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19tozier · 4 years ago

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polaroid boy (richie tozier)

request:if/when requests are open (if this is okay bc idk your request rules) could you write an angst fic for reddie based on the song polaroid boy by nicole zefanya, it can be from either persons pov i think that decision is more of a personal one based on who you think fits the song better

warnings: angst, swearing, allusions to sexual things, i tried out some stuff w tense so hopefully it still makes sense lol

[losers + reader are college aged (20/21)]

there is an exquisite beauty in falling in love. in feeling your heart quicken at the sight of their smile, or feeling your cheeks blush at the sound of their laugh. in letting yourself tumble off the edge of the cliff because you are certain they will be there to catch you.

there is an exquisite pain in hitting the ground after they fail to do so.

you want to curse yourself for having stepped off the edge. you aren’t sure you’d have been able to stop yourself from falling anyways, but you did it with no hesitation. you didn’t just trip over the cliff, you leapt off of it. no parachute, no net, no caution. and now you’re the one paying the price for it.

it started, innocently enough, in your first lecture fall semester of your sophomore year. you were still drudging through your gen eds, doing your best to stay motivated through endless classes that weren’t at all related to your major. the lectures made your eyes glaze and your head pound, but you were getting through them. nothing exciting ever happened in them but that was fine with you.

until, of course, richie tozier sat next to you in the middle of a half-empty history lecture, fashionably late and a devil��s smirk on his pretty face.

you’d done your best to ignore him at first, furiously writing down anything and everything the professor said. just because a beautiful boy had sat beside you didn’t mean you would compromise your education. class first, dick later, you thought.

but richie, still wearing that gorgeous smirk, had leaned into your side and murmured, “you look a little tense there, doll. want some help with that?” and his left eye had dropped in a wink that sent prickles down your spine.

fuck, had you wanted to slap him for such a suggestive comment. did he always go around propositioning random girls? you were certain the answer was yes, and yet... part of you loved the attention, and another part of you wanted to keep those blue eyes on you at all times.

you’d scowled, glaring at him, refusing to rise to his bait and give him the response he so obviously wanted. you’d pointedly turned back to your professor, ignoring richie for the remainder of the class.

you’d expected him to give up the chase, maybe find another girl who’d take kindly to his attempts at seduction, but he’d stayed by your side while you packed up your bag and walked out beside you, body in a long loose sprawl as he asked—no, begged—you to let him take you to lunch. and were you really going to turn down a free meal? he may be irritating, but you weren’t stupid.

and oh, had he irritated you. it felt like he had been drawn straight from your own personal hell to drive you crazy, but there was something charming about him. something that drew you in despite your earlier reluctance.

he’d leaned across the table at lunch, smirk softened into something sweeter, and brushed his thumb along your cheek. “you’ve got somethin’ here, love,” he’d murmured, his eyes smoky.

“thanks,” you'd rasped, subtly crossing your legs and praying he didn’t notice your blush.

you’d caved and given him your number at the end of your maybe-date. you were still operating under the idea that he wouldn’t want to see you again, so hey, you’d figured, what the hell?

but he had. he’d texted you that night, a simple hey there sugar ;), and against your will your heart had started pounding. your hands shook as you carefully typed out we’ve known each other for a day and you’ve called me how many nicknames?

you’d laughed, irritation be damned, when he had responded almost immediately: i can add on a few more. put it on my tab, toots.

you found, slowly but surely, that richie was charming and funny and obnoxious in a way that made you want more. he was crass, yes, and sometimes he made you want to gouge your own eyes out, but he was softer and sweeter than you’d ever have thought to give him credit for. and it was horrible for you, really, because there was nothing to stop you from developing feelings.

but there were nights where you curled up with richie in your dorm room, squished together on your too-small bed, your roommate blessedly gone for the night, watching shitty movies on your laptop with takeout scattered around you. nights where you were certain that everything you felt for him was reciprocated.

he had pressed his lips into your hair, his glasses digging into the top of your head. “this movie is something else, doll,” he’d murmured to you, tilting his chin towards where you were forcing him to watch the room with you. “not sure i know what’s going on anymore.”

you’d laughed, twisting your head to kiss his jaw. “that’s the point,” you had grinned. “this movie is so bad that it’s fantastic.”

he’d snorted, the tips of his fingers sliding under your t-shirt and tracing circles into the bare skin of your back. “not quite the word i’d use but sure, toots. i’ve definitely lost the plot though.”

you’d frowned, reaching to pause it to look up at him. “i can rewind it if you want?”

he’d smirked, reaching gentle fingers to cradle the curve of your jaw, turning your face towards him. “i can think of something better to do,” he’d purred, and his lips and his body had silenced any objection you could’ve had. not that you did, really.

he’d had that effect on you. time and time again, he had turned you into a bumbling idiot, a lovesick fool, a damned clown. you were the court jester in his kingly eyes, the puppet beneath his talented hand, the doll to sit high on his shelf. people thought it was he that was the bozo, but no; he played you like it was his job and you were too stupid to ever realize how masterful he was.

you’d giggled to him, stretched out in the quad with your head in his lap. he’d been leaning against a tree, one hand absently stroking through your hair, the other holding up a book for class. you had been fucking around with the polaroid camera your friend had bought you for your birthday, taking pictures of the trees and the students around you but mostly of richie himself.

“what’s up, sugar?” he’d murmured, glancing down from his book. his glasses had nearly slid off of his nose.

you’d reached up to correct them, smiling at him. “nothing, nothing. you just look cute. very photogenic.”

he’d rolled his eyes, bookmarking the page he was on and setting the book aside to fully give you his attention. “cute? me? damn baby, maybe you need these glasses more than i do.”

you’d scowled at him, as annoyed as ever that he never seemed to understand how gorgeous he was. “you take that back right now, asshole.”

he had laughed, grinning down at you. his palm had slid along your stomach, warm and secure against your skin, and his eyes had shone in the sunlight. “you always say the sweetest things, doll,” he’d teased.

he’d ducked to kiss you before you could respond, slow and deep and searching, and you had melted back against the grass. it was rare for him to initiate something like this in public, enough that you had kissed him back and not had a single other thought. when he walked you to class, he didn’t reach for your hand; when you met him for lunch, he didn’t kiss you hello or goodbye; when you studied together in the library, he never sat close enough to touch. at the time, you had simply thought he was reserved with his affections.

those polaroids you had taken were the first of many, proudly hung up on the wall of your dorm next to your bed. they weren’t all of richie: some of you and your roommate, some of your friends from your classes, some of the friends of richie’s you had met only once. but most of them had been of richie, because you were smitten and you couldn’t do anything about it.

every time he came over, every time he saw them, his face had done something complicated that you had never understood—a frown to a grimace to a smile that he forced on.

looking back, you wonder about every sign that you had missed. could you have saved yourself the heartbreak if you had simply paid attention? could you have gotten yourself out with your dignity?

it had never even occurred to you to define what you and richie were. you were stupid and young and content to just be able to love him, even if you hadn’t known him long. you never thought to ask him if you were dating, or if he was your boyfriend or not. you really fucking wish you had.

it came to a head not long after. richie had come over like usual, a spring to his step and a bite to his words that had been there for weeks now. he’d been a ghost of himself, eyes flickering around to see who was watching whenever you saw him on campus, not responding to your messages for hours, jumping whenever he saw you. you had just wanted him to relax for a bit.

you’d curled into his chest, laughing along with him to the stupid horror movie you were watching. “it doesn’t even look real,” you’d giggled, pointing to the spray of blood from on-screen.

richie had snorted. “‘cause it’s not real, it’s probably chocolate syrup.”

you had rolled your eyes, poking at his chest. “i know that, smartass. i’m talking about the effects.”

“i’m talking about the effects,” he had mimicked you, pitching his voice higher and sticking his tongue out at you.

you’d scowled, pinching his side. “you’re annoying and one of these days i’ll murder you.”

“oh, is that a promise?” he’d grinned, lopsided and too damn sexy for his own good. “not one of my kinks, i’ll admit, but damn, what a way to go.”

“oh, for the love of—” you’d lunged forward, knocking him onto his back and almost pitching the two of you off the side of the bed. he’d grabbed onto your waist to hold you steady. “i want to strangle you! with my bare hands!”

“that’s hot.” and he’d laughed, the motherfucker, like the sound of it didn't live inside of your ribcage and swim through your bloodstream. every inch of him was something specially designed to get under your skin and make a home there.

it still has a home there.

you’d growled, whaling on him with gentle fists that he did absolutely nothing to combat. he’d just kept laughing, holding your wrists in his big hands, glasses skewed. “you’re awful and i really fucking wish i didn’t love you.”

all at once, it had gone silent and he had gone tense. the expression on his face had not been the elation you had been hoping for; it was horror, plain and simple, and the shock of it had pitched you sideways off of his lap.

“you love me?” he’d asked through trembling lips, looking anywhere but you.

slowly, you had nodded. your voice had disappeared. and he’d nodded back, one short frantic movement, and then vaulted himself off of the bed.

“richie—”

“i didn’t think we were that serious,” he’d said, yanking his shoes on. “i thought we were just having fun.” like it was nothing. like you were nothing.

tears had welled in your eyes and your chest had ached with the force of it. your heart, which you had thought was safe in richie’s hands, was being crushed and ripped to shreds and you could do nothing but watch.

