#i adore their art and wanted to try the three panel structure

[lucien-leigh]

[mamaladykt]

Quarantine Q&A

I was tagged by @queenrisa14 which whaaaaaaa!? God when will the Sally Fields "they like me!!!" feeling go away when ever I am tagged in anything? Does it ever? I'm always stunned people are aware of my existence. Thanks girl! Anywho!

Are you staying home from work/school?

Soooooooo, about this. Hehehe. I was working. I was considered essential. To the point that my 4 day a week job turning into 7 days a week, 12 hours a day for TWENTY days straight. It took a toll. On me and my kids. So, because my kids are now out of school for the rest of the school year, my schedule not allowing for any flexibility or a leave of absence, I put in notice last week and my last day was Monday night. I felt really good about it, felt free, came home tuesday morning and filed for unemployment on grounds of childcare needs (which was immediately flagged 🙄😭) and slept. Today was a new day, started cleaning my house for the first time in over a month...... and it went down hill from there. Horrendous night and not feeling great about the uphill battle that will be getting my kids (and husband) back on track. TL;DR yes I'm home, it's a mess.

If you're staying home, who's with you?

That would be my 5 children, my oldest daughter is 11 (dear God tween hormones are no joke!) and my 4 sons, who are 9, 7, 5, and 3. My husband is still working and I miss him during the day and wanted to boot him out tonight. Sigh.

Are you a homebody?

Yes!!! I'm an introvert. If I was well and truly alone, I would never need to leave my house. I have no issues with the idea of ordering groceries online, I just ordered my first ever iPad online and I'm trying to navigate buying glasses and contacts online (PM me with links of websites if you've done this and had a good experience). I just need Amazon to get their shit together and ship my stuff! This isn't the 90's it doesn't need to take a month to get me something. Gah! Also, if I could figure out how to get my ADHD diagnosis from home via telemedicine that would be greeeeeeeeat. Seriously never want to leave my house again.

What movies have you watched recently?

Hahahahahaha!!!!!!! Omg you think I watch movies... That's adorable. Yea, noooo. The last movie I watched was Frozen 2 when it hit Disney+ a month ago. I am, however trying to gear myself up emotionally for watching Avengers Infinity War and Endgame this Sunday. It's been a year..... I'm still not ok. And I haven't watched since that fateful day in the theaters. No seriously, I cried last night just hearing the opening notes to the IW TRAILER! The trailer y'all. "There was an idea....." 😭😭 Ugly sob.

Shows?

Umm, I was watching Outlander at work. I binge watched the first four seasons in like a month back in January. Couldn't wait for season 5 and lost all steam once it started. I dunno. I think it's the Brianna story line. Other than that I honestly throw on Downton Abbey or Victoria again when I need something to watch. (can you tell I have a thing for accents...) I'd love to binge watch in order from the beginning The Big Bang Theory! If anyone knows where I can get the series to stream, let me know. I've watched it out of order for years and years and love it so much but seeing it start to finish sounds like a perfect quarantine activity.

What event was cancelled that you were looking forward to?

My kids going to school on a daily basis?? Lol. No, you know what's funny. I've never gone, didn't have plans to go, but I actually shed a tear when they cancelled Comic Con 2020 in San Diego. I was hoping to go next year so it was a mix of disappointment over not streaming this year's panels/the historical significance of there not being one and feeling like next year is now unattainable because all the 2020 ticket holders will get that one? It's weird and all hypothetical and stupid. Honestly I'm a mom and I don't get to do anything. The most exciting thing on my "to-do" list that was postponed was the Black Widow movie. I have waiting 10 goddamn years for my girl to get a solo movie! TEN YEARS!!!! I needed this to distract from the 1 year anniversary of losing Tony Stark Endgame. Gah. I'm also holding my breath that Sailor Moon Crystal the movie doesnt get postponed from September to God knows when. And my October trip to Orlando for Girl Scouts USA Convention isn't canceled. I'm going to Disney World!! If Florida isn't stup.... Yea ok. 😑😒😞

What Music are you listening to?

My Seiya playlist. I have a playlist of music that I think Seiya would sing. Cuz I love him and he's cheeky and in my head he's a weird mix of Adam Levine and Brendon Urie and that's what the playlist is full of. And this one song by Dermot Kennedy called Outnumbered that is just, IMO Seiya's parting words to Usagi. That and I'm kind of obsessed with Dance Monkey by Tones and I.

What are you reading?

Other than articles about the CARES act regarding unemployment benefits, reviews of cases and accessories for my new iPad Pro (it's the 12.9 and I had no idea I bought the big one and that it's basically a touch screen iMac and I'm overwhelmed with trying to find something to protect it from my children....) or homeschool tips and tricks for kids with autism.......

So help me God, I am reading The Unintentional Seduction of Chiba Mamoru if it freaking kills me. It's been on my to-read list for freaking ever and I am dying that I haven't read it yet. And kind of hating myself. Come on KT, get your ish together sis!!! I'm sorry @floraone !!

What are you doing for self-care?

I quit my job for one. That was the ultimate self-care move. That and for my kids.

Also, Online shopping? I have purchased things for myself that I have never done before. Makeup which is so fun. Like I bought the whole Sailor Moon makeup collection from Colour Pop. I got my first Morphe palette. And big girl concealer from Tarte. Yaaaaas! My iPad and all the pink accessories I can find. A pink throw blanket because my kids have a million blankets but we have no throw blankets for the couch. What the hell? And my favorite thing, I bought a bunch of stuff from teepublic with my profile picture on it from the artist @briannacherrygarcia (seriously her work is amazing! Go check her out, I can't get enough) that created it. I mean, how cool is that. I'm usually too poor to support the content creators for which I am so grateful for. After working three 84hr weeks, I figured I deserved to splurge on something that wasn't in anyway shape or form a need. A pure joyful want. Cant be excused as anything else. It felt so good. I got stickers and an art print and a coffee mug (because coffee mugs are my favorite thing and I somehow do not have enough of them so if anyone wants to send me pretty coffee mugs!) And a hoodie!! I'm so excited.

That last question is amazing. I was feeling so down and overwhelmed by just how bad my home and everyone in it was doing after I was working so much. I am not exaggerating saying it going to take weeks to put this back together and help my kids get used to having rules and structure again. Because it wasn't gonna be a quick fix I was hating life. But listing all the ways that I managed to take care of me, something I never do, because that's what I needed the last month to literally survive, reminded me that I am in a good place and that I have time now to get this done. It took a month to get to this level of chaos it only stands to reason that it's probably gonna take a month to put it back. And shit it's not like we're going anywhere. What's the rush? ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Thanks @queenrisa14 for this! This was great and fun and so needed for my psyche. I tag anyone on my follows list who hasn't done this. Do it and say I tagged you.

MamaLK says take care of you and the rest will fall into place! 😘

[newcathedrals]

ao3

title: where angels fear to tread

pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

word count: 12896

summary: One demon and one very old café wait for Aziraphale to make up his mind.

After thousands of years of walking its surface, Aziraphale loved the world; he most especially adored its little nooks that felt like extensions of himself. He was part of his bookstore in SoHo, a piece of scenery in St. James’ Park, and a regular patron of café Procope. (The Library of Alexandria was magnificent too, until, well.)

He’d stumbled upon the café accidentally, after a delightful play at La Comedie Francaise in 1690. Feeling a bit peckish, he crossed the narrow street and entered the café immediately across from it. It wasn’t called café Procope, then; the chef still went by the name Cuto. But inside he found a noisy café of actors, writers, and artists crowded around small tables. It felt alive, exuberant, like they didn’t pay any mind to anything besides the quality of a new play or the tone of a young singer who’d just begun their career. The café smelled of coffee and tobacco, and the walls were paneled with dark wood. It was altogether more pleasant than most he’d ever visited in Paris until then, and he breathed a sigh of appreciation as he sat down.

Coffee was still a more recent introduction to Europe, and Aziraphale ordered a cup of it gratefully. He was surprised when only moments later a young man sat down next to him without any warning.

“I saw you in the audience, didn’t I? Did you like the play?” He asked. Aziraphale squinted to make him out- it was an actor, from the show he’d just seen. The angel brightened.

“Yes, yes, it was fantastic!” he said. His mouth stumbled over the french vowels a little, but he was fluent enough. Aziraphale was constantly frustrated with that he was only completely fluent in English and old Hebrew after six thousand years on Earth. That was one of the fascinating things about humans, though; an angel could turn his back for a couple of decades and turn around again to find twenty new words in a language. By the time he’d learned to speak and read Latin fluently, they’d already moved on to another five or six languages.

“Ah, you’re English?” the actor asked.

“No. Well, yes, in a way.”

“They have good plays, in England.”

“Ah, yes. Shakespeare was a favorite. It hasn’t really been the same, though, since he passed. It’ll be a while until someone that magnificent comes along again.”

They talked for a while as they drank coffee, and Aziraphale appreciate talking to someone who knew so much about the arts- his name was Francois, he learned, which was always a good name to hear. Aziraphale had always been fond of humans and their incessant naming since the garden of Eden. Francois was one of the French’s best names, in his humble opinion, for its similarity to the name they gave their nation.

They ate dinner together, after the coffee, then wine. Aziraphale loved talking to humans, especially ones like Francois. He suspected that his affection for the ways of the species was getting out of hand, but he couldn’t quell the fondness for them that continued to grow over the centuries. The fondness was only comparable to one other -and far more fickle- love of his.

Love. Aziraphale’s mind was wandering; he returned to focusing on Francois’ thoughts on the French playwright Molière. His care for humanity was safer, at least, than the other.

///

“S’ nice,” Crowley said.

The Arrangement brought them to Paris in 1701. There was some meddling to be done in politics, for both of them, and there was no reason why they couldn’t cut costs and travel together.

(There were, in fact, a plethora of reasons as to why an angel and a demon shouldn’t share a voyage. Aziraphale pointedly refused to think about these reasons.)

When they got to the city, they booked a nice hotel room. Nice in Paris in the 1700’s often really meant not absolutely filthy, but the room was actually quite well furnished and clean.

Small, but bearable.

“There’s only one bed, though,” Crowley mentioned. Aziraphale could feel his ears going pink. Having a human form was incredibly useful, but came along with the downside of less control.

“Ah, yes, well,” Aziraphale said, stepping towards the door. “I’ll just ask them if they have another room available.”

“Don’t bother, it’s not a problem.”

“It’s not?”

“‘Course not, Angel,” Crowley said. Aziraphale’s blush bloomed to cover his entire face and neck. Just as it was creeping down his chest, Crowley snapped his fingers. In an instant, Crowley performed a demonic miracle: one large bed became two, with a meter or two in between them.

A demonic miracle, indeed. Aziraphale forced himself to smile.

“Well done. Saves the trouble of trying to get another room, at least.”

“No problem,” Crowley said. And it shouldn’t have been a problem, but Azirapahle’s poor human stomach sinking told him that he felt otherwise. In a human body, one could not hide from their emotions. If a person didn’t want to think about love or hate or any of the in-betweens, the body reacts as if it has an allergy.

“Dunno about you, but I’m not in the mood to corrupt a cabinet official right now.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “And I’m not prepared to wake another cabinet official up to the injustices of his office.”

“Dinner, then?”

Aziraphale brightened up slightly. “I think I know just the place.”

Out on the street, Aziraphale hailed a carriage. When a driver pulled to the side to oblige them, Crowley wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“What an ugly thing, carriages,” Crowley said. “You’d think they’d come up with something better by now.”

“Would you rather walk?” Aziraphale replied, gesturing towards the filthy avenue outside. Horse manure and human waste stained the cobblestones of nearly all of Paris’ narrow streets.

Crowley managed to look even more disgusted by the alternative. “Nah.”

“As I thought,” Aziraphale said.

Café Procope looked almost identical to how it had when he’d first discovered the spot and three years ago when he’d visited again. The main difference, though, was that it finally had a name. When they stepped out of the carriage, Crowley looked up at the new sign.

“You’ve been here before?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, twice now. It’s been around for quite a while, for human standards.”

They stepped inside and took a seat. It was a little less dark than the last time he’d been in, and evening sunlight illuminated the front. They found a small table towards the back, and sat down.

The dining room was just as lively as it was the times he’d been in before, except perhaps more affluent- artists and actors now mingling with the lower level aristocracy instead of solely putting on shows for them. Maybe it was a tiny form of progress taking place in France’s rigid social class structure. When he mentioned this to Crowley, the demon only shrugged.

“Or they’re just bored, is all. Kings and queens like to keep jesters around, you know.”

Aziraphale huffed. “You always assume the worst.”

When they sat like this, facing each other, knees knocking into one another’s under the table, Aziraphale had to quite literally face the ugly truth in front of him: he’d fallen for a demon. (Crowley, of course, was far from ugly. Aziraphale found him visually pleasing from head to toe, which was part of the whole problem.)

Angels weren’t meant to have any feelings towards humans, aside from a mild benevolence. There were no rules for feelings about demons, but Aziraphale suspected that this was less of a minor oversight and more of a situation so unthinkable that no celestial authority thought to make a rule about it in the first place.

They ordered rosé and bourbon, respectively. Crowley held up his glass for a toast.

“ Santé , angel.”

Despite being immortal, Aziraphale felt as though he could die in his chair that very second.

“ Santé ,” he replied meekly. Crowley was talking about something else, now, but Aziraphale could only half-focus. His mind had gone elsewhere, somewhere far too human.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked. Like the humans, he couldn’t keep his emotions hidden for long at all.

He nodded. “Might we get un gratin dauphinois ?”

“Dunno what that means, but alright.”

They took a carriage to return to their hotel, stomachs full of wine and bread. The sun had set, leaving the sky bespectacled with stars. Paris was still a dark city at night, then. The lack of frequent enough oil lamps hung up kept criminals safe, but also provided a better view of the night sky.

“You don’t see em’ like this in London,” Crowley said, tipping his chin up towards the carriage window. Aziraphale was still surprised, sometimes, at how similar their lines of thought could be.

“No, you don’t,” Aziraphale sighed. They were close, now, sitting thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. There wasn’t a reason for it, the rest of the carriage was empty. But being drunk, Aziraphale had learned, was an excuse humans often used to be close to one another, and Crowley and himself had fallen into their habits quite easily. Thousands of years alongside them could do that to an angel and a demon. Aziraphale felt a loose red curl touch his temple, and the bizarre urge to reach and run his hands through Crowley’s hair gripped him. Thousands of years alongside Crowley, and he’d think that restraint would become easier and not more agonizing.

///

They got their jobs done. It took longer than he’d thought it would, to convince the politician that actually working to benefit the people he represented was an idea that he should engage with. Crowley, in turn, found the official to be far more kind-hearted than most who work in the government ever are. They complained about this to one another in the cramped hotel room, though Aziraphale pretended to mind a little more than he really did. A week spent with Crowley didn’t feel like an inconvenience at all, though he pouted and played along. (That wasn’t really lying , was it? Just acting, and Aziraphale adored the theatre. If his acting was lying then Aziraphale might’ve been the most disobedient angel in Her universe for the last six thousand years.)

When they returned to London a little less than two weeks later, jobs finished, Aziraphale felt that same uneasy longing that always came with splitting apart from Crowley. He knew, that in terms of eternity, a few months or even years away from one another was not a long time. And yet, his half-human heart ached as if it was a final farewell.

