad. We work at it, Des. Every day we work at it. Because we love each other and we both know what it's like to be from a broken home. And we won’t do that to our kids. We won’t let them grow up like that. So we work at it. And it hasn’t been easy. But there’s been more great times than bad times.”

“You two are strong. What you got is strong. No one can deny that. I’ve seen it. With my own two eyes.”

“I will not let my family ruin us. They tried. And in Colorado, they almost succeeded. But we got away. We moved back home. Our REAL home. And we never looked back. I won’t let them destroy things for us. Not when we’ve worked so hard to get where we are.”

“You’re going to have to deal with her, Esme. She isn’t going to go away. Not from what I’ve seen.”

“And I will. I WILL talk to her. After Christmas. I just want to get through the holiday. I just want things to be happy and peaceful. Especially for the kids. I don’t want anyone ruining Christmas for them. Once it’s over and things calm down, I WILL talk to her. But right now? I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

“It’s all going to be alright,” Desi assures her, and reaches across the table to give her hand a comforting squeeze. “Everything’s going to work out.”

“Tyler isn’t perfect. He’s the first one to admit that. In the same way I’m not. But you know what? We’re perfect for each other. And in the end, that’s all that matters.”

*****

When she arrives home she finds the three littlest fast asleep; tightly snuggled together on the area rug in front of the Christmas tree and covered by the knitted throw usually draped over the back of the sofa. Saju and Mac nap close by; curled up together in front of the front of the fireplace and merely blinking their eyes in a form of acknowledging her presence. She can hear Millie and Alannah upstairs; giggling and chattering, their feet stomping overhead as they play a dance game on the XBox. The three oldest boys are out in the backyard; laughter drifting inside as they hide behind ‘fortress’ walls and lob snowballs at one another. It's rare to see the three of them enjoying time together. Tanner normally not comfortable with the more raucous play and choosing quiet time; up in his room reading a book or writing stories or building intricate lego scenes in front of the fireplace.

She stands in the sunroom and watches them; smiling at how jovial and lighthearted they are. Their faces bright and happy; no cares in the world aside from the balls of snow and ice being tossed in their direction. Despite everything they’d been through, they’re spirits so brilliant and bubbly, continuing to love the world and everyone in it. Tanner and TJ (along with Millie) are able to remember the more difficult times in Colorado and being whisked to Mumbai under false pretenses; told they were going on a family vacation only to be sent back to Australia without either parent and then told their father very well might never come home. They still talk about it from time to time; how scary it had been to be away from both mom AND dad and how worried they’d been when they thought their daddy may never make it back to them. They’re able to vividly recall visiting him in the hospital; the scars and bruises on his face that had been in various stages of healing, the sling keeping his badly wounded and surgically repaired shoulder in place, the ‘cage’ that had encased his right thigh, the tremendous amount of weight and muscle he had lost. It HAD been traumatic; more than two months without their father under the same roof and seeing him so wounded and vulnerable.

They’d needed their own therapy; the trauma manifesting itself through moments of rage and aggression and troubles sleeping at night. A child psychologist recommended to them by Doctor Klein had done them all a world of good; disguising therapy with music and play and helping them express their emotions and their fears. And within six months they were back to their old selves; grades climbing and their social skills improving, the rage and aggression diminishing. It still haunts them from time to time; a fear that returns whenever daddy has to leave home for work. But for the most part they’ve healed exceptionally well; full of energy and light and humour and possessing enormous amounts of compassion and empathy.

She finds Tyler in the main floor office; a central area of the main floor that had been the previous owner’s sewing and craft room. It’s close enough to keep an ear out for the kids; able to hear them both inside and out. And a security system enables him to keep an eye on any area of the house; live images cast back to the flat screen television mounted on the wall above the desk. Five years years ago she would have called him paranoid for insisting on such measures. Overprotective, even. But that was until someone had gotten close enough to Addie to steal a stuffed animal right out of her crib. Had the culprit wanted her, she would have been long gone in the middle of the night. And they most likely never would have seen her again. The terror of that night is still very real; the thought of someone reaching across her tiny body to take something so simple in the course of sending a very clear message.

After that, Esme had vowed to never call him paranoid or overprotective again. Evil had gotten too close. WAY too close. And she now understands his fierce and rabid determination to do whatever it takes to keep his family safe.

She watches him from the doorway; intently working at the computer. Admiring the glasses perched upon his face and the lines of his profile; the strong, stubbled jaw and the curve of his lips and the bump in the bridge of his nose. The scars that had long ago become part of him. Marring the left side of his forehead and by his left eye; old wounds that he’d possessed when they’d first met. A handful of others have been added since then. The edge of a metal shovel cutting wide and deep; the scar travelling from the very corner of his right eye and up his forehead and snaking up into his hairline. And the ones left behind from Nathan. The one above his eyebrow thin and faint, the one below his eye much wider and jagged and stretching all the way to his temple. That one had been the worst; deep enough for the knife blade to hit bone and cause irreparable damage to nerves and muscle. And while most would see them as blemishes and flaws, she sees it as adding to his beauty; souvenirs of not only a hard and dangerous life, but of survival.

“Hey,” she greets as she wanders into the room. “What’cha doing, handsome?”

“Just some shit that came up. I would have ignored it, but…”

She stands at the back of his chair. Fingers and thumbs rubbing at tense shoulder muscles before wrapping both arms around his neck; leaning over him and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, followed by his temple. “Everything alright?”

“Koen ran into some issues. On the job he took. Not going as smooth as we’d hoped it would. Just had to send him some extra cash. And put him in contact with someone who could get him some extra gear.”

“He’s alright though? He’s not in any trouble?”

“He’s fine. Nothing he can’t handle. I know I said I wouldn’t bother with work stuff until we go back home, but…”

“Sometimes it can’t be helped. It’s the nature of the beast. It isn't the most predictable of careers. I’m glad to see you survived your day out with the spawn. Is your sanity still intact?”

“What was left of it. I don’t know how much I had to begin with.”

“I also noticed all seven AND Alannah made it back. Success.”

“They were good. No trouble. They all behaved themselves. Shockingly.”

“Your feral offspring all behaving at once? Hell must have frozen over.”

He gives a small chuckle, then turns his face into her and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. A frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he pulls back to look at her.

“What’s that look for?”

“Why do you still have your hat on? It’s fucking boiling in here.”

“It’s part of my surprise. I have something to show you.”

“Yeah?” A slow grin begins to spread across his face. “I’ve already seen you naked. Many times. Not that it’s not awesome each time it happens. I’m not complaining.”

“As much as I’d love to just drop my clothes right here and rock your world, it’s something else. I did something. While I was out.”

“New ink?”

“Nope.”

“You got something pierced, didn’t you. Something naughty. Something very naughty.”

“You wish. Those days are long behind me. But it is a surprise. And I want you to promise you won’t freak out. When you see it.”

“How bad is it? Usually when you tell me not to freak out, it’s pretty fucking bad.”

“It’s not bad. It’s just...surprising. You ready?”

“Is it a good thing I’m already sitting down?”

“It’s probably for the best. Turn your chair towards me and close your eyes.”

“Esme…”

“Tyler…”

“What the hell have you done?”

“Just do it. Humour me. Please.”

“Fine.” Turning his back towards the computer, he closes his eyes. “This isn’t where you tell me you want to try pegging is it? Because I thought I’ve already made it perfectly clear that there is no fucking chance of that happening. EVER.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s nothing sexual. Get your mind out the gutter, sheesh.”

“I’m sorry, have we met? It permanently lives in the gutter.”

“Never mind viagra. Maybe they can give you something to calm your dick down.”

“You’d miss it. Don’t deny it. It would hurt you just as much as it would hurt me. Are we going to do this surprise sometime today or…?”

Removing the knit beanie from her head, she tosses it out the desk and then runs her fingers through her hair. She feels naked and exposed; the dark tresses that had once reached the middle of her back now shorn and styled into a side parted, sleek bob that skims her earlobes. “Promise you won’t freak out.”

“I promise I won’t lose my shit.”

“Okay...open them...but remember, no freaking out.”

“I don’t know what the big deal is. If it’s nothing dirty or kinky or piercing of some kind…” His eyes flutter open, then slowly widen as the reality of what’s before him sets in.

“You hate it don’t you.”

“I don’t hate it. I just...wow...that’s...NOT what I was expecting.”

“You do, don’t you. Hate it. I knew you would. You always hate when I do something with my hair. Like when I decided to get bangs.”

“In all fairness, I didn’t hate them. I just wasn’t a fan.”

“But you HATE this? This haircut. You hate it being so short, don’t you.”

“Actually…” he slides the chair closer to her and lays his hands on her hips. “...I love it.”

“Yeah?” A smile replaces the nervous frown. “Really?”

“Really. I wouldn’t lie to you, Me. That’s not who I am. Not anymore, anyway.”

“You sure you like it? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

“I think you look beautiful. It suits you. You got this cute, tiny little face. Your hair shows it off. I really do love it. You look amazing.”

Placing her hands on the sides of his face, she leans down to kiss him. “It was time for a change. Something different. Something I didn’t have to spend hours on when we go out. You’re sure? One hundred percent? You really do love it?”

“I do. You look beautiful.” Laying a palm on the back of her head, he pulls her down into a kiss. And she laughs into his mouth when his free hand latches onto her hip and she loses her balance and topples into him. “You’re beautiful, Me. Always.”

“I really was worried you wouldn’t like it,” she says, as she settles herself sideways on his thighs. “So you’ve made my day. My year, actually.”

“It suits you. You look amazing, baby. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Speaking of making my year, I’m about to make yours.”

“We’re talking about butt stuff, aren’t we.”

“No!” she laughs, and playfully tousles his hair. “I mean, maybe later. When the kids are out.”

“Where are they going? You banishing them to the backyard?”

“Desi offered to take them.”

“All of them?”

“Every last one. Even Alannah. He’s going to take them out for dinner and to Central Park. To see Santa and the reindeer. Maybe do some skating. And then, he’s going to take them to his place. They’re going to have a camp out. In the living room.”

“So we get the house to ourselves? All night?”

“All night,” she confirms. “And well into the morning. You know what that means?”

“Butt stuff.”

She sighs in exasperation. “I means you don’t have to wait until New Years Eve for wild and crazy AND noisy sex with your wife.”

“We might have to tone down the noise. The kids will be right next door. They could still hear us.”

“That’s a fair point. So noisy is out. But wild and crazy are definitely in.”

Tyler grins. “I can do wild and crazy.”

“Oh, I know you can. You’re a master at it. A master at anything sexual, now that I think about it. Man, did I ever luck out. Landing you.”

“I don’t know, I think I’m the lucky one. Girl like you putting up with my shit? You’re one in a million, babe. No doubt about it.”

“I love you,” she says, pressing a kiss to his ear and then nuzzling his temple with the tip of her nose. “More than you could ever know. And thank you. For being you. And for loving me the way you do.”

Smiling, he turns his face into hers and places his lips to her brow; a hand coming up to comb through her hair, palm settling on the nape of her neck. “You’ve made it pretty damn easy.”

[rainymeadows]

Masterpost of my #drownout2020 fics

Or at least, the ones I’ve done so far. Here’s a few things to read if you’re like me and would rather see literally anything other than p*rn of a preteen!

Hershel’s Secret Stash Professor Layton's family confront him about the secret box he keeps under his bed. Loosely connected to The Families of Jean Descole. Word count: 1,188

My Sunflower Des is confused. Who on earth lives in LA that his brother could be sending flowers to? Loosely tied to The Families of Jean Descole. Word count: 865

The (Not Very) Haunted House There have been strange occurrences around the Layton household. Alfendi and Katrielle think a ghost might be responsible, but could there be a more conventional explanation for the scratching, wailing and doors swinging by themselves? Loosely tied to The Families of Jean Descole. Word count: 1,679

The Comforts of Home Unable to sleep after that hellish witch trial, Hershel Layton finds himself alone with the only person as out of place in Labyrinthia as he is. Aka what Phoenix and Layton did while Maya and Luke were out searching for Eve. Word count: 3,033 words

Meeting the (Potential) In-Laws Des meets the man his brother is so enamoured with, but he isn't entirely sure if he likes this upstart American... Loosely tied to The Families of Jean Descole. Word count: 1,626

Professor Layton vs Phoenix Wright: The Dog and Duck Two men. Two glasses. One pub. Who will win in this epic showdown of liver against liver? Loosely tied to The Families of Jean Descole Word count: 4,535

The Layton Family Bake Peanut Butter Cookies And a good time is had by all. Loosely tied to The Families of Jean Descole. Word count: 3,051

Professor Layton and the Cursed Laptop One of the Professor's students comes to him with a terrible problem. Will he be able to solve it and save the boy from a fate worse than death? Word count: 818

Candle In The Wind Her favourite song comes on the radio... and the Professor can't bear to hear it and be reminded of everything he's lost. Set in the aftermath of Unwound Future. Word count: 1,722

Someone Saved My Life Tonight... Stumbling through the streets after a horrible attack, Hershel Layton is rescued by the last people he ever would have expected. Word count: 2,802

And while I’m here, I’d like to link a couple of fics that I didn’t write for the drownout, but that I’m proud of and would like to share nonetheless!

