#like one of those christmas bows you stick on christmas packages. with the sticky bit. you know. thats how crunchy my head is.

[sciderman]

is ur head crunchy

MMYYY HEAD IS SOOO fucking CRUNCHY

[blue-bird-kny]

Day 9: Peppermint Smooches

This was purely indulgent, I love peppermint flavored things and I love cooking/baking so enjoy this as you please~Amanda

P.S: For those who don’t know flan is a delicious dessert made of milk and caramel, my family is cuban and that is a staple dessert at parties.

Reblogs are always appreciated~

Warning: N/a unless you aren’t a fan of sweets, 

( 1.2k+ words)

↳{In which you spoil your boyfriend with various of your favorite holiday treats for almost an entire month}

The house smelled of candy and sweets, the overwhelming scent of baked goods pouring out of every crevice and window. You hummed happily in the kitchen wearing a matching mittens and apron set, both adorned with cheesy gingerbread men over white cloth complete with satin red ribbons to tie around your neck and waist.  You mixed together a sticky batter of cinnamon and sugar, tablespoons of spiced rums and vanilla’s all combined together to create a decadent toffee cake smothered in a bitter brandy sauce; your mouth watered and taste buds buzzed in anticipation of eating this dessert.

The holiday season was your playing field; starting December 1st all the way to the new year, you stuffed your friends with delectable sweets, everyday a different flavor and style, and this year you had another special someone to fatten up. Just as you set the pan on the counter to cool, faint footsteps could be heard waddling their way into your kitchen, “Why does it smell like Santa threw up” Giyuu’s nose crinkled as he appeared in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame. “Well Sir, you’ve just entered a battle zone of my own creation. Pick your weapon, flour or milk?” you joked, setting the red mittens aside in favor of resting against your boyfriend, your arms wrapping around his waist. “Carrots” he randomly picks in an attempt to be funny, “What are you..? Never mind, come taste my cake” you ushered him in to the kitchen, carefully slicing the browned food, blowing on the piece before shoving it into Giyuu awaiting hole.

He chewed slowly as you anxiously awaited his reaction, “Too sweet or too bitter? I did go a little heavy on the liquor” you spireled nit-picking your own desert. Finally, Giyuu’s cool voice spoke “Nothing’s wrong with it, it's perfect. Could I have another piece?” he asked, mouth agape as a low ‘ahh’ sound traveled out. You giggled scooping another slice for him to try; Giyuu savored every bite you pushed his way, but oh how unaware he was of the tooth-rotting month he was about to partake in.

You made dishes of all sorts: gingerbread, strawberry, all sorts of chocolate and nutty arrangements, but nothing compared to the minty sweet that was peppermint. While children wait for gifts in December, you waited year-round to exploit the festive flavor, creating all sorts of pairings to try. You incorporate it into practically anything; topping your whipped creams with crushed bits or mixing them into batter and frosting, using larger pieces for brittle or to freeze with white chocolate, and not a morning passed when you didn’t melt the striped candy to add the extract to your coffee. It was an unhealthy holiday obsession you were far from ashamed of and, unfortunately for him, your Hashira boyfriend had to endure every bit of it.

You were well into three weeks of your cavity-ridden adventures when you found yourself putting together packages of sweets for your friends, each filled with tarts and truffles all wrapped in a hand-tied bow- and of course, this meant you had to include some peppermint treat as well. You browsed through dozens of cookbooks and tested numerous flavor profiles, until you settled with a classic chocolate-peppermint cookie- simple,sweet, and irresistible.

You got to work mixing the dry and wet ingredients, popping them into the fire quickly so as to keep the dark cookie dough at a proper temperature. You melted semi-sweet chocolate chips, mixing in cups of heavy cream to help keep the chocolate smooth and rich to create spread, finally crushing whole sticks of candy canes to garnish the treat. “All done” you sighed, pulling the final ribbon together in a taught knot, a line of baskets ready to be dropped off with your friends the next morning. Your face scrunched together in a loud yawn, the sun already setting outside, “guess I got a little carried away” you chuckled nervously, “You think? You were in there for five hours” a deep disembodied voice answered from behind you.

