#how to move 2 giant boxes of dirt with me when I leave this house ?

[clannfearrunt]

Realizing two seasons too late how badly I have fucked up. Ok so. Maybe. Don’t sow buffalo bur seeds directly into the main tub of dirt you are using. Unless you’re ok with ending up with a giant tub of ��contaminated” dirt that has an unknown number of ungerminated seeds in it for years and years and years and years. Maybe try to start the seedlings elsewhere. In like an egg carton or something. Uh oh. I forgot. How this plant works.

[tryingmybestpls]

Not A Team: Part 2- New World Order

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: The Reader gives a speech at the opening of Steve’s exhibit and has a talk with Sam following his speech.

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER, talks of death, talks of mental illness, feelings of isolation

Read Part One here

Listen to the playlist inspired by the series here

Y/N felt like coming here today was a mistake.

Her stomach tossed and turned like a stormy sea, threatening to send her breakfast all over Rhodey's shiny shoes. She was second guessing everything. Was her dress nice enough? Rhodey had told her she looked great, but she hadn't worn a dress since Steve's funeral-Oh God, what if he was lying to her? No, he wouldn't lie to her-but what if he felt bad? Jesus, dd her shoes look stupid? Maybe she shouldn't have worn heels-but then she always wore heels with dresses and if she wore flats that would look childish. Did her speech sound coherent? Fuck, what if she messes up. Would they think she was doing it on purpose out of retribution for what Steve did? No, they didn't know what Steve did, what he had done to her. What if-

"Hey, hey. What's wrong? You look like you're going to blow chunks." Rhodey cuts through her thoughts like a hot knife through butter. He puts his hand on her back, "Breathe, Y/N."

"Maybe this a bad idea, Rhodey. I mean they have Sam. I think Sam can handle this." She stumbles over her words, trying to calm herself down. Her heart was racing a hundred miles a minute and she swore her hands were shaking,

"You're going to be okay, but you need to relax. I've read and reread your speech a dozen times. It's perfect." Rhodey tries to soothe her, his hand rubbing her back. Y/N squeezes her eyes shut, working on slowing her breathing. In through her nose and out through her mouth.

"Hey pretty lady, I was wondering where the exhibit is. I'm supposed to be giving a speech there today." A voice calls out, sending Y/N's eyes flying open. She turns on her heels, being greeted by the sight of Sam walking towards them, holding the leather case that carries the shield. Y/N can feel the tension melting out of her shoulders as a smile spreads across her nervous face.

"Rhodey, I think they might be letting anyone speak here today." Y/N teases, the anxiousness slipping away, releasing its hold on her. Rhodey chuckles, shaking his head at his friend's antics. She hadn't seen Sam since the days following Steve's funeral and right now, he's a welcome sight. Sam rests his hand over his heart, feigning hurt as he gets closer.

"You wound me, woman." Sam jokes, smiling right back at her. They embrace, her arms wrapping around his neck as his go around her waist, "I missed you, kid."

"I've missed you too, Sammy." She murmurs back, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. They pull away and Sam smiles at her, the skin around his eyes wrinkling. Rhodey clears his throat, gently touching Y/N's upper arm.

"Hey I need to go talk to some people, alright?" Rhodey announces, almost as if he is asking permission. Y/N just smiles and nods, the smile staying on her face until he walks away from the two.

"How are you feeling, Y/N?" Sam questions, to which Y/N sighs, looking down at her shoes.  She stays quiet for a moment, feeling his eyes on her.

"You want the truth or you want me to tell you what I tell Rhodey?" She replies, looking back at him. Y/N shifts from one foot to another, glad they were far from the crowd that was gathering. He gives her a look, giving her an answer without opening his mouth. She sighs again, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

"I don't sleep, not really. I get maybe an hour a night if I am lucky. I-The house is filled with boxes that I can't unpack because-" Her voice cracks, her chest rising and falling quickly. She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to not cry, "I thought that leaving the apartment would make him go away, but it didn't."

"Well Steve was always stubborn." Sam responds, making a laugh bubble out of her throat before she could stop it. There was an "I'm sorry" buried in the joke and Y/N knew it, but decided to only focus on the joke.

-

The stage looked daunting.

She forced herself up those steps, the person who had introduced her still had his hand outstretched towards her. Y/N wondered if she could make a run for it. Sure people will be mad at her, but she won't be forcing herself through this. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, the clapping nothing but a ringing in her ears. For a moment, her eyes landed on the giant banner of her husband, a lump forming in her throat. He was watching over her, his face emotionless as his eyes seemingly followed her every step. Cameras flashed as she stood on the stage, striding over to the podium. Once she stood in front of it, a hush fell over the crowd.

Y/N Rogers had saved thousands of lives. She was an Avenger and had faced countless foes. Hell, her wedding had more people in attendance than this event, but she still felt sick to her stomach. Y/N gave them all a smile as she forced herself to calm down, swallowing hard before speaking.

"To say that Steve Rogers was a special man is putting lightly. He was a hero that many of us, myself included, aspired to be one day. And while many of you only knew him as Captain America, I was among the lucky few that got to know him just as Steve Rogers. Now I could stand up here and tell you about every battle he won, how valiantly he fought-but everyone else is going to do that. Hell, you can read about it in the exhibit." Y/N chuckles, blinking away the tears in her eyes as the crowd laughs.

Y/N finds Rhodey and Sam in the crowd, both of them giving her smiles of encouragement. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the diamond on her wedding ring sparkling in the light. It's the first time she's worn it in a while, but it felt almost right to wear it. Once again, she's pretending like Steve didn't leave her. No, Y/N is ignoring that completely, almost blissfully. These people only know Steve as Captain America, as a god-damned American hero. She isn't going to tarnish that, won't ruin his legacy. And regardless of what Steve did to her, she is still in love with him and she wants to talk about the man she fell in love with, not the one that hurt her. Y/N inhales and exhales shakily before continuing.

"Steve was so much more than just Captain America. He was my best friend and my husband. He was the type of man to pick up flowers for you just because. The type of man to tell you that you looked really pretty even though you were covered in dirt and ash. He would let me go on and on about things that didn't even matter, but with the way he paid attention you would think that I was telling him the secrets of the world. Steve loved staying in and having movie marathons-he-he had a list he'd carry with him to write down things he needed to learn about. Before we dated, he would text me randomly, asking me why Jar Jar Binks is hated so much or asking me to explain what emojis are. He never quite got the hang gof the latter." A laugh comes out of Y/N's mouth, the crowd following suit. There was a smile on her face, a warmth spreading in her chest.

"He's the man I'll be in love with until the day I die, but then I'll fall in love all over again because I'll be able to see him again. Steve was the sweetest, kindest man I've ever met and while I will always wish we had more time together, I was lucky to have him as long as I did. We were all lucky to have him." Y/N pauses again, her throat constricting with emotion, "Even though he's gone, Steve lived a long life-a life longer than some of us get and I am happy that so many different facets of his life is going to be explored and shared with so many people. I hope you all enjoy the exhibit. Thank you."

The applause that followed was almost thunderous. Y/N smiled as her heart slammed against her ribcage, cameras flashing as she made her way off the stage. She was glad it was finally over as she moved to stand next to Rhodey and Sam. Sam kissed her cheek before he climbed up the stairs to the stage. Rhodey rubbed her back, telling her quietly that she did great. She just nodded in response, her eyes on her friend, watching as Sam leaned the shield against the plexiglass podium.

"Thank you Y/N for making my job a lot harder." Sam teases, causing everyone to chuckle. Y/N smiles right back at him, shaking her head as her friend carries on, "Steve represented the best in all of us. Courageous, righteous, hopeful. And he mastered poising stoically. "

Sam's a natural at this, standing up there like its nothing. And while Y/N should be focused on the speech, her eyes keep drifting down to the shield at his feet.

"The world has been forever changed. A few months ago, billions of people reappeared after five years away, sending the world into turmoil. We need new heroes. Ones suited for the times we're in. Symbols...are nothing without the women and men that give them meaning. And this thing," Sam chuckles, picking up the shield, "I don't know if there's ever been a greater symbol. But it's more about the man who propped it up and he's gone. So, today we honor Steve's legacy, but also, we look to the future. So thank you, Captain America. But this belongs to you."

Y/N feels sick to her stomach as she watches Sam hand the shield off. Her chest feels tight and she-she can't be here. There's a ringing on her ears and she can't breathe. Y/N pushes through the crowd, not bothering with pleasantries as she does it. A dozen emotions rack her body, causing her hands to start to heat up. She forces it down, deep down as she walks into an empty bathroom, locking the door behind her.

Sam gave away the shield.

He gave it away.

Like it was nothing.

And she wants to scream, wants to cry, but it won't come out. Y/N won't let it, not now when she is still in public. She walks over to the sinks, her hands gripping the counter. Her eyes are rimmed with red, eyes all watery. Her red painted lips press into a thin line as she forces herself to not cry, practically glaring at her reflection. What did her therapist tell her to do? Ah yes, breath in and out. In and out.

This was all too much way too soon. She couldn't handle this. She was being bombarded with memories and emotions already and now Sam giving the shield away? She felt like she was going to lose it. A part of her felt like she was overreacting. overthinking this whole situation. And maybe she was. Y/N did that from time to time. Tony had told her she was an expert of making mountains out of molehills. Maybe Sam just didn't want to be Captain America, didn't want to shoulder that burden. That was understandable. It was a shitty, shitty job-one that Sam didn't ask for. He shouldn't be forced to take on the mantle of Captain America, not when the previous owner had tossed it away so carelessly.

Yet, the bigger part of her was incredibly upset. Angry at the fact that Sam handed off the shield to be shelved in a museum. Overwhelmed by the amount of Steve that was everywhere. Confused over the multitudes of feeling that were swarming her body.

And there was nothing she could do about any of them. She just had to grin and bear it, just like she's been doing since Steve decided he much rather spend an entire lifetime with a woman he knew for a few months. So Y/N collected herself, blinked away her tears, and left the bathroom. Her feet had a mind of their own, carrying her towards the one place she didn't want to be.

The exhibit.

Steve's image is plastered on every single surface, telling the details of every part of his life. Scrawny Steve, bootcamp Steve, darling icon of patriotism during the war Steve, frozen Steve, Battle of Manhattan Steve, cartoon Steve punching Hitler, Steve during Sokovia, Steve on the run. Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve. He covers every single square inch, which makes sense because this is his exhibit. And while Y/N knows she should just turn on her heel and not put herself through it, she throws caution to the wall. She's already incredibly upset, so she might as well pour gallons and gallons of salt and lemon juice into that open wound.  So she forces herself deeper into the exhibit, running straight into the very last man she wants to see at this moment.

"You know I wasn't expecting to find you here." Sam tells her as soon as her foot enters the next room. She keeps her mouth shut, so he adds "Rhodey is looking for you."

"You know on his right sleeve of his suits, right near his wrist, he had my initials stitched. He told me he wanted to carry a piece of me into every mission, into every fight." Y/N announces as she looks at a picture of Steve on a mission, most likely taken by Natasha. Sam sighs, walking over to her, wanting her to see his point of view.

"Look I know you're upset-" He starts, but is immediately cut off by a dry chuckle slipping out of Y/N's mouth as she walks around the room. She wants to lay in to him, wants to give him a piece of her mind.

"Oh I am far past the point of being "just upset", Wilson. It wasn't yours to give away. I-I don't care if you didn't want the mantle, but..." Her angry words trail off once she realizes what part of the exhibit she has reached, her face dropping.

Y/N stops in front of a part of the exhibit labeled 'Two Heroes United'. Her eyes roam over the pictures of her and Steve's wedding and the pictures taken throughout the duration of their relationship, so much more than what the file Rhodey had left detailed. So many smiles, so much happiness filling each and every picture. Her facade is cracking, chipping away as she forces herself to study every picture, studying their faces over and over, trying to see if there was something she had missed, if-if there was something she could have said or done to hold onto him a little longer. If there was something hidden behind his smile, behind his touches, they don't reveal themselves in the photographs.

She's just a footnote in his life, a blurb at the end of a long story. A tool to make him look like an all-American family man. Bucky and Sam had much larger parts of the exhibit dedicated to their roles in Steve's life and who they are outside of being Steve's friends. Y/N-well Y/N gets this, a paragraph saying that she was on the team and then married Steve. She is just haphazardly tacked onto the story of his life, a cute story to make people feel all warm inside. He got his happily ever after, they'll say-or they'll whisper to one another God she was so lucky to have him. They won't ask if she got her happily ever after or if she feels lucky now.

Sam got to hand off the shield, got to throw away the title of Captain America. He gets to keep on living his life after this, but Y/N-Y/N will always be Steve's wife. And it doesn't matter how many people she saved or what she did with her time on earth, she will only be know for being the wife of the man who abandoned her. Y/N's tied to him for eternity, stuck loving a man who decided to love someone else.

And then, just like that, something inside of her just snaps. Her facade fully crumbles, leaving her unable to mask what she's going through.  Y/N's eyes fill up with tears and she's unable to blink them away before they spill over the edge, sending tears rolling down her cheeks. And as she stood there, crying in the middle of the exhibit dedicated to Steven Grant Rogers, a depressing epiphany popped into her mind.

The shield was the last part of Steve that she had that wasn't tainted in some way, a piece of him that she could still bear to see. And Sam had just given it away, leaving her with nothing but memories that would haunt her.

-

"I watched your speech. You did really good, Y/N." Her therapist praises, giving her a soft smile. Y/N nods, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. She had decided to start wearing it again, even though her feelings about Steve were still conflicted. While a part of her thought that this meant she was healing, Y/N knew it was more likely tied to the fact that Sam had given up the shield.

"It-It felt good." Y/N replies, shifting in her seat. She had thought it was a subtle movement, but Dr. Raynor gave her a look. After a few months of court-ordered appointments, the therapist knew Y/N all too well and she sure as hell knew when Y/N wasn't telling the truth.

"Something is upsetting you. What happened?" The doctor questions, clicking her pen. Y/N dreaded the noise. It meant a longer session, more bandaids being ripped off in order to force the wounds into the light. It would mean she would return to her home a little colder, a little emptier.

"Nothing happened. It-I had a good day. A good week." Y/N tries to reassure her, even going as far as to give her what she thought was a honest smile. Dr. Raynor held up her pad of paper, making a show of slowly bring the pen down to the paper. Y/N's smile falls and she looks down at her hands, letting out a small sigh.

"He-Sam gave away the shield. He gave it away like it was nothing." The ex-hero announces, feeling like a scolded child. Raynor lowers her pen and paper, settling back into her seat.

"And you feel like he shouldn't have?"

"No. No, Steve-Steve chose him. Steve gave him the shield because he knew that Sam was good, that Sam could handle it. And-And Sam just gave it away." Y/N stammers, picking at a thread that was hanging off her shirt.

"You know, I think that is the first time you have said his name aloud." Raynor mentions, causing Y/N to stop her movements. The thread is caught between her fingers, pulled taut. The doctor continues, "You always refer to Steve as 'he' or 'him' or 'my husband'. You never say his name."

"I don't think I was ready to be around...Steve. Not that much." Y/N tries to shift the focus, shame filling her, her face feeling hot. She knows she has her reasons not to say his name, but she still felt terrible about not being able to say his name.

"But you still spoke at the opening of his exhibit. I'm sure everyone would more than understand why you couldn't. So why did you decide on speaking?" The therapist asks, taking down a couple notes of her pad of paper. Y/N stays silent for a moment, letting go of the thread to start twisting her ring again.

"I-I don't know. Rhodey asked me and I-I guess I thought I could do it. And the speech wasn't bad I just-I wasn't expecting Sam to give away the shield." Y/N responds, her voice soft. She feels so small, sitting here on this charcoal grey couch. Y/N almost felt...stupid for being so angry at Sam. It wasn't his fault at all and as Y/N said everything out loud, she felt like such an asshole.

"If you would've known that Sam wanted to give the shield away, would you have stopped him?" Dr. Raynor replies, leaning forward slightly as she takes a few notes. Y/N feels herself sinking into the couch.

"I don't know. I-I wish he would have just told me so that we could've talked about it." She answers, looking out of the window. Dark grey clouds filled the sky, blocking out a lot of the sunlight that wanted to shine down on the city. Y/N didn't know if she would have actually forced him to keep the shield. That wasn't on him to have hold on to hat chunk of vibranium. It was wrong for Steve to have thrown that all on Sam. What would be the alternative? For her to keep the shield? Y/N highly doubted that the United States government would allow that.

-

Y/N was watering her garden when her phone started to ring in her back pocket. She quickly moves to shut off the water hose before she slips the phone about her pocket. Sam's name and picture appears on her screen, making uneasiness fill her stomach. Y/N exhales through her noise loudly before answering it, holding the phone against her ears.

"Have you seen the news?" Sam asks, not even letting her get a single syllable out.

"No, I've been outside-What's going on, Sam?" Y/N questions, making her way to the house. Something was definitely wrong. Sam never called her unless it was for emergencies. if they did communicate, it was mainly through texting. Her heartbeat started to race, as did her thoughts. A million different scenarios filled her head, each one worse than the last.

"You need to turn on the news right now." Sam replies as she opens the back door, quickly crossing the kitchen and walking into the living room. Her hands are almost shaking as she picks up the remote, turning the television on. Luckily for her, the last thing she had been watching was the news. Unluckily for her, she was greeted with a man holding the shield-Steve's shield, dressed in what looked like an off-brand, shitty version of the Captain America suit.

Anger filled her body. It had been four days tops since Sam handled off the shield and already, they had found their 'new Captain America'. The man in question was smiling smugly in the ill-fitting suit, waving at the camera, holding onto his shield tightly. God, Y/N wanted to beat the shit of the man and every single person who had okayed this. She could only hear bits and pieces of the speech as the news replayed it, but even that bullshit was too much for her to handle. She muted the television, tossing the remote on the couch.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?" Y/N exclaims, her hands getting warm. The Avenger was unable to get to anything articulate as rage filled her. She quickly put the phone on speaker, setting the device down just in case her hands caught flame.

"I know. I know. It's fucking bullshit." Sam replies, sighing. Y/N paced in front of the television, trying to calm herself down before she burned a hole through her rug. On the screen, the fake Cap was talking about something, a saccharine smile spread across his face. Y/N wanted to take that God damn shield and smash his teeth in.

"That asshole has my husband's fucking shield. They-He isn't supposed to be Captain America, okay? It's just not-It's not theirs to give away." Y/N's voice cracks towards the end, tears filling her eyes. While she wasn't Steve's number one fan, she hated that they had already chose someone to take up his title. If Sam wasn't going to be Captain America, then no one should be Captain America.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I wouldn't have given away the shield if I would've known...I'm sorry." Sam murmurs over the phone. Y/N covers her face with her almost glowing hands as she tries to control her breathing, not able to respond to Sam’s apologies. Her sadness and anger quickly shifted into something else. 

Something inside of her switched on, something that she hadn't felt in a long time, not since she was a hero, back when she was an Avenger.

Y/N wanted to go to work.

------

Not A Team taglist (if you would like to be added to the taglist please let me know!)

@lady-elena-adeline​ @simonedk​ @hersilencedscreams​ @rqmanoff​

[hargrove-mayfields]

You’ve Set my Soul to Dreaming Pt. 2

Billy can’t believe he’s doing this. 

Can’t believe that he’s pulled up outside of 8253 Loch Nora, a gift box in his passenger seat, unwrapped because that would look like he cared too much, a lit cigarette fogging up his windows, and a sense of dread settled heavy in his heart. 

Just because Harrington bought him the fanciest thing he’d ever had the pleasure to own didn’t mean he had to return the favor, right? 

Wrong. Because it wasn’t just your typical, ‘I’m loaded, and you’re dirt poor, so let me get you this novelty that costs more than you have in the bank because I'm better than you’ from Steve, but something more like a peace offering. 

A peace offering from the loser of the fight, which made Billy look like even bigger an asshole than he already was. 

Like, it was bad enough that he’d even beat Steve up in the first place, but then to just ignore his attempt at reconciliation and keep up the machismo shtick? Even he was better than that. 

So he’d fretted for a week about what a rich boy would want, and shoveled sidewalks for old people and flirtatious mothers to be able to afford it. Not that the Hargroves didn’t have enough money for a dinky little gift, Billy just wasn’t allowed to spend his father’s wages on anything less than necessity. 

Christmas presents for some boy definitely didn’t fall under that category. 

In the end he decides on giving him a flask, decorated with similar filigree to that on the zippo, only it’s much more cheaply made. He hopes the sentiment is still there, because he knows Steve can put alcohol away faster than you can say chemically dependent teenaged washup. After all, just a few nights ago at Jenny’s Christmas Party, he saw him drink a whole bottle of vodka in under a minute.

Besides, regardless of whether or not it’s something he needs or cares about or is just going to throw away, it’s just to get even, this isn’t some life changing gift exchange. No sweat. 

Maybe Billy has that all worked out in his head, but then he’s got another problem. He can’t decide on how the present is going to get to Steve. 

If he should just leave it on the porch and bolt, if he was going to ring the doorbell and hand it right to him, or if he would just drive right on down back to Cherry Lane and keep the stupid hip flask for himself, and pretend the whole thing never happened so he could move on with his life. 

He loses the chance to choose when the double doors to the house are pulled open, and the silhouette of the one and only Steve Harrington appears. 

It would be more than weird to drive away now when he was obviously already parked outside, and even weirder to just sit in his car until Steve goes back inside, so he sucks it up, grabs the box off his passenger seat, and steps out of the Camaro. 

Rounding the front of his car and taking a few steps toward the porch, Billy decides to toss Steve the box without so much as a muttered ‘heads up.’ They’ve been playing basketball together for two months now, and he knows from experience that Steve’s surprisingly good at dodging fists, so he’s pretty sure he’ll catch it. 

And he does, if not a little clumsily, with a stupid, shocked look on his face. Billy might even say he almost looks as dumb as the sweater he was wearing, which had a Christmas tree crocheted into the center and was at least fifty percent tinsel. 

If his head was screwed on straight, maybe Billy would’ve even said ‘Merry Christmas Steve, thanks for the beautiful fucking zippo I use it every day, sorry ‘bout the face’ but it wasn’t, so instead, what he said was actually more along the lines of, 

“Save your donations for the red kettle Harrington.” 

And then he thinks he’s out of the woods, thinks the lack of an answer is the symbol he needs to put this drama behind him and pick a new pretty boy to pick on, but just as he pops the Camaro’s door, Steve finally lets his response tumble out of his mouth. 

“Why don’t you come in, Hargrove?” Steve turns the box over and over in his hands, nervous as he tries to get out what he’s going to say. “Nobody’s home, and I made a bunch of cookies. Got some spiked eggnog too.” 

And, it wasn’t like Billy’d rather be back at his own house right now, that was actually the last place on earth he wanted to be, so he wasn’t beyond entertaining the notion. 

He isn’t easy though, he’s not the type to just, waltz on in to some McMansion looming over him just because he’d been asked so politely. Especially not when the circumstances of this specific circumstance were the way they were.

“Whatd’ya put in it, the eggnog?” It’s a stupid question, just a way to stall until he can come up with an excuse to go in the mansion by his accord, but the answer, well, it’s not much better. 

“Chicken Cock.” Steve says it with such an air of nonchalance that Billy isn’t sure he’s heard that right, but then again, the people down in the Midwest referred everything with weird nicknames that he’d never even heard of. What was puppy chow anyways?

He can tell there’s a bewildered look on his face, though it gets overtaken by a slightly humored smile as he asks. “‘Scuse me?” 

Blame it on the bitter cold if you please, but a flush appears on Steve’s cheeks at the realization of what his words might sound like to somebody who had no idea what he’s talking about. “I-It’s a spirit, it’s really strong and- why don’t you just come try it, yeah?” 

Its cute, but Billy needs one last attempt at casting out the line before he gives in and accepts Steve’s offer. “Real smooth, Harrington, but I gotta get back to the festivities at home.” 

“Sure, ‘cause you're totally the type for that.” Steve rolls his eyes in a sort of false annoyance before he starts on his mockery. “Bet you sing carols, and bake cookies with your little sister and tell stories of your favorite Christmas memories around the Yule log and-“

“Alright, Harrington. Since you asked so nicely.” He couldn’t keep saying no with Steve practically begging him to come inside, so, stepping up onto the stoop, Billy scrapes his boots against the porch rug to knock off the snow so he can go inside. “But I’m outta here by midnight, alright?” 

With a smile, Steve steps aside to let Billy through the door. “Deal.” 

Ornate woodworking and fancy wallpaper goes unnoticed, because the first thing Billy notices about the Harrington mansion is that it is an absolute disaster. although he would expect a cleaning lady to have come through and kept the place all nice and pristine like you see in the magazines, there was shit everywhere. 

Piles of bubble wrap and newspaper stuffed into plastic containers, wires and strings and tape all over, a power strips and thumbtacks, and suddenly Billy realizes something. 

“This your attempt at Yuletide cheer, Harrington?” 

For a moment he looks at Billy confused, but follows his line of sight to the heaping boxes of decorations scattered throughout his living space. “Oh, no, I just didn’t finish yet.” 

Billy can’t help it when he blurts out, “It’s Christmas Eve.” 

Steve nods dumbly, something that should at this point be his registered trademark. “Uh-huh.” 

“And all your decorations are in a pile in your living room?” Even Billy knew better than to wait until the last minute to get things done, and Harrington always seemed so on top of everything, regardless of if he was doing it right, so it was kind of jarring to see him in such a disheveled mess the night of Christmas Eve. 

Steve says, in a tone so casually condescending, “Seems that way, yeah.” 

“Didn’t leave enough time between your panty raids to get it done?”  Snark is met with snark, but, because of the circumstances, there’s not the typical edge to it that would be expected from the two of them.

“I manage my escapades perfectly fine, thank you.” Steve toes at a box heaping with ornaments and labeled with the words ‘to throw out’ written in cursive on the side. “My parents just think decorating is too undistinguished, so I’m only allowed to have them up for a few days.” 

“Right.” Billy agrees like he understands, but he really doesn’t. How can sprucing up your house with a bunch of fancy and expensive trinkets and decorations be any worse than leaving it empty and barren? Rich people. “And how, exactly, would they know if you put them up early?” 

Tossing a strand of garland that had previously been draped over the back of the chaise, because of course they have a chaise in their first living room, Steve says, “Shut up and help me put them up then.” 

So he does. He untangles giant knots of tinsel, of lights and of icicles, and unwraps all of the Harringtons’ precious glass ornaments for Steve to put on the artificial trees (he’s allergic to pine) in the entrance hall and the dining room. 

He puts up the glass stocking holder and hangs the silky, designer stockings, which, judging from the faded fabric and the peeling letters written in red glitter glue to spell out STEVEn, are from a time when Ruthie and Stephen Sr. still darkened these doors. Alongside them on the mantelpiece, he hangs a handful of Christmas cards from Steve’s random relatives up on a thin piece of ribbon. 

The banister of the grand staircase is wrapped in miles of scratchy garland, enough that they can hardly see the wooden finish underneath, and matching wreaths are hung in the windows and on the doors. 

Just to prove how rich they were, the Harringtons also have a rather extensive collection of those ceramic trees, not the type you make yourself, but the expensive ones you can order from Avon and other designers Billy can’t even pronounce the name of, and they’ve put one on just about every surface that is close enough to an outlet for a plug to reach.

There are so many extension cords run through every room, Billy’s worried that Steve might end up burning up in a house fire, but it’s worth it to see the twinkling lights reflecting on blank white walls, the soothing colors brightening up a space he could imagine was typically devoid of life. 

And in the end, having wrestled with dusty old decorations to transform Steve’s house into something so, so pleasant? spirited? entirely unfamiliar to someone like him? he thinks he’s earned the hard whiskey he was promised at the door. 

Hours go by, and the two of them are sitting in the center of the giant French Country rug, a cotton and silk substitute for the Persian Steve turned out to be allergic to, backs against the coffee table and more than a little tipsy. 

Leaning back on his elbows, Billy lets his head fall back, his sprayed curls fanning out over the mahogany surface, where they have a bayberry candle burning out of the top of an empty bottle of Stephen Sr's liquor of choice. 

Blinking slowly up at the ceiling, the blur of the colorful lights making him dizzy, he asks, “So, how does this work, without your parents here, d’ya just, buy your own presents and put ‘em under the tree yourself?” 

“Nah. They mail them to Miss Hetty the help, and she brings ‘em to me in the mornin’. 7 a.m. sharp.” He pops the p on the “sharp” like he’s proud to admit he has a nanny at almost 19 years old. 

“The help. Think that’s somehow more depressing.” Billy ignores the way Steve’s eyebrows furrow together and his quiet, mumbled out, “Rude.” 

“Don’t think I have much room to talk though.” He sits up again so he can look at Steve. “Your zippo’s the only thing I’m gettin’ this year, ‘cept for maybe a-a good backhand or two after Susan gets her family photos.” 

A smile cracks across the other boy's face as he lowers his voice, sounding all too excited to say, “Guess that makes us a couple-a misfits then, huh?”

And Billy can’t help the laugh he lets out at that god awful reference, true as it may be, and it's with a smile on his face that he says, “God, you are such a cheeseball, man.” 

“Hey! I saw an opportunity, and I had to take it.” There’s a smile equal to his own on Steve’s face, as he laughs at what he said with Billy, and the moment passes. 

In the silence that follows, they sit just like that, appreciating their moment of camaraderie that they know is going to come to an end soon, as the grandfather clock chimes for another hour gone by, the bayberry burns down another few centimeters, and the headachy feeling of too much alcohol starts to set in. 

It was nice to not be surrounded by faux affection and suffocated by the fear of stepping out of line, but like all good things, Christmas Eve must come to an end at some point, and so it was that, around quarter to twelve, Billy makes his first attempt to stand on drunken feet. 

Based on the fact that he doesn’t immediately fall on his ass, he’ll probably be alright to drive, not that he really has much of a choice, so he grabs his keys off the coffee table and announces his departure. 

“It’s been real Harrington, but duty calls.” 

“Yeah, sure. Thanks man.” Steve waves Billy off and leans forward, letting his forehead come to rest against the surface of the laminated hardwood, obviously more affected by the whiskey than the other boy. 

But Billy finds himself cemented to the spot, fingers fiddling with the buttons on his denim jacket as he tries to get together what he wants to say, because he still hasn’t properly apologized. 

Not that it’s something he’d normally do, but some things can’t be fixed with Christmas Decorations and cinnamon spirits. “Look, I’m sorry, about the, the fight and everything Harrington, I just-“ 

“S’okay.” Steve tries to look at him, but he's barely able to sit up anymore. He’s got an arm slung over the top of the coffee table to keep himself upright, and his words slur to be almost unintelligible as he tells Billy, “Already forgave ya.” 

“But, I don’t- you shouldn’t-“ Taking a deep breath through his nose to collect himself, Billy continues, “How did you know I deserved that?” 

“Chalk it up to the Christmas spirit.” Accenting his words with the slightest shrug of his shoulders, Steve smiles a knowing little grin and says, “Go on home, Billy.” 

“Right, I’ll, see ya round then.” He starts to walk away, taking steps made shaky from the alcohol in his system, but from behind him he hears Steve say softly, “Wait.” 

Turning around, he raises his eyebrows to show Steve he’s at his attention, and Steve, eyes glossy and cheeks as red as the big man’s suit, looks him right in the eye (and the heart) to tell him. “Merry Christmas, Billy.” 

