#of course i tasted the fucking onion but heres the thing i am a grown ass adult and adulthood means sometimes

[nordfjording]

have you considered that the flavour might be the fuckng problem

[nuatthebeach]

you knew that i'm a mastermind, and now you're mine

comment here on AO3.

mastermind may be an unlikely choice from Taylor Swift's Midnights, but i hope this short fic explains why it's the right one. more on that here.

gifted to @corneliaavenue for ranting with me about this damn album and finding new ways to apply its songs to hinny every day.

At first glance, the press can feel quite irritating.

Not in the she's-Harry-bloody-Potter's-wife sort of way - though there is plenty of that kind too, don't get her wrong - but in the you-are-famous-so-you-must-be-asked-all-sorts-of-intrusive-questions kind of way.

Over the years, she's come up with methods to circumvent those, and she finds herself fairly satisfied with the results.

Ginny flicks her eyes to her watch and claps her palms together. "Right, you lot. You know the rules: one hour, free for all," she raises her eyebrows in question, "Except for?"

"Respect boundaries, no use of passive aggressive questions, don't bring up Mr. Potter, limit discussions to Quidditch but deviations are allowed if not intrusively personal," the small press group chants obediently before one adult with rough skin tacks on, "And absolutely zero tolerance for any - and I quote from you directly - '1950s shite that implies anything about being the Chosen One's baby factory.' We should know better, and we should be better."

She grins, eyes brightening. "Correct, Peter! You learn quick! How are the kids, by the way? Sarah finally crawling?"

"Yes, Mrs. Potter, but we've got a new problem, unfortunately. Changing her nappy has become a bit difficult."

Ginny can tell. The man's hairline is already beginning to recede at the tender age of thirty eight, poor thing. She's not too much of a cow to point that out, of course.

"Ah, well, changing a nappy is a two person job," she states instead, "Maybe get Meghan to hold her arms down?"

"That won't stop her kicking, I suppose. But it is a start."

"And you, Sully?" she turns her attention to the lanky man standing in the back right, the words 'Highway to Hell' spilled colorfully on his shirt, ever the lover of Muggle music that he is. "Did you try that Indian restaurant I told you about last meeting? Remember we talked about expanding your palate to something a bit more…tasteful?"

He smiles a gap-filled smile, his remaining enamel a perfect match to the withering gray of his hair. At least one can't sue The Daily Prophet for ageism, she thinks off-handedly.

"Yes, I did. The curries were to die for. I've got a recommendation for you too, if you'd like."

Remembering his past insistence that she should give a taste for haggis, a quite fascinating Scottish delicacy of a sheep's heart, liver, and lungs mixed intricately with oatmeal and onions, Ginny fights to keep the smile on her face.

"Er, yeah, Sully, let's circle back to that, for sure."

One woman in the front raises her brightly manicured hand, practically bouncing in her eagerness to ask her first question. Ginny obliges, noting that she's among the newer, younger faces. "Hi, Gi - er, Mrs. Potter…I'm Jasmine! I've been cheering for you since your starting position with the Harpies! As someone who has also grown up in a testosterone-fueled house, I can tell you that seeing you earn a place in every league, every tournament you've been in has just - I am honor - I mean, you're just so amazing, and I - fuck, okay, I'll wrap this up."

Ginny laughs, startled but pleasantly so. She mouths a quick 'thank you,' touched beyond words.

Jasmine takes a deep breath and struggles to morph her expression to the likes of the other serious faces around her, self-consciously tucking a piece of chestnut hair behind her ear. Ginny wishes she wouldn't. Her energy is refreshing. She promises to tell her this one day.

"Since your projected wins have been accurate thus far, my question is, what do the stats say about the likelihood of the upcoming game resulting in the Chudley Cannons ranking above the Ballycastle Bats for the first time in seven years? They've certainly pulled their weight this season."

"Well, if you asked my brother, he'd say 100%, but since I'm obligated to tell the objective truth…" They all laugh appreciatively, and Jasmine's smile returns to the avid nature it once was. "On a more informative note, though, I'd say the realistic chances are…"

And this goes on for a while, the push and pull of conversation and banter, like gentle waves yielding to an easy tide, and this, this is the energy Ginny wishes she had been surrounded with throughout her professional life so far. She had never once blamed this particular lack on Harry, of course, for only a dimwit would believe he had somehow orchestrated this whole thing.

And if he still believes this sometimes, he's her dimwit, so he doesn't really count.

And it's not like she cares about what other people think.

Though it is another thing entirely to say it can't be a pain in the arse sometimes. A nail in an already infected foot.

But she refuses to let that bring her down.

It's her life, and she weaves the web of her own destiny. After all, she's spent enough time letting people use shears to tear them down.

"Mrs. Potter, I don't believe you ever addressed your oldest rumor back in your Hogwarts days?"

Ah, she spoke too soon. The Shear Personified.

"It's been overheard from several of your old classmates that Mr. Potter has identified you in his Amortentia during potions class." Oh, Jeffree, don't do it. You were quiet for so long. As you should have remained. "I mean, has there ever been an instance where you slipped in a love potion, let's say, in his pumpkin juice during breakfast? At least once?" I could have introduced you to Aunt Muriel, and you could have been miserable gossips together. "It's just a bit hard to believe - "

She doesn't even have to open her mouth because all of a sudden, the small crowd starts to chatter angrily, glaring at the admittedly social-cues-lacking middle-aged man.

"Boo," gap-toothed Sully chants, throwing his unlit cigarette butt in an aimless direction.

"Poor form, mate," Peter's head shaking causes a child's toy to go off in his nappy bag. "You should know the rules by now."

"Get. Out." This high-pitched but firm squeak is from Jasmine herself, and it's honestly more effective than any of the group's efforts thus far.

Ginny looks around at the mayhem, touched that her little fan circle is responding so strongly on her behalf.

It means the world, truly, considering that she'd gotten comfortable with the accusations and hate for so long, she forgot it had ever bothered her.

The turn of her lips, though slight, is full of awe, taking in the sight around her.

When the din finally quiets enough, she catches the end of Jeffree's defensive words: "All I am saying is that they were adolescents when they first got together, and reports say - "

"Who gives a damn what reports say?!"

"Er, thank you, Jasmine. Reports say that he was soon on the run for months, and - and - " he falters when he sees Ginny's cutthroat eyes, clearing his throat, "even at the last game, there are images of Mr. Potter staring in a 'daze that rivals a sacrificial victim ensnared by an enchantress,' to quote your own colleague Rita Skeeter - "

"Well, I'm glad Rita finds me enchanting," Ginny cuts in dryly, "But what are these images that you keep babbling about? At least have the gall to put your money where your mouth is before throwing accusations in the middle of a private press meeting."

With irritatingly un-shaky hands, Jeffree pulls out the "Exclusive Celebrity Papers," a Rita Skeeter new edition - as if she's written anything else in the past - and jabs at the pictures with one stubby finger.

She narrows her eyes, observing grainy-image-Harry gaping at grainy-image-Ginny, who had been commentating that day for the recent Appleby Arrows and Tutshill Tornados match, his gaze utterly distracted and…unfocused.

That is peculiar, Ginny wonders. Was it possible that he was stupefied earlier that day at work? No, the spell doesn't usually last that long, and he would have told her if he was, and besides, she's seen that look before she just can't place it -

And then, Ginny sees where exactly he's ogling at, and everything immediately clicks together.

"I know love potions are supposed to bring about feelings of lust, but I hate to break it to you, those trousers are known to do the same."

Her crowd laughs appreciatively, and Jasmine lets out a hearty whoop.

At this point, Jeffree's cheeks are a deep maroon.

"That - that's not very appropriate."

Ginny rolls her eyes. "Neither are your questions. I have a fit arse. My husband knows this. The sun rises in the east. Celery is a shite vegetable. Life goes on."

"Oh, please."

Great, here comes Ginny's least favorite part of these press meetings. She had been foolish to think it was put in the past, but alas.

When a man feels hurt that their ego isn't stroked, they spend their time feeling the need to let everyone know, thinking they'll care.

Like a child crying for attention. Only with these types of men, it's not a phase.

"Let's not pretend that everyone here is not wondering the same thing," the prat starts, "What, you think they care what restaurant taste you have? Your daycare advice? We all came here for one thing. A story."

This sends the room in a heated flurry again, but Ginny cuts it short, her biting remark a crisp breeze on a two-in-the-morning walk home.

"I don't need a love potion for my own husband to want me. And I don't care what you think your opinion is."

She skips, of course, the rant thrumming deep within her veins about how she, of all people, would know on a personal level what it's like to lose autonomy and would be the last to take it away from someone else. Such an obvious argument would only go over this dense sack's head.

Besides, she doesn't owe anyone any explanation.

Instead, she settles the building friction in the room with a cool: "But if you dare insult anyone in this room again, you'll find that the next story you cover is the one outside the toilets of the Ministry. And spoiler alert, entries into the departments are not all they use them for."

The rest of the press - no, her friends - cheers in delighted unison, Jasmine going so far as to hold the door for Jeffree's exit.

Sully swipes Rita's paper from his hand and rips it in two.

xxx

Harry laughs, listening attentively to Ginny's recount of the entire debacle, peppering remarks of "it is a great arse" and "if I see Jeffree covering the toilet entries I'll be sure to leave the seat up" and "ah, classic Sully. Maybe we should try the haggis he's always talking about," to which Ginny replies "or maybe we shouldn't" and grins as he affirms "yeah, maybe we shouldn't."

When their low-lit living room falls to a hush, Harry leans into Ginny's side, refilling her wine without her asking, and she ponders at how being with him just fits.

Like dominoes cascading in a line.

She puts her glass down and snuggles under his chin, preferring his clean scent as her method of intoxication instead.

"It's amazing," he breaks the companionable silence after a while, rubbing her back.

She lifts her head curiously.

"Only you could turn around a whole group of paparazzi and make them not only respect your boundaries but adore you. As a person. You just win over people so easily."

Ginny laughs and playfully nudges her elbow into his side, pressing her forehead to his. She knows he's really saying You win me over too, you know. Every day.

And all the rich colors of the grass around the world can't capture the natural comfort that his sage eyes make her feel.

She just has one final, teasing question to ask him.

"I mean, are you really surprised?"

His smirk is wide.

"Not in the least."

[juniebjoneswrites]

Bring Me Home // Harry Styles

This is War (2)

What does running do for me? Other than being a gateway drug to mindlessness, it shows me places I didn’t know existed. It also gives an incredible high that puts some meat on my bones. Like seriously. I could write love letters to my endorphins. I would ask how they’re doing and if they missed me while I was gone. I would ask how they felt in the dark and when it came time to play, I would dream of their favorite games. They have answers to questions I can’t ask, and know when to turn a blind eye to the darkness in my mind. I am thankful for their wilful ignorance. 

There’s a street I run that has a name I’ve never cared to remember but I know the way there like I know my way up the cliff. It’s been an ongoing venture. I see the lives there in the mornings as they wake up, innocent to the day that reaches beyond their grasp. I know if they stretched a little further they could touch it. Would they hand it to me if they could? They’ve seen me running for so long now they think I’m just a girl from down the street. I belong, so I must be safe. Right?

I see them in the night when they stumble home after a day when their outstretched hand just wasn’t quite good enough. They have all the makings of myself. I revel in their sorrow, but offer help. “Ah, one of the runners,” they say. They ask how I am and if I’m liking the neighborhood.  I smile politely, “It’s beautiful, I’m just around the corner,” I always motion behind us regardless of where we face. “It’s the brick one with a balcony,” usually they’re too wrapped up in their day to realize they’re all bricks with blaconies, or too polite to press further. Maybe they just think I’m being clever and safe. 

“Let me help you inside,” I call out to a man as he stumbles from his car. He gives me a look of recognition as he hands me his keys. I smile in return. We’ve spoken before. 

“Thank you,” he licks his lips. I smile wider, fighting back bile in the back of my throat. “Would you like to join me?” It would be a lie to say that all our conversations were innocent. 

“I’m sure your wife wouldn’t like that,” I respond coyly. 

“No wife,” he holds up his bare ring finger. ‘Bare’ being a generous word. There’s a tan line where his band would be, he's taken it off for the night. Maybe wants me to think he’s newly divorced. 

His wife is on a work trip for the night. I know this because she told me the day before as I helped her put a big, fancy carseat in the back of her car as the child herself was throwing a fit. “Of course it delivers the day before my trip and I have to rush before work to get it in,” she laughed and wiped her brown hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. Her wedding ring glistened in the morning sun. “Husbands are useless, but I’m sure you’ll learn that eventually.” I laughed with her and commented that he must be okay if he’s going to be watching the child while she’s gone. She tells me her daughter will be with her grandparents.

His words tumble out together and I hear them fall around me like a castle under attack. “But seem like  someone who wouldn’t care,” A flattery king. Knights may be able to stop the soldiers but they can’t fight catapults. My anger bubbles. I steal my smile. I move up the stairs and grab his keys. This is a war.

 Leaning against the frame I put the key in the door and swing it open wide. He smiles, I whistle a tune, he stumbles through. I lead him to the couch and he pulls me on top. He tastes like a deep bourbon and nachos with extra onions. I let him take my running jacket off. The knife I have in a hidden pocket clatters to the floor and I worry he’ll question the sound. He doesn’t, and it’s clear he doesn’t care that I have, in fact, been running. I tell him I need to use the restroom and that I'll be right back. He gestures vaguely so I find my own way, but not to the bathroom. How easy to trick with a promise of reward. I line up my men. 

Their family photos are on the walls telling stories of vacations and holidays. Just the three of them, the prettiest lie of them all. I stare as if I could learn some secret as to how a mother could do what she did and move on. I see theirs play out like a book and I’m filled with an anger that blinds me. They’re ready for orders.

I think of my knife so I stock back to the man on the couch only to be met with snores. Sometimes it just works out. I pity him, in his suit and tie, his loafers haphazardly in the entryway. I fantasize my life in this home. I walk their rooms and lay in their beds, I drink their juice and eat their snacks. My fingers trace the walls for fault lines and I wonder if there had been a boy here how different it would look. She wouldn’t have needed the child’s seat, he was already grown. The crayons of the walls in his room would look different here. The dolls and gowns, replaced with his stones and telescope. I am angry. A life he never knew and will never see. He would have liked a sister. Fill it with rocks.

I pull his picture from the pocket of my running pants and look for a marker.  “1993-2016” I write. “You killed him.” I am not the only one to blame. ‘He found you!’ I wanted to scream at her, ‘You left and he still found you,” but that wasn’t entirely true. I had found her. I brought her name into his home and changed things, so now I will bring his name into this home and change these things. “Elijah Perry” I write near the bottom, “Taken three months before his death.” I clip the photo to the fridge and walk out. Release.

When does the sheep become the wolf? Or was I a wolf in sheep's clothing this whole time? I am growing claws and my teeth cut my mouth as I speak. It fills with salt and blood. Maybe I’ll become like cured meat with all this salt and my decay will be slow. Agonzing. My fur will matt and my family will become afraid. I will age slowly and watch them leave, seeing their funerals from the woods edge. And when the wolf finally leaves to possess someone else, the only one who will see me to my grave will be a ghost. 

I don’t run again. I walk the veins of the city and let them guide me through it’s ebb and flow. It feels like I’ve thrown the daughter of a cliff into a stampede of wildebeests and I wonder what she’ll think when she’s older.  When do I get that scar over my eye? I think I deserve the mark. If Cain did then so do I. 

“Hey sweetie,” a voice calls from the shadow of a rundown bar. Unfortunate luck for him if he tries anything further. I flip him off and keep walking. I recognize my surroundings. There’s a pizza place up the corner.  A long night of treachery will leave you hungry. 

The warmth of the pizza fills the coldness in my body. I didn’t realize I started shaking until I reached for my water. I quickly fist my hand and push my pizza away, my breaths becoming fast and impatient. Resting my head on the table I let the solid coolness rush my mind and steady my thoughts. I focus on my breathing and count backwards from one hundred. 

100, 99, 98, 97, 96, I can see his face. 95, 94, 93, 92, I watch him at a New Year's Eve countdown grinning and blowing his whistle. 91, 90, I squeeze my eyes tighter. Press my head harder to the table 89, 88, 87, I might be sick. 86, 85, 84, 83, 82, 81, 80,79,78,77,7767574737271 

I see him on the cliff.

I’m telling him to stop.

He doesn’t.

I throw my head back and open my eyes. 48, 47, 46, 45, 44, the warped window reflects a distorted version of myself with no discernable features, just a shadow ready to disappear at the first sign of light. A fly crawling on the window stops on my face and I’m wondering if it’s an omen. 

The door opens with a jingle from the bells and a figure stands behind me. I don’t care to look at the reflection. “Fuck off,” I let out through a cry. I am very intimidating. 

They don’t say anything and walk away. I drop my head, tears sliding off my face. A moment later they return and hand me some napkins. I glance at them and then at my greasy, sauce stained pile of my own. Reluctantly I take them, “Thanks. Now please leave.” 

I wipe my face as they shuffle in place and hesitantly clear their throat. I’m instantly annoyed. I spin around to face them, “What?” I say in more of a defeated, angry tone. 

Well kids, I guess we get to answer that question here and now. I let my head fall to my arm that rests on the seat’s back. “Of course,” I mumble. “Why not?” Turning around I pull the pizza back to me and take a bite. He still doesn’t move. 

“Well if you’re going to,” I motion to the seat next to me. He takes it and looks even more uncomfortable which makes me laugh slightly. “You’re being really weird, you know,” I say through a bite of pizza. “If I didn’t know you you would have a bloody nose already.”

He sits up straighter, “Sorry,” he picks at the paint on his nails. “I, uh, just saw you and recognized you from running and the gas station. Just wanted ask if you’re okay,”

“Why?” I ask harshly then, closing my eyes, wince at my stupidity. 

He looks confused, “You don’t remember?” “I remember the gas station just fine,”

“No, uh, we’ve been waving at each other... while we run,” it sounded more like a question than a fact. His eyes dart around. “For, like, a few months before the gas station and then I stopped seeing you,” he trails off. 

I started running after Elijah went missing. I wasn’t a runner before then so what sparked this new interest, I couldn’t tell you. I ran night and day after realizing it was the one thing that stopped my thinking and focused my breathing. There is a lot I don’t remember from the past year, this being one of them.

“You don’t remember?” he asks. I don’t say anything. He nods understanding, “I just thought you recognized me but didn’t want to…. Interrupt… or something,”

“I have no problem interrupting,”  I reply. He slightly laughs, “but what’s wrong you can’t fix, so,” I take another bite of pizza. “And I wave at all the runners I pass. Good to have people remember you if you go missing,” I give a slight wave of my hand and shrug. 

He nods. “Well I hope I see you running again,” he gets up, unsure of his movements, I guess not wanting to push any further.

“June,” I say, as he rights the chair, “That’s my name. Fair since I know yours.”

“Nice to meet you, June.” 

My smile lasts until he’s past the shop's window and I'm back to staring at my face. I think of Mulan crossing her bridge and wiping half her makeup off in her reflection. I think of Harry and what in the actual Wattpad hell just happened. I close my eyes and rest my chin in my hand while I finish the second pizza. Harry’s face turns into Elijah’s and the waves start crashing. My body tells me to run. 

(1)/ 2 / (3) / (4) / (5) / (6)

[rocket-remmy]

Side Effects May Include|| Remmy and Skylar

White Crest was an interesting town. It was small, smaller than the town Remmy had grown up in, though not by much. Besides, they visited Rock Spings a lot when Remmy was a kid (it was their dad’s favorite hunting spot), and that place was like population zero, aside from the guy that worked at the hunting shop. Probably. He was a creepy dude, and Remmy didn’t care much for him or hunting. Luckily their dad never made them go with him hunting. Remmy got to stay home and take the lamps or the microwave apart and put them all back together before their dad got back. It was like a little game. A way to pass time. But there were no cabins in White Crest that Remmy could go to and take things apart, and there were no bad memories yet. So that was like, one White Crest, zero for Rock Springs. 

White Crest felt fuller, too, somehow. It had a smaller population, but more people out doing things. It actually had that small town feeling, where it felt like everyone knew everyone else, and Remmy found themself eager to actually worm their way into that scene. To know people. They already knew the butcher on a first name basis. They bought a lot of raw meat and cow brain, even though they’d only been here a month. It was easy to tell the guy it was for Moose, but in reality, it was for Remmy. Weirdly, ever since Remmy got back from Afghanistan, they’d been craving raw, juicy meat. And brain. It was probably just a side effect of the medication, the nurse at the halfway house had said. And it would probably go away. Probably. But it hadn’t yet, so here Remmy was, back at the Butcher’s, getting their pound of raw cow brain from Al.

The bell chimed as Remmy walked out and they felt a pang in their stomach. And, god, it smelled so good. Just one bite. Just one little bite to tide them over till they got home...Reaching into the bag, they undid the container, slipping into the alley-- couldn’t be too public about it-- and plucked out a piece, taking a big bite. Oh, the satisfaction. Remmy smiled happily.

Skylar wasn’t going to deny it, moving from Seattle clear across the country had some perks. The change of scenery was great, the much lessened amount of rain was also a big bonus, and the small town nature of White Crest was cute. And she liked her job a lot. Yep, that was a big plus. But, one of the major downsides? Having to convince the local butcher that ehhhh, ten pounds of pork loin really isn’t that weird of a weekly request. As easy it would be to just hit up one of the big supermarket chains and load up a cart full of meat without question, Skylar had developed a liking for the local butcher’s stock. Oh well, he would learn eventually.

