#his original name timber had sad origins so he wanted to change it to give himself a fresh start with a positive name

[the-starry-seas]

I've made more OCs

this is Nihaan, formerly Commander Timber, and Chen Xunielah

Nihaan was assigned head of a protection detail for Ms Chen when she was the Togruta representative to the Senate on Coruscant. It was her first experience with clones and she was very intrigued with them and polite. Timber came to like her more and more as a result, but was always well aware that nothing could come of it. She was, after all, a rather important natborn.

("Timber, how many times must I ask you to call me Xunielah?" "At least once more, Ms Chen. As always.")

Xunielah had no such reservations about a relationship with him, which is quite frankly for the best. When her time on Coruscant ended, she asked Timber and his squad to come home with her. They were honest with her that they would never be allowed to leave the GAR but they would otherwise like that very much. They assured her that they would remember her fondly, and Timber gifted her the only thing he had - a spare set of gloves that came with his armour.

She decided that she wasn't going to just leave them there. They were unfailingly kind to her, and she didn't want them to get shipped off to die at some battlefront because she no longer needed their protection. So she arranged things with the Senate to have the squad transferred to her possession and took them home to Shili, where they were recognised as both sentient beings and free citizens.

There was a bit of doubt that Timber might not really love her once he had a whole new world in front of him, but he'd been simply wild about her from the moment he saw her, and that only deepened when she gave his entire squad their freedom. He changed his name to Nihaan - a Togruta word for beloved - and did his best to put the GAR behind him.

Nihaan gets deeply invested in some of the best and most dramatic holovids that Shili has to offer, and is deeply surprised to find out that his beloved Xunielah is not just an ambassador but a sort of duchess. She takes him to her estate in the Celestial Mountains and is very charmed with how he's charmed by the scenery.

Nihaan was reluctant to have kids for a while. He had complicated feelings on clone aging and passing that on to his kids. Xunielah loves him unconditionally, he knows, but he also knows that a lot of other natborns aren't the same. Eventually when the clone aging cure is synthesised, Nihaan's able to get his hands on it, and finally gets the family he always wanted but worried about having. They end up with three kids - a girl named Nukoi, and two boys named Hiyet and Tanul.

And bonus Nihaan pic to show off his facial tattoos!

[myhauntedsalem]

Letta the Haunted Gypsy Doll

In the early 1970′s, Kerry Walton, a man in his early 20′s, had to return to his home town in Wagga Wagga NSW, in order to attend a funeral. It was at about this time that he recalled a childhood fear he had had growing up about a old abandoned house located down the street which was said to be haunted. 

Feeling that now was the perfect time to finally face his childhood terror, Kerry ventured to the house in the middle of the night, in order to explore and settle his nightmares. Finding an opening to the buildings cellar, Kerry lit the gloom with the ull shaft of light emitted from his torch. Thick whirls of powder were present as he kicked up the dust collected after years of disuse. 

The building’s supports, brick, stone and timber passed into light and shadow as he made his way through the gloom. Suddenly Kerry was startled to find a set of eyes looking back at him, from what appeared to be a small dead child, sitting on its own. 

However, it was not a child at all, but an old and quite grotesque looking marionette. Having been creeped out enough for one night Kerry grabbed the doll and left. When he returned home, he left the doll in the lounge room and went to bed. 

Kerry could not stop thinking about the doll and felt a little uncomfortable knowing it was laying not too far away. He got up, placed the doll in a bag and put it under the house. 

Soon enough Kerry was offered some money for the doll, and he was more than happy with selling this creepy souvenir from the old abandoned house. He and the doll took a journey to where it was to be sold, but upon arrival Kerry could not bring himself to part with it. He broke the deal and took the doll back home. 

With the doll having some sort of hold on him, he wanted to get some information about it. With its old antique look a trip to the museum for some advice on where to get information was decided upon. However the museum was able to give quite a lot of information. The nails used to keep the dolls feet to the legs aged the doll at about 200 years old and the style of it made it almost certain to have come from Eastern Europe. 

The dolls hair was also discovered to be real human hair and under the scalp was the likeness of a human brain. 

The history of the doll grew when several psychics provided more information about its background. A doll maker had carved this particular doll in the likeness of his young son who had died, drowned at the age of six. Dolls were strongly believed to be able to harbor a human soul after death, providing it with a new worldly home.

The doll, the marionette, still contains this soul. It is not malicious or dark, but rather just that of a child who had drowned over two centuries earlier. 

Kerry was also told he will never be able to part with it. 

The doll, now named Letta, due to its European Gypsy origins, brought out curious reactions in many that saw it. Dogs would go into hysterics, snapping and barking at the doll, attacking it should they be given the opportunity. People let out a gasp of shock when first laying eyes on it, something about the eyes bringing about strange emotions of fear and sadness. 

On more than one occasion women have broken out into weeping, screaming hysterics or just fainting all together. 

Letta is also said to be able to move of its own accord, changing positions, or at times pulsing when being held. 

The doll still remains in Kerry Walton’s possession. 

Although still quite spooky, Kerry has gotten used to Letta and will never let it go for fear of the misfortune that has been predicted by many psychics should he ever do so.

[botwstoriesandsuch]

An Enjoyable Relationship The Legend of Zelda: Breath of The Wild Revali x Reader

You sat on the landing, the wood creaking under your weight. Gusts of cool wind blow by your ears, but your feathered garb keeps you relatively warm. Your legs dangled over the world below, swinging above the treetops and timber huts. The sky was shades of bright blue and laced with white clouds, the sun perched high above Rito village. You watched the sight before you as the leaves swayed and birds chirped. Other Rito flew freely in the air above, blurs of hazel and black, pinks and jades, colors decorated an already beautiful sky as the villagers went about their daily routines. Finally, the color you had been waiting for descended. The winds swirl around, billowing behind the Rito as he picked up speed before stopping gracefully before the landing. A deep blue, bordering on indigo, with accents white as snow around his face and on the edges of his wings. Revali landed beside you, standing atop the arm railing to your left. His face was smug, as usual, but silent for now as he looked expectantly at you, as if waiting for your reaction to his grand entrance. You gave a smirk, before you started to speak.

“Stop stealing my quills, feather face”

“Always one to cut right to the chase, [name].”

You sighed. For the last few weeks you had been in Rito village, Revali had been bickering with you non-stop. As one of the top Sheikah researchers, it fell onto you to review and analyze the Divine Beasts. However, throwing petty insults, having little squabbles, and overall dealing with the proud Rito Champion wasn’t in the original job description.

“Whenever I seem to put down my journal, or go out to lunch, or stay up on Vah Medoh, my quills and ink always seem to magically disappear.”

“Well, how should I know anything about that? For all we know they could have been blown up to the Hebra Peaks.” Revali tucked his wings behind his back, his posture shifted to become more regal, as if to give the impression that he was above whatever nonsense you were talking about. “Why, it sounds like you’re simply an irresponsible scientist.”

You stood up and paced around the wooden landing. 

“Well, of course you weren't my first guess. I, at first, assumed I kept misplacing them. Plus, I made the mistake of assuming the great Rito Champion was above such trivial things. That is of course…”

You turned to meet Revali’s gaze, and removed an ivory quill from your pouch.

“...until you dropped this at the latest Champion meeting.”

Revali scoffed. He hopped off the hand railing and moved closer.

“Why do you even come to those? They only concern those of important rank.”

“Quit your slanders and return what's mine, cucco.”

He circled around you for a moment. His gaze looked you up and down, as if assessing you. His eyes narrowed. Then, with the speed of a gale, he snatched the quill right out of your hand. 

“Hey! Don’t yo-”

“If you’re so smart, why don’t you riddle me this. What incentive would I have to return the rest of your possessions? Why would I return the things that would continue to allow you to meddle with Medoh, and work so far off into the night that I can hear you scratching notes down in my nightmares?”

He gave a fake shudder, to add to his dramatics on that last note. You tried to grab back your quill, but Revali’s reflexes were too much as he continuously sidestepped and pivoted out of your reach. As you danced around him, you thought for a moment. He wasn’t the type to waste his time, he always complained that he didn’t have the time to fly you up to Vah Medoh as your “very presence alone conflicted” with his archery practices. No, Revali always wanted to get something out if whatever he did. Never wasted a moment to gain recognition, improve his skills, practice, something. You sighed again.

“What do you want in exchange, fuzzy...”

“AH! So there's half a Hylian mind in there after all”

Revali’s familiar smug expression returned once more. He fiddled with the quill, brushing it against his own feathers as he continued to dodge your attempts to retake it.

“Well, since you asked so nicely. Perhaps I’ll consider returning your items in return for your… extended company later this evening.”

“What?!”

You stopped in your tracks, dumbfounded. Revali did the same, although his expression was more meek, his stance changed as his weight shifted between his feet. Why did Revali, this Rito who obviously didn’t think much of you, want to spend the evening together? As you stood there, startled, the Rito began speaking rapidly,  the feathers on his neck poofed up, as if he was...embarrassed?

“Now, obviously, it’s not a date or anything. Why anyone would even assume so is beyond me. I mean you’re not even that attract- wait that's not true. I mean, yes it's not a date, but the part about your looks is, I mean- you’re very smart and beautiful and… uh swell?... and I’m sure you’ll find someone who appreciates that someday but, uh, not me, obviously, well I mean-”

He paused. Revali stared at you, his words bounced around in his beak as he tried to formulate the right sentences.

“There’s an...event, that the Champions are invited to this evening. However, I have accurately anticipated that it will be boring. No doubt, everyone will be more concerned with talking about that little knight, or the princess, or the the other Champions and myself rather than more pressing or captivating topics. I’ve already endured a thousand and more of those conversations about myself and the others, truly, it gets tiring after awhile. I’m not one to go through a party without...enjoying myself,” He swept his wing towards your direction, gesturing to you. “Throughout our time together, it has been...interesting. For you, obviously, it’s been great, being in my vicinity all the time, experiencing the grand life of the Rito Champion, Revali! However, it has also been entertaining for me as well, as I find myself appreciating your sarcastic tones and baseless insults. I figured, your presence alone would help make the night more tolerable. So, I’m simply asking for one night where you get to be yourself and keep me from falling asleep in front of those other, insufferable people.”

You continued to stare at Revali. Was he really inviting you to a party? For so long, your relationship had consisted of quips and banter back and forth. Mostly because you didn’t want to feed his ever growing ego. Apparently, your personality had entertained Revali enough that he wanted to spend time with you at a boring party probably meant to entertain loafing nobles and royals. Oh joyous day.

Revali continued after a brief pause. “In exchange for the quills of course, as I know you’re not the type to attend festivities without incentive. Normal people would flock to me just for the chance to spend a moment in my vicinity, of course, but alas, you prefer the illogical option of tucking away to your quarters for the night and reading textbooks for fun.”

“It’s productive.”

“It’s sad.”

You snorted. Fine then. One night with Revali wouldn’t be terrible. You could tolerate his fancy words, flambouyant manner, and deep blue feathers for one night. HIs words earlier were nice enough that you could smile. Gosh, were you blushing?? Or was it just the cold???

You snuck another glance at Revali. Who knows? You might be able to enjoy your time with him too. The winds blew your hair around as the breeze whispered sweet nothings. The Rito stood there, his gaze wandering up and down your figure expectantly.

 Well, it’s not like he gave you much of a choice. 

“If I go with you, you give me back my ink and quills and whatever else you’ve taken after?”

“You regain your ability to write and research for eternity without sleep, and I get to have an enjoyable night, yes.”

“Sounds like a deal then, Revali.”

[the-canary]

A Million Stars - B.B. (4/8)

Summary: It’s a whisper in the night, a promise to disappear forever. Don’t trust the Goblin King – it’s just that some princesses never learn. (Labyrinth/Royalty AU!Reader/Bucky Barnes).

Prompt: “The kind of smile that would be cruel not to kiss.”  

A/N: This is for @sweetboybucky 1k writing challenge. So, this might be longer than I originally thought, but I am trying to juggle everything I have in my head.

Feedback is always appreciated.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Make sure you do not ever regret the choices you have made, Morgan. There is nothing sadder than a regretful king -- all that power and you still couldn’t achieve your heart’s desires.

King Morgan can hear his first wife’s voice echoing in the hallways to the library as the darkness settles in. It had been days since his children disappeared and all he can do is wonder what he had done wrong for both of them to be sprited away. He had always tried to be a fair and just king, but he had weaknesses like any other man with power -- he took in more than he should in terms of wealth, loved more than one woman that wasn’t his wife.

I may leave you, Morgan. But, our daughter -- she is half yours, but should you play with that temper of hers, fae blood always burns everything in its path. Do not call for it.

His first wife, the one he married more out of obligation to nobility than anything else, had told him before she spirited away. Her family had been said to be connected to the old fae that lived in the land once, that she could see things that normal humans --like him-- couldn’t and he would laugh at her, scorn her heritage for years until their daughter was born, the heir he needed. The Old Queen watched her daughter grow for 5 years before she left -- without a word and in the middle of the night with a letter from one of Morgan’s lovers on her desk. Morgan was sure that’s the moment his kingdom fell into ruin.

War, famine, debt were all that followed his kingdom on the footsteps of the Queen disappearing. Morgan struggled stopping everything from being destroyed or worse have the people going into a full on rebellion, while raising his only child, his bright princess. However, he made sure that she knew nothing of the old stories, of the ill that might run through her veins -- she grew skeptical of the very thought of it instead.

Years passed and Morgan married once again, more due to love this time to a lady-in-waiting to his daughter, though of a lesser nobility compared to his first wife. The happy couple married and welcomed their son, Marcus two years ago and in his new happiness, Morgan forgot his first wife’s warning. He pushed his daughter aside, took away her birthright, and prepared to marry her to a man that was more brute than prince.

Fae blood always burns everything in its path.       

War, famine, debt -- he had called on all of those once more after his children’s disappearance days ago, it was only a matter of time. The people were angry and mournful, his younger brothers were surely watching the shadows and waiting to see what was going to happen next. His wife hadn’t stopped crying.

As he sits in the darkness, in her favorite high chair within the library. Morgan can’t help but call out: “ Why do you curse me, Gwyneth ?”

An invisible wind shutters throughout the library, as if answering back.

You called for it.

“Are you sure we are heading in the right direction?” you can’t help but ask as the teddy bear gives you the best glare that it can, only for you to laugh. You didn’t know where Sam was taking you, but after surviving those “blades of death” back in the the bottle dungeon, you were starting to warm up to your guide -- even, if he hadn’t.

“Don’t forget your end of the bargain, Smellington,” the Goblin King chuckles before disappearing with a flick of his cloak. Before you could ask what he meant, a flurry of blades rush in your direction as you screamed and started punching the walls along with the teddy bear until one push forward and you both fell into the clearing below.

