#eastern black rail

[sitting-on-me-bum]

An eastern black rail, among the most elusive birds a biologist can study, walks through marsh grass.

Photograph by Marky Mutchler, Macaulay Library, Cornell Lab

[lonelywretchjervistetch]

The State Birds Initiative: New Jersey (#3)

Welcome to the third official poll of the State Birds Initiative! Before the poll, though, one thing real quick. My suggestion is that you read the post below before voting in the poll below. That's especially important if you're lacking any context about the birds being presented as the new (or old) State Bird of the Garden State, New Jersey. This is to be fully informed as to why these are being presented, and to make your choices appropriately. Lastly, some of these birds, you will notice, may go against some of the rules listed in the introduction post. All is explained after the jump where the explanations are, I promise you that. But with that...OK! Here's the poll! If you'd like to see the last post, check out Pennsylvania (Poll | Results)

So, with that done...New Jersey.

OK, I'll be honest, I have very little history with New Jersey. Only been there a few times, I've driven through it a decent number of times, and I mostly know it by reputation. But, uh...for whatever reason, every trip I take that requires me to go through New Jersey, NJ is the worst driving portion of that trip. Basically every time. Maybe that's a New Jersey turnpike problem, maybe that's unhappy coincidence. Hell, maybe it's conservation bias from being a New Yorker (upstate, but I've gone to the city regularly throughout my life). Or maybe it really is cultural reputation for New Jersey trickling in to my subconscious (looking at you, Jersey Shore). But either way...I have complicated feelings about New Jersey.

But this post is NOT about my personal geographic experience. Mostly. It's about birds! So, let's get into New Jersey objectively. Third state admitted into the union, state capital is Trenton, largest city is Newark, and it's the most densely populated state in the country. Famous for being the origin of electricity in civic infrastructure, as well as the home of their favorite son, Thomas Alva Edison. Which...when you learn more about the guy, makes you wonder about New Jersey as a whole. MOVING ON! It was a major staging point in the American Revolutionary War, and ever since, it's been all about freedom. Even though you can't pump your own gas there. Although, to their credit, the Statue of Liberty is actually technically in New Jersey waters. Yeah. That's absolutely true. But, like...it's spiritually a New York landmark, so we'll let it slide.

Now, here's the thing about New Jersey, seriously and truly. It has a bad reputation because of media and New York City. This is for two more specific reasons, from what I can tell. One, the New Jersey Turnpike sucks, and it smells like raw sewage due to its proximity to industrial factories and processing plants. And unfortunate way to experience the state, and the main way I've experienced New Jersey personally. So, that's one, and it's not indicative of the state's quality. Number two is simply the fact that it's a hub for commuters, with lots of people going to either NYC or Philadelphia for work. Because of that, Jersey itself gets pieces of their cultures combined, which also makes it a very easy target with a unique accent. So, not Jersey's fault.

In reality, it's quite a nice state with more natural area than you'd expect for somewhere so densely populated. New Jerseyans, unsurprisingly love their state...and aren't big fans of tourists, from discourse I see online. It's a small state, which makes it crowded enough. Plus, there are tourist attractions there. There's the massive American Dream Meadowlands mall, there's MetLife Stadium, there's Six Flags Great Adventure, there's...Trenton. Actually, no, Trenton sucks, I stand by that assessment. But it's also a highly diverse state, with the highest proportion of Hinduism followers in the country, as well as the densest collection of LGBTQ+ social centers (AKA gayborhoods), amongst other things. NJ does deserve more credit.

Now with that said, let's talk about the natural world of New Jersey, because there is a surprising amount to talk about. 45% of the land is covered in mixed deciduous-coniferous forest, which you've probably noticed is typical of the NE USA. Oak is our primary tree here, which is also probably why Northern Red Oak (Quercus rubra) is the state tree. It also has some major ecological features that are well known for its natural advantages. Cape May is a seaside city and vacation resort, but also one of the most well-known and important sites for birders from the United States during migration seasons, making it immediately prominent for this post. Great Swamp NWR in the north is the first wilderness area ever designated by Congress, and also serves as a major refuge for birds during the breeding season for various reasons. And maybe most importantly, the New Jersey Pine Barrens are the largest remaining pine barrens in the NE USA, and act as a bastion of diversity. More on this later, I promise; there's a species entry dedicated to this unique environment.

And that's not all to talk about here. NJ's environment needs some focus for a number of reasons, not least of which being that the state has more toxic waste dump sites than any other state in the Union, which are the focus of the federal Superfund environmental remediation program. Yeah, there's some cleanup that needs to happen in the state, especially as it is so small. Of 150 federally listed sites, only 35 have been cleaned up since the 1970s. So, yeah. We should get on that, please. But with that said, NJ has relatively low carbon dioxide emissions compared to other states, they're seventh in solar power, and get most of their electricity from natural gas and nuclear power. So, it's a greenish state that could be a lot greener.

There's a lot to talk about for such a small state, it would seem. Let's not linger about, and let's get on with the show here! I'm honestly kind of excited. Birds after the jump!!!

American Goldfinch (Spinus tristis)

Let's kick things off by talking about the incumbent, the American Goldfinch (Spinus tristis). Now, why was the American Goldfinch chosen as the State Bird of New Jersey in 1935? Easy answer: favoritism. The bird was nominated as the only candidate by the New Jersey Audubon Society because...it was their mascot at the time. Yeah. That's it. In reality, the New Jersey State Bird is the New Jersey Audubon Society. And even then, it's officially lost its relevancy, because that's not their mascot anymore. More on that later.

What's actually worse about the goldfinch here is...for some reason, not a lot of New Jerseyans have actually seen them. Part of the reason for this entire series, by the way is this Reddit post, which stoked the fires that had long been simmering deep within my soul. OK, not that deep, but still. Anyway, the header of that post is that the OP had barely ever seen an American Goldfinch, despite being a native. I thought that was insane (and said as much in my comments), because this is a ridiculously common bird, especially for birdwatchers. But, uh...I've looked into since then. And only 0.4% of its global breeding population resides in the state. What's crazy is, this is a common sentiment amongst New Jerseyans. They just...haven't seen this bird. And obviously, that/s not every new Jerseyan, and a lot have reported seeing it. But to be honest...is this bird really worth being called the State Bird of New Jersey?

OK, can we make the American Goldfinch make sense in retrospect? Let's see, they're a highly social finch species throughout the year, living in dense colonies in the spring and summer especially. The males are late breeders with ornate flying displays meant to attract females, and may group territories with other males to defend against predators. And they're an open secondary growth forest specialist that live in the state year-round, including during the breeding season. Which means...well, actually, it means that they're perfectly suited to live in New Jersey, funnily enough.

Hear me out here. There are two things that goldfinches love most: forest clearings and weeds. New Jersey may be 45% covered in forest, but it does have deforestation as a minor problem around its settlements. However, that's not a problem for the goldfinch, who thrives in secondary growth forests that occur as a result of succession. Given an attempt in recent decades to recover New Jersey's forests, this means the goldfinch is a potential symbol of these efforts. Plus, its love of the seeds that come from flowers that are pest plants, like dandelion, thistle, ragweed, and cosmos, make it a potentially attractive bird for gardeners of the state to attract, especially as those plants thrive in open fields during stages of succession!

...YES I'M STRETCHING MORE THAN AN AUSTRALIAN BREAKDANCER WITH A DOCTORATE TRYING TO MAKE A POINT, BUT WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS MASCOT OF AN ORGANIZATION NAMED AFTER A SLAVE-OWNER???

So...moving on.

Clapper Rail (Rallus crepitans)

While the majority of natural New Jersey is covered in forest, it still has a fairly important habitat in the form of the saltmarsh. Just to get the definition in place early, a saltmarsh is essentially what it sounds like: a vegetation-dominated coastal biome with salt and brackish water, salt-tolerant grasses and plants, and the animals that depend on such. They're coastline preservers, trapping and binding sediment as it makes its way to and from the ocean, and acting as a major supply for the food web along the coasts. They're incredibly important habitats, and this will not be (and have not been) the last time you've seen them during the State Birds Initiative.

Now, obviously, these habitats are chockful of birds. New Jersey has a few major salt flats along its coast, all of which shelter some major breeding populations of birds. One of these species is the Clapper Rail (Rallus crepitans), which is our eBird-sponsored pick of this poll. Clapper Rails have 13% of their global population in New Jersey saltmarshes, meaning they're quite dependent on this unique habitat, and most of their population breeds in the state. Some people may never have seen or heard of a rail, but in case you're one of those people, just know that they're a smaller semi-aquatic relative of cranes. If you've seen a coot, moorhen, or gallinule, then you've seen a rail! And the Clapper Rail is a crustacean-eating, saltmarsh-loving, new Jersey-dependent example. And that said...it is kinda boring looking to the average person.

Don't take me wrong! For me, this bird is fantastic, and would actually be a lifer for me, personally. But the average non-birder? Look, in instances like this, I usually tap into the part of my brain my fiancee lives in rent-free, and all I can hear is her shouting "LONG DUCK LONG DUCK" over and over. I love these guys, but I'm not sure they'd resonate with the public. Plus, as far as saltmarshes go, these are good representatives, but I'm not sure they're the best. Are these a good New Jersey representative? Possibly, since they represent a major ecosystem in the state, and that is important. But I'll leave that question to you all. Moving on!

Cape May Warbler (Setophaga tigrina)

OK, onto the category of birds that are named after the state, and New Jersey has one of those! The Cape May Warbler (Setophaga tigrina) is so-named because the first specimen described by Alexander Wilson was collected in Cape May, New Jersey by George Ord. That said, it's certainly a unique warbler, easily recognizable, and dependent upon conifer forests dominated by spruce, which the Pine Barrens are...not. Still, an iconic bird in New Jersey! Except...wait, hold on...ah. It doesn't breed in the state. In fact, after it was described from a Cape May specimen, it wasn't seen in the area again for...a century. So...yeah, it's named after a major location in the state, known for birds at that, and yet it's barely found there?Love this bird, but...maybe think about renaming it one of these days.

Pine Warbler (Setophaga pinus)

Now, the Pine Warbler (Setophaga pinus), on the other hand, that's a better warbler representative of New Jersey. Well, sort of. To be fair, the Pine Warbler only has 1% of its global breeding population in New Jersey, so the state isn't a bastion or reservoir for the species. However, there is a major reservoir of the species in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, which I'd mentioned earlier. And hey, Pine Barrens, Pine Warbler...slam dunk for representation of the habitat right there. And yeah, that's absolutely relevant to the species as a whole. They live, eat, and breed in pine-dominated forests, exactly like (and including) the Pine Barrens. It's actually listed as a "Significant Congregation" species by the New Jersey Audubon Society.

And as for making a good State Bird of New Jersey? It's a notable bird, even keeping the goldfinch's yellow with white wing bars. It's not terribly difficult to find, especially during the breeding season in areas like the Pine Barrens. And hey, they're even well-known to live with other species, making them an important biodiversity indicator for conservation purposes. Plus, if people go out to look for the Pine Warbler in the wild, they'll likely encounter other species like the Blackburnian Warbler (Setophaga fusca) or the Tennessee Warbler (Leiothlypis peregrina), amongst others. Fostering interest in birdwatching by chance! It works in a conservation sense...but I don't know that it's particularly emblematic of New Jersey, to be fair.

Northern Harrier (Circus hudsonicus)

Now, here's an interesting choice! If the current State Bird, the American Goldfinch, was chosen because it was the mascot for the New Jersey Audubon Society at the time, then by that logic, their current mascot should actually be the State Bird of New Jersey. And so, in that case, may I present to you the current mascot of the NJ Audubon Scoiety, and the next candidate for State Bird...the...is that a Northern Harrier (Circus hudsonicus)? Yeah, looks like it, and some sources I have confirm that's the case. But, uh...why?

Let me be really clear about something first off: I adore the Northern Harrier. Also caleld the marsh hawk, they're a beautiful raptor native to brackish and salt mashes, as well as grasslands and fields, hunting small mammals, insects, and the occasional bird. They're one of the few accipiters that are silent fliers, ambushing prey from above like owls. They even have the disc-like face. They're one of the new North American raptors with sexual dimorphism (the smoky gray male is pictured above, as compared to the brown females), and their iconic coloration has given them the nickname of the Gray Ghost. WHICH IS BADASS. They're also one of the only polygynous raptors, meaning a male can mate with several females in a given season, nesting on the ground and hatching chicks. Because of their unique relationships, some indigenous peoples see them as a symbol of healthy marriage. Finally, these are considered good for agriculture, as they eat rodents and not chicken. I love harriers, they're super neat birds, and it's always a pleasure to see them in the wild. Also, they DROWN THEIR PREY!!! What the hell! That's terrifying!

OK, harriers are cool, but do they have a relevance to New Jersey outside of being the logo of New jersey Audubon? Well...they do breed there...barely. But they've been observed doing so, so that counts. They represent key habitats in the state of New Jersey, so that's great. Their certainly charismatic enough (GRAY GHOST), and they've got nationwide conservation concern as an endangered species. So, it has those qualities going for it as the State Bird candidate. We'll see what the poll says. In the meantime, let's move on!

Laughing Gull (Leucophaeus atricilla)

Y'know, my original plan was to put the Ring-billed Gull (Larus delawarensis) in this list as well...and then, I stumbled upon a fun fact. The black-headed cousin of the Ring-billed Gull, and Laughing Gull, is a regular traveler to New Jersey, and in fact has a colony right off of the Jersey Shore, making them a fairly well-known and recognizable resident of an iconic area of the state. But pretty importantly, the species has a pretty massive breeding population in New Jersey. 5% of the breeding population of the species are in southern NJ, which isn’t the bulwark of their breeding population in the USA (that'd be Louisiana, according the eBird Status and Trends), but it's still a significant portion.

That said, the Laughing Gull is a recognizable member of the New Jersey shore community, and I mean the term "community" in multiple contexts. Ecologically, they're omnivorous scavengers that are well-adapted to living in a densely populated state, as well as in saltmarshes and other coastal environments throughout New Jersey. Sociologically, they hang around human settlements so much that they see opportunities in human hands...literally. The Laughing Gulls of the Jersey Shore are pretty notorious for stealing food out of the hands of beachgoers and boardwalk visitors. There are even boardwalk restaurants with signs saying they won't offer refunds if your food is stolen by a gull. They're SO notorious, in fact, that falconers have been hired to use their falcons to drive away these birds. And honestly...that's a shame. After all, the Laughing Gulls are such prominent citizens that humans have had to adjust to them.

But that said...I'm gonna quote Brian Donahue, the reporter at the end of the video/new report I linked to above...because it's hilarious, and it makes an interesting statement that I think people from New Jersey should think about. Read the quote, but trust that I have a somewhat well-thought out idea supporting it.

Derided as "flying rats" by many, I think it's time to reconsider the Laughing Gull, because if things haters say about Laughing Gulls (they're loud, feisty, there's too many of them... (Interviewee Kathy McCarey): They're rude...they're very demanding...and they come for what they want...I don't like 'em.) ...are the same things haters often say about New Jerseyans. Laughing Gulls are us. They deserve more respect.

Look, as extremely funny as that point is...there's a point about that statement. That is something that people say about New Jerseyans! They live in a state full of garbage, they're obnoxious and loud, all of that kinds thing. And New Jerseyans love their state as much as anybody else; SO MUCH, in fact, that many people online say they actually love that stereotype, because it means that people STAY OUT OF THEIR STATE. Funny or not, true or not...there's a point there. Laughing Gulls, as with all gulls, have a bad reputation, which is mostly undeserved. They're opportunists trying to feed themselves and their young, who see a smorgasbord of food right in front of them, in their neighborhood! In their place, what would YOU do? Honestly, these guys are a solid contender for that reason alone.

Plus, honestly...it's kinda funny.

Saltmarsh Sparrow (Ammospiza caudacuta)

Finally, let's look at the conservation focus for this post: the Saltmarsh Sparrow (Ammospiza caudacuta). So, this is a pretty big one, especially when looking at New Jersey. A full 32% of the species' global population breeds in this state, which is, frankly, a MASSIVE proportion of any species. What's more, they're considered an endangered species, which immediately makes this an impressive contender for the State Bird of New Jersey. And as one of the most endangered species in the Eastern USA, not to mention a species of immense scientific interest for ecological and genomic reasons, this bird should get some attention by the public and federal government.

However...and this is a point to be made here...it's not exactly the most iconic bird for non-birders. As a birder who would kill to get this on his lifelist (I AM WORKING ON IT, LITERALLY TOMORROW AS I AM TYPING THIS), this is a prominent bird within certain communities. And to others? Ugh, this is gonna hurt me to say, you have no idea, but...it's a sparrow. It may be a little harder for people to become attached to a sparrow, and even more difficult for people to recognize the Saltmarsh Sparrow specifically.

Don't believe that this matters? Do me a favor, bird people. Show your non-bird friends Bird A, Bird B, and Bird C. Ask them how many different species you showed them. I'm willing to bet the especially observant will say 2. The less observant are gonna say 1. And throw in these top two pictures, while you're at it. I'm willing to bet you'll still get a 2 or 3. Because, unfortunately, to many people, sparrows all look pretty similar. And going forward, that's something we'll have to keep in mind: a unique appearance. What makes a bird iconic is also in its uniqueness and identifiability. And sure, maybe I'm not giving the average person enough credit, but we're also talking about children. I've said it before and I'll say it many times over: kids are important targets to consider when choosing natural State Symbols. And I really don't know how many adults could tell the difference between some sparrows, even professionals. And, uh...the Saltmarsh Sparrow is a very important example of this, because it wasn't even a species until the '90s.

Oh, and kudos to those of you who caught on immediately to my little trick up there. Probably a good amount of you noticed it, but if you didn't...there are five species of sparrows shown in this post. The two birds pictured in the post? Different species. Yeah, hearing that now makes that more obvious, but you may not have noticed it immediately. The first bird pictured is indeed the Saltmarsh Sparrow. The second bird, however, is the Nelson's Sparrow (Ammospiza nelsoni), which was once considered the same species as the Saltmarsh Sparrow. Dirty question, I know, but it's also found in New Jersey. Not a breeder there, but it's enough to cause a bit of confusion. See what I mean?

Oh, as for the rest, Bird A is LeConte's Sparrow (Ammospiza leconteii), Bird B is a Savannah Sparrow (Passerculus sandwichensis), and Bird C is a Grasshopper Sparrow (Ammodramus savannarum).

Please understand, bird-peeps: I hate making this argument. Genuinely. The New World sparrows are a wonderful group, and a really fun one to play around with and hunt down as a birder. And don't worry, sparrows will be getting a mention in my personal list. But as for the State Bird? I'll let you all decide.

And with that, that's the end of this post! I miss any big ones? Make any leaps a bit too big? Feel free to let me know! In the meantime, stay tuned for State #4 - Georgia! Wait...wait, the fourth state to be admitted into the Union was Georgia? Huh. Go figure.

See you next time, and happy birding!

[purplelupins]

Lamb

|Midnight Mass|

Father John Pruitt/Father Paul Hill x Fem!

Reader

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Word count: 13.5K

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

I invite you to listen to the playlist I made that goes along with the story.

