#emptiness???? no!!!!! hes filled with joy and whimsy!!!!!!

[tinyplanetss]

he is so tired!!!!!!! we are 66 chapters in and everything is just getting more and more difficult and everyone says they're definitely gonna listen to him this time and then they DON'T. he's exhausted all his options!! every time he goes to guanyin she's annoyed at him and he's called in favors from the sea dragons so many times there's no way he could repay them all and he hates bowing to heaven after everything. give my guy a break!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

he's meant to jump around and be a hyperactive and silly monkey!!!!!! it's what he was made to do!!!!!!

he is literally wrangling them to the best of his ability. he only learned from subodhi and he was kicked out from there!!!! he can be serious when he needs to be....... but he's just so so tired and we've still got another third of the journey to go :(

[torusdove]

— You taste sweet, like honey

Pairings: Yuuji x reader, Kento x reader, Satoru x reader, Choso x reader & Yuuta x reader.

Description: types of kisses I believe they fit!

— Pinky promise! ˚｡ Itadori Yuuji.

In the heart of the small, neighbourhood middle school, Itadori and you were found running behind one another. The laughter of innocence surrounded you both as you basked in the warmth of the sun, your hand stretched in front of you as you tried to lay your hands on his body, tagging him to be it.

Spring had brought the subtle wind with her, filling the air with the sweet scent of the blooming flowers and pollen that seemed to be giving Itadori a hard time once in a while.

With sparkling eyes, you took one big step, pressing your palm against his back. You absolutely didn’t mean to do it, but gasped anyway when he tumbled over into the fresh field of grass. It took him a little before he burst into laughter, rolling onto his back as he watched you with the same spark twinkling in his eyes.

“Y/n,” he breathed out, chest heaving up and down through a small cough that itched up into his throat. Those stupid pollen.

“We should marry when we’re allll grown up!”

You couldn’t fight the mischievous grin that seemed to grow into your lips, giggling softly behind your tiny hand before you took a seat beside his face, knees probably covered in green when you’d get up. “You’re silly!”

“I am dead-serious!” His voice became louder, sitting upright as his eyes struck yours with a certain certainty, “We will have a biiig house with eleven cats and seven birds!”

Caught up in his whimsy, imaginary future, you couldn’t help but giggle even more, innocent eyes crinkling into two new moons while he watched you with a smile curled into his lips. “Okay, ‘dori, I promise we will!”

Without another word, he extended his pinky high up into the sky, waiting patiently until you seemed to be doing the same, “Pinky promise?” And with all of your teeth on display in a big smile, you linked your pinky with his, your fingers intertwined in a gesture that felt as significant as any wedding ring, “Pinky promise!”

With your childish promise made, Itadori leaned in, his little lips pressing gently against your cheek. The kiss was sweet, innocent even, filled with the purity of childhood affection. Yet, both of your faces were flushing red, laughter filling the air a second later when the silliness was no longer ignorable.

As the sun shone her brightest colours in the sky, you continued to play, hearts filled with the joy of friendship and the magic of youthful promises that, for a moment, felt as real as the world around you.

— Morning affection ˚｡ Nanami Kento.

The soft glow of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a warm hue across the bedroom. Your eyes carefully fluttered open, aware of the new day dawning upon the world while stirring around gently. The empty spot beside you told you enough to mourn your loss already: Kento was awake and ready to head to work.

Nevertheless, you did have the privilege of being met by his back, blazer neatly straightened and tight around his biceps, hands probably busy fixing his tie. The smile that curled upwards into your lips had won the battle, watching him silently.

When he turned around and locked eyes with you, you could swear you saw the corners of his eyes soften around the edges, walking way too quickly towards you. Bending down a bit, slightly towering over your frame, his lips found their comfort on your forehead.

"Good morning, my love," he whispered, voice a gentle murmur. "’M sorry for waking you.” It was silly, the way he apologised for something that happened despite his quietness. So, with a soft smile, fully embracing his doting as the slumber still had a grasp around your wrist, you whispered, “Nonsense, Nami..”

As you felt him backing away, you debated whether to grasp his wrist and ask him to stay “for just five minutes longer”, but decided against it when he seemed at peace after giving you such a sweet goodbye.

Patting his chest softly, straightening his tie out just the tiniest bit, you watched him with a fond expression, “Gon’ miss you, Nami – hurry back home, ‘kay?”

With an amused grin, he nodded his head, letting his lips dip down to meet your forehead for a second time. You could feel his grin against your head, softly breaking out into a smile yourself.

“I will be back before you know it, sweetheart.” With that, he walked towards the bedroom door, glancing once more at your body being swallowed by the fluffy blankets. It may have been a brief moment for outsiders, but it warmed your body more than the blankets ever could. Watching him leave the room, you couldn’t help but sigh out contently, already counting down the seconds he’d come back home.

— Drowsy love ˚｡ Kamo Choso.

The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a warm ambience. Laying entwined in the comfort of your bed, the soft sheets cradled Choso and you like two warm arms. Both on the verge of sleep, but a gentle restlessness lingering in the air.

Your lips met lazily, a slow dance of affection. Eyes half-closed, you exchanged sweet, drowsy kisses, each one deepening the quiet intimacy between you. Fingertips traced gentle patterns on bare skin, a silent language of love spoken in the quiet of the night.

A contented sigh escaped as you parted from his lips, only to hear a whine coming from his lips in the hopes of gravitating back together. The world outside your bedroom seemed to fade away, leaving only the rhythmic exchange of sleepy kisses and the steady beating of your hearts.

The room filled with the soothing sounds of your shared breaths, creating a melody of quiet affection. The soft rustle of the sheets only echoed the tender moments between you even more, and in the hushed stillness, you continued your wordless exchange, savouring the sweetness of those sleepy kisses that spoke volumes about the love you held for one another.

— What were we waiting for? ˚｡ Gojo Satoru.

The room was bathed in a blue glow from the long-forgotten TV, a playlist playing in the background which neither of you paid any attention to. A low hum of laughter and music filled the air as Satoru and you, both slightly tipsy -rather, very much drunk-, found yourselves on the sofa in the middle of the shared living room.

Originally, you’d have shared this very same sofa with three other people: Suguru, Kento and Ieiri. However, with all three of them finding their way in life, the sofa only seemed familiar to your two figures.

With one last sip from your glass of wine, you let your head fall back against the headrest, closing your eyes while a deep sigh spilt from your mouth. Satoru couldn’t help but mirror your body, letting his fall back in the same way, only with his head turned towards the side of your face.

Your hair was messy, not unkept, but dishevelled enough to be called messy. There was a soft, red glow blooming into your hot cheeks, darker than the usual shade of lipstick that adorned your chapped lips. He noticed the way your chest moved at a much slower pace: a lazy, deep breath followed by a -just as- lazy deep exhale. Your eyes were fluttered shut, eyelashes moving the slightest bit along with your eyes.

Your exams were finally over, and now you could relax.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to feel his eyes burning holes into your soul, but this time the heat felt more unbearable. Maybe your tolerance for alcohol wasn’t as high as you thought.

Or perhaps he was staring a little harder than normal.

There was no escaping his gaze, no escaping his strikingly clear eyes, even when you had convinced yourself that opening your own slowly, would maybe get the job done.

It wouldn’t.

His irises were coloured a fierce blue, a luminous glow of happiness and youthfulness sparkling within them. They burned fanatically, challenging the sun by showing off its brightness. They could devour the beauty of the rest of the world with ease, leaving you to question whether you had seen anything that would even come close to their beauty. Resting your cheek on the headrest, you finally let your eyes meet.

A subtle shift in the atmosphere hinted at unspoken feelings.

Your cheeks felt hot and your head was pounding, fingers quick to fidget with the rims of your nails to get your mind a little more focused. A slight buzz in the back of your mind had you feeling hazy, dozy even. It made you question whether or not your eyes were betraying you by observing his body leaning more towards yours.

You couldn’t speak of any betrayal when your eyes caught his lingering on your lips, a playful smile etching its way into the corners of his mouth. He never lost his childish playfulness, your strand of hair being twirled around his finger absentmindedly being proof of it.

The TV played a soft melody, creating a backdrop for the unspoken tension between you. A bubble of air seemed to have settled its claws into your trachea, your hand carefully finding its way to his knee.

Satoru had always been beautiful, had always had girls running after him ever since you had known him. And up to this very moment, you had never quite understood.

In turn, Satoru let his body shift closer, lightly nudging your thigh with his. The air buzzed with quiet anticipation as you shared a secret, drowsy smile, realizing that something unspoken lingered between you.

A shared moment of vulnerability passed between your gaze, each recognizing the unspoken feelings. His hand found your fidgeting ones, intertwining his fingers with yours until you had become completely still. The room seemed to fade away as both of you moved closer, drawn together by an undeniable magnetic force.

With a gentle touch, your free hand brushed a strand of white away from his face, your fingertips grazing his cheek. The atmosphere crackled with unspoken words, but in that shared moment of silence, you both understood. Without needing to say a word, your lips met in a soft, lingering kiss that spoke volumes about the connection you had discovered in the midst of a tipsy night.

— This isn't goodbye ˚｡ Okkotsu Yuuta.

The airport terminal was buzzing with the hum of conversations and the shuffle of hurried footsteps. Surrounded by the busy crowd, Yuuta and you stood facing each other, expressions a mix of anticipation, sadness and longing. With his bag packed and his luggage beside him, you couldn’t help but tear up, trying to hold them back by flashing him a wobbly smile.

"I guess it is finally time.." Yuuta said, his voice tinged with slight excitement but also reluctance as his eyes picked up on your own. Your usually bright whites had turned a pinkish colour, the sparkle within them also nowhere to be found.

Your head moved up and down, blinking back tears and swallowing the big lump that seemed to be stuck in your trachea, "You will have a great time."

Noticing your soft speech, and your shimmering eyes, Yuuta couldn’t stop his body from moving closer into your proximity, reaching for your hands and squeezing them softly in reassurance, “I will be back before you know it.”

There was no use in giving him any sort of rebuttal, nodding once more as your hands lightly squeezed him back. “I know,” you measly whispered out, “I am proud of you for coming this far.”

These were the last moments of the two of you being able to be this close to one another, and Yuuta seemed to realise that as well. Pressing his forehead against yours, he spoke even softer than before, eyes strikingly clear, “I promise I’ll come back. I’ll come back stronger and braver, for you.”

You couldn’t manage more than a small smile, eyes glistening in the bright airport lighting, “I will be here.” Yuuta’s thumb brushed across your cheek, wiping away a stray tear as gently as he could.

It didn’t take him long, but it did take him a handful of courage to do what he desperately wanted to do months ago. With his hands gently cupping your face, he pressed his lips, with utmost tenderness, against yours. Surely, you could categorise it as a bittersweet kiss, filled with the promise of return and the ache of separation.

However, as you watched him disappear into the crowd, becoming one with the sea of people, you couldn’t help but not think of this as a departure, but more so as a new beginning that just had to reach its starting point.

Author speaking: i love reading comments and quoted reblogs ;) take care!! <3

[jokeringcutio]

Art the Clown x Reader Drabble "Giving Birth to Art's Baby" [ EXPLICIT, Gore]

AN: Nobody asked for this. Summary: If Reader had Art’s baby. (or: You realize you're fucked, birthing a demon's child, but get a bright idea while doing so)

Warnings: Explicit content (Blood/Murder/Birth), Demon!Art, Demon!kid, Cannibalism/Placenta eating. Mentioned Forced Impregnation. Reader gives birth. Reader tries to survive. Reader lives by the end of this chapter. You have Art’s look-a-like baby (not just his head. An actual kid).

The sterile whiteness of the hospital room blurred into a canvas of dread as they told you to push. "You can do this," the nurse said, her voice a harsh command against the silence of your unborn child's heart—a silence that had been haunting you since labor began. The monitors sang no lullaby of life; instead, they hummed a dirge for the creature stirring inside, the one you knew bore no resemblance to a human babe.

"Push!" she insisted, but something primal within you recoiled. Your mind reeled, images of the ultrasounds flickering like a horror show behind your eyes—those glimpses of something otherworldly, something that twisted the midwives' faces into masks of confusion and fear. You felt it squirming, an alien presence in the sanctuary of your womb. Its head, too large, its limbs, too sharp—you remembered the cold gel on your belly and the screen showing a chest empty of a beating heart and a skull with teeth that no other baby ever had.

The images had filled you with nightmares.

"Push, damn it!"

With each word from her lips, you were torn further between the instinct to expel the abomination and the unnatural maternal pull towards the thing you carried. It looked slightly human, yes, but there was no pulse, no thrumming of life—just the void where a heartbeat should echo.

"Push, or we'll lose you both!"

Your muscles clenched, a symphony of pain rippling through you as you fought to obey, to be rid of the living death inside. You tried to calm the tempest in your chest, telling yourself over and over, "I can do this."

Then he invaded your thoughts—Art, the demon, the clown in black and white, a mockery of joy and laughter. His teeth, those sharp instruments of terror, flashed in your memory, evoking the night of unspeakable horror when he had claimed you. Should you have fought him harder? Should you have shouted or cried? His touch was a brand, his seed the poison that grew into the monstrosity within.

You had recognized the shape of the baby’s skull the instant the ultrasound had shown it. His teeth. His head. His heartless frame.

Mass murderer and psycho on the run. A clown who never spoke and was never caught. A criminal the police claimed to have killed time after time again, yet he kept returning. You weren’t stupid. You knew he was no ordinary man, had seen and felt him up close, had lived through carrying his offspring and felt its tiny hands like claws inside your womb.

"Push! I see the head!"

Your scream tore through the air, a battle cry against the violation that had led to this moment. With a guttural cry, you bore down, every fiber of your being straining to bring forth the offspring of darkness. The nurses leaned in, their faces etched with morbid curiosity and professional detachment.

"More! Now!"

And you did. You pushed past the fear, the revulsion, and the anguish. You pushed because surrender was not an option. The child of Art, the silent clown with the soulless bright eyes surrounded by circles of dark, was coming, and you would face it, even as it threatened to tear you apart.

"Head's out!"

The words cut through the fog of your agony, and for a brief, impossible moment, hope flickered. But it was a fool's hope, born of pain and desperation. For what lay between your thighs was neither dead nor alive, neither human nor wholly other. It was the unholy union of your flesh and Art's demonic whimsy, born into a world that would never understand its existence.

"Keep going, you're almost there!"

That nurse's voice, so insistent, so devoid of the horrors that awaited, spurred you on. And you pushed again, into the unknown, into the nightmare made flesh.

The sterile chill of the delivery room clawed at your senses, but nothing could compare to the icy grip of fear that seized your heart. The nurse's declaration was a death knell, ringing hollow in your ears.

"Oh no, look at that color,” she breathed out, her words a ghost lingering in the air. The child’s head was as white as the sheets you were birthing on.

Your gaze fixed on the writhing mass that now slipped free from your body, its skin as white as untouched snow, not a shade of life to be found. Terror danced in the nurse's eyes as she caught the creature you had birthed, fully convinced to hold a stillborn child.

But then it turned its head towards her, lips pulled back in a macabre grin, black and white painted across its face like a twisted replica of Art's mime visage.

It was as you had feared it would be. Any hope you had held that your baby might come out all rosy and normal faded like ice under the sun.

"God!" The nurse recoiled, hurling your offspring onto the bed as if it were a viper.

"Easy! Easy!" You cried out. This was your child, your blood. And there was the little voice inside your head that whispered that Art wouldn’t die. No matter how many shots had been fired at him. No matter how many limbs had been cut off. The man still walked the earth, spreading death in silent joy wherever he went.

What if your child was the same? Already its heart wasn’t beating yet it seemed very much alive. Would throwing it away like its life meant nothing be the solution?

Adrenaline fueled your limbs, and with a grunt, you crawled toward the tiny form cast aside on the cold hospital linen. No. This was your baby too. No matter how evil, you would nurse it.

"Shh, shh," you soothed, half-mad with pain and wonder as your arms closed around the little body. Your hands trembled, cradling him close, the resemblance uncanny—Art's spawn, his legacy. Something soft dangled between the baby’s legs.

"Boy..." you whispered, the realization dawning upon you as you held him against your breast. The baby’s head instinctively sought for your nipple, his already long-grown teeth snapping as he sought.

The sight of his head filled you with terror, and you felt slightly sick to see the baby’s lack of lips and already blackened teeth. Bright eyes stared up at you, black circles around him. The first touch of his mouth to your skin was tentative, searching, before a sharp pain made you hiss. "No biting!"

He seemed to understand or perhaps heeded the command instilled in his dark lineage. You were grateful he started to suck next and didn’t bite your entire nipple off. You wouldn’t put it past him – not with what you had seen his father do and what you had read and heard in the news articles about him.

There amidst the blood and the shadows, you were bound to this child, this extension of a demon's desire, by cords thicker than fear, stronger than revulsion. In the silence that hung heavy, only your harsh breaths and the soft, wet suckling sounds filled the void.

