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hamlets-ak · 1 year ago

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seaside sanctuary ༊*·˚

synopsis: during your vocation on a greek island, you and timothée spend some time on a secluded beach

The magic of Milos had settled over you gently and clingingly with its volcanic rock formations and golden shores. Not even two weeks had passed since the day you and Timothée arrived on the island, and you had already become one with the locals; traveling in all its cryptic passages and discovering the heart of the town.

You had found happiness in simple and frugal things like walking along pebbled pathways and marble streets with your boyfriend’s palm inside yours, fingers conjoined and tangled, quick pecks on the cheek and forehead, small glances and furtive smiles, soft laughs, warm or cold hugs, his head balancing tiredly on your shoulder and yours burying on his chest listening to his steady heartbeat.

It was Timothée’s idea to invite your families since you had only a month at your disposal before returning back to work and it was an opportunity to spend some time with them. Besides, it was such a beautiful trip, you had to share this unrepeatable experience.

Altogether you traveled with your sailboat around the island and stayed on secluded beaches, accessible only by the sea. Hours and hours had been spent under the sun; swimming, snorkeling, laying on the deck, enjoying the sunset at anchor.

Blazing afternoon sunrays penetrated your skin and blinded your vision, as the briny breeze fanned your face, pulling back strands of salty hair, tangling them with the blowing fair wind.

The Aegen was opening around you; a sapphire-colored sea that touched the line of the sky, extending to a wild yet quiet horizon. It was summer and the world was in a splendor.

Your arms were leaning on the silver railings of the boat and your gaze was up in the bright blue veil, watching the seagulls fly high and dive at the water, then rising up again, squawking loudly to each other.

A burst of familiar boisterous laughter led your eyes to the back at the cockpit. You couldn’t help but smile before even allowing your stare to pierce that dirty glass, only at the sound of his voice. Your head slowly fell to the side and stayed balanced on top of your shoulder.

Timothée’s radiant smile made you unconsciously laugh a little. And he must've noticed because even through the thick glass and the heavy blanket of water and salt covering it, he stared back at you with an electrifying glint and grinned widely as he bent down to knock at the glass a few times and then waved at you.

« Let’s go! », he told you.

You pushed yourself off the railings. Hushed murmurs accompanied by melodious giggles forced you to change your gaze from scenic islets and coves to a small group of people. Barefoot and sun-dazed, their hearts still left in the old pirates’ hideout, Kleftiko, your parents and Pauline, were laying relaxed on the boat. Their swimsuits were on, bodies still wet from their previous dive, drying under shining sunrays. Green beer bottles with the word ‘Mythos’ written on their lebels were reflecting golden beams of light, as cigarettes burnt in the air alongside sprinkles of brine and rust.

« Pauline? », you called her name. She sat better at her elbows and raised her eyes that were covered with black shades. « You’re coming? »

« Nah, » she replied throwing her head back. « I’m tired. I’ll just stay here and take a nap. Have fun though. » You nodded at her words and moved slowly and steadily to the back, hands holding tightly the ropes of the boat.

« Hey, » Timothée grinned at you.

« Hi, » you greeted him and the Captain. « Where are we right now? »

« We are at Sykia, » Timothée replied. He wrapped his arm around you, letting it fall loose on your shoulder as he held you.

« Yeah that’s right, » the Captain spoke with his heavy Greek voice that held a melodious tone only people from Cyclades had. « Once you pass that tunnel, you’ll end up in the cave, » he pointed in the direction you were already looking at. Timothée nodded in understandment, arms snaking in your lower spine, bringing you closer to his body. « And when you get inside, you'll notice that a part of the roof of the cave is missing. It was submerged years ago and now there is a kind of natural skylight. »

« Oh that’s cool, » you said turning to the scenery while Timothée’s nose was mindlessly circling your cheek and temple, tracing soft lines over your brow. Sun kissed your faces and drifted at the space between, giving away a sheen.

« It is cool, » the Captain continued. « I mean, what are you even doing in Milos if you haven’t visited Sykia? » You both lightly laughed at his words as you took Timothée’s hand in yours and pressed a pair of soft lips on top of it before he lightly patted your cheek with his hand making you grin, melting at his warm touch, and hug him tight.

You had anchored close to the cave, less than half of a nautical mile. Waves were luring the boat along with them giving it a soft waft.

Timothée waited for you to approach the edge of the boat before jumping off the stern into a calm steady sea with a thunderous splash that sprinkled you from head to toe, and then paddled the water. Quickly he emerged, throwing his head back and pulling pieces of hair that were stuck on his forehead, out of his face. With cold water stinging your skin, you lightly stepped back gasping.

« Come in! », Timothée laughed and motioned his head to you.

« It’s cold! », you slouched your shoulders, arms wrapped around your stomach. You glanced back regretting your decision of not staying with Pauline to take a nap as well.

« Come in! », he said in a more demanding tone. You bit your lips and shook your head. « I’m going to splash you. »

“No, you wouldn’t.”

« You sure about that? », he asked tossing a small wave of water in your direction.

« Timothée, it’s cold! »

« I’ll splash you. » You looked at him for a few seconds. « I’ll do it. »

« Fine, » you groaned making him smile, and without much thought jumped into the sea.

A freezing feeling struck then gradually consumed your body. Nothing but the sea was surrounding you and you kicked your feet through bitter water, gasping for air. You fought for a moment breathlessly to come to the surface and then looked at Timothée who was already a bit ahead of you.

« Wait, wait, wait! », you shouted at him. He stopped and turned around to look at you, as you paddled along the blue to be closer to him. Timothée couldn’t help but laugh, watching you all puffed, your legs weightless kicking an uncharted abyss below.

Together you glided the blue, reaching the tunnel Captain told you about. Your head moved up too distracted from watching the brown-greenish rocks above your head. Tim pulled your hand and pressed a wet kiss on your cheek.

« Let’s go, » he said, his voice echoing loud all around as if coming from speakers.

The cave had no roof just like the Captain described it. Sun rays were lighting the inside of the cave, creating amazing colorations that enchanted you. It was a unique miracle every visitor should see.

On the inside was a small pebbled beach, with rocks and crystal clear waters. There was no one there. Just the two of you.

Like true children of the sun, you swam in the idyllic calm and then ran to the pebbled shore, free, repeating the gestures of athletes of Delos.

« Aren’t you afraid it’s going to fall and crush us down? », you told him as your hands cupped in the air the part of the cave that was still up. Your bodies were close to each other, so close you could hear the smile forming on his lips.

« It’s been like that for so many years, why does it have to fall now that we are here? », he asked. You rolled your eyes and chuckled.

« I’m just saying, » you mumbled. He breathed out heavily which made you turn in question. « What? », you looked at him.

« Oh, nothing, » he laughed a little, pulling back his wet hair. You kept staring at him for a few seconds watching droplets watering the rocks below you.

« I’ve never been happier. » He wore a dreamful smile. « And I wish every day could be like that. »

« Like what? », his eyebrow slightly raised. Your mouth curled up thinking of your response as your gaze turned back to the crystal pure tapestry of the sky.

« Waking up together… making love… having breakfast… going for a walk… swimming… making love again and then having a bath together. » Your words caused a boyish grin to appear on his face and you imitated his expression. « Eating together, listening to music, watching the sunset… you laughing and me laughing because you are laughing… telling you how much I love you… »

« Sounds good to me, » he said and leaned to kiss your shoulder. You pouted your lips and looked down. Timothée frowned and then turned to the side, balancing on his one elbow, to take a better look at you.

« You won’t tell me how much you love me back? », you bit your lips trying not to smile. His face flushed at your mincing manner and how you pronounced the world ‘love’. He looked away.

« Oh, of course, I’ll tell you, » he bent lower his head and you tented your neck to catch his lips, your hand holding back his hair as he moved on top of you, dripping water running on your body. He breathed out hot air on your face making your head fall back trying to get some oxygen inside before returning to him, your heads touching and lips almost stitched together.

« Y/N, » he said voice deep echoing inside you. « I really need you to know this. »

« You don’t have to say anything. »

« No, I have to, » Tim gulped. « You walked by chance into my very messy life and from day to day, I started to breathe better. Before you, without you, I loved nothing. With you, I have accepted more things. I have learned to live. That's probably why I’ve always mixed my love for you with so much gratitude. » Your mouth slightly opened and eyes glanced away. « I mean every word. »

Without warning you kissed him on the lips. He let out a muffled sound from the force with which your mouth touched his.

« I wouldn’t have loved you any less, if you didn’t say anything, » you told him. Your stare was fixed on his plum reddish lips that tasted like salt and apricots and cherries. « But now that you did, all I can do is love you more. »

He smiled. His forehead brushed against yours as he let you lick away his grin and kiss him. First slow, sweet, soft; then harder, fiery, urgent, like a poem of Odysseas Elytis.

It was a true sisyphean work watching the way the lurking glint of your eyes and your wolfish grin dig up his most shameful secrets, without ripping the animal from within and burying himself in your streams of love and delicate words.

The waft’s stroke maneuvered between you, warm like a teenage memory, spreading sprinkles of salt and rust to the air. Bodies entangled in summer thunders, as the gentle splash of water on your toes offered a kind of peace, privacy, and safety that you had both missed.

You flapped and then stayed there in comfortable silence. But as you watched the horizon slowly bleed from the crevice of the tunnel, Timothée couldn't think of the swollen sun, honeycombs, and wasted old summers.

The only thing he had in mind was how much he loved you, how much you loved him - because he knew that - and how much he couldn't wait any longer for you to live together forever.

You laid together, eyes gazing at the moon and the starlit sky, bodies hugging one another.

#hamlets-ak #timothee chalamet #timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee fanfic #timothee chalamet social media au #timothee chalamet x you #timothee chalamet imagine #timothee chalamet fanfiction

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sugarmasonmearii · 7 months ago

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[C] Behold! Flower Trick!

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I think I rusted out a tad bit on drawing scenic nature backgrounds, since I have not drawn any nature backgrounds like this for a long while now... x-x But enough of that, new pretty scenic commission!

This is a commissioned gift art, where Toren (oc of Daybloom67) performs the move Flower Trick for their friend Charon, the oc of Serai. Amidst the windy meadow during a fine morning.

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If you're interested in a commission from me, [do check here] for details. Or you can check my [Carrd art commissions.] Or you can DM me too.

You can support me via [Ko-fi] and/or [Patreon] too! Subbing to certain tiers will grant commission discounts!

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Client: SeraiBK3/Dancing12panda

Pokemon: (c) Gamefreak, Nintendo, Creatures

Art by me

This is a paid commission and the only the artist and client have the rights to repost this art. Do not trace, copy, use, steal or distribute!

#pokemon #art commission #pokemon oc #scenery #dutch angle #meowscarada #infernape #meadow #digital painting

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hauntedjpegcollection · 1 month ago

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in my restless dreams, i see that town

wc: 5398 au: silent hill au ch: yasiel, benji, lethe

My favorite memory of you is the swing set. Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Our backyard, you remember? You finally let me push you until we thought you’d go the whole way around. You didn’t, but it was enough that we thought it was possible. And you let me and I never told you how much that meant to me. You trusted me. No one ever trusts me.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

I’m sorry.

I love you, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I love you.

Don’t

—

The rustle of the forest is like whispers; ominous, cruel, and taunting. So similar to his twin. Nelsy could be a forest, undefinable by map with too many paths that wind to no true destination. Nowhere authentically safe. She was scary and unknowable and cold—and so is Yasiel. Standing on the overpass that leads to Silent Hill, the wind sending murmurs through the leaves, cutting the bare skin of his high, freckled cheekbones.

He's fucking cold.

Yasiel’s lighter clicks a few times before it finally sparks and washes his light brown face in ambers and reds. The flame flickers a few times and threatens to go out before it can complete its simple job of lighting the cigarette dangling between his lips. The nicotine doesn’t warm him up, but it soothes a thrumming nerve inside him. An anxiety that can’t ever truly calm.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

His head tilts back, smoke pluming above him from parted lips. The sky above is cottony with roiling clouds, dark and fat on rain that hasn’t shed yet. Mouse had picked a perfect time to disappear; she always knew he hated fall. The slow death to winter. A season that held too many bad memories for both of them. And he hates the fucking cold. His black denim jacket is all flash and no substance, made to make him look pretty but not offer any actual warmth.