“Yeah, you too, Harrington.” The softness in his tone feels like a betrayal to himself, and he thanks the lord above that Steve is too drunk to hold it against him.

One last look over his shoulder, and he sees Steve face down on the coffee table again. Chuckling to nobody but himself, he thinks that maybe the flask wasn’t such a bright idea after all. 

Shutting those heavy double doors behind himself and getting back in the Camaro, while his hands shake and his heart races, is a strange feeling to say the least. 

Just up and walking away from the most genuine expression of compassion he’d ever experienced, knowing that, with what’s waiting for him back at home, he’s not going to ever let something like this happen again, makes him feel like he should just go running back in there, forget about curfews and abusive fathers so he can pursue this, this whatever with Harrington, but he knows that isn’t really an option. 

Knows he’ll get too attached if he doesn't leave now, that nipping that growing feeling of acceptance, of forgiveness, of warmth in his heart three sizes too small, right in the bud before it turns into something more wicked and ruins a perfectly good Christmas Eve, is the best possible thing for the both of them.

This was just an apology, righting the obvious wrongs that had taken place in November, and nothing more. 

Because having Steve Harrington three sheets to the wind and showing him the slightest bit of compassion wouldn’t be enough to break him down, no sir. This was Billy Hargrove after all, he didn’t let trivial things like throwing away potential friendships bring tears to his eyes, not in a million years. 

Or that’s at least what he’d like to think, but in all reality he does, shows up back at his own, completely average house back on Cherry with red rimmed eyes and it doesn’t go unnoticed when he walks through the front door. 

So Billy spends the night just as he expected he would; a bruise forming on his cheek, wide awake in his bed, while visions of Steve Harrington danced in his head. 

Read also on ao3

[xiolaperry]

Four Ways Gaston Could Have Died (and the One Way He Actually Did) - Chapter 2

Summary:  We all agreed at the end of 'The Piano' that Gaston deserved to die. But how? I opened it up to prompts, and here they are... (prompt note at the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers.)

Read “The Piano” on AO3.

Read “Four Ways” Chapter 2 on AO3.

---

Gaston's aunt helped him scrub his house from top to bottom after they left. He'd never seen Cora work so hard at physical labor. “A good cleaning will set things right. You'll see,” she said. He suspected it was as much to vent her fury at Belle and Gold as to help him. He watched her attack the cobwebs in the corner and tried to stay out of the way.

The house sparkled when she'd finished, but the next morning he realized there were still signs of Belle's presence in the house. Her favorite chair. The wooden spoon she always used when she cooked. Seeing things that brought memories of Belle was not something he wanted to face every day. He would have to destroy everything that had to do with his ill-fated marriage.

He gathered up every item from the house that reminded him of her for an enormous bonfire. The bed frame and mattress from her room, the dishtowels she'd embroidered, the spoon, the chair, even the pants she'd mended for him— he set all of it alight. Bright and cheery, the fire crackled, sending sparks and flutters of ash into the night sky, an offering to the stars above. It gave him satisfaction to watch everything burn. He sat and watched until the last bit was gone, poking at the remnants with his rake so as not to leave anything recognizable behind.

Peaceful sleep followed the purge. Life could return to normal now. There was no reason for all not to be as it was. It would be as if Belle never existed.

After a week of keeping to himself (Cora had advised him to keep a low profile to let people forget about the incident) and working around the house, he decided to visit the tavern. It was time to rejoin the community. He slammed the door open in his usual manner to alert everyone to his presence. The men usually greeted him with enthusiasm, asking him to play darts and inviting him to join them for drinks, pulling out chairs to have him sit at their table.

Nothing happened. Didn't they notice him? He cleared his throat. The loud noise attracted some attention, but all he received were a few muttered hellos. He ordered a mug of ale, scowling as he surveyed the room. No one came to sit with him. After his fifth drink, he decided he'd had enough of being ignored. He threw some money down on the bar, kicked a chair, and stalked out.

He almost ran into Regina who was arriving with that man who fancied himself an archer, Robin... something. They hadn't yet been officially introduced, but Gaston knew he wouldn't like him.

“Aren't you going to present me to your friend, Regina?” His large frame blocked them from making their way into the tavern. He would not let her snub him like everyone else.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, a move he wouldn't have tolerated from anyone other than his cousin. “Robin, my cousin Gaston. Gaston, Robin. Happy now?”

He shook Robin's hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He gripped it hard, waiting for the other man to grimace in pain and let go. The opposite happened. Robin's smile grew as he squeezed back. The two men faced each other, neither backing down, and their handshake turned into what looked like an arm-wrestling contest without the table.

“That's enough, you two.” Regina pushed herself between them and forced them to let go. “How childish,” she scolded.

But she was making eyes at Robin like he was something special. Gaston could not understand what had come over his cousin, mooning over lion tattooed riff-raff in public. She should be embarrassed, not beaming with pride.

“Would you like to join us?” Robin asked.

“No, thank you. I need to get home.” He'd rather cut his own finger off.

“Next time, then.”

Gaston stepped aside, and the pair chose a table and sat down. Everyone greeted them and Regina beamed. Her whole face lit up. She was happy. Gaston had never seen her like that before. For a moment, he realized this was what he could have had if he'd made different choices. He squashed the thought. No looking back, only forward.

She couldn't really be happy, he decided as he walked home. Aunt Cora, holding on to hope for an advantageous match for her daughter, threatened to throw Regina out if she didn’t stop associating with Robin. After an ugly, public argument, Regina told her she’d save her the trouble and leave. Cora had responded by tossing her belongings into the street. She was now living in a tiny room that the Nolan family rented out.

That night he had a dream about the morning he'd spent in the crawlspace under Gold's house, listening to the sounds of passion above him. To his horror, the cracks in the floor widened until Gold and Belle were right in front of him, naked and pleasuring each other. Breathy moans and panting rang in his head. The smell of sex permeated the air, choking him. He shut his eyes and covered his ears, but he could still hear and see them.

The nightmare ended when it got to the part where a button fell through a knothole in the floor, just as it had in reality. He jerked awake, sitting up in bed. The button. He'd forgotten all about it. Some piece of Belle still remained here in New Zealand. Tomorrow he would retrieve it and smash it to powder. Then it would all be over. He fluffed up his pillow and settled back into bed, asleep in minutes.

Gaston woke at dawn. There was a strange electricity in the air. He dismissed it as a remnant of his nightmare, but the feeling did not dissipate as he dressed. As he pondered his plan, he decided he was not being superstitious. He became convinced that the only way for his life to return to normal was a total removal of any trace of Belle. A quick search of the house confirmed he had overlooked nothing, not one ribbon or scrap of fabric.

He was tempted to skip the morning chores in his hurry to get on with his mission, but agitated noises coming from the barn stopped him. The cow looked fine, although it was mooing with impatience to get out. Her milk didn't even come close to filling the bucket, then she almost knocked him over in her rush to exit the barn. Stupid cow.

His horse was whinnying, the whites of its eyes showing as it tossed its head in agitation. Concerned there might be something wrong with the animal, he opened the stall. The stallion dashed out, galloping through the unfastened barn doors and jumping the fence. His mouth dropped open in disbelief. Had the whole world gone crazy?

Outside, the cow was lying down instead of grazing on the sparse grass. Gaston checked the sky for rain, but it was blue, not a cloud in sight. Strange. Well, it didn't matter how odd this morning was turning out. He had a button waiting for him to destroy it.

There was a heaviness in the air, increasing as he walked the path to Gold's cottage. He kept looking up, expecting to see ominous clouds. The sky visible through the canopy of trees was still clear, and the sun shone sending beams of warm light down in front of him.

The beauty of the day was at odds with the surrounding activity. Birds screamed as they flapped overhead, all flying in the same direction as if to escape an unseen predator. A lizard dashed across the trail, almost running up his leg in its rush through the underbrush. He even saw a kiwi bird. They were never out during the day.

The strangeness of the morning had worn Gaston's nerves, and he approached Gold's empty house with caution. His instincts told him not to go into the crawlspace. He wanted to turn around and go home. “Don't be a coward,” he told himself. Hearing his own confident voice helped him brush the fear aside as irrational.

He knelt down and peered under the porch. Nothing appeared amiss. The crawlspace was a tight fit, but he'd managed it before. Although the previous time the goings-on in the house distracted him.

Gaston crawled through the dirt, brushing cobwebs out of his way. He recognized the knothole where he'd listened to the sounds of sex above. There was no sign of the button in the dim light. He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a box of matches.

The heat and stillness were oppressive, and he noted that the raucous screaming of the birds had stopped. Ignoring the tenseness in the back of his neck, he struck a match.

There it was! It glinted in the faint light just a bit ahead from where he lay. As he wriggled toward it, the ground seemed to… ripple. He lunged forward, grabbed the button, then froze. He didn't even feel the match flame burn the tips of his fingers. The rippling continued and intensified. An earthquake.

In his panic to get out from under the house, Gaston tried to sit up and turn around. He only succeeded in banging his head, hard, on the floor beam above him. Dots danced before his eyes and there was a ringing in his ears. He shook his head to clear it as the trembling strengthened.

Blood ran into his eyes, blurring his vision. He wiped at it, now registering the pain in his blistered fingers. Dust filtered down through the air as the building groaned and swayed.

He slithered back as fast as he could. The entire world shook and rumbled, and the timbers of the cottage splintered and cracked above him. The house collapsed as the ground heaved.

Gaston cried out at the intense pressure. It was like being squeezed in a giant's fist. His ribs snapped like twigs, puncturing his lungs and filling them with blood. He couldn't breathe. Organs ruptured, then he felt nothing as the structure crushed him. Only one booted foot stuck out from beneath the ruin of the cottage.

Under the rubble, his hand clenched the button he so wanted to be rid of, tying the reminder of Belle to him in death.

End Notes:  Inspired by Moonlight 91's comment: “not even the house collapsing on top of him is going to be a satisfying end.” Hopefully it was a little satisfying. And if you want to re-read Gaston's morning of eavesdropping in 'The Piano', it is in chapter 10.

[whatevenismyaestheticidk]

Things I’ve heard high schoolers say pt 3

Person: it’s to early for me to be alive right now

Teacher: who invented math? Student: Lincoln.

Teacher: You feel as if you get low marks on this 5 paragraph essay you’ll end up poor and homeless and addicted to drugs. Student 1: Yes. Student 2: That’s exactly how it works. Student 3: I mean… you’re not wrong.

Student: It’s called panic and I do it well. I do it very well.

Student 1: I need to get glasses. Student 2: I need to get a will to live.

Student: Physics eats brains for lunch and sucks ass for dinner.

Student: Fuck you Perry the platypus!!

Student: he’s an Asian white supremisist. How does that even happen.

Teacher: After treating him like dirt for 7 years what is he to me? Student 1: Friends? Student 2: Lovers?

Teachers: We can’t have poor people running the place, that’s stupid.

Teachers: It was illegal to be alone because when you are alone you commit a sin.

Student: They play with your intestines? Like jumprope???

Student 1: you make me want to kill myself Student 2: Bitch please! I’ve been making myself want to kill myself for years.

Teacher: If you’re in my class don’t be acting the fool

Student: that’s it! You’ve lost your titty privileges

Student: I have the bladder of an octopus please let me go to the bathroom

Teacher: America broke up with Britain through text and by telling all of their friends but not actually telling Britain.

Student: my peripheral vision up is about as good as a fucking snail’s.

Student: I am allergic to myself.

Student: she brought my coconut juice. I’m going to cry.

Student: my name is Bitch.

Student: my elevator is literally a vsco girl

Student 1: what do you think? Student 2: I think I’m a fucking slut.

Student 1: I look like a lightbulb Student 2: A cute lightbulb. 10/10 would screw you (in)

Teacher: No one likes Axe, but its your friend.

Student: I am a flaming homosexual and that is why I want to dye my hair pink in honor of the women that I love so much

Student: oh my god it’s Michael fucking Jackson! *screams*

Student: Im 16 but not even very much 16.

Teacher: Theres a reason my cousin Neil trades three shifts of paramedic work so he doesn’t have to work on the night of the full moon.

Student: I know it sounds scary running from the police but it’s actually just leisurely walking away from them.

Student: I was washing my hands after lunch and this guy just started bleeding out next to me.

Student: I’m just saying, I would wear a full out prom dress to school and no one could stop me.

Student: I have the strength of a roasted peanut.

Student 1: Avacodo’s are thicc though. If there was a sexiest food event then avocado would win hands down. Student 2: what about peaches Student1: I would 100% fuck an avocado.

Student: chicken nuggets re the dad bod of the food world.

Student: in conclusion: gay.

Student: Hey Mr (Teacher) can you please elaborate on your outfit choice today?

Teacher: Dueling? You know the 10 paces fire? The thing that Hamilton is known for but he was a lot better at?

Teacher: Dreams are kinda wack Student: But this is another level of wack.

Student 1: Im just saying you could totally suck a dick by mistake. Student 2: How? Student 1: Like if you’re watching a movie and he’s holding a soda bottle between his legs and you want a sip but it’s dark you could totally accidentally suck a dick.

Student 1: hurry the fuck up Student 2: that is not how you treat people, you need to have some respect. You say PLEASE hurry the fuck up.

Student: You know, Stockholm syndromes. Like when someone is kidnapped and then catches feelings for their master, daddy kinks, that kinda shit.

Student: IF I were to eat Donalt Trump’s ass it would be so white I’d get retinal cancer just from looking at it.

Student: You were texting her which made us loose the quizlet live game! She is a whore!

Teacher: you’re a dirty old man, you read the script

Student: you’re my hwb. Homies with benefits.

Student 1: I’m a shell 2: I’m a crab. 3: what do crabs do to shells 2: I’m going to go live and eat inside you then eventually leave you for another

Student: Ayyyy!! We’re getting mono!!

Student: Stop catching feelings you dumb emotionally suicidal bitch!!!!

Teacher: *Student’s name* you need to find friends who love you.

Student: Is that a kneecap? *fake cough* Slut. *fake cough*

Teacher: Yah Buccanan was our first gay president. Student: But he was a Democrat! Teacher:… you DO know that people can be gay and a democrat.

Student: This whole book was just a giant KFC commercial.

Student: he other day I tried to zoom in on a book.

Student: every time I head an Indian person talk it’s like they’re raping me but in a good way.

Student: You canned corn of a human.

Student: you look like a broken piano

Student: There’s no room for Jesus! I don’t want to see him!

Student 1: Tiger sharks are the goats of the ocean. Student 2: Wrong. I’m the goat of the ocean.

Student: Florida is the Bermuda Triangle of stupid shit.

Student: Jesus has a plan for me, and I don’t think it’s in his textbook of an agenda.

Student: did you talk to her? Because I’m pretty sure blowing up a school is frowned upon.

Student: and that’s on period no tampon.

Student 1: what would your stripper name be? Student 2: Ruby. Teacher who over heard: Excuse me. Teacher here, stripper conversation over there. Please move the inappropriate conversation somewhere where I can’t hear it. Vanilla Pudding. (the thing about this one, was she was telling us that in the past, her stripper name was Vanilla Pudding)

Student: (Different student’s name), if I told you that I was possessed last night would you believe me?

Student: (Teacher) I was possessed last night, is there, like, biology to support that?

Student: Could I theoretically live forever if I drank infinite 5 hour energies.

Teacher: I have more glue sticks I just don’t put them out because the freshman eat them.

Student: drinking chocolate milk isn’t good for you it just like tragic.

Student: who do people even get stds, I can’t even get dms

Student: Tell me you’re kidding. Tell me you did not find my house by looking at snap maps. YOU HAVE MY ADDRESS!!!

Student: Hey you lived in Africa right? Does that mean you can say the n word?

Student: Someone threatened to open up my chest, piss in it, and close it back up.

Student: For how good I am at catching feelings, you’d think I’d be better at sports.

Student 1: I’m a Taurus. Student 2: I thought you were gay.

Student: So if I ate a tide pod then ate a t-shirt what would happen?

Student: Buddhism is just a series of vibe checks until eventually one works.

Student: why does bugs bunny have so much cleavage??

Student: Don’t underestimate snoopy you fucking heathen.

Teacher: So what you’re saying is when the okay boomer generation dies we won’t be racist anymore?

Student: Venus is in retrograde and that’s why Im not dealing with your bullshit.

Student: What is wrong with you. No sincerely. What made you think that eating a green banana is okay.

Teacher: You know Up? In the movie there’s this dog and when he’s talking then he’ll turn and say squirrel. That’s like me. I think I have adhd.

Student: you absolute tea drinking taxes liberal.

Student 1: if you see my cat run. She’s psycho. Student 2: Can I run her over with my tires?

Student 1: I will drive us through the gates of Shaw and into the water. Student 2: I hope we blow up underwater.

Student 1: Juxpositioning my rain boots with my lingerie. Student 2: those rhyme. Wait no they don’t!

Student: when he says he has a tenor recorder, but really we all know he only has a soprano recorder.

Student 1: you’re shoelaces are untied Student 2: I know. I hope I trip on it and die. Student 3:I felt that

Student: Every time I see a 9/11 ad I always pretend to have a panic attack.

Students chanting: Eat the rich. Eat the rich. Student 2: Rich, more like Bitch.

Student 1: UWU I’m going to lock you in my gas chamber Student 2: Primes flame thrower UWU

Student: I’m not Like other girls. I die on command

Studrnt1: Turkey bitch Student 2: she just called you a turkey bitch Student 1: yes you specifically are a Turkey bitch

Student: I will eat a bitches dick. Gobble gobble motherfucker.

Student 1: he opens my snaps in 10 seconds Student 2: that’s love

Student 1: My for you page is almost exclusively gays, theatre, and Percy Jackson at this point. Student 2: Those are all the same thing basically.

Student: I would have kicked so much ass freshman year if I wasn’t depressed.

Student: Navy blue is the white kid who thinks he can say the n word of the color world. He thinks that he’s black.

Student: Your nose hairs look fragrant. Would you mind if I took a taste?

Student: Boxed water tastes like what I imagine trader joes to taste like as a water.

Student: The water from Moana would be a gentle lover.

Student: we feast tonight brother. I found this in the trash can.

Student: Okay, but I cry myself to sleep BETTER than you.

Student: Can you Venmo me some titties please?

Girl holding hands with another girl: It’s a good thing we’re dating otherwise this’d be pretty gay.

Student 1: I just wanted to know if you knew Lincoln personally. Teacher: What? Student 2: We think you’re a time traveler.

Student 1: Sweetie, you’re having a breakdown over rocks. Student 2: I really hate that class!!!

Student: I love being the joker when we play chess

Student: are you saying that you finger fuck your eurethra?

Student 1: Honestly sometimes I just go onto that lofi hip hop radio, beats to relax/study to thing and just get into a fight with someone in the comment section. It’s fantastic. Student 2: Sometimes they do give good advice though, once I asked if I should ask out this guy and they responded with “No, guys ain’t shit” and I was like “aight you right, you right” Student 3: Sometimes it gets weird though, like once I went on and everyone was talking about how sex and money have become the new gods of our time, and how someday a future generation will die without ever seeing the light of the sun. Student 1: Okay but are they wrong though?

Student: It doesn’t matter if you’re a boy or a girl or something in between or something else entirely. A bitch is a bitch, and you sir, are a bitch.

Student 1: so last night I killed and area few of your kids, I hope you don’t mind. Student 2: nah I don’t really care.

Student: what size pussy your phone got?

Student 1: I listen to songs about Greek gods and being polyamorous Student 2: I listen to songs about... smashing.

Student: Motzarella cheese is the pastel pink of the cheese world.

Student: Someone who can bench press 200 has nothing on someone that can just double fist eat Costco sized pound blocks of cheddar cheese.

Student: I will drag you down to hell and make the devil give you therapy so help me. Student: You see, we don’t conjugate words in English, much less math.

Students: well the thing about gamers is, you know they’re good with their hands.

Student: Oka first of all, we’re all on the same planet, so that’s already real small. Then, what are the chances that we were born the same species, like I could have been born a platypus. I could have been a mealworm. Then the chances that we’re in the same country then the same state then the same school like damn. Imma just vibe now.

Student 1: You’re built like a baked bean Student 2: IDK why that hurt me so much but it did.

Student: If I don’t get a hug in the next 10 minus, I’m going directly to the pentagon to tell Trump to suck my dick.

[galaxy-girls-universe]

Excerpt

An excerpt from my story-in-the-works: currently titled “Elia’s Journey”

“Wow, this house is creepy,” Elia said, a moving box in her hands. Elia and her family had just gotten to their new home, an old house that had belonged to Elia’s grandparents. The house was large, with peeling gray paint on the outside walls. Elia’s parents had both just got new jobs in the town, and so they decided to just pack up and move to the house.

“Elle, why don’t you go inside and start to explore,” her mother said, unpacking the car. “It’s been a few years since you’ve been here, it might look a little different.” Her mom, Mrs. Johnson, tossed her a set of keys. 

Elia took the keys and unlocked the front door. The inside was (luckily) in much better shape than the outside. There were huge windows that let in a lot of sunlight, so it wasn’t dark. Since Elia’s parents would both be working full time, and it was the beginning of summer vacation, Elia would be spending a lot of time at the house alone. 

She shifted the box in her arms and walked up the stairs. Her parents had told her that her room would be one of the old guest bedrooms. Elia vaguely remembered where it was, she knew what it looked like and that it was upstairs, so she decided to go find it. 

The bedroom was the second door on the right. The floorboards creaked as Elia walked over them. When Elia walked into the room, the first thing that she noticed was how dusty everything was. Her parents were hiring people to come in and redo the house soon anyway, but since Elia would have to sleep in that room that night, she would have to sleep on dusty sheets in a dusty room. 

Unpacking took almost no time. Elia didn’t have much to unpack besides her clothes, because her family had either donated stuff, or it would be getting to their house next week, when the moving van got there. 

“Elia, come downstairs, please!” her dad called from downstairs. Elia took one last look at her new room and went downstairs. Her parents were unpacking a few of the boxes that they had brought with them in the car. “Elle, your mom and I have to work tonight, so we’ll probably be home pretty late,” Elia’s dad said, giving her an apologetic smile. “You’ll be okay here by yourself?”

Elia didn’t exactly want to stay in the creepy house alone at night, but nevertheless, she replied, “Sure Dad, It’ll give me time to explore the house.” it wasn’t exactly a lie. She wanted to get used to the house, but maybe she could do that by exploring it. 

“Okay, thanks Elle,” her mom said. “We can have dinner here, before we go.” Elia’s parents walked toward the living room to unpack a few more boxes. A few hours later, after they all had dinner, her parents left for work, leaving Elia in the new house alone.

 Elia slowly walked upstairs. As she walked down the hallway, she passed her parents’ bedroom, the bathroom, the second guest bedroom, before walking right into a rope. It was thin and frayed, and hung from the ceiling. Right above her was what looked like a trapdoor. Looking closer, she realized that it wasn’t a trap door at all, but the entrance to an attic. Elia didn’t even know that her grandparents had had an attic.

Would it be smart to go up there, in the dark, by myself? Elle wondered to herself. The smart answer to that was no. So, naturally, she decided to explore it anyway. Elia pulled the rope, and a ladder, that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, came down at her feet. Like her bedroom, there was a layer of dust coating the ladder. I sure hope this is safe. She thought, while climbing up.

The floorboards of the attic creaked as she stepped over them. Looking around, Elia couldn’t see much of anything, except two cardboard boxes, sitting right in the middle of the room. One was fairly small, about the size of a notebook. Looking inside the box, Elia realized that it was a notebook, an old-fashioned notebook, that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years, much like everything else in the house. Elia picked it up and opened it, but it was too dark to read it in the dark attic. 

She put the book off to the side, and turned her attention to the other box. It was long, maybe about 5 feet in length. Opening the box, Elia was very confused. Inside was a long wooden staff, with a purple crystal on the top. That can’t be a real crystal, thought Elia, it would be worth a ton, it wouldn’t be sitting up here in the attic collecting dust. Picking up both the notebook and the staff, Elia made her way back to her bedroom. She closed the attic door, but left the rope dangling where it was, just in case she wanted to explore up there again. 

Back in her room, where there was a lot more light, Elia got a better look at the objects that she had retrieved from the attic. The staff had intricate, swirly designs on the wooden part, and the purple crystal seemed to glow, but it was probably just light reflecting through it. The staff was about Elia’s height when she stood up next to it. Sitting back down on her bed, Elia placed the staff next to her and picked up the book.

The notebook had yellowing pages, no doubt that it was very old. Elia opened the book. The first page had a note: “This journal belongs to Brielle Jones” followed by words that looked like gibberish to Elia. “Ot peek ym sterces” she read aloud. Elia didn’t know of any Brielle Jones, so she assumed that It had been left here many years ago by the old owners, the people who had owned the house before her grandparents. Flipping through the pages, she found more notes, some in English, some in the odd gibberish. Stopping on one page, Elia looked at the title of the entry. It read, “Use to get back to eht rehto dlrow” followed by four lines of gibberish, “ot teg kcab ot eht rehto dlrow / daer eseht sdrow duola / di ekil ot nruter / cigam eb ym ediug” 

Elia squinted at the words, and then tried her best to pronounce it. “Ot teg kcab ot eht rehto dlrow?” The lights in her room flickered off and then back on again. Elia stopped and glanced around the room. Probably just the bad electricity, she thought to herself. Looking back to the page, she continued, “Daer eseht sdrow duola,” she muttered quietly, trying her best to pronounce the incomprehensible gibberish on the page. The lights flickered again, this time blinking on and off a few times before going back to normal. With a deep breath, Elia read off the last two lines, “Di ekil ot nruter! Cigam eb ym ediug!”

The lights went off completely, and the crystals on the staff started to glow. The ground opened up and Elia screamed as she fell down into a giant pit. She landed hard on a stone floor. The book lay open next to her, and the staff clattered on the ground a few feet away, no longer glowing. Sitting up, Elia was surprised to see that she had no broken bones, and other than a few scratches, she was perfectly fine. Her white shirt was ripped, and her leggings had dirt all over them. Her short black hair was all messed up, but she wasn’t hurt. She had thought a fall from that height would have killed her, but clearly she was still alive, so she decided to forget about it. 

Elia took in her surroundings. It looked like she was in a small, damp cave, but why there would be a small, damp cave in her basement, she did not know. Ahead of her, there was a light, which Elia assumed to be the mouth of the cave. Picking up both the book and the staff, she stumbled through the dark and out into the light. 

When she exited the cave, the first thing she noticed was how colorful everything was. And by colorful, she didn’t mean that everything was colored brightly, she meant that everything was colorful. It was like looking through a prism, where the light was all refracted, so everything had a rainbow tint around the edges. It was so jarringly bright that Elia had to use the book to shield her eyes. Something weird was going on. Maybe she had hit her head when she fell?

Outside of the cave looked like what one would expect of the outside of a cave in the middle of nowhere (except with a rainbow tint of course). It looked like a dense forest, with a large building off in the distance. But the building didn’t look normal either. To Elia, it looked somewhat like a cross between a castle, and an office building. Clearly, she was not back home anymore.

Pt. 2 

[theinfamousdoctorf]

So I’m finally back...

 Those few who know me personally will be aware that me and @theoverworldqueen have purchased a small rural house together. <3 It’s taken the better part of a year to make it happen and several months apart while I negotiated a transfer with my job and she logged work history in the place we were moving too for the mortgage requirements. [So we were apart for several more months then we‘d planned on. ;_: ]

 It took me almost two months to pack our household by myself, and several days to actually load the truck. The ‘friends’ who had promised to help us move faded away when they were actually needed, and I had to utilize some local kids who received cash and some friendly neighbors who were paid in furniture [that didn’t fit in the truck] and booze.

  When the day came to actually leave, I still had no volunteers to drive the truck because none of my friends could get time off work. [I had to drive my car with our eight cats inside.] The only people available to help were my parents.

The exact people I was moving to get the fuck away from.

 My mother refused to do any driving because the big truck was ‘too scary’. My pathetic excuse for a father, [from here on called jackass], would be doing all of the driving. Despite the fact that he’d just had several toes removed for diabetic reasons. My mother planned the route, later I realized she not only planned it with a paper atlas rather then choosing the fastest route via Google, [because she didn’t know how to use the app and wouldn’t ask for help] but also planned a very circuitous route in a vain attempt to avoid driving through any mountains. [Because they are also just too scary.]  So we start driving. A 26 foot Budget rental truck with a small horse trailer on it, and my car with me and the cats. Before we even got out of Texas, the horse trailer hit a bump and lost a wheel. It was then dragged about a mile while throwing an ocean of sparks where the metal edge was grinding against the asphalt. This was because it happened on a narrow highway with no breakdown lane. I barely managed to avoid getting hit with the wheel that flew off as well. We sat in a parking lot all night waiting for a tow driver who basically told us the king nut flew off and it was totaled. I had a partial mental breakdown and had to abandon most of the things I’d packed into the trailer. The truck was already stuffed up to the door and what little I saved was jammed in my car and thrown on top of everything else in the truck.   The cats were riding in a pair of pop-up zippered tents and were pretty mad by this point. My car stank of piss and fear pheromones.

 And then we drove, and drove and drove. Keep in mind that my destination was Washington state and I was coming from Galveston TX. It should have been a 2 and a half day drive with a stop to sleep each night. Around the third day I demanded to see the map and realized she had sent us across the widest part of Texas and New Mexico before turning north. There was a lot of arguing. Especially because I realized jackass was a terrible driver. So I had no choice but to watch helplessly as this colossal asshole drove a truck rented in my name, with nearly all my worldly goods inside, over every fucking curb, bumping it up and down and weaving all over the road. He hit a call box outside a Jack in the Box, he scraped a parked truck, he hit signs at more then one gas station and skirted far too close to the pumps with the back end of the truck. I went beyond the reasonable limits of human stress.

 The cats destroyed the zippers on the carriers and I was forced to just let them roam the car. First panting in the heat and then huddled freezing as we got further north. [I had them all in little safety vests and that kept them mostly calm, pro tip.]  On the fourth night jackass drove into a truck stop and then behind it. Up an unlit dirt road that said ‘dangerous blasting area authorized access only’. He then turned around several times and went back down to the truck stop where I blocked him with my car. He and my mother were having a screaming match because he wouldn’t explain what he was doing or why and wouldn’t stop doing donuts in the restricted area when she told him too.  I lost my shit. I screamed in his face and when he didn’t respond, I grabbed his horrible scraggy beard and then his throat and repeated myself. I took the keys and went to try and get some sleep in my car. [With so many animals in tow I couldn’t get a hotel room and really couldn’t leave the car unattended at all. So I hadn’t been able to properly shower in days. Plus I’d forgotten to bring a spare pair of shoes and my sandaled feet were red and freezing.]  The bastard has always tried to make my mother choose between me and him. He’s a psychotic manic depressive on a whole rainbow of medications. He’s a misogynist who really wanted a son, plus a racist and generally stingy and awful person. A running argument revolved around his insistence on cutting my lawn three times a week with the mower blade on the lowest setting so he was just killing anything green and kicking up dust. [My mother is pure enabler, always apologizing for his terrible behavior and gaslighting me like I’m over reacting.] He’s literally alienated so many people where I was living that I’ve lost out on jobs because he insists that I’m the terrible one and trash-talks me to everyone he meets.  So we finally get back on the road.

