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urskekyagvi · 4 years ago

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GraGoh Week: Silence and Meditation

@gragohweek

Meditation did not come naturally to a skeksis. It could hardly be said that anything at all came naturally to a skeksis. What Thra had not the divine affluence to gift to them, they gave unto themselves through sheer willpower and spite. SkekGra knew he was no different, even now, after everything had changed.

It took time to get used to; and yet a state of normalcy had somehow been achieved through daily ritual and constant company, around the Circle and day by day like clockwork. UrGoh mainly had been responsible for the order of things here now. Habit and ritual were all too common to urru, and through the light blueprints UrGoh had (perhaps unwittingly) laid down, SkekGra was able to build the framework of a schedule.

He had watched UrGoh during these daily practices of his, envying him- though he would not admit it- for the tranquility. Was it some quality of the urru, to always be able to tap into that well of peace whenever needed? To neglect the daily turbulence the simple action of life caused and retreat into themselves?

SkekGra sat and watched, yearning. UrGoh was sitting upon one of the many cushions they had accumulated over time, legs crossed, all four arms held palm open for another practice he had introduced into their lives. He had been at this for awhile now, too many still moments for SkekGra's impatient mind to consider. An hour? Two? It didn't matter to UrGoh. Time passed, but he laid still as if utterly unaffected.

A huff of annoyance escaped his Other. SkekGra's claws reached out, grasping for a hold on UrGoh's robes before he stopped them. Would he dare?- Of course not. He wouldn't disturb UrGoh and disrupt such a sacred ritual. He couldn't. Not when UrGoh looked so...peaceful.

It mattered little. SkekGra did not need his attention; he had found ways to entertain himself while UrGoh disappeared into that inner state. He built puppets, painted sets, or any other number of things just to get his claws moving, just to forget what laid behind that curtain; but curiosity was too much. Each time it burned him until it could burn no more, and then he inevitably found himself drawn to the urru's still form like an unamoth to a Sifan torch, just watching.

Today when he had done this, UrGoh finally took notice.

"...Do...you...want...to...join…?" He asked, eyes still closed.

SkekGra was mildly startled by this, but wouldn’t dare show it. He huffed indignantly and shook out his feathers.

"You?" he finished, "No!...But...Er...What are you doing?"

UrGoh opened his eyes, his back relaxing into the familiar slump SkekGra knew. His smile was peaceful, placid as always even when faced with his Other's impatience.

"...Meditating."

SkekGra cocked his head to the side, this way and that.

"Meditating?" His eyes rolled about as he mentally dissected that topic, and then he rolled them again.

"Bah! Mystic nonsense! Dousan dribble!"

Yet he didn't storm off immediately. He stood there, swaying on the line between leaving or staying. UrGoh saw his indecision and took full advantage.

He patted a cushion beside him.

"Stay...awhile...Try-"

"-It? You want me to sit here, close my eyes, and...what? 'Seek my inner peace'? Good luck with that."

He crossed his arms, though the way he looked at the cushion UrGoh offered betrayed his interest. UrGoh smiled, just the faintest bit. He patted the pillow again.

"Just...try."

"What for?! All you do is sit there and close your eyes. Sounds like napping to me, which you do enough of already, mind you! What's so special about it?"

UrGoh understood what he was really asking, as plainly as if he had actually said it aloud: "Why should I waste my time? Will it even work for me?"

He patted the cushion again, more to clear it of dust than make an invitation; SkekGra was already drawn in hook, line, and sinker. No need to exert himself there.

"Try...it...and...see."

SkekGra's eyes shifted between his other half and the cushion before him, still uncertain. UrGoh smiled and tilted his head to the side, the slightest of goading gestures a mystic could afford. The former Conqueror would not let it pass.

"You know what? Fine! Fine!" He snapped, throwing his arms in the air with all the exasperation he could muster, "I'll play your little mystic games! Why not?"

He plopped down on the cushion with both his legs and arms crossed and closed his eyes. A few seconds passed, and then:

"Am I doing it right? Have I achieved inner peace?"

It was sardonic, but UrGoh could catch the faint notes of hope held therein. He chuckled to himself and shook his head.

“It’s...not...that...-”

“Simple?”

With surprising speed for a Mystic, one of UrGoh’s hands came up and closed about SkekGra’s beak. SkekGra squawked in outrage as best as he could in his position, but when seeing the look upon his Other’s face he promptly quieted himself. UrGoh’s brow wasn’t even furrowed, but he could sense the lightest irritation radiating from him anyways.

“Patience,” UrGoh said, “Patience...is...key.”

SkekGra wanted to roll his eyes again, but knew better than to make any more snarky comments when his mouth was being held shut. He tapped his Other's hand gently with a claw, and UrGoh conceded his grasp.

“Well what do I do, then?”

UrGoh made a light chuffing noise SkekGra had over time learned signaled amusement. He made his way slowly, then resumed the cross-legged sitting position he had been doing before. All four hands gracefully spread their palms, a pair resting together in his lap like a blooming flower, the other pair on his knees.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “...First...you...must...breathe…”

“I do that every minute of every day!”

“...Breathe...deeply...and...calmly...”

SkekGra huffed, but did as well as he could, making his own attempt at replicating UrGoh’s posture. He tried to breathe in and out as UrGoh suggested, but his thoughts still ran rampant. He scrunched his brow, becoming irritated with himself.

"How do I make my mind quiet? How am I supposed to meditate if I can't even focus?! There's too much wonder in this noggin to contain!"

UrGoh let out a soft sigh. "Try...humming."

SkekGra grumbled and closed his eyes again. He hesitated, trying to recall the exact cadence his Other used during his meditative practice…tried to replicate it...a little louder, a rumble building up from his chest, up his throat…

"HhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

UrGoh winced and covered his ears.

"I...said...humming...not...screeching…"

SkekGra huffed and got up, throwing his arms in the air in utter defeat.

"Oh, forget it! Nevermind! Aaggggh!"

To anyone else, this exclamation would have sounded final; UrGoh knew better. In the days that followed, he found SkekGra on the same cushion, trying to replicate the same pose UrGoh often took; occasionally UrGoh gave him a few hints or tips, hidden within riddles as was his way. SkekGra would grumble at him or swat him away, making one exclamation or another about how he didn't need help.

Weeks passed. There were days when SkekGra didn't hit the pillow at all, fearing another failure. Others he stayed even longer than usual, with or without UrGoh, determined to pick up a hint of success. Sometimes he lit incense, sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he spent only a few minutes there, but then as the days dragged on, his time extended.

UrGoh sat beside him now, almost four unum after his first attempt. SkekGra's expression was tranquil, his brow not even the faintest bit furrowed. He did not hum, his breath flowing in and out of him in a deep rhythm. Even his hands had stopped their endless fidgeting and twitching, succumbing to the calm to lay motionless on his knees, palms up.

The Wanderer mused to himself how it seemed that their roles had reversed. Now he was the impatient one, waiting around for his Other to finish meditating so they could work on a new art piece; but he would not interrupt at such a crucial point. He could feel some energy stirring in the air, unlike anything SkekGra had exuded before.

It was familiar to him in some way he could not name. He scratched through his memory, trying to recall the last time he had felt such a presence during the centuries-long course of his life. Suddenly it occurred to him: the Valley had felt this way, carrying the energy and power of the mystic's meditative thought.

He looked towards his Other again with a new respect. No other non-urru had ever gotten this close to that mythical aura. If SkekGra succeeded, he would be the first. Pride seeped into his being. He sat a little taller, inhaling a particularly long draw of pipeweed to mark the occasion.

Some of the pungent smoke floated towards SkekGra's face. Usually, UrGoh's other would have coughed and made some sort of loud exclamation, but now he remained utterly silent. That was truly almost unsettling; and yet UrGoh still did not hamper SkekGra's progress. He could feel the energies shifting again, becoming more focused and powerful all around the Circle.

It fixated upon SkekGra, and then- only then- did his brow furrow. The energy condensed, tightening in a spiral until snapping and dispersing once again. SkekGra opened his eyes, blinking as if awakening from a trance. When he turned to UrGoh again, half-dazed, mouth open as if to ask a question or utter a curse, it was UrGoh who interrupted in a quick burst:

"SkekGra! Your face!"

The Heretic blinked slowly for a few heartbeats longer. Then it seemed to have finally registered in his head what exactly UrGoh had said, and his usual cantankerous expression returned. He reached up to pat his face, seeming almost offended by his Other's remark.

"What? What about my face? It's wonderful, as usual?"

UrGoh shook his head, too awestruck to even come up with something clever to say back. One of his hands reached for a mirror absent-mindedly, and he showed SkekGra what he had seen. SkekGra squinted at it, and when he saw what UrGoh saw, he let out a squawk of delight.

"UrGoh! Look! A spiral!"

He sprung up and grabbed the mirror just to examine the little shape again; indeed, a small thought spiral had been engraved into his skin, right over his jaw. He ran a claw over it gingerly, as if in disbelief.

UrGoh couldn't blame him if some doubt lingered; he could hardly believe it himself- and yet it had happened. SkekGra the Heretic, formerly the Conqueror, who killed and hurt and maimed, writing his name across the lands in fire and blood, had formed a thought spiral. He gazed into the mirror for a long moment, unable to look away.

When he finally pulled his eyes away again, he was grinning. It was broad and bold, displaying each and every sharp tooth he had.

"I did it! I did it, UrGoh!"

He laughed and dropped the mirror, then rushed towards UrGoh to wrap him in a hug. If there had been no severe difference in their respective weights, SkekGra would have lifted him and spun him all about; but that was not a possibility for them (Thank Thra, UrGoh could not stand dizziness).

After he had released UrGoh he picked up the mirror again just to admire the thought printed upon his face.

"What does it mean? Can you read it?"

It was a sad fact that he couldn't. UrZah had been the one to construe the signs and spirals, and UrGoh's part had been to roam, never bothering himself with engagement in what seemed another's territory; a shame now, for he very much would have liked to know what that sigil upon his face meant. He shook his head.

"No...I...Cannot…"

SkekGra only faltered a little; but that dim disappointment was quick to fade with a wave of his hand.

"Well who cares? It's there! There will be many more to come! We should celebrate! The urdrupes are ripe for harvesting, and I think we still have some nectarwine. Come!"

He ran off to another corner of their little world, rambling and making his happiest noises as he scrambled to make the preparations; UrGoh would help him in a moment, in his own way. But for now he savored the moment and the accomplishment, more so for the changes it had wrought in the both of them, always bringing them one step closer to unity.

He smiled at the cushions, already making mental notes for their next meditation session: maybe he could convince his Other to use Wellspring incense next time.

#gragoh week 2021 #skekgra and urgoh #skekgra the heretic #urgoh the wanderer #fanfic #took me awhile to write this!

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nadiaportia · 4 years ago

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Life Lessons - A Past Tale

Summary: On a day meant for relaxation, a young magician-in-training finds herself in the middle of an explosive confrontation.

Starring the Rubalacaba family; Ximena, Heloisa, Cibela, Esmé and Marisol

Word count: ~4.6k

Content warning for violence (nothing too graphic) and a messed up family dynamic.

It was a warm midsummer’s day, the sun stood high in the sky and my lessons had been finished an hour earlier. Mistress Julia had congratulated me on my good work and progress and allowed to me go enjoy myself outside for the rest of the day while she was going to the docks. Her wife had been travelling to Karnassos to see her family and they haven’t seen each other for several weeks.

As it was a habit, I decided to go the aviary to relax after my lessons. The grounds were vast, in my own opinion a little too vast, so there were always places to hide but the aviary had something about it - despite the fact that I was barely on my own there. It was also my sister’s Heloisa’s prefered location; she could spend hours in there taking care and marvelling at its residents. When we were both younger, she would teach the goldfinches to sing along to her whistling and proudly showed them to the servants and our father. The aviary was her dominion, especially since our older sister couldn’t be less interested in birds and spent the time she was on the grounds training or studying.

The aviary was a large cage made of gilded steel with vegetation and a small river flowing through it, in size bigger than the main hall in the manor, where its residents had free reign to live in. Upon entering, I heard giggling and following the path deeper into the small forest, I saw my older sister. She sat on the ground, stroking a golden pheasant on her lap while a hummingbird flew about her face. It was currently holding one of her black curls in its beak as if to pull her up from her comfortable position.

“No, please, Xquic!”, she laughed and stopped stroking the pheasant to gently let the hummingbird sit on her index finger.

“Dorian deserves his caresses too, you know I don’t play favorites.”

She had given every single bird in the aviary a name and treated each of them like individuals. I liked all of them just fine enough but to Heloisa they were as much as her friends like the noble girls she went to parties with in secret. When she saw me, a grin spread across her face.

“Welcome to freedom! I've been here for two hours now, Livia decided to give it a rest because even she didn't have the spirits to talk for too long about this guy's manifest. I mean, reading about revolting merchants can only be so interesting, especially when you already know they were beaten after the armies of Karnassos and Bizatena came to the Zaan's aid!”

She sighed dramatically and proceeded to make kissing noises at Xquic. I sat next to my sister. The grass was warm and soft, and Dorian raised his head to look at me. I reached out and caressed the top of his crown.

“Well, I spent three hours trying to make portals large enough for a human to fit through, but it takes a lot of concentration. When Julia does it, it looks so easy.”

“Your magic stuff is vastly more interesting than politicking and learning how to lie.”

“I don't get your complaints - Tía Esmé has you on track to leave the junior court meetings and go full game. Cibela attended her first meeting last year.”

My sister's smile turned into a sneer. Even though we all enjoyed the luxury of fundamental education - history, philosophy, various languages such as Bizanti, Zadithian and Prakran, literature, art, music, the sciences and common etiquette proper for a noble of Cartagenth - each of us was also given tutelage in a special field in order to prepare us for our future at the Zaan's court.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”, she said and shrugged, “and still, making portals, lifting objects and talking with spirits is pretty wicked and exciting.” I sighed. It didn't matter if she was the best junior politician and won several play-debates against seasoned courtiers during dinners, she would always want the talents others possessed. But I wasn't in the spirits to argue with her, not today.

“Magic is a lot more complicated than you think, and from what Tía Esme says it might take even years before I am as good as Julia - and I don't wanna be just good enough to become a tutor.”

“By the mother, imagine that! No, you will be the greatest magician of all times, they will build statues for and tell stories of you, not only here but everywhere! Crystalleans in the North, bandits in the South, Firenti in the East and Calpacians all over will know the name Ximena de Rubalcaba!”

I laughed and shook my head.

“If you say so, it will be true one day.”

“Of course it will.” Heloisa reassured me and gently shooed her avian companions away from us. “I talked to Tía Esmé a couple of days ago, according to her it could very well be that I were to start my travels very soon. If you asked me nicely and with a bow on top, I could consider namedropping you to the rulers of far away and powerful countries…”

“How's that going to go down? 'Oh, Queen of Prakra, say, if you happen to be looking for a magician, I might just know the right person - my fifteen year old sister!'”

“No, of course not, you idiot. One of the essences of politics is: less is often more.”

“Ah, yes, less was definitely more on the party thrown by the son of the Karnasso ambassador. Or when Shayera, Filomena and you went to a 'health resort'. Or-”

“Okay, I get it. Phew, it's not my fault you are boring and never want to join in on the fun.”

“Whatever. At least I won't die of boredom in cabinet rooms or in court sessions when I'm a grown-up.”

Heloisa scoffed loudly and stood up. “Fine! And you'll never be a capable magician, in the meantime I'll be dining with the influential sovereigns of the world. Who knows, maybe I'll become the next Zaan before you manage to cast a portal!”

I looked lazily at her, how she stood over me, her hands on her hips, the sun behind her head and casting dark curly hair into a warm light.

“Hm.” I closed my eyes and smiled as I heard her walk off and out of the aviary, fuming while murmering curses under her breath.

And yet she was also my best friend even though we were nothing alike. The nightly carousing my sister loved so much was nothing I could ever be interested in, apart from the fact that she was four years older and thus allowed to do it, but rule-breaking and rebellion without a cause in general never had the same appeal to me. It wasn't as if I hated being in company but it wasn't something I craved like a moth needed the lantern's light, and I certainly didn't have the same social charisma as her, with a face known and beloved by all and the ability to make everyone feel special in her company. I liked being on my own, listening to my own thoughts or doing things on my own such as reading, practicing on Cibela's piano whenever she wasn't on the estate (her visits were becoming rarer anyway), stealing into the kitchen to watch the servants prepare our food (the first time I had done that, they thought Madre had send me to make sure they did a good job), making sketches of the paintings in the galleries and many other things lonely noble children seemed to do, as I had been told by my cousin Agustín. The only son of Tía Esmé was a diplomat on track to becoming an ambassador and during his visits, he would stay on the family estate. Despite him and Cibela being the closest in age, they were like cats and dogs to each other, with him having thrown around the words ��cruel” and “heartless” while Cibela had complained to Madre about him being a pathetic excuse of a politician and even a traitor to Cartagenth. So he spent most of his visits with Heloisa and me, even though he always told me I was his favorite - and judging by the sharp remarks he made about Heloisa, even to her own face, there was no doubt it was true. It was a nice feeling to be someone’s preferred company even though I felt as if favoritism seemed to be a family tradition, and not a good one.

I sighed, opened my eyes again and was immediately almost blinded by the sun. The goldfinches were singing somewhere in the trees and something was chirping softly in the scrubs. A thought crept into my mind and I grinned. I sat up, leaned towards the bush and let out a whistle. It rustled and a black manakin made its way to me.

“Hello, you cutie.” I said, and wiggled my finger at it. “Wanna help me in an experiment?”

I hoped this would work. We would throw marbles throw the portals to see whether they fulfilled their purpose but never tried it with a living organism, so if it didn't work…

The manakin tilted his head and looked at me. I sighed.

“Right, you don't understand human speech.” I reached out and softly stroked his chest. “But you're not flying away, so I'll take that as a yes.” He nibbled at my finger. “I'll collect some worms for you, I don't have a problem with digging in the ground unlike someone else.”

A chirp, whether he actually understood a word was another matter.

I closed my eyes and let out a breath. I tuned out the noises all around me and concentrated on the manakin, where it was and on creating a gateway to bring it to another location - not very far, just a few meters away from me. A noise that wasn't quite a noise caught my attention and upon opening my eyes, I saw the bird looking curiously at a small doorway, big enough for him to comfortably fit through, and another one near a tree trunk.

“That's for you. Please…?”

The manakin looked at me as if he himself was unsure of this.

“Go ahead, nothing will happen.” I said with hopefully enough conviction in my voice.

It seemed to have hit the mark because he jumped through it - and reappeared a few meters away from me.

“Yes!”, I screamed and pumped a fist in the air and startling the manakin who jumped about a foot in the air.

Time flew by as I made portals, some bigger than others, for my new friend to walk or fly through, and he strangely seemed to find as much joy as this as me.

I was in the middle of making another one when I heard footsteps. To my surprise, it was Heloisa, with her face dark like a beetroot and her mouth twisted into a snarl.

“What happened?” I asked worried, hurrying over to her but instead of an answer she pushed me away. Her eyes were rimmed red and there was a glint of fire in copper brown that made me take a step back.

“What do you think you're going to do with this?”

“Get out of my way!”, was the snappy answer I received as she made her way over to a tree, reached into a hole in the trunk and pulled something out. A shining steel blade, one that I was sure I had seen many many times.

“By the Devil, is that one of the Nopali swords in the ancestral gallery?” I blurted out and followed Heloisa as she stomped out of the aviary. When I got no verbal response, I grabbed her arm and made her face me.

Her lips switched and she scrunched her nose.

“You'll see soon enough what I'll do to her.” Wrenching loose of my grip, she whirled around and continued her way, and it hit me like a falling anvil to know where she was going. The aviary wasn't far from the estate building itself so it didn't take too long before we reached the first inner court which also functioned as training grounds for the guards. In the center, on the sand ground, a young woman in light armor with one arm on her back and the other wielding a blunt training sword was parrying the blow of a figure also clad in light armor and with a double-handed sword. She dodged the next blow, made a sidestep and used the momentum to hit her opponent in the side with the swords pommel. The opponent clutched their side and wheeled around to meet her blow, metal hitting metal in an ugly noise.

“Hey! Cibela!” Neither of the figures acknowledged us but merely continued their melee.

“Don't tell me you want do what I think you want to do.” I sighed and held Heloisa's arm.

“Don't tell me what to do,”, she hissed and shoved me away, “and don't even dare to tell Mother. Cibela!”

“Don't be stupid and put down the sword, please! You'll hurt each other.”

Fury was written all over her face when she said: “That's exactly what I want to do. I've had enough of her thinking she is better than me just for being allowed to train as a warrior!”

“Then challenge her to chess or something, not a swordfight.”

Heloisa let out a mocking laugh. “Of course you'd say that, words befitting of a cowardly magician.” My cheeks stung at her words as if I had been slapped in the face. “You wouldn't understand. You don't have any fighting spirit, so all you are good for is rolling over and playing dead.”

“I just know that fighting battles I can't win doesn't do any good.”

The noise of a body hitting the floor brought our attention back to the fighters and we saw how the woman took the hand of her opponent to be helped off the ground. Dark curls had escaped her braid during the fight and made her look distinctively messy, beads of sweat glittered on her forehead and her neck and face were flushed.

“May the Devil damn you, stop distracting me!”, she yelled at us and pushed the loose strands of her out of her face. Dark eyes fixated us angrily and Heloisa laughed yet again.

“Oh, is it that easy? I'm starting to believe you are not good a fighter as you make everyone believe. How do you even survive on those battlefields you claim you're so successful on?”

Cibela's face flushed even darker than it did from the exhaustion and she let out an angry snarl. “A mercenary is easy work compared to you, sister. Now go away, be a nuisance elsewhere.”

“No, I won't!” Heloisa screamed and held out the sword in front of her. The swordsman dropped their sword in shock and made a motion to walk over to us.

“Stay your hand, Octavio, or I'll have you fired and sent to live with the rats in the gutter.”

“Lady Heloisa, please calm down. The sword you're holding is sharp.”

Cibela let out a laugh. “Of course it is. Stop this nonsense before you hurt yourself, you're not worth a fight.”

I couldn't stop her from stomping at Cibela and I threw myself between the two of them, holding my hands out. “Will you two stop provoking each other?” I knew better than to ask what exactly caused this dispute to begin; I wouldn't get an answer anyway. Heloisa and Cibela constantly butted heads over even the smallest issues, and it wasn't helped by the fact that they were both too eager to find reasons to get into arguments.

Cibela's lip curled in a sneer. “Even Ximena is more of a realist than you. She knows I'd gut you like a fish if this were an actual fight. You are no fighter; all you can do is talk a lot and charm people into doing what you want them to - and that is something everyone can do, it takes no real talent. You're just as stupid and useless as those birds you love so much - pretty to look at and have around with their feathers and songs but shallow and of no use whatsoever.”

Heloisa roared in anger, lifted the sword and ran at our sister. I jumped out of the way, and saw in shock how Cibela easily dodged the blow and took a few steps back.

“I won't fight you, you don't even know how to! It's a waste of my time and an easy kill.”

Frantically I turned to Octavio. “Get whoever, otherwise they'll kill each other for real!”, I yelled and as Cibela's coach ran off, I stood up and thought about what to do. Damn me for not knowing how to make protective shields!

“Get a real sword and let's find out, and do you think me so stupid to fight you without knowing how to?”

“Yes, I do.”

The next hit on the tourney sword left a dent in it, and Heloisa let out a triumphant laugh. “Don't bother with holding back, or is that all you can do? I have long suspected all you did on those battlefields was have others do your dirty work, seems I was right after all!”

A kick to the stomach silenced Heloisa and sent her tumbling back. Cibela scoffed and walked back to the assembly of swords to train with and took out a silver shortsword. “Yield now, sister. Scars don't suit you and we'd never hear the end of it.”

“I have been watching you train with Octavio and the others, do you really think I never learned even a bit? Or that I might have had someone who helped me from time to time?” The grin slipped from her face as Cibela approached her with sure steps, sword in hands and swung at her. Heloisa ducked and scrambled away from our sister's reach, who looked merely amused. “I think you're in way over your head. But I will give you a lesson you will not forget ever, that you may know your place and to stay in it.”

A quick movement and Cibela took off, sword pulled back to strike at Heloisa, who stood her ground with a determined look on her face. But the impact of Cibela, who was at least a head taller and had a more muscular frame, was enough to send her on her back onto the ground. “Your battles are in court and with words, not blades.”

I screamed in terror as Cibela threw back her arm, to swing it at Heloisa's face-

I acted on instinct, for fear for my sister's life. Light bubbled in my hands and I aimed it at the two. Cibela groaned at the blinding light and covered her face as she stumbled back as Heloisa gave a hard kick at her ankle and rolled out from under her.

“You're a true magician, Ximena,”, Cibela spat at me, her face scrunched up in anger as she stood up, “too much of a coward to get involved directly but always ready to help with dirty tricks. You two are a disgrace to our family name.” Then she spun around to catch Heloisa's wrist, I hadn't even noticed her getting up again and trying to hit Cibela in the back with the pommel.

“Especially you.”

Her grip was so hard that it made Heloisa scream in pain, she dropped the sword and let it fall into the dust between them. Cibela let her fall back, and as if through fog I saw the blade in her other hand find its way onto Heloisa's torso, connecting with it at the shoulder blade and making its way to the hipbone. Someone's shrill scream rang in my ears and only when I covered my mouth I realized it had been me. But I couldn't move, I was rooted to the spot as I watched my sisters, one standing with the tip of her blade bloodied over the other, lying on the group, gasping like a fish out of water.

Someone else's scream brought me back to reality and I spun around to see our mother and our aunt make their way to us, Octavio hot on their heels.

“Oh my goodness!” Madre threw her hands to her face as she saw Heloisa in the dust. Her flowing purple gown fluttered behind her as she ran to them, while Tía Esmé approached me and grabbed me by the shoulders with urgency. “Marilena, what happened? Be quick about it.”

I stumbled upon my words various times and only when she dabbed my face with her cape, I noticed tears were streaming down my face. “He-Heloisa challenged Cibela to a-a fight. I didn't think they'd ac-actually-”

“What's done is done. With me, now.” Her hand wrapped around my wrist like a vice as she pulled me along. “Julia taught you the basics of healing, now's time to make use of them.”

I gaped at Tía Esmé but the steely look in her eyes made me swallow my doubts.

“Are you happy now? Isn't that what you wanted?” Cibela's voice was cold as ice, no hint of regret upon what she did.

“Cibela, what have you done?” Mother cried as she cradled Heloisa, tears were freely running down her face and leaving dark traces of her make-up. My sister was looking at the cut in her chest as if she couldn't believe what just happened. The blood was beginning to stain the burgundy fabric black as it seeped out. She raised a hand to touch it and screamed at the sight of her own blood on it.

“I gave my dearly beloved sister what she was so desperately chasing; someone who would put her back in her place and teach her some respect.”

I stared at Cibela and felt my throat tighten at the venom in her words. For a brief moment, nothing more than a split second, I considered picking up the sword on the ground and hitting her with it, but the thought of it frightened me as soon as I finished it.

The vice around my wrist disappeared and Tía Esmé closed in on Cibela, who held up her chin in defiance. “Did you stop to think about turning down the duel and reason with her without spitting poison? Is this how an officer of the Grand Army of Cartagenth behaves, or this is more akin to a lawless bandit?”

Cibela took a step forward, her face mere inches away from Tía Esmé. “She was the one who insisted on a duel, she can be lucky I decided to show mercy even if I was in the full right to kill her and I wouldn't have shed a tear if I had done so.”

The silence behind that statement lasted both nothing and an eternity, and the ensuing sound of the back of Esmé's hand hitting Cibela's face full force seemed deafening. Mother screamed and instantly let go of Heloisa to help her eldest of the dust, leaving me to catch her before she hit the ground.

