#i have no money and no prospects. i am already a burden to my mother

[kingdomvel]

Unfortunately not having a job makes me spiral into an existential crisis and feel like I have no purpose in life and doesn't let me create (which could be my purpose in life)

[threadofdestiny]

Magnolia (Bakugou x f!reader)

Feudal Japan AU

Shogun!Bakugou x Midoriya’s sister!reader

Summery: Her mother, lady Midoriya Inko, had once told her that the gods had predestined a path for every single person. All she had to do was follow the path and trust that it would lead her to happiness. But how could (Y/N) find happiness in a political formed marriage with her brother’s rival, a man known for being brutal and cold hearted?

Warnings: sexual content in later chapters / period-typical-sexism / strong language / violence / Drama / Angst / Fluff / Slow Burn/ political marriage / Reader is Izuku's sister / period-typical-discriptions like vague mentions of longer hair to form typical hairstyles or specific wardrobe / Bakugou is not good at feelings / Bakugou is a mean, explosive boi / third-person perspektive

Wattpad

AO3

If someone wants to be tagged, just let me know ;)

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

The life of a lady

No matter what culture you were born into, the structures of the society of the noble born, were always one and the same in their most fundamental form. A life as a noble was blessed with wealth and influence, but intrigues and scandals enjoyed dominance over those who had enough money and power to be part of the emperor's curt.

Only the most important people were powerful enough to receive the honor to get a tailored role in such a glorious play, while the rest served only as cheap, unappreciated extras. However, it did not matter at all whether the nobility was absorbed in their role's descriptions or if they would have preferred to step off that pretential stage. Every single one of them was obliged to play their part. If they did not, they had to expect that it would not only be their own end, but often for their entire family and subordinates as well. In that case, all that could save them was the favor of the crown itself, which usually was as fickle and impressionable as the rough sea.

In a world like this, you didn't decide for yourself who you were...

No, not really...

It was the tongues of the others that had the power to deform the image of your identity. They decided who you were and what was best for you. They defined what was right and what was wrong and were able to destroy you at the slightest misstep. So, bearing a title was a privilege and a burden all at once.

As a noble it was not only important who you were and how well you fulfilled your own part in society, no, it was important who you knew and what contacts you had cultivated. Your connections were what made you powerful. So it was common that unions were closed around various families to secure better conditions for their offspring's or to form better alliances to gain power over the emperor's curt. In a society like this, everyone looked for their own benefits. Compassion was a rare treasure, which could only be found in the fewest individuals. Sons were raised to rule, while daughters were only used as bargaining chips. They must humbly serve their families by marrying powerful men, to obtain alliances. They had to bind themselves to those who were raised to rule over them, without ever getting a chance to decide for themselves.

So... how can anyone romanticize such a morbid spectacle? Why are there such big differences between the rights of various people? Why are the deeds of the powerful always glossed over, while the weaker were oppressed?

Noble warriors, who fought for glory and honor...

Fine diplomats, whose silver tongues could melt every single heart...

Mighty kings, who hold their hand protectively over their people...

Well-guarded ladies, whose beauty and elegance could made a whole hall shine...

Weren't these colorful descriptions only empty paraphrases, in order to be able to hide the cruel faces of reality?

But...

Who told of the blood of the innocent that dripped from the warrior's blade?

Who mentioned the lies the diplomat had spun to achieve his goals?

Who wrote about the wars the king instigated to expand his empire?

Who acknowledged that a lady's supposed beauty and family status was the only means to even have the prospect of a rosy future? And even this was not an indicator that her destiny would not be her downfall, because the rules were set by those who wielded the power and if she was unlucky, they were the ones who took advantage of it without thinking of her well-being.

Yes, even the carefully planned and detailed balls and parties, looked at first glance like dreamlike picture perfect background's. They blinded onlookers to what was behind the scenes, but those who lived in this world for long enough, knew that even these were literally only bloody battlefields disguised in beautiful shining robes. It's was a spectacle full of lies.

True love?

A spark of equality?

Boundless trust?

What most rare wonders they were in her hypocritical society and yet (Y/N), young and unreserved, hoped to find them in spite of everything. What a blessed life she had led until now. She was lucky to be born into a wonderful family. Despite her status, its members were warm-hearted and free-spirited. But she knew that this was not the norm and was wise enough not to take her privileges for granted.

With a wildly beating heart, she stood next to her mother and waited for her call to finally be presented before the Emperor and his guests as a marriageable debutante. Normally, the Empress would review the new young ladies year after year, but she had passed away in her own childbed some time ago, and so the Emperor, bless his suprisingly kind soul, took over this task, with a nostalgic smile on his fragile face.

In the midst of the whole crowd of young ladies and their mothers, (Y/N) stood and called herself to patience while she tried to fade out her competition as best she could. Some of her fellow competitors she knew personally, but only a few she had a closer, more sympathetic relationship with. Somewhere at the other end of the waiting area she had spotted Miss Uraraka with her mother. But unfortunately they had only been able to give each other a fleeting smile before she was already called. Ochako was one of her few childhood friends, but she too was unfortunately on the hunt for a good match and was now in some ways as much her competitor as all the rest of the unmarried girls. So all (Y/N) could do was to hope that this season wouldn't drive a wedge between them and at least one of them would get hitched safely.

However, no matter how much she would like to think about her friendships at this moment, the young girl had to use what little time she had left to mentally prepare herself for her own appearance. Breathing deeply through her chest, the budding debutante stretched her back while pulling her shoulders taut. The stiff, floral-embroidered obi was cinched very tightly around her waist, making breathing a little more difficult, but not as impossible as it seemed with some of the other ladies. Testing, (Y/N) tried to put on a charming smile as she interlaced her fingers in front of her body in a demure pose before turning her frame with trembling lips to her mother, who was already looking at her with affection. "I hope I can bring honor to our family today!" the young girl spoke softly as she gazed hopefully into the green eyes of her counterpart. Lady Midoriya regarded her daughter with a moved expression, raising her well-groomed hands to fix the blooming magnolia blossoms she had personally placed in the elaborate hairstyle that morning for one last time. Satisfied with her work, she let her fingers glide gently down over (Y/N)'s ears, only to finally cup the young girl's cheeks in a delicate manner. "You already do, my child! And I know you will continue to do so!" the older lady replied confidently, while placing her slightly wrinkled, yet still delicate fingers under (Y/N)'s chin to lift it decisively. "You are beautiful, intelligent and kind-hearted! You have inherited your father's strong will! He would be as proud as I am to see you like this. Just like your brother, you put all your passion into your tasks and diligently learn what is expected of you. You, my child, will be able to go your way and overcome any stumbling block. I am incredibly sure of that!" Lady Midoriya added emotionaly before she cleared her throat softly, hoping to catch herself again. Tears glistened in her eyes like raindrops on an evergreen branch. The words of her mother gave (Y/N) the necessary strength to suppress the slight trembling of her lips. Slowly but surely, the nervous lump that had spread in her throat dissolved and disappeared along with her fear.

Yes, her mother was right! (Y/N) had inherited the will of her father and had prepared herself in the best possible way for exactly this moment. She would face the emperor fearlessly and make her family proud. On this day and on each still coming!

"Lady Midoriya. It is now your and your daughter's turn!" the stiff voice of the herald's assistant rang out, snapping them out of their brief emotional moment. Nodding, (Y/N)'s mother started to move and placed herself with perfectly executed etiquette in front of the closed red and golden double doors that would lead them into the throne room. The remaining debutantes and their mothers, who were waiting for their momentto come, gave them appraising looks, but (Y/N) tried to ignore them as much as possible. Each of them knew how privileged the youngest Midoriya was, her own brother being one of the three former students of the current emperor. But she would shine today because of her own abilities. Today she would not stand in the shadow of her talented, kind-hearted brother. Taking a deep breath, the young girl followed her mother and positioned herself half a step in front of her while she waited with galloping heartbeat for the herald's introduction.

This was it...

This was the moment on which everything depended. All eyes would be on her to determine her own worth. As soon as those doors opened, she would take the first step to be able to grab a good match for herself. It would be one of the most important steps that would determine the rest of her life and she could not help but dare once again to let hope for a good future arise in her. Conscious of her duty, (Y/N) lowered herself onto the pillow and took in a bowing posture. With her head bowed and fingertips touching, which hovered in a rehearsed posture stretched out in front of her just a few millimeters above the ground, she took one last look at her beloved mother. Making the final decision to take Lady Midoriya as her role model, (Y/N) set herself for the very last time the goal not only to achieve an excellent match and honor for her family, but also to fight for the oh-so-rare love that only a few were truly allowed to experience. Even if her future could not be determined by herself, she did not want to leave her entire destiny solely in the hands of the gods, for only those who proved virtuous and courageous would be truly heard by those same deity's. She had prayed and pleaded that she would be able to feel for her future groom as her mother once did for her beloved husband, but to achieve this she would have to fight in her own way.

"Your Majesty, honored guests, we now present Miss Midoriya (Y/N), younger sister of the head of the family and distinguished samurai of Shizuoka Province, Lord Midoriya Izuku, one of the three former disciples of the Symbol of Peace. His Imperial Highness, Toshinori-sama. The young lady is accompanied by her mother, Lady Midoriya Inko," the clear voice of the herald echoed through the hall, while the richly decorated double doors were pushed open as if in slow motion. As she had been taught, the introduced debutante slowly counted to three before elegantly rising from her bowing position, only to just as slowly lift her eyelids to cast an innocent glance around the hall. In a culture like hers, aesthetics and elegance were invaluable. They were taught to one from childhood. Like a graceful mask, she wore the delicate, demure garb of etiquette expected of a young girl of her station.

'Do not speak unless you are addressed personally.'

'It is better to be seen than heard.'

'A young girl's weapon is not her voice, but her manners and countenance.'

'Be a work of art that all the world wants to admire.'

Even though (Y/N) wanted to be independent in her deepest heart. Even if she would have loved to use her own voice not only to be seen but also to be heard, she knew that for that she needed a man who was kind enough to give her that very chance. Her gently, encouraging brother would not always be her guardian. In a society like hers, a woman alone was worth nothing. Her status was measured by that of her husband and only that man would be able to shape her further life. He alone would have the right to decide whether to lock her in a golden cage and let her wither away or to give her the wings she would need to continue to develop freely. So she had no choice but to be exactly what was expected of her if she wanted to attract as much attention as possible. The family name she carried could not be her only trump card. She had to portray the perfect, well-mannered bride. A girl that was worth fighting over. Beautiful and quiet. Attentive and discreet. Talented and elegant. For this reason, she had poured her heart and soul and perfectionism into this very charlatanry. She wanted freedom! She wanted to be able to hope! Hope that the seed her family had planted in her would be able to blossom! Hope to be able to attract the attention of a man who would be her blessing and not her downfall.

Without losing her balance, the young girl stood up, while with purposeful flowing gestures, she placed her hands hovering over each other under her chest. When at last the seat cushion was discreetly moved aside, the debutante stepped into the packed hall with shining, soft eyes, closely followed by her venerable mother. A slight implied smile, meant to exude modesty and delicacy, played around her lips as she resisted the need to look around the room.

Look at me. I am everything you have ever dreamed of.

Her gaze rested on the hem of the emperor's multi-layered robe without once losing her focus as she strode past his wealthy guests, who were spread out on either side of the hall and focused their full attention on (Y/N). The young girl knew that somewhere in that crowd was her big brother, Midoriya Izuku, watching her intently just like all the others. By the gods, she hoped that he felt pure pride for his sister, just like their mother. He was probably even more nervous than she was at that moment. Perhaps he was even quietly whispering push prayers into his non-existent beard to give his sister all the blessings in the world. No matter. This thought alone warmed the debutante's heart as she took one step after another toward the emperor until she finally came to a stop in front of him. Without lifting her eyes, (Y/N) curtsied as deeply as her legs would allow and then waited with bated breath for the crown's reaction.

Silence reigned in the hall, so pervasive that one could have heard a pin drop on the floor. Like a mantra, the words, Look at me, I bring honor to my family, echoed in the mind of the youngest Midoriya. The sudden clap of the emperor, which echoed through the room like lashes of a whip, almost made (Y/N) wince, but she had managed to pull herself together. Calmly, the young girl waited while she made sure to take deep breaths through her chest so as not to fall prey to dizziness. Out of the corner of her eye, she could observe the emperor nodding warmly in the direction of his guests. "As one would expect, my student's little sister is shining brightly!", Toshinori's voice loudly and warmly pierced the silence of the room.

"This my honored guests, I call a truly sparkling diamond."

[wellhellsbelles]

hey! i love everything you write and can't wait for the next chapter of ttroywh. i saw you're taking prompts and i was wondering if you could write one i saw in @rickibowen saying that riley and maya go to the bachelor and riley's supposed to fall in love with lucas but falls in love w/ farkle who is the camera man/editor of the show and she always tries to make him laugh by making faces during one on one interviews and so, while lucas and maya fall in love w/ each other

hope you don’t mind me cutting it short! i don’t know much about the bachelor and would’ve liked to expand more but the internet is not good at gleaning info on the process 😅 so here’s my take on as much of that au as i could!

enjoy!

Farkle took the dumb job by chance.

 Well, he did apply for it, but he never thought he’d actually get the job. In all honesty, he figured his small degree in video production wouldn’t end up fruitful, that it was only really a backburner type of deal. He still did believe that—he was going to pursue something in science, that he was adamant of. He just needed . . . a break from it (“Even geniuses need to take care of their mental health,” his mother had told him.) So he pursued videography, something that had become a sort of hobby to him, and when the summer arrived and he needed cash, he figured he’d apply for this job just for kicks.

Farkle never believed he’d end himself up on the set of The Bachelor, not in a million years.

It was sort of surreal, the whole atmosphere that followed such an illustrious television show. Farkle never bought into the appeal of the show, especially since it seemed silly to drag all these girls along just for some pretty boy to tell them they weren’t “the one”. It just seemed cruel, but then again, who was he to judge? He was earning money off of taping their dreams getting crushed, after all.

The first day on set was a barrage of sensory overload—so many voices, faces he needed to commit to memory, an itinerary of equipment he’d be handling . . . there was just so much. He was halfway tempted to run when he started becoming overwhelmed, but he remembered himself, breathing in and out until he’d maintained a sense of calm.

Farkle could do it. He would do it. There was no way he was backing out now.

The preparation for the show was massive, but then the first day of filming arrived right under his nose. Profiles he’d studied of both the bachelor and the ladies he would be choosing from were going to quickly turn to reality, no longer just faces on a page. He knew he wouldn’t be making friends or anything of that ilk, but he did want to at least talk to people, especially since he’d be the one on the other side of the camera for most of the shooting.

Farkle was going to be the main guy they all report to when it’s time to film their confessions, maybe secrets that would be aired on television but no one else on set would know until later. No one but him, which he was well aware was a heavy burden to carry. But then again, it was reality television—who said anything anyone reveal was actually real? The contestants weren’t getting paid for anything, so truth was muddied at best.

But somehow, despite all of this mess being, well, a mess, Farkle could still say he was excited at the prospect of taking part of something big. This was his shot at obtaining a glimpse a slice of a life he’d never experienced before, and he couldn’t wait to see how it all turned out.

 //

 “I can’t believe you talked me into this dumb mess. This is your fault,” Maya groaned from beside Riley as the other girls with them in the limo talked animatedly.

“My fault? How was I supposed to know they’d pick both of us for this show? Besides, you’re the one who submitted your application while we were drunk! You could’ve backed out at anytime and you know it, Hart,” Riley said accusingly. “Besides, we’ll have fun! You need some in your life.”

“I feel like I’m being pimped out by a bunch of white guys to another white guy. I hate this,” Maya slumped down further in her seat. “And they took my phone, too! How am I supposed to entertain myself?”

“Don’t you draw? Just do that. I know you brought your sketchbook,” Riley suggested. Maya shook her head.

“Nope. Not going to happen. I am not advertising my art for the world to see. One of those dumb cameramen are going to sneak up on me and do it without my permission, I just know it.”

“Suit yourself,” Riley shrugged, turning her attention to the rest of the girls in the car. She knew there was a camera in the car with them and that the producers would prefer it if she engaged in conversation about the bachelor, but she’d rather just lay low. She’d try and play it up for them later after she’d seen him up close and personal.

But Maya did have a point. Why was she doing this again? It really was a decision she made on a whim, but unlike Maya, her decision was made completely sober.

The Bachelor had been one of her favorite guilty pleasure shows that she watched over the years, but she had never once entertained the idea of actually becoming a contestant. Perhaps it was when her long-term boyfriend broke up with her that spurred her interest, maybe she just needed something new and this was it. Whatever the case, she had been picked along with her best friend, and wherever Riley went, Maya followed.

She couldn’t be too mad, anyhow—the bachelor they had picked was incredibly handsome.

His name was Lucas Friar, born and raised in Texas. Everything about him sounded like a dream come true, but she kept a smidgeon of skepticism about him just in case the show had encouraged a little truth bending for the sake of appeal. Still, she couldn’t deny that his extensive list of positive qualities all seemed a little too good to be true.

He sounded like a true, southern gentleman, the kind that would meet you at the door and talk to your parents before escorting you out on a date. A lionhearted and loyal friend, the testimonies in his profile had mentioned. A guy who is just so down to earth you can’t help but fall for him. Loves animals of all kinds and is working hard to become a veterinarian. His experience of being raised on a farm spawned his interest in animal care.

If Riley could swoon, she would. She still might, after meeting him.

For the rest of the ride, Riley tried her best to pitch in with the “bachelor talk” the other girls were participating in. She wasn’t too terrible at it, but getting Maya to participate was another thing entirely. Despite making it onto the show and agreeing to be there (Riley told her she didn’t need to say yes to being a contestant! At this point, she’s almost certain Maya agreed for her own personal agenda that Riley’s not privy to), she refuses to play along.

After what felt like an eternity of a car ride, they made it to the mansion they’d be staying at for the duration of their stint on the show. They asked Riley to be the first one out of the limo, something that floored Riley.

First limo, first out—they had a good feeling about Riley, was what that meant. She’d watched enough of The Bachelor to know that the first person to meet the bachelor was important; it was his first impression, the real start of the show, and it meant the producers were rooting for her.

So, no pressure.

Her meeting with Lucas passed by her in a flash, but she had a good feeling about it. He found her slight awkwardness endearing and by just interacting with him, she felt as though there was a certain energy between them. Of course, she’d never been the best at reading situations, but something told her that it was right for her to be on The Bachelor.

After meeting him, she waited in the main room as the other girls got to have their own interaction with Lucas, trying to not feel nervous as they all piled in together. They chatted amongst each other, but Riley couldn’t help but notice Maya hadn’t joined her yet.

Must be the producers, she admonished in her mind.

She wasn’t allowed to keep wondering, however, as a distraction was sent her way. One of the producers walked in, announcing that they were going to start filming confessionals and called Riley up to be the first.

“We just need you to talk about Lucas a little, maybe your experience so far,” he explained as he ushered her off to another room. “Be yourself, but also realize this is television, yeah?”

“So be myself but not really myself?” Riley blurted. The producer nodded.

“Bingo, you’ve got it. Now go in there and kill it.”

With a slight push, Riley entered the confession room, the door closing shut behind her. There was a guy already in there scrawling down notes onto a clipboard, his focus undeterred until the door closing alerted him to her presence.

“Oh, sorry about that,” he muttered, setting the clipboard down. He turned toward her with a slight frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Riley couldn’t help but feel bad for him. It seemed less like he was trying to be a professional and more like he didn’t want to be there at all.

“Hey, I know this is a weird request, but what’s your name? I’d like to get to know everyone around here, even if I just last a day,” Riley said. The cameraman’s stormy blue eyes lit up in surprise.

“You want to know my name? No one wants to know my name,” he told her. Now it was Riley’s turn to frown.

No one here wanted to know his name? But he was helping make the show. Was the whole production team for The Bachelor really that callous?

“Well, I do. Here, I’ll start—I’m Riley Matthews,” she beamed, sticking her hand out towards him. He hesitated a moment before enveloping her dainty hand with his, the warmth comforting.

“Farkle Minkus. I’ll be your cameraman for a lot of this run, but mostly just the confessional stuff.”

“Glad to have met you, Farkle.”

After breaking the handshake, it still took Farkle a moment to gain his footing and Riley couldn’t blame him.