The beginning of the eighteenth century was a pleasant few decades. He did his angelic works, as it was his duty, but became even more immersed in the affairs of mankind. He learned the gavotte and tended to hang around those with similar taste as himself. It was in its way morbid, though, to become close to humans. They were so delicate; their morals and beliefs changed quick and they seemed to die even quicker. Still, Aziraphale enjoyed their company, even if it was short-lived. He and Crowley met in London, for the most part, and occasionally other parts of their isles. Every time he wasn’t around for a while, Aziraphale found that engaging with the troubles and joys of mankind was a good enough distraction.

After a year or so of pondering he decided that it’d been about four thousand years, give or take a few centuries. Maybe it’d been since the beginning, when he’d outstretched his wing to protect Crowley from the first thunderstorm. It never got any easier. If anything, little by little, it had grown farther and farther out of his control.

It had been six months since they’d met when Aziraphale decided to ask Crowley if he cared for a non-work related excursion. Most of their communication since their business trip to Paris had been strictly work-related, with a few relaxed dinners here and there.

Aziraphale talked him into it, in 1753. It didn’t take much convincing to make Crowley agree that they “deserved” a little time off. They’d taken a few vacations over the millennia, most lasting only a few days for fear their respective sides would realize how useless they both were to the ethereal and occult causes. They’d never noticed though, and Aziraphale didn’t see the harm in playing human for a while. They discussed the details over tea in London.

“Greece, maybe? It’s been a while.”

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale replied, but he didn’t really mean it. The country had wonderful views and great food, but it was far too hot for his taste.

“Well, Germany’s an option.”

“Don’t they have a war on?”

“Everyone’s got a war on,” Crowley replied. They sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

“Ah,” Crowley said. Though he was wearing his sunglasses, Aziraphale thought he could see his reptile eyes flash behind them. “I know where you want to go.”

“Where?”

“France. It’s always France.”

“Not always,” Aziraphale shot back. “But it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s alright. Too many rats, for my taste..”

“Rats are everywhere.”

“France it is, then.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be France.”

Crowley smiled as he shook his head. “This many years, and you think that I can’t tell when you’ve made up your mind?”

He could have melted, then, into a pool of angelic goop. Instead, he held himself together as best as he could and attempted a normal smile.

“France, then.”

///

They arrived in the evening as the city was fervently trying to finish its tasks before the night shut its workers in. Though they’d discussed taking a boat and a carriage the human way, they decided that demonic and angelic transport would be far more convenient, though awkward. Before the age of communication by telephone whenever angels or demons had to move from one place to another on earth, they’d go through their respective realms. They were like shortcuts, really. The only issue was when beings on either of their sides asked questions. Something demons and angels have in common is that they tend to be nosy.

They met in the Jardin des Tuileries, with Aziraphale falling unceremoniously to the ground from heaven above, much like an apple falling from a tree. The sun was dipping below the trees at the edges of the garden, dappling the grass with shifting shadows of leaves. He stood up to find that he’d landed upon a beautiful array of poppies.

“Louis won’t be too happy about that,” he muttered. Aziraphale walked the paths as he waited for Crowley to sprout from the earth. There were guards posted along the edges of the garden, but Aziraphale used a little angelic miracle to make himself unnoticeable. He turned towards a patch of grass where it sounded like a tree was being pulled up from its roots. He grew from the soil like one of his beloved plants.

Crowley dusted the dirt from his coat. “Remind me to never do that again.”

“I agree. Though boats are unpleasant as well, the way they just threw me down here is despicable.” He helpfully brushed off a clot of debris from Crowley’s shoulder. “Might we try-”

“Café Procope?” they said simultaneously.

“I’m truly that predictable?” Aziraphale said.

“Eh, a bit.”

They passed the royal guards without issue and stepped onto the street. It was a warm May evening, just a little bit on the side of too hot; renaissance painting clouds hung in the sky, streaked with pink from the setting sun. They walked along the Seine and across the Pont Neuf side by side; Azirapahle watched the sunset along the entire route. If Crowley’s eyes had settled on him and stayed there, the angel pretended not to realize. He didn’t want to break the majesty of it, the soft and shivery feeling it left on his neck and face. Crowley was always a good listener, keeping his attention on Aziraphale when they were together. He appreciated it, often craved it; there are few things that feel better than being heard and understood by someone who wanted to hear and understand him. It was unsaid, of course, he feared to acknowledge it would ruin its power somehow. Some things were better left unsaid, he had learned in his long life, even if it was difficult knowledge to keep alone.

The decor had changed since he’d last been in. It’d somehow become even more opulent, huge mirrors lined the walls, and the trimmings inside were painted in gold. Plants now grew on the balcony, fragrant blossoms which helped the street below smell just a bit better. It was as popular as ever, if not more- the tables were still crowded and smoky. Despite this, there was suddenly a free table for two when they walked in. After ordering red wine, Crowley smiled.

“Do you remember that pomegranate wine we had in Egypt?” he asked. Aziraphale smiled wistfully.

“Never found another like it, really. It’s been so long but I can still remember the taste.”

“You almost got bitten by a crocodile, on the bank of the Nile.”

Aziraphale frowned. The memory still unnerved him; being eaten would undoubtedly be an awful way to be discorporated. “I don’t see how it’s my fault that they blend into the sand so well.”

“I had to pull you away, and you thought I was going to try and discorporate you.”

“I didn’t know better, then. We hadn’t known one another for very long.”

“Guess you’re right. Still, I knew you’d never try to hurt me.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Oh, I did. The day I met you I did, when you told me that you gave the humans your flamin' sword.”

Aziraphale winced. Every time he was reminded of the object, he felt an unpleasant shiver down his spine. “If you’d give them a sword, I knew you’d never try to kill me.”

“Because I didn’t have a proper weapon?”

Crowley laughed. “Because you’re kinder than the rest of them, really.”

His hand was shaking slightly as he picked up his wine glass. He was translucent, Crowley could see every thought and feeling muddled together within him. He knew, he realized. He knew, maybe before Aziraphale himself even did. Saying it, just then, wouldn’t have been to much effect. It had been said before, in a thousand indirect ways that all added up to I would not know what I am without my knowledge of you.

They drank quietly. It had all been said already, hadn’t it? Aziraphale was thinking, and Crowley was watching him think. He wished suddenly that he could pull the glasses off of his face and look at him in the eyes directly, just to make sure he saw what he felt in his eyes.

“Do you want to take a walk, angel? The table will be right where we left it when we return,” Crowley said. As always, he said it and it was true. They stepped out from the crowded space into open air, twilight left the sky a soft lavender hue.

“This way?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded. The street was mostly empty, aside from a few water carriers with large pails on their backs. The silence nearly became too long, but as Aziraphale was about to make a frivolous comment Crowley took his hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

“Oh.” was all he could manage. They continued walking down the street, and Aziraphale’s attention honed in completely to their point of contact. Crowley’s hand was surprisingly soft, he didn’t expect it for some reason, and he was pleasantly cool to the touch. The air felt ethereal, pure and- heavy footsteps, a power unlike the kind Crowley radiates, or his own. With a start, he dragged Crowley into a narrow alley.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then put both of his hands to Crowley’s throat.

“Foul demon!” Aziraphale cried out. His voice was shaky, unconvincing. Still, he continued. “You thought you could try to spread evil here without my knowledge?”

“What-”

“Let this be a lesson to you about meddling in earthly affairs!” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s eyes widened with the realization. He bolted down the alley and twisted around the corner, as Aziraphale instantly created a flash of ethereal light and a pile of ash on the cracked cobblestones below him. The sound of footsteps bounced around the narrow street and off of its walls from the mouth of the alley.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. His faux, even tone put a pit in his stomach. “Did you just smite the demon Crowley?”

“I did,” Aziraphale answered. He attempted a smile that wilted before it could even come to be.

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder with a prideful gaze. He was to be called a liar, to be cast out from heaven’s good graces. The angel froze under Gabriel’s touch.

“You know, Aziraphale, I’m glad you’re our guy down here. You really get into the weeds, going after the demons.”

He didn’t realize he had stopped breathing until he started again. “Thank you, Gabriel. Why- why did you come here? Now?”

If the question was defensive, Gabriel didn’t notice. “I saw that you used the transport system, and wanted to check-in. It’s been a few centuries! You went from Great Britain to… what’s this place called again?”

“France.”

“Ah yes. France. ” Gabriel said it like one would say a word when they weren’t quite sure of the definition. “Anyways, I see that you’re getting a lot done here.”

Aziraphale nodded in response. He was numb in both his head and heart.

“Well, keep discorporating, keep up the good fight, alright? I’ll see you soon.” With another pat on the back and a flash of blinding light, he evaporated into thin air. Aziraphale leaned against the stone wall behind him, tipping his chin up towards the sky above.

Thousands of years had passed and that was the time Gabriel chose to grace him with his presence. He straightened up and smoothed out the front of his coat.

It was for the best, he decided. He thought of holy water and hellfire, the crowded halls of the damned and the vast empty atriums of the saved.

///

He climbed two staircases to reach their little room. There was really no reason to share, but they’d decided to come to France on a whim, and Aziraphale didn’t have much time to make arrangements. (Of course, another room could’ve helpfully become unbooked on the same floor. It didn’t.)

When he tried the door, it was already unlocked. Crowley was relaxing on the bed, a book in his hand. From his posture, he had not a care in the world, but Aziraphale knew well that the demon never read books.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s eyes peeked up over the flimsy book he was purportedly reading. He doubted it was anything more than blank pages, if Crowley had created it by way of a demonic miracle. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. It was-“

“Awful timing, on that angel’s part.”

“Precisely.” he replied.

“Well-“ Crowley said. “-we could just go out for a little stroll again if you’d like.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“It is pretty dark. But what do an angel and a demon have to fear from some petty criminals?” Crowley tossed the book aside and sat up.

“We have a lot to fear, Crowley!” Aziraphale said. His voice was shaking, another downside of the human form. Crowley was watching him behind his glasses. Any hint of happiness was smoothed from his features.

He paused, steeling himself. “I know,” Crowley said. “But isn’t it worth the risk?”

“You don’t know what they’d do to you.”

Crowley scowled. “Of course I do.”

“You don’t.”

He’d seen what holy water did to demons, before. Thousands of years before, but the memory still chilled him. He imagined Crowley doused with the same substance, suffering the writhing agony that comes before obliteration. It didn’t matter what he wanted, or even what he felt.

“Answer me,” he said. Crowley sat frozen in place, expressionless. Somewhere in the back of his mind Aziraphale wondered how he had so much control.

Aziraphale took in a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

The room seemed to freeze, as Crowley’s uncaring gaze morphed into something like pain for an instant. As soon as he’d blinked, the demon was just as he was before.

“Right. Well. I think I’ve got some demonic deeds to do, really. Best get on with it.”

“We could still-“

“Nah, it’s alright. We’ll have dinner another time.”

Nothing more to say. Aziraphale forced his expression into a tight-lipped smile. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, already striding towards the door. He paused with a hand on the doorknob. “And, angel.”

“Yes?”

“If you ever make up your mind, will you tell me?”

The door creaked as Crowley shut it. He heard footsteps down the hallway, then the sickening sound of nothing at all. Aziraphale was alone. More alone, perhaps, than he’d ever been.

///

“See you soon” is a very relative statement, especially for a frustrated demon. It was a very lonely set of decades for Aziraphale at the end of the eighteenth century. The angel tried to keep himself busy. He strayed from London far more than previously, popping in to Berlin, Stockholm, and Amsterdam when the emptiness felt particularly wide. Paris was still one of his favorite places, though there seemed to be a discomfort brewing in the city that he couldn’t quite muster up the effort to look into. He went to Le Procope mainly to drink and brood, which he’d become particularly good at. He’d like to tell Crowley about it; the demon would find it quite funny.

“Might as well paint your wings black yourself,” Crowley would say. “You’re practically a demon already. ‘Brooding’ is a third of the job description.” Then Aziraphale would huff and frown like it was not even a little funny. But Crowley wasn’t there, and he was the whole reason the ruminating kept going on and on anyways.

On a particularly dower day in London, Aziraphale decided that a crêpe from Le Procope might just be the perfect distraction. The café was still there, despite everything, and wasn’t that somehow hopeful? Little in Aziraphale’s life was consistent, humans shifted and changed far too fast for his liking. Crowley had been a constant since the dawn of the Arrangement, but now Aziraphale wasn’t sure it’d ever be the way it was again. He wished that Crowley could understand why they couldn’t. Friendship, perhaps, was still dangerous, but they’d made it so far without being thrown into the void. Le Procope, though, was sticking around quite longer than he’d expected.

Crêpes, he thought. That’ll sort me out.

Though he wanted crêpes, Paris had other plans. Bloody, gruesome, and awful plans. Plans that would put him in a pile of paperwork, and in quite a lot of pain, seeing how the guillotine’s blade had been dulled by the necks of hundreds, if not thousands. He stared despairingly down at the iron cuffs that bound him. There was something so awful about knowing that he could escape the cell in seconds, but still being unable to do anything to stop himself from being decapitated.

Humans. Horrible, awful, ugly humans, nearly every one of them.

“Animals,” he muttered.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel. Only humans do that.”

And there Crowley was, heaven- well, hell -sent. Aziraphale just barely had the good sense to stop himself from collapsing into his arms.

“Oh, good lord,” he said.

In the midst of a revolution, they had crêpes. And despite all of the chaos, they were quite delightful.

///

They returned, blissfully, to their normal pattern. Aziraphale was almost surprised at how easy it was. There were no awkward conversations, or even any references to what almost been possibly discussed a few decades before. The angel was glad for it, of course, and yet the same pervasive longing still rested in his chest like walking pneumonia. There was much more pleasure in it than illness for the most part. He liked the way they bickered back and forth, and did something that might look a bit like flirting when they’d been drinking; but it weighed heavy on him all the same.

The humans he met in the nineteenth century were perhaps the most interesting of the species that he’d befriended so far, which was a positive. He was especially fond of a British writer named Oscar, who visited Le Procope often.

They had lunch often. Far less dinners, then, that was the only difference. Lunch was quite alright as well, though. Lunch had more boundaries than dinner, the lines were sharper while dinner’s often blurred.

Good enough, though. And safer, Aziraphale thought. When Crowley asked him for a morning stroll in 1862, he thought it would turn out to be a fine day, they might even have breakfast and lunch together. He even remembered to buy bread this time, for the ducks, but it didn’t turn out to be a breakfast and lunch day at all.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Crowley said, and no good sentence ever started that way. “What if it all goes wrong?”

Then he handed him a scrap of paper. His blood ran cold, his heart fell into his stomach. His worst fear, worse than being burned in hellfire. Crowley, melting, drowning.

Crowley, destroying himself. It was unthinkable, but now he was thinking of it.

“Out of the question,” he said.

To which Crowley had the audacity of replying “Why not?”

A universe without Crowley. Even when they hadn’t seen each other in decades, Aziraphale couldn’t envision it. That would not be a universe worth living in. He’d known this, too, as long as they’d had the Arrangement. But in perhaps the same way that he knew he loved Crowley, he never faced it directly, the same way that humans averted their eyes from the sun for their whole lives. Now he was staring the truth right in it’s blinding center.

Now Crowley was requesting it, like it was some sort of solution.

“I don’t need you, angel, ” Crowley said. It wasn’t the way he often said it, it was an accusation- too high and mighty, holier than thou - he wished he could explain it, tell him he was wrong, tell him there was no point to an existence without their lunches and dinners and arrangements. No point at all, not for him.