“You ungrateful little parasite.” Esmé sneered as Cibela held the side of her face where she had been hit, “have you learnt nothing? Family is the only thing that matters. Without us, you’re a fucking nobody. Get out of my sight.”

Cibela scrambled onto her feet, a trail of blood running down her nose and furious tears building in her eyes. Without a further word she whirled around and left the training grounds, with Madre running after her and saying words made unintelligible by her sobs.

“Octavio, get a doctor. Have them bring something for transport.” The coach bowed quickly with a murmured “Yes, General.” and ran back into the building.

I took a deep breath as I laid my hands on Heloisa's chest. She let out a scream and squeezed her eyes shut. Esmé knelt next to us and regarded the wound with an expert's eye.

“Try to keep her from bleeding out, from what I see the wound is not deep enough to make lethal damage but you can never know. I've seen soldiers bleed to death from a lot less and survive a lot worse.”

She reached out and took Heloisa's hand, gently stroking the back of it with her thumb. “Stay awake, it'll all be alright.”

…

It would be alright, but it ended up taking two whole months. Two months that Heloisa spent in bed, taking medicine that would hurry up the healing process and barely being able to move without experiencing pain. That did not prevent her tutors from giving her stuff to read and it drove her mad with anger, along with the fact that this prohibited her from leaving with the junior council to places such as Vesuvia and Firent. I was the one keeping her company most of the evenings, occasionally Madre or Padre would join but more often than not instead of them it was Tía Esmé if she happened to be on the grounds and not in the city or at court giving war council. Cibela had left the estate grounds days after the incident to lead a division of Cartagense soldiers to the Sea of Persephia, which had to be a journey of approximately two months. After a long discussion between Tía Esmé and Madre on which I had eavesdropped, they decided it was best to send Cibela away for at least a while for the bad blood to die down, and the troops desperately needed support on the front.

“Against who is the Grand Army fighting now?” I asked Tía Esmé one evening during dinner.

“The Bizanti are on the verge of starting a trade war after being threatened by a small, way too insignificant city state and it is our duty to stand by our allies and aid them in crushing the enemy.” Her gaze turned cool as she spoke. “You make it sound as if you think we are always at war with others.”

“Aren't we? You're always holding war councils with the Zaan and his courtiers.”

“Ximena!” Madre put down her fork and looked at me. “Don't speak like this to your aunt, especially not at the table.” But Tía Esmé merely raised her hand. “I don't mind, Marisol. And I don't blame you, dearest, after all you are still only a child whereas your sisters understand the way things work. We have the right to defend ourselves from our enemies at all costs.”

“I know, but does it have to be that way? Agustín surely could solve this, isn’t that what diplomats are for?” Aunt Esmé regarded me with a raised eyebrow, Madre laughed quietly and soon everyone turned their attention back to the food. Even Heloisa seemed to agree with them when I told her what happened at dinner.

“You should be glad we have people like Tía Esmé. If generals like her hadn't been so successful, Cartagenth would’ve already been conquered by someone and instead of the Zaan, some foreign ruler would call the shots.”

I sighed. “Maybe you're right. But not everything needs to end in bloodshed.” You out of all people should know that, I thought bitterly and sat down in an armchair.

“Some people simply don't know better,”, Heloisa sighed, like always lacking self-awareness, and turned her attention back to her book. I looked at her, my tongue barely holding back a sharp remark, and grabbed the card deck. With Julia not teaching me divination beyond the basics, it was the only area I had to work on myself. The books in the library were helpful but it was mostly a matter of practice, as I found out. A lot of practice and listening. I shuffled the deck and pulled out a card. Justice, reversed. Unfairness and lies. How very fitting.

#my writing #ximena rubalcaba #heloisa de rubalcaba #no beta reading we die like MEN in this household

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boneandfur · 5 years ago

Text

Rosemary Lane [4]

CHAPTER FOUR

Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea. - Tom Jones, Henry Fielding.

When Rosamund at last slumps down to breakfast, Woods informs her that her cousin has gone out riding with the Englishmen and the Turk, and that the ladies are at their needlework in the sitting room.

"This is not the house party I imagined." Rosamund flops down on the chaise, opening one eye to look at Briar. "Since when do you embroider useless things, Briar?"

Briar looks up from her sewing. Her eyes are dark with purplish shadows, as though she has not slept a wink. Well, that makes a pair of us.

"Lisette is showing me how to embroider a rosette." Briar holds up her sampler, showing Rosamund a lumpen attempt.

What a waste of silken thread. But she does not say it. "Where did you learn to stitch so fine, Lisette? We did not get a chance to learn much about you last night, besides the fact that you were a..." Rosamund stumbles over the words in her head, not wanting to offend. " ...a dancer."

Lisette looks up from her stitching, and Rosamund sees she is mending a hole in a fine lawn handkerchief, worn very thin in places, as though it has spent many years in and out of pockets. There is a dark stain near a clutch of blue flowers, and Lisette covers it with a fine-boned hand, looking straight at Rosamund without flinching. "Yes, in the ballet. First in Paris, and then in Vienna. And you, Briar?"

Rosamund is taken aback at the girl's cheek. "Briar was my maid!" She slaps a hand over her mouth, and Lisette's eyebrows rise.

"We were friends first." Briar continues working at the rosette, her mouth a set line, giving away nothing. "Grew up in Grovershire, a day's ride from here. Wherever we went, we went together, like each other's shadow." Briar picks a green floss, for the vine, and continues stitching, childish and clumsy. "So when Rosamund found out her true father was the Earl of Edgewater, I came here with her, as her maid. That was back in '16." She looks away, there is a wet gloss in her dark eyes.

Rosamund realizes that Briar is working on a man's handkerchief, and dark jealousy claws at her throat. "Yes, Briar, you were quite busy that summer, were you not?" She cannot resist the dig, and it makes her feel both guilty and satisfied, all at once.

"Ah, the summer of '16." Lisette's voice is wistful. "When I danced in The Goose Girl."

"I thought you danced in Sun and Moon?" Rosamund stabs her needle into the fabric a little too hard, it bites her finger and she pops it into her mouth. "Or was that just some romantic embellishment?" Because of what you are. But she does not want to say it aloud. After all, aren't all cats grey in the dark?

"When Maximilian came through Vienna in August of 1816, he was captain of a troop of mercenaries, headed to the Rus." Lisette's eyes are far away, and she sets down her needle, swept up in the memory. "'I have nothing to offer you, Lisette,' he said, 'Except my heart, and the wide, wide world.' What could I do, then, but follow him?"

It is only because he had money. If he had been a poor man, you would have laughed in his face, Rosamund thinks, and she remembers the summer of 1816, and the look on Luke Harper's face when she told him she could not live on love, nor should any woman be expected to. She had never seen him again. "Well, your life has indeed been a fairytale, Miss Lisette."

Lisette looks up from her stitches, and there is an old sorrow in her eyes for a brief, heartrending moment, but then it is gone, and there is nothing outside but the corbies, whirling and diving in the watery light, no sound of marching boots, no fife and drum. "Never that, Lady Rosamund. Do not ever think it. Maximilian and I have chosen to be happy --" As if happiness is such a thing that can be chosen -- and Lisette looks out at the dark line of forest, beyond the windowpane, where frost etches a silvery web of fate.

There is more to this tale, Rosamund is certain of it, but Lisette begins to stitch again, a small smile playing about her lips, she will not say more. "Where do you come from? Where is your home?"

"My home is with Maximilian. The place where I was born is no more, madam. It is just a mad dream of exiles, flung to the ends of the earth." Stitch, stitch, stitch. The impossibly small stitches mend the hole in the fabric, as if it never lay over a man's heart as he fought for something bigger than himself, half a world away -- a field strewn with corpses, men and horses falling all around him, the sky streaked red and black, and the sound of the cannons so loud that they could be heard by a girl in Brussels, tending to the wounded as the armies began to retreat.

Rosamund does not know the tale of that little scrap of cloth, she never will. All she sees before her is a girl who has not been made to know her place, not as she and Briar have been made to, and it makes her feel a fury with the European sense of laissez-faire, that Cousin Maximilian might take a mistress and live openly with her, and no one on the Continent will bat an eye. Meanwhile, her own affair must be hidden in shadow, or else she will be an outcast, as if she is not enough of one already, held to a higher standard by the stain of her very birth.

But Rosamund presses on. "So you have no home. Is that why you came here, to sponge off my largesse, like common thieves?"

"Rosamund!" Briar snaps, and Rosamund feels a confused sense of hurt, as though she is the one in the wrong here.

Lisette stands up, pinning Rosamund with her eyes, and the look in them makes Rosamund shrink back against the chaise, wanting to slink away and go to earth, like a fox who runs from the hounds. When Rosamund drops her eyes, Lisette turns on her heel, and addresses Briar. "Will you not show me around the grounds, Miss Daly? I detest being cooped up inside, and need to feel the sun upon my face."

"Oh -- yes, of course! Let me just fetch a shawl." Briar hurriedly gathers her sewing things, and stands to go. "By your leave, Lady Rosamund."

No, you may not have leave to go, I am not done with this conversation! But she has already gone too far, to say that would be beyond the pale, and Rosamund bites her tongue and nods, feeling as though she has not given anything at all.

•••

"Sinclaire and I will find a tavern." Hamid rubs his hands together so gleefully that Marlcaster would think he planned for Maximilian's horse to throw a shoe, only a stone's throw away from the village. "We shall reserve a private parlor, and order something to stave off the chill."

"I'll require a pitcher!" Maximilian calls after them, and Marlcaster thinks that Maximilian could probably drink two or three pitchers, remain upright on a horse, ride into battle in his evening wear, and still come out on top through sheer luck. Watching Maximilian saunter through the village streets, pausing to peer through the windows of a curiosity shop with his eyes lit up like a little boy's makes Marlcaster certain that it's all been luck that has brought them here, just the roll of the die.

"Look! They have an automaton!" Maximilian bounds inside before Marlcaster can stop him, leaving him to tie up the horses with not a small measure of irritation. It surprises him, how much inner conflict he feels, wanting and not wanting to return to Edgewater, to take Rosamund in his arms, and--

"Well?" Maximilian pokes his head around the door. "Are you coming?"

•••

The inside of the shop is cluttered on every surface with junk: tops carved with skulls, bone rattles, and a wall entirely covered in pinned butterflies; their wings lightly lifted by the breeze from the door, which sets them all to quivering, the sound like a thousand blades of grass, rustling, rustling in the cool of the morning. A clock gongs the hour somewhere in the back of the shop, and all the cuckoo clocks burst out all at once.

Ku-ku! Ku-ku! Ku-ku!

Marlcaster flinches, nearly dropping the toy theatre he has been holding, a paper and wood replica of Shakespeare's Globe. When he looks up, a plague mask looms from the shadows, the beak long and curved, like a hook. He flinches, hand going instinctively to the pommel of his sword.

The figure holds up two very human hands, and whips the mask off to reveal a girl, with hair like a copper coin and amber eyes, not more than nineteen or so. "Pax! Pax, sir!" She holds out a hand, Marlcaster stares at it, then back at her face. "I am Mena. Welcome to my shop, gentlemen."

"Tremendous!" Maximilian startles them both by bursting into laughter, clapping loudly. "May I?" He plucks the mask from the Mena’s fingers, tying it around his head, and dashes off to admire his reflection in a concave mirror.

"Will you be buying the toy theater, sir?" She has an odd accent, Marlcaster tries to place it and cannot, it belongs to everywhere and nowhere. "They are quite popular."

Marlcaster looks down at the intricately illustrated plates, thinking of the little boy he once was, thrilled beyond belief to play for hours at producing plays for his baby step-brother, Harry. When Harry grew, he would assist Edmund, until his imagination surpassed the plays that came with the theater, and the two of them were putting on original shows for their mother and the Earl.

A regular little Davy Garrick, his mother had called Harry. Marlcaster looks down at the toy theater, tracing a finger along the painted scenery, and then back up at the girl. He clears his throat, suddenly thick with emotion. "Yes, wrap it up."

"And for you, sir?" The girl turns to Maximilian, who has opened the backs of one of the cuckoo clocks and looks up in faint alarm. She glides across the cluttered space, her full skirts whispering, whispering, and she stands on tiptoe to whisper something into the tall man's ear. He flushes, Marlcaster cannot quite make out what they are saying. She places something in Maximilian's hand and his face turns dark. He whirls from her, the look in his eye making Marlcaster shudder. He should not like to face down a foe on some foreign field with a look like that in their eye.

"There is nothing here I wish to buy." Maximilian's voice is harsh, he clutches something in his fist so tightly that the bones in his hand are white.

"Sir --" Mena moves forward, and stops. "You may like to know the history of the piece --"

"I know it," Maximilian growls. "For three days and nights, I lay on a blood-soaked field, not knowing if I should live or die, that sigil ring on the hand that lay next to mine." He prowls the edge of the tables, picking up curious things without seeming to really see them at all: a pinned fairy in a jar, an iridescent purple shell, an intricate dagger. "Was this whole shop stocked by Death's plunder, then, madam?"

Marlcaster looks at the shop-girl, Mena, she has flattened herself to the wall, and he opens his mouth, feeling he should say something to stop Rosamund's cousin. "Lord Maximilian --"

"He did not die on that field to have his identity stripped from him by craven thieves!" Maximilian roars, his face like thunder. With an incandescent howl of fury, he sweeps his arm across the nearest table, sending everything upon it crashing to the floor. He opens his fist, and the sigil clatters on the floor in the ringing silence. Then he pulls his hat down, and storms from the shop, the door slamming nearly off its hinges behind him.

"I'd better go after him," Marlcaster says apologetically. "Send the bill to my club in London, Sir Edmund Marlcaster at White's, and I shall see that you are compensated for you troubles."

Mena plucks at his sleeve as he turns to go. "I shall have the toy theater delivered to Edgewater, where you are staying, sir."

"How did you... Never mind." As he leaves the shop, he feels eyes on him at the window, but he does not turn around. If he did, he might see that those eyes turn curiously scarlet for a moment, before the heavy curtain falls.

•••

Marlcaster finds Maximilian on the town green, his fingers tracing names on a copper plaque affixed to a simple marble obelisk. The snow is falling more heavily now, soon the whole village will be under a blanket of white. Unbidden, he thinks of the Frost Fair of '14, when Harry rode an elephant across the Thames, when he'd thought they would always be young and golden and immortal, and never know the pain of one who is taken too soon.

"I should go back." Maximilian stands very still, his head cocked, listening. "I should not have acted so ignobly. I forgot myself." He pulls his collar up, against the chill. "That's the trouble with staying in a place for too long -- you gain a local reputation."

"I lost a brother, too," Marlcaster says casually, offhand, as though discussing the weather. He gives Maximilian the space to compose himself, glancing up the street where smoke puffs out of the tavern's chimney. "Step-brother, I should say. His name was Harry. Died in a hunting accident. the year before he reached his majority." The old hurt again: though it happened near seven years ago, not a day goes by that he does not see Harry in a sunset, or hear his laughter as he passes children at play. "It never leaves you. I should have been the one who protected him."

Maximilian's voice is flat, his brown eyes stripped of emotion. "I ran off from Cordonia when I was a lad of fourteen, to follow the drum of war. I was always the joke, the fool, the one who could do nothing right. Came home after the Battle of Paris in '14, to find the old man dead and my brother Duke in his place, and it was as if I'd never gone to war and made a man of myself."

Marlcaster does not know what to say. He has never seen Paris, he has never been to war. In 1815, while Maximilian Beaumont danced at the Duchess of Richmond's ball and then fought in Quatre Bras at dawn in his evening wear, Edmund Marlcaster was frittering away the rent monies in a gaming hell in Seven Dials, and the next eve dancing the reel with a green-clad girl at a country fair. He never lay in Hell for three days beside the dead body of his elder brother, instead, he watched as his little step-brother was lowered into the ground.

He raises a hand, as if to give comfort, and then drops it, offering Maximilian a pinch of snuff instead.

For a long moment, there is no sound but their inhalations as they snort the snuff off the backs of their hands, then:

"It wasn't your--"

"And then the Corsican monster came back, and I quit the Cordonian shore to run headlong back into the only thing I knew, the only thing I was ever good at. And he followed me, to try to understand." Maximilian clenches and unclenches his fists, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, and begins to walk toward the tavern, the snow swirling around his patched military cloak. Just before the tavern door, he turns around, and his eyes are bleak as a wasteland. "So do not tell me that the fault is not mine to bear, Mr Marlcaster, sir."

#n*fw #marlcaster x mc #briar x marlcaster #long post #my fic #litrotica #'erotica #rosemary lane

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courtorderedcake · 5 years ago

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Hallow : ch I - CSSNS 2019

Thank you for reading this, it's my baby that I have written over and over for two years now.

Countless people have given me advice, changed my way of thinking, changed the way these characters think, and given me love and support. It has been a labor of love and terror, as I have been unwilling to let myself publish this out of fear of reception. What if people hate what I have loved so long?

What if people dislike the characters I've watched grow in my own words, from two flawed characters in their own right, to two flawed characters who know their strengths and use them? Will anyone understand the idea of two unlikely and hopeless people in the worst circumstances coming together? Will the choices they make over all make sense in the greater story?

Without the people I have had cheering me on, I don't know how I could have gotten to a point where I could have asked those questions.

So this is for you, my loves. Kmomof4 for being an unending supply of positivity, even when I wanted to give up all together.

UltraLuckyCatND, for being the best, most patient, understanding, detective of context without context, punctuation machine level efficient Beta a lady could ask for. Your commentary was like waking up to Christmas presents, especially when you liked my curse words.

Shireness, Bleebug, Clockadile, Svenja, ResidentofSB, Salem, Doodle, Sherlockwhovian, K-Whump, and Hollye for always answering my off the wall questions with very little detail perfectly, and with no judgment.

To the newcomers to the Fandom who I may (definitely) stalk, and who unknowingly made me realize that this pairing can go to space, infinity, and beyond. That means you Satellites, Prof, Cyn, and Raines.

To the many others who I Tag, message, who have sent me kind words about Riptide or my Horticulture problem, those who read my crack fic(s) and didn't blacklist me from CS events, those who know I will go to bat for them, and that I know will go to bat for me, and those I know will hate this with every fiber of their being but be unwilling to say so outside of private spaces that collect dust in their stagnation.

I present, Hallow.

-----

"The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred & rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent.

Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King's will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time."

This is the history Princess Emma memorizes from the day she is born, paraded about and presented only with the highest protection. The palace is a cage she wishes to escape, desperately. Not careful what wishes she made, Emma discovers history is written by the victors - The Dark One has an entirely different version of the events that took place.

Rated E for explicit themes, Mature situations, and Fae fuckery.

Read on AO3 here.

Ch 1 / ??

-----

It started when Emma was young and mostly alone. There were very few other children in the Royal Court, let alone the palace lands. Emma had no siblings or cousins to play with either as Fae birth was rare and arduous. She had her parents when they weren’t busy appeasing some Duchy or Lord and Lady, those in the court who tolerated her, or the staff when they weren’t busy with their duties, but it wasn’t enough. Emma felt as though no one really gave her any real one-on-one attention, and with no need for a nanny (the ones nannies they had tried and she drove to madness as proof positive) in the confines of the palace, Emma roamed from room to room and hallway to hallway in search of anything to do or anyone to be with.

Her parents loved her fiercely and she grew up knowing this; the times they spent together were wonderful. She especially loved holidays and the spare moments where her mother conjured her namesake snowflakes, or her father whistled at elk to come closer to nibble apples. Her father thrived in the sunny plains, wildflowers and crops bending to hear his whispers, winds obeying his laughing commands. Her mother preferred moonlight on branches covered in silver ice, blue birds in spring singing while red birds in winter cracked seeds in their beaks, the way water moved in gurgling streams, and the coziness of a nap in root hollows. Palace life kept them away from their special places more as Emma grew.

The palace of the Fae was the grandest in all the realms, or so she had read. Most of the structures were newly built after the Great War , but some pieces had been brought through a portal from the mortal realm, their stunning beauty remarkable. The palace itself was huge, sections unused but for celebrations happening only every few centuries. The main palace consisted of the kitchens, the Royal suites, the courtier suites, dining areas, library, music room, receiving rooms, the grand halls, and servants quarters. She found refuge in the kitchens occasionally, their excellent cook Granny allowing Emma to help, or on some days play with her granddaughter Ruby. They had originally played tag and made mud cakes, but Ruby's grandmother had been in such a snit after, that she punished Ruby with forbidding her to play like that again. They instead played dolls or made bead necklaces, but Granny kept a watchful eye, usually making Ruby work instead.

Granny said she was strict because their friendship wasn't properly sanctioned, although she had petitioned. The King and Queen had written they were to be away a few more weeks, so it was unsurprising. Promising to be careful, Granny eased off slightly, and Emma looked forward to those few hours each week as she wandered lonely halls.

It was in one of the older sections of the palace that she found him during her weekly wandering.

He always answered her, no matter the time of day or night, and most importantly he was kind. He had a wiseness in his voice that as a child was soothing, as he happily watched her play with dolls or spin a hoop.

When she began her schooling, she read to him in passing moments.

“And thus, the Goblin horde released a great evil that corrupted their land and sought a host. The Goblin King was… was… Pre…” She faltered on the word.

“Prepared. The Goblin King was prepared,” he corrected.

“Thank you! The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred and rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent. The Fae Navy was culled, all but a few regiments surviving. We honor those lost to The Dark Massacre on Gray Day." Emma felt her throat tighten at the thought of the dreary holiday and its muted muslin gowns. They sat in silence for a whole day, lighting candles as those who had lost someone made their pilgrimage. Liam made a soft tutting noise when she didn't continue after a long moment.

"It was no matter, for the Goblin King had a special blade to command the Darkness, the Vorpal blade. Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King's will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time. Long live the Fae dil N'lans Court, long live The King and Queen dil N'lans.”

“Lovely job Emma!” her painting whispered.

The name plaque below revealed his name. ‘CAPTAIN LIAM JONES, FAMILY BLACKWATER, IN MEMORIAM’ she read, tracing her fingers on the raised golden letters. He had been in the Fae Navy, the same that had their sails on display in a tapestry room. The same Navy that had sacrificed everything, her lessons making sure to remind her. She dutifully laid flowers and folded banners across stone cairns when she was trotted out at Navy remembrance events with some understanding. Death and the wars seemed to be such abstract thoughts, never having experienced them but in her studies. In fact, Emma wasn’t sure what memoriam meant in its entirety. Having a vague idea of someone being gone was the only thing she had to compare, but when she asked Liam, he told her not to worry. She trusted him and followed his advice.

As she grew into a woman, Emma learned what it meant, and understood his reluctance - and her own subconscious'. The painting that had been her closest confidante and holder of all her precious secrets (for example when she had stolen a plate of cinnamon pastries meant for a Lord, eating them all high up in a tower) was just that. A painting. A painting of a man that had been a captain in the Great War, until he had perished in the Dark Massacre. There was no real Liam - just an imaginary friend that kept her company until time passed and she could truly take her place among the court.

This realization did not stop her visits nor his wise voice in her head. She visited as often if not more than before, bitterness from stretched days of being told how to sit just so, or how to cover her glare when a noble acted like a pretentious ass in her presence seeped into her conversations. He soothed her loneliness as it leaked further into her life, and she would not part with him.

She told Liam about her parents.

How she couldn’t leave the palace without a royal escort, a dozen men accompanying her to pick a bouquet as their horses trampled the meadow, destroying the flowers. Or how she snuck down to a grotto and swam, sometimes in just a slip for the thrill of the indecency. Emma longed for any of the village children as playmates, but her royal duties, courses, and “proper decorum” (as her mother would say) kept her from any sort of real connections. Her books, all of the tales of the realms and the old world weren't enough anymore without being able to see outside of the palace, but any talk of change was ended in heated argument. She knew nothing but the safety of her palace, but how could she dare opine, and to who? Not for lack of trying or arguing - King David passed down his courage, and Queen Snow had passed down her stubbornness. Emma heard their remarks of what a combination it was every quarrel.

While some of the other young ladies of the court had taken suitors or begun courting, Emma was sure the result of any such thing happening to her would cause her father to go truly mad. King David had almost caused interrealm diplomatic incidents in trade with his attitudes towards certain sons of Lords that had looked at Emma too long.

She told Liam about her tutors.

Ruby, a woman beyond skilled in tracking was easily her first real, and royally approved, friend. The Queen herself had allowed the girl further privileges in the palace, placing Ruby in the same decorum classes as Emma, much to Granny's delight and Ruby's dismay. Ruby made do by skipping them, a feat that Emma could never attempt. Ruby's talents were wasted on sewing, curtsies, or dancing; her quick wit and ridiculous half true stories leaving her as cunning as a wolf. She easily talked King David into letting her have a tutor position teaching Emma about snares, edible plants, and tracking game or predators. Afterwards, Granny would bake Emma and Ruby treats with their foraged items, with extra to stow around for the Court.

Emma adored her tutors August, a wood elf who specialized in History, and Jefferson, a pixie that taught the Arts. They had come together to the court after being married during war time and were easy to feel safe with. Jefferson could sing well enough to rival Queen Snow herself, and August gazed at him in constant adoration. While Emma studied her history quietly, August would make small wooden flowers or other creations that she would find in the music room the next day, lying on the piano or near the harpsichord. Jefferson’s prized possession was a broken and battered violin August had carved for him in the old world, the wood from the same tree as their small cabin. It was the only thing he took when they fled.

There was Graham, a Fae that didn’t hail from any court that Emma knew of. Although, for a princess, or any woman of the court for that matter, it was rare to use a sword, The King and Queen demanded it. Graham was easy pickings next to her father. Her father had hired him to teach her sword play, but had since made no qualms about regretting it for various reasons. Emma was sure it was due to Graham's gaze beginning to linger too long on her lips.

Liam had heard about her various refusals to court anyone due to her father, but when Graham brought Emma flowers at the beginning of a lesson and her father saw, he heard her rant about Graham's idiocy for hours. Now, the King stood sentry over every lesson, watching Graham sweat from swordplay with the addition of knowing that any slight flirting could end with him having to search for another job with one less arm. Emma hated that her father watched them.

The newest member of the court was a renowned bowsmith, one Mr. Locksley, hired by the Queen to teach Emma and fuel her passion for archery. Emma had never really felt a use for it, but dutifully accepted another task to fill the hours of her days - particularly if that task was avoiding her tutor of magickal arts, decorum, and deception. Regina.

She studied magical forces for harm with Regina, decorum, potion making, alchemy, lying, seductive disarmament (it was all in the cleavage, lewdly enough), state secrets, cryptography, political history, strategy, and trained herself against poisoning. Regina was one of her favorites to complain about.

“She hates me, Liam. She makes it her mission to make me feel stupid. I can’t tell you how much we go over the same things, about how my parents united the realms with their marriage, how the realms are all connected but for one, and how the Goblins are banished until their next appeal,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “How many times do I have to hear the stories about brides getting stolen or my parents sealing the Darkness? I’m the proof they were successful, that the Darkness and Goblins are sealed away! Every appeal the Goblins have made has been either a disaster or violent. Sometimes both. Nothing is going to change.”

“Never bet against things changing, Emma,” Liam spoke in his low voice as she sat next to his painting, blowing blonde hair from her face.

“Now you sound like her,” Emma pouted.

“Good. She’s teaching you something. Education is important and so is knowing your history. Our history.” He emphasized the last words, and Emma felt a pit in her stomach.

“I hate that you’re right.”

“You wouldn’t come here and sit with me if you liked me being wrong.” She could hear a smirk in his tone, though his portrait always showed him with the same determined grimace.

Sometimes Emma asked him about his life, on which he mostly stayed silent, his few answers vague.

“What were you like?” she'd whispered by candlelight as snow fell one evening.

“I loved my family and my land,” he told her, in an even reply.

