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actingdeep · 1 year ago

Text

[IP] Record Store

So there was Preston in the back storage room slash business office with his feet up on the desk reading Tess of the D'Urbervilles picturing Colin Farrell as Angel Clare right around the part where he's carrying Tess and the other milkmaids across the pond and tuning out easily at this point the steady rumbles of what's obviously Mary and Jer disintegrating into the void to 'Xtal' by Aphex Twin up front, the equally steady pot smoke creeping through the cracks, creases and that still unseemly hole in the door Tanner brought to perfect life Last Summer and he heard the bells jang as September came in with everyone's pick-up orders from El Borrego with her magic voice announcing "Buuur...iii...tooooo's" to the tune of Thus Sprake Zarathustra, sending the signal it was time to find a good place to leave off the novel and fall back into the fold. "Unda Prez-a," Jer was totally vibing. Preston carefully plucked out the grusomely funneling joint from Jer's outstretched arm struggling to grip the shabby and dessicated roastbone without burning his eyes or lips, only half-succeeding in getting a decent hit, mostly because of Jer's terrible joint-rolling skills but also partially because a portion of his focus was on currently fire-engine-red-haired Septy whisking by him with a definitely-something glance and a bag of smelly Mexican goodness. The EDM or IDM served well as an assuring mutual friend slash smoothing harbinger for the smoke and it's subsequent high. "No drink, Presty?" Preston heard September asking with a smile as she sat down on the register counter two massive bulging plastic bags, gently shooing away Andy, one of Mary's many in-store male cats. "Must be reading. What was it...? Tess of the Baskervilles, somethin?" "Yes but done for the day. Was about to grab a Yuengling, you want?" "Are you crazy, man? El Boreggo night calls for Modelo, no substitute. Drink Yuengling with like, a cheesesteak or somethin," said Jer, horizontally-compromised joint in mouth, coming over and grabbing his molettes and salsa verde. "No mo Modelo, ese. Yuengling, Hamm's, Michelob, or Redd's." "Don't touch my Redd's," said Mary jokingly and pointing with mock authority, seatting herself behind the register and struggling to unpack her huareches and tripe tostadas above and around Andy, all grey and meowing pathetically, circling round her lap and sniffing precariously with black nose the plastic bag handles. "Yuengling it is," Septy answered, holding out to Preston his classic steak tacos with cilantro, onions and lime wedges parallel to her other outstretched hand, indicating the trade. "Damn, man. That's major rough-goings," Jerry admitted, settling for a Michelob. "Verge? Redd's?" "You already know." Quiet munchage amidst the sonic fog of the Selected Ambient Works, Marvin, Andy, Cheech and Jupiter all in subtle greedy cat-orbit and Septy looks up and says: "Do you guys realize literally how many movies there are? For example." She set down her massive chicken-steak-carnitas burrito and wiped her hands. "How many Pink Panther movies do you think there are?" "Six." "Seven." "Eight." "Nine." Fucking nine? "And that's not including remakes. Technically, theres at least eleven that we know of," she added, reassuming her attack on the steaming rito. "Fuck. Killer." Jer. "And how many have you seen?" asked Mary while trying to convince a skeptical grey Andy into tasting a piece of tripe. "I've seen the first one." "Kinda buff are you?" Preston poked, knocking back a glug of beer with eye contact. "I know." "Don't blame you, Sep--that cartoon is fucked. That music is fucked. Major bad vibes," said Jerry, spilling salsa on his shirt. "Oh, come on, man..." "Thing is Jer they're not totally cartoons, that was a kids show based off the movies. It's got actors. Peter Sellers." Preston informed him. Mary was laughing at Andy's nervous nibble and traumatised flee. "So wait, is he in all nine?" "Basically. Maybe like, six or seven," September answered, glib as always about her obscure knowledge of the medium. "So why only the first, Septy? Wasn't a fan?" "Not that. Just far too many original films out there to be wasting time on sequels. I never watch a sequel." "Bullshit," accused Preston, closing the styrofoam box lid which just popped right back open. "Empire Strikes Back? Terminator 2?" "The Godfather 2?" Mary added, Preston pointing madly at her with reinforcement and going "mmm..! mmm..!" since his mouth was occupied with incoming beer. "Cheech and Chong's Next Movie?" Jer threw in. "Okay--Empire, yes--but only because I was a kid, and hadn't developed my own movie-watching proclivities yet. No Terminator. No Godfather. No Cheech and Chong. Sorry, Jer." "So you mean to tell me that assuming you've watched Star Wars as an adult, you decided not to catch Empire Strikes Back?" Preston. "Yes, because I already saw it as a kid! And before you ask, yes, same goes for Return of the Jedi." "So you didn't like Star Wars," Mary, attempting to clarify. "No no, I did. I liked all of them." Confused looks and incredulous upturned palms. "What I'm saying is, is, okay. That particular trilogy was made purposefully to be just that--a trilogy. The story of Luke and Leia and all of em was designed to spread over three films, correct? And since I have in fact seen all three, I have completed the experience of the the whole story. Thus, I have never felt the need to rewatch Empire or Return of the Jedi by themselves, because it's only part of the story. If I want to experience the story again, it would require that I watch all three, start to finish, or else it would seem too strange." "I get it, I think," Jer was nodding, basically following, throwing back what was left of the salsa verde like a shooter. "Fair enough, but here's my question," Mary continued. "So according to that logic--well, before I ask, I'm assuming you have indeed seen Godfather, willingly, as an adult, yes?" "Of course--a bit overrated, bad sound mixing, screaming babies and all that, seven-point-nine outta ten--but yes. I know where you're going with this, I think." "You watched all three Godfathers for the first time all in a row," Preston concluded aloud, this time Mary being the one mid-gulp with the excited hums and concurring pointing. September smiled, looking coy. Good detective work, buddies. Only one problem. Before she spoke up, Jerry, whom the other three friends just assumed was not really even listening, made clear the answer. "No, she didn't. Coppolla never wanted there to be sequels." "Eeex-act-ly. I'm impressed, dude," said Septy, giving Jer a proud slap o' the leg and head tilt. Mary was impressed, too--by Jerry's basically enigmatic success in his conclusion-drawing, yes--but mostly with Septy. Is she a little closed-minded? Sure. But, hey, no blatent hypocrisy as far as she could tell. Preston on the other hand was feeling something a little less satisfying, something in the realm of 'I gotta hand it to em' with just a splash of violent rage, because well of course there's that Nietzschian-level pride of his and can you fucking believe it that goddamn Jerry out of all people figured a thing out before he did, although virtually none of this could be detected on his face. "Gotta hand it to you, Jer." Preston raised his bottle to him--already back to happy normal--having in the last ten seconds recognized the sorrowful re-emergence of this contemptible pride, it's recent wound, it's subsequent patching and tending to, and finally his psycho-doctoral prescribing of something like concentrated ego-poisoning magnanimity for the allowance of it's recovery and subsequent re-dissappearance, now directly returning back into the fluid intangible abyss, if for nothing else but a necessary energetic reattuning if you will for both the short- and long-term betterment of his double-crossing, ever-wayward, fickle blackguard of a soul. "So you guys get it, right? If it's a truly worthwhile story, it must be enjoyed from the beginning. Preston. You know what I mean, right? Have you ever started reading a book for the second time, and just start in the middle somewhere?" "All the time." "Oh...okay. Well." "Still, you really ought to see Terminator 2. Whether Cameron planned it or not, I don't know. Same goes for Godfather 2. Not all sequels are a waste of time, you know," said Mary. "Wayne's World 2? Del Preston? You mean you haven't seen Del Preston telling the story about Ozzy and the brown M&M's? That's a fuckin' shame, Septy, really," added Jer. "Oh, shit! Del...Preston! Prez, I'm totally calling you Del from now on!" Preston smiled. "I had to beat them to death with their own shoes." Septy cupped her chin, considering. "I suppose films are films. I dunno. I'll think about it, I guess." Mary smiled, encouraging: "And all those horror movie sequels? I mean, come on." "Speaking of horror shows. Tanner will be back tomorrow for sure, right?" Preston asked Jerry. "Pretty sure. I mean, unless his Dad does somethin, which, I mean..." They all muttered in understanding. When Tan's Dad fell into that coma Last Summer it took weeks before he stepped foot back into the Store, and only then it was a quick in and out to pick up a small stack of records, CDs and an old player that, when accosted by his slightly concerned friends, he claimed were his Dad's favorites over the years. 'Soon enough,' the others figured. Just let him be. It wasn't until somewhere around the week before Thanksgiving that they had all agreed that no longer could they stand Zack Mixon being Tanner's replacement, the fact that he wasn't being paid nonwithstanding: the kid was just too fucking annoying. After catching Tanner one grey November day in the back, slumped down on the low sofa with half the lights off, two empty Olde English fortys at his feet with one also in-hand plus two more unopened ones laying next to him along with some small white dots of cocaine speckling the table in front of him, half-listening to Placebo's "Without You, I'm Nothing" and barely keeping in his mouth a mass of wet sunflower seeds, Mary and September had exchanged glances, sat on either side of him, decided this was not the real Tanner they loved at all and attempted to put together a soultion that would combine everybody's interests. Spending nearly every day at the hospital wasn't doing him any good at all at this point, they said, and not to mention that they're all seriously missing him at the Store and how him returning for at least a couple or three shifts minimum a week starting after Thansgiving would be the implementation to get Tan back to himself. After this plea from the girls, Tanner consented immediately, knowing in his brain already this was basically the thing to do: return to work, fall into routine, drop the worrying. Just needed to hear it from someone else. Everyone was finished eating. Mary was collecting the miscellaneous scraps of meat or cheese from everyone's styrofoam and putting them on four small plates used for teacups and spreading them around the floor, the cat's making a cute but rather obnoxious onrush of meowing all the while, the ones finishing first being greedy and moving to a different cat's plate. Preston grabbed another beer, took a swig, set it down and proceeded to clear from the tables everybody's trash: picking up napkins and wiping up salsa, collecting unopened plastic silverware, empty pico de gallo side cups and bits of chip and tomato, all with a certain you could say urgency. Septemeber was looking at him like boy oh boy look at the clean freak. Jerry, having finished and crushed his empty beer can handed it to Preston and said to Septy, noticing her gaze: "Like Jack Lemmon in The Odd Couple, eh, Septy?" "You're on a roll, today, Jerry."

