#she really disappeared on you for fifty years.........and came back just to call you bald..................

[franeridan]

reading the latest snf really drove home for me himmels tragedy I've been lowkey crying for an hour like, I've known since i started reading years ago, it's made abundantly clear in the very first chapter, so it's not something inherently new but my man really was in love with someone he knew would never feel about him the same way and died still in love with her?? only turns out it wasn't impossible for her to love him he was just eighty years too early???? and now you're telling me for a short while he saw her, maybe not aware but obviously feeling the same nontheless, as in - he knew she was gonna get there at some point, just not soon enough for him to be there with her when it happened???? like look at his face please

I'm so sad???

[whattimeisitintokyo]

Somos Familia Ch 46: A Tale of Woe

Ch 46: A Tale of Woe

Pacing outside of the shack she just exited, Leti bit the end of her thumb and whined a little. This did not go according to what she had planned. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion. How often had Nieve said how she wished she could see her son at least once to tell him that she was sorry, to let him hear her side of the story? She was supposed to cry in happiness and embrace Papa like she never got to in life, and he would return it in kind. A mother and son reunited after over fifty years.

It should have been a happy occasion. It shouldn’t have ended up with Nieve being furious at her and Papa looking like he was going to throw up.

“I made the right decision, sí?” she asked the two animals sitting outside with her. “I mean come on. This is the kind of situation that would make for a good story. Haven’t these two always wanted to meet each other?”

Dante yipped in what seemed to be approval of Leti’s question, while she could have sworn she saw Frangipanni’s eyes dart slightly to the side.

“What? You don’t think this was a good idea?”

Frangipani just looked at her with what Leti swore was a wince, and let out a puff of air from her trunk.

“Well why didn’t you tell me before?!” Leti moaned. “Some spirit guide you are…” Easily dodging Frangipani’s attempt to splash water at her, Leti fought to put a confident grin on her face. “Well no matter! It’s been over fifty years since she’s seen him, and no doubt Papa would have tons of questions for her. I’m sure they have loads to talk about!”

-----------------------

…..

…..

…..

“I like your jacket.”

Jumping slightly after the break of near dead silence, Héctor looked down at his jacket and picked at the purple sleeve. “Oh, gracias. It’s Balenciaga.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s a fashion designer. From… Spain…”

“Oh.”

…..

…..

This was excruciating. They both knew that this couldn’t go on forever, let alone for the next few minutes. Héctor was obviously running out of time, the slow disappearance of his skin a clear indicator. But for some reason Héctor couldn’t leave his seat. He just kept looking at this girl, trying to take in every curve of bone and every twitch of facial features. Trying to burn them into his memory. Several times he tried to say something, his throat constricting every time, until Nieve broke the silence once more.

“Look, we don’t have a lot of time.” she said. “And I know you must have questions.”

“Not really, no.”

His answer surprised them both, and Héctor knew that it was a big fat lie. Maybe it was because he was on a tight schedule and didn’t have time to ask her his many questions, or maybe he was too afraid to know the answers. But seeing her face crumple a little at what he said, and feeling a small bit of satisfaction at causing it, Héctor could conclude he was just being petty. Letting his long-buried feelings of hurt and anger from his childhood come back up, he wanted her to feel even a little bit of the pain he had felt.

“No?” Nieve asked in confusion.

“Fine then, just one.” Héctor relented. “Are you really my mother?”

“…Sí.”

It was confirmed. Héctor felt his belly drop and he sucked in a quick breath of air before pursing his lips and nodding. Okay, that was all he needed to know. He could just leave and never see this girl again.

Girl…

“How old were you when you had me?” Héctor asked. “You look so young.”

Nieve winced and lowered her eyes. “I was fourteen.”

Perfect, just perfect. He was the product of a teenage love affair. But his quick flash of disgust was quickly subdued when he remembered he was not that much older when he and Imelda had Coco. He had no right to be offended by that, especially since he assumed she was unwed at the time she had him.

Still, she seemed so young.

“And… how old were you when you died?” He had to ask, fearing the answer.

“Fourteen.”

Ay, Dios.

“Wh-what?” Héctor choked out, suddenly horror-stricken. “You mean? Are you saying that I-… That it’s my fault you-”

“No no!” Nieve reached out to touch him before stopping herself and drawing her hands back. Still she dared to venture a step closer to him. “No, I didn’t die in childbirth. It was hard on me, but all ten pounds of you made it out in the end.”

“Hah, good.” Héctor sighed in relief and sagged back onto the crate. “I was worried that-wait, ten pounds?!”

Nieve nodded and for the first time her bony lips turned upward into small grin. “You were a very fat baby. The nuns said that meant you were healthy.”

Laying a hand against his flat stomach, Héctor shook his head in disbelief. “Well I can assure you that the fatness didn’t last long.”

Nieve’s smile faded, sorrow finding its way back. “Yes, I’m sure there were many nights where you went hungry. Didn’t you?”

There were. More than Héctor would have liked to admit. The nuns were kind and Padre Mateo did all he could to make sure that the children under his care were well looked after, but Santa Cecilia used to be a poor town and food was lean then. Many a night Héctor found himself curled into a ball with a fist driving itself into his cramping stomach, trying not to cry through his hunger pangs. Even now it was difficult for him to gain weight, no matter how much food was available to him. It had made a lasting effect on him.

As Héctor stayed silent Nieve studied him some more and hummed in approval. “You look like me.”

“I do?”

Nieve nodded. “Of course my facial features look better on you as a man, not so much on a young girl. I always felt I was too homely to turn the boys’ heads… until I met your father.”

“…What?”

“You look nothing like him, by the way. Well, you have his height and a full head of thick hair. All the men in my family were short and bald.”

“Wait, you… know who my father was?” Héctor asked, not sure how many more surprises he could handle tonight.

This time it was Nieve’s turn to look a little angry, crossing her arms across her chest and tsking. “Really now, I’m not some common street walker. There was one man in my life and one only.”

Héctor mumbled out an awkward apology and had the decency to look ashamed of his unintentional rudeness. Looking around he had to ask. “… Is my father… dead as well? I mean, is he here?”

With a disgusted shake of her head and a sneer, she said, “No, that cabrón is still alive. Only the good die young, they say. He should be about… sixty-seven right now.”

“I see… So he was young too.” Héctor concluded after doing the math in his head, relieved that his father wasn’t some viejo who had taken advantage of a young girl.

There was a pause, Nieve processing what Héctor had just said, her face thawing into something more wistful but still hurt. “Sí… He was sixteen, considered a man by society but… Dom was still in his boyhood in so many ways. He was so regal and charming, but he was also silly. I can’t count the number of times he made me laugh with his antics. And so handsome, he could have any girl he could have wanted. I still don’t know why he chose me.”

Héctor found himself listening intently as Nieve described the beginnings of his parents relationship, hungry for the information. It was only natural, being an orphan, that he would want some inkling of what his family was like.

“He didn’t live where I did in Guerrero, he was sent to stay with his tío to learn more about the silver mine business and was set to leave for home in the summer. I met him at a New Year’s Eve party at his tío’s mansion where my parents had sent me to work at as a waitress. I don’t know why he came over to talk to me, but we really hit it off. He didn’t seem to care that I was a poor, he just liked me for who I was. And eventually… we fell in love.”

“We spent an incredible two months together until the wait staff found us one day mid kiss, and of course they informed his tío about us. Needless to say his visit was cut short and he was sent back to Santa Cecilia while I went back to my parents in shame. It was during that time while I was dealing with losing the love of my life and my parents’ coldness and harsh punishments… that I realized that I was pregnant.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Héctor didn’t know how to feel about that. He sensed that this was where the story was about to take a dark turn, and that he was the catalyst.

“My parents kicked me out, naturally. My brothers and my sister wanted nothing to do with me, neither did my extended family. I was alone in the world, but there was one shining light at the end of the tunnel: To head to Santa Cecilia to be with your father.”

“It took months to earn enough money to cross the state line to get to Oaxaca, and even more to get to Santa Cecilia. By then you had grown so much, so it was that much harder to make the distance. But in the end I did it! I made it to Santa Cecilia, found out where Dom lived, and walked straight to his house. I was so happy to see him, and he… just…”

Héctor watched as Nieve let the sentence die off, almost looking choked up and about to cry. But there was also simmering anger in her expression as well. He could easily guess what happened way back when, and if she couldn’t say it out loud then he would for her. “He rejected you.”

“…He did…”

“But I don’t understand?” Héctor said. “I thought you said he loved you. Why would he-?”

“’Because I am the son of a family descended from the richest houses in Europe, and you are a filthy peasant that came from savages and slaves.’” Nieve spat acidly, like the words had been burned into her mind and left to rot for decades. “He called me a whore, told me to never come to his house again, and slammed the door on me. Oh, after asking his servants to gently escort me off the grounds. My arms were bruised for weeks.”

Héctor grit his teeth. “Bastardo… What happened then?”

“I was alone in a town I was a stranger in, but luckily the nuns took me in and helped me get settled in the church. At least until you were born I had a roof over my head.”

Héctor nodded with a small smile. The nuns at his church were stern, for sure, but they were always kind to him. But a thought still bothered him. “So you never tried to pursue my f-… Dom… again?”

Nieve laughed bitterly. “Of course I did. Several times. Never at his home, though. Ever since my arrival it was guarded like a fortress. He dismissed me very time until the last time. Then he got physical. He grabbed me by the arm tightly, so hard it hurt, and shouted at me to never bother him again, or I would soon learn that no one messes with the Cavalleros.”

….

….

“WHAT?!”

Héctor’s outburst startled Nieve into such a state that she automatically moved into a defensive position, looking like she was ready to karate chop the air. “What?! What’d I do?!”

Héctor started to pace the room frantically, wildly gesturing as he went. “The Cavelleros?!” he shouted. “I’m related to the wealthiest family in-Oh no, my family is the wealthiest now… But the former wealthiest family in Santa Cecilia?! In Oaxaca?! I mean they’re not wealthy anymore, just today I got a business request from Ignacio and his father Dom…in…go…”

The fire that had lit underneath him sputtered out until there was nothing left. Shakily he sat back down onto the crate, feeling like he was going to be sick. Domingo Cavellero, the man who had never once talked to him but had often sneered at him if they came across each other in the plaza when he was just a small boy. Who forbade any of his children to listen to him play music with the rest of the crowd. The man who had actually bought his shoes from Rivera Zapatos, though always through a servant instead of in person.

“Domingo Cavellero… is my father…”

“A father is someone who loves their children and raises them, that cabrón did neither. Just forget him.” Nieve said. “At least one of us has to.”

Héctor had to agree to that. Domingo never did anything for him, it was best to just pretend like he was just another citizen in Santa Cecilia. But then he thought back to what Leti and her had discussed before he entered the room, and things didn’t make sense. “You have an ofrenda. One that you refuse to go to… Is it his?”

“… It is.”

“Why would he have an ofrenda for you if he rejected you?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care to know. He told me to never return to him, and I am content to do just that.”

Héctor could tell that she was not content at all, far from it, but Héctor was not about to argue with a teenage girl. Wait no, his mother. Damn, this was all so confusing. And some aspects were still not synching up.

“Wait a minute.” he said, “I thought I was abandoned on the church steps. Padre Mateo and the nuns never told me that you were there with them until I was born.”

Nieve’s eyes lost their fire quickly at that, almost looking deadened, and she quickly turned back to the window. Looking out into the fog, she stayed silent for a few moments to the point where Héctor felt like he had to ask what had happened. Then she spoke again, quietly, “I assume they thought it was best you didn’t know about me.”

“Why?”

“…Because the cause of my death was not… condoned by the church.”

Héctor was confused for about a second before the meaning of her words set in. With a quick intake of air he stared at her, heartbroken and a little angry. “Did you… kill yourself?”

Nieve kept looking out the window, trying not to meet Héctor’s gaze, and sighed. “You were such a beautiful baby; I’ll never forget the way you looked at me when you first opened your eyes. I could tell, even then, that you were going to be what your father wasn’t: A good person to his very core. There was only one obstacle, I thought, that was standing in your way of happiness. That was me.”

“I was so confused, so heartbroken, my brain was going crazy at the time. For weeks I tried to care for you, but every time you cried I felt more and more like a failure as a mother. There were times I would just stare at you as you cried, couldn’t make myself to move and reach for you for comfort. Sometimes I wanted to just shut you up for good, and those times scared me the most. It was when that darkness kept overtaking me that I made the decision to stop it before something terrible happened.”

“But something terrible did happen.” Héctor said, his throat constricting painfully. “You killed yourself.”

Nieve slowly nodded, still looking away. “I gave you one final kiss and left you in the care of the nuns. They had no idea what I was about to do until days later when my body, otherwise they would have tried to stop me... I walked down to the creek in the middle of the night, waded in, and let it sweep me away. December 31st, 1900. Exactly one year after I had met your father… I thought I was being very poetic, as most stupid little girls do.”

Héctor sniffled and scrubbed his face with a boney hand, tears blurring his vision. When Nieve finally looked back at him she was saddened to see them fall down his cheeks, but still she dared not touch him. “I’m sorry Héctor, but I thought I had lost everything. I felt I had no other choice.”

“You didn’t lose everything!” Héctor snapped, wiping the tears away. “You had me. All my life I wanted to know who my parents were and why they left me. And now that I do know I feel cheated! I could have!...” trailing off he pursed his lips tight, looking up at his mother with watery eyes. “I would have been a good son.”

That was it.

Without a seconds hesitation Nieve crossed the threshold and pulled Héctor into a fierce hug, pulling him close to her and knocking off her straw hat at the same time. It didn’t seem like it would be compatible for a teenage girl and a grown man to hug, but they fit perfectly together. Even though he had grown, and she remained the same, Héctor was still able fit into his mother’s hold. Hesitantly he put his hands on her back, eyes wide, before he too melted into the embrace. An embrace fifty years in the making.

“I know you would have been a good son.” Nieve whimpered into his ear. “You would have been the sweetest boy from the stories Leti has told me… And that is part of my punishment, knowing that.”

“Punishment?” Héctor mumbled.

Nieve nodded. “When I took my life I didn’t care about what happened next. All I wanted was for the pain to stop. But it didn’t stop, it stayed and grew. Only difference now is that I’m in this gaudy, technicolor party town where everyone celebrates their death and does whatever they want that they couldn’t do in death. While I had something so precious in my life that I couldn’t see through my pain. Now I’m just an old woman, living in isolation in the slums while pining for something that I threw away.”

Pulling back, Nieve cupped Héctor’s cheek lovingly and smiled. “You deserved so much better, Héctor.”

“So did you.” Héctor said. “I’m sorry your life turned out so bad in the end.”

Nieve shook her head. “It could have been prevented. I knew something was screwing with my head and I just let it fester. I should have just asked for counsel with Padre Mateo or the nuns, or maybe gone to the doctor or an institution. Maybe then I would have been a better mother for you, if I had just… asked someone to help me, I guess.”

Héctor felt something in his chest drop at what Nieve had said. That seemed… familiar. Staring off a ways, thinking about earlier conversations he’d rather be forgotten, he barely mumbled, “Yeah, maybe…”

Smiling tightly, Nieve pulled her hand away from him. “Are you all right?”

Sighing a deep, cleansing breath Héctor nodded. “I think so. I just don’t think my heart can take any more surprises tonight… But I do have one more question.”

