#like the slightly hazy retroness

[slowdive1994]

the girls cover thing is so pretty like agsggdgdgd

[aquawhim]

Solar Eclipse — 5 reshade/gshade presets

download (sfs) ♡

more details and previews under the cut

phantasma — inspired by retro aesthetic.

[ hazy and vivid with a magenta hue; works well under different lightings ]

corsair — inspired by fuji film.

[ vibrant and saturated with a cyan undertone; best for day time shot especially sky and ocean]

mystic — inspired by vintage film.

[ muted and serene with a moody atmosphere; works well in most settings ]

solaris — bright and natural vibes.

[ light and radiant with gentle translucence; works well under different lightings ]

nova — a gameplay friendly preset.

[ slightly enhanced contrast and saturation, removes green tint; for gameplay ]

**hotkeys are provided to toggle adof & mxao off. This preset is not the best for pretty screenshots but for gameplay.**

more preview here

for reshade users, you need to grab the gshade shaders for them to look the same as my screenshots

i highly recommend you to use sunblind & better in-game lighting mod (dark saturated light rooms) for better results

do whatever you want as long as you don't claim them as your own

feel free to tag me if you use them! i'd like to see it

[envihellbender]

Haddie giving a statement directly to Jonathan Sims Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London about the Overlap and the Ravages. Maybe she plugs her podcast

Fandom: The Magnus Archives / Dead By Daylight

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Haddie Kaur

Content: Horror, fractures in time and space

Summary: A statement regarding Haddie Kaur’s experiences with the Overlap and the Ravage.

—

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

I know it’s a bit dated but we find that these sorts of statements transfer better onto tape recorder.

HADDIE

Retro. Like it. Gives it a nice lo-fi feel I bet.

ARCHIVIST

I’m… yes, well, anyway-

HADDIE

I mean I get it, sometimes our equipment goes haywire when we’re getting close to an Overlap. Must be a similar deal. Maybe you guys are legit.

ARCHIVIST

Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Anyway, shall we begin.

HADDIE

Yeah, yeah, right. So, where do I start? Do I just jump in or…?

ARCHIVIST

I usually start with the name, date, and what the statement is regarding. Would you like some privacy or-

HADDIE

I reeeeally would prefer you stayed. When I talk about this things get hazy. I’m gonna need something to ground me.

ARCHIVIST

Okay, whatever you like.

HADDIE

I’m Haddie Kaur, this is a statement regarding my research into buildings that are prone to what I’ve come to know as the ‘Overlaps’ and specifically what I call ‘the Ravage.’ It’s the 21st of April 2019.

Probably makes more sense if I give a bit of background. When I was twelve my parents died in a car accident, I had a great childhood up until then, and afterwards I had a pretty loving adoptive family. Despite that, every single psychiatrist I was sent to said that I developed some trauma that resulted in my first experiences with the Overlaps. I believed that for a while too but I actually have video evidence that they are not simply in my head. I left them with the guy I spoke to. Heavy guy, soft spoken…

ARCHIVIST

Martin. Yes, thank you.

HADDIE

Anyway, I mean, the deaths definitely fucked me up. See this white bit in my hair? Not a personal choice. Happened the morning after. Extreme stress, they said. But like I said, this isn’t just that. I mean there are cases of similar things happening to those with extreme trauma but… Whatever, I’ll get to what the Overlaps actually are, yeah? So, I think the best way to explain it is to talk about what I’ve seen. I went to a haunted asylum in Quebec with my brother Jordan, and as soon as I got there I started to feel things. It’s actually what one of the recordings is, I feel the electric static first - sort of humming in my fingers - and then the fog starts appearing. It’s like… I see the Overlaps between worlds. I see rooms but one section will be as it is now - decayed, rotten, falling apart - another will be just as it was when it was brand new. Paint isn’t even chipped, doctors and patients are walking around. Then another was just… before it got taken down, the patients screaming, suffering - the doctors being assholes. It’s a lot. It’s pretty overwhelming. I can sort of see it here actually. When I was at reception I saw a room filled with computers, two girls and a guy just chatting and drinking coffee. And further down the hall, I saw this really really tall blond guy looking through files. Only reason I knew it was an Overlap was because the wall behind him was in slightly better condition. Little cleaner. Weird, right?

I know it sounds insane, I can see the skepticism all over your face and I’ve heard it all before. Just try and keep an open mind until you see the vids, yeah? Hey, even if you don’t, can’t say I didn’t try, right? Honestly, this stuff doesn’t quite bother me so much any more but it’s kinda… Difficult sometimes. No, the bit I really want to talk about is the Ravages. Because. I saw it again. I didn’t originally come here to make a statement, I was using the library in the institute upstairs and I saw it. Knew I had to come down and talk to you about it.

So sometimes during the Overlaps I see something a bit more… Empty than the others. I mean I don’t know but my hypothesis prior to doing the research is that it is what is underneath the Overlaps. It’s like you’re knitting a blanket and if you pick out some of the threads what pokes out is the table underneath. It feels to me like the Ravage, or Ravages I guess, are like the table. Normally, it’s like… It’s intense. It feels like the drain in which all human misery ends up creating a mosaic every crumb of suffering that we’ve ever experienced. It’s pretty fucking horrific. Seeing that. It’s like tears in reality showing me a deep, dark fog with screams and faces appearing and disappearing. It’s like the Overlaps I guess, but it’s repeated and crowded so it’s unclear, and it’s all miserable. The Overlaps could be anything.

Anyway, I saw that upstairs in the library. Except it looked… different. For one thing there weren’t faces, just eyes. Lots of fucking eyeballs not even in heads or sockets just there staring at me en masse. I tried walking up and down and they followed me around. I actually managed to reach in and look around, and I saw an older guy, a few spirals and doors, screaming, an old woman, and erm… Okay, so this is gonna seem like I’m fucking with you but I think I saw you there? I mean, or someone who looked like you. I’m not super invested in the idea it was just what I saw don’t look so freaked. Jesus. Anyway, and a lot of fucking spiders. So many spiders. Fucking weird. They were all taken by fog and these giant spider like tendrils. It was just… Sad. It was- it’s like the worst. And. Yeah. I guess that’s me done. Statement over. Haddie out, I guess.

ARCHIVIST

Thank you. That was… curious.

HADDIE

You don’t have to believe me, buddy, don’t look so freaked.

ARCHIVIST

Yes well, if I believe you or not isn’t really that relevant. We will investigate, take a look at the evidence you gave us and take a look. Erm, Ms Kaur, before you go. Does… does the name Jurgen Leitner mean anything to you?

HADDIE

You mean the book guy?

ARCHIVIST

Yes. Yes, do you- have you any experience-

HADDIE

Every now and then we find a book with the Jurgen Leitner thing in the cover, we thought they might be causing it. Then we met Gerry and he collects them and … Yeah. So we help him out and he does… I dunno. Whatever with them. That’s all I know. Guess you gotta find Gerry if you wanna know more?

ARCHIVIST

Yes. I suppose I will.

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

Researching Ms Kaur’s statement was all made that much simpler by the sheer amount of evidence she left us. It seems she is quite educated and doesn’t make any claims without thorough investigation. An external hard drive filled with files - videos and photographs of the Overlaps and the Ravages make it difficult to argue with. As well as long list of addresses for every single place they have been seen. Personally I’m not particularly well versed with technology but I still think they could have been faked like most ghost videos are. Tim has a friend who’s rather experienced with this sort of thing and he says they’ll take a look. Hopefully that will be the end of it. Particularly as the only other witnesses to these events are her own brother, and the supposed event upstairs was witnessed by no one. We checked the CCTV and annoyingly the feed cut out the moment Ms Kaur entered the library. I’m sure that is a coincidence however, this building is falling apart.

But there’s one thing I can’t quite get my head around. Well, alongside the fact Ms Kaur seems like an intelligent, together woman. It seems Ms Kaur knows Gerard Keay. And her experiences with Leitners may explain a great deal. She seems so… calm about the whole thing. It’s eerily different to my experience with those who’ve been effected by Leitners. Well, we’ll see what our evidence brings us, won’t we?

Recording ends.

[CLICK]

[odoroussavourssweet]

Vero Profumo Rozy

Vero Profumo Rozy

nose: Vero Kern

notes: rose, honey, passionfruit, peach, powder, lilac, sandalwood, tarragon, hyacinth

Rozy — a scent inspired by 1950’s actress Anna Magnani, known as the “She-Wolf” for her passionate performances — opens with a liquored aldehydic rose, very retro glamour, and then quickly gets dusty and musky. It’s a cloud of slightly-peachy warmth and dry darker mossiness.

A few minutes in, Rozy is dominated by cooling, sharp-green tarragon against the mossy-earthy backdrop.

On me, Rozy is a rose chypre, emphasis on the chypre — it’s all about deep mossy forest greens with a bit of aldehydic & animalic bite. We’re firmly in femme fatale territory: a style of classic glamour that comes with raw sensuality and a mean streak.

half an hour in, Rozy relaxes and actually starts to become rosy — or, rather, has a rose/amber/peach phase, warm and skin-like and expansive. I think I do sense a bit of passionfruit here as well; there’s a tart, purplish fruity facet alongside the soft peach. As fruit, rose, and ambery-musky warmth intersect the green moss, the effect is symphonic and glorious.

The far drydown is a hazy, skin-like amber-peach-moss, a comfortable sort of sensuality that stays with you all day.

Rozy reminds me a bit of Chypre Palatin (another niche fruity/green chypre with a retro-glamour sensibility) but Chypre Palatin is much more aggressive and high-contrast — its greens are sharper, its fruits jammier, its base darker. Rozy is a holistic blend. Its sharp edges are tamed into loving warmth.

The other natural comparison point for a peachy chypre is Mitsuoko, but Rozy is from a totally different planet: Mitsuoko has a tender, sweetly spiced, peach-and-cinnamon thing going on, and even at its mossiest it’s rather sentimental in spirit. Rozy is spice-free, much drier, and never loses its edge.

[veshialles]

Send In The Drones

a brief glimpse of Dalek design history, as per my silly little headcanons

Prototype Dalek (Genesis Of The Daleks)

City Dalek (The Daleks)

Spaceflight-Era Dalek (The Dalek Invasion Of Earth)

Frontier-Era/Renegade Dalek (Resurrection of the Daleks)

Imperial-Era Dalek (Remembrance Of The Daleks)

Empire-Era Dalek (The Dalek's Master Plan, Big Finish audios, etc)

Time War/Post-Time War-Era Dalek (Dalek (2005))

New Paradigm-Era Dalek (Victory Of The Daleks)

Ascendant Dalek (Paradigm Shift [my fanfic])

design notes:

Genesis Dalek was inspired by a concept done by Librarian-Bot on DeviantArt, but I tried to blend some elements from the Renegade design as a nice little nod to the fact that the episode just reused the same prop they had been using as "the Prototype Dalek"

On the Spaceflight/Earth Invasion Dalek, I swapped out the City Dalek eyestalk for the ones used on the props in Dalek's Invasion Earth 2150 AD (1966), mostly so they look a little more unique, since the canon model was essentially just City Daleks with a bigger fender and a radio dish hot-glued onto the back.

I don't have much to say about the Frontier/Renegade model, except that I'm really satisfied with how the eyestalk turned out, a nice blend of old and new designs.

I added some more detail to the Imperial Dalek design, because the canon design does not translate well into the Roblox Studio engine and looked rather flat and boring. I added some bolts to the shoulder slats, added a metal outline to the hexagon piece, and also copied the plunger shape and re-aligned it with the eyestalk to give it something a little more distinctive. Plus, in my honest opinion, white and gold are just not great Dalek colours to begin with. Used Glass material instead of Metal material to give it that "too clean" look (and also cause the metal texture doesn't look great in pure off-white). Also made the fender gold, because white on white is just tacky I'm sorry it looked bad, guys. You need to have contrast!

For the Empire Dalek, I was trying to imagine what the Daleks in most of the Big Finish audio dramas should look like, since my visualizations are always a little hazy when I'm listening to those stories. After a deep-dive into the wiki, I finally settled on something that really blended the old with the new, in a way that makes it slightly more clear that these are the Daleks that immediately preceed the Time War variant. So they ended up with the smaller fender, apple-eye, retro ray-gun, and collar sections, with a darker version of the silver-blue paintjob, but the general outline is essentially just the Time-War Dalek with a few changes

For both Time War Daleks, Empire Daleks, and Ascendancy Daleks, I found a font online to make custom ID tags

New Paradigm Dalek is the least altered model. It's perfect no notes. Clunky and sleek at the same time I love it. Actually, one note: I tweaked the colours slightly and swapped out the SmoothPlastic texture for the Metal texture. Now they look like the galaxy's deadliest sports cars and I am here for it

The Ascendancy Dalek is a custom design I whipped up; essentially I just ported pieces from the Paradigm model onto the Time-War frame and re-adjusted them to fit better. (including the funky vent on the back, you can't see it here). Essentially, I really liked the idea that Asylum Of The Daleks put forth; where the New Paradigm became the dominant and ruling caste of their new Empire, but I thought rolling back to the Time War Dalek design was just a lame move, frankly.