***

Jerry was due at any moment to clock in. So far today there came in about ten people since opening, most of them twenty-something semi-regular browsers who stop in once or twice a month and usually head straight to the Newly Acquired section, having browsed the regular shelves pretty much to their full extent already. A middle-aged mom came in saying she was only killing time until her dentist's appointment around the corner. Is it me, or does something smell in here, I can't place it? Day off for Septy. At the register, Tanner was staring sideways out of the windows and noticed an older couple approaching the entrance. The husband carried a cane, and Tanner placed the both of them anywhere between seventy and eighty years old. His wife walked directly beside him with her arm through his, leading him forward with affection and staid dilligence.The old man had a countenance that revealed a steady resilience of mind. Tanner checked him out, and could tell this old man was going to do what he wanted, when he wanted, despite the latent haze of tainted logic, begging for surrender. A look at the wife, and you could notice her admiring this quality in her husband, proving his air of steadiness not to be stubbornness and resenting, but humble, dilligent nobility. After a few seconds of watching the couple approaching the curb, Tanner noticed he had been spaced out for he didn't know how long, not really thinking, but not really content. His brain finally jostled itself loose when he noticed the white-haired wife bracing herself just a little in order to help get the husband up onto the curb. He hurried around the counter to pop outside and assist them to the door. The wife smiled with tender gratitude, and asked that Tanner first help herself onto the curb, at which point she would be able to help her husband up on her own. Once they got inside, Tanner holding wide the door for them, the wife sat her husband gently down into the nearest chair. Once her husband got comfortable, she turned, smiled, and asked Tanner politely if they sell here a CD copy of something by Waylon Jennings, anything would do, but preferably a greatest hits compilation. She talked briefly on how her husband sang in a country-western band back in the day that often covered Waylon songs. She went on, telling how they had a rather long drive out-of-state to attend a funeral for one of the husband's former band-mates. They were leaving the day after tomorrow, and it came into her head that maybe her husband would like to hear some of the songs they used to play as something to do for their car ride. Tanner found this very thoughtful of her, but did not smile. He checked the shelves and after a moment returned with a few different discs for the couple to choose from. He fanned out the handful of CDs for the two, and moved them over to directly in front of the sitting husband at the wife's request, so as to let him see better and choose. Tanner did so (speaking a little loudly, also requested by the wife) and pointed out the ones that were greatest hits. The husband looked them over carefully one at a time, and Tanner could see a flash in his eyes as they passed over 1967's Waylon Sings Ol' Harlan, at which Tanner loudly asked if he recognized that one. "Yeah. First one I bought from him. Wasn't forty-five, though. Big thirty-three. Do they have a thirty-three?" He turned to his wife. "This is for in the car, Richard. Them albums can't play in those. It's a CD, not a forty-five. Is that one a compilation, honey?" she asked Tanner. "No ma'am, I don't believe so. I know this one and this one is," Tanner pointed out 1979's Greatest Hits, and a 20th Century Masters comp. "But not this one?" She pointed to Waylon Sings. "I don't believe so. I can't be sure, because I actually haven't listened to this one yet." "Oh, you like this old music? Well do you know which one would be good?" Tanner, having never heard a Waylon Jennings song once in his life, decided to point out Greatest Hits as his favorite. "Okay. Richard. This one isn't a compilation, it's just a regular album. Do you want this one or do you want one of those others? Because these others he said are compilations." "Hm?" "This one right here? This one you said you liked? It's not a compilation. So you won't get as many songs. Is that okay, or would you rather have one of these here, with more poplar songs?" "Uh-huh. No, no." "So which one do you want, this one, or one of the compilations?" He looked from her back down to the fanned CDs, pulled an arm up and set a finger on Waylon Sings. "Yeah. I had that one. Big thirty-three." "Alright, we'll get this one," she was talking to her husband, slow and loud. "But I'm gonna get this one too, that he recommended, okay? Just in case this ain't as good." After a few seconds, the husband gave a gruff sound of consent. "We'll take these two, honey. Thank you so much. Can you ring them up for us while I'm bringing out my purse?" "No problem, ma'am. You guys can just stay right there, and I'll be right back to let you know how much it is." Tanner was a little loud saying this, in hopes that the husband would register that they would be done soon and wouldn't grow unnecessarily impatient. The husband did not display any outward sign at all that this would likely happen, but Tanner's acute empathy as always suggested he ought to pre-ameliorate and so he felt that possibly humoring him couldn't hurt. After allowing the wife a minute to pull her husband to his feet, he handed her the bag of CDs and brough her her change, quickly heading back and forth from the open register to the couple. He opened the door and was eager to help them all the way to the car, but detected that likely the two would rather be alone again quite quickly, so he simply took them to the curb before returning inside. There also came in before the older couple a father and his boy who were around thirty-five and thirteen, respectively. They had been coming in as a pair like clockwork, twice a month since around the new year. Their tradition was to find a good day when neither of them had any previous plans or obligations, usually a Saturday, and to go to breakfast together followed by a drive someplace else on town, so as to spend his (the son's) allowance. At breakfast, when the father asked his son where he would like to go after they'd finished, the son would always answer with "the record store." Upon their entrance, the father, who gave a friendly nod to Tanner and browsed at a leisurely pace, let the son take as much time as he wanted (well, to a point). Tanner didn't mind working weekends as some of the others and so it happened that almost every time the duo made their ritual appearance, Tanner was there, manning the register or going through boxes somewhere. He began to grow quite fond of spotting the boy, making his way with care up and down the aisles, full of enthusiasm at discovering a hard copy of his own nascent musical interests. He smiled at seeing the kid so excited, because Tanner could tell that this was and has been for a while the highlight of the kid's week. Tanner could tell the son was introverted, a bit neurotic for his age, but brightly open-hearted and just stewing in quiet passion. Once inside the Store, the kid would remove his hat and gloves with care, head for the closest shelf and slowly work his way toward the edges of the Store. He would deliberately look down one side of an aisle, then come back up the aisle scanning the opposite side, doing this down every aisle, in order, usually twice. Suddenly, something would grab his attention, an album or sometimes DVD that he recognized, and if he was interested in buying it, he would give it a thorough look-over and leave it sitting on top of the section to go find it later, so as to have free hands throughout this whole blessed experience. If he saw something he recognized and approved of, but didn't want to buy, he would show it to his father, smiling. He would always get get a manly and approving "Yeah" or "Nice" and would put it back right where it was to continue on. Sometimes he would browse for over thirty minutes, at which point Tanner or whoever was there could tell his father was understandably growing a little impatient. With this, the son would return to whatever items he had left out of place and either collect them or put them back, head up to the counter with pride and shyness, check out calmly, but giddy on the inside, grab his bag of goods and tear them open as soon as the two were back and sitting in the car. In back, Mary and Preston going through shit and bopping their heads or singing along to the last chorus of 'Before They Make Me Run' by The Stones, from their Some Girls album, smoking a vape pen with a high-content THC cartridge. They could hear the bells jang and a muffled Jerry's voice greeting Tanner with over-the-top clownish vocal inflections. "Heeey, Mr. tambourine man!" "What's up dude. Having a jingle-jangle morning, I see." "It's tight, I guess." Jerry sniffed. "So, affirmative?" "I got you, man." Jer handed Tanner his baggie and headed towards the back room and the music. "Get outta here. Be up there in a minute." Jerry approached the door and tapped speedily on the wood with both index fingers like a drum roll before entering the back office slash storage space, Tanner hearing the music heighten and lower again as he went in. Once he was alone, Tanner pulled out his keys and pressed Unlock twice. After a side-to-side look, he drove one of the keys into the baggie and took a bump. He continued staring out the front windows, spacing out once again rather than auto-starting the car. "What's up, sluts?" "Well, well. The actual beast of burden. Uncanny," said Mare as Jer shut the door. "Where we at?" Mary cleared some albums off her lap and pushed herself up and out of the Indian stance with unexpected grace. "So this box needs dusted, and these still need tested, both sides." Preston was also standing up and stretching, pointing at the work they had left and handing Jer the vape pen. "As far as the testees go, You got a Kings of Leon, a Linkin Park or two, some other shit and still about a thousand Cat Stevens in the back, if, you know. I dunno what else. But I saved you a Prodigy. You're welcome. I'm outta here." "What! No shit, which one? Mare? Who the fuck brought a Prodigy?" "I, don't..." "The other day, I forgot to tell you. Just some old dude with a dopeass Killswitch shirt, had lots of nineties and aughts stuff," said Mary, throwing on a jacket and pulling out shoes. "He brought everything there. Besides the Yusef, obviously." Jer went up to the box of testees Preston had indicated and the two headed out the back door for smokes and Jer rifling through, going "Jilted, not Fat...Jilted, not Faaat..." The dorky-but-somewhat-likeable eighteen-year-old Zack Mixon single-handedly brings in an average of eleven percent of the Store's revenue from the past year, September found out one day. He also came in today. Usually it's around four p.m. every other day for him, but it was indeed Saturday, so he showed in the morning, before the middle-aged mom, and the older couple and the father and son. Once dressed for outside, Mary squeezed a tube of purply brown soft cat food onto a plate, set it down on the floor and clicked her tongue. "Preston's out, I'm just going to smoke. Bee arr bee."

