#librarians! artists! photographers! EVERYTHING is something SOMEONE wants to do!!

[viorhysealberia]

hot take: not that it matters, but I truly don’t think lazy people actually exist. even if we DO run with the truly heartless idea that everyone has to be “useful” for the right to live, everyone wants to be “useful”. Everyone wants to do something. Nobody wants to completely waste away doing nothing, that’s just not the nature of living. They just don’t have the drive to go with the options the government has decided are worth having the right to live for. And they shouldn’t have to.

[sicparvismorrigan]

Long Last - Chapter 14

Friends. Foes. Lost treasure. One Samuel Drake.

The librarian is in too deep to back out now, and higher stakes means further to fall.

Uncharted/Sam Drake/Post-U4

Viewpoint: 3rd person female OC

Warnings: language, Sam and Chloe do be droppin them swears

Word count: ~23.2k (14 Chapters) [incomplete]

Finally I’m back y’all! I missed Sam, Gee and the gang!

Read on Ao3

Chapter 13 | Chapter 15

“Alright, fine.” Georgia chewed on her lip. “On the condition that you, all of you, promise not to leave me alone with her. Not even for a second. She bloody well creeps me out.”

“Fabulous. We’ll run lines, practice a little, I’ll come up with something good.” Chloe nodded her head, looking smug. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

More one-on-one time with Chloe. Great.

“Now let’s crack this egg, hey? See where it takes us to next?” While they were talking Nadine had retrieved the dark red orb from her bag and was unwrapping it again.

“You lot haven’t looked inside yet?” Georgia was surprised, she wouldn’t put it past several of them to simply smash it apart with a blunt object.

Chloe smiled. “Oh, we’ve already opened it sunshine-“

“With some persuasion.” Sam reminded her.

“Indeed, with persuasion, bloody thing was rusty as hell. Broke a few nails prying it open.”

Georgia waited. “Right, and…? What was inside? Oh God, it wasn’t empty?!”

“No, no, no.” Sam took over. “Chill out. So the Romanov Fabergé eggs normally have some kind of hidden surprise. A pendant, a little sailing ship, a clockwork figure, so on and so forth. A separate piece that functions on it’s own, they can be pretty elaborate.”

“But I’m guessing that wasn’t the case this time?” Georgia asked.

“No, this one’s surprise is missing. It’s not unusual, a few of the other eggs are missing theirs too. It has been a hundred years and most of them survived a revolution. Six of the eggs are actually completely AWOL, and have only been seen in photographs from the time period. But they’re out there, somewhere. They pop up in auction houses every now and again. One or two ended up on the black market. You know how it is.” Sam shrugged.

She didn’t know how it was, and she didn’t want to find out how much Sam knew about the black market, so Georgia just nodded and tried her best to look sympathetic.

“However, all hope is most definitely not lost. Missing does not mean gone forever.” Chloe said.

“A-frickin’-men.” Sam continued explaining. “What’s unusual about this one is the surprise must have removed before it was buried in the wall. It hasn’t been separated by mistake. Someone took it. There was a reason it’s this particular egg.”

“So that would have happened before the Russian Revolution, before Nicholas abdicated? Somebody knew a storm was coming?” Georgia mused out loud.

“Right. Backs up the theory that Rasputin is our man. If we’re right-“

“-the Mauve egg was always intended to be a way-marker, like you said, it was chosen for a reason.” Georgia finished his sentence. “Not to be a downer guys, but there’s been an awful lot of ‘ifs’ so far…”

“It’s the best we’ve got, we made it further than last time and everything’s turned up where it was supposed to. I say, we keep following this trail, whoever left it for us.” Chloe insisted. “It’s working.”

“Oh, also this egg’s surprise eventually turned up. It’s on display in a museum in St. Petersburg. It’s a photo frame, with 3 miniatures of the royal family. Cute.” Sam concluded.

“So, we go there?” Georgia asked.

“Not so fast, Peach. We reckon we’ve got one or two stops in Moscow first of all. And there’s just the small matter of what we found in the Mauve egg in place of the frame.”

Nadine passed her a scrap of ancient paper, yellowed, ragged at the edges and with faded ink. There was a seemingly random collection of dots scattered across the surface, some were slightly bigger than the rest. Georgia ran a finger over the paper, feeling the indent where the artist had pressed the nib down into the material.

“We’re a little stumped.” Charlie butted in. “We’ve tried everything, folding it up, shining a light through it like you did back in the library. Sweet eff-all.”

“Russian landmarks?” Georgia offered. “Ley lines? Course of a river?”

“Good guesses, but it doesn’t match up to anything we can find on a map. We tried the blueprints of the Kremlin Armoury, Dormition Cathedral, the Winter Palace, every important building. Nothing works.” Sam confessed.

