#diamonds are forever quilt

[aestheticaltcow]

Anywhere

Rhett Abbott x Reader

A rejected marriage proposal and a desire to leave Wabang leaves Rhett in an interesting situation.

Outer Range Masterlist

You were awoken by pounding on your front door. A low wince came from your throat as the pounding intensified. “I’m comin’... I’m comin’...” you groaned as you got out of bed, draping your quilt over your shoulders as you walked out of your bedroom into the open, free-flowing vibe of the rest of your small apartment. You paused before opening the door. You should take that picture frame down…

As you peered through the peephole, a mix of fear and resignation gripped you. “Com’on Sunshine- I know you’re home.” you sighed, your mind filled with weariness, as you opened the door to reveal none other than Luke Tillerson. “You gonna invite me in?” His voice, laced with a hint of charm, sent a shiver down your spine. You wanted to slam the door in his face and go back to bed, but as he towered over you, you knew he could force his way into your apartment if he really wanted to. You stepped aside and allowed Luke into the foyer. He removed his hat and set it on the small table you had beside the door. 

You watched as Luke looked around your apartment. He scoffed slightly before putting his hands on his hips and turning his attention to you, “Why’d you say no?” he huffed. You took a shallow breath and watched Luke’s features harden. He was never your biggest fan, but when you’d told your now ex-high-school-sweetheart the infamous William “Billy” Tillerson ‘no’ to his incredibly romantic marriage proposal two weeks ago, Luke’s general dislike turned to hate. 

-

Billy had been the perfect boyfriend in high school and was really great when you’d gone away for college while he’d opted to stay home due to Wayne’s dwindling health. He was patient with you; he would drive from Wabang, Wyoming, to Vermillion, South Dakota, for every sorority event every softball game, and practically became your sugar daddy so you could focus on your studies. He was supportive in every way possible. He was proud of you and was content just sitting on your dorm room floor, staring at you as you did homework. As long as he got to spend time with you. After you’d graduated and moved back home, Billy thought it was time to ‘make an honest woman out of you,’ as Wayne would say. He didn’t want to rush anything; the two of you had been together for eight years, but he could wait another eighty if it meant being with you forever. You worked at the police station to get real-world experience before applying to either law school or the FBI- you still hadn’t decided what you wanted to do with your future, but you felt Billy wouldn’t be in it. 

You knew Billy was planning something. He was never really the subtle type; the bells rang when he’d asked you on a picnic one warm spring afternoon. You’d been back home for a few months and were officially independent from your parents. You were itching to get out of Wabang again. Billy drove the two of you out into the Northern pasture of the Tillerson Ranch, a vast expanse of green that stretched as far as the eye could see. In the spring, a large patch of wildflowers would bloom just outside the woods, adding a burst of color to the landscape. It was beautiful and secluded. Billy pulled out all the stops- it had been a great afternoon until he got down on one knee and presented you with a goddy diamond ring. He made a speech about how you were the love of his life, and he wanted the entire world to know. You watched the hopeful boyish smile leave his face as you started apologizing- “You don’t wanna marry me?” “No, Billy- I’m so sorry I just… I don’t know what I want.” 

You got up, wrapping your cardigan around your body tightly before running away from Billy. Your dress was riding up, but you didn’t care. You needed to get out of there. You weren’t sure how you’d managed to get to the road between the Tillerson and Abbott ranches before dark, but as you started the daunting walk back to the city, you’d absolutely shattered Billy’s heart, and you didn’t know if you’d ever forgive yourself. A horn honked behind you; as you looked over your shoulder, you paused in your step as none other than Rhett Abbott pulled up beside you. “Shouldn’t your guy be drivin’ you home?” 

When you burst into tears, Rhett stared at you like a deer in the headlights. He put his truck in park before hopping out and guiding you to the passenger’s side door. He helped you into the cab while you continued to sob fat tears, your body wracked with uncontrollable sobs. You didn’t care that Rhett saw you ugly crying- he didn’t know what to say or what to do. He thought about how he’d comforted Amy the first time she’d fallen off a horse, he figured since you were crying in a similar way- maybe it would help. You retracted when you felt his large, calloused hand pat your shoulder. He pulled his hand away, shifted his truck back into drive, and slowly made his way down the dirt road that led back to the city. He let you cry, unsure of what to say or what to do. He turned on the radio and drummed his thumbs along to the song that filled the cab. 

When Rhett pulled up to your apartment complex, you whimpered out a ‘thank you’ and reached for the door handle. “Do you want me to come inside with ya?”

-

Luke stared at you, waiting for a response. You sighed and wrapped yourself tighter, “Luke- I… uh, I just-” you stared before Luke cut you off with a loud scoff. “Billy has treated you like a goddam princess since high school! Just fuckin’ marry the poor kid!” he yelled, stepping closer to you. You shuttered at the sudden movement. Luke noticed and pushed a hand through his hair, “Look, Billy stopped singing. Don’t get me wrong- I like the quiet, but the crying… just tell him you’ll marry him.”

You shook your head, “I’ve hurt him enough, Luke… please leave.” you instructed as you opened the door. Luke huffed one last time before taking his hat from the table, “You should take that picture down.” he retorted before slamming the door behind himself. You sighed and looked longer at the picture frame by the door. It was a simple silver frame engraved with 9/2/16 at the top. In the frame was a collage of pictures of you and Billy from high school and a few from when you were in college. You couldn’t take it down but couldn’t look at it.

It had been a long week at work; you were tired and lethargic and absolutely did not want to go out with your friends that Saturday night. Walking into the bar that night, you saw Trevor Tillerson trying to cozy up with Maira Olivares. One Tillerson was one too many for tonight, you just hoped that Billy stayed home tonight. You followed your friends over to a booth in the back and quickly put in an order for drinks. 

After a couple of hours, you’d begun to enjoy yourself- your friend Sara was indulging the group with a story about some guy she’d been hooking up with as the five of you were throwing back shots when a waitress walked up and handed you a drink and handed it to you. “Guy at the bar sent this for ya.” she winked before walking away. A choir of ‘oooooo’s filled your booth, making you roll your eyes. “50 bucks; it was one of the Tillerson boys.” your friend Amanda laughed.

 “Fuck off, Amanda- Trevor and Luke both hate my guts, and I don’t think Billy is here.” you craned your neck over to the bar and felt the air leave your lungs when Rhett tipped his hat in your direction. “I need some air,” you said abruptly as you got up and quickly headed toward the exit. You weren’t looking where you were going when you bumped into the last person you wanted to see right now, “Hey, Sunshine…” you winced at the low voice of none other than Billy Tillerson. You didn’t respond to his greeting as you exited the bar. 

Rhett watched you from the bar. He’d always thought you were pretty back in high school. He was a couple of years older than you, and you’d been practically inseparable from Billy Tillerson since the two of you had gotten together during your freshman year- Rhett’s senior year. Since that night he drove you back to your apartment and hung out inside for a few hours. He couldn’t get you out of his head. When he saw you walk in with your girlfriends, he felt it was safe to make a move. He and Perry had come out to get a beer and unwind. Perry knew about his little crush on you, before a few weeks ago he’d thought it had gone away. Rhett had told him about a date he’d gone on with Maria, but it was like a light switch went off when he found out about you and Billy breaking up; he was over Maria and now head over heels with you. Perry found it amusing; he figured his brother would never tie himself down with a wife or kids, but when he saw how Rhett was looking at you, he was second-guessing himself. 

You pushed your hands through your hair as you took a deep breath outside, you were trying to ground yourself, but all of that went to shit when Rhett walked outside. “Hey.” he greeted you with his crooked smile. You groaned and walked in the other direction, “Rhett, please just leave me-” Rhett cut you off midsentence with a deliciously sweet kiss. His lips tasted like the beer he’d been drinking. With one hand on your waist and the other on your cheek, he pulled you close to his body as he pushed his tongue into your mouth. You kissed him back and looped your arms around his neck as the kiss raised in intensity, Rhett was the one to end it. “Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere,” he mumbled.

“Rhett- I - I can’t.” you studdered as you tangled your fingers in his hair. “Runaway with me, Sweetheart. Anywhere you wanna go, we’ll go.” Rhett said as he ran his thumb against your cheekbone, “Anywhere you want, Baby. Anywhere.” 

“You fuckin’ whore.” Trevor howled. He’d come outside to smoke but to discover you in Rhett Abbott’s arms was a slap in the face. “My brother isn’t good enough for you, but this fuck up is? You broke his fuckin’ heart, you fuckin’ whore!” his yells got louder, and you pushed Rhett away before wiping the corner of your mouth to wipe away your smeared lipgloss. You looked between the men and felt shame crash over you. Rhett walked up to Trevor and pushed him back, “Don’t call her a whore.” he spat. Trevor rolled his eyes as he chuckled, “Well, she shouldn’t act like one then.” he pushed Rhett back. The two stared each other down as the bar doors opened. 

Perry joined the group in the parking lot. “Everythin’ okay out here?” he questioned as he adjusted his hat, “This don’t concern you, Perry.” Trevor spat in his direction. Perry shifted his gaze to you. You shook your head, hoping this wouldn’t become a parking lot fight. There was a moment of silence before the other Tillerson brothers came outside. You looked at Trevor and pleaded with him not to tell Billy what he’d walk in on. He shook his head and didn’t bother to stifle his laughter, “Your little girlfriend here is just a worthless whore, Billy.” 

Billy shook his head. He didn’t want to believe what his brother said. “Don’t say that Trevor…” he stared at the ground. His stomach twisted as Trevor continued ranting about your supposed promiscuity. Billy wiped his eyes with the back of his hand before looking up at you. Your hair was longer than he remembered. Although they were filled with tears, you still had the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen. Billy wanted nothing more than to reach out and hug you until his arms fell off. “Guess you lucked out, Billy- she probably woulda tried passing off Rhett’s kid as yours.” Trevor laughed. He was trying to get a rise out of you, “Shut the fuck up, Trevor!” Billy yelled, closing the distance between the two of them before finally punching him. 

Billy shook his hand out as Luke finally intervened in the situation. Billy pushed Luke away from him before turning his attention back to you. “Are you okay, Princess?” 

You slowly nodded, finding comfort in the pet name. “Okay,” Billy sighed. He glared in Rhett’s direction before walking off in the opposite direction. You’d had enough for the evening. Rhett reached out for your hand only to be smacked away. “Just- just leave me alone, Abbott. Please,” you begged. Rhett took a step back, and you went back into the bar to find your friends and go home. 

-

You couldn’t take it anymore. After weeks of gossip behind your back and judgemental stares from the older women in the community, you needed to leave Wabang. The day you’d gotten your acceptance letter to Texas A&M School of Law was the best day you’d had in weeks. You found an off-campus apartment and a job at a local law firm. Everything was set for the big move, but there was still one thing you had to do before you could run away to Texas for your new start. 

“Hey.” you half-heartedly grinned when Billy opened the door. “Hi,” he said as he stepped onto the front porch. “I got into law school… I’m leaving tomorrow, but I wanted to say bye to you.” 

“I knew you’d get in. You’re smart.” Billy chuckled as he rubbed his arm awkwardly.

“I love you so much. Thank you for everything you did for me. I couldn’t have done it without you.” you softly smiled as you reached out for one last hug. Billy smiled the goofy smile you’d loved since the day the two of you met in freshman biology. He wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“If you love something, let it go…” he mumbled into the crook of your neck, making you giggle as you gave him a squeeze. “I love you Y/N. I’m always gonna love you.”

The two of you stood there longer than you should’ve; it felt nice and nostalgic. When he released you from his grip, it was freeing. “Just promise you aren’t movin’ to Texas with Rhett Abbott,” Billy pleaded as he walked you back to your car. You laughed and said, “No, Billy, I’m not moving to Texas with Rhett Abbott.” 

While you hadn’t planned on moving away with Rhett, he had other plans. You didn't know what to say when he showed up on your doorstep a few weeks after you’d settled.

 “I said anywhere, Baby, and I guess that’s Texas.”