***

Return To Sender: Dive into Remembrance. Bathe in Everlasting. Dissolve and be Whole. TONIGHT: Stylings of Hakim Papoola. Nervous Muskrat Lounge. 9PM. Drinks tonight at the Muskrat. Mary had a plus-one: that being Reggie, or, Rigaud, Lagnier, Blandois. Preston had met dark-eyed Reggie outside the Pump and Dollop a couple months back, well after all the hubbub from Last Summer had burned out; lanky, shirtless and looking like a blackguard playing loosely on an oversized acoustic guitar various Latin and raggae-ish melodies to passer-bys and singing with open guitar case at his feet. He looked to Preston rather vivacious and forward-looking for a bum, around his age, billy goatee, newly homeless he could tell--possibly by choice; decent clothes, no smell, no loitering bags of any kind: plastic, trash, or sleeping. Total Dharma. In the late morning light he moved in a way that, to Preston, made him come off as replete with a strangely drawing blend of dissonant and primordial energies. Pres was walking in to grab javas when he spotted Reggie singing powerfully and playing with almost dubious fervor; like he might have been planted and had grown instantaneously to create some impromptu and natural distraction. Anyway, Preston dug him. Coming out from P&D he gave a hallo in Reg's direction, and after introductions the two agreed that Reg aught to come by the Store, address here on this business card, to set up and do his thing sometime this weekend, maybe. These days Reggie sets up out front about twice a week, typically Thursday and Friday night, playing for passer-bys usually when Mary or September is working, because the men often grow tired of the music he plays. When that happens, Preston will tell him to take a break or put on his headphones; Jerry will put on a record and drown out the sound, sometimes inviting Reggie in; Tanner will run out there and tell him to fuck off for a while, sometimes smiling. During her smoke break, Preston and Mary headed down the street a couple blocks toward the Nervous Muskrat Lounge to see if anything good was going on that night, talking along the way and stepping to avoid puddles of melted snow. "Chu gonna do all day?" "Would love to get some writing done." "Well that goes without saying. What else?" "Hmm. Space Golf on PlayBox." "Gotta get that eagle," said Mary, hitting her cigarette and looking up at the Walk/Don't Walk sign. "I'm also rewatching Cosmos on VHS. Carl Sagan. O.G." "I've always wondered if he was pronouncing Uranus correctly." "Got that turtleneck and chain." "Sagan got a a chain? Ayy." "How much my chain cost? Billions and billions." "He never really said that." "That book made me cry." The pair had only to walk a couple blocks down and take one turn before they could see caddy-corner from them the familiar brown bricks and triangled corner building with the long vertical sign of tubey lettering reading MUSKRAT when you looked up to down, all dead and dark and not yet the neon. Posted in the leftmost window near the street was plastered a Hendrix-y colored poster with classic hippie-inspired and the-most-impossible-to-read-font-until-death-metal-came-along lettering that moved in circular spiral-like directions that normal sentences aren't usually supposed to go, enveloping the image of Gustav Dore's depiction of Satan from Paradise Lost, but modified so that in this depiction, the fallen angel is wearing eight-bit sunglasses and smoking a joint. Mare read out the title, struggling through the acid font. "In this window?" Preston pointed, looking over at Mare. "Yeah." "I'm gonna invite Septy. This might be good." "Is she not working tonight?" "I dunno." "Maybe I'll ask Reggie." "Girl, if Blandois saw this sign, I'm pretty sure he's already goin." "Oh my god, stop calling him that." "Did you see this one? 'Bathe In Everlasting.' 'Scuse me?" "Yeah bro. Should be a trip. I'm headin back." "I'll hit you up later. Enjoy the Prodigy." "I will!" The thwack of Preston's deadbolt, and inside he went. Flipping every light switch from front to back, he sat down a grocery bag on the island between the kitchen and living room, making sure not to set it on top of his copy of Tao Te Ching he likes to leave out from the bookshelf for easy access before carefully untying his shoes. After putting away sundries, he flipped on his console and television; not to play or watch anything, but so as to have an aesthetic background screen rather than a blank, black mirror. He changed into pajama pants and opened a beer, pouring it out into a glass down the side proper. He thought about September. He grabbed another cigarette and went out to his balcony with Lao Tzu. Mary was balancing herself against the wall as she pulled off her shoes; her bottom half being rather disproportionate once it hit below the small waist. She could hear the muffled glitches and grinds of 'Voodoo People' from out front. She pulled her coat off and walked over to a lounging Cheech to rub his belly, and gave a general hallo to all her cats that were appearing out of corners and under shelves with nap-end back arches and toothy yawns. She slid into her foam sliders which she always wore at work rather than her regular street shoes before going to the front where Jerry was obviously going ape or ham on the vape pen. "Hiroyuki Sakai!" Jer yelled with a beckoning gesture. "Chen Kenichi!" Mare pulled out the barstool next to him, the one Tanner occupied at day shift. "The ever-explorative Verge, the Redd queen of the highway. What's good?" "Just a-swingin." "With those thighs, I reckon so." Jer leaned over and turned down the Prodigy a bit, not noticing an older male customer on the upstairs-landing Jazz section giving off a sidelong stink eye like "finally" and upward appeal of passive-aggressive kind of "Thank God" relief. "Talk shit, get hit." "Middle school cool kid." "That's me, alright." "Really? Cuz I coulda sworn you were Roksaburo Michiba!?" "Only on off-days, Fukui-san." "Speaking of being off, you got plans tonight?" "Dude, me and Preston saw the wildest poster at Muskrat just now." "Oh, shit, you went down there? How long you been gone? Damn." "Preston wants to go pretty bad, so we were thinking me, him, September and Reggie if I can find him." "What kinda music?" "I don't know if it even is music, it just had a guy's name, Hakim something. If it is, probably psychedelic doom type shit from what the poster looked like." "Oh, shit. I'll be there." "I could be totally wrong though. Didn't feel like a band poster. It said 'stylings.'" "Ah, you shoulda said that before. Poetry--not my thing. Anything else? Ryot Gear perhaps?" The back wall of Stewey's was where they kept all the clear liquors, which is where Preston had been shifting from foot to foot for about three minutes now. At checkout, he ended up with a three seven five of Tanqueray, a picollo of moscato, three plastic waters, and a single plastic shooter of New Amsterdam peach vodka. He was twisting the cap of the gin once he got outside and across the street; but just as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he felt the vibrations in his pocket and saw the confirmation text from Septy that she'd be off at eight, and would be able to get there by nine thirty. He smiled, replied, and put away the gin and instead chugged the moscato, and tossed the empty mini bottle in a sidewalk hedge with a flourish of inspired artistry as he made his way downtown toward the Muskrat.