Your arms ached, but you clung to him—the fruit of your womb and a monster's seed. The room spun slightly, the stark white tiles of the hospital room blurring as you focused on the tiny creature at your breast. His lips, so unlike a human’s and too far pulled back, painted in an unseen artist's black and white, suckled with an instinctual hunger.

"Sweetheart,” you tested the word, reassuring yourself that you could do this. That you had to use affectionate terms around him especially because he was the way he was.

A new plan formed in your mind.

If you could bring such true evil to the world, could you perhaps dampen it? You were pretty certain you could not undo it. You could not change a devil into an angel. But if you could not turn evil into good, could you perhaps guide it? Guide it away from harming innocents?

"You're mine," you murmured, studying the little baby in your arms. If not for the head, the child would have looked rather normal.

“My son,” you proudly said, testing the words whilst the nurses and doctors around you stood and watched. You heard their muttering and were vaguely aware of how one of the nurses had pushed an emergency button and alerted someone else in the building about what was going on.

Would they come and take your baby away from you? Would they want to try and murder him?

A fierce protectiveness was swelling within you. “I’ll protect you, sweetheart,” you reaffirmed, determination lacing the single word. “You are my son.”

Some of the nurses took a step back from the bloodied bed, their eyes still wide with disbelief. Behind them, the door burst open with a violence that made every eye swing toward it.

Art stood there, his silhouette like a twisted shadow from a child's nightmare. The nurse at the entrance reached for him. “Sir,” she said, eyes upon the garbage gab he carried over his shoulder. “These are sterile surroundings.” Her concern was cut short by the gleam of steel—a deft flick of Art's wrist—and she crumpled, a scream caught in her throat, blood blossoming on her uniform like a grotesque flower.

The doctor next to her cried out when a blade hit his legs, slashing through the clean white fabric until his shins bled. Another nurse to his side crumpled when Art passed her by, pushed over with blood on her pristine white clothes.

"Stop!" Your voice was a command, even as you recoiled. "Don't."

Art’s head cocked, you could tell he had heard your voice, but he didn’t listen. Whatever knife he had brought with him was launched to land in the middle of a nurse’s forehead, pinching her to the wall. He smiled broadly while he stepped up to the doctor’s tools to get a scalpel from them, obviously pleased with all the sharp things that were within his reach. He threatened to step forth to the Doctor who had already wounded legs and who had fallen to the floor. The man looked up at the demonic clown fearfully, tears in his eyes as Art raised the scalpel.

“Art, please,” you begged, “Don’t hurt them.”

It wasn’t your pleading that stopped him. But something else entirely. A low groan as finally, the afterbirth followed - a final, visceral release that marked the end of your gruesome trial.

His head cocked, the mime's unnerving silence punctuating the chaos he had wrought. He approached, eyes fixed on the bundle in your arms. Between your legs, the heap of blood and tissue drained the sheets. The baby’s umbilical cord was still attached to the placenta that had finally come out.

Art studied it. First, the writhing baby in your arms. He looked at it like he had never seen a newborn child before. He probably hadn’t, you thought. At least, not one of his own. The wonder was visible in those bright light eyes of his. The demonic toothy smile had turned into a black hole of wonder.

Then, the brightly shining eyes traced the umbilical cord and came to rest on the placenta. Something in his eyes changed, and he looked up at you, almost hungrily. His gaze softened then at the sight of his son again, and dirt-covered fingers reached out a few times, indicating he wanted to hold him but was too shy to grab the babe.

Your son’s eyes opened, recognizing his father. But he wouldn’t leave his meal. The teeth nibbled on your nipple while milk kept flowing richly, then bit down a little harder when you moved your arm – an indication that he did not want to be moved.

With a spidery grace, Art extended a hand, his fingers stretching toward his progeny. You tightened your grasp, feeling the peculiar warmth of your son against your flesh.

"Art," you began, voice quivering with a cocktail of fear and resolve. "He's feeding." You met those abyssal eyes, searching for understanding. "We need them alive—the nurses, the doctors. We might need their help..." Whatever could you say to keep him from killing these people? You raked your mind, thought desperately. And then it came out. Unbidden. "For next time."

A pause, and then a different kind of hunger flashed across his face. Another offspring? The idea hadn't crossed his twisted mind until you seeded it there. The possibility of creating more beings like this one, beings that belonged to both of you—it ignited something within him.

"Next time," you whispered, coaxing.

Art's attention shifted, drawn away by the glistening afterbirth on the bed. A grotesque curiosity morphed into action as he reached down, snatching it up with an eager hand. He snapped the umbilical cord with his teeth, igniting gasps throughout the room of the nurses and the doctor – all either petrified or too wounded to leave. You gave them all an empathic stare, a silent ‘I’m sorry’ while you watched as Art descended on his own meal.

The room filled with the sound of his silent feasting, a tableau of horror that paralyzed the surviving staff. They could only watch, too terrified to move, too horrified to look away.

"Good," you breathed, holding your son closer. "Focus on that. Let us be."

Surrounded by trembling bodies and the scent of iron and fear, you rocked gently, whispering promises into the velvet softness atop your son's head, promises of a world where he would never be alone—where he'd have a sibling to share the darkness with. And more importantly, a mother who would guide evil in ways that would save those she cared about. Herself included. ~ AN: This could be a full story, but I was lazy and only wrote the birthing scene. Might upload other parts that can go along with this as I have an outline. If you like my (gross) writing (style), consider following me or browse my masterlists (psst, there's more).

~~ Support me on Ko-Fi - Masterlist - Request Box ~~ The Full Tale: Art saw the pale girl, another of his kind, and realized that he wanted to be less lonely. Someone of his own kind, now that sounded nice. A kid of his own to play patty cake with? So he started looking for a potential carrier for his kid. You were cute, didn't run as hard, didn't make a sound when he tried to harm you. A quiet little human, about the size of the clown kid he had seen. You were perfect. Instead of killing you, he made sure you got pregnant. During the pregnancy, you kept seeing traces of him, found little gifts from the stranger who featured in your nightmares ever since.

You weren't stupid. You found out quite quickly that your clown is in fact the much sought-after murderer who comits the most horrible crimes under the name of Art. You have seen what he is capable of and dive into the archives researching him and his crimes. He seems to survive everything.

When the ultrasounds show you a distorted baby with no heartbeat, you know that you carry true evil inside of you. But getting rid of it is no option, as you can't kill what already seems to be dead. With no other fate, you have no option but to birth the monster's child. How you will handle things after, however, that is something you can influence. You will do anything in your power to survive. ~~

[txtaetertots]

HOPELESSLY DEVOTED 68: prom

[ synopsis ] you’re trying to get into your dream school. beomgyu’s just trying to pass a class. the only way to ensure you both get what you want is to work together. very closely.

[ note ] i think this is the longest chapter i've written for this series omg its over 3k words aHH i hope you guys enjoy it <3

taglist (CLOSED): @heyanonymous123 @flrtsbin @anonella22 @chocorenchin @gyuszie @flowerbe0m @kaikamalover @n034sy @iactaid @suzirumas @pupkashi @choi-beomgyulvr @hearts4hanni @naveries @wccycc @wonioml @burminq @a55hie @wildesreblogs @kaewonie @online--princess @alixox @minkyungseokie @moa4lifeee @yeehawnana @peakaboostuff @txtistheloml @sieuneo @weyrrii @cookiehaos @vianna99 @akari-saka13 @crystal-jellies @veryjeongintxtkid @reiloml @mystiicturtle @sirpoopsalot @certifiedmoa @l0ve-joy @woncheecks @hellohuening @rainbowszi @yeonie137 @neoculturewhat @solstramaii @tocupid @cha0thicpisces @koeuh @iwaplant @lemons4u

When the prom venue was chosen and booked, Yunjin had a vision she couldn’t be talked out of. It was cliché, already been done. But, to Yunjin, there was nothing she couldn’t outdo and ameliorate—and a prom theme wasn’t any different. Kazuha would tell everyone it was a pain in the ass trying to meet Yunjin’s demands; but, now that it was all over and the fruit of their labor was finally able to be appreciated, she couldn’t deny it was all worth it.

From the dark blue shaded ceiling drapes adorned with twinkling lights to the glossy black dance floor sparkling with silver specs and reflecting the lights above, it was like stepping into a celestial wonderland. Starry night seemed to be a staple theme for youth events, commemorating these moments as magical and full of whimsy. And Yunjin couldn’t stop herself from doing just that and more. The round tables were intricately positioned around the room, hugging the dance floor and creating a path. The tables were dressed in velvet covers, trimmed with silver beads, and in the center of every table were the handmade centerpieces Yunjin forced Kazuha to make with her. Cylindrical vases of varying heights, filled with water, small white flowers, and iridescent streamers, sat inside a square tray filled with crystal pebbles. On top of the water floats lit candles, adding to the calming ambiance. The room was filled with decor exemplifying the theme from white, black, and navy blue balloon displays, twinkling stars, white drapes along the walls, and a sparkling golden crescent moon. Lights everywhere, flickering and flashing. The star of the display, however, Yunjin would argue, was the four-tiered golden fountain in the center of the dance floor. Her favorite touch was the fountain that took her three months of convincing and revamping.

“Wow, it’s beautiful, Yunjin,” Soobin gapped, doing his best to talk over the music while admiring every inch of the room.

Yunjin grinned, watching as their classmates admired and relished in the venue, “I know right.”

“Any word from Chaewon yet?” Beomgyu interjected, hands fiddling with the sleeves of his white suit jacket.

“Not yet,” Yunjin sighed, tapping her phone just to see an empty notification screen.

She looked up at Beomgyu, watching how his eyes wandered the room and the way he chewed on his bottom lip. He wasn’t even this nervous during their performance week.

“Beomgyu,” Yunjin said, placing her hand on his shoulder, gaining his attention. “Everything is gonna work out just fine. We’ve got this.”

Beomgyu nodded hesitantly, taking a deep breath. Despite being so last-minute, his friends were more than willing to move heaven and earth to make this gesture possible. Especially Yunjin and Kazuha, who used their privileges as prom committee members to create as romantic of a scene as they possibly could. 

Just then, Yunjin’s phone flashed, alerting the three to a message from Chaewon.

‘Pulling up now. Get ready!’

Beomgyu felt his entire body turn cold. He looked between Yunjin and Soobin, heart threatening to jump out of his chest.

Soobin grabbed his arm, “It’s go-time!”

Leading Beomgyu through the crowd of students, Soobin made a beeline toward the DJ booth where Kazuha and Taehyun were waiting. As soon as the two noticed them rushing toward them, they began preparing the equipment.

YN grabbed a fistful of the skirt of her dress, nervously following Chaewon into the building. She could hear the faint thumping of the music down the corridor from the entrance, making her palms feel clammy and her breath uneasy. She didn’t want to be here originally. The embarrassment of Beomgyu rejecting her promposal was bad enough; but then, subsequently rejecting his relationship proposal after the gritty events following, it felt wrong being here.

Even when Chaewon was helping her do her hair and makeup, all she could think about was everything Yunjin said about prom. About it being the perfect ending to her and Beomgyu’s year. Instead, she’s going without Beomgyu, having already ended their story the night of their final performance. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it had been on her mind since the moment Beomgyu opened up to her. She would never do something as horrible as Jieun, but she knew that being thousands of miles away while building her career would make it nearly impossible to be a present part of his life. She just needed confirmation from NYU, and when she got it, it was the only option she felt was right.

Still, walking up to the beautifully decorated venue entrance, being met with the music growing louder and louder, all she could feel was regret and sadness, not an ounce of excitement. Chaewon locked their arms together as they walked through the string light entrance toward the sheer blue curtain, pushing through and falling in awe with the dance hall.

YN couldn’t stop looking around, taking in every bit of what felt like walking through the night sky, unaware that the music was going dim. She didn’t even notice Chaewon taking her down to the dance floor, too busy admiring the lit-up path edged with cloud-like bushels. It wasn’t until Chaewon let go of her did she realized where she was led. She looked around her, noticing the dance floor was cleared with everyone surrounding the floor while staring at her. YN looked back for Chaewon, who held up her hands and assured her all was okay. Confused, YN looked back at the floor, looking around for any hint of what was going on. She felt a wave of emotion and goosebumps over her arms and neck as a song suddenly began playing through the hall. A painfully familiar tune.

A spotlight shines over the fountain, gaining everyone’s attention, beaming over to a figure standing at the DJ booth. YN recognized him immediately and couldn’t help the smile forming on her lips.

Beomgyu stretched out his hand over his eyes, trying to block out the light so he could see her more clearly. In his other hand, he held a microphone. As soon as he saw her, he felt his nerves melt away and all he could focus on was her. He brought the microphone up to his lips, gaze never leaving her, and slowly made his way down the booth to the floor.

Guess mine is not the first heart broken

My eyes are not the first to cry

YN stood frozen, hands clenching to the fabric of her dress, watching as Beomgyu made his way toward her. The spotlight followed every step he took, making it impossible to look away from him. The light contrast made it hard for Beomgyu to read the expression on YN’s face, but he only hoped she was still smiling as he stepped closer and closer.

I’m not the first to know

There’s just no getting over you

It was such a spur-of-the-moment idea to sing to YN at prom. His friends still don’t know what happened after he met with Mr. Kim, but whatever it was, had to be a big deal. Beomgyu described it as “the sign of all signs” and his second chance. It was the last push he needed to consider Yeonjun’s plan of making the most of the time they had left. And, he knew he had to do something big to show YN how deeply he felt. What better way was that than through music?

You know I’m just a fool who’s willing

To sit around and wait for you

Beomgyu stopped a few steps in front of YN, reaching his hand out for her to take. YN could see his hand trembling, making her chest heave. She reached out slowly, letting him take her hand and gently pull her toward the center of the floor.

But, baby, can’t you see

There’s nothing else for me to do?

I’m hopelessly devoted to you

A smile crept its way to Beomgyu’s face, his confidence gaining as he noticed the faint blush painted across YN’s cheeks, as he was finally able to see her face clearly. He couldn’t help but focus on her eyes, the way they stared up at him in adoration. He swore his knees would buckle any moment if he didn’t look away, but he just couldn’t. He took a chance to twirl her around once before bringing her in and swaying together as the spotlight dimmed and they were bathed under the soft twinkling of the string lights around them.

But now there’s nowhere to hide

Since you pushed my love aside

He took YN’s hand and held it up to his chest, squeezing gently. YN could feel how hard his heart was pounding through the palm of her hand. She looked back up at him, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed as he continued to sing. For a moment, she forgot people were watching them. It felt like it was just her and Beomgyu at this moment in time.

I’m out of my head

Hopelessly devoted to you

YN carefully released her hand from Beomgyu’s grip and reached up to cup his face. He followed her movements, gaze falling back to hers as soon as he felt the warmth of her palm on his cheek. He turned into putty whenever he felt her soft fingers trace along the base of his ear, along his jaw. Her touch was so tender and comforting. He wished they could stay this way forever.

Hopelessly devoted to you

“I’m hopelessly devoted… to you,” Beomgyu sighed the last note, hands reaching up to cup YN’s cheeks to carefully wipe away her tears. 

The music faded, leaving them in silence. People hesitated to cheer Beomgyu’s performance, not wanting to spoil the moment unfolding before them. When Taehyun made an announcement about this ordeal before YN’s arrival, they were reluctant to oblige, but as they watched the way Beomgyu poured his heart out into every lyric, they wanted nothing more than bare witness. It wasn’t like Beomgyu to have this much passion for anything or anyone, but ever since taking part in the musical, it was like he became a different person. Happier. Full of life. Desire for the future.

“What was all this for? When did you plan this? What?” YN began to blabber, looking around at everyone and spotting her friends gathered by the DJ booth with smiles on their faces.

Beomgyu pulled her attention back to him, smiling. “I know you said you said you wanted to just be friends. But, YN, I don’t think I can do that.”

“You can’t?”

Beomgyu shook his head. “It took me too long to realize the feelings I have for you aren’t just infatuation. YN, I’m in love with you.”

YN’s eyes widened. She never expected to hear that word from him. It was a scary word to hear at their age, but for some reason, it felt more liberating than scary. It felt right.

“Kiss her!” Someone yelled, pushing the rest of the crowd to begin chanting.

Beomgyu looked at YN, raising his eyebrows as if asking if it was okay. But, before he could even open his mouth to ask, she grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him down, catching him off guard. Their lips crashed together, leaving Beomgyu bewildered for a moment before melting into her touch as their classmates cheered on. His hands found their place at her hips, where the hem of her bodice met the skirt of her floor-length dress. This was a feeling he could never get used to.

The DJ restarted his set, encouraging everyone to get back on the floor. Beomgyu pulled away, grinning from ear to ear, grabbing YN’s hand and pulling her away from the floor and toward the entrance to the corridors. There was barely anyone there, allowing them to catch a breath and enjoy each other’s company for a bit longer.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” YN said, gripping Beomgyu’s hands as she attempted to relax the adrenaline she felt.

“I had to do something big to tell you how I feel,” Beomgyu confessed. “Besides, I had to do something special, too, for that thoughtful promposal you gave me.”

YN slapped her hands over her face, embarrassment overtaking the rush. “I can’t believe you reminded me of that!”

