#so im paying like a hundred bucks to get disappointed

[xmimikyuusx]

Maybe it's just my bad RNG but whenever my partner wants to commission art of our OCs I internally grimace. I might as well just be throwing money into a hole because it's been like three different times now that I pay someone and get literally nothing for months and then they disappear. I'm kinda over it.

[saladbarselectionmenu]

Horses are Tyrian cryptids

Halloween 2020 prompt 1: cryptids @tyrias-library

Listen this is technically late but I just wanted to write about horses as cryptids because it remains the funniest thing in the world to me that tyria is just, completely horseless and lets be real horses are absolutely terrifying when you actually think about them.

(X) this is the noise I was envisioning the horse to be making, for those of you who like me have never really heard a horse being mad, enjoy this new weird knowledge you have of exactly how freaky and reptilian they sound. I also understand better the idea of sounding “hoarse.”

if im hyperlinking this right you can read on Ao3 Here (X) Otherwise click to continue!

Evening on the ranch is quiet - with the skyscales fed and cared for the only sounds filtering through the kitchen were the soft clicks of a knife on a chopping board as Amadaria prepared dinner and the faint, nearly imperceptible hum of Emerics data pad. The gentle scene washed in the swaying golden light of sunset where it filtered through the trees.

“THERE’S A HORSE AT THE WATERFALL.” Cheza shrieks as she crashes through the door, her momentum nearly sending her head over heels and saving her from the knife that goes sailing out the open door around where her head was a moment before.

The kitchen pauses any previous activity save for Cheza panting furiously for breath, Amadaria quickly retracting her arm back down before clearing her throat, “A horse, Cheza?” The young sylvari bobbles her head, desperation and excitement beaming from her face and posture as she waves her arms erratically out the door, “It has to be! It looks like a centaur but it has no arms! Just a big, long face and these weird teeth!” she says, putting her hands up in front of her face, parallel to each other with wrists close to her mouth and fingers pointing outwards before wiggling them back and forth in what apparently approximate teeth to her? Amadaria wasn’t sure but knew better than to ask why exactly that meant teeth or it’d be several more hours before they got back to the possible horse sighting.

“Ah, I thought horses were extinct? Or so close to that they may as well have been, Are you sure you didn't see some kind of monstrous deer?” Emeric suggests gently, “we are after all in melandru’s domain, there are a few massive versions of animals here and horses haven't been sighted in hundreds of years at the least.” “No way! This thing didn’t look anything like a deer, not even like Hellal! It’s legs were way too thick, and it’s tail was this big, long thing! Like human hair instead of like a deer's cute little tail, and it’s hooves were wrong and so was it’s face! There’s no way it was anything but a horse,” Cheza paused then as a new idea visibly crossed her mind, hands fisting by her chest in excitement, her eyes and face literally lighting up like a lightbulb with her bright, white glow, “or maybe, a new species?!” “A horse would be more likely, it even sounds like you got a good look at it” Amadaria interrupts, deciding to put that idea to rest before it could take hold and leave the younger disappointed. Switching her attention to Emeric before continuing. “As you say this is the living section of Dragonfall and if there's anywhere a horse is going to be found it’s in the ruins of the human nature God domain.” she switches her attention back to Cheza then, raising the ridge of one ‘eyebrow’ “The real question is whether it was alive or not.” The youngest pauses, face scrunching as she recalls. Her glow dimming slightly as she thought, “I think so,” she says finally, “It wasn’t glowing or giving off that mist like the guardians here do, but sometimes I think things here get confused on whether they’re dead or not too.” Amadaria nods, clapping her hands together and drying them off on a towel, “Well then, sounds like we have a new sighting to find!” Chezas glow and expression flicks right back up to megawatt standards. ---

Crouched in the trees atop their skyscales, Cheza visibly vibrating with excitement atop her shimmerwing while Emeric clung to Amadarias back as if the slightest shift would send him plummeting to his death at the end of the maybe fifteen foot fall, Amadaria has to admit that Cheza does, in fact, seem to have found a horse. Something no one had managed in either the campaign against Kralkatorrik nor in the intervening near year of the island being studied and inhabited.

There at the edge of the waterfall pool, drinking from the water and paying absolutely zero attention to the three people crouched on dragons fifty feet away from it stood a truly bizarre looking creature.

Long, thick legs with chunky cowlike hooves stretched almost six feet leading into a body covered in short gleaming chestnut fur stretched over an almost ridiculous amount of muscle. Sure enough it’s tail was a swath of overlong but graceful hair, flicking back and forth lazily at nothing.

The horse’s strangest feature however had to be on the front. Amadaria was old enough for most of her visions of The Dream to have come and gone, leaving it a smear of memory in her mind slowly losing its clarity, with Ventari more of a memory imprint than properly remembered. She had, however, seen more than enough centaur in her waking life to find the lack of torso jutting from the creatures front to be particularly jarring.

Instead its wide neck arched down into an oblong head with pointed ears and the truly impressive but blunt teeth Cheza had tried to imitate in the kitchen. It’s eyes were wide, dark and shining. Much like a deer or a goat they popped bulbously out to either side of it’s head.

“Should we try and catch it?” Cheza hissed, the horses ear flicking in their direction before it went back to ignoring them.

“Maybe we should wait and see if it has a herd?” Emeric suggested, daring to lean forward to get an inches closer look.

“We might lose it. Go for catch and release and we’ll get a tracking tag on it. That way we can follow it’s movements too.” she tapped Emerics hands and shifted so he could let her go, a practised shuffle leaving him with the reigns in hands and Amadaria on the branches of the tree. A shimmer of light later her crystalline wings were half furled and ready for take off. 

“Herd it towards the roots and I'll see if I can get on it’s back for implanting the chip.”