Notes: **please read** This story is told partially from John Pruitt's pov and partially from readers, as such, when it's John's (Paul) it will refer to him as John, seeing as he had no need for the alias when it's from his pov. But when it's from readers, she will be referring to him as Paul Hill. Thank you!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Crude oil is destructive to say the least. It is thick, and cloying; dense and dark and it holds no mercy for anything it touches. It kills and pollutes and fuses itself to anything it touches like some dependant parasitic bond. Not that it knows any better.

At one time, Crockett Island was a home off the Eastern coast to close to 500 residences. There was a harmony and calmness to that time; back when the island had summer visitors, and talks of an airport, and no one had to worry about how to pay for their groceries or if they could afford to pay for house repairs after a bad storm. Back when people were alive and helped eachother and laughed.

As the Breeze approached the marina of Crockett Island, there was a passenger who stood outside, leaning against the railing as he remembered Crockett when it was a secret haven. Then that horrible accident…Now, it was more akin to a shelter to the last 127 souls who remained. The brisk maritime wind tousled his black curled hair and flickered into his eyes.

Not that he minded too terribly- he didn't mind much of anything.

John Pruitt sucked in a full breath of the sea air- something he hadnt been able to do in decades when his old self's lungs had began to weaken. It nearly brought tears to his eyes to have been blessed with this second chance as he took in the mass of land before him. His home. His duty. John knew what he had to do. A needle of anxiety poked at him as he hoped his large cargo was still safe in the hold of the small ferry. Of course it was, but he couldnt help but worry until it was safely tucked away in the rectory.

His gift.

“I’m here to help…just here to help…” He repeated in his head.

The ferry lurched as it docked, though his sturdy frame barely flinched. John blinked, and adjusted his satchel one last time before coming to the off-boarding ramp. He slowly and shyly looked at the other passengers, and had to press his tongue to his teeth to keep from acknowledging a familiar face that stood only a few feet from him.

Riley Flynn.

It had been years since he had seen that face, and he felt a swell of happiness at the prospect of having another addition to his flock to receive this gift he so eagerly wished to bestow upon them. He could hardly wait to see each face and see them properly with his rejuvinated sight. See how they’ve grown and aged. He couldn’t wait to help them.

John stood off to the side after exiting the boat as he waited for his trunk.

"Whatcha waitin' for?" Came a gruff voice that John knew well.

He turned to see the island handyman, Sturge, and a small smile pulled at his cupids bow, "My trunk…should be the largest thing on there I’m afraid." John said.

Sturge huffed a little, but nodded, "Yeah its comin', you need a hand gettin' it to where your goin' we got a..." The man droned on about helping the man transport his precious cargo, but unfortunately John had inadvertently tuned him out after something had caught his eye; someone to be precise.

It was the shrill chime of a bicycle bell that had initially drawn his attention, though now he was entranced by the young woman riding the very bike that had made it.

The same wind that had combed through his own hair was now blowing yours back as you came to a stop by the small marine building for the fishermen; a large parcel was fastened to the back of your bike. In fact you were so engrossed in calling to the fishermen on the dock, while unfastening the goods from your bike that you didn’t notice the supposed stranger with his brown eyes glued to you. Staring at how the men approached you and tried to sneak a look at what you brought for them; of course he also was not blind to the evident leers you recieved from the same men. Men he knew were married and had children who he had baptised over the years.

Yet here he was practially on their same level as he watched you; transfixed by the way your hair would get caught in the breeze, and how your cheeks were a lovely pink from the cold. how you had a certain incandescence to you that brought up the spirits of the worn down fishermen.

In John's old age, he hadn't been able to see you properly since you were born; cataracts and dementia coupled with a few other ailments made you into a foggy memory for him, even now. But he knew you. He knew you had been a lovely little girl, and had decided to remain on the island and open a small bakery; John could recall Bev mentioning it a few times that you made food for the Crockpot luck each year. He remembered thanking you...not that he could properly appreciate your gift. You were a familiar face to St. Patrick’s, too.

It was only now that he could recall baptising you some twenty years ago when he had just broached 60 years...and he could see what a stellar young woman you had grown into.

Beautiful.

John had mumbled something to Sturge about only needing help to get out of the marina, and his hand gripped the top of his bag absentmindedly as his eyes flickered over you handing out pastries and sweet treats to the men.

You smiled so brightly that it truly must have been one of the many gifts you were given in life from God. Your calling to brighten up the cloudy days of Crockett island.

A patch of sunlight.

As John pulled the crate up the stairs to the rectory and pushed it across the floor, the solitude finally let him start to think. He knocked on the trunk twice, and slumped against the side as his mind began to wander. John Pruitt had been a priest for well over 60 years; he had seen and heard and dealt with just about every scandal, thought, sin, doubt and joy you could think of. Which was why he knew that there was a divine reason behind your delivery to the fishermen coinciding with his arrival.

It was no random coincidence that your face was among the first he saw upon returning. God’s plan was at work, and John felt anticipation fill him at the thought.

You were a good girl, just like your parents raised you to be, and it wasn’t as if you had a reason not to be. You had made a comfortable life after your family had either left or passed. Moving was expensive and you liked the quiet. It was a simple life and an easy one. Habitual and concise.

You went to church on Sundays and attended daily mass with Leeza. She loved your cinnamon rolls, and you liked to sneak a few into her bag. John remembered noticing that after daily mass one day. It made his chest swell with what he told himself was pride and admiration; not pining and adoration. It excited him to see someone so full of life, even if it was quietly. But that excitement was a double edged sword, after all it too made the Father dread it when he felt it in him. That excitement would settle low in his stomach and make him lose his train of thought.

A test. It was all a test.

The first time you saw the man was when you were leaving the dock that morning. It was strange to see a new face on Crockett, let alone a handsome one at that. You had wished you were heading in his direction so as to give him a welcome; he had such a large trunk with him that you wished you could have given him a hand too. But alas you were needed in the opposite way back down Main Street.

You petalled down the road, and dropped off a few more deliveries down the island to the elders who couldn’t venture too far. Your routine every other day from 10:30 in the morning for an hour.

John knew that too. He remembered feeling someone cycle past him with a soft greeting everytime he visited town after mass. Everything was starting to click back into place as his memory was replenished.

You finished your route, and hopped off your bike as you came to the little bundle of shops in town.

You knew Monsignor Pruitt was returning the next day, and you found yourself hopeful that he hadnt exhausted himself…you were also excited for Bev to calm down after weeks of her relentless, poor moods…and that was saying something for a woman who already lacked a pleasant temperament. The Monsignor always seemed to calm her…perhaps it was that she was able to abuse his position for herself-

You took a deep breath to calm yourself as your temper flared at the thought.

The following day, Saturday, was your day to yourself. Your little shop remained closed until Sunday afternoon, and your appreciation for the downtime was great. You took extra time for yourself, and sat down to read that book that you had promised to read last year; tried a new recipe for dinner and baked yourself a fresh batch of cookies. It wasn’t terribly interesting, but it was easy, and you liked that.

As you brushed your hair out for sleep, your thoughts wandered to that strange face you had seen exit the Breeze the day previous. You wondered if he was visiting someone or if he was some kind of inspector for the island…so little happened on Crockett that new faces were so obvious. You were surprised no one had mentioned him during your day at the shop.

You shrugged it off.

It wasn’t your business.

The rosary you clutched as you prayed beside your bed dug into your skin as you squeezed it unconsciously. Some nights your worship came with difficulty…you mind wandered and you wondered if you were doing the right thing…praying to the right god. Not that you would tell anyone that.

You didn’t sleep well that night. Somehow you repeatedly awoke every few hours to a deep sinking in your gut and prickle up your neck that kept you from returning to sleep. The restlessness had you surrendering just before dawn, and you wrapped a thick blanket around yourself as you sat in front of your window that just peaked over the water. Your bleary gaze was heavy, though you felt yourself sober when you swore you saw a dark figure move into the thick bushes. You jumped, and felt your blood freeze, but when you leaned a little closer to look out, there was nothing but the gentle sway of the trees in the wind. It was so easy to dismiss what you had seen as simply your tired mind playing tricks on you.

You rubbed the heels on your hands into your eyes, and sighed as you stood.

Coffee. A coffee was needed.

The dirt road was muddy with the approaching storm that would be on the horizon in a few days. You hoped this one wouldn’t be too damaging.

You followed behind Leeza with Dolly, and told them what you had baked that morning for your shop, while Erin and Wade listened; enjoying how the air smelled of petrichor and pine. There was a comfortable chatter amongst everyone as they grew happy to welcome their Monsignor back to Crockett.

You sat yourself in the middle, in the same seat you always took. After months of Father Pruitt being gone, you routine was beginning to settle again.

The small organ began playing, and you stood to start singing with everyone else, but then as the alter boys passed you and you watched them, there was an unfamiliar voice behind them. You slowed your singing as you were once again distracted; sure enough, there was a much younger man who passed down the aisle in a gold chasuble and his hands held in prayer.

That same man from the dock.

You felt confusion fill you, and evidently you weren’t the only one as the churchgoers exchanged confused glances with eachother. You looked over at Wade, hoping he might look a little less confused as the mayor, but he mirrored every other face.

Knowing you weren’t getting any answers from your peers, you directed your attention to the pulpit as the stranger walked up to it.

“Good morning,” the man began, “I know I’m not who you expected to see this morning. I’m Father Paul Hill, and I was sent by the diocese to fill in for Monsignor Pruitt. Just know that I’m only here to help, and I look forward to meeting you all.”

You blinked in surprise at his explanation, thought you supposed it wasn’t entirely strange- just unexpected. Had something happened? You remembered how so many islanders had advised the Father not to make the journey, and now you were wondering if you all should have insisted harder.

The man looked a little nervous, but hopeful as he looked around to his new flock. But as his gaze passed over yours, you noted it paused for a moment. You smiled a little a him in hopes that it might make him feel a little welcome, and you briefly wondered if he recognized you from the marina.

There was a lilt to his strong, low voice that made you listen. He was compelling and direct; certainly not what you were used to with Monsignor Pruitt. He had always been a wonderful preacher, but for the last decade, he had grown slow and drawling.

You remembered your mother saying something about “It’s not about the sermon or who’s giving it, it’s just about being reminded of god and our mortality in this life.” And while you had always agreed with the sentiment, there was something about being invigorated while at church that was making your fingertips tingle.

You could already tell that Father Hill was appreciated amongst the churchgoers. There was a softness in their weathered faces as he spoke, like he was indeed connecting them to God.

As everyone filed in for the sacrament, you fell in line and felt your palms start to sweat. A part of you was thankful that Bev was there to provide the wine and your…replacement; you didn’t want to have to stop the church proceedings just to explain why you couldn’t drink the wine.

The discovery of your ethanol allergy had come as a distressful lesson when you had first drank the sacrament as a child. You still remembered what a fuss everyone made and how you had been rushed to Dr.Gunning who had only graduated from medical school recently. From then on your Monsignor had been very understanding and blessed your separate cup of grape juice every mass from then on.

When you accepted the wafer, and accepted the smaller cup from Bev, you noted in the back of your mind that the priest before you looked a little shaken as you drank. You paid it no mind- he was new and he likely had his quirks.

But it was no quirk. The Father felt his shoulders sink, and blood drain from his face as he watched Bev hand you that cup. He felt his idiocy fill him, then the subsequent dread and horror that followed his realisation.

You couldn’t drink the communion wine.

You never had.

A flash of the first day you tried it made his head hurt as he recalled how distraught your mother was upon learning what had happened. He tried to push the worried expression on his young face away but he was sure it was now more of a grimace.

You couldn’t accept the gift.

Panic clouded Johns mind as he continued to give the sacrament to each of the islanders. The devil on his shoulder proposed that it simply wasn’t your fate to be given the gift. But John had learned to ignore that horned heathen well, and he knew he must do something to guide you with the rest of his flock.

No lamb left behind.

As you filed out to leave, you walked behind Annie Flynn and her son Riley.

He had left years ago when you were still in your mid teens, and he didn’t exactly leave a lasting impression on a teenager. They stopped for a moment to speak with the new father, and while you wanted to say hello to the pastor, you hated to linger and get in people’s way; you knew you would see the Father again, and so you went to skirt around Annie, but as fate would have it, their conversation ended quickly, and the older woman took you by the arm as her son left.

“This is the beating heart of Crockett herself!” She beamed at you while you stood there suddenly locked in conversation with the young priest.

Annie had always appreciated your positive attitude and good nature. You found yourself always trying to cheer her up on her worst days while she worried herself sick about her husband and her son on the mainland. She was a mother through and through, and you often held her as a place-holder for your own flesh and blood since you saw your family only a couple times a year since they moved away.

And Annie seemed content with that. She had always wanted a daughter. The way she gushed about you then to the Father and introduced you had you trying to brush off the praise with a few failed “Oh no I-“ and “I’m not-“ and so forth. Your flushed cheeks had another agenda entirely however when you finally looked up at the Fathers gaze.

It was those soft brown eyes of his that struck you first. So focused and yet so…sad. Like he might cry at any moment. You wondered if his eyes stung.

He was handsome in a weathered, timid sort of way; couldn’t have been more than mid forties. He looked as if he had seen years of life beyond his age. Perhaps years of absolving sins had taken a toll.

“She is our baker here on Crockett…helps liven up the plain variety of food we have.” She half joked, thought it was mostly truth. Crockett was a place of bread and butter- basics. So a treat of some kind was greatly appreciated, and you were happy to deliver just that.

“Ah yes…the Monsignor mentioned his love for your pastries.” He smiled genuinely and nodded as if recalling being told, “I’ll be sure to stop by.”

There was a boyishness to him that endearing enough to settle your nerves.

Your eyes widened in surprise, “He did?” You asked.

You were certain Pruitt wouldn’t be able to recall something so insignificant in his declining health and old age. It had only been a few years that you had been running the shop, and you knew he hadn’t been fully coherent long before that. A poetic connection between him and Crockett Island you supposed.

Father Paul seemed delighted by your shock though, and the crows feet around his eyes deepened, “Yes he was quite adamant I assure you. I believe you’re also a regular face I will be seeing and that it may just be you and Leeza at times.” He added.

You clasped your hands in front of you to keep from fidgeting.

“I- well I try to be.” You looked away timidly, and shuffled your feet as Annie smiled at you. You weren’t used to someone being so passionate about small things- let alone a man.

“Oh she’s just modest.” The older woman said.

Father Paul chuckled, “Modesty is a virtue. Now, I noticed you weren’t able to drink the sacramental wine, is there something I should know?” He seemed so curious and invested.

You nodded, “I’m afraid I’m allergic to something in wine- ethanol. I’ve always been given plain grape juice instead…the Monsignor was always kind enough to have it ready. I hope that won’t be a problem-“

Father Paul shook his head as he rushed to put your mind at ease.

“-no no not- not in the least I assure you. Your presence and dedication is more than enough…you still receive the lords blessing even if it is from a sweeter drink.” He mused.

“Thank you, Father.” You replied and looked down again so as to hide the warming of your cheeks again.

Annie smiled and hugged you, “Well then, not to cut this short, Father but I’m starting my shift in a half hour. I’ll see you then?” She asked you.

You nodded, “Sure will. I’ll make us some coffee. I’m sure the sheriff could use some too.” You called after her as she walked away and bid the father farewell. Leaving the two of you to stand together. You turned back to Father Hill as he towered over you, and fought to find something to say as your nerves kicked in. You were usually good at finding conversation but you felt like you were a kid being forced to talk to some family member your mom insisted you knew.

You took a deep breath. “It was-“

“I hope-“

You both spoke over each other, and both looked at one another apologetically. You shook your head and smiled a little to ease his embarrassment, “Please you first, Father Hill.”

He looked at you for a moment for confirmation to ensure that he wasn’t being rude then he began again, “I was only going to say that I hope to see you here again…it’s enlightening to see a youthful face in a church.” He grinned- a curl of his dark hair falling over his forehead as he looked down at you.

You returned his grin, though yours was a little forced in comparison.

Attending church was a routine ingrained in you since childhood, and now it was just something expected of you. You knew the day you didn’t attend would make the talk of the town and you were never in the mood for Beverly to come knocking on your door to berate you.

You could still remember a couple years ago when you were sick and she brought you a batch of soup for you to help…the offer had been kind enough, but the soup itself had made you want to curl into a ball and chew on a dead seagull.

“I assure you.” You echoed his words from earlier, and he smiled. “I’ll see you soon. Enjoy the rest of your day, Father.” You said, and slowly stepped past him.

He turned his body to follow you. John told himself it was manners to speak to someone with your whole attention, and while that was true, he simply needed one last proper look at you before you left.

“Likewise, y/n.” He called to you as you walked down the steps. Out of your peripheral, you could see Bev still bending by the ear of one of the community members, and you made quick work of sending her a tight smile then hurrying along the path to the road. She returned the forced expression; not that she knew you forced it. Practice makes perfect.

The hairs on the back of your neck began to stand on end as you descended the hill from St. Patrick’s. There was something in the back of your mind that told you not to look behind you, but against your better judgement, you did just that. A pair of soft brown eyes were trained on you as you walked.

The Father’s stare startled you and made your stride stutter.

He was intense and direct. He wasn’t like most of the islanders, and he made you uneasy somehow, but regardless, you cast him a friendly wave, and continued on your way- but that same prickle on the back of your neck simply wouldn’t let go.

John watched you go until your head disappeared down onto the main road and out of sight. He felt his nerves pick up as he said his last goodbyes and returned inside the church. He sat amongst the pews and stared up at the four walls around him. The weight of the gift he was tasked to reveal was growing heavy. He wished so badly to bestow this marvel to every dedicated church goer, and he would.

To every single one except you.

Why you?

Certainly you were in some way special; that had been revealed to him when it had been your face for him to first see upon returning.

Fate.

But if that were the case then surely your way to salvation should be easier…yet here you were unable to accept it; all because of an allergy.

John sighed as he made up his mind to proceed as he did with the rest of his flock. He hoped you wouldn’t taste the blood in your juice tomorrow- if you did he would simply have to find another way for you to accept it.

No lamb left behind.

The walk into town that usually brought you so much peace now came with an impending sense of foreboding. You knew that nasty storm was nearly at your doors, but storms had never bothered you too much. No, there was something in the air that made you all too aware of your heartbeat, and your breath and how your skin felt. You barely paid attention to anything around you as your leisurely pace unconsciously changed into one of hurry.

It wasn’t until you had just passed by the general store, and didn’t respond to Hassan’s greeting that you snapped out of your trance.

“Y/n? Y/n you alright?” He called to you as you strode right past him.

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Sh-sheriff, I’m so sorry…” you stopped in your tracks and furrowed your brow as you fought to find an answer for your odd attitude, “I’m…I think I’m just a little out of it today.” You laughed.

The Sheriff glanced you over for a moment, then nodded slowly. “There’s a fresh pot inside.” He tipped his cup filled with black coffee to you. He was a nice man. Exhausted…mistreated, but caring.

You smiled and nodded, “I’ll come by in a few minutes. Thank you.” You hoped your smile would reassure him. You didn’t need to worry an already stressed father and someone you would consider a friend. An awkward older friend who needed a break but a friend nonetheless. “Want an eclair? Got a few extra that I made this morning.” You asked.

