#lame yarn

[acanthemp3]

thinking a sweater with an elaborate 4+ color design combining text and florals probably definitely shouldnt be my first ever attempt at crocheting a full human sized garment. but i REALLY dont feel like spending all that time + yarn practicing by making a simpler sweater even if the practice would make my dream sweater turn out better. i need this brilliant design to be real NOW!!!

[fredthedemonpartner]

Finally learned the stockinette and reverse stockinette stitches after a full decade of knitting (I just knitted a lot of hats on the round). I’m pretty sure someone tried to teach me the purl stitch at some point it just really didn’t stick. Of course I immediately jumped into an incredibly ambitious project that I have neither the experience nor the materials for. I’m aiming for purple and black cardigan with cables and a ribbed green border.

[duskythesomething]

got to shower AND exfoliate AND lotion afterwards so i am SoSoft and SoSmooth and then played a co-op game with the bf

[gloomyronin]

You really think nobody else is /hj

I'm not but I am an anomaly who does not like Cheetos

- 🧶

o. okay fair assessment still tho there are BETTER OPTIONS

[cookiescribble]

Flufftober Day 19: Yarn

(gif source)

A/N: this is the first thing that popped into my head when I saw the prompt and it’s very fitting considering we are literally at comic con as I’m posting this 😆 - mod angel

