#else in this world. call me a coward‚ but my soul's aged too fast‚ and i'm tired‚ and i can't bear that risk.

[fionnaskyborn]

and TODAY ON "Songs Fionna can't listen to without them fucking her up immensely and remind her why she doesn't listen to them very often every time she listens to them", we have:

[mememanufactorum]

Ace Combat 7 quotes

* Feel free to share as you please, no credit needed. Change pronouns or anything else as desired.

“Does the color of the sky mean anything special to you?”

“When I close my eyes, the sky in my dreams… is a deep, dark blue.”

“I don’t see anything good comin’ from that.”

“They taught me their skills and some dirty jokes.”

“Laugh at it all you want, kid. But technology’s always changing. If you don’t keep up with it, it’ll leave your ass behind.”

“Time to stop the bullshit.”

“Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

“This is the kinda shit that really chaps my ass!”

“Hesitating for a split second could be the difference between life and death. Stay sharp, think fast.”

“Don’t try to be a hero. I want you to make it back in one piece, y’hear?”

“No point arguing. That’s how war is these days.”

“Just worry about staying alive for now.”

“I’m buying dinner for anyone who takes down an enemy.”

“You shoot, someone gets killed. The guys in charge take care of the rest.”

“[name], time to show the other guys that we get wet, wild, and do dirty, dirty things.”

“They have to be crazy to pick a fight with us! Even a rabid dog would know better!”

“…I said what I had to say.”

“Not a girl who’d retreat. Just not in her DNA.”

“No, I should’ve never let a fledgling like her out of my reach to begin with.”

“This place is a shithole.”

“They just killed a hero!”

“…It must’ve been a mistake.”

“Of all the ways to get killed, that’s gotta be the most pathetic one ever, am I right?”

“Maybe I should give that guy a thank-you note for killing him…”

“Wooohooo! My blood’s boiling!”

“Always in the know, aren’t you?”

“Settle down. Excited to have another murderer with you?”

“If any of you die, just think of it as you atoning for your crimes.”

“I decide when you die.”

“Who’s gonna dance to your lying tune?”

“I’ll show you all how it’s done.”

“I got all dressed up for nothing.”

“Anyone up for some poker tonight?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, murderer.”

“I lost a lot of money for that, [name]. Don’t forget.”

“Yet, what is a nation? Can we actually see the physical lines that divide one from another?”

“Don’t pretend like you deserve any better!”

“You really are too good at murdering people, [name].”

“Stick with the best if you want to survive.”

“If anyone wants to die, let ‘em.”

“Keep yapping away, little guard dog!”

“You’ll pay for that.”

“Where’s your sense of humor, guys? Your buddy’s making a joke. Laugh already!”

“Wait. Who’s the dumbass that came up with this batshit plan?”

“Things don’t always go perfectly.”

“As they say in my house, there’s a thin line between bravery and stupidity.”

“Nice work for a dumbass.”

“You’re in no position to call someone a devil, [name]. Don’t make me laugh.”

“I ain’t afraid of it!”

“I want to understand the enemy.”

“My status? Well, I’m feeling a little excited.”

“[name], kindness gets you killed.”

“Only an idiot would be brave enough to pull off those moves.”

“[name] went down crying like a baby. I knew he was all bark and no bite. The coward.”

“Man, I’m not in the mood for this shit today. I’m gonna blow some stuff up to let off steam.”

“No time to smell the roses, then.”

“Enough with the holier-than-thou attitude.”

“Shut the hell up. This has nothing to do with me.”

“You sound like you know something.”

“If you think that’s all you need to survive, you might as well get your last rites now.”

“You did that on purpose, [name].”

“…It was an accident. It got out of control.”

“Adios, you damn fool.”

“It was an accident, so shut up.”

“[name], it’s a breath of fresh air having you out here.”

“Save your sermons for someone who cares, preacher.”

“You wouldn’t understand, [name]. Not until you take a good look in the mirror.”

“Sorry, but I’m gonna eat while I work. My judgment goes fuzzy when I’m too hungry.”

“How can you talk about food?”

“That girl swears more than me.”

“It’s not just the swearing either. She’s got quick fists too.”

“That ain’t funny.”

“I think tonight’s the night we finally open that bottle.”

“I could really perform if only I had some partners I could trust.”

“No need to worry, I got your back. Relax and do your thing.”

“I’m buying you a beer later!”

“You never learn, do you?”

“What are you scheming?”

“Ugh… [name], do not fubar this!”

“Knock that off. Push yourself too hard, and you’re dead.”

“Is it really over now?”

“Are we gonna eat the whole thing?”

“Yeah. We got our hands dirty for nothing.”

“But home means something different to each and every one of us.”

“That went about as expected.”

“Never was good at jokes.”

“Be quick. Gotta deliver on time, or the pizza’s free.”

“Your jokes haven’t gotten any better.”

“We’ve even brought pizza.”

“To tell you the truth… I’m not sure I wanted to know the answers anymore.”

“Cute. No, that’s real funny.”

“Y’know, I think we might stand a chance out here.”

“Man, don’t jinx us.”

“This should prove to be fun.”

“If we keep this up, someone’s not going home.”

“You’re quite the entertainer, but the show’s over with this next shot.”

“Stay strong. We’re not done here.”

“Shit! This guy’s too tough.”

“You can do it! In fact, you’re the only one who can!”

“As far as the chaos we find ourselves in these days, it’s difficult to say which side pulled the trigger first.”

“All that remained was chaos and confusion.”

“Oh, and uh, hand me that sandwich.”

“Please, watch over the future we build from the high heavens.”

“Who do we turn to in this darkest hour? We need a beacon of light to show us the way…”

“Right. I’m shooting them down. Any complaints?”

“Hey, not our fault they won’t listen to reason.”

“Whoever did is the king of all dumbasses.”

“Today… I lost everything.”

“After all those speeches I gave about working together for peace… I thought everyone felt the same as I did.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Just what did you see here?”

“Well now we know what’s going on, but… Shit.”

“Right. We leave the wounded… This’ll guarantee us a one-way ticket to hell.”

“I’ve heard that line before.”

“Damn it! In this crazy mess, I’ve got plenty to pay attention to other than your dirty ass!”

“I need you to help some people.”

“And who’s taking this to the enemy’s doorstep? Not me.”

“Wait, you moron!”

“What are you doing, dumbass?!”

“A few more crazies like her and life down there may have been a tad bit easier.”

“You never told me that!”

“That’s just a stereotype.”

“All I did was state my honest opinion and I was thrown in jail for it.”

“That’s not the way I heard it.”

“You take, if you want to live. That was how it was where I grew up.”

“I feel like we’re a group of burglars.”

“Don’t say that. This is for our survival.”

“A miss, as expected. But a lucky shot would be boring.”

“Don’t waste your life. Dedicate it to reclaiming that which you call home.”

“Furthermore, you must find someone to guide you.”

“I am not that person.”

“Don’t die. As long as we’re alive, our hopes and dreams live on.”

“Why do you feel the need to continue fighting on your own?”

“Let me test him, then, to see if he’s truly worthy.”

“If they are not enough, then I must put my soul into it.”

“There are people like you in every generation. And I’ve felled every last one of them.”

“This was all due to my ego.”

“I unleashed pure chaos upon this world just so I could keep my wings.”

“We have to learn to put that sense of nostalgia behind us and behave like mature adults.”

“This isn’t a rebellion. This is a battle for independence.”

“The time has come to show the enemy the true meaning of patriotism!”

“I, for one, did not see that coming.”

“Ha! Just what kind of magic did you work there, you asshole?”

“It wasn’t magic. It was a scam.”

“Besides, if you thought it was impossible you wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Even in death, that thing is intimidating.”

“I don’t care what country anyone’s from. What counts is knowing who the real enemy is. Right guys?”

“I think everybody here knows the score. We all know who to follow.”

“That was definitely the most intense thing I’ve ever been in.”

“I’ve got a special bottle of wine for occasions like this. What do you say we open it?”

“Hey, [name], you dumbass. Tell me something. What color’s the sky up there?”

“I never wanted to create anything and now here I am, clinging to life.”

“Is this my punishment, then?”

“Y’know what having peace in the world means? It’s being able to die in your own bed, at a ripe, old age.”

“Dark blue… To the heavens and beyond.”

“Can you hear me?”

[be-the-spark-flyboy]

One Step Forward Two Steps Back

Call It What You Want (7/?)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Med student!Poe x reader

A/N: Poe needs to calm down in this one smh that gif is so fitting

Chapter Summary: Poe tries to talk to you, but you make his life infinitely more difficult since you’re still under the impression that he was still with his girlfriend

Warnings: swearing, dash of angst, everyone being dumb asses

Word count: 2.4k

You don’t remember the walk back to your place, your mind too occupied with the thoughts of what had just happened with Poe fucking Dameron. You kissed him. More like, he kissed you first but you still went with it, way too eagerly, head empty of any rational thoughts. He has a girlfriend. How could you forget that, if even for a moment? How could he forget that? 

You used to be sure Poe wasn’t the type of person who would cheat on someone, but now, not so much. And the worst part? You enjoyed kissing him, so goddamn much. You should’ve pushed him away, should’ve stopped him before he kissed you. How could you be so reckless? 

Before you know it, you’re walking up to your front door, too busy mentally kicking yourself, to notice the cardboard boxes lying around the floor. Your foot catches on one and you almost go tumbling down, but an arm shoots out to steady you before you could fall. 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” A woman around your own age exclaims, her hand still firmly clamped on your arm as you wobble in surprise. She chuckles awkwardly, an easy smile settling on her face as she sticks a hand out to you. “I’m Rose Tico. I just moved in next door,” She tells you. Oh, your new neighbor. She seems nice, you think. You shake her hand, introducing yourself.

“You need any help moving in?” You offer, though you don’t really feel like putting yourself in a social situation. Thankfully, Rose declines. After a quick exchange of numbers, you rush into your home, hoping Jessika was already at home. You find her sitting cross-legged on the counter, happily munching on a muffin from your stress baking batch. 

“Poe kissed me,” The words are out of your mouth before you could even think about how you were going to reveal the news, and the bite of muffin Jessika takes almost goes flying out of her mouth.

“WHAT?” She screeches, scampering down from the counter, crossing the room in record time before shaking you by the shoulders. “Woman! What? Is my ship finally sailing?”

“What? No!” You break away from her grip, grimacing. “He has a girlfriend, Jessika!” She makes a gagging sound at your protestations.

“But she is a bitch and everyone hates her,” Jessika states like its the most obvious thing in the world. You still have absolutely no idea what made everyone hate her so much. If anyone knew about it, you’re pretty sure that it would be Jessika. But would asking her about it mean that you care? That you’re admitting your feelings?

“Yeah well, that not the point. Kissing someone else is basically cheating, isn’t it?” You swing back to the problem at hand. What happens in their relationship isn’t any of your business, you decide.

“Well, yeah.” She shrugs. “Maybe you should talk to him about this. He might have an explanation for things, ya know? Poe just doesn’t seem like the type to be so careless about someone’s feelings,”

“Huh, since when are you an expert on Poe?” You ask her. It surprised you how Jessika could be so intuitive and heartfelt at times, so at odds with her usual carefree nature.

“I am an expert on everyone, honey,” she says, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulders.

“Yeah, whatever,” You push past her, still not very convinced. “Oh, did you meet our new neighbor?”

“Rose?” She asks, going back to her muffin. “Yeah, I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“Not an expert on Rose?” You laughed.

“Not yet,” she tells you.

---

“Just ask her, man!” Finn exclaims, sitting opposite Poe in a crowded coffee shop as his best friend nervously shuffles his phone from one hand to the other.

“Urgh, how do I even phrase it? Isn’t it weird if I just ask her out of the blue?” Poe asks.

“You’re thinking too much,” Finn crosses his arm, glaring at him. “Since when are you so afraid to talk to a girl?” 

Finn hates seeing Poe like this, a complete mess and totally out of his element. He had been that way since you left in the hurry the previous day. And in the past almost 24 hours Finn has been the one to put up with all his whining. As much as Finn pities Poe, he also wants to strangle him just to get some peace and quiet.

“Since I fucked up and kissed her and now she probably thinks I’m an asshole who cheats on his girlfriend!” Poe whines.

“Dameron you’re such a fucking drama queen. Just text her!” Poe reluctantly punches in a few words before flipping his phone around for Finn to see. 

“Is this okay? Too short? Too formal?”

“No its fine,” Finn reassures him. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

“What if I just- Hey! What the hell, Finn?” Poe shoots Finn a look of betrayal as the other man pressed send on the text before he could snatch back his phone.

“See! It’s done. Nothing to worry about,”

“Easy for you to say,” Poe mutters indignantly.

---

Your phone buzzes in your pocket in the quiet corner of the library. You were looking for reference books for your latest project from hell which was sucking your soul. You pull your phone out of your pocket, welcoming the distraction.

Poe: Hey, it’s Poe. Are you free around 1 later? Do you want to join me for lunch? :)

Or not. Oh shit. You know Jessika told you to just talk to Poe. Communication is the best way to sort things out, but it’s always easier said than done isn’t it?

Does he want to talk about the events of the previous day? Is he going to tell you that he likes you and that was why he kissed you? But what if he apologizes for it and tells you that it was a mistake instead? You can’t decide which one would be worse.

You don’t want to have lunch with him. Just the thought of seeing him again makes your chest constrict in panic. But you can’t just leave him hanging, you have to reply. And you find yourself thinking for the millionth time, if only I hadn’t gotten so close to him.

Your fingers were dancing above the keypad, contemplating what excuse to give as another notification pops up on the top of your screen. And then another.

Ben: Bro, I need your help.

Ben: Pleeeeaaaassseee I’ll buy you lunch

You spend years getting lunch all alone most of the time and suddenly two boys are fighting for your attention on the same goddamn day. Fun.

It really isn’t a difficult decision to make. Your friend needs your help, so you gotta put that above some casual lunch right? Yeah, totally, you decide. It isn’t because you want to avoid Poe, not at all. You just have somewhere else to be.

And so you take the cowards way out.

You: Okay, where do I meet you?

Ben: Wow that was fast did I speak too soon about lunch?

You: NOPE you’re still buying

—-

“She hasn’t replied. Why hasn't she replied Finn?!” Poe’s fidgeting puts Finn on edge as he watches him pick up the phone and check the notifications, place it down, then pick it up to check the notification, again and again. 

“Because you just texted her, Poe. Maybe she’s busy,” Finn takes a sip of his coffee, Poe’s cup already drained. Finn considers buying him another cup of coffee just to give him something else to do. But knowing his friend, he probably already had at least two this morning. He does not need more caffeine. 

His phone buzzes again and Poe sweeps it up. “It’s not her...” he groans, looking at the screen with barely veiled disappointment.

“Okay, gimme that,” Finn snatches the device from his hand as Poe throws himself back into his seat, pouting like a five-year-old with his toys taken away. “You need patience dude, a lot of it,” Finn shakes his head at him.

Usually, Poe had plenty of patience. But not when it came to you apparently. He doesn’t regret kissing you at all, but maybe he moved too fast? He definitely should have talked to you first, or maybe asked you out first instead of just kissing you. Or told you that he broke up with Sarah. Yep that one, that’s the first thing he should’ve done.

The phone pings again and Poe almost flings himself over the table trying to snatch it from his friend’s hand. “Christ Poe, calm down! God!” Poe pays no mind, but his face falls the second he unlocks his phone. 

“She said she can’t make it,” Poe deflates. “She’s meeting up with someone else for lunch. Finn, she’s avoiding me, right? She doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. How am I supposed to explain anything to her like this?” Poe goes on rambling for- Finn has lost count of the number of times he has heard it. 

“You got anything lessons later?” Poe shakes his head, already starting to sulk in his seat again.

“Let’s go to that diner off-campus you like so much,” Finn suggests. That’ll cheer him up.

---

“Jesus fucking Christ,” You curse, catching your cup before it tipped all the way spilling some of its contents on yourself in the process. A few heads turn your way in the diner but you pay no mind to it. 

“That’s the second time I’m watching you spill something on yourself,” Ben clucks handing you tissues yet again.

“Shut up, Solo,” You snap at him, but take the tissues from him anyways, trying to blot the dampness from your sweatshirt.

“No no, I was right. You do need a nanny following you around cleaning up after you,” he sounds so monotonous but you just know he’s laughing at you.

“Oh, look at me I’m Ben Solo, I’m a med student and I need help to write a fucking essay!” You mock him in retaliation.

“Okay smartass, what about you help me instead of destroying more tables,” you flip him off as he pulls his laptop out of his bag and moves both your cups out of your reach.

“You’re mean, you know that?” You admonish him and not a second after the last word leaves your mouth, a heavy fabric hits you in the face.

You almost roll it back up and fling it back at him before he says, “Put it on, you’re going to be cold,” He had a point. Your half drenched sweatshirt wasn’t going to dry anytime soon. And the huge blot of brown didn’t exactly look great on your light grey sweatshirt.

“Thanks. You’re that mean,” you pronounce before draping it over your shoulders. 

---

“Rey could help,” Finn suggests, rubbing his hands together in efforts to gain some warmth in the cold weather.

“She definitely will not help, I ate the last cookie,” Poe answers dejectedly scuffing the heel of his boot on the sidewalk, hands buried deep inside his pocket as he drags his feet beside Finn.

“I’ll ask her for you,” Finn offers. There was only so much whining a man can take, at least this way he will be helping Poe, and himself. Two birds, one stone.

Poe pushes open the door to the diner, the sounds and the smell immediately lifting his rotten mood. The diner is relatively small, but the checkered tiles and the smell of greasy burgers never fail to make him smile. 

The diner is crowded as usual, filled with the sound of loud conversations and cutlery clinking together. Poe hadn’t taken two steps in when his heart plunges straight into his stomach.

He sees you there, looking gorgeous as ever, laughing with your friend. A jacket, clearly not yours, around your shoulders as the two of you sat squeezed into the same side of the booth. You pay no mind to anything else, he’s too far for you to notice him there.

So that’s why you ran away after kissing him. Poe has this sinking feeling that he has been reading the situation all wrong. You never did like him. It was Ben all along. And last night the kiss must have been a heat of the moment thing, not because you actually liked him. That was why you have been avoiding him since. Because you feel guilty. 

It all makes sense now. He never should’ve kissed you.

Finn walks right into Poe, frozen in place. “The hell, man?” He slaps him on the shoulder. The actions seem to startle Poe out of his trance. He turns on his heel and storms off, not bothering to wait for Finn to catch up with him.

---

“She ditched me for Ben Solo,” Poe was positively fuming. “For Ben fucking Solo. Of all people Finn! Ben Solo,” he exclaims. Rey sits cross-legged on the sofa beside Finn, watching her friend slowly lose his mind. Clearly, the problem is Ben Solo related. Again. She has no idea what happened this time, but something tells her, now is not the best time to ask Poe about it. She could just ask Finn later.

“Calm down you’re gonna summon him or something,” Finn says looking for lunch to order, watching Poe pace. Clearly, lunch was the last thing on his mind, but Finn was hungry.

“Calm down? Ben Solo, Finn!” Poe exclaims.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Finn mutters under his breath.

“I need to take a walk. Come on Beebs,” The corgi happily jumps up from its perch on the sofa at the sound of the keys jiggling, following Poe hot on his heels.

“Oh my god, he’s gone crazy,” Finn mutters again, watching Poe walk out, almost slamming the door behind him.

“What was it this time?” Rey asks and Finn sighs heavily before explaining in great detail the events of the day.

“It could be a misunderstanding and maybe they are just friends. But given what happened last time, I don’t really blame Poe for assuming otherwise. Rey, you gotta talk to her. It already a big mess, we need to help,” He concludes, sprawled across the couch, his head resting on Rey’s lap as she thoughtfully munched on an apple.

“Okay, I’ll help him this time,” she nods slowly. “But I still don’t forgive him for eating the last cookie. It was supposed to be mine,” She huffs.

---

The Dameron taglist (open): @writefightandflightclub​ @arkofblake​ @yougottakeeponkeepinon​ @multifandomlife22​ @skymerons​ @smol-peter-parker​ @rae-rae-patcha​ @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol​ @spider-starry​ @hkmultifandom​ @cloud-leader​ @elmoakepoke​ @staringmoony​ @valhallavalkyrie9​ @the-cry-of-youth​ @liadamerondjarin​ @m1rkw00dpr1ncess​ @takemepedropascal​ @xremember-me-notx​

[jonathananubian]

Another Chance 1 [Star Wars Fanfic]

Summary: Jaster is left to die by his second in command, Montross, and is facing down his own demise when someone intervenes. Tor dies and Jaster lives. Who is this mysterious redheaded Jetii who speaks his language? And how can Jaster convince him to stay? AN: Did some fiddling around with their ages and the timeline. This fic takes place in 52BBY, 30 years before the Clone Wars. Jaster- 35, Obi- 32, Jango- 14 Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Rare Pairings, Mandalorian Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jaster lives, Force-Sensitive Jango Fett. Characters: Jaster Mereel, Obi-wan Kenobi, Jango Fett Pairing: Jaster/Obi-wan Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26904037/chapters/65651923

Jaster glares at one of his most hated enemies, fallen comrades on the ground around them. “This is your fault, Montross. We should be off this mudhole by now. You’re out of my crew… if we survive.” Tor isn’t even wearing a helmet as he lets out a vicious laugh and raises his left gauntlet.

“If you survive- not likely!” A wrist rocket zips toward the ground, separating him from Montross who had been at his back. The man leaps into the air with his jetpack as Jaster is knocked onto his hands and knees from the explosion. “You stole the Mandalorians from me and then you left me to die on Concord Dawn! I won’t let you escape this time!” The madman screamed at him, powering up the large gun and shooting the ground around Jaster to separate he and Montross further.

“Montross! Airlift, now!” He barks in command, holding out his arm.

“Sorry Jaster, but I’m through taking your orders. But I’ll take good care of the troops.” The man says from the safety of the air. Vizla and the Kordans don’t even aim at him, their focus on Jaster.

“Montross!” He yells as his once trusted second turns away and flies off.

That bastard! That fucking backstabbing dar’manda coward!

Tor laughs and swings the guns around, grinning with manic glee as he powers the guns up again for another round. Jaster lets off a few shots, even as he’s desperately looking for a means to hide or escape. But no such luck.

Blue bolts of searing plasma come shooting at him and he closes his eyes, knowing that he was about to leave his son alone in the world. Jango… he hoped his boy was ready for the responsibility of leadership. He had done all he could to raise the boy well but he still had so much anger inside him. He would need to temper his recklessness if he was going to fight Montross for the right to lead, and he would need a cool head if he was going to bring Jaster’s killer to justice.

An unfamiliar sound came through his helmet and he heard Tor cursing vehemently. Feeling no pain he opened his eyes to a sight he never in a million years thought he’d see; a Jetii was deflecting the bolts back at Vizla’s tank. Jaster stared in slack-jawed awe as the Jetii blurred into motion, his white tunics covered in what might have been armor. “Mand’alor, how are you?” For a moment Jaster thought his helmet was malfunctioning. Did the Jetii just speak Mando’a at him? “Mand’alor? Sitrep!” He demanded, again in Mando’a. Jaster shook himself out of his stupor.

The Jetii looking back at him was a redhead, maybe half a foot taller than Jaster, with a well trimmed beard and eyes the color of blue skies. He moved with the grace of a dancer but had the same aura of preparedness any lifelong warrior would have.

“Fine. Thanks to you.” The Kordans were panicking over the smoking and devastated tank, fleeing, as Tor leapt down the rocks toward them, palming a weapon Jaster immediately recognized. “Look out!” The Jetii turned and met the darksaber with his own blade.

“Hello there, I was wondering if you’d come down here to fight with honor.” Jaster blinked, his mouth falling open once again. It was a round about way of calling Vizla a dar’manda coward but the intent was there. Tor snarled and swung his blade with the ease of long practice. But he wasn’t up against some unskilled mando’ad, no.

He was up against a Jetii.

The redhead absolutely wiped the floor with Vizla, taunting him in that slightly too polished Mando’a as he deflected each strike. It was like watching a man play fighting with a child just learning to fight. No matter how much power Vizla put into his strikes it was as if the Jetii was just too fast, his defenses too strong.

“I hope you’ve made your peace with this life, leader of Kyr’tsad. For I bring you your death.” With one swift strike Tor’s head was separated from his body. The head landed with a meaty squelch while the body fell to the ground with a thump. Letting out a long, tired, sigh, the Jetii reached down and picked up the Dha’kad’au, staring at it for a moment before holding it out to Jaster reverently.

The first thought on Jaster’s mind was that this man was Mandokarla. The second was that there was no way in hell he was taking the Dha’kad’au from his hand. When he didn’t move the Jetii cleared his throat and lifted the Dha’kad’au higher. “I believe this belongs to you, Mand’alor?” Jaster, finally snapping out of it, found his own voice.