Beomgyu laughed, attempting to pull her hands away, but she wouldn’t budge.

“I wanted to experience this night with you,” he sighed, giving up and pulling her against his chest instead. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. “I never saw myself going to prom, but when you asked me, all I could think about was how pretty you were gonna look.”

“Until you rejected me,” YN muttered.

Beomgyu squeezed her tight, a grimace falling over his face. “I deserve to be shamed for that. I know. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time, like a dumbass.”

YN picked her head up from her hands, looking up at Beomgyu as he looked down at her. She could see the regret he felt about that moment written all over his face. 

“Just like me when I said we should just be friends, huh?” She asked softly.

“Depends,” Beomgyu sighed. “Would it make a difference if I told you that I might be joining you in New York come spring?”

YN’s eyes widened, her mouth falling agape. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t get her voice out. All she could do was stare at him in bewilderment and squeeze his arms from shock. Beomgyu found it amusing. It was similar to the way he reacted when Mr. Kim told him. He could recall that moment like it just happened. Sitting in the chair facing Mr. Kim’s desk like he always was throughout the year, only instead of being scolded for his missing assignments or poor attendance record, he was waiting to hear the reflection on his performance in the spring musical. Mr. Kim praised him for his outstanding performance and display of great showmanship, a drastic change from the usual threats of detention for being a smartass in class.

“When did this happen?! What are you talking about?!” YN finally said, managing to break through her initial shock.

Beomgyu laughed, “Mr. Kim called me into his office to discuss my final grade and sprung it on me out of nowhere!”

“What did he say? What happened? I need to know it all!”

“He just made me read an email from NYU. They invited me to apply for the music program for the spring semester! I guess they liked me?” Beomgyu shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

Beomgyu was satisfied knowing he passed his final assignment ensuring his seat at graduation, but when he got up to leave, Mr. Kim urged him to sit back down. They had gone over everything they needed to, what more could there be to discuss? The grin on Mr. Kim’s face was borderline unsettling as he turned his computer screen for Beomgyu to see. With his eyebrows furrowed, Beomgyu steadily leaned forward to get a clearer view and began reading the open email tab adorned with a familiar purple emblem at the top.

Dear Mr. Kim, We wanted to thank you again for hosting us as we conducted a final review for fall semester applicants. Your drama department is brimming with talent and it was a delightful treat to be able to see the passion among your students. Everyone at NYU is more than enthusiastic about the prospects you are producing. One of your students in particular grabbed our attention especially. After discussing with the rest of the board, we are honored to extend an invitation to Choi Beomgyu to apply for the upcoming spring semester at NYU Tisch for our music program. Beomgyu demonstrated an elite level of music and vocal performance that moved our recruiters. Let us know if you or Beomgyu have any questions. We look forward to hearing from him.

“What did your parents say?” YN asked.

“They don’t know yet,” Beomgyu sighed. “No one knows actually. You’re the first person I told.”

“When are you going to tell them? Are you even applying?”

“Oh, I’m applying,” Beomgyu assured. “I never thought I could get an offer to pursue music. I don’t want to pass this up!”

No matter what Beomgyu did or said, his parents were adamant about having him take over the family market when he was old enough. All those summers spent working alongside his father in the market instead of practicing the chords his grandfather taught him on guitar. Those times they told him to keep his music down and stop “screaming” all the time. He knew it would be hard to tell them about the NYU offer. And, it would be nearly impossible to get their blessing to apply. But, this felt like a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make something of his old dream. Even without their support, he knew he had friends who would have his back and give him that push.

“I’m so happy for you,” YN said softly, tears brimming in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly. She was overcome with joy and excitement at the thought of Beomgyu not only pursuing his dream but pursuing it alongside her in New York.

Beomgyu felt his own tears finally fall as he wrapped his arms around YN, finding peace in knowing it wouldn’t be the last time. He wouldn’t have to say goodbye this summer. He wouldn’t have to “make the most” out of every moment until she left for New York. For weeks, all he could dwell on was the idea of never being able to see her once she left. But now, the tension and worries were gone. He could enjoy their time together while they had it because their time apart could be numbered. They would be able to meet again one day in the new year when spring returns to gift them more precious memories like the spring they met.

[ note ] cheers cheers happy happy we scream and cry together aHHhHhh

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[littlelostmabari]

20. Festival

Pairing: No primary pairing, minor Karlach x Dammon.

Warnings: Very minor spoilers for BG3 epilogue.

Word count: 1.3k

Thanks to @kelandrin for the lovely BG3 Pride Prompts! (Link to that post here) (Dividers here)

Author Notes (more under the cut): Tav is named here, she's my character from a recently concluded Icewind Dale campaign. Eoree (“EE-oh-ree”, like Eeyore but pronouncing the final ‘e’, or ‘eerie’ with an ‘o’ in the middle) is a 20yo Forge Cleric goliath, and is aro/ace. Here she is in HeroForge!

I identify as a cis/bi woman, and so when I was drafting some drabbles for an aro or ace character I was struggling (which is the entire point of this exercise for me). But then I realized I had an aro/ace character I had been playing for three years. 

I did not build Eoree to be aro/ace — she was a young goliath exiled from her clan at a very young age with little experience of the outside world. It was only as she was navigating the campaign and interacting with party members that I realized that the bard’s flirtations wouldn’t land, and jokes about sex / relationships were uncomfortable for her. At first I thought it was maybe her age or her upbringing, but after years of playing Eoree I realized she just never desired relationships that went beyond her deep connections to her friends. She'd been aro/ace the whole time.

So here is Eoree the Forge Cleric, dropped into BG3, enjoying a break after the defeat of the Netherbrain.

Tavern music playlist that I listened to while writing: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78zvxxnNhdfcD08F3lcuSi?si=a3b31bc6ed4d4ec7

Spinning, spinning, spinning. 

Fingertips flew over the flute, strings over the fiddle, palms over the drums that rose through the quarter, emptied out save for the dozens of men and women and children spinning in cloth and leathers through the fast twirls and steps and switches and laughing. Eoree felt her hand fall from Wyll’s to be taken up by Karlach as they raised arms into a tunnel for the shorter pairs to bounce underneath. Wyll swung Shadowheart through and out into an opening in the crowd and then pulled her back into a short dip. He raised her up again and returned his hand to her hip and spun her underneath Eoree and Karlach again, who pulled closer and bounced away on their own. 

Spinning, spinning, spinning.

Karlach laughed brightly as Eoree pulled her hand away to wipe sweat from her brow; Eoree took it as a challenge, bending to wrap arms around Karlach’s hips and  lifting the tiefling high above the rest of the shorter dancers. Panic quickly turned to joy as Karlach threw her arms up in the air and embraced the whimsy; she leaned back and her hair flew into the faces of passing dancers. The song trailed down but another quartet on the other side of the plaza left no room for silence, pace as fast but highlighting the fiddle player who stood on a crate and tapped a counter rhythm to the drums. 

Spinning, spinning, spinning.

Karlach’s feet had barely hit the ground before they dived back into the crowd bouncing through the merrymakers. Hands clasped, they wound around each other and then out into the crowd where they found new hands. Karlach threw a giggling Yenna into the air and caught her, disappearing to the other side of the plaza where Dammon had hands stretched out to both. Eoree found and spun Gale through the crowd, the two delighting in this one of his many skills. Her feet found his on occasion but his easy smile had her easily forgiven. This song faded into a sea shanty, which Wyll and Shadowheart knew by heart and were guiding the dancers in a call and response. 

Spinning, spinning, spinning.

Minsc found her next, his feet even less coordinated than hers but laughter filling in the wide berth that surrounded them as Baldurians scampered from their path of mirthful mayhem. Boo’s tiny claws dug into the fingers of her hand on his right shoulder as the miniature giant space hamster clung through spins of dizzying color and music. Sunshine bore down on them all through the bright but sheer cloth that hung from balconies and tent poles to cover the street. The final stomp stomp stomp of the bard with the fiddle saw one of her hands in Minsc’s and another back in Gale’s, bowing into the circle of dancers made up of friends and allies and strangers but all of them survivors. 

A hand came down hard on her back as Wyll gathered his breath through a wide toothful smile, and directed her back into the Elfsong. There was only one corner of the tavern that wasn’t packed, where the windows had been shuttered tight and covered with cloth of deep blues and greens. Several smaller tables had been shoved together on the side opposite the bards in this one of the many centers of merrymaking in Baldur’s Gate during Highharvesttide. Food that had been lightly picked over was spread across all of the tables and Lakrissa was dropping off a new round of ales — and a single deep glass of wine — for the Heroes of the city. 

The wine was rapidly claimed by Astarion, whose lip curled up at the sight of the crew piling around the tables sweaty and hearts racing from exertion. A quick glance read him as jealous of joy across their faces, but he’d never admit it. He preferred to stay here, thank you very much, the rest of you can debase yourself while I enjoy the real fruits of the festival. Definitely. Halsin had also stayed behind, an arm casually draped across Astarion’s shoulders with quiet possessiveness. The mugs of ale were distributed, Eoree’s passed quietly to Karlach. The fresh berries were ripe and burst as Eoree bit down on them, a bit of red left on lips that was rapidly picked up by the hot butter buns that Lakrissa dropped in front of them next. 

She listened quietly at the table, snacking on what would become a growing-Goliath’s worth of the feast in front of them. There were sweetmeats and hand pies, wheat loaves with fresh butter and (thanks to Halsin’s request) local rye honey. At one end, Shadowheart had returned from Alan with a bottle of Elverquisst wine that she silently dared Astarion to try and steal. Karlach on her left finished her own ale and was working on Eoree’s and Halsin’s more slowly, enraptured by an illusion Gale was in the process of crafting above the table. Dancing lights quietly grew masts and sails and pointed hulls and drifted down the table in sets of three merchant ships. Minsc darted a hand into one of them, ripples dancing across the hull before the ship moved on unscathed. Jahiera and Wyll were offering their takes on the cheeses that Lakrissa set down next, debating the cheddar against the bleu when paired with the chips or the hunk of warm bread. 

Karlach wound her arm around Eoree’s shoulders and pointed at one particular ship that bore a skull and crossbones, little cannons sending puffs of illusory fireworks into the air above their heads. Eoree leaned back into Karlach, enjoying the heat of her contact and the vibration of her laughter through skin no longer covered by plate armor. Theirs was an easy friendship — a fire-resistant forge cleric with expertise in smithing divine machinery, and the tiefling with an arcane engine for a heart. Infernal iron and Zariel’s plans in hand, Eoree and Dammon had spent a solid six weeks perfecting a new heart that would beat just as strongly here in Baldur’s Gate without costing Karlach her life. The effort paled in comparison to the reward: a beautiful tiefling who would never again fear to touch another. The two women held each other through the joy and tears that had lasted the whole of the night and into the morning after the heart was fixed. Eoree had eventually had to drag Karlach out of the Elfsong and back into the smithy where Dammon greeted her with a shy smile and a bouquet of flowers she would no longer burn.

Eoree’s thoughts threatened to drift to a ship she knew from the before-times, when Wyll called down the table for another round of ales and a game of boasts. Shadowheart and Astarion groaned, but the rest flew to challenge each other with the most fanciful tales of heroism. Jahiera reminded them that she was a hero before this group of layabouts strolled into town; Minsc added details and translated from Boo's rememberings. Gale’s story of a particularly eventful Blackstaff ball was filled with dramatic changes in volume and a decent impression of a water elemental speaking through gargled water. The table laughed through an adventure first druid Halsin was sent on to save a particularly stubborn moose. Karlach and Wyll pantomimed their defeat of Zariel’s forces at the infernal forge.

Eyes pushed to Eoree last, and with a smile and a sigh she sat up straight. In silence, she met the gaze of each of the companions waiting to hear what she would share. With a small smile, she began. 

“Let me tell you the tale of how I forged a Shardblade, and wielded it in a pact with the Gods of Fury…”

[curewhimsy]

Symphony Saga Resonate chapter 1

I was inspired!

Notes: This fanfic is like, a middle/high school-centric fic so my OCs are all middle/high school aged here (youngest= 12, oldest= 18)

Also everyone is gonna age by 6 years eventually 

AO3 link

——————

Can a dream change the world?

Can a song awaken the soul?

Does our universe truly have limits?

Why am I asking all of these questions?

We all each have a story.

We all matter.

If we all join together, how big of a miracle can we create?

The story of Resonate unfolds...

———

Queen Rainbow’s Point of View

In a world where color was scarce... wonder was draining from people’s souls, and warmth was fading from their hearts. The warmth in their smiles were waning... And soon enough, they weren’t able to truly smile any longer.

This world... was called Monochrome.

Being the furthest planet in its solar system from the sun, Monochrome was already quite a lonely place. But everything froze over when Obsidian stepped to the throne.

Monochrome was a painfully boring place, filled with progressively more boring people. It got to the point where the most boring, bitter person of all would automatically be crowned as royalty.

Her name was Obsidian, and she became the Queen of Misery. She did not believe in fun, happiness, or love. Her heart was made of coal. When she breathed out, thick black smoke would fill the air, despite her never being a smoker.

Queen Obsidian’s very existence would always pollute the air with negativity and gloom that would make people lose hope. She was so boring, that her presence would transform sugary donuts into regular old bagels with nothing on them. She was so boring, that her royal fanfare was played on a single off-key kazoo. She was so utterly dull, that she even sent Planet Monochrome into a thousand-year-long ice age after telling one terrible joke.

But worse than all that combined, the Queen of Misery was a selfish, spiteful, and joyless person.

Nobody exactly knew why, but Queen Obsidian hated music... Possibly because of how positive and fun it could potentially be, not to mention the sheer raw emotion and vibes it could could convey.

One day, Queen Obsidian heard a song. It was awful. She hated it so much, that she ordered it to be sent to the Nowhere Of Permanent Erasure Void, or “NOPE Void” for short, where it would be deleted from our reality.

Queen Obsidian wanted to erase all the universe’s music from existence this way, and for people to never make or listen to it again. Ever.

Knowing that Monochrome barely had any worthwhile tunes to get rid of, Obsidian began to target the music on other worlds.

And what better place to start than the magical, colorful planet known as Whimsica?

Whimsica, a charming, fittingly whimsical world filled with magic... It may ideally be peaceful, yet we’ve been attacked by Monochrome for years just for being so idyllic. Apparently, our bright, rainbow colors that can be seen from space are an eyesore for them.

This is also where I come in.

My name is Queen Rainbow... and I’m the Queen of Whimsica. I’m only 16 years old, which is... actually pretty old for a monarch of Whimsica, believe it or not!

Whimsica’s monarchs are usually children nowadays! That’s because we have a childish kind of “whimsy” in our hearts and an arcane sort of innocence to see the world through rainbow-tinted lenses.

A long time in the past, Whimsica had a very strict older queen who forbid the royals, even the ones in the future, from ever befriending commoners.

That queen used a spell, so if a royal was caught being friends with a commoner, they would fall into a long slumber. The length of how long they would sleep corresponded to how strong the royal‘s bond was to the commoner.

Recently, the spell was broken, however! So now I can befriend and hang out with all the common folk I want. To be honest, being that kind of queen wasn’t so great, it was a little lonely, and I always hated feeling so unapproachable... and responsible!

Well, to tell the truth, the eldest of the three princess sisters actually does most of the work. 18-year-old Celestine is the responsible and proper eldest sister. Lunette, age 16, is the middle sister, and a bit mischievous. The youngest sister is 14-year-old Stelle, and she... well... is a bit of a problem child.

Anyway. I had proposed a new course of action against what Monochrome is trying to do. The princess sisters and I, along with Celestine’s best friend Nikamowin, and even the two royal anthromorph cats, Sparkle and Twinkle, have been using our magical powers the best we could to fight against Monochrome’s Queen and royal force, and the monsters they use against us.

But I still feel we need more help. We need the help of magical musicians.

I’ve been beginning to practice making music so I could harness its positive energy and make my songs into magic that can defeat Monochrome’s negativity. Nikamowin is also a skilled singer and can use songs to help us, but I still feel we need to power of more music.

So I assigned a job to Sparkle and Twinkle. Their job now is to look for passionate musicians with pure hearts, who are interested in joining our force to help save music for the entire universe...

———

Haku Yowane’s Point of View

Location: Earth

I zipped up my backpack to the faint scent of dust around the house, tied my shoes, wiped my long bangs from my eyes, and got ready to step out the door to go to school. Another gray day.

Even though I didn’t live with her, my world felt so empty now. My heart felt so hollow.

It was the little things.

Rain pattering on the roof... once a cozy and quaint sound... now just a gloomy and sad reminder.

An old notebook... once a source of joy and closeness... now just cold and distant.

A stuffed cat... warm and beloved... now even more well-loved, and irreplaceable.

All these things I saw right before I left my house to go to school reminded me of her.

My grandmother.

She passed away three weeks ago.

Right before I began opening my door, I looked back, and saw Snowbell, the plush cat Grandma gifted me long ago, eyeing me gently from my table.

I decided I couldn’t go to school without Snowbell. I couldn’t leave her alone.