“richie, wait—”

but he had shrugged you off, forceful in the way he had pushed you back. the look in his eyes was wild and terrified and you didn’t recognize him anymore.

he hadn’t looked back at you, in the end. he had just shouldered his backpack and grabbed his phone and disappeared out the door. he hadn’t paused when you sobbed out his name one more time. he hadn’t even faltered.

foolishly, oh so foolishly, you’d held on to hope that that wasn’t the end. that you’d simply overwhelmed him and he just needed time. but as the days stretched into weeks and your texts and calls had remained unanswered, your hope had died the same way your heart had.

you had taken that fatal plunge; the ground was hard when you’d hit it.

you still have the polaroids. you’d taken them down after a few weeks, too hurt to see yours and richie’s smiling faces when he had disappeared from your life. but you still have them, in the shoebox you keep under your bed. and there are nights like tonight where you pull them out to stare at them.

your chest aches, the tears in your throat choking you. you should be all cried out by now but you aren’t that lucky. it seems every reminder of him is destined to detonate something inside of you.

you can still feel his smile on your lips. you can still taste his laughter. you can still hear the stupid voices he’d do to make you giggle. you can still feel him in your heart.

richie hurt you. god, had he hurt you. he’d hurt you so badly you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to smile again. but you’re still in love with him and you don’t think it’ll ever go away.

he’ll forever be the boy in your polaroids, the one that made you feel on top of the world and the one that made you feel like you were six feet under. you won’t ever be able to hear his favorite song without hearing it in his voice. you won’t ever be able to love again without feeling his imprint in your heart.

there’s something magical about falling in love. you won’t take that back. but on nights like this, you wish you never fell.

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nad-zeta · 4 years ago

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Headcanon: How the boys and MC farts

Ayeeeeee love got a really hilarious idea and I really hope it is not offensive lol??? like… um …. how warlords and MC fart I guess?? like o boi dats awkward LOLOL; just had the shitty(note the pun) idea and cant stop asking you hehee

Hi hi, love! 🌻😳Thank you so much for the request and omw I was dying laughing when I first read this idea hehe! 😂❤I hope you enjoy love and I hope you have the best day! 😂😂

Nobunaga

Just like the powerful commander he is, his farts are loud and proud

Will shamelessly fart in front of EVERYBODY during the war councils

“What’s that sound My lord.” Mitsunari asked confused by the loud thunderous sound ripping through the council room

“That would be the sound of my fart.” (¬‿¬)

“Oh, well it is quite majestic my Lord” (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Has no shame about letting one rip

That would definitely make this commander a confident farter

Masamune

I think Masamune is the Prompt farter

This warlord clown always has one locked away and ready to go

Just say the word and he will let one rip without a second thought

His farts are also loud and proud

Will 9/10 time fart on Mitsuhide when he is busy losing at a battle of wits against the sneaky boi, kinda like how an older sibling would fart in a younger sibling’s face… you know for laughs

Also loves to compete with other peoples farts, if someone farts near him he will smile that mischievous smile of his, “Challenge accepted”

Mitsunari

Mitsunari is a strategic farter

He is the type that would let one rip and then smile like it never happened

His farts are actually pretty cute and angelic sounding

His Celestial Farts are soft and delicate, it is just a very small clear fart with no odour at all

Like a little toot

Ieyasu

We have a dishonest farter here

He will legit fart and then blame the nearest person or animal

“Pttttffftt”

“Hey, Masamune can you not fart so close to me.”

“Lad, that didn’t even sound like one of my farts, this is what my farts sound like.”

“PPPPPTTTTTFFFFFFTTTTTTFFF”

After he has eaten a particularly spicy meal this boy’s farts will be dead silent but VIOLENT!

It slipped out so quickly and silently, yet had the power to kill an army

Hideyoshi

Hideyoshi is an honest farter

He wouldn’t be particularly proud of his farts like Masamune or Nobu, but he also won’t shy away from admitting that he farted

Especially when he is drunk

Lets one slip during war council

It comes out like a medium toot

“Oooh excuse me, I just farted”

Will walk over to the window to crack it open, even though it doesn’t really stink

If he is drunk, he will definitely partake in a farting contest with Masamune

Mitsuhide

These farts come out like the sound of a snek

Sssssssssssssssst

“Mitsuhide did you just sis or was that a fart.”

“Golly me, whatever could you be talking about, little mouse.”

He is a disappointed farter, he will give off, soft farts with no odour.

No matter how hard he tries to fart as loudly as his fellow warlords, they always just seem to just fizz out.

This fart can only be classified as one thing a dud fart, and it usually leaves the farter feeling a little disappointed.

Kenshin

Kenshin is one of those classified under the snart

The only time bunny boy farts is when he sneezes or when you tickle him, and he is laughing too much

Like Mitsuhide and Mitsunari, his farts comes across as soft and graceful just like him

It kind of reminds you of a little bunny sneeze

One day Shingen felt like messing with Kenshin and tickled his nose with a feather to make him sneeze, and that’s when it happened

One little fart slipped lose

The warlords couldn’t tell if the bunny on Kenshin’s lap had sneezed or if it was a fart

Either way, it brought tears to their eyes, their lord was so graceful amd cute in everything he does

Otherwise, bunny boi is classified as a miserable farter, those who are simply unable to fart

Yukimura

This boy is 100% a shy and nervous farter

He will let one rip loud and proud when he is alone, but in company, the farts come out bit for bit

He is someone who would stop mid fart if he senses someone coming

During banquets, this boy will start to feel the fart coming on

“pt,pt,pt-pt,pt-pt-pt,pop,pop-pop-pop-POW!”

Finally relief.... until

“Do you guy smell something.” Sasuke very dramatically gasps for air

Cue Yukimura going super red

“N-no, here try these sticky buns,” Yuki will legit stuff Sasuke’s face with food to distract him from the fact that he just farted

Shingen

Daddy Shingen is definitely a clever farter

He has to be, when he is trying to flirt with and impress the ladies

Will be someone who coughs and farts at the same time, just to mask the fact that he farted

Or he will wait for the perfect moment when Kenshin slams his fist on the table in frustration, at the fact that, no one is willing to fight with him during the banquet

If his farts had to be something, it would be a rusty gate fart

As in, it will sound like the driest and squeaky fart sound you have ever heard

Sasuke

This boy staying true to science, is a scientific farter

He will mostly be one of those who keep their farts in a jar and then use it to make deadly smoke bombs

He has a skillsaw kind of fart, the kind that vibrates the farter, as it gets released.

It shakes him up while people back away slowly, kinda low key sounds like an electric saw ripping through wood.

“Sasuke, dude did you just fart.”

“Of course, releasing pent up gas is healthy, plus now I have some fresh gas to use for my newest smoke bomb.”

“You are seriously gross man.”

You are classified as a foolish farter

The one who lowkey keeps their farts in when you are in public

Will let it rip when in the comfort of your own presence, but when in front of the warlords

You will suck that fart so far up your ass, lest you want to be teased for days

Especially after the one time, you farted in front of the kitsune

“Hey, Mitsu did you smell something.” you asked super innocently

“I believe that is the smell of your farts, smelly little mouse, perhaps you shouldn’t have eaten those beans last night.” (¬‿¬)

“I have no idea what you are talking about Mitsu, I was talking about the smell of those flowers over there, unless you want to confess that it was, in fact, you that farted” (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞

“Hmmm, the fox smells his own hole, my dear.” (◕‿◕✿)

Mitus smirked as he gave you one final head pat and retreated back for some fresh air

I hope you enjoyed it dear! ❤❤🌻

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punchyline · 5 years ago

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Catfight || Discord

Summary: Punchline crashes the party and a fight ensues. Trigger Warnings: Abuse mentions, violence, death, blood, Joker Written By: @harleenqueenzel, @antidyingantihero, @ofpowerfulmortal, @poisoned-kisses

Harley: Harley pressed a kiss to her adopted son's cheek, and scratched Bruce behind the ear. She felt eyes on her, turning her head to see a woman wearing clown makeup. Oh great. "Hey, Mike..." she said, looking away. "Is that clown still watching me?" she asked, feeling anxious.

Mike: Mike's smile turned genuine. Harley always made him feel better. He glanced behind her, looking at the clown. "Kind of. Who is she." he said as he looked back at the bar. "You want me to get her out of here?"

Harley: Harley let out a soft sigh. "I have no idea. But she looks like she works fer my ex," she commented, turning to look at the woman again. Her presence was making her uncomfortable. And if Pam saw her, she'd probably end up strangling her. "I'm not sure. Do I give her a chance first, or d'ya think I should go straight ta the throwin' her out?"

Punchline: "William." She mused, scrunching up her nose and giving him a cheeky smile. "I like that. I think that's what I'll call you." She decided and he wasn't about to change her mind. She liked the sound of it, the way it shaped on her tongue. She had another sip of her drink. She may be playing with him, but she was loyal to the Clown Prince of Gotham.

Mike straightened up. "Joker? If you didn't invite her get her the hell out of here. I can do it if you want Ma'" he answered. No one was going to make her uncomfortable.

Harley: Harley bit down on her lower lip, nodding as she ran her fingers through Bruce's fur. She didn't want Mike to get hurt -- not that he could, really. "Could ya go an' ask her what her business here is or somethin' like that? If she starts bein' aggressive, I'll come over an' help. I've got a gun concealed beneath this dress," she shrugged.

Mike: "Of course." he said standing up and kissing Harley's head. He went over to the woman, not carrying about interrupting her conversation. "What's your business here?" he asked serious. "Because I know you weren't invited."

Billy: Billy crinkled his nose, he was not used to having someone calling him by William. He felt as if he was in trouble when people did it and remind him too much about his mom, which hurt him. Even if he was extremely young when she left him at the park, he still remembered that she called him by his full name all the time, "I don't have a choice, do I?"

Punchline: "It's cute. You don't like it?" She asked Billy. She glanced Harley's way just then, catching the kiss. Half of Gotham hated her... but the other half. It praised her for leaving him. Idolized her for it. "I heard it was open for all." Punchline replied, taking a few steps from Billy towards the boy. "Did Pumpkin over there ask you to talk to me?" She said, glancing over towards Harley with an icy stare. "I'm here to paint eggs."

Harley: Harley watched as Mike approached the woman, and she heard her say 'pumpkin'. Her stomach churned and she started to walk towards Punchline, Bruce next to her, watching her closely. He'd attack if he had to. She stayed a few steps away, but was close enough to help Mike if he needed her.

Mike: "Well that was a misprint, you see it's open to everyone who don't work for a that piece of shit clown" he answered back. "I don't care what you came to do. The only thing you're going to do now is leave, and I'd rather not make a scene but I will."

Billy: Billy knew from the start that going to a villain part was a bad idea, now he was more sure, he didn't know what to do, he wasn't turned into Shazam, he had no powers, "Okay, now, let's not fight, we don't want things to end badly," he knew if they fought, more than one person could get hurt.