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: You watch as Spencer makes his scarf for the convention that he’s attending with you and Garcia.

~~~

“You could’ve just bought a scarf, you know.”

Spencer was sitting on the couch, knitting needles in hand, hard at work making the scarf for his Fourth Doctor costume.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He countered, shrugging. “I think it would be nice to make it myself.”

You shrugged, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, sipping a cup of tea. “You’ve just been working on it for a long time. I didn’t know if you were staring to regret it.”

He shook his head. “I don’t regret it. It’ll be an accomplishment when I finish it.” He pointed to a spool of yarn across the table. “Can you hand me the blue?”

You walked over, placing your mug on a coaster that sat on the table and reaching for the blue yarn.

“Thanks,” he flashed a smile at you as he took the yarn from you. “Do you think it’s looking good so far?”

You sat down next to him, giving him a peck on the cheek. You looked at the rows of beige, red, and black that he had so far. “Yeah! It’s nice to see the progress you’ve been making.”

“See, that’s why I want to knit it myself!” He smiled warmly. “It’s not as satisfying to just buy something from the store.”

“You’re making me feel lame for just wearing an old dress with the TARDIS design on it,” you laughed, resting your head on his shoulder and looking at his hands working deftly on the scarf.

“It’s not ‘lame,’” he shrugged, pausing for a moment to give you a kiss on the cheek. “Especially with how cute you look in it.”

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and resting your chin on his shoulder. “Is it a little too sappy that we’re doing couples’ costumes?”

“Not really,” he shrugged. “Garcia’s going to be matching, too. It’s less ‘couples costumes’ and more ‘group costumes.’”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you smiled. “I think it’s going to be nice having all of us matching.”

“Yeah!” He replied excitedly. “I was never able to do this before.” He stopped knitting for a moment to smile at you. “And the best part is I get to do it with you.”

You chuckled warmly. “Alright, that’s enough being cheesy for one day.” You leaned in to kiss his nose, making him smile in return. “The convention is soon, you don’t have that much time to finish this scarf; it’s not going to knit itself.”

He laughed, returning his attention to the yarn in front of him.

You watched him basically all day, watching the scarf grow longer and longer, eager to spend all this time with Spencer.

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Die Moosweiblein

Moss Women

Moss Women are female forest spirits from German legend. They belong to the poor souls.

Moos Women occur in Saxony, Thuringia, on the Saale, in Orlagau, in the Harz mountain, in the Vogtland, in Upper Palatinate, in the Bavarian Forest, in Franconia and Upper Franconia, in the Bohemian Forest, around Warnsdorf in the northern Czech Republic, in the Giant Mountains and in Westphalia.

Depending on the region, Moss Women have a different appearance. Most often, they are as short as a three to five year old child. They have an ugly appearance, often entirely covered in moss, and are hunchbacked. They appear to be very old with grey, wrinkled faces abd blackened, blind eyes. They have long black or white unkempt hair. Their voices are high-pitched and squeaky. They are always barefoot. They often carry brushwood in a pannier on their back or in their apron. They use a walking stick to support their unsteady gait.

Moss Women are living in the forest, where they are dwelling in underground caves or hollow trees. They are sleeping in beds from moss. They are living in large families and can have children from Wood Kobolds or humans. They like to bake delicious cake, and when they do, mist is coming out of the forest. When politely asked for, they serve the cake also to humans.

Moss women know herbs and are skilled at both sending and healing illnesses. If people mock them, they send them ailments. This can happen in a variety of ways. They can squeeze people so hard that they become sick and miserable, and they can sit on them so that they become lame. They can also breathe on them, which causes people to get bumps or ulcers on their faces. Moss women also have knowledge of the future.

Moss women reward people by giving them wood shavings or leaves that turn into gold. They also give balls of yarn that never end unless you deliberately look for their end, or webs and knitted items that bring luck and blessings into the house. The moss women also show their gratitude with well-intentioned advice and warnings. They also look after children in the forest, lead people out of the forest at night without getting lost, or help them find deer and roe deer antlers.

On the other hand, moss women steal bread and dumplings. They cannot tolerate caraway bread, however, which is why they cry out: caraway bread, our death. The same goes for "piped" bread, i.e. bread into which the tip of your finger has been pressed. They cannot touch counted baked goods either. On the other hand, the moss women rightfully own some of the hay cuttings and the water that drops on the rim of the vessel when scooped out, as well as some of the linseed, flax stalks, ears of grain and tree fruit, as well as the flour that sticks to the frame of the bucket and any leftover bread crumbs. Moss women allow people to gather wood in the forest if they first receive a piece of bread or a dumpling as a gift

Sometimes moss women help people with deeds and advice. They visit people's houses and do various jobs, for example they spin flax and wool at night, they scrub, feed, milk, mow, help with haymaking and harvesting. If moss women receive food from shepherds, they bless their cows, which then produce more milk. For craftsmen, they protect their tools from thieves. As household spirits, moss women bring luck and blessings, but also require to receive food offerings in return. They detest people's cursing and vices. They love silence, hate quarrels and curses, and are driven away by them, just as they disappear never to be seen again if they are given new clothes. Whenever bast is peeled from a tree, a Moosweiblein must die.

On the river Saale, the Buschgroßmutter (bush grandmother) is known as the queen of the moss women. Strictly speaking, the bush grandmother is the mother of the moss women (here: moss girls), with whom she travels around the country, usually in a small cart. She has messy hair and a fixed gaze. The bush grandmother is also a bogeyman. The bush grandmother also appears in Silesia, where she is called Pusch-Grohla.

[dozing-marshmallow]

Howdy! I hope you have a good morning/afternoon/evening/night!

So, can you do Chris McLean x Wife!Reader where Reader is his exact opposite? Like, Reader is serious, seems indifferent and looks intimidating, rarely smiles or laughs, but inside, she's a very soft person and cares about those she loves. Extra points if Reader is, like, VERY tall (almost like Jasmine) and VERY strong. Like, Chris only reaches up to her chest/collarbone, and she can literally pick him up and carry him all over the island without getting tired.

And she's very good for cuddling because her hugs always feel so protective.

Hi lovely! Thank you for sending this in, I hope you enjoy reading it and have a wonderful day!💝✨

CHRIS MCLEAN X WIFE! KUUDERE! READER ONE SHOT

Realistically, Chris would not want to be with a tall woman, but your smaller size did not measure how strong you still were.

And intimidating.

Every episode, interview, event, your face was the same. Stoic. Frowning.

You’ve heard the “guess the wind must have changed direction” joke one million times.

You don’t understand why people seem to be more frightened of you than of your husband, the Chris McLean.

Your hobbies don’t involve TNT or torture.

You were knitting a quilt for a local charity, diligent fingers at work, when a pair of arms deluged you from the side.

“(Y/NNNN)!”

You pause.

Your husband chuckles, rubbing his rough cheek against yours as he booped your nose,“Boop! Hellooooo, (Y/N)! Helloooooo!”

“...”

“Come onnnn, what’s a TV host gotta do to get a thing like you to respond?” he asks melodramatically, grabbing your face and controlling it to face him.

“I’m busy.” you managed to say through your squished cheeks.

“So you can’t spare one ounce of attention for your beloved husband?” 

You rotate your head as horizontally as you could.

“Aren’t you funny! Fine then, I’ll go and leave you to your lonely self. But only if you give me a smile!” he chimes, now tugging up on the edges of your lips.

You jerk your head back, neutral face pristine. You go back to your knitting.

“Hey, don’t leave me hanging. One smile won’t kill ya, (Y/N)! Just for me?” he drags, batting his eyelashes.

“Tell me a joke.” you instruct, deciding entertaining a hope wouldn’t hurt.

“Uhh..." he ponders,"Heather’s life?”

“That’s rather insensitive.”

“Blah blah blah, okay, softy.” Chris snorts,“Cody once told me he tried working at a belt store, but had trouble making ends meet.”

“Cody has told me himself he has yet to work.” you objected with fact.

He starts groaning loudly in defeat.

You blink slowly at him,“If you are going to lie, husband, at least make it believable.”

“What’s the point?” the dramatic inquiry left his lips,“You see right through me. I  married a grandma!” his hands clutched onto his flawless hair out of frustration.

“I’m the younger one.”

“Younger body with an old soul." he taunts,"A really really really old wrinkly soul.”

“That makes me wiser then.”

“Or just really lame.” you knew him well enough to recognise that these insults were just an attempt to get a rise out of you.

“You still haven’t achieved your goal.”

“What’s the point! I’ve tried everything!” Chris whines.

“You have the rest of your life to do that.”

“Um, more like the rest of your life. I’m not dying before you!” he retorts.

“I think you will.” you claim coolly,“You’ve created more enemies than you have hair.” your face brought no justice to the sudden heart-sinking thought of Chris dying.

“Show biz, baby! Show biz!” but the slight tremor in his voice told you it terrified him too.

To distract yourself, your sight drives back to the yellow yarn ball in your hands, whispering to it,“Aren’t you so pretty...” before throwing it up in the air and catching it.

“Are you... Am I seeing this right?” his words were more appropriate for a father to his newborn rather a husband to his wife.

You weren't smiling then, but- “Yarn balls [were] cute,” enough to spawn one.

At first, your husband complains out of disbelief,“So it took an inanimate object to get you to crack? Seriously? You know what that means? You’re not a grandma... You’re feline! Yeah, that sounds wayyyy better! You were reincarnated from a cat weren’t you, (Y/N)?” he then lovingly wildly pats your head as you set the ball of yellow yawn down beside you on the couch,“Come on, you’ve gotta start purring for me!”

“But (Y/N) isn’t a grandma nor a cat.” you remind, standing to your feet.

“Just try!” impatience wired his tone.

“...Mm mm.” you decided as you picked him up. It was your way of making up for planting the likelihood of an early death in his mind.

Naturally his ego instinctively resorts to whining,“(Y/NNN), let me go! Put me down! Now!”

You put one arm under his legs and the other along his chest,“You know you like it. You’re smiling wider than I ever had.”

He couldn’t deny the safety he inevitably felt,“I am and I hate it! You’re making me feel trapped!” your husband exclaims. In truth he enjoyed it, but he was too proud to make it obvious, even in private. He groans,“Okay okay! I uh promise, I’ll let you pick what we’re having for dinner tonight if you put me down! Put me down, put me dowwwwwwn!”

You kiss him on his neck,“Deal.” then set him down, making sure he was on his feet before retrieving your arms,“Perfect timing. I was craving fish today.”

"Fish again..." he groans once more as he turns to face you, attempting to fix his hair,“You ever get tired of that?”

You shake your head.

"Well I made the promise, so..." he sighs, the longer he silently observed how you continued to knit like the conversation never happened, the weaker his urge was to repress a smile,"Damn it, (Y/N). What am I gonna do with you?"

[saturnnat]

hiii i wanted to to tell you that you seem reaaaal nice and if you wan to you could take my idea so basically it's obvi nat x fem reader and we're teaching nat how to crochet at first she's telling us how boring it is and that it's lame but secretly she loves how we teach her and she likes it so some time later she'll crochet us a dino for birthday or anniversary but it will be a bit non-profesional so she thinks we don't like it since its her first real crochet animal so we assure her that we love it and then she sees us sleeping with it at night💓💓💓💓💓

You’re so sweet! It took me a little while to finish this since I’m very busy with college, but here it is! I hope you like it! <3

Birthday Gift

Pairing | Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Word Count | 917

Summary | You will always love Natasha's gifts

"Are you crocheting?"

You look up to see it was Natasha who broke your peaceful little bubble of silence.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Isn’t that for like, old people?” the redhead snorts.

“Hey now, don’t be mean! It’s a lot of fun!” you hit her lightly, not appreciating the way she’s making fun of your hobby.

“Really?” she raises one eyebrow. She doesn’t know if she should ask you more about it, or just leave you be. She does think you look cute, sitting cross-legged on the couch, completely focused on the task in front of you.

“Really! I can teach you if you want,” you suggest, “I promise it’s not as difficult as it looks!”

Natasha contemplates your offer. You do look relaxed, and she honestly could use a hobby that doesn’t involve guns or punching a bag.

“Alright. You can teach me.”

“Really?!” your eyes light up, you weren’t expecting that answer.

You rummage in your bag, that you crocheted yourself, and hand your girlfriend a crochet hook and a ball of yarn. For the next 30 minutes, you try to explain the process to the impatient redhead.

“And this is what you call fun?!”

“Come on, Tasha! You just need to practice a little bit,” you smile, “before you know it you can make your own bags and stuffed animals!”

“I’m the Black Widow, I don’t need stuffed animals,” she mumbles.

You roll your eyes at that, but continue helping her nevertheless.

As much as Natasha hates to admit it, she does think crocheting is quite fun. After some practice, she doesn’t have as much trouble anymore, following patterns and other tutorials. And of course, she enjoys every minute of time she can spend with you when you teach her. She would never really admit that either, though.

With your birthday coming up, and her finally being able to follow a bit more difficult patterns, she decides to make you something. Your slight obsession with dinosaurs has never gone unnoticed by Natasha, and she adores you for it. You already have quite some dinosaur stuffed animals, but she decides to crochet one for you anyways. Unfortunately for Natasha, it turns out a bit more difficult than she expected. She spends hours trying to make the stuffed animal look right, and she almost gave up a few times. She decided against it, luckily, telling herself that if you didn’t like her gift, she could always buy you something else.