[danddthornton]

Diamonds are Forever 2

What fun it was to quilt this project with feathers in the black background as well as the border and my own digitized design in the bright colored diamonds.

[camelcasebestcase]

crafting asks: 5, 6, 11!

5. anything you have made that you hated?

I once knitted a sleeveless cardigan out of leftover yarn of several colours with large seed stitch diamonds that just turned out super disappointing. It took forever, was boring to knit, and when finished was a little bit too small for me. I ended up donating it.

6. anything you made that you loved?

I love most of the things I've made, so I took a picture of some hightlights.

The first thing I knit (apart from some practice squares that are lost to time), at age 16-17 (it took that long lol), was a 3 meter 4th doctor scarf. I would even work on it between classes at school. You can see where I started, because there's a bunch of dropped stitches there, and one botched colour change, and on the other end my knitting had become so much more even. I couldn't get all the colours from the same brand, so I went to different shops and bought all kinds of different yarns - that's why the edge is so wobbly, there's a lot of different weights!

It looks decent and it taught me so much, I'll always cherish it for that reason, though I rarely wear it anymore because it's impractical.

The sweater is from 2021. Kind of a 10 years of knitting anniversary! It's pure wool (A sheep and alpaca blend if I recall correctly) and very warm. I don't love the cold, but I love that I can wear this sweater when it's cold! It's part of why I often have to turn up the heat a bit for guests in winter... I used a standard drops sweater pattern for the shape of the sweater, and came up with the colour pattern myself. The collar is kinda improvised, but I like how it turned out. I love working with colours, thought recently I have been branching out into doing more with cables too. I calculate how many stitches I have, figure out whether I can divide that by something like 16 or 20, and then draw out patterns until I find something I like on 5 mm paper.

I carved the symbol into the prayer bench when I volunteered in Taizé, a religious community in France which organizes retreats for particularly young people. It's my rendition of the orange origami boat, the symbol of the German pro-refugee movement (I don't think it's used as much anymore). Before I was in Taizé, I volunteered in a women's center for refugees in Greece for half a year. Nowadays my pro-refugee activities mostly consists of donating. If you want to help, considering donating to action for women, offene arme, equal rights beyond borders if you want to support the small organizations whom I have personally seen doing amazing work, or doctors without borders if you prefer an org with a wider scope who also does great work there.

The potholders are the first and so far only thing I quilted- they are completely hand-quilted from thrifted fabrics, and I love how they turned out. I now have a sewing machine, and yesterday a friend got it to work, so there's gonna be a lot of quilting in my future I hope!

The shirt is bought, but I embroidered the flowers with perl cotton. I had done some cross-stitch before, but this was the firs time I did this kind of embroidery. I based the flowers on the drawings of the herbs in pathologic 2, and used some instructional videos on youtube to figure out how to stitch them.

11. best thing about [your craft] is?

I mostly knit, but what I like in any craft is to make things that are are both pretty and can be used. And I can make exactly what I want! Of course, with literally *all* of these, there are things that could be improved. With everything I make, I reflect on what I made before, and change how I do it. But while everything I make is flawed, it's already great for just existing. It's fun to make things, and it's fun to use things I have made. The options are endless.

[lepoppeta]

First 10 Lines Challenge

list the first line of the last 10 fics you wrote and see if theres a pattern!

tagged by @scriptrix-eclectica

1. Hunt the Thimble

Skimbleshanks is born in a cobwebbed corner of a train car, with the sound of the engine forever rumbling in his ears; the sharp whistle of the locomotive is a bright alarm in the distance.

2. Grow as we Go

"Now, I know that there's nothing I can do to stop you-"

3. The Blue Tide Pulling me Under

There was a sound in the darkness.

4. My Lover Stands on Golden Sands

Atlas awakens to beams of amber sunlight piercing across his face and a pale, red-headed little menace eagerly crouched on the floor at his bedside.

5. Dark and Familiar and Deep as the Sea

Arcadia glitters jewel colours under the dim overhead lights.

6. You're Gonna be my Bruise

Jack kisses him first.

7. Frame and Wire

Jack may be having a few reservations about all this, pressed against the glass of a pedestrian tube while an eager Atlas turns the collar of his turtleneck down and peppers his exposed neck with light kisses.

8. Athair

Atlas Mulligan keeps a gun under his pillow.

9. Aphrodite

Jack hadn't touched the bottle of Merlot, not since Atlas had popped the cork and had taken the first swig.

10. At the End of the Line (Maybe a Diamond Ring)

Munkustrap flopped backwards onto the quilted throw, one arm slug haphazardly across his eyes.

majority action starters! im not surprised, although i figured i would have been more on the descriptive end. i definitely dont tend to start with dialogue.

[fumblingmusings]

Okay but this post when Eva/Evelyn just fucking decides she's had enough of her politicians, kings and queens and every other nation who is giving her headaches.

Just ... Fucks off to a secluded part of England, maybe where one of her homes use to be, and fucking decides to be a farmer kind of Barbie and the Diamond Castle style.

She doesn't tell ANYONE, just fucking disappears one day, and it takes everyone a while to begin worrying ab where their little European Island Nation has gone

"meetings have been calm and quiet recently", " yeah, you're right. ", "... ", "... " , " WHERE IS ENGLAND?! "

Which results in them just half-heartedly trying to find her, and only when something absolutely serious and possibly life threatening is happening in the UK do people actually start to worry

This woman has become a popularly known woman in the little village she's been hiding, for her gorgeous garden and her flowers she displays out of her home for people to take. Just living a relatively calm life under an alias name, tending to her flowers and veggies, walking down the streets and roads in the evening, feeding the local cats and dogs

And when they do find her and try to convince her to go back bc something they are too cowards to handle but a nation can do;happens, she just tells them to piss off.

"But you're our nation!"

"Never have you lot ever listened to me when it came to matters of my home, why should i help"

"Because it's your duty!"

"Not anymore, I'm a gardener, I sell flowers now, so either help me pick these tulips or bugger off"

"So you don't care about the economy or the people?!"

"No"

"..."

"please leave, you're stepping on my Lavender"

The life of a nation is to feel perpetually in the state of

at who's in charge you know?

But yes! I have a half written chapter that I don't really know what to do with, from 1948 where Evie has been quite settled living in the house Alfred bought her. She babysits for the woman next door and knocks on people's doors to give them the carrots and potatoes she's grown and, in general, is quite settled, making quilts and sewing Alfred new suit shirts because he's forever tearing them not paying attention. And then one day, Alfred is like, 'Listen, about Germany, I need you to come with me and help me fly food and coal over the Soviets heads...' and she's like Ah. Sounds fun. Always up for annoying the Russians. She needed a break, and she got one. Now, back to it.

I love the idea though that every nation has that moment where they go: 'you know what? I'm not doing this. fuck off. leave me alone. I don't get paid for this. you use me as a scapegoat. i am removing myself from the situation. which is healthy. apparently.'

I like to think some nations do thrive in their respective civil service. Maybe they really like it (cough cough Ludwig). Maybe other's fucking loathe it and would rather float around like a wisdom sprouting tour guide (Francis). Others take up odd jobs here and there, like Feli does art commissions maybe. Others live like college students (Alfred). Some maybe have genuine jobs (lol. get a real jobbbbb) like Estonia is a software engineer perhaps. Evelyn becomes a midwife. I like that for her. She's done it for hundreds of years and uses her hygiene knowledge, and it involves babies. She is content.

[just-emis-blog]

Searching

He can’t move. He’s lying on his back in the bed, buried under an old fashioned, brocade patterned comforter and an even older handmade quilt. The room is dark, but not completely. The thick, tapestry like curtains on his window are tied back, allowing in a slow blinking beam of light. The brightness of it is further enhanced by the large vanity mirror it keeps striking - a glittering, burning diamond out of the corner of his eye. He wants to get up and close the curtain. His arms are leaden, dead weights at his side. He tries to shift, to rise. Every attempt feels like he is being pushed further down, sinking, his chest caving in from the pressure. But he has not moved, he is perfectly still. He tries to move his head. Move it side to side, to prove he is not paralyzed. His chest tightens with terror at the idea of being unable to move forever. It is painful, in the way that you have a sore muscle after a day of workout, to move his head. He is exhausted from the effort, he is panting, he can barely breathe.

He is not panting. His breathing is completely normal. He has not moved an inch. The light catching the mirror is growing closer, spreading throughout the room, the center a blinding nexus. His eye is pulsating with pain. He is not in pain. The glinting light is in its same position. He wants to close the curtains. He will never be able to fall asleep. He cannot get up. He cannot move.

He hears whispering. When did this start? Has he heard it since he noticed the light coming in? How much time has passed? He wants to check the digital clock on the nightstand. All he would need to do is turn his head to see. He tries. He feels so heavy. He can see the red numbers on his clock show 12:05 AM. The numbers shift and blur and are changing and have always been changing. He has never turned his head to see, but he knows that it is at least 12:05 AM. How long has it been since he knew this?

He wants to move his arm at least. His foot. He wants to get up right now. The whispering has gotten louder and faster. He cannot make out what is said. The noise is disintegrating into particles until it is crashing, ocean waves. He feels an icy cold dampness on his forehead. Something is wrapping around his neck and head. The waves are roaring. He struggles harder to get up. He knows that if he does not his neck will be snapped. He fights and fights, the pressure keeping him down like the gravity of the entire planet. He can’t breathe, he is trying so hard. He is breathing.

Slowly, so slowly, his left arm comes up. He is tearing through layers of molasses, fog, webs, flesh. Clawing to rise, clawing at nothing. His right arm comes next. He lifts his head. He is released from…he is released from…he sits all the way up. His head spins, the waves all come down upon him…

Anthony opens his eyes. He sits up, and there is no barrier. His eyes rove around the room frantically as he clutches his grandmother’s quilt. Nothing is amiss. None of the shadows move. There is no trembling in the air, no creaking where there should not be creaking. The curtains are open at his window, allowing in a slow blinking beam of light that bathes the room in a flash of white for the split second it hits the mirror.

Anthony gets out of bed. As he walks, the heaviness in his head and the slight tingling in his limbs are the only evidence of - 

Possession, ghosts, demons - these flit through his mind like a candle’s flame (his throat tightens, his breath catches in his chest). They are snuffed out just as quickly.

- the nightmare he just had. At the window now, he can at last see the strange light’s origin. Far In the distance, perched atop a craggy cliff face, is a lighthouse - beacon lit and circling the area in a great, lazy rotation. The lighthouse has not been active since Anthony moved here six months ago. It hasn’t been active for the past fifty years, if not more, according to the few towns people Anthony had spoken to.

He squints into the darkness, and then tries not to blink when the light inevitably flashes into his eyes. The small cabin at the base of the lighthouse (when starbursts aren’t blinding Anthony’s vision) appears still. He knows someone lives there - an older gentleman, who Anthony never caught the name of, even though he has helped him bring in his groceries, along with other chores that, though small, are more suited for younger muscles. He spotted an old photograph there once, the only picture in that cabin that wasn’t some generic painting, of a young man making a silly pose on one side of the giant, imposing lighthouse lamp, while a young woman stood poised and serene on the other. There’s a little blotch in the corner - most likely the photographer’s thumb. It’s fairly cute, especially for an old timey photo. This story told him that the old man was probably the Lighthouse Keeper back in the day…and maybe something sadder. He is a quiet man, with a slump in his shoulder, a furrow in his brow, a wetness in his steel blue eyes, like he is perpetually on the verge of tears. Raw grief engulfed the man like a shroud. A shroud Anthony, who barely knew him, could not begin to lift. He has danced this dance before, though. So Anthony never asks. He is done poking his nose where it does not belong.

Anthony continues to stare out the window. His slightly annoyed curiosity starts to morph into worry as he sees no sign of the old man leaving the lighthouse. Not that he could make out anything from this distance, and at this time of night. He contemplates fetching his binoculars as more concerning scenarios run through his mind. Had the old man wandered up there by accident - sleepwalking? In the throes of a bad memory? Is he hurt? Is he stuck? If he climbs down now, will he even be safe? Anthony can’t imagine the stairs were all that steady even in the lighthouses’ heyday, let alone now.