When he stormed away, he almost felt a little bit better. He’ll be safer, he thought. Without their friendship, their Arrangement. So there wouldn’t be any more lunches with Crowley, bickering matches with Crowley. But there would be a Crowley, at least.

The decades following were longer and heavier than any he had yet to endure. But there was a Crowley, somewhere. He even saw him sometimes, walking past his bookshop. A flash of red hair and dark attire, that was all, it could’ve even been his mind playing tricks on him, but it made him feel better to imagine those serpent eyes keeping watch of him.

///

He hadn’t known of the demon he’d seen die. The creature was nameless, defenseless. God had already let the angels have their autonomy, and they took it with pride. Without a sense of self, Aziraphale did what he could and what he knew was right; served God. As he walked the halls and atriums of their plane, all washed in white and iridescence, he thought of nothing else. as there was not a single other thought to occupy him.

The white room he’d was open to the discomforting saturated blue of their realm’s sky. He approached a semicircle of angels, with tumbling robes the same hue as their floors and walls and all else. In front of them lay an angel curled into themselves, silent as their eyes stared blankly into what was not to come.

Demons, then, were any angels who had even suggested a different idea or approach to existence itself. No dark attire or ashen faces, no cunning smiles. No red hair. Just an angel, still an angel, with gashes on their back where wings were torn from their body.

An angel miracled a refilling silver chalice into his dainty hand and held it above the angel. Aziraphale watched with the same stare as the others as holy water was poured onto skin which burned, melted, dissolved to become part of what does not exist. He’d never heard screams before.

After, the angels dispersed to return to their assigned duties, and Aziraphale did the same. It was not until he had touched his feet to earth that he saw the angel’s -demon’s- agonizing end with anything other than righteous justice.

He didn’t know the angel’s name or their offense. All he knew, and couldn’t forget, were the screeches of life being dragged into irresolvable nothing.

All he knew was that he could imagine Crowley curled up much in the same way, the bones of his shoulder blades exposed by butchery.

He would not let Crowley have the chance of doing the same to himself.

///

He saved him, again, like some sort of guardian demon . Aziraphale was starting to suspect that Crowley’s heroics weren’t just coincidences, but what could he say? As they stood in the middle of the ash and rubble, Aziraphale wished to pull his sunglasses off and hold his face in his hands and look into those serpent eyes hard and see what lay there.

The books. His stomach dropped to his feet. Hundreds of years of collecting and preserving, obliterated in seconds.

And then- Crowley pulled the leather bag from the dead nazi’s grasp.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he said. “Lift home?”

As they walked away from the destruction he felt as though his human body might explode like the church, remain as gushing blood and unwound entrails and his bursting human heart right in the middle of it. Exposed to the dust, ash, and smoke, right in front of Crowley. It would be a strange thing to explain to the folks upstairs -just a bit of a mistake, fell in love with one of the damned is all- he made it to Crowley’s car with skin and bones intact. Aziraphale forced himself back to the present as he sat down in the passenger’s seat. Cars were far too fast for his taste, but they were better than horses. He was about to mention this to Crowley when his gaze stopped him from speaking.

“I’m going to let it go,” Crowley said, voice even.

“Let what go?”

“The holy water. I’ll let it go.”

“You will?”

Crowley turned the key and the car grumbled to life. He didn’t like how loud they were, either. “Think I understand, now. Why you won’t do it.”

Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief. It felt like he had been holding his breath for decades, without even realizing. “Good. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m still gonna get it, ‘course, but I’ll get it myself.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“Scare you? I just saved your life!”

“Well, it won’t work. You can’t frighten me into bringing it to you.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m really not trying to. I might die, though. Forever- dissolved-into-oblivion-die.”

“Stop it!”

Silence. The streets were void of life as the city cowered in fear, huddled around a radio and holding a candle. At least Crowley’s horrendous driving wasn’t likely to kill anyone that night. His unconcerned taunting brought him into a cold sweat.

“You could slow down a bit.”

“Nobody’s around, angel.”

Decades had past, and they were back to where they always were. Their same pattern, the same bickering, the same banter. It was like reading a book he’d already read again and again, an old good book that’s been loved to pieces.

“We should catch up. Have a little rendez-vous . It’s been years and I have no idea what you’re up to.”

“I’ve been sleeping, mostly, love a good nap,” he said. A pause “Are you suggesting France?”

He wasn’t, he just liked kitchy little phrases. But now he was thinking about Paris, and that little alleyway that must still be there. The war was on, but he knew Le Procope was still open. Always open.

He swallowed. “Best not.”

“Right,” Crowley replied. “Well. Whenever you make up your mind.”

He remembered the same phrase, from that little inn room.

“Yes, well. You can drop me off at the bookshop, please.”

Crowley nodded. “We’ll have lunch soon, yeah?”

He smiled a little. “Yes.” Crowley had missed him. It was more satisfying to know than he’d expected it to be. “I hear the Ritz is quite good.”

“Oh? There, then.”

When Crowley slowed to a stop in front of the bookshop, Aziraphale picked up the bag of books from the floor. He opened the door and stepped out.

Light reflected off of Crowley’s glasses. His expression was unreadable; Aziraphale was woefully out of practice in terms of Crowley’s miniscule tells.

He said it, before he could force it back down. “I’m still thinking. About it.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You are?”

“I am.”

London was more silent than it had ever been. No bombs, nothing at all. Even Crowley’s car seemed to fall silent for a second, holding its breath along with the angel and the demon.

“You are,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale suddenly felt the urge to flee. “Well. Thanks, again.” He heard the “shaddap!” through the window.

The angel watched from the sidewalk as Crowley drove away, tires screeching against the potholed street. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. The loneliness was already slowly seeping out of him, togetherness filling up the spaces that it once made home again.

///

“Isn’t this scrumptious?” Aziraphale asked. He used the edge of his fork to cut off another morsel of strawberry cake.

“Yeah, wonderful. Very sweet,” Crowley said, also taking another bite.

“Not too sweet, though. Just right.”

“No, ‘course not. Couldn’t have that, could we?”

The Ritz had been absolutely delightful, to the point that Aziraphale was ready to welcome it into his heart as another one of his favorite places. The massive dining hall was rich and full, bathed in every shade of gold and yellow. Crowley even seemed particularly pleased, and Aziraphale tended to enjoy restaurants far more than he did.

It took longer to have lunch together than he’d expected. But a war does complicate things, for humans and immortals alike. When Crowley stepped into his bookstore with a hopeful smile, though, he knew that it was finally the right moment.

“I missed this, a bit,” Aziraphale admitted. It seemed like a safe enough phrase.

“Hm?”

“I missed having lunch.”

Crowley still looked confused. “Surely you’ve had lunch since we’ve last eaten together.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He’d just discovered that recently, when speaking to an annoyed young woman attempting to buy one of his books. He promptly began to roll his eyes at least once a day from that moment forward. “I meant having lunch with you.”

Crowley grinned. “Oh, I know. Just wanted to hear it.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and shifted his gaze, but his heart was blooming in his chest. It felt like home at last.

///

They were having lunch, again. Aziraphale tried not to analyze how he had begun to divide up his six thousand years of life into categories: the before lunch era, the lunch era, the dinner era. Then there were the gap years. Now it was the lunch renaissance, and he couldn’t be happier. (Surely he could be happier. He was reminded of this every time they sat side by side in his bookshop, sharing a bottle of wine.) They didn’t speak of holy water, or Paris, or any centuries-old cafés. He’d almost forgotten the bloody blessed water until he found out about Crowley’s foolish plan to steal it from a church. Crowley had even hired goons to help him retrieve it. Didn’t he see it in that church before, just sitting out like a bird bath?

Without even meaning to, Crowley had forced his hand. Aziraphale took one of his favorite thermoses to the church only a few blocks away. After using a tiny miracle to make himself unnoticeable, he filled the thermos and hoped to God that it was the right decision. Well, God would probably not approve at all, so he tried to ignore that too.

He sat in Crowley’s car, nervously tapping his shoes against the floor. He’d thought every moment of getting out and running away ‘till he saw him. Walking the way he always did, hips and legs first, his torso following. A bit like gravity didn’t matter to him at all, which was likely the case.

He still felt uneasy when he handed the holy water over. The look on Crowley’s face was almost worth it, all of the angles softened by undeniable gratefulness. It was poison, and Crowley was thankful for it.

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asked. He to look away, through the windshield. It was unbearable, the tenderness in the way he said it. The pressure he felt in his chest was only continuing to build, more and more with each passing decade, far past the point where Aziraphale thought he might just combust. It was a kind of guilt or regret; he became painfully aware of how every moment would be different if he’d give in, or simply walk away a final time.

“Better not.”

“Well, can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.”

He still couldn’t meet his eyes fully. It was infuriating, sometimes, how his own gaze could not be covered while Crowley could keep his constantly guarded.

“Don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could, I don’t know, go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.” Return to Le Procope, he wanted to add. To that little alleyway.

With that same soft expression, Crowley tried again. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

He was so close, close enough to cradle his jaw in his hand. That was what he wanted to do, wasn’t it? It felt like a cruel trick, to love a demon. Crowley had asked him why God put the tree of knowledge into the garden of Eden, when it was such a temptation. Then he became what he questioned, so close Aziraphale could hold him in his hands, so close he could almost taste without ever taking a bite.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He stepped out before he could steal another look, could try to gauge his reaction. He walked down the dark street, bumping into drunken and jolly people. Alone, once again.

///

A few months later, Aziraphale asked Crowley if he’d like to go on a walk. The demon agreed, and they met on the corner by Aziraphale’s bookshop. He still had bangs, but his hair had grown a bit longer, had a little more curl to it. He wondered if it was intentional or accidental, though Crowley was always particular about his hair. Aziraphale quite liked when it was longer and curlier; he still remembered the gleaming red coils that fell down his back as they stood on the garden wall, that first time. Once or twice he thought of mentioning it, before remembering himself. Besides, it was amusing to see it change nearly every time he saw him.

They walked the streets of London side by side, talking and observing the humans around them. Humans were always in such a rush, Aziraphale wondered what such an existence would be like.

“It must feel like you’re always running out of time,” Aziraphale said.

“Hm?”

“To be human. They haven’t got very long, that must be why they’re always in a hurry.”

Crowley nodded thoughtfully. “Must be at least a little thrilling, though. To only have one life.”

“Or terrifying. There’s not really a way to rectify anything, once you’re gone.”

“They do what they want too, though, most of them. They see what they want and they take it. They dream, they do. Right or wrong be damned, they go right on ahead.”

Silence. Aziraphale knew what he meant, what he was implying. For a second, he imagined what it’d be like to be human. Him and Crowley, human together. He supposes he could own a bookshop. Crowley could… be an investment banker, or some other sort of legal criminal. Something nefarious. They could even live together, above the bookshop. He supposed that he’d actually have to attempt to sell books, then, as he would need an income. But he wouldn’t have a large collection at all, in that case, because he couldn’t have been around for hundreds of years collecting them.

No miracles, demonic or otherwise. No ethereal or demonic transport. No good or bad deeds to perform. Just Crowley and Aziraphale.

“It’d be nice, then, to be human,” Aziraphale agreed. “No need to worry about so many rules. Well, until they’re dead.”

“Yeah, but who cares about that? It’s just dying.”

“Dying is not something to joke about, Crowley.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I shouldn’t have ever given you holy water.”

“Well, I’d much rather be obliterated than burn in hellfire for eternity, wouldn’t you?”

He shivered at the thought. “I suppose so.”

“You suppose so,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale scowled. Every time their conversations drifted towards such subjects, he was reminded of how much separated the two of them. There was a deep chasm between their realities that was rarely breeched and could never be mended.

“Oh!” Crowley said, still smiling despite Aziraphale’s obvious annoyance. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. You’ll be proud of me.”

Rarely any good ever came from the sentence “you’ll be proud of me” if Crowley said it.

“What?”

“I saved Le Procope.” He said, wearing that clever little smile he usually reserved for admiring his own devious tricks and plans.

“What?”

“I went to Paris on my own about twenty years ago. I’d overheard that Le Procope was going to be closed, and possibly turned into a hotel.”

“No,” the angel gasped.

“Oh, yes,” Crowley confirmed. “But I stopped it.”

“How?”

“I bribed the owner, of course. Now she has enough money to retire on a Greek island.”

“Did you really?”

“Yep.” He grinned.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Then, right in the middle of London, taking up the sidewalk, he pulled him into his arms. Crowley’s arms snaked around his torso and held him there. He smelled strangely of freshly ground peppercorn, spiced and warm. He held on a few seconds longer than he knew was appropriate. (Though, for an angel, avoiding smiting a demon in a kilometer radius is likely seen as monstrous.) A couple humans took notice, but he paid them no mind.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “Thank you.”

“You’re proud of me, then?” Crowley asked. He looked incredibly pleased with himself, standing up a little straighter as they continued walking.

The angel nodded. “I’m not sure bribery is quite the right way to go about things, of course, but all the same. That café is very special to me.”

“I quite like it too. Good crêpes.”

“Ah, I’d love a crêpe.”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s not too late for breakfast. Or we could call it brunch.”

“The crêpes just aren’t the same here,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Paris, then?” Crowley asked. There was that same hopefulness, that undeniable want in his tone. Every time it revealed itself, Aziraphale’s heart only grew more sore.

“Perhaps a more English breakfast would do. Eggs benedict, maybe?”

Crowley’s shoulders sunk just a little. “Right, English breakfast. Wouldn’t mind some eggs myself.”

Was this what they would be, forever? Forever wishing and hoping, side by side? Stealing breakfasts and lunches and hugs like they were criminal acts? He’d never desired to be human before, though he’d always been fascinated by them. Now, though- eighty or ninety years would be a long enough lifetime after all, if he could live how he’d like to.

///

On the phone, Crowley had said it was important, serious. As he strolled towards St. James’ Park, he’d hoped that Crowley had begun to consider lunch as vital as he always had.

But Crowley didn’t, in fact, want to discuss lunch. He told the angel of the antichrist as if it were an unfortunate situation, not truly the end of days. Even Aziraphale couldn’t truly picture it. He couldn’t envision an end; the world and Crowley were constants. Once again his thoughts turned to 1753, to that alleyway in Paris, to Gabriel, to what was inevitable. The urge to say something, to decide, remained right behind his tongue. “If you make up your mind, will you tell me?” Crowley had said. But it wasn’t his choice at all.

“We will win, of course.”

Crowley smiled incredulously. “You really believe that?”

“Obviously.”

Even as he said it, his heart sank. With no Hell, there would be no Crowley. One came with the other. Crowley rattled off his favorite composers, which he knew Aziraphale coveted.

“And that’s just the start of what you’ll lose if you win. No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you, no gravlax in dill sauce…”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening anymore. He could feel the slight breeze through his short curls, could see the expectant ducks waiting for bread along the wire fencing. He could almost see the Procope. The yellow light of its chandeliers spilled out onto the cobblestones, flowers and vines hung from the balcony. His favorite fascinating little restaurant, where they used to know his name, before Crowley had asked him to make up his mind.

This would be their end, then. The decision was made for him. It was almost a relief to have it over and done with.

“We’ve only got eleven years, and then it’s all over. We have to work together.”