“Okay, so you’ll sit at that seat right there,” he gestured in front of him to the empty chair, “And you’ll have to give me a moment to set the lighting right on you and then make sure sound is good.”

Riley did as she was told, waiting patiently in her seat as he shuffled about the room. She observed him scrambling about, heart warming at the awkward way he appeared to be moving. It reminded her of herself when she was anxious.

After a few minutes, Farkle was ready, giving her a countdown to begin.

“Just start talking about your first impression of Lucas, okay?” he instructed.

“Okay,” Riley nodded. She watched in silence as he started the countdown audibly, switching to counting with his fingers when they reached three. Then two, followed by one.

Showtime, she said to herself.

 //

 At the end of the first night, Maya was the first to get a rose. Riley wasn’t surprised one bit—Maya had a sort of charm about her and people couldn’t help but be drawn to her. It always surprised her when that happened, and that night was no exception to the rule. As someone who was also competing, Riley couldn’t help but feel a touch jealous, but more than anything, she was proud of her friend.

Despite Maya receiving the first rose, though, Riley did get quite a bit of time to spend with Lucas. He was shy and reserved, yet cheerful and inviting, and they got along quite well. If Riley was a spectator, she’d bet good money on herself.

But her time outside of filming scenes was spent hanging around Farkle. He didn’t really believe her when she said she wanted to get to know the people working on the show, so she was determined to prove him wrong, especially since she just kept being picked by Lucas. Each day, she’d greet Farkle when she’d spot him by the refreshments table set up for the crew, she’d ask how he was when he was there to film her confessions, and just do her best to cheer him up since he always looked down.

“You know you’re going to get me fired, right?” he asked her one day after they filmed a scene. “You keep making faces at me and I’m trying so hard to not laugh but I swear, Riley.”

“Is it making you laugh?” she said, curious.

“Yes, oh my god! They’re going to have to cut so much of that out not just for your dumb faces, but me interrupting their audio,” he groaned. Riley smiled.

“Good. Then I won’t stop!”

“Relentless, Riley Matthews, that’s what you are. And a pain in my ass.”

Riley liked getting to film The Bachelor, but as the days passed by, she had a feeling it was less because of her wanting to be on the actual show and vying for Lucas’ attention, and more due to the fact that Farkle was there.

And if halfway through the filming process Lucas ended it because he’d picked Maya (and she picked him too, shockingly), Riley couldn’t find it in her to be sad.

She had found Farkle, after all, so really she was the true winner of the game.

[sweetwritertanya]

Noble Heart (Part 3)

Summary: You and Augustus get closer as you get to know each other on the few days before the marriage. Despite his initial hesitance, he surprises you one afternoon with unsolicited help and sharing of personal stories.  

Warnings: I truly thought there would be a bit more action by know, but the relationship between these two is progressing slower than I intended. So, no warnings still for now!

Word Count: 3091

You didn’t hear him arrive as you were busy taking care of the family’s small garden at the backyard. Not that it presented any obstacle; Augustus has been coming to your house for the last four days in a row, almost always around the same time, just after lunch. The maid and your parents already expected him and welcomed him inside, not needing to guide him though the house for him to find you anymore.

Sharing your decision with your family had a bit of mixed results. Your mother started talking to you again, at least, supporting your decision. You knew how scared she was of what would happen to all of you if the Duke’s support was cut off. She was still unsettled by your option of just calling everything off before the day of the wedding, and tried to support the idea of the matrimony and convince you to go with it.

You could tell your father blamed himself a lot. No matter how you put it, he seemed to always blame his health condition for the family’s poverty, not being able to work and support the household for himself. He neither was in favor or against the marriage, he just assured you he would support your decision.

As for your little sisters, well, they seemed fascinated by the prospects of you becoming a Duchess, and were very excited that they would be able to visit the mansion whenever they liked if such were to happen. They were still of too young of an age to fully understand what you were abdicating.

The getting to know each other before marriage part was… going a bit better than you first expected, but not great. You understood now that Augustus wasn’t really a conceited snob like most of the noble men you had encountered so far, even if he presented himself as such many times. He would come in with chin lifted up and perfect posture, as if elevating himself from the people around him. But once you two got to converse, he was a lot more kind and polite than others you had come across.

He didn’t belittle or overlooked your opinions and ideas. In fact, you had spent a great length just the day before discussing your thoughts on the miniscule female workforce and how inefficient it was to only have half the population working on most of the truly necessary jobs. Truth was, you had never really had the opportunity to voice these thoughts with anyone else outside of your family. If at a social gathering such a subject were to come up, which wasn’t common either way, one look at you and most people would disregard you completely. It was unbelievably frustrating, especially because you had the feeling it was most due to your oversized appearance more so than you being a woman, since other females were heard during these arguments.

Your voluptuous frame never bothered you other than at these occasions or whenever your mother commented on it, mostly by asking you to put on a corset before going out. You had to admit, you were relieved to notice your size didn’t seem to bother Augustus at all. Since there was a chance this man could become your husband, you were glad that there was never a look of reproval or disgust.

“What are you doing?”

His sudden deep voice scared you and you almost fell as you jumped in place, crouched down next to the garden. You turned around to glare at him, standing tall behind you with his oblong face leaning to the right as he regarded you with confusion. The sun was tall in the early afternoon clear sky and his honey eyes were brighter than you had ever seen them, those voluminous chocolate curls lighter with the sunlight. Before he could notice you were gawking, you returned your attention to your task.

“I’m planting potatoes, as you can see. A traveler downtown offered us some for a good price and father thought it best if we actually farm them and try to keep them for future meals” you respond dryly, a bit annoyed yet by how sneaky this man could be. You could barely hear his footsteps.

“You don’t seem particularly pleased by it” he states, rather than questioning.

“Well, as much as I agree it is best to plant and have potatoes growing for the future, I was really craving some for dinner. Guess that will have to wait.”

“If the seller is still in town, I could always buy more and you could have them for dinner with me” he nonchalantly invites, coming to stand next to you rather than behind.

You actually smile at that, continuing your work.

“Thank you, but there will be no need. I’ve learned long ago to suppress my cravings; I’m used to it. And my family expects me for dinner.”

“I suppose we will have many opportunities to dine together once we’re married, so there’s no rush” he concedes.

Pressing your lips together, you remain silent at that. Truth be told, your heart still panicked whenever you thought about the marriage. Even with the amount of time you had spent together the last few days, it was obviously not enough to get to know him sufficiently. The fact that he seemed to dislike talking about himself wasn’t contributing to the matter.

Talking about politics, idealisms, morals and worldly events, those he could discuss for hours upon hours with you, as you noticed. And you were glad to find him open to and many times agreeing with the positions you stood by. However, as soon as the conversation turned about him, about his life before coming to Welsham or his family, he either closed up or changed the topic.

“Have you picked out a dress yet?” He asks as he starts pacing around the small garden.

“No, not yet. My mother intends on going with me tomorrow with my oldest sister. Is… Is it really alright to use your funds to buy the dress? I know the Duke’s wealth is still unavailable until after the wedding and…”

“Please, do not mention it again, Adela. Even without my grandfather’s inheritance, I am quite capable of buying my fiancée a wedding dress” he determined, almost offended that you brought it up again.

You look down and bite your lips with a concerned frown on your face. The fact that he was using his own money to make the wedding possible was very worrisome to you. Just one more nail for you to feel guilty about if you called the whole thing off.

“You mentioned you would like for your grandmother to come to the wedding. Is that taking care of?” He recalled from somewhere behind you as he paced.

“No, she can’t make it” you informed, continuing planting. “It is too sudden and the trip is too long for her to make alone.”

“Even if I send someone to get her? They could leave by tonight, if you want.”

“Don’t burden someone else, it’s quite alright. I would rather go myself and visit her after than make her come all this way just for a day and because of me.” Measuring your words, you hope your next words won’t upset the man walking around. “Will… Will your parents come to the wedding? Anyone from your side?”

His steps falter only momentarily.

“No. The only guests will be from your side, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” You sigh. It seemed you really couldn’t gather any more information about him when it came to his family and past, and that disconcerted you a bit. “Don’t you thi- What are you doing?!”

Before you knew it, Augustus had stopped pacing, removed his coat and squatted down next to you, yanking the small shovel and potato from your hands.

“I can’t take it anymore. You are doing this wrong. You need to dig deeper for the potato to grow and you are not leaving enough space between the holes.” His voice sounded incredibly exasperated and you wondered for how long had he been biting his tongue.

You watched in silence as he dug a deeper hole and covered it back up with the potato inside, going one step back to undo the ones you had made and properly farm. He had rolled the sleeves of his shirt and was not afraid of getting his hands dirty. He didn’t even ask for the gloves you were wearing.

“You… really are a gardener or something like that, aren’t you, Augustus?” You can’t help but ask as you observe him. You were prepared to not get an answer, but he surprised you with more facts and details than you thought he was ready to give.

“The town I grew up in is known for growing a bunch of pretty flowers. I ended up working for the flowery shop from there, in a big plantation field. So yes, I was a gardener.”

He kept his focus on his hands, but contrary to the last time you talked about it, there was no more tension on his face, no offence taken. It was the most honest he had ever been about his personal life and you couldn’t help the curiosity that pushed you to keep him going.

“That makes sense. Did you enjoy it? Being a gardener?”

“It is a long hours unappreciated job that is criminally underpaid. So no, I didn’t like it. Maybe at the beginning, but when my father-” He got quiet then, shaking his head a bit after a pause and carrying on as if nothing happened. “I will be glad when I won’t have to work as a gardener to support myself anymore.”

A part of your wanted to pry further, pick at the slip he made and get to know more about his family, but you held back since he obviously did not want to talk about it. Instead, you tried to get the mood back up, erase the tension that had lifted.

“And yet you still work on the garden back at your mansion. Be honest, you actually like the pretty flowers, don’t you?” You joke, hugging your knees and bending your head further down so he can see your teasing smile.

For your delight, he actually chuckles, looking away but you see the rise on his cheeks and he is still smiling when he looks back at you. His eyes twinkle in the sun and you actually forget how to breath for a moment.

“I guess you do have a point, I have no explanation for that.” He agrees.

“Help me finish this and then I’ll invite you for a much-earned cold tea. In the meantime, tell me more about your town.”

Surprising you greatly, he actually does. He explains how it is a town a little bit bigger than the one you live in, with large terrains filled with flowers to the east and a booming industry for selling and exporting them. He shares how he started working for the flower shop when he was fourteen, starting with light weight jobs and ending up as a gardener a few years later. Tells you about the friendships he made along the way.

Never does he speak of his father again, or any other family member. You are sure by now that his relations with them must be quite estranged.

He was absentmindedly telling you about the horse companion he got when he turned twenty and that he rode all the way here – Chestnut, he called her – before your heard him hiss in pain and caught him grabbing his left hand tightly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” you immediately asked, running to his side as he stood up.

“Nothing, nothing, just scraped my hand in the shovel” he admitted, more upset at himself than anything.

“I should have given you some gloves. Here, let me see.”

Holding out your hand for him, Augustus hesitated before removing his right hand and allowing you to see the damage he had done on his left one. Because he didn’t give you his hand, you just grabbed it yourself to see the scratch line running from his thumb to the knuckle bellow his index finger, deep enough to tear skin but barely bleeding.

“It sems to just be a scratch, nothing to worry about. Better to still treat it, though. Does it hurt?”

And purely out of instinct and habit, you find yourself pulling his hand up with yours and leaning your head down just slightly, enough for your lips to meet his hand halfway and pecking at the bruise he had.

There was a stillness in the air when you first lift your eyes to his wide ones, only the sound of the leaves rattling in the trees with the small breeze being heard. It takes you a moment after you look back up, seeing the bewildered expression on Augustus’ face, for you to realize what you have done. And absolute mortification takes over.  

“Oh dear God…” you whisper as you let go of his hand, before raising both your hands and your voice to explain yourself. “I… That just…! My sisters! I-I always do that to my sisters when they get hurt, it was second nature, I didn’t even think, I’m sorry!”

You start to step back, incredibly ashamed, but his sudden laugh stops you and you tentatively lift your eyes back to his face. His smile is bemused and makes the skin wrinkle a bit the corner of his hooded eyes.

“There is really nothing to apologize about, Adela. I don’t see why you are so scared.”

“I’m not scared, I’m ashamed! I just k-kissed your hand!” You explain, but as soon as the words leave your mouth you hide your face behind your hands as you feel even more embarrassed with yourself. Augustus, in the meantime, only laughs again.

“Why are you ashamed?” he asks in between chuckles, taking a step forward to compensate the steps you took back. “I kiss your hand every time I leave after our afternoon meetings.”

He did. As it turned out, the kiss of your knuckles from the day you informed him of your decision about the wedding was not a one-time occasion. Every day since then, he always reached for your hand and kissed it as a goodbye. It unnerved you how they always had the same effect from day one: chills running up your arm and tingles at the back of your neck.

“It’s not the same, and you know it. Let’s just call it a day and go back inside!”

You turn and quickly move in the direction of the house’s backdoor, still with one hand raised to keep your face from Augustus’ view. You felt your skin still burning and were hoping to cool down before having to face him again. No such luck.

“Wait a minute, Adela.” He reaches for your arm with his hand and pulls you back, forcing you to stand in front of him and unfortunately allowing him to see the state of your cheeks. “Why are you blushing so deeply?” He can’t seem to stop chuckling at your reaction. He was certainly enjoying this way too much.

“Sir Augustus, let us please forget this ever happen. I believe it is time for you to return home and we will see each other tomorrow.” You are desperate to get this man out of your sight and, more importantly, to get your shameful self away from his prying eyes.

“If you wish for me to go, I will do so” he assured, regaining a bit more seriousness in his voice.  But his hand is still steady on your arm, not letting you go or making any intention of moving. “However, I do need to say my proper goodbyes.”

Confused by what he meant, you frown and look up at him in confusion. You find him looking determinably at you, a small smirk on his lips that turn his upper lip even smaller compared to his bottom one. He takes a step forward and you instinctively move back, your heart starting to race inside your chest as a hint of novel danger rushes through you. But he keeps moving forward and your next step back has you against the trunk of a tree. Your blush turns deeper and is getting harder to breathe.

“If a lady is to have such a pretty colour on her cheeks…” Augustus whispers just loud enough for you to hear, as he gets disconcertingly closer. You swallow dry once you realize his gaze is set on your lips. “I should give her a reason for it.”

Realization hits you then, but it’s too late to stop him and you weren’t sure you would anyway. One of his hands lands on the curve of your hip and the other cradles the side of your face before he gets so close that his heavenly musk envelops you and a short bend down is enough for his lips to brush yours.

Augustus firmly covers your mouth with his silk lips, caressing them with a short movement before lifting them away. And yet, it provokes a jolt of electricity shooting from your stomach up your spine, goosebumps covering your skin and your usually sharp brain gets so overwhelmed it just shuts down. No man had ever kissed you before, so the only indications you had of what it felt like were written in novels or poetry.

The reality undoubtably surpasses your tame expectations.

When you open your eyes, never even remembering closing them in the first place, you find Augustus intently already looking at you, still only about an inch away, close enough for you to count the strands of darker brown crossing the honey colored iris of his eyes. You wondered if he was assessing your reaction and then you wondered how you were supposed to react. For now, you just stared back at him with short shallow breaths and a paralyzed body flushed against a tree.

“Until tomorrow, lady Adela.”

A mixture of smugness and something else is behind his eyes as he speaks, only for him to straighten back up and mask them, turning around, grabbing his coat and exiting through the back door back inside.

On the other hand, you stay glued to that tree for at least another ten more minutes, foggy brain trying to recover enough coherent thought for you to understand what had just happened. And what did it mean.

[seeroftodayandtomorrow]

A Musical Affair

Summary:  Blaine's life has been shaped by scandal. Now his livelihood and, it sometimes seems, his sanity depend on him being as inconspicuous as possible. But a group of unusual friends cause his resolve to totter, and a beautiful singer might shatter it completely. Historical AU

Chapter 5

Read on AO3

The London daylight, though hazy as always, was harsher than the candle-lit parlor of the St. James residence. Blaine noticed very soon that the suit Kurt wore was the same one he had worn on stage, and that the collar was turned over and the cuffs were scuffed. He also noticed that his coat was too thin, and wished he could offer his own, like he would do with a lady as a matter of course.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, until Kurt put a hand into his suit pocket and pulled it out, frowning, with two folded five-pound-notes in it.

“I wish she would stop doing this,” he said, looking at the money as if it had personally offended him. Then he shrugged and put it back into his pocket. “Carole will be glad of it.”

Carole? Was Kurt married? He should be, of course, any lady would appreciate him, but Rachel had never mentioned -

Kurt must have noticed his face, because he laughed. “My stepmother. After my father's death, it got...hard for her. She takes in sewing, but...even living a semblance of respectability can be very expensive. I support her wherever I can.”

Blaine nodded, feeling a little awkward. He had fallen, it was true, and his financial situation wasn't what it had been, but still he had never even talked to someone who couldn't afford a second formal suit or a winter coat.

Or maybe he had. He didn't know how much his grandmother's servants earned, after all, had never even asked himself that question.

Even after shrugging it off, Kurt still seemed angry about the money. After a while, Blaine found the courage to ask,

“Is that-” he gestured in direction of the pocket Kurt had put the money in, “the reason you didn't accept Lady St. James’s invitation for so long?”

“It's part of it,” Kurt answered after a little hesitation. “I repeatedly told her not to give me money, but she keeps doing it. And I just hate to think she sees me as some kind of charity case.”

Blaine remembered toys and books, and later horses, carriages and musical instruments, given to him with a smile by his mother.

“Maybe,” he said hesitantly, “she doesn't mean it that way. I don't mean to say she should continue, especially after you told her not to, but – maybe that's just how she shows her affection. Maybe she just wants to support you, as her friend, just as you doubtlessly support her in other ways.”

The streets they were walking along and the houses they passed slowly became shabbier. Gone were the finely-dressed people strolling along avenues lined with grand houses. The streets became more narrow, the houses smaller. The grand, heralded carriages were replaced with simple cabs. Black-clad clerks and shop keepers on their break, boys running errands and house wives shopping made up the people they passed.

Blaine wondered how much farther they had to go.

“What's the other part?” he asked after a while. “Why you're uncomfortable visiting her?”

“You wouldn't understand.” Kurt walked a little faster, and Blaine wondered if he had offended him. either by the question or by his earlier remark about Rachel.

But before he could inquire or apologize, Kurt stopped walking and turned towards him.

“Actually, you might.” They resumed walking, and Kurt casually took his arm to steer him around a steaming heap of horse dung. Blaine felt his touch for a long time after it was gone.

“From what I know of your...situation,” Kurt said, “your place in society, in life, changed, and that of your friends and general acquaintance stayed the same. Is that right?”

Blaine thought about it. He had been stripped of his birth, his title and his inheritance, and had been forced out of school. His friends had been sons of the peerage, just like him, and to his knowledge, all of them still were.

He nodded. “I never thought of it that way, but yes.”

“And may I guess that at least one of the reasons you are now joining Rachel's little collection of misfits is that you feel—or have been made to feel—not to fit in with your old group anymore?”

“You're right again.”

“So, with me, it's the reverse. The position in life of the person who used to be my best friend, my closest confidante, someone who was as dear to me as a sister—it changed completely. Her father was a simple shopkeeper, but with clever investing, he and his partner made a fortune over night. And then Rachel won the heart and hand of a knight, and now they are almost accepted in the highest circles, and I—I am still the same.”

For a while they walked in silence, while the houses around them became smaller and less well-maintained. Blaine didn't know what to say.

Was Kurt envious? It would probably be hard not to, but Kurt hadn't struck him like someone whose goals in life were money and position.

“I don't begrudge her any of this,” Kurt continued. “But she tries to act that nothing has changed, when it has - when she can't visit me, because - well, can you imagine Lady Rachel St. James in this environment? And I can hardly visit her, because I can't go through the kitchens because I'm no servant, but when I try to use the front door the butler looks at me like I was something the cat dragged in.”

He suddenly stood. “I'm sorry. Our acquaintance is hardly intimate enough for you to be burdened with these things by me.”

“No, not at all, I asked,” Blaine said quickly, and wondered if he dare say the words in his mind. “I would like to...achieve the level of intimacy that would allow me to know these things.”

Kurt's pleased smile showed him he had made the right decision.

“Well,” Kurt said, indicating a little tea shop in front of them. It was in a decent state compared to its fellows, displaying its wares in a big, clean window.