I picked up the well-loved plush and hugged her gently and sadly, and made my way out the door with her.

Snowbell was special to me.

At the age of five, I was quite meek and lonely, with a reddish nose and wobbly knees. I would catch colds often, and constantly be sniffling, which was how I earned the nickname “Sniffles”.

I was a bit odd. I had strange habits such as pretending I were a cat, even lapping milk out of a bowl at snack time. I liked to draw pictures and play make-believe at recess. I didn’t like strangers or crowds.

In school, I was usually scared and overwhelmed. Once during indoor play time, I sat in my own little corner away from everyone and drew on the walls. When my teacher found the drawings I had drawn on the walls, I got scolded. I spent the rest of the day crying and sniffling, not understanding why I was yelled at.

That was when my grandmother decided my imagination was just too big for such a little girl, so she bought me a friend, a stuffed white kitten, to talk to.

My grandma told me that Snowbell was a special friend, and she was always there to listen. So when I was sad, I would hug and talk to Snowbell and felt I wasn’t alone.

Snowbell was there for me through the good days, and the many bad days... She was there when I graduated kindergarten. She was also there shortly after, when I was six years old, when my parents divorced...

Before my parents divorced, my brother Dell and I were very close. He was technically my half-brother. My father, who I was never close with, already divorced a former wife before marrying my mother. Dell was the son of my father and his former wife. His last name was Honne, his father’s last name. My last name is Yowane, my mother’s last name.

Dell and I would always play and sing together. Even though I was clumsy and fail at his games sometimes, he was very patient and would comfort me when I cried. Sometimes my dad would randomly yell at or scold me. When that happened, Dell would always stand up to my dad and protect me. Even when my parents were fighting and yelling so loudly that I got scared, Dell and I would hide together and he would comfort me. He was truly an amazing brother.

However, when my mother and father divorced, my father insisted on taking us with him. My mother refused to let him take us. There was a huge custody battle over us, and eventually, a heartbreaking compromise was made.

Dell was going to go with my father. I was going to stay with my mother.

I just wanted us to stay together. But in the end, we couldn’t.

One morning after sleeping in, I went downstairs to see around half the furniture in the house gone and my father outside in the moving van. My dad was about to leave. He left me without saying goodbye.

But Dell... He waited until I woke up so he could say goodbye before leaving. I cried with such intensity that he turned around. His face right then shocked me. He was seven years old... but had such a grown-up expression on his face... I had never seen such an look on his face before. So much pain... yet so accepting of his fate.

He hugged me one last time without any words, until I stopped crying. Once my tears stopped, he pat my head, and made his way out the door.

I never saw my brother, my best friend, ever again.

Two years passed. I turned eight years old. My mother, now single, talking to her sister, had an idea.

My mother’s sister had a daughter, who would be my cousin. My mom noticed that without Dell, I was very lonely lately. So she proposed to my cousin and I to meet.

My cousin’s name was Miku Hatsune. She was six years old at the time. The same age I was when my parents divorced. The first thing I noticed about Miku was how cheerful she was, and how accepting she was towards me. I quickly became friends with her, and even though she came over only around once a month and I only got to see her those times, we were really close friends.

The day we first met, we played in the backyard. I was still very shy and awkward at the time.

A butterfly landed on a flower nearby, and Miku urged me to try and touch it. I did, and the butterfly flew away.

I instantly burst into tears.

“Why?” I said, through my tears. “Why does everyone leave me? Like Dell? And my dad? Why...?”

“Don’t cry, Haku...” Miku pat my head to try to cheer me up. It reminded me of when Dell pat my head to say goodbye... it kind of calmed me down.

To cheer me up even more, Miku began singing me a song. She taught it to me, and I began to sing it with her.

We began to sing together, and soon enough, we were surrounded by butterflies. We began smiling and laughing. It was a great memory.

“Miku?” I looked at her fondly. “Promise me you won’t ever leave me, okay?”

“Okay!” Miku answered, smiling.

But one day, around three years later...

My mother called her sister as usual... and every single trace of her, her husband, Miku, and even Miku’s little sister Mizu, had vanished without a trace.

When I heard this, I was devastated. I began to wait a little while... but soon it became apparent that Miku and her family were gone... maybe in a freak accident or disappearance... and weren’t ever coming back.

I remember sitting under a tree, and just crying.

After that, I really only had my grandmother. My mom was always kind of distant and neglected me emotionally.

My grandmother, however, was warm and understanding. She was also very fun and always made me smile. She was the most magical person I ever knew, because she always told me amazing stories. Sometimes I wondered how she even thought of them. I always told her perhaps she should become a writer and make them into books.

I was inspired to become a writer myself because of her. I used many of her stories as inspiration, because I thought she needed a lot of recognition. She also always wanted to be a musician, and so did I, but I was always much too shy. My grandmother couldn’t pursue music because of her health condition and age, sadly.

Now that she’s passed, I think I will try to fulfill my grandmother’s dreams in homage to her.

Thinking of these memories may have left me sad... but I’ll at least always have the precious memories of these people in my heart, even though I may never see them again. In memory of them, may I live my every day to my fullest.

[iriswc1995]

Ash’s Diary Of Distortion 1:  ‘Family Christmas’

What follows are excerpts from the diary Ash keeps on Cygnus’ data storage files about the various Distortions and Distortion-like effects that she encounters on her excursions into Ordina.  They are brief glimpses into the inner workings of the city and the kinds of horrors that can be found there, and by extension, snapshots of Ash’s usual routine as an explorer/mercenary-for-hire.  They do not fit into the continuity of the main story and can be perused in any order.  Ash keeps these records for the purposes of learning more about the Distortion’s possible behaviors so that she can be as prepared as possible.  Perhaps one day they will help you, as well.

-----

Once a year, at the stroke of midnight on December 25th, there is magic in the air.  Even for the dogged and downtrodden citizens of Ordina, there are those who cannot help but feel joy bursting in their hearts during the holiday season.  And no holiday with quite the peculiar fervor or saturation of Christmas’ alien greens and bright reds.  

The Schmidt family were one such unit.  Despite the many compromises of modern life, they were a clan who remained staunchly loyal to the traditions of the old days.  Family values.  A clean house.  A love of the Christian God.  They were a large family of three generations and splitting branches in their grand tree.  Trees; a forgotten luxury of the upper-class, were almost sacred to the Schmidts; they are the Family, they are the Hearth-Fire, they are what every member of their bloodline gather around once a year on Christmas Day.

“Don’t crowd each other, kids!”  Annamarie Schmidt, the mother of the house, called out to the dining room.  While certainly a modest home - there existed no other kind for those of their wealth level - nearly their whole family would cheerfully crowd around the dinner tables.  Brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins galore.  Seating was arranged in a strict hierarchy based on age and importance, which Annamarie took great pains to ensure would not offend any of her lovely guests.  Granny Taylor sat at the head of the table, the oldest among them at age 66.  She smiled and spread her arms as everyone clustered into their chairs, rubbing elbows and adjusting plates.  From the next room, a radiant light shone into the kitchen from the artificial glass star atop the plastic tree.

“Ah, it’s just so wonderful to see all of you, on this blessed day…!  To see how much you’ve all grown up like little sprouts!”

“Meanwhile you’ve aged like a steamed grape!”  Said Aunt Helen, the promiscuous one.

A chorus of hollow chuckles preceded the Granny’s measured response.  “Grapes turn into fine wine too, don’t you forget.”

“Let’s pray that we all be as wise as you one day, mother,” Annamarie said dutifully.

One of the young ones, Ryan, bounced in his seat.  “Can we say grace yet?  I wanna eat!”  His mother smiled and chuckled with the others, but would of course punish him harshly once they returned home.

“Wait, but where’s Leo?”  Mary said.  She was the oldest of the children, allowed to sit at the adult’s table for the first time this year.  Several other people echoed her words in eerie unison, looking around the room as if he would suddenly appear at the mere mention of his name.

“Oh,” Anna said, pursing her lips.  There was a painful pause as she fidgeted with a cloth.  “You know how our Leo is.  Cooped up in his room, again.  No matter what I try, he just can’t seem to get in the Christmas spirit.  To think, he’s nearly old enough to sit at the adult’s table himself!”

“Ah, well,” said her sister May, putting a hand on her arm.  “Don’t blame yourself, dear!  Kids these days just don’t value family like they used to.”  May smiled, scathing judgement behind her eyes.  A vein bulged in Anna’s forehead.  How dare that miserable boy embarrass her like this.  Perhaps physical punishment would be the only way to get through to her problem child.  

“I wanna eat!  I wanna eat!”  Came another cry from the kid’s table.

“Hehe, alright then~”  Anna said, finally taking her own place at the table.  “But prayer comes first, of course!”

Silently, the children filed over to the main table so that they could all hold hands in one large circle.  Granny Taylor began a sincere, thoughtful speech to their heavenly father.  

The table in the center, save for the plates and silverware that Anna had set down, was completely empty.

“Amen~” said Granny Taylor, dead skin falling from her hair.

Annamarie smiled.  “Time to dig in, Family~ I hope you all enjoy it!”

Two of the uncles grabbed Mary’s arms and shoved her onto the table, flat on her back.  For a fraction of a second, she looked confused, but then her eyes went limp in their sockets, the same soulless smile of the other Schmidts attaching itself to her face.  Knives flashed.

Red began to cake the dining room walls.  Limbs were sawed, extremities cut, organs scooped with bare hands.  The Schmidts continued conversing among themselves in the hollow manner of most families; with the women talking about the unseasonable weather and the men discussing how business had been.  Mary, too, would join in now and then, oblivious to her ongoing destruction, and the adults would laugh at the delicious whimsy of a not-quite-adult but far-from-child beginning to learn the ways of the Elder.  They spoke without pause even as they stuffed their faces with her meat in the manner of ravenous wild animals; choking, spitting, and vomiting as their airways required.  They continued even as the flesh dwindled and they began forcing their teeth through her bones.  There was nothing left of Mary to continue speaking, yet now and then they would chuckle as though they could hear her all the same.

And they could.  For the cabinets around the room would open and close, the very walls of the house would groan and shudder in the rhythm of Family.  Afterwards, only rarely would the Schmidts refer to the one they consumed each year; always with the presumption they were still alive and well.  But the house groaned in response all the same.  Was it the people who hungered, or the house itself?  No, perhaps not the building but the gathering - was it possible for even a time of year to lose its mind?  

Long into the night and even to the next morning, the Schmidts mindlessly feasted, until not even the stains on their clothes remained.

Finally, only silence filled the home save for the sound of quiet weeping.  Leo, hiding under the bed as he did every year, knew he would never see cousin Mary again.  

------

𝔸𝕤𝕙’𝕤 ‘𝔻𝕚𝕒𝕣𝕪 𝕆𝕗 𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟’ 𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝟛𝟡:  ‘Family Christmas’

𝔻𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕆𝕗 𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕪:  December 26th, 2164

𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝕃𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝:  Probably Green, I think?  It’s definitely dangerous, but it seems completely localized to the one family.  I hope I don’t see any more of it, at least.

This one is a unique case of a Dissonance occurring on a seemingly regular period while remaining in a kind of ‘dormant’ state for most of the year.  On top of that, it seems to only affect the Schmidt family, at least from what I’ve found so far.  I guess this is proof that tips from Harvesters about ‘blood in the air’ aren’t total bullshit all the time.

Cygnus helped me get in the house, and I could tell there was a Dissonance pretty much immediately.  Red ghosts were lined up around the house like they were in a marching order, almost.  All of them were facing the wall and smiling weirdly.  The family itself seemed to be in a weird zoned-out state too, which as I can tell now is essentially the Dissonance’s ‘honeymoon period’ where it puts everybody in this weird trance and alters their memories.  Creepy, but helpful.

Most of what I know comes from Leo.  Poor fucking kid.  I doubt he’s ever gonna get out of that hospital I dropped him off at.  Even then, I only know the vague details about certain things.  No idea how many years this has been happening… but it definitely happens every Christmas.  The eldest child is killed and eaten by the adults, who seem to have no idea what they’re actually doing, just treating it like a normal Christmas dinner.  And yes Cygnus, it’s disgusting, even for me.  They treat the kid like they’re alive for a while after that before sort of just forgetting them and moving on to the next one.  It also seems like the Dissonance, or the eating itself, somehow extends the lifespan of all the adults, which explains why the matriarch was so damn old.  I also have no idea how exactly this started, since it seems like either Leo’s memories were fucked with as well, or he’s just too traumatized to even remember.  The only clue is the family’s weird traditionalist mindset about stuff, but I’ll hold myself back from going on a rant about it here.

Anyway, the Schmidts are gone now except for the kid.  I burned the house down just in case it had something to do with it.  Happy holidays, I fucking guess.

[soufcakmistress]

Rekindle

Pairing: Erik x Thick Black Reader

Summary: You and Erik finally split ties, but it was far from a clean break..

“Seven years. Seven years of my life, I gave that man. Down the fucking drain.” Your living room is covered in party decorations, wine bottles and your best friends sprawled along the carpet. Big gold balloons filled with helium spelling out “FUCK HIM” are tracing your ceiling; the “Happy Divorce” cake has been rationed out amongst your girls, still left uncovered. All of them drunk and half asleep. Not you. The celebration of your divorce has fizzled out and left you in a state of despair and confusion. How did we get here... 

Talking to no one in particular, you muse out loud, eyes watery, clutching a glass of Cabernet. “I gave that nigga everything. My body, my mind, my fuckin spirit, and we still couldn’t get right. What could I...what could I have done...?” A lone tear dropped and you gulped the entire glass down your throat. 

All you could think about were the divorce proceedings. Erik didn’t fight you on anything you asked for. It was hard to read him, just like usual. Blank expression, dead eyes....you had no idea how he felt at this very moment signaling the end of your union. You requested child support, the house you and him had built from the ground up and being the custodial parent to your four year old daughter, Nneka and you got it. No matter what you felt for Erik, you would never keep Nneka from her father. He cherished her, she was his pride and joy. You wanted that for her; it was something you never had. 

Irreconcilable differences was the grounds on which you filed for divorce. You both grew up so differently from each other and that became very evident as the relationship progressed. Erik, orphaned in childhood, fighting and surviving in the Oakland foster care system, overcoming every obstacle before him by taking control of his life, going to college, enlisting in the Navy, and traveling the world, leaving his dreadful past in the dust.

You, the only child of two Black yuppies who had their nanny practically raise you, were thrusted into the world of prep schools and country clubs, groomed from birth to be the wife of some senator or judge with an impeccable pedigree. Born to be a Black Stepford wife. That wasn’t you, and if your parents actually took more 5 minutes to talk to you about it, they’d know too. You were free and needed to spread your wings on your own terms.

This fueled you to rebel and shit on every expectation your parents had of you. A flawless grade point average, you could write your ticket to any school you wanted. When you told them you were going to Spelman over Dartmouth, they hit the roof. You were determined though, to set your life path without the black cloud of your parents looming over you.

Shortly after you graduated from school, you made a life in California, far away from your family. Beautiful weather, beautiful people, beautiful weed. You adjusted nicely being a brash East Coaster, adapting to the relaxed lifestyle of the west coast. Finding some really good girl friends, securing a bomb condo, killing shit at your new job. And in walks hurricane Erik...

He was a livewire, always the center of attention even when he wasn’t seeking it out. Erik was the director of several outreach centers in the state, with close ties to the Wakandan government as their primary benefactor. Developing after school programs, multicultural outings, or just making sure the kids of the community were fed; that was what he had his hands in every day. A Black knight in shining armor. It didn’t hurt that he was fucking gorgeous, with the charm and wit to match. 

You guys met at a gala for the center headquarters in Oakland and like a moth to a flame, y’all were inseparable. He just started growing his locs, gold canines in tow, and bulging muscles through his suit jacket that you could hardly rip your eyes from. He romanced you in one night, banter over champagne flutes and hors d’œuvres. A fine ass Black man who was driven and passionate about the welfare of his people, with a slick mouth, you were a goner. But Erik wasn’t the only one with game. You gave as good as you got it, evening gown wrapped around your curves, showcasing what you were working with. Erik noticed that, and he pounced accordingly. Imagine his surprise when you had a mouth on you as well. Your brown skin, shimmering with flecks of gold, natural hair in an updo to flaunt your neck and décolletage, and a sort of whimsy in your eyes. It took all he had in himself to not ravish you in the midst of this fine engagement. 

“You’re not the only one who’s charming, Mr. Stevens...” you remember whispering in his ear. You were a little tipsy from the bubbly and feeling uninhibited. You guys spent the whole night talking, slow dancing a few times. He felt so good holding you, smelling like a dream, his body warm and substantial to hold on to. You guys exchanged numbers and he kissed you on your cheek, his hand at the small of your back, “I’ll be seeing more of you, Miss Y/L/N......” 

You got blankets and placed them all on your girls in the living room, and stumbled to your bed room. The tears are flowing now, and a hot shower could at least wash the day’s events off of you. You undress and step in and let the water roll off your skin. It did no good though. Your mind can’t stop thinking about the last decade of your life, mulling over the big and small details.