After paying for her meat, Skylar thumbed through her phone and enabled Bluetooth, syncing up with her hearing aids. Tapping on her favorite playlist, the pounding bass rumbled in her ears as she slipped her phone back in her pocket. She gathered up her groceries from where she’d set them down before heading out, giving a polite wave to the butcher as she left the shop. This pork was going to taste amazing with some adobo spices, cooked with garlic and onions-- she’d pick off those bits, of course. But she was looking forward to dinner now.

As Skylar rounded the corner, she glanced over her shoulder at the alleyway next to the butcher shop and froze. Her music continued to pound in her ears as she stared, not entirely certain what she was seeing. Uhhhhhh. “Are you… okay?” She asked, not entirely certain what to make of the person, fingers covered in what looked like blood, eating something that looked an awful lot like raw meat straight from the package. Skylar stuck her hand in her pockets, turning her music off so she could get a good look at what the fuck was happening in front of her. “That’s raw meat, what the hell are you doing?”

Remmy froze when someone’s voice drifted around them. They fumbled for a minute, looked around, then stopped when they spotted someone standing in the opening of the alleyway staring at them. “Uh…” they glanced around, put the bits back into the bag and wiped their fingers across their shirt smearing blood on it. “Shit.” Looked back at the other person. Noticed the hearing aids in her ears and paused. “Oh, sorry. I was just having a snack, you know?” they signed. Pointed to the bag. “It’s not that weird…” Gave a shrug. Their stomach grumbled a little as their eyes dropped to the bag the other person was holding. “No weirder than buying a huge chunk of meat.” Because that really was a huge chunk. If they weren’t feeding like twenty people, that thing was gonna go to waste. There’s no way one person could eat that all in a few days. 

The use of sign, which normally would be a big relief to her, did nothing to ease Skylar’s rising confusion and concern. In fact, it kinda made things worse, because now she knew she had full license to freak out without attracting any attention. She checked over her shoulder for anyone nearby before walking further into the alleyway. Gesturing emphatically, she signed, “What the fuck? No, no, that’s super weird. Do you know how many diseases and parasites you can get from eating raw… is that an organ? Are you eating raw animal organs?” An expression of disgust and shock was clearly displayed across her face as she stared at the person she’d literally caught red-handed. But, when they pointed out her own purchases, her face burned bright red. It wasn’t weird! Flustered, she signed rapidly, “That’s completely different! This is a totally normal amount of meat to buy and, besides, I’m not the one just chewing on a porkchop in a back alley! Forget the raw meat, do you know how many germs are in an alley,” She paused, grimacing to add emphasis to her next signs, “Behind a butcher shop? 

Remmy’s brow furrowed. They didn’t like confrontation, they’d always had a hard time standing up for themselves as a kid, but things had changed quite a bit once they’d entered the military. They huffed, setting the bag down after tying it closed, and signed, “Why do you care? You don’t even know me! I’ve had much worse, anyway. And that’s a normal amount of meat to buy if you’re feeding like twenty people at once!” Which, Remmy then realized, could be what they’re doing, but it still was a little weird. And Remmy was caught off guard, by someone yelling-- well, yell signing-- at them in an alley! All they wanted to do was enjoy a good bite and go home. Moose whined next to them. Remmy’d almost forgotten Moose was with them, and while they’d normally leave him behind for a quick errand down the street, they were still new to town, and leaving without him right now had seemed daunting. “Besides, it was just one little bite. It’s not like I’m back here having a whole meal.”

Skylar gaped at the other person, still not sure what to make of the whole situation. “You’ve had worse? What, are you going around eating roadkill or something? That looks like a piece of,” Skylar squinted, trying to make out the specifics of just what it was they were holding, “I don’t know. I can’t see it from here. But, it’s raw! I’m not just going to stand by and let someone eat raw meat, you’re going to get super sick.” Biting the inside of her cheek, Skylar ignored the comment about the amount of meat she’d purchased. This wasn’t about her, it was about the fact that someone was out here chowing down in the alley. But, as she moved to sign again, Skylar was suddenly aware of the dog right next to them. A very large dog. She wasn’t afraid of dogs, not really, but she didn’t have much experience around them either. Swallowing nervously, she forced herself to focus on the person again, “And you’re planning on eating… whatever that is?” 

Remmy frowned. “That’s not the point. It doesn’t matter,” they signed. They were beginning to feel that tingle in their stomach, that anxiousness gripping them from the inside. “It’s not-- that’s none of your business,” they blurted. They just wanted to go home and now some weird girl was yelling at them in an alley. A small alley. A narrow alley. Remmy looked around, picked up their bag, grabbed Moose’s leash, grip tightening. Moose whined. “Yeah? So what if I am? I’ve been eating this stuff for a while now. It’s just a side effect of all the meds I’m on. The doctor said so. They said it was fine,” they managed to sign after attaching Moose’s lead back to their belt. “So...you don’t need to worry anymore.” Nodding, as if to punctuate their statement.

Shifting the heavy bag of meat in her arms so she could sign more effectively, Skylar frowned at the person in the alley. “Maybe it isn’t my business, but,” She signed pointedly before gesturing to the nasty container of organ meat, “I’d seriously consider checking with your doctor about the specifics. I can understand wanting to eat like… liver or something like that. But, going after it all Tokyo Ghoul style? That doesn’t seem kosher.” She signed with a shrug. It didn’t seem like there was anything she could say to convince this person that what they were doing was really fricking weird. “I hope your doctor at least puts you on some different medication.” Skylar gestured, her face turning a bit grim at the thought of medicine. Back before her parents had come clean about her, she’d been on all sorts of medicine to manage her symptoms. But, they’d never had any side effects like a desire to eat raw meat.

Remmy was ready to fire back, but something stopped them. That weird anxious feeling was still rolling around inside their chest, but the anger was extinguished. “Tokyo-- what? That doesn’t…” Scratched their head. Blinked, trying to parse out what had just been said to them, but there were so many other things running through their head. “What’s...no, it’s-- it’s just cow brain,” they said, their own mind working too hard for them to remember to sign, words coming out instead. “It’s not that weird to eat. Al says it’s a delicacy in some places…” Confused, Remmy looked down at their bag. “Why would I need different medication?”

The switch over to speaking made sense, though Skylar didn’t particularly want to raise her voice if she was talking about something this strange. It was a small town, people would probably have questions if they saw her trying to convince some random person not to eat raw meat. “It’s cow brain?” She signed, making a revolted expression with her face. “That’s definitely weird to eat! And even if it is a delicacy, I’m pretty sure it needs to be cooked.” Shrugging, Skylar rubbed the back of her neck before signing again. “Because those aren’t normal side effects? I don’t know what kind of medicine you’re on and I don’t need to know. But, I’m pretty sure that there aren’t any drugs that make you want to eat raw cow parts.” Skylar let out a laugh and shook her head before speaking up, “Except for maybe bath salts. But you don’t seem like you’re going to try and eat my face.” 

Remmy blinked again. “You can cook brain?” They weren’t exactly the brightest bulb in the factory. Remmy had skated by in classes with C’s and the occasional D, another reason joining the army had seemed like such a palatable option. It was really their only option. No college was going to accept a below average student. Remmy scratched their head. “No, I...definitely don’t wanna eat your face off. I don’t uh...I don’t know a lot about medications? The VA said they were some of the better medications out there. They do cost a lot...that means they gotta be good, right?”

“I mean, I haven’t cooked brain myself, but I think you can. If people can eat liver and onions, I think you could probably do the same with a brain.” Skylar nodded, mentally wondering how she had gotten into a discussion on cooking in a sketchy back alley with a sketchier person and their dog. Letting out a sigh of relief, she sighed. “Neat, thanks.” Frowning as she read the other person’s lips, Skylar tilted her head. “VA… Oh, I’m so sorry--!” She said, wincing. Oh God. She’d just yelled at a veteran and their service dog. Christ, she felt like such a jerk now. “I had no idea, erm, I just, um… I’m not an expert or anything on medicine, so I can’t say anything there. It’s totally your choice on if you… want to eat… raw cow brains.” Skylar said, still not sure what to make of the words coming from her mouth, “But, maybe you should talk to a doctor about it? Mhm. I don’t know. I’m really sorry again.”

Remmy’s head titled a little. The girl was apologizing now. That was a weird turn of events. She was even saying Remmy was totally free to eat raw brain if that’s what they wanted. A total 360 of the beginning of the conversation. They shrugged. “Oh, no…” they signed, “it’s totally fine. I guess it uh...is kinda weird? I didn’t really think about it all that much.” They looked back over at Skylar. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. Sorry I made you freak out?” They weren’t sure if that was really their fault, but, again, Remmy didn’t like starting confrontation, or upsetting people. Moose whined a little. “Oh! Yeah, uh-- this is Moose. My service dog. He’s a sweetheart. I share my pickings with him.” They nodded to the bag the girl was holding. “What about you? Are you sharing with anyone?” A pause. “Oh and I’m Remmy by the way. We uh...we don’t have to shake hands.”

Waving her hands awkwardly, Skylar shook her head. She’d really made a mess of things, hadn’t she? She should have just minded her own business and let them go about… eating raw-- nope, no, she still wasn’t okay with it. But, she could keep it to herself. “No, no, it’s not your fault, I shouldn’t have erm, barged in on you.” She said, signing as she spoke. Glancing at the dog, Skylar offered a tight lipped smile. Even if the dog was a sweetheart, she still was a little anxious around it. “Mmm, cute. He’s very fluffy.” When they pointed out her bag of meat, Skylar grimaced and squinted as she tried to come up with a plausible explanation. “Erm. Yes. Just, you know, stocking up.” She said. “Remmy?” Skye asked, fingerspelling as she did so. “Nice to meet you. I’m Skylar.” She said, offering her sign name as well. It was a pretty simple one, just the sign for “sky” done with an S instead of an open hand. 

“Oh, cool,” Remmy signed, “stocking up. I wish I had a big enough fridge to do that. Or a freezer. My place is kinda ...sparsely equipped.” They shrugged again, not noticing the girl’s timid reaction to Moose. But Moose stayed put, because the situation was calm, and his wasn’t needed at the moment. Sometimes Remmy wondered what he thought about while idling, but that was the big question that everyone wanted to know-- what were their pets thinking? “Yes, Remmy,” they spelled out, confirming. “Skylar? Nice to meet you. “Sorry it’s uh...in an alley. Should we move? Go somewhere else? Unless you’re busy. This did kinda interrupt your day. Sorry, I’m pretty new in town. Haven’t met a lot of people yet. And definitely no one else who speaks fluent ASL. Though I’m no expert either.”

“Ummmm…” Skylar paused, not entirely sure if she wanted to follow this random person she’d met in a back alley behind the butcher shop. As much as she wanted to get the word out about ASL and do her best to improve awareness in White Crest… She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she tried to figure out whether or not she wanted to hang out with them. Oh hell. Surely things couldn’t get worse than their initial meeting. “I’m new in town too. Sort of. I’ve lived here for about… five or six months?” She said. “But, um, yes. We can chat in,” Skylar paused and gestured at the alley around them, “Not a back alley.” She said before walking back out to the sidewalk, making sure to give Remmy and Moose a wide berth. “There are quite a few people who sign, but I’m not surprised you haven’t met any of them.” She said, signing as she spoke.

Remmy didn’t take notice to the distance Skylar kept between them. The initial strangeness of their meeting had already slid from their mind. They were never the most socially observant, but show them a complicated system of wires and they could figure out what goes where in a second. Moose walked obediently by their side as they tugged on his lead, heading back out to the sidewalk and the public, stuffing their weird purchase farther into the bag so no one else would notice. “Cool,” they signed, “I’ve only been here a month. So...very new. My only friend is the other security guard that works night shifts, Gus. He’s old, though, and always smells like pine needles.” 

“Oh, you’re a security guard? That’s pretty neat. I’d probably be terrible at something like that.” Skylar signed as they walked through town together. She shifted her bag slightly, slinging it over her shoulder so she could sign more clearly. Even though she tried to stay in the conversation, she couldn’t help but glance at Remmy’s bag, very aware of their odd purchases. “Um, how are you liking White Crest? I’m from Seattle originally, so it was a big difference.” She signed, her eyes widening to express just how much of a change it had been.

“Yeah, just part time. The halfway house I was in helped me get the job,” Remmy signed. “Since I was injured in combat, they helped place me in a job and rehabilitate me.” Walking and signing was always hard for Remmy, having to focus on looking at a person while also focusing on not running into things or other people. They had to stop or slow down every time they started signing again, talking along with the motions, hoping Skylar could read their lips too. “It’s okay. I grew up in Wyoming, so from that it’s a stark change, but I came here from Afghanistan, which was the real shock. I like how small it is here. It reminds me of home.” A pause. “What uh-- what about you?”

“Mm.” Skylar hummed in response, not really sure what else she could say to the other person. It sounded like they had been through some… real shit. Like, stuff that she couldn’t even imagine. Just the idea of being involved in the military seemed so foreign to her. Not that she’d ever had the interest in it; she didn’t think the army had much of an interest in sign language. “Makes sense.” She signed before shrugging, “Like I said, it’s been a big change. But, I like the town for the most part. I work for the school and the administration has been really good to me so far. And the people I’ve met are nice. I just wish they had more bookstores.” She sighed wistfully. That was one of the best parts of living in a big city-- there were no shortage of bookstores and comic shops. Tower wasn’t bad, but she just wished they weren’t combined with a music store too.

“You work for the school?” Remmy repeated. “That’s cool! What do you do there?” They paused again, trying to remember the sign, their face contorting a bit. “I want to find something more….” scratched their head, “fulfilling.” They finally said out loud. “I think I’d like to be an officer someday, but they’re pretty strict on things disability wise…” They started walking again, catching pace with Skylar. “You like to read, then? I haven’t found any bookstores here yet. Sorry, that’s probably annoying to deal with. Maybe there’s one down on Amity?”

Nodding, Skylar smiled. “Yeah. I work as a sign language interpreter. I’m hard of hearing but,” She pointed to her bright blue hearing aids, “with these I can hear just as well as anyone else, with a few little quirks. So, I work with kids who need a little extra help.” She explained. Her job wasn’t exactly one that people thought about, but that didn’t make it any less important. “Like a police officer? I’m sure you could probably petition for a position or something? I mean, if you have the skills and abilities, I don’t really get why they wouldn’t let you in. But, I’m biased.” She signed with another shrug. At the mention of bookstores, Skylar nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. I like reading a lot. There’s an interesting one called The Archive, but it’s a little creepy. I don’t know what it is about the place, it’s just kinda old and weird?” She signed, making a face as she did so.

Remmy perked up a bit. “Oh, that’s so cool!” They motioned to the device on their own ear. “I’ve got one, too. I’m just deaf on the one side, though. Places that have a lot of noise can get rough though,” they said. “I end up turning mine off a lot.” A shrug. Sometimes the silence felt nicer than hearing everything, all the time. Remmy looked back over at Skylar, noticing them brighten at the mention of books again. Remmy couldn’t help but smile. “Creepy? How so?” A pause. “Oh, wait, you just said you didn’t...That’s weird. Maybe it’s just cause it’s old? I went into an old like antique shop once down on Amity and it wigged me out real bad. All those kinds of places do, you know?” Another shrug, more nonchalant this time. Remmy smiled again. They couldn’t help but feel happy. They were talking to someone. And possibly making a friend. They weren’t sure, but the warm feeling in their chest told them that right now, they were completely safe. And that was...hard to come by these days. “Maybe I could go with you to the bookstore sometime. It might be less creepy with someone with you. Plus, I need to pick up a book. Anna Karina? Someone online told me to read it.”

Eyes widening, Skylar blinked in surprise. “I didn’t see that, I’m sorry!” She signed, face turning burning hotly with embarrassment. She should have picked up on that sooner. How had she missed that? “I can relate to that, though. I don’t wear mine when I’m at home. They just get uncomfortable sometimes.” She watched as Remmy continued to sign, but took note of the smile. The fact that they were smiling was good; hopefully they had forgotten about her being such a jerk to them in the alley way. Even if they were acting super wei-- Nope. No, she wasn’t going to call Remmy weird. People could do what they liked, and if that was… eating… raw cow brain, so be it. Pulling a face at the idea of going around an antique shop, Skylar signed back, “I can only imagine. Antiques are definitely creepy.” Skylar’s fingers paused their usual fidgeting at Remmy’s offer. “Are you sure? You don’t need to, it’s probably nothing. But, I wouldn’t mind the company at all. And, I could help you find that book.” She signed, expression hopeful. Being able to sign with someone who was near her level was a breath of fresh air and she really wanted to keep Remmy around. If they wanted to be there, of course.

“No, yeah, totally!” Remmy immediately signed back. “I’d love to!” They stopped, a little embarrassed of their sudden response, scratching the back of their head. “Sorry. I don’t wanna seem desperate. I haven’t met a lot of people since moving here yet. It’s been kinda lonely. Even with Moose.” They gave him a little pat, and Moose sniffed the air a second before returning to his on duty posture. “He’s my service dog, so it’s nice having him around, but I miss living in a community. I mean...this place is nice, it’s even a small town, but I just don’t know anyone yet.” And it was a strange feeling, Remmy noted, that they could be so alone. For the past five years their best friends had been the privates training alongside them to become EOD members. And then they’d all been together on that plane to Afghanistan. And they’d all been together during that first raid and every raid after. And now they were...Moose licked their hand and Remmy blinked, noticing a new wetness to their eyes. Trying to hide it, they smiled over at Skylar again. “I work nights, so I can go to the bookstore anytime, just let me know when you wanna go.”

Skylar watched intently as Remmy signed quickly and then explained why they had reacted like that. Her heart went out to them, honestly, it did. She could relate to them in some small way. Maybe not with their broader experiences, but she knew what it was like to move to White Crest from someplace totally different and not have anyone you knew. She’d lucked out with her roommate, but if she hadn’t… “No, don’t worry. Trust me, the feeling is mutual. It’s nice to meet someone who gets sign and like,” She gestured to her hearing aids one more, “Gets it? You know?” Nodding, Skylar bit her lip before holding her hand up for Remmy to wait. She looked up the street before jogging down the sidewalk towards one of the fliers for sign lessons that she’d posted. Tearing off one of the untouched tabs, she hurried back towards Remmy and Moose and held out the scrap of paper. “I’m done with work when the high school gets out, so I’m free most days after 3. Sometimes I have meetings, but if you wanted to text me, you can.” She said with a tentative smile.

“I get that,” Remmy signed back, “I definitely get that.” They paused when Skylar held up her hand, curious for a moment, watching her job over to a sign board and pull off a slip of paper. Still confused, they watched as Skylar came jogging back, and it was only when Skylar was holding out the slip of paper to them that they realized what it was-- her number. Remmy took the slip and smiled. “Thanks. Sorry, I don’t have one to give back, but I promise I’ll let you know it’s me when I text.” It was a simple gesture, but Remmy always found that the simple or small gestures were the ones that really added up after time. They pocketed the slip and patted it, as if making sure it really was there and that this was real. “I’ll uh-- I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing. You should probably get that meat in the fridge before it goes bad.”

“No problem!” She said with a bright grin, suddenly quite happy at the prospect of having someone who she could sign with. Maybe even a friend? Not that Skylar didn’t like her coworkers, but they weren’t exactly her friends. And Remmy seemed like good people, even if their dog kind of squicked her out. “Ah, yeah,” She glanced at the bag on her shoulder with a slight grimace. Skylar began to head down the street in the direction of her apartment, walking backwards as she signed. “It was nice meeting you, Remmy. And you too, Moose.” She signed before turning around. They might have met under the weirdest circumstances, but she was looking forward to having a new friend.

[atethewriting]

Peppermint - Chenle

Dear Diary,

4 days after the devastation, I think it’s time to move into the town that’s in the middle of the woods. I am hungry and cold, and something is watching me. And the smell of rotting flesh is starting to get to me. But, I’m scared. What if I starve before I get there? What if they don’t let me in? What if I can’t find somewhere to live? I should pack my things soon and get going. I’ll write later.

-Chenle

【＊】【＊】【＊】【＊】【＊】

Chenle walked over the bridge and over a patch of loose dirt with a small potato sack filled with his items, slung over his shoulder. White and red peppermint antlers stuck out of his head, along with a set of red-spotted, white deer ears. His snow-white hair making him look like the definition of winter. Which wasn’t entirely wrong, he loved the cold season. He used to live in the deepest part of the woods with his family. That is, before his family was slaughtered. For 4 days he lived surrounded by the rotting bodies, but let’s not get too into detail. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he reached the tall stone wall that surrounded the kingdom. About a mile East was a gate, so he made his way over there, knocking politely. He was greeted by a boy with dark brown hair, dark clothing, and a gloomy aura. Chenle smiled cheerfully.

“Hi! My parents are dead and I came here for shelter!” He said. It was a bit straightforward but it got the point across.

“Welcome to the fucking club...” The boy replied, letting the cheerful one in.

“What do you mean?” Chenle tilted his head curiously.

“4 days ago, half of the population here was slaughtered. How did you not hear about it?” He snapped back, making the deer boy jump.

“I-I’m sorry...I lived really far away...I’m sorry...”

The taller of the two leaned in and sniffed Chenle, growling softly and backing away.

“Just as I suspected. You’re from the deep woods. Never met someone so cheerful from there.”

“What does that have to do with anything? I’m Chenle! Nice to meet you!!”

“Have you watched your parents die while you could do nothing?”

“Yep!”

“What about witnessing over 50 dead bodies scattered around the ground in the matter of seconds?”

“Does 50 squirrels count?”

“No. Have you heard the screams of children as they try running away, only for them to be silenced with a sword to the head?”

“Well, you’re awfully negative!”

The boy was greeted by a harsh slap on the face for saying that, making him yelp out in pain. He sniffled, looking down at the ground.

“The last time we let someone back in from the deep woods it turned out to be a serial killer! What makes you think that we should trust you?”