“Aww so are you saying you missed me, Yuu’” you teased, turning to face the man whose black hair tumbled around his shoulders in the perfect bedhead. He grunted as a response, effortlessly peering over your shorter stature into the kitchen. He was always amazed at your impressive cleanliness because no matter what you baked it always appeared as though a one-man baking championship had not just gone down in there. “What’s with all this?” he asked referring to your gifts, “Just some holiday cheer for our friends, I’ve barely given them any goods this year” you exaggerated as if you hadn’t made Giyuu deliver a plate of pecan pie and flan you’d learned from a foreign cook book to his last Hashira meeting like it was an office christmas party. He noticed the tags hanging on each bow, reading the first one he saw, “Sanemi-san” he grimaced, “Everyone gets one?” “Yes everyone gets one” you started, “and he happens to appreciate my cooking” you added already knowing that there was only one person who could warrant such response from the pillar.

A twinge of jealousy struck Giyuu as he imagine your bubbly self dropping of your hard work into the hands of that brute when you called for him rolling your eyes, “I saved the best one for you though” you held the cookie up to his lips, the oh-so familiar red and white sprinkled across the top. Without a moment's hesitation Giyuu took the desert into his mouth, the silky smooth cocoa cookie coating his taste buds. You watched in delight as the one you loved most enjoyed your favorite hobby when suddenly you noticed the smallest twitch in his eye, so miniscule you almost missed it. “What wrong? Yuu’, if you don’t like it, it's okay” you comforted, eyes softening as you peered up into his crystal orbs.

“This is it” Giyuu thought defeated and slightly upset that he slipped up, “I’m going to have to tell her” he took a deep breath, his confession coming out firm as he said “I hate peppermint”. You blinked in confusion, trying to piece together how he stomached practically every edible thing you pushed his way for the last month. “Wait, you mean the whole time you hated peppermint” you asked with furrowed brows, “yet still ate everything I made...why? I wouldn’t have been upset” Giyuu spoke as if his reasoning was the most obvious in the world, “It makes you happy and I didn’t want to take that away from you”

Butterflies fluttered in your chest at his words, so simple and genuine yet they made you feel like the luckiest person with the best boyfriend. “Giyuu you make me happy, with or without the peppermint” you jumped onto your tiptoes, leaning forward to press a long, passionate kiss on Giyuu surprised lips. He recovered quickly though, his arms slithered around your waist and into your hair, “You taste like peppermint” he stated after pulling away. “Sorry” you laughed embarrassingly, the pads of his finger brushing against the plush skin “From your lips, peppermint is my favorite flavor” he whispered, delving in to get another taste.

Holiday Event Masterlist

[ladyofstardust]

Carol of the Goblins

Word Count: 2.7k

Rating: T

Summary: In which Jareth fights in the war against Christmas Wrapping and he and Sarah exchange gifts. A DVD player may or may not have gone back in time and a Goblin may or may not have been on fire. Whatever, the cops left in the end.

Notes: Apartment-verse fic.  Set after the events of Thursday Night.  I’m also posting them over at Ao3 in order if you’d prefer to read that way.

You took my dreams from me When I first found you I kept them with me babe I put them with my own Can't make it all alone I've built my dreams around you

- Fairytale of New York by The Pogues

“T’was the night before Christmas and all through the apartment, there were several creatures stirring but most notably the Fae king currently in a duel with my wrapping paper,” Sarah said coming in through the front door.  Jareth was sitting crosslegged on the floor of her living room, hair sticking every which way and with several pieces of scotch tape in it. He was cursing in a language she didn’t know at her wrapping paper, while the Peanuts Christmas special played in the background.

“Sarah!” He said with a start.  “You weren’t supposed to be home for another hour!”

“Traffic was better than I expected,” she said with a smile, eyeing the nondescript box Jareth had half-wrapped.  “My family sends their love and more importantly, their gifts.”

Sarah held a bag of gifts up for him to see, but he only scowled at them.

“This holiday would be much improved without this patently impossible task.”

“If you don’t do it by hand how will I know you mean it though?” Sarah teased.  “If you can wrap my gift by hand I’ll show you my trick for next year.”

“I don’t need a trick I need magic,” he grumbled.  “I truly despise you for these ridiculous gift rules.”

“No you don’t,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and grabbing a stray piece of tape at the same time.  “You just need to be creative.”

“That wouldn’t be necessary if you’d just let me,” at this he gave a little hand wave and the lights on her tree all lit up.  He cocked an expectant eyebrow as if this proved his point.