“I don’t always appreciate this clue-hiders sense of humour.” Nadine muttered. “Just say where the next thing is, is that so difficult?”

“You saw the documents in the library, is it a-ringing any bells, Georgia?” Chloe tapped her fingernails on the enamel surface of the egg, in a rather irritating rhythm. “Did Bessarion also annotate his copies of the Greek epics with random polkadots?”

Georgia chewed her lip again, trying to concentrate as she turned and gently folded the paper in every possible direction. Something was there, at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. So tantalisingly close, but just out of reach. She knew this, she’d seen it before, but where?

She eventually shook her head. “I’m sorry. I really feel like I know this, but I can’t place where it’s from.”

“Ja, we kind of all felt the same. Like we should know what it is.” Nadine said. “Maybe it’ll come to us.”

“Oh, for sure. Probably in the middle of the night.” Chloe snorted. “Or maybe we should really push the boat out. Let’s get wasted and see if we can transcend. I know a guy.”

“Now you’re talkin’.” Sam grinned at her. “If nothin’ else works…”

“So, what do we do now?” Georgia asked. “Get…wasted?” Right that second, it was awfully tempting, even at this early hour. She could do with a drink, she might even stoop to one of Sam’s cigarettes. Steady her nerves, she must be trembling like a little terrier dog. “Do we have any other leads?”

“There are 10 Fabergé eggs here in Moscow, all in the Kremlin Armoury Museum.” Charlie said. “We thought maybe they could help point us in the right direction.”

“Yeah, but 4 of us on the government’s radar as not-really-here-on-a-travel-visa?” Chloe shook her head. “We don’t exactly fit the bill of oblivious tourists. We gotta be careful.”

“We will be. It’s worth ruling them out, at least. We should check elsewhere in Moscow for this weird dot pattern before we move on. Go back to a couple of the main landmarks.” Nadine immediately buckled down into strategy mode. “We split up. Cover more ground faster, and if one group’s compromised, the others can make a getaway. Volkova and her troops will be expecting us to stick together, at least I would if I was her, hey? It would be a stupid idea to divide our resources.” She finished with a sigh.

Chloe nodded slowly “Then we should do exactly that. Less attention drawn to 2 people than 5. And nobody in the city knows Georgia yet, so it should be her and just one other person checking out the museum. Maybe something will jog her memory. God knows ours remain unjogged.”

“I volunteer.” Sam said, raising his hand.

Nadine glared at him across the table. “Georgia and someone sensible is our best bet, domkop.”

“Hey, what- I can be sensible! Chloe?” Sam entreated her.

“Don’t look at me, sunshine.”

“Cutter?”

“Piss off, mate.”

“…Peach?” He asked her, as a last resort.

“I have to go with the majority, Sam.” Cutter winked at her, and Georgia gave him the tiniest smile back. “Sensible is definitely not how I’d describe you.”

“The goddamn crap I put up with in this here team…” Sam started grumbling unintelligibly, slumping down in his chair.

“Although-“ Georgia spoke up, surprising everyone, including herself. “We did pretty bloody well in Venice.”

“Ja, that’s true.” Nadine said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re an unlikely pair, but sometimes...” Her eyes flicked to Chloe. “I’ll think about it.”

Georgia’s hand went to her side automatically, reaching for her phone. She huffed when her fingers closed around thin air. Silly to be so dependent on technology, but she really needed to do some research. Those dots were important, and it was annoying her that she didn’t have the answer they wanted.

“Something wrong, dear?” Chloe noticed.

“Just missing my phone, I wanted to look stuff up while we were out and about.”

Cutter got up to pass her his phone. “Take it darlin’. I hardly use the bloody thing anyway. The pin is 1-2-3-4.”

“Oh Christ.” Chloe smacked her forehead.

Georgia hesitated. “Will you be alright without it?”

“I’ll offer fantastic insight regardless.” He replied confidently.

“Of course, how silly of me.” Georgia said, smiling at him. She liked Cutter more and more by the minute. She wondered if he always lived in London. If, no, when they got through all this she’d like to take him out for a meal, which might very well consist of pies on rolls scarfed down on a park bench.

In the meantime, it looked like she was about to do a little sightseeing. Maybe she’d even see St. Basil’s Cathedral in passing. That would be a glimmer of light in this whole ordeal. The monument that had convinced her to follow Sam, the picture on her laptop screen urging her for once to not get left behind. She briefly thought back longingly to her lovely warm apartment in Italy, her cat, her drawers full of clean, dry clothes.

Georgia reached over and felt the sleeve of her coat, half-draped over the radiator. Damp, it hadn’t helped that the heating was cut halfway through the night. She was pretty sure the socks she’d been wearing for her hike through the Russian wilderness were actually still dripping meltwater, even after she’d wrung them out in the sink. No gloves, no hat, nothing. They were in her long-vanished suitcase.