“Oh, are you talking about Kun?! I know him! Can you bring me to him!!? Please!!”

The other growled in response, pointing to Kun, who was sitting on a bench in the town square, reading a book. Chenle thanked him and skipped off, spooking the Death Fairy from behind.

“Hi Kun!!!!!” He yelled, Kun turning around at that.

“Hey. Need something?”

“My parents died 4 days ago and I’m hungry!”

“How can you say that so cheerfully,” He laughed, “But okay. I’ll buy you some food or whatever...”

“Yay thank you!!”

“Just let me finish this chapter, though. I’m almost done.”

“Okay!” Chenle skipped off once more, going over to a Witch with a wooden left arm. She was sitting against a tree, reading as well. “Hi Go Won!”

“Oh, hello...what are you doing in town?” The Witch pondered, closing her book and standing up.

“My parents are dead!”

“Well that sucks, I’m sorry. When did that happen? Recently?”

“4 days ago!”

“Odd coincidence..that’s when I lost my arm.”

“In the big devastation thingy??? A very gloomy boy told me about it!!!” He bounced, spinning in a circle.

“Yes, correct. How are you always so cheerful?”

“I don’t know! Just am!”

Kun came up behind him and placed a hand on Chenle’s shoulder, making him flinch.

“I’m done, dumby.” Kun laughed softly.

“Okay!”

【＊】【＊】【＊】【＊】【＊】

Chenle stared at all of the food in front of him, his mouth watering. Of course, being a deer, he couldn’t handle meat of any kind. But, all of the options in front of him looked like heaven. Kun sat across from him in the pink-fabriced booth, laughing. The Death Fairy gave Chenle the go signal, and he immediately dug into the grilled Proves, a type of vegetable that tasted a lot like buttered popcorn. It was a golden-brown color, char around the onion-like rings. It was a type of root, grown only in the Eastern Woods.

“Yummy!” He said as he finished that meal, moving onto the next. Deer ate a lot, especially when hungry.

“So, what really brought you here?”

Chenle stopped for a moment, his mouth full.

“...the smell of rotting bodies became boring-“

“And I smell lies from that. What’s the real truth.”

“That was the truth, though.”

“I think there’s more to it, right?”

“Something was watching me,” Swallowing the food he had in his mouth, Chenle smiled.

“And you’re just okay with that?”

“As long as it wasn’t hurting me, yeah!”

“You’re so dumb sometimes, I swear..” The Fairy groaned, pinching his temples together.

“I am not! I am way smart!” Chenle protested.

“Who do you think was watching you?”

“I don’t know!! Some woman!”

“What did she look like?”

“She had green eyes! And black hair! She had a blue necklace on!” The boy visualized.

“Hm...Finish eating. We’ll take this problem to King Jungwoo..” Kun went into deep thinking, muting everything around him.

‘It could be a forest spirit...’ He thought.

Next thing they knew, Chenle was done and they were halfway towards the King’s castle. As they got closer, blue jewels started to float in the air, and pink stars followed them.

When they got into the main hall, Jungwoo was waiting expectantly. His pink jeweled crown atop his head, and a calm smile plastered onto his face. They approached the throne he was sitting on, bowing politely.

“We have something to report-“

“I know.” He simply replied, shocking them both. “And I have the answer, too. The Maiden Messanger. Daughter of the Maiden Dust, and a close cousin to Mother Death. She reports odd cases, and yours is quite spectacular.”

“But I’m not hiding anything? Why is mine spectacular?!” Chenle smiled, spinning in a happy circle.

“Because you have nothing to hide, Chenle. Mother Life tends to hide secrets, and so do her children. But you don’t hide any, and we’re trying to figure that out.”

“Woahhhh!!! I feel like I’m in a mystery novel!! I’ll be Sherlock!” He straightened his posture, pretending a smoking pipe was in his hand. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people do not know!”

“How the hell do you know who Sherlock Holmes is?” Kun asked, bewildered.

“I read it in a book I found!!”

“Ah.”

Jungwoo laughed, amused. Johnny held in his laugh, remaining as serious as possible.

Kun, however, was unamused. Who was The Maiden Dust? And who was Maiden Messanger? The King was definitely hiding something.

“Your majesty. I have a question.”

“Yes yes of course! Go ahead!” The King replied, calming down.

“You show no specific traits any of the mothers. In fact, you show a variety of traits from all of them. So, answer me this — Are you a child of all? Or, perhaps, are you a child of none? You’re also fairly knowledgeable, a trait in which is only heavily seen in Death’s and Time’s. Yet, you’re also publicly emotional and carefree, a trait only seen in Nature’s and Life’s. So, what exactly are you.”

The King froze, his skin going pale as he started to sweat. As he choked back a cry, Kun grinned.

“So? What’s your answer?”

“I-um...”

“Come on~ spit it out.”

“Johnny...Get them away.”

A blast of air was shot their way, sending them flying out of the castle. Chenle landed in a soft patch of grass right outside the door while Kun tumbled down the steep hill and back into town. Both were left stunned and confused.

Chenle ran down the hill, skipping and singing. He acted as if nothing was happening. Kun growled, thoughts bouncing around his mind like the screen he saw once in the woods. DVD Video, it said, and it’s changed colors every time it hit a corner. He stood up, angered.

“Chenle.” The Fairy exclaimed, catching the younger’s attention.

“Yessss?~”

“Don’t you think...it was a bit weird, how he avoided the question like that?”

“I mean, yeah. I thought it was kind of strange, if I’m being honest...”

“What do you think he’s hiding?”

“Whatever he is, I don’t think he’s one of us. If he was a child of MomMom’s then he wouldn’t react like that.”

“I was thinking that, too. I’ll ask Go Won later, right now we need to get you a place to settle in.”

“Okay!”

【＊】【＊】【＊】【＊】【＊】

Kun reached the end of the long row of houses, looking at a house that was painted with flowers. He quietly knocked, Chenle standing right behind him.

He knocked again, someone finally answering the door. An older woman with purple hair, her skin worn and green. She wore a puffy white dress and a soft smile. Kun’s ‘Mother’. The woman took a quick glance at her son, not recognizing him at first. He smiled, making her flinch and start to cry because she knew that smile. It was her son’s smile. The same son that had left over 15 years ago to pursue whatever crimes came to his mind. The same son that abandoned her. She shakily reached her hands out to cup his cheeks, and he started to tear up as well. Kun brought his old woman into a hug, leaning on her shoulder and sobbing.

“Mama...Mama I’m so sorry...”

“It’s okay, my dear. I forgive you. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“Well this is awfully emotional!” Chenle put his hands on his hips, completely ruining the mood. Kun’s Mother laughed, wiping her tears away.

“You’re right, it is. This isn’t how we should celebrate! Doyoung!!” She called, going into the house and bringing her other son outside, who pointed at Kun and tilted his head. They had both grown lots since they last saw each other, after all. Doyoung looked more like a prince now, his hair styled back and his face more well-built.

“Kun?” He spoke, just as confused as Kun was.

“Doyoung?” The other spoke back.

“Chenle!” Chenle yelled, excited as always.

“Mama!” The mother spoke, just as excited as Chenle.

Chenle and Mama proceeded to do a little dance, confusing the hell out of Doyoung and Kun.

“I-“ Doyoung spoke.

“It’s a Life thing...” Kun responded.

“Come in for tea, my dear. It’ll be fun.” She said while dancing.

“Okay miss!” He responded, also dancing.

They both went inside for tea.

Doyoung looked back at Kun, sighing.

“You look like such a thug, god. I’m taking you shopping later.”

“And you look like a rich boy who goes to a special private school so you have no say in my clothes.”

“Good point. Also you need a haircut.”

“I know.”

“Still afraid of birds?”

“Yeah kinda”

“You never change, let’s go in.” He patted Kun’s shoulder, going inside the small house, Kun following shortly after.

Chenle and Mama were seated at a wooden table, talking (quite loudly) while having a cup of tea. The youngest noticed something in the corner of his eye, but kept quiet about it. Mama noticed something, too. But, she mentioned it before anything bad happened.

“Something’s looking at you, Chenle. Stay there.” She calmly placed her teacup down and got up, heading over to a window that faced the table. She opened it and climbed out, going into the forest beyond and spooking a woman with black hair and green eyes, who was hiding behind a tree. Mama smiled, holding her hand out to help the girl up. She was around 15, it seemed.

“It’s okay, girl. No need to be scared. But why were you watching that boy?”

“M-m-m-mama instruc-instructed me t-to...” She stuttered, pushing her long hair behind her ear. Her eyes were droopy, nose small, lips full, and ears pointy. Her pitch black dress matched her hair, and the bright blue pendant she wore seemed to glow.

“What’s your name, dear?”

“M-m-m-Messanger....M-Maiden M-mess-Messanger...” The Maiden’s eyes filled with ink black tears, falling down her silver skin. Mama wiped them away, making Messanger flinch.

“What a beautiful name. You can call me Mama, or Mamama, or Mamamama. Whatever you like!”

“O-O-Okay...”

“Would you like to come in for some tea?”

“Y-yes please...” She choked out, knowing that she’ll probably get in trouble for it.

“Alright~”

【㊄】【㊄】【㊄】【㊄】【㊄】【㊄】

Messanger sat across from Chenle, shaking like a lost dog. Every time she tried to speak nothing would come out. Chenle accepted this by doing most of the talking, which comforted her in a way. The Maiden stared down at the tea she had been given, looking at her reflection. Her mother would definitely scold her for this, and she was scared of what she would do. The girl was whispering small calming spells under her breath, but none seemed to work.

“What are you saying?” Chenle smiled, excited.

“N-n-n-nothing...” Messanger replied, her voice like soft rain.

“I saw your lips moving?”

“I-it’s none o-o-of your b-business, boy!”

“Well, sorry...” He sighed, finishing his cup of tea.

Kun walked over and glared at the small girl.

“Answer me this, girl. Who is King Jungwoo to you?”

She flinched, shaking her head and starting to tear up.

“I-I’m sorry...p-please d-d-d-dont hurt me...” Messanger hid her head, bracing for impact.

“I’m not going to hurt you, just answer the question.”

“H-he’s my brother!”

[jeonsduck]

Prince or Pauper

Prince Part 2

You had expected that to be the first and last time you saw Nakamoto Yuta. Someone like him who had five bodyguards, a driver, and two cars probably wouldn't ever even think of you again. Yuta, however, seemed intent on breaking the status quo because they very next day, a strange figure starts to follow you around. A slightly familiar strange figure. As you walk from your dorm to your 8 AM lecture, you notice what appears to be a grown man on a skateboard in generic e-boy fashion following you around campus. He stays about twenty yards behind you at all times, skateboarding at a snail's speed. He even follows you into your lecture, sitting three rows behind you. When you turn around to look at him, that's when you recognize him. He's one of Yuta's bodyguards! You wait until after the lecture finishes to confront him and ask why he's following you. You trap him in an empty lecture hall, whirling around and demanding answers. The bodygaurd sighs and removes his atrocious white sunglasses. He looks bashful, almost ashamed that he's caught. "My boss told me to keep an eye on you." You squint at him in confusion until it clicks. "You mean Yuta? He assigned me a bodyguard?" The guy shrugs, shifting his skateboard to a different hand. "The boss doesn't get out much. And when he does he doesn't get to meet with many friends. To be honest, I don't know that he has any. Real friends, I mean. But he likes you. So here I am." It sounds reasonable when he says it like that. Maybe Yuta's just lonely? But he didn't even ask for yout number, so why the security detail? "What's your name?" You ask. Its getting tiring just calling him bodyguard. He seems to debate answering that before conceding. "Mako." "Well Mako, let's get to class yeah?" He chuckles and ruffles your hair in an annoying big brother kind of way. "Yeah, let's go, kid."

Despite Mako's assignment to watch and protect, you don't hear from Yuta for another three days. Well, in the beginning you didn't know it was Yuta, your phone buzzing off the hook with some unknown number. Dang, telemarketers were getting desperate. On the fifth call you decided to pick up. "Y/N! Why haven't you been answering your phone?" Your eyes widen and you look at Mako who's sitting two tables away. He shrugs and gestures for you to continue talking. There's a lot of wind and static so its hard for you to hear what Yuta is saying. "Yuta? How did you get this number?" "Oh, I just looked you up, don't worry about it! Sorry, I've been out of town this week. But, I just got back and was wondering if you wanted to go get some pizza? I've been craving this amazing place I know for days." Oh, maybe he's in a moving car? That mighy explain the background noise. Your stomach grumbles, and after only eating instant ramen for dinner this week, pizza sounds amazing. "Yeah, I'd love to." You agree. "Perfect! Are you still on campus? I'll pick you up." "Yeah, I'm at the science building." You answer slowly because, Mako is right here, so Yuta should know where you are. Theoretically. "Good! Meet me by the soccer fields in 15!" Yuta hangs up and you just sort of stare at your phone for a second. You save the number Yuta called from as Yuta with three question marks and pack up your things. You head over to the soccer fields expecting to see the black SUV or maybe a fancy sports car in one of the commuter lots. What you don't expect is a fucking helicopter, idling on one of the empty fields. Yuta hangs out the open door when he spots you. "Come on, I already got us a table!" He shouts. You look back at Mako, but he just takes your backpack and gestures for you to board the helicopter. "Go on, kid." You turn away from Mako and jog across the field to the waiting helicopter. Yuta helps you in, fitting a headset over your ears. Another bodyguard straps you both in and you have to yell over the rotors and wind to be heard. "Yuta, why are we in a helicopter?" You ask, clinging to the brace bar for your life. Below you, your campus is quickly shrinking into the distance. "Well, when we got back to the States we couldn't get clearance for the jet at the local airport, but they cleared the helicopter. And then I thought, we already have the helicopter out, so pizza!" Yuta explained it like it was a simple, logical series of events and you just nodded blankly. It was too loud to talk in the helicopter so all conversation ceased until you landed. You recognized the skyline as the pilot made a lap around the city. "Yuta, are we in New York City?" Yuta just laughed and nodded in confirmation. The pilot landed the helicopter on a helipad partway up a skyscraper. Yuta helped you down from the aircraft and the three remaining bodyguards followed you into the building. The restaurant takes up four floors, Yuta was saying, but you were completely distracted by the decor around you. It looked like this place had four Michelin stars to its name. Most of the other patrons were dressed to the nines, but you and Yuta were just wearing jeans and a tshirt. Yuta's jeans were designer and his tshirt was Balenciaga, but that was beside the point. "Mr. Nakamoto it's an honor for you to dine with us tonight. And your guest?" A maitre d'hotel had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, surprising you. "It's great to be back. This is my friend Y/N. Were you able to secure my usual table?" Yuta asked, smiling cordially at the man. "Yes, of course, right this way." He bowed slightly and began leading the way. Apparently, Yuta's regular table wasn't a table at all but an entire dining floor. Of course. There were at least five waitstaff positioned to assist, but you were the only one with a menu. Even the bodyguards, who were sitting one table over seemed to already know what they wanted. "Feel free to look over the menu, order whatever you want. I'll get the tab so-" you cut Yuta off, folding the menu closed. "I'll have whatever you're having. You did say it was the best pizza you've ever had." Yita smiled brightly, signalling a waiter over. You watch him order, asking for some type of pizza you can't pronounce and the pairing wine. "Next time I'm choosing where we go, and I'm footing the bill okay?" You say and Yuta looks at you with surprise in his eyes. "Okay, whatever you say!" He agrees with a chuckle. The waiter returns with the wine bottle, and Yuta waves him off in order to pour it himself. "So, still don't know who I am?" He asks, glancing up at you. You sigh, glancing around the empty dining hall. "I mean. You're rich obviously. And important. Four bodyguards is a bit much. Also, should I be worried that you sent Mako to look after me?" You ask, accepting a full wine glass from Yuta. "You noticed him?" "He's not the best fake college student, but he tried." "Does it make you uncomfortable?" You think about that for a moment, twirling your wine glass around. "Not really. He's not doing me any harm. But should I be worried about my own safety? Does being friends with you constitute a bodyguard?" You ask. Yuta doesn't reply immediately and you take a sip from your glass to fill the space. Its bitter, like all red wines, but not in a bad way. "Are you the child of a mafia kingpin?" You wonder out loud. Yuta's eyes bluge and he nearly chokes on his wine. The bodyguards start laughing heartily, one coming over to ensure that his charge won't asphyxiate. "I guess not." You mumble. "No, no nothing like that. Interesting guess though. The bodyguards are more, protocol than necesity." Yuta explains. You nod solemnly, processing the new information. Protocol? That sounds pretty official. You don't get much more chance to think on it because at that moment the pizza arrives. Its a weird pizza, visually and descriptively. Romano, parmesan, and buffalo mozzarella cheese, garlic herb dough, a slighty spicy kick to the sauce and the toppings :prosciutto, onions, mushrooms, truffle oil, lobster and shrimp. So effectively, the most expensive seafood pizza you'll ever eat. Except holy shit, this isn't just some rich people bullshit, this is honestly the best pizza you're sure has ever been made. It's not just a hodgepodge of expensive toppings, it actually,taste's good. "I think I might fucking cry. Yuta this is delicious." He laughs at you eyes crinkling in the corners. "Of course it's good! I know what good food tastes like." Yuta says. He looks proud, taking a sip of wine to hide his blush. The rest of the meal passes in near silence because there's no time to talk when there's pizza this good. You and Yuta manage to finish the whole pie and the whole wine bottle. You're both slightly tipsy as you make your way back to the helipad. You're clinging onto Yuta and laughing as he tells you silly jokes and stories up until you get put back in the helicopter. Somewhere between New York and campus you doze off, your head resting against Yuta's shoulder. He drifts off as well, his head coming to rest on top of yours. One of the bodyguards takes a photo, for both posterity and blackmail the next time he wants a day off. When you land, Mako is waiting on the soccer field with a car to bring you to your dorm. Despite the bodyguards assuring Yuta that them can put you in the car themselves, he insits on helping buckle you in. You rouse a few times, humming sleepily and he tutts you back to sleep. "See you soon, Y/N." You might feel a gentle kiss on your forehead, but that could just be you dreaming.

[sandwichbully]

The Wedge Table (yes, again), 10 November 2018

   One time, Soft Kathryn called me Pasta Boi, a title I cannot deny, as I am, indeed, a pasta boi. Used to be I was a Pasta Slut but the word slut has been contentious for a while and only lately it’s starting to be OK to self-identify as a slut for certain things, like you’re a Train Slut if you fuck with some Amtrak or a Cathedral Slut if you’re down with the Vatican. I don’t know, I say fuck it, play it safe, don’t piss off the SJWs; Soft Kathryn calls me a Pasta Boi, I’m a Pasta Boi.    Everybody on board with that? Anybody feel like calling me out for some shit? I’m a Pasta Boi, goddamnit. What problems could you possibly have with the Pasta Boi?    ANYhoo, seeing as how I am - Wait. Am I a pasta boi or the pasta boi?    We’ll figure that out later. Look, I was out of pasta and it’s 19° Fahrenheit (that’s -7° Celsius for my metric fanbase) and I figured that was a good enough excuse to go back to the Wedge and get that last sandwich.    The tuna melt.

   Goddamn, that is a blurry-assed photo.    Anyway, I know I could’ve picked up a box of spaghetti from Hark’s across the street or even just gone down to the CVS for a box of spaghetti, but it was lunch time and neither of those places have a full-service deli with a limited line of seasonal signature sandwiches. And!? This is tuna melt weather.    So I go in there and this time I’m greeted by a bespectacled young woman and I tell her I just need a tuna melt to go, she says sure, hands me my ticket, and I go off to get lost in the (two) racks of food trying to find pasta because, while I am a pasta boi, I’m not seeing the pasta I’m used to: The red and white boxes of Essential Everyday, the green boxes of Creamette, the blue boxes of Buy Any Other Brand But This Homophobic Shit; I’m having that classist crisis again, feeling out of my element, too working class and dumb to figure out how to navigate a co-op, here he is, everybody! Charlie from the Trailer Park! Can’t find his way through the tiniest co-op and doesn’t listen to Vampire Weekend!    And then I nut up because, yeah, motherfucker, I am Charlie from Southeast Toledo and guess what: I like Black Sabbath, suck my dick. Where the fuck is the - Oh, here it is.    It comes in... bags? Why the fuck - I thought these motherfuckers were supposed to be earth friendly, why is the pasta in plastic bags instead of recyclable cardboard boxes? What the fuck sense does this make?    I pick up the pack of spaghetti and I look on the back. Under directions, it says to bring 5oz (150mL and I did that conversion, you’re welcome) to a boil and add 16oz (455g, again, I’m doing the heavy lifting) of pasta and I mutter, “What kind of maniac cooks a whole pack of pasta in one go?”    Hell, even as one of a family of four, I don’t think I ever saw my mom cook a whole box of pasta in one go. I mean, maybe she did, it would make sense, there’s fucking four of us but does this manufacturer assume... I mean, who the fuck cooks a whole thing of pasta in one go? Jesus Jehosaphat. Maniacs. Absolute maniacs.    So I got the fusili since I’ll be making a simple tomato and garlic sauce tonight that will love those little nooks and crannies to cling to.    Yes, I have studied up on pairing my pastas and my sauces because I am a pasta boi, outed and confirmed.    Then I grab a blood orange Hi-Ball and go over to the register and some old fart is just standing there with his back to it, not getting the point that I’m trying to get in line, thus a woman just walks around him up to the register and he looks at her and looks at me and looks annoyed - don’t give me that look, motherfucker, I have Aerosmith on vinyl, good Aerosmith, drugged up Aerosmith, I will knock you out in the parking lot.    Anyway, nobody’s paying attention to the woman at the register and a line is forming and then one of the guys from the deli says he can get me on the other register and I turn to follow him but then my name is called and I grab my sandwich and I get rung up and I get outside, and I load my bag and I come home.