***

"Love letter leaf Are you just Passing through Or are you Waiting for me?

"Gust of rose Covers up dust Sense so bright It hides in light All where it goes.

(light applause)

"Emerge from the Earth. Immerse me in mirth. Your cruel love questions What wonder is worth.

"Fall below best. Rise above rest. Your body feels free, Fair, unbound and blessed.

(light whistle)

"Jesus died for you. Jesus lied, it's true. Death will be barren. Heaven shall fall through.

(light applause. Preston whistles with pinky fingers. September smiles. Reggie crushes beer can and whoops).

"I just came down with a case of the rhymes from the attic. Never a witness. Dust off the table and unroll the art. Here comes the illness. Put it on my chart. I must insist.

("Okay." Light whistles)

"I just came up for a quick kiss to boost your self-esteem. You need to taste yourself in a way not so profound. You don't need to waste yourself in a way that won't astound.

("Damn!")

"After all, I'm the one who's supposed to go down.

("Maybe." "I can dig it." Loud whistle. "Okay.")

"Takes time for other minds-- The ones that I wish were mine. On days like these, I make myself obsolete.

("Oh!" Applause. "Go there." "Okay." "I see it.")

Well there's this, at least. The brilliance is earthshaking-- So effortless, it's painstaking-- Even my failures are groundbreaking."

(Large applause. Many whistling. Mary shouts: "Gat-damn, that's whassup!")

"I'm faded so far away from anything relatably debatable. I'm unstable and unable to remain in the same stable."

("No." "Yes.")

"Table tennis of the mind.

("Yup.")

"Take a tip from passing time ("Stop.")

"To say when, And stay bent. Same place and mind As a stint in an insane asylum, Ay."

(loud, long applause. Long whistles. Many shouts and cheers. Reggie barking like a hound. Jerry flashing ironically. September and Preston making crazy-eyed glances of surprise).

The stage of the Mukrat was adjacent to the three-by-ninestool bar, and covered only a small pocket of the north-east corner of the main drag of the inside of the building; giving a band of five or more members a nice opportunity to reach out and platonically touch fingers, whenever they so desired (as if the practice room weren't enough). Hakim was alone; just him and an ambient background score he put on via laptop and connector cable. Some scrappy notepad papers in his left hand, and he performed the final leg of his act, bringing forth a healthy final applaud. Behind the bar was Voodoo Mama, as always. She bartends any night the Rat is open for business. Off hours, over half the crowd will stay for a majority of the nights of the week well past closing. Mama never cared. She'd always just sit at that table on the second floor landing and count money. She never had a security system. Just her peeled eye, peering like a lion behind the grassy green gen-pop income. It was around ten forty five when Hakim left the stage, and the house band returned; re-dressed, and well smoked, and well doped. It was of course Reggie, with his beach bum energy and Bob Ross-esque inviting type of tone that lured the lone poet forward, not ten steps from the stage. "You halal, mah brotha?" Reggie sounded off, ripping the skinny Hakim into Mary's empty chair; her having went out for a smoke with Septy, but just now returning. Preston noticed the layer of sweat and pushed over an unopened water bottle over to the wide-eyed performer (Preston kept plastic bottles of water well on-hand when out in public--to save money, he claimed). "Anyone smell sushi omelette? Conger fishmeat?" Jer. "Voodoo Mama?" "Don't be rude." Hakim laughs sorta. "You ever been someplace between a greem chili gizzard shad and a Japanese horseradish ice cream?" "You'll have to forgive Mary and Jerry, here. They have their own language that for some reason revolves around phrases most commonly found on Iron Chef," Preston informed. "You people are odd." "Seven Eleven." "I can't argue that," Papoola replied to Blandois. "Wer' nut always doin' business, but wer' alllways open." Septy, downing a bluey Cuervo shooter Preston snagged 5DD). "Yo, but that poetry was straight wrong." Jer. "Forreal, what are you on, man?" Preston inquires. "Mamas milk brutha. My shit don't come from nowhere that ain't purific." "Shame." "Forreal." "Still though." Mary grabs Jer's vape pen. Septy pounds back well shots like a commercial interruption. She keeps on going. Preston keeps on giving languid looks to poor ol' Jer with his attachable interest. Mary watches. "You ever feel less than, hoople-head?" Septy slurs at HP. "No. Not really. I do my thing." "Ain't that the purest form of nigger logic." "Yo, Sept. That ain't cool. Sup wit chu?" "Why did she call me 'nigger'?" Preston wonders. Am I a nimrod, or is this hard-on genuine? Reggie asks: "Are you from here?" Mary eyebrows lift. "Egypt." "No shit?" "How bout that water erosion?" "What? What do you mean?" "I nose the truth! Can I get an Amen for pussy?" "Seriously, Sept. stoppit." "Eat my ass, Presley. I'm all shoo-kup." Mary looks at Preston, then September. "Hey Septy." Mar. "Y-yyyes, ma'am?" "Enough is enough." Mary looks at Jer. ( Oh no. Here it comes, the Russian sleeper code). "Enough is enough! I have had it with these muthafuckin snakes on this muthafuckin plane!" Septy shifts to feet to declare, overpowering the round little table. Preston rolls his eyes. Hakim chuckles. "Unboud and blessed." Voodoo Mama lightly encourages the audience to give it up as the house band--one drummer, one guitar, one standup bass and one pianoman--finishes their set, coming back in twinny. Joint press, no doubt. Preston kisses her cheek as he goes to the main for a refill like any used mechanical vehicle. Mary and Rigaud make nice. Jer laughs hysterically at Hakim struggling to be polite to a drunken September he did not expect and puffing lightly on that same vape pen. He tries to pass it to Preston for a minute straight before realizing his chair is empty. "He's outside, Jer. Give it to me." Mary. Mary hits the vape, turns it to Reggie for his for-the-roader as they both stand and head after Preston and the band for the back alley via the band entrance. The couple lean against a shadowy wall along the widespread flannel-tearing cement with red and white make-out fury for a brief hop and spell out of time except for that squeaky-ass metal frame door that squawls each and every set change. Down the line a bit, and Preston is grabbing a three-point-five from the band's guitarist, which Preston figures probably came from the vocalist. "Perfect, man. I'm gonna head back." "Woah, woah, woah. Forget somethin?" "..." "The bread, ese." "Right. Yes. I knew I was forgetting somethin." "Ight, we good. Thanks, mano." "Great set last weekend. With the black chick...?" "Thanks, mano." Preston comes in the band entrance, right between the stage's edge and bars end. He spots September and Jer at the bar right under that one working overhead light, and they're both very into whatever topic they're into along with Voodoo Mama on their opposite. He was about to head straight for them with the good news, with the intention of bringing them right back outside to smoke, but decided to wait, as he noticed Hakim looking like he was preparing to go back on for another set (you know--all focused and staring forward; wrapping a scarf without looking down; drip of spit.) "Round 2?" "Yes. Wish me luck." "Who needs it?" "Exactly, my friend. Exactly." "Did I strike a nerve? Whadduyu mean?" "To be honest, tat is the truest thing anyone in this whole town has said tonight to me. Luck is not real. Trust me, man, I know. What I have been through? What I thought was right, and what I was told would be honest, humble, and brave? Everything we are, everything we think we see and know? It is all nothing but history, energy, and circumstance. We are animals. Yet, we are also conscious. My promise to you, Presty. Take it easy. Anything else would be overkill."