How he made you laugh so much at the late night diner on your first date. When your car broke down on the side of the road and he came and saved you by changing the spare. The first time he entered you and gave you the most earth shattering release you’ve ever had. The uneasiness he felt when he finally told you about his past life and the symbolism of his scars. The tears in his eyes when he bent down on one knee and asked you to be his wife. The utter peace during your honeymoon in Aruba at the thought of your newfound union. The contractions you felt as you wailed loudly, bringing your baby girl into this world. Him cheering Nneka on as she learned how to walk. The emptiness you felt when you miscarried when Nneka was a toddler and him consoling you. Your rage at him coming home late consistently with little to no explanation. His ugly and controlling words to you about him being the head of the household and how you belonged to him. The shock and awe on his face when he was served the divorce papers. The one slip of his poker face as he held the door for you to exit the boardroom after finalizing the dissolution of your marriage. You read shame, anger and even a hint of sadness on his visage, all a shock to your senses. “I told you I would give you whatever you wanted, Y/N..” Those were the last words he spoke to you earlier that day as you both exited the building, going to your separate cars. He pulled off and you could have sworn you saw a tear streak down his cheek.

All these memories bombarded you at once. The hurt, the pleading, the despair at separating from the only man you’ve ever loved, the father of your child....you allowed yourself to really feel it. Your tears mixed with the shower water, and you slid to the floor of the shower, hair be damned. This was the first step, everything was so fresh and still so raw. You bawled, doubling over as your cries filled the space of your once shared bathroom with Erik. You would give yourself this night. To cry and scream and bellow at this unfortunate moment. After this....you were moving on, by any means necessary. 

[otomememento]

Embracing the Shadows

Cybird Creative Challenge: Day 19 - Shadows

(Continued from Farewell Party)

Oliver was actually smiling when he met with Audrey in Blanc’s living room.  He had slept in late and spent the day out and about in town.  Audrey had suggested that he make the most of the day in his more youthful body.  If her bite did counteract the curse, then he would be saying good bye to his childhood.  Again.  While Oliver had at first loved being a child during the day, he had also realized that once he had grown up, even if he wanted to retain his sense of wonder and whimsy, his curiosity, he could never truly be a child again.  His curse had taught him that as he dealt with adults who only saw a precocious youth instead of the adult he was in his mind.  And that joy had turned to bitterness as the same cycle kept repeating, as he learned that he could not age, but would be stuck that way forever.

Oliver was more than willing to say good bye, yet he still appreciated the lesson he learned, and he knew he was consigning his life to the shadows, whether or not the curse was lifted.  He knew that he was effectively trading one curse for another, but it was the choice itself that meant something to him.  So he spent the day in the sun, with other youths that he knew.  With the prospect of the change ahead of him, and the companion of friends the night before, his usually sharp tongue was softened.  He let himself relax and enjoy himself, enjoy the illusion of a more innocent time, to store as a last memory.  He had a feeling he might need it in the future.

Audrey didn’t miss the smile, and she was glad that she had given the advice that she did.  She had bee just a little worried that it would backfire somehow and either make him doubt his decision, or just make him miserable for spending his last day in such a manner.  But his smile was exactly what she wanted to see, though she doubted she would ever see it on his adult face.  But she told herself she would try to give him as many reasons as he needed to keep smiling.

“It looks like the sun did you some good,” she observed.  It was just a little bit before six.

“I don’t think it was the sun that did it, though the weather was nice,” Oliver agreed amicably, still coming down from the high of letting go for the day.  He didn’t believe he’d gone completely mellow, but if he was trusting Audrey enough to change what he was he could at least trust her with who he was.  Besides, lashing out at her now would not help in his transition.

“Do you have everything packed that you think you will need?” asked Audrey.

“I do.”

“Then we should get going.”

It had been arranged before hand for them to arrive at the Civic Center and be seen entering with Oliver in his teen form, just to hold up the story.  Then they would be teleported to a secure location that Audrey had set up.  This was easily done and they encountered no obstacles on the way.  Oliver had a bit of nervous energy as he walked alongside with Audrey, looking up at her from a standing position for hopefully the last time.  As much as he played it cool, and as much as Audrey had tried to reassure him, he truly couldn’t know what he was in for until it happened.  All the waiting leading up to it was wearing on him.  But he didn’t tell Audrey as much.

After the teleport it took Oliver’s eyes a few moments to adjust.  It was dark, even though the sun hadn’t fully set.  But then, in the gloom, he saw a rather foreboding structure; a very old one by the looks of its cracks and the ivy clinging to it.  The darkness came from the forest canopy above them, allowing only weak light to pass through.

“We should go inside before you change,” Audrey said gently.

“Where are we?  Is it safe?” asked Oliver.  Audrey laughed.

“You’re willing to take the risk of me turning you into a vampire, but the building worries you?”

“You have intentions, the building doesn’t,” retorted Oliver.  He could only hold back so much sarcasm.

“Good point.  I’ve spent the last month having the insides reinforced; I wanted the outside to remain the same to discourage people from going in.”  Audrey shrugged her shoulders.  “This place is forgotten by many; we should be uninterrupted here.”

Just as Audrey promised, the decrepit look of the building only went as far as the entry room, so anyone who glanced inside would see what she wanted them to see: a tumbled down building that might crash at a moment’s notice.  Past that it was cleaned up and looked structurally sound.  Though it wasn’t furnished lavishly, it looked comfortable enough to spend some time in.  Most of the place was cleaned, but empty.  One room was re-purposed as a living room, off of which there were two bedrooms and a bathroom.  There was no kitchen, which struck Oliver before he immediately remembered there would be no use for one.  They set their things down in the rooms; Oliver claiming the one done in green, while Audrey took the one done in burgundy.

It was during his survey of the room that Oliver’s change came over him.  In a flash of light he was a fully grown adult again.  One more step towards their experiment was completed.  Taking off his hat and jacket, he put them aside carefully, figuring he wouldn’t need them for the rest of the evening.  Steeling his nerve, he walked out of the room.  The living room was somewhat brighter now; a fire had been laid, and it’s cheery glow cast flickering shadows against the walls.

Audrey was already there, waiting in the living room, bathed in the warm firelight.  As Oliver laid eyes on her, he had to swallow hard.  She wasn’t wearing much, and what she was wearing was fairly provocative.  Although he had, in fact, seen her naked before, this was unexpected and so he was caught unprepared.  It only took a few strides of his long legs to reach the couch she was lounging on; his mind rather quickly going back to their previous intimate encounter, the memory sending an added thrill through him.

“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when you brought me here,” he said, raising his eyebrows.  Audrey gestured to the couch, and he sat down promptly.  She slid towards him, hooking on of her arms in his.

“I told you already; I can taste the emotions in blood.  It will be hard to get you completely relaxed and tranquil given the situation, so I’m hoping to replace any nervousness you might feel with,” and Audrey gave his arm a squeeze,” something else.”

“How considerate of you,” murmured Oliver dryly.

“Also,” Audrey added, shifting so that her front was pressed against his arm, bringing her face close to his ear, “you might find that the experience is different after your change, so like the food the night before, I want you to have your fill of it before you cross that line.”  For a moment Oliver forgot to breathe.  Then time started back up again.  He pulled Audrey tight against him, turning towards her with a half smile.

“You’re such trouble,” he said to her in mock reproof.

“I know.”

(This ending up being much longer than I anticipated, so I cut the actual entry short.  The longer version will be posted at a later date so I can continue with the challenge.  Also, the fuller version will likely be NSFW rather than just skirting the line as this version did.)

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) Miscellaneous by Julia Rose Lewis

In this review, Maria Sledmere visits the verdant isle of Julia Rose Lewis’ pamphlet Miscellaneous (Sampson Low, 2019), and engages chaotically with its shape-shifting poetics of ecstasy, digression and slippery things.

> Miscellaneous: of various kinds; elements of different kinds. A little green book full of miscellany. The work of Julia Rose Lewis has been dealing in miscellany (let me say it as much I can, it’s a lovely word) for a while now. Lewis’ collection Phenomenology of the Feral (Knives Forks and Spoons Press 2017) was a veritable assemblage of household objects, clothing items, all things edible (from oranges to gummy bears), tools, chemicals and other substances. Words had a Steinian tendency to slip, where a ‘pear’ becomes ‘peer’ and sugar becomes sand. The whole book teems with a delicious excess of things and their zoomed-in, jostling, merging and almost psychedelic relation (I mean just consider the multicoloured octopus-bunny hybrids on the cover). Her recent pamphlet, Miscellaneous (2019), a slender offering from chapbook series Sampson Low, edited by fellow dealer in poetic animalia, SJ Fowler, continues this playful approach to disordering objects, experience and relation.

> Explicitly ‘inspired’ by Green Eggs and Ham, a classic children’s book by Dr. Seuss, Miscellaneous works with its foodstuffs in a fractal and kind of ecstatic way. Ecstasy meaning rapture or transport; Miscellaneous as a little island of strong emotion. I want to say island, but I could just as easily say green tomato. It’s difficult to resist the seduction of island metaphors during quarantine, and besides, Lewis herself spent time as a child in Nantucket Island. According to the publisher, Miscellaneous ‘asks if it is possible to have a mutually healthy relationship between a human and an island’. In an interview from 2016 with Katy Lewis Hood, Lewis says, ‘I use writing about the place I’m longing for as an antidote; I see islands as stories and stories as islands’. Staying with that chiasmus, might we see Miscellaneous itself as a kind of place? The scales upended sufficient to slip into our pocket, a zoomy island remainder? A dinky little 12-page island you could circle on foot and do it again and again — for this is a book that loves repetition, a veritable jaunt on the anaphora express, a 5-7 syllabic ride on the waves. But it’s difficult to know what constitutes the very land you walk or ride on:

A mane! A terrain! A mane is a terrain through and through and should you be guarding the herd inside the river valley? You hold this territory? Not harnessed! Not in a horse-less carriage!

Lewis plays deliciously with the fact of metaphor as a transport, a vehicle, while thrashing around in the joy of assonance and sound as forces of meaning and meaning’s disruption. What’s more, the repeated invocation of the ‘you’ means I’m forever hailed back to the scene; I can’t leave the island utterly behind, can’t glide drone-like over its landscapes. Besides, maybe it’s more like an archipelago? Terrain is a region of land, a system of rocks or geological formations, a standing-ground or position. Lewis teases us with the ever resolving, dissolving, negating terrains of lyric. Those exclamation marks are surely provocations to the reader, as much as the swept up proclamation of revelling in words themselves (thinking of the upward-looking heart emoji, reacting to a message). Her ‘I’ (perhaps riffing off the O’Haran tradition of I do this I do that poems, via Colin Herd’s I like this I like that variation) is quite demanding, precise, has an eye for arrangement (‘The musk ox is not in the / ocean’), identification, variation, placement (‘They disappear’). As with the effect of haiku (a kind of ‘cut’ of images), she challenges ‘nature’/object relations by similarity and contrast:

I would not like that morose woman faraway, that maiden hair tree. I am that old ginkgo tree.

What is the connection between the morose woman and the maiden hair? Does the fact of the speaker being the ‘old ginkgo’ explain her conditional dislike of the woman? And is the maiden hair tree the same as the woman? With its short, invitational lyrics, Miscellaneous gives you time to wander around the ideas of things, ideas in things. Maybe it’s telling the story of an island which is really a metaphor for Earth: its ‘holding pattern[s]’, its ‘there or anywhere’, its snowy territories, its ‘dry grasses / and mosses’ (v. Eliotic, ‘The Dry Salvages’ of Four Quartets?), its ‘skyhook’, its ‘living fossil leaf’ with ‘many millions of years’ inside it. Crudely speaking, ecopoetry often tries so hard to seem either objective (ecomimesis) or explicitly subjective (Romantic); the speaker of these poems insists on a kind of declarative, shape-shifting reality, whose run-on code requires the user command of something more than human. ‘You hold all the weeks / would you tote the boulders here?’ The labour of bringing the world to life in poetry is more than just reading; you have to really consider toting the boulders of words around. There’s a weird hospitality to this, a gesture of extending the voice: ‘So I / say try the bloom of mold!’. Maybe as a reader I’d speak better the world with the mold in my throat. It’s these kinds of special conditions Miscellaneous gets at so well. What the chapbook gives is a portable miscellany, a set of questions, a dicey and moreish feast of seeing the world anew — at all scales and dwellings, from a ‘ptarmigan nest’ to the air itself. Better eat up.

> Lewis’ smart and choppy lines remind me of the best chefs at the restaurant where I used to work, who would dice veg or make meat cuts with a certain deftness, all the while engaging in dishevelled conversation. I would ask, from which precise bay are the oysters sourced, and the chef would lecture me on the valiance of a 2Pac album. We would swerve from one topic to another by the time of the bell: language defined by the beat and demand of cooking. It was good to feel enslaved to the temporality of the microwave, the rising of bread, the petulant delay on the part of a chicken. And you might say, O maria what does this have to do with Julia Rose Lewis’ new book? And I would say, well, it’s all about iteration, digression, perversion of recipe. The poetic line as the flick of sweaty chef hair, the child’s demanding inquisition, the special way of dodging the question. But don’t let me fill you up with nonsense.

> There’s this weird piece in The Guardian that totally disses Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham, which I’ll admit I haven’t read this side of puberty. The author, Emma Brockes, is pretty damning: ‘two-thirds of the words feel like filler’, ‘the rhyme scheme [...] is like something a kid would throw at a homework assignment so he could finish and run out to play’, ‘[Seuss’] books are creepy, empty, over-long, cheap, twee writing posing as whimsy’. Maybe I don’t have a striped ankle to stand on here, but I can’t help but think Brocke is missing a point somewhere. What’s wrong with poetry that wants to fly through itself quickly, all the better for the writer to go out and play? I’m thinking of something Jack Spicer writes in one of his letters to Lorca, describing how there are times in a poet’s life where ‘the objects change’ when ‘someone intrudes into the poet’s life’ so a certain balance is lost. ‘The seagulls, the greenness of the ocean, the fish—they become things to be traded for a smile or the sound of conversation—counters rather than objects’. You sort of get the feeling Brocke got tired of this (too many counters, too much supposed impeachable brilliance) and upended the board, sending everything scattering to miscellany. Maybe that was the appropriate reaction. I’d like my poetry to have that effect sometimes. And then I’d quite like to run out and play, or fall in love (if we were not in lockdown), or otherwise just write you a blowsy prosy letter.

> There’s this idea of Green Eggs and Ham as a childhood exercise in epistemological questioning. Asking you to think about how experience establishes beliefs about the world. Miscellaneous quite obviously trades in the empirical possibilities of knowing, experimenting in what happens when certain patterns or conditions are put into play (it’s worth noting that Julia Rose Lewis is also a scientist by training). I think of a child stuffing sand in its mouth, learning about size, scale, texture, taste. A child that learns a tomato is good when ripe and sweet. I also think of judging when I might cross the road, or a chemist inching just a *wee* bit more of X in the formula (is that how it works? is it like choosing to add another comma to a poem - what exactly is the risk of explosion?). Every day of our lives we are hedging, testing. ‘If you will then I will try / rain on rain on rain’; how I learn from you, a fashionable imitation in the wearable weather/whether. Things pile up, acquire elemental charge; the poems are teasingly object-oriented; the ‘I’ is an iterative effect of desires, repulsions and relations. Substances effect themselves into life and I think of Francis Ponge and the orange. Expression is something to be ‘endured’. How does an object hold itself in a poem, without being overly squeezed into miscellany, matter? Lewis uses the singsong effects of poetry (repetition, rhyme), to play with causality and intention. In the final poem, for example, is the ‘gold’ ‘old’ and what temporality is ‘golden’; is it the ‘spring /green’ or the speaker who is ‘cold’?

> Miscellaneous in general describes a kind of extra or supplementary category, that which escapes the normative set. Perhaps there is then a case for this being a kind of queer object-oriented poetics. Things are slippery and hungry and irresistibly insistent. They become the book itself, the little object in your hand, tomato green as ‘the spring / green tomatoes in sea salt’, sprinkled with salty little words. This is a case for frivolity and filler and whimsy in poetry, for appetite and affect, salty wit, the necessity of dancing around sentiment, excess, sweetness and swerve. ‘I will eat the spring / fruit upside down’; the fruit of the book you peel again.

Miscellaneous is out now and available from Sampson Low.

~

Text and image: Maria Sledmere

Published: 12/6/20

[cursedjustice]

Victorious Cold Justice

Team Cold Justice Crowned the Victors of this Snowball War: [Here]

  The whole experience seemed a bit surreal, he won a war without dying even once or learning something horrifyingly traumatic in the process. Well, Archer and Emiya Alter could count but they could have been far worse then they were in the war. Taiga was more threatening than Kirei and Salter and Shirou wasn’t sure to find that ironic, funny or disturbing. Though in the end, all that mattered to him was that he and his sister Illya could enjoy a game together, which they did. 