Bracing herself to what it might be, Nieve wrung her hands. “Okay…”

“Why did you name me Héctor? Is it a family name or something? I just got teased a lot as a child.”

Sighing in relief Nieve nodded. “In a way. I named you after my pet pig Héctor.”

“… What?”

She nodded fondly, “He was a very good pig, so pink and squishy. Until he got too big, and we had to eat him. That’s probably why he didn’t turn up as my alebrije.”

“You named me after a pig?!”

“I was fourteen years old! Of course I would name you after something I loved! And need I remind you that you were a fat baby!”

Crossing his arms in a huff, Héctor seethed while Nieve continued. “I had a lot of good memories with that pig, thank you very much. Riding on his back, rolling in the mud, eating fruit and chapulines. They were good times.”

His pout fading away, Héctor looked back up at her. “Did you say chapulines?”

Nieve nodded, smiling again. “Sí, they’re my favorite dish. Dios, I must have eaten my entire body weight in chapulines while I was pregnant with you. Why?”

His lips quirking up, Héctor shook his head in wonderment. “No reason.”

Again there was a long stretch of silence between the two of them, but it wasn’t awkward or painful anymore. They just stared at each other, smiling in contentment and newfound affection, before Nieve finally sighed.

“You need to go. Get that curse removed.”

“Yeah… I do.” Héctor said, a part of him aching to stay with her and learn more. But staring down at his boney hand he knew that that wasn’t an option for him. He made move to leave when Nieve suddenly put her hand on his shoulder.

“Wait, one more thing.” She said with a warm smile. Bending down and picking up her straw hat off the ground, she shook the dust off of it and raised it up. “I know it’s twenty-seven days until your birthday, but since I’m fifty years behind on your other birthdays I need some catching up. It’s not much, but…Feliz Cumpleaños, mijo…��

Reaching up, Héctor touched the frayed edges of the straw hat that had been plopped down onto his head. It wasn’t much at all, really. Especially when he had designers to make proper clothing for him and his entire family. Not to mention he had never been much of a hat person outside of performing. But this was a gift from his mother, his first gift, and it had instantly become a treasured heirloom passed on to a son.

Still touching it with reverence, Héctor fought the urge to cry again as he choked out, “…Gracias.”

“De nada.” Nieve whispered. “Now go.”

With a jerky nod Héctor stood up and away, pausing at the exit. “I… I will see you again, right?”

“Of course. All souls end up here eventually, though hopefully you’ll last a few more decades yet.” Nieve said with a grin.

Returning the smile Héctor peeled back the tattered curtain and, with one last look back, was gone. Alone now Nieve let her smile fall, sorrow filling her entire being, and collapsed to the floor. Trying to suppress the deep sobs in her chest, Nieve couldn’t keep herself to comparing this last time seeing Héctor with all those years ago. With a little sleepy baby, innocent to the turmoil he would face without her, looking at her with half lidded eyes in the arms of a nun. An imaged practically burned into her retinas.

And as she wept she said the same thing she told him almost fifty-one years ago.

“Goodbye, my little baby…”

[gumnut-logic]

Reactions (Bit 2)

Bit 1 | Bit 2

This is Fandomversary 2020 Fic Three - Bit 2. And guess what? It is at least a three chapter story. ::headdesk:: I knew this was going to happen.

This is for @soniabigcheese​​ who asked for Gordon and Bedlam. That’s where it started…it seems to want to go in directions I hadn’t planned.

Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight​​ and @scribbles97​​ for all their wonderful help with this fic (and always).

I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

Fortunately or unfortunately, it took the trip to the police station before their identities were discovered.

The police chief was dragged from her office. She was a short woman, probably in her fifties with eyes that had seen far too much. She looked Virgil and Gordon up and down, stared at their ID and set her shoulders.

“Don’t expect special treatment here. The law is the law. Money does not let you escape it.” She handed their ID back to the duty officer. “Process and book them just like the others. Maybe they’ll learn something.” She turned her back to them and disappeared into her office.

Virgil stared after her with an aching face. A glance at his brother found a Gordon explosion in the making.

“Gords.”

Those russet brown eyes darted in his direction and Virgil shook his head just once.

The aquanaut’s lips thinned to almost nonexistence, but his shoulders settled. He still turned to the officer, however. “At least can we please have some medical attention for my brother?”

“After processing.”

And they were fingerprinted and genetically identified. The database churned out Gordon’s military record and two brushes with the law as a teenager.

Dad had been so angry both times.

Kind of like what Scott was going to be in a short period of time.

Virgil didn’t have a police record. All his liaisons with the law had been as an International Rescue operative. The database was pedantic and churned out a list of all the incident files he had been a signatory on.

It was a long list.

At least some respect appeared in the officer’s eyes at the math of how many people had been saved by the two men standing in front of him.

Regardless, they were searched. Gordon’s pocket knife was confiscated and Virgil watched sadly as they packed away the brand new piano string he had bought on the way in to town. What was worse was his favourite multitool, which lived in his left boot, went with it. Gordon frowned at the sight of it.

Holograms were taken and they were escorted to a cell, fortunately one that only contained the two of them. There, finally, Virgil was able to let his shoulders drop and lean back against the cool brickwork and let out a breath.

“Sorry, Virg.”

A slow blink. “Had to be done.” A sigh and he reached for his collar. “Thunderbird Two to Tracy Island.”

“Tracy Island, how goes those steaks, Virg?”

He pressed his lips together and his cheek complained. “Could be better.”

Scott picked up his tone of voice immediately. “What’s wrong?”

He really didn’t want to ruin his brother’s mood. Another sigh. “Got into a fight. Been arrested.”

There was total silence at the other end of the line. “You’ve been arrested?”

“Yes, and Virgil was punched in the face!”

That face glared at his little brother. “I’m fine, Scott, but we need bail.”

More silence.

Shit.

“I’ll be there in fifteen.” The line cut dead.

Virgil slumped against the wall.

“Fifteen? He’s not using One is he?”

A sigh. “Yes, he is.”

“Virgil, report.” John’s voice was sharp and Gordon rolled his eyes.

Virgil held up a hand, stopping Gordon from adding to the mess. “We’re in jail, John, as you have no doubt scanned thoroughly. Tell Eos to be subtle this time.”

“Excuse me, Virgil, it wasn’t my fault last time.” Her voice was even sharper than John’s and it rattled his headache.

“One word, Eos…popcorn.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“She was just trying to help, Virgil.” Okay, so he had stepped on his brother’s ‘daddy toes’.

He touched a finger gingerly to his bruised cheek. “Whatever. Just do what you can to stem the tide of paparazzi.”

A sigh. “FAB.” Pause. “You still haven’t given me your report.”

“Virg has a shiner in the making. Needs an x-ray of his cheek bone. That asshole hit him hard.”

Virgil glared at Gordon and paid for it when it pulled at his injured face.

“Grandma has been notified.”

Shit. Could this day get any worse? He had only wanted to relax for a couple hours.

“Scott’s en route.” Was he imagining a hint of apology in his space brother’s tone? There was certainly enough concern.

“I’m fine, John. Just need to get out of here.”

“Help is on the way.”

His only answer was a grunt.

-o-o-o-

Scott was punctual as usual. There was no missing the roar of One’s engines as she caused a traffic hazard outside the building.

Virgil, who had been nagged to lie down by a persistent aquanaut, pushed himself upright at the sound.

Gordon was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Now we get to see some action.”

Virgil rolled his eyes and regretted it. Another poke and prod revealed some nasty swelling. He must look a sight.

Scott was going to be unbearable.

It was another five minutes after the cooling of rocket engines out in the street before their cell door was flung open.

The situation was worse than expected.

Virgil stared, still sitting down on the bed, as his grandmother hurried into the room.

Oh, shit.

He had the briefest glance of a concerned Scott before their grandmother was in front of him.

“Virgil, oh honey.” Her fingers took his chin as she studied his injury.

“I’m okay, Grandma.”

“We’ll see.” And with the flick of a purple wrist, out came a medical scanner, its yellow light flickering over his face. He flinched away. “Hold still, honey. Just a moment, I promise.”

He felt like a five-year-old.

“Gordon, report.” Scott’s voice was sharp and so military, Virgil could hear Gordon’s spine crack into attention. What followed was a concise and accurate report of the fight. Virgil was surprised at how much his little brother had absorbed amongst the bedlam.

“Your cheek bone is not broken, but you’ve got a doozy of a contusion there, honey. Lots of bed rest and chicken soup for you.”

Great. Just great.

He hoped the soup was from a can.

Another voice echoed down the corridor. A firm and sharp stream of legal terms that definitely did not sound good for anyone who wasn’t a Tracy.

“You brought Jack?”

Scott’s attention switched to Virgil. He shrugged. “He’s our lawyer. You’re in jail. Seemed pertinent.”

“In fifteen minutes?”

“He got a ride in Thunderbird One.”

Virgil snorted. “Was that a reward or a punishment?”

“He seemed to enjoy it.”

Jack Dunning was their family lawyer and considering their occupation, he earned every cent the Tracys threw at him. Short, dumpy and balding, the man was raking the police chief over the coals as they arrived at the door of the cell.

One glance at Virgil and Jack turned back to the chief and ripped her an extra one about his medical condition.

“We called the medical attendant.” Her words were defensive and much less the sure person they had met before.

“So, you’re telling me, International Rescue could respond faster from halfway around the world than you could find a local doctor? Considering the amount of swelling, Mr Tracy could quite easily have a concussion, broken cheek bone, possibly internal bleeding. Why was he not seen to?”

“We were in the process of-“

Jack ignored her and prodded his tablet.

“What about the other participants? Your report mentions that there was some loss of consciousness. Have these men been attended to?”

“The severity of their injuries called for it, yes. Procedure-“

“Then why was Mr Tracy neglected?”

“He was not. The medical attendant was on his way.”

“So, International Rescue can respond faster.” He poked his tablet some more.

“Look, I don’t know how you rich types expect to be treated, but in this police station everyone is treated fairly and equally.”

“You better hope so.” Jack’s tone was final and spoke of an investigation in the future.

“Okay, boys, time to go home.” Grandma really was the real commander on the team. It was proven by the fact Scott did not hesitate to obey.

“Gordon, you have Thunderbird Two. Virgil, you’re riding with me.”

“Really?” So, it came out whiney and petulant. Big deal.

“There is no way you are flying with that injury, young man.” Grandma tugged him to his feet.

“I’m fine, Grandma. It’s just a bruise. You said so yourself.”

“Forget it, Virgil.” Scott’s tone was final and spoke of future discussions on the topic.

Okay, so Grandma being here was a temporary distraction from the words Scott had no doubt were loaded up and ready to be fired his way.

Time for a pre-emptive strike. “We were in the right, Scott.”

“I’m aware of that, Virgil. Time to go.” Scott ushered Gordon ahead, gently took Virgil’s arm and led him from the holding cell.

A glance at those pursed lips made it very clear that as predicted, Scott was pissed.

An internal sigh.

This was not going to be fun.

-o-o-o-

Next

[jcolden]

WHILE YOUR PRAYING HANDS ARE UP

     The apartment felt emptier than it had in a long time. All the lights were off, and he was too high up for the ones on the street to really make a difference, but he didn’t switch any on as he went, first to the kitchen for a half-empty bottle of bourbon, then to his bedroom for a new shirt. He drank and paced, back out to the living room, emptying the little flask-shaped thing faster than what was probably wise. Always more shit, and maybe this distance that was growing between him and Queenie was natural. Maybe he should just stop pushing. Maybe it was God or the fucking universe trying to tell him that you’re meant to be alone — as if he didn’t get the fucking message the first time. With a furious growl, Julian whipped around and hurled the empty bottle at the brick wall to his left, where it burst into a thousand pieces, raining across his floor in a hail of shattered glass.

     Out. He needed to get out. His phone was already in his pocket. He shoved a fold of silver into another, patting himself down for weapons. Nothing big enough, nothing… his fingers curled around a grip sticking out of the waistband of his black jeans, warm where it had pressed against his lower back. Arin’s gun. He pulled it out, his hold tightening for a moment as he stared at it in the gloom that shrouded his apartment, then he smacked it down onto the kitchen counter and left it there, off in search of what he’d decided he really needed: a twin pair of karambits, ivory like tusks and even more lethal.

                                                                     * * * * *

     At first, he thought he’d gotten the wrong house. The whole neighborhood was dark, rundown, the buildings crowded closely together and largely unnumbered, so it wouldn’t have surprised him. Trash leaking from the ripped bags piled up next to cans and dumpsters had been trod flat, plastered to the sidewalk by people passing by, cigarette butts and roaches and beer caps laying out in the open. This close to the slums, it didn’t matter.      Julian knocked again, and finally the door opened, a large, bald man who filled almost the entire frame coming into view, scowling at him.      “Who are you? What do you want?”    “X marks the spot,” Julian said, indicating a red letter spray-painted on the peeling plaster on the side of the building.      “Seven-fifty for newcomers, boy. Cough it up.”    “I’m not here to watch.”      A deep rumble that somewhat resembled a laugh rose from the man’s chest, but he stepped aside, letting Julian pass into the hallway. The stranger lifted a hand, bringing him to a stop, and as he was patted down, he looked around, glancing over his shoulder and seeing that what he’d thought was a peephole in the door was, in fact, a camera. The lamp on the ceiling cast a sickly green hue over the unfurnished hallway, and the whole rest of the house was silent as the grave — not a sound from anywhere.    “Alright,” the bouncer said, handing his daggers back as he straightened. “Follow me.”

     Led through the hallway and out into a narrow, fenced-in back alley, Julian rounded a corner and descended a staircase in the bouncer’s wake, then emerged into a crowded basement. The air was soupy with sweat, smoke, and alcohol, voices filling up the space in stark contrast to the silence outside. There was no music.      “Briar!” the bouncer called out, locking eyes with someone in the crowd, near what seemed to be a bar. “Got a live one for you.”      As Briar sauntered closer, he wandered off, leaving Julian to fend for himself in a room of sharks and hyenas, none of which meant a lick to him. They were there, paying to see what he’d come to draw: blood.      “Hello, stranger,” Briar greeted, a deep alto timbre from a heart-shaped face, hair cropped close, dressed in a plain white tank and jeans, tattoos up and down their arms, piercings all over both ears. “What is your name?”    “Julian.” He was over the theatrics already, but would endure for the sake of not causing a fucking scene.      “Julian,” they repeated, popping the lid off a small compact and rubbing their thumb into the red powder there before ceremoniously dragging it down his face – from his forehead, over his eye, across his cheek and all the way to his jaw in a line. “Marked for death. A little young, aren’t we? Had enough of life? Or are we at the end of our rope in a different way? Desperate?”      He shrugged. Briar looked five years his senior at most, but he refrained from comment. After all, they weren’t the one participating.      “Either way… Drinks and favors are on the house.” They started retreating, gliding a hand over his shoulder. “Enjoy your last hour.”

     He didn’t. He had another drink — two — but fury and need were still crackling through him, forging impatience and restlessness in his bones, setting him on edge. He didn’t speak to anyone, and was approached only once, by one of the favors the host had mentioned, clad only in a sparkly thong and dangerously high heels.      “Hey, boo,” she’d said, trailing a finger up his arm. “You up for some fun?”    “Not with you.” He’d glanced at her, but she’d seemed undeterred.      “You sure? How about my friend?” She’d indicated over her shoulder at some other skinny thing with dark makeup smeared around his eyes, sporting three silver rings in each ear, one in his nose, and one on his lower lip.    “Maybe after.” His response had amused her, a trill of laughter left in her wake as she’d slipped back into the crowd, and he’d returned to his drink. Agitated, buzzing, the oppressive claustrophobia of a wall of bodies closing in around him.