She sighed, annoyed. “Yes, but I mean, were you a good man? A good leader? Did you deserve the love you were given?”

He was silent for a time, before speaking slowly as if with great thought.

“Emma, you'll learn this one day. Being good is subjective. What one man may think is good, another will see as monstrous. A good man can fall into darkness, someone steeped in the farthest trenches of evil can find the strength to redeem themselves. I believe I was good.” He paused, sighing lightly. “And no man can ever tell you if he deserved the love he received. Only the one who gives it willingly can.”

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

It was bright outside as Emma walked barefoot in the grass. Ahead of her, Graham stood as stars fell from the sunlit sky like diamonds.

Graham offered her a bouquet as he had last autumn, filled with buttercups, lavender, tulips, baby’s breath, cone flowers, and daffodils. His hands had lingered, warm and rough, as he stepped closer to her form. Her breath caught and her heart beat faster than any swordplay could bring. He’d looked at her lips, but this time her father hadn’t taken the crook of her arm to pull her away. This time, he stepped in closer, a hand cupping her chin as he led her to his lips and -

A hard smack of a book against her head pulled her out of her dream.

“Princess Emma.” Regina’s clipped tones were unmistakably irritated, even more so than usual. “Since you are so keen on paying attention, I suppose you’ve memorized the realms and their unique histories regarding our own?”

Emma sighed. No luck, she was still with Regina, still trying to fend off her parents’ worry as the Goblin appeal moved closer.

“I’m sorry Regina.”

“You should be. The King and Queen have been up for days now preparing for the upcoming appeal, and the judgement of the realms. Do you think anyone but you are taking having Goblins in our realm lightly? Or that having the Royalty of the United Realms here will be easy?” She glowered at Emma, and Emma squirmed in her chair.

“No I don’t, but I am ready to finally be apart of something more -”

“Princess, this meeting is more important than you will ever know. The outcome of this will change everything for you. You've been too young for the last three, and this one is more important than ever.” Regina smacked the book down on Emma’s table. “Recite.”

“And thusly, the accord was struck. The Darkness sealed in the old palace. The Goblins may appeal their desire for peace every 250 years in the service of a fully seated council. Regardless of the appeal’s outcome, trade will continue between realms, and the Goblin kingdom will present Dwarves with the iron they need to forge what Fae cannot, to mine Pixie Dust crystals for the Fae realms.” Emma recited from memory. She winced at the thought of iron. She couldn’t imagine how painful the burns would be, and envied Dwarves for their ability to work with it.

Regina smiled. “Good. Continue.” She paced, opening a fan to provide a breeze for herself. The Baroque style was her favorite to wear, deep cut necklines and a fan her go to wardrobe choice any time visitors were in the palace.

“This trade must occur, or the Forge of Seven will cease to enchant the tools to extract dust and Pixie dust will be unable to be cultivated for the stability of the realms portals, shields, and wards,” she intoned.

“And?” Regina asked, extending her fan.

“Which in turn could let the Darkness, hidden somewhere in the realms free, destroy the realms, or allow banished Fae in, creating turmoil in the face of thousands of years of peace.” Emma finished, and looked up, still indifferent.

“Alright. Now off to your music lesson. You’ll be playing for guests in the Blue Parlor.” Regina’s face had gone back to its normal dour expression and she shooed Emma off.

Emma hated visitors, never knowing when she would run into a dignitary, ambassador, or royal who expected her to hold conversation; or, as she was now, never knowing when she would be forced to entertain. Her parents’ worries had become an itch under her skin. No one believed she was ready for the Appeal. Admittedly, her decorum was… at best, icy. None of the Royals or courtiers were terribly interesting, content to discuss trade or gossip. Whenever possible, she bucked formality and toed the line with rules she thought were preposterous. Rituals and traditions she found unfavorable were done robotically and with constant sarcasm or little joy. Her reputation as a beautiful and quiet princess was paired with warnings of her lethal verbiage, and unwavering disdain for the older laws in Fae culture, leaving her circle of courtiers almost entirely closed. Those that sought her favor were quickly shot down, and those that persisted played on the razor-sharp edge of the Princess's amusement. Emma wanted more.

She still visited Liam, even with the visitors milling around. His wing was dusted and set up for the lower courtiers who would not arrive until the appeal was in motion, which made it relatively safe. They wouldn’t be here for another few days.

“See this?” she said, pointing to a picture in the book she found in the library. She showed him a picture of a bear. “They’re tiny in the old land and they can’t talk well. Have you been there? Or to any of the other realms?”

He didn’t answer, only made a humming noise of amusement.

“I just… I want to see everything.” She closed the book, tracing its peeling leather binding. “Liam, can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

She sighed, letting her head knock back against the stone. “I don’t want to rule.”

“It’s your duty, it isn’t a matter of want,” he said after a moment. He almost sounded wistful.

“I know, but…” She looked up at the frame of his painting, trying to pretend that for just a moment the expectation of her birthright wasn’t a duty. “I just wish I’d had a chance to see anything. To do anything. To change things, and not sit rigidly until someone decides I can take my place in step with the set tread. I am going to be three thousand years old before I’ve even been kissed at this rate.” She thunked her head against the stone again. “I just want to know what the world has to offer before ruling it.”

“The world outside these walls isn’t everything. It’s good and bad, and a lot of in between.” His words were slow, and tired sounding. “Not everything is always going to be this way, no matter how much things seem to stay the same. Even you. Change can sneak up on you in an instant, Princess. You may find in time, the throne seems less like a cage and more like its own pair of wings.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She gathered up her books, heading back to her chambers. “I’ll see you after the appeal.”

She didn’t hear a reply.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“Emma!” Her mother sounded so surprised to see her, having only spoken in passing for weeks now. “Oh, Emma, you look beautiful.”

Emma sighed, the white dress beautiful on her frame. She fidgeted, and heard the seamstress hiss before a pin poked her thigh.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, Highness. Just, please stop moving -”

Emma huffed, uncomfortable. The appeal was starting soon and today had been a blur of misery. Her mother had managed to take time to see her here, and soon they’d walk to join her father in a greeting line. They’d greet the realms in order, lastly welcoming the Goblin envoy to their appeal, beginning the proceedings. This was the most important event she would have to attend at her station, her role heavy on her mind. All day she’d been puffed and preened, Regina had quizzed her for hours as she endured an ungodly amount of undergarments tied onto her.

“There. You look stunning, Highness.”

Emma looked in the mirror, and surveyed herself. Her hair was long and curled, white flowers and baby’s breath braided in a complex style along her crown, pieces pulled in loose waves that traveled down her back. The dress was fitted, the sharp square cut of the neckline made softer by the long lace sleeves falling about her wrists and a flare at the waist where layers upon layers of lace had been placed over traditional formal skirts. An over corset in the same white lace, pulled far too tight for her liking, finished the dress along with a train that fell behind which was only slightly less annoying.

It was another reminder that it was for no one. She was a naive, protected princess who would have a match picked for her one day. Emma sighed.

“Emma, you look radiant. Just beautiful,” her mother gushed, helping her off the seamstress’s pedestal. Emma's satin slippers made no noise on the stone floor. Another reminder that she was barely here at all, an ornament in an ongoing display.

“Thanks.” She took a step, and to only further her annoyance, realized she’d have to hold up her skirts as she walked if she wasn’t to trip down a set of stairs. Emma huffed, but when her mother's head snapped up, she hid it behind a cough.

“Are you ready for this?” Snow asked her, eyes gentle. Emma nodded, all emotions buried deep. ”Good. You’ll be fine.” She led Emma down the hallway, her father joining on her other elbow with a small, tired smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“There you are,” he whispered. “The two most beautiful women in all the realms.” Emma couldn't help the blush that crept up her cheeks, even if it was only her father saying it for kindness. She'd always been closer to him and his sunny disposition, finding comfort in his dismissal of the Royal Court’s norms. Lately, he chafed at her brisk dismissals, requests for freedom, and soured attitude regarding her duties; but today, it had been made abundantly clear, was about peace.

He held the rigid posture and thin lipped smile that the weight his title demanded. Emma looked down at her slippers. The beading caught the light as they stepped into the chamber where a procession of their courtiers awaited. Everyone was dressed in their most garish finery, most chatting quietly amongst themselves. August and Jefferson were quarreling over if they looked too matched, August assuring his jittery husband that they looked fine and shooting a wink towards Emma.

Ruby was talking animatedly with the others her age, telling tales as she often did to spook the courtiers.

“Watch the Goblins… they'll take you as a bride if you aren't careful! They make you drink their blood and you get married in the dark all alone, no one to hear your -”

“Screams!” Graham jumped from behind them, causing several shrieks while he and Ruby laughed. Emma felt a flare of jealousy, not realizing Ruby and Graham had grown so close. It wasn't surprising, her docket had been full of late, and they were allowed more free time. They were allowed fun, and rendezvous, no chaperone or appointments to keep. Taking a breath, jealousy joined the other feelings that were neatly bottled away within and concealed.

Regina stood apart, giving orders to several servants with Granny, confirming finishing touches and coordinating various tasks to solve anything that had gone amiss. Emma watched in bemusement as her archery instructor Locksley tried to gain a moment of her time to give her a rose for her hair, only to be ignored. He'd gone to tap her on the shoulder, only to have her scowling form round on him.

Emma didn't hear their conversation, but giggled, her parents both shooting her a look. She stifled it quickly.

With a clearing of her throat, Snow called the court to order.

“To another peaceful Appeal, and to the realms!” Snow proclaimed.

The court echoed her, their voices carrying as they led the procession to the meeting hall, where royalty and representatives were arriving.

There, guards on either side of the archway leading to the Receiving Hall and Grand Reception beat their staves to grab attention. The hall hushed into quiet anticipation. The Receiving Hall steps had been decorated with a plush purple runner, covered in luminous dust and moon flower petals, white flamed chandeliers making the polished marble floor gleam like bone in contrast. As her parents were announced, Emma swallowed the stone in her stomach as she stepped forward when her turn arrived.

“Princess Emma Swan N’Lan.” After a pause for bows, the guards used their staves to make three more echoing beats. “All may rise, and proceed to greet the Royal family.”

The procession that made its way to them was led first by their close kin, other Fae that held themselves to the Royal family's rule. Wood and Dark Fae greeted Emma with excitement, the latter in silvery clothes and kohl, the former in soft silk the color of autumn leaves. Pixies joined them shortly after, the rainbow of colors in their clothing shimmering only when hit by the light, reminding Emma of a beetle’s shell.

The Dwarves came next, short and full of pride, jewels and ribbon braided through their long beards or coiffed hair. Many of them offered rings or jewelry to Emma or her mother, but protocol dictated she must decline as to not show favor, much to her dismay. Her mother wore a Dwarf fashioned tiara, and snuck in rings or jewels regardless of perception, but she showed favor to most - on the surface, at least.

Their other close kin, the Elves, followed after. Tall, prideful, and very reclusive, they kept to themselves in a strict caste system. Emma had heard her father bemoan their interactions, calling them snobby and boring. Emma only thought they were beautiful, even without the ability to bend magic without a wand or channeling tool. They also could have children easier, which led to being reclusive in the first place, and the restrictive caste system leading to strong, ‘pure’ genes. Emma found that less beautiful, often decrying it to Regina in heated debate.

The elementals that followed next were thin, tall, robed Fae, in a rainbow of colors and swathed in a myriad of shimmering auras that corresponded with their element. Shape-shifters, they were a delight to the eye to behold. Dark brown or moss-green elementals stood tall as trees, root and vines or wildflowers climbing their skinny limbs. The few silver or albino wore halos of moon flower on antlers, glowing faintly under the chandeliers. A few simply looked human, wearing court finery that was barely distinguishable between Emma's own.

Their queen came last, a tall Hol blessed with the ancient curse of elemental enlightening, followed by her attendees that carried the same heavy gift. Snow had told Emma many times that it was these touched souls that had granted Emma her light magic, as it was written in their culture that her birth heralded a cosmic shift in balance after the war. They were a neutral party, never fighting unless the balance of the world had leaned, seeing all that could be and all that wasn't at once. Many of them traveled through time and the pocket realms to maintain the magic there, and prevent passage with unsanctioned portals or magic. Whatever side the scale tipped to in the end, they would find itself an ally in the Elementals.

In an absurd twist, one of the younger of the Elementals had been appointed to Emma for a small amount of time. He had measured her magic, disconcerting at first due to his brilliance and his shifted appearance of a young child. Named Henry, the Elemental turned out to be mischievous, making plans with code names, and reviving Emma's love of pranks. After she was chastised soundly for 'Operation Cricket', the Duke terrified to open his closet to retrieve his trousers, their friendship had been mitigated. They had been cordial, but Regina had loved having a child (even just in appearance) around the palace again, and took over separating them from each other. For to short a while it was like having a sibling. Henry had chosen another form since then, no longer a child but a man. He gave a sly wave and Emma winked at him.

The Seafolk (Sirens, Naiads, Mermaids and Nymphs) followed after, many wearing charms that allowed them to walk on land or suspending themselves in water. Emma shook hands with a curious crimson haired Mermaid princess encased in salt water, King David watching them amusedly as he spoke to the King of the Seafolk. The Anisapi tensed, but said nothing in that regard. There had been a long fight between the two races over the treatment of a race cast out by the war. Regina made it clear that Emma should know as little as possible about the entire sordid debacle, as not to ever show favor to either the Anisapi or the Seafolk. Any excuse to escape a lesson seemed good enough.

The procession finally ended, the court taking a reception with the different realms as they awaited the Goblins. Emma felt exhausted, her cheeks aching from the fake smile she had been wearing. An Anisapi approached her, a tall monkey with golden fur and large brown eyes in a dark emerald waistcoat. He spoke for several minutes during which she nodded politely and enthusiastically, until his paw had found its way into her hair, and his reedy voice had lowered.

An Anisapi female hurried over, another monkey with green ribbons braided in her reddish, bristling fur. She pulled the Lord away with multiple apologies and platitudes, and Emma composed herself. Anisapi were rarely so forward. Being primarily Fae and animal, they were trickster spirits yes, but not to their kin. Their Vizier, Pann, lounged on a chaise in his velveteen emerald vest coat, his goat haunches twitching as one of his satyr attendant boys fed him grapes. He gave Emma a saucy wink before pouring wine down his throat.

Emma marched over his way, shooting glares at giggling fans and satyrs that Pann kept in his clutch, their self placed moniker of Lost Boys disconcerting at almost a millennia old. The court whispered rumors about him being a treatise breaker, but her parents had never caught him and had only pleasant dealings to speak of. Many still swore that he broke their laws with flagrant disregard, returning to the human world with impunity. Some even said he had a realm of his own, a terrible lair of horrors beyond imagination, called ‘Neverland’.

Emma was unfrightened. The Anisapi leader, Heston, was a wise and honorable Anisapi; one of the last true forest Gods of the old world. He was ancient, but very brave and incredibly strong, a boar the color of a thundercloud, tusks long and unforgivingly sharp. Pann stood no chance against him, even with deceit and trickery.

“Do you mind Pann? Drinking before we begin seems -”

Pann snorted, arrogantly and without conceit. His snide tone reminded her of the trail a slug left, sticking to her skin like autumn leaves after rainfall. “Princess, I know you'd normally be in bed by now with a glass of milk, but wine is how some of us get these droll events over with. It's not like we can ritualistically disembowel a human anymore for fun.”

When her eyes widened and she gasped, he let out a loud guffaw echoed by his tittering following.

“Oh, Emma. Do calm down, we never did that at political events.” When Emma let out an indignant sniff, and whirled to turn away from him, she heard his snide reply call from behind her. “That was only on the solstices, darling.” More laughs came from behind her.

Stomping away, Emma retreated to a window to get away from the growing din of the excited crowd. She gazed out a window, waiting for the Goblins to appear at the castle gates. The sound of a throat clearing caught her attention, and she turned to look at a scaled man, green and gold mottled pale skin, topped with a shaggy head of brown hair mixed with eagle feathers. The Goblin, or half Goblin, had one brown eye and one reptilian gold, his teeth and nails sharp. Emma stood taller.

“I'm so sorry, good sir. I was unaware the Goblins had arrived and I beg pardon.” Emma curtsied, bending low. The man chuckled throatily.

“You must be Princess Emma. Your beauty becomes you, a truly beautiful woman and Fae." Emma blushed, the compliment so direct and forward, but within convention. The Goblin was well mannered, and it caught her unaware.

"I am, yes." Raising her head, she gave her hand for him to kiss, surprised by the delicate way he held it. His palms were a mix of soft and scaled smoothness, a long claw scraping along her wrist sending a chill across her skin. Emma pulled away harshly, his eyes narrowing in a way that made her feel increasingly uncomfortable. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing, with and without such formality?"

"I am Prince Nil of the Goblins, it is my pleasure to see you ripe. I have heard that we are both kindred spirits who push at formality and it's bindings. Is this true, beautiful one?” He gave a small bow, his words and the way he leered made Emma's skin crawl. His tongue flicked out, long and shinily wet, unmistakably forked as he licked his lips with not only far too much suggestion and luridness. Emma took a step back in spite of herself.

“I'd have you remember yourself, my Prince. It is… It is unbecoming for me to listen to or respond to such lewd language even given as a token of flattery. I beg of you to be less coarse.” Focusing with all she could muster of Regina's teachings, she glared pure ice.

“Ah, but it is me who must beg in your court.” He pinned her to the glass, his breath hot against her skin. Dragging a nail down from her ear to her neck, he grinned lavisciously. “In my own kingdom, I would not. I'd have you without treatise, without meetings, without conversations over diplomacy. Goblins take what they want. Formality has no place in true law.”

“Luckily for the both of us then, that I have a voice here to say no. I would keep my diplomacy and any other manner of dignity.” Emma ducked out from under his arm, eyes steely. “Good day, Pri-”

He snarled, harshly pulling her arm and yanking it with violent force. Emma let out a yelp but his hand clapped on her mouth as he pulled her head back by her hair.

“You do not dismiss me, you pompous Fae wench. I dismiss you. You are beneath me, a tool for a greater cause. I dismiss you, and in the underground, bitches like you have no voice." She bit at his hand, and the hiss that escaped his serpent mouth not in pain but something darker. Emma struggled, but his long fingers pushed against her tongue sharply, the sharp movements making her gag. "You are such a prize, my golden treasure, I will have you as mine."

Nil's breath was hot on her neck, withdrawing his fingers alshe took a gasp of air as he wiped them on her bodice, groping there, her embarrassment and rage at his lewdness finally snapping her out of surprise.

"Let go of me, you weasel swallowing, ill mannered, swine tongued -" Emma punched and kicked, his hand falling from her hair as she pushed Nil away. He caught her arm in mid blow, twisting to spin her into him, his front against her back so that she had to feel his body. He smelled like mildew, soil, garlic, and Emma gagged again.

The prince chuckled at her reaction, rubbing against her in a rolling motion that pushed him against her in ways left for a marriage bed. "We take them, just like we take our women, and that goes without questioning. Remember that Princess. I have a feeling you'll find it ever so important in your formalities .”

All etiquette fled her mind as she fought, trying to get away from the nightmarish creature. With an ungrateful twist, he wrenched her back further, grinding his pelvis against her lewdly before throwing her to the ground. Emma hissed up at his face, but Ruby and Graham interrupted them as the Goblin prince turned away, happily striding back to the party. Ruby ran to Emma's side, immediately worried.

“Emma, are you alright?” Ruby whispered, and Graham looked her over before glaring in the direction of the Goblin.

“Emma, did he -” Graham started, but Emma pushed herself up and shook her head with her best regal smile.

“I'm fine. Go back to the party, I'll speak with my parents about this. Don't worry, and no mention of this, it'll be fine.” Emma watched the two exchange worried glances, but they bowed and made their way back to the party with a few quick looks back. Emma let her face fall, chewing her lip. So much for everything going smoothly.

Hurrying to talk to her parents, she could hear their raised voices from the council chambers far before she entered, the council in place early by a quarter hour at least. Something was very wrong as a heated discussion was taking place.

“Absolutely not, Gold. We haven't considered it for various reasons, and feel maybe in the next couple centuries -”

“You're acting as if it will be a choice when it's clearly a demonstration of unity, strength, and power, bringing the realms together finally -”

An Elf spoke, “If that is the case, all kingdoms and realms should have claim, and a chance to give their dowry, not just you,” she cleaned her fingernails, bored. “Although it is a beneficial union.”

“My daughter has a choice in this!” her father hissed, and a few nobles laughed before realizing that it was not a joke. “She is a grown woman, and has made it clear she is not ready for -”

“I'm not ready for what?” Emma said, fury set in her resolved face. She walked towards her empty seat, her mother looking at her warningly, and her father looking ashamed and apologetic. “I believe that at last time I checked, I did have my own voice,” shooting a perfunctory glare at those who had laughed, she continued, “and I definitely have the power of choice.”

Her father sighed and started to speak before the Goblin cut him off, his voice registering as the man her father had called Gold. Rumplestiltskin Gold of the Gold bloodline, King of the Goblins.

“Princess Emma, my son and I have requested your hand in marriage to unite our kingdoms.” He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes and looked unnatural on his face. Emma stared at him, the taste of unsaid truths pouring off of him. This was not an ally. Something was wrong. “My son is taken with you, and begs of me to modernize. We -”

“Your son accosted me earlier, Your Majesty.” Gasps went around the table, the nobles shifting uncomfortably. Emma heard a dulled bang from far off, but ignored her parents exchange of looks. “And I am not some trophy to be won or pet to be caged. I am afraid that I will be declining your offer, even with the well deserved belief of modernization raised. I may be an outspoken critic of the way we go about our traditions, laws, and rituals, but I am also an outspoken critic of throwing them and decency out the window.”

“Well.” The scaled man slumped his shoulders and looked down, greasy strands of his stringy hair covering his face. “That is bad news then. I'm sorry to hear it.”

Snow moved subtly and slowly in Emma's peripheral as her father tensed. The Goblin King began to laugh, a strange giggling thing that shook his shoulders. Emma took a step back as he looked up, eyes full of impish glee and a true, sharp toothed smile on his face.

“I thought we might be able to do things the easy way, Dearie.” He cocked his head with that too large reptilian grin, and chaos rained down on the room. Powder exploded in different shades, guards leapt up while magic shot past from hands, wands, staves and who knew what else. Emma was transfixed until her mother yanked her through a wall panel and into a dark corridor.

“Mom, what -”

“Emma, hush. Listen, we're under attack and I… They're targeting you, alright? It isn't safe for us here. It's not safe for you.” Pushing open a loose tile, they dropped into a small closet as Snow raised a finger to her lips. Moving the tile back into place, she slid another panel open revealing more stairs that they used in haste. Catching their breath, Snow caressed Emma's cheek. “I need you to be braver than you've ever been, and more cunning than ever before. Your life depends on it; everyone's lives depend on it.”

They moved through the walls, her mother sometimes stopping to peer through a portrait as Goblins flooded the palace, iron weapons in hand. Other times her mother would open a passage for them to run through into another path, full of winding tunnels, spiraling staircases, and peepholes Emma had never known about, circling deep into the castle's depths.

They eventually reached a latched door that dropped into a crawlspace, both dropping down before coming up to stand in a windowless room the size of a larder. A small box rested on a lone shelf, and The Queen held it gingerly. Opening the lid, she pulled out a silver chain with a jagged piece of steel at its end, putting it over Emma's head where it lay coolly against her warm skin. Emma examined it carefully, noting the pointed end looked like either a sword tip or an arrowhead.

“Mom, What is this? Where are we going -”

“There's so much I don't have time to explain, and so much we tried to protect you from, Emma. I regret it now, but we don't have time to get into that either.” Her mother was crying, digging at the tiles on the floor that revealed a deep, dark, stairwell into rock hewn walls. “That's a piece of an ancient blade, the Vorpal blade, used to control the Darkness that tried to destroy everything in all worlds. It wanted, no, wants to cover everything in shadow, in pitch, and your father and I destroyed the blade with our love… and you. You're the purest light this world has ever known. With this shard, the Darkness cannot hurt you. We’ve kept you away from everything to keep it so, and now you are the only one who can fix what we couldn't.”

“I don't understand, what do I need to fix? What do I have to do?” Emma whispered. Her mother looked at her pleadingly as the wall in front of them began to shake.

“The Darkness had taken a vessel, and we… We decided that it deserved a chance, just like the Goblins. Your father and I tried, but it… He… He can't be redeemed, he can't see beyond his revenge. He's too dangerous, too dangerous to ever let out, until now. You have to seek his help, and not fall for his tricks, his offered deals, or his diversions, and then destroy him. You were born to destroy the Darkness and save us.”

The wall cracked, splintering. Her mother kissed her forehead and guided her down the stairs in front of her, pushing Emma into the murk of what lay below.

“I still don't know what -”

“I'm sorry, Emma. You are so strong, and so powerful. We are so proud of you, and believe in you. You are our daughter, our goodness, and love, and everything we've ever dreamed of you being. Go. Go and be safe.”

Letting go of Emma and pushing the tiles back in place, Emma called for her mother but stopped when she heard the outer wall splinter as her mother screamed.

“Snow… I tried -” Her father's voice, ending in a gurgling wet rasp.

“Quiet now, King David. Wouldn't want me to cut out your charming larynx in front of your wife, all because you were trying to play hero.” Gold’s voice, laughter mixing with his son's who was somewhere nearby.

“Don't hurt him. Please. You have our willingness to comply with whatever demands you make,” Snow said calmly. “I just ask you to please, let my husband and daughter go.”

“Your daughter? She's with you, you had her with you -”

“We lost each other when we came across some guards,” Snow raised her voice, convincingly selling the tale of her missing daughter. “She was supposed to hide. I told her to hide, and I would -”

“My concern involves finding your daughter, and the missing piece of the Vorpal blade I have in my possession. Find the princess. I want a true unification of the realms to begin as soon as possible, and everyone will suffer until I get my way,” Gold seethed. Emma held her breath as she heard footsteps move away. Quietly, she moved down the dark stairs into the damp underbelly of the caves to see what awaited her below her home.

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thescorpioracesfestival · 5 years ago

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Blood, a Shell, and Patience (Week 2)

It almost feels as if I’ve lost count of the days from the start of November to now. From going back and forth between the beach and a round pen and town and home, it just slipped by. I stopped counting minutes and instead my days were segmented into how many hours could be spent where.

I guess they weren’t kidding when they said the races really consume Thisby, and everyone on/ in them.

I stand in our small kitchen, leaned back against one of the granite countertops with my palms pressed against the sides of an old mug, stewing over a cup of mint tea. My mom is bustling around me, being careful not to bump my shoulder too much when she reaches past me for a container or bread or a bit of sugar. Ever since we stopped visiting the Mainland, she’s become smaller, with more greys in her dark brown hair and many more lines that filled in her face whenever she made certain expressions. Her hands became an islander’s hands again- rough and knobby, no longer smoothly shaped by Americans who didn’t know of our lands. She curses more and shakes her head at me when my father comes home and doesn’t say a word. Half the time I don’t know what to do.

When I pull myself out of the tangle in my brain, she is copying my stance, though her mug is resting against her lips- testing the coffee within. “It’s getting cold out, yeah?” She asks when she notices me looking at her, and I nod.

My mom has always had an odd way about asking questions without asking them- asking about the cold meant ‘are you still serious about this’, or 'are you still going to the beach’. I knew, and I knew she knew, because she met my eyes for a brief moment. “The mare hasn’t run herself back into the sea yet?” She says next, and the sigh that comes out of me feels weighted, like an anchor falling from my lips. “No. I won’t let her,” I reply, and she just nods slowly. I can see the lines of bitterness forming on her face again at my answer, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. Ki'ala was mine, and I wasn’t about to send her back to the waves for some thick-headed man in overalls to try and back her, only to die trying. It just wasn’t right. No matter how much she hated having her on our land, in our stalls, I wouldn’t let her go. Her disapproval was pointed and glaring, but I had to brush it off for now.