“No, Jetii, it belongs to whoever has won it in a duel. You won against Vizla, it is yours until you lose it to someone else.” The man’s eyes widened and he shook his head, frowning.

“I am not worthy of this blade. It cries out for a worthy Mando’ad to wield it, and I am no Mando’ad.” Jaster reached forward to curl his hand over the Jetii’s, pushing the man’s hand back toward his chest and refusing the blade.

“Could have fooled me.” The redhead flushed slightly, his pale skin reddening in a way that Jaster found quite fetching. Sobering himself he pushed away the niggling feeling of attraction to the back of his mind, falling into his role as Mand’alor as easily as breathing. “Why save me? And how did you even get here?”

The man looked down at Jaster’s hand, still curled around his own, before looking back up into his visor. “You are the only hope for the future of your people. I don’t know what you understand of the jetiise but the force may sometimes give us visions of the future.” Jaster sucked in a breath. Seers. Of course the jetiise had Seers among them. Anyone with a strong connection to the Manda had a chance to experience visions of the future. If the Jetiise were tapping into something similar then it made sense they’d be able to see the future as well. “In my vision I saw you die, betrayed, leaving your son as the next Mand’alor. But when your son is older the Haat’ade are tricked, pulled into a trap by the Kyr’tsad, and slaughtered by the jetiise.” Jaster felt a shudder of dread run through him.

“Hell.” He muttered. The Jetii gave him a sad look, eyes filled with pain and grief.

“Without the Haat’ade around Kyr’tsad will run rampant as the New Mandalorians make further alliances with the Republic…” The man stopped and let out a breath, as if it pained him to speak of this. Jaster couldn’t help himself, he ran a thump gently over the man’s wrist, encouraging him and supporting him in the moment.

He really shouldn’t, he should be more wary of a Jetii, but the redhead’s liquid eyes are too sincere and the spirit of Manda in his soul is signing.

“The New Mandalorians will kill the spirit of Manda, burn your old texts and disband the clans. They will become totalitarian in their zeal to defang Mandalore in the eyes of the Republic.” His voice was thick with emotion and Jaster was transfixed. The future he spoke of was like something out of Jaster’s nightmares.

“So you came here to save me in order to preserve the Mando’ade’s way of life? Why?” The man bit his bottom lip and looked away, suddenly embarrassed.

“The same reason I speak Mando’a, practice Dral’gaan, and eat spicy tiingilar- I love Mandalore.” The words were nearly a whisper at the end but Jaster’s helmet picked them out of the air and drove them straight into his mind. His eyes trailed down to his hand, which was still covering the redhead’s as well as the Dha’kad’au, and swallowed hard. He had to remind himself that this man was a Jetii.

“I notice you’re also wearing-” He never got to finish his sentence as his son came barreling into his side, Silas not far behind.

“Buir!” Jaster’s hand broke contact with the Jetii’s and the singing in his soul dimmed, although he noted it was still there. His son brought up a blaster, aimed at the Jetii, and Jaster quickly pushed his son’s arm down, so he was aiming at the ground.

“Jan’ika, don’t go aiming weapons at allies, I taught you better than that!” His son’s helmet tilted up to look at him and Jaster could read incredulity in every line of his body. As his son turned to look over at the Jetii he froze.

“Is that?” Shit, he’d spotted Vizla’s corpse.

“It was.” No use beating around the bush.

Jango stood there, frozen, before Jaster felt the back of his neck tingle with a sense of danger. All around them loose rocks rose from the ground as Jango’s breathing became labored. He swung his blaster toward the body and shot it full of holes, half garbled curses spewing from his lips. Jaster grabbed his son’s shoulders and pulled the boy to him, grounding him. He’d seen Jango lose it like this a few times and he knew that as soon as it was over his son would be exhausted.

The Jetii suddenly moved forward and placed a hand on his son’s chest plate. Before Jaster could ask what the kriff he thought he was doing Jango suddenly sagged and the rocks dropped back to the ground. Jango sucked in heavy gulps of air, making his helmet emit more garbled vocals. Carefully, slowly, the Jetii pulled Jango’s helmet off, his expression soft and body language open. “That’s it, take deep breaths. Don’t try to push it back down, let it flow through you and out again.” Beneath his gentle hands Jango’s trembling slowly came to a stop and, like Jaster had surmised, he finally went limp from exhaustion.

“What was that, Jetii?” He asked as the man finally released his son and took a step back. Absently Jaster noticed the Dha’kad’au hooked onto the redhead's belt and wholeheartedly approved.

“Your son is force sensitive but has been subconsciously repressing it.” The redhead frowned. “That’s very dangerous, it could do irreparable damage to his psyche.” Jaster frowned in concern. How had none of the force sensitive verde noticed? “He’s very adept at shields and hiding. If I hadn’t seen him lose control like that I never would have guessed.” There was a hint of self recrimination, as if he should have known about Jango’s ability to channel the Manda.

“What are you going to do now, Jetii?” The man seemed to startle slightly and shook his head, eyes going distant. “Are you going to return to your temple?” If the man was stranded Jaster would offer to give him a lift, it was the least he could do.

“I… no. There is no place for me there… not anymore.” The amount of pain in his voice made Jaster ache to reach out and comfort him. Handing Jango off to Silas, he knew the lad hero worshiped his son and would take care of him, he stepped closer to the Jetii. Reaching out he gripped the man’s bicep and squeezed it reassuringly.

“There is a place with me and my people, if you want it.” He had already proven he was mandokarla when he not only saved Jaster’s life but tried to hand over the Dha’kad’au without a moment of hesitation. The redhead referred to him as Mand’alor and the fact that he already spoke Mando’a just sealed the deal in Jaster’s mind. “What is your name?”

The man gave a shy yet tired smile. “Ben, Ben Kenobi.” Jaster nodded and gave him another gentle squeeze before letting go.

“Jaster Mereel, welcome to the Haat Mando’ade, vod.” He was sure that the others would be eying him as if he’d gone senile but Jaster didn’t care. He’d figure out what to tell them to get them off his back. They had a long trek back to the ships and there were still enemies luring about. “Got enough in you to get back to the ships?” Ben’s eyes hardened as he squared his shoulders, like a veteran soldier.

“Yes, Sir.” Jaster felt a shiver run down his spine. Oh, he could get used to this man calling him Sir.

Mando'a;

Jetii/Jetiise- Jedi, Jedi Plural. Manda- The collective soul or heaven. The state of being Mandalorian in mind, body and spirit. Also a supreme, overarching, guardian like presence. The Mandalorians in this fic use it to refer to the Force as well. Haat'ade- Shortened from Haat Mando'ade, meaning True Mandalorians. Dar'manda- No longer Mandalorian. A Manalorian that has lost their soul and their right to call themselves Mandalorian. Dha'kad'au- The Darksaber. Mandokarla- Having the right stuff. The state of being the epitome of Mandalorian virtues. Kyr'tsad- Death Watch. Mando'ad/ade- Mandalorian, Mandalorian plural. Dral'gaan- 'Powerful hand,' my own name for Mandalorian hand to hand combat.

[carlycchapman24]

The Adventures of Celine Markus-Chapter 3

The following morning, they all get up, step outside their tents, and see Jolien still wide awake outside, “Not a thing happened,” she answered before anyone could say anything. “I suppose we’ll go our separate ways then,” Sidqiel says, beginning to pack up his and Arlech’s tent. “I suppose so, may the Gods and Mother Nature herself keep you all safe, I have some things to do,” Jolien said, standing up and dusting her cloak and dress off. “You can’t come with us to Tortoise Landing?” Celine says sheepishly. Jolien laughs, “No, this is a test to get into a Guild. Having someone like me be there would be cheating, especially according to Mistress Bula, who I dare say would likely disqualify you and kick out her favorite member,” she glances over at Sidqiel who has a look of shock on his face when she mentions him. “Now, I must be off, could day to you all,” she says and turns towards where the four came from, leaving them behind as Daxina picks up her and Celine’s tent. “Well, off we go then,” Sidqiel says and they all make their way down the road. “So, Elf lady,” Arlech says, “are you going to tell us your name or-?” Daxina sighed in annoyance, not wanting to tell the Wizard Girl or the Tiefling her name, but she was tired of them calling her ‘Elf’ or ‘Blondie,’ “It’s Daxina Amakiir, I’m a Pirate and I like fights, are you happy now?” “Yes,” Arlech answered. “What are your names then? It’s only fair that I get to ask too.” “Arlech,” the Tiefling said. “And you?” She asks the redhead, who seemed to not be paying attention. Daxina waved her hand in front of Celine’s face and said, “Uh, hello, Wizard Girl, are you there?” Celine shook out of it and said, “Huh, what?” Daxina sighed, “I said, what’s your name, since we’re all stuck together?” Before Celine could ask the blonde what her name was, Arlech whispered, “Her name is Daxina, she just told me.” Celine cleared her throat, “Uh, Celine, sorry to not pay attention, just, there’s a lot to think about after what’s happened in the few days I’ve been here.” “So you really aren’t from here?” Daxina said, genuinely surprised. “Obviously, did you not see my reaction to that giant fucking cat?!” Celine answered. Before Daxina could be snarky back at her, Sidqiel spoke up and said, “Tabaxi, they’re called Tabaxi, and they find it offensive to call them giant cats, even if that’s exactly what they are.” “So Tieflings, Gnolls, Elves, weird Dragon looking things, Tabaxi, Halflings, Gnomes, Devils, according to something Arlech told me when he was drunk, Demons for the same reason, drunk Arlech told me, but what else is in this ridiculous world?” Celine said, frustrated at having to remember all of these new things. “Much more than that, I can tell you that much. A lot of which I hope you’ll never have to run into. There are some nasty things in this world, and many would scare the living daylights out of you.” Sidqiel answered. “Okay, okay, I get it, you don’t want me to go looking for anything too dangerous,” Celine said, both aggravated and slightly freaked out. “Not until you’re strong enough, no.” The man answered and they continued.

After what seemed like ages, they arrived at Tortoise Landing, only to be greeted by the sound of bagpipes and people rushing out, getting ready to fight, “No, no, please, we’re here to help with your Gnoll problem!” Arlech says. No one believes him and the villagers prepare to defend themselves with what little they have. “No, please, he speaks the truth,” Sidqiel shouts and lets his glowing bronze wings out and both of his eyes glow a bronze color. Out of the crowd steps a, what looks like to Celine, a giant turtle. “I’m sorry, but what the hell is that?” Celine whispers but is told to hush by Arlech. The giant turtle says, “I am Koryver, the Chief of Tortoise Landing. If what you say is true and you’ve come to deal with our Gnoll problem, let us have a feast and discuss more of my job for you.” “Of course, we would be honored to join you for dinner,” Sidqiel says, putting away his wings bowing to the Chief, the other three follow his lead and bow to the Chief as well. When they stood back up the Chief said, “Come along” and they all went after him. After they set up the feast, with the members of the group sitting on either side of the Chief, Arlech and Celine to his left and Daxina and Sidqiel to his right, the Chief stands up and says, “Tonight, we welcome these four brave souls who are willing to rid us of the Gnoll problem we’ve had for the last few weeks. May the Gods smile upon them as they take on these dangerous foes who have done nothing but wreak havoc on our land and our people. Vu uas tewoust!” The villagers repeat “Vu uas tewoust!” The quartet looks on in confusion and after the Chief sits back down, he says, “It means ‘to our saviors’ in Aquan, my language. Now to the business at hand, there are usually three or four Gnolls that attack our village per night. We do not know if they are the same ones each time or different ones, but regardless, I want them dead and I want them to stop torturing my people. Gnolls are cowards, so if they see us fighting back, they’ll run away. If they see that none of their scouting party has returned, they will run. I want you all stationed at the front entrance, Gnolls are not smart creatures and will attack the same place every time, and they’ve been coming through the front entrance each time. Are you willing to take on this task?” All four nod and the giant turtle actually smiles, Celine notices, which is a little off-putting. “Good,” the Chief says, “now let us enjoy this feast and hopefully you’ll be victorious come the morning.”

They finish eating their meal and make their way to where they entered about three hours ago, keeping an eye out on the path ahead. Within minutes, Arlech and Daxina see three Gnolls making their way up the path and they point them out to Sidqiel and Celine. “How far away do you think the first one is?” Celine whispered. “A good one hundred feet, why?” Arlech answered and in an instant, Celine shot off a Fire Bolt, and it impacted the first Gnoll in the line, scorching it alive. All three Gnolls immediately run as fast as they can towards the source of what attacked them. “Good work Celine!” whispers Arlech. The first Gnoll, the one Celine hit, kept on running forward, Daxina also shot off a Fire Bolt towards the first Gnoll, just barely hitting it as well. Seeing what the other two were doing, but not being able to do much, he waited for them to get closer. The Gnoll furthest away just kept running forward, as did the middle one. Arlech looked between the two women, not being able to do much, so he prepared himself and waited until the Gnolls got closer. Celine shot off her Magic Missile and aimed it at the closest Gnoll with direction from Arlech, two out of the three went wide and the third one made impact, causing a little damage, but not enough to her liking. The first Gnoll kept running forward, trying to find its target. Daxina grinned and shot a Fire Bolt at the Gnoll getting closer, but missed, getting too cocky. Celine chuckled at Daxina’s misfortune and Sidqiel rolled his eyes and cast his Spiritual Weapon, which manifested as a Morningstar again, and placed it right next to the first Gnoll, then tried to hit it, but missed. The third Gnoll was keeping pace with the first two. The second Gnoll was right behind the first one. Finally able to do something, Arlech yelled, “You’re worthless, you’ll never amount to anything!” to the first Gnoll, casting Vicious Mockery and it instantly kills the first Gnoll. “You just insulted it to death.” Celine said in amazement. “Yes, yes I did,” he answered her with a wink. Celine rolled her eyes and shot a Fire Bolt at the second Gnoll, now that the first one was dead, hitting it with ease. Daxina pulled out her pistol and fired a shot at the second Gnoll since the first one was dead, and it hit easily. It was looking pretty ragged now. Sidqiel grinned and tried hitting the Gnoll again, it impacted and knocked the Gnoll down. The third, now second, Gnoll shot an arrow at Sidqiel, but missed and the arrow bounced off of a rock and fell on the ground. The second, now first, Gnoll tried hitting Sidqiel with an arrow as well but also missed. Both Gnolls growled at their attackers and Arlech used Thunderwave, hitting everyone. Killing one Gnoll, damaging the other, and accidentally hitting Celine, Sidqiel, and Daxina, apologizing in the process. Celine said, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, let’s kill this last one quick,” and threw a Fire Bolt at the last Gnoll, but just barely missed. Daxina laughed and shot a Fire Bolt herself at the last Gnoll, hitting it, it now started slowing down and was scorched and bleeding. Sidqiel threw a spell none of the recognized at the Gnoll, it was a gray-ish color, but it, unfortunately, missed the Gnoll, “Gods dammit.” The last Gnoll finally reached the quartet and bit at Sidqiel, but its teeth met Scale Mail, earning a chuckle from Sidqiel. Arlech shouted an insult at the last Gnoll, “You are a disgusting creature and no one will love you,” and cast Vicious Mockery, but the Gnoll seemingly wasn’t affected. “Oh move over,” Celine said, backing up a bit, so she was fifteen feet away from the Gnoll, and she casts a new spell of her’s called Burning Hands and a cone of flame came out of her hands, hitting the Gnoll who now looked like it could collapse any second. The others stared in shock, but Daxina shook it off and pulled her Great Sword out of its sheath and sliced at the Gnoll twice, the first slice missed, but the second one impacted it and killed it instantly. Celine collapsed on the ground and sighed in relief, “Holy fuck, thank whatever deities

this place has that we won.” A few moments passed and then Arlech asked, “Does anyone need to be patched up?” Celine, Daxina, and Sidqiel all raised their hands, “So everyone but me, all right then,” the Tiefling said. “I can heal myself, you can take the ladies.” Sidqiel answered, touching his shoulder and casting a spell that Celine didn’t recognize, all she did know is that it had a bright, white, light from her perspective. Arlech walked over and asked Daxina, “May I?” Daxina sighed, “Yeah, go ahead,” and let him touch her shoulder, a bright, white light like what Sidqiel’s spell looked like came out of Arlech’s hand and any bruises from his Thunderwave spell disappeared as if they had never been there at all. This surprised Celine and she blinked and shook her head, as if it was the darkness playing tricks on her. The next thing she knew, Arlech knelt next to her, holding a hand out, “Well?” Celine hesitantly stuck her hand out and Arlech took it and held it for a second, his skin feeling weirdly like warm coals, she noticed, and just as with Daxina, the bright, white light came out of his hand and her bruises from his Thunderwave disappeared before her eyes. “What the hell?” She said, not realizing how quietly she said it. “Well,” Daxina said, “let’s get a pelt off of one of these guys, that was the thing, right?” “Indeed,” Sidqiel answered, “Who wants to do it?” Arlech got up, stretched, and said, “I’ll do it.” “Do you have a knife?” Sidqiel asked. “No, but I have a dagger.” Arlech answered. “That should do it, have at it.” Arlech went down the path to the very first Gnoll they killed and skinned it with ease, taking the pelt off with precision that surprised everyone. “Celine,” he said, getting back up, “put this in your Bag of Holding and we’ll take it back to the Guild,” and gave it to her. “Gross,” Celine said, but did what she was told. Then, they finally went back into the village and were met by the Chief, “Did you kill them?” “The ones that tried to get to the village anyway,” Celine said, pulling out the Gnoll pelt with a disgusted look on her face. “Oh good, here, one hundred gold to split amongst yourselves,” the Chief said, handing them a large bag of gold, “and you’re free to stay for the night in one of the empty houses from the previous attacks. Maybe you could suggest this village to people on your travels so we can become more than just a small village.” “Thank you, sir,” Sidqiel said, taking the bag of gold. They made their way to one of the abandoned homes, split the gold amongst themselves, and went to bed.

The following morning, the quartet said their goodbyes and headed back to Crisherton. “So, how did you all enjoy your first contract, besides, of course, those damn bandits on the way?” Sidqiel asked. “It went better than I expected at least,” Celine said, stretching to wake herself up more. “Your idea to start attacking from a distance was a great one,” Sidqiel answered with an amused tone in his voice. “Yeah, well, after attacking those bandits or whatever they were head-on, I figured it would at least be something to try,” Celine said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Well, it was a smart choice,” Arlech said with a grin. “Well, thanks, guys,” Celine said awkwardly, not really sure how to accept the praise she was receiving. The two days to get back to Crisherton passed surprisingly quickly and Celine could only hope that the pelt didn’t decompose and get all gross inside her bag. When they got back into the Solarstriders’ building, they were greeted by Mistress Bula, “So you’re alive then? That’s amazing, considering you lot couldn’t take on a simple group of bandits that you ran into on the road,” she said and before any of the four could say anything she added, “Oh yes, I heard all about that, the whole town has. Jolien told us herself that she had to heal all of you up and bring Miss Red Head over here back to life completely, as she had been killed, not just knocked out cold. Here’s some advice, and I’d expect more from you as well Sidqiel if you cannot take on an enemy, run if you can. This world has no place for cowards, but nor does it have a place for martyrs. Now hand over that pelt and I’ll induct the three of you into the Solarstriders and forgive the damage from the Elf girl.” Celine sat her Bag of Holding on the desk and pulled out the Gnoll pelt, which to her surprise, didn’t decompose in her bag, and handed it over to the Mistress. Mistress Bula observed it and said, “Interesting, I’ll send this to the leatherworker in town so they can prepare to send it to the tailor for clothing. Now, come along, we need to mark you to induct you into the Guild.” “Uh, what do you mean, ‘mark us?’” Celine asked, which she regretted when she heard the answer. “Well you can’t expect to join any Guild without a branding of some sort, now can you?” Mistress Bula said. “Wait, branding, as in burning us? No. No, no. No, I refuse, I’m not going to get some symbol burned into my fucking skin!” Celine exclaimed and her wrist was grabbed roughly by the Mistress who said, “You will or you’ll be arrested and tried for trespassing in my building and for doing a trial and then leaving. Got it, Princess?” Celine tears her wrist out of Mistress Bula’s hand and massages it to get rid of the pain of the woman’s grip, “I’m not a princess,” she says with venom in her voice. “Then stop acting like one, you may not be from around here, that’s clear enough, but you’ll follow our customs and rules if you plan to stay. Now, as I said, come along.”

The trio is led down a flight of stairs and taken into the first door on the right at the bottom. They stepped in and saw a large furnace with fire blazing, a chair nearby the furnace that looked like a torture device, and a very tall woman, who looked like she was carved out of a mountain, was banging away at a weapon of some sort, “Niria, dear,” Mistress Bula said and for the first time since she met her, Celine noticed the woman had a look of admiration and love in her eyes, ‘Is this her wife or something?’ Celine thought. The giant woman turned around and said, “Ah, Umog, my love, what have we here? Some new recruits?” “Umog?” Celine whispered. “Her first name I assume,” Arlech answers back, just as quietly. “Yes indeed, they need to be branded, could you take the time to mark these three?” Mistress Bula asks. “Of course, but you’ll need to make it worth it since you interrupted me making more weapons for the Guild,” the giant woman said suggestively. All three rolled their eyes as Mistress Bula continued in the same suggestive tone, “You know I will.” The giant woman went over and kissed Mistress Bula on the cheek and said, “Well, then I’ll see you later tonight. Head back on upstairs, I’ll take care of them.” “I’m sure you will,” Mistress Bula said with a smile and left the trio downstairs. When the Mistress was out of sight, the giant woman’s demeanor changed, “Alright you lot, clearly you got far enough to be able to get inducted, so you better be able to handle yourself when I do this. If not, well, I don’t know how you got this far. Now, who’s first?” “I’ll do it,” Daxina said. “Then get in that chair over there,” Niria said, pointing at what Celine had thought looked like a torture device when they walked in. Her fears were confirmed when Niria tied down Daxina’s arms with some type of leather and rolled her sleeve up to her shoulder. “Uh, what’s this for?” Daxina asked. “Well, some squirm when I do this because it’s quite literally hot metal being placed against your skin to mark you.” Daxina went paler than usual and said, “Oh, I guess that makes sense.” “Now, let’s begin.” Niria said and pulled out a brand with a symbol that looked like a sun with a sword surrounded by fire in the middle of it, and above the point of the sword it read ‘Solar’ and it read ‘Striders’ beneath the hilt and pommel. Niria heated the metal until it was bright orange, “Now, take a deep breath,” she said and pressed the heated metal against Daxina’s shoulder with enough pressure to leave a permanent scar. Daxina gritted her teeth and passed out from the pain, which made Celine even more nervous, if Daxina passed out from the pain, she might just die. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Niria said and unhooked Daxina after she was done and sat her in the corner. “Who’s next?” the woman asked, holding the brand up. “I’ll do it.” Comes Arlech’s voice, sounding cocky. “Ah,” Niria said, looking up and down Arlech’s form, “Devil spawn, are we? This should be no problem for someone of your heritage. I may not even tie your arms down.” “A pity,” Arlech said, “I was quite looking forward to that,” and winked. “You’re quite charming, but as you saw, I’m a taken woman. Now, sit down.” She said with a laugh. Celine was dumbfounded, Arlech’s flirting almost worked, and the only reason it hadn’t was because Niria was with Mistress Bula. She took a minute to process this as Niria heated up the brand again and pressed it against Arlech’s shoulder with the same amount of pressure as she did with Daxina, if not more. Arlech sucked in air as the pain hit his skin, but stayed conscious, after it was imprinted, he got up as if he felt nothing at all and went over to Celine, “See, nothing to it. Go on,” he said gently. “Come over here, girl,” Niria said, not unkindly. Nervous, Celine hesitantly walked over to the very large woman and the chair, her legs felt like lead and it seemed like it took hours to get over to them. She sat down and let her arms rest on the arms of the chair and Niria tied Celine’s arms to the chair, noticing how worried the young woman was. “Take a

deep breath,” came the woman’s voice, but it seemed slow and distorted to her. The second the hot brand hit her shoulder, Celine screamed out in pain and agony and the next thing she knew, she saw blackness and felt nothing. The next thing she knew, she woke up lying on the ground with Arlech and Niria standing over her with very worried faces and when she sat up, she saw Daxina looking at her nails with a look of disdain on her face, which Celine assumed was directed towards her. “You really are weak,” Daxina said, not looking Celine in the face. “Fuck off.” Celine said as she leaned against the wall. “Are you all right?” Niria asked before the two young women started fighting, “I think I’m okay now, I’m sorry if my reaction ruined the branding so you couldn’t do it.” Celine said with a monotone voice. “No, no, don’t worry about it. That’s the usual reaction, albeit a bit more extreme.” Celine looked embarrassed as Arlech made his way over to her “Here, let me help you,” he said, kneeling next to Celine, “I already fixed up Daxina,” then he held out his hand. Celine rolled her eyes and held out her arm, he took her hand and cast Cure Wounds on her, “There you go, all healed up.” Celine immediately glanced at her shoulder, and the brand was still there, which she didn’t know if she should be relieved or disappointed about. Then it dawned on her, she had no idea how long they had been down here, she reached in her Bag of Holding to try and pull out her phone when Arlech smacked her hand lightly as if to say, “Not here.” Not wanting to potentially fight Niria for whatever reason, she sighed and took her hand out of her bag and closed it back up, deciding instead to ask, “How long have I been out?” “A few hours perhaps, why?” Niria said. “Well, I’m pretty tired after that, but if it’s not dark outside then I don’t want to go to bed.” Celine reasoned. “Well, then you all should make your way back up the stairs. Welcome to the Solarstriders.” “Thank you.” Celine said and got up, then the three of them headed back up to the main room.