    Did they need to win to have enjoyed themselves to be happy? Maybe the line up splayed differently, perhaps, yet it seemed every match much lit someone’s competitive spirits ablaze, threatening to consume all around within razing passion. He himself was guilt of such ardent intensity and now in retrospect it was quite embarrassing to get so worked up over a simple game. He hope he didn’t ruin anyone else from enjoying themselves because of his attitude. He admitted to himself that could have been a far more composed leader and that if it weren’t for the strength of his team, it could have easily costed him victory.

    He looked down at the oddly warm medal presented to his team for their hard-fought victory. Among the the sound of a cheering crowd and Nix explaining their prizes, he found himself focusing on the Chaldea-symbol engraved on it. Wait, what was he supposed to do now? Just focus on an wish he really wanted in his heart and it would be in the box (unless it was a grail?)  Well what did he want? To be a Hero of Justice? To be useful to those around him? The power to save those he cherishes and provide them a happy life? Such large and abstracts dreams could never be contained in such a small box and would be cheapened if attained any other way than of his own efforts.

                    So what he Shirou Emiya want for himself? 

   It was almost comical to see how difficult it was for him to consider wishing for something meant for his own pleasure and benefit. The needs and wants of others were NOT his own, thus such a simple act left him uncomfortably clueless. Something superficial like gear to tinker with or a new steam rice cooker wasn’t a deep desire in his heart, they were just simply wants of whimsy. Was there anything he wanted that he that-

  Then it all came together as his mind envision something that captivated him to the very core of his being. Something he thought was cool and desired for himself deeply. Something not easily obtained it for anyone’s pleasure but his own-  

Alter Emiya’s guns were REALLY COOL and he WAAANNNNNTTTED them BAD. 

  Though this gift wasn’t simply a copy of the mercenary's guns, Shirou could feel a fundamental change in his being. He now could trace and project them, even understood how to do Unlimited Lost Works. This simple act of selfishness felt good, he believed he didn’t deserve anything or any happiness that he craved and chases desperately to fill the broken emptiness he felt since he was saved as a child. Despite being a tool that was made to take lives, it yet brought him joy. He wasn’t surprised a twisted soul like his would react this way so didn’t question it. The guns made him think of his Old Man as well...if only he was still around to see the daughter he searched for smile like she did today. 

                        “I can’t wait to show these off to those piles of swords!” 

  He was going to live well, he was going to be a hero, he would overcome the guilt he had for surviving one day at a time. He understood it was a pointless exercise to  hate himself for being a twisted and broken human, when he could instead do great things in spite of his twisted brokenness. He would make sure Illya had more days of smiles ahead of her and that the world was made closer to his Old Man’s beautifully impossible ideal. 

He do all of this while living well. 

[johnskleats]

Beautiful Fool

That Great Gatsby!Merther AU, ya’ll.

@the-once-and-future-love @arthur-of-the-pendragons @the-fated-dragoness @pretty-pendragon

He had only wanted a little space to himself. That was natural enough, Gaius had said, provided he be mindful to keep sharp whilst on holiday. Privacy was recipe for secrets, his mother had said, get too used to it and risk a doomed marriage. What his uncle failed to understand was that this was not, in fact, a holiday, and his mother, bless her, would have to come to terms with his preferences. Whomever he found as a companion, eventually, would favor a similar life to his- that was what made a household, after all -harmony. “Find a woman who hates flowers,” he had jested, “and lake houses, and sunsets.” Merlin had been grinning. His mother had not. “Specifically task her to woo me, see if I give it up.”

“Give what up, Merlin,” mother had sighed.

He had only gotten so far as opening his mouth before Gaius boxed his ears in scolding. Mother fussed over supper. Merlin set the table. All was as it had always been in their little house on the corner, only in his room, there was a suitcase by the door, and the drawers were empty, and nothing was as it had been, really, at all.

And now he was home, where a new always would forge itself. Even as he had told mother to her bleary-eyed face that he would visit often and call yet more, Gaius had watched the lie weave through his lips as it was spun. His brow had been stern, but understanding. As always, he neglected to stop him spouting words that dug graves; Merlin couldn't blame him, as whatever came to him, he would probably deserve in one way or another. Yet, here he was: Camelot Isle, renting out a minuscule gardener's cottage that overlooked the harbor. His backyard, backwoods rather, lead into the gardens and courtyards of the looming mansion next door, Pendragon House, the full and dreary history of which he had gotten in his tenancy letter. Merlin had skimmed it. As his personal contract with the cottage was in no way connected to Pendragon House, originally servant's quarters or not, he had no interest or attachment to its grounds whatsoever. Because he lived here, he preferred not to be treated as a tourist, though the thought crossed his mind that the rent was fixed where it was for a purpose. The possibility of poor neighbors hadn’t crossed his mind. Between himself and whomever occupied the mansion, they had the isle to themselves; whatever it was that rendered his house so cheap couldn’t be so bad.

Merlin, on the porch of his new-to-him, two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, drank in the character of his little abode through a lens of intentional whimsy. It had windchimes nailed to the wood frame of the awning, bits of Cola bottles and seaglass turned in the lake and hung up with cord. The step into the living room and kitchen area was high and gnarled, and in his rounds about, Merlin had tripped on it no less than three times; his bedroom, the aforementioned second room of the two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, was a splotched lavender color, unevenly applied rose wallpaper fading and peeling away at cracks in the corners of the walls. His favorite part of the bedroom was probably the curtains, orange and visible, with their thick plumes of dust and heavy shadow. They were hideous. They were his.

Between his house and his neighbor's stood a dock leading out to a pier, at the end of which was a signalling bell. It was here that Merlin’s attention was drawn when with a peal of joy, the bell, chimed with the wind, his permanent glass fixtures tinkling with it and all the leaves sounding applause through the boughs of the canopy. A chill cut through him, and Merlin retreated inside to weather the surely impending storm. Awaiting him was a house of his own, just as cramped as his mother’s and far less comfortable, made sweeter and more welcoming by the name on the lease.

Merlin was a third of the way through chipping the grime from his stovetop when the first cracks of thunder rent the air. He jolted in surprise, butter knife clattering to the tile, and, shakily, took up his task again. The sound of pouring rain had deafened him to all other stimuli, and the sense of exposure rattled his bones. With the panes trembling in their frames and shutters fluttering, clamoring against the sides of the house along with the waving branches and pelting rain, wind whistling through the waterspout with the gush of overflow, he felt swallowed inside a void. The house was empty, save for himself. A new always, he supposed, being safe, unscathed, while simultaneously so utterly immersed in what his mother lovingly referred to as trouble. It filled him to the brim with the kind of excitement that makes boys leap from cliff faces to the sea, the kind of adrenaline that demands to know whether or not he could make the jump. The chaos scraped at his safehouse as the wall of his own skin, itching. It called to him like a siren song and, oddly, his heart ached. Merlin had longed to be alone, but the magic had followed him anyway.

Forlorn, he closed again the beaten shudders.

--Merlin opened them again.

There, in the earth driveway leading up to his neighbor's abode, was a car, the likes of which Merlin had only ever seen on magazine covers in stores. Yellow, canary yellow like rain slickers, yellow like bananas and technicolor and his mother's good dress stared back at him, obscured by black mud and torrents of water coursing along the body of metal. Outside the vehicle was a man of equally astounding quality, although less from the fact that he was soaked through to his designer shoes with water-dark hair in his eyes, and more so that he stood outside apparently his car, mixing himself in what was about to be ankle-deep mud. The moment Merlin had registered that the man was trying to push it out of its rut to no avail happened to be the same moment that the man had given up, throwing up his hands and kicking at the white-faced wheels with petulant abandon. The car wasn't hooded, rather open, actually, and the man looked away, paced, fumed as it rapidly took up water. Much longer in the road, which was flooding quickly, and the vehicle may not be operable at all.

Merlin, despite his brain telling him quite avidly that this would somehow change the course of his day, if not his life, in a way that would render him devoid of control, took it upon himself to don his raincoat, nevermind the boots, there was little time, and help the remarkable stranger.

When Merlin dashed out his front door, the look of surprise and relief he expected left much to be desired. Instead, he saw bewilderment and agitation, characteristic of a man who has had a very, very long morning. The man was shouting at him. Merlin was shouting back, but both voices were carried away in the storm, leading to a mutual agreement to shut up and push the car. He was struck with regret at his choice in priorities; his raincoat did him little good, as the exertion and laboured movement lead to water penetrating and eventually inundating his upper half, while he suspected galoshes would have done him much good indeed, in place of the cold mud oozing beneath his heels and riding up his socks. In several short pushes of combined effort, plus one big push, the buggy was out of the worst of the puddle, and arguably fit to go again. Still too loud to speak much, Merlin offered a thumbs up, and the man blinked at him, surprised again, although it may have been to chase away water clinging to his lashes still blindingly. Merlin gave that close-lipped, polite smile that offered immediate exit to limited acquaintances to urge him forward and out, but when the strange man, a drowned cat in a suit, continued to look at him as though transfixed, Merlin decided to make an executive decision on part of the universe.

He turned, and went inside.

The man watched him go, Merlin could feel it like the prickle of lightning in the sky, but he dared not look back, not even out his ugly curtains until he was certain his guest was gone. When he opened the shudder for the third time that rainy first day, it was to a flooded, murky street made to a mud pond in front of his house, and a long trail of tire tracks he could trace like a piece of string to the gates of the beautiful Pendragon House.

-

The first of the letters arrived the following morning. Merlin had only barely begun updating his address, most of his mail sure to be forwarded by his mother in the coming months, but this first letter, addressed to him, was from someone he was vaguely surprised but not astounded to hear from. Arthur Pendragon, his landlord. He could assume it was just like the last few he had received, informative snippets about his tenancy or more fluffy introduction to the place he was so privileged to live in, and so he paid it little mind. Merlin set it aside. The man with the yellow car crossed his mind once or twice, but only in passing. He hoped he had made it wherever he was going without much more trouble, even if it was his own fault for leaving such a valuable possession vulnerable to the elements like that.

He spent the day cleaning and tidying, much as he had the day before. The sunny sky and renewing smell of rain set him in a mood of rebirth, of new beginnings, and everything in his cozy fixer-upper was an opportunity to make something lovelier than before. He had a day or two yet for his holiday before he would have to call into work, and until then, he intended use his time wisely.

The wallpaper was the first thing to go.

With the night came the smell of drying paint and the sound of cars passing his house one after another, the chatter of excitement and the glare of filtered, colored light. Merlin would have shut it out if he could, but to close the window would be to suffocate in paint fumes, his beauty rest be damned. He wanted a good night's sleep, not a hangover. In the earlier hours of the evening, he had thought this would be an eight to ten kind of affair. Then the music started, a whole brass band, it sounded like, and he knew he was in for something interminable.

Merlin rolled around his cluttered living room, everything from the bedroom shoved into it whilst his paint aired out. He perched on his loveseat, did a lazy summersault out of his pillowfort, baked cookies to warm the house, even put on his own record as though to spite Pendragon House for its inconsiderate racket. The latter was to no avail, and he turned it off after a few minutes; the clash of melody was giving him a headache. He checked his watch- almost three in the morning. He was agitated enough to round up; at most, he had dozed a little under two hours between nine and now, fifteen minute increments interrupted by raucous laughter and what he assumed to be drunkards skinny dipping in the lake. He wished he didn’t know, but again, his windows were all wide open, and if anything killed him, it would be curiosity, followed swiftly by this miserable Arthur Pendragon.

Just then, Merlin remembered the letter he had received this morning. Was it a notice? He could find it in himself to be less put off if he had been warned- at least then it would be his own fault. Eyes shot, he fumbled with the heavy envelope until the seal popped- who wax-sealed their letters? -and squinted to make sense of the elaborate script.

Hereby invited...party...courtesy of Arthur Pendragon…

That was about all he got out of it, and all he really needed to read. Merlin tossed it aside with a huff and, exhausted, covered his ears with  throw pillows.

-

The letters kept coming. The parties kept happening. The house was coming together.

Merlin had painted the outside a soft blue and rigorously cleaned the white trim, although he left the knobbed stair and wind chime as they were. The living room and bedroom were a brisk white, the curtains had been washed- Merlin didn't have the heart to throw them out -and he had livened up the space with a new dining table, a novelty painting of a farmhouse, and a little potted plant. The teakettle was operable, and life was good.

Still, the invitations came. Invitations to day trips into the city, rendezvous on the yacht, tours of the estate, and at the end of each was a reminder of the inevitable nightly house party.

Merlin had received seven now, and other trinkets had started to accompany them in little red boxes. A birdhouse. A teacozy. A brass watch, at least he hoped it was brass. All in all, it was unsettling, but Merlin had managed to put it out of his mind. It was thoughtful, and probably born of guilt, although, if Arthur knew he was a terrible neighbor, Merlin wished he would just start being a good one instead of perpetuating this compensation nonsense. It was the ninth night, and the eighth letter that finally convinced him. It had come in a box that was shaped frighteningly like a necklace from Tiffany’s, or some other such bizarre place, and Merlin had opened it with pallor and trepidation. The letter was on top, he could only guess its contents, but beneath that, in the box itself, was a simple, soft, blue...scarf. There was no price tag, no note, for when he did open the envelope, it was only his name in that elegant script he had come to be so familiar with. Somehow, that was enough.

Merlin made yet another executive decision.

He would attend one of these parties, only one, and put an end to this strange outreach of companionship. He was willing to make passing friends, would allow teatime some afternoon or another, but this gift business would stop, and by the stars and stripes, they would be on a mutual last name basis. No more of this dear Merlin business, no signed Arthur. It would be Mr. Emrys, Mr. Pendragon, chatter about the water pressure, the Sox game, and no more.

-

Merlin was unfit to be there. He didn't only feel that way, but was, surrounded by people he saw glimpses of in movie pictures and heard on the radio, talking about their careers and mixing brandy in their sequined dresses and tight suits. Even amongst those closer to his own economic class, college students wasted out of their minds, he didn't feel at ease. There was no theme, no center, no purpose to their frivolity- only music, loud and frenzied, and glittering champagne, dancers, fireworks above the tower raining stars into the lake. Whoever he spoke to told him something different; Mr. Pendragon was a prince, an actor, a war hero, a famous doctor, a mob boss. Not once did he hear Arthur. No one seemed to know him, or where he was, if he even lived in the house bearing his name, if he intended for there to be a shindig tonight. Apparently, the gates opened and people came, from everywhere, and no one was ever turned away.

No one was ever invited.

That put a knot in his stomach like nothing else, and he kept a white-knuckle grip on his little box of unsolicited gifts. He would find Arthur, if he could, and return them, explain himself if there was air left in the atmosphere. He would apologize. He would leave. The stars fallen into the lake would stay there, extinguished, and Merlin would soundproof his bedroom. The next letter he got, he would pack his things. The overwhelming sense of impending change, so much like doom, made his heart beat heavy and his teeth ache.

He had meandered for two hours, and like Persephone in the underworld, dared not partake. Unlike her, he could leave whenever he pleased, even if it didn't feel like it just then. The pull of destiny made him stay put, and with every passing moment, he was tempted to throw caution to the wind and join the fray.

Four hours in. Midnight. Merlin felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, the band meeting crescendo to the coo of a love song and the stars bright overhead, a moment of stillness and light, he stared, caught in the blue eyes of Apollo himself. He wished he had had something to drink. Heart fluttering in his chest, he half listened to the man welcoming him with a smile, leading him by the shoulder to somewhere more private where they could talk, and yes, he did have a lot on his mind, and indeed, the decorations were splendid. The click of a door brought him to his senses.

“What’ve you got there?”

They were in a study lined with chestnut bookshelves, each full of old, decorative books and ships trapped in bottles. The man who Merlin recognized as Mud Man With the Yellow Car had seated him on a plush lounge, black leather that squeaked faintly when he moved and smelled particular, but good. Its arms were too wide for his comfort, and he felt small. The man, much neater than when Merlin had last seen him, placed a cold glass in his hand.

“Just water,” he assured amiably.

Mindlessly, Merlin broke his vow and sipped.

Arthur Pendragon was a tall, broad man, who knew his way around a suit. In private now, he had shucked his coat to a hanger and loosed his ascot, red, to leave it hanging about his neck. He had never seen a man in suspenders any color but black or brown before, but for the sake of fashion, Merlin compelled himself to understand one's need for scarlet, if only to pair with a white suit. A white suit that looked fantastic, mind.

His host was watching him bemused, as if he knew what Merlin was here for. Merlin certainly didn't. He swallowed.

“Is that for me?” Arthur probed again. All eyes went to the repurposed gift box in Merlin’s hands, suddenly thrust into Arthur’s, who took it with mild surprise. Opening it, the look of someone enjoying a marvelous and delightful game was lost to one crestfallen. In the box, was a birdhouse, a teacozy, and a brass watch. Arthur closed the box. Had he continued to paw through it, he would have found the stack of letters, each written in this very study. Merlin, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, was relieved that he had stopped there.

“Would you like a drink? I'd like a drink,” Arthur hummed, and he was gone again, opening wine.