He shook his head gently, “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to give me my own form of insulation for winter.”

You gasped in faux shock, and shook your head, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The pebbles and dirt crunched under your boots as you stepped up to the little entrance of your bakery beside the general store. As soon as you stepped inside, you suddenly felt a little safer…at ease. As if you had anything to be afraid of.

You suddenly felt very silly.

Ridiculous.

There had only been one change that day, and that was the charismatic Father Paul Hill.

Had you become so sheltered on that little island that you were afraid of a stranger coming into your community? Surely not.

No. You hadn’t felt fear in the man’s presence so who would you feel it now?

Ridiculous.

Stop it.

You closed your eyes and did your best to clear your mind of any ominous thought and any thought about the new Father.

Out of sight. Out of mind. Not your business.

You strode to the back of the shop and prepared your morning deliveries; it was always the same. It was easy. And you knew it was appreciated. Feeling important was a virtue in a small community that was run into the ground.

Making people feel cared for made you happy.

The day came and went just as it always did, but you couldn’t help but feel like the island had turned a little off its axis. Like something had just nudged it into a slight other direction. Your suspicions were only enforced and justified when almost every one of your regulars mentioned the new pastor to you as they selected their desired sweet or savoury treat from your display case.

“Such a striking young man.”

“Too modern.”

“Nothing like our dear Monsignor…but I can’t say I’ve stayed so engaged during a homily in years.”

“How long do you think he’ll stay?”

“Where do you think he came from?”

And so on.

You had hoped any mention of the man would remain in your own thoughts, but it was as if he had swept through the town like a stiff winter breeze.

By the time you sold your last cheese bun and lemon tart, and closed up shop, there was a very real wind that surged right down Main Street. The cool air pricked right through your thick tights under your skirt and made you made a mental note to dig out some warmer ones.

That storm was due that evening. It had been the talk of the town all day, right after the endless conversations of the invigorating preacher. Once you had gotten home, you felt it start to push up against your boarded windows. The wind howled, and the lights flickered as the sky darkened outside; you took that as a sure sign to light a few candles.

There was something ethereal in the light from a candle. So beautiful. If you caught the flames out of the corner of your eyes, sometimes it looked like they had little halos.

You smiled softly at the thought.

You never stayed up late on storm nights. In fact you slept earlier than usual. You knelt beside your bed and clasped your hands in prayer.

“Father, as I lie down for sleep tonight, wash over me with the warmth of Your love. In Your mercy, soothe my pain, whether in my body-“ you paused your recitation when that familiar prickle began its way up the back of your neck like it had for the past two days. You listened intently, but there was nothing but the wind.

“-mind or soul. Grant me a restful night of sleep so that when I awake, I'm strengthened to do Your will. Amen.” You decided against thinking too much of the unease, and settled under your blankets and closed your eyes.

You didn’t dream that night. In fact it felt as if you had merely shut your eyes for a moment before you were opening them again at the sound of your alarm.

The storm had blown itself out by the time you took your wooden shutters off your windows. There was a sliver of light coming over the horizon as you peered out at the water. You stared at it intently, and clenched your hand into an absentminded fist.

You tried the lightswitch in your kitchen, and praised the lord that it worked. You wondered if Sturge had been up even earlier than you to fix the power lines.

The outside of your house was a mess complete with a crab trap hanging off your fence. Nets, ropes, bushes, clothes, coolers, toys riddled the streets as you walked in the dim light to your shop. But then after only a few minutes, your nose picked up a smell. You were used to the strong smell of the ocean, especially after the storms, but this was different. You started towards the beach, and nearly gagged when you got closer. You had to cover your mouth once you stood on the sand.

From left to right, the beach was littered with the corpses of cats. You knew there were quite a lot on the island, and had seen the odd dead feline, but this was as if something had wiped out every cat and dumped them by the shore.

Anxiety filled you as you stared.

“Oh my-…”

You spun around to see Hassan standing beside you; uniform half buttoned and a bag over his shoulder that you knew had his lunch. The two of you exchanged looks of distress, and you visibly started to shake the longer you looked.

“What…what would…Hassan what-…” you looked up at the man, and he only shook his head. At a loss for words.

“Cmon. I’ll walk you in. Gotta…gotta call the mayor.” He wrapped an arm around your back to direct you away from the mess, “We’ll take care of it.”

You nodded and followed his lead away from the beach and into town, but you found yourself remembering that prickle up the back of your neck that night, and wondered if it had had anything to do with the slaughter. Was there some predator that had somehow made it onto the island without anyone knowing? Was someone going around killing cats? Had the solitude of Crockett Island finally made someone snap and rip every feline to shreds?

The call of your name cut through your thoughts.

You looked up and saw that you were ex standing outside your shop, and the poor man who had walked you there looked even more distressed at your quietness.

“Thank you…thanks Hassan…I’ll…let- let me know if you find anything out.” You said quietly but gave him a small smile of reassurance.

“I will. Take care okay?” He said, and you nodded, but he was already disappearing up the steps into the general store.

You nodded to yourself, and unlocked your shop and stood inside.

Then you took a deep breath.

And got to work.

By the time 8:30 came around, your nerves had calmed, and your nose was filled with a far more pleasant smell of muffins, and tarts and sourdough.

You brushed off your hands, and bundled up the deliveries for that day, then quickly locked the shop up and left for mass. As you walked, you found yourself ever so slightly reluctant. Nervous like your first day of school.

It wasn’t until you heard the sound of Leeza and Annie behind you that you snapped out of a daze that had settled over you.

“Good morning, dear!” Annie called to you as you stopped and waited for them.

“Morning. You all survived the storm just fine?” You asked politely and began walking with them.

“Oh we were fine. Just a breeze.” Annie said good-naturedly, “Sure was strange what with all those cats this morning though hey? Heard Dolly saying they’re still trying to work out what happened.” She said a little hushed.

You nodded, “I know…the Sheriff and I found them this morning…scared me half to death…”

“They’ll figure it out I’m sure.” Annie dismissed the conversation; you could tell she was worried. She always worried.

Not wanting that to be the last conversational subject between your little group, you changed the subject.

“Anything exciting happening at school today?” You asked Leeza.

She shook her head, “Nah…but I think we’re starting on this project that I’m excited about…” the girl began on a tangent regarding her science project. It was nice to listen to someone prattle on about something that would be insignificant in a few years…it was somehow refreshing. Somehow you felt like an older sister to Leeza, and having her confide in you so honestly about mundane things made your heart swell.

The three of you entered the church, and just as always, you sat in your usual spot in the middle, across from Leeza and Annie. And you waited.

“Our processional hymn this morning is number 400 in the red hymnal. “Holy, Holy, Holy.” Please rise. “ came the voice of Father Hill from the door of the church.

A shiver made you twitch, and you blamed a draft in the church. You stood just as you always did; not needing the hymnbook but still holding it out of habit.

You sang, and kept your eyes trained on the text as the Father passed, his hands pressed in prayer as he walked up to the pulpit and continued his routine. You could feel the heavy presence of Bev Keene permeating the air, and you subconsciously ground your teeth. You knew if she had her heart in the right place, she could be a magnetic, beloved member of any community.

But sadly she didn’t have a heart to have it in the right place to begin with. Soot and malice was what sat beneath that gold cross she wore.

“Before he was given up to death, a death he freely accepted, he took bread and gave you thanks…”

Your eyes glazed over at you listened to that voice of his. Not that you weren’t hearing his words, or the message behind them; you were paying attention. But just like being read a story by your mother at bedtime versus a babysitter you had only just met, there was a certain comfort to be found in the former. Yet somehow, where Father Hill ought to have been less comforting, he brought great solace to his homily. It felt as if he was the one you were so used to listening to. Somehow he had eased himself into the Monsignor’s shoes seamlessly and had begun to preach his own gospel that melded with the tone you had become accustomed to since childhood and lulled you into a safe haven of worship.

“…He broke the bread, gave it to his disciples, and said…”

There was an effortlessness in his sermon. You wondered if he had started preaching very young.

With only 4 islanders in the church to worship, Father Hill stepped down from the pulpit and began offering the Body and blood of Christ to each. He saved you for last, you noticed, and for good reason as he retrieved your smaller cup and returned to you. You cupped your hands in front of you, and waited dutifully.

“Body of Christ, y/n.” Came that gentle voice of his like he cared deeply that you accept the blessing.

His long fingers graced the pads of yours so slightly as he placed the wafer on your fingers, and you failed to hide the hitch of your breath as you murmured “Amen.”

Then as he held your small cup for you to drink from, you failed to see how his gaze caught the sight of your pink tongue peaking out just over your teeth as you went to drink. John didn’t know why he noticed that; he supposed he noticed many small details now. Seeing your tongue now must have reminded him of any smaller animal with its mouth open- a small rabbit, a mouse, a cat, a-

A lamb.

The juice tasted strange that morning and somehow thicker than usual. You wondered if it was just in your head after being so shaken from the cats…

Annie took it upon herself to walk Leeza to school that morning, which left you to exit the church alone. On a day like that with the sun shining, you found coming out of the house of God almost ethereal. The light poured in through the single-paned windows and illuminated the dust particles that drifted so gently.

Once you stepped outside, the fresh air filled your lungs and you let yourself smile easily up at Father Paul as he stood patiently.

“Good morning, Father Hill.” You said, craning your neck to look up at the man.

“The beating heart herself!” He smiled, reiterating Annie’s analogy of you.

A good memory.

And a good sense of humour.

The warming of your cheeks was obvious , and John felt a little tug in his chest at the sight of it. Little flower pedals colouring your cheeks.

“She- I’m…”you tried to find a way to humble the dramatic compliment, but failed, “I hope you made it through the storm alright, Father. One hell of a welcome.” You said, trying to redirect the conversation, and to your mercy, Father Hill went along with it.

He nodded.

“It was quite nice actually. Being plunged into darkness almost feels like a renewal of some kind.” He said thoughtfully as his mouth seemed to threaten to tug into a smile.

“Quite sobering.” You agreed, “I’m glad it didn’t chase you off. Don’t know how many times I’ve seen someone buy a summer home here then flee the moment they have to endure a storm.” It was true. A little funny too.

The Father chuckled and nodded, “A fearsome thing to behold, but still a reminder of our creator…the power or lord holds, whipping storms against our rocks and shores just to knock on our doors and say hello. Almost reassuring.” He rambled a little.

You tilted your head, “That’s a very thoughtful way to look at it. Certainly more poetic than what you’ll hear from most of the locals.”

“And what would they say?” He shot back playfully.

You breathed out a laugh.

“One too many curse words for my liking, Father. And a couple confusing analogies.” You said.

Father Hill chuckled and somehow you half expected him to pat your head and tell you to run along. The Monsignor used to when you were a child so it wouldn’t be entirely foreign.

“Well we all have our ways of dealing with hardship-“

“Ah you’re still here, y/n!”

During your conversation you hadn’t noticed how the two of you had come to shift closer to one another; but when that cutting voice of Bev Keen startled you, you took an instinctive step away from the man with whom you had been speaking.

You forced a polite smile, “I am. Just asking how Father Paul made it through the storm-“

“The rectory has always been just fine.” She shot at you with a tight smile as if trying to end your time there quickly.

John could see your lips pull down so slightly into a tiny frown when Bev cut you off; he felt a flicker of irritation. Odd.

You recovered, acting like she didn’t mean any harm. “I’m sure it has. But just because a place is safe doesn’t remove fear. The Father here seemed to have handled it just fine though like you said… “In the storms, winds and waves, He whispers “fearnot” for I am with you.”.” You smiled up at the Father, and he returned it gently.

“Psalm 107:29…truer words could not exist for Crockett Island.” Father Paul said fondly to you; he had a way of speaking to those around him like there was a bubble around the two of you as you conversed. Like nothing else could take his attention from you.

You took in a breath and clasped your hands in front of you when you could feel the gaze of Bev scorching you, “Well thank you for a lovely service today Father, Bev…always a pleasure.” You said to both, but only made it several steps before Father Paul called after you.

“You’re always welcome here.” He said you name so gently. You noticed too that his tone was almost pleading…perhaps encouraging. Did he think you would stop your routine one day?

“I appreciate that Father Hill!” You smiled and waved as you turned to continue on your way; Paul’s lingering stare and Bevs look of distain following you as you went.

Your ear ached as a pull in you almost forced you to turn around and look back at St. Patrick’s again…but you didn’t. Somehow you felt it was in poor taste to do so. You had been startled by being watched once, and you were certain your nerves would not benefit from it again.

Instead, you hurried along, and made it down to the bakery quickly. You waved at a few locals who entered the general store and unlocked your door to grab your deliveries for that day. You always felt a pang of sadness when you looked at your list of houses and saw old customers crossed off; having passed or moved, but you supposed you ought to feel joyous for those who remained.

One by one you completed your deliveries. There were only 15 houses to visit, give or take a few from day to day. You treasured those houses.

You peddled up to one of the houses you frequented, and grabbed the order you needed. You almost bounced up the steps and knocked. It didn’t take long before the door was opening after the voice inside called that they were coming.

You were then met with a familiar face.

“Good to see you. Morning going alright?” Sarah Gunning was always a little direct, but kind. You supposed a good doctor ought to be both.

You nodded as you handed her the two loaves of bread and bundle of fruit cakes. “Not too bad…was a little shaken by the…uh…the cats this morning but nothing a sunny day like today can’t fix!” You assured her. “How’s your mother?”

Sarah nodded, “I heard…smelled it too. She’s alright, thank you y/n.” She took the package from you and gave you a tight smile.

“Good…see you soon.” You chirped, and began backing down the steps.

You turned around and strode out the front yard, but sighed when you noticed one of the straps that kept your goods in place at the back of your bike was loose. You knelt down and retied it. You supposed everything on this island was falling apart just a little.

When you straightened, however, you gasped and nearly toppled over. “F-Father Hill! I’m so sorry-“

The man stepped back a little.

“Im sorry I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He put his hand up to show he meant no harm, face apologetic.

“No…no that was on me, I’ve been a little in my head lately.” You said, having a hard time meeting his gaze.

“We all can be a little distracted.” He said. A slightly awkward silence fell between you, but it was he who broke it. “You know the Gunnings well?” He asked, and nodded to the house behind you.

You followed his gaze and nodded, “Not terribly, but I remember seeing Mrs. Gunning in church when I was a kid…I just deliver to them now. Mrs.Gunning’s health hasn’t been the best for years and her daughter Sarah cares for her…I just try to help out where I can.” You smiled.

There was something nagging at you though. Something odd. Of course you hadn’t fully realized that this stranger already knew who lived there; you were so used to everyone knowing everyone.

You did notice how the man before you shifted when you mentioned Sarah’s mother. He seemed almost a little more compelled to listen.

“That- that’s kind of you.” He stumbled a little over his words, “Giving to those in need that’s very selfless…a trait that can be hard to come by though we all possess it.” Father Hill forced a smile that crinkled the sides of his eyes.

“We all have traits in us that we can chose to embrace or not. Good and bad, Father.”

His smile turned a little more genuine then. “Ah yes, the never ending duality of man.”

“ “Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed.” John 3:20.” You quoted a little absentmindedly as you saw Beverly pass by on the main road. The distraction kept you from seeing how the man towering over you had his eyes go wide, and looked away for a moment.

You both stood there for a moment, then you ducked your head a little and pulled your bike towards yourself. “Well Father, I’ll leave you to it.”

Father Hill nodded, and pursed his lips ever so slightly, “Good to see you…”

You slowly walked past him and back to the road, but stopped when he muttered something that you wondered if he meant for you to hear.

“Thank you.” He said.

You looked back at him, brows pitched in confusion.

“For…taking- taking care of everyone.” He ended his sentence a little weakly, and you tilted your head a little to the side. An odd man.

“It’s my pleasure.” You decided on. It seemed to be what Father Hill wanted or needed to hear, and you both parted ways.

You paused at Main Street, and turned to look up at the Father as he ascended the stairs to the Gunning house. This time, it was his turn to glance back at you as you watched him. You waved and smiled, and didn’t wait for his response before you were pedalling away.

John had been standing just out of view of Sarah when he had said goodbye to Leeza, and saw you knock on Mildred’s front door. He stayed there, enjoying how much life you held inside you. Youthful and magnetic. Of course the ease in staring at you had nothing to do with the fact that your dress swayed around your legs and picked up so slightly in the wind.

He watched how startled you were by him when he approached you…so cautious yet so trusting. A lamb weary of wolves just looking for her Shepard.

I will be your Shepard sweet lamb…let me. Bend for me…for God.

Then that quote…oh you were no mere lost soul. No you were thoughtful. John felt excitement fill him at the thought of how you would benefit from his gift. He would be lying if he said you saying his true name didn’t startle him. A coincidence, of course.

Then when he turned back and saw you already watching him. Then that peak of your thigh when you hopped onto your bike…John was…

John was distracted.

An ideal lamb to guide yet so concerning. Not a blind lamb…no you were good. You were caring, and strong. Hopeful…hopeful like a man overboard who knew he had to weather swell after swell of water but kept treading water because he knew he was strong enough despite his muscles wanting to give out.

Instead of staying afloat like that man, John lost his breath.

Then he gasped in the salty sea water and breathed you in. Gulped you down his throat like a greedy boy to nourish his body and fill his lungs.

The next morning was thankfully an uneventful one.

Hassan and Wade had managed to get the dead cats cleaned up by the evening of the day before, and you weren’t sure when the last time was that you were so happy to have nothing happen.

Until that evening.

You were fairly proud of your abilities to make delicious confectioneries for Crockett island, and as you stared down your journal of recipes that sat in your lap, you pondered which to chose for the approaching Crock-potluck. You knew there would be a great deal of food already there, but you also knew that something freshly made for desert changed an atmosphere fast.

You were just looking through your various cookie and sweet bread recipes when a knock on your door made you jump. It was rare that you had visitors, especially at this hour. Certainly Erin had come by numerous times for slow walks around the island in the evening from time to time, and then Annie sometimes ran down to your house if she needed an ingredient…but somehow you felt that the person knocking was neither.

It was soft and timid.

You uncurled yourself from your nest of blankets on the couch, and strode to your door, then opened it with a pleasant smile on your face. It faltered only a little once you saw who was standing there.

“I- I uh…I’m sorry for this intrusion so late but I have a favour to ask of you if I may.” Came that low rumble of the man’s voice as he stood in the dim light of your porch.

You blinked, “What can I do for you Father?”

Father Hill shifted a little- an awkward smile on his face as he looked to the side as he stalled.

“This is my first uh- Crockett Po- crock-“ he stumbled a little and you smiled.

“Crock-potluck.” You corrected him.

He laughed a little, “Yes. And I wanted to have something to bring. Something my mother ingrained in me as a boy and well I was hoping if…if you could lend a helping hand so to speak.”

You bit at your cheek to keep from smiling too wide at his request. Here was this man likely twice your age, taller than most trees, fumbling with his words when he preached for a living. He was endearing.

“Well Father…it is getting late.” You started, and his face instantly turned to that of a kicked puppy.