Anyway my lore for them: As the New Paradigm began their expansion, reclaiming the territories that their ancestors fallen empire had lost in the wake of the Time War, they encountered many other Dalek hold-outs from ages past that had survived. After many costly and brutal encounters with other factions, the Paradigm realized that their limited resources could not maintain this crusade forever, at least not until they could compile enough research data to begin making their own Progenitor Devices. So instead, as the hunt for more Progenitor Devices to study took priority over their need to conquer all impure Daleks, the New Paradigm began offering a choice to other Dalek hold-outs: be exterminated or submit to the rule of their new empire. Those who surrendered became part of the Ascendant Caste, and were supplanted into new travel machines that were constructed to resemble the New Paradigm's bio-engineered shells, creating an uneasy alliance between the pure New Dalek Paradigm and the conquered factions. How long such an alliance could possibly last, who's to say.

[consistentsquash]

5 Quotes from 5 Fics

Got a day off. Catching up with fic. Read some really memorable lines today so got to quote rec!

The Afterlight update from @perverse-idyll !!!!! This chapter had a lot of rollercoaster moments. Starting from the opening scene of Harry's retro. Honestly I am really living the funny fucked up vibe of this fic. Before the angst starts because it is PI. <3

He rolled onto his back and stared blearily at the ceiling. Black leather gloves. Pyjamas. Orgasm. Not necessarily in that order. He'd - oh bugger, he'd brought Severus Snape back to his flat. Practically abducted him, in fact. He observed a strict policy of never bringing sexual partners here, never. Certainly not for the hell of it. And there were no hazy feel-good doubts about what had happened afterward. Snape's fingers in his mouth. Snape's hand manipulating his cock. Harry had been about as drunk as one of Aberforth's goats horns-down in a Hog's Head beer barrel, and he'd still come like a garden hose with Snape whispering in his ear.

2. The Ice Cream Man & the Potions Master by @squibstress. This is probably my fav fic of 2023 so far!!! Snape making ice cream. I mean. Magical ice cream. The best ice cream. I really need to rec this fic but meanwhile I am going to rec this quote about Florean checking out Snape doing what he does best <3

Florean watched as he moved it through the mixture in slow, generous arcs, his wrists seeming to undulate in concert with his elbows. His face seemed to relax, brows parting slightly, jaw unclenching, eyes losing their darting, avian alertness to focus on the task at hand. He was, in short, graceful and, Florean thought, happy.

3. Ossuarium's epilogue!!!!! from eldritcher. Loads of angst/bittersweet literary stuff which deserves a real rec to talk about but this gem of a line needs to be on a coffee mug or something!

Only teenage boys name their cocks.

4. A Much-Needed Kneading from anonymous. This is a Snapecase fic. Normally I don't go for Snamione. But this one was super cute. Snape naming their cats just like that!!!

"Hickory, Dickory, and Dock seem to be eating well enough."

5. Post Mortem by @inarticulateimbecile. Got the rec from Danni and omg love this fic. It's 100% Snarry. Loads and loads of characterization quotes but this one really stuck with me!! <3

(Whose hand did he last hold before him? Lily's, on a humid summer day? Albus's, as it rotted away under his touch?)

[dustedmagazine]

Benoit Pioulard — Eidetic (Morr Music)

Eidetic by Benoît Pioulard

Thomas Meluch has such a specific and distinctive aesthetic that subtle variations within his sound catch the ear. His default setting is an amorphous wash of warbling, nostalgia-drenched tones, punctuated by muffled percussion, plucked nylon-string guitar and his hushed, multi-tracked voice. Patterns begin to emerge in his songwriting methods the more you listen, such as his fondness for introducing tambourine into the right channel to inject energy into a song, or fading a gentle rush of soft-focus bells into a glimmering instrumental. Just as you begin to tune out, the next song might shift a little, introducing a steel-string acoustic or electric guitar to allow the instrumental timbres to brighten in the mix. The sounds themselves are gorgeous, but it’s the ebb and flow of Eidetic that maintains interest.

Meluch has been working in this vein under his Benoit Pioulard moniker for the last 15 years or so, and he drifts back and forth between instrumental and vocal-led releases. Eidetic offers a pleasing balance of both styles. Though they’re kept to a few minutes each, immersive instrumentals such as “Margaret Murie” and “Where To” feel like they could drift on indefinitely. In contrast, galloping guitar-led tracks such as “Thursday Night” inject a slightly manic early-Animal Collective energy, like being shaken from staring listless at a campfire and swept into a stirring, clapping sing-along. The true outlier is “The Void,” a breezy, beachy sway that momentarily puts one in mind of the retro British summertime sounds of Cliff Richards and the Shadows. Quite a shift from the shadowy, mossy, forest vibes of the rest of the record, but it works. 

After 45 minutes, when Eidetic draws to a close in a blur of tape hiss and bird song, it feels like waking from a dream. Though the album title refers to being able to recall specific mental images in detail, the hazy ambiguity of Benoit Pioulard’s music leaves the listener in a pleasingly disoriented daze. 

Tim Clarke

[luuurien]

Tennis - Pollen

(Indie Pop, Soft Rock, Yacht Rock)

The married duo’s latest album melds their romantic sophisti-pop with new deviations into shimmering yacht rock and shimmering disco, Pollen as much about escapism as it is about the consequences of it. They’re less preoccupied with marital love than ever, but the pure romance and darker sensibilities of Pollen make for their most engaging album to date.

☆☆☆☆

Tennis’ music is so deeply intertwined with Patrick Riley and Alaina Moore’s marriage that rarely is there a moment where their full commitment to one another isn’t at least somewhat present within their music. Over the more than ten years they’ve been creating together, the duo’s music has sat squarely in the world of light indie pop with retro stylings fit for the timeless romance their songs focus on - the brill building worship of their 2011 debut, the psych-infused ‘70s pop of Yours Conditionally, the clash between domestic bliss and external events tearing at it that made 2020’s Swimmer such a delightful listen - and if their music hasn’t always been the flashiest within modern indie, it’s certainly been some of the most pleasant and rewarding. With their latest album, Pollen, they’ve shifted to a slightly different frame of mind while keeping the core of their music intact, turning themselves towards electrifying escapist fantasies. They’re less preoccupied with marital love than usual, but the pure romance and darker sensibilities of Pollen make for their most engaging album to date, touching upon the ways love can be reshaped and given brilliant new hues as Riley & Moore’s romantic sophisti-pop finds common ground with yacht rock, disco, and folk pop, fully immersing themselves in new musical stylings while comfortable in their confectionary indie pop sound the whole way through. In turn, Pollen ends up their most exciting and playful project to date, even when their modest sound and polite compositions keep the music from completely latching onto the duo’s new thematic ideas. Like usual, Tennis’ padded sound is perfectly fit for nostalgia-laden pop songs that don’t feel like they’re relying on the sounds of the past to pull you into the music. Their production is glossy as ever, and with mastering done by industry veteran Joe Laporta. Pollen keeps a hazy ring around its ten songs and a rich, well-balanced blend of sounds the whole way through. These songs are simple in their structure and instrumentation, but Tennis, like always, do a wonderful job making plush indie pop a joy to listen to. While Forbidden Doors' loosened bassline and soft piano leads make for a laidback album opener, the short guitar solos and Moore’s fluttering vocal performances are the push the song needs to go from a fun listen to a lovely one, sticking in your mind for weeks as Moore’s gentle melodicism and the sturdy production keeps you coming back. These simple pleasures are what Pollen thrives on: One Night With the Valet is a lovely ode to the first time Moore and Riley met atop gangly piano chords and a plucky synth bass; Glorietta melds musings on American patriotism (“Their patriotic displays are so loud / I can't see the sunset through the sound”) with the vastness of the States (“Paving all over the shoreline / Can't believe what it looks like / We're doing whatever feels good”) atop punchy, caramelized soft rock; Never Been Wrong gives folk balladry the Tennis treatment with subdued acoustic guitar and rushing synths to bring an intimate mood compounded by the playful waltz of its 6/8 time signature. None of the foundational parts of Pollen’s songs can’t be found in hundreds of other pop songs, but it’s the mood Tennis injects into them - the dreamy romance and vintage pop sounds - that makes the album so wonderful from start to finish. They play it safe, but that doesn’t mean they don’t play it smoothly and beautifully. As Tennis move their music towards a slightly less grounded world, one removed from the mortality and anxiety that brought Swimmer to its interesting middle ground between rich sophisti-pop and moody dream pop, they give greater attention as to when to let the music glide through the air and when to settle it into a specific environment. Paper, with its nature-focused lyrics and breezy woodwind embellishments, picks up the energy in the largely understated second half of the album while still honing in on how romance permeates everything around you when you’ve held onto it as long as Riley & Moore have (“All I hope for takes me deeper / With never any plan, only echoes”), and Let’s Make a Mistake Tonight is one of the duo’s most exhilarating tracks to date as Moore’s starry-eyed songwriting (“Let's cruise in the vesper night / Concrete in the headlights / Wheels set in their arc like gods”) reacts with how deep her love of Riley is after their many years together (“I can't help it, I can't walk away / Take my pain with pleasure any day / We live on the ashes”), Tennis utilizing their simple song structures to make thoughtful statements about how love transforms the world around us and how retreating from the world around you can heighten that romance even more. Seeking anything further than that out of Pollen and you won’t end up with much, but immersing you in simple and honest songs about romance and how it reacts to both the dark and the light is what Tennis have always been best at, and their ambitions haven’t changed a bit with Pollen. It’s undoubtedly not the most thrilling listen this year, but Pollen again captures the magic Tennis so effortlessly create in a compact collection of lush indie pop songs where half the fun is in just losing yourself in the duo’s sunny, sparkly music and its ability to articulate love in so many ways, Pollen willing to bend its light to make statements on devotion they never have before, Tennis in proximity to bliss but testing out new angles and speeds at which it comes towards them. Where plainness can bring beigeness and disinterest to other bands, Tennis use it to emphasize how Riley and Moore’s familiarity with everything about one another and the many years they’ve spent together, Pollen’s soft glow and crisp instrumentation instilling both the familiarity of classic pop formulas and the beauty the two of them see the world through. It’s easygoing, loveable indie pop, and Tennis do it better than anyone else out there, Pollen another heartfelt success in their discography.

[superherotiger]

The Strongest Instinct (Irondad/What If..? Fic)

 After freaking out with @retro-memo about the latest episode of What If...? and all the missed Irondad potential, I was hit was a burst of inspiration to write this slightly sad but still a little bit soft drabble before I at some point write a fix it of the episode all together hah. Not really any spoilers ahead for Episode 5 of What If...? since it doesn’t actually follow the plot, just the universe, but don’t read if you want to be 100% spoiler free. Enjoy! And please drop a heart and reblog if you liked it, it means a lot to me :D