You were weary of why the Goblin King knew Sam and where the bear pirate was taking you, but you had to take it one step at a time. You had to play this a certain way to get the information you wanted, however that wasn’t one of the things you were very good at.

“Why did the Goblin King seem so familiar with you back there?” you can’t help but ask, as the bear just shakes his head.

“Don’t ya get tired of asking so many questions?” he remarks back, only for you to shake your head. He groans, not knowing what he has gotten himself into, though Sam couldn’t help but think it was better than all those times that visitors were silent or even treated him negatively when he was just trying to help. You wouldn’t shut up with all your questions, but he was starting to get used to it -- as scary as that was.

“ James knows everyone in his kingdom,” Sam explains, as your ears perk up at the sound of the Goblin King’s true name -- rather ordinary, if you had a say so, “He likes make sure everyone is under his palm and reminds them in awful ways.”

“Oh, that isn’t very nice for a king,” you can’t help but huff out in annoyance as Sam nods in agreement, “A good king cares of his people and the kingdom. This James must not be a very happy fellow.”

“Oh if you--”

Before Sam can say anything else, the two of you hear an angry growl. You jump, but curiosity has always been your downfall, as you head towards the sound completely ignoring that Sam has run the other way. You hide for a moment to see a large green beast being attacked by goblins in silver armor. It lets out desperate cries as it tries to fight back. You look around on the ground, to see that there are smooth pebbles around you and doing what you can -- you begin to throw them, unaware of the sparks coming out of the things you throw, as each pebble lands on their intended mark and electrocutes the creatures until they run away screaming and smelling like cooked chicken.

Brown eyes turn towards your direction, as you can’t help but laugh at the aftermath. The green beast gets up and makes it way over to you, but instead of being scared you look up at it and grin.

“What’s your name?” you question softly as the green beast looks at you wearily, “I just want to be friends. I helped you out, no?”

“Yes,” he manages to say in short burst, as you nod, “Hulk.”  

“Well Hulk, I think we should find a way out of here,” you declare as the beast agrees in its own way. The two of you head out of the clearing and that’s when it happens.

A sparkle catches your attention, as you stand there for a moment. The barren wasteland of the labyrinth quickly changed to a castle much like your own, but different with stained glass windows and smooth marble, as you see a long piano in the corner of the room. The melody is sad, perhaps even lonely as you try your hardest to move forward and see who might be playing such a haunting piece.  

I dreamt of you last night –

as if I was playing the piano

and you were turning the pages for me.

The familiar voice echoes and your eyes widen.

“ AAAAHHH ,” Hulk yells, which breaks whatever daydream you were just in as you go back to staring at him. He grunts before motioning at you to keep moving within the labyrinth with a new companion and slightly more confused on who the Goblin King is.

The clock strikes eight hours left when he hears it. Over the baby’s giggling and his goblins’ cheering, it sounds like a godsend.

James. James. James.

The first time he had heard his name being said by someone similar to him, like a hymn that boils the magic in his blood. It isn’t said in disgust or malice like when he hears it from Sam, but rather curiosity maybe even a teasing tone, as he sees your lips quirk just a bit, like there is something funny to his name, but it is the brightest way anyone has ever said it.

James , that’s all it takes for his heart to slowly be won over by all too stubborn, tempestuous princess that is slowly defeating his labyrinth.

 It takes the warriors only a few hours to reach the kingdom across the mountain path. Queen Rebecca feels their arrival before anyone else comes to her room saying that there are warriors coming into the capital, she is already waiting for them in the throne room when they ask for an audience with her. There are five before her -- three men different shades of silver, gold, and blue. A woman is standing in the back of all of them with her hand to her weapon, but the one commanding the most attention is the man in all gold armor and eyes to match.

Pure fae, Rebecca thinks as her old bones tremble at the thought of what they could want with her, of what her long-lost sibling has done. However, she is the queen of this land and that will not be ignored as she begins to speak in a commanding voice.

“And what do you warriors need of me?” the Old Queen asks from her high chair, as golden eyes turn to look at her.

“Your sibling has taken our country’s princess,” Heimdall explains, as Rebecca gets up in her chair in sudden distress over this new piece of information, “We need your help to get her back.”

“How?” she can’t help but ask, since she can faintly feel the magic coming off from all of them -- more so the man with golden eyes in front of her. It looks like he could see both the past and present all at once. Rebecca could only imagine all that he had seen and experienced, but she could see how strong his loyalty ran in the cautious timber of his tone for said missing princess.  

Maybe, that’s what won her over so quickly.

“What exactly would you need from me?” she questions, as she sees the woman behind the man frown.”

Part 5

[krycss]

Crossroads | oc:Alice Harkins/Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith

Prologue: Alice Joins A Gang

[Read on AO3]

 - Next Chapter

I won't be changing anything from the canon, despite how sad some things might get, except for the fact that my character will be along for some of the missions. Yes, that means THAT is going to happen - I’m sorry. Or am I?

Alice Harkins joined the Van der Linde gang from it's early days. Growing up alongside the older Arthur Morgan, she can't help but feel an attraction to the man who taught her so much. When the gang gets the addition of one Charles Smith, Alice quickly realizes she's found herself in quite the predicament: She loves them both and both men not only share the feelings towards her, but towards each other as well. As the gang moves on from the tragedy at Blackwater, the three find themselves at a crossroads, embarking on a strange but happy journey together. Can they find a way to maintain their relationship while the gang that brought them together begins to crumble around them?

Alice Harkins was twelve years old when her life was turned, quite literally to ash. Living in a small town in Missouri, Alice just so happened to be away from home one blistering summer eve when her family’s home was burned down. By the time she returned, her home was but a pile of smoldering timber, thick black smoke swirling high into the sky. Her ma, pa, and younger brother were scattered about the yard – gun shots in each of their bodies the only evidence to what had happened.

Alice spent the next four years wandering from town to town. A shell of her former self. The happy little red-headed child was now a struggling teen, trying to survive in this cruel world. She became a pickpocket over the years. Stealing trinkets and money in order to afford food and, if she was particularly lucky, a roof over her head for a night.

It was one fateful afternoon that Alice spotted a new man wandering the streets of the backwater town she was currently holed up in. His carefree attitude and easy-to-pick satchel made him the perfect target in Alice’s eyes. She tailed him for most of the evening and when he finally stopped into the local saloon Alice made her move. At sixteen she knew just how to distract men – despite how degrading it made her feel. Adjusting her bodice she casually made her way over to the bar. From this close she could see just how handsome the man was. His dark blond hair fell in short tresses, just barely past his ears. But what drew her to him were his eyes – she spent far too long trying to decide if they were blue or green. Perhaps both. She found it easy to chat with the man, Arthur Morgan, she learned his name was. Perhaps it was his friendly demeanor, but Alice found herself telling Arthur things she had never told any of her other victims – about her family and growing up alone. She wasn’t too worried, she’d never see the man again.

The two spent what felt like hours in the saloon with casual conversation and a handful of drinks – although Alice was careful to simply nurse hers. When night fell Arthur made his farewell, leaving the saloon on wobbly legs with Alice’s help in getting down the rickety saloon stairs. As she helped him to the stables where he said he left his horse, Alice took advantage of his inebriated state to begin rifling through his satchel. She felt the distinct feel of money and various other items – despite its size the bag seemed to hold quite a lot of things for some reason. She continued laughing at whatever silly thing happened to come out of Arthur’s mouth. She just needed a few more seconds. Gripping onto the bills she went to pull her hand out when Arthur quickly grasped her wrist. His slurring had stopped and he pulled her around to the side of the stable, suddenly less drunk than before. Alice quickly realized she was the one who had been played.

“Little lady,” His voice rumbled lowly, “if you’d like to keep your hand, I’d suggest letting go now.”

Alice stared wide-eyed at the man. His face remained dark, but there was a hint of something behind his eyes – amusement?

Alice sighed.

“I have to admit, Mr. Morgan, this is a tad bit embarrassin’.” She sulked.

“It was clever, I’ll give ya that.” Arthur released her wrist. “But you’ve still got some learning to do if you’re going to continue this here line of work.” He hummed thoughtfully.

“What in the world are you talkin’ about?”

Arthur stared at her, his eyes staring down into her light blue ones.

“Not sure.” He scratched at the scruff on his chin. “I may have a proposition for you though. Meet me at the saloon, same time tomorrow? If you’re willing.”

Alice’s eyes widened.

“I was just robbin’ you…and you want to see me again?” She scoffed, crossing her arms.

Arthur laughed, it was a sharp thing but Alice felt herself fighting a smile at it.

“Let’s just say I know someone who might be able to help you out.”

“And who says I need help?”

Arthur stared down at her. Her head only reached his chest.

“Just think on it. I gotta get goin’.”

He waved her off as he entered the stable.

 The next day Alice argued with herself for hours, and continued to argue with herself as she sat at a table in the corner of the saloon. Just as she was considering leaving for the umpteenth time that night, in walked Arthur Morgan, followed by another man. The other man was slightly older, black hair framing his sharp face. He held himself high, dressed in clothes far too sharp for him to be a local. The two sat down at the table with Alice.

“Glad to see you again, little lady.” Arthur smirked.

Alice huffed.

“Dutch, this is…Alice, yes?” Arthur looked for confirmation. “Alice, this here is Dutch.”

Alice stared at the man. The name sounded slightly familiar but she couldn’t remember if she’d seen him before.

“A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, miss.” Dutch smiled. “Arthur here tells me you have the makings of a rather fine pickpocket with the right help.”

There was no judgement from the man before her, in fact, Alice thought he seemed a little too eager. Apparently Arthur had told Dutch the things Alice had told him about herself. She regretted it immediately.

“We’ve got a family, of sorts, a small, ragtag group of people just like you. And we’d be more than happy to have you join us – if you’re willing. We’ve been in need of someone with your particular skillset for a while now.” Dutch’s eyes gleamed in the lantern-light of the saloon.

“What kind of group needs a pickpocket?” Alice questioned.

Arthur leaned forward.

“The kind that makes a habit of surviving doing very similar things.”

“So…a gang?” Alice lowered her voice at the end.

Dutch hummed in agreement.

Alice’s brain kicked into gear.

“Are-Are you Dutch’s Boys?!” Alice whispered loudly.

Arthur’s back straightened up as he glanced around, making sure no one heard. Dutch simply laughed heartily.

“Ya’ll have been causing quite a storm with all your robberies of late”

Ever since their first big heist in 1887, Alice had been following the news of the gang robbing their way across the Midwest through whatever means over the past two years. She never learned how to read before her parents were killed so the most she got was from overhearing others talk about them.

Alice tried to hold her excitement in but it must have been apparent on her face as Dutch’s smile grew wide.

“That’s the goal, miss. And, if you’d like, we’d be more than willing to give you a place to stay if you’re willing to put in the work.” Dutch folded his hands on the table. “You’d have a family with us. Arthur here was just like you when we took him in – an orphan making it on his own on the streets.”

Arthur smiled fondly at Dutch, Alice could tell there was a deep respect for the man. She sat there for a moment, but she already knew her answer. Standing up, she held her hand out towards Dutch who was quick to grasp it between his own two hands.

 Alice quickly found herself playing the role of a sister to John Marston who was the same age as herself. They were taught to read together by the very friendly Hosea Matthews- who found Alice to be the better-behaved student. The other members of the gang at the time were Susan Grimshaw, who Alice found to be a hard but hardworking woman, Hosea’s wife Bessie, and Annabelle. Alice quickly took a shine to Arthur’s dog, Copper.

Her first few years with the gang were spent learning how to properly shoot by Arthur, picking up her pickpocket skills with the help of Dutch, and the learning how to better con people by Hosea. Over the years, since her time joining in 1889 to 1894 the gang went through many changes. The loss of Annabelle by Colm O’Driscoll was a stark reminder to Alice of how cruel the world is – eventually the gang would also lose Bessie, another reminder. However the gang also grew and prospered as they continued to travel. They met the Callander boys, Mac and Davey. Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth were added; Mary-Beth and Alice became quick friends with their shared skills. Pearson, Swanson, the lovable oaf Uncle soon joined as well. Sean MacGuire was quite the addition to the gang, followed by Molly O’Shea, and eventually Josiah Trelawny. By 1894 the gang was still growing and Alice found herself no longer haunted by the loss of her original family – she had found a new one. Bill Williamson joined around this time, followed by Abigail Roberts who Alice wasn’t sure how to feel about at the time. When Jack was born the gang quickly took a shine to the boy, helping Abigail to raise him. John left a year later and Alice was sad to see him go but a part of her understood – the two of them were close and she knew how he felt about the kid. Around this time Javier was introduced to the gang by Dutch. Alice was about the same age as him, twenty-three, and despite the language barrier at first, the two found a quaint friendship between one another.

It was around this time that her relationship with Arthur would begin to change as well. Everyone in camp knew the two were close – he was the one who brought her into the gang and showed her the ropes – and the teasing was relentless but it didn’t bother either of them. Besides, she would remind those who taunted her, he has that Mary woman, right? Even if they weren’t together anymore. As she grew up Alice couldn’t help but notice that sometimes her eyes would wander over to Arthur during his morning chores, watching his muscles tense beneath his shirt. It only increased in intensity as she got older. He was only ten years older than her, but that was enough for her to think that he only saw her as a little sister and as such, she kept her feelings to herself. It was during a rather emotional, drink-filled night that Arthur started [Alice later learned his drunkenness that night was due to what had happened with Eliza and Isaac] that it happened. The two eventually found themselves in the woods away from camp, just drunk enough to have no inhibitions but sober enough to remember what had happened. Strong emotions, heated gazes, and experimental kisses turned into a long night in the woods. At twenty-three, Alice was happy that her first time was with Arthur – someone she trusted. The two remained friends after the night, though not without a bout of awkwardness for the first few days afterword. It was just one drunken night, the two would agree on, it didn’t mean anything else.

By the time John returned in 1896 the gang began heading towards Montana. 1898 saw the gang in a bit of a rough patch for a while. The loss of Copper was hard on both Arthur and Alice. The gang ended up travelling into the Northern Grizzlies where they settled for a few months. Dutch even considered looking into getting some land for the gang but when that didn’t work the gang moved on. 1898 also brought in the latest members of the Van Der Linde gang – Lenny Summers, Jenny Kirk, Micah Bell, and Charles Smith. Alice adored Lenny and Jenny and their sprouting relationship. She shared the same thoughts Arthur did about Micah. And Charles, well, Alice found herself quickly intrigued by the man. Charles was the same age as Alice when he joined, twenty-six. Quiet and reserved, it took some time before he began opening up to the gang but he was quick to show his loyalty. Alice, despite her rowdy and extroverted nature, found herself often coaxing Charles into conversation around the campfire – even if it tended to be a little more one-sided on her part. She found that her eyes also began to seek out Charles around camp, much the same way they did with Arthur before. She tried to ignore what that meant.