Crowley still had hope, then. Aziraphale didn’t expect it, though it made sense. Those who have already fallen cannot be made to stoop any further.

“No.” He refused and denied. It was lunch that got him. He’d never said no to lunch, and if Crowley asked it was as inevitable as the ineffable plan.

///

Taking care of the antichrist seemed like it would be a decades-long nightmare. Instead, it was oddly comforting to keep watch of the boy. Despite his evil parentage, he truly did just seem to be a little boy. A moody little boy, sure, but a boy all the same. He also liked gardening, despite the unruliness of the vines and spiny weeds that seemed to pop up overnight. (“All they need is a good thrashing,” Crowley once said. Aziraphale refused to take his advice, though he had to admit that the demon’s potted plants were always flourishing.) The task also made it necessary to meet with Crowley weekly to discuss the boy’s development and compare notes.

“He’s been mischievous lately. I saw him burying figurines in the vegetable plot,” Aziraphale said disdainfully. He’d just planted chives, which were fragile before they properly took root.

“Mischievous doesn’t mean evil, angel. They’re two very different things.”

“Surely it’s just a very early precursor to true malice.”

“Dunno about that,” Crowley said. “You’re mischievous yourself.”

“I’m not!”

Crowley shrugged. “You’re currently having coffee with a demon.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale muttered. “I fear his disposition is inevitable. What if this is all futile?”

“Now, I never knew you to be a cynic.”

“Every day now, I feel as though we’re running out of time.”

Crowley took another sip of coffee. “Maybe we are.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You can say it, and I can’t?”

“Precisely.”

Crowley’s mood was dampened. “Finish your drink, angel. We should be getting back.”

With a sinking heart, Aziraphale finished the latte and stood. Every day, they creeped closer and closer to the end of the world, unless their experiment on Warlock succeeds. If either side won, he would lose. It was either eternal damnation or eternity without book shops and cafés, parisian or otherwise, and Crowley. Both results were terrifying to even contemplate.

Aziraphale blinked, and Crowley had transformed back into his nanny attire. He quite liked the hair, curly and red like his hair should be. With an exaggerated sigh he did the same. They returned to the mansion as an unrefined gardener and a goth middle-aged woman. An odd couple indeed.

///

Crowley was dressed in white for the birthday party. Aziraphale quite liked him in white, it’d been a few decades since he’d worn another color than black and dark grey. His hair was short, but that was the fashion for men at the time. He never really understood fashion, anyways. He liked clothes of course, with all their clever buttons and ruffles. But the constant change in human’s whims seemed unnecessary, and he gave up keeping track of it all long ago. He’d found clothes he’d liked and stuck with them, sometimes for centuries.

Crowley stared at him as he set up his performance. Aziraphale attempted a smile and utterly failed, while Crowley’s scowl deepened in response.

Eleven years of efforts led to the boy who he watched making fun of one of his party guests for the boy’s scuffed shoes. Crowley’s influence seemed more apparent in the boy than his own. Maybe the demon was just too good at his job, and Warlock would name the hell hound “throat ripper” or something just as stomach-turning.

If there was any time to put his heart in order and tell Crowley how he felt, it was far gone. At the very least, they’d spent their last years on Earth working together, being together in the ways that they could. The war would start and end, and they’d know that they’d tried their best to avoid it.

Later, covered in cake and custard, Aziraphale looked at Crowley in the passenger seat of his car.

“No dog.” Crowley said.

“No dog.”

“Wrong boy.”

“Wrong boy.”

It was funny, then, at the end of days, that he felt a twinge of hope. It wasn’t over yet, they were still together.

///

They were doing something about it, at least. Perhaps if they found the right boy they could- well, they hadn’t quite figured that part out yet- but they’d do something, surely. They started at the place where it all started, the hospital. The last thing Aziraphale expected to happen was to be shot, and particularly not with a blue paintball.

“Look at the state of this coat,” he said. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew it was silly to be upset over an article of clothing when Earth was coming to an end as they knew it.

Still. “I’ve kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now. I’ll never get this stain out!”

Crowley frowned and circled him to survey the damage.

“Well, you can miracle it away.”

“Yes, but…” he sighed. “I would always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean.”

Crowley looked at the stain for a second more, before leaning towards him. With an exhale the stain evaporated into dust and floated away.

Aziraphale beamed. Despite the fact that it was the end of it, the world had never seemed better to him. “Thank you.”

At the dawn of armageddon, it seemed idiotic that he’d ever kept it secret at all; it was love. Maybe it’d taken him thousands of years to accept it, but when the end came near he knew it well enough. There was not a single other force more important, for humans or demons or angels or God. There was love, and there was everything else.

They’d have to survive. If Aziraphale wanted his existence to mean anything, he had no other choice. He picked up the weapon to observe it. If they were going to make it far enough for any of it to matter, they’d have to work at it.

///

It seemed simple, for just that moment. Then Crowley ran into that poor woman, and Aziraphale found the book. The book. He took it into his arms and didn’t tell Crowley. Part of him feared what he’d find inside: scared that the prophecies of Agnes Nutter might be false, and absolutely terrified that her visions could be true.

When the angel that readeth these words of mine, in his shop of other men’s books, then the final days are certes upon us.

He refused to get up from the chair until he’d scanned nearly every prophecy. Page after page after page. Some seemed like complete gibberish. Others were as clear as day, absolutely indisputable historical events, some that he’d even witnessed himself.

For better or for worse, Agnes did not describe the actual end of days, who would win. There was hope, still. A tiny particle of hope the size of a grain of dust that swirled around his bookshop, yes, but all the same.

///

“Have a nice doomsday,” Crowley had said. Aziraphale felt cold and empty as he continued to pour over Agnes Nutter’s nice and accurate prophecies. It’ll be fixed soon enough, he thought. With a shaking hand he brought his mug to his lips, taking a sip of chamomile. There wouldn’t have to run; they could go back to the way it had been. There had to be a chance.

Nearly every cell in his human form wanted to accept Crowley’s offer. It could just be the two of them, together. Eternity with one another, not as demons or angels- just as themselves.

Aziraphale craved it, could already imagine it, but the gravity and love held him steadfast to the planet. He wanted their lives on Earth even more and couldn’t flee as it burned. He couldn’t give up on his fascinating little restaurants, or the rest.

It’d all go back to normal, he was sure of it. They hadn’t lost yet. He’d turn towards the light, however cold and unforgiving it was.

The war could be avoided if only he could convince the angels. Weren’t they meant to be the beacons of light and hope, the saviors of humanity? He’d always bickered about the nature of angels with Crowley, about how they might adhere to some arbitrary rules but when it really came down to it they always stood for peace.

He had to try. From his bookshop, he called upon Gabriel to meet him. Though he could’ve used more angelic methods, the telephone did the job just fine.

Out of breath, he explained to him the situation. The prophecies, the real, true, promising prophecies that didn’t say that there had to be a war, or that anyone had to win.

“I just thought there was something we could do,” Aziraphale said.

“There is,” Gabriel replied, and Aziraphale’s spirits lifted for a millisecond. “We can fight and we can win.”

“But there doesn’t have to be a war.”

“Of course there does! Otherwise, how would we win it?”

The spark of hope died in him just then. There was no way around it. The angels he was a part of, the angels that he’d defended to Crowley for years didn’t care about humanity at all. There was just the plan, that was all. And how could it be otherwise? Besides himself none of them had ever interacted with actual humans on a personal level, aside from a few missions as messengers.

Was that all he was? Another adherent to an ideology and system that oftentimes made no sense at all? If their goal wasn’t good, then what were they even there for? He stood in the middle of the walking path. Bile rose in his throat, beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck. Both burning hot and ice cold, he began to walk home. His home would be gone, soon. It was, of course, ineffable.

No. He shook his head, and began to mutter to himself. No, it wasn’t possible. It could all still be sorted. What was Gabriel? Just another angel. A powerful one, but an angel all the same. Aziraphale began to mentally recall a ritual he’d learned long ago, far before he’d made earth his home. Yes, it was a solution. God would understand, would see why this was all unnecessary.

Aziraphale turned when he heard tires screech to a halt on the sidewalk beside him.

“Angel! I’m sorry, I apologize, whatever I said I didn’t mean it. Work with me, I’m apologizing here. Yes? Good, get in the car.”

He forced himself to stay rooted in place. Crowley continued to speak, a rush of words that sounded so blessedly hopeful-

Could he give all of it up, for Crowley? All of his books, his favorite foods, the authors and poets and painters he loved to converse with throughout the eras. When that was done away with, could he live just as himself, just with the being standing in front of him.

Perhaps. But he couldn’t give up, not yet.

“I’m quite sure if I can just reach the right people then I can get all this sorted out.”

Crowley stepped forward. He still smelled like freshly ground pepper, fresh and bright and so close that he would only have to move his hand a few centimeters to be able to grab his wrist and let himself be whisked away. Alpha Centauri. A star system that sounded more like a fairytale land than an actual place they could reach.

“There aren’t any right people, there’s just God, moving in mysterious ways and not talking to any of us!”

He would talk to him, make him understand.

“That won’t happen. You’re so clever- how can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Aziraphale felt that awful pain again, like the network of systems that kept his organs functioning were pulling apart from each other, collapsing under their own weight. This would be forgotten, after he’d stopped the war from happening. Crowley would apologize, and he would too, he decided. It would all be set right.

“I forgive you,” he said. The man -demon- in front of him would say the same soon enough. He had to believe it.

“Oh,” Crowley muttered, like the air had been forced out of him. In an instant, he set his jaw and flounced back towards the car.

“When I’m up in the stars, I won’t even think about you!” he yelled. Aziraphale tipped his chin up as his eyes filled with tears.

“I’ve been there,” a man said, voice filled with sympathy. “You’re better off without him.”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale admitted in response. It was a realization that he’d come upon the instant he said it. Far after the man had continued walking, he brushed a tear from his eye with a sleeve.

“I’m not,” he repeated. His body worked on muscle memory as he made his way towards the bookshop. He could picture the correct sigil perfectly, and could only hope that he could repeat the same pattern in reality as it was in his imagination. The sky continued to darken as he rushed past humans, who seemed to be in just as much of a hurry as he was. His stomach churned as he thought that their hurrying could end horrifyingly soon. He kept his head down and eyes focused on his shoes, to make it more bearable. It would be impossible to see their faces, to watch their expressions. The world was about to end, and they had absolutely no idea. The angel only looked up when three of his own kind crowded against him at the mouth of an alleyway. Desperately, he tried to explain, to make them understand.

“Don’t think your boyfriend will get you special treatment in hell. He’s in trouble too.” Uriel said. Crowley had said it, but to hear it from angels was somehow more horrifying. He and Crowley were being cast out by their own kind. They were the same at last, yet in the most disfiguring way.

Uriel held him against the wall by his coat. Their eyes looked so flat, like cold stones. Not angry, or spiteful; an absolute apathy.

“We’re the good guys,” he said, but he didn’t believe it. The three shot up into the heavens, leaving him on the grey street. Humans bustled past, oblivious to what was to come. Despite their rushing about, he was absolutely alone.

///

There was nothing left to do. Metatron said what Gabriel said. If God thought differently, They refused to show otherwise.

Crowley. Their side, the only side he had left. The only side Crowley had left, too, after what Uriel had said. His stomach dropped to think of what demons do to those that betray them. He bolted for the telephone, dialing Crowley’s number with shaking hands.

“Hello? I know where the anti-” he stopped, Crowley was talking over him. “I know who you are you idiot, I telephoned you. I know where the antichrist-”

“Yeah, it’s not a good time, I’ve got an old friend here.”

An old friend? He was Crowley’s old friend.

He turned to find Sargent Shadwell approaching him, tools of exorcism in hand. The last thing he could handle at that very moment.

///

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. He kept coming in and out of focus, his voice sounded far away, but it was him.

“Afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things,” he said. “Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

“Nah, I-I changed my mind. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.”

Perhaps it was the “old friend” he’d mentioned on the phone before. Aziraphale didn’t let himself dwell on it. “I’m so sorry to hear it.” They didn’t have time to talk about any of it, if they wanted to have a chance.

“Listen, back in my bookshop there’s a book I need you to get.”

Crowley frowned, rested his head in his hand. “Your bookshop isn’t there anymore.”

“Oh?”

“I’m really sorry, it burned down.”

Aziraphale paused. Without a body, he thought he couldn’t feel emotions the same way he had, but it was still there, that awful inexplicable sorrow. Without organs or bones or nerves, he could still feel it.

“All of it?”

“Yeah. What was the book?”

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of-”

“Agnes Nutter! Yes, I took it!” He held the book up, voice filled with hope.

They would go together and stand side by side. They would go down as their own side, if they had to. He thought of saying it. But no, best not. They still had a chance, they still had to believe. Not in Lucifer, or even in God, but in themselves. In whatever they had made together in six thousand years.

///

In the end, it was Adam who saved them. Adam, who fought for their side. Adam’s father stood where Satan once was.

Just a boy, and he fixed everything. He was just as Crowley and Aziraphale were. Not ethereal or demonic, evil or pure. He was just a person, and everything that came with that. Sure, he and Crowley were immortal beings who were created near the beginning of time, but they were, when it came down to it, people.

Two people that had more time. Aziraphale stood in the glow of the sun peeking out from dispersing storm clouds, relief filling his soul.

He looked at Crowley. More time. However much it was, it would be enough.

///

As they sat on the old wooden bench waiting for the bus, the fear slowly trickled out of him. He could still feel that warmth that he knew was the boy’s doing. It was all around him, like a warm fog, in his head and his heart.

He could’ve said it, just then. Crowley’s facial expression was agonizingly unreadable as he passed him the bottle.

“Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale could hear it a trillion more times. “What if the Almighty planned it like this, all along. From the very beginning?”

Planned them ? It sounded ridiculous but was entirely and beautifully possible.

“Could have. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

It was waiting to spill out of his mouth, all of it. He almost wanted Crowley to say it instead, but he didn’t forget.

If you ever make up your mind, will you tell me?

The postman came to collect all of the objects. Once again, he gave his sword to a human. He’d spent milenia questioning the choice, but now he knew that it was the right one to make if it led him all the way here.

When the bus came into view, his heart lifted. Home. Everything could return to the way it was.

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.”

“It burned down, remember?”

His home, ash.

“You can stay at my place, if you’d like.”

“I don’t think my side would like that.”

“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

To hear it from Crowley had everything click into place. Our side.

“Have you still got your mobile phone?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley patted at his jeans pocket. “Yeah, right here. Why?”

Aziraphale snatched it from his grip. “We’ve got to go somewhere.” Though the device was largely unfamiliar to him, he managed to open up the keypad and type in a very familiar number.

“Where?” Crowley asked, but it was too late for the angel to give a response.

“Bonsoir?” a woman’s voice asked.

Aziraphale’s heart was pounding too hard for him to even attempt French. “Yes, hello. I’d like to make a reservation.

“For what day, monsieur?”

“Tonight.”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’re going to close soon and aren’t serving any new customers tonight. If you’d like I-”

“Well, it’s-” he paused. “It’s quite important. Let me just-” he took Crowley by the hand, interlocking their fingers together. He detested this method, but it would have to do. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced them through the call. His stomach lurched as though his stomach might be left on the bench while his body fell through the telephone connection. He only opened his eyes when he heard a woman yelp and jump out of her chair. They were crammed into a tiny office with a terrified restaurant manager. Just as she was about to let out a horrified scream, he reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

“No, no. It’s alright. You think this is just an everyday thing, don’t you?”