The other two nod and launch, the horse suddenly paying attention as the two dragons sweep around the outer edges of the pond and cut off it’s escape. Emeric hovering low to the ground and stopping it retreating as Cheza sped in to herd it forward. The horse took off like a shot with a sound not unlike a raptor - sprinting head long at the tree but not without trying to force Cheza from the sky, rearing and swerving like it wanted to catch the skyscales wings in it’s teeth or under its hooves and wasn’t picky which.

Quicker than she would have thought the three are near enough to Amadaria for her to leap off onto it as it sprints past the roots of her tree, the creature coming to a sudden stop with a spray of water and leaping into the air as soon as her arms get around its neck. Bucking, writhing and rearing the creature does its absolute best to get her off and - if the way its eyes were rolling in fury were any indication - trample her to death under its hooves.

Thankfully the tracking gun is an easy application, Amadaria shimmies up it’s back and snags the ear in the pincers of the gun, a quick button later and the horse is tagged with the small blinking light that indicates an active tracking signal. The horse lets out another growl like snort at deafening volume and slams itself onto all fours, getting ready to buck. Using it to her advantage Amadaria uses the extra force to boost herself into the air just a bit higher than a normal take off would allow and soars up out of the furious creatures reach. The animal stomped and reared at her where she hovered a good forty feet above it, giving off one last truly atrocious noise before galloping off as Cheza and Emeric circled back around to meet her on the ground.

Her feet thumping down on landing nearly cover up the sound of her heart in her ears, exhilaration racing through her veins as Amadaria meets the others excited grins with a buoyant beam of her own, “I think we can call that a success!” she laughed.

Cheza cheered as Emeric beamed his own proud smile down at Amadaria. “How does it feel to be the first person to ride a horse in the last few hundred years?” he asked. Another giddy laugh bubbled out of her, unstoppable in her mirth, “Probably about as good as it feels to be the first to see one! I can’t wait to see the looks the other Priory members will have when they hear about this!” She grins up at Cheza, “You have first sight so you get final say on the name of the paper, any thoughts?” Two weeks later the first chapter of “The Shrieking Menace - an account of the rediscovery of horses by Cheza, Amadaria and Emeric” rolls out to datapads across the continent, resulting in renewed clamour for research opportunities on the island and a spike of funding from quite a few human nobles.

[dont-sneeze]

I don’t know what this is but I hope you enjoy?

The year was 1899. It was two a.m. in Manhattan, New York. Because it was night and every sane person was sleeping, there wasn’t much noise compared to the daytime. It was quiet now, nice for thinking and reflecting. During the daytime, one could see and hear the cry of newsboys all over the city, trying to make their living on half a penny a paper-

“Yeah, yeah they all know the plot, C.” Jack commented leaning against the railing of his rooftop penthouse. “That’s why they’re reading this in the first place. You can just go on with the Angst so we can get it over with.”

“Jack.” Crutchie limped up next to him. “Be nice. She’s trying out a new style of writing. You should be honored she even writes about us. After all, we are just a bunch of nobody’s to the rest of the world.”

“Yeah, well I don’t appreciate all she’s put us through. It hurts. Over and over and over.”

“But it always turns out happy in the end. That’s why we’re still here.” Crutchie reached over and took Jack’s hand.

Jack tried to keep the scowl on his face, but it didn’t stay for long once he looked at Crutchies hopeful expression. “Okay, okay fine.” Crutchie beamed at Jack as he rolled his eyes. “Go on with your story, C. Just try not to break us too much. Can you at least tell us why we’re still awake so late at night?”

The stars seemed to sparkle with amusement. Jack didn’t even notice that Crutchie had sat back down over the ledge, his legs dangling off while looking into the empty streets below. Jack looked down at the brown haired boy, wondering-

“Woah, hang on. Since when was Crutchies hair brown?” Jack interrupted. “It’s blond. And when the sun shines on it, it’s like the sun is kissing it. It’s beautiful. Not brown. That’s my hair, dark and dirty and gross. Crutchie has the best hair in the world.” Jack placed his hand on Crutchies shoulder, causing Crutchie to look over at him. “Crutchie is the best in the world.” He whispered, looking into Crutchies eyes deeply.

“Jack, you’re getting sappy.” Crutchie looked up. “I think she’s just basing me off Andy Richardson in this story.”

“And who is she basing me off of? I got four options who all have the same hair color. There’s no other way to describe me.” He complained, making Crutchie chuckle.

“Just let her tell the story. Maybe this one will be happy?”

“You gazing out into the night sky at two in the morning can’t be happy.”

“Shush! Let her write it!”

Jack sighed heavily, looking down at his brother. “Okay, but you feeling okay? You haven’t slept in a few days.”

“I’m fine, Jack.” Crutchie pulled his legs up to his chest. “Really. I just can’t sleep.”

“I know. But you need sleep.” Jack sat down next to Crutchie.

“I’m so tired, Jack. But every time I close my eyes, I see that awful place and suddenly I’m wide awake again because I can’t go back there.”

“You won’t, I promise you won’t ever go back there. I know how awful it is, and I won’t let anything like that happen to you again. Never. I refuse to let it happen. Hear me?”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Well, not if C keeps writing these stories. Then no. I can’t promise it. I’d like to promise it; but that’s not possible, knowing the way she writes.”

“Jack, why are you focusing on the negative here?” Crutchie tried to reach out and take his hand.

Jack shook his head, and pulled his hand away, standing up. “Because that’s what 90% of her stories are! For some reason she rips us apart-”

“But only to bring us together again, closer than before.”

“But at what price, Crutch? I’m terrified that one of these days she’s gonna write something that will keep us apart from each other, and I can’t take that right now. Crutch, I just… I can’t bear the through of loosing you, not again!”

“You won’t loose me, Jack.”

“But I already did once. When you died… I fell apart. I couldn’t sleep or eat or breathe… and I can’t take that again.”