Ao3 Link

Part 2

~~~

Tony’s thoughts were muddled, overlapping with each other like the waves of a storming ocean. Any attempt to grasp onto one would lead to another crashing in straight after, then another, and another. The only one that overpowered all the others though was hunger. Hunger…

It was a cavernous pit in his soul that drove his decaying body forward on autopilot. Every step, every blast of his repulsors, every time he drove his teeth into a new victim was driven by the single instinct that dominated all the others. It was all consuming, all encompassing. In the end, there was barely anything left of the once great Tony Stark besides his shell of a body.

Not that it mattered much to Tony now. All he knew was hunger, and all he could think about was his next meal.

So tilting his head towards the screams of a fresh kill echoing down the street, Tony blasted off in his nanotech suit and weaved through the abandoned cityscape. He didn’t know why he stayed there. His corrupted mind would never given him a chance to find the answer, but he always stayed in the city. Wandered the crumbling boroughs, lingered in places he didn’t remember. As if he was searching for something…

But just as quickly as the thought would occur, it would get washed away again.

Hunger. Hunger. Hunger-

That’s all there ever was…

Landing on the ground with a crack of asphalt beneath his boots, Tony stood up and saw a familiar gnarled face through his hazy vision. It wasn’t surprising to see the Hunter-

Hunger. Clint. Clint- Hunger. Hunger-

-especially considering the only prey left were too quick for the hoard to catch. No, only those like him-

Avengers- Hunger. Hunger.

-were strong enough to match the prey now. The only ones lucky enough to satisfy their ravenous appetites for just a moment.

But lowering his gaze to the prey seizing painfully at the Hunter’s feet, Tony became entranced by the red and blue fabric that wrapped around its body, tensing at the warm sensation that bloomed inside his hollowed chest. He might’ve called it familiarity if it wasn’t immediately overridden but a burst of raging fury, spurring him to leap forward and roar at the Hunter with his gauntlets raised and ready to fire.

The Hunter stumbled back at first, perplexed for an undead heartbeat, before he snarled at Tony and dragged an arrow out of his shoulder to nock into his bow. There wasn’t even a chance for him to draw the string back however before a beam of energy blasted straight through his shattered skull and left the Hunter’s body to crumple to the cement. Another lifeless body amidst a planet full of them- except this time, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

There was a brief flash of sorrow through Tony’s chest at the sight of the motionless Hunter, but it was quickly swept away again by that familiar train of thoughts.

Hunger. Hunger. Hunger. Must eat- must eat. Hunger.

Tony peered down at the red and blue figure which had grown limp at his feet, appearing even smaller than before as they laid there all curled up and alone. The void in his stomach urged him to search for food, but a far stronger instinct led him to kneel down on the asphalt and hover his hand over the figure’s torn up shoulder. Tony could tell it wasn’t prey anymore. The Hunter had been too quick, and even now Tony could see that its flesh had discoloured and decayed. There was no food here anymore…

Hunger. Hunger. Hunger.

Normally he would turn away and go searching for a new kill. A fresh target. Anything to quell the never-ending emptiness within him. But this time, he found himself hesitating. He didn’t know why. Didn’t have the capacity anymore to question such a thing. He just knelt there and watched as weak shivers began to wrack the lifeless body before him, overloaded with thoughts and simultaneously drawing a blank. Starvation battling instinct.

It was the scared whine that echoed into the air though that finally snapped Tony out of his trance, his broken jaw twitching as he stared down at the newest spawn. And without cause or reason, Tony’s began to move, guiding the undead creature to sit up with gentle hands. Far gentler than they had been in a long time…

Finally seeming to come to awareness himself, the spawn pulled his gloved hands away from his face and revealed a set of frosted, yellow eyes and sickly green skin. He looked dazed. Unsure. And though Tony could barely feel anything himself, he did register another flash of warmth throughout his dead nerves at the sight of the spawn’s features.

As if being pulled by a string, Tony moved his arm and tapped his hand lightly against the side of the spawn’s face, stopping only when his armoured fingers came to rest in its matted brown curls of hair.

Hunger. Hunger… Hunger…

There was no reason to stay. Nothing that could soothe his starvation here. But then the spawn stared up at him with a hopeful, unwavering gaze, and for the very first time, Tony’s mind went still. His thoughts came to a stop.

The emptiness was gone…

Letting out a soft grunt, the spawn leant forward until his head was resting against Tony’s chest plate, fitting there as perfectly as a lost puzzle piece. And as Tony coiled his arms around the spawn in an unexplainable yet fierce instinct, a new thought drifted into his mind.

Kid… Kid… Kid…

…Peter…

~~~

Tag list:

@joyful-soul-collector @lost-lunar-wolf @lbigreyhound13 @aixabi @zanderljones @milstrim @anarinette @sfabsha @appleschloss @sdottkrames @katthebookiestnerd

[burlveneer-music]

Glenn Fallows & Mark Treffel - The Globeflower Masters Vol​.​2 - another batch of 70s-inspired cinematic instrumentals

Glenn Fallows and Mark Treffel released their first album, ‘The Globeflower Master Vol. 1’, on Mr Bongo in September 2021. With its lush, warm and timeless productions paying homage to classic 60s and 70s soundtrack composers, it was very well received and struck a chord with the scene’s connoisseurs. Louder Than War emphatically stated, "It’s impossible not to like The Globeflower Masters Vol. 1.”, with Gigwise echoing that praise “slickly compelling retro vibes”. The Globeflower Master Vol. 2 is the slightly edgier and more grown-up sequel to Mark and Glenn's 2021 debut album. For this excursion, the Brighton-based duo wanted to lean a little further into their European film soundtrack influences, with particular inspiration mined from the works of Stefano Torossi, David Shire, and Roger Webb. This expansion of their sound builds upon the rich tapestry of cinematic funk à la David Axelrod, Serge Gainsbourg and Morricone that fashioned Vol. 1. Here the arrangements, melodies, and harmonies have been refined; only what is needed is left. The recordings are drenched in visual imagery; they stimulate the senses and invite the imagination to roam. Ethereal, hazy memories of lost summers are triggered; the beauty of listening to music when driving along a deserted road in the Italian countryside lined with cypress trees heading towards the sun, and beyond. As the musical journey progresses, we even take a voyage to another planet. Whether these memories are real or constructed recollections of scenes from film and television, the tracks evoke a feeling of nostalgia and comfort. Like all the best music, 'The Globeflower Masters Vol. 2' takes us out of ourselves even if it's only temporarily. To consolidate the shape of the sound, drummers Timmy Rickard and Ollie Boorman (who also featured on Vol. 1) and John Maiden (Tricky collaborator) sprinkled their magic and forged their stamps onto the recordings. Collaborating with other talented musicians contributed to the picture Mark and Glenn wanted to paint. The ‘Globeflower Master Vol. 2’ is a fitting tribute to the music they love and care deeply about and a glorious addition to their musical world.

[commajade]

Album ranking for 1/6 by sunmi! 💞

ABSOLUTELY!!!!!

1/6 by sunmi is one of the best releases of the year it's a fantastic mini and all the lyrics are written by sunmi!! she put a lot of heart into this album she worked very hard and wrote about very personal topics and the production is great!! most of them she made with frants who she works with all the time.

1. 1/6 - gets me where i fuckin live!!! sounds like slightly more polished west coast bedroom pop/new shoegaze!! "take my pressure to the moon" fave lyric i love lyricist sunmi and i love how much she loves the moon!! and the song is about like the haziness of mental illness and being medicated for mental illness i love sunmi so much.

2. sunny - ppl r saying this should've been title track but then we would've been robbed of the high concept y2k teen zombie movie mv so i'm ok with it being an excellent bside. a classic summer song!! it's so fun and retro and koreans love the song sunny by boney m and the joke is that sunny sounds like sunmi she always does little wordplay things like with tail meaning both a cat tail and the corner of a smile. fave lyric "where ru going little turtle".

3. you can't sit with us - a relatively out of place track for this mini but excellent chorus and it's perfect for the mv with the video game noises and retro sound and the mv is so extraordinarily good i don't even care. it's such a good use of movie references just like tail was. the combination of teen girl movie and zombie movie visual tropes is inspired. and this mv was expensive as fuuuck they got the train to busan/kingdom team on this!!! for probably a 1 day rehearsal 2 day shoot!! and sunmi's vocals r very strong here!

4. borderline - she made a whole song about her experience with bpd and dropped a special mv for it before even talking about it publicly i literally have so much love for sunmi and her journey as an artist under an immense amount of pressure with her good girl image and how she's become more open and honest in her music and how humble she is about the amount of creative control she has now i love herrrrrrr.

5. call - these last 2 r skips for me but this is a v sunmi song, it could be on a couple of her other albums and fit in. it's a p american sounding pop song esp the background synths and it's the kind i don't like. the last line of the prechorus is my fave melody from it. the lyrics kinda go hard tho my fave is "throw away everything u have and come back to me, then i'll think about it and spare your life oh" SUNMI WITH A GUN ERA!!!!!!!

6. narcissism - not super into the sound but the lyrics are very very good they're very open and vulnerable. fave lyric "i shrunk myself into the mold that you built" like damn she is going so hard with this album!!!!! i love her!!!!!

thank u for the request!!!!

[unapxlogeticme]

okay this wasn't good. nope. not at all. his suspicions in his hazy mind tried out to be correct. he wasn't in his own room. hell he wasn't even sure if he was in the same hotel he had been staying at. it wasn't like him to have gotten as drunk as he did. emerson wasn't the type to black out from drinking. he usually drank what he could handle only and hard let himself go too far. obviously he forgot about that and was in some random guy's bed and hotel room; naked, kind of afraid, and probably married somehow. did he pull a ross and rachel with this complete stranger?

emery's head snaps towards the guy when he started to speak. he groans at the slightly pain that rushes through his head. it takes a moment for the pain to subside. when it does, he opens his eyes to look at the other. he thinks that looking at the guy would help him to recognize him from where ever they've met. despite the slow process of trying to remember, he can't find the answer that he seeks. he's clueless when it come to who this guy is or where they met.

"i think we're both jackasses," emerson pinches the bridge of his nose. "'cause i have no idea who you are either. i'm trying to remember but ...." he sighs, bringing the sheet further up his body; suddenly feeling out of place and exposed. "... if this is your room, then how the fuck did i end up in it, huh? do you remember how?" they probably somehow got super drunk together. he just couldn't remember exactly where it could've been at. "me too. i haven't gotten this drunk before. i want to remember why i suddenly did." emery looks down at his left hand. he gently plays with the ring on is finger. "the retro room? what is that? i don't remember going there, so maybe ... i'm not for sure. but we could've met there ... i think." he slowly turns towards the other man. "do ... do you have this too?" he asks, holding up his left hand to show the ring that rests on his finger.

god, he had to get better about reminding himself not to drink so much. as of late, luca’s inability to maintain his alcohol intake at a reasonable number was starting to take a toll on him in ways he clearly didn’t think through. most of the night remained a blur, ending with him tossing around, trying to sleep off the haze for the few hours he had left.

at this point, he was still half asleep. he rolled over, pulling the blankets with him as he curled into the fetal position. there was a dull, throbbing ache in his temples, and his head was still clouded over. but it was the unfamiliar voice that rang through his ears that caught him off guard. it took him a moment to really process what was going on; had he kept sleeping, luca would’ve assumed it was nothing more than his dream, but when reality managed to push through the throbbing in his head, his eyes snapped open.

he had never been good at waking up quickly, his eyes taking time to adjust, but when they did, his gaze immediately landed on the man in the room with him. he no longer concerned himself with the questions that were asked, because now he had a plethora of his own, and that was all that mattered.

“oh fuck,” he began, his mind racing and settling on the only reasonable answer. he must’ve been a hookup, but luca, for the life of him, couldn’t remember even taking him back to the room. “shit, yeah...” he looked around the room. “this is my room. shit, man, i probably seem like the biggest jackass right now. i have no idea who the fuck you are,” he added, though he smiled to ease any tension. “uh, damn, guess i got way drunker than i planned. were you at retro room last night? must’ve met you there or something.”

[ghost-of-winters-past]

lost in outer space

summary: When Odins‘ death opened up the gates to hell, Thor, Loki and you ended up stranded on a strange planet with no way home. With Hela claiming the throne of Asgard and the prophesied Ragnarok, you and your brothers were left to fight for your survival on Sakaar while trying to come up with a plan to save everything you’ve ever known. But when Thor suddenly went missing, you couldn’t take the impending doom anymore and turn to Loki for comfort.

characters: Loki, fem!reader (siblings)

warnings/synopsis: during Thor Ragnarok (spoilers), slight mentions of death/loss and trauma, slight angst, one or two swear words, it gets fluffy though. This is you being comforted by your favourite brother. Requested by the wonderful @superwhoflarrow123 Thank you again for being so understanding why this took a little longer! I really hope you like it! (roughly 1.7k words)

The walls of your room were an ugly bright booger green. A futuristic bed with sort of retro patterned orange sheets was placed next to a floor to ceiling window overlooking the landscape of Sakaar. In the distance, trash was stacked up high enough to touch the clouds, and to your feet container like looking buildings were littering the planets‘ surface like thrown out cardboard boxes. The sky was a hazy storm grey, only a handful of brightly coloured air crafts and weirdly shaped skyscrapers breaking up the murky and metallic smelling air. This definitely was one of the less pretty planets you had ever been on. Granted you weren’t here because Sakaar had been your dream destination – up until your stranding here you had never even heard o fit – but because your secret evil sister took over your home planet. Your father having a secret fourth child probably was the most normal thing that had happened to your family so far though, that he locked her up in hell less so. Now that both of your parents were gone, you didn’t intend to make amends and play happy little family with Hela. She did try to kill you and your brothers after all and you felt like that didn’t really qualify for a second chance.

You didn’t know how long you had been tumbling through space like a plastic bag, only that when you landed face down in a pile of space waste, you were alone. You didn’t know where your brothers were or frankly where you happened to be, but after wandering through the sea of garbage for a while, you learned fast that you weren’t as welcome as you had hoped. You were electro-shocked, thrown into a funky looking aircraft and shipped off into imprisonment. At least that was what you were expecting. Instead, you were met with a weird guy in gold sparkly tunics and piercing eyes and only because he decided to keep you around as leverage, you were given a room and the chance to wash up.

It could have been between a couple of days and a week, you really had no clue, time felt weird here when you were attending one of the Grandmasters‘ lavish parties and news arrived that someone else had arrived. You were equally relieved and frustrated as you watched Loki walking into the room, head held high and about a dozen armed guards trailing behind him. At least he didn’t end up on the other side of the galaxy or even worse, dead and even though you were relieved that you wouldn’t be alone in this freak show anymore you could see it on his face, that he didn’t exactly come to your rescue. You had quickly realized what the Grandmaster did with most prisoners and then had to watch him circle your brother like a hunter its prey, already expecting to have to either fight or plea for Lokis life. But only for him to smirk at Loki and then turn around to the woman next to him saying, “He’s pretty, let’s keep him.”

Thor arrived two weeks later but didn’t seem to have the same luck as Loki and you did. He was put into a cell under the gladiator arena while you two needed to keep up appearances. It was almost impossible to get a chance to speak with him. Not only because you were physically not allowed to even go near his cell, but also because when Loki used his magic to visit him he didn’t seem very cooperative.  And so the two of you had no choice but to leave him to fight his way out – as usual – while you started to forge a plan.