After a few days, the dinosaur is finally finished. It doesn’t look professional, far from it, but the redhead hopes it will be good enough for you. She makes sure to wrap the thing in dinosaur wrapping paper, she’s sticking to a theme here, and she plans your birthday breakfast. She can’t spend your birthday with you, much to her dismay, so she hopes the dino and breakfast will make up for it.

“Happy birthday, baby!” she beams, when you walk into the kitchen, still waking up a bit.

“Tasha! You didn’t have to do this!” you blush, looking around the kitchen, “it smells delicious, did Wanda help you?”

Your girlfriend shoves you lightly when you make the teasing remark but admits to it anyways, “she might’ve helped me with some stuff, yeah.”

“Well, thank you. It looks, and smells, great,” you smile, and Natasha swears she could die happy right then and there. It is your birthday, however, so she decides against it.

“I got you a gift too,” she admits shyly, showing you the wrapped-up gift.

“Nat! You didn’t have to do that?!” you exclaim, while accepting the gift, “I love the wrapping paper though.”

“I knew you would.”

Natasha watches you nervously, as you carefully unwrap the gift. She doesn’t miss the way your eyes light up when the handmade stuffed dinosaur is revealed to you.

“Did you make this?” you ask, full of disbelief.

“I did. I know it’s not that good, but I tried-” she rambles, suddenly scared that you might actually hate the gift.

“Natasha, shut up, it’s so cute!” you cut her rambling off quickly, “I love it. Thank you so much!”

You walk over to her and press a kiss on her cheek, showing your appreciation for the gift. The rest of the morning is spent eating your breakfast and talking about what you have planned today. All the while your new gift is proudly being shown off at the middle of the dining table. When Natasha leaves for work you hug her goodbye and whisper once again how much you love the little dinosaur she gave you.

It’s late when Natasha gets back from work. She’s carrying a bag of your favorite food in one hand, hoping you haven’t had dinner yet, and a little birthday card in her other hand. It’s from all of her teammates, wishing you a happy birthday.

“малышка, I’m home!” she calls out when you don’t come greeting her right at the door.

She frowns a bit when she doesn’t see you in the living room or kitchen. She leaves the takeout on the table and walks over to your bedroom, hoping to find you there.

When she does, her heart flutters and she has to fight back some happy tears. You fell asleep, a thin fleece blanket covering you. In your arms you’re tightly clutching the little dinosaur Natasha gave you. Natasha walks over to you and crouches down to give you a kiss on your forehead.

"Happy birthday, pretty girl."

[alicealmost]

Night Light - A bunnydoll fanfiction

TW: animal death/small reference to animal cruelty/ reference to child abuse/small blood/meltdown

------☆----------☆--------☆----------☆------------

This was stupid. He was so very stupid.

A standing presence could be found in one of the thousand hallways of a place known as the "amazing" digital circus. He found it amazing too, to be honest... amazing lame, annoying, ridiculous and all of those. However, the situation the humanoid bunny found himself in made he feel like he was the lamest thing in digital existence.

The last time was supposed to be the very last time. He promised it to himself.

Still there he was again, pathetically facing the smiling picture onto certain ragdoll's room door.

Jax's lifted his purple long ears, trying to catch any sound of the losers he had to live with, to be sure all of them were asleep, or at least trying to. All clear. He sighed.

Closing his hand into a fist, the rabbit softly knocked the red door. Foot tapping from impatience. A sound of dragged steps could be heard, as they got closer, Jax cleaned his throat. The golden doorknob twaddle. A mess of a red yarn hair popped out.

"Mmh... Jax, hello..." Said Ragatha, losing to fight against a yawn. Jax could swear there were dark circles under her eyes, both button and non-button.

"Hey there, dollface.. uh, I was..." Jax scratched the back of his ear, a visibly embarrassed expression painting his purple face. However, before he could finish, he noticed Ragatha leaning her weight against the door, making it a bit more open

" Wanna come in?"

He looked away from her. Never in his entire existence in this digital place, he felt so uncomfortable and pathetic.

"Eh? I didn't even say anything, dolly." He smirked, trying to conserve the last amount of coolness on him. Ragatha rose an eyebrow.

"But yeah, thank you." Said the rabbit, walking hurriedly into the room, not wanting her to change her mind. The ragdoll sighed rolling her eyes and finally closed the door behind her.

" Geez, you do look tired, Dollface." Jax commented as Ragatha passed by him into her bed's direction.

" Oh, do I? Well, those days adventures were really exhaustive. I think Caine will finally find a way to actually kill us out of tiredness one day." Ragatha chuckled, adjusting herself to the cream-colored blankets, full of ruffles, turning herself to the wall, what left a considerable amount of space besides her.

"Hm, it would be fun..." Said Jax unamused. He couldn't bring himself to say excuse me, so he just sit on the space left by Ragatha, finally lying down.

" Can I turn off the lights?"

"Mmh? Yes... I just turned it on to open the door."

Jax quickly pressed the off button of the lamp placed on Ragatha's nightstand. The bunny could already hear an almost inaudible sound of the soft snoring coming from the already asleep doll. She seemed to be very exhausted.

A small tiny part of himself felt a slight bit of guilt about waking her. Well, he could always use his keys to open the door, like he did in the last time. But nooo, stupid dollface had to scream at top of her lungs(if she had any) when she saw his big, golden, reflexive eyes staring at her in the middle of night inside her room, when he was just minding his own business.

No need to say the whole circus gang was on her door a minute after she let out that ridiculous scream. Kinger even had a baseball bat for some reason.

Still, what pissed him the most was the doll's explanation to why he was in her room in the first place

"Jax had a nightmare."

He could still remeber the annoying sound of their colletive laugh. Even tiny squeak toy they called Pomni seemed to be having the moment of her life, making those rubber duck like noises while laughing.

"Dude, just get a night light or something like this." Zooble commented before leaving with the rest of the gang.

The purple rabbit then promised to himself. It was the last time. He would no long rely on red yarn head words for when he first had this recurring dream, which was tormenting him by quite a time.

" You can always come here if you need." And in the morning after the scream incident, she simply added "Just knock before coming in next time."

Yes, he was determined to guarantee there wasn't going to be a next time. Not after this humiliation.

Still, here he was again.

He rolled his eyes, the best thing to do was trying to get some "z's" too. He was tired.

Not much time after he fell into a light sleep, he started dreaming again

Psychedelic frames appearing in a flash, a dark skinned little boy running, playing with other kids.

"Come here"

The boy didn't want to go. He wanted to play with the others

"I said come here piece of trash!"

Several broken toys on the floor

A cut of the very same boy, a bit older, sitting on the floor holding a cage. Even though there was some scars and marks all over his face, he was smiling. Inside the cage, a black furred bunny.

Another cut, the bunny was full of blood, stretched inside the cage, eyes open. Lifeless.

huh!?

Jax eyes snapped open, his heart racing faster than it was already. His hand searched for something, something to hold in.

" J...Jax... ouch!"

Jax panted, looking to the side

He felt Ragatha's body a bit over his, like she was trying to reach something. The light from the lamp she turned on invaded the room. Speechless, she faced Jax with a questioning look.

" Uh... oh, dollface, I thought you were the blanket. Hehe. Sorry..."

" What?" The doll woman blinked, evidently confused.

" I was cold, so I got stressed and wanted to cover myself badly." The rabbit smiled, trying to sound convincing enough.

"Jax... you do have a blanket over you."

Jax's eyes moved to the sides frenetically

" Hmm yeah, but it's not warm enough. I thought you said there was an extra blanket in here...?"

Ragatha fought against the urge to sigh. She waved her head.

"No I don't. But you could go get yours in your room and come back, if you are that cold."

He did not want to go anywhere

"Nah, I'm fine."

Usually Ragatha would say something, but she had no strength for it. Caine's adventures were becoming each time more exhaustive.

"Fine then. Turn off the lights, please." Was the only thing said by the doll, who curled up against the wall again, visibly annoyed.

Jax obeyed. Satisfied she bought this explanation.

"Come one, dude. Go to sleep already." He said to himself. Deepening his face over the pillow.

Again, it all played on his brain again. The flashes, the psychedelic frames, the voices.

"You are a burden to me... why did I do so wrong to get a thing like you as a child? You can't do anything right."

"Where is Max? Tell me, you witch! What did you do to him?"

Forcing the boys chin to face her crimson eyes, a devious smile appeared in the woman's face

"Why don't you check on the basement? I think he hopped from the stairs before I could catch him... you know, bunnies are quite mischievous."

"Jax!"

Jax opened his eyes. Worst then just grabbing Ragatha's arm, he was entirely snuggled on her, his face buried on her back

"D-doll...? Ah... I thought you were the pillow! It's your fault for having this plush skin."

Ragatha angrily turned on the lights, glaring to Jax.

"Are you fooling with me? Is that it?"

Jax swallowed. Ragatha rarely got that angry

"Listen, Jax. I may have allowed you to sleep besides me when you have nightmares, cause I know how scaring some dreams can be. But if you are using this to torment me and interrupt my sleep when I have stated several times I am EXHAUSTED, then you are more jerk than I initially thought. Just get out of my room!"

Jax's heart was like a racing horse

"N-No, do... Ragatha. I promise you it's not that. I swear to you."

Ragatha's angry expression softened slightly. Jax wasn't the type of person that would say "i promise you" like this

honesty, neither he was trying to wear a smug grin this time. He would probably say something like "Oh, you are too boring, dolly. No fun." And then leave her room, if he was actually fooling with her.

"Okay... I believe you. But it's my last warning. Stay at your side of the bed."

Jax nodded relieved, letting the stress be released by a contented sigh. He turned the lights off again.

thump. thump

The boy stood in somewhere dark. His small stature trembling from head to toes.

The dead corpse of the bunny on the boy's hands. The lifeless pulpils reflecting the crying figure holding the small animal. A hurted and despaired sound of sobs echoing loudly

"That's what you get for disobeying me... I should never gave birth to you."

"Again, Jax?!"

The lights hurted his eyes. He felt he could not breath. He was once again tightly wrapping Ragatha.

The doll pushed him off her, a sour glare painting her eye.

" That's it, Jax. Get ou-"

She could never finish the sentence, as Jax pratically jumped onto her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck, almost like he was trying to fuse with her.

Heartbreaking sobs coming from his throat. He knew he had to stop, he wanted to stop. But as much as he tried to, he couldn't.

Then he felt Ragatha's plush arms wrapping his torso. Gently rubbing his back. The bunny could also hear the doll's soft "shh"

No one was looking, after all. He allowed himself to cry his heart out.

"Ragatha!" He sobbed

"I'm here, Jax..."

"Ragatha!" The tears jumped from his closed golden eyes.

"It's okay, Jax... it's okay."

Weird, Ragatha's voice sounded like it was about to break too

And they stayed like this for a very long moment. He could hear Ragatha humming while using her fingers to comb Jax back fur. Her presence was so warm, so embracing, so nice... Jax's breathing gradually startetd to calme down. His heartbeat getting its usual track.

He sighed, deciding if he had settled down, it was time to let go of the doll.

"I am fine now..."

" Are you sure?" The doll's lips quivered, drawing a worried gaze at the rabbit sitting besides her

"Hm." He nodded affirmatively. Still, failed to convince the red haired woman.

An awkward silence remained in the air, Ragatha brang her fingers together, unsure to what she was supposed to say or do.

"Y-you know, we can let the lights on..." not even finished, she already regretted saying that as Jax glared to her.

" I am not a kid afraid of the dark, dollface."

Well, at least a bit of his usual self was back.

" To be honest, no one is afraid of darkness, at least the largest amount of people. I guess what cause us to be afraid is the things we can find inside there." Said the ragdoll.

Jax rolled his eyes. He just had a meltdown and Ragatha was feeling poetry.

"If you say. Bye doll." He rose up, feeling immediately a soft touch grabbing his hand.

"Wait! Stay by... you are already here..."

He half turned around to meet her eye, she really seemed concerned.

"I won't say anything else." A small pause remained until Jax sat back in the bed

" Fine."

And she smiled. Even having a lot of her red yarn hair tufts all up and messy, and those dark circles under her eyes, her smiling face was so pretty

Wait?! What was him thinking?

He must have got a little balanced off with everything.

He waited for her to lie down, turning off the lamp again.

Even the room being all dark, he could see very well, after all, he had night vision

Funny, just because he was a rabbit, was he supposed to have those abilities?

And the main difference now was that Ragatha didn't turn around to face the wall this time. No. She was all curled, face to his direction. Her eye open. Jax knew she couldn't see him at all, still her eye was open, looking to him.

" Go to sleep, doll."

He held a smirk when he saw her eye rolling.

"I shall say the same to you."

"Deal." He closed his eyes after she closed her.

He was about to fall asleep when he felt Ragatha's arm sliding over his chest, bringing her body closer to his.

His heart began to pound again, but nothing like the when he had those horrendous dream.

No, in fact, it was so warming.

He felt she bringing her head closer to his neck, so he turned the head a bit, and in an impulse, placed his lips on hers. What was he doing?

"Now i will be banished not only from her room, but from her life itself"

But surprisingly, Ragatha just returned the kiss, broke it a second, and kissed him again.

" Doll?"

" Huh?"

" What was that?"

" I don't know."

She then rested her head under his chin, both wrapping each others, heartbeats resonating.

"Night, Jax."

"Night, Ragatha."

And then both drifted on sleep.

Jax began to dream again. This time, a place full of light. It looked like outside the circus' tent.

And in front of him, a smiling face brightened up. Her light blue dress getting waved by the wind. Red curls falling over her shoulders.

"Jax!" Her voice echoed, almost like a song melody.

Jax waved back to her, taking a step, then another, and suddenly he was running. The closer he got, the brighter it became.

And when he finally reached her, every darkness went away.

Who needed a night light when he had his dollface?

----☆------☆-------☆--------☆--------☆---------

Of you read until here. Thank you. Sorry for any English mistake. Allow me to know at you think <3