     Now, Briar was coming for him, two words in passing and a faint caress across his cheek before they disappeared in the crowd again, no doubt in search of the other fighters: “Time’s up.”

     Julian could feel eyes on him as he approached the lowered pit in the center of the room, and no wonder, with the red slash of color marking him for what he was. No announcer called attention to the start of the event, no lights were flashing, no one was cheering or making a racket, and still there was no music — in fact, a hush fell over the basement, the din of voices muted to faint muttering and whispers as everyone directed their attention towards the pit.      It wasn’t deep; the rest of the floor was at about knee-height when he’d descended into it, and it was as if someone had cut the foundation away, hard-packed dirt underneath his boots instead of concrete.      Another man entered, tall and stocky, with the same red line, clutching a spiked baseball bat, and he looked about as on edge as Julian felt, but the brunet could tell it wasn’t anger, like with him. It was fear. Desperation, like Briar had said, and it made sense. For most people who signed up for shit like this, it was a last resort. Usually, they were in debt, owing people who would take their limbs off if they weren’t paid, and death was as good a way out as the payday that came with winning. A third appeared, middle-aged, tired-looking, holding what appeared to be an ordinary kitchen cleaver, and Julian almost felt bad for him. Almost. He removed the karambits from their sheaths at his lower back, hooking his index fingers into the rings. Sweat was beading on the middle-aged man’s forehead. Briar had materialized at the edge of the pit, looking down at them. There was a glint in her eyes, but she didn’t smile.      “Begin.”

     There was a split second in which the three of them looked at each other — the other two frozen, maybe, but Julian was deciding which one to dispatch first: the biggest threat, or the easiest kill. Without devoting much thought to it, he went for the latter, lunging forward and hooking both daggers into the man’s abdomen before he even had a chance to move, his eyes widening in shock as Julian wrested the curved blades upward and they ripped through flesh and skin, the force of it lifting the man off the ground. A snarl tore its way up Julian’s throat, rage and exertion, blood gushing onto the front of his shirt as he wrenched the two of them around, just in time for the spiked bat to crash into his victim’s skull instead of his own.      The nails stuck, lodged into bone. Julian yanked his karambits free, soaked in red, and the gurgling remains of the owner of the cleaver plummeted to the ground, pulling the bat along with him as he landed with a thud. The stocky man stepped onto the corpse’s chest and pulled; Julian took half a second to admire his work — parallel rifts up the torso, the flimsy fabric of the pale blue, sweat-stained button-up that covered it drenched in blood, a loop of slimy intestine, pulled out along with his blades…      Freed, the bat came sweeping at him, a single motion as it was yanked out, then brandished in a rising arch at Julian’s jaw. He dropped to his knees, dodging underneath the stocky man’s arm while simultaneously slicing his armpit with the dagger in his left hand, and, as he landed, a backhanded stab behind him that plunged the blade into the back of his opponent’s knee. It buckled under him with no resistance, a shout ringing out through the room as he knelt, followed by another grunt of pain when he landed. Julian was on his feet again, on his way back around to face the man he was about to kill when something slammed into his upper arm. Pain raced all the way to his fingertips, his grip on the karambit loosening, and he would’ve lost it if it wasn’t for the fact that it was hooked onto his finger; not that it mattered much, because his entire arm was limp with agony. Infuriated, he planted a boot in the center of the man’s chest and pushed, his right hand crossing his body to cut the underside of his arm, the bat slipping from his grip and landing somewhere behind the brunet. Another flash decision, and he’d rather kill this stranger with his own weapon, so he whirled around, not even making it a step before he felt a grip around his ankle.

     Flattened dirt flew up to meet him, and though he managed to catch himself, the impact still knocked the air from his lungs. Julian tried to crawl, but it was no use, because the piece of shit wasn’t letting go. Twisting, he kicked him in the face, then wriggled forward, ditching his knives before his fingers curled around the leather-wrapped handle of the bat. Pulling it towards himself, he used it to stand, then raised it from the ground and swung, turning around as he did.      The stranger was further away than he’d expected, in the middle of an attempt to get to his feet, and the bat collided with his jaw and mouth instead of his temple, blood and teeth flying. Julian struck again, this time where he’d intended, sending his opponent to the floor. Again. A sickeningly satisfying fucking crunch. Again, what had once been a head now a collapsed, crimson ruin of bone fragment, blood, and brain matter. He let go. The bat clattered at his feet. His chest rose and fell heavily as he regained his breath, fury burning through him like a wildfire. Slowly, he paced over to where he’d dropped his daggers and picked them up, wiping them off on his thigh before sliding them back into their sheaths. His arm was throbbing, and when he looked at it, he saw the trails of blood that had trickled from the cluster of holes in his skin, all the way down to his wrist, interspersed with the spatter from the second man to die and the gushing spray from the first. He was covered. His arms and chest got the worst, but he felt the droplets on his face, too, tasting metal when his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Over in a heartbeat. Over in two heartbeats, and yet it’d been exactly what he fucking needed.

     Now… booze? Numb the rest of his fucking discomfort. Drown it. He climbed out of the pit, and Briar was there, slipping a small memory device into his palm.      “Welcome back, and congratulations. Quite a show.”      Julian almost handed it back to them, about to say he didn’t give a shit about the money, but decided against it, dropping it into his pocket instead. “You got a bandage?”      “I can arrange that.”      He nodded, turning away and heading over to the bar, where he demanded a bottle of their strongest liquor, smacking the fold of bills he’d brought down onto the counter. The bartender presented him with sixty percent whiskey that Julian snatched by the neck and dragged off the counter. Some other goon appeared with a roll of gauze secured with a safety pin, and he took that, too, before making for the exit. Emptiness stretched out inside him, vast and dark and cold, his gaze focused ahead without meeting that of a single person he passed on his way. Out the door, up the stairs, around the corner — fresh air — back inside and down the crudely lit hallway, where the bouncer looked up from his phone to watch him approach.      “Fuck me,” he said, laughing again. Julian ignored him and pushed through the door, thinking dully as he peeled the foil wrapping off the mouth of the bottle he was holding that some homeless junkie had probably either stolen or looted his car. He drank as he walked until he reached it – surprisingly intact — and unlocked it with a touch to the handle on the driver’s side door, dropping sideways into the seat. Wedging the bottle between his legs, he rolled his sleeve up, then leaned forward a little as he lifted the whiskey, taking a breath in. Another sip for courage. Fuck. Tipping the bottle, he poured a splash over his punctures, watching the blood thin as it ran down his arm and dripped onto the sidewalk between his legs. Searing fucking agony, his teeth clamped together, but he kept pouring, just a little more, before lowering the bottle, gasping in a breath. Carefully, he set it down beside the mess he’d made, grimacing as he bandaged his arm tightly, fastening it with the same pin that had held the roll together. The burn remained. He picked the bottle up and drank, wanting it in his throat instead. In his lungs. A cigarette. His pack was in the console; he felt around for it, mostly blindly, but found it and got one lit, wondering as he sat there whether he should go back. Tell that fucking hooker with the lip ring to show him a good time after all. But he didn’t want the questions. The looks. There were sure to be more shows lined up in that basement, as unsavory or worse than the one he’d just put on, and he wasn’t interested. If he could, he would’ve sat there, half in and half out of his car until the sun rose, drinking and smoking, staring into nothing, but even in his peripheral, in the reflection in the window on his door, he could see that he looked like hell, and it was beginning to dry. His arm throbbed and stung. Julian pulled his legs into the car, closed the door, and drove.

[bravonovel]

You'll Fall for Me, Today or Tomorrow novel read online - Clarissa and Matthew - Bravonovel

You'll Fall for Me, Today or Tomorrow

https://www.bravonovel.com/youll-fall-for-me-today-or-tomorrow-8403

You'll Fall for Me, Today or Tomorrow novel is a Romance story about Clarissa and Matthew.

You can read this novel online on Bravonovel and keep track of the latest chapters

You'll Fall for Me, Today or Tomorrow novel Chapter 1

Splash!

He splashed Clarissa's feverish body with cold water, waking her up from a moment of stupor.

She looked up to see the man whom she had latched on to standing right in front of her.

The man removed his coat and tossed it to the ground. Looking tall and handsome, he was dressed in a white shirt and a pair of black suit pants. He had chiseled features like those of a male model, and his eyes especially looked astute and callous.

“Sober now?” His voice was extremely cold and stern.

“I'm sorry,” Clarissa said in embarrassment.

She had just gotten off the plane to visit her mother whom she hadn't seen for years. Yet never in her wildest dream did she expect her mother to drug and deliver her to the bed of a perverted old man.

Confused and delirious, she had grabbed hold of a stranger.

If not for this fine gentleman, she wouldn't dare to imagine what would become of her now.

Clarissa huddled in the bathtub and lowered her head to hide the pain in her eyes, not realizing how seductive she looked with her dress clinging damply to her skin.

Matthew squinted his eyes. Is she really not trying to seduce me?

“Mr. Tyson.” Donnie's voice sounded at the bathroom door. “The doctor and the clothes are here.”

“Thank you,” Clarissa piped up as she lifted her head. “I'm so sorry for the trouble.”

There was no need for explanation because they were only strangers to each other. She had noticed the man's inquisitive and derisive gaze, reckoning that he would only misunderstand her for having an ulterior motive if she were to explain herself.

A female doctor came in just as Matthew was about to leave the bathroom. She put the clothes aside and gave Clarissa a jab before leaving shortly after.

Outside, the room was already empty by the time Clarissa had changed her clothes and trudged out of the bathroom.

Hah, what was I thinking?

After a night of rest at the hotel, she was reluctant to go back to the Garretts', but she had no other choice as she needed to retrieve her belongings.

“You still have the audacity to come back?”

Her arrival immediately interrupted the peaceful atmosphere in the living room.

It was Clarissa's stepsister, Yvonne, who had said that.

“I'm here to take my stuff.”

Clarissa walked past the living room, wanting to head back to her room, but Yvonne blocked her way and landed a stinging slap across her face.

Caught off guard, Clarissa jerked her head up in a rage.

“You ingrate! What do you think you're doing? How dare you disappear on such an important occasion last night? We were trying to get you a boyfriend. Do you know who that man is? Do you know how much trouble you have caused us? Do you know how humiliating it was for us just because you ran away?” Yvonne let loose a torrent of abuse at Clarissa.

“If that man is so important, why didn't you take him for yourself?” Clarissa retaliated, cupping her face.

I will never sleep with a balding and beefy old man in his fifties!

“Why you—”

“We're family, Yvonne. Don't get too worked up,” Zach interrupted before his daughter could fly off the handle again.

Then putting on a calm look, he said to Clarissa, “We're doing this for your own good, Clary. Mr. Jensen has a sizeable net worth and he's still single. Haven't you heard that older men are wiser and they're much gentler towards women? You have nothing to worry about for the rest of your life if you're married into the Jensen family. Your mother has been saying we don't take good care of you so we wanted to make it up by finding you a good man.”

Clarissa darted Zach and the woman beside him, Hilary—her biological mother—a cold look.

“I don't need it,” she said, then returned to her room to retrieve her suitcase that was left untouched since yesterday.

Upon her arrival in D City the day before, the Garetts had taken to a hotel for a meal after reuniting with Hilary. Yet little did she expect to be greeted by a filthy sight.

“I'm doing this for your own good, Clary.” Hilary had come into her room and was grabbing her by the arm. “You can't just stay in that small city and do nothing for the rest of your life, right? It's a waste of your good looks.”

Clarissa shook her hand off relentlessly. “Is this why you've abandoned me for twelve years?”

“I...”

Clarissa had already walked away before Hilary could finish.

None of the Garretts stopped her.

“Don't worry. We were indeed a little too reckless yesterday. I'm Clary's mother. That's a fact. We need to plan and think wisely about this.” Hilary tried to appease her husband and stepdaughter when she saw the dissatisfaction on their faces.

“Are you sure?” Yvonne snorted. “She's your daughter after all.”

“She may be my daughter, but I'm very much in love with your father, Yvonne. You know me, don't you, Zach?”

“Of course,” Zach smiled.

Clarissa had hailed for a cab, planning to stay at a hotel, when she received a call from her best friend, Ellie.

“Why didn't you tell me you've arrived in D City? Do you even consider me as your friend? Where are you?”

Clarissa's heart warmed at her words.

“I'm on my way to a hotel...”

“Hotel? You could have just stay at my place.”

“I don't think that's nice. I...”

“I won't take no for an answer. Head over to J City Building. I'll pick you up and we can go grab a meal together.”

Clarissa let out a helpless chuckle at Ellie's domineering behavior. Hanging up the phone, she could only tell the driver to take another route.

After she alighted from the cab, Clarissa waited under a shade beside J City Building.

She was playing with her phone when she looked up and saw the silhouette of a man in a white shirt and a pair of suit pants. There was something about that man that made him look imposing as he walked out of the building.

Followed by a crowd around him, Clarissa wondered what he was saying as the people sent him off with a bow thereafter.

The driver opened the door, and the man was about to get in when he suddenly looked over in her direction.

Taken aback, Clarissa quickly lowered her head in embarrassment and feigned ignorance.

Matthew looked at the young lady through the car window until the car drove away and her figure disappeared from sight.

“Donnie,” he piped up. “I need you to run a background check on that woman.”

Donnie naturally understood who he was referring to. What are the odds of meeting the same woman who had thrown herself at Mr. Tyson twice?

They had never believed in pure coincidence and accident.

…...

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[alcnama]

                                                  PARA #02.

Para Inspiration: Pain by Yungeen Ace.

Things like this was what brought these two closer. The bond she never had with her daughter but instead, she was bonding with her granddaughter. It haunted Liliana at times, having to think about two women that she truly loved and cared for. She didn’t want anything to happen to them. It was a challenge to say that her only daughter had revolved her life around drugs and the cold world that she constantly warned her about. There was still hope though. A lot of hope for Alana Chanel Thomas and she often warned her to never allow such a thing take over her life or change the way she acted towards the one’s she said she loved. Love was promised but never given and she tried her best to recover that love her daughter never gave to Alana.

      “Granny, you really made that lady move her car just so you could park. Yeen have to be like that.”    The teenager released a simper while she assisted her grandmother on bringing the groceries into the home. Resting the last few of bags down onto the kitchen floor, Alana began to un-bag the groceries and place them where they belonged. For the past weeks, it had only been Alana and Lily around the house. No sight or sound from Caprice. Alana’s father. It bothered Liliana because she knew exactly what he was doing and the truth is, she no longer desired him living under her roof because of it.

     “Lana, now you know what that lady did was rude as hell.” Liliana responded just as she began helping the teen with putting up the groceries. It took some time for them to eliminate all the bags and goodies that was brought but they accomplished it anyhow. With a smile gracing Alana’s grandmother’s facial, she leaned her frame against the counter and propped her hand at her hip. “You know what, you ain’t too bad like you use to be, Lana. It’s nice to see you grow into a mature and intelligent young lady. I just wanna tell ya’ that I love ya’ and I wish the best.... the very best for you. Be somebody one day and make ya’ old lady proud, you hea’?” Her words were so genuine and Alana couldn’t help the bright smile that appeared along her own features. Her small frame, peered around the kitchen counter and moved to wrap her arms around her grandmother, embracing her and soon planting a kiss against her grandmother’s cheek.

