#i knew this would happen so i bought bottles of coffee to sustain me

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Running off of two-ish hours of sleep and two bottles of coffee. I'm doing about as well as you'd expect.

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 4,380 Sam x Reader Warnings: None really! A/N: SURPRISE! This is the first part of a new Sammy series! I think it will be around 4 parts, but last time I said that Mess Is Mine happened so... I just won't guess this time. I'm working on like 8 other stories right now, but this one refused to go away unless I put it down. Based on this imagine .

Your name: submit What is this?

Your sister and Dean were arguing about who had won the last game of poker, a fairly frequent occurrence during your weekly game night. You were startled to find that Sam was already looking at you when you looked up from stacking the cards back into the game case. It sent a jolt like an electric-tinged chill up your spine. The best you could do back was to smile at him briefly and tear your eyes away.

“Well, I’m heading to bed I think,” your sister said, yawning and stretching. She stood and wrapped her arms around Sam’s neck from behind, leaning in close to give him a kiss. “Are you coming to bed?” she asked him pointedly.

Your stomach tightened into a knot. “’Scuse me,” you said with a forced smile. You gathered a few empty bottles and glasses and exited for the kitchen abruptly.

Once there all you could do was lean over the sink, white-knuckling the edge of the counter, trying to think of anything but what you actually were thinking of… Footsteps behind you jolted you into action. You blasted the water on and grabbed the soap and a sponge.

“Relax. It’s just me,” Dean said.

You dropped the pretense of washing the dishes and spun to face him where he was leaning against the table giving you a knowing look. “Y/N…” he started.

“Don’t.”

“But? But?! My sister, Dean! My sister! How could I do that to her?” you demanded. “I can’t. I can’t do that.” You couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

He let out a heavy sigh. “Then you’re going to be stuck just where you are now. Wouldn’t you rather regret going for it than sitting back and not trying?”

You glared at him. “I think I’d regret ruining my relationship with the one blood relative I have left.” There was a tense silence that stretched far longer than was comfortable before you finally broke it. “I’m going to bed… Tell them goodnight for me.”

“Wait,” Dean called after you.

“Goodnight, Dean.” You hugged him, long enough for him to sigh heavily again and plant a kiss on the top of your head.

“Goodnight…” he murmured, and then you were gone with a soft padding of stocking feet.

Dean wandered back out into the library to find Sam still sitting at the table, a fresh glass of something in front of him. “Isn’t that like your fourth nightcap?” Dean asked.

Sam glowered at him momentarily. “Pot. Kettle. Black,” he said.

Dean pulled a face and shrugged. “Fair enough.” He poured himself a share of whiskey too and sat down across from his little brother. “Isn’t someone waiting for you?” Dean asked.

Sam’s jaw tensed. “Yeah, I–I told her I’d be in in a bit…” He hesitated and cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “…Where’s Y/N?”

Dean was just about ready to scream. “Bed. Told me to tell you ‘goodnight.’”

“Oh… okay.” Sam drank deeply from his glass, nearly draining it.

Dean raised his eyebrows at his little brother. “Something you want to share with the class? Thoughts, maybe?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

Dean left a beat of silence. “You know, you’ve been putting kind of a dent in my whiskey lately. You think I haven’t noticed? Am I supposed to just pretend that new bottle was 2/3 empty when I bought it.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably and gulped down the tightness in his throat to little effect.

“Sammy… come on. Talk to me. What the hell is going on in that long-maned head of yours?”

Sam shut his eyes for a moment and chewed his bottom lip. “I’m in love with Y/N,” he blurted out. “And it’s a mess. I’m with her sister. I’m dating her sister! And I’m love with Y/N.” There was something like anguish in his voice.

Dean stared across the table at Sam’s tortured expression. There was nothing to say to that.

“So, you know what? I’m taking a leaf out of your book and having a few nightcaps… that way when I wake up in the morning on the right side of the wrong bed, maybe I won’t care so much...” He downed the little remaining in his glass. “And I really can’t deal with a lecture from you right now, Dean, so just–just don’t. Night.”

Sam got up, leaving his empty glass behind, and stalked out.

“Jesus fu–am I living in the goddamn Twilight zone or some shit?! Didn’t I just have this conversation?!” Dean muttered aloud to himself. “There is not enough fucking whiskey in the world right now for this…” And with that he poured himself another.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You woke up very early, having gone to bed much before your usual time simply because you wanted to be unconscious… It seemed to be the only time you didn’t have that ache in your midsection and painful swirl of thoughts in your brain. You headed for the kitchen, looking forward to a hot cup of coffee and maybe some quiet self-reflection to stop your spinning. But you were surprised to find that you weren’t the only one awake despite the very early hour.

“Oh—” you let out a little surprised noise when you crossed the threshold and Sam looked up from his place at the center island.

“Y/N,” he said, his eyes a little surprised. He straightened up in his seat. “Hey.” He had passed some fitful portion of the night beside your sister and finally surrendered to insomnia. He had hoped that not lying next to her, feeling like a liar, would diminish his anxiety but it had proved to be mostly wishful thinking. He rubbed a hand anxiously over the back of his neck. “You’re up early,” he said.

“Yeah, umm… went to bed early so…” You smoothed a hand over your hair, quite sure that it was probably unruly from your tossing and turning all night. Sam loved that. “Coffee?” you asked. He jumped to his feet.

“Yeah. Of course. Let me get it for you,” he said.

“Oh, thanks.” Sam poured you a big mug of coffee from the pot and went to the fridge to grab some milk.

“You just take milk, right?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. He knew how you liked your coffee. He always knew what book you were reading. He knew your favorite color was seafoam. He knew you liked a gin and tonic with about an entire lime in it. He knew you liked whiskey and water, and dark beer, and the lavender-scented dryer sheets. He knew every little detail about you and he loved every single one.

“Yeah. Thank you,” you said. You accepted the mug from Sam and his fingers brushed yours as he handed it to you. You knew how cliché and stupid it was, but your heart still jumped at the contact. Is this what you would have to keep living on? A split second of Sam? You felt like a drug addict, sustaining only on the thought of the next high. You studied him as he sat down at the island again and you quickly noticed the dark circles under his eyes. “…Are you alright?”

Sam’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, startled a little by the question. God, how badly he wanted to answer truthfully. He wanted to tell you, No. I’m not alright. I’m not. I’m living a lie I don’t know how to get out of without ruining the path to what I really want. Instead he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Just a little tired.”

“Mmm. Trouble sleeping?” you asked, absently rotating your mug on the marble counter, warming your fingers. Seemed like you both had the same problem the previous night.

“Uhh—a little. But I’m okay,” he said, he tried to force a reassuring smile. He didn’t want to think about lying in bed next to your sister. It was the last thing he wanted to think about. “Thanks,” he said. “For asking though.”

You nodded. “Sure, of course.” A long moment of silence stretched and you were surprised that when you looked up, Sam’s eyes were already on your face, but he tore them away quickly and looked down into his mug. Your heart beat faster as you wondered at the meaning. You searched for something to say to him, something to bring his eyes back to yours. You could look into them forever—you always saw such understanding, such strength in them. And he was warm and funny and smart and kind… and this thinking made your stomach clench because you knew he was out of reach.

Sam cleared his throat and pushed down the sick feeling in his own stomach. “So, what’s on the schedule for today?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I dunno. I was thinking of working out later. Maybe kick Dean’s ass sparring,” you said, a small smirk gracing your face.

Sam let out a small laugh and shook his head. “That’d be good for him,” he said. But he felt a jealous twinge and a heat rising in his chest that he tried to ignore.

“How about you?” you asked. Sam shrugged.

“I don’t know… We’ll see. Maybe try and rustle up a case or something.” It was a classic method of distraction that Sam tried to use, even though it was only a temporary success. He would work, and work, and work. And it gave him an excuse to tell your sister he was busy, that he couldn’t take the time that day to spend with her doing something that he felt wasn’t genuine because all he could think about was doing it with you instead…

One corner of your mouth twitched upwards. “You work too much, Sam.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah… I know… but there’s always something else out there.”

“Exactly. There is always something else out there. And there always will be. So, you should take the time off when you can. Enjoy life a little,” you said, brave enough to meet his kaleidoscope colored eyes again.

Sam nervously chewed his bottom lip. He could be consumed by you instantly if he let himself—the way you were looking at him with that small smile and your eyes so bright, seeing only him in that moment. Reality reared its ugly head suddenly when footsteps started up the hallway and broke the temporary spell.

Your sister bounced into the kitchen. “Morning!” she said. She went over to Sam and ran a hand down his back affectionately, pecking him on the cheek. “I was a little bummed out to see your side of the bed empty this morning…” she said in a low voice to Sam.

You abruptly got up and headed across the kitchen to the pantry, feeling suddenly sick with envy and wanting to distance yourself as much as possible. You started pulling ingredients out just for the distraction and your sister was soon at your side. “Whatcha makin’?” she asked.

“Pancakes?”

“Sounds good. Better you make them than me. You remember what happened last time?”

You shook your head at her and laughed lightly at the last kitchen disaster. “Smoke. Everywhere. You shouldn’t even be allowed in the kitchen,” you teased her.

“I will never try again,” she said with a laugh. “I have no problem acknowledging my faults.” She bumped you with a friendly elbow. “Soooo…” she started. Her tone made you look up at her a little tentatively.

“…Oh, no. I know that tone. What is it?”

She grinned widely at you.

You raised your eyebrows at her. “What is it? Cough it up,” you said. “I can see you are plotting something…”

“Well, I was thiiiinking we should go out tonight. Get out of the bunker… You know, go into town… maybe go to that bar with the suuuuper hot bartender?” she said, wiggling her eyes at you.

You sighed. “I don’t know… I kind of just feel like staying in.” You didn’t know Sam was listening intently now from his place at the island still.

“You always feel like staying in! That’s why you have me to twist your arm and get you out of here before you turn into an old spinster who is in a serious relationship only with her books and tea kettle.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Gee, thanks, sis…” you said sarcastically. “And you know what? That actually doesn’t sound too bad!”

This drew a laugh from her and she bounced on her feet a little. “Pleeeeease! Come on. You know once you’re out you will have a good time! And that bartender was totally into you last time.”

You looked at her eager expression and the excitement in her eyes. Maybe a night out would do you some good. You could definitely use a distraction and the bunker was somehow always haunted with Sam and your sister’s relationship… Reminders everywhere; that they shared a room and a bed together, that you could walk around any corner and find them kissing, or sitting closely, or whispering some secret conversation with secret smiles you weren’t privy to… “Alright. Fine,” you agreed. “But for like two beers and that is it!”

She pumped a fist in excited success. “Yes! Oh, I’m totally gonna pick out your outfit and everything. You’re gonna look hot,” she said.

You pointed vehemently at her. “No dresses!”

“But—”

“No! No dresses!” She pouted at you but relented.

“Fine… no dresses…”

“Dresses?” Dean said, coming to join the rest of you in the kitchen and peeking over your shoulder at the bowl you were dumping ingredients in. “Who’s wearing a dress?”

“No one!” you said loudly.

Dean grabbed a mug and poured in some coffee. “Why not? I’d love to see you in a dress, Y/N,” he said laughing gruffly. “Like, a short, tight little black cocktail dress… some high heels. Right, Sammy?” he asked, giving Sam a wink and drawing a very unamused stare from him. You gave Dean a scolding look and he relented.

“We’re going out tonight to Lucky’s,” your sister explained. “And I’m gonna pick out Y/N’s outfit and she is going to flirt with that hot bartender who was hitting on her last time.” You rolled your eyes.

