#oh to be a neolithic wanderer

[incognito-princess]

I've made my decision. If I had a time machine I would got back to Neolithic Northwestern Europe. I want to know what's up with the standing stones. I want to watch them build Stonehenge. I want to make they stop with the agriculture and just stay in small hunter/gather bands...

[hedgewitchgarden]

CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS IN ROMANIA

Source: Radio Romania International

Ancient traditions from Neolithic Times Romanians spend the Christmas holiday in a special way, which is closely connected with traditions and customs which are deeply rooted in centuries-old history, elements of the rituals performed today remind us of the Neolithic age. A very long time ago, in south-east of Europe, Christmas was a solstice celebration and the inhabitants of the area celebrated the solar deity bearing a similar name. The denomination “Mos” indicates the worshipped character’s old age, a character that must die in order to be reborn at the same time with the New Year. In many European countries, Christmas and the New Year were jointly celebrated on December 25th, and the custom was preserved in Romanian Principalities until the end of the 19th century. The memory of those days continues to be alive in the collective memory of several dwelling places from Banat (Western Romania) and Transylvania (Central Romania), since The New Year is also known as Little Christmas. In Romanian Culture, Santa Claus, Mos Ajun’s elder brother, identified as Saturn, the Roman god and as Mithra, the Iranian God, is an ambivalent character, having miraculous powers typical for the heroes of folk tales, as well as shortcomings typical for the mortals. As an apocryphal character, Santa Claus was born “before all the saints”, being “the shepherds’ leader from the village where Jesus was born“. Santa Claus appears in big houses and stables full of cattle, as a rich, elderly man, an old shepherd with a beard of snow. Nineteen days of celebration The Christmas celebration lasts 3 days (December 25th-27th), however, in a broader sense it lasts a total of 19 days (December 20th-January 7th). The customs, magical practices and rituals whereby the world is symbolically recreated, mainly through Santa’s annual’s death and rebirth, can be broken down into two symmetrical periods. These are separated by a moment of “cutting through time”, from which the counting of days begins; thus, the ensuing first period is a rather ill-fated one, spanning between the Ignat (the pig’s ritual sacrifice) and the midnight before Christmas or the New Year, followed by a beneficial period spanning between the midnight before Christmas or New Year and Saint John’s Day. The former period is abundant with customs remembering the deceased to which Dionysiac cult elements are added, whereas the latter includes temporal rebirth practices, typical for the new year’s creative beginning. The ritual sequences commencing the celebration of Christmas begin on December 20th, also known as the “Ignat’s day”, a day when a pig is sacrificed so that ritual food can be prepared for the Christmas feast out of its meat. Next comes Christmas Eve when the carolling begins, children being the first to perform this ritual, clustered in groups that will open with the carol “Oh, What Wondrous Tidings” (“O, ce veste minunata”), “Three Wise Men coming from the East” ( “Trei Crai de la rasarit”), usually known as the ‘star songs’. On Christmas day, children and grown-ups alike wander around, singing carols. They may come from all over the country, for instance from central and southern Transylvania, Crisana and sometimes from Banat. Traditionally, they perform their carols wearing masks. The mask stands for a god in his zoomorphic instantiation, impersonated by the group leader, who wears the mask while performing the carol. Turca (the stag, BORITA) is born at the same time when the mask is made, and it revels and makes merry with the group of carollers acting as its divine company, dying violently, club-beaten, shot or drowned, so that it may be reborn in the New Year. Quite often, the group’s leader has fun scaring women and children with the mask; at the same time he may ask for his due, the money’s worth he thinks he should receive for the ritual he performed, being offered the most honoured guest’s seat at the group’s ceremonial table. Tradition has it that the heavens open on Christmas night, so that the spirits of the deceased may spend time with their beloved ones who are still on earth. Several biblical characters, such as St. Nicholas, St. Demetrius and St. George can be seen sitting at the princely feast. During Christmas, a series of ritual deeds are performed, meant to purify the space through lighting a fire and putting on the lights; in the olden days, the Christmas log was sacrificed, whereby a fir-tree trunk was cut and burnt in the hearth on the night of December 24th; the ritual symbolises the Divinity’s death and rebirth, impersonating the year to come. This yearly sacrifice is part of an ancient burial ritual which has been replaced by the adorned fir-tree, laden with many gifts brought to children by Santa Claus. This custom became pervasive in the countryside, coming from the urban area, at the beginning of the 19th century, being also attested by the Romans, Serbo-Croatians and the Latvians. Thus, the Christmas tree we know today and the native custom of the blazing of the fir tree overlapped. On St. Stephen’s Day, practically the first important sequence, that of temporal degradation, closes up with the burial ritual of Christmas, through a death and rebirth parody, organised by groups of young men, following the scenario of a genuine burial. Gathered at the “Folk dance house”, the young men pick up the one who will impersonate Christmas. He is seated on a wooden ladder, being covered, so that he may not be recognised. When the parodied burial ritual ends in humorous verses chanted on the melody of the funeral service, ”the dead” is thrown away, from the ladder onto the ice. That very moment, the reborn Christmas (The New Year) accompanied by young men and merry folk dance melodies, comes to the house where the dance is performed and the Christmas charity dinner is offered. During the Christmas period until St. Basil’s Day (January 1st ) in Maramures, the magical practice is known as “the tying up of the beast in the forest”, which consists of laying a loaf of ritual bread, named High Steward, on the table, which is then tied with an iron chain. After 8 days, on New Year’s Day, the loaf of bread is cut into slices eaten by children and animals, and the chain is put in front of the stable, so that the cattle may step over it.

[peachyteabuck]

under cover of darkness

summary: a 24-hour convenience store, the night shift, and the man who gets you through day. 

a commission for @lovelycarose​

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 5510

trigger warnings: mentions of a break-in with canon-level violence, fluff, mentions of an unspecified chronic pain disorder

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are some good things about the night shift. It’s easier to balance classes and your precarious mental health, plus the pay wasn’t terrible – a few extra bucks per hour were thrown your way after eleven and before five.

So you kept with it, one earbud in so you could listen to music while the hours ticked by at a pace so slow it felt like some supervillain had not only completely frozen time – but was also determined to thaw is at room temperature.

That was another thing about the night shift – the customers. It was mostly regulars, or tourists who forgot something at home but didn’t want to spend airport prices for a travel sized container of deodorant. None of them really stick out, none interesting enough to stick in your brain for long as you mindlessly pack their various items into white plastic bags.

That is, until he starts coming in. Tall and impossible big – it’s hard not to marvel at him as if he was a breathtaking skyscraper, like you had never seen something so magnificent. His flowing dark brown hair, his tight jeans…it’s all nearly too much for eleven-at-night-you. (Also for “I haven’t had sex in so long and I think I’ve eroded the ridges on my vibrator from using it so often and holy shit I would do anything to have that man under/above me” you, a you only made stronger and more desperate by how late it was and tired you were.)

He walks around with the confidence not often seen in newcomers, your eye used to college students too drunk to stand up perfectly straight. You’re used to people stumbling around with eyes-half closed, rubbing their temples as the bright white lights feel like cheese graters shaped like ice picks against their already hurting brains. You’re used to watching them stumble around, using some Neolithic instinct to find the cool fridges where they’ll rest their faces against the glass for an oddly long amount of time before opening it up to grab as many Gatorades as they could hold before attempting to grab one or two (or five) frozen pizzas, never able to access the higher order thinking necessary to understand that maybe grabbing one of the baskets by the entrance is important.

Or, on the other end of the spectrum you’ve come to know as normal: soccer moms searching for alcohol for their husband’s post-game barbecue. Moms with large dark circles under their eyes who probably read (and watched) the Fifty Shades movie unironically but still feels weird when their husbands suggest having sex in any position besides missionary with the lights off. Moms who went to college just to meet some mediocre-looking frat boy who votes Republican just because his father did and thinks thirty seconds of oral is enough foreplay.

They don’t spend as much time in the store as the drunk/high students, but it’s still just as entertaining watching them grab the food and drink – but not before lingering in the makeup aisle, staring at bold shades of red and waterproof mascara and the bright hair dye whose advertisements have terribly applied photoshop.

No matter the type – no matter the customer – they were nothing like the man who stood on the other side of the store, staring intently at your soft drink selection. None of them were beefy men with crumpled grocery lists, permanently furrowed brows, and the most beautiful five o’clock shadow you’ve ever seen. None of them wear thick black work boots that make not a single sound as they walk around the store, none of them wear jeans that are so criminally tight around a perfect ass.

Not even a perfect ass – the perfect ass. It’s symmetrical, looking as if it was drawn by a pin-up artist in the 50’s whose specialty involves drawing super buff men in poses meant for petite, slender women with perfect curves. As he walks you half expect sparks to form on his backside as if you were in some kind of Anime, or for each individual cheek to bounce up and down on their own asynchronous accord. Normally you’d be terrified of being caught staring – of him turning around and catching your eye and mocking someone like you for having the nerve to be attracted to him.

But that doesn’t happen, because for once in your life the universe is kind to you. For once in your life you’re allowed to listen to music and stare dreamily at the hot guy who checks the ingredients on every snack dip option you have available before choosing three different ones with a small, disappointed huff.

You watch him with that same silent intensity as he fills the bright red carrier he grabbed without a sound when he first strutted in, the packaging of the items crinkling being the only way to track his location when he steps out of your eyeline. If your boss wasn’t the one on security cameras you’d be angling all of them to follow him around the store, your eyes hungry for another look at him at whatever angle and whichever quality you could get. You feel like a fangirl obsessed with some boyband, your heart rate determined by the amount of the mountain of a man you can see between displays of holiday-themed candy and cheap make up.

You’re not sure how long it is before he’s approaching your counter (time appears to have lost all meaning the second he stepped into the store), but whether it had been five minutes or five years, he still takes your breath away. As he steps closer you realize he’s fucking massive – something your grandmother (a wonderful woman, but one lacking when social situations called for, among other things, any kind of brain-to-mouth filter) would call a “shit brickhouse.” He doesn’t even need one of the baskets as he prowls the aisles – scanning every item like a lion watches the Sahara through tall grass. It’s hard to look away, to go back to the book you’ve been trying to read the same page from since long before the little automated bell above the door had announced the man’s arrival – but the only distraction before had been the tiny, exhausted voice in the back of your mind that was shaming at you for not sleeping before the night’s shift.

Now, though, the voice has quieted to allow your tired eyes to follow him, pupils tracing along every inch of him.

The man checks out without a word; shaking his head when you ask if he has a rewards card and paying in cash. When you give him $7.26 in change, your hands touch for a brief moment and you nearly stop breathing – lungs suddenly void of their capacity to hold air as sparks fly from his callous fingertips to the bottom of your spine. He pulls away, eventually, because he has to – depositing the totality of the meager amount of money you’d just handed him into the donation box plastered with facts about victims of domestic violence right next to your register.

The box is made of an opaque deep purple plastic, the coins making a loud clink sound as they crash into the near-empty container. The man stares at it for a moment, swallowing an apparent lump in his throat as his eyes go blank for a fraction of a second before he digs into his pockets and fishes out a thick wad of perfectly folded five dollar bills before stuffing them into the hastily cut slot at the top.