 In Wyoming I tried to get some sleep at a rest stop and someone hit my car and busted out a tail light. Several times we almost run out of gas because her planned route avoided any cities in case there was traffic. At this point I have a massive rash under my bra and just take it off.

 On the fifth night we arrive in a gas station in Idaho. I go to pee and come back outside to find jackass laying on the ground with three people hovering over him. I inform my mother that he fell and go back to my car. So emotionally dead at this point I don’t feel anything. 

 I am informed that jackass has broken his hip.

 I’ve spent most of my life praying for him to die, so that part doesn’t touch me. The part that ripped my heart out was that my mother told me that I’m now ‘on my own’. She is going to the hospital with him. She left me in a freezing parking lot with eight cats in a car and a giant moving truck with all my things in it.  Terrified and heartbroken I call my girlfriend Lie. She is eight hours away and leaving now to come rescue me. She’s bringing our friend Ashley as well. So I huddle in the car with the cats and try to sleep. After several hours I get a text from my mother telling me to bring her luggage and such to the hospital. At this point I’m furious. I tell her I will not do that. She says I will. I stop responding.  In the morning my rescuers arrive and we begin the long final limp over the mountains.  I get several more messages threatening me, trying to shame me for just ‘moving on without them’ and ‘not caring if your father dies’.  I was instructed to deal with my own problems like an adult. So that’s what I did. At that point the rental truck needed to be returned and I hadn’t even arrived yet. My job was waiting on me to show up the next day for orientation, and she’d basically wasted all the time I’d budgeted for unloading the truck. There was no way in hell I was going anywhere to give either of them anything.

 But we did finally get here. The Budget guy sent me his ex-wife who happily took some cash in exchange for unloading the truck with me, and we finally got rid of the thing. Unfortunately my car overheated from all the punishment it took and it’s currently non-functional. My job gave me a little extension so I’m using the time to get our household set up again.  My Etsy shop [https://www.etsy.com/shop/PatchworkLaboratory ] is still on vacation for the moment because the previous tenant didn’t like mail and just didn’t have a mailbox, but it should be up and running again soon. My other site is still good though if you’d like some funky cloth and want to throw a few dollars towards me fixing my car. [ https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/infamousdoctorf] I’ve got a paypal attached to nightshade518@yahoo.com as well. It’s going to be hard financially to keep all the bills paid, but I just couldn’t stand being near my abusive family anymore.

In conclusion. Take your giant cockroaches, fire ants, heat waves, and hurricanes; and go fuck yourself Galveston. Have fun with my awful relatives.

WA is home.

[littlebitoffanfic]

Follow The Rules - part 2

Fandom: Texas Chainsaw Massacre Characters: Thomas, Luda Relationship: Thomas/reader Part one: http://littlebitoffanfic.tumblr.com/post/183194634969/follow-the-rules The meal that evening was one of the most awkward Luda had ever sat at. You hadn’t joined them. In fact, once she got you back inside, you hadn’t left your room. Everyone had tried, but none succeeded. Luda had left most her food, as had Thomas. He was the first to stand, taking the plate Luda had put out for you and venturing up stairs. She followed him, out of curiosity and concern. Peaking around the corner of the hallway at the top of the stairs, she watched as he knocked four times on your door in two quick knocks, a pause then two more. It was a signal to you to show who as was your door. but he didn’t get an answer. Thomas tried again, this knock sounding more desperate than the previous. But still nothing. He placed the plate on the floor before giving a final knock and walking away. Luda was quick to descent the stairs before her son came down and went straight to the basement. The following days did not improve at all. You were there to do your chores so long as Thomas didn’t enter the room. If he did, you would start to shake and back away from him as you shrink back into yourself. This would be followed by your quick exit to your room. Thomas never pushed you, a few times, he would follow you after you had left but never close enough that you might feel he was chasing you. Other times, he would just stare after you. Luda had walked past you room late one night and heard sobbing which only seemed to continue as the days turned to weeks. As things settled, Ludas watchful eyes picked something up. You continued about your duties as much as you could, and after the first few encounters with Thomas, you didn’t seem as scared as you used to be. You seemed… Sad. She shook her head at the thought firstly. Of course you would be sad because you were scared. But then she saw your eyes follow Thomas as he walked past the kitchen window one day. You blinked back tears before retreating back to your room. Thomas tried desperately to win back y our affections, harder than he had before. He would pile things outside your door, but they were never taken inside by you. The rejection hit Thomas hard as he tried to find something, anything, you might take into your room. Luda watched with sad eyes as Thomas scooped up your plate from the table which you were absent from once again. She followed at a distance as normal, watching Thomas pause outside your door, as if he was scared of the result he was sure to get. There was only one lock on your room and you had the only key but never seemed to lock it, so anyone could just easily enter, but they didn’t out of respect. Luda had considered breaking this rule just to speak to you but decided against it. An idea came into her mind and she walked into the hallways, her presence making Thomas jump slightly. She smiled and took the plate from his hands, moving him to the side so he would be out of sight from your door. Thomas, although confused, obeyed. You sat on your bed, your book open in your lap but the page hadn’t turned for the best part of an hour. Ever since that day in the garden, you had decided it was best just to stay in your room where it was safe. They tried to entice you out, you retreated further into your room and yourself. In truth, you were heartbroken as well as terrified. The knock on the door which drew you out of your thoughts was not one which you were use to at this time of the day. It was softer, in three short taps that you instantly knew was Luda. But it was normally Thomas who would try come to see you at this time. He would bring you the dinner you had neglected and leave it outside for you. Sometimes you would eat it and sometimes not. Curiosity drew you off the bed to answer the door. What if something had happened? Pulling the door open, you saw Luda standing with your dinner in her hands. You couldn’t just close the door in her face, so you took the plate from her with a small ‘thank you’ for her troubles as you retreated back into the room. “[y/n]?” Luda held her hand out, stopping your door from closing. You let out a soft sign, knowing you weren’t going to be as lucky. “Im worried about you.” These words took you by complete surprise. You expected to be chastised for your behaviour, for her to tell you that you to snap out of it. But for her to be worried? Placing the plate down on your side table, you walked back to the door, your head tilted to the side. You just couldn’t understand. “Why?” you asked, baffled. she bit down on her lower lip slightly, obviously unsure how to word her worries. She glanced to the side, probably looking to the stairs before looking back to you. “I want to help you, but I don’t know what you need, darling.” She says, her words soft and sweet. “I don’t need anything.” You shake your head, deliberately misunderstand her so you could shrink back into your room. “you do. Tell me.” Luda says, her voice filled with a mothering love which you had only heard on the television when you were younger. You look up at her, your eyes flooding with tears of hurt from a long time ago. Before you came to the Hewitts, before you were able to be yourself and laugh and smile. From a darker time which had flooded back to you that day in the garden. “I-I-“ You stuttered a little, unable to believe that four small words from her were able to break you down completely. Blinking back your tears, you looked around the room behind you, searing for something to ground you. Your eyes fell on a small jewellery box that Thomas had given you a while back and was filled with rings, bracelets and necklaces. You genuinely believed he cared for you, perhaps even loved you. But your perceptions were now warped as you tried to understand your own feelings. Every piece of jewellery in that box you could remember him giving to you. A few he had presented to you in person and you had accepted them with a smile, your heart fluttering. From the first few gifts and soft glances at him, you knew you could easily fall in love with him. You allowed yourself to get lost with him, to forget about everything going on outside and just focus on him. Worst of all, you allowed yourself to trust him completely. “[y/n]?” Luda called your name softly, bringing you back into the room. You realised tears were flooding down your cheeks as you looked back to her. Her eyes were swimming with concern as she looked at you. “I just, I didn’t realise it would be that easy for him to hurt me.” You finally say, dropping her gaze as you decide to tell her, hoping that if she understood, she might give you a little more room. “I don’t understand why people find it so easy to try hurt me. My own family didn’t have much of a problem with it. But I always just said it was because they didn’t love or care for me. But, I genuinely thought he might love me one day. I couldn’t imagine doing that to him. To anyone who I care for. But im broken anyway.” You look at the floor, taking a moment to control your breath before looking back up at Luda. Her mouth opened and closed, reminding you of a fish in a somewhat humorous way. “That day, I don’t think he could have… I mean, we always taught him to go after someone who escaped. I don’t think he would have hurt you. I don’t know if he could.” She presses a hand over her own heart and you saw tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to find out the answer.” You walk over to the table and pick up the plate. “Im sorry, but Im not really hungry.” She takes the plate from your hands with a nod. “Ill pop it in the fridge in case you want it later.” She nods, her own voice breaking as she goes to turn away. But something in her breaks and she quickly places the plate on the ground before wrapping her arms around you and holding you close. You couldn’t help but let out a soft sob as you broke down in her arms. You didn’t know of the grown man who was crying in the hallway as well. -----time skip -------------- You walked up the stairs to your bedroom. It was late, but at about 11pm, you had been hungry and what Luda had brought you up had looked very appetising. So you went down stairs and heated it in the microwave. The whole house sounded like it was asleep, apart from Thomas who was in the basement. There was a few victims down there at the moment and fresh meat so he was hard at work. You had heard some movement from upstairs as you ate at the table but assumed it was Hoyt or Luda going to the bathroom. You went back to your room, yawning as you tried to figure out how you were going to handle the next few days. As you passed the small pile of tributes, you saw something sparkle in the small light of the hallway. A bracelet. This one had your birth stone in the centre with beautiful patterns around the outside of it. You picked up the trinket, examine it in your hand. Thomas must have polished it up because there wasn’t a hint of blood or dirt on it. Your eyes moved back to the pile which grew every day. Books, flowers, pictures, candy and even the odd bit of clothing. He really was trying. a soft smile dawned your lips as you slipped on the bracelet and clipped it around your wrist to secure it. You were sure when he saw you at breakfast the next morning wearing it, he would be pleased. In the morning, you would bring everything into your room, effectually ending the barrier between you. Because even though you were scared of the giant, and even though he could break you in a heartbeat, you loved him. And how ever fucked up it was, in your strange world, it made sense. Smiling, you went into your room. Maybe you could give him something in return? There had been a group here not too long ago and one of the guys had had a necklace. It had a thicker and longer chain and was pretty plain but you were sure Thomas would love it. Going to your wardrobe, you kept all the ‘throwaway’ jewellery (any that Luda doesn’t keep or Thomas doesn’t give to you) in a box so you could sort through them and figure out what ones are worth money. Pulling the box out, the one you were looking for was sitting right on the top so you picked it out and put everything else back. You would need to give it a clean up, make it presentable. But he would appreciate it all the same. You sat at your desk which doubled as your vanity with a mirror in the centre, about to get started when something in the reflection caught your eye. Something that made your heart jump into your throat as you almost screamed. Under your bed, was a man with a knife. It was the glisten of the knife that had caught your eye in the mirror. He was bloodied, obviously one of the victims. But how did he escape? How did he get that kitchen knife? He was looking at the door, obviously trying to figure out how to escape. you dropped your eyes, pretending you hadn’t seen him as you pulled open your draw and grabbed a key from inside. the key to your door. Trying to hid your shaking hand, you picked up an empty glass and shook it slightly, showing there was only a droplet of water before getting to your feet. The ruse was to make him think you were going to get a drink. Your window was locked as you didn’t like the idea of something getting into your room at night through it, so you could lock him inside you bedroom as you went for help. Leaving the room, you made sure to keep the bed in your peripheral vision so you could see if he decided to attack, but he didn’t. you got out and quickly locked the door. From there, you only had a few moment because he will realised you had locked him in. Turing on your heel, you bolted for the basement. Sliding through the hallway and down the stairs, you were terrified as tears flooded your eyes once again. “Thomas?!” You cried out as you all but fell down the stairs to his domain, only able to keep yourself up by holding onto the rail. He appeared from the darkness the second he heard your voice. “Theres a man in my room! He-hes hiding under my bed.” You cried out, your voice shaking as you held out the key. Thomas looked up the stairs and you saw the urgency in his eyes. He walked up to you, reaching out a hand and cupping your cheek in a move that made you freeze up. A few months ago, you might have winced for fear of him hitting you, but you didn’t. the pad of his thumb swiped over your cheek, silently asking you. “Im fine. I don’t think he knows I saw him.” You nod, bringing your right hand up to cover his hand. The feeling of his warm skin against your own offered you a comfort you had barely known in your life. you looked up at him to see his eyes had left yours and were now fixed on the bracelet on your right wrist. The one he had given you. The moment was short lived as the sound of glass breaking ripped through he silent house. You jumped, looking up at the ceiling in panic. he was getting out the window. But Thomas was on it. He left your side to grab his chainsaw and moved past you to chase the man. You looked up the stairs after him, debating what to do. The picture of the knife in his hands flashed through your mind as you realised you hadn’t told Thomas that he had a weapon. You had to warn him! Starting to run up the stairs after him, you saw a hook on the foot of one of the stairs. It was one which the chain had snapped but was still about the size of your hand. And what if you ran into the man before Thomas did. You needed something to defend yourself with, especially because now he knew you were the one that locked him in. Picking it up, you made your way quickly up the stairs and into the kitchen where the back door was open. You paused, fear flooding through your body once again. The last time you had ran out of the back door, your perfect life had fallen apart But he could get hurt and badly at that. You didn’t care what happened to you, you just needed to make sure he was okay. taking a deep breath, you ran out of the door and after the two men. you heard the chainsaw roar to life and followed the sound, keeping a sharp eye out in case Thomas saw you first and mistake you for the escapee. There was some loud screams and cries which you followed, hoping that Thomas made short work of the man before you got there. But as you stumbled into a small clearing, you saw the man standing over Thomas who was on the ground. There was blood dripping from the knife although it looked to only be about an inch or so. Thomas clutched at his thigh, leaning up on his forearm but no idea about the man standing over him, preparing to stab him in the neck. The chainsaw had been dropped about 3 meters away from them, but was till moving and active. Running, you could only do one thing. Raising the hook, you swung it and caught his forearm of the arm with the knife. It easily shredded through the flesh and kept him from bring the knife down onto Thomas. The man let out a howl of pain as you used all your might to pull him to the side. But he came much easier than you expected and the two of you fell to the ground with a thud. You let go of the hook so you could catch yourself. He had let go of the knife and it now lay about a foot away from you both. the second you realised you were lying by him, it was a struggle to get the upper ground. His hands were round your throat, not caring about the hook that was dangling from his arm right now. You let out a scream but he pressed his thumb into your throat as he started to chock you. You wristed under him. Your hands grabbed at his own before your eyes fell on the hook. You grabbed onto it and pulled, making him scream out in pain. He pulled back for a second before using his ‘good’ arm and smacking you across the face so hard it made you bash your head back against the hard earth beneath you. You lay there for a moment, a sharp whining noise in your skull as you gasped for air. Your head snapped to the man, who was staring in horror at the hook that had ripped flesh from his arm. But then his eyes darted to the chainsaw. Thomas, who was trying to get to his feet and was staring at you, was further away than he was from the machine and he would surely get it quicker with the adrenaline coursing through his body. He started to drag himself to the machine. You scrambled for the knife, grabbing it. Scrambling to your feet and ignoring the dizziness and buzzing noises, you ran for the man, bringing the knife down and straight into his right shoulder. He screamed out, writhing but it was enough to give Thomas the time he needed to get to his feet and charge for the chainsaw. One back in his hands, he turned and stalked up to the man. You moved to the side but lost your footing and fell to the grounds. Your head was spinning and the pain from your throat, cheek and head made you want to be sick. But you knew to get back. Thomas bought the chainsaw down and carved through the mans flesh like butter, starting right in the centre of his back and digging it deeper and deeper. The man only screamed for a few seconds before the chainsaw made short work of him. you watched only out of curiosity. Normally, you might have looked away, but you were in a strange state. Thomas straightened up and turned to you. You felt the pang of fear. What if he thought you were trying to run? Or was angry with you? But before your fears could simmer for even a moment, he turned the chainsaw off and let it drop to the ground beside the body before limping over to you and collapsing beside you He raised a shaking hand to your cheek, the tips of his fingertips gently brushing the red mark which would surely bruise. You flinched, only because your skin hurt. Thomas immediately pulled his hand back. You could see the blood on his thigh, and yet he seemed more concerned with you. Looking up at him, you saw the concern and fear in his eyes as he gazed at you. you couldn’t help but seek comfort from him. Moving forward, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and buried your face in his neck, clinging to him. His arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you so you were straddling his good thigh and keeping you as close as possible. you couldn’t speak, all your words ended up as incoherent babbles which Thomas could occasionally make out words like ‘worried’ and ‘scared’ mixed in with his name. Eventually, you pulled back, looking down at his bad leg. You reached out, pulling back the ripped clothes to see the wound. It didn’t look too bad but you could see several scared areas around it from previous injuries. “Do you want me to run back and get Hoyt?” You ask, looking to Thomas. If he couldn’t walk, you could get the others to come help. But Thomas shook his head. “What about the body?” You ask, looking at the mangled corpse. Another no. It would be fine. your cheeks were bright pink as you got to your feet at the intimate position you and Thomas had just been in. but it felt so… right. He was a big guy, no doubt about that, but the way his arms engulfed you, offered you security and safety, made your head spin. At least in a different way from being hit earlier. You went and grabbed the knife and hook, easily removing them from the lifeless body. You held them out a little, unsure what to do with them. you didn’t know Thomas had even got up until he took them from you. He hooked the hook onto a latch on his belt and chucking the knife back towards the body. That could be dealt with later. You understood why though. It would be hard enough getting the chainsaw back to the house, never mind a sharp knife carried by two people who weren’t in the best shape. he picked up his chainsaw as you stared at the body. The only thing that bought you back was Thomas as he reached out and place his hand on the small of your back. You didn’t jump, or back away, instead turning to look at him. “Could, could I stay in with you?” you ask, your voice shaking both from nerves and the pain in your throat. You saw Thomas’ eyes widen behind his hand, and you were sure he might have been blushing, so you rushed to explain yourself. “I just don’t want to be alone. The thought that that man was under my bed, and what he nearly did to you. And my windows broken.” You dropped his gaze, your cheeks blushing furiously. But he placed a finger under your chin and drew your eyes back to his own and nodded. You smiled slightly, whispering a soft thank you before allowing him to guide you away from the body. You asked if he needed you to carry the chainsaw but he refused. You did keep close to him, following him through the trees which he seemed to know like the back of his hands. Before long, you were back at the house, stepping over the small fence. All the lights were on in the house and they were clearly in distress. You froze. “What if they think I did all this?” You whispered, stepping backwards. Thomas turned to you, shaking his head as he took your hand firmly in his own, pulling you closer. He would protect you. But your fears seemed foolish as you entered the house. It would seem everyone knew what had happened to some extent. they had woken to the smash of the window, then looked out to see the man running, followed by Thomas followed by you. Luda gushed over you both, hugging you as she cling to her sons arm. She saw to Thomas first with good reason. You caught your reflection in a mirror which confirmed your suspicions of the bruising on your neck but the red hand mark on your cheek would hopefully go down soon. You explained what had happened, about seeing the man under your bed in the mirror and rushing to tell Thomas but forgetting about the knife which was why you went after them. Hoyts hand came down a little harder than he intended on your back, telling you that you did a good job. He told you they had kicked your door in and apologies for it, but you said it was fine. You understood why. You didn’t know if there were maybe more in there and no one knew Thomas had killed the second last one that afternoon. No one seemed to question where you would be sleeping that evening until you went to your room to change and Thomas followed you to make sure you were okay. He waited in the hallway as you appeared in fresh PJs and asking if he needed you to bring covers or pillows, but he shook his head. Thomas normally didn’t use covers in the Texas heat and he had plenty of pillows. Hoyt flashed Luda a wink that you didn’t see as you followed Thomas to his own room which was in the basement. You had never been in his room before. It was a small room, off to the side through the ‘sewing’ room and separate from the work area with a door. It only consisted of a rather large bed, covers, a small wardrobe and armchair in the corner. You weren’t thrilled about him having to sleep down here constantly. Hoyt had mentioned that he and Monty could fix the window in your room tomorrow. If your window hadn’t have been broken, you would have asked Thomas to join you in your own room. but this would do for now. you waited for Thomas to walk to one side and you went to the opposite, crawling under the covers which smelled fresh and like him. As you both lay down on your own sides, you couldn’t help but feel safe as his scent filled your nostrils. you turned away as Thomas changed quickly until you felt the bed move as he sat down again and came under the covers. Opening your eyes, you glanced over to him, seeing he was still wearing the mask. “You can take it off. It cant be comfy to sleep in.” you roll to your side, propping yourself up slightly. You hadn’t seen him without the mask on yet, but you hoped the new found bond might persuade him. And it seemed your hopes were right. He sat up and, after deliberating for a moment, started to undo the bindings of his mask. As it fell away, you sat up to get a better look. his eyes fell to the covered at the end of the bed, allowing you to gaze upon his features for the first time. but he didn’t look nearly as bad as you might have thought. From what Luda had said and the constant masks, you were sure it would have been worse than the face you had in front of you now. Sure, the tip of his nose was gone and his cheeks had chunks missing with a few small bit from his lips, but you were pleasantly surprised because you could see how handsome the features that remained were. Scooting closer, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Thomas immediately closed his eyes, reviling in the feeling of his lips against his skin. You took the opportunity to raise your hand to his jaw and gently turning his face towards yours. His eyes fluttered open to stare at you in surprise. In his eyes, you could see he utterly adored you. It was obvious to you now. His eyes darted down to your lips but quickly away, as if he knew it would be too much to ask of you or a dream that could never be. But you were more than happy to indulge both him and yourself. Leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss to his lips. You could feel his jaw clench underneath your finger tips as his hand came up to cup your good cheek. You pulled back as you let out a yawn. It was late and you were exhausted. You cuddle closer to him and he wrapped an arm around you and lay back in the bed. You rested your head on his chest, using him as your pillow. You entwined your own hand with his other before drifting off to the sound of his heart beat.

[coffee-n-some-cream]

The Witch

Agnes lived at the edge of the woods. She could step out her front door and within thirty seconds and a few decisive strides, she would be surrounded by trees. They were mossy and dense and often maple. Her dad had moved them out to the middle-of-nowhere Ohio to get away from the world. He only ever drove the family out into what could be called a town to go to Sunday Mass and visit his enormous Catholic family. They lived so far away from anything that Dad might call modern or secular that their roads were dirt and their neighbors were Amish. Dad said that was good - the world was bad and material and there, in nature, there would be no distractions or nosy neighbors.

“We can live the right way,” he told her as he carried her plastic tub of Barbies into her new room. “The way God intended.”

But Agnes lived at the edge of the woods.

If you’ve ever stepped into a forest you know what’s in there. You know how the flesh of tree and earth smell, you know how the air tastes over your tongue. You know there’s magic in there. If you’ve ever stepped into a forest at night you know what’s in there. It’s a fey word, the magic swirling, teeming in the dark, alive and out to play when the Sun’s away. 

That’s when Agnes went picking.

Picking? Yes, picking. Picking whatever the woods offered her that night, under the guidance of the moon. At first, she just picked things off the ground - leaves, dead beetles, rocks, twigs, moss - and put them into a muddy heap, which she would stir into a murky slop with her hands. “Potion, potion, feel the motion,” she would whisper because it rhymed, not because it meant anything. Then, she picked things for her Box of Treasures. Her Box of Treasures was a gift from her Auntie Sybil. It was ancient and wooden and creaked like a haunted house, yet it was lined with velvet and had a latch that Agnes swore was made of pure gold. In her Box of Treasures were many a woodland picking. A mossy pinecone, a fossil of a worm, a shiny obsidian arrowhead, and on one special midnight excursion, a tiny skull with sharp teeth. She had found it just before dawn and rushed it back home, cradling it to her chest before daylight could touch it.

She brought it straight to her big brother Sebastian, who never ever tattled on her about anything, but knew a lot of things. He examined it in the soft light of his reading lamp and said they were the remains of a baby possum. Agnes poked at the skull and whispered “sharp teeth” like it was a secret.

“Yeah,” Sebastian whispered back. “Just a baby, but still. Sharp teeth.”

That skull was the centerpiece of her Box of Treasures.

The Box of Treasures stayed safe under her bed until her Aunt Sybil came to visit. Agnes asked if Auntie Syb could tuck her into bed, please, then slid the little box out and showed her all the treasures - the pinecones and arrowheads and little dead things. Aunt Sybil cooed and marvelled at them all, holding them carefully with her long, dark nails. “You don’t think they’re gross? You don’t think it’s gross that I pick them?”

Aunt Sybil chucked. “Oh, sweet pea. You’re only doing what’s natural.” Then she said, “I have a present for you,” and gave her a little book. She kissed Agnes’s forehead and forgot to have her say her prayers.

When Agnes turned 10 her treasure box swelled full, and she started picking plants. She knew what was poison ivy and what wasn’t - leaves of three, and all that. She knew some plants could hurt you. But she also knew that some plants could help you. It said so in Aunt Sybil’s book. She wandered out into the springtime woods after her parents had fallen asleep, dropping from her bedroom window like a cat, and picked yarrow, burdock, vervain. Aunt Sybil’s book called them Seven Year’s Love, Beggar’s Buttons, and Enchanter’s Plant. She picked tree leaves and tree bark along with them and bore piles of them home in her pockets. Then she climbed on top of the counter so she could reach the fridge, stole the bottle of vodka, and shoved everything together in jars. She hid them away somewhere dark and cool and only took them out every few weeks to shake them.

Neither of Agnes’s parents had ever known about her nightly pickings, had never even touched one of her treasures. But her mother was bound to open up the linen closet at some point, and when she was greeted by a column of plant-filled jars instead of spare blankets, she called Agnes from her room and asked her what they were.

“Tinctures,” Agnes answered mildly. “I make them. They’re good for you. Just don’t drink them.”

“Where’d you find all these plants…?”

“The woods gave them to me.”

Her mom gave her a funny look and pulled a dandelion tincture down from the shelf to examine it. “Tinctures. Alright. Where’d you learn this stuff?”

Agnes fetched Aunt Sybil’s book. “It says they’re good for stress and inflammation and aches and sleep and all kinds of things.” She didn’t tell her mom that she’d been picking long before she had the book. She certainly didn’t tell her that those plants were all swimming in stolen vodka.

Mom just eyed the book, then the jars, then shrugged, bemused. “I guess it’s just like what Grandma does with her pickles and berries, huh?”

“It’s different.” Agnes’s dad had been listening to their conversation from the kitchen table.

Mom just shrugged again, put the jar back, and ruffled Agnes’s hair. But when Agnes looked at him, her father watched her over his morning cereal with something hard and dangerous in his eyes.

Agnes is still 10 when her dad moves them to Montana. They arrive on Good Friday, crossing the state line to be greeted by a hilltop adorned by three, dead, lonely trees, standing all in a row. The tree in the middle was the tallest. 

“Oh, look! It looks like the crucifixion!” Mom plants her hand against the window with a happy little gasp.

“That’s a good sign,” Dad responds.

Those were the last trees they saw for another half hour. When they finally arrived at their quaint 2-bedroom house, Agnes went hunting for trees. They had a lot of land, just like last time. But this land was all plains, miles upon miles of tall grass and howling wind. Agnes realized it was called “Big Sky Country” for a reason. Nothing grows strong enough to blot out the sun here, she thought, and hated it. She hated Montana. She hated her dad a little bit too.

Her dad had transplanted them to the middle-of-nowhere Montana. Their neighbors were so far away Agnes never met them. The only sign they existed was the occasional cow that made its way onto their land. Dad said that was good. They were away from the world, away from neighbors and even family. This was the way he wanted them to live.

“Isn’t it lonely out here?” Agnes asked him, soft and unsure as she carried her Box of Treasures to her new room.

“Nope.” He squinted down at her box, but didn’t say anything about it. “We can live the right way out here. The way God intended.”

Agnes stared out her window at the hollow sky and the endless yellow grass and felt smaller than she ever had. She didn’t go picking anymore. There was nothing to pick, she was sure, no forest to offer her treasures or plants or even those mud potions. She would go for walks out back with her brother, bearing the unobstructed heat of the sun. The sky was bigger than it had ever been, and the earth was at its mercy. She felt something in her soul shrivel and fold up and become so small and dead that she wanted to pluck it out of her and store it in her Box of Treasures. 

Sebastian and Agnes started school a month later, and for the first time, they went to the same one. It was small enough that the elementary, middle, and high school were all together in one building. That meant they rode the bus together. They stood at the end of their winding, gravel driveway and watched as the roaring yellow monster came barrelling toward them, kicking up dust as it went. Agnes tugged on Sebastian’s sleeve and said, in a quiet voice, “Can I sit with you?”

Sebastian put his arm on her shoulder and nodded, then guided her onto the bus when it came to a screeching stop in front of them. He was the only one who knew where Agnes used to go at night, so he was the only one who noticed when she stopped. He was the only one who noticed how she slept a lot more than she needed to, and how she hated to open the blinds.

It was on the big, ugly, smelly, noisy Huntley School bus that they met Joseph Akins. Nobody liked Joseph Akins. Agnes could tell by the tired looks on everyone’s faces when he started talking, which he did often. Within a few days of experiencing Joseph Akins, Agnes knew why. Joseph was mean. He said and did things nobody should do. He sat behind Agnes and Sebastian and talked to his friends about things that had Sebastian fishing out his headphones and putting them over Agnes’s ears. He tripped kids as they got on the bus regularly. Not the same kids every time, random kids. And Joseph Akins decided that Sebastian was going to be his anger dump. An anger dump is a person upon which another person dumps their anger.

Joseph called Sebastian things that made his ears go red. He poured milk on his sandwich when he found him in the cafeteria. He tried to trip him every day, and when he couldn’t he would shove him. He shoved him when he got on the bus, when he got off the bus, when he saw him in the hallway. One time, Agnes stayed home sick and Sebastian came home with a completely red face and tears in his eyes. He told her Joseph had sat next to him, held him down, and spat a giant loogie in his ear. Agnes hated Joseph Akins. She hated Joseph Akins for years and years, through elementary and middle school.

Then, when he hit 9th grade, Sebastian got asked to the Winter Formal by the only openly gay kid in his class and, in a moment that made Agnes’s stomach go cold, smiled and looked like he wanted to say yes. It had happened right in front of the bus at the end of the school day, and everyone with ears and eyes knew about it. Agnes shook when she saw the look on Joseph Akin’s face. There was something hard and dangerous in his eyes. That was the day Joseph called Sebastian a fag, his voice heavy and vicious. He kicked Sebastian in the ass when he and Agnes stood to off the bus.

Agnes gripped his sleeve as they walked down the driveway toward home and said, “If you don’t want mom and dad to see you cry, cry now. Before we get to the house.” And Sebastian did. But he was still crying by the time they got to the front door, so Agnes sat on the porch with him and held his hand until he quieted down.

She hated this place. She hated everything about it. She hated the unfettered sun and the big sky and the mean boys. She hated driving half an hour to go to Sunday Mass. She hated that there were no treasures. She hated that there were no trees. Back in Ohio, Agnes was surrounded by trees - it was good and sweet, and so was she. Here in Montana, barren, wide open Montana, she was not sweet. She was bitter and dry and coarse as the sun-beaten earth.