“Ah,” Dean said. He chanced a glance at Sam and noted the muscle twitching in Sam’s jaw as he clenched his teeth. “I see.”

You turned to look at Dean. “You wanna spar later?” you asked him. God, you needed to work off some frustration and bitter jealousy…

He sipped casually at his coffee. “You wanna get your ass kicked later?” he asked, giving you a satisfied smug smirk.

You tilted your head and raised your eyebrows at him, a half-smirk on your face. God, Sam loved that expression, the playful spark in your eyes. “We’ll see, tough guy,” you said, turning back to the pancake batter.

_ _ _ _ _ _

A few hours later, you and Dean were both a little sweaty, circled up on the mat in the room you had converted to a work out area. You had your hands up and were seizing each other up, both with grins on your faces as you waited to see who would strike next.

“Give up yet, Winchester? By my count, you’re losing,” you goaded him. He laughed and wiped some sweat from his brow.

“You have gotten a lot better, Y/N. Must be because you have an amazing tutor,” he said with a gruff laugh. “And quite handsome at that!”

You rolled your eyes which was a mistake because Dean took that opportunity and swept your legs out from under you and you landed hard on your back on the mat, gritting your teeth a little as the breath was knocked out of you. Dean laughed hard as you let out a frustrated groan. Once you caught your breath, you accepted his proffered hand to help you back up. Sam came in just then as you were circling back up, ready for the next bout. Dean bounced lightly on the balls of his feet in the typical boxing shuffle, hands up in guard. “Sammy!” he yelled, seeing his brother come in. “Good. It will be nice to have someone else witness Y/N’s destruction—”

But just then you threw three punches at him and he had to scramble to block two of them. He wasn’t fast enough for the third and you landed a solid hit into his stomach, giving him a satisfied “HA!” and a wide grin.

“What’s that you were saying, Dean?” Sam called out, grinning, sitting down on one of the benches along the wall.

Dean shook it off and the two of you had an intense bout where you both gained ground on the other but were eventually blocked or fought it off. Finally, you sent a jab straight at Dean’s chin but he was able to block it and reroute your momentum, grabbing your arm and again sending you down to the mat. Just then as you were letting out a string of expletives and Dean was laughing heartily in victory, a cell phone rang.

“Oh, shit. That’s probably Garth. I gotta take that. I’m expecting him to call to today,” Dean said, heading over to the bench and grabbing his cell phone. He looked at Sam, whose gaze was fixated on you where you were lying on your back still in the middle of the mat, just resting for a minute and beating yourself up for letting Dean drop you. “Sammy, I’m tagging you in,” he said, giving him a wink.

“What?” Sam’s eyes went a little wide.

“I said you’re in. Hello? Yeah, hey Garth…” Dean stepped into the hall leaving Sam alone with you.

He gulped at the nervousness in his throat and stood up, walking out onto the mat. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

You sat up abruptly, a little surprised to see Sam appear over you so suddenly. “Yep. Fine.”

Sam offered you a hand and you felt butterflies flutter to life in your stomach as he pulled you up to your feet. Your hand stayed in his perhaps just a little too long.

Sam cleared his throat and looked down at you. “Uhh… Can I show you how Dean got you down?”

“Oh—yes. Please. I hate when he wins,” you said, giving Sam a small smile.

Sam anxiously rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in front of you. “Okay. Well, go into your guard stance,” he said. You obliged, stepping one foot slightly back and the other forward. “Good. Now, you want to use your lower body to propel that punch, but you need to be able to maintain your balance.” Sam squared up with you, pulling his hands up into guard. “So, just keep a little more weight on your back foot when you jab and propel yourself from your hips.” You nodded. “Okay, try it,” Sam said, holding a palm out. “Hit it, right here.”

You threw a jab at his palm, but he pulled back right before you connected and again you lost your balance and pitched forward toward him. “Whoa!” Sam laughed a little and caught you, his hands landing instinctively on your hips to stop your momentum. You both froze for a moment. You were still breathing fast from the physical exertion, but Sam was too, for an entirely different reason. Your hips felt small under his hands, and he could clearly feel their curve and angles. His heart was pounding and he felt a jolt of electricity zip up his spine. Perceiving that he should have let you go by now, his hands floated off you and he stepped backward. You anxiously chewed your bottom lip. There were tingles trailing behind where his hands had been. “Uhh—a little better, but you’re still taking too much weight off that back foot. Try again,” he said.

You both resumed your guard and Sam held a hand up again. This time you threw your jab and though he moved his hand back before you connected, you maintained you balance and immediately threw a cross punch which he had to block. A smile grew on his face and a matching one lit up yours. “Good! That was a really good!”

“Thanks,” you said, still squared up with him. You quickly threw a couple punches which Sam skillfully blocked and he returned—and that was it. You were full on sparring. Sam dodged one of your punches and you surprised him immediately with a high kick that caught him in the chest, knocking him off balance. But he was right back into it, now advancing on you and forcing you to give up ground. You waited for an opportunity to throw a combination at him but he somehow saw it coming and blocked it. The next second you skillfully swept a leg underneath him as he recovered from a block and he tumbled back onto the mat, landing hard but immediately starting to laugh. You stood over him with a wide grin on your face and walked over to look down at him. “Give?” you asked him.

His only response was to sweep one of his legs from where he was laying on the floor, taking you out at the ankles and sending you sprawling down on top of him. “Shit!” You landed with one arm extended to catch yourself on the floor and the other on his strong chest. Your body was pressed into him and you immediately felt your cheeks flush. You could feel his hips pressing into you. You lips were mere inches from his and you could see all the hues in his irises. He swallowed hard and there was a vague smile on his face.

Suddenly, you felt one of his hands landed ever so gently on your lower back and wow, electricity. “Give?” he joked, the vague smile still on his face, his eyes starry, his heart pounding. He couldn’t believe you were actually pressed against him and he wondered that you hadn’t immediately moved, climbed to your feet, put distance between the two of you. You felt paralyzed looking into his eyes.

“I give,” you said. Your voice was low and breathy because truthfully you couldn’t breathe, you were so startled by the whirling feelings and thoughts washing over you. Sam’s hand landing so lightly there on your lower back, it felt intimate.

But you suddenly heard the door open, and Dean stepped back into the room having gotten off the phone with Garth. The noise called you back to your senses and you leapt to your feet, anxiously backing away from Sam, but you weren’t quite fast enough. Dean had frozen a couple steps in and seen you on top of Sam—but he quickly pretended he hadn’t.

Sam cleared his throat and climbed to his feet, sweeping his hands back through his hair. “Good. Yeah, just… don’t let your guard down. Ever. Even once you have them on the ground.”

You were a little wide-eyed and you turned and headed for your water bottle and towel on the bench. Dean gave you a meaningful look as you approached but you just tore your eyes away from him.

“What did I miss?” he asked you in a low voice, his tone pregnant with meaning.

Sam watched from the center of the mat as you dabbed at your forehead and neck with your towel. “Nothing,” you said to Dean. “Just—training.”

“Mhmm…” Dean replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Stop it.” Dean held his hands up in a sign of surrender. “Umm… I’m gonna go shower,” you said.

“Alright. Well, hey, I saw your sister in the hall. She wants to head out to the bar in like an hour and a half.” You nodded and quickly waved to Sam as you left the room, feeling your cheeks coloring again with a blush and hoping that your face was already red enough from the exercise to hide it.

“Thanks, Sam. Alright, I’ll see you guys in a bit…”

Dean noted that his brother’s eyes didn’t leave you until you disappeared through the door, which slammed and echoed in the space with an uncomfortable finality. Dean pressed his lips into a thin line and looked at his little brother. “So,” he said.

Sam frowned at him. “So, what?”

Dean shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “What exactly was that?” he asked, the gravel thick in his voice.

“What? Nothing. I just—we were sparring and—”

“Oh, you were sparring,” Dean repeated skeptically, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because when I came in it didn’t look like there was a lot of sparring going on as much as it looked like Y/N was on top of you and—”

“Stop.” Sam admonished.

“Sammy, come on. I spar with Y/N all the time and we have never ended up like that—”

Sam’s jaw clenched and he gave one last stern look to his older brother. “I’m just—just forget it. I’m gonna go get cleaned up and it sounds like you should too.”

“Sam! Sammy, come on,” Dean called after him, but Sam just waved him off and disappeared into the hall, leaving Dean to sigh heavily in frustration.

Part 2

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Weeping Statue | Feeding Habits Update #6 & let’s chat about quitting writing

Hello! Are we back for another Feeding Habits update (finally)?? Let’s chat chapter 7, Weeping Statue.

Just a reminder: This is my original work and plagiarism of any form will not be tolerated.

Can we talk about struggle? Because this chapter was IT. I believe I started it in late July and finished it earlier this month. I’ve taken my time with chapters before, but this was next level--the amounts of changes I went through in one chapter was astronomical, and reminded me of drafting chapter three earlier in the summer. I went through so many stages writing this chapter: from enjoying it, to feeling no joy from writing at all, to nearly quitting this book altogether!

Scene A:

Harrison and his mother Suzanna simultaneously avoid each other over breakfast after he failed to return home the night previous

She lowkey calls him out (calling out his denial of missing Lonan)

Scene B:

Harrison goes to a farmhouse owned by Theodore Harvey, a friend of his mother’s, to drop off the rescued litter of kittens from chapter 6. He realizes he is missing one kitten and concludes Reeve has stolen one after dinner the night previous.

Scene C:

Harvey invites Harrison inside for coffee where he admits his coffee machine is broken.

Harrison fixes the coffee machine, and is hired by Harvey to flip the rest of the farmhouse as he and his wife are moving.

Scene D:

On his way home, Harrison stops at a gas station where he buys a bouquet of tulips for his mother, a dog collar for the puppy he found in the kitten litter, a pack of gum, pastries, and sunscreen before heading to a beach.

At the onset of a lightning storm, Harrison swims in the ocean and has an epiphany--he decides to accept his miserable life (a development!)

Scene E:

After the beach ordeal, Harrison returns to his apartment ready to accept the plainness of his daily life when an old ghost from his past (his! ex!) Lonan appears to be having dinner with Suzanna

This chapter brought so many things. A) many... breakdowns lol (I cried a lot!), B) many false epiphanies that wound me back into ruts, C) a desire to quit this series that was just as terrifying as it sounds and D) an ideology I never would’ve gotten on my own. Just have to thank my sister Sarah for telling me a few weeks ago after I insisted that I knew what needed to logically happen but couldn’t write it no matter how hard I tried. She said: “It’s not about what works, it’s about what you want” << literally changed my philosophy on writing, even as someone who tries their best to advocate for care and enjoyment in writing. Not sure if it’s because of the timing when she said this, but I’d probably never had made it out of the rut without having this said to me.

I was *not* planning at all to have my boys reunite so soon in the book. Technically, it is not very soon and we are almost done the book, but for some reason, I really didn’t think it would work so early because I felt Harrison’s POV was so undeveloped already (I still think it is). HOWEVER, the fact of the matter is: it was not working at all. I knew exactly what I needed to do to get to point A to Z but the thing about writing is, it is not formulaic! I tried to make fit what I thought worked, but as time progressed and I immensely struggled, less and less did I want what worked. Writing was miserable and that’s not what I want writing to be for me. So I took Sarah’s advice, and I did what would make me happy, and that was, and has always been, seeing my boys interact.

Now that I’ve finished this chapter, I’m not sure if I made the right decision! I have yet to write the boys interacting so I don’t know if it will work, but what I liked about this method is that it freed me from this constriction I’d written myself into and opened a new avenue to do something that DOESN’T “work” for the story but that does work for me. To me, this project, this series, is more important to me than making something “work”. Sustaining my health and happiness (which were declining on the path I was on) is critical for me and my writing journey.