“So you're not a gift person,” he said cheerily. A new glass found its way into Merlin’s hand. “Or a, how do you say, luxury adventure person,” he was starting to feel guilty, “or a party person--”

“You don't even know me,” Merlin heard himself say. The half empty wine glass he didn't remember drinking set itself on the table. Everything about this night was shiny and ethereal, his whole body abuzz with newness and golden warmth. He didn't know he had passed four hours wandering this house, drunk on art and a myriad of mismatched strangers, didn't realize he had spent almost half an hour drinking with the mysterious Arthur Pendragon in his private study, didn't know how he had gotten to the point where he could hear the words coming out of his mouth but couldn't understand who on earth had put them there, but here he was, and, “You don't know a thing about me.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and stared into his glass, the box far from forgotten on the coffee table. “I know you like the color blue,” he said quietly. “I know you like to watch birds. I know you like to work with your hands when you could call someone instead.”

Merlin, at once feeling too big for his skin and yet very small under the pressure of Arthur’s attention, watched him carefully. He watched his body language, stiff even in as casual a position as he was, legs crossed and leaning. He watched his lips, red from the worry of teeth and wine, round themselves about his words, saw his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

“I know you don't mind helping strangers,” Arthur was saying. Merlin’s mouth was dry and his water was gone. Arthur was watching him now, too. His eyes were blue, bluer than anything, his jaw was sharp, his shave was close and he could smell his cologne and Arthur was saying, softly, “I know your name,” and then, “Merlin,” and then.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“We know each other plenty well,” returned the easy smile. The moment was gone just like that, leaving him breathless, as though he'd been kissed. Arthur hadn't kissed him, though. He hadn't touched him aside from the occasional brush of fingers exchanging a glass, hadn't tried to breach the distance. He was still talking. Merlin wondered how his a smile didn't reach his blue, blue eyes. “But you've avoided me quite avidly, I would say. I was starting to get ideas when-”

“--When?”

“Beg your pardon?” Arthur flushed red, not expecting the question. He was used to Merlin’s silence, had no way of knowing how unusual it really was. Perhaps he had rehearsed parts of this conversation. Regardless, he disliked being thrown off guard.

“Ideas. I've been here a week, when could you have possibly found time to get ideas?”

Arthur was incredulous.

“You'd be surprised to find I do have a brain, you know,” he seemed about to continue, but Merlin glowered. Arthur began again.  “...Ideas about you?”

“The Queen,” Merlin answered dryly.

“Victoria or Elizabeth?”

“Mary.”

Arthur winced, and poured more wine.

“You pushed my car,” he murmured. “No one asked you, there was no proposed reward, you just came out in your loafers and helped me.”

Merlin thought back to that night, the sniffles he'd had the remainder of the evening, the mud he had to mop up the following day. “I help people who need it,” he corrected. “The ‘who’ makes no difference to me.”

Arthur toasted him halfheartedly. “‘Sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?” His host glanced back to the box of rejected gifts, rejected friendship, and again, Merlin felt a pang of guilt. The distant sound of the party made its way to them, a bass beat that had always been there but had still managed to be forgotten. The clock read two.

Merlin took a drink.

“What do you want from me?” His glass clinked against the wood of the table.

“Are you flattered?” He frowned in confusion. Arthur repeated himself, clearer and more distinctly. “Are you flattered, Merlin?”

“I…”

Merlin didn't know. Why was he here, he thought, what brought him into this situation? Why had he set out tonight, bent to break his promise to his mother? Why did he insist on following that drag of purpose clutching his heart, leading him into danger such as this?

“...I am.”

There was a breath, Arthur waiting for a ‘but’ that didn't come. Again, Merlin was caught in the gaze of an Adonis.

“Would you come back?” Arthur’s tone was low, wistful, concealing. His look didn't waver, daring Merlin to lie, staring into his heart or perhaps just enjoying what he saw- both concepts he couldn't understand. “If I let you go tonight, home,” he sighed, every word sounded like a sigh now and the world was a void, “would you come back?”

The implication that his landlord might not permit him to leave should have been disturbing. Much of this should have been, in fact, he ought to have reported it or left or something--

“Yes.”

What.

“Yes?” Arthur smiled.

What are you doing?

More than smile, he beamed. He tried to hide it but couldn't, the relief overwhelming his composure and Merlin was damned if he saw anyone more beautiful than Arthur Pendragon was in that moment.

“...That's all I wanted,” he said simply.

Merlin was damned.

He knew then that if he took even the smallest amount of momentum towards Arthur, he would do something they would both regret. He would lose a potential friend, although an odd one, of his an admittedly lousy, endearing neighbor. He could always say he had been drunk, which he was, a little- he wasn't -and bank on Arthur being the same- sober, that is -and maybe, maybe then he could get away with it. Dangerous thought, danger, danger--

“Will you stay tonight?”

His heart leapt to his throat to choke him, treacherous thing.

“...Until the party is over?”

The clock read two fifteen, Merlin unabashedly eyeing those red, red lips.

He made an executive decision.

He left.

[write-as-raine]

12.30.19

       Though this won’t be my final blog post, it is my first one written while being back in the United States. In recent months, the writer within me—who sits at a desk that is covered in post-it notes, half-empty coffees gone cold, and pages of unfinished thoughts—has only wanted to stare off into the distance. Ironically, that distance has been me. While many variables combined have created the perfect situation for some high-quality introspection, my instinct always has been to document the maelstrom of thoughts that run through my mind in large volumes. At first, this took place as fiction, then I turned to poetry, but as of late nothing else seems quite right to write except for my own life. I do value introspection highly, but never before have I felt inclined to share so much of my life with any other living soul, so count yourself among the lucky few, dear reader. It feels entirely wrong to do so, but at the same time, it seems like such an extraordinary waste to keep it to myself.

       It is presumptuous to assume anyone is even reading this, which I think makes it easier to write when my audience is more of an apparition than actuality.

       All of that to say, however, that part of my process is writing random bits here and there, and that ultimately these blog posts become Jess's monster, one big body (paragraph) built of many different parts. This will likely be a mixture of things because returning to the United States has, emotionally, been a mixture of things.

Written 12.26.19, in reflection on 11.28.19 

       I was pondering my trip to London today, particularly the day that Lindsay and I saw Phantom of the Opera. That day has such a glimmering quality in my memory. We were both giddy on anticipation for the theatre, and we were all dressed up as we walked arm in arm, our music split between us in our knockoff AirPods. It was one of those powerful days where nothing could really go wrong if it tried. As we sat in the theatre, drinking overpriced Prosecco and basking in the sophisticated and somehow imposter-ish feeling of being in an ornate theatre in London, I could feel a strange sort of shifting around me, like everything was changing and undoing and becoming all at once. I was realizing, I think, that nothing would ever be quite like this moment again. I would never be in London, with Lindsay, on the cusp of everything ever again.

       Between the theatre and the DLR, as we trotted through the city at London speed, the crisp air and bustle of a populace that is always up to something, I kept getting hints of it. Catching my unquenchable joy in the reflections of the windows we passed, my full moon cheeks aglow with my smile. Our reflection showed Lindsay facing what was next resolutely, while I looked into the present and attempted to hold it there in my mind.

       On the DLR, as we watched the city shift from old to new and back, black water glittering with nightlife, side by side as the present flew past us, I was filled with some inexplicable settling within my chest. It was a sudden and rapid, heavy but not in an unpleasant way. It was just a falling in love, or a re-falling in love, with my life, and with the present, and the past that had somehow led me right up to the brink of what was to come. Lindsay, on this evening, paid me one of the loveliest compliments I think I've ever received.

       "You've taught me to see so much beauty in the world that I never saw before,", she told me as we looked out over the diamond cut cityscape.

Such a simple, perfect day.

       I think I was settling into the knowing that the near and inevitable future would not be easy. That I would come home and feel the initial surge of excitement over what my heart had missed for these months, but that a hollow and aimless feeling I am so accustomed to would creep in around the edges. I would feel the siren call of the city in the soles of my feet. Knowing that feeling would come, I still pushed my heart into the hands of those I loved, even though trusting people who have the power to hurt me has gotten me before, and would again. Because others have taught me that there is no point in bottling yourself up and pretending to be someone you’re not. My soul, in all it's wild and whimsy, will always be spilling over, and why not free it.

12.14.19

       I feel that my time abroad was a transformative experience, I just don't quite know how to sum up what changed. I feel different, not in the way that I expected. London, sleek, elegant, historic, magical London left its mark on me in a new way. I saw so many real aspects of it, the hidden places that aren’t the ‘London’ that we imagine.

       It all began with me accepting that my depression was too much for me to carry alone, which didn't magically solve my depression, but when I say that it felt like a fifty-pound weight had been lifted from my shoulders, I am not even kidding. Dealing with the scope of my complex and often confusing chemical imbalances and how they manifest in my every day, well that was a whole other beast. I am still on that path, and will always be. Sometimes I don't feel like getting out of bed, sometimes I feel nothing at all, sometimes everything all at once. 

       I stepped through a looking glass and into Ireland, where I met a cute stranger, and things immediately fell into place and then promptly apart again. In London, I moved in and became very close with two very lovely and wise Norwegian ladies, and I found my feisty personality doppelganger from Iowa, and nothing ever really went according to plan, or exactly as I imagined, but it was right, and it was one of the best semesters I've ever had. The last week was one of the most bittersweet moments of my life. As we wandered around the flat, we all felt a bit lost. I don't think any of us were quite capable of figuring out how to transition to not seeing each other every day. We ate most of our meals together, sometimes in companionable silence, just to be near each other. Lindsay essentially just moved the rest of the way in. On our final evening together, we had the last supper, and then we had our own small Christmas. When all the gifts had been exchanged, and the dinner tidied up, we dragged their beds into my room and had a very large slumber party.

       On the way to the airport in the morning, as the four of us struggled to carry two people's worth of luggage from flat to bus to tube, we laughed to push back tears. At the airport, tissues were passed out, goodbyes were attempted, final words were choked on, and then we parted. Just like that, it was over. I felt a bit numb as I moved through the airport, alone. A full heart is a heavy burden to bear. All I could think as I sat on the plane as we taxied was, 'I feel very lucky, to have met such amazing people'.

       As every mile between myself and London increased, I took deep, calming breaths, feeling a bit lost and very found, and every glance out of the window reminded me that life is magical and that castles seen from the sky are magical and oceans of clouds are magical, I really couldn't seem to do much else aside from sit in awe of what I had experienced in the past three and a half months.

       It sounds like an exaggeration, or too good to be true. Don't get me wrong, there were plenty of mistakes, screw-ups, awkward times (did I tell you about how I fell down some castle steps, or completely forgot my ID the one time I tried to get into a club? Not me at my best, but me all the same).

       But, those were all the pinches for the moments that often felt like dreams.

       I learned a lot about my own mind, which I couldn't have done without the wildly intelligent, kind, and intriguing people that I met along the way. I learned a lot about the world too, and about how I interact with it. I learned a lot about kindness and the Universe. I learned valuable lessons about confrontation, which were stressful, and upsetting, and so very necessary. I learned a lot of Norwegian words, which I was not expecting. What I did not learn a lot about, was creative writing, at least not in the academic sense. Actively writing did teach me endlessly though.

       Just a few nights ago, I saw a shooting star in a sea of other celestial bodies. I have gotten to play with my chickens on the farm, and with our baby cow, who is very hungry all the time because he is a growing boy, and with our baby goats, who are absurdly tiny and very vocal. Also, since I arrived at home, our cat, Tabitha, a proper aloof feline in all regards, has decided that she thoroughly enjoys my company, and will often stretch herself out on the floor next to me for rubs. This is a very large win because she is an adorable, fickle creature.

       Now, as a new year looms before me, although 'looms' isn't the correct word, because looms sounds scary, and while change is nerve-wracking, I have so much to look forward to, as I keep reminding myself, and so much to look back on. So, as the future dawns before me, I feel apprehension, of course, but also great powerful hope and excitement, because there is so much unexpected goodness stored there. I know that it is not always sunshine and even if it were, that I cast my own shadows. Yet here I am, showing my shadows that if I dance, then so must they.  

   Until the next time, or perhaps, until next year,

jess

P.S. I’ve decided to grow my bangs out. If getting bangs signifies a mental break, does growing them out mean I’m starting to figure things out?

[nancypullen]

So Far, So Good

I have no beef with November.  She showed up right on time and brought some lovely chilly weather with her.  She’s sprinkling her colorful magic all over the trees and generally being delightful.  Unfortunately she is also the gateway to holiday food and I’m like a junkie who’s been clean for a year but I’m ready to score a casserole.  I eat a very healthy balance for ten months and then *BOOM*  the Butterball turkeys show up at Kroger and all bets are off.  I wish I could buy willpower.  Sadly, I can’t even say that I fight temptation, oh no, I jump in with both feet and create the temptation.  On Saturday the mister and I were running errands...Lowe’s, Kroger, Tractor Supply for donkey corn to keep the deer in our yard during hunting season, the usual.  I told him that we needed to swing into the library parking lot because I had a couple of books on hold.  Were these volumes to entertain or expand my mind? No. They will only expand my thighs.

Come on.  You can’t tell me that that doesn’t look like fun!  Last week I baked cookies.  I hadn’t baked anything in forever because we don’t need it hanging around the house.  But I had an excuse.  I had swapped cat sitting duties with a neighbor (Willie’s other mom).  They were out of town for a few days in September and I dutifully went over and got the mail, fed her cats twice a day, scooped litter, let them out in the morning and back in for dinner, and gave them love.  In turn, when we went up to Maine she came over and scooped litter, fed our kitties wet food once a day, brought in the mail, etc.  She even took our garbage can to the curb and brought it back in.  They left town again just before we returned from our trip but had a relative house sitting.  They returned last week.   She’d given me a restaurant gift card as a thank you for watching their kitties, so I did the same but also used my gratitude as an excuse to make my favorite fall cookie - gingersnaps!  I figured I’d take a batch over with the gift card so they’d have dinner and dessert. Pulling that bottle of molasses out of the top cupboard felt like a homecoming. I uncovered the ol’ KitchenAid mixer and had one of the best afternoons I’d had in ages.  Playing music, baking cookies, and watching leaves flutter to the ground through the kitchen window - it just doesn’t get much better than that.  Of course I kept a baker’s dozen on a plate for us and they were gone in no time.  The floodgates are open. I did it.  I sabotaged myself.  And I loved every minute of it.  Please do not suggest that I could enjoy the same magical experience by whipping up a batch of bran muffins or tofu brownies.  That’s just crazy talk. Bustling around the kitchen and filling the house with delicious aromas - it’s such simple comfort.  My sister and I have had conversations recently about how, now more than ever, it’s important to keep sweetness and simplicity in our lives.  I actively seek out the whimsical side of life - enchanting art, silly poems, looking for clouds shaped like animals, all of it.  I’m drawn to fairy tales and their illustrations. I love a happy ending.  Remember when I mentioned that I’d picked up a watercolor by Maine artist Marvin Jacobs?  I didn’t choose a seascape or a harbor painting.  I picked this guy.

 It’s so important to keep sweetness in your life, otherwise the daily news will drag you under.  Be aware, be informed, work diligently for change, but leave room for lightness.   I’m saying all of this so that you’ll know why my heart cracked open and I cried when my sister sent a box full of joy straight to my mailbox.  Seems that she caught wind of a woman clearing out some treasures and she picked up a batch of Royal Albert Beatrix Potter figurines for a song!  She picked out three for me as a surprise and I can’t tell you how happy my heart is when I look at my kitchen window sill.

Jemima Puddleduck,  Mrs. Rabbit & Bunnies, and Old Mr. Brown.  Oh, my heart!  My sister told me that she knew I needed the Mrs. Bunny figure because she’s cuddling her two babies - like my two babies! 

Add to that the reminder that my Grandma Ethel called me Cuddlebunny, sewed bunny patches on my jeans during the summer that I chased her sheep and named all of her chickens, and I’m a puddle.  My sister and I love Beatrix Potter’s sweet (there’s that word again) stories and illustrations.  When the mister and I went to London I scoured the stalls on Portobello Road to find an old Beatrix Potter illustration to bring home and frame.  It hangs in the sweetest room in our house, the grandgirl’s room!

Can you imagine what it meant to me to open that box from my sister?  That was a box of love, my friends.  Now I need to add to my collection.  My sister is a fan of Hunca Munca, the busy little mouse.  She kept this figurine and said she identified with it.  I think she’s spot on.  I’ll have to look for more Hunca Munca for her.