When the gang made their way into West Elizabeth in 1899, camping just outside the growing town of Blackwater, Alice was twenty-seven and found herself caught between a rock and a hard place. She loved Dutch like a father, much like others, but when the planning of the Blackwater Robbery was underway, she found herself with Arthur and Hosea, scoping out a job of their own. By the time the three caught up with the rest of the gang after hearing what had happened, Alice knew she had made the right decision. John, Jenny, and Davey were all shot in the incident – Jenny and Davey ending up with the worse injured. Mac was unaccounted for, as well as Sean. Charles had somehow been injured, Alice helping him tend to the burns on his hand. The trip back into the Grizzlies on the run was a hard one. Fighting the law, the weather, and the low morale quickly put a dour mood throughout the gang.

Alice, ever the optimist, kept her head up. Surely it couldn’t get any worse.

Right?

~~~

Mostly just a timeline. I spent most of the day reading the wiki on the formation of the gang and pretty much ran with it.

[humanitys-trashiest-fanfic]

The Stars Will Remain- Chapter Three

Summary

Chapter One

A03

Chapter Three

It was more than a little awkward trying to explain to Eren and Mikasa as he went back to the college to return the car about his new predicament- that he wasn’t taking business after all, he’d put his name down for art, like everyone had expected, and not only that, but he’d also found himself a job and would be starting within the next week. It was pretty much the last thing they’d been expecting for him to do, so needless to say, he was subjected to many, many, insufferable questions from Eren on the ride back to their house. What made you change your mind? Where are you working? Why at a bakery? How did you get a job that fast? Can you even bake? So you’re definitely doing art now? You’re not going to back out of it again?

Perhaps seeing Jean’s sudden proverbial step forwards had initiated a kind of challenge in Mikasa, because the second they got home, she demanded Eren pull out his laptop and start applying for jobs himself. Whether this was in Eren’s best interest or a kind gesture in Jean’s regard to ensure they’d have an as equal income as possible to make paying rent easier wasn’t clear, but he liked to think it was the latter (Despite the frustratingly high likelihood that it probably wasn’t).

Instead of sticking around to watch the couple bicker over the computer screen and feel increasingly sour, he disappeared upstairs, shutting himself into his room and at long last, collapsing back into his bed. Earlier, his priority had been getting home as soon as possible to sleep away the rest of this damn hangover, but somehow, he was feeling a lot less like a moving trash heap than he had been that morning. Where there had been a knife twisting into his brain there was now only a dull ache that twinged if he turned his head too fast. He lay on his bed for some time, but sleep eluded him as he rolled back onto his front, sighing in defeat. He reached out and picked his sketchbook up off the corner of the desk next to his bed, thumbing through the diminishing drawings until he got to the Mikasa-nymph portrait from yesterday.

Was this all really going to be worth it?

The doubts were still there, heavy and laden with guilt, rolling into a heavy ball dripping with reservations in the darkest corner of his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite bring himself to focus on them. He was finally doing it- he was finally going to do what his childhood and high-school self had dreamed of for years- he was going to study art full time.

Jean stretched his arm out once more and picked up one of the pencils lying discarded over the desk top and flipped to a clean page. He put the graphite tip to the paper and began sketching out the timber-framed structure of the bakery from memory.

It all seemed a bit too surreal. Maybe that’s why he had trouble believing himself.

He drew peacefully in silence for a good half hour or so, content with tracing out the wood grain of the timber beams and the latticed windows and their shutters, feeling remarkably at ease for once, before he was interrupted by the buzzing of his phone laid on his pillow, the screen flashing impatiently at him as he picked it up, only to see his mother’s icon next to the second text he’d received from her that day.

Hope enrollment went well, sweetie. I’m proud of you!

Yikes. His stomach turned nauseously as he bit his lip, staring at the phone he held gingerly in his hand. That was something he hadn’t thought about. What the hell was he going to tell his mother?

That’s another problem for another day, he mused, switching the phone off and tossing it carelessly away. It slid off the pillowcase and into the dip formed between the mattress and the wall. He’d let her stew in her blissful little illusion of Jean’s conformity for a while before he told her the truth.

For now, it didn’t matter. For now, all that mattered was him.

…

Four- thirty in the morning didn’t sound so bad when Jean went to bed the night before at half past ten. The little timer on his phone when he set his alarm told him he’d get five whole hours of sleep before then, which was pretty much what he had run on throughout high school when he’d stay up for hours under the covers, drawing under the light of his phone well into the early hours of the morning. The bakery was a half an hour walk away, so he set his alarm for half past three to give himself a little time to get ready before he had to leave in order to get there on time. No problem. Five whole hours.

But by the time he woke up to the blaring noise of said alarm, it certainly felt bad.

He’d never met a single person in his life who enjoyed getting up at the butt crack of dawn, and he certainly wasn’t one of them.

He slapped the alarm off and resisted every fibre of his being that wanted to turn over and go back to sleep, waging a war against his eyelids that desperately wanted to close again. By the time he finally convinced his defiant limbs to cooperate, he was already running fifteen minutes late.

He pulled on the oldest pair of skinny jeans that he owned and an old band t-shirt underneath a plain collared button up, throwing on his biggest, comfiest hoodie over the top in somewhat of a daze.

By the time he was finally dressed and had pulled his shoes on, it was already five to four, and he’d have to leave in five minutes, leaving him no time to get anything to eat. He resigned instead to making himself a cup of coffee and to take it with him in a travel mug- but when he came downstairs and opened the instant coffee jar, he was met with a cloud of bitter smelling dust and not much more.

Dammit. He’d been grocery shopping the day after enrollment last week, and yet already supplies were running low. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he dropped the jar back onto the counter, looking up to stare blankly at the shelf in front of him. It was originally a spice rack, but considering they had no spices to put in it, three recipe books were carelessly wedged there instead. Jean’s mother had given them to him as a housewarming gift as she made him promise he’d eat well and make his own meals- but they hadn’t seen any use since then.

Normally, he would’ve just walked past and ignored them completely- but the one of the author’s name emblazoned on a singular spine caught his eye.

Maria Bodt.

Bodt…that was Marco’s last name, wasn’t it? And come to think of it, Marco had mentioned that his mother wrote recipe books, and that was why she was hardly ever home. Or was he imagining that?

Curious, he plucked the book off the shelf and examined the front cover. It didn’t look like anything he’d associate with Marco- which would be anything old and oozing antiquity to match the rustic bakery he ran. No, this book- titled “Meals in Thirty Minutes- Perfect for the college student on a budget!”- was big, bright, and contemporary. He opened the front cover to examine the authoress’s profile on the inside of the dust jacket. The photo heading the little section of text was of a woman with dark hair bound into a side braid, and a broad, oval face and high forehead, flecked with a fine dusting of freckles over her cheeks. She was leaning onto a counter, smiling broadly into the camera so the corners of her mouth crinkled. The longer he looked at the photo, the more he realised she bore a striking resemblance to Marco.

Huh. He would never have known a renowned cookery author’s son lived only a short way off from his own house. And he certainly wouldn’t have expected to be working under him within only a week of meeting him.

By the time he finally snapped the book shut and placed it back onto the shelf, it was already past four, and he needed to get going right now if he still had any hopes of being on time. He didn’t want to let Marco down- not on the first day, at the very least. He stalked out of the kitchen, swiping his keys and phone off the work surface and stuffing them into his pocket as he tried to rub the sleep out his eyes, making his way over to the front door.  He pulled it open and stepped outside, closing it behind him with a little more noise than he’d intended to.

The sky was still dark except for a band of dark blue light resting on the horizon, punctured by the silhouettes of the houses across the street, bleeding into the inky sky. Several dark clouds streaked the dark expanse, and whilst it certainly wasn’t warm yet, there was a kind of clamminess in the air, indicating a humid day ahead. Thankfully, the sunrise would come within the next hour and make it feel a lot less early in the Goddamn morning.

At the very least, the cooler morning air shocked something into him, helping him wake himself up a little better. He forced his heavy limbs to shuffle down the street, head bowed, resisting the urge to yawn every three seconds.

He had to pick his pace up hastily when he realised just how late he was running, and had less than twenty minutes to get to Jinae, resigning himself to walk the rest of the way at a brisk pace. The world was almost entirely silent as the day’s light began to bleed into the dark sky. The only people he encountered drove past in big, black cars crawling along the road like beetles with glowing eyes, and even they were few and far between. He supposed these were the business people who worked in big cities like Stohess, where Annie was going within the next couple of weeks, making the lengthy commute out of Rose. Surely that took several hours itself.

Would that have been him in five years- give or take- if he’d refused Marco’s offer? Driving miles and miles away every day, too early for the rest of the world to be awake? It sounded…pretty lonely, if he was honest. And kind of sad. As someone who had nearly always thrived in solitude, this thought surprised him.

Whatever. He had his own job to worry about this morning. And more importantly, to get to.

By the time he reached Jinae and climbed the steep incline (which felt so much more severe when he wasn’t driving up it), he was breathless and almost cried in his sleep-deprived stupor when he caught sight of the bakery’s tiled roof stretching into the sky. The lower floor was aglow with light, oozing out onto the pavement from inside like golden honey. Already, there was a distinctively warm smell filling the air that prompted Jean’s stomach to growl automatically. Damn. He’d really wished he’d had time to eat.

He walked up and around the curve of the pavement before stopping right outside the door, pausing to quickly verify the time on his phone. As he pulled it out of his pocket and pressed the home button, his lock screen blinked to life, and the digits rolled to 4:29. One minute to spare.

Right. Work mode.

He took a quick glance at his reflection in the door’s window pane- self-consciously ruffling his hair to tame the remnants of his bed head- before he reached out and pushed down on the door handle. Mercifully, it was already unlocked, and the door swung open, the familiar tinkle of the bell sounding his arrival.

The warmth hit him instantly like a smack to the face, billowing over his cheeks, making them prickle in response as he shut the door behind him and immediately shrugged his hoodie off. The shop was strangely bare, compared to the first time he’d been here. There were no loaves of bread lining the shelves, the display counters were empty and there wasn’t so much as a speck of pastry or crumb to be found.

There were noises coming from the back room though- the shifting and clanking of metal, the muted clatter of plastic and as he closed the door, the slam of an oven being closed.

“Hello?” Jean called out into the stuffy room.

“Is that you, Jean?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m in the back- come on through.”

Jean laid his hoodie tentatively next to the till, before lifting the counter’s hatch out of his way and stepped behind, laying it down reverently behind him before making his way over to stand in the doorway leading to the back room.

It was bigger than the shop floor- not by much, but enough to fit various large metal appliances along the walls and still have extra work surfaces holding bags of flour, sugar, and an assortment of mixing bowls, wooden spoons, pots and pans. There were shelves lining almost every part of the red brick wall, containing spices, various boxes and tins labelled with their contents. Hung above the countertops to Jean’s right there was a set of knives hung on the wall in their own brackets, and next to that, a wooden clock with a pendulum swaying from side to side in its little glass case. Directly to his left, there was a steep staircase leading to the second floor, and dead centre in the room was a large countertop, beneath which were wooden cabinets and drawers. In the far-right corner there was a small kitchen table with four chairs around it, next to a small stove and sink that wasn’t too dissimilar to the cooking range in Jean’s kitchen. Directly opposite in the far left, stood a huge, old fashioned brick oven built into the wall and curving outwards into the room. The door to it was iron wrought, engraved with an image of wheat stalks crossing over each other, and below it, there was a slightly smaller door, which was currently open, exposing the fire fuelled by logs, stored in a basket pushed up against the wall.

There stood Marco, stooped over as he chucked in several more chunks of wood through the little door and nudged them into place with the poker held in his other hand. Today he was wearing a sleeveless black shirt, exposing a lot more freckles on his upper arms, and a pair of baggy, faded grey jeans. At Jean’s entrance, he looked up, face instantly breaking out into a smile as he knocked the iron wrought door shut and dropped the metal latch into place.

“Good morning!” he said brightly. He placed the poker back into its stand next to the log basket and straightened up. “Glad to see you made it!”

“Morning.” Jean didn’t see what part of it was good. The warmth was even more intense in here, and it certainly didn’t help his drowsiness. It felt being awash in the cosiness of one big blanket and he would have gladly snuggled up in a corner and gone right back to sleep on the flagstone floor. He did his best to suppress another yawn, eyes watering in tiredness. “Just barely.”

Marco smiled sympathetically. “You’ll get used to it, I promise. It’ll just take time to adjust.”

“Says you. By the way, you don’t happen to have any coffee, do you? We were all out and I’m-” Another yawn- “struggling to keep my eyes open.”

“Sorry. I don’t.”

“How the hell are you awake and lively at four-thirty in the fucking morning without caffeine? I’m sorry; this is a foreign concept to me.”

Marco laughed. “I think it’s a combination of just being used to it, plus, I’ve always found baking is a pretty great stimulant for tiredness. Trust me, you’ll be awake in no time. There’s nothing that wakes you up quite like the smell of fresh bread.”

Jean could think of several things that would wake him up better- a tall, dark, Americano, for one- but decided against bringing it up. Petulance probably wasn’t the greatest thing to pull on your first day at work.

“So…what am I doing?”

“Right,” Marco pushed back a stray lock of hair falling out of place onto his forehead, resting the other hand on his hip. “First and foremost, wash your hands over there.” He pointed at a low sink over to Jean’s right. “Then grab an apron from the table here, and I’ll show you the basics of bread.”

Jean obliged, pushing his sleeves back above his elbows as he went over to the sink and began to rinse his hands under the warm water. He was nervous; he couldn’t deny that. How exactly did one slip into conversation that he was quite the useless cook and that his experience in the kitchen was limited to unwrapping a ready-meal and poking some numbers into the microwave?

All he could do was pray he’d pick it up quickly.

Jean towelled his hands dry on one hung below the sink before picking an identical apron to Marco’s off the middle table and tying it around his waist.

Marco waited patiently for him on the other side of the worktable, one hand resting on the surface as Jean walked over to join him. There was a small bowl of dubious looking brown, cloudy liquid next to his hand, alongside a bowl full of speckled flour, a small bag of sugar, a plastic container of salt, and a jug of tepid water. As Jean approached Marco gave him an encouraging smile- which Jean tentatively returned- before launching straight into explanation.

