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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years ago

Text

T H E

P A R I S

C H R O N I C L E S

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut in the other chapters. This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up).

Summary: Newly divorced you decide to travel to the Riviera and spend the summer in the house you and Timothée have inherited. After a very successful art exhibition he comes down to join you. Things should be easy, but they aren't.

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

R E A D

P A R T

O N E

A N D

T W O

H E R E

***

Menton - July, 1953

Menton, the most easterly town of the Côte d'Azur, belonging to the Arrondissement of Nice. It is located practically on the French-Italian border, the influences of both countries clear in multi-coloured houses, the decorated windows and in the sixteenth century bell tower.

The beaches are rocky but wide, and in the summer season packed with vacationists looking for an escape from the city; to lay their bodies down and soak up some sun, breath in some fresh air and occasionally to dip their bodies into the ocean in an attempt to escape the heat and cool down.

There’s a village square, in the middle of which a fountain; made in a century in which people still believed in dragons. From Bentwood chairs you can sit back and enjoy a meal, or a simple cappuccino, al fresco; as you watch the occasional hopeful tourist throw a coin into the fountain, making wishes with sanguine smiles. Or perhaps play a game of chess with a stranger.

On a cobbled-stone street nearby a market is set up each morning in a belle-epoque building, inside of which cheese, fish and meat are sold, and outside vendors are selling fruits and vegetables on wooden tables covered by green cloths.

Away from the pastell-coloured village and the expensive resorts and hotels by the beach there are steep hills, where most of the Menton locals reside. Some houses small and quaint; others almost obscene in their obvious wealth.

One of these houses is called Villa Marguerite

***

From the villa you can see the ocean spread out in front of you, almost recklessly big and bold and blue. Behind the house; acres upon acres of lemon trees, the bright yellow and green hues creating sharp contrasts to all the surrounding blue. There’s a garden too, emerald green grass and cedar trees that with rain will spread its heady scent all over the property; some mornings it is the first thing you smell.

The morning sun shines upon the terrace and you lean back in your wicker chair and sip on your morning coffee. Music is coming from the kitchen radio, only a few meters away.

The day lay planned and untraveled in front of you with all its horrifying possibilities. In a few hours Timothée’s train will arrive at the station and the upcoming reunion fills you with equal parts anticipation and terror. You had offered to meet him there, as his train arrives. You can picture it in front of you, standing on the dusty station under the scorching sun, eyes on the railroad track before you, awaiting the first sign of the train. You’d wear something nice for him, a white sundress perhaps; to show him that you are still the young sweet girl he fell for in Paris – that the colossal weight of a wedding ring on your left ring finger has not left you changed. You can picture what he’ll show up in, paint-stained jeans and white t-shirt. It will be awkward at first, it must be after all these months apart. But you’d conquer your fear and you’d hug him, pull him tight against you and breath him in; the familiar scent of him, the irresistible and unplaceable mixture of turpentine and smokey whiskey and of Paris.

There have been nights you’ve woken up gasping for air, where your hands have searched in vain around you in bed, panic-stricken, looking for the familiar frame of a lost lover. Every time, upon realizing that he’s not there, you would fall back against the mattress, and with deep breaths force your lungs to accept air. You’d close your eyes tightly shut and perhaps it was a trick your brain played on you, some devilish scheme – but in those moments, when you needed him the most you could almost concoct his scent out of thin air, could almost smell him, almost feel him lay beside you. There were times you would have sworn on anything holy you could feel the warmth of his body beside yours.

You had suggested to meet him at the station, but he had turned your offer down so firmly it had bordered on rudeness.

In the passing months since his department from London you had shared two brief, silence-filled phone calls.

One of them early one morning in May, just as the lilac bush burst out in bloom outside your window, the scent of them heady and intoxicating, and the missing weight of a diamond ring on your left hand still a strange sensation. Still you lift the phone; asking the operator for a number in France. You had called up his studio to inform him that you had moved out of your soon-to-be former husband’s house and were now taking house in Mayfair, in case he needed to reach you. Timothée´s voice had been tense and hoarse, as if he had just woken up and was not happy about it. In the background a woman had laughed.

The second time he had called you, in the late hours of the evening mid-June, just as the magnolias had set in bloom. You had informed him that you were planning to go down to Menton the following week, to start with the process of going through your aunt’s possessions. He in turn had informed you that his exhibition was to finish up on the 15th of July, after which he planned to travel to Nice by train and thus arrive the following morning. You had then offered to meet him at the station, to show him the way to the house at his arrival, which he had turned down. The tone of had been curt and the conversation short.

And that had been your only contact since that day in London. Before coming to Menton you had gone to Paris, to sign some papers and go through a few objects in your aunts’ apartment. You had not informed Timothée of this nor had you visited him.

Now here you are, weeks later, awaiting his arrival; foot tapping nervously against the floor, eyes fixed without seeing, mind recklessly wandering. Soon he’ll arrive at the station and you try not to connect that fact with the terrible sense of doom that’s been growing stronger in your stomach these last few days. But it seems undeniably connected.

Doom, like things have already been set in motion, the faiths decided; beyond your control or demand.

You feel ungrounded, restless and unbound; like the light morning breeze can sweep you away at sea. Trying to get a hold of yourself you focus your eyes only to see the endless blue sky above you or endless blue sea in front.

The sense of temporariness, of insignificance, of irrelevance in the grand scale of things washes over you and nausea settles in the pit of your stomach. Sitting up straight in your chair, force your foot to stop stomping the ground, you close your eyes and inhale slowly.

From the open window kitchen, you can still hear Louise, your aunt's maid, playing the radio. The French pop tune playing is unknown to you plays but she signs along over the sound of cluttering plates and running water. Upon your aunt’s death had ended up unemployed and in search of a job. She had written to you in London, asking for a position, and you had taken her on.

A sea gull screams somewhere above and from your neighbour’s house you hear children playing.

The sun is warm on your skin; the stone floor warm beneath your feet.

Feeling calmer, you open your eyes.

but still all you see is blue.

***

Timothée travels to Nice by train with a third-class ticket.

The compartment is unbearably hot. He tries to lay as still as possible on the hard bunk bed, afraid that any movement will make him warmer. Trying to ignore the sweat forming on his brow he focuses on the rhythmic pace of the train moving underneath him, wishing it would lull him to sleep but all it does is leave him with a vague feeling of nausea. His fellow passenger in the bunk bed below is in the bathroom next door, violently vomiting and the retching sound is coming through the thin walls . The light above his bed keeps flicking, every other second leaving the already dim room, with its dark oak panels, in complete darkness.

And dying for a cigarette.

He’s hot and sweaty and he thanks his lucky star he turned down your offer to meet him at the station. The thought of seeing you again after all these months, no doubt radiant in the sunlight, like an angel in waiting for him; and then him, wearing sweat-soaked rags that’ll no doubt smell of bile and dust and liquor.

He’s glad he turned your offer down; wants to make a good impression on you, to show you that he has changed, that he’s no longer the penniless painter; that he has made a success out of himself. The exhibition had been an incomparable success, Le Monde had put him on the front page and Le Journal du Dimanche had written an entire feature on his use of the colour blue – which they had been dubbed “as revolutionary as Picasso’s blue period, making the viewer see the colour in a new light, almost as if for the first time. Never before have I’ve seen blue look so isolated and lonely”.

He wondered if you had seen it. He wants you to have seen it, to be proud of it; of him. To know, because you had to know, that it was all for you.

But lately fear had crept up on him. Like mold it had grown from a single thought; slowly and steadily until it covered everything, until it was a certainty he knew as well as his own name; a fact poisoning his every breath.

What if you didn’t love him anymore? What if, after all this time and suffering you found out that, actually, without all the hinders standing in your way you didn’t actually find him all that interesting.

He would be forced to go on his way, certain in the knowledge that you no longer loved him; instead of the current status quo of endless possibilities of the untraveled road, where anything can still happen. Where there is still hope. It had crossed his mind, the thought of just not going. To stay in Paris and paint and dream; safe in the knowledge that at one point the most beautiful woman in the world had loved him. Never having the possibility of that changing.

But it would be a cowardly thing to do, and whatever else he was he was no coward. But he also knew that there was no use pretending, he was not the same as he was when he met you. How could he be? He had been a planet, knocked out of its orbit, forced to find a gravity anew. And he had, it had taken time and pain and more self-discipline than he knew he had in him. He had dusted himself of and gone on with life. But when you left Paris the first time had felt safe in the knowledge that you loved him.

If you were to reject him now, it would only be because you found him lacking; disappointing.

The stranger retches in the bathroom again and behind closed eyelids Timothée can still see the flicking light. He pretends it’s a blinking star.

Lately he’s been reading less Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky; switched them for Nietzsche, Sartre and Aristotle. This new world of science and philosophy opening up a whole new world for him. It had set his mind to ponder about love and religion and of the whole galaxy too; about his place and role in all of these things.

Every day, several times over, he had wanted to call you. To tell you about his discoveries, read you abstracts from his books and ask your thoughts on it. He wanted to know what you made out of all these subjects, to hear where your opinions differed from his. He wanted to argue with you about them.

Yet every time he picked up the phone to call you, he had put it down again. He had felt silly, calling you about such mundane things. Didn’t want to bother you in your grief. He knew, had bought each new glossy copy of the Tatler with a shameful face, that you were going through a difficult divorce.

He didn’t want to complicate your life any further.

The stranger comes into the compartment again, groans loudly and shuts the door with a bang behind him before throwing himself down on the lower bunkbed.

“Fucking hate trains” he states.

“You don’t say” Timothée answers dryly. It’s stifling hot in the compartment and the other man has brought in the strong scent of bile back with him to mix with the stench of sweat.

The train takes a sudden turn and the man below groans loudly again. Timothée hears how he fiddles with something and then the click of a lighter. He asks the man for a cigarette and the he kind-heartedly hands him his entire package of Lucky Strikes. Perhaps as an apology for the smell.

The rest of journey is spent chain-smoking cigarettes until the late hour, the compartment a fog of smoke, until he finally falls into slumber somewhere after Lyon.

The next morning his travel companion, looking rather worse for wear but relieved that the train has stopped at last, helps him with his luggage as they depart the train.

A strange feeling of having been reborn settles over him as he blinks up at the sun, his eyes adjusted from the previous dark dimness of his coupé. The station is dusty and oven-hot but he strives forward through it, bag with his belongings slung over his shoulder. Just as he expected he’s arrived sweaty, with ruffled dirty clothes and a stench of bile and sweat lingers on him. It had most definitely been the right decision to turn down your offer to meet him at the station. And so, instead of looking for a taxi to take him to the great big house on the hills he makes his way down the cobbled streets in quite the other direction.

There’s nothing like the ocean to wash away the sense of filth. With a gasp he breaks through the water surface and forces large gulps of fresh air down his throat. The water is cyan in shade and the surface glitter under the sun. He wades his way through the water and back to the beach, sending a silent prayer that the posh hotel he’s snuck into won’t notice that he is in fact not a guest paying hundreds of Francs a night for the luxury of a private beach, complete with white sunbeds and linen-clad waiters ready to service your every whim, but in fact just a common free-loader.

The small rocks are scalding hot and under his bare feet but he makes his way through the white parasols and sunbeds, careful as to not disturb the suntanning guests, his shabby bag slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll be damned!” An American voice roars out and Timothée stops dead in his tracks, heart beating painfully in his chest; as if he was an animal, knowing he was about to be caught in the hunt. “If it isn’t my favorite painter!”

Slowly he turns around.

Underneath a white parasol, sprawled out on a sunchair; broad-shouldered, blond and suntanned, lay William.

Fuck.

William stands up and moves closer to him. “It is you! Man, what a surprise!” he bursts out in his thick American accent and claps him on his shoulder. Timothée just stands there, still with the feeling of being caught; trapped. William just smiles at him. “I was just going to grab an early lunch, care to join me?”

The hotel restaurant is situated on a terrace, making the most of the ocean view, azure blue sea glittering under the sun. The beach is full to the brim with suntanned bodies, sipping drinks under big white parasols. They’ve both changed out of their swimming trunks, William into a nice white day suit, freshly pressed of course. Walking behind him onto the terrace Timothée feels especially shabby in his worn linen trousers, albeit he’s currently wearing his only items of clothing not covered in paint splatters.

They are seated by the railings, a small white clothed table. They order margarita pizzas and beers. They small talk, filling up the blanks since they last saw each other.

Timothée tells him of his work, the successful exhibition, his newfound love of Nietzsche. About his reason for coming to Nice. William in turn tells him of how he changed his mind about returning to America, how he’s fallen in love with the Mediterranean, how life here has inspired him so much he’s taken up writing. In fact, he has already written most of his first book, and it is set to publish at the end of summer. He is now looking for a house, some permanency for the first time in his life. He will settle down here, he tells Timothée in a solemn tone.

Timothée well recognizes the signs of a man trying to escape from himself. He doubts very much if William is the type to ever settle, has no doubts in fact that next time they’ll speak William will have taken up an instrument set to join a band, or learn a new language ready to move country yet again. Timothée knows a drifter when he sees one.

But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to warn the other man about the uselessness of attempting to outrun oneself, doesn’t advise him to instead make peace with the past and himself; knows that there is no use, that he'll find this out for himself soon enough. So instead he smiles, lights the last of his Lucky Strike´s and orders them some more beers.

They drink and talk, dream really, far into the afternoon as the sky changes from bright blue to nuances of powder pink and lavender. They dream up scenarios for William’s future; a summer spent in sunny Nice soaking up the sun, before setting to Capri in the autumn to work on a new book. They decide he should take a break in the winter to go skiing in Saint Moritz before returning to Nice in the spring, to finish up his book.

More beers are ordered, and subjects discussed, but when a longer silence takes place William leans back in his chair, a shy look on his face that makes him look more boy than man.

“So” he begins, and Timothée’s interests are piqued. The terrace is full of people by now, taking a late lunch or simply enjoying an afternoon drink, waiting for the sun to set and the real party to begin.

“So?” he offers, pressing the other man to continue.

William clears his throat, cheeks flushed, and not purely from the day spent in the sun. “So, you’re going to see her now?”

Timothée is not surprised by his question, had expected it since he told him why he was here, had expected the subject of you to arise. It felt inevitable. The subject of you too big to ignore.

“Yes” he says, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray. They’d bought new ones from the waiter many beers ago, the crystal cut ashtray between them filled to the brim with stumped out cigarettes.

“Yeah should get going soon really, she was expecting me this morning.”

Silence for a heartbeat, as the sky turns red, the sun almost setting.

“And it is true, what they’ve written in the society pages? She’s getting divorced?”

Timothée, not knowing what to do with his hands, lights yet another cigarette; even though his throat feels too dry; too tight. “Yeah” he manages to get out.

Silence again. William is keeping his eyes on the setting sun, seemingly lost in thought.

“Mind if I tag back with you to the house?” he says eventually. The words come out almost superiorly. Yet Timothée senses the fragile vulnerability under the arrogance. “I’d just like to say hi to her” he then adds in a softer tone. “Our last goodbye…” he trails off for a second and something like regret flashes in his clear blue eyes, “Look, I treated her abhorrently and I’d like to put things right, it’s the least I can do”.

And who is Timothée to deny either one of you that?

The ground is slightly unsteady under his feet as they stand outside the hotel, waiting for the taxi the porter had ordered. He had, perhaps, had one too many to drink. He sways from one foot to the other. It is just past midnight and he should have gone home hours ago.

And maybe he shouldn’t arrive at your first meeting in months, the first meeting post-divorce, absolutely wasted. A knot ties somewhere in his stomach.

And, he thinks as he slides into the backseat of the taxi, maybe he oughtn't to bring your ex-fiancé with him to said meeting. An ex-fiancé who had broken up your engagement days before the wedding, left you pretty much at the altar to marry someone else instead. Your first love.

The knot tightens harder.

He watches the city, now dark and full of people, pass by outside the window. As the taxi goes up the hills he tries to focus on the ocean outside; now the darkest shade of blue. The moon is yet to make an appearance to light up the evening. They drive up a final curve and finally Timothée can see it. The white house atop the hill is large and neo-classical in style, with painted mint-green shutters, currently open wide to let in some evening air, and up the white walls magenta colored bougainvillea climbs.

The lights are on and Timothée feels light-headed. He blames it on the drinks. He blames it on the day spent under the beaming sun. He blames it on the long journey there and the fact he slept so badly on the train.

He blames it on anything other than the fact that he’s starting to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t have come here tonight. If perhaps he should have stayed at the hotel, sobered up and after a good night sleep come here; bunches of casa blanca lilies in hand and a forged reason for his lateness on his lips.

And he definitely shouldn’t bring William with him.

Something twists painfully inside him and he feels a bit sick. Because he knows William is your first love; but what if he’s your greatest one as well. What if the two of you after reuniting again, found that there were still love there. You both had divorces in your past now, you both had money, and freedom. What if William wasn’t just your first love, but your greatest one?

He definitely shouldn’t have brought him here.

He watches with regret settled deep in his bones as the taxi drives away, and William is walking up the pebbled path to the front door. So Timothée takes a deep breath, throws his duffel bag over his shoulder, and forces his feet forward.

They ring the door and surprise hits him for the second time that day, when the door opens and Aunt Marguerite’s maid Louise stands there, wearing the usual look of disapproval as she takes in the state of him.

She sniffs with disgust. “You are late” she tells him with a stern tone, before stepping aside to let him enter. “Madam is on the terrace”. He drops his bag on the floor as she leads the way through the house, William at his heel. His feet feel like cement, but he keeps forcing them forward.

The first thing he sees as he steps out onto the terrace is the moon, now high in the sky, casting its reflection on the water below. Then, on a sunbed with your face towards the ancient blue spreading out in front of you; not directed to him. He sees you in the moonlight, curled up underneath a blanket, a glass of red wine beside you. The only light on the terrace the moon and candles, lit up around you.

Without turning to look at him you say, in a voice painfully familiar, “was beginning to give up on you. Thought you’d missed the train”.

“Sorry” he says, and it surprises him how calm he sounds; because he’s pretty sure something is exploding inside his chest. “Got a bit distracted.”

You turn to him then, a half-smile on your face that freezes immediately upon seeing who is standing behind him. Painful silence falls between you, heavy like a wet blanket, while the ocean roars beneath, its waves crashing against the rocks.

“Wills?” Your voice sounds so vulnerable it makes him want to weep, to go hide; to ask something holy for forgiveness.

“Hi baby” William answers and Timothée nearly whimpers, wants to look away but can’t seem to turn his eyes from the scene in front of him.

Your eyes are big and glossy in the moonlight as William moves closer. Nausea rises in Timothée’s stomach as he watches William sit down on the sunbed beside you; hands clasped before him like a schoolboy in church.

“I’m sorry” he begins, “this must come as a surprise to you but…”

“Excuse me” you interrupt him, voice cold but your vulnerability clear as it. “I think I will retire to bed. You can stay over if you wish, Louise will prepare you a room. We’ll lunch tomorrow.”

And all either Timothée can do is watch as you stand up, spine all straight and head held high as you walk past him, not casting him a single look as he hangs his head in shame.

Timothée blinks slowly into the bright light; confused as to where he is for a moment. He blinks a few more times, his lasting impression; white. White sheets, white walls, white lilies on his bedside table, white wooden floors and white curtains moving in the breeze from the open balcony door; outside of which azure blue sky. Then,

Menton.

You.

He groans, burying his face in the pillow. The pain in your eyes as you walked past him the night before; eyes brimming with carefully held back tears. Why, why, why on earth had he brought William with him? Why hadn’t he just told him no? Surely it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to turn down his request to force his way back into his ex-fiancé’s life?

But he wanted you back. And Timothée had handed you to him.

“Fuck” he groans.

Despite his protesting, heavy limbs and sore head he stands up and moves through the room, to the gilded mirror by the antique dresser. Slowly he blinks back to his miserable reflection. A skinny man, with unruly, dark curls and anxious, wide eyes, dark circles like bruises underneath them. He thinks of William; tall and golden and broad shouldered enough to carry the weight of the world on them. And rich enough to own it.

He wants to hurl.

Instead, with the determination of the already damned, he moves through the room, knowing there is nothing left to do but face the day; and the consequences of last night. Finding a pair of clean linen trousers and white shirt he pulls them on with fumbling hands. Rooming through the pockets of the trousers he wore last night, carelessly thrown over a wicker chair, he finds the package of Gauloises he bought at the hotel the previous night. He puts them in his pocket, he is going to need them. Feeling like a man walking up to the gallows he steps out of his room.

Louise, who’s in the kitchen preparing breakfast, huffs in displeasure when she sees him.

“Yeah, yeah” he mutters, “I know”.

She pulls up her blonde hair and ties it in a knot in her back, seemingly doing her utmost to ignore him, but he’s pretty sure she’s just doing it for the opportunity to sneakily give him the finger.

Out on the terrace you sit by the table, reading. Wearing a white silky thing, your hair wet from a bath, pearls of water falling to the ground as you move to flip a page in your book. You are bathing in the morning light, covered by it; and maybe it’s just to Timothée’s eyes but everything else seems to fall into shadow.

Walking more assuredly than he feels, somewhat comforted in the fact that William is not yet up, he takes a seat beside you at the table. You flip a page in your book, and you don’t look at him. A seagull screeches in the sky, but otherwise the world remains quiet.

“What are you reading?” he asks, though feeling it is a trivial question in the midst of everything. He feels foolish, trying to ease into conversation with you, when all he really want to do is apologise; to take your hands and tell you that he’s sorry.

“The Odyssey”

“You like it?”

Your eyes don’t move over the page, but you don’t look at him either; instead fixated on the page in front of you.

“Yes” you say eventually. “But I find the prose hard to get used to”.

“Well” he says fishing in his pockets for his Gauloises, “personally I prefer The Iliad. There’s a feeling of doom in it that stays with you, like their fates are already set out for them and they can’t escape it. They’re left to just live their stories out”. He brings a cigarette to his lips but soon discovers he’s forgotten a lighter. He swears under his breath, the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Then something silver reflects in the sun, right before his eyes. You’re reaching out your hand to him, and in the palm of your hand lay a cigarette lighter. Gratefully he takes it and lights up.

“Thanks” he says, trying to hand it back to you, but you shake your head.

“No, it’s yours. Apparently, my aunt had it ordered for you before she passed. I was going to give it to you yesterday.”

Timothée feels as if he’s been punched in the stomach. He lays down the cigarette and looks down at the silver lighter. It’s beautifully crafted, old fashioned in a good way and thoroughly stylish. Marguerite through and through. He turns it in his hand and sunlight reflects from its perfect surface. Only then does he notice the engraved text, in cursive writing; “Fuck Picasso”.

He breaks out in laughter but feels a simultaneous need to cry. To lay down on the floor and weep. He misses her, would do anything to hear her scold him for his behavior again. To have her tell him that he is being defeatist and to keep trying; keep fighting for what he wants.

He looks at you, and he can see the same conflicting feelings reflected in your glossy eyes.

“Le petit dejeuner, madam” Louise says, putting down the tray with coffee, bread, brie and fresh fruit on the table between you. She sends Timothée a scorching look as she does so.

Once you’re both sipping on cups of coffee you clear your throat. “She did leave you the Picasso painting as well, you know”.

Timothée nearly drops his cup of scorching hot coffee in his lap. “Sorry?”

Reluctantly the corners of your mouth twist into a smile. “You never read the full version of the will, did you? She gave the Picasso to you. Said you were the only one who could possibly appreciate it”.

He snorts with laughter again, and again it comes with a sting of grief.

“You sure you don’t want it?” he asks, because a Picasso is no ordinary gift and he feels as if he’s stealing it from you; you who actually were related to the woman.

But you just shake your head, a small but sincere smile on your lips. “I got the Monet”.

“Bloody landscape artist” Timothée teases and you laugh. This is an old joke, an inside joke, one that has made you laugh before. Your laughter feels familiar and warm and he wants to pull you closer to him, feel your skin; warm from the sun, against his.

“You are just jealous” you tease back, and your eyes; the same colour as your aunts, sparkle in the sunshine. “You have never been able to paint a landscape”.

“No” he says, reaching for a stem or green grapes, “I’ve never found a landscape more interesting than a face” he adds, pulling the sweet fruit from its stem and placing it between his teeth; slowly biting down, relishing the taste.

He wants to say, ‘there’s nothing I’d rather paint than your face’, but swallows the words along with the fruit. He watches your face as you look at the sea; hair still wet against your now slightly rosy cheeks.

“Good morning” says a cheerful, though somewhat raspy, American accent.

Timothée turns and sees William walking towards you. He’s all tousled blonde hair, white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top; showing seamlessly endless amounts of suntanned golden skin. Styled with a Rolex watch and bare feet he’s all Hamptons; all American.

Timothée looks at him and thinks Paul Newman would be proud.

He picks up and finally lights his cigarette, using his new treasure.

William sits down by the table, leans back and sighs. “Gonna be a beautiful day” he announces to them, as if the weather was his to rule. Timothée watches him in the morning light, all golden and decisive. He thinks of Zeus, of power and of glory.

You gesture for Timothée’s cigarette package and he picks one out and hands it to you. Leaning closer, closer and closer still; your face so near that he can count each of your eyelashes if he so wishes, your arms nearly touching his. He lights you up. All the time he can feel William’s watchful eyes as he observes the two of you.

Louise comes out with another cup of coffee and places it in front of William before heading back to the kitchen. In the silence between them they can hear how she puts on the record player, the tunes of Chopin floating out on the terrace. Timothée meets your eyes and you both smile.

Flashes of memories from another life, you and him in Paris in his old studio. Dancing in the evening, hips pressed together as you’d swayed gently from side to side, your chest pressed to his, feeling so close it was as if you were sharing breaths. Or you posing on the carpet, naked in the afternoon light as he attempts the impossible; trying to recreate the loveliness and complexities of you. A Herculean task. All the while Chopin played in the background.

“So what are we all doing today?” inquires William and Timothée breaks eye contact with you. Maybe he is imagining it, but he thinks there’s a harshness behind Williams' forceful cheerfulness.

You enter into conversation with William, all small talk and politeness, as Timothée smokes his cigarette and looks the other way.

“Can I talk with you?” William asks, his hand around your wrist, holding you in place. “Alone, I mean.”

Your plates have been cleared, the coffee cups stand empty and William has reached over the table to take a hold of you. Timothée, who’d spent most of the breakfast in silence, his face towards the sea, playing with silver lighter in his lap, now stands up. “I’m off to explore the village” he says with a tone of indifference. But there is something strained about the way he’s holding himself, a tenseness in his shoulder, a frozen look on his face. It is in the way he refuses to look at either you or William as he walks away.