The Families of Jean Descole An imagining of the life of Desmond Sycamore, how he adopted the facade of Jean Descole and his furious vendettas, and what became of him once the world no longer needed either of those identities. Word count: 30,384

Professor Layton vs Phoenix Wright: The Frigid Melody A chance encounter on a northbound train leads Professor Layton and his young friend Luke to once again team up with the hapless lawyer Phoenix Wright, now accompanied by his sweet little daughter Trucy. At first, the Professor's latest mystery seems like a straightforward missing persons case, but after arriving in the haunted village of Fatargan, Layton and Phoenix soon realise that if they ever hope to make it out of here, they'll have to understand the village, its people, and each other. Word count: 154,319 (incomplete, 13 chapters posted out of 28 total)

[newagesispage]

                                                                        MAY                 2021

The Rib Page

*****

George Takei is sweatin’ with the oldies. He stars in a fitness app for gay seniors, Bar Belles. It was his April Fool’s day joke.

*****

Fox will bring us Crime Scene Kitchen on May 26 with host Joel McHale.

*****

Joel Hodgson has launched a new kick starter to create a new independent season of MTS3K, The goal is $2mil.

*****

Bob Odenkirk will release: Comedy, comedy, comedy, drama: A Memoir on Jan. 18 2022

*****

Leslie Jones will host the 2021 MTV Awards.

*****

$3 mil was raised for Next for Autism with help from Conan, Kimmel, Charlize, Chris Rock, Jack Black and Sarah Silverman.

*****

Have ya noticed that Gayle King looks great in yellow.

*****

Some people are not too happy that Elon Musk will host SNL on May 8. Miley Cyrus is the musical guest.** Musk tweeted: Let’s find out just how live SNL really is. Cast member Bowen Yang tweeted back, : What the Fuck does this even mean?

*****

Oh Seth Meyers: Every time I see the sea captain on your show, I miss him so much!!

*****

There is a spotlight on Foxconn which made a big splash for Trump at the start of his presidency. The company has done a lot of nothing but still gets tax cuts. Homes were demolished, roads were widened to nowhere and money was spent. Wisconsinites are upset that this big business is just folly and a big glass orb.

*****

Mike Lindell is a kook but he did try to appear to be a good sport on Kimmel.

*****

When will weed be legal on a federal level? When will drug testing for employment be illegal? We hear so much about personal rights with the gun laws and vaccines and masks. What about the right to do what we want with our bodies when we are not at work. Think of the administrative costs that could be saved if we just removed drug testing. Our experience and work ethic should mean more that what we do with our free time. This is not a problem at all companies. There are places in this country where it is near impossible anywhere in your area to get hired without a drug screening. One joint on a random Saturday night could keep someone from a great opportunity. A person in pain who reaches for an edible might miss out on the job that saves their lives.

*****

NASA sent the first flight to another planet. The Mars flight made history with the 30 sec feat.

*****

What? The Menendez brothers are popular again? From the Ramsey case to the Manson murders or Bundy, it all comes back around again.

*****

The Lizzie Borden house just sold for $2mil to Lance Zaal of U. S. Ghost Adventures.

*****

Quarantine and so much television et al proves one thing, the pharmaceutical and insurance companies have way too much $.

*****

Trump told everyone to boycott Coke and is later seen drinking diet Coke.** Trump sent out a statement about how bad the Oscars are. They threw it right back in his face. ** Federal agents have searched Giuliani’s Manhattan apartment. It stems from the 2 year investigation into activities in Ukraine.

*****

X-VP Pence is said to have pressured the Navy to reinstate former Mo. Gov. Eric Greitens. Greitens was accused of tying up, blindfolding, taking explicit photos of and blackmailing a woman.

*****

There is a crisis in schools with the lack of civics and history being taught.

*****

Hulk Hogan was hit with a chorus of Boo’s at his latest event.

*****

The latest sexual harassment news: Matt Gaetz  is being looked into for sex with a minor and sex trafficking.  Bill Barr opened the investigation.** Tom Reed has been accused of sexual misconduct by former lobbyist, Nicolette Davis.** Marilyn Manson has been sued by Game of Thrones, Esme Bianco for sexual abuse.

*****

What is going on with Bank of America? I am hearing from multiple people that often they do not get their statement in the mail. Is this a bad Postal service? Is this bad business practice? How many late fees had to be paid because of this? Not everybody wants to pay their bills online.

*****

Jack Hanna has revealed that he has dementia.

*****

Tiny Tim : King for a day is a new doc I must see. The film contains footage shot from Warhol’s Factory. There are excerpts from Tim’s diary read by Weird Al Yankovic and the story of how Tiny’s friend, Bob Dylan wanted to make a film with him.

*****

Lindsay Lohan’s Father, Michael has been charged with 5 counts patient brokering and 1 count of attempted patient brokering. This is an apparent scam of steering addicts into rehab for cash.

*****

Aaron Sorkin and Paulina Porizkova are dating. Pete Davidson and Phoebe Dynevor are dating.

*****

JB Smoove has a new podcast brought to you by TeamCoco.

*****

Hey.. People working on the new Law and Order: Organized Crime….. TOO MUCH MELONI!!

*****

*****

Zach Avery, actor, was arrested for his participation in a $690 mil Ponzi scheme.

*****

President Biden has restored aid to the Palestinians.

*****

MLB put up a wall in Georgia but the Masters stayed.

*****

Hank Azaria has brought Brockmire to a new podcast.

*****

Tommy Chong isn’t allowed on FB because of his weed posts but they allow an imposter to use his name to sell weed.

Pennsylvania is trying to push thru 14 voter suppression bills.

*****

Joe Manchin. Ugh!!** Marjorie Taylor- Greene has let go of her America First caucus.** Ted Cruz has allegedly used $154, 000 of his campaign funds to buy up copies of his book to boost sales. This is an old trick but still illegal.

*****

For the first time, The Carter Center became involved in a U.S. election. They published videos and live webcasts as well as deploying observers across Georgia.

*****

Most health programs in Uganda, Nigeria and Ethiopia have resumed after Covid.** Tom Vilsack from the Dept. of Agriculture has announced the USDA will provide assistance to 30 million kids.** It is sad to me that we have to entice people to vaccinate. Football games, Church’s and shot for shot in bars?? Really? Saving the lives of others should be enough. WTF?

*****

Alec Baldwin, Alec Mapa and Kelsey Grammer are shopping around a new comedy that ABC decided to pass on.

*****

Chauvin was found guilty.

*****

Days alert: C’mon Ben, calm the fuck down! Don’t prove how out of control you are like everybody thinks. ** Xander is so funny right now.** How many people will Kristen be and how many times can one person melt down?? **Bring Carrie back!! **Jackee’ seemed a bit nervous in the beginning but she is fitting right in. More!

*****

The SAG awards came and went. With the Trial of the Chicago 7 winning best ensemble, Michael Keaton is the first person to be in 3 best casts for SAG’s.** Other winners include Viola Davis, Chadwick Boseman, Daniel Kaluuta, Youn Yuh-Jung, Mark Ruffalo, Anya Taylor- Joy, Jason Bateman, Catherine O’Hara, Schitt’s Creek and The Crown.

*****

The Oscars were held on April 25. It was a bit of a yawner and why would a show set themselves up for an awkward end?? There was a commercial from P&G right before the broadcast that stated, “ Widen the screen so we can widen our view.” Nice sentiment.  Mank had so many noms and only 2 wins. People looking their best to me were Leslie Odom Jr., Glenn Close, Riz Ahmed, LaKeith Stanfield, Colman Domingo, John Batiste, Mia Neal, Questlove (gold crocs and a mask!), Desmond Roe, Travon Free, Trish Summerville, Marlee Matlin, The Lucas Brothers, Andra Day, Carey Mulligan, Amanda Seyfried, Nicolette Robinson, Regina King and Margot Robbie. Laura Dern looked like Big Bird, there were just too many feathers. Tiara Thomas had feathers but they looked great.  Angela Bassett had some power sleeves and Tyer Perry looked like a little boy.  Hooray for Emerald Fennell for her win for original screenplay but not sure about the dress. And Viola Davis?? Dana Murray?? Ashley Fox?? Hmm?? Winners seemed to have trouble getting to the stage. They often refused the steps or the walkway and sort of climbed up the side. I did love the intimate setting and it did remind me of the old clips of years before. Sound of metal and Ma Rainey both won. Tyler Perry and for the first time, an organization, the motion picture and television fund, took home the humanitarian award. I was thrilled to see My Octopus Teacher win for Doc. I loved Crip Camp too, that was a hard category.  The acting winners went in all directions.  Many critics complained that the films were real downers . Nomadland won best picture. Michael Moore put it best I think. Of the films this year, he said, “They force you to look backward with 2021 eyes.”

*****

Why the Fuck do we need a militarized police force?

*****

R.I.P. victims of the multiple mass shootings, victims of police shootings, the crush in Israel, Cosette Brown, Midwin Charles, DMX, Paul Ritter, Ethel Gabriel, G. Gordon Liddy, Buddy Peppenschmidt,  Prince Philip, Anne Beatts, Diane Adler, Vartan Gregorian, Monte Hellman, Jim Steinman, Michael Collins, Michael wolf Snyder, Johnny Crawford, Eli Broad and Walter Mondale.

[spookywhumping]

Surprise

(So I have no idea if box boys are still a thing or if the hype’s died down or what, but better late than never, as they say. Finally got time to sit down and write out the idea I had.)

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

5438729 blinked up at the sudden light as the box was opened. He could see two faces staring down at him. Two men, looking almost identical, with the same red-brown hair and dark brown eyes. No, on closer look, one of them had eyes that were slightly different shades of brown. The other one was wearing round glasses.

“Nope. Not kidding you.” The one with the glasses grinned.

The other one disappeared from view as he stood up. “Damn it, Dez. Why did I think it would be anything different?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t say it like that, Ly.” The one with the glasses—Dez, apparently—reached into the box and pulled 5438729 roughly to his feet. 5438729 swayed, struggling to remain standing. His legs muscles had long since cramped up from staying in the same position during shipping. He had to lean forward, placing some of his weight on the box.

“Say it like what?” The other one—Ly—countered, scowling. Now, seeing him standing, it was clear he was taller than Dez, though thinner and not as well-built. “Like I’ve told you I don’t want you to involve me in your work? And yet, here you are, bringing something like...” He gestured vaguely at 5438729. “...you know, into my house?”

“Hey, believe it or not, this actually has nothing to do with me.” Dez grabbed 5438729 by the shoulders, holding him steady. “I bought this online. And not for myself, for you.”

“Oh my god, you’re fucking kidding me,” Ly muttered. He rubbed the side of his head near his temple.

“Listen, Lysander,” Dez said, a more serious tone to his voice. “I worry about you, sometimes. You’re my only brother, after all. You live all alone—literally could not get more alone, you have to drive up a mountain to get up here. If I can’t come visit, I want to know that you have something up here with you that’s alive and not, like, a plant.”

“And you decided to go with this,” Lysander stated. “Instead of a dog or something. Jesus christ, Desmond.”

“Look, you don’t have to worry about any training or anything, the company’s already done that,” Desmond insisted. “Look.” Desmond reached into the box and pulled out a small manual. He flipped through the pages. “They know all these positions and everything. And I specifically looked for one that was really well-trained. Neither of us have to do anything!”

“Oh my god, Dez.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because what else am I supposed to say?!” Lysander half-shouted. “This is illegal! Where did you even find a company that would do this?!”

“I told you, online. The company’s based in a legalized-pet country, so it’s no problem there.” Desmond shook his head. “You won’t believe how much it cost. Plus I had to pay extra for international shipping.”

“International smuggling,” Lysander corrected pointedly.

“What does it matter? You’ve broken the law before.”

“But not with—with something super-illegal! Like this!” Lysander spluttered. “Look, you can do whatever you want with your own life, but I’ve told you, so so many times, to leave me out of it, thank you.”

Desmond stared at him silently for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Well, alright, if you’re sure. I guess I could take it in. I just started work on another one, but since this one’s already trained, I can make room—”

“Whoa, hey, wait a moment,” Lysander suddenly hurried to say. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to keep him.”

“Really?” Desmond raised a brow. “‘Cause it sure sounded like you didn’t.”

“Hey, I’m not happy that you did this without asking me, but I’m not going to throw him out on the streets.”

“What streets?! May I remind you, mountain! Your driveway is the only road up here!”

“You know what I mean,” Lysander waved away Desmond’s comment. “I’m not ducking out of responsibility, even if you shoved it on me.”

Desmond’s face lit up. He threw the manual at Lysander, who fumbled before catching it. “You’re not gonna regret this, Ly.”

“I will if I end up in prison for life,” Lysander muttered. “Or worse.”

“You won’t, I’ll make sure of it.” Desmond stepped back, looking over 5438729. “This is a good one to have for a beginner. Very docile.”

“Okay.”

“And you see the unique coloration in the hair? Very nice.”

“I got it, Dez.” Lysander rolled his eyes. “Now please leave my house before I decide to commit fratricide.”