Everything seemed to go well all things considered. Loki weaselled his way into the Grandmasters‘ trusted circle, trying to find out more about how to leave the planet, while you mentally connected with Heimdall back home. Hela was wracking havoc raising an undead army and threatening to kill everyone who got in her way and you knew you were running out of time. Knowing that at least you weren’t alone, that at least for once in many years you and your brother all were in one place was your only solace.

“What do you mean with: he’s gone?” “Lost. Vanished. Vaporized into thin air. Nowhere to be seen.” Mouth slightly agape with shock you couldn’t believe what Loki had just told you. “But we had a plan!” Your brother only shrugged and you could already feel a headache forming. Cursing under your breath you massaged your temples with your pointer fingers, trying to make sense of the situation. “So our dear brother got lost on a planet where all the lost things end up?” you had your eyes closed, fingers still rubbing circles into your skin and trying not to freak out. “It seems as if someone would be able to do that, it’s Thor,��� Loki said. Your eyes shot upon and you let your hands fall to your sides. “Are you joking?” you snapped, stunned at how little concerned he seemed. “I worked out a deal with the Grandmaster to find him, but he also put that little Valkyrie on it. We have to find him first or I’m afraid he will end up somewhere far worse than the cells,” he explained. “I can’t believe this.” Shaking your head you let yourself plop down onto the edge of your bed. “It’s not like he’s dead,” Loki tried to console you but it did little to calm your nerves. In fact, it only added to the anger that had been building up ever since you landed on this damn planet. “No, Loki. I’m sure he’s not.” You stood up again and raiseed your head to meet him at eye-level. “But you know what? Him going missing is just the cherry on top of what I needed.” Loki was eyeing you warily, his almost bored gaze suddenly beginning to warm up a little. “Are you okay?” he suddenly asked with a gentle voice that almost brought you to tears. “No! I’m not fucking okay! Our father just died, granted he wasn’t my favourite parent and he could be an asshole at times, but he was our father! And as if that wasn’t enough we find out we have a secret diabolic demon sister who is head bend on getting her revenge on someone who's already dead!” you were screaming out the last part, the absurdity of the whole situation just kicking in. Loki looked like he wanted to say something, but you weren’t finished. “But wait, there’s more! We’re stranded on a planet we’ve never even heard of in over a thousand years of being alive and we neither have a space ship to escape nor our brother apparently, who, if I have to remind you, is the fucking heir to the fucking throne!”

You knew you were being unfair, Thor may have put the blame on Loki, but you knew, that all of you and especially your father were equally to blame. But in the end that wouldn’t help the situation so you didn’t try to start a discussion about whose fault this really was. Your chest was heaving and you felt like a huge weight had been lifted off your shoulders just getting all of this out, but you started to regret your harsh tone as soon you saw Lokis‘ face fall. “I know,” he said and suddenly wrapped his arms around you. Loki wasn’t a big hugger so this was very new but not unwelcome. “All of this is pure shit and I’m sorry you have to go through all of this. I’ll make it right, I promise, darling,” he said as he carefully rested his chin on top of your head. Great, now you really felt bad. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you mumbled and hid your face in the cold leather spanned over the expanse of his chest. Your voice was slightly muffled as you continued, enclosing your arms behind his back. “It’s not your fault. It’s just too much. Thor has gone off without us, we have no real way out of here and whether it’s Hela or Ragnarok, we’re gonna lose our home. I mean, why even try at this point?” “Don’t say that,” Loki argued, loosened the hug and held you at arm's length to look at your face, fingers slightly digging into the flesh of your upper arms. He could see the tears threatening to spill and put on a firm, but gentle face. “We can’t give up. That’s your home Hela is invading. We can fight her. We can win.” “How can you be so sure?” you croaked out, a salty tear finally rolling down your heated cheek. Loki smiled faintly, thumb brushing away another tear and his blue eyes full of determination. “We always win.” You tried to believe him, you really did but realistically, what were your chances against a whole army? “What would you do, if you were to give up? Stay here?” Loki tried a different approach and looked around the room in disgust. Just the thought alone of staying on this garbage dump made you shiver with revulsion. A small smile tugged at his lips. “We’re gonna find Thor, I promise. And then we’ll make right what has gone wrong and you never have to think about this place or Hela ever again, okay?” You took a deep breath, running the back of your hand over your cheeks to dry the wet skin. “Okay,” you then said, voice a little shaky but you were finally calming down again. Loki always had this effect on you. Even when you were kids, he would always comfort you when you were feeling angry or upset and you were glad that after everything that had happened in the last years, at least that hadn’t changed. “Okay,” he repeated and tugged you against his chest again. Your fingers curled into the leather, just to make sure, he wouldn’t disappear too. “Thank you, Loki,” you mumbled and closed your eyes, breathing in his familiar scent. Lokis hands were splayed out over your back when he leaned back a little and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.   “I love you, my darling sister.” And you knew, everything would be okay again. You would find Thor and then your little family would finally return home. Together.

[the-sympathetic-villain]

I Know What You’re Going To Say - Chapter 3

AO3 | First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

Description: A Beauty and the Beast style Vampire AU. Vampire!Virgil has picked up  Logan off the street and is holding him captive under the threat of killing his friends if he tries to escape.  

Word Count: 4275

Chapter Warning: Mentions of Parental Neglect/Control, Mind Control, Crying, Corruptions, Mentions of Police (Let me know if I missed anything!)

---

    Janus stirred the coffee in front of him quietly as he peered out the window of the decrepit all-night diner. He felt a tightness welling in his chest as he traced back the night's events that had somehow ended with him here. Rain pattered on the window. Each wet streak glowing with the reflections of the bright pink, neon signs that the owners had seen fit to hang on nearly every surface of this godawful place. His lips twitched with disgust as he glanced down at his watch, checking the time yet again as he stared down the near empty streets.

    The kid was late. Ten minutes. The simple thought made his stomach twist with anxiety. After leaving Virgil, finding his prisoner’s friend had been almost comically easy. Virgil had his home address. A quick flight had him peering through the man's windows in under half an hour, but the passing glance he'd gotten was enough for him to guess where man had gone.

    He was already half the way down the street when a message from Virgil confirmed that the man’s work address. Less than an hour after leaving Virgil, he was being served by the very man he for which he'd been searching. Janus smirked at the simplicity, humming to himself contentedly as yet another car swept by outside sending wave of dirty water onto the curb.

    Still, Janus could hardly complain. Virgil had certainly sent him on worse missions, and though the dingy, over-lit diner was an eyesore, the man serving him was putting on quite the show as he flitted between the glistening, chrome surface of the bar. The subtle eyeliner flared to a perfect point as winked at the cook through the serving window.

    Janus smiled, eyes lingering a bit too long on the handsome waiter as he distracted himself from the empty streets outside. Truly, he was grateful for the late night hours as the lack of customers meant minimal effort for him to keep prying eyes away from his all to recognizable face. Being a vampire had its perks, after all. On a mere whim, the other customer’s gazes slipped over him like he was a mere shadow. Only the charming waiter he was currently staring had been allowed to catch a glimpse of him sitting alone in the booth.

    The waited with the golden hair had immediately recognized him upon bouncing up to the table to take his order, but fortunately, the guy didn’t seem to be the squealing type. A note which Janus would very much be filing away for later as he watched the man melt under his control. It had only taken a few, short words to make the man forget he had recognized Janus and hand over his phone.

     Janus bit his lip at the memory. The sight of the flamboyant waiter suddenly soured in his mouth as he remembered why he was here. The texts he’d read on the man's phone had indicated the kid was supposed to be here at midnight. His eyes flicked up to the retro-looking clock as it read a quarter past the hour. From the texts he’d gleaned that the kid's parents had reluctantly agreed to drop the kid off with his starry-eyed server, Roman, but the mystery of the late-night hand-off had not been resolved by the golden boy's texts.

     Janus tapped his fingernails on the cheap plastic tabletop as the golden boy himself glanced up at clock above the bar nervously. He stared curiously as his façade of nonchalance broke for the first time, revealing the underlying anxiety brewing behind the sweet smile. Janus blinked as the man disappeared behind the bar, allowing his attention to drift back to the rain-soaked window once more. He stirred his coffee absently as watched the glowing headlights rush past.

    The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, barely obscuring the hazy view of the streets outside. He'd almost turned back to watch the golden boy when a slim black car caught Janus’ attention. The sleek, tinted windows of the strange car stood out among the tattered, worn down streets. Janus sat up straight as the car pulled up next to the curb and the back door popped open to reveal the reddish-brown hair of the kid he'd been waiting for.

  Not a moment was spared on goodbyes. The kid immediately bound to the door of the diner, slamming the car door behind him. Janus didn’t see that it mattered however, as the car was gone before the kid even made it to the door. He let out a soft breath, turning to watch as the golden boy gleefully rush to the door with a slightly manic look in his eyes.

    The interaction should have filled Janus with relief. Seeing the kid in the man’s arms meant the most difficult part of his job was done. All he had to do now is watch the kid for a few days, but something about the simple interaction he'd just watched set him on edge.

    Janus’ tension only seemed to ease as he watched the golden boy sweep the boy up into his arms, whispering to him in hushed tones. They stayed like that for a solid minute, before the bouncing waiter finally started to drag the kid to a booth. A few moments later, they were walking towards his booth and his former human instincts and he averted his gaze. Logically, he knew their gaze would pass over him, but the compulsion to be polite seemed to be far stronger in his brain.

    “Where’s your coat, Pat?” The man whispered as he guided the kid into the seat behind him.

    “He—uh, he didn't let me take it.”

    The kid’s mumble was almost incoherent as the man stopped abruptly next to the booth, staring as the kid slid onto the vinyl seat behind him.

     “What?”

     There was a long pause as the golden boy stared down at the kid. Janus could almost feel the heat in the kids cheeks as he squirmed behind him. “He said, if I thought I was an adult, I could act like it—and my stuff would be waiting when I came to my senses and went back.”

    “What a goddamn asshole, Pat.” The golden boy whispered in disbelief. Immediately, he seemed to backtrack until the kid interrupted him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t swear in front of y—"

    “They also said some nasty things about Lo before I left.” The kid's voice trembled as he tapped on the cheap plastic table

    “It wasn't true. Whatever they said, Logan has done nothing but care about you.” The golden boy's deep voice reassured him. “He has everything set up. You won't have to worry about a thing.”

    “I know. I just—”

    Janus' heart twisted with guilt at sadness in the kid’s voice.

    “Where is—"

    “Listen, I'm going to grab my jacket for you, Starlight. You’re absolutely shivering. I'll be—” The man stopped him abruptly. “I’ll be right back. Okay?”

    “Okay, Ro.”

     Ice seized Janus' heart at the confused tone of the kid's and he jerked his head around to watch the golden boy’s head disappear behind the bar.

    He doesn’t know his brother is missing.

    The realization hit Janus like a brick wall as he glanced over his shoulder at the back of the kid’s head. His shoulders were slumped as he leaned forward to fidget with the basket of sugar in front of him. Janus blinked as he turned around, barely able to process what was happening. As he slunk back into his seat, Janus slowly pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up Virgil in his phone.

    J: Got eyes on the kid.

    V: he's safe?

    J: He's fine I think.

    V: what does that mean?

    J: Kid doesn’t know his brother’s missing, Vee.

    V: what

    V: wait how close are you?

    A sudden, sweeping motion in his periphery caught Janus’ attention and he turned his head to see the golden boy making his way back in their direction.

    V: Jan what's happening?

    J: Update later.

    Janus bit his lip guiltily as he typed the quick response, shoving his phone back in his pocket. His phone immediately buzzed a response. He turned his head, casually reaching into his pocket to silence his phone as he watched the pretty waiter make his way back to the table. The man was effortlessly balancing three plates on top of carrying the jacket he had swung over his arm. He moved quickly across the room and only stopping to gracefully slide the plate across the table to the kid and throw the jacket at him.

    “Eat up, Pat.”  The charismatic waiter’s voice almost seemed deflated now. His tension seemed to release now that the kid was here, replaced by a much more somber tone. “I'm taking off early tonight so we can get you to sleep at a decent time.”

   “Where’s—”

   “—I'll be back in a minute to grab you.” Janus’ stomach tightened as the golden boy tactfully brushed off the kid’s question. “Hopefully the rain will let up for the walk home not to be a miserable affair. I don’t want you to get sick.”

    “Okay.” The kid whispered, sounding a little deflated.

    “Hey, don't be like that.” The waiter's incredibly charming voice echoed in his ear from behind him. Janus could feel a scuffle in the booth behind him as the waiter ruffled the kid's hair. “It’s good to see you here, Starlight, but please just try to cut me a little slack tonight.”

    “Sorry. I promise to be patient.” The kid’s shy whisper shook slightly as if taken off guard by the waiter’s light reprimand. “Thanks again for letting us stay with you, Ro.”

