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monsters-under-the-willowtree · 4 years ago

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The Blueberry Trees: Part Two

Ungendered Fae x Ungendered Reader

3000 words

Link to Part One

“And then...” your grandmother’s voice wavers, pausing for dramatic effect while your little brother sits wide-eyed on her knee, “... the mists arrived once again. Pouring from between the newly planted trees like a fog bank. Knot Knix unfurled it’s magic once again. Fruit trees spontaneously bloomed. Sprouts pushed through the ground. And a little fae child with eyes too bright and ears too long watched from up the hill, at the faerie ring, as a cheer rose from the farming families below. A smile tugged at their lips, and as the faerie disappeared into the trees, the blueberries trees waved in the wind, beginning to blossom once again as well.”

Your brother gasped and leaned against her shoulder. “So there’s more seeds!? The blueberry tree makes more seeds every year and we get to plant them to make the forest bigger!?”

You snorted. The fae would like that, wouldn’t they? No, you’d heard this story a hundred times and you, of all the people in your town, knew the truth. You alone could see through the glamour.

You knew the fairytale was a big fat lie.

“No. The fae came back when the trees sprouted new berries. The whole town gathered around,” you recalled with an exaggerated wave of your hands and a roll of your eyes, “to see what was going on. And up at the very top of the tallest blueberry tree sat the fae. He called down to the people below and told them that they were starting a new friendship between the farmers and the fae. Said the trees had been given new magic. A gift from Knot Knix, for those of us who had been so faithful to their word and had “righted the wrongs done to the wood and its people.” They don’t make magic tree seeds anymore.”

“Well what do they do now?”

Your grandmother gave you a withering glare and you kept your mouth shut. She kept glaring until you turned away, a silent submission to her matriarchal position in the family. Once it was clear that you weren’t going to try to convince the family again not to believe the story and the fae, she turned her chin back down to the grandchild on her lap and smiled sweetly at him again.

“Why, they make blueberries of course! The sweetest, most delicious blueberries in the world. We can sell them for quite a price, which is why every year we have the Blueberry Days carnival and people from all over the world are starting to take notice! Did you see all the beautiful, different kinds of people that came last year? Oh, it was all so magical!”

You pulled a face and left the room. This was one of the reasons you hadn’t done anything about this yet. Blueberry Days brought in a ton of revenue that was divided up among the towns surrounding Knot Knix, and you didn’t know if trying to undue this ... curse, if that was the right word for it... would be the ruin of your community. Sure the spring and summer mists still came and watered the crops, giving the families all around the woods enough food to live comfortably even on such depleted farms. But Blueberry Days was the reason roads had been paved, schools had been built, and a lot of towns were starting to really come into their own with shopping malls and movie theaters and restaurants they otherwise couldn’t have afforded to build.

Looking out the window of your bedroom you could see the fairy ring of trees and the tents that were being erected in the field surrounding them. The sight of them made your skin crawl, but you chose this bedroom out of the morbid need to keep an eye on them regardless. It had been this way since you were 10.

You’d been on an extended vacation with your out-of-town aunt and uncle that spring because your house was being renovated and your mother didn’t want you and your brother breathing in the dust. When you came back some months later... there were these trees. And everyone insisted you HAD to try some blueberries, even though there were no more left to eat. They all insisted that ... next year. Next year you had to try them. They were a gift from the fae and you just had to. Nothing could compare. Everything else tasted like ash in comparison. Which is why everyone also started to grow leaner that year. They just couldn’t stomach the taste of their own delicious food.

You had a whole year of looking at those trees and watching the community grow gaunt with hunger for the fae food so “generously” given and hearing the story repeated over and over. About the bad human men and they years of abuse they’d done to the forest. The desolation, the necessary sacrifice to make things right. The trees.

Those trees that finally bloomed and just holding the bright blue jewels in your hand had been like holding a poisonous snake. You had feigned an upset stomach and declined that year, and every year after you’d had to come up with some excuse as to why you couldn’t eat them. People came from farther and farther away to just taste even one. And they all walked away... different. Calmer. More serene. Insisting that these were the finest things anyone had ever tasted and that all other foods tasted like ash in comparison.

Now you were older, and now something had to be done. You couldn’t stand it any longer. People were getting really sick now just from malnutrition. They’d been smart enough to gather a lot of the berries and turn them into a juice that could be added to human food to make it more paletable, so things were getting a little better. But still the community was completely tethered to those horrible trees. And something had to be done.

You filled your backpack with everything you could think of needing and set off before dawn. Just as first light broke over the horizon, you stepped into the fairy ring of trees.

Nothing happened.

It took you a minute to remember that people stepped into this fairy ring all the time to harvest the blueberries every spring, so it would make sense that nothing would happen. But then… how were you supposed to find the fae? You looked up at the top of the trees and then smacked your forehead. The fairy child had come back to the top of the tallest tree. You were going to have to climb it.

One heavy sigh, and you hefted yourself up onto the lowest branch of the southern-most tree. It was the closest to the forest and happened to be the tallest, though you weren’t entirely sure if that was causation or coincidence. Then you stepped up onto the next lowest branch, and jumped to catch the third. Higher and higher you climbed, well into the mid-afternoon by the time the branches became too thin for you to climb any higher. Up here the berries truly glittered like sapphires and your stomach growled loudly to be so close to such pretty food and yet to be denied a taste. If the smell was half as good as the taste, you could believe the stories and the hunger and the gaunt faces of your family and friends. But it was the reminder of those same gaunt faces that pushed you just climb a teeny bit higher, you grip white-knuckled against the breeze-driven sway of the giant tree.

And out from behind another stepped a fae that couldn’t have been much older than you were. It was with some small satisfaction that this part of the story was at least true. The eyes were too bright, almost glowing from within. The teeth too sharp, predatory and dangerous within the disarmingly sweet smile. Ears long and tapered in a way that reminded you somewhat of a Caracal. Everything about them just off enough to be off-putting but not enough for someone who was in a hurry to notice a difference right away. But once you started noticing the differences, you couldn’t stop. Especially since, in spite of the fact that they looked to be about your same age, they had no trouble standing blithely on the teeny, thin branches that reached this high up.

They looked at you with amusement. A haughty sort of smirk that made you feel all at once like this was exactly the thing they had been waiting for this whole time. A thought that very much had you wishing that you hadn’t just stepped boldly into the center of a fairy ring and then climbed up to the very top of the tallest tree in said fairy ring while it swayed to and fro in the wind.

“Well hello. I was wondering when you would come. And now you’re here!”

You swallowed thickly and nodded, resisting the urge to slide your way all the way back down to the safety of the ground, splinters included. “Here I am.”

They tilted their head at you, grin turning coy as they folded their arms and popped one hip at you. “Not many are so brave and bold as you, climbing up so high to see me. But you seem determined. An excellent quality in a human. It might even make up for all the other things. Please, brave stranger, may I have your name?”

This much, you’d prepared for. Even in a town bewitched by fae, there was enough knowledge floating around to give you a springboard for talking to one. “You may not have it,” you answered, and told them a name that they could call you instead. “May I have the honor of knowing a name I may call you as well?”

The fae looked impressed in spite of themselves and turned up their nose to the side. “You may have the honor of calling me Fioré.”

So far this was going well, and you smiled in spite of the stress sweat starting to accumulate under your arms and in your palms. The last thing you needed at a height like this was sweaty, slippery hands. “It is an honor. I have brought you a gift, as a token of gratitude for the bounty the mists bring our farm every spring.”

This piqued their curiosity, and they danced on leaves a step or two closer to your tree. “Oh? Is this a gift that will replace the gift of first fruits your family has given each year for generations?”

“No, the gift of the first harvest from each season is a gift given by my parents, done in gratitude for the ability to feed their family and pay their property taxes. Now that I am old enough to appreciate this gift on my own, I have chosen to bring my own gift of gratitude, if you will accept it.”

The fae tip-toed closer still, in spite of the seeming impossibility of such a feat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as you pulled your backpack off of your shoulder (carefully) and dug inside it. Out came a resin-cast four leaved clover on a simple hemp-braided necklace.

“I found this in our field, which is watered by the morning mists and has kept our livestock fed for generations. We believe the four-leaved clover brings good luck, and I would wish only the best of luck on whomever is responsible for the mist. Will you accept it?”

“I will accept it.” The fae snatched the necklace from you and placed it around their neck, admiring the way the sun made the polished resin shine.

“Dear fae, to whom I am so grateful, I have another gift, if you will accept it.”

“Oooh! What is it!?” They danced closer, nearly reaching the same branches you were carefully balanced on, eager to see the next present.

“This,” you answered, producing an enormous rainbow lollipop, “is my favorite carnival treat which I purchased with money earned helping my parents on our farm. A farm that we owe to the mists, and so as my own way of offering a gift of that harvest I would like to give you a gift of my own harvest... if you will accept it.”

Fioré didn’t even finish shouting their acceptance before the lollipop was snatched from your hands. They tore into it greedily, practically melting with joy as soon as the sugar touched their tongue.

“Wa’ ‘bou’,” they tried to ask, mouth full of sugar until they pulled the treat from their lips with a loud smack. “What about the gift of my blueberry trees, the gift of which the carnival celebrates each spring? The mists are a gift from all fae of Knot Knix but these trees are a gift from me and me alone. What gift of gratitude do you have for me for the majesty and wonder of these trees and their fruits?”

You started to sweat in earnest now. This was it. Crunch time. You’d sort of thought that it would take more gifts and flattery than this for them to ask about the trees but if this was your chance, you were going to take it. “I am sorry, Fioré, but I cannot give a gift in exchange for a gift I have not received.”

“Not...” their smile faltered and they reached up to pluck a berry from the tree, thrusting it into your face. “Here, eat it.”

“I will not eat it. I do not understand the nature of this gift. Will you please explain the gift?”

Fioré rolled their eyes and rambled off the story of the bad men and their terrible treatment of the woods, the destruction and their poor treatment of the fae child who happened to be Fioré themselves when they were younger. The trees, the seeds, the farmers, the forest.

At the end of the story you nodded your head. “I have heard the story many times. And yet I do not understand the gift of the blueberries. You say that the men who destroyed the forest were turned to rabbits. Their debt was paid with their lives. Then, the people around the forest gave the forest the gift of growth and healing at a high cost to themselves. This paid the debt humanity owed the injured forest. The gift given in return by the forest is the mist, a gift that is repaid with freely offered first fruits of every harvest.”

The fae looked fit to burst, but you pressed on. If this was going to be the way you died, at least it was done for your family.

“And then there is the gift of these blueberries, whose sweetness changes the taste of all other foods to ash. What sort of gift is given that brings sickness to the receiver? A gift given in bad faith, by a poor host.”

The trees shook with Fioré’s anger, but you couldn’t keep it in any longer. Years of begging and pleading, reasoning with your family that they needed to stop eating this poison, and years of being all but ostracized by even your own family members bubbled up in your chest. The hurt and the heartache and the hair-tearing frustration all culminated in one accusatory ginger jabbed in their face.

“You LIED! I was 10 when the trees appeared that spring. I had been sent away for the season and when I came back, the whole town was under your glamour. There were no “years of harm done to the forest.” There were no retributions that needed to be answered for, no wrongs to right! Only a gift given at great personal cost that has been answered with plague. And now you ask for payment for this plague!? This curse!? You LIED! And now you are a cheat and a fraud as well.”

Fioré went pale at the accusation, the forest beginning to shake and sway with its own fury. You had seen through the glamour, called them out on their scam, and now all of Knot Knix new it too.

“FINE! Fine! I’ll fix it! I’ll fix it!”

Fioré stretched out their arms, and the slender fingers at the end. Bending nearly in half with their eyes screwed shut the forest and the blueberry trees grew still. Slowly they drew themselves up to their full height and, with a loud snap of their fingers the edge of the forest retreated back to its original borders and the blueberries that had been ripening on the trees fell off in a blue bouncing waterfall that swept you out of the trees, the fairy ring, and down the hill in a mighty rush. You tumbled down the hill with a scream in a berry avalanche, coming to rest in a sticky heap at the bottom. Blinking up at the sky, stomach turning, Fioré came into view again with that cocksure smirk on their face once more.

“We’ll see each other again, little blueberry. You can be sure of that.”

Your grunted and worked to right yourself, but by the time you’d made it to an upright position Fioré had disappeared without a trace.

“Well I never!” The voice of your grandmother was slightly muffled from all the juice in your ears. “What did you do!?”

You looked over to see her hands on her hips, every ounce of her spitfire back now that the fae magic had been lifted.

And you laughed. Laughed long and loud and hard even as your grandmother started to curse at you. In fact, the swearing made you laugh harder. It was over now. It was finally over. You didn’t know what this would mean for the festival, for the blueberry trees, or for the farmers now that they’d magically had their lands suddenly returned to them. All you knew was that you had been right all along, things were going to get better...

And that blueberry tasted pretty darn good.

#monster x human #exophilia #fae #monsters #modern fairytale #fairy ring

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aparecium-hq · 4 years ago

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Welcome to Aparecium, Maia! You have been accepted for Rose Weasley. Competition for a character is always difficult, but we appreciated the detail and nuance you included. As we briefly discussed when you submitted the app, we’ll need a more traditionally formatted bio for her character page, but welcome aboard. Check out the new member checklist, and jump right in.

Character Basics

Birthday (Age): December 22nd (21) Gender (Pronouns): Female (she her) Sexuality: Heterosexual Blood Status: Halfblood. Hogwarts House/School: Ravenclaw Occupation: Cursebreaker trainee Faceclaim: Erin Kellyman

Any requested changes? I picked a different face only because the ones listed weren’t calling out to me as much and I recently fell in love with both these girls!

Biography:

* WHAT ARE YOU LIKE ?

INTELLIGENT

“God. Does everyone have to point it out? Yes, I’m smart. Yes, just like my mum. Good Lord. I know already. I got the best marks in my year. I scored O’s on most of my OWLs and the one I didn’t get an O on was an E. Please, can we not mention it anymore. Mum gifted me with her incredible power of mind. Etc… Etc… It’s not that I mind having the brain power really, it’s that everyone expects me to be just like my mum, and no matter how much I love her, I’ll never actually be her. That aside, a battle of wits with me is probably a bad idea. Not many people can best me. That might sound full of myself, but I assure you, it’s completely true.”

SWEET

“Dad says it’s what he gets for naming me after a silly flower. That because of it I turned out as sweet as it’s scent. I guess someone in the family had to do it. Mum can be a little abrasive, dad a bit, well, air-headed. Hugo’s just his owe breed. I guess I just had to be the normal one? I’m the type that’ll get all dewy eyed over a lost kitten and probably end up taking it home with me. It used to really drive Mum batty. I just like to have kindness and compassion. I can’t stand to see people or animals hurting. I just want to give the world a big hug from time to time. A smile is the best thing you can give a person, in my opinion.”

FREE SPIRITED

“I like my flights of fancy, and that’s that. I don’t feel much of a need to follow society’s main stream. People can be ridiculously like lemmings at times and that just doesn’t fit me. I like to think for myself, discover my own path. It’s probably the thing that set me the most apart from the people I grew up around, especially in the last few years. I never had that driving need to fit in. If I wanted to compete, I competed. If I wanted to be a lazy bum, I lazed. It’s kind of just the way I am. I might go along with my friends or my family in their ventures but it doesn’t mean I won’t go my own way when I fell it’s might be a better option.”

ROMANTIC

“Stupid books. They gave me illusions of grandeur, I swear. I love them so very much, which is a different story but it lead me to this silly idea called romance. I read too many love stories when I was younger and now, no matter how improbable it really is I have this stupid hope in the back of my head that I’ll find some adoring White Knight that wants to sweep me off my feet. Not going to happen, I know. Ruined a good thing hoping for it, I know. You don’t have to tell me. But I just can’t help that little voice inside that wants it to be possible. My cousins and my brother all loved to take the mickey out of me about it. It gets bloody annoying sometimes. I guess I brought it on myself though. It doesn’t help when dashing, good looking young men like Scorpius Malfoy factor into the picture either. I suppose it was an inevitable failure on my part.”

SOCIABLE/FRIENDLY

“Surprisingly enough, though my dad did his best to make me a competitive twit, ha ha, I’ve turned out to be pretty darn friendly. I like to surround myself with different sorts of people. That’s probably how I got to know people like Scorpius, who dad was all set to make my arch enemy. In school I had friends from every house. We’d throw big parties in the old Shack and I’d be the life of the party. I’m not really sure where this particular skill came from. Maybe my dear Uncle George, who is amazingly cool, and my departed Uncle Fred, who I wish I could have met. The stories about them were still fresh legends of Hogwarts when I started school. Everyone liked them, so maybe that’s where it comes from.”

EMOTIONAL

“Yet another reminder of my similarities to my mum. I can get all worked up over the strangest things. I can go from scarily angry to completely teary eyed in the blink of an eye. I can hold a grudge with an outright vengeance… for about a week. (Dad says Mum used to do that to him as well.) It’s just the way I naturally express myself. I’ve sort of got my hear out on my sleeve. I wear my feelings pretty openly and I’ll let you know how you’ve made me feel.”

BOOKWORM

“I think I mentioned it earlier but I have the damnedest fascination with books. I just read like there won’t ever be another book published. It goes hand in hand with my overactive imagination. I can read a book and picture the whole thing in my head, just like a movie. I can make myself the star if I want to. It’s probably what got me into the whole ‘hopeless romantic’ mess with you-know-who. I just get so carried away with the stories that leap off the page that I can be consumed for hours and be totally happy with that.”

* SO HOW DID YOU GET TO BE HERE ?

“I come from the best parents you could ask for. Sure, my mum can be a little taxing at times, she’s Hermione after all, and my dad can be a bit of a goof. But the things you hear about in the stories are true. They’re good, loyal, amazing people who just happen to have fallen in love in the aftermath of a world on the brink of war and had two very silly children. It sounds like a fairytale doesn’t it? You ever wonder what comes after the happily ever after? Me and Hugo, that’s what.

My parents named me Rose because mom had a thing for the smell of them when she was pregnant with me. She thought it was clever I guess. They gave me my Aunt Ginny’s name for a middle name and I love it. She’s a tops lady and I’m glad to share the name with her. I can’t say my name was super creative but I don’t complain about it either. I think it’s classy and timeless which are both very positive traits.

They had me first, thank God, because as much as I love my little brother I am glad he’s my little brother. We are close, as brothers and sister are wont to be. But I am pretty close with all my family. Anyways, we grew up with means enough to have all of what we needed and a lot of what we wanted. The benefit of having famous parents I suppose. Mum and Dad indulged us quite a bit, but they never let us get spoiled to the point of being brats. We spent tons of time with the family. I have too many cousins to count and I love them all, but especially Roxanne. I think it’s because we were both so much our own people that we bonded. I was and am also very close to Albus, who was always my best friend when Roxanne was too busy being independent to play. Albus and I would play together for hours, making up stories and pretending to me our heroic parents. We look back on it now and laugh. We wonder if we’ll be in the history books someday, considering the direction the wizarding world is carrying on it now. This change to magical technology is fascinating but a bit terrfying and I often find myself wondering when it’ll blow up in our faces, figuratively or literally.

Al and I started school the same year. I think he was relieved to go together. I had no fear at all. I came prepared of course, being my mother’s child. I remember looking around the platform and marveling at the number of people that could be going off to just one school. Dad pointed out the Malfoys and Scorpius, who I was to beat at every test, or so dad admonished. Mum told him not to pit us against one another so soon. Diplomatic? Mum? Apparently so. We got on the train like everyone else and started out new life. I spent the train ride reminding Al of all the good things we’d experience at school. We were part of a legacy after all and I was very proud to carry that banner. It worked out alright, for the most part. The three of us were best of friends until I decided to date Scorpius and it all went a bit… well it’s not great.

I did well all thought school. I got Mum’s brains after all. I really did beat Scorpius in tests sometimes, just like dad wanted, but I also made a friend out of him. He’s actually very charming, thought I suppose I’m not supposed to think about im that way anymore. I’m living my own life now, bad decision and all. He certainly isnt’ not the only friend I’ve ever made, you know. I had a good sized group of close knit friends from all the houses back in school. We’d sneak out and throw little parties in the Shrieking Shack sometimes. It was the best of times. Then we grew up and moved away and soem of us stay in touch. Some of them are even in the trainee program with me, so that’s beeen nice though we’re nearly done there, as well. Hopefully we’ll all stay friendly. I need my own friends now, since both my closest mates probably hate me by now.