Shit. Won’t last long outside without extra layers.

“Sorry to be a pain, but I really need some dry clothes before we head out.”

Chloe’s face lit up. “Oh, hell to the yes. I’ve got just the thing.”

”Frazer, no-“ Nadine tried to stop her.

***

Thanks for reading!

Notes etc at the end of Chapter 1, full notes when I’m done. Oh there’s a thought.

Sorry for the long-ass break in updating this. I’ve been working too much and had to visit family which killed my soul a little. This is my happy place and I didn’t want to write it if I was in a bad headspace. Hopefully updates more often from now on!

[micycle--wheeler]

It Always Gets Stranger

Mike’s family is going to Maine for the summer. Sometimes, things take a turn for the worst.

CHAPTER 8

read on ao3

read chapter 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7

words: 2153

MIKE was scared out of his mind. Demodogs don’t just pop up out of nowhere in the middle of Maine, and they especially don't float balloons and turn into clowns.

Mike still had this stewing in his mind as he laid in his sleeping bag that night, staring at the ceiling with little planet stickers stuck to it. Pretty soon, thoughts mixed into dreams, and unluckily for Mike, dreams always seemed way more realistic.

Mike typically had dreams, especially bad ones, after the incidents from the previous two Novembers. It was as if his mind was still stuck in those terrifying weeks, brewing on past events that his unconscious had taken custody of.

This one was his most haunting one, of course. Maybe his thoughts had zeroed in on demodogs, and his mind had acted accordingly.

He was standing in a locked room, horrible noises sounding from behind the wooden door, shrieks of pain and the cries of monsters echoing down the expansive hallways. Now, that’s bad enough, hearing pain and torture and creatures feeding, but the wall was filled with cameras of the entire building, and Mike winced as he watched one of the demodogs rip into a soldier, and he tore his eyes away from the gruesome image.

This then led his line of sight to the boy laid casually on the table, looking like he was sleeping peacefully, like he wasn’t screaming five minutes before, like he wasn’t possessed by a horrifying monster, worse than a million demodogs.

Bob and Hopper were talking about basic, and Mike found his lips moving around the words.

“It’s a computer programming system,” he had said, although he didn’t remember if those were the exact words he said. He watched as Bob walked out of the room, into the Labyrinth of haunting horrors, and Mike shut his eyes and tried to tune everything out.

He knew what happened next, and he hated it. He hated it beyond the word hate, he hated seeing this same scene, over and over in his mind. He hated the yelling, the screaming, the snarl and roar of the dogs, he hated the pound of claws on thick glass and he hated that one second of dread that seemed to last a lifetime where he thought that he wouldn’t make it. That Hop and Joyce and Will and Mike would be on the ground, torn to shreds like the man inside, blood spilling out of their bodies, creatures clawing at their ribs and faces like some demented flower, exposing rows and rows of teeth lowering down on their abdomens—

Mike’s eyes snapped open, gasps of breath escaping his lungs as if he had run a mile. He sat up, his eyes scanning the room. His heart rate slowed as he scanned over the faces of his sleeping friends, peacefully snoring away.

He let out a sigh of relief and layed back down, although it was much longer before sleep took him again. He didn’t dream again that night.

…

The next morning, Lucas crawled out of bed to find Dustin pulling on his shoes, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Lucas asked groggily, still half asleep. “It's like eight AM.”

Dustin glanced at his watch. “It's noon, you idiot. I’m going to the library. Ben told me he’ll show me all of the books when we were at the quarry yesterday.”

Lucas rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as Dustin proceeded to finish putting his left shoe on and walk out the door. He walked over to Max, who was watching Will draw a dragon.

“You think he's okay?” he asked, his eyes darting to the door where Dustin once stood. They'd never seen him act like this, even when he was horribly lying about the demodog that ate his cat.

“I don't know,” Max admitted. “And honestly, I don’t—”

“What do you mean ‘Bowie’s better than Elton John?’” They all jumped as they heard Mike yell from the kitchen. “Give me one song that David Bowie has made that’s better than Elton John!”

Will sighed, setting his pencil down on his sketchbook and dropping it on the couch. “I’ll be right back.” He padded into the kitchen, and Max and Lucas watched him leave. His voice floated into the living room. “Why don't we all agree that they're both great artists?”

“Because this fucking idiot is saying that Elton John could be better than David Bowie!”

“Because he is! Right, Will?”

“Umm…”

They heard Mike dramatically gasp. “You traitor!” Lucas and Max covered their mouths to stifle their laughter, a feat that they epically failed at as Will spluttered, trying to defend himself.

…

Ben was in the library, thumbing through a thick book, when Dustin’s watch beeped.

“Oh shit, it's already five. I told my friends I’d be back by now.”