"I don’t understand your love for them,“ she tells me, and I push off of the counter, taking a long drink of my tea before pouring the rest of it down the drain. We’ve had this conversation before, a few times over now at least, and I don’t think I want to have it again. I pause in the doorway after tugging on my jacket when she clears her throat, glancing back over at her. "Watch your back,” she says in a softer voice, watching as I tap the back of my jacket in response. Years ago, she had embroidered a simple eye across the shoulders of it, all in black, for when I went down to the beach to watch the races. Little did she know then, it would come in handy now.

My stance on our annual races is much, much different than my mother’s. She never liked me running off to the cliffside to watch men cross the line alive, or to watch men get pulled into the ocean for a capall’s next meal. Many of the times when we’d be on the Mainland, her and my father would bring me to their races and say “This is how a race should be! Not like those killer ones back home” but I never listened. My father knew I wasn’t going to stop running to the sea because it called to him too, though he never outwardly said it; though he didn’t have to. I could see it in the way he’d peer near endlessly out the window toward the cliffs, his eyes dancing with a life he had before he was married, or dancing with the life of a capall he used to own. It was more her trying to convince me than him all those times, anyway. I didn’t know if she saw what I did in his face.

Despite not approving of it, she never really stopped me, which I guess led to this. Led to me, walking a bucket of fresh meat into a stall of a mare I am slowly trusting. I have always loved them- they kept you on your toes. You never knew if any of the men on the beach would make it, if they would even get as far as the finish line. How could you not watch?

I let out a sigh of relief when Ki’ala lets me in, listening to the low clicks she gives me in response. As I dump the bucket into her food pan, I click my tongue back to her, pressing my palm against her withers when she steps forward to eat. Her and I haven’t had the easiest time bonding, but after a good few months of me not letting her run away and continuing my practices, she’s finally accepted me. She lets me in her stall without that terrible smile on her face, and lets me stand with her while she eats now- it almost feels like a blessing. A blessing from the mysterious Mare Goddess, who I’ll be seeing soon enough.

The locals like to say you either have Thisby in you, or you don’t, and they always joke about how all the Mainland tourists must have some of it in them too because they never stop coming back. Usually, I never see the same people twice, but I did hear about a redheaded male who came over to live here with the Wilde brothers last year because he just couldn’t stay away. Maybe it’s true, I’m thinking to myself as I slide through the crowds that fill Skarmouth’s streets, breathing in the cold breeze. It smells like the sea and November cakes and alcohol, foods that are made specifically for this time of year, and colognes I’ve never smelled before. Everything the races create is bursting from our streets, out of tourists, out of men too daring for their own good. It makes me smile til my cheeks hurt- and makes me remember why I love this island.

Skarmouth during the time of the races is a hungry thing. It makes us riders feral, knowing what it wants. It makes the call of the sea so much harder to resist. Two girls giggle and call out to me as I pass, but I don’t pay any mind. Usually, I would’ve paused to talk with them, but I know they’re probably full of drinks they can’t remember the name of and their lips are painted in different shades of red that they might want to leave smeared on a poor soul’s skin. Sirens of the mainland is what their type is called, and they’re everywhere. Fortunately for them, a lot of the local men are.. Easier than others.

The town is vibrant, all colors of the seasons and the ocean. My breath is a thin cloud when it leaves my lips, joining streams of cigarette smoke and embers from the bonfire in the sky. There are bicycles piled up on the sides of buildings and girls attached to boys with ribbons and bells hanging from them- all things I’ve recalled from over the years. Skarmouth is wild and as drunk as the tourists, beaming at me, pulling me along.

I’m caught at the elbow before I nearly walk in front of the drummers, pounding a ragged pulse that reverberates through my bones. I feel it in the soles of my feet, in my temples- it makes my chest fill with the magic of the land. Behind them dances a woman, the Mare Goddess, in her horse head and blood red tunic, stepping lightly over the cobblestone beneath her. My breath catches in my throat, watching as she cups her hands and pours a pile of sand at the feet of some tourists. They clap along while the locals stomp, beaming at her. Her eyes never blink, the illusion of them winking in the light is all that relieves me as she turns this way and that. I look away for nothing more than a second, when I hear a breath that sounds like the ocean and the way Ki’ala breathes when we’re on the beach; and when I turn back, she’s standing before me. There’s blood soaking dark into her tunic, and into the fur of the head, and the longer I stare, I start realizing I can’t tell where she really starts being human. My eyes trick me when she exhales again, making me think the nostrils really flare out when I feel the breath on my face. My heart beats with the drums.

Her hand comes up quick, taking hold of my jaw. It is rough and she holds me in an almost bruising grip- I feel my knees shake for a second under her grasp. The eyes shimmer under the lights, and the sounds of the people around me seem to fade when she speaks. “You’re a daring one, you know,” she says, her voice as gravelly as the sand she dropped to those tourists. I swallow my heartbeat and open my mouth to ask her what she means, but she continues before I can. There is blood on my skin, and dripping onto the collar of my jacket.

“Trust your mare, Mason Grace. You will be surprised with what you get in return,” she releases my jaw when she finishes her sentence, and wipes her palms over my cheeks. The blood left behind is icy, and I stutter as she drops sand in my open hands. A single shell sits in my palm, and I just stare at it for a moment before looking back to her. She’s stepped away from me now, and I swear I hear her laugh as she continues her trek down the street.

I have goosebumps everywhere.

A man groups up all of this year’s riders and we’re hurried to the rock, where I sit in line balling and unballing my hands in the wait. I’m uneasy after my interaction with the Mare Goddess, feeling the shell like a weight in my pocket. It feels good to be here, but I can’t get her laugh out of my head or the feeling of the dried blood on my skin to go away. Men and women alike climb the rock, stare at the blood, a few go pale when they come back down. I’ve never been so ready for something, I think. I peer at the woman on the rock, wondering who she is behind the beaked headdress, a shaky exhale leaving my body when she gestures to me. There are mutterings behind me as I step up, but I imagine that they’re not about me as I hold out my hand. “I will ride,” I say after clearing my throat, looking at the woman and then at the stars.

“Mason Grace. Ki’ala. By my blood.”

And then it’s official. The knife slices through my skin as easy as butter, and I watch my blood joined the growing pool beneath my feet. The woman thanks me and it’s over, I’m stepping down and the ocean is calling.

It’s time to return home.

#TSRF2019 #submission #the scorpio races festival #TSRF2019: its-a-shadow-thing #TSRF2019: Rider Challenges #TSRF2019 RC5 #TSRF2019 RC6 #TSRF2019 RC7 #TSRF2019 RC8

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btsimaginefactory · 7 years ago

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At the Beach with BTS - Moodboards and Scenarios

{{i’m sorry that these are messy but it was so hard trying to paint the picture without the board looking too busy and iM SORRY. It’s less “oo aesthetics” and more that these are to give you pics for your mind. But I hope you’re still into this💖}}

Seokjin

“Are you happy?”

You smile gently at Seokjin words, twining your fingers with his as you both sit on the riverbank. More than a dozen stripped box turtles, all in various sizes and ages, paddle cutely at the edge, waiting for more pieces of carrots to be throw from their generous new friends. “I am so happy Seokjin.”

Seokjin’s smile gleams in the light of the sunset, and he leans to kiss you on your temple. He’d wanted to go to the beach with you for a long time, and now you finally had the time. Seokjin rented a house situated strategically between the secluded shoreline and the marsh. What had drawn him to this beach was the privacy, yes, but it was also the beautiful variation of landscapes and an abundant amount of wildlife. In the morning you watched wild horses play on the beach from your balcony, naming each one and giving them elaborate back stories, narrating their interactions. Seokjin was startled by how close they came to the house and how at peace they seemed living side by side with humans.

Almost every afternoon was spent under the umbrella on the sand with packed lunches; idly fishing for minnows before letting them free again as you watch the vibrant sunset over the horizon, and nights spent counting endless stars.

“Listen I’m telling you, THAT one is the big dipper,” you stress.

“No, it’s not because that star should be over there if it’s the big dipper!”

“...Jin you can’t just move stars around to prove yourself right.”

Several days the two of you went to local shops, exploring all the beautiful and wacky things you could find. He was especially drawn to a hobby shop that had all kinds of intricately made sculptures from shells and driftwood. Seokjin commented that he liked he couldn’t find any two alike, and in that same way he could never find someone exactly like you who he loved so much. A slap is quickly delivered to his arm at his gushy words, making him laugh, but getting a kiss from you in the end.

Yoongi

“Yoongi you do realize coming to the beach in the winter kind of defeats the purpose of coming to the beach,” you sigh, looking out the sliding glass doors of your hotel room overlooking the ocean shore. He’s already outstretched on the giant king-sized bed, humming in satisfaction when you come and kick his leg.

“Ow sheesh,” he exclaims, eyes meeting your crestfallen face. “Okay well, I did in fact plan this very carefully and invested many hours to make things perfect.”

He rolls over and leans down to his bag, pulling out some pieces of paper and holding them in front of his gummy grin. You have to squint, but the bright letters of a pamphlet for a well know indoor water park is undeniable.

“NO WAY,” you gasp, snatching them out of his hands and rifling through the packet. “Are you serious?”

He nods.

“Really really? As in you’re actually gonna play with me and not be a lazy potato chip?”

“I am! I promise,” he laughs. “Why do you think I spent so much time picking stuff out for us to do? Don’t you see the view,” he gestures dramatically at the balcony. You can’t help but laugh and pull his cheeks in for a kiss, making him look very pleased.

Yes it was true you’d agreed to go to the beach with Yoongi during the dead of winter, but the surprise and lively atmosphere you found was exactly what the two of you needed. The hotel was connected to the water park by an indoor bridge, and surprisingly, Yoongi cared the giant inflatable unicorn proudly each day, bopping you in the head with it constantly. After swimming and playing, and him throwing you down one to many insane waterslides, you crash in the hotel room with warm comfort, room service, and movies.

Yoongi kisses your forehead and smiled as you lay in his arms. “So should we do the same thing tomorrow or should we go see some of the other things around here?”

Hoseok

When you were looking for a place to rent at a nearby beach online, Hoseok was immediately drawn to the strip of brightly colored buildings on the boardwalk. “Let’s go there! That’s so pretty! And there’ll be lots of places to go.” And so you did, spending loads of time in different shops, buying way too many souvenirs, and an equal time relaxing on the beach.

It was probably a bad idea to suggest a sandcastle building competition because 3 hours later you realized you’d both spent the whole day building a mini-utopia; giving up the competition after signing a treaty to no more sand thrown and opting instead to build your own joined kingdoms. Hoseok desperately tried to save one crumbling wall as the tide came in, but sank to his knees in defeat, promptly having a wave crash over his head from behind as if to add insult to injury. He comes crying to you as you laugh at his dripping wet, salty face, but is sure to trap you in a hug to get you wet as well.

“Baby how about we just shower and order takeout,” he suggests when you arrive at the condo, panting after climbing the 3 flights of stairs.

“How can you be tired from that, you literally can dance nonstop for way longer,” you huff, throwing a towel in his face.

After taking a soothing shower together, the two of you crash on the bed with your take out and TV, while finding all the little red areas you missed with sunscreen where each of you were now burned. “See I told you-you should have put some behind your ears,” he scolds and you simply cover his face with your hands.

“Shh, shh, shh, don’ worry ‘bout it.”

Namjoon

It was the best surprise you’ve ever gotten in your life. When you told Namjoon you were staying at the beach with your family, expressing that you wished he could be there to experience it with you, he decided to do just that. After secret communications with your family, seemingly out of the blue he shows up at your door and you almost knock him over completely in your enthusiastic hug. You introduce him formally to your family, and they immediately like him, if only by the way you glowed around him. They realize quickly he must be an incredible person and one who was absolutely good for you.

Being able to share this important time with him was everything; watching him grow comfortable with everyone, and hiding in embarrassment at all the stories they spilled from your childhood; everything felt so at home about him. The next day you were dragging him out of bed much too early to spend it all with him on the beach. Needless to say he was terrified when you warned him about not swimming in the ocean because of sharks, but he excitedly dug for sand-fiddlers and mole crabs, putting them in a bucket and examining them before letting them free again. That very evening, you two were lucky enough to watch sea turtles hatch, lining up with the other people watching, and giving them a protected path to the ocean as Namjoon squeals in delight.

Every night was filled with good meals and laughter, playing in the heated pool under the stars, and cuddling up in bed sharing stories, relishing that you had him there in the flesh. He pushes your hair behind your ear as he cradles you in his arms. “I wish I could stay here with you forever.”

“Me too Namjoon,” you say with a sad smile, trying not to even think of this time together ending.

“But we will soon.”

Jimin

It wasn’t Jimin’s most favorite idea when you told him you had booked a shared home at the beach; he didn’t know if he felt comfortable staying with strangers. It was an older couple who, after their children grew up and left, opened up a section of their house for travelers so they could share this place with people from all around the world. Jimin agrees though, and in only a few hours of being there, he was so glad that he did.

When you arrive at the bungalow nestled in the seaside forest, the couple takes you on a tour around the house, and more importantly, outside on one of the many trails. After getting over that initial little bit of awkwardness, you and Jimin didn’t turn down a single activity they suggested, for all of them were so perfectly new and exciting. You slowly watched Jimin come out of his shell, bouncing around like the happy, adventurous boy you loved. His favorite part was kayaking through the marsh and inlet, canopied by tall, vibrant trees, and hundreds of different species of birds chattering amongst the reeds.

“Woah look at that one,” Jimin yells in a hushed voice, pointing at a bright white, gangly crane fishing at the bank. “Did you see how it just snapped it’s beak in there and grabbed the fish? It was so fast, like whoosh! I could probably do that.”

“... Jimin what are you even saying?”

“It’s because you don’t believe in me, that's why I can’t grab a fish out of the water with my bare hand.”

You have to stop your eyes from rolling all the way back into your head as he giggles. When you return to the house, you’re all gathered around a fire pit in the backyard to eat dinner, eagerly telling the couple all about where you were from. You fall asleep on his shoulder as you lay beneath the stars, peacefully breathing in the salty air and wondering what tomorrow will bring.

Taehyung

“Greece?!”

“Greece!”

You can only pause. “Greece?”

Taehyung nods in confirmation. “Greeeeeece!” He’d seen a picture float across the internet somewhere of this beautiful resort, and he immediately knew he had to take you. Taehyung is one who is always ready for an adventure and travel, so he expects you to be the same. The resort is at the foot of a mountain, the bright blue sea as a backdrop, making the large sanded smooth white buildings look majestic and nothing short of magical. You have a cabin to yourselves, one in front of a small private pool that glowed purple in the evening; one that you convinced him to go skinny dipping in. It’s easy to have fun with Taehyung, even in a foreign place, but he takes special care to make the trip especially romantic and appreciative. He pampers you like royalty and announces that you are going to be his official model for all his pictures he had yet to take.

“Wow you are a natural,” Taehyung chuckles as he snaps a picture of you posed beneath a twisted tree. “I didn’t even have to tell you what to do.”

“Practice makes perfect I suppose, and so does such a handsome teacher,” you say, pecking his lips. The day is spent on the sand under a large tent, and yes you did have to wait before starting to drink your fancy drink because he wanted to photograph it all, but with his cute grin how could you say no?

Jungkook

“Jungkook don’t you think this is a bit much,” you ask, setting your bag down in the foyer just as Jungkook runs past you around the expansive dining room.

“No no of course not! We’re only young once; when else would we have this opportunity? Come on,” he grabs your hand and pulls you along, peeking in every room as if looking for something. After ‘oo-ing’ and ‘aw-ing’ at the bright coral walls and happy paintings, you head downstairs to find perhaps the biggest reason your boyfriend rented this particular beach house.

“Oh my gosh now I get it,” you say, holding the bridge of your nose but getting equally excited as you’re greeted with a giant arcade room. A flat screen tv, new video games as well as classic arcade games, a ping pong table, and even a pool table were all sitting shiny and tempting and Jungkook is giggling like a kid in a candy store.

You barely have time to reach him before his eyes meet something outside the window in the backyard. “Oh. My. Gosh. There’s a jet ski,” he whispers, instantly bolting towards the door with you yelling behind him.

“Jungkook for God’s sake please don’t kill yourself!!”

You’d thought it was a little wasteful to rent a three-story house with 8 bedrooms for only the two of you, but he quickly washes away your worries with the private pool and access to the dock with a jet ski and kayaks, as well as running around the large house and screaming your lungs out just because there was no one there to stop you. The house was at the end of a small, private cul de sac, and a mere golf cart ride to the shore. It was quieter than you would’ve imagined you’d enjoy, but as you sit on the crows nest overlooking the inlet, watching Jungkook photograph the sunset, you couldn’t imagine anywhere else on earth you’d rather be.

{{I’ve actually experienced three of these imagines AND IF YOU CAN CORRECTLY GUESS WHICH THREE, YOU GET *spins roulette wheel anxiously* ... ah... ha ha... apparently to punch me in the d💫}}

-Admin Chaejeong

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mae-i-scribble · 7 years ago

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Whisper Secrets To The Wind

This is the second piece for you @madmachaca. Merry Christmas again! This one is fantasy based though. I’ll let you have fun looking up the hints Scottish legends I mixed in with it. I should probably mention here that I’m not familiar with the comics or some of the other characters you mentioned, so that’s why I stayed focused on the main cast more than anything. Also this is my first time writing Scrooge so I’m not really sure how well I captured his character. Here goes nothing I guess :D

P.S This title is just something that came to me and it sounds a lot deeper than the story is to be honest.

P.P.S Would you mind if I posted both stories to archiveofourown and fanfiction.net? I’ll still say who they were gifts to.

Scrooge scans the forest in front of him, relishing in the crisp air coming down from the mountains in the near distance. Oh, how he’s missed this. The unexplored wilderness in front of him, teeming with dangerous creatures and magical traps. A grin makes its way across his face, and he goes to step forward.

“Boys! Get back here!” Right. He wasn’t alone.

“Can ye keep it down?” Scrooge scolds Donald. “You’ll bring every brownie in the area down our throats.”

“Stay in front of me.” Donald doesn’t directly answer Scrooge, instead ushering the wee ones- he’ll get their names down eventually- in front of him. With a sigh, Scrooge begins to trek forward, slipping through the trees. The hood of his robe is pushed back with the help of a stray branch, and hastily, he pulls it up again. He can’t even begin to count the number of protective charms and spells woven into it after all.

And at the very least, the robe helps to block out some of the noise coming from behind him. Donald’s armor clinks with every step he takes, sword tapping against his side. The wee ones, while not dressed in such noisy clothing, are a nonstop chatterbox, bouncing off one another like marbles.

Maybe he should have come here alone. They were supposed to be tracking down a rogue Cu Sith that had been plaguing the town nearby. The reward offered had already been too big for Scrooge to resist, and the prospect of a hunt just another bonus. He hates dealing with strictly magical dealings; they are just plain boring at best, and deadly whenever De Spell gets her slimy hands into it.

The blue one and the Vanderquack child had clamored relentlessly to convince him to let them come with. And the others had joined in not too long after. And yet again, he found himself unable to deny them. Maybe he should investigate whatever charm those children seemed to have him under.

Reluctantly, Scrooge admits to himself he’s grateful that Donald is here- specially to keep the wee ones under control. Donald had been his sidekick for years even without having access to magic; the duck was worth his weight in feathers at the least.

Something wet smacks against his back, and Scrooge rounds on the wee ones. They all freeze like sheep under his scowl, simultaneously pointing to Dewey.

“Lad.” Scrooge growls, Donald also puffing out his chest to say something, but before either of them can get anything else out, a howl cuts through the air. It’s close, far too close for Scrooge’s liking. Another howl follows it, this one closer than the last. By the time the last howl rings out, him and Donald have put themselves in a protective circle around the wee ones.

“Get ready guys.” Donald tells the children, sword already drawn. It’s a beautiful thing really, one of the spoils from their first adventure together, so long ago Scrooge almost remembers it like it was another life. It curves slightly, ancient runes engraved into its metal, ones that haven’t been deciphered to this day.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scrooge can see bubbles of water start to float around the blue one. The red one crouches, spikes pushing past his feathers and through his own tunic. The Vanderquack child’s skin ripples as she sheds her duck disguise for her real appearance. A fledgling Biasd, her teeth and claws still small, but sharp.

The green child doesn’t seem to summon much of anything though, his eyes simply flashing from bush to bush in what is probably panic. Scrooge hasn’t seen an ounce of magic in him thus far, even throughout their very first quest to find a sunken city- he’s going to have to ask about it later. A lad that young and without magic does not have an ounce of business being on these kinds of expeditions.

Scrooge tears his eyes away, he cannot be focusing on anything else but their surroundings. A Sith hunts in complete silence. The only way they’re going to have a chance is if him or Donald can react the moment it jumps out.

His cane gives off a slight glow, the runes Scrooge had painted on responding to his magic. Arcane spells sit on in the back of his throat, waiting to be spoken at a moment’s notice.

A black and green blur jumps out to Scrooge’s left, and he swings his cane. He must be getting slow though, because the blur ducks under his swing and lunges straight towards the wee ones.

Scrooge is only halfway turned around and a third of the way through one of his more complex spells, when the blur darts out, escaping into the forest.

“Louie!” Donald screams, and Scrooge realizes they’re one short. The wee ones follow in suit, the blue one nearly dashing after the beast.

“Wait.” Scrooge blocks his escape with his cane, sending a pointed glare in Donald’s direction. “I got a tracking spruce ring, we might as well use it so that it doesn’t get the jump on us.”

Donald grits his teeth, but with another glance towards the wee ones, he sighs. “Fine. Huey. Dewey. Webby. Stay with us. We can find him.”

“But Uncle Donald.” Dewey- Scrooge swears he’ll remember it this time- argues. “Louie could be hurt or scared or-”

“But he’s good with animals.” Huey, the red one, cuts in with a worried frown. “It’s his thing, right? If anyone can calm it down, it’s him.”

“I can’t smell any blood nearby.” Webby offers, staying in her Baisd form.

“Exactly.” Scrooge tuts, pulling out a band of spruce firs wrapped in holly from one of his pouches. He whispers the ancient words into its leaves, telling it to guide them to Louie. It shines for a moment, before rising into the air and floating off into the forest. “And with-”

“Make sure you watch the kids!” Before Scrooge can even finish, Donald is already dashing off, the wee ones following him. Scrooge quickens his pace to catch up with them, sighing.

It takes them well over half an hour before the spruce even starts to slow down. The wee ones are almost dead on their feet, and while Scrooge is just starting to feel the edges of tiredness, Donald keeps on plowing forward, showing no signs of strain.

The spruce abruptly stops, dissipating into the air in front of a small den a few feet away from them. Donald raises a hand, and the wee ones stop. Scrooge keeps inching forward until he’s side by side with Donald, whispering. “What’s the plan?”

Donald silently draws his sword, the runes already glowing. “We get Louie.”

A shriek rings out from the den, and Scrooge can feel his stomach dropping. The lad isn’t exactly someone Scrooge chooses to spend time with, but still…

Another shriek rings out, and as Scrooge listens closer, it’s a shriek of…laughter?

He turns to ask Donald, but he finds that his nephew has already sheathed his sword.

“Louie. Come on out.” Donald shouts, and its more with annoyance than anything else.

Louie pokes his head out from the den, completely unscathed, and Scrooge can feel his confusion growing.

“Hey guys.” Louie greets them with a wave. “Fun fact, the Sith guy was only attacking the villager when they got to close to-!” Louie is suddenly shoved forward, tumbling out of the den completely. Behind him, a tiny head with a lolling tongue pokes out.

“Is that a-?” Scrooge is interrupted by a collective shout of “Puppy!” from the wee ones, and he flinches back with a grumble as they run forward. He watches as it turns tail and races back into the den, leaving the children sighing. Webby has gone back to her duck form, probably as to not scare it, good planning on her part.

“Louie.” Donald rumbles, stern. Louie looks up sheepishly, a hesitant smile on his face. “What did we say to do when your kidnapped by animals?”

“Tell them to bring me back.” Louie gives a resigned sigh, and Scrooge has a feeling this is going to be a regular occurrence.

Suddenly a growl comes from within the forest, and Scrooge readies his cane as the real Cu Sith steps out. Now that he can see it, he registers that it stands about a head above him. It’s a wolf more than anything, but its fur shines a light green, darker green streaks outlining its eyes, and its black claws curl forwards and dig into the ground.

A hand places itself on his shoulder, and Scrooge whirls around, only to find himself pointing his cane at Donald.

“Let Louie handle this.” Donald says with confidence, and Scrooge lowers his cane. If there is one thing he knows from the week and a half spent with his newly moved in family, it’s that Donald is more overprotective than an angry badger. If Donald is willing to let Louie try, then Scrooge knows that the lad isn’t in any real danger.

Scrooge turns, seeing that Louie is walking up to the Sith, completely relaxed. Just as he gets close, his start to glow with the familiar shine of magic. Then he opens his beak, and starts to growl and whine straight back at the Sith.

“Oh lord.” Scrooge presses a hand to his temple, ruffling the feathers slightly. The lad was a master of tongues, one of the few abilities rarer than Scrooge’s. He takes another look at this mismatched bunch he’s taken in. Donald, without magic, the blue- Dewey, that one is Dewey, is an elemental, Huey- he’s pretty sure, all their names rhyme regardless- an alchemist, and the last one a master of tongues. That’s not even counting Beakley and Webby, both of them Biasds, and Launchpad, descended from the Oilliphéists.

Scrooge looks back up, seeing the calm and almost happy Sith licking Louie affectionately, and wonders what he really got himself into.

#ducktales 2017 #ducktales #scrooge mcduck #donald duck #huey dewey and louie #huey duck #dewey duck #louie duck #fantasy au #magica de spell #she's only mentioned though #webby vanderquack #mrs beakley #launchpad mcquack #they are also only mentioned #scrooge doesn't know anybodies name #and is also very confused and overwhelmed by his new family

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jaredrayner · 7 years ago

Text

Freedom

I woke with a sharp breath. The icy morning air burned my throat. A cloud of steam emanated from my mouth. My neck was stiff; my back sore. I fell asleep on the floor again, exploring the constellations plastered on the deep purple sky painted on my ceiling. I sat up on the cold wooden floor and leaned against my bed. I pulled the dark gray, fur-lined afghan from my mattress and draped it over my shoulders. Mornings were always this cold. I preferred to feel the cold rather than the dry, warmed air from my radiator so I rarely ever turned it on. I’d like to say I didn’t make a habit of sleeping on the floor. I’d also like to say I was bothered by the silence of an empty house, but I don’t like to make myself a liar.

My peers called me eccentric, weird. I didn’t mind. I’d rather be weird than stale. Even as a child, I preoccupied myself with the extraordinary and fantastic instead of the mundanities of the everyday. I’ve always found the sky particularly intriguing. The stars held a sort of mystery for me, almost like they kept the answer to a question I wasn’t even sure I had. My parents painted the constellations on my ceiling when I was young shortly before my mother passed away of pneumonia. My father passed not long after in an accident at the power plant. I imagined they gave me the stars in an attempt to instill within me a sense of wonder, and I like to think they succeeded.

The clock ticked to 9:00 a.m., the morning work alert sounded, two loud, high-pitched tones. I slipped on my coat and shoes and stepped out the door. The expectedly cold air bit my cheeks; the soft, white ground shifted with my footsteps. The air was always cold, and the ground was always white, neither condition allowing for the productive growth of any plant life. The greenhouse was located at the edge of town, butted up against the 20 foot tall chain-link fence separating us from the unknown. I was lucky to have been assigned to work in the greenhouse. The warm, wet air felt natural, comforting.