Maybe being warm would just make him feel guilty anyway. What does he deserve, after all? What, indeed.

Yasiel stamps the cigarette out on the railing of the overpass, then flicks the butt out into nature, watching it fall down the steep ravine into the forest surrounding Silent Hill. Adverts online made it seem like a pretty little place, someone’s cozy small town getaway. Writers would book a motel room and finish their next big project, or dads would drag their families to move in and start new. The sheriff from a town over takes a new placement in Silent Hill and feels restless because people aren’t doing cocaine off each other in bathrooms and ending their night jacking cars.

There’s no seeing the town from this far away, but the road into town is shut down. Looks permanent, no less. A rusted gate is padlocked closed, a few plywood boards haphazardly strapped to it. People have dumped trash all around it, like the dumpster off to the side was a suggestion to ignore. Yasiel, if he were athletic like his sister, might have been able to vault over the fence.

Instead, he’s forced to leave his car and take the scenic trail.

According to the map he’d snagged from a rest stop a hundred miles prior, that route funnels directly into Silent Hill’s graveyard before opening up into town.

“My fucking luck,” he mutters aloud to no one but the haughty, laughing wind. Yas folds the map, tucks it into his back pocket along with his lighter.

Then he descends.

—

The fog only seems to thicken the closer Yasiel gets to Silent Hill, and with it a palpable sense of dread. What starts as a modest mist quickly turns into a heavy blanket—and the way forward becomes trickier and tricker. He stumbles over forest roots, slides down the path as it suddenly becomes a gravely hill. More than once, he slips and palms a tree beside him and comes away with a scrape on his hand. The sting follows him.

So does the growing frustration that simmers into fury.

A farm sits desolate beside the trail as it opens from forest into wide open dirt path. A rusted windmill creaks slowly in the wind, the shadow falling over him. The sun is barely able to peek through the grey fog, the heavyset clouds. The farm makes him feel uneasy. It reminds him of an empty airport at four in the morning, or a lot to a gas station where the OPEN light flickers nonstop where he’s the only car parked. He’s reminded of the stairwell in his apartment building, how it goes on and on and on forever as he stands at the top and stares down. It’s a place abandoned except for him.

Yasiel’s heartbeat is loud in his ears as he walks past the abandoned farm. His breathing is uneven and raspy and he can’t entirely blame it on the hike. Grass and dirt crunch underneath his sneakers but otherwise, there is no noise. The severe lack of it is almost loud. He pats down the inside pocket of his denim jacket, reminding himself of the inhaler kept there. It does little to comfort him.

He resolves to hate his sister a little harder as he finally finds the winding path to the graveyard. Flowers, dying of course, line the path like droopy used tissues. The gate is as worn down as everything else Yasiel has encountered, but the rusted chain that barely keeps the back entrance together is easily yanked off. He rubs the metallic dust from his hand onto his jeans, slipping in through the little opening he’s made.

A “Welcome to Silent Hill” sign would have been appreciated and yet all he has is the fog, the tombs like broken teeth burst from the ground and a dark silhouette just a few paces in front of him.

—

“Hello?”

The stranger whirls to face him and Yasiel regrets saying anything. He’s not sure what made him approach in the first place—herd mentality perhaps. The fear of being alone and spotting the singular other person he’s seen since the rest stop prior to entering Silent Hill’s radius.

Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Whoever they are, they’re angry. The word might not even justify it. Their jacket hood is up, but snakes of curly black hair peek from underneath it, framing his furious expression. Thick, dark brows pull in tight, creating a crease on their brown forehead. The stranger’s eyes are red rimmed and shiny, deep set with purpling bruises underneath them. His lip curls up, revealing teeth in a snarling expression.

Yasiel instinctively steps back.

“You from this fuckin’ town?”

“What? No, I—”

“Is this a joke? Some dickhead havin’ a proper fuckin’ laugh at me, then? Who did this?” The graveyard stranger throws a hand toward the tombstone he’d been standing in front of. Yasiel only realizes then that there is a hole in the ground, coffin shaped and six feet deep. A plot freshly dug for a burial. Nausea wells in his stomach.

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! I don’t live here, I just—I just got here. I’m looking for—” He cuts off as the stranger’s face flickers with fear and pain and then lastly, worry. All three mingle into something devastating before it’s wiped clean, flat and apprehensive.

Yasiel looks at the tombstone once more. There doesn’t seem to be anything else he can do.

XAVIER WOLFFE

1996 – 2024

ARE YOU GOING TO STOP IT, BENJI?

YOU SHOULD TRY, IT MIGHT BE FUN!

A booted foot kicks out, striking the tombstone and sending it falling backward, the sound of marble slapping on loamy soil a wet smack. Yasiel flinches, taking a sidestep from the man—from Benji? He’s shorter, but broad and his hands, clenched at his sides, shake with unrepentant fury. There’s a glint of something gold at his neck, but Yasiel doesn’t look closer.

“Who is it?” he asks, taking another step away, cautious. Yasiel glances down into the grave to make sure it really is empty—there’s no dead body or even an empty casket, just a depression in the dirt, man sized. The hairs along his arms and the ones at the back of his neck stand to attention. The fog rolls in on the two of them, no less heavy, no less dense. It’s day time and yet the ever present grey makes this graveyard feel like a bog.

Mouse had read Wuthering Heights to shreds, he remembers. Her paperback copy had fallen apart in her hands one night, as she sat bent over in bed, a pen behind her ear. She would have loved this graveyard, and this chilling stranger.

Benji—if that’s who he is—doesn’t answer the question. He stares down at the tombstone, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days, his clothes rumpled. There’s a drawstring bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, listen,” Yasiel says quietly. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who isn’t?” Benji snaps back, black eyes sliding upward to him. “I’m looking for him.”

“For—For Xavier?”

“He’s not dead if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Someone did this, someone fuckin’ sick and disgustin’ did this.”

Yasiel can’t place the man’s accent directly, besides distinctly British. His voice is rumbly, from the chest and deeply hurt. Words fracture a bit here and there, notably on dead and disgusting. Yasiel goes to ask another question—when’s the last time you saw him or where are you from—any semblance of polite socialization that might lead him down a path where he can ask about Mouse.

Instead, he sees another figure. Not that far from them, partially hidden by a statue of a crumbling angel. The mist in the graveyard has made it almost impossible to see anything other than the smattering of graves and Benji. It thins, only just barely. As though the graveyard wants them to see this.

Only, Yasiel doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to know. He steps back, eyes wide as the dark silhouette materializes little by little. Fear makes his veins cold, make his limbs feel limp and useless. His hand twitches to his lower back, underneath his jacket. He’s horrified at himself, at the sudden dread and terror that seems to be controlling his actions. So, his hand pauses.

That’s when the figure shambles forward.

“Xavier?” Benji asks, startled, his voice tipping high with hope. Dirt scatters into the open grave as he steps closer. Mist unravels around them. Yasiel’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the bicep, earning a dangerous look—he misses it entirely. Benji’s warning glare is wasted on him, because all Yasiel looks at is…is…it.

A distinctly canine jaw opens, mangled tongue lolling from its maw, high pitched whine splitting the otherwise silent graveyard. Drool pours from it’s mouth, mixing with dark, oily blood. The beast is shaped mostly man like; it stands on two long denim clad legs, nude lengthy pale torso tapered to wide shoulders, it’s arms behind it’s back cruelly bent and bound by slick wire. For a moment, a feeling of odd, misplaced sympathy cuts through the fear. It’s in pain, wolflike head rolling back and forth, nose snuffling the air, whimpering. It’s fur is dark auburn and shaggy.

“Xavier?” Benji repeats, his voice a horrified whisper.

The dog head snaps up, large white teeth gnashing together.

“Holy shit,” Yasiel whispers. Then screams as the beast charges toward him.

Everything happens too quickly. The breath is knocked from him as he collides with the ground—Yasiel raises an arm in defense, screaming wildly as an eyetooth catches on his wrist. The skin splits, fresh blood splattering across his denim jacket. Adrenaline is the only thing that keeps him from feeling the pain immediately. Yasiel kicks out his legs, flailing underneath the creature as it snaps its jaws open and close. Its wide open mouth smells like a dead thing, breath hot and foul. It snarls, lips curled back, snout wrinkled.

Then it squeals, spasming on top of Yasiel, who jerks out from under it. He rolls away on the grass, scrambling backward. There’s more blood on him. Dark and slick. This time, it belongs to the creature. Benji straddles it, with something wicked and glinting sharp in the grey filtered sunlight held aloft in his hand.

The doglike sounds of pain continue as Benji stabs, his own voice frantic and loud. Over and over, he plunges the—scalpel? The scalpel. Over and over until the wolf man is just twitching on the ground, bent at a horrible angle with it’s arms tied behind its back. Then slowly, it sighs out one last sound and—and it dies.

“Fuck!” Benji screams standing. He kicks, one final slam of his boot against pale flesh. “Fuck!”

Yasiel must say something too, but he isn’t sure what. It draws Benji’s attention, his focus sharp. And then he’s there, kneeling beside him, holding Yasiel’s hand, as his wrist continues bleeding. The wound is looked over with a clinical eye. It hasn’t started hurting yet; it only burns, like he’s gotten too close to campfire, like he’s laid out under the sun too long, like he’s fallen asleep in a car, baking in the backseat.

“Oh my God,” Yasiel whispers, realizing that it’s not the first time he’s said it. That maybe he’s been repeating it ever since the dog had been pulled off him and killed. His entire body shakes, a pit of cold opening in his chest. Yasiel’s vision is blurry until he realizes that his glasses had been knocked off. Awkwardly, he pulls himself away from Benji to pick them up. When he stands, he stumbles. His elbow is caught, steadying him enough to stand there without falling.

“Thank you,” he says, awe struck and dumb.

“Gonna faint?”

“No.”

“Y’sure?”

“No, I—What—what the fuck was that?”

Benji shakes his head. Yasiel didn’t expect him to know, and yet he still feels lost. Is this a dream? It can’t be. Oh God, it can’t be. He knows it isn’t and that’s worse. That makes it all so much worse. Reality catches up to him, the adrenaline dump draining; and then he’s doubling over, vomiting onto the blood stained grass. He heaves, hands on his knees, panting, stomach muscles clenching. He raises a shaky hand to stop his glasses from falling off once more.

“Can you get back then?”

“What?” Yas straightens slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. The bile’s made his lips burn. He almost registers that more than the slash on his wrist, even as the blood clots and dries.

“Up the way you came, yeah? Trail in the woods leads to the road, right?”

“Yes. Yeah, it does.”

“Can you get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not leaving this fucking place without my husband,” Benji points into the fog. Into Silent Hill. His hand trembles, but his expression is hard and final. Yasiel can still taste vomit in his mouth, the bitter tang of it on the back of his tongue. He looks down at his hand, where blood has pooled into his palm, into the creases. His life line, his love line, the identical match to his sisters.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

“Let me come with you,” Yasiel pleads, stumbling toward Benji, hands upraised. The scalpels been cleaned on his jeans, making it shine in the dull fog once more. Benji’s hand tightens around it, tendons standing out starkly. Yasiel doesn’t even flinch. He can’t afford to be afraid, but he is. He is so afraid. “My sister is here. I’m looking for her—I have to find her. I’m not leaving, either.”

Wherever she is. Yasiel thinks of the dead wolf man creature on the ground, blood soaking into the dirt and a spasm of fear tightens his chest. His heart turns over wildly. Half of him is out there, in this town, with these things.

“You don’t get in my way of finding him,” Benji says calmly, slowly. The scalpel disappears into a pocket. He pulls his hood back, letting tangles of black curls free. The subtle graveyard wind shifts around them, tickling exposed skin, laughing in their ears. “Then, c’mon.”

—

They don’t encounter another creature—they don’t encounter anything at all. No people, no remains of them either. Just emptiness; cars parked with nothing in them, flyers and newspapers scattering empty roads. Everything is covered in layers of grime, as if Silent Hill stopped being a town a decade ago, frozen in time but not immune to decay.

Which doesn’t make sense because Mouse had been here just last year. Yasiel had dropped her off at the train, watched her go, and then picked her back up just a week later. Silent Hill had existed back then, as a town full of people and life—a hotel to stay in, doctors and nurses and medication and a little diner that she took pictures of. Mouse had even charmed her way onto someone’s tug boat for a ride on the lake. Like it was a vacation, a holiday stay, instead of a sleep study to solve her night terrors.