His eyes softened, and the corners of his mouth tugged down so slightly.

“Oh- of- of course how silly-“

“-and I was going to make something for the potluck anyways…so having an extra pair of hands would be a godsend.” You finished.

John chuckled and stared you in the eye when your nose scrunched up so slightly at your tease.

Funny girl.

“Come in, please…make yourself at home.” You ushered him in. You were thankful that Bev didn’t live near you lest she see her dear Father Hill enter the home of a young woman alone.

Of course, John knew that you were indeed preparing to make something. Just like most islanders, you kept your drapes open even at night, and while he had just meant to take an evening stroll and check in on you- his dear lamb- John had found himself standing just outside your window watching you for well past a half hour. You flicked through that book of yours that John remembered seeing on your counter just two days ago when you had tested a recipe from it. You hadn’t seen him that night either. So domestic and sweet in your own space…

It was only when he snapped out of his trance-like state that he felt a little perverse in his current situation and told himself that he must have a reason for being there so long.

Thus the need to make something for the potluck.

John Pruitt had never made something for the potluck.

But he would not just leave your house that night after watching you through your window.

No. No he had a purpose for being there.

Of course he did. Why else would God have guided him there on his walk?

It wasn’t as if he was subconsciously drawn to your little home.

A moth to a flame.

You watched the older man remove his boots, and unzip his grey hoodie, and remove it to fold it neatly onto your couch. He looked so domestic and human.

“We’re going to make a cult classic, Father…I hope that’s alright. Safer for large numbers.” You explained as you flipped to your browned butter chocolate chip recipe. You slowly walked into your kitchen as you reviewed what you needed, and Father Hill trailed after you.

“This might take a couple hour- oh!” You started to say, but jumped when you turned around and bumped right into his chest.

He chuckled, “I think I might need a bell on me…I’m afraid I have a talent for startling people lately.”

You waved it off, “It’s just me…I’m just- I…” you sighed and looked up at the man as he waited patiently for your explanation, “Can I…can I be completely honest with you, Father Hill?” You asked a little timidly.

He nodded- open and calm, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You sucked in a breath, “You’re…well you’re a new presence here on the island…a welcomed one! But because you’re new…you startle a lot of us because we’re simply not…used to you. We’ll get there but in the time being…I think that’s why. I’m- we…we’re glad you’re here.” You stumbled and then when he smiled softly at you you suddenly worried that you had offended him, “I’m…I’m sorry I don’t think that came out right…”

“No no please…it makes perfect sense given how isolated the island is…I take no offence.” He said good-naturedly and waved his hand.

You sighed, and looked down, “Alright well…let’s get started. You might want to roll your sleeves up though it can get messy, Father.” You perked up as you changed the subject, and began to walk to your counter where you had already taken out a mixing bowl and, whisk and measuring cup.

“I am at your disposal, young lady.” Father Paul came to brace himself against the counter edge beside you, looking down at you thoughtfully.

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, but kept your head down enough for him to not see, “Can you get me the butter from the fridge? Should be on the door.” You asked, and pulled out a small saucepan.

He nodded, and retrieved the butter for you. As he looked for it, you glanced over at him, and found your eyes drawn to his exposed forearms from him rolling up his sleeves. You looked away almost instantly, embarrassed for having been looking at your priest like that.

“You know this is the first time I’ve done this. Gotta admit it’s a bit exciting.” He said as he popped the butter beside you on the counter proudly.

“Baking is always fun…especially when things turn out yummy.” You smiled and put two large cups of butter in the heated pan. It started to sizzle. “We brown the butter to give the cookies a sort of nutty flavour…makes it a little tastier even if they’re just chocolate chip cookies.” You explained. He watched over your shoulder, enrapt.

“Did you always want to do this?” He asked you.

You blinked, “The- the cookies-?”

“No.” He laughed, “No, being a baker.”

“Oh. Well…not exactly. I grew up here and when you grow up in Crockett you have a lot of time to think…sometimes too much. I guess I knew I would end up doing something here and when I got older I got into baking and in my spare time I got really good at it…took years but before I knew it I was graduating and had a pretty fortuitous hobby. It was actually Dr. Gunning who suggested it.”

“Sarah?” Came his voice behind you.

“Yeah, Sarah was in the general store when I was there to get some milk and we got to talking…I had made her mom a few loaves of bread that she used to like and Sarah said I should make something out of my skill. And here I am!” You laughed, and stirred the butter as it browned and thinned.

“Wonderful…” he said softly.

You nodded, “She’s a nice lady. You’ll get used to her- just a little direct. Think it comes with being a doctor.” There was a moment of silence between you; only filled with the bubbling of the butter, “Alright, can you go into the freezer and pull out the flour, and measure out 3 cups of it into the bowl there?” You asked the man behind you.

“I certainly can.” He confirmed.

“Oh! Can you get 4 eggs as well?” You asked quickly.

He hummed and looked through your fridge for what he needed, and placed everything by the bowl. The counter was so much lower for him that he almost had to hunker over with his height to work.

He looked so…normal. It was sweet. A little odd to see your pastor baking with you but it was nice. Somehow it made him feel more human than just a man who absolved your sins and blessed you every morning.

The two of you worked together, and you came to find that Father Hill was eager to learn. He was methodical and took his time to do things right. Listened. Before you knew it there was a massive bowl of cookie dough on the counter and your oven was full of baking sheets.

“Each sheet should only take about 15 minutes so this shouldn’t take more than another hour.” You said, “If- if you need to take off I can finish-“

“A good man does not abandon his task, not to worry.” His tone was stern but he was smiling. You returned it.

“Well…” you breathed as you looked around for something to do, “I can put some music on if you like? You’re welcome to look around.”

He nodded, and you went to find something to listen to, “This used to be my family’s house. I’m afraid I only have their old records…Hope that’s okay?”

“More than.” He called out to you as you went into the living room.

You flipped through a few envelopes, and settled on one from Jeff Buckley. It was mostly slow, and you could still talk if you wanted to. You set it up, and as the needle sat atop the vinyl, a calm song began.

“Who’s this little ray of sunshine?”

You turned and followed Father Paul’s voice. He was standing in front of a few picture frames hung on the wall that you kept from when your family lived there.

“That was me.” You laughed, “That was right before Easter I think…I was 5.” You said thoughtfully.

“You looked happy.” He smiled.

I was. You thought.

“I loved Easter. Mostly for the chocolate…” you both chuckled a little, “But…now it’s just the time of year that I like. Spring. Revival…blossoming of plants, birds chirping…everything just seems so much more alive. The world starts to hum with God’s greatness during Easter, I think.” You thought aloud, then looked up at Father Hill once you ended your musings.

He was already watching you; hanging onto every word.

He remembered how much you enjoyed Easter. “One more chocolate, Monsignor? Pleeease?” He could still hear that little voice.

“What do you think, Father?” You asked him.

“I have to agree.” He hummed. You noticed that his eyes were almost glassy-that same teary look you had noticed when you first met him. Like he may weep.

“I think Monsignor Pruitt was partial t-

DING!

You both jumped apart and looked behind you at the sound of your timer sounding.

Had it been 15 minutes already?

You both returned to the kitchen and you began removing the sheets of golden treats. “If you can put them on the cooling rack while I take them out that’ll help a lot, Father.” You smiled.

“They turned out so nicely.” He mused as he followed your orders, “I supposed I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”

You laughed a little, “It’s just trial and error until you figure out your best method.”

Modest girl.

John grinned at you from the corner of his eye while you placed the last hot sheet on the counter.

The two of you continued the routine until the last round was in the oven, and you were starting to feel more at ease with the man. Almost playful. He certainly was a young priest, and every bit a red blooded man; his humour was dry, and he smiled easily. His laugh was infectious, though you could tell he didn’t do it often. You supposed the church wasn’t exactly a place rich with humour.

The record had nearly finished after almost an hour of listening, and the two of you were leaning against the kitchen counter listening. You swayed gently to the music, but then perked up when a favourite of yours began to play.

“I love this song…” you muttered under your breath and turned your head in the direction of the living room.

John looked down at you in recognition of what you had said, but in the low light of your kitchen, and the softness in your face, he couldn’t help but be reminded of being young. Not just himself but the island. Back when the people who were not partners used to be children he had baptized. Back when there were dances in the old town hall that had since burned down decades ago.

You reminded him of…a better time.

An easier time.

You were so occupied in your little bubble, that it took you a moment to notice Father Paul coming in front of you with his hands out.

You looked down at his palms, then up at him, and he waited patiently. You slowly placed your hands in his, and he pulled you away from the counter and began to sway with you. So gentle, then he tentatively brought your hand up to his shoulder and he brought his other hand to your waist; guiding you through a little dance.

Neither of you said a word.

Not there was anything to say really.

Somehow the two of you just felt very…human.

Your neck hurt from looking up at his dark eyes, but you didn’t stop. He watched you just as closely as you moved slowly through the room in small circles.

“…You know I used to be alone before I knew you…and I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not some victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”

The smell of baked cookies surrounded you, and you almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

But in that moment, it didn’t feel absurd.

It felt like two kindred souls enjoying some shared time. Any obligations or expectations melted away as you felt the warmth from his hands meld into your tendons and heat your sinew. His fingers holding yours felt more akin to a cradle and his breath between you was like smelling your childhood.

Your heart ached.

Perhaps it was that no one had held you in years. Let alone danced with you.

Hugs and pats on the back were about the extent.

“…and it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not someone whose seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”

The two of you slowed until you came to a standstill in the kitchen, simply standing less than a foot from eachother. When the timer dinged this time, neither of you jumped away. The sound certainly brought you down to Earth, but somehow you only found yourself staring up at the man. You weren’t altogether confused, though you were curious and a little nervous.

Why had he done that?

Why did you do that?

You had felt so comfortable…like this was an old friend of yours who you had just seen again after years apart.

John gazed down at you…his mind rich with turmoil and deep contemplation. When he had taken your hands in his, it had been as if God had moved through him.

Compelling.

Like God had told him to embrace the good of the past, and remember what he was working towards. To restore exactly that.

After a few breaths, Father Hill released your hand, and you both quietly walked to the oven.

The last batch now sat on the cooling racks, and you sighed.

“I’ll pack these up and bring them by the rectory before service tomorrow, Father.” You broke the silence.

Father hill nodded, “Thank you my girl.” He said softly.

You nodded and looked down at your hands, “Thank you for your company.” Then looked back up at the man before you.

He tilted his head to you as if to tell you that you were welcome or that it was his pleasure.

He slowly unrolled his sleeves, and you picked his sweater up for him from the living room.

You almost felt bad to watch him go. It might have been nice to talk to him for a few hours more.

He finished tying his boots and graciously took the sweater from you, and slipped it on over his collared shirt.

“Goodnight, y/n.” He murmured as he opened your door.

“Goodnight, Father.” You whispered back.

He stayed a moment longer, and smiled gently at you, then he was gone.

You stood in your doorway, watching him go, and as he left your sight, you found yourself returning to your senses. A wave of embarrassment chilled you when you realised what you had just done. Yet somehow you didn’t feel entirely guilty. It had felt as if some kind of blanket had enveloped the two of you just like when he conversed with his flock after mass- a bubble around you.

You packed the treats away after cooling, and silently went to sleep. You didn’t let yourself dwell.

-

“It’s great to see so many of you here today. But I do have to ask, why not every Sunday? Christmas, Easter, I get that. But there’s also always an uptick around the start of Lent. Why is that? What’s so special about today? Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent. It’s hardly a crowd-pleaser.The beginning of repentance, making amends for our sins. Sin. This darkness, this blackness that spilled into us. That darkness, we wear it on our forehead today. Just a smudge of it. Uh…A smudge of death, of ash, of sin for repentance. Because of where this is all actually heading, which is Easter. Rebirth, resurrection, eternal life. Life that rises again…” Father Paul stood before you at the pulpit, presence commanding as ever.

“Even out of blackness, love rises again. Even out of sin. And this island, it will rise again. Even out of disaster, rebirth, restoration, eternal life. Jesus sees you. Sees you, best of all, and he sees you true. Because, don’t forget, who did he seek out? Who did he turn to, to build his church?His apostles. Jesus’ first disciples, they were fishermen. One of his first miracles, right? The nets are empty, fishermen desperate. Jesus says, “Put out into deep water and let down your nets for a catch,” and when they pulled up those nets, a bounty of fish.” You could practically feel the worshipers buzz around you as their heart rates picked up, just like yours.

“He sees you. Oh, yes, he sees you, brothers and sisters, and he will resurrect this island, and he will again fill your nets. It’s great you’re here today, but please keep coming back. Those doors, they’re always open, as the gates are always open. You just bring yourself. God will do the rest. As Psalm 60 tells us, “God, You have rejected us, You have broken us down, You have been angry. Restore us again.” Do you know what psalms are? They’re songs.The word psalm from the Greek psalmoi. It means “music.” Songs of prayer. Songs of praise. That’s who we are. That’s who we must be. That’s what it means to have faith, that in the darkness, in the worst of it, in the absence of light and hope, we sing. “Restore us,” we sing to the sky. And He will, my friends. He will. That same hand that dealt you your hardship, that same hand will make you whole.”

A single tear fell from your eye. God works in mysterious ways, and you could almost feel God working through Father Hill that day. As if God truly was trying to tell you that he was there with you. And Father Hill spoke as if he knew something good was to come- as if God had shown him.

And you believed him.

As you stood, you could hear Annie trying to urge her son to accept the cross of ash, and you gave her a small reassuring smile when she filed in behind you.

“Y/n remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” The preacher murmured to you. Your face was bright that day, happy. John suppressed a smile.

“Amen.” You said quietly, flicking your eyes up to his. He stared down at you steadily, calm as ever.

“Bless you my child.” His was was low and serene.

It was a peaceful stroll down to potluck. You watched as birds started to flit in the trees and chirp; bees starting to buzz, the gentle sound of the shore. Rebirth.

You checked behind you every so often as you walked in case you saw Father Hill; you had brought the cookies to the rectory that morning before service, and when you had offered to help carry the three large containers after, the Father had declined.

You had insisted.

But he insisted harder.

It was wonderful to see the islanders enjoy the little festival. Sharing with each other and laughing. It didn’t happen often. It was as if everyone pushed off their exhaustion just to enjoy that day. Problems could wait until the next day.

You made your way through the locals that you knew well, and stopped a little longer with some. Annie stood with Ed, and you noticed them smiling; perhaps it might seem like a strange thing to notice, but you knew all about Ed’s troubled back, and how their marriage was a little exhausted…it made your heart glow a little to see them happy. Most everyone seemed happier if you were honest, and it wasn’t just that day.

Your legs began to ache after a half hour, and you took to the edge of the festival to sit. You liked this. Watching everyone around you.

“Mind if I join you?” You looked up to see Father Hill walking over to you, a cup of juice in hand.

“Please do.” You scooted over to give him a little more room.

He sat with a soft grunt.

“You did your hair different.”

You turned to him. And your lips parted in surprise, “Wha-“

“I’m sorry- I noticed during communion. Just came to mind.” He said a little awkwardly though no less sweet.

Your mouth fell open a little, “I did. First day of lent…I like to do a little extra for it.” You rambled.

John smiled at you.

You looked pretty.

Not that he could say that.

But you did.

“The crockpot luck…I hear it’s a yearly staple for the island.” Father Hill said to you as you both looked out over the festival.

You nodded, “Sure is…”

John turned to you then; your tone was a little more reserved. Like you weren’t saying all you wished to.

“You’re not a fan of it?” He asked curiously.

You thought for a moment. “Can I be-“

“Honest?” He cut you off. Echoing your words from the night before.

You smiled, “Yes.”

“Please do.”

“I-… Lent is supposed to be a time of fasting and repentance and prayer…I just…it seems strange to have a festival on Ash Wednesday.” You said quietly.

He nodded, “Perhaps a little unorthodox.”

“I think I’ve always found it just…a little odd. Our Monsignor was the one who came up with it, you know? Coined the name. I just…I can’t help but wonder if his theology was a little…uh…off.” You mused, looking down at your hands.

Father Hill regarded you for a moment, and nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I know you didn’t know him…he was a nice man…but…he was- is just a man. Man has his faults.” You shrugged, then turned to the man beside you, “No offence, Father.”

He chuckled and sipped at his cup, “None taken. I appreciate your candour.”

You pursed your lips.

You weren’t usually so unguarded.

You shouldn’t have said that.

Why did you say that?

This was the second time you had inadvertently said something to insult him within 24 hours. You felt shame start to rise in the back of your throat.

“I don’t want you to worry about offending me, y/n. I’m a friend and an ear to listen…if ever you want to talk.” He said, staring out at the sea of people, then back at you.

You sighed and nodded, “Thank you, Father. You’re very kind.”

He smiled.

Then you remembered something, “Father?”

“Hm?”

You shifted a little awkwardly, “I want to first thank you for maintaining my uh…specialized sacrament, but I just wanted to ask- have you changed the juice?” You asked him.

He thought for a moment, “I don’t believe so. We just got a new shipment…I can check if it’s any different…why?”

“It…it’s just…it tastes very strange. Almost metallic. I don’t know how else to describe it.” You thought back to how the taste stayed in your mouth after only a sip.

John shifted in his seat. You knew. He would have to find another way of give you the gift.

“I’ll find another one to give you. Not to worry.” He said, and patted your hand.

“Thank you, Father.” You chose not to dwell on him touching you.

“Well, I should return to my flock…trying to get to know everyone.” He said, then pushed himself up off the bench.

You nodded. You knew he was only temporary, but it was kind of him to try and get to know the members of the community while he was there.

He was charming and approachable, it wouldn’t be hard for him.

“Of course, enjoy!” You called after him. He waved back at you, and you scrunched your face up as the sun hit your eyes.

You sighed to yourself and after an hour, you began to make another round of the park. The town had truly lucked out with such a beautiful day for such a special day. After such a nasty storm just a few days ago, it was surprising.

You watched at the sun started to lower in the sky. Things were starting to wind down, and some had began to return home-

“Pike!”

You whipped your head around in the direction of the scream. On the other end of the park, you could see a crowd forming. You knew Pike was Joe Collie’s dog, and by the sounds of it, there was nothing good happening. You knew he was old, and loud, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. You hoped he hadn’t bitten someone.

You crossed the field in just a couple minutes, and when you came to stand in the crowd, you felt yourself grow lightheaded. Pike was laying in a puddle of foamy bile and blood- the light leaving his eyes. You could hear Joe accusing Bev, and saw Sarah knelt over the dog…it was horrible.

“Alright everyone…back up.” Hassan waved his arms to try and disperse the crowd. Everyone began to walk away, and you could feel a solemnness come over the islanders. Like somehow they had all been snapped out of a trance and remembered their troubles.

You pursed your lips, but ultimately backed up as well. You wanted to help, but you knew there was virtually nothing to do. Pike was dead.

You kept to yourself for another hour, the as the afternoon dragged on, you started to collect the now-empty containers that had once held the cookies.

“Thanks for that, y/n.”

You looked over at Wade who was taking one last helping of…something brownish. A casserole of some kind.

You smiled, “Oh it was no problem. It was actually a group effort between the Father and I!”