EDIT: by the time I’m editing this post, I have written the boys interacting and haha yep this was the right decision! Was doubting myself for a sec, added in a lil robbery, and now it’s all good (oops)

Excerpts:

I don’t have too many for you because this chapter does need an edit to “set” it in place (right now it feels like liquid Jello that has been in the fridge but is yet to set up). I know it needs one more scene but I cannot :) write :) what :) it :) needs :) no matter how hard I have tried, and so I am giving that section of the story a break instead of over-kneading it and toughening up the dough unnecessarily.

Here is part of the opening scene! There are things I don’t like about this but I am trying not to self-hate, so !!!

The next morning, Harrison gets up at dawn to drop the kittens off at the farm, and Suzanna makes coffee for one. This is unusual for both—Harrison rarely leaves the apartment, and Suzanna always makes coffee for two. In his room, Harrison combs his hair and twists his earring, its blue gem pearling in dribbles of sunlight. In the kitchen, Suzanna stirs coffee like it’s wronged her. Harrison dabs cologne onto his throat and blinks off his hangover. Suzanna flecks her spoon onto the tabletop so it leaves an egg of amber on the surface.

When he approaches the kitchen, Harrison pretends he does not see his mother and his mother pretends she does not see him. They move like this, repelled, one moving left, the other moving right, one opening the top cupboard, the other opening the bottom.

Harrison stops at a convenience store and buys a hodge-podge of things (also the beach scene which yes mirrors the last scene in Lonan’s POV hehe I indulge myself):

He picks up the best bouquet of fuchsia tulips, a collar for the dog he left in his bedroom even though it’ll be weeks until she’s big enough to fit in it, a pack of spearmint gum he doesn’t need, a package of pastries, and a tube of sunscreen—SPF 30. He almost drops every item at least once on his way up to the register, and definitely drops them when his receipt is spitting from the machine and the store clerk says she likes his earring—is it vintage—and he nearly vomits in the parking lot, trained against the hood of the taxi—is it even his taxi—the plastic bag teetering from his wrist, rain coiling against his cheek, the air so humid, his clothes so heavy, it is no wonder the next place he ends up is the beach.

It is never smart to swim during a storm. If he thinks hard enough, his mother’s voice warns him to keep from the shore, stand behind the yellow line, stay safe, stay where you are, don’t run under a tree, and even more, don’t run into the water. He does everything wrong in an even worse order—dollops sunscreen into his palm before opening the pastry so his teeth freckles with zinc, chews the gum and the pastry at the same time so his tongue becomes a slime of crumbs, rests the tulips too close to the shoreline so they wilt under a wave, misplaces the dog collar in his own left hand, and dives into the water fully-clothed.

Harrison getting very angsty about Lonan’s future (which he’s predicted completely wrong haha):

He will die alone. Reeve will not think of him again and he will deserve that. Somewhere in the city with the missing kitten, drinking bottles of holy water because there is no drink more fitting for a woman so sacred. His mother will miss him only briefly, and then return to her daily life of no longer needing to clean up after him. Maybe she’ll find the tulips. Put them on display until they wither, then use their carcasses as fertilizer. Save electricity. Use the coffee machine less. Downsize to a smaller, cheaper, prettier apartment with arched walkways and stained-glass windows. Harvey will think he is a fluke who missed his first day of work and will never think of him again. The dog isn’t old enough to recognize him. Suzanna will give her the collar. And Lonan will continue his life in Las Vegas, tottering after Eliza, refilling her wine, getting neon at house parties, watching French silent films without captions because he’s probably learned another language, cut his hair, gotten a tattoo, learned how to cross-stitch, bought life insurance, a yacht, a coastal summer home, learned how to play the mandolin, perfected his lamb sous vide. He’s probably married. Him and Eliza family-planning. He’ll expand a future, and Harrison will do the opposite. There is something freeing in being unmissed.

Lightning snaps across the sky like a wishbone, sounds like the prick of tambourines from under the water. Everything turns violet—the clouds, his skin, the waves. Tomorrow will be a better day, as he sinks lower into the current, tomorrow will be a better day, as the light fades and dissolves into blackness, tomorrow will be a better day, as seaweed wraps his throat, as the freezing water impales his ribs, as he burrows under and simultaneously, rises up.

This next part comes right after!

In the stomach of a tidal wave, the sky is so much bluer. An unrolling of cyan like fractals of a baked marble. There is so little to remember. No grocery lists, no fresh turmeric, no shift of portabella mushrooms. No outstanding to-dos—no kibble to by, no resume to update. Harrison folds in blue and lets it gorge his eardrums. He gives his body to that wide chasm of water and breaststrokes not into a second life, but a third.

Here is the last bit:

He buzzes back into the apartment at 3:00AM, tracking in saltwater and SPF, puff-pastry gummed to his palm, a dog collar wound around his ring finger, a sheath of tulips shedding into the elevator behind him.

He hits every floor button twice and is undisturbed when the elevator lurches and reopens in sixty-second intervals. A man rotating a jade cuff on his wrist gets on at the fourth stop and gets off at the sixth. A woman wearing a lynx cape gets on at the eighth stop, breaks up with two girlfriends, and gets off at the eleventh. Two children in coveralls tail in after she leaves and throw jacks at each other’s eyes until one of them bleeds, and by then, they are on the fifteenth floor and the children are leaving like they have not left behind accidental shell casings. On the sixteenth floor, a deer head chihuahua patters in with no owner and barks at the door chime the moment it releases and lets him out. A mother and daughter shell pistachios on the twentieth, a maintenance man introduces himself as David though his nametag says Maxwell on the twenty-second, a flock of teenage girls in whirl about a new way to blend oil pastel on the twenty-third. So it is no wonder by the twenty-fifth floor, Harrison misses his stop and becomes one of these people too—the man with zinc down his eyes like a weeping statue, juggling pastry and a dog collar and a seedy bouquet of tulips.

He tracks seawater in that hallway, parts of him scattering with the zinc, the petals, the crumbs. Like a way to get back home even though he hasn’t started at his destination, he moves through the labyrinth of halls, both starving and nauseated. Tomorrow he will rise at dawn and taxi to Brooklyn and hammer four nails into two pieces of plywood and repeat. He will feed his dog. Learn how to cook something that will impress his mother, something French that he can’t pronounce like brasillé or oeufs cocotte. Find liberation in the constrict of routine or at least pretend to. It will be good for him, the rising, the taxis, the hammers, the nails, the dog food, the cooking—it will all be good.

By the time he gets to their door, his fingers are oiled and dripping with sunscreen. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. He nearly drops the house keys. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. Tomorrow will be his arrival. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. His beginning swelling as he turns the lock. Rising, taxis, hammers, nails, dog food, cooking. There is no other way out.

The apartment is dark when he tracks in. The scent of cinnamon steeping the air like Suzanna’s pulled a saucepan of papas off the stove. At first he doesn’t hear it, but he should, the voices leafing the kitchen like a flit of moths. He steps out of his shoes but never sets anything down, even after he passes the coffee table. Two plates ringing the centre, streaked with and caldeirada and bayleaf. A pitcher of lemonade sweating onto the glass. It is almost like he never left, like he and his mother shared dinner, sipped from each other’s cups, cleaned the tines of each other’s fishbones. And he almost believes it. He never went to the farm. The kittens are where he left them, just a few feet away, not in Brooklyn. He doesn’t have a job to tend to. He never fixed the coffee machine. He didn’t go to the convenience store. He is not slathered in sunscreen, not holding a dog collar or pastries or a bouquet of tulips. He never dove into the ocean like it was some port to asylum and didn’t emerge soaked and walking half-dead to his apartment because he never left. This reality is so easy to believe, he is unfazed by the voices and how they get louder when he reaches the kitchen, when one says “Were you shopping for the apocalypse?” and the other one chokes on its drink and apologizes for its rudeness and stares at him in daydream, those eyes like forget-me-nots, gas fires, seafoam, the wing of a starling, his drop earring.

Harrison is grateful he is soaking wet when he enters that kitchen and Suzanna and Lonan sit at the table sharing a box of petit fours. At least he has an excuse when he drops everything.

That’s it for this update! The tea starts HERE!

--Rachel

[theotherackerman]

My Mind Turns Your Life Into Folklore

COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: Any recognizable elements belong to Attack on Titan.

NOTES: Flashback: Mikasa:age 9, December 25thCurrent time: Sunday December 27th- Wednesday December 30th

CHAPTER ONE: the holidays linger like bad perfume

Mikasa had been nine years old.

It was snowy to the point that they could not see. A visit to her cousin’s as his days were becoming numbered. He wished to see them one more time before he died. One last Christmas together. Her mother and father couldn’t deny Kenny that.

She didn’t remember much of what happened.

The screams.

The bright lights.

The crunch of the metal.

Her father was gone instantly, her mother barely alive. She was reaching towards Mikasa, the sleeve of her mother’s shirt scrunched up so Mikasa could see her mother’s tattoo.

Bright lights were coming again.

She wanted to run but she couldn’t get free.

Her seatbelt was stuck.

“Mikasa, run!” She heard her mother scream.

Click.

She was free. She ran as fast as her legs to take her.

BAM!

A large truck hit the car a second time.

It wasn’t long until the police showed up.

The hospital was sterile, cold.

A piece of glass had embedded into her cheek. So the doctor used tweezers to remove it. He had already wrapped her arm up in a cast.

“There we go. Now you might have a scar from it but you’ll be okay. Don’t pick at the scab on your face. You’re very lucky, Miss Ackerman,” Grisha Jaeger said as he ruffled her hair. She simply looked up with him with tears in her eyes. She hadn’t stopped crying since she got here.

“I don’t care what your protocol is. I got a phone call saying my cousin is here. I’ve already talked to both the sheriff and child services. I’m her next of kin and I’m taking her!” The curtain was thrown back to reveal a very angry Levi Ackerman. “Oh, sorry Doctor Jaeger. Maybe you can tell your nurses that I am her cousin. I forgot my wallet...Kenny got the call.”

Grisha looked at the blonde nurse standing next to Levi and nodded.

“Well just because he has the same last name doesn’t mean they’re related,” the woman retorted.

“Are you fucking stupid? This is a small town, lady. How many Ackermans do you think we have running around here? Look, her father was my mother’s brother as I’ve told you twenty times now!”

Mikasa jumped down from the hospital bed and made her way over to Levi. She grabbed on his sleeve and pulled. When he looked down at her, his expression softened.

“Can we go home?” She asked as she started to cry.

Levi simply scooped Mikasa up and pushed past the nurse.

“Bill me. Make sure you put Captain Levi Ackerman on it. I don’t want that mister shit on there. I served for too many years for that.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Levi had been the one to teach her how to play the piano. He kept a grand baby piano in the sunroom. Kenny had bought it saying it made the place look classy. Mikasa couldn’t disagree.

It was in a desperate need of tuning. Every note seemed to be off. She wondered if Levi even played anymore.

“You know if you told me you were coming, I would have had it tuned,” Levi said as he leaned in the doorway.

“I have my keyboard if I need it. I guess since I found out mom used to play this piano, every time I come home, I want to play it. I didn’t tell you I was coming home because I didn’t know if I was. Besides, I didn’t want you to tell anyone.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Just go punch him in the jaw and move on.”

“You didn’t hear the things he said! It’s not that simple this time. It’s not just us getting mad at one another. He said he always hated me. He sat there and tore me down, Levi. I was getting ready to propose and he said I was just a people pleaser. That he only dated me because he wanted to know what it would be like to fu...where are you going?”