Desmond laughed. “Alright. Have fun. I’ll text you later.” And with that, he turned and left. 5438729 heard a door open and close behind him.

Lysander sighed. He looked at 5438729, scanning him up and down. “Well. You’ve been quiet.”

5438729 didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if that was a cue to speak, so it would be better not to risk it.

Another sigh. “Alright. So. You’ve probably been in that box for a while. Are you hungry?”

The tone of Lysander’s voice suggested he did want an answer this time. 5438729 nodded. “Yes, master,” he said, voice a rasp.

“Okay, then.” Lysander threw the manual down on the nearest table. “You can, uh. Sit down there.” He gestured at a nearby sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

5438729 hurried to sit down, and watched as Lysander left the room through an open doorway. For a few long moments, his eyes remained fixed on the doorway, but when it became obvious that it would be a while before Lysander returned, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. It was a large living room, large enough to hold two sofas, three armchairs, three different tables, and a flatscreen TV. The style was rustic, and out the windows 5438729 could see trees and an evening sky. Out of all the places he could’ve ended up, he supposed this was one of the nicer options. And Lysander, though he was clearly irritated about having a pet sprung on him, also seemed...nice. But he would have to be careful not to get lazy. Anything could happen now that he was out of training and into the real world.

Footsteps. 5438729′s eyes snapped back to the doorway to see Lysander returning with a bowl in hand. “Here we are.” Lysander sat down in a nearby chair, placing the bowl on the sofa’s arm. “I haven’t gone grocery shopping in a while, so I just heated up what I had. Hope you like chicken.”

5438729 looked down at the bowl. Then back up at Lysander, who folded his arms. “Well? Go ahead,” he prodded.

That was permission. 5438729 looked back down at the bowl. He couldn’t deny that the was hungry. It must’ve been hours since he last left headquarters, and the small amount he’d been given back there wasn’t enough to stop the ache clawing at his stomach. He pulled the bowl closer, reached inside and started to eat.

Lysander nodded, satisfied. 5438729 felt a wave of relief that his first command had gone well. He continued, watching as Lysander walked over to one of the windows and peered out. “He’s gone,” he muttered. “Good.” Lysander glanced back over at his new pet, and sighed. “Well. It’s better than leaving you with him, I guess. Look, I love him, but...it’s complicated. Do you already have a name, or do I have to give you one?”

5438729 swallowed hurriedly. How was he supposed to answer that? Well, he couldn’t take too long to say something, otherwise he might get upset. “My number is 5438729, but you may call me whatever you want, master,” he said tentatively.

“Number?” Lysander frowned.

5438729 felt his heart jolt at the visible displeasure. No, no, that wasn’t what he wanted, he shouldn’t have mentioned it—

“Who gives a pet a number? Not even a temporary name? God, what are they doing over there?” Lysander shook his head. “Well, I’ll think of something.” He paused. “Are you finished?”

With what? Oh, the food. 5438729 looked back at the bowl. There was still a lot inside, but that didn’t matter.

What matters most is the wishes of your master.

Did he want him to be finished? 5438729 couldn’t tell. Maybe if he showed him...he tilted the bowl so Lysander could see the food still inside.

“That’s a no,” Lysander surmised. “Well, go on, I can wait.”

So he wanted him to eat it all. 5438729 could understand that. It would probably be better to hurry, so he wasn’t wasting his new master’s time. 5438729 picked up the pace, shoving bits of chicken into his mouth as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, Lysander took a phone out of his pocket and started typing something. He’d occasionally glance back up at 5438729 before looking back down. 5438729 briefly wondered what he was doing, but pushed that thought away. It wasn’t for him to know.

It wasn’t long before the bowl was empty, and 5438729 stilled, waiting for a new command. Lysander didn’t look at him for a while more. Then he nodded, and put the phone away. “Okay, I think I got it.” Lysander stood up, walking over to 5438729, leaning on the sofa’s arm. “So, how about Mocha? That’s a pet sort of name, isn’t it?”

5438729—no, his name was Mocha now—nodded.

“Great.” Lysander flashed a smile. “I just thought, you know, with the white streak in your hair. With the rest of it being brown, it sort of reminded me of latte art or something. Well. Now that we’ve got that sorted out.” He stood up straight. “C’mon, follow me.”

Mocha stood up, following Lysander down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. Lysander pushed open a wooden door, revealing a bedroom inside. “Wait inside for a second, I’ll be right back.”

The bedroom was clearly lived-in, with an unmade bed and a desktop computer on a desk in the corner. Mocha hovered awkwardly in the center of the room. Lysander hadn’t said much more than “wait,” did he want him to sit? Or kneel? Where? Was the center good or was he supposed to be near the wall?

Luckily, he wasn’t left alone with that dilemma for long. Lysander reappeared, holding a bundle of blankets and a few pillows in his arms. He dumped everything at the foot of the bed. “You can sleep here, for now,” he said. “Until I get proper pet supplies, like...god, what do you even need?”

Mocha wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he stayed quiet.

“To the internet, I guess,” Lysander muttered, walking over to the desk and taking a seat. He glanced back over at Mocha. “Don’t just stand there, it’s weird. Sit down, or something.”

Mocha nodded and sat down in the midst of the blankets Lysander had dropped on the floor. Lysander turned away, but didn’t seemed displeased. He decided to take that as a sign of approval.

“And remember to open browser incognito,” Lysander said, typing on the computer’s attached keyboard. “Remind myself to clear my search history in case the government sees what I’m doing...because this is so, so illegal, by jesus Dez, what’re you doing?” Lysander shook his head again. He seemed to do that a lot. “What’s this company again?” He frowned, and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the manual he’d previously left downstairs. He scanned the front. “Yeah, okay...Box Boys, that’s...do you just shove pets in boxes? You don’t give them water or anything for the trip? What the fuck?”

Lysander looked over at Mocha again, who straightened.

Remember to make a good first impression for your master.

“If you’re going to ship pets, then don’t just put them in boxes,” Lysander mumbled, tossing the manual on the desk. “Come on. I bet you have some disclaimer about not being responsible for the state the pet arrives in. Bullshit.” He started typing again. Mocha watched him silently. He wasn’t sure if Lysander was upset because of the new responsibility he had, or if he just...wasn’t the happiest person in general. He wasn’t sure which one was worse. He was supposed to serve his master, do whatever it took to please them. That would be difficult if either one of those statements were true.

“You don’t even have supplies listed on your website, what the actual fuck,” Lysander scowled. “Fine, I’m sure I can find a list somewhere. The internet’s a big place.” More typing. Then some clicking that went on for a while. “There we are. Knew it would be here somewhere.” Lysander’s eyes scanned the screen. Then he looked back at Mocha again. “So you need a collar, probably a leash, and a proper bed. At the very least.” A dark expression fell over his face. “Where am I supposed to find that in this country? It’s not legal everywhere, website.”

Slowly, Mocha shook his head. It seemed like a good idea to do that.

Lysander groaned. “I’m gonna have to talk to Dez about this. He knows people in this business. And so getting this stuff...might take a while. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Mocha blinked. Did...did Lysander just apologize? To him? Something about that felt...backwards.

“Well. Guess I can do that tomorrow. I don’t think I can do more stuff today.” Lysander leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Time to...I don’t know, dick around online.”

Mocha waited for more instructions, but it seemed Lysander was done. He stayed sitting at the desk, pulling out a pair of headphones and plugging them into the speakers. Mocha stared at him. Watched him click, seemingly aimlessly, and continue to mutter to himself with his eyes glued to his screen. Was this something that happened every day, or was today an outlier? Was he supposed to expect more attention from Lysander as time went on, or should he get used to this? He...he wasn’t getting a lot of directions, and that fact filled him with a vague sense of distress. Training had prepared him to follow every command his master gave him, but it hadn’t prepared him for situations without any commands.

Well. Maybe he should default to his general purpose.

To serve, obey, and please your master.

He wasn’t getting much of that second part, or the first, really, but he could still fulfill that last purpose. Mocha slowly unwound from the spot where he was sitting. Lysander didn’t seem to be upset about it, though maybe that was because he didn’t notice. Mocha took a deep breath, and crawled forward, across the floor of the room, until he was next to the desk.

Lysander definitely noticed that. He glanced away from the computer screen and towards Mocha. “What?”

Mocha inched a bit closer, until he was sitting next to Lysander’s chair. And there he stopped, looking up.

Lysander stared down at him, looking more than a little confused. After a silent moment, he turned back to the computer screen. Mocha stayed where he was. And after a few more minutes, Lysander looked down again. “What?” he repeated. He didn’t sound annoyed, just a bit confused. “What is it? Do you just want to be there?”

“I thought you would want company, master,” Mocha said quietly.

“Oh.” Lysander softened, considering this. “Well...okay, then.” And he looked back at the computer screen.

A few moments later, Lysander reached down. His hand landed on top of Mocha’s head, and he started running his hand through his hair. Lysander looked down at him again. “Is...is this good?” He sounded unsure. “Do you pet...well, do you pet pets? Like you?”

“If you want, master,” Mocha said.

“Well.” Lysander paused. “I...I guess this is what I’m doing, now. Do you like this?”

Mocha nodded, leaning a bit closer, until he ended up resting his head against Lysander’s thigh.

“Oh.” Lysander sounded vaguely surprised. “Well, in that case, I’ll...keep doing it. I guess.” Then, though he once again turned his attention back to the computer, he kept up with the stroking motion.

Mocha thought, in that moment, that this wouldn’t be so bad. He couldn’t forget his training, of course. But perhaps it would be easy enough to fulfill his purpose here. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad at all.

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 40 Review: In Which Matt Calls Out Jean Paul (Redux)

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

Welcome back to my Garden of Evil, the blog where I review and affectionately snark on Canada’s own all-American TV series, Strange Paradise. To my shock, Danny Horn of Dark Shadows Every Day (who introduced me to this delightfully crazy soap with his far more critical reviews) is back to posting more frequently than I do, which isn’t really relevant to this post save that I would not have expected it a year ago. (But then, there are many, many things that happened over this past year that I did not expect.) I would have posted this one sooner, but some urgent matters came up last week and I had to postpone.

Four episodes have passed since eccentric billionaire Jean Paul Desmond’s disastrous failed séance to contact his beloved late wife Erica. Medium and Conjure Woman Vangie Abbott has recovered from her injury, she and Raxl have tried (unsuccessfully) to decode the message in the sand writing box, and now Jean Paul insists on holding another séance! The other characters are trying to figure out how and why the ceremony was disrupted: most accuse Jean Paul of trying to murder them with the falling chandelier, while Vangie announces during the opening recap that she suspects the Reverend Matt Dawson of being a disruptive influence because of his disbelief in voodoo. Now sparks fly once again as another argument erupts between the Reverend and Jean Paul at an emergency meeting in the Great Hall.

Now, let’s begin.

We open with Jean Paul’s first tape recorder journal entry in a while, which is an exposition device that I had been missing mostly because I like mooning over Colin Fox while listening to his gorgeous voice:

Jean Paul: "Erica, my sweet wife, until the day comes when science can restore you to me, can release you from the cryonic suspension colder than ice, as cold as my empty life, I will continue trying to contact you through a séance. You must know the great effort I am making to protect you! But was the evil of Jacques Eloi des Mondes enough to prevent us from making contact at the séance that failed? Erica, believe me! I fought him with all my strength! I held him at bay, but he could not have got through unaided! These people in this house, Erica, I have been thinking about them: are they in consort with the Devil? Which one prevented me from hearing your sweet voice again, my Erica? Which one? If I knew-"

Caught him reading the Teleprompter! (That happens a lot in this episode, by the way.) Also, have I ever mentioned how much I love the lighting in his monitor room?

He stops recording when he sees Holly on the monitor, searching once again for that sweet secret passage in the crypt that she overheard the Reverend mention several episodes ago. Freaking out again over the possibility of danger to Erica’s cryonics capsule, he rushes down to the Great Hall and declares an emergency meeting:

Jean Paul shouting at his detained guests.

"Reverend Dawson, Mr. Stanton, I'm beginning to realize that you have not fully grasped my ruling!" Jean Paul shouts in his most pompous tone. "Now, to each and every one of you, this is most important, and how important it is you will all find out!"

Matt having a scared. I don’t usually find Dan MacDonald cute, but I think he is in this shot.

Quito guarding Holly as she hides in the crypt.

"EVERYBODY!” the Master of Maljardin shouts. “EVERYONE WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!" [Line flub? His wording is odd.] "EVERYONE! COME TO THE GREAT HALL! DO YOU HEAR ME? EVERYONE IN THIS HOUSE! THIS IS JEAN PAUL DESMOND CALLING! COME TO THE GREAT HALL AT ONCE! YOU TOO, HOLLY MARSHALL! NOW, ONCE AND FOR ALL, YOU WILL ALL GET THE MESSAGE!"

Jean Paul’s crazy eyes in this scene indicate that he means business.