She let her brother rest his tear-streaked cheek against her shoulder and gazed around her. The plantlife there was not as varied and ripe for picking as in Ohio. It was shriveled and folded, angry and tough, but maybe that was what she needed. She knew some plants could help you. But she also knew that some plants could hurt you. It said so in Aunt Sybil’s book. She decided to poison Joseph Akins.

Agnes convinced her mom to take the family on a hike through the nearest forest, which was a forty-minute drive away. It was beautiful and lush and sweet, but Agnes had no heart for it. Halfway through the hike, when her mom pulled out sandwiches and brought everyone to a stop, Agnes lied.

“I need to pee.” She turned to wander into the forest. The branches and twigs and leaves and all the air in between greeted her like an old friend, and she patted the bark of a tree as she passed. “I know it’s been a while,” she said, almost like an apology. “It wasn’t up to me.” She stood still, breathed, and waited for the woods to offer her something. Offer one of her potions, her treasures, her tinctures.

She cast her eyes around and they landed on a berry bush by an old sycamore tree. She went to it and started shoving the leaves and berries into her pockets. She smiled with a forgotten, childish glee when she saw what it was. Belladonna was the proper name. It could be used to make medicine. Aunt Sybil’s book called it Death’s Herb. Agnes knew how to turn it into something awful. Just awful.

Sebastian was pale and shaking the day Joseph got sent to the hospital over lunch. Joseph had stood up, face slack and dark, and started puking his guts out onto the cafeteria table. His shaking fingers clutched at his neck, chest, stomach as he tried to breathe through all the vomit. The vomit was an odd color. It had red chunks in it. By the time an ambulance came, Joseph was unconscious and his girlfriend was sobbing. 

“It was awful, Aggie.” Sebastian whispered. “He looked awful.”

Agnes shrugged. “God was bound to get him for all his bullshit someday.” Sebastian just frowned at her cursing.

No one ever knew that Agnes had poured Death’s Herb in his juice. No one except Aunt Sybil, who she called one night in a fit of guilt. “Oh, sweet pea,” Aunt Sybil’s smooth, soothing voice said from the phone speaker, “you did only did what was natural.”

Agnes never poisoned anyone again. She never told Sebastian that she poisoned Joseph Akins for him, though sometimes when it was brought up Sebastian looked at her kind of funny. But she did move back to Ohio when she graduated college. And she did visit her Aunt Sybil every other week. And she did find a cute little place at the edge of the woods. And yes, she did wander into the woods and night and go picking. She only did what was natural.

[spn-rewrites]

01x08 (part 3)

Season One Episode Eight: Bugs

Summary: truth blombs are dropped and old legends were told

Word Count: 3.8k

part 1 part 2 part 4

Matt brought you to a clearing where the trees towered high above you and there was a buzzing noise all around you that got louder and louder the further you got into the clearing. Matt stopped and looked at the trees, amazed at what he saw. “I’ve been keeping track of the insect populations. It’s. um, part of an AP science class.”

“You two are like peas in a pod,” Dean deadpanned, pursing his lips and raising his brows at you like he just made a really good joke but you just rolled your eyes at him and shook your head. You get it, you really do because he was always loyal to his dad and that was his downfall and Sam not being loyal to his dad made Dean angry.

“Would you quit?” You asked him. Dean shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly as Sam glared at him before turning his attention back to the boy. He let out a sigh and you nudged Dean with your arm, pleading for him to stop with your eyes.

“What’s been happening?” Sam asked Matt, who was in awe at what was going on around you but you could only imagine how many bugs were in this one area, crawling around under your feet.

“Well, a lot. From bees to earthworms, uh, beetles. You name it. It’s like they’re congregating here.” That sent shivers down your spine and you got goosebumps just thinking about it. Dean wrapped his arm around your shoulders when he noticed your worried expression.

“Why?” Sam inquired, looking at the treetops and seeing all the bees humming around.

“I don’t know,” Matt admitted, shrugging his shoulders. You wanted to look around and investigate but you were really getting the creeps being out here so you let the boys do all the work.

“What’s that?” Sam asked, looking at Matt and then to Dean after noticing a giant pile right in the middle of the clearing. From where you stood, it looked like dirt but it looked fresh and it looked like someone had been there. Something was happening. Neither of them moved, they just stood there, starring, deciding who was going to go investigate and since Sam took the giant man-hole that Dustin fell in, Dean decided to take this one.

He unwrapped himself from you and headed towards the pile. The closer you got, the more you realized that it was earthworms. A great big pile of earthworms. You stopped a few feet away, not daring to get any closer to it but the boys kept going. Dean tapped the top of the pile with his foot and it squished, hundreds of earthworms falling into the ground and creating a hole. You shivered at the sight.

Dean grabbed a twig off of the ground and started digging around in the hole until there was clinking. He was hitting something hard and he repeatedly hit it to make sure that it was real. “There’s something down there.”

Dean looked at his brother but Sam just stood back and Dean stuck his hand down the hole, the last thing you would have ever done but he did it like a champ and he coaxed whatever it was out with his voice. When he grabbed a hold of what was making the noise and pulled it out, you were shocked. “Oh my god,” whispered, mostly out of disgust. A skull. A dirty, earthworm covered, skull.

+

Dean volunteered to fish around the hole for as many bones as he could get and you put them all in a box and packed up the Impala. Dean called and made the earliest appointment he could at the Department of Anthropology to get the bones tested and looked at and maybe get some answers as to who these bones belonged to and why they were put in a hole in the ground guarded by earthworms. “So a bunch of skeletons in an unmarked grave,” Sam said as he threw his coat over the box so no one would see the bones and the three of you walked up the path to the door of the department.

“Yeah, maybe this is a haunting,” Dean shrugged. None of you really knew what this meant and maybe it could be a haunting or maybe it was something else that you had no idea about.

“Pissed off spirits, some unfinished business,” Sam rambled.

“Wouldn’t we have seen more signs of ghost activity?” You asked, poking holes in the theory. You walked beside Sam with the box between you two, guarding it against prying eyes. It probably wasn’t unusual for bones to be brought into this building, but you knew you would be freaked if you saw a box of them while walking through the streets.

“Like I said, they can manifest things to do their work for them. The question is: why bugs? And why now?” Sam asked.

“Uh, that’s two questions,” Dean joked, not getting a laugh or reaction for either of you because it wasn’t really that funny. He laughed at himself but it was half-hearted and he took a deep breath and you braced yourself for what was about to happen because he only did that when he was about to deep dive into stuff no one wanted to talk about. Like when he first told you that you needed to seriously start looking for John because he was MIA for longer than usual. Or when he told you that Sam was leaving for school and he knew you would take that hard, so he took a really deep breath, rubbed his hands together and sat next to you on the bed with careful eyes. That was his tell. “Hey, so with that kid back there how could you just tell him to ditch his family like that?” There it was.

“I just, uh, know what the kid is going through,” Sam answered, brushing off Dean’s question but he wasn’t finished talking about it.

“How about telling him to respect his old man? How’s that for advice?” Dean snapped back and you wanted to stop him because you really did hate confrontation but you let it go on because they needed this. They needed to talk about it for real instead of snide comments back and forth in front of you or total strangers.

“Dean, come on. This isn’t about his old man. You think I didn’t respect dad. That’s what this is about.” Sam stopped walking to look at his older brother and he thinks he hit the nail on the head and you think he did, too, because Dean shook his head and turned to walk away.

“Just forget it, alright? Sorry I brought it up.” Brushing things off was another one of Dean’s tells. It’s what he did when he got caught feeling a certain way he shouldn’t be feeling or when he gets called out on something he didn’t want to talk about. Like one night, a few days into looking for John and he was up really late and he was pacing back and forth across the hotel room and he was asking you a million questions about where he could be and why did he disappear and maybe you should go find Sam and when you asked him, are you really that afraid something bad happened?, he brushed you off and sat down on the edge of the bed and that was the end of that.

“I respected him, but no matter what I did, it was never good enough,” Sam said, pushing the conversation even though Dean brushed him off and that was something you weren’t very good at. You let Dean brush things off but Sam wouldn’t.

“So what are you saying? Dad was disappointed in you?” Dean asked, pure confusion spread across his face. You knew that that wasn’t necessarily true but you also knew why Sam would feel that way but you stepped aside and let them work it out. It was none of your business and that was one of the harder parts about being with the boys. They had their own issues and you wanted to be involved in everything and give you unsolicited advice but there were moments where that wasn’t acceptable.

“Was?” Sam scoffed. “Is. He always has been.”

“What? Why would you think that?” Dean asked.

“Because I didn’t wanna bowhunt or hustle pool because I wanted to go to school and live my life which, in our whacked-out family, made me the freak.” Sam snapped, finally telling Dean his side of the story and the way that he felt for the majority of his life and you suddenly felt bad for him.

“Yeah, you were kind of like the blond chick in The Munsters,” Dean joked but again, no one laughed because it wasn’t funny.

“Dean, you know what most dads are when their kid scores a full ride? Proud. Most dad’s don’t toss their kids out of the house,” Sam said, shaking his head and you remember it. You remember it very vividly. The loud voices, the crashing of anything they could get their hands on in the hotel room and the way Dean sat on the bed in front of you, trying to block you from maybe getting hit or maybe just blocking your view of the fight and you had only been with the Winchesters for a few years at that point, so it wasn’t uncommon for the youngest and John to fight but this was a new level.

“I remember that fight. In fact, I seem to recall a few choice phrases coming out of your mouth,” Dean spat. You remember them, too, but you kept your mouth shut.

“You know, the truth is, when we finally do find dad I don’t know if he’s even gonna wanna see me,” Sam admitted. You wanted to touch him. You wanted to put your hand on his arm and your hand in his hair, pulling him to your chest to make it better but you didn’t move.

“Sam, dad was never disappointed in you. Never,” Dean said. “He was scared.”  

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked, not believing him for a second and he had every right to that emotion. There was no reason for him to believe Dean because Sam was right, he wanted to go to school and John would shake his head and shove a bow in his hands instead of a book and he kicked him out when he got into college and that wasn’t pride. That was disappointment, but Dean knew John better than almost anyone and maybe that’s why he was so loyal because despite all the bad things that Sam sees, Dean twists them and turns them and finds the hidden meanings in them and he loves them.

“He was afraid of what could have happened to you if he wasn’t around,” Dean admitted. “But even when you two weren’t talking he used to swing by Stanford whenever he could. Keep an eye on you. Make sure you were safe.”

“What?” You asked, finally stepping in. That was news to you just as it was to Sam. You didn’t know what John did when the three of you split up, John on one case and you and Dean on another and you never asked. You never cared. And when Dean and John would have cryptic phone calls late at night and Dean was barely saying a word, just nodding and saying yes sir and he would hang up with a solemn look on his face, you let it be. You never pushed or prodded because again, it was never your business.

“Yeah,” Dean said, smiling slightly of the memory.

“Why did you tell me any of that?” Sam asked. He looked angry, almost. That he spent so long angry at his father and feeling less than worthy but just because John drove through the campus of the school doesn’t change the fact that he never wanted Sam to go in the first place.

“Well, it’s a two-way street, dude. You could have picked up the phone,” Dean said. You averted your eyes, knowing that Sam’s were going to find yours because in truth, he had picked up the phone and he had called you on numerous occasions. Asking about you and about Dean. Sometimes, when it was really late at night and he was delirious from studying all night long or maybe he was even a little drunk, he would ask about John. You kept those calls to yourself just like Dean kept his father-son phone calls to himself and maybe it was because you always wanted a secret but maybe, deep down, it was because you wanted those moments to just belong to you. When it was just you and Sam, late at night, his husky voice filling the phone line. No ghosts, no John, no Jess.

“Okay, well. We have a box of bones here, so we should get going,” you finally said, breaking the silence between the boys. You put your hands on Dean’s shoulders, spinning him around so he was facing the door and you gave him a gentle push.

“Yeah, we’re going to be late for our appointment,” he said. Sam hung back for a moment, so you waited with him while Dean led the way. Sam looked at you and his face was sad and his eyes were heavy. Your hand found his, limp at his side, but when your skin connected, his hand came to life and wrapped around yours firmly. Then, he started to follow his brother.

The building was big, but you managed to find your way to the classroom of the professor that was supposed to be looking at your box of bones. He took them off into the back somewhere while the three of you waited. Sam was walking up and down the steps of the lecture hall and Dean leaned against the desk, watching his brother. You sat in one of the seats, tapping your fingers on the desk. It was the only noise in the room. “So you two are students?” The professor asked, coming back into the room and breaking the silence. The three of you perked up, both you and Sam walking to the desk to meet the teacher.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re in your class. Anthro 101,” Sam answered, nodding at the man. He was old with white hair and wrinkles all over his face. He reminded you of Mr. Feeny from Boy Meets World. Old and done with everyone’s shit.

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled. Clearly, he didn’t know nor give a crap about who was in his class.

“So, what about the bones professor?” Dean asked, getting straight to the point. He didn’t bring the bones back into the classroom with him, which was fine by you because starring at them all day was creeping you out and Sam kept taking out one of the skulls and popping around the corner, scaring you with it and Dean would tap you on the shoulder and when you would turn to look, he’d wave at you with a decayed hand.

“Well, this is quite the interesting find you’ve made. I’d say, they’re 170 years old, give or take,” the man informed you, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

“Holy shit,” you laughed. Sam sucked in a breath and let it out in a whistle, looking at you with wide eyes.

“The timeframe and the geography heavily suggest Native American,” the teacher kept going, giving you all the information he really could from 200-year-old bones.

“Were there any tribes or reservations on that land?” Dean asked.

“Not according to the historical record but, uh, relocation of native peoples was quite common at that time,” the man shrugged but that was really not helpful at all so Sam kept pushing for more.

“Right. Well, are there any local legends, oral histories about the area?”

“Well, you know, there’s a Euchee tribe in Sapulpa. It’s about 60 miles from here. Someone out there might know the truth,” he told you and gave you directions on how to get there. Hopefully, this was the lead you needed to fully understand who these bones belonged to and why they could be haunting the area. And with bugs? Could they have picked anything creepier?

The drive was short, only about an hour and a half with the speed that Dean drove and the closer you got, the less white-washed your surroundings got. You had to stop and ask for directions. The professor gave you the name of a man who supposedly knew everything that you’d want to know.

You got sent to a diner deep in the tribe’s neighborhood. There were worn down cars in the parking lot and although they may have been from the same time period as the Impala, they were in horrible condition. The porch to the diner was also run down and rusty, like it could break under all your weight.

There was a man sitting in the booth, flipping cards over and playing Solitare all by himself.

“Joe Whitetree?” Sam asked as you approached the man. He looked at you, squinted his eyes and then nodded curtly. “We would like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright?”

“We’re students from the university,” Dean started but Joe cut him off.

“No. You’re not. You’re lying,” he said swiftly, not even looking at Dean when he said which made you chuckle to yourself because you always thought Dean to be a pretty good liar but Joe Whitetree saw right through him.

“Um, well, the truth is-”

“You know who starts sentences with the truth is? Liars.” Joe cut him off once again and you had a smirk on your face when Dean looked down at you. He was flushed and didn’t know what to say. He was never called out like that and it was fun to watch him be taken down a notch or two.

“Have you heard of Oasis Plains? It’s a housing development near the Atoka Valley,” Sam asked, not bothering with the lies and cover stories. To the point and with the truth because that seemed to be the best approach, clearly.

“I like him. He’s not a liar.“ Joe looked right at Dean, who flushed again and rubbed his face with his hands, trying to take the expression off of his face. “I know the area.”

“What can you tell us about the history there?” Sam asked.

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Something bad is happening in Oasis Plains. We think it might have something to do with some old bones we found down there,” you told him. Joe stopped playing his game of Solitare, folding his hands on the table and looked at you.

“Native American bones,” Sam added. He looked like he knew something. Like he knew exactly what was happening but instead of just telling you, he went into a long winded story about it which was what you asked for, the history, and that is what you got.

“I’ll tell you what my grandfather told me. And what his grandfather told him. Two hundred years ago a band of my ancestors lived in that valley. One day, the American cavalry came to relocate them. They were resistant. Calvary impatient. As my grandfather put it, on a night the moon and the sun shared the sky as equals, the calvary first raided our village. They murdered, raped. The next day, the cavalry came again and the next and the next. And on the sixth night, the cavalry came one last time and by the time the sun rose, every man, woman, and child still in the village was dead.” Joe was adding emphasis on all the wrong syllables but he was a good story-teller and you were intrigued.

“They say on the sixth night as the chief of the village lay dying he whispered to the heavens that no white man would ever tarnish this land again. Nature would rise up and protect the valley and it would bring as many days of misery and death to the white man as the cavalry had brought upon his people.” The dots were all connecting in your brain, dot 1 to dot 2 and then 3, 4, 5 until the picture was complete and the picture looked like the beetle Sam found in Dustin’s man-hole and Dean spoke before you could.

“Insects. Sounds like nature to me.” You nodded, looking at the older boy. “Six days?” He asked Joe.

“On the night of the sixth day, none would survive,” Joe repeated the line from the story and you knew you didn’t have long. You had less than a day and what could you do besides just survive? You thanked Joe Whitetree for sharing his story and you left the diner.

“When did the gas company guy die?” You asked.

“Uh, well, we got here Tuesday, so Friday the 20th,” Dean counted in his head all the days you’ve been here, putting a mental calendar together for the sake of the case. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes.

“March 20th. That’s the Spring Equinox,” Sam pointed out, touching your elbow with his hand.

“The night the sun and the moon share the sky as equals,” Dean quoted Joe’s story, still making all the connections. Translating the poetic words to words that he could easily process in his brain.

“So every year at about this time, anybody in Oasis Plains is in danger,” Sam said, throwing his hands up in exasperation at the whole situation. “Larry built this neighborhood on cursed land.” He really did, huh.

“The sixth night is tonight,” you said, rubbing salt into the wound and making the whole thing a little bit more urgent than it already was. Not only did this man build a whole housing development, where hundreds of people could one day reside, on an old Native American tribe, but we also have one night to save them.

“If we don’t do something, Larry’s family will be dead by sunrise,” Sam said with the urgency in his voice this case needed right now and as he walked past you to get to the passenger side of the car, he put his hand on the small of your back and guided you with him. He opened the door for you and as you were getting in, he spoke again. “So how do we break a curse?”

“You don’t break a curse, you get out of its way,” Dean said, getting in the car. The two of them slammed the doors and Dean started the car. The only thing you could really do at the moment was making sure that no one was in the area when the sun went down and you could reevaluate in the morning.

tagged:  @matchamendes @stuckupstucky @sillydecoy jessewa26 @kaelyn-lobrutto24@liztorr1212 @icanreadbookstoo

[mookoo-writes]

~I Want to Feel Loved~ (Host X Teen! Blind[ish]! Reader)

Authors Note: Honestly, this one has to be one of my favorites I have written, but I will let you be the judge of that. I also wrote a part 2 that is okay, I guess. I will post if people really want me to :)

Fandom: Markiplier Egos (With a little bit of the Septiceye’s) Pairing: Host X Teen! Reader (platonic) Warnings: Cursing

Anyway, please enjoy~

~~~~~Y/n P.O.V.~~~~~

I was different. I've always been. When I was born, I had a birth defect. The doctors have never seen my disorder before. I was the first in the world.

I was born with no eyes. They were just empty sockets that sometimes bleed when I'm in distress or crying, but yet I can still see.

I can see the world around me, but never in the normal first-person perspective. When someone asks me how I can see all around me, I simply ask them to think of a video game camera. How it is always looking at the character and the environment around them, but never in their perspective. That's how I see. That's how I've always seen things. When I have my cloth bandages around my eye's, people automatically think I can't see anything.

The doctors have tried everything they could to help, but nothing worked. The medical bills were always high and my parents could barely pay.

My parents and I where currently in the car. My mother told me we were taking a family trip to the grocery store, but I knew that's not where we were heading. We usually turn left at the driveway to the store. We took a right.

I turned my head a little to look out the window. My vision flipped so I can see my face through the window. I can see the car driving on the road, while my mom was in the driver's seat in front of me. She is also looking out of the window looking nervous. In the background behind the car, there were trees. The trees were on either side of the car.

I turn my head so I can get the view inside the car. I see the back of my head with my hood up so I can cover up the bandages as much as possible.

"Where are we going, mom?" I asked as calm as possible. Mom jumped at my voice. She shook her head and put a hand on Dad's arm as he was driving. It was like she was telling Dad to say sumthing. She seemed incapable of saying anything.

"We are going to the store. We told you this." Dad adjusted the rearview mirror to look at me. His voice seems to shake like he was nervous. "Silly, you took a right when we left the house. You usually take a left to get to the store." I gave a small smile trying to lighten the mood, but that didn't work. It seemed to make them tenser than before.

The car gave a sudden halt as It stopped by a big metal gate. "What are we doing here?" I questioned. I have never been here before nor have I ever heard of Raspy Hills.

"I'm sorry" I heard Mom whisper as she rolled down her window with my drawing notebook in hand. "What are you-" I was cut off when she threw it at the fence. I gasped as I opened the door and run to get it. All of my many doodles and hard work was in this notebook. "Why would you do tha-" As I was about to grab my notebook, I see the car's wheels screech in the dirt. All that was left was a cloud of dust. The car was already gone.

I gave a sigh as I turn to pick up my notebook. I knew someday they would leave me. I'm just surprised they didn't do it sooner.

Who would even want a mistake, outcast, monster,... freak. I saw and felt my bandages getting redder and redder as the second's tick by. Blood trickled down my face as the bandages where already socked with the crimson liquid.

Maybe they left me here for a reason. I view the giant metal gate with the words Raspy Hills at the top. I should go investigate what's behind the gate. It's not like I have anything else to do. I see my face give a soft frown as my body started moving closer to the gate. There was a small opening just big enough for me to fit.

I hugged my notebook to my chest as I walk down the dirt path. As I kept walking, I heard a gun being fired many times. In the distance in front of my body, I see a big house. As I got closer, the gunfires grew louder.

That's a red flag.

I know I should be walking away from the giant house but I'm getting curious. I will just investigate from a safe distance.

I walk into the woods so I'm being blocked by trees and bushes. I walk around to the back of the house where I hear the noise coming from. I hid behind a tree with the front of my body facing where I was viewing. I saw in the background that there was a man with a yellow and pink color scheme shooting at a target. behind the man, there where two people in costumes fighting each other. One with a red onesie and the other in a silver suit. They both seem to be laughing and smiling.

I wish I could have someone to do that with; Laugh, smile, actually having a good time instead of scaring off people. I never had anyone to do that with. Not even my parents.

I saw more blood run down my cheeks onto my hoody. I pull my hood closer to my face so no one can see this terrifying sight. I wiped my cheeks with my hand so my whole face isn't covered in blood.

"Oh my goodnez! Are you alright" I was to busy worrying about myself I didn't even see that someone had spotted me. A man with that oh so familiar doctors uniform came running towards me. I quickly hid the top half of my face with my hood so I don't scare him off like the others. The man in the doctors uniform took my bloody hand and began searching for the source of which the red liquid was coming from. "I muzt get you into ze houze right away!" The man pulled me out of my hiding place and rushed me to the back of the house where the other people where. The three soon spotted me and started walking towards us. I still held on to the edge of my hood with my hand.

The doctor opened the back door and dragged me inside. The man had me sit on a counter in the kitchen. "Henric, who is that?" The man in the red and blue costume asked with a thick Irish accent. "I vound zem behind a tree near ze houze while I waz taking a break from my work." Henrik, the doctor, said with a worried tone. "I'm alright. It's just a little blood. This happens all the time." I reassured all of the people crowding around me. Henrik gasped and started to search up my arm on the same bloody arm. The man with the pink mustache stepped closer to me. "So how did a youngster like yourself end up in Raspy Hills anyway?" He twirled his mustache.

I gave out a nervous laugh. "My parents basically threw me out of the car. Using my sketchbook as bait so that I would get out of the car as they drove away." I saw the man in the red onesie's face soften. He patted my back as he gave me a side hug. "I'm sorry to hear that."

I gave a sad chuckle. "that's okay. They had a good reason too." The two superhero looking men gave a small gasp. Soon other people walked into the room. They all looked a little alike, but that didn't bother me. I gave a loud, yet sad, laugh. "I mean, who would ever want a freak like me!" I gave out another laugh, trying to laugh off the pain. As I did that, my hand slipped off of my hood. My protection fell off of my head as more blood ran down my already soaked cheeks. I put my face in my hand as I laughed/cried.

"Zo thatz where it'z coming from," Henrik muttered to himself as he shuffled through a medical box. "Is no one going to make the comment that they sort of look like the Host." A man with green skin and a green glowing eye said.

Why weren't they scared of me? Normal people would be terrified when they glance at me. "Ah-HA here zey are." Henrik held up a clean roll of white cloth. He goes to undo my old bandages but I stop him. "I-I don't think I'm comfortable with that. Plus you will be frightened when you see what's behind these things." I pointed to the bloody cloth that is always over my eyes. "Perhaps you will be more comfortable with someone like you." A man with grey skin and a suit said. "Someone like me? Do they ever exist." The man nodded. "Google, can you go and get the Host." He asked another man with messy hair and a T-shirt with a 'G' on it. Google simply nodded and left the room.

"What iz your name, junge?" Henrik took a disinfecting wipe and whipped the dry blood off of my cheeks and hands. "Y/n" Henrik smiled at me "Ah, schön."

As Henrik finished cleaning the blood off, Google and a man in a trench coat and... bandages over his eyes. I gave a small gasp as a wide smile grew across my face. "There... there is someone like me." The man gave a soft smile. "Host was informed of your situation and would like to help." I jumped off of the counter, ran up to him, and gave him a hug. The Host had a happy, yet confused smile on his face. "Host wonders how the little one knew where I was." I softly giggled in his coat. "I can see, but not in the first person. Right now, I see everything happening right..." I turned myself around and pointed out where my vision was directed. "Their"

Host smiles and nodes. "The Host thinks that is very impressive." I turn my body towards Host and gave him a small smile. "Really?" I was surprised. Nobody ever told me it was impressive, more like weird or disturbing. The Host smiled and nodded yet again. "The Host thinks it is time to change your bandages." He took my hand and led me down a hallway with many doors.

He eventually led me to a room with a high ceiling and tall bookcases filled with books. The Host guided me towards a desk that was placed in the middle of all of the many books. He pulled the chair out from underneath and gestured me to sit. I sat on the leather cushions of the chair and leaned back to relax. The Host dug through one of the drawers in search of some bandages. He pulled out a roll that was already used, probably by him. "The Host is wondering if the little one was comfortable with this." He asked looking at me. "I'm still a little nervous. I never really shown anyone what's underneath while I was conscious before." I rubbed the sleeve of my hoodie. "The Host asks why people have only seen you without bandages unconscious?" I gave a nervous laugh. "Well, I was born with a disorder that my parents didn't want to look at. Many doctors tried to fix it but nothing worked. Medical bills were piling up, that's probably why they gave me the boot." I kicked my feet as I told the story. The Host kneeled in front of my body "Then the Host shall take you in like you were his own."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. All my life, I have been harassed, unloved, judged; but know, I can finally feel love, comfort, appreciated... myself. I could feel the blood start to fall once again. I hugged Host once again. "A-all I ever wanted was to feel loved." The Host hugged me tight like I would vanish from existence.

We both hugged for a little bit until Host broke the silence. "The Host will make you a deal. If you let the Host take off your bandages. The Host will let you take off Host's." I smiled and nodded in agreement. The Host sets me back on the chair and slowly removes the soaked cloth. As he fully removed the bandages, I saw my hollow eye sockets. I looked at Host's face but instead of seeing disgust on his face, I saw him give a smile. Not a 'haha' smile, but a genuine one. "The Host is ready for you to remove Host's bandages." I learned in and grabbed the end of the cloth that was on the side of his head. I unrolled it until the last layer was off. I saw something that shocked me, yet made me feel comfortable. The Host's eye sockets were empty... just like mine. I smiled as he smiled back. "I have never felt more comfortable with myself before." "The Host agrees, he too has never felt this much comfort."

Host grabbed the clean bandage roll off of the desk and unrolled a small bit. "Let the Host teach you a way that Host thinks is more comfortable." I smile and nod. The Host started wrapping my eyes in a new way the doctors never showed me.

Once he finished wrapping me up, he wanted me to do it on him to make sure I understood. As I finished wrapping Host's eyes, I gave him another hug.

"Thank you for making me feel loved"