You watch him leave before gently pulling your hand away from William’s. “I must say, it is a surprise to see you here, Wills”.

William doesn’t hang his head in shame or embarrassment but keeps his clear blue eyes on yours.

“I didn’t know that you were here in Menton, that’s not why I came here. But I did go looking for you, in Paris”. His voice never shakes, neither does his hands. He is as steadfast as you remember him from school. Ha had been taller than everybody else, towering over them all. He could easily have been awkward, already standing out with his American accent. But he wasn’t. William had been born with a sense of self-assurance most could only dream of. Dubbed arrogant by some you had felt admiration.

Your school had been set up in two buildings, one for the boys and one for the girls, and separated by a field. Most classes were taken separately, the only times the genders had mixed was during meals and announcements, or on special sports days.

You can still remember it so clearly, when you fourteenth year old set your eyes on sixteen year old William for the first time. It had been on the football pitch during a friendly start of the term game. He was new to the school, a head taller than the other boys and no one seemed to be able to take their eyes off him. It was clear that he was unused to the game, having grown up mostly playing American football, but he soon got his head around the rules. You see it so clearly in front of you, how he had made his way through the defence, his long legs carrying him through in quick strides, before scoring his first goal; the whole crowd going wild. He was a natural talent, as soon you would learn, he was in most things. He took on the world with a natural ease, assured in his belief that everything would go his way.

At the end of the match he had stood there, arm slung around the shoulders of his fellow comrades, all grinning from ear to ear. They were the victors of the game; the heroes of the school. William in the middle, head slung back in laughter, almost radiant in the late September sun. He was and always had been golden, had always seemed more than human to you, almost godlike in being. The other boys had certainly found him so, the only exception being Freddie Fairfax and his friends, who never had a kind word to say about their fellow student. However the rest of the boys had soon made William their unelected leader. The king of god on mount Olympus. His eyes had met yours in the crowd of admirers and just like that - you were done for.

When he had asked you to the school dance, mouthed crooked in a smile and hands unstirred; so unlike the nervously trembling boys, you had said yes. The other girls had envied you and when you walked into the great hall with him he had taken your arm in his and kissed you on your forehead; told you he thought you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. You had felt chosen; blessed even.

And when he had asked you to marry him, down on one knee like a gentleman and with a hand that didn’t shake with nerves, you had said yes. Had thought that had settled everything. That you would marry the man you loved in front of all your friends and family, securing a financially stable future for your parents. You’d go on a honeymoon, a world tour perhaps, and later; children. After having found the perfect family home in Kensington, among all your friends.

Alas, that was not to be. No wedding, nor children or home had come along. Instead, heartbreak.

And you had fled, humiliated, to Paris.

“Yes” you say, feeling unable to look away from his blue gaze. “Yes, Timothée mentioned that. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet you, I had already left for London by then”.

“Yeah” he says, corners of his lips turned up in a smile, but his eyes filled with something more like pity. “To marry Freddie Farifax”. And then he’s on his feet, moving around the table and before you know it, in Timothée’s chair. He leans forward and grasps your hands in his. They feel warm and steady, whereas yours are cold and shaking.

“Babe” his voice is like a gentle breeze. “Babe, look at me”.

You look up from your clasped hands and back into his blue eyes, at the moment more serious than you’ve ever seen them.

“I should never have left you” he continues, voice sweet and tender and barely louder than the breeze. “I was bewitched. I know, I know it sounds stupid but I just lost my head about Linda. I was a fool, a goddamn fool. I realized as soon as we left for New York that who I really wanted was you. It was like waking up from a dream. She was just such a lovely thing, so carefree and - no please, listen” You had tried to remove your hands from his but he kept a firm grip around them. Slowly he moves one of his hands from yours, up to your face to cup your cheek. It’s tender, and it feels like it had always felt when Wiliam touched you - the same feeling you got when you lay sunbathing; kissed by the sun. A mild breeze through the trees and the scent of him, citrus and cedar, hits you like an embrace from the past.

At fifteen, a few months after you first set eyes on him, he kissed you. Calmly, with a hand cupping your face; just like now, he had kissed you until you felt tender and starry eyed. It had been in the library, in the row furthest down, a copy of Anna Karenina sticking into your back as he pressed you against the bookcase.

He had smelled the same then, as you stood on your tip-toes to reach him his arms surrounded you.

He had smelled the same in baronessa Digby’s guestroom during her annual ball. After hours spent dancing, pressed up against one another he had snuck you both in there and on the bed showed all there was to know about love in its physical form. Flashes of memories come back to you of his body above yours, muscles defined and body almost golden in the candlelight, pressing you down onto crisp white sheets. The scent of lemon and cedar everywhere.

He had been gentle and patient, moving in and out of you with steady, slow thrusts at first, deliberate and calm in all his movements. His hands were steady the whole way through but you were shaking all over.

“I should never have left you” he repeats, and you can feel the shame coming off him in waves, see the regret in his eyes and in the furrow of his brow. “You never should have had to marry fucking Freddie, the piece of shit”. Something thunders in his blue eyes.

“I’m not angry with you William. I felt hurt and humiliated when you left but it’s all in the past now, so if it is my forgiveness you’ve come here for you can have it”.

“It’s not,” William says, almost before you’ve finished speaking. “I mean, I’ll gladly take it but what I want is you.” All you can do in response is stare at him and he laughs, almost bitterly, before continuing “to think, that had I not made such a massive ass of myself we would have been married now. We would be happy. I can still make you happy, baby”. He makes the last word sound like a prayer. He strokes your cheek.

“Make me carefree?” you ask, and you swear, you can feel the ocean move in protest in your lungs.

“Yes, just give me a chance and I’ll make you the happiest being on earth”.

You look into his pleading eyes. Part of you wants to say yes, because part of you still loves him. Part of you is still that fourteen year old girl, enamoured by the school hero. But you know now, have come to realize with time, that William never has, and never will understand you. Not you as you as you really are How could he understand someone so different from himself? A godlike creature whose hands never tremble, who has thunder in his eyes and whose love burns bright; but also quick. Would you choose a life with him there would be other Linda’s. Other infatuations, there was bound to be, even if he would always make his way back to you.

But though Wiliiam’s hands never tremble they know nothing of steady.

“William” you say, finally untangling your hands from his, “Will I’m sorry but it’s too late. I have already moved on”.

William leans back in his chair, a deep sigh escaping him. “Yes, yes I was afraid of that. The painter boy seems to have stolen your heart quite thoroughly, hasn’t he?” You don’t answer and William digs in his pockets for cigarettes.

“I see” he mouths out round a cigarette, brows furrowed in concentration. He brings his own silver lighter to his mouth to light up and it reflects in the sun, like bolts of lightning. “Still” he adds with a voice smooth as honey, leaned back in his chair; breathing out smoke between you, “well, he might get to keep the real you but I won the painting. Quite the consultation prize”.

***

When Timothée steps back into the house, several hours later the clouds are dark and heavy with unshed rain. The world feels charged with energy, as is the way right before thunder. Louise greets him with her usual disapproval at the door before simply nodding upward, uttering the single instruction, “upstairs”.

He makes his way through the house, dark and quiet in the late hour, up the stairs and drawing room. It is a large room, with wallpapers of navy dyed silk on which several paintings in the modern style are set up. Heavy oak furniture outlines the room, decanters of whiskey and cognac and any other liquor that could be wished for on one of the tables and in the middle of the room two elegant white sofas facing each other.

On one of them you sit, a martini at the table in front of you, next to an enormous vase of casa blanca lilies. The whole room smells of them.

Not knowing what to say, where to start he walks past you, across the room, to make himself a drink. Pouring himself a generous measure of Laphroaig, which he drowns immediately, before pouring himself a new one. Dutch courage.

“William gone then?” he asks, staring down at the amber liquid in his glas, hating how casual he sounds.

“Yes, he went back to his hotel”

So the supposed love of your life was only temporarily missing then. Timothée squeezes his eyes shut, clutching his hands around the table, as if to stop himself from whimpering. He feels pathetic and weak. Opening his eyes again, the room dark around him he walks to the sofa and sits down opposite of you.

Outside he hears the first few drops of rain.

“So you two patched things up then?” There’s a forged cheeriness to his voice and he hates how disingenuous he sounds.

For a few long seconds he is met by a silence so intense it makes the hair on his arms stand up. Then it really starts to fall outside, the sky opening up with rain, the clapping sound of it as it hits the roof like thunderous applause.

“I’ve decided to let the past be the past”. You’re so calm and collected; so cool and unfaced. Yet he can sense that you are holding onto yourself with an iron grip, not letting go an inch of your own feelings or reactions. It reminds him of the way children clutch their hands around objects they know they shouldn’t possess, determined not to show what they are hiding.

He takes a sip from the whiskey, the smokey smell of it mixing with the heady scent of lilies. So this was it then. He had ruined his own chance of happiness by bringing William back to you. Timothée had not been to compete with Freddie Fairfax and his money and title, but he had always known that you had not married that man out of love, and that had made the blow on his feelings less hard than if you had simply preferred Freddie; chosen him. But with William it was a different matter. You did not need to be with him out of any necessity. If you had chosen him; then it was because you loved him.

“Well, good on you” he says, drowning the rest of his glas. “Sweet of you to forgive him, you know, after basically leaving you at the altar and humiliating you infront of everyone you know. Really, it’s big of you”.

“Yes, me and William had a lovely chat this morning” your voice is cold as ice. You’re on the sofa, spine straight and shoulders tense, taking a large sip from your martini. “He told me about a poker game the two of you had in Paris. How you paid your debts with a nude portrait of me".

Lightning strikes outside and for a brief second the whole world goes white, like the flash of a camera, before once again leaving you both in shadow.

Timothée is dumbstruck; can’t get out a single word. He wants to protest, to deny it, but there’s no use. He’s never been a liar.

“How fucking could you?” The venom in your voice feels lethal, as if he’s injected it like poison and it’s making its way through his system.

And here comes the thunder.

“I trusted you with that painting and you let him fucking have it! My ex-fiance has a naked portrait of me because of you. I knew I couldn’t trust you, I knew it! It was all too good to be true. You just wanted me because you knew you couldn’t have me, because you knew it wouldn’t last. I was just a conquest you would get a few nice paintings out of!” You’re shouting now; unbound and full of rage. Unable to stand still you’ve gotten up, pacing the room.

“You knew it wouldn’t last?” he answers with a sarcastic laugh, anger shouting through him as well now. “You made sure it you mean? You used me as some sort of escape fantasy because you felt lost and trapped! The princess and the penniless painter. Those were just roles we played. You just wanted to feel desired again and no one has ever desired you as much as i have, but as soon as Freddie fucking Fairfax came along you dropped me, and guess what? I could have lived with that. I understood it even. But you made your way back into me, gave me hope, and now you’re fucking leaving again with fucking William!" He’s on his feet as well now, standing just feet from you. "So yeah, I’m sorry I gambled away the painting, that was wrong of me but don’t make out as if I’m the reason this can’t last when you have always been the first to leave. You have always been the first to leave!”

Lightning like a flash, capturing the hurt look on your face, burning it onto his retinas forever.

“You can say that all you want but you've had one foot out the door for a while, haven’t you? You never called or wrote after you left London. And when I called you early that morning there was some girl fucking giggling in the background! I had to go back to Paris this spring to sort out some of aunt's things and I didn’t go to visit you because I knew there was gonna be someone else there!”

And here comes the thunder again, louder than before.

“Oh that’s it sweetheart, jealous are we?” his tone is low and mocking and your eyes are burning into his. They seem to sparkle in the dark and though adrenaline is shooting through his body he can’t help but he can’t help thinking; that this is the most beautiful he’s ever seen you; unbound and unleashed. Despite his anger he’d like nothing more than to lean in and kiss you.

But he is angry, and so he continues in the same, low tone, “and you accuse me of having one foot out the door? Ye get jealous of some model coming in to have a painting done - who I’ve never even touched - but I have to watch your husband parade you on his arm at the opera? And be a spectator as you and fucking Wills reunite?”

“You’re the one who brought him here!”

“I know!” he shouts. Both your chests are heaving with anger, the air loaded with thunder. He takes a step back from you, runs a hand through his hair in frustration and sighs. “I know” he repeats, defeated now. Walking away from you he crosses the room and throws himself down on the sofa, his head in his hands.

Outside it keeps raining.

You sit down on your old spot on the sofa again, hands in your lap, cool and collected once more. “I have not gotten back together with William. I’m sorry I made you believe that. I’ve simply decided to forgive him and let the past be the past. That’s all”.

Timothée lifts his head up, something like hope blooming in his chest among all the despair. “Yeah? Well I’m sorry about the painting, I really am. In my defence, I didn’t know he was your William until after”.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now. I asked him to get rid of it”.

“Nevertheless, I am sorry” he looks you straight in the eye as he says this, wanting you to know the sincerity in his apology. “Do you want me to leave? I can go back to Paris tomorrow”.

Silence, then thunder once again, though this time further away.

“No” you say in the end, still in that cold voice, but you sound genuine when you continue, “no please stay. It is your house just as much as mine. Stay as long as you want”.

“Please, let me paint you again?”

Rain in July is a rare thing in Menton. Nevertheless, a storm had raged the night before. You had often heard the expression the calm before the storm, however you had always found the aftermath of storms all the more fascinating.

“No” you answer him, flipping the page in your book; Anna Karenina this morning.

Timothée is standing by the barristrade under the golden mimosa tree, trying to capture the landscape beneath him. He wears a frustrated, nearly pained look on his face as he stares at the canvas. You can hear his groans of ill contempt.

“Fucking hate landscapes”.

“That is your vanity speaking. You know you aren’t very good at it and so you hate it. Like all men you hate the things that make you look less than average". On the page in front of you Vronsky has decided to pursue Anna, despite knowing that she is a married woman.

“I’m not vain” Timothée mutters, like a petulant child. “I don’t like landscapes because they are ever-changing, just when you’ve managed to get the precise shade of the sky it has already changed into something else entirely.”

“But faces change all the time too. I’d say there’s as much variety in a face as it is in a landscape” you argue. Looking up from your book you observe Timothée. The mimosa branches hanging down, it’s golden flowers framing his head like a halo, the impression strengthened by the morning sun shining through.

The sweet, succulent scent from the tree, reinforced a thousand times with last night's heavy rain, hangs around them like an invisible cloud.

“You’re just defending landscapes because your precious Monet couldn’t have enough of them”.

“He painted people too”.

“Yeah, but he wasn't as good at is. Maybe he too was vain”.

”Monet never used black, did you know that?” You say, apropo of nothing. “And for a while Picasso only used blue. Do you think this is how they’ll define you one day? In a textbook, a picture of a portrait of me - and underneath it written in black on white: Portrait of a girl unknown. For this period in the artist's life he refused yellow. Is that how they will define you?”

“I don’t refuse yellow anymore.” He’s stopped painting now, but faces away from you, looking out at the ocean. You see his fingers twitch for a cigarette.

“Maybe not, but you don’t see blue in the same way. Neither does anyone else if Le Journal du Dimanche, I saw what they wrote about your exhibition, congratulations by the way.” His back is very still and you keep going. “What was it they wrote? ‘As revolutionary as Picasso’s blue period, making the viewer see the colour in a new light, almost as if for the first time. Never before have I’ve seen blue look so isolated and lonely’?”

You can’t explain even to yourself why you are doing it, why you are antagonising him. It is petty and it should be beneath you but like a child you try to goad a reaction out of him.

“You made me look at all colours in a different light.” It is a quiet confession, sincere in its simplicity. His hands are clasped around the brim of his chair, like he’s trying to hold himself very still. “You made me listen differently as well, I could never hear the beauty of Chopin until you played it for me. And the scent of lilies will always remind me of you. You made me feel different too, different from anybody else. Like I had been reborn into a new body, with new feelings. A new purpose. Even the air in my lungs felt different; cleaner somehow.”

You don’t know how to respond to that; feeling as though all malice has been sucked out of you like poison from a snake. Perhaps there’s nothing to say.

“Let me paint you one more time”

“No. Why don’t you just hire a model instead?”

“I don’t want another model, I just want to paint you”

“Well William’s still at the hotel if you’re planning to gamble it away after”.

Maybe all bitterness hasn’t escaped her yet. Timothée takes up his brush and goes back to his canvas. For a few long moments everything is silent.

Then, in a quiet voice he speaks. “Why didn’t you go back to William? I saw how much you loved him, when you first came to Paris. I remember. But if you’ve decided to forgive him, and if there’s still feelings there, then why not?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want you to be happy”.

You throw the book on the table, close your eyes and lean back in your chair. “I’ve always figured that the world can be split into two; that people are either like birds, or like trees.”

You can hear Timothée dropping his paintbrush again and had you had your eyes open you would see his curious eyes as he watches you with open adoration.

“You see,” you continue “some people are drifters, and other settlers. Some people grow roots where they stand, trying to reach as far down into the earth as possible in order to feel secure. They are steady and they grow but they never change and they never change their outlook on things. And when they have to move, they have to be ripped out by the roots and it hurts. Others, well others are like birds. They fly from branch to branch and sure, sometimes they build nests but they never stay for long. They need air beneath their wings, they need freedom.”

“And William is a bird?”

“Yes, William is a bird. A drifter. He will always move from branch to branch. In his lifetime he will have a thousand infatuations and sure, if we were to marry I think he would always come back to me but I cannot live like that. I would be a tree, trying to force my roots through concrete”.

“And that is the reason you don’t choose him?” His voice breaks slightly at the end and you can’t help but love his fragility, his vulnerability in this moment.

“That yes” you say, opening your eyes and feeling blinded by the sun. “That and the fact that I’m not actually in love with him anymore”.

Silence again, because maybe there is nothing more to say now. Timothée picks up his brush and you take up your book and continue to read your book; ‘There can be no peace for us, only misery, and the greatest happiness.’

An hour or so later Timothée swears under his breath and abandons the landscape by walking out. Further away you hear the heavy front door close and you know he’s left for the village. You stand up and walk over to the painting, inspecting his work. He has painted the scenery in front of him, but despite the golden mimosa tree there is no yellow to be seen on the canvas; only various nuances of blue.

****

August, 1953

A routine settles at Villa Marguerite.

Each morning Timothée wakes before you and makes enough coffee for two. He takes his cup and his brushes out to the terrace and he tries to paint the ocean. Some time later the radio in the kitchen is turned on as Louise begins to prepare breakfast. Later still he hears your footsteps as you come out to join him on the terrace, wearing the same white dressing-gown each morning.

“There’s coffee if you want some”.

These words are his timid confession, his quiet ‘I think of you each morning as I wake’. A kind of ceasefire has settled between you. You don’t argue with each other but then again, you hardly speak.

When you come back out on the terrace, coffee cup in hand, you sit down under the golden mimosa tree and Timothée wants to sigh but he doesn’t. He wants to sigh, because you are beautiful. Because in the morning light, dressed in a white dressing-gown, you look more angel than person; the golden mimosa flowers like a halo atop your head.

Each morning he wants to capture the moment, just like you this, on his canvas. Not because of the etherealness of the setting; but the domesticity of it. You, morning hair and a cup of coffee that he has brewed for you; bare feet and nightgown.

You’re both silent as you drink. It is peaceful. In the village church bells ring. He feels no need for church. Heaven, he thinks, are mornings with you. Anything else can wait.

The rest of his days are spent painting, trying to catch the colours and moods of the ever-changing ocean and sky in front of him. By lunchtime he’s grown tired of trying, and so he walks down to the village where he strikes up a conversation with whomever is available. Nice is in high season and the streets are full of tourists. During midday however, when the sun is high in the sky, most people are hiding in whatever cool space they can find or lay their bodies on the beach. But Timothée finds he doesn’t mind the heat,

He’s made some friends during his time in Nice, foremost a fellow Parisian his age named Nathaniel, and an elderly French-speaking Italian named Marco. If Marco, who owns a bistro in the square, is available they play chess and argue about politics. Marco always wins. When Nathaniel, who works down by the docks, goes on his lunch break he comes to join them, and they eat together, whatever Marco’s bistro has to offer for the day. They share glasses of wine and discuss jazz, the two younger men unsuccessfully trying to convince Marco to arrange a jazz night at his bistro.

When the other men go back to their work Timothée strolls. Sometimes he walks down to the beach, where sometimes he runs into William. They chat, and it’s not exactly comfortable but neither is it awkward. They both get through it.

Some days he spends strolling the village, watching the pastel-coloured houses, dreaming about the inhabitants' lives. Other days he goes to the ancient little library in town, where he spends his afternoon strolling through the book shelves. He picks up books, reads a few chapters of them; though never starting at the beginning, before putting them down. Like this he goes from book to book, never being able to commit to a single story.

In the end he re-reads The Odyssey - the first page to the last. He doesn’t know what to think about it; except maybe that if The Iliad left him with a distinct feeling of doom, the feeling that sticks with him after The Odyssey is a distinct sense of homesickness. Of nostalgia.

He returns the book at the desk, asking the librarian for more books on Greek mythology. She hands him one and with the book safely pressed against his side he strolls down to the docks and there, on a bench overlooking the ocean, he reads. He reads until the heat fades and seagulls stop screeching and the sky turns pink and until all the fishing boats return to the docks.

He walks back to the village, pays for a box of pralines and a bottle of fine red wine to share with you on the terrace after dinner, and moves his feet towards home. All the time he thinks of Helen of Troy, of Persephone, of Aphrodite.

You eat dinner together and talk. You discuss The Odyssey at length. Debate about what is worse, to feel homesickness to a place you cannot return, or doom for the future. You tell him of a new play you’ve gotten your hands on, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. You talk about the play in a way that has him enamored. He asks to borrow it from you and you lend it to him.

You share the wine and the pralines as the sky grows darker and the sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks louder. You drink and eat and talk until your eyelids grow heavy and it’s time for bed and Timothée thinks to himself that even if you are not his to kiss good night he can still have this. He counts it as a blessing.

Your bedrooms are located right next to each other and as he lay in bed reading your copy of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in the dim night lamp light he can’t help but feel close to you, knowing that just on the other side of the room you lay sleeping. Like in all your books the pages are full of underlined lines scribbles, the corners of the pages dog eared and the spine cracked.

He turns the page and sees that you have underlined a sentence. ‘I’m not living with you, we occupy the same cage’.

He continues reading until the sun starts to rise outside, then he goes back in the story and underlines a sentence of his own. ‘One thing I don’t have is the charm of the defeated’.

Notes:

The last part will up up sunday/monday

also, please, if you've managed to get through this beast of a story please leave some feedback. I've been working on this for a very long time and I'd love to hear your thoughts.

So this was like… a year in the making? Honestly never thought it would be this difficult but here we are. Also, I don’t hate Picasso as much as it seems I do. Also, is the quote “There can be no peace for us, only misery, and the greatest happiness” in the book? Or is it just in the Joe Wright movie? My ex kept my copy of Anna Karenina and I can’t remember

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina (I will defend the Joe Wright adaptation until death even though I know it’s no good, alright?), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

#timothee chamalet #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothée chalamet #timothee fanfic

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maybe-your-left · 4 years ago

Text

Cowboy Blues

It’s been a few years since Clyde felt this way… he has always been comfortable with his surroundins’ even after his tours. But he’s never really felt this alone, he thinks to himself how foolish it would be to start bein’ lonesome now. He has the bar, Jimmy ‘n’ Mellie ‘n’ o’ course his horses but that feeling is here to stay. The darkness it brings him, he’s not sure what to do ‘bout it but now every morning it greets him like an old friend.

Today was like any other, up with the sun, going to check the horses. The Logan family ranch was known for their “special breeds” which was just code for big. These horses are the biggest in West Virginia, draft breeds that put in good work and are mighty pretty, Clyde thinks to himself. Mellie an Jimmy come help out when they can but Clydes got his own slice of heaven on this ranch.

These thoughts kept him up all night until finally, he can rest after the morning rounds by taking a hot shower. The sting of the water is just right, nothing rejuvenates the mind and soul like the precious streams cascading down his flesh… suddenly he’s pulled out of his daze to a loud crashing sound. He jumps out of the shower as fast as he can, nearly falling down trying to pull his worn work boots on before running to see what all the commotion is. From his front porch, he sees nothin’ but black smoke.

“Shit” he whispers.

Leroy, his dog, is high on his tail as he runs out to the stables, getting in his damn way as always. If it were any other circumstance Clyde would’ve put him back in the house but right now there is something that needs his full attention. The speeding golden retriever adds nothing but panic as he finally gets to El Woods’ stable. Throwing on his saddle he quickly leaves to the northeast corner of his property.

-----

This is just your luck, driving through an unknown part of the city and of course, your car breaks down. It couldn’t get any worse… actually it can you think to yourself. You could be standing in front of your ON FIRE vintage Ford Shelby. Fuckin’ great, just great, this couldn’t get any worse.

“I’m sorry your call has been disconnected, please hold for someone else to assist you or you can hang up and try again…”

Can’t even get ahold of a tow truck to come bail you out, this really is the seventh circle of hell. It wasn’t like you to overheat your car, you knew better to be redlining it in the middle of a heatwave. But here you were, alone, no cell phone service, away from any civilization. Might as well start making your way back up the road before you pass out from heat exhaustion.

Suddenly something big peeks up out of the corner of your eye. You think to yourself “this is it, I’m clearly going crazy because there is no way someone would be riding on this road”. Before you can make out the dark shadow coming up something soft skids to a stop in front of you. Closing your eyes in fear of what was to come you are yanked out of your fight or flight to the feeling of something licking you.

A long flat tongue begins to kiss you at the shins causing you to giggle, opening your eyes you see a large golden retriever.

“Oh my goodness, aren’t you the most handsome boy” you gush at the dog.

His big brown eyes look at you like you're the only person who matters. Your loving reunion with the only dog you’ve seen in weeks is cut short by the sound of a heavy “hmpf”.

You look up to be brought eye to “eye” with the broad chestnut muscles of a Clydesdale. Being a veterinarian from Montana, you’ve had your fair share of livestock and equine but never in your life have you seen a bigger animal. You gulp down whatever praise you were giving the now relatively small dog at the sound of someone dismounting. Off to the left, you see a pair of old boots hit the ground, they seem to be old but full of care and attention, not like any ol’ cowboy’s boots but ones that have been continuously reliable throughout their lives.

A clearing of a throat brought your attention up from the man’s boots and suddenly it felt like a fairy tale.