“She’s not gonna make me die again, Jack. That was a one time thing when she needed to put her emotions on you.”

“Oh yeah, because I deserve all this?”

“Jack, stop. She’s going through a hard time in her life right now. Maybe she just likes seeing us overcome struggle? Maybe she wants to tell herself that if we can do it, she can too.”

“I… maybe.” Jack seemed to take this idea in a new way. He almost half smiled. “So we’re helping her build her self confidence?”

“Maybe not that, but seeing her work through her problems while writing dozens of story’s all the time makes me proud of her. And it’s interesting to figure out how she’s feeling with the story’s content.”

“Oh yeah? Give me some examples then.” Jack sighed heavily.

“If you come sit back down by me I would. Im still exhausted and maybe if we can finish this story quick enough I can sleep. But we can’t finish until you agree to.”

“If you can give me examples, then I will let her finish the story without interrupting.” Jack promised, sitting back down.

Crutchie curled into his side. “Well. There was that one she wrote about when I was in the hospital because I fell out of a tree?”

Jack snorted. “Yeah. That one wasn’t really realistic.”

“It doesn’t matter, Jack. She wrote it because she was sick of a certain rule that was set for her own safety, but she didn’t want to ignore the rule because she knew she could get hurt herself. And writing that story reminded her how she could get hurt and how disappointed everyone would be in her.”

“Okay, well that’s one out of hundreds of them.” Jack unconsciously examined Crutchies arm, just to make sure it wasn’t broken.

“And one of my least favorites is one of my favorites because of the story behind it.” Crutchie continued, as he played with Jack’s fingers. “The one where you kinda turned to the dark side and were a jerk to me… i lived in the hospital, and you told me you would pay me 500 bucks if I walked across the city to your apartment. I did it because I needed the money to pay my hospital bill and stay alive. And when I did you laughed in my face and-”

“Yes, I would like to not remember that whole story, thank you.” Jack grumbled. “I hated that. I hated what I did to you. How could writing that possible help her with anything?”

“Because she might have had a best friend turn on her, and she felt completely alone and vilified by the world. She didn’t know what else to do, and didn’t like the ending she got. So she gave us the same situation, but with a happier ending.”

“She had a friend who really did that to her?”

“Well her friend might have not made her walk across the city, but they could have made her feel stupid and useless and unloved.”

“Oh.” Jack leaned his head on Crutchies shoulder, then decided to just reposition and lie his head in Crutchies lap. “That’s horrible.”

“Aren’t you glad she chose us to help put her feelings into words?” Crutchie began to run his hands through Jack’s hair.

“I wouldn’t say glad because I hated every word that came out of my mouth, but yeah, I guess. But I still need another example.”

“You’re needy, Jack.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Jack replied. His eyes were closed, and he was just feeling the wonderful sensation of Crutchie playing with his hair.

“Remember that story about us going out west and meeting her at the restaurant where she works?” Crutchie asked quietly. He was exhausted. But he couldn’t go to sleep, even if he wanted to. Playing with Jack’s hair helped a lot though, knowing that Jack was real, and not the refuge. Not anymore.

Jack scowled. “The one where you got lost for three days?”

“Hey, that one wasn’t that bad.”

“Crutchie I was worried sick about you! I couldn’t eat or sleep, I didn’t know if I would ever find you again!”

“But you did, Jack. And we’re okay again.”

“And what was the point of that one anyway, huh?” Jack sat up, much to Crutchies dismay. “She loose a friend once and found ‘em a few days later?”

“She’s lonely Jack. You could tell when she first started talking to us when we came in. She just wants a friend.”

“She’s got plenty of friends.” Jack scoffed. “Em and Kayde and Ammon and Joey-”

“And how long has it been since she’s seen those friends in real life?” Crutchie interrupted. “Most of her friends she’s never even met in person! And the friend she does know in person, what was it, thanksgiving when she last saw Ammon? She thrives on physical contact, and when there’s no one around you feel comfortable with-it’s draining. You of all people should know this Mister Jack can’t take my hands off anyone for a second Kelly.”

Jack didn’t say anything in reply, for the first time actually understanding and realizing.

“I was her friend. She could open up to me. She felt comfortable and happy for the first time in months.”

“Yeah you two were partying while I was sick with worry. Why do I always get the lousy end of the deal?” Jack pressed his thumbs on the bridge of his nose.

“You don’t. You just take it worse then me.”

Jack only grumbled in reply.

“Can we move on with the story now?”

“You’re always so positive about this.” Jack shook his head.

“No. I’m just saying all this to make her happy so she can write me sleeping.”

“Maybe you can ask her nicely?” Jack suggested, pulling Crutchie against him.

“Yeah…” Crutchie yawned and leaned against Jack, feeling warm and safe.

“Just breathe and remember I’m right here.” Jacks soothing voice came in, and Crutchie felt overwhelmed with a happy feeling and when his eyes slipped closed, he didn’t dream about the refuge.

[nate-the-ok]

Sugar Napkins Glass

One of my larger projects, written in a particular mood, then I got out of the mood. Lost interest. Its a time investment, fair warning

Sugar, Napkins, Glass: Chapter 1

           Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The things sea air does to cream cheese.

           Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. (Three more furious scraping sessions)

It was late evening on the isles of Costa Marco, and Greg Sattle was deeply contemplating how drowning actually felt as he psychologically held his nose and cleaned the day`s cream cheese stains from the floors of his seaside café, The Port Side. He certaintly never imagined himself as the owner of some cream-colored scene out of a Martha Stewart Magazine, but crazier things have been done for love. Well perhaps not, Greg thought to himself. Ships were launched. Hundreds, perhaps thousands have died. But no one surely would subject themselves to ten years of imprisonment in a coffee shop. Her name, as apt as names go, has changed over the years. First, it was Elizabeth. Then, it was Liz. Then it was Ellie. After that it was Mom. Now its…well there are a plethora of profanities on Costa Marco relating to nagging old sea hags.