~~~~~Bonus~~~~~

~~~~~3rd Person~~~~~

The Host and Y/n have been in the library for a long time. Henrik and the other egos went into the room to make sure everything was alright. As they near the fireplace, Dark stopped them from walking any further and pointed to the couch in front of the fire. There they were, Y/n and Host were in a deep sleep. As Y/n rested on Host's chest, he was cradling Y/n like the world was about to end.

The egos 'aww'ed and took a picture before they left the two be.

[yes-bitchxxxmarvel-stuff]

You Are Who You Choose To Be!

(Chapter 1) Part 1 Who I Was Meant To Be!

Tony StarkXDaughter Nathaile Stark

(Prompts) This Is A Tony Stark And Daughter Stark Story I Came Up With Myself.

What If Thanos Never Did The Sanp! But Instead Tony Stark's Daughter Sacrficed!! Herself Instead To Protect The Avenger's And Save The Entire Universe!

(Warning's) Language! Violence!

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

It was another bright sunny Satuday Morning In downtown Manhattan The sun was shining bright through the huge windows of my room. Lighting up the room just enough that i did not need any lights on in the room i

Was drawn into this book that was made into a movie called Bird Box! I was so obsessed with it i couldn't put it down i had to find out what happened even though i already known what happens But books have more details than in the movie's.

I just happened to look up from the book When i saw two huge Q Spaceship's emerge from the sky landing in the middle of Manhattan i stood up from the couch throwing the book in my hand to the other side of the couch. I walked up to the large glass windows looking down at these large ships I was terrified i knew exactly who this was and why they were here

I was suddenly Drawn from what i was seeing in the street to the Emergency Lights and Sirens that had started blaring off in the Tower. I. Finally had my chance to show everyone that i could be just like Them an Avenger i rushed over to the Door running down the hallway i got in the elevator and pushed the button for the Lab the doors closed i backed up to the back of the elevator holding onto the bar's i hated the feeling of falling this was always the hardest part for me. I had to convince myself that everything was going to be okay and that the ride would be over soon. To this day i still couldn't figure out the reason why i hated The feeling of falling it's haunted me ever sense i was a kid.

The elevator finally stopped and the doors opened To my surprise Dad nor any of the Avengers were no where to be found i found this quite Odd knowing how my father is always concerd about me and my safety i would have thought he would have made an appearance to tell me What to do or where to go like usual but this time was different.

I made my way over to the computer's i quickly logged myself in i went to push the button and bring my Suit up when i heard the doors open and my name being echoed through the lab i quickly tried to hide what i was about to do and spun around as i heard footsteps getting closer That's when i was face to face with Pepper Nathalie what are you doing up here?

Uh i just came up here looking for Dad!

Do you know where he is?

Hunny he's not here he just called me he told me to come find you! Happy is on his way to pick us up we are going to the safe house Happy will be here in 15 minutes So Grab everything you need and meet us in the lobby I zoned out as my thoughts began to scatterd through my mind and i was debating on if i was going to listen for once or go be apart of the team and help i mean it couldn't hurt iv been on little missons and nothing's ever happened Dad and The Avengers taught me everything i knowi could do this and i was going to do this Wether they liked it or not.

Haile? I felt Pepper shaking my shoulders i snapped out of it and looked back up at her Did you hear a word i just said? Yes Pepper I'm sorry i zoned out I'll be ready in 15 minute's

I stood their waiting for her to walk out of the lab and back into the elevator as soon as the doors shut i spun around and hit the button i heard a noise and one of the Glass case's opened i put the comb into my locker and pulled my black and purple suit from the locker i sliped it on and stepped into My Iron Man suit i walked out of the case and  out onto the landing strip.

Dad was flying around while Peter was right there fighting along side him feeling a little bit jelousy I liked how it was okay for Peter to help but Haile she had to stay up in the Tower and play Victim Um yeah No!! Not today! I took off down towards The park where these huge creatures were fighting Peter and Dad taking they were out numberd by a long shot just as i went in to help I caught the glimpse of a guy standing off to the side trying to stay out of the way the closer i got to the ground I realised who he was Banner!! One of the creatures was headed right towards him i flew down faster knocking the creature off his feet onto the ground i quickly took it out.

Nathalie is that you? I opened the face shield and looked at him Hi Bruce it's nice to see you've finally come back from where ever you've been hiding! Why aren't you turned into the hulk? He won't come out he's being a big giant ass hole! I burst out laughing Oh Okay! Just Stay hidden okay till one of us comes back to get you

I shut the face shield and headed over to where the rest of thr creature's were

Hey ass holes Up here i waved my arm's around they turned their attention onto me and headed towards me away from Peter

I was doing good ducking and dodging each hit till i saw Peter get hit and land on the ground i took my attention off the creature's for a mirror second when i was suddenly knocked out of the air onto the ground feeling the hard blow's i was receiving this was something

i wasn't used to Yes i got to fight along side the Avengers but they did most of the work i knew i was risking my life being out here with no help but i didn't care i had to fight just like the rest of them I wasn't an Avenger but I was going to be after i showed everyone that i could be an Avenger and I was going to do whatever i could To Fight who or whatever this one until we won.

I tired fighting this guy off but i couldn't shake him off i was taking blow after blow to the face i didn't understand what was wrong with my suit it's never done anything like this before F.R.I.D.A.Y What's wrong with my suit? I'm getting killed out here Ms.Stark your father has the settings to Training Mode. What? F.R.I.D.A.Y Take it off NOW!! I can not do that Ms.Stark you have not passed your training course F.R.I.D.A.Y Listen to me for once

if you do not take it off now your going to get me killed we are under attack and i can not defend myself in Training Mode I Will Die!! Do You Understand? All of a sudden This image came across the screen saying Congratulations on Passing the Training Course F.R.I.D.A.Y started talking Congratulations on passing the course you now have full control over your suit i pulled my arm's back and used the blasters to fry the Creature's i got up brushing the dirt and grass off the suit

I looked up as i watched My father make his way over to me Nathalie what in the hell are doing? I'm doing what you've been training me to do. No i wasn't training you for this, this is the real thing this isn't like your training exercises Why didn't you go with Pepper and Happy?

Because i needed to prove to you that i can do this. No absolutely not this ends here you go back to the Tower now Pepper is waiting for you. But Dad i can help you fight this.

NO I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP AND I AM NOT GOING TO LET YOU GET YOURSELF KILLED YOU MEAN TO MUCH TO ME YOUR NOT COMING NOW GO HOME!!!

No I'm not leaving your letting Parker help you? No he just showed up and he's not coming either both of you are going With Pepper and Happy Now!! F.R.I.D.A.Y Take Her Home! The face shield shut and the suit started doing it's own thing Right away Sir. Wait Dad No! The suit was headed back for the Tower Dads face came across the screen I'm not mad at you okay i just can't have you out here I Love You Sweetheart I'll see you soon The screen went away I looked up watching Peter jump onto the huge ship that was headed up into space Dad followed it The ship was escaping faster than i thought it would move

I had to do something this wasn't over i Pulled the flash drive from the pocket of my super suit and stuck it into the USB slot in the arm of the suit i watched as a screen popped up and started downloading the file that was on the flash drive  i looked back up at the ship As my heart sank into my chest and that sick feeling over come my entire body as i watched Peter let go of the ship free falling towards Earth. Noooo!!

I looked back at the screen it hit 100%  F.R.I.D.A.Y I now have complete control over this suit Yes Ms.Stark you have complete Control of your Suit i turned around and headed for Peter i pushed the suit as fast as i could i was almost to him when somthing flew passed me and latched it's self onto Peter Dad had built him another suit a real suit Peter caught the side of the ship and held on i watched as Dad flew passed him and headed up to the top of the ship that's when a parashoot Popped out of Peter's suit and he was headed back towards Earth i continued pushing myself towards him i caught him Pulling the shoot from the suit I manged to grab onto the ship and pull us into a little cubby that was a door that entered the ship we walked inside as the door shut behind us we both opened our shields and looked at one another for a few seconds before I pushed him backwards It's not fair Parker!!

What's not fair? That My Dad allows you to fight along side him but Not me!! I should beat your dumb Spidey Ass right now!!

Your all he ever talks about anymore Peter This Parker That I Am So Peter pressed his lips to mine I let everything fade as i began to Melt Peter slowly pulled away looking me in the eye's Better now? Ugh! I gave in Okay I'm sorry but this Shit is getting really Old Okay!! I know I tell Mr.Stark all the time he should Let you come with us but he always says No! I didn't mean to make you upset Haile! I rolled my eye's You big dummy I kissed him once more. So about your dad you do know he is going to chew our asses out when he finds out that we are on this ship. Oh no doubt and when he dose find out I'm blaming you!! Now why would you blame me? Because sense you too are best Buds now I'm sure he won't be as mad at you as he would be at me So this it your fault! Um no! Your the one who caught me and brought us on this Ship Alright fine just shut it! So tell me this Who exactly are these people? I rolled my eyes i knew you couldn't keep your mouth shut he smiled well duh! I heard your Dad and The Weird Wizard guy talking about someone called Thanos!

My eyes widened as i felt fear overcome my body No shit you've got to be kidding.

This is it! This is really it he's finally come for all the Infinity stones just like Mr.Stark said and all of us the Avengers. Yeah Pete I'm starting to think i should have listened to Him now he was right this was way bigger than i thought it was Peter took my hand Don't worry I'm not going to let anything happen to you so stop worrying.

We shut up quickly as someone started talking Peter and I both looked at each other. As we walked a few steps close to the edge looking over where we saw this weird looking guy Holding Dr.Strange Hostage I looked back at Peter as we both whispered Shit! Under our breath I grabbed Peter and pulled us back from the edge I looked up trying to find out where Dad had gone. He was on the other side of the ship i shut the shield and flew over to him landing behind him Dr.Stranges Cape came out of nowhere Startling Dad he was about to blast it with his blasters when he figured out what it was he put his hand down

Wow your a seriously loyal piece of outterwear aren't you?

I opened the suit and stepped out of it crossing my arm's

Yeah Um Speaking Of Loyalty.

Dad spun around. What The?

Did you really think you were just going to send me back to the Tower?

Nathalie You Should Not Be Here!

I know but i was not going to let you fight this alone i told you i was coming.

No! You are supposed to be with Happy and Pepper getting as far away from all of this as possible.

Well now that i finally have full control of my own suit And i can see what it can really do this suit is Amazingly Incredible by the way!

God Damnit!!

Listen You should have just agreed to let me come with you So if anything it's kinda your fault that I'm here.

Dad Glared at me What Did You Just Say? Um I I Take that Back! And now I'm here in space. Yeah right where i didn't want you to be. This isn't The Mall this isn't a Field Trip!! This is a one way Ticket!! You hear me!! And don't stand their and pretend that you've thought this through! No Dad i actually did think this through! You could not have possibly Thought this through?

You can't just take me on these little missons and expect me not to come help when the world needs me. Okay i know. That didn't really make any sense because I'm not an Avenger yet but you know what I'm trying to say.

Fine but you stay with me understand you do not go wandering off on your own like you tend to do You understand me?

Yes Dad alright!

You know i couldn't bare losing you Haile not ever and i know you can do this i just don't think it's the right time but your here now so i gotta let you fight and defend yourself Just stay with me or in my sight okay that's all i ask of you.

Uh yeah about that Peter dropped down from the ceiling What? You too?? both of you Big Trouble when we get home Got me!!! I looked at Peter rolling my eye's. now come on both of you we have a situation.

I stepped back into my suit Peter fell back a little ways while Dad continued scoping

the place out. Peter listen to me Okay don't listen to Him he's just mad because he won't get all the credit for saving the world on his own he has to include us now

i Nudged Him in the shoulder Plus we got this! With my training and with your time spent helping people around the city we've got this. You know Haile your Right we do got this!! Hey! Shhh Quiet both of you! Before Squidward hears us.

Okay see down there that's our trouble what's your plan? Um Okay? Um Alright Mr.Stark did you ever see this old movie Ailens? Ugh Kid! You've got to be kidding Nope! Okay this is what we do You blow a hole in the side of the ship it will suck That guy out. And i will grab Strange! No Haile your not helping Dad you've got to be kidding me? No I'm not kidding you now stay over there and hold onto something so you don't end up being sucked out of the huge gaping hole.

I crossed my arm's as i held ongo the giant Metal Beam Unbelievable Just Unbelievable!! I let out every sware word in the book. And Remind me to have a talk with you about your Language when we get back home as well. I dropped the shield and rolled my eye's. Alright ya ready Pete? Yup Hey Squidward Let The Doctor go Ahh i thought i smlled someone My Power's are much greater than yours i don't think you will make it out of this alive. Yeah well the kid's seen more movie's Peter NOW!!!

I blasted a hole in the side of the ship Squidward went flying out into space along with some lose items from the ship Peter grabbed Strange and pulled him out of the Hole in the ship while i quickly Sealed it!

Thank you Stark for freeing me So what happens now? I don't know you tell me Strange your the one Thanos wants.

Well first we need to start by turning this ship around Oh so now you want to run?

No i want to protect the Stone! You should have just listend to me But no now we are a million miles away in a flying doughnut heading deeper into space with no back up.

Hey we are back up!! No!! Your not the adults are talking Who are they? Hey I'm Peter by the way! Dr.Strange and You are? I'm the big ass hole over theirs Daughter

I'm Nathalie but you can just call me

Haile Stark i didn't know you had a daughter Stark? Yeah only a select few know about her She's not supposed to be here Neither one of them But you see how kid's are they do whatever they want Even when their told not to.

Mr.Stark you wouldn't have come up with a better plan than mine! Cool it Parker Fine!! So now what Stark? I guess we sit here and wait to see where this Big flying Doughnut is headed Hour's went by in Silence

So Dr.Strange? Yes Haile? What exactly did you say you were protecting?

He moved the Cape from his chest revealing a glowing green Stone in the middle of his chest This is The Time Stone! It controls time I'm the sworn Protector of the Stone Okay so your Protecting It From

Thanos Yes! Well you might as well just give it to him i heard things about him he's not going to stop until he gets his hands on all of the Stones I looked over at Dad who was still pacing back and forth I looked at Strange he's coming for all those Infinty Stone's and he's not going to stop until he gets them all this is going to be a fight alright with lives lost!

Dad stopped paceing crossing his arm's How do you know about the Stone's? Vision Vision told me! Ahh of course he did All those times i thought you too were studying he was filling your head with things you never needed to know Hey it wasn't his fault don't blame him he did nothing wrong here Unlike you i at least listen to what he has to say.

Wait if Thanos is coming that means he will also need the Mind Stone I jumped to my feet He's going to kill Vision we have to go back we need to warn the other's Haile Stop you know The Avengers broke up I don't even know where Vision and Wanda could be. That's because you never cared nor tried hard enough. Alright zip it i don't want to hear another word out of you the Entire Trip

  This is such bullshit!! Again with the Language!! Dad i am 21 i can say whatever the hell i want to say.

Hey kid? Yeah do they do this a lot? Oh yeah this isn't anything new he's way over protective and she wants to do what she wants but Mr.Stark won't allow it Not After her Mom was killed that's when he started being Over protective Mr.Stark blames him self for what happened to her but really it was no one's fault What was she like? She was A great person so nice she would help anyone

She would Take Haile and I everywhere Haile looks a lot like Her they were so close

Can i ask what happened? Strange that's none of your concern Strange Glared at Mr.Stark  Pete i think we are landing here put your arm in one these i think this stears it Mr.Stark it's not moving hold on kid let me get my arm in okay Turn to the right faster Kid or we are going to hit that huge Beam

  Everyone hold on Brace for Impact We aren't going to make it The ship landed hitting harder than i wanted it to I pulled myself up brushing the dirt off Noticing Peter and Haile were gone! Stark their outside i turned around as i saw them walking out on this Unknown Planet DAMNIT!!! We left the ship as fast as possible NATHAILE PETER!!! STOP!!!

Marvel Imagine By @yes-bitchxxxmarvel-stuff

@77marvelimagines

[titusthetraveler]

Travelers: Chapter 2

On the green lush slopes of the long valley was a small dirt plateau, named Runk’s Place. The old mouse’s house stood under the cover of lone trees that huddled together in the middle of the plateau. It had rocks and boulders put right at the edges, acting as a fence. The view from the top of the valley was spectacular, overlooking a large shimmering blue lake, with a few small, scattered green islands in the distance. Giant mountains stood watching over the waters, covered in light fog and clouds.

At Runk’s Place, he taught creatures nearing maturity the ancient art of fighting used by warriors, known as Amircse. Most of the citizens of the village down below were against this, implying that their training might be used to harm others, causing violence and disarray. However, newly appointed Mayor Fredil, made a law saying that all creatures must undergo Amircse training to defend themselves, if ever a dangerous time comes.

The young ones trained with long cylindrical sticks and pretend weapons for now. Later they train to use real weapons such as swords and knives. Titus, however, was to use his old redwood staff for life. It has guided and protected many of his ancestors, being passed down generation to generation. Now, he was its owner. He liked the thought of using something as old and treasured anyway.

Time seemed to snail itself through the day, as the students learned and practiced under the extreme heat of the sun, from the great sunny morning to the bright yellow late noon. Each move and strike of the stick required speed, agility, strength, and coordination. Muscles ached, sweat dropped, and groans were heard everywhere.

“Alright!” shouted Runk, turning every student’s attention to him in fright. “That’s all to be learned today. You’re all tired and exhausted, I know. Remember though to practice strikes one through twelve tonight! You have to be well mastered in those by tomorrow morning.”

A great number of the young students groaned out loud.

Runk snorted. He shook a paw at them, saying, “Dismissed! Leave!”

The students quickly left from his gaze in single file, heading to the stone-cut steps that led back down into the valley.

                                                                                * * *

“Psst!”

Titus looked behind him, wondering where the hiss came from. There was Tumfel, his loyal childhood friend. Both stepped in time with each other, careful not to trip on the steep steps.

“Beautiful sky, ain’t it?” whispered Tumfel. “You could draw that, couldn’t you?”

Gazing upwards, Titus examined the sky. He could see the dark shadowy tips of the pine trees at the corners of his eyes, but he focused on the sky itself.

“The sky is mostly red and orange, especially near the setting sun. The farther away you move from the sun, the sky turns to a deep dark blue.” Titus said, wiping a hand against the sky as if it were a framed image before him. “The clouds stand against the orange sky, as they are mostly dark blue too. Its front however, is bright gold and yellow.”

Tumfel sighed and nodded. “I don’t understand what you just said, but you are a great artist.”

“Thanks.”

Later they found themselves at the bottom of the stairs, which led to the rocky bank where Titus collapsed earlier that day in front of Master Runk. Many of the students dispersed, heading for their own homes. Since Tumfel’s own house was quite near Titus’, they went together, side by side, back to their homes. They ascended the first number of stairs upwards, over rapids and waterfalls, laughing and talking about many different things.

Then they came to the village square, which was a large wooden platform raised on stilts, like every other house in the village. It was unusually crowded, with a band playing at the center. There was some dancing and clapping of hands to the happy festival music.

“What’s all this about?” wondered Titus out loud.

Tumfel shook his head, chuckling. “Really? It’s a feast, celebrating Mayor Fredil’s birthday.”

“Oh, it’s his birthday?”

“Apparently.” replied Tumfel.

Titus nodded. Then he looked at his friend, saying, “Hey, if it’s alright though, could we go to the Spire first? I need to check out the sunset.”

“Haven’t you seen enough sunsets, Titus?” groaned the squirrel.  “Also, it’s quite a long way up. We already have a lot of stairs to climb to get back home! I’ve had quite a rough day with Master Runk, you know.”

“Oh, come on, Tumfel. A summer sunset is quite different from a winter sunset. It won’t be long. Let’s go!”

Titus raced through the dancing crowd before Tumfel realized that he was gone. He rolled his eyes, groaning, and raced after his friend with all haste. The joyous dancers made an ever-changing maze for the two, rapidly moving to the booming drumbeats of the band, with fife and fiddle accompanying it.

The Spire was a tall tower, standing and the corner of the square. The tower itself is one of the stilts holding the square up, it being the largest and thickest of the long wooden cylinders. A winding staircase wound around it, all the way to the top, where a round landing was. It once provided as a watchtower for enemies and predators, kilometers around being seen from the top.

Titus and Tumfel finally arrived at the top, both out of breath from their climb. Tumfel was the most exhausted, flopping himself on the railing of the landing like a wet rag. Titus stood beside him, simply leaning on it.

“Careful, Tumfel. You might fall off!” Titus exclaimed, pulling his friend backwards, making him fall on the floor. He shook his head at him. “Stop being so dramatic.  Now, where was I? Ah yes, the sunset.”

A gigantic, bright yellow ball of fire slowly hid itself behind the trees of the forest, its orange rays coming from behind the dark blue clouds with golden linings.  Each tree was perfectly silhouetted by the light, with a light shadowy fog dancing in between them. The blowing wind against Titus’ face brought a fresh smell of pine tree and grass with it, drowning out the sound of the festival below. Birds flew high in the sky, echoing out their calls to all who can hear.

It was like witnessing a dream.

Titus could only watch, mesmerized and overwhelmed by the spectacle. Tumfel hobbled up to him from behind.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Said Tumfel quietly, but loud enough to be heard over the wind. “Yes, Titus, you should really draw a picture of it now. All the amazing gifts Prince Agnus and his father gave to us.”

“I will.” Titus mumbled back.

Suddenly, a loud thud came from behind them, bringing Titus back to reality. The two friends turned around to see someone struggling to carry a large wooden crate. Titus and Tumfel ran over to assist, both carrying the heavy load in their small paws.

The stranger replied to their act saying, “thank you! Boy, was it tough getting it up here.”

Titus could not see the stranger, only looking at the brown wood and rope before him, trying to focus on carrying the box. He clenched his teeth at the great amount of weight bearing down on his arms.

“Where do you want us to place this?” asked Tumfel. “quickly, miss!”

“Oh! Just behind you, over there.”

Tumfel began walking backwards when the stranger called his attention. “Not you, silly. I was talking to the mouse!”

Titus began to move backwards, as Tumfel moved forwards. They set the crate down, slowly and carefully, near the railings.

“There you go miss,” Said Titus, shaking his aching muscles off. “Anything else we could assist you with- “

Titus looked at the stranger, to see her staring back at him. She was a pretty young mousemaid-who looked strangely familiar. Her light brown fur sparkled wet in the sunset,

small droplets of water dripping down to her clothes. She wore a light blue tunic, with a dark brown cloak, with a silver shiny brooch sitting on her chest. Her chestnut eyes gleamed brightly with both surprise and joy. Her smile… no beautiful words could compare.

He knew this mousemaid.

She stammered, clutching her paws to her chest. “T-Titus? Is it you?”

He was in tears; they both were. Titus gave a slow nod to the stranger.

Suddenly, they both leaped forwards, coming together in a tight, warm embrace. They squished each other till they could no longer breathe. Wet tears streamed down from both of their eyes. Then they both started laughing joyously.

“Titus!” She cried. “I thought I would never see you again.”

Titus smiled deeply. “Me too… Laura. It’s good to have you back home.”

In the background of it all, Tumfel stood quietly, looking over the scene. He did know who this strange mouse was, or where she came from, or how his best friend Titus knew her so intimately. He felt left out of something grand and important. What was going on here?

Tumfel walked up to the both of them, with a stern expression. “Well, will someone want to explain who this newcomer is…Laura?

Titus turned around to face his friend, putting a paw over Laura’s shoulder. “This is my best friend, Laura. Don’t you remember?”

“No, I don’t remember Laura, Titus,” replied Tumfel. “I thought we were best friends.”

“Well, I mean we are best friends. You both are.” Said Titus quickly.

Tumfel snorted. “I still don’t know Laura.”

Laura walked up to Tumfel, smiling. “I remember you, though. Tumfel! Titus used to tell me all about your weird antics before.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Tumfel, raising his paws. “Perhaps we can back up a bit? As far as I could remember, Titus never told me anything about you, pretty mouse.”

“I did!”

“Did not.”

Laura shook her head. “Okay, Tumfel. I’ll tell you my story, since you don’t remember.

“Two months ago, I lived here. This was actually my home. Titus was my best friend back then, and we were together always. I do remember him telling me about this annoying red squirrel who always seemed to whine and command his elders what to do…”

Tumfel looked at Titus, his face glowering.

“But then,” Laura continued, “my father decided to take off on a small dinghy boat, with his family. He said business was more profitable traveling. I remember seeing Titus for the last time…” she then looked at Titus, “and I gave something for both of us to share. Remember?”

Titus’ eyes widened, recalling something from the past. He looked at his redwood staff, where wrapped around it was a small chain that had a silver medallion, or at least, half of it. He unwrapped it, letting it lie in the palm of his paw.

“You said, if we kept it always, we would always be safe,” whispered Titus. “Do you have the other half?”

Laura smiled. “Of course, I do.”

She lifted from her furry neck a similar medallion; it was the other half. She politely took Titus’ half, and aligned them together. They fit perfectly.

Tumfel gasped. “The Symbol of King Leone’s Peace.”

The pendant was circular, with the image of a paw holding a large olive leaf. A wavy crack went through the middle at an angle, where it was split into two.

“It’s handed down generation by generation in my family.” Said Laura. “I do believe it has protected all of us. For some reason, my mother says that it’s the same pendant that Prince Agnus wore in the Great Time of Darkness.”

Titus and Tumfel gawked at Laura in astonishment. She only shook her head, giving Titus back his half of the pendant. Laura examined hers again.

“Honestly, I don’t believe her. Recently, she’s been sick in the head and soul, muttering strange things over and over again. And that,” Laura looked back at the other two, “is why we are here. Maybe she’ll find rest and peace here, at home.”

“Has she?” Titus asked.

Laura shrugged. “Yes… sort of. It’s working, in a way. Maybe it’s best that she lives out the rest of her days here.”

“Does that mean,” replied Titus, “that you’re leaving again? So soon?”

She nodded sadly, closing her eyes. “I’m afraid so. But,” she said, looking up at Titus, “there’s enough time for us to catch up, maybe.”

Tumfel then spoke up. “Right then. What’s in this crate anyway? It weighs like a boulder.”

Laura looked at him, her expression changing to a happier one. “Well, my mother has been invited by the Mayor-what’s his name-Fredil, to do some storytelling. It’s for his birthday, I think. This crate has some certain things that she wanted me to bring up here.”

“Oh, she’s storytelling up here?” Titus asked. “That’s nice.”

Tumfel stared upwards dreamily. “She made the best cookies.”

Laura and Titus stared at him, confused. Tumfel only shrugged.

“I remember her mother, but not her.” He said, pointing at the mousemaid. “Her name was Marie, wasn’t it?”

Nodding, Laura said, “Yes, that is her name. How did you know if- “

“Anyway, I could help with setting things up. Looks like you two have a lot of catching up to do. What can I do?” Tumfel interrupted.

“Thank you Tumfel!” said Laura. “Maybe you and Titus can help me get a few more things from below.”

With that, she headed down the stairs, humming a little tune to herself. She disappeared into the dark lengthening shadows, as the final rays of the ending day shone on the treetops.

Tumfel walked over to Titus, nodding. “As much as I hate to admit it, she really seems like a good friend for you, Titus. I think I just forgot all about her.”

Titus nodded, smiling at the silver pendant lying in his paw.

[shadows-taller]

Shield Farms

Okay so here’s a little something I dug up just recently and thought I’d share with you all. Beats me if I’ll ever finish it but I figured it was pretty good and you all might want to see it. It’s a Stucky AU (what else lmao) about horses and the desert, both of which are things I have personal experience in.

Let me know what you think! Also if you have any ideas for where this should go lol I need all the help I can get.

Steve wakes up in a cold sweat on top of his duvet, again, and resolutely can not go back to sleep. A glance at the clock tells him it’s 2:45 in the morning, a good two hours before anyone else is going to be conscious. He huffs, resigned to a fate of laying in bed until the sun’s light peeks over the desert horizon out his window.

The nightmare had been no different than it was every other night. Bright pinpricks of light flashed behind his eyelids, the heavy roar of gunfire and screaming echoing in his ears. Monty, Morita, Jones, Falsworth, and Dum-Dum. His team, his unit, his brothers-in-arms. Their faces, twisted up in agony, each shot somewhere bad, each losing blood faster than Steve can stop it. He rushes to dress their wounds, along with a field nurse in her own fatigues, and they even get the men out of the enemy's’ line of fire. But the grenade flies in and Steve sees it too late, too late to do anything but turn his back and cover his head with his elbows. That’s always where the dream ends, either with his screaming or silent, terrified shaking.

He usually lies there a while simply to regain control over his emotions.

It’s an hour later when he begins to think about his day ahead. Tony said he’d go check out the new trailer company today, a higher-end service recommended to Steve after their previous driver was pulled over for driving drunk on his way back from Kentucky. The whole mess had been horrible, a PR shitshow if they’d ever seen one. Tony also said he’d check up on Revenant, the stallion Shield Farms was going to breed with Macy’s Day, their best mare. Revenant is a behemoth from a farm across the county, a black thoroughbred with a mean streak in him but the sire of some of the fastest horses in Del Mar. If Steve can land this collaboration with Asgard it’ll be a win on both sides, as more owners will line up to mix genes with both Macy’s and Revenant.

There’s also the whole water situation. Due to the fact that the drought and forest fires have baked the land and soaked up all the water, the State of California has begun regulating how much water places like Shield Farms can use. There can’t be any more dripping hoses, unattended spigots, or dumping of perfectly good washing water. Nat’s handling that one, emailing the State to get special permits during race season when water is needed most. But the government is being very strict about the water usage, which means more headaches for Steve because he’ll have to keep reminding everyone not to waste any water whatsoever, thank you very much. He’ll have to put laminated signs up. He hates laminating things, makes him feel like a third-grade teacher.

Steve’s not too focused on the upcoming dressage show in Escondido, as he knows Wanda and Sharon are working their asses off as always. They’ve won regional titles the last five years, and Wanda even made it to second in Nationals a few years back. They’re aiming even higher this summer, for not only Nationals but International competitions as well.

Steve runs through his list of things to do. Balance accounts, pay bills, check up on the boarders’ payments, hire new trainer…

Hire new trainer. Fuck, that’s right, Hodge walked out last week. Steve was almost glad when that happened, even as dramatic as it had seemed. The guy was a bully to horses and people. It’d been Tony’s idea in the first place to hire him. He’d had a resume a mile long, ranging from working as a mustang wrangler to training at farms like Calumet and Gainesway in Kentucky. But just last week he’d had a tantrum about the construction of the arena (as if there was any way in high heaven to change that), and Steve had very bluntly told him to either suck it up or leave. Gilmore Hodge had chosen the latter.

But now they need a new trainer. A specialty trainer, to boot. Someone willing to work with the worst of the worst.

Thoroughbreds are notoriously moody. They’re bred to be fast, to race, which comes along with it high energy and a larger chance for genetics to go wrong. Breed a gentle mare with a hot-headed sire, you could get one disposition or the other, and vice versa. There’s always foals who grow up to be too excitable and/or dangerous to be used in a prestigious setting, but Steve’s never believed in giving up on anything. Hence the reason why he’s always got a trainer on hand to deal with the reject pile, make them into something someone could potentially buy as a project horse. Or, when Shield periodically invests in a mustang, someone to smooth out the first few weeks before a trainer more suited to the horse’s intended purpose would come in. Get the horse friendly and halter trained, as well as make note of the tics and buttons one shouldn’t push.

In other words, they need a very specific skill set. And nerves of steel.

Natasha probably knows someone, he thinks. She brought in Sam, Clint, America, and Wanda, some of their best people. Steve would still be in some studio apartment in Carlsbad, making just enough on commissions to scrape by, if it weren’t for her. If she hadn’t pulled him up by the bootstraps and forced him to see his own true potential, and that he didn’t have to refuse what was his out of spite. That it was fucking idiotic to refuse what was lawfully his out of spite. He owes Natasha his entire life, and trusts her to know where to go.

Steve looks over at the clock again. It reads 4:00 A.M. and he can just see the beginnings of color in the sky. He sits up and stretches, fully awake now.