“Why did your husband come here?” Yasiel asks, breaking the long, cautious silence that’s crept up on them. They walk down an empty street, the fog everlasting and obscuring anything not ten feet in front of them. He’s anxiously straining to hear anything that might resemble a dog. Whining, barking, that terrible sniffing. But it’s just been his own heavy breathing.

“You wanna chat right now?” Benji throws Yasiel an incredulous stare, a pinch between his brows. “More of those fuckin’ things could be out here.”

Yasiel stays quiet for a moment, observing the abandoned street. They pass storefronts, equally empty or boarded shut. Some of them have broken windows, glass scattering the sidewalk. A chill makes him bundle into his denim jacket further.

Then he finally clears his throat and says, “You called it Xavier?”

“Listen, dickhead.” Benji rounds toward Yasiel. His face pales and his hand reaches out, jerking the slender painter by his jacket. Yasiel stumbles, feeling Benji’s body heat suddenly; the clarity that he is a real, living person. “More of ‘em. Like I said. Down the alley.” A tremor runs up Yasiel’s spine, sweat pooling under his arms. He dares to look sideways, shaking so bad even his glasses slide down the tip of his nose.

And Benji’s right. There are more of them, these half human dog wolf things. A bundle of them down a decrepit alleyway, a dumpster overturned, ancient trash piled everywhere alongside cardboard boxes, a rusted shopping cart. Two of the wolves fight each other, arms bound, snapping their maws, catching delicate pale skin and rending flesh. Without balance, they fall on each other, on the ground, tangling and fighting still. They howl and yip and snarl and bark madly, while three stand around them, watching. The bystanders cackle, fangs dripping spit and blood. They laugh, like hyenas, heads rolling back and forth, unhinged.

Yasiel slaps a hand over his mouth to stop a whimper.

“We’re gonna cut this way, alright?” Benji’s voice is close. Real. Real person, really alive. “Slowly. Goin’ for the diner behind us.”

Mouse’s diner. For a moment, he thinks of the picture she’d sent him of the burger she’d ordered. Stacked with the works, as she liked it, thick cut fries and her mayonnaise and ketchup mixture on a side plate. Yasiel wants to cry. He wants to burst into tears and run away screaming, he wants to pretend this isn’t happening. The dogs scream down the alley. Benji’s hand tightens on his jacket.

Yasiel looks over his shoulder. The neon light—Diner 52—miraculously flickers. The glass windows are intact. One single car sits parallel parked outside of it, door open and almost off its hinges. His tongue is dry in his mouth, awkward and fat. He nods once and Benji slowly eases himself off the sidewalk.

The dog wolves never pay them any attention. They kill each other in the alleyway, laughing and barking.

—

The diner tables are dusty, as is the bar where residents must have sat and drank milkshakes and asked a waitress named Marge for the “slamming special” as it’s called on the crumbling menu board. The floor is dirt caked, but the inside of the diner feels oddly safe. Secluded, almost. Respite from whatever is happening outside, with the monsters. Yasiel sits himself down on a stool, peeling his jacket sleeve back to look at his…bite wound.

“Lemme see.”

Benji slings his bag up onto the counter and begins to rifle through it. He’s handsome, despite the anger and the hostility. He has a curved nose and thick facial hair, the kind that looks soft to the touch. When he pushes his black curls from his face, the effect is downright astounding. Lucky bastard, Yasiel thinks of Xavier, then immediately feels guilty for it. Not really time or place, but he’d never been very good at that.

Slut. Mouse’s voice, affectionate and teasing. Her needling fingers tickling his sides, laughing while they smoke on his balcony. Get it out the gutter, Yassy. She’d hated his last girlfriend and loved his last boyfriend and declared herself free from accusations of misogyny anyway. He just simply had bad taste fifty percent of the time, and fifty percent of the time he’d be dating a woman. Yasiel closes a hand over his mouth again, when his throat thickens with the feeling of tears.

He holds his arm outstretched.

Benji’s poured something onto gauze, a little white kit open in front of him.

“Are you a nurse?” He grunts in reply as he begins cleaning the small gash on Yasiel’s arm. The rubbing alcohol burns so bad he flinches, earning a severely annoyed look. “Kind of a pussy, if you haven’t noticed.” It softens Benji’s expression. He snorts out what must be a laugh and reaches for his supplies.

“S’how I met ‘im.” The wound gets dressed tightly. Benji’s efficient, but his movements slow. His eyes stray to the side. “Poor fucking boy got a concussion playing hockey. Came in to the ER and was on my chart. When I was pokin’ him with the IV, he asked to marry me. Was fucking stunned out my mind. Couldn’t really do anything but laugh. Then he got all teary eyed with it. Told me if I gave him my number, we’d end up married someday.”

“Wow.” Yasiel lets his hands fall between his knees. He realizes he’s smiling, but doesn’t feel like trying to stop himself. Benji’s eyes narrow, a nasty smelling sanitizer rubbed between his hands as a poor mans bath.

“Don’t really tell that story,” he admits quietly.

“Guess I have the sort of face that invites honesty.”

Benji’s nose wrinkles, face screwing up as if he can’t tell whether or not Yasiel is joking. He is, for what it’s worth, but Benji still snorts again and says, “You really don’t, mate.”

They lapse into silence. Not long enough either of them can adjust to the insanity of their situation. Yasiel suddenly pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He has no service and he didn’t expect to either—this wouldn’t be a nightmare if he could just call 911 and be done with it all. Still, seeing the NO SERVICE at the top of the screen, where his battery symbol waits at 75% makes his heart plunge.

“This is my sister,” Yasiel says, handing over the phone. On screen, Mouse smiles in her knife like way. They have the same eyes, same heterochromia. One brown, one a green hazel that looks brighter under direct sunlight. She sits on the beach, her knees tucked to her chest, one of Yasiel’s baseball caps backwards on her head. Waves of her wild, brown hair are sea salt tangled. He can’t think of a picture that describes her better. And he can’t look at it as Benji does.

“You’re twins.”

“Oh, yeah,” Yasiel replies, locking the phone and tucking it back into his pocket beside his inhaler. “Down to the eyes and everything. When we were little, people would get us confused all the time. We’re uh, nothing alike in personality.”

“Feel like I know her,” Benji murmurs, his eyes on the floor. “The picture of her. Just felt familiar, that.” Finally, his hand pats his back pocket. First, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lazily lighting on. Yasiel wants to point out that they’re inside, but realizes how stupid that is. Then, Benji finds his wallet and flips it open.

There’s something sweet about him having a polaroid tucked in with a few bills and a receipt. They’re perfect strangers, yet Yasiel feels like that makes sense. Benji holds it for a second, as though unwilling for it to leave his possession even for a moment. Then finally, he holds it out, taking a long drag on his cigarette and looking away.

Yasiel’s heart betrays him and he thinks of the gravesite. The tombstone. He looks down at the picture and wonders if this man is actually dead and Benji is insane—but that would make two of them probably. They both saw those dogs. Yasiel grits his teeth, breathes evenly through his nose, and forces himself to look at the picture and think—alive. Missing. Just like Mouse. Needs to be found. Loved. So loved.

And he is, if the picture indicates anything. Benji has a subdued sort of smile, his eyes purely on Xavier. The photo is of both of them, sitting in a bar, with low lighting and pints of half drank beer on their table. A pale, tattooed hand peeks into the photo, holds fingers behind Benji’s head, in a mockery of bunny ears. Xavier takes up most of the frame, this giant, lanky red head, who is smiling ear to ear. He has an arm slung around Benji’s shoulders, pulling them together close. He is so traditionally handsome that it seems fake, for someone to be that pretty.

Yasiel thinks of the wolf thing, half human. Pale, with its shaggy oxblood fur. He forces the image away, commits Xavier to memory instead.

“I think I know what you mean,” he says, handing the photo back. Benji takes another hard drag on his cigarette, flicking ash onto the already dirty tile floor. The smell of nicotine is oddly comforting. “I mean, he sort of has one of those smiles, but—feels like I know him. Like we’ve met before.”

He’s about to ask what made Xavier come here. Why would anyone come here? Why had Mouse? But it used to be a town before, used to be a real place, where people got hamburgers with all the toppings, and took tugboat rides on the lake. It used to be. But right as he’s about to ask, an old fashion radio crackles to life down the counter.

“The fuck?” Benji startles off the stool, standing in front of it. His cigarette drops to the ground, cherry burning. Something old fashioned, classical plays from the staticky speakers. Crooning and lullaby like, a piano melody that makes Yasiel’s temples throb. He presses the heels of his palms to the sides of his head, groaning for a moment.

Then a voice, clear and direct.

“Listeners, are you out there?”

It’s a soft voice. Spoken with deliberate care and enunciation. As melodic as the music, as distinct and otherworldly.

“What is this?” Yasiel mumbles, stepping closer. He drags the radio closer. Dust puffs into the air around it, leaves an almost clean streak across the counter. The dial lights up, flickering with the radio waves. Something old and show tune like plays beneath the voice. Benji crowds in closer, a nervous look over his shoulder to the windows still blanketed in grime and fog.

“This is your host, Lethe, and tonight I’ll be your guide. Are you out there? Are you listening? No ad breaks tonight, darling. I’m here for you, if you’re here to listen.”

Yasiel fumbles for the map in his pocket, yanking it free and spreading it across the counter in front of him. He trails an ink stained finger until he finds SILENT HILL RADIO TOWER. It’s not close.

“I know it’s hairy out there right now, listeners. Trust me, I know.”

The voice is dry, doesn’t chuckle, but the laughter is nearly implied. Benji and Yasiel share a look toward each other, a mixture of shock, revulsion, and an eerie sense of hope. Someone else in the town. Someone else who knows about the monsters.

“Things have gotten spooky in our lovely Silent Hill. But I want to help you—you want my help, don’t you?”

“Who is this fucking loon?” Benji asks, voice quivering. Yasiel’s fingers scramble over the radio, turning it up a fraction. His heart slams against his rib cage, working up his throat. What a beautiful voice, he thinks, his head fuzzy and aching. “What you doin’?”

“Note down these roads for me, listeners. They’re the bad ones you don’t want to get lost down. Avoid them and follow the posters. The Radio Tower is open, and the call line is on. You have me all night. Do you hear that? All night.”

The radio crackles. Yasiel leans in. He swears if he gets close enough, he hears something else. He hears the radio jockey—he hears Lethe—saying his name. Do you hear that? All night, Yasiel. A series of streets follow in staccato rhythm. He yanks a pen from his back pocket, a trusty friend he’s never without, and hastily slashes out roads as Lethe lists them out.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Yasiel whispers, staring at the map.

“See you soon.” Yasiel.

The radio crackles to dead silence.

“I know what to do,” Yasiel says, turning to Benji, holding up the map. His shaking finger stabs at the Silent Hill radio tower.

“Alright, mate, no offense—you got off to a lunatic on a radio with a smooth voice, and I’m not here to judge, even if m’judgin’ a bit, yeah—”

“No! Shut up!” Yasiel shakes out the map again, bumping their shoulders together, forcing Benji to look. He grunts in disapproval, moves just a bit so their arms are no longer touching. “If this person—this, Lethe—is playing on the radio, we can get them to broadcast something. Do you get me?”

A flicker of understanding plays across Benji’s face. He rears back, staring at Yasiel with wide eyes. A stray curl falls across his forehead. There’s blood on the underside of his jaw, from the thing he’d killed earlier.

“If—” Yasiel starts and then stops and stares at this stranger. Someone he hardly knows, has only just met, has been saved by once. He licks his lips and nods toward the radio.

“If you ask Xavier to come, will he?”

“Yes,” Benji answers with no hesitation. His jaw flexes, tightening, nostrils flaring. He looks to the ground, where the cherry of his cigarette slowly dies, smoke curling in the air.

“Yes. Always.”

—

Alright, listener. Don’t lose me. Everything’s too easy to lose in Silent Hill if you’re not careful—and you are careful, aren’t you? With your possessions and your people.

Are you shocked I know so much? Don’t be. You’ll find out more about me too. We’ll never be on an even playing ground, you and I, but we can get close. If you’d like.

I’m going to help you out of here, but you have to be careful. Have to listen, understand? Don’t trust anyone else. Not even yourself. You know that already, don’t you?

Never have been good with trust. If I say I’m honored to have yours, would it be inaccurate to imagine you blushing? Too far, listener? I understand, but you’ll forgive me. I’m going to be with you through it all.