His brows shot up, “Really?”

“Yeah he wanted to bring something. Wasn’t that nice of him?” You picked the empty containers up.

“Yeah…he- he seems like a real nice fella.” He mused, moustache twitching.

You nodded, “This was great, Mr. Mayor. See you Friday?”

He chuckled- you knew he was just fine with Wade, but you also knew he liked when people used his title- made him feel important. And you did your best to remind each person of their importance when you could.

“See you Friday, sweetheart.” He conceded.

You waved him off, then began your way back home.

John stood on the edge of the park watching you go. He had initially taken the spot to gaze at Sarah, but his gaze had been drawn when you were speaking with the mayor.

They really did love you.

And he understood why.

He watched you disappear down the road, dress fluttering in the wind.

•••••••••••••••••••

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @professional-sinner @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian

[sailor-aviator]

Don't Hang'em Til Noon: Chapter Five

Don't Hang'em Til Noon: Chapter Five

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin is a notorious leader within the Dagger Gang of the old western territories of the United States. You, a recently orphaned socialite from the eastern seaboard, find yourself swept off to live with your older brother who has set down roots in said western territory. Determined to to make the best of your situation, what will you do when said outlaw sets his sights on you?

Warnings: Swearing, Reader being angsty, Jake Seresin (flirting, jealous), Fingering, Dirty talk

Word Count: 4,766 (oops)

A/N: I am so overwhelmed by the amount of love you all showed Chapter Four! It was beyond anything I could have every imagined!! Side note, I also love how many of you come into my inbox and leave me asks either praising the stories, or just talk about them (*hint, hint*)! I'm honestly shocked you all aren't sick of me and these stories yet with how much I talk about them. Thank you all. As always, reboots, comments and likes are greatly appreciated!! 18+ ONLY!! Find me on AO3 under sailor_aviator!

Series Masterlist || DGU Masterlist || Jake "Hangman" Seresin Tag List

A month ago, you didn’t jump every time a door opened to loudly in the other room. A month ago, you didn’t bolt up in bed in the middle of the night with the phantom stench of cheap liquor and stale tobacco. A month ago, you didn’t dream about grabbing hands and cold, black eyes that stared at you with the intention to possess. A month ago, the sight of the little, hand-carved horse didn’t fill you with an instant sense of comfort and warmth.

You had found it sitting on the railing by the steps of the porch the morning after the incident at the saloon. You had walked out the front door to do the morning chores, Benjamin having already tripped out the door with a promise thrown over his shoulder to come check on you in the later morning after his meeting. It wasn’t a masterpiece by any means, but it was clear that someone had spent a lot of time whittling it down before deeming it presentable. You had walked over to it slowly, taking it in your hands gently. Whoever had carved it had made sure to add in extra details. You could see the curve of the horse’s eyes and the strands of its mane that flowed down its back. Every detail had been painstakingly carved as if the crafter had wanted it to be perfect. Your breath caught in your throat and your heart swelled when you saw the final detail on the underside of the horse’s belly.

J.S.

The wooden horse had quickly found a home on your bedside table where you would pluck it from its perch during the late night hours, holding it to you tightly before drifting back into a comfortable sleep only to repeat the same cycle the following night.

The cattle had arrived shortly after the departure of the Dagger Gang from town, and both you and Benjamin found yourselves scrambling to hire workers to help with the overwhelming workload.

“I’ll put the word out, don’t you worry,” Maverick had smiled over dinner one night. Two days later, three young, new faces had made themselves comfortable in the small cabin behind the house.

“Isaac is a mean sonofabitch,” Penny had told you once she heard about what happened in her saloon. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about him for the time being, especially now that Pete and Tom know he’s in the area. He’ll lie low for a little while to try and wait’em out.”

Her words left you with little comfort, but you slowly stopped casting worried glances over your shoulder every couple of seconds every time you left the confines of your home. An easy routine had settled on your ranch. Get up, get ready for the day, feed the goats and chickens, tend to your garden, make supper for the ranch hands and Benjamin, work on mending the various articles of clothing that were handed to you, go to bed, repeat.

The subtle coolness in the air that had been present a month ago finally gave way to a full blown chill, and you soon found yourself planting winter vegetables.

“How are you today, miss?”

You looked up to see one of the ranch hands, Levi, smiling down at you from where he leaned over the fence. He was a handsome man, maybe only a year or two older than you. Brown hair draped across the golden skin of his forehead and baby blue eyes twinkled at you.

“I’m doing just fine,” you smiled at him. “And I’ve told you a hundred times now to call me Scout, Levi.”

He chuckled, grinning at you. “Of course, Scout.”

He walked around the length of the fence and through the gate to drop down beside you where your hands were digging up the cold earth.

“Anything I can help you with?” he offered, chucking the dead plants beside you into the bucket behind you.

“No, I think I’m just about done here,” you hummed, wiping your hands on your soiled apron, smiling at the handsome man. “But, I could use some help bringing things back from the market, if you don’t mind helping?”

“Of course,” Levi grinned, offering you a hand as you moved to stand. You took it, and he pulled you up gently, pulling you into him slightly. The two of you stood in silence as he stared down at you. He looked at you with a gentle expression, causing heat to rise to your cheeks.His baby blue eyes moving to closing as he began to lean into you oh so slowly. You wished they were green.

The thought alone snapped you from your daze, and you pulled away from Levi with a clear of your throat. Resting a hand on his chest, you refused to meet his gaze, eyes darting around the yard nervously. “I should go clean up.”

“Right,” he breathed, nodding slowly. “I’ll be here.”

You gave him a brief smile before pushing past him and into the house. Minutes later you were walking out the front door towards Levi, basket in hand. He offered you a smile which you returned shyly before the two of you made your way into town. There was a distinct lack of children running around, which you were grateful for. Maverick had announced to the congregation after the church service the previous morning that the first day of school would be held in the sanctuary the next morning. He had then introduced the new teacher, who appeared to be a shy little thing before the reverend had dismissed everyone for the day. This was of course after word had spread that the Dagger Gang was back in town. You had overheard two of the girls in the pews ahead of you giggling about the different men.

“Did you hear?” giggled a red head to her friend excitedly. “The Dagger Gang is back in town!”

That had caught your attention.

“Really?” the blonde had squealed, earning several disapproving looks from the older members of the congregation. The two girls paid them no mind. “When did they arrive?”

“Just last night!”

This was news to you. You were shocked at the wave of disappointment that rolled over you. They had gotten in last night? Why were you just hearing about it? You were shaken from your thoughts when the red head continued.

“Oh, that Jake is so handsome!”

That had caused you to let out a rather unladylike snort, drawing the attention of the girl who sat a few rows ahead of you. You rolled your eyes at the other two to your left. The blond man was very handsome, but if only they knew his true nature.

“He is,” the blonde nodded with a wistful sigh. “But that Bradley isn’t so bad on the eyes either. It’s been horrible going this long without seeing all those handsome men walking around town.”

Your thoughts soured at the reminder as you fought to keep your face neutral. You weren’t even sure why you cared so much. It wasn’t like you even liked the man. He was cocky, brash, pig-headed, thoughtful, brave-

You shook your head. You would not go down that road. Mercifully, the reverend had started the service moments later and you were given a reprieve from the ridiculous thoughts that insisted on taking up residence inside your head. Jake hadn’t come to see you that day, and now here you were; standing in the market and well into the next day.

You greeted Hondo where he stood behind the counter as usual.

“Mornin’, Scout!” he grinned at you. “What can I help you with today?”

“Was just coming to see if Joel was back with any sugar.”

Hondo gave you an apologetic grimace. “‘Fraid not, honey. He should be back any day now though, so you keep comin’ by and checkin’.”

“That’s alright,” you smiled. You turned to look at Levi. “Why don’t you go on down to the feed store and purchase some hay for the horses? I’ll finish up here and meet you at the stalls by the saloon.”

“Alright,” he smiled, giving you a lingering look before turning and walking out the door. You chatted with Hondo for a couple of minutes as he filled a container with salt and packed different preserves into your basket. You waved to him with a promise to check back in the following day before stepping outside. You had just made it to the stalls of the market when you felt eyes on you. A couple of girls walking by stared past you, and they giggled before you heard him speak.

“Mornin’, Scout,” Jake drawled. You turned to see him leaning up against the side of the butcher’s shop, arms crossed in front of his chest and a cocky smirk hanging from his lips. Green eyes studied you as you stared.

“Jake,”you greeted cooly, mouth pressing into a firm line. Jake’s smirk turned into a grin as he pushed off the wall, taking slow, deliberate steps towards you.

“Missed you, pretty girl,” he hummed, reaching up to dance his fingertips across your cheek.

You couldn’t stop the words that left your mouth. “Not enough to come and see me when you got back yesterday, apparently.”

Jake leaned his head back with a booming laugh, causing your cheeks to heat up. His laughter died down into a low chortle as he looked at you with twinkling eyes. “Is that why you’re being so cold to me, pretty girl? Y’mad that I didn’t come and see you?”

“Hardly,” you snapped, glaring up at him. His smile didn’t falter.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he chuckled, “had I known you’d be this upset, I would have come to see you first thing.”

You ignored him, turning to walk towards the stalls. He wasn’t far behind you, and when you stopped in front of a stall to inspect the apples, he pressed up against you from behind. He leaned down so that his mouth hovered over your ear. “I got something for you.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, and he let out another chuckle, turning you slowly to face him. He reached into the pocket of his pants when you were fully facing him, pulling out a long, golden chain. Attached at the end was a large, cut emerald surrounded by a halo of tiny diamonds that sparkled in the late morning sunlight. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at it, recognizing it from the jeweler’s shop just down the road. It cost a fortune, and many women around town had taken turns to stand in front of the shop windows to admire it.

“You like it?” he smirked, holding it up for you to see it closer. You nodded slowly, eyes wide.

Your hand moving on its own to reach up and stroke over the precious gem.

“Thought of you when I saw it, pretty girl,” he hummed, leaning in so that his breath fanned over your face. “Thought the green would help you remember me when I’m not here.”

“How did you afford this?” you breathed, voice so soft even to your own ears.

“I have my ways.”

Your eyes snapped up to his at that. Frowning, you took a half step back to put some distance between the two of you.

“You mean you bought it with stolen money,” you accused. “Or did you just force Mr. Benson to give it to you free of charge?”

“I bought it, if you must know,” he sniffed, looking more than a little put out at your sudden shift in tone.

“With money you earned?”

“Oh, I earned it,” he smirked ruefully.

You scoffed at that.

“You shouldn’t lie, Jake,” you said pointedly. “It’s a filthy, disgusting habit.”

“What does it matter?” he frowned. You narrowed your eyes up at him.

“It matters,” you seethed, “because I only accept gifts from men who earn their money in a respectable way.”

Before Jake could reply, you heard someone call your name.

“Scout?”

You both turned to see Levi watching you two with an uncertain expression on his face. He walked over to the two of you, and he placed an arm around your shoulder. Jake stiffened at the action, eyes blazing and lips set in a tight line.

“Is everything okay?” Levi asked. You flashed him with a quick smile.

“Yes,” you reassured him, turning back to glare at Jake who still had his eyes locked onto Levi, scanning him up and down with a look of utter distaste. “We should get going. I forgot to grab the goat’s milk for Penny and we need to get the cart to pick up the hay.”

Levi nodded, looking uncertainly between you and Jake. You turned and began to walk through the crowd without a glance back at blond behind you.

Levi and one of the other ranch hands, Phillip, had dropped you off in front of the saloon with the promise that you would meet them by the bank before sunset. That had been a couple of hours ago, and you had fallen into an easy conversation with the older woman.

“She’s a timid, little thing,” Penny said as men began to make their way into the saloon. “I’ve never seen Bradley so sweet on anyone before. Calls her Birdie and everything.”

“That’s cute,” you smiled softly. “I hope one day someone will feel that way about me.”

“What on earth are you talkin’ about, darlin’?” she chuckled incredilously, stopping her movements to stare at you. “You’ve got that Seresin boy wrapped around your little finger.”

“Hardly,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

Penny shook her head and pointed an accusatory finger at you. “You may not see it, Scout, but everyone in town knows it. That boy would eat his boots if you asked him to.”

“I doubt that,” you frowned. “You know he tried to give me a necklace today?”

The older woman perked up at that. “He did?”

You nodded, humming at the memory. “You know that emerald pendant that’s been sitting in Mr. Benson’s window for forever and a day? It was that one.”

“Well where is it?” she asked curiously, eyes darting down to see the empty space by your collarbone.

“I didn’t accept it,” you said plainly, earning a look. “He bought it with stolen money, Penny. How could I accept it? I can’t. I won’t.”

Penny watched you thoughtfully for a moment. “What is it you want from him?”

You stared at the wooden top of the bar, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully. “I want him to make an effort to do things the right way.”

“Alright,” Penny conceded, a knowing smile on her face. She turned to pull out some bottles from behind the bar, and stopped when her eyes caught sight of one of the windows. “Weren’t you supposed to meet your ranch hands at sunset?”

You turned to see what she was looking at and let out a low curse. It was clear that the sun had set ages ago, inky darkness resting against the windowpanes as lamp light filtered out.

“If you go now, they might still be waiting for you outside,” she said as you scrambled to your feet. You cast her one last smile over your shoulder before waving her goodbye. Practically sprinting out of the packed saloon, your warm cheeks were kissed by the cold, night air. Your breath came out in puffs as your eyes swept the street for any sign of the men you had come into town with. The streets were empty save for the few men who stood outside the saloon. Sighing, you figured they must have thought you had already gone home without them. You cursed again and began to make your way down the street. You had only made it three buildings down before realizing that footsteps sounded behind you, following you. The hair on the back of your neck stood on edge as a wave of terror washed over you. You quickened your pace, and tried not to panic as the footsteps behind you matched your pace. Your heart began to hammer as you heard more footsteps join in with the first.

You rounded the corner a few paces ahead of the group behnd you. You let out a yelp as a hand grabbed you from the shadows of an allyway, pulling you into a strong chest. You struggled as the man pushed you up against the wall, hand still covering your mouth.

“Hey, hey. Scout, it’s me.”

You opened your eyes, struggling to focus on the stranger in front of you as you adjusted to the darkness. Jake stood in front of you, eyes filled with worry as he watched you relax. The both of you stiffened when you heard a man shout from the front of the building, and Jake turned his head to look.

“She went this way!”

Jake looked back at you, seeming to weigh his options. He removed his hand from your mouth. “Do you trust me?”

“What?” you asked breathlessly.

“Do you trust me?”

You heard the shouts of the men grow closer as you studied the man in front of you. Slowly, you nodded.

“Then you better make this believable,” he said. Your brow furrowed in confusion. Jake reached down to grip the back of your legs, hoisting you up and pinning you againt the wall. You let out a startled gasp as he wrapped your legs around your waist, and you clutched at his shoulders. Jake gave you one final look before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours.

You weren’t sure what you had been expecting, but his lips were surprisingly soft against yours. Jake’s lips moved against yours slowly, urging you to respond. Slowly, unsurely, you began to move your lips against his and he let out a desperate sounding moan. His hands clutched your hips in a vice as he moved his knee in between your legs, slotting it against you. You let out a gasp at the action, and Jake took full advantage, slipping his tongue into your mouth. His tongue caressed yours gently as his right hand slid up the length of your body to rest under your left breast. Your hands moved on their own to tangle in the strands of hair that rested at the base of his neck, tugging lightly. Jake rewarded you with a strangled groan and a press of his knee into your core. You cried out at the action, feeling Jake grin against your mouth as he nipped on your bottom lip.

“Any sign of her?”

You moved to pull away and look at where the voice came from, but Jake’s hand moved up pull you back into him before returning to its spot on your chest.

“No,” came a voice at the enterance to the ally. “Just a randy couple back here.”

You heard him walk away, and the hammering of your heart in your chest was due only in part to the small fraction of relief at his exit. Jake licked into your mouth like a man starved, delving deeper with each pass of his tongue against yours. You felt your hips rock against his knee, and you let out a desperate keen when he pulled his lips away from you. He kissed from the corner of your mouth and down the expanse of your neck. Finding a spot below your ear that made you give out a particularly loud noise, he smiled against you before honing in. He left little nips to the spot, soothing the sting with his tongue before sucking a bruise into your skin.

“Jake,” you cried out, the pleasure clouding your mind. Jake pulled back to look at you, eyes blazing and darkened with lust. He studied you for a brief moment before a salacious grin broke out across his kiss swollen lips. His right hand moved to grab your breast, squeezing gently at the same time he ground his knee into your core. You let out a quiet wail, arching into his touch, desperate to have his lips back on you. He complied with a chuckle, leaning back in to bury his face into your neck. His left hand still sat on your hip, and he used it to help grind you against him. He left hot, open-mouthed kisses as he made his way from the base of your neck and up to your ear.

“I should take you over my knee, you know,” he ground out hotly, nipping at your earlobe. “Walking around here at night with no one to accompany you. Lucky for you I happened to be walking along.”

You let out a choked gasp as he removed his right hand from your chest, sliding it down and under your skirts. With expertise, he bunched the offending material at your waist before reaching his hand into your drawers. Your head hit the wall when you felt his finger press against your entrance.

“So wet for me already, sweeheart, and I’ve barely even touched you,” he murmured into your ear. “Nobody has ever touched you like this, have they, angel?”

You shook your head, too far gone to answer and certainly too far gone to care about the consequences. He pressed a finger into you, your mind going blank at the sudden intrusion. His finger felt so big inside of you, and you let out another choked gasp at the slight burn as he stretched you.

“I know, sweet girl,” he cooed into your ear, slowly adding a second finger and thrusting up into you. “Let me make you feel good, darlin’.”

Your cries grew higher pitched as he slowly began to pick up the pace of his hand, palm brushing the little bundle of nerves that had you seeing stars.

“You’re so tight, baby,” he moaned hotly into your ear, pressing gentle kisses to your cheek that served as a stark contrast to the way he moved his fingers inside of you. Your cheeks grew hot as you heard the squelch that sounded every time he pumped into you. “Do you hear that, pretty girl? You’re pussy is so gready, sweet thing. She keeps sucking me back in like she doesn’t want me to leave.”

He licked a strip up from the base of your neck back up to your jaw before giving the skin there a gentle nip.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, baby? Feels good to just lean back and let me take care o’ you lke this. Nobody is ever going to make you feel like the way you do right now. Only I can make you feel this good.”

“Jakey,” you whined, reaching down to draw him into a kiss. He moaned into your mouth, pulling back to stare at you hotly.

“Say it again,” he whispered against your lips, fingers moving faster as he chased your high. You felt an unfamiliar pressure begin to build in your lower stomach as you ground down onto his hand.

“Jake,” you gasped, but he shook his head, fixing you with a stern look. You felt the hot sting of tears kiss at your eyes, crying out when he slowed his movements down to a crawl. His eyes bore into you, and you tried desperately to move your hips against him, but his hand had you pinned. He tsked up at you with a borderline sneer at your pitiful attempts to get yourself off.

“Try again, sweet girl.”

