#like have you ever seen homeward bound? it's like that part near the end where shadow falls into a big slippery pit of despair

[rubenesque-as-fuck]

Well fuck, I know I need to go eat and then do chores but I'm feeling too fucking overwhelmed with The Sad to do either

And yes! I know eating would probably help! But getting the food and wanting to actually eat it are both difficult tasks to contemplate at the moment. There are just... so many tasks 😭

[whythinktoomuch]

(pt. i)  (pt. ii) 

She keeps to the darkness, keeps quiet, and keeps her distance, just the way she’s been trained to. She watches Lena, and she does it quite well. The difficult part is settling on the one thing that she should be learning from these endeavors.

Lena does a great many things throughout her day—often up before the sun, and only homeward bound long after it’s set. But after three long days of research, there’s one feature in particular that seems to warrant the most attention: a dark fleck, nestled in the pale expanse of her vulnerable throat.

When she tries to encapsulate the entirety of that observation into words at her disposal, however, all she can manage is, “Lena, not ugly.”

Lex doesn’t reply for a long while, which isn’t typical of him. But his tone isn’t unkind when he finally asks, “Is that it?”

“Yes.” She frowns, because why couldn’t that be it?

But Lex sighs, and that soft sound uproots her peace at its very core. “I wanted you to bring me a fact,” he says. “Not develop an opinion.”

“Different how?” she demands.

“Well, I need evidence.” Lex takes her hand, turning it over to reveal her palm, forever marked and marred from her most recent encounter with Kryptonite. “I need you to show me something. Something real. Otherwise, it doesn’t count. Do you understand?”

And yes, that much is definitely understandable. Even to her.

//

With much repurposed effort, she watches and waits while Lena does her work. Then she watches Lena take her leave, then waits some more.

It’s only when the top floor of the building is emptied of all people that she flies over, slipping into Lena’s office through the balcony door that’s never locked. From there, it doesn’t take long to secure what she’s looking for.

The next time Lex pays her a visit, she drops an armful of her spoils right at his feet.

“Lena likes coffee,” she announces boldly.

Lex is clearly taken aback at first, blinking and still. But then he grabs one of the many empty coffee cups now littered across the floor, and a slow smile dawns on his face. “All right then. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

She grins so wide that it strains the corners of her lips.

--

“Lena is cold,” she says the next time they meet, presenting a delicate black glove for his amusement and perusal.

“Yes, well, most people are when it snows,” Lex says.

“Not me.”

“Well, you’re not exactly most people now, are you?” Lex’s pride in her is absolutely infectious, so she grins. “Of course not. You’re… exquisite.”

“Good thing?” she asks. It’s usually the first question that wells up inside of her upon hearing new words.

“A very good thing,” Lex says with a playful wink.

Over the last two weeks, Lex’s visits have dropped from often to somewhat often enough, his precious attention now divided between her and another project of his. It’s been a near impossible change for her to weather, but moments like this make it a little easier.

That is, until Lex slips the glove on.  

She watches him flex his fingers one by one, forcing the taut leather to crackle loudly in her ears, and retreats somewhere deep inside herself. She fights determinedly against the frown threatening to twist her features into something uglier.

The glove isn’t hers. It isn’t Lex’s either, but his hand fits so perfectly that it could very well be his if he wanted.

“Not actually all that warm,” Lex comments, snorting when he peeks inside the glove. “And yet, pricier than your average first class ticket to Paris… Tsk, a little superficial, if you ask me.”

She nods as appropriate, but most of her concern is still with the glove and how Lex stuffs it into his back pocket like it doesn’t mean a thing.

//

“Yes, her hair is indeed very long,” Lex says, accepting the offering of Lena’s hairbrush, complete with stray strands of dark hair still caught in its teeth as ample proof for this careful observation. “This, Bizarrogirl, is absolutely perfect.”

And it is. Because this isn’t just a handful of coffee cups tossed in the trash or a lone glove left behind in the snow during a hasty commute. No, this is something she actually had to break into Lena’s apartment for, in the middle of a workday, undetected even in broad daylight.

But even all that and more couldn’t outweigh the very simple fact that Lex has the means to kill her now.

Evidently, a big part of his new project has been synthesizing a strain of Kryptonite that would only be lethal to her, and he must have succeeded because today, he’s armed with blue-tipped syringes that can pierce her skin.

It’s for research purposes. It’s the only way that Lex can collect blood samples so as to better study her molecular makeup, which will only help her in the long run. Lex, of course, would never hurt her.

Except it does hurt. Each needle sinks into her arm in an acute twinge, and she can feel the aftereffects of the breach crawling inside her head. It’s worse than the green light. It makes her stomach dry out like a rock, and tugs cool drops of sweat onto the surface of her skin.

But Lex must notice this sudden unrest living inside her because he lets her keep the hairbrush.

“Mine?” she asks, cradling the brush in her hands. It’s been relieved of all traces of Lena, but that doesn’t matter. She’s seen Lena use it enough times that it’s still rightly precious.

“No, it’s still Lena’s,” Lex corrects her with a gentle smile. “But you can keep it,” which is the best possible answer he could have given her.

//

She’s watching Lena unwind at home from her favorite spot in the sky, drawing from her x-ray vision and super-hearing with an ease that is now very practiced.

Everything is pleasantly routine until Kara knocks on Lena’s door, which is still very routine until they start raising their voices at each other. They exchange some words that she doesn’t quite understand with many implications that perhaps she will never understand. Then Supergirl is leaving through the balcony, flying off into the night in a blur of boastful blues and reds, while Lena is left behind to yell at herself and cry in unpredictable bursts.

Eventually, Lena settles in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of something that makes the air taste bitter. She’s halfway through her third glass when she slumps forward, her head dropped into her folded arms, breath gradually slowing and deepening.

She watches Lena sleep, waiting until the waiting is unbearable. There are all sorts of reasons why she shouldn’t, but she touches down onto the balcony, sidling into the apartment like a fleeting shadow, and finds herself in Lena’s presence for the very first time.  

The bitter taste is stronger in her nose now, but so is everything else to be perceived about Lena. Everything from her soft snores to the slight warmth her body gives off once within reach.

And she risks that everything for a single touch, brushing her fingertips right where Lena’s long hair starts to end. It’s light, yet stirs something pure, frenzied, and fluttering in her chest. Then Lena sniffles and mumbles into her own arm, “… Kara?” and the moment spills into reality.

Teeth bared, she plucks the glass from Lena’s fragile grip with just enough care that it doesn’t shatter and leaves the same way Supergirl had barely an hour before.

//

She sets the glass before Lex with a firm clack! that calls his attention away from his tablet.

“Oh hello…” Lex sits up with a small chuckle. “And what’s this? Are we celebrating?”

“Lena is sad.”

Lex is out of his chair, his stare wild as he promptly demands, “What happened? What did you see?”

“Kara came. They talked… Supergirl left.” She squeezes her right fist, digging her nails into her palm the way she’s supposed to when things overwhelm her. “And… Lena is sad.”

Lex bursts into laughter. He doesn’t stop laughing for the rest of the night.

//

She doesn’t want to learn things about Lena anymore.

Things are so different now. Lena is quieter, often alone. She spends most of her time at work and not nearly enough time maintaining habits that are meant to keep her alive.

But Lex still insists that she keep watch, so she does, and she still does it so well. She works at it even harder, in fact, now that his visits have become even fewer and farther in between as of late. Lex’s other project is supposedly not as important as she is, but it siphons off his time like it must be.

Lena’s new routine is polished, heavily sanitized, and well-established until the night she breaks it in favor of tasting the nighttime air. She steps onto her balcony in clothes made for sleep and with a glass filled with something more sweet than bitter. Her eyes narrow up at the darkened sky. She stares, as if expectant.

“Hello…? Is somebody out there?” Lena rests her elbows precariously against the railing,  sighing between intermittent sips of her drink. Then, in a softened voice, “… Who are you?” And all of a sudden, Lena’s become tangible and more than just another person waiting for Supergirl to save her.  

Bizarrogirl glides from shadow to shadow, trailing the darkness all the way down to the far corner of the balcony, where she settles in, secluded and silent. Lena doesn’t turn around, but her heartbeat is readily transparent enough for the both of them that it doesn’t matter. “Hello, Lena,” she says.

Lena sighs into her glass. “So, are you the one stealing my things then?”

“Yes.”

“You know… I really thought I was just going crazy. That I was just conjuring up senseless conspiracies because god forbid I ever misplace something like a normal person.” Lena pauses to take a small sip of her drink and chuckle. “But then, you went ahead and took my favorite glass right out of my hand, so…”

She smiles, even though she knows no one can see it. “You are smart.”

“Allegedly,” Lena says, shrugging. She looks over her shoulder, blinks blearily right into the darkness. “You’re really not going to show yourself, huh?”

“No. Never.” She holds her breath, but the follow-up question never comes.

Instead, Lena just turns back around with a small nod. “Believe me, I’d be doing the same thing if I could,” she says quietly, and leaves it at that.

“Not… scared?” she finally has to ask.

“Should I be?”

She shakes her head after some hesitation. “No.”

“Well, there we go then,” Lena says, rubbing at her eyes with a resigned sigh. “Listen… I’m just… so tired right now, and frankly, I just don’t have it in me to address whatever it is you’re trying to do. But to be honest—” she tosses back the last of her drink in a single swallow—“I have enough things. So… consider this a freebie.”

“… Freebie?”

Lena pushes off the railing, exhaling half-hearted laughter. “Yes, freebie. I’m leaving this for you right here, okay? No need to resort to petty theft or breaking and entering.” She sets the empty wineglass right outside her door, but pauses before stepping through. “… So, what’s your name anyway?”

The most obvious answer—so carefully practiced, her clumsy mouth sounding out the word over and over again for her own sake—feels wrong in the moment. A lie, somehow, in the face of Lena’s undeserved generosity.

“You do have a name, don’t you?” Lena glances over, head tilted curiously, and their eyes almost meet despite all the darkness cast between them.

“No,” she manages to say, her fingernails biting fiercely into her own palm.

Lena gives a hum, one so thoughtful and reminiscent of her brother. “Well… that’s something you’ll have to steal from someone else, I’m afraid.”

She watches Lena slide the door shut behind her, but waits until all the lights disappear before reaching for the glass.

//

It takes two more days for Lex to pay her another visit, and he walks into her room to find her turning the wineglass over and over in her hands. He frowns when she doesn’t immediately offer it up to him.

“So, did you learn anything?” Lex asks, and she just nods. “… And…?”

She rolls her right hand into a fist so tight that her entire hand feels like a bruise. “Not. Scared.”

“Lena’s… not scared.” Lex studies the wineglass carefully before directing his sharp gaze back at her face. “I see.”

He doesn’t ask for further clarification, or any other question, or anything at all, for that matter. He just leaves, and she feels nothing about it.

[villlainarc]

To Fall in Love

Like Freedom

Summary: In which Roman, at long last, finds the dream he’s been chasing.

Pairings: Logince

Warnings: unhappy ending (so it doesn’t sneak up on you later)

Word Count: 2160

A/N: the songs in this chapter are (also) from frozen 2: show yourself and all is found (no more frozen 2 songs after this i promise)

More A/N: this is a secret santa gift for @ari-the-anxious-ace and as such, is already completed (and can be found at this very moment on ao3). but so as not to spam you, chapters will be posted every three days.

special thanks to @cringeless for beta reading :)

masterlist || 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6

read on ao3 or below the cut

find other stuff i’ve written under #writings from the stars

After going for months without a moment away from the voice’s call, Roman feels lonely in its absence. The silence is all-encompassing, and he has to concentrate just as hard on ignoring his discomfort as he had on ignoring the song that had plagued him before. It feels so long ago that Roman can’t believe how little time has passed.

As the days draw on, he busies himself with sailing the ship, somehow knowing which ropes to tie where and which way to steer despite never having done anything like this in his life. It serves as a distraction from the sudden stillness that envelopes him though, and it will get him to the source of the voice, so he certainly isn’t going to complain.

When he’s not steering the ship or adjusting the sails, Roman is belowdecks, holed up in the small library he’d found in the captain’s quarters. There isn’t much else to do onboard, so Roman settles for reading the largely dull books that line the shelves, their pages filled with topics that range from geography to mythology, though Roman isn’t able to find anything that captures his interest for longer than an hour or two. Still, it’s better than focusing on the quiet surrounding him.

Every so often, when the books can’t keep him occupied and there’s nothing he needs to do to keep the ship on course, Roman sings. He knows so many songs, but the only thing he sings during his journey out is the melody that, even now, won’t stop running through his mind. If he’s being perfectly honest, he desperately wants to hear the voice again. Based on his logic, if he continues to sing to it the same way it had sung to him, it might just answer.

It never does, but that doesn’t stop Roman from dreaming.

🌊

He hasn’t been traveling for more than a week when he lowers the sails and begins to slow down. There is an island on the horizon, and for the first time since he’d begun this journey, the cord around his heart tightens. It tugs gently, and Roman knows that this island is where the voice had come from. This is the place. He can’t stop a smile from growing to take over his face because this… this is it.

As he nears the island, the sun is beginning to set. It causes Roman to shiver, and he’s more than a little shocked by the cool breeze that blows over the ship. He hadn’t realized he’d gone this far north, but he supposes it makes sense. He’s been sailing for a few days, and his kingdom isn’t that far from the northernmost tip of the continent. It makes sense that the island he’s come across is a colder one at this point.

By the time he’s drawn as close as he can to the island and dropped anchor, the sun has set completely and both the sea and sky have turned an inky black, lit only by scattered pinpricks of starlight. It’s beautiful in a way that’s so different from the palace he’d left, and Roman finds he far prefers this sort of beauty. The cold wind that chills him to the bone only adds to the mystical aura of the island and even as he shivers, Roman is smiling. Something inside him had started to glow in anticipation as soon as he’d seen the island for the first time, and that glow has since settled into his chest, leaving him with a feeling of completeness. If he hadn’t already known it to be true, the feeling of everything clicking into place would have tipped him off that yes, this is right. He is here; this is where he’s meant to be.

For a blissful moment, Roman listens to the sound of waves lapping at the sides of his stolen ship. He feels more at home here than he ever had in a crown, and he wants to savor the warmth that fills him.

But the moment passes, and the warmth slowly begins to fade. Roman is here for a reason, and the glow receding from its place around his heart reminds him of that. He still doesn’t hear the voice though. It’s been silent for so long now that frankly, it’s unnerving. He wants it back.

“Ah-ah, ah-ah,” Roman sings out the familiar tune, praying that the voice responds this time.

“Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah.”

There it is. Roman grins, pulling off his jacket and heavy boots before laying them near the wheel of the ship. He’s colder now, but losing his long coat and shoes will make it easier for him to swim to the island. He pulls himself up the side of the ship, standing at the bow. Taking a deep breath, he dives into the icy waters.

The cold of the sea nearly sucks the air from his lungs as he slips beneath the waves in a cloud of bubbles. Quickly, he resurfaces, gasping for air. Fighting back a full-body shiver, Roman begins paddling toward the island, grateful that despite the cold winds, the ocean is relatively calm tonight.

He makes it to the shore sooner than he would have expected and pulls himself onto the rocky beach. The strength in his arms that comes with sword fighting translates rather well to swimming, apparently. Roman stands, clothes dripping onto the pebbles that make a mockery of the fine, white sands he has back in his own kingdom. He shivers again before shaking off the cold and scanning the island.

When his eyes land on a cave that glows a royal blue color from within, Roman knows with absolute surety that the voice had come from there. Squeezing out his shirt as much as he can, he uses it to dry the rest of his body in a poor attempt to make himself warmer. Giving a final shiver, Roman begins to make his way toward the cave.