Neither of you say anything as he does so, you too stunned by his generosity and him too occupied with making sure he had no more money hidden in his pockets to try and muster some vague capacity for speech. Still, as he turns and leaves, you cough to clear your throat and call out a loud and slightly hoarse “thank you!” to which he just turns and gives you a small smile in return.

The moment between the pair of you is fleeting but still makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest, swelling until your lungs feel tight against your ribs as you struggle to breathe. Fuck, you think. You haven’t felt like this since middle school when Jamie told you that your Katniss braid was adorable and you followed him around for two weeks until he agreed to take you on a “date” during lunch. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re fawning over him as if you have another girlhood crush.

God, you need to learn his name.

Luckily, you find out the next time that his name is Eliot, even though the name embroidered in red above the right pocket of his dirtied coveralls says “Evan” in a fancy looped script (whatever, you don’t question it. You regularly wore your roommate’s sweatshirt from her alma mater even though you didn’t attend the university – must be the same thing, right?). That time all he buys is hair ties and chapstick – lots of hair ties and chapstick, just another thing you don’t question – but stays to talk with you about the Robert Frost poem you were annotating.

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?” he reads aloud, smiling a little as he does so. “Is that for class, or…”

“It’s for class, but I’m liking it a lot more than the other obligatory readings for my degree,” you tell him a small laugh. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

Eliot shrugs as he grabs the full bags. “Oh, ya know. Just the occasional piece. You have a good day now.”

You smile as he walks toward the exit, butterflies pounding in your stomach once more. “You too!”

God, you think as he disappears from eyeshot. You’ve got it bad, girl.

He comes in again, irregular in each way except for the fact he arrives. Sometimes he’s clean cut, standing straight as he takes his sweet time wandering the store – as if he has nowhere to be, no need to rush around.

On those days, he buys a lot of things. Duct tape, orange soda, hair ties, sour candy in all shapes and colors. He makes conversation, asking about the book you’re reading or what you’re listening to, asking about your classes when you wear a jacket embroidered with your university’s logo on the front. On those days, he waits a little – even when all his items are bagged and there’s no real reason for him to stay – picking up on anything that would give him another thread of conversation to pull at.

“Something new?” he asks when you dogear one of the first few pages of a poetry book your friend had lent you.

“Yup!” you perk up just at the sight of him, cheery now more than you had been the entirety of the day now that he’s arrived. “Told a friend of mine about the assignment I was working on the last time you were here, and she shoved this anthology into my hands.”

You like those days – you look forward to them each time you step through the large door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in large white letters that stand out against the incredibly depressing brown that’s been peeling since the day you interviewed here, spots covered sparsely by the maintenance guy who you’ve never seen. Those days are good, fun – they make you smile hours after he leaves and occupy your thoughts until you go to bed, sometimes even making it into the margins of your notebook when you’re zoning out in class.

Sometimes, though, he comes in nearly limping – at least one eye blackened and dark navy baseball cap pulled as far down his forehead as he can.

It scared you the first time, watching as he grunted with each step, every item he grabs from the shelves seeming like it pained him, his face scrunching into a wince each time he raises an arm above his ribs. You checked his items (bandages, ice packs, gauze, antifungal cream, a few first aid kits) with bated breath, terrified of making his mood worse.

It isn’t until you tell him the total, until you finally look up from your hands – that you finally look him in the eyes. They’re always warm like plate of freshly baked macaroni and cheese (and always make you feel just as gooey), but now appear to be clouded with a type of pain you can’t pin down. He doesn’t say much – or anything – as you bag his items, placing them gingerly into the paper bag as if it was an extension of him.

You try to keep a happy face throughout the entire ordeal, not wanting to push him in case what happened was particularly bad. Eliot gives you a similarly small, but earnest one in return – even if he barely hides the wince in his side as he does so.

But that was the first time things seemed a little off – your first time, specifically – and the others get easier as time passes.

At first, “easier” meant a return to days similar to the good ones – telling him things about your day as you ring up all his first-aid related items. He doesn’t respond with as much enthusiasm, doesn’t have the same witty banter – but gives you a small smile that you recognize nonetheless. But then, as the weeks bleed into months, you learn how to handle both the terrible days, the bad days, and the good days all the same.

It’s on one of the good days that he buys tampons, a piece of every kind of chocolate item you sell, and enough Acetaminophen to knock out a horse.

“Your girlfriend is very lucky,” you tell him, blushing as you bag the items. For a minute you think you’ve embarrassed him, crossed some line as a sickening silence grows between you two like mold on two-week old leftovers in a fridge that was turned off. It’s just as disgusting, too, which is why you’re so happy that he still gives you a small smile when you dare look up from where your scanner’s red line centers on the barcode of one of the tampon boxes.

“Nah, just,” Eliot’s plump lips look so kissable it makes your heart pick up. “A roommate, uh. She needs this. Her boyfriend is doing some game night thing and couldn’t pick it up. So I, uh. I got drafted.”

You give a little snort as you grab the receipt, smiling wide as you place it in the bag. “Well, your roommate is very lucky to have you.”

Eliot laughs as he grabs his stuff, cheeks heating up as he blushes. “Can I kidnap you for a little while so you can come remind her of that?”

In a rare moment of confidence, you lean forward and grin. “Is it kidnapping if I want it?”

The blush rages as he sputters a response, eyes downcast as he turns to leave. You get no witty response back, but the way he turns to wink at you as the automatic doors part is enough of a rebuttal for you to feel satisfied with your quip.

No matter what kind of mood Eliot is in, you look forward to his visits, watching and talking with him. Each evening you get ready for work you wondered if he would come in that night, if you would be able to tell him about the dumb thing this guy in one of your seminars said, or how you won an argument during bar crawl over the weekend using some of the random things he had taught you during the very conversations you now wish to have with him. It’s nice, the nicest thing you have in a long time – and somehow that doesn’t scare you, and somehow that makes you feel even better each time you see him.

But then “The Day” happens, and it changes everything.

The evening of “The Day” you woke up from your pre-work nap with this unexplainable feeling that something was going to go wrong. This feeling deep in the bottom of your stomach that you can’t quite place, one that makes the back of your knees sweat and where your ribs feel just a little tighter. Each and every sound – the cars that drive way too fast down your street, the creaking in your house, the dogs that bark obnoxiously – seem loudly, harsher than usual. When you sit up in bed when your alarm goes off it’s like you can feel the muscles in your back contract, feel the bones in your joints grind against each other. There’s some electricity in the air like when it’s right before a storm – only the sky is clear and your weather app doesn’t predict any rain until next week (and, even then, it’s only a drizzle).

At first you think it’s just a bad pain day; not bad enough to keep you home, or make you forget even the idea of doing anything besides groaning in pain in your bed and taking as many pain medications as your doctor says you’re able to. Still, it’s quite noticeable, and occupies your thoughts as you go through each part of your pre-work routine. Even as you shower, turn on your coffee pot, do the minimal make up required to make it look like you didn’t just roll out of bed or are some Victorian orphan plagued by tuberculosis and possibly a deep sadness embodied by the terrible weather that crashes outside their overcrowded London orphanage – you can’t seem to get rid of the proverbial dark cloud that settles itself between your brain and skull, clouding your thoughts and making your stomach hurt just a little.

It doesn’t get better when you get into work, either. There’s a tenseness in the air you can practically taste – electricity in the air that settles over your skin and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straighter than the carefully constructed sales display of some B-list celebrity’s nail polish collection, the one you spent hours fussing over during one of your very rare day shifts. It somehow only gets worse when Eliot arrives, whistling some tune that normally would be wistful and happy, but given the context sounds like something straight from a horror movie trailer that invades your otherwise-sweet daydreams for weeks to come; one of those songs that everyone knows but no one knows the name of that sounds really creepy when played slowly over a clip of some old, beat-up doll being held by an adorable little blonde girl with black-out contacts in.

You don’t tell him to stop, but the tune does slow when he notices your tense state when he passes to get to the soft drink aisle. When he gives you a questioning look you just shrug, hoping he forgets (or finds it in himself not to ask) about it by the time he finds what he needs. Judging by the song, lack of list, and spring in his step – it’s a good day, one where he intends to meander around the store and grab whatever it is catches his attention. Today that appears to be anything with sugar, most notably soda in every color but orange.

At some point he finds his way closer to you – more specifically he finds his way to the chocolate aisle, which faces your register – and strikes up a conversation. It’s just small talk, and doesn’t do much to distract you from the twisting in your gut, but you appreciate his efforts nonetheless. The small talk just feels like a dead-end – a polite road to nowhere that feels pointless to engage in. Still, it’s Eliot, so you give half-hearted answers and ask half-hearted questions and hope he doesn’t press you too hard on your slightly-sour mood.

And, because it’s Eliot, he draws a few small laughs and a couple of tiny smiles and it’s…nice. It’s not the usual “Good Day,” but it’s not a bad one, either.

But then it happens. And it happens quick – all of it.

Three men, dressed head to toe in black, enter guns a blazing as if they own the place. They’re wearing masks over everywhere but their eyes, the thick, black material likely silencing their voices if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs.

They enter in an oddly-triangular formation – one you’d describe akin to the Charlie’s Angel’s post if you weren’t scared out of your fucking mind. One of them runs to the aisle where you keep cold medicine, the other ransacking the liquor aisle and shoving heavy glass bottles of your most expensive bottles of alcohol into the black duffel bag slung around his shoulder. The last one – the one you think is the leader – keeps his eye on you as he steps closer to where you are at the register.

It’s the scariest fucking thing to ever happen to you, and what occurs next happens too fast for you to describe.

You blink once and find that you’re staring down the barrel of a handgun that’s definitely loaded and definitely has the safety off. The end shakes just a little, as if the robber is nervous, and you wonder why he’s the one scared. Both of your hands are up in the air, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle while sweat pools at your brow and your bottom lip trembles. It’s the most terrified you’ve ever been in your entire life, and if you had enough in your stomach you throw up, you totally would’ve.

But then – Eliot.

You’re screaming at him to stop, to get away and hide and what are you doing? They’ve got a gun! Get away! You could be hurt! Eliot!

But then you realize that, holy shit, he’s actually taking the guy down. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the face. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the gut. Holy shit, Eliot just disarmed that dude while punching him.

It’s only when the guy that targeted you is screaming in pain from a dislocated shoulder that the other two realize something’s up and come rushing towards the man that stands just in front of your register. You’d scream if you weren’t stunned – eyes not sure where to look as Eliot disarms them with the grace of a professional ballet dancer at the same fucking time. He’s fierce but controlled – not breaking any bones but definitely leaving some bruises as he knocks them to the ground and kicks their guns across the carpet.  

It’s then – when the inferior robbers are writhing in pain on the ground – that he grabs the leader by the collar of his black hoodie and pulls the teenager’s wincing face close to Eliot’s raging one.