    “You don't ever have to apologize to me, Starlight.” The golden boy seemed to tense slightly at the kid's change in demeanor. “Even if it weren’t for Logan, my door is always open to you. You’re family, kid.”

    Janus heart twisted at the bittersweet sentiment. This kid really had no idea what was going on and Janus wasn’t even sure the server planned on telling him. Stirring his coffee absently, images of the kid's brother tied tightly in Virgil’s binds flashed through the front of his mind. His eyes flicked to the side as the waiter backed away from the table, still talking with poor child.

    Soon, the server returned to his duties, leaving a heavy silence hanging over him. A bitter taste settled into the back of Janus' throat as his thoughts fell into a dark spiral. Virgil could be feeding on the guy now, as his brother innocently picked at his food. Even if he wasn’t, Janus could still see the red, irritated welts on the guy’s wrists perfectly in his mind. He—

    “Excuse me.”

    Janus nearly jumped out of his skin as the kid tapped on his shoulder from behind him, somehow breaking straight through his glamour. Fortunately, his instincts kicked in and he dropped his head, keeping his face hidden from the child leaning over the barrier and into his booth.

    “Can I borrow your ketchup?”

    “What?” Janus incredulous tone must have registered as odd to the kid, because he suddenly started to explain the simple question.

    “The bottle at this table is almost empty and I—”

    “Yes. Take it.” Janus snapped, cutting off the kid's explanation as he hastily shoved the red bottle into the kid's open hand.

     “Thanks.” The kid's voice sounded almost hurt and almost certainly taken aback at Janus’ abrupt cut into his attempt at a friendly inquiry. “I'm sorry to bother you, sir.”

     Janus' stomach twisted as the kid turned back around and slumped back into his seat. He cast a quick glance back at the kid, stilling as the kid’s  body language slouched. He knew for a fact, it wasn’t worth getting involved, but despite his wariness, Janus was getting the idea this kid was used to being shoved aside and he didn’t want to be the one to do that to this kid.

    Fuck. Virgil is going to flay me alive.

    “You didn’t bother me.” Janus whispered hesitantly, forcing himself to keep staring forward as the kid turned toward him.

    “What?

    “You surprised me is all.” Janus muttered. “No harm done, kid.”

    “Patton.”

    Now, it seemed it was Janus’ turn to turn back over his shoulder, dumbfounded, but the kid had already faced forward.

    “And I'm not a kid.”

    Janus smirked, turning forward to stare out the wall of windows. “Come now. You look like you can't be more than fourteen.”

    “I'm sixteen.”

    Sixteen.

    Janus blinked in disbelief at the kid's age and chewing his cheek at the kid’s slight defensive tone. “Still it’s a little late for someone as young as you to be out and about on this side if town .”

    “Legally, I'm adult.” Patton muttered. “I'm—I'm emancipated.”

    “Legal don't mean shit here, kid.” Janus stared down at his coffee, remembering the look of despair on the kid's brother's face as Virgil had loomed over him. “You’re going to have to learn that real quick, if you plan on staying here.”

    “I'm staying.”

    “No offense, kid, but I saw the car that brought you here.” Janus whispered, stirring his coffee absently. “The streets are going to eat you alive, if you aren’t—”

    “My brother knows what he's doing.” The kid snapped, though he seemed to be losing steam. “He's got a plan. I know he does.”

    “I sure hope he does, Patton,” Janus paused, chewing on his thoughts as the kid’s name passed his lips.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the boy’s new guardian making his way back to his table, so he quickly pulled out his wallet and tossed a twenty on the table for the coffee he had hardly touched. He tensed with resolution as he moved to leave the booth. “But even if he doesn’t have a plan, I think you’ll find he has allies in unexpected places.”

    “What?”

    Janus could hear the kid turn around as he stepped out of his booth, but he didn’t even pause. He straightened his hat on his head as flared up the collar of his long coat.

    “Don't give up, kid.”

    “Wait—What are you talking ab—”

    The kid's call died out as he strode out of the restaurant, pushing past the concerned waiter who was rushing back to the table to collect the kid. Janus sighed, frustrated as he pushed open the double doors of diner and swept down the street, taking a swift turn into the alleyway behind the restaurant.

    Janus’ breaths came in short gasps as he paced the alleyway with a fierce intention. Fury flared in his chest as his body filled with indignation on the kid's behalf. His pace had nearly peaked when he shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He snarled as he noticed the already lit screen, barely resisting the urge to smash the phone into the wall as he caught Virgil’s name on the screen. Janus' pacing stilled. His anger burned white-hot as he considered letting Virgil worry, but his sudden desire for a fight won out as he clicked the green button and snarled into the receiver .

    “What?”

    “What the hell, Janus?” Virgil growled into his ear. “You don’t get to just ghost me whenever you feel like it—”

     “I can’t do this.”

     The line went silent for a long minute as Janus breathed into his cell. He sighed, releasing a bit of his anger as he leaned into the wall.

      “This kid is already asking questions about his brother. It’s only a matter of time until he realizes he's not coming home.” Janus hissed. “Even this guy’s friend seems like a decent human. He's still planning on taking the kid in even knowing his friend’s gone—”

    “Janus—”

    “No. Tell me, Virgil. When did we start doing shit like this to good people?” Janus leaned off the dumpster behind him as his diatribe intensified. “I didn’t sign up for th—”

    “Maybe, if you gave me a chance to speak, I’d—”

    “Where’s my brother, Roman?!”

    The blood-curdling shriek sent Janus flying behind the dumpster. He'd barely managed to crouch out of sight he heard a scuffle at the entrance to the alleyway.

    “Quiet!”

    Janus hesitantly peeked around the corner to catch a glance of the golden boy dragging the kid into the alley. His fangs started to extend as the full-grown man pressing the kid into the wall of the other building, covering his mouth with his hand so he couldn't call for help. Adrenaline shot through Janus’ body as he prepared to lunge into action.

    “I need you to relax, Pat.” The waiter’s deep voice sent shivers down Janus’ spine, but his tone was kind and patient. “I'm going to tell you, but your father can’t hear about this. If he does, you’re going to end up right back at home.”

    Janus’ muscles eased as the golden boy's grip slackened, even though the kid seemed far from settling as he squirmed in the man’s arms. Feeling the tension drop, Janus edged further into the shadows as he glanced at his phone, grateful that Virgil seemed to have picked up that he needed to remain quiet.

    “Come on, Starlight. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” The man’s voice trembled, nearly fading to silence. “I'm lost, too.”

    The kid, Patton, seemed to go slack in the man's arms at the slight tremble in the man's voice. Janus’s heart ached as he stared at the kid. The wet streaks on his face glistened in the light of the streetlamp and he looked even younger than he had in the diner.

    Just a kid.

    “I don't know where Logan is, Pat. He disappeared last night.”

    Janis could feel the energy in the air shift as the kid started to shake his head violently. He threw his whole weight into the man holding him against the wall, knocking the man's hand free of his mouth.

    “No—no, no, nonono—”

    “Don’t panic. We're going to find—”

    “What happened, Roman?”  The kid's voice cracked as he backed away from the man, swaying unevenly on his feet.

    “I don’t know, Patton. We were walking home from the diner last night and—” Roman hovered close to the kid, desperate to comfort him but cautious about antagonizing him. “I don't know what happened after that. I woke up in my bed, and—and Lo never came home.”

    Janus leaned closer, staring as his fangs slowly retracted. Patton continued to sway dangerously until the man came up to steady him from behind.

    “What did the police say?”

    Janus watched curiously as the man's expression shifted and he suddenly gripped the kid tighter. “I couldn't call them, Pat.”

    “What?!”

    A shiver ran down Janus’ spine as the kid's shriek filled his ears and it a was a long moment after that before he even processed the man's words. He glanced down at his phone, knowing Virgil was probably listening as intently to this conversation as himself.

    The guy didn't call the cops.

    “Logan was very clear about what he wanted me to do if something happened to him. His priority was always making sure you were safe first—”

    “Not if he's missing, Roman.”

    “He told me exactly what he'd want me to do if he went missing, Patton” Roman whispered staring over at Patton. “and that means making sure the police don't find out he's gone.”

    “Why—”

    “Your father has the police under his thumb,” Roman stepped closer to Patton, wrapping his arm around him. “One of the conditions of your emancipation was having a place to live with your brother. If he’s gone, the judge could throw out the decision, especially with a district attorney whispering in his ear."

    “He knew?”

    “God, no. Pat, he wanted to be here waiting for you. He planned to be at the diner when you arrived,” Roman stepped forward, gripping the kid’s shoulders as he forced him to make eye contact. “but Lo spent hours planning for anything that could possibly go wrong. He wanted to know that you were taken care of, even if something happened to him.”

    Patton continued to stare at the ground, shaking. “Roman, he could be hurt—”

    Janus sucked in a breath through his teeth, glancing down at his phone.

    “I've already got Rem on it. We're going to find him.” Roman whispered. His voice dropped quiet enough that Janus could barely make out the words. “I'm not giving up on him. Okay?”

    The kid's face paled and Janus could only guess he was barely standing by the way he continued to sway. Silence hung over them for longer than Janus was comfortable with, but the man holding his shoulders waited patiently until the kid responded.

    “Okay.”

    “Good,” Roman turned the kid's shoulder to walk him out of the alley. “Now, let’s get you to bed."

    “Ro—” Patton slowed

    “Don't argue, Pat. You’re not going to do Lo any favors by depriving yourself of sleep.” Roman placed a hand on the Patton's back in gentle reassurance. “We'll meet up with Rem first thing in the morning and go from there.”

    “’Kay.”

    The kid's mumble faded as they left the alley and Janus rose out of the shadows as they turned the corner out of the alley. He bit his lip, staring after them as he unmuted his phone and lifted the receiver to his ear.

    “Do you feel like an asshole yet?”

    “You know,” Virgil’s voice growled in his ear. “Your biting sarcasm loses its charm very quickly.”

    Janus bristled as Virgil brushed him off. “I'm done, Virgil. Return the guy or I'm—"

    “No.”

    Janus snarled silently. “Fine, then I'm out. Best of luck with whatever bastard plan you’ve—”

    “Stop.” Virgil muttered, his voice full of reluctance. “Please, just hear me out.”

    Janus' thumb hovered over the button, but the subtle plea in Virgil’s voice gave him pause not to hang up. He sighed, raising the phone back to his ear. “You have exactly thirty seconds to change my mind, Virgil.”

   Virgil didn’t hesitate a second with his response. “Do you remember when I got into that fight a few years ago?”

    Janus paused, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. He slowed his pacing, staring curiously out the alley in the direction the kid had left as he replied hesitantly to Virgil. “Yes, I do.”

   Virgil's let out a long breath into the receiver. “This guy is the guy I fought, Janus.”

    Janus blinked, mouth hanging agape. “Oh.”

    “I know how this looks, Jan,” Virgil breathed quietly. “but this dude put me in the hospital because I said something he didn't like. However upset the kid is about his brother being missing, he’s safer without this monster.”

    Chewing his lip, Janus paced back and forth in the alley. His body tensed as he tried to process his friend’s words.

    “Janus?”

    Janus let out a long sigh, pressing his thumb into his temple. “I'm here, Virgil.”

     Static crackled in the phone's speaker as the silence hung over them. Janus glanced up at the amber street light tapping his fingers on his arm as a group of people passed the alley. Their laughter broke the fragile silence, grating against Janus’ ears.

    “I'm not the only bad guy.”

    “You’re not—” Janus repeated back without hesitation. “You’re not a bad guy.”

    He could hear Virgil’s breathy snort through the phone as he stifled a chuckle. “You seem awfully sure about changing your tune so quick.”

    “I am.” Janus muttered, stepping towards the street.

    “Janus,” Virgil’s sharp inhale stilled Janus pacing as he awaited Virgil’s response. “we're good?”

   “We're good, Virgil.” The corner of Janus' mouth twitched up at the relief in Virgil’s voice.

   “Good.” Virgil’s voice wavered with emotion and Janus smiled at the subtle show of vulnerability. “Now please, make sure that kid gets home safely.”

    “I will.” Janus smiled, leaning into the stone wall across the alley from the diner.

    “Thank you.”

    Janus paused for a moment, smile faltering as the situation that had just unfolded before him continued processing in his mind. "Vee?"

    "Yeah, Jan?"

    "He didn't call the cops."

    "I know. Something's up with these people," Virgil's voice dropped as he let out a long sigh. "We'll figure out what's going on, but for now, let's just be glad we don't have heat breathing down our necks. Okay?"

    "Okay." Janus nodded absently, trying to relax. "You're right."

    "It'll be fine."

    "Right. I know."

    "Jan, relax." Virgil whispered patiently. "You're safe. There ain't nothing bigger or badder on those streets than you."

    Janus cracked a smile, chuckling as he stood up from the wall. "Oh, I know."

    "Keep me updated."