Punchline: Punchline eyed Harley as she came a little closer. This was who she was here for. Not her odd little bodyguard, not William. she was here for Harley Quinn. She wanted to see her. To know what she was dealing with. "I don't work for him." She corrected. She sort of did but she wanted to make it feel more intimate. More special. "We're partners." She took out her knife from her boot pocket and in one swift, cruel movement sliced open Mike's neck. Feeling the blood splatter on her face before she turned to Harley and Billy. "Oops... my bad."

Harley: Harley ran forward as soon as the woman pulled out a knife, but she was too late. She grabbed the woman by her ponytail, slamming her head against the top of the bar a couple of times. "Get the fuck outta my mansion," she hissed into her ear. She knew that Mike would wake up soon, but that didn't mean this bitch could come into her home and pull an attempted murder. "Don't make me pull out my gun, honey. I won't miss if I do."

Punchline: Punchline felt the woman tug her by her hair and smash her head against the table, not fighting against it. When she was done, she let out a small chuckle. Glancing up at her face from where she was holding her. "You liked him, didn't you? The little brat?" She whispered back. "Shoot me, dollface. I'm sure Pudding would just love that." She replied with a hiss before using her leg to kick Harley off of her. Immediately jumping on her so she could pin her to the floor. Pulling her face in close to the other woman's. "That's what you called him, wasn't it?" She said, ignoring the shouting all around her. All that mattered was Harley.

Harley: Harley slammed her head against the table again when the other asked about Mike. "Who I do an' don't like doesn't concern ya, toots. But I can tell ya one thing... I definitely don't like you." The use of the nickname she had for Joker caught her off-guard, and suddenly she was being kicked backwards. Her body pushed forward as the woman pinned her to the floor, and she headbutted her in the nose. "Yeah, 'cause that's what he was. My Puddin'. Jealousy is an ugly colour on you, sweetie!" she yelled, using all of her slightly enhanced strength to flip them over, now on top of Joker's new toy, her fingers wrapped tightly around her wrists as she pinned her down. "Tell me what ya want. Is it me? 'Cause I ain't goin' anywhere with you."

Punchline: Punchline's teeth grind together and her eyes bore into the other woman's. Anger clear on her face. She reached down to grab at Harley's neck and choke her when she felt the woman smash her head into her nose and she gasped. Blood dripping from her nose onto her snow white skin. She was as pale as he was and they'd never have that intimate connection because Harley blew up the Chemical Plant. "Say that again and I'll rip your tongue from your mouth." She snarled before Harley managed to get her down on the ground with her now straddling Punchline. "Oh... honey... I just wanted to meet you." She said before rearing up herself and smashing her own head against Harley's.

Harley: Harley could feel the woman's blood dripping onto her. It was disgusting, and she wanted to throw herself into a bath filled with sanitizer. "Rip my tongue from my mouth? Nice threat, Hannah Montana. I was with him fer years, d'ya really think a lil' threat like that is gonna scare me?" she growled. She stared down at the other, her grip on her growing tighter as she didn't get the answer she wanted. Before she could say anything in response, she was being headbutted. Their fighting styles were too similar. Had Joker trained her to fight like this? Her lip throbbed, and she felt blood dripping down her chin. "You fuckin' psycho," she screamed, letting go of one of her wrists to grab her gun from beneath her dress. "I'm gonna paint these walls with yer brains. It'll be the most beautiful thing anyone's ever seen," she warned. "I'll make sure ta invite Mistah J ta look at my new work of art. He loves it when I go feral."

Punchline: Punchline let out a deep chuckle and struggled to break free of the blonde's grip. "Hannah Montana? You're the one with the awful blonde weave." She retorted. She smacked their heads together and when she pulled back down, Harley was pulling for a gun and her wrist was freed. She could have easily grabbed a knife. She had two after all but... it was more fun to do something else. She grabbed a hold of the other's neck and forced her face closer to her own. Reaching her head back up and with her teeth biting down into her shoulder. "How's that for feral?" She spit out the blood to the side of them before moving her legs to wrap around Harley's waist and keep her still on top of her. "Go ahead, shoot me. Impress him. That is why you're doing this right. Because that's what you just said... and here I thought you were over him. My Prince."

Harley: Harley was ready to kill her. "Awful blonde weave? At least I ain't tryin' ta channel Ariana Grande with that high ponytail. Or is it just a cheap facelift?" she asked, a smirk on her face. Feeling a hand on her throat, she tried to stay as calm as possible. This was fine, she was into it. But when this stranger was doing it... It was a little scary. Her other hand reached up, grabbing the other woman's and trying to prize it away from her neck. A hiss left her lips as teeth sunk into her shoulder, and she pressed the barrel of the gun against the other's forehead. "Ya need ta keep those teeth where I can see 'em, Hannibal." As she listened to the other speak, she shook her head, feeling herself start to panic. It had taken her years to get to where she was today -- happily married, adopted kids... "He ain't yer nothin'. You think you mean somethin' ta a guy like him? Yer nothin' but a toy that he can mess with. That's why yer here now, right? He pitted you against me. Pathetic," she spat, lowering her gun and pressing a hand to the bleeding bite mark on her shoulder. "An' if ya ever bite me again, I'll pull yer fuckin' teeth out with pliers," she threatened, before sinking her own into the woman's arm. If she was going to have a scar on her shoulder, the other woman was getting one too. Fair was fair. She didn't stop, not until she was satisfied that she was causing pain. Pulling back, she grinned.

Punchline: She felt herself smile when Harley held the barrel of the gun pressed against her forehead. Tilting her head slightly back, Harley's blood bloomed at the edges of her lips and slowly dripped their way down her cheeks, like it was drawing a smile on the woman's face. She let out another chuckle at Harley's words and watched as she reacted to what she said. "You know... you kinda taste like he does." She commented, her voice low and her eyes wide. She was trying to make her jealous. Sure... Harley had been there for much longer then she had but she was his new thing now. She was there for him when Harley wasn't. She didn't run away, she took it. The bad, the good, the really ugly. Because she loved him. Harley didn't. Harley didn't know what that felt like and yet Joker never shut up about her. She was the one there everyday by his side and she kept having to hear him yammer on about how she used to call him Puddin'. How she used to smile better. Fuck that, she'd be smiling no longer. Not when Punchline had her way. "He loves me!" Punchline screamed at her when she tried to tell her that he didn't. "I'm no toy! I'm his right hand woman. He respects me. He cares for me. He didn't care for you!" She lied with a growl. Then Harley moved down and bit her back and she used her one free hand to grab at the back of her neck, at her baby hairs. Trying to force her off. When she finally was, Punchline glared ad her and used the way her legs were positioned as a way to force Harley down to the side. She then rolled them so she was on top and got up to her feet placing her foot on Harley's chest to keep her there.

Harley: Harley felt repulsed when she said that she tasted like Joker. They were nothing alike. Not anymore, at least. "Look, I'm inta some kinky stuff myself.... but that? That's just fucked up." She stared into the woman's eyes, seeing nothing but anger. Her own eyes used to be like that whenever she looked in a mirror. It was what being with a man like him did to you -- it gave you a hunger for violence and pain that you could never satiate. Eventually, his new plaything would see the light. After years of pain and abuse, mental torture. Harley didn't want that for her, even if she hated her right now and wanted to kill her. She was a puppet, just like she had been. But there was no way to make her see that. Being under his spell lasted for years. "He loves ya? Are ya sure about that? Does he love ya when he's leavin' bruises? Does he love ya when he's sendin' you out ta get hurt so he doesn't," she said, her voice low and angry. It was making her remember things she'd rather forget. This was supposed to be a fun night with her family and friends, and now it was a nightmare. "He doesn't care fer anybody!" she screamed back. "Nobody but himself!" The pain of the woman pulling her hair didn't really bother her. She'd been through so much worse, so she didn't even flinch. Once again, she was being put on her back, and she choked out a breath as the other put a foot on her chest. Reaching up, she dug her nails into her leg. "Did he teach ya this? Make yer victim feel small?" she asked, laughing as she lay there, looking up at the stranger. "Do ya feel powerful now? Like yer in charge? 'Cause you'll never be in charge of me. I'm in charge of me. Now get yer foot off me, an' go back ta kissin' his. This is yer last chance."

Punchline: Punchline: She hated her. Everything she said, she hated it. He didn't love her? Then how did she explain the good moments? Those days then he was good to her. When they'd dance together for no good reason. To no music. He'd say he just felt like dancing with her, when she asked him. How did Harley explain the times when they were alone and he'd actually let her kiss him? She felt Joker's love. She wasn't delusional or stupid. She knew it was there and the angry outbursts. That meant nothing. "Yes, he loves me then, too." She argued. Harley was screaming at her and Punchline just glared at her, watching her with a stone-cold face. She held the woman down and slowly pushed her weight against her leaning down to get a bit closer to Harley. "Maybe he did." She said. "He taught you it too, didn't he?" She said, her voice getting quieter. "I'm leaving, and not because you told me to. I could end you right now if I want." she said, taking the knife from her other boot and gesturing it towards her. "But I'd like to do it in front of him." She decided. "So he knows you're gone." She gave her one last kick before removing her foot from the other. Just noticing now the wave of dizziness in her head. She shook it, trying to get it back to normal. Taking a few steps away from her.

Pamela: Pamela had just walked into the ballroom as a woman, covered in blood, kicked Harley as she stood above her. She had been out and told Harley that she would be late to their party. She hadn't told her that she had began the process of creating more children. She would need a bette lab for that. Pamela quickly glanced around the room, noticing the blood all over their new ballroom. The shock of the scene wore off and rage bubbled up in her chest instead. The woman was thankful for the vines that grew on the outside of the house, because now she willed them to burst in through the windows. "Get the fuck away from my wife, you sad excuse for a clown! Who the fuck do you think you are? Did that bastard clown send you?" She screamed as she power-walked towards the woman, arms raised. Pamela didn't wait for an answer and she willed the vines to wrap the woman up tightly, squeezing her enough to hurt. She ran over to Harley and dropped to her knees. "Oh darling, flower, are you alright?" she asked, panicked now, searching Harley for lie-threatening wounds.