“I cannot believe you flirted with her and it almost worked,” Celine said to Arlech when they were out of earshot. Which made Arlech laugh, “I told you it works in the right scenario, but you didn’t believe me.” “Wait, he did what?!” Daxina said in disgust. “You two are quick to judge, it meant nothing. Obviously, she’s with Mistress Bula, it was simply in hopes of having her be gentler with the brand.” Arlech said, rolling his eyes. “Do you ever mean it when you flirt with people or is it all just a game to you?” Celine asked with an annoyed tone at the Tiefling, disgusted at his attitude with such things. Arlech looked genuinely hurt at the accusation for a second and said, “Well, it depends on the person I suppose.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Daxina asked, now honed in on the conversation. “Well, when it comes to store clerks or others of the sort, it’s merely just to get what I want, like information for example. If it’s someone I’m genuinely interested in, I mean every word.” Both women were still unsure but went with it and Celine asked, “And how does someone know the difference? The person on the receiving end that is? You’ve tried flirting with me multiple times and I haven’t fallen for it, because to me it certainly just seems like some bullshit a lot of men in my world do just to get in a woman’s pants. I call them fuck boys, as do many other people.” Arlech was taken aback and Daxina covered her mouth, snickering. “Mind explaining that term to me?” Arlech said, raising an eyebrow. “A fuck boy,” Celine said, starting to step closer to Arlech, “is a young man or as I say, a boy,” she stepped closer, “who thinks they’re hot shit,” even closer, “and who thinks they’re sexy,” closer still, “and will flirt with multiple women at a time,” she got even closer until she was as close to Arlech’s face as she could be with the slight height difference, “and don’t know how to take no for an answer, and the only thing on their mind is sex. They don’t want actual relationships, they just want a fuck buddy or friends with benefits and will keep on asking even after one of the many women he’s flirted with has said no.” Celine looked Arlech up and down, the tension in the air was so thick that it could be cut with a knife. Arlech stood his ground and said, “Well, they sound like terrible people,” also looking Celine up and down. Daxina looked on, half expecting the two of them to kiss, and cleared her throat, “I don’t know if you’re going to kiss or kill each other, but maybe we can do it outside of the Guild?” Just then, both Arlech and Celine looked around and saw Sidqiel, Mistress Bula, and a few random members of the Solarstriders that none of them recognized, staring at them with their jaws on the ground. Celine stepped back first, “I think I’ve made my point,” she said, glancing over to the Tiefling. “I don’t know if you have, maybe you could explain it further later on,” Arlech answered with a wink. “Maybe I will, but not in a room alone with you, I’m not that stupid.” She replied haughtily and stormed out, finally letting herself flush red at his flirting, which she thought was odd, it had never worked on her before, why now?

Not long after, Daxina and Arlech join her outside and immediately Daxina shouts, “I’m sorry, but what in the Nine Hells was that?! I have never, in the short period that I’ve known you two, seen you go at each other like that. Care to explain?” “I’d ask Celine that if I were you, she’s never snapped at me like that before. She’s been sarcastic, but never gotten in my face like that, it was kind of sexy.” Arlech answered with a grin. “You’re gross,” Celine said a few feet ahead of the two. “You’re attracted to me,” Arlech shot back. “No I’m not,” Celine answered, getting furious now. “Then why did you get in my face like that?” The Tiefling shouted back. Just then, Celine turned around sharply and shouted angrily, “Because I’m tired of your bullshit!” and passers-by in the streets turned to stare at the two. “Just admit you find me attractive and we can settle this,” Arlech said, smiling. “You’re delusional,” Celine answered and made her way to The Clydesdale Inn. “I’m not convinced,” Arlech said to Daxina, who was walking next to him. “I’m not either,” she said, watching Celine walk off. A moment later, a light bulb went off in Daxina’s head and she suggested, “I have an idea, either before or after the next time we fight something, you kiss her and see what happens?” “It seems a bit rude to kiss her without asking, don’t you think? I’ll shamelessly flirt with someone, especially her, no big deal, but unless they permit me to do anything more than that, I don’t go further than a flirt,” Arlech reasoned. “So you do have feelings for her then or at least are genuinely interested in her,” Daxina said. “Well, yes. Ever since I first met her I thought she was cute and rather interesting. What are you supposed to feel when someone claims they’re from a different world? You’re instantly interested and drawn to them in some way, correct?” The Tiefling answered as if it was the most logical thing in the world, “You want to know more, you want to see how they tick, how they react, yes?” Daxina thought on this for a moment and said, “Yes, I could see how that would make you interested or attracted to someone, and while I respect the fact that you want to ask permission before going any further than flirting, I don’t find it very likely that she’d give you permission to kiss her or do anything of the sort with her adamant claim that she’s not attracted to you in any way, shape, or form.” “I understand your point, but it just feels wrong to not ask first.” Arlech insisted. “Fine,” the Elven woman started, “but if you change your mind or feel like you aren’t getting anywhere with her, take my idea into account.” The red Tiefling sighed in a defeated way, “I will.” When they got back to The Clydesdale Inn, Arlech took a seat at the bar and tapped on it to get Mr. Longfoot’s attention, the Halfling turned and went towards Arlech, “Hello Arlech, how are you doing today? What can I get you?” “Nothing today Mr Longfoot, I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be performing tonight. I don’t feel well and I have a lot to think about.” Arlech answered. “Well,” started the Halfling, “it’s a shame you won’t be performing, but if you feel you need time to yourself, I have no problems with that.” “Thank you, sir, I appreciate that. I think I’ll go two doors down to Madam Fibavam’s Bathhouse whilst I think.” Arlech answered, and walked out. Not long after, Celine came down from her room and started walking out, only to be stopped by Mr Longfoot, who asked, “Are you going two doors down as well?” “To the bathhouse? Yeah, I feel like shit after getting branded by the Solarstriders today, why?” Celine asked. “Arlech just went over there too,” he said and Celine froze in fear, thinking Arlech would see her naked, but then she remembered there was a fence between the two sides of the bathhouse and relaxed a little. However, she second-guessed herself and asked Mr Longfoot, “There are two sides blocked by a fence, right? A men’s and a women’s side?” “I believe so,” the Halfling answered, “but I’d ask Madam Fibavam to make sure.” This made Celine

nervous, but she went over to the bathhouse anyway.

As she stepped in, Madam Fibavam was at the desk and she looked up from her book in surprise, “Two people in one night? That’s a new record I think. How are you doing Celine?” “Fine, hey I have a question,” Celine responds. “What is it dear?” The Gnome asks, sitting up more. “Uh, are the baths separated by gender or only the changing rooms?” Celine asks and the Gnome laughs, “Yes, the baths are separated by gender as well, with a tall wooden fence, don’t you remember that from when you were here a few nights ago?” “I didn’t really pay attention, so I suppose not.” Celine answered. “Well, they are, are you wanting to be here for a while too?” Madan Fibavam says with a warm smile. “Yes, two silver, right?” Celine asks and the woman nods. Celine hands over the two pieces of silver and goes into the same changing room as last time and puts her stuff in the same closet. Then she tries to stealthily step into the hot spring so Arlech doesn’t hear her, but unfortunately, Arlech hears her step in the water through the fence. He jumps up, startled, and says, “Hello?” Celine clasps her hand over her mouth and tries to make her breathing slow and silent and succeeds, and her second step was far more silent than the first one. “Hello?” Comes Arlech’s voice again and a shift in the water as if he were turning around to look through the fence to see if anyone was on the opposite side, but nothing. Celine heard him shift again, assuming he was turning his back to the fence again. Celine sighs in relief as quietly as possible and leans against the fence herself. Just then, she hears Arlech talk to himself and clearly hears, “How do you even tell someone how you feel about them? I could just go ahead and say it to her face, but what if she thinks it’s just another attempt at flirting? I could try Daxina’s idea, but she might smack me across the face. Gods, this is difficult.” Celine tilts her head, was he talking about her? She couldn’t tell, all she could understand was that he was clearly stressed out about whatever and whoever he was talking about. She thought back on all of the times he flirted with her from her understanding of what she knew to be ‘flirting’ in her world. The suggestive comments, him calling her cute while he was drunk, him holding her hand when he healed her instead of placing his hand on her arm or shoulder, did he really mean those things or was he just trying to get in her pants? Because what she knew from her world, men, or boys even, would only act that way towards women with one thing, and one thing only on their minds. Then she thought about how his earlier attempts didn’t work on her, yet this afternoon, something changed. His flirting actually worked on her, why then and in that moment? Did he use a spell on her? She knew he had healing abilities, could he make people fall for his flirting with some sort of spell too? “What did it all mean?” she unintentionally said aloud and froze in fear, “Celine, is that you?” Comes Arlech’s voice from the opposite side of the fence. He even recognized her voice, which she was dumbfounded about. “Uh, no, not at all. Who is this Celine you speak of?” She asked with a horrible, fake, English accent. She could hear in his voice that he had rolled his eyes, “That was the worst accent I have ever heard. What are you doing here?” Then it was Arlech’s turn to freeze in fear, “How long have you been here?” She made a split-second decision to lie and said, “I just got here.” Arlech sighed in relief, but Celine couldn’t keep the smirk off of her face, and it could be heard in her voice, when she said, “Why do you ask?” “Don’t torment me like that,” Arlech says, hearing the tone of her voice ‘You torment me enough by just existing,’ he thought. “Okay fine, you don’t have to tell me. I just thought I would take the opportunity to mess with you like you did to me earlier.” She said, and it was that moment when they remembered they were both naked and talking to each other through a simple wooden fence and an awkward silence followed. “So, um,” Celine finally said, subconsciously

covering her top half even though he couldn’t see her, “why here?” “What do you mean?” Arlech asked. “I mean, you came here, as I heard from talking to Mr Longfoot, why here and not, I don’t know, another bathhouse or the hot spring behind The Clydesdale Inn?” Celine asked. “Oh, well, the only other bathhouse in this city is on the complete opposite side of town and the one behind the Inn is pretty small and I wanted to stretch out and maybe swim around in the hot water a little.” The Tiefling explained. “Is the one behind the Inn really too small for that?” Celine asked. “For someone my height, yes, the one behind the Inn is for one person at a time and for just cleaning up and getting out. I think it’s six and a half feet long and three or four feet wide or something, and I’m six feet tall. These ones are about thirty feet long and forty feet wide, each. Madam Fibavam was lucky that she managed to get this much land on this side of town and still be far enough away from the ocean.” He explained, which prompted Celine to look around and see that it is indeed a very large hot spring and for a moment she felt quite lonely in the wide expanse of this spring. “She’s been here longer than this town has been here, this town is maybe a hundred years old, Madam Fibavam is about two hundred years old, so her bathhouse and spring have been here longer than this town, so they had to build Crisherton around her bathhouse. Gnomes can live up to five hundred years, you know.” Arlech says and Celine immediately says, “I call bullshit, there’s no way.” “Fine, don’t believe me, but you can ask her yourself,” he responds. “Maybe I will.” She answers indignantly. Then Celine comes up with an idea, grins, and says, “Oh yeah, you wanted more of an explanation about fuck boys, didn’t you?” Even though she couldn’t see it, Arlech’s mouth dropped open and he said, “Hold on, now this isn’t what I meant when I said that.” “I know what you meant, but I’m not gonna give you what you want. Now, a fuck boy is somewhat in the same vein as an incel. Now an incel is a man, or boy rather, who likes to be creepy to women online, I’ll explain what ‘online’ is later, and they often feel entitled to a woman’s body, which is absolutely disgusting behavior. When a woman rejects this man-child, he often calls her many names such as ‘bitch,’ ‘fat fuck,’ ‘whore,’ ‘slut,’ you name it, it’s probably thrown around and they often assume the account on a dating app or even apps that aren’t meant for dating, is fake just because she rejects him. I’ll also explain what an app is at a later date. They also objectify women, only seeing them as a piece of meat, or ‘a piece of ass’ and see them only as things to reproduce with or just have sex with and leave them for another. Following along so far?” Despite this not being what he expected or wanted, Arlech found himself very interested in her explanation. A few hours and some questions later, Arlech said, “Gods, they really do sound like awful people. I may be a shameless flirt, but I don’t feel like I’m owed anything if I do flirt and they flirt back. I also ask permission before I go any further. I just find flirting to be fun and in some cases, useful.” “Then you’re neither of those things, surprisingly.” Celine responded. “Did you really think I was one of those things?” Arlech asked, somewhat offended. “I didn’t know what you were or how you were. I mean, for Gods’ sakes, I’ve only known you for a week,” and at that moment it registered in her brain, and there was a pit in her stomach, she had been in this world and away from home for a week and suddenly she panicked, “Wait, oh Gods, I’ve been here for an entire week, I died in my first week and came back alive, my parents probably think I’ve been kidnapped, or worse, murdered!” and she started hyperventilating. In the short time he had known her, Arlech never heard Celine sound so scared and panicked, if anything, to him she seemed the least likely to be scared of anything. “Whoa, whoa, slow down,” he said, trying to calm her down to the best of his ability while

naked and separated by a fence, which made it slightly awkward, but he shrugged it off, “Is there any way you can contact them and let them know that you’re safe?” “No,” Celine said, starting to sniffle but holding it back, “my phone doesn’t work here, I have no service, so unless there’s a way to send a letter to another world, it’s hopeless.” Arlech thought it over for a moment, “There might be a way, but it’s rather complex and pricey. There is a sort of magical letter paper that can be sent to anyone in any plane of existence as long as you write their names on it. It is, however, a good one thousand pieces of gold, if not more. Then there’s also something called a ‘tuning fork’ that you can attune to any plane of existence, and obviously, there’s a little bit of magic in your world if The Royal Wizard was able to bring you here through magical means. However, those are rare and require very strong magic.” That gave Celine hope, if only a small amount, and she imagined something that made her laugh through her sniffles, “I just had a thought, imagine what my parents would think of you if we brought them here, the world itself would be strange but imagine if they got brought here and you, Daxina, and I were right in front of them. Daxina looks at least somewhat normal, by my world’s standards, but just with pointy ears. You on the other hand,” she said with a weak laugh, “and Madam Fibavam, and Mr Longfoot.” Arlech began laughing too, “And let’s not forget Niria and Mistress Bula.” “Holy shit, yes.” Celine said, now in a full-on laugh. There was a moment of silence and out of nowhere, with a hint of awkwardness and shyness in his voice, and no evidence of his usual cockiness, Arlech asked, “May I hug you? When we’re out and dressed, I mean, not now. I don’t even think there’s a way right now, even if you were okay with that, which I’m sure you aren’t considering the state we’re in.” Celine rolled her eyes, which he could hear in her voice when she answered, “Yes, but preferably not in front of Madam Fibavam or Mr Longfoot, I feel like they’d take it the wrong way and start some rumors and gossip around Crisherton.” “That’s understandable,” he said and then added sarcastically and playfully, “I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation of being able to easily reject any of my attempts at flirting with you.” “Ha, ha, very funny.” She responds sarcastically as well.

They finally got out of the hot springs after what seemed like several hours, both of which had wrinkly feet and hands, and went to change. They walked out of the changing rooms at the same time and Madam Fibavam looked at them and said jokingly, “Certainly took you two long enough, I almost thought you’d drowned. I’m glad to see that I was wrong.” Celine laughed and then said, “I have a question, and I don’t mean to offend you,” the Gnome answered, “It’s hard to offend me, go ahead,” “Is it true you’re about two hundred years old and did this city really need to be built around your bathhouse?” Celine asked cautiously. The Gnome laughed and said, “I take it Arlech told you this?” Celine nodded and the Gnome continued, still laughing, “Well, two hundred years old is a bit of an exaggeration, I’m around a hundred and seventy-five years old, but yes, Crisherton had to be built around my bathhouse because I refused to leave when they began building it up.” Celine’s jaw dropped and Arlech burst out laughing, “I told you so.” “Shut up,” Celine said, now embarrassed. Then the two went back to The Clydesdale Inn, having to knock so that Mr Longfoot could let them inside and Celine and Arlech added two extra nights in their respective rooms for four gold each. The Halfling gladly accepted the gold and went back to bed. They both glanced around to see if Mr Longfoot was still in the room, but it was hard to tell, so Arlech hesitantly put his arms out for a hug, which Celine had forgotten she agreed to for a split second, and she cautiously wrapped her arms around him, as did he in return. It most definitely wasn’t her imagination when Celine thought Arlech’s hand felt like warm coals, in fact, to her astonishment, his entire body felt like warm coals, which was rather relaxing. She could feel it through his shirt as her arms were wrapped around his torso, and she could feel it in his arms, which were wrapped around her waist. ‘A first step at least,’ Arlech thought as they let go of one another. “Uh, before I go to bed,” Celine said awkwardly, “may I ask you something?” “What?” The Tiefling asked. “I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination when you first grabbed my hand to heal me or not, but now I know what I felt was real. Why does your skin feel like warm coals? Is it like that all the time?” “Ah,” said he, and they sat down in front of her door, “that’s part of my heritage. As a Tiefling, or a Half-Devil, you have a higher body temperature than beings such as full-blooded Humans, or Dwarves, or Elves. Our skin also does, in fact, feel like warm coals when someone touches an arm or whatever. Think of it this way, a full-blooded Devil’s skin, living in the Nine Hells, would feel like raging fire, or burning coals. A Half-Devil, like myself, living on the Prime Plane, which is what this is called, our skin would feel like warm coals, or a dying, low, fire, like embers.” “Would that change if you went to the Nine Hells?” Celine asked. “I’ve never been, so perhaps, but perhaps not. The only way to find out is if we go, but I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” Arlech answered, standing up. “Fair enough,” Celine said, getting ready to stand up on her own, but Arlech held a hand out as if to ask if he can help her up. Celine rolled her eyes but had a small smile on her face, and she grabbed ahold of his hand. He pulled her up as if she weighed nothing and said, “Goodnight,” letting her hand go, and the two went to their separate rooms for some sleep.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 2/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Notes: So here's the chapter where we really lean into that post-accident imagery. Again, it's not gory, but it may be unsettling. Please be warned. Also some very mild thoughts of suicide on Aziraphale's part, the typical 'why don't I off myself to be with me husband instead' sort of inner monologue.

Read on AO3.

I drove back to The South Downs in the Celestial Blue Fiat Crowley had gifted me last anniversary completely on autopilot. I never really used the thing, to be honest, so I was astonished I hadn’t run off the side of the road, especially when the thought was ever in the back of my mind. I kept the windows down, breathing in deep the brisk air and trying not to think too hard over what I was about to do. Or what I could do instead, the possibilities ranging between getting on with my life - sell the cottage and travel the world, forget about everything that had led up to this point … or driving straight off a cliff.

Of course, if I was lucky, fate would decide for me, and I would catch pneumonia driving in the freezing cold with the windows down and only a thin jumper for protection.

I put the radio on and cranked the volume. I caught a replay of The London Symphony Orchestra performing Holst’s The Planets as I tried to focus on everything and anything besides my dead husband waiting for me, lying naked on our bed, packed in ice with several brand new swamp coolers blasting on high to keep decomposition at bay. I thought it best to stow him out here in the middle of nowhere for the time being instead of at our flat in Mayfair - less a chance of anything going wrong, of the swamp coolers drawing suspicion (seeing as it had barely broken seven degrees Celsius over the past month), or (if this worked) people who knew my husband to be dead seeing him walking around, and asking questions.

Accepting that that was a possibility led me back to the question of why was I doing this? Why was I so set on bringing my husband back? Why didn’t I leave him be, allow him peace? Why didn’t I take the opposite route, off myself, and go be with him instead? Had to admit, it was a lot more natural than what I was intending. But there was a simple reason for that.

I’m a coward.

A bloody coward.

I don’t know what awaits us after death. Not truly. I’d been raised a Catholic, and I hold strong to many of those principles still (mostly out of guilt inflicted upon me by my dear old mum). According to the teachings of the church, a Heavenly kingdom would be ours after death … but not if I killed myself.

Suicide was an unforgivable sin.

If I wanted to see my husband again, this might be the only avenue available to me.

I didn’t want to wait, rely on “faith” that we would be together again, and risk being wrong. I was tired of playing guessing games with my future.

I felt like a massive ball of contradictions flying down the motorway at felony speeds, both exhilarated and terrified at the venture I was about to embark on. The old woman wasn’t wrong. For as blisteringly angry as I got with her, that was the worst part. I was tampering with the laws of nature. I knew that. I loved Crowley more than anything, more than my own life, but Crowley was dead, and in the eyes of the universe, there should be nothing I can do to change that.

But apparently there was.

I’d found it.

And I was going through with it regardless, even if it scared the shit out of me.

I’d not told another living soul about this. I had a pretty good idea of what might happen if I did. I didn’t require an intervention, and I didn’t need institutionalization. I wasn’t crazy. I was grieving, searching for the same solutions that dozens of people have probably thought of but would never admit to. But other people - people who knew me as the eccentric book seller of Soho who didn’t actually sell any books and who once rented a live python for the sole purpose of roaming the store in order to keep uni students away at the start of the school year - might not see it that way.

I had also entertained the possibility that this might be a scam - a way to extort five thousand pounds out of a grieving widower willing to pay anything to have his husband back. Except that the old woman – possibly a hundred or so years older than God – put on a convincing act of being afraid for the paltry sum of five thousand (paltry considering what the granddaughter had said about their financial straits - tens of thousands in mounting debts, interest on bank loans that have ballooned into larger sums than their principals, and the shady men who dropped by most nights to ‘browse’ even though they bought nothing but always broke something in ways that implied mishaps more sinister).

They probably could have gotten twenty thousand out of me easily.

I switched off the radio when I turned off the motorway. It wasn’t like the music would disturb anyone. I lived miles away from my closest neighbor. But it seemed disrespectful to keep the volume so loud.

Disrespectful to the dead.

I love our cottage, fell in love with it the first moment I laid eyes on it, but that was back when it was about to become a home.

Now, it was a tomb.

What would our property agent think - that kindly, middle-aged woman who kept making moon eyes at us every time we snuck a kiss - if she knew I was harboring a corpse in my bedroom? The expression of shock that would erupt on her pinched face nearly made me laugh. But the overwhelming pitch blackness of the cottage sapped me of anything even remotely similar to glee.

When I had left earlier in the day, I had neglected to keep any lights on. It seemed fitting to have the place dark while my husband’s body lay within. But I wished I had left one light on at least, or put a torch by the door. My cellular phone battery had died somewhere along the way so it was of no help whatsoever.

As I opened the door and peered into the living room, I held my breath, half-expecting Crowley’s naked corpse to meet me at the entryway. I chided myself for being an idiot, though how ridiculous was it really? A day ago, when I went searching Soho shops for that horrid incense Crowley used to love in the hopes of keeping his favorite scent alive in the house, I would have agreed that the concept of life after death was ludicrous.

That was until I stumbled upon a teenage girl who promised me the secret to bringing Crowley back.

“Cr---Crowley? Crowley, honey? I’m home, my dear,” I called out, hoping that he wouldn’t actually answer. I was thirty steps away from walking out of my comfort zone and into a world I would rather not know existed, so Crowley coming back to life on his own would tip me over the edge into insanity.

I reached out a hand and turned on the light. My living room, warm and comforting, decorated in muted blues, cinnamon browns, and subtle creams, welcomed me. There was nothing out-of-place here.

Nothing dead.

I continued to the bedroom, switching on lights as I went. With every step, I had to convince myself to keep going. I originally pictured me racing into the house, eager to get this started. But with reality staring me in the face, I wasn’t sure. But I didn’t have the luxury of waiting to see if I would eventually change my mind. Crowley’s internal organs, especially his brain, were decaying fast, regardless of how much ice or air conditioning I piped into the place.

Soon the choice wouldn’t be mine to make.