As he passes through the entrance and he himself is bathed in the blue light, Roman finds himself growing warmer bit by bit. Strange though it is, he’s not about to complain.

Roman turns in a circle, looking about the cave in search of… well, he isn’t quite sure. His mind is again flooded with lyrics he’s never heard before, and he sings them in the hope that the voice will respond.

“Come to me now,

Open your door.

Don’t make me wait one moment more.”

He doesn’t receive a verbal response, but the blue glow grows brighter from behind a grouping of stalagmites. Roman walks toward it, repeating his plea.

“Come to me now,

Open your door.

Don’t make me wait one moment more!”

There is still no response, but despite that, Roman finds himself climbing between the stalagmites in an effort to reach the light that continues to shine with ever more intensity. As he makes his way past the final stalagmite in his path, he finally receives a reply.

“Where the north wind meets the sea,

There’s a river full of memory.”

Roman runs barefoot towards the voice, somehow managing to not slice his feet open on the rocks beneath them. A smile spreads across his face once more as he stops short upon reaching the entrance to the grotto.

He stands there, taking in the stunning scene of intricate rock formations lining a dark pool in the center of it all, lit up by moonlight and that deep blue light emanating from a shadowed figure near the water’s edge. Roman steps closer, curious. Is this figure what he’s been looking for all this time? He takes another step, then another. Little by little, Roman draws near enough to walk into the blue light. Every logical part of his brain screams at him not to, but Roman has never been one to sacrifice his dreams to logic. He certainly isn’t going to now, not when he’s so close to the dream he’s been chasing.

He reaches out his hand, letting it be swallowed up by the light. Nothing happens to it, so Roman follows suit, fully submerging himself in the blue glow. He blinks, eyes adjusting slowly to the light and sees… a mermaid? His jaw falls open involuntarily as it gestures for him to come closer, singing, “Come, my darling, homeward bound.”

Feeling his heartbeat grow faster, Roman takes another few tentative steps towards the mermaid, sitting down in front of it. With a softness that’s completely uncharacteristic of his normal voice, he sings in an awed whisper, “I am found.”

The mermaid reaches towards him and places a hand on his face, brushing against it gently before pulling away again. It—no, he, Roman decides. Calling the mermaid, someone who looks so human, “it” feels wrong in a way he can’t describe—he begins to sing again. At first, it’s just the soft melody he’d been hearing for months. “Ah-ah, ah-ah. Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah.” Then, taking Roman’s hands in his, the mermaid continues the song he’d called out with only a few moments before.

“Where the north wind meets the sea

There’s a river full of memory

Sleep, my darling, safe and sound

For in this river, all is found.”

Unconsciously, Roman moves closer to the mermaid who, for his part, merely smiles as he continues to sing.

“In its waters, deep and true

Lie the answers and a path for you

Dive down deep into the sound

But not too deep, or you’ll be drowned.”

Roman is so completely enchanted by the mermaid that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t bring himself to be disturbed by the lyrics. Instead, he allows himself to be held captive by the mermaid’s blue-eyed gaze as he sings with a voice so clear and rich that there’s simply no way it could ever be replicated by a human.

“Yes, it will sing to those who’ll hear

And in its song, all magic flows

But can you brave what you most fear?

Can you face what the river knows?”

The mermaid’s voice grows softer as Roman moves closer again, leaning against his chest that rumbles gently as he sings. The sensation causes Roman’s heart to do flips within his chest and his eyes to flutter shut in contentment. He’d traveled so far from home, but lying on the mermaid’s chest as he sings makes it all worth it in Roman’s eyes.

“Where the north wind meets the sea

There’s a river full of memory

Come, my darling, homeward bound

When all is lost, then all is found.”

Roman sighs, completely blissed out in that moment. He can’t imagine a better place to be and if he has his way, this night will never end.

But ending is exactly what it’s doing as the sky slowly lightens and the stars begin to fade. Carefully, the mermaid lifts Roman’s head off his chest as though he’s made of glass. He presses a delicate kiss to Roman’s forehead that leaves its victim a blushing mess before slipping into the pool of water he’d had his tail submerged in.

With the mermaid gone, the spell Roman felt he’d been under is very nearly broken. The soft kiss still has him in shambles, but the rest of his mind is slowly clearing. He blinks, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The sun is rising, he reminds himself, glancing up to the gap in the ceiling of the small grotto. He’s been here all night, though it certainly hasn’t felt like it. Roman stands up anyway, figuring that without the mermaid there, he has no reason to stick around. He had found the voice. There’s no reason for him to stay anchored by this island any longer, is there?

No, there isn’t, Roman tells himself. But…

He hadn’t come to find the voice just out of curiosity. He’d come for the promise of freedom and adventure the voice had sung of, the idea that he would be able to leap headfirst into the unknown and, for the first time in his life, truly be free.

Roman has a duty to go back home and rule over his kingdom, but the lure of adventure is too tempting to pass up. He’d been doomed to stay here from the start, just as he’d suspected when he’d been back in the palace.

He can’t tell if it’s because of the mermaid himself or the freedom and adventure he’d promised, but Roman is inescapably bound to him. And for some reason, he can’t bring himself to feel any inkling of remorse about that.

[satanfm]

lux and ivy’s playlist @ivcsisms THINKING ABOUT A GIRL.

It’s 2 am and I’m thinking about the girl I have a crush on but she’s taken so I spend your night writing about her instead while wondering how it feels to make out with her.

the less i know the better by tame impala --- “someone said they left together i ran out the door to get her she was holding hands with trevor not the greatest feeling ever said, "pull yourself together you should try your luck with heather" then i heard they slept together oh, the less i know the better the less i know the better oh my love, can't you see yourself by my side no surprise when you're on his shoulder like every night oh my love, can't you see that you're on my mind don't suppose we could convince your lover to change his mind so goodbye she said, "it's not now or never wait ten years, we'll be together" i said, "better late than never just don't make me wait forever" don't make me wait forever.”

i kissed a girl and she kissed me by kid bloom --- “i get excited when you come round won't you try to make it right i know i've been waiting don't start with me baby i don't know don't sympathize lately let it go this time my heart can't take much more don't start with me baby i don't know.”

her heart isn’t beating for me by semi attractive boy --- “she's got the look of love out of her cheeks she doesn't seem the want to give it to me i've got the feeling that i could be setting her free she's got her eyes so wrong she's seeing my friend she doesn't see the love that i think it feel i got the feeling that her heart isn't beating for me.”

lovefool by no vacation --- “guess i was a fool for believing you. yeah the truth hurts more than a lie or two. more than a lie or two. door closes and you're gone. you left me hangin' on this love. for far too long.”

getting it on by the sales --- “what did you forget was something what did you get, what did you get a part of it was always there and i found out on the way, out of your heart.”

a million other things by pronoun --- “is this how it ends is this how it starts when you love somebody while they falling apart love somebody while they falling don't know where it leads don't know if you know when you keep on holding tight instead of letting go keep on holding tight instead of letting go but you gotta come home come back baby, come back first gotta come home first come back baby, even if it hurts cause there's a million other things we can do in the world.”

come on mess me up by cub sport --- “i found comfort, i fell in love with avoiding problems we were riding on smith street we were right on track i left it behind without sinking, they all said i wasn't thinking i found comfort, i fell in love with avoiding problems but i want this, you know i want this so come on, mess me up and you can break me if you'll still take me ruin me, if you'll let me be one of the ones you say you won't forget 'cause i want this, you know i want this.”

let it lie by morning tv --- “i wanna know why, i’m still crying i know its time to let it all lie  i wanna be with you, i want for you to be with me but all of our ideals of ourselves they fall from a reality.”

you might be sleeping by jakob ogawa & clairo --- “baby, when you're near it's warm inside sometimes when you stare our hearts entwine and in the morning i'll be here you might be sleeping without a care and in the morning i'll be here you might be dreaming play with your hair.”

rivers bend by the doorbells --- “cut me open sew my wounds shut i wanna be yours truly meet me at the rivers bend i wanna feel what you feel i wanna lose when you lose i wanna cry with you i wanna smile when you smile.”

fool by frankie cosmos --- “your name is a triangle your heart is a square i'd love to see you way over there once i was happy you found it intriguing then you got to me left me bleeding you make me feel like a fool waiting for you you make me feel like a fool waiting for you.”

not my baby by alvvays --- “now that you're not my baby i'll go do whatever i want no need to turn around to see what's behind me i don't care and it's true, i've been checking out lately i go do whatever i want no need to turn around to see what's behind me i don't care because i'm really not there i'm really not there.”

dreaming by mac demarco --- “someday i'll find her and i'm still reminded maybe she's the best in dreams she's still the best i've seen dreamin' dreamin' dreamin' baby, i'm dreamin' out on her windowsill baby remember maybe i'm out of luck maybe it's running still dreamin' dreamin' dreamin' baby, i'm dreamin'.”

velvet sheets by goth babe --- “i've got my feelings on they've got a mind of their own can i call you now please won't you pick up the phone i need a face to touch mine is getting old where is my home im really feeling old, old, old some day soon i'll run with you.”

i’m never going to understand by elvis depressedly --- “trembling for forgiveness tiny calloused hands i'm never going to understand  i will love you bunny as long as i can i'm never going to understand  now me and your sickness forever hand in hand i'm never going to understand i can't love you bunny try as hard as i can i'm never going to understand.”

best friend by rex orange county --- “i should've stayed at home 'cause right now i see all these people that love me but i still feel alone can't help but check my phone i could've made you mine but no, it wasn't meant to be and see, i wasn't made for you and you weren't made for me though it seemed so easy.”

warned you by good morning --- “she looked to me, it's no surprise well i well i i could die but i warned you.”

lose it by swmrs --- “when we drove up the coast we had a soundtrack we made it feel like a film on a reel and our story didn't have a happy ending but it still sounded good despite the way i feel the last thing i want is another broken heart to drive me to the brink of crazy in the end i couldn't take it cuz i knew we wouldn't make it so come on, come on and tell me why'd you have to have such a damn good taste in music? ya if all my favorite songs make me think of you i'm gonna lose it.”

little uneasy by fazerdaze --- “we are young, so we untie we are young, we get tired walking on rooftops, feel so heavy i could never leave you if you let me try go on and let me try steady now, but falling slack stepping out, but falling back under-passing all your dreaming i'll admit feeling a little uneasy about you want to cut me out just one more take i'm still feeling my way.”

love song by bad luck --- “i spent 5 years nailing myself to a cross, that i destroyed overnight, through what we'll call "a talk", in a parking lot, in a town that would, later on become, where i lay my head with you. i'd say we all rise up from the dead here again and again. ooh, wouldn't you, say you do too, say you do too, say, "i'm like you", oh i like you, and in some time more, we'll be home somewhere else, with our dog and our children, but i'm in no rush, we have all our lives, we can just get high, and watch time pass by, then again there's nothing we can't do. and i think i'd be fine living life wanting to die with you.”

i wanna be your girlfriend by girl in red --- “i don't wanna be your friend i wanna kiss your lips i wanna kiss you until i lose my breath i don't wanna be your friend i wanna kiss your lips i wanna kiss you until i lose my breath oh hannah tell me something nice like flowers and blue skies oh hannah i will follow you home although my lips are blue and i'm cold.”

one last time by summer salt --- “baby girl when was it that you had decided you'd call it off and on you were just having fun with loving one last time still i'd catch you when the days through at my side passing by wishin' someday you'd make up your mind alone, alone again on valentine.”

why do i wait (when i know you have a lover) by the zolas --- “i can lose a day in a gothic maze. why do i wait when i know you've got a lover? barcelona crush half-capped in the sun. why do i wait when i know you've got a lover? the hands flail up in the clouds. i am their king with the chemical crown. why do i wait, do i pace a figure-eight ain't it easy to decide to go?”

talia by king princess --- “hey, my love i buried you a month or two ago i keep thinking that you're standing on my floor that you're waiting there for me hey, my love you've walked out a hundred times out of us supposed to know this time that you wouldn't call that you wouldn't come home but four drinks i'm wasted i can see you dancing, i can lay down next to you at the foot of my bed if i drink enough i can taste your lipstick, i can lay down next to you but it's all in my head if i drink enough i swear that i will wake up next to you.”

malibu by lucys --- “baby you see my love is ever changing like the candle light that keeps melting but that don't mean i'm over you like this rose i hold for you oh sweet girl you've made me blue time and time again i feel out of tune you wind me up and spin me round tear me up and tell me how baby i just want to make you mine and i die for a bit of your time oh love you’ve got me enticed … enticed.”

i want you by alex lahey --- “you're the kind of person who likes going to the movies alone you only drink cider and you're aching to move out of home i don't know much more about you but it seems to me that you're my kind i get so excited when i hear that you are coming 'round it used to surprise me when you'd say that you weren't homeward-bound i don't know much more about you but it seems to me that you do things that people only do when they think that they like me too i want you even when you're out of town even when we're up and down i want you even when i'm all alone even when we're on the phone i want you even though you'll never know from the day you said hello i want you.”

by your side by flatsound --- “see myself in a screen wasting days, counting weeks getting more familiar with how you speak while you're away from me but i don't want to say goodbye because it's safer when i'm by your side it's safer when i'm by your side i want to be near you like i'm meant to.”

yellow by pity party (girls club) --- “love is sick, but we could try. i really like, i really like the things you do to me. the things you do to me. love is sick, i really mean. i want you close, right next to me. love is dumb, but we could try. i really like, i really like the way you stare at me. the way you stare at me. love is yellow, i really mean. i want you close, to die with me.”

mixed up and confused by gromz --- “we used to be, part-time lovers, our hands underneath the covers. now you've got me all, mixed up and confused. i don't know what to do, you got me all yeah you got me all i'm just searching for a way out but instead i'm just going back to you and it hurts me to think that you've got it going on with other guys.”

a shitty love song by jye --- “roses are red, violets are blue and i think i'm in love with you making me blush every time that i'm with you roses are red, violets are blue and i think i'm in love with you making me blush every time that i'm with you something about you that make's me wanna light up inside it's to do with you eyes nothing you say or do is ever gonna change my mind cause i'm in love.”

i think you’re alright by jay som --- “when i wake up in the morning i'll make you some coffee we'll lay about and let the day pass i'll wipe your blood off the concrete take you to the party we'll drink until our brains black out and god, you're so pretty your smile's unforgiving i'll place it where nobody can find i'll play all your favorite songs and shake when the lights go off i'll hide us in the warm night oh, i think you're alright.”

hourglass by catfish & the bottlemen --- “you know when you're gone i struggle at night dreams of you fucking me all the time and i know your tied up and i know your phone's fucked i'm craving your calls like a soldier's wife i wanna bring you home myself bring you home myself come back, move in, mess my place chest infect me, waste my days 'cause i know you love to drive me up the wall i know you love to drive me up the wall.”

girls by girl in red --- “i've been hiding for so long these feelings, they're not gone could i tell anyone? afraid of what they'll say so i push them away i'm acting so strange they're so pretty it hurts i'm not talking 'bout boys i'm talking 'bout girls.”

mice by billie marten --- “i don't understand why most of the time i'm living my life all wrong i felt nothing at all the freedom of the fall my smile is on the backseat, the back wall watch me as i go and separate the ones that i am made to love and hate.”

the way you used to love me by diamond cafe --- “searching for your touch i've been feeling lonely i know that it's my fault honey i'm sorry nothing can compare to the way you used to love me to the way you used to love me i've been dreaming for somebody to hold me not just anybody it's you that i'm holding nothing can compare to the way you used to love me.”

soft by babygirl --- “i feel soft around you i feel soft around you comfortable and warm and far from any harm i’m lost without you a broken clock without you and when i pull away i’m begging you to stay  oh you would swear i lost my mind, the things i do i know i’m hard to love sometimes but i’m soft around you  i’d be a mess without you fucked up depressed without you life would be worthwhile and sometimes i’d still smile but just less without you i’m so obsessed about you i know i’m touch and go i’m yes and then i’m no no no no.”

i’ll be around by floor cry --- “just like a sad song on a rainy day just like a heartache that won't go away all i've ever known is feeling alone just like a treasure that i cannot reach i bring a cake but i can't have a piece now something has changed my life rearranged sleepless nights i don't get no time off still i can't get enough you fit my heart like a glove sleepy days my head's no longer hurting i'm not sure if it's working i think about you too much.”

yellow velvet by wydes --- “tired friend, wash out my eyes burn into my head that if the moon is never gonna make things better instead i'll ride away come back to yellow velvet days when all the cops would run away  only diamonds for my baby girl only diamonds when i will afford them i've been in love before when i let you run away.”

valentine by suki waterhouse --- “guess it all goes somewhere unknown turn around and leave it all behind once again, i've drawn a line there must be a place where lost love overflows  tell the truth that in my mind we were always on borrowed time is it just that it always goes to a place where love lost overflows?  seems to me it's over i'll get used to it eventually over and over again, brutally it's just the way it's meant to be now your love's no good for me  beneath my smile my thoughts run wild though i try my best, i can't forget my past so once again i send it on to the place where love lost overflows.”

make me your queen by declan mckenna --- “i know that i mean nothing to you, babe i've tried my best to keep these thoughts away oh, i've tried to speak but there's nothing left to say 'cause i mean nothing to you, babe i know that i mean nothing to you, dear if ever i stop by, you're never here and i don't mean shit, i know you've made that clear 'cause i mean nothing to you, dear so make me your queen.”