Everyone gathers in the Great Hall, save Holly and Quito (who are hiding in the basement), Dan Forrest (who is probably in the tub), and Raxl (who isn’t there because Cosette Lee had the day off). Dr. Alison Carr is particularly annoyed, because she could be spending this time researching how to resurrect Erica, but instead is stuck listening to her brother-in-law’s latest hissy fit. Oddly enough, even though Jean Paul acts like a complete ass in this episode, Fox-C looks even more stunning than usual. I can’t explain why, but to me he looks especially handsome during Weeks 8 through 11 of the show. That certain je ne sais quoi of his just comes out particularly strongly during this period.

Jean Paul is so angry that you can see his jaw tensing.

Of all the detained guests in the room, he chooses to pick a fight with Matt, because that worked out so well for him five episodes ago. Elizabeth finds this highly amusing and comments with one of her best lines:

Elizabeth: "It seems to be your opportunity to entertain, Reverend. May I suggest Song of Solomon?"

Jean Paul doesn’t laugh, despite it being arguably the funniest joke anyone other than Jacques has made so far. I, too, want to hear Matt read from the Song of Solomon. Perhaps he has recorded a sermon about it for his album:

Matt’s album, You Can’t Fake Fruit, featuring his sermon “Wherever God Builds a House of Prayer, the Devil Builds a Chapel There” and selections from the Song of Solomon.

I’m not going to recap or quote their entire fight blow by blow, because I just don’t feel like it--and besides, these kinds of overly dramatic yelling matches are more fun to watch for yourself. However, I will note some highlights: 

Matt suspects Jean Paul of murdering Dr. Menkin because of how soon he died after Erica. “Who can say how he died?” he asks as a rhetorical question before proclaiming overconfidently, “There, your control over this island begins to disintegrate!”

He also continues to oppose the notion that the Devil caused any of the events on the island, including the chandelier falling: “The chandelier falls, and it’s blamed on the Devil. And you accept these...superstitious reactions of a few, which are driving all of us beyond the bounds of reason!”

There’s a lot of focus on Holly, as you might expect, given that she‘s been searching in the crypt and also given Matt’s obsession with her. I’m glad he’s trying to protect her from Jean Paul now, even though I will always ship him with his right hand.

Alison stands up to Jean Paul and leaves in the middle of the argument. Good for her! Of course, after she leaves, Jean Paul has to passive-aggressively announce to everyone else that she will regret it.

Vangie tells Jean Paul and Matt that “when a devil works through a man, what he does is not an accident,” referring to the time that Dan allegedly damaged the cryocapsule. Jean Paul latches onto this idea, which Matt objects to because he believes it’s a ploy to turn everyone on the island against each other. So Jean Paul accuses Matt next of evil, which is not a question that most people will answer honestly. Ask Jacques if he’s evil and he will openly admit to it; ask someone like Elizabeth, on the other hand, and she will deny it.

Matt being what the kids today would call “a mood.”

Vangie on Matt: “Because he is a man of the cloth--a religious man--he made the contact [with Erica], but because of his disbelief in the spirits, the chain was weakened, the contact breaks. I would say that whenever the Devil is loose, anything or anyone can be his tool.” 

I would say that Jean Paul in this episode is a tool, albeit a very handsome one.

Even his anger can’t disguise his cuteness.

Jean Paul ends the argument by threatening to punish Holly for invading the crypt. “Now you will see what happens to those who intrude on Erica’s resting place,” he tells the others and Elizabeth responds with this interesting, cryptic line:

So she approves of Jean Paul’s anger at her “impossible” daughter, but she doesn’t want him to punish her? Also note that she is eerily calm when she delivers this line.

In the next scene, Jean Paul gives Holly some serious mixed messages along the lines of the time my grandfather (with whom I used to live) told me “don’t worry about it” when he noticed my cat scratching at my bedroom door, then threw a fit over the (barely) damaged carpet a few hours later. I moved out of his house two and a half years ago but, up until recently, I got nervous any time anyone told me not to worry about something, because he’d often say things like “don’t worry about it” and “take it easy” shortly before he lost his temper over the very same things he told me not to worry about. In a similar vein, Jean Paul first tells Holly to “go ahead” into the crypt, only to then start ranting about how he thinks that some people on the island want the cryocapsule to break down and want to tell the authorities about what he’s doing on Maljardin.

“Now, what were you looking for, Miss Marshall?” he asks her menacingly after his rant.

“I wouldn’t touch that!” she replies, referring to the capsule. “I want you to bring your wife back to life!”

“Then what were you here for!”

“Looking for a way out!” She turns away from him, clutching her head. “Trying to get away from all this. I can’t stand it anymore!”

“I am going to have to make an example of you,” Jean Paul threatens.

“I was only looking for a secret door,” she protests, then explains how he (actually Jacques) led her down there to show him where she thought the secret passage was three episodes ago.

Before he can respond to her, Alison comes rushing down to the crypt to tell him about the notes of Dr. Menkin’s that Jacques left in her lab in Episode 38, which cover part of the previously missing six-week period of his experiments:

Sure, Jacques *might* answer, but only if he feels like it.

Jean Paul tells Alison, “guard these [notes] with your life,” and the episode ends, which means it’s time to discuss the Lost Episode summary. Normally, I do so in either the introduction or at a point in the episode where a plot point was changed, but here the events of the original episode differed so much from those of the final aired version that I decided to discuss them after my recap.

The Lost Episode 40

To begin, here is the summary for the original Episode 40:

Source: The Plain Dealer (November 7, 1969), p. 72.

So the second séance originally took place in this episode and involved a conflict between two spirits. But who? We know for certain the identity of one of these spirits, courtesy of these summaries for Episodes 41 and 42, respectively:

Source: Ibid, p. 84.

Source: Ibid., p. 88.

A slightly longer version of the latter summary from The Fitchburg Sentinel names this priestess Tarasca, the same figure who appeared in a puff of smoke in the original Episode 35 and whose existence apparently threatens Alison’s life. While most summaries of the original Episode 44 (including the one in The Plain Dealer) mention hallucinations, this one from The Minneapolis Star (November 13, 1969) specifically mentions that the hallucination took place at the séance:

Holly searches for the secret passageway when her sleeping mother re-lives the happenings at the séance.

So we know the identity of one of the fighting spirits from the second séance, but who is the other? This summary for Episode 38 states that Jacques promised Vangie that he wouldn’t interfere a second time, but can we really rely on him to keep his promises? (I believe that he most likely summoned Tarasca to mess with the second séance on his behalf while technically not getting involved in it himself.) Still, even considering Jacques’ lack of trustworthiness, it would make more sense for the other spirit to be Erica, given that the whole purpose of both séances is to contact her.

Curiously, another thing we know about the second séance is that Matt took part in it, because Vangie told him that Holly would be in danger if he refused. I know I called the summary for last episode boring, but hearing the way Vangie talks about him in this episode has made me rethink my previous dismissal of its importance. If Vangie demanded that Matt attend the second séance, that means that she must not have considered Matt a disruptive influence in the original, or at least not enough to exclude him.

Who else attended the séance? At the very least, Vangie, Matt, Jean Paul and Elizabeth, but logically Raxl and Quito as well because of their involvement in the Conjure Faith. Alison may also have attended, but I doubt it because (1) Vangie prefers séances with either five or seven participants including the spirit and (2) Alison is getting increasingly fed up with Jean Paul and may have refused to take part.

The mention of Holly being in danger also raises an additional question: which spirit was threatening her, Erica or Tarasca? For my attempt to answer that question--which would contain some spoilers if I included it here--you will have to wait for a future analysis.

Coming up next: The Bad Subtitle Special for Week 8, followed by a very special essay comparing Strange Paradise to the H. P. Lovecraft novella The Case of Charles Dexter Ward and its 1963 film adaptation The Haunted Palace. After that, a review of Episode 41.

{<- Previous: Episode 39   ||   Next: Episode 41 ->}

[kinetic-elaboration]

July 14: The Road Through the Wall

These thoughts are still very rough but I’m starting to sketch out some vague ideas about The Road Through the Wall. Still not sure how to phrase most of this, but I realized that there are multiple older and/or invalid characters lurking on the edges of the narrative, and it got me thinking about the generations on Pepper Street.

The adults are the worst. They’re shallow, selfish, catty, insincere, snobbish, oblivious, gossipy, and caught up in the various mundane details of life: their houses, their jobs, their chores. They run off their scripts: things that should be said and should be believed. Very common Shirley Jackson villager archetypes.

But then on either side of them are generations that either haven’t yet learned to care about little past what kind of house they live in, or have moved beyond such concerns altogether. The old women with their dogs. The women in the houses set back from the road, or elevated by stairs, or living in bedrooms in the dark back of the house. The woman everyone thinks is a witch. The old man who sees bad omens in the rose leaves. The cryptic words of Mrs. Mack or Miss Tyler. The frailty of them but also the secrecy, the inscrutable nature of them. It might not be wisdom. But it’s some sort of knowledge.

And then the children. I thought about the older generation first, because I felt like there were so many of them, lurking there in the edges of the story, and that while they aren’t the sole source of this disturbing mystery air, that air becomes strongest around them. But then I realized, it’s in the kids, too.

The kids live by their inscrutable rules, rituals, and patterns. Clearly not adult, when they play at being grown, they end up with surreal facsimiles of what they imitate: for example, the infamous love letters, overwrought gibberish that they don’t even understand. The fun in the letters is the writing of them and the sending of them. They have no purpose beyond the pattern of actions itself. They play keepaway games with invented rules their parents can’t follow. They have their hierarchies and their internal laws: that the golf ball George took from the creek was stolen, that no one can mock Tod on his own lawn unless his sister gives permission. They keep secret lore about the witch. They have violent streaks: Mary’s “hatred” for her brother; Helen threatening her sister; George imagining running his neighbor over with his truck. They’re in tune with nature: Harriet imagining herself falling into the trees outside her window; Art and Pat in the creek bed. They take impulsive, reckless, actions that are inscrutable even to themselves: Marilyn Perlman walking through the empty Williams house, and Tod examining the Desmond house after, perhaps even Virginia and her reckless acceptance of the Chinese man’s invitation to tea. All of these traits are just part of childhood--practicing adult roles; using your first freedom to act impulsively, out of curiosity and because you cannot help it; caring about things that adults simply have moved past caring about or forgotten how to care about. I’m not saying that Jackson has reinvented the game, or that she’s written extraordinarily creepy children or anything like that. Rather, I think she’s captured so perfectly the mystical and the surreal and the witch-y and the disturbing and the feral elements of childhood.

So much of her writing feels like having someone behind you in your peripheral that you can’t quite see. You know they’re there, but you can only get glimpses sometimes. There’s so much unsaid, and the real and the magical so often blend together--but not magical like sparkly rainbows, more like magical like spells said while standing barefoot in the dirt. It’s UNSETTLING. I can’t always even figure out why. She brings out the unsettling in the ordinary--they’re just children, and it’s just a neighborhood, and yet--

Sometimes I wonder if I’m bringing too much of my outside Jackson knowledge to the book, if I would find it unsettling if I hadn’t read her other works. But I think I would. The second chapter in particular feels to me like a slow accumulation of bad omens, disturbances like fault lines in the Proper Way of Things. The first chapter was mostly an introduction, centered around the discovery of the letters and that first evening of summer. But the second doesn’t have as clear of a theme or a purpose. That’s why I think bad omens describes it well: scene after scene of normal summer events, tinged with foreboding. Tod throwing rocks and hitting Mary. Victoria and Harriet’s strange encounter with an older, foreign man. Mr. Martin’s warning about the rose bushes. Miss Tyler’s eerie reminisces and the mystery of her closed bedroom door. Old Mrs. Mack the witch, appearing to cast spells by drawing in the dirt, talking inscrutably about “bad people.” Pat and Art hiding themselves in the creek bed and daring to call their fathers bastards. Marilyn and Tod exploring homes that aren’t theirs.

Anyway, I would have finished Ch 2 by now if SOME PEOPLE didn’t keep INTERRUPTING ME so rudely, but I am just a few pages shy and can’t wait to get to Ch 3 tomorrow.

[goosegrewup]

Graduation Day: A Walk to Remember.

I was two hours late to my law school graduation.

I missed the entire graduation rehearsal. I had to fill in the phonetic spelling on my name card during the processional. I never even got a chance to take my class photo.

I was late to my graduation from law school because I spent four hours locked in my bathroom, crying in the palms of my hand.

IT WAS ALL GOOD A NIGHT AGO.

The night before graduation, I was on top of the world. My friends had driven as long as twelve hours and four states to be at my ceremony. My daughter spent the evening making signs to hold up for me in the crowd. My boyfriend had gone out of his way to make the weekend all about me. I had seven of my best friends, four kids, and two dogs all crammed into my 2-bedroom apartment. My kitchen counters were lined with red party cups and to-go food containers. My younger sister stayed out until the wee hours of the morning, grocery-shopping for my graduation breakfast. We had all the necessary ingredients for the weekend of my dreams.

I never actually ate my graduation breakfast because depression doesn’t allow you to acknowledge your appetite, nor your achievements. My boyfriend left that morning to get dressed for the ceremony. I clearly remember kissing him goodbye and poking my head out of my room to tell everyone that I was hopping in the shower and I’d be ready in 10.