Is it even the old man up there, Anthony wonders. It could easily be one of the townspeople. Some punk college kid. One of the grouchier adults. Everyone seems to have a silent, but no less obvious, grudge against the man. Listening in on gossip and the like has not brought Anthony any closer towards finding out why. He has had to bite his tongue several times against asking directly.

The glowing red numbers of his clock catch his attention in his peripherals. 2:15 AM. First of the month - gotta bring the rent check down to Mark tomorrow…later today. There is a post-it note on his front door with the reminder, and two alarms set on his phone, but he can’t help the mental note as well. Not since he was scolded so thoroughly by the Landlord when he delivered his very first check late, and the even worse scolding he got for asking if he could send the money to him electronically.

Between the late hour, and his resolve not to interfere in things needlessly, the anxiety riddled concern starts to fade away. No amount of staring and speculating is going to help him figure out what’s going on. Not unless he wants to go out there and make the three mile journey to the lighthouse himself. Only to find nothing, and be a bother to everyone.

Not tonight, he thinks. Not anymore.

He closes the curtains. The light continues to hit it out of spite, but at least it is now reduced to a dull glow. He goes back to his bed. He freezes, one knee balanced on the edge. The memory of what awoke him is crystal clear in his mind. Not a moment faded around the edges like all of his other dreams and nightmares before it. He climbs the rest of the way into bed, tense, eyes searching the even darker room for answers. He has never experienced anything like that in his life, and he does not want it to happen again. His mind cycles through his limited medical knowledge, skitters and crawls towards supernatural explanations, before being forcefully ricocheted back into the rational hope that he imagined everything. This goes on and on, until he finally falls asleep.

That morning dawns gray and foggy. Anthony finds himself no worse for wear despite the unplanned wake up call.

(No pressure keeping him down. Nothing wrapped around his neck)

He goes through his morning ablutions with the intent to put last night behind him. There is much to do today, even more so than usual since he slept in.

Stepping outside of the master bedroom is like stepping into a different house entirely. Much of the living room, hallway, and guest bathroom has been stripped to its foundation. The kitchen’s renovation is the only thing nearly complete - with new hardwood flooring, the walls and cabinets repainted, and a brand new stove, refrigerator and microwave installed. He kept the vintage, cottage like, aesthetic as it was before, and the electronics were updated but lacking any complex bells and whistles. This is still his grandmother’s house, after all, and Anthony has kept in mind her ability to function in it during every step of this construction.

Anthony spends the next couple of hours hard at work under the sink. The house fills with the noise of metal clanging against metal, and he loses himself in the familiar motions. By the time his alarm goes off he is nearly done with the plumbing. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, panting as he wipes his sweaty brow with his other forearm. There are several missed text messages from his siblings and friends, a voicemail from his mother and a more than likely similar voicemail from his grandmother, and a notification on Instagram saying that Eric has recently added to his Story -

He deletes the notification, scowling fiercely at his phone. Of all the remote, coastal towns smack in the middle of nowhere, this one just has to have perfect service.

Anthony’s finger hovers over the app. He’s already wiped away every other trace of Eric - phone number, gifts, pictures (electronic and physical) - but the instagram Follow remains like a deeply embedded splinter in his palm.

His second reminder alarm goes off, making him jump. TIME TO PAY RENT, the notification says. He scowls again, irritated that he spent at least thirty minutes brooding about his ex, like the pathetic “try hard” Eric accused him of being. He ruthlessly pushes all thoughts of him away as he washes up for a second time that day. Thoughts of Eric creep up and crowd his mind, as they always do, regardless of his wants, and he knows they will not disappear until he is back in the throes of manual labor. So he rushes out the door, grumbling in annoyance at himself as he notices it was left unlocked. It’s a gray and misty day and the wind is cold and biting. He shivers, having forgotten his jacket in his hurry, but trudges down the gravel path to his truck. It’s fine. He just needs to run into town to drop off the check, grab a sandwich, and then get back to work. He will warm up once he gets back to work. Everything will be fine once he gets back to work.

His eyes are drawn, nearly against his will, to the lighthouse in the distance. The beacon is still lit, cutting through the fog and towards the ocean. He doesn’t know what it means that the light is still instead of rotating like a police siren as it was last night (his Digital Art classes didn’t cover lighthouse maintenance at University), nor does he know if a lamp should be lit for 24 hours after not being lit for over fifty years. Concern for the old man crashes into him like the violent waves against the cliff face. He will grab a sandwich, check the old man’s little cabin, and then get back to work. He is sure that he will find nothing amiss. But he will bear the likely scenario that he is being paranoid and a bother, because at this point he knows that he will have to appease his worry (this weird, annoying, obsessive tendency that he can’t seem to carve out of himself, even for the sake of his relationship) or he will not be productive today.

His grandmother’s house is on the outskirts of the little town of Soker. Behind her house is a forest ridden mountain, with a two way windy, three hour road that leads to the main freeway. Off the north side of the house is a bumpy, narrow path with a fork. One way leads into the main town (about a ten minute drive assuming no sheep or ducks were lazily crossing), the other leads to the lighthouse, with several paths and old staircases leading to the beach down the hill along the way.

Anthony has his hand on the door handle when it feels like the fog has suddenly coalesced into a thick blanket. He grimaces, the embarrassing memory of crashing into a fence on a relatively straight path the last time he drove in fog this bad immediately surfacing. With a begrudging sigh, he lets go of the handle and starts the long trek into town. Better to speed walk for twenty minutes than to wait for two hours to be roasted by the sole tow truck driver.

The wind whips through his short dark hair and roars in his ears incessantly. The spring months had been a cold, sopping wet, and summer had only the slightest increase in temperature - meaning he could get away with stepping outside in a long sleeve shirt and pants. From the condensation he is puffing out and the almost insistent chill, he did not foresee October ushering in a gentle autumn.

‘You can be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare…’

His ring tone cut through the wind faintly. Anthony let another lyric belt out, giving him time to uncross his arms and shake out his slightly numb hands, before taking the call.

“Kuyaaaaaa,” came the expected, reedy whine of his younger sister. The record for her not calling after he didn’t respond to a text was about twenty-eight hours. Mr. Guinness would not be contacting her this day. “Are you coming home? Did you get my message?”

“No, Steph,” he replies, trying and failing to keep out the exasperation in his voice. This wasn’t the first time she’s asked, and he can’t even blame her for the pestering. When he first came out here to Grandma’s it was with the intention of patching up some shingles on her roof. A mere once over inside the house quickly revealed that it was actually practically unlivable. He was horror stricken at the thought of his grandmother living this way, and all alone at that. So, with barely a second thought (and perhaps he needed a second more, according to his siblings) he essentially had them switch places - his grandmother living in his modest little apartment across the State, while he stayed here and repaired her home. The next thing he knows, a couple of weeks turns into a few months, then a month more and a month more kept getting added on, as more problems made themselves apparent. “I told you last week, I still have a lot of work to do.”

“No - ughhhh! I don’t mean, like, for forever. Just for the Halloween weekend. Didn’t you see my text? Are you avoiding my messages? That’s toxic. You’re being toxic right now.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not being toxic.”

“So you’ll come, then?”

“...I dunno - ”

“Come onnnnnnnnnnn. You haven’t taken a break for a year -”

“Six months.”

“Plus you’re isolating yourself. You need to have fun and relax and talk to people - ”

“I talk to the people out here all the time.”

“Uhhh. No. You said that everyone out there was standoffish and cold, so that means you’re not having proper social interactions and stuff…”

Damn. He remembers that little rant he went on. It was after a night of visiting the only bar in a first and last attempt to interact with something aside from power tools. Not his finest moment, nor his soberest.

“...you’re probably not even taking care of yourself either.”

“I’m taking care of myself fine,” he counters, hoping she can’t tell he’s trudging down an icy cold road in a t-shirt from his voice. Who was the older sibling here again? Good grief. “I’m on my way to get lunch right now.”

“Mm,” she says curtly. He fears that she can tell after all. This is the last kind of news he wants to get back to his parents and grandmother. Nevermind demanding he return, they would hop on the first mode of transportation available - be it van, speedboat or skateboard - and pick him up themselves.

Instead of continuing down that train of accusation, Stephanie switches tracks completely. “Kuya…are you really out there to fix Grammy’s house…or is it because of that cheating jackass?”

“Don’t swear,” he stalls. He’s not dumb. She’s not dumb. There is no doubt who the “Jackass” in question is.

“Clout chasing pancake guzzler, then.”

“You’re pushing it, child.”

“Whatever - my point is you don’t deserve to be run out of town like some bandit in a cowboy movie when you didn’t even do anything wrong!”

“I haven’t been run out of town. Her house really is taking longer than expected to fix - all the wiring is pretty much eroded and I found a colony of bees in some of the walls and…” he grits his teeth, and decides to give a little. The topic will just keep coming up, now that its been stated so blatantly, and the gut punch of it will not get any lighter. “The alone time has been helping me…think things through.”

  There’s a pause on the other line. “...ok,” she concedes quietly, like he hoped. Steph is fairly mature for a sophomore in highschool. “I hate that he hurt you so bad.”

Anthony swallows. “I know,” he says, hating that he made how much the breakup affected him so obvious. “It’s not your fault. I’ll figure myself out.”

“Will you figure yourself out faster if I whoop his ass?” came the voice of his older brother Junior, meaning Stephanie likely has the phone on speaker. Fantastic.

“No. No, no. Thank you, Junior. I’m good. I promise,” he says firmly. Junior is built like a tank, a casual MMA fighter, and a successful Prosecutor - which is the worst amalgamation of skills you can possess if you are protective with a short temper. Anthony hates Eric’s guts right now, but he does not want to be the reason for his guts to be spilled on the floor, perhaps while also being wrongfully imprisoned.

“If you say so…” he says in a tone that clearly states the option for violence is always open. Why is his family like this?

“I do.”

“Hey Ant…you sure you’re doing alright? You don’t sound so great.”

The fog is thinning out. The wind a brisk pulse instead of a grueling howl now that he is further away from the sea. He is getting closer to town - can already see the roof of the Post Office as he starts walking down the final hill. He is going to respond with something dismissive about not sleeping well last night, but he pauses as the excuse starts to form at the tip of his tongue. Last night. He is still curious about the lighthouse. Junior is a true jack of all trades kind of guy - if anyone would know the effects of a very old, giant, lamp being lit all of a sudden it would be him.

And maybe he could slip in the topic of…something incredibly strange and terrifying that happens in your sleep.

“Yea, I’m alright. I actually wanted to ask you - should a lighthouse - ”

SCREEEEECH.

Anthony jerks his phone away from his ear. The noise was piercing - some horrible mix of birdlike and electronic. It rings in his head. There’s a pounding pain in his ear and temple that makes him squeeze his eyes shut against it.

Thankfully, the pain doesn’t last long. He hears his own sharp, indrawn breath through his teeth. Thankfully he hasn’t gone deaf either. Reoriented, he looks down at his phone. 

The call has dropped.

Anthony walks the rest of the way into town, absentmindedly waving his phone in the air. He tries to text and call Stepahnie and Junior, but nothing gets through. The miraculous service of the past six months has abandoned him at last. Maybe the high winds of Fall and Winter were screwing with the signal? That happened plenty of times in the City during a bad storm. He pockets his phone. He’ll try again when he gets back to his grandmother’s - now is as good a time as any to install the high speed router.

It isn’t until he arrives at Mark Hangleton’s home that Anthony feels like something is off. The streets are quiet, aside from the wind and the distant crying of gulls. It is never quiet during the day, especially during the peak lunch hour. There is always chattering gossip, always haggling and arguing. Always someone hoisting this week's catch somewhere with grunts and crows of satisfaction, always the crunch crunch of boots and old sneakers pounding against gravel. But today there is simply…nothing.