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Muddy boots and a yellow blankie

Barbie dolls: Billy the kid x pregnant(though gender neutral) reader

Word: 2.3k

Summary: you find out you're pregnant and crochet a blanket for your new baby to tell Billy but unfortunately you worry that Billy will leave you when he finds out your preggers

Warnings: talks of sex I mean yk you gotta knock boots to get a baby in the wild West, anxiety about pregnancy, anxiety, self doubt, Billy calls you lover bc I really love that nickname so much, you crochet, mention of feet, that's about it I swear

To be quite fair it wasn’t exactly shocking that you were pregnant. You made do with what you had in the West and hoped for the best. Sex without the promise of children in the future was unheard of. Maybe you get away with it scot-free if your clothes were only flying away from you now and then. Unfortunately, something between you and Billy made you both rabid. You were often consumed by the love you felt for him and pulled him to bed by the back of his shirt before he could fully get through the door. He was no saint either sometimes you'd just breathe and he'd be gently pulling your hands away from your task and tugging you away. 

It just seemed like the two of you both had a lot of fire for the other. Pleasing each other was like breathing. You fell into it with easy muscle memory and yet it was still buzzing. You did finally drag yourself to a midwife after feeling sick for weeks and noticing two missing periods. After listing all your symptoms the midwife stared at you with a look that told you plenty. You were pregnant. Shocker.

Maybe it was smarter and more mature to just sit Billy down and tell him. That's lame though, and you're not lame. Instead, you decided it was time to start crafting.

After you visited with the midwife, you rode your lovely horse over to the stores in town and found yourself what you needed. A little yellow yarn and a hook you already had at home, your unborn baby’s blanket was coming along. 

It didn't look very blanket as of late. It could pass more as a strange tiny rectangular hand towel. You wanted Billy to finish up in the bathroom and join you in bed. Your hands moved like a flash of lightning through the stitches. The bathroom door opened up and you heard Billy let out a sigh of relief. 

He used to wear his boots in the house all the time until he reached the edge of the bed. It was terrible. You threatened to force him to sleep on the kitchen floor. His feet stunk so bad, and he was dragging dirt into the bedroom. Billy quickly squashed his habit, leaving his boots by the front door once he got home. You were grateful to hear his socked feet shuffling across the floor. 

You kept your focus on the tiny rectangle and hook flying through the yarn as he undressed to his underwear at the side of the bed. Billy scoffed as you turned your row, eyes still glued to the yarn. 

“No ogilin’?” Billy asked as he kicked away his pants. You glanced up at him. He was smiling like he was funny. You thought of calling him a bitch. He tilted his head to the side. You resisted the urge to call him beautiful. You returned the smile and looked back to the project. 

“I'm focused.” You answered. Billy hummed in response, flicking back the blankets on his side of the bed. You winced at the wave of cold air that washed over your legs. Billy slipped under the blankets quickly and closed the envelope of warmth again. Billy scooted closer to you, pressing his cheek to your shoulder. 

“What are ya makin’?” Billy whispered, watching your hands speed through stitches. You tilted your head to the side and pecked his forehead. You couldn't exactly say ‘your future child’s first blanket’, that would ruin the surprise. This one little fib will be outweighed by the great news mounting with every stitch. Instead, you said: 

“It's a towel.” Billy let out a tiny gasp in understanding. He nodded against your shoulder, still watching you. 

“Ah. Mighty fine towel, lover.” Billy said, quickly pressing his lips to your cheek. He slipped further down in the bed, resting his head on his pillow. You took it as a sign of it finally being bedtime. You set the project and ball of yarn on the nightstand. You scooted down into the blankets. Billy yanked you closer, pressing his nose to your shoulder. 

“Missed you.” He whispered into your skin. You hummed and wrapped your arms around his head. You gently twirled a small price of his hair around your finger. 

“You were only gone a few hours.” You muttered, dipping your hand away from his hair to the back of his neck. You made small spirals at the base of his neck. Billy pressed his nose further into your skin, sighing. 

“Still,” Billy responded, his voice muffled by your shoulder. You both slipped into sleep quickly after. 

You worked on your blanket every chance you got. As time went on you tried to work on it less in front of Billy. You worried he could see the size and start to put it together. Or at least question it. It wasn't exactly towel-shaped but you suppose he wouldn't know it's a baby blanket just by looking at it. Most nights Billy was too tired or horny to truly care where your towel was. It only took a few days for you to finish the blanket. 

You folded your finished blanket and left it on the kitchen table, getting started on dinner. You wanted Billy to come home to a warm meal and warm news.

You worried, though you had no solid reason to. The unreasonable part in your brain made you wonder if Billy had been swaped out with a Billy clone and he'd be leaving you once he saw the blanket. Or maybe Billy wouldn't come home, maybe he'd gotten caught in a net in the trees, a bear trap of sorts. Or maybe he'd steal your horse and run away once he found out.

As you started plating dinner, you heard his heavy boots clomping against the floor. You heard Billy take a step into the house past the foyer, boots still on.  

“You best take those mud trackers off now, Mr. Bonney!” You yelled in the general direction of the front door. You heard his footsteps freeze and then backtrack. You listened to his boots slipping off and set down next to the coat rack as you straightened the utensils next to his plate. Billy joined you in the kitchen/dining room, socked feet thank goodness. 

“Don't know what you're talking about. I'd never wear my boots in the house.” Billy joked, a smile pulling at his lips. You mocked his tone, snarling at him. Billy pulled you closer to him.  Billy pressed his nose to your cheek, silently asking for a kiss. You tilted your head to face him, gently gracing him with your lips. Billy hummed and pulled back enough to look at the table. His hand rested on your back, an eyebrow quirking at the blanket on the table. Billy turned to face you again, smiling at you gently. In the same way, someone might smile at a lost dog following after you. 

“Darlin’ why’s your towel on the table?” Billy asked. His tone was gentle and it made you want to throw him out into the cold night with no boots. You sighed and reached down for his hand. He took it without complaint. Billy pulled his hand from your back to your empty palm, warming both your hands with his. 

“Billy, It’s not a towel. I told you that to keep it a surprise.” Billy frowned but nodded, encouraging you to continue. “It’s a baby blanket.” You finished. Billy raised a brow and looked at the blanket. He reached over and unfolded it, holding it up to its full blanket-ness. He hummed and looked over his shoulder at you. 

“Mighty fine blanket. Who’s having a baby? Manuela and Charlie?” Billy asked as he refolded the blanket. He gently set it back on the table in its same spot and patted the top. You felt your heart stall.

More to explain. If he didn’t catch on immediately maybe that meant he didn’t want it. You felt like you might fall over. Your hand shot for the table, gripping onto the edge to stabilize yourself. Billy looked up, glancing down at your hand on the table. At your core, you wanted to say ‘We are’ Unfortunately the thought of using the word ‘we’ made your stomach churn. Your anxiety spiked as he moved away from the blanket and held onto your sides, keeping you steady. 

“I am.” You pushed the words out through your anxiety and it came out in a brush of air. Billy froze and his fingers dug into your sides. He took a step back and you felt like anvil settled on your shoulders.

That’s it then, he’s going to start packing his bags now. You looked away from him, staring at the blanket on the table. You pictured wrapping your freshly born baby in it while sitting in a bedroom alone. You already missed his hands holding you and his muddy boots by your door. 

“You’re pregnant?” Billy whispered. You wondered if he was picturing his life alone as well. You looked up from the table, meeting his eyes. You couldn’t stomach saying another word so you just nodded. Billy’s mouth gaped open for centuries. You wanted to reach out and settle back in his arms but you worried he’d push you off. Instead, you pulled out the closest dining chair and slumped into it. If you did faint with no one around to catch you, the table should be closer than the floor.

You stared at the wood grain of the table. You heard Billy’s clothes shuffling as he moved, there he goes to get his muddy boots. Your chair was pulled to the side, turning your side to the table. You held onto the table as Billy moved your chair. You watched him closely as he appeared out from behind your chair. You raised a brow as he settled onto his knees in front of you. He pulled your fingers from the edge of the table and held onto both of your hands. Billy stared up at you. 

“We’re havin’ a baby?” he asked, a smile growing on his face. Your heart skipped a beat as you pulled the idea of him leaving away from this moment. You nodded, faster this time. Billy let out a laugh, burying his face in your lap. You felt his joy spreading to you, your face warming. Billy lifted his head again, pressing multiple kisses to your palms. He quickly looked up to you, his smile falling. He tried to suppress it but his eyes were still crinkled. 

“You’re happy?” He whispered, staring at your face to capture every piece of your reaction. You let out a shocked laugh, nodding. 

“Yes. Yes! I just thought you’d be upset. I was worried.” You pulled your hands from his and reached for his face. Billy smiled when you cupped his cheeks. His hands slipped to the sides of your thighs, holding on tightly. He shook his head quickly. 

“We’re pregnant,” Billy muttered. You snorted and nodded. 

“No. No. I could never be upset. I’m so happy.” He grinned and jerked forward to kiss your lips. You smiled against him and pulled him closer by his cheeks. You felt the same fire warm your lips.

Maybe things wouldn’t be so different with a new life between you two. Maybe his love for you didn’t stop when other men’s love would’ve. You thought of pulling a man off the street and picturing what your life would look like with him instead of Billy and you knew the random man would’ve left by the time you said baby. Billy pulled back before you wanted him to, chasing after him. He gave you one last tiny kiss to your lips, before fully pulling back. You smiled, dropping your hands to his shoulders. 

“We are.” You replied. Billy sat up and lunged himself into your arms, hiding his face in your shoulder. He pecked multiple kisses on the side of your neck, whispering thank yous over and over again. He pulled away again, reaching for the blanket on the table. Billy held it up again, staring at all the stitches he knew came from your skilled hands. 

“This is gorgeous, lover. I can’t wait to wrap our baby up in it.” Billy said, squishing the blanket into a baby-shaped bundle. He cradled it in his arms, leaning towards you. 

“Look how beautiful our baby is.” He snorted at his own joke. You leaned closer to him, reaching down to waggle your finger in front of the blanket. 

“Hi little one, look how cute you are.” Billy laughed and dropped the blanket onto his lap, reaching out for your face again. It was barely a kiss. You were both grinning so hard you could only kiss for a split second before he pulled away. 

“We have to tell Charlie, and Tom, and Tunstil, and-“ You pressed a finger to his lips, pausing his spiral before it got too far. Billy closed his mouth and waited for you to speak. 

“First we have to eat dinner.” Billy nodded and quickly stood up. He joined you at the table. He complimented your cooking more than he usually did. You wanted to pester him for it but you let it slide for one night. He must've had enough emotions for one night because quickly after dinner he was dragging you off to bed. Billy complained about how you’d have to get more sleep now because you were resting for two. As you pulled him against you under the sheets, cradling his head to your chest, you wondered how worrisome he would get over the upcoming months. No matter he was in your arms and that's all that matters. 

[paintpanic]

opinion on Kracko?

He's fine!

I really like what they did with him in TDX. His bossfight there used the foreground-background mechanics in a unique and interesting way, and the attacks they gave him are cool. (His DX design is also cool! I love the stripes!)

He was also neat in Epic Yarn. In that one, he's a miniboss in one of the rocket ship shooter levels, and he even gets his own music! (It's like a five second loop, but still-) As a whole, I really love the shooter levels in this series.

I think he's at his worst in Star Allies. They couldn't think of anything more interesting to do with him than add another one? Parallel Kracko is also boring and lame.

I think his design is fun, if a little generic. Like I said, they really nailed it in TDX. I'm also a sucker for anything with electricity powers, so that's a plus. Overall, I would say I think positively about this guy.

[lebensmudewing]

Tw: depression and self harm and suicide and everything

I get the whole "improve yourself" thing, and I would like it to be real for me. But it's not.

Every single small thing is a battle for me, you just can't win by willpower. I would like to reach to point where I feel automatic, but it's not a thing for me.

I can sleep on tight schedule for 3 months and then one day I sleep late and already fucked up the whole schedule and it feels like the previous 3 months haven't passed at all, as if sleeping early were this brand new alien thing that I have never heard of.

And is the same with everything. Brushing my teeth, changing my clothes, bathing, making my bed, eating.

Eating properly is the most tough shit ever. Like, out of nowhere my body can decide that only wants to eat oranges and everything else is repulsive. I have survived on coke and doritos for days in the past. I haven't eat a proper meal in weeks by now, only lame sandwiches and tea. Proper food is not...appealing. In other times I can eat only meat and eggs, or only soup, or only salad. I can't eat as a normal person. Like, could I really live on...I don't know, suplements and vitamins put straight on my veins? Because this whole process is shit.

I have had eras of feeling that I can make it, that I can accomplish the things I want, only to be meet with failure again. I try it, I make planners, and tracking, and I declutter, and I apply the whole pack of techniques people name, and go to therapy, and take the meds, and change my diet, and go to the gym, and take sun, and... Only to just be the same exact person in the end, only to just not be where I want at all.

People when looking at me may think that I'm somehow used to live this way, that I'm just different and my concept of bonding, acceptance, company, wellbeing is different. But it's not, I want and crave for everything that everyone else have. I want someone to see me, I want someone to talk to me.