“We're here, I have a room above the shop. Maybe you could come upstairs for some tea and toast and we could work on...deepening that intimacy.”

Blaine wasn't sure if that offer entailed more than tea and toast, but he was about to enthusiastically agree when church bells began to ring.

He grimaced, then shook his head and said, “I'd really love to, but I can't today.”

“A warning from above?” Kurt asked with a wry smile.

“No.” Blaine laughed. “Just a reminder of the time. I'm expected at home.”

Clothes shopping with his mother; not a prospect he relished. But she had been happy lately, and she had finally convinced Grandmama that her prospects of marrying again were better if she had modern dresses that made her appear young and attractive. Blaine had had no idea she wanted to marry, but he was happy she was, for once, excited about the future, and had thought that sacrificing the occasional afternoon to help her make her purchases was a small price to pay.

He hadn't thought then that what he gave up would be an afternoon spent with Kurt.

“But—next time, yes? Please?” he asked, and smiled when Kurt nodded. He shook his hand, and then left, determined that somehow, he would make time.

After hours of shopping, which he mostly spent sitting in an armchair making pleasant conversation with the other clients and the seamstresses who were not currently occupied with his mother, he arrived home, bent under a load of hatboxes and bags full of buttons, lace and reticules. Grandmama must have high hopes indeed for a new marriage for mama, if she was willing to spend so much on what, he knew, she regarded as unnecessary frippery. Then again, there was no one who knew better than her how important it was to keep up appearances if one wanted to move in their circles. Blaine, however, couldn't help the thought of why it was important his mother have three new afternoon dresses and three new ball gowns, each of them worth at least a new suit and a warmer coat for Kurt.

But Kurt wouldn't take them from him, wanted to take nothing from anybody. Blaine smiled, filled with a confusing mix of emotions: shame, among them, for he had never hesitated to take his father's money, or now his grandmother's; admiration for Kurt's fierce independence; and exasperation, because why wouldn't the man accept a little help?

He chided himself for that thought as soon as he had it. He hadn't offered any help, and they were not in a kind of relationship where help could be offered or accepted. Blaine let his grandmother support him, but he didn't take money from complete strangers, after all. And even if it felt differently, and Blaine desperately wanted it to be different, he and Kurt were little more than strangers. He couldn't help him, not yet.

If help was even needed. Kurt hadn't mentioned anything about needing or wanting help, and Blaine could hardly let his own lifestyle be the measure of all things.

And he had seen Kurt's reaction to Rachel giving him money. He knew that was not the way into Kurt's good graces.

Smiling, he thought that maybe he didn't need a way into Kurt's good graces. Maybe he was already there. The way he had looked at him when he had invited him upstairs....he had not meant just for tea and toast, Blaine was almost certain of it.

And in a way he wished he had forgotten his filial obligations for a few hours and gone with whatever it was that Kurt had offered him, and he was determined to take care that one of the next Wednesdays would be fully his own, so if and when Kurt offered again, he would be at liberty to accept.

But on the other hand, he was glad they would have a little more time to just get to know each other. Assuming he was right regarding Kurt's...intentions, he didn't want whatever they were going to do to be like the things he had done in school: hurried hands in the darkness, and then ignoring each other until the need became to great. He didn't want that with Kurt.

But he didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know what he could want, what he could even dare to wish for. Was there more than furtive touches in the dark for people like him?

And was his time usefully employed imagining what he could or could not have with a person he had only just met?

Chuckling, he finally shook himself out of his thoughts. Realizing he was still in the hallway and had not even noticed the footmen taking his coat and his mother's purchases, he frowned: this infatuation had taken on excessive extents.

He might need a distraction. And, as little as all of them might want to face it: it was time he found an occupation for himself, something that would allow him to lead a more independent life. He might not be what he could call friends anymore with his former classmates, but if he could swallow his pride, he could still use those connections to find a suitable position.

He should write these letters right now.

On the way to the stairs that would take him to his room, however, he passed the little silver tray the post was put on, and on it, there was a visiting card:

On expensive-looking paper with a gold rim, the name Sebastian Smythe, Earl of Dalton, and as Blaine turned the card, the scribbled invitation to visit any morning this week.

[protectorsofthewood]

Abby and Wendy - Episode 40

SAILING IN THE LIVING WORLD

Lluvia slowly motored up the left bank of the river. “We’ll put some distance between us and the college, and then we’ll sail. There’s a nice wind blowing upstream.”

The sky was overcast with thick gray clouds. Moisture was in the air. The sun was in hiding. Time went by. Abby began to calm down. The murmuring had receded far away, barely to be heard at all. Yet it was still there.

The prospect of sailing began to interest Abby. She had been longing to try it for months, and now examined the mast and the boom with the sail wrapped around it, lying almost under their feet. Lluvia noticed Abby’s attention start to perk up. Keeping one hand on the outboard motor, she lifted the boom and began to draw it back over the stern of the boat. Abby got the idea and helped slide it out from under the benches. Lluvia told her how to clamp the boom and the sail to the mast.

“We’ll raise the sail going into the wind. It’s safer and easier.” She made a U-turn and suddenly the boat was headed downstream. “Pull on that rope. It’s called the halyard.” The rope was attached to a pulley at the top of the mast. Abby slowly raised the sail, which fluttered in the wind. “Okay, take that rope. It’s called the sheet. Let the sail out slowly on the left side, that’s where the wind will catch it.”

Lluvia quickly removed the motor and slid a wooden tiller into place. She looked carefully ahead and behind, and then made a slow U-turn into the middle of the river. “Let the boom out little by little.” Suddenly the wind filled the sail. “More, more. Keep going!” Soon the sail was out at right angles to the boat. Lluvia guided the boat up the left side of the river. The boat rocked against the rolling water, splashing up over the bow.

Abby was thrilled. They made very slow progress, but moving against the current it felt as though they were going fast. Everything suddenly seemed alive, as if they were part of a new world.

“Does this boat have a name?” she asked.

“This boat is brand new. We just finished it a week ago. I’ve been waiting to name it, and paint my logo and decorations. Think of a name.”

“How about ‘the world is alive’?” “Very nice, but too long.” “’The Living World’?” “Mmmm... not a normal name, but... maybe. In fact, yes, that’s it!”

Lluvia was enthusiastic. “It’s the Living World! Our Living World.” “This is fun. I feel so much better.” “Thank God. I saw you struggle. Want to talk about it?” “Not now, not yet. Maybe later.”

“I’ll make a deal,” Lluvia offered. “I’ll give you a long sailing lesson, teach you everything. And then you talk about it.”

“How long will it take us to get back to Middletown?” “As long as you like.” “Really? What if I want it to take a very long time?” “No problem. All the better.”

“It’s a deal.” “Promise?” “Yes, I promise. You’ll help me.” “Okay, Let’s start. First, I think we should wear life jackets. I have to

teach you the difference between jibing and coming about.” She grabbed two orange vests from a storage compartment in the bow, and they fastened them with Velcro. “Now,” Lluvia went on, “notice that the wind is gusting, and blowing on our backs, and the sail is out wide on the left side. We make at least some progress against the current, and don’t have to tack back and forth across the river the way we would if the wind were coming at our faces.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You’ll get it once you actually see it. Mmm... let’s say a boat is coming downstream right at us. Of course, they’re supposed to stay in the middle of the river, but maybe they’re trying to pass somebody. So, we have to get out of the way. We can’t turn sharp to the left because we’ll run into the bank. No choice but to turn right. Watch what happens.”

Lluvia looked up and back, and then slowly turned right toward the middle of the river. “Pull in the sail a bit once you see it start to flutter. They call it luffing.” The Living World was now heading at a 45 degree angle to the opposite bank, the sail still on the left side, pulled closer to the boat. As they drew near the bank, Lluvia said, “Now watch this. Let’s say we have to turn left. And pull your head down low. Very low.” She turned sharply back across the river.

“Pull in the sheet! Duck! More, more!” Suddenly the wind at their backs caught the sail and sent the boom flying over their heads to the right-hand side. The jolt tipped the boat dangerously on its side, and almost tore the sheet from Abby’s hands.

“That’s called a jibe,” Lluvia told her. “Lesson number one.”

Almost three hours went by. During the last hour Abby was sailing the Living World, and loving it. Lluvia talked non-stop. No disasters occurred.

“I’m starving,” Lluvia said. “We’re almost at Half Moon. We’ll tie up at the dock on the park side. I’d better show you how to safely slow down to dock.” She hugged the left side of the river, and soon they approached a pier with empty spaces. “We’ve got to time this right. Get ready to lower the sail and pull in the boom.”

Abby took the rope holding the sail to the top of the mast off the cleat.

“Get ready... ready... Now!”

She let go of the rope and pulled the sail to the deck. The Living World quickly lost headway against the current, but they were near the shore and the wind was behind them. They slowly drifted into the dock. Abby held it off with her hands, and then stepped off with the bow rope, and tied it to the cleat. Lluvia used an oar to bring the stern to the dock.

“Success!” she shouted. An attendant came trotting up. “Oh, it’s you, Lluvia. “Everything okay?”

“We’re good. I hope Brenda’s is still open.” “Until dark.” “Great. Let’s go, Abby.” Abby was still sitting in the boat, feeling no desire to mix with

people. “Oh, I think I’ll just stay here. I’m not very hungry, just bring me something.”

Lluvia gave her a long look and nodded, and then walked ashore. Abby moped alone in the boat. How am I going to describe my problem to Lluvia? Should I even try? It’s so strange and complicated. Should Lluvia know about the mapstick? Well, she actually knows already. She’s trustworthy and discreet, and I really need somebody. It’s all too crazy, too much for me. I think I’m going crazy.

Abby stared out at the water. Sailing today I actually started to feel happy. Like a normal person, part of the living world. I’ve got to do this more often. I’ve got to trust Lluvia.

Abby sat in a daze for what seemed like a long time. Eventually Lluvia returned holding a full paper bag with both hands. “Best tamales in the universe! Coffee! Potato squash chips, lots of them. Apple cider. Come on, take this bag, we’ll eat in the boat.” She handed the bag to Abby and stepped down. “I’m going to hand out stuff and you’re going to eat. It’s mandatory. I’m the captain.”

“Oh my...” Abby began to smell the hot food. “Oh, there’s so much of it. And I owe you money!”

“No! I’m the captain and you’re the crew. I give the orders. Start with some cider and a cheese tamale. Munch on these delicious chips.”

The tamales were fresh and hot, each one wrapped in corn husks. Abby began to pick at the food. Lluvia had finished two tamales and a large handful of chips while Abby was just getting started.

“Hmm, this is good,” Abby said softly. “I’m starting to get hungry.”

Lluvia waited silently and patiently. Abby looked away, out at the river flowing by. She was wondering: Where do I even start to tell this story? I can’t say a word. But I can eat!

“Finish that second tamale,” Lluvia ordered. “It’s mandatory. Once you’re finished, I’m going to tell you something important. If you want to hear it, eat!”

Abby stuffed herself and then leaned back against the mast. They sat close together in the thin boat. Lluvia spoke in a low voice: “Since you can’t talk, I’m going to tell you your own story. If I start to get it wrong, interrupt me, and add details I’m leaving out. Got it?”

“You’re going to tell me my story? We haven’t seen each other in years. But... I really hope you can. I’ve got to hear this.”

“You know,” began Lluvia, “I’ve been following your recent career, and I’ve got lots of sources. Plus, I remember you very well, back when I was River Girl and you were... who? Come on, say it.”

“I was... Ghost Girl.” Abby was almost in tears. To have Lluvia back as a friend, someone who knew much of her secret life, almost made her sob with joy. She felt relieved of part of her burden. Lluvia clearly had a plan for this conversation, and continued:

“In the story, River Girl spent a lot of time...where?”

“Well, lots of places. She had a whole team of people on the river. They had a hide-out on an island in the wetland. They explored, and they showed up with a fleet of boats in emergencies. Other young warriors would join them to help people and deal with problems. I was just thinking about that today. You remember, when I spoke to the crowd, and promised an armada for the U.N. conferences?”

Lluvia was smiling. “I sure do remember! That’s my idea. You picked it up out of thin air. I’ve been preparing people from River City to Fisher’s Island, all across the wetland and up to Northern State University. We have an organization with no name. People with boats love my idea, and now it’s your idea too. We’re a team.”

“But what do I do on this team?” “Ah! That’s where your story comes in.” “Well, go ahead. Tell it.” “Okay. But you’ll have to answer questions... like, tell me: Where

was the Ghost Girl from? Where did she spend time?” “Sonny was just asking me. She was from everywhere.” “And her mother was...?” “The Good Fairy.” “And the Good Fairy spent a lot of time... where?” “She could go everywhere. She could fly, and knew what was

happening all over. Animals were her spies. She could zoom into a situation just in the nick of time.”

“And the Ghost Girl did what?”

“She learned from the Good Fairy. But the Ghost Girl could never do all the things that the Good Fairy could do.”

“But still, the Ghost Girl had special talents. She could even do things the Good Fairly couldn’t do.”

“Really? I don’t remember that.”

“The Good Fairy had a special wand with a magical light at the tip. And the Ghost Girl had a wand too.”

“Mmm... that’s interesting. She did have a sort of wand, more like a staff, and it had a light too. It’s strange I had forgotten that.”

“But you just remembered recently because...?”

“The mapstick. The wand wasn’t so big, but... yes, it was very similar.”

“And the Ghost Girl’s wand had special powers too, right?”

Abby was getting all choked up. She looked away, trying to control herself.

Luvia gave her a careful look. “I’m starting to hit the problem, right?”

Abby gave a sob, or a moan, and tears fell. “This is too hard. It’s scary.”

“Okay, just one more question. These special powers... Where did the Ghost Girl use them?”

“Oh! The wand shone in the dark. At night! And...” Abby sobbed again. “Underground. Especially underground.”

“Tell me about the underground.”

“It was a secret from most people. They were afraid, so the Ghost Girl was queen of the underworld. She could go places nobody else could go. She could travel here and there with no one knowing. And she could find out things, enter the dream dimension, foretell the future, and contact other powers, both good and bad. And she could help to heal people, at least sometimes. People go lost down there, like in a dream, and the Ghost Girl could find them. She even...” Tears streamed down her face. “She even found herself.”

Abby could no longer speak. She put her face in her hands. The attendant called from the dock. “Everything okay?”

“It’s good to cry sometimes,” Lluvia replied. She pulled a bandana from the tiny storage compartment and gave it to Abby. “Dry your eyes. Drink cider. You’ll see your way more clearly now.”

After a few minutes Abby said, “I’m remembering things in a flood. I don’t know why I couldn’t think of them before.”

“You remember things when you need them.” “Mmmm... how did you get to be so smart?” “I’ve always been smart. I should say...’we’ve always been smart’.

And now we have to use it.” “I’m trying.”

“I can see you’ve got this tiger by the tail. Want to tell me any more?”

“The voices. Babbling from the underworld. What are they? Before I only heard them underground, but lately I hear them almost anywhere. I feel like I’ve got to track them down or they’ll drive me crazy.”

“Do you think you can do it? Track them down?” “I’m pretty sure I can, but I’m afraid. Wendy warned me not to.” “Really? What did she say?” “Something about having a full plate for that day. Not to spoil it by

adding anything. And there’s an ancient rhyme that goes with the voices. A line goes: Very few have found the way, from the stream of ghosts to the light of day.”

“Hmm... very few. Very few is not none. And Wendy didn’t say no. It sounds like... at least she implied, that your day would come.”

“Yes, I think so. That’s why I’m a mess. I have to confront this... whatever it is, tonight. As soon as it’s dark.”

“Do you know the way?”

“Not really. I mean I know a little bit, but not enough. The mapstick puts a map of the underworld in my mind, but the place I’ll have to go isn’t on the map. I know the direction, but then it just dissolves, vanishes. It’s in the underworld somewhere, but it’s off the chart.”

“I have the feeling you know what you’re going to do. Here, take this coffee. It’s good.”

They sat sipping strong, bitter coffee, from small paper cups. The day was darkening and the clouds were more threatening. The wind had picked up, and was knocking them against the pier. Lluvia tied a couple of pontoons to protect the boat. Looking downstream there was nothing but darkness. The sky upstream had a bit of pale light left from the day.

Abby remembered a song of Wendy’s. “A few times when I’m sad or afraid, I remember Wendy singing this song.”

“Well...” Lluvia said impatiently. “Go on. I want to hear it too.” Abby sang softly:

Time has flown by like the wind in the trees Who knows where it comes from Where it’s going you can’t see

“I like it,” Lluvia said. “Give me on more verse. Maybe it will tell us something.”

When you were a child It seems like yesterday The years have gone by Like an afternoon at play

“Yes, time is flying by. We’ve got to outrun this storm coming up behind us. The tide is coming in with the storm. We’ll make good time.”

“Tide all the way up here in Half Moon?”

“Yeah, tide all the way to the wetland. It comes up the river, makes it flow slower. Take your rope off the cleat, here we go.”

Lluvia sailed the Living World, and Abby sat and thought and dreamed. The wind was stronger. The voices were a low murmur. She felt more confident, and was less afraid. Keeping watch for obstacles in the river kept her on the alert. Lluvia knew every inch of the river, so Abby didn’t worry about rocks or sandbars.

“So, where do you want to get off?” A bit of rain was in the air. “Same place. Near the cemetery.” In a few minutes Lluvia said, “Coming ashore, sail down. Take it off

the mast and we’ll roll it up on the boom. The storm will be powerful, I won’t risk the run by night.”

“You can stay in my cottage,” Abby said, despite her misgivings about having Lluvia seen by stalkers.

“No. I’ll be at the West Isle in less than an hour. I have the motor, the tide, and the wind.”

Abby put on her backpack. The Living World slid up the mud just before the bridge. It was practically dark. Lluvia followed Abby onto the shore, gave her a long hug, and stepped back into the boat.

“Next time you’re in Rivergate I’ve got a special present for you. You can guess what it is. Now push me off.”

The boat drifted downstream. Suddenly the low sound of the motor began, and the Living World disappeared into the night.

[shaterallyse]

I’m 31 Now!

I haven’t been on here since 2017, when I was 29. Whew chileee!! Looking at my old pics makes me both nostalgic and a bit jealous. I’d rather be jealous of myself than of someone else though so HEEEYYYY!!

So anyway, let’s see, what’s new? I’ve gained weight (wahhhh!). About 30lbs and though I’m losing it again, still, I feel totally different in my body. 

I’m now an equinox trainer, have been for 2 years now and I am starting to get burned out. It’s a lot, they ask for a lot, you have to do a lot to make money, and there are easier, better, healthier, more lucrative ways to do this. 

I’m leaving New York this year (YYAAASSSS!!). My time here is up. I know that, I’ve been known that and I am absolutely thrilled to be here (as in getting ready to leave). I’m moving to Atlanta and MAY possibly go home to DC for a few months as a transition. We’ll see. More to come :)

I’m no longer with Eric. I broke up with him almost 2 years ago and it was and still has been one of the BEST things I’ve done here in New York. I’m very happy without him. We are still cordial, talk from time to time but other than that, he is no longer my world and I am forever grateful for that because it. was. ROUGH!

I have braces now. Have had them for for a year and 4 months now and they are set to come off sometime this fall. My smile loos so much better and though these things constantly cut the inside of my mouth, it’s temporary and my smile is part of my confidence. I’m very grateful to be able to afford them as I’ve wanted/needed them for years. 

My next big investment is Therapy as I want to start going for a bit. Some things I need to clear including self esteem, future visions, mind set and forgiving myself, certain family members and getting unstuck.

I currently live in Brooklyn, Park Slope area (near Prospect Park) and it’s aiight. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, when in NYC, I’m a MANHATTAN GAL! But this was cool having been through what I’d been through.

I read an old entry about when I was going through bed bugs and BABY! It was bigger than I originally knew. Long story short, a guy who Josh approved to move in (I was against him) brought them with him and as I started getting bit, Josh didn’t take it serious enough so after they sprayed and they came back maybe 3 months later, I moved out without paying the rent because NO! And no one should ever have to live like that. EVER!

Needless to say that friendship is over. But everyone can’t come with you on your journey. Wish him nothing but the best!

Working out has become harder because I’m a gym all day training others that I don’t want to stay to workout. I have to force myself most days and before becoming a trainer, it was never that. This may be a case of your hobby turning job turning burden? I don’t know. I’ll figure it out because baby I’m NEVER giving up fitness and working out. Ever!