Anthony knocks on Mark’s dingy, scratched up door.  A tightness steadily forms in his chest the longer there is no answer. He can’t help looking over his shoulder, straining his ears for the normal ambient noise of Soker. He hears nothing. He pounds on the door with his fist. “Hello?” he calls, “Mr. Hangleton? It’s Anthony Battaglieri. I’m here to drop off this month’s rent.”

Still nothing. “HELLO!” he bellows, his voice echoes eerily off the walls. He winces, feeling like a rude idiot, and whips his head around self consciously. Expecting to be glared at, maybe scolded if someone was feeling particularly grumpy today. But no one says anything, because no one is there.

Anthony stepped off the porch, not sure what he should do next. He has not been late with rent since that first month, and he knows that Mark would be curmudgeonly enough to count it as such if he didn’t have it in his hands by 3:00PM on the dot. Desperation has him wandering towards the side of the house where Mark’s bay windows are. He stands on his tiptoes to peak inside, feeling foolish and half his age with these antics. If Mark is merely in the kitchen then he would easily hear the ruckus he made…

Mark is slumped over his table, unmoving. Anthony wants to dismiss this. This isn’t the worst case scenario that he thinks it is, like he always thinks it is. He is about to try knocking again, perhaps even risk leaving the check under his doormat with a note, when he sees the knocked over mug of coffee, and the steam shooting out angrily from a kettle on the stove.

Adrenaline surges through him. He rushes back to the door without thinking. He grabs the knob, turning it on reflex as he surges his shoulder forward to break through. He barely catches himself from crashing into the floor as he careens inside. The door is unlocked. He runs into the kitchen and up to Mark’s prone form - dressed in a woolen coat and trousers, papers strewn around him and under his hand. There are no outward signs of any wounds. He quickly checks for a pulse - hears a short snort. Steady, soft snores follow that sound normal enough. Is he…asleep? He snaps his fingers by the middle aged Landlord’s large ear. He calls his name loudly a few more times. His hands hover uselessly over him. Should he move him? Is he unconscious? Did he have a stroke? Anthony is not a doctor. He barely knows basic first aid.

He gives his head a stern shake. Ok. Worrying about what he can’t do will help no one. He moves on to what he can. He goes over to the stove and turns it off. The whistling peters out, leaving Anthony’s panicked breathing and Mark’s soft snores a deafening orchestra. He goes to the old landline phone on the wall. Call for help. This is definitely a call for an ambulance type of situation.

The phone is dead. It does not come back to life no matter how frantically he presses the switch hook. He hangs it up, checks his own cell phone for service. Nothing. Of course. His eyes rove over Mark again. He hasn’t moved. His skin doesn’t look different, and his breathing sounds the same. Those were the signs of your condition worsening, right? Would he be alright if he left him here? Every moment not acting in some way felt like a countdown against Mr. Hangleton’s life.

He decides to leave. Anthony is not at all equipped to help, so the best choice should be to get to the people who are, as fast as he can.

He runs outside, his boots against the gravel a cacophony in the silence, and goes across the street to the neighbor’s door. He hesitates, noticing a weird array of scratches in the fresh paint. It looks like a long, upside down checkmark, with three short lines crossing neatly in the middle, and a small circle at the bottom of the line, bisecting it evenly into two halves. He shakes his head again. This is no time to examine random graffiti. 

He pounds on the door strongly. “Excuse me!” he yells, hoping his voice conveys steady urgency, and nothing untoward. “I’m sorry! There’s an emergency! Mark Hangleton is hurt and I need to use your phone! Hello!” He knocks on the door continuously, raising his voice higher the longer there is no answer. Again, on reflex, he tries the door knob. Again, the door swings open, unlocked.

The panic for Mr. Hangleton recedes, and a different kind of uneasiness starts to build in Anthony’s gut.

“Hello?” he calls again, looking hesitantly through the doorway. He crosses the threshold. “My name’s Anthony - I’m Allison Battaglieri’s grandson, she lives up the hill? By the edge of the forest?” he says, hoping to immediately deescalate. He walks further into the house, slow, hands raised, feeling like an idiot and a criminal all at once. It is shadowed and dim. The green paisley wallpaper is decorated with pictures of a husband and wife, enclosed in gilded frames of varying sizes. There are some square shaped empty spaces, noticeable by the dusty perimeter, that likely other pictures or trinkets once hung. He passes a room with the door wide open.

“I’m so sorry!!” he gasps out, jumping back a step and out of view of the definitely inhabited bedroom. “Your door was o-open and - I’m so sorry! There’s an emergency! I don’t know what’s wrong with Mr. Hangleton - could I please use…your…phone…”

He trails off. Braces for indignant yells, or at least an answer to his request. Nothing. The seconds creep by. He controls his fast paced breathing. Maybe he can’t hear them because he’s over here panting like an asthmatic. Nothing.

Slowly, carefully, he peaks into the room. He knocks on the door as yet another courtesy, the noise booming like thunder. The couple from the pictures is laying tucked under the covers, presumably still in their pajamas - the man even has an old fashioned night cap on. Anthony stands in their doorway, nonplussed. The couple remains in place, still, aside from the gentle rise and fall of the comforter. How could they sleep through all this?

“I - ” Anthony pauses, unsure. Unnerved. “I’m sorry, I just - I need to use your phone real quick. Um…” He starts to leave. He jerks back, checking the bed again for any sign of movement. “I’m really sorry for bothering you. Really.” He waits.

Nothing.

Anthony blows out a breath. Ok. Ok. He meanders throughout the house, being as loud and obvious as possible, just in case, until he finds another landline on an antique side table. Dead again.

He slams down the receiver. What the hell is going on here? Is there a power outage? He quickly flicks on the living room lights. All of the lamps come on without issue. Fine. Ok. So the power isn’t a problem. Maybe it’s just these two houses?

So he tries the next house, and the next. He gets the same results - all of the phones dead, all of the inhabitants asleep (presumably. Hopefully). Some of them were still in their beds, others looked like they simply passed out in the middle of a task. Boom. Just like that.

And every door is unlocked, and every door has that strange symbol carved into it.

A virus? Anthony thinks as he walks out of the last house on the block. His mind doesn’t linger on this idea long. If this were some airborne epidemic (attack?), then why isn’t he affected now? And what kind of virus knocks you out with no other visible symptoms?

He catches sight of the symbol, carved onto a red door across the street. He is trying valiantly not to jump to illogical conclusions but…

A cult! That’s what this all reminds him of! He is not filled with any less dread at this new epiphany, but it is as grounded in reality as he can bear right now, as the lack of human activity seems to heighten every noise, seems to bring every shadow or movement he sees from the corner of his eyes into sharp focus. He rushes back to Mark’s home with a new sense of urgency, the symbol on his door a stark marker now that he has seen it so many times. He searches around the kitchen, not sure what he is looking for. Robes? An old, antique looking book? He’s seen plenty of Netflix documentaries as much as the next guy, but they didn’t exactly provide a bullet point list of signs to look for.

He picks up the coffee cup, sniffs it. What? Does he hope to smell arsenic? Some other poison he is completely unfamiliar with? He feels so incredibly dumb by the action that he sets the cup back down and checks to see if Mark has seen him fumbling around.

The Landlord snuffles, but otherwise offers no comment.

Anthony does see what looks like a marking in the table where the cup was previously. It is covered by the dark brown liquid. He grabs some paper towels and wipes it away, also taking the time to wipe the rest of the spill from the floor and the edges of the table (there is nothing quite worse than coming back to a mess after you are sick). The mark looks like an F, with the top two lines slanted down. But it is so small and innocuous, it may very well be a normal scratch.

He cannot dismiss this so easily though, not when there are patterns and meanings unfolding before him (non-detective that he is).

He sighs deeply. What he wouldn’t give to be able to take a simple picture of these symbols with his phone, and summarily have all the answers handed to him on a silver, digital platter. Or to ask it what are the top 5 reasons an entire town would fall asleep simultaneously.

At that moment, his stomach chooses to growl. He suddenly becomes aware of how achy he is from the initial adrenaline rush, of how clammy his skin is from running around in the cold. His body clearly does not care about these mysterious happenings - it is still tired and it is still long overdue for some lunch.

Before he leaves, he spares one last glance at Mark. He is a little less worried that there will be some magical deterioration once he is out of Anthony’s sight. Unthinkingly, he also gathers up all of the loose leaf papers on the table and shoves them haphazardly into his pocket. Maybe their contents would provide a clue, maybe they were his tax returns. Regardless, Anthony needed a sandwich.

The walk down to the Market Square remains tense. Anthony’s thoughts are in turmoil even as he scans every corner, half expecting someone or something to jump out at him. He keeps circling around his limited knowledge of illnesses and poisons, tied in with the symbols. If they were some sort of language, then he didn’t recognize them. Junior might, if they were. He knew four other languages. Or if they were star signs, Stephanie would know for sure. She is a deep believer in all that stuff, and they certainly had the look of those astrology squiggles she was always drawing in her notebooks.

He arrives at the market to, unfortunately, unmanned stalls and empty stores. He feels a flare of hope when he sees all of the fish and sealife on display, stacked atop ice filled barrels and crates, or crawling around and swimming in large schools in tanks. Not a day has gone by, since he arrived in Soker, has there ever been a shortage of fish. He didn’t know if that meant the seas were plentiful, or if Soker’s fishermen had a grit that others were lacking, but at this moment it meant that someone had to leave their house to set this all up. Anthony ran up to the first vendor in sight, past the MARKET sign that hung on the giant arch. It is the booth he visits most often whenever he comes into town, the second being the various hardware shops. Julianna, the owner of the booth, sells the best crab sandwiches in Soker, as far he’s concerned. On more than one occasion her sandwiches have served as his breakfast, lunch and dinner. He makes a beeline for her little shop behind the booth that held all of her wares and a mini kitchen. He has his hand on the glass pane part of the door to push it open when he sees Julianna’s body crumpled just behind the stall.

He gasps so hard that it’s painful. Julianna rolls onto her other side, smacking her lips almost comically, in response, and in turn prevents Anthony from having a full on meltdown.

Sound asleep. He doesn’t have to look long before he spots the symbol - the upside down check mark is carved into one of the wooden beams holding up the awning. He looks around despondently at all of the other stalls. More symbols carved somewhere, he imagines, and more sleeping townsfolk.

Resolutely, he adjusts Julianna into a more comfortable position, even though every instinct pounded into him from media tells him not to move a person with an unknown ailment. He doesn’t think, however, that this random Sleeping Beauty sickness has anything about letting the victim remain passed out on their neck as a safety measure. 

He wanders back aimlessly into the middle of the square, grabbing a sandwich from the carefully wrapped pyramid perched atop an ice barrel along the way. Julianna was never any kinder to him than the other residents of Soker, but she would always give a mildly annoyed hand wave and a nod whenever he forgot to bring enough cash with him. He would pay her back later when she woke up.

Anthony chews on his sandwich, lost in thought, going over his options now. He could make the walk back to his home, take the truck and try to find help - or better yet, take one of the cars here. He grimaces at the thought. Aside from the sketchiness of stealing and trying to explain the situation, he wouldn’t trust any of the hoopties here to make that kind of drive. The lighthouse looks like it is looming over him from this angle, despite the distance. He wonders again if the old man is up there, struck with the same sleeping sickness as his neighbors. Is he draped over the lantern like Mark? Is he sprawled haplessly like Julianna? Is he injured? Has the beam of light grown brighter?

Anthony is a digital artist. He is that one in a million person that, inexplicably, makes a decent living off of commissions. He’s a decent handyman - self taught. At first out of necessity, then as a hobby. That is why Anthony is here. Because his parents are too old, his sister too young, and Junior too important. He will not be able to magically deduce what is going on here.

“What should I do?” he mutters aloud.

“What should you do about what?”

Anthony is not ashamed to admit that he screams. He is ashamed of his stumble backwards as he whirls around, clutching his chest as if it were a pearl necklace about to be snatched.