And I try it, but it doesn't work. The other day I was talking with someone and suddenly stopped and told me that it was like I didn't want to be there or something like that, that I was robotic. And it is, lmao, I follow the social script because I'm clueless. My brain is not wired that way, it's just not. Period.

It's laughable at this point how advice like "ask questions, because people like to talk abt themselves" and "read books/watch movies to have interesting conversations" just doesn't work. I can say the exact words someone want and it will still be wrong for some reason. "You don't really feel it". Well, do really people feel the "Hey, how are you, fine, what did you do on weekend?" bit? I don't think so. But special rules write themselves to just not fit what I'm doing.

I think there is more merit in not feeling like doing something and do it because you care about the person than the opposite. I don't care about the new Tiktok trend, but tell me about it! When has someone done that for me like ever? I can't talk about anything that matters to me with anyone. I can't go beyond trivial small talk, I'm kind, I'm polite, I ask questions, I make jokes, I say what I think. It doesn't matter, I'm still alone.

I also try to keep up with all the adult stuff, but I just can't. It's like every month is a "day one", and end up in the same dirty room. Doesn't matter how much I declutter, everything is messy. I literally want to throw everything in the garbage at this point. I "knit" (in two years I have only made like three pieces and the rest is just waste) as a hobby and is a hot mess, there are yarns all over the place. And people is like: "put them in boxes". I already have ton of boxes, I have more boxes than furtinure. I declutter, I put a ton of stuff in the trash and still everything is shit. I literally can't have a clean desk, or a clean bed, or a clean anything.

The only thing that is holding me back of putting everything in the trash and just have one pair of jeans and a blanket is that I don't want to be one step closer from suicide. I want to keep telling myself "no, I have to knit that top, look at these yarn!", "look at this book, I have to read it someday!". If I have nothing, like nothing at all, just empty furtinute, no boxes, no cellphone, no books, no PC, just a blanket, then...??? I would literally kill myself, because there would be nothing for me in the world anymore. There will be no excuse, I would have to face the reality that I can't change, that everything is still the same, that I will never be that person, the who knit silly pretty stuff and read books like in the past and enjoy things and is seen.

I also feel like I want to cut myself. I was literally thinking about you know what my wrists, in a suicidal way, a few minutes ago. I recovered from self harm years ago, I don't do it, but my mind keep telling me that it would be a great option. Isn't funny how basic shit like sleeping, eating, changing clothes is the most problematic stuff that just can't stick but self harm is there even after years of not doing it? The shit writes itself. I would like to see the blood flowing away, and feel pain, and feel that I hate myself and end it all and stop feeling and thinking, and being.

I have the expectations on me, I still keep breathing, I'm still here. But I grow resentful of people that "loves" me. They don't let me die, I have to live for them, but they are not living my life. They have one, without me, and are happy. I'm a burden and they judge me and they can't stand me. I see it. I fear trying it and be found, I fear trying it and being stopped. Let me die, let me die. No, the pain is not temporary, no, I can't change, no, I will never live a good life.

[invisibleraven]

Keeping Spirits Bright

Julie and the Phantoms Advent fills 2024! We're back baby! Another year, another 25 days of holiday joy with our favourite ghost band! I hope you enjoy, and remember, engagement is the best present this holiday season!

Day 1: Adventure + PeterPatter <=AO3

When the Pattersons decided to retreat to a cabin in the woods to give Luke the real old fashioned holiday experience, he only had one request-he wanted to bring Reggie with them. 

“Oh honey, won’t his family want to spend Christmas with him?” Emily asked. She didn’t know much about the Peters; Reggie never mentioned them much, but surely they wouldn’t let their only son up and leave for the holidays. 

“Reggie doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” Luke replied. “He celebrates…Hanka?”

“Channukah?” she corrected with a smile.

“That’s the one!” Luke stated with a snap and a pointed finger. “So his family won’t mind and I think he’d really like to have Christmas for once. Please ma? I won’t even ask for any presents if Reggie can come!”

“No presents? Really?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. 

“Well…not many presents,” Luke amended. “Plus I need to get Reg something.” 

Emily melted at that-Luke had taken Reggie under his arm since he moved to LA a few months ago, and she loved how devoted the boys were to each other. It also didn’t hurt that Reggie was always so sweet and thankful for every scrap of affection any of them showed him every time he visited. So if Emily could do this for her son, she would. 

Thankfully, Linus and Evelynn Peters seemed more than happy to let Reggie go, and Emily ignored the mumbled comments of him not being underfoot. Luke had let out a whoop of joy at the news, enveloping Emily in a big hug, which she treasured, especially since Luke seemed to shirk every touch since hitting double digits. 

So the day after school let out, the Pattersons packed up their station wagon, heading down to Silver Lake, then they would make their way north to the little cabin they had rented until January. Where the forecast was calling for a little snow, giving Emily the white Christmas she wanted without subjecting her California boys to a blizzard. She swore one day she would bring them home to Quebec-maybe for Carnivale, they would like that. 

“You excited Luke?” Mitch asked as they neared Reggie’s house. 

“Yeah!” Luke exclaimed. “Me an’ Reg are gonna make a snowman, and help you chop down a tree, and sing carols!” 

Emily and Mitch shared a grin-Luke may be nearing his teen years, but he was always enthusiastic about the holidays. That’s why they were doing this now before he got too old for it or decided both they and Christmas were too lame to even acknowledge. 

Their smiles faded though, when they arrived at the little faded yellow house to find Reggie already outside, sitting on his suitcase. All alone, with no one to see him off or even say goodbye to. Even as he lit up, rushing to the car, tossing his luggage in the trunk before claiming his seat next to Luke. “Thanks again for letting me come Mr. & Mrs. P.”

“Of course Reggie, happy to have you,” Mitch said, reaching over to squeeze Emily’s hand. Now more than ever she was determined to give her boys-and that included Reggie now-a great holiday. 

They drove on, the boys happily chatting away in the back seat, the radio playing softly, with Emily knitting as the scenery passed by. She had already made Luke and Mitch new stockings, and she was almost done her own. Thank goodness she had brought lots of yarn though, because she was definitely going to be making one for Reggie. They already had things to fill it with, so she just needed to knit it. 

By the time they got to the road for the cabin, the boys were asleep in the back, and Emily was flagging herself. They had stopped for supper at a small diner hours earlier, so they only had to unpack the car when they got in before bed. 

Luke of course, was up with the sun, waking Reggie with him in the process since they were sharing a bed. “We should go out, have some adventures before ma and pop get up,” he said quietly. 

Reggie gave him a bleary smile, the both of them invigorated by the fresh cool air. “We should look for reindeer!” he exclaimed. 

“Why?” 

“Well Santa has to store them somewhere with room to run around before Christmas, why not here?” 

Luke had to keep his face from moving-since Reggie had never done Christmas, apparently no one had ever told him the truth about Santa either. Luke had known for a year or two, and while he was a little sad the world was a less magical place, he had come to terms with it. His folks had explained it to him, and even offered to still do Santa presents for him, but he figured he was too old for that. Maybe he could change the tags though-just to let Reggie keep the magic alive a little longer. Then he’d tell him the truth once they were home. 

But he could erase the joy in Reggie’s heart-not yet anyway. “Yeah, let’s go see if we can find Rudolph!” 

So they scurried through the forest, upsetting dirt and the small bit of frost there. Pretending they were explorers, discovering unclaimed land, on the hunt for the fabled North Pole. 

Of course there were no reindeer to be found, but they were having too much fun to care, collecting pine cones, spotting the odd bird or creature who hadn’t hidden away to hibernate. Making up songs as they explored, only heading back when they heard Luke’s mom call out for breakfast. 

“I guess Santa brought the reindeer back to the North Pole already, Reg,” Luke said. 

Reggie deflated for a moment then shrugged. “It was a long shot anyways. I bet they’re in like the Yukon during the off season anyways-less travel time.” 

“You’re totally right,” Luke said, then tapped him on the shoulder. “Tag, you’re it!” 

“No fair!” Reggie giggled, chasing after him, all thought of reindeer forgotten. 

Well until he opened his stocking on Christmas morning and found a messily scrawled song about two explorers finding the North Pole. And even if Luke told him there was no Santa, Reggie still had that song, and all those memories to keep the magic of the holidays alive for the rest of his life. A song he shared with his and Luke’s kids many years later as they went on their own reindeer hunt.

[interlockingpatches]

Clockwise from top: Eight-point star, Churn Dash, Friendship Star quilt block patches, interlocking crochet. #10 thread, 1.50mm hook.

These are silly hard to do for how simple they look — very small motifs are always jerks, and having outlines extend all the way to the border creates a host of complications, especially in the first rows. I'm pretty sure I'm writing patterns for other fussy weirdos, though, and I think other fussy weirdos will like that.

These would be marginally more relaxing to make (and probably look a little nicer) in yarn, but I'm trapped in Washington DC with my literally-lame (broken ankle) brother and his RSV-infected baby because my passport is being held ransom at a NYC visa processing centre, and I do not have any yarn.

Note also the different appearance of the two green patches — that's the difference that washing makes with cotton (the 8-point star is unwashed).

[scratchandplaster]

Kicks

CW: pregnancy and its side effects, comfort

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

"Fucking hell!"

Stitch by stitch, the yarn slipped off his needles. Shepard threw the half-finished potholder back on the bedside table, tired and disappointed.

Of all Grandma hobbies, he hoped knitting would be the easiest to learn. A terribly wrong estimate. But if nobody from either side of the family felt ready to swallow their pride and fill this role, he had to do it himself. Saved them all plenty of worry in the future anyway.

"I suck at this," Shepard confessed and looked imploringly at Claire, who waddled in from the en-suite.

"Very much so, love" she cackled, rolling under the blanket next to him, "but it will look great if you keep trying."

He shifted, then, stuffing a pillow underneath her feet and lifting her legs up. At the end of the day, the swelling got especially bad. With slow and gentle strokes, Shepard massaged along her sore muscles in a patient rhythm, the perfect way to help Claire settle down.

Nevertheless, the discomfort grew with every day. Soon. Soon, both were ready to welcome him into the world. Today, other issues had to be discussed.

"Why did a Marcy Smith, from three towns over, send you a check for 500 dollars? Reason for transfer: baby clothes…"

"A kind donation," she huffed, eyes closed in pain.

"Since when do you take handouts?"

"Since the father left without a word." Claire pouted, peeking through her lashes to admire her husband's dumbfounded expression, "I heard he ran away with his mistress, poor me."

"You're horrible." I love you.

"You like the new Dremel set I got you? Then stop whining," she teased, a smug grin on her lips.

Fair enough. Shepard usually had to be content with one or the other tale about uncurable illness to earn his income, maybe a lame dog to care for here and there. What could he say, Claire really was his better half, in every aspect.

Minute after minute, he kept guiding the pressure from her legs, until she protested, less than half-awake: "I need to pee."

"Again? "

"Tell that to him." She sighed and pointed down to her stomach.

"Please, stop bullying my girl," he whispered and pressed a kiss where he suspected his child's head. The little fist pushing against Shepard's cheek begged to differ.

"Did you see that?" He gasped, quietly marveling at how their baby tossed and turned under his fingers, like he was swimming laps for the fun of it. "Rude, Lukas, very rude."

Claire smiled down at her boys. Another twist inside her - and a bolt of sharp pain shot up to her lungs. It didn't matter how much she tried, she never got used to her son's late-night acrobatics; at least not without help.

"Can you do it again?"

"Sure." Shepard cleared his throat awkwardly. Who would have thought that his old hobby kept being useful? "But don't laugh if I'm still a bit rusty."

He joined her under the sheets, hands cupping under her stomach and lifting the weight of their son up, even if the relief only lingered for a short while.

"Alright, then. Take a deep breath in."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Prompt: bonus flashback/relapse/medical complications

@augusnippets @whumpyourdamnpears

[gogandmagog]

For @alwayschasingrainbows. Another long-owed item! I think this is the short you were hunting up, a few months ago? I couldn’t find the original post because I’m lame, and never tag things right, so I guess I’m really just hoping this is it!

The Price, by Lucy Maud Montgomery, from After Many Days, Tales of Time Passed.

ON THE DAY when Dr. Lennox told Agatha North that she was out of danger and would soon be as well as ever, if she took proper care of herself, Agatha smiled her old, gallant smile up at him and Christine and Nurse Ransome.

"That's the most interesting thing you've said this long while," she told him. 'I was beginning to think you were stupid - your conversation has been so dull. I'm glad I'm going to get better. I want to live. There are so many things I want to do yet. And, oh, I'd hate to die and leave all my nice dishes and my open fire - and that row of tulips I planted out the day I took sick." Christine and Dr. Lennox laughed, the former with a note of heartfelt relief in her laughter. It was so nice to hear Agatha say a whimsical little thing like that again.

She had been so ill; the attack of bronchitis had been very severe, and there were complications. But all was well now; she would soon be her old self again - darling Agatha. Christine bent and kissed her impulsively.