Twenty steps brought me to the threshold of my bedroom where I stopped, staring at the closed door. I reached down and patted the bottle in my pocket, feeling the lump through the linen of my trousers. Touching it gave me the strength I needed to move my hand to the doorknob, but I halted once more with it hovering when I heard a small creak – like a foot stepping lightly on the hardwood floor. It was the house settling, I told myself. That was what Crowley always said when I woke him in the middle of the night to the sound of odd creaking and whining.

“It’s a mid-century house,” he’d say. “The floors contract in the cold and expand in the heat.”

“So what your saying is …?” I quipped.

“... the house talks in our sleep,” Crowley had replied without opening his eyes. “Now go back to your reading so I can get some sleep, too.”

“Just the house settling,” I muttered in my best rendition of Crowley’s accent, plucking the explanation from my mind and saying it out loud to make it real. “Nothing else alive in the house except for me.”

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to open the door.

I heard the creak repeat, closer this time.

I swallowed so hard, everything from my jaw to my stomach ached.

“Crowley? Are you there? Are you … are you waiting for me, my dear?”

Of course he’s waiting for you! I scolded myself. He’s waiting for you to grow a pair and get this over with.

I sighed, allowing the rush of breath in my deflating body to give my hand momentum, touch the doorknob, and open it like I had hundreds of times before.

This time was no different.

Yup. Maybe if I kept telling myself that, it would feel real.

I turned the knob and switched on the light without thinking about the sight that awaited me on the bed. My eyes flicked up … and my stomach fell to the floor.

There was Crowley, right where I had left him, lying in bed, eyes closed. He looked asleep and, from this distance, normal except for a few cuts and bruises on his face. The accident hadn’t banged his body up that badly, not from what I had noticed, though I didn’t make it a point to look at him for too long.

His neck was why not.

His broken neck from the whiplash that had killed him instantly.

He’d been leaning forward in his car seat, looking at street signs, stuck on a small, offshoot road that the GPS on his phone had apparently never heard of before. He had cautiously entered the intersection when a pickup flew through out of nowhere and slammed into him from behind. Crowley jettisoned forward and hit the steering wheel.

Being a classic car, restored to original condition, it had no airbag.

I blinked back the tears that leaped to my eyes at the thought of the accident that took my husband from me, at the fact that the driver of the truck, being sloshed out of his gourd, walked away from the same accident with only blacks and blues. The police caught the bastard a few miles down the road when his engine stalled.

He claimed he didn’t stop because he thought he had only struck a deer.

“H—hey,” I said, trying to get comfortable with the idea of talking to my husband again. “I went out shopping today, and you’ll never believe what I brought home.”

I could see my own breath as it met the air in the room, like walking into a gigantic meat locker, making what I was doing that much more morbid. My knees knocked but I clamped them together to keep them mobile. I reached the bed, and my casual, conversational tone disappeared, the words wavering as I spoke them.

“I think … this might … help …” I hiccuped, side-eyeing my husband’s body. Crowley’s skin appeared waxy, coated in moisture from the frigid air, and the color wasn’t right. I knew that soon blood would pool and Crowley’s unnaturally pale skin would turn black so I had to hurry, but every muscle in my body screamed for me to turn and run.

I touched the bed, and I’m ashamed to say, I whimpered.

I can do this, I can do this … I chanted to myself. I reached out and let my hand brush Crowley’s fingers. I tried to recall their warmth, the way Crowley’s touch made me feel loved, desired. Whole. I wanted that back, and I wasn’t going to let anything stand in my way. I knelt on the bed, crawled over to Crowley’s body, and leaned over his serene face.

“I’m going to get you back,” I whispered, cursing the fear in my voice. “If I have to claw my way into Heaven and drag you back with my own two hands, I’m going to get you back.”

I pulled the blue bottle out of my pocket. I held it to the light and gave it a swirl, watching the liquid spin around the belly of the glass and then settle into a shimmering mass. Crowley’s life was sitting in the bottom of that bottle. All I need do was give it back.

I yanked out the stopper and brought the bottle to Crowley’s lips.

“Bottoms up, love.” I pecked a kiss to his cold skin and then tipped the contents into his mouth. I expected to see Crowley’s throat move as he swallowed, his eyes snap urgently open, but they didn’t. The potion didn’t act instantaneously the way I’d assumed then. He was still dead … but not for long.

I remained kneeling at Crowley’s side, staring into my husband’s face, heeding the ancient woman’s words to be the first person Crowley saw when he opened his eyes. I knelt and knelt for over an hour, thighs cramping in the freezing cold. The sharp prickle that comes with poor blood circulation assaulted my skin, the thought that this was an elaborately planned and executed hoax becoming more a likelihood as time passed.

The sun started to light the grass and hills outside. I could barely see the early morning rays seep in beneath the blackout curtains, but there they were nonetheless - evidence of a brand new day. Still, there was no change, no sign, nothing on Crowley’s face that might give me a reason to hold on. I struggled against exhaustion, grasping at thin straws of hope, but with each passing minute, I was failing.

It had been a dream – a wonderful dream.

But I had to wake up and face facts - my husband wasn’t coming back to me in any form.

I’d been most grievously had.

I stretched my limbs - one leg, then the other. Then I lifted my torso, bending my arms and flexing my hands. I crawled backward off the bed, raising my arms above my head, listening to my spine snap and pop. I looked at Crowley again, peacefully expired – one last look before I made plans for his burial.

I was beginning to feel it was about time.

I walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer, looking for my pajamas. Before I did anything, I needed a nap or I would drop dead on my feet.

I winced at the ill-placed pun, but chalked it up as part of the healing process. Gallows humor. I could never appreciate it before.

That probably wouldn’t change.

I rummaged through the drawer, looking past perfectly suitable shirts and lounge pants but for what, I didn’t know … until I found it.

A journal.

I have lots of journals, to be honest. Writing is a passion of mine, along with reading. In their pages, I have documented everything that has ever happened to me in excruciating detail - as if anyone would ever be interested in that sort of thing. As if reading about my pains or my triumphs would help anyone. I don’t find myself to be remotely (as the kids put it) relatable. I have no desire to be famous, and the circumstances of my life (mainly my marriage to Crowley) have made me wealthier than I could ever possibly enjoy in my lifetime.

But not today.

Today I felt numb to everything around me, and not just because of the intense cold. Nothing seemed to matter. I left my pajamas in the drawer and hopped back onto the bed. I might have been cavalier about it, but there was nothing here for me to fear. What lay in bed beside me was a body, nothing more - flesh and blood rotting from the inside with no unique soul to keep it all together.

Make it worth something.

I opened my journal - this journal - to the first empty page where a blue ballpoint pen had been shoved into the spine, waiting for me. For how long …  I can’t remember. I picked the thing out and uncapped it. I put the tip to the paper, but I didn’t start writing right away. I hadn’t written in a journal in weeks. Where should I start? Do I pick up where my last journal entry left off, no matter how long ago that was? Even if it ended on a happy memory, like me and Crowley going to the cinema, having dinner at The Ritz?

Making love in the backseat of his Bentley?

Or do I forget all that and start a few minutes ago when I finally decided to give up on the possibility of my husband coming back? A couple of hours ago when the old woman almost refused to sell me the potion? Or that horrible night, when the police showed up at my door with apologetic looks and horrendous news?

While I juggled those thoughts, trying to decide, the world around me began to awaken. Birds sang their melodious songs in the bitter cold. The wind outside knocked against my window. A tiny critter scritched inside the walls, which would have had me running for the traps, but not today. Whatever you are, little creature, you have been granted a stay of execution.

Nothing would be dying within my home today.

The sun rose higher and the room got brighter. To my surprise, it heated up a little, and the ice cubes on the bed began to melt. I heard them collapsing in their piles, some having turned to water, making way for others to fall. The bed dipped as I shifted my legs beneath me, my crossed limbs having fallen asleep in their bent up positions. I cleared my throat, the sound rumbling in my chest, though the voice didn’t sound entirely my own. My ears had been ringing during the drive home and for most of the night, so I imagined I must have caught some kind of cold.

But as I reasoned out all of this, going about my task, my heart realized a truth that my mind hadn’t.

When my mind caught up, it went blank.

My blood turned to ice, secondary to the chill in the room, helped naught an inch by the invading sun. I didn’t think I could get any colder, but I did. That inside out feeling returned as another started to register.

I no longer felt quite so alone.

I lowered my journal, glancing up from the blank page to find Crowley, rolled onto his side, staring at me with wide, emotionless eyes.

[somniumoflight]

Crossover Idea #8 – Bendy and the Ink Machine/Monsters vs Aliens (Movie)

The Studio’s Inky denizens manage to escape Joey’s control and eventually attract the attention of Area Fifty-Something

Okay, so, this is an idea I’ve had percolating in my head off-and-on for a while now, and my little sister loved it when I recounted it, so it can’t be all bad, right?  The main idea for this crossover basically goes like this:

Henry has been stuck in a loop of sorts inside the Studio’s walls for a very long time, being forced to follow the “script” of Joey’s story.  However, after going through the studio hundreds of times, Henry finally decides enough is enough, and starts snatching some of Joey’s old notes and books at the beginning of every loop in order to look through them and find a solution to the whole “loop” problem. He eventually finds one: Joey actually kept his old notes from when he was creating the Ink Machine, and among his notes are spells that are being used to help him control the Studio, as well as notes that imply Joey is using the Machine to stay alive.  Henry uses these notes to take control of the Ink Machine after several loops, killing Joey in the process, but is turned into an ink version of himself on top of that, and as such can’t exactly return to normal human life without people noticing he’s literally made of ink now.  Now that he’s basically stuck here in the Studio for the foreseeable future, Henry decides that if he’s stuck here, he’s at least going to make the place less hellish for everyone, and runs off to do just that.

Fast forward a significant period of time – Henry has been working on fixing up all the people living in the Studio, from the Searchers to the Butcher gangs, to Alice when she emerges from the ink again, to Sammy and Norman and all the other former employees – and even the Ink Demon, to an extent, though not until after several months of the demon still being an enemy and trying to kill him at every turn.  The ink people are all doing sort of alright now, but they could be doing better and frankly, the Studio’s a little cramped for all the souls and fragmented souls and warped toons that Joey created in the Ink to be given actual bodies – not to mention there’s just too many bad memories here.  However, thanks to some experimenting, Henry and Co. now know that, apart from Henry, they can’t really survive outside the Studio, and as such literally cannot go anywhere.

This is when Area 5? (I can’t believe that’s canonically what the facility/organization is called like damn XD) finally hears reports of ink monsters in the old Studio, thanks to someone who ventured into the studio fleeing in terror after being chased by a territorial Ink Demon, and after some tense encounters they come to an agreement – the Toons will come to Area 5? willingly so long as they are allowed to use the Machine to build a new “Studio” underneath the facility, and have some sort of access to the surface.

Details for this Crossover:

Area 5? isn’t just a prison for the monsters, it’s also a base of sorts – the General will sometimes send the monsters out to deal with other monsters that appear elsewhere in the world, if they’re too dangerous to deal with as a human.  The monsters still don’t get out much, though.

After Henry got drafted and left the Studio, he served in the Military for several years, during that time he met General Monger, who was scouting for talented officers who might be able to handle working in the newly formed Area 5?.  He ended up working as a “monster handler” aka one of the humans that kept an eye on the monsters in the facility and while out on missions.

He sort of accidentally became friends with the four monsters there (So, Link, BOB, Dr. Cockroach, and the Invisible Man, who is dead by canon time out of old age I think), and may or may not have drawn cartoons for them.

He eventually was discharged from the facility thanks to suffering a crippling injury during one of their abroad missions, which is eventually “healed” when he turns into ink.

Anyway yeah, the canon events happen, and Henry eventually takes over the Studio by taking control of the Ink Machine the same way Joey did, and it comes with some nifty abilities.

Henry can literally manipulate the Studio around him just by thinking.  If he wants a pipe to stop leaking?  It stops.  If he wants to get somewhere quickly?  A new hall will appear around the next corner or behind the next door he opens that leads directly to where he wants to go, and is somehow quicker to traverse than normal passageways.  If he wants the Ink Machine to spit out a new ink creature in a specific form?  It will do that.

He can communicate directly with people through the ink, if he concentrates hard enough, though it can be difficult to get his messages across sometimes because of how many voices there are in the ink.  Also, he can hear and talk to the voices in the ink, which… isn’t fun.

Henry can also manipulate the ink of already existing Toons, Searchers, Lost Ones, etc, fixing up injuries, deformities, and even eventually adding new limbs (in the case of the Ink Demon, when he finally stops trying to kill Henry – the demon’s okay with his scary look, but he wants to be able to walk faster outside of Beast form, and wants a tail, damn it!)

Literally every ink creature except the Ink Demon ends up on his side after that.  The demon’s too pissed off to really consider any kind of alliance at first because taking control of the Studio directly lets Henry literally run circles around the former apex predator of the Studio, and he doesn’t appreciate being made a fool out of.  (He comes around eventually, though, mostly because Henry eventually decides that when he says he’ll help everyone, he’ll help everyone, damn it, and doesn’t take no for an answer.)

By the time that Area 5?’s people turn up, Henry’s basically the unofficial leader of most of the ink monsters, with only a few exceptions, those being the Demon and “Alice” Angel/Susie, who prefer doing their own thing even if they’ve agreed to stop hurting other people now… mostly…

The first squad of Area 5?’ers get the scare of their life when they first enter the Studio, because they get ambushed by the Ink Demon (who’s coming around to the name Bendy, but only when it’s Henry calling him that, and nobody else) and nearly die because this demon is not at all happy that more people are intruding on his Studio.  They all get out alive, mostly because Henry manages to get there in time to stop the demon from killing anyone.

General Monger nearly gets the scare of his life too when he comes to negotiate, but for a different reason – because not ONCE has the facility had to deal with an entire mini-civilization of monsters instead of just one or two before!  He’s almost relieved when the group agrees to come quietly, provided they’re allowed a lot of room to expand the place at the facility and above-ground areas so people can see the sun and stuff. Makes things much easier, and they loose a lot less men that way too.

So the ink monsters all get moved to Area 5? a few years before canon by basically having the Ink Machine uprooted and then placed in the facility, in one of the spare containment units used for Insectasaurus when his original cell has problems.

Henry is delighted to be able to talk to his old monster buddies again, and once they realize this is the same handler of theirs that used to draw them cartoons, only monsterfied, they’re also delighted for various reasons – though also a little unnerved because occult bullshit is new for them – most monsters are created via Mad Science! after all.

The Toons all adjust to living at the facility and basically make themselves a new Studio/Town that expands outwards via Toon physics.  Apart from a few accidents where some of the soldiers get turned into ink creatures themselves, everything goes swimmingly.

Then the events of the movie happen, and while Henry and Co. aren’t too helpful against the giant robot that I cannot remember the name of for the life of me, they’re sure helpful against Galaxhar.

Imagine, if you would, that wannabe alien overlord looking up from a monologue, and suddenly coming eyes-to-grin with the menacing figure of the Ink Demon, and then screaming and running like the little coward he is, because that’s what he do when faced with overwhelming odds against him, haha.

Damn, now I want to draw Bendy and the Ink Machine characters XD

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 6, Number 5

Courtney Marie Andrews

The lockdown continues, and live music has disappeared, replaced by a somewhat antiseptic and unsatisfying spate of live streamed shows mostly one person with a guitar on the couch in their living room.  We salute the courage and the effort but miss bands and audiences and even the chatter drifting in from the bar area.  In the meantime, at least for now, there are still lots of new records vying for our attention.  We present this Dust to catch up with some of them.  It’s an ecletic survey of contemporary classical, vengeful hip hop, psyche, jazz, folk and metal artists, all continuing to try to navigate a very difficult period.  Our writers this time include many of the usual suspects, Bill Meyer, Ray Garraty, Jonathan Shaw, Andrew Forell, Tim Clarke, Jennifer Kelly, Tobias Carroll and Patrick Masterson.  

a•pe•ri•od•ic—For (New Focus Recordings)

for a•pe•ri•od•ic by a•pe•ri•od•ic

Silence is a rhythm, too, and a•pe•ri•od•ic dances to it repeatedly throughout their second recording. The Chicago-based ensemble has traversed the new music continuum, performing music by composers from Peter Ablinger to Christian Wolff. Sometimes that silence isn’t quite what you want to hear — the COVID-19 pandemic cut short its tenth anniversary spring season one concert too soon — but it proves to be rich loam from which to grow music on this CD. All four of its pieces were composed specifically for the group by individuals who recognize the merit of non-imposing sounds. That knowledge derives in part from the fact that three of the composers also perform with the group, but also from their long-standing engagement with post-Cage-ian and Wandelweiser material. Director and pianist Nomi Epstein’s descriptively entitled “Combine, Juxtapose, Delayed Overlap” feels like a ceremony intermittently perceived through an opening and closing door. Billie Howard’s “Roll” tucks the composer’s whispering violin behind muted French horn and voice, wringing intensity from the effort one must apply to following its retreating sonorities. Vocalist Kenn Klumpf’s “Triadic Expansions (2)” moves in the other direction, sprouting ivy-like from the slenderest branches of sound. By comparison, Michael Pisaro’s stately “festhalten/loslassen” is a veritable riot of unwinding tonal colors. As the decade ticks towards year eleven, rest assured that a•pe•ri•od•ic is searching for the next promising idea.

Bill Meyer

 Agallah — Fuck You The Album (Propain Campain)

Fuck You The Album by Agallah

This is a personal vendetta album. After more than 25 years in the game, Agallah has got to settle the score against the whole world. To say he just has a chip on his shoulder would an understatement. Thirteen songs of pure hate with the title quite properly reflecting its content. In his fight, the rapper strips down all the artistry, including the production. Known for making beats for other hip hop acts, Agallah here not only uses barely serviceable beats, he doesn’t even makes pretense he needs beats. Almost all the tracks work as a capellas. His gruffy voice and arrogant flow don’t need sonic support. And what support can you expect from the world full of phonies, liars, actors, pretenders, cowards and fair weather friends? “Stop pretending, my career is not ending,” he almost screams on “Telling Lies To Me.” If this CD feels like a dinosaur in 2020, then it says that it is not something wrong with this album but with the world.

Ray Garraty

 Courtney Marie Andrews — “Burlap String” single (Fat Possum)

Old Flowers by Courtney Marie Andrews

As the eponymous song of 2018’s May Your Kindness Remain amply demonstrated, Courtney Marie Andrews’ pipes are not to be fucked with. But while that was perhaps the most vivid depiction yet of her abilities, the Phoenix native’s delivery can be just as powerful on a muzzle. Such has been her approach thus far with what we’ve heard from Old Flowers, originally slated for an early June release but since pushed back to July (or beyond, who knows). The post-breakup lyrical territory was initially revealed with first single “If I Told,” but it’s the gently loping “Burlap String” I’ve had on repeat for much of the past month. Ever ended a relationship with someone and regretted it? Lush piano and a sighing slide guitar tell you Courtney has without her ever having to utter a word, and much of the song is an illustration of the internal conflict that lingers long after you’ve made the call. I’m inclined to write out the whole second verse here, but it’s the end of the third that lingers as Andrews evokes barely holding back tears: There’s no replacing someone like you. That ensuing pause runs bone-deep, its implication clear — no amount of Mary Oliver can save you from yourself.

Patrick Masterson

 Dennis Callaci — The Dead of the Day (Shrimper Records)

Some albums could be said to hum. In the case of the latest from Dennis Callaci, that’s meant literally: many of the songs on his new album The Dead of the Day feature warm clouds of feedback or droning organ notes. It’s a companion piece to his recent book 100 Cassettes, which features thoughts on musical icons throughout the year. This album’s focus is more insular: some of the songs have a drifting, improvised feel to them. But Callaci also taps into some terrifically subdued songwriting veins here — “Broadway Blues Pt. II” recalls the haunted dub-folk of Souled American, and Franklin Bruno’s piano lends a propulsive dimension to the ruminative title track. And on “Scoreless,” Callaci teams with his Refrigerator bandmate (and brother) Allen Callaci for a song that slowly builds from acoustic foundations to something modestly grandiose. Contrary to what its title might suggest, this album feels very much like a document of one man’s life.  

Tobias Carroll

 Cameron / Carter / Håker Flaten — Tau Ceti (Astral Spirits)

Tau Ceti by Cameron / Carter / Håker Flaten

Tau Ceti is a planet that is hypothesized to be similar enough to Earth that it could potentially support similar life forms. The three musicians that recorded this tape may come not come from the same system, but they fall into a harmonious orbit around a common circumstance — they were all in the same swanky studio, Halversonics, on a particular winter day in early 2019. One supposes that whatever they were rotating, they move towards the source of heat, since Tau Ceti builds slowly from chill acoustic exploration to a fuzzed-out solar flare. As they progress, abstraction burns away and velocity increases. It’s a gas to hear Ingebrigt Håker Flaten and Lisa Cameron lock in behind Tom Carter’s increasingly gritty sound-bursts.

Bill Meyer  

 Tim Daisy — Sereno (Relay)

Tim Daisy - Sereno :: music for marimba, turntables and percussion (relay 028) by Tim Daisy

Sometimes the timing of even the most tuned-in drummer is foiled by external circumstances. Sereno was supposed to signal the end of an intense phase of solo practice by Tim Daisy. His intentions for 2020 included making an album of duets and writing music for two ensembles. But at press time he, like everyone else, is hunkered down with his family, and everything he had planned is on hold.  

Daisy’s stint as a primarily solo artist coincided with a reconsideration of identity; he wasn’t just a drummer, but a multi-instrumentalist and an orchestrator of electro-acoustic sound. Sereno is split between three elegiac marimba solos that showcase Daisy’s instinct for deliberate melodic development and five much denser constructions for imprecisely tuned radios, playing and skipping records, and Daisy’s strategically reflective drumming. If this record is the only new music that Daisy puts out this year, it leaves us with plenty to think about.

Bill Meyer

  Kaja Draksler & Terrie Ex — The Swim (Terp)

On the surface, this looks like quite the odd couple. Terrie Ex Is a Dutch electric guitarist in his mid-60s who still goes by his punk rock name. He’s a ferocious improviser whose scrabbling instrumental attack incurs intensity from any ensemble that doesn’t want to get bowled over, and he knows more Ethiopian tunes by heart than anyone on your block. Kaja Draksler is a Slovenian pianist exactly half his age whose recent projects include a fast-paced, idiosyncratically balanced trio with Petter Eldh and Christian Lillinger, and an octet for which she sets Robert Frost poems to a combination of chanson, Baroque chamber music, and thorny free improvisation. But neither got where they are by letting fear deter them from a musical challenge, and both of them have a fine awareness that one way of understanding their respective instruments is that they are pieces of wood with wires attached. Given that common understanding of music as a combination of coexisting textures and assertive actions, they work together quite well on this CD, which documents a performance that took place at London’s Caf�� Oto in 2018. Scrape meets sigh, jagged fish-hook pluck meets sparse wire-damped drizzle, instinct meets intuition, and when the disc is done, it’ll seem quite sensible to dive back in and swim the whole length in reverse.

Bill Meyer  

 Errant — S/T EP (Manatee Rampage Recordings)

errant by errant

Errant is the one-woman project of Rae Amitay. Some listeners of metal music may be familiar with Amitay’s work, as vocalist for death-grind-hybridists Immortal Bird and as drummer for the folk-metal act Thrawsunblat. For Errant, Amitay has created songs and sounds that have little in common with those other bands’ aesthetic extremities. “The Amorphic Burden” may prompt you to recall the melodic black metal that Ludicra was making toward the end of that band’s storied run, or the sludgy drama of Agrimonia’s most recent record. In any case, Errant’s sound skews toward more luminescent atmospheres. Production values are largely pristine; Amitay wants you to hear clearly every string and cymbal strike. It makes sense. She plays a bunch of instruments well, and that’s part of the point: that one woman is producing all the sounds, and all the affect. She ends the EP with a cover of Failure’s “Saturday Savior,” and it’s the least interesting thing on the record. But even there, she presents the listener with something worth hearing. Her clean vocals are lovely, disarmingly so. What may be most impressive about this early iteration of Errant is the extent of Amitay’s talents, and how those talents allow her to encroach on the hyper-masculine territory of the “one-man” act.