A woman is standing there, about his age, blinking at him languidly. Her long brown hair is parted down the middle, with a flowery headband wrapped around her forehead. Anthony dosen’t know how long she has been behind him and he doesn’t care. The relief at seeing another person awake is like a flood; quick to wash away any annoyance or confusion he would feel otherwise.

“Adelaide?” he says, unable to keep the tentativeness out of his voice. He doesn’t think he has been alone long enough to warrant a mirage, but one can never be too careful.

Her grin is slow growing and excited. “Yea,” she says, a little breathless, like she can barely believe he is here either. She clears her throat. “Yea. And you’re Anthony, right?”

Anthony nods his head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. He has seen her around, as one does within a small town, but has only spoken directly to her during that disastrous night at the Bar. He doubts he had made the best impression.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

He is unsurprised, but no less crushed, to see her shake her head.

“Is your phone working?”

“Nope. I don’t even have one.”

He sighs, running his hand through his hair. Two miracles is asking for too much, clearly.

He starts to share what he knows with her - how he found Mark, and then the rest of Soker, unconscious, and no amount of noise or jostling would wake them. He told her about the symbols, paused midway at his crappy description, and then led her to Julianna’s booth to show it to her first hand.

“...I saw another symbol on Mark Hangleton’s table. It looked different from all of these - kinda like a capital F, but uh, slanted….” he continues, as Adelaide examines the beam, tilting her head this way and that. “What do you think they are? Hieroglyphs, maybe?” A curse? he thinks.

She turns to him, lips pursed. “Sorry. I haven’t got a clue.”

He starts to slump in defeat, but then jerks up as he is reminded of something. A clue! Right! Under Adelaide’s curious gaze, he yanks out the many sheafs of paper he had grabbed from Mark’s table. 

The first paper is a letter, dated for yesterday. ‘Dear Obi,’ it starts, ‘It’s nights like these when I especially yearn for your forgiveness. And yet, how can I ask for yours, when I dare not ask it of myself…’

Anthony is alarmed at how quickly the letter gets personal. He almost doesn’t want to keep reading, but the need to figure things out and plain and simple morbid curiosity keeps him going. It’s riddled with apologies and self depreciation. Anthony never knew Mark Hangleton (who kicks stray chickens and spits when he talks) could be so eloquent.

“What is it?” asks Adelaide.

“They’re a bunch of apology letters…I think? To someone named Obi and…yea. Looks like they’re all addressed to Obi.” Whoever that is. A ‘Margery’ is mentioned a few times, from the context she seems to be Mark’s daughter, or some kind of relation. Her, and Obi’s ‘Caroline’.

‘...It wasn’t supposed to be her, Obi. it wasn’t supposed to be either of them. I knew it then and I know it now. But I was just one man, Obi, against the whole town! I know what we promised. Believe me, it haunts my waking days. What would you have me do? What would you have me do!’

“Ominous,” says Adelaide after reading over his shoulder. “Sounds like something out of an old ghost story.”

“Yah,” he concedes with a drawn out sigh. “A little bit.”

Anthony rifles through the letters again. When no secret cipher reveals itself, he returns them to his pocket once more. Julianna chooses that moment to bellow out a particularly powerful snore from her curled up position on the cold, hard ground. That decides Anthony’s next move.

He bends down and scoops the comatose woman up in a fireman’s carry. He pushes the door of her little shop open with his hip, then gently puts her down in a lawn chair tucked amongst a rack of scarves and novelty postcards. He searches through her various baubles until he finds a hand knit blanket and pillow, to cover her with and tuck under her head respectively.

“What are you doing?” Adelaide asks, having waited outside during the whole ordeal.

“Well…it might rain soon,” he says, marching resolutely to the next stall to repeat what he had done for Julianna. “And I doubt you’re supposed to be outside in the cold when you're sick like this.”

Anthony’s shoulders tense, awaiting accusations - that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he’s being “too much” - but they never come. Adelaide just makes an indistinct humming noise, and nothing more. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and continues with his self imposed task.

Adelaide follows him like a diligent sentinel as he plucks up each vendor from their awkward heap and then plops them on the nearest, comfiest surface he can find, as if he is putting a bunch of toddlers down for a nap. She makes zero moves to help the entire time. Anthony doesn’t begrudge her this. From what he has seen, the townspeople were as contemptuous of her as they were to the old Lighthouse Keeper, but in a less overt way. No, they just ignore her existence. Walking past her without a word, speaking around her as if she weren’t there, sometimes directly in front of them. In a small town like this, where the only place you could start over anew and fresh is miles and miles out (and expensive to boot), Anthony thought that this treatment was far crueler than the standard bullying.

Thankfully for Anthony’s lower back, not every vendor has managed to set up today, so he manages to get them all inside in a decent amount of time.

He is still winded from all of the work, so he leans against a stall to catch his breath. Adelaide waves a water bottle under his nose, offering him a wry, unrepentant smile. He snorts, and downs half of it. He tips the bottle back towards her in a silent offer.

“I’m good,” she says. He snorts again. “What?”

“That’s the same thing you said to me at the Bar when I offered to get you an appetizer.” He takes another swig out of the bottle, then says dolefully; “too good for my wings and my water - you’re a cold piece, girl.”

She smirks, eyebrows raising. “Get better at flirting next time, cowboy.”

Anthony almost chokes on his next gulp, to which she laughs an unfair amount at. “Ahem…ah. I definitely wasn’t flirting - don’t worry.”

 “Uhhh huuuh…” she drawls.

“Yea you’re uh…not exactly my type,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t have to elaborate. He loathes elaborating.

“Huh - Oh!” Enlightenment fills her blue eyes, and he is grateful that it is nothing more than that. He would really hate for the last conscious person in this town to be homophobic. That was Twilight Zone levels of irony.

He can practically see the “soooo..who’s the lucky guy?” question brewing in the slight twist in her expression, so he starts walking before she can say anything. There are much more important things than ruminating about Eric going on right now - talking about it, even a brief explanation, would only result in him being drawn into a depressive spiral, and would thus slow down getting the people of Soker help. Best to avoid the topic entirely.

“Got a plan?” she says, once she catches up to him.

“Barely. I’m going to check the houses again. Maybe there’s different symbols somewhere inside them too - like at Mark’s.”

“Alright,” she draws out slowly, her skepticism dripping from every syllable. Fair enough. He doesn’t know what he will do if/when he finds more of the carvings. Put them all together and see if they form a neat little message? They probably won’t. Maybe they will.

They comb through each house carefully…well. He combs through each house. Adelaide essentially tags along, looking around the houses like a tourist in a museum. Again, he can’t bring himself to be too upset at her lack of help when he notices her gaze land on any of the comatose occupants. Her eyes fill with rage and her pretty face twists into a deep scowl. He has never seen such utter hatred painted so plainly on a person, not even when he confronted Eric about his cheating. Though, Anthony supposes Eric’s was a more patronizing, absent minded kind of hatred. Not the result of being hurt, but of having your time wasted by someone who was so much lesser than you.

“Is that a good idea?” she asks, as he hauls a man (likely in his sixties and probably twice Anthony’s weight) onto a couch, just as he has done with any of the other homeowner’s that had fallen outside their bedrooms.

 “No…i…dea…” he pants, bent over with his hands on his knees. “They seem…ok…as long as I’m…careful - ”

“Why bother?” she barks. Her arms are folded, the puffs of her white peasant blouse scrunched up tight. There’s no expression on her face as she awaits his answer. ‘They don’t deserve it’ echoes loudly in the room.

“...They suck, I know, but…” he starts slowly, searching for the right words to convey how he feels. He doesn’t want to say that he’s doing this “out of the goodness of his heart” or that it’s “the right thing to do”. God, how Eric would taunt him, has taunted him, for saying something so cliche (inauthentic, his ex would drawl). For once, Anthony doesn’t feel sad at the thought. He feels irritated.

“I’m not a jackass,” he settles on.

Adelaide huffs, then seems stunned when he offers nothing more than that. “You - !” she pauses, her face softening as she makes up her mind about something. “No, you aren’t, are you?”

Anthony shrugs. “Most of the time.”

She huffs again, then carries on not helping in the midst of this objectively horrible crisis.

Anthony chortles to himself, and carries on as well.

He does not find another symbol for quite a while. In the meantime Anthony can’t help but notice the peculiarities of the houses he is practically turning upside down. Without fail, every one of these houses has an extra bedroom. At first he thought they were guest rooms. Until he saw the personal items - dolls, stuffed animals, posters and toys. Drawings and trophies. Notebooks, diaries. Bassinets, cribs, surrounded by pastel pink walls. Girls rooms. But no girl teenagers, no toddlers, no unconscious babies anywhere in the house. Even the single inhabitants, like Mark, had an additional bedroom. With its cheery yellow walls (a stark contrast to the dreary, fisherman aesthetic he has going on) decorated with posters of ballerinas. Under the window, a desk with ear marked fantasy novels strewn about the surface. In the corner, a neatly made bed covered in a layer of dust. Against the wall across from that, a dresser with a jewelry box on top of it, a necklace with a silver jigsaw piece pendant hanging out of it like an offering for an altar. A life. A young girl’s life.

And then there were the letters. Stacks and stacks of them in every house. Some of them are out in plain sight, others are tucked away like a dirty secret. ‘Dear Obi,’ they all begin. And like Mark’s, they all descend into apologies - to Obi, to his Caroline, to an unnamed ‘her’. They all drop various other names (a Margery, a Greta, a Cynthia), lamenting their loss.

‘...I miss you Penny. So so much,’ Anthony reads, the umpteenth iteration of the same platitudes. ‘I hope you understand. Wherever you are. We’re a seabearing folk - you remember how we used to take you fishing, sweetie? It’s all we have. I can’t imagine what would happen if they were all gone. We couldn’t take that chance. The town would be ruined, darling! There was no choice. By God we had no choice, I swear it.’ He lets this letter fall at his side. He feels a lump forming in his throat. The bedroom door in front of him has a little wooden sign with unicorns drawn on it. PENNY’S ROOM is spelled out in colorful, block letters.

The puzzle pieces were falling into place, and the picture is…impossible. It is hideous.

Anthony briefly considers asking Adelaide’s take on this, if she knows anything about the inexplicable lack of daughters in this town. He banishes the thought just as quickly. On their way to the housing district, Adelaide took nearly every wrong turn, her wide eyed gaze lingering on buildings like she’s never seen them before. She couldn’t have been living here that much longer than Anthony has. No good answers would be coming from her.

The more he investigates, the more Anthony is convinced no good answers would come forth by the end of this, period.

It is at the Sheriff's house that he finally finds another symbol - it is the small, slanted F again. Anthony sees it on the oakwood desk that Sheriff Reed is folded in two over, like he had risen and tipped forward in a single motion. He scoots the heavy set man’s body to the side with more force than he meant to. “They suck,” Anthony had proclaimed earlier. After hours of going through all of those letters, after reading the Sheriff’s sorry’s to Obi, rife with even more excuses and an even angrier tone (‘I lost my girl too, you sanctimonious old fool! I LOST MY GIRL TOO!!!!’), maybe ‘sucking’ wasn’t a strong enough descriptor. 

Anthony stares at the symbol. It does not glow. It does not change in any way. A missing link is not revealed between these symbols and all of the grief stricken letters. But there is one more house to check. The Mayor of Soker’s. Ben Palsey. And then…

And then.

When they step outside, the lighthouse’s beam casts an all encompassing glow on the street. Anthony squints against the glare. Adelaide shields her eyes with the back of her hand. It is getting dark, but he can’t believe that this is how a lighthouse normally functions. Maybe the old Lighthouse Keeper is awake after all. Anthony feels guilty for nearly forgetting about him. He will go into the lighthouse next, after he is finished going through this last house.