“Oh, okay,” Ben looked up as the boy walked out of the library, a gust of air filling the room, blasting his blond hair out of his face. He kept staring where the wild-haired boy used to stand, the books he was looking at still lying open on the table.

He was startled out of his trance as a heavy book slammed next to him. He looked around the room, only an elderly woman and a tall black boy scanning through the shelves.

“Here’s that book you asked for,” the librarian said, her hand still placed on the front of the thick book. Ben reached for it, but apparently she wasn't done talking. “Where’d that other boy go? He was nice.” Ben stayed silent. “Boy your age, you should be outside. It’s summer. Don’t you have any friends?”

“Can I just have the book please?” The librarian fixed her glasses and walked off, letting out a snippy little “hmph.” The truth was, none of Ben’s other friends liked reading, so he typically spent his hours in the library alone. He liked it that way anyway, because how would he be able to read with the loud chatter that his friends always had floating around with them?

He pulled the book closer to him, its gold pressed title shining bright against the blue bindings. A History of Old Derry, it read as he turned to the center of the book.

He flipped through the shiny pages, covered in black and white photographs with captions. One picture of huge chopped-down trees was captioned Sawmill worker at the FAA cooperative sawmill.

He kept turning pages until one specific one caught his eye. Easter Egg Hunt celebration at the Derry Iron Works, 1908. The picture displayed what looked like a performance of sorts, a box with a smiling clown face on the side of it, a dancing clown said to be inside. The picture on the next page showing kids lined up with their find, easter eggs clutched in hands and resting in baskets.

Ben was surprised when the next picture was of a newspaper clipping, the haunting title stating EASTER EXPLOSION KILLS 88 CHILDREN, 102 TOTAL. On the next page showed bodies on the ground, looking too small. Ben sucked in a breath, his lungs feeling tight against his rib cage.

The next page was even worse. A gruesome discovery in the wake of the Derry Iron Works explosion, 1908, a picture, showing crowded around under a twisted tree. Ben turned the page, not wanting to see what was in the tree.

But strangely, the next page was the same picture. It was zoomed in closer to what was in the tree. He kept turning the page, two times more, three, eight times more, but it was still the picture. Ben had a gross twisting feeling in his gut as he realized what was in those branches.

Turning the page one last time, he closed the book with a loud slam as he laid his eyes on the photograph.

A severed head lay between the fork of a branch, the boy looking no older than ten years old. If it wasn't for the blood covering his face and the lack of a body, he could have looked as if he were sleeping. Ben’s breathing was heavy, and he faintly registered the sound of a door closing as the black boy left.

His eyes turned to the newspaper lying next to the other books, today’s paper. Body found by canal, not Betty Ripsom. Ben closed his eyes and tries to swallow down the feeling of needing to puke.

His heartbeat sped up rapidly by the sound of a little girl’s laughter, and music, that of which that would come from a jewelry box with a ballerina dancing in it, sounded from behind him. It seemed off key, like a beat too slow, and he turned around.

Floating there, as if pulled along by an invisible force, a bright red balloon drifted in the air, not unlike one that you would find in the circus. It drifted into an open doorway, the music tinkling quietly, as if to say come, follow me, you need me. As if he himself was pulled magnetically to the sound, Ben got up out of his chair and followed it into a narrow hallway, filled with boxes.

Perched on the top of the three steps up sat an egg. But not  just any egg, no, an Easter egg, its colorful painting saying congratulations, you found me! Ben walked over to it. The back of it was charred, and it was still smoking slightly. As if escaping an explosion. Ben shuddered at the thought.

He looked up, and there, sitting at the end of the hallway, perfectly upright, was another egg. And just down that room, another one! Ben kept following them, down a staircase and then down another. Maybe they’re showing me something, Ben thought excitedly, and he ran down a staircase to get to another.

Now, Ben wasn't a superstitious kid to say the least. He didn't believe in ghosts, or demons, or omens. He didn’t even believe in Santa, not even when he was an innocent little five year-old full of wonder. But he followed the eggs, as if they had little voices speaking to him, saying in cheerful tones follow me! Right this way! Come on, you’re almost there!

The final egg was in the basement, matching the others in its brightly colored-ness and the charred bits. Ben picked it up and looked around, as if to expect someone to pop out and announce he'd won a million dollars.

But no, there was only Ben and some boxes.

The lights flickered, and Ben walked forward as the sound of children’s laughter seemed to come from another aisle of boxes. He thought he saw movement as the lights turned off completely, the only light that of which shining from the large window on the landing and the buzzing exit sign above the doorway.

The sound of feet tromping down stairs was heard, and Ben went to move behind a post, thinking, This is it! This must be what the eggs were leading me to. He waited with bated breath as shoes appeared down the stairway, old-fashioned looking and worn.