***

"It's so cool that we're all here." "Hey, Mar. Should i put on Yumeji's Theme?" It's 10:36 AM, at the Rcord Store. The next day. "No Septy. We are not in the mood for love." "Ohmygod. Nothin tingles my pringles like a reference understood!" "You made us endure a full viewing of that one, if'n you don't recall." "What? In the Mood For Love?" please. You could never do that live." "Yeah, but hey man, at least it wasn't as bad as Salo." "Oomph. Hard times." Mar. "Or Human Centipede 2." "That was a rough one." "I'm starting to feel really glad I never went to those." Tanner. "You're a horse with no name." "If that were true, there'd be ain't no one else for to give me no pain." La laaa, laa...la-uh le-luh luh..." The playlist turns to California Dreamin' (Single Version). (Silence, until Jer kicks in singing after the panpipe solo.) "I've been for a wa-aaalk..." "On a winters' day..." "[Got down on my knees...]" "You're all like..so gay," says Tanner. "Hey, you guys. What if I told you I have invented an idea for one of the most profitable apps to ever exist?" Jerry inquires. "I'd say where's the stock?" Mar. "What's the app?" "Okay. I call it QuickHook. Say you're on Instagram, and you see that your ex is at Starbucks. Okay. So. You show up there, and pretend you're just getting a coffee and minding your own business. But then, you get on QuickHook, and you connect with a hot chick thats only 1 mile away! You have her show up, make out with you for 20 minutes, and then leave!" "Why?" "Why?" Because a hot chick is in to you, of course! Think about it. What sells? Anything that lasts forever. And what lasts forever? Jealousy. And that's what QuickHook is about! Shallow green leads to deep green." "It's like Grandeur Grindr!" Septy. "It's like insecurity insurance." Tanner. "It's like beta bait!" Preston. "Cuz I'm good, yeah I'm feelin alright..." Jerry grabs the phone with audio connnection. He checks for a second. "Oh L'Amour." "App would never work, Jer. Not enough folk out there quite that level of petty." Preston. "And plus besides who even uses Instagram anymore? Specially pins," September mumbles from under her heaped-over dozy carcass. Voo-teevah, mon," Jer yells from the aux station. "Ya'll don't know. It's a wild world." "Don't bring Yusef into this." Mary, petting Jupiter in her lap. "Hey ya'll, I think I need to drive her home," Tanner feels, indicating September. And look at that. Tanner brings September back to her apartment. Nothing too crazy there: a tiny dog, some Xmas lights, a few dozen modern paintings and a wok. Loose hairties, wadded up toilet paper, smudged Whitney Houston lines of white dirt here and there, conter-wise, a pot and dirty pan. "What is she?" he asks. Tanner stays a few steps away. "What is she, really?" "Can we please? Please, Tan. I need you." He undresses her, in that drunken friend way to prepare her for bed. But. That rack looks back at him from a certain past. He can't resist. In he goes. She says "Yes." But that's just a response here. What it really means is more than can be explained. "What even happened to you?" "Protect me." He rolls her into bed. "Tanner, why can't you be with me? Why...cuz I miss you and stuff." "Because." "No because. Because yer dad." "Yeah." "B-cuz yer dad...is dyyy-iiiing! And you don't like that." "Pretty much, Septy. You're too much right now." "Right now...or right nooow now?" "Just now." "So what am I now now?" "Now now, you're just a fuckin' fuckin drunk Tom Hanks bullshit baby." "HA! Yaaaaay, Wils-ooon! But that's not yer dad. your dad is FELD-son. Right?" "Yeah. Martin Feldson." "His name sounds plaid. Like if plaid color had a name. ALso, he's dead. HAAA." "He was a good man, Sept." "Sure, suuure, sure. Yes. Yep. I bet he was. I love you." "I wish he could have met you." "HE HAS! I went nd saw him?" "Yeah. But. I dunno." "Tan." "Sept." "....." Outside is hot. Bugs fucking everywhere. Tanner slams the door and slams they key but doesn't know what to slam when it comes to the window, his wondow into her heart. There she ism basically fucking Preston at this point, blacking out every weekend, talking about such random shit and leaving me back for the rats, the roaches. Where is her mind? I'm sorry, but seriously. We used to work. We used to fuck like crazy. What even is this?" I need to see Dad." Tanner is 25, and his mom has health insurance, and she knows this whatever kind of stuff. September coughs blood. "This is weird." "Hello, September." "Yes. Hi, weird. Why are you the weirdy weirding weird?" "It's been eleven hours since you've been anesthetized. Are you feeling this way still, truly?" "Tcherr-tr-trueee. Trueee. Blue as true is blue is you. And me. And pee. And poop. Ha-ha-ha...poop. Poop the scoop. Scoopy doop. Scoops for me, Scoops for doop, and choc and choc and chocolate chip and rocky road, yo, gimme a goad...toad...Frodo froad..." "September you need to listen." "Skoad, chode, listen." "Yes, I'm Doctor McNamara and you need to listen to me." "To me...tooo me. Toomee. Toomee. Yes. Listen to Mac Na-Romalds." "September? September? Please. THis is important. Very, very important. I need you to listen." "Neeeeeeed...ta listen-eeen. Nee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeeeeeeeeed. ta liss-eh-heeeeeen." "Okay. Sir. Are you the next of kin? A friend?" "Just a friend, yeah. I'm real sorry, Doctor. SHe is usually chill, but last night was..." "I don't care in the slightest what happened last night, son. It's whats going on now. September is sick. You need to realize that, even if she cannot." "Sick. Okay, can you be a little more fucking specific dude?" "SHe has cancer. In her stomach. Not to mention a couple of ulcers. It's bad, son." "Tanner. " "It's not looking good, Tanner." "So is this from drinking? The ulcers? I mean I know cancer runs in the family. Her dad had it." "Tanner, cancer does not run in the family. It's not congenial. SHe just spent too much time drinking, yes; but much more of this is from smoking, It's a problem we must deal with. Now, I'm afraid." Do you know of any immediate family I could contact?" It's a matter of legal procedure, Tanner. I know your support alone might suffice just fine. But as I've said, this is serious. So please cooperate, and stay positive." "Dude..."

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12u3ie · 2 years ago

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is it cheating if I say you give off joenoun vibes. Using the 'nouns given by Joe Hills.

I... suppose not. But I would count this as pandering to the judges.

#anon ask #ask game answers #septy is that you *squints*

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septarian-sciences · 3 years ago

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My in-character response is horror Ooc? Show me what you've got, funky science man!

Fantastic, absolutely lovely!

Let me just get the supplies... time to figure out how the alien biology and reflexes compare to a human's!

....ignore the lead lining on the chamber. Can't have any radioactive rocks leaking traces into other places, right? Wonder how an alien form would react to the exposure. But no worries, the door is perfectly safe and secure! It'll be a blast, I swear.

(OOC; I am having fun with this, and I think it shows. Hope you enjoy! Poor Min.)

#septy science screams #inquiry answered!

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collabwithmyself · 5 years ago

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Has Kirstynne ever written a narumitsu coronavirus angst fic

seeing as my characters are currently IN the AA verse i want to say she wouldn't but you know what she absolutely writes RPF

#i look back on my own rpf days and wince #septi/plier haunts me to this day #but ofaf was the one goddamn thing i ever finished...#collab answers #anonymous

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rogue-of-broken-time · 6 years ago

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BiTcH wHeN dId yOu change yOuR iCoN!!???

A few days ago!! @septilover2 drew it for me out of the blue and I fell in love :D

#answered #anon #septi you will get all the appreciation you deserve or so help me

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sirasanders · 6 years ago

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Im listening to Gaston from beauty and the beast and j thought it said "no ones dick is incredibly thick loke Gaston" and I died. -septy

#answering in the tags for now!#oh my fuckign god-#sep i am DYING #moosey #septy

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poptod · 4 years ago

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Make Me Your Queen (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: He’s never seen anything like you––nothing comes close to your royalty, your beauty, your power, and it draws him in deeper.