     “Awwww, granny. Thank you. I love you too and I appreciate you taking care of me.” Alana returned her thoughts just as the front door to the home opened and in came Caprice, Liliana’s son in law and Alana’s father. It seemed like the embrace had became tighter within seconds and Alana was confused by the quick tension between her grandmother and father. Her grandmother backed away from the embrace and kept her eyes glued to Caprice.

     “What y’all in hea’ doin’? ‘Lana I just seen ya’ mama. She asked how you was doin’.” Caprice announced coming into the kitchen as he shuffled through the mail that was in his hands. His eyes finally met up with Liliana’s and then to Alana who screwed her face. “Lili, what’s the problem now?” Caprice questioned dryly, tossing the mail onto the island.

“Nothing, you know not to speak about her while Lana’s ‘round.” Liliana brushed her feelings to the side and brought her main concern on Alana who seemed to have been triggered over the topic of her mother even bothering to reach out. Caprice kissed his teeth and just as he was about to say something, Lily cut him off. “DON’T say anything back, just respect what I said Capo.”

“That’s still her mama and that’s still my wife.” Caprice retorted as he gave Liliana a glare. Just before he left for those couple of weeks, he had been presenting behavior that Lily wasn’t too fond of and being that he told her half of things, it just didn’t seem to sit well with her. She had people around the neighborhood voice to her of the things that he did in betrayal to not only her but Alana. Those things he never seemed to mention when he came to her.

Alana kissed her own teeth, shaking her head at the words that left her father’s mouth. “That’s not my mama.” She fired back to him. It was just something that bothered her and he was fully aware of that. She was right, that wasn’t her mother.

Growing agitated with the whole conversation itself, Liliana wanted nothing more but to cut it short. Even if she constantly preached to Alana about disowning her mother, she always felt like the teen would never be the same again without her. “Alana, hush. Caprice, I really think it’s time for you to leave. Don’tcha think?”

“Nah, I just got hea’. I ain’t leaving till 5 so expect me tonight.” He replied and Alana squinted her eyes at her father. Something wasn’t adding up. From all the different emotions and the strong tension that the room held, she was uneasy about it especially about her father’s disappearance.

“Why you haven’t been here anyway? That’s real messed up of you. Yeen even call like wassup wit’ that?” The teenager questioned and she noticed how nonchalant her father was acting. Especially toward her, it made her mood shift.

“Work.”

“Daddy, you don’t even get paid enough to be working so late. Why you tellin’ a story?” Alana continued to bug her father. The same energy he was feeding her and her grandmother, she wanted to return right back to him.

“Alana, I really don’t feel like hearin’ yo’ mouth tonight. Just go up to yo’ room, ight?” Caprice retorted in attempts to get his daughter upstairs so that he could personally talk to Lilana who still wasn’t having it. With her body moving towards his, he watched her carefully because it had been times when Lily would explode and take her anger out on him. Him being a man, he never allowed himself to place his hands on her despite how piss he became.

“How about you leave like I just said. Damnit Caprice, do I have to call the police?” Liliana threatened this time. Alana was utterly confused and shook her head as she stood between the two. 

“Woah...Granny.. what’s really goin’ on? Why you want him gone so bad?” The teenager looked between her grandmother and her father. She had been doin’ so well and she felt like the relationship between her parent and her grandparent was crumbling fast.

“Yeah, where’s all this coming from, Lily?” Caprice tested.

“Your father is a fuckin’ liar.” Alana’s grandmother revealed, dropping her hands down to her side. This time she tried moving past Alana but the teen blocked the woman.

“Man Lily, stop smokin’ that dope man, I think it’s really gettin to ya.”

“Ain’t no dope gettin’ to me, you just ain’t an honest man like you say you are. Who has a kid and hides it from his family?  Huh? You’ve allowed that chile to be away from Alana for sixteen years and I don’t even know them my damn self. It’s a boy or a girl? Huh? Then you out givin’ money to Nettie so she can get a fix? Who the fuck do you think you are, Caprice? My OWN chile, your wife? You never loved her, you barely wanted to give the woman some help, gahdamnit. If it wasn’t for me, you would be on the streets right along wit’ her! You might even just be dead. How dare you. Don’t you see how all that bullshit affects me? Us? Huh? You don’t eva’ think about me or your fuckin’ child. I’m fifty four, what do I look like taking care of a teenager by myself? I’m getting old, does any of that ever click in your bald ass head? Yes, Alana is my granddaughter and I will give her the world but have that same mindset. I won’t be livin’ in this world for long. You dumb son of a bitch.” Alana’s grandmother released. It was like a breath of fresh air to her. Those tears she had been holding for so long had finally left her baggy eyes. Liliana was so fed up with everything and whether Alana or Caprice knew it, it was killing her. She was quickly dying from all the stress and pressure she was put under. It hurt her heart dearly when she failed at helping her daughter recover from drugs and now it felt like a stab to her back as the news of Caprice adding onto her addiction. The same person who he said he loved. Sniffling as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, she pointed towards the door. “Get the hell outta my house and don’t come back unless you’re gettin’ your shit or givin money to Lana.” The woman ended just before moving into the den where she spent most of her time in.

Alana was so lost for words that she didn’t even realize that she was crying herself. So much pain at such an early age. So much confusion and betrayal. That’s all she ever felt when it came down to her family. She wanted nothing but to leave but she knew the only people that truly cared and supported her was her grandmother and her friends. So much anger was built and she had open opportunity to release it but she knew she was way better than that.

“....Lana.” Her father called out to her, his big brown eyes scanning over his little girl. He knew he had messed up but he didn’t think about all the consequences before hand.

“Man Capo.. real shit, just leave. You don’t belong here no more. That was a fuck nigga move. How you say you love somebody then you do that? You lied plus you showed nothing but fake love when it came down to mama. That ain’t yo’ wife. Who are you really?”

[munchyn]

Sylvie Pauline

Word count: 7052

Warning: I think there are some things that are worth giving you a warning, but I’m too lazy right now to re-read this. I do know that she is ill and that part is kinda depressing.

A.N: This is something I wrote at school and it doesn’t really have a plot but I plan on fixing that. Hopefully.

(I kinda picture Sylvie as a genderbent Percy Jackson)

The fourth of March was a fairly normal day. Apart from the fact that it was the day of the auction. People never knew which kids were chosen to leave. The guards just appeared at your house and took them. There was a rumour that they were already chosen in the big cities, but there was no proof. That’s exactly what had happened to Sylvie Pauline. She was enjoying time with her older fifteen-year-old sister, Danielle when there was a knock on the makeshift door of their little house. Her mother opened the door and the men entered the house like a stampede. They took Sylvie by the arm as she clawed to escape from their grip. She was too shocked to say anything as the men had appeared out of nowhere.

They hauled her into the back of the pickup truck along with four other kids. Sylvie looked back at her home as the truck engine roared to life. She watched as her mother and sister watched her leave.

“Hey,” said a teenage girl next to her. At that age, she wouldn’t be able to know what age the girl was but knew she was definitely older than her. “I’m Annabelle. Who are you?” Sylvie looked at her in awe. Finally, she answered by telling the girl, Annabelle her name, “Sylvie.”

Along the ride away from the massive Trash Park she lived in, Sylvie watched as they neared the gates that separated the countries largest dumpster from the outside world. She stood up in the crammed cargo of the truck and headed to the front, trying to keep her balance whenever the truck passed over some stray piece of garbage. She got up on some wooden boxes to get a better view of where they were going. She looked back at the iron gates that were covered in the dry thorny branches of blackberry bushes. The guards there would check if the people had any diseases like rabies, which you could get from a rat bite or any other sickness. They checked every month to keep them healthy in the Trash Parks and take the sick to a hospital to get treatment. Bringing them back once they recovered fully. Sylvie sat back down. She looked at the kids in front of her, she didn’t speak the whole trip to Paris. She sometimes would take a peek at the driver. He was short and bald, he also was on the chubby side. In the rearview mirror, Sylvie could see he was wearing a pair of sunglasses.

In a few hours, Sylvie could see the glow of city lights up ahead in just a twenty minutes drive. She stood up again and was fascinated as they got closer. Annabelle warned her to be careful of not falling down.

“Be careful,” she said. “You won’t want to fall down.” Sylvie looked back and flashed her a smile. ‘She seems nice.’ she thought as she turned back to the glorious Paris. She saw planes coming and going, cars driving in and out of the city. Sylvie had never seen so much action in one place. The only thing she had seen so far in her life were makeshift homes, skinny kids who played with her every day and fights between stray dogs and cats. This was a drastic change for her and the other kids. The ones of her age joined her as they oohed and wowed. Sylvie stayed silent though. When they reached the first bump the kids fell back on their butts. They quickly scrambled to get back to their seats. They sat there for the rest trip until they reached a haunted-looking building. Sylvie hoped it didn’t look like this during the day. ‘Cause then she wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

The man stepped out of the driver's seat and wobbled to the back of the truck. He unhooked the door and helped the kids get out while the teens jumped off. Once the chosen children were all out of the pickup truck of the driver who had presented himself as Mr Burman earlier. He took them to the gates of the building. He called somebody inside with a walkie he had in the pocket of his Bermuda pants. Sylvie wondered how he wasn’t freezing to death, she shivered as the breeze pierced the skin under her shirt. After a few minutes of waiting, a young lady with brown hair came to open the gates. She thanked Mr Burman and lead them through the glass doors of the building. From there she instructed the teens into different rooms than the younger children. The woman gave them each a change of clothes for them to sleep in. They got all cleaned up and got into their beds.

The next morning, Sylvie was woken by beams of sunlight directed straight to her face. She stood up and slowly followed the rest of the kids that were streaming out of the doors of the room. She got glimpses of them as they bumped into her. Most of them were so excited they dashed through the hallways to get to wherever they were going. Others went at a calm pace like what whatever was ahead of them didn’t change a thing about their life.

She ended up sitting at a plastic white picnic table between two boys about her age. There were plastic plates filled with food in front of her. They had a mix of mashed potatoes, broccoli, steak and a loaf of bread. She started to eat her potatoes, they were the best food she had ever eaten. That is comparing it to her previous meals in the Trash Park. Soon she felt someone poke her in the arm. She looked up at one of the boys next to her.    

“What’s your name?” he said in a heavy French accent. Sylvie blinked a few times before she answered.

“My name is Sylvie,” she said. “Sylvie Pauline.” The boy nodded.

“I’m Rael,” he said. “When did you come here?” Sylvie told Rael that she had arrived yesterday. Then about her former life with her family in the dumpster. How she played various games with her sister Danielle. Then about her trip to her current home. The Orphanage of Paris. In exchange, Rael told her how he had been born in the city of Paris but his parents had died when he was just a baby. His aunt hadn’t wanted him in her care so she sent him to the orphanage. In Sylvie's opinion that was even worse than her case. At least then in the dumpster, her family had loved her and taken care of her.

Already in her fourth year, Sylvie entered the dining area. She searched for her dear friend Rael. She found him next to her other friends Alexa, Marine and Sophia. All of them (like Rael) Had been born in Paris. Making Sylvie the only one to know the original French. Sylvie told them what their names meant, Sophia meaning wisdom or skill and Marine meaning from the sea. Sylvie was about to start eating her breakfast when a familiar woman entered the room. Sylvie stood up from the bench and walked to the door. She looked back at Rael, who just smiled and waved at her before she disappeared from his sight.

What Sylvie expected to be on the other side of the door certainly wasn’t the richest family in France but that was just her luck. There stood the Renée family. Smiling at her, it was weird and awkward. There were a tall man and a woman, with them were two little kids one was a boy and looked about as old as Sylvie. The other was just a mere baby. She had big blue eyes and an adorable little face. Sylvie felt like going to her and squishing her chubby little cheeks, the urge was strong but she fought it. She didn’t know these people, therefore she couldn’t touch any of them. That was what her mother used to say, “Respect others Sylvie, and they’ll respect you,” Sylvie listened to her like she would a goddess. To her, her mother spoke words filled only with wisdom. “And with mutual respect fille, no harm will come to you. That was the one she turned out to be wrong. Sylvie had respected every living thing on the face of the earth and still, she had been taken away from everything she loved. She always used many of her mother's sayings. The day she had joined in the orphanage and stayed there for four years, she did as her mother said. Never show sadness for a loss.

Sylvie always looked joyful, laughing around with her friends and being nice to everyone. Even the so-called “mean kids”. The familiar looking woman spoke. Then Sylvie remembered who she was. It was Annabelle from the truck ride, Sylvie thought she had left the orphanage when she had become old enough to fend for herself. Sure she had heard rumours that she had gotten a job at the orphanage but she never really believed them, “Sylvie, this is your new family, Mr and Mrs Renée and their children.” Annabelle kneeled down to her level and gave her a tight hug. “Goodbye Sylvie, I’ll miss you.”    

Sylvie slowly hugged back and let a tear slip down her face. Annabelle pulled away and gave her a light kiss on the forehead. The now grown woman pulled away once more and stood straight again. She allowed Sylvie and the Renée’s to have some time alone. Sylvie could see Annabelle wipe away the tears forming in her eyes. The first few months at the orphanage Sylvie would sneak out of the room she shared with fifty other children and go to the bathroom where she would always find the teen she had met on the ride.

She watched as Annabelle walked back into the dining room to give the news that she Sylvie had been adopted. She couldn’t help but imagine Rael’s face when he heard the news, and Alexa, Sophia and Marine. She knew they would be happy for her. But still upset at losing a friend. She looked back at the Renée’s. The woman stepped forward and let out a hand for Sylvie to shake.

“I’m Claudia Renée,” she said. “This is my husband Nicola Renée.” Mrs Renée gestured to the tall thin man. His face reminded Sylvie of somebody who was breathing some kind of really stinky smell. ‘Don’t let looks defy you fille,’ her mother would say. Sylvie assumed he wasn’t like this all the time. She guessed Mrs Renée had dragged the whole family here to adopt her. The idea made Sylvie giggle. The woman smiled.

“Had to beg him to come here you know,” she whispered. Sylvie smiled widely. Then she noticed the boy staring at her. She stared right back. He had stormy grey eyes like his mother and black hair like his father. The baby in her mother’s arms reached out to Sylvie. Mr Renée smiled at the baby and then back at Sylvie. “This little girl here is Marie.”

The girl smiled a toothless grin. Sylvie smiled back for what felt like the thousandth time. The woman then led them all back to the parking lot outside, that Sylvie never knew existed. The family had a big black van. With seats for three and for five at the back. Sylvie sat next to the boy. Marie sat in her booster in front of her. It was a long ride of uncomfortable silence until Sylvie finally asked, “So-” she looked at him carefully. “-What’s your name?”

“Jen,” he said. Sylvie nodded. “How long have you been in the orphanage?”

Sylvie thought for a moment before answering. “Some four years. By the way, how old are you?” Sylvie asked Jen.       

“Eleven,” he answered. Jen didn’t sound excited, but that didn’t affect Sylvie.

“Me too!” the girl said it like she had just drunk a dozen cups of coffee. “My birthday’s on the fifth of May. Yours?”

“The sixth of February,” said Jen. The two continued talking until the car stopped. Sylvie looked out the window and saw a white marvel mansion with huge oak doors. Her jaw dropped in awe. She sat gaping there until Jen tapped her shoulder, signalling her to get off. She closed her mouth and hopped out of the van. She walked next to Jen, when they got to the huge doors Sylvie wondered how they could open them. The doors looked extremely heavy. Mr Renée typed in a code into a small screen on the wall. Immediately,  the doors swung open.