“And I’ve seen what wonders and sparkly delights magic gets me for Christmas.  I want to see what my boyfriend gets me when he’s got the same limitations as the rest of us mortals.  My gift is also not made with magic I’ll remind you,” she said, retreating to the kitchen.  “Besides you’re the Goblin King. Stuff of nightmares and such. Is a bit of shiny paper really going to be your downfall?”

“Oh do go off,” he said bitterly.  “And do not come in here until I am done wrapping!”

“Babe, I will need my living room back before June,” she called from the kitchen.  

“I should really just return this and find a girlfriend who appreciates my magical abilities.”

“Probably!” She called back.  “In the meantime I’m going to start on dinner before the crew gets here.  Ludo doesn’t eat meat and Hoggle is currently on a weird Underground diet and can’t have ‘anything that flies’ and I’m not sure…if he counts chickens?”

“He does,” Jareth replied.  “Most of the Underground chickens can fly, they just choose not to because they’re disgusting, lazy vermin.”

“You’re in such a good mood that I’m going to put on Christmas carols so I don’t have to hear you shouting eldritch horrors at the scotch tape.”

Sarah spent the rest of the afternoon making Christmas cookies and a very large pot of spaghetti and cauliflower balls.  She wasn’t much in the kitchen, but one of the only skills she picked up from Karen was knowing how to make some kickass cookies.  

Her and Jareth had gotten into the habit of spending Christmas Eve together with their friends.  Sarah was less and less interested in driving for three hours to Irene’s place to hear about who was ruining the economy this year (her), what people needed to ‘get over’ (human rights usually), and when she was going to make something of her life (get married).  It was exhausting and compared to the idea of curling up with Jareth watching Die Hard…well she knew which one she was choosing.

Jareth had begged off the Underground’s Yule festivities as they were normally held at the Winter Court and he and the Winter Queen weren’t currently on the best of terms.  They had briefly debated decking the hell out of the castle’s halls and doing a very medieval style Christmas, but Sarah wasn’t up to it this year. She liked their low-key traditions of board games, mulled wine, and listening to Christmas music together.  It always made her feel at home, and it was the part of the holidays she looked forward to the most.

“Would my beautiful, lovely, and generous girlfriend be willing to come in here a moment?” Jareth called from the living room.

“Sure but she isn’t helping you any,” Sarah said, laying out the Christmas cookies on a plate.

“Well then nevermind!” he yelled.  

“You’ve got another half an hour and then you’ll need to give up and come play Settlers of Catan.  Hoggle won’t play Risk with both of us anymore,” Sarah said, reminding him of what Hoggle colloquially referred to as “the most scarring experience of his life.”

But it was not as though there was a lot of fire and really, he’d gotten out of there long before the cops showed up.

A few months ago, during a rainy day, they’d decided to play a game of Risk.  Things went well…for about the first hour or so. Then alliances and double dealings happened and it all culminated in Jareth creating a playable dragon that truly, under no circumstance, needed to breathe fire.  So she’d countered by setting up landmines of pudding for his troops to fall into because of Jareth’s hatred of sticky things. The dragon stepped in the pudding and a goblin came and ate the dragon, because of said pudding.  At which point the dragon started breathing fire out of the goblin’s mouth, the goblin started freaking out running all over her apartment breathing fire, lighting other goblins on fire as it went, as she was running behind it dropping pudding on the fire because well, it was what she had handy, while Jareth tried to turn off the building’s sprinkler system.  They’d managed to get the goblins back through the mirror before the cops showed up, but not before they cleaned up all the pudding and scorch marks.

So no, Hoggle was not down to play Risk.  Sir Didymus was still on board though.

Sarah went into her bedroom to grab Jareth’s gift.  She’d spent a lot of time thinking about what to get him, they’d never really done a traditional Christmas gift exchange so this was her first experience trying to buy for the man who could have anything he wanted.  The influx of ads pushing whiskey stones and artisanal shaving kits were all wrong for Jareth. She’d debated getting him a nice new pair of leather gloves, but realized she’d be really put out if he thought to buy her underwear, and he had a whole drawer full of specially designed gloves.  The mall likely didn’t carry gloves that were designed for spell casting anyways. The idea had come to her one afternoon while cleaning out her drawers. She’d found some old notes from the Goblins and she realized just the thing for her Goblin King.