“Jakey, please,” you cried, feeling a tear escape and roll down your cheek. Jake hushed you, once again resuming the pace of his thrusts. You clutched at him desperately, nails digging into the exposed skin of his chest. Jake let out a soft hiss and slipped a third finger into you, causing a loud cry to spill out past your lips. He crooked his fingers in a “come hither” motion that had you gushing around the invading appendages. He smiled. “There she is.”

“Tell me who this sweet, little cunt belongs to,” he demanded. You clenched around him at his words, a strangled moan slipping past his lips at how tight you felt.

“You,” you cried, more tears streaming down your cheeks, begging desperately for your release as you stared into his green eyes.

“What’s my name, sweetheart?” He demanded, focusing his fingers on that one spot inside you that had you crying out and clutching at him every time. “C’mon, sweet girl. What’s my name?”

“Jakey!” you cried wantonly, burying your face into his neck. His groans became breathless and constant as you began to press sweet, chaste kisses to the spot between his neck and shoulder.

“Again,” he ground out, feeling you squeeze him impossibly tighter as you neared your end. “Let this whole town know who you belong to.”

“Jakey!” you wailed at the top of your lungs. Your gaze flashed white as you came hard around him, biting into the juncture of his shoulder. You felt your release gush out past his fingers as he continued thrusting, riding out your high.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he hummed into your ear, pressing soft kisses to your cheek as you calmed down. “I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

As your breathing returned to normal, Jake slowly pulled his fingers out of you, causing you to hiss at how empty you suddenly felt. Jake chuckled, holding your gaze as he brought his fingers up this lips. He sucked on them with a hum as he closed his eyes, savoring the taste of you. You choked out a breath at the sight, the fire inside of you returning with a vengeance at the sight.

He slowly opened his eyes to look at you, dropping his fingers back to his side. His gaze was affectionate as he leaned forward to nuzzle your nose with his. “Just as I thought.”

You looked up at him in confusion. A smirk played on his lips.

“Sweet as honey.”

Jake made sure your skirt was on correctly before pulling you by the hand out of the allyway. He walked you quickly to your front door, stopping you with a grab of your wrist before you went inside. You turned to him with a confused frown as he looked affectionately down at you, pushing a piece of hair behind your ear. He leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, so quick you weren’t sure he had even done it. He let go of your wrist and took one step down off the porch.

“Goodnight, Scout.”

“Goodnight, Jake.”

The next morning your brother greeted you with a scowl, chastising you for getting home so late.

“What were you even doing, Scout?” he griped. You felt the blood rush to your cheeks and you refused to look at him.

“I just lost track of the time while talking with Penny,” you answered him, quickly clearing the plates from the table. Benjamin’s scowl grew deeper at your answer.

“That was stupid,” he snapped, earning a glare from you. “You need to be more careful. Who knows what could have happe-”

“Benji, it’s fine,” you cut him off with a huff. Placing your hands on your hips, you watched him as he moved to put his work boots on to go outside. “I know last night isn’t what has you in such a foul mood, so what is it? What happened?”

He didn’t say anything as you followed him towards towards the back door.

“Benji?”

“We hired on a new ranch hand,” he said evenly, this tone worrying you more than the previous one. “Was real insistent he get a job here too.”

“Alright?” you questioned, following him down the steps and into the yard. You saw four figures hammering away at the fence posts down by the barn, and you took quick steps to keep up with your brother’s longer ones. “Do we not have enough to pay him?”

“Nothing like that,” Benjamin muttered, casting a quick glance your way before back at the figures ahead of you. “Just know I blame you for this.”

“Benjamin, are you going to tell me what this is about or-”

You were cut off as the men stopped their hammering to look at the two of you as you approached. Each one greeted you, but your eyes were glued to the newcomer. An easy grin hung on his lips and mirthful, green eyes stared at you as you gaped.

“Hey there, honey girl.”

[fatehbaz]

They’ve built a “Great Wheel” on the Seattle waterfront [...].

The small timber village became a military outpost in the Puget Sound War [...], [and] soon evolved into a trade gateway, with timber tailings and other industrial trash from Henry Yesler’s mill used to fill in the marshlands [...], atop which migrant laborers raised tents and shanties [...] now working to feed raw materials into the furnaces of the Second Industrial Revolution burning in the East. [...] The first nationwide strike ripped across the country’s railways in 1877, but in Seattle the unrest took on a grim character, as thousands of unemployed white workers rioted against their Chinese counterparts [...]. Meanwhile, [...] local elites rebuilt [...] downtown [...] from scratch, hosting the tallest building on the West Coast alongside other new constructs [fueled] with money gleaned from the supply chains linking eastern capital to Alaskan gold. [...] Today the city - again rebuilt [...] - is seen as one of the primary beneficiaries of the “Fifth” Industrial Revolution in information technology, outshone only by California’s Silicon Valley. [...] The digital was increasingly thought of as somehow "immaterial," sustained by intellectual labor more than physical toil [...].

Silicon Valley myths of [...] "immaterial" labor disguise a more gruesome dynamic in which growing segments of the global labor force are being deprived even of the basic brutality of the wage, instead forced out into growing rings of slums, prisons, and global wastelands. [...]

---

Perched alongside a downtown business corridor [...], Seattle's Great Wheel seems to peer out over [...] [the] prophesied “cooperative commons,” an infotech metropolis abutting the beauty of an evergreen arcadia. But travel below Seattle’s cluster of infotech industries and the image appears much the same as that of a hundred years prior - a trade gateway, squeezing value from supply chains by selling transport and logistical support. The southern stretch of the metropolis bears little resemblance to the revitalized urban core of the city proper. Instead of the “cognitive labor” of Microsoft, it is defined instead by the cold calculation of companies like UPS, founded in Seattle when the city was one link in a colonial supply chain built first for timber, then Alaskan gold, then World War. [...]

In south Seattle, this logistics empire takes the form of faceless warehouses, food processing facilities, container trucks, rail yards, and industrial parks concentrated between two seaports, an international airport, three major interstates, and railroads traveling in all directions. Meanwhile, the poor have been priced out of the old inner city, moving southward [...]. [T]hey can be found staffing the airport and the rail yards, hauling cargo in and out of two the major seaports, loading boxes in warehouses [...]. And, beyond them, the shadow stretches out to Washington’s rural hinterlands where migrant laborers staff a new boom in agriculture and raw materials [...] - and further still into America’s long-depressed interior, where the Great Wheel meets its opposite: Memphis, the FedEx logistics city, watched over by a great black pyramid [the infamous Bass Pro Shop pyramid]. [...]

Every Seattle is capable of creating an eco-friendly, “cooperative commonwealth” tended by apps and algorithms only insofar as there is a Memphis that can provide human workers to sort the packages, a Shanghai to build the containers that carry them, and a Shenzhen to solder together the circuits of the machines that govern it all.

---

All text above by: Phil A. Neel. "The Great Wheel". Brooklyn Rail. April 2015. Published online at: brooklynrail.org/2015/04/field-notes/the-great-wheel. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity. Presented here for commentary, teaching, personal use, criticism purposes.]

[dezertvideogames]

What the controversy? - Genshin Impact

I don't normally make post like this, maybe I should as a mixed video game addict. I bet you've heard about the understanding outrage about the skin tones of Genshin characters. Maybe you've seen the meme pointing out that the White Pharaoh has darker skin than most of the Genshin cast. I'm here to tell you the problem is even worse.

What happened previously?

Genshin Impact has been heavily criticized by fans from all over the world for the blatant colorism in the game.

Genshin Impact is a free open world game with gacha mechanics. Characters come from a myriad of in-game regions each based off of real life ones including Western Europe, Japan, China, the Middle East, Russia, Central Europe, and the most recent region taking inspiration from Sub-Saharan Africa and Latin Nations.

This can be a very interesting approach to this kind of worldbuilding, as Genshin is not unique for this, and often makes it easy for fans to connect to the characters culturally.

Genshin's problems started to show immediately. In fact the first region's set of characters, Modstadt, based off of Central Europe has THE darkest skinned characters in the game. Kaeya and Xinyan, and one of them is a mean obnoxious black girl stereotype.

Like-

As the other regions have been added to the game, the problem has only gotten more apparent. Regions that would naturally have a few more diverse skin swatches among the cast just didn't have them. When Genshin did add darker characters they were often lighter than the average mixed person, or another variation of white skin tones, because lets be honest white people come in many colors too.

Now there isn't anything wrong with a region having diverse skin tones, especially if it's based off a real life region with a very commonly diverse population when it comes to skin tones like the United States, Brazil, Egypt, Iran, or South Africa. These places realistically are very diverse, and the people from then come in many colors.

The problem is in Genshin there are zero characters added with a darker skin tone than Xinyan, and the dark characters they claim to give us are barely darker than average Chinese person. There are very few brown skinned people, and they're all quite pale brown skin tones. Take for instance the Sumeru line-up.

When Sumeru came out fans of Genshin were outrages at the lack of darker skin tones among the middle eastern inspired characters. Since then there has been a demand for darker skin tones, and tons of criticism against Hoyoverse, but their pleas were never answered.

The Latest Region

The latest region added to Genshin Impact is Natlan. It takes inspiration from Sub-Saharan Africa, and Latin nations. Players have waited with baited breath to see if Hoyoverse finally adds some darker skinned characters. The answer?

ABSOLUTELY NOT

Natlan came out with one brown skinned character. Meaning in all the regions of Genshin Impact there is a whopping three brown skinned playable characters, and zero black people to play.

This is worse than it seems: Hoyoverse

Genshin Impact isn't Hoyoverse's only game. In fact Hoyoverse's other popular games, including Honkai Impact 3rd, Honkai Star Rail, and Zenless Zone Zero also have zero black playable characters and sparse brown skinned characters.

In fact if you are a Hoyoverse fan in general you got your first two furry characters this year, before any dark black characters.

Like-

We got blue people before black people guys

The Outlook & Excuses

Many players are choosing to quit the game, boycott purchases inside the game, or completely moving on from Hoyoverse entirely. In fact I am one of these players (sorry to my mans Zhongli ]: ). I quit when Sumeru came out because I felt very offended seeing the outlook of colorism in the games as someone who is brown toned.

Some fans of Hoyoverse have tried to defend the company by mentioning how it's an Asian game, and these are simply Asian beauty standards.

So how does Genshin Impact hold up to other anime styled Eastern games? It doesn't... AT ALL.

These pictures all come from other Eastern video game companies, including Fire Emblem, Reverse 1999, Arknights, and Dislyte.

There is no excuse for Hoyoverse.

My Video Game Suggestions

If you're a fan of free gacha games I suggest wholeheartedly Reverse 1999 and Dislyte for their diversity. Arknights is also pretty good.

When it comes to open world games there's hundreds out there, many of which Genshin itself is based off of or has been the inspiration of in the first place; like Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild or Palworld.

For games with anime styles the Persona series, and Fire Emblem are super fun. The Xenoblade series has very similar storytelling to Genshin Impact. There are many other series in development that plan to be similar to Genshin Impact, however most have the same hardcore flaw of zero to sparse dark skinned characters. Keeping an eye on them doesn't hurt though, as the lesson might be learnt before further updates are made.

Anyway, play Reverse 1999 if you want a free mobile game to fill the void Genshin brutally left. May Zhongli rest in peace.

I really like the writing, the animation style, the voice acting can be silly but that's because each character is voiced by native speakers of their background.

There's a tons of lesbians in the game too if that's your thing.

(PS. I judge no one who continues to play Hoyoverse games or holds hope for the future of the franchise)

[lizardsaredinosaurs]

CREEP CREEP CREEP CREEP

Eastern Black Rail (Laterallus jamaicensis jamaicensis)

Southeastern USA and Colorado, Kansas

Status: subspecies threatened in USA

Threats: habitat fragmentation and alteration

----

Hi I'm back have a bird.

[outofangband]

Birds of Doriath (non Songbirds)

I have songbirds of Doriath here and my masterlist of environmental world building here!

Doriath is a region made up of a variety of forests. There is Region, a forest of holly and other mostly deciduous trees, Neldoreth, an ancient beechwood, Nivrim, a forest of primarily oak north of the twilit meres and finally Arthórien, a forest we have almost no information on, divided from the rest of the kingdom by the river Aros which runs along the Eastern border of greater Doriath.

Greater Doriath (Region and Neldoreth): black billed cuckoo, tawny owl, barn owl and subspecies, goshawk, sparrow hawk, wood grouse, common quail, common swift, moorhen (also found in Nivrim), little curlew, red kites, black woodpecker, green woodpecker, hoopoe (in clearings, glades and outskirts),

Nivrim and the twilit Meres: Barrow’s golden eye, ural owl and ural owl subspecies, northern hawk owl, wood duck, water rail, spotted crake, black stork, common golden eye, horned grebe, marsh harrier, tree kingfishers, merlin

Arthórien (markedly different climate): hill partridge, emerald dove, great eared nightjar, kiwi species, black wood pigeon, rain quail, grey headed woodpecker, Japanese scops owl, grass owl, white backed woodpecker, green pigeon, greater painted snipe (I’ll probably make a more thorough post for this entirely)

World building notes:

I’ve talked about this before but common and rain quails are domesticated for their eggs and meat, primarily by the marchwardens! There are little enclosures built in strategic locations between the temporary huts the marchwardens use between scouting and other missions. There are elves, usually younger ones who might be training as a scout or warden, who care full time for the birds. The quails live good long lives and are often named by their keepers. While in Doriath, Túrin saved four quails from being eaten out of spite

Nightjars and owls are considered sacred to the Silvan of Doriath who reside in Arthórien and appear frequently in song and folklore.

Water birds are most commonly found in Nivrim where ponds and marshlands make up part of the ecosystem. Their images appear upon the walls of Menengroth in the passages beneath the river.

Though birds of prey are not reviled by any means, depictions of the deaths of elves in battle or through other violent means are commonly represented as birds of prey killing songbirds

[rammingthestein]

🔥 ON THIS DAY 🔥

4/5/1998

Rammstein Play At The Metro in Chicago with no pyrotechnics.

No Fire This Time Rammstein Forced To Rely Strictly On The Music | May 07, 1998 | By Joshua Klein for the Tribune.

"The rebellious subtext of heavy metal changes depending on what country is doing the headbanging. In America, metalhead teens rail against the restraints imposed by relatively minor authority figures, like parents or the high school principal. In Eastern Europe, before the fall of Communism, heavy metal was an outlet for frustrations generated by repressive governments. Thus when Western acts finally began to filter through the red tape and play in Communist countries, what seemed to American fans like novel musical diplomacy seemed to audiences in the Soviet bloc the stuff of revolution.

The six members of European superstars Rammstein grew up in East Germany before the fall of the Berlin Wall. Now the neo-industrial band avidly espouses the tenets of free expression, although in general it eschews politics in favor of lurid lyrics. Rammstein (whose name, appropriately enough, translates roughly to “battering ram”) has gleaned more than a few shock tactic tricks, like bondage gear wardrobes and staged scenes of S&M submission, from fellow faux freaks Marilyn Manson. But Rammstein's hulking singer (and former Olympic swimmer) Till Linderman is unique in his propensity to light himself and everything around him on fire, and it's his pyromania that has played a big part in the band's rapidly spreading reputation.

The Chicago Fire Department curtailed Linderman's right to blow things up Monday night at Metro, so Rammstein had to stick with less flammable forms of entertainment. Keyboardist Flake rode an inflatable raft out into the sold-out crowd, and Linderman lashed himself with a whip. But most impressive was Linderman's insistence on singing in German. Translations don't do justice to songs like “Du Hast” and “Tier,” whose English equivalents miss the meaning in the double-edged words. The guttural growls and rolling “r”s of Linderman offered the thrill of something different, something forbidden. The crowd even shouted along with the title track from Rammstein's domestic debut “Sehnsucht,” and cheered wildly in response to “Engel,” the band's most potent pairing of pop hooks and metallic bite.

Though watching Rammstein play without fire could have been akin to watching a horror movie with the lights on, the band revealed that at the heart of its art lies some truly potent songs. Rammstein overcame the conspicuous lack of explosions with its danceable dirges.

The ridiculously Teutonic opening band, Hanzel Und Gretyl, wore matching red and black lederhosen, but its music — typically fast, one-chord metal drones — wasn't nearly as memorable as its fashion choices."

[sourcreammachine]

this is fucking deranged

this is baso one train interchange why does it look like this

[ID: extract from National Rail's supplement to the london tube map, with commuter rail lines as well as the tube. this extract shows that map's depiction of the king's cross st pancras and euston area, large rail interchanges extremely close to each other that together become the busiest heavy rail terminus in the uk. both euston and KCSP, and the nearby farringdon, are depicted as an 'internal interchange', which means there are platforms connected by tunnels, as opposed to a regular interchange with multiple entrances on the surface. internals are depicted as circles connected solid bars, while externals are simply one circle. euston and farringdon have two connected circles, while KCSP has six. euston is also connected via a dashed line to ‘euston square’, indicating the two stations are less than ten minutes apart and foot traffic is encouraged (‘square’ is actually literally just outside the entrance of euston). the western lobe of euston is depicted as the terminus of the Lioness Line (orange) and the northwestern railway (lime with bars), which emerge from the station going northwest, depicted as being attached to each other. passing through this lobe is the western branch of the Northern Line (black). the eastern lobe of euston depicts the other branch of the Northern Line, coming from the north but turning east at euston to travel to KCSP, intersecting with the Victoria Line (azure), coming from the southeast before also turning east at euston to run parallel to the Northern Line towards KCSP, though with a gap between the two. no rail termini emerge from the western lobe of euston. the next stop on the western branch of the Northern Line after (western) euston is warren street, which also is the next stop for the Victoria Line after eastern euston, creating a right-angle triangle with the Victoria, western Northern, and the euston internal interchange. to western euston’s southwest via the ten-minute walk dashed line is euston square, which is an interchange for three tube lines, the Hammersmith City (salmon), the Circle (yellow), and the Metropolitan (dark magenta) all of which run next to each other horizontally. the three lines cross the northern-victoria-euston triangle without stopping at euston itself, towards KCSP.