His clothing of choice this morning is Adidas soccer pants (a gift from Nat on his birthday last year), a gray tank that fits tightly over his chest, and his running shoes. A morning run is essential to his routine, it gets him going and ready to face the day. Besides, how else will he stay in shape if all he ever does is sit cooped up in his office doing bills? Steve decides to see if Tony knows anyone that could help out with bookkeeping. That could be very useful.

His breakfast consists of granola and strawberries in plain yogurt with some orange juice. No one else seems to be up as he moves around the kitchen, which isn’t surprising. Tony usually gets up next after Steve, around five. Steve’ll already be on his run by then.

His route goes along the entire circumference of the farm, doubling back behind the stables and winding off into the orange and lemon grove. It follows a trail along the irrigation system, then out of the trees and up into the foothills. Steve usually follows the dirt trails back to the main road and arrives back at Shield in time to help out with morning feeding and water-checks.

He sets off from the main house as soon as he’s done rinsing out his breakfast dishes, and jogs down the front steps with his earbuds in and phone strapped safely to his bicep. The peaceful tenor of Jim Croce’s voice sets the mood of the morning; surrounded by glowing mountains and the sharp aroma of sage, Steve is all alone in his thoughts.

Ever since he was a kid, Steve has always loved the desert he grew up in. Southern California isn’t exactly a forgiving place, what with the temperatures that soar above 110 in summer and wildfires that rage for days on end. But Steve finds comfort in the heat, a constant force surrounding him, reminding him like the mountains do of his potential. Pushing him to do more than he thinks he can. Growing up poor meant no pool, no air conditioning, and little more than ice cubes and a box fan to keep cool. Stark claims Steve’s more comfortable in the sweltering midday sun than he is in a cool office for this reason, and he’s not incorrect. Steve prefers manual labor to desk work, and sports an impressive tan across his whole body because of it. He’s always believed in doing things himself and knows it’s the best way to get things done.

He comes to the spot where the trail curves off into the trees, and makes the turn as the song changes to something Hozier.

Steve breathes in the scent of lemon and orange. This grove is, along with the boarding stables and bets from races, one of Shield’s primary sources of income. They sell the fruit to local businesses, from bars to restaurants and cafes, as well as at various farmers’ markets. Banner runs the whole operation, as the guy’s got a thumb greener than the Green Giant’s and is scared shitless of horses. If he weren’t Steve’d offer the guy a position in the general offices, but that involves actually seeing the animals, which Bruce avoids at all costs. He’s in charge of paying the workers they hire to keep up the trees and fruit, as well as coordinating who they sell to. It gives Steve peace of mind, knowing he can go on his run through here and not worry about who’s working on what and whether or not things are going smoothly.

The grove comes right up to the base of some hills, not quite big enough to be called mountains, but still a challenge when it comes to running or biking on them. Steve likes to wind his way through, finding meandering paths that only fit one vehicle or a pair of horseback riders in the rare off-chance that someone comes up this way.

His head is full of music, his favorite Beatles song just beginning, as he rounds a curve and slows down at the sight in front of him.

A rusted blue pickup sits idle off on the shoulder, a faint trail of smoke leading from the engine just barely visible in the early morning sunlight.

Doesn’t have a point of view

Knows not where he’s going to

Isn’t he a bit like you and me?

Steve tugs the earbuds out of his ears and lets them hang over the collar of his shirt as he approaches the truck. Just barely he can hear someone moving around on the gravel, still out of his line of sight but footsteps eerily loud in the otherwise silent area. It’s almost unnerving, this unfamiliar truck on such an unused road at this time of day. Steve braces himself, tensing, ready to fight off some guy with a cleaver or similar.

He comes around the side of the truck to see something he wasn’t expecting.

A man, not much older than him, is muttering to himself something intelligible and running a hand through his long, black-brown hair. He’s pacing, cold eyes fixed on the engine which by now Steve can see is steadily releasing smoke. The guy seems utterly distraught, scared, even, so much so that he hasn’t noticed Steve yet.

Steve clears his throat. “Need any help, there?”

The man stops dead in his tracks and his head whips up, hand retreating lightning-fast from his brown locks. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, blue eyes almost glowing.

Steve nods to the engine. “That doesn’t look too good. I know a mechanic, I can get ‘ya a discount too. Just gotta throw ‘er in neutral and push a couple miles.”

The man swallows audibly, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. Steve can see defined muscle under his white t-shirt, from his abdomen to his chest to his arms and shoulders. He’s wearing blue jeans as well, work-worn Levis by the looks of it. Steve raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Uh, yes. That would - that would be nice, thank you.” A Russian accent rolls off the man’s tongue, thick and silky and deep. Steve nods, hoping the dim morning light hides the heat on his face at the sound of the man’s voice. The man closes the hood, then climbs into the cab to shift the truck into neutral. He hops out with catlike grace, more agile than anyone has any right to be at five thirty in the morning. Together they move to the rear bumper, one on either side of the trailer hitch. Before they begin pushing, Steve holds out his hand to the stranger.

“I’m Steve, good to meet you.”

The man takes his hand and shakes, even if it is tentative. “Likewise. You can call me Bucky.”

Bucky. An undeniably American name, for someone so obviously foreign. Steve wonders if it’s a nickname, or if it’s even his name at all; maybe it’s just the first thing that popped into his head.

He doesn’t miss the uncertain gleam in Bucky’s eyes, or the way he’s the first one to let go of the handshake.

-

The truck is heavy, as trucks usually are, so by the time they’ve made it to Peggy’s shop both men are glistening with sweat. Bucky’s breath is labored next to him, and Steve imagines his own is much the same.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of two fine men this early in the morning?” Peggy’s British accent floated through the garage, and Steve huffed a grin. Trust Peggy to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed no matter the time of day. He’d known her ever since he got home from Afghanistan, from the moment he’d walked in looking for a repairman for his convertible. He’d been in town with Nat, looking at the old Rogers place (a run-down farmhouse and barn at the time, within eleven months it had become Shield Farms), when his beloved VW had sputtered to a halt right outside Peggy’s door. The rest was, as they say, history.

“We’ve got a pickup problem, Pegs. Was on my morning run and came across Bucky here, who was looking pretty worse for wear. Decided to help ‘im out and bring his truck here. It was smoking like this -” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, at the engine in question “- when I got there.”

Peggy hums, emerging from behind a tractor with a crease between her brows. She’s got grease on her hands and coveralls, but somehow her face and makeup are as flawless as always. Steve’ll never understand how she manages it.

Bucky’s been silent the whole time. He stands slightly off to the side, arms crossed over his chest.

Peggy looks at him. “What exactly happened, and when?”

Bucky shrugs. “I was driving along the road Steve found me on, and the engine started sp - spewing this white smoke. The engine overheating symbol came on, too. I pulled over immediately and opened the hood. All I could see was the smoke and some liquid leaking, but I’m not experienced enough to know from where.”

Steve noticed Peggy’s brows bounce up at hearing Bucky’s accent. He wants to hear it forever, wants to record Bucky singing Hey Jude or Carolina In My Mind and listen to it for hours on end. It reminds him of fancy hotels in LA, all bright lights and red wine and jazz music. He could drown in Bucky’s voice, lose himself in it. Steve pictures sitting in his living room at home and listening to Bucky read anything, fuck, he could read the dictionary and Steve would listen with rapt attention. He wonders what it’d sound like in the morning, or late at night, or in the middle of -

Steve is pulled from his imaginings by the sound of Peggy’s voice. “- be two or three days before I can get the correct parts, and another after that to get your truck fixed. Is that alright?”

He sees Bucky nod once. Peggy must have diagnosed the problem and gotten Bucky to agree to a price, because they separate, Bucky to the front desk and Peggy to the truck. Steve trails after Bucky.

He’s sitting in a cushioned chair, filling out a form on his thigh. Steve drops down across from him. Bucky doesn’t look up, just keeps scribbling away. Steve wonders, not for the first time, where exactly Bucky is from, and where he’s going that he can afford to stop for four days before arriving. His truck has a New York license plate, but somehow Steve gets a feeling that’s not where Bucky comes from. Maybe his intuition is wrong. It rarely is, though, and this fact is what got him promoted to Captain within his first four years in the Army.

He decides to take a risk, just because he can.

“Hey, Bucky, so, uh, I was wondering if you’ve got a place to stay? The motels around here are nice, as far as motels go, but I’ve got an extra room at my place if you want.”

Bucky looks up from his writing, ice blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if questioning Steve’s intent. He takes a few long moments to reply.

“How much must I pay you?”

Steve immediately shakes his head. “No, no, pal. No need to pay me. This isn’t charity, just thought you might like a place nicer than a motel.”

Bucky contemplates that, obviously weighing his options in his mind. “You are sure?”

Steve nods, crossing his arms. “Of course. You can stay as long as you need.”

At that, Bucky gives him a look, something direct and it makes Steve shift nervously. Does Bucky think he’s taking advantage of him? Steve really hopes not, because not only does he know how dirty motels around here are, but because this could be an opportunity to get to know someone new. A friend.

Just then, Bucky nods sharply. “Alright. I’ll stay with you until Miss Carter has fixed my truck.”

Peggy walks in, almost as if on cue. “You nearly finished, Bucky?”

He goes back to the papers, signing here and there, and Steve watches with a small smile on his face.

[limejuicer1862]

Acknowledgements

Thankyou to Jane Cornwell for designing the front cover.

May 1

..looks like you are drowning..

part one

looks like you are drowning & hope i am wrong. i can see the struggle the turn about in water.

i have done that too pat says that i have paid the price but i wonder

i hope you survive come clean bare your feathers.

fly high

if not i will lay a petal and think of you

as i think of the others that drowned before you that had no feathers

part two,

it looks like you are drowning again shall I jump in to save you and maybe sink myself or shall I wait to see to lay a flower at our feet

part three

maybe you are not drowning really that I made it up and you are dancing like the others

while people die and we lay flowers in memoriam corona

part four

you are floating maybe; I did that for hours went spongy, now face reality and I still think that you are drowning like the others.

-sonja benskin mesher

concrete reasoning

gray day: i am out for a walk when a sidewalk camellia begs myriad questions:

runaway bride?

garden club mishap? rejected proposal? hothouse runaway? centerpiece rebel?

confronted by the unexplained, the human drive to make order from chaos is relentless.

whatever the story, the end is the same: beauty appears and we can only wonder …

with a schedule to keep and no answers at hand i press onward, feeling the inner bloom of nascent gratitude.

-Rich Follett

MF 1

*

Every time I find clay in the garden, beneath a rosebush, say, I find slate too. This is just something I have noticed over the course of a year. It is not necessary to mention these things, especially now, I suppose. I am not happy unless I’m pouring something – tomato feed. I am Philip Levine’s Burial Rights, I recall Bei Dao. These days, I feel the trick to a good carpark, to feel anything, is my proximity to this flower arrangement.

JK 1

*

A story of three fish might be fish bones in a field for birds. Koi feeding, koi feed in a garden centre, at the next junction. Fish bent back over backwards, in blue paint. Scattered to the water’s edge a handful of dirt, to a handful of colour, blue scales at the centre of the field, a water mark, a stone left unturned.

-Alex Mazey

The Life of Petals

We use flowers to mark occasions– Weddings and funerals. The petals linger only briefly, But the sentiment still hangs Heavy in the air, years after Like pollen That settled over and over again On our patio table and chairs, All those long Midwestern summers When heat robbed our lungs of breath. And Wildflowers, not cut-storebought ones, marked a different time, Of an everyday type. Now, cut flowers feel gluttonous to me. And petals bless us with The gentleness of how life ought to be.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/petals.m4a

-st

Utopia Burning

Warnings ignored from many a social self appointed warlord Echoes of dissident discord striking a high-pitched off key note As hungry flames lick and lash causing an apocalyptic molten urban and suburban foretold mess Whispered by familiar oracles their verbal miracles documenting their fiery cautionary chronicles Of systems slowly imploding temperaments exploding fake veneers and smiles exfoliating as ignorant masses squawk for a helping hand from those witnessing their demise and burning squirming shedding acid tears for Utopia burning…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/utopia-burning-mp3.mp3

© Don Beukes

Still Silent

No sound, water jelly flat, so still it hurts my ears. Even sun slides silently into autumn’s metal light.

All jamboree, clang and din now far away in time. Even breath is offensive here, in case of ripple and slapping rocks.

I cannot read or turn a page lest a mumble or paper scrape, escape and shatter the loch. Like a breaking glass to a rousing cheer, as all that knowledge gets out.

So I stare at reflections in late day waters reliable quiet, but maybe their heat is not that hot.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/still-silent.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 30th April 2020.

The sweet flower’s heart Wilting on the cold, hard slab My love’s final gift

-Carrie Ann Golden

Camellia

You lay beautiful and gasping alone on Tithonian stone. A sudden fall from grace, petal broken angel: forage for sweeper winds.

Transient as summer days. Temperate these forevers soon fade to winter grey. Dog-day memories cannot abide short-day cold.

What are you, I wonder? A love certified in Bacchus’s dance or a loved one certified and boxed in tears and brown ale.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/camellia.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 30th March 2020.

The giant fish takes back the myth

The morning before she was to become a story the sea was baited quiet, the kind that silks

all desire down to swish. To decide to leap from one cool world to another just for breakfast

is to bare your colours to the scaling knife of the wind, and she did – her fireback beacon launched

for the brief protein of flying legs. How often we fail to see that dark hull waiting, we beasts so full up

with the rush of living for our risks. And the shape of the poised hero held no meaning, to a fish

but oh the shimmerhook, like all the moons her eye’s nightcoin had ever purchased

from deep beneath the water, and there is the lust, the swish- -and want. The glowworm crescent to silver her belly.

We all want to shine in fullness. Only heroes are given names in these stories.

For her need she was translated into an island, and I am running the delicate gasp of her jaws

in the shape of this coast, forever straining for the hook and still called only fish

even with all we have made of her. Every time I desire to transcend my quiet water, I forget the heroes

and leap from her skin, and hope that landing empty

but with one eye fixed on the moon every night after this will be enough.

-Ankh Spice

Beheaded Camelia’s

delicate red petals last longer on the less travelled path. Flash of disappearing red lace, paper thin survival. Unbroken in bright sunlight, bright on grey stone. Destruction stays at home to avoid destruction.

The red wing is allowed space to revolve reflect in water. “Temporary” like the word “soon”, a duration undecided.

-Paul Brookes

  May 2

..scratching..

quiet now

we can hear the birds no problem one lorry on the road essential travel

then

we hear the scratching

when dark comes comes the scuttlings

flutterings outside

bats fly round our houses

inside others live and die

the fly

&

the moth comes lovely soft and tasteful

nothing distasteful

we saves them lifts them out the bath a dry flannel as assistance

remember that fly in the room you wanted to swat for annoying. left alone it went quietly away

night came full of sounds

mice scratching enough to leave

marks

enough to leave marks

the fly does

buzz when it flies buzz as it dies

zzzzzt

-sonia benskin mesher

*

Inclined to mention the halo of a mountain, somewhere I am fourteen years old. This is a mountain behind a house where I still remain, in this thought-process, every child chews spearmint gum. It is definitely spearmint gum, and the mountain is only a halo, now, this time, elsewhere. Like, I don’t know, like Mark Fisher says, this stasis has been buried – ‘the inventor of the term, a frustrating thinker’.

*

In the summer’s taped shut windows, without seeing flies in years.

Hit mosquitos against the wall, once observing blood left behind.

-Alex Mazey

Geyser

Soul rumbles as grumble dark bellows push their boiling fist. Hot drops, boiled rain.

Angry fats splatter into faint signs, streaks of early mournful light.

Fire waters bubble and churn chained by conventions, damned by convection. In breaking songs of earth’s heat, brash displays of prorogued grief.

Water crouches, fluid evasive. As pain it cannot be broken. Desire free to flow, hurt a haunt of generations.

So strictures die and violence will be a multiple of passing times.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/geyser.m4a

-©️ Dai Fry 1st May 2020.

In memory of those left behind : 9 December 2019

Sun’s first sleep-breath sweets the dropped shoulder of te puia whakaari, her bones

in early mistlight, are all grace and delicate pickings, gulled clavicles of a hard dancer, stilled. Coiled tension, resting.

It is hard to recognise a haunting, in the rose-gilt of sunrise. Do you know her name? When you recognised it, did you forget to exhale? Release your living now to cloud

the pane we do not see – watch deep scratches creep across this vision. The guardians are always here, and the light oh the light may change any moment.

-Ankh Spice

The Yellow Forest

Awakening – Dry mouth burning eyes skin burn, breathe. Pin point vision echoing mission failed fission, inhale. Heavy feet slow reaction no connection – A siren a siren! Wake up stand up react retract, breathe.

Forest Walk – Dislodge move seek react engage stop! Burning embers leaves glowing eagles falling feathers floating, breathe. Listen observe – A lark hark the warning A flash a flash, breathe. Eyes open sight broken, breathe.

Chokehold – Black river dead fish foul odour slow down, Breathe. Soil on fire charcoal roots sprouting rotten fruit – Stop smell retreat, breathe. Dead of night presence sucking remaining air laboured breathing heartbeat slowing – Find the opening, breathe. Look beware – Run!

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-yellow-forest-mp3.mp3

The Gamdroela

Far beyond the Hottentotshuisie Mountains, a mythical creature awaits to reward the chosen one – Elected by the Bokmakierie Korrelkop, a strange elusive soothsayer, traditionally enshrined to make a wise choice – A new ruler for the remote Belhar nation to once again wear the sacred crown of Sekueb Nodmai, she whose voice still echo from deep within the Bolemakiesie marshlands – A treacherous journey awaits the young Tandpyn, Prince of the Bloekomboom tree nation, whose Lands have nearly been scorched bare by the Fiery blizzards of Macassar – Now charged with the ultimate sacrifice, crossing the Moddergat fynbos wetlands to eventually reach the steep trail leading up to Fluweeltjie – Lair of the ancient Gamdroela , a kleurvolle Colourful but powerful oracle who will Decide on the worthiness of the young Tandpyn…

-Don Beukes

The Dream

I had a dream last night Of walking thru a forest-like place Filled with earthy illuminances

I could barely make out the sharp Round edges of branches and limbs Bathed in a heavenly glow

These trees, so strange yet so familiar These giants, so murky yet so real Their aromatic odors filled my essence

And for the briefest of moments I believed to be back home among these ancient pines Until my eyes opened to the sterile white walls

-Carrie Ann Golden

Fly Away, Dream

When television broadcasting Ended after late night news And comedy shows, yellow, blue, magenta hues

On test patterns Would send humanity To bed, to fly away wistfully,

As on insect wings, To a place of dreams And endless possibilities.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/fly-away-dream.m4a

-st

flaiku

what to us is dross is a rainbow to the fly perspective is key

-Rich Follett

Her Splash Of Veins

flutters, is still, proboscis twitch. Flutters, is still, twitch.

Splash of wheat in fields, Flutters as flywings.

Strands of wheat flywalk skin as she passes she swats the touch away.

Till as she treads down more stalks into the unmade bread of the field bunches of wheat stroke her thighs and she smiles at the bright sun of it all.

Snatches a stalk, lets it hang from her mouth a proboscis tremble in the gust of her dreams of flight above the ready to be harvested grain rises toward sun blaze newly risen

warm bread a splash of veins in full colour, breathes in her baked youth like goodness.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/her-splash-of-veins.m4a

-Paul Brookes

May 3.

.severn bridge.

it was a long journey

well you do don’t you. you travel .

you do what you has to do with love

even if things are difficult.

I feel it was just before the bridge

later they changed the name of it

there was this tree in a garden and I guess still there

through april we saw it bud as we passed going down

bloomed as we returned

later petals fell

then the reason for the journey failed and

left

yet

when I see a magnolia tree I remember

I remember sultry days in the long grass dried over

by cuckoo woods over there

catching them, dry creatures singing

looking them over and gently placing them back

the woman on the corner watched, looking over

the back

one arm missing

I remember a lot of things

-sonja benskin mesher

*

To be as impressed with flowers, as other people, is to achieve something worthwhile. Here, Pentti Linkola – deep ecology, disappointment, hands, prying open a bird box. Dead mammals, the small bones of a petal, inside, the entire remit of clichés involving death. Yes, another listy death poem, another regression. Another impressive notion of right and wrong. Cats underwater, drowning, observing these flowers in my hands, the branches, etc.

*

To be as impressed with bugs, as other people, is to achieve something worthwhile.

-Alex Mazey

Tears For Lichen

On the flat stone she wept her thousand regrets. Wax petals, a mother’s confetti of pink tears.

This was a song a descant to winter-tide. Of lighter months, not to the stone of dark grey lands carrying lichen kisses.

And as the lichen looks, death’s breath rattles and waxed tears wash abandoned to stoney seas.

A flower’s shower a softer form of rain. As the tree reaches out, tentative fingers touch her children’s clothes.

Ancient fruits that grew before first flight arced, beetles climbed these trees: ancient crawling bees.

Mitochondrial Eve, as magnolia flowers breathed, oxygen rich and rot from the seas.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/tears-for-lichen.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 2nd May 2020.

Lullaby of the Cicadas

The Flood – Stuck in mourning darkness every twilight sadness for loved ones lost, I weakly attempt to bravely to bravely attempt my inner flood walls but then despair breaks through, Threatening my brittle fading halo, so I let it seep a little- Just to taste the pain once more but as always like before, I allow a faint chorus to penetrate through the dark cavities of my soul as I listen to a lullaby of cicadas calming me healing me comforting me shielding me – Saving me.

Chorus of the Nymphs – We come from dormant Slumber to share our essence with you. Allow us to numb the melancholic hum in your soul. Let us gather notes of eons ago echoing from ancient forest trees to deliver a new symphony – Hoping to set your mind free from recurring soul-eating melodies.

Emergence – The mornings seem to radiate brighter into these faded streets of my mind, where dagger smiles are replaced with hopeful eyes, willing me to turn back into a brightening awakening aura, beckoning my new tomorrow, so I willingly follow the faint strange welcoming sounds of a new song – Joining the throng of lost souls eager to emerge Renewed, healed. Fading sadness penetrated by a lullaby of cicadas…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/lullaby-of-the-cicadasmp3.mp3

© Don Beukes

We Are the Wildflowers

Wildflowers and weeds Bear a striking resemblance To one another, Differentiated mostly By the kindness of time and Human trials. What one calls A weed, another calls a perennial. And, garden walls meant to Contain them are Only masquerading as effective barriers. Aren’t we all held back by Human hands that pull and grab, or Allowed to thrive, By the grace of the benevolent?

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/we-are-the-wildflowers.m4a

-st

Tanka for the last of the magnolias

Long smooth clouds bloom high sugar-pink tower turrets domes open to wind fall reborn – coracles sail lichen archipelago

-Ankh Spice

southern descent

sweet magnolia summer storm wind-strewn petals on lichen and stone

feather-soft gentility belies a core of tempered steel

southern by grace— survivor by design survivor by

-Rich Follett

A Locust

In our oral tales others see us as plague. Let us starve to feed their children.

I don’t swarm.

I contemplate sat on the viscous membrane of this water.

Oppose my senses:

To avoid mirrors. Fly around them not into them as death will be your final image.

I only see an image of myself.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/a-locust.m4a

-Paul Brookes

  May 4

.shrink.

the child psychiatrist and oh how we can spell that lodged up the stone steps at the clinic the air was nice that day and she was shown blobs said they were butterflies watched the dolls act and said that was junk really

that father had just run off with another woman that was how they talked then he probably walked maybe hurried to get away

declared sane at eleven left at half past with the gift of a bible kept for the ages

thought that was rubbish too

she was small in that place

shrink

-sonja benskin mesher

*

So many people give birth to nothing. This line is extremely unimpressive, but knot ties, in some small way, to something tangible, outside of the self, like this painting, like this person, not waving nor drowning; Linkola’s cats, Murakami’s cats, the cats in a Studio Ghibli animation, like the girl-witch from Kiki’s Delivery Service, like the fading behind Mark Fisher, a fisher man, a fisher man like Pentti Linkola, dying in 2020.

*

I am not all that impressed with the technological ability to view, with intricate detail, the delicate impressions of a wing. It seems eyes can form, into the deoxyribonucleic acid, into many things. Enthusiasm is not located in a scientific word. It is not so fascinating – really.

-Alex Mazey

Quiet Please

I take my bow, it is really yours. Proud bends the back of the master. Semaphored arms embrace acoustic gold.

The tenants appraise, heads in silenced rows. Bodies rustle, anticipation is subsumed into soft cough and quiet creak.

All is submission as a pin of fallen angels sprawls across the floor. Equations their silent recitals while music sits patient as an obedient hound.

So now… To elevate a multitude of trailing notes. Spinning of helicopter leaves in a brass breeze. A syncing of vibration and desire pitches each point perfect, till buttercup soft lit hard and sharp, under home’s dull light. Sour as summer lemon trees. Then boom-dark crash, as water calling dead souls to the combe.

And all this while in a discomfort of seats, ears make ready to meet the brightling core that sits within.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/quite-please.m4a

-©. Dai Fry 3rd May 2020.

The Speech

Shadow Nation – We exist in cold shadows where our fading echoes are drowned by your bulldozers in the name of progress – Yet in the dead of night you stalk us hunt us to delete us silence us mock us bury us until we float away as ash a hush – Outcasts

We, the Mothers – We gave you life but your journey crossed unknown paths, bowing down to greedy gods sucking your soul dry but you welcomed promised riches licked bitter molasses with gravy train false preachers, Forgetting your inherent good essence resulting in your Foretold death sentence. Our grief is no relief our warnings Faded into nothing as you left us broken, eternally hurting…

Vision X – Your world is no more. You are here but in another sphere another existence an alternative reality because of your foolish insistence to enact nuclear annihilation, depleting all nations. You stare at me but your voice is muted as you attempt to explain your existential burning pain still searing through your perforated punctured soul – How you willingly participated in a man-made selfish senseless final war to claim the ultimate earthly prize – Ruling the global village, oh how wrong you were! Thinking you would last your nuclear winter but you melted each other deleted each other destroyed your earthly legacy by your insatiable hunger for power.

Well, here you are – Stuck on Planet X, destined to find no eternal rest whilst dead stars of eons ago further darken this existence and the light of exploded suns now blind your new vision…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-speech-mp3.mp3

© Don Beukes

In This Place

Wings do not fly. Mirrors do not reflect. Arms raised ask for folk to lie face down on the floor.

Decay is praised. Illness is needed. Death is requested.

Life is despised. Nurses are criminals. information is disinformation.

Paranoia is wanted. Conspiracies are welcomed. Demands are never met.

Government advice must be ignored. All advice has a use by date. Use by dates are decided by us all.

Control is freedom. Take back control.

-Paul Brookes

inside my name

dream state, Monday, 2 AM mothwing Navajo vagina; Georgia O’Keeffe portal to an alternate universe; Rohrschach montage of feminine puissance with Bette Davis eyelashes and cheerleader breasts

transfixed, i plunge into its pulsing core emerging in grade school where I wrote my name in conté on clean white paper folded and then opened— wrote so carefully, never crossing the midline— then just as carefully colored in the loops and angles, folded the paper back again (folded it like a prayer) and rubbed it with a block of wood

we were told to expect other worlds when we opened that fold again— told that secrets would be revealed

i did not see other worlds i saw only what seemed to be sidewalk chalk art marred by sudden summer rain

i have waited five decades for this morphologic grace— this mothwing Navajo vagina; Georgia O’Keeffe portal to an alternate universe; Rohrschach montage of feminine puissance with Bette Davis eyelashes and cheerleader breasts

dream state, Monday, 3 AM i wake with grateful tears, having seen at last inside my name …

-Rich Follett

Lockdown scored for one instrument

After noticing you have gritted your teeth (these days contain all we cannot bite gone) choose a tuning shape. Knot yourself closed, or petal out your limbs towards the constant poke of the world. Either way you annotate a rest. Either way you are not how you began, and you may hear the breath drawn at the beginning of the stave. Music is always quivering somewhere in the darkness of a body; in a chamber of polished wood in the auditorium of bone (that same clench heavying shoulders). Tune your knot. Turn your wood. Poise the humming star of your frame and play, unbowed or wound, just play until your last string breaks.

-Ankh Spice

Entrapment

“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal” –Matt. 6:19

Trapped between Window and pane, Moth wings open and shut Like pages of a book. Dust

Flutters forth From the cover Between which words, too, Are trapped, unable to do

Their work, live and breathe, Seek and find, call forth action, Convey the power to believe. I am a moth. Set me free.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/entrapment.m4a

-st

The Artist, for Day Four, Part One

An artist’s mind Unlike the rest of the masses Is a visionary kind Reality to him May be pretend to others He bends on a whim

-Carrie Ann Golden

  *

My goal in life is the destruction of 5G masts. I cut my sandwich into triangles as a lower-middle class pretension. Back outside, my window, one time, a cream room, a view of the street’s antenna. The problem with David Lynch is how he makes too much sense. Back in the simulacrum, a boy, my age, rangers in North America, first as tragedy, then as… ironing out our balaclavas, filling out our milk bottles; backpacks unattended on park benches, on the bus.

*

A page of Baudrillard, hides the truth to view witnesses fraying little by little into ruins, discernible ruined empire, rotting carcass of the soil double ends simulation, this fabled second-order no longer that of a territory, no longer saturated, a hyperreal map one must

return without origin, shreds unusable a questionable sovereign difference – the charm abstraction, the coextensivity of poetry, the representation produced no imaginary. Operational, in fact, no longer memory radiating synthesis, no space without atmosphere, no worse

curvature. Imitation, nor duplication; leaving room for simulated liquidation.

-Alex Mazey

.the title changes.

there is too much interference things could be left alone things were alright anyway

the battery is low yet plugged in the radio buzzes.

things are distorted

so i did what he says, whilst running up and down the stairs.

source to av, only there aint no av, not on that one anyhow.

press my scart lead, that is probably it.

press the sky button, the sky does not respond.

we still has television snow.

mine are bifocal and can distort gently if i concentrate poorly on the centre i have had help a while grateful at least that i can see unlike some of my family

yesterday I watched a documentary about monkeys

-sonja benskin mesher

The new starboard

Our larvae split their skin in the signal-fry, warmed over by the wire-witched currents of one filigree moon in a hundredweight sky

and if we no longer see the stars how do they counsel a chart for a new grub, or pull a blood’s spirit-iron toward the dissolving north

and if we no longer feel these waves how may we know our own water, what deeps us for the giddy bubble of this sailing. And I know

there are rocks here still, they make chimneys of it to vent everything we can’t burn railing sparks against the sky- silver that meshes none of our tides true

and it will rain hot tonight, the sizzle pelting the new hatchlings

-Ankh Spice

Of Forest And Stick

Foe forest, faux forest fee-fi-fo forest. Where giants hurl their broken stories from broadcast heaven to stone cast ground. Real, this least of things.

Inarticulate metal arms pluck down your dreams, to place within the flakes of soul slow dying desiccation.

Sick insects wave. These metal poles sway clamped to roof and breast.

All point as one, their martyr fingers show. As minds walk psychotic in their circular days.

To stars and planets that orbit our night sleep late night drunk deep on their celestial milky ways.

Antennae wave hello. Behind smudged glass walls as we sit and stare into this aquarium hell of our own making.

As we spread across our furniture of forked cartons, plastic and messy despair We start to take on our corrupt story.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/of-forest-and-stick.m4a

© Dai Fry 4th May 2020.

Reception

Quiet the cluttered airways. Listen. Too many voices reaching skyward, Clamoring for reception, Propelling selfhood upward,

Destroys collaborative Synergy. And interference causes failure. After all, Man-made towers were only Ever meant to fall.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/reception.m4a

-st

Every Stem Is

an aerial, antennae whose signal carries an image and a sound of growth and bloom.

Leaves are directors, flagellum, reach out, test the air and vibrations.

Listen can your hear the messages, or is it distorted,

image overlaid on image, sound overlaid on sound?

It processes fake news, phishing and cyber attacks. discerns real from false. scents and trails.

A filter bubble, an information sceptic decides what diminishes it, what makes it grow.

what makes it turn towards warmth, towards brightness.

More than a conduit.