You and me, we’ve been on an adventure together, haven’t we? A real emotional roller coaster? We've had to deal with inwardly-directed class shame as manufactured by capitalism; we’ve talked about putting our money in the right places, like not certain pasta brands that come in blue boxes; we’ve discussed identity issues as prescribed by a person who identifies herself as an oven but uses she/her pronouns. We have been all over the map so far and I’m sure all you’ve wanted this whole time was to know how the fucking sandwich tasted. You want to know if you should give your money to these people. You want to know how tough of a call it is between Get Your Wings and Toys In The Attic because even though the track listing on Toys... has the obvious bangers, ... Wings has some definite sleeper agents that will fuck you up.    For your patience, for your companionship on this journey, mon frer, I will now answer all these questions.

   Holy shit, this is the best thing I’ve put in my mouth this week.    Now, I didn’t look at the menu too close so, disclaimer, up front, I don’t know what kind of cheese they used. Swiss would be the obvious choice but I looked at the cheese itself and the holes were tinier and not round. I’m guessing, and I’d be surprised if I were wrong, this is havarti. It didn’t have the high-pitched notes of Swiss, either, which would have definitely stood out because, here’s the deal:    You could taste everything individually on the sandwich.    The tuna salad was creamy and I’m guessing they used an organic mayo because of course they would use organic and 1) this didn’t taste like Hellman’s and I’m a slut for Hellman’s so I would know, 2) this didn’t taste like Kraft, and 3) it didn’t taste like aioli because I detected no hint of extra virgin olive oil. Thus, organic mayo is my guess and it played nicely with the tuna, probably because the mayo to tuna ratio greatly favored the fish, so while I could detect the presence of mayo, what I was tasting primarily in that concoction was the tuna.    Appearance-wise, the tuna salad looked like exactly every other tuna salad you’ve ever had: Somebody opened a can, emptied it into a bowl, threw in a dollop of mayo, and beat the shit out of it with a fork until it stopped looking like it was once a thing of flesh and now just shreds of unidentifiable protein. I get it: There aren’t that many ways to make tuna salad, so I’m not going to dock points for the look of the thing.    The aforementioned maybe-havarti was smooth and creamy, which is how havarti ought to taste. I thought it could have stood to be a bit more melty, this is a tuna melt after all, and despite my visual inspection and my self-assuredness that this is havarti, the doubt still lingers because while it didn’t taste like Swiss, it didn’t melt like havarti, and we all know that Swiss is a bit obstinate when it comes to melting. It will do it but it takes a bit more cajoling than your softer cheeses like your jacks, your colbies, and, of course, your havartis. Again, probably not Swiss, but there will always be the doubt in my mind.    Fuck it. I just looked at the menu. The answer we were looking for was gruyere. Gruyere. Just proving to you, once again, that I am capable of being wrong. I am human and I am just like you.    So, yeah, the gruyere was good, even if I didn’t know until just now that’s what it was. It was smooth and creamy, just like havarti. But the important part is that I could taste it separately from and in concert with the other ingredients (even if I couldn’t identify what kind of cheese it was).    But the real child star of this made-for-TV adaptation of a beloved series of child detective novels grown up to appear ironically on the convention circuit and still say their cutesy catch phrase thirty years later before snapping and mowing down a gaggle of parents with a hedge trimmer at a Chuck E. Cheese would be the pickled onions, sharp and sour at the same time, balancing out the low creaminess of the tuna salad and the cheese and the midrange of the whole grain bread with high notes in brassy timbres, maybe even acrylic timbres would be more fitting, like Ornette Coleman’s saxophone. It provided what other tuna melts are missing: A full spectrum of notes. This tuna melt was like the Italians at Broder’s and Kramarczuk’s and the Reubens at Colossal Cafe and Tiny Diner: It was perfectly balanced, minimally fucked with.    And I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at me raving about a tuna melt and comparing it to some of the best sandwiches in the city but it’s like this: The reason you (and even me) think tuna melts suck is because all we’ve ever been handed is shitty tuna melts. The most creative we’ve ever gotten with them is using Swiss instead of American. Maybe we tried fancifying it by adding capers or putting tarragon in the tuna salad and it just didn’t happen right. And then we’ve walked into the greasy spoon and we see the tuna melt on the menu and we wonder how fresh is that tuna salad and we skip it and if we do order it (with every nervous caution in the world), what we get is a grilled cheese with tuna salad in it. We’ve had nothing but shitty tuna melts our whole lives so it never occurred to us that if we just treated them differently, if we just treated them like they could be good, if we just took a step back and considered the core components and asked what was too much and what was missing and saw this was meant to be different from a grilled cheese with tuna salad in it, we could have a good one.    There’s a reason that this sandwich has its own name and isn’t just “grilled cheese with tuna salad” and it’s the same reason we don’t call a Reuben a “corned beef and sauerkraut” or an Italian a “three meat and banana peppers” or a Club “turkey BLT triangles”. It’s a distinct and established entity and, unfortunately, people have stopped treating it like one and instead started treating it like a grilled cheese with tuna salad in it.    Not saying the Wedgetable has brought back the sandwich like it’s the fucking messiah, I’m saying that they’ve treated it right. They’ve done right by it. It was a damned good sandwich and I don’t regret paying the eight bucks for it. And what it lacks in size, it more than makes up for in flavor. You can taste everything individually and everything compliments everything else. It’s worth at least one visit in the Wedgetable’s direction, I would encourage you to give them your money.    Also, this is, I believe, our first tag for “tuna melt”.    Oh and Toys In The Attack has for sure three radio hits but Get Your Wings has “Lord of the Thighs” which is just a thousand percent of your daily recommended dose of raunch, nast, and sweat pressed into wax, so that’s a winner.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Onion

Caitlin R. Kiernan (2005)

Frank was seven years old when he found the fields of red grass growing behind the basement wall. The building on St. Mark’s where his parents lived after his father took a job in Manhattan and moved them from the New Jersey suburbs across the wide, gray Hudson. And of course he’d been told to stay out of the basement, no place for a child to play because there were rats down there, his mother said, and rats could give you tetanus and rabies. Rats might even be carrying plague, she said, but the sooty blackness at the foot of the stairs was too much temptation for any seven-year old, the long, long hallway past the door to the super’s apartment and sometimes a single naked bulb burned way down at the end of that hall. Dirty, white-yellow stain that only seemed to emphasize the gloom, drawing attention to just how very dark dark could be, and after school Frank would stand at the bottom of the stairs for an hour at a time, peering into the hall that led down to the basement.

     “Does your mama know you’re always hanging around down here?” Mr. Sweeney would ask whenever he came out and found Frank lurking in the shadows. Frank would squint at the flood of light from Mr. Sweeney’s open door, would shrug or mumble the most noncommittal response he could come up with.     “I bet you she don’t,” Mr. Sweeney would say. “I bet she don’t know.”     “Are there really rats down there?” Frank might ask and Mr. Sweeney would nod his head, point towards the long hall and say “You better believe there’s rats. Boy, there’s rats under this dump big as German shepherd puppies. They got eyes like acetylene blow torches and teeth like carving knives. Can chew straight through concrete, these rats we got.”     “They why don’t you get a cat?” Frank asked once and Mr. Sweeney laughed, phlegmy old man laugh, and “Oh, we had some cats, boy,” he said. “We had whole goddamn cat armies, but when these rats get done, ain’t never anything left but some gnawed-up bones and whiskers.”     “I don’t believe that,” Frank said. “Rats don’t get that big. Rats don’t eat cats.”     “You better get your skinny rump back upstairs, or they’re gonna eat you too,” and then Mr. Sweeney laughed again and slammed his door, left Frank alone in the dark, his heart thumping loud and his head filled with visions of the voracious, giant rats that tunneled through masonry and dined on any cat unlucky enough to get in their way.     And that’s the way it went, week after week, month after month, until one snowblind February afternoon, too cold and wet to go outside and his mother didn’t notice when he slipped quietly downstairs with the flashlight she kept in a kitchen drawer. Mr. Sweeney was busy with a busted radiator on the third floor, so nobody around this time to tell him scary stories and chase him home again, and Frank walked right on past the super’s door, stood shivering in the chilly, mildew-stinking air of the hallway. The unsteady beam of his flashlight to show narrow walls that might have been blue or green a long time ago, little black-and-white, six-sided ceramic tiles on the floor, but half of them missing and he could see the rotting boards underneath. There were doors along the length of the hall, some of them boarded up, nailed shut, one door frame without any door at all and he stepped very fast past that one.     Indiana Jones wouldn’t be afraid, he thought, counting his footsteps in case that might be important later on, listening to the winter wind yowling raw along the street as it swept past the building on its way to Tompkins Square Park and the East River. Twenty steps, twenty-five, thirty-three and then he was standing below the dangling bulb and for the first time Frank stopped and looked back the way he’d come. And maybe he’d counted wrong, because it seemed a lot farther than only thirty-three steps back to the dim and postage-stamp-sized splotch of day at the other end of the hall.     Only ten steps more down to the basement door, heavy, gray steel door with a rusted hasp and a Yale padlock, but standing wide open like it was waiting for him and maybe Mr. Sweeney only forgot to lock it the last time he came down to check the furnace or wrap the pipes. And later, Frank wouldn’t remember much about crossing the threshold into the deeper night of the basement, the soup-thick stench and taste of dust and rot and mushrooms, picking his way through the maze of sagging shelves and wooden crates, decaying heaps of rags and newspapers, past the ancient furnace crouched in one corner like a cast-iron octopus. Angry, orange-red glow from the furnace grate like the eyes of the super’s cat-eating rats—he would remember that—and then Frank heard the dry, rustling sound coming from one corner of the basement.     Years later, through high school and college and the slow purgatory of this twenties, this is where the bad dreams would always begin, the moment that he lifted the flashlight and saw the wide and jagged crack in the concrete wall. A faint draft from that corner that smelled of cinnamon and ammonia, and he knew better than to look, knew he should turn and run all the way back because it wasn’t ever really rats that he was supposed to be afraid of. The rats just a silly grown-up lie to keep him safe, smaller, kinder nightmare for his own good, and Run, boy, Mr. Sweeney whispered inside his head. Run fast while you still can, while you still don’t know.     But Frank didn’t run away, and when he pressed his face to the crack in the wall, he could see that the fields stretched away for miles and miles, crimson meadows beneath a sky the yellow-green of an old bruise. The white trees that writhed and rustled in the choking, spicy breeze, and far, far way, the black thing striding slowly through the grass on bandy, stilt-long legs.

Frank and Willa share the tiny apartment on Mott Street, roachy Chinatown hovel one floor above an apothecary so the place always stinks of ginseng and jasmine and the powdered husks of dried sea creatures. Four walls, a gas range, an ancient Frigidaire that only works when it feels like it, but together they can afford the rent, most of the time, and the month or two they’ve come up short Mrs. Wu has let them slide. His job at a copy shop and hers waiting tables and sometimes they talk about moving out of the city, packing up their raggedy-ass belongings and riding a Greyhound all the way to Florida, all the way to the Keys, and then it’ll be summer all year long. But not this sticky, sweltering new York summer, no, it would be clean ocean air and rum drinks, sun-warm sand and the lullaby roll and crash of waves at night.     Frank is still in bed when Willa comes out of the closet that passes as their bathroom, naked and dripping from the shower, her hair wrapped up in a towel that used to be white and he stops staring at the tattered Cézanne print thumbtacked over the television and stares at her instead. Willa is tall and her skin so pale he thought she might be sick the first time they met, so skinny that he can see intimations of her skeleton beneath that skin like milk and pearls. Can trace the blue-green network of veins and capillaries in her throat, between her small breasts, winding like hesitant, watercolor brush strokes down her arms. He’s pretty sure that one day Willa will finally figure out she can do a hell of a lot better than him and move on, but he tries not to let that ruin whatever it is they have now.     “It’s all yours,” she says, his turn even though the water won’t be hot again for at least half an hour, and Willa sits down in a chair near the foot of the bed. She leans forward and rubs vigorously at her hair trapped inside the dingy towel.     “We could both play hooky,” Frank says hopefully, watching her, imagining how much better sex would be than the chugging, headache drone of Xerox machines, the endless dissatisfaction of clients. “You could come back to bed and we could lie here all day. We could just lie here and sweat and watch television.”     “Jesus, Frank, how am I supposed to resist an offer like that?”     “Okay, so we could screw and sweat and watch television.”   She stops drying her hair and glares at him, shakes her head and frowns, but the sort of frown that says I wish I could more than it says anything else.     “That new girl isn’t working out,” she says.     “The fat chick from Kazakhstan?” Frank asks and he rolls over onto his back, easier to forget the fantasies of a lazy day alone with Willa if he isn’t looking at her sitting there naked.     “Fucking Kazakhstan. I mean, what the hell were Ted and Daniel thinking? She can’t even speak enough English to tell someone where the toilet is, much less take an order.”     “Maybe they felt sorry for her,” Frank says unhelpfully and now he’s staring up at his favorite crack on the water-stained ceiling, the one that always makes him think of a Viking orbiter photo of the Valles Marineris from one of his old astronomy books. “I’ve heard that people do that sometimes, feel sorry for people.”     “Well, they’d probably lose less money if they just sent the bitch to college, the way she’s been pissing off customers.”     ”Maybe you should suggest that today,” and a moment later Willa’s wet towel smacks him in the face, steamy-damp terry cloth that smells like her black hair dye and the cheap baby shampoo she uses. It covers his eyes, obscuring his view of the Martian rift valley overhead, but Frank doesn’t move the towel immediately, better to lie there a moment longer, breathing her in.     “Is it supposed to rain today?” Willa asks and he mumbles through the wet towel that he doesn’t know.     “They keep promising it’s going to rain and it keeps not raining.”    Frank sits up and the towel slides off his face and into his lap, lies there as the dampness begins to soak through his boxers.     ”I don’t know,” he says again; Willa has her back turned to him and she doesn’t reply or make any sign to show that she’s heard. She’s pulling a bright yellow T-shirt on over her head, the Curious George shirt he gave her for Christmas, has put on a pair of yellow panties, too.     “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s the heat. The heat’s driving me crazy.”     Frank glances toward the window, the sash up but the chintzy curtains hanging limp and lifeless in the stagnant July air; he’d have to get out of bed, walk all the way across the room, lean over the sill and peer up past the walls and rooftops to see if there are any clouds. “It might rain today,” he says, instead.     “I don’t think it’s ever going to rain again as long as I live,” Willa says and steps into her jeans. “I think we’ve broken this goddamn planet and it’s never going to rain anywhere ever again.”     Frank rubs his fingers through his stiff, dirty hair and looks back at the Cézanne still life above the television—a tabletop, the absinthe bottle and a carafe of water, an empty glass, the fruit that might be peaches.     “You’ll be at the meeting tonight?” he asks and Frank keeps his eyes on the print because he doesn’t like the sullen, secretive expression Willa gets whenever they have to talk about the meetings.     “Yeah,” she says, sighs, and then there’s the cloth-metal sound of her zipper. “Of course I’ll be at the meeting. Where the hell else would I be?”     And then she goes back into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her, leaves Frank alone with the Cézanne and the exotic reek of the apothecary downstairs, Valles Marineris and the bright day spilling uninvited through the window above Mott Street.

Half past two and Frank sits on a plastic milk crate in the stockroom of Gotham Kwick Kopy, trying to decide whether or not to eat the peanut butter and honey sandwich he brought for lunch. The air conditioning’s on the blink again and he thinks it might actually be hotter inside the shop than out on the street; a few merciful degrees cooler in the stockroom, though, shadowy refuge stacked high with cardboard boxes of copy paper in a dozen shades of white and all the colors of the rainbow. He peels back the top of his sandwich, the doughy Millbrook bread that Willa likes, and frowns at the mess underneath. So hot out front that the peanut butter has melted, oily mess to leak straight through wax paper and the brown bag and he’s trying to remember if peanut butter and honey can spoil.     Both the stockroom doors swing open and Frank looks up, blinks and squints at the sun-framed silhouette, Joe Manske letting in the heat and “Hey, don’t do that,” Frank says as Joe switches on the lights. The fluorescents buzz and flicker uncertainly, chasing away the shadows, drenching the stockroom in their bland, indifferent glare.     “Dude, why are you sitting back here in the dark?” Joe asks and for a moment Frank considers throwing the sandwich at him.     “Why aren’t you working on that Mac?” Frank asks right back and “It’s fixed, good as new,” Joe says, grins his big, stupid grin, and sits down on a box of laser print paper near the door.     “That fucker won’t ever be good as new again.”     “Well, at least it’s stopped making that sound. That’s good enough for me,” and Joe takes out a pack of Camels, offers one to Frank and Frank shakes his head no. A month now since his last cigarette, quitting because Willa’s step-mother is dying of lung cancer, quitting because cigarettes cost too goddamn much, anyhow, and “Thanks, though,” he says.     “Whatever,” Joe Manske mumbles around the filter of his Camel, thumb on the strike wheel of his silver lighter and in a moment the air is filled with the pungent aroma of burning tobacco. Frank gives up on the dubious sandwich, drops it back into the brown bag and crumples the bag into a greasy ball.     “I fuckin’ hate this fuckin’ job,” Joe says, disgusted, smoky cloud of words about his head, and he points at the stockroom door with his cigarette. “You just missed a real peace of work, man.”     “Yeah?” and Frank tosses the sandwich ball towards the big plastic garbage can sitting a few feet away, misses and it rolls behind the busted Canon 2400 color copier that’s been sitting in the same spot since he started this job a year ago.     “Yeah,” Joe says. “I was trying to finish that pet store job and this dude comes in, little bitty old man looks like he just got off the boat from Poland or Armenia or some shit—“     “My grandmother was Polish,“ Frank says and Joe sighs loudly, long impatient sigh and he flicks ash onto the cement floor. “You know what I mean.”     “So what’d he want anyway?” Frank asks, not because he cares but the shortest way through any conversation with Joe Manske is usually right down the middle, just be quiet and listen and sooner or later he’ll probably come to the end and shut up.     “He had this old book with him. The damned thing must have been even older than him and was falling apart. I don’t think you could so much as look at it without the pages crumbling. Had it tied together with some string and he kept askin’ me all these questions, real technical shit about the machines, you know.”     “Yeah? Like what?”     “Dude, I don’t know. I can’t remember half of it, techie shit, like I was friggin’ Mr. Wizard or somethin’. I finally just told him we couldn’t be responsible if the copiers messed up his old book, but he still kept on askin’ these questions. Lucky for me, one of the self-service machines jammed and I told him I had to go fix it. By the time I was finished, he was gone.”     “You live to serve,” Frank says, wondering if Willa would be able to tell if he had just one cigarette. “The customer is always right.”     “Fuck that shit,” Joe Manske says. “I don’t get paid enough to have to listen to some senile old fart jabberin’ at me all day.”     “Yes sir, helpful is your middle name.”     “Fuck you.”     Frank laughs and gets up, pushes the milk crate towards the wall with the toe of one shoe so no one’s going to come along later and trip over it, break their neck and have him to blame. “I better get back to work,” he says and “You do that,” Joe grumbles and puffs his Camel.     Through the stockroom doors and back out into the stifling, noisy clutter of the shop, and it must be at least ten degrees warmer out here, he thinks. There’s a line at the register and the phone’s ringing, no one out front but Maggie and she glowers at him across the chaos. “I’m on it,” Frank says; she shakes her head doubtfully and turns to help a woman wearing a dark purple dress and matching beret. Frank’s reaching across the counter for the telephone receiver when he notices the business card lying near a display of Liquid Paper. Black sans serif print on an expensive, white cotton card stock and what appears to be an infinity symbol in the lower left-hand corner. FOUND: LOST WORLDS centered at the top, TERRAE NOVUM ET TERRA INDETERMINATA on the next line down in smaller letters. Then a name and an address—Dr. Solomon Monalisa, Ph.D., 43 W. 61st St., Manhattan—but no number or email, and Frank picks up the card, holds it so Maggie can see.     “Where’d this come from?” he asks but she only shrugs, annoyed but still smiling her strained and weary smile for the woman in the purple beret. “Beats me. Ask Joe, if he ever comes back. Now will you please answer the phone?”     He apologizes, lifts the receiver, “Gotham Kwick Kopy, Frank speaking. How may I help you?” and slips the white card into his back pocket.