KCSP is an intimidating Y shape of six lobes - three in a vertical line, then two emerging on the northwest spoke and one on the northeast. despite the name of this underground station, drawn as the internal interchange, being ‘king’s cross st pancras’, the giant Y is actually not labelled this at all - the western fork hovers near the label ‘st pancras international’ while the eastern hovers near ‘king’s cross’, and the southern fork remains unlabelled. the southernmost lobe of KCSP is for the glued-together Hammersmith, Circle and Metropolitan from euston square (not euston proper), after which the lines turn southeast to farringdon. this lobe also is for the Piccadilly line (navy), which comes from the northeast before turning south - the only Piccadilly stop in the KCSP-euston area. the middle of the three vertical lobes is for the Northern, travelling east from euston - and nothing else. the northernmost of the vertical lobes is for the Victoria - and absolutely nothing else. the Victoria crosses the Northern at euston whilst travelling diagonally, but then deliberately creates itself a gap before turning horizontal, to reach a separate lobe from the Northern due to KCSP being an internal interchange. both the Northern and Victoria politely duck under the Piccadilly after KCSP. from the Victoria lobe emerges the two spokes for king’s cross and st pancras international. King’s Cross is the terminus of the Great Northern (golden-brown, bars) and a branch of the Thameslink (maroon, bars), both heading north but separated by a tiny gap from each other. the first of the two lobes for SPI is the terminus for HS1 (blue, bars of yellow), which is absolutely not a commuter line - it goes to bloody Paris. this lobe is also bisected by a different branch of the Thameslink, going vertically, after which it sails over the Victoria, Northern and the triple glued-together lines, immediately after which it turns southeast, over the Piccadilly to farringdon. HS1 and this Thameslink out of SPI are once again separated by a tiny gap. the western lobe of SPI is the terminus of the EMR (cyan, bars), which emerges due north. the gap between the EMR and Thameslink is almost imperceptibly larger than the gap between Thameslink and HS1. after the lowest lobe of KCSP with which they intersect the Piccadilly, the triple lines (Hammer., Circle, Metro.) turn southeast to the northeasternmost of farringdon’s two lobes, with which they intersect nothing. this lobe is connected via an internal interchange to another, which is where it intersects the Thameslink coming from SPI, but also the Elizabeth Line (violet)/end ID]

[remembertheplunge]

Pandemic and Protest And an Altered State Of Living.June 2 to June 4 2020

June 2, 2020 Tuesday 6:14pm Jail Lobby

Barricades are up near the entry door to the lobby..Like, they are trying to protect from being rammed into.

I just invented a new term: Trump-demic! Inspired by the “oh fuck” Trump pandemic meteor hurtling at earth post card I sent to Zoe recently.

This edition of the Journal is the Protest edition. Protests rage across the country. 

Jared Is not happy that I spent $60 on this journal.

End of entry

Notes : 7/8/2024

I wrote the above entry in the lobby of the Stanislaus County Jail 5 miles West of Modesto. Large cement barricades had been set up to block an attempt to forcibly take the building by Black Lives Matter protesters.

My sister Zoe and I liked to send humorous post cards back and forth to one another. On portrayed a meteorite racing toward earth entitled “oh fuck”. It was the Trump Pandemic meteor!

I had paid $60 for the leather bound journal that I wrote the June 2020 entries in. Jared was my law clerk and business manager and was not happy with the investment.

________________________________________________________

6/3/2020 Wednesday 7:10pm 

NPR: Market Place is on. The Pandemic--Protest is in full swing!

I was up in Stockton at the jail. a fellow defense attorney said police are surrounding the court house. She told me not to come to Stockton tomorrow for court. Too dangerous. She will appear for me.

Meanwhile, Jared said a protest in Oakdale today went violent.

The feeling out here is shaky.

The protests flair here. The virus flairs there. But you never know where or when.

End of entry

Notes 7/8/2024

NPR was National Public radio and Market Place was a show on that station. I listened to Market Place a lot in the early =days of the pandemic. They had honest reporting of how the Pandemic was unfolding.

Oakdale is a town in eastern Stanislaus County, California. 

__________________________________________-

6/4/2020. Thursday 5:20pm Rasputiun’s

Cut. Cut. Gone The two trees marked for destruction are gone. Progress? Productivity? Pandemic and Protest Rage, cutting down 2 trees took priority.

Jerad and I had a beautiful talk with the female clerk at Preservation Coffee House this afternoon. She went to the Sunday 11am protest at 1010 10th (down town Modesto, California) and will go to one in Ripon. She told us that“We need to be willing to be injured to push for change.” .

Magnificent.

Jared said that during the Oakdale protest yesterday, Trump 2020 “all lives matter” stood across from “Black Lives Matter” protesters.

People are out in mobs now. 

I think 10,000 protested yesterday in San Fransisco, Thelma and Louise style, racing for the viral cliff’s edge.

I anticipate a spike in virus and in violence.

Mobile Art Gallery just passed

End of entries

Notes 7/8/2024;

Rasputin’s is a DVD record store located near highway 99 and the rail road tracks in Modesto. During the pandemic, when I could no longer write in coffee houses, I would sit in my car, listen to Mavis Staples songs, write and observe. I got to know the area of the parking lot that I would write in very well. Two young trees I often sat near had been marked to be cut down  with white paint rings around their trunks. On June 4, they were gone and I eulogized them in my entry.  There was another man who would at times park there, too in his hot yellow sports car. He would read his  newspaper. He never looked my way, but, I’m sure that he saw me. Pandamic exiles resorting to a parking lot for covid free reverie.

In 2020 I started noticing Graffiti on the trains as I drove up and down  Highway 99. In March 2020, when the State was in  lock down and the highway electronic signs were screaming out “Stay home and live!”.  I had to be out and drive for court. I never sheltered in place. Besides, I wanted to see the world in its grip of fear. It was fascinating. But, scary , too. And there were the trains. And the Graffiti art work on the train cars. And they were comforting. A message written from before the time of the plague , barreling along as if to say, come follow me . I will lead you to safely out of the virus veil. 

Preservation was Preservation Coffee in Modesto where pre pandemic I spent many hours writing. Post pandemic I have rarely returned and never to write there.

Thelma and Louise was a 1991 movie in which two wild intense women go on a crazy vacation that finds them hurling over  a cliff in the end.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [25] chapter vi, part ii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

-

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

-

chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : rebel soul, katharine appleton, maja norming

-

tag list: @femmealec, @mischief2sarawr

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[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

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Astrid had told the truth, as always. Ophelia was not her only appointment.

Neither was she the first, however.

Hours earlier, wrapped in a fine, black woollen pea coat and comfortable trainers, Astrid had been walking through the fog and frigid, sea-soaked air of the Cornish coastal town of Looe.

The historical fishing village was sheltered within a deep valley, prefaced inland by thick, verdant forests and winding country roads. Ivory villas and weathered stone cottages were built into the slopes of the cliffs, bordered by a riot of meadow-flora and hardy coastal shrubs, the settlement split in half by the river that decanted into the small marina, and the open, pewter waters of the North Atlantic.

The place held a kind of quaint, antique seaside charm that was ubiquitous to Britain, in Astrid’s experience- a nostalgia that was just slightly foreign to her, evoking the same feeling as the second-hand copies of those interbellum novels by Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie that she used to read on rainy days at home.

She could feel Loki watching through her eyes, dozing gently, shamelessly indolent as he clung to sleep.

Exhaling a smile, Astrid consciously drank in as much as she could. She drew the mouldering, salt-stained tang of seaweed and ocean shallows deep into her lungs, face raised to the damp air, clear-eyed and refreshed.

It was one of the many reasons to be relieved to be out of SHIELD’s custody: wherever she went, and whatever she saw, Loki could experience it through their link. And she was one of the rare, fortunate few who could go anywhere, at any time, with little enough effort.

A flush of affection bloomed in her, like a kiss at the nape of her neck, Loki reading her intentions like braille.

Astrid giggled, the ache of want in her chest ebbing slightly, and glanced out across the harbour.

It was the off-season; the tourism trade withered into hibernation with the last days of August, and first weeks of September. Even so, the picturesque village obviously received a fair number of visitors in the summer months. Across the town, there was an abundance of cafés, bakeries, fishmongers, local crafts shops, ice cream parlours, wetsuit and board rental stores. A sprawling car park had been cut at the base of the hill, and a number of small commercial pleasure boats were moored against the harbour walls, anchored between algae-stained tangerine buoys, advertising sea safaris and recreational fishing trips on printed boards affixed to the weather-rusted harbour railing. A few places were shuttered, but other businesses remained open even into November, catering to the permanent residents of the town.

As she chased the slope upwards, approaching from the narrow, eastern flank of the harbour, towards the ageing arcade and stone bridge across the river, a thought occurred to her.

“Loki. Do you like seafood?”

She felt Loki stir. Astrid could almost imagine his head lifting from his cupped hand- or rolling across a pillow to look at her, black curls spilling, eyebrows steepled in mild askance.

I tend to eat more game, I suppose, he answered cautiously. Hunts are too popular on Asgard for it to be otherwise. But I do like shellfish. Although it is seen as peasant food on Asgard. Cheap fare, common as mud, to be eaten at the harbour by tradesfolk.

“It used to be the same here, for centuries,” Astrid replied, the corner of her mouth twisting up sardonically. “Oysters were still delicious when they were only good for the poor.”

Loki laughed softly. It is ridiculous, is it not? The arbitrary standards of high taste.

He hesitated for a long moment.

I do like oysters, he admitted, almost nervous.

A lilt kicked into Astrid’s step, her mood lifting.

“Oysters, then.” Widening her stride into a loping gait, forming rolling bounce on the balls of her feet, she lifted her face to the headwinds, letting it blow her hair back. “Maybe mussels or scallops, if I can’t find any? Oh- and cream tea.”

Cream tea?

“It’s, ah- like a dessert version of afternoon tea, I suppose? It’s sometimes called Cornish tea.” Astrid crossed the bridge at a brisk clip, shoulder bag tapping at her hip. “You’ll love it. Black tea, served with split scones, clotted cream, and jam. Strawberry is traditional, but I prefer raspberry.”

At the mention of something sweet, she felt Loki’s interest instantly perk.

Astrid’s victory dimmed as Loki swiftly crushed down on his eagerness, cooling into reflexive indifference.

Then you should have raspberry, my heart, he replied mildly, like fingers skimming her cheekbone.

“Mm.”

Astrid strummed her fingers against the cross-strap of her bag, tension furling.

She wondered if she could just scream I want to give you this, let me give you this, I want to give you everything, be selfish with me, just ask me and it’s yours, yours, yours, just say the word, put me to the test, let me prove it across the connection, or if that would be too blunt.

She opted for a subtler option. For now. “Seeing as we’re breaking tradition, we could change the tea out as well.”

Peppermint?

“I thought you might prefer rosehip. Or something floral.”

It’s your tongue, darling.

Astrid nipped her lower lip.

“I like sharing my tongue with you.”

She felt his train of thought stutter, before heating.

You’re playing a dangerous game, Astra, Loki warned, dark and edging into primal, shifting into a voice behind her left ear that seemed spoken through gritted teeth.

Astrid startled, almost tripping, as she felt the sensation of the pads of his fingers swiping at her inner thigh.

Her brain short-circuited for a moment.

Hm. Are you curious, darling?

She bit her lip, restraining the impulse to goad him further.

Following Loki revealing how he could twist his magic into her through their link, Astrid had begun asking about the possibilities. The conversation had been mostly practical- but the thought had occurred to her, even if she had quickly become distracted when it struck her exactly how ingenious the method was, how brilliant Loki was, how blithely oblivious he seemed to that fact.

But now- despite herself, folding her lip between her teeth in an effort to pin her unravelling thoughts in place- Astrid lingered over exactly how far and how intensely he could project sensation into her, how much sensory feedback he received back through their link, and whether-

No. Nope. Nope, nope, no. Work first, North. We’ll explore that another time.

Despite the curl of delighted, thoroughly distracted mischief from Loki, he let the matter drop.

Astrid exhaled quietly, grateful.

Today, she was visiting an old friend. It would be unwise to arrive disarmed of her wits.

Astrid swung off the bridge and into West Looe, swerving in a hairpin turn back down the hill, sinking into the warren of the town. There were only a few figures out in the midmorning light, walking dogs or tending to their boats, the quiet seeming to echo against the rush of the sea. The narrow streets were barely broad enough to accommodate a single car, the cobbles uneven and worn smooth underfoot, none of the structures more than two or three stories tall; most of them were at least a century or two old, patchworked with modern features, dating to the days of smugglers and portside inns and the great age of sail, their timbers ancient and their walls full of ghosts and memories.

She came to a halt outside a particular storefront.

The entire street was built into the incline of the hill, its rowhouses sitting a foot or so below the edge of the pavement, squatting low. The windows of the ground floor were almost level with Astrid’s crown, the sills above within reach if she cared to make the short jump, walls a washed white between dark Tudor beams.

Astrid tipped her head up a millimetre, the aperture of her senses opening to sweep the interior, as she read the sign affixed above the door.

Witches’ Brew, it read, white font upon a rich violet backing. On the left side of the sign was the outline of a cat, paws upon the rim of a bubbling cauldron to peer at the contents.

Bookshop, was added underneath, in smaller, blunter font. Tarot. Occult. Café.

You know, Loki commented, there is an infusion made from íviðia blossoms called witches’ brew.

Astrid tipped her head. “Really?” She asked softly.

Mother sent some blossoms to my cell recently- if you care to share my tongue later?

She winced into a grin, knowing that he wasn’t going to let that go any time soon. “Mm, in exchange for cream tea?” She teased.

Astrid felt a pair of arms slip and loop around her midriff, a mouth skimming her crown.

She felt the gentle billow of his sigh, the phantom of his chest against her back.

You drive quite a bargain.

With a faint smile, Astrid stepped down to the shop’s door, and turned the handle.

A classic shopkeeper’s bell chimed overhead, jostled into motion, before the door clicked shut behind her.

She was met with the fragrance of incense- a thicker, heavier curtain of agarwood, compared to the delicately floral smoke that lingered in the training halls where she grew up, and which her father preferred- blended with the earthiness of burned white sage, and coffee grounds.

The shop was quiet. Her steps were muffled by a dark patterned carpet, the space airy and inviting, despite the low ceilings and semi-subterranean position. At the right, the space folded into a geometric puzzle of tall bookshelves, walls paved with spines, the stacks labelled by genre with signs in blackboard and chalk, a few tables laid out with bricks of bestsellers and new arrivals. To her left was the register- unoccupied, with a bell to ring for service- and several tables and shelves, displaying various occult-themed wares. There were box-trays of tumbled, semi-precious gemstones, kitsch plastic goblets with dragons curled around their stems, dowsing crystals and decorative glass figurines, starter guides to palmistry and divining the stars.

Her eyes skipped past all of them, and up.

A large sign was placed at the bottom of a flight of narrow stairs. It advertised the café on the second floor, and tea leaf readings.

Astrid didn’t move to ring the bell on the counter, but the one at the door must have been enough.

“I’ll be right with you, dear!”

A woman’s voice called down from the upper floor. It was American-accented, almost neutral, but underscored with something in the region of Massachusetts.

Astrid smiled, folding her arms and turning away.

“That’s alright!” She replied, voice raised to carry as clear as struck crystal, twisting at the waist to speak over her shoulder. “Take your time! I’m here to see a friend.”

Movement upstairs stilled.

A beat passed, before Astrid felt the familiar crackle of magical wards being activated.

Loki reacted, his mana surging into her nerves with a precision that knocked the breath from her chest, pressing up to the surface of her skin, preparing to force his own counter-wards into her flesh.

Catching her breath, fingers fluttering at the foreign magic in her blood, Astrid sent him a gentle nudge of reassurance.

“Did you not hear the word friend, Agatha?” She yelled up, tone dry and hip cocking. “Your wards didn’t react when I walked in. Now would you please quit it?”

Before Loki tries to rip apart your spellwork and fracture your magical core in the backlash, she added internally.

Don’t tempt me, darling, Loki warned, poised like an adder to strike. Who is she?

The wards lingered, bristling like spines- before settling back.

A moment later, Astrid heard footsteps, and the creak of the ageing banister under new weight.

As I said. She’s a friend… of a sort.

Of a sort?

The subject of discussion halted, a few steps above ground floor.

Astrid remained with her back turned for several seconds, shoulder blades open and unguarded.

After deeming that her message had sufficient time to sink in- if it was going to at all- Astrid turned.

It had been about a century and a quarter, chronologically, since they had last seen each other- during the last of her father’s missions that Astrid had accompanied him on, before she had gone looking for answers.

The inciting incident that drove her to look for answers, in fact.

True to form, however, Agatha Harkness had adapted, and today was the very image of a modern, new-age witch.

Stocky, square-jawed, and casually confident, she possessed the mien and bone structure that would command the description of a handsome woman. Dressed in plimsoles, thick black leggings, and a cable-knit sweater the exact velvety depth of wolfsbane, she looked deceptively, cosily middle-class, her dark chestnut hair styled in a cloud of tight waves to her shoulders, framing her fair, round face and dark cobalt eyes.

“Well.” She draped an elbow across the rail, sleeves rolled back, sizing Astrid up with a wide, crooked smile and a gaze as hard as flint. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Astrid was simultaneously reminded of a salacious, bored housewife with a mind like a steel trap, and a large crocodile sunbathing by the water’s edge.

“It’s good to see you, Agatha,” Astrid said sincerely, light as air. “You look well. I’m glad.”

She tried to sacrifice my soul to Mephistopheles once, Astrid admitted to Loki, deciding that it would be better to get it out of the way now.

She did what? Loki snarled, alarmed.

Long story. Daddy stepped in. She came to regret it.

She could feel Loki glaring into her. Because you made her regret it, or because she decided to regret it? Because that’s quite a distinction, darling.

Astrid almost laughed. His mind was always so quick.

Alright, fine. A little of both.

Jaw and mouth pursed tightly, Agatha’s eyes flitted sharply across and behind Astrid’s form, darting as dragonflies.

Astrid softened her stance, loosening her limbs and opening her posture.

“It’s just us,” she said reassuringly.

Conveniently, Astrid did not mention that us included the sorcerer-prince whose mind was currently linked to her nervous system.

Astra.

His tone was grim, steeled, but quietly restrained.

Astrid sensed the unspoken undercurrent underneath- that he wanted her out of that shop, now.

Astrid reached for him, slotting herself into his edges, feeling him shift to accommodate her.

Please trust me, Loki. I have this.

She felt him hesitate, her calm focus an emollient.

Besides, she added. You might find that you like her.

I highly doubt that, dove, Loki replied haughtily, even as he relented.

She kept silent. Something told her that Loki would refuse to see the similarities, even if she informed him of exactly how her long story with Agatha had ended.

Agatha’s expression had stiffened slightly, eyes narrowing to a squint.

“Just so that we’re clear,” she drawled, gesturing vaguely across her with a jabbing index finger, “you’re not here to check in on me, or- drag me away to some kind of tribunal, are you?”

Astrid tipped her head consideringly. “Have you done anything to warrant it?”

Once again, Astrid opted not mention that she already had a fair idea of the answer. She had made it her responsibility to know; confidence in her decision didn’t negate the gamble, and Astrid wouldn’t ignore her culpability if things went sour.

As far as she could tell, however, Agatha had been smart. She had spent the years since they had last seen each other travelling and researching and collecting, restraining herself to a few petty grudges, mild curses, and mostly harmless, mostly necessary fraud. All in all, nothing that Astrid had found worth getting into a snit over.

Besides. That thing with the carnivorous rabbit had been pretty funny.

Astrid could feel Loki trying to pretend that he wasn’t intrigued.

Agatha snorted. “Not in my book, but we both know that doesn’t mean much. Even my best behaviour means being a little badsometimes.”

“Mm. Well, so long as they deserved it, I’m happy to remain ignorant.”

Brows raised, corners of her mouth tugging into a shrug, Agatha looked pleasantly surprised.

“Huh. Well, in that case- it’s good to see you too, Little Miss Dante,” she said wryly, dragging out the old nickname as though she were dusting off a spellbook, descending the last few steps. “Now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way, how have you been for the past- oh, hundred and thirty years or so?”

“Not quite so long on my side, Madame Virgil,” Astrid admitted, satin-smooth as sugar ribbons, “but I’ve- been busy.”