Punchline: When the green woman burst in, Punchline frowned. She was on her way out but now she had to deal with the woman that Harley married. She didn't intend to fight Harley at all during this party. She just wanted to watch her, but ah, well. When in Rome. The vines shot from the windows and came right towards her. She could get out of this but Poison Ivy would just wrap her up with what remains of the vines she would cut. Oh- She was rushing over to Harley now thinking that she had detained the problem. Focused on her wife. Her love. Oh, how week it was. Knife in hand she poked it through the vines. (They were pretty tough due to Spring but not actually that bad). Ignoring the pain from the squeezing in one jerk of a movement she sliced all the way through the plants and was able to release herself. Jumping down nimbly before quickly using the chance to leap out the broken window and out of the party. Hows that for an exit?

#discord #c: harley #c: billy #c: mike #c: pamela

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stagekiller · 5 years ago

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BUZZ of white fluorescent lamps is the only thing that disturbs the hallway’s silence. That is, until it’s shattered under sharp heels that click fiercely, impatiently against a dirty floor. It’s late night and this urgent bathroom visit cuts Clara Quimby’s movie time short - her date awaits her back inside. He is blissfully unaware of the woman’s nature, seeing as they have yet to grow close, a second date consisting of some plain movie night she can’t wait to get past. If not for her tact, she would have skipped over to the next phase of threading her meticulous web. But, alas, she knew she’d have to be patient with this one, twenty years younger than her - and that is considering she always rounded the numbers when it came to her own age, even when making a mental note.

Glossy black finds its way to the ladies’ bathroom, door shoved open with an air of demanding elegance - it’s the nature of such daughters, blossoms of wealthy households that spoiled them rotten since birth. How...repulsive. It is with such confidence she barges in the empty stalls, that one would quickly assume she is a woman of power. Her high position as chairwoman of Gotham’s city council has her chest heaved & chin up high, even when burdened with the humble tasks of bodily functions. Her long blonde hair, freshly tinted with a set of highlights, dances over her shoulders, silky smooth & glistening in pale bathroom light. Overall, for a woman of her age & status, she may very well embody the stereotype of an enchantress.

Only she would carry herself with such decency in public restrooms. Albeit the theater being on the rather expensive side, ticket-wise, they’re not as well-maintained as they could be. Then again, she’s well aware of how underpaid workers in such conditions are. That doesn’t make her feel a single shed of pity. If anything, she feels mildly disturbed & considers filing her complaints via phone call later - wouldn’t want to ruin her pristine image before her prey. Shiny red nails, manicured to perfection, reach for a tear of toilet paper that suddenly seems grey & filthy compared to her flawless complexion. She holds the piece in one hand, the other delicately lowering her panties. Noise disturbs the restroom’s peace. Her shifting is audible again once it ceases.

And then -

— BANG!

The door bursts open.

A puzzled glare is thrown to her stall’s lock, secured safely. At this time, she may have to share the space with a fellow movie viewer. The way they slammed that - maybe even KICKED that - door open, however, remains very rude, in her opinion. Though now there’s more pressing matters at hand, such as making sure her underwear won’t accidentally touch the floor. Shadows of footsteps peer under her stall’s metal door, and thin brows furrow in suspicion. They don’t look very ‘lady-like’, nothing like what she’d expect to see. They’re too big, in her opinion. And she holds her own opinion very high. Brown shoes stand outside her door. It is then that anxiety hits her system, adrenaline pumping her heart. This scares her in a way that stupid horror movie she’d been wasting her time with never could.

" Customer service, any ladies in the restroom? "

That hoarse voice. Oddly familiar.

Alas, the feet merely cast an ominous shadow under the stall. Deathly silence ensues. Amidst her panic, Clara finally breaks & releases the question that's been tickling her lips. " Who is this? What are you doing here at this hour? " Her tone conceals her anxiety, instead coming off as demanding & assertive. It runs in her veins, that entitlement.

" Did’ja miss the sign, mademoiselle ? " A high pitched chuckle ensued. And then she remembered, but part of her wished she hadn't. “ It’s maintenance hour. ”

The next moment a filthy ragged mop banged at the stall door. Once, twice, sweeping under the opening, its abhorrent tips licking her heels. Scream overshadowed the rhythmic bang on her door but it was doubtful that someone would hear. And what fate would await them should they make the mistake to come to her rescue? Snickers escorted the repeated attempts to shove her door open. In despair, the woman crashed her shoulder against it, her hand pressing on cool metal in an attempt to keep it shut. Shrieking continued, albeit a tad breathless now.

At this turn of events, her predator switched to slithering the back end over the stall & shoving it downwards, in repeated attempts to whack her head. It was both whatever remnants of courage she had left and survival instincts that made her dodge a few blows. Unyielding, the clown sweeps it under the opening once more. And in this quick shift in motion, he strikes her ankle. Jackpot. Weakened by the panting yells, she loses her balance and stumbles backwards against the toilet seat, allowing broad shoulders to knock the door down. It falters on first try. And thus the form she expects to see is revealed; albeit many times more terrifying when his presence is realized. The Clown Prince of Crime himself, Jerome Valeska, in a janitor’s uniform. How did he get away by simply wearing a costume when his features are ravaged beyond salvation?

Heels kick back until she’s pressed against the corner, tight space denying her a smidgen of security; as does the clown’s shadow, towering over her. Pearly teeth growl a few stuttering warnings to his direction; ‘ You won’t get away with this ! ’, ‘ People will hear ! ’, ‘ People will know ! ’. They are all met with comical bemusement. Pucker lips click as shoes drag on filthy floors. Disposable gloves crinkle under his fidgeting. And though stiff, the stoop of his back adds a tasteful stroke to the villainous visage. Strong jawline ticks to the side.

“ Hm? ” Comes the grunt in retort, hummed over her desperate attempts to plea with him. “ ‘Scuse me? ” Hoarse voice humors her whimpers. A sudden lunge forward and he’s kneeling beside her. Heel shoves into the tender spot over his groin. That earns a yelp & a curse under his breath. However, he merely spares her a few breathy giggles before leaning forward to seize her wrists. Spit lands on his cheek. A chuckle. She’s a feisty one. A scarred upper lip curls into a sneer as warm liquid drips down his jaw.

“ Kinky. But I ain’t here for that kind’a fun, ma’am. ” Had he not been grinning at her, perhaps it would have come across as reassuring. However, most words painted in that fluctuating pitch & raspy voice fail to resemble anything of the sort.

“ You won’t get away with this! “ Another violent jerk, a futile attempt to escape his grasp. Yanked forward, she finds her vision blurring through a stream of tears. Penetrating gaze darts to the side as he pretends to nod in agreement, a thoughtful hum released soon after.

“ Yeaaah, I guess ‘ya have a point. ” Tongue clicks over the ‘t’. “ This isn’t gonna look good on my record. But - ” Disfigured face inches closer at that. “ - it still won’t top Hathead, so I’m good. ” Maniacal snickers ensue. He wheezes in her face and delicate features distort with a whimper. More pleas slip past her lips, red & swollen from those ineluctable sobs. But they don’t seem to touch the clown. If anything, his expression is laced in feigned compassion, humoring her despair.

“ Shh, shh, toots, here, come here, hear me out. ” Hands force her to sit up, that stray auburn strand dancing on his forehead pressing against her locks as he leans closer. Inches away, his breath on her face. It earns a few more sobs. His voice drops to a husky reassuring tone, though so clearly feigned it’s probably hilarious at best. That is, unless you are in that poor woman’s shoes. “ All you haf’ta do is answer a feeew lil’ questions and we can both get goin’, me to slip into something more comfortable and you to give yourself a good scrub down. ” He pauses, piercing greens roll over the lamps. When they return to meet her mortified expression, comical bemusement is painted on his mutilation.“ Scrub down? ” Expression is repeated in a mocking fashion. There is another momentary pause, bracing her for the punchline.

Digits seize a fistful of silky locks, wrist violently twirls her hair in his grip and forces her face down into the waste. Murky water bubbles, manicured nails claw at his wrists. But it is futile. The cruelty in his laugh informs her of such. That forceful hold insists for a minute - a minute that, to the poor chairwoman feels as an eternity. He finally yanks her back up to spit a threat close to her chin, his nose reflexively wrinkling under pervasive stench. “ Are ‘ya feelin’ a lil’ more cooperative yet, Ms. Quimby? ” Lower jaw protrudes as words are uttered in malice. He need not accentuate his point any further. The terror in her eyes & her muttered pleas reveal the answer; his question was rhetorical to begin with. Soft noise resonates through his chest; a satisfied chuckle.

“ Good. Your dad says hi, by the way. ”

— ✵ 🃏 ✵ —

#{ Puppeteer Scheme }#// smh @ clownman for this tbh #assault //#unsanitary //

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rancidmeat09 · 2 years ago

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i’m a clown, you’re a clown, we’re all clowns in one big fucking cesspool of a circus.

god. just kill me. fucking commit clown murder. hit me with your 1950s clown car and honk your dumbass clown car horn and listen to the sound of my pathetic little clown nose deflating as my clown friend toots a horn next to my mangled corpse in a descending ‘wah wah wahhhh’ fashion. after that you gotta hold a big circus funeral in my home in my name and my friend with the horn is going to have to lock pick my front door because the key in my pocket got crunched and mangled in the car wreck and inside my little polka-dot decorated house you find a cat wearing a clown suit mewing pitifully because i haven’t fed it in four days because i’ve kept forgetting to buy cat food because of my undiagnosed clown ADHD and undying apathy for anything and everything in the world around me including self care and caring for others. you find all this out through hundreds of empty bottles of clown prozac laying around my living room and there’s a polaroid photo thumbtacked above the fireplace of what it used to be, and it was a giant tower sculpture of empty pill bottles spelling out the word ‘MINECRAFT’ before a gas leak happened in my house to unstick the glue from itself. the circus of folks crowding my home speculate about whether the car accident was really an accident or not because of my deeply suicidal tendencies and one of the clowns in the posse steals my cat and pulls her into her own clown car and honks away into the sunset and my house spontaneously combusts, killing everyone inside. every single person in the circus who died all join the level of hell that i’m getting fucked and sucked in with satan and we spend the rest of our days honking away in hell while the clown girl who did me the service of hitting me with her car lives for eternity after my clown cat synthesizes a clown potion of immortality for the both of them.