-Paul Brookes

effluorescence

concrete flowerbed: aluminium amaranths dream of fecund earth

-Rich Follett

These gray structures loom Like a dead alloy forest A mill’s epitaph

-Carrie Ann Golden

The Arrival (EEN)

Blue eclipse sudden shudder silver vibrations strange sensations mauve hues silent screams shattered dreams rainbow screams black void bleak skies pink cries identity hides no way out seek beware who goes there wait stop where no here why there marble hush turquoise crush hide smile cry illusion confusion static wailing connections failing conscience melting blood moon a light alight powder dawn seek destroy rebuild regenerate no rescue failed sight emerald night pyramid flight incoming yellow tongue purple feast horrible sightings a drone atone leave us alone lavender glass chards charge cut chaos comet rush – Reverse

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-arrival-een-mp3.mp3

The Arrival (TWEE)

Falling earth new birth cosmic boom blast break away descend evacuate take position brace brave pathetic beast eject object reject investigate attack no way back hold blinding strobe light up get up move no room fire storm go swerve dive testing resting make haste chase erase record a face strange days delete reboot reverse rethink incoming homecoming survive surrender sharp solar bursts the thirst implosion ration succession orchestration new nation sinking earth toxic rebirth black hole tar soul screeching silence severed signals strange sour suns

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-arrival-twee-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

.

MF6

I run my hand over my past,

Where did the time go?

How trite to ask. How human.

I want to feel where a picture

Made by a child must’ve been

Until adolescence tore it up.

I want to see where a head

Chipped the paint.

Where did the time go?

#6

how I remember mama:

recumbent with cucumber slices

hot stuff on a blazing beach

between her lover,

her life, and others;

that would be her children,

playing ball discreetly

In the lathering surf

with a Portuguese Man of War

-Elizabeth Moura

Abstractions

Making sense of abstract pale green The mind reads as moss Which proliferates into vegetation. Hen and chicks begin again In repurposed terrariums From some old Mother’s Day, Signifying children and growth; Elders and death; Soil and air Until abstract greys and greens Are life force made concrete.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/abstractions.m4a

-st

Yellow Mars

Stretched beyond any story, outside of organic memory. Time lives without passing. It’s life: a slow definition of measure in stain.

When I was young I saw a bright yellow lichen near the sea. I wanted to lick it to sense and to taste it. This bright, lives there still.

Yellow as gorse flower orange as rust. Lichen covers our world.

On the ISS they breathed the vacuum and survived. One day they will turn Mars yellow.

Then: On a clear night you may see a lichen star.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/yellow-mars.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 5th May 2020.

Shift

When what was left of the mountain heaved the men were stroking the ground with their tillers and to the worried horses, whose ancestors had been told for three hundred years that men knew what they were doing it seemed the infant was soothed, that the tired-out dirt had simply sighed and turned over. And so they nodded the great brushbrooms of their blinkered heads and stepped forward onto the grey scree, between the lines of unmade earth, and the unmountain wept as she received them into her hot belly. And swirling with their blades the motes of dust that were only sadness, floating the men said to each other ‘but why were the horses so stupid?’ and the trees, the only wild green left in miles and miles and miles of neatly turned fields shuffled close on the ridge, hiding completely the great wave roaring in, that water briefly the same shape as the mountain’s memory of herself

-Ankh Spice

..faceless ..

faceless

from nowhere, no name nor eyes yet we saw the bloodied halo

angel power and dominion

swept through silent almost biblical if you #readthat note how the layout is columns, numbered stanzas unlike other books tied away in cupboards

here was black and smudges then carefully we drew her out all tidy with reason, wearing us down

wearing the kimono corona wearing the coat corona whatever you wear corona

faced away

only stone set before set like fire in empty barns

#readthat

the social worker was a bitch back then

#didyoureadthat?

gongbi guise

painted silk or weathered stone? where vision ends imagination begins

artist’s paean to nature or nature’s paean to art? perfection neither asks nor answers

-Rich Follett

Tenalp Htrae

Earth Whispers – Light years have passed since leaving our blue planet, only white noise echoes remain of a world imploded by human negligence of a fragile natural existence meant to sustain maintain billions of our former human species but our ancient predecessors plundered misused abused neglected and rejected what Earth had to offer – Yet they were destined to suffer for ignoring existential warnings of natural resources depleted excavated extracted annihilated – To the point of meltdown. Now all we see are the historical images shown to new generations born in a new world a new existence a new consciousness.

Bleeding Earth – Any hope of ever returning to our ancestral home is slowly burning as eons of efforts to detect new life has come to an abrupt end – New footage reveal a dismal reality of a tired planet bleeding it’s waters evaporated by swirling fire tornados rocks melting fauna and flora now long gone fossils – The life-giving atmosphere now a toxic choking layer, So we still mourn our forced lonely new daily dismal Dawn on planet Tenalp Htrae, light years away…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/tenalp-htrae-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

The Many

clocks of her face tick as the world decays and rusts.

Some say to her your clocks have no hands. Some say to her you’ve no idea of time.

Your timing is all over the place, clock arms, clock lungs, clock legs, clock heart but no clock face.

Knows her blood and breath tell the time, beat precision and control her faces watch the world’s decline.

Knows within her time is a rhythm without clocks, a body that tells time every month, her hidden scars and bruises show time passes.

-Paul Brookes

*

The clause in a tenancy agreement states that party B must wipe down the walls – otherwise they begin to resemble shoeboxes. Faded, yellowing entropy. Decay reminds us of those things liberated from the passage of time. Melancholic disposition reminds us to be fun at parties. Back home, alone, right now, wipe the walls, watch a Studio Ghibli animation, at least you had Kiki in the other one. I have photoshopped her in – there.

*

If Baudrillard referred to a liquidation of all referentials – then this must be a liquidation. I should rewrite all history with my profound, transcendental sense of right and wrong.

=Alex Mazey

  psychic caterwaul

one dimension away Hieronymus Bosch’s housecats frolic beneath a papier-mâché moon howling and miaowing in a demonic felid mardis gras

here on earth, a fair trade toyshop window— nothing to fear and yet …

-Rich Follett

Act like you were never for sale

Those were the days in which we felt our flutter hard and bright as a burning, painted thing, and those were the days when we painted our feelings on each others’ faces with pure sugar and unguent-of-anthers, and those were the days when faces would touch cheeks intimately, brief and baked electric with proper unsaids, and those were the days when the electric that moved us moved us in that little pond of footlights like a swirl of young eels, so slender, such good teeth, and those were the days when company meant we played together well and no-one forgot their lines or missed a step, or when they did the painted faces laughed kindly, and not like they had smelled blood in the water or finally seen the glass, the tags, and some of that last part is a lie. But a pretty lie, sticky with fertile anthers, and we bite into it again and again, this cake so sweet we know it only makes us sick

-Ankh Spice

.mouse.

are you dancing there you tiny creatures and are you happy with this music

should I cut it straight and hard in layers or leave it to grow?

are you dancing there together to your own tunes and remarkable tangents

or will you advise on the steps to take while moving ahead

most people’s hair looks gentle natural

there is no need for masquerade or pantomimes we cannot have the gatherings these days

you know he cut my hair for years and we became good friends . visited charleston together the farm house not the jig though the style would have suited the era so the mouse

keeps dancing jim

-sonja benskin mesher

*

A shop window like Hunter S. Thompson, at eleven o’clock, on a week day. A medium to large dose of LSD that I have never tried. In Mark Fisher’s Ghosts, Burial never went to a rave in the 90s, which informs, the apparition, the residue of what’s left. People have a perverse interest in windows, shop windows, specifically, glass operating as both a means of access and exclusion. This is the Baudrillardian analysis.

*

Impressed with the circulation of the body

my entire outlook becomes the deconstruction of the human being

into a clockwork machine.

-Alex Mazey

Little Gods

Artists and scientists are Little gods who make the World make sense, make Things fit together, or do not– At their discretion. Chaos and order, Macro and micro, Beauty and disgust, Must meet, hold hands Like humans used to Before we were all Forced off the canvass, Becoming scattered pieces instead.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/little-gods.m4a -st

Pussy Cat Pussy Cat

Patient quiet shadowed, still. Not blink, but glide wet eyes. My whiskers sing electric song and muscles ripple, as claws give flex, in deep forever breath.

A present, payment for my board. Fresh meat for the clumsy, They that cannot hunt. While I eat flies and wasps that sting.

Pain is fine its just a thing. So busy grooming, hunting and holding my lands. I sleep where I want and how I please. I have no master.

Under sun, on soil paper or wool, its all the one to me.

And to those too big to hunt and kill, I spread my scent. This meat is mine.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/pussy-cat-pussy-cat.m4a

©️ Dai Fry May 6th 2020.

The Gamdroela

I roam this galaxy alone searching aimlessly for signs of my origins with only infinity as my reality but I yearn to touch a dead star maybe even lick the frozen remains of an ancient comet long gone – I sometimes hear the echoes of far flung cosmic explosions and I can feel the empty of nothing expanding yet I am not swallowed up into black holes transporting me to other dimensions –

I once felt the touch of a solar flare kindling my whole being as I absorbed its embracing aura, so I kept it hugged it caressed it, if just to confirm I am not really alone – You might look at me most curiously even curse me with pursed ignorant lips but allow me to gently kiss you and share my multi- colored nature with you then maybe you can realise who I really am but that is not meant to be as I am not destined to be relevant in this reality – Not even in your fantasy, so I roam this galaxy alone,

I came from nothing – Forever waiting…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-gamdroela-mp3.mp3

Chorus of the Haters

Playground Show – Quick look have you seen what she is wearing oh my – Wait, what? Never, no! Surely not? Aw, hey look at that – You’re kidding me! Is he really wearing trainers? Oh yeah, I heard his mom had to sell his shoes so he could have something to eat this morning, jeeze really now! Sorry what? Who gave you permission to squeak? Let me go! He asked for it. Let go of me!

Stranger Danger – Hey, you! Let go of his arm! Uh who the hell are you? You what? Check this out guys, I – What the… Ooh look at ow! I told you so! Let’s get out of here. We’ll get her later, ok? You gonna have your chance later. Why so gloomy? I guess I’m okay but what do I say to my mom? Just tell her the truth. Don’t worry, now hurry! I cannot always save you. You can let go of my hand now. Will I see you later? Got something to say to you…

Backstreets of mind – I wish we could move again but I felt something today. I hate it here though. Those bastards never accept me. I need to be free, To be me…This is not healthy for me. I am slipping but I have finally connected to someone. A warrior a friend – A saviour.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/chorus-of-the-haters-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

Petite

abandoned, lives in discarded boxes and bags, bigger, savage males she seduces so they don’t injure, don’t bite wounds, break her delicate bones,

washes and cleans herself, anoints herself brings them live prey, breathing for play. Lives on cold pizza, crisps, rainwater.

Never lost her lioness head, knows ancestors bred for mummification, how worship becomes mass slaughter. Small does not mean less wick.

Chooses who lives with her, whom she dances, who wraps her fur around, curls up in a lawnmower grass box, brings live gifts into her house as presents.

=Paul Brookes

.

fajar

silver yew bows to war-torn stone and brick patchwork— alhaya renews

-Rich Follett

*

Ash-coloured trees, a forest, a liquidated referential, perhaps against the valley wall. There’s a thousand-year-old olive tree, somewhere, in a mountain town, where a child serves coffee, and burgers. Outside, grandmother’s goat stew – blow it first, child, with a cold spoon, intricate handle, intricately handled. There are some parts to this world we will never understand. Ash-coloured trees in the night are like, I don’t want to say it.

*

A page of Baudrillard is a fatal strategy avoid meaning indefinitely, bore them with a senseless finality – reverse evil. Poetry as ecstatic object, secret qualities, sworn to extremes and quiet synthesis, the visible to the hidden, more hidden metamorphosis, (Kafka as a lonely man

laughing at the still living, the digitalised still life – still born). Illusion plays speech instantaneously – the nature of seduction, nostalgic slowness as a merry-go-round. Silenced once; the silent dialogue of signs. Fashioned vapid character, aesthetic form, immoral form, fragile, sentimental desire

shapes superlative power, the objective; an achieved attraction, our only passion.

-Alex Mazey

..albert & Victoria..

how to tell a picture in words? egfrasic & I cannot spell it only in placid moments.

do we describe what we see or maybe tell the tale inside

albert and victoria a safe place now yet round the corner on the wall are the bullet holes while in dublin the same on a statue

blood shed they killed horses too when they fired their guns, dropped the bombs what then oh butterflies wing?

I can spell ekphrastic here but not up there

today there is no image nor a recording of the voice just look at the holes in walls.

-sbm.

Life after all

This is where it happened.

You weren’t there, not that you were ever there

whenever I needed you there.

I’ve often dipped my fingers in the hollows grief makes.

Here is where it happened.

We climb, but our feet slip, we don’t fall, but we dangle.

How I needed you there, to save me from being myself being there.

Whose life was it, after all?

-Elizabeth Moura

Walls Are

Bed bent wall bound, less human now as broken into this square.

Run five fingers feather light, to feel walls behind these closed eyes.

A stony glance holds a soul eternal captive, hate an emotional geometry.

Stone four squared. Secrets whispered ear to ear. Shed tears, wet straw. Awake, a greeting of dawn light under the door.

Dream in winds and creaking trees, a soul free to run and run, until breath is not sufficient.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/walls-are.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 7th May 2020.

The Institute

White noise cracking in my headspace

Phantoms in their nightly forced circus

A horse dancing on a rainbow beckoning

Me to follow – I just want to lie my head

down and crawl through my safety tunnel

where I can hear myself think maybe whistle

my favourite tune – Where I choose the paths

in the backstreets of my mind, master of my

own symphony unlike the invasive unwelcome

poking into my private psyche room where

my mental defences are muted by unstable

needy self-elected pharaohs enacting random

healing punishments – I am so done with this!

Dear Self

I am slowly drowning in this mental haze choking

me repeatedly – I need to hear your voice

again even just a faint whisper to remind me

I am still here. Here comes that choking red

Mist again, darkening my vision – My existential

Failed mission no escape… Are you there?

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-institute-mp3.mp3

The Trees are Dead

Sour earth neglected responsibilities

toxic oxygen the result of inaction by

Clueless wise men waving their untested

theories yet ignoring increasing revelatory

fatalities from untested remedies meant to

heal nations – Our mortality affected by

inept irrational policy makers hoping to

gain one more vote but we are all in the

same boat – Frantically trying to stay afloat

but worrying cracks are deepening our

livelihoods darkening, so we gather en masse

to finally protest along a charred boulevard

hoping in vain but it is of no use when the

guilty refuse to attempt to reverse recalculate

regenerate for future generations all nations

so we keep the faith even though the trees are dead.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-trees-are-dead-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

Take Me Around Again

Carousel horses, Are all your circles meant to comfort, or to mock? And, where will you take me today? To that bustling park In West Endicott, Near the house we almost bought?

Or maybe, all the way back to my childhood dinner time, When everyone else had moved from home, And you were three sad napkin rings, Trotting repetitively around the lonely table. You know Your steady pace marks time perfectly, while I’m distracted by the bright colors and scenery, Until I’m caught between once, and today.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/take-me-around-again.m4a

-st

For #1 of Day Eight:

The Shaft

Within the mine’s walls I hear the dead’s calls As my feet pound these halls Blinded by charging fireballs

#2 of Day Eight:

I remember as a child an elder spoke of a ghost town deep in the mountains where a single wall’s all that remained Its crumbling façade brimmed with untold stories Of former residents trapped within the wailing barrier

-Carrie Ann Golden

My Olive

tree is a horse whose mane of leaves shakes in a gust, whose bark whinnies when she moves. When I press myself into her flanks she is the oil that brightens my meals.

I am calm under her canopy of mane. Her favourite place is beside the pitted wall. A Roman wall with close knit red bricks and stone. The stone is sculpted by round ammunition holes, but has not fallen. They did not break through here.

I look down at my horse, the olive tree beside the wall from my balcony. History is always here.

-Paul Brookes

  *

There’s an office, twelfth floor, in Shenzhen, I have stared, many times, I think, looked as far as the South China Sea. These are not the branches of a cathaya forest, three conifers, from this window. I cannot order a happy lemon in the mall, cannot recite Matthew 4:9 in the people’s square in Chengdu. Some days, I read Leo Tolstoy at the back of the public library, III times translated, first to English, then to Russian, and so on.

*

Two eyes appear from a bug detecting misanthropy

forming the same colours as the Khmer Rouge.

-Alex Macey

Mobius musing

those who inhabit cubicles and those who dwell among trees have little in common but there can be no doubt each is necessary to reflect upon the other

-Rich Follett

Pantoum for an isolated princess

In her glass coffin, what had flowed in the bone set sail alone Beyond the bright vault the tree-crowds nodded And meshed their long toes around the bubble That carried the fallen log on down the stream

Beyond the bright vault the tree-crowds nodded The wind stirring branches and passing the message That carried the fallen log on down the stream From synapse to synapse until every leaf knew her

The wind stirring branches and passing the message Threw leaves on the glass to crew up the ship And synapse to synapse, every leaf knew her So the sky caught her name, turned her glass to a star

And the leaves on the glass who had crewed up the ship Of her glass coffin, where what flowed in the bone had set sail alone Saw the sky catch her name, saw her glass as a star And fell to the earth to drift deep in the wound

-Ankh Spice

Gamma-Alpha-Light

Under glass I stretch, out life, not to smell tree sap or leaf. Or breezing wind. Catch rain that drops on tipped toe tongues.

No horizons lead crystal walls. And beyond, tangled imaginations, a hunger of beasts.

I see my knees and look in vain, for the grazing of a life not lived.

Under glass, dry tears, await night’s shadow to take the trees away. Now danger only song in this apocalyptic dark.

Hunters eyes dwell beyond the confines, of my glass walls. I read and watch, food bottled and tinned.

I gather up fear, a glowing landscape into which I can never venture.

Soft song, sang a requiem. Last of my line.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/gamma-alpha-light.m4a

-© Dai Fry 8th May 2020.

Objects of Reflection

Reflections in windows in our hearts Bring us closer to the pain of Mirror images in those panes Until, noses pushed against glass,

Seeking so hard to see, With the steam and the strain, We lose the imagery Altogether, viewing

Only what’s inside. Of course, it’s not what we were looking for. We’re forced To turn around, and find

The truth Was always In the object, Not its likeness.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/objects-of-reflection.m4a

-st

Hum of the Drones

Society now an alternative reality

long adapted to forced acceptance of

a new dimension a stoic domination

of a higher order with murderous

intentions controlling a lockdown human

nation – An evolved consciousness

advanced through carefully engineered

experiments so with the arrival of these

deadly drones spying listening all-seeing

recalculating scheming deleting controlling

a fading tired humanity.

It happened gradually, unseen unheard

Their walls came down surrounding

Major cities concealing a doomsday

Countdown with the intoxicating deadly

Hum of the Drones…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/hum-of-the-drones-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

parakeets in the park, wild now holds up his hands and they fly to take seed

clearly reflected while we stop while we take coffee while we breathe

deeply thinking

of the things we have seen whitworth

it came with fire with ferocity depth that left me floating isolating isolation from the other scheme of things. it was red very very red

he said it was his favourite colour I have never seen him wear it

-sonja benskin mesher

I peered through the glass And saw all these evergreens Guardians of souls

-Carrie Ann Golden

Windows

are single eyed. We move the back projection, make clear the eyes corners. What lies ahead, what lies in wait?

Enter house with hollow eyes Inside its eyes fragrant as bad breath, a dead leaf delicate structure crinkly soft, and wet wallpaper peals like unheard bells.

Doors are mouths, mothers polish, lovers hump over, by which decisions enter or leave, from which dead leaves are brushed aside.

-Paul Brookes

  orange it came flaring while I was minding my business as always looking at to sea hoping for a boat

on the horizon I got this thing whizzing round my face warm emulsifying, wreaking havoc with the serenity buzzed my ears and stayed there until defeated I moved to the wall and sat there a while

undeniably tracing honesty in air with one finger pointing

it came clear later

-sbm.

*

Most people have a penchant for rocks – dry stone walls with spiders inside. I once shook the leaves by a wall to see what fell out, and every night, when I came home, picked handfuls on my way, breadcrumb leaves to tear, carefully, like prayer beads once blessed by spit, by piss, by rain fall. Nobody knows why they do these things, least of all, tear leaves, and tear, and scatter leaves away.

*

I have always imagined / galaxies shaped like / the inside of a pomegranate fruit. / Authenticity interspersed with a tragic sense of irony. / Why do we write / like this?

-Alex Mazey

The Dream

I plunge into the depths of

nowhere, of empty uninhabited

space glowing like s beacon almost

beckoning like an empty womb ready

to cocoon new life – Expectant

nourishing, life-giving.

I fall further reaching unexplored cavities

of my questioning mind, witnessing

memories not even born yet, of

revelations still to come – I hear

faint whispers of familiar voices guiding

me teaching me protecting me.

My vision now clearer as I enter the domain of forever – My former melancholy turning into a joyous cacophony of encompassing love. I breathe again. I laugh again. I live again…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-drea-audio-day-10-1.mp3

Memories of Us

I still sometimes hear the echoes of our laugher as we reminisce of our shared happiness – Our joy of creating new planting borders Of days languishing in the sun until the moonrise beckoned daily reflections of love in various sessions, of togetherness of silliness of happiness.

I feel such a fool not having shared more thoughts with you, or not having told you I forgive you for misinterpreted heated arguments, of hating my foolish pride but I cannot linger on anything bitter as I still feel you with me in poignant memories of us…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/memories-of-us.mp3

-Don Beukes

Wild Imagination

Yesterday I walked down a path in the woods And spied a crumbling cornerstone of a building Lost to past floods Hidden in its base was a hole Nearly encased in the shadows of hardwoods Unsure if it was created by some mole I moved near the edge and spotted a thick coiled string Most of it vanished in the dried mud Vivid images of mystical places down below Filled my mind to the point that was maddening With a headache I reluctantly returned to my neighborhood

-Carrie Ann Golden

Shiva’s Dance

All stones, a conglomeration of illusion and desire. All dawns, pre-set to rise and fall breathe and grow and yet… all are followed by a drowning sun.

Not a stone story or tellers myth. For souls so bound in greed and gold. My house is as opium dreams… in these whispers of life.

No movement, in still darkling corners where life and dust move so slowly that luxing shadows, low and subdued, can hold a spirit in sleeping deeps.

So dance the ring of fire without question, for being must flow in these meriel seas and shaded rivers. Apocalypse and creation my coin. You my currency.

Your hair is made of flowers and death, your breath mud baked yet star sparkle sweet. Your compassion always greater than your parts.

So dance your dance on life’s highest mountain, in low dead seas. No choice no chance All else illusion’s flattery.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/shivae28099s-dance.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 9th May 2020.

colloquy

chestnut and stone wall speaking of patience and time passersby know naught

-Rich Follett

Interstellar Connections

You are a small planet, Unique in every way. I reach out the solid branch Of my being, as far as I can To see if I can touch your greatness, Learn more about the mysterious

Known and unknown parts And the pre-existing orbit Of my earthbound heart, Causing me to overcome all fears, To cross the void of space and find What happens when we collide.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/interstellar-connections.m4a

-st

Ishigaki music (the ballad of Rat and Cat)

Each day of that hot summer the stonemason let the river sing to him as he ate his noon meal, the moonsweet rice the pink auras of salmon and ginger and from his front hedge of rushes crept sleek black Rat with his shinobue tail and from the temple’s gap-toothed wall ambled marmalade Cat with her koto miaow and for a few grains of lunar rice Rat conjured a rill of silver notes from his flute and for a sliver of translucent spirit-fish Cat would wail her strange ghost’s vibrato and the inkbrush river shushed its rhythm onto the clean white page of each day. For a whole season the stonemason laid every rock with songs in his head and his hands and his heart and should you visit the temple you will see the black Rat and the ginger Cat who live forever in his tendered wall and should you put your ear to the sweet stones all placed just so, the music there in the neat grains of them will build and build inside you a thousand years of comfort.

-Ankh Spice

Stars

Stars, are they the lost group of family? Mists as memories, I long to see their faces The navy sky lit by a sparkle of joy ancestors in their glowing blessings looking down, as the perfumed night air wafts gently. A rare manuscript, an album of belonging Generations bound by dna blood sweat and tears A remembrance this darkest day of November I turn the pages of love and belonging a feeling of euphoria before the melancholy sets in clinging like the frost on a rose bud remembering ancestors, the stars in my eyes.

-Leela Soma

My Night

is a bag of nerve dripped stars under lit lamposts.

Silence is a window strummed by shadows.

Stone is a cloud announced as married to dizzy soil.

Walls are rainbowed unicorn skin and bone petrified by virgins.

Sugar is a grumble made by galaxies seen by cardboard homeless.

Darkness is the locked door of a whisper you cannot fully hear.

-Paul Brookes

  Leela Soma

was born in Madras, India and now lives in Glasgow. Her poems and short stories have been published in a number of anthologies and publications, including the National newspaper The Scotsman, The Grind, Visual Verses, New Voices, Gutter, Bangalore Review in India and Steel Bellows in the USA. ‘From Madras to Milngavie’ was her first poetry pamphlet. She has served on the committee for the Milngavie Books and Arts Festivals and on the Scottish Writer’s Centre Committee. Her work reflects her dual heritage of India and Scotland. Author of ‘Twice Born’, ‘Bombay Baby’ and ‘Boxed In’ Available on Amazon and Kindle. Her website is http://www.leelasoma.wordpress.com

Here is a link to my interview of her: https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/04/20/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-leela-soma/

.

eleven is ten continued..

I sat on the wall a while further up a guy was painting a cat I watched him clever I heard a small noise to the left turned found the bloody orange thing was back fussing around colouring up the air smelling slightly warm and damp

mid sucking noises the face appeared black and white

from the bloody orange thingy.

-sbm

Murakami is my favourite Japanese writer, I remember vaguely, a time when he did not show his face in public. Showed his face as a series of cats. Some days, it is like cats are the loneliest animals on the planet. I think, again, of a book, by an author I cannot remember. I think, again, of a time beyond myself, of these dead things, side roads, memorialised, beyond face value; it’s more than we know.

-Alex Mazey

Journey to Fluweeltjie

The secret Map – It has been passed on by generations of Meesters, protectors of their families and heirs to the kingdom of Tiervlei. An existential secret map showing the way to the land of Fluweeltjie, where essence of an eternal life force would only be accessible to a worthy young warrior, who would survive the treacherous Kaapse Vlaktes – an underworld marshland filled with exploding vrekwarm flames from below the sunken city of Fluweeltjie – There to collect essence of the revered Bitterbessie, ensuring longevity for all who deserve it –

The honour of collecting the precious bitterbessie was bestowed on Sekueb Nodmai, heir to the kingdom of Tiervlei. He followed the ancient path shown on the map, and made his way to the secret entrance only he knew – In the distance he spotted a lonely figure hovering just above the ground, guarding the entrance. Sekueb noticed that he hovered just above the ground, waiting.

Battle of the Kaapse Vlaktes – As soon as he crossed over he was confronted by a sonskyn soldaat, ordered to prevent any attempt at entering the dreaded Kaapse Vlaktes. As donderwolke clouds exploded in the skies above, the soldaat suddenly hurled a tokkelos at Sekueb, a fierce creature which could instantly melt him, however Sekueb only had to throw dust of poeier into its eyes to avoid certain death. That opened the path to the gateway to to the borrelende land of Fluweeltjie – What he did not know was that he had to swim through the lake of souls, they who have suffered the curse of failed missions – Looking to welcome one more, as the water started to boil and stir…

(to be continued)

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/journey-to-fluweeltjie-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

Hunters

I savor the rainbows on wet streets, and the pigeons without sense who peck at nothing. The streets are empty, dehumanized. As it should be, as it is. I feel the rumbling not of wheels or thunder; it is the precious honey bee, another hunter as effortless as myself. It’s hunting in unkept lots the modest dandelions. My feet dance over faded chalk; I fear nothing.

Elizabeth Moura

Koi feeding

You save the stale crusts from the good brown loaf. On your early walk through the city gardens, there is a round mirror

to crumble them into, and in it an unfamiliar creature, folded and loose in his aspect. He watches you from the water.

You have never met his eyes, although you sense they are kind. This morning autumn has nodded at the trees

and the ember of the squalling sun catches a plume at his throat, and he blushes bright ¬— young

with newborn flame. The wind arrives to spread the blaze outwards in ripples

from the man standing with his hands full of burning bread, and when the fish surface

their mouths make round holes in his body. In one tiny circle after another

the fire goes out. Cool water ¬— O O O ¬— welling dark and smooth. It was always the truth.

What feeds on us that steals our fire. What we feed to remember what we are.

-Ankh Spice

Identity Crisis

Colorful patterns Etched into Our lives, Reveal truths We often try to hide.

Denying reality Doesn’t cease to Make it so. Call a cat a turtle. It won’t hurt his ego.

But it does cause confusion. Then, while we’re all mixed up Arguing over semantics, Inscriptions become clear – Our identity betrays us.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/identity-crisis.m4a -st

Stripe’s the given name Latched on anything ‘till me Now Clingon’s your name.

-Carrie Ann Golden

Practical Cats for Gen-Z

Sandburg’s cat did not have neon feet— time passes; things change.

Kodachrome bas-relief kitty’s impress:

JPS – just pussy-footing silently … but

is neon ever silent?

as it is with humans, so with felines: we always wish against our nature.

Eliot’s three-name theory would not seem to apply here unless loud, louder, loudest are on the list …

so, is kitty a success or a failure?

impossible to say until we know his aim— his ineffable, effable (f***in’ ineffable) deep and inscrutable singular

aim …

-Rich Follett

Of Cats And Gods

It is told in the oldest book that all cats must have two dreams. The second a tale of the fertile crescent, land of Nebuchadnezzar. A place of long ago.

Only to leave, for reasons of their own. On a great adventure. Maybe they first travelled on Abraham’s road to Canaan.

Before they became gods, and tellers of riddles, on the banks of that north flowing river.

“Where one gives birth to the other, who in turn gives birth to the first”

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/of-cats-and-dogs.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 10th May 2020.

Cat Called Nothing

JPS calls me Nothing.

Catness carries being at its heart. I am condemned to be free. If I tremble at the slightest noise, if each creak announces me a look

This is because I am already in the state of being-looked-at.

Catness haunts being. Hell is other people. Catness lies coiled at the heart of being like a worm.

Consciousness is a being, the nature of which is to be conscious of the catness of its being.

-Paul Brookes

.

Visions

A cataract blackens my right eye, the one I used to look at the sun; no one is left to ask why, because you are lost in dust, and our friends are lost with you at that final beach-mob outpost. Looking into the sun, then at you spread out, lovely and moist, all I could see were black dots on your face as it smooched air, and on your knees, now way too hot raised up, like dream castles, there were lines and arrows instead of your smooth knobs, smoothly red.

-Elizabeth Moura

equanimity

on the cosmic timeline humankind appeared minutes ago— aeons later (by our reckoning), like one primeval furrowed brow or the disappointed jowls of a disgruntled mage with a bumbling apprentice, earth sighed …

-Rich Follett

#2:

My heart

Is like a vast desert

Since you left this world

No amount of water

Can revive

My soul

Wanders an endless wasteland

Hopeless and lost

I don’t want to be found

I don’t need rescuing

I just want to sink in this endless abyss

Of your sweet embrace

-Carrie Ann Golden

13. some folk are superstitious some are not some thought that tomorrow would come different

did not look to see

so some may be disappointed that the orange terror remains

like the alien in some 1950s film or tv show talking pictures

some listened to journey into space on the radio, imagined such things scared themselves silly from behind cushions

this thing can suck the life even from those hiding in soft furnishings

so they may go live underground war of the worlds

I saw it live

-sbm