“I will give you one warning,” he hisses, teeth bared like an angered wolf as he spits. “one warning to leave this place and never come back. If this,” his left hand raises to gesture to you in all your petrified glory. “Nice lady tells me that you have returned to so much as buy a single stick of gum, I will track you down and find you and make sure you pay for the damage you’ve done here today. You got that?”

The still-masked teenager immediately nods furiously, eyes wide with terror and legs already kicking at the ground to leave.

Eliot gives a small, faux smile, and shoves the kid back down onto the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “Good, now get the Hell out of here and don’t come back.”

Without hesitation, the would-be robbers scatter as fast as their damaged legs can carry them, clutching their bags to their chests as they rush to their crappy getaway van.

If you weren’t scared shitless you’d admit you’re a little turned on at the feat, especially as Eliot flips his hair from his face as he watches them speed away.

Your boss appears a few seconds later, apparently one more to watch from his safe room in the back than to interfere. Thank Heavens Eliot was here, you think. Facing those three kids on your own – even if they were, indeed, kids – makes your blood pressure spike once more.

“Should I call the cops?” he asks, looking at the wreckage around the store. The only silent alarm is located under the counter where the register is and, given your petrified state, you weren’t one to trip it.

Eliot just sighs and shakes his head, kicking a broken bottle of whiskey that for sure was going to stain the carpet. “No, they can’t do much – those kids probably don’t have a record and I don’t think you’ll get much out of ‘em if they do find the bastards. They’re young, broke, and I don’t know how much priority your case will be given.”

Your boss sighs, rubbing his face. It’s not as if they stole more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise, but being the victim of a robbery is still both tiring and rage-inducing – especially when someone like him has gone so long without incident.  “But, I, what am I supposed to do? I just-“

Eliot grabs his wallet from his back pocket, reaching into it to fish out a small, professional-looking business card that he hands to your boss. “Call the number there come sun rise and tell them Eliot referred you. They’ll help you out with whatever you need.”

The man who signs your paychecks furrows his brow and reads the block print allowed. “Leverage, Incorporated? They can help me replace what I lost?”

Eliot nods, placing a comforting hand on your boss’ shoulder. “Everything.”

Immediately the man nods and steps away to go out the back exit, leaving you and Eliot in the center of it all.

It’s then – just as you’re alone – where the sun’s just coming up and the large windows in the shop allow its warm light to bath the both of you in a beautiful soft orange. There are no other customers there, and with your boss preoccupied with calming himself down, it really does feel like it’s just you and Eliot – just the two of you with the whole world still asleep around you. It’s nice, perfect.

He’s the one to break the silence, voice gruff as he flashes you a small, shy grin. “So, uh…you want to go for coffee?”

Your heart rams in your chest even louder than when you were staring the possibility of a gunshot wound to the face, the poor organ exhausted as your brain screams at you to accept his generous offer. It takes what feels like an eternity to muster up the courage to do so, but before you can Eliot’s already speaking once more.

“Not that you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Not that you should feel, uh, pressured, or anything. I just mean like, hey, you worked all night and just went through a pretty rough event, and you’re probably tired, and probably pretty hungry as well, and a coffee place just opened up a street away that I’ve heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it out, for a while actually, and I wanted to, uh, see if I’d have the honor of you joining me…”

“Eliot,” you laugh as you step closer, placing your hand on his face to guide his eyes to yours. “Don’t be stupid. I’d love to go with you,” he smiles and it warms every bit of you. “Just let me grab my bag and clock out, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He sputters through an “okay, sure, yeah,” before you both turn to leave – him out the front doors and you behind the large one your boss had just been hidden behind. Your hands shake just a little as you insert the little card into the dinosaur of a machine, the loud noise and sputtering sound it makes now white noise as you grab your purse and rejoin him outside.

When you arrive at the coffee shop (aptly named “The Bean Spot”) you order a caramel latte with a cheese Danish, Eliot getting a simple black coffee with cream along with a walnut muffin. You wait for your breakfast in relative silence, neither you nor Eliot sure what to say after such an event. When the food and drink are handed over to you, you find a spot tucked in the back with an excellent view of the whole place.

The coffee shop is nearly empty since it’s still so early in the morning – the only patrons coming in, getting their coffee, and zipping off to the next part of their day. It’s nice to be the only inert thing, the movements of the people around you providing a nice cover as they zip past, locking you and Eliot in your own little world as the world stretches its arms and prepares for another day of hustle and bustle.

By contrast, you and Eliot are wide awake, laughing as you swap horrible roommate stories and whatever else comes to mind. He asks about your degree but has enough class not to ask you about your graduation year (a rare feature of conversations these days), talking to you about all the books you’ve read and professors you’ve liked.  

It’s odd – not bad, per say – but odd nonetheless, to be able to talk freely and openly and having him in front of you, within arm’s length as your knees barely touch under the small table. Seeing him in this space, a space more conducive to conversation and watching his hands as they pick at his blueberry scone and watching his mouth as the corners of his lips twist into a smile every so often and watching –

You blush at your own serial-killer-like thoughts, trying to suppress them with another sip of way too expensive but totally worth it coffee.

Eliot notices, because of course he does. “Hey, you alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. “Y-yeah, just-“

He smiles warmly, one hand moving to cradle your chin – to guide your downcast eyes to his. “It’s weird, seeing me in a new place, isn’t it?”

Once again, you nod. “It’s not that I don’t-“

“It’s okay,” his smile widens even as he now avoids your gaze, his hands moving to his lap as he fiddles with them. “It’s…I understand. Trust me, I get it.”

You exhale deeply, your shoulders falling a little. “I’ve thought a lot about this moment for, like, since you walked into the store for the first time…to have you here,” you gestured vaguely to the rest of the coffee shop, to the very few customers and baristas chatting about something you can’t hear and don’t care to pay attention to. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s not as if you’ve fallen short of expectations-“

Eliot gives a little chuckle, mumbling an “I sure hope so” with a glimmer in his eye that makes you want to jump on his lap and kiss him right there. Somehow, you find it in you to continue.

“It’s just super, super weird,” you tell him honestly. “And I don’t like it.”

The man in front of you leans forward, placing a hand over yours to calm you down.  

“How about we get out of here,” Eliot murmurs, voice warm and thick like the caramel drizzle over your latte. “I have an espresso machine at my place, and could make you homemade baked goods a million times better than whatever you bought, and we can continue this in a space where the baristas don’t misspell my name on overpriced coffee.”

He gestures to the cup labeled Elliott, wincing as he does so. It makes you laugh, and you nod in agreement. Together you down the coffee and throw the empty cups along with the wrapping for your pastry away. It’s natural – the way the two of you move – as if you’ve known each other for a millennia, as if whatever it is between you two that’s formed is already as strong and sturdy as an oak tree.

Eliot places one of his large hands on the small of your back as you exit the cafe, thumbing at the fabric of your sweater as you wait to cross the street. It’s comforting – just a flash of the fire that he started for you back at the store a mere hours earlier, heat warming your blood from your toes and up your spine. As he guides you to his apartment his hand finds yours, his fingers fitting neatly next to yours as he points out parts of the city you’ve never slowed down enough to see.

You may not have known Eliot for very long, but even within that short amount of time (and even shorter conversations) he had become a safe house for you, one that you could easily make a home.

And, unbeknownst to the other person, the both of you intended on doing just that.

[diaspora9ja]

12 Very Best Places In Wiltshire To Visit – Hand Luggage Only

Nestled inside the beautiful English countryside, Wiltshire is a shocking county to discover while exploring the UK. Better of all, it’s inside simple attain of the Roman metropolis of Bathtub and even from London, too. So, that will help you discover the most effective locations in Wiltshire to go to, I wished to share a few of our favorite spots that we love. 

You see, Wiltshire just isn’t solely completely gorgeous but it surely additionally has among the world’s most iconic historic spots to see. It’s the sort of place that’s crammed to the brim with 1000’s of years of historical past, quirky spots and beautiful cities and villages as well. 

Now, we’ve at all times discovered it simpler to discover Wiltshire as a part of a roadtrip. This fashion, you may get to among the smaller, lesser-connected, spots which can be completely idyllic. That being stated, should you don’t drive you’ll be able to simply hop on a practice or bus to a few of Wiltshire’s greatest locations. 

Have a look, under, at the most effective locations in Wiltshire to go to. Have a tremendous time exploring! 

1.) Lacock

Similar to Fortress Combe, Lacock is among the smaller (however completely beautiful) villages you’ll be able to’t miss in Wiltshire. 

Over the centuries, Lacock hasn’t modified in any respect. It’s as if time has stood nonetheless and feels such as you’ve gone proper again to the 1600s! 

As you wander Lacock. Pop to seize a day tea at King Johns Searching Lodge. Their tea backyard is every thing! Additionally, you’ll want to go to the Manger Barn and cease by Lacock Abbey, too.

As Lacock is so small, you don’t actually need to fret about getting misplaced. So, let the streets take you round and wander until your coronary heart’s content material. 

You’ll be able to simply spend a brief afternoon right here. We like it. 

Learn extra: A day exploring Lacock

2.) Marlborough

Nestled inside North Wessex Downs in Wiltshire, Marlborough is a beautiful little market city that’s pretty to go to. It’s the sort of city that’s excellent for a bit afternoon stroll and nicely price spending just a few hours traversing the quaint streets. 

After arriving, you’ll want to go to the historic Service provider’s Home that dates all the best way again from the 1600s. Right now, you’ll be able to take a gander contained in the restored silk service provider’s abode and have a superb nosey at what life would have been like.

Tucked away, it’s fairly simple to overlook, so make sure that to look out for it when strolling Excessive Avenue.  

Afterwards, guide a desk at Rick Stein’s for a scrumptious night deal with. Sure, it may be pricier than most different spots within the city however the meals is so good. 

Oh, and don’t overlook, you’ll be able to simply go to the Neolithic ruins at West Kennet Lengthy Barrow which’s fairly shut by. It’s completely wonderful to see one thing that’s 1000’s of years outdated. 

Plus, should you fancy a stroll by the close by woodland trails, head over to Savernake Forest. 

Learn extra: Finest cities in England to go to

3.) Salisbury 

Salisbury is definitely up there as certainly one of my favorite cities in England, particularly with all its historical past. Belief me, when you arrive you’ll rapidly see what I imply. 

After arriving, the primary port-of-call needs to be Salisbury Cathedral. It’s simply one of many best in all of England and towers over town itself. 

Not solely that, one of many best-preserved copies of the Magna Carta, from 1215 is inside; and you may see it! Though photographs aren’t allowed of the Magna Carta itself, you’ll be able to stroll by and see the protected textual content that’s so epic to see. Plus, you would possibly even spot the oldest working clock on this planet (simply off the nave space). 

On the lookout for extra? head throughout to a few of Salisbury’s different iconic spots like; Mompesson Home, Museums, Arundells and Wilton Home, too.

Lastly, as you permit Salisbury, you’ll have the ability to jump over to see Outdated Sarum. It’s an Iron-age hillfort that’s been occupied for 1000’s of years. 