The Divine Comedy? Loki noticed.

Mm, good catch.

He paused, quietly assessing- before relaxing slightly in realisation.

Aha. I see.

Astrid held down her smile, but sent its warmth in his direction.

“And what about your dish of a father?” Agatha asked.

“Not interested, Agatha.”

And still hung up on whoever gave him that watch.

“Huh. Pity.” Agatha paused, appraising Astrid with long, slow sweeps. One forearm folded against her lower ribs, the opposite hand raised, fingertips rubbing together. “Any luck, then, dear, with that little- soul-searching identity quest of yours?”

Lifting one shoulder, Astrid let herself smile abstrusely.

“Some. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, you know. I like to know who and what I’ve made a deal with,” she said, head lowered into an unblinking stare, as though wondering how Astrid’s liver might taste, “as a rule.”

“It’s a good rule.” She said mildly.

Agatha looked at her for a long moment, one corner of her mouth and eye tensing- then straightened, clapping her palms together and spinning on her heel.

“Well, since you came all this way- fancy some tea? I could read your leaves for you! I must say, I’ve gotten pretty good- or, well, as good as you can get, with fortune-telling. It’s always a bit of a crapshoot, you know. Less mess than the animal guts, though.”

Astrid adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder as Agatha began to head up towards the café, not even waiting for her reply.

“Why not? We do have a lot to catch up on.” She began to follow her up the stairs, drawing a shallow breath as she went in for the kill. “And I think I have a way to get Karmar-Taj off your back so that you can come out of hiding, so I’m sure you’ll want to-”

Agatha turned back to her sharply. “What?”

Her eyes were slightly wild, incredulous, and treacherously hopeful.

Reflecting briefly, Astrid supposed that she should feel a little bad.

That was, if not for the memory of choking sulphur, of her face and throat scorching with brimstone-heat, and the sound of dimensions ripping apart like adipose from muscle tissue and Agatha laughing broad and wild- just before Mephistopheles betrayed her, just before Astrid regained the strength to yank the witch away from the consequences of her own actions.

Just because she had forgiven did not mean she was inclined to be nice.

Besides. Agatha would respect her less if she was.

Loki watched her work, ruthlessly, using honesty as a weapon and the truth like she she owned it, cautious and amused and a little proud.

Astrid arched her brows, both at him and the witch standing before her.

“You didn’t think I’d come without a gift, did you?”

-

Some time later, a platter of a dozen shucked oysters in front of her, seated with a sea view and décor of scrubbed wood and clean white walls, Astrid made the first entry on her shopping list.

Tea leaves.

-

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[adachimoe]

Iwatodai (Kobe City x Odaiba Island)

The main city of Persona 3, Iwatodai, is fictional but it has two really obvious IRL inspirations. The location and the town map is a fictionalized version of Kobe city in Hyogo, over in the west.

Tatsumi Port Island is based on Kobe's Port Island, and the other island with Paulownia Mall (I'm now realizing I have no idea if this island has a name or not) is a stand-in for Rokko Island. The two islands have been made muuuuch closer and the P3 town map indicates there's a route to cross between them.

The white and black striped line going through Iwatodai Station is the white and gray striped line going through Sannomiya Station. This is the Tokaido Sanyo train line. I assume that there's no Iwatodai Airport for Kobe Airport because Kobe Airport and its island were still under construction when the game was in development.

Iwatodai Station itself must be Sannomiya Station. You can take a train that runs from Sannomiya Station through Port Island and onto Kobe Airport called the Port Liner. This seems to take the same path as the Anehazuru that the protagonist rides from the dorm to Gekkokan. The Port Liner is also above ground and over the water - remember how the party has to run along the above ground rail tracks to fight the High Priestess Shadow?

I recall that the Sannomiya area is considered the city center area in Kobe. So when Atlus mentioned that Adachi worked in the city center of Iwatodai, the area around Iwatodai Station is probably where he worked.

...which means that in Persona 3 Reload, I should be able to go to Iwatodai Station and bother Adachi. The real purpose of me bringing up Persona 3 on this blog at all is to try and will an Adachi cameo into existence. Will it work???

Rokko Island has a bridge connecting it to the mainland called the Great Rokko Bridge. In Persona 3, this bridge has been replaced with a bridge called the Moonlight Bridge. The appearance of the Moonlight Bridge is based on the Rainbow Bridge located in Tokyo.

Which brings us to our next Persona 3 IRL spot - Odaiba. (If you've played Persona 5 Royal, yes, it's the same Odaiba.)

While the map is Kobe, there are various elements taken from Odaiba. The aforementioned Rainbow Bridge connects Odaiba to the mainland. Tatsumi is an area on Odaiba and it might be where Tatsumi Port Island gets its name since they are written with the same kanji (辰巳). The inside of Paulownia mall resembles Venus Fort mall, pictured above, which used to be on Odaiba.

Iwatodai Station is based on the Yurikamome Line's entrance at Shimbashi Station. This isn't on Odaiba, but it's still related because the Yurikamome is the train you use to ride across the Rainbow Bridge to Odaiba. The Yurikamome is the other inspiration for the Anehazuru that the students use to go to Gekkokan in that they're named similarly - Yurikamome and Anehazuru are both names for birds.

"Minato Ward"

I think the Kobe thing might get a little confusing because despite the town map undoubtedly being Kobe, there is a point where they talk about Iwatodai being in the Minato ward in Persona 3. And, coincidentally enough, Minato is the name of the ward in Tokyo where part of Odaiba is located. However, only a small part of Odaiba is actually in Minato ward. The majority of it is in Koto ward:

Additionally, Minato ward is something that multiple prefectures have. Japanese Wikipedia also notes that the Minato ward used to exist in Kobe. Like how Inaba is the old name for the eastern half of the current day Tottori prefecture, Minato ward is an old name for the northern part of the current day Hyogo ward.

Like, IMO, the real answer here is that "Persona 3 and 4 were developed before Persona 5 which is when they started using real cities and stuff and these details are kind of insane to write this much text about but fuck I went on Japanese Wikipedia so I guess Atlus wins in the end".

Additional P3 Locations

There are some additional locations that appear in Persona 3 but they aren't fictionalized mashup cities.

Kyoto is where you go for the class trip. Kyoto is just Kyoto. Simple. I'm not sure if the ryokan the school kids stay at is supposed to be a certain real life location or not.

Yakushima is another real life location. It's famous for (resembling/inspiring?) the scenery of Princess Mononoke. It's fairly annoying to get to IRL (I tried to look up how to get there when I visited Kyushu and wowie nevermind lmao), but I assume SEES got there more easily than a tourist thanks to Mitsuru's $$ money $$. The big tree the girls go to see is also real - it's a world heritage site.

Edit: I remembered someone made a visual as well.

[cerenemuxse]

The engines as different basis (EoSR but built different) - 1

(Tender engines as tank engines, vice versa)

From No. 1 - 6 (Thomas, Edward, Emily, Henry, Gordon, James)

NWR 1 Thomas (formerly LBSCR 307, SR 2307)

Class: London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway (LBSCR) Class C3 Horsham Goods

Previous Owners: London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway; Southern Railway; British Railways (Southern Region)

Built: August 1906

Real-life Withdrawal: May 1949 (never received a BR number)

Designer: Douglas Earle Marsh

Builder: Brighton Works

Bio:

Thomas is the first tender engine purchased by the NWR, after the withdrawals of the original NWR 1 - 6 (the last one being in 1925). The NWR had believed that they wouldn't need any tender engine power until the withdrawal of NWR 1 in 1925.

NWR 2 Edward (formerly W&SR 5)

Class: Dublin, Wicklow and Wexford Railway (DW&WR) 52 class; North Western Railway (NWR) Class S-W52

Previous Owners: Wellsworth & Suddery Railway

Built: 1893

Real-life Withdrawal: n/a

Designer: William Wakefield

Builder: Sharp, Stewart and Company (Glasgow, Scotland)

Bio:

Edward was commissioned by the Wellsworth and Suddery Railway. His design was altered so that he could run on standard gauge rails. When the merger occured, he was passed down to the NWR, along with Emily, and the NWR attempted to rebuild him so he could handle the new jobs. This did not work out, resulting in Edward having poor steaming issues. He was swapped with Emily, working lighter and fewer jobs.

NWR 3 Emily (formerly GNR 1009 and W&SR 6)

Class: Great Northern Railway (GNR) Class H1 Stirling Tank; North Western Railway (NWR) Class S-S1 Stirling Tank

Basis (Inspiration): GNR Stirling Single A3, GNR G1, and B&ER 4-2-4 tank engines

Previous Owners: Great Northern Railway; Wellsworth and Suddery Railway

Built: 1882

Real-life Withdrawal: n/a

Designer: Patrick Stirling

Builder: Doncaster Works

Bio:

Emily is an experimental tank engine version of the GNR A1, A2, and A3 Stirling Singles, with a wheel config of 4-2-4T. While she did perform decently, she did not perform as they expected so she was withdrawn. The Wellsworth and Suddery Railway took interest in Emily. They purchased her from the GNR before she could be sold to a scrapyard. She worked welled on the W&SR, able to be passed down to the NWR in 1915, along with Edward. She ended up replacing Edward on the express passenger service when the latter's rebuilds proved to worsen his performance.

NWR 4 Henry

Class: North Eastern Railway (NER) Class F; North Western Railway (NWR) Class S-S5 (4-6-4T) Black Five Tank

Basis (Inspiration): NER Class D (pre-1935); LNER Class A2 (pre-1935); LMS Class 5MT Black Fives (post-1935); LMS 4MT 2-6-4T (two-cylinder) (post-1935)

Previous Owners: Unknown

Built: 1920

Real-life Withdrawal: n/a

Designer: Vincent Raven; Henry Stanier

Builder: Unknown

Bio:

Henry was built from stolen duplicates of Vincent Raven's plans of a 4-6-2T, which were derived from the NER Class D (4-4-4T). Unfortunately, these duplicate plans were the discarded designs due to uneven weights on the chassis and the use of a Schmidt boiler. He was under-powered and a hazard to operate. Sir Louis Topham Hatt I was swindled to buy Henry in 1922 when promised that Henry would be the next best thing for railways. This was when the NWR believed that they wouldn't need tender engines to run the railway. After the Flying Kipper crash, Henry was rebuilt into a new class of his own, the LMS Class 5MT Black Five Tank.

NWR 5 Gordon

Class: Great Northern Railway (GNR) Class B1; North Western Railway (NWR) Class S-G1

Basis (Inspiration): GNR Gresley Class A1, GNR Gresley Class A3, and GNR Gresley Class N2

Previous Owners: Great Northern Railway

Built: 1920 - 1923

Real-life Withdrawal: n/a

Designer: Nigel Gresley

Builder: Doncaster Works

Bio:

Gordon is an experimental tank version of the GNR Gresley A1s, in hopes of surpassing the capabilities of the Gresley N2s. This did not work out but served as a basis for the LNER V1s. He was sold off to the NWR, replacing Emily on heavy passenger duty, which was the express service for the NWR.

NWR 6 James (formerly L&YR 506, LMS 11546)

Class: Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway (L&YR) Class 24; NWR Class S-A25

Previous Owners: L&YR, LNWR, LMS

Built: 1919

Real-life Withdrawal: 1959 (BR number would've been 51546)

Designer: John Audley Frederick Aspinall

Builder: Horwich Works

Bio:

James was bought as he was originally built in 1925. However, Sir Bertram Topham Hatt II ordered for James to be rebuilt into a 2-6-2T. This took well over a few months until they finally came up with a decent design. Unfortunately, James' great performance came at the cost of James' loosing his memories.

[houseboatisland]

Operation Nestled Dragon

Even before the passage of its iconic Transport Act 1947, the first Attlee ministry had been laying the groundwork for what we would today call a strategic steam reserve. Operation Nestled Dragon, which went into effect as early as December 1945, called for “at least 4,000” steam locomotives to be stored and kept in constant readiness in the event of “any cataclysm which could strain supply.” This was a somewhat arbitrary number; the LMS alone had 8,000 locomotives on the eve of Nationalization. It was believed that a majority of the country’s engines would survive attack during a wartime scenario, the most likely reason to activate the reserve at the time. 4,000 engines kept as a backup to unscathed stock was deemed sufficient. (It has to be said there were no strategic reserves of coaches or trucks, whether planned or even merely discussed!)

These engines and the necessary facilities would be dispersed as needed throughout the country. Bigger towns would have more engines and more MPDs (motive power depots) allocated to them, London having the most. The number of engines kept in a single “strategic MPD” was always limited to 20. In this way, an attack such as an aerial bombardment would be less likely to take out a population center’s entire locomotive stud at once.

To “activate” the reserve, the Minister of Transport was required to approach the Prime Minister and his Cabinet, and a vote be held on the matter.

Strategic MPDs could be crude or elaborate. By design they were severed from the nearest railway, so that no tracks were visible for any overcurious trespasser, potential spies or reconnaissance aircraft to follow. Every MPD had to be able to have these missing rails laid back in “within or under three hours” if called upon. Often, abandoned mines and tunnels were used and their insides fitted out. These ‘naturally-occurring’ locations were codenamed “dragon’s lairs.” Other times a location had to be built from scratch; these artificial MPDs were codenamed “rabbitholes.” Always was there emphasis on keeping the MPDs dry, ventilated and fireproof. Each MPD needed a turntable, a reliable water supply, coal bunkers, storage space for rails, sleepers, a small number of spare parts, adequate headroom and an overhead crane for heavy repairs like boiler swaps, and of course bunks for crews should the reserve be activated and they be based there. Otherwise bunkrooms were vacant, although men on duty for maintenance of stock and depots did find use for them during their shifts.

There was little methodology in place for which engine classes were preferred for the reserve. Great Western engines were less favored as they were built to run on high-quality South Welsh coal, and it was assumed the quality of coal sourced during a crisis would be poor. In any event however, some still “found their way in.” In general however, Eastern, Midland and ex-WD locos formed the majority of the workforce. Every engine belonging to the various military railways such as that at Longmoor were considered part of the reserve too, so it could be said that several pieces of the reserve’s stock were out in the open all along. Also joining their ranks as they came about were BR Standard classes, some built specifically for the reserve. These had neither BR nor serial numbers, being built “off the books.”

At first, engines reserved were simply stored and maintained in the livery they wore at the time of their “reassignment.” As time went on, (and their maintainers became bored,) a semi-official livery of black with white and navy blue stripes was settled upon and applied, one engine at a time. Quickly a crest for the Strategic Reserve was designed by one anonymous artistic crewman, and the reserve’s motto agreed: “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit,” a superstitious British phrase.

Attlee and Churchill were both said to have toured a strategic MPD at least once. “Here we are in the belly of the beast. You lot have done some splendid work; Britain thanks you,” Attlee had said on his visit. “Men will do anything to play trains away from the wife without interrogation,” Churchill remarked on his, perhaps half in jest.

Thus was the system. As steam on the public or “civilian” British Railways was phased out, further freshly withdrawn engines were added to the reserve stocklist. Much speculation was made as to why coal bunkers and hoppers and water towers continued to be maintained even as the steam engines finally vanished from the national network in August 1968. This was explained away as infrastructure left in place for railtours by preserved engines, and in hindsight must have sounded ridiculous.

As generations of enginemen retired, they had to pass on their skills to the fresh blood. The years then went by without significant cause for alarm. The closest the reserve came to being activated was at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis in late October 1962; declassified materials confirm that as many as half of the reserve was in full steam awaiting the call, and track gangs were ready and waiting to lay in rails. The crisis ebbed of course, and by the second week of November, the number of engines idle was back to “Normal.”

Margaret Thatcher’s Government planned to shut the program down, but this was averted… just. John Major however couldn’t be dissuaded. Privatization was in full swing, and the Soviet Union had dissolved itself. The reserve suddenly seemed very redundant, (but per its own 1945 definition, not completely,) and the winding down of it all began. On the 1st of December 1998, some 53 years after the beginning of Operation Nestled Dragon, all 4,855 locomotives and their associated depots and crews were demobilized by the Blair ministry and most of the reserve’s documentation declassified. Everything became public knowledge, including the engines themselves, quite literally overnight.

At once, the locos and their facilities were up for auction. Dozens of Strategic MPDs were made into living museums demonstrating how the reserve worked. Many of the engines belonged to classes otherwise thought extinct, such as the LNER Thompson L1s and the LMS Garratts, and here were surviving specimens being pulled out of the metaphorical wardrobe like nothing. The British preservation scene was in a matter of hours awash in perfectly functional engines no one expected to still exist, which coupled together in a line were longer than most if not all of the railways themselves! Several also were sold abroad to the United States and Canada.

The public couldn’t be blamed for this all being such a shock. They hadn’t been prepared.

Their predecessors however certainly were.

[engineer-gunzelpunk]

VR H Class Pocono H220 Heavy Harry, the Antipodean Behemoth ("Red And Black Steam On Southern Metals" OC)

Once the bad boy prince of the Victorian Railways fleet, the heaviest engine in Australia; Heavy Harry of Newport Works was a marvel of Australian engineering, built to surmount inclines and run the breadth and width of Victoria. He was powerful, rambunctious and unique… sole extant member of his class, too heavy to take to any track other than the North Eastern line but did his job as a crack fast goods engine well, pulling 800 tonne consists with ease. He clocked over a million miles in his short career, making the earth shake and humans topple over in his wake.

In his day, he was almost as well known to the Victorian people as the Flying Scotsman was to the British, referenced in political cartoons and interviews in The Argus ... and then he simply vanished.

Gone.

Forgotten.

Alas, he almost scrapped along with thousands of others, stripped of his plates and headlamp and left for dead on the scrap roads of Newport Works with a deteriorating boiler. Even as he rotted and slowly lost his sanity on the scrap roads, he was a powerful presence.

He gained his reprieve in 1961, but he was shorn of his naivety; he never forgot the human caprice that laid him low. He is in constant physical pain from his deteriorated boiler which carries over into his human form.

“Heavy” Harry Jack Haining; Mightiest Loco in Australia, hooligan, Anarchist and every bit the picture of an Australian larrikin, an inveterate bogan who loves his beer, footy and smokes… who also happens to be gay and very complicated. And probably a daemon. Even he isn’t entirely sure.

(“Old Harry” is an old English nickname for the Devil, and ‘to play Old Harry’ means to bring ruin, chaos or destruction on something. Appropriate for a very, very angry engine with a habit of derailing and smashing into things during his working life.

Interestingly, a “Harry” in Norway is their equivalent of a bogan, or a yobbo, someone who is working class and vulgar. He finds this very funny. )

He lives over in Newport along with his best mate, the eternal cynic A2 Class No 986 "Pluto"; his brother in arms R707 Cerberus and his sister Andri, R 761; his adopted little sister Prudence, a K-class Consolidation; and the other locos of the Newport Railway Museum/SteamRail/707 Operations… but he is coming to prefer the Island of Sodor, though he cannot ever run as his engine self there or anywhere (boiler in need of replacement, lives with constant pain; also simply too big, the poor state of Victorian rails means he could so easily break them as he did back in the day) , so he goes there as human to visit his boyfriend SpookyHenry every so often.