“Think I’ll go pay Eren a little visit.”

Mikasa exited the sun room and went to the living room. A very angry Levi was about to exit the h ouse.

“Levi, no. Let it go. Armin already punched him when he said it. Then I yelled at Armin I didn’t need him to defend me and then that was it.”

“And now she makes shit coffee!” Ymir called from the kitchen. Mikasa wasn’t sure when the other girl had woken up.

“She hates my coffee,” Mikasa replied simply as she looked down at the floor. This had been only the second time she had talked to what happened. The first had been hours after it had happened, in Mikasa’s bedroom  with her bandmates and best friends.

Ymir came into the living room with a mug full of coffee. “You need to add more coffee to it before you brew it. Historia also punched him in the face if that makes you feel better, Captain. I offered to take out his kneecaps but Mika here said no.” Ymir wrapped an arm around Mikasa’s s houlders.

“I would have bailed you out.”

“See! I told you!” Ymir squeezed Mikasa’s shoulders.

Mikasa wasn’t sure why that had made her cry or even when the tears in her eyes had started to build up. The anger on Levi’s face only grew.

Mikasa had been there when Levi had night terrors caused from his PTSD. He had been a soldier, a Captain even. Then a wrong explosion had made him lose his closest friends, not to mention the burns he had sustained on his torso. Mikasa would go into his room as a small child when she would hear the screaming and wake him up, only to ask what was wrong. It brought Levi back every time. With therapy, they slowly started to get better. That wasn’t the only change that helped him. His high school friends started to show up more often after Mikasa had come into his life.

One of those people was Hange Zoe, Levi’s partner. Mikasa adored them.

“When is Hange coming?” Mikasa asked to change the subject.

“They got stuck at Moblit’s house. Storms are real bad up north. Should be here before New Year’s though. Are you sticking around that long?”

Mikasa nodded.

“I’ll be here too. Because you know...no family. Orphaned. Just like you two. Well expect you two have each other.”

Levi just rolled his eyes as he walked away. “I’m going to salt the driveway before the storms hit. Ymir, don’t put your feet on my coffee table!”

Ymir removed her arm from around Mikasa and made her way back towards the kitchen. “Check your email. Historia sent out another bit of music. It looks like it’ll be keyboard heavy. Needs lyrics. Maybe you can take your angst and turn into something.”

Mikasa rolled her eyes. It wasn’t a bad idea actually. She had tried last night but she had failed.

Historia’s music always brought the best of her lyrics out.

“I’ll give it a listen.”

----------------------------------------------

Three days.

Mikasa wrote lyrics in the sun room with her keyboard for three days. Ymir regularly brought her food and too strong coffee. Levi would throw bottles of water at her which she would catch with one hand.

"Now I'm in..hell...seeing you pass...no. That sounds stupid," Mikasa muttered to herself as she marked out the lyrics in her notebook.

She returned to playing the music again.

It was three days of that.

By the end of it, Levi had grown numb to the sound of Mikasa's piano playing the same song over and over.

At least it wasn't that song she had written when her and Eren had broken up. He wasn't sure with what he knew now that he could listen to that song the same way.

“Go shower. You smell.” He nudged her with his foot. She had fallen asleep on the floor in the sunroom.

“It’s done,” she yawned as she stretched.

“Good. Go shower. Hange will be here in an hour.”

Mikasa simply nodded.

After a shower and a change of clothes, Mikasa came downstairs and into the kitchen to see Ymir, Levi, Hange, and someone she didn’t expect to see at all.

“Armin?” Her voice cracked.

She didn’t know how to feel.

“Mikasa! I’m sorry. I didn’t know you and Armin were still not speaking or what had happened. I didn’t want him spending Christmas alone and you know his grandfather worked with me at the university. Brilliant History professor. Then when he passed, I offered to take Armin with me to visit my friend Molbit,” Hange said they stood up.

“It’s okay, Hange,” Mikasa replied as she sat down at the table across from Armin.

“She shouldn’t be mad at Armin anyway. He was just trying to help,” Ymir muttered before taking a drink of coffee. “What? Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Maybe we leave these two alone for a minute,” Hange suggested.

Mikasa looked at Levi who simply raised an eyebrow.

Mikasa nodded.

Hange and Levi left the table.

“I’ll be right in the hallway, listening the whole time,” Ymir said before strolling away from the table with her coffee.

An awkward silence washed over the two of them.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call when your grandpa….” Mikasa started but Armin just waved his hand.

“It’s okay. I needed to be alone then. Just need to process everything. I heard you won the battle of the bands. Congratulations.”

“Annie?”

“Annie told me, yeah. She said she didn’t think you’d care if she told me. Just not to tell Eren. I haven’t talked to him since that day. Have you?”

Mikasa shook her head.

“He deleted all his social media too. Last I heard he was reconnecting with Zeke. Sorry, I shouldn’t bring this up,” Armin remarked before looking down.

“It’s okay, Armin. Really. I know Ymir is right. I don’t care that you and Annie are together….”

“Well, we’re not. I don’t know if she even feels that way about me anymore.”

“The hickey on her neck on her snapchat story says different.”

Armin turned bright red and a laugh came from the hallway right outside the kitchen.

“Maybe it was someone else,” he muttered.

“The hickey you’re trying to hide with the hood of your jacket...and there’s lipstick on it. It’s the shade of lipstick always wear.  You should probably wash it,” she smiled.

“Ah, really? I thought I got it out. It’s stained then.” He pulled on the jacket trying to adjust where he could see the stain.

Mikasa laughed again. “I missed you, Armin.”

He stopped pulling at the jacket and returned her smile.

“I missed you too. I thought about messaging you but I thought if you saw me, it would remind you what happened. I just didn’t want to cause you anymore pain. We can just be M.A. now,” Armin said as he reached his hand out across the table.

E.M.A. was a stupid nickname that the three of them had come up with when they were kids. It stuck and followed them through high school since they were so inseparable.

“I’m okay with that,” she replied as she took his hand.

“Oh great, another orphaned brat is going to be at my house all the time again. I’m going to start charging you all rent. Ow! Hange, did you just swat me with a newspaper?”

“Technically, it’s the ads you got in the mail today.”

“Can you two save that for the bedroom? I’m trying to listen in on the conversation happening in the next room.”

Mikasa laughed.

Armin smiled at her.  “How have you been?”

“Busy. Wrote thirty six songs...well now thirty seven. I just finished one this morning. Historia is stuck at the Reiss house until New Year’s Eve.”

Armin nodded.

They all knew how Rod Reiss was when it came to what he called a united front. The family needed to show no weakness or the local gossip columns would have another field day. It was part of the reason that Historia used another name for all of their music.

“That’s great, I’m glad to hear it.”

Mikasa smiled again. She knew that he truly was happy for her.

“Now they’re just making small talk. This is boring,” Ymir’s voice rang out again.

“I’m sorry that our conversation isn’t entertaining,” Mikasa replied as she rolled her eyes.

“You should be,” Ymir said as she came into the kitchen and took the seat next to Mikasa. “So you and Annie, huh? Took you two longer to get together than….you know…” she waved her hand.

“I..uhh…” Armin started to turn red again.

Levi walked into the kitchen with Hange.

“Stop tormenting Armin, Ymir,” Levi sighed as he returned to his spot.

“What? Can I not point out the obvious? Those two are made for each other. If they ever have kids, they’ll be geniuses. And from the marks they left on one another, looks like they’ve had plenty of practice.”

Armin proceeded to turn another shade of red.

“Concealer helps,” Hange offered their advice to Armin. “Also ice cubes or put them places people don’t normally see.”

“Can we not talk about them having sex at my kitchen table? I like to live in a world where they’re all still twelve,” Levi sighed as he pinched his nose.

“Even after that time you walked in on Mikasa and he who shall not be named?” Ymir smirked.

“Ymir!” Mikasa exclaimed.

“What? I was there too.”

“Oh really? What about when I walked in on you an.....”

“So you get that driveway salted? Does it need more?” Ymir changed the subject.

“It’s fine,” Levi replied as he rolled his eyes.

“Hey, Ymir. Are you still any good at video games? I’m stuck on a level and I’m trying to get to gold in pvp,” Armin helped change the subject.

“You’re looking at someone who has the most achievements out of our friends. Of course, I am. Mikasa, is the console still upstairs?” Ymir asked.

Mikasa nodded.

“Great, after breakfast, I’ll get you where you need to be,” Ymir beamed. “Speaking of which, what are we having?”

“Whatever you cook,” Levi replied.

“I’ll cook. Eggs and bacon sound good?” Hange asked as they stood up.

“They’re not children, Hange. They can make their own breakfast.”

“But they are our children, Levi,” Hange smiled as they walked over to the stove.

Levi just sighed again.

[illfoandillfie]

Good Times Are Now

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Fem Reader

Summery: A picnic in the park, what could go wrong?

Warnings: mention of Rog smoking but thats it I think

Words: 1989

A/N: This is my first attempt at something fluffy so I hope it’s okay. I’m fairly aromantic irl but uhhhhh Roger’s got me dreaming about cute dates ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(Title taken from one of Roger’s solo songs cause I’ve been listening to Fun In Space a ridiculous amount this week its so good you need to check it out if you haven’t already)

Taglist: @midniightshow (since you requested the fluff, figured I’d tag you in it)

(this photo may or may not have been on my mind literally the entire time I was writing this oh my god hes so cute what the actual fuck)

You couldn’t believe how slowly the morning was going. It felt like someone had put a spell on the clock to make time creep along at a snail’s pace. Every time you looked up from your work to find that only a minute or two had passed since last time, you groaned inwardly. You knew if you focused on your work the day would go much faster, but you couldn’t help being distracted today. Not only was it Friday, your early day when you got to leave work at one o’clock, but you also had plans to meet up with your boyfriend Roger for a late lunch. He’d got back from tour two days ago and you were both still resenting having to leave each other for more than 5 minutes, especially for something as boring as your job. You’d considered calling in sick this morning and were starting to wish you had. You glanced at the clock again and sighed as you realised just how little time had passed since your last look.

The rest of your day passed as unproductively as the morning had, dragging its heels through a mess of bad coffees and unsympathetic hour hands. But finally, it was time to pack up. You knew that come Monday you would regret not getting much work done but that was a problem for future you. For now, your thoughts remained solidly on Roger and the lunch that was awaiting. You caught the bus to a small park not far from your house where Roger had told you to meet him, your heart beat picking up as you got closer. He was sitting on the rock wall that ran around the perimeter of the park, having a smoke while he waited for you. You watched as he slid off the wall and stubbed out the cigarette under his heel  before coming over to greet you. Just seeing him made you feel a little giddy and, had you been able to pull it off, you would have done a heel-click-jump right there in the middle of the street. Instead you contented yourself with throwing your arms around Roger’s neck, sighing into him as you felt his arms wrap around your waist and your feet leave the floor.