Ankles twisted as the child kept stumbling down the stairs, a handful of eggs clutched in its arms. Its shoulder were visible, and then its neck, and then… nothing. Ben felt his mouth get dry as the headless child’s eggs fell from its arms as it reached the basement floor. It stopped for a second, and, as if it had eyes, turned its head toward Ben, who was still clumsily hiding behind a support post.

Then, impossibly fast, it rushed forward towards Ben, and he stumbled backwards.

Ben was never the fastest kid, and his breathing grew heavier as he heard the sound of footsteps getting closer.

He looked behind him, and the sight made him run faster, down an aisle and up another, overturning boxes and tripping over his own shoes. The child kept advancing, its arms twisted grotesquely and movements jerky, the neck smoking as it moved along like a puppet on strings.

“Eggboy!” a voice called, gruff and garbled. Ben turned to look where the voice came from, almost stopping to see. A creature rushed out from behind the aisle of boxes, a frilly collar with a clown’s head resting on top of it, blood red lips and lines leading up its face, eyes rolled back into its head.

Ben almost screamed as he ran into someone, but upon seeing that it was only the librarian, he felt himself exhale.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded, but Ben was still looking around the room, searching for headless children and/or clowns. “You’re not allowed down here, you do know that, Mister Hanscom!” Upon seeing nothing, Ben rushed wordlessly past the aging woman, stepping up the stairs two at a time and welcoming in the sunlight.

//

@kastlekaspbrak

wanna be on the tag list? Just ask!

[couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name]

I've been to Wildwood. The Jersey Shore is crazy in general but wildwood is next level. The board walk has like 200 of the same t-shirt store, feels like you're walking through the fires of hell, and is jam packed with kids on camp trips. I've only ever done the board walk there but I've seen the walk you have to take to get out to the beach, it's insane. I can only imagine what it's like with family. How old are your cousins and what are they like?

My family has literally been coming to Wildwood every year since, like, at LEAST the 1930’s, I’m not sure on anyone earlier than that, and my family is insane, so let’s dive into this.

The Main Characters In My Life On Vacation Are:

-My Grandmother, who was a child dancer star (she tapped on the radio!) who’s been coming down here her whole life- her parents used to come down the same day there would be a talent show, enter her in it, and then use her first prize reward for the money they’d spend throughout the week. Has been in the old person stage of “I’m an elder, who cares what I say or do” for the past 15 years. Has eight living kids and Too Many Descendants. Loud and refuses to admit she can’t walk half the time.

- My Mother, who gets confused very easily, overshares and breaks off into meaningless tangents in the middle of stories, snores like a literal demon, always wants to be asleep, keeps pushing for family activities, doesn’t realize all the kids think she’s lame.

- Me, who is always Extra Depressed in the summer months, and is the Sole Person In This Family My Age- everyone just stopped having babies for a few years when my mother decided to have me (Everyone is either over 25 or under 16). Because of this I’m usually confined to my room, unable to really do anything on the boardwalk because going on rides alone is depressing and my mother has heart problems. Just wants to read and write, but the children keep Screaming.

- My Aunt and Her Husband- A Very Loud Couple, she likes to control everything and he’s the only one who ever bothers to yell back at her. They always fight exactly once, every year, and every year somehow I always end up being the only other person in the apartment while its happening, so I just have to sit in awkward silence until my aunt finally huffs out “I can’t believe you’re doing this in front of my goddaughter!” and storms out to go find her kids. They make a lot of jokes and think their children are very dramatic.

- Jenna, the 14 year old cousin. Very dramatic. Mastered the art of the eye roll at a young age. Has literally looked like a mini model since she was born. Can’t be bothered to deal with anyone. We usually have one (1) tiny girl-bonding moment each vacation and then she promptly acts like she doesn’t care even though it’s clear she does. Athletic and artistic and musically/theatrically gifted. Very sarcastic. Always doing cartwheels.

- Seanie, the 12 year old cousin. Middle child syndrome. Tries to hard to be funny for attention. VERY dramatic. Will cry at the drop of a dime (I’m typing this and I literally just heard him burst into tears in the other room??). Super adorable, you can tell he’s gonna be one of those high school boys that pulls Ridiculous Shit but after one charming smile the teachers can’t bring themselves to stay mad. Very loud. Currently addicted to video game youtubers.

-Zack, the 7 year old cousin. Adorable. Loud. Lowkey a prodigy child but they can’t afford to get him into Special Schools so he’s always bored in class. Baby Of The Family syndrome. Currently in an aggressive pokemon phase. Doesn’t understand he’s literally a child, he acts like an old man half the time.

We’re all shoved into a small apartment for a week, but there are Others:

- Kathy, Grandmom’s second oldest. Literally the most bland person I have ever encountered on this planet. Very, very into trying to plan ‘fun’ family events. Thinks any conversation is a riveting conversation.