Jonathan Shaw  

 Field Works — Ultrasonic (Temporary Residence)

Ultrasonic by Field Works

Stuart Hyatt’s latest compilation in the Field Works series is an absolute beauty — and timely given it’s being released during a pandemic whose origins may be linked to bats. The field recordings that the contributors used to create the music on Ultrasonic come from the echolocation of bats, and the approaches tend towards rhythmic or atmospheric. At the rhythmic end of the spectrum we have Eluvium’s majestic opener “Dusk Tempi,” akin to his work on Talk Amongst the Trees. Mary Lattimore’s glimmering harp patterns are fitting accompaniment to the chittering bat sounds on “Silver Secrets.” And Kelly Moran’s prepared piano on “Sodalis” sends the listener down a hall of mirrors, chased by gorgeous bass tones. At the more abstract, atmospheric end of the spectrum we have Jefre Cantu-Ledesma’s radiant “Night Swimming.” Christina Vantzou blurs the line between the sounds of modular synthesis and bat sonar on “Music for a Room with Vaulted Ceiling.” And on Sarah Davachi’s “Marion,” the listener is immersed in a luminous halo of nocturnal overtones. Wherever the artists venture, this is a varied yet consistently evocative collection.

Tim Clarke  

 FMB DZ — The Gift 3 (Fast Money Boyz / EMPIRE)

The Gift 3 was initially set to be released in December 2019 but was postponed until now. DZ’s “Merry Christmas, pussies!” on one of the tracks doesn’t sound so odd, though, because the whole world has plunged into a constant holiday. The new album continues two trends. It carries on the “ape” theme from the previous album Ape Season. “Ape Activities,” “Keep It on Me” and “No Features” are the grittiest tracks from a disc where the prevalent mood is a sick worry. DZ made it out of the hood but had to be on the lookout as the enemies are out to get him. The other trend is that The Gift 3 continues the ideas of The Gift series. The songs have a usual verse-hook structure, are poppier and more relaxed than on Ape Season. DZ, thankfully, doesn’t try to sing anymore but hires some singers on choruses. The hardest track here is “High Speed” with Rio Da Yung Og where Detroit/Flint duo spit vicious lines.

Ray Garraty

  Hala — Red Herring (Cinematic)

Detroit multi-instrumentalist Ian Ruhala wears his heart dripping from his sleeve on “Red Herring” his latest record as Hala. Skipping from the yacht rock of “Making Me Nervous” to the country blues of “True Colors” via power pop, The Kinks and Tom Petty, Ruhala manages to create a thread with deceptively simple melodies and the sincerity of his delivery.  There’s more than a touch of Kevin Barnes in the voice and the delight in throwing genres at the wall to see what sticks and, like Barnes, some of it fails to adhere. The pleasure here is in the sense of eavesdropping on the process and reveling in unexpected flourishes that refuse to be ignored.  

Ruhala writes a smooth love song and isn’t afraid to turn up the guitar or address politics on standout “Lies” - “I’m eating breakfast with the fascists/Oh man they stand about ten feet tall/My mouth is bleeding at their proceedings/They get their courage through a plastic straw” It may not be Guthrie but he makes it work through a leavening wit and a mid-tempo vamp straight from the solar plexus. “Red Herring” suffers somewhat from its stylistic roaming but a fundamental big heartedness and willingness to reach makes it an enjoyable trip.  

Andrew Forell  

 Las Kellies — Suck This Tangerine (Fire)

Suck This Tangerine opens with a loose groove and a grime smeared highlife guitar line, the voice enters with ironic invitations over choppy Gang of Four chords. In the new one from Las Kellies, Argentinian duo Cecilia Kelly and Silvina Costa sling taut bass lines and slash guitars over mutant disco rhythms for 12 tracks of slinky indie dance. Drawing on elements from Leeds, London and the Bronx, Kelly and Costa add dubby space and South American humidity to their sound, to elevate the album beyond the sum of its influences.  

Kelly handles guitar and bass, wielding the former like a cross between Andy Gill and Viv Albertine and unfurling loose funky serpents with the latter. Costa swings between ESG and The Bush Tetras and incorporates an array of hand drums that deepen and enliven the rhythmic pulse. There is a palpable and joyful chemistry between the two evidenced by their easy interplay and enhanced by the production that gives clarity and elbowroom to each instrument. If the lyrics can tend toward the perfunctory, they are delivered with a winking insouciance on put downs like “Close Talker” and “Rid Of You”.  Suck This Tangerine is a worthy addition to the growing collection of feminist post-punk inspired albums we’ve been dancing to of late.  

Andrew Forell  

 Mint Mile — Ambertron (Comedy Minus One)

Ambertron by Mint Mile

Silkworm, the band, may have ended in 2005 with the death of drummer Michael Dahlquist, but its legacy of slow, gut-socking heaviness, mordant wit and muscular guitar lives on, first in Bottomless Pit and now in Tim Midyett’s new band Ambertron. Midyett’s voice and clangorous baritone guitar is instantly recognizable, of course, to anyone who loved Silkworm, but the band diverges somewhat with the pedal steel played by Justin Brown of Palliard, weaving eerily though the slow buzz and moan of “Likelihood.” Jeff Panall, from Songs:Ohio, plays the hard, heavy drums that undergird these songs, giving them structure and forward motion. Other players include Matthew Barnhart from Tre Orsi and Horward Draper from Shearwater. Greg Normal of Bitter Tears contributes a mournful bit of trumpet to “Fallen Rock,” and Chicago alt-country mainstay Kelly Hogan takes the lead in “Sang.” The music is raw and morose; even dense strings can’t quite lift the gloom in “Christmas Comes and Goes,” a song as raw as late November in Chicago. And yet there’s a sort of resilience in it, a strength that comes through persistence. “If we could only find a way to bank the time we had together,” sings Midyett in “Giving Love,” his hoarse voice full of ragged loss, his guitar raging against it all and not quite beaten down even now.

Jennifer Kelly

 Gard Nilssen’s Supersonic Orchestra — If You Listen Carefully the Music Is Yours (Odin)

If You Listen Carefully The Music Is Yours by Gard Nilssen´s Supersonic Orchestra

Perched atop his drum stool, Gard Nilssen sits where styles converge. He’s supplied the controlled boil that drives the free-bop combo Cortex, laid down some heavier beats with Bushman’s Revenge and exemplified long-form lucidity with his own trio, Acoustic Unity. In 2019, the Molde Jazz Festival recognized his versatility and forward perspective by anointing him the artist in residence. Besides showcasing his ongoing projects and accompanying heavy guests from abroad, most notably Bill Frisell, he got to put together a dream project. This 16-piece big band, which includes members of Cortex, Acoustic Unity, and the Trondheim Jazz Orchestra, is it. With the assistance of co-arranger André Roligheten, Nilssen has taken some of his trio’s sturdy melodies and turned them into frameworks for boisterous but subtly colored performances. With three basses and three drummers, this could have been either a mess or an uptight game of “you first,” “no sir after you.” But the rhythm crew shifts easily between swinging unisons and refractory elaborations. Roligheten often plays two saxophones at once in smaller settings, and one suspects that he has a lot to do with the rich colors that the horns paint around the featured soloists.

Bill Meyer  

 Matthew J. Rolin — Ohio (Garden Portal)

Ohio by Matthew J. Rolin

The ghoulish image on the j-card belies the sounds encoded upon this tape. Matthew J. Rolin is a relative newcomer to the practice of acoustic guitar performance; the earliest release on his Bandcamp page was recorded in late 2017. But he’s catching on fast. Switching between six and twelve-string guitars, he serves up equal measures of ingratiating lyricism and immersive surrender to pure sound. Opener “Red Brick” slots into the former category, with a heart-tugging melody that keeps doling out turns that’ll keep you wondering where it’s going and backtracks that’ll ensure that you never feel lost. “Brooklyn Centre,” on the other hand, grows filaments of string sound out of a pool of prayer bowl resonance centering enough to make you cancel your mindfulness app subscription due to perceived lack of need. Rolin develops ideas situated between these poles over the rest of this brief set, which runs just shy of 28 minutes and definitely leaves one wanting a bit more.

Bill Meyer

 Nick Storring — My Magic Dreams Have Lost Their Spell (Orange Milk)

My Magic Dreams Have Lost Their Spell by Nick Storring

What Jim O’Rourke did for the music of Van Dyke Parks and John Fahey on Bad Timing, Nick Storring does for Roberta Flack’s on My Magic Dreams Have Lost Their Spell. The Canadian composer may not have O’Rourke’s name recognition or past membership in a very famous rock band going for him, but consider these parallels. He’s a handy with quite a few instruments, he’s an inveterate assistant to other artists across disciplinary lines, and he functions with equal commitment and fluency in a variety of genres. For this record, his first to be pressed on vinyl (albeit in miniscule numbers), Storring uses the lush string sound of Flack’s 1970s hits as a launching point for deep sonic immersions that are considerably more emotionally oblique than their inspirations’ articulations of loneliness and surrender. When he goes melodic, the cello-led tunes seem to reach for something that they never touch, and when he goes for slow-motion density, the music imparts an experience akin to watching the sort of cinematic experience where you can’t tell if you’re seeing a really slow take or the film has frozen at a single frame.

Bill Meyer

 Sunn Trio — Electric Esoterica (Twenty One Eight Two Recording Company)

Electric Esoterica by Sunn Trio

Sunn Trio, from Arizona, makes sprawling, multi-ethnic psychedelia that juxtaposes the scree and groan of heavy improvisational rock with the otherly chords and rhythms of the Middle East.  Opener “Alhiruiyn” slicks a trebly sheen over its surging, rampaging improvisations, more in the vein of Black Sun Ensemble than Cem Karaca.  But “Majoun” layers antic percussion and tone-shifting bent notes in a limber evocation of the souk.  “Roktabija The Promulgator” blasts a strident, swaggering surf riff, about as Arabic as “Miserlou” (which is, in fact, Arabic).  “Khons at Karnak” buzzes with hard rock aggression, but shimmies with belly dancing syncopation.  Because of the name, the preoccupation with non-Western cultures and the Phoenix mailing address, you might think that Sunn Trio is aligned somehow with Sun City Girls, but no.  All kinds of weirdness lurks in the desert out there, lucky for us.  

Jennifer Kelly  

 Turbo, Gunna & Young Thug — “Quarantine Clean” single (Playmakers)

Despite the subject matter’s potential (ahem) virality, “Quarantine Clean” slipped out almost unnoticed in early April and is the kind of muted performance Young Thug doesn’t get enough credit for (while, curiously, his followers often get too much derision for). For all of Thugger’s hyperfluorescent hijinx over the years that have produced earworms like, say, “That’s All” and “Wyclef Jean,” there’s another side that shows up in stuff like “The Blanguage” and “Freaky” where he lets the words do the work; that’s the subterranean sonic world we’re living in here as he opines on God’s role in the pandemic and why he’s lost so much money but still has to pay for his parents’ penthouse (which: welcome to the revolution, pal). Thug’s acolyte in slime Gunna, meanwhile, does most of the song’s heavy lifting with duties on the first verse and chorus, but it’s pretty hard to tell the two apart, such is the slippery restraint both opt to exercise here. The real star, then, is beatmaker Turbo, whose buoyant anchor melody is complemented by what sounds like a lilting flute. It’s a light touch from all parties, a mellow mood well suited to our time of collective party-eschewing shelter. Run that back in prudence.

Patrick Masterson

 Various Artists—Ten Years Gone (A Tribute to Jack Rose) (Tompkins Square)

Ten Years Gone : A Tribute to Jack Rose by Various Artists

A decade on from the too early passing of the great American Primitive/blues/raga player Jack Rose, Arborea’s Buck Curran gathers friends, collaborators and younger artists inspired by Rose for a gorgeous tribute to the master. Mike Gangloff, who played with Rose in Pelt and Black Twig Pickers, leads off with a plaintive, sepia-toned fiddle lament (“The Other Side of Catawbwa”), while next generation experimental droner Prana Crafter closes with an expansive, space folk reverie (“High Country Dynamo”). In between, old friends like Sir Richard Bishop evoke Rose’s full-blown orchestral guitar playing (“By Any Other Name”) while young pickers like Matt Sowell take up the trail forged by Dr. Ragtime. Isasa from Spain and Paulo Laboule Novellino from Italy attest to Rose’s global appeal. It’s mostly guitar, but not entirely; Helena Espvall from Espers contributes a brooding, reverberant “Alcantara” on cello. Curran’s own “Greenfields of America (Spiritual for Jack Rose)” is slow and thoughtful, letting long bent notes ring out with liquid clarity; it’s a hymn and a prayer and a testimony to the wide influence of an artist gone too soon.  

Jennifer Kelly

 Emily Jane White — Immanent Fire (Talitres)

Immanent Fire by Emily Jane White

Emily Jane White gets tagged as a folk singer, but on this, her sixth full-length, the Oakland songwriter brings a fair amount of goth-tinged drama. Taut string arrangements and big booming drums lift “Infernal” well out of the woman-with-guitar category, and White sounds more like PJ Harvey or even Chelsea Wolfe than a sweet voiced strummer. Immanent Fire sticks, topically, to environmental concerns with track titles like “Washed Away,” “Drowned” and “Metamorphosis.” A foreboding creeps through the songs, pretty as they are, even piano lit “Dew” asks “Does poison drop like the dew?” Arrangements, by Anton Patzner, the composer, arranger and violinist of Foxtails Brigade and Judgment Day, give these cuts weight and heft, punctuating eerie melodies with thick swathes of strings, rumbling percussion and keyboards. The disc culminates in “Light” which begins in a whisper and climaxes in drum-shocked, orchestral swoon. Soothing background music it is not.

Jennifer Kelly

 Z-Ro — Quarantine: Social Distancing (1 Deep Entertainment / EMPIRE)

An unexpected seven-track EP bears an expected title from a Dirty South legend. Z-Ro’s usual topics — trust and loneliness — gain a new meaning in the time of social distancing. To keep away women who only want his money is a necessary precaution now. To be at the corner at the party is a rule for survival. Z-Ro is on his ground counting his dough alone in the house. Earlier he did it so no ‘shife’ (the title of one of the tracks) friends could rob him, now it’s just to obey quarantine rules. The first half of this EP is a bit muddled by unnecessary intros and reggae tunes but the second one hits hard. As always with Z-Ro, the hardest content takes the gentlest form (“Niggas is Hoes” especially is almost a pop song). On the final track “Life of the Party” Boosie Badazz drops by, giving his verdict on the pandemic: “Fuck Corona!”

Ray Garraty

[dat-town]

No Speed Limit | Chapter 1

Summary: Some people live to race while others race to live. When an uptown girl’s and street racer’s worlds collide, their lives are bound to change. For the better or worse, it’s hard to tell. In-between rivalry and unwanted sparks, there’s definitely a bumpy road ahead (with no speed limit).

Words: 2.6k

Chapter index

Kim Hanbin wasn't particularly fond of his reputation but he disliked even more that those Gangnam kids treated him like dirt.

In the Ring, this depraved outskirt of Seoul he was known as the Ringmaster's favourite, a puppy jumping at every order. The rumours also said he ran away from home by stealing his father's car at the fragile age of sixteen because that was when he first appeared on the horizon among the local gangs. People whispered behind his back that he not only dealt with drugs but lived on them too. They claimed he once beat someone half-dead because of a scratch on his car.

Lies. All of them. But nobody had to know.

Hanbin didn't bother correcting those who were in the wrong. Now that he was both feared and admired most people at least let him be. They gushed about him when he was there and only talked shit behind his back. There was only a small circle of people whom he had trusted with his life and who know enough about him.

However, one thing was true out of all those gossips running around about him: he was the best driver in the Ring and undeniably one of the bests in all Seoul. Cops had only caught him once during his rookie years and never again since, he was too good, too fast for that. And as somebody who lived off his driving abilities, he had to be if he wanted to survive in this cold, harsh world. That much he has learned since he was on his own.

He had worked  hard to earn himself a title here in the Ring, so when that almighty Jeon Seungyeon waltzed in here as if he owned the place, as if it was his innate right to get bows from left and right, he was pissed to say the least. That rich guy thought he was better than anyone just because he had money and a fancy, expensive car that could break in two at the first scratch. He had probably never knew deprivation since he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

“Come again?” Hanbin slowly, unimpressed, borderline bored looked up at the big bulk of a man, taller and older than him. He didn't care about all that as he shrugged that perfectly manicured hand off his shoulder. Guys like him always just act tough and badass until they run back to hide behind their mothers' skirts. Hanbin has faced so much worse than him, so he won't be intimidated by a glare and flashy words.

“Are you deaf?” Seungyeon huffed, anger building up in him slowly, the vein popping at his neck.

His little crew laughed at his poor joke from behind and Hanbin rolled his eyes and put a hand on Bobby's chest stopping him in the middle of getting up to beat up the cool kids for messing in their territories. But Hanbin knew better than to make a scene, it would only benefit the politician's son.

“No but you're talking nonsense,” he answered coldly, eyes shooting daggers at the taller man.

Around them he heard the onlookers whispering, guessing the possible outcomes of this sudden encounter. There had been talks that the newly elected Gangnam mayor's son goes around in the suburbs looking for trouble, picking on people and not a lot of them dared to say no. But Hanbin had not much to lose anyway besides his pride and beloved car.

“So you don't want to race me? Ah are you afraid? What a coward,” the guy scoffed, his tone degrading as if he was talking to a stupid child. But if one of them was stupid, it was him with his ridiculous gelled hair, wearing a designer leather jacket and Rolex in a neighbourhood where people would have killed for there. And here he was, acting like a little prince so far from home, faway from his father's surveillance challenging the best of the Ring.

“Afraid of you? Hardly but I'm not a fan of wasting my time on newbies who think just because they can drive their fancy little car, they can race, too,” Hanbin answered as dry as the sand in the Sahara and he turned back to his group of friends sitting by his cars, clinking their beers after the regular Friday night race. Hanbin didn't even have a chance to celebrate today's victory or gather the cash, his share of the Ringmaster's profit from bets because Seungyeon butted into his business almost as soon as he got out of his car.

And now that annoying asshole grabbed his shoulder yanking him back.

“What did you just say, short stuff?” he hollered like an attention-craving child and Hanbin swatted his hand away irritatedly. He had some anger management issues in the past but he knew well this guy wasn't worth of starting a fight.

“Who's the deaf now?” he snorted and standing up straight, eyes fierce and wild, he croaked a brow at the rich kid. “I don't have to prove myself to you. Everyone here knows I'm the best. So if you want me to race with you,so you can get that glory you dream of, you have to offer something worthy of my time.”

For a long minute of two, they were staring at each other's eyes, unwavering, like two predators showing off dominance. It was a wordless battle and their audience of dozens of thugs, rascals or just young adults wanting to have fun hold their breath back waiting for something to happen. And Hanbin had never been one for backing off, for giving up, so it wasn't even a surprise when the big mouth Seungyeon sighed deeply in the end.

“Fine,” he shrugged and looked around, eyes searching for something, someone in the crowd. When he found what he was looking for, he flipped his arm towards a certain direction while his gaze settled on the current best of the Ring. “You can have my fierce little sister for tonight.”

First, there was silence, an awkward laughter and then a few people started whistling when it turned out he wasn't kidding by the stern look on his face.

“Why would I want anything fro-” from your little sister? Hanbin wanted to ask shaking his head but the words froze onto his throat when a girl, tearing herself apart from a barely adult guy, lunged at Seungyeon from behind.

“I'm not an asset, you asshole!” She spit on him furiously, long, black hair swirling in the air around her and Hanbin would have been a liar to claim his breath didn't hitch for a moment there. She looked like a beautiful, wild amazon, almost unreal but unlike her brother she didn't seem too outstanding, too Gangnam-like. She looked like someone who could get mixed up in their crowd. She wasn't too young, probably only a few years younger than Hanbin himself but still.

“Shut up, bitch,” her brother growled at her unapologetically and one of his friends yanked her back. The brutal way he treated her gave one more reason to Hanbin to hate this guy. “He won't win anyway, so you don't have to worry that he will dirty you.”

The crowd laughed, a few eww-d and for a moment Hanbin's eyes met with the girl's in the middle of this chaos. Her dark orbs were full of fire, pride and the kind of yearning for freedom that he has known well. HIs gaze slowly wandered downwards from the cupid bow of her plump, carmine red mouth, through the slim neck to her curvy body covered only in a crop top, jeans shorts and leather jacket. It was indeed a gorgeous sight but Hanbin didn't consider the offer because of her looks.

He wasn't that unattractive to not get laid if he didn't want to, a lot of girls were actually pretty willing just because of his mysterious bad boy reputation too, But offering his sister as a reward was far too big of a face of this guy. He was beyond confident, to the point it would be called arrogance and cockiness. Or else he wouldn't have offered his sister, right? And oh how Hanbin wished to wipe that confident grin off his face, to see him dancing back on his words, so he grinned wide at the last remark.

“Oh but it's not fun if you don't get your hands dirty,” he played with the word and tapped his fingers on his chin thinking before agreeing. “You know what? If you're that impatient to humiliate yourself today, in that case, we can start. Till the water tower over there and back.”

The triumphant smile on Seungyeon's face was ridiculous. Nobody has heard about his skills, so he couldn't have been good no matter how much his monkeys hyped him up. A good car didn't make the good driver, it was the other way around: a good driver could make a good race with any car. So it didn't matter that rich kid had the newest model of a car with a fabric roof that could be folded down and Hanbin still drove his black Nissan that had too many years and repairs in it. It didn't matter because unlike the other guy, he knew his car in and out and he was reborn on these streets, so he knew every corner and every traffic light.

“I will show you who should be humiliated, you pawn. If I win, you'll admit that I'm better in front of everyone,” Seungyeon grimaced as if he was disgusted just by looking at a ragged guy like Hanbin but the fact that he wanted to prove to be better told enough about his insecurity problems. Hanbin didn't say a word, just let him make a show, turning to the onlookers for applause while he got in the car. “Everybody heard the conditions, right?”

The audience cheered loudly and on cue every soul left the road to stand by the side and not in the way. Hanbin's friends patted him on the shoulder as they cleared from the hoof of his car. As he sat in the driver's seat, securing the safety belt, Bobby leaned over the window from outside and smacked him playfully.

“Are you out of your mind? Racing to get into a girl's pants? Are you that desperate, man? At least you should have asked for his Rolex.”

“Shit, you're right,” Hanbin laughed and they exchanged a knowing look with his best friend. Then Bobby gave him thumbs up with a huge grin and jogged off the road to join the others.

“Good luck, oppa!” One of the girls shrieked and the driver scoffed.

“I don't need luck.”

It had been a while since he hadn't believed in such things as luck or fate. He only believed in hard work that would pay its price. He started up the engine that growled like a hungry predator and he drove his car parallel to the white expensive one. Seungyeon grinned at him from behind his wheel with probably leather driver gloves on his hands and Hanbin almost laughed. The show-off! But he just glared at him coldly before looking ahead.

A girl was walking in front of their buzzing cars ready to take off her top to signal the beginning of the race when someone's shouting stopped her movement:

“Soyeon baby, you should go!” The guy from earlier who treated the girl - Soyeon apparently - like a ragdoll, now kept pushing her towards the road with a shiteating grin on his face.

Hanbin rolled his eyes and came to the conclusion that the girl couldn't have been any better than her brother as she was just there letting him do this. She must have lived for the show, especially with how quickly she agreed. The other girl left the field with a pout on her mouth as Soyeon stopped on the middle, separating line. She gave each driver a glare that would have killed them if it could. It was impossible to tell whom she wanted to win as she shrugged off her leather jacket slowly.

With his hand on the gear shift, Hanbin's Adam apple bobbed at the sight of the newly exposed skin and his eyes travelled down the beautiful tanned skin as the girl lifted the piece of clothing high. He shook his head slightly to get composed. He couldn't have let to get distracted, not now. It was a race for his pride after all. Not for the girl, he reminded himself.

The moment the jacket shot down, he stepped on the gas pedal and enjoyed the acceleration of the car. He switched between the clutch, shift, gas again and again with coordination movements and soon he went way beyond the speed limit. His dark car became one with shadows, going forward as relentless as one dark horse of the apocalypse.

In the rear mirror he saw Seungyeon not much behind, not enough to switch lanes before they reached the first traffic lights. Since Hanbin's lane was originally for the opposite direction, if anyone wanted to turn right when they reach the crossing, they could collide. And as they approached the corner, he noticed the huge truck just in time to step on the break, pull the wheel aside and get in the lane barely behind Seungyeon. He could almost hear the other guy's laughter. Stupid, if it was for him, he probably wouldn't have been able to stop the collision. As the truck passed them by, Hanbin went back to the other lane and sped up until he was in line with the white car. Meter by meter they were getting closer to the water tower and Hanbin knew well he had to drift if he didn't want to run into the fence around it. But since he was pretty good at that, he let the rich kid ahead with a smile as he slowed down a bit and while the guy struggled with a Y-turn, he pulled the handbrake into on position and let the car's back-wheels back out, turning the car completely around in lightning speed. But just as it reached 180 degrees, he switched the handbrake off and stepped on the gas pedal again shooting out in the right direction, toward the finish line. It was funny, watching Seungyeon trying to catch up with the dirt his car left behind but he had no chance. Hanbin arrived back to their original place six whole seconds earlier.