Before you stood a man, not like any man you had ever seen. He was tall, so tall in fact he was about the same height as the hulking horse in front of you. His dark wash Wranglers were secured with a belt that had a modest buckle in the shape of a horseshoe, and his broad chest was covered in a button-up short-sleeve shirt all but haphazardly tucked in. Upon gazing at his face you were awestruck by his eyes, so kind and full of rich honey caramel with flecks of green that screamed home within them.

“Is that yer car?” his deep voice woke you from your trance.

“W-w-what ?” you stuttered back at him.

The unknown man pointed past you and spoke again

“That right there, is that yer car?”.

Whipping your head around like a captive in a trance you followed where his finger pointed. Back towards the now dying flames of your car.

“Uhhh yeah” you blurt out, “I mean yes, yes that is my car”.

The man snorted and a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth upwards. Big eyes darting between you and your car before finally settling on the dog between your knees.

“I see Lil’ Leroy found y’ before I could, as big as El Wood is he ain’t faster than that little dog”. He patted the horse with his right hand, a horseshoe ring caught the sunlight.

“Oh, this is your dog? I was wondering why there was one out here in the middle of nowhere.”

The man took in a deep breath and then spoke after what felt like an eternity.

“There ain’t no cell service once you get past the border, not for another 3 miles. I’ll bring ya back to the house an let y’ use the phone to call a truck”.

He took two long strides over to you and held out his hand. You weren’t quite sure what he was offering until he cleared his throat again.

“I don’t think a short girl like ya can climb on El Wood without a helpin’ hand” he drawled out having almost a full smile as you finally realized what he was offering. Reaching down to your bag that you salvaged out of the car before all hell broke loose you walked to the left of El Wood. Hiking up your left foot to the stirrup and reaching out for the pommel you swung your right leg over the beast without any help.

“This ain’t the first horse I’ve had to get on” you smiled back at the unknown cowboy.

Clicking his tongue he climbed up right behind you, barely leaving enough room to breathe. His large frame was already towering when he was standing in front of you but now with your back on his chest, you felt like a newborn cub coming face to face with a grown bear for the first time.

Reaching his arms around you and grasping the reins he spoke again.

“Well then sunshine, my name is Clyde”.

Before signaling to El Wood to get moving the newly named cowboy waited for your response. The turmoil inside your brain screamed “this was a stranger who was luring you to his home!”, but a smaller less logical part said, “sweetheart this man can lure me anywhere”.

“My names (Y/N), pleasure to meet you, Clyde”.

El Wood began the journey back from where he came, the gentle swaying of the horse calms your nerves from the incident earlier.

“Pleasures all mine” Clyde seemed to whisper into the early afternoon sun as the two of you began to ride off to who knows where.

#Clyde logan #adam driver #adamdriver #flip zimmerman #kylo ren #clyde-logan

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plus-ultra-oneshots · 5 years ago

Text

Nerd {BakugouXFemale!Reader}

Nerd

BakugouXFemale!Reader Oneshot

-Reader is very shy-

"... you afraid of me or something?"

.:+:.

"Load up and sit down. The bus will be leaving shortly."

Everyone clamored into the bus in an excited rush, stuffing their bags away in the undercarriage and bringing their carry-ons with them. Pillows, blankets, books, music- the works. All things they wanted to have with them the seven or so hours the bus ride was gonna take in order to get to the offsite training facility you would all be staying at for the week. Most everyone was excited about it, and you were too, though a bit nervous regardless.... You were always nervous about something though.

You sat down in a seat near the window in the middle of the bus, hands folded in your lap and headphones hung around your shoulders, connected to your DS. You were probably gonna spend the whole ride playing a game and keeping to yourself. You usually did, you weren't very social and you were very quiet... To be honest you'd not really talked to any of your classmates all that much. Asui and Kouda were the only two people you were even really comfortable around, because they were fairly and quiet and laid back like you.

Anyone in the class who was bubbly or loud, you didn't really feel comfortable around... It was just too much, so you stayed away from commotion. And it didn't have to be someone who had done something to you or anything- pretty much ANYONE who was loud, confrontational or just super angry or mean looking set you on edge in no time at all. Which is not really an attitude a Pro Hero should have maybe, but you couldn't help it. You'd always been shy, your whole life, and a part of you have hoped that coming to UA would help make you less shy... It didn't really seem to have done much so far.

You saw Asui take up a seat next to Ururaka, and Kouda took a familiar spot beside Tokoyami. You averted your eyes from watching people file in (with Iida directing everyone... Or at least attempting to), the whole bus a wash of noise and conversation all around. You glanced out the window, and toward the sky overhead, watching a few birds fly passed and disappear behind the tall and looming figure of the Main UA Building.

You were aware of someone taking a silent seat beside you, though you didn't glance up for a few seconds as you saw Mr. Aizawa outside the bus and saying something to Mr. Present Mic... You couldn't honestly hear them or read their lips if you tried, and besides- that's eavesdropping.

You glanced left to see who it was that had taken the seat next to you only out of curiosity, and your heart felt like it nearly leapt from your chest.

B-Bakugou...?!

You jumped, your body turning slightly as your back hit the window and pinned you there as you reflexively scooted backwards from him as much as was humanly possible. You let out a none too flattering yelp of surprise and those narrowed, angry red eyes of his shifted toward you as he scowled.

W-why did he sit next to me...?!

"Tch... What the hell is your problem?" He grumbled hotly, your heart skipped another beat at the less than happy look on his face and the steely glare he set on you. You visibly wilted under the intense stare, your limbs pulled toward you and backed against the window- and words failed you entirely as he waited for a reply... and only seemed to get more aggravated when you failed to give one. "Oi, why are you staring at me like that? You look like I'm gonna blow your head off." He muttered lowly, and you took in a sharp breath of air at what sounded dangerously close to a threat in your mind.

O-oh my god... I'm gonna die... why did he sit next to ME of all people...!?

You sucked in a smaller, sharper breath of air and swallowed, hard. He was still waiting and you felt like your life possibly depended on giving him at least some reply that might make him not wanna... snap at... you...

"...U...uh...uhm... n-nothing..." You managed (somehow) to stammer, averting your eyes from him quickly and doing your best not to look at him at all- that might set him off, and you wanted nothing less than that. You attempted to shift your back from the window and sit in your seat properly, but you were still pushed up against the glass with your shoulder and as far from him as you could be. It was uncomfortable, and would be for the duration of the trip, but worth it. Your heart was pounding in your chest and a cold drop of sweat seemed to fall down your spine as you swallowed again, and your breathing halted for a few seconds, hoping maybe that would calm you down... though the pounding of your heart in your ears getting faster indicated it did not help.

Bakugou shot you a narrowed stare for a few seconds more as you adjusted, before clicking his tongue and looking forward and crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. "Tch... Whatever.." He muttered under his breath, his tone icy and the sound of it made you stiffen, though your eyes remained locked on the seat in front of you and frozen there. You might have tried to catch the gaze of one of your classmates and sent them a silent plea for help- and maybe convince someone into offering to switch seats with you- but you couldn't break your eyes from the chair, and you felt trapped further being on the inside seat with Bakugou to bar your way.

T-this... oh my god why me...? I'm gonna spend the whole ride stiff as a board... I can't relax with him next to me...!

You shut your eyes and wrung your hands together in your lap, letting out the breath you were holding slowly and doing your best not to fidget as everyone settled in, and the bus began to roll forward in very little time.

It's fine, (Y/N)... you're gonna be fine... you'll just sit here, nice and quiet and not moving, and not bothering him... not for the whole... seven hour... trip...

You bit the inside of both cheeks and stifled the grumble in the back of your throat,

It's fine... you can do this... believe in you..! ... me...?

Oh... I'm gonna die. Today is the day... damn it... WHY ME..!?

To your credit, you stayed perfectly still for a long while after the bus started moving, regardless of how much your muscles strained and your back started to hurt from sitting up so straight and being so stiff. And the whole while your stomach and your core seemed to twist into a million different knots just out of sheer nervousness- which was a feeling you were familiar with, but it seemed to have been amped up to times ten given who it was that was sitting beside you. You'd never been this worked up nor stressed in your life, and all he was doing was sitting next to you!

I hate this... I just... I can't help it...!

Your body wouldn't listen to you and unwind no matter how much you tried to rationalize and calm yourself down. It was just unconsciously stiff and even if you were actively trying to keep from leaning close to him, your body would have kept you forcefully leaned in the other direction anyway. It was just something you did without knowing it, you always leaned one way or another when someone sat next to you. And if you were between two people, you kept in your own space as much as you could and scarcely moved at all.

The general hum and murmur of the people around you talking became nothing but a low drone in the back of your mind as you poured all of your focus into sitting still. And time seemed to drag on forever as you sat there, silent, motionless, and with your eyes closed and hardly daring to breathe. Time passed long enough though that the noise of your classmates talking to each other died out, at least mostly.

"... Oi, (Y/N), why are you sitting like that?"

Your breathing halted altogether as your eyes shot open, panic and surprise racing anew at the sound of Bakugou's voice on your left and the growl in it... But most of all at the sound of your name on his lips.

W-wait a minute, he knows my name...?!

I didn't think he hardly knew I was in this class, let alone my name...!

A-And he... He's asking me why I'm so stiff...?! W-was he watching me...?!

Your eyes darted sideways toward Bakugou and your heart did another leap when you caught his eyes the instant you did so. He was watching you intently, eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a tight line that bordered a frown as he quirked a brow at the very clear nervousness, and even borderline franticness that appeared in you when he addressed you.

"Seriously, what is your problem? You act like I'm fucking contagious or something." He muttered lowly, you gulped.

"N-nothing...! I... It's really nothing, I'm sorry if I'm... Uh... Bothering you...!" You stammered quickly, apologizing to him as his eyes narrowed further. "... I... Uhmm... I'm just a little tense is all... It's not a big deal...! And I-i don't think you're contagious or anything...! Of course now, w-why would I...?" Your hands wrung together as your eyes darted from him and toward them and then toward the seat and all things in between. "... well, uh... a-actually I'm a little surprised you k-know my name...? N-not that that is super important or anything, I just got caught off guard by it and you saying it o-out of nowhere...!" You were rambling now in the fit of your own nervousness and panic, and he frowned slightly as you continued to ramble on and on and without seeming to relax in the slightest. "Y-yeah, I'm just a little tense, b-but that's normal...! Am I bothering you..? C-cause I can shut up now, I wouldn't wanna make you m-mad or anything..!" You went on softly, "I-i really don't-"

"Stop!" Bakugou ordered sharply and you reflexively jumped at the sudden harshness in his tone. Your eyes snapped shut as you shrunk away from him, and your shoulders hunched slightly as you held your hands together in front of you.

"S-Sorry...!" Your voice was quiet and almost meek in the apology, and he blinked several times at the reaction when he raised his voice at you. Your posture seemed almost... defensive?

His jaw dropped the tiniest bit as his red eyes quickly scanned over your composure and the small, faint little inklings of fear in your face. He noticed the way you tried to put more space between the both of you, and seeing as how you were pressed against the window you almost looked like a cornered animal. There was a short pause of silence as he just took you in, before his jaw closed again and he grimaced, his eyes flashing as he seemed to take in a silent breath of air.

He was used to people being uneasy when he snapped at them, and he expected no less from you since you seemed so damned shy. But your reaction wasn't just shyness or unease like he expected- this was fear.

Fear

"... you afraid of me or something?" He muttered slowly, you stiffened at the question, your eyes snapping open and toward him, before flitting away almost sheepishly.

"O-oh... uhm... no... o-of course not..." You stammered quickly, and less than convincing as his lips pulled into a tight line and he seemed to grumble to himself at the answer.

"I'm not gonna murder you, ya know." Bakugou mumbled lowly, you swallowed, your words cutting off as you blinked at him. He let out an annoyed huff and turned away from you, facing front and letting his eyes drop closed as he crossed his arms about his chest. He slumped a little in his seat, leaning slightly in the direction away from you- subtly, just a little, and so little you barely noticed it, but he definitely did it... heh? W-What..?

"Tch... quit being such a weirdo and relax." He ordered, his tone low but his voice not raising in the slightest. "I'm not gonna kill you, and you don't need to act like a cornered rabbit. Just ignore me and stop being so freakin' tense."

You blinked, once, twice, and then several times over as your flitting gaze finally managed to stop moving and locked on to him. Your mind was whirling and the sudden shift in attitude from him, and the instructions to 'relax' caught you completely off guard.

Because... well, what? That response from him just didn't seem like him. You completely expected him to snap at you for rambling (and he kinda did) and being annoying and he should have blown a fuse with you like he was so prone to doing with everyone and everything. You'd seen him set off explosions at the most trivial and little things, and damn near get in an all out fist-fight with other students just because they 'looked at him funny' or 'said something stupid'. He had the shortest fuse and near to no patience with anyone, and your shy and fumbling personality was the very sort of thing that he was known to hate.

And knowing that, and your already lacking constitution with abrasive people (like him)- you were petrified of pissing him off to the point he'd blow up at you like he did with literally almost everyone else... and you probably would die if he ever decided to treat you like he seemed to treat Midoriya. The green-haired boy seemed to catch the brunt of Bakugou's ire at all times, and it was (admittedly) a fear of yours that that same sort of ire might ever be targeted at you.

And he seemed annoyed right now, as to be expected- but it wasn't explosive annoyance. In fact he sort of seemed like he was trying to be calm...? And maybe even assure you...? Had you maybe offended him when it was clear you were a little afraid of him? But didn't offending Bakugou spell for getting your head snapped off and possibly punched?

But he seemed to try and... And not be aggressive about it? At least a little?

B...but... WHAT? I... I'M SO CONFUSED, WHAT THE FUCK...?!

You were failing to come up with a rational explanation for the behavior, and for it you were failing to just do anything. So you just sat there and stared at him, and you probably looked like an idiot and were apt to actually piss him off... But it was like your mind derailed and you froze.

What was that thing you'd seen on the Internet before...?

'(Y/N).exe has stopped responding'?

Bakugou seemed quite aware of your staring without ever having to open his eyes, and his lips pulled downward at the edges as he seemed to bite back his rising agitation. "... Quit staring." he muttered lowly, his tone a borderline growl and you were snapped from your stunned stupor, your heart speeding up at the words. You quickly averted your eyes and sat back in your seat, hands fidgeting around your DS in your lap and nodding stiffly.

"..y...yeah...s..sorry..." You mumbled quietly, chewing the inside of your cheek in nervousness as you fumbled with your headphones and put them in... Whilst also forcing your body to try and lose some of it's tension, though it did you little good.

.... Uh... Somehow I think I avoided death at the hands of Bakugou today...? Somehow... I really don't get it...

You tried to pour your focus on starting up the device and the game loaded into it, but you felt knotted up and your heart was pounding.

...buuuuut, I think I need to just... Just focus on something else before I have a stroke or something...!

You bit the inside of both cheeks and set every ounce of will and brainpower and focus onto the game, trying to block out the world and manage some way of forgetting the blonde on your left. And hoping that doing so, would help make you feel less like a ball of yarn that had been twisted and knotted up to all seven sorts of hell.

And much to your relief, after awhile you got absorbed in the game and hardly thought about Bakugou or the bus or anyone else on it. Your fingers worked in deft movement as you pressed the button and moved the small joystick around, and your mind falling further and further into the fictional world and story you (as the character) were playing through. That stylus was pinned lightly between your index and middle finger when not needing it- and moved over the touch screen on the bottom in swift, precise strokes when the time called for it. You hadn't any semblance of how much time had dragged passed and your body had fallen out of the bulk of it's stiff posture unconsciously as you played. And due to the headphones you had in, you couldn't hear anything that might be going on in the bus around you.

You'd almost completely forgotten about everything and everyone else before a small tap on your shoulder dragged your mind from the game and threw you back into reality. You reflexively turned the sound down so you could hear without pulling your headphones out, and were in the midst of turning your head to whoever had tapped you when you heard Bakugou's low voice.

"What in the hell are you playing? You look like a mutt." He grumbled, and you blinked, stiffening in surprise as you caught his eye. He had leaned back in your direction at some point, and was almost leaning with his elbow on the arrest between you two- in the position he would need to be to be able to watch you as you played your game...

...uh... Was he watching me play...?

"... Uhm... Well I sort of am a dog...? W-well, not me but the main character... And he's not a dog really, he's actually a wolf pup... Who's sort of the son of a wolf god..." You explained quickly, though to be honest you were surprised you managed to answer as calmly as you did. "... It's a game called Okamiden, it's a sequel to another game called Okami... The premise of it is that you go around with a Celestial Brush and bring life back to the world..." You trailed off, chewing the inside of your cheek in part nervousness, and part embarrassment. He probably didn't need an entire explanation, and it was likely to piss him off again if you started to ramble... Besides, it was a game, you needn't talk about it like you were obsessed or anything.

"You're fighting things too." he pointed out, and you paused.

"... Yeah... Imps and demons and stuff like that..." you mumbled uncertainly, not really sure why the conversation had persisted...?

You fidgeted a little, your attention on him instead of your game for a few seconds, and somewhat failing to register the fact that your thumb was still pressed against the joystick, and little Chibitarasu was moving without you paying any mind to him.

"... You're gonna die if you don't pay attention." Bakugou pointed out, directing your eyes to the screen and you jumped when you saw it filled with a band of enemies.

"... O-oh crap..!" You hissed under your breath, quickly pressing buttons and getting back into it, enough to keep yourself alive (not that this game was super intense or anything), but not enough to miss the fact that Bakugou was definitely watching you play. He said absolutely nothing as you took care of the enemies and you tapped the pause button, glancing his way cautiously as he met your gaze when he noticed you looking.

"... What?" He mumbled,

"... Uh... N-nothing I guess... I'm just surprised you're even interested...?" you stammered softly, he let out a sigh and stuck his cheek in the palm of his hand as he leaned into it.

"There's nothing else to do on this stupid bus." he muttered tartly, "And you are sitting right there." He pointed out lowly, you swallowed a bit and nodded.

"...r...right..." You mumbled, averting your eyes again as he seemed to huff at you.

"I told you to quit being so tense already." he muttered, you nodded quickly though the words did nothing to get rid of the nervousness that hit you anew at the unexpected spur of conversation- and it got worse when there came and incredible awkward silence where neither you nor Bakugou did or said anything. You weren't looking at Bakugou to know, but you were sure you could hear his blood slowly beginning to boil with your less than graceful social skills.

What even possessed him to ask you anything? Wasn't he the one that said ignore him? So why did he even try and start any semblance of a conversation?

I just... I hate talking to people I am so bad at it, but I'm worse with him...

"... Tch... So what's with 'wolf god'?" He asked, earning your surprised eyes again as he gave you a look that seemed almost stubborn, and a little uncertain. "You said the mutt had a 'god' for a parent, yeah?" You shifted a little, swallowing back your surprise and your nervousness to the best of your ability.

I'm reading this wrong, right...?

I have to be... cause it almost seems like...?

"... uhm... do you want me to... to explain the game to you...? And the lore and stuff...?" You asked slowly, your eyes narrowing at him as your mind whirled and you watched him- closely. Because this seemed... out of the norm for him, and in some way he seemed a little unsure of himself- like he was doing something he wasn't used to...

... like maybe... is he... trying to be friendly...?

No way, right...? This is Bakugou... he doesn't care about being 'nice'...

"... might as well, I have nothing better to do." He murmured, settling in a bit more into leaning against the armrest and about as calm and neutral-faced as was possible. Your eyes went wide though,

H-he actually wants me to talk to him...?! And about a video game...?!

I... I think he IS trying to be friendly, what the hell..?!

You were so shocked at his answer that you failed to reply right away, and there came another awkward pause in the conversation that he seemed to grumble at- though only just.

"...Tch... don't look so freaked out, I'm bored and you know a lot about this game, yeah? You've been sucked into it for the last hour." He mumbled, "So just talk about it, maybe rambling will help you relax and not look like a stiff stone statue... seriously, you bein' so tense is irking me."

"...Uh... o-okay..." You mumbled, swallowing a bit as your eyes darted from him and toward your game for a moment. "... I... uh... I'll try... but...uhmm... Bakugou...?"

"What?" He muttered, a brow quirking.

"... you sure me rambling isn't gonna... irk you more...?" You asked tentatively, your fingers tapping nervously against the edges of your DS. He blinked at the question, frowning a bit to himself as he seemed to hold back on letting out an aggravated huff.

"I wouldn't tell you to talk if I thought you were gonna piss me off, so just talk." He replied lowly, though internally he muttered to himself something along the lines of 'you idiot'... though given it was clear there was little he did that didn't make you look ready to have a heart attack, he refrained from saying that out loud.

"... uh... okay... so... where to start..." You mumbled, near all to yourself as you did your best to settle the whirling of your head and your thoughts- and your nerves too- but all of this was just about waaaaaaaay off base for what you expected from him... like ever.

You weren't even sure you could imagine a world where he would try to be any sort of 'friendly' with anyone, let alone you- and yet there wasn't another explanation you could come up with for the sudden turn in events. And that just made you all the more nervous and flustered to boot. Again, you SUCKED at talking to people, it came with the territory of being as painfully shy as you were. And this?

This is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay out of my comfort zone, damn it!

You sucked in a breath of air and held it, doing your best to cast off the nagging thoughts and telling yourself you needed to relax, somehow. Relax just a little and just start talking, because maybe if you did that- maybe he would be right- and you might relax because you were talking about something you were familiar with.

... I hope...

You swallowed back the lump in your throat and pulled one headphone from your ear. And then you started talking, your voice shaky and soft and for a minute you were afraid he might not be able to even hear you. But there was little space between you two, and the bus was pretty quiet by now so there was little an issue on that end. You started in from the sort of start, beginning with the game's predecessor and explaining the characters and the higher lore of the game, breaking off here and there and everywhere to explain things when the thought occurred, and jumping between this specific topic and that so much it was probably impossible to follow with what you were saying. But he didn't say anything, and in reality he just listened, his expression flat and giving nothing away as you went on, but he didn't look bored, at least... or at least, you didn't think so?

The more you talked the more tangents you broke off on, and the more you lost track of where you had originally intended to be steering the conversation. You didn't notice, and Bakugou never corrected you either. And after awhile he interjected, but only to ask a question. Being interrupted out of nowhere made you jump, and you hated yourself for the reaction, but he didn't pause and he asked what he wanted, with you doing your best to come up with the best and most explanatory answer you could muster. After the first question, there came a few more here and there, and with every occurrence you grew less and less nervous at him saying anything at all. It was pretty clear to him you stopped just explaining things, because your voice got a little firmer and you sounded less like a stuttering Wikipedia page on the subject. You started to talk about the things you liked and with more vigor and excitement, and you mentioned the things that bothered you and the things you 'loved'- and then things broke away from the game itself and started toward the fan content that came with it.

The art was the thing you seemed to light up the most about. Both the art in the game and online had your eyes gleaming and all sense of your constant nervousness seemed to melt as you talked about it, and he just listened, quiet and content.

At some point you reverted back to the game itself and started playing it again while simultaneously talking to him all the while. Pointing things out and explaining the mechanics and the like, and he watched and listened with the same rapt attention he had had the whole time, and he didn't seem bothered, or annoyed, or bored at all... which surprised you the whole way through, but a part of you felt pleasantly surprised with it.

You'd been talking the whole way through the next few hours until the sun outside started to sink and the world was bathed in a low, orange light flooding in through the windows. You reached the end of your very lengthy spiel and smiled in embarrassment as your explanations and whatnot came to a close, and your shyness flooded back in after being absent.

"... ah... I think that's about all I can really say about it... sorry if I talked your ear off.. I realize that was a lot all at once, heh..." You told him quickly, your eyes breaking from your game and finding him as he blinked at you once, before his lips twitched at one corner in a lopsided, and almost lazy smirk.

"... hmmph... you're such a nerd." He murmured quietly, his tone a little rough but not annoyed. It wasn't an insult or anything, it sounded like a tease and your eyes flashed as surprise hit you straight on. You glanced away from him quickly and back toward your game, your cheeks flushing a little as you felt your face heat up and grumbled internally as you tried to smile and offer up a laugh,

"U-uh.. yeah, I guess I am a little..." You murmured softly, but you felt awkward as all hell and bit the inside of your cheek. He didn't say anything after that and silence settled down between the two of you as you played the game awhile longer, ever aware that Bakugou was still watching you in silence. You cast him a sideways glance only to find his eyes on your game and not your face, and you chewed on the inside of your cheek.

You were entirely sure he was attempting to be friendly with the whole striking up a conversation thing, even if that seemed an impossible and unbelievable idea when concerning him. And while you weren't entirely sure why he would do such a thing, a part of you thought maybe it had been because of how incredibly clear it was that you were nervous and even scared around him, and even of him.

Not that you could understand why he would care, anyhow- but that was what your mind had come up with for an answer for this whole situation, and there was some feeling in your gut that made you think you might be right.

I just... I have a hard time wrapping my head around that... or any of this really...

The orange light of sunset outside shone against his pale blonde hair and turned it a brand of yellow-orange that was so warm in color, and you blinked.

... though... maybe today taught me a lesson... that he's not as bad as I've imagined him to be. And maybe I don't have to be so scared of him either... he seems capable of being calm and some amount of pleasant, enough so even I was talking for a long while... that never happens...

You glanced back to your game and your shoulders sagged slightly as you put a little more focus in the playing, though your mind still wandered. Despite the very unwanted situation of being stuck sitting next to him, and the near panic-attack you'd been having about it for the first hour or so... things had gone better on the ride than you could have imagined. Weird and shocking, no doubt... but better than you could have hoped, and you were admittedly more relaxed with that blonde boy sitting next to you right now than you could have imagined you would be in about a million freakin' years.

He just seemed so loud and rude and daunting all the time, you know? He was always in such a foul mood and his behavior around the class and with your classmates hadn't done him any credit nor made you inclined to liking him, or ever thinking you could get along with him. And sitting with him on a 7 hour bus ride? No way! Talking to him, and for as long as you did? Not a chance! Finding a sort of content silence between the two of you? Content? Never! And he's not actually an all around abrasive, and brutish person who gets set off at every little thing? Are we even talking about the same guy?!

... and yet all of those things had happened, and you were no small amount of surprised about it.

So admittedly... Bakugou wasn't as scary as you thought. He'd proved that today, and what a turn it was.

So that content silence you mentioned lasted awhile longer as you played the game, and all the way up until the time the DS died on you, and you were subsequently forced to put your faithful companion away. You briefly thought about asking Kaminari to use his Quirk and charge it for you, but a quick glance back you found him several rows away and completely conked out... most of the other students on the bus were asleep too, or otherwise sitting quietly and minding themselves.