“This-” He jabbed a finger at the odd brown mixture thing- “is your yeast mixed with a small amount of water so it’s already activated. It’s had to stand for about ten, fifteen minutes, but you can tell it’s ready by watching the surface. If it looks like it’s starting to move by itself, then the fungus is working.”

He slid the bowl towards Jean, who grimaced as he noted the sludge-like texture shifting ever so slightly below the surface.

“Fungus?” He echoed, lip curling in disgust. Marco simply laughed at him.

“Yep, and it doesn’t get more glamourous than this. Here you’ve got regular bread flour-” he rested a hand on the rim of the bowl nearest to him. “Pre-measured for your convenience. The water acts as a kind of bonding agent. And the sugar and salt adds to the flavour. These are the absolute bare bones of what you need to make bread. Obviously, as you start experimenting and attempting different kinds, some of these ingredients are interchangeable, as is the method to make it, but I figured it was probably best to start you off with your basic white loaf.”

“Wise choice,” he mumbled sarcastically beneath his breath.

Marco didn’t appear fazed. “I didn’t ask, but do you have any experience in baking?”

“Nope. Absolutely none.”

“Ah, right. No, no, don’t worry, that’s not a problem. It means that we’re starting in the right place. So, first, take your flour and tip it out onto the work surface.”

Jean looked at him. “I do what now?”

“Tip the flour out onto the work surface,” he repeated calmly, and reached out to pat a large wooden slab on the table, like an oversized chopping board, in front of Jean. A second later he let out a soft chuckle. “Yes, I’m aware of how bizarre that sounds. Just trust me.”

Jean took hold of the bowl hesitantly, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t just Marco making a twat out of him by making him do something entirely ridiculous.

“You’re sure?”

“For the last time, yes. Just don’t get any on the floor. It’s a pain to clean up.”

Finally following his instruction, Jean began to tip the bowl’s contents out onto the wooden board, steadily trying to sift it out bit by bit.

Unfortunately, that failed in a spectacular fashion, when the first second he inclined the bowl slightly, the flour inside it slid from within, collapsing onto the work table in a great whoomp. A dusty cloud of flour immediately flew up from the impact and straight into Jean’s face, making him instinctively splutter as it glided straight up his nose and stuck there.

Marco spluttered from besides him as he gagged. “Sorry, forgot to mention, it’s a finer grain than most so it’s got almost no traction whatsoever. Especially not in plastic bowls. But flour clouds are pretty much inevitable when you do it this way. It’s just another one of those things you get used to and learn how to avoid.”

Jean coughed viciously, trying to clear his throat. “Is that why you’re always covered in flour?” he asked raggedly.

“Pretty much. It’s messier doing it this way, but I prefer it so much more to using a bread machine or mixing bowl. It’s easier, and you just get a more…hearty, full bodied loaf at the end. Anyway, come on, let’s get through this as quick as we can.”

“What time do you open?”

“Eight.”

“Shit.” Jean glanced at the clock- it was getting ever closer to five by now. “OK, what now?”

“What you want to do is make a sort of well in the middle of the flour- not all the way to the bottom, just enough to form a pit. Then you’ll put half your warm water, your activated yeast, a dash of sugar and a tiny bit of salt, and then you’ll start scraping it together with your hands without breaking the walls of the well. So, you’re piling the rest of the flour into the middle covering the hole, and then smoothing it back out. Then slowly, but steadily start to…kinda…mush it together. There really isn’t a better term for that.”

Jean snorted as he picked up the yeast bowl, swilling it around. “So all of this?”

“Yep. Straight in.”

“And I just use my hands?”

“It’s called handmade for a reason.”

He smirked, undeniably amused at Marco’s surprising amount of sarcasm as he dug his fingers into the peak of the flour pile, carving out a shallow pit and dumped in the yeast, half the jug of water and two pinches of sugar to one pinch of salt as per Marco’s instructions before beginning to scrape it together, just as he’d told him.

“That’s it- just keep bringing the flour back to the middle, and it should eventually start to feel a bit like porridge.”

“Sounds about right,” Jean said dourly, his face twisting into a wry expression as he felt the uncomfortable dampness seeping through the flour beginning to stick to his fingers in a disgusting, wet, sloppy texture.

“Flour your hands if it starts sticking to you too much, and now, as you’re bringing it together, add the rest of the water bit by bit. Just a little at time, mix a bit, and then repeat. Alright, you got it?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Once you’ve added all the water you can start being a little more aggressive with it. Your aim is to get rid of as much stickiness as possible before we can start kneading. You’re OK doing that whilst I get starting on the pastry for vanilla slices?”

“Sure…I think,” The wet, gloopy mix certainly didn’t feel appetising yet as it stuck to his knuckles and caked itself under his nails. It felt very much like he was a kid mixing a mud pie in the dirt. It was hard to see this becoming bread within the next couple of hours. “So, uh, what else do you have to do this morning?”

“Well,” Marco spoke without looking at him as he walked past towards to the opposite counter, bringing out a clean mixing bowl from a cupboard underneath the work surface as he passed, pausing only to scoop in several handfuls of flour from a sack under the counter before going over to the fridge and taking out a dish of butter already cut into cubes. “I’ve already got the rye, wholemeal, and mixed grain breads in the oven. The pastry for the croissants is ready and just needs to be shaped and cooked, but we can sort those out just before opening- people like to buy them warm anyway. It’s pretty much just a case of putting all the cakes and pastries together now, and making sure they’re chilled before they go out on display.”

“Did you seriously have time to already make all of that before I got here?”

“I’ve been up since three.”

Something telling him that Marco had mentioned that before stirred a faint memory within Jean before it was quickly replaced with indignance.

“Wait, wait, so why tell me to come in at four-thirty if you start way before then?”

“Because teaching you is going to take time, but I still need to bake enough to fill up the displays,” he said calmly. He dropped the butter cubes into the flour and began to rub them into breadcrumbs between his thumbs and forefingers with a well-practiced deftness. “If I showed you how to do everything step by step we’d still be on pastries by afternoon. Plus, I figured it’d be kinder to let you get adjusted to the early mornings like this rather than jumping straight in at three AM.”

“And you don’t ever struggle with all of this? I mean, there’s a crap ton of stuff to make, and up until now, you’ve done it all by yourself. You can’t tell me that’s never hard.”

“Of course it isn’t. I’ll keep baking throughout the whole day, which is a pain, especially considering I can’t watch the shop, and have to keep going back and forth. That’s why I pre-measure everything the night before, because come morning, I don’t have to bother with weighing and measuring; I can just throw everything together and get it in the oven as quick as I can. How’s your dough looking?”

Jean blinked, before looking down at the sludgy mass his fingers were half imbedded in. The dampness had nearly completely gone away, and was beginning to feel a bit smoother.

Marco finished with the butter and flour and rubbed his hands down his apron on his thighs and came over to inspect. He took the dough from Jean’s hands and pressed it with the heel of his palm a couple of times experimentally, flipping it over twice before he smiled in satisfaction.

“Feels about right. You’re ready to start kneading. This is where you get ridiculously rough with it. Basically, just beat the crap out of it- well, beat the crap out of it, but with purpose. Focus on folding it over into itself, getting as much air trapped inside it as possible so when it rises it’s light and fluffy and not dense or stodgy, which also means it won’t take as long in the oven. Do you know how to knead?”

Jean shook his head.

“That’s fine, I’ll show you.” Marco leant forwards and pushed the dough in the centre with the heel of his palm again, stretching it out only to fold it back in. Jean watched his fingers dig into the pliable substance before pushing it back out again, turning it over in his hands in a series of quick, successive movements. The muscles in his arms immediately began to ripple beneath the skin- and in that moment Jean realised just how muscular Marco actually was.

His biceps bulged reflexively every time he stretched the dough out, the tension easing in and out of his arm as he worked the dough. There was a fine smattering of freckles, largely concentrated on his shoulders, that began to scatter and peter out the further down his arm they got. They diminished in number amongst the multiple shiny scars going up and down his forearms, evidently from countless burns. With an oven of that size, generating that much heat, it wasn’t hard to imagine getting burnt frequently at all.

It got to a point where Marco’s arm muscles became an actual distraction and Jean was focusing more on them than on what his hands were doing. Even though Marco himself didn’t seem to be putting much effort into kneading the dough, the work his arms were doing said otherwise. Jean became very keenly aware of just how scrawny his own arms looked besides his and folded them across his chest reflexively, clenching his doughy fists together, trying not to feel wildly substandard at his side.

“So we do this to make the dough as elastic as possible,” Marco explained, rolling the dough under his palm one final time as he took a step back. “And you’re looking for a springy, silky, smooth texture. Do you know what the fastest way to get that kind of feel in the dough is?”

“…Biceps?”

Marco blinked, before following Jean’s gaze to his upper arm. His mouth stretched into an embarrassed smile as he reached up with one hand to rub the patch of skin above his elbow, laughing uncertainly.

“Ha…well, there’s no denying that they help,” he said, a dubious smile playing on his lips. “You’re not entirely wrong; it’s strength and elbow grease. Like I said, give the dough a pounding.”

“Got it.” Jean pushed his sleeves back up to rest above his joints. “Just do it in an effective way that traps air in it, right?”

“Right! There, learning already. I’m so proud.”

“Shut up.”

Marco clapped him on the shoulder as he went back to the pastry mixture for his vanilla slices. “It’s a large hunk of dough, so don’t worry if it takes a while. It’s enough of an effort to knead dough effectively for one loaf, let alone six, so like I said- just take your time, focus on kneading it as thoroughly as possible. It’s something else you’ll get quicker at the more you do it.”

Jean didn’t anticipate how hard it actually was to shift and mould the dough under his fingers like Marco had. He’d handled it like it was air, smoothing out it’s ridges and flipping it over and over in quick succession- but in Jean’s hands, it was heavy and thick and took a lot of effort to push around the wooden surface. A lot more effort than he cared to admit.

Fold. Stretch. Push. Repeat. Fold. Stretch. Push. Repeat.

Fold…stretch…push…fold…stretch…push…

The strain in his upper arms was beginning to manifest itself in a sharp ache twinging within his upper arms every time he folded the dough over on itself. It didn’t seem to be getting any more elastic or silky or smooth in texture- if anything, it just felt like Jean was pushing a ball of half-set cement around and around in circles.

He was dimly aware of Marco moving back and forth from behind him- going over to the fridge to chill his pastry, switching on the stove to start mixing the custard filling in a saucepan, crossing the room back to the oven and hauling out the aforementioned tray of rye and wholemeal loaves, puffed over the tops of their tins and deep golden brown in colour. They filled the kitchen with an even stronger aroma of fresh bread that made the pangs of hunger in Jean’s stomach more painful than ever.

Damn it. This was really starting to hurt now. But he didn’t want to give up before he’d scarcely begun- come on, it was his first day and his first task, yet already he was quickly running out of steam. The fact that he couldn’t stop yawning certainly didn’t help; the combined oppressive heat of the kitchen and his own exertion made his brow begin to prickle uncomfortably with sweat as the darkness from outside gradually receded and the sun began to rise, visible through the doorway leading to shop floor.

“Having trouble?”

Jean nearly jumped out of his skin when he realised Marco had abandoned his pastry to come over and stand behind him, watching him quietly with a sympathetic look on his face.

“Fuck, announce yourself next time,” he said gruffly as Marco chuckled to himself.

“Sorry. Do you want me to take over? I don’t mind. You can ice the vanilla slices, if you like.”

“I’m fine. I can do it.”

“Are you sure?”

Jean tried to ignore the sweat beginning to trickle down his back and the fiery burn in his arms. “Yep.”

“Jean…”

“What?”

“You’ve been at it for a good half an hour.”

“So?”

“It needs to be proving, at the very least, by now.”

Jean looked up from the dough and gave him a blank stare. Marco blinked a couple of times before the realisation dawned on him.

“…You don’t know what proving is, do you?”

“Uh…should I?”

Marco’s shoulders drooped in a mix of amusement and defeat as he passed a hand over his face exasperatedly, a crooked smile visible beneath his fingers as he wiped his chin.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. That’s why we’re doing this, you’re here to learn.” He sounded like he was convincing himself more than he was convincing Jean. “Here, I’ll finish kneading and you go frost the vanilla slices. Proving, by the way, is just leaving the dough in a warm place- for instance, a proving cupboard.” He pointed over to one of the shiny metal units on the other side of the room. “Which allows the yeast to make the bread expand, improving both taste and texture.”

Jean allowed himself to be shunted to the side, uncharacteristically obedient, as Marco took his place, once more expertly beginning to work the dough, stretching and tugging and turning it over in his hands effortlessly.

“I’ve already made the frosting-  it’s pretty runny, so just pour it on decently thick and spread it over the pastry with a palette knife from that drawer under there, as evenly as you can. Start in the centre then work your way into the corners, then when you’re done put them in the fridge to set,” Marco instructed, nodding towards the counter where he had been working previously. Whilst Jean had been batting his dough around fruitlessly, Marco had already made and baked his pastry from scratch- the vanilla slices, not yet cut into individual pieces, lay on the side on a cooling rack, as a large rectangle of pastry already filled with carefully piped swirls of fresh crème pâtissière between each delicate, flaky layer. There were three bowls stood next to the pastry base, one with pink icing, one with yellow, and one with white.

“How many of each colour do you want?” Jean called over his shoulder.

“As many as you like. Get as creative as you like with it. You’ll have to set up the display when they’re ready anyway, so do what you want.” Marco tossed the bread dough into the air one last time before throwing it back into the bowl that had held the flour. “Don’t worry if there’s leftover frosting- that’ll keep.”

Creative, huh?

That, he could do.

He pulled the cutlery drawer open with a rattle- sifting past the countless wooden spoons, measuring spoons, spatulas and brushes (that, he assumed, were for egg washing), until he caught hold of a palette knife. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, knocking the drawer closed with his hip as he reached out with his other hand and grabbed the bowl with the yellow frosting. He probed it cautiously with the tip of the utensil to get an idea of its consistency, lifting it slightly so it seeped thickly down the metal blade, noiselessly dribbling back into the bowl. It was very similar in texture to the watered-down acrylics his high school art teacher had given them as a semi-efficient cost cutting method of sharing a whole box of paints with a whole class for the full school year. They hadn’t been the best kind of paints- but they were the kind of paints that Jean was familiar with.

Dimly aware of Marco slamming the door of the proving cupboard somewhere behind him, he picked up the yellow frosting and angled it over the pastry, carefully pouring out a fair amount, forming a wide, circular globule into the centre, and, just like Marco had instructed, spread it as evenly as he could manage into the corners. Now, the fun part.

Jean wiped the excess frosting off the palette knife with his apron, before tilting it in his hand and carefully beginning to carve a swirl, starting from the middle with the fine edge of the blade. Keeping his hand steady, he branched off the spiral with multiple smaller ones, lightly scoring the surface of the gradually thickening icing until he reached the edges. He laid the knife aside and instead took hold of the bowls containing the pink and white frosting, pulling them closer to him as he dipped one finger into the pink and withdrew it, swirling it around his finger so he had as much as possible- then submerged it into the white and began to loop his wrist, drawing circles, over and over until thin, streaky, pink marbled veins ran through the its contents.