She looked confused for a second, then relaxed. “Oui, bien sûr.”

“Crowley, make them reserve a table for us,” he whispered loudly.

“I- yeah. Can you, uh, hold a table for two?” Crowley asked.

“Not a problem,” she answered with a smile.

“Thank you, really. This means more than you can imagine.” He realized he was still holding Crowley’s hand, and used it to pull him through the office door. It was quite awkward to force their way through a bustling kitchen and out into the first floor of the dining room.

“Café Procope,” Crowley said. “Why are we here?”

“Will you just wait a minute?” Aziraphale asked. He pulled him towards the front entrance and out onto the street. It was a warm Paris night, tourists and locals passed the restaurant cheerfully, hand in hand. They didn’t look so strange together, on such a street. Just like two human beings in love, in a city that was known for the feeling.

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to the mouth of the alleyway right next to the restaurant. He stood with his back against the wall.

There was so much to say. Six thousand years of explaining and apologizing. Six thousand overwhelming and indescribable years stood between him and kissing Crowley. Now that he let himself think about it, it took over every thought, leaving no room for any speech or proclamation at all.

He reached up with nervous hands and took Crowley’s glasses off. His eyes were shockingly yellow, nearly golden in the fading light.

He swallowed. “Crowley,” he began, not even sure of how he was going to end the sentence as he started it. “I realize now that I’d made an awful mistake nearly three hundred years ago. I should’ve-”

Before he could finish his sentence Crowley had pushed his lips against his and broken away just as quickly. Then again, once more, and then he stayed there. Aziraphale rushed to hold onto his narrow hips, to bring him closer. Every sense both human and angelic focused on Crowley as one of his hands moved from his jaw to his blonde hair. They only broke away when Crowley was gasping for air.

“I forgot-” he breathed, “that I need to do that-”

“Do what?” Aziraphale asked.

“Breathe.”

Both laughed, already breathless, still holding each other. Crowley pushed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, his hands gripping his forearms like he never intended to let go.

“Let me get this right,” he said, voice muffled by the angel’s collar. “So all it took, for you to make up your mind, was the world to nearly end.”

“Oh bugger off,” Aziraphale responded. It tickled when Crowley laughed against his skin. He picked his head up to look Aziraphale in the eyes.

“Angel, I would’ve waited six thousand more years if you’d needed me to.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, just for a moment. “Dinner, then?”

“Do you think they serve beef bourguignon here, these days? I remember that they had a great beef bourguignon.”

“Let's find out, shall we?”

They moved from the shadows near the alleyway into the warm glow of light. They walked towards the waiter, who most certainly had seen them kiss in the always only a few meters away.

“I believe we have a reservation?”

“A table for two? This way, messieurs.”

Crowley took his hand again as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

///

Aziraphale woke to the quiet sound of breathing, and movement underneath him. He suddenly realized that he’d been sleeping with his head on Crowley’s bare chest. After a millisecond of surprise and borderline panic, he relaxed again. He could hear the drumbeat of Crowley’s heart through his skin and took comfort in the rhythm.

“You’re awake?” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale tipped his head up to look into his serpentine eyes.

“Yes, I’m afraid. I quite like sleeping. It’d been a while, as well.”

“Isn’t it great?” Crowley said through a yawn. Aziraphale lifted his head when he noticed something different about the demon.

“Your hair,” he said. “You’ve changed it.”

Crowley smiled, all teeth. He proudly shook his head to make his curls bounce. “Do you like it?”

It was the same rich red hue, but shoulder length and magnificently curly. Aziraphale couldn’t resist reaching his hand up to card through it. The curls smoothed out as he ran his fingers through them before bouncing cheerily back into place when he pulled his hand away.

“Why, it’s gorgeous.” he continued to watch the curls straighten and curl back up again and again. He couldn’t take his hands out of it even if he wanted to. “Did you know that I adored your long hair?”

“Y’ told me yourself, last night. You had quite a bit to drink, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale blushed, which was an odd thing to do when you’re already naked and laying on top of another being. Physical bodies were mysterious in their ways.

“Perhaps I did, but if there’s ever been a time to celebrate…”

“This is it,” Crowley finished.

Despite hating that he had to, he detangled his fingers from Crowley’s hair and sat up.

“You remember where we are, don’t you?”

“Of course I do… it’s…” Aziraphale’s eyes quickly scanned the opulent room. “The Ritz Paris, isn’t it?”

“That inn we’d stayed at the last time had closed, thought this was the next best choice.”

Silky curtains let in soft light, illuminating beautiful ornate artworks hung on the cream-colored walls.

“This is…” he didn’t quite have the words.

“Nice?” Crowley tried. Aziraphale shot him a look of distaste.

“What, you can’t say I’m wrong!”

“No, but it’s more than nice.”

“Doesn’t mean it's not-not-nice.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened as he looked at Crowley’s lean shoulders, his jutting collarbone.

“To think, all of this happened because you asked me why God didn’t keep the tree of knowledge on the moon.”

“It’s a fair point, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose so.”

Even as he nestled his head into the crook of Crowley’s arm, he let out a sigh.

“They’ll come looking for us, soon, and it won’t take them long.”

“I know, 'been thinking about it. I might’ve figured out Agnes Nutter’s last prophecy.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, I’ll explain.”

A pause.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute.” He moved his hand up to rest in the angel’s blonde hair. Was he an angel anymore? He thought. Was Crowley still a demon? What were they if they’d been cast out from their own kind?

“We’re together,” he said aloud and closed his eyes.

Crowley entangled his other hand with Aziraphale’s. “Yeah. Together.”

“At last.”

“At last.”

[thewebcomicsreview]

Any advice for someone who might be writing scripts for a comic sooner than later? I've written regular stuff before, but I know it's a bit different when you have to account for layout and bubble sizes and whatnot.

This depends pretty heavily on whether you’re drawing it yourself or collaborating. If you have a dedicated artist, they probably know a lot more about layout and bubbles then you do, and you can just write the comic script as a screenplay and only micromanage in special cases. Most artists prefer this, too, since they can be more creative (Sabu doesn’t even want a page breakdown!). But everyone is different so talk it over with your artist and make sure to remember that they’re probably creative and brilliant as well.

If you’re drawing it yourself, the only art-relevant advice I can give you is to do the bubbles first so you don’t draw the whole page before realizing you didn’t leave space for them; I’m not an artist.

Anyway.

One thing that I don’t do nearly enough considering how well it works for me is write out the story in the simplest possible “Just the facts, ma’am” terms and then scripting based on that. It’s a good way to see if your are properly using but/therefore instead of “and then”s. For example, borrowing heavily from Household Slime Mold:

Mildew is a girl who wants to be a witch BUT she sucks at it THEREFORE she works as a delivery girl THEREFORE she has to make deliveries BUT she meets a wizard THEREFORE she wants to be his apprentice BUT he says he's not hiring THEREFORE she's has to hurry to make her delivery BUT she sees weird magic shit THEREFORE she goes after it BUT it turns out she's a monster BUT she beats it with her limited magic as the wizard arrives THEREFORE the wizard decides to train her after all.

Just writing this out this way helps streamline the narrative. If we were writing page-by-page, we might wait until Mildew saw the Wizard, and have her go "I want to be a Wizard, too!". But because we wrote it this way, we intuitively realized that "Mildew is a girl" is not a super-interesting start, and established her motivations right away. This is 12 story beats, so if we do one per page, we can expect a 12-page story. That'll be our starting budget. We might be able to do it in less, but it's our baseline. So, let's start

PAGE 1: Mildew is a girl who wants to be a witch

Well, this sounds like a job for an establishing shot. We can have Mildew in her room, which has some various witch shit like a cauldron in it. She's at her desk reading a spellbook.

Oh. Wow. That was easy. Sometimes you find that you can do stuff in less time than you budgeted. We can have the page just be this one splash panel of Mildew doing magic stuff in her room and the logo. Or, we could have more than one panel on the page. Let's go with making this a whole page, since it's the first one and you can put the logo and "By anon, drawn by artist" and shit on it. We can also establish the character a bit more here, too, and a full page to the image makes the reader more inclined to take in details rather than moving on to the next panel. So:

PAGE 1FULL PAGE SPLASHMILDEW is alone in her bedroom. It's neat and tidy, with multiple bookshelves full of books. She's sitting at her desk reading from a book while a cauldron bubbles. There's a poster on the wall of a wizard hanging from a clothesline with HANG IN THERE BABY on it, and a poster that looks suspiciously similar to the cover of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. The bed is made neatly, and a teddy bear is tucked in. It's fucking adorable. Midlew is wearing a witch hat, but otherwise normal modern clothing: a tank top and jeans.

On to story beat 2!

So, the easiest way to show that someone sucks at something is to have them fail at it. Let's think visually. For someone to fail at something in a comic format:

1. She has to try something 2. It has to not work

So that's two panels, and let's include a reaction to the failure as well. We also want to make clear that her problem is that she sucks at magic, not that magic doesn't exist.

PAGE 2

Panel 1Mildew points a magic wand at her desk Mildew: Appeario Birdyosa!

Panel 2 Mildew's wand explodes in her hand, sending embers everywhere. She is terrified by thisSFX: Boom!

Panel 3Mildew's hand is on fire. She's waving it around while crying, but in a funny cartoonish way, not that she's really hurt.Mildew: Aaaaahhhh!

Well...that’s the story beat established. But it only took three panels, and none of them need to be particularly big. We have some space left. Let’s get a head start on the next beat, and set up Mildew’s job! 

Panel 4Mildew, still crying cartoonishly, sticks her burnt and blackened hand in her mouth. On her desk, her cell phone vibrates. The phone is pink with a broomstick charm on it. 

SFX: Bzzt! Bzzt! Mildew: Mmmph....

Panel 5Without changing her position, Mildew looks at her phone. Mildew: Mmmph?Panel 6Close up on the phone. It’s showing a text message from “boss”, which has a profile picture of an angry man. The text reads “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago! Where are you?!”Mildew: Mmmph! 

And you kind of work from there. The next page can show the pizza place she works at, and you have time in your budget for the boss to chastise her for being late before giving her a delivery and telling her not to fuck it up this time. I think this kind of budgeting is a useful way to make sure you have your pages paced out properly, and it’s something I need to do more of (it’s also a great way to avoid writer’s block, since you have a structure to follow but not a restrictive plan you’re stuck in).

Hopefully that helps, anon! 

[worldcakecakecake]

Feliciano and the King of Hearts

Chosen by the gods as the Queen of Hearts from the moment of birth, we follow Feliciano’s story as he grows into royal life, learns to rule, go against age old customs, and his relationship with his husband to be, the King of Hearts.

Chapter 1 I  Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5 I Chapter 6I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9I Chapter 10 I Chapter 11I Chapter 12 I Chapter 13 I Chapter 14 I Chapter 15 I Chapter 16 I Chapter 17 I Chapter 18 I Chapter 19 I Chapter 20 I Chapter 21 I Chapter 22 I Chapter 23 I Chapter 24 I Chapter 25 I Chapter 26 I Chapter 27 I Chapter 28 I Chapter 29 I Chapter 30 I Chapter 31

I feel like it’s been a century since I last updated this. I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to update, but not only has university been choking me, personal family matters have been just as harsh. Updates for this one will continue to be slow, but as always, be patient and I hope that you at least enjoy this chapter.

                                                    Chapter 32

Everything, from the passage of their morning, to the afternoon, even to the night, remained exactly the same. Sand dunes, more sand, maybe an occasional rock, boulder or dried up tree. The only sound was that of the wind blowing through their ears, their voices not partaking in some friendly chatter that many times Feliciano tried to start between them. Ludwig always answered with silence, his gaze to the continuing front and to the compass in his hand, still north.

 Apparently speaking to Feliciano was considered one of the distractions that Tino had warned about. Feliciano had settled speaking only with Pookie, who answered with cute little roars or a cuddling to either his shoulder or cheek. Ludwig tried to make their stops quick, only to replenish their bodies on water, food, refresh with cooling spells and then be insisting on Feliciano to move. So many times Ludwig had to stop because Feliciano was looming too far behind, tempted to just carry him the rest of the way, but Feliciano always managed to reach, to continue, trying to stand strong against the fatigue that would arise so he could prove himself to Ludwig. He didn’t need his scolds or his commands, especially with this heavy heat that only made everything more stressful.

 When night had reached, the tiredness in them was one of needed sleep, and finally they could stop to make that rest. Ludwig was in charge of putting up a tent the Vikings had given them while Feliciano heated and prepared the food they were given. Not his ideal, but he shouldn’t complain when he was in the middle of a dessert and he didn’t have his cabinet of sauces and spices. They huddled together inside the tent, quite cool now, their focus on only the food Feliciano had served in their bowls. As soon as it was done, Feliciano settled outside with Ludwig, sitting, starring into the expanse of stars above them. Feliciano sketched it in his notebook, trying to remain in one page since it was the only book he had, needing to make it last the whole trip.

 Despite being a dessert, there was a sudden beauty to it that deserved three more pages of art.

 “Feliciano, go to sleep,” Ludwig insisted, not scolding, not mad, actually with concern, yet he didn’t stand, his stare still on the horizon, remaining strong in his watchful sitting.

 “If I’m going to, you should as well,” Feliciano said back, not stopping at all his sketching, now wishing he could add some color.

 “Someone has to keep watch,”

 “For what? There’s nothing for miles, the only ones who know about us here are the jokers who will pick us up, you’ll be losing sleep for nothing.” Feliciano could get just as scolding and Ludwig was rather startled from it, trying hard to hide a grin.

 “You never know what kind of bandits are out there. Don’t you remember the tales of Fawzi?”

 As if those silly childish stories could be proof enough, Feliciano couldn’t believe this was coming out from Ludwig’s mouth.  

 “Of course, it was my father who read them to us.”

 Vicenzo had an old book lying about the house from his own old family heritage of these very provinces which made him a Romani in other Kingdoms.

 “Do you think Fawzi would appear with his sword of golden triumph to save us if the bandits of Brazia appeared to take our Spheres of Validity?” Feliciano wondered childishly, easing in like a secret between them as they used to do.

 Ludwig actually found himself chuckling. “He’s the main hero of the Sahara Dessert, of course he will,”

 “But what about his weakness! The iron hatchet, wielded by the evil Tarik!”

 “Little does anybody know Tarik himself also has a weakness,” Ludwig admitted proudly, which got shock from Feliciano.

 “He does?”

 “I found something in the castle long ago.” He ushered for him to come closer, to tell him in whispers even if they were the only ones there. “Fire from a Queen.”

 Feliciano glowed. “Nothing to fear! I will protect us both then!” He proclaimed, standing with a proud and obnoxious pose, gaze to the air, foot on a rock and hands on his hips. “Brazia would think twice before messing with us!”

 “You blew up the fire place the last time you tried to light up something,”

 “My power is just the danger our enemies need to run,”

 “I hope you know where to aim,”

 “I will! I will be worthy!”

 “Sit down, you’re being embarrassing!”

 Feliciano laughed, wildly, alive and vibrant, another star from the many ones that hanged. Moments like these made Ludwig realize how beautiful Feliciano truly was, how much he still adored his smile, hoping he could say more to keep him this brimming. He let a small grin show, which had Feliciano hypnotized, silence between as they used it to admire.