He let out a victory yell and as soon as he got out of the car, his friends and strangers alike surrounded him congratulating for another great win.

“As expected from our best,” Bobby hollered, girls screamed, guys were whooping and Hanbin took it all with a satisfied smirk.

“It was a piece of cake,” he claimed adrenaline still running wild in his veins as he got those high fives and congratulatory slaps on his arms and back. He enjoyed the joy and the attention, but his eyes were searching for his opponent, the rich guy with big mouth and even bigger ego. He wanted to see him walking away ashamed with his tail between his legs like the lapdog he was but it wasn't him whom his eyes found over the up and down jumping crowd.

Jeon Soyeon looked at him like one looks at a mystery waiting to be solved. She wasn't one of those shy girls who looked away immediately when their eyes met, she wasn't flirting either. She just merely stared back as if waiting what would be his next step.

Kim Hanbin wasn't particularly fond of his reputation and yet, sometimes he was ought to do something to keep it. So with a cold smile, he started walking towards her.

[cchellacat]

The Wedding That Never Was

Love All The Marvel Ships Challenge 

Day Eight ~ Formal Wear

“Hey.  Are you ready?”

Pepper pops her head round the door and finds Darcy standing in front of the mirror.  The lace covered satin she wears is off set with golden embroidery of tiny Fleur de Lise.  She makes a beautiful bride.  Her thick dark hair has been swept up in an elaborate up-do, each strand perfectly placed.

“I don’t know….”

“Darcy?”  Stepping into the room, Pepper closes the door behind her. “Oh honey, come on, tell me what’s wrong?”

“Pepper, I think I’ve made a huge mistake….  I don’t know what to do?”  Darcy stares at her through the mirror, her skin too pale against the pink of her lips.  Huge blue eyes plead with her for help.

“Darcy, come on, sit down.  They say everyone gets cold feet right before they get married.”

“I know, but that’s not what this is.”  She shakes her head and then sits carefully on the chair, trying not to ruin her dress.  The struggle to get the words out is very real, Pepper waits patiently, she’s never seen Darcy so distracted and worried… not for a long time at least, not since…  the less thought about that the better.

“I saw him again…”

Pepper didn’t need anything else to know who Darcy meant.

James Buchannan Barnes had made an impact on them all in some way.   However it had been Darcy who had been affected the most.  It had been the most fascinating thing to watch the two fall in love.  Pulled together like magnets, orbiting around one another like the earth and the sun.  It had been fast and passionate and the two were soon joined at the hip.  Where one was the other was sure to follow.  They had been like a tempest, their love for each other clear to any who even glanced at them.  Then like any good tempest, they’d blown out.

Pepper still doesn’t know what happened to end things between them, not really.  She has theories and nothing more.  One day they had been happily snuggling on the couch and the next he’d packed his bags and left.

Darcy had been a wreck, for nearly a year the girl had been grieving, utterly heart broken by his departure, but she wouldn’t talk about, not a word passed her lips about why.

She had slowly picked herself back up and moved on.  Now two years later she was happy, in love with a good stable man.  It might not be the epic romance of the ages, it would never burn with as much passion and fire as her relationship with Barnes, but is was gentle and kind, a still pond compared to the raging ocean storm.  Ian was good for her, a little easily walked over, but he didn’t seem to mind.  Where Barnes was complicated Ian was simple, where Barnes had been physically imposing Ian was anything but.  They were as different as different could be and that helped Darcy more than anything else had.

“Did he contact you?”

Darcy shook her head and wiped a finger under her lashes, catching the tear before it could ruin her makeup.

“No…  I was out yesterday, I went down to the park for a walk, feed the ducks, I just needed some time to think and then as I was coming back…  I swear I’m not going crazy Pepper, but he was there, watching me.  He was by the gates, I was close enough I could see the blue in his eyes.  A crowd came through and when I tried to find him again he was gone.”

“Darcy…  if it was him, if he wanted to talk, don’t you think he would have approached you…  I mean, well…  Does it really change anything?  Does it change all the things you’ve planned, just one look at him can’t have disrupted everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve.”

When the younger woman looks up at her Pepper’s words turn to ash in her mouth.

“Oh…”

Darcy gives her a refuel smile.

“Yeah, oh is right.  I don’t think I can walk down that aisle Pep.   Not with Ian.  I’m no good for him, I’ll only make him miserable if I do.  I know he’s in love with me but…  I’m never going to be in love with him.  There’s only one man that I ever felt that way for, it’s time I recognised that and face up to this.  It wouldn’t be fair to Ian, he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to make me happy and he’ll always fall just a little short.  I’ll ruin him if I marry him.  It took seeing James yesterday to understand that.  I’m never going to be over James Barnes, he’s in my blood, he owns me, body and soul, he’s a mark I’m never getting out.  A mark I don’t want to wash away no matter how much it hurts.”

“Darcy…  What happened between you?  Why did he leave?”

She stands suddenly at the question and crosses the room, her back to Pepper.  There are lines of tension across her shoulders and the way her head dips before she speaks again tells just how heavy a weight she was carrying.

“I asked him if we could have a baby…  That talk did not go how I thought it would.”  She says with a bitter laugh.

“He didn’t want children?”

“No… that…  he asked me if that’s what I wanted, children, with him. God help me Pepper I was honest, it’s all I had been thinking about for months.  I was 34 of course it was weighing on my mind.  Jane, you, even Maria Hill, you all had had babies within a year of each other.  He just looked all wistful like as he listened to me.  I didn’t have any reason to think he was…  anyway, everything seemed fine we went to bed and made love….  When I woke up in the morning there was just a note.   He said he didn’t want me to be held back, that he could see how much I wanted a baby, that he wanted that for me, but not with him.  Hydra sterilised him way back, he thinks they were trying to make it easier to control him.  Idiots, that man’s an ornery as a bull.  He said he’d be a danger to a baby, that he wasn’t safe and that I should find someone else who could give me the family I deserved.”

Pepper goes to her and wraps her in her arms and lets her cry.

“Why didn’t he just tell me?  I would have told him it didn’t matter, that I wouldn’t want that with anyone other than him…  I felt like I was dying…  he cut off his phone and no one seemed to know how to get in touch with him…  Fucking Steve wouldn’t even tell me anything and I know that he must have known where James went or he’d have been right on his tail looking for him and not sitting in the Tower without a fuckin care in the world.”

Pepper sits her down again and grabs the tissues for her.

“Pepper, could you…”

“Just sit tight, I’ll go take care of it.  I’ll get everyone cleared out.  Do you want me to talk to Ian, send him up here?”

“I can’t face him right now, I guess I’m a coward.  Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.”  She picked up her bag and withdrew an envelope, she pulled the ring off her finger and slipped it inside as she passed it to Pepper.

“Could you give him that?  I guess I made my choice last night after all.  I came home and wrote it after I saw James.”

Pepper’s heart breaks for her friend all over again as she leaves the room, letter clutched tightly in her hand.  James Barnes was an idiot.

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Steve tugged on his tie irritably as he stood outside the small church.  He hated formal wear, it made him feel like he was wearing a monkey suit all over again.  He’d come out for some air when it looked like the bride was going to be a little late.  He’s had a feeling all week that something is off, it’s part of why he’s out here right now.

He was happy that Darcy had moved on, that she was getting married.   She deserved to be happy.  Ian was a bit of milksop, not much back bone, he was happy to jump to Darcy’s tune, but if he made her happy, that was all that mattered.  When Bucky had left two years ago, truthfully Steve had been a little relieved.  Bucky and Darcy were like oil and fire, both of them too stubborn and loud and wilful, they were two of a kind, both unable to back down when they thought they were right, they had been explosive together.  When Bucky finally told him why he’d left Steve had wanted to shake him.  Darcy would never have put up with that if he’d given her the chance to make the choice herself.  But he’d kept his word to Bucky and told Darcy nothing.

From the corner of his eye he caught movement in the tree line across the street.  Suspicion curling up his spine he made his way over, the blue eyes that met his as a man emerged from the shadows proved him right.

“What are doing here Buck?”

His friend looked past him to the steps of the church where the flower girls were playing together.  The tiny girls all wearing matching dresses.  Morgan Stark, Freya Thorsdottir and Robin Hill were deemed old enough for the responsibility.  At age three and half they were all big enough to have their role in the wedding.

“I wanted to see… I wanted to know that she was happy.”

“I told you Buck, she’s moved on, she’s happy with Ian, you don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“Bucky…”

“I got back two weeks ago, I’ve been watching her.  She’s not herself.  She’s….  there’s no spark, do you know I haven’t seen her smile reach her eyes once?”

“She’s about to get married Bucky, don’t do this to her.”

“I love her Stevie.”

“She loves Ian now.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Steve sighed and shrugged helplessly.

“No, she doesn’t…  So, what’s the plan?”

“They still ask if anyone objects at these things?”

“Seriously?”

“Need a grand gesture.”

“You need a suit.” Steve counters holding up his car keys.  “In the trunk.”

Bucky grins and shakes his head.

“How’d you know, Punk?”

“I just did, Jerk.”

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Bucky adjusts his cuff-links then opens the duffel still in the trunk.  He’s wearing the same suit he wore to Stark's wedding four years ago.  The dark blue silk shimmers in the sun.  From the depth of the bag he pulls out a small box.  It’s something he should have done years ago, something he had been about to do before Darcy had started talking about babies.  He sighs and opens the box, the ring is just a perfect as he remembers.  He tucks into his pocket.  Better to have it and not need it than to need and not have it.  He’s still not sure what she’s gonna say, but he knows he gotta try.

Across the street people begin to file out of the church.

“Stevie, what the hell’s going on over there?”

Steve glances up from his phone and hold it up for Bucky to read.  *Wedding off.  Don’t ask questions.  Give Darcy her space.*

“Pepper sent it, I guess Darcy changed her mind.”

“Do you think that makes it more of less likely for her to give me another chance?”

“You really going to go in there right now?”

Bucky stares at the quaint stone building.  Inside is the love of his life.  She’s gonna be upset, guilty and sad at what she’s done and she’s gonna be pissed at him if he walks through those doors, but he’s got to try.  He’ll take her raging and furious at him over the apathy and resigned complacence he’s watched her live with the last two weeks.

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Darcy pulls the pins out of her hair, the strands were pulled tight, tugging on her scalp.  This really wasn’t her style.  As the pins drop to the vanity she wonders what she’d been thinking at all, agreeing to go through with it.  This wasn’t who she was, some elegant socialite, cover ready for a magazine.  But she’d tried for him, tried to be someone new, someone that didn’t love James Barnes.

It turns out that was impossible.  She’ll always be that Darcy, the one that drinks a little too much, laughs too loudly and tells the dirtiest jokes.  Bucky’s girl, with her red lips, sex hair and a permanent blush.  Even when he’s gone, that’s who she is in her mind.   Picking up the tissue she wipes off the pale pink lipstick and pulls the cherry red from her purse.  She paints the line of who she truly is back on.  Then she looks in the mirror and smiles for the first time in months.  Darcy Lewis grins back at her, bee stung lips a bright blood red, her hair a tousled mess around her shoulders and she feels like she’s stepped back into her own skin again.

In the mirror, behind her, the door opens and a man steps inside the room.

Darcy can’t breathe, can’t think, wondering if she’s imagining it after the stress of the day.

“Hey, Doll.”  But no, it’s his voice carrying across the room, that thick Brooklyn drawl heating her blood and making her mouth dry.

She doesn’t move and continues to watch him in the glass, afraid if she turns away, he’ll vanish again like he did that day in the park.

Their eyes meet and hold, she lets a shuddering breath out slowly as her heart pounds in her chest.  She swallows as they silently continue to gaze into the other’s eyes.  He was here, he was really here.  He’s right behind her now, she can feel the heat of is body radiating into the bare skin on her back.  When his hand comes down on her shoulder and brushes back her hair, she closes her eyes and breathes.  She is not going to cry, nope, this is not the time to cry.  Briefly she wonders if she should shout instead, scream until she’s horse and broken at what he did.  But with his hand touching her, the callouses of his fingers rubbing gently into her skin all she feels is relief.  Like the pain she had held in for two years was suddenly numbed.

“What are you doing here Bucky?”  He sits on the bench beside her, his thigh pressing into hers, even through layers of lace and silk and satin she can feel the play of his muscles flexing as he twists to take her hands in his.

“I came to stop you.  To ask you for another chance.  To apologise for being an idiot, for hurting you the way I did.”

She gives him an incredulous look.

“You were going to stand up in the middle of my wedding with some sort of speech about how I couldn’t marry Ian?”

“When you put it like that is sounds stupid.”

She’s about a half a step from hysterics.  Biting her lip, she stifles the peel of sobbing laughter threatening to get out.

“Jesus, James, did you think it would work?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time…  Would it have?”

Darcy pauses for a moment, yeah, it would have worked, or course it would.  And he knew that, he knew her inside and out, grand romantic gestures aside he'd always known what pushed her buttons.

“Depends, what were you going to say?”

“You really need me to say it?”

“Yeah, I really do.”  She bites out a shade bitterly because fuck him, why should she make this easy?

He stands and runs a hand through his hair, it’s shaking, barley, but she sees it and she softens just a little.  He looks at her, completely open and exposed, she can read his sincerity in every line of his body, in his eyes that plead with her to listen.  Nothing could have prepared her for what came next, for the desperate honesty and heartbreaking sorrow in his every word.

“I’m an idiot.  I ran when I should have stayed.  I stayed silent when I should have spoke up.  I’m sorry, from the bottom on heart, I’m sorry, I never should have left.  I love you, I never stopped and I never will.  Don’t marry him, marry me.  He doesn’t know you like I do, can’t see the spark and the fire and understand  it.  Don’t marry him, marry me, because you don’t love him, you still love me.  I don’t deserve it, but I want another chance, I’ll do better this time, I’ll talk even when it hurts, I’ll stay even when I want to hide, I’ll be there, from now until you tell me to go, but don’t marry him.”

When he goes down on one knee before her and brings out a ring she thinks she might just faint.

“Marry me, Darcy.  I promise, I will never, leave you, again. I’m gonna love you for the rest of our life doll, if you’ll let me.”

“You left me.”  Her voice is small in the wake of his naked emotion.

“And I’ll never forgive myself for it.  But I’m here now, I’m staying, even if you won’t have me back, I’m not leaving.”

Darcy feels even the token resistance leaving her, James Barnes could charm the birds out of the trees.

“If I wake up to a note and an empty bed ever again I swear I will track you down and kill you myself.”

“And I’ll let you.  Just, I’m begging you sweetheart, give me a chance to fix this.”

“A chance with a ring?  That’s a pretty big ask James.”

“You took a chance on me once, hoped you might again.  Marry me.  I ain’t too proud to beg, I’ll do whatever you want me to…  Just, marry me.”

“I hate you.”  He grins.

“I love you too, Doll.”

“Well?  What are you waiting for, put the damn thing on me.”

He slides the ring on, it fits perfectly on her ring finger, the bright garnet like blood in the light from the window.  It was his mothers ring, three slim gold bands, two with small diamonds bracketing a third with three garnet stones.  She smiles as she admires it, it’s everything she would have chosen herself.  It’s warmth and sparkle and speaks of the past.  The ring Ian had given her had been cold and hard, with a modern sleekness that could never match the charm of the vintage ring James had just placed on her finger

James kisses her fingers one by one, lingering by the ring before tugging her closer and meeting her lips in a soft slow kiss.  His lips are firm against hers, drawing her into him, she twines her hands into his hair and grins as she feels his hands lift her up and onto his lap as he sits on the bench.  God she’s missed it, the way he would move her like she weighed less than air.  His arms come around her, one hand sliding into her hair causing her to let out the tiniest of whimpers. It’s safety and home, the brilliance of summer and the comfort of a winter fireplace.  She would always want him, always need him, just like he did her.  He licked into her mouth, stroking his tongue against hers until she couldn’t think or feel anything but the man whose arms she was in.

This was the kiss she’d wanted today, this was the perfect conclusion to the day she didn’t get married.  He was home and so was she.

NEXT

@captain-rogers-beard

[friendlyunclej]

No Ocean for Old Men

Prologue

     Having been out on the Solemn Ocean, or “Solemn Sea” whatever you want to call it, for the past few months making ferry runs and pillaging any poor dinghy that sailed too close to my boat, I’ve decided to take the next few weeks to anchor down at the docks of Tyriok City. My crew are all licking their wounds after we’ve barely skated by one of those airships from the Truncheon Order. They’ve been patrolling the skies ever since the war ended and all they do is ruin my business, or at least try to. My entire crew keeps bitching and cussing at me to find some replacements for the hands we lost. After the third day of them doing this, I began freezing them in ice with my breath whenever they bothered me. We lost a few more by the fifth day. By the sixth day, I decided that maybe I should try to recruit some fresh meat. Donning the flag of my ship and my tattered tricorne, I decided to sit at an empty booth by myself and told the barkeep to send anyone who seemed strong enough to me. By the end of the day, I had about three more desperate souls working for me, none of them really asking any questions. It wasn’t until halfway through the following day that I got two who actually seemed worth something more than just the average swill and shilling.

     The woman of the two, at least I’m pretty sure it was a woman, questioned me the most about who I am. Alternatively, the man she was travelling with, who was practically the size of a damn tree, cared more about life on the open waters. Both of them were trying to speak over each other, so I told them to shut up as I spoke about myself.

     “I’ve been the captain of this ship since before the Great War and I’ll stop you before you ask the obvious question. To put your mind at ease, I’ll tell you all the answers you want in the usual order I have to answer them:

One: Yes, I’m a Dragonborn with white scales, so if I drink too much and freeze you with a sneeze, tough shit.

Two: I’m over 140 years old.

Three: I know I look damn good for that age, especially since most of my kind would be eaten by worms or dissolving in seawater by now.

Four: Of course, it’s not natural! I’m not some damn tree-hugging Druid and I don’t spew any fanciful magic from my fingers like some cloaked asshole who can’t handle a real fight.

Five: Uh...you know, by this time, either I’ve punched the person asking me all this or they’ve punched me, so I don’t really have an answer for that.

     However, since you haven’t punched me and I’m not feeling too punchy today, I feel inclined to share with you two how I got to be such an age. It’s real simple actually. Just relax and don’t worry about the little things.”

     I paused as I chugged a shot of Rot Gut and the woman said, “Are you serious?”

     Finishing the shot, I shouted, “Of course, I’m not serious! I got hexed by some damn hag during the war. She wasn’t too happy with me doing my job.”

     The man, seeming like a talking mountain, said, “What job were you doing that pissed her off?”

     I snarled at him, “That’s my business and it’s old business at that! I’m not doing it anymore so what the hell does it matter?”

     Steam seeming to spew from his nose in the now freezing tavern, I glared into his eyes as the woman said, “If we’re going to be part of your crew, shouldn’t we know what you’ve done?”

     Still glaring at the man as he sat back from me, I leaned towards her as I said, “Who said that you two would be joining my crew? This is a tryout right now, and, from where I’m sitting, you two are barely worth a cabin boy, and that’s being generous.”

     A look of spite washed across her eyes as I sat back and took in the view of both of them. A mountain of a man who looks like he could toss a Dwarf a mile away and a walking, talking pig with the voice a soft woman but the muscles of a fighter christened in war. They certainly seemed worthy of a few chunks of gold on the slave market, if not as a part of my crew.

     I chuckled before proposing, “But, I tell you what, if you two want to prove to me that you are worth more than an alley cat, then I’d be more than happy to work with you. As a matter of fact, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a good bar fight and there’s a sizable number of people in here. Start one and come out on top, I’ll take on both of you.”

     Still eyeing me a bit but desperate to get on my ship, they stood up from their seats, cracked their knuckles, and nodded at each other before proceeding to tear through the entire bar. It was like a whirlwind of screams and howls as the two imposing people broke bones, cracked skulls, and smashed stools against everyone in the bar who tried to fight back. When the bar fight concluded, the two of them stood panting with a red glare slowly fading from their eyes as I was now walking towards the front door.

     Laughing, I tossed the barkeep a parcel of gold as I shouted to them, “Welcome to the Sea Dragon! I’m Captain Madrek, but most people just call me ‘Mad’. Find a bunk you like in the ship and carve your name on them. We leave once the sun drops in a few hours.”

     I opened the door to a raging blizzard as I began to walk towards my ship, staring directly back at me. I couldn’t help but grin as I stepped back on top of my ship, watching my crew reinforcing the sails and patching the ship in preparation for the harsh winter ahead. I hid the grin behind my commonly enraged visage as I felt the two new recruits bound up the draw bridge behind me. To be entirely honest, I feel a bit bad for those on my ship, because all I’m doing is trying to fulfill my own death wish. Regardless, I always stop myself from worrying after a few moments. Seeing as how misery loves company, I hold no reservations against taking a number of souls with me.

The Hag was Right

     Before the war, I wasn’t captaining a Man-O-War like I do now. I had a cargo ship which I held a few good cannons on and stripped some of its weight off, but it could barely stand up to anything worth a damn because of it. The speed was the best attribute it had, so I used it to cross the Solemn Ocean in half as much time as the standard brig. I smuggled everything and anything between the two continents, working for which ever side paid the most gold or offered the most Rot Gut. This kind of work was perfect while the two continents were simply threatening each other, but, when they actually began to swing swords between each other, I was forced to pick a side. Some Serhyan bandits on the back of wyverns tore my ship a part a few days from the coast of Kalldor. I spent almost half a month pitifully rowing a dinghy back to Tyriok. It was pretty obvious which side I hated more, so the generals in charge of Kalldor’s armies put me at the head of a Man-O-War and told me that I’d be able to sail undisturbed to the eastern coast of Serhya. I gathered a decent crew, just enough to sail and fight properly, and I did as I was ordered. Just as I saw the marshes, I blinked and found myself staring into the Feywild with a Hag staring back from the coast with a grin on her face.      The crew and I tried to turn as fast as possible, but she shot the ship’s sails with a few bolts of lightning, lighting them on fire. As the sails fell as embers around me, I glanced back to the shore to see no one there anymore. When I turned back to the helm, she was staring back at me, her hair like seaweed and breath like a dead corpse. Her lifeless eyes scanned me as her bloodied and blued lips curled into a smile as she whispered something into my ear while caressing my shoulders.

     While her grotesque nails slowly scratched across my shoulders, she hummed, “My salty sailor, you’re world is full of strife. Alas, as much as you want to end it, I give you eternal life. From now till eternity, you will never die in vain. Only once you find someone to replace you, will you finally be slain.”

     As she whispered this in my ear, I felt a sickly green cloud seep from the scratches on the back of my shoulders and fill my vision. As the smoke enters my body, I feel a burn run through my throat, my eye sockets, and my ears. The sensation jolts me awake, making my eyes fly open as I stare at the wooden boards under the helm of the ship. Sweating, I painfully pull myself out of bed to grab a bottle of Rot Gut from my personal stash. I step outside and walk up to the helm, where I sit against the wheel and stare up at the starry night sky. I let the view console me as I try to drink away the memory of the Sea Hag I met almost 150 years ago.      I’m not even half way through the bottle when the sun begins to break the horizon. It hurts my eyes a bit as I stare at it before hearing two sets of heavy feet stomp their way up from below deck. I stand up and hold on to the wheel as I see the Goliath and the Pig rise before everyone else, as they always do.

     With an angered and tired look, I shout to them, “If I didn’t know how much you two secretly hate each other, I’d swear that the only thing you two do is break bunks together instead of sleeping.”

     Quickly angered by my words, the Goliath retorted, “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that a drunkard like you is better suited for the plank instead of the helm.”

     A bit drunk and still recuperating from the nightmare, I toss the bottle at his hand after spewing, “You think you’re strong enough to put me on the plank? That’s funny coming from a stone skinned coward, running from his herd.”

      With ease, the Goliath catches the bottle in his hand before trying to toss it back. The Pig stops his arm, pulls the bottle from his hand, and chugs the contents before slowly walking to me. I stand strong and straighten my back as she steps up to me, locking eyes with an angered gaze.

     Slamming the empty bottle into my hand, she leans into whisper, “You know...one day soon, you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of this ship if you keep treating the whole crew like this.”

     “Is that a threat, little Pig?” I say back to her, gripping the bottle.

     She calmly responds, “No, that’s the truth,” before proceeding to crush the bottle into my hand, shoving glass shards into my palm as she says, “That’s the threat.”