#thought

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dog-teeth · 7 years ago

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guess what!! my first shift as a cook was really good my kitchen manager said im on track to becoming a superviser once im trained in the front and in the kitchen! and im like almost done learning both kitchen positions so maybe even this summer ill b promoted :o)!!!!!!! also the morning shift guy is gonna get roasted by the kitchen manager tomorrow bc a girl half his age (me) did was better at closing the kitchen on my first shift soo yikes but also B) not to toot my own clown nose ( :o) toot toot) but im doing 2 years of high school at once and being better at running a kitchen than adult men

#ez says

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fizzingwizard · 7 years ago

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Merry Digi-Christmas!

This is my Secret Santamon gift for @escapingtheirony who requested a post-series MimixMichael story! Happy Holidays! Hope you enjoy it.

I couldn’t help throwing in a few of my other favorite pairings as well. And I sort of went more PG than G? Hopefully it’s not too strong for you. (If it is you can tell me and I’ll edit it.) I had a lot of fun writing this. But it’s very unedited so typos galore I’m sure. I have this weird habit of just leaving entire words out sometimes?

Wishing you all a wonderful 2018.

---

Following the events of 2002, the Chosen Children’s Christmas party turned into an excuse for them to get together when circumstances otherwise kept them apart. By the time Mimi was 20 years old, it had grown into a grand tradition. Even with the whole gang scattered this way and that - the older kids attending different universities, the younger ones busy with school and clubs — during Christmas they all made what effort they could to spend time with their old friends. Getting the Digimon together was also a benefit. Though Palmon, at least, never complained if much time passed before she saw one of the other Digimon, she was always thrilled whenever Mimi penciled in a gathering on the calendar.

It was Christmas Eve towards the end of her second year of college, the night of the Christmas party, and Mimi was closing up the quirky crepe shop where she’d been employed since moving back to Japan. “Quirky” was an understatement, at least according to Taichi. They served nearly any flavor combination, from squid ink to bacon fat and jelly bean. The menu was right after Mimi’s own heart.

She was outside unplugging the colored lights they’d strung around the three foot tall passionfruit and chicken liver crepe statue to make it “festive” when a familiar voice hailed her.

“Fancy meeting you here, my dear.”

There was only one person who talked to her like a mid-century film star, and that was Michael Barton. Mimi squealed, jumping straight up in her excitement and tripped over the cord of lights. Michael grabbed her before she could swan-dive onto the sidewalk.

“That happy to see me?”

“Michael!” She pressed his cheeks between her winter-pink fingers until he had fish lips. “What are you doing here! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming!”

“Then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” he answered as best he could. “Wow, Mimi, your hands are so cold.”

She dropped them to her sides. “Well, sorry about that.”

He took one back and kissed it. “I didn’t say I minded.”

“Look who’s turned into Casanova.” She found herself blushing, a thing she didn’t often do, especially not because of Michael’s dated courtship techniques. Lately things between them had… kicked up a notch, though. Where before there had only been play and youthful flirting, now there was something more serious. More grown up. She hadn’t quite decided how she felt about it, but ready or not, there it was.

“Why did you think I pestered you for your work schedule last week? Let’s go celebrate. Drink champagne — you’re legal now, right? — stay up hideously late.”

“Not that I’m not ecstatic to see you, but I wish you’d told me. I kind of have plans.” She made a pouty face. Part of her did feel bad that he’d come all this way, from America, but… still. He should have warned her.

Michael seemed at a loss for a moment. “Oh, really? What plans?” he asked with a sheepish grin.

“Christmas party with my friends.”

“Ah, I see. Well, in that case I’ll go back to my hotel. Hopefully I can see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but — wait.” She grabbed his arms as he turned to shuffle off. “You can come with me!”

“Are you sure your friends won’t mind? I’m sure you haven’t planned for an extra mouth.”

“No, of course not, it’s just Taichi-san and the gang. And Taichi-san and Daisuke-kun are bottomless pits, so we tend to prepare more food than you’d think.”

“Ah. So you’re saying I should pick off their plates?”

“Trust me, it’ll feel like a buffet.”

They laughed, and Michael waited while Mimi finishing locking things up. Then they trudged shoulder-to-shoulder through the crisp Tokyo night.

~~~~~ (continued below)

The party was to be held at Taichi and Yamato’s apartment this year. After picking up Palmon and Betamon, Mimi and Michael headed straight over. Mimi rang the doorbell. Yamato answered. He took one look at them and let out a long groan.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, we’re already trying to cram twelve people in here and now you bring guests?”

“Just the one,” Mimi replied defensively.

Michael waved. “Hi, Yamato. Long time no see. Don’t worry, you can just perch me on top of the fridge. I’ll play the part of the Elf on the Shelf.”

Yamato shook his head, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Koushirou already took the fridge.”

“… What.”

“Don’t ask me. We —”

“Hey, who’s at the door?” Taichi suddenly materialized out of Yamato’s shadow, swinging an arm around his friend’s neck while he took a long gulp of something in a plastic cup. “Mimi-chan! And… Mitchell!”

“Michael.”

“Michael! Yeah yeah, I knew that! What’re you standing around here for? Is our welcome mat so interesting?”

Mimi and Michael glanced down. “There… isn’t a welcome mat,” Michael said slowly.

With a serious expression, Taichi nodded. “Exactly. Makes you pause for thought, doesn’t it?” He then thrust his cup into Michael’s hand. “Here you go. Stop being a wallflower and come inside. It’s like a clown car in here, watch out that you don’t end up with your nose in someone’s arm pit.”

“Taichi-san, what’s in this?” Mimi asked, peering into the cup while Michael took an experimental sniff.

“… Uh.” Taichi turned his head and yelled to someone in the kitchen area. “Miyako-chan! What’d you put in my cup!”

“Melon soda and Sprite and iced tea,” Miyako’s voice shouted back.

Taichi shrugged at them. “The brewmeister has spoken.”

“There’s no alcohol?” Michael asked.

“Nah, too many of us are still minors, so all refreshments are G-rated.” Yamato snorted at Taichi’s explanation. With a snigger, Taichi added: “’Course, later, when the babies go home, you can have a go at our private stash if you want.”

“Works for me.” Michael took a deep swallow of the mixture. He frowned thoughtfully, gazing into the depths of the cup, then let out a huge burp.

“Attractive,” Mimi deadpanned. “Just the kind of man I always dreamed of.” She snatched the cup out of his hand and wrinkled her nose in scrutiny. “Hmm… this needs gummy bears.”

Michael chuckled. “Whatever you say, toots.”

“What’s that?” Taichi asked. “Toots.”

“A terrible nickname,” Mimi sighed, sounding very put upon.

“A classic,” Michael objected.

“Oh my god, close the door!” Sora suddenly rammed through them and wrenched the door shut. “It’s like 0 degrees outside. Hi Mimi-chan, hi Michael. You two are gonna get it!” She boxed first Taichi, then Yamato about the ears.

“Hey, you all said we had to play host and invite people in!”

“Yeah, you never said anything about having to close the door!”

They ran off with Sora hot on their heels, leaving Michael and Mimi staring after them. After a pause, Michael said: “And here I thought you were the weird one of the group.”

“Who, me?”

~~~~~

Yamato’s less-than-warm-welcome was, after all, rather justified, Michael thought upon observing just tiny the apartment really was. A small living area, with an adjoining kitchenette, toilet, and bathroom that wouldn’t even have filled the entire hallway at his house in New York made up the party area. Decorations were sparse — a bit of crepe paper garland, a Snoopy doll wearing a Santa hat, and on the desk, a snowglobe that held a miniature of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. (“I gave them that,” Mimi informed him proudly.) Yamato and Taichi’s bedroom had been cleaned and opened up to provide more space, as it was only separated from the living room by a pair of sliding doors. In order for all thirteen people plus Digimon to fit, they all had to cram in against the walls, and pick their way carefully through a designated walking lane down the middle whenever they had to get up.

“How do two people share rooms here?” Michael asked, somewhat in awe. He drew his long knees up to keep his toes out of the walking lane.

“Oh, it’s common in Japan. Besides, there’s usually more than just two,” Takeru supplied. “Aniki’s bandmates spend a lot of time here most days.”

“Yeah, and I get banished outside,” Taichi complained.

Yamato knocked his shoulder. “Not like you’re ever here anyway.”

“College keeping you busy?” Michael asked with a smile.

Shaking his head, Taichi started passing around a bowl of chips. “College is meh. Koushirou is the reason I never sleep anymore.”

“I think you sleep plenty,” Koushirou said. (He had, indeed, claimed the fridge. It was in the living room rather than out by the kitchenette, and he’d placed his portable router on top of it, drawn up the only chair Michael could see, and was sat there typing away on his laptop. According to him, “the wifi signal craps out if I set it up anywhere else.”)

Looking confused, Michael took the chip bowl as it came to him. “Why is that?” He glanced at Taichi, then at Koushirou, tapping intently on his keyboard. “Oh, I remember — you two are dating, aren’t you?”

Taichi’s expression didn’t change, but he flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears. But Koushirou didn’t appear to have heard him. There was a loaded break in conversation while Michael struggled to figure out if he’d said something wrong. Then Miyako could take it no longer.

“How was your flight, Michael?” she burst out.

“Uneventful. There was some terrific turbulence a couple hours over the Pacific, the lady next to me dropped her glass of —”

“Agumon!” Gabumon tore across the room to the snack table, where Agumon had sneaked up dangerously close to the Christmas cake. “That’s for later! Don’t be greedy!”

“But it smells ready!” Agumon whined.

“Dinner first.” Hikari smiled. “Or you’ll spoil your appetite.”

“No I won’t.”

That was probably true, but Hikari only made a shushing noise and ushered them away.