10 minutes turned into 30, 30 into an hour, before they realized that I had never resurfaced from my “shower”. I could still hear the occasional banging on the door of my room and wiggling and jerking of the handle, over my wailing.

Unfortunately, it was too late. I had already planted myself on my bathroom floor and I was quickly unraveling. Here I was in the midst of friends I’d had for 20+ years, who had traveled from multiple states to support me, and I still felt completely alone. The towel I was wrapped in doubled as a Kleenex, the hair in my face damp with tears. It was one of the biggest days of my life. I had a full agenda, yet I was emptier than I had ever been before.

I was realizing that I had done this by myself. I had successfully dragged myself (and my daughter) through law school regardless of the obstacles. I had past-due tuition, for her and for myself. I had missed class when she was sick. I had battled through a divorce, three moves, two schools, and endless hours of commuting in Atlanta traffic. Yet, I had accomplished this huge feat on my own, and on the day that was meant for me to be recognized, it hit me harder than I ever imagined.

“Thinking something does not make it true. Wanting something does not make it real.”- Michelle Hodkin

TRUTH IS: I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS.

The reality of it was: I did it alone because I didn’t have a choice. I graduated law school early. I didn’t find out I would be walking in graduation until three months before the ceremony. A month later, I signed my first post-graduation employment contract for my dream job (which involved moving yet again). I immediately started circulating my graduation information to my friends and family. I will never forget the excitement I got from my friends’ responses, immediately making travel plans and reservations, as if they were graduating too.

I also remember the lack of responses from my family members. I had long sense realized that I would be celebrating this degree without them. I had a tumultuous relationship with both parents during my childhood. At the age of 28, I now know that my mother, a mother of four, always wanted to be a mother. She just did not want to be a mother to me. She loved my father beyond words. His departure (mixed with the fact that I am his spitting image) made it impossible for her to love me through the resentment. She never forgave him, herself, or me.

My father is the most celebrated man in the State of South Carolina. Renown educator, 150K salary a year, PhD holder, husband of 15+ years, astute Christian, and father of five happy, successful children (not including me). My father called me one month prior to graduation to wish me a happy birthday. It was the first time we had spoken in almost a year. He also wanted to let me know that he was so proud...of my younger brother who would be probating the next day.

He’s a Superintendent of a large school district and stands firmly on promoting and supplying higher education for every student. He made sure tuition was paid for every one of his children who matriculated through college. I have now completed my third degree on my own. Someone should tell my father that help would’ve been nice, especially considering that law school costs about 150K.

The nature of my relationships with my parents have caused extraordinary strain on other relationships adjacent to theirs. Neither of my parents chose to be a part of my matriculation. Therefore, neither of my parents were invited to share this graduation with me. Consequently, neither of my paternal and maternal grandmothers were able to attend. My grandmothers, the women who raised me and made me who I am, did not watch me walk.

I’ll likely carry that with me for the rest of my life.

“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real”- Cormac McCarthy

THREE WAS ALSO A LONELY NUMBER.

Graduation isn’t for the graduates anyways. It’s for your family. It’s to allow your family to celebrate you, to be proud of you, and to brag about you. I didn’t know that I’d miss that until that morning on my bathroom floor.

I had sent out numerous texts (well in advance) inviting all the family members who I wanted to be there. I created the cutest invitations and itineraries to make sure everyone had all the information.

Only two people cared to respond. Those two people didn’t even show. The morning of the ceremony, only three family members had committed to showing up, including my own daughter. I had completed law school. I finished an entire year early. Yet, I was walking the stage in front of a crowd full of family…none of which belonged to me. This was a moment that not even the seven years of therapy could have prepared me for.

I was late to my law school graduation because it took me that long to gather myself and come to terms with the fact that no one was going to show up for me. There would be no photos of me with my mother standing on one side and my father on the other. No one was popping up with flowers and balloons. I boo-hoo cried for hours grasping the reality that I had completed this on my own, I was walking in graduation on my own, and I would continue to navigate through life on my own.

AT SOME POINT, I HAD TO GET UP.

Now that it’s over, the only thing that matters is who/what got me to graduation that morning. As I said, I had a house full of my closest friends who had traveled from all over to be there for me. Also, something told me I had to walk to show all the professors and naysayers who doubted me that I was capable. But more importantly, I thought about three people who needed to see me walk the stage that day.

Desmond Cox: As a teen, all of my weekends consisted of playing spades, drinking brown, and spending time with my boys. Dez taught me everything I never needed to know: how to “freak” the black-and-mild, how to play the big joker, and how not to get in the car until a man opened the door for me. To this day, he is the most respectable man I’ve ever known.

January 21, 2013, the police found Dez’s body in the parking lot of his apartment complex next to the dumpster. It changed my life. If he were still here, he would’ve turned 29 on the day after I graduated. He also would’ve yanked me off of my bathroom floor and made me walk in my graduation. I had to get up for him.

Malcolm X: It is not lost on me that I graduated on Malcolm X’s birthday. Although I can understand and appreciate the strides made by MLK, Jr. as the face of the Civil Rights Movement, I have continuously lived my life in honor of his “not-so-cordial” counterpart. El-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz was both conscious and courageous, constantly speaking about how higher education is a form of freedom. If I was going to have his face pinned onto my graduation stole, I had to walk to honor the people who came before me. I had to get up for them.

Most importantly…

Aryn Bryce: If ever I owed this graduation to anyone, it’s her. My daughter sat in classes with me, ate dinner during lectures, and watched court coverage until 9:30 on school nights. She had sacrificed just as much as I had for this degree and she needed to see me walk. I had to get up for her.

I am also forever grateful to my boyfriend for literally putting me into my graduation dress one leg at a time. I’ll remember that moment for years to come. At the end of the day, I had walked the stage in front of all of my friends and I was proud of myself for doing it. I still felt a shortness of breath when we entered through the crowd of families snapping photos like paparazzi. “Graduation depression” is real and it crippled me on one of the most important days of my life. But, I won.

In my proudest, loneliest moments, I learned to be grateful for the people who were there instead of dwelling on the people who weren’t.

I also learned that I was enough…all by myself. Congratulations graduate. You did well.

“There is no better than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance the next time.”- Malcolm X

[ayearofpike]

Final Friends, Book 2: The Dance

Pocket Books, 1988 226 pages, 20 chapters + epilogue + 6-page introduction ISBN 0-671-73679-5 LOC: CPB Box no. 2608 vol. 13 OCLC: 82597126 Released November 28, 1988 (not sure where I found this)

Alice McCoy died two months ago, and it still hurts her friends that she’s gone. But life goes on for everyone else, and they need to keep moving forward. That means the SAT, sports teams, and homecoming (which was moved to match up with Tabb High’s superior basketball season). But nothing ever runs smoothly for the Final Friends: alliances shift, friendships are threatened, and romances bud, much to the chagrin of nearly everyone involved. So it shouldn’t surprise anybody when the homecoming float collapses and sends the queen plummeting through the truck windshield below.

Before I start, let’s run down the principal players here – that is to say, everyone who was still at the house when Alice died.

Mesa High expats:

Jessica Hart –  poor little rich girl, lives near the McCoys, driven by parents’ money and desires, wants to be homecoming queen

Sara Cantrell – snarky and sarcastic, railroaded into student body presidency, wants to prove herself even though she doesn’t look it

Polly McCoy – Alice’s big sister, has a deep-seated need for things to go right (or at least appear to), needy but electric personality

Tabb High natives:

Michael Olson –  erstwhile rocket scientist, full-time convenience store employee, primary researcher on who really killed Alice

John “Bubba” Free – genius of questionable moral rectitude, the guy who gets what he wants and can help you get it too, Michael’s best friend

Clair Hilrey – cheerleading captain and total hottie, Jessica’s primary challenger for homecoming queen, somehow connected to Bubba

Bill Skater – quarterback of the failed football team, also a total hottie, object of Jessica’s desire if not of her actual heart

Theodore “The Rock”  – mega-jock extraordinaire, plays football and basketball, helps underprivileged kids, hates Nick with a passion

Russ Desmond – athletic but uncaring, running in state cross-country finals, no plans for his future, has a hold on Sara 

Carl “Kats” Barber – greasy mechanic, total loser, gun nut, taking night classes to catch up with this year’s graduating class

Miscellaneous:

Nick Grutler – tall and scary transplant from the projects, owes most of his social standing to Michael, reluctant hero and less-willing victim

Maria Gonzales – undocumented immigrant, brilliant and beautiful but shy and recalcitrant, friend to Jessica despite her self-centered tendencies

Clark Halley – Alice’s mysterious and weird ex-boyfriend, an artist with a twisted view on what he sees and paints, maybe wasn’t even there

It’s Michael who goes through all of this stuff at the end of Book 1. He even draws a map to place where everyone was in the house at the time of the shooting. Yeah, no surprise, Pike has another quiet genius misfit taking on the role of private investigator. But in his defense, everybody else has given up and moved on, leaving Alice’s legacy in tatters. 

Michael can’t stand for that, so he asks Bubba to hack into the coroner’s computer and find Alice’s autopsy records, looking for anything weird or inconsistent. Now, in 1988, this was still a fanciful and far-fetched possibility, but someone like Bubba is so far ahead of the curve he probably realized that security was as yet practically nonexistent. Still, they have to manually trawl through forty megabytes of text to find Alice’s record (a sum that takes all day to download via modem). Just for comparison, this page is 8.3 megabytes, and you probably got it on your phone in about five seconds. Now that’s Moore’s Law in action.

Still, Bubba is doing his friend a favor while dealing with his own crap. He’s made a deal with Sara to triple the money she has available for homecoming after she lost most of it in the heat of a fight with Russ. Also, Clair keeps coming around for reasons never specified to the reader. We know he bragged about sleeping with her before the party, so Michael has his suspicions. These are redoubled because Polly ran into Clair at the family planning clinic, looking pale and broken, and mentioned saidsame to Jessica, who made sure that everyone around them at the basketball game could hear Polly talking about it and guided them to assume the worst. Homecoming queen elections are serious business, after all. 

Wait a second: why is Sara yelling at Russ? Well, as he points out, it’s her primary method of interacting with him. But this time, it’s because he assumed that she sought him out at work to try to get him to ask her to the dance. He’s right, but that doesn’t make her less annoyed at his smugness. So great is her temper that she leaves behind the purse that has all the cash she’s supposed to use to pay for the dance. And of course Bubba has an off-cycle on the day trading that’s earned him his own money, so he loses everything Sara gives him to invest. They end up borrowing from loan sharks to pay for the dance, leaving Sara in deeper shit than she already was and giving Bubba more plot for Book 3.

One thing they don’t have to worry about paying off is the float. Sara’s contracted Polly’s construction company (the source of HER wealth) to build it on a truck, which Kats is going to drive into the tent where they hold the dance, princesses and all aboard. Polly’s also surprised when Russ shows up at her house with nowhere else to go – his dad kicked him out when he lost his job in the aftermath of his fight with Sara – but that doesn’t stop her from trying to win him from her old friend. She’s upset when he leaves, shocked even. But then Clark shows up and tells her how to shock them all.

While all this is happening, Jessica is trying to ace the SAT so she can get into Stanford. Never mind that she’s bombing chemistry, or that she’s taking it as a senior probably after applications were already due, or that her practice tests are returning results of about 1000. She’s determined to go to Stanford, and thinks that if she just keeps trying, she’ll win them over. Like ... do you want to tell her it’s too late, or should I? It doesn’t help that she accidentally takes Valium instead of No-Doz on test day, and has to battle not to black out while she’s doing it. So yeah, Jessica Hart’s college dreams are totally fucked. But when she finally passes out, Michael is there to watch over her, and they fall even more deeply for each other than they already were. But they can’t just ask each other, because self-loathing!

So Jessica goes to homecoming with Bill, who apparently has no physical attraction to her, and Michael stays in the computer lab with the coroner’s files. Nick wins the game on two no-time-left free throws, and the approval of Maria’s “traditional” (read: bigoted) but basketball-loving father, and they go together too. The truck pulls in, they announce the queen – and holy shit, it’s Maria Gonzales, who nobody even knows! But she doesn’t fall through the platform until after the dance is over, when only Jessica, Sara, and Michael are still around. In getting her out, Michael damages the float so that they can’t know whether it was tampered with, but um ... probably? For, like, reasons?

Maria thinks so. In fact, she blames Jessica. She knows about the ruining of Clair’s reputation and doesn’t think twice that Jessica would want to strike back at the nobody who stole her crown. Naturally, this reinforces Jessica’s sense of worthlessness: she couldn’t stop Alice from dying, she couldn’t save Maria from injury, so she must not be able to do anything. This is the end of her aspirations: no more Stanford, no more solid GPA, no more Michael.

Oh, also: when Polly got home, Clark was driving away, and her aunt was dead! And I didn’t even mention how The Rock thinks Nick is a drug dealer from the neighborhood where he serves as a Big Brother! And someone chopped down the varsity tree in the central courtyard with an axe from Russ’s old job! This shit is snowballing! Guess it’s what happens when you have fourteen characters and everyone has their own goals and motives. Pike primarily writes as Michael and Jessica, with strong forays into Nick, Sara, and Polly POVs. Polly’s view is particularly twisted, which could be explained by her mostly dealing with Clark and also by the revelation that she received electroshock therapy to deal with her parents’ death as a kid. YES! More snowballing!