Notes: based off ‘make me your queen’ by declan mckenna. i wrote this story with a female reader in mind (bc like, hatshepsut but canaanite) but as always its gender neutral, no pronouns WC: 2.6k

"Now I want you two to stay quiet. Do you understand that? Under no circumstance should you speak without being spoken to," Merenkahre said under his breath, his voice low as he spoke to his two sons. Ahkmen nodded––Kahmuh did not, but he'd heard his fathers' words nonetheless.

"These are the Canaanites, right?" Kahmuh asked in a flat tone.

"Phoenicians," Ahkmen corrected.

"Same thing, but don't let them know I said that, okay?" His father said.

Before Ahkmen could even chuckle, his mother called the three of them into the throne room. He hurried past his brother to stand beside her, looking over the long, glorious hall adorned with pillars and vases towards the tall double doors. Shrouds of silk hung from the ceiling, clouding the paintings drawn so painstakingly on the ceiling.

The breath of fresh air in his chest left him the moment Kahmuh came up behind him, taking his spot closer to the throne.

"I was -"

"We go by rank, don't you remember?"

He curled his fingers into his palm but said nothing. Kahmuh loved to annoy him, and though he never benefitted from teasing him, he continued to do it. Now, however, was a bad time to give into the urge to retaliate––the doors would open anytime now, bringing with it streaming sunlight and foreign royalty.

For several years now Kemet had been embroiled in a conflict with Phoenicians. It was one begun by his father, who had hoped to control several of the bay cities for the trade links they provided to Mesopotamia. This part of his father's life had been kept secret from him––entirely on purpose––until they began to fight back. A treaty was established the moment Merenkahre realized his armies could be beat, and now here they were, waiting for the one who had stepped up to take control of Phoenicia. Ahkmen had yet to know their name. His mother had given him scant information, and his father was unwilling to tell.

Rustling from outside brought his attention back to the front, eyes training back onto the door as it began to crack open. It was a sight he'd seen before, the opening of those mystical doors––rarely at sunset, but today was lucky. Red light streamed into the room, clashing brightly with the gold built into the pillars and marble floor. The light fell saturated on his tan skin till he and his family practically glowed auburn.

A short train of people came through the doors, their shadows stretched against the red carpet before them. The hall fell silent at their entrance; all eyes locked onto the veiled figure in the middle drifting closer to the throne. His breath halted right up to the moment the train came to a stop before the Pharoah. It was then the soldiers surrounding the cloaked figure fell into a bow, revealing tall tresses of black and red silk, a veil lined in gold, and purple hair framing soft cheeks.

Ahk's mouth opened unwittingly, staring at you. Were you born like that? How was that possible? And you––you couldn't be much older than twenty. This was what his father had to find peace with? This was what they would've died to?

The stone look on your face matched his fathers' bitter politeness perfectly. Merenkahre's jaw set as he smiled, rising from his seat to greet you personally. He raised his hand to shake yours and you matched him, raising a hand adorned in golden rings and blood red nails, shaking his hand without a hint of the Pharaoh's kindness in your eye.

"I thank you for the invitation to your country," you said, your lips twitching upwards just slightly, just enough to look polite.

"I'm glad you took up our invitation. We have a feast prepared––I'm sure you and your men are tired from the journey," said the Pharaoh, gesturing towards the doorway opposite the entrance.

You glanced down at the bowed soldiers. As your eyes flickered upwards they landed upon the youngest Prince, leaving him petrified from the acid in your gaze.

"Yes," you said after a moment, turning back to the Pharaoh. "That would be kind of you."

Several of the palace guards took the lead of your group, leading you through the small hallway to the dining hall. The hall was placed near the court for convenience, but the decision left Ahkmen little time to ask his father anything, leaving him stumbling over which question was more important.

He pushed his way past his mother and brother, landing beside his father, who still had his teeth gritted tight.

"How old are they exactly?" He asked, but earned no response from the distant thoughts of Merenkahre. Clearly his father was a tad preoccupied––Ahkmen would, most likely, not be getting answers from him anytime soon.

Ahkmen stared at you throughout the whole dinner. Not once did you glance to see him––if you had, he probably wouldn't have been staring. At least not so hard. You're impressively hard to look away from, your smile curt and teasing, unearthly purple hair curled around a crown of spindly gold.

Over the course of the conversation, he learned several things, most namely the duration of your stay. No one had an exact count of days, but you and your soldiers would stay until a peace treaty was reached with the Pharaoh. Knowing his father's advisors, Ahkmen surmised you would be here for a while, a fact that brought a smile to his face. Even though you hadn't spared any more than a single glance at him, he found he didn't care as long as he could keep looking at you.

He wasn't invited, but he followed anyway when one of the priests led you to your room. You bid the priest good-night only when two of your soldiers entered the room with you, before turning to Ahkmen, a soft but blank expression on your face.

"You're one of the princes, aren't you?" You asked in the silence. His eyes widened at the unexpected question.

"Well, um – yes," he said, stammering over his words.

"How old are you?"

The question took him by surprise but he didn't hesitate to answer.

"Seventeen years."

You paused to take in his reply, apparently finding much to contemplate in his age.

"When I was your age, I was spending my time uniting my Kingdom and clawing us out of starvation," you said in a lofty tone, but before he could form a response, you continued. "I suggest you do something useful, like that, instead of staring at foreign dignitaries."

Oh.

"I – I'm sorry, I didn't –"

"No need to apologize. Just keep it in mind."

"But... then how old are you now?" He asked, nails digging into his palm. You held his eye so intently now that you were speaking to him.

"Eighteen," you said with a smile, promptly shutting the door in both Ahkmen and the priest's face.

The priest turned to Ahkmen, a single brow raised. An awkward silence stretched between them.

"Can you not tell my father about this?" Ahkmen finally asked.

"As long as I never have to watch you two converse again," he said.

"Deal."

Ever since you came he was enchanted by you––that much was obvious to see. His mother knew, as did his father (although reluctantly), and by his count you probably did as well. Fortunately enough for him, you didn't tease him about it. Instead you kept a polite distance from him––a decision he simply couldn't understand.

He's rarely allowed inside the court while something important is in session, but his father called him in, and he didn’t mind an excuse to be in the same room as you.

"Ahk, come here," the Pharaoh said, and he obeyed, standing by his father's side. "You and the princ-"

"King," you said sharply. It's a title you insisted on constantly, one that your soldiers willingly upheld despite the obvious contradiction. The Pharaoh pulled his lips into a thin line in clear irritation.

"You're around the same age, right?"

Ahkmen nodded.

"Why don't you show them around a little? I'm sure they'd like a break from all these meetings," Merenkahre suggested.

"I assure you I am perfectly fine," you said.

"Septy," one of your advisors leaned over to you, whispering in your ear. He couldn't quite make it out but the tension in your face fell. It was almost nice––you're always irritated around the Pharaoh and it showed.

"Very well," you said, and it looks like it took an enormous amount of pain to get the words out. "I will go with your... son."

Ahkmen practically beamed, making his way across the room to you before taking your hand, and leading you out of your seat. Before you could send any more of a scathing glare at Merenkahre, he guided you out of the room and into an empty hall.

The already-quiet voices of the court faded away as the distance grew greater, leaving the two of you in a common silence.

"He's not making your job easy, is he?" Ahkmen asked despite knowing the answer.

"Neither of us truly desire peace," you said bitterly. "Only to destroy the other. We'll both have to get over that if we're to reach any agreement."

"... I agree," he said, still caught up in staring at you.

The purple in your hair glinted in the streaming sunlight, the only color in the barren hallway lined with arches. Outside, the city sat in its' great bustle, ships lining up and down the Nile, markets flooding each section of Memphis. The sight is one he knew well, but you halted. In a flash he remembered you never came from a wealthy country––you had to build it. Unless you visited some other country, you had never seen a thriving city market.

His footsteps fell quiet when you stopped at one of the arches, eyes trained on the tiny subjects below. A lump grew in his throat the closer he stepped to you.

"How does commerce within the city work for you?" You asked.