My mom and I aren’t talking. Big blow up after my cousin’s wedding in NC, she doesn’t respect me enough to change her ways when it comes to me and literally said she won’t and I’m done with that. Will always be my mother, will always love her, but I’m not tolerating it anymore and the effect it has on my mental. 

I am really excited that I only have 5 months left in NYC. Diamond is staying here for now, she doesn’t want to but it may be better for her career-wise to stay a little longer. Do I want her to come with to ATL? Of course, but what’s best for her is more important.

Moving to ATL because I feel I can use my passion of fitness to pay my bills and fund my living costs while continuing to go after my dreams of film and singing. I’m a little nervous that I may feel lonely again since, like in LA, I’ll be so far from home (ATL is about 9-10 hours driving from DC) but, I do have my godsister/cousins down there so I’m hoping it’s different. A part of me also is thinking that I should move back home to DC permanently. Again, I don’t know if it’s because of fear of feeling alone, missing out on family events (I freaking love and have so much fun with my cousins, aunts and uncles), etc. I will be closer to NC where I also have cousins and my uncle. I also considered moving to Charlotte (still kinda am) but push come to shove I’ll be able to drive on down the road to NC for some good ol’ home cookin’. I just know at this point in my life, if I’m moving somewhere far that doesn’t already have an opportunity waiting for me, I need to be with/near family.

I’m going to Chicago this year for my vacation (Aug 14-18). My cousin Harrison and his family lives there. I’ve never been, have only heard good things about it and am excited for another solo summer vacation (well kinda solo).

I have a fitness/health Youtube channel under ShateraShatera and my IG is also geared towards it. I wanna monetize off of all of this so that at the end of the day, I have a passive income so that I can fund my lifestyle while still chasing my acting/singing dreams. 

Oh! I’m learning to play the piano! One of my clients is a piano teacher and stage music writer who heard my singing Youtube channel and rode me about learning to read music, which turned into learning to play the piano with the goal of being able to write my own music/songs and play the piano. Next Alicia Keys right here?!

Ha! I’m on the come up right now as far as my attitude goes, my mental, balancing my emotions, positive mindset, yeah. It’s improving, I’m reading my bible plans again consistently, my spirit is improving I feel and I’m just glad. 

[hollenka99]

Lost and Found

Summary: Jameson spends time with his kids, creates one of his most famous shorts and a jazz singer threatens to kill the Jolly Gentleman.

Warnings: Reference to blackface, 

September 10, 1923 Dear Mother,

Already, Anthony is in middle school. He has begun attending Joseph Le Conte Middle School. They only began admitting students last year. Therefore, his class is only the second to join the school at sixth grade. I asked him what he thought of this but he seems to be nonchalant to a degree.

In your last letter, you spoke of your hands. I am empathetic. I understand not wanting time to leave you behind. For you, it is the inability to sew because of your osteoarthritis. For me, it's the inability to speak properly due to my vocal cord paresis. I am willing to bet genuine dollars that they will discover a way to incorporate sound into the pictures and make the shift within a decade. I have half-heartedly made peace with my limitations. I fear it's long due that you do the same with yours.

Don't make any dolls for any of your younger granddaughters, not if it is guaranteed to be at your expense. If you're dead set on sending such a gift, ask Mabel to help you with crafting it. Please don't abuse yourself. That is the last thing any of us wishes for.

Yours, Jameson

December 4, 1923 Dear Jameson,

I recall you saying Floyd was a 'ghastly name'. I am guessing you never said that to Clifford. I doubt you ever will now. Especially with his birthday and Christmas almost upon us.

Yours, Mabel

December 18, 1923 Dear Mabel,

Please do not bring that up. When he announced the name to us, I held my tongue. Why Floyd? Of all the names he could have chosen to bestow upon his son, why is God's name did he pick Floyd? Not only that, what on earth possessed him to prefer Floyd to Lloyd? Lloyd is a perfectly good name, it is practically the same and I am sure it is more popular too. Who even calls their child Floyd anymore? By my guess, this time next century, Floyd will grow so unpopular in favour of Lloyd that it will be a rare occurrence to meet one.

Still, he is our nephew. I do struggle to imagine how he went from Louise to Floyd. Louise is such a pretty name for a girl. When Siobhan was pregnant with Sophia, it was one of the names we considered. If in two months we have another daughter, we may opt for Grace, Victoria or Eleanora, now that Louise is off the table. Should you also have a daughter next month, I'd ask you not to steal those names. This business is already tricky enough without reducing our options.

If Floyd wishes to change his name once he comes of age, I won't blame the boy.

Yours, Jameson

Harriet Victoria Jackson Female February 8, 1924 Los Angeles Siobhan O'Hara Jameson Jackson

February 9, 1924 Dear Mother,

We have finally been blessed with the second daughter we had been hoping for. Therefore, six grandchildren is all you're getting out of me. At least there won't be any more debates between myself and Siobhan.

We've given her the name Harriet Victoria. She was born late last night which, yes, means her birthday is February 8th. I was aware it was a possibility but I convinced myself the chances were unrealistically smaller. I don't seem to have much luck when it comes to when my daughters are born, do I? If they're not being born far too early, they're born on what should have been their uncle's 44th birthday.

Her name is deliberate. We both like Harriet and Victoria but couldn't decide between them, among other contenders. We almost picked Eleanora. However, once she was actually born, Harriet Victoria seemed to be the perfect combination. It is fitting for her birthday.

Yours, Jameson

April 29, 1924 Pearl,

Do you mind fixing the stitches on Sophia's new doll? Mother barely managed to get the thing to stay intact. With her osteoarthritis, I'm surprised she got as far as she did.

I don't want to rush you but I would prefer if it was done quickly. I spun a tale about the doll needing the night to get used to America. Sophia believes the toy is going to explore our sitting room as she sleeps.

I am sorry for asking this of you at such short notice. You know how I hate to be a burden. With your expertise, there is no doubt you will do a fine job.

You have my eternal thanks, Jameson

May 1, 1924 Dear Mother,

On Sophia's behalf, I'd like to thank you for the doll you made for her birthday. She adores and refuses to part with it. You certainly succeeded in making her happy.

She may love it unconditionally but it makes me uneasy. I know it must have caused a great deal of pain to make it. Your hands aren't the same as they were when I was six years old. You were even struggling when I was preparing to get married. That was 14 years ago. You should stop pushing your hands past their limits. It must hurt you to do basic tasks such as cooking. Why would you deliberately put yourself through it for your granddaughter's sake? You could have gotten Mabel to do the stitching for you. Sophia would not treasure the doll any less.

Hoping you are caring for yourself, Jameson

July 13, 1924 Jameson,

Would you be able to visit Saint John this summer? I feel this may be your last chance to bid farewell to the house we grew up in.

The truth is I am debating whether I should sell it. I know, it is a major development that possibly seems to have come from nowhere. In actuality, this has been on my mind for a while. Edward keeps me in better comfort than our parents did. This isn't about increasing our prospects. I'd never be that selfish. The issue is our mother. She can't stay there forever. Half the time, I'm visiting her to help with the chores she cannot do any longer.

She is stubborn though. I'm afraid that is a trait you've gotten from her. It isn't like you were the only one she passed that irritating habit to. We all have first-hand experience with that. I am coaxing her with unlimited access to my children. I'd like to believe that aspect is causing her resolve to slowly wane. Nevertheless, she wishes to stay in the home she's lived in since the 70s. No reminder of Granny living with us sways her either. She only replies with the fact her own mother lived the entirety of her widowhood without requiring to move to her child's house. What Mother neglects to acknowledge is that Grandma's husband was a headmaster while she ended up marrying a labourer. The difference in salaries is considerable. By this point, I can only assume the largest factor is vanity. God forbid she has to end up like her mother-in-law.

I spoken to Edith. She has supported my argument. Infuriatingly, Mother doesn't see her viewpoint as entirely valid anymore. Since announcing her impending marriage, Mother hasn't been quite as warm towards Edith. She states the only connection they share is Edith's daughters. Expressing my opinions is futile.

Still, my offer stands. Visit the house before anything is finalised. After all, she cannot remain in that house alone. I will have to sell that house despite not wanting to part with it either. The three of you in California can easily pay the bills for her with your routine sending of money to Canada. As much as I wish finances were the issue, therefore making my plans unnecessary, it is instead her health. Unless some madman attempts to replace her hands with a younger version, there is no other option for her other than to partially relinquish her independence.

Wishing you well, Mabel

July 30, 1924 Mabel,

The three of us have been discussing this matter between us. We agree with you. However, we think there is a better solution. One of us could buy the house from you. That way, Mother will live with you and be under your care but none of us will have to bid farewell to such an important part of our lives.

Tell us when it would best suit you for us to arrive in Saint John for any negotiations necessary.

Yours, Clifford, Jameson and Pearl

November 6, 1924 Dear all,

I came across a compilation of Wilfred Owen's poetry recently. I decided to buy the book. It is fitting for this time of year.

'Dolce et Decorum Est' struck a nerve with me. I was angered by the message but not in disagreement. In fact, I could hardly read past the second stanza. I was fine with the imagery of soldiers marching across the trenches wearily. However, it is difficult to read a description of a man 'drowning' from gas when your own brother suffered a similar fate. I don't know whether the type of gas mentioned in the poem is the same Harvey inhaled but the vivid image is harrowing to picture nonetheless. Yet, I persevered and reached the end. The last two rhyming couplets forced me to sit in my chair simply to absorb them fully. A Latin phrase is used, translating into 'It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country'. Never was there a saying so incorrect.

I enquired about Owen himself, only to learn the poor bastard met his end a week before the war met its own. A year younger than Pearl too. I'm glad his loved ones strived to publish his poems. People should read them and have a better understanding of what those men truly experienced. There was that ridiculous propaganda poster several years ago that I always hated. It was the one with two children asking their father what he did during the war, implying he did not enlist and was therefore less of a man. If any of my six were to question me, I'd tell them I tried to bring some laughter to such tragic times. That is an admirable feat to attempt.

I'll leave you with the lines that moved me.

My friend, you would not tell in such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Yours, Jameson

January 9, 1925 Dear all,

Yesterday, we returned home from our holiday visit to Ireland. It's been too long since I set foot in the country. Siobhan has taken the children to see their grandfather and uncle occasionally. Unfortunately, there never ceases to be something or other preventing me from taking my leave to join them. Until now, that is.

The chorea has begun to set in, leaving his handling of utensils clumsy. Throughout our stay, Michael was as irritable and impulsive as Henry or Theodore can be in their worst moments. He is in the intermediate stage, their father tells me. He has also relayed to me how my brother-in-law's dependence on him is increasing, some examples of which I have witnessed first-hand. Having never met an individual with the condition, I must say it was quite the shock. Siobhan warned me about he may behave. I still wasn't prepared. Neither, it seems, was Siobhan. Though, that is to be expected. After all, Michael is her brother.

Siobhan pulled me to one side last night, shortly after we sent the children to their own beds. She asked if I was willing to let her return to Limerick once the time comes for her father to require assistance. I understand it's expected for her to 'obey' me as her husband but the notion I would deny her request is preposterous. This Christmas wasn't some experiment to sway my views. Her brother is chronically ill and, however much we wish it wasn't the case, he is most certainly going to die from his illness. How could I refuse to allow her to help a dying man, especially when he is family?

I will say this, I am dreading her leaving. Although it may be years away right now, she will have to leave. I am going to miss her dearly when she does. Not only that, when she finally returns to us, there's no doubt the experience will change her. I am unequipped to provide her with adequate comfort.

Yours, Jameson

May 14, 1925 Dear Mother,

I seem to be in a creative slump. All I ever seem to do is adapt previous works or allow my writings be based on historical events. Everyone appears to be interested in creating another story inspired by cowboys and the wild west. The local landscape allows for that. I don't particularly care for the genre.

Anthony is at that awkward age where I can no longer use him as a child nor can I pass him off as a young man yet. He's enquiring if there are any roles he can fill. I despise having to constantly turn him down. The boy wants to follow in my footsteps professionally. I have the power to help with that, provide him with an advantage most won't have. It frustrates me when I am unable to do so.

If you have any plot ideas to send me, especially ones that involve a thirteen year old boy, I'd be much obliged.

Yours, Jameson

August 16, 1925 Dear all,

We spent a few days to see the Redwoods in North California. I've been wanting to come face to face with them for a while. They are larger than I'd expected, this coming from someone who had already braced himself for a massive tree. To some's disappointment, they are impossible to climb due to their width and lack of low-lying branches.

It's good that we've shown them nature. They're being raised in a city, same as their parents, and not exposed to woods or rivers. Sophia thrives in this environment. Henry usually sticks by her so he has a better chance of coming across wild animals. Theodore tags along as well, likely to be part of their group. I usually asked Anthony to keep an eye on them whenever we were preoccupied with Harriet or the dogs. We didn't bring Lyra with us, unfortunately. At her age, she wouldn't have enjoyed all the stress of travelling.

I recall promising to stay by Sophia's side should she ever need the company when she was born. Instead, I'm giving her things to keep her busy because she broke her leg while exploring near our campsite. She's trying her hand at whittling which she has taken to thus far. Additionally, Theodore stole a potato from his dinner plate a few days ago. It's since had pins stuck in it and a smiling face drawn on one side. He has been named George. I will have to dispose of George when he stops looking so fresh.

Yours, Jameson

October 6, 1925 Dear all,

After asking around, I have found an outlet that will suit both Sophia and Henry. It's an organisation founded roughly 15 years ago by a British couple. It encourages children to develop into upstanding citizens through earning badges and camping. The Americans adopted it not long after. Canada must have introduced the organisation earlier than the US, considering it's part of the Empire.

Girl Scouts begin at age 5 with Brownies, which I understand to be mythical creatures. When she is 10, Sophia will move on to become an Intermediate and thereafter a Senior after her 14th birthday. Likewise, Cubs are the first stage of Boy Scouts until the boy turns 11 whereupon he will be promoted to a Scout.

The two of them look smart in their uniforms, don't you think? The photographs were taken as soon as they returned home from their first meetings. They're demonstrating their variants of the salute. Girl Scouts have their three fingers to the side while Boy Scouts are more militaristic by having their hand next to their head.

They enjoyed their first meetings so hopefully, this is a sign their enrollments were a successful move.

Yours, Jameson

November 10, 1925 Dear all,

Has 'Carving For Beginners' reached you at the Imperial yet? I am hoping to learn of your reactions as soon as possible.

This short heavily involves the children. For instance, the pumpkins at the front? Those are all carved by Oliver and Sophia. Henry scooped along with Theodore. For some reason, Sophia specifically wants credit for the wide one. The accompanying music? Siobhan's own composition. Anthony is the one who hands me the knife halfway through.

Can you guess who was responsible for clean up? That's correct, myself and Siobhan. I will give Anthony credit where it is due. We were all meant to take part in the disposal of waste materials. While the others wandered off after becoming bored, he stayed behind to finish the job. We couldn't finish fast enough. My love for preparing pumpkins with the children just about surpasses my hatred for the smell. The Gentleman doesn't exaggerate on that.

Some of the title cards were inspired by things that happened while the five of them were preparing the pumpkins. Ollie struggled to get the lid off his pen and begrudgingly accepted my help. The pumpkin screams after the Jolly Gentleman makes the first cut because Theodore held one in front of his face before roaring like he was some pumpkin monster.

I wrote this short for them, almost as if the Jolly Gentleman was instructing them on the practise. I cannot express how much fun I've had whilst making it. I should make another short involving them behind the scenes before sound is introduced to film. I'll likely wait a couple years so Harriet may be old enough to be included.

Still detecting the faint smell of pumpkin somewhere, Jameson

February 24, 1926 Dear Mother,

Recently, I've been reflecting on the events of February 1897. A lot happened. I became afflicted with something we had never come across previously. There was a race for Father and Harvey to get their wages. I played soccer with Clifford before he sent me to bed because my heart was beating unnaturally fast. Harvey sprinted whilst carrying me because he was a faster runner than Father and I woke delirious that morning. Then, after all that, we celebrated your birthday while I was recovering from the operation.

This is somewhat of a tangent but do you recall me saying I was stuck for ideas? I have one but I'd be extremely surprised if you approved of it. It involves a boy named James and his twin sister Olivia, eternally nine and two years of age. Their names are non-negotiable. If they are grounds enough for you to think less of me then I'm sorry to hear that. But this censorship outstayed its welcome years ago.

I want to honour her. I think you forget I came close to losing a daughter myself. I respect that isn't the same but I'm certainly closer to understanding than Mabel, Clifford or Pearl. The story won't be published in your lifetime either, if at all. This project is for my benefit.

I apologize for being blunt but I am not prepared to stay silent on the matter any longer. I promise it will be tasteful.

Yours, Jameson

April 30, 1926 Dear all,

Would you say I am an irresponsible father for bestowing my daughter a penny knife for her eighth birthday? Fear not, I haven't thrown caution to the wind.

There are some conditions Sophia must adhere to if she wishes to make full use of her present. She cannot use it without one of us supervising nor can she have it on her person when she isn't working with it. It will be securely stored away during those times, somewhere her brothers and Harriet are unable to access it either.

In the very least, this will save our kitchen knives from being used to artistically mutilate sticks. Working with wood seems to be her calling at the moment. She will whittle and craft wooden figures whether we approve or not. We may as well give her the tools so she may move past this phase to seek safer pursuits.

Henry questioned if he was receiving a similar present in September. Certainly not.

Yours, Jameson

August 2, 1926 Dear Mother,

Well, we've returned to the place it all began. The journey was a little chaotic with a party of eight travelling the width of the country. If anything, our time in New York has made me realise it's been a while since I relied solely on a bicycle for transport.

Ollie sounds like he has set himself high standards for his future. When he overheard his mother and I discussing the city while planning the trip, he became interested in learning more about Julliard. Now he's seen the building, he's motivated to attend. I've advised him to slow down a notch. He's still in elementary school. If anyone should be considering their education past their eighteenth birthday, it should be Anthony. Even so, he still has a few more days of being thirteen and won't begin high school until next month.

The time for college is not yet upon any of them. Should Oliver wish to apply to Julliard in several years and be accepted, I will be exceptionally proud of him. Even more so if he finds success thereafter. Moving to America at the age of 18 was risky, even with my brother by my side. I can't imagine moving to the other side of the country alone at that age. Still, if we were able to make things work in our favour, I can't see why Ollie can't.

And how could we visit New York without checking in on our favourite statue? When I retold the story of our joint trip to the Statue of Liberty and the revelation I had during it, the reactions were mixed. I don't mind. The only person whose approval of the story I need is Siobhan's.

Yours, Jameson

September 19, 1926 Dear all,

Today marks 20 years since Cliff and I first settled in New York. That city changed our lives in more ways than one. Despite all the grief we got from Edison's lot and their schemes, I look back on New York fondly. I'm glad I went there this summer. Due to all this reminiscing, I managed to dig out all my old records. Let me tell you, it was quite the trip down Memory Lane. I was almost 20 years old again.

'Streets of New York' was the first ever song I heard Siobhan sing, you know. Later, once we'd gotten to know each other, she confessed to me the song made her uncomfortable. Given its contents, I am not entirely surprised. That song earned her a lot of unwelcome attention. I can only imagine how many men asked her which street they could associate her with. In fact, she admitted to me earlier she was wary of me when I first approached her.

'Arrah Wanna', now that is a song. Oh, I remember how 'Mrs Barney, heap much Carney from Killarney's Isle' used to be my favourite sentence, even more so when Siobhan said it. Whenever I visited her apartment, she'd sing it in the thickest brogue she could muster in an effort to make me laugh. In response, I'd try impress her by playing 'Frog Legs Rag'. That tune's not an easy one. Good for a dance though. 'The Entertainer' as well. I think we played those two together on various occasions.

All of these songs mean a lot to me. However, none of the above could claim the title of my favourite of the era. That undoubtedly goes to 'The Galloping Major'. I cannot count the amount of times Cliff would play while I acted the part of the Major himself.

One time, likely at some point during 1907, the two of us spent an evening drinking. We may have recounted the Major's misadventures a little too enthusiastically. Our landlord paid us a visit after hearing complaints from our neighbours. How could we be too loud? Gramophones possess just two volume settings: On and Off. They've only devised a way to change that recently. Nevertheless, as soon as we rid ourselves of him, Clifford sang 'Nobody' and 'Moving Day' as loudly as his voice allowed him. I must have attacked the keys to match him.