I have to wonder: did the idea for three books come first, or was it the soap-opera-like scope of the story and interconnected personal narratives that necessitated three? Because some of this feels like padding, but it does all tie in somehow. I’m trying to catch up with blog posts, so I  haven’t finished the third book yet, but I remember the closure being somewhat confusing and tenuous in its attempts to make sure that everyone’s storyline had a link back to Alice’s party. Guess we’re going to find out next time!

[down-in-dixie]

GENERAL

▍Name : Simone LePage ▍Face Claim : Megan Ory ▍Age : 145 ▍Gender : CIS Female ▍Species : Shape-shifter { panther } ➜ Immortal. ➜ Was cursed to live for an eternity when she was thirty years old. ▍Sexual Orientation : Pansexual ▍Birthday :  May 10th ▍Zodiac Sign : Taurus ▍Birthplace : Versailles, France ➜ Lived there until she was thirty. Moved to America during the early 1900’s. ▍Current Residence : New Orleans, Louisiana ➜ Her house ▍Nationality : French / American ▍Relationship Status : Single / widow  ➜ Lost her husband, Gabriel, in a house fire back in 2010. ▍Occupation : Owns a nightclub called Mystique. ▍Speaks : English, French, some Italian

 APPEARANCE

▍Height : 5′9 ▍Hair : Light brown ▍Eyes : Bluish-green ▍Body Modifications : Has a tribal panther tattoo on the back of her right shoulder. She also has her ears pierced. ▍Scars / Birthmarks : No scars. Has a small birthmark on the back of her neck.

 FAMILY

▍Parents : Tomas and Charlotte LePage { both deceased }

▍Siblings : Three older brothers named Adrian, Devin and Desmond, and a younger sister named Alaina { all of them are still alive }

➜ Like Simone, the four of them were cursed to live for an eternity and don’t age.

➜ She also has two sister-in-laws named Celeste and Savannah and two brother-in-laws named Scott and Darian. Along with a few nieces and nephews.

▍Children : One daughter named Rosalyn LePage

➜ Also had a son named Matthieu but he died in a house fire when he was five months old back in 2010.

▍Pets : A white German Shepherd named Tasha

HOBBIES & LIKES

▍Hobbies / Likes : Riding her motor bike, reading, traveling and cooking. ▍Drink : Non alcoholic: Sweet tea / Alcoholic: Bourbon ▍Food : Cajun and French cuisine. ▍Day or Night : Night. ▍Snacks : Anything chocolate ▍Song : Bohémienne- Hélène Segara { Notre Dame de Paris } ▍Quote : “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” - Mae West ▍Book : East of Eden by John Steinbeck ▍Colour : Black and purple. ▍Flower : Lobelias

 HAVE  THEY

▍Passed A Levels : Yes. ▍Passed University : Yes. ▍Had Sex : Yes. ▍Gotten Pregnant : Twice. ▍Smoked : Sometimes smokes pot. ▍Had Alcohol : Yes. ▍Done Drugs : Yes. ▍Kissed A Boy : Yes. ▍Kissed A Girl : Yes. ▍Gotten Tattoos : Yes. ▍Gotten Piercings : Yes. ▍Had A Broken Heart : Yes. ▍Been in Love : Yes. ▍Stayed up for more than 24 Hours : Yes.

▍Harmed Themselves : Yes

▍Thought of Suicide : Yes.

▍Attempted Suicide : Yes, for experimental reasons. She’s cursed and supposedly isn’t able to die, so she wanted to test that theory.

▍Wanted to Kill Someone : Yes.

▍Drove A Car : Yes.

▍Have / Had A Job : Yes.

 ARE  THEY

▍A Virgin : No. ▍A Cuddler : Yes. ▍A Kisser : Yes. ▍Scared Easily : No. ▍Jealous Easily : No. ▍Trustworthy : Yes. ▍Dominant : Sometimes. ▍Submissive : Sometimes. ▍In Love : No. ▍Single : Yes.

 OTHER  INFORMATION

Interview  

[dumpsterfirebooks]

Tag Thing- 11 Questions (from a bunch of people)

Rules: always post the rules, answer the questions given to you, write 11 questions of your own and tag 11 people. I’m not going to tag anyone and write questions because this post is already crazy long.

@runesandfaes​

My Questions: 1. When is your birthday?

8/27

2. Favorite season?

Fall

3. Favorite villain?

Umm of movies or books it’s super early and my brain isn’t fully functioning yet.

Books I love The Darkling and I suppose Heathcliff is deemed a villain.

Movies- Jareth the Goblin King.

4. Stars or the Moon?

Stars.

5. Favorite book?

Wuthering Heights.

6. An unpopular opinion?

Nesta Archeron is a completely normal character. She’s been through shit, yeah she’s not the nicest but if you reread her 4-5 chapters she’s in in ACOTAR you’ll see that precious Feyre actually started that fight at dinner.

7. If you could be any mythological/magical creature, what would you be?

Siren for sure. Power to use your voice to make shit happen can’t pass that up.

8. Which book character can you see yourself in the most (Personality/Character traits-wise)?

Nesta Archeron. Although Callie from the Bargainer has some solid inner commentary I relate to.

9. Which book character, in your opinion, do you think would be the best partner for you?

Well shit umm I always fall for the troubled, morally questionable men in real life and fiction. So I’d probably go for Des or Cass but the healthiest option would probably be someone like Gideon Lightwood.

10. If you could control any one of the 4 elements, which would you choose?

Fire and water would probably be the most fun but air and earth have more power. I’d go with air, you could put fires out by lowering the oxygen or push it forward with wind. You could use the wind to cool places down or move heat around.

11. Your OTP?

Hmm Nessian from ACOTAR, Elorcan from TOG, Delypso from The Bargainer. Wissa? (Will and Tessa) from TID, Warenette from Shatter Me, I haven’t started Lady Midnight but I’ve heard I’m going to ship the hell out of Emma and Julian.

@feyre-and-aelin

My questions:

1.How did you get into SJM?

Amazon kept recommending ACOTAR and I’d seen it on bookstagram a lot with the “stars that listen” quote. I read both ACOTAR and ACOMAF about 2 months before ACOWAR. When I got done I immediately bought the TOG series and the rest is history.

2. What would you do with a million dollars?

I’d love to say I’m a wonderful person that would do a lot with it and help a lot of people but I’m going to be realistic. I’d pay off all my parent’s bills, my brother’s bills and student loans, travel the world, buy a small piece of land up in New Hampshire, and build a small house next door to my parents. Make a donation to The Progeria Research Foundation, small things for my friends like a plane ticket for B to see her family for Christmas, a year of diapers for my friend who has a little monster. Then I’d save whatever is left.

3. Do you consider yourself a morning or night person?

Morning by default. If I had any say in the matter I’d be a night person. Unfortunately 6 years of having to wake up at 4:30 AM every morning has turned me into a morning person.

4. What tv series are you into right now?

Actually good shows: Game of Thrones, Black Sails even though it just finished, Law and Order: SVU, HTGAWM, Grey’s Anatomy.

Trash t.v.: Vanderpump Rules, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Cheshire, Below Deck and Below Deck Med.

5. What’s your favorite tumblr blog(s)?

I’m going to forget people I know so I’ll just go with the ones I’ve talked to lately or can remember off the top of my head. @catastrophicallyinlovewithbooks, @cassiancalore, @highladyofdreamcourt, @dr-woodsprite, @regularlyconfused, @feyre-and-aelin(I know that’s you), @paperbacktrash, @lronteeth, @rowan-buzzard-whitethorn, @modernbookfae, @runesandfaes, @highladyofnorta@highladyofnorta

I apologize in advance you guys are going to get a notification that you were tagged in a super personal post with my answer to Luna below.

 6. If you had to pick one fictional character to spend the rest of your life with, who would it be?

Yikes umm I’d go with Cassian or Desmond Flynn. Cassian can cook and that’s helpful as hell because I don’t want to be the only one cooking for the rest of my life. He’s funny, good looking, and he could teach me how to fight. We don’t know much about how he acts in a relationship though so idk. Des on the other hand can’t cook but he can do magic to make your favorite foods appear, and he remembers shit like that. He’s great at dirty talk and always seems to leave Callie satisfied but wanting more. At this point in time I’d have to go Des because I know more about him.

7. If you were stranded on a deserted island and there was one naturally growing thing there for you to eat, what would you want it to be?

Super hard question. Cashews because they’re high in protein and other vitamins. And you don’t have to cook them.

8. How many followers do you have atm?

909

9. What would you say is your favorite thing in the world?

Books because people and pets aren’t things. Otherwise I’d say my family.

10. Would you go back inside a burning house to save your pet(s)?

Yes.

11. Have you seen/did you like Spiderman: Homecoming?

Not yet. I’m slacking on my Marvel movies I still haven’t seen Doctor Strange.

@lronteeth asked

1)    Which event in history you’d want to witness if you could time travel?

I used to say Salem Witch Trials but then I went and visited and a solid number of the women killed were named Sarah/Sara so that’s not a thing anymore. So I’ll go with the War of the Roses because English history fascinates me.

2)    How did you meet your best friend?

We went to the same day care as babies and were in the same kindergarten class.

3)    If you can be invisible for a day, what would you do?

I’m boring I’d hide and read uninterrupted.

4)    Your first kiss story

So this isn’t going to be cute or romantic at all fair warning it’s dark as hell. I’m usually a super distant person and I love pushing people away so my first kiss didn’t happen until I was 16. It was my guy best friend Adam. We were hanging out after school and we fell asleep on the couch in my living room. Sometime around 2AM I woke up to him on top of me kissing me with his hand down my pants. Yay violating someone without their consent. Because I was young and stupid I was freaked out but not for the right reasons. At the time, I cared less that things went down the way they did and more upset that I thought we were just friends. He informed me that “it was romantic like a fairytale where the guy wakes the girl up by kissing her.” So yeah there’s that.

5)    Most embarrasing memory

I once texted an older guy friend in a band “good luck” but my phone corrected it to “good lick” and I didn’t even notice the typo until he questioned it.

6)    Best 3 books you’ve read this year

-A Strange Hymn, Heir of Fire, The Sun is Also a Star

7) Worst 3 books you’ve read this year

-Local Girls, The Fall Guy, 14

8) Make your basketball team out of book characters

I have no idea how many people are on a basketball team, yikes. I fill my spots with SJM’s fae men because they all seem tall and physically fit enough to play basketball.

9) Book trope you hate

It’s all a dream

10) Describe your style

Put all the things in a blender, hit puree, pour into cup.

[hopeatermain]

Assassin’s creed modern au headcanons part 2

PART 2 OF THIS. I still have no idea of when part 2 of tCoI (the Child of Izanami) is coming, but the Unity one-shot will soon be published. So yeah, part 2 of the headcanons. The list is game IV to Syndicate, with Desmond has a bonus.

Edward

Formerly the proof that pirates still existed, now a grandfather that lives with his overworked son, angry grandson and probable future son-in-law.

He doesn’t care that he’s 81 and that we’re in the middle of the winter, he’s going out in short, sandals and t-shirt with shark prints on them. He’s still ripped, so it’s not that horrifying of an image, even if it makes Haytham go mad with worry.

He used to do parkour when he was young. He’s now too old to do that, but his legacy lives on with Connor, to who he gave his blue jacket.

He was formerly a sailor/smuggler/crook/pirate with a heart of gold (once took down a human selling ring because he has limits and this crossed every single one of them), but he was forced to retire after a career ending injury.

He had a lot of women in his life, but Haytham’s mother was the one he loved the most.

Haytham and his best friend Adewalé are literally the only ones to see just how Edward is actually a gigantic loser. The rest of their town thinks he’s either entertaining or awesome, most of the time somewhere between the two.

Shay

The weird friendly Irish psychologist/life coach that lives with Haytham because the whole Kenway family needs help. He also has a Tragic Past™.

HIS. FUCKING. TRENCHCOAT. He never takes the damn thing off unless he’s sleeping, in his apartment (since he practically lives in the Kenway house now, he doesn’t go to his apartment that much anymore) or a good 113 degrees outside (I’m talking in Fahrenheit; it’s the equivalent of 45 Celsius). He wears light colored clothes under the thing.

No seriously, he doesn’t even take it off when doing parkour.

A psychologist who has no idea of why he is basically doing the job of a life coach for Haytham. He doesn’t even really coach him, just remind him to eat, sleep, helps him with his son’s education and let him cry on his shoulder when he’s having too much. He also gives free tips for the people who ask him nicely.

Had a girlfriend back in university, before an ugly break up between him and his former group of friends, from which she was part off, happened. Now, everyone is sure he and Haytham are a thing. He wouldn’t blame them.

Had an ugly depression that almost finished in a suicide attempt. He’s now a successful psychologist living in an eccentric but friendly community. He’s the physical embodiment of things being able to get better. When people remarks how lucky he was, he answers ‘‘I make my own luck.’’