I think we both agree that something about these little statues reminds us of time spent in Weiser.  Being at our grandparents little pink house was paradise.  My sister stayed at Grandma’s elbow, watching her sew and cook.  I stuck to her like glue outside learning about her chickens and flowers.  Her gardens were so lush.  Once when I was pretending to be outlaw Belle Starr, western rule-breaker and heartbreaker, I used one of her giant snowball bushes for my hideout.  It was so big and full that I could crawl under the lowest boughs and sit up inside.  It was beautiful and smelled good, just the sort of spot Belle would choose.  We were always so carefree in Weiser - my brother and I taught the sheep to play hide ‘n seek (really!).  If you’ve never seen a sheep hide behind a tree and peek out at you, you haven’t lived.  We named chickens after characters from Robin Hood.  My Grandpa Carl thought I was a hoot.  He spoiled me and I was his favorite.  Turns out that every one of his grandkids could say the same.  We were so safe and loved on their patch of Idaho.   I tried to put plenty of magic and whimsy into my kids’ childhoods.  They probably aren’t even aware that some of their silliest thoughts were planted there early.  I’ll bet when they see birds lined up on a wire and their first thought is “bird meeting” they don’t remember the dialogue I’d make up when we saw things like this -

Bird meeting!  #1 on the agenda is cat location...new orange tabby moved in on corner of Elm and Oak, so be aware.  Worm of the Month award goes to Maurice for the whopper he pulled out of a garden on May 5th. Way to go!  Congratulations to Stanley and Mary on hatching 4 eggs last Wednesday. That’s a lot of mouths to feed, so if anyone has extra bugs, slugs, or worms let them know. You get the idea.  They were little, Mom was just rambling at a red light, but I’ll bet that BIRD MEETING pops into their heads when they a feathered gathering.  Besides, when you anthropomorphize creatures I think kids are less likely to harm them and more likely to empathize. Whimsy with a purpose. Wow.  I apologize.  This blog post is all over the place and as usual I had no plan.  I just sit down at the laptop and empty my brain.  It’s therapy for me and a sleep aid for you. Win-win! On that note I will wrap this up and go dance around the kitchen with a broom.  I used panko when making last night’s eggplant dinner and based on the crunch I heard under my slippers this morning I didn’t sweep it all up.  Your assignment for today is to seek out sweetness.  When you find it, hold on to it.  Take it like a vitamin every day for a healthy soul.   Have a cookie too, can’t hurt might help. XOXO

[talesofealdancynedom]

Leo Greenwood, and his familiar Dolly. I forgot to include him earlier, because this character design was an excuse to use green markers.

Tale 21: What The Wagon Was For (chapter 5 - Exact Change 5/8 ) part 6. Stories of wizards

domestic violence, self harm

           Childlike wonder; this phrase is used to describe magic in Ealden Cynedom. Here, people who love magic, feel a unique sensation, that can only be described this way. The sensation of awe, mixed with an innocent curiosity; How could something so impossible, and wonderous exist? This state of simple joy, brought on by something so small, yet feels so new and big. Magic has a wonder and whimsy, that never grows old.

           For Morgan’s next appointment, he brought Leo a vile of potion. It had fancy silver floral cap. Morgan had a whicker basket, full of various potions, of varying complexity, function, fancy containers, and value. Leo was impressed. Morgan wielded swords, restored ancient book, took care of fey, sang, gardened, and baked; But Leo had no clue Morgan was interested potion brewing. The potion vile Morgan pulled out, in the red and silver vile, was called Rosa Sanguine; A potent, rare, and precious potion. It is used to cure the hemorrhagic fever from any causes. Rosa Sanguine is a S-Class potion, on the A-Z apothecary system; A medium-high level potion. The vile was dusty; which meant it was likely brewed long ago.

“This is the first potion I ever made. It requires a special ingredient: The red petals of the White Winter Cereus. That fey is only found in Rosethorn Manor.” Morgan explained. Morgan was talking. It was bringing Leo to the edge of his seat.

“Your friend, Amadeus, gave you the ingredients?” Leo asked.

“Nope.”

“So, this isn’t going to relate to your loneliness, or bullying issues?” Leo said. Morgan shrugged.

“Why did you bring so many potions then?" Leo persisted.

“Because I couldn’t use a wand, after I saved up to secretly buy one; But I could make potions and summon things. I summoned the unbreakable bow and blade in my bedroom, with sidewalk chalk. But potions are both my downfall and insight. The reason I couldn’t use a wand, is because I’m a mage; But like wizards, mages can make potions. Even better then the most practiced apothecaries. I wanted to be one once; Because I thought it was all I was capable of. I got the petals in the shadow veil.” Morgan said quietly. He was gazing into the wicker basket full of glittering bottles. They were labeled with masking tape.

           Morgan got an allowance; His parents wanted to teach him money management. But instead of cool shoes, Morgan secretly went into the magic markets after school, on his way home. The exact opposite of what his parents wanted. Morgan saved for a wand that didn’t work, and then bought, or was given, old books to restore. These mage journals contained a lot of knowledge; including magic instructions. Each charming ballad, potion recipe, summoning diagram, and more, had to be tried; Just to see if something wonderful would happen. More then getting lost in these mage’s mythical legends, Morgan was learning how to use magic.  Without him, or anyone else, noticing.

One day, Morgan decided to go shopping to make a healing potion. He had read an inspiring recipe. In the tree kingdom, a winter white cereus, who had gone red, gave him petals in thanks for watering. Morgan knew how valuable a gift that were, and wanted to use them. He purchased glass ware, a vile, a burner, and the rest of the ingredients; Then smuggled them up to his room. It was no different then baking a cake for him. In fact, the instant success of potion brewing was anti-climatic. Morgan shoved the mage journals in his bed end trunk, and the vile of potion in his junk drawer, and began to clean up. His room was now covered in homework, apothecary tools, clothing, and first aid supplies. It was overwhelming, causing Morgan’s bed to call him. On his side table was a cardboard box full of different summoning sticks: charcoal, blood wax, bees wax, Vetician chalk, sidewalk chalk, pen woad….

           Morgan was violently shaken awake by his father. It was dinner time, but super would have to wait. His father pulled him out of bed, tightly by the wrist, and pointed at the dirty potion set.

“What is this?” He yelled.

“Um… A chemistry set?” Morgan lied. His heart was about to jump out of chest. He knew that lie was transparent. There were apothecary brand-name packages in the waste bin.

“Chemistry? You’re in middle school Morgan! Why are their magic supply boxes in the trash?” His father yelled. Morgan saw his mother in shock by the doorway. She was wearing an apron with pastel plaid on it. Still holding Morgan’s wrist, his father began to shatter the glassware, and shove it all into the garbage. Then he lifted his hand.

“Did you make something? You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt trying; Potions are dangerous. Particularly if you’re not a trained apothecary!” He scolded. Morgan stayed quiet, and looked at the floor. Like he knew his answer wouldn’t stop his father, and resistance was futile. Morgan knelt there, waiting for the blow.

           Morgan spent an hour applying first aid. Most of his injuries were bruises, a few cuts on his face. But the rest he did himself. Morgan had fallen down a lot, trying to escape down the hall. Defeated, he returned to his room, from the bottom of the stairs, empty inside. He sat at his desk, and cried on it. The potion was still in the drawer, and the broken apothecary set on the floor; Which he was expected to clean up himself. He regretted acquiring the set, or ever thinking about trying to make a potion. What a waste of money and time, he thought. In the homework pile, was a filled, and unsigned, application for the local magic academy. A specialty wasn’t selected. Unable to use a wand, Morgan assumed he wouldn’t get in, even if his parents allowed him to go. Morgan was spiralling into despair; He was filled with meaningless regret and guilt. He felt insufficient, tiered, and in need of a hug. He wished he had someone to talk too. Then, a knock on his door. Morgan stopped breathing, and didn’t look up. His mother came to in, and put a plate of food next to him.

“Saved you some supper. Though I don’t think your hungry right now. But you might be later.” She said quietly. Icthya put her hand on Morgan’s shoulder, and he flinched. She recoiled, and couldn’t describe the guilt she felt in that moment. Because she was a bystander, trying to keep the family safe, she had let Morgan become traumatized to the point of rejecting any human contact.

“I heard you crying; Do you want to talk? Potion making is dangerous if your untrained, and I think that was a bit risky. But your dad shouldn’t have been so aggressive. We just love you, and want you to be aware magic can hurt you. You shouldn’t keep meddling with it.” Icthya said. Her comment wasn’t helping. Morgan didn’t respond. His mother stood up, and saw the academy application on top of the homework pile. She sighed despondently, and left the room.

           Morgan was sick of being taunted, shoved into lockers, and not having none one he could trust with his feelings. No one understood how he felt around magic, or what his dreams are. Then he got a smashing idea! Why not try and summon a familiar? The most harmless spell in the book, and the highest failure rate. But Morgan didn’t have a wizard text with that spell in it. All he had was an old journal of Helrem Monafyra, that had a summoning diagram, labelled: For Familiar Summoning, that had one instruction: ‘Speak your complete self’. Very helpful. The thought of someone who would share his feelings, and hugs, was enticing. Morgan couldn’t wait for a friend, when the possibility of a familiar entered his mind. He immediately decided he would give the spell a shot; If he could keep it a secret, that is. To be sure of his success, Morgan checked to make sure his parents were asleep, then grabbed the blood wax from his dresser. He drew the diagram on the floor, and stood directly in the center of it. Then Morgan began to quietly talk about himself, to himself. Morgan’s whispering, transformed gradually, into desperate crying:

“My name is Morgan Cynedom. I love my family, baking, gardens, and reading old books. I, I think magic is pretty, and friendly. I want to be a seer. I have no friends, but want them so bad. People scare me, and I’m scared if I talk, I will get hurt. I hide my injuries because I want to stay with my parents. I hate them for stopping me, but love them so much. I wish I could have adventures like the mages I read about. I think the shadow veil is better than home. I hate coming home. I hate myself. I know I am a mage, but I don’t want to pursue it; Even if it makes me happy. Because I want to belong, and feel safe. But I know doing ancient magic, that people think is dangerous, will only scare people away more. I feel so trapped and scared, all the time.”

Morgan woke up on the floor in the mourning. The alarm started with the weekend radio broadcast. Across form him, was a golden Eagle.

“Hello sir.” It spoke. Morgan was amazed. He reached out to pet the bird, and felt himself being petted as well. He felt the joy of the eagle, as it was ruffled. It was mildly disturbing. Morgan was still excited; He had a new friend, to go with him everywhere.

“I’m Morgan, Can I call you Icarus?” Morgan gleamed.

“Certainly, young master.” Icarus said. “I felt that part about bringing me around. Judging by the blood on the floor, by a bin of broken magic memorabilia, some people will not take kindly to you having a familiar on your shoulder. But if that doesn’t bother you, I would love to.” Icarus explained. He had a good point. Familiars had a tendency to be a magic user’s conscious, being based in their master’s inner nature. Summoning a familiar, is actually summoning yourself.

“Follow me by flying? Maybe stay perched just out of sight?” Morgan bargained. He knew that would only work for so long.

           At breakfast, there was a ring at the door. Morgan’s mother answered it. Icarus was nested in Morgan’s linen basket, in the closet. Morgan was waiting for toast, and his father was finishing his coffee.

“Cetus! I’m so happy you visited! But you didn’t send a letter… Brother, why are you here?” Icthya asked, blocking the doorway.

“Can I see Morgan, Icthya? Mother said he was looking rough, and suggested Odysseus may be hurting him; Crazy I know. Came to check anyway, since I was near the ranch. Me, Jupiter, and our girl, came for a-” Cetus said. Icthya slammed the door in her brother’s face. Morgan ran out of the kitchen, and up to his room. He locked the door, then went into his closet, holding Icarus tightly. He heard yelling downstairs, then someone coming. Morgan was shivering and dizzy. Luckily, it was his Uncle Cetus.

“Hey sport; Want to open up and give your uncle a hug?” He said, in a cheerful tone. Morgan didn’t move.

“With all due respect young master, I think your uncle isn’t going to hurt you.” Icarus whispered. Morgan took a breath, and pushed the closet door ajar. Cetus crouched just outside. Morgan was curled up on his coats. He was covered in bandages and bruises. His wrist was taped, and looked like he’d never slept. He was gripping Icarus for dear life.

“Oh no.” Cetus said.

“Don’t take me from my parents.” Morgan cried.

Morgan ran away later that night. His grandmother had filed a domestic violence investigation, and Cetus came to get a witness account.  Yet, it was too late; Morgan was gone, before family services could pick him up in the mourning. If he ran away, he could always come back. But if the police or wizards got their hands on him, he could be locked up and never see his family again.

NEXT--->

<---PREVIOUS

[notorious-titan-productions]

april fools [A FNaF Fiction Piece]

-TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND GRIEVOUS HARM TO CHILDREN. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK-

Today was William Afton's favourite day of the year.

He had spent his time in the backstage area of Fredbear's Family Diner the night beforehand, eagerly establishing his 'play-area' for the day that faced him. He was itching with excitement, the sensation causing him to rake his chapped nails across his pale arms at an alarming rate.

Soon enough, his arms were coated in red scratch-marks, accompanying his spring-lock scars, but the gaunt man did not care. He was simply too excited!

He did not even care about the looks of concern his colleagues flashed him as they walked in to start their shifts, meeting their furrowed brows and downturned mouths with a near-manically gleeful grin. Rubbing his eyes to rid himself of his dreadful tiredness, hearing the soft squelching of his eyeball from the force with which he pressed his own palm to his socket, William practically skipped over to his prized possession - and, now, his tool for the greatest joke he'd ever pull!

All else ran as it usually did in Fredbear's, save for the occasional instances of children tricking one another in good-hearted whimsy. Fredbear himself, a portly animatronic bear of a rich golden colour, swivelled about on his stage, filling the building with jovial music and corny jokes.

One child sat in the corner of the room, alone. However, he held a face of contentment regardless, simply happy with cranking the music box he held in his hands - the sweet, tinny music served to calm him, and his sheet-white face glowed a slight rosy colour as happiness filled him.

Another small group of children clambered beneath tables and around startled parents, laughing and tittering as they played a game of It. A young boy, his face painted to resemble a golden rabbit, giggled as he chased his excited friends with an arm outstretched to catch those who could not outrun him.

Even the day-guards were occupied in their own form of entertainment on this joyous day, pulling fast ones on one another and attempting to deceive each other with harmless pranks.

William watched all of this transpire from a crack in the backstage door, pressing a yellow eyehole right up against the cold material of the entryway. He shuddered with excitement, anticipating the fun he was about to have, before leaving the room with a confident gait.

Suddenly the wild-eyed excitement was gone, and all that was left was a jolly and energetic golden bunny. Bonnie walked along the back wall of the large room that made up the main room of Fredbear's, looking to each group of children occupying the establishment. Soon enough, he'd spotted an ideal candidate for his prank of the century, and he had to stop himself from trembling with eagerness.

The young child in the corner of the room took note of a large figure bounding towards him, looking up and into the shadowy eyes of Bonnie the Spring Bunny. Lowering his music box in wonder, the child smiled at the friendly sight.

"Hey there, friend!" Bonnie began, an unsteady Southern drawl occupying their uneven high-pitched voice. "Why're you all alone over here? Don'tcha have any friends to play with?"

At this, the child simply shook their head sadly, looking back down at the ground for a moment.

Bonnie had to hide the grin overtaking his face, clamping the mouthpiece of his suit shut tightly.

"Well, I got an idea! Howzabout you play with me? I'll be your friend!" He continued, his voice seeming to tremble even more now.

At this, the child immediately perked up. Nodding vigorously, he clambered onto his feet in but a moment, still clutching his music box close to his side. It continued playing its gentle, lilting melody.

Bonnie clasped his hands together eagerly before gesturing for the young boy to follow him, stating "I know an awesome place where we can play together! Come along n' follow me!"

And so, as Bonnie began walking back to the backstage room, the child obliviously followed their command.

He pondered showing his mom his new friend, before deciding that he wanted to see Bonnie's cool play-area first.

The tall rabbit hurriedly ushered the boy beyond the door to the backstage area, the room being much colder than the rest of the building. The child immediately noticed a change in mood, with the room being an industrial grey rather than the warm golden hue that filled the rest of the establishment.

He heard the door click shut behind him.

He just about managed to turn around, seeing an exceedingly lanky black and white figure laid out on a workbench, before he felt a sudden jolt and stared into the empty eyeholes of Bonnie the Spring Bunny.

He didn't acknowledge the presence of the knife in his neck until he felt a burning pain, and realised that he could no longer breath. An abnormally strong hand gripped him tightly, keeping him in place, as his music box fell from his hands - even now, with warm blood spattered along its six faces, it played its song.

Now Bonnie, too, was covered in blood, and suddenly he wasn't Bonnie anymore.

William peeled back his suit head, the long bunny ears of the mascot flopping against his back, as he flashed the dying boy standing on quivering knees before him with a radiant grin. Teeth stained with neglect and coffee revealed themselves from behind his thin lips, and a scar left a substantial patch of his upper jaw exposed even with his mouth closed. Here, his gums were purple and cracked from a lack of moisture, the teeth here being even further neglected.

One brown eye and one grey one bore into the now-stilling boy, who, despite panicked gurgles, simply could not stand on his own two feet anymore.

Falling into William's arms, the man cradling the boy lovingly, he finally shut his eyes for the last time in his life.

William, still rocking the child steadily, leaned his blood-spattered face in close to the boy's own one, the pair being coated in the child's gore, and licked droplets from his own exposed patch of scarred gum. He revelled in the victorious sensation of knowing his prank went perfectly, giggling gleefully to himself, before leaning in ever-closer.

He pressed his lips up against the boy's cold ear, and whispered a phrase that had given him oh-so-much joy throughout his long life, only being able to utter it once every year.

"April Fools."