Taking up the palette knife once more, he used it to guide the steady flow of icing as he fed the marbled white-and-pink into the crevices he’d just made, smudging and blurring the harsh edges with his finger, the same way he’d smudge the pencil in a drawing, so they all swirled together, forming a kaleidoscope of colour.

Jean wasn’t a huge fan of colour when it came to his artwork. He mostly stuck to sketching, so he was well adjusted and perfectly content with the monochromatic scheme of graphite and paper. He didn’t paint much at all until he got to high school (thanks to his mother, who never allowed paints in the house when he was a kid for fear of mess) and took up art as a serious subject. Although it would never be as strong as his passion for traditional drawing, painting had been one of the best things about his high school life. He hadn’t done it, however, since way before studying for exams, when the art room was closed to him so he’d spend less time in his fantasy world and more time at his desk cramming his head full of equations and formula and poetry analysis.

It almost felt nostalgic, painting with the icing the same way he had on a piece of poster board taped down to the desk.

“Jean…”

He started violently once more, very nearly dropping the bowl in his left hand on top of his work.

“You need to stop doing that!”

Marco was standing behind him again- but this time, not in passing, like before, but as if he’d been stood there, watching Jean for longer than he’d been aware.

Jean turned his head- only to see Marco staring at the giant slab of pastry and cream. Or rather, staring at the work Jean had done on the icing. He couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. Surprise…? Disappointment, maybe? Exasperation?

“What? What’s the matter?” He snapped. Oh fuck. Please don’t say he did it wrong. He didn’t want to have screwed up a second time in a row. Damn it, why couldn’t he have just iced them in three separate sections, so they looked normal- why did he have to go and make it overly complicated for himself, why did he make things difficult- “You said be creative…so…uh…I just…”

“I know,” Marco cut him off quietly. “I just…I didn’t quite expect-“

Shit.

“-you to do them so well.”

…Wait, what?

Jean blinked as Marco’s face immediately broke out into its standard sunny grin as he looked straight at him, his dark eyes warm and approving.

“I mean, obviously I knew you were an artist, but I’m impressed! Really, I’ve never thought of mixing all the colours together before- and definitely not patterning them like you have,”

“I’m not an artist,” Jean mumbled, abashed. He wasn’t quite sure how to react. It just felt…odd having someone who knew what he was doing in this kitchen by second nature suddenly compliment him and daresay he did something better than he could do.

“You do art, don’t you? I’m pretty sure that makes you an artist. See, I knew you were good at art! There you were yesterday trying to psych me out by saying you might be useless at it.”

Jean shrugged helplessly. Despite his begrudging unwillingness to accept it, the feeling beginning to glow at the pit of his stomach was warm and pleasant, and most certainly welcome. He hadn’t been praised for his art in a long time- he hadn’t even allowed himself to enjoy it, merely berate it, so ultimately, in the end it would have been easier to give up.

Maybe it didn’t have to end quite so sourly now.

Well. It better not. He’d just signed up to pursue a degree in studying it for the next two years.

“Seriously. I mean it. I’m impressed. You should be proud,” Marco said, reaching out and patting Jean on the shoulder. “But as lovely as they are, you’ve still taken quite a while and we still have to open in-“ He looked up at the clock. “-two hours, so shove them in the fridge then get the dough from the proving cupboard. You have to knead it again- don’t worry, it’s easier this time because it’s risen, so it’s better to work with! And then shape it into six separate loaves. Then we’ll prove it once more for just ten minutes, and then it can go in the oven. Then voila- your first loaves of bread, made by your own hands, from scratch.”

“And yours. You’ve done most of it.”

“All I’ve done is knead it and throw it in a cupboard. Don’t worry,” he paused and winked at him. “With practice, you can throw things in cupboards just as well as me, too.”

“Fuck off,” Jean snorted in amusement, unable to disguise the smile in his voice. “You’ve got one hell of a high opinion about yourself, don’t you?”

“Only when it comes to baking. Now come on, those need to go into the fridge to set.”

With the bread dough once more, Marco showed him how to divide in into equal sections of six, before kneading it for a second and final time- although, this time around, it was a lot less like kneading, and more like beating the actual crap out of it. Afterwards, he guided Jean’s hands into shaping a wide, oblong-shaped loaf, scored along the top to regulate the air within it, before they put them back into the proving cupboard, and Marco began to show him the vital skill of how to make puff pastry for the Danish pastries. Jean was informed that puff pastry was a staple of many of the things made in the bakery, and knowing how to make it from scratch without instructions was an invaluable skill. Before long, the bread went into the oven, the croissants came out and Marco had him filling massive eclairs with whipped cream until they looked ready to burst, before slathering them in thick, runny chocolate. Next came the mercifully easy cream puffs: simple meringues piped with a sweet vanilla filling and a scattering of strawberry chunks. Jean surprised himself by being relatively good at making these. He tried to ignore the simplicity of them and instead focused on Marco’s praise, however empty it might have been.

Eventually, just before seven, Marco left the tray of bread rolls he had just prepped for baking and hauled the oven door open, grabbing a tea towel from the counter besides him to cover his hands as he pulled out the tray holding the bread Jean had made.

“Here you go,” he announced. He balanced the tray on one hand and gently pressed down on the top of one of the loaves. It’s richly coloured surface dipped at the pressure, then immediately sprang back as he removed his finger. “Cooked to perfection.”

Jean looked up and dusted the meringue powder from his hands onto his apron as he eyed the bread Marco placed on the counter next to the oven, flashing him an encouraging smile.

“I don’t know why you’re smiling. They look fucking awful.”

The only well-shaped one was the one Marco had done to show Jean what to do. The remaining five were crooked and misshapen, as if they’d caved in on themselves. Their surfaces weren’t smooth and even, they were bumpy and warped as if they were growing warts, like a toad’s back.

“No they don’t. They’re your first attempt. You can’t have expected to get it perfect on your first try.”

“Of course I didn’t. But I did exactly what you told me to- and you helped- so why do they look like actual shit?”

“They’re not that bad,” Marco insisted. “And like it or not, they’re still going out for sale, regardless of whether they’re up to your standard.”

“Are they up to your standard?”

“That depends. My standard of baking or my standard of selling?”

“Both.”

“For selling, they’re fine. They were made in a sanitary environment and they’re not burnt or undercooked, which means they’re perfectly fine to eat. For my standard of baking, I would’ve done my family a great disservice if I produced bread like this.”

“Fuck. You don’t pull punches, do you.”

“If nothing else, I’m honest,” he said cheerily. “That much I can promise you. Are you finished with the cream puffs?”

“Yeah. They’re significantly less crap than the bread, you’ll be glad to know.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish everything in here- would you mind cleaning the shop floor before we start putting everything out? The counters just need wiping down and the floor needs sweeping, but that’s pretty much it. Oh! And the glass; make sure you clean the glass. All the cleaning stuff you’ll need is just beneath the front counter.”

“Are you sure? You don’t need any more help?”

“I’ll be fine. But we need to open soon and I can’t finish everything and clean the store at the same time.” Marco smiled graciously, but it was clear he was being dismissed. Jean ran a hand through his hair before turning around and walking back out onto the shop floor.

The dim light from outside had now brightened considerably. The circlet of houses visible through the shop’s window was now filled with sunlight filtering between each building, casting long shadows already beginning to withdraw as the sun rose. It was just visible now, cresting over the roofs across from the bakery, slowly ascending into the pale blue sky amidst wispy white clouds like a balloon.

Jean retrieved the cleaning supplies from beneath the counter- a broom, dust pan and brush, one bottle of sanitation spray, and one of glass cleaner as well as a roll of blue paper towels. He set about wiping down the insides of the counters and polishing the glass just as he’d been asked, confident that, at the very least, he could get this right. Having a clean freak of a mother was actually paying off for once- he’d learnt to clean very thoroughly after spending countless hours trying to scrub crushed pieces of charcoal out of her carpet. Now that was something he wouldn’t miss about home.

He finished brushing up around the legs of the table and chairs on the left of the shop floor, and went to the stand with the books piled on top. He paused when he glanced at the spines and saw that name again- Maria Bodt.

So it was true; that really was his mother. Why wouldn’t it be? Bodt wasn’t exactly a common last name.

Just to make sure, Jean paused in sweeping and propped the brush up against himself as he reached out and selected one book at random, opening its front cover to check the picture on the inside of the dust jacket. The same photo as the one in the book back at his house looked back at him steadily, dark hair and freckles and all. It was uncanny: Marco was unmistakably her son.

“Those are my mom’s books.”

Jean turned around to see Marco standing in the kitchen doorway. He was balancing the huge tray of vanilla slices, freshly cut into little rectangles, on his shoulder with one steady hand, the other resting on his hip as he met Jean’s gaze with a droll little smile.

“I gathered as much. You look almost exactly like each other.” Jean held up the book and motioned to the picture on the inner cover. “It’s almost creepy.”

“Yeah, I get told that a lot. That’s how most people recognise me, actually. More than once I’ve had people come in here and ask if I’m Maria Bodt’s son. They tend to get kind of excited when they realise they’re inside the bakery she grew up in as well.”

“She’s…pretty well known, isn’t she? Your mom?”

“I guess.” Marco cocked his head thoughtfully. The smile was still etched onto his face, but it didn’t hold the same warmth as it had before. There was something cold that glinted in his eyes that didn’t light up with the sincerity his smile usually brought to them. “I don’t really think about it much, to be honest. The only reason I keep those out-” He nodded towards the bookshelf at Jean’s elbow- “is to sell. It’s the one thing my mom insists I do. I can run the rest of the bakery how I like, just so long as her books are out.”

The room suddenly felt very cold, despite the sun’s rays pouring in through the front windows. Jean was quiet as Marco went over to the front display cabinet and pulled out a pair tongs and began to put the vanilla slices out onto a wooden board, one by one. He felt very much like he was toeing a boundary he probably shouldn’t cross. Tension was thick in the air as he slid the recipe book back into place with the rest of them. Even though Marco wasn’t looking at him, he could distinctly tell that the warmth he had emitted constantly- ever since they’d first met- had almost completely gone. Clearly there was something going on with his mother that Jean probably shouldn’t get involved with.

He finished sweeping the floor in silence as Marco went back and forth from the back room, beginning to fill the counters and shelves with everything they’d been baking that morning after laying down crisp white sheets of wax paper with lacy edges. Actually, as Jean watched him setting up the shop out of the corner of his eye as he finished cleaning, it looked like there was a lot more food there than they’d had time to make in the past four hours. At least, that’s the way it seemed. Soft heaps of currant buns were stacked in the counter that Jean didn’t remember seeing in the kitchen earlier. Neither did he recall the multitude of custard tarts that he watched Marco place between the other cakes in the window display. Or those loaves of brown bread that looked like they’d been plaited into chunky braids. Or those cinnamon rolls.

“How much did you make last night?” Jean demanded when Marco returned with a heap of macaroons that he’d already arranged onto a plate. There was no way he’d made those whilst Jean had been there.

Marco blinked and halted in his tracks, a little surprised at Jean’s tone. “Uh…like, food wise?”

“There’s no way you made all of that whilst I wasn’t looking.”

“Um…all I do at night is measure out all the ingredients I need, like I said earlier.” Marco smiled, raising one hand to scratch at the back of his head uncertainly. “I’ve made most everything else either in the hour before you arrived or whilst you were working on the bread and the vanilla slices.”

“Bullshit.” It was all Jean could do to not gape at him and the shelves around them, lined with loaf after endless loaf. “How? How did you have time? You couldn’t have- I was there-”

Marco shrugged helplessly as he placed the plate on the counter next to the till. “I’ve been doing this for a while, Jean. Give me some credit here.”

“You’re not human, you know that?”

“Haha, you think so?”

They were interrupted by the chime of the bell on the front door as it creaked open and a small, shy face appeared in the crack. It was a little girl, no more than eight or nine, with blonde hair tied into demure pigtails and a backpack on her back, peering sheepishly into the shop.

At her appearance, Marco seemed to light up once more.

“Good morning, Ellie!” He said brightly. “Is it that time already?”

She giggled, her cautiousness immediately replaced with a sense of familiarity as she entered the shop properly, returning Marco’s equally as sunny grin. “G’morning, Mr Bodt!”

“You here for your mother again?”

“Yep!” She nodded vigorously, pigtails bobbing up and down. Marco immediately went around to the shelf on the other side of the shop and took down one of the loaves that Jean had made that morning. Jean very nearly opened his mouth to protest, but Marco seemed to sense his intention and shot him a knowing glance, raising one eyebrow as if asking him to contradict his better judgement.

The little girl must have followed Marco’s gaze and caught sight of Jean standing in the corner. The complacent look on her face was immediately replaced with confusion as she sidled over to the counter where Marco was putting her bread into a paper bag for her and whispered, rather loudly, “Mr Bodt, who’s that?”

“Who?” Marco looked up from the bag in his hands, over at Jean with a look of mingled amusement. “That’s Jean.”

“What’s he doing here? I thought I was always your first customer!”

He laughed and handed the packaged bread over the counter into her waiting arms. “You are! You’re always my first customer. Jean’s not a customer. You should get used to seeing him. From today, he’s going to start working here.”

“Mr Bodt…”

“Yes?”

“This bread looks funny.”

Marco blinked, looking almost caught by surprise by her blunt expression. She was looking at the bread in her arms visible through the little plastic window in the paper bag, her little face creased in doubt as she examined the uneven bulbous surface and blotchy colouring dubiously. Jean would’ve laughed if it weren’t so damn tragic that even a kid could see the terrible state of the bread he had made. He turned his back on them both and dropped into a crouch, focusing on sweeping the dust pile he’d collected into the dustpan in a resolute attempt to make himself as invisible as possible.

Maybe don’t get used to seeing me around too frequently, kid. He thought to himself grimly. If that’s the kind of bread you can expect from me, then this job is doomed to fail before it’s even started.

Then again, Marco had praised his decorating ability, hadn’t he? He’d proved competent at that, at the very least. That was worth something…right?

Jean was pulled out of his reverie when he heard Marco’s voice speak up once more, just as soft and gentle as before, yet almost reverent in its tone.

“And? So what if it looks a little funny? It’s the taste that counts, isn’t it? Sometimes when we try new things, things we don’t expect we’ll like, we end up being pleasantly surprised like that. Even if it’s not something you think is worth trying- because we never know what it might be like once we try it, do we?”

There was a short pause before the same giggle piped up again, followed by a clink of a handful of coins clattering onto the counter.

“You’re funny, Mr Bodt!”

Despite himself, Jean snorted.

“Glad you think so. Now, go on, get back home, before your mother gets me into trouble for keeping you. Have a good day, Ellie.”