* WHAT WOULD WE FIND IN YOUR TRUNKRIGHT NOW ?

Honestly? Probably a mess. Whatever I didn’t need got left in it all jumbled up. Most of my clothes and such are in the wardrobe where they belong and my school things are in my night stand. the trunk is probably holding a multitude of things that are unimportant. Classic muggle cds, a few daydream charms from Uncle George’s shop, that Skiving Snackbox that Roxy gave me last year. Who really knows. It’s probably a downright motley collection. I think there’s that pretty amulet that Lorcan and Lysander gave me this Christmas past. I doubt you’d find anything interesting. All the juicy secrets are hidden away elsewhere…

* WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE THINGS ?

Hmm. There are so many. I love the smell of rain, especially when it’s been a warm day out and it’s the first rain, pumpkin pie becasue it always takes me back to the Burrow, pine trees, and warm leather, especially the particular scent of Scorp’s leather jacket I bought him for his birthday. It’s wonderful. But you are never to repeat that to anyone! I swear I’ve got an arsenal of hexes just waiting for you if you try it!

I also like to play Quidditch with my cousins, but I don’t play for the house team or anything, it’s not really my style. I also like to just have a fly on my broom. There’s something thrilling and intoxicating about the feel of being suspended high up there with the wind rushing past you. It’s incredible.

A good practical joke is always a favorite of mine. It probably comes from growing up with Roxy and Fred as older people to look up to though. They are just like their da. I love them. Truthfully I feel that way about all of my family. We’re close knit and they’re all amazing people. That also applies to the extended family like 'Uncle’ Neville, 'Auntie’ Luna, and their families as well. Luna is actually one of my favorite people in the world. I love to go visit Lys and Lor on hols and talk to her about things. She’s got the most unique points of view in the whole world and doesn’t expect me to have all the answers. Actually, one of the things I have always loved most in this world is other people. Albus, who’s as close to me as a brother and my most trusted friends. Scorpius, who is more than just a mate, even if it all went terribly and I can’t look at him without my stomach tying itself into knots becasue I’m either anxious or missing him and I don’t really know which… My Aunts and Uncles and cousins. Even my ridiculous little bother Hugo. They all made the world a brighter place just by existing for most of my life. It’s just hard to carry the burden of everyone’s expectations…

I also love silly little things like swimming in the summer, and flirting a bit or going shopping in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Looking at the stars is one of life’s little pleasures, as are new, fashionable, clothes and shoes. Music is also among my favorite things. There are so many things that I enjoy I could tell you about them all day, but I think this is probably enough of my talking your ear off.

Character Questionnaire

Answer at least three of the following questions about your character. This could be in character or a third period explanation.

What does your character value in a friendship? At this point in life she values people who look at her as an individual. Not a cog in a greater machine. She’s been a Weasley, Hermione’s daughter, part of a trio… etc for all of her life and she’s been trying (in the wrong ways maybe) to buck that co-dependence. SO she wants friends who accept her as she is, who thin of her as her own person, and who don’t put pressure on her to be a part of a legacy.

How would your character describe their own work ethic? Is that an accurate measure of themself? She is a hard worker, to the point of making herself crazy at times, and she absolutely will not admit that. She’ll tell you shes capable and will do her job well, thoroughly, and on time, but she will not tell you that if you put her in a crunch she might work herself to anxiety attacks to get ti don’t on time.

How would a stranger who has just met your character describe them? Right now, probably a bit cold. A bit too sharp. If they’re perceptive perhaps they’ll say those things are an attempt to hid something else, probably hurt and fear. Not rude, exactly, but not soft.

What magical skill or talent is your character most proud of? Her curse breaking. She decided young she wanted to follow after her Uncle Bill in profession and worked very hard to earn the marks to do so. She’s been top of her trainee pool from the start and is on track to head a team when she completes training. This is, to her mind, her great achievement. It’s something she did for herself, telling her Uncle not to give her any recommendation or benefit. That’s worth gold as far as she’s concerned, because unlike going itno the family business or the ministry, she’s not relying on the name of her parents, just her own skill and work ethic.

Para Sample

Rose hadn’t had occasion to throw much of a party since her birthday the previous winter. While the annual ball for St. Mungos had been fun it was a much more prim sort of fun, full of champagne and fine dresses. Rose wanted to spice things up a bit, less mystery and more playfulness.

Back in her Hogwarts days she’d had a party in the shack every Halloween night from her fourth year on. It had been, in her not at all humble opinion, the social event of the year. Costumes required, some years masks as well, and always full of fun and whatever strange concoctions she could come up with. The Alice In Wonderland theme in her seventh year had been her triumph, filled with glowing giant mushrooms for seating and drinks that did all sorts of strange things to you. It was a bonus of having cousins who spent all summer in a joke shop.

So it shouldn’t have been of any real surprise to her cousins when they received invitations to a costumed Halloween after party with instructions to show up at the Burrow after the ball, with their dates if they wished, and enjoy a night out. Rose had already decorated the back yard, making use of the pavilion that had once been the venue of Bill and Fleur’s wedding. It was decorated now in low light, full of candles and spiderwebs and all the spooky trimmings of a Halloween party. Grandma molly had helped with the food and drink, a boon especially since rose wasn’t much good in the kitchen. Now all she had to do was put on the music and wait for the family to show up.

And they’d better be in costume or she’d have their heads.

#apareciumacceptance #rp #rpg #hp rp #rose weasley

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ineffablecolors · 6 years ago

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The Wife [4/?]

The Wife || Ch 4 ~ 4.2 k || Ch 1 Ch2 Ch3 || FF.NET&AO3 Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are? A/N: Do check the notes on chapter 1 and fair warning - they touch again.

Dear Emma,

If Emma had any doubts about Killian’s claims, the letter she receives from Mary Margaret the very next day would’ve put them to rest. As it is, she is grateful to be forewarned so the information Mary relays is not as much of a shock to her as it apparently was to her friend.

Still, her heart can’t help but constrict painfully at Mary’s badly hidden distress. The indignation on the sheet of paper is palpable – how the last cup of tea Emma shared with her friend wasn’t even washed yet when Mary’s apartment became the preferred destination for good Samarians who wanted to warn her that she’d better wait a fortnight before paying her friend a visit as some people expected Killian Jones to put her out of his house in no time at all.

Emma is not terribly surprised. Whatever rumours might circulate about Captain Jones, he is still a man and one with a decent income at that. Society may wag its tongues but it will never spit him out. It obviously has no such qualms about Emma.

Mary, however – with her less than favourable opinion of Emma’s husband, is obviously incented by the mere suggestion that Killian might be the one to find fault with Emma rather than the other way around. Yet, Emma can’t help but notice that it has taken more than a week for her friend to write to her. She believes this as well probably stems from Mary’s distrust of her husband, rather than a desire to set herself apart from Emma and, while the latter would have been truly devastating, she finds that the former causes her a fair bit of annoyance as well.

She can’t help the spike of irritation when her friend’s manner of writing adopts the style of one addressing a prisoner – as if she were a princess locked in a towel guarded by a dragon. Though that image is only wrong in spirit for, compared to her life with Regina, Emma does feel rather like a princess and, reading about the social fires raging in town, she rather appreciates the protection of her public-shunning dragon.

Thus, Emma sits at her desk, staring out of the window and wondering what on earth is the proper thing to do – invite her closest friend to visit her in her new home like any newly married woman would or absolve her of having to associate herself with Emma at least for the near future. Eventually, as with most things, Emma decides to trust the feeling deep in her gut. She writes back to Mary Margaret, inviting her to visit if and only if she is confident it won’t prove too much of a stain on her snow white reputation and, as kindly as she can, asks her not to abuse Killian’s name without reason.

*****

But it is not that letter which takes Emma by surprise, expected even earlier as it had been. It’s the one she finds the morning after, when she and Alice are sorting through their correspondence and Emma is trying – as she does every morning – not to notice the steady flow of letters Alice receives – all carrying the same pretty cursive.

She gets up and heads for Killian’s study, turning the letter over and over in her hand.

“I think you forgot this one,” she says when she is within reach of his desk and he can get a good look at the name.

He looks up and Emma purses her lips so she doesn’t grin at the way he squints and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“I did not. It’s addressed to you.”

“Yes, but it’s from your sister-in-law.”

“Aye, but it’s addressed to you. I’m not going to go around opening your correspondence, Emma, no matter who it might be from.”

Emma draws her hand back to her side and mulls that over. Privacy is most certainly not something she has been deprived off in this house but she appreciates the freedoms that she keeps discovering, freedoms that she thought – still thinks really – not many women enjoy.

“May I?”

She waves a hand toward one of the armchairs in Killian’s study and he blinks at her a couple of time in surprise before he nods his affirmation. Emma drops into the chair’s soft depths slightly less gracefully than she intended and a sly look at Killian shows that he might have noticed, if the way he focuses hard on the papers before him and purses his own lips to keep them from stretching is any indication. She does her best to control her blush and turns her attention back to Elsa’s letter. Elsa’s invitation, as it turns out.

“There’s to be a dance.”

“I expected as much.”

“You did?”

“Hmm. You and Alice should pick some new gowns this week.”

She laughs.

“I just finished filling a whole wardrobe, I believe I’ll manage to find something to wear. Does that mean we will be attending?”

Killian finally looks up again and Emma thinks that surprise is definitely the reaction she seems to inspire the most in her husband.

“Even I don’t refuse invitations extended by my own brother and his lovely wife. Especially when the whole affair is organized to welcome my new wife.”

He gives her a pointed look and Emma feels her eyes widen, the letter almost slipping from her cold fingers.

“Oh. But… this can’t— You must tell them there is no need—“

Killian waves his hand in a gesture that seems to say nothing can be done about it now.

“Do not concern yourself, Elsa would seize any and every opportunity for a ball. I would’ve been concerned for my sister’s health had she failed to send such an invitation before the close of the month. It will also…” Killian looks her in the eyes, a certain amount of caution and gentleness swimming in the blue. “Well, it will be a good thing for us to do.”

There is no blush on her cheeks now, she is certain, for while the feeling for one is there, her face must be quite pale as she realizes that the Jones’s are throwing a ball to demonstrate that Killian has not married her just to hide her away like a shameful secret.

“Oh, this is really—“

Emma flounders for a bit before she drops her face in her hands and tries to master her emotions, her shoulders hunched and her fingers digging into the roots of her hair as she breathes through her nose. Focused as she is on that crucial task, the warmth of Killian’s hand on her knee is like a jolt to her entire system. She looks up to find him kneeling in front of her, a cautious and concerned expression on his face.

“Emma, there truly is nothing to worry about. It’s not at all unusual to celebrate an addition to the family with a—“

“Yes, except,” her voice is choked but she soldiers on. “This is not a celebration but a demonstration—“

“That depends entirely on how you choose to see it.”

She opens her mouth to protest but the calmness on his face stops the words in her throat.

“Papa, I have decided what— Oh. Is something the matter?”

The concern on Alice’s face is the last push Emma needs to pull herself together and she smiles up at the girl the best she can as her hand reaches to quickly squeeze Killian’s in silent gratitude – the warmth of it almost seeping into her own fingers.

“It would seem we are going to a ball.”

“Ah, is that what aunt Elsa wrote you about? But… do you not wish to go, Emma?”

“No, no, I do. I was just… surprised, her requesting that I be her guest of honour is a bit... I’m sure to muck it up.”

Alice laughs at her choice of words and shakes her head as Killian gets back to his feet.

“It’s really not that difficult. You just have to look nice but also not overshadow aunt.”

Emma takes her own turn to laugh.

“I’m quite certain there is no danger of that.”

“What did you come to tell me, darling?”

“Ah, yes,” and just like that the sparkle is back in Alice’s eyes. “I’ve decided what we are to do today.”

“And you have been so kind as to come pass your sentence personally.”

Alice rolls her eyes in a manner that Emma is sure many a proper lady would have quite a few choice words for but no one in the room seems to mind.

“We’re going to the lake. Ruby is already preparing a basket.”

Killian casts a mournful look at his desk before he sighs and turns back to his daughter.

“Aye, aye, cap’n.”

*****

Ruby tries to stifle her laugh as she watches the mistress of the house rub mournfully at the heel of her foot.

“I have never seen a woman this fond of walking and riding, and running, and really any physically taxing activity on the face of the earth.”

Now she can’t help but chuckle in agreement.

“She was much worse when she was little, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, what did she do then? Fly?”

“She tried it once. Thankfully, she was already smart enough to choose a window on the ground floor. Granny says half of Captain Jones’s gray hairs are from that very day.”

Emma shakes her head and fits her foot back in her soft slipper with the slightest whimper before she takes the other one in her hands. Ruby adds one last log to the fire in the library and turns to leave when Emma speaks up again.

“Ruby, did— Was there a ball given when… when the late Mrs Jones became… Mrs Jones?”

Ruby frowns a bit, digging into her own memories and trying to order what her grandmother has told her.

“Well, I think I wasn’t old enough to be helping Granny around the kitchen yet. She’d only been here for a year or so. Ever since the captain had come back from the war and taken the house, you know? And she—” Ruby smiles at her first memories of sneaking rolls behind Granny’s back. “She’d bring me round from time to time, she couldn’t always leave me with neighbours and all and she says Killian never minded. Now, she minded plenty but she had bigger messes to make to bother with me.”

Granny being the irreproachable fortress than she is, Ruby always gladly takes on the role of a more welcoming and engaging presence, but even she made an exception for Eloise. The woman scared her as a child and then—

She shakes her head and focuses her eyes on Emma’s curious green ones. Her mouth is set in a line that tells Ruby whatever she has heard has been enough to incite less than tender sympathies toward the previous Mrs Jones.

“But, no. No, I was told the whole thing was very quick and quiet. No announcements, no fanfare. I don’t think anyone was at the ceremony except for Admiral Jones. And then… well, she went into society a lot, I think. But never with the captain. There was this group of women – they’d come here often and then she would visit with them for long periods of time. I think everybody rather preferred it that way.”

She closes her mouth and sucks her lips in, sensing that she might have gotten carried away. Emma only asked about a ball and Ruby doesn’t want her thinking that she’ll grasp at any opportunity to gossip.

“Thank you. I umm…,” Emma’s own discomfort puts her more at ease. “I didn’t mean to pry into— I just wanted to get an idea. No matter. Thank you.”

Her smile is a little forced and nervous and Ruby returns it with a warm and genuine one. She has been watching Emma tiptoe around the house and the family even since she got here and she finds it both endearing and a little saddening. She almost wants to tell her that there is little she can do that will stand in a bad light compared to what came to pass before her, she wants to tell her that a little calmness and a little softness is all they all need and she seems to have enough of both within her.

But she doesn’t say any of that. It’s not her place and her grandmother will have her head, if she does. Ruby doesn’t get how she can still be suspicious of the new mistress’s intentions but she knows there is no use arguing with her – no one but Granny can convince Granny that she is wrong. So with another smile, she turns to leave, stopping with the door handle in her hand.

“Another thing, Miss Alice’s secret might be retiring to bed before the witching hour. Which cannot often be said about her father and yourself.”

*****

Emma stretches her aching legs in front of her one more time before she gets up and makes her way to the study at the end of the corridor for the second time that day.

The late summer day on the lake proved a nice distraction. Alice is something of an expert on lake and woodland creatures alike, Ruby is most certainly an expert on putting together a picnic in an hour and Killian apparently likes to pretend that he is an expert at stone skipping even though she defeated him twice as often as he did her. But, most importantly, none of them seem to be experts on ball etiquette and, rather than make her more anxious, this seemed to calm Emma’s nerves concerning the whole affair.

Back when she first came out into society, Regina was willing to let her go to as many dances as three gowns per season would permit her. But after a certain point in her young life her public appearances steadily decreased. At first, it was deemed the wise thing to do – to just disappear for a bit, to not fan the rumours’ flames by showing her face all around town, and then afterwards, Emma herself had lost all interest in the frivolities of meeting young ladies and gentlemen who cared more about what was being said about her and what she was wearing in her hair than what was in her head, let alone her heart – the latter was almost unmanageably heavy and after some time she tried to keep the former as blank as possible.

Obviously, whatever good her restrained and demure presence had achieved was undone by Regina’s candidness and desperate rush to find her a husband and now, in a few weeks’ time, Emma will have her first chance to hopefully start anew as Mrs Emma Jones. She tries to chase the thought away before it can seep all the way inside her and twist her all up, instead she takes the open door as a good sign and leans her hip lightly on the doorframe as she waits for Killian to look up from whatever he is scribbling furiously.

It takes long enough that her feet start tingling in protest again. Finally, his eyes rise and then so do his eyebrows – the question obvious and underlined with a touch of annoyance. She concentrates on not shifting nervously on her feet.

“Did you need something, Emma?”

“No, just trying to determine the chances of me having married a vampire.”

He snorts, obviously unwillingly amused.

“I assure you, I age,” he sets his pen down and reaches for his glass, lifting it to his mouth only to find it empty.

Emma shakes her head and turns on her heel without another word. In the kitchen Mrs Lucas informs her that Ruby has gone to bed.

“Oh, I don’t need anyone. Just to know where the chamomile and valerian root are.”

The cook huffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest but she points out where everything Emma asks for is and leans back against the table with a look that tells Emma she is watching every move she makes in her kitchen.

“That’s not gonna work.”

Emma shrugs her shoulders as if it’s all the same to her.

“And I could’ve done it for ya.”

“And what should I do?”

“How should I know? Whatever it is that you ladies do when you are all provided for. Prop your feet on a pillow, admire lace, get one of them small dogs.”

Emma laughs at that last part.

“I prefer cats.”

“Cats are kitchen animals.”

“Well, maybe that’s why I like the kitchen quite so much,” she replies with a little challenge in the tilt of her chin as she arranges her tea tray under the older woman’s hawk-like gaze.

Mrs Lucas grunts in displeasure.

“Between your liking and him taking his breakfast in here all the time, I might as well leave the kitchen to the masters and go have all the rest of the house to myself.”

It is certainly an amusing image and, ever since first finding Killian here, Emma can’t say that she terribly minds the idea of them being locked in the small space and letting Mrs Lucas reigned over all else.

When first faced with the reality and imminence of it, Emma looked toward her marriage with a cool sort of resignation, then, much as she tried to maintain that detachment in front of Mary Margaret and Regina, and even herself, Emma inevitably started planning how to make her life as a married woman the most painless and bearable. She started envisioning a day in her future and trying to determine which moments she will be able to steal for herself, what spaces she will be able to carve out for herself. Most of all, of course, she thought her evenings and nights would not be her own and she most definitely did not envision fancying the idea of being shut in a small room with her husband.

Now, she is relieved to see that Killian has not shut the door to his study after her abrupt departure and she only has to nudge it slightly with her foot so she can carry her tea tray inside. It is as she looks for a place to put it that she realizes for the first time how rigidly ordered everything on Jones’ desk is – she deposits the tray a safe distance away from all the perfectly aligned piles of papers.

“Umm, thank you,” Killian doesn’t go as far as to eye the tea with distrust but it’s a near thing. “You needn’t have… I lean towards something a tad sharper in the evenings.”

Emma looks at the small arrangement of bottles on the high wooden table a few feet from his desk and approaches it slowly. She takes the silence as permission and leans down to inspect the bottles. Save for a couple of scotches, they are all different bottles of rum and even Emma’s meager knowledge is enough to determine that some of them are rather exotic and have probably crossed the ocean to find themselves here. She takes an opened and unremarkable one that she is almost certain she has seen before and turns around.

By now Killian is leaning back in his chair and watching her with undisguised amusement. At her questioning look, he swipes his arm in a gesture of generous invitation and watches her as she returns to her tea with the bottle clutched in her hand so tightly that her fingers look even more pale than usual.

Some small part of Emma wants to back out now and even that part knows that it’s too late for that. So she tries to loosen her shoulders as inconspicuously as possible and unscrews the cap on the bottle. She pours a small amount of the dark liquid into each of the two teacups – just enough not to be laughable, closes the bottle and sets it to the side.