[badcowboy69]

Homeward Bound part 4

Yeesh...long time no write on the continuation to this saga. The story continues on Travis’ trip back to his parents’ ranch in Arizona where he tries to find any lost memories and most importantly tries to reconnect with his family.

@fuzzyelves it’s about time, huh? lol  Hopefully part 5 won’t take as long.  Previous chapters can be found in my #writings section.  Enjoy!

Placed under the cut due to length.

“Here’s to the rest of this visit going easier,” Travis muttered with a pessimistic tone in his voice while pouring a small portion of moonshine.  He toasted no one in particular then downed the liquor in one gulp.  With the very condensed tale of the past years over with, Travis felt slightly at ease.  Slightly.  He even dared to admit that he was starting to feel curious about what stories his parents had to share about his forgotten past.  Setting the jar down on the coffee table, Travis gave Riley a nod indicating to follow him and together they headed towards the bathroom.

After both men washed the day’s sweat and desert dust off their faces, necks, and arms, they proceeded back down the hall to the door that Mrs. Blackfox indicated was to Travis’ room.  However, instead of charging right in, Travis simply stood in front of the door, his hand hovering scant inches away from the worn, brass door knob.  

“Are you ok?”  Riley asked.  “I’m sure this is going to be overwhelming.  Just take your time and…”

“Ain’t that.  Lookit this,” Travis grunted, pointing at a bouquet of dried sunflowers tacked to the door.  “Thought she said this is supposed to be my room, but what’s with the flowers?  I might not remember much of anything on my past, but I know hanging flowers on my door ain’t something I’d ever do.”

Riley frowned deeply and uncomfortably ran his fingers through his red hair.  “Well,” he started slowly, trying to carefully choose his words.  “I’m not sure what traditions or cultures are out here, let alone fully in the wasteland these days, but back in my time something like this meant the person had...ummm...passed away.  It’s a memorial of sorts.”

“Buncha shit,” Travis snorted and smacked the door making Riley quirk an eyebrow.  However, Travis didn’t explain his remark.  In the back of his mind he knew all the years of torture his parents must have went through thinking he was dead was his own fault.  He knew all he had to do was ask Mister House for help or even simply get on his motorcycle drive to Hackberry, but fear of rejection always held him back.  Regardless of his memories being lost or not, the last thing he wanted to do was try to connect to where he might not be welcome or wanted.

Riley sighed heavily and felt his shoulders slump seeing that Travis’ dour mood was starting to return.  He hated seeing him like this and hoped that Travis would relax and cheer up or, even better, find a forgotten memory soon.  There was nothing he could say or do at this moment to help as this was something Travis had to overcome on his own.  Taking a quick look around, Riley spotted a few frames on the wall near the door.  Hoping to break the tension and distract Travis from the flowers, Riley offered, “Check out these photos, Travis.  Do any of these spark anything for you?” 

Without even turning to look at the pictures, Travis replied with disinterest, “Ain’t got the foggiest.”

The response was almost what Riley anticipated, but he still tried.  “Your folks seem to really like photographs.  Maybe during this reunion they can add some new pictures to their collection.  I’m also willing to bet they’d love to see those pictures you have back in the Lucky 38 showcasing your adventures through the years.  I’m sure they’d especially love the ones of you performing on stage at the Tops.  I know those are my personal favorites.”

“Maybe.”  Travis stared intently at the dried flowers on his door and twitched his moustache in annoyance.  He reached to remove them as he wasn’t “dead” anymore, but immediately changed his mind.  Although this was his room and he could probably do whatever he wished, Travis felt the removal of the flowers should be decided by his folks.  This may be his home, but being absent for so many years he felt he had to earn his place again.  Taking a deep breath and twisting the knob, Travis exclaimed, “Here goes nothing!”

The door opened with a soft whine to an average sized room.  The room was dim, but the afternoon sun managed to peek through the sides and small holes of a worn, red drape covering the single window.  Travis slowly made his way to it across the wooden floor which gave the occasional creek under his boot heels.  Leaning over a desk and carefully taking the drape, he pushed it aside allowing the sunlight to enter.  He blinked his eyes from the sudden brightness and once adjusted, Travis saw that the room faced a large corral.  He frowned seeing it was empty and briefly wondered where all the livestock could be.  Furrowing his brow, he continued to gaze at the vast property that made up the ranch while an odd sensation of longing slowly spread through him.  He wasn’t sure if it was his broken brain trying to connect back to his forgotten past or something else.  Either way, he felt an unfamiliar calm and the ends of his moustache slowly lifted into a wistful smile.

On the right past the corral, he spotted his father and two men out in the distance rolling what appeared to be wooden barrels towards the barn.  All three men seemed to be laboring hard over their work indicating that whatever was inside of the barrels was very heavy.  Travis wondered if it was alcohol of some sort in the barrels and that momentary distraction suddenly pulled him out of the previous longing.  He returned back to the present with a disappointed sigh.  I sure could use a drink about now.

Seeing Travis had come out of his momentary fog, Riley smiled and gestured towards the small, makeshift bookcase he was standing in front of.  An assortment of different Nuka Cola, Sunset Sarsaparilla, and other types of bottles were arranged neatly on it.  Aside from a light covering of dust, they were all in decent condition.  “Look, Travis, it seems like you were a collector of bottles like you are now,” Riley commented, hoping that finding a small connection like this would help trigger something for his man’s destroyed memories.

Travis stepped to Riley’s side and looked over the bottles with mild interest.  “Dang, some of these I don’t even have back in Vegas.  Pretty cool.”  

Unfortunately, the spark Travis seemed to have got from seeing the bottle collection was temporary and it vanished as quickly as it came.  He flicked his fingers against a glowing Nuka Cola Quantum before turning away and drifting towards the center of the room.  Hooking his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans, Travis slowly turned in a full circle as if trying to take in everything all at once in hopes he would find something familiar to him.  However, as he expected, he recognized absolutely nothing.  Still, he was slightly determined to find something and figured the best place to start would be his bed.  After all, there’s nothing more personal than that little bit of space.

The neatly made, full sized bed was in the corner against the wall.  It had faded, red patterned sheets and a folded patchwork quilt rested at the foot.  A rag doll of an animal that seemed to resemble a pre-war bison was laying against the pillows.  Over the headboard hung a dreamcatcher made from dried vines and adorned with feathers and colorful beads.  Next to the bed was a nightstand with an oil lamp, harmonica, a book about Native Americans that has seen better days, and a small frame with a photo inside of a teenage Travis and his father holding up two large fish, obviously proud of their catches. 

Travis sat on the bed, snatched up the frame and stared at the photo, his brow furrowed in concentration.  “Reckon we ate good that night,” he said glumly as nothing in the photograph triggered any bit of memory.  As he set the frame back on the nightstand, his eyes caught sight of a guitar wedged between the bed and the wall.  Reaching over the bed, Travis grabbed hold of the instrument’s neck and freed it.  He held it against him and gave a few strums, wincing at how out of tune it was.  “Shit, gonna have to fix that later if we stick around,” he mumbled more to himself than anything.     

Setting the guitar against the nightstand, Travis stood and chose the desk that was directly in front of the window as his next focal point.  The desk was made of wood and both it and its chair had seen better days.  The desk was far from organized and it made Riley smirk seeing that not much has changed with Travis in that aspect.  The desks back at the Lucky 38 were neat for the most part, but every now and then they could be found with stacks of papers and jalapeno stems scattered about.  Here, instead of papers and peppers, was a thick homemade journal open to a random page and a tipped over soup can with its contents of pencils strewn about.   

Reaching for the chair, Travis noticed there was a gun belt and holster draped over it, but no gun.  Taking a quick look around he found the pistol in question, half-buried under the papers on the desk.  He carefully brushed them aside to discover a .375 revolver and gun cleaning kit.  Disinterested, Travis placed the papers back over the gun then turned his attention to a crude wood carving of a yao guai.  Arching a curious eyebrow, he examined it with mild interest noticing the few chips and gouges in the wood betraying the creator’s inexperience.  “Wonder if I made these?  I mean, it sorta looks like my carving style, but ain’t as good...kinda rough and not too detailed.”

“It’s still very nice and maybe they have been recently learning how to carve.  Certainly much better than anything I could ever do.”  Riley took the yao guai from Travis and looked it over for any identification of the artist like initials or a date.  “Maybe whoever made this was your inspiration of sorts for you to do your own creations?”

Travis took the figure from Riley’s outstretched hand while his shoulders suddenly slumped.  “I reckon,” he responded softly.  He set the figure down and noticed the initials TB that were carved deeply into the wood of the desktop.  He smiled wistfully and traced over the letters with his finger.  “I mean I wish I could remember at least one damn thing around here.  Bad enough my folks are off the list, but if I could find only one thing I can remember growing up in this place…just one...”

“I understand, but the day is still young.  Don’t be discouraged.  Something might crop up when you least expect it and if not, that’s ok too,” Riley said gently while reaching for the worn book on the nightstand and carefully flipping through its pages.   

“I reckon,” Travis repeated and slowly made his way to the closet on the opposite side of the room.  He stood in front of the door and looked over the variety of cowboy pictures that were tacked all over it.  The pictures were from pre-war magazines or books and showcased cowboys in all sorts of situations and scenes either in shootouts, riding the range, or participating in a rodeo.  Some were even from advertisements promoting clothing and farming equipment.  However, the vast majority of cutouts were of shirtless cowboys striking seductive, sultry poses.  Travis smirked, “Man, if my folks don’t know I’m a confirmed bachelor, they’re really clueless.”  

Riley looked up and saw the pictures Travis was directing the comment about.  “Not necessarily. Some people can be very well aware of that fact, just...might not like to acknowledge it, unfortunately.”

Travis frowned and rolled his eyes.  “Well, gee, that’s encouraging.”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t…”

“Don’t worry about it, Riles.  I get what ‘cha mean.”  Travis did his best to flash his partner a smile then opened the closet door.  As expected it was filled with a variety of plaid and solid colored shirts as well as plenty of jeans.  Resting on the floor were a few pairs of worn and dusty cowboy boots as well as random leather gloves and a few coiled ropes.  Travis pulled out a blue shirt and placed it against himself as if checking the size before returning it.  He continued to sift through the clothes, but like everything else, nothing seemed familiar to him.  Besides the bed, clothing would be the most intimate connection a person might have with something, but none of the articles sparked any recollection.  This is getting ridiculous, he glumly thought while shutting the door with a frustrated sigh.

Glancing around the room to see if there was anything he might have overlooked, Travis spotted a shelf he hasn’t yet examined.  It was adorned with an assortment of neatly arranged trinkets, but what really caught his attention was hanging above it.  The item in question was a long spear made out of a tree branch.  It was adorned with feathers and beads and its pointed rock tip was attached with leather straps and a strip of gray fur.  He stared at it for long moments wondering what the story was behind it.  He saw plenty of spears used by Tribals in parts of Utah and this one looked similar to them.  It got him thinking if he was truly a descendant of Tribals or even pre-war Native Americans.  He had his suspicions and hopes, but nothing was ever validated.   

Not wanting to strain his frazzled brain on thoughts about his heritage until he could speak to his parents about it, Travis focused on the items on the shelf instead.  Aside from random things such as a few nice rocks and a large pine cone, there was also a carving of a coyote and a two mason jars filled with bottle caps and marbles respectively.  However, a framed photo of a teenage Travis holding a baby animal of some kind caught and held his attention.  He stared intently at the picture for a long time, more intrigued as to what kind of creature he had rather than if the picture sparked any sort of memory or not.  The animal looked similar to the horses he’s seen in pre-war books and magazines or even the toy, Giddyup Buttercup, except this was a real being.

Noticing Travis had found something of apparent interest, Riley looked up from the book.  He could see the concentration on his partner’s face and it made him fidget in hopes that maybe Travis finally recognized something.  “What has your intense attention, babe?” Riley asked while returning the book to the nightstand then joining Travis at the shelf.

Travis gave him a side glance while nodding towards the photo.  “Check it out.  What kind of critter is that?  I mean, it looks like a pre-war...ummm….horse.  At first I thought it was one of those Buttercup toys, but this looks like the real deal.”

When Riley saw the animal in question he couldn’t believe his eyes.  He adjusted his glasses and peered closer for a better look at the photo in disbelief.  “I’ll be damned.  If I didn’t know any better I’d swear that is a horse, but from what I’ve gathered they’re long gone.  Well, at least in Boston anyway.  Travis, think back during your time at the Big Circle for that brahmin drive.  Do you remember anything like this?  I mean, you can’t exactly herd cattle on foot...at least I wouldn’t think it’d be too practical.  You and the other cowboys had to have a mount of some sort.”  Riley felt excitement rising inside of him over the possibility of horses in the Mojave. 

Sadly shaking his head no, Travis picked up a carving that was resting against the picture frame. This one resembled the animal in the photograph, but apparently as an adult.  Travis stared at it for long moments while tracing over it with his finger, admiring the craftsmanship and details.   “The few random things I remember about Big Circle, these critters ain’t one of them,” he said sorrowfully.  Suddenly furrowing his brow in frustration, Travis walked back to the bed and dropped heavily on it, still clutching the wooden horse.  He rubbed his face with a groan before resting his elbows on his knees.   Shifting his gaze up to his partner, Travis twitched his moustache and gave a weak laugh while shaking the carving.  “Ya know, had this been any ole room I would be fascinated by all of this stuff...especially the animal in the photo.  But knowing this is all my stuff and not having any recollection of it...well...it’s...it’s kinda surreal.  Does that even make sense?”

Taking a seat at Travis’ side, Riley put his arm around his shoulders and pressed an affectionate kiss on his cheek.  “Yes, it does, babe.”

“At least I got some cool stuff,”  Travis weakly laughed, leaned against Riley and closed his tired eyes.  “All this stuff and especially the photos don’t mean anything to me.  Not a damn thing.  It’s so weird seeing me doing shit in pictures, but have no memories of it.  Ain’t just surreal, it’s downright frustrating.” “Well, like I said, maybe something random will crop up for you when you least expect it.  Don’t try to force it.” Riley hoped he sounded encouraging, but deep down he knew he really couldn’t offer much.  This was all something Travis had to figure out and discover on his own.