- Kathy’s husband, who is just a plain old guy who’s lowkey a hoarder and jokes around a lot, but every time someone mentions his past or his family it gets more and more confusing??? He may have a brother who was in the CIA??? He may have been homeless or he may have lived with his sister???? He may have killed a man???? I literally know nothing concrete about this man other than he’s apparently been with my aunt since they were teens but I. D. K. Every new piece of information I receive just scatters the puzzle more.

- Their eldest daughter and her husband spend most of the summer down here but always make sure to match up the schedule for when we come down. Loud, energetic couple. I have no idea what either of them do for work? They might currently be unemployed? Really into alcohol. At some point in the week every year, everyone in my apartment bonds together to diss them after we get back from the beach. Like, they’ll do something or another EVERY YEAR that sets EVERYONE off.

- The 16 year old. Tries to show everyone memes on his phone. Never really talks to people. Does NOT get along with his parents because he’s kinda an outlier in the family. I feel like he might be a stoner, but if I find out he’s got a hidden gun collection, I wouldn’t be surprised? That probably sounds awful but he’s a good kid I promise.

- Danny, 12. Adorable. Quiet. Mini golden boy. Makes jokes when you aren’t expecting them. Very resigned to the fact he has to hug me and my mother when he sees us.

- Kathy and Mystery Man’s youngest daughter, a librarian, and her stand up comedian husband, and now their three month old who is ADORABLE and everyone was surprised to learn they hadn’t named her Hermione.

Other recurring family members are prone to popping up throughout the vacation- Aunt Margie, Grandmom’s sister-in-law, who, I love her, but remember that chocolate episode of spongebob with the old woman that was essentially a stick in a wheelchair and had a chain smoker voice??? Put that in the tiniest bikini you can imagine and add a wheezing laugh and you got her. Her daughter who I could not recognize on a street if I tried. Her son Michael, who is best friends with my mom and apparently Not Gay (no one’s really convinced). A step-cousin sometimes pops by, she’s very breezy and easy-going and you can’t distinguish her Actual Talking Voice with her Talking To Little Kids Voice.

Anyway, Wildwood itself is just. Goddamn ridiculous.

The aesthetic of this place is somewhere between the 1950’s, a trailer park, and the kind of developed land you get when a moustache-twirling man wants to convince all the old people he can to retire to his buildings. Some buildings are harsh metal, and others are bright pastels, but the only thing joining them together is the fact that it looks like no one has cleaned anything here in years. EVERYTHING, even the knew stuff, looks worn and faded. Even like…the AIR is faded. It’s not just the sun being too bright, everything you’re looking at looks like it’s an old photograph. If you stay too long, you might start to fade into the landscape yourself.

I have never once seen an animal that wasn’t a seagull here. Most towns, islands, places, whatever- you usually have at least squirrels running around, maybe some variations of birds, just. ANYTHING. But it’s all seagulls all the time. You cannot exist in a spot for longer than a few moments without one of them dive bombing you. They are not mere birds. They are feathered demons that Hath No Fear Of The Foolish Mortals Of Mankind.

The song “Wildwood Days” plays on the Boardwalk every half hour. It is the only way to appease the spirits. It’s the modern, New Jersey-ian version of painting lamb blood over your door frame. As much as I’ve grown to hate the song, to twitch and clench my fist at each note, I deeply fear for the day the song doesn’t play on time and the curse is unleashed. I have a deep, sinking feeling that this moment will come within my life time.

If You Don’t Stop To Watch The Fireworks, Your Bones Shall Never Be Found.

You hear the ongoing chant of “Watch the Tram Car, Please!”, and look around, but there isn’t a Tram Car coming. The order grows louder and louder. You realize you aren’t even on the Boardwalk any more. The sound is right behind you, but you can’t find the source. “Watch the Tram Car, Please!” you realize, to your horror, the sound is now coming from inside you. You never find your true voice again.

Despite The Fact That This Place Is A Mosh Pit Of Families From All Over The World, If You Can’t Immediately Place My Accent Or Figure Out What Language I’m Speaking, I Have Legal Grounds To Kill You.

The sand simply isn’t normal. It’s ADVANCED sand. It doesn’t make sense. It never truly washes off. The more you scrub, the more appears.

Ancient gods from multiple pantheons like to chill out on the beach, have a few beers. You never know for sure who is who, but you Know they aren’t the same as you, and you know they know more about you than you’re comfortable with. For your own sake, NEVER ask them to turn their music down.

There is always at least one plane flying over with a sign reading “Jen, will you marry Sean?”. It’s been decades. Will Jen ever say yes?

Elevators Are For The Weak And We Use Them To Judge Who To Do Away With First.