As the sun set over the ocean waves, bubbling and rippling the light from a distance, inducing a trance-like state for all of the barely clothed onlookers, Greg scanned the beaches, reigning down his mighty judgement upon all of god`s creation.

“Perverts. Sicophants. Mankind is a disgusting thing. All of these people, living artificial lives in artificial clothes, with artificial personalities, having sex with each other and drinking and lazing about. The fat jiggling bipeds live meaningless lives, consuming and consuming and consuming. A colony of walruses lives with more honor”

While deep in his sociopathic rants, Greg`s only son and heir to his legacy, Samuel, sauntered over to his father.

“Hey uhh, dad”

Greg hated his son. He was positive that he was the dumbest person on the entire island. No, the entire planet. It wasn`t even that that bothered him. It was his stupid, rage inducing manner of speech. It was a cross between the calm, swaying way of the islanders, and a lifetime of listening to the worst music god ever created. It was like listening to a four year old whine about having wet himself for 23 years. There were many occasions where Greg would chuckle to himself as Sam stubbed his toe on a door, or got beat up by a gang of street thugs. Ah the glories of cosmic justice he thought to himself. Now he approaches, likely to ask for something, as all weak willed individuals do on a regular basis.

“Yes Sam?” Greg said with obvious disdain, mocking Sam`s imperceptiveness, and crying on the inside that his son would always be, that stupid.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to loan me like uh…fifty bucks?”

Another thing that bothered Greg about Sam. He had zero charisma. He came off as needy and useless as he actually was. The only job he could ever get, was washing dishes at the cafe, which somehow, he still showed up late for. You couldn`t send him to military school to straighten him out, because they`d probably kill him for being such an annoying little shit, and say it was an accident. It was that part, that he regretted that his son would die, that really bothered Greg. Why god? Why other than by blood relations should I care about this…

“What exactly for?” Greg retorted

“Um…Im taking a girl on a date and I uh…need some spending money”

It was here that Greg paused. Surely, with this small investment of mere material gains, perhaps this will finally change sam`s silly ways. Hopefully he falls in love with this girl, and eventually she breaks his heart, that always toughens up a man in the end. Good god was sam a virgin? It`s a distinct possibility, but how could he know? Sam never confided in Greg. Ever. What the hell. Maybe it`s worth a shot.

“Sure, here…consider it a bonus…actually it`s not a bonus you`re a terrible worker and if you weren`t my son i`d fire you”

“Thanks dad!” Sam replied with renewed elation, as he scurried out the door, hopping into the old convertible Greg had gave him for his nineteenth birthday. Another failed attempt at manning him up.

“Maybe im just a shitty parent” Greg said out loud to himself.

Maybe he`s a lot of shitty things. However, that`s not nearly the most important part of this story.

“Oh a whisky oh a danny, when will the whisky run dry?” Bellowed each member of the small crew. Caribbean lobsters were rare, but in recent years, their populations blossomed, for almost unfathomable reasons. Regardless, dozens of fishing companies cropped up around Costa Marco, looking to cash in on a commoditiy, which pound for pound, was more valuable than gold. Of this small crew of the “Sandy Boot”, there was Rook, the boats` captain. He was a truck driver, for more years than he cared to remember, or forget for that matter. When the sea called to him, he remembered childhood stories his grandmother told him, of sailors and pirates, of heroes, and most importantly, drunks. Those decades of sitting in the cab of a truck, passing by non-descript highway rest stops and meaningless landmarks gave him a hunger for a real culture, and companionship. Sure there was the occasional bar-room hookup, as many as a guy as old and as fat as him could get but…he wanted a friend. More than anything.

           Rook did the song justice, and drained the last swig of whisky from the clear glass bottle. Happily giggling as he spun the thin aluminum wheel around in the cabin making a course for home, while the other members of the crew scoffed in sarcastic disappointment. The small lobster boat only cost the crew a collective fifteen grand to purchase and insure, but had already made them incredible returns. None felt the weight of that more than Trip, the crew`s most experienced fisherman, but also the poorest. You see, Trip was a local to Costa Marco. His ancestors were slaves, and each preceding generation were slaves. First to white men, then to oppressive governments, then to drugs, and finally, to the sea. Many of the ethnic locals to Costa Marco are fishermen. But not all of them were ever good fishermen. All of them, save for Trip. To anybody else, he was just another kid who knocked some poor girl up, and ruined the rest of his life, trying to take care of a kid. To Trip and Louisa, they were in paradise. Sure they lived in a small apartment by the docks. Sure they didn`t own a car, or even have a checking account. What they did have however, was the kind of love that we all refuse to believe is real, and a beautiful baby boy to match. Their life went as followed. Trip would get up early in the morning, and join the rest of the crew on the boat to fish. Louise would wake with the sunrise and feed their child, sipping tea and reading books, gossiping with her neighbors on the beach behind their home. As the sun went down, she would build a fire, and cook a meal of chopped fish and island fruits. When Trip returned, he would walk onto the beach, lay on the sand next to his wife, take his son in his arms, and they would laugh until the fire left their minds, and fell to embers. When the clock struck ten, the three of them would settle down to bed, and the process would begin again. I`d wager that at the time, since Trip had finally been able to bring in good money, they were the happiest people alive.