Travis glumly nodded against him and felt Riley press a kiss on top of his head.  Pulling back, Travis nuzzled against his neck, placing a few kisses on the freckled skin.  “Thanks, Riles.  This all feels so hopeless, but I’ll try and not give up.”  

Riley heard the tiredness and frustration in his partner’s voice and his heart sank.  Had they been anyplace else but here, he would have laid back on the bed pulling Travis against him and would do his best to dole out comfort with his hands and mouth.  However, that was not an option at this point and time and instead he put his fingers under the whiskered chin of Travis and tilted his face towards him.  “That’s all you can do.  Like I’ve said earlier, you aren’t facing this alone,”  Riley said gently then pressed his lips against his partner’s.  “You have my full support in all of this and I’ll respect and honor any decision you make on how to keep moving forward here.” 

“Dang, I love you so much,” Travis smiled gratefully and returned the kiss while wrapping his arms tightly around him.  “I really cain’t wait to get outta here later and show you just how much.”  

Riley playfully nudged him and chuckled.  “There will be plenty of time for that.  I only hope there’ll be a nice, clean place in town for us to stay.” “If not, we got the camping gear.  That’s good enough for me anyways, you know that.”  Travis snickered seeing Riley flinch over the mention of camping.  “You know you love it!”

“If I wanted to get hot and sweaty at night, I’d much prefer to do it in our bedroom with you back at the Lucky 38,” Riley scoffed earning a frisky nip on his neck from his partner.  “Oh, you’re so lucky we’re not somewhere more private or I’d have to have you put your mouth to better use than that.”

Travis’ moustache lifted to a grin and Riley noticed a small spark of mischief in his crystal blue eyes.  Even though he knew Travis was caught up in the moment and the emotions were probably fleeting right now, it was still good seeing him in better spirits than the frustrated, somber mess he’s been since they arrived at the ranch.

As Riley bowed his head down to press a gentle kiss on Travis’ lips, a sharp knock at the door caused both men to jump and instantly scoot away from each other on opposite ends of the bed.  Riley found himself blushing fiercely from almost being caught and he immediately turned away, grabbing for the Native American book as a distraction.  

Although not as embarrassed, Travis still felt awkward and he cleared his throat to try and compose himself.  Grabbing the wood carving, Travis glanced at Riley to make sure he was ready before calling out, “C-come in!”

The door opened and a smiling Mrs. Blackfox stepped in.  “Dinner’s about up.  It’s your favorite, fried prairie fowl and maize,” she directed at Travis while her eyes caught the wood carving he was clutching.  “That right there…” she began, but stopped as she felt a sudden wash of emotions going through her.  “Do...do you remember that at all?” Tracy reached for the carving and held it lovingly while her finger traced over the animal’s ears and snout.  Travis shook his head no making his mother sigh softly.  “This was the last thing you did the night before you left for that New Vegas delivery.  You were so proud of this and it was the best one you made since you began learning the craft.”  She looked around the room and gave a nod to nowhere in general.  “All the figures in here and the few that are out around the house were done by you.  Each one you tried harder and harder to perfect, but this one...this was a true labor of love.”  Sighing, she handed the figure back to Travis and mustered up a supportive smile.  “Reckon that’s a story for later.  Now then, come and eat before your father inhales everything.” 

Travis sighed as he watched her go then dropped his gaze downwards to the carving.  He stared at it for long minutes, suddenly feeling rather sentimental over what his mother said about it being the last thing he did before his fateful journey to New Vegas.  He bit his lower lip as he felt tears wanting to build up in his eyes.  Furrowing his brow, Travis set the figure on the nightstand and snorted.  “Let’s make tracks...I’m gonna pass out from starvation.”

to be continued...

[turning-the-kaleidoscope]

“Thaw” (Chapter 3/3)

It was supposed to be a fun afternoon.

Neither of them could’ve expected it to end up like this.

Written for @mookybear12404‘s MP100 Sims!AU, which is wholesome in all kinds of ways but almost turned into a complete disaster with the latest installment. Stay away from precarious railings near the ocean, kids! 

[Part 1] [Part 2] 

He’s warm.

Shigeo cracks open his eyes slowly, and the room comes into view. Everything’s fuzzy, and his head feels like someone’d driven a nail into it with a hammer and left it there, but he’s awake, lying back on a couch, bundled in at least five blankets, with the warm crackle of a fireplace by his head behind him.

It doesn’t sink in at first. He doesn’t remember where he is or what led to him being here, but the splitting headache, coupled with the gentle crackle of the fire and the blankets wrapped around him, almost sends him right back into sleep.

Only, that’s precisely when everything sinks in.

He shoots upright, heart in his throat, trying to detangle himself from the blankets. Reigen, Reigen’s in here somewhere, he has to find him—

“Hey, hey! Hold it, son, hold it—”

Hands land on his shoulders and try shoving him back, but he fights against it, too scared to go unanswered.

“R—M-My dad, where…”

“Your dad’s fine, I promise,” the woman answers, eyes carrying a mixture of concern and annoyance. She runs a hand over her face and pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “Jeez, he did the same damn thing a second ago—nearly split his head open on the dresser, I swear—”

“W-Wait, h—” Shigeo feels lightheaded again, but for a different reason. “You mean he’s—he’s really okay? He’s okay?”

She smiles this time, releasing his shoulders and sitting by him on the couch. “Of course he is. He came to real quick once I dumped him in the bathwater. You’re lucky you found us when you did—”

“C-Can I see him?” he blurts, without thinking, and realizes a second later just how sharp his tone had been. “I—I’m sorry, I-I didn’t—”

“It’s alright, don’t worry, I ain’t mad,” she assures him with a soft smile. “Can’t imagine how scared you were. You’re a pretty tough kid, y’know It was really brave of you to stick it out like that. Wellp. Anyways.”

She pats him on the shoulder, then hops to her feet and waves a hand at him.

“C’mon, if you think you’re alright to walk, I can take you to him.” At this, she chuckles and shakes her head. “Or else he’ll probably tear apart the place looking for ya.”

Shigeo tosses the remaining blankets off of him and gets his feet underneath him. The dizzy spell doesn’t last very long this time, and even if it had, it’s not like it would stop him. The woman tilts her head in the direction of a hall across the room, and when she turns and starts that way, Shigeo makes to follow.

Then he notices Reigen’s jacket—the one he’d let Shigeo borrow—draped over the back of a chair in front of the fireplace.

After a slight hesitation, Shigeo retraces his steps and snatches it up. It’s completely dry now, dry and warm, and as soon as he has it tucked close to his chest, he spins on his heel and jogs after the woman again.

“Y’know, I never did get your name,” she says just as he catches up. “Your dad called you ‘Shige’, s’that right?”

“I-It’s Shigeo, actually,” he says shakily. He can’t tell if the use of the nickname was intentional or just a mishear on her part, but either way, the anticipation is making his head spin again. “What’s your name?”

“Name’s Akito.”

“Th-Thank you for saving us, Akito-san.”

“Don’t sweat it, son, don’t sweat it.” They come to a closed door, and she sets her hand on the knob and pauses, turning back to him. “Kaito went to get some tea started, I’ll have him bring some back to you two. Sound good?”

Shigeo nods, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, resisting the urge to bounce. Akito opens the door, and after a small, shy look to her and seeing her affirming nod, Shigeo shuffles inwards. The door clicks shut behind him.

It’s some kind of study, by the looks of it, with lots of bookshelves and even a grand piano in the corner. The windows have curtains over them, and there’s a furnace in here, which gives off not only heat, but a warm, orange-yellow light, too. It’s a nice looking room, but that isn’t really what Shigeo is concerned with right now.

There’s a couch by one of the bookshelves, about twice as big as the couch back at their apartment, and Reigen is asleep on it, covered in several blankets, wearing a long-sleeved shirt that Shigeo has never seen before.

Shigeo swallows hard, suddenly very aware of everything that’d happened, everything that led up to this point, everything he’d said and done that brought them here. He feels small. Scared, even. He clutches the jacket closer to his chest, but it does nothing to comfort him. If anything, it just makes him feel worse.

He shuffles over to the couch, hesitates longer than he should’ve, and pokes Reigen’s shoulder.

The touch was light, too light, but the response is immediate. Reigen’s eyes snap open, land on Shigeo, widen. Shigeo gulps and, before he knows what he’s doing;

“I-I’m sorry, th-this is my fault, I-I shouldn’t’ve asked about the sunset or the lighthouse or the—h-here, here’s your jacket back, I-I’m—”

Reigen yanks him into his arms. Shigeo yelps, not expecting it, and the jacket slips from his grip and lies in a heap on the floor, but Reigen doesn’t seem to care.

“Oh, god—” Reigen sounds breathless, like he’d just run a long time. Or is close to crying. “I’m glad you’re okay, Shigeo, I’m just so glad you’re okay—”

Shigeo takes a moment, contemplates this. “Y-You… you aren’t upset?”

“Of course I’m not, I couldn’t be, oh god, Shige, I’m so sorry, oh my god I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

He’s… warm.

This probably should’ve been the first thing Shigeo noticed, but now, as Reigen goes on babbling, he has the chance to breathe. To feel Reigen’s arms around him, his heartbeat close to his ear.

He’s… really okay.

He really is okay.

The tears that have been steadily gathering ever since the moment Reigen fell finally reach a breaking point, and this confirmation is the defining crack in the bottle. Before Shigeo realizes what’s happening, he’s suffocating on his tears and wrapping his arms around Reigen as tightly as he can.

“I-I th-thought you—” he chokes out, voice a broken mess. “I-I—I d-didn’t know if you—I-I thought—”

Reigen drags in a long, shaky breath and holds him closer, tighter. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—you must’ve been so scared, I—I’m sorry, Shige—I’m okay now, you’re okay, it’s okay—”

Reigen holds him tighter, and Shigeo cries until he can’t cry anymore.

Akito and Kaito are relieved to see the two of them back on their feet. Shigeo is unsteady and Arataka is even unsteadier, but now that the weight of impending doom and death has been raised from their shoulders, they find their steps light. And that’s not just because of how lightheaded they are.

“You’re free to stay another night or two if you want,” Akito offers the following afternoon, after they slept the night in the study at hers and Kaito’s home. “It might do you some good to recuperate s’more before hitting the road again.”

“I think we’re alright,” Arataka says, “but thank you. It isn’t a long drive from here, we should be alright. I really can’t thank you enough for everything.”

Akito waves her hand and shakes her head along with it. “Nah, you two are fine. I’m glad we were able to help, you’re both very lucky.”

Arataka thanks her again, though, and so does Shigeo, and neither one of them stop until they give their final farewells and head up the shore back towards the car. They make a quick stop by the lighthouse, just so Arataka can retrieve his phone (which they’d both completely forgotten about, when it’d skidded out of Arataka’s hold), but then they’re in the car and homeward bound.

The ride is quiet. Shigeo keeps his eyes glued to the road, but Arataka still catches him glancing his way every so often. Shigeo always looks away before he has the chance to ask what’s wrong, but he knows better than to push it after all that’d happened. It’s been a long past couple of days; he’ll definitely be calling into Shigeo’s school for a sick day tomorrow because god knows he isn’t going to be ready for that.

“Do you wanna stop by and get ramen or something on the way home?” Arataka asks once the silence has stretched beyond its welcome. “It doesn’t have to be ramen, just whatever you feel like eating.”

Shigeo is quiet for a while. He fiddles with the strap of his seatbelt.

“C… Can we just go home, m-maybe?”

That’s unusual, but Arataka gets it. He doesn’t feel much like a restaurant, either.

“Alright, sounds good to me,” he says. “Would you mind me stopping by somewhere and getting some takeout, though? I really don’t feel like cooking right now.”

(That, and cooking has never been his forte, and it just so happened that whenever he concocted something actually worth being happy with, the accursed cat either knocked it off the table or ate it himself.)

Shigeo pauses a moment before nodding, and Arataka takes a side-street down to the nearest restaurant—which just so happens to be a small ramen shop, though not one they’ve frequented often. Or, ever.

Arataka cuts the engine, stuffs the keys into the pocket of his jacket. Shigeo unbuckles himself, and once they’re both out of the car, they head inside. Shigeo’s hand slips into his and Arataka squeezes his fingers.

The shop isn’t exactly busy; there’s no line when they step through the door; but the tables are filled and there’s a waiting bench already. Arataka watches Shigeo’s posture, and when he sees no change, they head to the counter and Arataka orders for the both of them.

“Is the wait long?” he asks once he’s placed and payed, stuffing his wallet into his pocket.

The man behind the counter shakes his head. “No, no, we should have it ready for you two in maybeeee… ten minutes, tops, if you’re alright to wait a bit.”

“Alright, thank you. C’mon, Shige.”

There aren’t any benches, so Arataka leans against a wall out of the way, and Shigeo leans in close to his side. Shigeo has never been particularly against physical contact, but he’s never the one to initiate it, and the fact that he is now leaves a pang in Arataka’s heart that has no right being there. He brings an arm around Shigeo and tugs him closer, and Shigeo responds by wrapping his arms around his waist and holding tightly.

Arataka’s name is called for the order shortly thereafter, and they’re set for home, for real this time.

“A-Are you sure you’re okay with me eating on the couch?”

“Yep!” Arataka says, popping the cap off his cup of ramen and dumping it into a bowl. Their jackets, scarves and gloves are in a sorry heap by the door, and the two of them are in the kitchen, dishing up their takeout. Arataka snags a pair of chopsticks, takes his bowl, and starts into the living room. “C’mon, Shige.”

Shigeo sets aside his own empty takeout cup, and Arataka hears his careful footsteps behind him. “W-What happens if it gets spilled?”

“Then we’ll clean it up!”

“A-Are you s—”

“Absolutely positive, kiddo.”

Arataka is already out the couch, and he sets his bowl and chopsticks down on the coffee table while he gets situated. Shigeo appears through the doorway moments later, settling his own bowl down beside Arataka’s and taking a seat with him on the couch. Arataka reaches behind them, grabs the quilt draped over the back, and swings it around the two of them in one fluid motion.

“There,” Arataka says, offering him a smile. “Nice and warm, yeah?”

Shigeo blinks at him, and he nods, but he doesn’t smile. He does, however, tuck himself closer against Arataka’s side, and Arataka’s smile grows softer, more genuine, as he pulls the blanket further around his shoulders.

“You doing okay?”

He feels Shigeo nod against his side.

“It’s alright if you aren’t, kiddo.”

“No, I’m okay,” Shigeo says, very quietly. “I’m—I’m okay.”

Arataka isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t push it.

Dimple appears just as they start eating, which, of course he does, but it still scares the crap out of Arataka and he almost flails himself right into his bowl of ramen. Shigeo, unfazed, offers Dimple a noodle (that he does not deserve, and Arataka makes this very clear, though Shigeo’s response is to give him another noodle and he gives up immediately).

“R-Reigen?”

He’s poked.

“Reigen?”

He’s poked again. He feels it a little more this time.

“Reigen are you awake?”

He’s poked one more time.

“R… Reigen?”

He’s shaken this time, just barely enough to pull him from his slumber. Moonlight creeps through the blinds, creating stripes across his bed and his face. He blinks and rubs at his eyes for a moment or two, propping himself up on his elbow. Shigeo’s face, only half-illuminated by moonlight, swims into view.

“Sorry, I’m up, I’m up,” Arataka says, shaking his head to chase away the remaining drowsiness. “What’s the matter, buddy?”

“T-The…” Shigeo fiddles with the hem of his shirt, eyes on the floor. “Th-The ghosts are trying to steal my slippers again.”