The group meets in the basement of a synagogue on Eldridge Street. Once a month, eight o’clock until everyone who wants to talk has taken his or her turn, coffee and stale doughnuts before and afterwards. Metal folding chairs and a lectern down front, a microphone and crackly PA system even though the room isn’t really large enough to need one. Never more than fourteen or fifteen people, occasionally as few as six or seven, and Frank and Willa always sit at the very back, near the door. Sometimes Willa doesn’t make it all the way through a meeting and she says she hates the way they all watch her if she gets up to leave early, like she’s done something wrong, she says, like this is all her fault, somehow. So they sit by the door, which is fine with Frank; he’d rather not have everyone staring at the back of his head, anyway.     He’s sipping at a styrofoam cup of the bitter, black coffee, three sugars and it’s still bitter, watching the others, all their familiar, telltale quirks and peculiarities, their equivocal glances, when Willa comes in. First the sound of her clunky motorcycle boots on the concrete steps and then she stands in the doorway a moment, that expression like it’s always the first time for her and it can never be any other way.     “Hey,” Frank says quietly. “I made it,” she replies and sits down beside him. There’s a stain on the front of her Curious George T-shirt that looks like chocolate sauce.     “How was your day?” he asks her, talking so she doesn’t lock up before things even get started.       “Same as ever. It sucked. They didn’t fire Miss Kazakhstan.”     “That’s good, dear. Would you like a martini?” and he jabs a thumb toward the free-coffee-and-stale-doughnut table. “I think I’ll pass,” Willa says humorlessly, rubs her hands together and stares at the floor between her feet. “I think my stomach hurts enough already.”     “Would you rather just go home? We can miss one night. I sure as hell don’t care—“     “No,” she says, answering too fast, too emphatic, so he knows she means yes. “That would be silly. I’ll be fine when things get started.”     And then Mr. Zaroba stands, stocky man with skin like tea-stained muslin, salt-and-pepper hair and beard and his bushy, gray eyebrows. Kindly blue grandfather eyes and he raises one hand to get everyone’s attention, as if they aren’t all looking at him already, as if they haven’t all been waiting for him to open his mouth and break the tense, uncertain silence.     “Good evening, everyone,” he says, and Willa sits up a little straighter in her chair, expectant arch of her back as though she’s getting ready to run.     “Before we begin,” Mr. Zaroba continues, “there’s something I wanted to share. I came across this last week,” and he takes a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolds it, and begins to read. An item from the New York Tribune, February 17th, 1901; reports by an Indian tribe in Alaska of a city in the sky that was seen sometimes, and a prospector named Willoughby who claimed to have witnessed the thing himself in 1897, claimed to have tried to photograph it on several occasions and succeeded, finally.     “And now this,” Zaroba says and he pulls a second folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, presto, bottomless bag of tricks, that pocket, and this time he reads from a book, Alaska by Miner Bruce, page 107, he says. Someone else who saw the city suspended in the arctic sky, a Mr. C.W. Thornton of Seattle, and “’It required no effort of the imagination to liken it to a city,’” Mr. Zaroba reads, “’but was so distinct that it required, instead, faith to believe that it was not in reality a city.’”     People shift nervously in their seats, scuff their feet, and someone whispers too loudly.     “I have the prospector’s photograph,” Zaroba says. “It’s only a Xerox from the book, of course. It isn’t very clear, but I thought some of you might like to see it.” And he hands one of the sheets of paper to the person sitting nearest him.     “Damn, I need a cigarette,” Willa whispers and “You and me both, Frank whispers back. It takes almost five minutes for the sheet of paper to make its way to the rear of the room, passed along from hand to hand while Zaroba stands patiently at the front, his head bowed solemn as if leading a prayer. Some hold onto it as long as they dare and others hardly seem to want to touch it. A man three rows in front of them gets up and brings it back to Willa.       ”I don’t see nothing but clouds,” he says, sounding disappointed.     And neither does Frank, fuzzy photograph of a mirage, deceit of sunlight in the collision of warm and freezing air high above a glacier, but Willa must see more. She holds the paper tight and chews at her lower lip, traces the distorted peaks and cumulonimbus towers with the tip of an index finger.     “My god,” she whispers.     In a moment Zaroba comes up the aisle and takes the picture away, leaves Willa staring at her empty hands, her eyes wet like she might start crying. Frank puts an arm around her bony shoulders, but she immediately wiggles free and scoots her chair a few inches farther away.     “So, who wants to get us started tonight?” Mr. Zaroba asks when he gets back to the lectern. At first no one moves or speaks or raises a hand, each looking at the others or trying hard to look nowhere at all. And then a young woman stands up, younger than Willa, filthy clothes and bruise-dark circles under her eyes, hair that hasn’t been combed or washed in ages. Her name is Janice and Frank thinks that she’s a junky, probably a heroin addict because she always wears long sleeves.     “Janice? Very good, then,” and Mr. Zaroba returns to his seat in the first row. Everyone watches Janice as she walks slowly to the front of the room, or they pretend not to watch her. There’s a small hole in the seat of her dirty, threadbare jeans and Frank can see that she isn’t wearing underwear. She stands behind the lectern, coughs once, twice, and brushes her shaggy bangs out of her face. She looks anxiously at Mr. Zaroba and “It’s all right, Janice,” he says. “Take all the time you need. No one’s going to rush you.”     “Bullshit,” Willa mutters, loud enough that the man sitting three rows in front of them turns and scowls. “What the hell are you staring at,” she growls and he turns back towards the lectern.     “It’s okay, baby,” Frank says and takes her hand, squeezes hard enough that she can’t shake him loose this time. “We can leave anytime you want.”     Janice coughs again and there’s a faint feedback whine from the mike. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and “I was only fourteen years old,” she begins. “I still lived with my foster parents in Trenton and there was this old cemetery near our house, Riverview Cemetery. Me and my sister, my foster sister, we used to go there to smoke and talk, you know, just to get away from the house.”     Janice looks at the basement ceiling while she speaks, or down at the lectern, but never at the others. She pauses and wipes her nose again.     “We went there all the time. Wasn’t anything out there to be afraid of, not like at home. Just dead people, and me and Nadine weren’t afraid of dead people. Dead people don’t hurt anyone, right? We could sit there under the trees in the summer and it was almost like things weren’t so bad. Nadine was a year older than me.”     Willa tries to pull her hand free, digs her nails into Frank’s palm but he doesn’t let go. They both know where this is going, have both heard Janice’s story so many times that they could recite it backwards, same tired old horror story, and “It’s okay,” he says out loud, to Willa or to himself.     “Mostly it was just regular headstones, but there were a few bigger crypts set way back near the water. I didn’t like being around them. I told her that, over and over, but Nadine said they were like little castles, like something out of fairy tales.     “One day one of them was open, like maybe someone had busted into it, and Nadine had to see if there were still bones inside. I begged her not to, said whoever broke it open might still be hanging around somewhere and we ought to go home and come back later. But she wouldn’t listen to me.     “I didn’t want to look inside. I swear to God, I didn’t.”     “Liar.” Willa whispers, so low now that the man three rows in front of them doesn’t hear, but Frank does. Her nails are digging deeper into his palm, and his eyes are beginning to water from the pain. “You wanted to see,” she says. “Just like the rest of us, you wanted to see.”     “I said, ‘What if someone’s still in there?’ but she wouldn’t listen. She wasn’t ever afraid of anything. She used to lay down on train tracks just to piss me off.”     “What did you see in the crypt, Janice, when you and Nadine looked inside?” Mr. Zaroba asks, but no hint of impatience in his voice, not hurrying her or prompting, only helping her find a path across the words as though they were slippery rocks in a cold stream. “Can you tell us?”     Janice takes a very deep breath, swallows, and “Stairs,” she says. “Stairs going down into the ground. There was a light way down at the bottom, a blue light, like a cop car light. Only it wasn’t flashing. And we could hear something moving around down there, and something else that sounded like a dog panting. I tried to get Nadine to come back to the house with me then, but she wouldn’t. She said ‘Those stairs might go anywhere, Jan. Don’t you want to see? Don’t you want to know?”      Another pause and “I couldn’t stop her,” Janice says.     Willa mutters something Frank doesn’t understand, then, something vicious, and he lets go of her hand, rubs at the four crescent-shaped wounds her nails leave behind. Blood drawn, crimson tattoos to mark the wild and irreparable tear in her soul by marking him, and he presses his palm to his black work pants, no matter if it stains, no one will ever notice.     “I waited at the top of the stairs until dark,” Janice says. “I kept on calling her. I called her until my throat hurt.” When the sun started going down, the blue light at the bottom got brighter and brighter and once or twice I thought I could see someone moving around down there, someone standing between me and the light. Finally, yelled I was going to get the goddamn cops if she didn’t come back…” and Janice trails off, hugs herself like she’s cold and gazes straight ahead, but Frank knows she doesn’t see any of them sitting there, watching her, waiting for the next word, waiting for their turns at the lectern.     “You don’t have to say any more tonight,” Zaroba says. “You know we’ll all understand if you can’t.”     “No,” Janice says. “I can…I really need to,” and she squeezes her eyes shut tight. Mr. Zaroba stands, takes one reassuring step towards the lectern.     “We’re all right here,” he says, and “We’re listening,” Willa mumbles mockingly. “We’re listening,” Zaroba says a second later.     “I didn’t go to the police. I didn’t tell anyone anything until the next day. My foster parents, they just thought she’d run away again. No one would believe me when I told them about the crypt, when I told them where Nadine had really gone. Finally, they made me show them, though, the cops did, so I took them out to Riverview.”     “Why do we always have to fucking start with her?” Willa whispers. “I can’t remember a single time she didn’t go first.”     Someone sneezes and “It was sealed up again,” Janice says, her small and brittle voice made big and brittle by the PA speakers. “But they opened it.” The cemetery people didn’t want them to, but they did anyway. I swore I’d kill myself if they didn’t open it and get Nadine out of there.”     “Can you remember a time she didn’t go first?” Willa asks and Frank looks at her, but he doesn’t answer.     “All they found inside was a coffin. The cops even pulled up part of the marble floor, but there wasn’t anything under it, just dirt.”     A few more minutes, a few more details, and Janice is done. Mr. Zaroba hugs her and she goes back to her seat. “Who wants to be next?” he asks them and it’s the man who calls himself Charlie Jones, though they all know that’s not his real name. Every month he apologizes because he can’t use his real name at the meetings, too afraid someone at work might find out, and then he tells them about the time he opened a bedroom door in his house in Hartford and there was nothing on the other side but stars. When he’s done, Zaroba shakes his hand, pats him on the back, and now it’s time for the woman who got lost once on the subway, two hours to get from South Ferry to the Houston Street Station, alone in an empty train that rushed along through a darkness filled with the sound of children crying. Then a timid Colombian woman named Juanita Lazarte, the night she watched two moons cross the sky above Peekskill, the morning the sun rose in the south.     And all the others, each in his or her turn, as the big wall clock behind the lectern ticks and the night fills up with the weight and absurdity of their stories, glimpses of impossible geographies, entire worlds hidden in plain view if you’re unlucky enough to see them. “If you’re damned,” Juanita Lazarte once said and quickly crossed herself. Mr. Zaroba who was once an atmospheric scientist and pilot for the Navy. He’s seen something too, of course, the summer of 1969, flying supplies in a Hercules C-130 from Christchurch, New Zealand to McMurdo Station. A freak storm, whiteout conditions and instrument malfunction, and when they finally found a break in the clouds somewhere over the Transantarctic Mountains the entire crew saw the ruins of a vast city, glittering obsidian towers and shattered, crystal spires, crumbling walls carved from the mountains themselves. At least that’s what Zaroba says. He also says the Navy pressured the other men into signing papers agreeing never to talk about the flight and when he refused, he was pronounced mentally unsound by a military psychiatrist and discharged.     When Willa’s turn comes, she glances at Frank, not a word but all the terrible things right there in her eyes for him to see, unspoken resignation, surrender, and then she goes down the aisle and stands behind the lectern.

Frank wakes up from a dream of rain and thunder and Willa’s sitting cross-legged at the foot of their bed, nothing on but her pajama bottoms, watching television with the sound off and smoking a cigarette. “Where the hell’d you get that?” he asks, blinks sleepily and points at the cigarette.     “I bought a pack on my break today,” she replies, not taking her eyes off the screen. She takes a long drag and the smoke leaks slowly from her nostrils.     “I thought we had an agreement.”     ”I’m sorry,” but she doesn’t sound sorry at all, and Frank sits up and blinks at the TV screen, rubs his eyes, and now he can see it’s Jimmy Stewart and Katharine Hepburn, The Philadelphia Story.     ”You can turn the sound up, if you want to,” he says. “It won’t bother me.”     ”No, that’s okay. I know it by heart anyway.”     And then neither of them says anything else for a few minutes, sit watching the televisions, and when Willa has smoked the cigarette down to the filter she stubs it out in a saucer.     ”I don’t think I want to go to the meetings anymore,” she says. “I think they’re only making it worse for me.”     Frank waits a moment before he replies, waiting to be sure that she’s finished, and then, “That’s your decision, Willa. If that’s what you want.”     ”Of course it’s my decision.”     ”You know what I meant.”     ”I can’t keep reciting it over and over like the rest of you. There’s no fucking point. I could talk about it from now till doomsday and it still wouldn’t make sense and I’d still be afraid. Nothing Zaroba and that bunch of freaks has to say is going to change that, Frank.”     Willa picks up the pack of Camels off the bed, lights another cigarette with a disposable lighter that looks pink by the flickering, grainy light from the TV screen.     ”I’m sorry,” Frank says.     ”Does it help you?” she asks and now there’s an angry-sharp edge in her voice, Willa’s switchblade mood swings, sullen to pissed in the space between heartbeats. “Has it ever helped you at all?”     Frank doesn’t want to fight with her tonight, wants to close his eyes and slip back down to sleep, back to his raincool dreams. Too hot for an argument, and “I don’t know,” he says, and that’s almost not a lie.     ”Yeah, well, whatever,” Willa mumbles and takes another drag off her cigarette.     ”We’ll talk about it in the morning if you want,” Frank says and he lies back down, turns to face the open window and the noise of Mott Street at two A.M., the blinking orange neon from a noodle shop across the street.     ”I’m not going to change my mind, if that’s what you mean,” Willa says.     ”You can turn the sound up,” Frank tells her again and concentrates on the soothing rhythm of the noodle shop sign, orange pulse like campfire light, much, much better than counting imaginary sheep. In a moment he’s almost asleep again, scant inches from sleep and “Did you ever see Return to Oz?” Willa asks him.     ”What?”     ”Return to Oz, the one where Fairuza Balk plays Dorothy and Laurie Piper plays Auntie Em.”     ”No,” Frank replies. “I never did,” and he rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling instead of the neon sign. In the dark and the gray light from the television, his favorite crack looks even more like the Valles Marineris.     ”It wasn’t anything like The Wizard of Oz. I was just a little kid, but I remember it. It scared the hell out of me.”     ”Your mother let you see scary movies when you were a little kid?”     Willa ignores the question, her eyes still fixed on The Philadelphia Story if they’re fixed anywhere, and she exhales a cloud of smoke that swirls and drifts about above the bed.     ”When the film begins, Auntie Em and Uncle Henry think Dorothy’s sick,” she says. “They think she’s crazy, because she talks about Oz all the time, because she won’t believe it was only a nightmare. They finally send her off to a sanitarium for electric shock treatment—“     ”Jesus,” Frank says, not entirely sure that Willa isn’t making all this up. “That’s horrible.”     ”Yeah, but it’s true, isn’t it? It’s what really happens to little girls who see places that aren’t supposed to be there. People aren’t ever so glad you didn’t die in a twister that they want to listen to crazy shit about talking scarecrows and emerald cities.”     And Frank doesn’t answer because he knows he isn’t supposed to, knows that she would rather he didn’t even try, so he sweats and stares at his surrogate, plaster Mars instead, at the shadow play from the television screen; she doesn’t say anything else, and in a little while more, he’s asleep.

In this dream there is still thunder, no rain from the other sky but the crack and rumble of thunder so loud that the air shimmers and could splinter like ice. The tall red grass almost as high as his waist, rippling gently in the wind, and Frank wishes that Willa wouldn’t get so close to the fleshy, white trees. She thinks they might have fruit, peaches and she’s never eaten a white peach before, she said. Giants fighting in the sky and Willa picking up windfall fruit from the rocky ground beneath the trees; Frank looks over his shoulder, back towards the fissure in the basement wall, back the way they came, but it’s vanished.     I should be sacred, he thinks. No, I should be scared.     And now Willa is coming back towards him through the crimson waves of grass, her skirt for a linen basket to hold all the pale fruit she’s gathered. She’s smiling and he tries to remember the last time he saw her smile, really smile, not just a smirk or sneer. She smiles and steps through the murmuring grass that seems to part to let her pass, her bare arms and legs safe from the blades grown sharp as straight razors.     ”They are peaches,” she beams.     But the fruit is the color of school-room chalk, it’s skin smooth and slick and glistening with tiny, pinhead beads of nectar seeping out through minute pores. “Take one,” she says, but his stomach lurches and rolls at the thought, loath to even touch one of the things and then she sighs and dumps them all into the grass at his feet.     ”I used to know a story about peaches,” Willa says. “It was a Japanese story, I think. Or maybe it was Chinese.”     ”I’m pretty sure those aren’t peaches,” Frank says, and he takes a step backwards, away from the pile of sweating, albino fruit.     ”I heard the pits are poisonous,” she says. “Arsenic, or maybe it’s cyanide.”     A brilliant flash of chartreuse lightning then and the sky sizzles and smells like charred meat. Willa bends and retrieves a piece of the fruit, takes a bite before he can stop her; the sound of her teeth sinking through its skin, tearing through the colorless pulp inside, is louder than the thunder, and milky juice rolls down her chin and stains her Curious George T-shirt. Something wriggles from between her lips, falls to the grass, and when Willa opens her jaws wide to take another bite Frank can see that her mouth is filled with wriggling things.     ”They have to be careful you don’t swallow your tongue,” she says, mumbling around the white peach. “If you swallow your tongue you’ll choke to death.”     Frank snatches the fruit away from her, grabs it quick before she puts any more of it in her belly, and she frowns and wipes the juice staining her hands off onto her skirt. The half-eaten thing feels warm and he tosses it away.     ”Jesus, that was fucking silly, Frank. The harm’s already done, you know that. The harm was done the day you looked through that hole in the wall.”     And then the sky booms its symphony of gangrene and sepsis and lightning stabs down with electric claws, thunder then lightning but that’s only the wrong way round if he pretends Willa isn’t right, if he pretends that he’s seven again and this time he doesn’t take the flashlight from the kitchen drawer. This time he does what his mother says and doesn’t go sneaking off the minute she turns her back.     Frank stands alone beneath the restless trees, his aching, dizzy head too full of all the time that can’t be redeemed, now or then or ever, and he watches as Willa walks alone across the red fields towards the endless deserts of scrap iron and bone, towards the bloated, scarlet-purple sun. The black things have noticed her, and creep along close behind, stalking silent on ebony, mantis legs.     This time he wakes up before they catch her.

The long weekend, then, hotter and drier, the sky more white than blue and the air on Mott Street and everywhere else that Frank has any reason to go has grown so ripe, so redolent, that sometimes he pulls the collars of his T-shirts up over his mouth and nose, breathes through the cotton like a surgeon or a wild west bandit, but the smell always gets through anyway. On the news there are people dying of heat stroke and dehydration, people dying in the streets and ERs, but fresh-faced weathermen still promise that it will rain very soon. He’s stopped believing them and maybe that means Willa’s right and it never will rain again.     Frank hasn’t shown the white card—FOUND: LOST WORLDS—to Willa, keeps it hidden in his wallet, only taking it out when he’s alone and no one will see, no one to ask where or what or who. He’s read it over and over again, has each line committed to memory, and Monday morning he almost calls Mr. Zaroba about it. The half hour between Willa leaving for the café and the time that he has to leave for the copy shop if he isn’t going to be late, and he holds the telephone receiver and stares at Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s card lying there on the table in front of him. The sound of his heart, the dial-tone drone, and the traffic down on Mott Street, the spice-and-dried-fish odor of the apothecary leaking up through the floorboards, and a fat drop of sweat slides down his forehead and spreads itself painfully across his left eyeball. By the time he’s finished rubbing at his eye, calling Zaroba no longer seems like such a good idea after all, and Frank puts the white card back into his wallet, slips it in safe between his driver’s license and a dog-eared, expired MetroCard.     Instead he calls in sick, gets Maggie and she doesn’t believe for one moment that there’s anything wrong with him.     ”I fucking swear, I can’t even get up off the toilet long enough to make a phone call. I’m calling you from the head,” only half an effort at sounding sincere because they both know this is only going through the motions.     ”As we speak—“ he starts, but Maggie cuts him off.     ”That’s enough, Frank. But I’m telling you, man if you wanna keep this job, you better get your slacker ass down here tomorrow morning.”     ”Right,” Frank says. “I hear you,” and she hangs up first     And then Frank stares at the open window, the sun beating down like the Voice of God out there, and it takes him almost five minutes to remember where to find the next number he has to call.

Sidney McAvoy stopped coming to the meetings at the synagogue on Eldridge Street almost a year ago, not long after Frank’s first time. Small, hawk-nosed man with nervous, ferrety eyes, and he’s always reminded Frank a little of Dustin Hoffman in Papillon. Some sort of tension or wound between Sidney and Mr. Zaroba that Frank never fully understood, but he saw it from the start, the way their eyes never met and Sidney never took his turn at the lectern, sat silent, brooding, chewing at the stem of a cheap, unlit pipe. And then an argument after one of the meetings, the same night that Zaroba told Janice that she shouldn’t ever go back to the cemetery in Trenton, that she should never try to find the staircase and the blue light again. Both men speaking in urgent, angry whispers, Zaroba looking up occasionally to smile a sheepish, embarrassed, apologetic smile. Everyone pretending not to see or hear, talking among themselves, occupied with their stale doughnuts and tiny packets of non-dairy creamer, and then Sidney McAvoy left and never came back.     Frank would’ve forgotten all about him, almost had forgotten, and then one night he and Willa were coming home late from a bar where they drink sometimes, whenever they’re feeling irresponsible enough to spend money on booze. Cheap vodka or cheaper beer, a few hours wasted just trying to feel like everyone else, the way they imagined other, normal people might feel, and they ran into Sidney McAvoy a few blocks from their apartment. He was wearing a ratty green raincoat, even though it wasn’t raining, and chewing on one of his pipes, carrying a large box wrapped in white butcher’s paper, tied up tight and neat with twine.     ”Shit,” Willa whispered. “Make like you don’t see him,” but Sidney had already noticed them and he was busy clumsily trying to hide the big package behind his back.     ”I know you two,” he declared, talking loudly, a suspicious, accusatory glint to his quavering voice. “You’re both with Zaroba, aren’t you? You still go to his meetings.” That last word a sneer and he pointed a short, grubby finger at the center of Frank’s chest.     ”That’s really none of your goddamn business, is it?” Willa growled and Frank stepped quickly between them; she mumbled and spit curses behind his back and Sindey McAvoy glared up at Frank with his beady-dark eyes. A whole lifetime’s worth of bitterness and distrust trapped inside those eyes, eyes that have seen far too much or far too little, and “How have you been, Mr. McAvoy,” Frank said, straining to sound friendly, and he managed the sickly ghost of a smile.     Sidney grunted and almost dropped his carefully-wrapped package.     ”If you care about that girl there,” he said, speaking around the stem of the pipe clenched between his yellowed teeth, “you’ll keep her away from Zaroba. And you’ll both stop telling him things, if you know what’s good for you. There are more useful answers in a road atlas than you’re ever going to get out of that old phony.”     ”What makes you say that?” Frank asked. “What were you guys fighting about?” but Sidney was already scuttling away down Canal Street, his white package hugged close to his chest. He turned a corner without looking back and was gone.     ”Fucking nut job,” Willa mumbled. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”       ”Maybe the less we know about him the better,” Frank said and he put an arm around Willa’s small waist, holding her close to him, trying hard not to think about what could have been in the box but unable to think of anything else.     And two weeks later, dim and snowy last day before Thanksgiving, Frank found Sidney McAvoy’s number in the phone book and called him.