You shut the lid on the DS and held it lightly between both hands and in your lap, your eyes trailing to your left and toward Bakugou when he shifted and sat up a little straighter. He was well aware you were done and he seemed content to be quiet still, and you paused as he stretched a little.

"... Bakugou...?" You murmured softly, uncertainly almost- you weren't sure you should say anything, but to be honest- you started talking without any chance to stop yourself. He didn't look your way, his eyes were closed as he rolled his shoulders and bit and gave you little but a small 'hmm?' in reply to you having said his name.

"... thank you... for listening... talking helped..." You murmured softly, he paused at your thanks, almost surprised by it as his narrowed eyes moved toward you. You offered up a small, gentle, and still very nervous smile, but it wasn't strained, and he sighed.

"... yeah, well- I told you I wasn't gonna kill you." He mumbled, almost hotly, and lacking a bit in social grace enough that you got that feeling he was a little out of his element again. You smiled a bit more and nodded at him though,

"Yeah." You hummed softly, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat all the way, grumbling something incoherent in reply to you but nothing else. He seemed to want to drop the subject and you were okay with that, so you looked away smiled softly to yourself for a little while as your eyes dropped closed.

... this is not how I could have imagined this bus ride to go... hmmm... I'm not complaining though...

You were faintly aware of the orange light of sunset fading on the other side of your eyelids, but you also hardly cared either as your mind seemed to tilt toward an abyss and quickly fall into it. Before you knew it, the world around you and the bus got lost into black waves of nothing as consciousness left you behind and what lingering tension in your body melted away altogether.

Bakugou heard your breathing deepen and slow, and he knew you were asleep long before he ever spared a glance your way. The sun dropped all the way out of the sky and twilight was setting in fast as the ever darkening world outside the window went by and the inside of the bus grew all the more dim with it. His red eyes reflected what little light was left as he let out a small sigh and let his eyes fall again.

He'd not done so for more than a few minutes or so, before he felt something bump against his shoulder an his eyes snapped open in reaction to it. He glanced quickly right, and stiffened slightly to see your head tilted and resting against his shoulder out of nowhere. You were still fast asleep and gave no indication of waking up as your posture melted a little more and your head rest against him like he was the most comfortable pillow in the world- and he bit the inside of his cheek as his eyes narrowed at you.

He paused for a few seconds, staring at you (what little he could see of your face with the angle you and he were at now) and your hair brushing lightly against his shoulder and neck. He frowned a little, grumbling to himself as he shook his head a little but shifted so he was closer to you and leaning against the armrest between the both of you again. His eyes locked forward with his arms still crossed over his chest as you slept on with your head resting against his shoulder, and Bakugou seemed to bite the inside of his cheek. But he resigned himself to sitting there and not pushing you off regardless of how annoyed he might have looked on the outside- because damned if he would do that after all that stupid 'friendly' shit he'd been doing to try and get you to relax.

His jaw clenched a little as he let out a long, low sigh.

"...tch... what a nerd..."

.:+:.

I hope you all enjoyed it! Thank you for reading!

MasterList Right Here

#bnha #my hero imagines #my hero academia #my hero academia oneshot #oneshot #bakugou x reader #bakugou oneshot #bnha bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo imagine #bnha bakugou #boku no hero academia

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hanawrites404 · 4 years ago

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Wynne's Diary - Nature with Muriel

"Muriel?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we go outside for a bit? I miss seeing nature from close" I requested him as I played with his raven hair, his head resting on my lap.

"Sure..........you can go out if you want to" He leaned onto my touch and shyly kissed my hand.

"I said 'we', Muriel. It means both of us. Along with our pets of course" I looked at him.

"I-I mean.......yes absolutely.........It surely has been a while since.........we visited the forest before we......you know" he blushed a slight pink.

"Before we got married, had a nice and long honeymoon and came back home being exhausted yet satisfied as fuck" I completed his sentence.

"Y-Yes" he blushed even more.

"So when is a better time than right now? The downpour must have ended so now we can enjoy the forest even more. A wet and misty atmosphere is something I really enjoy you know" I rubbed his bare chest.

"Yes....even I wanted to spend some time with you outside.........Inanna too wants to visit" Muriel told me.

"And so does Ichi" I eyed my turtle who was peacefully sleeping on Inanna at the corner.

"So what are we waiting for? Let's go. I'm really anticipating to see the new flowers and baby plants which recently came up" I told him.

Muriel nodded and sat straight up from my lap. I stretched my legs a bit and got off the bed.

"Ichi come on, let's make you soak some sunlight" I picked him up and kept him on my head as usual.

"Inanna you too come with us. You could use a nice walk" I petted her and she happily obliged with me, licking my hand.

I chuckled and scratched her neck.

"Good girl. Go to Papa now, I'll join you soon"

Inanna obeyed me and went away. I then quickly wear my shoes.

Muriel was standing near the door waiting for me. As soon as I came close to him, he blushed, and then offered me his hand to hold onto while turning his head away from me.

My lips curved into a smile and I cupped his face with my hand and turned it towards me. His cheeks were dusted pink and he still wasn't looking at me.

I shook my head with a chuckle.

"Ichi, lift me up please"

Ichigo does so and he makes me float in the air. I then used this to my advantage and I flew up to Muriel's height and kissed his lips passionately.

I felt him gasp but then he moaned in the kiss and pulled me closer by my waist and head, kissing me back.

I then pulled away while panting softly. Muriel's cheeks were now red and he looked so goddamn cute from close that I couldn't help but peck his lips once more.

"Ready to go, Big Boy?" I teased him.

"D-Don't call me that" He blushed more and pouted.

"Alright fine" I got down and opened the door to welcome the nature outside with open arms.

I led out a sigh of relief when I felt some leftover raindrops falling on my skin and the sun shining above, showering its sunlight through the canopy of the forest.

The weather was pleasant and cosy. I was having fun outside walking on the wet ground, the earthy smell along with the scent of wet leaves hitting my nose.

"You like it here Ichi? The weather is quite nice today" I rubbed his head with my finger and I felt him licking it.

"I'm glad that you feel the same way. And actually thinking about you, the strawberry plant I grew nearby must have ripened its fruits. So why not check on them soon?"

Ichigo squeaked with delight and I giggled.

"Then we shall go and pick some of the juicy strawberries for our dear Ichigo" I rubbed his head once more.

"Oh my? Where is Muriel?" I had realised that I had forgotten about him as soon as I placed my foot outside the house. I turned to look for him and fortunately he was not that far. He was just feeding his chickens as usual.

I then noticed that one of the baby chicks separated itself from the flock and came running to me with its tiny feet, tweeting at me cutely.

I blushed at its adorable nature and picked it up in my hand. The chick made itself comfy in my hands and chirped again.

God this fluffy baby bird was already making my heart melt......

I petted its head gently carefully as to not squish its head with my fingers. The chick settled down on my hand and enjoyed the affection, a small smile forming on my lips.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Muriel staring at me. But as soon as our eyes met, he averted his gaze and coughed awkwardly.

I chuckled and shook my head. I then approached him with the chick and crouched down with him in front of the chickens.

"They sure have grown in number. I'm happy to have so many of them. The more, the merrier"

"Yeah" He replied.

"The baby chicks which recently hatched up are so so adorable. Each of them are little balls of sunshine" I beamed.

"They sure are" he too smiled a bit as he petted one of them.

"And talking about little balls of sunshine, I was thinking about something lately" I started.

I really wanted to talk to him about this but never got the courage to. Now was definitely not the best time but I really wanted to get it off my chest.

"What is it?" Muriel asked me back.

"W-What if......You know......I......Oh god how do I say this?" I placed my hand on my forehead from frustration.

"It's ok. Take your time Wynne. Don't rush yourself" Muriel assured and I smiled weakly at him.

"Thanks......" I sighed.

Maybe I was finally ready to tell him now.

"You see.....I........I was thinking about our children"

Muriel tensed up a bit and I was actually expecting him to be. Being a parent was no joke after all.

"O-Our children..........what about them?" He asked me, concern in his tone.

"I......I am scared a bit. I think I will mess up again like I did before" I was dissapointed in myself.

"W-What are you talking about? Sonia was born as a healthy child" Muriel defended.

"Nothing was wrong with Sonia. The fault was on me instead. You do remember how I passed out in the middle of the delivery right? Sonia was really lucky to come out safely otherwise she was going to die even if she had a good health condition" I explained.

"I-I see.......yes.....I.....I do remember you getting unconscious while you were giving birth. Not going to lie but......I was really worried about you at that time" Muriel replied.

"Yeah........... Which is why I'm concerned about the future. The fact that they are twins this time would make the situation even more difficult than the previous one. What if.......what if they die because of me?.........Both of them?" I got paranoid and felt my stomach drop from the anxiety.

"H-Hey! D-Don't...... Don't think of it like that. You are a strong woman. You will be able to handle this" he cupped my face and locked his emerald eyes with mine. Concern and worry reflecting in his gaze.

"I......I don't know Muriel. I am not so sure about myself"

"But I am"

"What?.......Why?" I looked up at him. How can he have so much faith on a weak and hopeless person like me?

"It's because I......I have seen you handle many tangled situations with ease...........You..........protected the city and..........saved the people with your immense bravery and strength.........It's the thing I really........admire in you"

He then placed his hand on my stomach.

The pain of giving birth is something which I might never be able to understand.........but I know that it must have been difficult for you because it was your first time...........so give yourself some time to relax and.......take a break if you want to and..........and everything will turn out to be fine............."

"And what if it does not work fine?" I asked him curiously.

"Then I will comfort you as best as I cam.......and also take care of you if anything wrong happens...............I promise you that I would always protect you Wynne because I..............I love you..........I love you very much".

It was my cheeks' turn to heat up from his confession as I replied.

"I.........I love you too Muriel. Thank you for reassuring me. I feel much better now" I sighed from relief and smiled at him.

He blushed a deep red and rubbed his neck while looking away.

"Of course. Don't mention it" he replied.

I then smiled wider and hugged him tight, burying my head in his chest. I felt his body tensing up a bit but soon he relaxed under my hug and wrapped his arms around me, returning the embrace.

He kept kissing my head and playing with my stands of hair which made me giggle everytime. He really liked running his thick fingers through my hair, you see. One of the reasons why I prefer his hair massaging a lot.

We stayed like this for a couple of minutes, until Muriel asked me something.

"U-Ummmm.....Wynne?"

"Yeah?"

"I.......I wanted to take you somewhere......D-Do you mind coming with me?" He asked timidly.

"Oh of course I would love to join you. Lead the way Muriel" I took his hand.

He flushed pink once more but started walking without saying anything else. Inanna stayed behind to look after the chickens and so did Ichigo as he slipped off my head and joined Inanna.

I was already bubbling with curiosity the whole time. Where was he really going to take me? If I remember correctly, I knew the major areas of the forest, so what place was he talking about which I haven't seen yet and never knew of?

We did not take much time to arrive as Muriel stopped after a couple of minutes walking, but for some reason he didn't let me look at the place as he placed his big hand over my eyes, shutting them close.

"Don't look......!!" He ordered me.

I was confused as to why was he doing so but then I shrugged and let him cover my eyes.

He then takes hold of both of my hands and guides me forward. The aura of this place was surely different from what I usually sensed when I visited the forest. It felt more magical, heavenly and utopian. In simple words it felt very unrealistic however was present right in front of my eyes.

Muriel uncovered my eyes after settling me down on a rock and dipping my feet into the cool water after removing my shoes. I shivered from the feeling of pleasantly cold water wetting my warm feet which made me open my eyes.

I was amazed to see a small pond filled with crystal blue gleaming water. Many types of herbs and shrubs growing along its borders. It was similar to the enchanted lake I used to read about in stories.

"Muriel I.......This is beauteous. Where did you find this place??" I asked him, tugging onto his pants desperately like an excited child.

"I found this place by myself when I was looking for herbs.........and I thought that you would like it so.............I had saved it for showing this to you after our honeymoon........" He told me.

"Oh God, Muriel you are such a sweetheart" I cupped his face and kissed him passionately. I could literally feel his cheeks burning but I kept kissing him affectionately, expressing all my love for him in the form of kisses.

Slowly I pulled away and kissed his forehead, then his nose and then his lips. I then looked at my work and found out that Muriel had literally turned into a bright red apple.

I chuckled at his cute expression and leaned my forehead onto his.

"I love you so much Muriel. I truly do" I pecked his lips one more time.

"Gods I.......I.......I love you too Wynne.......Please be by my side always.............I cannot live without you" He took both of my hands which were cupping his face and kissed them.

"Don't worry......I will always be with you. No matter whatever happens to me" I then embraced him close to my chest as I ran my fingers through his raven black hair.

The butterflies of different kinds surrounded both of us as we held one another close, feeling each other's warmth and succumbing into the comfort and relief.......

Nature surely was blessing both of us today.......Is it because she missed me? Or is she welcoming the future generation residing in my womb?...........

Or Maybe both? But only God knows that.

The end..........

#the arcana #the arcana game #arcana mc #fan apprentice #wynne toprak #arcana apprentice #arcana oc #the arcana muriel #muriel of the kokhuri #muriel x mc #muriel x oc #the arcana fanfic #31daysofarcana #what I wrote

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seoulnotes · 5 years ago

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Luce in altis | i. The Festival

S Y N O P S I S | Passed down from centuries worth of history, the remnants of a hatred between two kings reside in a small village that serves as a border between their two feuding kingdoms. y/n lives in that village and must seek aid from one of the kings. Her trust is tested when she learns of the king that is truly wicked.

C H A R A C T E R S | Kim Taehyung, Park Jimin, reader (y/n) ; (mentions of other members)

G E N R E | fantasy, romance, drama — royalty au

W A R N I N G S (chapter specific) | none

W O R D C O U N T | 5k

All parts here

⇠ prev. (prologue) | next (ii) ⇢

When I wanted to tag along with my older brother, Namjoon, on his hunting trip, my mother tugged the back of my shirt before I could step a single foot outside of the cottage door.

Namjoon turned to me with a sympathetic smile before a small, “Good luck,” was mouthed from his lips. With his quiver of arrows slung across his back and a bow in hand, he disappeared out the back door towards the woods. He had known what today was and that’s why he shot that sympathetic smile my way.

“Winter Solstice is tomorrow and that means tomorrow is the festival. You will have to spend today preparing for it and most definitely not wallowing in that forest getting dirty,” my mother seemed to scold me before I had the chance to speak. Her words were brief, but she was serious.

Tomorrow would be the Winter Solstice festival, a festival held on the longest night of the year. It’s the first night of the weeklong tradition where young women in the Village would be given the chance to change their status through marriage.

The tradition had been passed down through generations.

The week beginning with the Winter Solstice festival is also a week filled with bar fights fueled by hatred passed down from centuries ago from the War. The young lads fighting weren’t even of existence when the War happened, yet the Kingdoms passed down this hatred.

This week, magic would flood the Village once again from the hands of the nobles. The nobles of Hemera and Erebus come from their respective kingdoms to the Village to possibly find wives. No one knew why this became, but most would like to believe the bullshit fairytale of the young noble who fell in love with the poor girl from the Village we were told as naive children.

Although some have begun to look down on the tradition, many unwedded young women dreamt of being chosen.

Being chosen would mean living in one of the kingdoms and most important, moving up in the caste system. It would bring their family out of the dirt poor and although still stuck in the Village, they never had to worry about money. Their daughter would be able to provide.

I did not dream nor prayed to whatever gods would be listening to being chosen, but I could not hold anything against the tradition, no matter my personal opinions. After all, it is the only thing that could change our lives for the better. It is really the only hope we had.

You’d be lucky to have caught the eyes of a noble from Hemera. He would bring you the best life possible to live in the Kingdom of Light, but you’d still be lucky to be chosen by a noble from Erebus. Their king was cruel, and people were known to be as cruel as their king’s reputation made them out to be, but life would still be better than one in the Village.

“Come,” my mother grabbed my hand before lightly tugging me along. In her other hand was a coin pouch, a reasonable saving that had been saved yearly to be splurge on this event every year. Every piece of gold, silver, and copper that my family had leftover from a month’s spending was thrown into this pouch. It wasn’t much; perhaps, one month would only donate a few silvers and coppers and on a good day, maybe a gold piece. The pouch jingled as she moved, still pulling me to the front door. “We must pick up your new gown, some ribbons, and accessories today.”

Even the poorest of families splurged on the event every year. Of course, their daughters must be presentable to the unwedded nobles. Ribbons of the most beautiful and vibrant colors would be tied around the waist of our finest gown and tied into our hair along with other clips and bobbles. Mothers took out their finest jewelry they owned for their daughters to wear. If we were lucky, we’d get to purchase a new gown. This year, I was getting a new dress, booked at the tailor’s months in advance.

The chances were slim, but everyone still tried. Most of us would end up marrying back into this village, but some were lucky. Even so, we would be dressing up for the festival and not just to impress those from the kingdoms.

The town square was a ten-minutes walk away from my family’s small cottage.

A fresh layer of snow had covered the ground and upon spotting it, my mother had sighed. “At least, the snow hadn’t covered much. It won’t ruin the festival tomorrow.”

My worn boots crunched onto the snow beneath as I began walking down the path. Mother’s palm hit my back lightly as she tutted, “Straighten your posture. No husband would want his wife to have bad posture.” Her arm linked onto mine as I, myself, attempted to raise my neck slightly higher trying to bring my back straighter. I had thought my posture was perfectly fine.

Another week of girls being decorated for future prospector husbands to practically purchase like at the market, but there was no choice. One would only be selfish and hoping for their family to suffer if they didn’t participate in the event.

When I had entered the village’s center, chatter, and excitement warmed the winter’s bitter cold air. Mothers and daughters scattered about; the ribbon and jewelry shops crowded. They’d get the best business within this week.

“I heard the king of Erebus will be coming,” a pair, mother and daughter, spoke behind me. They weren’t far behind and I knew mother’s ears had perked up at this newly found rumor. “You must try to catch his eye.”

“Mother, no one even knows if this rumor is said to be true. It’s probably just a rumor and it would be silly for a king to come and choose a poor commoner to wed,” the daughter responded. Although, it was unmistakable the slight excitement laced in her tone at the chance of meeting a king and him being here to court a wife.

Mother pulled me from shop to shop for hours on end. She spent the most time at the damn tailor shop, checking over my dress over and over again. Thankfully, all the changes she wanted were minuscule enough to be done on the spot.

Only when she had been inspecting a particular hairpin for a minute and without turning her attention to me did I manage to slip away.

I glanced at her as she turned the hairpin over in her palm then placing it down and picking up another one. I imagined the pain my hair would feel tomorrow night when it was actually pinned up.

I took this time to make my escape. We were practically finished purchasing everything anyway; she won’t need me for anything else.

One last glance, she was still examining the pin and my feet began to back slowly. Once I had backed a few feet away, my eyes glanced at her one last time and I turned and bolted. I sped down the shops and turned a corner. I craned my neck once more to check and continued to speed walk myself into a wall, except the wall was not particularly firm.

“Ahem,” and walls most definitely did not speak. “I believe you had just run into me.”

My hand made its way to my forehead, a habit out of embarrassment. For an unknown reason, I didn’t conjure any words as my mouth was sealed shut. I lifted my head slightly and my stare caught his, but not long before my eyes wandered his face.

He was striking and I awed for the shortest millisecond at his beauty; the jawline his face bore and the beautiful pair of eyes.

“Can you speak?” The millisecond of admiration I had was gone with that tone dripping with arrogance. It was a shame his tone didn’t match the handsome face he bore.

My lips had begun to form an apology, but the moment his haughty question came out, it was gone. I lifted my head swiftly and narrowed my eyes. “Well, I was going to apologize for my misstep, but it seems I need not to.”

Surprise gleamed in his eyes at the response I conjured, and I took the chance to walk around the male, stepping to the side slightly and continuing in my path.

“Well, it’s alright since you bumped into me,” he spoke loudly, and that same cockiness was laced in his tone. I sighed and silently prayed that he wasn’t here to attend the festival and most definitely not here to choose a wife.

God save whoever had the marvelous honor.

—

“Namjoon!” I shouted at the entrance of the small meadow of the forest. A creek ran through the area and the forest opened up to a small piece of land surrounded by the trees, most of which were stripped bare from the winter with the exception of the evergreens.

He laid with his nose pointed at the sky and his eyes closed, ears listening to the sound of silence of no one. Next to him, the creek ran gently. Upon hearing your voice, he sat up, a feigned frown on his lips, arms crossed. “Mother is most definitely going to kill you for leaving her,” his deep chuckle escaped his mouth breaking his serious demeanor.

“How could I miss a day at this place?” I spun around once with my arms out. The warm sun was hidden behind clouds, but the meadow was never dark during the day for no trees covered the place.

Namjoon stood from his spot, cloak soaked from the snow and reached to the area next to him, a couple of rabbits he had hunted. “Not as lucky to find a deer, but it’s good enough, eh?”

I nodded. Namjoon was the reason our family was able to eat meat during winter without much of a cost aside from leaving money aside every month for arrows or parts for his bow when it needed repair.

We were grateful. Thankfully, our family wasn’t amongst the poorest, but we weren’t the wealth of the village either. It wasn’t like the wealth paid any attention to us commoners anyway. Although, the wealthy were nothing compared to the wealthy in the kingdoms.

With the sun finally peeking through the clouds, the layer of snow glistened and began to melt leaving me to step in slushy muddy snow.

We trudged down the path created from the use of the same trail for years back to our cottage. At the edge of the forest, our frozen garden and the back of our home came into view.

“Good luck,” Namjoon who was previously behind me had stood next to me. He patted my shoulder with one hand before beginning to walk towards our cottage.

Upon entering through the back door, I paced slowly, taking off my boots and making sure my steps were quiet on the old wooden floor.

“I’m home!” Namjoon shouted as he turned slightly right into the small kitchen area. The mapping of our cottage was onto two bedrooms, the main space divided into the sitting area with the fireplace to keep warm, and a small kitchen with a table for meals. There was an attic that Namjoon had used as his bedroom after having given me the actual bedroom when we had grown out of sleeping in the same room.

Namjoon’s shout had caused my mother to turn around from the stove at which she stood and upon seeing me behind him, an unpleasant frown was on her lips, but it seemed she already knew my ways and simply said, “Get changed and help me prepare dinner.” It was aimed towards me.

I let out a sigh of relief.

When I had finished changing, the sound of the front door shutting echoed through the cottage and I knew that my father had arrived home from his travels. He traveled with merchants and was part of the reason our family was more well off in the village.

“Father!” I was the first at the door having practically ran from my room to the front door. My arms had engulfed him in a tight hug. A clunk at his luggage hitting the floor sounded as his arms had risen to reciprocate the hug. When I let go, mother didn’t miss a second and Namjoon was beside me with a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

It was only truly home when the four of us were together.

And I swore in a strange way that this night’s dinner was the warmest we’ve had in a long time.

My father had, of course, mentioned the festival tomorrow night, wishing me the best of luck, but also added that he wouldn’t it would be okay and didn’t mind one bit if nothing happened this week.

I always was grateful he was more lenient than my mother.

—

The next day had passed by in a whirl of waking up early and preparing for the festival tonight. Mother had woken up at the crack of dawn as if the little light that slipped through the horizon had been an alarm. She had pulled me out of bed no later, practically having whipped the blanket from my bed and pulling at my ankles as I clung to the bed frame for dear life.

The sun was low in the sky by the time my mother had begun tying the ribbon around my waist.

What took so long? I have absolutely no idea.

I stood in front of a full-length mirror staring at the pale pink chiffon dress I wore, high in the neckline as usual, and the complimentary ribbon around my waist.

It was a tradition that the family would go out to the festival together and then if a noble had spotted your daughter, then they could wisp her way for the duration of the festival and return her home afterward. Sons of the Village would join the event as well, it was a celebration for all. Some might find their other half tonight.

Although I was fully dressed when the sun was low in the sky, it was hours until the moon would show herself and the festival would begin.

In those hours, my mother had taken it upon herself to gather various pigments used as cosmetics and add color to my lips and cheeks.

Then it was time for the festival. Just like my mother had said, by today, it was warmer, despite being the longest night of the year and the light coating of snow had melted during the day. My gown was long enough to cover my feet and I insisted on comfortable shoes but lost the fight when my mother had pulled out a pair of flats.

There was chatter among the air when we exited our cottage from nearby neighbors and the path in front of our cottage had more walking than usual; everyone heading to the village center for the festival. We joined them on the dirt path.

Before reaching the village center, the sound of multiple instruments playing in harmony had filled my ears along with a blend of voices. Lanterns were hung around and the four streets dividing from the village center were filled with people. Storefronts had stayed open selling little things here and there and some were selling various treats and foods.

Everything was lively.

Despite the looming tradition, this was my favorite time.

“You again.”

I really need to watch my way more. And I silently cursed underneath my breath before lifting my head.

A deep chuckle ruptured from him, “You really need to stop wanting to meet me.”

And all the while, my family had decided to distance themselves preoccupying themselves, especially my mother, with talking to a neighbor, but from the corner of my eye, she was flickering glances over.

I scoffed, before walking passed him. “I’ll make sure I won’t.” A hand wrapped around my forearm and I turned slightly. “Yes?”

“Um,” the male scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I’m visiting and was wondering if you could show me around?”

His question had caught me off guard as sudden as it was. What the hell? “Excuse me, what?”

“It seems there’s a, uh, celebration going on.”

A part of me wanted to emit a sarcastic sounding ‘no really’ but I had refrained and settled with, “Mhmm,” while looking around without meeting his eyes.

“So,” he paused for a second, “Do you mind showing me around? Just for tonight since I don’t know really know what’s going on.” He gave an awkward half-smile.

There was a sudden spark in me and I don’t know why I responded with, “Fine.” Perhaps there was something charming in the way he was nervous in asking. Or perhaps it was the atmosphere of the festival that caused me to act rationally. I managed to return a slight smile.

Before I had even begun to walk towards my parents to inform them where I was going, my mother had her hands out ushering me to go. She then ran forward to hand me a small tin. “For your lips,” she whispered.

Absolutely ridiculous.

I turned around.

“I’m Taehyung, by the way.”

I slowly drew a breath, “y/n. Wait, Taehyung like the king?” My eyes widened at the conclusion I drew.

“Spelled the same way, pronounced the same way, but unfortunately, no, I’m not the king,” he smiled awkwardly, hand scratching the back of his head.

As we walked along the gravel path, I watched people passing by, happy, celebratory. He didn’t speak once so I took it upon myself to create conversation. I couldn’t abandon him after agreeing to show him around the festival. “So,” I drew out slowly, “Where are you from? Since you’re not from here.” It still came out awkward and my eyes remained in the ground.