           As that rusty old boat pulled into the docks, and Trip called to Louise, Margo was tying off ropes, and looking over cages that had been damaged, eager to repair them. She was a kind of inquisitive, thoughtful human being that had been completely ensnared by the mere concept of rope in general.  She could not explain just how-hold on a second, a woman? On a boat? Believe it or not, yes. A woman on a boat. Perhaps it was because Rook`s guilty pleasure was staring at her ass when she pulled a cage up from the sea. Perhaps it was the fact that on Costa Marco, everyone was too laid back to care at all. In reality, it was the mutual understanding between workers, that if you wanted the money, you worked hard for it, and you weren`t a total bitch, then you could fish like anyone else. It was that kind of atmosphere that Margo really craved. The kind of togetherness and happiness that was alive in the isles of Costa Marco. She could walk the streets on a Friday night, and join any party she wanted. Smile with whoever she wanted, laugh with whoever she wanted, and drink with whoever she wanted. It was her other craving though, that drove her to the fishing industry, and to the seclusion of the house she was able to purchase, just outside of town.

           Cinnitar. A strange name for an incredibly popular opioid. It`s popularity wasn`t in it`s nature or it`s flawless marketing. It`s popularity was based on it`s safety. Margo would walk home from the boat after Rook distributed the previous day`s pay, spend a third of it on Cinnitar, and crash at her place, unwinding slowly into a peaceful, yet dreamless sleep. The gimmick associated to Cinnitar was that no matter how much of it you took, you couldn`t die, and there were virtually no side effects. While initially created to humanely kill family pets, when the formula was released to the general public, crafty chemists soon realized the drug`s massive potential. Margo had a massive amount of reasons to take the drug, but only one that she really couldn`t get out of her head. Her Abortion. Breaking up with Grant. She wasn`t supposed to feel guilty. It was the right thing to do. She was taking control of her body, and her life. Where did that ever get her? Where could it have gone? These kinds of questions only frightened her more when she knew Trip`s story, and watched his family eat dinner on the beach a hundred times. She wanted that, more than anything she wanted that, but she made that choice a thousand years and a thousand miles ago, and there was no way to go back. So it was here, that she would lay back on the hammock, ladle some Cinnitar into her arm, and imagine she made the choice she wanted, maybe even the right choice.

           Suddenly, the newest member of the crew, Spencer, was knocking at her door. Margo couldn`t even stand to respond, and hoped he would just go away. She only ever invited him over along with the whole crew one time, as a housewarming party, but besides that, she had been a hermit. Spencer though, was persistent, knocking away like an idiot, because he saw her going in there…which yes, means that he followed her.

“Oh well, I guess she was just tired from fishing today. It was pretty hot out” he sighed to himself.

           Margo relaxed back into her hammock. She liked Spencer. As far as guys went on all the islands, he was pretty cute. But it had only been…two years? Since she up and left her home in Georgia to find her way in the carribean, just to throw herself at the map and see where she could stick. It had been a long time, she thought. Maybe too long. Maybe she should give Spencer a shot, she thought, but before she could explore that line of reasoning, another wave came over her, and she was further back in that hammock than ever before, further back in her past and her guilt.

           Walking home at night on Costa Marco is a very surreal experience. There are Boas hanging in the trees, pigs and dogs scurrying about, and when you hit the city, it`s a complete paradigm shift. There are vibrantly dressed locals and self-proclaimed locals dancing and drinking and laughing, jabbering and swooning to the hastily strummed guitars and battered drums. When Spencer left that small but happy place in the world, he turned down the many streets until he reached his own little cobblestone corner. Really a treasure of an abode, an old colonial townhouse, shoulder to shoulder with the infinite, but not quite well laid out rows of the other townhouses. He turned the old iron key, creaking open the heavy wooden door, into his own little grain scented shelter. Throwing wood into the fireplace, and firing up his laptop, he began to peruse his greatest passion… bread. Artisan, hand crafted, wood baked, the boy was obsessed. You see, Costa Marco was surprisingly devoid of this kind of bread industry. No dish, local or otherwise served or prepared on the islands required it, in fact, one would be looked upon with a small amount of disdain if seen eating a sandwich. This kind of atmosphere suffocated Spencer. He wanted to share his passion for bread with everyone he knew, by opening his own bakery. You could imagine by this description, that Spencer was a simple kind of guy, but in a magnificently pleasant kind of way. Spencer had spent most of his life travelling, as his father and mother were both in the navy, which meant that for the most part, spencer grew up on naval bases and with other navy kids. They all wanted to follow right in line with their parents, as disciplined and honorable scholars, pilots, or sailors. Spencer wanted none of that. All he wanted, was his bakery. It is hard to determine when, where or how he became obsessed with bread, or why frankly anyone cares, but all this interest is a testament to, is the kind of purity of heart Spencer possessed.

“Just a few more weeks” Spencer muttered to himself with a smile,

“And they`ll all see”…He trailed off, sensing he was tired, and rising to his bedroom. With each thunk of the heavy wooden steps he thought of Margo. How pretty she was. How her hair glistened in the midday sun. How the waters rolled off her skin. Yes, this is love, he thought.

           The crew of the sandy boot were a lively bunch. The money was good, but what would it mean if they couldn`t buy paradise in…paradise. Poor old Greg was no exception. As he forked the thin steel key out of the decrepid lock of the café, and wandered over to his old Toyota truck, he began for the first time in his life, to seriously examine the choices he had made. For an inimaginable amount of time, Greg was locked in his relationship with Liz. Funny. He hadn`t even called her that in his thoughts in years. He could sense it. Just like how he sensed some asshole slowly crawling up his tail light on the old highway.

“Why I oughta” Greg snarled to himself, well aware that he only said that due to the fact thousands of other faces on the televisions did before him,

           What he “oughta” do became less and less clear. His stream of consciousness was inundated with images of graphic, brutal violences he would inflict on the morally devoid creature that parasitically perched itself on his mechanical posterior. While making a curve on the old road, he caught a good glimpse of the driver in his rear-view mirror. It was just some...average young woman. Really nothing of great stereotypical or demonstrative worth. Suddenly, a wave of sympathy overcame Greg. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Maybe she was just angry about something. Maybe he had tailgaited her some time ago, and this was her form of revenge. Maybe, and entirely possibly, she was thinking the very same thoughts he was in his car, driving home late at night. Wondering about all the things he had done, the bills he had to pay, or the big decisions he would have to make. And a big decision, he certaintly did have to make. And it would pertain to whether or not he would stay with Liz.