A wet comb through his hair, cleaner shirt and socks, and Frank goes out into the sizzling day; across Columbus Park to the Canal Street Station and he takes the M to Grand Street, rides the B line all the way to the subway stop beneath the Museum of Natural History. Rumbling long through the honeycombed earth, the diesel and dust and garbage scented darkness and him swaddled inside steel and unsteady fluorescent light. Time to think that he’d rather not have, unwelcome luxury of second thoughts, and when the train finally reaches the museum he’s almost ready to turn right around and head back downtown. Almost, but Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s card is in his wallet to keep him moving, get him off the train and up the concrete steps to the museum entrance. Ten dollars he can’t spare to get inside, but Sidney McAvoy will never agree to meet him anywhere outside, too paranoid for a walk in Central Park or a quiet booth in a deli or a coffee shop somewhere.     ”People are always listening,” he says, whenever Frank has suggested or asked that they meet somewhere without an entrance fee. “You never know what they might overhear.”     So sometimes it’s the long marble bench in front of the Apatosaurus, or the abyssal, blue-black gloom of the Hall of Fishes, seats beneath a planetarium constellation sky, whichever spot happens to strike Sidney’s fancy that particular day. His fancy or his cabalistic fantasies, if there’s any difference, and today Frank finds him in the Hall of Asiatic Mammals, short and rumpled man in a threadbare tweed jacket and red tennis shoes standing alone before the Indian leopard diorama, gazing intently in at the pocket of counterfeit jungle and the taxidermied cats. Frank waits behind him for a minute or two, waiting to be noticed, and when Sidney looks up and speaks, he speaks to Frank’s reflection.     ”I’m very busy today,” he says, brusque, impatient. “I hope this isn’t going to take long.”     And no, Frank says, it won’t take long at all, I promise, but Sidney’s doubtful expression to show just how much he believes that. He sighs and looks back to the stuffed leopards, papier-mâché trees and wax leaves, a painted flock of peafowl rising to hang forever beneath a painted forest canopy. Snapshot moment of another world and the walls of the dimly-lit hall lined with a dozen or more such scenes.     ”You want to know about Monalisa,” Sidney says. “That’s why you came here, because you think I can tell you who he is.”     ”Yeah,” and Frank reaches into this pocket for his wallet. “He came into the place where I work last week and left this.” He takes out the card and Sidney turns around only long enough to get it from him.     ”So, you talked to him?”     ”No, I didn’t. I was eating my lunch in the stockroom. I didn’t actually see him for myself.”     Sidney stares at the card, seems to read it carefully three or four times and then he hands it back to Frank, goes back to staring at the leopards.     ”Why didn’t you show this to Zaroba?” he asks sarcastically, taunting, but Frank answers him anyway, not in the mood today for Sidney’s grudges and intrigues.     ”Because I didn’t think he’d tell me anything. You know he’s more interested in the mysteries than ever finding answers.” And Frank pauses, silent for a moment and Sidney’s silent, too, both men watching the big cats now—glass eyes, freeze-frame talons, and taut, spectacled haunches—as though the leopards might suddenly spring towards them, all this stillness just a clever ruse for the tourists and the kiddies; maybe dead leopards know the nervous, wary faces of men who have seen things that they never should have seen.     ”He knows the truth would swallow him whole,” Sidney says. The leopards don’t pounce and he adds, “He knows he’s a coward.”     ”So who is Dr. Monalisa?”     ”A bit of something the truth already swallowed and spat back up,” and Sidney chuckles sourly to himself and produces one of his pipes from a jacket pocket. “He’s a navigator, a pilot, a cartographer…”     Frank notices that one of the two leopards has captured a stuffed peacock, holds it fast between velvet, razored paws, and he can’t remember if it was that way only a moment before.     ”He draws maps,” Sidney says. “He catalogs doors and windows and culverts.”     ”That’s bullshit,” Frank whispers, his voice low now so the old woman staring in at the giant panda exhibit won’t hear him. “You’re trying to tell me he can find places?”     ”He isn’t a sane man, Frank,” Sidney says and now he holds up his left hand and presses his palm firmly against the glass, as if he’s testing the invisible barrier, gauging its integrity. “He has answers, but he has prices, too. You think this is Hell, you see how it feels to be in debt to Dr. Solomon Monalisa.”     ”It isn’t me. It’s Willa. I think she’s starting to lose it.”     ”We all lost ‘it’ a long time ago, Frank.”     ”I’m afraid she’s going to do something. I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself.”     And Sidney turns his back on the leopards then, takes the pipe from his mouth, and glares up at Frank.     But some of the anger, some of the bitterness, has gone from his eyes, and “He might keep her alive,” he says, “but you wouldn’t want her back when he was done. If she’d even come back. No, Frank. You two stay away from Monalisa. Look for your own answers. You don’t think you found that card by accident, do you? You don’t really think there are such things as coincidences? That’s not even his real address—“     ”She can’t sleep anymore,” Frank says, but now Sidney McAvoy isn’t listening, glances back over his shoulder at the Indian rain forest, incandescent daylight, illusory distances, and “I have to go now,” he says. “I’m very busy today.”     ”I think she’s fucking dying, man,” Frank says as Sidney straightens his tie and puts the pipe back into his pocket; the old woman looks up from the panda in its unreal bamboo thicket and frowns at them both.     ”I’m very busy today, Frank. Call me next week. I think I can meet you at the Guggenheim next week.”     And he walks quickly away towards the Roosevelt Rotunda, past the Siberian tiger and the Sumatran rhinoceros, leaving Frank alone with the frowning woman. When Sidney has vanished into the shadows behind a small herd of Indian elephants, Frank turns back to the leopards and the smudgy hand print Sidney McAvoy has left on their glass.

Hours and hours later, past sunset to the other side of the wasted day, the night that seems even hotter than the scorching afternoon, and Frank is dreaming that the crack in the basement wall on St. Mark’s place is much too narrow for him to squeeze through. Maybe the way it really happened after all, and then he hears a small, anguished sound from somewhere close behind him, something hurting or lost, and when he turns to see, Frank opens his eyes and there’s only the tangerine glow of the noodle shop sign outside the apartment window. He blinks once, twice, but this stubborn world doesn’t go away, doesn’t break apart into random kaleidoscopic shards to become some other place entirely. So he sits up, head full of the familiar disappointment, this incontestable solidity, and it takes him a moment to realize that Willa isn’t in bed. Faint outline of her body left in the wrinkled sheets and the bathroom light is burning, the door open, so she’s probably just taking a piss.     ”You okay in there?” he asks, but no reply. The soft drip, drip, drip of the kitchenette faucet, tick of the wind-up alarm clock on the table next to Willa’s side of the bed, street noise, but no answer. “Did you fall in or something?” he shouts. “Did you drown?”     And still no response, but his senses waking up, picking out more than the ordinary, every-night sounds, a trilling whine pitched so high he feels it more than hears it, and now he notices the way that the air in the apartment smells.     Go back to sleep, he thinks, but both legs already over the edge of the bed, both feet already on the dusty floor. When you wake up again it’ll be over.     The trill worming its way beneath his skin, soaking in, pricking gently at the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck, and all the silver fillings in his teeth have begun to hum along sympathetically. Where he’s standing, Frank can see into the bathroom, just barely, a narrow slice of linoleum, slice of porcelain toilet tank, a mildew and polyurethane fold of shower curtain. And he thinks that the air has started to shimmer, an almost imperceptible warping of the light escaping from the open door, but that might only be his imagination. He takes one small step towards the foot of the bed and there’s Willa, standing naked before the tiny mirror above the bathroom sink. The jut of her shoulder blades and hip bones, the anorexic swell of her rib cage, all the minute details of her painful thinness seem even more pronounced in the harsh and curving light.     ”Hey. Is something wrong? Are you sick?” and she turns her head slowly to look at him, or maybe only looking towards him because there’s nothing much like recognition on her face. Her wide, unblinking eyes, blind woman’s stare, and “Can’t you hear me, Willa?” he asks as she turns slowly back to the mirror. Her lips move, shaping rough, inaudible words.     The trilling grows infinitesimally louder, climbs another half-octave, and there’s a warm, wet trickle across Frank’s lips and he realizes that his nose is bleeding.     Behind Willa the bathroom wall, the shower, the low ceiling—everything—ripples and dissolves and there’s a sudden, staccato pop as the bulb above the sink blows. And after an instant of perfect darkness, perfect nothing, dull and yellow-green shafts of light from somewhere far, far above, flickering light from an alien sun shining down through the waters of an alien sea; dim, translucent shapes dart and flash through those depths, bodies more insubstantial than jellyfish, more sinuous than eels, and Willa rises to meet them, arms outstretched, her hair drifting about her face like a halo of seaweed and algae. In the ocean-filtered light, Willa’s pale skin seems sleek and smooth as dolphin-flesh. Air rushes from her lips, her nostrils, and flows eagerly away in a glassy swirl of bubbles.     The trilling has filled Frank’s head so full, and his aching skull, his brain, seem only an instant from merciful explosion, fragile, eggshell bone collapsed by the terrible, lonely sound and the weight of all that water stacked above him. He staggers, takes a step backwards, and now Willa’s face is turned up to meet the sunlight streaming down, and she’s more beautiful than anyone or anything he’s ever seen or dreamt.     Down on Mott Street, the screech of tires, the angry blat of a car horn and someone begins shouting very loudly in Chinese.     And now the bathroom is only a bathroom again, and Willa lies in a limp, strangling heap on the floor, her wet hair and skin glistening in the light from the bulb above the sink. The water rolls off her back, her thighs, spreads across the floor in a widening puddle, and Frank realizes that the trilling has finally stopped, only the memory of it left in his ringing ears and bleeding nose. When the dizziness has passed, he goes to her, sits down on the wet floor and holds her while she coughs and pukes up gouts of salt water and snotty strands of something the color of verdigris. Her skin so cold it hurts to touch, cold coming off her like a fever, and something small and chitinous slips from her hair and scuttles behind the toilet on long, jointed legs.     ”Did you see?” she asks him, desperate, rheumy words gurgling out with all the water that she’s swallowed. “Did you, Frank? Did you see it?”     ”Yes,” he tells her, just like every time before. “Yes, baby. I did. I saw it all,” and Willa smiles, closes her eyes, and in a little while she’s asleep. He carries her, dripping, back to their bed and holds her until the sun rises and she’s warm again.

The next day neither of them goes to work, and some small, niggling part of Frank manages to worry about what will happen to them if he loses the shit job at Gotham Kwick Kopy, if Willa gets fired from the café, obstinate shred of himself still capable of caring about such things. How the rent will be paid, how they’ll eat, everything that hasn’t really seemed to matter in more years than he wants to count. Half the morning in bed and his nosebleed keeps coming back, a roll of toilet paper and then one of their towels stained all the shades of dried and drying blood; Willa wearing her winter coat despite the heat, and she keeps trying to get him to go to a doctor, but no, he says. That might lead to questions, and besides, it’ll stop sooner or later. It’s always stopped before.     By twelve o’clock, Willa’s traded the coat for her pink cardigan, feels good enough that she makes them peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, black coffee and stale potato chips, and after he eats Frank begins to feel better, too. But going to the park is Willa’s idea, because the apartment still smells faintly of silt and dead fish, muddy, low-tide stink that’ll take hours more to disappear completely. He knows the odor makes her nervous, so he agrees, even though he’d rather spend the afternoon sleeping off his headache. Maybe a cold shower, another cup of Willa’s bitter-strong coffee, and if he’s lucky he could doze for hours without dreaming     They take the subway up to Fifth, follow the eastern edge of the park north, past the zoo and East Green all the way to Pilgrim Hill and the Conservatory Pond. It’s not so very hot that there aren’t a few model sailing ships on the pond, just enough breeze to keep their miniature Bermuda sails standing tall and taut as shark fins. Frank and Willa sit in the shade near the Alice in Wonderland statue, her favorite spot in all of Central Park, rocky place near the tea party, granite and rustling leaves, the clean laughter of children climbing about on the huge, bronze mushrooms. A little girl with frizzy black hair and red and white peppermint-striped tights is petting the kitten in Alice’s lap, stroking its metal fur and meowling loudly, and “I can’t ever remember her name,” Willa says.     ”What?” Frank asks. “Whose name?” not sure if she means the little girl or the kitten or something else entirely.     ”Alice’s kitten. I know it had a name, but I never can remember it.”     Frank watches the little girl for a moment, and “Dinah,” he says. “I think the kitten’s name was Dinah.”     ”Oh, yeah, Dinah. That’s it,” and he knows that she’s just thinking out loud, whatever comes to mind so that she won’t have to talk about last night, so the conversation won’t accidentally find its own way back to those few drowning moments of chartreuse light and eel shadows. Trying so hard to pretend and he almost decides they’re both better off if he plays along and doesn’t show her Dr. Solomon Monalisa’s white calling card.     ”That’s a good name for a cat,” she says. “If we ever get a kitten, I think I’ll name it Dinah.”     ”Mrs. Wu doesn’t like cats.”     ”Well, we’re not going to spend the rest of our lives in that dump. Next time, we’ll get an apartment that allows cats.”     Frank takes the card out and lays his wallet on the grass, but Willa hasn’t even noticed, too busy watching the children clambering about on Alice, too busy dreaming about kittens. The card is creased and smudged from a week riding around in his back pocket and all the handling it’s suffered, the edges beginning to fray, and he gives it to her without any explanation.     ”What’s this?” she asks and he tells her to read it first, just read it, so she does. Reads it two or three times and then Willa returns the card, goes back to watching the children. But her expression has changed, the labored, make-believe smile gone now and she just looks like herself again, plain old Willa, the distance in her eyes, the hard angles at the corners of her mouth that aren’t quite a frown.     ”Sidney says he’s for real,” half the truth, at best, and Frank glances down at the card, reading it again for the hundredth or two-hundredth time     ”Sidney McAvoy’s a fucking lunatic.”     ”He says this guy has maps—“     ”Christ, Frank. What do you want me to say? You want me to give you permission to go talk to some crackpot? You don’t need my permission.”     ”I was hoping you’d come with me,” he says so softly that he’s almost whispering, and he puts the card back into his wallet where neither of them will have to look at it, stuffs the wallet back into his jeans pocket.     ”Well, I won’t. I go to your goddamn meetings. I already have to listen to that asshole Zaroba. That’s enough for me, thank you very much. That’s more than enough.”     The little girl petting Dinah slips, loses her footing and almost slides backwards off the edge of the sculpture, but her mother catches her and sets her safely on the ground.     ””I see what it’s doing to you,” Frank says. “I have to watch. How much longer do you think you can go on like this?”     She doesn’t answer him, opens her purse and takes out a pack of cigarettes, only one left and she crumbles the empty package and tosses it over her shoulder into the bushes.     ”What if this guy really can help you? What if he can make it stop?”     Willa is digging noisily around in her purse, trying to find her lighter or a book of matches, and she turns and stares at Frank, the cigarette hanging unlit from her lips. Her eyes shining bright as broken gemstones, shattered crystal eyes, furious, resentful, and he knows that she could hate him, that she could leave him here and never look back. She takes the cigarette from her mouth, licks her upper lip, and for a long moment Willa holds the tip of her tongue trapped tight between her teeth.     ”What the hell makes you think I want it to stop?”     And silence as what she’s said sinks in and he begins to understand that he’s never understood her at all. “It’s killing you,” he says, finally, the only thing he can think to say, and Willa’s eyes seem to flash and grow brighter, more broken, more eager to slice.     ”No, Frank, it’s the only thing keeping me alive. Knowing that it’s out there, that I’ll see it again, and someday maybe it won’t make me come back here.”     And then she gets up and walks quickly away towards the pond, brisk, determined steps to put more distance between them. She stops long enough to bum a light from an old black man with a dachshund, then ducks around one corner of the boathouse and he can’t see her anymore. Frank doesn’t follow, sits watching the tiny sailboats and yachts gliding gracefully across the moss-dark surface of the water, their silent choreography of wakes and ripples. He decides maybe it’s better not to worry about Willa for now, plenty of time for that later and he wonders what he’ll say to Monalisa when he finds him.

We shall be less apt to admire what this World calls great, shall nobly despise those Trifles the generality of Men set their Affections on, when we know that there are a multitude of such Earths inhabited and adorn’d as well as our own.                                                                       CHRISTIAAN HUYGENS (c. 1690)

[sturdybackbone]

aubade to things long since past

plum-hued eyes and a misty morning balcony

I. “What are you cooking?” You ask, voice high and light, scratchy and half-raw in that way that young children’s voices are. You are four. Your hands are on the countertop, and your feet, buried in the slippers everyone wears inside the house, are standing on their tiptoes. You are not a tall child. You have never been, nor ever will be. Your mother flinches, as if struck. Her fingers still. She is cutting green onions, the knife gone still and dead at your little piping voice. Knives are fascinating things. Sharp and glinting and something like half-alive, at times, gliding and cutting and then being stowed away like a coveted, precious thing. Her great big white eyes stare down at you, and you blink up at her. And then, you shift on the spot, uncomfortable in your own brown slippers. Once upon a time, Sveta had clued paper eyes and ears scribbed brown onto them, to make it seem like you were wearing little bears. All that remained of that was the marks left by hot wax. “…You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t wanna.” You say, eyes drooping and drooping down until they cling to the pale floorboards. She stares. Her fingers, pale and skinny and bony, tighten around the knife. She speaks, now. Translated to English, the words are too harsh to be ‘Go away’, but are too soft to be ‘Fuck off’. Mother never swears, not like Father does, and never will. But the intention is still the same. The firmness is still there. The shaking fear there too would have made a creature smarter and older than you pause and think. But you are a little child. And when your mother spits at you in a cruel tone, all you can do is stare up at her with big wet eyes and a trembling lip, and then stagger away, into the arms of someone who can grant you comfort. The problem was, Mother was your comfort. And when you stagger to Sveta, her shoulders draw up tight, up to her ears, and even though you crawl and writhe onto her little lap, fishing for attention as you feel heat and wetness on your cheeks, all she can do is stare into the empty room, fingers tight around her dolls, and say nothing even as her own eyes shine. You wring your arms around her neck and you taste snot and salt on your lips, as you open your mouth, about to wail something out, in the needy and high tones of a child scarcely grown from infanthood. And then your face burns, and your bum and your back is on the wooden floor, and you are blinking up at your red haired, red faced sister. Who looks down at you, eyes wide and white in horror, and as your face scrunches up and your hands move to rub at your sore spots, you find her pudgy, childish hands joining them. She pulls you close, a girl of eight, and she speaks into your feathery black hair. The same hair as your father, your brother. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—” She chants into your scalp and you clasp around her like the little monkey you are, and weep into her chest, tears startlingly hot on your face. “Dad told me Dad told me and Mom and I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry—” You are a young boy of four. You do not know what cruelty is. What pain is, beyond a bleeding booboo you get at the playground that makes Mom pour iodine into your wound. Later on, you would pinpoint this moment, this memory, as the moment you realized that life would not be the same. That you floating out of that countryside chasm, by nothing but some secret power hidden in you all your life, would not bring along miracles and happiness and goodness. No.  But at the time, all you could do was cry and wail, wanting nothing more than for Mom’s hand soothing your hair, for Dad’s hand firm and solid on your shoulder. Instead, all Dad does, a few rooms over, is growl at the rumbling tv with beer bottles strewn all around him. All Mom does is gaze down at the knife in her hands with wide white eyes, and think how easy, how easy, how easy it would be. II. You are six. You are much, much, much wiser, and smarter, than the you that has been. But you are still a stupid little child. So monstrously stupid, that looking back, you faintly wonder how you didn’t drop dead from sheer stupidity. Two years. It has been two years, since you survived falling into a great hole which was meant to be your grave.  A lot can, and has, happened in two years. There was a time, once upon a time, when your Mother meant home, meant safety. When Father was a great big allmighty tree of endless knowledge. When life was still hard, but simpler. Better. You scarcely remember it. Six-year-olds are not famed for their memory, after all.