Nurse Ransome had not smiled, did not intend to smile. Her small, pale, watery eyes expressed entire disapproval of such frivolity on her patient's part; her narrow white face seemed to Christine narrower and whiter than ever. Christine hated her; she had not wanted to have her on the case, but no other nurse could be had at the time, and Miss Ransome was certainly competent. Nurse Ransome could not hate - she had not enough intensity for that - but she disliked Christine and pretended to herself that she disdained her. She would have said that Christine was a vain, proud, selfish, thoughtless, idle chatterbox. All of this, and more, was true; but it was equally true, though Nurse Ransome would never have said it, that Christine was an exquisitely pretty, loving, winsome, sensitive creature.

Dr. Lennox was thinking this, as he looked at her across Agatha's bed. He was madly in love with Christine, as all Harrowsdene knew. They were not engaged yet, but everybody took it for granted they soon would be. A good many people thought Dr. Lennox was making a mistake. of course, Christine was a North and would eventually be the heiress of Agatha's not inconsiderable estate, including "Whiteflowers"; but then she was such a wild, laughing thing, "a pretty butterfly," Dr. Lennox's aunt called her contemptuously. She thought, they said, of nothing but dress, dances and beaus, and "spinning street yarn." She laughed and talked too much and too freely - "you always heard her before you saw her." "A doctor's wife above all things should know how to hold her tongue - she would ruin his practice." She was far too intimate with Jen Keefe and her set; she was delicate; she was extravagant; she was, in short, thoroughly spoiled.

Ward Lennox had been told all these things at sundry times and by divers people, and they had made no impression on him at all. He had loved Christine from the moment of their first meeting, and he meant to ask her to marry him as soon as he could muster up the courage to do it. In his eyes she was all but perfection; her few faults were but the faults of petted youth; the only thing he seriously disapproved of in her was her intimacy with Jen Keefe, that lady of the pale gold hair and over-large dark eyes and free-and-easy ways. But once Christine was his wife she would see no more of the Keefes. Ward Lennox fondly believed that he could mould Christine to his views in all things; he had no idea of the strength of will that lay hidden under the soft curves and behind the coquettish eyes of her youth.

Agatha smiled up adoringly into Christine's face. They were cousins, but Agatha was the senior by twenty years.

She had brought Christine up, when the latter was orphaned by the death of both father and mother in baby-hood: 'Whiteflowers was the only home Christine had ever known. She loved it and she loved Agatha passion-ately. But then everybody loved Agatha North, that busy, kindly, charitable, broad-minded, wonderful woman, who was always helping somebody or something, always planning and engineering and succeeding, always full of life and interest and zest and wholesome laughter. Why, Harrowsdene could not get along without Agatha North.

A sensation of relief and gladness went over the whole town like a wave when Dr. Lennox went away from "Whiteflowers" that day and spread the news that Agatha was going to get better and would be about in a few weeks. There had been anxiety; bronchitis so easily ran to pneumonia, and Agatha had the "North heart.”

Before he went away Dr. Lennox explained the change of medicines to Nurse Ransome and Christine.

"She is listening to him, not to what he says," thought Nurse Ransome, watching Christine covertly.

Christine was more aware of Ward Lennox than of what he was saying. She thrilled with a delicious sense of his nearness; she was acutely conscious of his tall straightness, his glossy black hair, his luminous dark blue eyes, and the passionate tenderness she sensed behind the aloofness of his professional manner. But she heard what he said distinctly and remembered it per fectly for all this. She never forgot anything Ward said to her. In all the world there was no music like his voice.

"This is her regular medicine," said the doctor. "Give her four of these tablets every three hours. This," he held out another smaller bottle, "is only to be used if she has one of those restless attacks at night and cannot sleep. Give her one of these tablets - on no account more than one - every four hours if necessary. Two would be dangerous - three fatal. I'll set the bottle up on this little shelf by itself."

It was Christine's turn to sit up that night. Nurse Ransome repeated the caution about the tablets before she went to her room. Christine listened with a slightly mutinous, insolent expression; there was no need of Nurse Ransome's reminders. She had not forgotten what Ward had said; she was not a child. She sent a glance of pettish dislike after the spare figure of the nurse. She felt that Nurse Ransome insinuated doubts to the doctor as to her fitness for waiting on Agatha; it was agony to think he might have or acquire a poor opinion of her in this respect. Christine was vain and abnormally proud; she could not bear to be looked down upon by anybody for any reason. She hated Nurse Ransome because she felt that Nurse Ransome looked down upon her. Christine would have gone to the stake in olden days, not for her religion, but for dread of the contempt she would incur from her co-religionists if she proved too weak for the test of martyrdom. The most acute suffering of her childhood had been endured when a schoolmate had publicly taunted her with a distant cousin of the Norths who had been sent to prison for forgery. She never forgot the shame and humiliation and torture of that day.

Agatha was very restless that night. At the best of times she was liable to sleeplessness - strangely so for her type. At ten o'clock Christine gave her one of the tablets and at two another. She was very careful to set the bottle back on the bookshelf. She was afraid of it. She hoped Agatha would not need it again.

When a week had passed Agatha was feeling so well that she wanted to be allowed to sit up. Dr. Lennox would not permit it. He told her her heart was not yet tit for any exertion. "You must lie here for another week yet. Then I may let you sit up for a few minutes every day."

"You tyrant!" she said, smiling up at him. 'He is a tyrant, isn't he, Christine? My heart isn't going to kill me. My grandmother had the same kind of a heart and she lived for ninety-five years. I'm going to live for ninety-five years - and enjoy every minute of them, and do a thou sand things I want to do.

She laughed up at him and Christine. Dr. Lennox laughed back - dimples came out in his cheeks when he laughed - said good-night, and went out of the room.

Christine put the green shade over the light, and sat down by the window. It was her night to watch again, but the night vigils by now were little more than matters of form. Agatha had never required the sleeping tablets since that first night. She slept soundly, seldom waking until dawn. The sinister little bottle had never been taken down from the bookshelf.

Christine at the window began to dream, looking out into the chilly moonlit night of October. She was beginning to wish acutely that Agatha were quite well. She was getting tired of the sick room, tired of the monotonous existence which Agatha's illness had necessitated. She wanted to get back to her gay round of social doings again, the dances, the teas, the dinners, all the diversions of the little town. She wanted to wear her pretty dresses and jewels again - Christine loved jewels. Agatha had given her a string of tiny real pearls and a glittering Spanish hair comb for her last birthday. She had never had a chance to wear them yet. She wanted to flood

"Whiteflowers" with music again. Next to her love for Ward, music was Christine's most intense passion, and she had not touched her piano since Agatha became ill.

She wanted to get off for a weekend at Jen Keefe's Mus-koka lodge for the deer-shooting. She knew Agatha wouldn't want her to go, but she meant to go for all that.

It was nothing but sheer envy that made people talk about Mrs. Keefe and her set. There was nothing wrong bound by silly old conventions with them; they were gay and up-to-date and not hide-

Then she let herself think of Ward Lennox - gave herself up to a vivid dream of their life together. She forgot her surroundings totally until she was recalled to them by a realization that Agatha was moving uneasily on her pillows.

Christine went to the bed. "Do you want anything?"

"I think I must have one of those tablets," said Agatha.

"My restlessness has just returned - I thought perhaps it wouldn't - I've been doing so well lately. But for half an hour now I've just wanted to toss and scream."

Christine went over to the table, took down the bottle and returned with a tablet. She moved a little absently, for she was still partially in her dream of Ward.

After Agatha had taken her tablet she soon fell asleep.

It was now eleven o'clock. Christine went back to the window and dreamed herself into a doze, leaning back in her big upholstered chair. She did not awaken until Agatha called her. It was the first time she had slept on guard.

"Would you like another tablet, dear?"

"No. The restlessness is gone. I think I'll sleep normally now - but since I'm awake, give me my regular dose. Ugh, when will I ever get square with Ward Lennox for all those hundreds of detestable little white tablets he's made me swallow? But after all they're preferable to the nauseous tablespoonfuls of liquid his father used to inflict on me."

Christine went over to the table rather stupidly. She yawned - she was not wholly awake yet. The clock in the parlour below was striking three. She counted the strokes absently as she took out the four tablets. Agatha sat up in bed to wash them down with a sip of water from the glass Christine held to her lips. She had been warned not to do this and now she slipped back with a sigh.

"I'm weaker than I thought I was."

"Is there anything else you'd like?" Christine asked, smothering another yawn.

"No, no, dear. I'm all right. It's only that I rather feel as if I were a dish of jelly and would all fall apart if violently jarred," said Agatha. "Go back to your chair and rest all you can. Sitting up like this is too hard on you - you're not strong. But you won't have to sit up many more nights. How glad I'll be when I'm well again. It will be so nice to keep my house again - and read my books - and eat just what I want - and be finally rid of that respectable female, Miss Ransome."

Christine went back, but she was thoroughly wakened up now and did not want to sleep. Agatha was soon asleep again. Moving softly, Christine turned on the light by the dressing table, screened it from the sick bed, and sat down before the mirror. Taking the pins out of the masses of her rich glossy black hair she began to experiment with various ways of hairdressing. Christine loved to do this. She was very proud and fond of her beautiful hair, and was in the habit of spending hours at her glass, sleeking and brushing it. After several experiments she got it up in a new way she liked exceedingly. She would wear it like that to Jen Keefe's next dance - with her Spanish comb in it. She slipped across the hall to her own room, and returned with the comb, and put it in her hair. How pretty she was! She leaned her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and studied her reflected face earnestly. How very white her skin was!

What a delicate bloom was on her round modelled cheeks. How golden-brown her eyes were behind their long black lashes; her forehead was rather high, but this new way of doing her hair banished that defect. Her neck and arms were lovely. She was the prettiest girl in Har. rowsdene, there was no doubt of that. And the happiest.

And she would be happier yet - when she married Ward.

Oh, she was going to have a splendid, joyous life - ever so much gayer than life at "Whiteflowers" had been.

Though Agatha was a darling, she did not care much for social doings. But as young Mrs. Ward Lennox, she could do as she liked. Ward adored her - he would give her her own way in everything. No "settling down" for her into any poky routine of married life, looking after babies and pantry supplies. No, indeed - not for years to come. She hated children anyhow, children and housework. She was young and beautiful: she would grasp at all youth and beauty could give her. For years to come she would know the joy of pleasing the eyes of men.

She would entertain: Harrowsdene should have its eyes opened. And she would never give up Jennie. Ward didn't like her, she knew, but he would get over that. He would have to get over his strict old-fashioned notions about things. She loved Jennie; Jennie was a dear thing, so gay and good-hearted. Of course, she wasn't an old Calvinistic prude like most of the Harrowsdene women - like all of them, except Agatha. She believed in living and letting live. So did Christine.

"I'm - going - to - do - exactly - as - I - please," she nodded with every word at the radiant face in the glass.

"'I'm - going - to - have - a - splendid - time."

She touched her lovely shoulders admiringly.

"How sorry I am for ugly women," she said. "What can they have to live for? But, of course, there must be some to do the stupid drudgery of life. We who are beautiful should be exempt from all that. It is just enough that we are beautiful."

She laughed softly again, softly, triumphantly, inso-lenily, defiant of fate - the last laughter of her youth.

It was dawn now. Agatha still slept. Christine turned off the mirror light and went to the open window. The grounds of 'Whiteflowers" were very lovely in the faint, pearly lustre. The wind was whistling rather eerily in the dead reeds of the little swampy hollow behind "White-flowers," but the sky was exquisite, with white clouds floating across it.

It was going to be a fine day. Christine was glad. She hated dull stormy days. She would go to see Jen in the afternoon. She hadn't been anywhere since Agatha took ill. But there was no need to mew herself up any longer.

She turned and went over to the bed. Agatha was lying on the pillows, her face turned to the grey light. Something about it sent a strange, horrible dart of vague dismay to Christine's heart. She bent once and touched Agatha's cheek. Christine had never touched a dead person's cheek before - but she knew - she knew.

A shriek of terror broke from her lips. Nurse Ransome, who had just been coming across the hall, rushed through the doorway, followed by old Jean, the house-keeper, who had been on her way downstairs. Nurse Ransome saw at a glance what had happened, but she went promptly to work with all proper attempts at re-vival. Jean was dispatched downstairs to telephone for the doctor. White, shaking, useless, Christine was told to open the other window.

Christine went uncertainly toward the window. On her way she passed the table where the medicine bottle stood. Suddenly she stopped, looking at it. The bottle of sleeping tablets was on it. It had not been put up in its place at eleven o'clock. The bottle of regular tablets was back in the corner, half hidden by the window curtain, just as it had been at eleven o'clock.

What had she given to Agatha at three o'clock?

A hideous conviction suddenly took possession of her mind. She remembered - as if the whole incident rose out of subliminal depths into consciousness - she remembered feeling the raised letters of the poison bottle in her fingers as she counted out the four tablets. The regular medicine bottle was smooth. Her conscious mind, dulled by sleep, had not been aware of what she was doing - had retained no memory of it. But she knew what she had done. At eleven o'clock, her thoughts still tangled in the cobweb meshes of her voluptuous dream-ing, she had forgotten to put the sleeping tablets safely back on the shelf. At three o'clock she had picked up the bottle and given Agatha four tablets from it. Four - and three were fatal!