    Janus grunted an affirmation, and a moment later, the line disconnected. He sighed, quickly dropping his phone from his ear into his pocket, feeling a familiar numbness settle into his limbs as stepped out onto the sidewalk. The scent of the golden boy’s cologne was easy enough to catch as he turned down the street towards his target. He swept around the next corner, thoughts wandering as the streets began to blur together. He bit his lip, shoulders curled forward even though he couldn’t feel the sharp bite of the cold. The amber lights illuminated him as he closed the distance between him and the kid, not that he noticed the buildings as they blurred past as he disappeared into the night.

General Taglist:

@somehow-i-got-an-account @justanotherhumanstuff @im-an-anxious-wreck

I Know What You’re Going To Say Taglist:

@theoddkidnextdoor @ace-in-a-shopping-cart @im-actually-ok @justanoymous

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums, we talk about something a little more recent, but still old enough to be a classic. Can you believe that John Maus’s We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves, is turning ten years old already? Yes, 2011 was that long ago...and so were my high school years. Come check out this lo-fi synthwave masterpiece! Transcript below the break.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! So far in this series, we’ve looked at a lot of older albums, and that’s by design. While I listen to, and love, plenty of more recent music and younger artists, I’ve decided to focus Great Albums on works that are at least ten years old. That’s partly because I think that having some distance from when albums were released lets us situate them in fuller context, and take their legacy into consideration. It’s also partly because so much of the music criticism that’s out there is focused, somewhat myopically, on only the newest and hottest releases, when there’s so much amazing music to be discovered outside of that purview.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get on to discussing today’s album: John Maus’s We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves, which was released in 2011, one decade prior to this video. It’s an album that was very significant to me as a teenager, when it was new, and one that I think will go on to be seen as one of the most important electronic albums of this decade.

Before releasing his arguable magnum opus, John Maus had two LPs under his belt, Songs and Love Is Real. They earned him some cult followers, but also attracted substantial derision and disdain. While many elements of Maus’s signature sound are present, such as lo-fi production, atmospheric washes of synth, and lyrics that straddle the line between pithy and biting, I’d characterize these releases as being very...rough around the edges.

Music: “Too Much Money”

“Too Much Money,” off of Love Is Real, is tantalizingly close to a pop song, but its truly shocking bridge seems almost deliberately crafted to shatter our ability to enjoy it as such. Maus had initially set out to be an experimental, outsider musician, but he soon became more interested in the tradition of pop, particularly after meeting his longtime friend and artistic collaborator, Ariel Pink. It was in that pop spirit that Maus created We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves, and the resultant increase in accessibility is what made his third album so different--and so much more successful. There’s a certain charm that only comes from an outsider attempting to do pop, a fusion of intuitive mass appeal, and an intuitive, unschooled process of creation. This album has that in abundance.

Music: “Hey Moon”

While “Hey Moon” is one of Maus’s best-known tracks, it’s actually a cover, and was originally penned by singer-songwriter Molly Nilsson. It’s a very simple, and very pop, composition, and it’s easy to see how it embodies the sort of straightforward songwriting Maus had in the back of his mind while creating the album. But it fundamentally lacks the signature oddness of Maus, and I think that leaves it as the least interesting track here. With everything else going on, “Hey Moon” feels all the more plain and banal in comparison.

Music: “...And the Rain”

Listening to “...And the Rain,” it’s easy to hear how strongly Maus was also influenced by Classical and Medieval composers. Besides those organ-like synth textures, Maus is also inspired by the Medieval modes, and pre-tonal ideas about melody. Whenever contemporary music uses slightly older synthesiser technology, and/or that lo-fi production, many people become preoccupied with using ideas of 80s nostalgia and retro chic to understand it. I think this album has less to do with “old school cool” and more to do with the spectre of the past as something faded and ineffable, accessible only through the dim consolations of memory. Consider “Quantum Leap,” which presents us with a hazy dream of time travel, contrasted with the “dead zone” of the present.

Music: “Quantum Leap”

In “Quantum Leap”’s more strident moments, I like to think that a whiff of the in-your-face abrasiveness of “Too Much Money” remains. But rather than scornful and vitriolic, it comes across as the overwhelming splendour of divine mystery, thanks to its appropriation of Medieval church music. There are many antecedents of what Maus is doing with it, from the tradition of goth to the work of other electronic musicians like John Foxx, but what Maus really excels at is weaving together the sacred and the profane, and getting us to forget which is supposed to be which. For a more splendid example of that, look no further than “Matter of Fact”:

Music: “Matter of Fact”

Yes, you heard that correctly--this song’s only lyrics are, “pussy is not a matter of fact.” I’m tempted to compare this laconic number to some of Maus’s earlier pieces that seem to satirize easily spouted slogans of social change, such as “Rights For Gays.” The core assertion here could be interpreted as a rebuttal of essentialism with regards to gender and sex, or perhaps of toxic masculinity, and the idea of a man feeling entitled to a woman’s body and sexuality. But its ambiguity, and possible meaninglessness, are, I think, part of what makes it so effective. Still, as far as transgressive lyricism goes, the use of the term “pussy” here pales in comparison to the preceding track, “Cop Killer.”  

Music: “Cop Killer”

Maus has described himself as extremely left-wing, but he’s also consistently maintained that his music isn’t meant to be interpreted through a strictly political lens. But however much Maus insists that “Cop Killer” is “really” about metaphorical cops, its seemingly blatant call for violence feels obscene. Ten years ago, “Cop Killer” was shock art, and an expression of the unsayable. But in the past year, more and more people have opened up to criticism of police brutality, and police as an institution. “Cop Killer” has been re-evaluated and re-contextualized, and interest in the track has surged. It’s had a degree of vindication that most provocative and challenging art will never see, no matter how powerful.

Given Maus’s frequent emphasis on ideas of criminality, justice, and the punitive arm of the government, I’m tempted to interpret the lighthouse featured on the cover of We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves as a reference to the “panopticon” prisons designed by the Enlightenment thinker Jeremy Bentham. Bentham proposed prisons, and other state buildings, in which a single observation tower stood watch over people to be controlled. Prisoners cannot tell when, and if, they are being observed, and thus are forced to live as though they are under constant surveillance, and internalize the structures of social control. The panopticon has often been used as a symbol of how structures of discipline and punishment affect the psyche of those who live within them, most famously by the 20th Century philosopher Michel Foucault.

But this is, of course, me using political theory to try and pin Maus down! We can also set this aside and appreciate the cover design for its aesthetic ambiance. Its fog and tumultuous sea evoke the wild or unrefined qualities of the music, but the bright and piercing light of the lighthouse suggest a firm and directed focus, not unlike Maus’s stated goal of creating bona fide pop.

The album’s ponderous title doesn’t actually appear on the associated artwork. This isn’t so uncommon nowadays, but when physical media was more central to music consumption, it was a self-sabotaging move that few but New Order ever got away with. Maus was one of the first artists I became aware of who chose to omit text from album art, and it struck me as a very bold and forward-thinking adaptation to an increasingly digital world. Maus nicked the title “We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves” from the work of the philosopher Alain Badou, under whom he studied at university. Like that piercing ray of light, it seems to suggest a pruning away of impurities, and a recalibration or refocusing of one’s energies. It applies equally well to the idea of becoming sanctified or purified in the presence of the holy, or, more prosaically, to Maus’s newly pop-oriented artistic direction.

After the success of We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves, Maus’s follow-up was, essentially, the 2012 compilation, A Collection of Rarities and Previously Unreleased Material, which featured assorted tracks he had written throughout the preceding decade. Over the next few years, Maus chose to isolate himself from the public eye, claiming to not see himself continuing a career in music, and instead pursuing a Ph.D. in political science. He eventually returned, however, and released a fourth LP in 2017, entitled Screen Memories. Screen Memories would continue the focus on hooky and accessible melodies, while also increasing the use of guitar and bass to bring Maus’s sound a bit closer to rock.

Music: “Touchdown”

While Maus hasn’t put down any new material since Screen Memories, he has made himself substantially more notorious quite recently, by having been present at the attempted coup at the United States Capitol Building in January of 2021. Given Maus’s aforementioned radical leftism, and his cryptic, but seemingly anti-fascist oriented tweets afterward, it seems unlikely that Maus actually supported the insurrection, but the incident continues to cast a shadow over his reputation, at least for the time being. Whether Maus is ever truly rehabilitated or not, and wherever his true intentions and sympathies lay, his music has certainly left an indelible mark. We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves was a watershed moment for this idea of lo-fi, electronic pop, with a gothic and mysterious aura to it, and I don’t think this sound would be so commonplace in today’s musical landscape without what John Maus had accomplished, ten years ago.

My favourite track on We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves is “Head For the Country.” Its stirring and anthemic refrain is one of the most emotionally powerful moments on the album, particularly when juxtaposed with its lyrical themes of feeling confined by society’s rules, and its return to the idea of criminality or deviance. It's probably too intense and overbearing to ever pass for an ordinary pop hit...but who’s keeping score? That’s everything for today--thanks for listening!

Music: “Head For the Country”

[unrighteousbooks]

By the Prickling of My Thumbs

This happened about 10 years ago. I try not to think about it, because thinking about it keeps it fresh in my mind, and I need it to be hazy. Maybe if I tell you this story you'll say: That had to be a dream. Maybe you'll convince me.

But I know I wasn't a dream.

I spent a lot of time in bookstores back then. I still do, but after this happened, it was a very long time before I went into a bookstore at night. And to this day, I still won't go into an empty cafe. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

At the time I was doing technical writing as a consultant, and I'd been assigned to a project at an engineering firm about a mile from my home. It was October, and I'd been working late nearly every night. When the weather was good, I'd walk home, and sometimes I'd take different routes. I felt like I didn't have any time to myself, and walking gave me a little time to unwind. Now and then I'd detour down a side street, just because it bought me another five or ten minutes alone. One night, during one of those detours, I happened to pass a little bookshop. They had a display set up in the front window: Big stacks of books with brown and black and orange covers, some pumpkins, a cauldron and a witch's hat. They had one of those big paper skeletons, too, about five feet tall... the ones printed on heavy card stock, with little rivets connecting the joints, so that you could swing the arms and legs into different positions. Very retro. I was sure that I'd been down that street before, and I felt like I'd surely gone past the store before, but I'd never noticed it. It was close to 9, and I was surprised that they were still open. I knew I ought be getting home, but I decided it was worth a quick look, even though they'd probably kick me out after five or ten minutes to close up shop.

I pulled the door open and when I did I remember hearing a bell. This wasn't an electronic chime like so many places have now. It was an actual, old-fashioned brass bell that rang when the door swung open. As I went inside, my first thought was that it was heaven. Book heaven. It was exactly the kind of shop I loved. There were rows and rows of tall wooden bookcases. There were overstuffed armchairs here and there, each with a little table and a reading lamp next to it. The floor was made of wood, and you could tell that it had been there for at least a century. There were places where newer boards had been patched in, and here and there they had patched small holes with little pieces of sheet metal. It had that rundown charm that suits a bookstore perfectly.

And obviously, there were books. Books everywhere, overflowing from the shelves. Beautiful old books. Not a new book anywhere in sight, and for some reason that always appeals to me. Books stacked in the corners and piled high on practically every flat surface.

I didn't see anyone else around, but that didn't strike me as particularly odd. That was the point of the bell on the door, right? And I knew that if it were my shop, I wouldn't sit up by the front counter. I'd curl up in one of those chairs, and I'd read book after book after book.

I wandered around a bit. Near the back of the store I found a huge stack of vintage paperbacks, and I started sorting through them. About halfway down the stack I came across an old copy of a Ray Bradbury book -- Something Wicked This Way Comes -- and realized that it was exactly the same edition I'd had when I was young. It brought back so many memories: Hot summer nights with the window of my room open and crickets chirping outside. Lying on top of my bed with my head propped up against my pillow, and the little lamp on my nightstand was the only light on in the entire house. I remember wanting the book to last forever and wanting the night to last forever.

I was standing there, holding the book, staring at the cover and reliving those memories, and suddenly I heard a woman's voice, whispering in my ear:

"By the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."

Holy hell, it startled me so badly that I actually dropped the book. I don't know where she came from. I hadn't seen her and hadn't heard her and then suddenly she was right there.

And then I turned and saw her.

My god, she was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, an athletic build. Wire-rimmed glasses and a little black dress. Stylish, but stylish in a way that seemed effortless. And she was holding a book.

She looked down at the book I'd just dropped, and when she spoke she had a voice like honey. "Look at us. We're both wicked." And then she held up her book: Macbeth. It took a second for it to register, but then I realized the title of Bradbury's book -- "something wicked this way comes" -- was from Macbeth. The witches around the cauldron.

I wanted to say something clever. Or at least something not completely stupid, since I'd already embarrassed myself. But all I could think of was, "Do all the wicked readers congregate here?"

She tilted her head to the side, and she was smiling. "Certainly not all of them," she answered. "There wouldn't be room."

She was still right by my side. Obviously I don't mind being next to a beautiful woman, but she was a little too close. I took at step back and then said, "This is an amazing shop, isn't it?"

She ignored my remark and looked down at the book. "Aren't you going to pick that up?" I immediately knelt to retrieve it, then stood up promptly. This seemed to please her, as if she'd just confirmed that she could easily make me do whatever she instructed. The way she smiled and the way she watched me was intoxicating. "You love books, don't you?" she asked.