“Are they, now?”

Shigeo nods, still fiddling, still rocking from his heels to his toes. Arataka is much more awake than before, and it isn’t long before he’s smiling gently and scooting over.

“C’mon, kiddo.”

Shigeo doesn’t wait a second longer. He practically leaps into the bed, diving under the covers like a kid afraid of the dark, curling close to Arataka’s side.

“Oh my god, you're freezing,” he gasps, resisting the instinct to pull away. “What, were you standing out in the hall this whole time?”

Shigeo’s voice is small. “M-Maybe.”

That wasn't the answer he was expecting. He'd meant it as a joke. With a sigh, he pats the blankets around them both, then brings his arms around Shigeo and pulls him closer. Shigeo doesn’t object.

“... Hey, Shigeo…”

“Mm…?”

“You don’t have to make up stories to justify staying with me, you know. You can come to me for anything at all, no matter how silly or stupid you may think it is.”

Shigeo turns his face against his chest and keeps it buried there. “B-But it is silly.”

“It isn’t silly to me, I promise.”

Shigeo doesn’t say anything for a while, and Arataka draws a long breath and lets it out slowly.

“I’m not gonna make you tell me, Shige. It’s okay. And it’s also okay to wanna stay with me. You don’t need to find some kind of explanation. I don’t need one.”

“Are… r-really?”

“Yeah, I promise. You can tell me anything you wanna tell me, no matter how silly or serious it is, but more than anything else, I wanna be here for you whenever you need me. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Admittedly, he already knows why Shigeo wanted to stay with him tonight. And he gets the feeling that Shigeo knows he knows. But regardless, it doesn’t change the weight of his words, and it doesn’t change Shigeo’s nod.

“Th-Thank you.”

Arataka smiles and rests his chin atop Shigeo’s head, shutting his eyes. “You’re welcome. Don’t be afraid to wake me up if you need something.”

Shigeo nods again, and Arataka closes his eyes. A silence befalls them, broken only by their breathing, and Arataka is this close to falling asleep when there’s this horrible, grating sound by the foot of the bed.

It really is the worst thing he’s ever heard.

And he’s heard it before.

“Aww,” Shigeo says, like it’s actually cute, “Dimple feels left out.”

“Good.”

“Reigen that’s mean.”

“He literally pees in the bed, that’s mean, too.”

“He’s trying his best.”

“Okay, but—”

There’s that godforsaken meow again. This time, Arataka heaves a long, heavy sigh and runs a hand over his face.

“Okay, okay fine, fine, he can sleep with us, but just this on—”

Shigeo squeezes him around the waist, which both cuts off his words and his airway for a moment, but then he lets go and pats the bed instead. “C’mon, Dimple, you can come up here!” A weight dips the bed and Arataka sighs again, heavier this time.

It doesn’t take long for Dimple to get settled down at the foot of the bed, and once a calm has befallen the room once more, Arataka lets himself relax. If it makes Shigeo happy, well. He really can’t mind too much.

“... Hey, um… Reigen?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you, um… would you mind if I called you dad?”

Ah.

Ah.

… ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh gOD—

He pushes back the almost irresistible urge to crush Shigeo in a bearhug and instead settles for just, pulling him closer. His heart is soaring. “Of course you can, Shige, of course you can,” Arataka says, unable to keep the giddiness from his tone. “Just… whatever you want to call me.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Shigeo would seem nonchalant, if Arataka hadn’t known him better. If Arataka hadn’t known him well enough to catch every slight subtlety in his tone, the small but very real joy behind it. “Th… Thank you. Goodnight.”

“‘Night, Shige.”

“I… love you, Reig—Dad.”

Oh his heart is skyborne he may as well be in the stratosphere—

He can’t help the giddy laugh, the goofy smile, the kiss he presses against Shigeo’s forehead, and he murmurs, “I love you too, kiddo.”

Shigeo hugs him even tighter and Arataka returns the gesture wholeheartedly.

He doesn’t sleep until he’s heard Shigeo’s breathing even out and felt his shoulders relax. Only then, when he’s sure Shigeo is okay, does he allow sleep to overcome him, too.

[paul-s-walks-uk-blog]

Walk 4: Broad Falls to Buckfastleigh

 “The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say” 

J R R Tolkien

This walk description is from my Tumblr blog ‘Dartmoor (and other) walks’, where you will also find guides some of my other walks, and (eventually) hints, tips, for successful hiking and descriptions of some of my favorite places

The walk described in this blog is the return journey from the one described in walk 3

Homeward bound from a camping trip is as much pleasure as going. There is no pressure to keep to a schedule and one can take the time to go slowly and poke around. After all, it doesn’t matter too much if you get drenched, or do too many miles and get sore feet: Home is at the end, with a shower and dinner and warmth-not the possibility of a damp night in a sleeping bag with aching legs. Thus the walk back from Broad falls (walk 3) was a deviation from my plan. I decided that instead of returning the way I went to South Brent, I would take a nice  amble over Hickaton Hill and dawdle down some country roads and head for Buckfastleigh. If I had to wait for a bus, no matter,  there are places to get a coffee and read a book while waiting.

Click here for pictures from this walk

Walk data

Distance: Approximately 7 miles (11 km). Plus another mile to Buckfast!

Grade:Moderate

Start point: Western bank of the Rivr Avon, near Broad Falls, approximately SX652670

End Point :  Buckfastleigh

Facilities: None at the start, until you are off the moors. Buckfastleigh has shops, cafes, a good chip shop, pubs and toilets. A look at the map will show that a little detour from the route will take you to Scorriton, where the Tradesman’s Arms does good food .

Transport: There are buses on weekdays and Saturdays from Buckfastleigh to Exeter, Plymouth and Totnes. For details check Traveline South West. On Sundays, there are buses to Plymouth and Exeter, but they are not very frequent. You cannot get directly to Totnes on a Sunday. If you are driving from Plymouth take the A38 in the Exeter direction. From Exeter take the A38 in the Plymouth direction, and turn off when Buckfastleigh is reached. Both routes are about 24 miles.

Map : Ordinance Survey Explorer OL28. Compass needed across Hickaton Hill if visibility is bad

Walk overview

The walk starts along moorland river banks, then a shortish tract of open moor. From Lud Gate it is road walking all the way, except for a a detour on public footpaths through some rarely visited woods.

Route Map

Click here to see the route maps for this walk

stage 1: Broad Falls to Lud Gate

It had been a dry night and there was no dew, so my tent was dry, and I could get an early start. I munched a bowl of muesli, had a mug of tea, packed up and set off. It was perfect walking weather for someone with a rucksack-a little chilly, but dry. The sky was a single sheet of bluish grey. The was no sign of the sun.

The first part of this walk was along the right bank of the Avon as it heads in a south-easterly direction, The river bank itself is marshy and difficult, and there are wide areas of tussock on the side of the hill, but between them runs a fairly dry path, used occasionally by people, but more often by sheep. The path climbs up and down a little and then follows the river as it changes course and bears left.

The Avon on it’s way to Avon Dam

Shortly after this turn you will see the Avon clapper bridge crossing the stream.(approx. SX656661 )(see picture below). There are (apparently) about 200 clapper bridges on the moor. Most of them are medieval, being on the routes that the shepherds drove the giant flocks belonging to the abbeys. A clapper bridge is a simple affair: One or more granite slabs used as a bridge. The work in pre-machine times to construct these must have been immense. The average granite slab in such a bridge is about 6 foot (1.8 m) long, 3 feet (0.9 m) wide and about 6 inches (15 cm) thick, making 9 cubic feet (0.25 cubic meters). Granite weighs 20 pound per cubic foot, so the average slab is about 180 pounds (about 36 kg). These would have been hauled into position from wherever they were found, then levered over the water. The bridge here consists of 2 slabs supported in the middle by a pile of smaller blocks. 

The Avon Clapper

The trail descends to the clapper, slightly passing it before it does so. Don’t be tempted to cut this corner off. The Two Moors Way National Trail joins our path here. It is very popular, and the passing of many booted feet has turned the area around the bridge into a slippery mush. The path takes the least squishy approach.

After crossing the bridge, and standing to watch the waters gurgling under its piles, our track follows the path of the river eastward. The path is well trodden, but there are lots of alternatives as people have tried to avoid the watery parts. Take your pick, and good luck. Keep higher if possible is the only vaguely practical advice. To your left rises Huntingdon Hill. On the is hill is the remains of Huntingdon Warren. The rabbit farm on the hill was running until 1956.

The path crosses over a style at the end of a wall that goes down to the riverside. By the wall stands Huntingdon Cross. This is a medieval cross and has stood here for at least 600 hundred years. The path then Crosses the Western Wella Brook, a tributary of the Avon. The stream divides into two and the crossing places are very muddy. Until recently this was the place where a walker was most likely to get wet feet-but a new clapper bridge has been put over the wider stream and stones (with a pipe) have been put over the smaller stream, so I got across without having to hop gingerly over loose rocks. This (very welcome) new bridge was made by Dartmoor National Park Authority, with funding from the Totnes and the Devon Ramblers, who have earned, at least my, undying gratitude. Of course the bridge was not made as it was in the middle ages! A video can be seen here of it’s construction. They clearly picked a day of bad weather for it.

The new clapper bridge. The two DALEKS beyond are the remains of a water pipe system across the river

Looking north east from Huntingdon Cross you can see a rounded hill. This is Hickaton Hill. It is easy to identify because of the large, almost circular shape on it’s side.This is the site of a neolithic settlement. Four thousand years ago, the climate on the moors was more hospitable, and they were well populated. There are the relics of settlements, hut circles, stone rows and circles spread over most of the moor.

The track now leads up Hickaton Hill. It can be seen (usually) from the cross. It is well trodden, because it is part of two trails, the Two Moors way and the Abbot’s way. In summer is can be relatively busy.

Follow the track up the hill, and take time to poke around the settlement. The map show distinct hut circle shapes. These may be obvious from the air, but at ground level the settlement ring seems to contains random piles and patches of stone. You can sit here and imagine the bustle, smells and noise of all those years ago.

The ancient settlement on Hickaton Hill

Follow the Two moors Way up the hill. It levels out and then climbs again, and soon you come to a place where the trail you are on is crossed by another (this was once the road to Huntingdon Warren). This is close to the edge of the open moors. Ahead and to your left you can see fields and patches of woodland. There are now wiry and twisted blackthorn trees amid the granite boulders.

view of fields from Hickaton Hill

We are heading towards Lud gate ( SX683673). Shortly after passing the crossroads you will notice that the track diverges. The path straight on is the Two Moors Way and bearing slightly to the right, the track to Lud Gate. You can see your destination as a small copse of fir trees to the north east. Lud gate lies in a small kink in the moor boundary between these and a little wood of deciduous trees,The path is clear and gravelly.Around you are bushes of gorse. It always seems so lush, this small patch of heath after the grassy expanses of the moor.

Stage 2 : Lud Gate to Buckfastleigh

Lud Gate

At the gate ignore the finger post pointing to the left, and pass through the gate into a long lane with dry-stone walls and cut-and-laid hedges on either side. Trees arch overhead. In summer it is a delightful canopy of leaves, alive with birds. In winter it is a fascinating network of twisted branches.

After about ten minutes walk the lane becomes a proper road, which eventually comes to a crossroads called Cross Furzes. Pass this junction and turn left at a T junction a little further on.The road we are following is it is to Buckfast and Ashburton. (picture at top of this post). There is another mile or so of road-walking, past farms and fields, until you come to a farm called Button. There is a footpath through the farm. It is rarely used as the footpath signpost is beyond the farm gate, and almost hidden in a bush of holly.

Pass the (very well kept) farmhouse, and on crossing a style keep the hedge to your left and enter Bilberry Copse, which is a small part of Kings wood. Because the path is not busy, the leaves were still dry underfoot and the forest was decked still in autumn colours.

After the woods the trail passes through a few fields which often have sheep and horses in. The track comes to a road, at which we turn left and cross a small bridge over the River Mardle, shown below, then through Bilberry woods. There is no reason to do this, as the path through the woods merely loops in an arc and joins the road again.

footbridge into Bilberry Woods

Bilberry Hill Woods

On joining the road turn left and in just over ten minutes you will arrive in Buckfastleigh

Buckfastleigh is a small, busy town. 

For some reason, they have changed the bus timetables so that there are no longer buses to Totnes on a Sunday. I walked another mile to Buckfast, where I have frequently caught a Sunday bus home, It was the same-no service. So I had to ring my wife and ask her to come a get me, like a lost schoolboy. And, it being Sunday, the chip shop was closed!

Fish and chips in Buckfastleigh

[ulfwolf]

The Art of Dying

Suicide

One white and cold winter’s day in 1965 (February, I believe), I tried my hand at suicide. I wasn’t very good at it. It made for a pretty good short story some forty years later, though.

The night before I had managed thoroughly to upset my dad by not coming home (as promised) for dinner and by not even calling to say I was late or wouldn’t be there. I don’t know if they (mom and dad) were overly worried about this (and me) or whether it just pissed, especially my dad, off no end. Bottom line, though: he really had had enough of me by this time—dropping out of Technical Gymnasium and basically just hanging around the local news office of a province-wide paper that I wrote for now and then (for freelance-free, mind you, not like a job or anything). A good for nothing in my dad’s eyes, no doubt. Lazy. Useless.

Also, I had girlfriend trouble. A suicide would surely set her straight.

I remember walking into the news office (very warm, stuffy actually) from the cold and by this time snowing night outside. Robert, the local editor, looked up from his task as I entered the inner office and informed me that my dad had called and would I call him back immediately if I showed up. No please after that.

Well, up I had showed, and with a sinking feeling in my stomach (I knew I was in trouble, deservedly) I called home.

“Stay where you are,” he said, “I’m coming to get you.” Hung up. No please after that either.

I knew what route he would take to the news office, so I didn’t stay where I was told to but walked towards home instead to meet him and flag him down as he came. After some fifteen minutes, flag him down I did, and he made a U-turn. I opened the passenger-side door and climbed in.

You could literally (and I’m using an incredibly over-used cliché here) cut the atmosphere in the car with a knife. We drove for perhaps half a minute in silence, after which I tried to sound as smart-ass as possible with a “So, what’s up?” Not that I managed to get the whole phrase out before my dad exploded. And when I say exploded, I mean erupted from total silence to decibels far and above anything I’ve ever heard in my life before, or after (come to think of it).

“SHUT UP,” was the explosion. In Swedish we have a short, three-letter word for this: Tig. So, in this scenario: “TIG!!!”

As I said, I have never heard anything so loud, that close before, perhaps a foot or so from my left ear. It was terrifyingly loud, and I think, looking back, that I was well and truly shocked by this. For one, I had not expected anything this loud; for two, I suddenly realized how, indeed, furious my dad was with me; and for three, I was surprised and shocked at my own reaction which was one of near instant collapse—as if hit by something tremendously heavy in one fell blow. Blood rushed to my face, and I’m sure tears reached my eyes as well, or wanted to. I felt incredibly humiliated, helpless might even be the word. There was nothing, nothing I could say in return.

Nothing.

And then, slowly, but inexorably, the absolute necessity of revenge rose. A warm, consuming monster of a feeling: No one, no one ever, treats me like this. Not my dad, not my mom, no one. I would, I would show him. Yes, I really would show him, teach him a damn good lesson, and as this decision formed and grew into total certainty, the means also arrived: I would kill myself. That would show him, permanently.

Once we arrived home, I went inside before him and I remember entering the kitchen and now feeling very calm (and a little pleased) about the whole thing. Decision made, I would get a good night’s sleep and kill myself in the morning.

Not that I smiled, but I could have.

So, that’s the backdrop. Here I’ll hand things over to the story I wrote about this much later. Pretty much every word of it is true. Parts of the story does repeat what I’ve said above, but so be it.