A sensation of deadly cold went over her from head to foot - then nausea, horrible, beyond expression. She fought it off, and, blindly obeying the dictates of an impulse that had no connection with reason but rushed furiously up from the deeps of being, she caught the poison bottle in her icy hand and set it on the shelf, with one wild, terrified look back at Nurse Ransome. Nurse Ransome had not seen; she was busy with what had been Agatha.

Christine felt herself falling - falling - falling - into unimagined, unimaginable depths of horror. She slid down to the floor by the table, unconscious.

AGATHA NORTH'S DEATH, coming when everyone had supposed she was beyond all danger, shocked Harrowsdene to its centre. She had died in her sleep from heart failure, Dr. Lennox said. He had known it was possible, but as she herself had said, her grandmother had lived to old age with just the same kind of a heart, so he had not been much afraid of it. There was no doubt - no suspi-cion. Everybody was very sorry for Christine who seemed, it was said - for but few people saw her - to be dazed by the blow.

When Christine had recovered consciousness in her own room, Dr. Lennox and Nurse Ransome had tried to keep her there, but she broke away from them with unnatural strength and ran wildly to Agatha's room.

Nurse Ransome was quite disgusted with her entire lack of self-control. She had screamed - laughed - implored Agatha to speak to her - look at her. Agatha had always answered her when she called before. Now she did not even open her eyes - her beautiful, large-lidded eyes.

Christine had wrung her hands and torn her hair. Mingled with all her horror and agony was incredulity.

This thing could not have happened. Agatha could not be dead - it was absurd - impossible. Why didn't they do something?

"Everything has been done - everything," said Ward

Lennox compassionately. Even he did not like this frenzy of Christine's. But she was very young and this was her first sorrow. Agatha had been everything to her, mother, sister, comrade.

Under all Christine's agony was a horror of the discovery of what she had done, and a mad, unreasoning determination that it must not be discovered. She fainted again when she was forced to accept the fact that Agatha was dead; when she recovered she was calm, spent, quiet. She learned that Ward thought Agatha had died of heart failure; no one seemed to have the slightest inkling of the truth. Nurse Ransome questioned her concerning the events of the night, sharply enough, with a shrewish glint in her eyes, as was her way, but evidently without suspicion. Christine told her tale unhesitatingly, looking straight into Nurse Ransome's eyes as she told it. She was glad it was Nurse Ransome and not Ward Lennox who asked her. She could not, she thought, have told that story unshrinkingly to him.

Agatha had been very restless at eleven - she had given her one sleeping tablet and she had slept until three. Then she had asked for her usual medicine.

"I gave it to her," said Christine unquailingly, "and then she went to sleep again."

"Was there anything unusual about her?" asked Nurse Ransome. "Did she complain of anything?"

"I noticed nothing unusual." Christine's voice was steady and even. "She spoke of feeling her weakness - and she raised herself up to take her tablets before I could prevent her.

Nurse Ransome nodded.

"The exertion may have affected her heart a little. She must have died soon after three o'clock, Dr. Lennox says. It is strange you never noticed anything before morning."

"I was sitting over by the window - I never heard the slightest sound from her. I thought she was asleep."

"Did you doze off?" Nurse Ransome was a little con-temptuous.

“No, I was wide awake all the time," said Christine deliberately.

She was tearless now, tearless, cunning, and terrified to the bottom of her soul. She shut herself up in her room when Nurse Ransome had gone and walked the floor.

No one must ever know. She would not confess. It could do Agatha no good now. And what harm might it not do to herself? She was wholly ignorant of what was or might be done in such cases and in her ignorance imagined the worst. They might not believe her - not now, at all events, after those instinctive lies of terror - they might think she had done it on purpose, that might the sooner fall heir to Agatha's money. Sent to prison - tried - she, Christine North, on whom the winds of heaven had not dared to blow too roughly. And even at the best - even if they believed her - even if nothing could or would be done to her - what shame, what humiliation, what outrage to her pride! To have it known that she had poisoned Agatha, her virtual mother, through sheer carelessness, to be always pointed out as one who had been capable of such a deed, no, no, she could never face such a thing - never. Anything, any fate, would be better than that. And she knew what her fate must be. She could never marry Ward Lennox now. Confessed or unconfessed, this thing must always stand between them. But just now in her guilt and dismay and dread, this seemed of little moment. The soul can entertain but one overmastering passion at a time.

She stood before her mirror and looked at her changed face, her white, haggard face with its horror-filled eyes.

It was as if in one hour she had passed from youth to middle age.

"I will not tell - it must never be known," she whis-pered, clenching her hands.

Her dread, and the unscrupulous determination caused by it, carried her through the funeral. People talked of her unnatural composure and her marble-white face. They pitied her, knowing what she had lost in Agatha. But in the back of their minds was the thought that she was a rich woman now, the mistress and owner of "Whiteflowers," and in due time would be wife of Ward Lennox. Back of this again was a thought, or rather a feeling, that giddy, shallow Christine was not worthy of such good fortune.

"She didn't shed a tear - too proud to cry before folks, North-like," said old Aunt Hetty Lawson. "She doesn't become her black. You'll see, she won't wear it longer than she has to. She'll make Agatha's money fly. Well, well, Harrowsdene will miss Agatha North. There aren't many women in the world like her."

Christine never forgot the agony of that hour. She had to sit still among the mourners. She had to look once more on Agatha's dead face - Agatha's lovely, placid face and know that she had killed her, had cut her off in her gracious, beloved, useful prime. Agatha, who had loved her so entirely and whom she had loved so deeply in return. She had to endure the consolations of people who would despise and condemn her ruthlessly if they knew the truth. At moments it seemed to Christine that they must know it - that her horrible inward sense of guilt and remorse must be branded on her face for all to see. Her own realization of what she had done was so intense and vivid that it seemed as if it must radiate from her to the minds of all around her. Yet she sat on like a white statue, as motionless, as seemingly calm as the dead woman herself.

It was over; Agatha's beautiful soul, full of fancy and charm and love, had gone to its own place; her ripe, beautiful body was buried in Harrowsdene cemetery and covered speedily with a loose drift of autumn leaves.

And Christine shut herself up at 'Whiteflowers" alone, refusing to see anyone, even Ward Lennox.

Her dread of being found out was almost gone. Agatha was buried. Since there had been no suspicion before, there would be none now. She was safe. But now that terror was over, another emotion rose up and possessed her soul, horror of herself, passionate, unappeasable remorse. By sheer carelessness she had killed Agatha; she had preened and exulted before her mirror while Agatha was lying dead behind her - Agatha who wanted so much to live. she must atone for it, she must atone for it by lifelong penance. Sitting alone in her room, listening to the heavy rain that she knew was streaming down on Agatha's unprotected grave, she made her enduring vow.

"I have robbed her of life. I will not have life myself," said Christine.

AT FIRST people thought the change in Christine was merely the result of grief and trouble. It would soon wear off, they said. But it did not; then they began to talk and wonder and whisper again. They talked and wondered and whispered until they were tired of talking and wondering and whispering and lapsed into acceptance of a threadbare fact.

Christine cared nothing for their talking and wondering and whispering. She was bent only on atonement - bent on dulling the sting of remorse to a bearable degree by increasing penance. Within a month of Agatha's death she had organized her existence on the lines it was henceforth to follow, and nothing - entreaty, advice, blame - ever availed to move her one jot from her elected path, until people gave up blaming, entreating, advising; left her alone, and practically forgot her. Nobody could ever have believed that, much as Christine was known to have loved Agatha, her sorrow could have had such a lasting and revolutionary effect on her. But since it was undeniably so, they accepted it, concluding that Christine's mind had been affected by the shock of Agatha's death. After all, there had always been a strain of eccentricity in the Norths. Agatha herself had been eccentric in her very philosophy of living - so gay and tolerant and vivid at the years when other women had grown sober and hidebound and drab with the stress of existence.

Christine, with her own hands, put away all the things Agatha would never wear or use more, pretty things all of them, for Agatha had loved pretty things. She hung Agatha's picture in the room where Agatha had died, that she might not see it, and locked the door. But she took the brown bottle of sleeping tablets and set it on her own dressing table before her mirror, on the dressing table from which had been banished all the little implements of beauty she had been wont to use assiduously. She had no longer any use for them, but every night and every morning as she brushed her thick black hair straightly and unbecomingly off her face to its prim coil behind, she looked at the deadly reminder of her deed.

Ward Lennox respected her grief and desire for solitude as long as he could bear it. Then he went to her, told her his love, and asked her to marry him. Christine coldly refused. He was thunderstruck; he had been sure Christine loved him. Had he not seen her eyes change at sight of him, the revealing colour rise in her lovely face?

Yet now she looked unblushingly at him and told him she could never marry him. He did not give up easily; he urged, entreated, reproached. Christine listened and said nothing.

"Don't you love me?" he asked.

"No," she said, with her eyes cast down.

Ward did not believe her. He went away at last, intending to return soon. But when he went back he rang the bell at 'White flowers" unavailingly; and no answer came to his letters. He tried at intervals for a year to see Christine; then he gave up, convinced that she did not care for him, never had cared. What he had mistaken for love had only been the coquettish allurement of a wild girl, who had been sobered by trouble into a realization that she should not so play with the great passion of lie.

Christine loved him as she had always done. For one mad moment she was tempted to confess all and throw herself on his mercy. Surely if he loved her as he said he did he would overlook and forgive. But then, to fee always humiliated before him in his knowledge of her indefensible carelessness; she could not bear the thought.

This one master dread held back the words. Without it she would not have been strong enough to put away love from her, even for atonement. All other joys she could sacrifice to her craving for remorse. But not this. If it had not been for the pride that could not brook the thought of shame she would have fallen at his feet and gasped out the truth. But that pride sealed her lips forever.

She put all her old friends out of her life. Most of them had been of the Keefe set. When Mrs. Keefe came to

"Whiteflowers" old Jean Stewart told her ungraciously that Christine would not see her. Mrs. Keefe went away insulted and never made any further attempt to renew her intimacy with Christine. When, two years later, the scandal of the Keefe divorce case, with all its unsavoury details in the matter of a certain Muskoka house party, burst upon Harrowsdene, people said significantly that it was well Christine North was not mixed up in that. But by this time Harrowsdene had accepted and almost forgotten the new Christine.

Old Jean Stewart died three years after Agatha's death, and thenceforth Christine lived alone, keeping the big house herself in the immaculate fashion that Agatha had loved. She had always hated housework. She did it all now, down to the very scrubbing and stove-blacking, taking a fierce satisfaction in these hated tasks, glad when her beautiful white hands, on which never a jewel shone, grew rough and hardened. She had to have help outside, to keep the grounds as Agatha had liked them. For this purpose she employed half-witted old Dormy Woods who pottered about all the lawns of Harrowsdene and liked to insinuate that he knew dark secrets about everybody. Sometimes the queer remarks he occasionally let fall gave Christine a start of dread; when he looked at her with his horrible filmy eyes and said leeringly, "I could tell strange tales o' some folks. she grew cold to her very heart. Was it possible he knaw and guessed her secret? No, it was not possible. But she was always uneasy in his presence, and it was for thar very reason she employed him. It was part of her pen. ance. Perhaps, too, old Dormy told her bits of unsolicited news now and then.

She gave largely and secretly to the charities that Agatha had always supported, but she never spent an unnecessary cent. When people called her miserly she said bitterly to herself, "That is better than being called a murderess." She never wore anything but severe black.

She never went anywhere save to the stores, where she did her economical buying, and to church. Every Sunday she sat alone in the old North pew, reading her Bible until the service began, never lifting her eyes. She did this because she detested reading the Bible. For the same reason she read a chapter in it every night and every morning. One month, eight years after Agatha's death, she suffered from a slight but uncomfortable affection of the eyes that was epidemic in Harrowsdene, and could not read at all. Then she discovered that she missed her Bible, that she had come to enjoy it. From that time she never opened her Bible again. Yet she had read through it so often that it had become part of her, its philosophy. its poetry, its drama, its ageless, incredible wisdom, of earth and of spirit, its unexampled range of colourful human nature were hers inalienably, permeating her soul and intellect.

Her reading was all heavy and serious now. She never looked at one of the sentimental romances she had once bivelled in. Now she read only the old histories and biographies and poems in the old North bookcases. This hoed part of the time left over from her meticulous housekeping; the rest she passed in knitting and sewing, making garments which she secretly sent to the poor of the nearest city.