The greenhouse was the source of the majority of the food in the community. We’d been taught that most wild animals went extinct decades, maybe centuries ago. On a rare occasion, a bird would fly overhead, a spectacle for all those lucky enough to see it. As I watered, pruned, and weeded my plants, I felt a sense of importance. No matter how much of a loner I may have been, I found my place in society knowing that I was contributing to the wellbeing of everyone I knew.

The border fence was in place for our protection, at least that’s what we were told. It was rumored that years ago some daring kids had managed to scale the fence only to trigger an alarm at the top. The kids were apprehended by the police before they could reach the other side. It was a sort of game to throw garbage and other objects over the fence. Some objects landed safely while other, heavier items sank below the surface. But to what? Digging up the surface only ever revealed more fluffy white, so why did the ground seem so unstable beyond the fence?

History beyond about a century ago didn’t exist. I spent hours and hours in the library reading everything I could about the foundation of the city and the installation of the fence, but found very little of interest. I had developed a few theories to explain the absence of any earlier records. Among my favorites were a government conspiracy geared toward hiding a dark secret, and the abduction of everyone old enough to know the past by an alien race from outer space. Of course, it’s likely that the truth was much simpler and much more dull, but that didn’t stop my mind from wandering. I knew there was something out there; after all, the birds had to come from somewhere.

The day flew by, and the sun began to set. The sky was bathed in a warm orange that signaled it was time to head home. The end-of-workday alert sounded. As I locked up the greenhouse, a flash of blue caught my eye as it darted by the side of the building. I eagerly ran around the corner to find the most beautiful bird I’d ever seen perched on the roof. The bird’s chest was white, its back bright blue with black and white accents. It sat in place, scrunched into a tight lump of ruffled feathers. Of all the birds I’d seen, this was the only one be anything other than solid black or white. I was completely mesmerized as I watched the black-beaked creature slowly survey its surroundings. Without warning, the blue bird spread its wings wide and flew down behind the greenhouse. I chased after it, hoping to see it gracefully soaring the skies, but, to my surprise, it was gone and in its place was something that made my heart stop: a hole in the fence.

It’s hard to say how the gap in the fence came to be, but for once I could honestly say I wasn’t concerned with the hows and whys. For all I knew, the blue bird had made the hole itself. I was only sure that I had an opportunity to get to the other side, and I could not pass it up. I tentatively touched the sharp broken edges of the metal wire comprising the fence. It looked as though a vertical cut had been made in the chain-link, and the two sides of the cut has been pulled apart just enough for a person my size to slip though. So I did.

There was no immediate difference on the other side. The same cold air, soft ground, and orange twilight sky comprised the scene. I took slow, cautious steps forward following a precarious trail of garbage indicating solid ground until I found a weak spot in the white expanse. I knelt down and used my hands to examine the ground. It felt different, thinner, less stable. I felt around for any items that may have fallen just below the surface but found nothing. It felt like a void that went on forever. I was so occupied with my search that I didn’t notice my legs begin to sink into the ground. As I continued to sink faster and faster, I tried to drag myself back onto a firm footing, but it was no use. I sank completely beneath the plush surface.

At first, the descent below ground was steady and quiet. I wasn’t sure what to expect at the bottom. Water? Fire? When the surface final broke, I was struck with cold, whipping wind deafening me to everything, including my own screaming, as I continued to fall. As I flipped limply through open air, I saw a massive wall of white above me shrinking from my view. I saw orange sky fading into red as it approached the horizon. I saw a misty lavender abyss below me. I also saw birds. Some fluttered by me, some flew off in the distance in an odd V formation. They seemed to belong here in this vast area of sky. I spread my arms out like wings, mimicking how the birds flew. I wasn’t sure what awaited me at the end of my fall, but I was now certain what existed beyond the fence: freedom.

#Freedom #short story #Jared Rayner

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lotus0kid · 8 years ago

Note

Happy 5th anniversary!!!! 🎆🎆🎉I have a prompt, Belle is pregnant and while out on a date( or just out of their house) with her husband Rumple, her water breaks.

OUaT: Anniversary Fic the 12th

((Thanks for prompting! Hope this works for you.))

“Are you warm enough?”

It must be the sixth time he’s asked, but Belle’s endlesspatience allows her to reply, “Perfectly.”

Rumpel still peers over the top of her head at the smallspace heater placed on the back porch, where they sit beneath a blanket ofstars. It’s growing colder at thebeginning of October, but he’ll do whatever it takes to allow Belle tocomfortably venture out into the open, breathe fresh air and feel the wideworld around her. She’s been in far toomany cages.

Moderately assured that all is well, he settles beside her,curling his arm a little more firmly around her shoulders. His other hand hovers near her hip. Without even looking, she catches his wristand lays his hand over her round belly. An automatic smile lights Rumpel’s face, even as an undercurrent of fearcontinues to flow, whispering that this won’t last, it’s too wonderful, it’llget snatched away, he’ll ruin it, just wait and see. He draws in and releases a deep breath, anddrowns the whispers in a bath of stars.

A cloud sails by and slowly reveals a shining crescentmoon. Beside him, Belle lets out a smallhum.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, filled withcuriosity.

“Just an old story, from home. About where stars come from.”

“Yes?”

“They’re the children of Umera, the goddess of night. She places them in a cradle, which is thecrescent moon. When the moon grows full,they go out into the sky, as stars.”

“A child every month, that’s a large family. Is there a father?”

Belle smiles and dips her chin. “Yes. Vinaos, the god of the day.” Belle turns to fix her eyes on Rumpel. “He brings light to Umera’s darkness.”

Beneath Rumpel’s hand, he feels the tap of a tiny kickingfoot. He grins, “I think the little onelikes that story.”

Belle’s chuckle is full of warmth and love as she pressesher hand over Rumpel’s. “Not long beforewe get to meet them.”

“No, not long.”

Belle rests her head on Rumpel’s shoulder, and they wait forthe future to arrive together.

---

Rumor has it that Rumpelstiltskin is working on some new objectof terrible dark magic. The shop hasn’tbeen open for days, though a brave soul snuck around back and peeked through awindow to see him bent over his arcane work. The spy could only say it seemed to be made of black fabric and that hewas sewing something into it with fierce concentration. It was decided that no move would be madeagainst the sorcerer, not yet.

Currently, said sorcerer is having a cup of tea and readinga book one evening when his wife returns from the library. At this point in Belle’s pregnancy, Rumpel isready to beg her to stay home, but she simply promises not to do any heavylifting and goes her own way. He mustadmit that the library is her first child, and she will care for it as long asshe’s able.

She joins him on the couch and holds out a small rectangleof stiff paper. “Look what Snow droppedoff today.”

It’s an invitation to a Halloween party, Rumpel reads. “Well,” he says, “I’m not sure why shethought you’d be interested in a party that late in the month. Or that shewould, for that matter.” Thequeen-turned-bandit-turned-teacher has already had one child and will soon bewelcoming her second, so she ought to know better. She and Belle have actually bonded somewhatduring their nearly concurrent pregnancies. Rumpel and David have tried not to make much eye-contact with eachother.

He looks at Belle, but doesn’t find the agreement heexpects. “What if I am interested?” sheinquires.

Feeling metaphorical tremors in the ground below his feet,he swiftly replies, “Then I’d say have a lovely time, dear.”

It’s not the correct answer. Her face falls into a pout, “You wouldn’t come with me?”

“I, well, that is...” Rumpel sputters, “No one’s ever beenhappy when I’ve turned up at a party.”

“And they never will if you don’t try,” Belle counters,“We’re all in this together now, Rumpel, we need to make an effort to geton. Besides that, Snow and David arefamily now, thanks to Henry. Can I writeyou down as my guest?”

Well, if nothing else, Belle’s looming due date must betaken into consideration. He’ll likelybe a bundle of nerves, but he won’t leave his wife’s side. “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

Belle gives him a brilliant beam, only for it to quicklyfade. “Hm, well, now I have to think ofa costume. Gods, what would evenfit?” She gestures at her ponderousabdomen.

“Actually, about that... Hang on.”

He climbs to his feet and heads for his office to fetch the gifthe luckily just finished today. He’sspent hours upon hours fussing over it- it’s probably for the best he can giveit to her now. He strides back to theliving room and sits down, presenting Belle’s gift with a flourish.

Her mouth falls open as she carefully takes the black dressfrom him. “Rumpel, this is amazing,” shebreathes as her fingertips explore the minutely detailed embroidery of acrescent moon that decorates the stomach area of the dress. Every crater, mare, and rill is represented,until all fades into shadow.

“I did what I could,” he replies humbly, “I liked your starstory too.” He leans over to kissBelle’s cheek, only to find it wet with streaming tears.

At his concerned hum, she gives him a wide if waterysmile. “It’s so beautiful, Rumpel. Thank you.” She leans in for a kiss he is happy to collect, despite the tang ofsalt. Then she’s levering herself offthe sofa and marching away, tossing over her shoulder, “I’m trying it on rightnow.”

Rumpel holds his breath until she returns, then lets it outin a sigh of relief as he sees the dress’s perfect fit, especially in thedecoration, which cradles the curve of Belle’s stomach on the lower right side. “I love it!” she cries, spinning to make theskirt flare around her thighs. Then shepauses and faces Rumpel. “What aboutyour costume? Vinaos might be a littleobscure.”

“Not to worry,” he replies. A purple cloud bubbles up in his hands and dissolves to reveal anastronaut’s helmet, complete with a visor coated with opaque gold. He puts it on and flicks the visor down,hiding his face. “In case anyone getsannoying,” he explains.

Belle giggles even as she shakes her head at him, then goes totake off her new costume and put it away until it’s needed.

---

The final few weeks before Belle’s due date are even worsethan Rumpel imagined. He hardly sleeps,which is more of a problem than he anticipated. Back home where the Dark Curse is strong it sustains his everyneed. Out here amidst the imported magicof Storybrooke, he needs to help it along. But that’s becoming steadily more difficult as the days go by, and thevicious whispers command him to be on guard every second for someto-be-determined doom.

Belle is restless as well, but in a surly, frustrated wayRumpel knows he can’t begin to understand. He does catch her whispering furiously at her stomach, “Get out, justget out, I know you’re ready, so get on with it!”

By the time Snow and David’s Halloween party rolls around,Belle’s raring to go just to burn off excess energy. Rumpel is too addled from lack of sleep to domore than trail after her in his astronaut helmet and a gray jumpsuit.

They’re fashionably late mostly because of Belle’s two emergencybathroom visits. When they reach theapartment building, she marches stolidly up the stairs, though she needs torest on Rumpel’s arm halfway up.

“If you’re tired...” he begins, stopping when Belle giveshim a severe glare she belatedly twists into a smile.

“I want to do this. Let’s go.”

They make it to the landing, where Belle takes a long momentto collect herself before pushing the doorbell. The door soon swings open to reveal Snow White wearing a ring of brownfrills around her hips with her belly painted robin’s egg blue complete withspeckles on top. Her jumper has a row offeathers down each arm and a construction paper bird’s beak is tied over hernose. She smiles wide and cries, “Belle,you made it! Come in!” That smile shrinks as her gaze moves overBelle’s shoulder and lands on Rumpel. “Oh,hello, Rumpelstiltskin. Thank you forcoming.”

As if she never locked him in a subterranean prison andthrew away the key. As if he neverconspired with her greatest enemy to ruin her happy ending. Life is a funny thing. “Good evening,” he responds, and sidles inbehind Belle.

“I love your costume,” Snow exclaims at Belle, “The moon,that’s so great, why didn’t I think of that?”

Belle finds a true smile as she looks down at herdress. “Rumpel made it.”

“Oh,” Snow says, a shadow flickering over her face beforeshe brightens again, “Oh! Okay, so that’s... Anyway, this detail is amazing. What kind of spell does that?”

“My two hands, dearie,” Rumpel can’t help sniping, “You knowI can actually breathe without using magic, if I concentrate.”

Snow shrinks back with wide eyes and a pinched mouth. Belle gives him a very subtle jab in theribs. “Rumpel, she’s being nice.”

It’s always been his opinion that Snow being “nice” is halfher problem, but he clears his throat and says, “Indeed. Apologies. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I,uh, I sewed this too.” She plucks at abit of brown frills.

He has to smile at the tiny gleam of hope in her eyes, anddeigns to look over her handiwork. “Verynice,” he decides.

Snow beams, “Thanks. So, anyway, we’re all in here, really informal, just family. There’s snacks, and wine and beer, andsparking apple juice for the two of us...”

She leads Belle and Rumpel toward the living room area,where the sofa and a few chairs are occupied by David, Emma, Regina, andBae. Agonizing though it’s been, Rumpelhas given Bae total control over how much contact to have with him. They see each other fairly regularly, thoughboth are naturally preoccupied with their unique fatherly duties. It still feels like a miracle to see Bae turnto him and smile- not as warm and bright as before, but an unspeakably vastimprovement to the ragged hole he left in Rumpel’s life for so long.

When Rumpel can expand his attention beyond Bae, he findssmiles of varying degrees of friendliness all around the room directed at himand Belle. Wearing his own featheryjumper and bird beak, David says, “Hi, guys! Great costumes!”“Yes!” Snow chimes in, “Isn’t Belle’s great? With the black fabric and the sewing?”

There’s a round of thoughtful nods Rumpel chooses not tointerpret. Emma scoots closer to Reginato let Belle sit at the far end of the sofa. David sets a chair for Rumpel between Belle and Bae.

“Thank you,” he says as he sits, and notices Bae eyeing himfrom beneath a Yankees cap.

He twists the grip of a lowered baseball bat between hispalms and murmurs, “Please tell me you aren’t wearing a suit under there.”

The fact that Bae knows how he customarily dresses is enoughto make Rumpel’s heart glow. He gives hisson a smirk and quips, “Just a linen, very light.”

Bae snorts into his chest and Rumpel feels like a hero. It’s somewhat easier after that to sit andchat a bit, or just listen to the conversations floating around him. Snow hands out ghost-shaped biscuits andpumpkin cupcakes. Rumpel actuallyrelaxes a little, even finds his eyes drifting shut a bit.

“Okay, everyone!” Snow’s cheery declaration startles him tofull awareness. Belle shoots him anamused look as Snow continues, “I was thinking to wrap up our evening, we mightwatch a scary movie. How’s that sound?”

“Fine, as long as it isn’t Rosemary’s Baby,” Regina replies, painted cat’s whiskers curling asshe sneers in Belle’s direction.

“As long as it isn’t TheWicker Man,” Emma retorts before Rumpel can take Regina’s head off with afireball. She adjusts her cowboy hat andleans back so light glints on the silver star pinned to her plaid shirt.

“I was gonna go with Jaws,”Snow pipes up.

“That’s barely ahorror movie,” Regina says, “But it’s acceptable.”

“Why thank you, Your Majesty,” David mutters on his way tothe television.

Belle leans over to Rumpel and whispers, “Do I even want toknow?”

“Ignore her, sweetheart,” he replies, lacing his fingerswith Belle’s firmly.

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

He winces, remembering that while Snow and David haveapparently forgiven and forgotten Regina’s wide array of sins, neither of themlanguished as her prisoner for years on end. And Belle wouldn’t have, if you’dbothered to look for her. Ah, that’sright. Rumpel’s sins make Regina’s looklike the mischief of a playground bully. And yet Belle, the best person he knows, has willingly become his wife,and the mother of his child. Life is sovery funny.

While Sheriff Brody is attempting to save his picturesquetown from a killer shark, Rumpel feels Belle’s fingers tense sharply betweenhis. He glances at her and sees she hasher other hand pressed to her stomach. “Belle,are you all right?” he whispers.

“I’m... fine. I justneed to use the toilet. Help me up?”

He leaps to guide Belle off the sofa.

“Excuse me, sorry,” she murmurs to the rest of the group asshe eases out and down the hall to the bathroom.

Rumpel takes his seat, but watches her go with worrychurning his stomach. Eventually hemanages to refocus on the film. He’salmost comprehending dialogue again when Belle’s cry of “RUMPEL!” strikes hisbrain like a bolt of lightning. He’s atthe bathroom in a literal flash. “Belle,I’m here, open the door.”

For an awful moment there’s nothing but a low, torturedmoan. Then the door cracks open. He pushes it open to see Belle hunched over,gripping the sink with a puddle of liquid between her feet. She gives him a tremulous, agonized smile andsays, “Oops.”

“Okay,” Rumpel breathes, attempting to force his paralyzedbrain into functioning. “We need... toget to the car.”

Dismay fills Belle’s face, “Oh, I don’t know if I can do thestairs ag- AH!” Her body tenses hard andRumpel imagines if she were any stronger she’d tear chunks out of thesink. All he can do is lay careful handson her arm and back and let her lean into him until it passes.

“Belle, we need to be home,” he tries to explain, “That wasthe plan, wasn’t it?” Quite honestly, atthis moment he has no idea what their plan was, despite the hours of work thatwent into it. He holds up his hands andpurple smoke starts to swirl around them. “Can I just-?”

“No magic!” she cries, “Not now, I don’t want to travel likethat, when I’m like this. Please?”

The smoke vanishes under her desperate gaze. “Of course, but... I just...” He glances around and notices the group of people standing four feetaway, staring like this is another scene in the film.

Snow steps forward, slipping past Rumpel and moving toBelle’s side. “I guess the baby isn’t afan of Richard Dreyfus, huh?” she remarks gently.

“Who?” Belle asks, but another contraction steals Snow’sanswer as she moans louder than ever and doubles over.

“Okay, it’s okay, just keep breathing...” Snow murmurs asshe rubs Belle’s back. To Rumpel, shesays, “So, poofing her home is out and the stairs are a problem. What does that leave us?”

“How about the tub?” Emma suggests, peering over Rumpel’shead. “Like a water birth.”

The words snap Rumpel’s brain back into action. “Yes! That was the plan. Good. Belle, w-?”

“Let’s do that!”Belle wails.

With a great sweep of his arm, Snow’s narrow tub is replacedby a wide, deep Jacuzzi filled up three-quarters with warm water.

“Wow,” Snow briefly marvels, “Okay, yeah, great. Belle, let’s get you, uh... Oh, hey, I thinkwe need a little privacy now, please?”

To Rumpel’s surprise, Regina turns to the rest of the partyand declares in her most imperious tone, “All right, gawkers, back off. Rumpeland Snow only, let’s give them some space, come on.” She herds Bae, Emma, and David back down thehall.

Snow says to Belle, “We’ll get you in the tub soon,okay? It’ll be nice and warm and you canrelax. Let’s take off these shoes, andget out of the underwear- just lean on Rumpel, that’s fine...”

While Snow does the necessaries, Belle’s head droops towardhis shoulder, only to bump against the bloody astronaut helmet he only just nowrealizes he’s still wearing. “Sorry,sweetheart,” he mumbles, banishing the thing to oblivion where it belongs. Belle presses her damp forehead into thecurve of his neck, and he smooths a hand over her hair.

“Okay, we probably want to get that lovely dress offtoo. Rumpel, if you could unzip theback?”

They ease Belle out of her costume. In a moment of whimsy, Rumpel sends it tohang over the curtain rod by the tub where she’ll be able to see the crescentmoon. He also replaces Belle’s bra witha softer bikini top. With one last wavehe replaces Snow’s costume with dark blue nurse’s scrubs. She shoots him a startled look, but wiselysays nothing. They don’t quite manage toget Belle into the tub before the next contraction hits, and she sags betweenhim and Snow with another bone-deep groan.

“Almost there, Belle,” Snow croons, “A few more steps- canyou take a few more steps?”

“I... okay...” she whimpers.

“I’m here, love,” Rumpel says, “Come on, follow me.”

They inch up a smooth ramp to the edge of the tub where itparts into a short stairwell. Bellesighs as soon as her foot enters the water. Snow has her sit on the edge and part her legs so she can take a look atwhat’s going on.

Holding Belle steady against his chest, Rumpel asks Snow, “Youdo have a fairly clear idea of what you’re doing, yes?”

“Sure. I’ve done thisbefore, albeit from Belle’s end, and anyway we’ve been sharing all ourbooks. I knew she was leaning toward awater birth. Really, they’re so natural,as long as there aren’t any complications my job’s basically just to standthere and catch.”

“And if there are- complications?” Even thinking the word sets off sirens in hishead.

Snow looks him in the eye, “How about you go and call yourmidwife now, just in case?”

Cursing himself for not thinking of that sooner, Rumpelgently shifts Belle into Snow’s waiting arms and steps away from the tub andout of the bathroom. It takes a specialperson to even consider delivering the Dark One’s child, but Mistress Oggseemed downright cheerful about the idea when their paths crossed at thehospital. She seems cheerful about mostthings, but Rumpel and Belle detected a core of iron in the old woman that wasencouraging enough to bring her on.

Once he fumbles his way through phoning her, it takesseveral rings and a strange burst of static until a voice sings out, “Coo-eee,Rum, how are things?” Mistress Ogg’svoice sounds a bit distant, perhaps he’s on speakerphone. Mountain wind whistles down the line.

“Belle’s in labor,” he replies shortly while Snow sneaks outaround him and walks down the hall.

“Ah, a bit early but not bad. How quick are the contractions coming then?”

“I... I’ve no idea.” He curses himself once more for letting panic conquer him so completely.

“To be expected,” Mistress Ogg says breezily. “I’ll be on the road then. Could be a little while though, I’ve a longway to go. She’s in the water now?”

Rumpel wonders just how far away she can be in Storybrooke,but regardless pokes his head into the bathroom to see Belle leaning back withher arms laid along the edge of the tub, eyes closed, face pale but calm. “Yes, she is. And we’re not at home. We’re ata... a friend’s place.”

“Right, I see. Bethere as quick as I can, love, not to fret.” She hangs up before Rumpel can give her Snow’s address. He’s about to call again when a small cryfrom the bathroom has him stuffing his mobile into a pocket and rushing toBelle’s side. She grips the edges of thetub with her face twisted into a grimace. Rumpel sits behind her and smooths his palms down her tense arms. “Deep breaths, love,” he reminds her softly.

Belle drags in and blows out air at a slow, even pace. She relaxes as the contraction passes.

“Mistress Ogg is on her way.”

“Good.”

“How are you?”

“Better, now.” She tiltsher head back and peers up at him to murmur, “Sorry about this. I know we wanted to be at home.”

Rumpel just smiles and cradles the back of Belle’s head inhis palm. “This is perfectly fine, sweetheart. We’re... we’re with family.”

That wins him a smile. He dips a hand in the water to check its temperature, stirring in a bitmore heat. Belle hums and takes a fewmore deep breaths. Her gaze wanders tothe hanging dress and she inquires dreamily, “We still like the name Lucy,right?”

They considered every option in the book, and in severalother books, and that was a particularly strong contender. Though they opted not to learn the genderbeforehand, as her due date has neared Belle’s become thoroughly convincedshe’s having a girl. “I like it if youdo.”

“How about Estelle as a middle name?”

A corner of Rumpel’s mouth curls up. “Lucille Estelle.”

“Our starlight.”

He bends down to kiss the top of Belle’s head. “Sounds perfect to me.”

All that’s really left to do is wait. As the contractions quicken, Snow returns tolift Belle back onto the edge of the tub and check her readiness.

“I... I feel like I might need to push,” Belle whimpers,twisting clenched fists in Rumpel’s jumpsuit.

“Well, I think that’s because you need to push,” Snowreplies, “I can see the head.”

Belle lets out an anxious moan, “But Mistress Ogg isn’there- ah! I have topush!”

“Okay, come back in the water, here we go...” Snow and Rumpel guide Belle into the tub andlet her position herself kneeling with her elbows braced on the edge.

Snow crouches behind her in the tub while Rumpel comes toface Belle on the outside, letting her grab his hands in a vice grip. “It’s too soon,” she whispers, “What ifsomething’s wrong?”

Rumpel rests his forehead against hers. “Then we’ll handle it. Everything will be fine, Belle, Ipromise.” In this moment, despite allevidence, he actually believes that.

Belle manages a tiny smile before it contorts into a grimaceand her whole body strains. After amoment, Snow announces, “The head is out! I don’t feel an umbilical cord. Let’s work on the shoulders now.”

“It hurts...” Belle grits out.

“I know, but keep going, you’ll get through it soon.”

“You can do this, sweetheart,” Rumpel murmurs, “I’m righthere with you. I love you.”

Belle’s eyes lock on his and don’t break contact even as shegroans and pushes with all her strength. Somewhere far away, Snow says one shoulder is out. Belle’s groan intensifies into a powerfulbellow. “That’s it!” Snow cries just asthe bellow stops and Belle’s left panting and trembling, her head falling toRumpel’s shoulder.

Rumpel looks in wonder as Snow gently lifts a tiny, wrinkly,squirming creature out of the water. Shewipes at its nose and mouth, it wriggles a little more and releases a plaintivewail. Belle’s whole body shudders at thesound and she lets out a sob.

“It’s a girl, Rumpelstiltskin,” Snow says with a beam, “Aperfect little girl.”

“She- she’s... okay?” he quavers, halfway to sobbinghimself.

“Seems like it,” Snow replies, wincing a bit at anotherrather piercing cry from the baby, “Let’s have her meet Mom, huh?”

Rumpel helps Belle carefully turn over. She’s still shaking, but her arms are steadyas Snow places the baby in them. Thewailing stops instantly as she snuggles into Belle’s chest.

“She is perfect,” Rumpel whispers in awe, his chin onBelle’s shoulder.

“Hello, Lucy,” Belle murmurs, “How nice to meet you.”

“Our starlight.”

Minutes or perhaps days later, someone bustles into thebathroom saying, “Cheer-o, ducks! Lookslike the little mite beat me to the punch. Let’s see what’s left for me to do.” Mistress Ogg makes quick work of tying off and cutting the umbilicalcord. “There now, how about we have thehappy da bundle up his girl while the afterbirth comes?”

Rumpel has never wanted to do anything more, or been soafraid to do it. Belle shifts Lucy intohis arms like she’s made of glass. Mistress Ogg pops off her boots and socks and climbs into the tub whileSnow lays out a clean, soft towel on the floor. Rumpel kneels down and lays Lucy on it, where she immediately frowns andsquirms against the cold. “Don’t worry,dearest, I’m here,” he whispers while wrapping her up snugly, “There you are, safeand sound.”

He picks her up and holds her to his chest before moving tosit on the closed toilet seat. They gazeat each other with tired eyes. When hersslip shut, he manages to tear his own away and notice Bae standing outside thebathroom, looking more like a nervous teenager than Rumpel would think possible.

“Baelfire, would you like to meet your sister?”

His eyebrows jump and he stuffs his hands into his pockets,but he pads into the room and hunches over to grin down at the baby.

“This is Lucille Estelle Gold. You can call her Lucy.”

“Hey, Lucy. I’m Bae. Or Baelfire. Or Neal. Or whatever.” He and Rumpel chuckle quietly. Lucy’s eyes crack open and blink a few timesbefore closing again. “She’s beautiful,Papa. I can’t believe I’m a bigbrother.”

“Life is very, very funny, son.”

Mistress Ogg has drained the tub, swathed Belle in a severaltowels, and delivered the afterbirth before she suggests Lucy try nursing. Rumpel carries the baby to Belle, and eventhough she seemed quite deeply asleep, she latches on to her mother’s breastquickly.

“Hungry one, isn’t she?” Mistress Ogg remarks, “That’sfine. She doesn’t like wasting time, weknow that much.”

After a while, Belle lets Rumpel perform some very gentlehealing magic so she can get out of the tub at last. He transforms her bikini top into a looseblack dress that shimmers with silver and blue sparkles. Her original dress gets bundled up and pushedinto a pocket of Rumpel’s jumpsuit. Hekeeps one arm firmly wrapped around her waist as they leave the bathroom, Lucyheld close to Belle’s chest. They findthe rest of the party sitting at the kitchen table, looking on curiously.

A wide smile stretches across David’s face before he all butbounds over to them. “What a night,huh? Are you all okay?”