She hung out flipping through Jane Eyre in her bedroom, waiting for Jareth to finish with her gift.  Finally, when she got to the scene where Rochester and Jane confess their love, Jareth walked in, looking somewhat worse for wear.  His hair had gained several more pieces of scotch tape and for some reason he had a cut across his cheek.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” he said quietly, extending the package towards her.  

In the end, he’d wrapped it perfectly.  There was a beautifully tied ribbon, with a bow on top, and the wrapping job looked professionally done.  Sarah let out an impressive whistle.

“You know, I gotta say, much like a hotdog, the process to get it may not be pretty, but the end product sure is.  Damn, now I want a hotdog.”

“Your gift is not a hotdog,” he said brows knitting together in annoyance.  

“Shame,” Sarah said with a pout.  “Guess we’ll just have to go back to the cart in the woods.”

“What is that,” he said, trying to change the subject by pointing to the gift bag Sarah had at the foot of the bed.  

“Well that would be your gift,” she said, patting the space next to her for him to sit down.

“But…it’s in a bag?” He said confused.

“Yeah that’s my trick.  I suck at wrapping so I always just get a nice bag instead,” she said with a wink, giving him a quick peck on the tip of his nose.

“So putting me through the torture of hand wrapping your gift was for…?”  He said, helplessly.

“Fun.  Namely, mine,” she grinned.

“I will get you back for this,” he grumbled.  

“I’m sure you’ll get me back for it before the night is over,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes.  “Now open your gift!”

Jareth glared at her one more time before grabbing the gift bag.  Slowly and deliberately he removed every piece of tissue paper as Sarah watched expectantly.  Finally, he pulled out her gift at the bottom of the bag.

Knit together with golds, greys, browns and black was a long scarf.  At the bottom of each tail was the pattern of his sigil, just like the amulet he wore.  

“I’m not a great knitter,” Sarah said taking a breath.  “So I know it’s not perfect or anything. I tried to get the sigil right, and I had Ludo help me a bit to make it even.  I wanted something really long so you could wrap it around your neck a bunch of times since you’re forever wearing those low-cut shirts.  But I chose this gift because eight or so years ago, I made Sir Didymus a scarf. It wasn’t very well made, but I spent about a month trying to get it ready for Christmas.  I gave Hoggle some marmalade, and Ludo a game of marbles. I didn’t realize that these were the first Christmas gifts my friends had ever received. I didn’t realize that in knitting that scarf I’d find myself and my life totally co-opted by Goblins, and Goblin Kings alike.  That the act of making that scarf might have been more powerful than that first wish. That scarf is coming apart, and filled with holes and probably quite a few pudding stains by now. Sir Didymus still wears it proudly. I didn’t know then, what I know now. About you, about the Underground, or about … anything really.  But I can honestly say, there’s no place I’d rather be, and no one I’d rather be with. So it seems only right that your first Christmas gift should be a scarf as well, since it was what brought you home to me. Merry Christmas Jareth, and I do love you very much.”

“Oh I do wish you hadn’t,” Jareth said, flopping backwards onto her bedspread. 

“Oh...why?” Sarah said, feeling her heart start to sink.

Jareth leaned forward, propping himself up on his elbow. “Because your gift is perfect Sarah.  It so far surpasses my gift that despite spending the better part of today attempting to wrap it, I’m not sure I want you to open it.”

“To be honest, half the gift was definitely watching you war with the wrapping paper,” Sarah said, grabbing Jareth’s gift to her.  

“I just want to take the opportunity to remind you that I once turned the Bog into your fondest ice skating dreams,” he said as she began to tear into the paper.

“I don’t have any ice skating dreams I can’t skate,” she said, not looking up from the box.

Sarah removed the gift from the plain brown box he’d placed it in.  Inside to her complete surprise, she found a new DVD player and every John Hughes movie Sarah could name.  She looked up at her very nervous looking Goblin King and bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“You...replaced my DVD player?  And got me The Breakfast Club?”

“If you’d allow me a few moments I’m sure I can provide something suitably magical,” he said quickly.  “Something that does not involve wrapping paper.”

“What after you conquered it?  Absolutely not!” She said clutching the DVDs to her chest.  “These are mine and I love them Jareth. Love them. Between this and the war on Christmas wrapping you staged, I honestly am … really charmed.”

“You are forever complaining about how I damaged your original device, I thought it a suitable gift to replace it for you even though I had nothing to do with the initial...malfunction,” he said, and Sarah saw the tenseness leave his shoulders.  