So, here goes:

Killing Myself

I tried my hand at suicide in 1965. I wasn’t very good at it.

For one, while I have since learned that the lethal dose of regular 75 mg aspirins lies on the far side of 500 tablets, I attempted my lethal feat with 121 of the little darlings (yes, I kept a tally).

For two, I did lose my nerve late that fatal afternoon, and alerted my dad to my Bayeresque overindulgence.

This is not to say that this was not an interesting exercise, it was. I was sincere in my banging on that dark and final door—truly expecting it to open—having no clue that it would take at least four times as many of these small, white, bitter tablets to even begin to pry it open. I’ve since learned that people have even survived a thousand or two of them, when treated swiftly and correctly—but who on earth would have the time, or patience, to pop two thousand aspirin? I mean, by the time you’re done with the second thousand the first will have worn off: do you see my problem?

Yes, that one: aspirin is definitely the wrong suicide medium.

Be that, however, as it may: blissfully ignorant that my undertaking (yes, pun intended) would only lead to a few months of ringing ears, as I rounded the even century of these bitter pills, I was certain I’d face Mr. Reaper in short, and relatively painless, order.

Why did I do it?

Why, to get even, of course. And to place the blame for his son’s premature demise squarely on my dad’s guilty shoulders.

Were there other reasons?

Well, if truth be told, I was also a little curious.

:

Pill #1 minus 14 hours:

I had recently dropped out of school. The schooling I had so abruptly abandoned was the first year of what we then, in Sweden, called Technical Gymnasium. But here’s the conundrum: since I had had among the highest acceptance grades that particular school had ever seen: what on earth happened?

And here’s the answer: girls, that’s what happened. Girls and alcohol, that’s what happened. Never a good mix, especially not at that age.

And math, that’s what happened. The math I was so brilliant at in 9th grade and so effortlessly earned the highest possible grade in (capital A, we called it in Sweden) had turned infernally hard in the 10th.

Incredibly hard.

So hard, in fact, that some of the first words out our math teacher’s mouth that first day of the fall semester were, “You had better eat well, because you are not going to sleep much.” Translation: nothing less than long, sleepless nights over books and books of trigonometry, integral calculus, et al. would earn you a passing grade.

Unfortunately for me, that summer someone had apparently translated all these books from math to Greek, for that’s all they were to me.

Well, I ate okay, and I didn’t sleep much (I got that part right), but what kept me and the Sandman at odds most nights was not piles and piles of math homework, but girls. Girls and alcohol. Nary a math book in sight. Inevitable result: I flunked my first math test. The math star of the class flunked his first math test. That was truly embarrassing.

By snowy February truth was writ large on the proverbial blackboard: I was failing, and failing badly.

Onto plan B: Drop out, start from scratch next fall (with less girl and alcohol distractions). The problem here was that I never let my parents in on plan B, not even after I had implemented it.

However, five days into this well-conceived and up to this point splendidly executed plan, the school tattled on me and fatherhood was not amused.

Motherhood was a bit down about it as well, but supportive in a way.

So, now officially a dropout, I had to play the part. And play the part I did. Not very well though, and not very enjoyably. I spent most of the time away from home, hanging out with girls, or with guys contemplating girls, until the girls got out of class so we could hang out with girls.

Some days, as a freelance, I wrote articles for a local newspaper. I loved writing then, I love writing still.

Now, to be honest I don’t remember whether I had promised fatherhood something specific—such as “I’ll be home tonight, by dinner-time. For sure. I promise.”—or not, but I have a feeling I must have, for as dinner-time rolled around I felt guilty about something. Uneasy. Should have been elsewhere, most likely at home.

At home, at about the same time, fatherhood has had his fill of me. Absolutely enough of me. To the brim of me. Pacing the floor perhaps, arguing with motherhood perhaps, I don’t know, but pretty wound up, that is for certain.

Then he begins calling around for me, calling those numbers he did have, including the paper where, as I said, I wrote the occasional piece. He didn’t track me down, though, for he didn’t have her number. Where I had spent the day, and well into the evening.

Eventually, about nine or so as I recall, I began to saunter homeward. On the way I stopped in at the paper to see if there was any work the following day. The editor greeted me with, “Call your dad.”

Said rather emphatically, curtly, even. No preamble. The sort of voice that spells trouble. Something heavy shifted in my stomach. I called.

It was a strange conversation. All he said was, “Stay where you are, I’m on my way.”

And hung up.

Odd. Frighteningly odd, to be honest.

Well, I was not going to stay where I was, so there. But I didn’t have the nerve to completely disobey (as in vanish), so back out into the snow, and into a slow saunter toward home—I’d be sure to spot him when he came, there were very few cars about in weather like this and he was bound to take these streets.

And fifteen minutes later, spot him I did. And spot me he did. He burned a sliding-in-the-snow U and pulled up. I opened the door and eased myself into the passenger seat.

I know that in writing—whether fiction (such as this) or non-fiction (such as this)—clichés are to be avoided at all costs, but I just have to press this one into service, because you could cut the atmosphere in that car with a knife. He was boiling, or somewhere very close to boiling. I was actually afraid of him at this point, but I tried to act as nonchalantly as possible.

We came to a stop sign, then turned right. I opened my mouth and drew breath to say something clever like “So, what’s up?” but I never got that far, for that (me drawing breath to speak), apparently, was the detonator fatherhood was waiting for to explode him. And explode he did. A foot or two to my left, at the most top of his voice I have ever heard:

“SHUT UP!!”

This was a first. He had never, ever, yelled at me with such, what’s the word: venom, before. Never. The loudest possible intense venom.

So loud, in fact, was his scream that I felt like I had been shot. Stopped dead, frozen in whatever tracks I had planned to head down. In retrospect: he had shocked me. Petrified would describe my condition.

For several moments after this detonation I don’t think I thought a single thought. Everything blown apart and away by the fatherly explosion. Out of sight, under cover, something like that. And rationality, too, had scrambled for cover.

What arose perhaps a minute later into the vacuum of this shock was decidedly not rational. It was the most intense urge to strike back I have ever experienced, made even more intense by the fact that I could not physically execute. He had never hit me, and I could never hit him. Physical violence was not in my genes. Nor in his.

But I had to strike back, at any cost, for no one—fatherhood included—treats me like this and gets away with it.

This was what flooded me and flooded me and flooded me some more and refused to leave. And truth be told, I didn’t want it to leave, for there was a sort of wonderful finality about this: I knew how to strike back.

I would kill myself.

:

Even today, I can recall, very clearly, the exact moment I made the decision, and that the decision was right, for any other path meant having to stand up to him, to the loudest scream I’d ever heard (and directed at precious me, to boot). There was just no way I could do that. Not in my petrified (which is the perfect word here) condition.

Dead, however, solved everything. And it struck back with a vengeance. That’s a lot of mileage for a single act.

Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I will kill myself. I will wake up, and then I will take a hundred or so aspirin, and that should do the job. End of story.

Pleased with this decision I retired for the night and for a good night’s sleep. Yes, no problem sleeping at all, actually. I was quite at peace with my resolve, and on some level I was looking forward to checking out the following morning.

:

Pills #1-20:

My final morning was sunny and quite cold. The world outside was brilliantly white—this my last day on Earth.

I’m sure I brushed my teeth and combed my long hair and such first, but then I went straight into the kitchen, opened the cabinet door, and reached for the large bottle of aspirin. I brought it down and poured out a healthy helping into my hand; counted them, twenty-one. I put one back. Easier to keep track of how many that way. Twenty at a time. I then proceeded to swallow them two by two, with a little water in-between.

All twenty.

All right. On my way, then.

Mom came up from the basement. I could hear a washing machine rumbling down there, so she was doing laundry.

“Don’t forget the appointment,” she said, as I rinsed out the glass and put it on the counter.

“What appointment?” But as I asked, I remembered. Fatherhood had made an appointment for me (and him) to see some sort of consultant, or was it a shrink? I’m still not all that sure. We were to discuss (and resolve) my crashing out of school, and my unwelcome waywardness since then.

“About your future,” she said, stressing future.

I nodded, “Yes, I remember.”

“Your dad will meet you there.”

“All right. I’ll be there.”

“Three o’clock.”

“I know.”

Then the washing machine, or the dryer, yelled at her from below, and she ran downstairs again.

Twenty down, a hundred or so to go.

:

Pills #21-40:

My father owned and operated a small manufacturing plant that lay just a short walk up the road from our house, and I knew precisely where the employee medical supplies were kept. I also knew that among them nestled a gigantic bottle of aspirin. A 500-count, I think. Massive.

Before heading out, I read the thermometer mounted just outside our kitchen window. It read well below freezing. So I donned sweater, jacket and cap. No mittens. Mittens are for sissies.

I didn’t say goodbye to our house, come to think of it. Perhaps I was not that attached to it. I simply stepped out, closed the front door behind me with not a second thought, walked down the steps, out onto the road, and into the brilliant morning—this my final, cold, one.

On my way up the white and crunchy (from recently fallen snow) road, I could feel my pulse rumble a little as if to suggest that something was afoot. Whether this was from pills 1-20 or from the excitement of it all, I could not say. But I know that walking up that snowy road to fatherhood’s plant, large glittering fields to both left and right, things were moving about, balances were shifting.

To get to the medicine cabinet—which was located in one of the restrooms—I had to pass my father’s office. He usually looks up as you pass his window. Busy with something or other, this time he didn’t look up, much to my relief.

I found it easily enough. I shook the bottle a little to hear the many little pills tell me this gathering was almost full. Good. No one would miss twenty, or even forty, or even a hundred, would they? Then again, what if they did? It wasn’t like I’d be around to face any sort of consequences.

Realizing I would not come upon a stash like this elsewhere, I counted out a full one hundred of my little helpers, then added one last one for good measure. That, I figured, ought to do the trick. And 121 is a palindrome, so it must be right.

I took twenty of these on the spot, then put the remaining eighty-one in my jacket pocket. Armed to the teeth.

Really on my way, now.

My dad did not look up as I left either, although I had the feeling he knew of my coming and of my going, but—and I had to smile to myself—he knew nothing of the where I was heading, though he’d find out soon enough.

:

Pills #41-60:

I had timed things well. The yellow bus for town eased around the bend just as I reached the bus stop. I didn’t recognize the driver but said “Hi” anyway. I flashed him my school pass (which I had yet to turn in to the administrative office, I realized) and he nodded his acceptance. The bus was empty, and I sauntered all the way to the back, where I spread out: just me, the driver, and my secret destination.

My hometown is not a metropolis by any stretch. But as cities go, I sure liked it. The bus pulled up at its end stop outside the Saga (which is Swedish for fairy tale, I love that word) movie theater and I let myself out the back door.

Normally, suicides are not very communicative, nor are they social. Private business, this killing of one’s self. And so they lock themselves away to blow out brains, or drown, or slice wrists, or, yes, consume far too many little pills. Not me, though. I was not the run-of-the-mill suicide at all. I was both communicative and quite social, to boot. And so, I had to spread the word. I had to tell someone, and I knew just the one.

We were sort of going out, Marie and I, though I think I took it far more seriously than she did. In fact, I think she found me amusing more than anything. A novelty. Also, we were viewed as a mixed marriage (nothing to do with race, but nonetheless quite taboo in our town). To borrow the dichotomy of the then dueling English youth cultures of the day: I was a Mod, she was a Rocker. Or, to use the soon-to-flourish one: I was a Hippie, she was a Greaser. And never the twain shall meet. But in our case the twain had met, and they still did, and it was for her house I was headed to meet yet again.

The bottom floor of her house was a café, owned and operated by her mother. Marie helped out at times as a waitress, but mainly she spent her days either with her Greaser friends (at another café, believe it or not) or as a guest at her mother’s place, reading some magazine and sipping some coffee. Smoking some cigarettes.

This cold February morning I found her at her mother’s place. Smoking, reading, not helping her mom. Not that the place was crowded, no help needed.

She looked up as I sat down opposite her.

“You get in trouble?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you had to be home by dinner last night.”

“Oh, yeah. Nah. Not really.”

She looked at her cigarette for a while, flicked off a little ash, looked at that for a while, then back at me, but didn’t say anything else. After a strange span of time (during which my pulse upped the volume a little and my internal balances shifted again) she went back to her reading.

“I’m going to kill myself,” I said.

Strange girl this. Cool as anything, she looked up at me. “Why?”

From this perspective, from inside the cozy café, now lighting a cigarette myself, this proved a question hard to answer. The night before, all had been obvious, so obvious that I was now going through with it without giving things a second thought.

Well, I thought of saying, it’s the right thing to do. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. Instead I shrugged a no answer, searched several of my pockets before I found what appeared to be my last one kronor coin, which I then dropped in the table-side jukebox. I dialed “Little Red Rooster” by the Rolling Stones.

Then, with her still looking at me and with me not answering her question, I rose, and went into the bathroom. It was small and hot and dark. Very small, very hot, and very dark. At first I did not turn on the light. I just stood there in the far-too-well-heated darkness and listened to Mick Jagger. Would this be the last song I’d ever hear? I hit the light switch, and the weak, reddish-almost light seemed to add to the warmth of this closet-cum- bathroom. I scooped up another handful of pills, counted out twenty, put the rest back in my pocket, and downed pills 41-60 two by two.

Then I sat down on the toilet seat. “Little Red Rooster” was over, but now the Stones started up again with “Paint it Black” which Marie must have chosen. She had the run of these little table-side juke boxes (they were attached to the wall), her mom supplying her with coins or tokens, I guess.

How many was this now? I wondered. Forty or sixty? I sprang back to our kitchen: twenty. Then on to my dad’s factory: forty. And here, yes: sixty. And what time was it? I checked my watch. It was just past ten thirty. Almost two hours now since I set foot on this my final path. Shouldn’t I be dying soon, or at least start to?

What would I see? How would I know? What would I feel? Well, these pills were supposed to kill pain along with me, so I shouldn’t feel anything, should I? That was the beauty of the plan.

Still seated on the toilet cover, I reached up and flicked the light off. The hot darkness seemed somehow fitting as I sat there mentally probing my body to see where Death might be setting in—surely, He should have begun His doing thing by now. Couldn’t really find Him though. Just a denser and denser movement in the region of my stomach, or was it in my lungs? Like a fist, somehow. Closing. And I could hear my heart in my ears, thump-thumping away.

“Little Red Rooster” started up again, Marie must like it, too.

I cast my mind forward into an unknown, though not very distant, future. What would it be like? Just nothing? Blackness? Is that it?

I discovered nothing.

Then I stood up, turned the light back on, washed my hands for some reason that seemed like utter ritual, especially since I hadn’t gone, opened the door, turned off the light and returned to Marie and the Rooster.

“You get stuck?” she said.

“No.”

She turned the page, then looked up at me, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re really going to kill yourself?”

“Yes I am.”

She laughs at this. It’s a laugh that clearly says that she does not believe me, not in the least, whatever I say. Nor will she ever.

Well, I’m thinking, you just wait and see. You’ll be sorry, too.

:

I had not known Marie very long, a month at most. And as I said, we moved in very different circles.

For the most part, I moved in a circle of one for I was the town’s first hippie-like creature, and as such a target of her Greaser friends’ scorn. She was, very much so—and perhaps literally—in bed with the duck tailed, engine-grease crowd that cruised Main Street on weekends looking for trouble in restored (or very well kept) cars that had yet to develop into low-riders—that would follow a decade or so later.

We met by chance (mistake) one Saturday when I hooked up with a girlfriend of hers at a dance and we all wound up in her house, she with someone I knew, though not very well.