Sylvie guessed she looked confused because Jen explained to her that they were the only family in France that could manage to afford a mansion with tech as advanced as they had. Sylvie simply nodded at everything he said, she was too stunned to even talk.

On the inside of the manor, there were two staircases, each crossing the other halfway up. The floor was made out of a red carpet floor, the same could be said for the staircases. Sylvie had to resist the urge to run up and down the steps.  She looked back at Jen as if asking if she could go, Jen just shrugged. He just looked at his mother. The woman saw the look on Sylvie's face and just smiled.

“Common Sylvie,” she said. “I’ll show you your room.” they both went up the stairs and then turned a right before reaching a black door. Mr Renée unlocked the door with a silver key. She hears a few clicks and The blonde woman pushed the door and it opened with a creak. She frowned then said, “We really need to fix this door.”

Sylvie looked inside the room. It seemed fairly normal, there was a bed with black sheets, a desk, and a closet. Sylvie didn’t suspect anything about it, apart from the fact that it seemed pretty dark with all the black. Once she could, she’d ask her new family for a more colourful touch. “I’m sorry for the gloomy look,” said the woman. “No one’s used this room in a long time. My brother,-” she paused at the word. “-He was a pretty dark person. When he moved out he was never seen again.”

She shook her head and the smile from earlier returned to her face. “We’ll change it to your liking as soon as we can.” she began to walk out of the dark room. “I’ll give you a moment to settle in.” and with those words, she was out in the hall.

Sylvie jumped onto the bed. The pillow was soft and squishy, and she was certain she didn’t want to replace it. She decided to go to sleep since she had nothing to do and she was tired. I know, weird. She just had breakfast and she’s already tired. The night/day went fast, Sylvie had no dreams, and without her knowing Jen and his mother had come to check on her around the afternoon. They had started to get worried since she hadn’t come out in the whole day. Mrs Renée smiled at the sight of it. Sylvie's black hair spread all over the pillow and drool coming out from the corner of her mouth, she thought it was just adorable. They left her to rest until the next morning.

Sylvie woke to the cry of a little baby. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, yawning. She headed to the door and pulled it open. What she saw made her have to suppress a laugh. Mrs Renée was holding little crying Marie while speaking on the phone, holding it between her cheek and shoulder. She also held a backpack in her hand. A sleepy Mr Renée walked out of the room, his raven black hair was sticking out everywhere and he had dark bags under his eyes. He had a mug in his hand that read ‘Meilleur papa au monde’ (Best dad in the world). That was what made her burst out laughing. The couple didn’t notice her. Mrs Renée handed the baby to the father, who put the mug down and rubbed his face with his hand as he took the baby.

Mrs Renée finally got Jen to get the backpack and gave him some toast. She rushed him out of the manor and then told Sylvie to get in too. They all buckled up and left the other two alone in the mansion. As they went on their way to the school Mrs Renée spoke up, “So Sylvie, I asked the head of school if you could join in with Jen at school and he said that if you have a high enough level you could.-” she pushed the breaks as they reached a red light. “-So today I’m taking you to take a quiz of sorts.” Sylvie nodded and the woman smiled at her through the rearview mirror.

After a while of driving Mrs Renée parked the van. Jen opened the sliding door of the vehicle and hopped off, Sylvie followed. Jen immediately ran to catch up with his friends.

Mrs Renée signalled for Sylvie to follow her, Sylvie did just that. She followed the blonde woman through halls of classes, at some point she saw Jen working with a curly red headed girl on a science project. Jen saw her and waved, Sylvie waved back.

She followed Mrs Renée into a room with a man sitting at a desk. The man had wispy white hair and glasses that slid down his small nose every few minutes. Mrs Renée knocked on the open door and the man looked up. He smiled once he saw who it was at the door.

“Ah, Mrs Renée,” he said and then looked at Sylvie. “And this must be Sylvie.” Mrs Renée nodded. She had a serious face instead of her usual smile so Sylvie just assumed the two didn’t have a good history. “Here to take the quiz?”

Sylvie nodded looking into the man's glassy blue eyes, Sylvie thought they made him look like a ghost. The man smiled, but unlike Mrs Renée’s his was cold and didn’t seem to have a lot of joy put into it. Sylvie didn’t want to see it again. He pulled out a few papers from a drawer and handed them to Sylvie, “If you could just answer all these questions and then give the papers back to me. Then I’ll have a little word with...your mother.”

Sylvie was surprised at the thought of Mrs Renée being her mother. She looked at the woman and saw that her face was a bright red. What Sylvie didn’t know was if that red was out of anger or embarrassment. Was it really that embarrassing to have her as a child? Sylvie shook it off. Mrs Renée leads her to a small table and gave her a pencil to write with. Sylvie wrote her name at the top of the page. She had memorised the moment of it since she had a problem with reading as if the letters would float in the air around her. She had been taken to the doctor at the orphanage. But even they didn’t know what it was. It was probably another one of those things that had affected the new generation of people in France to the bombs dropped, but those symptoms were extremely rare.

She looked at all the math problems but made nothing of them. She looked back at Mrs Renée. “I can’t read it,” she said bowing her head in shame. She looked up at the woman and saw the shock on her face.

“What do you mean you can’t read it Sylvie?” the woman said in a kind voice. “Didn’t they teach you at the orphanage?” Sylvie nodded.

“Yes, but the letters float around when I try to read,” Sylvie started to cry as she explained. Mrs Renée hugged her tightly as she shook in her arms. “They took me to the doctor at the orphanage but he didn’t know what it was. They thought it might be one of those things that happen to the people of the new generation, but…”

Mrs Renée shushed her and stroked her black hair as tears poured out of the girls sea green eyes. She put her hands on Sylvie's shoulders and told her, “Don’t worry Sylvie, we’ll tell Mr Bruno about it and see what he says.” They stood up and walked back to the man at the desk, which Sylvie assumed was Mr Bruno.

Mrs Renée stopped in front of him almost leaning onto the table. She cleared her voice to get the man's attention, “Excuse me Mr Bruno,” she started. “Um-” she looked down at Sylvie, who had tear stains on her cheeks and was looking down at her feet in embarrassment. Mrs Renée looked back at the principal. “Sylvie, she um...she can’t read the problems on the paper.”

Mr Bruno’s head snapped up, “She doesn’t know how to read?” The woman looked down at Sylvie, who still had her head bowed.

“Not exactly,” she said. “She says that the letters float around in the air when she tries to read.” Mr Bruno knitted his bushy eyebrows in thought. He hummed and nodded.

“I see,” he finally said. “What Sylvie has is a simple case of dyslexia.” Sylvie looked up for the first time in the whole conversation.

“Is it one of those things that happened to the people affected by the bombs?” she asked.

“No, no,” said the ghost man, as Sylvie had decided to call him a minute ago. “This was here centuries ago. In fact, there is a book from the two thousand were most of the characters were dyslexic, but never mind.” Mr Bruno pushed up his glasses as they were sliding down. “I’m afraid we can’t have Sylvie join us due to this...dyslexia. But I know other schools that will gladly accept her.” The man smiled.

Mrs Renée smiled, but Sylvie noticed it was fake. “Thank you Mr Bruno.” She held Sylvie's hand as they walked out of the room. They walked back through the same corridors and past the same rooms and saw Jen working on a math problem with one of his friends. They passed the same glass doors as before, and took the same path through the parking lot and got into the same black van as before.

They drove back to the mansion. Mrs Renée typed in the code and they headed into the families home. Mrs Renée looked like an angry bull you didn’t want to get on the bad end of. She kept rambling on about how they wouldn’t let Sylvie into the school. Then a now fully awake Mr Renée came into the entrance room (although it was the size of a ballroom).

“Hello mon amour,” he said with a smile on his face. But when he saw his wife his face quickly changed into a frown. “What happened?” Mrs Renée just kept on rambling and he understood what had happened. His expression lost all its happiness, “Oh.”

“Yeah, and we don’t have the time to pick them up at different schools! I mean, I don’t blame you Sylvie for your dyslexia but couldn’t the school at least give her a separate mentor? I’m sure the only problem here is that she’s not able to read and that she could understand the problems perfectly if the just read them out loud for her!”

“Breathe mon amour, breath,” Mrs Renée did as her husband said and breathed in deep breaths. This seemed to calm her. “Tomorrow we’ll figure it out. I’m sure there’s an easy solution to this.”

The rest of the day Sylvie stayed with little Marie. Occasionally she would call the infant petit soeur. Once she did when either of the couples was in the room. Really bad idea, they would get very excited and Sylvie hated the attention. Her face would also be as red as a tomato. She tried to ignore them as they cooed at her and the baby.

By around four p.m Jen was back at the home. Jen was glad to have him back. It was kinda boring in the house being the only eleven years old. Then Sylvie had an idea, she looked all around the house searching for her new mother. When she finally did she proposed her idea, “Um, mom?” she hesitated. It felt awkward to use that word with the blonde woman. “Mom?” she said again. This time the woman turned around to face Sylvie. She was covered in grease from fixing the bike of her husband. Her eyes widened when her brain connected the dots to the fact that Sylvie had called her mom. She shook her head and stared at Sylvie.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Well,” started the girl. “I’d like to propose an idea. When Jen comes back from his school he could teach me what he learned that day by showing me his homework, and while he’s at school I could stay at home doing chores with one of you,” she said. “If you don’t have work to do of course,” she added quickly, lifting her hands in front of her.

“I love the idea, Sylvie,” said Mrs Renée. “I’ll go tell dad about it once I finish fixing his bike okay.” Sylvie nodded and walked out of the garage. Once she had closed the door she heard the voice of Mrs Renée screaming out to her husband, “She called my mom, oh I’m so happy.” Sylvie rolled her eyes. She was going to enjoy her time with this family.

So the years passed and Sylvie would basically live in the house. Taking care of the dog Marie had insisted they get. It was a breed of Labrador and dalmatian. It was adorable. It had bicolour eyes and black and white fur. She was also there to comfort Marie at Dobby’s (the dog’s) funeral when he died of a car crash. She was there at the parties at Jens schools. All his friends complimenting her on how good she looked. She went along great with all of them. She was also there at two of his graduations. She was another member of the family. She helped Mr Renée with chores around the house. But her favourite days were when Mrs Renée had to stay late at work and she’d sit in the couch, curled up in a blanket burrito with Mr. Renée and Jen would come back home from school with Marie to join them there and watch from horror all the way to kids movies until they all fell asleep together. Then Mrs Renée finding them there at three in the morning and turning off the TV as the credits rolled and also joining the rest of her family.

Soon the time came when Sylvie had to leave and start her own new life. They gave her an apartment to start with and a phone to contact them. But of course there were taxes and so she was kicked out of her home. She didn’t have a job or anything that would help her win money. The first week on the streets was terrible. She didn’t have any idea of how to get food. She remembered something about putting aluminium foil on the inside of a backpack, and that if you put anything inside no one would notice you stole it. Of course, unless they count the stuff every day. Sylvie put aluminium foil into the pockets of her hoodie, pants and into her backpack. She got herself food this way and fresh clozes, she also got shampoo and body soap, books, notebooks, pencils, colouring supplies, a laptop, a charger and many other things. At some point, she decided she’d start stealing from other people's wallets. With that money she decided to spend time at cafes with her laptop, drinking hot cocoa and charging her devices. She wrote stories of her own in the notebooks (which was extremely hard due to her dyslexia), she did it all for fun. At the cafes, she met plenty of people. She met Elizabeth, who let her use the shower at her house.

“Hello, may I sit here with you?” asked a woman who couldn’t be older than Sylvie. “Every other place is full.”

“No not at all,” said Sylvie. She put away most of the notebooks that littered the table to make space for the nice looking woman. They sat there in silence for a while. Until the woman asked Sylvie, “So, where do you live?”

Sylvie looked up at her, “Huh?” The woman repeated her question. “Oh, I live on the outsides of Paris. The plumbing there is terrible.” It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t the complete truth either. Sylvie lived in an abandoned mall in the outskirts of Paris. There weren’t any showers or anything so that’s why she was filthy. Her blue hoodie had spots of dirt and mud and rain all mashed all up into one piece of clothing. It was the hoodie the Renée’s had given her when she left. She loved it and just didn’t find herself able to get rid of it.

The woman's big brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight coming in through the windows. The same expression in them as Mrs Renée when she would do anything for Sylvie to feel welcome. Sylvie liked the woman in front of her, she looked like she would be a great friend and she hadn’t had one of those in a while.  “I’m Elizabeth,” she said as she put out a hand.

“Sylvie,” she shook Elizabeth's hand.

“If you want you could come to take a shower at my house every once in a while,” she said, “Rub off all the dirt you have on you.” Sylvie smiled and thanked her.

“By the way, have you seen my pencil?” she asked Elizabeth. “I swore I had on this table.” together they looked for Sylvie’s pencil as they got to know each other. By the time Elizabeth spotted the black and yellow writing utensil in Sylvie’s messy bun, she already knew about Sylvie’s dyslexia and extreme allergy to peanuts.

Sylvie was on her way to Elizabeth’s house on a stormy night. When she was about halfway there a chameleon had dropped onto her head, she swatted it away. And though silently to herself ‘Where did that come from’, but that’s not the point She wore a Coca Cola hoodie and a pair of jeans. Her Adidas shoes were soaking wet and so was the backpack she so desperately had tried to shield from the rain (it had her laptop in it). She felt someone collide with her shoulder, sending her tumbling down into a puddle on the ground. Her butt was soaking wet now and so was all she was wearing. She looked up at the man who had sent her down into the world of soaking wet and cold clothes.

The man had shaggy black hair and pale olive skin. Sylvie was about to yell at him some censored stuff until she recognized the man. She had seen him in pictures around the mansion. “You’re- you’re Markus Adeleile,” Sylvie stuttered in shock. The man’s eyes widened in shock.

“How did you-” he started to wonder but was cut off by Sylvie.

“I lived with your sister, she and her husband adopted me a few years back.” Sylvie stopped for a moment. “That would make you my uncle. Would you like to come with me? I know you’ve been living on the streets. I’ve seen you before in shops, stealing stuff, like me. I’m going to a friends house to take a shower. If you want you could take one too, I’m sure she would be more than happy to help more than one homeless person.” Markus nodded and followed a shivering Sylvie to her friend's house.

Sylvie knocked on the door and Elizabeth immediately opened. She let them both in, gave Markus a towel and showed him where the shower was. She also gave him some extra clothes from her boyfriend’s closet. Sylvie talked with Elizabeth about the man.

“So how do you know him?” asked Elizabeth.

“He’s my uncle,” replied Sylvie. Elizabeth looked shocked. “Well, his sister adopted me when I was eleven. Since then they’ve been my family.”

“Okay,” said her shocked friend. “But how did you meet him?”

“When I was on my way here, he bumped into me and sent me into a puddle on the floor. I asked him if he wanted to take a shower at your house and he’s homeless. Like me.” Sylvie only muttered the last part, but it was enough for Elizabeth to hear.

“Wait, Sylvie, you’re homeless?” Sylvie nodded as she looked down at the floor in embarrassment, holding the warm cup of hot cocoa close to her chest. She muttered an “I’m sorry.” and Elizabeth looked at her incredulously. “Sylvie! I could’ve given you a room in my house. I could’ve helped you find a job, a hobby and even a partner to share your life with!” Sylvie looked up at her dearest friend and smiled at her.