They find the Mayor’s snoring figure propped up on his couch. On the coffee table in front of it is a turned over bottle of wine. Deep, dark red liquid covers the entire surface in a thin pool, dribbling off the sides and onto the white carpet. There is wine seeping out of the Mayor’s lips and down his throat. It stains the collar of his white, button up shirt. Anthony swallows. He feels unnerved the longer he stares. Adelaide hovers behind him. She looks at the Mayor intensely, like a bug under a microscope, or an animal about to be prepped for taxidermy. There is a glass dangling from his limp fingers, palms and wrists and finger tips stained red from…the wine.

It is wine.

Anthony hurries to find a towel. He mops up the mess on the coffee table. There is a framed picture knocked over on its back. It is in color, but faded, with a brightly smiling, younger version of the Mayor holding up a huge tuna fish by a hook. On the other side of the fish, and helping him hold it up, is an equally cheerful young man. He is making a silly pose. His steel blue eyes are twinkling with glee.

Anthony gently shakes the stray droplets of wine off of the frame and then carefully sets the picture aside. There is, expectedly (inevitably) a letter on the table as well. It is soaked through. He picks it up by the corner, slowly lifting it so it doesn’t dissolve in his grasp. It is heavy and dyed a light pinkish purple, with a majority of the writing smudged or erased completely. He makes out a few words at the top of the page.

Dear Obi,

My dearest friend…I know what you have done…I’ve said enough sorrys…mean’s nothing…I won’t interfere…you believe God will not have mercy on us. I am counting on it…

The bottom half of the paper tears and falls into the puddle with a moist plop. He releases the other half. He keeps wiping away the wine. it sloshes in waves from the sheer amount. He can see the faint etchings of the F symbol through the red puddle.

“Hangleton, Reed and Palsey,” he mutters, thinking aloud. “They’re the only ones with the little F symbol carved near them. Why? Do they have something in common?” They were all residents, obviously. They all had the letters to Obi, but so did everyone else. The same with the uninhabited extra rooms, or…Anthony needs to admit, as painful as it is…formerly inhabited rooms -

“Titles,” Adelaide says faintly. Her face has paled significantly. She is staring out the window, though he doesn’t know how she can bear it. The light is practically blinding. “They have titles…they’re important people…”

Hangleton, Reed and Palsey. A Landlord, a Sheriff and a Mayor. That tracks well enough, he supposes. But what does it mean? He feels like he has been asking that question for an eternity, instead of half a day. What does this all mean? He wipes away the last bit of wine without a thought. The symbol stares back up at him, but offers no further clarity.

“Do you think - ” He is cut off by the thunderous blaring of a fog horn.

He covers his ears, unconsciously curling up. He thinks he hears Adelaide shriek, but he can barely concentrate beyond the noise pounding against his skull.

Abruptly, the horn ceases its song. Anthony still feels it reverberating through his bones as he slowly rises from his crouched position. The wind howls its rage fiercely against the windows and walls. The pattering of rain is so fast and violent it sounds like gunshots. A sudden storm. Just what they need to complete this nightmare. It’s a good thing he got all the vendors inside earlier, he thinks, as he racks his brain for any memory of any townsfolk laid out in the street. He can recall none. They are all, to the best of his knowledge, accounted for.

Except for the Lighthouse Keeper.

It’s an enclosed space, sure, but it is rundown. Likely leaking, possibly flooding. Maybe even collapsing at this very moment. It is no place for an elderly man on a good day, let alone during a freak storm. Anthony can’t just leave him up there. 

He should have checked on him first.

Anthony is moving before his guilt can take root. Adelaide cries out in question, then alarm as he yanks a random coat off a rack by the entryway and flies out the door. The rain is coming down in sheets at a slant, the wind practically blowing him backwards its so strong.

A few moments later, Adelaide appears at his elbow, bumping up close to his side in an attempt to share some warmth. “What are you doing!” She shouts over the winds. She is hunched over, already soaked to the bone. 

Anthony whips his too large jacket off and drapes it around her shoulders. It isn’t doing him that much good anyways. “There’s an old man in the lighthouse! It’s too dangerous for him to be up there with the storm!”

It's too dangerous for the two of them to be out in the rain like this on what could very likely be a fool’s quest, as well, but that does not need to be said. The rain is coming down so fast that the water is coming up to their ankles. It is a type of freezing cold that robs you of your warmth, no matter how tightly you tuck your arms in or how much you move. The bright light is dizzying as it reflects against the falling droplets like thousands of diamonds. But she does not ask how he knows for sure if there is anyone in the lighthouse. She follows along. Silent. Steadfast. And so he keeps moving forward.

They march up the hill exiting Sokar, and trudge down the narrow muddy path. Below them the tide is high, the ocean waves crashing and roiling in a fearsome battle. Further out at sea an endlessly long bump of water is rising. It sends a chill up his spine, and sends his feet sloshing through the mud and rain at a faster pace.

When they step into the lighthouse, at last, the cacophony of noise comes to an abrupt halt. So abrupt, that it leaves a continuous, tinny, ringing in Anythony’s ears. It is almost daunting. The smooth, conical walls are cement and very thick, but there should be some indication of the storm outside, right…?

He shakes his head. No time to worry about the acoustics of this building. He moves up the rusty metal stairs. They shake and clatter under his feet. He does not know what he will do if he finds the old man at the top. Carry him back down? The groaning creaks sound like they can barely support him and Adelaide! But he may have to, depending on the state of him. Maybe he can send Adelaide back down first and he can -

His thoughts grind to a screeching halt. It isn’t that the old man is standing, clearly awake, back facing them and manning the lamp. No. The old man looks almost like he…belongs in that position. Like he has always been there - the guiding light for a centuries worth of mariners.

It’s the floor, it’s the walls. They are covered in symbols, little F’s, with the top short lines slanted just so, carved painstakingly by the hundreds, the thousands. They climb up the walls to impossible heights, maybe even covering the shadow touched ceiling. They are carved into the old man’s forearms. The little rivulets of blood dripping down them go unnoticed, form a steadily growing pool at his feet.

“I can find her,” he is muttering. “I can find her, I will find her, I can find her, I will find her…”

He repeats this mantra over and over again, as he adjusts the lamp - an inch to the left, now right, all the way up, and then a smidge down, pointed at the ocean. Anthony is struck dumb by the scene. He isn’t sure if he should interrupt, he doesn’t know how to get his attention without startling him. He is so, so close to the edge of the window. Is he having an episode?

“IcanfindherIcanfindherIcanfindher…”

Through the floor to ceiling, glassless windows (a gaping hole, really), the water has risen to eye level. Terror lances through him. Dear God, that has to be a tsunami…

“H-hey!” Anthony cries. He doesn’t care that his voice is breaking. They have to get down from here. They have to get down from here! Take as much cover as they can, for all the good it would do - no! They have to at least try. He won’t go down not trying, damnit! “HEY! We have to go!”

The old man ignores him. staring at the rising, rising water, his light bathing it in a golden glow.

“Please! We need to leave right now!” Nothing. It’s always been nothing. The water is climbing higher. Will it ever reach its apex? Will it rise all the way into the sky?

“OBI!”

The old man jerk’s his head in Anthony’s direction at his desperate call, the barest hint of acknowledgement.

Well, Anthony thinks hysterically, at least he will die knowing one mystery is solved.

But the water never crashes into them, wiping the three of them from the face of this planet in one, soundless strike. 

The water…parts. Like a massive, liquid curtain. Behind which is a figure that has Anthony rooted in place. Long, thick, tentacles protrude out of the back of a skull. The skin wrapped around it is tight and thin and a grayish green, the eyes a bulbous, luminous yellow. Ribs and bone are exposed from the torn and stretched skin of the human like torso. The hips transition into a fish’s tail - a shark’s tail - completely devoid of flesh, an endless amount of bones jammed against each other, to the point of jutting out in painful looking angles. 

Some might call this thing a mermaid. Anthony would call it the harbinger of their end.

Somehow, Anthony manages to tear his eyes away from the horrible behemoth. The old man is staring at him fully now. Tears are falling from his steel blue eyes, and his smile is wide and genuine. He nods at him, (why. WHY!) and then turns back to his light, to the monster in the sea.

Before Anthony can try to implore the old man to come with them again, Adelaide grips his hand forcefully and pulls him away. 

“COME ON!” she bellows, and drags him down the stairs with a strength that belies her smaller size. The last thing he sees is the old man raising his arms up, blood dripping down into his face, smiling the smile of a man coming home at last.

They run down the stairs. They run out the door and down the muddy path. Adelaide moves them at a punishing pace, her grip on his hand vice like, and damp, and icy, icy cold. It has stopped raining. The tide has gone down. Figures are crawling onto the beach. Their upper halves are that of young women, hair tangled with kelp and debris, skin pale and bloated, eyes white and unseeing, barnacles and crabs sticking to them like a corpses' jewelry. Their lower halves are long, elegant fish tails that wriggle erratically behind them. They are moving slowly, clawing at the mud and sand as they push mindlessly forward, until, one by one, their tails split gruesomely (cracking bones and wet, tearing flesh echoing through the night) into legs. And they rise up, walking jerkily, but much faster, and gaining speed, revealing the split in their bellies. A mouth with rows and rows of sharp teeth.

Anthony can’t keep his eyes away from them, even as Adelaide ruthlessly yanks him down the path, not letting go no matter how many times he stumbles. The creatures are different heights, their hair a variety of blonde and brunette. One of the creature’s that gets halfway up the steps built into the hill sways dazedly from side to side. A necklace with a puzzle piece hangs off of her neck.

Anthony wants to be sick. He wants to scream. What have they done? What has he done? “Keep moving!” Adelaide barks at him. “Don’t stop!”

They arrive at his Grandmother Allison’s house. The sky is clear of fog and clouds. In the distance, the lighthouse beams its saving light out into the ocean. In the distance, the leviathan leans forward, like she will engulf the lighthouse into her endless embrace. 

He can hear screams. Rising and falling like the gentle waves of a calm sea.

“Go,” Adelaide says, stern. She gives him a none too gentle push towards his truck. Or maybe he is just so exhausted that a minor touch might send him to the ground. “And never, ever, return.”

She turns around and does something so mad that it takes a few moments for Anthony to comprehend; she starts heading back down the path.

“W-wait. Adela - Adelaide! Where are you - come with me! What are you doing?” He forces his trembling legs to follow her. “You don’t have to - ”

She stops in place. He finds himself stopping a few paces behind. She looks at him over her shoulder, just a peak. Just enough for him to see one steely blue eye. 

Anthony wants to ask her, beg her, to come with him again. But he can’t seem to work his jaw, and there is a heaviness in his chest - pressing down on his chest.

  “Thank you,” she says, and smiles. It is wide. It is kind. It is stretching further up, too far. Splitting her cheek, revealing too many sharp teeth. “You found her”

[kirstielol]

sewing ramble/update

i bought two dress patterns! i haven't worked with a pattern since i was like 17! super excited.. hopefully they're not too complicated. i bought the materials to make 'dress b' on the package on the left. picked out a nice black 'cotton lawn' fabric after spending HOURS researching different fabric types. ya'll.. picking fabric for sewing patterns is so much more complicated than picking yarn for crochet projects 😭

i'm also trying to only ever buy fabric for specific projects, instead of impulse buying tons of shit like i did with crochet.. i'm stuck with two huge boxes of yarn that's taking me forever to use up.. i am not doing that with fabric 😤 yesterday i ordered enough fabric for the dress and some brown canvas to make a tote bag.

alssooo.. the second pic is today's project!! i made a placemat. not super exciting lol but i wanted to practice straight lines and quilting topstitching, so i did diamond shape lines along the whole thing. i got to use the little quilting guide attachment my sewing machine came with which was interesting. come out pretty nice :)

[whatsabriard]

Getting to know you meme tagged by @andallthatmerrymishigas

Favorite time of year: for the temps and the aesthetics, it’s the 4th quarter. Fall. But I work in a retail adjacent field and this time of year is like a suckerpunch to the face every week so it’s also the time of year I dread the most. Emotionally, spring is getting to be my favorite time of year because spring break means a 10 day vacation.