Learn extra: Finest issues to do in Salisbury

4.) Fortress Combe

Probably my favorite spot in all of Wiltshire (shhh, don’t inform the others), Fortress Combe is historical past and quaint little village to go to. Actually, it seems like some which have fallen proper out of a film set! 

With 1000’s of years of historical past, Fortress Combe has lengthy been established as a settlement that’s nice to discover at present. As you wander the principle road, you’ll want to pop within the Fortress Inn for a tipple and spot the medieval Market Cross (the place merchants as soon as used). 

Afterwards, take a gander at Fortress Combe Church and spot the enduring Water Lane road. It’s so picturesque. 

Fancy staying longer? Ebook a room at The Manor Home. A stunning interval property that’s so cosy and alluring. We like it. 

Learn extra: Our go to to Fortress Combe

5.) Avebury

Though fairly small and cosy, Avebury is a village that’s packed-full with historical past.  

With the Nationwide Belief Museum (with pretty gardens), the enduring Avebury Manor earlier than popping into the family-run cafes on the principle road.  

Don’t overlook to discover the Stone Circle which dates again to the Neolithic occasions (between 2500 to 2000 BC). It’s thought-about to be the most important in all of the continent and typically forgotten in lieu of visiting Stonehenge. 

Speaking of Stonehenge, from Avebury you too can go to Silbury Hill (simply outdoors the village). The chalk mound is a part of the broader Stonehenge complicated and a UNESCO-protected artifical mound that’s stated to be the biggest on this planet.

Learn extra: Prettiest locations in England to go to

6.) Stonehenge

Simply among the best locations in Wilshire to go to, Stonehenge is thought the world over for its iconic historical past. 

Relationship again 1000’s of years, the stones are unimaginable to stroll round and go to, particularly on a sunny day. That being stated, it may get fairly busy at sure occasions of the day. If you wish to keep away from nearly all of the crowds go to very first thing within the morning or simply earlier than closing time.

We at all times head throughout simply earlier than closing and also you nearly have the circle to your self! 

Lastly, throughout sure days, Stonehenge operates excursions inside the stone circle itself. These function earlier than the positioning formally opens and must be booked on the English Heritage web site. 

Learn extra: Finest locations to discover within the South of England

7.) Coate Water Nation Park

Not too removed from close by Swindon (and technically not Wiltshire), Coate Water Nation Park is among the greatest spots to go to to sit back. 

It’s a massive nation park excellent for a picnic and to stroll round you too can discover a play space for youths and the park affords among the wonderful views to sit down and calm down.

Take a while to stroll round Coate Water which’s proper on the fringes of Wiltshire and too simple to go to as you’re highway tripping by England. 

Learn extra: Finest spots for a highway journey in Britain

8.) Stourhead 

Nestled inside the beautiful countryside, Stourhead is among the greatest locations in Wiltshire to go to within the western fringes of the county. 

With an unlimited backyard space to discover Stourhead backyard is an idyllic 18th-century landscaped backyard that’s simply too good to overlook.

As you wander the paths and paths, you’ll want to cease off on the Temple Of Apollo, see the Gothic Cottage and Grotto and discover the broader Pantheon, too. 

Plus, you’ve obtained the beautiful home to see, too! 

Afterwards, should you’ve obtained time, pop over to King Alfred’s Tower (that’s technically simply over the border in Somerset. It’s an excellent place for 360-degree views and was initially erected as a part of the broader Stourhead Property. 

9.) Iford Manor Gardens 

Not too removed from town of Bathtub, Ilford Manor Gardens is nicely price a gander while driving from Bathtub to Salisbury. 

 Traditionally, this stunning backyard was constructed by the architect Harold Peto and is now open for us all to get pleasure from and discover. On a sunny day, it feels such as you’re strolling by the Tuscan countryside backyard and it’s completely stunning. 

A go to to Iford Manor Gardens will seemingly take round 1-2 hours. This implies it’s an ideal stopping level to stretch your legs. 

Learn extra: Finest issues to do in Bathtub

10.) Cranborne Chase

Overlapping just a few completely different counties, Cranborne Chase is completely simple to go to as you drive east in direction of Southampton. 

While within the space, you’ll want to discover the ruins of Outdated Wardour Fortress that dates all the best way again to the 1300s. It’s fairly epic to see and never too removed from Shaftesbury (simply throughout the border). 

Additionally, it’s fairly simple to go to the Elizabethan mansion of Longleat Home. It’s within the north of Cranborne Chase and completely iconic to go to. They even have their very own drive-through safari park, too. 

11.) Bradford-on-Avon

Proper on the western fringes, Bradford-on-Avon is among the greatest locations in Wiltshire to go to for a half-day journey. 

As soon as right here, take a gander contained in the cosy Bradford on Avon Museum. Sure, it’s small however measurement isn’t every thing with regards to museums. This place is packed stuffed with displays to see. 

Afterwards, head over to the medical Tithe Barn for a bit wander. It’s thought-about one of many largest surviving medieval barns in all of England. 

Additionally, for a improbable lunch, guide a desk at The Bunch Of Grapes. It’s obtained a beautiful menu of basic British favourites. Their sticky toffee pudding is every thing. 

12.) Cherhill White Horse

One of many oldest white horses in Wiltshire, the Cherhill White Horse is fairly iconic to see. Mentioned to have been created within the 1700s, it’s among the best locations in Wiltshire to see among the counties distinctive historical past. 

It’s very easy to go to from the Calstone and Cherhill Downs and never too removed from Lacock. This implies it’s very easy to go to after spending a while within the village. 

Learn extra: Prettiest locations in England to go to

The 19 Prettiest And Finest Locations To Go to In England

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[shockinghocking]

Bratislovers and Awe-stria

We had never heard or read anything about Bratislava, but loved strolling through the green, hilly city with its interesting post-Soviet art, delightful craft cola and pastel coloured buildings.  To be honest, we both wish we’d had more time to explore Slovakia, which is supposed to be a window into medieval life, with sleepy villages, wild animals and spectacular scenery.

Nonetheless, we made the most of our short time there.  Bratislava is guarded by the stocky, storybook castle on the hill, which was rebuilt in the 60s after being destroyed by a fire in the 1800s and now sits pride of place over the old town.

The old town square, Hlavné Námestie, has great sculpture and is flanked by buidlings dating to the 14th Century.  

Similarly old is St Martin’s Cathedral, an imposing Gothic church that doubled as a fortification, built as it was in the city’s ancient city walls. 

The church’s surrounds as are pretty as the building itself, with a little vined courtyard, beautiful religious buildings for housing the adepts and a cobblestoned paths and roads.

Our wandering continued, leading us to the funny statue of Cumil (“the watcher”), the manhole peeper who spies on the goings on of the old town and is accused of eyeing up all the passing ladies:

He’s apparently lost his head twice as a result of inattentive drivers, so has his very own “Man at Work” sign above him keeping him safe!

We also saw some other cute little galleries - check out the Renault!

And then on to the eye popping baby blue “Little Blue Church” (Modrý kostolík), a masterpiece of the Hungarian art-nouveau style.

Having worked up a mighty hunger on our wanderings, we indulged in some meaty delights of the Slovak variety at the 600 year old brewery  Bratislavský Meštiansky Pivovar.

Not too much beer for us though, as we had a little drive to do in order to spend the night the night at the foot of the eerie Devínsky Hrad, a castle that dates back to the 600s, but in a location that has been a site of dense human settlement since the Neolithic era... That was to be where we lay our head in our little van for the night, spooky!

We made it through the night without any hauntings, and slogged up the hill in the beautiful sunshine to the archaeological site and castle ruins.  The location of Devín Castle is on the confluence of the Danube and Moravia Rivers, so was of rather invaluable strategic importance for centuries.  We saw the remains of a 1st C Roman tower, and the ruins of the 15th C castle, which is a maze of staircases, gardens, towers and walls.  It was blown up by Napolean when he rampaged through the area.  Check out the little door in the cliff - it’s a tunnel that passes through the entire cliff.

The watchtower below the castle, standing alone on a rock in the river is known as the Virgin’s Tower, (allegedly) being either the site of maidens being locked waiting for rescue, or the site where a young bride jumped to her death when her disapproving family killed her groom.

Refreshed from the vitamin D and ancient history, we pointed the van due west and drove into the Baroque heart of Austria - Vienna.  We’d already been to both Innsbruck (briefly) and Salzburg in Austria, and had loved them both - especially the incredible ice cave near Salzburg! The rambling, majestic and downright regal Wien proved just as lovable.  We parked up on the east bank of the Danube a wee way out of town and strolled into the city, starting with the cathedral, Stephensdom.  It is unmissably grand, with its colourful tiled roof and outrageous Gothic decorations, and is smack in the centre of the Viennese old town. Oh, and it’s massive - this thing has 18 alters just in the main part of the church, with more in the chapels attached.  

Inside, you’ve got a Gothic pulpit, a masterpiece of stone work, but dwarfed in the massive space.

In all this glitz, it’s important to keep it real: the sculptor of the pulpit did, carving himself staring out of a window under the stairs of the pulpit with such an expression of satisfaction on his face he’s earned himself the name fenstergucker - window gawker. 

Having been guckers ourselves long enough, we treated ourselves to a delightful Sichuan meal in the suburbs and headed off to bed.

The next day we started with a tour of the Rathaus, an unfortunate name for a rather impressive building that has served as the city hall since 1833.    

The building is Gothic, but in the Belgian style and arranged around Baroque courtyards, and is very pointy, lacy and spindly.  Inside you have salons, festival halls and galleries which are all, of course, lavishly decorated.

Perhaps best of all, it has an active paternoster, or continuous elevator, which are increasingly rare because of how dangerous they are!  They’re called paternosters because they work in a loop like rosary beads which are used to help recite the Lord’s Prayer, aka the Pater Noster.  Good one, Europe. 

Anyway, we very much enjoyed playing on it!

With a stop in a famous Viennese coffee house - all marble benches and whitewashed timber panels, a stroll through Margareten, a suburban district of Vienna and a peek at the neoclassical Musikverein, we were chilly enough to huddle into bed for the night!

Working harder than we had in months were the riders who we saw practicing at the Spanish Riding School inside the Hofburg Palace the next day. The Lipizzaner stallions perform classical dressage to music within the palace while the public watch from beautiful balconies under glittering chandeliers.  The riders wear uniforms dating back 200 years and the whole thing is like a trip to the ballet, but with white stallions! Photos are against the rules, but we snapped a couple of sneakies just for posterity.

The horses are treated like kings, including spending summers in the meadows and woods of Heldenburg and their winters at the palace! 

With the afternoon at the Albertina Gallery, home to the biggest collections of prints and sketches in the world (think The Young Hare by Durer and pencil studies of The Last Supper) and afternoon tea at Demel, a patisserie established in 1786, we were fully getting into the high society life.

However, we were still urchins in reality, and living in a shopping mall carpark in the burbs, cooking toast grilled in a fish-shaped set of tongs in our sleeping bags every morning...

We also spent all of one evening going in a loop on one of the Viennese free trams just to warm up, so it wasn’t all Baroque architecture and gilt framed artworks!