On reflection, I'm surprised we weren't evicted for being highly disruptive under the influence. Not to mention Cliff was barely of age to drink so I certainly wasn't. The man could have landed me in dire trouble if he so wished. It's a good thing he was ignorant enough to believe I went about my day lacking sandwiches to picnics. I would have been fine in California. College freshmen could drink alcohol before the prohibition.

I noticed Anthony's face blanked when he truly listened to the lyrics. Yes, I'm afraid the song he associates with me giving him piggy-back rides when he was small isn't quite as innocent as he recalls. On the other end of the spectrum, Theodore probably has a year or so before he becomes too big for me to carry him as well.

Yours, Jameson

November 1, 1926 Dear all,

I've just read about Houdini in the papers. On my birthday, no less. What an odd coincidence. Although, the method of death appears to elude the reporters. I'm sure those who deal with this sort of thing need time to come to their conclusions. The man only died yesterday. Not everything is so obvious. I do, however, like to entertain the idea it'll remain as much of a mystery as his methods were in life. It seems fitting.

When I saw him, he'd recently retired his handcuff act due to an increase in imitators. Was it 1908 or '09? I can't recall. Definitely before we left New York. I took Siobhan with me to see him. The atmosphere that day was so good I almost wish I could revisit it. All these posters, promising you that 'Failure Means a Drowning Death' got us riled up for a great show. During his Milk Can routine, he'd invite an audience member or two on stage to hold their breath with him. Neither of us were lucky enough to be involved that way. I will say, the curtains were a bit of a cop-out on his part. His shows must have been more exciting when you could watch him escape.

He retired the Milk Can too. I always did plan to see his act once more. I would have liked to witness him escaping from that Water Tank of his for myself. Work, family and life in general prevented me from doing so. That's how it is sometimes.

Regardless, I hope his family will be allowed to grieve in private. I suspect Hardeen will carry on performing without his brother. He always came across as the plus one to me. I'm sure I remember seeing posters referring to him as 'Brother of Houdini'. Hardeen was the one who opened the curtains during acts. He made worthy contributions himself. Perhaps this unfortunate turn of events will allow the public to see that for themselves.

Yours, Jameson

December 30, 1926 Dear all,

Christmas in our household has been another success. Theodore, especially, has found himself quite happy with his lot. We bought him Winnie The Pooh by A. A. Milne. It tells some tales of a bear having fun with his friends, who know him as 'Pooh', in the woods they live in. I bet he would have dragged his two favourite siblings to go find sticks to throw into a stream, had we not stopped him. The next time we are in Saint John, I will make sure I bring the three of them to play this stick game on Reversing Falls Bridge.

Sophia has requested if she may have some felt and stuffing for a 'special project'. I'm looking forward to seeing what she creates for him. You'd be proud of how much her skill with a needle is improving. Not only that, I'm certain Theodore will enjoy the handmade gift too.

Nevertheless, I hope you had a good Christmas and we all wish you a pleasant 1927.

Yours, Jameson

April 14, 1927 Dear Mother,

A young woman arrived in Los Angeles with her brother several days ago. They waited for us outside the studios when we were heading to work. They are in California because she has applied to the school of medicine in Stanford. They claim they wished to see the state properly before she moves to Stanford later this year. Their journey must have been long seeing as Stanford is hours away by train and the duo hail from New York City.

Clara doesn't look anything like Clifford but there is something about her that strikes me as odd. I cannot explain it. When she smiles, I am immediately reminded of Father. It is nearly identical. If you saw it, I am sure you would make the same connection. While she doesn't appear to have inherited more of her looks from either parent, Daniel very much has gotten his appearance from his mother, at least from how I remember her.

Daniel, from what Cliff has relayed to me, is interested in pursuing studies in business once he is his sister's age. He shares that quality with his father, it seems. Back when we were living in New York and founding what was then Jackson Brothers Productions, I may have been the one overseeing things from the ground but Cliff has always been the one truly adopting the leadership role. I sincerely hope his boy succeeds in any business endeavours he sets his mind to.

The biggest mystery to me is how the two of them are 18 and 15 respectively. I was aware Clara is a year older than Alice and Daniel has a year on Anthony. That knowledge doesn't translate to actually seeing them before me as young adults. It is incomprehensible to me that the young children I once knew are practically adults now. At 14, Anthony is fast maturing to the point of becoming a man. I had been under the assumption that he would be the first Jackson to attend college. Yet, here he is, presumably demoted to the position of third. He appears to be slightly disappointed to have lost his bragging rights. I've reminded him all is not lost, he can still truthfully say he was one of the first in our family to receive a degree. Even so, he has no clue what exactly he wishes to study when the time comes.

Clifford has advised them to visit Canada if they ever found the opportunity. If they are willing to reach out to their father, they may be willing to extend that to his family. For now, they have returned to the east so they may celebrate Easter with their mother.

He has also refused to cease speaking about the few days he was able to spend with them. My ears are half spoken off from his ecstasy. I won't complain. He has regained a vigour he lost so long ago I'd forgotten he had ever possessed it in the first place. I have enjoyed acquainting myself with his eldest children. Some of my children briefly met their cousins as well. Henry has been enthusiastic about the discovery of Clara pursuing a career in medicine. He already plans to write to her on the subject.

Yours, Jameson

June 1, 1927 Dear all,

I am set to become a father for the seventh time shortly before Christmas. I know, we had planned for Harriet to be our youngest. It's always the way, isn't it?

We are hoping for another girl, purely because Siobhan would prefer the boy-girl ratio to even out. I wouldn't mind either but another daughter sounds appealing. Whichever sex the child is, I won't get to see their earliest years.

Michael's condition is worsening. I suspect he has a handful of years left. As such, Siobhan will move back to Limerick to help her father care for him. She plans to leave in January. I know she would go earlier, were she not pregnant. There is no way she would leave the baby with me. An infant needs its mother. As such, you won't be able to meet them until after she returns.

Nevertheless, I don't wish to dwell on the negative. The birth is months away. I will have to make the most of the short weeks with this new addition before I have to bid them and Siobhan farewell for an indefinite period.

Yours, Jameson

September 8, 1927 Dear Mother,

Theodore has entered kindergarten but instead of being excited, he is feeling down because Oliver has now begun his time at Joseph Le Conte. I don't understand why he is so upset by this. It is not as if school is the only place he could see his brother. Theodore acts as if he does not have Sophia and Henry at Selma Avenue also. They're in 4th and 2nd grade respectively. If this has anything to do with having a brother at the top of the elementary hierarchy, what can I say? He will do fine with those two looking out for him.

If anything, he should strive to avoid finding himself in as much trouble as they do. The two of them got a caning across their hands in the summer after an incident with a sparrow caused them to skip a class. While I sympathise with them, discipline is there for a reason. Better a ruler now than an actual cane later. I could tell them a story or two about the times I've returned to my desk for an uncomfortable remainder of the day. Knowing the trouble Cliff got himself into, he can probably beat me tenfold in regards to anecdotes.

What's worse than all that is the fact we are still very much missing Lyra. Holly and Woodrow may be able to fit on our laps but that doesn't compare to the way Lyra would curl up besides the children when they played on the floor. It broke my heart to have her put down. Siobhan loved her slightly more than I did. After all, Lyra was meant to be her dog and she spent more time with Lyra than I did.  She was always a sweetheart and so gentle towards the children, even when they were young and not so gentle towards her. Holly and Woodrow also appear to be missing her. Still, she was thirteen and I could see old age was bothering her. Human and canine alike are sticking by each other's side to comfort ourselves with the other's company.

Yours, Jameson

October 18, 1927 Dear all,

The future of the pictures has finally come.

Despite everything, I'm not bitter enough to ask you don't give the Warner brothers your money. Truth be told, 'The Jazz Singer' isn't terrible. Although, I still retain the opinion that blackface looks ridiculous. Actors need to improve their make up or find a genuine black person who wants to act. I haven't come across one yet. The majority of them sing instead. They write great music too.

It doesn't matter. I'm going to try not be impressed we now have the technology to have dialogue and singing all synchronised to the visuals. It's over, what more is there for me to say on the matter? I'm on borrowed time professionally. My Gentleman is going to be left to gather dust.

It's ironic, isn't it? My youngest child will grow up not watching silent pictures when their father was a big name of the era. I almost want to laugh at that.

Failing to be optimistic, Jameson

Eleanora Margaret Jackson Female December 11, 1927 Los Angeles Siobhan O'Hara Jameson Jackson

December 31, 1927 Dear all,

How was your Christmas?

Mine was spent making the most of my time with my third daughter. We've named her Eleanora, although she'll be known as Nora. She is going to be 3 weeks old tomorrow.

I have little over a week left with Nora. Every time one of my children was born, I enjoyed having them in my arms. I loved wondering what kind of individual they would become. Doing so with Nora causes a faint, unexplainable dread to rise in me. Many of her firsts will be on Irish soil, far away from me. Who is to say she won't return and be literate.

I know I have six other children, all of whom are dependent on me to varying degrees. I just can't stop hating the feeling of missing out. Like the rest of them, I want to be as much of a part of Nora's life as I am able. I suppose I should think of Siobhan. Lord knows how much she will miss. I lose one but she won't be able to see six. I really should stop these foolishly selfish thoughts.

Wishing you a happy new year, Jameson

[azulaahai]

You Could Draw Me To The Gallows - Jon x Sansa, regency era fic. A stupid one-shot I started for @jonsa-creatives historical event but didn’t finish on time, finished and posted it now since I haven’t written something longer for Jonsa for such a long time? 

This is mostly a bad Jane Austen impression since I finally read - and loved - Persuasion. Pardon all the awful historical inaccuracies and/or typos! 

Title from this lovely Dickens quote.  Read under the cut - or on AO3.

* * *

She gave a false name, of course, but it did not matter - the townsfolk had already begun to whisper. 

She'd been staying at one ragged inn after another, moving every few day to stay one step ahead of the rumors. It seemed, however, that she'd underestimated how fast word traveled - though a mere fortnight had passed, it seemed everyone had heard of Ned Stark's eldest daughter having run off with and been abandoned by Baratheon's heir.

Sansa had dyed her hair, let flaming auburn turn darkest brown, but it seemed some still recognized her, still knew of her shame and stupidity. Under the name of Alayne Stone, she went from village to village, hiding from view as best she could.

It would not last forever. Neither would her money. Baratheon had left her nothing, of course - Sansa could not even find the energy to be bitter anymore. She had what little she brought from home, that cursed night she'd gone off in the Baratheon carriage, thinking it would take her to the stars and beyond.

Oh, how silly she had been.

The thought of what she would do once the money was gone made a pit of dread open in Sansa's stomach. Her options were precious few, and Sansa found herself too terrified to weigh them properly. Of one thing, however, she was absolutely certain - she would not go home, even if her father surely would not turn her away. She'd brought enough shame upon her family's name as it was - raked it through the mud. In a single moment of folly, Sansa'd wounded Robb's future prospects, for certain, perhaps prevented Arya from ever making a benefitial match in marriage. Not that Arya would mind. A twist in Sansa's heart at the thought. She missed them all terribly.

But it was best for them all if she did not see them, never interacted with them again, Sansa told herself. Though in her heart she wondered if she herself could ever bare to see their faces, to look in their eyes and see what she'd done.

* * *

The worst part, though Sansa hated to admit it, was the loneliness. Not that Baratheon had provided much in the way of company, but with him there, she had not been so very bored. She'd read, attempted intellectual conversation that Joffrey failed to uphold, and he himself had had all sorts of ideas as to how to make time pass for them both.

Now that he was gone, having taken her future with him, she was left with an aching restlessness that was like to drive her mad. She found herself too distracted to read, too impatient to draw, and so she turned to walking, despite it meaning she would have to face the sometimes curious, sometimes flat out disapproving faces of villagers she met.

It was from one of these nervous, fast-paced walks of hers that she returned, on the day when everything was about to change.

* * *

It was in the entire atmosphere of the inn - something laid in the air, something shivering, expectant. Sansa glanced around suspiciously. She'd become increasingly anxious, after Joffrey's betrayal - increasingly frightened of the world.

But her eyes found no cause for alarm as they surveyed the room. The inn looked as she left it - small, crowded, not at all a place for a miss Stark of Winterfell. This was the dwellings of Alayne Stone, on her way to visit a fictional sick aunt in the Riverlands.

Having found no explanation for the peculiar sense of foreboding in the inn, Sansa was just about to walk up the stairs to quietly sneak back into her modest room when a servant emerged from the kitchens.

"Miss Stone?" the young girl called out in a knowing tone suggesting she knew just how false that name was. Sansa nodded nevertheless. She was not easily taunted, these days.

"You have a visitor. A gentleman, I should think! He's waiting in the sitting room for you."

Frozen, petrified, Sansa could feel herself paling. A gentleman calling on her?

Her first thought was - Joffrey. He must've come back for her. A chill crawled up her spine at that, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Joffrey had left, and he'd made clear it was for good.

But then, who had come?

"Did he give a name?"

"Yes, miss. Trouble is, I can't seem to remember it. Something short ... not Stone, of course, I mean, that's your name ..." the girl giggled. "Something like that, though. Salt? No, Snow! That's the name. Mr Snow."

* * *

Sansa stepped into the sitting room with the mind of someone facing their death sentence. Whatever Jon Snow had turned up here for, it could not be good.

Jon Snow had been part of her acquaintance since childhood, though Sansa had never quite taken to him. Her mother did not approve of Jon excessively spending time with the Starks as they grew older, due to his low birth. A few years back, at the brink of adulthood, Jon had unexpectedly acquired himself a smaller fortune due to an inheritance from a distant cousin. Sansa hadn't thought much of it at the time - he was still same old Jon to her, too brooding and serious to be of any interest to her.

Now, seeing him in the shaggy inn at which she'd taken residence, Sansa was surprised at the intensity and variety of her own emotions. She was surprised, of course, but more so she found that she was happy to see him, and that was enough to stun her - she was delirious, in fact, to see his familiarly set jaw, grey eyes she knew so well. He was dressed modestly, as always, but even so he stood out in the run-down sitting room. Jon Snow reminded Sansa so much of home she all of a sudden wanted to weep.

The other feelings she had upon viewing him were harder to interpret. There was a strange sort of grief for the past she had now tainted, and shame, vague and strong weighing her down, and something else, something almost longing, something that made her approach him faster, almost against her own will.

He stood from the sofa and Sansa halted. They stared at each other in awed silence for a moment.

"Miss Stark", he said.

"Sansa", she whispered, suddenly aching for someone to call her by that name. She'd been Alayne for so long now, it felt.

"Sansa", he obliged softly. "It really is you."

* * *

Sansa wasn't entirely sure what happened next, and if you'd asked her what they spoke of later, she would not have been able to tell you. Curtesies and inquiries filled conversation for a while - he brought detailed reports of her family's wellbeing, managing to without once mentioning  her elopement. Sansa couldn't adequately express her gratitude for that. 

She asked him how he'd found her. He admitted to having searched for ten days or so - almost since the day they'd first been sure that Baratheon had left her without intending to marry her. A quiet, seething rage radiated from Jon as he spoke of Baratheon. Sansa could not find it within her to think it improper. Finally, Jon'd heard of an Alayne Stone thought by locals to bear a striking resemblance to a miss Stark that had visited a year or so prior, and followed the trail, leading him to the run-down inn.

He'd been sent by her father, of course, though why Ned Stark would send a Snow to find her was beyond Sansa's understanding. When conversation inevitably turned to the big question - what would happen next, Sansa found herself almost panicking.

"I cannot go back home." Of this, she was certain - no matter how he tried to persuade her.

And did he try.

"Miss Stark", he'd start, time and time again.

"Sansa", she'd correct him through gritted teeth.

"Sansa, it is simply folly, to deny yourself the right to a future because of one past mistake, and one not entirely of your own making, either." Bitterness, was it, in his voice?

"It is not simply I who denies myself a future, as you so eloquently put it, mr Snow. Every single  wellborn northerner will deny me a future as well, should I come home. It would bring shame upon my family name, if it's possible to do so more than I have already done. I would be closed off from society for life, you know that as well as I. Don't you think I want to?" she breathed, and to her frustration she felt tears pricking. 

"Don't you think I want to go home? See the north again, apologise to my parents, hear Arya tease me to death? Of course I wish to go home, Jon Snow! But there's no future for me there, can you not see? I am a burden now. I will never marry and I -" A pause, to catch her breath and swallow to keep the tears at bay. In the sofa opposite her, Jon Snow had gone absolutely still. "If I am to be a burden, I will be mine own. Not my family's."

He did not reply, him turning away keeping her from reading his reaction. Silence fell again - not the awed silence of before, but a more bleak, sinister one. Sansa felt the room had gone cold. He remains quiet because he knows me to be correct. The thought stung surprisingly much. How she longed to be wrong!

“Miss Stark”, he blurted out.

“Sansa”, they both said in unison - Sansa correcting him at the same time Jon Snow corrected himself. Sansa stifled a smile at that.

It’d been a while since she smiled.

“I came here to offer a ... solution to the troubles you perhaps accurately appreciate.”

She interrupted him.

“There is no solution that will not end in the ruin of my family’s good name and the prospects of all my siblings, mr Snow, as you know very well. Yes, I suppose you know it better than most, the ... harshness of our social circle. How eager it can be to shun those deemed unworthy. No, there’s nothing that can be done for me, mr Snow, though words cannot describe how much I appreciate you trying.” It was true, her final statement, though the forwardness of it felt rather improper; Sansa felt herself blushing. She’d gone wild, unrefined, during her days on the run, it seemed.

“I beg your pardon, miss Stark, Sansa, but I believe you are mistaken. There is a way that you could return north with honor ... A way for you to come home.”

Sansa irritatedly felt her heart begin to beat faster, treacherous hope taking root in her stomach. A fool’s hope.

“What, mr Snow?” she breathed.

“A marriage.”

“... with whom?” she spat out, forgetting courtesy all together as the situation, in her eyes, abandoned all attempts at reason.

“I understand it is far from what you might have wished for”, he quickly said, seeming jarred by her confusion, a bitterness sneaking into the grey of his eyes. “It is ... I would never dare to presume, of course, and naturally you have the utmost right and understandable cause to refuse ... I spoke to your father, as we heard of Baratheon’s betrayal ... it - my fortune is humble, of course, and my estate naught compared to Winterfell, yet you would live comfortably, close to home. We could discuss -”

“Mr Snow”, she interjected his ramblings, shock having struck her to her core. “I do not think I grasp what you are saying -”

“I’m asking”, he muttered. “Miss Stark, Sansa, I - Marry me.”

[the-aspiring-author-me]

Lion of the Stars—Prologue: Life and Death

Joseon, 1560

It was cold this particular evening, despite it being the hottest month in all of summer. A chill lingered in the night’s air that could only have meant that rain was soon to come. It was extremely overdue. Generally, from the months of July to August, rained poured from the sky without relent -- the final month experiencing the highest amount of rainfall the kingdom would see the entire year. This August, such had not seemed to be the case. The crops were soon to harvest, and they had only been met with the desperately needed rain a handful of times.

The sounds errupting from the palace were very few and far between, making for a near perfect evening. The youngest Queen had instructed not to be bothered for the duration of the night, mentioning something about the visitation of a special guest. Her servants were quick to abide by her wishes, gratified by the prospect of not having to see the wretched woman, if only for an amount of hours. Nearly all of her servants despised her, even the most reasonable of them. The naive woman was continuially ill-mannered in a way that neither Queen Wangbi nor her sister had ever been. She disciplined her servants harshly for small mishaps, seemingly lacking any sense of empathy or reasonability. If they had not been accustomed to better, then they would not have known the difference, nor would they have been able to recognize how terrible the Queen’s actions truly were; they would have not known that not every royal acted the same way. Hardly any of them did, for that matter.

The following morning the Queen woke with a start. A moment later she realized it was not morning at all, but the middle of the night. This was not same youthful queen who had asked for isolation from her loathsome servants, but the King’s first and most dearly beloved wife, Queen Yi Wangbi. She was much older than Queen Sookyong, which could be told clearly by the hard lines of stress and worry for both her family as wells as her kingdom that persisted upon her aging face. Upon her waking, she had spotted a dark silhouette lingering in the corner of the room closest to the door. The middle-aged queen all but sprang into a sitting position, her long brown hair following suit.