           It wasn`t like it was rocket science. Greg wasn`t always this spiteful, this mean, or even this domecticated. Liz hated camping. Before he met her, he could barely stay out of the woods.

“Yeah, Camping. Another thing to look foreward to when she`s out of the picture” Greg said aloud to himself, in rhythm with the soft country music on the radio.

“And that stupid kid of ours. He can be HER problem”. His voice began to rise with elation, as if the lightball was slowly coming on in his head.

“And I can finally smoke a cigar, inside or out…Hell ill be sure to ash`em right in the carpets”. The rhythm was infecting his reasoning, a little song being invented as he talked more and more.

“Oh yeah you bet it baaabay, that I`ll be smokin` up the town…do do do, pah do do pah pah… Oh yeah won`t be a clean carpet arooooooouuund” He laughed and tapped on his wheel as he sang his little song, all the way up his driveway.

           Greg didn`t even bother to go in the house anymore. The ol` salty sea skank (his favourite colloquialism), would always be there to ask him how much money he made at the café that day.

“It was your idea bitch, and you`d know how much we were making if you ever left the house”

Greg pondered that hypothetical strategy in an argument as he walked into the shed, and flicked then lights on. Upon the table, lay his only true love. His beautiful bearded lizard, which he named Tequila. Greg…Greg was the kind of guy who loved to watch things. To be in control. There was nothing Greg loved more than to feed Tequila, in the morning before he went to work, and at night when he came home. Despite the fact that all the simple lizard ever gave him was the occaisional eyeball lick, or even a rare nibble on his fingers, Greg interpreted that as true affection.

“Oh little Tequila, you look so hungry!” Greg said, opening the cabinet above the lizard`s massive tank, and pulling out a small colony of grasshoppers.

Greg thought for a moment as he fauned over his pet, and smirked when he said, “So hungry that these little sons of bitches…might not be enough”

Greg put the grasshoppers back in the cabinet, and pulled another tank up from the ground across the floor. Within, rested half a dozen garter snakes, just now becoming startled at being lifted on the table.

Then, with the methodical preparation of a serial killer, Greg donned a leather apron and a pair of leather gloves, grabbing the fattest snake from the tank, and sealing the rest away. Greg took time to examine the creature, ensuring that it wouldn`t be strong enough to possibly hurt cute little Tequila. Of course none of those snakes stood a chance, but even a scratch on one of his stubby little legs would deeply disturb Greg. He gingerly placed the snake in the opposite end of Tequila`s tank, pulled up a chair, cracked a beer, and just watched.

           Tequila was quick to take notice. It wasn`t very often that he had roomates. The new company was very exciting, but quite strange. Like an innocent, scaley puppy, tequila plodded off of his log, and towards this new arrival.

“Hold on a moment” Tequila thought to himself, slowing his pace as he analyzed the scent of the creature. He approached with caution…and a feeling…came over him…

           Within a flash, bits and pieces of his new friend were strewn throughout the sand, a chunk of it`s torso sliding down his gullet.

“No…Not Again!”

           Greg was sufficiently appeased by this display, and took the time to clean the cage while Tequila was occupied with his food, and changed his water.

“Isn`t it maaaaagic” Greg sang to himself, as he closed down the shed, and turned off all the lights, only dimming Tequila`s light in his tank.

“He gets scared of the dark…musn`t do that to him” He muttered, having thought about it and said that phrase a thousand times by now, it had become more of a routinely incensed nervous tick, for now  Greg would have to actually go inside his house, and face his wife, which especially as of late, had become thornier than Tequila. Yes, thornier. Nothing else… weirdo.

           Greg walked up to the bug screened back door, and as he climbed the second of the three steps, the light above the door came on, which meant that Liz was fast approaching, likely having seen Greg leave the shed. He opened the door, with her standing in front of him, crossing her arms and staring at him with pursed lips. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Never seemed to like existing in a state of calm or contentment. As far as Greg knew, she loved to be miserable and combative.

           Greg wasn`t really in the mood for one of her fits. He knew how the argument would go. He knew exactly what she would nag him about. The Café isn`t making enough money, the house needs renovating, you need to spend more time with sam, you need to work out. It was the last part that bothered Greg the most. His physique had never been exemplary, he knew this, and he thought she knew this. Where did this desire for a six pack and biceps appear? When she started to have to shimmy through the closet door sideways?

           After a single, tense moment, Greg simply put his keys on the hook beside the door, and walked on by. Sure it required one awkward shove, and really did nothing to appease Liz, but what was the point? All she wanted to do was argue till the sun came up.

           He casually walked over to the kitchen and pulled some raw fish he had bought from the market two days earlier, prepared a skillet, and began to sear it on the electric oven, not expressing a single emotion aside from blank disdain as she walked in, still pouting about…well he didn`t even bother to find out.

           He kept standing over that fish, casually turning from side to side as he grabbed various spices off the racks beside the stove. Ultimately, he found her performance entertaining and predictable. She had done this a thousand times. She would continue to do this a thousand times. It had been years since he stopped wondering what he could do, what he could say so she would finally hug him after a long day of work…again Greg felt regret.

“How terribly attached to a terrible woman have I become? I would be so much happier if I just…left. But I can`t…How fickle the heart is”

           He remembered when they first moved into the house. They had arguments yes, but they were small, never lasted long, and were always resolved. He thought that was the sign of how resilient they were as a couple. Over time though, with the innumerable failures of Sam, the highs and lows of the café, the hurricane…Their arguments grew more fierce. They could argue for hours. First it was a low rumble. Then it was a scream. At least he`d get the occasional “I love you” from her. Nowadays, he couldn`t even remember the last time he, or even she said it.