However, we still got to spend our days carousing through palaces.  We visited the seriously cold but beautiful Schloss Schönbrunn, the former imperial summer palace of the Habsburgs built in 1740 in the neoclassical style.    It includes beautiful gardens that feature a whimsical (fake) Roman ruin and a gloriette, which is a European thing meaning a pavilion-like structure on a hill above a garden...  

From the Habsburg delights of Austria, we decided to tootle back to see a little more of the Czech Republic, chugging three and a half hours to the Southern reaches of Bohemia to spend a few days in the sleepy wintery village of Český Krumlov where we got to relax and unwind on the medieval streets away from the Crowds of the big gilded cities! 

[cathygeha]

Book Blurb:

SCORCHED BY DESIRE

Dimitri lives to protect the secret of the Dragon Kings from the human race. Bound by a bond stronger than blood to the Kings, Dimitri uses his strength and prowess to defend a thousand-year-old secret.  But when an oh-so-sexy, slightly absent-minded archaeologist wanders into his midst, Dimitri will have to give up his rules, and give in to desire…

 When Dr. Faith Reynolds stumbles upon an ancient skeleton that appears it comes from a dragon, she’s completely taken aback. A woman of science, there’s no way in her mind that this mythological creature can exist. But when a devilishly handsome man named Dimitri intercepts her path to uncovering the truth, Faith’s curiosity turns into all-consuming passion. She’s never felt this way about any man before. But when Dimitri reveals his biggest secret, can she learn to love the man—as well as the dragon within?

Review

Firestorm: Dark Kings #10 by Donna Grant

Dragon bones found in a cave are just the hook at the beginning of this fast paced story. With dark forces wanting to get their hands on the bones and existing dragons wanting the bones to disappear a lot is at stake. Add in snippets from other series all linked to the Dark Kings series and I came away wanting to begin at the beginning with books unread and read them all. I was not lost and this book does stand on its own but I felt that if I had read the previous books and the other series linked to it I would have seen more and been able to understand a bit more at some points in the story.

 Dmitri, King of the White Dragons, is sent by his king to Fair Isle to deal with the dragon bones. They must disappear and he is chosen to take care of the issue. Little did he know going in that he would find a smart, strong, and sensual woman, Faith Reynolds, who would end up being his mate. With evil magic and Dark Fae to contend with, bones to save, a love undying to create and a mystery still unsolved this book had a lot going on. I enjoyed the relationship between Dmitri and Faith and really want to know who her father might be (maybe a dragon?) and wonder how that will play into the next book. I also wonder what will happen with other characters mentioned in the book even though I have just heard of them for the first time. I hope that a solution will be found for the dragons and that their King of Kings will find a HEA someday. I can almost see this as a TV series…wonder who I would sign for actors and actresses to play the parts…

 Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for the ARC. This is my honest review. 4 Stars

EXCERPTS:

First Excerpt:

Faith let her gaze slowly run up the tall man. He wore jeans that hugged his trim hips, and a thin, black, V-neck sweater that showed off every mouthwatering muscle that was honed to perfection.

 His muscles weren’t so huge that they looked ugly. But they were big enough to be noticed—and appreciated.

 And she couldn’t seem to stop appreciating them. Her gaze lingered on his thick chest, imagining her hands running over his pecs before sliding around his neck.

 Her breath hitched as her blood heated. She unzipped her jacket to help cool herself. Then she looked up at his face. And what a face!

 His wide, full lips softened the sharp lines of his jaw. Azure eyes framed with thick, black lashes watched her with a decided lack of interest. It was difficult to determine whether his hair was dark brown or black in the dim light of the cave.

 But it was trimmed short with the top long enough to be parted to the side, the locks having a hint of wave to them.

 She had a strange and overwhelming desire to run her hands through his hair and climb him.

 Claim him.

 Her knees threatened to buckle from the insane and decadent thoughts. The carnal longing swept through her shamelessly—and she embraced it.

 Even as she feared it.

 It took three attempts before she was able to have enough saliva to swallow.

 “Who are you?” she demanded.

 “The man who’s going to keep you safe,” came his harsh reply framed in a Scot’s brogue.

 Her gaze shifted to Tamir. “Excuse me?”

 Tamir laughed nervously. “Yeah, this is what I tried to tell you earlier. When I spoke with Ronnie, she suggested someone to help keep the crazies out. So she sent Dmitri.”

 Faith looked at Muscles again and noticed his interest was squarely on the skeleton. Just as she was about to tell Tamir to send him away, she realized they could use someone to keep the loonies at bay.

 Getting to her feet, she extended her hand to him. “Faith Reynolds.”

 “Dmitri,” he replied and briefly shook her hand, letting go as if the contact between them irritated him.

 She frowned and looked at Tamir before returning her gaze to Muscles. She fisted her hand to lessen the slight tingling across her skin from the contact with him. Again, she had the urge to touch him, stroke him.  “No last name?”

 “None needed,” Muscles said. “Why this cave?”

 “I’m sorry, what?”

 “Why did you pick this cave out of all the hundreds on the isle?” he asked in a slightly lower pitch.

 Faith’s hackles immediately rose, shoving the majority of her lust aside. She didn’t need to explain herself to anyone. So why she answered him, she’d never know. “I saw it from shore and wanted a look.”

 “There are five more caves you could’ve seen from shore. Yet you chose this one.”

 His blue eyes were penetrating, as if he were trying to see into her mind. She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “I got lucky. If it hadn’t been this one, I would’ve moved on to another.”

 “So you were looking for such a skeleton?”

 Was that a hint of mockery in his tone? Oh, I don’t think so! “I’m an archeologist. I look for anything.”

 “Do archeologists no’ have a specialty?”

 “Some, yes. For its size, this island has been more intensively studied by archeologists than almost any other area in Scotland.”

 “Is that so?”

 She let her confidence show in her smile. “That’s right. Did you know evidence has been found here to suggest Fair may have been settled by Neolithic people up to five thousand years ago?”

 “And you came to find more verification?”

 “It’s what I do.” No one was more surprised than she when she’d found the large horn and a portion of the skull sticking out of the ground.

Second Excerpt:

Dmitri still hadn’t decided about Faith Reynolds. Her dedication to her job was unquestioned. He wasn’t accepting her answer of just finding the cave, though.

 To have chosen this cave above any others? This one, which happened to have a dragon skeleton inside?

 While he’d walked the site after meeting Dr. Reynolds, he overheard conversations. Many of the volunteers didn’t believe it was a dragon. They suspected it was a new species of dinosaur. The few locals he saw milling about were curious, wondering how the new find would help tourism.

 He spotted a few “crazies” as Tamir called them, watching from a distance, but no one got close. Though he was curious about the two men Tamir had encountered earlier.

 The way Tamir had acted as he spoke about the incident made Dmitri wonder if word hadn’t somehow reached the Dark Fae.

 Or Ulrik.

 Once volunteers began leaving for the night, Dmitri found himself climbing back down to the cave. He’d expected to find Faith shutting things down for the day, but she continued to work.

 He didn’t want to be intrigued by her, but he was. If only his fascination had to do with how she’d found the dragon. He would discover what had led her to the skeleton, but that wasn’t  what kept his gaze locked on her.

 It’s not what kept his body strung tight as a bow.

 She was average height, but there was nothing typical about her looks. Much to his dismay. His tastes ran toward the Fae since he preferred to stay away from humans. Yet, there was no negating the fact that lust burned through his body from the first moment her sherry eyes  locked with his.

 There was a . . . simplicity about Faith that he appreciated. No makeup was needed to enhance her natural beauty. At first glance, she seemed almost ditzy since her mind ran a million miles a second, but her intelligence and zest for life were apparent with one look.

 Her sandy blond hair hung straight and glossy to her shoulders and was parted to one side with long bangs that she swiped out of her eyes repeatedly. The locks tantalized him by exposing the slender column of her neck and the delicate skin behind her ear.

 Unblemished fair skin beckoned him to touch, to caress.

 To lick.

 He clenched his teeth at the need that surged through him. When she turned, he watched the pulse at her throat and fought the longing to press his lips against it to feel the warmth of her body.

 Her oval face held a look of innocence and excitement he hadn’t seen in a long time. While her high cheekbones and sensual mouth added to her beauty, it was her eyes that caught him. They looked at the world as if it were a large sandbox waiting to expose its treasures.

 His palm still prickled from their brief touch earlier. The shock that had gone through him had been electric. The charge surged through him faster than lightning and left him reeling—and aching for more.

 Unable to look away, he watched as she stood and then bent over at the waist. The sight of her firm ass high in the air had the blood rushing to his cock. No mortal had ever had such an effect on him before. It unsettled him—and angered him.

 He forced his eyes away and turned his mind to more pressing matters. He’d been sent because of the skeleton, but there was something about Faith that didn’t seem to add up.  

 The most important question: how had she known where to look to find the bones?

 Faith became so engrossed in her work that she didn’t hear others talking to her. Even when Tamir called her name, she was often too preoccupied with digging up the skeleton.

 Dmitri had watched her for hours. In that time, he’d listened to her hum and watched her touch the bones with such reverence that it shook him.

 Though he’d come to the cave to watch her, it gave him time with the skeleton, as well. By the size, he knew it was an adult. Which of his dragons had gotten left behind? They’d been his responsibility, and he’d failed.

 The longer he stared, the more he felt the weight of regret. The world had been created for the dragons. It was their birthright, their home.

 Yet they were no longer welcome.

 And he feared nothing would ever change that.

 The Dragon Kings who found mates with human females were lucky. Those mortals welcomed the dragons and the Kings. But most of the globe was made up of individuals who wanted nothing more than to destroy the Dragon Kings, imprison them, or run tests on them.

 So he and the others remained hidden.

 But the dragon inside him—the fierce, savage creature that he was���silently cried out for revenge. And his family.

Book Links:

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29875894-firestorm

Amazon (paperback): http://amzn.to/2lHl1Ad Amazon (ebook): http://amzn.to/2mpdkhW Audible: http://amzn.to/2mpdo1a

BN: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/firestorm-donna-grant/1123664010?ean=9781250109538

Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/firestorm-donna-grant/1123664010?ean=9781250109545

BAM: http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Firestorm/Donna-Grant/9781250109538?id=6190886058526

IndieBound: http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781250109538

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/firestorm/id1161373300?mt=11&uo=8&at=11lHA9

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/firestorm-67

Tantor Audio: https://tantor.com/firestorm-donna-grant.html

[cornishbirdblog]

In wandering over some of the uncultivated tracts which still maintain their wilderness . . . against the march of cultivation, we are certain of finding rude masses of rock which have some relation to the giants. The giant’s hand or the giant’s chair or it may be the giant’s punch bowl excites your curiosity. What were the mental peculiarities of the people who fixed so permanently those names on fantastic rock masses? What are the conditions, mental or otherwise, necessary for the preservation of these ideas? – Robert Hunt, 1896.

Legends of giants permeate the Cornish landscape. These legendary personages are prolific and dynamic. Cornish giants are often used to explain the unexplainable. To account for an unusual geological phenomena such as the Cheesewring or perhaps the baffling stony remains left behind by our ancestors, like Trethevy Quoit.