 No, Ludwig knew he couldn’t, he instantly shut it, turned away, soured his face well into his grown male features.

 “Please…go to sleep,” he insisted once again, turned away, suddenly maddened.

 Feliciano’s mood instantly shut down along with his change, disappointed that they couldn’t continue in this game, in these laughs, in enjoyment for the night.

 Feliciano sigh disappointedly into his command, beginning his stand. “Only if you join me as well, I won’t let you miss your sleep.” Feliciano was not going to move until then, no matter how long Ludwig still sat on.

 He thought that Feliciano would give up on this, head inside and forget, but to his surprise he didn’t, heavy eyes on him to let him know that yes he was still there and still waiting. Ludwig sigh and had to deny to this watching, standing, opening the flap to their tent and granting access to Feliciano first. Feliciano smiled gladly, proud that his own insisting worked, coming inside after being quickly followed by Ludwig. Pookie rolled his eyes after witnessing this.

  Ludwig and Feliciano slept in their own side of the tent, the center for Pookie to rest and where they lay their things. From the cool air of the night, the new day brought new intense heat, one that only caused them to turn and fret in whatever was left of their sleep. They should probably wake up, continue on the route, but tiredness was heavy on them and sleeping a little bit longer seemed like it wouldn’t do them much damage.

 Pookie, having better sense than the two, suddenly awoke when he felt a distinct rumbling from afar. He looked around hoping he could better identify what it could be, but it was strange. He flew over to Feliciano hoping to wake him up, but the brunet shooed him away, hoping for more minutes of sleep. Pookie thought about biting him for a moment, but that was when the rumbling became clearer, the sounds potent, a coming presence that Ludwig and Feliciano, not even in their sleep, could ignore. They stood in fear, quickly dressing in what they could from what the Vikings gave them.

 It came closer and closer, until Ludwig and Feliciano could identify shouts, human presence, a large force like that of an army. Feliciano was trembling in fear, gulping, wishing he had more guts to go out there and see what this could be; luckily he had Ludwig for that.

 The vibrating stopped, shouts between whoever was out there being called in some Diamond dialect that they couldn’t understand. Feliciano was about ready to shout, but Ludwig quickly covered his mouth, holding him tight to him, an arm wrapped around his waist to keep him from moving, from causing more presence that would get these strangers to know. They remained like this, trying to guess what was happening outside with mere sounds, guessing bandits, soldiers, maybe even dark magicians or some branch of Khaos’s men. Silence reigned for so long that Feliciano wanted to hope that they had left without disturbance.

 “Your highness!” One shouted, in a familiar tongue to them.

 Yes the person addressed to them respectively, but her tone was harsh, commanding, and fearsome that it only scared Feliciano the more.

 “Stay here until I think it’s safe,” Ludwig warned him with a piercing glare, his hands tight on his arms hoping Feliciano would understand enough to stay put. He nodded and obeyed, and Ludwig, trusting that Feliciano would remain obedient to it, slowly began to head out of the tent.

 The sun’s harshness welcomed him with a smack, so strong that Ludwig squinted, hand above his eyes to try and notice the figures that were present, powerful and even mystical as they stood above the sand, with covered and readied gear that made them impenetrable to whatever this dessert could challenge them with. Their heads and faces were covered with masks, goggles and mantels, all a singular color to match well with the colors of the dust and wind, some golden intricate designs at the edge to remind them of their original culture, their original province and kingdom, despite who they were, seen in the symbol they all had sewn into the front of their shirts. They were Jokers.

 Ludwig finally noticed behind them three other ship-like structures, the cause of surely all the rumbling they had heard earlier, unlike any he had seen. Large wood panels that extended flat, ending with two canoe-like boats underneath for them to sail the sand quicker and easily, decorated walls on top to serve as rooms for navigation, for resting, for eating, windows framing from which others starred to the Heartian arising King in their own sitting. Geometrical designs spread around every opening, with calligraphy of their language, ceilings that extended magnificently to keep shade to those who wanted to remain outside the walls, their legs falling down playfully, distances safe from having sand attack them, but a height that they could easily be killed from if they fell off in movement. All these people starred and only stood towards Ludwig’s direction, nothing but the rushing of the wind between them, creating the division that they knew they had to come across.

 Ludwig took that passage, coming closer to them, and so one of their own approached, until they were before each other, unarmed and meeting in silence. As a show of trust, of reaching and of welcoming, the figure that seemed to be the leader removed her head gear, long waved dark brown hair flowing across her back, large brown eyes, dark skin with occasional golden dots, seeming granted by the magic of the sun. She looked exceptionally young, making Ludwig wonder if she was perhaps a mere teenager. Not the kind of person he expected as the leader of a distinct group of Jokers.

 “Dua Hakim,” she introduced, with a bow, one to which Ludwig bowed just as respectively to.

 “I assume you are the help contacted by Berwald,”

 “We are indeed, and we are all sure that you are the arising King of Hearts, although I fail to see his highness the arising Queen of Hearts.” She gazed around the area, only spotting the tent and their burned firewood.

 “Feliciano!” Ludwig simply called.

 After a moment of passing seconds, Feliciano hesitantly headed out, shaking, still intimidated by their amounts, their strange wears and boat contraptions. He felt rather awkward as he tried to put on the scarf, jacket and vest the Vikings had given him, messily and clearly showing his nervousness at the situation.

 “We will not give any kind of harm, we are here to offer our services and protection to the arising rulers of Hearts. Please, pick your things and come with us, we’ll take you across the province until we reach Tehran. Our next stop will be Cairo, where you will be able to send messengers to contact on what happened to both your kingdom and his majesty, King Francis.” Yet another joker Feliciano found himself easily falling into trust. After giving them more gazes, Feliciano could sense no malice from them, instead a welcoming aura that instantly he wanted to run to.

 Two men came and helped them with taking down their tent and bringing their things inside one of the boats. Most of them easily jumped onboard, something that Ludwig and Feliciano didn’t think they could do and so they were given ladders to climb. Once all made sure that they were safe in their hold, they began their drive once again. Feliciano didn’t hold himself from having a chance to see how these boats exactly worked, so he ran over to one of the gazing balconies, where he noticed a man posted at each corner of the square, controlling with magic the sand around, seeming to transform them into waves that helped the boats move on as freely as it was in the sea. A beauty, movements, the calm of the crew like they were in any of their homes, it was all something never before seen to Feliciano and he quickly went to get his sketchbook to draw. Two pages he gave: To how these men sailed the dunes and to the art they gave to their walls and floor, having Feliciano in full wonderment for the rest of the trip. Ludwig remained inside, a rather dark corner away from the heat and the sand that now flied over the structure more wildly. He expected calm, but he was sharing that very room with three other covered figures who only starred on to him, unblinking and unmoving, making Ludwig regret his stay there for the moment. He gazed to Feliciano practically hanging from the balcony, a groan escaping, he should probably stand up and get him to sit still and behave, anything to distract himself from the heavy stares all these men or probably women gave him.

  As the Vikings had told them, their arrival to Cairo was hours distance, just in time for the sun to begin its descend into a golden sunset in the horizon. Towers stood high before the sun, homes and buildings coming more into their vicinity, populating the dessert once again in presence, in liveliness, in sound. The boat hadn’t even stopped yet but Feliciano was eager to see, to walk these new streets, new buildings, markets, in designs never before seen to him, relying mostly on pattern and floral designs, simplistic, but extending beautifully and uniquely. Ludwig had to come up and hold Feliciano down before he would actually fall off, especially after he saw a gathering to witness some sort of jewel lightning in one of the structures.

 The boat moved on ahead past whatever distraction, through richness, through important landmarks. The pyramids stood far in the distance, a golden marble shinning enough to see well even in their many miles apart. They were just like in the stories, encyclopedias or even reports their grandfathers read them. Rare, enchanting, a powerful presence of Aces as if the Diamond Ace was standing right above them, watching to the arising King and Queens of his sister Ace’s kingdom. It was a view Ludwig and Feliciano kept their stares on, beautiful, majestic, a reminder of power that made them want to bow down to. It was still in their vision even when they stopped, when the crew members began to shout and began their descend, jumping down as easily as they came up, but once again Ludwig and Feliciano had to use ladders placed for them. They stopped before a building that stood apart from the main of the city, a single bricked road before them that connected it back to its center. There was presence of the dessert around them, for the building seemed close to being engulfed by a tall sand dune. Still it was busy, alight, topped with even a tower with lighting gems that reminded everyone of the city and passing by that it was used, that people lived there, but for what, both Ludwig and Feliciano wanted to find out.

 They stood before it, simply starring for the longest time, quite awkwardly to all the rest of the inhabitants.

 “Um…your highness?” Dua came close, awakening, reminding. “Are you both all right? I’m sorry our water and food wasn’t well enough and not what you’re used to, but if anything you can eat something here that would be better,”

 “Oh no, it’s not that! Your food was fine enough-”

 “We were just wondering what this building could be.” Ludwig made the question, still gazing on, hoping that he could define it himself before Dua explained.

 “You could say it’s our base, but it also works as a messaging station, probably the quickest working one in all of the Diamond Kingdom. The owner is secretly a Joker,” she admitted with quite the ease.

 “He is?” Feliciano wondered. It was pretty hard for a Joker to get a prestige title, if even a small one as that. Besides, both Ludwig and him just witnessed an entire gang of them move freely through the dessert and even the city without a gaze of questioning from the citizens.

 “Everyone here thinks our symbols are just ones of the company, we just have a way of explaining things to not attract much attention and it surprisingly works,” she smirked and winked, clearly proud about it. “Now come on in, there’s dinner waiting and you guys need to start working on your letters.”

  They were given a room, a pretty high one that gave a splendorous view of the city, the pyramids still at its distance. Feliciano couldn’t find it in him to rest yet, his sketchbook opened trying to capture this. If he grew distracted, counting the lights, the ones of both the ground and sky, he would let a hand fall to caress Pookie on his lap, resting already for the night. Ludwig wrote the letters by himself as he insisted to Feliciano, detailing well what had happened, their location, who they met and their current plan to make it through the Arabic provinces. He requested guidance and protection from Besancon to Paris as soon as they arrived, although he made clear that he didn’t know an exact date, to just be alert. In the one to his grandparents, he made sure to write they were okay despite the circumstances and that the staff with the Spheres of Validity was unharmed and in their hold, although they did lose the rest of their trunks.

 “Am I really going to start scolding you every night about going to sleep,” Ludwig said just as he gave each letter his last signature.

 “Just a couple of more minutes, this looks absolutely stunning!” Feliciano couldn’t depart from his window and not even Ludwig’s words were enough of a pull away from it.

 Ludwig sealed both the letters, directions written on them. He also wrote a small little note meant to be sent to Berwald and his crew, letting them know they found their help and were well in their hold and protection.

 They were ready to be given into the messaging system.

 “Well, if you’re going to stay up, you could at least accompany me to hand in these messages, I still don’t know who were supposed to give them to,”

 “Didn’t Dua give us a number when we were having dinner?” Feliciano stood, quite curious and eager.

 “I was just thinking about it, so let’s head out and see right now.”

 Each picked from a robe they were given and headed up the halls of the building, much of it deserted since many where already in their sleep or settling down into it. Ludwig and Feliciano were fearful that the messenger they were supposed to give this to were already off and gone, keeping the letters for the day later and only growing the anxiety their families and even Francis felt at home for not knowing anything. They climbed and climbed until they reached the very heights of the building, the yellow, the golden colors, the refinery growing much more, to shinning tiles with surely jewels and expensive crystals mended in the design. The number was above the largest door in the building, doubled, imperial to surely signify the power this person held in this domain. Feliciano stood behind Ludwig in defense and Ludwig took the decisive knock. They received a gentle voice, quiet and almost inaudible, Ludwig and Feliciano thinking that perhaps it was just the wind or muttering from the floors below. They heard as the doors were unlocked and so they took their passage, into a circled spacious room, full of letters and maps quite orderly placed in their spots. A rather small and young man was working with one of those many piles, gazing to the directions, the names, the places, once decided, sending some to other piles or throwing them over some distinctive tubes that were spread across the room, sucking them elsewhere. He looked up, not expecting these kinds of visitors. He finished his work with one letter, straightening the robes he wore along with some golden bracelets on his wrist.

 “Your highness,” he bowed to them, “Gupta Muhammad Hassan, leader of this base, I was the one Berwald contacted to be able to address your welcome. Has everything been going well? Let me know if there’s anything you need me to work on,”

 “Your people have done excellently, the city is beautiful and we wish we could thank you more,” Feliciano quickly complimented, which earned a smile from the small man.

 “But we do ask that you send these letters immediately, with destination to the castle in Berlin and another to the one in Paris.” Ludwig handed them in, Gupta knowing instantly what he was supposed to do with them. With a slide of his hand, a special golden symbol appeared on top, official of the Diamond Kingdom, as well as a small one with his secret official tittle, and that was the symbol of their gang of Jokers.

 “The latest this could arrive would be in three days, but I’ll try to make sure it will in two, I know the urgency.” With them both he moved forward to let it be sucked in by one of the tubes again, the duty settled to Ludwig. He was about to pull Feliciano to leave for the night, but his arising Queen had gone to inspect one of those many tubes, gazing down to them, wondering where exactly it was that the letters were taken.

 “What are these?” His curiosity couldn’t help but ask, noticing them some buttons at the edge of the tubes, tempting for him to press.

 “No, no, no, please your highness, don’t press that!” He stopped him before an accident could occur; Feliciano’s face was too close to it. “Extremely delicate and dangerous, any wrong doing could destroy it and it’s quiet hard for us to get funding to be able to fix them,” Gupta explained.

 “No funding?” Feliciano continued to question.

 “We do get some, but it’s not enough. The Diamond crown is rather reluctant to help other provinces other than France. Any of my pleads could take months to answer, and usually with negatives and refusals. Everything we hold we must make it last and fix what we can by ourselves. These tubes are rather rare, they spread well across the province, using magic to deliver letters by city to city. As we’re speaking, your letters have probably already arrived to Sanaa, where messengers are already preparing on their journeys to bring them to their respective place.” Gupta was rather proud about it, pointing easily to the contraptions that only made them shine the more in Feliciano’s eyes.

 “Why would the kingdom not give them funding? If I knew one of my provinces held something like this, I would make it available in the entire kingdom!” Feliciano made sure.

 “Well sadly your ruling does not cover our domain, but thank you, I take your words to heart.” He smiled and Feliciano shared one with him. “Was your visit only for the letters?”

 “Yes, we should we be leaving for now, thank you once again for all your services,” Ludwig interrupted before Feliciano went on blabbering something that would leave them there for the entire night.

 “Very well then, you’re scheduled to leave early in the morning to Jerusalem, so I suggest you take your rest, the journey that awaits you through the dessert is still a long one.”

 They obeyed and bowed in approval, despite how much Feliciano wanted to stay, pouting, giving last missing gazes to all the letters and contraptions around him, wishing he had another day to really take a look at everything. He could make sketches, talk to Gupta, bring this to the Hearts Kingdom, to the castle in Paris, to be used, to be known.