Killian has put his writing instruments aside since she left to prepare the tea she is now pouring.

“You are finished?” she asks in her surprise.

“I still have to read through these,” he inclines his head toward a small pile of papers set front and center.

“Do you have to do that here?”

His right eyebrow climbs up, creasing his forehead and disappearing somewhere under the hair that has fallen over it.

“I suppose not.”

Emma picks up the tray again and thanks whatever star she was born under that it doesn’t shake in her white-knuckled grasp. She takes to steps backwards, careful not to step on her own dress and make a fool of herself, and lifts an eyebrow of her own.

She turns around at the door and heads for the library, her heart performing an admirable attempt at escaping her chest as she tries to focus on not spilling anything and not on listening if there is another set of footsteps coming up behind her.

As soon as she makes it inside, she sets the tray down with a clatter and takes a seat, her hands balled into fists in her lap. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and now she cannot help but strain her ears toward the corridor. Nothing. She bites her lower lip and tries to quickly wall in the feeling of humiliation that threatens to wash over her whole body.

Then she hears a door close. It takes less than half a minute to cross the distance between Killian’s study and the library and it’s a lucky thing indeed, seeing as Emma doesn’t breathe until he quietly slips into the room.

The look Killian gives her as he sits on the other end of the settee is downright evil but it doesn’t detract from her feeling of victory in the least. Nor does the pointed way he deposits his small mountain of papers beside the tea tray before he picks up one of the cups.

Satisfied, Emma takes the book she set aside and tucks her tired feet under her – the very picture of innocence that’s only ruined by the way she chokes a little on the first sip of the concoction in her teacup.

“Aye. Next time don’t use the rum I used to disinfect Alice’s scrapped knees with.”

She chokes a second time. That seems to satisfy Killian’s need for revenge and he settles more comfortably, adjusting his glasses and focusing on the document in his hand.

Mrs Lucas comes in a short time later to stoke the fire and ask if they need anything or she can retire for the night, looking at the teapot as if she still can’t quite accept that Emma has taken charge of it.

Emma has made some admirable progress with her book when her yawns start getting longer and harder to swallow around, her eyes watering a little more with each one.

“You really needn’t wait for me, love.”

Her hand freezes midway to her mouth and her eyes snap to Killian who somehow still manages to appear deeply engrossed in his own reading, though she is sure it is much drier and more complicated than her own. The endearment bounces in her mind for a moment longer and she tries to keep her face impassive – neither surprised, not pleased. But she can’t deny – and is only mildly startled to find – that inside she is both.

When Killian doesn’t look up, she eyes the sheets that he still hasn’t gotten to and sighs. She tries to concentrate on her book again long enough to finish her chapter before she gets up to return it to its shelf.

“You know you can leave it out, don’t you? Or take it up with you.”

She hesitates for a moment before she comes back and leaves the book on the side table. When she reaches for the tea tray Killian’s voice derails her again.

“I’ll put it away later.”

“You don’t have—”

“Emma, it’s fine, just leave it.”

She sighs again and thinks it probably sounds more like a huff, the way his mouth twitches at her exasperation.

“Alright. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She hesitates at the door long enough to glare at the way Killian rolls his knuckles over his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Really, it’s a fine thing that they don’t sleep in the same bed or there is no way she will let this happen night after night.

*****

For such a heavy door, it closes with the softest of clicks – which doesn’t stop the sound from echoing around in Killian’s mind long after.

As light and quiet as her presence is, the moment it is gone is much like a pitch black night at sea following on the heels of a full moon. There is a reason the moon recedes bit by bit, waning sailors off its light before it leaves them completely in the dark – the shock would be much too jarring otherwise.

And Killian Jones thought he of all men was prepared for anything when it came to taking on a new wife. Killian Jones was wrong. He is not at all prepared to enjoy having one.

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coeurdastronaute · 6 years ago

Text

Essays in Existentialism: Monarchy PRIDE

“I’m not doing it.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not!”

At the sound of a voice raising, the queen piqued an eyebrow and looked up at her pacing daughter.

“I’m sorry,” Lexa sighed.

Normally the middle child was composed to the outside world. The mother knew better though because beneath the prim and structured demeanor was the most passionate person to exist in the family. She had the breeding of the cool and calm and never ruffled, and yet Lexa felt everything, all of the time. Make her walk over coals, beat her within an inch of her life, break her bones until they were splinters, and she was fine, she was great, she was nonplussed. Make her feel something, make her have to contemplate how something made her heart feel, and she was frothing, flaming, fighting it.

“You’re going to do it, and you’re going to be gracious and kind and honored,” her mother began again.

Despite how tightly strung she was, despite how much it hurt, and despite how hard it was to relinquish, the princess deflated and crossed her arms petulantly in the chair across from her mother’s desk.

“But I really don’t want to,” she tried again, hoping her pitiful face would sway her mother, though she knew the truth.

“I don’t want to do pilates every other day or have lunch with that miserable wife of your uncle, but I have to. Fifteen hundred years of ruling this country means we have to do things we don’t want to do. This is what the ancestors fought for.”

“For me to accept an award for being gay?” Lexa asked disbelievingly.

“Yes, honey. That is what your relatives dreamt of when they cultivated the most violent medieval tribe and conquered the rest.”

Lexa pursed her lips and looked out the window before sighing heavily. Her mother watched her jaw flex and her knee go from fidgeting to still.

“Pilates, huh?”

“An hour, every other day.”

“It shows. You’re looking ripped.”

“Don’t sweet talk me.”

Lexa grinned and ducked her head, pure mischief and charm and cunning, pure cunning above the rest.

“A whole night based around celebrating me being someone who stands out because of who they fell in love with?” she squinted her face and cocked her head. “I cannot imagine a worse way to spend my time.”

“Lunch with Aunt Gertie?”

“I will go to a years worth of lunches if I don’t have to go accept this gay award.”

“Really?” the queen grinned.

“No.”

For a moment the quiet sat between them. Despite herself, Lexa smiled because her mother was such a pain and she had nothing else to do. Of course it was already decided that Lexa would be at the awards banquet and she’d accept the award and she’d smile and be happy no matter what. Before she even heard about it, she was bound to go. Her mother was the chess champion.

“Do I take a date?”

“If you can find one,” the queen teased.

“Clarke is going to hate me.”

“Send her flowers.”

“Hey, hey,” the door opened with the king entering, his nose in his phone. “Oh, Al, perfect. I still can’t figure out what I’m tweeting.”

“She has to go to a fitting,” his wife stopped him in his tracks.

“I run this country, and no one will help me get anything done.”

“You’re not tweeting.”

“I’ll help you,” Lexa offered, jumping at the chance.

“Go to your fitting, get your date.”

“Send her flowers. Chicks dig flowers still, don’t they?”

Before she could say anything else, the queen gave her daughter a warning look, and Lexa snapped her mouth shut before looking to her father for help.

“Don’t look at me. You know she runs this place,” Alex shrugged and scrolled again on his phone.

“I am going to ask Anya to abolish this place when she takes over. Kick me out or something. Bring back exiling,” Lexa huffed as she sat up and rolled her eyes.

“She should bring back the Olympics, too,” her father added. “I haven’t been able to get those again. We hosted such nice games.”

Only the king and queen were left in the office as their daughter sighed and grumbled under her breath. They shared a look and smiled.

“Your mom is not going to like that,” Clarke grinned as she leaned against the doorway and watched her girlfriend check herself out in the mirror.

“Hey, she’s the one who told me I had to go accept this award and be super gay in front of the entire world. This is what she gets,” Lexa muttered as she adjusted her tie, tilting her chin up and appraising over her cheeks, not satisfied with something.

Clarke just surveyed and appreciated, quite shamelessly. She was in her own dress and had already been given too many accolades by her girlfriend. There was no way she was going to miss the opportunity to fall a little more in love. She couldn’t help it, even if she wanted to try. Instead, she just sighed contentedly and watched.

“You’re looking very hot.”

“But with the tie? I liked it at the designer’s, but I’m not so sure now. There’s also,” she explained, leaning over and picking up something else from the garment bag laid across her bed. “The bowtie? What do you think?”

Nimbly, hands moved to tie it around her neck, and Clarke swallowed, because it was impossible for her girlfriend to get more attractive, and then….

“I’d feel better if you just stopped looking so good in everything.”

“I’m not sure,” Lexa grunted and shook her head before tugging the tie undone and scrutinizing herself even harder.

There weren’t many tells with the former soldier who flew helicopters into dangerous zones. She was an expert poker player. But Clarke learned them, and she knew that the antsiness was just nerves, and she was freaking out a lot.

“You are spectacular, and you deserve this award. What you’ve done in the past few months has be--”

“I didn’t do anything except be born with a crown and an unwavering hankering for the fairer sex, especially doctors,” she shrugged. “Nothing noble in it.”

“Stop saying that!”

The raising of the voice made Lexa turn around quickly, not accustomed to the doctor sounding like that. To be fair, she knew it was just a matter of time before she learned it. She was her father’s daughter, and they were known to be quite taxing.

Clarke inhaled deeply before finally pushing off of the door and making her way across the large bedroom. She gave her girlfriend a firm look before she began straightening her collar.

“You came out to the entire world, as the first person in a royal family. That’s not nothing,” Clarke insisted.

Lexa simply tilted her head and let her adjust her shirt, pressing her palms flat over her chest and smoothing down the cloth around her neck.

“I haven’t done anything worthy of an award except exist,” Lexa insisted again. “It feels unfair.”

“It was very brave. You might not realize it, but you’ve helped people. You will never meet them, you will never see them,” she explained with a small, small smile. “But you did something, and you did it even with the fear of losing everything.”

“I don’t like getting awards.”

“Too bad.”

“I don’t want to go,” Lexa whispered, swallowing a large gulp.

“I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing.”

“You look fantastic. Have I told you that yet?” she offered, still oddly sheepish. “You look spectacular. They haven’t invented words for how good you look.”

Clarke fixed the pristine suit jacket for her girlfriend and smiled while staring at her lips. There was a blush beneath her makeup, and Lexa knew it.

“Keep talking like that and see where it gets you.”

She kissed her girlfriend’s cheek, made sure she didn’t leave any trace of lipstick, and made her way toward the door.

“I know where I hope it gets me,” the princess muttered, giving herself another look in the mirror and giving up at ever feeling comfortable.

The red carpet was absolutely terrible. Nothing happened to make it that way, but simply because it existed, it was a pain. They’d done a few together already, making waves as a cute couple, as the most talked about pairing in the world. But this was different, and Lexa knew it. So she smiled a little more and relaxed, becoming The Princess.

Lexa held her girlfriend’s hand, placed her hand on her lower back to guide her. They moved along the carpet and did the interviews. For only have a few months of media training, Clarke did well, enough to amaze everyone. But of course, Lexa wasn’t surprised. Her girlfriend stayed up all night studying for a party.

When it came time for her to accept her honors, Lexa kissed Clarke’s cheek and made her way to the stage, more nervous than she could remember being in her entire life, which was an impressive feat to beat in her history of appearances.

For a beat, as the applause surged around her, deafening all else, Lexa stared at the statue in her hands and smiled slightly before clearing her throat.

“I want to thank you, for this amazing honor,” she began. “I stand among many great people tonight and am in awe of each of you. I’ve been given many things in my life. I exist in great privilege. And all I did was fell in love. I didn’t do anything other than what everyone else does every day, what everyone should have a right to do, but don’t in 72 countries in the world. I did something that could get me killed in eight of those countries. I did something that cause almost 30% of young members of our community to attempt to commit suicide every year. I did something that gets 20% of LGBT youth into homelessness. I did something that gets people killed every year, and of these hate crimes, 4 out of 5 are minorities. I did something as simple as fall in love, and have been fortunate enough to be able to enjoy because of the hard work of many Trans, Gay, Lesbian members of this community who go largely forgotten because of the color of their skin. I went and fell in love with a woman and caused a near collapse of a centuries old monarchy. And it shouldn’t have been that way, but it was, and it is. And I am here because I am proud to stand beside you all, and prepared to topple everything.”

The crowd applauded as Lexa grew passionate. From her seat, Clarke held her breath.

“Standing here tonight though, amongst such greatness and kindness and empathy, reminds me to always do and give more. I will treasure this honor you’ve given me, as an icon, as a crusader, I think this will be the most precious thing I’ve ever done. And I am grateful you’ve given me the chance to become a force for good. My parents have been nothing but supportive. My siblings have been protective and sweet. And my girlfriend,” Lexa smiled again.

“She has been a well of strength for me. I have found the world to be a much more habitable place when I am my true self, and I promise to spend my time and privilege finding ways to help everyone experience this same gift. It is not lost on me that I am standing here in place of many more deserving activists and humanitarians and volunteers because of the simple randomness of birth. You are not missed or forgotten. Your work is noticed, and it is doing things.”

The applause came again and Lexa took a shaky breath before looking down at the statue in her hand and fiddling with it slightly until it quieted.

“Today I was reminded quite briskly. That what we might do, the lives we might touch, they will happen without us knowing it. You don’t do good works, and try to fix the world because you need to see it. There are lists of names of those who have died with the hope of one day, the world allowing a night like tonight, to honor our community and celebrate our progress, who died when it was illegal to fall in love in more than 72 countries. Today I was reminded by the smartest person I know, that we make the world better than we found it, even if we can’t see the changes. I am deeply humbled and honored to accept this award, and to be your gay princess. This award is for the little ones who know can see that you can love whoever you want, and still wear a tiara. Thank you.”

Lexa didn’t hear the applause. She didn’t see Clarke standing. She didn’t see the entire place applauding her. Instead, she waved and ducked her head before leaving the state. She certainly wouldn’t have known that her mother was wiping a tear away from her cheek and applauding her from her office. She definitely didn’t know that her father smiled to himself and leaned back on the couch with a giant exhalation he didn’t realize he was holding until she finished speaking. How could she know that he pushed up his glasses and nodded to himself while muttering “that’s my girl,” as he picked up his phone and tried to tweet again. There was absolutely no earthly way that Lexa could have known that when it was shared in the following days, a ten year old finally let out a breath they’d been holding for their entire life because a princess felt the same way she did.

No. Lexa didn’t know. She got off the stage though and earned a hug from her sister that she hung onto longer than normal, and she stopped shaking, and prepared for pictures, becoming The Princess once again.

The floor was littered with expensive clothing. A pair of trousers and a black bra were crumpled together, while a heel had bounced under the bed and its mate went to the other side of the desk. Proudly, a trophy sat on the nightstand as the sun came up and the world intruded, reminding the sleeping pair that it didn’t care.

Despite the deep sleep, Lexa felt the body shift in her arms. She kissed the skin of a shoulder that still had the lingering smell of perfume and her bed on it. She felt the body still itself and push into her front.

“We have to get up. It’s almost ten,” the voice came with the moving and the stilling.

Hands wrapped around her ribs, and Clarke was alright with it. She didn’t mean the words. She meant the curling into Lexa, and they both knew it.

“Sleep more.”

“We have to get ready to be gay again today.”

“It’s so much damn work,” Lexa grunted, tossing her leg over Clarke’s hip.

“I fell asleep.”

“Do it again.”

“No, I mean, I feel asleep in the palace again,” Clarke realized, her eyes opening finally.

“I do that every night almost,” Lexa complained, burrowing as best as she could. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Lexa…”

“Please be quiet and sleep. I love you, I do,” she murmured. “But I need two more hours and so do you. And you’re keeping me up, miss I’m-not-afraid-of-mortar-fire-but-the-queen-makes-me-shake.”

“That’s quite a name I have.”

“That’s it,” Lexa huffed, unwrapping herself and turning the opposite direction. In a flurry and snit she tugged a pillow over her head, only mumbling more words that couldn’t be understood.

“I can’t hear you,” Clarke called over her shoulder.

“I said, I get an award for being a good gay, and I can’t get two hours of sleep,” she muttered from beneath the edge of the pillow. “All because you took advantage of me in the palace.”

“Dating you is hard. I deserve the award.”

Clarke rolled over and made herself comfortable until Lexa relaxed into her arms. She kissed her neck to help ease the crankiness.

“Two more hours, please?”

“Deal,” the doctor nodded. “You just wanted to be the little spoon.”

Lexa smiled to herself and shrugged.

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otheroutlandertales · 6 years ago

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Anonymous said: Hi, this is a prompt for Abby. Abby would you write a missing scene of Fergus reuniting with Bree after she comes through the stones in DOA? Thanks!

Starlight, Starbright

by @abbydebeaupreposts

He knew they would be there, had no doubts whatsoever that milord would come for him and that Marsali would be right by his side. Still, it was a relief to catch sight of her blonde tresses and milord’s ruddy curls pressed together sharing a conspiratorial whisper as they waited for his case to be called. The room was packed tight, he was definitely today’s main attraction-- or, rather, the crowd had come to see what Jamie Fraser had to say, how he might react.

Milord’s story-- pardoned Jacobite prisoner and claimholder of thousands of prime North Carolina acreage was well known in these parts. As was the tacit understanding that Deputy Berowne was in cahoots with Sergeant Murchison, an old foe of Jamie’s from Ardsmuir. Together, the two officials of the crown conspired to drum up false charges of assault and tax evasion against him hoping to cause trouble for Jamie during the busy harvest season. But he trusted milord to handle it and seeing the knowing gleam when their eyes met, he relaxed and prepared to enjoy the spectacle like everyone else.

Glancing towards Marsali at milord’s side, he saw she was giving him one of her melty, doe-eyed looks. He cleared his throat at the yearning he read in her expression. Her heart-shaped face, so dear to him that when she smiled, he couldn’t help returning it. It was hot in the stuffy room. He looked at the window longingly, maybe they would open it soon? Just then his attention was diverted by someone reaching around Marsali to touch Jamie’s arm.

Fergus watched milord’s face as he leaned over to speak to her. There was an unutterable tenderness around his eyes, something of wonder in his features that surprised him. He followed the line of that arm, across his wife’s middle-- his eyes narrowing at the imperceptible thickness he thought he detected there-- and he looked up… and up… and up until he saw her. The woman’s hair was bound in a tight chignon but the color of it was unmistakable, as were those sharp cheekbones and slanted, piercing blue eyes. Mon Dieu! It was milord’s petite étoile -- his little star-- it had to be!

Fergus’s gaze shot back to Jamie just as the realization dawned and a silent question and answer volleyed between them. Jamie’s look of pride and the small private smile of confirmation was enough. Fergus’ face flushed pink with pleasure. A puff of amused breath came from Marsali whose cocked, raised brow and small flick of her eyes left and right made him chuckle, too. His wife’s sense of humor was still intact and she was quite right--- bookended between those red-headed giants, she looked more like a small child.

From that point until he emerged from Jocasta’s bathing chamber, freshly washed and in clean clothes at last, the afternoon had been a blur. They’d had all charges dismissed, of course. Fergus hadn’t doubted Jamie’s abilities on this front and he’d thanked Ian for his fast riding to get an official copy of the grant of lands from the governor in time. He’d snuggled up with Germain as Marsali was putting him down for a nap and had time to reassure his wife in private. They’d exchanged a little gossip about the girl, Brianna, who had turned up so unexpectedly yesterday afternoon. Now, finally, he came face to face with Jamie’s daughter.

“Mademoiselle,” he bowed low. Up close, he saw her eyes really were the exact replica of her father’s. Fergus offered her his arm and then walked with her down to the riverbank. “Your mother must be so happy that her letter reached you in time.” He felt her startle at his words.

“Her letter?” Her brows rose up in puzzlement.

“Oui, when we realized the Artemis had landed in the Colonies, well, you can just imagine how excited we all were that providence had flung us upon the very shores where she had raised milord’s long lost daughter.” Fergus looked sideways at her.

“Oh. Well yes, I was raised in Boston, but when she decided to go… back to find Jamie, I wasn’t able… that is w-we decided that it would be too difficult a trip for me to make with her not knowing exactly what she would find, if it was even him… A. Malcolm. So I stayed… behind.” Brianna told him. “I, uhm, actually was in Scotland when I found out my father was stateside… er in the colonies. Aunt Jenny told me where to find him and I came as soon as I could. My mother doesn’t even know I’m here yet.” She told him, looking away under the scrutiny of Fergus’ soft brown eyes.