“Thank you Elizabeth but I’m fine,” right then Markus went in wearing a Tommy Bahama and some shorts. Sylvie snorted, cocoa shooting out of her nostrils. She rapidly fanned her face as Elizabeth stifled in a laugh. “Lizzie, it’s not funny!”

For the next months, Markus and Sylvie lived with Elizabeth and her boyfriend. They both had a pretty big house, so it didn’t necessarily bother them. But Sylvie had a secret she wouldn’t tell anyone, every time she tried to eat, everything just went back up again. She didn’t know what it was but it worried her and that’s precisely why she didn’t want to tell anyone. She didn’t want Elizabeth, or her boyfriend or Markus to worry about her. It wasn’t necessary. In the past month, she had lost a considerable amount of weight and she could see her ribs under her skin.

She had tried to go to the doctor, but something always came up. First the job interview, then Elizabeth coming everywhere with her. She just never found the time. Then they also had to find Markus a job too, it was just impossible. As the months passed Sylvie got worse and worse. Her birthday was also coming up. This was just like a terrible birthday present. Sylvie didn’t even know how she lasted this long. She was sure she was going to be dead by the fifth of May anyway. Her dream at that time was just to live long enough to have one more birthday party.

Speaking of parties. It was just her luck that today was a party and Sylvie had to go. Elizabeth had invited a buttload of people and there was food everywhere. Everybody gave her something to try but kept it all on her on her plate, not bothering to even bring it up to her lips, but dinner time (unfortunately) eventually had to come. Everyone sat at the table. Sylvie’s plate was still full, she didn’t want to be rude so she put a forkful of food into her mouth. She swallowed. She gagged at first but slowly tried again as the food went down her oesophagus. She could feel her stomach fighting back against the food.

She put on a fake smile as her face became a sickening green. Elizabeth asked if she was okay and Sylvie nodded. Elizabeth focused back on chatting with one of her colleagues from work. Sylvie got dizzy and lost the will to fight against her stomach. She threw up on the floor, falling out of her chair. Elizabeth rushed to her friend's side. Holding her in her arms as she seemed to be freezing from the way she shook. Elizabeth touched her friend's forehead and quickly pulled away at the freezing touch. Sylvie started to pass out as Elizabeth yelled at someone to call an ambulance. Then after that, all she saw was darkness.

Sylvie woke up in a hospital bed. She opened her eyes fully and saw a girl in the chair next to her bed. Beside her was a familiar looking man. “Hello, Sylvie.” She jumped at the sudden voice. The memories flooded her mind. The party, the food, passing out.

“How long was I out?” she asked. Elizabeth looked her friend straight in the eyes.

“A month,” she said. Sylvie sat back in thought. She l heard a groan from her right and there she saw...Mr. Renée? No. He had grey eyes.

“Jen…?” she looked at her adoptive brother. She smiled and jumped into his arms. Waking up the teenager sitting next to him. The girl had choppy black hair and big turquoise eyes. “Marie!” yelled Sylvie, pulling her sister into the hug.

“Want to go home?” asked Jen. Sylvie nodded like a chiwawa and got off of her siblings.

After Jen had a small word with a nurse at the counter, and then they were gone. They drove to the Renée mansion. Sylvie sat next to Jen in the passenger seat. They didn’t speak much, it felt awkward. But what had Sylvie wondering, was the constant smile on both of the two Renée siblings. She slowly smiled as she saw the white marvel mansion appear as they turned the corner. One moment it had been tall buildings (that weren’t there when Sylvie was younger by the way) and then it was a wide field with a white manor next to the forest.

Jen drove through the dirt path and parked in front of the oak doors. The three got out of the car as Elizabeth pulled up behind them. She and her boyfriend got out of their black SUV. Sylvie suddenly felt two hands over her eyes and felt someone guiding her to the doors. She smirked at the sound of shuffling feet. The person lifted the hands from her face and at first, all Sylvie could see darkness. Then a blinding light (ok, I exaggerated).

People jumped out from behind pots with plants, tables, chairs and from under the stairs yelling, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SYLVIE!”

There was a blue banner with the words “Happy B-Day Sylvie!” written in red. Her hands shot up to her mouth in shock and joy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she jumped up and down. Everyone was there Mr and Mrs Renée, Markus, Jen, Marie, Elizabeth and somehow they had managed to get Rael and all of Sylvie's friends from the orphanage there. “Who put this all together?” she asked looking around at everybody. They all pointed at Jen. Sylvie ran up to him and gave him a koala hug. She got off and saw that his face was all red. She smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Jen.”She then went to her parents as they wrapped her in a huge hug.

The rest of her life  Sylvie lived with her family in the mansion. Markus lived there as well. Sylvie didn’t have eating problems any more after a bit of treatment. She gave advice to Marie and she would plan pranks with her on her husband Jen (It’s not weird because they’re adoptive siblings). He didn’t enjoy them, and with Sylvie’s years of thievery experience, it made it all the worse. Sometimes she would ask him if he had his wallet, and he confidently answered with a yes.

“You sure?” she would ask. Jen rolled his eyes and answered with another yes. But then he would look in his jean pockets as Sylvie showed his wallet in her hand.

They had twin brothers together and a daughter. Quinn, Harvey and Danielle, after Sylvie's blood sister. The two twins were both boy versions of a younger Sylvie and Danielle had the curly blonde hair from her grandmother along with the grey eyes of her father. Sylvie was also there to help her children out with their homework.

We were all riding in the van of my mother's childhood. She had begged dad to go to an abandoned mall, she literally stood on her knees with her hands clamped together as she begged him to go. The sight was pretty funny. Dad parked the van and helped me, Quinn and Harvey, out of the back. Mom ran through the mall looking for someplace. I don’t know what so don’t ask me. Finally, she stopped in front of a bookstore. Well, an abandoned one anyways. I wondered why she wanted to be here since she’s dyslexic. My mom is weird, you’ll learn that about her soon enough.

She came out with three huge backpacks. They were all packed with stuff. She said we were ready to go. After that, I discovered that what she had in the bags were books and notebooks filled with stuff she had written in them. That is how my mom soon became a famous author and I followed in her footsteps.

These days I write books for a living and share an apartment with my adoptive sister (and wife) Adelaila. We both own a dog called Claudia (after my grandmother) and a cat called Percy. Adelaila made me name it that. She helped me write the story of our mother, getting the information out of the old (yet beautiful) dyslexic woman. Mother doesn’t remember the name of the president very well but she can tell you her story with such detail that you feel everything that she felt. Her guidance has helped me and my sister out through this book.

All the way from reading her books and asking her in person. I hope you enjoyed this story. It was hard due to me and Adelaila’s daughter kept erasing it over and over. The story of my mother keeps inspiring me to this day and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Until my next story my readers.

Sincerely,

Your Author Danielle.

^this is how I picture Jen and Sylvie having fun when they become bf and gf (before they got married  basicaly).

[unsettlingshortstories]

Premium Harmony

Stephen King (2009)

They’ve been married for ten years and for a long time everything was O.K.—swell—but now they argue. Now they argue quite a lot. It’s really all the same argument. It has circularity. It is, Ray thinks, like a dog track. When they argue, they’re like greyhounds chasing the mechanical rabbit. You go past the same scenery time after time, but you don’t see it. You see the rabbit.

He thinks it might be different if they’d had kids, but she couldn’t. They finally got tested, and that’s what the doctor said. It was her problem. A year or so after that, he bought her a dog, a Jack Russell she named Biznezz. She’d spell it for people who asked. She loves that dog, but now they argue anyway.

They’re going to Wal-Mart for grass seed. They’ve decided to sell the house—they can’t afford to keep it—but Mary says they won’t get far until they do something about the plumbing and get the lawn fixed. She says those bald patches make it look shanty Irish. It’s because of the drought. It’s been a hot summer and there’s been no rain to speak of. Ray tells her grass seed won’t grow without rain no matter how good it is. He says they should wait.

“Then another year goes by and we’re still there,” she says. “We can’t wait another year, Ray. We’ll be bankrupts.”

When she talks, Biz looks at her from his place in the back seat. Sometimes he looks at Ray when Ray talks, but not always. Mostly he looks at Mary.

“What do you think?” he says. “It’s going to rain just so you don’t have to worry about going bankrupt?”

“We’re in it together, in case you forgot,” she says. They’re driving through Castle Rock now. It’s pretty dead. What Ray calls “the economy” has disappeared from this part of Maine. The Wal-Mart is on the other side of town, near the high school where Ray is a janitor. The Wal-Mart has its own stoplight. People joke about it.

“Penny wise and pound foolish,” he says. “You ever hear that one?”

“A million times, from you.”

He grunts. He can see the dog in the rearview mirror, watching her. He sort of hates the way Biz does that. It occurs to him that neither of them knows what they are talking about.

“And pull in at the Quik-Pik,” she says. “I want to get a kickball for Tallie’s birthday.” Tallie is her brother’s little girl. Ray supposes that makes her his niece, although he’s not sure that’s right, since all the blood is on Mary’s side.

“They have balls at Wal-Mart,” Ray says. “And everything’s cheaper at Wally World.”

“The ones at Quik-Pik are purple. Purple is her favorite color. I can’t be sure there’ll be purple at Wal-Mart.”

“If there aren’t, we’ll stop at the Quik-Pik on the way back.” He feels a great weight pressing down on his head. She’ll get her way. She always does on things like this. He sometimes thinks marriage is like a football game and he’s quarterbacking the underdog team. He has to pick his spots. Make short passes.

“It’ll be on the wrong side coming back,” she says—as if they are caught in a torrent of city traffic instead of rolling through an almost deserted little town where most of the stores are for sale. “I’ll just dash in and get the ball and dash right back out.”

At two hundred pounds, Ray thinks, your dashing days are over.

“They’re only ninety-nine cents,” she says. “Don’t be such a pinchpenny.”

Don’t be so pound foolish, he thinks, but what he says is “Buy me a pack of smokes while you’re in there. I’m out.”

“If you quit, we’d have an extra forty dollars a week. Maybe more.”

He saves up and pays a friend in South Carolina to ship him a dozen cartons at a time. They’re twenty dollars a carton cheaper in South Carolina. That’s a lot of money, even in this day and age. It’s not like he doesn’t try to economize. He has told her this before and will again, but what’s the point? In one ear, out the other.

“I used to smoke two packs a day,” he says. “Now I smoke less than half a pack.” Actually, most days he smokes more. She knows it, and Ray knows she knows it. That’s marriage after a while. The weight on his head gets a little heavier. Also, he can see Biz still looking at her. He feeds the damn dog, and he makes the money that pays for the food, but it’s her he’s looking at. And Jack Russells are supposed to be smart.

He turns into the Quik-Pik.

“You ought to buy them on Indian Island if you’ve got to have them,” she says.

“They haven’t sold tax-free smokes on the rez for ten years,” he says. “I’ve told you that, too. You don’t listen.” He pulls past the gas pumps and parks beside the store. There’s no shade. The sun is directly overhead. The car’s air-conditioner only works a little. They are both sweating. In the back seat, Biz is panting. It makes him look like he’s grinning.

“Well, you ought to quit,” Mary says.

“And you ought to quit those Little Debbies,” he says. He doesn’t want to say this—he knows how sensitive she is about her weight—but out it comes. He can’t hold it back. It’s a mystery.

“I don’t eat those no more,” she says. “Any, I mean. Anymore.”

“Mary, the box is on the top shelf. A twenty-four-pack. Behind the flour.”

“Were you snooping?” A flush rises in her cheeks, and he sees how she looked when she was still beautiful. Good-looking, anyway. Everybody said she was good-looking, even his mother, who didn’t like her otherwise.

“I was hunting for the bottle opener,” he says. “I had a bottle of cream soda. The kind with the old-fashioned cap.”

“Looking for it on the top shelf of the goddam cupboard!”

“Go in and get the ball,” he says. “And get me some smokes. Be a sport.”

“Can’t you wait until we get home? Can’t you even wait that long?”

“You can get the cheap ones,” he says. “That off-brand. Premium Harmony, they’re called.” They taste like homemade shit, but all right. If she’ll only shut up about it.

“Where are you going to smoke, anyway? In the car, I suppose, so I have to breathe it.”

“I’ll open the window. I always do.”

“I’ll get the ball. Then I’ll come back. If you still feel you have to spend four dollars and fifty cents to poison your lungs, you can go in. I’ll sit with the baby.”

Ray hates it when she calls Biz the baby. He’s a dog, and he may be as bright as Mary likes to boast when they have company, but he still shits outside and licks where his balls used to be.

“Buy a few Twinkies while you’re at it,” he tells her. “Or maybe they’re having a special on Ho Hos.”

“You’re so mean,” she says. She gets out of the car and slams the door. He’s parked too close to the concrete cube of a building and she has to sidle until she’s past the trunk of the car, and he knows she knows he’s looking at her, seeing how she’s now so big she has to sidle. He knows she thinks he parked close to the building on purpose, to make her sidle, and maybe he did.

“Well, Biz, old buddy, it’s just you and me.”

Biz lies down on the back seat and closes his eyes. He may stand up on his back paws and shuffle around for a few seconds when Mary puts on a record and tells him to dance, and if she tells him (in a jolly voice) that he’s a bad boy he may go into the corner and sit facing the wall, but he still shits outside.

He sits there and she doesn’t come out. Ray opens the glove compartment. He paws through the rat’s nest of papers, looking for some cigarettes he might have forgotten, but there aren’t any. He does find a Hostess Sno Ball still in its wrapper. He pokes it. It’s as stiff as a corpse. It’s got to be a thousand years old. Maybe older. Maybe it came over on the Ark.

“Everybody has his poison,” he says. He unwraps the Sno Ball and tosses it into the back seat. “Want that, Biz?”

Biz snarks the Sno Ball in two bites. Then he sets to work licking up bits of coconut off the seat. Mary would pitch a bitch, but Mary’s not here.

Ray looks at the gas gauge and sees it’s down to half. He could turn off the motor and roll down the windows, but then he’d really bake. Sitting here in the sun, waiting for her to buy a purple plastic kickball for ninety-nine cents when he knows they could get one for seventy-nine cents at Wal-Mart. Only that one might be yellow or red. Not good enough for Tallie. Only purple for the princess.

He sits there and Mary doesn’t come back. “Christ on a pony!” he says. Cool air trickles from the vents. He thinks again about turning off the engine, saving some gas, then thinks, Fuck it. She won’t weaken and bring him the smokes, either. Not even the cheap off-brand. This he knows. He had to make that remark about the Little Debbies.

He sees a young woman in the rearview mirror. She’s jogging toward the car. She’s even heavier than Mary; great big tits shuffle back and forth under her blue smock. Biz sees her coming and starts to bark.

Ray cracks the window an inch or two.

“Are you with the blond-haired woman who just came in? She your wife?” She puffs the words. Her face shines with sweat.

“Yes. She wanted a ball for our niece.”

“Well, something’s wrong with her. She fell down. She’s unconscious. Mr. Ghosh thinks she might have had a heart attack. He called 911. You better come.”