“Man,” Jou heaved a sigh. “I wish I could just jump on a plane any time I felt like it and go visit my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend lives down the road from you,” Yamato pointed out.

“Still, I get the feeling I spend less time with her than Mimi-kun does with Michael.”

Gomamon stopped munching on the chips long enough to say: “That’s because there are so many books in your place that your girlfriend can’t find the door.”

While Jou and Gomamon wrestled, and the others were occupied with egging them on, Michael seized his chance. With caution, taking care not to be noticed, he let his hand creep across the wood-paneled floor and into Mimi’s lap, and laced his fingers with hers. Mimi glanced at him quickly, the waves of her bright, thick hair bouncing. Then she smiled, and squeezed back.

Michael couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across his face. He didn’t know how long their eyes stayed locked, only that it was long enough for someone to notice, if they hadn’t all been occupied placing bets on who had a better chance at winning a thumb war, Jou or Gomamon. (“Hello, Gomamon doesn’t even have thumbs.” “Sure but still — the other player is Jou.”)

All except one — Sora. Whose warm brown gaze shifted over them as she stood in the opposite corner, sipping tea from a mug. Her brow raised, but when she lifted the mug he saw she was smiling.

~~~~~

The night wore on. Body heat and an electric space heater kept them warm (the apartment didn’t have an air conditioner and Taichi and Yamato claimed to be too cheap to buy one). There was some kind of hot pot for dinner that Yamato had made, to which Taichi had contributed rice, fried horse mackerel, and pickles as sides. It was a serious meal.

“Comes from so many of us being foodies,” Mimi told him.

And the food didn’t stop there. The Christmas cake was cut around eleven o’clock, Sora had brought delicate homemade matcha cookies, and Daisuke announced well after twelve that he’d also brought enough instant ramen for everyone to have a midnight snack. Of the humans, only he and Taichi ate any of it, but the Digimon were only too happy to keep right on eating.

Michael had hoped there would be mistletoe. He looked around but couldn’t find any. He decided to ask Hikari.

“Mistletoe?” She stared at him uncomprehending. Then — “Oh… the stuff that if you’re caught standing under it with another person, you have to kiss them? It’s not so popular in Japan.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Why did you want it? Do you need it to kiss Mimi-san?”

Michael’s cheeks reddened. “Well, I’d heard that people in Japan are more private about displays of affection — of course Mimi isn’t like that at all, not in New York anyway, but seeing as I’m a foreigner and guest here —”

Hikari laughed. It sounded like the tinkle of a wind chime. “Oh, you don’t have to be so careful among friends. Come on, Michael-san! Can’t you tell just by watching that we love a party?”

“Are — are you sure? I mean, I haven’t seen anyone else even holding hands, and I know a bunch of you are dating each other.”

“Yamato-san and Sora-san have been busy keeping the party running smoothly.” Hikari held up her fingers and started ticking off each couple as she spoke. “And before you got here, Daisuke-kun and Ken-kun were making out on Oniichan’s futon. To tell the truth, the only reason Takeru-kun and I weren’t in on the fun is because we feel awkward with our brothers around,” she added.

Oh, that was a good reason.

“Alright, I believe you. But what about Taichi and Koushirou? I felt like I made everyone awkward just by asking about them…”

“Well. The thing is, Oniichan and Koushirou work together — Digital World stuff. I don’t know about all of it. That’s what Oniichan meant when he said Koushirou-san keeps him busy. But as it happens…” She leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Oniichan asked Koushirou-san out a while ago, and he said yes. But the next time Oniichan mentioned it, Koushirou-san acted like he didn’t remember it happening. So things have been a little… strained, I guess? They still see each other every day, but I know Oniichan’s really confused, and wondering if Koushirou-san changed his mind and that’s why he won’t discuss it. So as of now they’ve never actually been on a date.”

“Oh — Mimi had made it sound like —”

“Yeah, I’m guessing Mimi-san got a little too over-excited. She tends to do that sometimes.”

Mmm, much as he loved her — “Yeah, she does.”

Something gleamed in Hikari’s eye. “Mistletoe wouldn’t be a bad idea. We don’t have any, but…”

She darted off. Somewhat bewildered, Michael started to stroll back to his corner with Mimi, only to find she was no longer there. There were very few places to hide, so he didn’t have to look long before he discovered her just about climbing over Ken while she strung some fallen garland around him. Daisuke was helping gleefully.

“Ah,” Michael coughed. “Do I want to know?”

“We’re decorating,” Mimi told him.

“Yes.” Daisuke nodded. “Isn’t Ken beautiful?”

Ken turned to Michael with a look of longsuffering. “I’m told I’m substituting for a Christmas tree.”

“We need a star for his head,” Mimi declared. Then she looked up at Michael, as if expecting him to produce one out of thin air.

Michael stared back at her. Perhaps long exposure had inured him to her many idiosyncrasies, or maybe she’d just matured over the years, but she didn’t often surprise him with her whims anymore. He couldn’t resist scanning the room in case any alcohol from Taichi and Yamato’s stash had been served without him noticing. “I, uh… here?”

He handed her his crumpled napkin.

Mimi’s face fell. “I’m sure Ken-kun doesn’t want your used napkin on his head.”

“It’s not used!” Michael waved his hands. “It’s not used,” he repeated to Ken, who bobbed his head reassuringly.

“Sora-san!” Mimi yelled. “We need a star for Ken!”

Sora made some reply, but Michael didn’t catch any of it but sheer exhaustion.

Mimi pouted. “Well, you’re no help.”

“Taichi-san!” Daisuke cried. “We need a star.”

Taichi pushed Yamato into his lap. Daisuke blinked down. “… I meant a star that could fit on Ken’s head.”

“TaichiImgonnamurderyou,” Yamato mumbled into his thigh.

“Are you sure there isn’t any alcohol here?” Michael whispered to Jou somewhat desperately. But he might as well not have spoken — Jou had fallen asleep with his face half-pressed against the balcony window, mouth slack and glasses askew, as several Digimon raced back and forth picking scraps off his forgotten plate.

Michael went back to his partner. “Betamon, am I having a good time?”

Betamon’s eyes shone as he looked up with his mouth full of cake. “Mmmphhggg!”

“Time for games!” Hikari announced, striding into the center of their cramped circle. Her hands were full of disposable wood chopsticks. “Let’s play Ousama Game!”

Suddenly Michael wished there was alcohol.

~~~~~

The clock struck one a.m. Everyone stared at their chopstick. In spite of the lack of heat in the room, more than one person was sweating.

“So…” Daisuke glanced around. “Who’s the first king?”

After a moment, Yamato sighed. His head dropped in his hand as he raised his chopstick.

Takeru whistled. “Nice going, big bro!”

“Shut up,” Yamato grouched.

Taichi smiled big. “What’s your command, my liege?”

Yamato seemed to think, though Michael got the impression he was more feeling sorry for himself than coming up with some great plan. “Number two and number six, finish your drinks.”

“Whaaaat,” Mimi whined. “That’s boring! Besides, all we’ve got is soft drinks!”

“When you’re the king, you can make the rules,” Yamato snapped back.

Shoulders drooping, Mimi took an unhappy glance at her cup and knocked it back. “Whatever, I’m number six.”

Koushirou said he was number two, and polished off his oolong tea without any fuss. The chopsticks were collected and drawn again. Michael laughed softly to himself, having drawn number five for the second time in a row.

“Ooooh, I’m the king!” Miyako said with excitement. “Let’s get things started! Numbers five and twelve have to kiss!”

Mimi let out a whoop. “Yeah, that’s my girl!”

“And not just a little peck on the cheek! I want to see passion!”

Ah. Now he understood Hikari’s plan, though so far it wasn’t working out quite how she’d hoped, Michael guessed. With an easygoing smile, he lifted his number five chopstick. “That’s me. Who’s the lucky number twelve?”

“That would be me.” It was Taichi who answered, laughing so hard he was barely coherent. “Oh man, Michael. I gotta apologize. My breath smells like fried fish.”

“Here.” Yamato passed him an Altoid. Taichi popped it in his mouth, then leaned forward, expressive lips puckered.

Unable to keep from grinning, Michael peeked at Mimi. She mimed dip-kissing the air. With that for encouragement, Michael put his hands on Taichi’s shoulders and kissed him full on the mouth. He heard a few of the girls cheer, and someone — Yamato, he thought — gave a hum of approval. Seeking to draw out their laughter, he kept going, climbing over Taichi until he was just about on top of him. Taichi didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact it felt as if he was shaking with silent laughter. One of his broad brown hands crept up Michael’s leg and squeezed his butt.

That sent the group into hysterics. Michael and Taichi finally broke away, both with silly grins and flushed cheeks.

“Welcome to Japan,” Taichi said when there was a break in the laughter. “What do you think of our traditional greeting?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure if I’ve mastered every nuance.” Michael frowned in mock disappointment. “Maybe we should keep practicing.”

“No, you will not.” Michael’s heart fluttered as Mimi inserted herself between his legs. She leaned towards him, breath tickling his nose. “That was fun and all, but now I’m jealous. If you plan to practice, practice with me.”

Mimi was so pretty. He never forgot how pretty she was. He’d thought so in junior high, when they’d first met, and the first seedlings of puppy love sprouted. And he’d thought so while she experimented with makeup, a new hairstyle and color every month, because she made everything seem so much fun that how could he help it?

In middle school she hadn’t taken his crush seriously. In high school she’d put off him strongly enough that he’d stopped asking, tried dating other girls. After all, he was good-lucking, and friendly, and the son of a famous actor — most girls were flattered if he paid them attention. To say Mimi’s rejection made him want her all the more would be a mischaracterization. Michael thought he was made of sterner stuff than that. It was just that he genuinely had more fun with her than with anyone else, and whenever he thought he’d got her out of his system, there’d she be again. And finally, their senior year of high school, she’d accepted his feelings and agreed to one date. The one turned into two, then three, and so on, until they found themselves celebrating their three year anniversary and unable to remember a time when it was different.

He loved her, and he thanked the heavens every day that she loved him back.