“We’re fine,” Belle replies, “Lucy, this is Prince David,your...” Her gaze jumps to the ceiling as she puzzles out the family tree, “Nephew’sother grandfather.” Emma and Regina havestood and come to flank David. Belle’sgaze moves over them as she says, “And that’s Princess Emma, your nephew’smother. And- Regina, his other mother.”

Emma peers over David’s shoulder and smiles warmly, butdoesn’t seems too interested in getting closer. Regina gives Lucy a smile as well, this one more wistful thananything. “What a sweet little girl,”she says, her voice softer than Rumpel’s ever heard it.

“We’ll be going home now, I think,” Belle says, heading tothe door where Snow stands. “Thank you,”she tells her, “I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

“Anything you want is yours, Snow,” Rumpel says, “And I domean anything.”

“Oh, no, please, it was the least I could do...” sheinstantly demurs, up until she bites her lip and mutters, “Can we keep thetub?”

Rumpel snorts. “Yes. And you can send me thewater bill.”

“Deal. Thanks forcoming to my little party, guys.”

“We had a... an interesting time,” Belle saysdiplomatically. Rumpel snickers, thenguides his wife and daughter through the door as Snow holds it open. Mistress Ogg follows, coming along to helpthem settle in at home. The small familyheads into the future together.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #fanfiction #once upon a time #poca-staks

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familyvisionis2020 · 5 years ago

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Day 5 - Huntsville

Jeremy’s up the earliest and sends a text to us that he’s getting breakfast with Noah at a place called the Grit. Rather than opt to join I just post up on the porch with Trey and indulge in a long long blog post.The weather is cooler and grayer, joggers and dog-walkers and kids on bikes roll down the streets, slow syrupy sunday morning, humidity and gristle, butter pats wouldn’t melt if you left them out on your plate but they wouldn’t be too taut to sink your teeth into. I feel a fundamental sense of repair from typing, reviving a column of spirit I’d quietly suffocated, knock loose a clot of rust in my clockwork and the machinery is humming along again. Now that I have the link to the blog to share to people I feel like I’m gingerly handing the missing puzzle piece to my patrons and well-wishers and companions, indulging a curiosity and rounding something out to myself that might prove the regard and sensitivity my quietness can bely, might be a kindness or a service to people who find me austere or impenetrable or bristly. I was staring at a picture of a cactus and identifying with it the other day, tall, two arms, tiny head, spiky, full of water, not so bad if you’re careful with them, just like me.

Later tonight I will watch Tired Frontier play the last set of their tiny tour with us and what will end up being our last show of the tour as well. Watching the face of the guys I see things so so different then when I saw them for the first time, when they were complete strangers, tourmates but sight unseen. What I saw in their faces the first time I saw them play: Royal is tall and broad-shouldered and country and active and maybe a little sloppy and expanive and reminds me a ton of my friend Mike, so I have love for him off the bat, also his weird tuning and rococo pedal board setup and heedless mustache and you know, wife, set off little clockworks of insecurity in me and my mind props up baseless criticisms of him sourced solely from my ignorance of him. After three shows we are not friends but I know him much better, have seen him from more angles, have a better sense of him, he loves doing bits and laughs high and loud and chills endlessly, in this way he matches the tone and cadence of Kabir magnificently. Paul is beautiful and has a face like a svelter Jim Carrey and kneads the keyboard effortlessly, digital dough, his fingers are narrow and elegant and move only enough to play the next keys, the same sort of parsimony of motion I used to see from chefs with expert knife skills. I envy his bouny raven thick-sable hair. Trey looks plainly joyful when he plays drums. He extends his crash cymbal hardware to the maximum length so his crash is preposterously high up. I can’t discern a reason other than it’s kind of fun or different. He’s enthusiastic about my writing, I get to share him some other work I’ve done, he says he loves it, I swell with gratitude and we exchange emails.

The morning in Athens goes more or less like the morning before: me and Kabir and John and Paul all go get breakfast at Donderos’ again, drink tea and coffee, pack up our stuff. We take some group photos with both bands outside on the porch with the orbs and they’re cute and silly. Kabir flipped a coin to decide whether me or John drives the next stretch, it’s me, I’m a little apprehensive because I haven’t driven a 15-passenger van in awhile, but once I’m in it’s like riding a bike, I have muscle memory of driving big vehicles from U-Haul trips and, before that, the box truck I drove to transport food donations to the pantry of the Servant Center in Greensboro. I’m a good driver, I check my mirrors, I put on a halloween mix I made in 2015 and I am feeling myself, focused, caffienated, surrounded by friends, there’s some clouds in the sky and drizzles but it’s not bad and we’re making good time. The boys just listen along with me to the DJ mix for awhile then start up a new crossword puzzle and we all 4 do it collaboratively, one person describing the clue, letters, cross-clues, and we brainstorm for answers, between the four of us we’re really good at this, and we’re all laughing and in great spirits as we methodically complete the puzzle. We stop in Marietta Georgia at one point to use the bathroom, we stop at a KFC with a 20-foot mechanized/animatronic chicken head whose eyes roll back in its head and whose giant beak opens and closes in regular time like a campy pendulum. I buy a postcard and a souveneir cup from here because I think my Mom has family from Marietta Georgia but when we’re back in the car I can’t remember if it’s Marietta Georgia or Marietta Ohio, but I figure it will be well-received either way. We get back on the road and now we’re off the highway and onto some more remote state routes and we pass into Alabama and the rain lets up but its still overcast so the light is gentle and diffuse, the hills are rolling, we pass a colony of tiny homes, weird, livestock, bulls with giant horns that when I see them I just say ‘aurochs’ absent mindedly, livestock and cotton fields and when we see police someone will just say ‘ops’ and the whole drive everyone is just in a good mood, making jokes, kind and breezy. I marvel at how these boys do not seem to carry the same sort of darkness I feel I do, or maybe they just don’t wear it on their sleeves, or maybe none of them are neurodivergent or addicted or traumatized, or maybe they are but hide it well, or have coped and healed…something I’m used to is being around people who require a space to talk about extremely serious and heavy and heartbraking things. Maybe it’s a vestige of a lifestyle I’ve left behind. In all the time I’ve spent with Kabir and Jeremy and John and David (our NC bassist who plays home shows when Jeremy is in NY), I’ve never seen anyone come close to losing their temper, yelling, crying, crumbling, whatever. I marvel at the putative stability of my friends. I like having stable friends, I like having a stable life, it’s not how my life has always been. There is a level of tranquility and calm that washes over me while I’m driving through rural Alabama with my stable friends in a well-maintained van in my healthy body wrapped around a heart that is not broken and a mind that feels as clear and capable as it has ever been. Grace is unearned, I’m told.

We make it to Huntsville on time, the venue is called the Salty Nut, kind of a spacious and tidy bar with a kind bartender my height but with a double thick country accent and the show booker is slight and soft spoken and exceedingly kind, he receives us and then points us in the direction of a nearby restaurant called Banditos Burritos. The restaurant is festooned with vaguely southwestern or hispanic decorations and also random camp like a dirty 1990s Bart Simpson doll, a ruined acoustic guitar, a King Khan poster, a garden gnome on an old-fashioned scale with the sliding thing, a skateboard without trucks painted with a sleeping cactus person wearing a sombrero, etc. The people there are so so nice and when we say we are playing the Salty Nut tonight the guy behind the counter explains that menu items with steak and all beers will cost, but otherwise we can order whatever we want for free. We get burritos, nachos, beans, rice, salsa, hot sauce, ice water in a paper cup. We feast, scarf down, all hungrier than we realized, it’s essentially a non-franchise Taco Bell by my appraisal, which is absolutely perfect as far as I’m concerned, the beans and rice feel good and substantial. Tired Frontier shows up a little after us, gets the same stuff basically, we eat and laugh and finish and go back to the venue and wait around for awhile, I join Jeremy and Royal outside skateboarding and act crazy and try to film them doing tricks but my phone dies and and eventually they stop and we go inside and set up and play. The show goes fine, TF sounds as good as they have so far. They’re playing to a crowd of the other two bands and maybe 8 people in the bar sitting at a table eating food they brought over for Banditos Burritos. The show is fine, unremarkable. When we play, I do the usual routine of trying to play my hardest and with my whole body, and end up dropping sticks more than once and missing some snare hits and not being able to keep up on the driving floor tom parts, mostly because I’m not warmed up and maybe not focusing enough, I’m letting myself get a little carried away trying to play hard and fast rather than keep things tight, I worry this may miff the other guys but after the show there is no indication that anyone even noticed it or cared. There was a cool part where I dropped a stick but instead of it falling to the floor it bounced around on top of the snare and tom and I managed to snatch it out of mid air and keep playing and Jeremy noticed that and that made me feel cool. We played hard and to my ear we got good claps between songs, we are pretty live and high energy and I think even if people don’t like our sound they appreciate the energy, but also some of the songs are earworms and catchy and people like that too, I’ve heard. We finish, the other drummer from the other band, Golden Flakes, says great set man, we perch at the merch table but sell nothng. We listen to Golden Flakes play for close to an hour, very jam band vibe, many many guitar solos, kind of sloppy, sort of high energy rock and roll I guess, I by this time am tired and pretty disinterested, get on my phone for most of it. Toward the end of their sets someone who I assume is a townie is drunk and heckling them between songs in a way that they are clearly fine with and they know the guy and to me for some reason he looks the way I imagine the way the protagonist John from Shit Town the podcast would look. We are in Alabama after all. He sounds like John (not from our band, from the podcast). He’s annoying and I’m being judgy in my head about him when I should maybe feel sorry or indifferent, idk. It feels sad to me, I don’t feel like writing more about it. It’s awkward enough, the heckling and banter from Golden Flakes, that by the end of the set we all kind of joke-rush out of there, quietly agreeing that what’s happening is awkward and unpleasant and we should go. We get put up in Thomas’s apartment, and on on the ride home the guys talk about how Huntsville’s claim to fame is being the place where the Nazi engineers taken during Operation Paperclip were taken after WW2, whose skills were put to use developing rockets, and that all manner of testing has taken place in and around the nearby military base, the Redstone Arsenal. Kabir tells a story about how a nuclear warhead was dropped on NC and by freak chance did not detonate. It would have wiped out the population of the entire Southeast. I didn’t believe it but you can read about it here:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1961_Goldsboro_B-52_crash?wprov=sfti1

At the apartment I make a b-line for the couch, get my sleeping stuff out, eat an apple and a banana and a bunch of peanut butter out the jar and go to sleep. At the end of every day I feel so much more irritable and grumpy than I do at other times. I still really treasure a quiet space all to myself to sleep in and so this troubles that. But I just listen to a youtube video on European history, learn nothing, and have no dreams I remember.

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floraexplorer · 5 years ago

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Discover A World of Stories at Edinburgh’s Storytelling Festival

It was a chilly autumn morning in Edinburgh, and I was late for the Storytelling Festival.

I wove my way past groups of tourists along the Royal Mile until I reached a slightly crooked corner building – painted white on one side, bare brick on the other. I rushed up the stairs of the Scottish Storytelling Centre and suddenly stood inside a warm cafe, where my glasses steamed up immediately.

I looked around and spotted a white-haired man with eagles outlined on his shirt: Robert Seven Crows Bourdon, the man I was supposed to meet. Robert, a singer, songwriter and professional storyteller hailing from Quebec, was my first introduction to the reason for me being in Edinburgh.

We were both there for the Scottish International Storytelling Festival – otherwise known as the best festival I’ve never heard of.

Wait – there’s a Storytelling Centre in Edinburgh?

You’d be forgiven for not noticing the Scottish Storytelling Centre at first glance – it blends seamlessly into the other historical buildings along the Royal Mile. But for me (and for any other story-obsessed folk), this place is a dream location.

The Scottish Storytelling Centre is an arts venue designed specifically to preserve and celebrate live oral storytelling. It’s the first place in the world to do this – and probably just one of a handful of similar centres worldwide.

Throughout the year, the centre holds numerous events – everything from spoken word performances and open mic nights to workshops and exhibitions – but each October it becomes an international hub as storytellers from all over the world flock to the Scottish International Storytelling Festival.

So what is the Scottish International Storytelling Festival?

The Scottish International Storytelling Festival began in 1989 with the intention of bringing storytellers together to share oral histories and traditions. It’s been running for the last three decades, and celebrated its 31st iteration this year.

More than sixty events take place over the twelve day festival, and although the majority are held at the Storytelling Centre, there’s also associated talks and exhibitions scattered throughout Edinburgh too.

The theme of this year’s 2019 festival was ‘Beyond Words’, which showcased how music, dance and song all share their own stories. It also focused specifically on storytellers from First Nation Canada: something of a coincidence, seeing as I’d just spent a fortnight in Atlantic Canada with First Nation Mi’kmaq people learning about their traditions.

It also meant I was fascinated to know more about how Robert’s First Nation ancestry influences his storytelling.

Read more: a fortnight spent exploring Atlantic Canada

“Storytelling performances are a big trend now,” Robert told me. He said that oral storytelling is becoming more like theatre, where the focus is on the ‘show’ instead of the rapport between speaker and listener.

At a festival, everyone’s sitting and waiting with bated breath, but the tradition he comes from treats storytelling as something effortless. Nobody has stage fright; nobody’s afraid to disappoint.

“In our world there’s dogs running around, there’s kids jumping over you, the elders are talking…It’s not a performance. I invite you into my world — but I’m not saying you must listen to me. The storyteller’s job is not to be listened to. His job is to tell.”

Over the next hour, we talked about the other storytelling festivals he’s performed at (and there are many – Robert’s been telling stories professionally for twenty years). I’ve been to a few literary festivals – the most memorable being Hay Book Festival in Wales and Gibraltar’s annual Literary Festival – but Edinburgh’s Storytelling Festival is the first I’ve heard of which explores the relationship between a storyteller and their audience.

Before I’d even attended a performance, Robert’s words were making me understand just how significant this festival was.

Read more: Sailing to the Arctic in pursuit of storytelling

Exploring Edinburgh’s literary side

The skies were still bright blue outside on the Royal Mile. I had a few hours before attending my first performance of the storytelling festival, so I decided to visit a few of the more famous literary landmarks in the city.

Edinburgh’s fame as a literary destination is unparalleled. It was deemed the world’s first UNESCO City of Literature in 2004; it holds the largest literary festival in the world; and it’s regarded by millions as the modern-day home of schoolboy magic, thanks to J.K. Rowling’s regular writing sessions in an Edinburgh cafe.

It feels like you can’t take more than a few steps through Edinburgh without passing a second-hand bookshop, a location featured in a novel, or posters like these plastered all over the bricks.

My self-guided literary tour of Edinburgh began at The Writers Museum where three of Scotland’s most famous writers are celebrated: Robert Burns, Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson.

Once I’d climbed up a winding red staircase in a narrow tower at Makar’s Court, I found glass cabinets filled with their childhood toys, dusty clothes, tobacco pipes, chess sets and locks of their hair.

At the National Library of Scotland, I wandered through an exhibit on how Scottish people have changed the world – and then spent ages in front of a glass cabinet filled with paper sculptures from old books.

These stunning artworks mysteriously appeared one night in 2011, left by an anonymous female sculptor in various cultural locations around Edinburgh. More sculptures were revealed over the next five years – but although the project has now come to a close, the artist’s identity still remains a secret.

I even made a quick stop at Deacon Brodie’s Tavern, the namesake of which served as the inspiration for ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde‘.

A furniture maker and city councillor by day but a thief by night, the errant Deacon Brodie swung from the gallows in 1788. Some of his furniture made its way to a young Robert Louis Stevenson’s family: the burgeoning author became fascinated with Brodie’s double life, eventually incorporating the character into one of his most well-known novels.

By the time the sun had set, it was time to venture back to the Storytelling Centre for my first festival performance.

Inside the Scottish Storytelling Centre

A crowd of excited attendees were already milling around the Storytelling Court when I stepped inside. I headed for the ‘interactive storytelling wall’ – a long row of cabinet doors containing tiny, perfect models of famous stories, legends and folk tales.

After opening a few, I found a scene depicting Flora MacDonald helping Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to the Isle of Skye. She’s one of the famous Floras I was named after, and I couldn’t help but smile!

Just then the theatre doors were opened so I headed downstairs to the Netherbow Theatre, a small auditorium with just 99 seats, to watch as the Dancers of Damelahamid appeared onstage.

An Indigenous dance company from the northwest coast of British Columbia, they draw inspiration from their origin stories and use masks to retell traditional narratives of their ancestors. I had no idea what to expect, but from the moment their performance began I was utterly enthralled.

Their movements were quiet. Almost silent. Clean and precise, their feet tapping as they stepped back and forth to a drum beat. They uttered no words and were fully absorbed in their dance; becoming birds with beaks, then shaking wooden rain sticks and gripping animal hooves in their hands. Then suddenly:

“IT’S A SHARK!!”

A young child’s gleeful voice rang out from behind me. I felt the audience twitch and stiffen: my immediate reaction was one of annoyance, and I began mentally preparing for the constant threat of disturbance.

But that’s when Robert’s words came back to me: “Storytelling isn’t supposed to be silent or one-sided!” For him, any moment of storytelling will involve possible noise and outside activity and distraction.

And in that moment, I realised I’d been looking at this festival all wrong.

So often I think about storytelling as being something static – something to be read either on the page or a device’s screen. But in fact it’s so important to remember the live aspect of storytelling. The relationship between an oral storyteller and their audience has such power because it’s so subject to changes in timing, volume, even the dynamic between the people involved.

But everything – even a child’s excitable reactions – are simply part of the overall experience.

A spooky storytelling marathon for Halloween

The next day was the last of the storytelling festival, which also coincided with Halloween. I spent the majority of my day at the centre where a steady stream of impromptu storytellers stood (or sat) to share their words.

Just like Robert had said, the beauty of this event was in the interactive aspect. I watched a dozen different people take centre stage: a girl from Poland, an elderly Irish man, a Belgian woman, a guy in a full Scottish kilt outfit, all of whom told spooky stories.

Every time I thought of leaving, a new character appeared on stage and I couldn’t go – particularly when a group of older Scottish gentlemen arrived. They clearly spend a lot of time at the centre: there was an easy camaraderie between them borne of years in each others company, and their enjoyment of each others’ stories was infectious.

Celebrating a different kind of story at Samhuinn Fire Festival

Later that night, I wrapped myself in all the clothes I’d brought with me and trudged up Calton Hill to a side of Edinburgh which seemed lifted from the pages of a folk tale.

That’s because Halloween is celebrated differently in Scotland. October 31st is the night of Samhuinn, an ancient pagan festival which welcomes the thinning of the veil between two worlds. And each year, the Beltane Fire Society hold a festival to celebrate Samhuinn tradition with immersive performance, drumming, acrobatics and fire.

Read more: celebrating Samhuinn Fire Festival in Edinburgh

The value of storytelling

As I stood amongst the crowds and watched a grinning group of costumed characters dance and spin their way across the hilltop, I thought about how many ways there truly are to tell a story. It doesn’t prescribe to any one medium: it can be dancing or singing, drumming or speaking, full of sound or completely silent.

It’s about the rhythms they choose to use: cadence, words, the lilt of their voice. It’s about the place they decide to perform: sitting amongst their audience or standing on a stage or weaving their way through a small, tight crowd.

There is always a place for stories, and for storytellers – and in Edinburgh there’s a literal building for it. I’d never heard of Edinburgh’s Storytelling Centre before this visit, but I’m so thankful I know about its existence now. Creating a real, physical space for storytellers to gather together – not to mention hosting a festival which celebrating those gatherings, and opens them up for others – is something pretty special in my book.

Pin this article if you enjoyed it!

NB: This trip was in paid partnership with Edinburgh Festivals, who kindly invited me to the Scottish International Storytelling Festival so I could wax lyrical about stories for a weekend.

The post Discover A World of Stories at Edinburgh’s Storytelling Festival appeared first on Flora The Explorer.

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notsdlifter · 6 years ago

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Kill Hollows: Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE:

BHA-AAB

Robert Warrington’s Journal

Token-Oak, Winter of 1991

10,562 days before the Syndemic

________________________________________

When I say my grandma knew the apocalypse was coming, I don’t mean it in a general sense. She didn’t just foreshadow dark times on the horizon. I believe she saw what was happening: the burning cities, the collapse of agriculture, and corpses along the interstate piled like trash at a landfill. She felt it, too: The intense pressure of knowing ate at her heart and eventually killed her. The incredible weight of this bleak future smothered her before she could adequately warn anyone but me.

She died on a Tuesday right after the wheat harvest. Even in death, the family would say, she accommodated my grandfather's schedule. Grandma planned her own passing—thou the doctors said the aneurysm was a fluke—right down to what she wore to the hospital. One day, Gramps came home from the farm and found her on the sunflower linoleum in the kitchen convulsing. Yet she packed a bag, stashed a week’s worth of leftovers in the fridge, and paid the bills a month in advance. Grandma was spooky like that. She had the foresight of a Cajun mystic.

Grandma had these great big eyes, but she rarely opened them more than a squint. She hid them behind reading frames she bought in the plastic turnstile at the local IGA Supermarket. With her head tilted and her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she dug into people with those eyes. She had this way of looking into a person, right inside their thoughts, like she was vetting them for trustworthiness suitable enough to be her confidant. Few met her standards.

Grandma was a collector, like many women from small towns, she had a “power animal.” She bought cookie jars, bric-a-brac, and mawkish paintings of her “power animal” that personified her best. For my grandma, it was owls: spooky ass, head-turning-180-degree-Exorcist-style, big-eyed, predatory, nocturnal, clawed, and sharp-beaked owls. The damned things filled her home, lurking in every nook, following you with their eyes. I saw my grandma in all those owls.

Grandma loved to scare little kids. Scare them in a way that was simultaneously welcoming and bone-chilling. Over a plate of fresh-baked cookies—chocolate chip that were puffy, crunchy on the outside, yet doughy in the middle—she'd offer you her “insights” of the world. The cookies lowered your guard and the way she spoke really sucked you in, always in a gentle coo. “You know, Bob, those black spots on BBQ chips? Those are boogers from people that work at the factory.” Or, ever so subtly, “I once filled a glass dish with Coke and submerged a metal spoon in it and left it overnight. In the morning, the spoon was gone … completely dissolved. Now, Bob, imagine what that stuff does to your stomach overnight? Have you been checking your poop for blood?” And, let's not forget her stories about chocolate, “that stuff is made from the coco plant, you know, that’s where the 'cho' comes from. Well, the plant is used to manufacture illegal narcotics. A little white powder called CHOcaine. There is something in the plant that pulls people in. Changes their brain. Every bit of ‘Cho’ you ingest is a step closer to being a drug addict when you’re older. A step closer to sleeping in gutters, having no teeth, and never wiping your ass with toilet paper. So, enjoy that Butterfinger, Bob, enjoy it real… slow.”

Yeah, I loved my grandma. Even though she was mean and wrong about a lot of things. I remember her stories because she conveyed them with a quiet passion. She was the only woman I ever met that could scare me to death and make me feel loved unconditionally at the same time.

Grandma grew up in the town of Token-Oak and stayed there her whole life. A town named for the prevalence of thousand-year-old oaks. In its heyday, Token-Oak was a Midwestern postcard town, picturesque in a Norman Rockwell kind of way. In the fall, the foliage from the deep-rooted oaks provided a pallet of Autumn colors so brilliant and varied that people would pull over on the interstate to take family photos with the hills in the background. In recent years, however, the oaks suffered a debilitating disease causing their leaves to fall. These hulking relics stand all over the town leafless and dying, their twisting fingers reaching out into space.

Before things went to hell, townsfolk talked about Token-Oak like a distant relative that once had a multimillion-dollar empire. They never mentioned that the relative spent the fortune on whores and coke only to wind up penniless and using the daily paper as a blanket. Token-Oakeans bragged on the oil booms and the new interstate and the influx of traffic as “progress.” They never mentioned the meth labs, violence, and the strange detachment that permeated the town. No one ever discussed the dark underbelly of Token-Oak, no one except my grandma.

Grandma and this will sound crazy, could predict future events. Perhaps not the exact time or outcome, but she could see the future. Frankly, all grandmothers possess this gift in varying degrees of intensity. Most grandmothers can look at a young man and tell you with surprising accuracy if a kid will be a success in life. In a moderately advanced form, some grandmothers can predict the downfall of a kid, but the advanced ones, women like my grandmother, could predict success, downfall, and the immediate steps necessary to correct the downward spiral. Grandma had the trifecta, the holy trinity, of grandmotherly prognostication.

Grandma knew where I was headed a long time before I got there. She warned me, and my life happened precisely like she said it would. You see, I was what many considered a smart kid, but one that was intensely troubled by emotions. Back in the Eighties, parents didn't throw around psychobabble. Today, I probably would have landed somewhere on the spectrum. In 1986, I was just a fucked-up little kid struggling through life.

Life was one hell of a struggle.

My dad overdosed when I was six. My mom, my brother—his name was Jacob—and I walked into our trailer on a Friday night after going to the County Fair. Dad was laying on the dirty carpet next to the couch. He had this white froth around his mouth, and one of his eyes was rolled back in his head. In his left hand, he held a hypodermic needle. Mom dropped me in the doorway and released a milk-curdling scream. Jacob and I just stood there, in the living room, looking at Dad.

The whole trailer park was around our house for hours. The cops took Dad away in a black sack and combed through the house looking for more drugs. They took buckets and bottles and dirty tubing out of our back room. Pretty much anything that could be used to make meth.

There was one thing that the cops missed. A few days later, I found a spoon under the couch. The backside was burnt black. The neck of the spoon was wrapped with electrical tape. The bowl of the spoon had a white film, and a piece of cotton singed to it, but it still shined. I’d lay on my twin mattress at the far end of the trailer and look at my upside-down reflection in the concave of that spoon for hours.

My mom caught me with it weeks later. “Where did you get this?” she said in a voice that was somehow a desperate plea and a rage-filled question. I told her that I found it under the couch, “underneath my dad.” And Mom cried so long I thought she might have died. But she left me with that dirty spoon.

The next day, Mom went to buy milk at the gas station. A semi-truck hit her car over the bridge by the tire plant. The driver that hit her was so high on meth that he never let off the gas. The roaring engine of the Freightliner slammed her Datsun hatchback over the guardrail and into the icy water of the Smoky River fifty feet below.

In a three-week span, I lost both my parents to drugs. That period changed my life, as you might imagine. Jacob and I went to live with our grandparents. It only took the better part of a week to figure out it was an arrangement that was doomed to fail. Grandma was always watching me, always warning that I couldn’t let my past ruin my life. “You drew a rough hand,” she’d say, “but you have to persevere. Use this pain, don’t let it use you.” She was always telling me to “put my suffering to work,” like it was a fucking mule that could till a field. She watched me with those huge eyes, like a predatory bird.

I still remember every detail of the afternoon Grandma warned me about the future. And that was decades ago. I was at her house on a chilly October afternoon around my birthday. I was shooting hoops with Jacob just before dinner. We had just finished watching the movie Hoosiers. Oh man, we loved to watch movies back then. The final scene was so inspiring to Jacob and me that we ran outside to impersonate the movie protagonist, Jimmy Chitwood. Hoosiers meant a lot to Caucasian farm kids in the Midwest. A good jump shot combined with “fundamentals and defense”—and a shitload of freckles—was all it took for your name to be whispered among the wheat stubble for all-time. It was all polished wood and step back jumpers against rowdy-ass opponents. They balled hard in Hoosiers, like the NBA in the early ‘90s, it was football in shorts.

I was ten years old back then. Jacob was twelve.

Jacob and I were adopted by our grandparents late in life. Both were well into their fifties, long past the age when they had the energy to deal with his shit. Jacob’s life was a cycle in three repeating patterns: (1) he received little attention, so he did something vicious; (2) he received a beating for his actions that made him worse, and the grandparents felt guilty; and (3) then they showered him with toys and freedom. Jacob was raised by television, and he returned to this well of knowledge again and again. He saw the world through a prism of movie montages and climactic scenes. In this cycle, Jacob developed an innate fixation for creating fear and causing pain. Even at twelve, he was growing into a “special” kid.