Her hair, he couldn’t help but notice, had been restyled in a looser, less formal way and he could see every shade of red, glinting in the sun.

“When Marsali asked when we could expect your arrival, Claire became upset and so we-- Ian and I, you have met him? Milord’s nephew?” Brianna nodded toward the long whipcord thin teen sitting on the veranda. “Ah, well, we thought maybe there was something -- some kind of ailment that you were suffering from? But I can see for myself you are hale and whole. Then milord explained that milady was upset because you were bound for France and they thought perhaps you had left already and she wouldn’t be able to send for you in time. Such a sad turn of events. And now, here you are, la petite étoile!”

“The little star?” Brianna’s high school French was good enough for simple translations.

“Oui.” Fergus gave her a genuine grin of warmth and love. “Do you know much about his life after Culloden?” Bree shook her head. “That is just as well for it was not much of a life. He was ill for months after and then lived in a cave for many years.”

“I have seen the cave.” Brianna blurted out. “When my mother left, we arranged for me to live with friends for a few months and then go to… France.” She said hesitantly, feeling her way through her story. Fergus waited patiently, observing that she did not share her mother’s glass face for he was uncertain how much of the tale was true and how much she was making up on the fly. “But it felt so wrong, her being back with Jam— Da, I mean, and me so far away that I — I set sail after she left, hoping to find her. I was too late to catch you in Edinburgh, but I made it to Lallybroch and met everyone there. They told me a bit about him… Da.” She spoke, shly, in that strange accent of hers and he could tell she wasn’t practiced at calling Jamie “Da” for the word sounded new on the tongue.

“Then you know a little of what it was like for him. The confinement and isolation?” Fergus asked and when Brianna nodded again, continued. “I was the link between him and Lallybroch, transporting game he caught to them and books and fresh greens to him. You know, the only time I heard Jamie speak your mother’s name after Culloden was when I would bring him a basket from Mistress Murray’s garden?” Brianna shook her head, suddenly the Dunbonnet wasn’t a story in a book. “Claire told him he would keep his teeth in his head so long as he scrubbed them everyday and ate his greens. I would make the trip at dusk so the redcoats wouldn’t find the path and follow me. Sometimes we would sit on top of that mountain just outside the cave after it was dark and look up at the sky. Milord would find the brightest star and pray for you and your mother. Many, many times I would overhear him talking to the two of you. He called you his wee bairn in fever dreams when he didn’t know I was with him. But other times, when we sat together at night, he always called you his petite étoile as he looked for you to appear in the evening sky,” he told her. “We thought you were both dead.” He added softly, “And there were times I truly thought the pain of it would kill him.”

Brianna looked stricken, a shudder of recognition went through her. His brows rose up inviting her to answer his unspoken question. She smiled a little. “I thought Daddy-- uhm, the man who raised me?-- was my father. I didn’t know she’d been married before but sometimes when we went camp-- uhm-- travelling... my mother would stargaze and she would get this peaceful look on her face. I don’t think she ever forgot him, Da, I mean.” Brianna’s face was flushed a little. Ah, more like her mother than he thought, or maybe she had yet to learn how to wear her mask as well as milord.

“Well, no, how could she have? For that matter how could he have forgotten her? And now that they are together once again, the two of them are like newlyweds-- for all that they just celebrated their twenty-fourth wedding anniversary! Theirs is a rare kind of love, so wonderful to see them back together after all these years!” Brianna’s confused expression finally registered.

Fergus could’ve kicked himself, how would she know what her mother was like with milord? He realized to his surprise just how few people there were that had known what they’d been like in the time before… before Culloden. Then, again she’d been spared the sight of them in the depths of despair when they both thought all was lost between them.

Fergus’ memories of Paris came fully to his mind. How lost milady was after Faith, how desperate and raw milord seemed upon his arrival at Fontainbleau. Brianna didn’t know Jamie well enough to understand the depth of his feelings for his family… for the child he just met or for Claire. On top of that, he’d unwittingly insulted the marriage between Claire and her second husband, a man whom Brianna had clearly loved very much.

“Oh, pardonne-moi, I am usually not so gauche.” But she smiled at him, he was relieved to see.

“It’s okay,” she said, using an expression Fergus had never heard. Ohkay - he committed it to memory. “So you come from Paris?”

“Oui.”

“How did you meet my father?” she asked.

“Ah, at the brothel, when I was picking milord’s pocket.” Fergus laughed and noticed Brianna smiling awkwardly. Milady was so worldly, Fergus hadn’t been mindful of the fact that she would have raised Jamie’s child to be modest, a lady. “Not that milord was there for that!” He rushed to reassure her. Thank God, Brianna hadn’t found them in Edinburgh, what would she have said upon finding Jamie had moved her mother into his apartment at Madam Jeanne’s? “His job took him there in the company of Tearlach, whose tastes were rather more… base.” Fergus added.

“Can you tell me about my mother and Da, what were they like, then?” Her eyes were alight with interest.

“Oui! Your mother was the most unusual lady in Paris! She was a rare healer-- feared and loved in equal measure. They called her La Dame Blanche and your father knew everyone who was anyone in the city. He was welcome at Versailles. Imagine it if you will-- he was on intimate terms with the pretender to the Scottish throne and King Louis! He had a camel, in his gardens, did you know?” Fergus was off and running and he knew he sounded exactly like the little orphan Jamie had rescued from the streets in Paris, but he didn’t care.

Gone was his customary air of sophistication and calm, warming to his subject. He was hoping maybe he could smooth the way between Jamie and his daughter as a small measure of repayment for the life he had been given. So he told her, not caring whether he sounded like a babbling fool, not worrying whether she could see through his soul to the lost, scared child he had been.

They were his parents, in a way, too and he wanted her to understand a little of their hearts, a bit about the Frasers of Paris and Lallybroch and he didn’t think there was anyone else who would tell her these things, who could tell her these things.

How her father looked in a puce velvet suit with a sword and dirk tucked into his belt walking around the streets of the city like he owned them; or milady in the most shocking red silk dress Paris had ever seen, wandering the shops looking for rare curatives, speaking like a native born. He was the only one left who had see milady’s strong, capable hands ruling the infirmary after a fight, or milord side by side on the battlefield with Murtagh. No one else had walked in the dark and light with them as he had.

He’d been the one who had tried to care for milady when her heart and child had been ripped from her body. It was he who changed milord’s bandages and begged him to live one more day, just one more, after all had been lost. So he told her, everything he could think of in that one short afternoon as they walked along the river. He held her as she cried for her sister, Faith, and for the time they had all lost.

When she was done, Fergus stroked the hair back from her face and smiled at her, for he was also the only one who had loved them unconditionally in the time before and the present time, who watched every moment of shattering heartbreak reversed in a second upon miladys arrival at the printshop mere months before.

“Your parents, Brianna, they are the best people I have ever known. Both have the gift of treating people with kindness and dignity--- be they beggar or royalty--- it makes no difference to them, and yet they are fiercely protective of those they love. To them, words like honor and duty, loyalty and family have true meaning. Your father would sacrifice everything again to know you were safe and loved and happy. Now that you are here, you will come to know him, as he knows you.”

“How can he know me?” Brianna asked.

“Because he was with you every single night of your life, Brianna. He looked to the heavens waiting until he saw his petite étoile. You have always been his guiding light.”

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod abby #ch: fergus #ch: marsali #ch: jamie #ch: bree #canon compliant #book: DOA #missing moment #oot #*

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yournewapartment · 7 years ago

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Do you have like a checklist or something of things that need to be done before you can move out? I have over a year to get ready, but I'm not certain what "ready" means exactly. What needs to happen before a person can live on their own (in the USA)? Thanks for answering, love your blog!

I’m realizing now that I have lots of posts that detail different parts of this moving into a new apartment process, but none that discuss everything. So this post is essentially a conglomerate of four different posts: Adulting 108, Moving (On Your Own), Living On Your Own, and Apartment Hunting 101.

But here they are, in step by step order! Enjoy!

Finding an Apartment (Apartment Hunting 101)

Overview: There’s no getting around it, apartment hunting is a stressful process. The waiting and wondering gets the best of everyone, so give yourself a break and remember not to be too hard on yourself. The more prepared and decisive you are, the better off you’ll be!

1. Step One: The most important step in this entire process is coming up with your list of “Need and Won’t”. This list can always be adjusted in the spur of the moment, but will act as a baseline to help you easily disregard impractical apartments. Before you even start your search, sit down with any roommates (SO or otherwise) and come up with a list. Here is my list:

Need: Dishwasher, pet friendly, heat included.

Won’t: First floor apartment, all or mostly carpeted apartment, no closet space.

2. Step Two: Decide your price range. The paycheck to paycheck life is not a great one to live, so try to find an apartment that still allows you to put anywhere from $100-$500 into savings every month. Figure out how much you make monthly, with taxes taken out. If you’re paid every other week, this is two paychecks. If you’re paid every week, this is four paychecks. Start with your total monthly income, and subtract the following expenses. Let’s say you make $1,000 with taxes taken out:

Rent - Let’s say you’re living with a roommate, and your rent is only $500 per month.

Electric - My electric expense is $60 a month for a one bedroom. Once again, you’re living with a roommate so let’s say that you pay half of that. $30.

Internet - $30 a month internet only. Please don’t waste your money on cable. Just use your mom’s Netflix account.

Travel expenses - I spend about $85 a month on gas. Let’s say you use public transportation and spend around $100.

Food - Figure you’ll be spending $100 per person each month. So that’s another $100.

Misc expense: Let’s just add an additional $50 worth of expenses on. Because you never know what’ll happen.

That leaves you $130 a month extra to put in savings or to use in the event of an emergency! That’s awesome. Substitute your own numbers in, and figure out how much you can afford for rent. Immediately disregard any apartments that do not fit in this budget.

3. Step Three: The best way to find dependable apartments is to consult with your fellow apartment renters. Consult with coworkers, friends, family- anyone who is currently renting in the area that you would like to rent in. Get the inside scoop on potential apartments, both their advantages and their pitfalls. If you don’t know anyone who is renting where you’d like to rent, here are some other apartment hunting options:

Craigslist: Obviously

Drive-bys: Literally drive around until you find a cool looking apartment complex. Find their rental office and go right in, this is how I found my first apartment.

Your college: The Dean’s Office will have a list of apartment offerings to give kids who don’t qualify for on-campus housing.

This Site: A list of the top ranked apartment hunting sites.

4. Set up an appointment: After finding a potential apartment, consult with the landlord or apartment representative to set up a date and time to see the apartment. Respond promptly to any email or phone call they leave for you. On the flip side, if they aren’t prompt in their response to you RUN.

The first apartment I ever looked at, my boyfriend and I showed up on time and the landlord wasn’t there. We called her and she said that she was running late, and told us that the apartment was open and we could show ourselves inside. Serious red flag, but we gave it the benefit of the doubt and went in. Long story short, she never showed up. She gave us a tour of the apartment over the phone and kept saying that she was five minutes away, but never came. We later found out that her rental office was two minutes from the apartment we looked at. Talk about flakey! We told her we weren’t interested, if she can’t even show up to show us the apartment, how the hell can we depend on her to fix any problems we might have? Because you’re young and inexperienced, some landlords will try to give you the run around. Your age is no concern of their’s, and has no bearing on how you will act as a tenant. Here are some red flags for flaky landlords:

Not contacting you within one day of leaving them a message. Disregarding the weekends.

Not showing up when they say they will.

Repeatedly telling you that you’re “young” or “inexperienced”.

Telling you that the apartment “is good for college kids” or “a good first apartment” (that just means it’s a shit hole).

If they tell you that the apartment has a large turnover (people are leaving for a reason).

If you speak with one person on the phone, and meet a different person who shows you the apartment.

If they can’t or refuse to give you the exact rent amount.

If they tell you that have to “run some numbers” based on your history. An apartment’s rent should be the same for everybody.

If they can’t answer basic questions about service providers for the apartment.

If you get a weird vibe from them. Listen to your intuition! This is the person who is going to be responsible for fixing all your apartment related problems, you will be dealing with them every month at least. If they seem unreliable, don’t sign the lease!

5. Step Five: Find your appointment buddy! Never, ever, EVER go to look at a potential apartment by yourself. I don’t care how friendly Wendy seems online, she may be a serial killer. There’s no way to tell. Here’s a list of people who can accompany you:

Your older brother

Your boyfriend/girlfriend

Your Aunt Meredith

Your second cousin

Your friend who can scream really loudly

Your Mother

Your Step Mother

Your old nosey neighbor who smells like cats

Literally anyone you can trust

Bribe them with chocolate, I don’t care. Take someone with you! If you absolutely cannot find anyone to go with you, then you need to take additional precautions. Here are some options:

Kitestring

“Share My Location” on your Iphone

Pepper Spray

Posting to Facebook the address you are going to and when you are expected to arrive and leave.

Rescheduling your appointment to a date and time when you can be accompanied

Apartment Checklist

A mental checklist is good in theory, but will you remember it when you’re actually at the prospective apartment with your Aunt Meredith? I think not! Make a physical list of some of the following points, and feel free to add your own. my list is super extensive, but that’s just who I am. I am detail oriented.

Tuck this list in your back pocket and consult it when the person showing you the apartment is not looking.

Expense related

How much is the rent?

Is the rent just the rent, or are there any amenities included? Some apartments include heat, hot water, or electric expenses.

Is hot water included (if the apartment has a washer/dryer in it, then the water is probably a separate expense)?

What Internet service providers are available?

What electric service providers are available?

Do I have to pay for garbage removal?

What is the average electric expense that other renters deal with?

Ask when rent is due. Find out what the rent check procedure is.

Basic

What type of heating/cooling is provided?

What appliances are in the kitchen? *If there is no oven or fridge and you are required to buy your own then run*

What is the apartment complex turnover rate?

Do you have a choice of carpet vs. hard wood floors?

Will window blinds be provided? *If the apartment complex won’t pay for something as simple as window blinds then the landlord is a cheapskate and can’t be trusted*

Is there a “curfew”? Most apartments have a time of night when all the tenants are supposed to be quiet. This is generally not enforced.

What will your address be?

Additional

Is any furniture included?

Is there a Laundromat in the complex? If not where is the closest one?

Similarly, is the Laundromat in the complex card operated or quarter operated? Do you have to pay a fee for the card? Is there a quarter dispensing machine?

Will you be given a free parking permit? *If parking is not free then run*

Ask about local shopping and gas stations.

Ask where your mailbox will be.

Ask what their pet policy is. (some apartment complexes charge an fee)

Ask what their policy on repainting/decorating is.

Ask what their maintenance request policy is.

Ask where the nearest dumpster is.

How often does the complex loose power?

Is there a nearby police station or fire department?

General check

Check all cabinets (for bug infestations or mouse droppings or that they open properly).

Open all the windows and check to see that there are screens installed. Especially important for us cat owners! If there are no screens- are they going to install screens before you move in?

Check that all the light switches work.

Check that the water turns on.

Flush the toilet.

Check all the closet space (for size, mold, and water damage).

Check how all the doors are set (some apartments will put doors in incorrectly and they’ll never close properly).

Check the outlets (bring a phone chord and plug it in).

Check any balcony access.

Take a look at the paint- is it chipped? Is it stained? Will they be repainting?

Knock on the walls to see how hollow they are (hollow walls require studs if you want to hang anything up).

Open up the oven and make sure it’s clean. If it’s not clean make it clear that it should be cleaned if you want to move into the apartment. It’s not your job to clean up after the previous tenant.

Check that none of the floorboards are sticking up/creaking.

Check for nails and screws in between hardwood floor, tile and carpet (I’m not even kidding).

Check your phone to see how much cell service you have.

Can you hear any neighbors? Could you hear them in the hallway?

Final Decision

If the apartment you visited fits all your criteria, feel free to tell the landlord that you’re interested in pursuing this apartment. This way they can advise you of the next steps. Before you sign ANYTHING, visit the apartment complex twice more to make sure that everything is kosher. Do NOT tell the landlord that you will be coming by.

During the day: Do a drive-by of your prospective apartment to see what it looks like during the day. Is it safe? Are there lots of people standing around outside? Is it loud?

During the night: Come back another night to check the safety of your apartment. Ask yourself- would I feel comfortable taking the trash out late at night? Having friends over? If the answer is “no” then run…

Applying to Rent the Apartment

Overview: After choosing an apartment that you like, there are lots of steps that need to be taken before you can actually move in.

1. Rental application. You will need to fill out some sort of rental application when applying for an apartment. You’ll be asked for previous addresses (if you’ve lived in previous apartment complexes landlords will actually call and ask about how good of a tenant you were), if you’ve been convicted of a crime, pay stubs, references and/or credit information. If you don’t have a credit score, some complexes will require you to co-sign the lease with someone who does, like a parent. If a landlord does NOT ask you to fill out any kind of application, I’d advise you to run for the hills and not rent from them.

2. Approval. Apartment complexes will mail you a packet of information after you’ve been approved. This will list your new address, what power company services are available, apartment amenities, school districts, local attractions, as well as your next steps. My current apartment complex also mailed me what Internet providers are available, which was a nice extra bonus.

3. Initial expenses. Your next step will be to put down a “security deposit”. This will either be exactly the same or very close to the amount you pay for rent monthly. This deposit ensures that you don’t destroy the apartment, if you do they won’t refund you. You will also be asked to pay your first month’s rent in advance. Most rental companies will only accept money orders for these initial expenses, you have to go to your bank to get these. They’re essentially checks that take the money out of your account right away.

4. Apartment check. After you’re approved for an apartment, ask to see the actual unit that you’ll be moving into. Make sure that you see said apartment before signing any lease. Notice how loud your neighbors are, how good of a cell signal you have, the condition of the apartment, etc. This is a pretty extensive list.

Before You Move

1. List it up. Make a list of everything that you will need to accomplish before you are ready to move. This includes items that need to be packed, people that need to be contacted, pet accommodations, etc. I love lists, but you may not, so use any organizational technique that works for you.

2. Divide and conquer. After you’ve made your list, organize items based off of how much time they’ll take you. Packing will be fairly time-consuming, so this is something you’ll want to invite friends over for and break up over several days. I like to have “moving” parties whenever I’m getting ready to move, essentially I buy some chips and dip, play some Trap, and invite my friends over to act as my minions. Something like canceling your subscription to Cosmo will take you very little time and energy to do, so it’s something you can do when you’re ready for a stress-free activity.

3. Contact companies. Speaking of canceling your Cosmo subscription, you will need to update your address with all of the companies you use. If you’re no longer going to be using that company, you’ll need to call them and tell them when to end your service. If you’re going to continue to using that company, you’ll have to call them and tell that you’ll need an address change. Give them the exact date you’ll be moving so that they can backdate your information. Some examples of companies:

DMV in the county you’re moving to (if you’re going to drive)

Your doctor’s office

Your college (even if you graduated, they send out alumni letters all the time)

Your credit/debit card company

Your bank

Your phone company

Any government programs you’re a part of

Any companies that you have loans with

Your health insurance company

Your auto insurance company

Amazon

4. Pre-move in List. Make a shopping list of all the non-perishable items you will need before moving in. I’m talking trash cans, first aid kits, toilet paper, laundry detergent, etc. I like to work on this list over the span of several days, and do a large shop before moving in. Your moving day will be stressful enough as it is, don’t add the stress of missing something you need. Here’s a pretty good list.

5. Electric set-up. Use the information packed your landlord sent you to find out who your electricity provider is. Call them, you’ll probably get a pre-recorded message. Choose the option that says something along the lines of “set up electricity”. You will be connected to an actual human being, who will ask you to read your new address. Tell them to turn on power to your apartment a couple days before you move in. They will set up a billing plan with you (ask to be put on a budget, it’ll save you lots of money) and give you your account information.