"I do," I answered.

She was still holding Macbeth, closed, with her left hand beneath the spine. She opened her hand slightly and ran the thumb of her right hand along the edge of the pages, causing the book to start to spread open, but only slightly. As she did, she spoke softly, as if choosing each word with great care. "So many mysteries." As the pages began to part, she placed the middle finger of her right hand against the gap. "So many secrets..." She slowly pushed her finger into the narrow opening. "...inside."

I don't know how to describe what I felt at that moment. Or maybe I know exactly how to describe it, but would rather not.

Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and yet there was something forceful in her tone: "There are people who burn books. There are books that are forbidden. Can you imagine that? Doesn't it make you wonder what's inside the book? Doesn't it make you want it so much more, knowing that you can't have it?" She looked up from the book, but kept her head tilted down slightly, so that she was looking over her glasses, rather than through them.

How can I describe that moment? The common phrase -- eye contact -- is so terribly inadequate. She held my gaze: Held it, made it her captive. Made me her captive. I couldn't look away.

She asked again: "How badly do you want it?"

I admitted the truth. "Very badly."

She put Macbeth down on the nearest shelf. I was still holding the Bradbury book. She reached out with her right hand and placed it on the cover, next to mine. Slowly she ran hand across the cover, letting her fingertips brush across my fingers, my hands, over the bare skin on my wrist, and then up my arm. It was electrifying.

"How do you feel," she asked, "once you've had the forbidden things? What then?"

She was still looking at my eyes, and I knew that she wanted an answer. "Not all the forbidden things are the same," I replied.

She nodded slightly, as if she approved of my answer. I felt her hand close around my wrist, and then, with her other hand, she took the book from me and set it down.

Her voice was still very low, and she spoke slowly. "What if I told you that it was forbidden to tell you my name?"

"Then I would ask you: What is your name?"

"Don't you think I would lie to protect my secrets? That I would make up a name?"

"That would be up to you."

"If it were forbidden," she said, "then certainly I'd lie to you at first. I would make up names that sounded intriguing. A little unusual."

"What is your name?"

"Mara," she said. Then she brought her lips to my ear and whispered, "I'm lying." She drew back slightly. "My name is Rubi." Then she paused and added, "Or perhaps it isn't. Perhaps it's Stephanie. Or possibly Sierra. Or some other name that you won't remember."

I should have known then that something was very wrong. Those names, the first few names should have been enough to warn me, but I wasn't thinking. I was looking at her eyes, such dark eyes, and I wasn't thinking.

"I won't ask your name," she whispered. "But if you really want to know mine, I'll tell you. Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"My name is Luci," she said. "Luci Black. Luci, Princess of Darkness." She took hold of my hand and turned it, palm up, and with a feather's touch she ran her fingers across the lines in my palm. "Do you know that I told you the truth just now? I wonder why I did that."

"Do you make it a habit to lie?"

"I make it a habit to not have habits," she said. "Habits are dull. Doing the same thing over and over is pointless, don't you think? Life is about new things. New experiences. Different experiences."

I wanted to answer her, but I didn't get the chance. She placed both of her hands around my hand and pushed her thumbs into the center of my palm. She leaned forward cautiously, and tilted her head as if to kiss me. And I wanted her to. Oh, god, how I wanted her to kiss me. She let her cheek brush against mine. She squeezed my hand and, with her cheek against mine, she whispered: "By the prickling of my thumbs..." She pressed her body against mine. "Something wicked this way..."

The last word, the unsaid word, lingered like electricity in the air in the last moments before a thunderstorm, until she whispered it so softly: "...comes." Then the lightning struck: her arms were suddenly around me and she kissed me hungrily. I felt it, the hunger from deep inside her and deep inside me. A kiss like the witches' brew, toil and trouble and fire burning. I felt a moment of absolute bliss. She pulled away from me and whispered: "You're wicked. I can taste it on your lips." Then she kissed me again, a long delicate kiss until suddenly I felt her teeth on my lower lip, biting down slowly. Hard. Too hard. I put my hands on her waist to push her away, but she opened her mouth and pressed her lips to my ear. "You're very wicked," she said. And then she looked me in the eyes and whispered, in a taunting voice. "Wicked," she said, "and unfaithful. There are others, aren't there? Other women. I can taste them on your lips. I can taste their innocence. The traces of everything that you devoured."

She took a step back and tilted her head to one side, looking at me carefully, as if she were evaluating me. "Both of us, wicked," she said. "Which one of us will devour the other?"

I don't know how to describe what I felt. My heart was racing. Fire and ice at the same time: I was burning up and yet there was an unsettling chill racing down my spine.

Then, without another word, she turned suddenly and walked away quickly between the rows of tall bookcases. She turned the corner and disappeared from view.

I wanted to run after her. Didn't I want that? Yes. No. Yes. "Please wait!" I tried to strip the emotion from my voice, because I wanted to sound unfazed, but I know I failed. I took a step to follow her and carelessly kicked over the stack of old paperbacks. I gathered them quickly just as I heard the chime of the bell on the front door.

By the time I reached the door she was gone. I stepped outside and saw a figure hurrying away through the street. I started to follow but realized that it wasn't her.

I stopped in the middle of the street and realized that I was shaking. I took a deep breath, turned around, and started walking back toward the store. As I did, the lights inside blinked out.

Closed.

I stood there for a moment longer. I knew that I should forget about it. Forget about her. But I knew I wouldn't. I knew I would come back the next night, looking for her.

* * * * *

There was no reason to believe I'd see her again. All day long I kept thinking about her. I made sure to leave work a little earlier that night, thinking I'd have a better chance of meeting her. I told myself that if she wasn't there, that would be fine: After all, even if she wasn't there, the books would be.

The night before, I hadn't given much thought to the path I'd taken on the way home, and I soon realized that I wasn't sure which street the store was on. I took a wrong turn, then another. Somehow, even though I prided myself on a good sense of direction, I'd gotten turned around. For a moment, I started to think that I was genuinely lost, even though I knew I couldn't possibly be far from home. To try to get my bearings, I turned another corner. As soon as I did, I saw the shop ahead of me, half a block away.

I'd like to be able to say that I had a sense of foreboding as I started to approach the store. That would make it seem as if I were slightly less foolish. I should have known that something wasn't right. The truth, however, is that I was thinking about only one thing: I'd met a beautiful woman, and I wanted to meet her again.

When I opened the door I felt as if I'd stepped back in time. But how far back? To the previous night? Twenty years? Fifty years? I only know that I felt as if I were suddenly somewhere else entirely. The sound of the little brass bell, the rows and rows of books, the smell of the place... they all belonged to another time. An ancient brass cash register -- surely just for show -- sat on counter to the left of the door, but was unattended. The store looked empty. In fact, the store felt empty.

I walked back toward the spot where I'd found the old Bradbury paperback the night before. The stack of paperbacks was gone, probably carefully sorted and tucked away in their proper places. I stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, waiting for something. She wouldn't be back. Of course she wouldn't. It didn't matter anyway, did it? It was nothing: A kiss from a stranger in a strange place on a strange night. It didn't matter.

I shut my eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of old books. I told myself that when I opened my eyes I would look at the books surrounding me and appreciate them for what they were. The truth is, however, that I believed if I closed my eyes she might suddenly be there, whispering in my ear, and I would open my eyes to find her standing next to me.

When I opened my eyes, of course she was not there.

I walked back to the front of the shop. I paused for a moment, looking at the display in the front window, and realized that it had been created with a great deal of thought: Although it was clearly intended to attract the attention of anyone outside the shop, it was equally arresting from inside. The paper skeleton, the pumpkins, the carefully-chosen books with their autumn-themed colors had all been arranged in such a way that they could also be appreciated from within the store.

I began working my way through the aisles, looking for anything unique or unusual. The front section was mostly very old books from the 19th and early 20th century. That struck me as slightly odd; most stores put more recent books and popular books at the front, and kept the obscure antiquarian fare at the back. The condition of the books, too, was surprising. They showed relatively little wear, and I wondered if the bulk of them had come from a single source. An auction or estate sale from a dedicated collector, perhaps?

One other thing seemed strange. Many of the books were no doubt quite valuable, and yet there seemed to be no one minding the store. Probably, I thought, it was an illusion that the owner had cultivated deliberately. The antique cash register, the old books, the old bell on the door: It was all intended to evoke a simpler time, but there were probably cameras monitoring every inch of floor space, RF scanners concealed somewhere near the door, and an iPad with a card reader under the counter. And although I couldn't see anyone else, there was a closed door near the counter, and light streamed out from the crack at the bottom of the door. An office, perhaps, with the owner relaxing inside?

I knew it was getting late, but didn't want to leave. I was still hoping that Luci might show up again. Luci: for whatever reason, I had suddenly decided that she had been telling the truth when she said her name was Luci Black.

I tried to focus my attention on the books. Near the back of the store, an old volume caught my eye: Stories of Strange Women. I pulled it down from the shelf. The cover showed a forest nymph, unclothed, but covering herself modestly. I made my way to the end of the aisle, where a pair of armchairs flanked a small table beneath the warm glow of a Tiffany lamp. I sat down and opened the book. The date inside said 1906, but the book was still in excellent condition. I scanned the chapter titles: The Garments of a Girl, His Mistress and Her Maid, Leave it Alone...

I heard footsteps. Light steps, deliberate, approaching slowly. The sound of hard heels on the wooden floor. I did not look up, but I knew it was her. As she drew closer, she began to speak, timing each word with a single step:

"Something. Wicked. This. Way. Comes."

I looked up. She stopped a few feet in front of me. She held an open book in front of her face concealing everything except her eyes.

The book was by Gregory Maguire: Wicked. She looked at me for a moment, then looked down at the book, and read a passage:

"'It seems to me that you have come here to -- shall we say -- relieve yourself of some sad business or other. You have the look about you. Don't be startled, my dear, if there's a look I do recognize, it's the look of someone carrying a burden."

I smiled. "What do you think my burden is, Luci?"

She sat down in the other chair, separated from me by the small table. She was wearing a short red sundress, one that seemed too thin for the season. A small red leather purse was slung over her right shoulder. She put the book on the table and then removed her purse and set it on top of the book. She crossed her legs demurely, smoothing the dress as she did. I tried to ignore the graceful curve of her calves, tried not to stare at her smooth thighs, tried not to remember the way her lips had felt when she'd kissed me the night before.

She leaned back and regarded me silently. "Unfinished business, perhaps? Maybe that's the problem: There's something that you ought to be carrying with you, but instead you always leave it behind. Then it becomes someone else's burden."

Was she trying to tell me something? Warn me about something? Would things have been different if I had asked her what she meant? But I didn't. I simply said, "How wicked of me."

She turned away from me and looked around slowly, as if she were carefully memorizing the details of the store. Without turning back to face me, she asked, "What brought you here tonight?"

"You." It was a truthful answer, and although I hadn't said it to flatter her, I thought she would be pleased.

Instead she turned to me and asked, "Was it really me? Or do you just enjoy temptation?"

"Possibly," I said. "But it would be fair for me to ask why you're here, as well. Isn't there a line from Shakespeare about temptation? 'The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?'"

"Measure for Measure. Shall we compare our sins? Do you suppose one of us would walk away feeling virtuous? Or would we both be sinners?"

"Surely there's no sense in dwelling on the sins in our past."

"When we could instead dwell on our sins in the here and now?"

Was there a slow, steady current of seduction flowing through her words, or was it all in my imagination? I shrugged. "All our sins are purchased on credit, aren't they? Sin now, pay later."

"Do you ever wonder who does the accounting for all these sins? Do you keep track of your own?" Her voice became a whisper. "I don't think you do. What happens when those bills come due?"

I felt a slight stir of uneasiness. I remembered that sudden chill that had overcome me the night before. Why? Was it what she said, or the way she said it? I decided to steer the conversation back to the mundane. "All this talk of accounting and credit and bills. Do you work here, Luci? Is this your shop?"

"I don't work here," she answered. "I just like being here. I feel a connection to this place. One of my favorite haunts, you might say."

"I never noticed this place until last night. I don't know how I missed it. I must have passed by so many times."

"Maybe you're too focused on other things. Sometimes we don't see what's right in front of us." The tone of her voice changed slightly, and the next sentence sounded almost like a taunt: "Or perhaps your memory isn't very good."

Had we met before, long ago? I felt certain that we hadn't. Best not to take the bait. She had intended to tease me, but I would compliment her. "I certainly doubt if my memory is as good as yours. At the very least you're well-versed in Shakespeare."

"We both have a passion for books," she replied. She looked down at her lap and paused, slowly running her finger over the smooth metal clasp of her purse. "But I think mine runs deeper. Do you ever think about books as physical things? I don't mean the stories and the ideas inside the books. I mean the books themselves, as objects. Do you know what I've always found fascinating? All these books had to be made. Manufactured. Or sometimes sewn by hand." She unhooked the clasp and looked up at me. "Do you know what I have? Let me show you." She lifted the flap of the purse and reached inside.