The ocean goes back and forth between green and grey, and you know the color makes a significant difference but you can never quite put your finger on what.

Fish Are Fake.

All the stores sell everything you want, but nothing you need.

King Kong Is Our Fierce Protector, Loving Hero, And Just Enforcer

All the police officers and firemen and general ‘in charge’ jobs seemed to be run completely by 18 years olds

No one truly knows who pulls the shots when it comes to deciding the Boardwalks style each year. Every store sells the same Designated Style, and each year they make less and less sense. You buy a specialized hoodie anyway, and you have no idea why.

I could keep going on with that list, but the point is, Wildwood is a Strange Place and I have a Ridiculous Family, so every year is always a bit of an experience.

Like, no one in my family really has anything in common other than everyone’s always loud and everyone’s always right and everyone is always ready to loudly fight over the fact that they’re definitely right, but like. Imagine crawling through some Hillbilly Murder Showers in the garage of a condo, using all of your force to pry open a suspiciously heavy and questionably mechanized door, walking under the boardwalk and trekking over sand dunes just to find a bunch of screaming yet physically relaxed people under the flag for Montserrat. Some guy’s cracking stand up jokes while no less than three children are fighting each other, your mother is promising for the 14th year in a row that you’re gonna go on a whale watching trip and everyone knows she’s lying, some woman’s trying to hold a conversation about buying applesauce in bulk while her husband and children get drunk, there’s a skinny pale guy with horrible sunburn blasting songs from N.W.A., a girl’s cartwheeling around the site to the point you think she doesn’t know how to move any other way, a boy’s quietly drinking pickle juice, there’s a 7 year old literally trapped in a giant hole that he dug, your mother is snoring loud enough to alarm the people around you, and just when you’re starting to get a little comfortable about the feathered demons and start to relax, a tide comes in so strongly your chair literally starts getting pulled out to sea with you in in. It’s average. It's fading into the landscape with the rest of the place.

[richardlowejr]

Fiona Mcvie Interviews Richard Lowe Jr

Hello and welcome to my blog, Author Interviews. My name is Fiona Mcvie

Let’s get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age?

My name is Richard Lowe, Jr. and I am 58 years old.

Where are you from?

I was born in northern California, lived most of my life in Southern California, and in 2013 moved to Florida.

FA little about yourself (ie,  your education, family life, etc.)

I was an Air Force brat, born in a small community in northern California, near where my father was stationed. My mother often spoke of the good times she had at the Nut Tree restaurant, eating dates and drinking soda pop. Eventually, the family found its way down to San Bernardino, a dusty city at the base of the San Bernardino Mountains in California. My dad left the Air Force and became a graphics artist civil servant working out of Norton Air Force Base.

I have quite a few great memories of childhood in that dry, hot and dusty city. I sheltered from the heat in a tree house that my dad and I built together. Everything changed on the fateful day in 1967, when I was dragged into a library kicking and screaming by my mother. She had determined that I needed to experience a library – that it was time for me to become a reader. The screaming stopped as soon as a librarian gave me a cookie and took me on a tour of the whole building. I fell in love with the librarian and with books, and before long I checked out as many as a dozen a week. As I grew older, I read every book that I could get hold of.

In junior high school, I ran across a book carefully stored in a box that my grandmother had left with the family for safekeeping. That book was called Stranger in a Strange Land by an author name Robert Heinlein. I read that masterpiece in a weekend, and soon discovered other authors such as Isaac Asimov, Jack Vance, and John Campbell. After pouring through those books, I decided I was going to be an author when I grew up.

Life got in the way of my dreams, as sometimes happens. The family moved to Lake Arrowhead and my parents open an art gallery in Blue Jay village. A few years later, they opened a larger store in Lake Arrowhead Village and sold arts and crafts.

For me, the pressure of high school college, a full-time job, and eventually marriage and family got in the way of my dream of becoming a writer.

In 2005, my wife passed away and I decided that grief was something that I wanted to get out of his quickly as possible. I became a photographer and photographed every national park in the western United States. From there, I was introduced to some dancers, and became a very well-known performance photographer in Southern California. During those eight years, I photographed over a thousand women, did 1200 performance shoots, and photographed over 300 Renaissance festivals, Civil War re-enactments, and other similar events.

For 33 years, I worked in the technology field, first as a vice president of a computer consulting company, then as a senior designer, and finally settled down to a job at Trader Joe’s as their computer operations director. I worked at Trader Joe’s for 20 years, managing a team of eight people and varying numbers of consultants to keep their operations working well.

In 2013, I decided it was time for me to finally pursue my dream of becoming a writer. I left my job at Trader Joe’s, moved to Florida, and settled down to become a freelance writer, ghostwriter, and author. Since then, I’ve written and published 63 books of my own in my name, a number of others under pseudonyms, ghost-written 22 books, and written several hundred articles for blogs and publications. I’ve also written over 300 LinkedIn profiles for business leaders, ambassadors, government officials and others.