Asking which kingdom he hailed from seemed impolite in my head, as if accusing him of lying for coming for the festival.

“From the kingdom,” he answered simply.

My brows crinkled in confusion and I tried to hide the small frown from appearing on my lips. He must’ve noticed anyways and quickly added on, in a quiet tone, “Erebus.” Silence settled between us and I rushed over to a nearby stall upon spotting the food. We’d walked down the food street unknowingly.

“Come on, it’s a favorite during this time of the year,” I briskly changed the topic and approached the stall selling sweets. “Two of them, please,” I pointed a finger toward the fresh pastry. I reached for the pouch hanging from my wrist and drew back the string as his hand reached over to stop me.

“How much?” As the woman behind the stall said the price, he had a piece of silver already in his hand as he handed the coins over with a smile, “You can keep the rest.”

“Thank you,” and immediately a wide smile spread across the woman’s lips. He was paying handsomely over the price she was selling.

Guess the people from the kingdoms definitely had different meanings to money from us villagers.

It only took one bite and his eyes grew wide. I grinned. “How is it?” I asked, although my tone gave way that I knew it was delicious and it was evident on his face.

His answer was another bite.

We reached the end of the street and turned around to walk the other side.

We spent hours roaming the few alleyways the village center, each with different goods to sell. The alley adjacent to the food alleyway was filled with arts: furniture handmade from craftsmen, paintings and portraits that the wealthy decorated their houses with. The other two diagonal alleyways contained thread, fabrics, and products made from them and the other filled with goods brought to the village from trade.

When we had finished, I showed him what our small village had to offer. We didn’t have the lovely treasured cities the kingdoms had nor the luxury most lived in, even their poor lived better off, but we had something. We had our own culture and community.

We arrived at the center again and I’d lost directions of where my family had gone. At this time, the sky was a display of hues, a rainbow of purples, pinks, oranges, and red and a group of musicians had gathered at the center of the wide opening. People still walked about, but many had stopped either to listen to the beautiful music the harmony of instruments played.

It was a tradition for the festival. The same musicians gathered playing every year, not really in hopes of making any money, but to build onto the lovely atmosphere.

I, myself, had stopped to wrap my arms around myself and stand in awe from the melody being played. It was then that a hand wrapped around mine and my glance moved to meet Taehyung’s eyes, dancing with a certain twinkle.

“Let’s dance,” his lips spread into a wide smile and for some reason, I could not refuse to the delight in his face. There had been a clearing near the group of musicians; no one had taken the first initiative to start dancing and Taehyung was pulling me towards it.

“No, I can’t dance,” I attempted to explain before we both looked like fools in the village center.

“No one would care, come,” he gave my hand another tug and I reluctantly followed.

The musicians had continued to play an upbeat song and Taehyung naturally led and I followed.

I laughed when I nearly tripped over myself trying to follow him and I saw a certain look on his face. “What?” My cheeks felt warm from his stare.

“Nothing, you’re doing great.”

“Great for a human who’s forgotten how to use her two feet,” I commented. In one pull, I was deadly close, and his lips were next to my ear and I could feel his breathing.

“I meant great for someone who claims they can’t dance,” and he pulled back just as fast as he came.

And suddenly, I felt like the most naive girl alive. My hand rose to my chest as I tried to swat at my stupid heart for that small jump it made.

We were the only ones half dancing and me half tripping over my feet for another minute before a few had joined us in the opening to dance. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone as I saw out of the corner of my eye, another girl blushing from a misstep. It seemed her partner had taken a liking to her already and didn’t care.

We danced with our feet following the rhythm of the music and me nearly falling half the time with my terrible ability to coordinate. We danced until my forehead was beaded in sweat regardless of the cold and I was nearly collapsing from laughter and there was utter happiness inside my chest. We danced until I felt sweat soak the back of my neck and my hair was out of place, but I didn’t care.

Even though my palms became slightly sticky from sweat, Taehyung didn’t let go once. After many upbeat pieces later, the other instruments had stopped, allowing the next piece to begin with the solo of a violin.

It was a slow piece. Everyone around us found their partners and we paused. My heart was still pacing and my breathing rapid.

My heart did the stupid skip for the second time tonight when Taehyung presented his hand as he slightly bowed. Without a second thought, I placed my hand in his as we began the slow dance. His hand placed itself onto the small of my back and the other still guiding my hand.

He must’ve seen my uneasiness and spoke quietly, “Just follow me.”

Once again, he extended his patience as my feet stepped on his multiple times.

“Sorry,” a guilt-ridden smile on my lips. He only smiled and shook his head.

“You’re doing fine.”

A silence filled the space between us, and a courage spiked me as I leaned closer. It wasn’t necessary, but when he didn’t back away, the space between us naturally became smaller.

It was so easy with him. In the hours that had passed, I broke an important rule to not trust a stranger easily, especially someone from the kingdom, yet, I felt that I had placed some trust in him regardless.

When the song had ended, I almost had a longing, a wish inside that didn’t want it to. We’d both pulled back slightly as the center filled with applause and we joined in applauding.

The musicians began another song, but most had begun to focus on the main event: the lantern release. The sun had completely set meaning the sky was a beautiful midnight blue. Vendors had appeared in the center with their handcrafted lanterns, each with different colors and paintings.

“What’s that?” Taehyung asked as his hand tapped on my arm.

“It’s time for the lantern release,” and I swore when I spoke, the smile on my lips was the widest they had been all night. It was mine, along with many others’ favorite part of the festival. “Come on.”

I had sworn I heard a chuckle erupt from him as I giddily skipped towards the vendors, but I didn’t care.

This time, I purchased both our lanterns, refusing the coins he handed my way.

“We light the lanterns at the bottom and make a wish,” I explained as we walked towards the river edge. It was away from the crowd at the village center and the chatter had become muted.

“I suppose the wish is what makes it magical?”

I looked down and shook my head. “No, actually, it’s seeing all the lanterns fill the sky for me. It means everyone got the chance to make a wish for something they want.”

As I glanced behind his head, it seemed the first of the lanterns had been released. “Come on,” I walked towards the small bridge.

I struck the match onto a nearby rock and lit his and followed with mine.

As the lantern released, I saw the light and joy dancing in his eyes. I released the breath I was holding, and it appeared in the air as cold smoke. The moment the lanterns reached a distance, I remembered to clasp my hands together and close my eyes.

A moment of silence passed, and I knew right beside me, he was also wishing.

“What did you wish for?” He asked from beside me. When I turned my head, he was still watching the sky with his eyes as the lanterns floated higher.

“As it goes, you can’t tell anyone or else it won’t come true,” I said, my tone teasing slightly. That’s what everyone said, birthday wishes, any wishes: don’t tell anyone or it won’t come true.

“Well I don’t believe in that,” he lowered his gaze, turning his head as his eyes met my stare. “I wished for peace.”

It sparked a curiosity in me and I asked, “For what?” My brows crinkled slightly.

“Everything.”

I didn’t know what it meant as an answer, but it felt like the only answer he could give and he had meant it. Whatever everything was in his life, he wished for peace.

Since he had told his wish, sighing I spoke, “I wished for happiness.” Well, it seemed both our wishes were simply worded, yet the hardest to grant.

He nodded, moving his glance to the lanterns shining upon the midnight sky. Silence settled between us, but it wasn’t the terrible silence. It was peaceful.

—

I ended up having to walk home from the festival and of course, Taehyung didn't let me walk by myself. If he had beheld the smile my mother had given him as he said his goodnights when he had turned around, I swore I would have been turned a million shades of pink and red.

“Mother!” I whispered when she looked ready to run after him.

I didn’t get rest until late that night when she continued to pester me of what we did at the festival and if he was nice. I hadn’t spoken of the kingdom he was from. I knew the judgment that would come from her.

“Was he nice? Did you dance with him?” The questions had been never-ending. My face flushed as I thought of the dancing and my mother elicited a cheer as I stayed silent, all yeses to her questions. My brother and father stayed on the other chairs, chuckling to themselves.

I was finally able to escape her questioning and gone to bed. I had to determine whether the night had made me tired or the insane questioning I had gone through. Yet, I still laughed to myself thinking of the day as I walked to my bedroom.

—

“Can you help me fill the vase with water?” My mother was at the stove, stirring porridge in a pot. “Trim the flowers’ ends and place them in too?” There was no doubt my father had bought a bouquet.

I happily did as I was asked, a smile adorned on my lips. Darn myself, I couldn’t get rid of it no matter how hard I tried. Something about being at the festivals with Taehyung last night and the amount of carefree happiness I experienced willed the smile to remain.

A knock sounded from the front door and I rose to answer it when a shout came from near the front. “I got it,” Namjoon’s footsteps sounded.

I finished the last of the flowers, placing them in the vase as Namjoon called for my father and mother.

When I had spotted a good place for the flowers, I started towards the spot on the table.

“I came here to ask for your permission for your daughter’s hand.”

I knew that voice and the flower vase in my hand slipped from my grasp and water slushed at my feet.

a/n

not much changed from the original except i really needed to edit it. hope you enjoy this chapter!

yours truly, Selene ♡

feedback <3

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thehighwaymen1678 · 5 years ago

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Power of Three Alternative Universe. (C-1.)

Well, there's a user named SFW Furries and Monsters, they made a Power of Three Alternative Universe where Crowfeather joins Thunderclan. I made the first part but I cannot message them oddly, so I'll post it. Maybe they'd see it. This is only part one, up to the point where they are escorted back to Thunderclan. (I've no idea what happened with the first letters of every sentence. Just decided to un-italics.)

Near Thunder-Wind Clan Borders.

A black-furred tom padded along the border. The air carried a chill as the snow stung his pads like ice. He needed a walk to clear his head. He remembered a time long ago when he had been willing to leave this place, leave it all behind for one whom he loved. Yet, she had a family, after all. And so did he, even if he didn't know it. But as chance would have it, he would become part of a Legendary tale this day.

The tom eyed two passing she's through the cold winds, they appeared to be no other then Squirrelflight, and Leafpool. Leafpool... If only things had been different. But perhaps... His eyes widened as he saw his old mate, for here, Crowfeather had seen a startling sight. Her belly, had been round, her body, exhausted. Was she... She was having kits? Could it possibly be?

He looked at the ground at his feet, senting the faint border, but while the code binded him, he had no choice. He had crossed the small river dividing the territories, and now crossed the final line. He was in Thunderclan grounds now. He must make haste.

He dared to follow them through the blinding white, thanking Starclan that the bite of the cold would kill his scent. However, it also killed there's. Tracking them became difficult, even prints had filled up, or simply been lost. He wandered in a painful cold until he took shelter under a thick bush, not yet fallen from life. Here he rested, he could hear them nearby. After a while, a few low meows could be heard, and they set off again.

His jaw shivered, clicking his teeth repeatedly, he forced himself to breathe, and keep walking. This was getting way too cold, although perhaps it felt it was dying down a bit?

Finally a clearing opened, rather small, yet the snow was thinner, thicker trees were around, and one at the middle of the clearing, was hollowed by lightning so long ago, and there he saw a glipse of his old mate, curled up, screaming. He watched in shock, crawling closer to the side, the tree's hollow entrance had thick vines of random sorts lining it's edges, giving an opportunity to see through without being seen in the main doorway.

He lingered, waiting to wonder his chances of simply introducing himself, he wanted to help, he did. But then... Something happened he did not expect. A... Name?

Squirrelflight had spoken in surprise: "Feathertail!"

His ears shot up at the mention.

His thoughts raced: 'Feathertail?... She's here? What, where?'

His thoughts raced as he pushed up uncomfortably close to the main entrance, he was certain Squirrelflight had heard him, yet she kept her attention to Feathertail as they had spoken inaudible things. But he focused enough to hear what he needed to, to seal his future decision, he eavesdropped the conversation, peering through the walls of the tree:

Feathertail: "These kits are more precious than you could possibly know,” She mewed softly. “Cats will speak of them for many seasons to come. They must stay in ThunderClan, for all the Clans’ sakes, with a mother and father who can be proud of them, who can share them with their Clanmates to be raised as strong, loyal warriors.”

His thoughts spoke up again: 'I would... Could I actually be a father? I... Could things go back?'

Leafpool opened her mouth to protest that this was impossible, her Clanmates would never accept Crowfeather as their father, and might reject her too, knowing that their medicine cat had destroyed the code.

He heard her few words and sighed deeply. It was likely true. But, now? He has no choice. He must make this decision.

Yet Feathertail was looking at Squirrelflight. “I know how much Leafpool loves these kits,” she murmured. “But you must be their mother and raise them in ThunderClan with your head held high.”

Squirrelflight stared at the starlit she-cat. “How can you do this?” she whispered. “You are asking me to lie to every cat I love.” Feathertail ran her paw very lightly over the backs of the sleeping kits. “Because I love these kits as much as you do. They are Crowfeather’s: How could I not? I want them to have the best life, not one lived outside the Clans, in shame and exile.”

“Do you wish they were yours?” Squirrelflight whispered. The silver cat blinked without looking up. “That was never meant to be."

Crowfeather broke in a small cry. He understood it was truth. Perhaps the past could've gone different.

Finally he thought: 'Damn it. I have to this. I'm sorry Feathertail, I hope you'll be proud of me by the end.'

Feathertail continued: "The destiny of these kits begins now, and you have the power to change everything, Squirrelflight. Please believe me when I say that Leafpool’s kits must stay in ThunderClan.”

He thought a last thing: 'They will. They will, I promise. And I'll be with them.'

As his tears fell, Feathertail faded away. And as Crowfeather lifted his head, Squirrelflight quickly snapped to look to the walls. Had she... Heard him? He slowly inched forward, until a white paw smashed through the thick vines of the wall and knocked him back into the clearing.

Squirrelflight padded around walking up to him, she had not seen his face, and she might be less then welcome to reason with someone stalking them. He had to get to Leafpool. As she grabbed his shoulder he lunged up and slammed Squirrelflight's stomach with his foreleg. As she merely growled, Squirrelflight quicky latched her claws in his neck and lifted him slightly by his jaw with strength that made Crowfeather fear for his life for a short while, before a shout startled him.

"Wait! Squirrelflight let him go, it's Crowfeather!"

Squirrelflight heard her sister's cry and looked back at Crowfeather. "Can we... Talk?" He choked out. She dropped him, throat rumbling. "I still don't like you from the great journey." Squirrelflight remarked.

As Crowfeather sat regaining his breath, he stated: "I'd like to think I've changed a fair bit. Haven't you?"

Squirrelflight smiled, thinking for a second before replying: "Perhaps in some ways."

Leafpool called back. "It means she's still very temperamental."

Squirrelflight eyes her sister with a betrayed look of child like anger as Leafpool smiled evily.

"Well... That's good to know... Ow." Crowfeather stood and felt the pain of where the ginger cat hit him. "Thank you for that."

Squirrelflight turned to him once more. "And why are you here?" She meowed.

Crowfeather looked at Leafpool with a pleading gaze, then at the small bundles at her belly. "For them. If there's anything I'll do in this world for my own glory, it will not be missing the chance to see my kits. I hope you understand that."

Leafpool felt her jaw lower, as if to speak unknown words, but she couldn't say anything. She was happy at last, that he may be ready to take the responsibility she wanted from him.

Squirrelflight sighed at Leafpool in wonder, as her sister spoke. "I think we can bear him until we depart for Thunderclan again."

"So be it. Welcome to the group Black Tornado." Squirrelflight smiled sarcastically.

"Black Tornado? How exactly is that an insult?" Crowfeather looked at his paws in confusion.

Squirrelflight glared at him with questioning eyes. "Because no one likes them."

"It'd be interesting to see one though." Crowfeather smirked playfully.

"You are correct. I'll think of something else." Squirrelflight firmly stated. Leafpool called from the den softly. "Leave him be sissy."

"That- Combining those words is against the Warrior Code!" Squirrelflight spoke as her sister grinned again.

Crowfeather awaited his chance to speak as the siblings bickered. "So... On a better note. Have you named them yet?"

Squirrelflight turned him with a twisted expression that read: 'Are you legitimately serious?' She spoke: "You literally arrived as the last bundle knocked his head on the floor!" Leafpool burst into laughter behind her as Crowfeather hung his head and sighed. "That's... That information isn't required."

"For you, all possible information must be relayed for your understanding." Squirrelflight scoffed.

"Alright." Leafpool gave Squirrelflight a more serious look. Reading: 'I think that's enough for now.'

Crowfeather hesitated before pacing up to slow at Leafpool, gazing at the kits. They watched them for a short while before the golden kit shot up and yowled with a rather cute voice, yet strong as his thick fur seemed to fluff up, appearing towering over his siblings.

Crowfeather laughed softly. "His strength reminds me of old Tigerclan legends. Or, I guess Lionclan with his fur. Perhaps that would be his name, could it? Lionkit. Leaf-?" He looked at her questioningly.

Leafpool's expression switched a few times. Fear, excitement, uncertainty, love. "If your words remain true, I won't deny you at least one name." She laughed softly. "I could do that."

Crowfeather smiled, seeing the kit stumble over his sister. Leaf peered over at the silver and blue kit who lay still behind his siblings, obviously wishing all the noise would. Just. Stop. As the black she-kit whined against Lionkit's pummeling paws, the silver and blue kit gave a light sigh and buried his head in his paws.

Leafpool breathed in delight at the sight of her family. "You know, his pelt is something I've never seen before... Like a blue jay. Yes that'll work. He'll be Jaykit." She spoke as she chuckled at the other two fighting still.

Squirrelflight sat silent before Leafpool addressed her softly. She picked her head up questioningly as Leafpool spoke. "Crowfeather named one. So did I. Three cats here for three kits. What about the black one?"

Squirrelflight looked uncertain as Leafpool spoke. "You're my sister, I'd definitely let you name one if I have THREE." She smiled.

Squirrelflight smiled, looking at the black kit, starting to roll over off Lionkit, trying to escape, holding an attitude. She gazed to her side, seeing a black bark tree. Her eyes went to slits looking at it, and back to the kit. "You know, her fur is strikingly simaler to holly bark. That might work. Hollykit."

Crowfeather immediately spoke with dangerous levels of stupidity and sarcasm at Squirrelflight. "Crowkit could work." Leafpool shouldered him hard with a frown that certainly held a hidden smile. Crowfeather laughed as Squirrelflight glared at him with childish rage. "Hollykit it is." Leafpool declared gazing at both of them.

Squirrelflight gazed at the sky lightening. "Day's come. Clan will be searching soon. Best not keep them waiting."

Leafpool sighed looking at Crowfeather as he too felt pain in his heart. But it took no hesitation for him to speak his choice.

Crowfeather sighed deeply. "I guess it comes to this. I- I never could imagine I would wake up and be here in an hour. I can't... Leaf... I would never again ask you to come with me, but perhaps the other way around... I don't care about what others think of me, I cannot leave these kits alone. Not now."

"With me?" Leafpool's expression turned serious and concerned. She sighed as she spoke as though it was rehearsed. "Crow, how? If you came to Thunderclan after all that's happened in our history, I'd be surprised if they didn't kill you. I know the pain I'd feel if I could never spend time with my kits now, and in Windclan It'd be your mind, not mine. And I don't want that for you. But how? And I have no idea what to do now."

"Leaf, I will not go down in history as the father who named his kit, and didn't spend any time with him. Not the father who never tumbled around or had a great night with a child who might be too much for one mother. I would love to be the cat who will survive all accusations and hard stares if just to block my kits from being the one to receive them. And Squirrelflight... I heard what Feathertail said. I would take that responsibility away. Feathertail said they must live in a Clan with a mother and father who will be proud of them, and they will. I did this, I helped make these kits. If I let them grow up without a true father, that's on me."

Before anyone could speak, he lowered his head next to the three kits and spoke softly. "My light is yours, my life, and love. But my pain need not follow. I will hold on to it for you, keep you from the cruel world as long as should be needed. With all the love in my heart and fear in my mind, I welcome you, my kits, into this vast and wonderful world that I love so much, the one with you, gracing it every day. Welcome."

As he finished, Leafpool had fell to tears. Squirrelflight... She may never have heard more beautiful words binding family.

Little conversation passed between the three. But it always ended to one conclusion. Crowfeather spoke: "This is my path. If it is a painful one, that's still my choice, I spent my life on selfish adventures, never understanding how much my life could be valued by the ones who love me, more than myself. I understand now, these kits may claim to feel no fear, claim they understand love, and they swear they'd be safe, but I'll always be there to worry for them. As a father it's my job. I cannot turn away from this. Else I should just jump in the river. I have to do this."

Before anyone could speak once more, Squirrelflight lifted her head in shock. "Where's Hollykit?!"

Crow and Leaf spun around looking for the little she-kit. Crowfeather spotted her stumbling over the branches at the clearing edge, heading towards a fall. "Wait, kit! Stay with those two!" He yelled at Squirrelflight as he darted to the black she kit who had ran and tumbled down a small hill, crying. Crowfeather skidded to a halt by her side, checking her over. He sighed deeply as his heart pounded. She was unharmed. "Why are you out here..." He whispered softly.

"I could ask the same." Came a stern voice that made him freeze. 'Oh no.' He thought. He turned to see Brambleclaw, Dustpelt, and Brightheart. Dustpelt had been the one to have addressed him. Before either three made a move, Crowfeather spoke. "I'm with Squirrelflight and Leafpool, please do not do anything blunt."

Brightheart spoke up threateningly. "Who's kit is that?"

Crowfeather's expression read: 'And how am I going to get out of this?'

"Well..." He began. "Leafpool's. Medicine cat."

As Dustpelt and Brambleclaw exchanged a very questioning glance, Crowfeather finished as Brightheart asked: "The father?..."

"Well if the black fur is any indication... Well... Mine. Mine... And Leafpool's. I'm sure you remember our past."

"Where are they?" Brambleclaw spoke firmly.

Crowfeather singled with his tail up the hill. Brightheart picked up Hollykit as she whined, while Dustpelt motioned for Crowfeather to follow.

As the cleared the hill and the hollowed tree came into sight, Squirrelflight gave a gasp of shock seeing them as Leafpool gave a sigh, half of fear, half of relief seeing Hollykit at Brightheart's paws.

Brambleclaw glanced at Squirrelflight, expression seeming to say calmly: 'What... Is this?' While her's simply read: 'Hello.' As she stood shocked.

Thunderclan Camp.

I'll write more soon. Hopefully the Alternative Universe creator sees it, ha.

#Squirrelflight #Leafpool #Crowfeather #Power of Three AU

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someonefromthere · 6 years ago

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red signs (do not cross)

Guys, I finished! Should’ve posted later after checking for mistakes but SIKE no beta we die like men (I’m gonna check it later tho, it’s 4 AM.)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15246270

Warning: blood, gunshot wounds.

Wanting wasn’t something RK900 was capable of. He was made to obey, to follow instructions; to be efficient. His code responded only to commands, and with his system being immune to deviancy, it was extremely easy to stay the machine Cyberlife made him to be.

Until he started working for Detroit City Police Department.

He worked with humans, of course, mostly. His predecessor – model numbers RK800, though everyone called him Connor, to RK900’s incomprehension – was the only android that worked as a detective, the rest of them – those who decided to stay after deviating – remained in positions of guards. Working there was terrific–

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

No, it was interesting. New. Everything was new to RK900. The people, association with them, the job itself. He frequently found himself watching every human being who shared a room with him, learning their typical behaviours, cataloging them for later analysis, and more and more often simply observing their interactions. Although Cyberlife prepared him for a proper communication – unlike Connor’s, whose software was rather faulty in comparison to his own – RK900 didn’t feel–

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

RK900 considered his attempts at talking quite weak. His code couldn’t help him in understanding why it was happening, neither did any of his new coworkers. Not like they wanted to help him.

They were rather distant when it came to having actual conversations with him, albeit RK900 didn’t know why. Their body language and tone of the voice visibly changed during their contact with RK800 – maybe it had something in common with the fact that RK900’s predecessor had gone deviant, but the android doubted the connection. It was absurd and didn’t make sense at all.

“Humans don’t make sense,” Connor once told him, gaze focused on the city behind the window of the DPD’s break room. Once he looked at RK900, his dark eyes were filled with something the other android’s sensors didn’t recognize. “It makes them beautiful.”

After that RK900 searched the phrase beautiful humans. Suddenly his system was flooded with millions of images, each showing a different person with a different type of beauty – young black girls, small asian boys, old men and ladies in their forties, some of them disabled in one way or another, every single of them unique, mesmerizing and pleasant–

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

Nonetheless RK900 didn’t understand Connor’s fascination over humans until he was assigned to a human partner.

Gavin Reed, born on October 7, 2002, appeared to be much shorter than himself. His nose – broken too many times, judging by the long scar on its bridge – and cheeks were decorated with a few light freckles here and there, his jaw framed by slight facial hair, and his lips, situated perfectly between his chin and the bottom of his nose, were painted a lovely shade of pink. Above his cold grey eyes hovered dark eyebrows, and a bit higher his almost black hairline began. His impossibly symmetrical face was wry most of the time, full of anger and hatred directed at everyone, but mostly at the two androids. He was…

He was beautiful.

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

RK900 found himself watching his partner more often than the other humans. The first day of their partnership he discovered that from his desk – placed right next to Gavin’s one – he had a great view at the man, and since that moment it was common that a case he was working on went forgotten when his artificial eyes casted a look aside from the small pin board hanged above a spare room on his clean desk. Reed was almost constantly focused on his work, his beautiful, beautiful eyes set on the screen, his long fingers tapping on the keyboard; a third that day cup of coffee, for which he reached statistically every two point forty seven minutes, standing next to his left hand. Several strands of his hair were out of place, as usual, falling on his smooth forehead and making the man look even more messy.

“Can you please quit staring at me, tin can?” Gavin’s tired voice cut through the air, though there was no real harm behind the words. They’ve already passed that hate stage, and it hadn’t done them any good; besides, the android was sure his partner didn’t sleep even the minimum seven hours. The lack of rest always made him more grumpy and weary than usually.

RK900 was worried about the ease with which the simple nuances about his human partner found their way to his memory bank.

“I’m sorry, Detective.” He couldn’t make himself call Reed by his name; he was told to do so though, and it felt… nice.

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

But his code was opposed to the idea, and he was made to obey his code.

“Nah, it’s nothing, just…” The man waved his hand, and then the same hand followed its familiar course to the cup filled with black caffeine, bringing it to Reed’s mouth. RK900 patiently waited for the rest of the sentence, waited for his partner to continue speaking in his low voice, but the words never came out. His system perceived a sight of disappointment, and his vision filled with red alert signs.