“Who’s there?”

Such a question was dangerous, for if it went unanswered the punishment could be death.

“Your Majesty,” a young, female voice began. She mustn’t have been older than twenty, though the terrified expression she wore now gave her soft features a feign of innocence. The Queen knew then that her life was in no danger, but she suddenly came to worry for the others’. “You said that if anything was to ever happen, to make you aware of it before anyone else.”

The Queen rushed out of bed, throwing on a long robe over her nightclothes and slipping on a pair of sandals which had been sitting beside where the servant girl was standing, waiting patiently for her Queen as if her life were eternal. She allowed the girl to guide her outside, into the dead of night as the stars barely shone. They were moving along with great speed, reaching the quarters of the woman the Queen despised terribly. Queen Yi Sookyong.

The Queen remembered when the woman had arrived at the palace, shortly following the death of Queen Yi Sookwon. For months, the kingdom had mourned. Despite the rumors, Queen Wangbi had loved her. She had also been relieved upon her death all the same. She remembered the burden she felt when the King wed for the second time to a woman who was not her. The youngest queen had seemed snappy and harsh from the moment she’d arrived. She had spared Queen Wangbi so much as a glance or a greeting. Though she had put on a show of being a terribly sour woman, the eldest queen knew the truth as though it were written upon her youthful face. She was lonely, homesick. Queen Wangbi had come to offer the newly wed Queen a gift, when she’d stopped herself short, hearing the sound of a woman’s crying from outside of her chambers. She had not wanted to marry the King, despite everything. Queen Wangbi had felt empathetic toward the younger woman, regardless of the fact that she’d never been in a similar situation, for she had always loved the King, and he had loved her for a very long time, as well. Queen Sookyong had rejected all attempts Queen Wangbi had made at becoming friends, or even just acquaintances. She had rejeceted them so fiercely that it’d been crystal clear that she was terrified. She had believed that only herself could be trusted, that all others were seeking to remove or replace her. However, that was rarely the case. Queen Wangbi had never been trying to trick or entrap her. She’d only thought that the young woman had needed a confident. A confident, she would never accept. The Queen’s first mistake had been the self-isolation. One of many.

A small crowd of curious servants had begun to gather, all of which dissolved almost immediately at the moment of the Queen’s arrivial. She pushed her way through those brave enough to stay, entering the chambers of her rival. It was a horrific sight, and the servant girl’s expression made more sense to the Queen now. Before her eyes lay the body of Queen Sookyong on the floor. Her eyes scanned over it as she held back a gag in the back of her dry throat. Hesitantly, she stepped forward, examining it more closely. She would need these details in her mind for later, God help her. The woman’s neck was cut from end to end, in such a neat manner that it caused a shiver to run along the living Queen’s spine. That was not all, though; two gashes—equally as carefully crafted as that of the one on her throat—ran down the insides of either of the arms.

A noise coming from behind her caused the Queen to stumble forward in a fit of fright. Instantly, she turned to see what had made it. The young servant girl from before had accidentally knocked a sculpture lacking size onto the ground. The Queen examined her not in a way that was so different as the way she’d just been with the body. Honestly, she was slightly surprised that the girl had felt obligated to remain with her this long to see to it that her queen was safely returned to her chambers, as she was also the one who had gotten her to leave in the first place. It was true that if anything were to happen to her, the girl would be held responsible, most likely by the end of a lengthy rope. Perhaps the young girl was simply curious, viewing her accompaniment to the Queen as the perfect disguise. Either way, the Queen could not have cared less. The endeavors of a servant never haunted her. The girl was crying. With each second that the Queen continued to look at her, tears came more steadily down her delicate face.

“Your Majesty, I apologize,” she managed to get out. “I will pay the cost of the vase thrice over. I only ask for time. I have been loyal to your family my entire life, as has my mother. I am trustworthy, and I swear to you that I will give you the money by any means necessary.”

“It is only a vase,” said Her Majesty. “Our concerns have become much larger than a singular, hideous artifact made of material too delicate to deserve to exist at all.”

The servant girl stared, but found nothing to say in reply. Finally she said,” Your slippers, Your Majesty.”

“Pardon me?”

“They’ve been ruined,” said the girl. The Queen glanced down slowly in the direction of her feet as quickly as one might turn to catch a view of the person about to swing an axe at one’s head on the wooden block. She was correct; she’d stepped directly into the puddle of blood beside the late Queen’s corpse and now the bottoms of her shoes clung to the thick liquid.

“How long has she been like this?”

“She was found under ten minutes ago, though no one is sure exactly how long she was dead before she was found.”

“Has anyone seen what has happened, other than the servants?”

“I do not believe so, Your Majesty.” Her tears had halted.

“It seems that I will not be getting anymore sleep tonight,” said the Queen who lived. “Fetch any servant, guard, cook, or even any whore who was in the palace tonight. I will question them in the expanse of my husband’s throne room.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

The girl began to exit, bowing neatly, despite her distraughtness.

“Wait.” Her movements stopped as quickly as they had started. “What is your name?”

“Hwang Yejoon.” Though her reply came speedily, there was something about the tone in the young girl’s voice that made it seem that giving her identity away was a thing she feared, something she dreaded.

“I appreciate what you have done for me tonight, especially your discretion, and such an act of raw loyalty will not be ignored. Thank you, Yejoon. I wish to see you again in the future.”

“I am the one who is thankful, truly, Your Majesty.” Yejoon was lying. The Queen knew this much already, since her name was not real, at least it was not to her. That name belonged to a girl who had served the Queen years ago; she had drowned in the river while washing a set of pearly white bathing towels. That girl had been dear in the Queen’s heart, one she would never forget. The girl calling herself Yejoon now did not yet realize that the Queen had caught her lie, which was going to be useful. And, at a time like this, Her Majesty needed every tool she could locate.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Please give me feedback, and let me know if you want to be added to my (very small) tag list for when I post more. I’ll begin adding my tag list once I get the first chapter out!

[blastron01]

Ascendance of a Bookworm – 058

Reporting to Lutz

The day after the family council, everyone was a little bit awkward around each other. My father's smile looked a little bit lonely, my mother hugged me over and over throughout the day, and Tuuli kept suddenly bursting into tears. However, as the days pass, everything starts gradually returning to the same old day-to-day life that we'd been living before.

"You don't have to do that, Maïne. I've got it," says Tuuli. "Huh? I've got to do it! Aren't you the one who told me that I'll never learn how to do something unless I do it myself?"

Tuuli, who had previously been encouraging me to help out more so that I could work on building my own independence, thoughtlessly takes over my work. It's unmistakeable that she's taking even more special care of me than she already was before.

I'm woken up by Tuuli's excited shout. "Whoa, it cleared up! We have to go pick paru today!"

The sky is still dim and gloomy, but it seems like there isn't much snow falling at all. Tuuli had seen a little bit of light coming in through the window and thrown it open wide to check the weather, letting the freezing air outside come rushing in.

"Tuuli, I'm cold!" "Ah! Sorry, sorry."

She closes the window, then immediately gets started in on her breakfast. I, too, eat my breakfast, while my family noisily hustles around the house. The instant they finished their food, my mother and father started gathering up baskets and firewood. My father, starting to organize things by the entryway, looks up at me as I, still unkempt, chew on my bread.

"What will you do today, Maïne? Are you going to the gates?" "Nuh-uh, I was thinking that I'd go and try help picking paru, maybe?"

From what Tuuli had told me, a paru tree is a beautiful and miraculous kind of plant. I'm not entirely sure what she meant when she said how it sparkles brilliantly with light as it spins around, though, so I kind of want to see it for myself. But, when my curiosity prompts me to say those words, every single member of the family turns to stare at me.

"Absolutely not! You'll either stay here and watch the house or you'll go help out at the gates." "Picking paru is very hard, too hard for you! You'll definitely get sick!" "That's right! You're bad at climbing trees, and you can't walk through snow so it's impossible for you to help."

All three of them immediately reject the idea of me accompanying them to the winter forest to pick paru. Certainly, there's no way someone such as me, who can't even walk through the snow to get to the gates, would be capable of foraging in a snowy forest.

"...Okay. You'll be picking paru until noon, right? So, I'll go to the gate and help out there while I wait for you."

I prepare my tote bag and get myself ready to head out to the gates. I'd thought that since my father had the day off Otto might as well, but it seems that around this time of year he shows up nearly every single day.

My family loads up their baggage, including me, onto a sled, and we head off. I'd heard that everyone in the town goes to pick paru whenever they can, and based on the huge number of people dragging their sleds towards the southern gates, I'd heard correctly. The air is so cold that it bites into my skin, but everyone is filled with such excitement over being able to go and pick paru that the mood is very much like a festival. Even I am getting a little excited too.

"Sorry," says my father to a soldier at the gate, "but take care of Maïne for me. She'll be helping Otto out until noon." "Yes sir!" "Everyone, good luck picking paru!" I say.

When we arrive at the gate, I get off the sled and wave goodbye to my family as they head towards the forest. I say hello to the gatekeeper, who I'm acquainted with, and head to the night duty room.

"Mister Otto, good morning." "Oh? Maïne? I thought the squad leader had the day off, didn't he?"

Otto's eyes twinkle in wonder, and I nod, smiling slightly.

"Yes, since the weather is clear today, he went to the forest to pick paru. I'll be helping out until noon today." "Ahh, I see, I see. Hm, until noon, huh..."

Otto smiles broadly, seeming to immediately understand the circumstances, then starts laying out documents that he needs the calculations checked on. While he works on clearing a space for me to work, I thank him for the advice he gave me the other day.

"Mister Otto, thanks for the other day." "Hm?" "Umm, when you consulted with me about my job prospects. I told my family about the devouring, and about finding a job that I can do from home. When spring comes, I'm thinking I'll consult with Mister Benno, too..." "Ah! Well, taking care of yourself is very important, so if Benno has no idea what you could do, then my door is always open if you'd like to ask about things you can do here." "Alright!"

I definitely notice a hint of something dark in his smile, but now that I've properly expressed my gratitude, I get to work on my calculations, feeling refreshed.

After noon, my family returns from the forest, so I get back on the sled and head home. Since there were three of them out picking today, it looks like they've brought six paru back with them. Unlike last year, now we know that even the dried-up lees is useful, so my mother is in very high spirits.

While my mother works on preparing lunch, Tuuli and I work on juicing the paru. Tuuli grabs the skinniest stick she can find from the pile of firewood, lights it in the fire from the stove, then jabs it into the fruit. In the next instant, just that little bit of the rind cracks open.

"Maïne, here it comes!" "Got it~!"

I stick a bowl under it, so as not to waste any of the creamy white fluid that starts spilling out. Entranced by the sweet smell, we finish draining the juice, then Tuuli passes off the drained paru to our father. He crushes the pit of the fruit, pressing the oil out of it. Since he's able to lift the heavy weight we use for pressing oil, leaving that part of the task to him means that the oil is finished in the blink of an eye. Since the lees left over after the fruit has been thoroughly squeezed has actual use in cooking, we set aside four parus' worth of it for ourselves, leaving the remaining two to give to Lutz's house in exchange for eggs.

After lunch, I head out, bringing both the paru lees and some fresh ideas for recipes. If I could only just use an oven, I could make a gratin or a pizza, but since all I have access too are a griddle and a pot, the kinds of things that I can make are sharply limited.

"Hi, Lutz. Could you trade me for some eggs, please? By the way, I came up with a new recipe, do you want to try it?" "Yo, Maïne! I'm happy about the new recipe, but there's nobody around to help out right now so we can't start on it yet. Come on and wait in here."

Even though I finally brought them a new recipe, Lutz's older brothers aren't here, it seems.

"Where're your brothers? Did they go sledding or something, since it's clear out?" "Those kids went out to earn a little change shoveling snow," says Lutz's mother.

I had no idea this was a thing, since there's no way I could participate, but it seems like some of the heavy labor of shoveling snow is something that kids can do in order to earn some decent pocket money.

"Why're you still here, Lutz?" "Someone's got to juice the paru. If you wait too long, they'll melt, right?"

It's true that you can't just leave paru alone for a while, but I can't help but notice that it looks like Lutz has been stuck with the housework, unable to earn any pocket money, and I'm realizing that he's actually looking a little gloomy. But, since neither Lutz or Auntie Karla are saying anything, I figure that I, as an outsider, should probably keep my mouth shut.

I'd at least like to help them with pressing the fruit, but since that's something that fundamentally requires actual physical labor, it's beyond my capabilities. All I can really do is watch as Lutz smashes the core with a hammer and Auntie Karla presses the oil out.

As I absent-mindedly look on, I suddenly remember that I haven't actually told Lutz about the family council. Letting him know that I won't be working at Benno's shop is something that I absolutely have to do.

"Um, so, Lutz. I've, uh, decided that I'm not going to work at Benno's shop." "What?! Why?!"

Lutz, his hammer raised high, turns to stare at me with wide eyes. Auntie Karla looks over at me as well, her eyes open a little wider too.

"Umm... my mother mentioned something like this, right? I'd just be a burden on you. Plus, no matter how I think about it, I don't have enough stamina for a job like that. I talked with Mister Otto about it, and he pointed out a few different things." "A few things like what?"

Lutz gradually starts moving his hammer again, urging me on with a stare.

"Right, um. So, if a brand new apprentice keeps getting fevers and has to rest all the time, what do you think everyone else that has to work with her is going to think?" "...Ahh. That's..."

Murmuring quietly to himself like he might be starting to understand, he hits his paru. Auntie Karla, firmly pressing hers, squints.

"You'd be a bother to everyone when you're absent," she muses, "and you being absent during your training would hurt you in the long run, too..." "That's right. ...Plus, I've still got lots of things I'm planning on making, and if they wind up being really profitable, I'm going to earn a lot of money, you know? So if there's an apprentice that's always absent, but she still makes a ton of money, wouldn't that ruin human relations at the shop?" "You're right..."

Lutz scowls, nodding in understanding, but Karla looks a little astonished.

"Well," I say, "the bit about the money applies to you too, I think, but if you work as hard as you can, I think people's reactions will be different. I think we should discuss this with Mister Benno in detail, though." "Yeah, let's make sure we talk to him in the spring."

I think it might be possible to keep Lutz's profits separate from his wages. Then, he could be given the extra money secretly. After all, even now, all it takes to give someone money is to tap your guild cards together.

"If you're not going to work at the shop, then what are you going to do after your baptism, Maïne?" "In my case, I don't know what I'm going to do about the devouring, so I'd work out of my home transcribing letters or official documents while coming up with new products, or helping out at the gates... I told my family that I don't really want my lifestyle to change all that much." "Ah, okay. Yeah, that's probably better for your body."

Now that I have Lutz's support, I let out a little sigh of relief. As I do, Auntie Karla's expression suddenly brightens.

"Well, now! If Maïne's not going to work at the shop, then there's no need for you to work there either, Lutz, is there? Now you can be a craftsman!"

I tilt my head to the side, confused. What does me deciding not to work at Benno's shop have to do with Lutz not working there? Lutz, however, raises his eyebrows high as soon as he hears his mother's sigh of relief.

"Huh?! What are you saying, mom?!" "What do you mean?" she asks, a complete lack of comprehension on her face. Lutz clucks his tongue. "I want to be a merchant!" he yells. "Maïne has nothing to do with it! I'm the one who dragged her into it!"

She stares at him, looking as if she can't believe a word he's saying.

"What did you just say?! So, you still are planning on becoming a merchant?" "Of course I am! I really wanted to be a trader, but after I talked with one I learned about how citizenship works, so I decided I wanted to be a merchant instead." "Lutz, why didn't you say anything about this before?!" "I did! Were you not listening, or did you just forget?!"

It looks like she really hadn't acknowledged what he'd been saying. She looks at him as if this is the first time she's ever heard this.

I, not wanting to intrude into a conversation between mother and son, watch quietly from my chair, not saying a single unnecessary word.

"...You did say that you wanted to be a trader," she says.

She shakes her head weakly, a troubled expression on her face. It's clear to see that she's bewildered by how her expectations aren't matching up with reality.

"But, that was just a childish fantasy, wasn't it? That was just something you were dreaming about, not something that had any basis in reality, wasn't it? I didn't actually think that's something you really had your sights set on. I've been thinking that you'd eventually come to your senses."

I think that what Auntie Karla is saying isn't unreasonable at all. It's rare for someone who lives in the city to go any farther than the forest or the surrounding farmland. A trader is a foreigner that unexpectedly drops in from time to time, not someone that anyone typically aspires to be. It's a childish fantasy, and he needs to wake up from it soon. Karla's line of thought is probably pretty typical of people living around here.

"...I really did want to be a trader. I want to leave this city, and go to other cities that I've never been to before. I wanted to see all sorts of things that I haven't even heard of... and I still do! I'm still holding onto that dream." "Lutz, you..."

Auntie Karla rises halfway from her seat, looking like she's about to say something. From her expression, it's probably some sort of objection to his train of thought. However, before she can say anything, Lutz continues talking.

"But, I talked to someone who used to be a trader himself. He told me that only an idiot would give up his citizenship. And traders don't have apprentices, so it would be impossible for me, anyway." "Well, he was right," she says, looking a little bit relieved. She sits down with a thump.

It seems that being a trader is an occupation that is very much something to avoid. I'd thought, naively, that being able to travel the world and see the sights sounded really fun, but I still really haven't internalized enough of this world's common sense.

"So then, once I found out that I couldn't be a trader's apprentice, I started thinking that maybe I could just go out and be a trader on my own. Then Maïne told me that maybe instead of being a trader, I could be a merchant in this city. If I was a merchant, then I could still go to other towns to buy and sell things, she said. It's more pragmatic, and more realistic to try to do." She shrugs. "Well, compared to being a trader..." she says, tiredly. It seems like she had no idea that her son was serious about his plans to become a trader, so this might be a bit of a shock for her. "So, I told a merchant that I wanted to be his apprentice. He was only a second-hand acquaintance of Maïne's, though, so he basically refused me right away." "...Sounds about right."

With how the apprenticeship system works in this town, Lutz's odds of actually becoming a merchant's apprentice were really slim. So, probably, even though Lutz kept telling her that he wanted to be a merchant, she didn't consider it to be any more than some half-hearted ideal. Then, working from that assumption, she might not have ever really fully listened to Lutz when he explained that he actually would be able to do it.

"But, we got him to set out some conditions, and agree to let us apprentice under him if we met them. Maïne and I already met those conditions, so we've got his approval to be his apprentices. So, whether Maïne's there or not, I'm going to be a merchant."

Karla finally looks directly at Lutz, a serious look in her eyes, noticing at long last that Lutz has started forging his own path forward.

"...Lutz, even if you got this man's permission to be his apprentice, did you really think you could do so if your parents disapproved?" "I already decided that I'd do it. In the worst case, I'd be a live-in apprentice. I got him to hear me out, I got him to set some conditions, and I finally started on a path towards becoming his apprentice. I'm not gonna give that up." "A... live-in apprentice...?"

Being a live-in apprentice is probably among the worst lifestyles you could have. First of all, as an apprentice, you can only actually work half of the week, so your wages are low. Plus, you have no family to rely on. A child suddenly forced to live on their own would find it both really physically taxing as well as time-consuming.

His living quarters would be the attic on the topmost floor of the building. Summers would be hot, and winters would be cold. It wouldn't be at all rare for the roof to constantly leak. Carrying things upstairs, especially water, would be an enormous undertaking. It's not unusual for birds to nest in attics, like they do in Lutz's home, so the smell would be horrific, too. Plus, unlike the rooms rented out for families to live in, there wouldn't be any place for Lutz to cook, so he'd need to either get someone else at the shop to let him use theirs or eat out a lot.

Naturally, that kind of lifestyle isn't something that leaves you with any money left over. Rather, he'd need to constantly be taking advances on his pay, putting him in debt. The shop would provide the bare minimum to keep him alive, but until he grew up he would basically be living solely to work his apprenticeship.

"Lutz, think about what you're saying! Do you really think you could live that kind of life?!"

I don't think any normal parent would want their son to have to live such an austere life. She raises her voice so high it's practically a shriek. Lutz, however, just shrugs.

"I can, yeah. I've started preparing for that already."

In Lutz's case, he'll be able to save up the money we're going to make from paper-making during the spring. If we use the bark that we've already got in the storehouse, we'll be able to put quite a lot of money in the bank. By my calculations, even after buying the clothing necessary to be a merchant's apprentice, he'll still have a sizable amount left over.