6. Internet set-up. Setting up your internet is similar to setting up your electric, but a bit more hand’s on. Most cable/internet companies always have some sort of deal going on, a year or two years of discounted service. Be aware of when this discount will end, and contact the company to see if they can offer you a new deal. If Verizon is offered in your area, I strongly advise you to use them for Internet service. i was on a two year plan with them that saved us $40 a month on internet service, and after it ended they put us on a new plan that is now saving us $42 a month. Fuck yeah! Also make sure to set your internet installation date for the day after you move in, so that you’re not stuck sitting in your internet-less apartment, unable to read my blog. Know that most internet companies charge installation and routers fees, and if you complain enough they’ll drop one or both of these. Just be like “I’m a poor college student” or threaten to go to another internet company.

7. Send ahead. If possible, send/drop off some of your items ahead of time. If you have a family member or a friend that lives nearby where you’ll be staying, ask if they can hold a few boxes for you. You can also mail yourself packages and ask your local post office to hold them for you, but you’ll need to arrange that ahead of time.

8. Forwarding address. You will inevitably forget something, so make sure to leave your forwarding address and contact information with your ex-landlord, college, ex-roommate, etc.

9. Signing the Lease. The last thing you will do before moving into your new apartment is signing a lease. You will be given a copy of the lease to keep, as well as the key to your apartment and/or laundry key. Keep your copy of the lease in a safe place, and make sure to get duplicates of your apartment keys.

During Moving

1. Take your time. Don’t try to unpack everything in one day! Take some time to explore your new space, and decide where to put everything in a leisurely way. There is no set schedule for moving.

2. Assistance. If you have friends/family helping you make the move, assign them specific tasks so that nobody spends their time pestering you and asking “what do you need help with?”. You can even decide these tasks ahead of time, during your plane or car ride over.

3. Be neighborly. You’ll likely meet some neighbors during this process, and make sure to stop and greet them, even if you’re in the middle of something. First impressions do matter, even when they shouldn’t, and spending thirty seconds to greet someone in a parking lot may save you a lot of hardship in the long run. Ask your neighbors to recommend local attractions, places to eat, what laundromats to use, etc.

4. Check everything. During your first few days moved into you new apartment, look around and make note of anything wrong. Outlets that don’t work, scratches on the wall, peeling paint, etc. Report these ASAP to your landlord to be fixed. This will give you a good idea of how put together their maintenance unit is. Make sure to offer maintenance workers water and be polite to them when they’re fixing anything in your apartment.

After You’re Settled (Specifically for Living Alone)

1. PKW. Phone, keys, wallet. Every time you go anywhere. Check twice. The worst part of living on your own is having to rely on yourself to never forget to lock yourself out or leave your wallet at a sandwich shop in a mall. Make absolutely sure you have duplicates of your keys (I would get a couple made) and give one to a friend who lives nearby who you can count on. I also like to keep an extra set inside the apartment itself in a secure place, just in case. Your landlord can let you in during office hours, but giving a key to a trustworthy friend helps you 24/7.

2. Cleaning routine. You don’t have to sit down at a writing desk and draft this out, but spend a few minutes coming up with a basic cleaning regime for you to follow. It’s definitely easier to do a little each day, but if that doesn’t work for your schedule set aside at least an hour and a half during your time off to get your apartment spotless. I don’t know about you, but whenever I deep clean my apartment I feel like I’m living in a hotel for a day, and I absolutely love it.

3. Make a “moving” shopping list. This is everything you will need (minus food) for your first week at your new place. Do a big shop, and get all the essentials out of the way: first aid kit, cleaning supplies, tape, cat food, etc. Your first week moving into your new place will be stressful enough, you don’t want to be halfway through setting up your living room and realize that you forgot to buy trash bags.

4. Secure yourself. I’m not the most agile or fast person in the world, and I do live in a mid-sized city that has a good deal of crime. The apartment complex I live in is very safe, but I still like to double lock my front door at night. It might be smart to keep some pepper spray or a baseball bat somewhere in your apartment, just in case.

5. Stay social. Even the most anti-social person gets lonely. Make sure to hang out with your friends, not just your co-workers, your actual friends. Get out off your apartment every few days and go see a movie, get a cup of coffee, go people watching at the park, etc. It’s easy to get depressed if you’re living alone and doing the same things the same way every day- allow yourself to mix it up.

6. Meal prep. It can be stressful and seem useless to cook complicated or “fancy” meals when you’re living on your own. Plan your meals for the week and make a list before going shopping. Get yourself enough food to make a variety of dinners that will only take you fifteen minutes. If you do want to go crazy and make steak and mashed potatoes for yourself, make enough for two meals. Also, nobody is going to think poorly of you for stocking your fridge with a couple frozen dinners.

7. Customer service. Living alone means that you are going to be doing a lot of talking to customer service representatives. Get comfortable talking to people over the phone. Tell the rep what you need as quickly as you can, and try to be polite because customer service at a phone center is a garbage job that doesn’t pay well. On the flip side, don’t be afraid to ask for a manager if you’re upset or unhappy with your service. Take their survey at the end of your phone call, tell them how unhappy you are. It’s someone’s shitty job to look at all those surveys, no complaint goes unheard. Companies with great phone service: Verizon, Apple, Amazon. Companies with awful phone service: USPS (literally the worst), electric companies, health insurance companies.

8. Guest space. This is not required, but it’s a good idea to have some sort of space for a friend to stay the night. A friend of mine had a bad breakup, showed up at my apartment with ten minute’s notice, and then fell asleep on my couch after an hour of crying. It as 7:30! Whatever, she needed it. Keep an extra blanket and pillow in your closet, I like to keep travel sized shampoos and conditioners in my bathroom cabinet on the off chance a guest wants to use my shower. I got these at a hotel for free, but they’re available at CVS and other pharmacies.

9. Toilet paper. Don’t let yourself run out of toilet paper! I like to buy more when I notice I only have one roll left. The same deal goes for paper towels.

10. Enjoy. Living on your own is simoltaneously exciting and exhausting, but an all around must-have experience. Enjoy the freedom to forget to make the bed, to decorate your bathroom however you want, to have ice cream for dinner, to watch reruns of Friends and cry when Rachel decides to move to France. Make sure to give yourself lots of space to move at your own pace, but please remember to eat three meals a day and to go to the doctor’s for a checkup at least once a year!

#new apartment #first apartment #apartment hunting #finding an apartment #moving out #moving alone #living alone for the first time #moving out of my parents house #diy #fyi #college student #being an adult #how to adult #how to move out #security deposits #landlord

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bffhreprise · 6 years ago

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Entry 227

The tall, young man was panicking, rambling on about insignificant matters. “There's more than that… I'm… I just feel so unprepared. I can't do anything about this fog and doubt I could if I found its source. I'm worried about how many people the man killed, considering zombies came out of houses back there. I…”

Concern even beyond his pathetic friends was such a weakness. Sending them scurrying had been merciful, though more costly than I expected. Even now I felt more dying to Calamity. I was beginning to understand why she was feared in this city.

I stepped forward and interrupted the boy before he found his words. “Just a few hundred. I almost made them useful.” More accurately, my simulacrum had stepped forward. These two were dangerous, possessing speed and strength beyond me. I believed at least the girl was a Slayer.

The tall boy spun with incredible speed and stared at me with piercing blue eyes. He seemed formidable despite his obvious lack of training.

“Surrendering?” inquired the short girl, her calf-length hair whipping around her body after she turned. She sounded disappointed but her imperious air did not leave her.

“I thought we might have a little chat.” I told them, watching from other vantage points as well. Even the grass here had been transformed into a useful tool, allowing me to track these two easily throughout the cemetery. “You're obviously not human, and I have a guess what family you come from.”

“Yes, the Slayers. Since you've heard of them, you surely know this illusion of yours won't deter us.” stated the girl, radiating authority.

At first, I thought she meant the fog, but I quickly realized she knew what my simulacrum was. Slayers were known to be powerful, despite their limited years. I considered running, but I didn't have the book I sought yet.

“Hardly my finest work, I'll admit. Why are you…” I started to ask, but they blurred away. I felt my illusion dispelled and the uncomfortable sensation of my consciousnesses forced into the secondary simulacrum. The two appeared just as I was reorienting myself.

“Unfortunately for you, I was recently examining that spell and learned how to trace it.” stated the girl with a smile. She seemed to be enjoying this.

“Clever girl. Or are you?” I questioned, releasing a spell to engulf them in fire with a snap.

“Fire against a Slayer’s child? You have heard of us, correct?” she taunted with a bored tone.

Neither of them had been bothered by the attack, though the boy had seemed surprised. She wasn't actually a Slayer, just the offspring of one. She'd be weaker.

“Just verifying things, my dear. Please, don't take offense.” I replied and actually meant it. I needed her to remain overly confident, but I didn't want to incur the wrath of her full might. “You can hardly blame an old man for wanting to live a little longer.”

“May I at least have your…” she started, pausing and looking at me incredulously. “Wait. Really?” She reached forward and grabbed at my simulacrum, sniffing the air once it was in her grasp.

Knowing she had discovered the ruse, I released the necrotic swarm from my tool’s mouth. My consciousness was ripped away immediately. The next three of my simulacrums were destroyed in rapid succession, and I struggled to reorient. I hadn't anticipated such rapid destruction of my tools.

“A hostage? Really?” demanded the girl, standing in front of my true body, though still disguised. She faced several of my puppets, not yet realizing where I truly stood.

“You think I'm being unpleasant?” I demanded. “I was quite content having a chat with you, and you attack my creations to hunt me down. Who wouldn't take some precautions with your family's reputation?”

Before she could reply, I unleashed another trap, blasting her back with a powerful bolt of lightning. The boy didn't even seem to notice he was struck. Could he be the actual Slayer, miraculously untrained!? I tried again. Same results.

The girl calmly walked back forward, dryly saying, “Oh, neat. Lightning. Ah, it burns.” She finished brushing herself off and then asked “How long have you been preparing this area? I'll admit that I'm a bit disappointed if that's all you have for me.”

I was growing more and more concerned. I hadn't wanted to kill these two, knowing the Slayer family would hound me if I managed, but I wasn't going to be insulted forever.

“Grab them.” I commanded through my counterpart.

The two obvious toys lurched forward with all the haste I could grant them. I knew the zombies alone would be ineffective, but I needed a moment to concentrate and unleash the rest of my traps.

An illusion of darkness surrounded them as enchanted daggers flew at each. The darkness was dispelled before the daggers even struck. The boy merely flinched as they bounced off while the girl expertly dispelled them.

Every spell I had hidden throughout the area unleashed upon them, far more than anyone could withstand, but they were doing it. Fear had been rising as my onslaught failed to touch them.

“Alma, did you kill them?” asked the boy, sounding shocked while ignoring the barrage of spells striking him.

Still countering spells, the girl turned and said, “JAMES! I would never hurt an innocent child. This is hardly the time for this, but she turned out to be a zo-”

I had had enough. Panicking, knowing my traps were about spent, I leaped forward and called upon the darkness granted to me so long ago. A thick, turbulent stream of shadows shot from my arms to devour my foes.

The exertion was taxing, but nothing could survi- My thoughts stopped. The boy stood there completely untouched, and I felt like my world was suddenly wrapped in the wrath of an angry god. Everything within me screamed to run, or perhaps I was actually screaming. I threw a wall of stone between us. Then I threw another another as well as every trap I could manage as I ran. I camouflaged myself. I felt as if my mind was searing from the touch of an anger so potent, so powerful that the weight of it would destroy me. I ran till my lungs burned and my feet stumbled. I crawled forward. The feeling had subsided, but I couldn't stop yet. I couldn't risk facing whatever that was.

,,,^._.^,,,

I heard myself whimper from the pain, but there was no time for embarrassment or farewells. Adelmar had been observing and felt my pain. I felt so much anger and knew it wasn't my own.

“COME OUT!” screamed James. He was nearby and his voice was like a crack of thunder, slamming into me.

“James…” I pleaded, hardly recognizing my voice. I was gripped in pain. “James…” I begged, forcing myself to stay awake. I was dying, but I had to warn him.

I felt sadness wash over me with incredible intensity, mixing with the anger as if I boiled inside. When had the tears started? I couldn't be bothered to stop them. “James, he's coming.” I croaked. My lungs were broken, and I wasn't certain the words were coming out. All I knew was pain. Trying again, I said, “You must stop him.”

“I don't see him. How can I find him?” he finally replied, his voice cracking.

I struggled to turn my head but my vision was fading. I knew my heart was stopping. I was intensely aware of the pain, but all I wanted was for him to forgive me for leaving him with this mess. “I'm sorry… so sorry.” I murmured, hoping the words weren't only in my head. Everything was foggy.

“You don't have to be sorry.” he assured me, squeezing my hand.

I tried to squeeze back, but his hand was adamant, completely solid. “Yes... I do. Please, James… You must… stop Adelmar. He's coming. Calm…” I coughed and tried again. “Calm him. Fight… if you must. Stop… stop him.” I struggled to move my mouth. There was more to say. Shouting… I heard shouting but couldn't react.

Light, so much light passed over me, and my pain was gone. I could suddenly see. My brain leaped into action. Aaliyah? No… Those eyes… My heart hammered in my chest as fear I hadn't known for years gripped me.

“YOU!” I screamed, preparing to fight even knowing there was no hope.

The slayer of Slayers had come for me, butcherer of thousands.

“ALMA STOP!” ordered James, loud but not thunderous as before. “She's saving you.”

I looked at him incredulously.

“Don't worry, James. This little one can't harm me.” claimed the butcher matter-of-factly.

I knew in my heart that she was right. There was nothing I could do, and she might kill him as well if I tried.

“You know each other?” he inquired.

Why wouldn't he look at me?

“She killed a Slayer along with his entire army thousands of years ago.” I explained, pleased at how calm my voice sounded.

“Pht… I'm not that old. Only was two thousand years ago. That Slayer had killed my brother, mind you, but I still didn't kill him. Didn't kill any of them. If you want to call someone old, look to my niece.” claimed the vampire.

Wait. Niece!? I followed the vampire’s gaze to Aaliyah, who grinned back at me. Had she butchered my family to save her so-called aunt? I wouldn't be surprised. James was finally looking at me, but his face was red.

“James, why are you blushing…” I asked, sitting up and glancing down as I realized a light had vanished. My clothes were in tatters with a large part missing entirely. “Oh!” I exclaimed, attempting to cover myself with my arms.

“Here you are. Put this on.” stated the vampire. There was a flash of light and a black t-shirt fell towards me.

I clutched it against me and asked “How did you do that?”

“Magic, child. Don't worry. You'll be fine. Aaliyah, take me home.” ordered the vampire. “I want to finish brushing my teeth.”

Why was she wearing pajamas!?

“But auntie… wouldn't you like to visit the hospital first? I know some kids who would like to meet you.” claimed Aaliyah as she reached up and took the vampire's hand.

The pair vanished, and I immediately tried to report this to Adelmar, but something felt wrong. Reaching him was more difficult than it should have been.

:Alma!? You're alive!?: he inquired, his anger fading in my mind.

:Yes, I am. Don't fret.: I replied.

:Why can't I reach your thoughts?: he demanded.

:I… I don't know.: I muttered, feeling panicked. “No… what did she do to me!?” I asked James.

He hugged me, ignoring my inquiry. I felt the touch of his hands against my bare back, gently caressing my skin. My arms wrapped around him of their own accord. In my head, Adelmar warned me that he was still coming, wanting to see me with his own eyes, but all I could think about was how tight James held me.

,,,^._.^,,,

I drifted, watching the remaining battle more clearly than my cameras and sensors had managed. I saw the collapsed form of my humanoid body… and the pieces of the car which housed me. I looked around, wondering what was happening. What was I now? I felt like a drone, staring around with ease, but I wasn’t connected to anything. The only sights and sounds I could access seemed to come straight to my… I wasn’t aware of CPUs, RAM, or drives of any sort. I could access some memories, but not all of them. My access to the house was severed. What was happening?

James and Alma arrived and sent the others away. I somehow followed them into the cemetery, though I couldn't work out what propelled me. The necromancer was a vile man, and I wished I could find a way to help the master. James needed me, but all I could do was watch.

“There there, little one.” came a voice like the princess. “Mommy’s here.”

Something enveloped me, and I… I felt it. I felt something holding me softly. There was a warmth radiating through me from what held me. I became aware.of the princess, but not as the little girl she pretended to be. She was even more magnificent than I ever had dreamed, and… and she loved me.

“Of course I love my little girl. Don't worry. Mommy will give you new bodies and so much more.” insisted the princess. “Mommy.” she stated. “Call me 'mommy’.”

“But…” I started to argue. She was so much more, like a god compared to everyone else.

“I'm your mommy. I gave birth to your spirit, created your body, and even gave a little of my original DNA to your components. You didn't really think I gave you simplistic hardware, did you?” she inquired, sounding amused. “Fine, I did give you simplistic hardware, but I wanted you to have plenty of room to grow without growing too fast. You'll be even more amazing in your next incarnation.”

“You really think of me as your child!?” I asked, feeling in some intangible part of me that she really did. “Mother…” I tried the word.

“Mommy!” she insisted.

“M-mommy.” I whispered, feeling embarrassed. I was not using that term in front of the master. I knew how childish I’d appear when saying it.

“Better. There's so much to show you!” she exclaimed.

I felt like I could return her embrace, so I did. I hugged her, smiled, and wept with the joy of her presence. I had a mother.

#Best Friend For Hire Reprise #Best #Friend #For #Hire #Reprise #Jovial Times #Jovial #Times #Fantasy #Fiction #Story

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stephspencer10 · 4 years ago

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PART 1

My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer

My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer, age 19

MY DADDY

My Memoir Backstory “My Daddy” takes up where I left off writing “My Memoir Introduction: I Was Born a “Saint.” After I wrote this blog, I realized I’d put the cart before the horse — started my Memoir bass-ackwards: I got myself born before I told you anything about how I got here.

Since we all come from the past, my readers ought to know what it is that went into my making. So I’ve decided to present a bunch of backstory, beginning with my father, Floyd Otto Spencer. Ending with my mother, Esther LeBaron McDonald de Spencer and her LeBaron backstory.

After this backstory, I’ll continue with my Memoirs. But it will include more tales about Mother and Father as they intertwine throughout my life.

Now, for a bit of how I got here from the past. And some of what went into my making.

My Daddy: Part 1

My handsome five-foot-10.5-inch, black-haired, black-eyed, dark-skinned (when tanned) father was a hot-tempered, strict, shy, witty, sharp-tongued, short-fused, highly gifted man. “Daddy,” as we called him, was also a sensitive Artist and Creative.

Born July 27, 1895, in Marion, Michigan, he died on my nineteenth birthday, April 18, 1965, in Colonia LeBaron, Galeana, Chihuahua, Mexico. His death was the outcome of a freak “accident.” I believe my Mother Esther LeBaron Spencer and her brother, my Uncle Ervil LeBaron, had a hand in it. (I will relate this whole incident in my upcoming Memoir.)

Born in a backwoods frontier town, Daddy was very much of pioneer stock. His parents were mostly of English descent, he believed. He was unable to track his full genealogy. But knew his mother was one-half Indigenous American — Mohawk Indian to be exact.

One Sunday afternoon, in our small living room, lit only by light from the windows and fireplace, Mother was giving Daddy his monthly expert-looking haircut when we children, catching Daddy captive, saw a good chance to gather around his knees and pepper him with questions about his parents, grandparents, and past.

He was a shy man, of few words, and usually busy working. One of his favorite sayings was: “It’s better to keep your mouth shut and look like a fool than to open your mouth and prove you’re a fool.” Even now he was hesitant to answer all our forward questions. But when asked about his bloodline (for bloodlines are very important to Mormons), he sheepishly responded:

“My grandmother on my mother’s side was a full-blooded Mohawk Indian squaw. I used to visit her in her Hogan from time to time.” He was embarrassed to admit this. But then he added:

“She was a typical Indian … Sweet, poor, and no furniture to speak of. I can still see her squatting on the floor as she did her routine work in her dark little Hogan that had only one window and a fire burning in the middle of the room — smoke rising up and out through a hole in the ceiling.”

This helps to explain why Daddy used to chide Mother when he saw her squatting on the floor sorting beans or such. He’d cry: “You look like an old Indian squaw! Get up and sit on a chair at the table to sort your beans — like a civilized person!!”

However, after joining the LeBaron cult and learning from my uncles the Mormon beliefs Joseph Smith taught about the American Indians — that they “were part of the lost ten tribes of Israel, and were going to play a very important role in the last days,” Daddy made an effort to get in touch with the indigenous American Indian side of himself.