Mother is in the hospital. Little Maxim, still slumbering in her belly, was far too eager to claw his way out of her womb. Mother is just barely eight months pregnant, and yet, she’s in labour. Not like you really knew the finer details, like these, back then. All you knew was that mother was in the hospital, in a furious fight with your unborn little brother. There’s a small degree of satisfaction, there. Of not being the littlest male in the family anymore. That is, if your brother survives. But such a thought did not run through your head then. It was unthinkable, even as you read about all sorts of tales and books with deaths and heroics in them.   There had been a point, just a week ago, where you gloated about reading a hundred page book about the Greeks and Romans. You had been mighty proud of yourself. Like all children wishing to gloat, you took the book, pressed it to your chest, and toddled to your home. And stopped dead in your tracks, dirty sneakers poorly protecting you from the hot May asphalt of Moscow’s streets. And you turned back, face burning with the memory of what happened last time you did such a thing. Seeking Father in such a time. Paying back for the book, which had torn into so many little fluttering pieces under Father’s fingers, had taken an eternity. And had made the librarian’s eyes go from tender and soft to hard and averting.

LIttle you had not been truly looking to gloat. But to have a parent look down upon you, and be proud. To approve of you. To see worth in you. But in Father’s eyes, seeking approval and gloating were one and the same.

The last shrieking crimson baby in your family was Anya, but she had grown, and was now was a three-year-old girl with great bright eyes and thick red hair that was quite a few shades lighter than Sveta’s, almost shockingly bright. Her hair was the talk of all of the cooing adults. Sometimes, you wondered how you would look like with her hair. And shuddered at the mental results. The buds of sarcasm were just that, at this stage of your life. But they would not remain as such for long, bless little you. You’re avoiding it, you know? Avoiding this memory. Because what else am I to do? Let’s cut to the chase. This isn’t nearly the most traumatic memory you have, after all. There’s no need to simper about such a thing. Six is the age when Father hits you for the first time. Perhaps it is the stress of his wife being caught in a great labour, and him being stricken with worry. But if that was truly the case, he could have been there, in the hospital, holding her hand and soothing her hair away from her face. But he’s here. At home. Like some grey, pasty ghost, sitting on the floor in his dusty pants, a bottle of mostly empty vodka held like a lifeline in his hands. He stands, at some point, hand on the wall, supporting him as he staggers out in the cramped grey corridors of the apartment. You aren’t around to witness this, but you would presume that’s the case. You’ve seen it enough, after all. You’re huddled with Andrei and Sveta, who’s holding little Anya. Andrei has puffed his chest out, trying to soothe all of your worries, even as Anya frets and worries into Sveta’s shoulder, who provides her with quiet comfort. They are a comfortable trio, all on a squalid couch on their own. You, an outsider, sit on a sofa, leaning into them almost horizontal like. You’re not sitting on Father’s seat, of course, but on the guest seat. Uncle Vladimir’s. Sveta never sits on it. Neither will you, soon enough. They’re whispering and then Anya’s eyes grow shiny with tears as Andrei lets slip that, sometimes, sometimes, women don’t survive childbirth. And she wails. And Father, who had been having a very loud piss, hollars from across the apartment. You all still. Even Andrei, as much as he is his father’s favourite. And then the sound of Father shambling across the halls come, and as the door bursts open, Andrei and Sveta clench around Anya, and Andrei hisses, eyes shining with something that is not quite malice nor tears, “Artur did it!” Father’s bloodshot eyes shoot towards to the sofa where your little body sits. Instantly, your muscles tense, and your legs pull towards your body. Father looks worse than almost any other time you’ve seen him. He is all blotchy and pale and eyes both lined red and bloodshot. His lips are red, having been worried by his teeth so much. His nose is red. His hair has not been brushed or tended to in days. Andrei might be Father’s favourite. But everyone, from Mother to distant grandmothers to even yourself know that out of all of Nikoli Kalinkalovsky’s massive brood, you look the most like him. It is something you will hate hate hate hate in years to come. It will not be the only or first thing you hate about yourself, and nor will it be the last.

His eyes shine out of something that is not quite malice nor tears, though massively leaning towards the former, and he stomps to you, even as you see Andrei ease in your peripherals. Andrei is a vicious idiot, above everything else. But he still covets his normal family. And for you, so abnormal that you might not even family? Something not wholly different from delight shines in his eyes as he sees Father cross the distance.

Things happen quick. Father is hungover.  He is stressed. Fear has gripped his belly and wracked him raw with the powerlessness that comes when there is nothing you can do but wait and utterly rely on someone else. And, above all other things, the thing that Father loathed most was powerlessness. Even so young, you half-understand this concept already. A hand lunges for you, to try to grip your t-shirt and drag you up into the air. But, tragically, fight and willfulness has not yet been beaten out of you. And so you duck, and slide from under his left side. And find a wall against your back, and a brawny arm latching around your waist. You are just a touch slower than him. Trying to flee was your mistake. And you are rewarded by being shoved against the wall, and then pain blooms in your nose. There is a long, long, long moment where you do not know what has just happened. And all you are aware of is a pain that is almost acidic, seeping down into your bones, and causing your face to swell in pill-bitter pain. Warmth slides down your lips, and you taste tangy iron, and blood. Father, somehow, looks more surprised than you. His features are, somehow, more white, more wide, and it seems like his vicious hangover is cured, for a few moments. Even Andrei, the vicious idiot he is, is struck mute and still at the sight of your nose blooming with blood, and you squinting up at your father with confusion written all over your face. And then Father’s senses return to you. He hauls you by the front of your shirt, peers over at his other spawn, barks a “What?!?” Which makes all three of them flinch, and look down at the floor. Father tosses you onto the balcony, locking the door behind him. You don’t know what happens next. If he yells at your siblings, or immediately stomps away, or what. Because for the next several moments, all you can do is stare at the wall, even as the blood starts sliding towards your ear, and all you can feel, at the moment, is a bright hot betrayal that turns your innards cold and solid and gelid. Your throat burns. The corners of your eyes itch. You curl up, on old baskets and onions and old kitchen rags, your hands curled into fists at your eyes, and you bawl, face twisted up and little mewls slipping out of you. What is the point of crying, if no one will come to your aid, you wonder, as you nonetheless continue to weep.   Ah, so young, and already a philosopher. You wipe away blood and snot and tears with old rags and bundle them up and tuck them in your pocket to wash later. Your nose, when it dries, itches. You make the mistake of scratching it, and not only are you rewarded with more pain but fresh blood, too. Father develops a taste for smearing your face with blood very, very quickly. It’s the catharsis, the power, he’s been looking for this entire time, you suppose. Or maybe he’s simply bored. Mother comes back two weeks later. In her absence, Sveta, the oldest girl, and you, the one entrusted with a good few simple chores, have systematically burned and butchered your way through many meals which made Andrei cough soot and Father’s fists grow itchy. You wonder, faintly, how long he’s been waiting to strike you. Mom is wan and more skinny and haggard than ever before, and, behind her, Father cradles Maxim with something like horror in his expression. He had a similar expression when Anya was born, you think, but you can’t really recall. Fatherhood does not suit him. Mother stumbles into the house, all but dropping out of her coat and shoes, and she turns to her children. One of them sports a great purple bruise on his face, and a nose that’s still a bit red and fragile to the touch. She pauses and looks and looks and looks, her expression unreadable, as Father, behind her, shifts from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with holding such a vulnerable little creature in his arms. Maxim, in turn, does not seem comfortable in being held by his darling sire. Mother sniffles. Her head raises. Her jaw tenses, and then relaxes. There is a moment, here. A moment, in which, things could have gone so, so, so differently. There was steel, in her gaze, for a moment. You are not accustomed to seeing anything less but mewling patheticness in her. There is a moment in which a world bloomed in front of you, a world where you are happy. But Father clears his throat behind her, and she tenses and she jumps and she instantly dots on little Maxim, and then fusses about the state of the apartment, where Father replies that it’s like this because she wasn’t here to tend to it. When her eyes wander back over to you, your eyes are shiny, and you are biting your lip to keep it still. Her eyes are blank. And blank forever more.

[junker-town]

A Thanksgiving sides draft, because we are a sports website

Photo by: Anjelika Gretskaia/REDA&CO/Universal Images Group via Getty Images

2 sides, 1 dessert, 1 drink. Whose Thanksgiving reigns supreme?

Thanksgiving dinner has never been about turkey.

The focal point of the biggest meal of the holiday season can be brined, roasted, or fried, but it will never escape its fate as lean, bland bird meat. On its own, it’s more of a lowkey punishment than the centerpiece of a celebration.

That’s why we have side dishes. The heart of Thanksgiving is the supporting cast that soaks across your plate and imparts a little extra flavor to the day’s starring attraction. Good sides are a meal on their own, reduced to complementary status in the name of an hour-long gorging. They even get their own stewards thanks to the presence of desserts and beverages tasked with cleaning the whole mess up.

Put all that together, and you’ve got one hell of a meal. And, for the dads of the nation, a prelude to the greatest recliner nap they’ll take all year.

In the interest of celebrating the one celebration of America that doesn’t involve hot dogs, we turned the perfect Thanksgiving meal into a competition. Five SB Nation writers joined forced to draft their ideal meals. The ground rules:

everyone starts with turkey and gravy

everyone drafts two sides, one dessert, and one beverage (adult or otherwise)

sides must be fundamentally different from one another to be considered a viable alternative to an already-picked food (i.e. sausage and herb stuffing vs. Stove-Top is good to go, but pumpkin pie vs. pumpkin pie with whipped cream is not).

Our four-round draft was a randomly-assigned snake draft, and our managers could pick sides, dessert, or beverage in any round of their choice. These are the results:

1. Stuffing — Louis Bien

Easily the MVP of every Thanksgiving dinner. Stuffing stands up well on its own, but it pairs with everything else beautifully, too. Stuffing complements everything around it, and everything complements stuffing. It just tastes like Thanksgiving. And it saves amazingly well for next-day sandwiches. Some people like to add sausage to their stuffing, but that’s one job too many for what is essentially the do-it-all point guard of any feast. Let stuffing be the giver that it is.

Christian D’Andrea: Cool man. You took breadcrumbs cooked inside a bird anus No. 1 overall.

Alex McDaniel: If Stove Top is No. 1, let’s give up now.

2. Mashed potatoes — Christian D’Andrea

An easy choice. Mashed potatoes are the glue that you dip your turkey in so that other, better foods (stuffing, cranberry sauce, corn, etc) will stick to the bird and thus make it taste like something. It’s also instrumental in the post-meal leftover sandwich, which is easily the best part of Thanksgiving (old man naps while seating completely upright aside).

Fooch: I’d like to continue shit-talking Louis on this one. Forget stuffing — mashed potatoes is the go-to side. Mashed potatoes is the Orlando Pace of this draft. The offensive tackle prospect that you know will turn into a Hall of Famer. It’s not a sexy pick, but like Christian said (when he wasn’t trashing my old man choices), it’s the glue of the Thanksgiving meal.

Louis: Boxed fake mashed potatoes >>>>>>> real mashed potatoes. I will take no more questions at this time.

3. Cranberry sauce (Ocean Spray) — David Fucillo

I’ve learned to enjoy fancy cranberry sauce, but nothing tops the gelatin version! Some will mock me for my distaste of gravy, but this actually serves as my choice of gravy. I combine all my sides together with the turkey, and the cranberry sauce is what keeps it from turning into a lumpy mess.

Louis: This is high for cranberry sauce, but I get that people really love it, and I like the gelatin version over the Real Stuff, too. But I will NOT abide this gravy slander, sir.

4. Cornbread dressing — Alex McDaniel

Aside from being the Thanksgiving dish most likely to start a family fight over the right way to make it, cornbread dressing is the quintessential side-that-could-also-be-a-meal holiday food. (It’s also way better than stuffing in that we don’t shove dressing up a bird’s ass.)

Louis: Y’all know you don’t have to cook stuffing in the turkey’s butt, right?

5. Pumpkin pie — Eric Stephen

In theory I probably should have picked a side dish here, but since I had two picks back-to-back I wanted to give the Thanksgiving dessert its proper due as a first-round pick. Pumpkin pie is not something that should be eaten year round, but it is a Thanksgiving staple. There was no way this was lasting until the end of the third round, so I had to make sure to grab my dessert — the dessert — right away.

Fooch: Every draft requires someone forgetting that a selection already happened. I was psyched to take pumpkin pie in the third round, only to realize I missed Eric taking it with the fifth overall pick. Pumpkin pie with whipped cream is what Thanksgiving is all about. I probably should have taken it over cranberry sauce, but such is life.

6. Green bean casserole — Eric Stephen

I have to be honest here: for the overwhelming bulk of my Thanksgiving dinners, I’ve had fairly standard green beans, maybe spruced up with bacon here and there. But green bean casserole is the ultimate comfort food, and perhaps more importantly it’s one of the easiest sides to make — green beans, cream of mushroom soup, and fried onions — which is important for those of us who aren’t hosting but rather bringing something to the table.

Christian: Easily the worst kind of bean. I appreciate the casserole’s commitment to making a healthy food so capable of bringing on a stroke.

Louis: Is there any part of green bean casserole that actually tastes good other than the French’s fried onions sprinkled on top?

Fooch: The fact that Christian shit-talked my Brussels sprouts the way he did and doesn’t offer nearly enough hate for green bean casserole is just unacceptable.

7. Sweet potato casserole — Alex McDaniel

I’m not sure why I didn’t make this my first pick because it’s undeniably the most on-brand example of Thanksgiving indulgence in existence. How do you make sweet potatoes, a naturally tasty and good-for-you food, more appealing? Mix them with a shitload of butter and brown sugar and eggs and vanilla before topping them off with marshmallows and EVEN MORE butter and brown sugar. Plus, it’s the only dish other than boring-ass cranberry sauce that counts as a side AND a dessert.

Christian: A dessert as a side dish? You really are from the South.

8. Brussels sprouts (with balsamic glaze) — David Fucillo

A vegetable I would never eat as a kid I have grown to love as an adult. I’d be fine with just a basic sprout dish cooked with some salt, pepper and garlic. In reality, a balsamic glaze and potentially some bacon takes this side to a whole other level.

Christian: Of course the guy who picked candy corn and raisins at Halloween wants Brussels sprouts, the villain food from every Nicktoon from 1992-1998. Enjoy your tiny cabbages, old man.

9. Sausage and herb stuffing — Christian D’Andrea

How do you improve on stuffing? Add a bunch of pig fat to it. This is effectively a breakfast sandwich, blended down into spoonable form. I love every word in that sentence, so that’s an easy pick for me.

Louis: Talks shit about stuffing then takes the frozen Jimmy Dean’s version of it eight picks later. OK.

10. Spiced peaches — Louis Bien

It was slim pickings for sides at this point of the draft outside of [Insert vegetable] and [Insert starch]. But spiced peaches are a nice curveball on the plate — sweet and tart and delicious. Who cares that they don’t actually go with anything.

Alex McDaniel: It’s hard for me to talk shit about such a delightfully Southern dish, but I’m guessing spiced peaches in Wisconsin just means throwing some cinnamon on a Del Monte fruit cup and calling it a day.

11. Rye old fashioned — Louis Bien

A simple, noble, delicious cocktail that tastes like the embodiment of crackling fireplaces, cozy sweaters and fucking off from work.

Christian: You went to the University of Wisconsin and chose rye over brandy for your old fashioneds. The city of Madison will judge you for this. Harshly and drunkenly, as is tradition.

Louis: Do I get to rebut in the comment section? Listen, I hear you, but brandy hurts, man.

12. Cheesecake — Christian D’Andrea

A top five dessert after any meal. Can be topped with literally any fruit in order to make it healthy.

“Healthy.”

Louis: Yes, that’s exactly what I want after my 20-pound meal, a sugar bomb with the density of a red dwarf.

13. Roasted potatoes — David Fucillo

Gotta have a starch and I couldn’t justify scalloped potatoes. Mashed potatoes are the easy choice, but a quality toasted potato can bring a little something extra.

Christian: How difficult was it for you to pass up “rolls” or “water” here?

Louis: “Mmm, pass the filler please.”

Eric: This is a great side, but missing only one step: mashing the potatoes.

14. Hot bourbon cider — Alex McDaniel

Adding bourbon to apple cider is a) delicious and b) more socially acceptable than drinking straight whiskey from a Solo cup at the Thanksgiving table. Or so I’ve heard.

Christian: The only thing I don’t like about this pick is your Solo cup bias. Next you’re going to tell me everyone sits on chairs that don’t fold up at your house and the kids’ section isn’t just a three-legged card table.

15. Mac n’ cheese — Eric Stephen

The gamble in picking my dessert first meant that most of the good sides would be snatched up by this time of the draft. But what could be better to add to Thanksgiving than one of the best side dishes for any meal? Mac n’ cheese is delicious whether out of a box or made from scratch, and for an extra touch maybe through some bacon in there since I didn’t get to add them to my green beans above.

Louis: I am probably very, very alone in this, but I love mac n’ cheese in pretty much every context except Thanksgiving. Here’s a sumptuous banquet of Earth’s bounty, and also cheddar noodles.

16. Boring-ass regular cider — Eric Stephen

I suppose I could have just picked a beer, or even tequila here (man, that would hit the spot right now), I picked a beverage I have in my kitchen at this very moment. Yes it’s relatively plain, and non-alcoholic, but the spicy warm beverage is just perfect for the holidays, and hit the spot.

Christian: Warm Dr. Pepper was RIGHT THERE.

17. Salted caramel pie — Alex McDaniel

Listen. If you eat a bunch of rich and/or sweet stuff at dinner, maybe DON’T make this your dessert choice. Eat some Jell-O and go lie down. But if you kept things dry and boring, salted caramel pie is the dessert you DESERVE, not to mention a hell of a lot more creative than standard, boring, embarrassingly un-salted pies.

Christian: Is the recipe for this just “salt, sugar, butter, milk” and then a shrug emoji?

18. Hot buttered rum — David Fucillo

I’m not a big holiday drinker, but this just seems like a quality option during a cold, winter evening. Why get complicated?

Christian: OLD. MAN. PICK. Fooch drafted himself a Thanksgiving meal he read about once in a Dickens novel.

19. Porters/brown ales (like say, Tyranena’s Rocky’s Revenge?) — Christian D’Andrea

A good warming beer to ease in the oncoming winter. Nothing sets up the 4 p.m. hibernation break quite like a couple beers to wash down the week’s worth of carbohydrates you just ate.

(Tyranena, please send me stuff.)

Fooch: I love a good porter or brown ale, but I can’t even begin to imagine trying to drink this during or right after a huge Thanksgiving meal. I’m a glutton when it comes to this meal, but this would knock me on my ass before I even finished eating. I at least like to make it back to the television and pass out while watching football.

20. Ritz cracker pie — Louis Bien

I think this goes by mock apple pie in some circles, but we usually make this with pecans and/or walnuts in the mix, too. Ritz cracker pie is light and fluffy and sweet and perfect after over-gorging on everything else. I almost always end up having some for breakfast the next day.

Christian: I ... have no idea what this is?

(Ritz, please send Louis stuff.)

Our final results:

So who won our inaugural Thanksgiving sides draft? Throw your vote in below. The winner will earn a smidge of pride. The loser will be mocked relentlessly for having terrible taste.

If you can’t see the poll, click here.

[myaekingheart]

I feel like I've been doing nothing but running around for days and I hate it, I have no energy, I don't have any breaks from this point forward. I just...I'm so tired.