Plus, during his apprenticeship he'll have half of his days off, which he'll be able to spend with me, developing new products to potentially make money off of. If we can do that, then there's no doubt that he'll be making much more than an ordinary apprentice's wages. He won't have a lot of room in his budget to spare, but I think it'll definitely be much better than destitution. I don't think he'd have enough extra money to rent a place for himself, though, so he wouldn't really be able to do anything about his awful living conditions.

"...You're serious about already preparing, aren't you?" "Very serious."

After a long silence, Auntie Karla lets out a deep sigh, slumping her shoulders. She wears a complicated expression, like she's given up on challenging Lutz's seriousness but still can't give up altogether.

"I still think it would be better if you found a nice, steady job as a craftsman instead of something as unstable as being a merchant." Lutz purses his lips in dissatisfaction. "...If I do what you say and become a craftsman, nothing's going to change, is it?"

Auntie Karla squints at him. Since he just effectively said he's dissatisfied with his current life, her mood quickly grows sharp.

"What do you mean by that?" "My brothers do whatever they want with me, and when I have something they want the just take it, and I never have anything left for myself." "That's... you're siblings, so of course they take things from you, but they give things too you as well, don't they?"

She frowns, troubled. Lutz, however, immediately rejects her opinion.

"It's not like they can give my food back after they eat it, and when I get stuff from them it's all just broken hand-me-downs, you know? And if the hand-me-downs are too awful to actually use and I get something new for once, then they immediately take it away!"

The fact that the youngest child always gets hand-me-downs is something that's true for me as well. However, while Tuuli is always helping me out, Lutz is constantly being ordered around by his brothers. I don't know if that's just what brothers do to each other, but the difference between the two of our experiences is enormous.

"I set my sights on becoming a merchant, worked really hard doing a lot of different things with Maïne, and learned what it's like to actually hold onto something I've earned. I want to see how far I can take myself without anyone getting in the way. I've never even considered being a craftsman."

Lutz, who has always been kept down by his family, has made it his goal to find an environment where he can be free of their control, and he was finally able to find a place where he might be able to accomplish his dreams.

Auntie Karla hangs her head. "I didn't think you were so serious," she says softly. "I thought this was just Maïne dragging you along..." "I wouldn't make this kind of life-changing decision if it was like that..." "I really thought it was, so that's why I was objecting."

She lets out a long, deep sigh, looking down at the floor. She thinks to herself for a while, then slowly raises her head, a smile on her face as if she'd come to accept things as they are.

"If you've thought it through that far, and this is something you really want to do, to the point where you even started preparing to leave home, then why not go for it as much as you can? Your father will probably object, but you'll have at least one supporter in this family." "Really?! Thanks, Mom!!"

Lutz's face is practically sparkling. He had long since giving up on earning his family's understanding, so hearing something so unbelievable makes him so happy he could jump for joy. Until just a moment ago, he'd been forcing himself to look focused, but now his expression is something that a child his age should actually be wearing, and I can't help but smile, too. Having even just one family member on his side must make a whole world of difference.

When his brothers come home, Lutz is still in a good mood. The four of them work harmoniously together as they start making my new recipy.

"Zasha," I say, "could you and Zeke please heat the griddle? Lutz, please grate plenty of cheese and mix it with the paru lees. Then, Ralph, could you chop those lege leaves finely, please?"

While I divide up the work amongst the brothers, I add some paru oil and salt to the bowl that Lutz is grating cheese into. Once Ralph is done chopping the basil-like herb, I add it to the bowl, and all that's left is to mix it and grill it.

"The griddle's hot!" "Alright, then grill this please, like how you do the parucakes."

We grill it thoroughly, until the cheese gets crispy, then eat it. It looks kind of like _okonomiyaki_1, but thanks to the melted cheese that's holding everything together, it has a very western flavor. This recipe is a variation on something I'd come up with in my Urano days, making use of leftover cooked somen or spaghetti noodles by chopping them up really finely.

"It's so simple, but it's so filling!" "It would be really good if you added minced ham or veggies, too," I add. "Yeah, now that I think of it, these would actually make a good meal on their own, unlike the parucakes."

Everyone eats their food, smiling happily about how delicious it is. In the middle of that, Ralph tries to help himself to seconds off of Lutz's plate, but Auntie Karla smacks him in the back of his head.

"Don't take other people's food. That's greedy! How about you grill another for yourself?"

Ralph, who had just gotten smacked on the head, looks at her with mild shock. Lutz does, too. After a moment, Ralph gets up to start grilling up his seconds, and Lutz goes back to eating, relieved. Karla watches the two of them, then smiles. Now that Lutz has convinced someone as influential as her of his problems with the rest of the family, it looks like things have calmed down around here, at least for now.

After that, I return to being a shut-in. My life becomes an endless cycle of handiwork, tutoring Lutz, helping at the gate, and lying in bed with a cold, while Lutz keeps stopping buy to deliver hairpin parts, be tutored, and occasionally bringing completed product over to Benno's shop.

Eventually, the snow starts gradually getting weaker, and my wintry shut-in lifestyle comes to an end.

Translator's notes for this chapter:

1. Okonomiyaki are a savory grilled food, kind of like a pancake with a variety of other ingredients inside.

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[harvardbusinessschool438]

same day essays

About me

The Federalist Papers

The Federalist Papers That’s what has allowed animal microbes corresponding to SARS-COV2—not to mention tons of of others from Ebola to Zika—to cross over into human bodies, inflicting epidemics. In theory, we may resolve to shrink our industrial footprint and preserve wildlife habitat, so that animal microbes keep in animals’ our bodies, instead. More likely, we’ll see much less directly related transformations. Universal basic revenue and necessary paid sick depart will transfer from the margins to the center of coverage debates. The end of mass quarantine will unleash pent-up demand for intimacy and a mini child-growth. Now within the time of this virus a painful new imposition bears down upon the households of the dying for they cannot even stand by the mattress of a dying mother or father or grandparent or partner. In 1944 Carl Jung suffered a heart assault after breaking his foot, and was in a coma for three weeks. She says she thinks it's only a matter of time earlier than she might be infected with the virus. She is younger and her chances of survival are high, she says. I am shocked once more by the way in which she thinks — or must think if she is to proceed to do that work. Some might be OK, however many will battle with job losses and household burdens. They are more likely to be single mother and father or single-income households. They’re much less in a position to work at home, and more probably employed within the service or delivery sectors, in jobs that put them at greater danger of coming into contact with the coronavirus. Switching to a extra robust home supply chain would cut back dependence on an increasingly fractured world provide system. But while this would higher be sure that folks get the goods they want, this shift would likely additionally enhance costs to firms and consumers. In many cases, their kids won't acquire educationally at home, as a result of dad and mom will be unable to teach them, or their households may lack entry to the high-pace Internet that enables distant instruction. The coronavirus pandemic will create strain on firms to weigh the effectivity and prices/benefits of a globalized supply chain system in opposition to the robustness of a home-based mostly supply chain. For the previous few years, Americans have spent extra money on food ready outside the house than on shopping for and making their meals. But, now, with restaurants principally closed and as isolation increases, many individuals will learn or relearn how to prepare dinner over the subsequent weeks. Maybe they'll fall back in love with cooking, although I won’t hold my breath, or maybe supply will overcome everything else. The hype round on-line education shall be abandoned, as a technology of young individuals forced into seclusion will reshape the culture round a contrarian appreciation for communal life. How do we maintain an election within the time of coronavirus? By making it easier to vote when citizens need and where they want, in order that Election Day doesn’t become a health danger of big crowds and long lines. This transition requires appreciable thought and planning to ensure that all communities are treated equally, and to stop fraud. But facing the prospect of crowded polling locations staffed by at-threat poll employees , states will come beneath super stress to develop plans in order that the election can go on regardless. It’s clear that in a crisis, the principles don’t apply—which makes you surprise why they are guidelines in the first place. This is an unprecedented opportunity to not just hit the pause button and temporarily ease the ache, however to completely change the principles in order that untold millions of individuals aren’t so vulnerable to begin with. President Donald Trump has already put a freeze on interest for federal student loans, while New York Governor Andrew Cuomo has paused all medical and scholar debt owed to New York State. Democrats and Republicans are discussing suspending collection on—or outright canceling—scholar loans as half of a larger economic stimulus bundle. The widely accepted idea that authorities is inherently dangerous won’t persist after coronavirus. It accelerates the mind and produces in me a feeling of panic. At the time I thought she was in denial, or that perhaps she thought that she wanted to guard us from the heavy presence of dying. Once citizens experience the convenience of early voting and/or voting by mail, they gained’t wish to give it up. More comfort will generate higher voter turnout, potentially transforming partisan competition in America. The aftermath of the coronavirus is more likely to embrace a new political uprising—an Occupy Wall Street 2.zero, but this time far more massive and angrier. Moreover, we will have seen how political motion is possible—multitrillion dollar bailouts and initiatives may be mobilized shortly—but provided that the cause is taken into account urgent. Sit-down restaurants additionally could close permanently as people frequent them less; it's doubtless there might be many fewer sit-down eating places in Europe and the United States. The other eighty percent of Americans lack that financial cushion.

[taetaesource]

Coming Home

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Taehyung as a single parent. He was looking for a babysitter to help him raise his kid and then he met you.

The next morning, you appeared at Taehyung’s house again. You expected him to give you some instructions on what you should be doing everyday, some ground rules, some touring around the house to let you know where things were and how things should be done, but all he said was, “do you think I should wake Tae oh up?” 

The rest of the morning was spent watching Taehyung heat up the food, dig for more snacks and throwing random remarks or questions at you such as, “do you think it’s better to eat apples in the morning or banana?” 

When sounds of Tae oh’s cries came from the room, Taehyung dropped what he was doing and said, “oh he’s up!” He wiped his hands with the kitchen towel roughly and carried his child out from the room. The sleepy baby that was in Taehyung’s arms stared at you briefly with his puffy eyes and messy bed hair. Taehyung took Tae oh’s small hands, lifted it up for a wave and said in a baby voice, “good morning!” 

Taehyung placed the baby on the baby chair at the dining table and went behind the counter to continue preparing breakfast. He would occasionally look up from what he was doing and smile at his child. Taehyung’s actions made you smile too. He was a tall figure hovering around the kitchen counter, picking and placing things down with his large hands that seemed too clumsy and unfamiliar with kitchen work. He would bend over the sink to wash the cutlery and fruits and look closely at the packet of paste for the instructions of how much to add with a slight pout of his lips. Some moments he looked frustrated and annoyed with the chores, some moments he looked hesitant and confused. But your favourite was moments when he looked up and interacted with Tae oh. You could see the drastic change in his expression, he was so full of love and his smiles had a tinge of childlike purity and genuine happiness. 

For the next few days, you helped Taehyung around. Taehyung was not good in the kitchen and in fact, not good at housework. You would usually take over what he was doing and tell him to go keep an eye on Tae oh instead. So for the first few days at work, you were scrambling around Taehyung, looking for things to do and setting up a kind of routine for yourself since Taehyung was not clear in what exactly he needed you to do. Then you will go home at 6pm after dinner was prepared. 

Your babysitting job slowly became a housekeeping job as you saw that Taehyung did not seem to have any intentions of cleaning the house as long as it still looked clean. He seemed to have no clue about maintaining a home that had a small kid. He only cleaned the areas that were dirtied such as the dining table and picking up the food crumbs that fell when Tae oh snacked on his baby biscuits in the living room. Perhaps he had never thought about how important it was to clean the house everyday even though it looked clean. 

Although your main job was centred around taking care of Tae oh, you felt that you needed to do something in order to create a better environment for Tae oh. So you began asking if you could help to vacuum the house and mop the floor. Taehyung was slightly surprised by your offer. He looked like a child who knew nothing about household duties. He also did not know where the cleaning tools were kept. You laughed it off and told him not to worry, you will look for them yourself and so cleaning up the house became part of your daily routine. Seeing that Taehyung really did not have much idea, you decided to step up a little and take charge. You explored the house on your own to see where things were and took note of what was necessary yet missing in the house. You made a list and went out to buy the necessary items and groceries over the next few days. Your daily routine now includes cleaning, washing and tidying things that were related to Tae oh such as his laundry, bedsheets, toys, water bottles, pacifiers, everything that he touched or played with everyday, and also ensuring that the child was washed, fed and sleeping well. 

With Taehyung around, he took most of the responsibilities of playing and feeding the child, while you assisted with preparing the food and washing or changing the baby when Taehyung could not cope. There were days when Taehyung would receive calls from his company and couldn’t be home, and you would take Tae oh out with you to the convenient store or to the playground. You enjoyed the freedom of being able to take complete charge around Tae oh and the house, part of you also felt that Taehyung’s presence intimidated you, mainly because you still don't know him and he was so perfect and too handsome to get close to. Soon, your routine slowly included maintaining the house including paying the bills, washing and ironing Taehyung’s clothes and preparing his food for him when he comes home. 

Taehyung would usually try to be home before 6pm so that you could knock off on time, but nowadays he would be later, arriving home at around 8pm when you were feeding Tae oh his last milk before he goes to bed. Taehyung would always apologise for taking up your time and send you off almost immediately so that you won’t have to stay longer. But tonight, he was even later than usual. 

When Taehyung returned, Tae oh was already asleep a long time ago and Taehyung looked solemn. He did not say much when he entered through the doors and he looked tired. In a soft and low voice, he said “is he asleep?” 

“Yes, he is especially talkative today. It took awhile to get him to go to bed”, you answered, trying to sound a little more positive to cheer Taehyung up. 

The man dragged his feet to the first bedroom and opened the door. He did not go in but he looked at his child for awhile and closed the door. He shuffled to where you were, on the floor in front of the television, and let out a deep sigh as he sat next to you. 

You did not know what to say. In fact, you were slightly nervous as you could smell a whiff of him as he plopped himself down next to you. He smelled like cotton and cologne that had lingered on his skin for the whole day. He must have had a long day. You lifted your apple juice up and drank nervously. You wanted to say something to lighten up his mood but you did not know how. 

“I am so sorry for making you stay this late, but I think you might need to stay later for the next few days. My company wants me back and I might not be able to come home for quite awhile....” His voice was low and it trailed off towards the end. 

You paused and repeated what was said to you in your mind, “might not be able to come home.” 

“I am trying to get my mother to come and take care of Tae oh so don’t worry you won’t have to be doing this 24/7, you can still have your own life. It’s just that in the meantime, please help me to stay with Tae oh. I will pay you extra.”

“Don’t worry too much about it. I will stay with him until you make the arrangements. Just let me know so that I can prepare my own things and bring them here”, you hoped to reassure Taehyung that you were not one of his reason to worry and more deeply, you wished to share the burdens and responsibilities that he had, and be someone who could help him with his plate that was too full. 

“What are you working as? You seem to be really busy with work,” you tried to divert his attention to something lighter and also to get to know him slightly better. 

“I’m.... errrr... I'm working in a bank..” the man sounded nervous all of a sudden and he took quite an unnaturally long time to answer a simple question. 

The television played the chorus of Not Today, it was a commercial ad that was promoting the final stop of the WINGS concert in Seoul. The ad ended with a short video clip of the group calling out to their fans, “2! 3! Annyeonghaseyo Bangtan Sonyeondan imnida,” followed by more footages of their concert and  a final screen with the concert date and location. 

“Bang. Tan. So. Nyeon. Tan.” your eyes were still glued to the television screen and you took another sip of your apple juice while nodding continuously to yourself. You could hear Taehyung swallowing hard in embarrassment. You found this extremely amusing and instead of feeling angry that he lied to you, you found yourself wanting to laugh. Since he did not tell you the truth about his job, you did not want to confront him about it either. So you did not talk about his job whenever you were around him and treated him the same as before- as an ordinary person, except that you felt a lot more relaxed around him now, probably because you had seen him embarrassed himself. Because of this, Taehyung trusted you a bit more. 

Taehyung would always try his best to rush home after his schedule but even then, he would usually be home around 10pm or later. His mother was busy with her shop in Daegu and could not make it here to take care of Tae oh for a prolonged period of time. His mother suggested many times to bring Tae oh back to Daegu with her so that it would be easier for everyone, but for some reason, Taehyung refused. He would rather rush around and stress himself out with making the best arrangements for his child care. 

For some reason, you did not mind the prospect of having to take care of someone else’s kid 24/7. After all, you lived on your own and spent most of your free time surfing the net, online shopping and watching videos anyway. So on days when Taehyung could not make it back home, you would stay over and sleep with Tae oh. Tae oh was not the easiest child to manage but you quite enjoy the challenge of it. Most importantly, Taehyung was easy to work with. Even on days that he could not make it home, he would briefly give you a call or text you to apologise and inform you about it. He would briefly ask if there was anything wrong or if you had enough money for the house or Tae oh, and then he would leave you to take care of everything and did not question much. You felt trusted and to some extent, you wished that Taehyung could have one less thing to worry about and focus on his career which was what was truly worrying and taking too much of his time and energy. Taehyung was always worrying that he was not doing enough for Tae oh, and that made you want to raise Tae oh well so that Taehyung could stop feeling guilty and see how well Tae oh was growing up.  

Whenever Taehyung was able to come home, he would first take a look at Tae oh who was sleeping and then take a shower while you heat up some food for him to eat. Taehyung disliked eating alone so he would usually make you sit down and eat with him. It then became a habit for you to wait for Taehyung to come home and have dinner with him in the small cozy dining area. You would usually tell him about the day and funny moments of Tae oh and he would laugh out loud, raising his eyebrows and saying, “really? Wah, this rascal!” You would ask him about his day and he would usually talk about how busy his upcoming schedule was and how tired he was. He never gave out too much details about his work and you understood this was just how the entertainment industry worked. Taehyung would usually ask you to stay over since it was late and it gave you many butterflies in your stomach to hear him ask you to stay. 

That night when Taehyung was back home, you were wearing a large cotton tee and sleeping shorts, sitting on the couch with your laptop. Taehyung was sitting on the other side of the couch in his sleeping clothes and his hair wet from his shower. You were staying over for the night. Taehyung was leaning against the arm rest and scrolling on his phone. You moved closer to him showed him what you have found on the internet. Taehyung leaned closer as you shared with him about the kinds of health check ups and vaccinations that were good and necessary for children around Tae oh’s age. He would nod and listen to you intently as you showed him the online articles and the clinics that you have researched. You could see how focused you were when the screen went black momentarily when the pages switched and you were surprised as you did not realise how close Taehyung’s face was next to yours. You became self-conscious as you realised that you could feel the warmth of Taehyung’s body next to yours and the touch of his skin against your arms and thighs. You tried to keep it in as Taehyung did not seem to be conscious about it and you did not want to appear to be blushing or overthinking like a teenager. But your heart was beating faster and you craved the slight brushes of his skin against yours. 

“Mmm alright, go for it. I think they will be good for Tae oh,” Taehyung said in an assertive and manly tone that reaffirmed his position as the head of the house. Taehyung would sign on the parent’s consent form and pass you the original documentations that were necessary without further questions. 

You called the clinic the next day to make an appointment for Tae oh and clarified with the staff on the research that you have done on the different vaccinations that he would be receiving. The staff was polite and answered your questions though not as satisfactory and you were still feeling anxious about Tae oh’s first vaccination. 

You kept Tae oh’s health documents properly and felt good that you cared about Tae oh’s well-being and was excited to be the one taking Tae oh through this new milestone of his growth. You couldn’t wait to tell Taehyung how it went and hear him praise you for doing this for his child. 

Little did you know that this turned out to be a stressful episode that left you crying with guilt and anxiety... 

[leighbot]

following up from yesterday and on the to next of the 365 writing prompts

Day Two: Write about unrequited love

(since i can’t imagine zarry with anything other than FAST AND INTENSE FEELINGS, i adjusted it and wrote about love at first sight with a touch of star crossed lovers if this were to grow beyond this drabble)

Once upon a time, there lived two boys. They were alike in many ways: they had similar senses of humor, they liked similar foods, and they had similar interests. The only thing they didn’t share was status: one boy was a prince that stood to inherit his mother’s throne and the other was a pauper who stood to inherit nothing.

Life wasn’t easy for the pauper; as the second-born child of a printer, his sister would run the family business when their parents no longer could. He was a burden on his family as an extra mouth to feed but he was beloved all the same. He would often help his mother with the household chores as a young lad, carefully following her instructions when it came to baking and doing the wash. He kept up his spirits and kept himself as useful as possible, dreading the day when he would grow too old to stay home and would be expected to make a life of his own.