“Bye! And…bye, Mr Jean.”

Jean jerked instinctively and turned his head just to see the back of her disappear out of the door with a chime of the doorbell as it swung closed behind her. He brushed the last of the dust pile into the pan in his hand and straightened up, eyeing Marco on the other side of the counter curiously.

“Who was that?”

“One of the neighbourhood kids.” Marco raised a finger and pointed to her retreating figure, visible through the shop window. She crossed the roundabout to one of the houses on the other side of the street and disappeared inside. “Her mother sends her for a loaf of bread every morning. She’s a sweet kid, really.”

Jean was quiet.

“Is something wrong?”

“No…it’s just,” A smirk was beginning to play on his lips. “she called you Mr Bodt.”

Marco’s cheeks visibly pinked. “And?”

“You don’t seem like a Mr Bodt.”

It was Marco’s turn to snort as he ran a handg through his fringe, pushing it off his face as he chortled at Jean. “Trust me, it feels as weird as it sounds. Hey, you got to be Mr Jean, though.”

“Ha. That might be easier for her. My last name’s a pain to pronounce, especially if you’re a kid.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Kirschtein.”

“Yikes. That’s harsh.”

“Plus, I got an awkward first name, as well- written like J-e-a-n and said like zhawn. It’s as if my mother actually wanted me to grow up to be the pretentious asshole always correcting people on his name.”

Marco chuckled softly once more as Jean walked past, holding the full dustpan in one hand and the rest of the cleaning things in the other to return to their proper place. He lifted the hatch in the counter and lay them back underneath, where they belonged, as Marco side stepped to let him through.

“Hey, Marco, where’s your trash can?”

“There’s one in the kitchen- wait, Jean.”

He halted mid-turn in the general direction of the back room as Marco looked over at him, an almost uncertain look starting to knit his brows together in an expression Jean couldn’t quite discern.

“Yeah?”

“You heard all of that stuff about the bread, right?”

I’ve heard a lot of stuff about bread this morning, bud. You’re going to have to be more specific. “Uh…sure.”

The tension knotting itself into Marco’s brow immediately unwound as his entire face softened once more into the familiar open, approachable amiability that Jean was used to. He made his way over to him, taking the dust pan from Jean’s hands as he did so, and turning on his way towards the doorway where he paused for a moment to speak.

“Good. Just…bear it in mind, OK? There’s no shame. We’re all like funny bread at some point in our lives.”

And with that, Marco disappeared into the kitchen.

Jean stared after him for a few seconds, one eyebrow raised, perplexed, before it struck him.

Sometimes when we try new things, we end up being pleasantly surprised like that. Even if it’s something you don’t expect you’ll like. Even if it’s not something you think is worth trying.

His cheeks began to prickle with heat.

“Hey, if you’re calling me ‘funny bread’ now that’s it, I’m quitting.”

Marco just laughed.

…

Jean hung around the shop until a little past ten in the morning when Marco informed him he had a few deliveries to make to several cafés around town that had placed orders with him, and Jean might as well go home. He was insistent that he didn’t need any more of Jean’s help and practically had to push him out of the door and told him to rest up for the same thing tomorrow.

Well, at least he was aware that Jean was severely fatigued at this point.

He arrived at home just before eleven to find Eren sitting on the sofa just like he had the day before they enrolled for college- video game and sweatpants and all- who looked up at Jean’s entrance and instantly declared upon his arrival that he looked like death, with eyebags that rivalled a panda’s.

Not in the mood to spat with his housemate, Jean ignored him and made a beeline up the stairs straight to his room and immediately collapsed onto his bed, not even bothering to close his door behind him. He’d suddenly been struck with irrefutable exhaustion on the walk home and his eyes were aching so much with sleep that they felt physically ready to fall out of their sockets. His limbs were heavy and cumbersome- his biceps in particular were beginning to throb with the exertion from earlier- and taking the weight off his feet and throwing it right onto bed was the closest he’d come to feeling euphoria in his life. He didn’t think he’d be so tired after only a few short hours of working. Then again, maybe this was the consequence of spending the past few weeks staying up until three in the morning either drawing or playing video games with Eren and waking up at noon.

Was this all really going to be worth it?

Waking up at the butt crack of dawn every day, baking mediocre bread, getting in the way rather than helping…was this really all going to be worth putting himself through, just so he could pursue the silly little idealisms in his head?

He rolled onto his side, bunching up the duvet into his arms and clutching it close to his chest as he curled around it, into his preferred sleeping position. At least he was getting paid. Even if he proved as completely and utterly useless as he had on his first day, he’d be spending all of summer earning- that was better than nothing, right?

Yeah. He’d focus on that. Instead of misshapen bread and his inability to knead properly. Focus on the money. Focus on the pay check.

But as he finally slid into unconsciousness, all he could think of was a stupid smile curving upwards into a splattering of freckles.

Damn you, freckle face.

This better be worth it.

[gigsoupmusic]

SORAIA's New Album 'DIG YOUR ROOTS' Out Today

Personal growth, rebirth, even revolution – such transformative concepts are the heart of what Soraia is all about. These heady themes inform the songs on Dig Your Roots, the band’s latest album, out March 13 on Wicked Cool Records. “I look at Dig Your Roots as a continuation of what was begun on Dead Reckoning,” says singer and frontwoman ZouZou Mansour of the new album’s relationship to their 2017 Wicked Cool LP. That record’s release prompted Rolling Stone/Mojo scribe David Fricke to write Soraia’s “searing guitars, burning soul and true CBGB grit…are the rock you need, in your face now.” “Dig Your Roots is coming to terms with the light and dark inside myself and in the world,” ZouZou shares. “I come from a diverse multicultural and multireligious background – my father was Muslim and Egyptian, and my mother was Belgian and Catholic. I was ‘different,’ and I hid some of my background from people, thinking I wouldn't be accepted. Digging my roots is being proud of who I am, letting it come before me even at times, being proud of where I come from, and asking the listener to do the same. “Dig Your Roots also refers to loving what grounds you: the people, the lifestyles, the places you live, where you grew up. It’s being willing to dig up your roots and re-plant if where you are no longer keeps you free – metaphorically, of course. Inherently, I want this to be the message of the record: if you're down, get up.” As a spiritual descendent of iconic women in rock such as Patti Smith and Joan Jett, ZouZou’s Philadelphia-based band also embodies elements of kindred spirits of the ’90s and beyond - like PJ Harvey and The Kills, with more than a sprinkling of ’60s Garage Rock and Soul. Their primal sonic attack spreads a message of perseverance through trials of love, loss and letting go. Bassist Travis Smith continues to be a crucial root of the Soraia tree, co-writing five of the album’s new songs with ZouZou, including “Superman Is Gone” and “Wild Woman.” “Travis delved into places on this album that we didn't go to on the last record,” she reveals. “That's scary. But he did it, which ultimately made me do it, too. It's like, ‘Hold my hand, we're going into this dark cave, and who knows what's going to happen…” Roots also finds drummer Brianna Sig with her first Soraia co-write, the enchanting “Don’t Have You.” “Her melody for the choruses reminded me of how The Sirens would lure sailors in Greek mythology,” ZouZou relates. “It was haunting and beautiful – and if Soraia isn't both of those things, then I don't know what we're doing here.” The band faced an unexpected challenge when guitarist Mike Reisman, who co-wrote four Dig tracks, including 2019 single “Evergreen,” left the group. “Mike can’t tour for longer periods of time anymore,” says ZouZou. “It hurt. He still works with us and we still connect. But you grow closer with who remains, and grow yourself.” Going forward, Nick Seditious is handling guitar duties. Further nourishing their roots is the continued support of Wicked Cool’s Stevie Van Zandt. The label head has been an advocate ever since naming their breakout track “Love Like Voodoo” the Coolest Song in the World on his syndicated radio show and SiriusXM channel Little Steven’s Underground Garage in 2013. In January 2020, Dig Your Roots' opening cut “Dangerous” becomes the tenth Coolest Song they’ve earned. Van Zandt has even become a creative collaborator, penning “Why” for Dead Reckoning and co-writing two Roots tunes: 2019 Coolest Song “Still I Rise” and forthcoming single “Darkness (Is My Only Candle).” “I trust him more than anyone in knowing what I'm trying to say and who I am,” says ZouZou. Complementing them in the studio once again is producer/engineer Geoff Sanoff, whose credits include notable work with Bruce Springsteen, Fountains Of Wayne and Dashboard Confessional. “He’s a member of the band when we’re in there,” ZouZou acknowledges. Soraia has come a long way since their punked-up cover of The Kinks’ “(I’m Not) Like Everybody Else” hit #1 on Rock radio in South America in 2015. Their independently released debut album In The Valley Of Love And Guns from 2013 features five songs co-written with Jon Bon Jovi. “I'm all about playing a fun song and throwing myself around, that's Rock ’n’ Roll at its heart,” ZouZou remarks. “But I'm also about telling the stories of resurrection and life and hope and darkness.” And now, the songs of 'Dig Your Roots' in ZouZou’s own words… 1. Dangerous I was listening to a ton of Jet and The Vines at one point, and just loved the recklessness – especially in the screams on those songs – and the pure Rock eruption of it all. It's less than three minutes and explodes the entire time. “Dangerous” was born from that specific decision to write a song with those kinds of explosive dynamics and lyrics – and as always – easy and passionate conversations about the things we love. 2. Wild Woman I had been listening to this female preacher talking about being “born inside the wild” and not knowing where you were – but that strong women thrived in the wild. I fell in love with that idea of birthing yourself – which is one way to put it – over and over when you enter into situations you're uncomfortable in, or have never been in. An added bonus is the notion of being a “wild woman” in that way was a different take on the idea I think social consciousness has on being a “wild woman.” Empowering instead of denigrating. Travis had written this swampy, mysterious riff, so we took that and made it the forefront of the song, and took the subject matter – pieced them together – and VOILA! WILD WOMAAAAAAN!!! 3. Evergreen Mike played this riff that became the verses and said he heard this drumbeat like “Howlin’ For You” by The Black Keys for it. I had been watching the movie Black Snake Moan and heard this line that the main female character “had the devil in her.” That conjured up this old South feeling for me, so I wanted to put that in and give it that vibe. The story is told with a sometimes playful and teasing attitude, and sometimes aggressive and frustrated tone. It really felt freeing and gave the speaker the power back she didn't feel she had in the first place. 4. Foxfire Travis had this intriguing idea of “foxfire” for a title line. I didn't know what it meant, so he told me all about it. It’s this phosphorescent light emitted by certain fungi on decaying timber. It’s beautiful when it glows, but it isn’t real, it’s a momentary thing. And when people would see it in the woods, many got lost being guided by it. We thought it would be interesting to write a song about depression from the standpoint of “foxfire” – or these glimmering thoughts that lead you astray and only give the illusion that everything's alright. The struggle to believe in any one thought, to characterize the confusion of that type of struggle from the speaker's point of view. 5. Darkness (Is My Only Candle) Again, a song written almost together in a room. There's a line of a Rumi poem, “Darkness is your candle.” At the time, there had been the Charlottesville riots, and lots of violence that seemed horrifically reminiscent of the racial injustices of the ’60s. I remember thinking “Where are we?” and being really upset about all the hatred and racial slurs. This song came as a result of anger, pain, sadness, worry, and ultimately the idea we can't be separate anymore or stay quiet. It took a few sessions to write because Travis and I were both so impassioned about making sure we told the truth and stayed with the times as we saw them. 6. Nothing Compares 2 U I had always felt so strongly about the Sinéad O’Connor version of this song. But despite being a big Prince fan, I had never heard his version. When I did, and heard the first line lyric change – “It’s been seven hours and thirteen days” – I knew immediately this was the one. Those numbers alone and the darker, more soulful approach he took to the lyric and melody spoke to me in a different way than the more popular version by Sinéad. In the studio, Geoff Sanoff really wanted to bring this Mott The Hoople vibe to it like “All The Young Dudes” – which added a lot more to our style of approaching it. 7. Superman Is Gone Another Travis and I song, this one was specifically about the idea of being high and feeling like “Superman” when you did that first line of anything. I'm a recovering person, so it was important to me that I also tell the story of the anger I had at my father over being absent when I was going through that. I have already forgiven him and me about that, but I wanted to tell the story honestly. And there's a part of me that still questions where were a lot of different people in my life when I was busy getting high. That idea that you wonder where people were and what they were doing when you were hardcore in this addiction – with no feeling attached to it – just a human curiosity. 8. Way That You Want It It's really just about this guy who is frustrated by a girl he digs but can't have. It's based lyrically off the same idea as “I Hate Myself For Loving You” by Joan Jett & The Blackhearts, but from the viewpoint of another character – where I'm singing as the storyteller/observer instead of the person it's all happening to. 9. Still I Rise Based on a Maya Angelou poem. I live my life in no particular time, almost in a time vacuum. And no matter what, you get up. Mike and I had originally written the song, and called it “I Am (Rise).” But Steven Van Zandt got a hold of it and loved the story of the song, so we rewrote the lyrics, and he rewrote the music to it, to really tell the story of people getting up after falling. I had taken a few lines from actual conversations or experiences I had. Then, Steven and I tried to pay homage as much as possible to the original poem. We rewrote it together in an afternoon – one of the best experiences I've had with him. 10. Don’t Have You This was officially the last song written for the album. Brianna sent me two separate song ideas that ended up becoming “Don't Have You.” This was also the last song recorded for the album, and Geoff knew right away the approach to the piano. It became something really beautiful, and I wanted to keep it simple and stripped in the front end, so the lyric could pull in the listener. This was about my own heartbreak, and that little feeling of hope and possibility still inherent in the relationship is really powerful in the middle of the song. It was Geoff's idea to speak that part instead of sing it, and I was thrilled with how it came out. 11. Euphoria “Euphoria” was written by myself and Travis. I loved the bluesy and spacious riff he came up with. I felt it left a space for some sort of testimony – so I told the story of all these experiences smashed together. Though each line seems to stand alone in some parts, they weave a truthful story of this woman coming back from the dead. I love the lyric in this one. Brianna had this great idea to end it in a church-y way, since it's mainly about wanting this high experience in life. And what a great way to end the record! Read the full article

[anneedmonsonus]

The Hilton Fibro Cottage Renovation

I love this house. This is the former home of our friends Tim and Caity Phillips, it’s a cool renovation and a house that I like because it suits its owners down to a tee. You guys may already know Tim’s name from some of my earlier posts; he and his TJP Carpentry team put up the cladding as part of our Scyon Walls makeover, and they also recently completed our new deck. It was actually through House Nerd that I met Tim and Caity; I got Tim’s name from a House Nerd reader who recommended him as a carpenter years ago, and completely by chance we were looking for a carpenter that week – and it randomly turned out Caity already followed my blog! Now we’re lucky to call Tim and Caity friends. Little Nerd in particular worships them with the kind of awed reverence Mr Nerd and I only dream of attaining.