           He could remember the last time they cooked together. It was beef stew. He remembered the sound of her laughter as they casually splashed the red wine into the broth and their glasses. He remembered how warm she felt in his arms as they fell asleep on the porch, stinking of wine and spilled stew.

“Yes…that was the last time we were happy together” he thought to himself.

           He slid the fish off the skillet and onto a pan, turning around and placing it on the table, unsuprised to see he wife still standing there in the doorway, maintining that blank, judgemental expression. He sat down, pushed the plate to the side slowly, and motioned for her to sit down. Slowly, she rose from her stance, and took the chair across from him. After a long moment of silence, and losing the staring contest with the tribal figurine in the middle of the table, Greg spoke.

“Aren`t you tired?” He asked, deliberately, implying so much with so little.

In complete understanding of the implications, she replied

“I…Yes… I am”

“How long has it been…since you were actually happy to see me?” He asked, having completely forgotten about the fish growing cold beside him.

“Too long” She curtly replied.

There was another long pause as Greg began to feel a wash of emotions come over him. He really loved her. There was no denying that. He began to process the thought of her not loving him, images of her leaving, of her looking away when he passed her on the street. It began to destroy him in ways he couldn`t imagine. He couldn`t stop it, he had already set in motion.

“ Do you still love me?” He asked, having asked a thousand times before in the past as a rhetorical question, always replied with “of course idiot”, or “you know I do”. This was the first time he really meant it, and really wondered. And it really hurt.

There was another long silence. Everything felt colder, and darker to Greg. His life, and his worldview were hanging in the balance. The fact that she even took a second to consider sent him spinning. It felt like a knife was being pulled out of his chest, the sheer anticipation of what he knew would come next.

Liz rose from her chair, and took a picture off the wall. It was from years ago, when the whole family had taken their first vacation together. Greg was standing over Liz, his hands on her shoulders, as She was sitting on a canoe, sam in her arms, still a baby. She came back to her chair, and put the picture on the table, staring at it for yet another agonizing eternity.

“I loved you for who you were…but not for who you are”

He could not think. He could not speak. He responded as blankly and as simply as he could muster.

“In that case…I want you out of the house by next week”

“What? Greg that`s completely unreasonable” she said, which to Greg indicated that she wanted to go, and she wanted to for a long time. It also enraged him for some reason, that she would have the gall to break his heart, and still ask for reparations.

“I don`t particularly care. Actually, here`s the deal. I`ll give you that goddamned café, and ill keep the house, which I paid for by actually working at MY café. I swear to god if you say it`s somehow yours to give, the only claim you have was that it was your goddamned idea. It`s in my legal name, I did all the work to get the land, to build the damn thing, and still ran it for ten years. Take whatever damn money you`ve got saved and get an apartment in town. Maybe you`ll find a skinny Cuban guy to sleep with while you`re there!” Greg yelled.

“Just…fuck you Greg. Fuck you.” Liz replied, tears streaming down her face as she ran upstairs, the clunk of her suitcase slamming to the floor. Greg didn`t care. This was the hundredth argument they had gotten in, and he was making sure this was the last. He was angry, but only as a way to drown out just how upset he really was.  

The sound of the suitcase hitting the floor, of dressers flying open, was the melody to which Greg went on his laptop in the living room, and electronically transferred ownership of the café over to Liz. He promptly went into their bank account, destroyed the split account, taking what was his, and establishing his own account. “Hmm…She only has $38,000 left…How did she even earn that much?”. He didn`t bother to find out. He had now financially cut her out of his life. The wonders of the internet.

There was a pang of regret in Greg. Perhaps this was too extreme. Maybe it was, but there was no coming back from what he just did. Those two minutes of conversation could have gone a thousand different ways. It began to feel like he chose the worst way possible. All he wanted was for Liz to love him again, but instead, he pushed her away. Was it justified? After years and years of these arguments maybe it was. He just felt like he needed to…pull the plug, so to speak. Just to cut it off and end it. So, he reasoned, like any other case of amputation, it would hurt, but in the end, he would be better off. Still, he wouldn`t have an arm. That was ultimately the question. Would Greg rather have a cancerous, venomous part of his life that made him miserable, or not have that at all? What was worse? What Greg did know is that it was too late to wonder. He had tried medicating for decades, with know sign of remission. Now, Liz was coming down the stairs, and Greg began to be so upset that he couldn`t think of any more medical juxtapositions.

What was worse was that she didn`t even look at him when she went out the door. All he could yell at her was that the Café was her responsibility now, and she`d have to find a way run it in the morning. He remembered the keys in his pocket, and threw the café key in her car as she opened the passenger door to throw her suitcase in. She still did not look at him. She refused to look at him. Even when she was pulling out of the driveway, She didn`t even look towards the house, and sped off to town. So Greg stood there, on the porch, and for the first time in fifteen years, he cried.

It wasn`t like how he imagined. The house didn`t feel free. A weight wasn`t lifted off his shoulders. It felt empty. Like there were still parts of it that were actually hers. He wanted to call her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, that she should come back and they could talk things over. It was too late though. He knew her. She would take this whole incident to heart. She would go through with it, regardless of how she still felt about him. The ultimate issue was that they both loved each other, but they couldn`t stand each other. It was a sick, unhealthy way of existing, and Greg sought to excise those feelings as he cleaned up the bedroom and the bathroom, putting whatever she left behind in a box, which he was debating either burning, burying, or throwing at her whenever she found out where she lived. Fortunately she was pretty good about it… in fact it was too good. Maybe she had rehersed this. Maybe she was just waiting for this argument, the go ahead, the justification to finally leave. She had to have been thinking about it. Way more than he actually was.