Comfort foods: Shari’s chocolate chip cookies (made with see’s baking chocolates), homemade fried tacos, mashed potatoes, my moms chicken enchiladas, in n out, the pollo asada tacos from Casa Del Rey.

Do you collect anything? Dogs, apparently. Fandoms. Briard stuff. Moving a couple years ago forced me to really whittle down my collections so now I have a few prizes pieces. My life magazines signed by ginger Rogers. My picture with Isabella Rossellini. Shari’s Moolly. The travel scrapbooks I’ve made. Photos. Recipes. Quilts made by Shari’s mom. An afghan made by my grandma. A painting of me by my nana.

Favorite drinks: Coke Zero, iced tea, pepsi, frozen margaritas, mimosas.

Favorite music artists: the other day I had a playlist going at work from my iTunes and it was… eclectic is a mild word. I mean you’ve got your typical divas. Reba, Dolly, Cher. An outrageous number of musicals are represented: wicked, Hamilton, frozen, beauty and the beast, the Addams family, hairspray, Sweeney Todd, Les Mis, Cabaret. And then the rest is the most insane amalgamation of music mostly culled from movie and television soundtracks that are inexorably tied to that media in my mind forever. And postmodern jukebox.

Current favorite songs: oh good grief. Nothing But Diamonds by ATO. Now by the carpenters (shut up). The Sound of Silence (disturbed). Truth Hurts (lizzo). Black Sheep (gin wigmore). Once upon a dream (Lana del rey). March March (the chicks). Chandelier (puddles pity party).

Favorite fics: well obviously Harts All A Flutter by @andallthatmerrymishigas which is single-handedly keeping me going through this grueling holiday season. But also her Downton stuff. And Blake stuff. I’m a fangirl sue me. And then…do you know how much fanfic I’ve read?? Alias, XF, MFMM, tdbm. I have even started scanning svu/OC stuff.

Favorite video games: bubble bobble (NES), Soulblazer (SNES), Mario bros 3 (NES), Skee-ball plus (iOS), Bioshock Infinite (PlayStation 3), Mario kart (wii).

Tagging: I dunno. The Hart crew. @blossom--of--snow @tyree-toes @holy-ships-x-red-lips who am I missing.

[thelovelymisscameron]

All I want in this world, my deepest desire, is to one day have a family that I love and that loves me. For me to be able to feed them home grown salads with dinner, gift them hand dried flowers, brew homemade teas made for every occasion (for them to know it’s because I love them. To not be ridiculed for it). To cook them delicious breads, sweets, and meals, (to teach them to love meals, and not view food like the enemy. (Food is energy you need to power your beautiful body.)) talk about and familiarize them with the cycle of life and death that creates these foods. I want to grow life inside of myself and see it bloom, find life others tried to subdue (suffocate, hurt, hate) and guide that life to be content with the world they have. (To not feel like they must fight for everything to be ok.) I want to have a yard with ducks and chickens, a goat for milk, bees for honey. I want trees to climb and a pond for fish. Bandaids and love for every wound. I want to have a hair fence so we can look in the bird nests and see ourselves in the life cycle and nature around us. ( to mot have them laugh, to be able to teach them so they might join and teach their children and grandchildren) I want my children to be ok with death, but not so desensitized they feel broken (like I feel broken.) I crave being surrounded with life and love freely given, because in this world I am trapped by death and hatred, every hug a battle, and all I want is to break the cycles I am in. We are of the dirt, I will one day return to it. So will they. Fear of that leads to destruction, ( fear is the destructive force of all things.( it makes one impulsive, irrational, and dangerous. Completely unpredictable.)) and understanding leads to acceptance. We are the caregivers of this land, I hope my future self can care for it and them. (No more wasted water, bees and butterflies left starved) This is the future I fight for. Even when I’m just fighting myself. My dearest memories are of woods and mud and plants. The sting of scraped knees and the sweetness of fresh fruit blooming on my tongue. ( my scariest locked away and yet still tugging those memories into the dark, left muddy and unclear.) I want to give my children and grandchildren and even great grandchildren quilts and scarves and hats, because I still sleep with the one my great grandmother made me. I can feel the love and care in it. (I can’t feel that in factory made comforters and throws gifted with minimal thought.) We live in a world where everything has five minutes to be, (five minutes to live and be remembered) and I want my love to last 262980000. (Minutes) I want patches on my blankets and repairs on my mittens. I know we call this a “hell-site”, but there is no need for ridicule or hatred for those who dream of a future beyond what we have today. (It is simply fear telling you to lash out. (Breathe in, hold it, breathe out) If you want to get past all these things you hate, grow beyond them and become the energy you want returning to you. (What you do comes back unto you) Be the world you want, even if you have to live in a tiny ass apartment right now, or somewhere with people you can’t stand. (Your world may feel small right now, but if you stand strong it gets so much bigger.(even if you must crawl first) Know that if you honestly put the work in (and I mean years of working hard with what seems like no reward (it sucks but just remember the best, longest lasting, and most expensive things take time and energy and effort (like pearls and diamonds (yes you are worth this comparison))) to get to where you see the light at the end of the tunnel) then, and only then, you get your reward. Never forget, you are worth your dreams. Forever and always, no matter what. (Unless it’s like,,, killing people or genocide or making a cult so you are worshipped as a god/dess/deity, etc.,,, please don’t hurt others)

In the future, children will think our ways are strange. "Why do old people always grow so much milkweed in their gardens?" they'll say. "Why do old people always write down when the first bees and butterflies show up? Why do old people hate lawn grass so much? Why do old people like to sit outside and watch bees?"

We will try to explain to them that when we were young, most people's yards were almost entirely short grass with barely any flowers at all, and it was so commonplace to spray poisons to kill insects and weeds that it was feared monarch butterflies and American bumblebees would soon go extinct. We will show them pictures of sidewalks, shops, and houses surrounded by empty grass without any flowers or vegetables and they will stare at them like we stared at pictures of grimy children working in coal mines

[swiftdupes]

taylor out to dinner at a restaurant in new york city

october 15, 2023

top

strapless crepe set top in black from abercrombie & fitch // $26.99

skirt

mini skirt in black from the kooples // $89.99

bag

cadence mini classic vl crossbody bag in wine from lug // $99

loise quilting silky leather in mauve from les visionnaires // $86

earrings

classic isabella gold crystal stud earrings in white crystal from deltora // $48

petal earrings in 14k yellow gold from judith poe // $89

diamond fire from apt 144 // $54

tiffany cubic zirconia stud earrings in gold from sterling forever // $19.97

[fashionseenontvblog]

02x02

Hayley Menzies Dakota Midi Cardigan - $650

Autumn Cashmere Striped ribbed-knit turtleneck sweater Black - $149

Tularosa Carmen Quilted Leather Short Black - $188

Forever 21 Diamond Fishnet Tights - $8.99

R13 Single Stack Boots With Stud Sole Remove - $875.25

French Toast Adjustable Plaid Tie

[coquettebunny]

mariners apartment complex feels like…

- stripped cotton v necks paired with distressed daisy dukes.

- barefoot dancing with a soaked crop top in the onslaught of the summer rain, humid air sticking your shirt to your skin.

- temporary tattoos that fade before they can even settle.

- cloud gazing on the front hood, lounging on the side of a car as if it’s a piece of furniture.

- malboro cigarettes paired with an open vanilla coke.

- tiny hoop earrings paired with a stud earring in double pierced lobes.

- knee socks paired with short shorts.

- worn and stained yellow converse with perfectly white shoe laces.

- cotton candy themed perfume, the scent so fleeting that it’s phantom scent lasts in the air longer than the actual fragrance itself.

- early morning baths, the water running cold once the sun rises over the horizon.

- floral sofas with decorative pillows that possess a rough texturized pattern and tassel string around the edges.

- smoking on a windowsill at dawn

- listening to the same bird song you’ve heard since childhood.

- dried mud marks on the side of a navy blue pickup truck.

- mixed slushee flavors from the small one stop shop with 4 gas pumps and a halfway convenience area.

- love hotels in the backends of alleys and under brushes of trees with heart shaped tubs and intricately threaded duvet coverings.

- fiddling with a heart locket while laying on a made bed in the mid afternoon between the hours 3 and 4 PM.

- napping against a tree, the summer cicadas and birds filling your ears

- tire swings in june.

- weather themed earrings.

- drug store hauls on a road trip.

- books bound with blue leather and gilded gold pages

- using a clothesline to dry frilly delicates and underthings

- sparkly heels with jeans

- glass coke bottles turned into candles

- posters with lipstick marks in different shades all over them

- fuzzy sounding vinyl records that still miraculously work after years of wear and tear

- waitressing at a small mom and pop establishment

- cheap booze spilt all over leather car seats

- frugal but meaningful gifts

- yellow vintage cars with modified rims and a drop top

- feeling all of those old feelings reignite after seeing someone you haven’t seen in forever

- sleeping with pillows and an old quilted blanket on the floor

- lukewarm coffee at 11 AM

- hotel pancakes and cereal ten minutes before breakfast closes

- riding in the passenger seat with your feet sitting out of the window

- drinking your cold soda on the curb in front of the gas station

- diamond stud belly rings.

- fur covered diaries with locks and every crush you’ve had since elementary

[dandelionpixels]

Barry Allen romantic hc please! I have ADHD and find natural ways to help with it, I also do a lot of crafts: crochet, quilting, sewing, diamond dotting, make baby hats and dabble in photography! I'm an aunt to a niece in heaven(9) and her fiery, sassy 3 yr old sister.

I am also a teacher but will be training as a prenatal ultrasound tech soon! (fancy way to say prenatal photographer).

I am a bigger girl and after many years of struggling with it I'm getting more confident in who I am, not just how my body looks. Thank you so much!!

i’m sorry theres not a ton here, i didnt want this to take forever and i’ve been in a little slump recently!! but omg this was so fun and i hope they’re what you’re looking for :))

- he loves that you craft!! getting to sit around and do stuff like that with you is genuinely so fun for him

- even though he has an unlimited supply of star labs clothes, he still likes to take yours bc they smell like you

- he absolutely helps you babysit (hes such a kid person)

- im also obsessed with the idea of you guys making friendship bracelets together. (and then of course cisco and cait see the bracelets and want to learn too)

- he always gets so flustered when you want to take pictures of him, bc hes only used to being the center of attention when hes under the mask

- definitely likes to show up randomly at your work/school to drop off a coffee, give you a kiss, and wish you a good day

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

When you're feeling down, read this....

Lay in bed for the whole day. Tangled in your perfect white sheets with your silk pillow and puffy comforter. Drink lots of tea, but drink even more coffee. Wander through the perfume section in stores and test every single sent. Buy yourself flowers because you are beyond worth it. Treat yourself to something pretty even if there is absolutely no reason too. Watch a chic flick and ball your eyes out. Read a book and fall asleep while doing so. Take an adventure with a friend. Start yoga. Learn to bake. Take a long drive and blast music and sing your heart out. Keep a journal so that you never forgot a second of your exciting ever-changing life. Cry over silly stupid boys. Wear pretty heels with red bottoms. Meet a friend for brunch and order the biggest stack of waffles. Go to school because you're excited to learn, not because you want straight A's. Re-watch Breakfast at Tiffany's and aspire to be Audrey Hepburn. Buy an insane amount of coffee table books even if you have nowhere to put them. Save up for your dream car. Take long bubble baths. Wake up early to go to the farmers market and get the first patch of peonies. Find secret little coffee shops where you can plan out your big dreams. Raise your hopes up even if you know you will be disappointed. Twirl around your bedroom in your white robe with the record player spinning Shania Twain. Take out your sewing machine and create something wonderful. Laugh until you stomach hurts. Walk into Chanel and walk out with a quilted purse. Buy a ball gown even if you have no place to wear it. Try on your mother's diamond rings and beautiful emerald necklaces and dream of when you will be with someone who buys you something sparkly. Drink to many Shirley Temples. Daydream about your future wedding. Lose yourself in an art museum. Read poetry, and then write your own. Travel the world, but always return home. Have marble and gold everything. Live in a house with a turn-around and Range Rovers lining the drive. Throw parties bigger then Gatsby. Always have fresh fruit in the fridge, but make sure to eat too much chocolate. Wear what you want you like, not what everyone else wears. Build a fort out of pillows on rainy days. Always carry bobby pins and a tub of mascara. Giggle at your own jokes. Be there for your friends when they need a shoulder to cry on. Read Vogue. Send snail mail to someone who you haven't spoken to in forever. Dance until your feet hurt. Wear too many patterns at once. Don't overthink things. Call your grandma every week. Be grateful for everything your parents have done for you. Be less annoyed when your dad worries that your not home yet, because you will always be his little girl. Work oh so hard, and when you are faced with a challenge welcome it with open arms. Be kind to everyone. Never let anyone say you can't do something, because darling you are so much stronger than you think, and this is just the beginning, you are about to do amazing things, and remember, the best is yet to come.