That evening was not very memorable from my perspective, and this was apparently a sentiment she shared, for when our eyes sometimes met that evening, we both saw attraction and curiosity. Enough for me to actually call her the following day—I called her mom’s café, which was in the book, and she was there, and yes, she would not mind seeing me.

She was quite beautiful—very beautiful, in fact. But, and I soon learned this, very much of that alien greaser tribe. Still, we met again, and then one more time.

Even so, we were spiritual strangers, so I don’t really know what I had expected from her in return for my stirring news that I was going to take leave of this world. Well, at least some sympathy, I would have guessed. Or some sort of interest.

She, convinced I was hot-airing it, offered up neither and I (beginning to sweat now, actually) decided to leave. Then did leave.

:

Pills #61-80:

Back out into the cold no longer quite morning anymore. Everything was white with the overnight snow, and all so very fresh, I felt one moment, and all so very padded, I felt the next. Padded, as in well insulated, for it would seem that Death had at last decided to make his appearance, or was at least preparing to. And this he did to the muffled fanfare of humming ears, and to the thump-thump drum of a racing heart. I did not feel very well, to be honest. But at least things seemed to be working according to plan.

At least He was knocking on my door.

Downtown, or what there was of it. I have since come to know the full meaning of the word, as in New York City, but that’s a different story. My current downtown, draped in its overnight coat of white was basically just a slightly denser conglomeration of nothing to speak of in the first place. It did, however, have a couple of department stores, one of which also had an upstairs restaurant. It was this restaurant I was headed for.

The Domus Restaurant was more like a large café than a restaurant, and it was a very popular school hangout. You had to buy something in order to occupy a table, though, that was the bad thing (especially if you were me, i.e., broke—which, as a rule, I was). The good thing was that a single cup of coffee would seat you for as long as you wanted—hours, in fact.

And, true to form, this morning I had spent my last kronor on Little Red Rooster, so I was definitely short.

I spotted Anders at one of the tables by the window, working through what seemed a hearty lunch. Anders always had cash. I could never understand people who always had cash, a different breed altogether. A phenomenon.

Money, in my pocket, had volition of its own, and the gist of it was to get as far away from me as possible, as fast as possible, and by any means. It would squander itself on just about anything, food, coffee, cigarettes, sweets, clothes, books, records, and in very short order. This was a known fact. I borrowed money often, more often than returning it. Flush people, like Anders, were not a little weary of me, especially when approaching them eating lunch, as I was doing now.

“No,” he said, hardly looking up. Much to his credit.

“Fifty kronor,” I said. “You’ll have it back tomorrow.”

Anders, at heart, was a very nice guy and one who found it very hard to say no, especially to the Hippie Tribe of one. So, out came his wallet, and here came the fifty kronor bill. “Tomorrow, for sure,” he said.

“Tomorrow, for sure,” I confirmed, knowing very well I was lying, for by tomorrow I would be dead.

It’s amazing what you can do—or promise—when you know you won’t be around to face any sort of consequences. And as I heard myself saying, lying, “Tomorrow, for sure,” I experienced an odd freedom. It was like a farewell, like a nice-to-have-known-you feeling, with a tinge of sadness, and a freedom. A relief, perhaps. I would check out, no longer a player. No more worries about money. And that, fundamentally, spelled freedom.

Would he feel tricked? I wondered next, when he finds out tomorrow that I have died. I really didn’t mean to hurt him, financially or otherwise—fifty kronor at the time, while not a fortune, was not an insignificant amount—but neither did I care, that is part of the freedom of snuggling up to Death.

I spent one of Anders’ fifty kronor on a black coffee, and another four on a shrimp sandwich and brought my tray to a table as far away from Anders as possible, where I now sat down to ponder Death (while enjoying the shrimp sandwich—they made a fabulous one here).

When would I die? How long would it take? How many pills had I taken? I went over the morning again and again arrived at sixty. Surely, that was not enough. I left the half-eaten sandwich (to indicate to the busboy that I was not yet finished) and went to the bathroom.

Two by two the tally climbed from sixty to eighty.

I was sweating again, I noticed. And the soft roar in my ears was no longer so soft. Was I shaking a little? I stood in front of the mirror and watched the reflection of my hand for quite a while. It looked still to me, but the hand itself felt like it was shaking. Odd.

I went back to my table. All in order. The busboy had not cleared it. I sat down. So how many was that then? Again I tallied in my head. Four stops, twenty pills a piece, makes eighty. Would that do it?

I had heard—or seen on television, rather—people die from twenty or so pills. Overdose, they called it. But those, I’m sure—well, of course—were a lot stronger than my little helpers. Prescription stuff. Sleeping pills, they were called. But four times that worth of aspirin, shouldn’t that do the trick?

I finished the shrimp sandwich in a private little last-meal-on-Earth ceremony. Then finished my coffee in a similar vein. All very final.

I looked at the clock hanging over the cash register. It said eleven-twenty. There was the appointment, of course. At three. Was it at three? Then I saw my mother by the stairs to the basement saying that very word, “Three.” Yes, that’s definitely what she said, so three it was. But would I still be alive then? Three and some hours from now. Judging by the way I felt, my guess was yes, I probably would be. At least a little.

How long does it take for aspirin to work anyway? I tried to think back to headaches, or leg aches (which I used to suffer from as a kid). An hour, at the most, I concluded. Which means that I would have sixty of the little guys working on prying Death’s door open right now, with twenty more on their way to help out.

But here’s the thing: I was not dying. Whatever I was doing at that moment, dying was not it. I did not feel good, definitely not. But I felt strangely alive, as if my body was telling me I’d have to do a hell of a lot better than this. Was this all I had? it hummed in defiance, and the humming hummed its way to my ears, which roared a little louder in response.

When was that appointment again? It was at three, right?

I looked around the restaurant. Anders had left. I wondered what he thought of me. Well, that didn’t matter, did it? That was the freedom part of this. It didn’t matter at all what anybody thought of me. I could not care less.

Where was this appointment?

I remembered. And yes, definitely three o’clock. The where was only about five minutes from here. Again: would I be alive by then?

Where should I die?

Oh, good question, and one that I had not considered until then. I ruled out the outside. It was too cold (not that this would matter in the grander scheme of things, but something spoke against it). Here? In the Domus Restaurant? No, not quite right. In some bathroom? Perhaps.

The roar in my ears seemed a little louder, and the thump-thump of my heart a little stronger. Was it objecting? Well, I’m sorry, you’ll have to live with it—smiling to myself at the terrible, terrible pun.

So, how dying was I?

I looked around the restaurant again. I recognized several people, even nodded in greeting to a few. More were coming in and lining up to get their coffees and snacks. No one was looking in my direction, and I wanted it to stay that way. Not much up for conversation right now, not with these humming ears and my thump-thumping heart.

:

Pills #81-100:

So, how dying was I?

Actually, I felt disturbingly alive.

How many was it again? Eighty?

Well, I thought, the more the merrier. I rose, and brought my tray to the conveyor belt window, where I slipped it on the belt for conveying to the dishwashers.

Then back to the bathroom. Someone was in there. I took up an unmistakable I’m-next position by the door. I heard the toilet flush, then the faucet, then the lock in the door, and here he came, the old guy. He gave me a brief look, but no smile. Didn’t even hold the door open for me. No matter.

Two by two at first, then four by four they went down. Twenty more. That made an even hundred, didn’t it? Surely that would be enough. How many did I have left? Twenty?

No, twenty-one, I remembered.

Really?

I sat down on the toilet seat (smiling at this new habit of mine) and brought out my remaining pills. Counted them once, twice, thrice: twenty-one each time. So, that’s settled then: twenty-one to go for the final palindrome.

I stepped out of the bathroom and considered what to do next. Where to go? Where was I going to die? was the question. Not outside, yes, I had already ruled that out. At home? No, not with Mom around. Here then? In the Domus Restaurant? What a headline that would be: Young man kills himself in Domus Restaurant. Oh, wouldn’t that be something? Would show Marie for not believing me. Would tech Dad such a lesson. What an embarrassment for him. Well, he only has himself to blame. Shouldn’t have yelled at me.

I checked my watch again, twelve-forty already. Was time speeding up? Was that part of dying? Was this roar in my ears part of dying? And the thump-thump of my heart? And the sweating? I also felt a little dizzy, as if my knees were contemplating buckling. They didn’t though.

It was terribly hot in there. I needed some fresh air. Or I needed a soft drink. Yes, I was very thirsty, so very thirsty. A soft drink first, then some fresh air for this dying boy.

Returning to the restaurant I had to stay in line for a few minutes before I got to the cashier. She took the five kronor bill and handed me back the change. I turned with bottle and glass in my hands and surveyed the floor. Yes, two empty tables. I picked the one closest to where I stood. Not so far to walk (with uncertain knees) and I did not, did not want to stumble and fall, not with the bottle and the glass, what a mess.

I didn’t fall, and made it to the table just fine. I sat down, poured the soda into the glass slowly, carefully so as not to effervesce over the edge. Carefully, carefully. Successfully. Then I drank, and drank. Oh, that was just wonderful. What an amazing drink, or how amazingly thirsty I was.

I refilled the glass and emptied it twice more, and that was the end of the soda. Now for the fresh air.

I checked the wall clock before I left, ten after one. Had that been half an hour? Really? I double checked with my watch and yes, it was ten after one. I found this disturbing. Had I lost my grip on time’s reins? Perhaps that was part of dying? Yes, very disturbing. But what can you do?

I exited the restaurant through the rear entrance and onto the second level parking lot. Lots of snow here, bright snow. Many of these cars must have been parked here overnight, so much fresh snow on the roofs. Can they do that? Do they allow that? I didn’t know.

Two more cars pull in. I hear their engines approach, but barely through the now constant—and loud—buzzing in my ears. Annoying, actually, the ears.

The fresh air felt good, though. My heart thought so, too. It thumped a little extra hard with all this newly snowed oxygen. I fished out, and lit a cigarette. I wasn’t a big smoker, just a now-and-then smoker. I enjoyed the taste, and the wooziness that followed after a few drags. But not now, not here in the cold and sparklingly white parking lot. The smoke tasted cottony, as if it wasn’t smoke at all, but something more substantial. Some sort of fabric, cotton candy consistency though bitter. Still, I kept smoking, wouldn’t do to throw half a cigarette away. Cost a small fortune, they do. Especially for the permanently cash-less one. Me.

The air did me good. I felt better, which, come to think of it, was not good. Not really dying at all. Well, the last forty had yet to kick in, I decided, and then I suddenly felt very cold, standing still like this, smoking away, looking up at the church only a block away, watching another car entering the lot, while another car was leaving.

I couldn’t stand here all day, had to move, keep warm. I finished the cigarette, and like a good citizen, I disposed of the butt in the outside, partially snow-covered ashtray. Cold hands in pockets now (mittens are for sissies), and off on a brisk walk.

Down to the canal. Snow everywhere here, too. The benches by the old boathouses covered. No way you can sit down there. Still, I walked down to the edge of the canal, onto the boardwalk, looked at the benches. Memories, these benches. This is where I had spent most evenings last summer, me—star of the nascent hippie scene—and many admiring girls (and boys). Would they find out? Would they miss me? Sure they would, on both counts.

Someone else, munching a hotdog, stepped down onto the boardwalk, looked over the edge and into the water (not frozen here, the current is too brisk) but never once looked in my direction. He finished the hotdog, turned around and vanished.

I’m cold again. And wooden, I think. Yes, that’s the word. Thick, muffled, wooden. With roaring ears. A roaring silence, though I can hear through it: the squeal of breaks as a bus comes to a halt at the traffic lights the other side of the canal. The bus looks warm. Cozy warm.

I am very cold right now.

I can see the building from here. Where I’m supposed to meet fatherhood in, what—I check my watch again—an hour and a half, a little over. Seems I’ll be alive still then, so I’d better show up. There’s a café in that building too, and a bakery. Perhaps I’ll wait there. I still have forty-two of Anders’ kronor left, a coffee at least, though I know that this café is very expensive. They’ll probably charge me five kronor just for the coffee.

And so they did. So I’ll die with thirty-seven of Anders’ kronor in my pocket.

I take the coffee—which is served in a cup and saucer—and carry it, carefully, to an open table by the window. From here, I’ll see fatherhood when he arrives. It’s not yet two o’clock, so I’d better make this one coffee last, there are no free refills in this little town—those came much later, and in a much bigger town.

Eighty? No, a hundred. A hundred aspirin. So, why am I still alive? Quite very alive, actually. And getting warm again, very. I sip the coffee and look out at the street. The snow is dirty here from too many cars, perhaps even a plow-sander has run through here. Cold though. I see the breath of those walking past rising up as if they were smoking. No one looks in my direction, although I’m sitting close by the window, leaning into it in fact, looking at people who do not have a clue about being looked at by someone dying. For I am dying, right? I’m at a hundred for heaven’s sake. If this had been prescription pills, I would sure have died by now. Like Marilyn Monroe. So, in a little while, I hope. Though not before three, that much I can say for certain. How many do I have left?

:

Pills #101-121:

Again, I run through my various pit stops, and decide that I’ve taken a hundred. An even hundred. Good even number. Twenty-one to go then.

All right, I might as well finish the job.

I leave my jacket on the chair to signal that I’m not done, and will come back, then head over to the bathroom. I am walking a little uncertainly. As if I don’t trust my legs or feet.

The bathroom is very warm. What’s with the bathrooms today?

Five times four plus one. One hundred-twenty-one. I study myself in the mirror. My face seems flushed, as if I’ve just been in a sauna. What am I saying? I am in a sauna for heaven’s sake. It’s very hot in here.

Two by two plus one. Down they go. I drink water straight from the tap. Who cares about germs at a point like this?

Well, if this doesn’t do it.

I make my way back to my table, and get there just before the waitress who carries a coffee pot. “Top it up?” she asks.

“How much?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing.”

That was a surprise. Special deal today for the dying?

“Sure,” I say.

I watch her pour the steaming coffee then look over at me. Is she concerned? Is that concern in her eyes? Could she possibly know? “Anything else?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Of course, this means that she expects a tip. Hadn’t thought of that. Well, I have thirty-seven kronor left, some tip that would be. No, I’m not leaving her a thirty-seven kronor tip.

Though, come to think of it, why not? Good question. It’s not as if I’ll need the money where I’m going. And this, after all, is my final-final cup of coffee. Worth a thirty-seven kronor tip, wouldn’t you say? Maybe a twenty kronor bill would enough, though. Thirty-seven would be ridiculous. My mind bounces back and forth between 20 and 37 a few times then lands on 20. Okay, I’m leaving her a twenty kronor bill for a tip.

I check the time again, two-fifteen, sixteen. Fatherhood likes showing up early. Not this early though.

Another bus rumbles by outside. So many buses. Smoke billows out from its exhaust, extra thick and extra white with the cold. In third grade, a boy at my school slipped on the ice (or was pushed, some said) just as the school bus arrived, and he fell under the back wheels. Crushed by the back wheels. Didn’t die right away though. Died later in hospital. No one survives the back wheels of a bus. And no one should survive one hundred twenty-one aspirin, but this one certainly is. My mouth is very dry though, and I take another sip of the cooling coffee. And yet another bus. Is there no end to them?

Fatherhood could show up any time now. He likes being early. Probably wants to be here especially early today, to make sure I’m here too. To give him time to perhaps find me if I’m not. This is an important appointment. My future. He’ll be early for sure.

He does not like my long hair, hates it in fact. Will not walk beside me in town for fear that people will connect us two, father and son. He is that embarrassed about my long hair. Crazy embarrassed. Hates it.

How many have I taken now?

One hundred twenty-one. The palindrome number. I’ve taken them all now, so why is life being so stubborn about sticking around?