“Jareth, I think you may have sent that DVD player back in time.  It oozed noxious purple goop for a few minutes, lit off some more truly foul smelling purple smoke - seriously I don’t even think the bog smells that bad, and then poof!  Gone! Where did it go Jareth? Where did the DVD player and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off go?!”

“If I knew that I simply would have retrieved the old machine,” he grumbled.  “I replaced the film, along with several others by the same filmmaker. I was told he’s a favourite of yours.”

“You were told by me, many times, because I love John Hughes movies.  But that kinda proves my point about why I like it. Actually no, why I love it.  It’s thoughtful Jareth. I love it when you think about me. I love it even more when you think about me, and what I like, what I don’t like.  You even remembered not to include St. Elmo’s Fire because of my inability to watch a Demi Moore movie without getting unreasonably angry.”

“Because she reminds you of your mother,” he nodded.  “I remember.”

“Yeah...yeah that’s why I love it Jareth,” she said, giving him a smile.  “It’s a wonderfully human gift. It’s perfect. Or maybe imperfectly perfect.  Which makes it human, which makes it perfect.”

She leaned over and gave him a kiss and he took the opportunity to pull her down.  She snuggled up next to him, facing Jareth and her window, watching the snow lightly fall on her fire escape while he laid soft kisses on her cheeks and temples.

“Merry Christmas Sarah, I also love you very much.”

“Seem like that’s our lot in life, to love each other very much,” she sighed happily, nestling closer.  “I guess it’ll have to do.”

“Yes, I guess it will,” he said smiling.  “But I think I hear our friends arriving.”

“Mmm the Christmas cookies will keep them busy for a while,” she said, snuggling further into the crook of his neck.  

“Not busy enough for all the ways I’ll be celebrating with you tonight.”  

“Okay,” she said rolling over.  “First we settle, then we Catan, then we bang.  Deal?”

“An acceptable bargain,” he said offering his hand.  

She took it, giving it a firm shake, and they nodded at each other seriously, before Sarah started laughing.  

“Come on, grab the game and I’ll put on Christmas Vacation with my shiny, new, non-time travelling DVD player.”

“I’ll grab the board game.  Pour me a glass of mulled wine love,” he said giving her a quick peck before leaping off the bed.

“My lady?  Sire?” Sir Didymus called from the kitchen.  

“They’s in the bedroom bein’ gross,” Hoggle replied sourly.

“We’re just grabbing the board game!” Sarah shouted at him.

“Whatever yous say.” Hoggle muttered.

“Come on Rocket Man, Christmas awaits,” Sarah said, grabbing her new DVD player.

“As long as you don’t ask me to wrap anything else, I’m right behind you.  I think this is going to be an excellent year.” he replied.

The DVD player, unfortunately, was toast before the new year.

[eastergrass]

Digit

I.

Marie was on the downstairs couch, a game of solitaire unfolding on the coffee table. She had made a pot of coffee midway through The Today Show. She drank it all and chased with a pinch of Antony’s weed. She sat crosslegged, slowly losing to herself in front of the muted television.

The house was remarkably unchanged, but Marie herself was a bit different from the last time she called it home. She was quieter. She had started watching a lot of television, and had begun losing energy she didn’t realize she had. She lost touch with the global tragedies she used to worry about. She didn’t read. She heard only other peoples’ music. She was 27, buzzing on her mom’s couch, waiting for her little brother to come home so she had someone to talk to. She also hadn’t won solitaire in three days.

She decided to clean a dewy-bottomed pineapple. It left a print on the counter from sweating on the granite. She found it was easy to be centered by these methodical tasks. Marie removed the crown. She lopped off the sweet-smelling bottom. The knife had a heavy, professional feel to it. Her parents always liked the finer things. The sticky juices spread out, seeping over, under, and into the teak board.

Time passed. She had expected someone to be home by sundown, but this didn’t seem like much of a possibility any longer. The heat of summer began to die off. She carried a grocery bag filled with the bits of pineapple skin and the spiky green dome out to the trash bins. A recent invasion of fruit flies was attributed to Marie’s laziness and she made sure to be extra clean. Also Thursday was trash day, so she needed it out tonight.

II.