     She walks away and begins to work on loosening the sails as my hand begins to coat the helm with blood while I tear the glass shards free. Since they’ve joined about a year or two back, those two have been the best crew mates I’ve ever had. They’re always the first to start working and the last ones to leave the ship when we drop anchor.at a port. When they’re not working themselves to the bone, they’re drinking themselves into a stupor. However, they don’t needlessly fight because of it. They’re actually good people, pulling their punches when a bar fight breaks out so that everyone can have a good time. Only when a person actually means them harm do they show how enforcers usually act.      When someone becomes their enemy, it’s not too long before they find themselves either cleaved in half or crushed to death. I’ve seen the Goliath smash three muggers’ heads into a building’s stone walls when they tried to attack him in an alleyway. The Pig once crushed an enemy captain’s knees into dust before sending him soaring through the air with a heavy hammer swing that practically tore his head off in the process. They’re not the friendliest to each other, but, when a battle brews, they work together so well that I still ask myself why they’re wasting away on the sea instead of just killing whoever their running from. Yes, I say “running from” because any person who can fight and kill that well but opts for a life as a simple crew member on a poorly kept Man-O-War has to be running from something.      As much as I could glean from them, I didn’t see the mutiny coming. Apparently, they had been planning it for a good year after the Pig threatened me, getting every crew member behind them with ease due to how I treated them. I only found out after a painful fight with an airship from the Truncheon Order off the eastern coast of Serhya. When the smoke settled, we were all still alive and the bodies of porcelain knights and wyverns laid across our deck. As the shell of the airship fell and sunk into the water, I shouted at the crew to start tossing all of the dead overboard, but none followed my orders. Instead, they all surrounded me and watched as I continued trying to bark at them.

     “They’re done following you, Madrek,” the Goliath called out from behind me, parting the crowd to join me in the circle.

     “Is that so?” I responded with a look of disbelief, “Who are they going to follow then? Some phony mountain man like you?”

     He chuckled a bit as he crossed his arms before saying, “No, this wasn’t my idea. Honestly, I’d rather toss you overboard and let the Dragon Turtle take you. Someone else wanted a proper fight, out of some semblance of respect or pity for you.”

     Still standing at the center of the ship, I began to scan the crowd, looking back and forth past the mast I had my back against, shouting, “Then what stops me from freezing you all where you stand? If you won’t follow me, then what do I have to lose aside from time and wasted breath?”

     I continued for a few more moments, shouting and screaming, as I tried to force someone to fight me. As I ended my lecture, I took a deep breath as I felt the power of a blizzard coalesce in my throat. As I began to open my mouth, now face to face with the Goliath, he shoves a bottle of Rot Gut to shut my yap before sending a thunderous uppercut slamming into the bottom of my still open jaw.

     I fly back almost ten feet, crashing into the main mast. The Goliath walks up and kneels next to me, holding my jaw shut as he angrily glares into my eyes before saying, “You talk too much.”

     Releasing my jaw from his grasp, I struggled back on to my feet, righting myself against the mast as he walks back to the crowd. With the taste of iron slowly filling my glass ridden mouth, I pull my boarding hammer from my hip before saying, “If that’s all you’ve got to show for this mutiny, I’m more than happy to trade scars for all of your lives.”

     My throat, now filled with holes and gashes from the shattered glass, began to sear and burn as another blizzard gathered in it. Locking eyes with the back of the Goliath’s head, I held my breath for when he turned around. Before he did, I noticed a shadow at my feet, growing larger and larger. As I glanced up, I saw the Pig falling towards me with her own mallet held above her head. I stood my ground and painted her with a blizzard of snow and Ice, hoping to freeze her before she reached me. Unfortunately, I was too late as she soared through my breath and gave a valiant roar as she crashed to the deck, her hammer crushing my lower jaw off of my head.      I dropped to my knees in pain as I felt a rush of blood fall from where my lower jaw once was, painting my knees red. Continuing to groan in pain, I blindly attempt to find my boarding hammer as the agony I feel holds my eyes shut. Reaching desperately for my weapon, I find a boot instead and I manage to crack one eye open just in time to see the Pig furiously swing her mallet back at my face. I feel the mass of wood shatter against my left eye as the back of my skull slams against the mast behind me. Almost rendered unconscious, I pant coarsely, feeling the glass shards still stuck in my neck, the left side of my face dented and crushed, and the barely functioning right eye pulse with pain as it tries to pull three images into one. After a few seconds, I barely pull myself to my feet as my vision clears just enough to see my severed jaw lying at the feet of the Pig.      She tosses the wooden mallet overboard, the head of the maul now missing having been destroyed against my thick skull. In her other hand, she swings my own boarding hammer a few times as she begins to step towards me, testing its weight. Stepping on my lower jaw, I get just enough fuel back to feel one last, desperate blizzard try to gather in my mangled throat. Inhaling as violently as I could muster, I begin to exhale before feeling the spiked maul head of my own hammer slam against my ribs, pinning me to the mast and crushing my lungs. With my ice breath cut short and all energy gone from my body, I barely stay on my feet as the Pig tears the truncheon from my chest. Stumbling for a second, I watch as she twirls my boarding hammer around and swings a second time, using the bladed back of the maul’s head instead. As I lose more and more blood, I now barely feel the hooked blade cut through the bottom of my head where my lower jaw once was. Hanging by my head and barely alive, I feel my limp body be dragged by my hooked throat to the side of the ship. Sat on the very edge of the boat, I feel the boarding hook torn from my jaw as my head is held up.

     Holding me by my ear to keep me lucid, the Pig angrily whispered, “Welcome to my Sea Dragon. I’m Captain Ham, but you don’t get to call me that.”

     As she dropped my ear, the last thing I saw was her bloodshot eyes as the maul crashed into my head again. As I spun in the air overboard, I heard the crew cheering in celebration before I felt the warm water of the Zealous Ocean take me. For a moment, the water began to feel inviting while my senses left me. As I rose to the surface, my hearing was dulled by the waves covering them. The last few things I heard were my ship sailing away without me and a few birds cawing in the sky above me before the entire world turned mute. Feeling the waves carry me for a few more feet, the last sensation I had was the warm foam covering me while a soft breeze brushed my missing lower jaw. Soon after, my entire body went numb, stealing the taste and smell of both sea water and drying blood from me in the process. My sight stayed for the longest, allowing me to truly appreciate the clouds and sky above me. For my final moments, I thought back through my life as my sight began to fade. I started to reminisce about my troublesome home, surrounded by an abusive father and mother while my brothers and sisters succumbed to violence and drugs, as the vibrant colors of the cloudy dusk sky began to turn into simple shades of grey. My malfunctioning mind brought me back to the woman I met a few months before, reminding me of the child I left for her to raise alone so that my disposition doesn’t taint them any further. As the shapes of clouds bled together with the clear sky, the face of the hag returned to me. Instead of fear, I was filled with something else as I stared back at her emaciated and twisted visage. Instead of disgust, I felt tranquility as I gazed upon her. Without the will to try to escape, I welcomed her disturbing grimace, knowing that this would be the last time I’d see it. My vision turned pitch black as peace seemed to grasp my soul, lifting it to meet the soft embrace of death.

Epilogue

     That should have been it. I should have died right there and then, but, as if shot from a cannon, I felt a searing pain course through the entirety of my body as my senses returned without mercy. As if a jolt of lightning had run through my corpse I awoke staring at a sky suspended between setting and rising. My one good eye furiously scanned as color returned to it, revealing a green mist tinting my vision. Every nerve in my body screamed as my muscles and bones were revived. The water felt like glass shards grinding against my previously dead nerves. The air and water tasted acrid and smelled of sulfur as I began to see twisted trees pass over me.      Realizing I had returned to the Feywild, I attempted to force my body to swim away from the lifeless trees, but I was unable to move as it was still racked with pain. I tried to scream, causing my tongue to loosely flap against the air as my lower jaw was still missing. Practically paralyzed, I could do nothing as I felt my head tap soft mud against the shore. Frightened and terrified, I heard light footsteps dig into the silt around me and grow closer every few moments. My eyes frantically looked towards each sound, turning from one set of feet into three. As I looked up, I saw what seemed to be the silhouettes of two women stand above the right and left sides of my head. After a few moments, I was able to see their faces through my manic vision, making me panic even further. Both were hideous enough to almost make me retch on their feet.  Staring at the one on my right, I shook as her specter white hair shifted in the breeze to reveal an awful black grin under piercing yellow eyes set inside of disturbing green skin. My eyes darted to my left, pausing in horror. This woman’s purple and grey skin seemed pulled back, clinging to her skull which had small twisted horns piercing through her scalp. She worried me more as she grinned, revealing hideously sharpened teeth. As I pulled my eyes away from her, a third figure appeared directly above me.      In the very center, I tried my best to move as I saw the Sea Hag looming over me, a sick grin stretching across her face. Her slimy and horrid skin made my spine jolt as the smell of seaweed from her hair somehow seemed to burn my nostrils. As she crouched closer to me, her eyes still seemed made of glass while her grotesque mug made me wish for death again.They referred to each other as “sister” as they carried my still paralyzed body through the marsh to their home. As we approached their abject abode, they left me outside, staring up at the motionless sky.

     The Sea Hag came back after a few minutes with a sinister vial in her hand. She poured it into what was left of my mouth as she whispered, “My dear, soon, you won’t have to fuss. We’ll be able to do so much more with you here than we ever could with just us.”

     As I felt her claws holding my body still, I experienced a barrage of pain as the vial’s contents took hold in my body. I convulsed violently, causing her nails to stab me over and over. My eyes rolled back from the shear agony I felt as the elixir forced my body to restore itself. I felt my ribs and bones shatter as they returned to their proper places. My skull cracked and swelled back into its original shape. The perforated flesh which was my neck painfully pressed the shards of glass out of my throat, sinking into the marsh below me. The most horrendous feeling was my jaw, which seemed to grow out from the exposed bone that was left. It was as if the bones in my own head jerked against itself as it branched into a new jaw. What decaying flesh I still had left from my original jaw seemed to reattach and grow in the most agonizing way possible. After almost five grueling minutes of torture, I thought it was over as I began to breathe wearily.      Opening both of my eyes, I locked gazes with the Sea Hag, still paralyzed and unable to move. She gave a fiendish smile as she leaned towards me, planting a kiss on my lips. With her mouth on mine, I felt a surge of desecrated water rush down my throat, filling my entire body. I felt it melt my insides as I jerked myself on to my feet, curled in pain and anguish. Trying to walk away, I puked and spat as the clear liquid leaking from my mouth turned into a foul opaque green. I fell to my knees as what felt like each layer of the Nine Hells seethed within me. The pain tossed my head back as a fountain of defiled liquid spewed from my mouth. Feeling rage and fury return to my body, I began to roar as I rose to my feet, fighting against the pain. As I did, I felt the skin beneath my scales grow callous and rigid. My own scales began to stand up on my petrified skin like spikes on a devil’s spine. The color in my left eye turned from an ice blue to glass, mirroring the Sea Hag’s eyes. As my primal outcry continued, the disgusting green liquid erupting from my mouth turned into ice and hail once again, preserving a seawater hue. As the blizzard from my undead body ceased, my roar echoed through the entire Feywild as I stood, twisted back to life by the Sea Hag. I turned to her, filled with rage and bloodlust. 

     With every fiber of whatever soul I had left, I wanted to kill her for turning me into such a monster, but, instead of attacking, I bent my knee and bowed my head to her as I asked, “What do you desire from me?”

[dunmerofskyrim]

12

There are places in Old Ebonheart where the dead walk. At the time I didn’t know why. Nor did I question it.

In Bodram I’d seen weeds and stunted shrubs and loose masonry, and a disarrayed abandon of bones, and the bloodied bodies of the new-made dead, all made to move by ghosts. I’d seen corpses pull and claw and beat at the living til they were corpses too. I’d seen a starveling tree grow roots through a mer from below and crush the life from them with its branches. And I didn’t question it. Not out loud.

To find Old Ebonheart plagued with undead seemed no great surprise after that.

But first came the city’s outskirts. Lumberyards gone to worm-feasts, dank breeding fields for bruise-coloured fungi, banquets for foraging scribs. Saltrice terraces swallowed by silt. The lodges and huts of fishermer, collapsed now, their foundations gnawed through by rot.

Walking once, my half-ruined boots uncovered a glinting rigid something in the sucking mud. It was a Velothi windchime, hollowed from polished bone and preserved in the bog. I picked it up, blacking my already dirt-blacked hands. A long tether of braided twine spooled up from the ground dragging chime after chime from where they’d been hid. But decay and the sudden violence of my curiosity snapped the line. I gathered three of the chimes in a net bag, reckoning to wash them and polish them again.

“It wasn’t just Nords came to trade here, then,” I said to Tammunei as we carried on. “Velothi too, from off the plains. Leatherwares and bonecrafts. Nix and shalk shells..? Wasn’t aware the Vereansu were known for their crafts.”

Tammunei gestured for my attention. I followed their hand as they pointed to one of the Vereansu among us. A warrior, head shaved but for a long grey braid that hung from the back of his scalp. They led a saddle-guar, slow and careful by the reins through these fenlands, too cautious to ride.

“Herds?” I asked. “Guar and horses?”

Tammunei nodded.

But I looked at the warrior’s bow, unstrung and wrapped in resined soft-leather, against the damage of the damp.  The long-hafted axe at their belt, headed like a dagger on one side, like a hammer on the other. “Mercenaries too?”

Tammunei tilted their head, gave a small uncertain shift with their mouth, then nodded. A ‘sometimes yes.’ A ‘maybe yes.’

With time the land rose. As we dragged ourselves from the marsh, so did the lay of things, and the city-ruin itself.

We passed through a sunken mess of slums. Sagging once-huts of mud-brick with roofs long gone, opening their insides to the elements, like Nordic barrow-pits. There in the gutter-faced remains of the city’s poorest parts, something lingered on the air. Not a scent, nor quite a sound, but the sense that something was speaking, but couldn’t quite be heard. I wondered if this was how it began for Tammunei, hearing the voices of the dead? But it faded and didn’t come back. And in terraces shored up with stone, tier by tier, we clambered in switchback progress up into the long ridge of headland that crowned Old Ebonheart’s mainland half.

That was the best part of a day and the beginning, after, of its evening. Cold shade in the morning, as the east-rising steps of this east-rising city hid us from the sun, and the sun from us. Cold sunshine the colour of tin at noon, tricking our brows into beading with sweat.

Often the old paths were blocked. The upsloping streets were choked with refuse and rubble. We found unorthodox ways over wreckage and terrace-walls, and made our progress something more like the climbing of a mountainside than the navigation of a city. Our path began to wind through alleyways, up the tumbledown flanks of fallen homes, and then through the rooms of homes themselves, preserved somehow like grotto-caves, all but buried in all this destruction.

Tammunei was first to see the dead. Of course, of course, it was Tammunei. Stealing through a half-collapsed badger-set of rooms where families once had slept, we saw one that still remained.

A mother and child they’d been once, but death and time had diminished them. In the lightless one-room pit of what had been her home, she paced a figure-eight, holding a bundle of rags in her arms, and the creak and grind of her bones and tendons was all she sang as a lullaby. A faded age-thinned yellow dress hung from her. What flesh she’d worn had turned to leather, parched like the skin of a last-year’s apple, kept since in the dark and the dry. I might have expected skeletons – clattering bones and bleached hard lines – but this was worse. A person whose soul was too shocked or too stubborn to leave their body or quite let it rot.

We waited, watching, horrified-silent. But it seemed that we were as dead to her as she was dead to us. Trapped in our separate worlds, though we shared a space. She only carried on pacing, rocking her bundle of rags.

Tammunei urged us onward with gestures of their hands.

“And you?” I mouthed and motioned, silent by instinct, so as not to disturb this room.

“I’ll stay,” Tammunei’s lips shaped back. “If there’s something I can do…”

“Then I’ll stay with you.”

But Tammunei shook their head, firm, hair fretting free and into their face. “Alone. Please.”

I frowned, face shifting uneasy, then nodded. “You won’t be long?”

A shrug. “Perhaps.”

I never knew how much or how little they needed me, then. My protection or help. Mine was the violence that shielded them from violence. Perhaps I was little else besides. This wasn’t a situation to be solved with violence, or well-placed words, but that didn’t mean it was safe. Still I turned away, dour as pulling teeth, and led our long line onward.

That night we camped in the upper-city, in the dusty tile-strewn square of a tier-roofed townhouse. The shattered shell of a dome lay in the wide weed-choked boulevard outside — scraps of painted bronze and shards of painted purple. I huddled under a colonnade that leant now like a drunkard against an outer wall.

It was there that Tammunei found us again, and their presence came over us like a broken curse. Purpose and guidance in sight again.

There was a sweet scent in the air. The splintered pillars of the fallen veranda were of fragrant mauve-brown wood. Slow down the decades they had been bleeding all the while, like cracked bottles of perfume. A dark and oozing aroma, amber-coloured in my mind, and heady to breathe for too long.

A chill came down with the sunset, and deepened as night drew on. The walls around us blocked the worst of the wind and saved us from its keen cold teeth. Still we heard it, moaning round the severed trunks of fallen towers, adding salt sea to the courtyard’s scent.

We cooked what was left of our hunters’ meat over stones I called fire to heat. Kagouti is stew meat, unfit to roast save for two exceptions: when roasted a whole day and basted constantly, or when only the cheeks are eaten, for where those hard tusks grow the tenderest meat’s to be found. We had it roasted all the same. We had weathered worse things than chewing tough meat. Or meat burnt almost black…

I asked Tammunei what they had done below. Had they been able to help?

“I listened to her sing,” they mouthed to me. “Heard her. Said her child was sleeping. And she slept sound after that.”

Strange. Tammunei always spoke of the uncanny as if it were the most natural thing. As if anyone could do the same, and anyone in their right heart would.

After, we huddled round the stones, starving and greedy for what remained of their warmth. In bedrolls and bundles of clothing and rags, and in heapings of travel-tired limbs, we stockpiled the heat of our bodies.

This had all turned to habit by then. Every night, and every night, as the nights themselves grew colder. And every night that passed that way, I spent trying not to breathe, thinking of nothing but sleep. Useless — like praying so hard for a thing that you never get up off your knees to go out and get it.

That night, Tammunei’s shape furled over me. Some bone-rigid part nestled into me. Chin to chest, jaw to shoulder; a tangle of knees and elbows. Warmth worked between us, trapped in the folds of our clothes. I thought about breathing. Counted every conscious twitch of  my lungs.

Touch had never come easy to me. Ever a kind of invasion at worst, and at best it stuck like a burr in my mind so I could think of nothing else — like I’m bound up too tight in the skin that’s doing the feeling. And there was always guilt in that too.

With Tammunei it had stopped feeling like an affront, an assault. Hard to say when the change had come, or if it had always been there. But with them I suffered touch without suffering. And at the time that felt so precious it scared me. So sweet that to sleep through it would be a waste, some part of me almost felt. So it had felt for weeks maybe, and I’d gone the whole while without rest.

Our bodies were tangled. I felt their shivers through me, as if they were my own.

“You’re shivering,” I said, soft and stupid, unheard in the dark. But I was used to telling Tammunei what they felt. Telling the truths their nerves wouldn’t report. By now, that too was habit.

How could they be cold, I wondered? How, while my skin prickled so hot? While my breath and my blood both came so fevered?

The coarse grind of clothes on clothes. A sound like knots tied in rope, made fast, making mooring, tightening round me. Everything came world-resounding loud when the cold and the city-ruin had made everything else so silent. The closeness of it all trapped me, bound up in all this sharing. The terror of it and hunger of it, febrid-hot in my hungry hands, and tugging tight in my coward heart.

In my belly I felt the moment uncurl. A blossoming brute desire. I laid a hand on Tammunei’s hip. A question, but they had no voice to answer. In the silence, I hated that I’d asked at all.

The cold of the morning made that night feel distant as a dream. That was a mercy, but not a reprieve.

[coneshotline]

LABOUR 1945-2010

of bennites and blairites, of infighting and shitflinging, of pretentious blurbs and italic text

here, have some really old mixes (made in about 2012 i think)...i don't even like some of the bands featured any more but i'm too lazy to change it. i actually only finished one of these the other day! so yes, only 'drowning men' has been published before but the other has been 99% complete for years now...blame those mmmm [smacks lips] depressive episodes

1945-1979 | 1979-2010

tracklist/liner notes under the cut

1945-1979

in our bedroom after the war - stars (out of the rubble)

it's us - yes, we're back again, here to see you through, 'til the day's end and if the night comes, and the night will come, well at least the war is over

lift your head and look out the window stay that way for the rest of the day and watch the time go listen! the birds sing! listen! the bells ring! all the living are dead, and the dead are all living the war is over and we are beginning

childhood memories - british sea power (1945 labour government - the new dawn)

and a little electricity won't hurt and no a little electricity won't hurt especially when we're all out of gas and coal and oil, and steel and cash but a little electricity won't hurt and no a little electricity won't hurt

against agamemnon - the mountain goats (clement attlee)

red, red, red everywhere bright red all along the thin canvas wall i stepped outside for a little air i stepped outside to get away from it all

one way - the levellers (aneurin bevan)

my father when i was younger took me up on to the hill that looks down on the city smog and above the factory spill he said, "now this is where i come when i wanted to be free" but he never was in his lifetime, but these words stuck with me

the velocity of saul at the time of his conversion - okkervil river (an unceremonious defeat)

the audience is tired, "we've had enough fire, we're entering the age now of ice" and i, feeling older, pull off to the shoulder and wonder, with my head in my hands, should i call my wife

and say "enough 'you and i,' enough of 'the fight' enough of 'prevail' or 'walk in the light' while the angels stood by i got high as a kite too tired to smile or know that i'm right

machine - regina spektor (hugh gaitskell)

i count all my blessings i have friends in high places and i'm upgraded daily all my wires without traces

hooked into machine

we were wasted - the leisure society (bevanites)

and from the flat above the square we watch our comrades bare their teeth, their souls, their flesh

we were wasted son we were wasted all on the ride from the nightclub to our drive all the way we sang

the pioneers - tunng (bloc party cover) (gaitskellites)

if it can be broke then it can be fixed if it can be fused then it can be split it's all under control

if it can be lost then it can be won if it can be touched then it can be turned all you need is time

so here we are reinventing the wheel i'm shaking hands with a hurricane it's a colour that i can't describe it's a language i can't understand ambition tearing out the heart of you carving lines into you dripping down the sides of you

we will not be the last

easy lucky free - bright eyes (the disarmament debate)

i set my watch to the atomic clock i hear the crowd count down 'til the bomb gets dropped i always figured that there’d be time enough i never let it get me down, but i can’t help it now

weeping willow - the hush sound (deaths and rebirth)

there will be a tomorrow the sun will light a sea of sorrow tonight it set and took our friend if i could do one thing, i'd bring him back snow won't stick to the weeping willows

maybe, this time - ok go (harold wilson)

you've spent your entire life quick-tongued and always right hasn't being right just let you down?