Arno

The French-Austrian adopted son of the rich De La Serre family following the tragic, early demise of his father, and inherited the Dorian fortune. He refuses to use the fortune of his family for personal reasons.

His style could be best described as swinging between ‘‘relaxed fanciness’’ to ‘‘complete and utter dishevelment’’. Depends on how depressed he feels in the morning.

The only constant is his parkour attire: blue raincoat with hood on and red scarf.

He’s a local journalist trying to write a book and works in a little cozy café mid-time to make ends meet. Why someone having every diplomas and qualities necessary to become a detective became a journalist is anyone guess.

He’s in a relationship with his step-sister Élise. They’re not technically siblings, but it’s still somewhat weird. Right now, they’re having a break in their relationship, and he doesn’t take it well, but respect her boundaries.

He has a severe case depression due to a lot of things going on in his life. The result is nights after nights of getting drunk, numbness to everything and sudden burst of crying. Everyone worries about him and bring him baguettes when he feels unwell because he loves baguettes so fucking much.

Jacob

One of the Frye Twins and the most excited, eccentric and friendly of the two.

He has a punk rock clothing style with an heavy dose of steampunk, and god forbid if you make comment about his collection of hats.

He still has the same style when doing parkour, but he takes the hat off and put on a leather jacket with a hood.

He’s the leader of a street gang called the Rooks, which is mainly composed of delinquents and former crooks. Most of the time, they just help around their community and get into street fights because why not? They also are the local weapon and weed providers.

He’s in a relationship with no one right now, but he still flirts with everyone he thinks is pretty. Bisexual. He also has two person pinning after him. He flirts with both of them, so it’s a start.

His reason for wanting to form a gang his both to provide a friendly neighborhood gang if you need someone beaten up, because, say what you want, but crime pay off, and because why not? He also has a soft spot for kids and will do anything to protect them.

Evie

One of the Frye Twins and the most levelheaded, serious and wise of the two.

She has a hipster style with a slight Victorian influence and some leather trinket here and there. She can basically make some flannel look classy.

Like her brother, she just puts on a leather jacket with a hood when doing parkour.

She’s working as a secretary mid-time while in marketing school. She’s also a member of her brother’s gang, but shhh, don’t tell anyone. She just gets in street fights and help with the damage he causes, anyway.

She’s in a loving relationship with one of her classmate that Jacob likes to poke at (the relationship, not the classmate), Henry Green.

She’s utterly exasperated with her brother and the rest of the town antics, but it doesn’t exactly stop her from taking part of them...

Desmond

Poor, poor Desmond... he just wanted a quiet life...

He dresses like in the games: simple white hoodie.

He never takes the hoodie off. Not even to parkour.

He’s a bartender in a nightclub of their district, Bad Weather.

Is in a quiet but romantic relationship with Lucy. His cousin and great uncle don’t approve.

He ran away from his home because his father was an asshole when he was sixteen. He remembered his reasonable great uncle Rashid and his quiet identical-to-him-but-blonde cousin Altair that were from Syria and who apparently lived in a town a few miles away from New York that he met last Christmas, and after packing what he owned, took a bus there. He then questioned everyone on where these two lived until he found their house. Nine years passed, a custody battle happened between William and Rashid, Rashid won, and Desmond is now used to the insanity of the little town, even if he still sometime screams when someone suddenly jumps from a high building just to land in a haystack. Why there is so much haystack in a town of the 21 century, he’ll never know. Maybe because of the horses...

[asbestosmouth]

Then 2003/Now 2017

@junojelli assigned me the year 2003 for the then-and-now walk down memory lane. Back to the heady (and extremely drunk) days of university!

Automobile: I had no car, for I could not drive until 2013 (late starter, for cars Are Scary). Mum had a...Kia Sedona, I think. She traded it in in about 2006 for a black Renault Megane, which was the last car she had. Now, I have the biggest Mazda 6 ever, but I don’t trust it - looking at a 4x4 Panda. I’m a small person, and I don’t need a massive car.

Job: Then I was in uni, last year of Masters in Medieval History - I was probably either still writing my dissertation on Welsh castles, or studying Medieval Medicine. I had no idea what I wanted to be, just something to do with museums and history. It turned out that doing Museum and Library studies might have been more useful. Now, I work for local government, and it’s pretty good. Not stressful - I’m not allowed to be stressed - and the people are lovely. My Dad is proud, since my brother followed Mum’s footsteps and I finally followed his.

Age: Then I was 22, and now I’m hurtling towards 37 like a freight train.

Lived: Half the year in Scotland, half the year near Cardiff. Now I live in a rural area in Staffordshire, where we find ALL OF THE GOLD HOARDS. We just got news of one found about five miles away from us, and I’ve got itchy metal detecting fingers on.

Furry Kids: Three dogs, I think. A labrador, a Jack Russell, and a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. We’d have just have lost our old Jack Russell - my parents are/were dog people. Oh, and a lot of ducks. Many ducks. All of the ducks. Now we have Charlie the Staffie, two guinea pigs, and three hens. I’m looking hopefully at getting another dog at some point.

Local pub/bar: The pub in uni was Drouthy Neebors, a Scottish theme pub in Scotland...yeah. Based on Tam O’Shanter, and it was epically nerdy and where all the geeks tended to congregate away from Royalty/The Posh who were more towards the sea front bars. Also the student union, mostly RockSoc, though often just getting pissed in the main bar. Now we don’t really go out that much, but when we do it’s for food at what used to be a real dive in the nearest town, but has bloody lovely food and has smartened up. Neither of us drink when we’re out, so Coke all round.

TV: I had no TV licence, so watched over at my good mate D’s house (I am lawful). He had SKY and everything. He was a rich student slumming with us paupers. Buffy, mostly. Lots of Buffy, though more films and playing Goldeneye on his N64. Spaced. Channel 4 sitcoms. This has not changed. Still the same Channel 4 sitcoms but with added things like Countryfile, panel shows like 8 Out of Ten Cats, Bake Off, Forged in Fire, and American Football. I’ve got no attention span for series, unless they are episodes that can be watched as a single thing, like the ‘80s Sherlock Holmes. I will watch Game of Thrones one day, I promise.

Happy: Then I wasn’t well. At all. I got my degree by a gnat’s tooth (Desmond all the way there) which I look back on with a mixture of relief and regret. I self-harmed as a way to cope with things, because I couldn’t understand what was going on in my head. Tiger parenting and overprotective mothering never prepared me for the Real World, so the first sign of failure meant Bad Shit Happened. Luckily my friends were amazing (still are) and I got through it. Eventually. Now? I’m far more physically screwed up - seems that my genetics hate me, and want me to have eternal pain and fatigue. Thanks for that, Mum. Mentally, I’m not so much better as I cope a lot more healthily? I’m still hideously anxious, and I regress awfully when I can’t cope, and I hate doing the ‘wrong thing’ - again, thanks Mum - but I’m able to have more agency for myself. I can make decisions, and actually attempt to stand up for myself rather than just going along with what my ‘betters’ tell me to do.

Kids: Then - none. Now? None. Part of me would like one. Part of me is terrified of passing on the genetic time bomb that is my family history. Maybe adopting might be cool, but I’d prefer a dog.

Steal away, folks, if you fancy a go. Pick a year. If not, go for 2000. 

[newstfionline]

No place like home: America’s eviction epidemic

Matthew Desmond, The Guardian, 12 February 2017

Even in the most desolate areas of American cities, evictions used to be rare enough to draw crowds. Eviction riots erupted during the Depression, even though the number of poor families who faced eviction each year was a fraction of what it is today. A New York Times account of community resistance to the eviction of three Bronx families in February 1932 observed: “Probably because of the cold, the crowd numbered only 1,000.” Sometimes neighbours confronted the marshals directly, sitting on the evicted family’s furniture to prevent its removal or moving the family back in despite the judge’s orders. The marshals themselves were ambivalent about carrying out evictions. It wasn’t why they carried a badge and a gun.

These days, there are sheriff squads whose full-time job is to carry out eviction and foreclosure orders. There are moving companies specialising in evictions, their crews working all day, every weekday. There are hundreds of data-mining companies that sell landlords tenant-screening reports listing past evictions and court filings. These days, housing courts swell, forcing commissioners to settle cases in hallways or makeshift offices crammed with old desks and broken file cabinets--and most tenants don’t even show up. Low-income families have grown used to the rumble of moving trucks, the early morning knocks at the door, the belongings lining the kerb.

In America, families have watched their incomes stagnate, or even fall, while their housing costs have soared. Median rent has increased by more than 70% since 1995. Meanwhile, only one in four families who qualify for housing assistance receive it, and in the nation’s biggest cities the waiting list for public housing is not counted in years but decades. The typical poor American family does not live in public housing but receives no government assistance whatsoever. The result? Today, the majority of poor renting families in America spend more than half of their income on housing, and at least one in four dedicates more than 70% to paying the rent and keeping the lights on.

It is estimated that millions of Americans are evicted every year because they can’t make rent. In Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a city of fewer than 105,000 renter households, landlords evict roughly 16,000 adults and children each year. That’s 16 families evicted through the court system daily. New York City sees 60 marshal evictions a day. The most recent version of the American Housing Survey asked people: “Do you think you’ll be evicted soon?” Renters in more than 2.8m homes said yes.

A landlord can evict tenants through a formal, court process. But there are other ways, cheaper and quicker ways, to remove a family. Some landlords pay tenants a couple of hundred dollars to leave by the end of the week. Some take off the front door. Nearly half of all forced moves experienced by renting families in Milwaukee are “informal evictions” that take place in the shadow of the law. If you count all forms of involuntary displacement--formal and informal evictions, landlord foreclosures, building condemnations--you discover that between 2009 and 2011 more than one in eight Milwaukee renters experienced a forced move. That is a shockingly high amount of residential insecurity.

The face of America’s eviction epidemic belongs to mothers with children. Until recently, the housing court in New York City’s South Bronx had a daycare facility inside it because there were so many children coming through its doors.

Eviction’s fallout is severe. Losing a home sends families to shelters, abandoned houses, and the street. It invites depression and illness, compels families to move into degrading housing in dangerous neighbourhoods, uproots communities, and harms children. Eviction is not merely a condition of poverty; it is a cause of it too.

Since the publication of Evicted, I have had countless conversations with concerned families across America. Teachers in under-served communities have told me about high classroom turnover rates, which hinder students’ ability to reach their full potential. Public-sector union organisers have told me about how firefighters, police officers, and nurses can no longer afford to live in the cities they serve and protect. Healthcare providers have helped me see that decent, safe housing can promote physical and mental wellness; and engaged citizens have shown me the civic potential of stable, vibrant blocks where neighbours know one another by name.

But eviction can erase all that, destabilising families, schools and entire communities. The lack of access to affordable, decent housing sits at the root of so many of America’s social ills. Without stable shelter, everything else falls apart. This means it is impossible to address poverty in America without fixing housing.

This is also not only America’s problem. In the United Kingdom, the cost of an average house requires 10 years of the average British salary; the average London house requires double that. Rents in Delhi’s business district now rival those in midtown Manhattan. Between 2008 and 2014, housing prices in São Paulo increased by more than 200%.

Over the past several decades, millions of people have migrated to cities from rural villages and towns. In 1960, roughly a third of the planet lived in urban areas; today, more than half does. Cities have experienced real income gains that have brought about global poverty reductions. But therein lies the rub, as the growth of cities has also been accompanied by an astonishing surge in land values and housing costs, especially in “superstar cities” whose real-estate markets have experienced an influx of global capital. Roughly 330m urban households worldwide live in substandard or unaffordable housing demanding more than 30% of their income. By 2025, based on migration trends and global income projections, that number is expected to climb to 440m households, representing 1.6 billion people. The world is becoming urbanised, and cities are becoming unaffordable to millions everywhere.

Larraine’s trailer was spotless and uncluttered. When a visitor commented on its cleanliness, she would smile and credit her handheld steamer or share tips, like slipping in an aspirin when washing whites. She had lived in her trailer for about a year and had come to like it, especially in the morning, before the gossips began congregating outside. She now had everything just-so. She had found white serving utensils to match the white cupboards in the kitchen and a small desk for her old computer. None of this made paying Tobin [owner of the trailer park] 77% of her income any easier.

Larraine studied her phone, dialling a number by heart. “Yes. I was wondering. I was told that you help people with their rent?… Oh. Oh, no?… OK.” She hung up. Larraine dialled the Social Development Commission, an anti-poverty organisation. They couldn’t help. Someone had told her that the YMCA on 27th made emergency loans. She called them. “Yes. I was instructed to call you because I was told you could help me with my rent… My rent… Rent. R-E-N-T.” By mid-morning, Larraine had dialled all the nonprofit, city, and state agencies she could think of. None came through.

The movers started the trucks early in the morning, diesel engines grumbling as the men gathered with cigarettes and mugs of black coffee. The city was soggy from the previous night’s rain. Some of the men were young and athletic with pierced ears. Others were barrel-chested and middle-aged, slapping their leather gloves on their jeans. The oldest among them was Tim, lean and sour-faced with reddish-brown skin, stubble, and a fresh pack of Salems in his front pocket. Almost all of the men were black and wore boots and work jackets with the name of their company--Eagle Moving and Storage--and various clever slogans: “Moving’s for the birds”, “Service with a grunt”, “Order some carryout”.