There were tall pines, bare to the top. Like a Christmas tree, teetering. The bins were beside the garage in a latticed alcove. The arbor, her mother called it. The smell of suffocated trash snuck out the lid before she could even open it.

Removing the lid, she was hit: stagnant rainwater, forgotten produce. There was something less familiar, though. What caught her attention was the bag at the top of the trash pile. A plastic take-out bag covered with purple orchids, with scrawling gold type: Thank You! Thank You! Thank You!

She was confused as to how someone ordered what seemed to be Thai or Vietnamese food without informing her. Antony didn’t have the money. Of course, Adrianne would have gotten her food, but then talked about the sodium content. The few leaves that had turned and fallen skittered in the driveway, clacking like dry dice.

A dismal curiosity got the better of her, and she bent into the putrid plastic maw. She tore open the sack, and a corner of a dishtowel stuck out. Marie lifted the bag out of the canister, into the darkening evening. It spun, dangling from the trussed handles. Fully removing its load, she began to discover the red. She reached some parchment paper at the center of the towels, with deep dark stains. She knew it was blood. You! the bag accused.

She heard the imperceptible hum of her mother’s mint-green hybrid pulling up the lengthy driveway. Marie tucked the bloodstained paper wads into the pockets of her sweatshirt, and turned to walk toward those crystal-clear headlights that cut the now fully-realized darkness.

Later on, her mother accosted her while she watched the 6:00 news. “Do you remember those anti-drug commercials, with the girl melting into the couch?” Adrianne perched one hand on her unmotherly hip, titled at a calculating angle. Marie stared at the television.

“You look like that.” She spun into the kitchen. A cork was drawn from bottle of Pinot Grig.

To be fair, she was correct. However, no mother should address her daughter in the way Adrianne had been for the past 27 years. She imagined her making snide remarks all her life, leaning over the edge of her crib and critiquing her large ears and thick hair. What a little gremlin, she’d cackle, tilting back her shock of black hair.

The hard-nosed news caster looked back at her from the flatscreen television set, a blurry cityscape green-screened behind his steely shoulders. “A true tragedy, we can only pray those responsible are brought swiftly to justice.” He looked off-screen, and began to say something else, when the program cut to commercials.

III.

It was a finger. Wrapped in parchment paper, wound up in Williams-Sonoma dishtowels. It was pale, yet bruised. The pale parts were the color of young ginger. The dark was a dirty purple. The finger nail seemed like it may fall off. She held it gently in the lamplight of her bedroom desk, smoke swirling out of the glass pipe she stole from Antony’s room. He hadn’t noticed, and that was a month ago. For the first time in her life Marie was afraid of her mother. Her bedroom, which Marie had not seen the inside of since she returned home, lay at the other

end of the unnecessarily large home. She was probably passed out, alone, in the bed she shared with Saul when he wasn’t away.

Marie ate a chunk of pineapple. It occurred to her that pineapple did, in fact, taste somewhat like a blend of pine needles and apples. She also considered the possibility that Antony was responsible for this. Her head nodded down, her eyelids flickered.

It lay on a meticulously folded edition of The Hartdon Bugle, occupying the spotlight of her bowed lamp. She thought it might at any minute remember where it was supposed to be, and limp off like Thing in The Addams Family, down some dusty black and white corridor and offstage. But it never moved, which is what bothered her most. Marie had always watched movies and television and wondered why nobody had contacted the police, who she assumed would arrive promptly and sort the whole thing before any damage was done. This didn’t make for good television, she knew.

She now wondered, rather abstractedly, who this finger might belong to. The coarse and bloody hairs, gritty with blood and struggle, lay somewhat flat and extremely disheveled. What would lead Adrianne to do this? Was someone else responsible, and if so, why did Marie assume her mother was?

The limp and mottled index finger – or was it a ring finger? – reminded Marie of something she once threatened to do. She had come home to live with her family after she left a man she had been with for five years. “I can do better,” is what she said.

She stayed up waiting for Antony, watching Law & Order re-runs. Each episode began with the discovery of the corpse. Somebody jogging through the park sees a foot sticking out from under a shrub. Some city workers dredge an urban mummy from a storm drain. A man playing fetch with his dog sees it running toward him with a severed leg.

Marie often found herself dissecting plot lines of T.V. shows. Back in Indiana, she was co-owner of a three-person company that built sets for community theater productions. She had always hoped she’d end up working for an NBC show or anything low-brow and high-paying. Many of the sets the company built were for plays in which people were murdered. She had long ago picked up the plot devices. “Let’s get this to the lab!” a tired detective barked down the alleyway.