Mimi settled into his lap and drew his head down. Michael didn’t hesitate as their lips met. Her body molded against his, warm and melty, the fuzzy stuff of her sweater tickling his neck as her arms wrapped around his neck. Like he’d done so many times, he lost himself in the enticing pressure of her pink lips, her lashes butterfly soft against his jaw.

At last they parted, both breathing a little faster usual. She gazed back at him, and gave a little laugh.

He was thinking about something to say when Jou poked his arm and handed him a couple of chopsticks. “If you two are ready to join the rest of us,” Jou said with a wry smirk.

Red-faced, Michael took the chopsticks — eight and thirteen — and handed thirteen to Mimi. She seemed comfortable where she was, curling up against his chest as she inspected her number.

Iori was the new king. His decree was for numbers one and four to exchange socks for the duration of the game. This became entertaining when it turned out that one was Daisuke and four was Hikari, and Hikari’s powder blue cat-face socks in no way fit on Daisuke’s much larger feet. Hikari flat out refused to put on Daisuke’s, which were red and green and Christmassy, but more than anything smelly. They were instead draped over the TV set.

Next Ken drew king, and set numbers twelve and three (Takeru and Miyako) in a competition to see who could recite “Jugemu Jugemu” all the way through the fastest. Neither could remember all the words, so it ended in a draw.

Sora challenged numbers ten and eleven (Daisuke and Yamato) to name as many animals in English as they could. Yamato beat Daisuke soundly. Daisuke implored Michael for help, but perhaps having imbibed a bit too much of the social culture here, Michael responded: “Sorry, I like to watch you suffer.”

Daisuke got his chance for revenge the very next turn, savagely declaring, “Numbers seven has to give number two a piggyback ride!” But seven turned out to Taichi, and two was Hikari, so in the end it was a pretty poor attempt at vengeance.

They played a few more rounds, until most everyone had had a go at being king. Taichi held the record for taking the most commands. Only Mimi had yet to be King, so for the last round, it was decided that the king stick would go to her regardless. As the other chopsticks were being redistributed, Mimi stretched and climbed out of Michael’s lap, announcing that she had to take a bathroom break.

“You can’t wait until your turn is over?” Sora asked.

“I’ll be quick.”

She was, in fact, quick — too quick. How she’d had time to do anything more than open and close the bathroom door was anyone’s guess. Michael watched her with narrowed eyes as she made her return, visiting around the circle before she finally sat down next to him. There was a glint in her eye that spelled danger. But before Michael could quiz her, Mimi had picked up her king stick and straightened.

“Her royal highness Princess Mimi decrees —” She flourished the stick theatrically, leveling an imperious gaze on her gathered friends “— that numbers five and nine must kiss.”

Yamato stuck a finger in the air. “We already did that one. No repeats.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.”

Mimi’s lips scrunched to the side. “No, you can’t just make up rules.”

“Yamato, it’s cool.” Taichi covered up a yawn as he spoke. Many of the paty guests were flagging by this time, their Digimon partners already passed out in their laps. “I’m five. This is like, the eighty-fifth command I’ve got tonight. What’s one more kiss?”

Mimi smirked at Yamato in triumph. Yamato rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Who’s nine?” Taichi asked, blinking sleepily around the group.

At first no one answered. Michael watched heads back and forth. Number nine did not come forth.

“Aw, come on.” Mimi stuck out her lower lip. “It’s the last round! Who’s going to give up in the last round?”

No one answered. A grin splitting his lips, Taichi scratched behind his ear. “I guess whoever’s number five really doesn’t want to kiss me,” he quipped.

“Me,” mumbled Koushirou.

It took a minute for it to register that he had spoken. Then they were all looking at him at once. “What’d you say?” Taichi asked, but already the heat was climbing in his face.

Slowly Koushirou raised his chopstick: number five. “It’s me.” His dark eyes were unreadable.

Taichi licked his chapped lips. “Y-You don’t have to. It’s just a game.” He gave an awkward laugh. “Right, Mimi-chan?”

Mimi looked like she might protest, so Michael put a placating hand on her knee. She peered up at him, and sighed. “Right,” she said reluctantly.

There were no doubts in Michael’s mind that Mimi’s “bathroom break” had been more about sneaking a peek at what numbers Taichi and Koushirou pulled so she could play matchmaker with her turn as king. For all her many wonderful qualities, she did have a penchant for meddling. At least, he thought, she did it mostly when she felt she could make all those involved happier, and not for vindictive purposes.

But Koushirou had yet to respond, and as the pause in the festivities stretched out longer, Taichi’s usual happy-go-lucky expression crumpled into disappointment, and then further into something like shame. He stood up, muttering something about putting the dishes in the sink.

“Koushirou,” he said before leaving, “don’t worry about it, ’kay? Honestly, it’s just a game, it’s not supposed to make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

He picked his way between Yamato and Sora to get to the door that led to the kitchen, and had just opened it when Koushirou found his voice:

“I want to.” Koushirou’s whole face was cherry red. He didn’t seem able to look anyone in the eye.

Taichi stared at him with a look like a dead fish. Koushirou raised his head, voice wavering but clearly mustering all his courage to repeat: “I want to.”

In an instant, Taichi grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him out into the hall, closing the door behind them.

Mimi turned to Michael, a smug look on her face. Michael did his best to look stern. “You shouldn’t have done that, missy.”

She had the gall to look offended. “Done what? Show them how stupid they’re both being?”

“Mimi-chan, you’re not supposed to know who has what numbers in this game,” Sora sighed. Clearly she’d noticed what Mimi was up to as well.

“Oh, like I’m the bad guy here! Haven’t we been watching them pine for each other for way too long?” Her arms flew up in a gesture of exasperation. “It’s like a soap opera! The kind where no one admits their feelings until someone’s lying half-dead on a gurney!”

“Mimi-kun,” Jou groaned.

“At least, this way, they finally have to talk it out, am I right?”

“The idea that those two will figure it out on their own does seem kinda hopeless,” Miyako put in with a shrug. Beside her, Daisuke and Takeru nodded in agreement.

Yamato pointed, rather rudely, in Mimi’s direction. “Do me a favor and don’t chase a career in relationship counseling.”

“Shortcake,” Agumon mumbled in his sleep.