*

Out of this grey-peak mountainside, I did not always realise, that animals, like dogs, might comprehend another language. There are only so many times. Only, so many times, a boy can talk in different languages, hoping to find the right one – would you like a sandwich? St. Bernard, only here for the tuna. So, what? – an owner appeared, as beautiful as I imagined any person could be. Hallo, guten tag, blonde lady… gut, danke.

-Alex Mazey

A Desire

I walk your edgeland desire lines. Your fingers daylight a xenotopia in me. A riverwalk into your heart’s sussurus.

-Paul Brookes

Weeds

A plant’s wrong ways, take shape on chancing breeze. Anarchy rises to sap at butchered lands.

Outsiders, friendless purpose unknown. Immigrants from the without.

We are frightened, held rigid by the different beauty of their strange song.

These alien ways like a wild yeast that comes to a baker’s call. Fresh, different much raised in our estimations.

Re-wilding gods, stand to let the ground grow as it will. A flower meadow not a lawn. Bees see it, twice as sweet.

Flown, travelling seeds on wind blown songs. Till the loam of a stranger’s town. Taking the balance of a natural palette.

And soon we will have a place of rare delight. Watered with joy and tears, cooled by butterflies.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/weeds.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 12th May 2020.

Hold the river

You told me you haven’t been outside in 57 days and tonight the river is a dropped ribbon, limp and lost and the sharp stones of the trail as I begin to run become the sound of something chewing. The faster we go, the faster we’re eaten. You are moving, in the lines of your confinement, so slowly now you have become a painting in my head – static – existing not to be touched. And in the guilty, lucky air down here we’re starting up the engines and on my knees in the soft mud I can hear the first plane for months, idling beyond the water. I’d wish you were here, but the wind is whipping up cold, and the coming dark is frantic with sudden birds, woken startled from their neat new nests along the runway.

-Ankh Spice

Searching the Depths

” Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” -Matt. 4:19

Seven worms Squiggle out from the depths After rain Seeking sunshine, Not too much. Unwittingly, They crawl into Small hands Making ready To make a meal Not of them, but Creatures from different depths. “Get to the truck, Daddy’s got the poles!”

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/searching-the-depths.m4a -st

The Institute (Part Two)

Dear Self – I am drowning in this blinding haze of red, Locked in this current state, ‘ shut up! Leave my headspace or I will end you! Are you still there? I cannot go on like this. Last night another one made herself known to me taunting me, mockingly. I can hear her in the walls of my deepest most private secret space – ‘A voice, a voice! No, I refuse to submit to you! Stop this ridiculous lie you knit every chance you get!’

Flashback – I am back in my childhood room, thirteen again. I hear my parents bang the door down. I struggle to breathe. I feel my dad forcing my fingers open as I clamp them Tighter around my throat… ‘Good morning Mr and Mrs Sullivan. No need to look so sullen. Rachel will be treated with the utmost respect and care here at Clarence House. My name is Ms Marsh. You have nothing to worry about. Are you ready Rachel?

The Confrontation – ‘Ow, You’re hurting me! Where are you Taking me? Shut up you spoiled brat! You will soon find out how we heal misfits like you. Let me go you old hag! Now you listen to me you pathetic little creature. You better get used to me. After all, you have been placed into my care, so don’t you dare! You will soon realise you’re not that special at all. The others will reveal themselves to you soon. You better get some rest my dear. No need to fear, I promise.

Dear Self – I feel so lost. I heard it again last night – A faint tapping deep inside my head. Someone also tried to reach me but it was a faint whisper. What is wrong with me? What is this place? I’ve got to get out of here. This spiral prison is making my head burst. Please show me a way out! ‘Hello?’

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/part-two-the-institute-.mp3

-Don Beukes

  Right before the fall

A heartbeat before the slide you know you’re going down A monkey brain knows when the branch is about to crack And a kid feels the birth of the tiny split in the ice spreading from his last footstep We learn to fall before we know the promise we make by beginning to walk which is to keep on doing it, even knowing the ground will fail beneath us some day And they say you time-travel just a little before the cold takes you, the years all that good footwork stamped into you go for a wander under your lids, maybe just trying to escape the inevitable. Did you know what takes us under is not spared? This pass through the mountains where your car went over once lingered her beat, slicking sediment-ghosts just before the blast split her. And that glacier down south, undermined by a warming sea shimmered with Pleistocene spring just as her heart went to holes. Oh but wait, that one went alone. The bones she holds too deep to see the sudden blossoms spiriting the ice.

-Ankh Spice

yūjō

cherry trees blooming in unexpected places cheer world-weary hearts

-Rich Follett

*

I recall vending machines in a small side street, someplace I’ve not yet been, maybe in a dreamscape, anyway. Someone will take me to Mt. Fuji, one day. Someone will take my hand through Aokigahara, the Sea of Trees, and we will buy iced tea in a carpark vending machine. Have I told you the trick to a good car park? They will say – yes – it’s in the flower arrangements, the peeling memory of bright sakura trees. I will remember this.

-Alex Mazey

..fourteen..

it starts at thirteen, moves forward

teenage years spinning

some,

a few stimming later we watch the trees spinning going about in a muddle going down in trouble

those years

asked if there was a maypole it was suggested to have a roundabout

it is all a gift

-sbm

Blossoms

In my memory a late snow had dried, -leaving no trace- though it still flaked eggshell brittle from the damp cellar walls.

I recall the deer park. Richmond in early April, probably a lifetime ago.

The pink and white a growing bloom, was joy within.

Did I dance the blossom under ruck sacked back and in leather shoes?

Dappled tree shadow, as petalled canopies filled the obscured skies.

A morning, those trudging ways. And everything was white and pink. I loved the pastel rain. It made me cry.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/blossoms.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 13th May 2020.

The Institute (Part Three)

The Revelation – Dear Self, I finally woke up to my reality, As that wretched red mist cleared, my surroundings were finally revealed. At first, I became aware of an annoying hovering buzz – Invisible but audible. As my eyes adjusted to where I was, I could swear I saw a cluster of microscopic drones leave my body! ‘Oh, you are awake!’ I heard a familiar voice say. I instinctively realised where the voices in my head originated from and why I thought I was going crazy. Next to me in similar pods wherein identical bodies like mine were attached to, one of them spoke directly to me! ‘I tried to warn you but you were too stubborn to listen. We’ve got to get out of here before dear Marsh returns to command more drones to replicate me’ – But who are you? I don’t understand. ‘What do mean?’

‘It’s me, my name is Rachel.’

What? Impossible! I am Rachel!

‘Calm down dear – We are all Rachel…’

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/part-three-the-institute.mp3

The Pink Forest

Cream screams ruby dreams Strange happenings White skies blood cries Yellow wailing soul Destroying – Hark the pink Lark spreading false truths Growing strange fruits Falling on sour earth burning Barren soil to reveal new growth Where strange sounds can be Heard – A fluttering of falling birds A spluttering of green rain fauna and flora in pain – Get out go back retreat attack leave retrieve collect reflect. You are not needed here – This is our new sphere. No, go! A broken nation shattered moral Compass – You could have prevented this…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-pink-forest-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

Go

Heated chambers roil with entrancing little bugs, creeping out the little ladies who refuse to look because their mascara will collapse like tar. Whipping off my myopia, I alone am delighted. If I could crawl through to dance with the motley harbingers of the abnormal, I would squeeze myself onto the slide, no regrets, and wave to my companions, who aren’t looking at me; me, happy at last, fitting in, dancing on a glass yacht.

-Elizabeth Moura

Finding Your Place

Paint peeling From ancient walls Reveals nothing of note. But the preserved picture, Of three parallel trees, once bespoke

By some Now unknown admirer Of the arts, Leaves behind enough, perhaps, To inspire a new start.

Finally, The patron, artist and Onlooker may know The unparalleled merit of Their respective roles.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/findingyourplace.m4a

-st

Frailty

is the strength to put one foot in front of another against the gust.

is endurance of pain you inhale and exhale as you catch your breath.

is a tree growing on ground known to dissolve beneath the roots as a short life is lived.

is the sharp, severe loss of mam and dad as your bones ask for a hug from the disappeared.

-Paul Brookes

  Tanks

Lilies, petal wrapped, their colour smiles in water’s drift.

A summer’s dreamer, her flowers are purple rain catchers.

Tanks: ancient reservoirs, lilies far as sight permits.

Under chlorophyll isles drift tangled fronds where swimmers weave their cool green, hydraulic dreams.

Elephants drink here and stick legged avians break journeys. To stand pensive, in these time worn water fields.

Marvel at floating leaves, whose island dreams and water songs, play rippling gently.

In the distance where lilies meet sky: A white chalk bright Stupa topped with Buddha head spike, pierces the unbroken blue.

Once neolithic mounds to hold our dead, now giants of brick and stone… who bow their heads to passing flowers and greenway archipelagos.

To drink a deep fill, a quench of lake water.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/tanks.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 14th May 2020.

Da doo Ra Ra ran

cowardly sun god sperm cell suffers performance anxiety; flees from opportunity — future world goes dark

-Rich Follett

*

I will remember lily pads. Each floating universe resting on time, itself, water like time, like the streams of an eternal reoccurrence. Every poem is permitted one act of being unnecessarily outlandish, every life is permitted one or two acts of being unnecessarily outlandish. Outlandish is not the word I am looking for, here. There are other words, of course, words like lily pad, to describe what I am seeing. ( , .)

-Alex Mazey

Established

As children, weren’t we all beguiled by water lilies? I was sure the little rafts were stepping stones for traipsing Across, Sufficient to Support my weight.

Although they are well-established, Rooted deep Beneath water bodies, on the surface They are delicate creatures, It seems.

You once asked if We wanted to keep trying To put the tent pegs in, Only to have them continue to Slip out again.

I’m grateful I learned the difference between Solid and superficial, and that we, too, can be fastened Tight to the ground, More securely established Than I might’ve imagined.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/established.m4a

-st

the lily pond.

go down along the coast through the village and up the hill

find the lily pond miles from anyone

you will find creatures among the plants and reverie

some are tadpoles come recently

while others spawn later

this is the magic that some have forgotten with all their money and sexual innuendos

the small plane still flies over most days

-sbm

The first escape

We were lucky, when the fire came for us. A murmur of orange, mumming grey dust – in the night-ashes from the grate, their bucket on the porch. The bloom must have been beautiful, I thought, a thing come to life when our eyes were all closed. In the morning, one wall of the house was croaking with blisters, toadskin paint still slick with the rain. With persuasion from a disobedient finger, they popped, and the stink of the fire was alive inside each one. Even at five, I set free a lot of near-death. Tiny craters left behind, none yet satisfied with a sacrifice.

-Ankh Spice

The Institute (Part Four)

The Prequel – ‘ Welcome back Mr and Mrs Sullivan, I finally have the news you’ve been waiting for. One of our cloned samples has survived the delicate procedure. However, it will have to grow here until its fifth birthday, Just to ensure total success. After all, we owe it to you to return a perfect specimen. Have you decided on a name yet?’ Ah yes, her name will be Rachel. We trust that you will do your best, doctor…

Dear Self – It’s me, Rachel. You don’t know me yet but I somehow know who you are. I saw you in a memory not even born yet but quite significant to my survival. I finally left that strange place, after getting rid of my overly attentive nurse – A bit too keen for my liking! The more I insisted for her to leave me alone, the more she repeated, ‘There, there my dear child, Nurse Marsh will take very good care of you, after all we will be together for five years!

Homecoming – Dear Self, I am in my new home. The Sullivans are weird but I cannot complain. Five years is long to wait for a new home. I made sure my new mother understood when I jabbed my finger deep into one eye and just giggled about it – It felt good, even though father had to call for help. Are you still there, hello?

-Don Beukes

Of Man Of Dust

Buses are butterflies all blue and gold Blind Mary and I catch one to the black glass wedding

young, dead Lozzy comes walks on water down the canal bright and shiny like a new kitchen surface

the man’s landrover is a poisonous lily packed with dust of death climbs out of the lily dust flying like red flour

politest of men. Pardon me, young Lady to Blind Mary who coughs, overcome by dust

lozzy, my poor dead son a vacuum cleaner with severe asthma inhales the man of dust and knows what it means.

man of dusts’ minder of water floods the vacuum cleaner lozzy coughs splutters.

Blind Mary’s wedding gift, a carved coal elephant inhales.

sprays water over his back, as if having a wash

black dust billows. black mingles with red dust.

lozzy vacuums up the man of dust disposes of him in the Place of No Breath

and if the dust meets breath,

life. dust waits.

-Paul Brookes

Cento

The small plane still flies over

tiny craters left behind rooted deep beneath water bodies.

A summer’s dreamer, her flowers are purple rain catchers.

walks on water down the canal bright and shiny like a new kitchen surface/

heart of stone

all through the millenia all egbert wanted was to play with the other statues

-Rich Follett

.pensive.

a quizzical look grey frowns the brow wrinkles

did it do wrong neutered into submission wandering lost the way

she said she will trap it send it away her aggressive with the lockdown

envious of solitude exploding with anger

red threads could bind us

-sbm

Who Are You

A life of consequences. The whole thing a slight of hand… I cannot see me, doubt anyone can.

Never to know my name, or purpose hidden behind. Mendacity my gift and I my own victim. My light is not the illuminating kind.

A life spent hide and seeking, the deeper I look the darker my lairs.

I nearly met on one or two occasions, not yet being quite there.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/who-are-you.m4a

©️ Dai Fry 15th May 2020.

*

I recall a dark room at English Heritage, a documentary showing an eight-to-ten-minute introductory guide to big castle, wherever. This is, perhaps, a simulated experience, curated with panoramic cinematography – available in the gift shop for nine-ninety-five. Every time, I find these dark rooms – showing a documentary, I sit there for eight-to-ten-minutes, thoroughly enjoying the space, imagining my life as an informative documentary; a screen wipe.

-Alex Mazey

The Walk

Few find the shrifted forest – a wanderer feels their gait well weighed by trees and rock to find how great the need for succour-paths. If your feet, as heavy as they are, will carry you for another week, a day, an hour through the loosened sharps of the vale some trivial thing will call you to your walking-on. When the wet green hands of sentinels wing a creature through this breach its count of given steps was done and done. And we could do much worse than to stop it here we beasts who have been treading so stilted since first we fell. Far worse than to drop to our knees on this cushion of needles beneath an unsuspected kindness of stones. Sometimes you don’t see how much they love you until their face is watching you leave. The last walk done, and I’ll go laughing, all thin- skin shiver in the warm wet breath of the rock that has turned these bones, has spun us on and on, every day since we arrived. She gave us milk from the dirt of her body. Every day opened the door to the walk. You mourn your pets like family.

-Ankh Spice

The Spectre

You see me as a hideous invasive enemy oddity but I see you as an existential anomaly hoping to remain free but it is not meant to be – Your insatiable sensational lust for self-gratification revealed your selfish nature neglecting your intended function to willingly and selflessly nurture but you have proven time and time again your expected failure to prove your worth as a temporary fleeting organism on a planet only meant to temporarily tolerate your inherited generations –

Your neglect of each other and your dismissal of of obvious signs and revelations in your darkest dreams and ruby screams did not deter you from darkening your absorbent soul as you hunted for monetary riches, damning those who you deemed unnecessary in an existence you craved to have total dominance in unable to foresee you failed legacy.

This is your final hour as your essence will be ended – You do not deserve to be awarded this precious Earthly existence so forget your expected inheritance…

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-spectre-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

Release

Looking at the red sky All I see is you The ground trembles as I try To hug the earth like glue Closing my eyes struggling not to cry Your angelic face fills my view As I let go, my body wants to fly and search for you in the heavenly blue

-Carrie Ann Golden

#MF 16

The nightmares and dreams of children are carved of the same stone; they are massive. Even the friendliest glower, because of their weight. All through their lives, these stones follow all the children who ever were. As adults, the stones loom, smaller in size, but heavier, pressing down on hearts and minds which don’t believe in dreams or nightmares, but are certain of death.

#16

American bullet, barreling out, like an asteroid racing to a pre-mediated hit. It is red hot. It knows its way. A finger has shot out before it. It points. Like a diseased god, it chooses.

-Elizabeth Moura

Draw me to the eye Center us down together Stillness in your storm

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/day-16-haiku-st.m4a

-st

The heart of a tree is a crack in time.

A glimpse across galaxies linked by wormholes in xylem.

This giant is fallen: a window on eternity exposed,

though the roots still live. Here – delicate in rotten bark – sapling.

Time is the crack in a tree’s heart.

-Yvonne Marjot

The Lion

I am Hunger and look for a prey. No animal, big or small, as far as I can see.

I find a big cave, There must be some animal here. If so, come evening it will return I will hide myself in the cave and when it returns, pounce on it and have a good meal.

Sun begins to set, I hear a voice “Hello cave, I am your friend here.”

I do not reply “Hello cave, don’t you remember the arrangement we made? I have to shout when I arrive and you will ask me to come in. Without your green signal I do not enter the cave. Since you are silent, I will go to some other cave.”

Ah, there seems to be an arrangement between the cave and this animal. Let me get him into my trap. I will shout back a welcome to him and he will walk in happily.”

I roar, “Hi jackal, come in. You are welcome.”

Nothing happens. Nothing happens

My stomach is an empty cave full of echoes.

-Paul Brookes

Cento

You do not deserve to be awarded this precious earthly existence so forget your expected inheritance… Stillness in your storm

Bios and Links

-Alex Mazey

(b.1991) received his MA (distinction) from Keele University in 2017. He later won The Roy Fisher Prize for Poetry with his debut pamphlet, ‘Bread and Salt’ (Flarestack, TBA). He was also the recipient of a Creative Future Writers’ Award in 2019. His poetry has featured regularly in anthologies and literary press magazines, most notably in The London Magazine. His collection of essays, ‘Living in Disneyland’, will be available from Broken Sleep Books in October 2020. Alex spent 2018 as a resident of The People’s Republic of China, where he taught the English Language in a school run by the Ministry of Education. His writing has been described as ‘wry and knowing,’ with ‘an edge that tears rather than cuts or deals blows.’

Twitter: @AlexzanderMazey

Instagram: alexmazey

Here is my interview of Alex:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/12/18/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-alex-mazey/

-Rich Follett

is a High School English and Creative Writing teacher who has been writing poems and songs for more than forty years. His poems have been featured in numerous online and print journals, including BlazeVox, The Montucky Review, Paraphilia, Leaf Garden Press and the late Felino Soriano’s CounterExample Poetics, for which he was a featured artist. Three volumes of poetry, Responsorials (with Constance Stadler), Silence, Inhabited, and Human &c. are available through NeoPoiesis Press (www.neopoiesispress.com.)

As a singer-songwriter, Rich has released five albums of independent contemporary folk music. His latest. Somewhere in the Stars, is available at http://www.richfollett.com. He lives with his wife Mary Ruth Alred Follett in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he also pursues his interests as a professional actor, playwright, and director.

-Ankh Spice

is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa (NZ). His poetry has appeared in a wide range of international publications and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He truly believes that words have the power to change the place we’re in, and you’ll find him doing his best to prove it on

Twitter: @SeaGoatScreams or on Facebook: @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry

-Carrie Ann Golden

is a deafblind writer from the mystical Adirondack Mountains now living on a farmstead in northeastern North Dakota. She writes dark fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in places like Piker Press, Edify Fiction, Doll Hospital Journal, The Hungry Chimera, GFT Press, Asylum Ink, and Visual Verse.

-sonja benskin mesher

born , Bournemouth.

now

lives and works in North Wales as an independent artist

‘i am a multidisciplinary artist, crafting paint, charcoal, words and whatever comes to hand, to explain ideas and issues

words have not come easily. I draw on experience, remember and write. speak of a small life’.

Elected as a member of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the United Artists Society The work has been in solo exhibitions through Wales and England, and in selected and solo worldwide. Much of the work is now in both private, and public collections, and has been featured in several television documentaries, radio programmes and magazines.

Here is my interview of sonja benskin mesher:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/10/16/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-sonja-benskin-mesher/

-Samantha Terrell

is an American poet whose work emphasizes emotional integrity and social justice. She is the author of several eBooks including, Learning from Pompeii, Coffee for Neanderthals, Disgracing Lady Justice and others, available on smashwords.com and its affiliates.Chapbook: Ebola (West Chester University Poetry Center, 2014)

Website: poetrybysamantha.weebly.com Twitter: @honestypoetry

Here is my 2020 interview of her:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2020/04/08/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-samantha-terrell/

-Don Beukes

is a South African and British writer. He is the author of ‘The Salamander Chronicles’ (CTU) and ‘Icarus Rising-Volume 1’ (ABP), an ekphrastic collection. He taught English and Geography in both South Africa and the UK. His poetry has been anthologized in numerous collections and translated into Afrikaans, Persian, French and Albanian. He was nominated by Roxana Nastase, editor of Scarlet Leaf Review for the ‘Best of the Net’ in 2017 as well as the Pushcart Poetry Prize (USA) in 2016. He was published in his first SA Anthology ‘In Pursuit of Poetic Perfection’ in 2018 (Libbo Publishers) and his second ‘Cape Sounds’ in 2019 (Gavin Joachims Publishing). He is also an amateur photographer and his debut Photographic publication appeared in Spirit Fire Review in June 2019. His new book, ‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi’/Thus Passes the Glory of this World’ is due to be published by Concrete Mist Press.

Here is my interview of Don Beukes:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/11/02/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-don-beukes/

-Dai Fry

is an old new poet. He worked in social care but now has no day job. A keen photographer and eater of literature and lurid covers. Fascinated by nature, physics, pagans, sea and storm. His poetry seeks to capture image and tell philosophical tales. Published in Black Bough Poetry, Re-Side, The Hellebore Press and the Pangolin Review. He can be seen reading on #InternationalPoetryCircle and regularly appears on #TopTweetTuesday. Twitter. @thnargg Web seekingthedarklight.co.uk

Audio/Visual. @IntPoetryCircle #InternationalPoetryCircle Twitter #TopTweetTuesday

-Elizabeth Moura

lives in a converted factory and works with elders. She has had poetry, flash fiction or photographs published in online and print publications Human/Kind Journal, Rose Quartz Poetry Magazine, Hawk & Whippoorwill, The Cormorant, Radical: A Lit Zine, Chrysanthemum, Occulum, Flash, Paragraph Planet, and Flash Fiction Magazine. On Twitter @mourapoet, Instagram mourathepoet and mourastudio.wordpress.com.

-Yvonne Marjot

is a lost kiwi, now living on a Scottish island. She has been making up stories and poems for as long as she can remember. Her first volume of poetry, The Knitted Curiosity Cabinet, won the Brit Writers Award for poetry in 2012. She has published four novels and a book of short stories. Twitter handle: @alayanabeth

-Paul Brookes

is a shop asst. Lives in a cat house full of teddy bears. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018), Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018), Stubborn Sod, with Marcel Herms (artist) (Alien Buddha Press, 2019), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019). Forthcoming Khoshhali with Hiva Moazed (artist), Our Ghost’s Holiday (Final book of threesome “A Pagan’s Year”) . He is a contributing writer of Literati Magazine and Editor of Wombwell Rainbow Interviews.

-Mary Frances

is an artist and writer based in the UK. She takes a few photos every day, for inspiration and to use in her work. The images for this project were all taken in the last two years on walks during in the month of May. Her words and images have been published by Penteract Press, Metambesen, Ice Floe Press, Burning House Press, Inside the Outside, Luvina Rivista Literaria, and Lone Women in Flashes of Wilderness. Twitter: @maryfrancesness

-James Knight

is an experimental poet and digital artist. His books include Void Voices (Hesterglock Press) and Self Portrait by Night (Sampson Low). His visual poems have been published in several places, including the Penteract Press anthology Reflections and Temporary Spaces (Pamenar Press). Chimera, a book of visual poems, is due from Penteract Press in July 2020.

Website: thebirdking.com.

Twitter: @badbadpoet

Here is my interview of James Knight:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/01/06/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-james-knight/

-Sue Harpham

is an admin worker, currently not in work Married, 2 sons. Loves poetry and words. She considers herself a writer of scribble rather than a poet. She has written a novel and is using her spare time to finally get it published (self-publishing) which has been an ambition of her for the last 10 years.

The Collected Special Ekphrastic Challenge for May 2020. The First Sixteen Days. Artworks from Mary Frances, James Knight and Sue Harpham the inspiration for writers: Alex Mazey, Ankh Spice, Samantha Terrell, Dai Fry, Carrie Ann Golden, sonja benskin mesher, Rich Follett, Don Beukes, Yvonne Marjot, and Paul Brookes Acknowledgements Thankyou to Jane Cornwell for designing the front cover. May 1 ..looks like you are drowning..

[spenceraverywrites]

First Day (2/64)

Today’s story will focus on the intersection of magic and science in my solar/floralpunk world. I was hesistant to do that at first, but then I realized it’s my world, and I can do whatever I want to do with my world. 

So here’s a story about a nature witch named Nagi who is a member of the Planter religion which was a grassroots movement by mixed Terrann-Feino in this world. In the religion, many of the persons can work nature in some capacity, and at age 12, make compacts with a specific way of working -say farming or fishing or weather- and learn how to speak to the planet.

(BTW, Feino are similar to fae, but function a bit more like an elemental.)

As a reminder, if you’d like to track stories in this series, please keep watch on the tag #senseofzshoni. I’ll update when I can, and when it’s in my ability to do so. No pressure 2018 y’all.

Once more, this comes from @heir-to-the-diamond-throne‘s list of 64 Sensory Prompts.

No. 2: Digging your fingers into fresh dirt

Nagi Titus woke up bright and early on New Beginnings.

She stretched, soft brown arms forming a circle above her head as she locked her fingers together, cracking her knuckles as she twisted in bed, forcing herself out and onto the floor. Thankfully, Riani had warmed up the floors: she could hear the A.I. whispering all around her, setting the coffee up to brew and turning the window screens from Night Light Mode to clear so she could see the dim dawn outside. Trees and Blooms and Stars, Nagi loved nem: she knew she had life before living in partnership with an A.I., but what a paltry life if must have been.

For many citizens, today was just another Thursday, but for Nagi, it was Wood’s Day and New Beginnings: auspicious for a Planter. Not many of her kin were in the big cities: their doctrine believed that all the tech and metal and too few designated green spaces choked out the natural flow of energy that they made pacts with. To some degree, Nagi didn’t disagree: she had often wondered if she was a much more powerful witch back home.

But she’d received a calling to come to a big city, and Planters grew where they were needed. It was just their way.

Nagi didn’t bother scrubbing up in the washroom but instead opted to go downstairs to the Altar first thing. It had been the first thing she’d established when she’d moved to the neighborhood of Betweens: she’d done it before ordering a bed from the Wall. 

At first, it had been simple, glossy wooden plaques of the family, living an deceased, a few crystalized leaves in bright amber, and her want and scent sticks. Now, it was in full bloom with dried herbs and onions hanging from the ceiling, a trained and tamed bonsai on a small table, and so many scents from the burning sticks that she could burst.

“Today is the Most of days. It is the Beginning from which all come and the End of all that went. From all we go and to all we return,” Nagi whispered, bending from the waist in a deep bow. She drew her arms up, clasped her hands high above and behind her, palms together, and brought them down in front of her as she rose before breaking apart. Each time she did it, it felt like the first: such a simple movement felt so deeply sacred, rubbed her clean and made her feel like a new bloom.

“Well, time to get to working,” she whispered. “Riani, are you up?”

“Ah, good morning Na-sankta,” Riani greeted. “Coffee’s done and there’s a bit of banana bread left.”

“I’ll eat after. I’m itching to get out. You ready?”

“One moment, just switching. I want to see you this morning,” nir low voice replied. “I wanna get all pretty.”

“Y’always want to see me and you're always pretty,” Nagi whispered, and she felt a sharp blush ping through her body.

A pulse sounded deep in the house as the A.I. shifted forms, then a figure stepped from around the corner: a tall figure with navy hair, sharp green eyes, and pale skin dotted with golden freckles in linens and a wide-brimmed hat. Nagi felt a fresh blush tear through her as Riani stepped forward into her space, tentatively, then all at once.

This was the only thing that Nagi surely loved about the city, and she showed that by standing on tip-toe and pressing a kiss to Riani’s soft, silicon lips. Riani wouldn’t have been allowed back home: Nagi’s panjo would have considered it Cursed Work and Blight, though Riani was sweet as the season’s first honeycomb.

“Morning my bloom,” Riani said, low voice hitching. “Do you ever get used to that?” ne asked, tilting nir head. Nagi watched as Riani licked his lips

“No, and I certainly hope I don’t,” Nagi managed.

“Me either. I’ll keep from downloading any understanding of kisses for the rest of my existence even.” Nagi chuckled at Riani’s earnest nature, something that had been built up after years. Out of the box A.I. were so straight-laced, but as soon as Nagi had splurged on a kit for her then friend, now Partner, Riani had become humanly shy and honest, though it felt important to let them still be what they truly were.

They paused together for a moment until Riani remember there was coffee, then they went and filled thermo-pots and got out the hover tray. Without question, they both walked back upstairs then to the small hoverpad at the end. Pressed together, tray included, they fit comfortably in the snug space and Riani snapped, commanding it to go up.

They popped out onto the roof and just stood. It was quiet in Betweens, and Nagi appreciated that. Though she loved City Center and liked the brilliance of The Gig and Tech City and certainly loved all that Suko’rah’a gave to its residences, the city could be too much for a village girl like her. She’d rather a quiet that mimicked Hisu’s peaceable hills and low-tech homes than the glitz and glam of a City Highrise.

Nagi held for a moment longer, let her feet tap on the cool, smooth eco-fiber roof as she observed the flat expanse. Six long beds of dirt were set in deep troughs down at least two meters: enough for the roots to breath and avoid tangling too bad. Nagi had turned those beds last night, sending the last of the Toolbots through, let their crab-claw shovels till and toss and turn until the earth was prepped for first seeding. 

It had been quietly exciting, knowing that soon, she’d have new friends to commune with, that she’d be speaking life into the new growth of plants: flowers for A Cut Above below her apartments, vegetables and fruits for dinners and dyes, and a dedicated plot for wheat so she could have real bread and not the synthesized crap that city-folks like to chomp on.

The earth looked soft as a bed, and Nahi was tempted to lay in it and let her body work it, let her wordwork coax green buds and soft, dewy petals out months before they should come, but she didn’t: it wouldn’t be good for her nor the dirt. Instead, she didn’t do the latter, but she did lay, and let her feet and hands dig deep.

It really was bed soft, like her bed back home: the one stuffed with feathers that she and her siblings had collected the summer before Akira had turned 13 and become too cool to spend time outside in the river. The one before Nagi had turned 12 and started academy for wordworking. The memory came up and Nagi felt like laughing and crying, so she did, sound bleeding out over the roof.

Tumble, tumble, tumble: Nagi let the mess of wet earth stick to her skin and clothes. “You’re like a horse,” Riani teased, but that didn’t stop Nagi from tumbling again, from upsetting the neat rows with more digging, from pressing her thoughts of good harvest and deep roots and love into the dirt. Who cared anyways: the Toolbots would fix them again before the midnight seeding.

When she got up, her brown skin was streaked darker, and she smelled like wet days. Nagi hadn’t planned on a scrubbed, but now she entertained the idea of asking Riani to wash her back like how her mother had, to soak in the giant, wood tub tucked in the workshop for a while.

For now though, she wanted the sight creeping in at the corners of her eyes: the sun, a sliver of yellow stretching over the horizon, unobscured by the towers and tiers of city buildings. She wanted the stretch of pink chased by orange that bloomed so far away, signaling the start to Today.

She looked at the beds right as Riani came up, coffee mug in hand, hovertray bobbing in the light breeze, and sighed. It wasn’t Home, and would never be, but Between was a good place for Second Home, here with Riani. With a sigh, Nagi adjusted, let Riani slip and press behind her, nir warm body keeping the early spring tickle from being too cold.

“Not half bad, ne, amanto?” she whispered intimately right as Riani wrapped an arm about her soft, thick waist and together, they watched the dawn creep across the horizon, ready to start a new day.