Ray locks the car and follows her into the store. It’s cold inside. Mary is lying on the floor with her legs spread and her arms at her sides. She’s next to a wire cylinder full of kickballs. The sign over the wire cylinder says “Hot Fun in the Summertime.” Her eyes are closed. She might be sleeping there on the linoleum. Three people are standing over her. One is a dark-skinned man in khaki pants and a white shirt. A nametag on the pocket of his shirt says “mr. ghosh manager.” The other two are customers. One is a thin old man without much hair. He’s in his seventies at least. The other is a fat woman. She’s fatter than Mary. Fatter than the girl in the blue smock, too. Ray thinks by rights she’s the one who should be lying on the floor.

“Sir, are you this lady’s husband?” Mr. Ghosh asks.

“Yes,” Ray says. That doesn’t seem to be enough. “Yes, I am.”

“I am sorry to say, but I think she might be dead,” Mr. Ghosh says. “I gave the artificial respiration and the mouth-to-mouth, but . . .”

Ray thinks of the dark-skinned man putting his mouth on Mary’s. French-kissing her, sort of. Breathing down her throat right next to the wire cylinder full of plastic kickballs. Then he kneels down.

“Mary,” he says. “Mary!” Like he’s trying to wake her up after a hard night.

She doesn’t appear to be breathing, but you can’t always tell. He puts his ear by her mouth and hears nothing. He feels air on his skin, but that’s probably just the air-conditioning.

“This gentleman called 911,” the fat woman says. She’s holding a bag of Bugles.

“Mary!” Ray says. Louder this time, but he can’t quite bring himself to shout, not down on his knees with people standing around. He looks up and says, apologetically, “She never gets sick. She’s healthy as a horse.”

“You never know,” the old man says. He shakes his head.

“She just fell down,” the young woman in the blue smock says. “Not a word.”

“Did she grab her chest?” the fat woman with the Bugles asks.

“I don’t know,” the young woman says. “I guess not. Not that I saw. She just fell down.”

There’s a rack of souvenir T-shirts near the kickballs. They say things like “My Parents Were Treated Like Royalty in Castle Rock and All I Got Was This Lousy Tee-Shirt.” Mr. Ghosh takes one and says, “Would you like me to cover her face, sir?”

“God, no!” Ray says, startled. “She might only be unconscious. We’re not doctors.” Past Mr. Ghosh, he sees three kids, teen-agers, looking in the window. One has a cell phone. He’s using it to take a picture.

Mr. Ghosh follows Ray’s look and rushes at the door, flapping his hands. “You kids get out of here! You kids get out!”

Laughing, the teen-agers shuffle backward, then turn and jog past the gas pumps to the sidewalk. Beyond them, the nearly deserted downtown shimmers. A car goes by pulsing rap. To Ray, the bass sounds like Mary’s stolen heartbeat.

“Where’s the ambulance?” the old man says. “How come it’s not here yet?”

Ray kneels by his wife while the time goes by. His back hurts and his knees hurt, but if he gets up he’ll look like a spectator.

The ambulance turns out to be a Chevy Suburban painted white with orange stripes. The red jackpot lights are flashing. “castle county rescue” is printed across the front, only backward, so you can read it in your rearview mirror.

The two men who come in are dressed in white. They look like waiters. One pushes an oxygen tank on a dolly. It’s a green tank with an American-flag decal on it. “Sorry,” he says. “Just cleared a car accident over in Oxford.”

The other one sees Mary lying on the floor. “Aw, gee,” he says.

Ray can’t believe it. “Is she still alive?” he asks. “Is she just unconscious? If she is, you better give her oxygen or she’ll have brain damage.”

Mr. Ghosh shakes his head. The young woman in the blue smock starts to cry. Ray wants to ask her what she’s crying about, then knows. She has made up a whole story about him from what he just said. Why, if he came back in a week or so and played his cards right, she might toss him a mercy fuck. Not that he would, but he sees that maybe he could. If he wanted to.

Mary’s eyes don’t react to the ophthalmoscope. One E.M.T. listens to her nonexistent heartbeat, and the other takes her nonexistent blood pressure. It goes on like that for a while. The teen-agers come back with some of their friends. Other people, too. Ray guesses they’re being drawn by the flashing red lights on top of the Suburban the way bugs are drawn to a porch light. Mr. Ghosh takes another run at them, flapping his arms. They back away again. Then, when Mr. Ghosh returns to the circle around Mary and Ray, they come back.

One of the E.M.T.s says to Ray, “She was your wife?”

“Right.”

“Well, sir, I’m sorry to say that she’s dead.”

“Mary, Mother of God,” the fat lady with the Bugles says. She crosses herself.

“Oh.” Ray stands up. His knees crack. “They told me she was.”

Mr. Ghosh offers one of the E.M.T.s the souvenir T-shirt to put over Mary’s face, but the E.M.T. shakes his head and goes outside. He tells the little crowd that there’s nothing to see, as if anyone’s going to believe a dead woman on the Quik-Pik floor isn’t interesting.

The E.M.T. yanks a gurney from the back of the rescue vehicle. He does it with a single flip of the wrist. The legs fold down all by themselves. The old man with the thinning hair holds the door open and the E.M.T. pulls his rolling deathbed inside.

“Whoo, hot,” the E.M.T. says, wiping his forehead.

“You may want to turn away for this part, sir,” the other one says, but Ray watches as they lift her onto the gurney. A sheet has been tucked down at the end of it. They pull it up all the way, until it’s over her face. Now Mary looks like a corpse in a movie. They roll her out into the heat. This time, the fat woman with the Bugles holds the door for them. The crowd has retreated to the sidewalk. There must be three dozen people standing in the unrelieved August sunshine.

When Mary is stored, the E.M.T.s come back. One is holding a clipboard. He asks Ray about twenty-five questions. Ray can answer all but the one about her age. Then he remembers she’s three years younger than he is and tells them thirty-five.

“We’re going to take her to St. Stevie’s,” the E.M.T. with the clipboard says. “You can follow us if you don’t know where that is.”

“I know,” Ray says. “What? Do you want to do an autopsy? Cut her up?”

The girl in the blue smock gives a gasp. Mr. Ghosh puts his arm around her, and she puts her face against his white shirt. Ray wonders if Mr. Ghosh is fucking her. He hopes not. Not because of Mr. Ghosh’s brown skin but because he’s got to be twice her age.

“Well, that’s not our decision,” the E.M.T. says, “but probably not. She didn’t die unattended—”

“I’ll say,” the woman with the Bugles interjects.

“—and it’s pretty clearly a heart attack. You can probably have her released to the mortuary almost immediately.”

Mortuary? An hour ago they were in the car, arguing. “I don’t have a mortuary,” Ray says. “Not a mortuary, a burial plot, nothing. What the hell? She’s thirty-five.”

The two E.M.T.s exchange a look. “Mr. Burkett, there’ll be someone to help you with all that at St. Stevie’s. Don’t worry about it.”

The E.M.T. wagon pulls out with the lights still flashing but the siren off. The crowd on the sidewalk starts to break up. The countergirl, the old man, the fat woman, and Mr. Ghosh look at Ray as though he’s someone special. A celebrity.

“She wanted a purple kickball for our niece,” he says. “She’s having a birthday. She’ll be eight. Her name is Talia. Tallie for short. She was named for an actress.”

Mr. Ghosh takes a purple kickball from the wire rack and holds it out to Ray in both hands. “On the house,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” Ray says, trying to sound equally solemn, and the woman with the Bugles bursts into tears. “Mary, Mother of God,” she says. She likes that one.

They stand around for a while, talking. Mr. Ghosh gets sodas from the cooler. These are also on the house. They drink their sodas and Ray tells them a few things about Mary. He tells them how she made a quilt that took third prize at the Castle County fair. That was in ’02. Or maybe ’03.

“That’s so sad,” the woman with the Bugles says. She has opened them and shared them around. They eat and drink.

“My wife went in her sleep,” the old man with the thinning hair says. “She just laid down on the sofa and never woke up. We were married thirty-seven years. I always expected I’d go first, but that’s not the way the good Lord wanted it. I can still see her laying there on the sofa.”

Finally, Ray runs out of things to tell them, and they run out of things to tell him. Customers are coming in again. Mr. Ghosh waits on some, and the woman in the blue smock waits on others. Then the fat woman says she really has to go. She gives Ray a kiss on the cheek before she does.

“Now you need to see to your business, Mr. Burkett,” she tells him. Her tone is both reprimanding and flirtatious.

He looks at the clock over the counter. It’s the kind with a beer advertisement on it. Almost two hours have gone by since Mary went sidling between the car and the cinder-block side of the Quik-Pik. And for the first time he thinks of Biz.

When he opens the door, heat rushes out at him, and when he puts his hand on the steering wheel to lean in he pulls it back with a cry. It’s got to be a hundred and thirty in there. Biz is dead on his back. His eyes are milky. His tongue is protruding from the side of his mouth. Ray can see the wink of his teeth. There are little bits of coconut caught in his whiskers. That shouldn’t be funny, but it is. Not funny enough to laugh at, but funny.

“Biz, old buddy,” he says. “I’m sorry. I forgot you were in here.”

Great sadness and amusement sweep over him as he looks at the baked Jack Russell. That anything so sad should be funny is just a crying shame.

“Well, you’re with her now, ain’t you?” he says, and this is so sad that he begins to cry. It’s a hard storm. While he’s crying, it comes to him that now he can smoke all he wants, and anywhere in the house. He can smoke right there at her dining-room table.

“You’re with her now, Biz,” he says again through his tears. His voice is clogged and thick. It’s a relief to sound just right for the situation. “Poor old Mary, poor old Biz. Damn it all!”

Still crying, and with the purple kickball still tucked under his arm, he goes back into the Quik-Pik. He tells Mr. Ghosh he forgot to get cigarettes. He thinks maybe Mr. Ghosh will give him a pack of Premium Harmonys on the house as well, but Mr. Ghosh’s generosity doesn’t stretch that far. Ray smokes all the way to the hospital with the windows shut and the air-conditioning on. 

[omega-al]

Owe me a Favor

Continued from Red Lipstick http://polychromaticat-blog.tumblr.com/post/161419354309/red-lipstick That was five years ago. Now, I was at this joint to meet the buyer. It was always a place like this, some shady nightclub that doesn’t open until eight, often with some of the previous night’s partiers still hanging out having drug-fueled orgies in the VIP section with the owner and his friends, the kinda place that doesn’t check for handguns because everyone is carrying, the kinda place the underworld loved, my kinda place.

My buyer was the fine owner of this establishment, the one I mentioned earlier, who was still engaged in some pretty rough sex with a waitress at the moment, which was why I was in here fixing my face for our first meeting. I finished applying my lipstick and walked over to the girl who was passed out in the corner. Using my gloved hand, I removed the needle and bent the girl’s arm to stem the flow of blood. She still had a pulse, so I gave her a bit of a shake, when that didn’t work, I splashed water in her face. When she came to she must’ve been really out of it because she looked at me like I was a monster and immediately got up and ran out of the bathroom. I’d done all I could do. She looked like a regular user, but young, too young. I might’ve had a problem too if I started when I was her age. Ma always used to tell me, “do enough to know what you’re selling, but don’t do it for any other reason, because once you got one reason, you can come up with a million more.” So I guess she was right about that too. Addiction is nasty, and I couldn’t afford to lose my edge.

Out in the bar, the place was still pretty deserted. Most of the sex stuff was over and the staff were cleaning up getting ready to do it all again. Some big dude was hosing off a greasy dance floor while the DJ was setting up. He nearly hit some of her equipment and a fight ensued and that had to be broken up by the bartender, a slick looking, fat Latino man in a colourful Hawaiian shirt. Maybe he could track down the owner so I could give him his shit, get my money, and get a fucking drink.

He told me his name was Jake and he was just coming on shift, while he was holding, what I learned was the bouncer Jami’s hand up and away from striking the DJ, whose name is Tamrika, she was being held by Jake’s other hand while she spit and screamed Spanish slurs at the bouncer. Jake was surprisingly strong for his stout misleading stature. He didn’t know where the owner had gone, but he knew who I was, and why I was here. He told me to go on up to the office while narrowly avoiding a kick from the flailing Tamrika. He said if the boss wasn’t there he surely would be soon. As I walked off he let go of both of them and whispered something in the space in between where they stood. I didn’t hear it, but both of them went silent and drained of colour. Then they looked at each other intensely and went back to what they were doing. The bouncer Jami was going to get the mop bucket as I headed upstairs, which meant he was going my way. I asked him what Jake had told them to get them to cool it so fast. The bouncer looked terrified and peeked over his shoulder to see if the door to the stairs was shut behind us before telling me. 

“They’re watching.” He told me, “They won’t just kill us, they’ll change us, make us one of them, they’ll make us kill our families.” He wouldn’t tell me who they were and just muttered something about getting out of here while I could, then he went back to filling up the mop bucket. He wouldn’t say anything else and just stared straight ahead, lost in his own personal horror. Now most people would brush that kind of crazy conspiracy talk off, but I had seen some strange things in my time, the least of which was my still living father out there somewhere hunting me. I knew enough to be wary, I took my gun from my purse and put it in the pocket of my wool raincoat. I was ready to be surprised.

When I reached the top of the stairs smoke was pouring out of the tiny office where my buyer sat on the phone having a heated conversation in Russian. He was smoking ugly black skinny cigars that smelled of thyme and donkey shit. He was a large balding man in his fifties, with at least three days of hair growth on his face. He was wearing most of a nice grey suit, but hadn’t managed to put on a shirt yet, of course, at first I didn’t notice because he was so hairy it was like he was wearing a shirt made of fur. He gestured for me to sit down, and wait a moment while he finished his call. I obliged, sitting in the chair across from him, while the conversation went on and on, eventually he was raising his voice and slamming his fat little fist on the desk. He was angry, but he looked tired, really tired. He looked like a man who had not slept well in weeks. He hung up with a slam and rested his head in his arm on the desk. We sat like this for almost a full minute before I cleared my throat loudly. He sat upright gave me a good long hard look before asking for the goods, he had a thick Russian accent. I presented the product and told him the stats, (and cost) of the rest of the shipment. I told him when he would receive it, and where and when we expected payment to be delivered. The entire time he was looking at me with a kind of familiarity that gave me the creeps.

He took a bump of the coke and sat back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, only after a few more minutes did he speak. He said, “I knew it would be you. They told me you were working for the Cartel now, gave me a picture of you, told me to watch for you and when you came in, to call them.” I asked him who they were, he got up and started putting on his shirt, buttoning it he said, “You know, I just didn’t know you’d be so young,” I slowly moved my hand in my pocket to the gun, my fingers round the trigger of the Striker, this was a conflicted man. I needed more information from him. “I called them you know, they’re on their way here now.��� I could tell he wanted to tell me, but he was holding back. “Listen, you seem like a nice girl and I do like your coke, and I hear you’re pretty good with a gun you could be very valuable to someone like me, so I’ll make you a deal. I’ll let you out the back door and you will owe me a favor in the future. The next time you’re through town, you come by.” 

I asked him again, “who are they?”

“Oh I think you know Judy, I think you know who’s coming after you.” There was a darkness in his eyes, the look of someone who has seen real monsters, someone who has real reasons, to be afraid.

If they knew who I was working for, it was time to disappear again, and this time, that would be hard. I was in deep. “Go now Judy, if you go down the hall to the bathroom there is a window that leads to a fire escape out in the back alley. They’ll be here soon, tell your boss it’s a deal, I’ll be seeing you.” These last few words were a command not a suggestion.

As I descended silently into the night I could see two cars pulling up out front of the club, a big grey van and a big black sedan.