Truthfully, Ahkmen had little clue on how the government worked. Only the tidbits he'd picked up from his father. Kahmuh was the one becoming Pharaoh––that was why he was in classes and Ahkmen was allowed free roam.

"We use a fair amount of trade," he began, though had little idea on how else to continue. "We, um... we use grain as a form of currency."

"How much in just one unit?"

He sucked in a sharp breath, biting into his lower lip as he tried to recall. Most times he went out to buy things, they priced far above a single bag, as his tastes were heavily influenced by his palace life.

"It's fine," you said curtly, stopping him in his plight. A small, relieved sigh left him.

"You must know quite a lot about your own government," Ahkmen said in a soft voice. You didn't move from your position, didn't tear your eyes from the market, but the edge of your lip quirked up just slightly.

"I should hope so," you said with a growing smile, "I built it, after all. Or... some of it. I must admit I was aided greatly by my advisors."

Ahkmen chuckled, following you when you left your spot at the arch. He took a quiet lead of the path forwards, discreetly guiding you outside the palace, where the sun shone freely on his skin. The warmth of it gave him good reason to wear few clothes. You, on the other hand, were still adorned in your black and red silk.

"I'm curious," Ahkmen said, keeping a keen eye on you, "how did you come to rule the Phoenicians? Were you royal to begin with?"

"Yes," you said with a sage nod. "My parents were descended from our Gods. When I took control, it was a crucial part of me––it was the only way I could unite the entirety of our cities."

"That's fascinating. So you control the entirety of that coast, now?"

"The cities are independent from me, but for the most part, yes. Now; I would love to discuss such matters with you, but I was promised a break from the politics," you said, and Ahkmen quickly remembered his manners.

"Of course, yes. Sorry. I know a few places you might like," he said with a smile, earning a small one in return as he led you down the sunlit street.

The more free-roaming children that passed by, the more relaxed you grew, eyes dancing at every market stall and homefront. Ahkmen had never known anything but this––to see a King who knew none of it at all was rattling to say the least. Even you, in all your majesty, found the same happiness in others that Ahkmen found in his people. The citizens seemed to like you as well, though he would've been surprised if they didn't. It wasn't every day they got to see someone with purple hair.

"I have a question," he said as the two of you passed by a murmuring crowd. "I, uh, hope this isn't rude, but how is your hair that color?"

"Dyed, actually," you answered, staring forward at the approaching Nile. "Half our trade is made up of this dye. We are great craftsmen and traders, but only recently have we been able to show that to the rest of the world."

"Why's that?"

"Well, before I came, we had no way of travelling to other cultures. I managed to befriend a great architect by the name of Batnoam. You've seen him––he stands beside me in court, but... he built these ships of curved hulls and long sails, allowed for us to hold power over your Pharaoh," you said, your accent becoming more pronounced as your hands moved thoughtlessly to the words. "Once we gained that we gained allies and established trade routes that, I believe, turned the war against you. No offense intended."

"None taken. I know my father can be.. difficult," Ahkmen said. He jumped when you belted out a laugh, raising your chin to the sky.

"I know firsthand your father's military tactics. But there are things he wants from me, things that he realizes he can't take by force."

"Such as..?"

"Look at me," you said, and as he stopped before you, he noticed the sudden quiet of the world around you. You'd made it to the Nile, and walked down far enough to escape the bustle. "Do you see my beauty?"

He nodded.

"Can you feel the power I have?"

He nodded again, too absorbed in your dulcet tone to notice the meaning of your words.

"I have made myself like this, but Merenkahre doesn't know that. He believes my power comes from my riches, from the items my people trade with those around us, and he wants that power. I don't blame him."

"You are so beautiful," he blurted out, eyes still wide as he stared at you.

"I know, dearest. You can close your mouth. I have no need for a prince, and I'm not looking for a Queen."

A soft, dreamy sigh left him as you turned, your attention shifting to the slow waters of the river. He just smiled––his heart burned warm in his chest, leaving tingling in his limbs each time they moved.

I can be your Queen, he thought without much logic behind his words besides the adoration he held for you. You took the title of King when you rose to power; there was no need for a Phoenician King, but they could do––you could do––with a queen such as himself. At least, that's what he liked to think. That's what made his heart giddy.

"Do you come down here often?"

"As much as I can," he answered. You smiled imperceptibly.

"I've always enjoyed the water," you murmured, staring at your reflection. In a split second you seemed to return to yourself, looking up to Ahkmen. "I grew up on the coast."

"I'm happy to take you down here anytime you need a break from the pressure," Ahkmen offered, his heart skipping at the thought of this happening more often. You contemplated his words for a moment before answering.

"I would like that."

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader

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septarianflame · 8 months ago

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🐖?

🐖 indeed, my friend

#septy answers

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illbefinealonereads · 4 years ago

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Blog tour day! Today I’m sharing some information about Lobizona by Romina Garber, as well as an excerpt. Scroll down to learn more.

Some people ARE illegal.

Lobizonas do NOT exist.

Both of these statements are false.

Manuela Azul has been crammed into an existence that feels too small for her. As an undocumented immigrant who's on the run from her father's Argentine crime-family, Manu is confined to a small apartment and a small life in Miami, Florida.

Until Manu's protective bubble is shattered.

Her surrogate grandmother is attacked, lifelong lies are exposed, and her mother is arrested by ICE. Without a home, without answers, and finally without shackles, Manu investigates the only clue she has about her past—a mysterious "Z" emblem—which leads her to a secret world buried within our own. A world connected to her dead father and his criminal past. A world straight out of Argentine folklore, where the seventh consecutive daughter is born a bruja and the seventh consecutive son is a lobizón, a werewolf. A world where her unusual eyes allow her to belong.

As Manu uncovers her own story and traces her real heritage all the way back to a cursed city in Argentina, she learns it's not just her U.S. residency that's illegal. . . .it’s her entire existence.

Early Praise: “With vivid characters that take on a life of their own, beautiful details that peel back the curtain on Romina's Argentinian heritage, and cutting prose that shines a light on the difficulties of being the ‘other’ in America today, Romina Garber crafts a timely tale of identity and adventure that every teenager should read.”–Tomi Adeyemi New York Times bestselling author of Children of Blood and Bone

“Romina Garber has created an enthralling young adult fantasy led by an unforgettable Latinx character Manu. In Manu we find a young girl who not only must contend with the injustice of being undocumented she also discovers a hidden world that may explain her very existence. I fell in love with this world where wolves, witches and magic thrives, all in a rich Latinx setting!” –Lilliam Rivera, author of Dealing in Dreams and The Education of Margot Sanchez

Buy Link:https://read.macmillan.com/lp/lobizona/

Author bio:

ROMINA GARBER (pen name Romina Russell) is a New York Times and international bestselling author. Originally from Argentina, she landed her first writing gig as a teen—a weekly column for the Miami Herald that was later nationally syndicated—and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Her books include Lobizona. When she’s not working on a novel, Romina can be found producing movie trailers, taking photographs, or daydreaming about buying a new drum set. She is a graduate of Harvard College and a Virgo to the core.

Social Links: Twitter: @RominaRussell // Instagram: @rominagarber

Excerpt:

I awaken with a jolt.

It takes me a moment to register that I’ve been out for three days. I can tell by the well-rested feeling in my bones—I don’t sleep this well any other time of the month.

The first thing I’m aware of as I sit up is an urgent need to use the bathroom. My muscles are heavy from lack of use, and it takes some concentration to keep my steps light so I won’t wake Ma or Perla. I leave the lights off to avoid meeting my gaze in the mirror, and after tossing out my heavy-duty period pad and replacing it with a tampon, I tiptoe back to Ma’s and my room.

I’m always disoriented after lunaritis, so I feel separate from my waking life as I survey my teetering stacks of journals and used books, Ma’s yoga mat and collection of weights, and the posters on the wall of the planets and constellations I hope to visit one day.

After a moment, my shoulders slump in disappointment.

This month has officially peaked.

I yank the bleach-stained blue sheets off the mattress and slide out the pillows from their cases, balling up the bedding to wash later. My body feels like a crumpled piece of paper that needs to be stretched, so I plant my feet together in the tiny area between the bed and the door, and I raise my hands and arch my back, lengthening my spine disc by disc. The pull on my tendons releases stored tension, and I exhale in relief.