Why?

You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things.

You’re going to remember soon enough and then you might turn this station off. Things are easy to lose in Silent Hill, after all.

I don’t want to lose you just yet.

#writing #ym #bp #lk #silent hill au #: )#alternate title for the fall prompts: a diner visit

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afreakingdork · 11 months ago

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Ashes Denote Fire

RotTMNT Leonardo x Reader One-Shot

Tags: Future Leonardo (TMNT), Bonfires, Gift Fic, Short & Sweet, One Shot, Gender-neutral Reader, Mention of Bad Future Timeline (TMNT), Christmas Fluff, Bad Puns, Puns & Word Play

Synopsis: Leon always got strange around fire and you tried your best to avoid the subject, but when Donnie surprises the family with a Christmas bonfire, you are finally party to the trip he takes.

Also Available on Ao3

A Secret Santa gift for Pip!

Merry Christmas, Pip! I'm sorry to say I don't know you well, but I hope you enjoy!

Also stolen away from @morning-sun-brah mwahaha!

Leon always got strange around fire.

Something you would have thought easily avoidable in the city, holidays brought on the cozy imagery in ways you never expected.

You’d catch him often.

Staring at yule logs set on static televisions, slowing down as he passed shop displays with chimneys, or even the wafting flames of a candlelit vigil, Leon would take on that same far away look amongst them all.

If you had known Donnie was going to build an entire bonfire, you might have protested.

Instead, the softshell had ushered the Hamatos to what by all accounts should have been a spooky alley. Turning a wretched glowing corner, he announced his surprise in the form of an utter transformation of the space. Rotting brick done up by Mikey into a scenic forest, lights honeyed the rusted fire escapes and paved the path to the enormous wooden structure already aflame.

The others ran off. There was a refreshment table. There were reindeer games. There was a pyromaniac’s dream that needed tending to.

Then there was Leon.

Bathed in firelight, he’d stood in the crux that hid away this alley.

Amber lapped at his winter coat and his eyes took on that haunted look.

Unlike Scrooge, Leon didn’t need three specters to haunt him.

He’d had his share and more and you moved with him as he approached the flames.

The others tapered off into Hamato white noise and seemed none the wiser as the older slider stopped short of where the heat became nearly unbearable.

Scorching your cheeks, you watched him where he watched dancing light.

It licked at his stripes and cast his lowered lids with something distant.

A hollowed past, the husk of him had been partially filled in the years since.

There were the younger versions of his family.

There was a world that hadn’t been destroyed.

There was you.

It was never enough.

There was no way for him to be truly healed.

How could he?

What he had helped.

Family helped.

Community helped.

You helped.

He’d whispered it to you hundreds of times by now. He was keen on small surprises. He liked catching you off guard. You could be doing the dishes and he’d appear behind you. With a hand to your waist for a sudsy dance, he’d dip you to whisper about the hope you instilled in him.

He was the preacher of such a thing.

Junior was a testament to that.

The intangible concept kept Leon going with a smile on his face amongst any adversity.

It was his gospel and he knew every hymn.

A caroler so infectious no one could turn him away.

Yet here he stood, unseen as he stared at some far away point where he was usually as unstoppable as a concept.

The words came off your lips before you could stop them.

“Where do the flames take you?”

It waxed poetic which was unlike you, but it was the only way you could think to put it.

He might have teased you, asked about being a modern-day Dickinson, but instead you tapped the time traveler. Caught between two points, he spoke for the present from the past.

“These numbskulls’ll know the time Donnie tried to build a fireplace.”

A smile spread under a shaded gaze.

“We were…” Leon sighed loudly, giving into a closed eye body movement that said age had taken the sharpness off his memories. “Tots, musta been. Learned the whole shebang about Santa and had been fed a line or two about how he snuck in, ninja-style, and left behind our gifts.”

You stepped close, afraid to displace his form.

“We were chomping at the whole Christmas bit. Been there, done that trying to catch the intruder and now we were onto something else.” Leon’s hands itched in his coat pockets.

Beyond the bonfire, Leo and Donnie squabbled over something.

“’Santa doesn’t use manhole covers! He uses chimneys!’” Leon did an impression you couldn’t place.

Splinter laughed loud while April told him to say it and not spray it.

Leon chuckled. “Tots coming up with harebrained ideas. So, we have the mystery man using the wrong entrance. Must mean we’re getting the short end of the present stick because the layout’s all wrong.”

A garland fell and a glowing Raph rose up to fix it.

Leon hummed with another faded thought. “I think it was Mikey who came up with the line. ‘We get a chimney and Santa’ll bring the good stuff!’ No more cast-off gifts for us. We weren’t that dumb. We noticed our gifts weren’t shiny and new like the kids on TV.” He quieted. “TV…”

He since slept with screens on to make up for the years he’d missed rewatching his favorite films.

He had to shake himself out of the stupor. “So, Donnie devises the thing. We collect cardboard for an entire year. We construct the Leaning Tower of Piza and we all drew our stockings on with the care like the song says.”

Casey popped a Christmas Cracker and deemed herself ruler of Yule.

“It was all fine and dandy, but we shoulda known. Mikey hadn’t exactly been quiet about the fire bit. He kept saying, ‘it’s gotta be a real fire or it’s not real!’ We figured he was the youngest, what was he gonna do?” Leon’s teeth appeared as he sounded an error bell from a game show. “Firebug nabbed some matches, knocked out first, woke up when we were out, and snuck around all of us to light the dang thing. Cardboard!” Leon shook his head, his pupils a steady moth to a flame. “Went up like the Library of Alexandria. Poof. One second there and the next gone. Dad was furious. We almost torched the whole lair.”

Mikey asked someone to dare him through a stuffed face.

“Before that though, we got our coal. You know you think fire burns from the bottom, but that’s not true. It’s alive and it wants to escape. It rushes up a structure to get away, but falls like bad wallpaper. It’s alive and it’s fighting. For it’s very life, it just wants to consume. It’s starving, hungry. It does what it has to. It scrounges around and it holds its loved ones close. It makes do with what its got. It creates a new home, a new lair. It rations when food gets low, turning into those glowing embers to conserve. You gotta respect that drive. It’s needs. It wants. It wasn’t its fault that one well timed explosion clipped an old capped off gas line. That in seconds it devastated the colony. That we had to leave. All that hard work. The screams. The burn. It all burns. Us. Krang. It’s another living thing to burn out. Conquered like the rest of us.” His gaze lowered and his sclera reflected ages. “I went back after we lost CPC. Later, to the rubble. You know it was still going? Smoldering little bits were still smoking. Weeks later. Still hanging on. To keep the resistance going. To live again. To keep it up.”

“Leon.” You were clutching his arm before you realized it.

It wasn’t enough to summon him from the fire. “You know the funny thing about ash?”

He needed prompting. “What?”

“I never thought it was from the stuff burned. Don woulda said it was something about laws of the universe and how matter can’t be destroyed, but I never quite agreed with that part.” His head tipped the scales of thought. “I always thought it marked the flames. That’s where the fire was. It was saying, ‘I’m here! I did this! I was alive!’ Leaving it’s mark, long after it’s gone.”

“Like you.” You tugged.

“Me?”

With that your time traveler returned. He always did, in one way or another. You considered it fate. That he’d always return to you.

With levity, he turned to you with a glint in his eye that burned. “And what’s my mark exactly?”

“Here.” You touched his stripes.

“Close, I woulda said it was the one I need to hit for the camera to get my good side.” His smarmy grin shined as he tucked his chin into the webbing between his thumb and finger.

“Uh huh, you’re a certified star.” You looked away long enough to roll your eyes.

“That’s fire, you know.” It was just enough time for him to scoop you up. “Again, close, but I’ll save that one for you.”

“Me?” You settled into his grasp.

“Yeah, I’ll be the tinder and you be the flame since you light up my life.” His brow ridge wagged.

You groaned loudly and protested his mocking smooches. “If anything I’ve got a burning desire to go!”

“’Why did the bonfire leave early!?’” Leon shouted. “You scald me! It was right there! Where’s the lead up!? The craft!? You don’t open with a punch line!”

“Here I am getting roasted instead!” You spoke out of the corner of your mouth, but peeked at him.

Bowled over, you watched Leon field swaths of emotions before he settled on the brightest one and a searing kiss.

💙

Here's the Emily Dickinson poem that inspired me:

Ashes denote that Fire was —

Revere the Grayest Pile

For the Departed Creature's sake

That hovered there awhile —

Fire exists the first in light

And then consolidates

Only the Chemist can disclose

Into what Carbonates.

#rottmnt leo x reader #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt x reader #leonardo hamato #leo x reader #future leo #future leo x reader #rise leo #rise leo x reader #rottmnt leo #rottmnt #rottmnt leonardo #me #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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rabbitcruiser · 2 months ago

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Goldendale Scenic Outlook, WA (No. 1)

Goldendale has a continental Mediterranean climate (Köppen Dsb). The rain shadow of the Cascades creates distinct and visible difference between the arid and dry areas south of the community, and the more lush treed areas to the north. This produces a landscape of open bunch-grass prairies dotted with sagebrush and rabbit brush containing the occasional juniper tree, while the more sheltered areas consist of ponderosa pine and oak savannahs.

Overcast days are rare, occurring mostly in late fall and throughout winter. Summer temperatures can reach well over 100 °F or 37.8 °C, while winter, when most of the annual precipitation of around 17 inches or 430 millimetres occurs, can see temperatures below 0 °F or −17.8 °C, particularly in January. Summer thunderstorms occur intermittently, particularly in July and August, but due to high cloud bases, rain seldom reaches the ground in any appreciable amount. Lightning-caused range and forest fires are a common occurrence during this time of year. Spring flowers and green meadows and prairies make Goldendale a particularly beautiful site. Spring and summer can be very blustery since the Chinook winds off the Pacific Ocean are funneled through the Columbia Gorge. Fall tends to be almost windless, and the autumnal oak leaves add a lovely touch of golden rust red to Observatory Hill on the north side of town.

Source: Wikipedia

#Goldendale Scenic Outlook #Goldendale #Klickitat County #Washington #USA #summer 2023 #Pacific Northwest #travel #original photography #vacation #tourist attraction #Linden Wind Farm #architecture #landscape #landmark #countryside #farm land #hills

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wickedsrest-rp · 10 months ago

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Ghost Tours (3D) || Group Thread

TIMING: Current PARTIES: Inge, Nora, Jonas, Archie, and Helene SUMMARY: A fun ghost tour turns ghastly when the guide is revealed to be more than anyone expects. As the tour group is decimated in service of a mysterious entity, survivors are left wondering what they have just seen, and what is to come.

Dirty gray buildings lined what used to be a scenic little cobblestone road. The old maple tree that used to sit proudly at the end of the road was long gone and replaced by cold concrete. It was a shame, Helene decided, that a living relic of the past that could have survived turned into a park bench littered with obnoxiously colored bags. It was a small kindness that her feet made no sound or that she couldn’t really feel the ground at all. She had always loved the sound of the leaves crunching under her boots. There may have been a stray vibrant red leaf still left on the tree this late in the season, but most of them would have turned a shade of rust and fallen to the ground.

She rounded the corner anyway though the path remained largely unfamiliar to Helene. It had been a month now, she believed, and she was so close to having delivered her end of the bargain. She didn’t like to remember Wicked’s Rest this way, as it was now. This wasn’t her home and the wear on the buildings as they approached the part of town called Worm Row indicated that it hadn’t been for quite some time. The path she followed was the only she knew of the abnormality. Someone on one of the tours commented that the drive they were walking down now was private land, but it was long abandoned. The one shed she could make out at the end of shades of slate never showed even a flicker of light or life.

The group chattered absently behind her as they finally reached a small shack of a house labeled ‘historic’ by the town. This was admittedly Helene’s favorite story of the tour, one she got to tell with a wicked glint in her eyes because the Farfoots had gotten what was coming to them. “This was once the home of an author named Madison Farfoot. He was a boisterous man,” she narrated with a smirk playing at her translucent lips, “They call it the roarin’ 20s now and even by his own account, he was a loud man.”

Too loud, she remembered. His main home where he threw all his lavish parties had been taken by the flat some time long after his death, but his death had been here in this shack. Something about that delighted Helene. “His book The Rest Way Home went on to become a bestseller, though that was posthumously, but their land had a rich history.”