The first time I visited Tim and Caity’s house was when they opened up their backyard for a gig as part of Parlour Gigs, an initiative where people can host musicians to play in their homes. With their huge oak tree and deck, it was an awesome setting for live music and I fell in love with the house as a whole. I could 100 percent see why they were sad to sell it (and yes they sold it not long after we did our shoot – more on that later!)

GREEN ENVY: Plants at every corner pay homage to the home’s roots – the house was rumoured to have once been used as a plant nursery. Photos by Heather Robbins.

I feel like I have to pop in a disclaimer here, because we all know I am a terrible blogger but this is particularly embarrassing. Heather (Robbins) and I shot this home AGES ago, just before Tim and Caity put it on the market… at the end of 2017, I believe. WHAT THE. Insert monkey emoji covering his eyes. In my defense, we had a limited amount of time to shoot the house quickly before Caity and Tim styled it to sell, because I just knew a house like theirs would be snatched up quickly (and it was – it spent only two weeks on the market before the Phillips accepted an offer).

Shortly after Heather and I visited, I got pregnant and spent the next ten months throwing up as fun, unsponsored posts like this one took a backseat for a while, as pretty much all my energy went towards doing the bare minimum of sponsored posts to get me through. Obviously I have no qualms about doing sponsored content, but home tours like these (and personal ramblings) are still the stories I love to share the most. That said, they’re also the ones I tend to put the most into. Whenever a house like this crosses my path, I feel this funny sense to ‘do it justice’ and to write it as best as I can. And when the owners are my friends, or when I meet them and they turn out to be people I really like (which, if I’m honest, tends to be pretty much all of them) then I feel this even greater need to put together something I hope they’ll be proud of.

I can’t even say this is just a House Nerd thing; I was this obsessive back when I just used to write features for the paper and magazines. I’d spend WAY more time and energy on the stories of the houses I loved (and the home owners I liked) than the ones that I was indifferent to, which I could dash off and shoot through to my editor in half an hour. The downfall of the overcommitted, procrastinating perfectionist, people. Sometimes it feels like a fault; like everything I do must be my full effort or I feel dissatisfied. I don’t even think it’s about trying to do something ‘perfectly’, it is just about effort. I can’t do anything half-arsed. I must put full arse into everything. That sounded wrong and will probably bring me some unsavoury SEO. (2019 New Year’s Resolution – stop being weird. Finish what I have in my folders before enthusiastically committing myself to more and more and more like I’m still a-20-something-uni-student-with-no-kids).

Anyway – back to the story. Tim and Caity met years ago through mutual friends – Caity was best friends with the drummer of Tim’s band (“We had a real love-hate relationship in the beginning,” says Caity, but the thought seems laughable now; they are one of the best-suited couples we know) and were living in a share house in Attadale. They had just returned from four months travelling through Europe when they decided to start looking for a place of their own, feeling like it was time to have their own space. Initially they were looking to rent before realising it would actually be cheaper to buy. “We’d originally been looking at renting,” says Tim. “But it was peak time on the rental market and we were really struggling to find anything that we liked without paying a huge amount every week- so much so that we realised it would just about be cheaper for us to buy our own place and pay a mortgage. We had a broad area we liked but kind of fell in love with Hilton and honed the search in here.” They bought their house in May 2014.

Hilton was designed under the state government’s post World War II ‘garden suburbs’ initiative, with single homes on larger blocks and wide verges, and the suburb has no shortage of timber and timber-framed cottages; one of its attractions for Tim and Caity. “As Tim is a carpenter, we loved the idea of a timber frame house that we could easily work on, along with plenty of trees and room for a dog,” says Caity.

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER.“Our favourite paint colour is Dulux Lexicon,” says Caity of the white they chose for both inside and outside. “We’ve used it on practically everything and love how bright and calming it is. We made a bold choice in choosing gloss black for our architraves but think it really paid off. The architraves and black door handles become such a great focus point now.” Photos by Heather Robbins.

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER. “The house is really small at just 120sqm but it’s on a 640sqm block so we have a lot of external living space,” says Caity. Photos by Heather Robbins.

The home they ended up buying was a 1950s fibro cottage with jarrah floorboards. A previous owner had clad the fibro exterior in cedar weatherboards, and although the house was looking worn, Tim and Caity knew it could come up a treat. Inside, every room was a different colour. “There was avocado green, lemon yellow, pink, purple and maroon,” Caity remembers. “We never really loved the look of the house but we fell in love with the feeling we got from it. After we moved in we wondered what we had got ourselves into.”

Over the next three years they painstakingly worked on and off on every room, with the older house throwing up some fun curveballs. “From the get go we had to repair things we weren’t expecting,” says Caity. “We had to gut the entire master bedroom, because the false ceiling was falling down, and then found the original ceiling above it was falling down too. We also found quite a few roof leaks in our first winter. We remember coming home one day to practically find a waterfall in our spare bedroom.”

SCYON CLADDING: A previous owner had overclad the original fibro cottage with cedar weatherboards. Tim and Caity restored some of these and painted them white, but at the front of the house they replaced the whole front with Scyon Linea cladding. Photos by Heather Robbins.

The shabby external cedar weatherboards were restored and painted white, and Tim and Caity replaced the whole front of the house with new Scyon Linea boards. The old original veranda had at one stage been turned into additional space and a bedroom, so Tim and Caity extended the front to create a new veranda with timber decking and a paneled ceiling, where Tim added skylights. For the garden they called in the help of friends, Moloney Gardens, who put in lawns and reticulation, while other friends Fozlek Electrical helped out too.

Quaint is a good way to describe this house, where walls are wonky and the old jarrah floor in the front bedroom (originally a veranda, see below) isn’t quite level. “We’re pretty sure there isn’t a single straight wall in the house!” laughs Caity. But somehow things like this just add to the home’s charm.

“Our records are currently stored in a vintage buffet unit that my dad picked up at Vinnies for $5,” says Caity. “He’s since passed away, so even though it’s practically falling apart, we can’t bring ourselves to get rid of it. He also made the shell lamp that is in our lounge room. When he passed, it was the one thing of his that I really, really wanted to have.” Photos by Heather Robbins.

Tim says the part of the renovation they were most happy with would be the kitchen. “It was an IKEA kitchen put in by the previous owners. Cream cupboards and a tiny round sink. We swapped the door fronts to gloss white, made up some matte black panels, a cupboard over the fridge and put on black handles and a bigger black sink. It completely changed the feel of the house in one weekend and at a minimal cost too.” Photos by Heather Robbins.

Being just five minutes from the beach, where they take their kelpies, Mabel and Tiger, each morning, Tim and Caity wanted to give the house a coastal-inspired ambience. “We love the beach, so we wanted that sort of carefree vibe, but still keeping it basic with a monochrome palette,” says Caity. “We used a lot of jarrah and greenery to add colour.” Another thing I love about Tim and Caity’s style is their confident use of black. I am a big believer in the adage that every interior needs a touch of black, and they’ve used it in unexpected ways like with black gloss on the doorframes, making them a feature with new doors in a VJ style.

Both work long hours (they say that recently making the decision to get a cleaner in on Fridays was the best idea they’ve had in a long time!) Caity works for MRL, Tim plays football on top of running TJP Carpentry, and Caity used to own a shop and coffee hub in Fremantle, Calypso Warehouse. So home is about relaxing (or trying to, in between demolition work and renovations). “We are both pretty busy people, so when we come home we want to be able to relax and feel like we’re on holiday,” says Caity. “We find that our house is often influenced by our travels. A trip to New York led us to select more industrial, warehouse kind of furniture while a trip to Bali led us to choose more soft furnishings and tropical plants. We pick up a lot of our little bits and pieces from vintage shops. We don’t specifically seek out these things; we just stumble upon them and feel like they fit.”

AFTER

They share a similar design aesthetic (although one difference is that Tim is tidy, Caity is not!) “Our styles are pretty much the same,” says Tim. “The only real compromise we’ve had to make is that I wanted a custom-built kitchen and Caity was happy to just replace the fronts on the IKEA kitchen that was already there. We compromised by keeping the layout, using IKEA drawer and cupboard fronts and then I built some custom cabinets and put in custom-made side panels.” “It actually worked out really well!” says Caity. “We couldn’t have been happier with the result.”

Tim’s carpentry work is at every corner – he made the plumbing part shelving in the study corner and the drawer unit in the kitchen, one of the first things he built in the house. “He’d already designed the overall look so my contribution was the white leather tab handles,” says Caity. “We then copied that exact style for our floating TV unit which completely opened up the lounge room space. There’s a hall table in the spare bedroom that Tim made as well. We always try to use recycled jarrah and other woods to minimise on costs and waste.”

She and Tim are two of the most social people I know, and entertained here often. “Entertaining is our favourite thing to do,” says Caity. “We’ve had countless parties and even hosted a live music gig. We love being surrounded by our family and friends.”

The gig they mention was the night they hosted under the Parlour Gigs banner, the first time I visited their house – and I remember then thinking their house had such a warm feel to it. They rushed through another stage of renovations for the gig, adding a small deck beneath the oak tree which worked as a stage and also an external powder room (in the space of a week!)

HILTON LOVE: “We love this area – being so close to the beach and the cafes in South Freo,” says Caity. “We spend most of our Sunday nights at the Local Hotel and love café-hopping for breakfasts on a Sunday morning. Hilton is so full of trees so it almost has a bush kind of vibe to it.” Photos by Heather Robbins.

FAVOURITE ROOM: Overlooking the spectacular oak tree, the back deck is their favourite part of the house. “Our oak tree covers almost the whole backyard so it’s really nice and cool in summer and then allows the back deck to be flooded with sun in the winter,” says Caity. “Our lounge room is so beautiful and cosy in winter too.” Photos by Heather Robbins.

And then… right as they finished renovations (and as so often happens) Tim and Caity decided to sell! They were sad at the thought of leaving as they love this house, but had gotten some good advice from a friend on the real estate market and decided to take the plunge and put it on the market. They accepted an offer within just two weeks. Then they went on a big trip to the States and South America and eloped in a hot air balloon in Vegas, as you do.

When they got home they threw a wedding party and promptly jumped into renovating their next buy – this one a quaint 1960s brick cottage. “It was owned by a little Italian nonna and papa I imagine,” says Caity. “The shower curtain rail comes up to my chin!” Suffice to say, it needs a lot of modernising. Their plan is to renovate this cottage and subdivide the big block and build on the back of it. You can follow along their progress at Caity’s Instagram @what.caity.did.next I’m sure I’ll do a shoot of this house in 2020, and probably write about it in 2028. Stay tuned. Maya x

HOME LOWDOWN

THE OWNERS

Tim and Caity Phillips and their two dogs, black and tan kelpie Tiger and red cloud kelpie Mabel

THEIR HOME

A fully renovated 1950s fibro cottage, since clad in weatherboards and Scyon

LOCATION

Hilton, Western Australia

PURCHASED

2014

THE BUILDER AND DESIGNER

Tim and Caity designed the interiors and did all the work themselves. Tim runs his own carpentry business, TJP Carpentry

FEATURES

Main suite with parents retreat, two minor bedrooms, open-plan kitchen, living and dining, study, workshop, bathroom, external powder room

SUPPLIERS AND TRADES

TJP Carpentry (Tim’s business) Scyon Walls Dulux Fozlek Electrical Moloney Gardens for reticulation and lawn

PHOTOGRAPHY

Heather Robbins of Heather Robbins Photography

The post The Hilton Fibro Cottage Renovation appeared first on House Nerd.

from Home Improvement https://house-nerd.com/2019/01/03/hilton-fibro-cottage/

[myhauntedsalem]

Letta the Haunted Gypsy Doll

In the early 1970′s, Kerry Walton, a man in his early 20′s, had to return to his home town in Wagga Wagga NSW, in order to attend a funeral. It was at about this time that he recalled a childhood fear he had had growing up about a old abandoned house located down the street which was said to be haunted.

Feeling that now was the perfect time to finally face his childhood terror, Kerry ventured to the house in the middle of the night, in order to explore and settle his nightmares. Finding an opening to the buildings cellar, Kerry lit the gloom with the ull shaft of light emitted from his torch. Thick whirls of powder were present as he kicked up the dust collected after years of disuse.

The building’s supports, brick, stone and timber passed into light and shadow as he made his way through the gloom. Suddenly Kerry was startled to find a set of eyes looking back at him, from what appeared to be a small dead child, sitting on its own.

However, it was not a child at all, but an old and quite grotesque looking marionette. Having been creeped out enough for one night Kerry grabbed the doll and left. When he returned home, he left the doll in the lounge room and went to bed.

Kerry could not stop thinking about the doll and felt a little uncomfortable knowing it was laying not too far away. He got up, placed the doll in a bag and put it under the house.

Soon enough Kerry was offered some money for the doll, and he was more than happy with selling this creepy souvenir from the old abandoned house. He and the doll took a journey to where it was to be sold, but upon arrival Kerry could not bring himself to part with it. He broke the deal and took the doll back home.

With the doll having some sort of hold on him, he wanted to get some information about it. With its old antique look a trip to the museum for some advice on where to get information was decided upon. However the museum was able to give quite a lot of information. The nails used to keep the dolls feet to the legs aged the doll at about 200 years old and the style of it made it almost certain to have come from Eastern Europe.

The dolls hair was also discovered to be real human hair and under the scalp was the likeness of a human brain.

The history of the doll grew when several psychics provided more information about its background. A doll maker had carved this particular doll in the likeness of his young son who had died, drowned at the age of six. Dolls were strongly believed to be able to harbor a human soul after death, providing it with a new worldly home.

The doll, the marionette, still contains this soul. It is not malicious or dark, but rather just that of a child who had drowned over two centuries earlier.

Kerry was also told he will never be able to part with it.

The doll, now named Letta, due to its European Gypsy origins, brought out curious reactions in many that saw it. Dogs would go into hysterics, snapping and barking at the doll, attacking it should they be given the opportunity. People let out a gasp of shock when first laying eyes on it, something about the eyes bringing about strange emotions of fear and sadness.

On more than one occasion women have broken out into weeping, screaming hysterics or just fainting all together.

Letta is also said to be able to move of its own accord, changing positions, or at times pulsing when being held.

The doll still remains in Kerry Walton’s possession.

Although still quite spooky, Kerry has gotten used to Letta and will never let it go for fear of the misfortune that has been predicted by many psychics should he ever do so.

[myhauntedsalem]

Letta The Haunted Gypsy Doll

In the early 1970′s, Kerry Walton, a man in his early 20′s, had to return to his home town in Wagga Wagga NSW, in order to attend a funeral. It was at about this time that he recalled a childhood fear he had had growing up about a old abandoned house located down the street which was said to be haunted.