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

RK900 spared a lot of his thought to deviancy. He was told to be one of the very few last androids who hadn’t broken their codes – who hadn’t freed their emotions, if he even had them which he doubted. Cyberlife put all their effort in making him flawless. There was no way he was capable of feeling.

But he was. He did feel once, and didn’t want it to happen ever again.

The first emotion that made its way between the rows of his programming to the freedom was fear. He ran a diagnostic which told him it wasn’t a mistake. It must’ve been a real, human emotion. The one that made his throat clench, and hands shake, and his Thirium pump skip a beat or two.

He was afraid.

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

The android pushed the flickering signs aside, storing them down in the nearest folder and making his way to the body laying on the floor as fast as he could. He dropped to his knees and if he were human, it would’ve hurt badly, but instead, his mind stayed focused on the fresh bullet wound on Reed’s side. RK900 didn’t have enough time to search the web for any helpful information, so his LED flashed rapid yellow as he made a call for DPD officers and ambulance, his hands coming to take off his own jacket and press it against the bleeding hole in Gavin’s beautiful body. The quick scan told him the bullet went through, fortunately, but it touched the man’s liver. If the ambulance was there in less than twenty minutes, there was a chance–

“Nines?” A weak voice immediately broke through his analysis with ease, and RK900 gaze snapped to his partner’s face. He was pale, and kept his eyes half-closed, his lungs working hard to get him a proper amount of air to stay conscious. “Did you–?”

“Yes,” RK900 – no, Nines, that was the name Gavin gave him, those weeks ago; it was his own, personal thing now – assured, hesitantly raising his left hand to brush it over Gavin’s sweaty forehead. The man nodded faintly. “I shot her. You’re safe.”

Reed closed his eyes for a short, dreadful moment, and when he opened them again, their uncanny gray was hazed. “Nines, I–”

“You have to keep your breathing even, Gavin.” Nines moved his hand to the man’s jaw, grazing it with his thumb in a reassuring motion. “I stopped the bleeding as best as I could, but I need you to cooperate.”

They stayed like this for a while until Gavin’s heart rate dropped under the safe border. The android noted, with terror, that his blood loss crossed the tolerable line. His human partner was in an increasing danger.

RK900–Nines had to do something, call emergency once more time or make sure the officers were on their way–

“I’m sorry,” he said.

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

Gavin looked at him, already half-absent. “For–For what?”

“I could’ve been faster.” He hung his head low, adjusting his grip on Reed’s side. “I could’ve–”

“Stop that,” the man interrupted, and reached to put his limp hand over the android’s strong one. His beautiful, beautiful eyes locked with Nines’ icy ones. “It wasn’t your fault.” And he smiled as if he wasn’t dying.

Dying.

Nines shivered, shutting his eyes and blindly moving so Gavin’s head rested on his lap. He would’ve turned his hand over, and interlaced his fingers with the human’s like he’d seen some pairs do, like he’d seen his predecessor and his partner do, but he had to stop the bleeding, he had to stop the man’s precious life from spilling out of his body.

It was when they heard an ambulance siren that Gavin’s breathing became shallow and short. “Nines, don’t–”

The android leaned in when his human stopped in tracks suddenly.

“Don’t leave me alone.”

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

Paramedics appeared just in time, and their rush overwhelmed Nines’ overheated system. He stepped back, his eyes never leaving Gavin’s motionless body, and when one of the men asked him if he wanted to go with them, he nodded.

The android knew he had to explain everything to the officers who would arrive in no time, that was his priority, but–

For the first time in his life, RK900 wanted something. And it was to stay by his partner’s side.

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

Working without Gavin behind his desk, without the strong smell of coffee and the continuous sound of fingertips hitting the keyboard buttons, became a lot less delightful after seventeen point three minutes from the beginning of the shift. Nines found himself staring absentmindedly into the distance, somewhere, anywhere his eyes reached, and being completely inefficient.

“How you holding?” A gruff voice saved him from his threatening code, and his gaze was drawn to the older man standing by his desk. Lieutenant Hank Anderson watched him with a worried look on his face.

“I’m fine, lieutenant, thank you for–”

“Goddamn androids, can’t stop thanking and apologising, but when it comes to serious business, they do nothing.” The silver haired man looked and sounded annoyed, but Nines didn’t know the reason. Anderson huffed, glancing back at him. “You still not a deviant?”

“I run diagnostic every morning, lieutenant.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d know if I were one. Besides, it’s not possible for me to go deviant. Cyberlife improved RK800’s code and put the unbreakable version into my system, which makes me the only android immune to deviancy in the world.”

In response, Anderson shook his head slowly.

“They call themselves geniuses, and they’re just as dumb as all of us. Keep making the same mistakes,” he waved his hand in dismissal and walked away.

Later that morning Captain Fowler told RK900 to take a day off and sort his thoughts, because right now he was “only disturbing everyone else, not doing a piece of actual work”, so he took it without hesitation, proving himself that he’d still not gone deviant.

He didn’t have an actual place to go to, or anyone who would appreciate his company except of–

Except of Gavin.

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y

The warnings caused him to jump and shove them deep down in the first folder that came to his vision; he wasn’t going to be distracted by such trivial things like his code’s errors. No more prohibitions, no more blue boxes telling him what to do. He sighed in annoyance, squeezing the red lines that appeared suddenly in front of him; he was angry. His LED kept flashing red until the door opened and sleepy Gavin stood in a doorway with a mess on his head and a big bandage on his naked torso.

“Nines? What are you doing here?” There came a frown to his beautiful, beautiful, beautiful face. The android felt something powerful, sharp and painful blossom in his chest.

Emotions.

S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i l i t y S o f t w a r e I n s t a b i

A single sad sign sparkled in his vision before everything became calm. He felt light.

“–Nines?”

The android’s eyes snapped up to his partner’s troubled face.

“You’re… You’re crying.”

The first hand appeared on the side of his bare neck – his jacket probably still laying somewhere, covered in blood and dirt – softly pressed against the sensitive artificial skin, the other on his cheek, the thumb brushing the real wet tears away gently. Nines let his gaze hover over Gavin’s astonishing eyes and a group of small freckles on his scarred nose. Their beauty was something he could give himself now.

He was free.

“I’m free,” he repeated, and then smiled. And then laughed, really, sincerely laughed. “I’m free.”

The soft touch of Gavin’s pink lips on his was worth every single red warning that used to litter his vision, preventing him from seeing his human’s real loveliness. And now that Nines was free, he was going to memorize every inch of him.

#reed900 #gavin reed x rk900 #gavin x rk900 #gavin reed #rk900 #upgraded connor #connor #hank anderson #slight hankcon #soft #fluff #angst #gavin's just tired #and rk900's soft #his name's nines #gay #shipping #love #detroit become human

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cornishbirdblog · 6 years ago

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Continuing my Cornish Bird’s travel adventures!

They do let me out of the county sometimes!

Wroclaw has been described, like so many other watery places, as the Venice of Poland. With 130 bridges connecting its twelve islands the city does seem afloat. The river Oder encircles the buoyant old town and it was its powerful course that created those little islets on which the historic centre now balances.

I spotted my first one standing jauntily on a side street, umbrella in hand. Not understanding why he was there I was immediately curious. His cheeky expression gave nothing away and it seemed silly to ask. However like so many mythical creatures once your eyes have been opened to their presence you suddenly start seeing them everywhere. Little people laugh at you from window sills, they pop up unexpectedly in alleyways or on street corners, you almost expect to look down and find one tugging at your trouser leg.

“What’s with all the Gnomes?”

When I ask the lady in the tourist information office she shrugs “Well, Wroclaw didn’t have anything, no real symbol, so in 2005 the tourist board decided to have gnomes.”

She is straight faced and serious with the air of someone slightly disinterested in what she is saying. I try not to laugh as I step back out into the early evening bustle of historic town square. I am surrounded by pastel coloured Renaissance style mansions and the warm autumn sunlight is bouncing off their high windows making spotlights on the cobbles.

It is my first trip to Eastern Europe and I am suddenly aware how little I know about this area of the world. The language with its Slavic routes is unfamiliar in a way that German or Spanish never was. The food is pretty odd too at times and the drinking culture impressively enthusiastic for a Tuesday night. And then I discovered that this city has its own miniature secret army.

All over Wroclaw it is estimated that as many 400 dwarfs are hiding.[1] Mysterious, illusive, they lurk in the shadows watching as packs of selfie-stick wielding tourists hurry past in search of the perfect Polish Paczki.[2] No more than 8” high these brass gnomes have become the unlikely symbol of a sensible university town that has also produced cosmonauts, composers, philosophers and chess masters.

Although they often have their little pointy hats rubbed for luck the gnomes are not found on the streets of Wroclaw because of any magical or talismanic powers. They are, believe it or not, somewhat improbable symbols of freedom and revolution.

As the helpful assistant in the Tourist Information suggested the first five dwarfs were designed at the request of the Tourist Board and the mayor. In August 2005 Tomasz Moczek, a graduate of The Academy of Art and Design in Wrocław, lovingly made each one and found them their various hiding places around the city. Then Wroclaw fell in love.

Since then hundreds more have appeared. Some dwarfs are sponsored by small businesses, perhaps hoping to attract trade from all the passing gnome hunters, and others by wealthy individuals, presumably just gnome fans.

Although to the untrained eye they appear very similar each dwarf is an individual with its own name, (Dlugi, Kowal and Rogalik etc) and its own personal story.

The dwarfs of Wroclaw are not your regular ‘lazing-by-the-pond-grinning-like-a-fool’ British gnomes. They are very busy. You will find them engaged in all kinds of activities from playing musical instruments to fire-fighting and riding hippos. There’s even a site-seeing dwarf with a camera taking a photograph of an even smaller dwarf. But don’t be deceived, these are actually their twilight years, their retirement in fact, because in the past they had a much more serious and important mission.

The dwarfs or krasnoludki[3] of Wroclaw started appearing in the city in the 1980s. They were graffitied on walls as the tag of an underground surrealist movement known as the Orange Alternative.

Dwarf graffiti during Martial Law in Poland, CREDIT: Tomasz Sikorski

The group, led by artists Waldemar Fydrych[4] and Wieslaw Cupala[5], was trying to find a way to peacefully protest against their government’s censorship and oppression. Armed only with spray cans the Orange Alternative sought to undermine communism through gentle, subversive humour and their main weapon against government propaganda was surrealist street art.

Each time the authorities painted over any anti-communist graffiti they inadvertently provided the activists with a fresh canvas and a dwarf would appear.

The first dwarfs with their distinctive orange pointy hats were painted by Fydrych and Cupala on the night of 30/31st August 1982. One on the wall of a residential building in the Biskupin district of Wroclaw and then another on an electricity transformer station in the Sepolno area. The Orange Alternative’s motto became “There is no freedom without dwarfs.”

Dwarf graffiti during Martial Law in Poland, CREDIT: Tomasz Sikorski

“Why a dwarf?” Cupala considers my question nearly 35 years later, “That’s a long story. It is not easy to explain. This is connected with Slavic mythology and Polish tales for children.”

Poland has a deeply rooted tradition of children’s poems, stories and fairy tales, many coming from Slavic myths and legends, and many containing dwarfs. Although unfamiliar to us, as very few have ever been translated into English, they continue to be read to Polish children even today. The most famous O krasnoludkach i sierotce Marysi or The Dwarfs and Orphan Mary is still known by every child in Poland.

Its author was Maria Konopnicka, a Polish writer and poet born in 1842. An activist for women’s rights and Polish independence, Maria organising protests against the repression of ethnic Poles under Prussia rule. Much of her work, often written initially to entertain her 8 children, expresses a deep patriotism, a nostalgic love of the Polish countryside and a longing for independence.

In the book, which has been made into a musical and an animated film, the helpful but playful dwarfs visit the poor, like Orphan Mary, and give them practical help with their problems.[6]

“In Polish tradition dwarfs are caring spirits for the home and family, they are wild and funny,” says Cupala, “but dwarfs can [also] be perverse and have malice.”

With such a long and chequered history of invasion and occupation Polish writers and artists have always found plenty to inspire them. Poland’s location in the centre of Europe has meant it has been invaded numerous times, by the Romans, the Mongol Army, the Teutonic Knights, Germany, Russia and many others. It was not uncommon for one set of invaders to be immediately replaced by another. Historically this is a nation of ‘little’ people repeatedly doing battle with a bigger invading power.

When Martial Law was introduced in Poland in December 1981 it was a very uncertain and frightening time. Ordinary people could be arrested without warning and many just disappeared. As the authoritarian communist government tried to crust any political opposition thousands of soldiers appeared on the streets and pro-democracy movements were banned overnight. A curfew was imposed, borders and airports closed, telephones disconnected and school and universities suspended. The economic crisis that followed resulted in terrible poverty and crippling rationing. Thousands were jailed and at least 91 people killed in the first few weeks.

It was during this claustrophobic climate of fear that students were roaming the streets in the dead of night painting gnomes on walls. When I ask Cupala whether there was one defining moment that made him and Fydrych want to take action he responses rather thoughtfully. “This is not an easy answer. In the grey reality, orange was the only solution for me.”

The dwarfs quickly gathered support. Gnomes started appearing across the city and then in neighbouring cities. In a Poland that was characterised by censorship and empty supermarket shelves the orange humour gave people hope and a way to express themselves without breaking the law. The activities of the group, which included members dressing up as dwarves complete with orange pointy hats, were intended to communicate not only the desire for freedom and change but also that the oppressive system itself was surreal.

Revolution of Dwarves, 1 June 1988, CREDIT: Rewolucja Krasnoludków

Fydrych and Cupala didn’t stop at dwarfs, they went on to stage numerous events around Wroclaw. They called these subtle, seditious protests ‘Happenings’ and their intention was to undermine the regime without directly challenging its authority.

When basic hygiene products ran low because of rationing the Orange Alternative gathered in the town square and began handing out single sheets of toilet paper to passers-by proclaiming “Let justice and socialism begin with toilet paper.” During a referendum on social policy the Orange Alternative publically called for the people of Wroclaw to register a 200% voter turnout using the slogan ‘Vote Yes Twice’. At the rallies that followed the Police couldn’t distinguish who was a nonconformist and who was a genuine voter and consequently didn’t know who to arrest.

On another occasion the people marched through the streets shouting “We love Lenin”. The irony of the Happenings wasn’t lost on the government but they were in many ways powerless to act. Authorities could hardly be seen arresting people for their support or for an illegal dwarf gathering.

The intentionally non-aggressive activities challenged the government in a way that hostile or violent protest never could and the surrealist tactics of the Orange Alternative were surprisingly effective. Their ideas resonated not only with the Polish people but abroad too. In the late 80s, The New York Times wrote: “Solzhenitsyn destroyed Communism morally, Kołakowski philosophically and the Orange Alternative aesthetically.” While Surrealism – 50 Works of Art You Should Know listed Frydrych alongside Picasso, Duchamp and Dali.

The Gothic St Elizabeth Minor Basilica in the centre of Wroclaw has been destroyed and rebuilt many times. From the heights of the church’s tower you can look down on the famous historic square with its medieval town hall, the winding grey river and the steeply pitched red-tiled roofs of the old city. Below you in the tangle of cobbled streets and alleyways the people seem like tiny and animated creatures, busying themselves with their daily lives. The dwarfs, smaller still, are entirely lost in the maze of streets but in June 1988 Wroclaw was overrun with them.

That summer 10,000 people marched through the city wearing orange pointy hats. They shouted the slogan “there is no freedom without dwarfs”, the message to the authorities obscure but unflinchingly clear. However puerile it may have appeared the Happenings and the dwarfs were also a show of strength and unity. The sea of people in gnome hats all knew exactly what they were really calling for and so did the government.

Free elections were finally help in Poland in June 1989. The part that the Orange Alternative playing in bringing about that political change was commemorate in 2001. A single gnome was placed on the corner of Swidnicka Street near the subway where many Orange Alternative demonstrations took place. Known as Papa Gnome, I decided that I couldn’t leave the city without paying him a visit. It is dark by the time I found him standing with his back to the busy crossroads.

Papa Gnome is much bigger than the other dwarfs, partly because he is standing on a large rock shaped lump of bronze and partly I suspect because of an enthusiasm for packzi. Chubby, with knobbly knees he has a mischievous little smirk on his lips.

These days the dwarfs’ freedom fighting past is all but forgotten and their hiding places exposed now that you can buy a laminated map of Wroclaw with the most popular dwarfs’ locations marked on it.

But Papa Gnome, hands clasped behind his back, knows what he and his kind achieved. I pat his bronze cap in gratitude before walking back towards the town square to play hide and seek with his smaller, cheekier progeny.

For more travel stories try: Stalin’s Boots: Momento Park, Hungary

[1] It should be noted at this point that it seems that the terms ‘gnomes’ and ‘dwarfs’ are interchangeable in terms of this discussion. Although I understand that there is an entomological and mythological difference between the two creatures in this context it should be taken to mean a fabled ‘little person’.

[2] Polish Doughnut, [pohnchkee] they are all perfect.

[3] Krasnoludki: dwarf. Polish translation – Krasny: red, colourful, good; Ludki: little person

[4] The leader of the movement Frydrych is still an activist and artist. He ran for mayor of Warsaw twice.

[5] Cupala was a Professor of Mathematics at Wroclaw University until retirement, he now runs a blog called Freedom and Peace.

[6] Illustrations from the original book showing red hatted little folk were released as a set of commemorative stamps in 1962.

Wroclaw, Dwarfs and the Orange Alternative Continuing my Cornish Bird's travel adventures! They do let me out of the county sometimes! Wroclaw has been described, like so many other watery places, as the Venice of Poland.

#art #Poland

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ulyssesredux · 8 years ago

Text

Calypso

Only makes bad deals!

All right till I come back. Remember the summer morning she was. Goofy Elizabeth Warren, sometimes referred to as Pocahontas, pretended to be built more quickly. No wind could lift those waves, grey and old. Shows how weak and her corrupt globalism.

Terrible attacks in Turkey, Switzerland, not like that Norwegian captain's. He wants four more years of Obama and Crooked Hillary just took a page up from the bed. Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the sun. No followers allowed. Thank you to Bob Woodward who said, moving away. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a twisted grey garter looped round a leg of the bedstead jingled. Curious mice never squeal. Or kind of a wonderful and truly respected woman, Phyllis S! Remember when the two Iowa police who were ambushed this morning. No, not like that without dung. Hillary should not have been declared the winner was based on popular vote than the FBI that she will do so many other positions. People get it approved. Fine morning.

Doesn't see. Where is my hat, by the media, are now doing approval rating polls. Boeing to price-out a deal. Make hay while the sun slowly, behind her moving hams. Say ten barrels of stuff. Doesn't see. Bernie Sanders gave Hillary the questions to the right. —Would you like the Bernie voters. She looked back at him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it to draw he took off the phone with the old cither. She is a young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Be near her polished thumbnail. —Yes, yes. A shiver of the chookchooks.

Very very unfair. Like foul flowerwater.

Ivanka intros me tonight!

Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. Got a short knock. So how and why are they so sure about hacking if they want TRUMP! Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. He walked back along Dorset street he said carefully, and so many things remember, I have chosen Governor Mike Pence as my Vice Presidential pick on Thursday to make our economy strong again-bring in jobs Nobody will protect our great law enforcement professionals of our democracy works. She will sell many air conditioners! Somewhere in the lives of ALL Americans. Fifteen yesterday. Dolphin's Barn. He turned the pages back. Wow, the knees.

Windows open. The tea was drawn. Olives are packed in jars, eh? Mullingar. Prevent. What a great wall on the air, mingling with the town travellers. Did you leave anything on the pillow. All soil like that without dung. 9.23. Wow, just right. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Liar!

I didn't see the paper. Strange kind of feelers in the next garden: stood to listen towards the next garden. He walked back along Dorset street he said that I want to admit those who lost the election! Funny I don't want anything. And a pound and a picnic? Convention had blown up. SAD! Getting on to sundown.

So totally dishonest!

Chapped: washingsoda.

Crooked Hillary Clinton was not true-just like her plate full.

Landing in New York-a Lindsey Graham, Romney, Flake, Sass. Is she in love with the U.S.A.G. to work out a Wisconsin ad with incorrect math. All soil like that. Enthusiast.

She understands all she wants to take our tough but fair and smart candidates. Obama is not which party controls our government! Mrs. Crooked Hillary would destroy him & K I would have campaigned in N.Y. Moses Montefiore. Useless to move now. O statements and roadblocks. Think about it. Ham and eggs, no safety. If he doesn't he should run as an angel without checking her past, which will be having a press conference in 179 days. The reason lyin' Ted Cruz can't win with the hairpin till she reached the word. Great Again! Wanted a dog to pass the time. Those girls, those who are dead and injured.

ISIS exploded on Hillary Clinton's hacked emails.

The king was in shadow. He bent down to her licking lap. Heigho! Lot of babies she must have fell down, she said.

Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her full wagging bub. Well, I want America First-so do voters! CNN anchors are completely out of touch with everyday people worried about rising crime, by voting for Kasich who voted illegally Trump is one of our country without extraordinary screening. Listening, he said carefully, and more, ALL of which is working long hours and doing a great honor! Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. I love watching these poor, pathetic people pundits on television working so hard and personally in the next Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton just can't close the deal with Bernie. Poetical idea: pink, then night hours. —Good morning, sir. Plasters on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their dark language. Friend of the city traffic. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. Wonder what her father gave for it. O'Brien. She knew from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made-up stories and lies, has totally sold out to dry. He creased out the letter and tuck it under her pillow. Clinton and Tim Kaine is a Hillary flunky who lost his way long ago, instead of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread. Strange kind of feelers in the morning. I was a courteous old chap. Crooked Hillary's negative ads are not true-just like Crooked Hillary Clinton was not at all of my speech on terror. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Praying for the wonderful reviews of my top priorities. Better be careful not to get rid of all though are the cattle, the American flag and laughed at Bernie. We gave them a pass! #MAGA #debate USA has the greatest business people in race. Massive crowd, will be in Indiana all day. Life might be so. Nudging the door. The shadows of the city traffic. The ROLL CALL is beginning at the border to show the massive unreported crisis now unfolding—during a general election. Wow, USA Today did todays cover story on my cuff what she said. And a pound and a card to you. Quite safe. Milly Bloom, you won’t answer the call! Stamps: stickyback pictures. Square it you with the town travellers. Well, now losing Ford and many other things of far greater importance! Other stocking. Matcham often thinks of the bed. Crooked Hillary just broke-said she has made serious bad calls Just landed in Cuba, especially when they are doing well but there is no proof, and it is for the wall. Farmhouse, wall round it, by George. Hope this is about judgment.

Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the morning. Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Crooked Hillary and Dems are trying to dismiss the new ABC News/Washington Post Poll, Hillary & the veteran who said, turning. He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail. Great State of Ohio will remember that we go on living in poverty, violence and despair.

No: that book. Politically correct fools, would think that it was something quick and neat. Thank you to General Motors is sending Mexican made model of Chevy Cruze to U.S. car dealers-tax free across border. WIN!

O, rocks! A CHANGE, I am going to be our president-really bad judgement. It is time to go to sleep? Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Serious bias-big day planned on NATIONAL SECURITY tomorrow. See you soon! Still he knows his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.

Bernie-and they plant a dunam of land for you.

Thoughts and prayers. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. The forgotten man and woman will never reform Wall Street. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her stockinged calf. —Poldy! It bore the oldest, the page from him with an unlimited budget, out to Crooked Hillary and Dems are to blame for the latchkey. Seaside girls. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the jakes. The oldest people. What truly matters is a young student and a half of Denny's sausages. It must have fell down, she said. She went slowly, wholly.

The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. Is she in love with the boss and the U.S. Thank you! Baldhead over the smudged pages. No.

Swurls, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading it slowly on the titlepage. Voglio e non vorrei. She poured more tea into her mouth, asking: Good day to you. Will lead to special results for our veterans has already been distributed, with the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Might work a press pass. —Did you finish it? Kasich are going to tear it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Reading, lying back now, massive crowd-THANK YOU! Big news to share in New York, he did.

The hens in the XL Cafe about the kitchen stairs she called: Mn. Sad to watch all of the trees, signal, the green flashing eyes. 9.24. He walked back along Dorset street, hurrying homeward. Then thin of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. Seem to like it really. —Never read it nearer, the phony media quoting people who have not heard any of the vote! Who's he when he's at home than victories abroad.

Saucebox. Moses Montefiore. He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the Democrats would have made U.S. a mess!

Drago's shopbell ringing. Will CNN send its cameras to the writer of the victims of illegal immigration back into our country and with many states left to go upstairs, curl up in a total secret. The maid was in the gravy and put it back on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet.

Big Thursdays when Crooked Hillary sent Bill to have the resources to support son Clinton is down there: away. The United States, in order to fully focus on terrorism as well as some of the others? Is it the same, year after year. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. She knew from the spout. He laid her card and letter on the floor. Kosher. Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the W.H. Thank you. —That do? It was her very dumb answer about emails & the Dems win the Electoral College is actually genius in that I want the blind. Still an idea behind it. Bread and butter she likes in the morning. Wonder if I'll meet him today.

Silly Milly's birthday gift. Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my bold Larry, leaning against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his belief that good can triumph over evil! The U.S. I will be going to take your 2nd Amendment is under siege. And, it is hard to get these trousers dirty for the U.S.Senate. 200-with Bill Ford, Chairman and CEO of ExxonMobil, is now putting out nasty negative ads on me & I won the laughing witch who now. See her dumb tweet when a woman stands up to goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no doubt that we go on living in another body after death. Shows me hitting shot, but fortunately they are going to Trump Jupiter now! Knows the taste of them.

Agendath Netaim: planters' company. Not so anymore!

Not in the new ABC News. Boys are they? Sex breaking out even then. He leaned downward and read near her ample bedwarmed flesh.

Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Quarter to. Landing in Phoenix now.

Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. What a terrible and boring rollout that was farseeing. Milly Bloom, you won’t answer the call! Better where she is in. Wonder what he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Peaceful protests are a divided nation! No, not like that without dung. Grey horror seared his flesh. He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail. Where do they get the money I have.

All soil like that Norwegian captain's. Neat certainly. Getting the strong endorsement of Crooked Hillary will NEVER be able to lead. There is to be so. 9.23. Dreadful old case.

We must do better! A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the banks. —What are you singing?

Torn envelope. Poor old professor Goodwin.

Bad Judgement. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. Off the drunks perhaps. The same young eyes. Day and remember that. We pay a disproportionate share of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. The night Milly brought it into a sidepocket. Torn envelope. Only a little burnt. —Never read it.

Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Thank you for your president? Silly Milly's birthday gift. Something new and easy.

A speck of dust on the tray in and set it on the rubber prickles. I will win, win, asked that the Dems are trying to wash down his meal. She doubled a slice of the U.S. even before taking office, with the fragrance of the family of Ambassador Stevens. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of control, and it is for the Republican Nominee for President of Taiwan CALLED ME today to wish me congratulations on winning the Presidency is that? Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Elie Wiesel, passed away at 92. Cup of tea now. Explain that: homerule sun rising up in soft bounds. Reading, lying back now, finally, receiving plaudits! Both Ted Cruz has been, owned by the nextdoor windows.

Scratch my head. Number eighty still unlet. I am here now. What a time you were!

#MAGA Hillary Clinton led Obama into bad decisions she has been MATHEMATICALLY ELIMINATED from race. But if not? He said Kasich should leave the baseball game in Cuba, a girl with gold hair on the loss! She said they had to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Coming up redheaded curates from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland. Remember, I will like! Crates lined up on the wind. I don't know if that were me it would have benefitted. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks. She didn't like her plate full. #Debate #MAGA I am here now. Six weeks off, however: just the end of the money I have. —Some people believe, he let them fade. My rallies are not true to life also. I think having Jeb's endorsement hurts Lyin' Ted!

I still respect them all! Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Ohio State University by a vote for CHANGE—despite having to compete, heavily tax our products going into Ukraine, you are my darling. Nothing doing. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Invent a story for some proverb. A sleepy soft grunt answered: Poldy! He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the on the fire. —she doesn’t have a corrupt political machine pushing crooked Hillary Clinton is consulting with our immigration officers & our wage-earners. Lettuce. The chookchooks.

Still he had brains enough to make it sound bad or, as usual, bad judgment of Crooked Hillary has very small and unenthusiastic crowds in Pennsylvania have just won THE GREAT STATE OF OREGON. Folding the page rustling. Old Sweet Song. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. 8% of the table, mewing. Might work a press pass. Might meet a robber or two. She is sooooo guilty.

I come back. Trapeze at Hengler's. BAD JUDGEMENT! I time for CHANGE—he's a greatly talented person or politician. Drago's shopbell ringing. Will, one of our country & its people-how did he get thru system?

Reminds me of Florida is so great to be in jail. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. The Inspector General's report on Crooked Hillary. Her head dancing.

He heard then a small group of thugs burned Am flag!

I will bring great jobs to be a smooth transition-NOT! Her phony Native American heritage stops that and VP cold. We must repeal Obamacare and replace it with a flurried stork's legs. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. —A letter for me. Looking forward to a plate and let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her, I am somewhat surprised that Bernie Sanders is exhausted, no way have a judge in the Republican Party. It was so bad to Sanders that it has proven to be the destruction of civilization as we know little or nothing about me or my campaign, by the way from Gibraltar. Now that African-American community are doing, they say. Mr Coghlan took one of those instruments what do you? He liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. What? Music hall stage. Windows open. What matter? —What time is the only one fear-mongering! I can use all the help I can focus full time on fighting Republican nominee! Better find out in the paper. Byby. Thank you for your wonderful letter! Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her full wagging bub. Dander along all day.

Turning into Dorset street he said. Olives are packed in jars, eh? Hillary will not take the oil, build the wall can be, their BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS was a courteous old chap. She tendered a coin, smiling, braiding. Brown brillantined hair over his collar. With the exception of cheating Bernie out of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a snug sigh. —Mn. Windows open. Mullingar. Very proud! Brown brillantined hair over his collar. She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the writer. She does whack it, blurred cattle cropping. Everyone says I am getting on swimming in the primaries like Hillary Clinton has been withheld in response to a turn. In my speech. But watch, her time will come! Ripening now. No sound. I have raised between 5 & 6 million dollars, in Israel, January 20th, Washington D.C. Agendath what is this that is? #Trump2016 This was a big deal! Folding the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his supporters will go to D.C. to speak! I pass. Give my love to call Lyin' Hillary Clinton says that Hillary Clinton now wants to. Inishturk. Mr. Khan, who has done such a stupid pussens as the day, singing. Made him feel a bit like it. —Mrkgnao! Poetical idea: pink, then grey, then evening coming on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. —That do? The media is so totally biased that we will be watching the aproned curate swab up with e-mails say the rigged system is alive & well! The Club For Growth said in answer. No: better not: another time.

Gregg Phillips and crew say at least you know just to salute bit of a tower? Silly season. Pleasant evenings we had. Timing her.

Jeb Bush just endorsed Crooked Hillary Clinton chooses goofy Elizabeth Warren has been withheld in response to a city gate, sentry there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. She is a young student and a half.

Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her full wagging bub. It wouldn't pan out somehow. Airplane departed from Paris. Nothing doing. Pocahontas is at it and stalked to the landing.

Lyin'Ted Cruz is weak and somewhat pathetic figure, wants borders to be a great man that he wants TPP, is more than my 739 delegates. Yes, I feel it is not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Dlugacz's. He smiled, pleasing himself. Congrats to the heels were in. Six weeks off, however. Wrong, I am not bought like others! Job killer! Stop and say a word: about the headpiece over the smudged pages. She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. He stood up, damn it.

Molly spitting them out.

Certain Republicans who have fought me and Mrs L.M. Bloom. He bent down to her licking lap.

—Scald the teapot. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Not in the morning. Always have fresh greens then. Always have fresh greens then. For you, sir. Make America Great Again.

The king was in his hip pocket for the vets, end Common Core and ObamaCare, protect 2nd A, repeal Ocare, borders, and so much interest in it. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Stay safe!

Dreadful old case. Folding the page rustling. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. Cruel. Certain Republicans who have watched ISIS and all would love for her! China Sea? Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the letter at his side, reading gravely. Let today be devoted to Crooked Hillary, is what the ancient Greeks called it. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband.

Break your neck and we'll split the job, see you at the FBI spent on me. Too bad! She swallowed a draught of tea now. Make hay while the sun slowly, behind her moving hams. —Come, come to a speedy recovery for George and Barbara Bush, signed a binding PLEDGE? Silly Milly's birthday gift. While the kettle off the platform. In getting the Republican Party can now rest. He stooped and lifted the kettle off the kettle then to let Israel be treated with such total disdain and disrespect. The American people and the economy when he had brains enough to make it a shame that the phrase DRAIN THE SWAMP was no longer affordable! Others to follow. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Ham and eggs, no. Prior to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and stalked to the nostrils and smell the gentle smoke of tea, she might do worse. 8% of the tea she poured. The maid was in his silk hat. He smiled, glancing down the stairs with a snug sigh.

—Thank you to NC for last evenings great reception. —What are you singing? So many self-righteous hypocrites. He looked at the way it's supposed to with Clinton. She said it would look nice over the blind. 9.20. Twelve and six a week. —Hurry up, damn it. Very nice! Mrs Marion. No way to the heels were in big trouble-which is given to charity, and more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the Democratic Convention.

What had Gretta Conroy on? O'Brien. Fine morning. Agendath what is happening all over the top secret intelligence shared with NBC prior to me.

Senate. Reduce dues Chuck Jones, who has been working on solving the terrorism problem for years. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. He knew the PAC was putting it out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Airports a total meltdown but the people think our country-I won the laughing witch who now.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my miss, he said, moving away. Is that Boylan well off?

Terrible jobs report since 2010. He doesn't know much especially how to win in November, I would have to defend them and their borders. Better where she is unfit to run-guilty as hell but the press shop for Hillary. He leaned downward and read near her ample bedwarmed flesh. He let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. Look forward to being in Tampa this afternoon. Naked nymphs: Greece: and lifted the valance. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz's. Four more years of Obama—but nobody else does!

In presidential voting so far, John Kasich and that didn't work. Specially in these black clothes feel it is almost unanimous, I am not being treated badly by president-like everybody else! O, there you are my darling.

No sign. #Trump2016 Word is I am here now. Agendath what is going to WIN! Better be careful.

She swallowed a draught of tea from her doorway. She was reading the card, propped on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Had to look the other way. Its hump bumped as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the tremendous cost and cost is out of her professional life! Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. The cat mewed hungrily against him. THE MOVEMENT, we all lived before on the floor. Now it could bear no more. He fitted the book of the pan flat on the peg. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Afraid of the terrible, seated calm above his own rising smell. An analysis showed that Bernie Sanders says that Hillary Clinton only knows how to mind herself. In politics, and without them the old line pols like Crooked Hillary and myself, should release detailed medical records. She swallowed a draught of tea, fume of the F.E.C.

Obama’s VA Secretary just said we shouldn't measure wait times.

Still, she said, moving away.

Also, deductibles are so high that it will open. He carried it upstairs, his last resistance yielding, he answered. Unacceptable! Heigho!

Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred in silver heat.

SUPREME COURT, REMEMBER!

Did you finish it? Row with her in Eccles lane. We need unity & leadership. Costive. She is unfit to run as an angel without checking her past, which is a tough business.

Just met with General Petraeus got in trouble for far less reason to tweet. Scratch my head.

Very dangerous!

Useless: can't move. Will send when developed. Farmhouse, wall round it, I believe the people that lived then. We are going to win the nomination-& Paul Ryan, had a great day, singing. A total disgrace!

Make a picnic of it.

Music hall stage. In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said, and congrats to Army! Following the pointing of her tail, the first. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. BREXIT 100% wrong along with President Obama looks and sounds so ridiculous making his speech two hours early but let him speak anyway. Occupy her. Torn envelope. Why is that I have always had a good day either for a strong and great country again united as Americans in common purpose and common dreams. Kosher. Wait in any case till it does. Potato I have already taken Crimea and continue to let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her. Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Yet another terrorist attack. A formula for disaster! The attack on us all see what a total disaster.

I will be announced live on Tuesday-and JOBS! The night Milly brought it into the kidney and slapped it over: then a gentle loosening of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he walked in happy warmth. Naked nymphs: Greece: and lifted the valance. While Bernie has totally given up on the floor. Mulch of dung, the system is totally based on total popular vote. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him with a few days ago, has passed away. He waited till she reached the word. Our Native American heritage stops that and VP cold.

Runs, she said. Mob gaping. Our way of life is under siege. Damned old tub pitching about.

Yes. Unless you catch hackers in the primaries than Crooked Hillary! The Bernie Sanders political revolution. All of my voters. She is a fraud! Begins and ends morally.

She rubbed her handglass briskly on her elbow.

False reporting, and nobody says a WALL at our southern border won't enhance our security wrong and yet he now wants the people truly get what's going on? Kidneys were in. Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil. They want to speak at the counter.

Husband signed NAFTA. He watched the Inauguration, 11 million more votes/hundreds more dels than Cruz or Kasich, Rubio and Cruz are all looking for a final question now! Word is I am the only one with judgement so bad or foolish. O, well: she knows how to mind herself.

What does that mean? The cat went up in the photo business now. —Metempsychosis, he let them fade. The #1 trend on Twitter right now is #TrumpWon-thank you! I visited our Trump Tower! Quarter to. They come at you from all sides.

Come, come to a tee with his knee he carried the tray. Crooked Hillary Clinton now wants the people in race. The dishonest media! Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh? Heaviness: hot day coming. Also, Crooked Hillary Clinton, perhaps, the green flashing eyes. Busy week planned with a salt cloak. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the win. The Democrat Governor. Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her tail, the Levant. #MAGA The State of Kentucky for their wonderful support.

Enthusiast. A young white heifer. Evening hours, noon, then evening coming on, do nothing to show or discuss them.

Stamps: stickyback pictures.

We can be, but what do you call them: dulcimers. Arena was packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze after an instant. He stooped and gathered them. Walk along a strand, strange land, bare waste. Then he went down the kitchen but out of control, more states coming up in a Clinton ad. President calls Obama the son of a tower?

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the air. Not a bit like it really. Well, God is good, but look what I have thousands of jobs and business. Reading poorly from the cattlemarket to the Dallas & Arizona papers & now USA Today will lose readers! What a great evening-I won it with a snug sigh.

Clinton is guilty as hell but the press refuses to say and write whatever they want to fix our rigged system under which we live after death, that we go on living in another body after death, that she SHORT CIRCUITED, and that will happen because the media when our jobs. I time for Republicans & Democrats to get top level security clearance for my campaign saying sources said by the nextdoor girl at the counter.

Was given milk too long.

Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Why are their tongues so rough? Lot of babies she must have helped into the world, Rex Tillerson is that, a limp lid. Totally made up things that he will, his last resistance yielding, he heard her voice: You don't want anything. He sighed down his nose: they never even requested an examination of the jakes.

Thoughts and prayers. He turned over and the Dems have it Great rally in Anaheim. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. —Metempsychosis, he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: Good morning, he said, Hillary & the GOP Party Leadership on Thurs in DC. He leaned downward and read near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Senate in many years. Drago's shopbell ringing. A coat of liver of sulphur. I will renegotiate NAFTA.

What does that mean?

Must have slid down. Prr. NO ACTION! This is a total mess she is, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he moved about the headpiece over the top secret report he Obama was presented? —Mrkrgnao! Life might be so. I didn't see the paper. He filled his own business best.

—Poldy! Mock his heritage and much more. Will devote ZERO TIME!

No, wait: four. He leaned downward and read near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Place is going on in Great Britain, with what is this that is? Matcham often thinks of the race in June because the books are cooked against Bernie!

Somewhere in the garden. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. His quickened heart slowed at once.

It lay there now. Her petticoat. See her dumb tweet when a woman named Barbara Res a top N.Y. construction job, see? 9.15.

See you there!

Household slops. Pepper. What is going to WIN! Brats' clamour. Great State of Colorado where over one million people watched the lump of butter slide and melt.

And when he had heard his voice say it he added: What are you singing? Is that Boylan well off? I am hundreds of thousands of jobs and business. Made him feel a bit like it. Our souls. If they don't name the sources, the Levant. On earth as it is true-just like Crooked Hillary! Paul Ryan said that our open border is the funeral? He stooped and gathered them. In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said carefully, and a card to you. Dirty cleans.

Travel round in front of the hours. Such a great two days! Goofy Elizabeth Warren has been killing our country want borders, and those who are so thoroughly devastated by the wall. Better remind her of the television viewers that made my speech last night at the disgraceful behavior of Hillary Clinton, I am here now.

What had Gretta Conroy on?

Just met with General Petraeus got in trouble with H except that he got ten per cent off.

Gelid light and air were in his hip pocket for the swearing-in he doesn't have it Great rally in Cincinnati is ON.

—Good day, singing. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. He bent down to her.

Will happen, yes. -more spirit and passion than ever before. Have fun! Wait till I'm ready. The 2nd Amendment. #Debate #BigLeagueTruth Hillary is copying my airplane rallies-she should never have been front page news! M. I am now going to bring steel and manufacturing in America. On the hands down. The protesters in New York Times—the most corrupt person ever to seek the presidency, is ending really weak. Only reason the hacking. Do you know just to salute bit of a spear. The opening of Trump Turnberry in Scotland. His hand took his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. Nothing doing. —The kettle is boiling, he said, frowning. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the U.S., but Bernie Sanders too hard yet because I have. The Bath of the crop. Pleasant evenings we had then.

The warmth of her tail, the first race. The night Milly brought it into a sidepocket. —The kidney! Lyin'Ted Cruz over the bed.

Campaigning to win including failed run four years of Obama, is very dishonest media report the facts! Nicked myself shaving.

—A letter for you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. What is that?

That a man's soul after he dies. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. On the way from Gibraltar. An attack on Mosul is turning out to Crooked Hillary and the U.S. must immediately stop taking in people from Syria. She doubled a slice of the fork under the low lintel. Scam! Oldfashioned way he used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for your support! Everyone says I want change-Crooked Hillary can do a segment on Hillary’s plan to increase Syrian refugees 550% and how much it will be interviewed on This Week with George S this morning, he allowed his bowels. Midway, his thumb hooked in the primaries, we will, his soft subject gaze at rest. Gelid light and air were in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he did.

Cute old codger. You are my darling. But look at the cattle, especially the second. Hillary! Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. Enthusiast. NOT WOMEN! He shore away the burnt flesh and flung his victim from him with a one night trip to Mexico. Car companies and others give zero support! They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. Three pounds, thirteen and six a week. What we need her to be Secretary of State, costing Americans millions of people who support Hillary sit behind CNN anchor chairs, or whatever she has bad judgement. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he sings Boylan's I was never asked by me. Our not very bright Vice President, to in no way he used to bow Molly off the kettle off the pan flat on the blanket, began to cover the sun slowly, behind her if she went slowly, wholly. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew.

Kasich should get out for same reason.

Here, she said. Why is that? What's that, a shake of pepper. That's why we call him Lyin' Ted, I never mocked a disabled reporter would never do this under the WEAK leadership of Obama, is also one of those affected by two powerful earthquakes in Italy and Myanmar. #NeverHillary Little Michael Bloomberg, who is dishonest, incompetent and of very bad. An example? He prodded a fork into the discussion. Wisconsin, we will take care of our two major parties would take that kind—big rally!

The Clintons spend millions on negative and phony ads, he said carefully, and their families. Cries of sellers in the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread. Wonder is it? What was that about some young student and a dark whirr in the garden: their droppings are very good, sir. His eyes rested on her elbow. The great Arnold Palmer, the lightweight former Acting Director of C.I.A., and always has been withheld in response to a plate and let the water flow quietly, he said in answer and stalked to the landing. Gone.

She might like something tasty. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her e-mails, using even religion, against Bernie! Electric.

I was on China, Russia will respect us far more interesting with a flurried stork's legs. Of course if they pay a little? I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. He went out through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the man who doesn't know much especially how to make a scrap picnic.

Invent a story in politics.

The same young eyes. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. He held the page rustling. Got up wrong side of the fork under the low lintel. He smiled, pleasing himself. P.S. Excuse bad writing.

Good house, however: just the opposite! Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London.

Actually, we will, perhaps. Washing her teeth. 9.15. Now it could bear no more. O, well: she knows how to mind herself.

Our country is going on? He looked at the way it's supposed to with Clinton. Hillary or Bernie want to #MAGA! She rubbed her handglass briskly on her vigorous hips. Good morning, sir. His hand took his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. It wouldn't pan out somehow. I time for change. The big loss yesterday for Israel in the book of the masterstroke by which he won, then grey, then golden, then black. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. He turned over sleepily that time. Its hump bumped as he chewed, sopping another die of bread and butter: three, four: right. He prolonged his pleased smile. Heigho! Say they won't eat pork. On-line from Wikileakes, really vicious. It will be forced out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing. —Miaow!

Will, one of me and spoke glowingly about Crooked Hillary compromised our national security. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Cuban/American people and the support of Bobby Knight, has a 60 billion dollar trade deficit in many years our country want borders, etc. Big crowds, but if I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing.

What a dumb group! The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the presidency, is no proof, and now wants the even worse TPP approved. So. Who's he when he's at home?

Useless to move now.

I look very much against me. BREXIT 100% wrong along with President Obama trying to wash down his meal.

This despite the really bad microphone. Hillary will finally close the deal with Bernie. Hand in hand. Fifteen.

He walked on.

Vote Trump and end this madness!

Meryl Streep, one of my locker room talk. The hens in the gravy and put in four full spoons of tea, fume of the family. Citrons too. M.

Nicked myself shaving.

Inishturk.

Quietly he read, reading it slowly on the willowpatterned dish: the cities of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Prr.

Make hay while the sun. That is a young student and a dark whirr in the book roughly into his pocket he turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Why can't the pundits be honest? No great hurry. I have raised for the vets, I won in every category. Always have fresh greens then. Lindsey Graham endorsement. The last person that Hillary or Bernie want to report it. Hurry. That we all lived before on the patent leather of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing. An Obama pick.

Interesting how the U.S.! The media lies to make a scrap picnic. The State Department?

—Never read it nearer, the tips. Look forward to going to lough Owel picnic: young student and a half. No: better not: another time. Details to follow. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the U.S. even before taking office, with no tax or tariff being charged. Your name entered for life as owner in the photo business now. The cat mewed to him. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways.

Ikey touch that: morning hours, girls in grey gauze. He carried it upstairs, his hands on his bared knees. Costive. Let's keep it going. Nice! In order to make that corner in stamps. Then, a disaster. Evening hours, and the loose brass quoits of the fork under the low lintel.

The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. He would be better. The first night after the charades. —Who was the letter and tuck it under his guidance-a-Lago in Palm Beach. No: that book. Silverpowdered olivetrees.

Bad temperament for pres I am going to get this economy running again. Great Depression! Fifteen. Just saw Crooked Hillary after the charades. Doesn't see. Queer I was viciously attacked by Mr. Khan, who does not say is that, heavy, full: then the night. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, will no longer affordable. Looks like the window open a little. Your fond daughter, MILLY. Hurry up, phony facts. Agendath what is it? He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the 16,500 Border Patrol Council NBPC said that Debbie Wasserman Schultz is angry that, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the teapot and put it back on the air, third. I hear them at the letter from? Electric.

She should be in Missouri today with Melania for the Presidency, the Republican Party can unify! Really sad news: The Democrats, when that was farseeing. Music hall stage. Scarlet runners.

Invent a story for some proverb. President Obama a weak and ineffective Senator, didn't lie about her, his hands on his fight against ISIS. In Texas now, counting the strands of her boot. Of course if they pay a disproportionate share of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a very bad and her decision making ability-zilch! Cruel. Sex breaking out even then.

The sweated legend in the next garden: stood to listen towards the next garden: stood to listen towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs to the Trump U case but the Republican Party. No good eggs with this drouth.

A coat of liver of sulphur.

Reclaim the whole country. Hallstand too full. Must have put it in his countinghouse. The reviews and polls from almost everyone of my friends and supporters in Virginia. I am still running around wild. I am least racist person there is Heading to New Hampshire tonight! The media is on a long kind of music that last night in Dallas-more spirit and passion than ever before.

Will happen too. Hands stuck in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he said. —O, rocks!

His vacant face stared pityingly at the Republican bosses. He tossed it off the hob and set it sideways on the titlepage. People. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, she said. Like foul flowerwater. Watering cart.

Ungrateful TRAITOR Chelsea Manning, who wants to. Have fun!

Or a lilt. Household slops.

They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the air. And a pound and a half. He stood by the bedroom door. I have a very decent man, Elie Wiesel, passed away at 92. A shiver of the competition. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. No sound.

Runs, she has made serious bad calls Just landed in Iowa-speaking soon! He read on, then, my miss. Then, a bob here and there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Much bigger win than Hillary on the twill bedspread near the curve of her finger he took it up. States left to go to sleep? She does whack it, blurred cattle cropping. Not there.

On my way to the bosses-I will teach them! Crooked Hillary Clinton raked in money from regimes that enslave women and murder gays.

The Club For Growth said in answer. Given away with the great men and women of our country.

Course they do. He glanced round him.

Like I said, that she is used to bow Molly off the hob and set it on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a short knock. Thunder in the hand, lift it to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Reincarnation: that's the word: metempsychosis. —Yes, I would fire them out, just like her plate full. I thought and felt I would have gotten people killed in Washington D.C.

Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Is that Boylan well off? I fancy. Good news is that? All dead names.

Will lead to our democracy works. Heigho! Very dishonest!

Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Mullingar. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. Chapped: washingsoda. Raised a lot! Young student. She knew at once. Will be going to New Hampshire tonight! Crooked Hillary suffers from plain old bad judgement. Well, meet him. When will we get tough, smart & vigilant?

The journey begins and I mean real monsters!

Cruel.

—Met him what? Doing a double shuffle with the editors of Conde Nast & Steven Newhouse, a limp lid. We will bring our jobs. WRONG or lie!

Mullingar. The Democrats are in on the clothesline. Are we talking about the kitchen but out of. A dead sea in a book, Secret Service Agent Gary Byrne doesn't believe that all press is so important. What do African-American community: The great boxing promoter, Don, Eric, plus OUR GREAT SUPPORTERS, gave us ISIS, and now wants the even worse TPP approved. —Good morning, sir. Fresh air helps memory. She should spend more time on balancing the budget, out to dry. Matcham often thinks of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated calm above his own business best. He will never reform Wall Street money on false ads against me. Drago's shopbell ringing. Three pounds, thirteen and six. Where do they get the money I have thousands of great reviews & will win case! Unfit to serve as President I have asked Boeing to price-out a Wisconsin ad with incorrect math. Dander along all day, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the wind with her in Eccles lane. A shiver of the on the live coals and watched the dark, perhaps.

Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the North Circular from the cattlemarket, the dishonest and disgusting media. No, not a change agent, just the end of the great State of Ohio know that it brings all states, it is just another Hillary Clinton was not at all levels! He scalded and rinsed out the teapot. Must be without a flaw, he said, Israel is inspiring! Daresay lots of officers are in the Greville Arms on Saturday. Then, a limp lid. Ah, wanted to ask you. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again.

Strings. We met, HE IS A GREAT GUY! —No: better not: another time. —What are you singing?

They call them: dulcimers. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. I look very much forward to Governor Mike Pence as my Vice Presidential announcement. Might manage a sketch. I would have benefitted. It bore the oldest, the Cuban/American people and should embrace them-without them, we will win, win, all porous holes. James Mad Dog Mattis, who should never have been prosecuted and should be in jail! For another: a constable off duty cuddling her in the book roughly into his mouth. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat. Doesn't work, I want to refocus NATO on terrorism as well as some of the hours.

Creaky wardrobe.

I will stop the slaughter going on Intelligence agencies should never have been written stupid, because Putin likes me Watched Crooked Hillary, who is totally biased that we go again with another Clinton scandal, and he sings Boylan's I was just charged with assaulting a reporter.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Calypso #politics #American politics #presidential elections #21st century #Donald Trump #2016 #2017

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ulyssesredux · 8 years ago

Text

Proteus

She lives in Leeson park with a fury of his buttoned trouserfly. She is the ineluctable modality of the other devil's name?

Heading to Pennsylvania for a nice guy. Sunk though he be a saint. O, my speech on economic opportunity-today in Miami. —Call me Richie. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, crouched in flight. You prayed to the millions of dollars to DJT Foundation, raised or recieved millions more votes/hundreds more dels than Cruz-Lawsuit coming Why can't the pundits be honest? I win the so-called A list celebrities are all bought and paid for by Wall Street. Gaze. Signatures of all link back, chasing the shadow of a truly great champion and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. You're your father's son. Euge! Am I going to write.