The land had been her family’s once, after all, but betrayal had much more dire consequences in a place like Wicked’s Rest. Helene didn’t worry much about that herself. She’d been long dead, long trapped under the black darkness of the abnormality. After tonight, she could feel something besides the earth and rocks one last time before going to live out the rest of her numbered days far away from the town that was as wretched as its name suggested.

Perhaps she was a little wretched, too, leading her last group of patrons closer and closer to the abnormality. They would be taken under it too. Helene had to think they’d understand once they’d lived it. Perhaps died it was more apt.

“The business deal that led to the Farfoot family acquiring the land that once went all the way out toward the mineral abnormality had been questionable to begin with. Handshake deals often are,” Helene recited, “But it was ultimately a squabble over inheritance that led to the end of the family line. Both brothers had very different ideas of what to do with the land. Madison wanted to build a hotel and shopping center, his brother Melvin wanted to farm tobacco believing it would be far more profitable.”

Their precious land belonged to the flat now too.

“The small house here was a den of sorts where Madison did much of his writing. Many today say they can still hear the sound of his typewriter in the darkest hours of the night.” She wondered if any knew or lived the strange anecdotes she would share over the rest of their tour. The small little evidence of phenomena that marred the path to the flat. “Keep close,” she advised with a falsely cautionary smile that gave some air of caring what happened to the living who uglied her town with metal and gray walls, “The hour is approaching twenty two hundred.” She turned back to the crowd, looking up at them from above her brow bone in a way she knew could chill. Scaring them wasn’t actually part of her bargain, that was more for entertainment value. “The hungriest hour of the night.”

—

Wasn’t there something ironic about it, going on a ghost tour when you were undead yourself? Sometimes she almost felt like a ghost herself, or at least those past versions of who she was. Ingeborg de Jong had been a young girl, raised in a country reeling from past war, the middle of five children of whom only four would live to adulthood. That had been a different girl, a different woman, a different wife — and though Inge might pretend she was gone and someone different, she remained.

Like a ghost in the lives of her siblings, of her ex-husband, of her former friends. Not dead, not really, but not there either.

Ingeborg Endeman was hardly a ghost. She was delightfully undead, but as present as any alive being was — and though she might flit from one plane to the other, and though she might haunt like some ghosts did, she thought herself more whole. Still! She felt a pull towards those fellow creatures that existed between the blurred line of alive and dead, and that was maybe why she was here. Enthralled by their tour guide, more keen to listen to her stories than to focus on her surroundings too much.

Worm Row, was, as neighborhoods went, a bad luck charm after all. The indent on her arm, where a piece of flesh was and would forever be missing after her altercation with that zombie. The presence of a Cortez hunter. The sheer threat that hung in the air. That last one didn’t scare her the way it would have scared her former, mortal self, though.

Her eyes moved across the people on the tour with her, a smile spared to the girl who could cast illusions. Was she here for inspiration as well? Inge moved nearer to her, eyes glued to Helene again. “Do you intent to cause some havoc tonight?” It was asked with a level of excitement, because it would be glorious, if the tiny thing was to explode in some kind of ghostly phenomenon and scare all those present.

She listened to the story, too, amused by the way Helene spoke of the late hour, glancing at the small house, “And how did their family line come to an end, exactly?” That was the story Inge was more intrigued by — she was well aware that the night was the time where the monsters came out. It was when she was at her strongest, when she could appear and disappear at will and haunt any person’s dreams and transform herself into something monstrous, stronger and more terrifying than her boring, mortal-seeming form. No, she wanted to hear about a story of what she hoped was fratricide, eyes gleaming as she hungered for a dramatic tale.

—

Were he a being capable of critical thought, maybe Archie would be able to stop and wonder why he hung onto every word of Helene's. Maybe he would be able to notice that in any other circumstances, this would bore him to death. But Archie was never the smart one, never a man of details, and Leon made no appearances here to guide his brother down a realistic (more like deeply pessimistic) path.

However, as much as Archie was stuck in Helene's stories, he retained almost none of the information, flying in one ear and out the other at twice the speed. And yet, he didn't wander off like he would if his will was his own. What truly caught his attention, was Inge's morbidity. Despite having met death, the concept of it feels so far removed from him. It was easy to remove himself from it, after all, he spent every moment he could pretending to be something he wasn't: a beating heart. "Ooo!" He exclaimed, almost cutting off Inge's words. "Yeah, how did they die? Was it like one of those old-timey shoot outs? Did they have guns back then?"

Helene's smile sent a shiver down his spine. Archie isn't sure if he'd felt such a sensation since coming back wrong. He laughed, nervous but with enough energy to attempt to mask it. "When are we gonna see some spooky shit?" He asked, not aware of what he was really asking for. "You know, you should definitely sell booze here. Drunk people are way easier to scare." He chuckled, then he turned to Inge, leaning in close to whisper. "You don't have anything for us on you, do ya?"

—

Jonas had dealt with many ghosts in his time, but having one lead a tour was definitely a first. Normal ghosts did not possess enough power to be projecting themselves in front of a small crowd while talking, what was even more strange was the fact that he wasn’t the only one who could hear her. Or at least that was what he was gathering from the reactions of his tour group members. It was hard to keep track of that many lips, it didn’t help that he was in the back of the group. He fiddled with his cardigan as he tried his best to keep up with the conversations. He should have gotten Lil to come along.

Still his focus was the ghost more than those walking with him. Jonas had come with the intent to help her move on, but he hadn’t wanted to interrupt the tour and make a show in front of everyone as he suddenly made their tour guide disappear. He also thought that perhaps if the ghost got to show off she would be more amicable to his desire to help her move on. Though her level of power was a bit worrying. Normally only poltergeists were so strong.

Jonas wasn’t affected by ghost stories the same where others were. He had been talking to ghosts since he could form words so no fear was held for them only pity. “I hope Madison is not still there trying to type.” He mumbled out. Blue huffed a little at her boy, he couldn’t understand the conversations happening but she could and she was thinking these people were strange and that Jonas was focusing on the wrong thing.

—

There had been a rumbling in the graveyard about ghosts who didn’t know their places. Ghosts who could be seen by the mundane and not just the exceptional. Ghosts who would bring in a new age, destroy the living and put ghosts at their rightful place. At the top. The ghosts in this town were ambitious, Nora would give them that. Nora followed along the party, in the outskirts, hands shoved in her pocket where another ghost was nestled safely. Tied down by a hair tie and paper clip to stop him from making a scene. The group consisted of one woman she did know and then other people she didn’t know. But the woman she did know was a question, because Nora was curious to see if this fellow fear eater was here to help cause panic in any way necessary, going to help the living, or just in the right place at the right time.

“Someone should tell Madison no one wants to hear his typewriter at night.” Nora mumbled, shifting her gaze to look over their tour location. A man was joking with the professor about getting drunk to be easier to scare. For a brief second Nora allowed one of her illusionary monsters to flicker in his sight. In honor of it being a ghost tour, she recreated the man himself, dead and ghostly, approaching the man, arms outstretched before it disappeared into nothingness. Maybe that would be a good indication if he was drunk or not.

Another man seemed interested in the story and was talking about Madison’s typing as well. He didn’t want Maddison to type more. Nora, having never read any of Madison’s work, assumed it was because his stories were the worst ever read and that was how he obtained his posthumous fame. But Helene was talking about the hungriest hour and Nora’s stomach let out a large grumble that reminded her it’d been awhile since her last meal. Her pocket ham had run dried and now she was scraping by on scraps she could find around town. “Yeah, I am hungry.” Nora agreed. “Are you going to feed us?”

—

Much like the town, the people seemed to have taken a turn for the more agitating as well. Helene wondered if that was just the natural progression of time. She wasn’t sure she remembered what that was like, but she was certain her former acquaintances had the decency to retain their manners during a tour. Really, who raised these people? They knew nothing of manners or tact. It was easier that way. She supposed she might feel a thread of guilt if she were to find any of the tour-goers likable. They were a means to an end.

“There is a bar up the road we can stop at if you insist upon refreshments,” Helene relented with a roll of her eyes. The form she had been granted had been given its own allure of sorts, they wouldn’t go too far, but she still couldn’t risk them getting bored of her tour and running off all the same. She couldn’t bear another night trapped in this hellscape of a town she once called home. “I was not under the impression that food and beverage was customary on ghost tours,” she spoke with an air of indignance, “I am certain you will find the offerings at the 9/13 to be more than suitable.”

Not that Helene had tried anything there herself. Even if she was visible to the people of the town, her hands still passed through objects and the drinks they sold would do nothing to cure the sense of yearning she’d lived and died with all these years. The woman’s question made her perk up a bit. At least someone was interested in the spirit of the tour… though the fellow who wanted a drink wasn’t too far off. The scares would be there soon enough and surely there would be regret in having asked for them in the first place.

“Perceptive woman,” Helene turned to Inge with a pleased grin, “Most can’t resist a tale of family betrayals. The whole thing was rather bloody… yes, they had guns at the time, but their fight was far more gruesome.” She turned to the group with a wicked chortle. “Madison was something of a collector and fought his brother with an ax… curious choice of weapon, really though Melvin did have his hunting knives on him. Clearly… Madison was better equipped. The reports at the time said Melvin died with 22 ax marks decorating his corpse.” It sounded like Madison got out scot-free and she shook her head with a bit of delight. “Madison did take some stab wounds from his brother, though nothing quite so deep or fatal. It was infection of the wounds that led to his ‘untimely’ death.”

The only thing untimely about it was it hadn’t happened decades sooner, but Helene tried to tell the tale absent of her own tie to it. “The house is locked this time of day,” she looked at Jonas with a daring glance, “It is open during the day. I suppose you could listen for him then if you’d like.”

—

Archie and Nora prattled on about drink and food as if either of them really needed it to sustain themself. Inge found it amusing, eyes flicking between the two familiar faces and wondering how many of the others here were like them — supernatural. With Nora’s skills, they could create their own ghost story here, after all. She leaned towards Archie, shaking her head, “I don’t, no. Carrying a flask around is a little bit gauche.” He had a point, though: inebriated people were easier to scare. Their dreams were more chaotic, too.

She raised her voice, “It’s fine. We can grab a bite after,” Inge said, glancing at the tiny bugbear with a look of amusement. If she was hungry, she could use her illusions to scare the living daylights out of everyone around them. She’d like to see it. For now, though, she wanted this Helene to answer her questions and explain why this place was allegedly haunted.

And on she went, lifting the veil and speaking of a family betrayal. Gruesome murder, a tale you might hear on a podcast hosted by men with grating voices who threw in a sponsor for beard oil in between speaking about gore-y actions. “Twenty two ax marks …” Inge found it easy enough to imagine what it must have looked like, but had to admit she was on Melvin’s side, here. Anyone who brandished an ax as a weapon was something she considered an annoying individual, if not possible hunter. The memory of Sanne’s beheading was far in her head, nagging. “So a slow but painful death? I suppose that’s what you get for instigating a fight like that, hm?” She looked at the house, then back at Helene. “Can’t you open it to us? Or is it … locked for our own ‘safety’?” She used air quotes around that lsat word.

—

"Maybe our good mate Madison is having a grand ol' time typin' away!" Archie suggested humorously to the faces he didn't recognise. "Who are we to get in the man's way–" The jovial zombie halted all of a sudden. What was once fluid movements and loose shoulders were quickly seized into a tense bundle of muscles. Leon's face appeared, but it wasn't his presence that stitched discomfort into his features. It was the un-Leon-ness of it all.

The ghost reached for him, wordlessly, arms outstretched. "What're you–" Archie mumbled as the ghost drew closer. Perhaps someone else would scream, maybe they'd take off running and wouldn't stop till their lungs were empty and stinging. Archie only moved his head back when those ghostly hands got too close. There was no horror on his face, only confusion when he blinked and Leon's face was gone. Archie looked over his shoulder, no awareness for how strange his movements might look to those who don't see what he saw. He cleared his throat, and the jovial zombie was back.

"I ain't been on a ghost tour before, ain't got the faintest clue what's customary." He dragged out the last word almost mockingly, a far too sophisticated choice of vocabulary for a man who didn't so much as pass secondary school. "Wait, twenty-two? Seriously? Damn. Savage. They really didn't like each other, huh…"

Features softened by laughter morph into confusion as he leaned closer to Inge again. "Did you just say gooch?" Confusion kept his brows furrowed, but Archie began to laugh again. "I feel like you're too much of a lady to say gooch at a ghost tour." He laughed again, the notion of Inge being an upstanding woman in society was plenty amusing.