  The jokers were kind enough to give them a whole new trunk of things they could use. They were filled with new clothes, of yellows that were rather odd for them to wear, but while their stay in Diamond, it was only appropriate. At least they were varied in different styles of the Diamond provinces. The same crew offered to take their things and place them once again upon the sand boats they had gotten to know the day before. All three boats were joining along, for protection, for supplies, or simply eager for the adventure of this route to Tehran. Both Ludwig and Feliciano were fed with their breakfast, dressed in their protective gear from both the sun and heat, beautifully, styled, standing proudly as arising rulers between jokers. They awaited outside the building as the crew prepared the ships, both looking for a hint of Dua since she was the only one they really knew, but all the people there were covered, making it hard for them to tell. It was beginning to feel awkward standing there while others worked on for them, they started to think it was unfair and were about to suggest a way they could help.

 “Lovely day, isn’t it?” A familiar voice joined them, looking proudly to the intense heat, dessert continuing onward, the city in the proximity. Sure, it had its own unique sense of beauty, but to Ludwig and Feliciano, it wasn’t the ideal, so the comment came out as odd.

 “Um…” Feliciano tried to find an answer, turning to the figure and recognizing it as Gupta’s, prepared with wear similar to the rest of the Jokers, a bag in his hold.

 “Are you going somewhere?” Feliciano asked curiously.

 “I’m joining along,” he proclaimed.

 “You’re coming with us?” Feliciano seemed too excited for a person he had only met briefly the night before.

 “I need to make sure you are both rightfully taken care of, your powerful rulers of another kingdom, with a lot on your shoulders to get these Validity Spheres and place them on the field. If anything happens, I rather it happen before my eyes so I can better deal with it,”

 “Gupta, you doubt us too much.” There was Dua’s familiar voice, joining alongside them.

 “It is not doubt, just extra precautions,” Gupta wanted to make her understand, but she still rolled her eyes, beginning to move forward to the boats, her own departure ready.

 The rest knew it was time for them to board as well. Ladders were presented to them, and Gupta took them with finest, a prideful walk that made some groan, others chuckle. Gupta didn’t seem to mind it, he actually gave a small smile, ushering Ludwig and Feliciano to join him in his area of sitting, both taking a comfortable couch for the rest of the journey. The ladders were up, no one else came out calling for a joining, the sand rowers began to use their magic to bring movements to all the ships once again and they were off into the horizons.

 As the last trip, it was slow, silent, with the same stares, no sound but of the ships hitting against the sand and occasional rocks they found. Gupta kept his full attention on a scroll he had brought, Ludwig deciding on reading the book his grandfather had given him, for now settling on self exercises to keep his magic well flooded within himself. Feliciano…was bored out of his mind. Drawing was not enough, he needed laughs, he needed movements, conversations, not this silence while being surrounded by people in such a close space.

 There was a particular man sitting upon a wall, gazing out the window, hands tracing the design surrounding it rather dearly. He seemed just as bored as Feliciano, and so the arising Queen chose him as a target, standing, coming close, Pookie comfortably on his shoulder not minding at all his decision to befriend. Ludwig glared and kept a heavy eye on him, making sure that he wouldn’t do anything embarrassing or even insulting to these people.

 “Ciao, could you perhaps help me with something?” Feliciano asked him, catching his immediate attention, although rather surprised that the arising Queen of Hearts would approach him. He was a simpleton, a joker even.

 Feliciano took a sitting beside him, showing the sketch he had recently made of the interiors of the boat, trying to copy it to perfection.

 “Did I do this well?” He pointed to the very designs around the different windows, hoping it was enough to compare to the wonder that was originally on the boat.

 The man moved aside his goggles, his mantles for Feliciano to meet with golden brown eyes, tousled blackened hair, dark enchanting features that made him shine the more beautifully. Feliciano clearly blushed and Ludwig tried hard not to rip apart the book in his hand from the tight hold he had suddenly begun to give it.

 “It’s wonderful, but-” He moved closer, taking one side of the sketchbook, letting Feliciano maintain the other one. “I would suggest you give more curves here and add a little bit more detail to this top,” He pointed and Feliciano quickly made the changes, together working and giving each other the company they needed to make the beginning of this new trip interesting.  

[markgottliebliteraryagent]

Graphic Novel Creators Kenny Porter & Zach Wilcox

Kenny Porter is a professional writer living in West Michigan. He's most known for content development, writing comics, copy, blogs, and fiction. He graduated from Grand Valley State University with a BA in Writing. The writing program at GVSU allowed him to create his own curriculum, which he used to focus on fiction, writing for the web, genre studies, and manuscript development. He started his career in writing during high school and has since gone on to publish short stories, write articles for online magazines, and has won the first Top Cow Talent Hunt for Writing.

Zach Wilcox is a cartoonist based in Philadelphia. He holds an MFA in Sequential Art from the Savannah College of Art and Design and a BS in Digital media from Drexel University. The goal of his work is to encourage young readers to get excited about art as a narrative tool and inspire future creators. When he isn't working on comics he enjoys time with his dog Finn and his three nephews.

Porter and Wilcox are the co-creators of the forthcoming graphic novel from Scholastic/Graphix, The Fearless Rider, in which a young girl and her pet ferret run away from home on their tricked-out bicycle on the first day of school to find her best friend who moved away and recapture her life before everything went wrong—pitched as a slice-of-life story with tone and setting of a Miyazaki film.

What do you enjoy about the comic book arts medium and what do you feel the graphic novel form of storytelling affords authors and creators?

KP: Comics have always been a part of my life and what I love most about them is that there are no limits to the kinds of visual stories you can tell. The great thing about original graphic novels is it allows you to break away from the single issue format of monthly comics to develop a pace that’s unique to the story. That’s something that Zach Wilcox and I are enjoying a lot with The Fearless Rider.

ZW: Graphic novels afford the reader a sense of control that you don’t get anywhere else. Being able to dwell on a panel or moment, or absorb a whole page at once, is such a unique and intimate experience. When you’re making something like that it’s sort of fun to imagine how the reader is going to interact with the work.

“I wanted to bring that same love of anime, manga, and live-action shows to Kara’s character.”

Have any anime/manga or comic book creators influenced The Fearless Rider, your forthcoming graphic novel? For instance, Hayao Miyazaki and Osamu Tezuka seem to come to mind.

KP: Miyazaki is definitely a huge influence on the tone of The Fearless Rider. I initially pitched it to Zach that way, as if it were a lost Miyazaki film about a girl who sets out to find her missing best friend. There’s also some influence of my love of Super Sentai and tokusatsu shows with the fake magical girl character Shinpi Rider that the main character adores. I grew up in a generation where Toonami was broadcasting these amazing shows from Japan that we had never heard of before, and I wanted to bring that same love of anime, manga, and live-action shows to Kara’s character.

ZW: Absolutely. I’m always finding new inspiration from other artists and people like Miyazaki really ignited my love for visual storytelling when I was young. The expressive nature of his work is something I’ll always be chasing.

“He lets the comic breathe and trusts the reader to immerse themselves in the story.”

The art of The Fearless Rider seems to be a mixture of manga influences, such as the gekiga or "dramatic" style of storytelling, often seen in the work of Tezuka. Your graphic novel also has many western influences, with inklings of ligne claire, the Belgium style of bold line comic illustration, often seen in Hergé's The Adventures of Tintin. How did you arrive at this style of art? Is it simply in vogue right now in comics, or has comic book illustration and storytelling been further globalized?

KP: From the start I wanted The Fearless Rider to have this kind of feel. I read a lot of manga and Franco-Belgian comics, so I’m always using those as an influence in terms of pacing and style. Also, Zach’s artwork completely fit the tone I was going for. I didn’t even consider anyone else for the project and called him right away with the idea.

ZW: The way Kenny addresses pacing and dialogue is something I really love. He lets the comic breathe and trusts the reader to immerse themselves in the story. I don’t know exactly how the style for the comic came about but I’m sure a lot of it has to do with his narrative structure and the world we’re building. Also, I love older comics like Tintin and Little Nemo!

Why a young girl's pet ferret as a character in The Fearless Rider...why not something more common, such as a cat or dog? Is there something more interesting or special there?

KP: I think it honestly has to do with my love of the movie The Beastmaster as a kid. He had a pair of ferrets named Kodo and Podo. I watched a lot of genre movies in elementary school and middle school, so I always thought that ferrets would make great adventure companions.

ZW: I always wanted a ferret when I was younger but that was a no-go from my parents, because apparently they have a bit of a smell. They are just so cute, who could care! I think it also fits Kara as she isn’t the type to have a basic pet. She’s unique in a lot of ways.

“...I’m still learning the ins and outs of the publishing world. It’s been a really exciting journey so far!”

How did you find your current literary agency and go on to get published with Graphix/Scholastic? What was the submissions process like?

KP: I found my current literary agency, Trident Media Group, after doing a Kickstarter for my original graphic novel Barnstormers!, which I created with artist Renny Castellani. I was contacted by you, Mark Gottlieb, during the Kickstarter and started developing a new project for the book market. From there, it was putting together the pitch with Zach and sending it out into the world. Graphix/Scholastic contacted us about the initial pitch and we fine-tuned the project from there.

ZW: I sort of let Kenny take the lead on this. The Fearless Rider will be my first published book, so I’m still learning the ins and outs of the publishing world. It’s been a really exciting journey so far!

Writing a graphic novel is so different from writing a miniseries or ongoing monthly title.

What do you feel the comic book publishing experience has been like with a larger independent book publisher like Scholastic, versus a direct-to-market comic book publisher such as IDW? Is the direct market holding comic books back?

KP: I’d say the pace is what’s mostly different. Writing a graphic novel is so different from writing a miniseries or ongoing monthly title. I enjoy both the traditional comic book publishing side and the larger independent book publishing side. Each has their own challenges and format that let me experiment with comic book storytelling.

ZW: I’m excited to work on a project I'm so passionate about for a long period of time. The struggle of smaller projects is tough because you spend so much time looking for work that you may not get as much done. I can’t wait to really sink my teeth into something more substantial.

“...I always let whoever I’m working with have their input in the storytelling process. It’s collaboration at every stage of the game.”

It is hard enough writing a story. Does also illustrating a story present its own set of challenges, or do you find that it is liberating in some way?

KP: Writing visually is a whole different skill set, so I always try to think like an artist (as best as I can) and I always let whoever I’m working with have their input in the storytelling process. It’s collaboration at every stage of the game. I’m just lucky to be working with someone as talented as Zach.

ZW: Kenny has been a blast to work with. He has a clear vision here and helping him to craft it is easier because of that. It’s always hard to bring a world to life but the back and forth of working with a writer takes a huge weight off my shoulders.

You get to be any comic book/manga/anime/video game character from whichever world of your choosing. Who do you choose to be and why?

KP: I would almost always choose to be a Green Lantern. Having that power ring and being able to fly through space and create insane constructs would just be too much fun. I recently wrote a Guy Gardner story for DC Comics and it was a dream come true to be able to play in that pocket of the DC Universe.

ZW: I’d say Link from The Legend of Zelda. The design of those game worlds are so immersive and surreal. Plus that outfit is tops!

“If you do great work and put yourself into your stories then people will resonate with that and will want to share them as well.”

Might you be able to share any advice with those still hoping to get their graphic novels published?

KP: I would say find a collaborator that you really gel with creatively, put your heart and soul into the book, and worry about making a great comic before worrying about publishing. If you do great work and put yourself into your stories then people will resonate with that and will want to share them as well.

ZW: Just create. As much as you can, as often as you can. Keep putting your creative energy out there and don’t be afraid to make connections. Rejection is a huge part of life so don’t let that stop you! Also, try to keep your stories small at first. Short sixteen page chunks are a great way to work and create a varied portfolio.

What can we expect next from the world of The Fearless Rider?

KP: I definitely have ideas for follow-ups and spin-off stories, even if they don’t directly connect with the main thread. The road is always wide open for more adventures.

ZW: I really want a one-shot of the Shinpi Rider character from the book. A fictional super sentai warrior with over the top action and drama! A guy can dream, can’t he?

[supocoho-blog]

Fantasy, Sci-fi Art, and Sketches

Submissions that should be HUNG has to be mounted, matted, or framed. I'd really like to grow the list.

The first thing you have to do before you get started making any wings is to determine what they're likely to look like. This is the center of the matter. Well, that's lucky for her, but it isn't very beneficial for the remainder of us. With typical teenage audacity, I made a decision to figure out what I had been going to do for the remainder of my life. Three beats again and again.

Prints and originals out there. Prints offered for sale. Postcards, prints and other things for sale. Prints and unique artwork for sale.

Passengers have the past as dead moment. The rest of The balance might have bought 1919 Belgium and France and everything within them. But I always felt he wasn't quite perfect. Additionally, it's just enjoyable to read.

My father proved to be a stoic man. When anyone can self-publish, plenty of great poetry will require much more work on the poet's part to receive noticed. If you always have a specific dream prior to an issue, this is an evidence you're operating below a curse. All this time my hero was hiding behind the incorrect name.

What Fantasy, Sci-fi Art, and Sketches Is - and What it Is Not

Use a clear, standard font which is not excessively large or little. These cards can be made in any sort of art medium. Nevertheless, they were tools for me to learn to develop a full scene, color palette, and mood in a very brief quantity of time. Such details might not be recognizable on starship art but they're suggestive of similar structure we're familiarized with.

If you would like to paint a believable sci-fi landscape it is remarkably vital that you have a great idea of the planet you are making. Neither one of them is able to stop the pendulum from changing them to a single destination to another. Artists will normally have to reserve panel space ahead of time, and there could be limitations on how much space each artist can reserve. There was an appreciable variety of clothing, something he referred to as a mobile phone, and assorted foodstuffs.

I believe that you are able to if you've got the discipline, love and motivation to achieve that. Students are going to want to talk about the connections that the girls make in the start of the book. Mood is at least as critical as composition in regards to telling a story.

While the job is predicted to get some sort of fantastical theme, at many shows these guidelines are quite loose and can incorporate work associated with wildlife, cute critters, beadwork and a lot more. The publishing business is not noted for its patience. Over the past ten years the site has developed into one of the premier CG art websites on the planet, offering various training products, an inspirational gallery, a totally free texture library and hundreds of totally free tutorials on a range of subjects. Read on to find out more about this possible market for your work.

There isn't any limit on the variety of entries. I basically try to earn a card each day! We need to be able to feel that what's presented to us could happen, not it will happen. It's possible to go straight to my instagram to observe each of the recent cards I have made.

Fantasy, Sci-fi Art, and Sketches Explained

I don't actually do a great deal of fan art, so if you're trying to find a fan artist I might not possibly be the artist for you. So I began painting inside them. No matter the situation, even Bettie can make bat-like wings seem adorable. You will also learn to incorporate many details to make each beast original. Digitally-produced artwork is growing extremely popular today, whether completely computer-based or in the shape of manipulated digital photography.

Saving money for a collector isn't really what this short article is all about. Edition is going to be limited to 100 or 250, based on the last backer count. Future New means on the leading edge of creative practice. The issue with that theory is that HVE and Criterion are a part of the identical firm.

The anthology also has a brief comic and item of prose fiction by McKean. Collaborative works aren't allowed in any writing categories. Poems ought to be titled individually.

The net is the very best approach to learn about convention art shows to which you may desire to file your work. It has also result in a third web theory. While thousands of years of human storytelling has made it pretty difficult not to fall into no less than a few cliches in any story, you can prevent the huge ones. For some, it is a nonissue, and for others, it is a big portion of their identities.