He even began to exhibit pride in being at least one-quarter American Indian. I say “at least” because he was not sure of his full heritage — only that his mother was half American Indian.

But one day he took a trip to visit the Hopi and Navajo Indian villages in Arizona and New Mexico, returning home feeling very exhilarated, uplifted, and more proud than ever of his Indian heritage. It rubbed off on me: I’m at least one-eighth American Indian, and proud of it.

My Daddy (around ages 19 & 53 consecutively)

“Show me someone who believes you can’t change history, and I’ll show you someone who hasn’t tried to write their memoirs.” Mark Twain

My Daddy, Part 2

Daddy was his parents’ only child. They divorced when he was three years old. When Dad was fourteen years old, his mother bore his half-sister Doris, by her second marriage. Sadly, when he was twenty-seven, she died of rheumatic fever, leaving Daddy his mother’s only child again — though he had half-sisters from his father’s second marriage that he got to meet and spend some time with.

He was raised Methodist and held White Anglo-Saxon Protestant values, including their strong work ethic. Daddy was always a hard worker. You might even say he was a workaholic. That figures: His father was a “raging alcoholic.” Going to extremes in any area is indicative of addiction. God is a drug for religious addicts –– religious fanatics. Daddy completely and emphaticly gave up alcohol and tobacco when he joined the Mormon church at age thirty-five. Religion then became his drug of choice.

“Twelve-Steppers,” especially ACA’S/ Adult Children of Alcoholics and Dysfunctional Families — a 12-step program — know what I’m talking about. If these terms are new to you, it may be worth looking up 12-step organizations in your area. They were very valuable in my development, given the dysfunctional family I was brought-up in — I mean brought-down in!

Now back to more Bio about Dad: “At around age four,” Daddy told me, “my mother gave me away to her sisters to raise. Years later, Mother wanted me back. But I refused to go back because I was so hurt and angry at her for what she’d done!! I was happier living with my aunts and cousins,” remarked my father.

Then he continued, “I often had to dig tunnels in the snow during winter time to get to school because the snow piled up so high. Sometimes it was up higher than the schoolhouse door. My school consisted of one room and one teacher teaching all the grades from 1st through 12th.

“I didn’t do very well in her classroom— Didn’t get along with that didactic, strict, bossy teacher. She regularly humiliated me in front of the class … often made me sit in the corner with a dunce cap on … partly because I was the class clown — always made the class laugh at my witty wisecracks and cutting up … would wiggle my ears, pull funny faces, and draw caricatures, etc, when the teachers back was turned.

“In fifth grade, I couldn’t take any more of this mean, punishing teacher I’d had since first grade. So I dropped out — refused to go to her one-room school anymore — though it was the only school around. I couldn’t learn under her tutelage.

“However, from then on I felt I was a failure in many ways — not to mention that my parents divorced. Then Ma gave me away when I was so little. That affected my self-worth. But due to my one-and-only elementary school teacher, I further questioned my self-worth, because I kind of believed it was due to my lack of brains that I wasn’t getting better grades in the teacher’s class.”

That bad impression of himself as a student and person went with him throughout his life. It affected his self-confidence and self-esteem, further adding to his shyness and his, oftentime, not feeling very good about himself … in some ways.

But lack of a good supporting education, in and of itself, is enough to affect anyone’s self-confidence and achievement in life. They see many people able to accomplish things they cannot accomplish, often not realizing their only drawback was they had no competitive foundation — as in Daddy’s case where he had only a poor, one-room classroom education typical of the early 1900’s in backwoods-pioneer towns.

Education was not mandatory in those days. It was a privilege to go to any school. Families worse off than my fathers’ didn’t go to school at all.

It wasn’t till after 1918 and World War I had ended that our country realized public education must be made free, mandatory — and paid for by our tax dollars. It would not only prepare better future soldiers for our country’s defense system, but The Industrial Revolution, then in full force, also required that people be able to read, write, do math, follow the Employer’s directions, show up for work on time, and be dependable. Mandatory education developed these skills and habits in an otherwise unruly, unschooled person.

But, despite a poor preparatory education, Daddy accomplished much more in life than many people with a far better education and advantages. He was a proud and confident man in various ways, therefore. His being gifted, talented, and successful at things he attempted helped build his self-esteem, despite the negative aspects of his early education and childhood. This confidence exudes in his photos.

His teacher and that old-fashioned, backward school system had branded him as “Not Smart, a bad person, and a poor student — a DUNCE!” How sad, because he was a bright, gifted boy. I taught school for thirty years; should know what I am talking about!

It grieves me that there are teachers who can be so judgmental they brand children for life, thinking they know what they’re doing. They don’t! I’ve experienced this branding firsthand. It only shows the ignorance of those teachers who would do such a thing to a student.

Their ignorance, arrogance, ego, and the need to control gets the best of them. If they looked at and treated every student as if that child were the son or daughter of the school Superintendent, Principal, or President of the United States, I guarantee you that would take any judgmental Educator down a notch or two — and their students up a notch or two!

PART 3

Family Collage includes Dad’s mom and him as a boy (in glasses)

“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it. Begin it now.” ~Goethe~ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

The year was 1958. The setting: Our home in Hurricane, Utah. The place: Around our average-sized family-room fireplace:

While the flames flickered and leapt, warmed and lit our cozy little living room, we Spencer kids (there were eleven of us then) sat huddled around our parents on the colorful rag rug Mother crocheted.

I was twelve, second to the oldest, and seventeen months younger than my oldest sibling, Doris — one of my rivals! While sixty-three-year-old Daddy sat situated on a high stool with a towel wrapped around his neck and shoulders, my talented, artistic thirty-seven-year-old Mother was at her routine task of trimming his white hair with the hair clippers he’d bought for this purpose.

As was often the case during such times, we kids were once again peppering Papa with personal questions about his intriguing boyhood, family, life … and white hair!

“I discovered my first gray hair when I was only fourteen years old!” Daddy explained. “Gray hairs really stand out when your hair is pitch black like mine used to be!”

My siblings and I were further enlightened when Mother got out Daddy’s scrapbook and a photo album so he could explain the pictures and keepsakes in them. There was a picture of my paternal grandmother dressed to the “T” in the high fashions of the early 1900s:

“My mother was a socialite,” he opined disapprovingly. “She was more concerned about her appearance and joining social circles than she was about staying home and being a good homemaker and mother. She always decked herself out in the latest grand styles of the day — as you can see in this picture,” continued Daddy, pointing to a photo of his attractive mother in a hat.

I never got to meet my paternal grandparents nor Daddy’s aunts who raised him. Daddy was about fifty-two when I was born. I was around five years old when, in her nineties, his last aunt died. At that time, she lived in Michigan and we lived in St. George, Utah. Lack of time and money precluded Daddy’s going to her funeral, though he had wanted to attend.

Before she died, I recall how elated he would be whenever a letter arrived from this aunt. Sometimes she would include a photo of herself, so I at least got to see what she looked like as a ninety-year-old woman … And I recall, too, the tears in Daddy’s eyes (a man who seldom showed any sign of tears) when he read the letter that said she’d died.

One of the many disadvantages of having a father old enough to be your grandfather is his parents die before you’re old enough to meet them — that is, if he even kept in contact with his parents at all — which he did little of.

Continuing with Daddy’s pictures: In another photo, his handsome “half-breed” entrepreneur mother stood on the porch in front of a wooden building. Daddy recounted: “My mother owned a hotel or boarding house. I helped her with the work there, oftentimes … sweeping the big porches, fixing things, and helping at the front desk.

“In my free time, I loved to create things that really worked … like miniature model windmills I carved and devised myself, where the blades of the windmill could actually turn if you blew on them … or when there was wind.”

He was very proud of his ingenuity and creativity — the things he was amazingly able to build or sculpt though only a young boy — a child … things nobody else around him devised or created, not even adults. He loved to draw, too — funny caricatures and so forth.

“I also loved to design and create things like little wagons and cars with wheels that could roll — and even little houses and buildings. And I loved to carve whistles, wooden ducks, dogs, and other toys that had wheels on them so they could be pulled around with us wherever we went — which was how we made our toys move back in those days.

“My dream was to be an Engineer — How I longed to be in the driver’s seat of a train and to work on trains. Trains were the big thing then — an invention just coming into existence when I was a young boy. It was back when most people did not own a car and Model T Fords were barely becoming the big rage among the rich.

“One of the first cars accessible to the masses was the 1908 Model T, an American car manufactured by the Ford Motor Company. I was thirteen years old when that car came out. Henry Ford was my idol! I loved that he was an Inventor. I wanted to be an Inventor myself — to design and create things like Ford and other Creators of my day.

“If I could’ve had my way and I’d had the advantage of money ‘n’ a good education, I would’ve been an Engineer. But instead of goin’ back to school ‘n’ workin’ for years to get the education I needed so as to go to college ‘n’ get an Engineering Degree, I married ‘n’ had a bunch of kids — to help build up God’s kingdom. Then spent my time workin’ to raise ‘n’ support my families — My first family with Eva. And now this one with yer ma.” Then Daddy changed the subject:

“As a youth, I never liked to sit around wastin’ time, nor to play silly games like the rest of the kids … liked to put my time to good use … to create things. Silly, noisy kids got on my nerves.* But being an only child was a very lonely life. That’s one reason I chose to have lots of kids when I got married.”

*Explanation: Daddy was an Introvert — a creative like me. If you do not know the characteristics of the different and unique special Introvert brain and personality, there are a number of good books on the market that explain this valuable and wondrous trait.

If you are related to Floyd Otto Spencer, chances are you and some of your children and posterity are also Introverts. Most Creatives, such as artists and writers, are Introverts or at least Ambiverts, as opposed to Extroverts. The world needs all these personality types.

The following are titles of three excellent books on this subject that you may be interested in reading or at least skimming. If you can’t find some of these in your library or online, there are other books on the subject.

1- “The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World,” by Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D.

2- “Party of One: The Loner’s Manifesto,” by Anneli Rufus

3- “The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You,” by Elaine N. Aaron, Ph.D.

PART 4

My family (minus one sibling) in early 1964

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” ~ Anne Lamott

Going back to where we left off with Daddy saying he wanted to have a large family of children, let me tell you that this is one dream he fulfilled. He had eleven beautiful children with his first wife Eva Bowman Spencer. And fourteen more beautiful children with his second wife, my mother Esther LeBaron Spencer. Thus, he was not only guaranteed to never be lonely again but to never have a moment’s peace or quietude, either.

More often than not, there was even a new baby crying, keeping him up at night. But he finally learned how to pretty much fix that: He would waterboard them (not that uncommon, at least among the Mormon fundamentalists). At times, he would even beat the tiny new babies incessantly for crying. (Tears!!)

But mainly, he mostly held his big strong hand over their mouth and nose till they were suffocating, all the while yelling at them: “Shut up the goddamned crying!! Do you hear?! Shut up, I said, or you’ll get more to cry about!!”

After he did that consistently a number of times, it generally taught most of his babies not to be caught dead crying — if they could possibly help it. (Then you wonder why Morman fundamentalist children are so well-behaved?!)

He, like many fundamentalists, believed the Bible’s “Spare the rod and spoil the child” meant to literally beat the devil out of the kids so as to make them submissive to adults and thus to God. They believed the sooner they were made submissive, the better.

But I have since learned that some spiritual leaders believe “the rod” is only a metaphor for “the gospel.” In other words, if you don’t teach your children the gospel, they will grow up spoiled, wayward, and rebellious.

I believe force and brutality toward children — or anyone … or any animal — does just the opposite of beating the devil out of them: It beats the devil into them; i.e., can make them angry, hateful, emotionally disturbed, mean, and devilish. It also can cause them to split from themselves, and to lose their will, give up, and become zombies or such. It breaks their spirit.

In fact, one of the best ways to hypnotize a hyperactive, incorrigible, misbehaving child is to plant yourself right in his/her space and yell vociferously in the child’s face: “Behave! Stop that!” Or whatever else it is you wish of the child. The child will do what you tell him/her after that … at least for a while.

I wonder what kind of abuse my father suffered at the hands of adults when he was growing up since violent and abusive ways of parenting are generally passed down from one generation to the next.

Unless one is able to recognize, then intercept and stop this abusive cycle and pattern learned from one’s upbringing and teachings, it will be passed on to one’s own offspring ad infinitum!

But thank God/Goodness, there are now laws in our country that carry stiff penalties for abusing children — as well as women, animals — or anyone … thanks to coalitions of good people who have worked diligently together throughout our society and other civilized parts of the earth to make this world a better and safer place for everyone.

However, reclusive families, such as in cults, often remain backward when it comes to improvements in behavior norms. Believing they are the only ones with “the truth,” and lead by poorly educated, narrow-minded leaders, they learn nothing much from “the world” that, nonetheless, continues to change and improve as it strives to learn how to make a better world for all through education, college, books, publications, educational T.V., films, computers, and social media.

That said, one reason Daddy and Mother were so anxious to move to the LeBaron colony in Old Mexico in 1960 was that shortly before their decision to move, a Federal law was passed against Child Abuse. It stipulated dire legal penalties for parents who hit, beat, or otherwise physically abused their children. Daddy proclaimed vehemently, in regards to that law:

“What the hell right has the government to step in and tell me how to raise my children?! I am the Priesthood head of my family! The Bible says, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ In other words, parents are to ‘bend the twig’ correctly. We do that by beating the devil out of our children while they are still young enough to be taught how to behave and grow up as straight vines, not twisted, warped ones.

“Once a seedling is warped, you can’t change it. You can observe an example of that in plants and trees that weren’t supported and staked properly so they would grow straight rather than deformed. I can’t wait to get out of this wicked country and gather with the Saints in Zion, there in Colonia LeBaron where I’m free to exercise old, time-honored Biblical laws when it comes to raising my family!”

PART 5

Daddy (Floyd Otto Spencer) in his mid-50s

“A good memoir is born from that uniquely important place in your personal history.” “Writing Your Hot-Topic Memoir” Dr. Scott

Daddy was an autodidact. In other words, he was self-taught in many areas. He would get books on auto mechanics, carpentry, building construction, watch and clock repair, farming, health — you name it — and learn how to do these things … How to eat healthfully, for example. Sometimes he took Night School classes too.

By the late 1940s or early 1950s, he was a Singer Sewing Machine salesman and repairman. He went from home to home selling and setting up this newfangled, popular electric sewing machine that had quickly outdated the old treadle sewing machines.

He taught the proud owners how to use their new modern electric Singer sewing machine and its many attachments — such as the attachment for making buttonholes. And he maintained the machines, should they need servicing.

Later on, he morphed into a self-employed entrepreneur — a General Contractor, capable of building homes and commercial buildings from the ground up, including creating the blueprints.

People hired him because he could save them money, time, and trouble by doing everything himself: He could do the blueprint, foundation, building’s frame, cement work, flooring, roofing, electrical, plumbing, brick and rock work, landscape, carpentry, painting, and whatever else the new building required.

Provided they had time to wait for a one-man job to be finished, he was your man. Hiring a bunch of contractors and construction workers to do the job all at once was much more expensive and time-consuming, but would get the job done a lot faster if that was what one needed to do.

Because he was an introvert (or ambivert?) he preferred to work by himself. It’s a good thing because he didn’t get along well with most people. He had an artistic, fastidious, and perfectionistic personality, topped off with religious fanaticism, a high-strung, short-fused temper, and a sharp tongue. What’s worse, he regularly called to repentance people in his presence he saw doing things that were against his religion!

For example, he would tell mainstream Mormons they were headed for hell because they had given up plural marriage, practiced birth control, and had “mutilated” the holy temple garments Joseph Smith “ordained of God” and said should never be cut nor otherwise changed. This foot washing fundamentalist father of mine took his religion very seriously!

That said, he would regularly worry, harass, and chastise women in the Mormon fundamentalist groups, too, for doing things like cutting their hair, sporting “worldly hairdos and makeup” — and for wearing their hemlines too high and their necklines too low! (Hemlines were supposed to be about down to the ankle, and necklines about up to the collarbone.)

“That tight sweater and skirt you’ve got on is exactly what leads men to rape women! You look like a goddamned Delilah!!” he swore at me one day when I was thirteen years old and dressed to go to school. That sure “learnt” me a lesson!

Though I took off the sweater and skirt, so popular in the 1950s, and never wore such clothing again (during my life in the fundamentalist cult) I now know there is no excuse for men to rape women under any condition!

If how women look or dress determines whether they get raped or not, then what about Aborigines and other Indigenous societies who go/went around, as a way of life, stark naked, half-naked — and “half-baked“? (Pun intended.)

It’s all a matter of culture, style, and one’s values, really. Women are not to blame if some all-brawn-no-brains men choose to dominate and use women to their own advantage.

A man’s being more muscular than women doesn’t make him superior to women. It certainly doesn’t give him the right to brutalize them or run them. Only backward people adhere to that old-world way of thinking.

In general, men aren’t superior to women, other than muscularly. (When I was young and in shape, I was able to win more than one out-of-shape man in an arm wrestle, LOL!) Women are not objects, either, as some men seem to think. Men don’t own them — nor do they have the right to strong-arm nor otherwise control women — despite what some fundamentalist Mormons, et Al, believe.

But getting back to Daddy, his regularly chastising others and setting them straight led me to believe he, himself, was pretty perfect. He must be, it seemed, if he could call others on the carpet for not adhering to our extremist sect’s strict dress code or other such. If he could call others to repentance, he must be doing everything right himself, yes?

However, in hindsight (always the best sight) I see he needed to lighten up, simmer down, mind his own business — and quit projecting his own fears and faults onto others. In other words, like so many of us, he needed more patience and persistence, and less pestering of others; i.e., He needed to exhibit more charity. He just didn’t know it yet.

My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer PART 6

Dad in his 60s

“Like all the arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.” Arthur Conan Doyle

Shortly before Daddy died, I saw a change in him. His visage fairly glowed, and he had become much more loving, relaxed, patient, kind, and happy — such that I no longer feared so much being in his presence. He had become more pleasurable to be around.

It was as though he’d undergone an epiphany — a life-changing experience, though I was not around him enough nor on comfortable enough terms with him to inquire as to any such experiences he might have had. Furthermore, I was married then, and very busy taking care of my six-month-old baby at the time he was nearing death … then died.

During his lifetime he had always done a lot to help others. Being an all-around handyman and Jack-of-all-trades and Master of a few, people often came to him for advice or called on him to help them fix something.

He never turned them down, that I know of, much to Mother’s frustration and dismay. More than once I heard her complain, “Daddy, why don’t you turn some of these people down?! There are things piling up around here to be done while others impinge on you to work for them for free!” (Mother generally called him “Daddy” just as we kids did.)

Yes, he had plenty of his own work around the house waiting to be done. But people appreciated and respected Daddy for his knowledge and know-how when it came to being “Mister-Fix-it-Man,” and he enjoyed his revered reputation, too. He was no Scriptorian, though … unlike my mother’s brother, Ervil LeBaron, who often called on Daddy to fix things for him.

Uncle Ervil, who many of my readers may know of or will soon hear about, was just the opposite of Daddy. He spent most of his time studying Scriptures and Mormon religious works, writing some — and preaching a lot. I don’t recall him ever doing any manual labor. He managed to get my father and others to serve him, instead.

I don’t know how much money religiously-stalwart Daddy also put toward supporting Uncle Ervil and all Ervil’s many wives and children, as well as my other uncles and their families, at times, when they were hard up for money and food.

I only know he certainly paid much more than his 10% in tithing, despite the large family he, himself, maintained. And he did this right up until the day he died at about seventy years of age! There was never any retirement for him — my hard-working papa!

Like everyone else, dedicated and diligent, conscientious Daddy liked feeling special and needed. And he enjoyed serving God, all the while being able to put to use his skills and ingenuity as he helped repair others’ broken equipment, or advised them on how to build something — or taught them how to do some of these things for themselves. Thus, he employed many of the things he had learned how to do … right up until the day he died.

So where he lost favor with people due to his judgmental temperament and sharp tongue, he gained respect and popularity by being otherwise naturally unassuming and willing to lend a humble, helping hand. And he benefitted from that respect, acceptance, and connection. It was a wonderful interchange of mutual love and appreciation.