I don’t feel good in here. The coffee tastes like liquid cardboard. Or is it that I can’t taste anymore? Have I lost my sense of taste, and smell? I sip it again, searching for that coffee taste that I really like. Can’t find it among all the bits of stiff paper. My taste buds are dying.

Do you mean to tell me that my last cup of coffee, ever, will go down like cardboard? There’s something decidedly unfair about that.

Two forty-five now. No fatherhood yet. I bring out my wallet and pull out the twenty kronor bill. I fold it nicely and place it under the salt shaker. What a tip. Record tip. Four times the cost of the coffee. My very last cardboard coffee in this world. Ever.

Still no fatherhood.

Then I see his car. He’s crossing the bridge, pulling up to a parking space on the other side of the street. Did he bring motherhood, too? No, that was just an odd reflection on the windshield. Just Dad. I watch him step out, then lock the car. He always does. Even at home. He looks both ways and then jaywalks to the building entrance. He has not seen me yet. I pull back a little from the window to make sure he won’t either. I lose sight of him as he enters.

Then he’s right there, by my table. He must have seen me after all.

“Are you ready?” he asks me.

“Sure,” I answer.

That’s all we say in the café. He heads for the door. We take a very slow elevator up to the third floor.

Mid-ride he asks me, “Did you leave a twenty kronor tip?”

“No,” I lie.

That’s all way say in the elevator.

We arrive early. But the counselor is ready for us says the receptionist. Good. I’m not sure I could have handled sitting with Dad in the very warm waiting room, saying nothing, waiting, saying nothing, waiting, saying nothing.

At this point I’m beginning to realize two equally important things:

I am going to be sick. And sooner rather than later.

I am not going to die anytime soon.

The counselor shows up and shows us in and invites us to sit down in the two chairs he’s placed this side of his desk. We both sit down. The counselor walks around his desk and sits down in his chair. Dad sits to my right. It is very hot in here.

And now they begin to discuss me, as if I were not even there. As you discuss old (senile) people in their presence, or very young children. But my ears roar too much and my heart is racing too fast for me to really care. I should be pissed off, though. I know that. But I’m not. Pissed off is not available right now.

I have trouble following the back and forth of Dad and Counselor, who—I believe, now that I think of it—is supposed to be a psychologist. Is supposed to counsel not only me, but my dad, too, about the troubles I’m causing by dropping out of school and not getting a real job and God knows what else, for I’m losing the thread of things now. I can tell who is talking when, but that’s about it.

I feel like falling off the chair.

I really should fall off the chair. I’m not about to, not unwittingly, but I really should, wittingly. Make a statement. That would get their attention.

Now I’m no longer sure who is talking, just that someone is—my ears roar so loudly, and my heart thump-thumps with such determination, and I am so very sickly alive. This is definitely no quiet slipping away into a dreamed about nothing, into that tranquil blackness beyond, leaving behind a very sorry father, and a very sorry mother, and a very sorry she did not believe me Marie. A very sorry world.

No such thing. No, this is a body protesting its treatment like hell, while staying very much alive, thank you.

What the hell?

And I do not feel very well at all. Maybe dying is unpleasant. No, I don’t think this is dying. I’m not sure what this is, but it is not nice. At all.

And then I realize that they have both stopped talking. Neither says a thing. Both are looking at me. Waiting for me to say something. They’ve asked me something, one of them has. And I haven’t a clue who or what. Didn’t hear it.

“What?” I manage.

The counselor says something that I don’t catch, and now the first strand of fear springs alive and makes its way through my body. This is not according to plan. At all.

I feel more than see them both look at me. A shade of concern from Dad. Yes, I sense that. Something’s not right, he thinks, or feels. I can sense that.

“Dad,” I hear myself saying, though not looking at him. I’m looking at my hands, or the floor, or the front side of Counselor’s desk, or not looking at all. “I must tell you something.”

Next I know I’m in his car and Dad is driving faster on snowy city streets than would be advisable. I am only tangentially aware of the trip to the hospital, and only tangentially aware of someone—a doctor or a nurse—asking me to throw up.

Asking me to throw up? Aren’t they at least going to pump my stomach?

“How many?” she says.

“One hundred twenty-one,” I answer.

“All aspirin?” she says.

“Yes.”

Then she says something to Dad that sounds reassuring, or would to Dad anyway—and if truth be told, sounds reassuring to me as well. “He’ll be fine,” is what she says. I catch that.

I don’t manage to throw up, well, perhaps a spittle or two, but the doctor or nurse does not seem too concerned about that. Apparently better briefed about lethal levels of aspirin than I am.

They must have released me after a couple of hours of not throwing up, for I remember stepping out into the cold darkness, and walking over to the car. Still no Mom, just Dad, being very quiet. Well, serves him right.

He says nothing on the way home, and I’m not very talkative either. I feel a little better, and I’m certainly not dead.

Dad is still locking the car when I open the front door and walk in. Mom is right there, just watching me enter. Concerned. Very. I’m not sure whether she has cried or not, though she certainly ought to have. Dad comes in too, and closes the door behind him. Neither says a word. I’m not sure what to make of this.

“Are you hungry?” Mom says finally.

Actually, I am, but I don’t answer. “Would you like some hot sandwiches?” she asks, knowing I love the way she makes them.

I shrug my shoulders to say, sure, I don’t care.

Dad says nothing. He sits down at the table, where he still says nothing. Then he says, to Mom, “He’s supposed to drink a lot of water.”

There is something strange in this atmosphere. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s very much to my advantage, I can sense that. It’s as if I’m a land mine that almost went off, and now they are tiptoeing around me, carefully, lest I explode.

In retrospect, I’m not proud of this, but I saw my power very clearly: I had demonstrated what I am capable of. Don’t mess with me or I’ll kill myself again. For real this time. They were afraid, if not of me, then at least of what I might do. That much was obvious.

I could take advantage of this. Big time. Really should.

Did.

Before then I had never smoked cigarettes at home. Mom, of course, would have smelled smoke on my clothes and such (although I wasn’t aware of that at the time), and I’m sure she would have told Dad—or maybe not, they were not getting along too well by that time, and were in fact soon to divorce.

But here goes: I took out my pack of cigarettes in clear view of both of them, shook one out, and lit it. I dared them to object. One word, and you know what I might do.

“When did you start smoking?” Dad finally said.

Mom said nothing.

“A while ago,” I said.

::

Back to: Intro :: Clever Boy

[katybudgetbooks]

YA Books We’re Anticipating in June 2017

Dividing Eden by Joelle Charbonneau (6/6): From the author of the New York Times bestselling Testing trilogy comes a sweeping new fantasy series, perfect for fans of Victoria Aveyard and Sarah J. Maas.Twins Carys and Andreus were never destined to rule Eden. With their older brother next in line to inherit the throne, the future of the kingdom was secure.But appearances—and rivals—can be deceiving. When Eden’s king and crown prince are killed by assassins, Eden desperately needs a monarch, but the line of succession is no longer clear. With a ruling council scheming to gain power, Carys and Andreus are faced with only one option—to take part in a Trial of Succession that will determine which one of them is worthy of ruling the kingdom.As sister and brother, Carys and Andreus have always kept each other safe—from their secrets, from the court, and from the monsters lurking in the mountains beyond the kingdom’s wall. But the Trial of Succession will test the bonds of trust and family.With their country and their hearts divided, Carys and Andreus will discover exactly what each will do to win the crown. How long before suspicion takes hold and the thirst for power leads to the ultimate betrayal?

Follow Me Back by AV Geiger (6/6): Tessa Hart's world feels very small. Confined to her bedroom with agoraphobia, her one escape is the online fandom for pop sensation Eric Thorn. When he tweets to his fans, it's like his speaking directly to her...Eric Thorn is frightened by his obsessive fans. They take their devotion way too far. It doesn't help that his PR team keeps posting to encourage their fantasies.When a fellow pop star is murder at the hands of a fan, Eric knows he has to do something to shatter his online image fast--like take down one of his top Twitter followers. But Eric's plan to troll @TessaHeartsEric unexpectedly evolves into an online relationship deeper than either could have imagined. And when the two arrange to meet IRL, what should have made for the world's best episode of Catfish takes a deadly turn...Told through tweets, direct messages, and police transcripts, this thriller for the online generation will keep you guessing right up to the shocking end.

Once and for All by Sarah Dessen (6/6): From Sarah Dessen, the beloved New York Times bestselling author of SAINT ANYTHING and JUST LISTEN, comes a new novel set in the world of wedding planning! Is it really better to have loved and lost?  Louna's summer job is to help brides plan their perfect day, even though she stopped believing in happily-ever-after when her first love ended tragically.  But charming girl-magnet Ambrose isn't about to be discouraged now that he's met the one he really  wants.  Maybe Louna's second chance is standing right in front of her. Sarah Dessen’s many fans will adore this latest novel, a richly satisfying, enormously entertaining story with humor, romance, and an ending that is so much more than happily-ever-after.

Wildman by JC Geiger (6/6):  "How can a complete stranger know you better than the people you've known your entire life?" Lance Hendricks is homeward bound, four hundred highway miles from the best night of his life. There's an epic graduation party brewing, his girlfriend will be there, and they've got a private bedroom with their names on it. When his '93 Buick breaks down in the middle of nowhere, Lance is sure he'll be back on the road in no time. After all, he's the high school valedictorian. First chair trumpet player. Scholarship winner. Nothing can stop Lance Hendricks. But afternoon turns to night, and Lance ends up stranded at the Trainsong Motel. The place feels ominous, even before there's a terrible car wreck outside his room. When Lance rushes out to help, the townies take notice. They call him Wildman, and an intriguing local girl asks him to join in their nighttime adventures. He begins to live up to his new name. As one day blurs into the next, Lance finds himself in a bar fight, jumping a train, avoiding the police. Drifting farther from home and closer to a girl who makes him feel a way he's never felt before—like himself. This debut novel by a remarkable new talent explores the relationship between identity and place, the power of being seen, and the speed at which a well-planned life can change forever.

Words in Deep Blue by Cath Crowley (6/6):  A beautiful love story for fans of Jandy Nelson and Nicola Yoon: two teens find their way back to each other in a bookstore full of secrets and crushes, grief and hope—and letters hidden between the pages. Years ago, Rachel had a crush on Henry Jones. The day before she moved away, she tucked a love letter into his favorite book in his family’s bookshop. She waited. But Henry never came. Now Rachel has returned to the city—and to the bookshop—to work alongside the boy she’d rather not see, if at all possible, for the rest of her life. But Rachel needs the distraction. Her brother drowned months ago, and she can’t feel anything anymore. As Henry and Rachel work side by side—surrounded by books, watching love stories unfold, exchanging letters between the pages—they find hope in each other. Because life may be uncontrollable, even unbearable sometimes. But it’s possible that words, and love, and second chances are enough.

Be True to Me by Adele Griffin (6/13):  It's the summer of 1976 on Fire Island, where sunbathing, lobster bakes, and the Bicentennial celebration reign. Jean, a sometimes cruel, often insecure, and always envious rich girl, is accustomed to living in her glamorous older sister’s shadow. So when Gil Burke, a handsome newcomer with uncertain ties to one of the most powerful families in the exclusive enclave of Sunken Haven, notices Jean—not her sister—Jean is smitten. Then Fritz, a girl from outside the gilded gates who humiliated Jean in the Island’s tennis championship last year, meets Gil. The chemistry between them is undeniable, and she quickly falls Gil herself. Soon the girls are competing for much more than a tennis trophy, with higher stakes than either of them can imagine. Through the alternating perspectives of Jean and Fritz, Adele Griffin captures the angst of feeling like you don’t belong and the urgency of first love with vivid language and perceptive wit.

Want by Cindy Pon (6/13):  From critically acclaimed author Cindy Pon comes an edge-of-your-seat sci-fi thriller, set in a near-future Taipei plagued by pollution, about a group of teens who risk everything to save their city. Jason Zhou survives in a divided society where the elite use their wealth to buy longer lives. The rich wear special suits, protecting them from the pollution and viruses that plague the city, while those without suffer illness and early deaths. Frustrated by his city’s corruption and still grieving the loss of his mother who died as a result of it, Zhou is determined to change things, no matter the cost. With the help of his friends, Zhou infiltrates the lives of the wealthy in hopes of destroying the international Jin Corporation from within. Jin Corp not only manufactures the special suits the rich rely on, but they may also be manufacturing the pollution that makes them necessary. Yet the deeper Zhou delves into this new world of excess and wealth, the more muddled his plans become. And against his better judgment, Zhou finds himself falling for Daiyu, the daughter of Jin Corp’s CEO. Can Zhou save his city without compromising who he is, or destroying his own heart?

Aftercare Instructions by Bonnie Pipkin (6/27): “Troubled.” That’s seventeen-year-old Genesis according to her small New Jersey town. She finds refuge and stability in her relationship with her boyfriend, Peter—until he abandons her at a Planned Parenthood clinic during their appointment to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. The betrayal causes Gen to question everything.As Gen pushes herself forward to find her new identity without Peter, she must also confront her most painful memories. Through the lens of an ongoing four act play within the novel, the fantasy of their undying love unravels line by line, scene by scene. Digging deeper into her past while exploring the underground theater world of New York City, she rediscovers a long forgotten dream. But it’s when Gen lets go of her history, the one she thinks she knows, that she’s finally able to embrace the complicated, chaotic true story of her life, and take center stage.Aftercare Instructions, a debut full of heart and hope, follows Gen on a big-hearted journey from dorm rooms to diners to underground theaters—and ultimately, right into readers' hearts.

Generation One by Pittacus Lore (6/27): The first book in a pulse-pounding new series that’s set in the world of the #1 New York Times bestselling I Am Number Four series. The war may be over—but for the next generation, the battle has just begun!It has been over a year since the invasion of Earth was thwarted in Pittacus Lore’s United as One. But in order to win, our alien allies known as the Garde unleashed their Loric energy that spread throughout the globe. Now human teenagers have begun to develop incredible powers of their own, known as Legacies.To help these incredible and potentially dangerous individuals—and put the world at ease—the Garde have created an academy where they can train this new generation to control their powers and hopefully one day help mankind. But not everyone thinks that’s the best use of their talents. And the teens may need to use their Legacies sooner than they ever imagined. Perfect for fans of Marvel’s X-Men and Rick Yancey’s The 5th Wave, this epic new series follows a diverse cast of teens as they struggle to hone their abilities and decide what, if anything, they should do with them. As a spin-off of the bestselling I Am Number Four series, those familiar with the original books and newcomers alike will devour this fast-paced, action-packed sci-fi adventure.

Midnight Jewel by Richelle Mead (6/27):  The Selection meets Reign in this dazzling trilogy of interwoven novels about three girls on a quest for freedom and true love from #1 internationally bestselling author Richelle Mead. Mira is not like the other Glittering Court girls. She is a war refugee, cast out of her home country and thrust into another, where she has learned to fight against the many injustices around her. For some, the Glittering Court offers a chance at a life they’ve only ever dreamed of, one of luxury, glamour, and leisure. But for Mira, it’s simply a means to an end. In the new world, she plans to earn off her marriage contract price, and finally be free. Mira pitches herself as an asset to one of the passengers on board the ship: the sardonic and aloof Grant Elliot, whom she’s discovered is a spy for the prestigious McGraw Agency—and her ticket to buying her freedom. His cover blown, Grant has little choice but to take her on. Mira applies herself by day, learning the etiquette and customs that will help to earn her anonymity. By night, she dons a mask and slips into the city, fighting injustice and corruption on her own terms—and impressing Grant with her extraordinary abilities and insights into an elusive case. But the case isn’t all they’re fighting… Neither of them can ignore the attraction burning between them—an attraction so powerful, it threatens to unravel everything Mira’s worked so hard for. With freedom finally within her grasp, can Mira risk it all for love?