[peeringintoprague]

couchsurfing in berlin, germany: train grandmothers & bambi

Walking down the aisles of the train to Berlin, I am grateful to find relatively empty compartments - I still have nightmarish flashbacks to the train ride from Vienna to Prague which was so crowded that I had to stand in the aisle all the way to Brno before finding a seat.

   I choose the compartment in which a millennial sleeps near the window and a slender elderly woman shares a welcoming grin. I greet the smiling woman; the sleeping passenger remains speechless until she exits three platforms later.

  As we wind through the Czech Republic, the older woman - 'Trixie' - and I converse between comfortable silences staring at window scenery. She is returning to Berlin after visiting her son in Vienna, but he is much older than me and has a family of his own now. She grew up near the Swiss-German border and used to love skiing but is afraid to soar down slopes now. I share that it is my first time traveling alone and that I will be couch surfing in East Berlin; she coos that she once partook in adventures like mine when she was a young girl.

When the train café refuses my Czech korunas in lieu of the euro, Trixie insists on buying me a coffee herself. When I sniffle, she gifts me her pack of tissues, proudly proclaiming her loyalty to the same tissue brand since childhood. She perfects my pronunciation of 'please' and 'thank you' in German and giggles when I show her pictures of my family and pets; she traded her dogs for unscratched furniture and hardwood floors years ago. 

  I exclaim when I see herds of deer outside my window in the passing fields; she leaps to her feet and we sit together, noses pressed to the window, waiting for the deer to appear once more.

   On several occasions a man passes by our cabin and eyes me forcefully. Trixie notices my uncomfortable expression and subsequently throws her belongings on the empty seats of our compartment, propping her feet on the opposite chair so as to discourage him from entering our carriage. “Just let him try,” she dares. 

  As the train churns into the Berlin central station, I grow sad to leave my new friend. The passenger who had entered our compartment at the last platform must have been confused when Trixie and I suddenly fling our arms around each other and express our gratefulness for having found one another during these four hours. After exiting the train, Trixie links arms with me and we stride down the platform so as to avoid the strange man who had eyed our carriage earlier. We part ways at the escalator.

   With Trixie gone, I am suddenly alone in the massive central train station of Berlin. I stumble between several floors trying to locate an ATM and navigate public transportation. I head straight to the Neuse Museum of Egyptian art to meet up with my friend, Anna. We marvel at hieroglyphs and the elegant bust of Nefertiti; she doesn't look a day over thirty.

  The audio guide leads me to a tomb in which its owner had insisted upon the dire importance of etching all of his accolades, honor societies, and community involvement as symbols on his casket. For a moment, the decorated tomb reminds me of the gravestone that my grandmother in Arkansas has already designed and placed in our family plot. Her gravestone boasts more accolades than most people dare to garner in a lifetime, and the medals shine proudly for all who pass our meager family plot. She looms over the Delta like a Pharaoh.

  Despite the afternoon's company of mummies, I am ravenous after the day’s journey.  Dinner is at a local restaurant under the U-Bahn with a friend from Memphis, Paul, who now lives in Berlin.  We catch up on current affairs and commiserate over missing Memphis. I enjoy the best currywurst of my life; the plate of sausage and fries is bigger than the serving platter we use for turkey on Thanksgiving.

   That night I meet my couch surfing host, Lola. She is an entrepreneur from Beijing who started a vegan restaurant with her business partner but is now a Masters student living in Berlin. Her dorm towers next to the East Side Gallery and Berghain, the most notorious club in Berlin. Lola is generous, informative and adores Berlin. She tells me about the most amazing PSA I’ve ever heard of - the  marketing campaign by the Berliner Verkehrsbetriebe ( BVG ) transportation system proclaims ‘Because we love you’ with a characteristic yellow heart on their tram cars and buses. BVG released this video in 2016, in which Kazim Akboga walks through the trams and basically says ‘You can be as weird as you want on public transportation. We don’t care - we love you just as you are.’ Featuring a guy on a horse, a woman cutting onions, and a marching band, the video went viral, and people even buy merchandise in the same colorful U-Bahn seat patterns. 

For those of you who have considered couch surfing but hesitate for fear of staying with a stranger, I highly recommend the experience; of course, do your research on who you would stay with (www.couchsurfing.com), read recommendations from other couch surfers, and pour over the person’s bio to learn more about them. I enjoy couch surfing because it is an exchange based on hospitality and meaningful interactions, not monetary gain.  

Before I fall asleep on the mattress on her floor, Lola preps me for the day to come with tips and vegan donut shop recommendations. 

   In the morning, I walk to the East Side Gallery. Differing from what I had imagined, the morning-sunbathed wall stretches high over my head and serves as a canvas for a rotating gallery of art. It is difficult to imagine the division which this wall cut between the city, but the evidence persists in the communist-style architecture of the East side, which resembles parts of Prague. While this area is highly touristic, the buses have yet to arrive, and I have the panels of art and history to myself.

Afterwards, I visit the Jewish Museum of Berlin and lose myself in the Holocaust exhibit. The museum curator designed the exhibit in such a way that visitors engage in a sensory experience through the integration of lights, mirror, reflection, and void. What the exhibit lacks in the word-saturated facts of other Holocaust museums it makes up with exacting powerful reactions through its aesthetics. As this is a solo trip, I allow myself the time to reflect on the exhibits with which I connect and identify. I carve out the time to reflect, which is often missing from group trips or even excursions with friends. I need this. My experiences are similar in the Berlin Holocaust Memorial.

  Leaving the museum, I notice that Checkpoint Charlie is within walking distance. Checkpoint C was the best-known Berlin Wall crossing point between East Berlin and West Berlin during the Cold War; signs urging tourists to visit various nearby galleries and museums dominate the little while building standing in the center of the street. Viewing the structure from afar suffices for me.

  I leave CheckPoint Charlie and head towards the Brandenburg Gate - I accidentally exit the tram one stop too early and find myself in a large open field in front of the Reichstag. Clumps of people sit in the grass painting, drinking, and playing board games.  I bundle my purse in my sweater for a pillow and take my afternoon nap, eventually finding my way to the monument. 

I meet Lola at a coffee shop called 'The Five Elephants,' where the barista chastises us when we inquire about almond milk for our lattes. Did you know that every almond requires three gallons of water? No? Shame on you.

  After shopping for clothes, Lola and I visit 'Burgermeister' for dinner - a popular burger joint situated under the U-Bahn in a renovated public bathroom. Sounds grimy, but Lola proudly proclaims that this is about as Berlin as you can get.

  Later that night, we go to a house party of one of her friends from school.  I meet several different couples who share stories of traveling the globe; Margot, from Paris, and Tim from Germany teach me hitchhiking 101. 

"All you need to do is stand in the middle of the city center or near the highway with a sign that says your destination. Then climb into whatever car, truck, or wagon that comes your way. Simple as that."

Okay, Tim.

  Max from Frankfurt talks passionately about his girlfriend's artistic restoration work, drawing attention to the moral and philosophical debates involved in the process of teetering between restoring the bygone beauty of a piece or destroying it entirely.

  Lola wakes up at the crack of dawn to her alarm which rings with the song 'Guten Morgan.' Look it up - it's an overly cheerful tune which sticks in your head like gum gloms to hair. She dances around the room to the jingle, exclaiming that we need to get moving to enjoy my last hours in Berlin.

   After showering, I re-enter her room to find her applying red lipstick as rockabilly music plays on her laptop. I slip into the one dress I packed and we walk to the bus station to go to the farmer's market, where I buy rosemary cheese, fresh bread, and gifts for my sister. Breakfast consists of coffee and Nutella spilling from a crepe.

    Our final meal is at a Turkish restaurant; Turks comprise the largest minority group in the city, and Berlin is the second largest community of Turks outside of Turkey.  I will be hard pressed to find a kebab of equal quality and delectability in my lifetime. Afterwards, we part ways and I promise to host Lola if she ever treks to Memphis. 

  As I stroll down the aisles of the train back to Prague, a part of me hopes to find Trixie sitting in one of the train compartments. She isn’t there, of course - most compartments are utterly empty. I find an empty seat and press my nose against the window, waiting to find deer peering from the German forests.

[zaneedith]

Dubai Frame and Zabeel Park

Not being satisfied with being the home to the tallest skyscraper, the largest shopping centre, and the longest driverless metro system in the world, Dubai has finished its newest man-made wonder of the world. The ‘Dubai frame’ has opened its doors to the public at the beginning of this new year, with the official press release stating it was a “New Year gift to the people.” It has perked the interest of many people, especially those who have never visited the wonderful capital of the United Arab Emirate. It is widely expected to become a global attraction spot for tourists, estimating that it alone will be attracting a further 2 million tourists annually, right in the centre of one of the longest parks in Dubai.

But how did we get here, and how did such an odd creation come into existence?

Following the government’s ideology of creating a superior city that is touristically appealing, the country ran an art competition back in 2008 for “The new face of Dubai.”

  What Dubai ended with instead, is a monstrous 150 metre, eye popping gold plated structure. This was on top of the £35 million spent on building the frame.

Facing the north side of the frame, would show visitors the ‘old’ Dubai, whilst looking to the south offers a view into the ‘new ‘Dubai. The idea was to create an illusion of time travel through the frame. A kind of Warp vortex, if you will.

The structure of this frame consists of a couple of towers that are perfectly aligned, with a connecting bridge.

The bridge is 93 metres long, and allows for the frame to be more than a philosophical selfie-friendly landmark. Located near the beautiful (and enormous) Zabeel Park, it invites visitors, who become struck by the sheer amount of gold surrounding the structure. It is surrounded by contrastingly simple, yet beautiful blue dancing watered fountains.

Unfortunately the process of buying tickets isn’t any more splendorous than anywhere else. You queue, you wait, you get your ticket.

But once tickets have been secured and you begin wandering inside, then you really start feeling a difference as you’re greeted by ‘old’ Dubai photographs, along the hallways. They offer a real raw sense of pride in the evolution the city has taken over the past few years. It even features a museum, referencing back to the past.

It even has holographic images and videos. For a city that has come so far, they really don’t seem to try and hide their roots.

Getting inside the elevator and staring out the clear glass panel into palm trees, quickly makes you realise the crazy reality Dubai is creating. A dream-like world of riches, among a very real world. As the elevators begin elevating, taking its visitors to the very top, the views Zabeel Park has to offer become insanely stunning.

The bridge connecting the two towers is more than it appears to be. Visitors can count on multiple shops inside, offering food and drinks, and of course, tourist ornaments, such as mugs, hats, and adorable mini versions of ‘the frame.’

The sky deck offers a 360 degree view of the city, as well as a downward view through the transparent floor glass. Two hundred people can come inside at any one time.

Looking to one side, the view sports many riches, such as tall buildings surrounded by motorways, countless shopping centres separated by fountains and greenery. Among the riches sits the famously tall skyscraper built in 2010, Burj Khalifa. The building that broke countless height records including some of its own, to be named as the tallest tower in the world. It’s a way to really witness the prowess of the vision of those in charge. A metropolis city that looks like it was create in the popular video game, the sims.

Looking the opposite way offers quite a different experience, one we would perhaps be more familiar with somewhere in Europe. It shows ‘old’ Dubai, and its more humble sized buildings. Its grey look, reminiscent of Paris.

One does wonder how the locals living in ‘old’ Dubai, feel about this kind of money and willingness to build gold plated monuments.

Even if the frame is ‘only’ half the size of the famous Eiffel Tower, there’s definitely a different feel to being on the frame, that can perhaps be described as a more ‘modernised’ feeling.

Upon making a way out of the frame and back into the real world, visitors have to walk into ‘the future museum,’ with holographic images showing Dubai’s skyline. Look closely to the floor, and you’ll notice the lasers across shooting from different corners of the room are. Actually forming different shapes. Almost hinting at what’s to come but without giving anything away, really. There s however a short video at the end that demonstrates how the city is committed to solar power. And also, flying cars.

Once the short video that is in constant loop. The video entices people to what Dubai will look like in 2050. There is an a very obvious feeling of pride of what is being achieved in a city that was built on a desert.

The last thing visitors will see before getting into the elevator is a social media wall, which basically highlights photos from the 200 people up at the bridge. Visitors can then purchase their own photos as a souvenir.

As visitors begin descending from the bridge, back down below, they can take another good long look at what Zabeel Park has to offer.

They immediately head there once they touch down.

The park that was created in 2005, in the Al Kifaf area, is divided into numerous sectors connected by pedestrian bridges.

Earlier I made reference to the Zabeel Park being enormous, so let me tell you just how much – 52 hectares. That’s equivalent to more than 50 football grounds. If you forget where you park your car in your local supermarket, you will definitely lost your car here, as there are 2300 spaces.

The three sections consist of various different activities such as a 4.3km jogging track, a cricket ground, BMX track, skateboarding park, barbecue and picnic areas, – which if trip advisor review are to be believed, you get a lot of them, maybe overly so – ice skating, a boating lake with classy lakeside restaurants, and also exhibition galleries.

The park was renowned for being the largest multi-million Dubai Municipality project, – that was over, of course, once the the frame of Dubai was built – carrying a high technology theme.

For example, the Stargate family edutainment centre, that covers over 260.000 square feet of the park’s layout has created an educational place filled with technological advances. Especially considering this was built back in 2006.

The edutainment centre contains various different areas known through as our celestial counterparts. Such as, Saturn, where families can enjoy a 3D (as well as 2D) movie theatre, in a 80×40 square feet screen.

This isn’t just a regular movie theatre though. They have theatres as well as game rooms where – this is going to sound insanely cool – the movies and games are brought to life through laser shows. Some of the 3D games are interactive games, where Half the audience can play against the other half of the audience.

An Area called Mars, contains a play area that is children-friendly, called Zero gravity. No, unfortunately you can’t float in the air, in it, but your kid can still have a blast! There is a roller-skating track, wall climbing activities, and a dedicated colourful room for birthday parties.

Then, of course there’s an area called Earth, that has an electric indoor Go Karting track. This is called No Speed Limit. Sounds very earth-like, especially in comparison to what the Saturn area had to offer. Fortunately, Earth has more to offer, with a futuristic UFO. Zone containing brand new robotic simulated rides as well as sophisticated 4D VR (Virtual reality) rides.

In case you were wondering, there is also an area called Moon. There, you will find a lunar shaped ice-skating rink, with artificial snow falling every 30 minutes.

One of the key offerings in the park, at least for the locals, is in the underground section of all these fun packed activity rooms.

This area is the home of the Stargate Academy. A place dedicated to offering scheduled classes in classic arts, music, technology, along with “a world class” nursery.

This has proven to be a popular destination for after school activity seekers, or for native families to come on holiday to.

Whether Fernando is right, or wrong, in relation to who created the idea, the reality for the rest of us is that this is real.

Dubai is becoming a city that is harder to ignore with each passing monument.

It’s no surprise to see them wanting to build something that is a statement in its own right, such as the frame. It not only capitalises on the magnitude of this park (Zabeel) but it highlights Dubai to the rest of the world once again.

It has proven to be an ever growing centre of the world, where money definitely is no issue, at least when it comes to flashing it to the rest of the world, making us all envious. Whatever your thoughts of Dubai, I would be amazed if you did not feel tempted to visit it just for this little area the article describes.

It’s a fun, energetic place, whose reality completely contrasts ours out in the west.

There’s a sense of everything being grand, and promising. Most people would find it to be an experience like no other.

from Le Dubai http://ift.tt/2tUcpOk