Tell us your latest news

I’ve created a new series of courses called Fiction Master Class which are designed to help writers improve their abilities and careers.

For the past few months, I’ve been interviewing 1 to 2 authors per week as part of a podcast designed to showcase their talents and abilities.

And I just finished writing my 22ndghostwritten book.

When and why did you begin writing?

I’ve written most of my life, generally for work related projects such as technical manuals, articles for technical magazines, and so forth. In 2013, it was time to change direction, and writing seem to be the natural place to put my talents.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

I first considered myself a writer when I published my first best-selling book, Focus on LinkedIn. I sold over 10,000 copies and became an Amazon Kindle bestseller, in the top 100 for several days. That was my third book.

What inspired you to write your first book?

My first book was a labour of love. I always been interested in computer security, and I decided to take my knowledge and help others understand how to make the computer secure. The book didn’t sell well, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted to write all of that down in a very well done book.

Right now, I’m working on a novel called Peacekeeper, which is based about a million years in the future. This will be my first science fiction novel, and I expected to be between 80,000 and 100,000 words long. I’ll focus the rest of the answers about my book on this one.

How did you come up with the title?

Peacekeeper is the name of a type of fleet of spaceships designed to keep the peace, hence the name of the book.

Do you have a specific writing style? Is there anything about your style or genre that you find particularly challenging?

I tend to write in a casual or business casual format.

I can work in any genre, from romance to science fiction to mystery to nonfiction. I haven’t found anything yet that I can’t write.

How much of the book is realistic and are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?

Absolutely none of this book is realistic or based on experiences of anyone I know.

To craft your works, do you have to travel? Before or during the process?

No.

Who designed the covers?

Haven’t designed the covers yet.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

Yes, the book is about how big governments can be ruthless and enslave people, and how eventually the people revolt against their masters, regardless of the cost.

Who is your favorite writer, and what is it about their work that really strikes you?

My favorite writers are J.R.R. Tolkien, Mike Resnick, Robert Heinlein, Jack Vance, Winston Churchill, L Sprague DeCamp, Arthur Hailey, Alan Dean Foster, Robert Aspirin, and Fred Saberhagen.

What strikes me about their works is they are all well plotted, faithful to their genre, have strong characterization, and the stories tend to be solid.

Outside of family members, name one entity that supported your commitment to become a published author.

The Alliance of Independent Authors

Do you see writing as a career?

Writing is my career for the rest of my life.

If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?

Nope.

Did you learn anything during the writing of your recent book?

I learned that writing is easy for me. I can literally right between 10,000 and 12,000 words every day.

If your book was made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?

For the Peacekeeper book, the admiral would be played by Milla Jovovich.

Any advice for other writers?

If you’re writer you have to write and get published. So don’t make any excuses, don’t stop, don’t accept any failures, just right.

Anything specific you want to tell your readers?

Hope you enjoy my books, and please let me know what you think of them.

What book are you reading now?

I’m working on a book called Peacekeeper, which I mentioned earlier.

Do you remember the first book you read?

I remember the first adult level book I read was Stranger in a Strange Land. One of the early books I read was also Narrow Land by Jack Vance

What makes you laugh/cry?

I laugh every day, because life is supposed to be fun.

Is there one person, past or present, you would love to meet? Why?

I think I’d like to meet Isaac Asimov. He is one of the most prolific authors ever, and he had a way of making difficult understand subjects simple to comprehend. He is one of the reasons why I decided to become a writer.

Do you have any hobbies?

I’ve got several hobbies. First of all, I’m a photographer, I collect amethyst and quartz crystals, miniature fantasy figurines, stamps, movies, and books. These days, my life mostly centers around writing since that’s my passion.

What TV shows/films do you enjoy watching?

My favorite movies are the Lord of the Rings trilogy and Godfather 1 & 2. To me, these are among the most well-done movies of all time.

I’m enjoying watching The Expanse, and can’t wait for season four.

Imagine a future where you no longer write. What would you do?

I’d probably be a photographer, because I’m a creative person and that’s just a different kind of creativity.

You only have 24 hours to live how would you spend that time?

I have no idea.

What do you want written on your head stone?

I don’t want a headstone.

Do you have a blog or website readers can visit for updates, events and special offers?  

https://www.thewritingking.com/

https://www.fictionmasterclass.com/

All my books are at https://www.coolauthor.com

(Originally published in Author Interviews)

Author information

Richard Lowe Jr

Owner and Senior Writing at The Writing King

Richard is the Owner and Senior Writer for The Writing King, a bestselling author, and ghostwriter. He's written and published 63 books, ghostwritten 20+ books, as well as hundreds of blog articles.

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