“Hi,” his voice muffled against your shoulder, “missed you,” “Missed you too,” you replied with a small giggle. Neither of you were normally quite this clingy, but the tour had been your first extended time away from each other and it hadn’t been easy on you. This wasn’t his first tour and he’d tried to prepare you for the distance but even with all his warnings about how long he’d be gone for and how he wouldn’t always be able to call, and his reassurances about how he’d be thinking of you, you'd found it hard. Many a night had been spent lying awake in a bed that was too big and too empty. You felt as if you hadn’t slept properly since he left. Roger dropped you lightly to the ground again, his hands slipping from your waist. He turned to pick up something you hadn’t noticed off the wall behind him. “What cha got there, Rog?” “Thought we could have lunch in the park,” he said, indicating what you now realised was a picnic basket, as he slipped his free hand into yours and started walking. Catching sight of the slightly surprised look on your face he continued, “don’t worry, I didn’t try and bake anything myself. It’s all store bought. Not gonna poison you after I just got back.” You couldn’t help laughing as he pulled you further into the park. He clearly knew where he wanted to set up and you were more than happy to let him lead you there, your thoughts a little more focused on the food now that he was within reach again. You passed the playground where harried mothers chatted away, their kids running and yelling, and stepped off the path, winding your way between trees and bushes until, eventually, you made it to a patch of grass under a huge oak tree. It was quieter here, though you could still hear some of the kids’ louder screams. Roger passed the basket to you so he could pull out a blanket and spread it over the ground. You kicked off your shoes, kneeled down and began pulling out the basket’s contents. A few different sandwiches, some biscuits, a bottle of juice with cups from home, and two of your favourite fruit tarts from the bakery you love. Roger sat with his back to the tree. “What d’ya think?” “I think we aren’t going to finish this food on our own,” “Cheeky,” he pulled you down to sit on his lap and tilted your head up so he could lay a soft kiss on your lips. You let the kiss deepen for a moment before pulling away. “As much as I have missed kissing you Rog, I haven’t eaten all day and I’d like to get something before the ants do.” He stuck his tongue out at you. You responded in kind.

The next couple of hours were spent eating and talking. Catching up on everything that happened while you were apart that you hadn’t had a chance to talk about yet. He told you all about the tour, where they’d been and what the crowds were like and all the dumb shit they’d done to keep entertained on the bus. In return you told him all about what your family had been doing, and all the latest gossip from work. Infinitely more boring than his stories, you thought, but he hung on your every word. His hands were never far from you, resting on your knee or tracing patterns over your skin or pulling you in so he could press another kiss to your lips. As the afternoon wore on you found yourself resting your head against Roger’s chest as you both lay on the blanket, looking up at the swaying branches. He had one hand tangled in your hair, the other softly tapping out a beat over your own fingers. You could feel your eyes growing heavy as the months of erratic sleep caught up to you.

The next thing you knew was a cold drop against your forehead. You screwed your eyes shut, trying to work out whether the sensation had been part of your dream. Another drop. Definitely not part of your dream. Your eyes flew open as you sat up and took in your surroundings. The afternoon sun was covered by big black clouds that had rolled in while you napped, and you could no longer hear the kids back at the playground. “Shit,” you pushed yourself to your knees and shook Roger’s shoulder, “Rog, wake up. It’s about to start pissing down, we gotta move.” You were already bustling around picking up the discarded cups and leftover food, throwing it all into the basket as Roger stirred groggily, “wha’s hap’ning?” Before you could answer, the rain began to fall in earnest. “Oh, fuck,” You heard behind you as you picked up your discarded shoes. Roger was on his feet in seconds, hastily folding the blanket and shoving it into the basket. He grabbed your hand and you were both running. You ran as fast as you could over the grass as it got steadily more squishy, the rain picking up with every step. By the time you reached the park entrance you were out of breath and completely soaked through. Roger led you over to the bus stop you’d met him at earlier so you could huddle in what little shelter it provided. You took in his bedraggled appearance – hair sticking to his face and neck, shirt askew and clinging to his chest, a streak of mud across his cheek (though you had no idea how it got there) – and couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. “Sorry,” you managed through the laughter, “You just look a little ridiculous.” You reached up to push his wet hair back, but it didn’t help. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” he said with a playful push on your shoulder.

As your giggles subsided you turned to look out at the street; people hurrying from under umbrellas into buildings, a queue of cars cautiously creeping through the downpour and no end to the rain in sight. “Next bus doesn’t come for another half hour,” Roger said, peering over your shoulder to look at the timetable behind you. “Might as well just walk it, we’re already soaked and I bet it’ll stop before we’re home,” Roger didn’t look convinced. “C’mon, it’s only a few blocks,” you took his hand in yours and tried to lead him back out into the deluge, “it’s just a little rain, it’s not going to kill us.” “Says you. You’re already starting to shiver.” “Even more reason to get moving then.” This time you succeeded in pulling him out of the small shelter. You twirled yourself under his arm, relishing the way he smiled at your antics, before draping his arm around your shoulders. You were thankful for what little warmth you could share through your soaked clothing as you walked along, pressed into Roger’s side, the chill of the rain beginning to hit you.

By the time you’d reached home your teeth were chattering and you were longing to change into your warmest pjs. “What was it you said about the rain stopping before we got home?” Roger said over his shoulder as he fumbled with the keys in the door. “A-at leas-s-s-t it was f-a-a-ster than th-th-e bus-s,” “Christ Y/N. Gotta get you warmed up,” he opened the door and you both tumbled inside. Roger started pulling off his sodden shoes as you headed straight for the bathroom. You turned the shower on and let it heat up as you began removing your wet clothes. You adjusted the taps so they were as hot as you could handle without sustaining burns and stood there, letting the water run over you, gradually warming you back up. Once you’d regained feeling in your toes you stepped out of the shower, wrapped yourself in the fluffiest towel you could find and headed to your bedroom. You dug through your draws till you found the comfiest flannel pyjama pants you owned and your favourite sweater you’d stolen from Roger. It was old and stained and too big for you, but that hadn’t stopped you wearing it nearly every day Roger was away. It was by far the cosiest thing you owned. As you were pulling the sweater over your head you felt Roger’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling your back against him. He’d changed into his own dry clothes but his fingers still felt chilly against your skin. “All warmed up now?” he mumbled into your neck. “Mmhmm. You?” “Could be warmer.” He didn’t give you any time to react before he turned you round and lifted you over his shoulder. You squealed and thrashed your arms, sleeves that went past your hands waving around, as he carried you through the house to the lounge room, both of you laughing.

The rain was still coming down outside, you could hear it beating against the windows, but there was a fire burning in the fireplace and a nest of blankets and pillows on the couch. Roger lifted you back over his shoulder, lowering you to the ground before making himself comfortable on the couch. His back leaned up against the armrest and his legs stretched out over the length of the couch, giving you no choice but to curl up on his lap. Once you were in position, he threw some of the blankets over the both of you. His arms wrapped around you, inviting you to snuggle into him, and he sighed contentedly against the top of your head. “Much better.”

[cecilspeaks]

124 -  A Door Ajar, part 1

Anxiety is just your body’s way of telling you something really, really terrible is about to happen. Welcome to Night Vale.

Three bodies were found behind The Pancake House this morning. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so chipper, it must be the coffee, I just started caffeine again. Do-over! [still cheerfully] Three bodies were found behind The Pancake House this morning. The cause of death has been identified as drowning. As you know, this is particularly unsettling because The Pancake House does not border any body of water, nor does any body of water exist in Night Vale. Salt water and blobs of semi-animate clear jelly were found in the lungs of the victims, according to reports from coroner Lorelei Alvarez. Alvarez added that their clothing was salty to the taste.

The victims were discovered by a truck driver identified only as Enormous Jim, who pulled into the Pancake House parking lot around 6:30 this morning. “I knew something wasn’t right,” Jim said in his statement to the Secret Police. “I felt warm all over and kind of tingly, and I thought the fly larva had finally hatched in my hair. I got out of my truck and tried to swat the larva, but there was no larva there. And I was sad because I missed its company. That’s when I noticed what a beautiful sunrise we were having, so I stood and watched it for a while. You know that beautiful moment when you can’t tell the difference between orange and violet and the clouds look like sleeping gods? That’s when I noticed those dead bodies lying by the wall.” Oh Enormous Jim added, “It was a beautiful noiseless sunrise. I wish the larva could have seen it.”

Jim’s forehead was lined with sweat trails and his hands fluttered along his shirt buttons like clarinet keys. He explained in a shaky voice that he was hauling turnips from a farm in the south to a pulp factory in the north, where they would be turned into mulch and used to grow more turnips. He said he had a tight schedule to keep, and that he had nothing to do with any of this. And since lying is illegal, the Sheriff’s Secret Police released him from further questioning.

The victims have not yet been identified, but each held matching promotional coupons, good for one free hotcake at The Pancake House. The coupons stated they could only be used once per table, per visit. It is unclear whether the victims intended to sit at several tables and pretend no to know each other, in order to use all three coupons in the same visit. This is a developing story.

In related news, The Pancake House is having a grand reopening. It’s been closed down since the sandstorm of ’97 buried it under 200 tons of sand. It resurfaced in ’08 full of scorpions, who reopened the diner under the name Arachnid Hut. It disappeared again in ’09, after the scorpions filed chapter 7.

No one could see The Pancake House anymore, but if they walked atop the seemingly plain dune, they would run into a hard surface that felt exactly like a wall. Teenagers who had scratch heart-swaddled initials into the invisible concrete blocks could still feel the impression of their etchings suspended in the nothingness. And the area continued to smell of hash browns for a radius of nearly a mile.

Anyway, it’s back and under new, probably human ownership, and will hopefully be here to stay. Ah, so many memories from that place! Back in the 90’s, my friends and I would hang out there for all night sometimes. There was a young woman who sat in the corner booth and analyzed people’s dreams for a dollar. I once told her about this recurring nightmare I have where I am a pineapple farmer, but I have to grow each pineapple under a glass bottle. And when the pineapples grow big, the bottles break and I’m left standing in a field of broken glass. And sometimes when I woke up, I had little cuts all over the bottoms of my feet.  I don’t remember what the woman said it means, but I found out later that she was Nina Gordon, frontperson for alternative rock band Veruca Salt.

There was a lot of great memorabilia in The Pancake House, like old postcards and ceramic chickens with human fingers for eyes, and this cool antique jukebox that would automatically play Buddy Holly’s “Every Day” when someone in town was about to day. I loved that place!

Oh, we’ve just received word from the coroner’s office that more saltwater has been discovered, this time in the potholes near the controversial new roundabout in Old Town. Alvarez also found blobs of clear jelly floating there, similar to those found in the lungs of the drowning victims. Samples of these blobs were collected by a girl scout splinter faction known as The Onyx Fist, and brought to the Marine Biology Association for further examination. A girl scout member and apparent leader of The Onyx Fist named Brandy Lance said, “We knocked on the marine biologist’s door and heard muffled shouts and loud crashes coming from inside. Then the blinds closed and the lights went out! When we forced our way in using telekinesis - I earned my Mountain Mover badge last year – we heard the backdoor slam shut. The only thing we found inside was a scribbled note that said: “Closed for the day”. But it was just lying on the floor, not posted anywhere. Brandy said her troupe will not rest until they track and locate the missing biologists. Good luck, kids! We’ll be waiting for your updates.

And now traffic. As I mentioned earlier there is a controversial new traffic roundabout in Old Town. The problem is, no one knows how a roundabout works. If you go to the right if you should go to the left, your headlights explode. If you go left when you should go right, you get a phone call that one of your family members is in the hospital. If you hesitate, a stranger dies. And if you just keep going, you’ll never stop. You’re never, ever, ever stop. You’ll drive endlessly, aging at a steady rate, watching the terrain change, the seasons pass and you’ll wonder, “Have I ever stopped? Have I ever stood still or slept, or sat in a chair that wasn’t hurdling ceaselessly into the future?” The emergency almonds you keep in the glove compartment can only sustain you for so long. What happens then? There’s only like, 15 of them in an airline bag, and you’ve never been on a plane. Where did you get them? Are they safe to eat? They’ve been in there a really long time. Probably since you got the car. Maybe they came with the car. You’ve started to forget things like your name and where you bought this car. Was it at a dealership or from someone on Craigslist? Did you build the car yourself or manifest it with your mind? You find the owner’s manual, but you can’t read it for some reason. It’s either in another language or you’ve lost the ability to read. The letters rearrange themselves and fall off the page. Your leg is burning where the letter L has landed on your knee. L, L! You remember the letter L, at least there’s that. This has been traffic.