*Other facts about Daddy that I didn’t bring up earlier:

*He was very sensitive, astute, and strong-willed. Therefore, as a young man, he abandoned his parents in Michigan, due to fallings-out with them — never again to contact them nor to return home for a visit.

His aunt had raised him since he was around four or five, I believe, as I related in an earlier blog. I’m not sure how young he was when he left his aunt’s home and took off to make it on his own. I’m only sure he was a true survivor. And what didn’t kill him made him stronger!

*Once he proudly told me: “I gave up smoking and drinking when I joined the Mormon church (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints). I was able to quit “cold turkey!” I simply decided to quit. And I never smoked again!”

And Daddy said, of his past smoking habit: “People who will smoke, will drink; and people who will drink, will chase women.”

He also informed me: “I gave up square dancing, too, because I found that it led to fornication when men and women danced with other than their own spouse or partner.”

*Once, when I was twelve years old, he caught me looking up the word “sex” in the dictionary. He reproachfully admonished me, proclaiming: “The words “sex” and “fun” should be cut out of the dictionary!! Sex is only for procreation! And people shouldn’t be wasting their time playing/ having fun. The Lord’s Kingdom won’t get built up that way!”

I disagree with him in some of his misconceived conceptions. But we all are in a process of learning and growing during our lifetimes. I bring up these above points to simply show what a stoic life he, I, and other true-believing fundamentalists lived.

But other points in his favor are that while Daddy was living in Arizona, and raising a large family with his first wife Eva, he was a Boy Scout Master, which position he enjoyed and was very proud of.

And he was even Mayor of a small city for some time, I was told. But I’m not sure what city that was, let alone the dates. My daughter checked and couldn’t find his name listed as having been Mayor of the city where I thought my parents said he’d been Mayor. So who knows! More family lore?

PART 7

1958 Family Photo (I’m middlebrow, 2nd from left, .)

The Writer’s Prayer: “Make this tale live for us in all its many bearings, oh Muse.” Steven Pressfield The War of Art

While married to his first wife Eva,* for some time Daddy owned a small Mercantile shop. Then World War II removed his main source of income, rubber tires:

“The war efforts needed all the rubber to build war equipment. Selling tires for the Model T Ford, and other such, was how I covered my overhead. So I was run out of business when I couldn’t sell rubber tires anymore,” he explained.

“While I still owned my store, a woman would come in daily and hit on me. I finally told her, ‘I haven’t got caught up to home yet!’ That sure put a damper on things!”

Daddy loved to tell that joke. One great thing about him is he was good at ad-libbing jokes and getting a laugh — a natural comedian, he had a wonderful sense of humor. Sadly, he tried to curb this special talent once the LeBaron cult started cracking down on light-mindedness — considered a sin. (They didn’t know “Laughter is the best medicine.”)

I never spent much time around Daddy. Highly sensitive me avoided being in the same space with him whenever possible.When I had to be around him, I hid in the shadows. When I could do so without being noticed, I would escape to my attic room, especially after I became a teenager because his anger and abuse doubled toward me by then.

I already mentioned a little about this in previous blogs: He had a terrible temper that I got the brunt of more than all the rest of his children put together. I was the scapegoat of the family, so was glad he was usually away from the house working all day. That lessened the stress I endured because of him — and because of Mother. She would get me in trouble with him every chance she got — like every day, once I became a teenager!

But on Sundays, he did not work — which meant he was always home keeping the Sabbath. After our daily morning prayers were said in the big family circle, breakfast, and our family Sunday School service was over, Daddy would sit in his overstuffed armchair in the living room and read the newspaper and comic strips in front of the fireplace he had built and decorated with petrifiedwood rock work.

Hidden out of his view and reach, I loved watching how he would sometimes laugh till he teared up reading the Little Orphan Annie comic series. As a child, I especially loved it when he would throw me the “Funny Papers” after he got through reading them.

Then I would lie on my stomach on the carpet, a distance from him, and try to read and understand The Funnies. But try as I may, as a kid, I never could figure out what Daddy found so funny about his favorite comic strip, Little Orphan Annie.

I lacked the maturity and experience to comprehend such things. Daddy was twenty-six years older than Mother, and about fifty-two years older than I — old enough to be my grandfather.

But other than being around him on Sunday mornings so I could get the funnies once he was through with them, mostly I avoided being in the same room with him. I was afraid of him.

By the time I was 14, almost every day he would lash out at me, both physically and verbally. And, often, he would make fun of me and put me down in front of my family or friends … or whoever else happened to be around when he found a reason to ridicule me and “put me in my place.”

Because of this, I developed a confused love-hate feeling for him, though I never realized it till much later. Mother always told us what a saint Daddy was and that he was the very best man in the whole wide world! Needless to say, I never got to learn a whole lot about my father, due to it being so miserable for me … so threatening to be around him.

But I remember, when I was four years old, he took an oil painting class. I recall him sitting out under the backyard trees with his easel and paints, copying some nature scenes that included our house he had bought around two years before when it was not much more than a shack.

He was remodeling it to make it a livable home. He would buy a run-down ramshackle of a place, fix it up into a fairly decent abode, then, before we had much time to enjoy the better living conditions, we’d end up moving, for one reason or another, to a new ramshackle abode. And the whole damn scene would start all over again — we Spencers living in a mud adobe abode or whatever, till he fixed it up into a half-decent place to live — and then we would move. “Why couldn’t we ever stay in the home once it got fixed up and had running water, a shower, electricity, and a flushing toilet?” I used to wish and wonder.

We moved around twelve times from the time I was born in a mud adobe abode in Mexico till I turned fourteen! Then we moved back again, “fool” circle, to another mud adobe abode in the Mormon fundamentalist cult where I first started out: Colonia LeBaron, Galeana, Chihuahua, Mexico!

Then, wouldn’t you know, no sooner did Daddy do a complete makeover of our new mud adobe abode in Colonia LeBaron, but what I was married off at age sixteen in an arranged polygamous marriage! And that entailed moving again, this time to my own home … and another mud adobe abode!)

PART 8

My father Floyd Spencer

“An unexamined life is not worth living.” Plato … quoting Socrates

In the Previous blog, I mentioned that when I was around four years old, Artist Daddy, with easel and oils, used to sit beneath the big green shade tree in our front yard and paint the nature scenes around about him. Often he used our home as a backdrop for his paintings. Mother kept these “Masterpieces” hanging on the wall in our home, proudly showing them off to visitors.

But, sadly, Daddy didn’t continue for long with his oil painting hobby and venture. Though oil painting had been a lifelong dream and yearning of his, he was in his late fifties when he’d finally had the where-with-all to try his hand at it. But, sadly, he soon discovered oil painting or water coloring pictures — or even sketching — took a lot more time and money than he could devote to his beloved hobby, Artist though he was … better still, “frustrated Artist”!

What it boiled down to was he had to give up his artistic drive and dream because it conflicted with what he believed was his higher calling: To bring little spirits up in heaven down into good Mormon fundamentalists homes; i.e., to have all the kids he could have! He was devout, to be sure. Whatever his faults, there was a lot of good and good intentions in this man.

After he sacrificed his painting hobby, due to conflicts of interests — God, his family, and religious beliefs came first — Mother gave him piano lessons because around about that time he had finally bought trained–concert-pianist Mama a piano!

But when he saw four-year-old me could sit down and play by ear whatever I heard him practicing as he struggled to learn to play by note, he was humiliated and felt cheated that it should come so easily to me, a little kid, what he had to work so hard for as an old man.

So, just like my older sister … and for the same reasons, I suspect … they both soon gave up for good and forever any attempt to learn to play the piano. But Daddy qualified it with some truths when he said:

“Bein’ an artist and playin’ musical instruments is for rich people. It takes an awful lot of time. And I have to spend my time and energy makin’ a living to support my family.” Then he added, as an afterthought,“Rich people get rich off the backs of the poor.”

However, I would qualify it with: “The Haves” and “The Have-nots” can usually be traced back to “The Did’s” and “The Did-nots.” (Readers Digest)

For example, the “Haves” did not have a lot of kids and wives! They chose “Quality over Quantity.”

Even so, Daddy had learned to play the harmonica as a young man. When I was 10, he taught me how to play “Home, Sweet Home” on it. From there, I was off and running, easily picking out by ear other tunes on the harmonica.

But something I could never do was whistle, though Daddy could whistle like a Pro — the only one in our family that could ever do that, far as I know. Though we all really tried hard to learn how to whistle.

In fact, when I was nine years old, it was quite a funny sounding scene around our home and yard, there for a while: All of us kids and even Mother went about trying to “whistle a happy tune,” when, at best, we weren’t blowing much more than our lips, hot air, and a lot of strange sounds!

But whenever Dad was at home and working around the place, he was his own radio — and ours too! His whistling could be heard throughout the home and yard. And I loved it — loved his beautiful whistling of tunes that were always right on pitch.

In fact, one breezy spring morning in Hurricane, Utah, when I was around eleven, I was blown away when I heard Daddy out in the barn milking Bossy, our auburn Jersey cow, exquisitely whistling the hit tune from the 1950s Musical Oklahoma!: “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!”

Mother was a trained concert pianist. But Daddy’s musicianship was that of a gifted, born Whistler! I never realized, back then, what an asset and talent it truly is to be able to whistle — whistle any melody beautifully! Oh, how I would love to be able to do that myself.

PART 9

Ma & Pa on their land, the Galeana Springs, near Colonia LeBaron, Chihuahua, Mexico

“In the course of my life, I have often had to eat my words, and I must confess that I have always found it a wholesome diet.” Winston Spencer Churchhill

In the previous blog, we were talking about some more of my father’s accomplishments and sacrifices. Among other such memorabilia is the following: He was a proud Veteran of World War I. He fought with the 308th Engineers from Ohio to the Rhine. There are videos of his Platoon on YouTube, showing them constructing a bridge, among other things.

While with his Platoon in France, during his WWI Service, Daddy got to meet Winston Spencer Churchhill! So he had double the reason, on January 24, 1965, for taking three days off work to keep his ear tuned to the radio all day and into the night when Churchhill died.

Yes, for three days he listened to the constant end-to-end radio broadcasts about world-famous leader Winston Spencer Churchhill as Radio Broadcasters expounded upon the many great accomplishments and services this icon had performed for society. Daddy could especially relate to Churchill’s accomplishments when it came to World War I and World War II. Sadly, I didn’t even know who Winston Spencer Churchill was!

It figures, as, at the time Churchill died, I was eighteen years old, had been married off in an arranged marriage at age sixteen, and held captive in the LeBaron doomsday cult in Mexico since August 1960.

August 1960 was the unfortunate date my parents uprooted our family, locks, stocks, shocks, and barrels, to move to Zion “to gather and mingle with the Saints and avoid the calamities that were coming very soon to wipe out the wicked. (Colonia LeBaron was “Zion.”) In hindsight, I see it was really quite the other way around: Gathering to Zion was nothing but a calamity!

I had barely graduated from eighth grade, in Hurricane, Utah, before we left for this “Zion.” My parents walked us right into a ready-made viper’s den and cult calamity, thinking they were doing just the opposite — preparing for the end of the world that was due any week … if not sooner.

Well, it WAS the end of my world! Their man-made CALAMITY wiped out and ruined my hopes for “The good life.” I have been trying to do catch-up ever since.

As cult-fate would have it, there was plenty of wickedness going on in so-called Zion “to mingle with.” It turned out to be quite a little colony of “Saints” — or a “Little House of Horrors”!

I’m just glad it wasn’t another Jonestown! At least my self-proclaimed Prophet Uncle Joel never asked us to drink the Kool-Aid. However, self-proclaimed Prophet Uncle Ervil was quite another story.

As my Memoir unfolds, you shall hear what I mean. Because I intend to unmask the Colonia LeBaron Mormon fundamentalist cult life I endured while stuck living eight years in Mexico down past the Rio Grande — a life I barely survived to blog about. It was about fifty-eight years ago, as of March 2018, that my family “gathered to Zion.” I have been trying to get over it ever since.

Their prophet, my Uncle Joel LeBaron, had prophesied: “The destructions foreseen in the Book of Revelations are coming any day now to rain down upon the United States! Mexico is the land of refuge for the Saints.” Mother claimed she, too, had seen this “end of days” in a dream!

Go figure: The sky was falling … another Chicken-Little story … or LeBaron story? If you want to get power, claim you’ve had a revelation, a dream that shows the world is coming to an end. You’ll most likely get some followers.

The truth is, yours and my world IS coming to an end: We never know the hour of our death … the end of our OWN world. (Maybe that’s what scares people to death so much!) But the world, itself, and new life will continue on, as it has for thousands of millenniums.

If you claim “the sky is falling/ the world is coming to an end, some Millennial’s (i.e., Messianic apocalyptic dooms-dayers who believe the end of the world and “the Millennium” is imminent) will likely believe and follow you. Chicken Little sure got his following … if you recall that children’s fairytale.

But now back to reality: After being pulled out of school and moved to that secluded and barren, Chihuahuan Desert wilderness, I had no chance for further education.

That was a calamity in itself! Quite the end of my world — at least as I had known it. I, a Bookworm, wasn’t even allowed to read, let alone have any contact with the outside world, in any way, shape, or form. So, no: I wouldn’t know who Churchhill was.

Before I was married, while living in LeBaron’s “Zion,” all my family-of-origin had, as far as connections with the outside world were concerned, was Daddy’s little battery-run radio — which only he was allowed to use!

Even worse, all we ever heard about from Mother was mostly cult dogma and propaganda. And how great she and her family heritage was: Her father, mother, brothers — especially her brothers, Joel and Ervil, the “prophets” of the cult! Mother had to be number one. So, sadly, I never got to know how special my father’s Spencer heritage was. For some reason, Daddy never mentioned it either. Or maybe he did but I wasn’t around to hear.

NOTE: Though there is more to relate, as to my father’s history, I will relate it in the context of my own continuing Memoirs.

For now, I conclude my nine-part series,”My Daddy,” (Renamed with the lyrics of the following comical song I wrote. There is a verse in it about my amazing father. But first this Intro: ~ My Song: “Pretty City Chic: A Bit o’ Bio in Verse”

Stephany Spencer-LeBaron, age 38

Pretty City Chic

Dearest friends and fans, Please note: This tongue-in-cheek song I wrote Is half-finished so I don’t gloat, But pray my poem won’t get your goat;

It’s late — blog’s due “mañana;” Check the song later on … uh … You’ll find it’s been “re-wrote”… “Needs work” is my last quote. But please enjoy what I wrote; Now I humorously emote:

Pretty City Chic

Hey! I’m a Hack Who’s written this hit Called “PRETTY CITY CHIC”– A HEE-HA COMEDY SONG — A BIT O’ BIO IN VERSE, FOR BETTER OR WORSE, WITH TRUTH ‘N’ EXAGGERATION INTERSPERSED:

HEY, they’ve called me “Pretty City Chick,” But Hillbilly music is my shtick; My Hillbilly ways are here to stick, So you may as well git over it — Join in ’n’ sing a bit With “City Chic” —

Born in Mexican sticks in 1966. I’ve dual citizenship — What a trip! Now Shit-kickin’ music is my shtick.

I’m an all-American-mongrel, Apple-pie girl — A Hines-57 mixed-up mutt With apple pie stickin’ to my butt ’n’ gut — But Red-necked reactionaries ain’t my thing; I’m here fer music and to sing!

Yeah, I’m an All-American-Mexican, Scots-Irish “Mick,” With Welch ’n’ English, So, sure, I’m a Brit … With French, German, Mohawk Indian a bit. If there’s no Tom Slick Hidin’ in the pit, Far as I know, that’s about it — That‘s my story and I’m stickin’ to it!

My father was a proud Veteran of World War I. Those Vets were well-appreciated For what they’d done! Pa was an artist, creative — Jack-of-all-trades; Master of a few — Good at many things — What couldn’t he do?

Ma was a Creative — Artist thru ’n’ thru; Poet, Pianist, Painter — Whew! Loved talking religion, old or new — Long as it agreed with what she already “knew.” She graduated with a BA in Journalism too; Quite an accomplishment — Ma was sixty-two!

She was runnin’ me competition then, For I was still in College too. But her motto was: “Anything you can do, I can do better; I can do anything better than you!” (And she meant it too!)

REFRAIN: Hey, they call me “Pretty City Chic,” But Hillbilly music is my “shtick,” My Hillbilly ways are here to stick! So you may as well “git” over it; Join in ‘n’ sing a bit With “City Chic,” ‘Shit-kickin’ music is my shtick. Well, that’s my story And I’m “shtickin’ ” to it: “I’m Pretty City Chic!”

(By Stephany Spencer)

NOTE: The following is an iPhone video of me at the California Writers Club, March 2017, performing the above song I wrote, “PRETTY CITY CHIC” (BEFORE I RECENTLY “RE-WRIT” PARTS OF IT!):

NOTE: This concludes my nine–part Series, “My Daddy,” renamed “Pt 1-9: My Father Floyd Spencer, Fundamentalist Mormon LeBaron Cult Member.”

Thanks for visiting and sharing my blog site with me.

I love to write. But it’s icing on the blog when I have readers who devour it on top of my cooking it up!

In future blogs, I’ll tell you a little about my maternal grandparents and Mother — How she and Daddy met, some of their adventures together, etc. —

That is, I may tell you about the beginning of my father’s Mormon fundamentalist cult saga that culminated with his bringing me into the world — along with many other kids and events — which culminated in my creating this Blog. Chain reactions? That’s life!

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Pt 1-9: Floyd O. Spencer, Mormon LeBaron Cult Member PART 1 My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer, age 19…

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aleatoryalarmalligator · 7 years ago

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Life Story Part 58

My grandma Betty died. I was sitting in my bedroom upstairs one evening, when I heard the phone ring. There was a vent in my room so I could always hear a little bit of what was going on downstairs. I heard my father gasp, and then he seemed to be sobbing. The conversation was brief, and I already knew what it had to be. I couldn't help feeling badly for the guy. Despite the fact that he really was a terrible person to me in some respects, he lost a lot in a year's time. First, Patti – his then recently separated ex girlfriend had killed herself, and then his mother died. I think in a lot of ways my grandma kept my father emotionally grounded, and with her gone from the world, I believe my father felt very much alone – ungrounded.

I am thankful that her death was not a terribly slow or painful one. She had just begun exhibiting the signs of having cancer. She had chainsmoked her entire life since she was twenty-two. She also had a bad heart. Had she not suffered a stroke that killed her instantaneously, she might very well have suffered for a few years in a slow battle with cancer. I guess her and Gayle had gone out to eat at a Chinese restaurant that evening – their favorite, and they ate to their heart's content. Afterwards, they had gone to the movies, a sentimental corny movie most likely, where a lost young person finds their purpose in life by rescuing an animal that shows them how to be a better person and care again. The kind of movie my grandma always bought me for Christmas. She came home, listened to her favorite Celine Dion Titanic theme song, washed up, and began watching public television till she dozed off. At some point in the night while she was asleep she had the stroke, and she died almost immediately. I know this probably sounds awful for me to say, but I mean it with a sincere sense of compassion – it could have been so much worse.

The next week we traveled down to Ontario Oregon to connect with the family. It would be the last time I ever saw the extended family on my father's side. It was also at this very same time, that there was another family ordeal. Basically, my uncle Bob got caught in a sting operation for buying child pornography. I guess I failed to mention that this had happened sometime around Christmas. Looking back, I am so terribly glad I didn't end up living with him and my aunt Marty. Who knows what could have happened to me, and I remember distinctly feeling weird about my uncle, even though he technically never did anything inappropriate. He was the professional of the family, and I felt that we were supposed to look up to him – so hearing about what he was guilty of was a surprise – though I was told he was getting put in prison for tax evasion at first – not for buying pedophilia. The double secret life he was living was horrendous and disgusting and I believe I felt it off of him in very subtle ways when I had been down there to visit about a year and a half before he thankfully was caught. This little matter of feeling a strange energy off of him gave me insight that I should trust my instincts about people – particularly predatory men – but anyone. He ended up getting six years in prison – becoming an extremely talented artist – he could of course never go back into the field of education – and he is not allowed on the internet. He eventually remarried. My father keeps in touch with him, but most of the family has emotionally disconnected with him. I personally don't feel all that compelled to talk to him or visit, for very obvious reasons. You can't look at child pornography and not see clear as day the devastating reality of it all. It's staring you straight in the face. If you view that stuff to get off, you are sick.