[donkeykongliker]

Sheriff Niles - A Cheers/Frasier Expanded Universe Fanfiction

Niles sat on the precipice of the cliff and let out a long, satisfied breath. The sun was setting over the little old west town he had come to call home, drenching the sand in red and orange, interrupted by the cool winding shadows of rock formations both near and in the distance. It had been a big change, leaving his old life as a psychiatrist and coming here in his brother Frasier’s time machine, but he had never been happier. 

He would never forget the day it had arrived. He was at Frasier’s apartment, watching TV with his Father and Daphne. Daphne. He still thought about her, but every time he did he was slightly ashamed at how long it had been. Ever since he had fallen in love with that whore from the saloon and had sex for the first time it had changed his life immeasurably. Frasier had been embroiled in a conflict with a caller on his radio show, someone who had called Frasier a “big doody,” and of course had shanghaied his closest family members into helping him resolve the issue. In a moment that had seemed to last an instant and stech into forever, the room was filled with a brilliant flash of light, every color of the spectrum and yet its very own. The light vanished and in its stead was a mahogany box the size of a closet that was puffing odorless purple smoke out of an exhaust pipe on its side. 

Out came Frasier, drenched in blood. Frasier, of course, was still where he was moments ago, mouth now agape, staring at this new Frasier wildly. But new was the wrong word to describe him, the Frasier that stepped out of this box was grey and overgrown, his skin wrinkled and spotted, his red hangdog eyes drinking in the scene. He seemed distant from this place now, estranged from his idiom. He sniffed the air and approached his doppelgänger. He whispered something in his ear, and then turned to the rest of the room and announced that the time machine he had come into now belonged to them, to do with whatever they saw fit. He then sloped toward the door, patted Eddie on the head, and rode down the elevator, never to be seen by anyone in that room again. 

It started small at first. After the initial shock wore off, Frasier took the opportunity to take his family on a tour through his glory days at Cheers. The young barflies took an interest, and a couple of them ended up joining them on their further adventures through history. These were wonderful days to be sure, seeing King Lear performed by Shakespeare’s company, “running into” Sigmund Freud and had a wonderful, mind expanding discussion, standing on the stony and firey surface of an earth still millions of years from supporting life.

Time Travel quickly wears on a person, however, and after a (relative) year of timehopping Niles and a few of the others had expressed a desire to settle down for a while. Niles had won a deed to a small town in the old west in a poker game some months back, and thought it a good opportunity to create a community for this group of people who no longer seemed to fit anywhere else in space and time. He became the sheriff, a role he was surprised at how easily he fit into. His father would have been proud, had he not gone insane shortly after seeing the two Frasiers in the same room at the same time. 

He had put Carla in charge of the saloon, a place not unlike Cheers, and with much of the same clientele, with the important distinction that the clientele was made up of “time variants” of the regulars. Carla herself was 80 years old and completely bald. Woody was still in his prime, lifting casks and crates and ranching in his off time. Four Norms from four times each sat at their own corner of the bar. Cliff had died during one of their adventures, but they had uploaded a copy of his consciousness to a wisecracking computer console that stood in the corner and answered any trivia question you could ask it, much to the chagrin of Carla, who had only ever really liked Cliff for his sexual availability whenever those times came that her husband would show up, impregnate and abandon her. Sam “Mayday” Malone had also died, of an advanced future STD that made his body collapse in on itself and turned his bones into chalk. Coach was alive and puttering around though, so that was nice. 

Some of their friends from Seattle had come along as well, although Niles did not like to think about that too much. Roz was of course doing fine, taking the opportunity to become the promiscuous gunslinging outlaw she seemed to have been destined to become. But Gil Chesterton did not make it through the winter, having refused to adjust his lifestyle to the hard conditions of the desert, and he had had to hang “Bulldog” Briscoe for the unspeakable time crimes he had committed, crimes so severe they cannot bear repeating here. Niles wondered often if they would ever know the extent of the damage he had caused, at one time theorizing that the root of man’s evil could be traced back to the Bulldog. He had not seen Frasier in over ten years.

It would soon be too dark to safely climb down the mountain and back into town, so Niles stood up, brushed off his pants, and began his walk. Just then, time froze and Niles’ eyes were filled with a brilliant symphony of light that he knew could only mean one thing. He approached the smoking time machine. A mustached man who was just around fifty years out of step with time stepped out. Niles felt that he had seen this man somewhere before, that he knew him in some way. 

“Dr. Crane?” the man asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” Niles replied.

H.G. Wells shot Niles in the stomach and went back into his time machine. 

H.G. Wells knew this day had been coming for years. That was nothing new, he had known practically everything that was going to happen for longer than he hadn’t, but today felt different. He felt a sick feeling in his gut, but there was a relief to it. He would no longer be burdened by the weight of all time and soon he would be able to freely rejoin it. He checked his watch. Any second now.

The room filled with light and a haggard, hardened man with wild grey hair strode out of the time machine. Wells squinted. The long forgotten sensation of uncertainty began to creep up through his spine. This couldn’t be it, this couldn’t be the man who was supposed to be here. He had to be sure.

“Dr. Crane?” H.G. Wells asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” Frasier replied.

Frasier shot H.G. Wells in the stomach, crossed the room to the original time machine, and disappeared.

[iwritewithanaxe]

The Fire Hunt, Volume One, Chapter 1

—Are they still following us? —the demon asked.

  —What do you think? —answered the huntress.

  They had been escaping for almost two hours from their pursuers, Sir Louis the Bald and Sir Lance the Secondary. They were on foot, while those following them rode horses.

              —A forest —growled the druid, changing directions immediately to said place. The huntress, the demon and the dragonslayer had no option but to go with him.

              —You do know that is an enchanted forest, right? —asked the dragonslayer, getting close to his companion’s ear. The only answer he got was some sort of bark—. I will take that as a yes.

  The four of them got into the grove. With each step they took, the trunks became closer to each other. Dusk joined the canopy in a few minutes, hiding them completely under a mantle of darkness.

  With just seeing the forest, Louis and Lance knew it was already late. They knew that enchanted place. Their mounts wouldn’t be able to advance correctly after the first ten meters, and they wouldn’t be able to move correctly when dismounting, it’d be impossible in those swamped soils, and worse would they have to fight surrounded by branches.

              —I think they stopped following us already —said, several minutes later, the demon.

              —Had you not noticed? —the druid answered crudely to him, stopping his march. The huntress and the demon also stopped advancing—. You can get down now.

              —Right now, my friend —said the dragonslayer, dismounting.

  The druid then stood back up. His extremities ceased being those of a bear, the antlers disappeared from his head, and his wolf face went back to the human form.

              —We’ll trust your instinct, Cuno —said the huntress, taking an arrow from her quiver. Her companion let out a growl, that didn’t sound different from those he emitted in his bestial shape.

              —Not giving us any other option, don’t you think? —told the demon to the dragonslayer. He nodded.

  They advanced in line through a narrow path between the trunks. At the front, was Cunobelinos, the druid, moving branches out of the way with his huge arms, and sniffing through the thick beard. Few meters behind him was the huntress, Emer, with an arrow resting on her bowstring, keeping an eye on every corner of the grove. Peacefully following her was Leofsige, called the demon, twirling his battle axe lazily in his left hand, while the right, covered in binds and spikes, rested on his belt. At the end of the line, looking back every once in a while, with his shield and spear ready, was Ellanher the dragonslayer, walking with heavy steps.

  Suddenly, the druid stopped. They thought they had been walking for an hour, but it was impossible to distinguish the passing of the day through the canopy. In that forest, night was permanent.

              —I knew I knew these trees —he said, sniffing with more attention than before.

              —Is any your friend? —asked the demon.

              —Sadly, in woods like this one, trees do not make friends —the druid answered, not giving him much attention, while observing the leafs and feeling the barks—, but, years ago, I met a woman here… a good friend.

              —You have women friends? —Leofsige continued. The druid didn’t even hear him, focused on a trail he had just found, but the huntress looked at him strangely, and the dragonslayer let out a weak laugh.

              —I got it —then, Cunobelinos’ hands turned back to claws, and hair covered them again, up to his shoulders. In a few seconds, he had climbed a huge and thick tree of bluish leafs—, she is here.

              —Are you talking about me, druid? —at the top of another tree, in an incredibly relaxed stance even though she was standing on three branches, there was a woman. She looked notoriously strong and well armed, with three knives sheathed at her waist, an oval shaped shield in her left hand and a morning star in the right, and four javelins at her back, over a short fur cape.

              —Precisely, ransacker —the man answered, walking through the canopy to her, with unexpected agility for someone his size.

  They exchanged greetings and respects, using the old and almost dead idiom of the Celts.

              —I missed so much talking to someone in my language —said the druid.

              —I think last time I used these words was when we first met —she answered.

              —Really? I would have thought there would be someone else, with your traveling.

              —I travel as much as you, maybe less, and undoubtedly with less company.

              —Have you stayed alone?

              —Well, yes and no. Two days ago a pair of north men arrived to this forest.

              —Scandinavian?

              —Slav.

              —Your same blood.

              —They are nice… weird, but nice. Come with me, we have a camp set up.

  With a jump, and a landing that made the floor tremble, the druid went back to his companions.

              —Follow me —he said, once again speaking Spanish, the only common language between the four of them.

              —Have we done anything else? —the demon asked, but Cunobelinos had already turned back, entering the trees.

              —Sooner or later, you’ll realize he doesn’t even understand your jokes —said the huntress to him, going after the druid. Leofsige followed her, and then the dragonslayer, after laughing.

  They arrived, the five of them, at a clearing almost completely insulated, surrounded by tree walls on every side. The earth of the soil was dry, and there were some spots of light entering through the canopy.

              —Welcome to where stars are visible every moment —said a kind voice, in a Spanish covered by Slav accent.

              —Hello —said another voice in the same way, except much calmer.

  As the ransacker had told the druid, there were two men, sitting on the floor around a campfire. One of them, the more charismatic and first to greet them, looked strong even with how thin he was. He wore an austere suit of armor, made of some leather and fur, and even less metal, but camouflaged, and carried several visible weapons: A guan dao, a saber, a machete, an English longbow, and a pair of knives. The other man, notoriously more relaxed, was taller and thinner, with a simple gambeson reinforced with metal over his clothes, but not much less armed. Over his back there was a two handed sword and a Mongol bow, he also carried two knives, and on his hand he held a lute.

              —Hunter, bard, this is the druid —said Cunobelinos’ friend.

              —A pleasure —he started—, I’m accompanied by the huntress, the demon, and the dragonslayer.

              —Pleased to meet you —said the man with the lute, the bard surely, putting some notes from the instrument after his words.

              —A demon and a dragonslayer? Where have we ended up? —said the other man, smiling, apparently the hunter.

              —To an enchanted forest, according to this guy here —Leofsige answered, pointing at Ellanher.

  Greetings were exchanged as the newcomers sat around the fire.

              —How did Cunobelinos and you met? —asked Emer to the ransacker, uncapping her waterskin.

              —It was… four years ago —she started—, in this very forest. I had just killed an entire garrison and burned down a castle, and several others were after me, when this giant came across.

              —You bumped into me outside that fiefdom —said the druid, eating some seeds he had just picked from the floor.

              —Wait, you alone burned down a garrison and killed a castle? —the hunter asked, opening his eyes in amazement.

              —There weren’t more than ten soldiers, and it was a small castle —said the ransacker—, but then there were almost fifty after me. After I bumped into him, he saw my pursuers, and told me to follow him. As his smell was almost identical to that of a bear, I decided to trust him, and we ended up here.

              —Because of his smell? Seriously? —the dragonslayer wanted to know, taking off his mail shirt.

              —I have never been betrayed by a bear or anyone that smells like one, have you? —the woman answered to him.

              —… Well, that makes sense. Go on, please.

              —We stepped into this woods, waiting the soldiers wouldn’t come in, but some of them did. They were few… it was strange. In that moment, I learned what an enchanted forest can do, and why they are called that. With every step we took, we heard the scream of one more soldier. When we had taken fourteen steps… silence. Something in the forest noticed we were its allies, like now it notices we all are.

              Cuno, it was you, right? —the huntress asked the druid.

              —No. At the time, my knowledge of the roots was even less than now. I could communicate with them, so I could hear their intentions, but nothing else.

              —And, are you sure Sir Bald didn’t follow us into this woods? —inquired the demon.

              —Yes, I am. They made a very good decision not entering here.

              —How unlucky are we.

              —Sir Bald? You mean the French man? —the bard asked, leaving his lute silent.

              —You know him? —asked Emer, rather impressed.

              —Maybe, you mean the French man? —the bard insisted, as impressed as her.

              —Yeah, he’s French. Another French man accompanies him, named Lance, whom you probably know as… —started the demon, up until the hunter interrupted him.

              —The Secondary?

              —Exactly. I think that answers our huntress’ question. How did you came to know them?

              —I would bet, just as you —the hunter said.

              —He chased us once because of… something far less spectacular than the ransacker’s story —the bard added.

              —Then spare us that story —said the demon, incapable of avoiding his laughter right after he finished.

              —Don’t listen to him —Emer intervened—, tell us, please.

              —I had already stopped listening to him —said the hunter.

              —Well, it was in a village, in Iberia, some years ago —the bard begun narrating, accompanying his words with some chords from his instrument—. There were rumors and murmurs about a beast, dog-like in appearance, devouring the livestock. We volunteered to find it, they offered us bounties for finding it, so we went to find it. We brought death to the beast that very night. When delivering it’s corpse, some cows got scared. Looking at and smelling that body, for sure. A torch or a lamp or a candle, we never knew, something fell and set something else aflame and, within minutes, half the village was on fire. Just our luck, there they were, the two French knights, the Bald and the Secondary. Just as the guilt fell upon us, which was quite quick if you ask me, they also fell upon us, so we escaped.

              —I’m surprised at how your story is far less exciting that the ransacker’s one, but still you can make it sound far more exiting —said the demon, when he knew the narration was over.

              —That is what he is a bard for —the hunter told him.

              —By the way, you were right —the huntress said to him—. We met them in a very similar way.

              —As I don’t want to even remember that cursed day —Leofsige intervened—, I must ask about your weapon —he said, looking at the hunter—. Where did you get that thing?

              —It is a guan dao, from China —the smiling man begun—. You would be surprised to see what some merchants bring sometimes.

              —Do they bring things like him? —the demon asked, pointing at the druid. The dragonslayer, the huntress, the ransacker, and both of the Slav men laughed. The demon would have smiled at the success of his comment, but he was stopped short by a smack to the head from the druid—. I must thank you for not turning your hand to that of a bear, my good friend.

              —Do not think I did not have that idea —the huge man answered, sitting again.

  Time passed under the stars of the canopy, while no one was capable of knowing if the sky was lighted by either the sun or the moon. Some hours went by when the first of those present fell asleep. A little after, a second one, and a third.

              —In moments like this, my friend —the huntress started telling the druid, but a yawn interrupted her—, I envy your capacity of sleeping on the trees.

              —Soon we will have a caravan, do not worry —he told her, right before she wrapped herself in her cloak, and fell asleep.

  “There is no danger nearby” Cunobelinos thought, “there is no need to climb up a trunk”.

  The ransacker thought the same thing and, while the others slept covered in wool, fur and leather, the two of them, each on a side of the clearing, fell asleep with no other cover than the forest’s presence.

  End of Chapter 1