"C'mon, Helene! You can't tell us it's spooky in there and then refuse to let us in! What, you forget your keys? 'Cause listen, I can get the door open. If none of you tell on me for a bit of light breaking and entering."

—-

Jonas was not one who was very big on going to bars. Normally when he drank it was over heart break and those nights always ended with him at home bent over a bucket. He was a little glad the woman in the front suggested skipping it. He didn't want ot show that side to some strangers, it would be a horrible first impression. Not that he was really here to get on their good sides, he tried to remind himself that he was here for the ghost and what she needed. Though that didn't stop him from going through his many pouches and pulling out a packet of skittles along with a packet of peanuts and offering them to the younger woman in the group. “If you are hungry you are more than welcomed to have these.”

“If it is closed we should leave it till morning.” Jonas was used to a little breaking and entering but that was usually done when a client forgot to give him their keys and normally it as Lil who did the deed. Though he did make a note to come back and help Madison move on. Even if he did something as horrible as killing his sibling he was a danger to people if left alone especially if he carried anger still towards his brother.

It wasn't the first time he heard of siblings doing horrible things to one another, but it was always a little hard for him to understand why. Perhaps it was his closeness to his own siblings that made the thought of someone else killing theirs something he just couldn't wrap his mind around. Sure, sometimes siblings had disagreements but it was never something to get violent over.

—

The scare got a little frightened reaction, but it wasn’t as deep and wonderful as Nora had wanted. However, she was rewarded with a bag of peanuts. Which was a very bad reward, but Nora was a homeless young adult who, now that Emilio’s house was sludged, didn’t have access to a steady kitchen. Nora gobbled down the bag in one giant swallow, shoving the plastic bag into one of her many pockets. She’d tuned out of most of the conversation until the topic of breaking and entering entered the discussion.

“We don’t even have to mess with the locks.” Nora was good at locks, but locks weren’t the only way of getting into buildings. Nora looked down at the ground around them until she found a suitably big garden rock. “Oh no,” Nora dead panned, making direct eye contact with the ghost who told them they were not allowed to enter the house at this time of day. “My hand slipped.” The rock soared out of her hand and shattered the glass to the nearest window. “Looks like we’ll have to go in and clean up.”

—

The moment was approaching. As Helene watched the group banter and make suggestions about entering the house, a mixture of frustration and amusement danced behind her old eyes. She hadn't anticipated this level of eagerness to break in. Something like jealousy flashed through her. Oh, to be able to revel in such chaos like these simpletons. She was long past the point of such earthly emotional pleasures, but her time would come soon. "Breaking and entering was never part of the tour package," she chided, a wry smile on her face. "I'm afraid you'll have to content yourselves with the stories for now. The locks are for your safety as much as for the preservation of this... historical site."

And then came the rock. Helene felt the hour in her insubstantial bones, and she was determined to make this work. So what if they didn’t follow the script. She would flip it in her favor. “You’re right, child. Go in, go clean. In fact, why don’t we all get a long look at the history hidden away inside? You might even become part of it, part of this town forever.” A sudden cold gust of wind swept through the area, rustling the leaves, but sending not a shiver down Helene’s spine. Her form flickered momentarily, transparent figure wavering in the breeze. Now. It had to be now.

A subtle shift in the air signaled the impending change. Could they feel it? Even mortals such as themselves had to be attuned to such great power on some level. It started as a faint shimmer, barely perceptible, then the earth rumbled, a fierce blue glow beaming from the cracks. And out poured the abnormality. It coated the ground, obsidian-like rock and blue crystals circling the group and the old house. The young man happened to be in the epicenter. The abnormality crept, enveloping and hardening around him in seconds, his screaming turning muffled and distant as he was sealed to the ground, to the town.

And Helene, for the first time in so many years, felt a surge of power run through her body, her real body. She floated from the ground, no longer caring to keep up the harmless charade, and the black and blue substance hardened in a lattice pattern around the remaining souls-to-be-trapped.

—

Inge was not immune to being swept up in the excitement and she found the prospect of breaking into an ancient house increasingly exciting. Of course, their host was against it and she huffed, “The stories would be embellished if we could actually properly go on site though, wouldn’t you say?” She wasn’t even sure if her words carried much weight, as they were with plenty and there was enough being said.

Besides, she was quick to forget her words, quiet admiration for Nora spreading through her. She was an aspirational young thing, that one. Much more skilled and clever than Inge had been at that age, decisive in a way that made actual moves. The window shattered and it seemed something else shattered with it. The notion that all this was just a ghost tour — as if there was such a thing in a town like this, where two undead were part of the clientele and a bugbear was causing a havoc. There was something strange about Helene’s words, something strange about the air and she wondered, for a moment, if she should be thrilled or wary.

There it was: the earth seemed to be shattering next, pouring out that goo she’d been avoiding, the crystals she’d up until now managed to not touch. Hasty boots jumped back, tip-tapping until she found a clear spot — but her eyes soon fell on Archie, who had not been so lucky. “No —” Inge was surprised by the exclamation that fell from her lips, her proximity to Archie rather shallow, but still. He was good company and undead like her, and she very much disliked hearing his screams, nay, his cries.

Helene was rising and she supposed it was time to be wary, or even better, time to run. Inge had never been much of a hero and preferred to run from the fights she got into, and that was what she intended to do now. But a strange woman was stumbling, grabbing her arm for balance and she was stuck, unable to reach her darling astral. “Let go of me you –” She busied herself with prying off the terrified hand on her coat, eyes flicking to Nora and the others around her. Despite her wariness, Inge wanted to know what was bound to happen next — call it her incessant need for inspiration, and stared daggers at Helene, “What is this?”

—

Jonas felt his breath hitch in his throat as the rock flew through the window. He frowned, turning to say something to the girl next to him when the ground began to shake as Blue wrapped herself around him. The dog began to growl as the ghostly figure ascended to the sky. Others in the party were panicking and the young man who started the conversation about breaking and entering ended up engulfed by the abnormality. Jonas’ hand went to his mouth and he gasped at the sight. He had avoided the goo rather successfully until now, his only run in was when he went with Lil to see if he could talk to other ghosts about what was happening, that was how he learned of this tour in the first place.

His hands gripped Blue’s fur as he tried to refocus on the now. It wasn’t his first time in a dangerous situation made by a ghost, it wasn’t his first time seeing someone die either which wasn’t a very pleasant thought. He looked up at Helene, if she was a poltergeist, as everything was now suggesting, then there was little Jonas could do. It would be better to focus on getting the other members out of whatever trap Helene had just forced them in. “She may not answer you. It would be best to get away for now.”

—

Pride swelled through Nora at the sound of the shattering glass. Pride that was quickly diminished as their ghost tour guide went wild with it. Nora didn’t understand, it was just a house, and Helene was a ghost, she didn’t need a house anymore. But rock was surrounding them, eating one of their numbers and capturing them. “No.” Nora reached into her deep pockets, pulling out a knife. She was tired of the geological abnormalities in this fucking town. Rocks weren’t supposed to take people away. “Give him back.” Her monotone was shifting into something emotional, something angry.

Knives didn’t work on most ghosts. Most ghosts couldn’t summon hordes of obsidian rocks to eat people. The others, unrecognizable faces, in the tour group were panicking. Sheep to the slaughter, doing nothing except cry and scream. Not a single one of them capable of fighting for their lives, except Inge, Nora knew. Call it the influence Cass was having on her, but Nora wasn’t going to let these people die because she broke a window. “GIVE. HIM. BACK.” Or he would always be the nameless man she’d gotten killed. Another death on her shoulder. A new sin.

Nora propelled herself on the shoulders of strangers, using them as a ladder to scale the slick rock wall. Emerging from the top Nora threw her body at the ghost, knife aimed to strike down through her neck. The knife slid through the ghost like air, quickly followed by Nora, tumbling onto the grass, winded from a rough landing. “Fuck.” It would have been so sick if that had landed.

—

A couple from the group were spirited, Helene would give them that. On another day, she might have enjoyed toying with them a bit, but this was her time, and the minutes spent dealing with these pests were the most valuable ones in her long, long afterlife. She would not let them take it from her. She brushed at her shoulder as if wiping off dirt, but of course, the child who leaped at her had just fallen right through. Helene took pleasure in the rough landing. “He’s gone now. There is no giving him back. He’s not just trapped, like the others. His life has been extinguished.” Helene looked at the older of the two of them. There was an inner strength to this one. Yet she was breaking, and that made pride swell within her ghostly chest. “It’s a ghost tour, dearie. You signed up for it. Didn’t you read the fine print on those waivers? We are not responsible for any harm that may come to you from the ghosts.” She cackled, like the old bat she was. That was enough of that.

The crystals poured up from the earth, mazelike and jagged, growing tall and dividing up the group. They were fish in a barrel now. The two troublemakers split from the cautious little boy and his dog, who were both split from the unruly, confused crowd she intended to lap up. “I will deal with you later,” she said, turning to the two who knew too much. Not that they seemed especially brilliant, but they weren’t terrified and suppliant like most. She found herself smiling at them, wicked and full of more life than any ghost should possess. How long had it been since she’d really felt such glee? If her turning away from them incensed them even more, well, she didn’t mind. They needed to learn their place – which was as nothing more than fodder for the Great One. But first, they needed to see how small and insignificant they really were. With a flick of her wrist, a small window formed within the tall crystal – just enough for the two to peer through and see what was about to become of the others on the tour.

She floated higher. She wouldn’t let that child take another leap at her during such a momentous occasion, and she wished to soar as high as she felt. Helene watched, the smile never leaving her face, as the crystals encircled and closed in on the clamoring crowd. An old woman, a father with his sons, a large family donning tourist shirts, a man who just looked like a lost tagalong. One by one, the goo spiraled around them, climbing up their legs. As the ooze hardened over their faces, their screaming was quick to die. Helene could feel the energy, the life, being siphoned away from them. A meaningful but meager portion was diverted to her, but the rest would be for the Great One. “Quiet at last,” she said, looking back at the two that remained. She didn’t bother checking on that little boy and his dog. They were no threat to her, and she’d had her fill.

But these two, she would relish giving over. “You two are plucky, aren’t you? Did you enjoy seeing all of those people die? It’s the crown jewel of the tour.”

—

There was a genuine look of horror on her face as she tried to process what had just occurred. Inge hadn’t thought the goo a problem for herself and her ilk, had assumed that the undead could not die again and properly by the ooze. She had assumed they’d get trapped, but that the lack of oxygen, water and food would not bother them — but Helene said his life was extinguished. (Maybe she didn’t know, what Archie was, maybe she didn’t know, about undead: but she was a ghost, and she seemed to know everything and Inge figured assuming the worst was wisest in a high stakes situation.)

Nora was angry, was jumping into action whereas Inge remained grounded and silent. It felt like a betrayal to all she knew, that Archie might be gone, truly and fully. She should go, but something tugged at her — and when she and the other were trapped by crystals she felt something dissatisfying: responsibility. She couldn’t leave Nora behind with this woman. Even if it would be so easy to disappear and reappear in the safety of her own home.

So she didn’t jump to the astral, not when the goo started forming around the rest of the tour’s crowd. Humans, all so very human and mortal in their existence — so very different from herself and Nora. Fear-eaters. Was the other getting her fill? Inge tried to search within herself and she wasn’t sure what she felt. It wasn’t horror. It wasn’t her usual intrigue, either. It was a kind of anger. She didn’t like it when the tables were turned on her, she didn’t like it when she was made watcher in stead of instigator. She did not enjoy their screams, because she wasn’t causing it — and though it didn’t quite break her heart, it didn’t sit well with her either. Especially in the case of the children.

There was no point to this. Her nightmares, those had a point and purpose. What she and Siobhan had done to Rhett, that had been for good reason — but this? This was plainly and simply stupid. Never mind what Helene’s motivations might be. Inge found she didn’t much care about the woman’s story: why she was dead to start with, how she managed all this. She cared most about her own back and also, surprisingly, about that of Nora. She was stoic and silent, slow to turn around and glower at the ghost. “It was a sight,” she said, her jaws clenched but her tone mostly controlled. “Seemed rather pointless to me.” Why kill so many? Death had never enticed her. She liked her nightmares and her art; she liked being alive, and those things were part of being alive. Decay and decease were ugly things, best avoided unless it was portrayed in dreams or paintings. She didn’t look at Archie. She couldn’t look at what had once been Archie. “Well. Then. Now that we’ve had the crown jewel, I reckon you’re finished?” Nothing to be done about those kids, those tourists, the little lady any more. Inge figured the next best thing was to run — but not alone. She looked at Nora, inquiring.