IV.

A car pulled into the driveway. Self-consciously slow-moving and quiet, as if the vehicle itself were ashamed of being out so late. Antony snuck through a side door, which he closed with a click and a whisper. He must have heard the television, because he came right into the basement.

“Sis.”

“Antony. We need to talk.”

Marie and Antony stood next to the bins. They had disabled the security light, so when they went out to the arbor they didn’t attract any undue attention from their mother. Antony had laughed when she first told him the story, but stopped after he saw it himself. They passed a crooked joint between them, rolling clouds of smoke into the chilly air.

“It wasn’t her. She’s crazy, but …” he shook his head. “It wasn’t mom.”

Marie didn’t say anything, she just nodded. Antony crouched down around the trashcan, shining the flashlight on his phone throughout the gravel and on the siding of the garage. Perhaps looking for some blood-spray, or ransom note, or a wedding band that would solve the whole thing. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an overwrought expression of tiredness and anxiety.

Marie heaved a foggy sigh. “God damn it.”

That night, she wrapped the finger back up in its packaging, and put it in a gallon Ziploc bag, and placed it in the freezer of the mini-fridge upstairs that her mother never used. A hole burned in her gut. She went to bed without brushing her teeth. Her mouth tasted like stale pot smoke and a chunk of pineapple was wedged in her incisors.

V.

The next morning, Marie woke up to an empty house. Downstairs, a cooling pot of coffee waited. A note from her mother read:

Marie -

I made you coffee! Although, if you go for a run (which I pray you do) drink it afterward, in case of a BM. Could you put the bins at the curb? Get Up, Get Out, and GET SOMETHING.

wait until sundown to self-medicate.

– Mother

Friday turned out similar to Thursday. Marie sunk into the couch. Her left eye twitched, and she quickly knit her brow to correct this spasm. These eyebrows dominated her face. Her ex compared them to an actress’s in a way that raised questions. She heard the garbage truck doing its routine outside, and discreetly parted two of the venetian blinds to watch the arm dump the cans into the belly. She sank further into the couch, flexing her softening muscles inside the sweatsuit she wore the day before.

They had a nice dinner that night. The bulbs above the table hung from thick cords attached to the rafters at odd intervals: spreading like the legs of a giant spider. New houses can have ghosts as well as the old ones. They ate the leg of a lamb, smeared with an emerald blend of minced herbs. Marie ate pistachios out of a black bowl and threw the shells on her empty plate.

Antony, regardless of what he did in his free time, was actually a rather diligent student. Marie forgot exactly what they were celebrating, but all three of them were proud of his achievement. At one point Marie watched as her mother’s tight face softened in the lamplight, her elbows resting on the table, her birdlike hands clasped in an unlikely pose. For a moment, she thought she had imagined tears filling Adrianne’s eyes.

“It’s a nice, nice night. I don’t have to worry.” Adrianne went to bed shortly after letting that one slip.

VI.

Marie couldn’t find the moon. The wind blew cold from the far-off river, booming up through the pines. She looked up, and couldn’t distinguish the clouds from the sky. Depending on where she focused it could go either way.

She was sitting in what they called “Indian-style” when she was a kid. They probably didn’t call it that anymore. Across the sleeping yard, the snuffed security light was unable to betray her cautious movements. She was digging deep with a garden trowel. The earth would freeze up in about a month, so she had to do it now. The finger was in a Mason Jar, floating in a recipe for an all-purpose preservative she found online. She added a few sprigs of dill for a laugh.

Marie remembered burying a cat slightly deeper in the woods when she was seventeen. Adrianne and Saul had helped dig, as she stood by letting out the last of her tears. It was autumn then too, and she remembered the stillness of the pines and the golds and blushing reds of the oak leaves. Frowzy was about to have a bit of company, but just a bit.

She made sure she was right on the edge of the tree-line, at the foot of the sole paper birch, so she could remember the exact spot if she ever had to retrieve it. She caught the sloshing jar in the light of her cellphone one more time, the bobbing finger catching itself in the vortex of dill and brine. She set it gently into the soft, cold crater and began to fold it into the earth. When she was done, she built a cairn. The clouds separated themselves from the sky and exposed her to moonlight.