Giants built giant walls, carved out giant-sized seats or threw giant boulders like bowling balls. They left their giant footprints and buried their giant hearts.

On Carn Brea hill near Redruth there is a Giant’s coffin, a Giant’s head and hand, the Giant’s wheel and the Giant’s cradle. According to folklore all were the property of a giant known as John of Gaunt, one of the last of his kind.

John is not quite as cool a name for a giant as many of the other Cornish giants. Bolster, Trecobben, Wrath, Blunderbore, Rebecks or Cormoran.

But the real question is what are the origins of these larger than life characters?

A Compact and Bijou Nation

Someone suggested to me recently (now don’t get offended) that the Cornish tend to be rather short in stature. Short, stocky, dark hair. More of a stereotype these days perhaps? But in the past did this more diminutive trait lead somehow to this plethora of legends about giants in Cornwall?

In the anthropologist John Beddoe’s book, The Races of Britain, published in 1885 the Cornish are described as ‘a stalwart race’. Loyal, reliable and hard-working.

“Superior to the Devonians in stature and length of limb . . . Cornwall probably gave the last refuge to the free British warriors, who were gradually forced back by the West Saxons into the peninsula . . . The Cornish are generally dark in hair and often in eye: they resemble the Scottish Highlanders in their warmth of colouring . . .”

So we were taller than the Devonians apparently, (more attractive obviously) but still not exactly blessed with height. Beddoe concludes that the average height of the Cornishman, from his survey of over 300, was around 5ft 7ins. The overall average height for men in the UK is around 5ft 9ins.

There was a theory batted around in the 19th century that Cornwall had been a refuge for the pre-Celtic people of England.

During the Celtic invasion the Neolithic or Pre-Celtic people were a short dark race of an imaginative temperament. The incoming Celts were a much bigger race, broad headed and fair and to the aborigines appeared big men . . . Giants. – J Hambley Rowe, Cornish Notes & Queries, 1906.

This idea that the Cornish were towered over by invaders seems quite common. So could this be the origin of Cornwall’s giants?

It is sometimes supposed that the numerous Cornish giant legends may originate from the Anglo-Saxon, and later Norman, overlordship . . . Cornishmen are relatively small and the foreign invaders probably loomed large by comparison. – Tony Dean and Tony Shaw, The folklore of Cornwall, 1975

Cormoran, illustration by Arthur Rackham

Cornwall’s Real Giants

Not far from the Lands End there is a little village called Trebegean, in English the town of the Giant’s Grave. Near whereunto and within memory certain workmen searching for tin discovered a long square vault containing bones of an excessive big carcase [sic] and verified this etymology of the name.

The above was written by Richard Carew in 1602 and his is not the only account of a real life Cornish giant.

More than 150 years later in 1761 tin miners unearthed something equally strange in the village of Tregony. They accidently dug up a coffin. And this was no ordinary coffin, it was 11 feet (3.5m) long. While any other remains appeared to have crumbled to dust a single tooth was found inside. It measured two and a half inches in length. It was assumed that the miners had found the grave of an actual giant.

You see in Cornwall the giants aren’t just the stuff of legend. There are one or two who have made it into the parish registers too.

• Charles Chilcott

Charles Chilcott was born in 1742. He was what was once known as a ‘gentleman farmer’ and he lived near Tintagel. Charles was big. In his day he was well known for his gigantic stature and feats of extraordinary strength. These days anyone over 6′ 8″ tall is officially classed as a giant. Charles was 6′ 9″ (203cm) and weighed 32 stone or 208 kilograms. This was in a time when the average height was considerably shorter.

Charles lived a pretty uneventful life. His father William had died when he was 3 years old. In August 1768 he married Mary Jose and the couple went on to have two children. Langford, his son born in 1769 and Rebecca, his daughter in 1771.

Their house, Treknow, also known as Tresknow or Trenaw, was actually mentioned in the Doomsday Book. And Charles inherited the property from his mother Rebekah after her death. He lived out his life there, dying in 1815. He was then buried in Tintagel churchyard. Such was his fame locally that his death was reported in the West Briton newspaper:

Died last week at Trenaw, in the parish of Tintagel in consequence of an apoplectic [sic] fit a person commonly known by the appellation of Giant Chilcott. His height was 6 foot 4 inches without shoes. He measured around the breast 6 feet 9 inches. Around the full part of the thigh 3 ft 4 inches and weighed about 460 pounds. He was almost constantly smoking. The stem of the pipe he used was about 2 inches long and he consumed 3 pounds of tobacco weekly. One of his stockings held 6 gallons of wheat. The curiosity of strangers who came to visit him gave him evident pleasure and his usual address on such occasions was “come under my arm little fellow”. – 14th April 1815

Another real life giant was John Laugherne of Truro. He was 7ft 6in tall and known as ‘Long Laugherne’. During the Civil War he fought for the royalist cause as a lieutenant in the Calvary Regiment. It is said that it took more than two strong men to pull his sword from one of Plymouth’s gates when the Cornish Royalists laid siege to the town.

• Anthony Payne

By far the most famous giant (real one anyway) in Cornwall is Anthony Payne. Payne was born in Stratton, near Bude in 1612 and was a sporty lad who grew to be 7’4″ tall (223.5cm) and 32 stone. A great bear of a man he was also quick-witted and gentle.

Anthony Payne

Anthony became the bodyguard of a local notable, Sir Bevill Grenville, and fought along side him during the Civil War. His loyalty and bravery gained him the attention of King Charles who ordered the portrait above, now hanging in The Royal Cornwall Museum, to be painted.

There are many stories about his formidable size and great shows of strength, such as carrying his friends up the steep cliffs near Stratton for a bet, one tucked under each arm. Making him a jerkin (a waistcoat) took three whole deer skins as his chest was so large. But perhaps the most poignant story is that when he passed away at his home in Stratton in 1691 the coffin was too large to fit down the stairs. They had to cut a hole in the floor and lower him out that way. It then took a relay team of strong bearers to carry him to his final resting place.

A Gentle Giant

The legends associated with Cornwall’s Giants are many and varied. There was Bolster the bane of St Agnes is life, Wraft the terror of the St Ives and Porthreath fishermen. Cormoran and his wife Cormelian who lived at St Michael’s Mount and Blunderbore and his brother Rebecks who rampaged around Ludgvan.

But perhaps the most moving story is that of the kindly giant Holiburn. He was a friend to humans and spent his life protecting the people of Morvah and Zennor.

Holiburn the kindly giant

But one day, while playing some game with a local man, Holiburn affectionately patted him on the head and accidentally squashed him completely flat. When the giant realise what he had done he was devastated and cried:

“Oh my son, my son why didn’t they make the shell of thy noodle stronger?”

Holiburn pined away and died of a broken heart. Interestingly there is still a large stone near Morvah church known as the Giants Grave.

The Bones of Prehistoric Beasts

In 1906 an unusual but perhaps logical explanation was offered by Rev. D Gath Whitley for the stories of huge bones often offered as proof of the existence of giants in the past.

At a meeting of the Royal Institution of Cornwall he said:

It has been proved . . . that many of the bones which were formerly said to have belonged to giants in different countries of Europe are simply the remains of the mammoths and the rhinoceros.

Mr Whitley quoted instances in France, Germany, Spain and Russia where the discovery of enormous bones had been taken as evidence of a race of extraordinary men. These had then later been identified by anatomists as the remains of ancient elephants or even whales. Whitley explained:

In prehistoric days many of the bones of the elephant, rhinoceros and hippopotamus were found in Cornwall by the rude primitive inhabitants and were by them considered to have belonged to a race of gigantic human beings.

Whatever the roots of our many Cornish giant legends the landscape and folklore of Cornwall is far richer because of them. And I for one am beyond grateful that our ancestors were such an imaginative bunch!

Further Reading:

The Giant’s Heart

Zennor Head

Real Cornish Giants, where legends begin In wandering over some of the uncultivated tracts which still maintain their wilderness . . . against the march of cultivation, we are certain of finding rude masses of rock which have some relation to the giants.

[notsdlifter]

Addled Roots: Prologue

The Apocalypse Obsession

The apocalypse was a national obsession, you could say. People always talked about the end of the world. Every summer, Hollywood churned out blockbusters about robots pushing mankind to the brink of extinction. For a decade-long stretch, the most popular show on TV had zombie herds wandering across the country like the buffalo used to tromp across the Great Plains. People had fears galore: global warming, rising seas, super flus, super volcanoes, giant meteoroids, toxins in our food, air, and water. Y2K was supposed to signify the collapse. Then it was the end of the Mayan calendar. The sun itself was a massive flare away from frying all the electronics on the planet and sending us back to the Neolithic Age. It was just a matter of time before some flop-haired billionaire pushed us to the brink of nuclear annihilation. The apocalypse was right around the corner and we were all chewing our fingernails off waiting for it to arrive. Oh, those were the good old days. 

If I could go back to 2018, I would be the Apocalypse’s Paul Revere. “People,” I’d warn, “The apocalypse isn’t coming… The apocalypse isn’t coming. IT’S ALREADY HERE!” 

Here is a quick history lesson. The “first beast” of the apocalypse was invented in Japan in 1893 when a chemist used western science to understand ancient Asian medicines. The Nazis gave a synthesized version of it to soldiers during World War II and the drug-crazed Wehrmacht blanketed half of Europe in a furious Blitzkrieg.  The tentacles of the beast spread across America in the 1950s. It started as a simple pick-me-up, a good time booster that beatnik poets used for fuel. Then it was outlawed in the 1970s by the American government relegating it to biker gangs and hardened drug users. By the late 1980s, Americans were making it in their bathtubs and houses were exploding from Ogunquit Maine to the salt flats of California. It shattered rural American communities like Little Boy’s blast flattened Hiroshima. Crystal Methamphetamine, is far and away the most abused drug in the history of the world. 

The Drug Epidemic

In late 2018, while America was deep in the throes of a quarter century old meth epidemic, another drug started to wreak its havoc. A “second beast”—if you will briefly indulge my hyperbole—had legitimate roots, and many got it by prescription and in pill form. It had a handful of names: oxy, roxy, fentanyl, black tar, china, chiva, smack, heroin… call it what you will. All of them were from the same family of opioids. Unlike its bastardized brother meth, opioids reached into all levels of society. It hit housewives just as hard as street users. Unsuspecting patients were prescribed the drug by their trusted family doctor for an injury only to begin the spiral of addiction. People bought it in the mail, off the shadow internet, and had it FedExed to their houses. Pill mills were seemingly in every strip mall in America. Opioids were everywhere, more ubiquitous than the Golden Arches of McDonalds. 

A syndemic is the study of two epidemics and how they interact. Imagine, if you will, two massive epidemics each wielding a crippling outcome of addiction in millions of people. On the one hand, you have the meth scourge, arguably one of the worst in world history.  On the other, you have the opioid crisis that was rumored to be so debilitating both economically and socially that it alone have removed America’s status as a superpower. Now what if both of those epidemics fed off each other and exponentially magnified the negative consequences? What if they were spinning at breakneck speeds in opposite directions in a social particle accelerator and smashed together? New elements are born that have unforeseen consequences. That is a syndemic effect. And that is exactly what happened to the Great U.S. of A. 