She never touched her piano after Agatha's death; no one ever heard her sing again. She never spoke to anyone beyond a grave Good Day, and when people talked to her or strove to hold her in conversation she answered with brief gravity and went her way - she who had once been such a chatterbox. She had put all companionship out of her life. She would not even have a cat or dog at "White-flowers." She kept the flowers that Agatha had loved in her garden, but she never touched one. Moonlight was still a fair thing, but she would not look at it. She would not accept any enjoyment, and she never for one waking moment forgot that she had killed Agatha. The passing of years never dulled or dimmed the realization. Sometimes she dreamed that people knew of it and looked on her with horror and contempt. She would wake up with perspiration on her forehead and breathe a word of passionate relief that it was only a dream.

She did not wholly succeed in banishing all passion from her life. When old Dormy told her that he'd heard Dr. Lennox was going to marry Florence King, the high school teacher, she felt a sudden savage thrill of jealousy.

"Surely he will never marry that stiff, pedantic crea- . ture," she thought. Yet she knew Miss King was handsome and clever, and Dormy reported Harrowsdene as approving the match. That night Christine looked from her window through the gap in the pines to the light that burned in a house across the river. She knew the light was in Ward Lennox's office, and she kept an ugly vigil with pain and longing. But by dawn she had conquered it. Ward Lennox might marry Florence King. It was naught to her. She had put all that behind her.

But Dr. Lennox did not marry Florence King; he did not marry anyone, though gossip linked his name with this or that for many years before it accepted the fact that Dr. Lennox meant to remain a bachelor. He was a busy, friendly man, with a large practice; everybody liked him and trusted him. People got well of serious illnesses iust because they believed in him. His personality cured more patients than his medicine. He was no hermit. He went freely into society and enjoyed life. He and Chris. tine never met. At long intervals they passed each other on the street. He would bow courteously and Christine coldly; that was all. People had forgotten that it had ever been supposed they would marry.

AFTER THIS FASHION fourteen years passed. Christine was thirty-four years old - if anybody had thought about her age. Nobody did. Her own generation were all married and gone. To the younger she was what she had always seemed - a grave, stately, middle-aged eccentric woman, considered miserly, living her strange secluded life at old-fashioned "Whiteflowers." She was always pale, darkly and plainly dressed; yet there was a haunting, tragic charm about her that made the younger beauties seem cheap and common beside her. Christine never thought about her appearance save when, looking into her unshaded mirror over the brown bottle on the table, she saw the lines on her face and the slight hollows in the cheeks that had once been so round and delicately hued, and had a momentary impression that she was old and faded - much more so than her contemporaries. But that was part of her atonement. She had given up her beauly when she gave up love and life's fulfillment. Her atonement was becoming easier - too easy, she thought. She had ceased to have wild longings of the things she had put away from her. She had ceased to dream of Ward - ceased to desire feverishly to find open her silent piano and plunge her fingers into music. She was beginning to like her housework, her reading, even her sewing and knitting. When she realized this, she felt all the old sting of her guilt and remorse. She must not be happy. What could she do to make herself miserable?

The thought came to her that she would adopt a child.

Nothing could be more distasteful to her. She had always disliked children. Most of all she disliked ugly children.

She went to the orphan asylum in the city and brought home its ugliest inmate - a boy of eight, with a pitiful little face scarred by some inhuman attack of a drunken father. His name was Jacky Brent and he was a timid, silent little fellow - the very type which made Christine feel most uncomfortable. But she revelled in her discomfort and in all the annoyances which the care and upbringing of this child brought into her methodical existence. She left nothing undone that could contribute to his comfort and welfare. She studied dietetic tables and child welfare magazines, and vexed her soul with balanced meals and tables of weights. She helped him with his lessons; she invited his schoolmates to "White-flowers" to make it lively for him and watched over their games and their manners, and got up appropriate lunches for them. She got a dog for him and forced herself to tolerate muddy paw tracks; she played halma and dominoes with him - even ball in the backyard because she abhorred it. She helped him with his les-sons, even, she remembered, as Agatha had once helped her. She helped him build a playhouse and picnicked with him in it. She forced herself to talk to him. She had lived so long with silence that she found it difficult to talk, and more difficult still to talk to a child. But she persevered, and eventually, as they gradually built up a little store of common interests, she found it easier and easier. Jacky learned to talk too, as his timidity wore off somewhat, and sometimes his quaint, unexpected remarks prompted in Christine a desire for laughter which she had long been a stranger. She never let herse laugh. She did not even smile, but momentarily the eyes of her girlhood returned to her.

In spite of his delicacy of appearance Jacky was a healthy child, but one night, when he had been ar (White flowers" nearly a year, he was suddenly taken violently ill. Christine telephoned wildly for old De.

Abbott. Dr. Abbott was away; there was nothing to do but send for Ward Lennox. Ward Lennox crossed the threshold of "Whiteflowers" for the first time in fifteen years.

He was cool, impersonal, professional; Christine was so upset about Jacky that she could think of nothing else.

They met and talked like casual acquaintances.

Ward Lennox told her that Jacky had appendicitis and that an operation was imperative. No time must be lost.

At dawn a trained nurse was in charge of the case, and the specialist from the city had come. Christine locked herself in her room and paced the floor until the operation was over. Then they told her that the abscess had broken before the operation and that Jacky's condition was very critical. Christine went back to her room.

She did not pray. She had never prayed since Agatha's death - she had never dared to. Always in the back of her mind was the feeling that she must not pray without confession - and she could not confess. She did not pray now; she looked at her drawn, anguished face in her Blass and for the first time she was unconscious of the little brown bottle under it.

Jacky might die, and she loved Jacky!

"I cannot live without him," she said, wringing her hands. "I cannot."

She remembered with a stab of horrible compunction that she had rebuked him sharply the day before for something he had said. She recalled his grieved look, the look that always came into his poor little face when he displeased her. He had always tried so hard to please her. That very night before he went to bed, when he had seemed so tired and dull, he had faithfully hung his clothes up and set his shoes straight, and put all his little treasures tidily away in his box, as her rigid rules re-quired. Christine went and looked at them, his little tops and nails and balls and engines, his new jack-knife and the old broken one he still loved because it had been his only prized possession in the asylum, his tin pail and spade, and the dancing monkey which had delighted him so. If Jacky died . ..

Jacky did not die. He recovered. And when he was well again Christine sat down in her room on the first day he went back to school and took stock of her emotions.

She had taken Jacky for a penance. He had ceased to be a penance; he had become her delight. She loved him with all the intensity of her passionate nature. She could not give him up - she could not. Such a sacrifice she could not make. She had once given her lover up in the surge of a new horror and remorse. But that surge had spent itself. She could not give Jacky up now; neither could she keep him with her guilty secret. One must be surrendered. She must make her choice.

When Jacky came from school, running through the hall calling gaily for "Aunty," who had petted and spoiled him all through his convalescence, her choice was made. She got Jacky his supper, helped him with his lessons and put him to bed, reconciling him to its unusual earliness by the promise of a treat on the morrow. Then she went out, bareheaded, into the autumn dusk - not realizing that she was bareheaded.

She had thought it all over. The tale must be told. She did not know what the result might be. Probably at this lapse of time nothing would be done to her. People would believe that it was merely carelessness and content themselves with gossip and wonder and condemnation. Christine's pride still cringed at thought of it, it would be horrible, horrible to open up the old wound, horrible to have her long-hidden secret proclaimed to her world. But it must be.

To whom could she tell it? Nurse Ransome had died five years ago. Ward Lennox? Yes, it should be to him. Her punishment must be as severe as it could possibly be.

She would go and confess to him.

She walked steadily along the street. The world about her seemed weird and purple and shadowy, with great cold clouds piling up above a sharp yellow eastern sky.

Christine felt that it was in keeping with her terrible errand; when she passed a house through whose open windows came the sound of music and laughter and dancing, she shuddered. Tomorrow these people would be talking of her - of her, Christine North, who had poisoned Agatha. And yet they were dancing tonight as if there were no such things in the world as horrible carelessness and never-dying remorse and public shame.

She struck her hands together in her misery but she went on.

Ward Lennox was sitting on his verandah when Christine came up the walk in the pale moonshine that was beginning to silver the October dusk. His amazement could not have been much greater if Agatha North herself had come up the walk - it almost made him speechless But he contrived to murmur a few conventional words and asked Christine to come in.

"I would rather stay out here," said Christine, who fell that what she had come to say could not be said in a lighted room.

She sat down in the chair he drew forward for her. The light streaming out through the window of the room behind her made a primrose nimbus around her shapely head. In the dim light she looked very beautiful, a majestic creature with that subtly knowing, deep-eyed white face of hers in its frame of flat dark hair. The lovely line of cheek and throat rose above her black collar. Ward Lennox suddenly remembered the time he had dared to kiss that white throat - the only time he had ever kissed her. It seemed to him that he could almost hear her little, deprecating laugh as she escaped him. Surely it had been the laugh of a woman who loved the man who kissed her. No coquette could have laughed just like that.

Christine looked straight at him, sensing the vast reserve of strength that underlay his external courtesy and gaiety and charm. How strong he was! And she - she had been so weak and cowardly!

"I have come to tell you something," she said.

"Yes," he said gently.

Christine waited a moment. She must find very plain, direct words. Her hands, she found, were clammy and her mouth was dry.

"I killed Agatha fifteen years ago. I didn't mean to - but I killed her."

"Christine!'

It gave her a strange shock to hear her name again. It was so long since she had heard it. For years she had been Miss North to everyone. Even to Jacky she was only "Aunty." Under the shock she was also conscious of an enormous relief, as if some horrible darkness or weight had been suddenly lifted from her soul.

She hurried on, rather incoherently now.

"I gave her four of the sleeping tablets by mistake, through carelessness. My thoughts were wool-gathering. I hadn't put the tablets back in the right place when I gave her one at eleven - and I fell asleep - and was stupid when I went to give her the regular medicine - and then I-I- played with my hair at the glass for hours, and she was dead - I never knew it. And I could not confess, I knew I ought to - but I was afraid to. I thought they might put me in prison, or always point the finger of scorn at me. I couldn't face it, so I lied. But I am telling the truth now, and I've done penance - oh, I've done penance. But I can't give Jacky up - so I'm telling it all now. Oh, whatever they do to me, don't let them take Jacky from me."

Ward Lennox was moved profoundly. Everything was clear to him now and, oh, the pity of it! For it had all been so unnecessary.

"Christine," he said slowly. "You did not kill Agatha. The tablets you gave her were quite harmless."

Christine looked up, dazed, incredulous.

"The day before Agatha died Nurse Ransome told me that she did not think the sleeping tablets would be needed again and I took them away, wanting them for another patient, as my supply had run low. I left in their place a bottle of tablets to be used if Agatha had any return of certain annoying digestive symptoms. They were harmless - the whole bottleful wouldn't have hurt her. I remember it all distinctly. Nurse Ransome should have told you. I suppose she forgot. Agatha died of heart failure - there is absolutely no doubt of that. Oh, Christine, my poor darling, and this was why - if you had trusted me…”

"If" indeed! Christine was struggling with a whirlpool of emotion in which a still half-incredulous joy was uppermost. She had not killed Agatha - there was no blood on her hands - that was the only fact she could grasp clearly now. Later on would come bitter regret, for her folly and cowardice, for the lost, wasted years, for everything she had thrown away in insensate sacrifice to her pride and her vain hunger for atonement. Later yet again would come a wistful realization that, after all, the years had not been wasted. Vanity, selfishness, frivolity had been stripped from her soul as a garment. Strength, fineness, reserve, dignity, all she had lacked had been given unto her in those years of penance; even physically they had not been barren. In her regular, simple life the delicacy of her girlhood had vanished. She had become a perfectly healthy woman. All this had been bought with a great price, but she could never have purchased it in a cheaper market.

She stood up ... and swayed unsteadily.

"I must go home - think this out. I can't - no, no, you must not come with me - I must be alone."

"Christine!" His voice was a sharp protest. "You are not going to shut me out of your life again - I love you. I've always loved you - we must…”

"Not yet - not yet," she besought him feverishly, pushing him away from her.

He stepped back and let her pass. He had waited long- he could wait a little longer.

Christine went blindly home to "Whiteflowers." She went to Agatha's room and knelt by Agatha's bed. For the first time in fifteen years she prayed - a prayer of thankfulness and humility. For the rest of the night she sat at Agatha's window looking out into the moonlit beauty of "Whiteflowers," or walked about the dim haunted room in a mingled intoxication of joy and regret. Under all the turmoil of her mind she felt curiously young again - as if life had suddenly folded back many of its pages.

Through the gap in the pines she saw Ward's light in the house across the river. For the first time since Agatha's death she let herself think about him. A door of life she had thought shut forever seemed slowly opening before her.