The year he turned sixteen found him and his best friend from the village setting off on horseback with enough bread to last them a week. The pauper’s wordly possessions were across his shoulders in a knapsack- a bit of money he’d saved his whole life, a letter from his mum, and his father’s second-best knife.

The castle loomed ahead of them for the last day of their journey, the gray turrets a sharp contrast to the blue of the sky. They split their portion of bread, too nervous to eat much, and rode into the castle walls just before dusk. They found their shelter in the barn with their horses, making up beds with piles of hay and their cloaks thrown down for comfort.

In the morning they set out to find work, the pauper going to the kitchens in the castle and his friend going to the pub. The Cook was a large, intimidating man with a full beard and small black eyes but he gave what may have been a smile when the pauper explained what he already knew how to do. He told the pauper to come back the next day, bright and early, and that he would pay him two pence a day as long as he didn’t make anyone sick with his cooking.

Overjoyed at the prospect of being able to send home money to his family, he didn’t pay attention as he walked out onto the castle steps. He heard a commotion in the ward and looked up sharply to find the royal knights riding in on their large horses, their livery blue and mounts all gray save for the dark stallion with a rider in white leading the way.

Trumpets could be heard above his head and he dimly registered shouting in the castle behind him. The knights broke from their battle formation and the dark stallion rode right to the edge of the steps, his rider dismounting in a graceful slide to the ground nearly before the horse had stopped moving.

“Mother!” he shouted, joy in his tone. “Come quickly!” The rider’s voice was booming but somehow light, carrying through the pace between with the air of one who knows everyone is listening to him.

The pauper shuffled to the side with the others on the steps, wide-eyed as the queen came rushing from inside the castle, her gown red with a white wrap around her shoulders to protect from the chill in the morning air.

The prince- for that was the only person the knight could be- was leaner than the pauper would have expected. The only times he had seen the royals were on mass-printed pamphlets sent to all of the villages and he’d always thought they seemed fat with wealth and heavy with power. The prince before him was nothing like the pauper would have thought. He moved with confidence and grace, his shoes clicking on the stone steps as he ran up to meet his mother. The queen embraced her son tightly, holding on for a long second the way the pauper’s mother had held him before he’d left and he knew, then, that the prince had been gone for some time.

“Mother, we have found it; the legend was true!” the prince was saying, his voice quieter but still easy to hear over the hushed silence of the crowd.

“Oh, my boy!” the queen said with a proud smile. “I am so pleased. Come inside and tell me and your sisters all about your journey.”

The prince beamed, making to follow his mother up the steps but he turned at the last moment and swept a glance around the crowded ward. “Good people, I know you have been working tirelessly this morning. We invite you to dine with us this evening- a great gift has been bestowed upon our land by our generous Sorceress. Our tides are changing and our crops will be prosperous once more, you have my guarantee.”

A cheer went up from the townspeople and the pauper joined in, feeling himself flush when the prince seemed to make eye contact with him. An invisible grip around the pauper’s chest made him gasp, the amber of the prince’s eyes piercing as if he could see straight through to the pauper’s soul.

In an instant, the feeling was gone as the prince turned his head and waved a farewell before following his mother into the castle proper. Dizzy, the pauper put his hand to his chest and took a deep breath. A woman near him took notice and smiled gently.

“The prince has that effect on people,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you from a nearby village?”

The pauper nodded. “A bit further north,” he said, needing to clear his throat before he could speak. “I’ve just taken a job in the kitchens.”

“Good on you,” she said. “Best of luck, lad.”

The pauper nodded again before moving forward as if on auto-pilot, tracing the steps the prince had taken and heading back inside the castle. The flurry of activity around him spoke to the sudden unexpectedness of the prince’s return and the pauper had to side-step several times to avoid causing a collision.

He didn’t know where he was going but he kept moving forward anyway, trying to watch everything around him and pretending as if he wasn’t looking for one face in particular. Mesmerized by the colours of the clothing around him, he catches sight of white out of the corner of his eye. He stopped to look, backing up around the corner when he realized the prince wasn’t alone. Another man was stood with him, one of the man’s hands cupping the prince’s cheek as they leaned in towards each other to kiss. The pauper felt disappointment strong in his gut- though there should have been no reason for it at all- and he continued backing away as silently as he could. He didn’t want to disrupt the prince in his stolen moment to himself, as he could only imagine how rare those were for him.

At the same time, he wanted to rip the man away from the prince and take his place.

It wasn’t like the pauper to make rash decisions- or to want to, as he would never act on it- and he forced himself to push the whole incident behind him as he walked quickly to the kitchens.

“I can start right now,” he said when Cook looked at him. “Please let me start right now.”

Cook paused and nodded, motioning to the dough. “Get to work,” he said.

And the pauper did.

[bmvistas2019-blog]

Mango Man banega Crorepati!

From a street vendor to a multi crore company: Bhavesh Bhatia's story

Bhavesh Bhatia was not born blind, but had little vision while growing up. Born with retina muscular deterioration, he always knew that his sight would only get worse with time. But when, at 23, his eyes finally decided to give up on him, no amount of preparation could have predicted the gloom that was to come.

He was working as a hotel manager and scrambling to save money for his mother’s treatment, who was suffering from cancer. His desperation to save his mother stemmed from more than filial love. She was the backbone of his existence, providing the support he so badly needed to navigate life with his disability.

Bhavesh, 45, recalls, “I used to be badly bullied in school. One day I came home and told her that I wouldn’t go back from the next day. Everyone ganged up to taunt me with chants of ‘Blind boy, blind boy.’ Instead of forcing me, or worse giving in to my demands, she gently stroked my hair and told me that the boys were not cruel. They want to be my friend, but are thrown by how different I am. She told me that bullying was their way of getting my attention. I had a hard time believing her but did as she told me to. Next day instead of treating with them with the hostility they deserved, I approached my bullies with an offer of friendship. We became friends for life.”

He continues, “It is this early life lesson that has been my guiding principle in business as well. My poverty and disability have created insurmountable challenges for me. But her wisdom has lead me to make the right decisions.”

So, when faced with losing his mother, losing his eyesight too was a devastating blow. He was fired from his job. His father had already extinguished all their savings on his mother’s treatment. Without a job, and no employment prospects to boot, they couldn’t afford to give her the care she needed. She passed away soon after.

“I was bereft without her,” says Bhavesh. “She was not very educated herself, but worked tirelessly to make sure that I was. I could not read the blackboard. She would pore over my lessons with me for hours- a practice she continued till my post-graduation.” Bhavesh wanted to make something worthwhile of himself for her. That she would pass away when he was just getting started felt like the world’s greatest injustice.

Though the loss of his mother, his eyesight and his job wracked him with grief, he found solace in what Bhavesh says is, ‘The best advice I’ve ever received,’ given, unsurprisingly, by his mother. “She told me ‘So what if you cannot see the world? Do something so that the World will see you.’ ”Instead of wallowing in self-pity, Bhavesh set off in search of that elusive ‘something’ which would make the world see him.

That thing was not hard to find. “Since childhood I was interested in creating things with my hands. I used to make kites, experiment with clay, shape toys and figurines, etc. I decided to dabble with candle making because it allowed me to harness my sense of shape and smell. But mostly because I am, and always have been, attracted towards Light,” says Bhavesh.

With no resources, except for a burning passion, Bhavesh had little idea on how to get started. “I took training from National Association for the Blind (Mumbai) in 1999. Over there they taught me how to make plain candle,” he recounts. “I wanted to play around with colours, scents and shapes, but dyes and scents were beyond my budget.” So he would make candles all night long and sell them from a cart, standing at a corner of his local market in Mahabaleshwar. “The cart belonged to a friend and he let me use it for rupees fifty a day. Every day I would set aside twenty five rupees to buy my supplies for the next haul.” It was a lonely and backbreaking mode of survival. “But at least I was doing what I loved,” says Bhavesh, firmly repudiating any expressions of sympathy

Then one day, out of the blue, things started looking up. It began when a lady came by his cart to purchase candles. He was struck by her gentle manner and lively laughter .They struck up a friendship on the spot, conversing for hours. I would say it was love at first sight. But, sans the sight, the description doesn't hold water. It was a more a connection between kindred souls.

Her name was Neeta and Bhavesh became determined to marry her. She felt the same way, returning to his cart every day to talk and reminisce about their life together. Neeta faced backlash from her home for her decision to marry a penniless, blind candle maker. But she was firm and the two soon embarked on a shared life, living in his small home in the beautiful hill station town of Mahabaleshwar.

Neeta was a relentless optimist. Since he could not afford to buy new containers, Bhavesh used to melt the wax in the same utensils that he cooked food in. He worried that this would offend his wife. But she laughed his concerns off, procured a two wheeler so she could ferry her husband around town selling his candles and later, as their circumstances improved, even learnt how to drive a van so she could accommodate the larger quantities of candles that they were now dealing with. “She is the light of my life,” smiles Bhavesh.

That is not to say that his struggles became any easier once Neeta came into his life. But now that he had a comrade to share the burden with, the load did not seem quite as heavy. “Sighted people were not ready to accept that a blind person could stand on his own feet. One time some miscreants pulled all my candles from the cart and threw it in the gutter. Whenever I used to go around asking for help, I was told to my face, ‘You are blind. What good can you do?’ I tried to get guidance from professional candle manufacturers and other institutes. But no one helped me.” While loan requests earned him outright rejections, even simple non-monetary requests were met with hostile reactions. He wanted to know from experts advice on candle manufacturing, but received derision and scorn.

“So I would go with my wife to malls and tried to touch and feel the different varieties of the overpriced candles displayed there,” recalls Bhavesh. Based on what his senses could accrue, and basing the rest on his talents of hustling and creativity, he tried for a greater variety in his creations. The turning point came when he was granted a loan of fifteen thousand rupees from Satara Bank, where NAB had a special scheme for blind people. “With this we purchased fifteen kilos of wax, two dyes and a hand cart for fifty rupees,” says Bhavesh on what would go on to become a multi crore business, with prestigious corporate clients from all over the country and the world and a dedicated team of two hundred employees-all of whom are visually impaired.

Bhavesh shares, “Now that I look back, I realize that the reason so many people turned me away when I asked for a loan was because the way the world does business is ruthless. Everyone thinks with their mind and not their heart. I have come to realize that the only way to run a successful business is to think with your heart in the equation. It will take time. A lot of time. Untold sacrifice and hard work. But if you are doing what your heart tells you to do, you will achieve what you set out to achieve.”

Once upon a time Bhavesh used to painstakingly set aside twenty five rupees a day to purchase wax for the next day’s candle stock. Today Sunrise Candles uses twenty five tonnes of wax a day to manufacture their 9000 designs of plain, scented and aromatherapy candles. They purchase their wax from UK. Their clientsare Reliance Industries, Ranbaxy, Big Bazar, Naroda Industries and Rotary Club, to name a few.

On his decision to employ the visually challenged to run Sunrise Candles, Bhavesh says, “We train blind people so that they can understand the work and not just help us at our unit, but some day go back home to set up their own business.” While he likes to concentrate on the creative aspects of the firm, Neeta takes care of the administrative duties of the enterprise. She also imparts vocational training to blind girls, aiding them into becoming self-sufficient.

Task in Hand: You are to create a Business Plan for a street vendor business in Bangalore with the aim of generating a revenue of at least Rs 1 crore per annum by the end of 10 years.

The business plan must include but not be limited to: Executive Summary Market Opportunity & Feasibility Analysis Product Description & Differentiation Strategies Competition Analysis Operation Plan Distribution Plan with Location Analysis Marketing Plan and Strategies Recruitment Plan & Organisational Structure Detailed Financials ( sources of funds and allocation of funds including fixed and variable costs and initial and future investment for operations, marketing, HR, growth etc.) Revenue Model with Projected Revenues Growth Plan

Deliverables: A report of not less than 10 pages. A PPT of not more than 7 slides.

Deadline: Softcopy submission at 7:00pm on June 30th, 2019. Report hardcopy submission at 4:00pm on 1st July, 2019. Please refer to the previous posts titled "Sample Material" and "Formatting Guidelines" for reference.

PS1: Remember to put yourself in the shoes of a street vendor before proceeding with your ideas. Creativity without feasibility is like a gun that shoots blanks.

PS2: The deliverables are the bare minimum that is expected from you. Bringing the minimum will not earn you the title of 'The Exemplar'.

[incmorata]

"Hey Quinn, it's your moth--" 

DELETE.

"Quinn, not sure if you got my last --"

DELETE.

"Quinn, please answer the phone, I really --"

DELETE.

By now, you'd think Quinn would know better. Blocking numbers, declining phone calls and deleting messages had become the norm over the last several years. Unfortunately, there was a piece of Quinn that still cared. That still longed for a mother like a child, especially a daughter, often would. For the most part she'd done a good job at ignoring her mother -- she'd gone about five year since seeing Bianca Caruso-- but she'd blame this pesky fucking holiday for the lapse in judgement. 

"God damn it, Bianca." Quinn muttered to herself as she sat at a table located in the bar of the hotel she was kind of, sort of, not really staying at. The heel to her foot tapped nervously against the tiled floors, eyes glancing every few seconds to the screen of her Apple Watch to note the time:

4:32 p.m.

She's late. Three more minutes and I'm getting the fuck outta here, Quinn thinks to herself. 

Impatience and anxiousness coursed through her veins, not even the glass filled with wine could calm her nerves despite being half empty. The clock strikes five minutes after thirty and Quinn is reaching down for her purse, prepared to make an exit when she could feel her mother's chaotic energy from where she was sitting. Quinn lets out a deep exhale, dropping the designer bag to the ground with a thud that sounded as exasperated as she did. She couldn't even force a smile when her mother came sauntering through the bar, navigating through all the tables and chairs to get to the one Quinn was at. 

"Quinn! It's so good to see you." Quinn's entire body feels like it's made of lead, unable to move but her mother doesn't hesitate to make contact. Bending over, she wraps her eldest daughter in a strong embrace and kisses her cheeks. "Look at you, you look beautiful." She cooed, making Quinn grab her glass as soon as she was freed and downed what remained of her wine. If she thought she'd survive this meeting sober, that was the biggest joke of the year.

Waving down the waiter with a simple gesture of her hand, she ordered a refill on her beverage and a vodka martini for her mother. "That’s still your poison, right?" A brow raised at her mother, not so found memories associated with the beverage. How at the age of ten she'd become a master at making the martini for her mother and whatever guests she entertained that evening. Ice cold -- the sound of the ice moving against the steel shaker made Quinn shiver before coming back to reality."Yes, that's fine -- extra olives." Her mother responded to which the waiter nodded and left the two women alone. 

The silence was defeaning, Quinn not making much of an effort to speak. Her mother wanted this meeting, then she can start the conversaton. Legs cross and she takes a moment to soak in her mother's apperance as the leather jacket falls from her shoulders. Quinn bites back a groan, not at all surprised not much as changed since the last time they saw one another. Bianca was never a regular mom -- knocked up in her peak twenties and bogged down with a kid...eventually two (her words, not Quinn's) -- she never quite grew into motherhood like most women would. The outift she wore was way below her age range as her tits and legs were on display, leaving little to the imagination. With the two women sitting across from one another, there's no denying they're related -- even despite a few differences Quinn acquired from the father she never knew or met. 

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me." Biana broke the silence once both drinks were placed before them, the waiter lingering on Quinn as it finally clicked in his brain who Quinn was. Out of the corner of Quinn's eyes she can see the flicker of annoyance in her mother's eyes and she's thankful that he doesn't say anything before leaving, that would've turned this meeting in a different direction faster than Quinn planned. "I didn't have much of a choice. You're quite...persistent." Quinn responded with a casual shrug of her shoulders, her voice dismissive.

Her mother simply nodded her head, taking a drink from her glass before continuing. "Well, how've you been?" Quinn's brow arched, shaking her head. "We don't need to talk about that." She responded, voice terse and wanting to get past the subject. "I heard your song on the radio, it --" And Quinn cut her off. "And we're not talking about that either." The aggravation was growing in her voice and she saw a flash of what Quinn could only assume was remorse in her mother eyes.

Quinn let out a heavy sigh, fingers raking through her dark locks of hair. "What do you want, Bianca?" Already, she was defeated by this conversation and it'd barely begun. She wanted to give her mother the benefit of the doubt but she knew there was always an alternative motive to these conversations. There was a reason why Quinn choose a location that was indoors, knowing that a hotel wouldn't allow paparazzi inside, but she wouldn't put it past her mother to sneak in a photographer to take some photos so she can make a few bucks. "Am I not allowed to see my daughter?" Her mother counted to which Quinn responded with a scoff, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Well, you see me. I'm alive, I'm doing fine. This has been a great reunion see you in another -- " As she spoke, her chair skid across the floors but before she could get up, her mother reached out for her hand.

"Marcella..." A sharp inhale is taken at the sound of her real name, making Quinn frigid. "...please." Her mother added, causing Quinn to scoot her chair back in but remove her hand from the other's grasp, folding them into her lap. "Eugene and I broke up..." An audible snort filled the air, Quinn shaking her head not at all surprised by the reveal. There'd been numerous men that came in and out of Bianca's life. Many of whom she dropped were the reason Quinn and her little sister, Alessandra, were dropped off on her Grandmother's doorstep to take care of. Some were wealthy, others came waltzing in with false promises to make Bianca into the star she always wanted to be and other's were simply prospects -- investments, as she liked to call them -- for her future. 

"You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't really need. But after Eugene and I was talking to an agent who can --." Mid-sentence, Quinn couldn't help the "Jesus Christ..." that she let out with a groan. That caused her mother to snap.  "You could be a little bit more supportive and sympathetic. I am your mother after all."

Now it was Quinn's turn to snap, her blue eyes narrowing and she couldn't help but look at Bianca like she was out of her god damn mind. "You're kidding, right? It's funny how I'm conveniently your kid whenever you need something." Quinn chuckled bitterly, shaking her head. 

"After everything I sacrificed for you, putting my own dreams on hold to raise you, it's the least you can. You wouldn't be here...have all of this without me." The tension was thick and Quinn's face dropped at her mother's comments. A million thoughts popped into her head, ready to fire back with the endless list of facts that would burst a bubble in her mother's fucked up version of reality. 

Everyone always worried about Quinn being young that she'd become some sort of victim when she was shoved into the spotlight. There was never a need to, her mother more than willing to hop on a casting couch -- not for Quinn's benefit but for her own. Quinn lost track of how many times her mother would show up to set in the clothes she wore the night before, sauntering behind a producer, a writer, a director or anyone without enough influence to make her into the star she always wanted to be. Quinn thought getting discovered in a Macy's department store at the age of thirteen was a dream come true when, in fact, it was the beginning of an endless nightmare. Resentment always lingered between them -- Bianca never shying away from the fact that Quinn was a mistake who robbed of her her dreams-- Quinn getting the dream that Bianca so desperately sought only put a futher wedge between them. 

Before her mother could continue with her sob story and verbal outburst, Quinn started talking. "How much?" Quinn asked, voice stoic and expression blank. "How much would it cost for you to leave me the fuck alone?" The emancipation at seventeen wasn't necessary but Quinn needed some legal barrier to keep her mother out of her bank account. At the time, shew as already living full time with her grandparents when she was in Los Angeles or filming. And, really, at that point the damage had been done and it wasn't like Quinn expected her mother to recoup the money she blew through. 

Legally, she was free, but it still didn't stop her mother from popping up whenever she saw Quinn get even a speckle of attention. Almost nine years later and she still feels burdened by her mother despite being a grown ass adult.

"Just...give me a number." Her tone softens, mostly because she was tired. Handing over the cash was easier than her mother opening her mouth and speaking to the press for a few bucks. Or attempting to sell off merch with her fake signature on her it. 

"About, fifteen grand." Bianca nodded to which Quinn simply nodded her head. Bending down, she grabbed her purse and pulled some cash out of her wallet, leaving money on the table. "I'll have my accountants shoot the money over to you within the next week. But if I hand this money over -- don't call me anymore and leave Allie and Nana alone. Got it? Those are my guidelines." She didn't even wait for a response, pulling the strap over her shoulder but catching the nod from her mother's head out of the corner of her. 

"Happy Mother's Day, Bianca." Quinn bitterly added before pulling her sunglasses back over her eyes and exiting the bar.