The opioid epidemic was sucked into areas that were already ravaged by meth like light hits a black hole. And in the pressure and darkness of those afflictions, something truly malevolent sprung from the track-marked carcasses of dying addicts.  There was an interaction, an unexpected agitator that spun people into a specific mindset. It wasn’t pure rage, not exactly, because there was a calculating aspect even though they moved with reckless abandonment. These addicts awoke from a figuratively dead sleep with the intent to murder. They had—to borrow a word from the legal community—a “depraved heart” and singular purpose. 

“Oh, you poor fuckers,” I’d say, “you should have seen it coming.” 

A Rash of Drug Overdoses

The addicts called it a “goofball.” It was a mixture of meth and heroin heated in a spoon. The high was a combination of the warm bath sedation of heroin and the frantic euphoria of IV meth. A high-low lethal amalgamation that some addicts described as a tearing in half of the soul. Overdoses skyrocketed. There was a public outcry and a flurry of class action lawsuits aimed at the manufacturers, distributors, and the physicians who wrote the scripts. A hundred thousand died in a three-month period. And, in this little bitty town in the middle of nowhere, there were a handful of ODs that didn’t stay dead.  

It all began in a spot between Denver and Saint Louis. I’m not sure if it happened when some hapless local queued up a “goofball” in a dirty spoon and put a match to it. But I do know that it started with a new synthesis of meth. It wasn’t more powerful than the Mexican meth cooked in super labs or more potent than Walter White’s mythical “baby blue.” But this meth, when it was mixed with an opioid and heated, grabbed peoples’ brains and never let them go. It dipped its tentacles deep into the gray matter and molded the perfect soldiers of the apocalypse.

The signs were everywhere. While people were helplessly plugged into their phones and sprouting roots into their couches binge watching Netflix, America was deteriorating like a bad case of meth mouth. The epidemic hit the rural Midwest first. Addicts showed signs of “the shakes.” Oh, dear God the shakes. These addicts were like normal meth fiends: the rotten teeth, the open sores, hallucinations, advanced aging, the insatiable desire to find the next fix… the whole kit and caboodle. But they appeared only at night in rural areas and in massive packs. They looked like your general run-of-the-mill meth heads but they were different. Really different. 

So, yeah, about the “goofballs”—turns out that was an apt nickname. Do you remember Looney Tunes when Bugs drank poison? His eyes bulged out, arms contorted in lighting fast poses. That was the cartoon version isolated to a single subject. The real-life shakes were this twitchy, spastic shuffle that was eerily coordinated across groups of people. They moved as a unit like nocturnal predators. Once the shakes came, they always packed up and hunting for the living, all while burning swaths of homes to the ground. And these things, these fucking drug beasts, could cut and move like NFL slot receivers. They were dead addicts, with only one key difference. They didn’t eat brains or human flesh. Though they were not alive, they were not undead either. They seemed to exist somewhere between the planes of alive and dead in some biological limbo. These “dead addicts” had only one purpose: to head out at night in large, fast moving packs to murder, burn, and infect. The screams and the flames spread across the country like a viral advertisement.

A year into the syndemic, as the shakes exploded across rural America, there were probably only twenty thousand dead addicts. That sounds like a lot, but they were spread out. The government might have handled things. The larger cities immediately put up fence lines, thick walls, and check points. Martial law and the army’s use of nighttime firing lines and shoot-on-sight strategies were effective for a time. Most places could have ridden out the fires and roving killing herds. But there were issues that no one fully understood. 

These dead addicts didn’t drag their feet and listlessly moan while shuffling toward a meal. They moved in predatory packs and tightly controlled formations.  After they hit an area, they rarely returned. And there are other things, too. They sent out small groups to test the strength of a wall or estimate the total firepower of a defensive position. When they strike, they did it with such an awesome display of force. Twenty thousand rapidly-moving, living corpses, all pressed into and over cement barriers while under a barrage of machine gun fire. The dead addicts scratched and bit and bleed in their frantic, flailing way. It was all so militaristic, like they had a general. And they retreated into dark areas to wait out the day hiding in older sewer lines, in abandoned houses, or just buried themselves in the dirt. Only the most fortified places are still standing, but even they will eventually fall.  

The Troubled Children

Right after the outbreak of the shakes, before shit went south, a new wrinkle appeared. Something started happening with the kids. They were always children of a certain age, slightly older than toddlers and not quite teenagers. You know kids in that horribly awkward stage of life? The big elbows, comically skinny legs, and bad hair. Almost always they were grade-schoolers somewhere between second and sixth grade. These kids became susceptible, open to control. There were many stories of grade-schoolers stopping in mid-stride, always with their head tilted slightly and a thousand-yard stare, before engaging in a brief fit of terrorism. Out of nowhere, in the middle of the night, they threw open gates. They went on violent rampages. They broke into weapon stashes and fuel depos with catastrophic results. A minute later, the kids would be sitting, sobbing, completely oblivious to the world. Utterly unaware of their acts. 

City leaders came up with various plans to deal with the children, all of them equally flawed: (1) isolate, (2) segregate, or (3) eliminate. That would have been a fine plan if talking about a rat infestation or coyotes killing calves. But these were kids. You do not fuck with people’s kids. The slightest insinuation that the government was planning to “deal” with the “kid problem” turned soccer moms into suicide bombers. I honestly believe that Martha Stewart would peel the skin off your face with a butter knife if you threatened her children. All hell broke loose, and it never stopped breaking. No place was safe. There was chaos inside the cities. It always seemed like any place was on the verge of collapse. In the countryside, there was a desperate horror. If the killing herds found you—and there were millions of dead addicts tediously searching everything—they would kill you. 

Token-Oak

All this aforementioned shit started in the little town of Token-Oak. My hometown. And I’d like to tell you that no one saw this behemoth coming, that it was some chemistry accident stumbled upon by a bathtub chef who unwittingly created the batch that brought the greatest military in world history to its knees. But there was one person who saw this whole damn thing decades before it started. 

Before the emergency declarations and mobilization of the national guard, she knew. Before the major cities were surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers with check points every thirty miles on major highways, she knew. Before all rural America became uninhabitable and uncrossable, my grandma knew what was coming. She knew it all the way back in the late 1980s, the first time we saw a meth addict in Token-Oak. She saw the fall and, in her own way, prepared me for what was coming. And everyone thought she was crazy. 

God, I should have seen it, too. It was always right in my face grabbing me by the ears throughout my life. As a kid in Token-Oak, the meth crisis had just taken hold with bathtub cooks springing up everywhere. When I moved away as an adolescent, I saw it increase a little more each time I returned to the town. Little pockets of the apocalypse—lab explosions, rampant murder, and disappearances—were all over Token-Oak. And as an adult that got trapped in that pit of hell, I was at ground zero when the syndemic started. I was in the eye of the hurricane, a silent circle as the ferocious winds of the storm tore the country apart. 

I don’t think we will ever make it back, not to normal anyway. Once the world has been saturated with enough blood, it has forever changed. After the whole scale slaughter of the American Indians, a nation of roads and laws and good Christian morality sprang up in their place. But underneath it all—waiting in the shiny new world—there was this bitterness, the cold reality that human beings are capable of the gravest infliction of suffering and pain. And that is why we were all so obsessed with the Apocalypse. Because deep down, we all knew it was coming. Because it had been here many times before. 

But what I know now is that we wanted it to come, too. And the thing that keeps me awake at night is the thought that we needed the apocalypse in many ways. A fresh start. A clean slate. Call it whatever you want, but millions felt that way before the collapse. 

My story is not the most exciting tale of the downfall—hell, you will find any account of the survivors from the shake attack on Chicago more riveting. It’s not the sexiest, it doesn’t have the best intel on the government response, though there is a great deal written in these pages about how to survive a night in America when they come for you. And they always come for you. But my story is the most complete of all the stories. I was a child in Token-Oak during the syndemic’s humble beginnings in the late 1980s. And, in a blind stroke of luck, I was a graduate assistant at the University of Chicago when the government first tested human brains for the shakes. I was the first person, due to my professional training and location, to recognize that there was a problem with certain American kids. And, somehow, I ended up back home on the day the syndemic officially began. I was at ground zero every step of the way. There is not another person alive or dead that can say the same thing. 

I never thought my life would end up like this. Not in a million years did I think a child from Token-Oak would be on the forefront of the apocalypse. There is a good chance that everyone will be dead soon. The spread has done nothing but intensify since the outbreak. Each passing month, another small pocket of resistance, another American city, succumbs to the killing herds. 

If I told you that I don’t know why I am writing this book, I’d be lying. It will probably never be read by another human being. There won’t be awards, no reading circles, it will not be published. And I can tell you that writing these pages at night nearly drowning in sounds of screaming and the gnashing of teeth has not been easy. But I write this nightly for selfish reasons. It keeps me alive, pushes me to fight on, to scrounge food and keep my weapons clean. Because in these pages, buried somewhere in my memory of the downfall, is a secret. Something hidden that I somehow overlooked. And maybe, if I dig deep enough, pull out my memories, I will find something that will beat these ravenous bastards straight back into hell. 

I am going to take you back to the beginning. All the way back to where it started and walk you through everything step by bloody step. I’ll start with the smartest woman—the most simultaneously ruthless and loving woman that ever lived. And even though we never talked about it, she knew. My Grandma knew it was coming and did her best to warn me.  “Oh, you poor fuckers” I’d say riding from city to city, “the APCOLYPSE IS HERE.” 

Robert Warrington, Ph.D.  Token-Oak, Winter of 2026 2556 days after the Syndemic

[rachelisnotatwork]

Week 4- almost off the map

North West Scotland is beautiful. North East Scotland...not so much. Or certainly not around John O’Groats. We had time before our ferry to Orkney to visit John O’Groats and also Dunnet Head, which is the most Northerly point of mainland Britain (we are collecting the cardinal points on this trip). We spent approximately 3 minutes each at both of these sites as they were brutally cold and windy. 

Not much in the way of landscape features to break up the wind in those parts…as a result we were super early for the ferry and got to eat a depressing late breakfast in their not-great tiny cafe at the port.

The ferry crossing was surprisingly smooth (although Marcel claimed he was feeling seasick and needed to eat something cool to help the nausea and then wolfed down two ice creams). Orkney has been much contested over the ages. I’m not sure why. It’s very flat and very, very windy. We went for a brief beach walk to stretch our legs after the journey. The “highlight” was finding some mussels growing on weird things like a shoe sole and a bottle and returning them to the sea. Well that and retreating rapidly to our airbnb to turn the heating on to the max.

The next morning we headed out to see St Magnus’s cathedral, the most northerly cathedral in the UK. Those Orcadians...pretty morbid. Or they loved pirates. Either way there was a great amount of skull and crossbones on their graves.

Next we went out to see some windswept standing stones- in fact the local neolithic population loved them so much they put two pretty much right next to each other 5,000 years ago, which is convenient when it’s really cold and you really don’t want to leave the car for very long.