After that the conversation turned to other things.

~~~~~

By the time everyone went home, it was three in the morning.

“Thanks for letting me join you guys.” Michael accepted the bag of leftover matcha cookies as he said his good-byes. “I had a lot of fun.”

“No problem,” Yamato said. “Sorry our party ruined your date night.”

“Oh, no.”

“Next year we should do something that’s actually Christmas-related,” Mimi suggested. Michael laughed.

Leaning against the door jamb, Yamato quirked his brow at her. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Snowball fight?”

“Right, because it snows in December in Tokyo so often.”

“Well, baking cookies or… I don’t know, Michael, what’s a good Christmas activity?”

Michael blinked. “Uh… maybe Christmas carols?”

“Oh, that’s a good one! Yamato-san can play the guitar! And I can sing!”

“And the rest of us?” Sora asked, smiling.

“Eh, you can play the spoons.”

“I’ll spend next year practicing.”

Mimi grinned, and Michael tightened his grip around her shoulders. “Are Taichi-san and Koushirou-kun not going to come say good-bye?” Mimi asked.

“I’ll ask.” Yamato stuck his head into the adjacent room. “Mimi wants to know if you’re going to say good-bye.”

“Bye, Mimi,” Taichi’s voice shouted.

“See you,” Koushirou added. Neither seemed about to leave the position Mimi had last seen them, leaning side-bye-side against the fridge, Koushirou explaining some new MMORPG he was into and Taichi stealing every chance he could to plant kisses on the top of his head. She allowed herself a secret grin. Alright, so maybe her meddling had been out of line. But who was going to complain at this point?

Sora was planning to spend the night (chances were Koushirou would stay over too). Mimi and Michael were the last to leave, cradling Palmon and Betamon in their arms as their partners slept away. In the elevator, Michael bent over and kissed Mimi’s forehead.

“What was that for?” she asked, eyes sparkling.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Just because.”

“I like that reason.” They reached the first floor. “I’d return the sentiment but you’re rather taller than me.”

“Another time, then.”

“Tomorrow?”

“If you so desire.”

“I do so desire.” Her arms were full of Palmon so she couldn’t hold his hand, but she walked as closely as she could, bumping shoulders every other step. “I hope you had fun tonight.”

“Oh, I did. Your friends are a riot. And Betamon loved the chance to spend time with your partners.”

“I think he loved the food, mostly.”

“That too.”

The road they were on was well-lit with street lamps and fluorescent signs. Even at this hour, there were a fair number of cars rolling by. Michael wondered if Tokyo ever slept. New York City never got any true silence either, he reflected. Maybe, for that reason, he liked that he and Mimi could walk home together like this, not saying a word. Just being together.

They reached her apartment. “I’m not sure if I should invite you up,” she said. “Seems like a waste since you booked a hotel and all.”

“I’ll go to the hotel tonight. We can… talk tomorrow.” He chewed his lip a moment. “I noticed you guys didn’t exchange gifts.”

“Oh, yeah, we don’t do that so much on Christmas here.”

“Well, I brought you something, but I think I’ll give it to you tomorrow.” His heart thumped in his chest.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have! I don’t have anything for you.” She looked crestfallen for a half a second. Then she pumped her fist. “Come early tomorrow, I’ll make you breakfast!”

“Alright.” His throat felt dry. “Tomorrow, then.”

“It’s a date. Good-night, Michael.”

“Good-night, Mimi…”

Feelings of elation mixed with fear as he walked to the hotel alone. Love, he figured, was like that — the very height of emotion. More than any other earthly thing capable of creation or destruction and difficult to predict which. He fingered the little velvet box that had remained in his coat pocket all evening. Tomorrow — he’d wait until tomorrow. He’d wait a hundred years for love, and tomorrow, he’d make sure she knew it.

#digimonsecretsanta2017 #digimon #fizz writes

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folklore-and-fairytales · 5 years ago

Text

HOW THEY BROKE AWAY TO GO TO THE ROOTABAGA COUNTRY

From Rootabaga Stories by Carl Sandburg

Gimme the Ax lived in a house where everything is the same as it always was.

“The chimney sits on top of the house and lets the smoke out,” said Gimme the Ax. “The doorknobs open the doors. The windows are always either open or shut. We are always either upstairs or downstairs in this house. Everything is the same as it always was.”

So he decided to let his children name themselves.

“The first words they speak as soon as they learn to make words shall be their names,” he said. “They shall name themselves.”

When the first boy came to the house of Gimme the Ax, he was named Please Gimme. When the first girl came she was named Ax Me No Questions.

And both of the children had the shadows of valleys by night in their eyes and the lights of early morning, when the sun is coming up, on their foreheads.

And the hair on top of their heads was a dark wild grass. And they loved to turn the doorknobs, open the doors, and run out to have the wind comb their hair and touch their eyes and put its six soft fingers on their foreheads.

And then because no more boys came and no more girls came, Gimme the Ax said to himself, “My first boy is my last and my last girl is my first and they picked their names themselves.”

Please Gimme grew up and his ears got longer. Ax Me No Questions grew up and her ears got longer. And they kept on living in the house where everything is the same as it always was. They learned to say just as their father said, “The chimney sits on top of the house and lets the smoke out, the doorknobs open the doors, the windows are always either open or shut, we are always either upstairs or downstairs—everything is the same as it always was.”

After a while they began asking each other in the cool of the evening after they had eggs for breakfast in the morning, “Who’s who? How much? And what’s the answer?”

“It is too much to be too long anywhere,” said the tough old man, Gimme the Ax.

And Please Gimme and Ax Me No Questions, the tough son and the tough daughter of Gimme the Ax, answered their father, “It is too much to be too long anywhere.”

So they sold everything they had, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, everything except their ragbags and a few extras.

When their neighbors saw them selling everything they had, the different neighbors said, “They are going to Kansas, to Kokomo, to Canada, to Kankakee, to Kalamazoo, to Kamchatka, to the Chattahoochee.”

One little sniffer with his eyes half shut and a mitten on his nose, laughed in his hat five ways and said, “They are going to the moon and when they get there they will find everything is the same as it always was.”

All the spot cash money he got for selling everything, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, Gimme the Ax put in a ragbag and slung on his back like a rag picker going home.

Then he took Please Gimme, his oldest and youngest and only son, and Ax Me No Questions, his oldest and youngest and only daughter, and went to the railroad station.

The ticket agent was sitting at the window selling railroad tickets the same as always.

He opened the ragbag and took out all the spot cash money

“Do you wish a ticket to go away and come back or do you wish a ticket to go away and never come back?” the ticket agent asked wiping sleep out of his eyes.

“We wish a ticket to ride where the railroad tracks run off into the sky and never come back—send us far as the railroad rails go and then forty ways farther yet,” was the reply of Gimme the Ax.

“So far? So early? So soon?” asked the ticket agent wiping more sleep out his eyes. “Then I will give you a new ticket. It blew in. It is a long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.”

Gimme the Ax thanked the ticket agent once, thanked the ticket agent twice, and then instead of thanking the ticket agent three times he opened the ragbag and took out all the spot cash money he got for selling everything, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, and paid the spot cash money to the ticket agent.

Before he put it in his pocket he looked once, twice, three times at the long yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.

Then with Please Gimme and Ax Me No Questions he got on the railroad train, showed the conductor his ticket and they started to ride to where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky and then forty ways farther yet.

The train ran on and on. It came to the place where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky. And it ran on and on chick chick-a-chick chick-a-chick chick-a-chick.

Sometimes the engineer hooted and tooted the whistle. Sometimes the fireman rang the bell. Sometimes the open-and-shut of the steam hog’s nose choked and spit pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost. But no matter what happened to the whistle and the bell and the steam hog, the train ran on and on to where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky. And then it ran on and on more and more.

Sometimes Gimme the Ax looked in his pocket, put his fingers in and took out the long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.

“Not even the Kings of Egypt with all their climbing camels, and all their speedy, spotted, lucky lizards, ever had a ride like this,” he said to his children.

Then something happened. They met another train running on the same track. One train was going one way. The other was going the other way. They met. They passed each other.

“What was it—what happened?” the children asked their father.

“One train went over, the other train went under,” he answered. “This is the Over and Under country. Nobody gets out of the way of anybody else. They either go over or under.”

Next they came to the country of the balloon pickers. Hanging down from the sky strung on strings so fine the eye could not see them at first, was the balloon crop of that summer. The sky was thick with balloons. Red, blue, yellow balloons, white, purple and orange balloons—peach, watermelon and potato balloons—rye loaf and wheat loaf balloons—link sausage and pork chop balloons—they floated and filled the sky.

The balloon pickers were walking on high stilts picking balloons. Each picker had his own stilts, long or short. For picking balloons near the ground he had short stilts. If he wanted to pick far and high he walked on a far and high pair of stilts.

Baby pickers on baby stilts were picking baby balloons. When they fell off the stilts the handful of balloons they were holding kept them in the air till they got their feet into the stilts again.

“Who is that away up there in the sky climbing like a bird in the morning?” Ax Me No Questions asked her father.

“He was singing too happy,” replied the father. “The songs came out of his neck and made him so light the balloons pulled him off his stilts.”

“Will he ever come down again back to his own people?”

“Yes, his heart will get heavy when his songs are all gone. Then he will drop down to his stilts again.”

The train was running on and on. The engineer hooted and tooted the whistle when he felt like it. The fireman rang the bell when he felt that way. And sometimes the open-and-shut of the steam hog had to go pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost.

“Next is the country where the circus clowns come from,” said Gimme the Ax to his son and daughter. “Keep your eyes open.”

They did keep their eyes open. They saw cities with ovens, long and short ovens, fat stubby ovens, lean lank ovens, all for baking either long or short clowns, or fat and stubby or lean and lank clowns.

After each clown was baked in the oven it was taken out into the sunshine and put up to stand like a big white doll with a red mouth leaning against the fence.

Two men came along to each baked clown standing still like a doll. One man threw a bucket of white fire over it. The second man pumped a wind pump with a living red wind through the red mouth.

The clown rubbed his eyes, opened his mouth, twisted his neck, wiggled his ears, wriggled his toes, jumped away from the fence and began turning handsprings, cartwheels, somersaults and flipflops in the sawdust ring near the fence.

“The next we come to is the Rootabaga Country where the big city is the Village of Liver-and-Onions,” said Gimme the Ax, looking again in his pocket to be sure he had the long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.

The train ran on and on till it stopped running straight and began running in zigzags like one letter Z put next to another Z and the next and the next.

The tracks and the rails and the ties and the spikes under the train all stopped being straight and changed to zigzags like one letter Z and another letter Z put next after the other.

“It seems like we go half way and then back up,” said Ax Me No Questions.

“Look out of the window and see if the pigs have bibs on,” said Gimme the Ax. “If the pigs are wearing bibs then this is the Rootabaga country.”

And they looked out of the zigzagging windows of the zigzagging cars and the first pigs they saw had bibs on. And the next pigs and the next pigs they saw all had bibs on.

The checker pigs had checker bibs on, the striped pigs had striped bibs on. And the polka dot pigs had polka dot bibs on.

“Who fixes it for the pigs to have bibs on?” Please Gimme asked his father.

“The fathers and mothers fix it,” answered Gimme the Ax. “The checker pigs have checker fathers and mothers. The striped pigs have striped fathers and mothers. And the polka dot pigs have polka dot fathers and mothers.”

And the train went zigzagging on and on running on the tracks and the rails and the spikes and the ties which were all zigzag like the letter Z and the letter Z.

And after a while the train zigzagged on into the Village of Liver-and-Onions, known as the biggest city in the big, big Rootabaga country.

And so if you are going to the Rootabaga country you will know when you get there because the railroad tracks change from straight to zigzag, the pigs have bibs on and it is the fathers and mothers who fix it.

And if you start to go to that country remember first you must sell everything you have, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, put the spot cash money in a ragbag and go to the railroad station and ask the ticket agent for a long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.

And you mustn’t be surprised if the ticket agent wipes sleep from his eyes and asks, “So far? So early? So soon?”

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From Rootabaga Stories by Carl Sandburg

ISBN: 9788835814825

URL/DownLoad Link: https://bit.ly/2SaM749

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KEYWORDS/TAGS: Rootabaga stories, Carl Sandburg, inspire, intellectual freedom, curiosity, children's stories, children’s books, Rootabaga land, American Midwest, Rootabaga country, fantastic names, fantastic creatures, Broom Can Handle It, Hot Dog the Tiger, Wind Blue Boy, Axe me no questions, Please Gimme, Fantasy stories, create the impossible, Potato Face, Blind Man, old minstrel, Village, Liver-and-Onions, post office, silliest village, village of Rootabaga, accordion, corner, unseeing eyes, lesson, never restrict, child’s imagination, unfettered minds, rules and conventions, innovations, leaps, technology, Spink, Skabootch, Zigzag Railroad, Pigs, Bibs, Circus Clown, Cream Puffs, Rusty Rats, Diamond Rabbit. Gold, Spring, Poker Face, Baboon, Toboggan-to-the-Moon, Dream, Gold Buckskin, Whincher, Blixie Bimber, Power, Jason Squiff, Popcorn Hat, Popcorn Mittens, Popcorn Shoes, Rags Habakuk, Blue Rats, Spot Cash Money, Deep Doom, Dark Doorways, Wedding Procession, Rag Doll, Broom Handle, Hat Ashes, Shovel, Snoo Foo, Jugs, Molasses, Secret Ambitions, Bimbo, Snip, Wind, Winding, Skyscrapers, Skyscrapers Child, Dollar Watch, Jack Rabbits, Wooden Indian, Shaghorn Buffalo, Dear Eyes , White Horse Girl, Blue Wind Boy, Six Girls, Balloons, Gray Man, Horseback, Hagglyhoagly, Guitar, Mittens, Slipper, Moon, Sand Flat Shadows, Corn Fairies, Blue Foxes, Flongboos, Medicine Hat,

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