The Brittain brothers--Tom, Dave and Jim--had taken over the company from their father. When he had started it back in 1958, there were only one or two eviction moves a week. He ran a two-truck operation out of his home and would pick up men from the rescue mission when he needed an extra hand. Fifty years later, the company employed 35 people, most of them full-time movers, owned a fleet of vans and 18ft trucks, and operated out of a three-storey building that had originally held a furniture factory. In total, 40% of their business came from eviction moves.

Eagle’s moving crew worked with two sheriff deputies. The deputies would knock on the door to announce the eviction; the movers would follow, clearing out the home. Landlords footed the bill. A formal eviction that involved sheriffs and movers could run to about $600 (£482), when you included the court filing charge and process-server fee. Landlords could add these costs to a judgment but often never got them back.

Dave Brittain, a white man with greying hair and a long stride, gave the men the signal, and they climbed into the trucks.

The sheriffs met the moving crew outside an apartment complex on Silver Spring Drive. John, the older of the two deputies and the one who most looked the part--broad shoulders, thick jowls, sunglasses, cop moustache, gum--gave the door a knock. A small black woman answered, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. When John looked around and saw a tidy house with dishes drying in the rack and not a box packed, he turned to his partner and asked, “Are we in the right house?” He placed a call back to the office.

When Sheriff John walked into a house and saw mattresses on the floor, grease on the ceiling, cockroaches on the walls, and clothes, hair extensions, and toys scattered about, he didn’t double-check. Sometimes tenants had already abandoned the place, leaving behind dead animals and rotting food. Sometimes the movers puked. “The first rule of evictions,” Sheriff John liked to say, “is never open the fridge.” When things were especially bad, when an apartment was covered in trash or dog s--t, or when one of the guys found a needle, Dave would nod and say, “Junk in”, leaving the mess for the landlord.

John hung up the phone and waved the movers in. At that moment, the house no longer belonged to the occupants, and the movers took it over. Grabbing dollies, hump straps, and boxes, the men began clearing every room. They worked quickly and without hesitation. There were no children in the house that morning, but there were toys and diapers. The woman who answered the door moved slowly, looking overcome. A sob broke through her blank face when she opened the refrigerator and saw that the movers had cleaned it out, even packing the ice trays. She found her things piled in the back alley. Sheriff John looked to the sky as it began to rain and then looked back at Tim.

Larraine had grown up with two brothers and two sisters in a squat, yellow-brick public housing complex across the street from a baseball field in south Milwaukee. Her mother was an invalid, her body swollen on account of her thyroid. Her father was a window washer. Larraine remembered him bringing home bags of Ziegler Giant Bars when he washed the windows of the candy factory, or armloads of fresh bread when the day’s schedule took him to certain local restaurants. Larraine loved her childhood, especially her doting father. “We didn’t know we were poor,” she said.

Larraine had struggled in school. In 10th grade, she decided she’d had enough. “Everyone around me was making it but me.” She dropped out and began working as a seamstress for $1.50 an hour. She went to work at Everbrite, which manufactured corporate signs. During a strike, she left and found work as a machinist at R-W Enterprises on Sherman Avenue. Her father constantly worried about his young daughter working with sheet metal and operating punch press machines. Maybe that’s why, when a metal disc came down on her hand one day and pinched off the top half of her two middle fingers, all she remembered doing was crying out for her daddy.

At 22, Larraine married a man named Jerry Lee. They had a daughter three years later, and another two years after that. But soon the marriage began to unwind. It got to the point where Jerry Lee began bringing women back to their home. They divorced after eight years, and Larraine began life as a single mother. Those years were filled with poverty and double shifts and freedom and laughter. If you asked Larraine, she would tell you they were some of the best years of her life. She would bring the girls to her day job cleaning houses. They’d pitch in, and Larraine would split her pay cheque.

The Eagle Moving trucks stopped outside a north-side duplex with cream siding. An older child answered the door: a girl, maybe 17, with shorn hair, dark-brown skin and unflinching grey eyes.

Dave and the crew hung back, waiting for John to give the OK. The deputies always went first and absorbed tenants’ blowback if there was any. Things often got loud; they rarely got violent. Sheriffs used different diffusion strategies. John preferred meeting aggression with aggression. Once, he called the sheriff’s office in front of a woman in a bathrobe and headwrap, saying into the phone, “If she doesn’t shut her mouth and start talking like an adult, I’m going to throw her s--t in the street!” The conversation with Grey Eyes was taking longer than usual. Dave watched a white man in a flannel shirt park his truck and approach the door. Landlord, he figured. After a few more minutes, John nodded at Dave, and the crew sprang up.

Inside the house, the movers found five children. Tim recognised one child as the daughter of a man who used to work on the crew. It wasn’t uncommon to evict someone you knew. Most of the movers lived on the north side and had at some point experienced the awkward moment of packing up someone from their church or block. Tim had evicted his own daughter. But this house felt strange. Dave asked what was going on, and John explained that the name on the eviction order belonged to the mother of several of the children. She had died two months earlier, and the children had simply gone on living in the house, by themselves.

As the movers swept through the rooms, Grey Eyes took charge, giving orders to the other children; the youngest was a boy of about eight or nine. Upstairs, the movers found ratty mattresses on the floor and empty liquor bottles displayed like trophies. In the damp basement, clothes were flung everywhere. The house and the yard were littered with trash. “Disgusting,” Tim said of the roaches scaling the kitchen wall.

As the landlord changed the locks with a power drill and the movers pushed the contents of the house on to the wet kerb, the children began to run around and laugh.

When the move was done, the crew gathered by the trucks, instinctively stomping the ground to shake loose any stowaway roaches. They didn’t know where the children would go, and they didn’t ask.

With this job, you saw things. The guy with 10,000 audio cassette tapes of UFO activity who kept yelling, “Everything is in order! Everything is in order!” The woman with jars full of urine. The guy who lived in the basement while his pack of chihuahuas overran the house. Just a week earlier, a man had told Sheriff John to give him a minute. Then he shut the door and shot himself in the head. But the squalor was what got under your skin; its smells and sights were what you tried to drink away after your shift.

Larraine considered asking her brothers and sisters for help. There was her eldest sister, Odessa, who lived a few miles away and spent her days in a nightgown on a corduroy recliner, watching talk shows next to a lampstand crowded with prescription medication containers. She was on supplemental security income, and wouldn’t be able to help even if she were willing, which she wasn’t. Beaker was in worse shape than Odessa. A towering man with loose skin, Beaker was 65 and a heavy smoker who relied on a walker. The family, in the midwestern way, liked to poke fun at his failing health. “We’ve got the funeral home on speed dial!” Even if he wasn’t in the hospital, Beaker’s social security stipend was even less than Larraine’s. He could afford the rent but little else, living hard in a filthy trailer covered in clothes, cigarette boxes and butts, food-encrusted plates, and stray dog s--t.

Then there was Ruben, the blessed child. He was the only one who hadn’t inherited their father’s Croatian nose. And he didn’t live in the trailer park, or even a trailer park, or even in Cudahy, like Odessa. He lived in Oak Creek, in his own home, which was big enough to host everyone for Thanksgiving dinner every year. Larraine could ask Ruben for the rent money, but she wasn’t close with her baby brother. Plus, asking for help from better-off kin was complicated. Those ties were banked, saved for emergency situations or opportunities to get ahead. People were careful not to overdraw their account because when family members with money grew exhausted by repeated requests, they sometimes withheld support for long periods of time, pegging their relatives’ misfortunes to individual failings. This was one reason why family members in the best position to help were often not asked to do so.

Larraine thought her best bet was to approach her younger daughter, Jayme. Larraine found a ride to Arby’s [restaurant], where Jayme worked. Jayme looked up from a pile of dirty dishes, rolled her eyes at her mother, and came walking to the front, her thick auburn curls tucked beneath an Arby’s hat. She was not much taller than Larraine and wore wire glasses and a nun’s expression: warm but distant. Jayme whispered, “Mom, you’re not supposed to be here.” “I know,” Larraine said, dropping her smile to look deeply sad. “I know, honey. But I just got a 24-hour eviction notice. They are going to throw me out if I don’t pay the rent. And, um, I was wondering if there was any way you could help me?”

“I can’t.”

“OK.”

“I can’t.”

Larraine gathered herself in the Arby’s parking lot. Office Susie had told her to ask her family for rent. She often heard a similar line at the crisis centres. When the social workers behind the glass asked her, “Well, don’t you have family that can help?” Larraine sometimes would reply, “Yes, I have family, and, no, they can’t help.”

At the next house, a Hispanic woman in her early 40s answered the door holding a wooden spoon.

“Can I have until Wednesday?” she asked.

The deputies shook their heads: no. She nodded with forced resolve or submission.

Dave stepped on to the porch. “Ma’am,” he said, “we can place your things in our truck or on the kerb. Which would you prefer?” She opted for the kerb. “Kerbside service, baby!” Dave hollered back to the crew.

The woman walked in circles, trying to think where to begin. She told one of the deputies that she knew she was being foreclosed but that she didn’t know when they were coming. Her attorney had told her that it could be a day, five days, a week, three weeks; she decided to ride it out. She and her three children had been in the house for five years. The year before, she had been talked into refinancing with a sub-prime loan. Her payments kept going up, jumping from $920 to $1,250 a month, and her hours at Potawatomi casino were cut back after her maternity leave.

Hispanic and African American neighbourhoods had been targeted by the sub-prime lending industry: renters were lured into buying bad mortgages, and homeowners were encouraged to refinance under riskier terms. Then it all came crashing down. Between 2007 and 2010, the average white family experienced an 11% reduction in wealth, but the average black family lost 31% of its wealth. The average Hispanic family lost 44.7%.

A mover started in on a girl’s bedroom, painted pink with a sign on the door announcing: “The princess sleeps here.” Another took on the dishevelled office, packing Resumés for Dummies into a box with a chalkboard counting down the remaining days of school. The eldest child, a seventh-grade boy, tried to help by taking out the trash. His younger sister, the princess, held her two-year-old sister’s hand on the porch. Upstairs, the movers were trying not to step on the toddler’s toys, which when kicked would protest with beeping sounds and flashing lights.

As the move went on, the woman slowed down. At first, she had borne down on the emergency with focus and energy, almost running through the house with one hand grabbing something and the other holding up the phone. Now she was wandering through the halls aimlessly, almost drunkenly. Her face had that look. The movers and the deputies knew it well. It was the look of someone realising that her family would be homeless in a matter of hours. It was something like denial giving way to the surrealism of the scene: the speed and violence of it all; sheriffs leaning against your wall, hands resting on holsters; all these strangers, these sweating men, piling your things outside, drinking water from your sink poured into your cups, using your bathroom. It was the look of being undone by a wave of questions. What do I need for tonight, for this week? Who should I call? Where is the medication? Where will we go? It was the face of a mother who climbs out of the cellar to find the tornado has levelled the house.

Larraine answered a knock at her door and found two sheriff deputies standing on her small porch. Behind them, the Eagle Moving trucks were pulling into the trailer park. It was a tight pinch for the drivers, manoeuvring through the narrow entrance, minding the unleashed dogs and children, and backing up to the designated spot; but Eagle had been in Tobin’s park plenty of times. It was the last move of the day, and the crew was sore and eager to get home. The movers were hoping for a “junk in”, but Larraine asked that her things be taken to storage. The movers began filling boxes with Larraine’s things: the white utensils in the kitchen, a Christmas gift for her grandson.

Larraine stood outside, silently looking on. The movers carried out her chair, her washing machine, her refrigerator, stove, dining table. Next came the boxes with who knows what inside: perhaps winter jackets or shoes or shampoo. The neighbours began to gather. Some grabbed beers and positioned lawn chairs as if watching a Nascar race.

It didn’t take long. Larraine was cleaned out in less than an hour. She watched the truck lurch away. Her things were headed to Eagle’s storage warehouse, a dimly lit expanse with clear lightbulbs strung from a ceiling supported by large wooden pillars. Inside, there were hundreds upon hundreds of piles, each representing an eviction or foreclosure. The piles were stacked to eye level and individually encircled in shrink-wrap like so many silken-wound insects on a spider’s web. Up close, the contents were visible through the taut clear wrapping: scratched-up furniture, lamps, bathroom scales, and everywhere children’s things--rocking horses, strollers, baby swings, bouncy seats. The Brittain brothers thought of the warehouse as a “giant stomach”, digesting the city. They charged $25 per pallet per month. The average evicted family’s possessions took up four pallets, or 400 cubic feet.

Larraine would have to find a way to pay her storage bill. If she fell 90 days behind, Eagle would get rid of her pile to make room for a new one. This was the fate of roughly 70% of lots confiscated in evictions or foreclosures. Most of the stuff ended up in the dump.

Larraine dragged herself to her brother’s trailer. She swallowed pain pills. In silence, she let the painkillers work. Once they had, she looked around, let out a muffled scream, and began punching the couch over and over and over again.