Uodate on the drowning storty. The victims have been identified as the Traylor family who reportedly have not come out of their house in nine years. Annette, the adult daughter of the family, stil has braces from when she was 13. She just never returned to the orthodontist to get them removed. It’s possible that hotcakes from The Pancake House were the only thig she could eat anymore. You know come to think of it, 11 years ago was the lats time when The Pancake House was open. There are noooo coincidences. Or, everything is a coincidence. Or, only some things are. Yeah, those are the three possibilities.

An independent consultant has determined that the saltwater samples are oceanic in nature. This has Secret Police investigators scrambling to find where the ocean is located. One of them suggested north, and the consultant began walking in that direction. The investigators wanted to determine if the ocean is a continuing threat, and whether or not they’re allowed under state and physical law to apprehend it on charges of manslaughter. Law enforcement and volunteer search parties are forming to seek justice for the Traylors, although no one remembers every interacting with them before. But everyone cares, -really- cares a lot suddenly. The silver lining in events lie these is the togetherness it brings to a community, right befroe the paranoia and blameshifting sets in and divides it further into an ever-widening chasm, but let’s just try to enjoy the unity while we have it.

Ooh, speaking of togetherness: it looks like Carlos has brought a picnic lunch for us to eat here at the station. Aww, what a nice surprise, hon! Now while I look into this basket of goodies, let’s check in with the weather.

[“Lake Full of Regrets” by Devine Carama featuring River Greene and Devin Robert https://devinecarama.bandcamp.com.]

That was weird. Carlos came in, as I mentioned, with a lovely picnic lunch from the Ralph’s deli counter. His hair was wet from the rain and there were water droplets on the tips of his eyelashes that made him look like a cute little cartoon forest animal. The phone rang here at the station, and it was one of Carlos’ scientists, Mark, asking if Carlos was here. Carlos made a wild hand gesture and shook his head rigorously, so I told Mark that he was not. When I asked Carlos what that was all about, he told me the scientists were putting together a group t locate clues about the phantom ocean, and they wanted him to lead it. And I was confused. Didn’t he want to lead it? I Mean why didn’t he want to talk to them? He’s never refused a scientific call from a fellow scientist to do science before. He was just behaving unscientifically. In fact, come to think of it, I was a bit surprised to see Carlos here at all. I-I mean I figured with today’s investigation, he would already be out in the field, and I wouldn’t see him for days.

He said, since everyone else was out on search parties, it was the perfect time to go to the Ralph’s, because there wouldn’t be a line. I mean, that does sound scientific, it sounds like scientific reasoning but a- but (that), just something struck me about it as, I dunno, just off. I mean I don’t wanna say he was lying. Carlos doesn’t lie. Besides, lying is illegal. But it seemed like there was something he wasn’t telling me, like something that was bothering him. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to talk about, and he just said he had to go get the car washed and he left without even finishing his three-bean salad, and he loves that salad, made with his three favorite beans: garbanzo, kidney, and jelly.

I mean I know, I know, it might not sound like a big deal and maybe he was just having a moment. We all have moods, sometimes out of nowhere. You know, maybe I’m the one in a weird mood. I’m probably just being overly sensitive. I’m sure nothing is really wrong, not actually. Anyway you know, let’s just move on, I’m sure it’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s fine. Maybe I should go off caffeine again?

No, you know what, I really can’t shake this feeling. Nina Gordon, the former frontperson of Veruca Salt once told me that the subconscious is a powerful force. Maybe it’s all in my subconscious. Maybe if things are too good for too long, and you think about it too hard, it can start to make you nervous. And then, maybe you can’t take the pressure of waiting for things to wrong, and you start inventing problems just so you can have control over them. But you have to think about whatever can go wrong. Otherwise, you’re lazily enjoying a sunrise and dreaming of free hotcakes, and suddenly you’re drowning in a waterless parking lot before you even know what hit you.

No, this is silly! I’m just gonna call him. OK. [clears throat] Ringing… Ringing… no answer. Not unusual, really. He’s probably at the car wash like he said. Which can be very hypnotic. You know, sometimes you find yourself caught up in the rhythmic dance of the foaming brush, and you wake up in the parking lot hours later missing your wallet and part of your shirt, dry-mouthed and trying to remember how many teeth you have.

Oh good! I’ve just been handed some breaking news to distract me. Oh, oh. Well this is actually just a press release for the grand reopening of The Pancake House. Well, a press release is definitely a form of breaking news. They are announcing their new weekly menu specials. Quote: “We here at The Pancake House acknowledge that time is circular. Like a roundabout, not an unfathomable endless line with no beginning or end. We like repetition. It’s comforting. We know what’s behind us, and what’s ahead, and what will come again.

 It means there are certain truths, no matter what else may happen. In honor of our innate preference for cyclical thinking, we can guarantee that every Monday, fluffy omelets will be on special. Every Tuesday, we will have corn beef hash. No matter what happens, there will be liver and onions on Wednesday. You can lose your job and have your car repossessed on Thursday and still know that there will be chicken fingers on special that night like clockwork. We often think of Friday was being better than other days. For this reason, if something bad happens on a Friday, it can be particularly disappointing. You won’t be disappointed by our ham patties. They are consistent and dependable. Saturday we are here for you with liver and onions again. On Sunday, you can rely on our fried eggs and toast points. They will provide you with unwavering support, even if something really bad happens. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing at all anymore. Even if all the buildings suddenly seem slanted to the right by a few degrees, and everything that used to look yellow now smells yellow. You can always come to The Pancake House, no matter what happens.”

Ah, well that’s a nice sentiment! Oo it also has a coupon attached here. “Good for one free hotcake, one per table per visit.” That’s very nice. OK, I’m just gonna try and call Carlos again. Straight to voicemail this time. Well, that happens. Everything’s fine. He always forgets to charge his phone, I-I-I tease him about it. you know, I like to buy him different novelty phone chargers and hide them in his jacket and car, and in his shoes and lunch bag, but still he forgets. He has a very busy mind. Maybe he doesn’t like me to tease him so much. Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe it’s just too much coffee.

Or maybe I’ll head down to The Pancake House for dinner. Let’s it’s Thursday so let’s see. Chicken fingers! Or there’s always the hotcake coupon. Maybe I’ll see some of you down there. That would be nice. Or maybe you already have plans, which is totally fine too. I’ll just see you some other time. It’s no big deal. Everything’s fine. I need more coffee.

Stay tuned next for the sound of someone distracting you while you’re driving, and then yelling that you missed the turn.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Bite your tongue. Fun, right?

[belladonnaandulriched]

amped and wired, part two | chapter six: i’m no good

Mrs. Hamilton took us back to Black Orchid for a brief time, but I wanted to shower off and then relax at home for a bit, especially since I had had my hockey game. That time around, I took the front seat, which meant Scott would be away from that noisy plastic and he could nestle down in the warmth. It wasn't too much of a difference given he was completely right: the window made so much noise I could hardly hear myself think about things. Something brought us to the reservation, not just my own memory.

That dream maybe? No. Maybe it was Mr. Lang and the fact I lived with four ghosts.

But regardless, I really had no chance to think about the clones and when they might make their way up to upstate New York, or Candace's journal for that matter.

Oh, shit, Candace's journal! I completely forgot to mention it back there at the reservation!

It wasn't until we reached the parking lot outside of Black Orchid when I could have a thought or two about that. There was so much of that one entry that I had forgotten about, but I knew that her dying put us right in the midst of things, probably more so than my finding Maya on the sidewalk.

Or something like that. I had no idea.

All I knew was someone close to Candace stood behind the making those clones and they were about to come for us if we didn't find a way to stop them. The music industry made up a small piece of the pie, but a piece is more than a crumb. This could bring the whole world to its knees for all we knew.

I stayed in the front seat as Scott and Frankie climbed out first; Charlie took to the door behind Mrs. Hamilton. She looked over at me with a puzzled look on her face.

“Wanna come back inside, babe?” she offered me.

“I was thinkin' you could take Lars and me home—I need a shower.”

“Okay!” she said. “We can do that. Gives me a chance to check your bachelor pad, too.”

Once the three of them had climbed out, and Mrs. Hamilton told them what was going on, I glanced over my shoulder to find Lars leaning back in the back seat with his arms over the tops of the seats. Little lion man let his hair hang down over his shoulders and he brought his one knee over the other.

Oh yeah. And then there was him.

I couldn't explain it, but my partner in crime hid something from us. From me.

Once the doors were shut, Mrs. Hamilton backed out of the spot and I guided her back to my place. It was tricky given the racket from that sheet of plastic, but we managed to do it, especially since my voice carried more than that of Scott.

She pulled into the driveway at the parking lot and took the first spot closest to my place. We were down from where we found Maya on the back of that van—that was another thing I couldn't seem to take off of: why Lars and I managed to pry her off of there without anybody questioning us or anything like that.

I guided the two of them back to my front door, and the very second I set foot inside, I wanted to collapse onto the couch and take a nap. But I needed to shower and change my clothes first.

“Cute little place,” Mrs. Hamilton remarked as she peeked into the kitchen.

“Rent's good as it'll ever be and it's just me here,” I told her as I took off my coat and hung up my keys. I watched Lars lean his back against the wall behind the kitchen to take off his shoes: I spotted a small hole forming on the inside of the sock on his left foot.

“You know, a shower does sound nice right about now,” she confessed.

“I have spare towels in the closet down the hall here,” I said with a gesture to the hallway.

“Oh, no, Joey, I can't do it here.”

“Come on. You bought us coffee and you're letting Manny, Moe, and Jack stay at Black Orchid for the time being. I might as well return the favor.”

She showed me a little smile.

“Okay—it's a deal. But I don't have my shampoo with me, though.”

“You can use mine. It's one of those real big bottles so it'll last me a long time.”

“Well, aren't you just a sweet heart.” She let her smile grow over her face, to which I shrugged.

“I try my best,” I confessed to her, and without another word, she hung up her coat and made her way down the hall to the closet.

I watched her go inside of the bathroom and then I returned to Lars, who poured himself a glass of water from the faucet.

We were alone again and I had a lot on my mind. It was best to make note of it now rather than wait until Mrs. Hamilton left or we were back to Black Orchid. I swallowed down my nervousness as I watched him drink down that glass of water.

He set it down on the counter and looked at me.

“What?” he asked me. I sighed through my nose and clasped my hands together.

“Okay. I need to ask you something.”

“Yes?” He frowned at me and knitted his eyebrows together. “Is this about me staying here?”

“No. It's got nothing to do with that. It's more important than that. And I need you to tell me the truth.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Okay—um.” My mind went blank right then. He raised his eyebrows at me. I figured it was best to start from the beginning.

“Do you remember when we were in the warehouse running—and you told me there were like musical instruments on the other side of the room?”

He hesitated with his eyes peered off to the side. “Yes,” he replied in a low voice.

“I didn't see any,” I told him. “The next thing I want to highlight is—how'd you know that the music industry is a part of this? Like—we have the pieces—but there's one missing.”

He stared at me but didn't say anything.

“Lars—I'm going to tell you the same thing Mr. Lang said to me. There's something on your mind. There's something you're not telling me.”

“Mr. Lang?”