"I bought this long ago," she continued. "I wanted to make some books by hand." She pulled out a small object and held it up. It was a single piece of black metal, perhaps six inches long, half an inch wide, a quarter inch thick. "It's called a kiridashi knife."

It had no handle of any kind, and my first thought was that it was not a knife at all. Then, as she slowly turned it over in her hand, I saw that one end had been cut at a long angle and ground to a steep bevel. The bevel gleamed with a mirror finish. Even without touching it, I could tell: It was razor sharp.

The uneasiness that I had felt a moment earlier enveloped me. I felt cold, as if my blood were draining away.

She held the knife beneath the lamp, examining its edge in the light. "This one is made from laminated steel. Precise, like a scalpel, but so much stronger." She fixed her gaze on my eyes. "In the end, I never made the books I wanted to make," she said. "But I keep the knife with me."

I willed my voice to remain flat and free of emotion. "Is it safe to keep it in your purse that way? With no sheath?"

"Are you worried that I'll cut myself? Or worried that I'll dull the edge?"

"Both are valid concerns, don't you think? Not to mention what might happen to anything else that you keep in your purse."

"I don't carry much with me." She laid the knife down gently on the copy of Wicked, staring at it. "Do you ever think about the words in the books? I mean: What the words are. They're tools. Writers build entire worlds out of them. The words on the pages, those aren't what a writer creates. A novel, a poem, a beautiful love letter... those are the creations. Stories." Her voice faded slightly as she spoke. She looked at me again briefly, then looked around the shop, as if she sensed something in the air, but couldn't see it.

The fear I had felt seconds before began to subside.

"The writer's creation is... where, exactly? Where is the world that a writer creates? It takes up residence in our heads, I suppose. In the imagination. But it's not really in the book." She turned back to me, and looked me in the eyes again, as if she wanted to be certain that she had my full attention.

"This is why books fascinate me: The book isn't the story. The book is just the record that tells us how the story was created. It's a recipe. A formula. It's a list of all the things that went into the potion and all the things that were used to create the spell: Fenny snake, owlet's wing, gall of goat. But reading the formula doesn't make the magic go away. We're still under the spell of those words. They are there, on the pages in front of us, and yet we can't undo the magic."

"Do you want to break the spell, Luci?"

She thought for a moment. "How do you think it feels to be bewitched, when you know that the witch no longer remembers casting the spell? All you have left are the empty words that entranced you. Like tool marks on a carving made long ago." With her right hand, she picked up the knife again. She turned her left hand palm up, directly under the lamp, opening her hand and spreading her fingers out.

She put the tip of the knife against the tip of her little finger and pushed until a single drop of blood appeared.

"Luci --"

"How many? How many cuts?" Her voice was barely audible, but shockingly harsh. She pressed the tip of the knife against the next fingertip.

"Luci, put the knife down."

"You shouldn't tell me what to do." She pressed the knife in and another drop of blood appeared. "Do you think writers forget the stories they tell us?" She put the knife against the tip of her middle finger, drew another drop of blood. "What about the people who live in the worlds they create?"

"Please put the knife down. Let's talk. I'll listen to you."

"What if a writer starts a story, but never finishes it?" She cut another fingertip.

I thought about grabbing her wrist and wrenching the knife away from her, but in the same instant she stood up suddenly and took a step backward. She held her left hand out again and sliced into the skin on the tip of her thumb deeply. Blood began dripping down into the palm of her hand.

"Don't follow me!" Her voice was louder now, a staccato torrent of anger. "Don't look for me. When you leave this place, don't come here again. Ever."

She spun around and walked toward the door quickly, each step echoing in the empty room. "Luci!" I stood up, wanting to follow her, wanting to help her, but the thought of the knife and what she might do -- to me, or to herself -- kept me rooted in place. I couldn't think clearly and I didn't know what to do. I lost sight of her as she reached the end of the aisle and turned toward the front of the store. I had to go after, I knew I had to.

I remember seeing little drops of blood on the floor, and then I heard the sound of the bell on the front door, heard the sound of the door closing.

"Luci, wait! Wait, please wait!" I rushed down the aisle, turned toward the front of the store, and then...

There was a loud, deep noise that reverberated through the store, almost like thunder. I heard the sound before I saw her, before I knew what had caused the sound. Then I saw her hand, the knife still clenched in her fist, as she slammed the heel of her hand against the plate glass window. The glass didn't break, but it rattled deeply. She was looking at me through the window. Looking at me with pure hatred. All those Halloween decorations in front of the window, the jack-o'-lanterns, the cauldron and the witches' hat, the paper skeleton swaying back and forth slowly: They all suddenly looked absurd in the presence of something genuinely terrifying.

On the other side of the glass, Luci lowered her fist slowly and bent over slightly, and for a moment I couldn't see her hands, couldn't see what was happening, and now I tell myself over and over and over that there was nothing I could have done even if I had seen...

And then I saw her wince, and then she threw her head back, almost as if she were laughing, and for a moment she looked at me and her face looked suddenly very serene, and then, then...

Then I saw her swing her fist again and there was that same loud sound as she slammed her hand into the glass, but this time it was not the hand that had held the knife. It was her left hand and she slammed it against the glass and suddenly a horrible, bright red smear appeared on the glass, and she looked me in the eyes and her voice became a terrifying, haunting screech: "By the prickling of my thumbs..."

And she spread her hand open against the glass and I saw what she had done. She had cut off her thumb.

And then she backed away from the window quickly and disappeared into the darkness, and the bitter cry hung there in the night air: "Something wicked this way comes!"

* * * * *

Everything after that was a blur. Maybe I was in shock. I can't piece together exactly what happened next, or in what order. I just know this: I ran out after her. I couldn't see where she had gone. I think I crossed the street, I might have run down an alley, I'm not certain. I don't know exactly how long I looked. I think I had yelled something as I ran out of the store: call an ambulance, call the police. When I couldn't find her I went back to the store, and there was no one there. No police. No one behind the counter. No one at all. I remember walking back through the store, and seeing those little drops of blood on the floorboards. I remember that her purse had fallen to the floor and was still there. I bent down and picked it up, and realized that it felt much too light. I opened it.

There was nothing inside.

I walked to the counter. There was still no one there. I don't remember if I said anything, or if I called out. I think I did. Or I think I didn't. I don't know anymore. But I know that I put the purse there, beside the cash register, and then I walked out. I picked a direction at random and started walking, and then realized: Blood, she was bleeding so much, whichever way she had gone there would surely be blood. I could follow the blood. I think about that now, and I know it's such a horrible thought, like a fairy tale twisted and gone wrong. Instead of a trail of breadcrumbs to lead the way out of the forest, there was a trail of blood to lead me... where, exactly? To lead me astray? To led me to a furious woman with a razor-sharp knife?

I turned around to head back toward the store one more time, and when I did I saw that the lights were off. I walked back, looking at the window, and I realized with a shock that there was nothing there. No blood on the glass, no blood on the sidewalk, nothing. Only a small amount of light filtered in through the window. I couldn't see anything inside, except for one thing: The paper skeleton. It was still swaying back and forth slowly, a silent Danse Macabre.

* * * * *

I went back the next night. Or I should say: I tried to go back. I couldn't find the store.

It would be reasonable to ask why I waited until nighttime. I can't explain. I could have searched for the store in the morning, on the way to work, and I could have looked for traces of what had happened. Or maybe what hadn't happened. Maybe I thought if I went to work as usual, went through the usual routine, the world would suddenly go back to normal.

But as soon as the sun went down, I knew I'd go again. I left work as early as I could, and I took the same route I had taken the night before. Didn't I? I suppose I was so confused, maybe I wandered down the wrong street again.

I couldn't find the store. I was certain I was on the right street, but I couldn't find it. I walked to the end of the block, then down the next block and back, and it just wasn't there. I tried to remember what was nearby, and I couldn't recall. I hadn't paid attention. Nearly everything else on the street was already closed. Then I noticed one little coffee shop, still lit up. Light streamed out through a large plate glass window, spilling out onto the sidewalk. I realized that I was getting cold, and the cafe looked nice and warm and inviting. There was one of those little folding chalkboard signs in front of the door. It had a drawing of a pumpkin and a few autumn leaves, very nicely done in yellow and orange and red chalk, and above it, the name: THE LOST CAFE.

I swung the door open, and do you know what? They had another one of those brass bells, just like the one they'd had at the bookshop. The space was small. There weren't any other customers inside, but I had the same thought that I'd had when I'd gone into the bookstore: It was late, they'd probably be closing soon, and there was never much activity on these little side streets anyway.

The floor was made of dark wood, unfinished, timeworn but somehow elegant. The walls were bare brick, with framed Art Nouveau prints on one side and replicas of old metal advertising signs on the other. There were a few tables in the middle, with booths along one side wall and, in front of the rear wall, a long counter with bar stools. The counter was illuminated from above by a long strand of bare light bulbs, like the ones you used to see at car lots. One bulb kept flickering on and off, like it had a short circuit. I caught a glimpse of someone behind the counter, bent over and facing away from me, but I didn't pay them any attention.

I sat down at a table for two in the center of the room, choosing the chair on the opposite side of the table, so that I was facing the front windows. In the center of the table there was a laminated one-page menu tucked between a basket of sweetener packets and a chrome napkin dispenser.

I pulled the menu out and scanned it. For the most part it was typical coffee house fare: An assortment of coffees and espressos, lattes, muffins and biscotti. At the bottom of the menu, however, there was a single line, set apart from everything else. It said:

THE SPECIALTY OF THE HOUSE IS ALWAYS ON THE HOUSE

I stared at it for several seconds, wondering what it meant. Then, behind me, I heard one of the floorboards creak, and a woman's voice. Her voice. Luci's voice.

"Do you want to know the specialty of the house?"

I froze. I wanted to turn around but I couldn't will myself to do it. I had a horrifying image of my head suddenly being pulled back, my throat exposed, and the kiridashi knife slicing across my neck.

I heard another floorboard creak and I could tell that she was still behind me, but had moved slightly to my right.

"You would rather not know," she continued, "but it's too late. You already came here." I heard the floor creak again, but it did not seem that she had moved. It was as if she had shifted her weight slightly, but remained in the same spot. "Do you ever wonder what it's like to be forgotten?"

In that moment, another thought rushed into my head. The names. The names she told me, on the night we met.

As if she'd read my thoughts, she whispered: "Mara. Rubi. Stephanie. Sierra." She raised her voice slightly, but her tone was flat and registered no emotion. "Shall I go on? There are so many names, all forgotten. Lauren. Renad. Ashabi. Faith. Devi. Andrea. Sher. Layla. Angelica. Eliza." She paused briefly, and the silence hung in the air until she said quietly: "Do you remember those names now? Do you remember all of them? I can tell you what it's like to be forgotten. It's like losing a part of yourself."

Maybe at the moment I knew what was coming. Or maybe that's what I tell myself now, so that I don't feel so guilty for all the things I had forgotten. I still didn't turn to face her. I couldn't.

I heard the floor creak again and I knew that she had leaned down, right beside me, and she whispered into my ear: "It's as if someone cut away a part of your body." I felt her hand come to rest gently on my shoulder, my left shoulder, and I knew that meant that it was her left hand, the one she had cut so horribly. I didn't dare look. Then, in a bitter voice, she spoke again the words that had become a horrible mantra: "By the prickling of my thumbs..."

I was still staring down at the table, paralyzed. Suddenly she stepped forward and she reached past me with her right hand. She slammed something large and heavy down on the table in front of me. A jar. A large, heavy glass jar, and packed tightly inside, in a reddish liquid...

Thumbs.

Severed thumbs. The jar was full of them, so many, I don't want to think about how many, so many of them and I leaped up from the table and my chair slid backward and tipped, crashing to the floor and I shoved Luci away without looking at her and ran toward the door, ran in horror and threw the door open and I wanted to vomit and wanted to erase the hideous image from my mind and turn back the clock, make everything go away and be like it was before I went to the bookstore, before I met her, before I went to the cafe, before I saw the jar and I want so badly to burn it out of my memory but even now I still see it, the once-delicate thumbs bloated and horrible and some still with polish on the nail and I don't want to remember and but I can't make it go away and then I was running, running out into the street, into the night as fast as I could, and I did not look back.

* * * * *

That night I ran until I couldn't run anymore, and I collapsed. Maybe I passed out, I'm not sure. I remember opening my eyes and realizing that I was in a park, not far from Clark Street. I couldn't remember which way I had been running or how I gotten there.

The next morning I called in sick. I tried to find the cafe, but couldn't. I tried to find the bookstore. I couldn't.

Even now, so many years later, there are times when I wake up at night, certain that she's close by. If I close my eyes I hear her reciting that list of names.

I'll tell you something that you probably already know: Those names weren't random. I don't know how she knew them. I won't tell you anything about them, but they were not random.

And then there is one other name: Her name. Luci Black. Luci, Princess of Darkness. Wicked like me. Was she real? I don't blame you if you think she wasn't. But I know the truth: She was real. She is real. She's still out there. I can feel her presence by the prickling of my thumbs.