We were playing a game of one-on-one on Grandma's driveway. The rotted plywood hoop was just above the garage door. I was smoking Jacob pretty good. He was older, taller, and had the lanky frame of a b-baller but lacked athletic ability. I stole the ball from him regularly, and that really pissed him off.

“Bha-aaaaaaaab,” Jacob would say in this voice that drew out the vowels like a bone saw. It was a portmanteau word of my nickname and the sound that Jacob said I made when he hit me. There was something about that way Jacob said it, in this sotto voce hiss that was so full of sarcasm and hate: “Bha-aaaaaaab, don’t be a bitch.” Every time I showed weakness: “Bha-aaab.” If I displayed any awkwardness in a social setting: “Bha-aaab.” If I was too affectionate with my family pet: “Bha-aaaab.” If I flinched when he was about to hit me: “Bha-aaab.” That name, said in that voice, came to epitomize everything I hated about myself. It was as if all my adolescent self-reproach came to life when Jacob hissed that name.

Jacob had this weird thing about movies. He’d see it, and he’d do it. Sometimes, when a pivotal scene came on, I’d look over at him, and his face alone was worth the price of admission. His eyes wide, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, and mouth agape in utter fascination. He studied movie characters: their mannerisms, vocabulary, intonation, and style of dress. He lost himself inside that tubed box like no one I’d ever seen before or since. Then he’d head out into the world and imitate. Art became life. Fantasy became a reality. For Jacob, there was never a wall separating make-believe. It was like he existed in this alternate universe that mixed make-believe and real life like fuel and air into a jet engine. He soared into the deep recesses of the back of his mind.

The game, just like in the movie, degenerated into jail ball. It was all hip checks, and awkward curse words dropped by kids who didn't fully understand their meaning. "Nice shot, you damn gigolo" and "you play like you got a tampon in your ass."

Grandma was doing dishes in the kitchen and watching us through translucent curtains. The kitchen window was just up the stairs and overlooked the driveway basketball court. She often sat up there like a silent observer in a booth. I saw her silhouette every time I looked up. One time, I took the ball along the edge of the driveway towards the hoop and Jacob body-checked me into the garage door. The collision made a tremendous noise. Springs, plywood, and metal wheels erupted like a raucous crowd. I hit the pavement cursing up a storm. "What the balls was that, you fucking boot-licking gypsy?!"

I heard Grandma's swollen knuckles and skinny fingers wrapping on the window pane. Thomp, Thomp, THOMP! The curtains flew open, and we both saw her scowling down. She had wild eyes that trembled, though the rest of her stood motionless. I could see the air molecules around her head vibrating with energy. Her lips were pursed so tight they could cut through the metal of a spoon. It was a look developed through decades of parenting rowdy kids. It was her own version of the machine kill switch. Flip it, and everything comes to a complete stop.

At least for a while. The thin curtains slowly closed, and Jacob and I started playing again. A shot here. A few dribbles there. I grabbed the ball from Jacob and held it behind me while leaning forward. Both of Jacob’s palms faced toward me, his eyes on fire with rage. He looked like a mime performing the trapped-in-a-box routine.

Then we heard some sounds from the end of the driveway. It was the unmistakable clanging of empty gas bottles and the rattle of wrenches against the bed of Grandpa’s pickup truck. There was a nasal whine, a seething breath. Whatever it was, it sounded rushed.

I sat the ball down on the pavement and Jacob, and I tiptoed towards the truck.

A man was standing at the tailgate. His head down and his arms furiously rifled through the truck bed. He wore a beanie pulled down to the tips of his eyes. Open scabs dripped blood from his unshaven neck. The skin on his face sagged in loose pouches. His mouth was open, and his lips curled back on his teeth. His black, infected gums puffed outward. There was a filth to him, a layer of grime that indicated he hadn’t washed in a long while, maybe months. He wore the clothes of a younger person, but he looked like a haggard old man.

The man grabbed a canister of gas, removed the lid, and dumped out the contents. Gasoline vapors filled the air. Gramps had a 100-gallon tank bolted to the bed of his truck that he filled with anhydrous ammonia, a fertilizer that he used during the growing season. The man grabbed the spigot of anhydrous and twisted it open. The repugnant stench of anhydrous overpowered the gasoline. Jacob and I were fifteen feet away, but even from that distance, the fumes burned my eyes and ignited a burn in my throat. The man coughed and growled through the caustic stench as saliva drizzled from his black gums.

The man wore fingerless gloves. He spilled some of the anhydrous on his skin and yanked a hand away, shaking. The caustic liquid ate away at his exposed flesh, but he did not let go of the hose and stood there until the gas-can was full of anhydrous. His eyes squinted hard as he held the can under the spigot. I could smell his flesh burning.

Whenever Grandpa handled the anhydrous, he wore thick rubber gloves and a respirator. Jacob and I must have had eyes as wide as saucers.

When he was finished with the can, he looked up and saw Jacob and me. A loud inhale turned into an animalistic hiss. He was clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw shook. There was a twitch inside him that crawled up from his waist and snarled up his back. His arms and head bobbed and contorted in inexplicable patterns. His eyes swam in their sockets as he tried to focus on us. He had the body of a man, but there was something very inhuman about him. He took heavy and irregular breaths, punctuated by desperate gasps of air. It was like he was fighting inside himself just to live.

He turned away from us as if he heard a sound in the distance. He broke into a run. His limbs stammering and shaking in a disjointed, yet frantic, gallop. He hit the end of the street—two hundred feet—in less than five seconds. The canister of ammonia sloshed caustic liquid in his wake. As he turned into the alley at the end of the street, another figure met him and then a third. They grouped together and disappeared over a dog-eared fence. We watched them run across the railroad tracks and sprint into the grass field by McClintock’s Tree Farm.

“What was he doing?” I said, looking up at Jacob. And Jacob had the TV face. His mouth was open, and his head was tilted to one side. His unblinking eyes watched the men disappear over the fence. “Jacob,” I said as I reached out to touch him.

Jacob’s trance disappeared, and he blinked slow. He turned his head and looked down at me. “He needed that stuff to take back to the Hollows… the anhydrous,” Jacob said.

“What was wrong with him?”

Jacob shrugged and looked back at the fence where the man disappeared. “I don’t know. Did you hear that fucker breathe? Sounded like a dying cow,” Jacob said. And he swiped the ball from me and turned towards the basket.

When we turned, Grandma was standing there holding a double-barreled Winchester. The gun was cracked open, and two fresh shells were resting inside the break action. The brass circles of the shells sparkled in the October sunshine. She stood for a long while intensely watching the men disappear into the tall-grass field.

She grabbed me by the neck and pulled me toward the driveway. I fell, and she kept pulling.

Once we were near the basketball hoop at the far end of the driveway, she let go: “If you were standing at the end of that tailgate, he would have killed you both. If you ever—ever! —see a person like that, you run. You get inside the house and lock the doors. There are things in this town, bad things. And don’t you think for a minute that just because you’re a kid, that thing wouldn’t open you up from belly button to Adam’s apple.”

Grandma took a long breath. She brought her hand to cover her eyes and let out a wobbly exhale. Grandma took me up and hugged me so hard I thought she broke my ribs.

“Why was he breathing like that?” Jacob asked.

Grandma looked back down the drive for a long while. She covered the sun from her eyes as she scanned the fences in the neighborhood. Then she looked at Jacob and I and shook her head. “He breathes like that because he’s dying. Been slowly dying for a long time. And one of these days, this whole damn town will be full of people like that.”

Grandma pulled the shells from the Winchester and snapped it shut. She slipped the shells in her coat pocket. She looked around and disappeared inside.

Grandma was a woman of idiosyncrasies. She had rules—live or die rules—that she never broke. She wouldn’t leave the house at night for any reason. She loved her two Alaskan Huskies, and listened to them like they were people. Responding to each one of their barks while in the house by looking out the shutters to inspect the neighborhood. There was a suspicious side to her, especially people in authority or control. I once saw her bolt from the Token-Oak hospital when a doctor tried to take her blood pressure. “I don’t trust him, and neither should you,” was all she ever said. It was like she expected the worst in people and searched for it everywhere. For a gregarious kid like me, that coldness was often grating. I could tell that beneath all Grandma’s issues, she loved us furiously.

Grandma and I butted heads like two rams on a mountain. She tried to keep me contained, and I was always busting out. She would correct me, and I’d fly off course. It was the ebb and flow of our dynamic.

After Grandma was inside, Jacob looked over at me. “Did you hear that shit? She is losing it,” Jacob said in a wobbly, effeminate voice, “the town will be full of people like that,” as he imitated Grandma standing with the Winchester. “She needs to be in a place for crazy people.”

After a while, Jacob and I were back to jail ball. Within minutes, I caught an elbow to the face and hit the pavement. I sprung up spraying profanities like a yard spreader. The curtains flew open, Grandma was standing in a dark kitchen. A vision of utter rage, she glared down upon us like the demon in Fantasia’s Night on Bald Mountain.

I was scared, but my anger outweighed my fear. What Jacob did was wrong, he was always wrong. I knew that she saw him, and yet she just stared. Grandma always cut him slack.

I waited until the curtain closed. Then it happened, the middle finger on my right hand extended and my arm shot up until my elbow straightened. Boom. There it was. I flipped my grandma off for only a split second. Turns out, that split second was enough.

Even Jacob, the twelve-year-old sadist, knew I’d made a tremendous mistake.

"You’re a dumbass,” Jacob said, “she saw that.”

“Whatever,” I said, holding the ball with both hands while leaning over.

I dismissed the thought and continued the game. Jacob began a new tactic, utterly uncharacteristic. He played softly, no longer pushing me around. It was like he wanted the game to end, just to see what would happen next. After five minutes of disinterested ball, we were done.

Jacob and I kicked our shoes off at the back door of Grandma’s house and stomped up the kitchen stairs. Grandma was standing at the sink and washing a set of dishes. Her back was facing me, and she did not offer her usual greeting.

I palmed the handle on the fridge door, yanking it open. A half-full container of cherry Kool-Aid was sitting on the top shelf whispering my name. I stood in the middle of the kitchen pouring the chilled, cherry goodness into a jelly jar. Grandma's back was toward me, her hunched shoulders wiggling as she scrubbed a pot in the sink. Jacob stood at the stove in between us. He had a subtle smile as he watched me.

As I took a drink of the cherry liquid, Jacob was the first to speak.

Jacob said, “Bob bent the garage door.”

This was such typical Jacob. His goal in life was to get people to lose it. He was gifted at this skill, like an aikido master throwing an attacking opponent off balance, Jacob knew just where, and how, to press. He kept memories of unhinged emotional responses in his mind like a running back keeps the game ball from a three-hundred-yard game.

"That's bullsh . . ." I said reflexively, only to be interrupted mid-profanity by Grandma's hand. She wheeled from the sink, flattened her palm, and threw a cat-quick right cross. It left the side of my face smashing my cheeks into my molars. All of this occurred in three-tenths of a second. Sometimes, life happens in a flash, but you remember it in excruciatingly slow detail. The way her fingers smashed the fatness of my cheek. How my lips curled as she followed through. The spinning jelly jar full of cherry Kool-Aid. Most of all, though, I remember the crime scene afterward.

Red Kool-Aid splattered all around the kitchen, in patterns so intricate that Jackson Pollock would've been jealous. The sunflower linoleum floor, the finger paintings hanging by magnets on the fridge, even the bubble screen on Grandma’s 9" kitchen TV were covered in the pitter-patter Kool-Aid splatter. The red stuff was everywhere, a fine mist of blood like someone’s head had exploded. I laid on the linoleum floor looking up at Grandma.

“It was Jacob… he did it,” I whimpered from the floor as I pointed at Jacob.

She towered over me with her right hand still cocked. Bending down, she calmed herself, and said the unforgettable words, “You can’t control yourself. It’s always someone else’s fault. And by the time you figure it out, I'll be dead."

Then Grandma leaned down and grabbed me by the collar of my T-shirt, pulled me closer, and said in a hissing whisper, “there is going to come a time, after I am dead when you’ll need Jacob. And he’ll be there. Family runs deep, and those bonds are forever. All this you’re going through is just training for what’s coming. And when it gets here, you’ll be thankful.”

Grandma wiped her hands off on a towel and walked out of the kitchen.

Jacob stood by the stove with an orgiastic smile. He had this look, an I’m-in-control-of-a-delicious-situation visage. His smile was so crooked and fulfilled, half his face looked like the Joker from Batman. It was a look that said, "told you so" and "eat shit" with seamless ferocity. The way his upper row of teeth glowed under his upper lip, the evil twinkle in his eye, even the way he held his head slightly upturned and to the side. For a twelve-year-old kid, he could play the douchebag card with uncanny skill.

“Fuck you, Jacob,” I said, sulking out of the kitchen.

I heard him laughing hysterically as I descended the basement stairs. He yelled after me, “Ahhh, Ba-aaaab, you going to need me someday. You’re welcome.”

The basement was the furthest spot in the house away from my grandmother, and she needed time to calm. The basement was quiet, had shag carpet, and puffy furniture. The house was not air-conditioned, but the basement was naturally cool. It was a place of respite from family dysfunction and summer heat.

At the base of the stairs, just to the left, there was my grandfather's office. A room unlike any other. Grandpa’s U-shaped desk had a glass top. He slid decades of old pictures and newspaper clippings under the glass. It was a tableau of his life and our family history. I sat in Grandpa’s office chair with my elbows on the desk, cradling my head in my hands.

Grandpa was a high school history teacher, county politician, and farmer. An avid democrat—the “party of the little people,” he always said—he believed in the common man and would rail against the machine any chance that he got. He supported inmates and single moms and small businesses. Most of all, he loved a good underdog story. After all, who is a bigger underdog than farming teacher with four kids and a penchant for taking on societal problems? He even ran for state senate a few times and lost. Badly. Through all his endeavors, he became part of the political machine. He wrote scathing letters to the editor in the local newspaper whenever he saw a person slighted by “big business, big government, or big bullshit.” People hated him or loved him. In his office, he kept mementos that he treasured dearly.

The history in that room was personal and honest. On the doorframe, all Grandpa’s children had penciled their height from toddler age to present day. Under the glass on the desk, there were hundreds of pieces of paper. One was an article about my great-grandpa who died when his arm was ripped off in a threshing machine. He bled to death in the wheat stubble of our home place field. His last note, scratched with a pocket knife onto a painted piece of John Deere green metal, read: “I love you all. I did my best.” There was a photo of my grandfather and Bill Clinton, where Clinton wrote so charmingly, “If I had supporters like you in every state, I’d be king.” There were the election results for state senate, where Gramps only brought in 27 percent of the vote, glued to the top of his campaign slogan that read simply: “I teach.” Grandpa was so proud of that slogan.

That room was Grandpa’s entire life, his sanctuary from the world. A physical manifestation of memories that told his story. There was not a single picture of my grandmother in that office. Other than the scribbled height of the kids on the doorframe, there were no pictures of any of Grandpa’s kids either. His story.

I sat in that office absorbing the history. My thoughts wandered to what Grandma had said about Jacob. I couldn’t envision a scenario when I would need him, the idea that I would be thankful for him was asinine. Just the thought made me clench my fists so hard that my fingernails dug into my palm leaving bloody imprints. I was so emotional, especially back then before the weight of time and responsibility largely suffocated my restlessness. I vowed to myself not to let Jacob get to me again, not to lose control, no matter what happened. I squinted my eyes hard—as if to force the goal into my head.

While I sat there in the basement, Grandpa came down the stairs and walked through the office door.

“Grandma tells me you shot her the bird . . .”

I nodded while looking at the floor.

“On the driveway…”

I nodded again.

“She tells me she slapped the holy hell out of you in the kitchen.”

I nodded again, still looking down.

“Well, she’s upstairs. Hands and knees up there cleanin’ up red shit off the cabinets. She must have busted you pretty good.”

“It’s Kool-Aid, Gramps.”

He laughed as only he could. “You left your mark on that room. Everyone will remember that slap and splatter.” And Grandpa walked over and patted me on the back. He told me to try to get along better with Jacob and “keep my head.”

Things repeated themselves over that year. So much that it was like living in a spin cycle. We were always together, Jacob and I, working the same dawn until dusk shift at the farm. Like too many familial relationships it was a forced shitshow that led to nowhere good. “Jacob and I” lit a neighbor’s pasture on fire and caused some damage to property. “Jacob and I” wrecked a farm truck. “Jacob and I” were caught stealing money from Grandpa’s wallet. “Jacob and I” stole beer from the fridge. There was always a lot more Jacob and a whole hell of a lot less of “I.” Though “I” was guilty by association.

Jacob and I never got along. I came to realize we never would. Jacob was drawn to pain and fear like an insect to bright light. He loved giving titty twisters that left scars for years. When he was really feeling froggy, which was often, he forced me to slap box him until my gums bled. You could never ride as a passenger in anything Jacob was driving, be it a four-wheeler, a pickup truck, or a bike. He would push the envelope of safety right up to the edge of death until you were in tears and begging to “make it stop.”

Grandma’s prediction about Jacob always hung in the back of my mind like a guilty thought. One of Grandma’s favorite sayings was that “everyone served a purpose.” Even Jacob. She was especially fond of reiterating that statement when Jacob got into trouble. I watched him deteriorate over the years—violent arrests, a stolen car, an arson charge for burning down a hundred-thousand-dollar grain elevator “just for shits and giggles.” Grandma kept saying “everyone serves a purpose. Everyone. Jacob slid so far into the abyss that even unconditional advocates like her began to wonder just what that purpose might be.

_____________

If there was a moment where Grandma realized Jacob would not be able to live a normal life, it was the pigs. That changed everything, that was it. Things went from dysfunctional to something more malevolent. It was the coup de grâce of Jacob’s sanity.

Jacob and I had just finished watching a comic book flick on the TV in the basement. A hackneyed yawner where the super-villain tied the hero to a post. The villain filled a trench with gas, and spent the last scene flipping a book of matches open and closed over the ditch while saying vague shit like “you think I wanted this,” “I’m a monster,” and “no one ever loved me.” The movie was boring and formulaic. Nonetheless, Jacob had “the face” while he mentally recorded the scene.

A few weeks later, he did it.

Jacob and I were playing near the pigpen. Grandpa had nestled the pen underneath a trio of thousand-year-old oaks right near the water pump. These trees were the oldest in the country. Massive oaks that had trunks so thick they were twelve feet across the middle Grandpa said the oaks were old even when he was a little boy and his dad had nicknamed them Comanche, Cherokee, and Apache after the warrior Indian tribes.

These three oaks were the centerpiece of the farm. They were so enormous, even in 1880, that the original homesteaders built the house so they could look upon the trees. They towered over the countryside each of them was over 150 feet tall and just as wide. They were never trimmed so their lower branches, thick as sidewalks, reached all the way to the ground. It was a rite of passage to climb to the top of Comanche’s tallest limb. We built a tree house about forty feet up, cupped by the branches of Apache like a father coddles a newborn babe.

As an adolescent, I read this short story from John Muir about riding out the fury of a thunderstorm in the peak of a tree. I climbed up Comanche in the middle of a prairie deluge. The branches dipped thirty feet in high winds. I clung to the trunk, my eyes glued to the horizon as lightening carpet-bombed the chalky hills along the Smoky River in an awesome show. Hugging that tree, I felt the power of nature and the delicateness of life at the same time.

I know this sounds clichéd and sophomoric. With my ear to the trunk of Comanche, I heard the call. It was the most invigorating experience of my life and lit a fire inside me I could never extinguish. I loved that tree since that day.

One summer, Comanche, Cherokee, and Apache started to die. They got an unknown disease that caused their leaves to fall off in the middle of summer. It happened fast, in just two weeks. The hulking relics stood there bald and naked, with three feet of green leaves piled up around them. I still remember Grandpa standing to look at the trio stripped bare and dying during the height of the growing season. They had, at least according to Gramps, been there for well over “five hundred years.” It was the end of an era that stretched longer from end to end than the American republic.

When those trees died, their leaves turned brown in a matter of days. The ground around the ancient trunks started to dry, and those poor pigs got hot. Even with the water pump dumping gallons of water onto the dirt, the ground began to flake and crack.

When Jacob dug his trench, that dirt was powder dry. He filled it with a line of red diesel. He stood over that trench for ten minutes, smoking a cigarette and flipping the box of matches open and closed.

“You think I give a fuck?” he said to me, imitating the supervillain from the movie with astounding skill.

He stared down into the box as if the answer was written in tiny letters along the side of a match. He finally pulled one and pinched it in his fingers, his eyes looking from the sulfur of the match-head to connect with mine. There was a flare in those eyes, a crazed glaze that was more akin to a rabid dog. He took a long draw off a cigarette he’d pilfered from Grandma. An inhale so deep, the smoke didn’t even come out when he next spoke.

“Grandpa always loved you more. You’re a soft little pussy. You'll hole up in the basement again. Eventually, he will come to pat you on the back.”

He took another long pull, this time letting the smoke drift out of his mouth only to be pulled back in two long tusks of smoke. He made his right arm wiggle forward as if it had no bones. It swung like Dumbo’s trunk. Only instead of a magic feather, there was a single wooden match.

“Ahhhhh,” he said with genuine satisfaction, “He will lose his goddamned mind. You can try to explain it. Just try.” He rubbed the back of his head with his palm and looked into the rolling hills of the pasture. Jacob had this look, kind of a contemplative stare into space where he’d raise his eyebrows and push out his chin. He would stay perfectly still while you looked at him. It was his I-am-a-deep-thinking-troubled-artist stare he probably bastardized from some B movie.

“I've enjoyed the pain,” he said. “Do you know that?”

I didn’t respond, that would have just made things worse.

Jacob lit the match then pinched it in his fingertips. His arm was completely extended. There was no bend in his elbow, Jacob let it burn slowly down without speaking. The flame of the match was, from my vantage point, perfectly between his eyes. Looking all the while past the flame at me.

“I love the fear—what’s crazy Jacob going to do next? Fear lasts. It stays with people. And causing it, creating it… Ahhhhh God, it’s the best feeling in the world.”

The flame touched his hand then. His eyelids squinted, and there was a moment I could have stopped it, maybe redirected his attention away from that trench filled with diesel, away from those pigs. I only could muster a single word.

“Jacob…”

He dropped the match with a theatrical snap of his wrist. The diesel lit with a low, blue flame that crawled across the ground. It slithered into the pigpen with silent grace, and when its tendrils touched the drippings on the grates of the pen, it went up with a whoosh. The flames tore through the cage, rolling across the pink bellies of the piglets.

The sound that came from there was unlike anything I've heard before or since.

It was a squealing cough full of agony. The smell of burning hair and shit was so harsh I had to cover my nose with my shirt. The sound of those piglets choking themselves as they tried to push through the square grates as they burned alive. That sound never left my ears. Every time I smell a pork chop or hear the grunt of an animal, the memory of that day comes squealing back.

Above the din of the burning pigs, I could hear the trees begin to burn. Those ancient oaks swaying violently as their branches scratched together like antlers of bucks fighting to the death. I looked up, and the trees bent and bowed as they began to burn.

The fire stretched from the pigpen to the base of Comanche. The trunk browned then blacked and popped embers as the fire licked up its branches. In less than a minute, the flames had clawed its way to the top and spread to Apache and Cherokee. The fireball was the size of a New York skyscraper.

I didn't try to run. When Grandpa came, I offered no explanation. I just sat there, eyes wide, as Jacob smoked Indian-style and leered. A single pillar of black smoke stretched from the blaze ten thousand feet into the sky. It was as if the arm of the devil reached out of hell to claw hands at the heavens above.

The grandparents committed Jacob to a mental hospital the very next day. There was no goodbye, no explanation. Just a silent sendoff that served as an acknowledgment of their fear of Jacob. He had progressively gotten worse. He had gone from general physical abuse to vandalization to animal torture to full-scale slaughter. In this linear progression, animals wouldn’t hold his attention much longer.

Looking back after all these years, I see that Grandma was right. Even a person as fuck-snap crazy as Jacob did have a purpose. There was a world where a kid that relished fear would have value. I didn’t know it then, but that world—with its suffocating nights and roving killing herds—had started to develop all around me. The seeds of the apocalypse had just sprouted, and addled roots of the dead oaks had just broken through the soil.

#Kill Hollows

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caveartfair · 6 years ago

Text

What I Learned from Looking through My Childhood Artworks

Casey Lesser on her first day of pre-school, 1993.

Drawing by Casey Lesser.

This past August, I was summoned via text message to spend a few hours clearing out my mom and dad’s basement. Their house, on a quiet, porch-lined street in Brooklyn, is where most of my childhood took place. I lived there from the time when I was a curious, well-behaved 5-year-old who loved crafting, playing soccer, and hunting for snails to the time I moved out on my own, as a wide-eyed college grad with a liberal arts degree under my belt, and a master’s on the horizon. In the time in between, an accumulation of things from my schooling, travels, and artmaking pursuits had claimed valuable space in my generous parents’ home, and it was finally time to go through it. The most daunting part of the task ahead was to parse through—and part with—my childhood artworks.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been making things. One of my earliest memories is creating a papier-mâché snake—with red skin and black spots—during a “mommy and me” art class at Pratt Institute. As a toddler, I had a miniature easel, where I avidly painted. I could also often be found cutting up magazines and catalogues (Oriental Trading was my favorite) for collaging, or crafting gaudy necklaces with candy-colored beads or googly-eyed finger puppets with fuzzy hair. Like many children, I spent a lot of time drawing with my 64-pack of Crayola crayons. And around first or second grade, when I got my hands on Sculpey—a polymer clay that hardens when you bake it in the oven, a concept I found magical—I became obsessed with sculpting miniature cakes, ice cream cones, bunnies, and teddy bears.

Drawing by Casey Lesser.

As I grew up, my creative impulse wavered, but never that much. It perked up in school, where I was lucky to always have art classes and summer camps—one year as a preteen, I took classes in analog photography, puppet-making, and Ukrainian Easter egg decorating. In college, my love for ceramics, which I still practice today, was cemented. My ever-supportive parents didn’t hold onto my whole creative output (the spotted papier-mâché snake was just one of the casualties), but they did keep a lot—which I was touched by on that day in August.

I tore into the task of discarding my childhood effects with efficiency, saving the things that held solid sentimental value and trashing the junk that was just taking up space (let’s face it—Brooklyn real estate is a precious commodity). I easily parted with old notebooks, exams, essays, and a giant cache of printed sources that informed my undergraduate thesis on Pablo Picasso’s Guernica (1937). I saved some of my earliest writing samples, birthday cards from my grandparents, and my acceptance letter into college. But I paused when I pulled out an amorphous green finger-painting, a collage of a cat, and a colored-pencil drawing of a smiling butterfly—I had a soft spot for these early spurts of creativity.

That’s not to say I kept them all. Given the quantity—dozens and dozens of pieces—and my career, which has me looking at art constantly, I set the bar high for what was good enough to keep. I got rid of around half, discarding redundant pieces (I drew a lot of cats), slapdash drawings, and silly projects—like a book I wrote and illustrated about a humanoid carrot who went on vacation. When I was done, I’d whittled down my adolescent possessions to a tidy pile of boxes.

Artwork by Casey Lesser.

I didn’t think much of the experience until a month later, when one of my Google alerts directed me towards an article in The Atlantic, with a headline that caught my eye: “Throw Your Children’s Art Away.”

In the article, author Mary Towsend recalls the recent experience of reckoning with her own childhood artwork, then coming to the realization, as a mother, that she doesn’t need to keep everything her children make. She surmises that the act of making art is more important that the actual artwork, and a parent’s urge to keep it has more to do with wanting to hold onto memories.