“One of the ghosts who live here.”

“There's no such thing as ghosts, Joey.”

“Don't change the subject. I need answers from you.”

“And I need to know why you feel the need to try and scare me.”

“I'm not,” I insisted. “And again, don't change the subject. There's something you're not telling me, Lars. How did you know these things before we did? And moreover, what made you think neither of us, be it me or Scott, Frankie, or Charlie, would notice? So tell me. Tell me everything.”

He nibbled on his bottom lip. Those green eyes gazed at me hard. I stood there before him as he held onto that glass by the base.

He then turned back to the sink for a refill.

I watched it fill up towards the rim, but once he switched off the faucet, he never took a drink. Instead, he turned back to me. He stayed silent as he strode past me towards the front room. He took a seat on the couch with the glass still in one hand.

I pressed my hands to my hips.

The whole place was silent save for the faucet of the shower squeaking on and the water running.

“Tell you everything, you said,” he began in a low voice.

“Yes. It's imperative that we get the secrets out. You're all about that, anyway.”

“True.”

“So why the hold up?”

“It's—It's pretty awful. The truth, I mean.”

I knitted my eyebrows together and shook my head.

“Can't be that bad.”

“It is,” he said. “Trust me, it is.”

He gestured to my recliner chair.

“Have a seat.”

I wiped my hands together and took one more glimpse down the hallway. It was just in there for the time being.

I sank down in the chair next to the phone and the couch. Lars took a small sip of water before launching.

“You know, my better half—my wife—she is deceased.”

“Right. What's she gotta do with it?”

“She knew all about it.”

“Really?”

To which he nodded.

“More so than me, if you can believe that.”

“I'll believe it.”

“She was into the whole writing thing as well as figuring out what was going on with the music business. You know, I am just learning these things—I still am, too. And it's even more so the case now that I am out on the job from Metallica. But she—she had it all down to a science. She knew what was up and she would stop at nothing to figure it out, what was going on with Maya and Candace and all the bullshit happening behind them. She was more than willing to figure it all out—and she did it in a way that would protect me, because she knew that when—or, if, I should say, she always treated it as a possibility because you never know how these things will work out in the end—it would jeopardize my future, perhaps more so than being fired.”

“So she was like—she was like a spy?”

“Kind of. She had so many irons in the fire and I often worried it would put her in danger because she had such a mouth—you think I have a mouth on me! Given Metallica's status prior to my departure. She often got in trouble and she made a great deal of enemies, and I just knew that if something were to happen to her, the whole system would sustain a chain reaction in failure. You know, the whole thing about how we musicians are not walking in a vacuum.”

“Absolutely. We have other interests.”

“Exactly. So I figured that if something happened to her, the shit would hit the fan. All of the secrets would be uncovered, Maya and Candace's lives would be at stake, New York would go first, and the rest would follow.”

“But she ended up going anyways,” I said in a soft voice.

“Yeah.” His face fell. “Quietly, I should add. Quietly, but—slowly. Very, very—very slowly. Painfully, too.”

“Do you know what it was—that killed her?” I asked him in a low voice.

He fetched up a sigh.

“I have my theories,” he confessed, “but nothing concrete. Nothing solid that I can rely on and say in a public setting when provided the choice. I am still—putting together the pieces. Pulling it apart and putting things together, if you will...”

He took another sip of water.

“So let me get this straight,” I started as I leaned forward in the recliner, “if it really is that dire—like if it's going to fuck me over at some point, and more so that I was the guy who found Maya laying in the street—or the clone of Maya, I should say—why am I just now hearing about it? Like, why not go public with this? Because it sounds horrifying. Your wife sounded like a real important lynchpin in everything.”

“Well, it's a touchy subject for me,” he contined, “especially after what happened with Metallica on that bus.”

“Right. But of the three of you, you were the one who took it the best. That's what I heard, anyways.”

“I took it the best but I also took it the worst. James and Kirk were agitated beyond belief—I was in over in my head, too, but it was more... I wish I had more time with Cliff. I wish I had more time to rekindle things with him. To call him more than just my friend, but my brother. To take more interest in what he liked. To do more than just tighten the strings on his bass guitars or his boots and maybe buy him breakfast or a drink at one point. To—” He closed his eyes and took in a deep, full breath of oxygen to fill out his chest. “—even so much as say 'thank you' to him, for being my brother. My band mate. And a part of my world.”

“Let them figure out how to thank you,” I muttered under my breath. He opened his eyes and took another drink of water, a slightly larger gulp that time.

“I will tell you this, Joey,” he started again, that time in a lower voice to where he sounded as though he was on the brink of tears, “—I am glad I was able to confess this to you, because—if I am honest, I couldn't hardly say this to either James or Kirk when I was alongside them. It was such a difficult tricky subject for me to talk about that I was about two rounds of tequila of burying the whole story altogether and letting it all come. I want to thank you.”

And I nodded my head at him.

“It's the best I can do, man,” I said. “So—now that this is out in the open, or at least between you and me—what do you think we should do next?”

“Well,” he began again as he set the glass down in his lap, “I just think about—what we talked about in the reservation earlier. To stay on guard, because it's all up in the air right now. My wife died, Candace is now gone... and the clones are insane down in the Big Apple at the moment.”

“Where are they coming from, by the way? I mean—they all look the same. They're all clones, made of—human flesh. They're based off of... somebody. They're comin' from some place and from somebody.”

“Yes, from Maya,” he stated, nonchalant. “Maya Sorenson, whom my wife knew.”

“Yeah, but,” I said, “is there actually a Maya Sorenson, though? Like is she a real person?”

“Yes.” He paused. “...as far as I know.”

“As far as you know?”

“Clones, remember?”

“Well, if she isn't a clone—is she alive?”

He opened his mouth to say something but no sound came out. He peered off to the side in thought; I could see him piecing it together.

“You know, it's—it's the weirdest thing,” he admitted, “I don't know. I have no idea. My wife died and I fell out of contact with her. I have no clue if she was a clone or the real thing.”

“Oh, well, fuck me sideways.” I leaned back in the recliner chair with my arms upon the armrests. He took another sip of water; I could still hear the water in the shower running, but I also heard a splash upon the shower floor. She had to be almost done at that point.

Mrs. Hamilton was buck naked in my shower. Naked and unafraid and totally real.

“I have no idea—if she was clone or the real thing,” he repeated in a soft voice.

I then leaned back forward so my face was close to him.

“What was she like?” I asked him in a low voice.

“Exactly like the clones—before they malfunction, of course. I do remember she—wore a back brace, like she had a lot of complaints about that part of her body. I remember we had her over for dinner one evening and she had trouble staying in one spot for prolonged lengths of time. She told me it was hard on her back.”

I flashed back to when we were in the City and Frankie drove right into that clone, and it hit the windshield and splattered blood all over the hood and the roof. As far as I knew, it landed on the pavement on its back and died right there. Complete and utter bloodbath aside...

“She suffered from a lot of headaches, too,” he continued, “—like I couldn't play music too loud, otherwise it would hurt her head. I just think about you—doing—that—in the sewers the other night. Bringing all of those clones to their knees and allowing us to find you and Mrs. Hamilton.”

“'Metal Thrashing Mad'?” I recalled with a smirk.

“Exactly!” he replied with a chuckle and another sip of water.

“It would also explain why you've gotten so heavy, too.”

“Exactly,” he repeated in a more somber voice. “It's just—it's hard. It's hard, you know?”

“Stressful,” I suggested. He took one final drink of water and leaned back in the couch cushions.

“I remember the first,” he started as he gazed up to the ceiling overhead, “—I'd say week—week and a half thereabouts—I didn't eat anything. I mean, Candace had enough guts in her to eat fucking paper—I didn't even have that! I might as well have not had running water in my place because I didn't even have that.”

“What changed?”

“Finally couldn't take it anymore. I looked at myself in the mirror and said, 'fuck it.' I just sat down with a big apple pie—”

“Apple danish,” I recalled.

“Apple danish,” he echoed with a nod of his head. “But I sat down with a big apple pie and ate the whole thing by myself. I kept going—eating more pies and more of everything, really. I did not limit myself or restrain myself in any way. And now look at me—all heavy and round, but I still feel strong, though. There is a lot of strength here—it may not look it, kind of like you are, being all skinny.”

“I'm a lot stronger than I look, it couldn't be more true,” I declared in a single breath.

“Mister Hockey Player and—fast runner. It is in fact true that strength comes in all forms.”

I winked at him once he said that.

“But I have become so ravenous,” he continued, “—and yet, I love it. I love the feeling. I love looking down at myself and seeing what I have become, this heavy supposed mess of human emotion, when that couldn't be further from the truth. You ever do something that's considered massively taboo like overeating a lot food that's supposedly bad for you?”

“You are preaching to the choir,” I told him as I thought back to that morning and to lunchtime and all of the food I had eaten.

“It was just—it was euphoric,” he confessed. “It was especially good for me to unleash that from myself, not just because I lost my wife, but—when I was in Danish school, the kids would pick on me for my round face.”

“What?” I was taken aback by that. “Why?”

“Who knows?” he admitted with another shrug of the shoulders. “As far as I knew, having a round face is considered too girly or too feminine. I can only imagine what you've been through being... half Native American and everything, especially after walking around that reservation, but for me... to eat to my heart's desire and come to terms with all of it, I was free. Free from my slender body and from obligations. But—even freedom has its limits.”

“You needed someone to talk to,” I said in a soft voice. “And yeah—when I was playing in bands up here before Anthrax, I would get weird looks from people. You know, I'm this funny lookin' brown skinned boy with a gap in his teeth and it wasn't from dental problems. And yet I could drum and sing like it was nobody's business. I remember when I played in this good sized place up in a town called Plattsburgh—way the hell upstate, it's almost in Canada—and I got so many dirty looks during set up. But once I opened my mouth, it was like 'game over for all you numb nuts.'”

He laughed at that and I leaned back in the recliner once again.

“And when I joined Anthrax, you know, it was totally alien to me. I didn't know what thrash was or anything pertaining to that. I always got a lot of shit for having a cleaner voice in comparison to James or Dave, or Tom for that matter. Hey, a clean voice will mop the floor better than a filthy, snarled one, you know.” He kept on laughing for a few more seconds, and then he looked down at his glass.

“Pretty good tap water here,” he proclaimed.

“Eh, it's alright,” I said with a shrug and a folding of my hands over my lap.

“It beats the ever loving fuck out of the water out in Cali,” he pointed out.

“New York water beat up Cali water and took its lunch money.”

“Yes!”

Speak of the devil, the water pipes stopped running right then and I lifted my head from the recliner cushion.

“Do you need a shower?” I offered him.

“Maybe. I am feeling alright but nothing in comparison to what you have consorted with today.”

“As long as you find a way to damn your own socks when I get my booty in there.”

“Damn my own socks?”

“Wait a minute,” I backed up. “Is it damn or darn?”

“Darn socks,” he corrected me with a puzzled look on his face. “And why would I darn my own socks?”

“I figure it's gonna snow tonight and I would think you'd wear your socks to bed. I don't want your sock feet in my face.”

“That still doesn't explain why there's a problem with darning my own socks.”

“Oh, yeah?” I pointed down at his feet. He raised the side of his left foot a bit, and he spotted the hole.

“That's right on the angle of my foot, though, Joey,” he pointed out.

“A hole is a hole, though—and it gets bloody cold here when it snows. The lake effect don't fuck around, my Danish friend.”

“How am I supposed to darn my own socks?”

I paused for a second. “Duct tape?” I suggested.

“I am not darning my own socks with duct tape,” he scoffed.