Something tugs at my consciousness, an unresolved riddle that must have timed out when I surfaced . . . but the harder I focus, the quicker I forget. Swinging my head forward, I reach down to touch my toes and stretch my spine the other way—

My ears pop so hard, I gasp.

I stumble back to the mattress, and I cradle my head in my hands as a rush of noise invades my mind. The buzzing of a fly in the window blinds, the gunning of a car engine on the street below, the groaning of our building’s prehistoric eleva- tor. Each sound is so crisp, it’s like a filter was just peeled back from my hearing.

My pulse picks up as I slide my hands away from my temples to trace the outlines of my ears. I think the top parts feel a little . . . pointier.

I ignore the tingling in my eardrums as I cut through the living room to the kitchen, and I fill a stained green bowl with cold water. Ma’s asleep on the turquoise couch because we don’t share our bed this time of the month. She says I thrash around too much in my drugged dreams.

I carefully shut the apartment door behind me as I step out into the building’s hallway, and I crack open our neighbor’s window to slide the bowl through. A black cat leaps over to lap up the drink.

“Hola, Mimitos,” I say, stroking his velvety head. Since we’re both confined to this building, I hear him meowing any time his owner, Fanny, forgets to feed him. I think she’s going senile.

“I’ll take you up with me later, after lunch. And I’ll bring you some turkey,” I add, shutting the window again quickly. I usually let him come with me, but I prefer to spend the morn- ings after lunaritis alone. Even if I’m no longer dreaming, I’m not awake either.

My heart is still beating unusually fast as I clamber up six flights of stairs. But I savor the burn of my sedentary muscles, and when at last I reach the highest point, I swing open the door to the rooftop.

It’s not quite morning yet, and the sky looks like blue- tinged steel. Surrounding me are balconies festooned with colorful clotheslines, broken-down properties with boarded- up windows, fuzzy-leaved palm trees reaching up from the pitted streets . . . and in the distance, the ground and sky blur where the Atlantic swallows the horizon.

El Retiro is a rundown apartment complex with all elderly residents—mostly Cuban, Colombian, Venezuelan, Nicara- guan, and Argentine immigrants. There’s just one slow, loud elevator in the building, and since I’m the youngest person here, I never use it in case someone else needs it.

I came up here hoping for a breath of fresh air, but since it’s summertime, there’s no caress of a breeze to greet me. Just the suffocating embrace of Miami’s humidity.

Smothering me.

I close my eyes and take in deep gulps of musty oxygen, trying to push the dread down to where it can’t touch me. The way Perla taught me to do whenever I get anxious.

My metamorphosis started this year. I first felt something

was different four full moons ago, when I no longer needed to squint to study the ground from up here. I simply opened my eyes to perfect vision.

The following month, my hair thickened so much that I had to buy bigger clips to pin it back. Next menstrual cycle came the growth spurt that left my jeans three inches too short, and last lunaritis I awoke with such a heightened sense of smell that I could sniff out what Ma and Perla had for dinner all three nights I was out.

It’s bad enough to feel the outside world pressing in on me, but now even my insides are spinning out of my control.

As Perla’s breathing exercises relax my thoughts, I begin to feel the stirrings of my dreamworld calling me back. I slide onto the rooftop’s ledge and lie back along the warm cement, my body as stagnant as the stale air. A dragon-shaped cloud comes apart like cotton, and I let my gaze drift with Miami’s hypnotic sky, trying to call up the dream’s details before they fade . . .

What Ma and Perla don’t know about the Septis is they don’t simply sedate me for sixty hours—they transport me.

Every lunaritis, I visit the same nameless land of magic and mist and monsters. There’s the golden grass that ticks off time by turning silver as the day ages; the black-leafed trees that can cry up storms, their dewdrop tears rolling down their bark to form rivers; the colorful waterfalls that warn onlookers of oncoming danger; the hope-sucking Sombras that dwell in darkness and attach like parasitic shadows . . .

And the Citadel.

It’s a place I instinctively know I’m not allowed to go, yet I’m always trying to get to. Whenever I think I’m going to make it inside, I wake up with a start.

Picturing the black stone wall, I see the thorny ivy that

twines across its surface like a nest of guardian snakes, slith- ering and bunching up wherever it senses a threat.

The sharper the image, the sleepier I feel, like I’m slowly sliding back into my dream, until I reach my hand out tenta- tively. If I could just move faster than the ivy, I could finally grip the opal doorknob before the thorns—

Howling breaks my reverie.

I blink, and the dream disappears as I spring to sitting and scour the battered buildings. For a moment, I’m sure I heard a wolf.

My spine locks at the sight of a far more dangerous threat: A cop car is careening in the distance, its lights flashing and siren wailing. Even though the black-and-white is still too far away to see me, I leap down from the ledge and take cover behind it, the old mantra running through my mind.

Don’t come here, don’t come here, don’t come here.

A familiar claustrophobia claws at my skin, an affliction forged of rage and shame and powerlessness that’s been my companion as long as I’ve been in this country. Ma tells me I should let her worry about this stuff and only concern myself with studying, so when our papers come through, I can take my GED and one day make it to NASA—but it’s impossible not to worry when I’m constantly having to hide.

My muscles don’t uncoil until the siren’s howling fades and the police are gone, but the morning’s spell of stillness has broken. A door slams, and I instinctively turn toward the pink building across the street that’s tattooed with territorial graf- fiti. Where the alternate version of me lives.

I call her Other Manu.

The first thing I ever noticed about her was her Argentine fútbol jersey: #10 Lionel Messi. Then I saw her face and real- ized we look a lot alike. I was reading Borges at the time, and

it ocurred to me that she and I could be the same person in overlapping parallel universes.

But it’s an older man and not Other Manu who lopes down the street. She wouldn’t be up this early on a Sunday anyway. I arch my back again, and thankfully this time, the only pop I hear is in my joints.

The sun’s golden glare is strong enough that I almost wish I had my sunglasses. But this rooftop is sacred to me because it’s the only place where Ma doesn’t make me wear them, since no one else comes up here.

I’m reaching for the stairwell door when I hear it.

Faint footsteps are growing louder, like someone’s racing up. My heart shoots into my throat, and I leap around the corner right as the door swings open.

The person who steps out is too light on their feet to be someone who lives here. No El Retiro resident could make it up the stairs that fast. I flatten myself against the wall.

“Creo que encontré algo, pero por ahora no quiero decir nada.”

Whenever Ma is upset with me, I have a habit of translat- ing her words into English without processing them. I asked Perla about it to see if it’s a common bilingual thing, and she said it’s probably my way of keeping Ma’s anger at a distance; if I can deconstruct her words into language—something de- tached that can be studied and dissected—I can strip them of their charge.

As my anxiety kicks in, my mind goes into automatic trans- lation mode: I think I found something, but I don’t want to say anything yet.

The woman or girl (it’s hard to tell her age) has a deep, throaty voice that’s sultry and soulful, yet her singsongy accent is unquestionably Argentine. Or Uruguayan. They sound similar.

My cheek is pressed to the wall as I make myself as flat as possible, in case she crosses my line of vision.

“Si tengo razón, me harán la capitana más joven en la his- toria de los Cazadores.”

If I’m right, they’ll make me the youngest captain in the history of the . . . Cazadores? That means hunters.

In my eight years living here, I’ve never seen another per- son on this rooftop. Curious, I edge closer, but I don’t dare peek around the corner. I want to see this stranger’s face, but not badly enough to let her see mine.

“¿El encuentro es ahora? Che, Nacho, ¿vos no me podrías cubrir?”

Is the meeting right now? Couldn’t you cover for me, Nacho?

The che and vos sound like Argentinespeak. What if it’s Other Manu?

The exciting possibility brings me a half step closer, and now my nose is inches from rounding the corner. Maybe I can sneak a peek without her noticing.

“Okay,” I hear her say, and her voice sounds like she’s just a few paces away.

I suck in a quick inhale, and before I can overthink it, I pop my head out—

And see the door swinging shut.

I scramble over and tug it open, desperate to spot even a hint of her hair, any clue at all to confirm it was Other Manu— but she’s already gone.

All that remains is a wisp of red smoke that vanishes with the swiftness of a morning cloud.

Excerpted from Lobizona by Romina Garber. Published by Wednesday Books.

#lobizona #romina garber #blog tour #excerpt

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