Some of the family felt that my grandma finding out that her son had been arrested and was a sex offender was what broke her. I personally think it was just a life of smoking and eating 50's canned goods and watching soap operas. My adult cousins were down there. My aunt Gayle was a wreck. My uncle Steve and half uncle Adam were there, as well as my aunt Sylvia. We had rented a hotel. There wasn't going to be a funeral, as my grandma felt they were phony and gaudy. We all at one point went into my grandmother's apartment one last time. I thought a lot about the kindness she had shown me as a child. In a lot of ways, my grandma was a much softer person than both my parents, who were/are both far more chaotic, brutal, funnier, abusive and contradictory in nature. My grandma Betty was no survivor – she lived in fear – which is why she never learned how to drive. I remembered watching Bob Ross with her, and holding her hand and pushing on her protruding veins in her hands and wrists for fun. Even though the stuff she sent me for holidays was kind of awful – bad Christmas themed pajamas and such, she always remembered. She remembered every single person's birthday. She bought literally everyone Valentine's Day stuff, Easter, 4th of July, Halloween, and Christmas boxes – no matter how many family members she had to send them off to.

I looked for, and found this cat that always hung off the side of the couch. It was where she often kept her smokes, her TV guide, reading glasses and such. Nobody wanted them. Nobody wanted the cat things used to prevent cat toys from rolling underneath the refrigerator, so I took that too. And since nobody wanted them, I was given her entire Stephen King collection – about thirty or forty hardbacks that I took with me back to the hotel and began reading. We went out to eat somewhere – a buffet. My aunt Gayle was totally a mess. I felt kind of mean – and perhaps I was mean, but I couldn't help wondering what she had expected. Losing a parent is devastating – but there was some part of her behavior that was sensationalized and attention seeking. She was sincerely upset and lost without her mother, and I think even the attention seeking was a sign or that devastation. She obviously needed to be comforted, and I would never suggest that a person stew I their misery. But she seemed to revert back to being a child. A very loud child who wildly looked around the room for attention. She began sobbing and crying very loud in the restaurant for instance because she saw a fork – and I guess that forks now reminded her of my grandmother's death – which seemed very put on to me. Other family members were silent for the most part. My father was seeming to hold it together okay. In a way, I almost think my father's resilience is his undoing. He can't really break when he needs to – survival simply won't allow it, and it almost seems to make him a bit crazy.

Watching all these people cope with the death of our beloved mother/grandma Betty, I worried about what it would be like when my beloved family members in the future would begin dropping off someday. It really hadn't occurred to me before – not that I wasn't aware of death. But now it seemed like a very practical reality and less of a concept. I decided to prepare myself for that day – so that I didn't react like aunt Gayle, and felt safe to consider everyone half dead already. Most of the human beings who had ever existed were already dead anyway. I know that sounds morbid, but if you remind yourself daily that the people around you are conscious meat sacks that can be squished, or malfunction at any given time, you not only prepare yourself for the day coming when it happens, but you are also appreciating the time you have with those people and how you treat them – since their mortality becomes more real to you. We have to get the most out of our connections with the people in our lives. What 'the most' is can be very subjective, but whatever is there to be gained from one another, it's an intrinsic part or our life's purpose to get it and to fully appreciate the mystery of knowing one another in the limited time and circumstances that we have.

On the way back from my Ontario, perhaps as a sign that I was very capable of being an insensitive teenager, I listened to The White Stripes very loudly in the car. Eventually my father had to tell me he couldn't emotionally take it right now, and he turned it down. I felt like a complete jerk. He had just lost his mother, and I was already just enjoying music and whathaveyou. When we got back home, we never really ended up visiting again. My father basically cut contact with Gayle. I don't know why. It didn't seem kind to me. Sure, they were never close. She could be annoying, but cutting ties with her kind of freaked me out. She hadn't done anything wrong. What's more, he still talked to our uncle Bob. He didn't talk to him for about four years granted, but he talks to him now – I don't care, except why has he decided never to speak to Gayle. I am really unclear about why that is. I have at times felt compelled to personally reach out to them, only I have been given the very strong impression over the years that they have little to no interest in who I am now that I am an adult – and the same goes for my siblings. There was always this weird sense with me that – since my mother was somehow a very obvious flawed human being that somehow she tainted the bloodline on my father's side and therefore we are of less quality.

On the last day of school, we took a trip to a strange special little exclusive resort called Boyer Beach. It was difficult to get to, and wasn't particular fancy – just a beach with some trees and buildings that weren't open for another month, since it was several miles up the Clearwater River. There was only one strange road to get to it, as there wasn't a road on that side of the river, you had to go several miles around to get to the one road that came back down. I remember sitting on the bus as it drove us down the small windy downhill path, and I began studying my feelings in a way I hadn't thought to. I felt depressed – but I chose not to blame anyone. It's instinctual when you feel pain that won't go away to want to blame someone. I recognized that I was feeling the urge to be angry at Sarah, but rather than say anything or let myself react emotionally – I just sat there and reflected on it. It felt counter intuitive, but I just did it anyway. And the more I reflected on it, the more I realized that I wasn't even angry – not really. I felt abandoned – and there might have been some reasonable justification for that – but I also understood that there was very little I could do about it. All those times I had become lathered up and convinced I was angry, I had actually just been sad. Feeling angry had made me feel like I was in control of my life and of the world around me. It made me feel justified. Really I was just a lost person. I felt disappointed and powerless – which made a lot more sense. There was nothing I could now do about the way my life was going. And as I realized this, the rage seemed to disintegrate. I felt like crying – there was a lump in my throat the entire day, but the blind anger was gone. I was calm the entire time, and Sarah and I managed to make naked people out of sand on the beach and have a good day.

Sarah and I ended up getting invited to Samantha's house that early summer soon after, which ended up being a strange night. Samantha's brother – the one who used to prank call me was there. I think Adam, Sam's boyfriend was there as well. We watched a really dumb movie called The Boy Next Door. And then everyone went out to the living room to play Super Smash Bros. It was sort of a ritual that everyone did at Sam's house – though I rarely participated and if I did I always chose Kirby. At some point in the night, either Sarah or I left a drawer open. Samantha's dad Steve came home drunk, saw that the drawer was left open, and started becoming wigged out and violent. Sam's dad was the kind of person to beat someone if lids weren't perfectly put on, if drawers and cupboards weren't completely shut. He was/is a horrible person, and it was baffling and startling to even try to imagine what it must have been like being raised by this guy. Samantha and Jake looked humiliated and nervous. Jake stood up eventually and took the blame for it – even though it had most likely not been the one who had done it. I don't remember what Steve yelled at Jake, but it was horrible and abusive, and though I couldn't see it, I heard scuffling in the kitchen of Steve trying to beat Jake up. I think Jake managed to shove his father and I remember him yelling 'I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TRIED THIS IN FRONT OF THEM!!'. I felt badly. And I guess when I saw how things in this household, it was easier for me to understand why he had gone above and beyond to make life difficult for me at school.

Steve ended up leaving again thankfully, and we tried to play poker and pretend nothing had happened. I never got the hang of poker. From what I remember, I never had a hand I could play. So I spent the entire time trying to understand how to play without having any options.

Sarah's boyfriend Alex was coming to visit mid June for the first time, which basically meant that I only had about two weeks left to hang out with Sarah for the summer. After that, she would basically be around – but kind of not there. She wanted to spend the whole summer alone with Alex. She halfheartedly told me we would hang out sometimes, but it didn't seem very likely to me. And we both knew that after the summer she was moving to Texas. So for those two weeks, I swallowed every bit of disappointment I could swallow, and I tried to just enjoy being Sarah's friend in the moment. It was basically pointless to be angry anymore, as unfair as it all ended up for me. She had made her choice. Don't get me wrong, I was devastated, and I wanted her to understand fully that I was devastated. But my options were nil, and thinking about my own future was extremely unpleasant to me. The only thing I had to hold onto was the idea that some magical thing might become of me somehow. I didn't even know if I wanted to stay in school anymore. I didn't feel like I had any real talent. I could barely go into a grocery store without having a strong nervous reaction. How was I going to cope with being on my own?

To make matters worse, I remember Samantha asking Sarah 'What's Renee going to do without you Sarah?'. She asked it condescendingly. There was some truth to it which made it all the more frustrating – what was I going to do? But to a degree, I felt like people filled in a lot of blanks about me, and Sarah. Her meaning, behind the surface was to point out that I was weak, or that I couldn't form an opinion, and was incapable of growth – I was the helpless mooch. Sarah shrugged, and knew better than to insult me, and probably feeling guilty, wanted to hope for all the best concerning what would become of me.

My mom had somehow temporarily been able to rent the Nye's house again – the one Danny had us move out of for a few months. They were on their way to selling the place I guess, and were allowing us to stay there for the time being until someone came along. And it kind of ended up being a bit of a shitshow this time around. Germaine (remember her?), from the first house my mom moved into after the divorce was moved in there for some reason. I guess she found my mom bartending and she herself needed a place to stay and asked if she could stay at my mom's place. So, she moved into one of the rooms. She was a drunken narcissistic mess as always – I realized even more nearly a decade later what a truly annoying woman she was. And she had this strange deadbeat guy who she called her boyfriend there too. He was small, thin, had long black hair pulled into a ponytail and a beard. He looked filthy, and didn't say a word. He would sit outside at night against the house for hours. His eyes drifted strangely.

For whatever reason, Maria was homeless too, so she was staying there with her kids. I hadn't truly realized any of this, and had I, Sarah and I would not have decided to visit. The house smelled bad. What's more, my mom was on some kind of strange rage kick. She was acting aggressively towards Maria, finding any cheap thing to criticize her over. She kept making fun of Maria's suicide attempts. In old cartoons it is common for the sleeping character's soul to come out of their body in some kind of astral projection/ghost form, and run amok. I knew I couldn't just smash my mother's face in, but my ghost-self would do just that, and I envisioned angrily knocking her to the ground and forcing her to apologize. My mother can be this horrid cruel person that you never want to see again. She wants to hurt people – Maria being the easiest person to hurt. She liked pushing Maria to a point of harming herself. And my mother also thrives with chaos. So if things are working well, she finds ways to undermine that. She was being that person completely that night. Sarah had never seen my mother like that, I don't think.

What ended up happening was that in the early evening Chantelle, Maria's two and a half year old daughter was sick with a high fever over 100 degrees and she wouldn't stop sobbing. My mom had been storming around screaming at everyone, but she set her sights on Chantelle. She dragged Chantelle by the wrists and began screaming psychotically in Chantelle's face. Of course, Chantelle was a deliriously sick two year old with a fever, and she couldn't and wouldn't stop crying. My mom then started accusing her of faking it. Maria, stepped in of course to defend her toddler, and my mom started screaming at Maria saying she should kill herself if she can't figure her life out. Maria started crying and arguing about something petty. At this point, I stepped in. I couldn't just stand there and watch my mom do her thing. Plus, Chantelle was a little child and wasn't fair game in my book. I told her to knock it off in some form or another. So she turned her total attention on me and began screaming at me – saying I had ruined her life, had prevented her from sleeping (I think she was probably hung over since Germaine was there). I wasn't quite there yet, but I had started reaching a tipping point with what I could handle of screaming and intense meaningless anger. I felt like I was either going to implode, or explode. In either case, my sudden intense feeling of frustration and rage was enough to turn off a good portion of my brain. I was afraid I would simply shove my mother to the floor and begin pounding her face – but at the same time I knew I couldn't do that. My mom almost had a twinkle of joy in her eye – as she could see she was getting an effect.

Then Germaine came out of her bedroom. She had been hung over as well, but had just started her second round of drinking. She sounded like the wicked witch of the west, and had those curling things in her hair. She came out and began screeching at me about how I was to RESPECT MY MOTHER NO MATTER WHAT!!! and that I had somehow been brainwashed by my father to try to destroy my poor mother – which was beyond absurd. I felt like she just wanted in on the action since she had always disliked me but hadn't had a good chance to get involved. The two snarling mean spirited bitches were both hollering at me, and I had to get away then and there, else I would have killed the both of them with my hands or a kitchen knife. I ran out the door crying hysterically. Sarah following me in a state of shock. This resembled absolutely nothing of what she had ever been raised in, and I think it was hard for her to fully imagine having such a wretched mother. Of course, Germaine's creepy boyfriend was hanging around outside the house, seemingly unaffected by any of the fight, and I just ran past him.

We ended up sitting in the gravel a ways from the house. By this time it was night. Sarah hugged me and said she was sorry. I explained to her in a state of misery that this was what I had to look forward to without her being around anymore. It was a true and realistic statement, and at this point my pains and woes were not theoretical anymore. The reality was, that when Sarah left, this essentially was what I could look forward to at random intervals from both my mother and father – in their own styles of course. There would be no escaping to Sarah's house anymore. There would be no good times for me. Despite the fact that Sarah and I fought, she really was a great joy of mine to have. She was my only friend, and the only person who remotely understood me. She may have been kind of self centered and empty headed, but she was endlessly patient with me – and I think she had done the best she could. For all her faults, I had troubles imagining anyone else really actually getting it. She seemed like the only person in the world that actually liked me. And of course, there wasn't an answer. I just cried until, as I talked, I said something funny, and then I laughed and somehow carried on. We ended up driving back home that night.

Three weeks later, Germaine's creepy boyfriend ended up murdering someone. Germaine dumped him a week later, and I guess he must have immediately found another woman to date, because he strangled her to death. My brother reflected recently on the fact that my mom was leaving Allison and David to be watched by this guy. David played video games with this creep alone in a house with him. A testament to my mother's observant parenting skills.

My father, all that year had dated numerous women online. He was trying to fill a void left by Patti, and maybe that void in general that exists with everyone. He even flew down to California to talk to one woman named Suzanna. The names of these women I know vaguely – they failed to make a real mark, the majority of them. They were all my father's world for a month and then they were replaced. I learned to not even think about them anymore, and online dating seemed incredibly unpleasant to me. I never hated any of these women. Most of them heard lies about me and never met me in person, and when they did they approached me with clueless friendliness masking underlying judgment. It didn't feel particularly like anyone involved was really connecting. There was probably twenty or thirty of them – and it never lasted. Tanya, the woman he dated for six months during the summer and fall of 2006, was probably one of my favorites. She was the only girlfriend of his that seemed to actually like me, or understand me even a little bit.

Tanya lived in Spokane, and my father wanted her to meet us. Part of my father's shtick – not that it was altogether inaccurate was that of the single father raising children alone. This wasn't a lie exactly - if you exclude the abuse towards me in my earlier teens and all throughout. But it was used as a corny agenda in order to show women how sensitive he really was, since many father's choose not to be involved with their children and all that. It was all rather phony to me. He also lied about his height. To be fair, I honestly believe that he believed this stuff about himself and about our family. He had sort of erased any wrongdoing he had ever done from his own mind concerning beating me up that one time. He was able to justify and ignore just about anything regarding him expressing violence towards me. And truly, what good would it have done to try to tell these women different? Honestly, most of them were hoping he would pay a bill or two, which he often did and then they would break up with him for someone else they were talking to online. It was a very shallow world. People were afraid of being lonely – and truly – to each their own, but I can't think of anything more lonely than these brief relationships – if you want to call them that.

We first met Tanya in this sort of wannabe Hard Rock Cafe in Spokane. It was night time, the place was loud and my father was nervous. She didn't look at me with judgment and she seemed fairly together and reserved. I liked her overall. At first I was a little insulted because she compared me to Kelly Osbourne – which mostly insulted me since I thought Kelly Osbourne was a little bit campy and was a spoiled brat, but I probably shouldn't have taken it as nearly as insulting as it was not meant as such. We stayed at her place for one night. Her two sons were little hellions – and I could tell she never reprimanded them for anything. All they wanted to do was break things and pull their pants down. They screamed and tore things apart. Allison, David and I slept in her living room watching the first Narnia movie. The next day, Tanya pulled out her collection of Anne Rice novels. She gave me a few of them. She thought I would like them. I guess she had once been the goth of her high school and she wanted to be supportive of me as she felt I was a goth – though I still don't think that I actually was. I had dyed my hair dark again, and whenever I wear my natural hair color I have always been told I looked like a goth since my skin is pale and I like to wear a lot of make up sometimes.

The next day we went to this amusement park of sorts that was in the middle of Spokane near some rivers. It was sort of surreal for me being there, since I had sudden memories of having been there as a child in the early nineties, back when I guess that place had been rather busy. We got on the merry-go-round that I remember riding around when I was one and a half or two back when my parents had just gotten married and had gone up to Spokane for a shopping spree. Everyone was walking around together – me, my siblings Allison and David, Tanya, my father, but it was starting to strongly occur to me that even though people look like they are together, they really are a million miles apart in reality. Nobody was in solidarity here. We weren't a family – or at least, I was not a part of them. I wasn't apart of anyone anymore. I was beginning to feel incredibly alienated. These relationship dynamics were beginning to stick out in my mind everywhere that I went. I would see two people holding hands or kissing, and I couldn't help but notice in conversation they had nothing in common. Neither person actually knew what the other one was going through.

Tanya came to our house one more time a month later, but I wasn't around the house for very long. She might have been trying to scope out to see what my father's home was like. Because in conversation, we lived a Queen Ann style mansion (for it's time) styled home built in 1889, and considered a historical site by the state of Idaho. In reality, the house was this awkward cold place we made worse, and it had numerous issues. Going inside, it was very apparent that we weren't rich, but it might have seemed as though we were from conversations my father had on the phone. My father had this neck massaging thing. Basically, it had these two finger like things on either side of the place where you put your neck, and this machine would turn on and these things would vibrate and rotate around – an attempt to simulate a massage. I remember going downstairs at one point, and Tanya's boys were down there and in broad daylight, right in front of everyone, the were pulling down their pants trying to make the thing touch their privates – which was embarrassing for Tanya and awkward for all of us. These boys were ten and eleven years old, and I couldn't imagine doing what they were doing at that age. Anyway, Tanya eventually broke it off with him sometime after that – though I don't remember why, or how long after. Still, I always regarded her positively. She was never unkind to any of us.

My father had this new social life too. On top of buying absurd amounts of speakers and talking to random women online, he was starting to hang out with this guy named John who made Nickelback styled music in Clarkston – letting John borrow his speakers in hopes to play bass in his band. He also started working part time and semi for free for a friend of his back in the 80's named Rob who was starting a granite business that custom cut granite and other stone and installed it in people's kitchens and bathrooms. My father, as he was learning how to make granite smooth and polished, started collecting the scrap granite and making these weird granite cutting boards out of it, which he would sell cheaply to whoever wanted one. So there were granite cutting boards all over the place as well as speakers. Lastly, and more strange than anything, my conservative anti-drug father began spending a lot of time when he was in Kendrick with Billy, and other prominent drug dealing older teen guys. He was basically trying to assimilate with the druggy crowd from my high school, which was beyond strange. He started wearing his hat on backwards and talking with an attitude – particularly about women. He started drinking a lot and being out late with these guys who were thirty two plus years his junior. I felt like I had lost the plot completely.

It would be about a week before Alex finally came to visit and Sarah would essentially be gone and I would have some new kind of life. I would look back and I couldn't believe that three and a half years ago, I had had over ten people I considered some kind of friend. Where had everybody gone? I felt lost and depressed – but in a way I had never felt before. It felt like parts of my core personality were being stripped from me – that thoughts and words held no truth in and of themselves. They had to be sharpened like weapons and used in abstract ways. The world seemed upside down. I was losing my certainty about everything I thought that I knew. I wanted to get down to the bottom core truth of everything, but where could that be found? Was it love? Was it in art? Books? Religion or philosophy? Was the world we lived in primarily made of essence of perception, or were we living in the material? And why did I exist? Why did anything exist at all? It seemed impossible for me to know what to do next with my life. And I felt this burning sense that there was a truth that existed, and I needed to find it.

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