“I got a roll of electrician's tape in the kitchen,” I continued.

“I am not darning my socks with tape!”

The bathroom door swung open down the hall and I heard Mrs. Hamilton padding out of there. She emerged from the hallway with her hair dripping wet and her body clothed in nothing more than her skirt and a towel. She smelled like my shampoo and my soap, although she wore both better than I did.

“It's all yours, Joseph,” she informed me with a smile on her face.

[whenmusicspeaksfl]

Guide To An Existential Crisis

Guide to an Existential Crisis

By Hali Neal

This has been a hard post for me to write mostly because I haven't wanted to face any of the shit that led to my moving back to Miami (more on that in a bit). Except now my brain is tired of all the effort it takes to sustain that type of compartmentalization. I know this because of this restless, irritated, disillusioned (annoyed??) feeling that infected me in the two weeks since I've finished my summer job. It refuses to go away. And then there's the fact that both good and bad memories of my year and a half in Orlando keep flooding my mind.

If I'm being brutally honest with myself, which is sometimes a hard task, it really started last summer. Last summer when it looked and sometimes felt like I was on top of the world: I worked my ass off in school, my job, and to make deeper, meaningful connections in the music industry. I was fortunate enough to grab the attention of Mike Ziemer, owner of Third String Records and founder of the So What?! festival through a competition he was running to shadow him at So What?! and because of that, he offered myself and others who participated in the contest free two-day tickets to his festival. We all teamed up to find inexpensive accommodations, flights, and rental cars. We also decided to be a part of the So What?! documentary and that experience still stands out as one of the best (and coldest!) weekends of my life.

I also had the opportunity to attend the first Warped Tour press conference/lineup announcement in Orlando, which drew a lot of the more influential players in the industry to it. I was able to network with a few of them and got offered a(n unpaid) position to tour with MetalFortress Radio, one of Warped Tour’s sponsors that year. Also definitely two of the best weeks of my life. I was also approved to cover Pierce the Veil’s (one of my favorite bands) sold out “Misadventures” show in New York, Acceptance’s (another favorite band) show in Orlando, and the opportunity to cover both Fort Rock and the Cincinnati date of the Vans Warped Tour. I thought I had everything locked up as far as pursuing the creative career I’d always wanted: I’d been offered a full-time job as a photographer for Sharpshooter Imaging that was to start as soon as I got back from Warped Tour with MetalFortress. 

Then it all came crashing down in spectacular fashion. It started with me and my friend Adria covering the Cincinnati date of the Vans Warped Tour. The online publication I’d been writing for since 2012, Examiner.com, e-mailed me to tell me and the others that the site was shutting down in favor of keeping AXS.com, the company that bought out the original owners, running. Writing for Examiner was how I got my start in music journalism and how I’d gotten as far as I had in the industry. Naturally, I was crushed. As for AXS, I’d only just started writing for them in February after applying for the job three previous times. And anyone who’s ever had a long-term job knows what happens when a new company comes in: they kick all the old people out and start fresh. That’s exactly what happened to me. This wouldn’t have been as big a deal as it became if I hadn’t been 1) struggling to find the right medication to help me manage my depression and generalized anxiety disorder 2) literally in West Virginia driving to Ohio to cover Warped Tour for AXS. 3) constantly broke because of my focus on what I thought I wanted as a career for myself. 

These points are all interconnected in terms of how I got to where I am now so get comfortable and grab a snack or some coffee, because this is going to get long. This is what happens when you bottle stuff up too long and feel like you’re going to burst. Not the healthiest way to deal with stuff (don’t follow my example, kids). And I know this, which is why I’m attempting to excise these feelings the best way I know how: through writing.

1)   I’ve been quieter about my own mental health struggles than I probably should have – the majority of people who aren’t close to me (or my friend on Facebook) seem to think I’m the picture of someone who has their shit together, but in a lot of respects, nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve found ways to function despite my illness, which I think has more to do with my being stubborn as hell and feeling like there just has to be something more than this – than these circumstances.

a.   I’ve also been quiet about it because a lot of it is still me coming to terms with it and how it’s affected my life (still working on that, btw). It’s like waking up after a 10-year nap or something and realizing that you woke up in the middle of the apocalypse.

b.   It’s also EXTREMELY difficult to find health insurance on a limited income, the right psychiatrist, the right medication to help manage your symptoms (especially when you’re like me and have a propensity for experiencing ultra rare side effects) and never mind trying to find the right psychologist to deal with the emotional sludge you have to slog through to get to the light of what’s called recovery. I’ve made a lot of progress in those areas, but I can tell this is only the beginning.

c.    I’ve struggled with feeling shame’s ugly wings flapping in my ear when it comes to my anxiety disorder and depression. I’ve struggled with the two of them in some form my entire life but I only reached what addicts might call “rock bottom” toward the end of 2015. I’d just moved to Orlando to pursue what I thought would be my dream job, digital media/mobile journalism, was literally sleeping on my best friend’s floor (and putting up with her incredibly awful, toxic roommates), and working a shitty job I knew I’d eventually come to hate but I needed something to get me through until loans came in.

d.   I felt myself falling into a familiar hole around my birthday in October as my only paying writing job, Miami ArtZine, became impossible to keep up with and everything became a fight. The other thing of significance that happened was that two South Florida friends (both of whom are no longer in my life, one for reasons other than what I’m about to describe), were supposed to come up to Orlando for my birthday to see Bring Me The Horizon (a band who’s become important to me because “That’s The Spirit” is such an accurate depiction of how it feels to have depression). One of the girls literally waited until the day of, a few hours before they were supposed to leave, to tell my other friend that the car wasn’t going to make it up to Orlando. The other friend doesn’t drive and the show was sold out, so it’s safe to say that wasn’t my best birthday.  

e.   Losing the gigs with AXS and Examiner.com, struggling to find the right medication, and the photography job turning out not to be what it promised (leaving me scrambling to pay bills and afford gas/food) were just the straws that broke the camel’s back. The medication I was taking during my trip to Cincinnati, Cymbalta, ended up making me more depressed/suicidal than I’d ever been and it just made everything 10x harder to handle. I also found out that the psychiatrists I thought were helping me were actually awful doctors, so I felt like I was up a creek without a paddle.

The one-two punch that finally finished me off while I was in Orlando had everything to do with my living situation: first, it was apartment drama that ended with me and my roommates getting kicked out of our shady apartment complex for literally signing a complaint one of the roommates gave to the property manager and then thinking I’d found a place only to have it fall through at the last minute (which would become a theme with my jobs too). This led to me bouncing around from place to place basically every month: one month included living with an emotionally and physically abusive couple, another an extended stay for two weeks, to the same “best friends” I’d stayed when I first moved to Orlando telling me they weren’t kicking me out but I needed to find somewhere else, and finally a halfway sober house whose only requirement was that you had to be homeless and have a job (you didn’t necessarily have to have a problem with alcohol to qualify… main requirement was to be homeless. However, if you were newly sober, you needed to be 3 months sober). The halfway house is where I finally ended up because I was tired of moving and the property owner was only charging me $225 a month all-inclusive (with the exception of internet -  there was no wi-fi, which complicates things when you’re a digital media major who works most mornings or is in class).   

Then the problems started. I discovered that the mattress the property owner had so kindly provided for me was ridden with bed bugs, which, it turns out, I’m highly allergic to the bite of. I was in that house for three months and ended up sleeping on the living room couch or chair for relief, a place I often had to fight over with a cranky, sick old man obsessed with Fox News as well as a creepy, older manipulative crack addict that didn’t seem to actually want to get better and constantly stole everyone’s food. It got to the point that I depended on food pantries or my job as my main food source. I felt like I was sinking even lower into myself as we had to deal with the fact that the house was basically falling apart and the property owner would say she’d fix it and then never do it, drama that involved the crack addict and the cops and eventually the addict leaving. As I’ve been made aware, this was a lot for anyone to handle, never mind someone trying to juggle a 28 hour/week work schedule and classes. Then I lost my job and only reliable source of income in December as a result of stress and being on the wrong medication… again (this time the offender was Wellbutrin. My blood pressure before I was finally able to be taken off it was 161/something else obscenely high). 

The final straw came in January when my roommate and only sane person in that entire house told me the addict was coming back in February. Neither of us were about that life so we both knew we needed out before the end of the month. She left first and moved in with a friend she’d made at the house next to ours. Meanwhile, I was still stubbornly refusing to give up on my dream career and metaphorically dragging myself to classes. With everything going on, I only had enough energy left to pony up half-ass effort for my classes. The spring semester just started and already I’d forgotten to go to one of my classes and was full of resentment and other negative feelings for a class I’d normally enjoy: college newspaper.

My thoughts swirled and sounded something like this: ‘What am I doing with my life that I'm being so stubborn/subjecting myself to abhorrent (bed bug ridden) conditions...?’ ‘And for what?’ ‘What has this ultimately brought me but misery topped with more misery (and a generous sprinkling of debt)?’

I’d gone to Valencia when I was first having housing problems and was able to utilize their emergency fund. Unfortunately, that money went to living with the abusive couple for a month. I went back to Valencia to see what I could do and if maybe the emergency fund could help me again. Turns out it really is a one time fund. I felt screwed. I explained the situation to the counselor and he gave me the “come to Jesus” talk I didn’t know I needed. He told me that add/drop wasn’t over yet, that I could still drop with no liability, that it was okay to take a semester off, and even though it might be hard to ask, to ask my parents if I can come home and let them help me. Add/drop ended after that weekend (I went to the office Friday), so I had to decide quickly. I texted my parents the situation – everything from the housing thing to the difficulty I’d been having finding a job after being let go from Dunkin’ Donuts in December. To my surprise, they understood (the reason I was surprised is a post for another time) and I knew that whatever disagreements and issues I’d had with them, it had to be better than the conditions I was currently living in. I dropped my classes that day and moved home the next day.

Adria helped me find a job once I moved back and I’m still at said job – working as an after care counselor at the school she teaches at. I’d already finished the process to be a substitute teacher in Orlando, so I just transferred my info down to the Broward office and voila – steady-ish jobs, one of the biggest issues I had in Orlando. I still had the editing job I’d started in Orlando at Odyssey, which eventually ended up becoming a content mill that was less than honest about its changes. This was the punch that knocked me out for a couple of months and the start of my existential crisis in regards to writing.

I’ve discovered that, while I’m learning to live healthily with depression and generalized anxiety disorder, I need a job that won’t give me paycheck anxiety. Also living paycheck to paycheck is miserable.

I feel like making writing a paying career is such a long shot at this point that I’m afraid of even wanting it anymore. I’m flummoxed as to what to even do with my life if it’s not writing. I’ve thought about social work since a secondary passion of mine is psychology and I like creating a supportive emotional learning environment for the kids but… I don’t know. I’d need to do my masters, which I wouldn’t mind, but it would have to be fully funded or mostly at least. I don’t want to make it hard for myself to pay back my student loans. I’ve finally found a psychologist that seems promising and he’s helping me to believe that I can have good things, to let the past GO mentally, and that I need to forgive myself for my past mistakes and/or failures. I also found a decent psychiatrist who actually knows what the hell he’s talking about and I think I might have finally found the right medication to help me manage the more physical symptoms/destructive thoughts/behaviors this illness would rain down on me before. Also, about music journalism: I still like doing CD reviews and interviews, so maybe the key is being more selective about the ones I do so I don’t get as burnt out as I’ve gotten? We’ll see what happens. All I know is that I hope I get this shit figured sooner rather than later. Figured you guys should know why I’ve been a bit of a ghost in regards to music journalism… been trying to get my head right.