Feeling that now was the perfect time to finally face his childhood terror, Kerry ventured to the house in the middle of the night, in order to explore and settle his nightmares. Finding an opening to the buildings cellar, Kerry lit the gloom with the ull shaft of light emitted from his torch. Thick whirls of powder were present as he kicked up the dust collected after years of disuse.

The building’s supports, brick, stone and timber passed into light and shadow as he made his way through the gloom. Suddenly Kerry was startled to find a set of eyes looking back at him, from what appeared to be a small dead child, sitting on its own.

However, it was not a child at all, but an old and quite grotesque looking marionette. Having been creeped out enough for one night Kerry grabbed the doll and left. when he returned home, he left the doll in the lounge room and went to bed.

Kerry could not stop thinking about the doll and felt a little uncomfortable knowing it was laying not too far away. He got up, placed the doll in a bag and put it under the house.

Soon enough Kerry was offered some money for the doll, and he was more than happy with selling this creepy souvenir from the old abandoned house. He and the doll took a journey to where it was to be sold, but upon arrival Kerry could not bring himself to part with it. He broke the deal and took the doll back home.

With the doll having some sort of hold on him, he wanted to get some information about it. With its old antique look a trip to the museum for some advice on where to get information was decided upon. However the museum was able to give quite a lot of information. The nails used to keep the dolls feet to the legs aged the doll at about 200 years old and the style of it made it almost certain to have come from Eastern Europe.

The dolls hair was also discovered to be real human hair and under the scalp was the likeness of a human brain.

The history of the doll grew when several psychics provided more information about its background. A doll maker had carved this particular doll in the likeness of his young son who had died, drowned at the age of six. Dolls were strongly believed to be able to harbor a human soul after death, providing it with a new worldly home.

The doll, the marionette, still contains this soul. It is not malicious or dark, but rather just that of a child who had drowned over two centuries earlier.

Kerry was also told he will never be able to part with it.

The doll, now named Letta, due to its European Gypsy origins, brought out curious reactions in many that saw it. Dogs would go into hysterics, snapping and barking at the doll, attacking it should they be given the opportunity. People let out a gasp of shock when first laying eyes on it, something about the eyes bringing about strange emotions of fear and sadness.

On more than one occasion women have broken out into weeping, screaming hysterics or just fainting all together.

Letta is also said to be able to move of its own accord, changing positions, or at times pulsing when being held.

The doll still remains in Kerry Walton’s possession.

Although still quite spooky, Kerry has gotten used to Letta and will never let it go for fear of the misfortune that has been predicted by many psychics should he ever do so.

[myhauntedsalem]

Letta The Haunted Gypsy Doll

In the early 1970′s, Kerry Walton, a man in his early 20′s, had to return to his home town in Wagga Wagga NSW, in order to attend a funeral. It was at about this time that he recalled a childhood fear he had had growing up about a old abandoned house located down the street which was said to be haunted.

Feeling that now was the perfect time to finally face his childhood terror, Kerry ventured to the house in the middle of the night, in order to explore and settle his nightmares. Finding an opening to the buildings cellar, Kerry lit the gloom with the ull shaft of light emitted from his torch. Thick whirls of powder were present as he kicked up the dust collected after years of disuse.

The building’s supports, brick, stone and timber passed into light and shadow as he made his way through the gloom. Suddenly Kerry was startled to find a set of eyes looking back at him, from what appeared to be a small dead child, sitting on its own.

However, it was not a child at all, but an old and quite grotesque looking marionette. Having been creeped out enough for one night Kerry grabbed the doll and left. when he returned home, he left the doll in the lounge room and went to bed.

Kerry could not stop thinking about the doll and felt a little uncomfortable knowing it was laying not too far away. He got up, placed the doll in a bag and put it under the house.

Soon enough Kerry was offered some money for the doll, and he was more than happy with selling this creepy souvenir from the old abandoned house. He and the doll took a journey to where it was to be sold, but upon arrival Kerry could not bring himself to part with it. He broke the deal and took the doll back home.

With the doll having some sort of hold on him, he wanted to get some information about it. With its old antique look a trip to the museum for some advice on where to get information was decided upon. However the museum was able to give quite a lot of information. The nails used to keep the dolls feet to the legs aged the doll at about 200 years old and the style of it made it almost certain to have come from Eastern Europe.

The dolls hair was also discovered to be real human hair and under the scalp was the likeness of a human brain.

The history of the doll grew when several psychics provided more information about its background. A doll maker had carved this particular doll in the likeness of his young son who had died, drowned at the age of six. Dolls were strongly believed to be able to harbor a human soul after death, providing it with a new worldly home.

The doll, the marionette, still contains this soul. It is not malicious or dark, but rather just that of a child who had drowned over two centuries earlier.

Kerry was also told he will never be able to part with it.

The doll, now named Letta, due to its European Gypsy origins, brought out curious reactions in many that saw it. Dogs would go into hysterics, snapping and barking at the doll, attacking it should they be given the opportunity. People let out a gasp of shock when first laying eyes on it, something about the eyes bringing about strange emotions of fear and sadness.

On more than one occasion women have broken out into weeping, screaming hysterics or just fainting all together.

Letta is also said to be able to move of its own accord, changing positions, or at times pulsing when being held.

The doll still remains in Kerry Walton’s possession.

Although still quite spooky, Kerry has gotten used to Letta and will never let it go for fear of the misfortune that has been predicted by many psychics should he ever do so.

[myhauntedsalem]

Letta The Haunted Gypsy Doll

In the early 1970′s, Kerry Walton, a man in his early 20′s, had to return to his home town in Wagga Wagga NSW, in order to attend a funeral. It was at about this time that he recalled a childhood fear he had had growing up about a old abandoned house located down the street which was said to be haunted.

Feeling that now was the perfect time to finally face his childhood terror, Kerry ventured to the house in the middle of the night, in order to explore and settle his nightmares. Finding an opening to the buildings cellar, Kerry lit the gloom with the ull shaft of light emitted from his torch. Thick whirls of powder were present as he kicked up the dust collected after years of disuse.

The building’s supports, brick, stone and timber passed into light and shadow as he made his way through the gloom. Suddenly Kerry was startled to find a set of eyes looking back at him, from what appeared to be a small dead child, sitting on its own.

However, it was not a child at all, but an old and quite grotesque looking marionette. Having been creeped out enough for one night Kerry grabbed the doll and left. when he returned home, he left the doll in the lounge room and went to bed.

Kerry could not stop thinking about the doll and felt a little uncomfortable knowing it was laying not too far away. He got up, placed the doll in a bag and put it under the house.

Soon enough Kerry was offered some money for the doll, and he was more than happy with selling this creepy souvenir from the old abandoned house. He and the doll took a journey to where it was to be sold, but upon arrival Kerry could not bring himself to part with it. He broke the deal and took the doll back home.

With the doll having some sort of hold on him, he wanted to get some information about it. With its old antique look a trip to the museum for some advice on where to get information was decided upon. However the museum was able to give quite a lot of information. The nails used to keep the dolls feet to the legs aged the doll at about 200 years old and the style of it made it almost certain to have come from Eastern Europe.

The dolls hair was also discovered to be real human hair and under the scalp was the likeness of a human brain.

The history of the doll grew when several psychics provided more information about its background. A doll maker had carved this particular doll in the likeness of his young son who had died, drowned at the age of six. Dolls were strongly believed to be able to harbor a human soul after death, providing it with a new worldly home.

The doll, the marionette, still contains this soul. It is not malicious or dark, but rather just that of a child who had drowned over two centuries earlier.

Kerry was also told he will never be able to part with it.

The doll, now named Letta, due to its European Gypsy origins, brought out curious reactions in many that saw it. Dogs would go into hysterics, snapping and barking at the doll, attacking it should they be given the opportunity. People let out a gasp of shock when first laying eyes on it, something about the eyes bringing about strange emotions of fear and sadness.

On more than one occasion women have broken out into weeping, screaming hysterics or just fainting all together.

Letta is also said to be able to move of its own accord, changing positions, or at times pulsing when being held.

The doll still remains in Kerry Walton’s possession.

Although still quite spooky, Kerry has gotten used to Letta and will never let it go for fear of the misfortune that has been predicted by many psychics should he ever do so.

[myhauntedsalem]

Letta The Haunted Gypsy Doll

In the early 1970′s, Kerry Walton, a man in his early 20′s, had to return to his home town in Wagga Wagga NSW, in order to attend a funeral. It was at about this time that he recalled a childhood fear he had had growing up about a old abandoned house located down the street which was said to be haunted.

Feeling that now was the perfect time to finally face his childhood terror, Kerry ventured to the house in the middle of the night, in order to explore and settle his nightmares. Finding an opening to the buildings cellar, Kerry lit the gloom with the ull shaft of light emitted from his torch. Thick whirls of powder were present as he kicked up the dust collected after years of disuse.

The building’s supports, brick, stone and timber passed into light and shadow as he made his way through the gloom. Suddenly Kerry was startled to find a set of eyes looking back at him, from what appeared to be a small dead child, sitting on its own.

However, it was not a child at all, but an old and quite grotesque looking marionette. Having been creeped out enough for one night Kerry grabbed the doll and left. when he returned home, he left the doll in the lounge room and went to bed.

Kerry could not stop thinking about the doll and felt a little uncomfortable knowing it was laying not too far away. He got up, placed the doll in a bag and put it under the house.

Soon enough Kerry was offered some money for the doll, and he was more than happy with selling this creepy souvenir from the old abandoned house. He and the doll took a journey to where it was to be sold, but upon arrival Kerry could not bring himself to part with it. He broke the deal and took the doll back home.

With the doll having some sort of hold on him, he wanted to get some information about it. With its old antique look a trip to the museum for some advice on where to get information was decided upon. However the museum was able to give quite a lot of information. The nails used to keep the dolls feet to the legs aged the doll at about 200 years old and the style of it made it almost certain to have come from Eastern Europe.

The dolls hair was also discovered to be real human hair and under the scalp was the likeness of a human brain.

The history of the doll grew when several psychics provided more information about its background. A doll maker had carved this particular doll in the likeness of his young son who had died, drowned at the age of six. Dolls were strongly believed to be able to harbor a human soul after death, providing it with a new worldly home.

The doll, the marionette, still contains this soul. It is not malicious or dark, but rather just that of a child who had drowned over two centuries earlier.

Kerry was also told he will never be able to part with it.

The doll, now named Letta, due to its European Gypsy origins, brought out curious reactions in many that saw it. Dogs would go into hysterics, snapping and barking at the doll, attacking it should they be given the opportunity. People let out a gasp of shock when first laying eyes on it, something about the eyes bringing about strange emotions of fear and sadness.

On more than one occasion women have broken out into weeping, screaming hysterics or just fainting all together.

Letta is also said to be able to move of its own accord, changing positions, or at times pulsing when being held.

The doll still remains in Kerry Walton’s possession.

Although still quite spooky, Kerry has gotten used to Letta and will never let it go for fear of the misfortune that has been predicted by many psychics should he ever do so.

[myhauntedsalem]

Letta The Haunted Gypsy Doll

In the early 1970′s, Kerry Walton, a man in his early 20′s, had to return to his home town in Wagga Wagga NSW, in order to attend a funeral. It was at about this time that he recalled a childhood fear he had had growing up about a old abandoned house located down the street which was said to be haunted.

Feeling that now was the perfect time to finally face his childhood terror, Kerry ventured to the house in the middle of the night, in order to explore and settle his nightmares. Finding an opening to the buildings cellar, Kerry lit the gloom with the ull shaft of light emitted from his torch. Thick whirls of powder were present as he kicked up the dust collected after years of disuse.

The building’s supports, brick, stone and timber passed into light and shadow as he made his way through the gloom. Suddenly Kerry was startled to find a set of eyes looking back at him, from what appeared to be a small dead child, sitting on its own.

However, it was not a child at all, but an old and quite grotesque looking marionette. Having been creeped out enough for one night Kerry grabbed the doll and left. when he returned home, he left the doll in the lounge room and went to bed.

Kerry could not stop thinking about the doll and felt a little uncomfortable knowing it was laying not too far away. He got up, placed the doll in a bag and put it under the house.

Soon enough Kerry was offered some money for the doll, and he was more than happy with selling this creepy souvenir from the old abandoned house. He and the doll took a journey to where it was to be sold, but upon arrival Kerry could not bring himself to part with it. He broke the deal and took the doll back home.

With the doll having some sort of hold on him, he wanted to get some information about it. With its old antique look a trip to the museum for some advice on where to get information was decided upon. However the museum was able to give quite a lot of information. The nails used to keep the dolls feet to the legs aged the doll at about 200 years old and the style of it made it almost certain to have come from Eastern Europe.

The dolls hair was also discovered to be real human hair and under the scalp was the likeness of a human brain.

The history of the doll grew when several psychics provided more information about its background. A doll maker had carved this particular doll in the likeness of his young son who had died, drowned at the age of six. Dolls were strongly believed to be able to harbor a human soul after death, providing it with a new worldly home.

The doll, the marionette, still contains this soul. It is not malicious or dark, but rather just that of a child who had drowned over two centuries earlier.

Kerry was also told he will never be able to part with it.

The doll, now named Letta, due to its European Gypsy origins, brought out curious reactions in many that saw it. Dogs would go into hysterics, snapping and barking at the doll, attacking it should they be given the opportunity. People let out a gasp of shock when first laying eyes on it, something about the eyes bringing about strange emotions of fear and sadness.

On more than one occasion women have broken out into weeping, screaming hysterics or just fainting all together.

Letta is also said to be able to move of its own accord, changing positions, or at times pulsing when being held.

The doll still remains in Kerry Walton’s possession.

Although still quite spooky, Kerry has gotten used to Letta and will never let it go for fear of the misfortune that has been predicted by many psychics should he ever do so.