Our next stop was to see if we could get on a tour of Maeshowe. The website suggested booking was essential, but wouldn’t let us book online for the same day. Since all the tours for the rest of the week were available to book, I thought we should take our chances and just turn up. Unsurprisingly it was not sold out.

It was however super cool (although photographs are not allowed inside). 

I’m glad I didn’t do my research in advance, because to get in you have to make your way through a 10m long, 1m high tunnel, which is really not my cup of tea. Also we were warned we would probably be dive bombed by some swallows that were nesting in there (we were, they were not thrilled to see us). However it’s a pretty cool 5,000 year old tomb that is shaped like a pyramid, make of enormous stone blocks and was dry and out of the wind. She was explaining that not very much was known about this place, save that only bones were put in (along with pottery and jewellery) and suggested that maybe the bones were left to be cleaned by wild animals first. Was tempted to say that a few days in the wind out here would soon scour the flesh of the bones.

In a mixed blessing for future archaeologists, drunk Vikings broke in 850 years ago to get shelter from the weather, threw out all the bones and artefacts and scratched drunken runes all over the wall. Which are apparently great examples of rune carvings in terms of technical skills, but in keeping with modern graffiti are mostly about how tall the person writing is, how cool the person writing is and then casting aspersions of the chastity of particular women.

Our next stop was over the other side of the island at Skara Brae. This is a 5,000 year old village by the coast that was buried for centuries by the sand dunes and then suddenly turned up after a storm. It was mostly buried at the time as well, to try and keep out the horrendous weather. Inside the houses, it mostly resembles the Flintstones attempting to recreate the Ikea catalogue. They have a lot of apparently easy to mine sandstone in Orkney and presumably not that many convenient to harvest trees, so everything (beds, dressers, storage etc) is made of of slabs of stone. It’s pretty cool.

Since if you see a couple of the neolithic sites, they encourage you to get an explorers pass, next we went to the Broch of Gurness. This is an iron age (oh so modern) village which used to have a 10m tower (the broch) in which has mostly fallen down. There isn’t a LOT of explanation at the site, but there was a very friendly cat living in the broch which was way more fun than an information board.

Our final historical stop was the Brough of Birsay, which was a pictish (getting gradually more modern here) settlement on a tidal island. Our stop here was brief, but we wanted to get maximum value for money out of our pass!

Then, being super mature, we visited the village of Twatt. Because people keep stealing the Twatt road signs (we drove around fruitlessly looking for one for ages) and so the council took away the remainders, the only thing you can pose with is the Twatt church bench. 

We turned out not to be the only people on this immature mission so in a moment of tourist camraderie, we took photos of the others so everyone could have a photo of their group at the Twatt Church. And on our way back from Twatt to Kirkwall we did manage to find out road sign that hadn’t been removed yet!

The next morning, it was time to head back to the mainland. Orkney has some amazing early archeological stuff….but we weren’t sad to say goodbye to the weather.

The day we mostly spent...driving. We stopped off briefly to have a walk at a place called Dornoch but it was so windy it just wasn’t worth it.

We decided instead we’d have a walk when we reached our destination, the town of Tomintoul in the Cairngorms but it took so long to get there on all the little winding roads that it was close to dark by the time of our arrival and we only had time for a very brief wander on the estate as the sun went down.

Having had some very grey and miserable days recently, we were pretty excited to wake up and see glorious sunshine. This was especially good as we’d decided to go up the Cairngorm Funnicular Railway, and apparently on bad days (so I imagine a lot of the time) you just see cloud and nothing else. Instead we were treated to beautiful views from the viewing platform at the top. You can’t leave the viewing platform though in case you ruin the local flora. Which was a bit weird to me as it’s not like you can’t walk in the Swiss Alps and somehow they survive to produce a profusion of wild flowers that definitely wasn’t present here…

We then went on a very pretty, almost too hot, walk to a beautiful green loch called An Lochan Uaine. 

It was so lovely and still when we reached there I almost wished we could swim, but then remembered that feeling too hot in thermal tights and a jumper is very different from feeling hot enough in swimwear to immerse yourself in cold water.

After a brief lunch stop, we then went on a second loch walk, around Loch Eilein. It’s another very pretty loch, which has as an added extra a tiny ruined castle on an island in it.

The next day we headed South to Edinburgh. On the way we stopped off for a lovely beach walk at the St Cyrus Nature Reserve. There was a waterfall at the end and we walked for AGES to get to it, only to be thwarted from reaching it (in my case) by a giant granite boulder. I sent Marcel up to have a look. On the way back down the beach we spotted a crate and dug it out the sand hoping to find millions in buried pirate treasure, but alas it was only a stupid fisheries crate (thankfully empty and not full of rotting sardines or something).

After that we stopped in Dundee to see the Discovery. As you may or may not know from previous blog posts detailing other obscure attractions we’ve visited, I’m quite fond of Antarctica. So I was pretty excited to see the Discovery, which took Scott and Shackleton down there. Also they had lots of information in an attached museum about how it was build and I love stuff about building big things so; massive win. Marcel probably enjoyed it about as much as I enjoyed all those bloody stone circles, so we are even.

We had a lovely dinner and brunch with Esther (where we got a belated wedding present!) and then we headed south.

First stop off was Rosslyn chapel, which is a huge £9 to get in and you can’t take your camera. Which meant that although it has some interesting and weird carvings, like maize before America was discovered (although I think it’s just an untalented mason’s depiction of grapes) and greed being depicted as a virtue, I was busy feeling ripped off and glowering.  Marcel suggested a walk around there as it was beautifully sunny but I was keen to move on.

So we said goodbye to Scotland and headed down to our next stop. This was Lindisfarne in Northumberland. Naturally by the time we reached the causeway out there, it was peeing with rain. We dashed from the car park into a local cafe, and from there into the museum attached to the ruins of the priory. My enthusiasm for museums about early Christainity is strongly correlated to the weather, so I studied it with interest. Apparently it was founded by a pioneer from Iona, where we’d also been rained on, so there was some symmetry there…

By the time we’d studied every board in the museum (I’m now an expert on 5th-11th century Christainity in the UK), it had stopped raining. We wandered around the ruins and then headed up to this little observation tower on a hill behind it where you got gorgeous views of the bay, including an area of sunbathing seals and I was really annoyed I’d left my nice camera in the car because I didn’t want it getting rained on.

With the remaining light left to us, we headed to nearby Bamburgh beach. This has a very scenic castle behind it, is huge and was amazingly empty at 6pm on a sunny Saturday evening. Northumberland is my new favourite county.

We had quite far to go for our stop that night (a hotel called the Centre of Britain, for reasons I couldn’t really work out because it is in no way the centre of the mainland UK), so we ended up stopping for Mexican in a town called Hexham on the way. We were the only people in the restaurant. It was a bit strange.

The hotel was also rather strange, our bedroom came off the conference room (which made me glad the next day was Sunday, so I wouldn’t have to worry about opening the wrong door in the morning whilst looking for the bathroom and coming face-to-face with 12 confused business men) and we were kept up pretty late by screaming drunk people outside, which was strange as it looked like a pretty quite market town on the way in (although screaming drunk people are always more tolerable when you know there is no chance that you are going to be on shift and stitching them up later).

Sunday dawned...with rain. We had a pretty damp trip to Housesteads Roman Fort and a wander along Hadrian’s Wall there. They get around the fact that the wall is pretty low by building in it places at the top of some pretty steep drops- another unexpected vertigo joy when you are just trying to have a potter and pretend to be a roman legionnary etc.

Afterwards we headed on into Durham because Marcel was keen to see the cathedral. What we didn’t realise was that it was “parents drop off their freshers in Durham” day. Traffic could broadly be described as hellish and the cathedral was pretty busy with parents who were clearly get something positive out of the long drive there (well apart from ditching their teenager for the term). It’s quite a nice cathedral (and features St Cuthbert’s shrine, who was a saint from Lindisfarne, so more connections) but they don’t let you take pictures, which always annoys me (I get no flash, but no pictures at all...irritating).

We had to buy some food in Durham, and if we thought the rest of the town was bad in terms of students-with-parents, we had underestimated the awfulness of going to a giant Tesco. It was full of parents loading their student up on essentials, but obviously no one normally shopped there, so it was an aimless mass of overloaded trolleys. I was not amused.

Finally we escaped and drove to Whitby. Whitby is just as slightly creepy and seaside eccentric as I was hoping it would be. 

We had a wander around the town and out onto the pier and then ate surprisingly good Thai for dinner in a place literally inside the train station (you could view the very empty platforms; I’m guessing it doesn’t have much of a regular service here). And so ended week 4 on the road!

[abby-goes-abroad]

Bath, Wales (briefly), Stonehenge, London

We’ve made it.

Wednesday, we stepped out of our cherished coach and onto the London streets, breathing in that marijuana-and-cigarette-pervaded air. Ah.

The smell is not so bad. Only in certain areas.

I highly esteem fresh air.

London, truly, is mind-bogglingly cool. I am more than grateful we are staying here for five weeks because I think that gives us loads of time to integrate ourselves into the goings-on of such a massive place. I have to repeatedly scold myself for being such a maximizer (i.e. one who wants to do EVERYTHING to the highest possible caliber). It’s only the first short week here in London, and I somehow already feel like I am falling behind as to doing things and going places.

Before London, we were in Bath, driving out to Wales for a short day trip and exploring the city and its history in the course of the other couple days.

(side view of The Royal Crescent, Bath aka where you can stroll along and feel like you’re in an Austen novel)

(Sacred Spring in the Roman Baths--a classic spin on holy water)

Our Wales excursion included a stop at Tintern Abbey, inspiration for many artists and noted in the title of one of Wordsworth’s poems.

(“....And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things....”)

(the Abbey’s surroundings)

The next Welsh stop was Chepstow Castle, a fortification-turned-domestic joint with an abundance of towers and pigeons nesting in its old walls. 

(Directly sourced from castle website: “From around 1067 through to 1690, the castle, almost chameleon-like, changed its appearance as fashions changed in military architecture”--oh oh, don’t I know)

(pigeons in formation)

The past week has been an eventful one for the group. One of the less pleasant events has been the rounds of what we’ve termed “the plague,” a stomach virus, which has hopped from body to body as we’ve shared the same coach space. I contracted a milder case the morning we left for London. Nauseous and avoiding all contact with food, I slept most of the day, but I did muster up enthusiasm for Stonehenge. 

(Neolithic rocks!)

(yes I wear sweaters and stand in front of rocks it’s not a big deal--picture credit to the marvelous Sophie Harris)

Then, I climbed back onto the bus, went back to sleep, and the next time I woke up we were in London.

We’ve spent our first few days getting acclimated to the city by wandering around, going to museums, attending a couple of plays. I went to Camden Market in Camden Town yesterday, which was a happening place. I weaved through the seemingly never-ending stalls and left with a scarf and a burrito. 

(market finds)

So much fun to be had in London, and I am determined to have a wicked amount of it. 

Cheers to this glorious city,

Abby