—

Knife didn’t work. Knife didn’t work. Knife didn’t work. The words ran through Nora’s head over and over again. A constant and unhelpful barrage. What was the point of all this training? The late nights of work if the knife didn’t work? Knife didn’t work. Stop it. Stop. It. Nora’s fingernails dug into the palm of hands, gripping hard enough to feel the skin break away and small pricks of blood pool under her grimey nails. She would just have to accept that knife didn’t work. Sometimes you can't help everyone. Sometimes you need to stop obsessing and think. Think. But how could she think? People were dying, people who hadn’t done anything. Nora’s breath was hitched in her chest, memories flashing over her, the hunter’s head rolling on the ground, her knife in Debbie’s chest, now this. Knife needed to work.

Inge was next to Nora, as Nora stood up and brushed her clothes off. A useless activity, considering they were already coated in a thick layer of dirt since before the tour. Truly, what were a few more falls in the dirt at this point? “You need a new crown jewel.” Nora snapped back at Helene. Her fingers reached into her jacket, shaking uncontrollably as she fumbled around inside. “Not now, but soon.” Nora mumbled, a response for Inge. Inge was right, they needed to run. Her fingers landed on a warm metal object. She would need to work on her shock reaction, her fingers couldn’t keep trembling like this when there were things to be done. Nora pulled the lighter out of her pocket. One flick. Two flick. Three. It finally lit. “You’re also going to need a new home.” Nora announced to helene before tossing the lit lighter into the home of the ghost tour. “Now I’m ready to run.” Hands still trembling, she took Inge’s in her own. Boots met ground as a burst of speed pushed through her.

In the movies, the house would have exploded behind them. There would have been a fortunate oil spill or gasoline bottle nearby and the house would have been eaten alive by the licking flame. Helene’s body would have been burned inside, sending her to whatever hell she deserved to live in. This wasn’t a movie, and Nora didn’t look back to see if the fire took. Nora hoped it would catch on something, but she was aware that the likelihood was it wouldn’t take and die, just like everyone they’d been touring with. Nora would be back with gasoline.

—

“No!” As she watched the lighter fall, she called out of reflex, more out of surprise than fear. She had lived a long life, an even longer afterlife, and the work was done. Setting the house alight was smart – smarter than trying to charge through a ghost with a knife. Helene watched, fire reflected in her otherwise empty eyes, as the home of her body caught flame. Old floorboards creaked and a beam snapped, causing a section of the roof to cave in as huge plumes of black smoke billowed out. She wasn’t sure what would become of her, though she was ready for anything. She had new power, but she was not alive, and that old lump of bones buried beneath the home was what tethered her to this place. It was possible the lives she had just snuffed out broke her free of that connection, but at the end of the day, she suspected, a ghost was a ghost, and this would be her true end at last.

Helene could feel her toes grow numb, then searing, sensing something for the first time in a great many years (and how awful, yet rapturous, for that something to be pain). She knew now that this was it for her. But she would grant these troublesome lives no satisfaction. They turned to run, and Helene’s voice, though laced with a kind of self-righteous desperation, surrounded them no matter how far they and fast they darted away. “What’s done is done,” she howled, turning into the wind itself, “you have no idea how momentous tonight is, how lucky you are to be witness to such a great power resurfacing. I may be gone, but so are any chances you might have had of getting answers from me. Unprepared as you are, soon you will know.” As the flames ate away at the house, it crumbled and crumbled, and pain spread across Helene’s ghostly body just as it lapped up her remains. She yowled as her ability to speak was stolen from her.

In place of her voice was a low and ominous rumble that made the air tremble with static and vibration – building gradually and swelling into a terrible thunderclap, that seemed in equal parts to come from above and below. Now? Already? Even Helene was shaken, though she didn’t have bones for the sound to pour into and rattle and, soon, she didn’t have any substance at all, even metaphysical. But the sky quaked once more, and the last thing Helene felt, had thought, had known, as she became nothing but ash, was the knowledge that she had served her Great One.

#group writing #ghost tours 3d #season 2

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lady-astras · 11 months ago

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Lost to Time (Excerpt)

Location: Mythland

Time: 4:21 PM, Friday, November 1

Gem swooped on her wings into the beautiful kingdom of Mythland, ruled by King Sausage. Despite its scenic gardens and hanging vines, it was a deadly place, where many entered… but only the strongest made it back out. It was also home to the Assassin’s Guild, where Sausage himself set out to assassinate people’s enemies. He held no loyalties but Mythland and Gilded Helianthia, where Gem’s friend Queen Pearl lived.

She stepped cautiously into the seemingly unsuspecting bar. Sausage was behind the counter, cleaning glasses, but Gem’s sharp sense of magic and her keen eyes did not fail to overlook the deadly sharp knives lining the walls, some spattered with rust. Or… something else. Gem preferred not to think about those knives, so focused on the king.

“Gem! Just the person I was looking for! So I’ve noticed a strange amount of blood sheep lately, don’t know why. Really all I’ve been doing is taking care of the Guild-“ here, Sausage motioned to the wall of knives - “and being in the summoning circle. Just chanting these. Nothing much.”

“The summoning circle? Sausage what have you been saying?!” Gem cried.

“Nothing, just what’s in this book.” Sausage said, as he tossed a book to her. It was surprisingly thick.

“What page?” Gem asked apprehensively.

“The first one.” He said, waving off her concerned expression with a wave of his cleaning rag. Gem opened the book.

All hail the blood sheep

…

“Sausage! What is this?” Gem snapped. “Don’t meddle in such things, it can and it WILL have bad-“

“What was that?”

Just before Gem could finish lecturing her fellow ruler about dark magic, she saw a glimpse of a person-like silhouette… but different. Gem shivered violently - something definitely was not right. And if nothing was wrong, the usually warm kingdom of Mythland was now very cold. Which was still wrong.

“Is everything alright Gem?”

“I am… I think. Sausage, we need to get out of here.”

“Relax! This is Mythland, I’m here! Nothing will happen. Only good things.”

“Magic, Sausage, magic. It’s telling me to go! Maybe… if we are going to stay we should go and get my crystals. They’ll help ward off evil power.”

“I… see… you…” a raspy voice said seemingly just behind them.

Sausage jumped and Gem shrieked, and whirled around to look. But there was nothing there save falling particles of deep purple and red.

#empires smp #empires s1 #geminitay #mythicalsausage #mythland #crystal cliffs #xornoth #crystals

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squirmydads-creations · 7 months ago

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My father-in-law passed away this week so part of my creative side is just numb. I still feel the need to create, I just can't see the colors to paint right now so I'm focusing on getting things built in primed. I know one of the hobby cheating tips towards better productivity is to only have two projects going at once not 30, but I don't see all of these as being active projects. Everyone around me feels really heavy right now, that's grief processing I know.

This is a broke ass necron that I'm turning into an objective marker. He's been primed gray after being covered with scenic mud, and then I threw a heavy coat of earth wash on him to start. I need to look up some Rust techniques.

#painting miniatures #miniature painting #priming all the things

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mountrainiernps · 2 years ago

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Krummholz. If there is one word to describe how whitebark pines deal with living at high elevations, in not so perfect soils, long winters with windy storms, that word would probably be krummholz.

Krummholz describes how trees can be twisted and made crooked by wind and winter weather. Found most often at the highest places that trees can grow, called tree line, krummholz trees are the trees sculpted and pruned, sometimes into amazing shapes. Whitebark pines are very good at krummholz. They can go with the flow of the winds and winter storms found in the high elevations of the subalpine environment. They are most easily viewed at Sunrise, our park’s highest summer road.

Whitebark pines are not tall trees. Without wind sculpting, they tend to be about 16-66 feet tall. They are wonderfully long lived trees ranging from 500 to 1,000 years old. Because they live in areas with not so wonderful soil (kind of rocky), with long winters, lots of snow and wind, whitebark pines are also slow growing trees. But as small and twisted as they may be, whitebark pines have big roles in the subalpine environment. They help stabilize soils, regulate run-off and snowmelt, and provide an important food source to subalpine animals with their seeds.

Currently listed by U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service as a Threatened species, the whitebark pine is under threat from non-native white pine blister rust, native mountain pine beetles, impacts from altered fire regimes, climate change, and combinations of all four of these. Scientists have been working on these problems, especially the blister rust, for a while now. Programs are under way to find a way to save these amazing trees even as their numbers decrease across their range and in the park.

Where is your favorite place to see whitebark pines? Have you hiked trails or gone to scenic viewpoints and found some fantastic krummholz shapes in the pines? ~ams

More information on trees in the conifer family in the national park can be found here https://www.nps.gov/mora/learn/nature/conifer-trees.htm . Research done by the North Coast & Cascades Inventory & Monitoring Network can be found here https://www.nps.gov/im/nccn/monitoring-reports.htm .

These photographs are from years past and do not reflect current conditions. NPS/E. Brouwer Photo. View from Sourdough Ridge trail looking through a gap. Trees cling to rocks and cliffs on both sides of the gap. July, 2014. NPS/S. Redman Photo. Whitebark pine in the Sunrise area. Light, almost white, bark visible on trunk. August, 2011. NPS Photo. Close-up of branch of whitebark pine showing 5 needle bundles.

#encuentra tu parque #find your park #national parks #mount rainier national park #trees #whitebark pine #subalpine #krummholz

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crispy-bonnie · 2 years ago

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I hit you with the wombo combo my guy

- Platonic headcanons for Rust and Duke???

- UH, YES PLEASE?????

- So Reader is like, young, like 20-something

- And they're very nice/friendly, and fluffy :>

- They get along well with everyone, including Rust/Duke

- And it's pretty clear Reader thinks of him as a father figure (though they would never say it)

- As in, Duke/Rust are sort of aware of it

- And at one point, the gang are watching a movie very late at night, and Reader falls asleep first

- (You know, if this was a sleepover, Reader would be having brain surgery now)

- Okay anyway, Rust/Duke pick them up and put them to sleep (that sounds threatening)

- Rust/Duke is like 'Goodnight'

- And reader is like 'Gn dad ¦]'

- IDK I JUST NEED A FATHER FIGURE (FROM A GAME) PLEASE

cries in fatherless too also this is my first time writing rust so it’s probably gonna be shitty lol

Fatherly HCs - RUST + DUKE

Rust

Is quite confused on how you saw him of all people to be a father figure but he rolls with it anyway

At first he’s not one to do much? You’d usually be the one initiating and leading conversations with him

But at some point he ends up warming up to you. Specifically the point where you started expressing your interest in his bike/biker fashion

If you’re up for it, he’ll take you on joyrides with him and pass by all the scenic routes of D.C.

Teaches you all the little things about bikes and how to take care of them

At some point, Rust even teaches you how to ride one!

If you get the hang of riding it, he’ll force his bike repairman to make a bike tailored just for you [favorite color, seat material, even special decorations]

If you don’t, he’ll opt to get you a leather jacket instead with your name and a symbol representing you on it

The two of you don’t talk too much aside from joyrides and other bike riding shit. If you happen to bump into each other in the morning then you’d probably have a chat over some coffee

Now if someone were to hurt you, physically or emotionally, you’ll probably find the perp’s corpse mangled and ran over

He’d just casually say he took care of some personal business

Despite the lack of conversation between you two, he cares for you deeply.