soft revolution - stars (1964 labour government - hopes and dreams)

we are here to save your life the fool, the drunk, the child, and his wife

we are here to take the blame to take the taunts and lift the shame

and after changing everything they couldn't tell we couldn't sing

joan of arc - arcade fire (barbara castle)

you had a vision they couldn't see so they put you down but everything that you said would happen it came around and they're the ones that put you down 'cause they got no heart but i'm the one that will follow you you're my joan of arc

speed the collapse - metric (devaluation of the pound)

every warning we ignored, drifting in from distant shores the wind presents a change of course, a second reckoning of sorts

hope on fire - vienna teng (the workers united)

gotta fight gotta strike 'cause there's no turning away from what you don’t want to know

gotta change rearrange something’s bending to break it’s just a matter of when

burning up - ladytron (born again tony benn)

i wrote a protest song about you, about you set off on the long march without you, without you

i set myself on fire without you, without you i wrote a protest song about you, about you

so many things worth burning for

sonnet - hundred waters (from 'sonnet' by percy bysshe shelley) (1974 labour government - a radical promise)

through the unheeding many he did move a splendour among shadows, a bright blot upon this gloomy scene, a spirit that strove for truth, and like the preacher found it not

white winter hymnal - fleet foxes (michael foot)

i was following the pack all swallowed in their coats with scarves of red tied 'round their throats to keep their little heads from falling in the snow and i turned 'round and there you go and michael, you would fall and turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime

half day closing - portishead (the counterattack)

underneath the faded sun the silent sum of the businessman has left us choking

dreams and belief have gone time, life itself goes on

the last living rose - pj harvey (the failed referendum)

goddamn europeans take me back to beautiful england and the gray, damp filthiness of ages and battered books and fog rolling down behind the mountains on the graveyards and dead sea-captains

past the thames river, glistening like gold hastily sold for nothing, nothing

if it is growing - fanfarlo (wilson resigns)

your memory's failing your eyes are like rocks and i can see you on the floor of your box

you've got answers in everyone is electric circuits and that's all there is

then here's the irony no one will know if it's tomorrow or today that you go

caliber - wintersleep (jim callaghan)

you drive the exact speed limit keep of a track of your mile listening to radio music smiling when everyone else smiles you should take a beating willing do it in the name of the cause do it for the feeling that one day maybe you can be your own boss maybe get a beautiful woman get a fat piece of land get a couple of kids a prototypical civilian housing towards the future mining towards the sun you keep your caliber loaded no one's gonna fuck this up

electioneering - radiohead (the loan)

it's just business, cattle prods and the imf i trust i can rely on your votes

beggars - bombay bicycle club (lib-lab pact)

your guard isn't on, your barriers open your words have now got the whole town waiting my army is down, my company old and leaving quiet and burned

riding a fleet of beggars and cons taking it back, it won't be long

isles - little comets (winter of discontent)

leeds screaming bristol torn belfast and hull forlorn oxford dreaming in denial with all its gleaming spires

stoke bleeding glasgow yawns dundee and cardiff mourn york breaking sheffield cries all fears are multiplied

elephant gun - beirut (vote of no confidence)

if i was young i'd flee this town i'd bury my dreams underground as did i, we drink to die, we drink tonight

take the big game down

we used to wait - arcade fire (election '79)

now our lives are changing fast hope that something pure can last

the red flag - billy bragg (to the future)

though cowards flinch and traitors sneer we'll keep the red flag flying here

1979-2010

bye bye bye - school of seven bells (the beginning of the end)

after the great flood, all washed away, i still stayed

one by one 'til there's nothing left of you one by one by one by one

you and i are a gang of losers - the dears (old labour begets new)

every single one of us is getting massacred on a frozen path fever comes to wipe us out and scratch your name off of a list

you and i are on the outside of almost everything you and i are on the other side of almost everything

red right hand - nick cave & the bad seeds (tony benn)

he's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a guru

you're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan designed and directed by his red right hand

life - dai (benn vs healey)

instrumental

he dreams he’s awake - stars (michael foot, landslide defeat, and the wilderness years)

sunrise, oh sunrise, when will you ever come? sunrise, oh sunrise, when will the night be gone? it won't let me go

from red to blue - billy bragg (labour, miners, and militant)

i hate the compromises life forces us to make we must all bend a little if we are not to break but the ideals you've opted out of, i still hold them to be true i guess they weren't so firmly held by you

the geese of beverly road - the national (labour's rebranding and 80s excesses)

we'll take ourselves out in the street and wear the blood in our cheeks like red roses

we're the heirs to the glimmering world

illuminated red - the accidental (kinnock and mandelson)

and illuminated red - and illuminated white instead like a red sock burning through my table; lying in my bed

oblivion - patrick wolf (kinnock and mandelson, pt. 2)

oh my stubborn son, i know that you said you need no one don't you see danger, danger, danger, headed to oblivion?

our hell - emily haines & the soft skeleton (new labour/john smith)

we're moderate, we modernize 'til our hell is a good life all we know is to forget how to do right

colouring in the black hole

overture - patrick wolf (tony blair)

it's wonderful what a smile can hide if the teeth shine bright and it's nice and wide

titan arum - foals (gordon brown)

you see assassins on the walkway home you eat yourself from bones to bones, to tongues to toes contractors nor the council can find the time to piece your head again

drowning men - fanfarlo (the new labour ouroborous)

even though the lights have changed i'm caught up in an endless loop we spend our time with drowning men, we're going to let ourselves get dragged down

do you want the truth or something beautiful - paloma faith (landslide victory)

do you want the truth or something beautiful? just close your eyes and make believe do you want the truth or something beautiful? i am happy to deceive you

destroy everything you touch - ladytron (brown and mandelson)

anything that may desert you so it cannot hurt you destroy everything you touch today destroy me this way

bright bright bright - dark dark dark (blair, to mandelson)

you always cared for me, that was easy enough to see you always cared for me, and i pushed you in the dark and i wanted to tell you, i wanted to tell you but i lie, i lie, oh i lie, i lie i hurt myself, i hurt myself nearly as much as i hurt you

you and whose army - radiohead (blairites and brownites)

come on, come on, you think you drive me crazy well, come on, come on, you and whose army you and your cronies

masters of war - bob dylan (iraq, pt. 1)

you fasten all the triggers for the others to fire then you set back and watch

celebration guns - stars (iraq, pt. 2)

desert wind and a perverse desire to win history buried in shame

then the next day, how will you know your enemy? by their colour or your fear? one by one we can cage them in your freedom make them all disappear

my hands grow darker every day

claws off - margot and the nuclear so and sos (blair and brown)

if you wanna go, get lost if you wanna stay, shut up

wine red - the hush sound (brown takes over)

the sea is wine red, this is the death of beauty the doves have died, the lovers have lied

monster love - goldfrapp (brown and mandelson, redux)

i never thought i would return to be consumed by you again

everything comes around bringing us back again here is when we start and where we end

weekend away - tunng (the end)

wander through the wreckage all is said and done faces dance in the light

forget those days, they've gone

mykonos - fleet foxes (david miliband and ed miliband)

and you will go to mykonos with a vision of a gentle coast and a sun to maybe dissipate shadows of the mess you made

when out walking, brother, don't you forget it ain't often that you'll ever find a friend

[glockenspielium]

Give A Little Time

“When people reach the age of 21, they stop ageing until they meet their soulmate, so they can grow old together. Person A has been 21 for the past 20 200 years… until he meets her.”

Written for emkaywho in the 2016 Doctor Who Secret Santa! Slightly delayed but hope you enjoy it :D

Read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9398963 or below the cut!

It all starts the way that it does for everyone else, or so it seems. His parents met at twenty three, they didn’t have to wait for long. He’s grateful for that, at the very least. Though they were both long gone by the time he was able to properly appreciate what soul mates were, what that meant, he never grew tired of the stories of their fated love.

The years pass by in misadventure and well intended investigations. He’s 18 years old, more brilliant than anyone expected him to be and proud of it. He’s tall and gangly, studying more than he has hours to comprehend and deeply in love. In love with his roommate, who is, in return, mad about him, too. Or so it seems. The world passes by them in a giddy haze, for they are enlightened by love and have no time, intentionally or not, for those who cannot understand what they see. They watch the stars and hold hands in films about soulmates just like them. Tales of finding love, despite all the odds, conquering and triumphant. It was sycophantic, but enchanting nonetheless.

No one could have prepared them for what came next. Later, when he asked his friends, they made noises to suggest they’d seen it coming. And yet, no one had ever said anything. Who can say for sure whether they actually saw anything other than a loving couple, a grasping pair of hands, a dependant bond. Hindsight is a bitch, sometimes. He’d heard stories of unrequited bonds, as they all had, but he was so certain that they were in love, that he was in love.

It was easy to ignore the warning signs. He put his youthful complexion down to too many hours in the library, his limber body and fast metabolism down to good genes. But jealousy plants steady seeds of doubt, and eight years after they’d blown out his 21 st birthday candles together, he woke up to an empty bed and a long awaited abandonment they’d both seen coming for a while.

Still, it wasn’t everything. He has his friends and his career. He begins training in the air force, long hours and arduous exercise . That, and studying science, it’s been a perfect combination of exhilaration and investigation, and he picks up the pieces of the life he had let stretch beyond their measure, scattered between what he thought to be perfection. There’s more left to recover than he’d imagined.

And, within good time, he finds himself encircled by more than he could have ever hoped for. It’s less intimate - he’s left with a clear space around himself which no one can touch and a protective guard who loves him more than enough not to touch him either, which is. It’s nice. It’s surprisingly comforting.

It turns out, he’s not the only one. There’s Liz, never quite matched in any respect, never quite bothered to even try. Jamie, so far from home, always looking back. Tegan, also misplaced, but always looking forward, forever dancing. Zoe living in her own little world, Harry always a second behind everyone else. They found themselves a little corner of the world, tucked away amongst the books and the barricade of knowledge and stayed there, together. There were others too - they came and fell with the seasons, and they taught him about the world. Adric with his hands that were always too soft and Romana who understood more about art than anyone he’d ever met, but hated it all the same.  

They become his family and he becomes their legacy. One by one they peel away, and somehow, as if it’s the only thing he knows how to do best, he remains.

After the first century has come and passed, solo flights at twilight are a long distant memory, his jacket elbows have been replaced more than twice, and his office in the academic department has become something of a permanent fixture. It’s developed through the years, as items lose or gain significance, photographs fade and dust gathers in the corners of the shelves he’s long forgotten to notice. Though his name is still clearly printed across the sturdy door to his office, the door itself is rarely closed enough to read, and most people are starting to lose track of his name; they mostly call him, “The Doctor”- or even a sneaky “Professor”, from Ace, sitting in the front row with her tattered leather jacket and strawberry chewing gum. She doesn’t last longer than a couple of semesters, but as she heads off to an apprenticeship in Electromechanical Explosive Engineering, he can honestly say he’s never been so pleased or proud to see one of his students leaving university without finishing their degree.

Still, his life is always a little emptier with every loss, including hers. By now, he’s attended more funerals than he can accurately recall and learnt the cost of true friendship many times over. Sarah Jane still visits him, when she can. Her son seems to grow inches between weekends, but the wrinkles forming in the corner of her eyes are warm and pleased, and he hugs her tightly every time they meet, not wanting to wait for the inevitable, but catching himself wondering each time, all the same.

And so, he smiles a little less, asks a little less, and manages to please himself in the quiet company of his books, resigned to new theoretical discovery and scientific process. His work is more astonishing than ever; his life is wrecked with loneliness. But, he tells himself, it’s for the best. No more.

Or that’s what he tells himself, until he meets her.

Meets her might be a slight over statement, she doesn’t quite appear seated in one of his lecture, or walk into the smaller tutorial room. He doesn’t even meet her at one of the university function he sometimes brings himself to attend, for a few hours at most, until he can slip away again to the tranquillity of his solitude.

He runs into Rose outside the student café. Runs into, in that he nearly is knocked to the ground but a whirling human form- blonde hair, denim jacket, long boots – as it comes hurrying around the corner.

“Fuck!” She cries, holding out a hand to help him to his feet, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m- I’m just late, are you okay?”

He nods, brushing down the front of his jacket, though mainly for effect, and watching as she quickly gathers up the books which scattered to the ground as he fell.

“Fine, thanks,” He smiles, taking the books from her. “What class are you heading to?”

“Oh,” She smiles, blushes, but keeps her gaze steady, “First shift on the floor.” She gestures to the cafe behind her.

“Oh!” He replies, with an apparent, altogether sudden embarrassingly inadequate vocabulary. “Good luck!”

Her grin grows wider, she turns and runs away.

They meet again in the hallway. This time, she has the stack of books in her arms.

“What, did you think I was just here to make second grade coffee?”

All these years, and not once had he tried the campus cafe’s coffee.

(It is pretty terrible.)

She, as if by insistence of ignorance, doesn’t take a single one of his classes. At this point, he’s essentially written or published the basis of most core science streams. If not by merit, by sheer, dumbfound endurance. She majors in literature and politics and grins as she walks past the open door to his lecture theatre on her way to Japanese history. One day, she passes him the reading list for gender studies across the table in the cafe they’ve come to claim as theirs over the past few months. He reads the ones she highlighted and wonder how he could pass so many decades and only see life in one regard.

“Oh,” She exclaims, with pure, improbable delight. “Just you wait. This is just the beginning.”

He teaches her about the stars. They’re his most consistent and distant friend. And she is earnest and delighted, slow to understand what she’s never approached, but endlessly eager. Her smile is a glimmer of beauty in the starlight and he watches, he aches.

As she slips her hand into his, there’s a long distant pang of familiarity that he had honestly never expected to encounter again, not now. Not after all this time. Her hand is small and warm, her skin feels bizarre yet familiar against hers and he can’t decide whether his heart is racing or if time all around them has slowed almost to a halt.

She calls his name after him as he runs away, and never has he felt more a coward. Sarah Jane passes him a hand baked cookie with shaking hands and a steadfast love, and tells him to invite her over Sunday dinner sometime. But he’s a coward, that’s what he is.

And she is spectacular. And she finds him.

The door is, as always, open.

“I know who you are,” She starts, “I’ve heard stories about you ever since I knew what this place was, from my parents, from history, from fairy tales.”

He doesn’t want to stop her now, but he can’t bear to see her leave.

“The stories aren’t me.” He says. It’s true. But it’s all true.

“I know,” She replies, “Like I said. I know who you are.”

She smiles, and the world is improbably, impossibly calm. She takes his hand and hers is small and warm and holds his with a grasp that promises nothing but takes nothing either. They sit and the silence is warm.

She asks, “All this time, what were you waiting for?”

And he means to reply, he really does. But instead of clever words and prose, his lips instead find hers. It’s terrible and romantic, just like those awful films, but maybe there’s a reason they were such classics.

She smiles like the stars and the world moves on around them. But they stay there, just a moment longer, together.

[piecebymiserablepiece]

Fire

For the first time in what felt like ages, Cassius actually felt cold in his room. The summer sun had given up it’s strength this late at night, and finally let the night air pervade through every part of this house. Cass sighed through his nose, catching the ball he’d just thrown up in the air, lithe fingers barely snatching it before he threw it back up at the ceiling again.

Lonely shadows following me

Lonely ghosts come calling

Lonely voices talking to me

Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone

His mouth was fixed in its usual scowl, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Don’t think. Not now. The bad thoughts were making their way in, taking advantage of the quiet and making every part of the world drip with poison. Throw. Catch. Throw. Catch. What would Edith say if she saw him now? ...what would Sibyl? And my mother told me son let it be

Sold my soul to the calling

Sold my soul to a sweet melody

Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone The ball dropped onto the bed with a thud. He didn’t bother to pick it back up again, heading to the bathroom instead. His roommates weren’t about. He’d have time to shower without being pulled into conversation. He just didn’t have the energy for it today. Lord give me that fire. He closed the door behind him, grimacing when he saw his face in the mirror. He’d gotten even more pale. Even more sickly. Once proud of his face, his appearance- he now saw everything being stipped away, day by day. He looked sickly now, dead. A corpse barely keeping itself moving through spite alone. Lord give me that fire.

He pulled his hair back, trying to ignore how dry it’d gotten, how almost ready to split it was- almost in an attempt to hide it from himself. Was it a sin to cling to looking alive again? Lord give me that fire. He started the water. Slowly unbuttoned his shirt and vest, placing them carefully on the counter, struggled with his binder, and finally got so fed up that he dumped the rest of his clothes in an unceremonious pile on the bathroom floor. He stepped into the shower and ignored the fact that he’d turned it far too hot, simply letting it run over him and scald everywhere it touched. Burn, burn, burn. The revolt. His thoughts always turned back to the revolt nowadays. Was he strong back then? Was he a coward now? Weak and soft and relying on others for protection? He’d fought so hard. He’d torn into that house, fangs bared in a malicious grin, more beast than person and hungrier for blood than he’d ever been in his life. The toreador had gone up in flames so fast, screaming and pleading all the way to ash. Then was the woman. The woman in the next room who screamed a scream so loud that it ripped into Cassius’ skin, past any defense he had up, that sent him willingly into a hateful frenzy. Teagan had barely stopped him back then. Teagan was the only one who knew why he’d reacted that way. Without him, he’d be lost. Instead, someone else tore her apart, amidst Cassius’ hateful screams and snarls. They made a comment about how they always wanted the Discipline she was using. Oh, a thousand faces staring at me

Thousand times I've fallen

Thousand voices dead at my feet

Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone Cassius couldn’t throw up. Couldn’t even heave. His body was no longer capable. Instead, he just started to sob, blood running off of his face and mixing with the water down the drain. And now he dared to advocate for peace. Disgusting. And my mother told me son let it be

Sold my soul to the calling

Sold my soul to a sweet melody

Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone Lord gimme that fire

Lord gimme that fire

Lord gimme that fire

Burn, burn, burn (Song- Fire by Barns Courtney)

[foursprouthappiness-blog]

You Don’t Have To Sell Your Soul To Become An Artist (Trust Me, I Used My Wife’s Instead)

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/happiness/you-dont-have-to-sell-your-soul-to-become-an-artist-trust-me-i-used-my-wifes-instead/

You Don’t Have To Sell Your Soul To Become An Artist (Trust Me, I Used My Wife’s Instead)

Allef Vinicius / Unsplash

Madness isn’t usually loud like it’s portrayed on the screen. It’s not bright either — no supernova of unfettered emotion or physical deformity to hint at the rot inside. I didn’t bellow until my throat was raw or bloody my hands on my walls and mirrors. I didn’t splatter my paints across my skin or shred the half-finished canvases which mock my chosen identity.

My wife Joana even commented on how methodical I was when I gently placed each brush in their case, never to be opened again. If you count finger painting in pre-school, then it’s taken me 41 years to fully accept my failure. I should have realized it sooner, but I always managed to concoct an excuse before.

I didn’t try hard enough. That’s a good one. It makes it sound like I could just flip a switch in my mind and force myself to become a master through sheer willpower.

I wasn’t taught well enough. Even better: shifting the blame onto someone else. If only my teachers had been more qualified — if only they’d devoted themselves to nurture my potential like Domenico Ghirlandaio devoted himself to Michelangelo.

I’m not good enough — the hardest pill to swallow. I set out to capture the intrinsic beauty of the human spirit and display it for the world to see, but there is no beauty in me to share. I didn’t scream and throw a fit. I didn’t think much of anything at all. I just let my body move through the familiar motions of life and hoped no one would notice there was nothing below the surface.

Joana asked why my eyes were watering, but I blamed it on the movie we were watching. She punched my arm playfully, calling me a big softy.

“Aren’t you working on something tonight?” she asked.

I blinked hard, not taking my eyes off the TV.

“I remember you talking about that comic book store commission. How’s that coming?”

“It’s coming,” I lied. She tried to snuggle against me, but I slipped free and snuck off to the bathroom. It felt wrong to even let her touch me. She had this conception of who I was in her mind — just like I used to — but that person doesn’t exist. I’m a failure, a hack, a fraud. And that’s all I’d ever be. I stared at myself in the mirror, tracing the unfamiliar lines on my face. Poking at the bags under my eyes. Hating what I saw, and hating even more what I couldn’t see.

I mimed a gun with my fingers and put it against my head. Cocked the thumb, grinned my best phony smile, and BLAMO.

“Honey, can you get me a soda on your way back?” I heard from the living room.

But I couldn’t take my eyes away from the mirror. My reflection showed a crater in the side of my skull where the imaginary bullet entered. Blood, fragmented bone, and fleshy gray lumps splattered across the bathroom walls, more gushing from the exit wound on the other side of my head.

“Ooh and one of those Nutella cups,” Joana added. “Thanks, honey!”

I traced my fingers over my temple, withdrawing them clean. My reflection still wore the phony smile, although it was barely visible now under the torrent of blood flooding down its face.

“Two years, maybe less,” came a voice. I spun, startled, unable to find an orator in the empty bathroom. “First comes the depression. Then the withdrawal. Joana will pretend she’s just going to visit her family for awhile, but you’ll know she really just can’t stand being around you.”

My bloody reflection was talking to me. That’s normal. This is fine.

“She’ll expect you to call and explain what’s going on, but you won’t. She’ll extend her trip, thinking you just need time to yourself. And you do, but just because you’re too much of a coward to pull the trigger while someone’s watching. The silence will become too loud, and before you know it…”

The bloody figure mimed a finger to its head, the phony smile flashing through the red.

“You okay in there?” Joana called from the living room. “Mama wants her chocolate!”

“Okay,” I mumbled, replying to both.

“Or…” the reflection said.

“Or what?”

“Or you become the best painter the world has ever known, your name spoken with reverence a thousand years after your death.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, numb to the whole show. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

“This is where most people ask ‘what’s the catch?’” My reflection’s voice was coy.

“Probably my soul or something, right? That’s okay. I’m not using it for anything.”

“You don’t have to sell your soul. Any soul will do.”

“Never mind I’ll get it myself,” Joana said. “Geez, I wish I’d married a butler instead.”

“Think about it,” the reflection bubbled rapidly, spraying blood between his teeth as he did. “You won’t be able to enjoy your success without a soul. And your wife — she was going to leave you anyway. If anything, this would spare her a lifetime of regret and guilt over your death. You owe it to yourself — you owe it to both of you.”

“I can’t give something that isn’t mine,” I replied, immediately hating myself for even entertaining the thought.

“Anyone who loves without reservation exposes their soul. Paint her — not as she appears, but as she truly is. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What are you doing, giving birth in there?” Joana asked from right outside the door. The handle rattled. The door wasn’t locked. I leaped to stop her from entering — too slow. The door swung inward and there she stood: tank top over pajama bottoms, hair frizzy and wild, licking Nutella off her fingers. My heart was beating so fast, but as much as I loved her, I think my fear was even stronger.

Back to the mirror, I stared at my reflection. No blood. No bullet wound. Just a tired, aging face, equally terrifying in its own way.

“Come on,” Joana wrapped her arms around me from behind. “The movie’s no fun without you blubbering over the dialog.”

“I can’t,” I said, still staring into the mirror. “I have a painting to finish.”

A feverish intensity imbued my work all night and into the next morning. A drowning man struggling for air could not have done so with more urgency than the flight of my desperate brush. No thoughts endured more than a second before they were replaced by the endless cycle of anticipation and release each stroke demanded. When my canvas was filled, I didn’t hesitate to slash the lines onto the walls on either side of my easel. Then the table — the dresser — my own body a vessel to carry the glory of her design.

My brush was unconfined by any shape, but in its erratic patterns, I felt myself carving something out of nothing — something that had never been seen by mortal eye before.

In the subtleties of the blending colors, I captured Joana’s wry humor and gentle grace. Her laughter exploded like shrapnel across the space, the light in her eyes reflected in my cascading colors. The way her heart broke when her aging dog nudged her goodbye — the anxious thrill of stepping off the plane in Paris — even her love for me and her unspoken dread of the great beyond, naked and frozen for all the world to see.

Paint beneath my fingernails, in my hair, blazoned across my body, a testament to the frenzied passion which had possessed me. Though working alone, I danced with Joana the whole night through. I have never seen her more plainly nor loved her more strongly than those forbidden hours, and not until morning’s light did I stop to understand what I had done.

‘Are you insane?’ That’s what I was expecting to hear. Any second the door to my studio would open and Joana would see the chaos I had the audacity to unfurl. She’d laugh at me, making a thousand playful guesses at the madness which leaked from my mind all night. We’d both laugh, then she’d say something like ‘I’m just happy to see you enjoying your work again,’ and offer to help me clean. That’s how kind she was: when I did something stupid she’d be there to help me fix it, no pointing accusation or blame.

Maybe I really was insane. But either way, she couldn’t fix this one for me.

She didn’t enter the room. Not in the kitchen making her coffee, not in the shower singing herself into lucidity. Joana never got up that morning. She said she wasn’t feeling herself, and I was too much of a coward to tell her why. If I’d taken a break in the night to check on her, I might have noticed the rot that had already started to set in. She managed to prop herself up on her elbows, leaving several layers of flaking skin on the pillow. Ashen cracked skin, yellowed eyes, balding patches where clumps of hair had already started to fall — my wife was still in my studio where I’d captured her. The woman struggling for breath was nothing but a stranger to me, and I left her without a word.

I slept little and ate less. I sought only to paint, vainly trying to recapture the intimacy I’d felt with her the night before. There was a brief thrill as I marveled at the dexterity of my fingers, although they lacked the passion that haunted me before. I could trace every mental image I dared conjure and map them flawlessly onto the canvas, but they were dead things being carved into a dead world.

It didn’t take long for me to sit back in exasperation. I had the technical skill to conquer any challenge, but it wasn’t an infernal magic which had possessed me the night before. I knew at that moment that there was nothing I could ever create that was more beautiful than the pandemonium of Joana’s soul. I heard that hollow thing call my name from the bedroom with a voice like wind through dry leaves, and Heaven and Hell as my witness, I wept for what I’d done.

“Give her soul back to her,” I begged the aging face in the mirror. “Take mine instead —”

“What an ugly painting that would be,” the demon with my face replied.

“Then another — it doesn’t matter whose. I’ll give you as many as you like!”

“Does another love you as she did? Have they exposed themselves as she has done?”

I had no reply to give. Coward that I was, I merely returned to my painting. Lifeless hollow forms came marching through my work, each accompanied by the soundtrack of my wife’s body slowly deteriorating without its soul. Each time I looked at her there would be another piece missing: fingers decomposing and littering the mattress around her, cheeks worn so thin that I could see her blackened teeth and languid tongue even when her mouth was closed. I’d listen to her moan while I worked, always stealing longing glances at the portrait of her soul splashed across the room.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I set fire to that place with her inside. And watching the smoke curl into the night sky, all that’s left is to hope her soul escaped its prison and is now soaring somewhere with its dignity returned.

As for me, I returned to my work. Until the day I paint something so marvelous as to trick some poor innocent into loving me. Then I will paint what I see, and sell them until Joana is home again.