“Throwing it away actually does everyone a favor,” Townsend writes. “It completes the artistic life cycle, allowing ephemera to be just that: actually ephemeral. Childhood is like that, too—or that’s how parents ought to think about it. Kids thrash about until a more recognizable self takes hold. Then they turn their attention toward preserving that developing self. The paperwork they produce along the way is mostly a means to that end.” She concludes that art created before age seven is particularly ripe for trashing, and that you shouldn’t discard something your child wants to keep.

Self-portrait by Casey Lesser.

Townsend’s points rang true to me, but I was still glad to have my earliest artistic pursuits tucked away safely in my parents’ basement. Soon after, I decided to take another look at my artwork. I was thinking about the value of children’s drawings and paintings, and what they could say, or express, about a person during that incredibly formative part of life.

Teachers, psychologists, and doctors have long toiled over interpreting children’s drawings, analyzing them as tools to measure a child’s social, communication, and motor skills, while also using them to tap into their mind and get a sense of their emotional state, self-esteem, and family life. Given my lack of expertise in this area, and the warnings some experts make against over-analyzing children’s drawings, I decided to look at the artworks as whole compositions, rather than a melange of symbols for decoding.

I went about this by pulling out some broad themes from artworks I’d created between preschool and fourth grade. There’s a small body of abstract pieces, some self-portraits and drawings of friends and family in journals, an outsize quantity of cat drawings and paintings, and a cache of optimistic, blue-skied paintings.

Collage of a cat by Casey Lesser.

Painting of a cat and pumpkin by Casey Lesser, created during 2nd grade.

Marker drawing by Casey Lesser.

Artwork by Casey Lesser.

Computer drawing by Casey Lesser, created during 4th grade.

The early abstract works are clearly preschool projects. One piece, with loops of black-and-white paint overlaid with a spray of confetti, is likely the result of dipping marbles in paint, then running them across the sheet of paper. Another piece, from the same year, made with cray-pas on black construction paper, could be read as a landscape—though I could have just enjoyed the satisfying sensation of running soft crayons across construction paper.

From what I can tell, by age three or four, I’d begun more representational works. The earliest ones are blob-like characters that, with a few tweaks, could represent dramatically different things, from a roly-poly feline to Princess Jasmine from the film Aladdin (1992), whom I idolized. A self-portrait I made during kindergarten is a crayon drawing with spare scrawls of brown hair, a curving pink swoop of a mouth, blue bug-eyes, and a peach-colored beak of a nose, all over a beige scribble of pale skin. After years of light exposure to the paper, the large pink bow I made a point of drawing on my head is barely visible. It’s accompanied by my kindergarten musings about Bugs Bunny and the seven cats that belonged to my upstairs neighbors in the first home I lived in.

I’ve never owned a cat (nor do I wish to as an adult), but as a child, I was obsessed with the creatures, in part, I think, because I couldn’t have one—my mom is allergic to them. So, I channeled my passion into my artmaking. I drew the real cats who lived upstairs, like Tut, an fuzzy orange-colored troublemaker who was prone to escaping and went for walks on a leash; the elegant white Persians I saw in Fancy Feast advertisements; and myself dressed up as a black cat for Halloween (my preferred costume for several years). A personal favorite is a rendering of a stoic tomcat made from three pieces of tangerine-colored tissue paper and a black pen.

Mixed-media painting by Casey Lesser.

A family portrait and a drawing of a pumpkin patch by Casey Lesser from a first grade journal.

Drawing of a man juggling by Casey Lesser

My cat-drawing practice was bluntly thwarted around second grade, when my art teacher grew frustrated with my friend and I for constantly drawing and painting cats. She was convinced it was fueling a rash of copying (I’m sure she was right), so cats were no longer allowed in art class.

I also drew portraits of my family. In a first-grade journal, I used crayons to capture the likeness of myself, my mom, and my dad, huddled together with outstretched arms, in monochromatic outfits; above us is a failed attempt to draw my brother that I’d scratched out, perhaps unhappy with the placement. (If I were psychoanalyzing these drawings, the all-black outfit and potentially grim expression I’d drawn on my brother might raise a flag, but looking back on our genial relationship, I know that’d be a false alarm.)

My Sculpey sculptures—miniscule objects that mostly only survived because my mom kept them in a shadow box hanging on the wall for many years—are more illustrative of the development of my artmaking abilities. While a pale blue mouse isn’t much to look at, later pieces, like a small wizard and a thumb-sized layer cake, are delightful. As I got better at handling the pliable, colorful clay, I’d challenged myself to work smaller and smaller, evidenced by a small rabbit the size of my pinky nail.

Sand painting with glitter by Casey Lesser.

While a fascinating next step (for me, at least) would be to have these artworks psychoanalyzed by an expert, left to my own devices, I found the exercise to be a fruitful and cathartic way to trace my trajectory into adulthood. While they may be based on naïve whims, these early creations are somewhat transportive, sending me back to the joyous experience of making art as a child, when I wasn’t concerned with how it would be seen or judged by others. It was no revelation to see the physical remnants of my feline fascination, but it was a joy to be reminded of how encouraging my parents have always been (even when I wanted to get a master’s degree in art history). Plus, as a 28-year-old who writes about creativity for a living, it was fun to turn the lens on myself. I can’t help but think that still having pieces so many years later has contributed to my ongoing hunger for creative fulfillment.

While I probably wouldn’t know what I was missing if my parents’ hadn’t kept the artworks I made before age seven, it is pretty cool to be able to hold a glittering sand painting that my tiny hands made a quarter-century ago. I may feel differently when I’m a parent—who knows—but for now, I’m going to hold onto what I’ve salvaged. And I might even turn to my cat drawings the next time I need some creative inspiration.

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

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karapixieart-blog · 7 years ago

Photo

The Crones Life

Crone: an old woman who is thin and ugly.

Many years ago, the Crone lived a life of solitude in the enchanted forest.

In a faraway Kingdom lived a princess, who was so wildly misbehaved, the King and Queen needed to send her away. Often times, when children of nobleness, such as this Princess, misbehaved, they were sent to live in the enchanted forest in hopes they would change.

The Queen doubted her little Princess would ever behave but decided to give it a try.

The King and Queen packed the Princess up and loaded her Feathered Friend (her pet baby bird) in the carriage and sent her off to live with the Crone in the woods.

When the Princess arrived, the Crone was struck by her beauty. She was of only 8 years old but had features of a queen already. Her eyes were slightly too big for her face and her hair was untidy yet beautiful, almost enchanting, thought the Crone.

The Crone was slightly puzzled.

“Princess, sit down,” said the Crone.

The Princess did as she was told and the Crone wondered, “How misbehaved exactly is this child?”

They started talking and before they knew it the sun went to sleep and the night sky blanketed the woods. The forest buzzed with the snore of animals having happy dreams.

“Princess, I must tell you, you do not seem misbehaved, you and your Feathered Friend are quite lovely to be around.”

The Princess stared up at the Crone and a little giggle escaped her mouth.

Together they spent their days growing vegetables they would eat for dinner. They washed the Princess’s Feathered Friend in the well when he was dirty and they painted with watercolors during the bright days that transformed into magical dark nights.

They spent hours before the fire at night, cozy in the small cottage, eating desserts and sipping on teas they brewed themselves. It was not uncommon for the Crone, the Princess, and her Feathered Friend to wake up in a daze on top of pillows right by the fire. The Princess grew used to having warm red cheeks from the blaze. They laughed and played and the Princess learned more than she thought she could ever learn in the castle.

They would walk in the enchanted forest for hours with Feathered Friend flying above them. They camped out violent storms, inviting the forest creatures to take refuge in their cottage. They always made sure to cut enough wood and plan enough meals well in advance.

No one was ever cold and no one was ever hungry. Everyone was welcomed and everyone was loved.

After many years, the Princess was sent back home to the King and Queen.

Everyone seemed happy in the kingdom and all seemed well.

When the Princess turned 18, she asked her mother about the Crone. “Why did you send me to her?”she asked her mother.

“Did you not enjoy your time with her?”

“I did, very much so, but was I that bad that you had to send me away?”

“No, Princess you were not bad. I sent you to live with the Crone for her, not for you. You see, the Crone is my sister and something terrible happened to her when we were your age.”

The Princess’s big eyes grew bigger…

The Queen went on…

“She is my twin. When we were 18, we both married handsome princes. But her prince, while he seemed charming to everyone, was an evil man. And while she loved him so, she could not change him.

My sister was beautiful, she painted every day on the castle’s balcony, she fed the village children before she fed herself, and she planted the most beautiful gardens for all to enjoy. While they loved each other at one point, the prince became greedy. He would forbid my sister from leaving and would look down upon her gardens with scorn.

He would spatter poison on her paintings and tell her lies.

His ugly attitude showed on my sister, and she slowly started to turn into a Crone. She grew so ugly that the prince left her for another princess and took off to the 7th Kingdom.

My sister could not bear the thought of the man she loved with someone else. No matter how horrible he was, she was too nice to realize he would not be changed of his evil ways.

She went to see him each night and begged for them to start over. Everyone warned her that she deserved better and that the prince was evil. And if she did not stop, she would become the old crone of the enchanted forest.

By the time my sister stopped seeing the prince, it was too late. She had become the Crone and, as it had been warned, if she sought evil he would be exiled to the forest.”

The Princess’s heart broke and she told her mother of the feeling.

“But mother, she is not evil! My best memories are the memories I have with her. I need to make this better.”

The Queen warned the Princess she was of marrying age and that if she left now to be with the Crone in her time of need, there was no guarantee her prince would wait for her.

The Princess looked at her mother and said, “Any prince who does not wait for me is not the prince for me. Besides, I am hesitant to marry after hearing your sister’s story.”

The Princess headed back to the Crone’s cottage, but this time she packed herself up and gathered her Feathered Friend, who was no longer small, for the journey.

She arrived at the Crone’s door.

Surprised, the Crone opened it.

“What are you doing here, Princess? You are of age and this is an important time for you to be back at the castle awaiting your prince.”

“Crone, my mother told me you are my aunt and that your prince was horrible to you. He betrayed you, was unfaithful, and hurt you.”

“Yes, I am and yes he was. But it is over now. I do not love him anymore and by the time I realized I deserved better, it was too late. I had already turned into a crone.”

“I need you to watch Feathered Friend,” said the Princess. “I am going to go find that prince and make him apologize.”

Before the Crone could protest and insist she had moved on… before she could explain that her happiness lay not with the prince, but within herself… the Princess was already on her way to the 7th Kingdom to confront the prince.

When the Princess arrived at the 7th Kingdom, she was shocked by what she saw.

The castle was insanely beautiful and well kept. The Princess came from a remarkable castle, but this was a whole new level of extravagance. She snuck to the window of the master bedroom, climbed up, hoisted herself up onto the window, and slipped into the room.

The prince was asleep in his king bed. She looked around the room and saw a bird cage with several birds inside. “Perfect,” she thought. “I know exactly what to do.”

The Princess transformed herself into a bird and sat in the cage observing the prince who called himself a king.

She watched him for three days. She saw how miserable his queens was. How lifeless she appeared. The queen laid in bed most days. When the king entered the room she pretended to sleep. The Princess saw the king lie and treat the servants like animals (worse, the Princess thought, she would never treat animals that way). His true greed showed ugly in his face and actions. The Princess was shocked that someone who lived in such a beautiful castle with such a beautiful queen could be so ugly.

Right then the Princess felt something she had never felt before. She could not explain it but she knew she could not confront this prince who was now a king and she could not waste another minute in that bird cage.

That night, she waited for the prince and the queen to fall asleep. She transformed back into her human form, walked over to the queen, kissed the queen’s forehead while she slept, and silently prayed things would get better for her.

In the dark night, the Princess made her way through the enchanted forest effortlessly. This had become her second home. She whispered for the wolves to walk with her.

When they arrived, she told them what had happened and what she had seen. They agreed the prince was a horrible person and they too worried about his queen and the Crone.

The wolves watched as the princess drew weary from travel and the emotional journey. They let her rest on their backs and carried her back to the cottage. They arrived and the Princess woke to a bright sky, her Feathered Friend, and the Crone sitting by the fire eating biscuits and whispering kisses to each other.

Seeing the Princess had awoken, her Feathered Friend wobbled over to her on his little bird legs and planted a juicy kiss on her forehead with his beak. The Princess smiled and then started to cry. She walked over to the Crone and collapsed in her arms, sobbing for her loss of youth and love and trust.

As she cried, something magic happened.

With each tear that fell on the Crone’s face, her wrinkles began to disappear. The Crone’s body began to transform. The Princess looked up and saw that the crone was just as beautiful as her mother, the Queen. “Crone! Look, you are beautiful!”

The Crone had long ago rid the cottage of mirrors for fear of further heartbreak. So the Princess grabbed the Crone by the hand and they ran back to the castle of her parents, with Feathered Friend soaring in the sky above them.

As the Princess and the Crone raced through the village, people stopped and stared at the Crone, amazed by her beauty.

When they arrived at the castle, the Queen was already outside. Tears of joy were streaming down her face as she found her lost sister—as young, beautiful, and happy as she remembered her.

She opened her arms and welcomed her sister home.

http://blog.karapixie.com/2018/03/12/the-crones-life/

#crone #art #illustration #fairy tales #witch

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theacruzelle · 7 years ago

Text

Sharp panic, twisting, tangling my insides.

Melancholy song fills the air, lilting over the wind, like a freighter vessel crashing over heavy waves. The clouds roll in, little sneaks, tiptoeing over the sky, mischievous grins alighting their faces. Small blue wings beat up and down, my frantic fluttering drawing attention. It’s not every day a grown bird fails the flying test.

Meaningless drifting, fervent hope for a landing. Maple trees surround, wet leaves slapping against my body, throwing me further off course. Large droplets of water slide down my feathers, an odd, oily sensation.

I’m finally on the ground. Talons sink into the rocky earth, my beak snapping loudly.

Confusion. Gathering in a tangle, tugging the sides of my little bird stomach, gravel sanding down the lining.

I hop along the dirt. Squirming creatures traverse the blades of grass, numerous pairs of eyes blinking nervously in my direction.

“Hello.” I chirp, stopping in surprise. The intention had been for conversation, but speech capabilities were forgotten. They merely scatter, burrowing into the earth for fear of the danger I pose. It had been a loud squawk, certainly not attractive nor benign.

My journey continues, an astronaut bounding over the moon’s surface. Hollow bones—that’s why I’m so light. It’s a freedom, the desire tugging at my chest —try the skies again.

Five minutes ago I lived a different life. My worries included my grandmother’s cigarettes; Grady Pearson—who spent the majority of English class irritating from the desk behind mine; and Mr. Cosman, the reincarnation of Nero.

“Oh birdie!” A small blonde bounces up, not yet learned in the art of tiptoeing. “Mom look!”

“Mom” mutters a “that’s nice,” and continues to text, her cheetah thumbs bolting about the touchscreen.

The girl pouts, button nose scrunched, flipping her pigtails behind the puffed sleeves of her blue princess dress.

“Stupid bird.” She winds up, going to kick me, neglected eyes viewing a useless soccer ball.

Indignant squawking and screeching occurs, and I take to the overcast sky, my flight still awkward and off balance.

“Marissa!” Scolds the mother, curling her manicured fingers around the girl’s wrist and tugging the offender away.

The predators are different, but they exist all the same. Adrenaline courses through my veins, running a race that burns and excites.

A song passes my syrinx, pure instinct behind each sacred note. I glide on the wind, searching for something, though I know not yet what.

Up ahead is a tree, a poplar, taller than all the rest. The branches wind around the trunk—like a shield—whistling words of comfort and safety to the one it protects.

My talons clench around a green branch, head whipping this way and that. The eaves protect, sheltering from wind and rain. Shaking violently, I upset the gathering of water from my feathers, fluttering my wings in an attempt to become dry once again.

A screech startles me from my thoughts. This tree is not as empty as originally imagined. Flying down to my branch is large hawk, maliciously snapping his crooked beak. He outstretches his wings—showing the brown speckles of his feathers—an attempt to make a bigger impression.

I bow my head, keeping my eyes from meeting the predator’s. My goal—make it out alive. My exact size is not known, but I am aware of my low chances.

The branch shakes with the hawk’s weight. He tries to intimidate, screeching and flapping his wings madly in loud clamor—hopping closer, nearer...

Rolling my head and eyes to the side, I drop from the tree. It’s a free fall, and the hawk can only watch curiously as I get closer and closer to the ground. My fate is fast approaching.

An outstretch of wings, a frantic fluttering, and I pull a Wronski Feint, swerving up at the very last moment.

As swift as possible, I’m beating against the wind, wishing I didn’t hear that squawk of outrage, the takeoff.

I’m navigating unfamiliar suburbs, and the hawk is fast gaining. He hisses insults, mocking laughter curling from his throat.

There! A birdhouse. It’s newly painted, small, and the nearest shelter in sight. I duck inside, tucking myself in a ball.

Talons land on the roof, and he shakes the house vigorously. An earthquake rocks my only hope for survival, throwing me about, a little slip of fluff.

This is where I’ll die.

“Hey! Shoo!”

Hailstones pound against the box, an indignant screech from the hawk.

My ears echo with silence, ringing. I almost died byway of a hawk. It’s embarrassing how quickly this gift has gone to the dogs.

“Hello there.” A brown eye peeks through the door, long, black lashes blinking at me.

“Hello.” I chirp, shaking my tail feathers. The world won’t stop spinning.

“I’m not going to hurt you, my name’s Noah.”

I hop forward slowly, head cocked to the side. As my savior he’d be less likely to injure me, yes? One more bounce and I’ve planted myself on the soft, tender flesh of his hand. His skin is ghostly white, splattered with large brown freckles. On his head is a mop of red hair, from which two ears poke out obnoxiously.

“That was a nasty bird, wasn’t it.” Says the boy absentmindedly, stroking my back.

I nod, and he smiles, sitting down on a lawn chair with me in hand.

Noah hums, “I know lots of guys like that, just picking on anyone smaller.”

And that’s how our friendship begins. Every afternoon he arrives at my birdhouse, bearing seeds and fruit for me to partake in. Then he does his homework on the deck, or talks, or stares at the perfectly whitewashed fence.

Noah has a brother named Jason. He doesn’t talk much about him, but from his tone of voice I suspect the two have little to no respect for each other. Jason is in his early twenties and lives at home—without paying rent. He comes and goes as he pleases, often drunk. One night he managed to scale the fence and sneak in through the back. I’m the only one that saw.

It’s Saturday, and Noah is late. Or at least, I think it is a Saturday. As a canary I strongly doubt my sense of time.

I hop around in circles, keeping watch from the patio furniture, hoping for the moment the door would slide open.

“Hey Blue.”

A frantic fluttering of wings, I land on his shoulder, expectant eyes fixed on his freckled face.

“It hasn’t been that long.” He dimples, “I told you, I work on weekends.”

He’s only fourteen, yet Noah is the closest thing the Cohen family has to a responsible male figure. Jeanie, his mom, works all day, gone from 8-8. Noah does the shopping, the cleaning, spending the rest of his time in his room, never a word of complaint.

I admire him.

The sun sets over the horizon, and I stop a moment, giving it my full attention. The yard is small, nothing but my birdhouse within. We’re on the porch, the fresh wood smell prevalent. Noah’s father built it before he left.

Noah must be distracted too, because we both jerk when there’s a crash.

Again. Metal against metal, the sound similar to the crushing of a tin can. The fence gate cracked open, revealing Jason and a pretty blonde. They stumbled forwards, wrapped up in each other.

“Hem, hem.” Noah coughed, finally raising their attention.

“Hey look, it’s my little brother and his pet.” He spat the last word, making it seem stupid and immature.

“Jason,” Noah drooped, his hand coming up to stroke my back.

“Noah,” Jason sung, leading the intoxicated girl into the house, the two stumbling back and forth, walking over an earthquake only they could feel.

“So, that’s my brother.” He fished a graphic novel from his bag, embarrassed to admit it, even to a bird (or so he thought, anyway).

I desperately wanted to help, wished to be able to fix, yet what could I do? Even in my human form I had no power, and as a bird all that could be done was to bring comfort.

You’re not a superhero.

It isn’t some big moment. There isn’t flashing lights, screams, explosive emotions. There is no reason for it to happen—yet it does.

Noah is at the patio table, working away at his calculus homework. I bound away along the grass, searching for picky bits (aka creepy crawlies).

One moment I’m a blue canary, the next—I’m not.

I twitch, my hands digging into the soft, wet grass for the first time in weeks. Attired in human skin and clothes, I stand, legs wobbling.

“Blue?” Noah’s face is flushed of colour, his freckles popping more than ever. A galaxy traces over his cheeks and nose, a universe.

“Hi Noah.” His lips tremble, eyes flickering back and forth over my form.

“Please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean to—”

“Are you a human that turned into a bird? Or are you a bird that turned into a human.”

I giggle, finally figuring out how to sit up. “I’m human.”

“How?” He comes closer, plopping down beside me, but not too close.

“It just… happened.”

A squirrel bounds along the fence.

“You just magically morphed into a bird?”

I nod, grimacing at how stupid that sounds.

“Um,” I stick out my hand, “My name’s Emily.”

He grins, “Nice to meet you.” Noah clasps his hand around mine, hesitantly, covered in a cold sweat.

“Back at’ya.”

I don’t want to go back yet, and Noah can see that. Jeanie isn’t due to be home for a couple of hours, so he invites me onto the porch, thumbs twiddling.

“Blue—er—Emily?” His cheeks go red, “Aren’t your parents wondering where you are?”

Leaning back, my hand taps against my chin, face passive. “Probably not.”

He frowns, incredulous. “Wha—”

“They’re dead.”

“They’re dead?”

“I live with my grandma.”

“You were gone for over a week.”

“She doesn’t give a crap.”

Noah’s mouth nearly hits the ground. “Is she… abusive?”

“Pft, no, no of course not. I should—I should’ve tried to go back, but... “

I wiggle my toes, having long freed them from their cages.

“No responsibilities.” He smiled.

“Yeah,” I scratch the back of my head.

“Ooh, lookie here! Noah has a girly friend!” Jason leans against the doorframe, mocking eyes, dancing eyebrows. “Does mom approve of you being alone with her?”

Red sweeps across Noah’s skin, the tips of his ears bright and glowing. “Piss off, Jason.”

“Jason Cohen, pleased to make your acquaintance.” he holds his hand out to me. I stare.

“Emily Desdale, decidedly not so.”

Jason bursts into loud guffaws. “She’s a proud one. Good job, little brother.”

He leaves.

I wish I was a superhero.

“Well look who’s back. How were the streets, kid?” Grandma takes a long drag of her cigarette, playing with her bleached blonde hair.

I merely stare. There’s nothing I can say. I hadn’t wanted to return.

The house is a mess, more than usual. Dishes are piled high in the sink, everything covered in a layer of dust, couches barely seen underneath piles of clothes. All is soaked with the smell of smoke—something I only notice because of the two weeks we spent apart.

I get to work, scrubbing, arranging, sweeping, mopping. Grandma grins whenever I pass, laughing more at the refusal to make eye contact.

“Looks like they made their mark.” She chortles.

Cleaning lasts for the day’s entirety, and at eight o’clock she leaves for her boyfriend’s place. The house is finally empty, finally clean. I lie on my dingy old cot, counting the cracks in the ceiling.

There’s 37.

Lights gleam over the streets, an illusion of their power created by way of the fog. Dilapidated sneakers flop over the sidewalks, slapping furiously. Breath wheezes from my throat, but I don’t slow the pace.

The air lies thick on my skin, it’s as if I’m swimming through a dream.

A stitch stabs at my side; I want to double over. I don’t.

There’s a bird sitting on the fence of his yard, head crooked to the side. Its feathers are a mottled grey, eye focused on me. A pigeon.

I don’t know how long we stay there, staring at each other. At one point, it shakes its head, furiously, as if sneezing.

“Emily?” Noah walks into view, fire blazing about his head, no it’s merely a trick of the light. “Are you okay?”

I smile small, “Not really. I’m sorry. It’s super late, I should just—”

A hand curls softly around my shoulder. Turning me back towards him, he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck.

“Do you want to stay for a bit? I don’t—it would be nicer with you here.”

“Okay,” I say softly, sticking my hand in his.

We lie on our backs, staring at the bright quarter moon, the soft grass whistling in the breeze.

“I wish I could be a bird again.” I whisper.

“I wish I was one too.” He squeezes my hand.

Dimpling, I turn to him, supporting my head on my palm. “Then we could fly off into a distance.”

“Never anything to bother us again.”

“No stupid family.”

“No obligations.”

“No age restrictions.”

We dream of a happier life that’ll never come. We’re safe, invisible, under the moon’s protection. Monsters don’t exist. They never did.

The sun begins to rise. The moon lowers, and with its disappearance goes our confidence. We look into each other’s eyes, knowing the world will soon need to be faced.

“Hey Casanova!”

The clink of a fence gate.

We jump up, our hands still entangled.

Jason is alone this time, his speech slurred and slow, yet his feet planted surely along the ground. He comes closer, closer—

SMACK! Jason’s fist collides with Noah’s freckled face.

“Jason! Jason stop! Why are you—?”

Noah tries to put up a fight, punching, but Jason merely catches his brother’s fist, socking him again.

“Stop, stop!” I screech, running forwards. Attempts to place myself between them only leads to my head slamming against the wooden fence.

The redheads continue the battle; Noah is on the ground now. Futile attempts are made to protect his face, his brother not listening to either of our pleads. Skin is breaking, each punch just as solid as the next, becoming more frenzied, stronger as Jason spirals.

He’s not fighting Noah anymore. No, he’s fighting his Dad—he’s fighting the one that left.

My head is pounding, consciousness slipping away with each second that passes. My limbs are numb, unattached. Do they really belong to me?

What is—oh right, they’re fighting. What was I—?

I need to stop them.

Shimmying myself back to standing, my hands slide along the wood, pinpricks piercing the soft flesh of my hand. I stumble forwards—

There’s darkness, pain everywhere, spreading from my head down.

My throat is desert dry, eyes stuck over with glue. Rhythmic beeps sound throughout the room—they belong to me. My hands slide along a coarse blanket. I’m dressed in a gown.

“Emily Ross?” A woman is at my side, dressed in an ill-fitting blue uniform.

“Ye—a?” I croak. The room closes in, yellow, peeling wallpaper looming over me. Something has happened.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Her smile is fake, just like her ruby red lips. “You’ve suffered a mild concussion, are you able to answer some questions?”

I gulp down some water, then nod.

“Great!” She squeaks, “I’ll send him in.”

The nurse is gone before I can ask for—

“Miss. Ross?” A policeman enters the room, deep bags under his eyes, half bald.

“Um, hi?”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, I mean—”

“That’s good,” he pushes on, taking out a notepad and a pen. “Now, what were you doing on Walnut Grove Street during the fight that took place between the two Cohen boys?”

“You call that a fight? Dude, Jason was beating on Noah for no reason.”

He gave me a smile, barely constraining his irritation, “Answer the question, miss.”

I sit up, eyebrows raising. “Well, sir, I was out for some air. Noah and I are friends.”

“You were out for some air.” He said in disbelief.

“Yes, look, what do you want?”

The policeman hesitated, leaning towards me. “Is your grandmother abusing you?”

“Is that what this is about? No! A thousand times no! Why are you concentrating on that? Noah is obviously the kid that needs help.”

“Miss. Ross, I think we should be the judge of that.”

“Like you know him at all!”

He threw his hand up, speaking with a patronizing tone, “I think that’ll be all today.”

“Wait! Is Noah alright?” I jump to my feet, tethered by the needle in my arm.

“Kid.” He turned around, meeting my eyes. “Noah’s dead.”

The policeman walked away, shoulders burdened, step heavy.

You’re not a superhero.

Inspired by

A Boy in Fiddler’s Green—The Tragically Hip

Birdhouse in Your Soul—They Might Be Giants

#writing shortstory

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