If you do something like fall asleep on the couch or somewhere uncomfy, he’ll carry you to somewhere comfortable and drape a blanket over you like fjwbfhwbdb

He’s pretty chill with you calling him ‘dad’ or ‘pops’. It makes him feel like he’s got something to live for…aside from his bike

Overall, he’s a sweet and chill guy. He won’t say it verbally, but he loves ya /p

Duke

Like Rust, he also finds it confusing because like- he thinks of himself as anything but fit to be a father figure because he's so caught up in all this ancient history shit lmao

He doesn't necessarily warm up to the role, but he also doesn't reject it either. He kinda just accepts it

You and Duke like to have random and long talks about artifacts that he managed to get his hands on or spot somewhere in a museum

He'll be like holding back tears [/pos] if you manage to recite some history facts to him

You'd be ranting on about it to Sydney and Duke in the background would be like "I'm so proud of that kiddo" while trying not to cry lmao

Takes you to the museum often so that you two can check out some cool artifacts, maybe even steal some later during a heist. He also often offers to get you ice cream afterwards so that the two of you can discuss what you saw without disturbing the peace in the museum

He won't express his affection physically nor verbally, but rather through a more protecitve demeanor

If anyone gets a scratch on you, whether it be a teammate, civilian, or cop, he'll be downing whisky and absolutely torching them with dragon's breath rounds

Duke would def be one of those proud father figures tbh. Again, not verbal or physical about it, but it shows.

#payday 2 #payday #payday x reader #payday 2 x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #headcanons #payday 2 headcanons #headcanon #duke payday 2 #rust payday 2 #x reader #reader insert #crispy writes

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jimmymcgools · 2 years ago

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what is your approach to writing dialogue?

oh boy! a good question! i'll try to think of a helpful answer. i honestly feel like i'm not that great at dialogue.

but my approach, hmm. i'm big into the idea of trying to force someone to read your dialogue with the rhythm in which you imagine it being said. and i think you can force that rhythm through how you place your tags. how many tags, how much gesture description, etc.

i'm not sure if that makes sense! so i scrolled for a random example to try to explain what i mean:

“Seeing Chuck.” Jimmy tilts his head. “Not seeing you.”

Kim inhales, holding his gaze. His words seem to travel down old phone lines, flying high above freeways.

He asks an ancient question, “Why weren’t we together?”

Kim scrunches her brow, shaking her head slowly. Heat pricks at the back of her eyes and she wants to hold onto him.

“Sorry—” Jimmy starts, the word splintering. He waves a hand around: the gray visitation room, the shadows of the bars. “Just seems dumb, doesn’t it? We could’ve been…” The words die away, drifting out into the rust-colored mountains.

is ALL jimmy talking.

“Seeing Chuck. Not seeing you. Why weren’t we together? Sorry--just seems dumb, doesn’t it? We could’ve been...”

with just the dialogue. so i think a lot of dialogue comes from what’s happening outside the actual WORD words, right? maybe i overwrite my tags, for sure, but i like the feeling of that much breathing room.

i know that people also often skim tags--like, “Jimmy says” is a zero, your eyes skipping over it to the next line. but even if you’re doing that, that little fraction of a moment is punctuating the dialogue with a breath.

it’s funny, considering how much unadulterated scenic description im fine with writing, but any time i write a chunk of dialogue too long i start to get squeamish -- and i think it’s because i stop feeling those beats and pauses.

“Can you remember where you were eleven years ago? Because I remember where I was. I’d just signed a lease on a new office space. It was a bit unconventional, and, to be honest, Mrs. Nguyen never exactly gave me a lease lease, but… Eleven years ago I was down at the courthouse every day. And Chuck was already sick. So I saw Chuck every day, too. That was the most I’d ever see him. I’ve been thinking about that time. Getting ahead of myself, thinking about it. Seeing Chuck. Not seeing you. Why weren’t we together?”

^ THAT is all of jimmy’s dialogue put together.

i do like this conversation and i’m happy with it, but on its own i think that dialogue kind of stinks. (so maybe i use that much gesture description and stuff to paper over my weak dialogue ahaha)

the other thing is, i really do try to stick to alternating paragraphs for speakers when i’m writing a dialogue scene, especially if it’s just two people. and if i’m breaking the pattern, i try to be very clear.

so readers can assume any dialogue belongs to, in each case:

KIM JIMMY KIM JIMMY KIM JIMMY

like an ABAB structure, i guess.

so, like:

Her breath falls from her, and she smiles gently. “I don’t remember you paying much attention.”

Jimmy chuckles, low in his throat. “I guess I always had other things to pay attention to.”

and not

Her breath falls from her, and she smiles gently.

“I don’t remember you paying much attention.”

Jimmy chuckles, low in his throat. “I guess I always had other things to pay attention to.”

i felt like i was struggling to explain this so i took a screenshot of this whole chunk of convo! it’s an interesting one because jimmy is talking a LOT, but he’s always talking in the B paragraphs. even if kim doesn’t reply out loud. i underlined his dialogue in yellow and kim’s in blue.

obviously you don’t have to do this, but i just personally feel like it makes a scene so much easier to read, especially if you ARE skimming the dialogue tags.

i don’t know if that was the kind of answer you were after, but i hope it was some help or at least interesting!

#it ended up being a very mechanical answer i know #asks #anon

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engine-of-love · 10 months ago

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PinkRustedBreaks- The Start of It All (Part 1)

(A little late Valentine's special for y'all. Part 2 will be here very soon.)

The powerful cry of a whistle sounded as a humanoid steam train rolled down the tracks. Rusty enjoyed the breeze on his face as he continued to make his way down the line. As he gave his arms a pump, he couldn't help but take a peek at his black metal-plated forearms with bronze accents. He'd always catch himself staring at a part of himself or his reflection, as if he still couldn't believe that he was devoid of rust now and taking in his new appearance. Rusty noticed as figure in red that became more distinguishable as he got closer. "Hey! CB!" The red caboose looked up from what he was tinkering with in his hands at the sound of a familiar voice. His trademark wide smile appeared on his face as the shunter came to a stop.

"Hey Rusty." he greeted back. "You look chipper than normal." "Eh, just having a good day." Rusty said casually, through he way in a pretty good mood today. "What's that you got there?" The black and bronze steam train glanced and pointed at the item in CB's hands. "Oh, I found this little radio in some recycling bin. Thought it looked interesting and decided to fix it up." The radio in question looked like it had seen better days. The metal was scratched and worn with age, a dial was missing, and what was left of the handle was hanging uselessly on the side. Rusty smiled fondly. He admired that CB could make something seen as junk and remake it into something inventive and creative. "You wanna come and help work on it?" asked CB casually, though secretly hopeful. "It'd be great to have an assistant." Rusty snorted at the joke. "I'd be glad to. But I can't, I have a date with Pearl in a bit." The red caboose's smile dropped. His face taking on a blank, neutral expression. "...Really?"

"Yeah, it's been awhile since it's been just the two of us. I want to give her a nice time." "I see." CB replied emotionlessly. The steam train took note of the caboose's uncharacteristically blank face. "Are you ok?" "Oh!" CB quickly donned a smile, albeit a bit forced. "Yeah. I'm fine. I'll manage this old thing myself, its fine." Rusty looked apologetic. "I'm sorry CB. I would help you if I could." "Don't worry about it." reassured the red caboose. "You go on your date, have fun." The brunette steamer smiled. "Thanks Cee. I'll help you out next time, promise. I gotta go now, bye!" With that, Rusty turned and rolled down the rolled down the track. "See ya." called CB, waving goodbye. When the steam train was out sight, the smile on CB's face disappeared. His grip on the radio tightened as unpleasant feelings he tried to shove away bubbled up inside. 'Yo have no reason to feel like this. You lost your chance long ago.' CB shook his head, trying to banish the negative thoughts. He let out a deep sigh. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, those words held true. He ruined any chance he had with Rusty, and was going to have to live with it.

A lovely smile was stuck on the pink carriage's face as she held the hand of her dream train. Pearl loved the moments she shared with Rusty. The steam train in question was telling her about his day as she listened with interest. The couple were rolling down the track making their way towards the destination of their date. Rusty decided to take Pearl to this little park by the scenic route. A place to enjoy a little piece and quiet after all the hustle and bustle from work. Pearl couldn't help but take in Rusty's appearance with loving admiration. She was the one who suggested the bronze accents when Rusty got refurbished. A symbol to show that even if he looked different, it was still him. They arrived at the park and stepped off the track to enter. They rolled along the cobblestone path for a bit before stopping at a bench and setting down. The observation car sighed in happiness and relaxation. Her crystal blue eyes scanned the scenery. Neatly trimmed bushes, colorful rows of flowers in brick planters, a few trees here and there, and a nice-looking fountain some feet away.

Pearl turned to Rusty. "So beautiful. Thank you for taking me here Rusty." "No problem Pearl." Rusty replied "I'm just glad we can relax and spend some time together." He rested his hand on top of hers, the first-class girl's cheeks matched her hair soon after. The couple soon got lost in conversation, sharing tidbits from moments at work to laughing at the little jokes they would make. Both the steam train and coach loved how they could loose themselves in each-other's company. Eventually, the two decided to take a stroll around the park. Hand in hand, they rolled along the pathway taking in the cozy atmosphere. Rusty then spotted an ice cream cart parked a little ways from them. He spotted and turned to Pearl, pointing at the ice cream cart. "Hey, want some ice cream." he asked. The pink coach looked to where her boyfriend was pointing, smiled, and turned back. "Sure." she replied. "Let me guess, strawberry?" asked the brunette with an amused smile. "How'd you know?" "How could I not?" With that, Rusty made his way to the cart. Pearl giggled. She had a well-known love for all things strawberry flavored. Buffy playfully liked to call her a 'strawberry-holic'.

While she waited, the first-class coach decided to gaze at the flower bushes. She went up to a bush with light purple blooms. She gently cradled a flower in her hand, admiring its beauty. Then, something red caught Pearl's eye. She lifted her head and saw the familiar shape of a certain caboose sitting by a stream. Her eyes widened in recognition before a curious expression morphed onto her face. 'What's CB doing here?' she wondered, watching as he picked up a small stone and tossed it in the water. The pink coach was just about to call out to him when CB started to speak. "Why am I even moping about this? He's happy. He's in love and happy, with her." The caboose let out a heavy sigh. "And that's what he deserves. He...he deserves happiness!" CB gritted his teeth and rapidly blinked. It was all in vain as tears started to fill his eyes. The blond lifted his head to the sky. "Just lucky he's in my life at all. I had my shot long ago and I squandered it." The red caboose sniffed and swiped some tears away, only for more to come forward. "Coulda confessed a long time ago, but nope! I had to go stab him in the back!" A sob escaped his lips. "At least Pearl will treat him well. She...she's better for him." With that, CB buried his face in his arms, knees to his chest.

So many emotions were going through Pearl after hearing CB's heartbroken words. Shocked by what she just heard, saddened by CB's anguish, and a bit of confusion about how long the caboose had this secret crush on Rusty. CB looked satisfied by what he did to Rusty in the race as she recalled. But then again, CB was good at concealing his feelings. And what she just heard, that was pure, raw emotion. The kind of devastation one feels went they lose something. The pinkette rolled away from the flower bush and her mind began to wander. So, CB had feelings for Rusty. How long had these sorrowful thoughts plagued him? How much did he have to swallow his heartbreak when he saw them together? Did Rusty know? Now that she thought about it, whenever Rusty talked about stuff he did with or talked about CB in general, the steam train got this warm twinkle in his eye and a soft, lovestruck smile on his lips. The same twinkle and smile he got when he looked at her. And he was quick to shake it off with an almost guilty expression when turning his attention back to her. Did Rusty...also like CB that way?

"Pearl!" A voice snapped the pinkette out of her thoughts. Rusty stood before her with two ice cream cones, strawberry, and cookie dough. Her dream train looked at her concerned. "Are you ok?" Pearl quickly slipped on a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just let my mind wander a bit. Thank you for the ice cream." She took the treat and gave a couple licks, relishing the strawberry flavor. The brunette smiled. "You're welcome." The two began to continue their stroll. Pearl gave a brief at the flower bushes, luckily they were large enough to shield CB from sight. As the two continued their date, CB's heartbroken confession lingered in Pearl's mind.

When she got home, Pearl pondered over what she had heard. CB has been struggling with these feelings for a while and, with a little more thinking back, Rusty showed signs of having the same affection for the caboose. After what happened at the race and all the work CB put in to gain everyone's trust back, maybe the two felt that whatever could've happened between them could never be. Pearl knew Rusty loved her with all his heart, so he hid his feelings out of loyalty to her. She considered CB a friend and it hurt her heart to see him so upset. A sigh left the first-class carriage's mouth as she mulled over these two pieces of information and wondered what to do about it. Suddenly, an idea popped into her mind. A rather crazy really, but maybe, just maybe, it could solve a couple of problems with the right execution.

#starlight express #pinkrustedbreaks #stex rusty #stex pearl #stex cb

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