Last week was the only possible summer break I was gonna get considering I have to take summer courses this year so I spent the entire week making the best of my time off, sleeping in late and staying up late and just overall being a lazy bum. I didn't really have any opportunities to get school supplies between my parents' work schedules and how slow some of my teachers were with uploading their syllabi and stuff so I just figured I could buy everything during the first week when I got back. I felt like most teachers don't require you to have all the stuff on the very first day, anyways. After all, I ordered my textbooks either through Amazon or the school's bookstore's website so I could just pick them up today and everything would be golden. It honestly feels like I've been running non-stop since Friday, though. We had meatloaf for dinner on Thursday night and it didn't taste right, but I don't know if there was actually something wrong with it or if it was just my nerves acting up on me. My parents said it tasted fine to them. I was up all night with bathroom problems and insomnia. I ended up only getting four and a half hours of sleep that night and had to be up super early that morning for my big birthday trip. I was going to spend my birthday weekend with my boyfriend, which I couldn't have been more excited about. That fact didn't exactly help my insomnia. Actually, it pretty much caused it. Anyway, I had to be up bright and early at 8am (which is early for me) so we could leave by 9:30am. We decided to take my grandma's car because it's bigger and we definitely needed the space. Me, my parents, my grandmother, and my boyfriend's mother all piled into the car together and spent the longest car ride ever all crammed into the same car. Normally the ride is only 4.5 hours long and I thought I might be able to sleep on the trip up but that wasn't happening. I was smushed in the middle of the backseat between both my mom and his with a shitty stomach. I brushed it off as nerves, getting that same excited butterfly feeling as a kid on the day of a field trip does. I couldn't even eat breakfast and so my stomach was caught between feeling deathly hungry and disgustingly crampy. It was hunger and nausea and almost even PMS like cramps all at once. It was that kind of nausea where no matter how hungry you are, getting near food makes your gag reflex go off and you have to force yourself to swallow every bite you take. Also didn't help that I kept suffering from some serious cotton-mouth so it kept feeling like I had to try and dry swallow my food. We stopped at a McDonald's halfway through the drive and I tried my best to eat my burger and fries but all I could think about was how weirdly colored the burger looked and how there were too many onions, too much ketchup and mustard, how bothersome my stomach felt, and that Viggo Mortensen quote about the stark contrast between a freshly made and cold McDonald's fry. Also didn't help that we decided to sit outside where it was hot as hell and a million birds kept eyeing us up trying to get to our food, coming dangerously close with their mouths open. Between that little break and a setback after nearly getting in a car accident (we had only been on the road about a 45mins to an hour, it seems, when the car in front of us got in a brutal accident where the entire front of his vehicle got smashed in and it was my dad's responsibility was to pull over, assess the damage, make sure everyone was okay, and wait until highway patrol showed up), we got to my boyfriend's house much later than anticipated. It was about 4pm when we showed up-- I was tired and nauseous and I wanted nothing more than to just relax and spend time with my boyfriend. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. He had work at 5pm which meant he left the house at 4:30pm and he didn't get off until 11:30pm. Rather than just go straight to bed, his mother and I chilled on the couch for a very short period of time before my parents and grandma showed up and we all went out for pizza. On one hand, I was happy to have gone since the pizza place we went to makes great, ginormous pizzas (their motto is literally "Slices as big as your head") and the atmosphere of the restaurant itself is really cool but on the other hand, I was so tired and felt so sick, I was in one of those states where a part of me just wanted to go to bed but the other half knew I would never be able to get to sleep anyways so I might as well say fuck it and suffer. Like always, we had a lot of leftovers so we packed up the remaining slices in a box to take back to my boyfriend for when he got off work. Considering my parents had never seen my boyfriend's workplace before, we decided to go walk around and check it the local store. HIs mother and I have been there countless times but my parents and grandmother never had so it was nice getting to show them around and see my boyfriend a bit in the process. We had to buy a couple things, anyways. The place was pretty much dead except for a few late-night stragglers but it was kind of funny having such a big group of people all in different places wandering around the store. I don't know why but I kind of liked the feel of it. There's something kind of satisfying about it to me for some strange reason. We left the place at about 9 or 9:30 and his mother and I went back to his place where I pretty much went straight to bed. I slept for a few hours before my boyfriend accidentally woke me up when he came home, turning on the light and taking his shoes off. He was exhausted-- and after a shift like that, who wouldn't be?-- but at least he was able to get Saturday (my birthday) off, which I was unbelievably pleased to hear. He went to sleep pretty easily but I, on the other hand, had trouble falling back asleep. I kept tossing and turning, my stomach was killing me, and all I could think about was my birthday the next day. I've always gotten relatively anxious on and around my birthday but moreso this year than ever. Ironically enough, it all leads back to my mom. When I was a kid, she treated every holiday and birthday like it was this huge, special event and she'd always go all out. She wanted to make each holiday super fucking special which I understand because they're big days and they deserve to be treated as such but at the same time, it always makes me feel like every holiday needs to be picture perfect and that we need to go all out every year and make a huge deal out of everything. It adds a lot of unnecessary anxiety that I truthfully hate but have no idea how to ever get rid of. This year, however, it was even more than just that looming over my head. My birthday last year was absolutely terrible. I had had a difficult year and was looking forward to wiping the slate clean once I turned 19 only to spend the majority of my birthday stuck in a hospital triage room right across the hallway from the bathroom where some woman was violently puking with the door wide open. My mom had her coworkers at the doctor's office she works at across the street take her blood pressure just out of sheer curiosity and it was something like 200/80 and she was rushed right to the emergency room for fear of having a stroke. It was pretty much the worst birthday of my life both because of how I spent it (from the selfish perspective) and the fact that my mom very much coudld've suffered from a stroke or worse, died. I know the odds of something like that happening again were next to none but at the same time, I just couldn't help but fear that something terrible might happen again. Of course, the car accident on the drive up wasn't great but at least nobody was physically hurt. Not only that, but the thought of turning 20 was terrifying to me. I'm still terrified by it. Teenagerhood is just such a huge part of life, it's such a time of change and experience, that it felt weird leaving it behind and having to admit that I am officially, undoubtedly an adult now. There's no turning back. I'm stuck here and it's just going to continue getting worse and worse from here on out. Nothing made me realize this more than my actual birthday, though. I woke up way too early only to end up going back to sleep and being woken up by his mother (the both of us). We all had plans, important things we needed to take care of. I didn't have the luxury of laying around in my pajamas watching TV all day. Yep, gone are the days of celebrating by doing nothing. Instead, I spent the day doing perhaps the most adult thing ever: househunting. And that's when things really started to hit me. My boyfriend and I drove around in his car with my parents and his mom and my grandma all in her car either following or leading us. It was kind of tedious but more than that, it was terrifying. It wasn't until we were driving around looking at these places that I realized the reality of the situation. I was 20 years old, in a serious relationship, and preparing to get my associate's degree and move out of my parent's house and into an apartment with my boyfriend where I'd be attending a university for an even bigger degree. The reality of that was absolutely horrifying to me not because I don't want that because I do-- believe me, I do-- but more because I don't think I quite realized how grown-up I was becoming before. Now all of a sudden I'm an adult-- really, truly, officially an adult and I have all these adult plans and responsibilities. I just feel like everything came up so quickly and I almost don't know if I'm ready for it all yet. I'm scared. Of course, this didn't help my stomach issues and left me feeling even sicker by the time dinner rolled around. My grandma was getting crabby looking at houses-- she doesn't want me to leave and was making it very difficult to think critically about things considering she was convinced the first place we looked at, some shitty place in the ghetto where someone got shot on the next street over, was the best possible place for us and then even said "I think she should just stay home and finish her four year degree at the college she's at now" to which my dad apparently nearly jumped on her and very frustratedly said "THEY DON'T OFFER WHAT SHE WANTS TO DO HERE" which is very true. They went back to their hotel afterwards but my boyfriend, his mom, and I drove around a bit more afterwards to check out a few other places on our own. Afterwards, we went back to his place to chill for a little bit before leaving for my birthday dinner. I was originally excited because I had made plans to have dinner at one of my favorite Asian restaurants in the area, a super casual place with really great food, but I was honestly so shaken up/panicky that I could barely eat and decided to scrap my plans of having Fat Boy ice cream sandwiches instead of birthday cake afterward. I honestly felt disappointed in myself for feeling the way I did and deciding to call off the celebration like that but at the same time, I knew I wasn't feeling great and that if I pushed my feelings aside and just powered through, I knew I'd get sick which would just completely ruin my birthday. I don't think I've ever vomitted on my birthday and I really hope I never do. Things like that happening on holidays just make me so outraeously nervous, and I know if it ever did happen I'd be traumatized and terrified for every year thereafter that it would happen again (I think it's important to note that I am highly emetophobic). It made me feel even worse considering my cousin and his wife, whose wedding I attended in February, drove down from their nearby town to join us for dinner and such afterwards. This would be the third time we've all been together for some meal-inclusive event, two of which I have ended up feeling sick and panicky like this during (the other being their wedding reception). They insisted on getting these cookies from this place nearby considering the ice cream sandwiches weren't going to happen but I didn't eat any of those, either. After dinner, they followed my parents and grandma back to their hotel in the middle of nowhere (which was honestly really eerie and I hated going there) which my boyfriend and his mother and I went to after stopping at the grocery store to pick up some lottery tickets she insisted I fill out and get for my birthday. Once we got to my parents' hotel, we sat around talking and I opened my presents from my grandma, my boyfriend, and his mother-- my cousin and his wife didn't get me anything and I opened the stuff from my parents the night before we left. After my cousin and his wife left, we stuck around for a little while longer where the conversation took a very discomforting turn. Somehow we got on the subject of deadly injuries to which my dad outlined in great detail his major accident back in the 1980s when he nearly lost his arm in a printing press. I've heard the story before but he went into great detail with the help of my grandmother about all the disgusting things I really didn't want to hear about on my birthday with an already queasy stomach. We left shortly after to go back to my boyfriend's place where we sat up and watched about five episodes of Rick and Morty together (neither of us had ever watched it before but decided to give it a shot, after my boyfriend convinced me through it's parody-ness of Back to the Future) before heading to bed which I started feeling a little better after but still not great. I hated waking up Sunday morning knowing I would have to leave that day and my stomach still wasn't feeling great when I first woke up, but after a while I started to come around a little bit. My parents and grandma had already eaten breakfast at their hotel and after checking out, drove around town a bit looking at some of the other places they didn't get to see yesterday and reconsidering some of the places they did see. By the time my boyfriend and I woke up and got ready, it was nearly noon and we hadn't eaten anything yet that day so we met up with my family at a local McDonalds to get something to eat and then met up back at my boyfriend's place to start packing our stuff into the car and get ready to head out. I hated leaving but I knew I had no choice. My boyfriend had to be into work at 2pm anyways so we left right before he had to leave, anyways. I didn't cry this time but I was definitely still extremely sad to say goodbye to him. All I really wanted to do was just stay in bed all day with him and try and nurse my stomach back to health but I knew that wasn't possible. He had work that afternoon and I had class the next day. So long as I was leaving, though, once I was in the car I wanted nothing more than to be home as soon as possible. I was cramped in the backseat yet again and this time my grandma was even crabbier than she had been before (even though she had honestly been crabby all weekend between the apartment issue, the university comment, and some other things: we were looking at this one place and she said some snarky remark to me about "You've got champagne taste but a beer wallet" insinuating that just because I had a limited budget to spend on housing that I had to live somewhere crappy or something [I just about jumped on her when she said that honestly]; at the hotel after opening my presents, I kept begging everyone to please stop talking about the gross shit because I was already nauseous and was starting to feel even sicker, to which my grandma said I needed to be stronger and started going off on this morality rant about how even though we've all been through shit, just proves we need to be stronger or something; that last one ties into something she said on the car ride home. She was commenting on my nervous stomach issues again (and my anxiety) and told me that if I didn't get over it, I'd never get to my mom's age or something as if she was insinuating that I'd die if I kept this stuff up. As if that is supposed to calm my anxiety. I nearly jumped on her then, too, and both my mom and my boyfriend's could see I was pissed but I held my tongue, took a shot of my water, and just folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in my seat. If anything, I felt bad for my boyfriend's mother-- she had never really experienced my grandmother's ultimate bitchiness firsthand before but now she knows what we have to put up with-- she was telling me how the woman was just complaining about every little thing the entire time we were driving around looking at places to rent.). The drive home felt even longer than ever, though, which didn't help. We stopped at the halfway point to get an early dinner at one of my dad's favorite Irish pubs, to which I ordered some great mac-n-cheese and ate quite a bit of it (more than I ever had before, truthfully) but even after getting some of my appetite back then, I still felt icky on the ride home. I was so terrified that the dinner wasn't going to agree with my stomach and I'd get sick or something. I think the fact we were in my grandma's car didn't help since it has a very distinct and very disgusting new car smell that was a trademark of any car my late grandpop owned considering he was a mechanic and took pride in his car. I vomited in his car once when I was really little and ever since, that smell has always made me nauseated. I definitely think that was a factor in my nervousness this past weekend, as well. But anyways, I kept trying to nap on the drive home but was never really all that successful. There was one brief period where my mom and I both fell asleep, which my boyfriend's mother got a picture of and sent to my boyfriend, but other than that, every other attempt was pretty futile. By the time we got home, the sun was just setting and everyone filed out back to their own living spaces pretty quickly. My grandma and boyfriend's mother said goodbye and went back home and my parents and I filed back into our rooms to unpack and get some sleep. Unfortunately, because of me, they got less sleep than they should've. Knowing I was starting my summer classes the next day, I logged onto my school account to make sure everything was squared away and prepared for the upcoming week of classes. However, when I got onto Canvas, the class that was supposed to start tonight was never published. In fact, it had completely disappeared as if it had never been there in the first place. I seriously panicked, my first instinct being "oh my god it was cancelled." I checked my student email and sure enough, there was a message in there from Thursday night saying the class had been cancelled due to low enrollment. Needless to say, I fucking panicked. I lost my shit. I had spent such time meticulously trying to plan out my schedule and make everything work, make all the classes fit together like perfect puzzle pieces, and then the school goes and pulls this shit. There was no way I'd be able to slide with only three classes, either. I needed those credits. I basically barged into my parents room and woke them up screaming crying, having a total panic attack. I was at a loss. I had no idea what the fuck to do. So much was weighing on this semester that any fuck up whatsoever could cost me so much and affect not only myself but my boyfriend, too. There was way too much at stake. My mom and dad ended up coming into my room to try and figure what was going on and what had happened, and how to fix it, when I tearfully checked the course catalog and found a Spanish class that was at the same time on the same days for the same period of time as the other class I was registered for. I didn't really want to take a Spanish class after having already fulfiled the foreign language requirement for my degree in high school (I took three years of Spanish freshman through junior year) but it was the only thing that would work. Now my big concern was whether it would fulfill the elective credits I still needed. I figured it would since I couldn't imagine it fitting in anywhere else but at the same time, I wasn't entirely sure of anything anymore and was honestly very skeptical. Signing up for this class when I did, however, meant I had to prepare for the class in less than 24 hours which was definitely way more stressful than I needed. I paid for the class as soon as possible and spent the entire day running around like a chicken with it's head cut off trying to get shit straightened out. I had to fix my schedule page in my binder, get all my notebooks for all my classes which I didn't have time to do last week, print out the original receipt for the books I ordered, pick up the books I ordered from the campus bookstore, get a refund on the one for the class I was signed up for and purchase the book for the Spanish course instead, and then actually go to the Spanish class on top of some personal shit like washing my sheets, washing myself, and picking up the dog from the kennel he was staying in over the weekend. By the time everything was finished and I had checked out all the books I needed, I had fifteen minutes to get to class. I made it there in time, thank god, but apparently my teacher did not. She showed up about ten minutes late which sent me in a panic because there were signs on the door about cancelled Spanish classes and I was honestly so freaking terrified that one of them was for mine. I didn't have the strength to go through that again. The only reassuring thing was the fact that there were other people from my class standing outside waiting for the teacher, as well. I felt nothing short of relief when she finally did show up, and then struggled through the entire rest of the class with how dreadfully bored I was. The thing I never quite realized/expected fully was the reality of taking a class about material you already know, though. It was weird because all of this stuff was so familiar to me and yet at the same time, it's been three years since I've taken a Spanish class, just about, and I realized that there were a lot of things I had forgotten, too. I never really kept up with it after school so my retention slowly declined. Or maybe it was just that I was incredibly tired and sore all over from god only knows what and was fighting sleep the entire time. Probably a little of both, to be honest. Either way, the entire day was a fucking whirlwind and now I know i have to go back tomorow even earlier and do the class thing all over again. It's terrible, honestly, though. First day in and I'm already dead tired and wanting to quit. A part of me deep down just wants to quit, to give up, but I know I can't. I feel strange and uncomfortable taking summer classes, knowing all the public school kids will be out for summer in a week or so meanwhile I'll be stuck in classrooms doing schoolwork until August. It almost feels like some parallel dimension or vivid fever dream where nothing is quite right and everything feels nauseatingly uncomfortable. In a way, I almost somehow feel like I'm back in high school again. That's really weird and makes absolutely no sense but it's true. I feel weird and uncomfortable and unnerved and I know deep down it's not just about the summer classes. It's about everything. There's so many changes going on these days and everything is happening so quickly, I don't quite know how to handle all of it, to tell you the truth. Everyone is leaving, including myself, and it feels like everything I've known and held familiar is slipping through my fingers. Before long, my room will be empty and I'll be living 300 miles away from my parents, a totally independent adult. Nothing will ever be the same again and that's terrifying. Everything is just happening so fast. I know I keep saying that-- at this point I feel like I need a Ferris Bueller cameo-- but it's true. Everything is moving so fucking fast.

[damnsam]

I wanna leave.

If there's one thing I can always expect from my family, it's that they don't want anything to do with me.

My day started of okay. I was in a good mood and I thought, "you know what, after what happened to me yesterday, I'm gonna have a cheat meal." I decided to have brunch and it was good. Not gonna lie, my mind was like, "okay, you had that. You can eat lunch again but you will not have rice because you ate 3 pieces of red velvet cream cheese brownies." I was fine with that because I honestly was full after my brunch. Here's where it started to go downhill AGAIN.

Lunch time came and our neighbour gave us food. Dad also cooked some and I liked it tbh. I always wanted to have a conversational meal with my family because we never really have that. I just thought maybe we could be like one of those families I always see in the movies or tv shows. (I felt really seen by Logic when we mentioned this scenario in one of his songs. I love him sm.) Anyway, I tried to have a conversation with them but they always ignore me. I try to be funny but they just wouldn't understand my humour. I said told all of them that Dad putting green onions made it feel like I was eating at a restaurant and that it tasted similar to the ones my sister and I ate at before. I meant it as a good thing but they just completely ignored me. So I ignored that. I tried again by telling Dad that maybe he should make his own cookbook so that whenever he's doesn't want to cook we could just follow it. AGAIN, completely ignored. All I wanted was to start something with them. I just imagined, maybe we could be like one of those families that have bonding moments. Girl, was I completely wrong. It was bold of me to assume that we could be that. My heart completely broke. I was so shattered. I don't know why I keep trying to be a nice person when they don't even want anything to do with me. It made it even worse because earlier I told my sister something I was excited about but he made me feel so dumb. My didn't even help. She just looked at me like I wasn't saying anything that was worth her time. At this point, my brother's the only one I can trust in this family. I think understand now why he doesn't want to join us when having a meal.

I thought I was mature. I thought I had grown from this but I guess being stuck in this house made everything I experienced during my childhood came back. Well, I'm not here for it anymore. I swear to God, when this pandemic ends, I'll find a place for me to stay. Even if it fucking drains my bank account (that is, of course, if I'm still alive by then.)

I really want to leave. Not just this house, but everything that connected to who I am today. I think this is why I've always dreamt of moving to another country or moving somewhere far from here or even just have my own house/condo even if I'm alone there. I enjoyed myself during college when I was alone at the dorm. I'm so sad but not surprised I was having thoughts about how I could end it all right here, right now again. It's becoming a weekly thing again for me.

My mind is made-up. I'll just give the same vibe they give me. I won't be starting conversations with them anymore. I'll have you to tell all my stories about. I won't even join them for meal anymore. I'll be completely invisible to them. I mean, I already started by not asking or telling them things that I used to. I won't be moving their stuff anymore. I'll just focus on what's mine (except maybe folding clothes because, well, I'll let Mom still do the laundry so in return I'll fold the clothes but that's it.)

If I can't leave this house (at least not yet because of Miss Rona), I'll just be invisible (like how I usually am.)

[barbarajaques]

Rabbits are Bastards

Hi Art,

Hello again from sunny Singapore. Sorry to hear about your veg patch.

I know you said home-grown food tastes best, and your long-eared looters clearly agree, but why not try going to the shops like everyone else? A dollop of mayo can make the world of difference to the average store-bought vegetable. Or some chilli sauce.  Or ketchup. Or mustard. All of it, perhaps? Always think of any vegetable as a vehicle for the more palatable things in life. Carrot is to condiment as body is to head. I am a devoted fan of cauliflower cheese, though sadly can’t recall the last time I ate it. I did eat some cheese without its support act recently, a single cube offered by some lovely girl in a shop. Nice.

The maid has gone back home to Manila for two weeks, which means I can take a break from putting the wastepaper basket back by the stairs, after she’s cleaned. How people cope with a helper living in, I have no idea. I’ve started noting down when she does it, so I have some facts to hand when I finally confront her, which I am reluctant to do but should. Formidable is an understatement. Sit her in your veg patch, Art. Not only would she see off the greedy varmints, you’d get tons of fresh manure liberally sprinkled as they flee for their lives.

Do you think sitting in a chair with the bin on my head would be fair protest?  She might move us both, of course. Her arms are huge. How can anyone care so much about where a bloody wastepaper basket should be? Frankly, she should lighten up a bit.

Her leaving means I am forced to go to the supermarket myself, and, having recently been, I wouldn’t blame you if you tried to grow your own food here. Groceries are so expensive. You could make the swimming pool into a giant allotment; imagine everyone’s faces, when instead of a nice swim, they dive into deep dung neatly topped with cabbages. At least no one would feel the need to fish out kiddie plop anymore; there would be no more navigating those little bobbing brown mines.

Seriously, I couldn’t believe the price of it all. After the checkout girl told me the vast sum of money I was expected to part with, I started looking over my groceries on the conveyor belt; I was in shock. She asked me if there was a problem, and I told her I was looking for the gold bar. She said she thought they didn’t sell them and did I want her to check. I confess that I’m feeling a little guilty about what happened next. Sort of.

Forget cabbages. Move here and grow grapes. It would be cheaper to make wine than buy it, I reckon. Since I don’t have your green fingers, I was forced to purchase a crate, and had to crack open a bottle when I got home to get over the expense. At around thirty pounds per bottle for something vaguely drinkable, cutting back on quality is my only option.

I am missing home-grown ale most of all, of course. Humid South East Asia is probably not the place to grow hops, though you could produce yeast fairly easily; my toes seem to be sprouting some kind of living entity. Anyway, what I really wanted to tell you is that after splashing out on strawberries that tasted like pond water, I’ve decided to start buying local fruit instead. I can feel the warmth of your approval, Art. Knowing how to eat it is a problem, but I thought I would just buy whatever I see then look it up online. Yes, a maverick’s life indeed.

One fruit that I won’t be buying is durian.  You probably can’t hear me retching, but I am. Even you wouldn’t try something that smells like rotten onion crossed with an overripe melon. Durian, not retching. Not everywhere sells it because it is the most offensive foodstuff available on planet earth. But there is a supermarket a couple of stops from me that does, when it’s in season.

It’s one of those cheaper, bulk buy supermarkets, good for slabs of bottled beer or garden ornaments. They weren’t selling durian the first time I went there, but when I went back another time I could smell it the moment I got off the bus.

Okay, I admit that you would have at least sampled it. You would have marched in, bought it and tried it; I know that. But me? I couldn’t run fast enough. What a fucking stink!  A woman I met recently told me to try durian-flavoured ice cream, as a way of testing the water before trying the fruit. I said she should try dog-shit flavoured biscuits, as a way of testing the water ahead of eating dog shit.

Anyway, that’s enough.  This email is more words than I meant to write and I don’t want to raise expectations. More from me in two weeks.

Cheers,

Fieldy.

PS Sal seems fine; happy, I think.