[redwinterroses]

Something old, something new (something borrowed, something blue)

Aaaah, a classic.

Maybe... maybe a fic focusing on Gem as she joins the server for the first time. She's excited, it's all good -- but it's a LOT and she's a little overwhelmed. And it would be a short little series of scenes featuring each of the title elements as things that people give her (either directly as gifts or just in the course of interacting) that make Hermitcraft feel more like home.

Something old: Bdubs notices that she hasn't got any sheep yet and that her bed is still covered with a sleeping bag. So he passes off a soft, worn quilt (he's had it forever, it's very loved) as if it's a casual "psh just gettin' rid of some junk" thing, but you know there's genuine affection and care behind it. (Insert some line about who made it, and tailor to your warm fuzzy headcanon of choice)

Something new: Tango swings by to borrow some cobblestone and notices that Gem's picks are all worn and carefully mended, so he sneakily leaves her a brand new, shiny set. Doesn't say anything, and if confronted about it he just gets all mumbly and huffy but he's grinning the whole time and she just finally says, quietly, "Thanks, Tango." She names the tools and even after she's upgraded to netherite, she keeps that set in a special box.

Something borrowed: Pearl stops by to pick up Gem for a little ride across the continent, and looks up just in time to see a creeper blow up on the roof, knocking Gem into the air. She's fine, but confesses during their ride that the creepers are really becoming a nuisance. The next day, Gem wakes up to find half a dozen cats -- all dinnerboned, of course -- stationed around her base. "On loan," Pearl says, waving off Gem's thanks. "Just until you get everything properly lit up."

Something blue: This is the easiest one to come up with, and it's that first diamond. The one she's got in a frame, that represents her partnership with the Big Eyes Crew, and the fun of that first day on the server, and how she has a place amongst the hermits.

...dagnabbit I basically just wrote the fic. XD Thanks for the ask!

[vnderoos]

what could've been ✷ fred weasley

(gif is not mine, credit to the owner) warnings / language word count / 2.1k

masterlist in bio ↴

IT WAS THE FIRST TIME IN months that Y/N had mustered up enough courage to visit Molly and Arthur at the Burrow, after the battle and all. It was the first time she'd even been able to think about stepping foot in the place when everything in it reminded her of the man she'd lost that day. She'd spent the whole day with his parents, after Molly had spent so much time begging for her to visit, but for some reason, Y/N couldn't bring herself to leave when the time came.

Being in the home had placed yet another crushing weight on her chest, but something about it was exactly what she needed, so Molly had offered up one of the children's old rooms, even though they were far from children now, due to age and experience alike. Y/N had thanked her for that, but something about going up the stairs seemed very, very wrong to her, and she decided to take the couch instead. The redheaded woman had made sure she was comfortable, with a nice, fluffy pillow for her head and a thick quilt to keep her warm, and she'd turned in for the night herself.

This had all happened hours ago, before Y/N had fallen asleep and woken up from a bad dream all the same. She couldn't say that she was surprised as she laid in the darkness of the living room, fidgeting with the ring on her left hand, that Fred Weasley still occupied her thoughts—definitely not when she was sitting in his childhood home—but she couldn't deny the way that it made her ache. Sometimes, when she woke up like this, she hoped that everything had all been a dream, but when she reached up to touch her cheek, to touch the scar that had been left as a reminder of a time she wished she could forget, she knew it had been anything but.

This night, though, seemed infinitely more painful without him.

The Burrow used to be a place of comfort, a safe haven of sorts. She had memories of countless summers spent there, playing under the beating sun with the Weasley kids and Harry Potter, and how full it had felt with all of them around, but after Fred's passing, after they'd all moved on with their lives and left the nest, it felt so empty. No longer was it noisy with the laughter that used to filter through them all or bright with shared smiles or zipping with fireworks set off by the twins.

Instead, it was hollow with the shells of their rooms—of his room—and void of belly laughs. It felt as tilted as it looked on the outside, like it was barely holding itself together anymore. It was empty hallways covered in shadows and quiet walls filled with moving pictures that made you want to stare at your feet.

It was less of a shelter now, and more of a memorial.

Y/N stared up at the ceiling, her right hand still on the engagement ring they'd found in his pocket, and she ran her thumb over the diamond. She could feel tears prickling in the spaces behind her eyes when she flipped her hand over and her eyes flickered to her finger, watching the only words he'd left behind for her light up like soft, orange embers. Forever yours — Fred. She watched the letters fade away in a matter of seconds, before she swiped her thumb over the diamond again. She did that a couple more times, before she couldn't bare it anymore, and she swallowed thickly to get rid of that familiar knot in her throat.

She pushed the quilt off of her body, finding it rather suffocating, now, and she sat up on the couch. She brought her knees over the edge and tugged her hands through her hair, and as she felt the cold band of her ring brushing against her forehead, she realized she'd forgotten what he smelled like. "Oh, God," she whispered into her wrists and the tears—fuck, they stung. The whole realization stung, in fact, and it felt like something had sucked the wind out of her lungs, because she couldn't remember.

If six months was all it took for her to forget the smell of maple syrup, fireworks, and a warm, summer evening, then she didn't want to know how long it would take to forget the sound of his laugh, or the shape of his nose, or the way it felt when she tucked herself into his arms after a long day.

She couldn't take it.

She couldn't sit there and let herself forget him when there was half a room dedicated to nobody but him, so she found it in herself to stand up, and make her way to the staircase. It seemed almost haunting, staring back at her as she looked at it, and it took her almost three minutes to take the first step. The railing was cold against the warmth of her palm and it sent a shiver running down her spine, but she shook it away.

Y/N pushed all her doubts to the back of her mind and she walked up the staircase, making her way to the door of the bedroom that he used to share with George. She put her hand on the doorknob and ripped it open like you'd rip off a bandage and she nearly crumbled. The smell of old parchment, broom polish, and stale gunpowder, along with what she'd recalled earlier, hit her like a ton of bricks and her knees buckled.

She took a step into the room and it felt like the walls were closing in on her, like her chest was caving in on her, but she made her way over to one of the two beds, the one that he used to sleep in, and she ran her fingers over the red quilt. It was cold to the touch, after months of sitting dormant, and she clenched her fingers into a fist. She remembered the nights where she'd be wrapped up in that very quilt, with Fred cuddled into her side, after she'd walked in after a nightmare, and he'd told her he'd keep her safe.

And he always did.

As her fingers brushed over the quilt, they ran over something else, something softer. She picked it up gently and leaned over towards the bedside table. She slipped her free hand under the lampshade and she turned on the light, washing the room in a soft yellow, and when she looked down at her hands, her breath caught in her throat. Christmas was only a month away, but in her fingertips, there was a sweater. It was a deep red and there was a golden 'F' stitched on the chest and she could feel her heart sink in realization.

Molly had still knitted him a sweater this year.

Y/N brought the fabric to her nose and she took a whiff, shutting her eyes tightly when the tears started to well up. She wasn't sure how long it had sat in the room, but it smelled just like him, all the same. She could feel that knot forming in her throat again and she decided to throw the sweater on over her own shirt, pulling the sleeves around her hands and hugging her arms to her body. Maybe, if she closed her eyes tight enough, it would feel like he was the one doing the hugging. She squeezed her eyes so tight, she could see starts, but even then, she couldn't change the fact that he wasn't. He wasn't hugging her and he never would be, not anymore.

Fred would never be there to wrap an arm around her in the mornings and pull her into his side while he held a cup of coffee in his other hand. He would never be there to scoop her up off of the ground after a good day at the shop and tell her how much he loved her. He would never be there to give her a bear hug when she wasn't feeling well. He would never be there at all, and the more she thought about it, the harder the tears started to fall, and she could feel her first vocal sob sputtering from her lips.

She didn't stop it, like she had when she was downstairs, but instead, she laid down on his bed and turned her back against the lamp, curling up into a ball and letting her cries get the best of her. She couldn't help but wonder what he would've done if he'd seen her like that, but she could only imagine. She remembered how after particularly bad nightmares he would hold her so tightly in the darkness, thread his long fingers through her hair, and tell her that everything was going to be just fine. She remembered how he would talk about other things to take her mind off of it and how, when he thought she'd fallen asleep, he'd start to tell her that he was going to marry her one day. He would talk about having a large family together, like his own, except with how well the joke shop was doing, they'd be able to spoil the kids. He would talk about having a nice, cozy home like the Burrow and a big yard where he could teach the kids how to play quidditch, and she couldn't stop sobbing now. She was so overtaken by the fact that she'd never get to have that with him, that she couldn't even breathe.

"Y/N, is that—" she'd barely even heard the door creak open as Molly walked in, and the woman stopped in her tracks when she did. The sight of seeing Y/N, who she'd looked after like her own all these years, in such a weak state was enough to make her own eyes water, and she brought a hand to her chest. "Oh, darling," she whispered, because her voice refused to go any higher, and she made her way over to the bed. She sat down beside the girl, whose body shook with every cry, and Y/N moved to hug her almost immediately. Molly didn't think she'd ever felt the girl hug her as hard as she did now, feeling her bury her face into her chest, and she wrapped her arms around her just as tightly. "I've got you, dear," she muttered sadly, and she laid back against the wall, a tear slipping down her own cheek.

Y/N's fists were balled up around the fabric of Molly's shirt and her eyes were squeezed shut as she sobbed. "I'm sorry," she whispered against the woman's chest. "I'm so, so sorry, Molly," she repeated, and she could feel herself breaking into pieces. Everything she'd tried to be since Fred died just came unraveling.

"No, dear," Molly whispered into her hair, pressing a kiss into it softly, and resting her chin on her head. "Don't be sorry, we all miss him. It's okay," she promised, giving her a good squeeze.

Y/N shook her head against her. "I'm sorry I couldn't save him," she elaborated, the moment flashing through her head like it had happened the day before—the smile that had been on his face, before it wasn't. "I should've stayed with him."

"Don't talk like that, darling." Molly leaned down to grab a fuzzy blanket that had been folded at the foot of the bed and she pulled it over herself and Y/N gently. "It wasn't your fault in the slightest," she reassured her and Y/N nodded, another son wracking her body, and Molly's eyebrows furrowed with concern.

"We would've gotten married," she said, acutely aware of the ring on her finger, and it was in that moment that Y/N absolutely shattered. Her hands tightened around Molly's shirt and she let out a strangled scream, feeling the woman tug her impossibly closer. "He was supposed to be the rest of my life, and without him, I'm nothing," she admitted, her lip quivering as she did.

Molly brushed her fingers through Y/N's hair softly, just like Fred used to, and she pressed her forehead against the girl's head. "You are still everything to me. To us," she promised on behalf of the rest of the Weasleys, and she smushed her cheek against her head. "We love you so much, sweet girl."

At that, Y/N just nodded and she continued to cry into Molly until she fell asleep.

In the morning, when the sun filtered through the window of the twins' old room, the woman was gone, and there was a plate of warm biscuits sitting in her place. The fact that Y/N was still in the room was the only indication that the last night had even happened at all.