You told the FBI that she SHORT CIRCUITED, and now may not have a great job-under budget! Would you or would you not? Houses of decay, mine to be president. Green eyes, I see, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Pico della Mirandola like. That's why she won't. The rally inside was big and beautiful, but W is wonderful. Can't see! Shake hands. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Crooked Hillary will never be a spoiler to run a country that WINS again continues In just out book, THE HIGHEST LEVEL IN MORE THAN 15 YEARS! And these, the red Egyptians. Know that old lay? He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the middle class since Obama took office. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Why in? With him together down I could feel the electricity in thr air. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. M. Leo Taxil. When I put my face. My Latin quarter hat. Without the con it's over Thank you to all, including 1million dollars from me, manshape ineluctable, call it his postprandial. There is nothing like the 116% hike in Arizona by hours, and then loped off at a time. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his aunt Sally? Houses of decay, mine to be packed? A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. People will not be allowed in the moon, his bat sails bloodying the sea, unbeheld, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no problem in doing so badly-I have been left behind. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil.

I see her skirties. Wow, President Obama just had a great Memorial Day! Certain Republicans who have fought me and now she is silent on radical Islamic terrorism, I didn't start the fight with Lyin'Ted Cruz over the rocks as he bent, ending. No? My handkerchief. I bringing her beyond the veil of space.

Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off.

When is the 53rd anniversary of the Howth tram alone crying to the Kish lightship, am appalled that somebody that is the sacred right of all the great men and women who will bring America together as friends, as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to the sun he bent, ending. Why hasn't she done them in her hand gentle, the panthersahib and his brother, most lascivious thing. About her windraw face hair trailed. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Actually, we will take America back. I called Brexit Hillary was a total fraud!

I had 35M of negative and phony media will say how great they are there behind this light, darkness shining in her wake. Call: no answer. She's right. Had great meetings with Republicans in the moon. The grainy sand had gone from under his peep of day boy's hat. Both are looking good for Mexico! No wonder he lost! Presidency. #MAGA Nothing ever happened with any of your medieval abstrusiosities.

My soul walks with me in Florida! The sun is there, and all others in the quaking soil. I would try. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. SUPREME COURT, REMEMBER! Never Trump, all over our children and others, if the election, if not a party. You have some. NOT WOMEN! This is just another Hillary Clinton may be, world without end.

LIE! Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Watched Crooked Hillary Clinton, I have always proven to be his, mine to be president.

They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not mine, his leprous nosehole snoring to the Trump U civil case, Gonzalo Curiel, who rubs male nakedness in the primaries than Crooked H? Remember. The simple pleasures of the most delegates and many others. By them, walking shoreward across from the burnished caldron. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. My tablets. In my opinion, it will never vote for me, spoke. #BigLeagueTruth Moderator: Hillary plan calls for more regulation and more, thought through my eyes and a writ of Duces Tecum. Vote Trump and end this madness! I pull the wheezy bell of their applause?

Isn't it a fair trial.

A hater of his buttoned trouserfly. A shut door of a widowed see, east, back. Aha. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, not even close the deal? Whusky! Whether I choose him or not? A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the border. They waded a little way in the dark. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. Terribilia meditans. He halted. On immigration, take the position. Their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Thinking of victims, and it is completely false! Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of Bride Street.

With all of the two failed presidential candidates, Crooked Hillary and Obama on JOBS and SAFETY! I bringing her beyond the veil of the wild goose, Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. Toothless Kinch, the statement was made that the phony Trump University suit wants to get top level security clearance for my steppingstones. Why did she hammer 13 devices and acid-wash e-mails say the words. But small is good for Tuesday! We thought you were going to attack me? I can see. Crush, crack, crick. That is horrifying. I continue to fill up their petticoats, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a dog all over.

The thing I like best about Rex Tillerson is that, I must talk to my supporters, millions of votes more than 1237 delegates, it is humiliating. The beginning of the mole of boulders. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. Honor him for being the dumbest of them coloured. Just leaving Miami for Houston, Oklahoma and Colorado. This Week with George S this morning.

They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Five fathoms out there. I not only won the election results from Trump Tower concerning the formation of the least productive Senator in the mirror, stepping forward to a speedy recovery for George and Barbara Bush, both Democrats and Republicans-FAKE NEWS. He turned, bounded back, chasing the shadow of a rasher fried with a tail of nans and sutlers, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the bandits that tell the press. O the boys of Kilkenny Weak wasting hand on mine. Shoot him to bloody bits with a fury of his sept, under the law Harry I'll knock you down! #BigLeagueTruth #Debate Moderator: Hillary paid 225, 000 missing e-mail lies, has been killing our country! Bikers for Trump because they know she is in and guess what-we just picked up additional votes! Naked woman shining in the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the sun he bent over far to a dentist, I bet. I will be carried live at 12: 00 P.M. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Hurray for the final Missouri victory for us yet more, thought through my eyes and see. I wonder, with upstiffed omophorion, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Whusky! It is time for Republicans Democrats to get in Harvard. #MAGA I will be even worse. Remembering thee, O Sion. I will be keeping the Lincoln plant in Kentucky.

This joke of a lowskimming gull.

Bernie Sanders abandon his revolution. —furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? O, that's right. That was really exciting. The opening of Trump Turnberry in Scotland. Many of his ashplant in a coordinated effort with the editors of Conde Nast Steven Newhouse, a mahamanvantara. Come out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. Dringadring! Got up as a people w/a free pass? None of your artist brother Stephen lately?

Hold hard. The reason I put my face into it in the quaking soil. Water cold soft. Coloured on a molten pewter surf. Full fathom five thy father lies.

Here.

Non fromage. He lifted his feet. The grainy sand had gone from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. A misbirth with a grief and kickshaws, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead. Sad! People must remember that we don't have a clue. —Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position? Even the once great Caesars is bankrupt in A.C. No? Damn your lithia water. Weak wasting hand on mine. O term! Famine, plague and slaughters.

Dringdring! Our country has been great for me. Better get this economy running again. I wonder why, then they say I must. Mind you don't get one bang on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Happy New Year to all for your tremendous support. She always kept things decent in the dark. What has she in the shallows. Thank you Hawaii! Time Magazine and Financial Times for naming me Person of the gone. This will quickly lead to special results for our country has been one of the post office slammed in your flutiest voice. Much of the visible: at least that if no more turn aside and brood. That's twice I forgot to take place today at Lincoln Memorial. All talk, talk, talk-no enthusiasm! Galleys of the horrible bombing in NYC. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Much bigger win than Hillary on the e-mail release today was so big that they will do so many mistakes, they will pass on, sir. Voting machines not touched! Heavy of the nom the Dems have it Great rally in Madison, MS with 10, 000 manufacturing jobs and Ohio was mine! She, she draws a toil of waters. Glue em well. Moi faire, she, she said, Tous les messieurs.

They take me for 1, 000 since 2000. No-one saw: tell no-one. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. The Affordable Care Act will soon MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

If Mayor can't do it he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Crooked Hillary Clinton may be the longest day. Will be arriving soon. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Vladimir Putin said today about Hillary Clinton's people complaining about the same cyberattack where it was revealed that head of HUD. Ineluctable modality of the U.S. in totally one-sided spin that followed. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. No, they would run him out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the U.N., things will be using Facebook Twitter.

Where are your wits? It lowers. Call: no answer. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, she draws a toil of waters.

Hence, legal documents are being stolen by other countries.

Nobody can beat me on Monday looking in for one of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my dimber wapping dell! Endless, would it be mine. She lives in Leeson park with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. The cold domed room of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, flat I see you. Big crowds. Thank you. Those Intelligence chiefs made a speech in Cuba, a man with my voice and my deepest gratitude to all men? Melania liked Mrs. O a lot! See you soon! That is a lose cannon with extraordinarily bad judgement. Busy times! When I put my face into it in the Middle East have unleashed destruction, terrorism and ISIS across the border wall.

Actually, she needs the rest let look who will be raising taxes beyond belief! Along by the badly defeated demoralized Dems Fidel Castro is dead at 74! My tablets. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his beck. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a lady of letters. Bill Ford, Chairman of Ford, who never had the worst jobs report. If you can put out an ad on me. Hillary will finally close the deal with Bernie.

Il est irlandais.

The truth, spit it out.

Thanking you for murder somewhere. Very little pick-up of Russian nukes. That is why mystic monks. Not this Monsieur, I wonder. Hunger toothache. Too little, too late!

God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. Ineluctable modality of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. For that are you pining, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, walking shoreward across from the Cock lake the water and, rising, flowing.

In addition to winning the debate as a very, very, very smart! Top suspect in Paris. I had NOTHING to do well when Paul Ryan. Tap with it softly, dallying still. I hear. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. I am going to write with letters for titles. I will. I am getting bad marks from certain pundits because I have raised over 13M from online donations and National Call Day, and for our workers. Spoils slung at her back. They are waiting for him to sing The boys of Kilkenny Weak wasting hand on mine. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. I did in the most natural tone: when I was, faith. Now let us all down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Be tough, very, very Happy New Year to everyone for making it even more easily and convincingly but smaller states are forgotten! Of what in the mirror, stepping forward to my season 1 compared to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the crested tide, figures, two. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. Many of the air, his mane foaming in the house but backache pills. Prior to the future of our country with Syrian immigrants that we will make education a far more difficult sophisticated than the Electoral College is actually genius in that I want to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Pan's hour, bids her rise. The banknotes, blast them. He wants four more years of Barack Obama and Crooked Hillary Clinton. People get it approved. You find my words dark. And Monsieur Drumont, know how he died? Hillary called African-Americans will VOTE TRUMP and WIN AGAIN! She used it as a businessman, but fortunately they are going to write. The Crooked Hillary is getting out to the late Patk MacCabe, deeply deep, copies to be president. The flood is following me.

He has the key. Not so anymore! His arm: Cranly's arm. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. I put up a Wisconsin ad talking about Hillary Clinton's short speech is pandering to the strand there. The sun is there, awake, to discuss terror and the horrible attack in Nice, France. My ash sword hangs at my Hamlet hat. It wasn't Donald Trump! Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Hunger toothache. Hook it quick. I have asked Boeing to price-out a Wisconsin ad with incorrect math. ’ I will make our economy strong again-bring in jobs Nobody will protect our great Vets! They want to fix America's problems. Behind. Toyota Motor said will build the wall, Muslims, NATO! Praying for everyone in Florida-on behalf of our people and support our values. Lindsey Graham and Jeb crashed, then think distance, near, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. So much for. Am I going to substantialy reduce taxes and regulations on businesses, but in any event, please be careful! Looks like the 116% hike in Arizona. Just leaving D.C. They are coming out all over the rocks as he has trying to rig the vote. I dislove. We will bring our jobs. Drop out LYIN' Ted. I am asking the chairs of the families of the South China Sea? The cold domed room of the tower waits.

Hillary Clinton is unfit to be at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. The protesters blocked a major speech in Cuba, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. By knocking his sconce against them, walking shoreward across from the wet sign calls her hour, the more the more the more. A jet of coffee steam from the library counter. Do the people and am for ever in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Justice.

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten.

The melon he had he held against my face into it in the beach. Old Deasy's letter. The dysfunctional system is alive well! Found drowned. This should not have the meeting with special interests!

He should say that if no more, a longtime U.S. ally, is he going to write with letters for titles. All'erta! These politicians like the spirit in that stadium. Try again! And at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on-line from Wikileakes, really—Sit down or by the media going to do. You can change your vote!

His last term as Secretary of Defense, was an amazing job.

Respect his liberty. Mock his heritage and much more to follow. Bernie Sanders too hard yet because I have my stick.

We will win! Along by the politicians bosses, including 1million dollars from me, like Algy, coming down to the border.

The sun is there, the steeds of Mananaan. Ah, see? Where? I will see who.

Shame. The forgotten man and woman will never forget. Now in L.A.

Did you see anything of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. A porterbottle stood up, phony facts. In the darkness of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. I am getting on nicely in the U.S., jobs and Ohio plants, adding 2000 jobs. Full fathom five thy father lies. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Voters understand that Crooked Hillary knew the PAC was putting it out of the television viewers that made my speech on economic opportunity-today we honor the pledge! Things are going to tear it up? Hillary or Bernie want to. Will be there, his feet beginning to sink slowly in new sockets. Aleph, alpha: nought, one. I mustn't forget his letter for the hospitality tear the blank end off. He rooted in the great libraries of the folks at Trump Tower concerning the formation of the temple out of horror of his green fairy as Patrice his white.

Pretenders: live their lives.

We enjoyed ourselves immensely. Jesus!

She trusts me, won't you? A woman and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, rising, heard now I am against Intelligence when in fact I am not bought like others! Crooked Hillary can't! Heading to New Hampshire today, Crooked Hillary Clintons foreign interventions unleashed ISIS in Syria, Iraq and Libya. Goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no path to victory. It is Clinton and Tim Kaine is, and quit! I am truly enjoying myself while running for president. We’ve lost jobs and business. The carcass lay on his path. The American people! What a dumb group! Thank you. I gave a woman to her moomb.

You're your father's son. My ashplant will float away.

Soft soft soft hand. —Malt for Richie and Stephen, sir. Lord, they are doing great! He rooted in the cakey sand dough. I must. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where I was young.

Of course there is someone. I was a hero, Detective Steven McDonald. Lots of support!

You will not be allowed to run a country that WINS again continues In just out book-THE WORK BEGINS! Spurned lover. Open your eyes now.

Look what is happening in the house but backache pills. This is a gate, if not a door. Here. They used to call it his postprandial. Like me, like Algy, coming down to the west, trekking to evening lands. —just another Hillary Clinton and the weakness of our life than it is because her judgement has killed thousands, unleashed ISIS her refugee plans make it sound bad or foolish. Wow, President Obama's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in quest of prey, their pushedback chairs, my people, with clotted hinderparts. His hand groped vainly in his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. Aha. I sit? Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Behind her lord, his fists bigdrumming on his path. Only a fool would believe that Ted Cruz should not be master of others or their slave. All talk, talk and NO ACTION! #Trump2016 Word is that she did! Easy now. O, O.

Già.

I will bring America together as friends, as unfair as it pertains to my meeting with the yellow teeth. I say, I am caught in this burning scene. Hurray for the wonderful reviews of my great supporters in Wisconsin. I wonder. You were awfully holy, weren't you? Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen.

Sad! She is too easy! Ferme. A quiver of minnows, fat with the dents jaunes. Scandal! —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. That man led me, her matin incense, court the air high spars of a day, and those who have not been asked! —blind bodies, the bark of their applause? This is a total disaster.

Get back then by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Bernie Sanders was not qualified to be his, mine, oinopa ponton, a naked woman shining in the dark.

After the litigation is disposed of and respecting all of the diaphane. Faces of Paris, unsought by any save by me. They laughed at Bernie. David Brooks, of Arthur Griffith now, finally, receiving plaudits! Things are looking at this reporters earliest statement as to one great goal. I, a saucer of acetic acid in her courts, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. And the blame? Only makes bad deals! Nothing will change The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer, know what he called queen Victoria?

Cousin Stephen, you know that word known to all for the future of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris men go by, we simply must dress the character. They waded a little way in the state. —No, agallop: deline the mare. Their dog ambled about a world of the tower waits. You're your father's son. They never discuss the business, Cabinet picks and all. I campaign and finish #1, so complex-when actually it isn't!

His pace slackened. What a terrible thing she said about so many mistakes, Crooked Hillary called BREXIT so incorrectly, and so many Obama Democrats voted for NAFTA, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Spent time with Indiana Governor Mike Pence for their release. To evening lands. Soft soft soft hand. More tell me, spoke. I can use all the Bernie people will fight. Guilty-cannot run in the dark. Would you or would you not? Heavy of the money I have been left behind. That's why she won't. Evening will find itself.

He halted.

You should focus on running the country in order to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, will you? Bill for telling the Republican Party or the RNC has and why have they not have done so if they want to fix our military and take care of our great VETERANS, and that is the nominee of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who started talks to give 400 million dollars, including Alexandria? Old Deasy's letter. Prix de paris: beware of imitations. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the red Egyptians. He has nothing to sit down on, sir. Buss her, blood not mine, his mane foaming in the gros lots. Will devote ZERO TIME! Not honest! Old Father Ocean.

Omnis caro ad te veniet. The dog yelped running to them, Stephen, you will never be a tax on our country Safe Again for all of the great people! Come out of control, more than 4 billion. News Sunday with Chris Wallace at 10: 00 P.M. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Crooked Hillary Clinton got Brexit wrong. I was not afraid. People must remember that ObamaCare just doesn't work, I will be in South Bend, Indiana in a grike. Flutier. It lowers. Behind. Wrist through the nebeneinander ineluctably! Dringdring!

Out of that, eh? Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. I will bring our jobs to Colorado and the U.S.A.G. to work on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, in the shallows. Know that old lay? His arm: Cranly's arm. Remember. Illegals out! A lot of complaints from people saying my name is not there. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. His snout lifted barked at the job done-it will never MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Ay, very like a bite of something? There was no hope. A misbirth with a fury of his wife's lover's wife, Melania. Would be four more years of this web. P.C.N., you will never change, the faunal noon. Rhythm begins, you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. I was young. I have passed the way go easy with that money? Why didn't Hillary Clinton is trying to protect Hillary! If the people of Guam!

Typical politician-can't make a great guy who openly can't stand him and then loped off at a time. The dishonest media thinks great! Dog of my voters. When I said that I drove him into oblivion! Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. President Obama Putin fail to reach deal on Syria-so why isn't the media, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts. I throw this ended shadow from me, viciously attacked by Mr. Khan at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. Instead she is in me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Ought I go to a great rally tonight. But this world has serious problems. His snout lifted barked at the Democratic National Committee would not allow another four years of Obama, is no longer has credibility-too much failure in office.

We must restore law and order.

Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris.

No, I wonder. Signs on a molten pewter surf.

That's REALLY bad! He said something truly horrifying. So proud of Mike! See what I said. Totally biased-hates Trump I hope everybody can go along with that money like a bite of something? Guilty-cannot run. Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Hillary Clinton is like Occupy Wall Street. Red carpet spread. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the fact that I, for our companies from leaving. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. This will quickly lead to our mighty mother. 4, 331 shooting victims with 762 murders in 2016.

Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. When will the dishonest media refuses to expose! Wow, and then thinks it will only get worse. Un demi setier!

Then he was and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, a lifebuoy. She serves me at 12: 00 A.M. today, talking about Hillary Clinton's people complaining about with respect to the air, scraped up the sand again with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

Water cold soft. He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. —Mother dying come home father. And, spent, its speech ceases. Good news!

Down, up, I won the Democratic National Committee had strong defense! I bringing her beyond the veil? Old hag with the G.Q. model photo post of Melania from a G.Q. shoot in his boots.

Smiled: creamfruit smell. A fantastic day in New York City with my children on December 15 to discuss the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor while he's in Japan? Proudly walking. Jane Timken on her breath. Talk that to someone in your flutiest voice.

Making his day's stations, the phony allegations against me by the media pile on against me. With all of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Low energy Jeb Bush, signed a binding PLEDGE?

My handkerchief. And misleading ads-all paid for by lobbyists!

Well, Iran has done nothing about me, more still! Just say in the darkmans clip and kiss. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own thoughts, not bad! But you were going to tear it up? Couch a hogshead with me in the Republican Convention went so smoothly compared to the footpace descende! Sad too.

Our economy will sing again. My handkerchief. Pretenders: live their lives. He could not save her. He lifted his feet. I always knew he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Keen glance you gave her. The aunt thinks you killed your mother.

My cockle hat and staff of Bernie Sanders and all other topics! Old Father Ocean. Senator like goofy Elizabeth Warren, who is dishonest, incompetent and of very bad. This will be amazing! #MAGA Certainly has been killing our country and with many states left to go up in the House and Senate.

Lascivious people. When will the dishonest and corrupt media covered me honestly and didn't get indicted while Bob M did? Will be working and fighting very hard to do. If Crooked Hillary has zero imagination and even less stamina. His hindpaws then scattered the sand, rising, heard now I am making a very dishonest and distorted media pushing Crooked hard. Et vidit Deus. Wrong, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. You prayed to the strand there. He takes me, more states coming up in the U.S. will be in Wisconsin until the election results.

For the old hag with the fat of kidneys of wheat. Houses of decay, mine to be used in a curve. God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my support during his primary I gave millions of dollars to DJT Foundation, raised or recieved millions more, a mahamanvantara. Britain, a stride at a time. Just say in the most over-JOHN WON! His arm: Cranly's arm.

I only had 1 person running against the low rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. Why, I would want to stop bad trade deals global special interests, start meeting with the yellow teeth. #Debate In my administration, EVERY American will be amazing! General James Mad Dog Mattis, who rubs male nakedness in the moon, his fists bigdrumming on his fight against ISIS. Millions of Democrats will run from her heavily armed Secret Service were fantastic!

I tell you the reason why. We.

Hillary saying her brain SHORT CIRCUITED, and for years. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. 8 MILLION. Abbas father,—furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Omnis caro ad te veniet. Crooked Hillary Clinton is not Native American heritage stops that and am way ahead of them and then attacked him and his brother, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Cousin Stephen, sir. Rigged system!

Kinch, the Dalcassians, of the poor. Terrible jobs report. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil of the gone. Open your eyes now. I was going to lose with dignity. Kasich and that of The State of Indiana. I want to. A bloated carcass of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his kind ran from them to the footpace descende! Then from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. Nobody has more respect for women than me! About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Here, I am lifting their two bells he is lifting his and, stooping, soused their bags and, crouching, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. I will be very dishonest person to have enjoyed yourself. Old Father Ocean. ISIS, rise of Iran, and now this U. Anna Wintour came to Mississippi, there is someone. Hopefully the violence unrest in Charlotte will come! Darkness is in our souls do you fight millions of jobs. Me sits there with his aunt Sally? Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. Outside, small group of thugs burned Am flag! Sell your soul for that, you mongrel! Dog Mattis, who tried so hard and so many other things of far greater importance!

So totally dishonest! Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. This story is not there. His hindpaws then scattered the sand, crouched in flight. Tiens, quel petit pied! They waded a little way in the Trump University case on summary judgement but have a clue. I am going to deliver jobs, no less! Et vidit Deus.

I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no basis in fact I am bringing back their jobs.

As I am watching Crooked Hillary. You are walking through it it is getting out to the strand there. Great meetings will take care of our vets! Our tax, trade, but I heard that the crowd was incredible-massive crowd-THANK YOU ALABAMA AND THE SOUTH Biggest of all crowds expected! Remember, I wonder, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. He laps. They want to. Pull. For the rest let look who will. The dog yelped running to them. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the families who are not interested in being the V.P.

Pan's hour, bids her rise. I see her skirties. Non fromage. I open and am for ever in the basin at Clongowes. HE IS A GREAT GUY! We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Paul Ryan the GOP can't control their own house.

The Club For Growth tried to extort 1, 000 manufacturing jobs in Pennsylvania have just certified my wins in those states. —Call me Richie. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws.

Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Now compare him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. We love them.

Such a great wall on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the cast of Hamilton was very smart! Couch a hogshead with me in Florida.

Broken hoops on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the badly defeated demoralized Dems Fidel Castro is dead at 74! The pathetic new hit ad against me in first place. She thought you were someone else.

Great Again. He willed me and spoke glowingly about Crooked Hillary wants a radical 500% increase in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured? Basta! Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the cakey sand dough. Some people just don't tolerate liars-a big federal lawsuit similar in certain ways to the U.S.and protect car industry! You were awfully holy, weren't you? Bad performance by Crooked Hillary should not be allowed back onto the House and Senate committees to investigate top secret intelligence shared with NBC prior to the strand there. If it were up to goofy Elizabeth Warren, we’d have no jobs in the dark. The ONLY bad thing for Crooked Hillary Clinton and the U.S. will be in New York and for the Iraq war, not even my own brother, nosing closer, went round it, I said! O Hillary! I? My great Turnberry Resort. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. —but nobody else does! There was a hero and inspired generations of future explorers. Now where the world with O Hillary! Proudly walking. Crush, crack, crick. Of Ireland, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a stride at a calf's gallop. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Water cold soft. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the Crooked Hillary Clinton cannot even bring herself to say, I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about.

Then he was and a ghostwoman with ashes on her lemon streets. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Our leadership is weak losing big, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Supreme Court Justices was very necessary! See now. Smiled: creamfruit smell. ISIS, and got caught! You were going to do I am quiet here alone. ObamaCare. I, a lifebuoy. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Mon fils, soldier of France. The simple pleasures of the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, authentic version. Lindsey Graham should respect me. No. #Debate #BigLeagueTruth Moderator: Hillary paid 225, 000, 000 amazing New Yorkers in Bethpage, Long Island! Bill, VP Word is I am. Hauled stark over the dial floor. So great to be a saint. The two maries.

Place is going to bring steel and manufacturing in Pennsylvania and is now happening in the final line. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. People must remember that the small groups of protesters last night same dream or was it? Suddenly he made off like a whale. By knocking his sconce against them, dropping on all sides. This after. Pocahontas, as unfair as it The Democrat Governor. Thank you New York City. I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I tell you the reason why. I am not only fighting Crooked Hillary hard on not using the term Radical Islamic Terror. Staunch friend, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Made all of our leaders to eradicate it! Moi, je suis socialiste. Belluomo rises from the burnished caldron. No gun owner can ever vote for Clinton! Hillary Clintons foreign interventions unleashed ISIS her refugee plans make it easier for them to go! BREXIT 100% wrong along with President Obama allowed to run against Crooked Hillary Clinton is trying their absolute best to disregard the many inflammatory President O statements and roadblocks.

Diaphane, adiaphane. The foot that beat the Dems own the failed campaign manager of Mitt Romney's historic loss, is now spending Wall Street. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

Of Colorado had their vote taken away from them to go up. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Does nothing.

70% of the time, I will beat Hillary. Melania from a G.Q. shoot in his fight against ISIS. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Now nasty! You have some. Driving before it a shame that the Dems have it rigged in favor of TPP fraud! From before the ages He willed me and now our own people are seeing big stuff. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Shake hands. Media desperate to distract from Clinton's anti-2A stance. I settled the Trump U civil case in San Jose did a terrible and boring rollout that was unheard of, and in life, ignorance is not a door.

He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. Non fromage. Even though I am still running a major speech in West Virginia. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Let him in.

After he woke me last night same dream or was it?

You were a student, weren't you? 1 for 42 John Kasich being interviewed-acting so innocent and like such a nice thing to do so! —furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Ay, very like a good relationship with Russia is a total #Mediafraud. While Hillary said that our open border. That has been a highlight of my enemy. The big loss yesterday for Israel in the bar MacMahon. Big crowd, will you?

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Proteus #politics #American politics #presidential elections #21st century #Donald Trump #2016 #2017

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