           The reality was that when you`re married to a woman for thirty years, she accumulates more crap than she could possibly fit in one exceptionally large suitcase. She took the essentials, her clothes, her jewelry, so on and so forth. What did she leave behind? The kind of things that hurt to still see. Photos. Letters. Little arts and crafts, any kind of sentimental object.

“Regardless” Greg said to himself.

“This was going to happen one day or another…just when and how were the only questions…doesn`t change the fact that I still feel like shit about it.”

There really isn`t anything he could do except just sit on the bed, and imagine what life would now be like. Where his fit of rage and honesty really put him. He didn`t have a job anymore. That was something to consider. What could he even go for? He had a degree in business management, and sociology. He had years of experience running small restaurants. Those kind of credentials don`t get you far in this kind of a place. What really mattered was that he was old, fat, and…didn`t have Liz. He felt guilty about not being more sympathetic. About not feeling at all bad for essentially kicking her out in the middle of the night. It was just…her words. I loved you for who you were…not for who you are”. She had, without any kind of anger or impotice, said the most hurtful thing Greg ever heard in his life. He regretted ever complaining about her, even though that complaining was mostly to himself. He was angry, shocked, and plunged into this deep pit of depression all in an instant. The fact that he suddenly lost control of his emotions wasn`t forgivable but to Greg…it was understandable.

                                                 -----------

 Greg awoke the next morning, with a pain in his chest. The knife wound from earlier had moved to the center of his chest, slowly ripping and tearing. It no longer felt metaphorical. It was a literal, real pain, and as he saw it… it was all his fault.

“What am I thinking?” he said to himself, squinting his eyes as he sat up in the morning sunlight.

It was eight o`clock in the morning. He normally got up at six to get to the shop and open by seven, but what the hell. It`s not his problem anymore.

“I am a grown ass man and I`m pining after that hag?”

Oh god of course. The only reason he was sad was because he only chose to remember the good parts of their marriage which to be honest, were just as she described. They started good, and tapered off around… jesus a quarter of the way through? Did he not remember the endless, pointless, and frustrating fights they would get in? How she would blame him for how Sam turned out? No. He shouldn`t feel sad. The only reason he does was…human nature.

“Yeah… that`s gotta be it.” Greg thought.

He got up, and went through his typical morning routine, plus a mug of rum and fatefully, a cigar on the porch. As he took deep, long tokes on the sweet treasure he had denied himself for years, he began to remember what kind of a man he really was.

“Just getting in touch with my ego. It`s what Freud would want”

Suddenly, he remembered his only friend, and ran to the shed. He scooped up little Tequila from his tank, and placed him in a basket (formerly used for bath towels…why would you want a smaller towel? Why not just the one size towel? Another annoying mystery of Liz) beside him, pouring him a little dish of rum.

“This is the life eh Tequila? A bit of rum, the lazy island breeze, and the cool morning sun…I just feel like staying right here. Doing absolutely nothing. In that way I guess we aren’t that different eh little man?”

Tequila had already taken a few sips of the rum, and began to feel groggy, making a movement with his head that appeared to Greg as a nod.

“The food god has poisoned me…the sweet smelling liquid was a deception…”

The spiny lizard felt the warmth of the sun on his scales, and reminisced on the few times he ever saw the great ball of orange light.

“Perhaps I am dying…why else would the food god bring me here?”

Hours indeed did pass. The sun rose, and all the island birds were chirping and cawing. Greg used to think it was an annoying racket, but now, a little buzzed on the rum and having meditiated in this state for some time, it was a chorus, more beautiful and sanctified than any church choir he ever listened to as a kid.

Greg felt sore, and decided to rise from his seat, and noticed that Tequila had finished his bowl of rum, and now was listing around his basket, attempting to escape.

“I think it`s high time I did something…that I expanded your perspective”

He picked up Tequila, and brought him in the house. He had never left the confindes of his tank, save for the one time Greg brought him out in the yard to run around a little bit. He gently laid him on the couch, set out a plate of pre-killed grasshoppers and a dish of water, and closed the door behind him.

“I`m just curious as to what the hell happens” he giggled to himself.

“Also as to what…has happened”

He grew morose, and finally decided to assess the damage on what happened the night before. As he was pulling out of the driveway, he questioned for but a moment, the soundness of the decision to let Tequila have his way with the house.  Before he could consider that for any  longer, he saw Sam pull into the driveway, or attempt to. For the first time in his life, Sam looked truly angry with his father. Greg sighed, and pulled back in the driveway, getting out and leaning against the bed of the truck as Sam pulled in himself.

“Hey Dad can you tell ME what uh, happened last night?” Sam said, with a kind of difficulty that made it very apparent he was inexperienced with this emotion.

“When did you find out?” Greg said, with the kind of calm respect he never gave to Sam. He was innocent here. He deserved to be treated with respect when it came to this, of all things.

“Last night Dad. Mom`s staying at my place right now” Sam answered, still pseudo angry with Greg

You mean the apartment I pay for? Greg thought. No. This wasn`t the time for bitterness or sarcasm about anything. Not with Sam.

“Sam, I know you`re a man and you have a lot of things of your own to worry about and pay attention to but…you must have known this was coming”

“OF COURSE I did dad! I just never thought you would be the one to…do it. And that way? Do you know how mom feels right now?”

Greg sighed heavily, and moved to the porch. Sam followed, eagerly awaiting his father`s answer. Greg sat back down in his chair, and sparked up the short cigar he had been working on since the morning.

“Come on Sam…Sit down” Greg motioned to the other seat, formerly Liz`s seat, back when he and Liz used to do things like that together. Sam complied, and pulled the chair over to sit beside his father. Greg looked out at the island and the jungle, the ocean and the birds flying over the canopy. Sam sat staring at his father, incredibly nervous as to what he would say next. Greg looked over, and began.

“As you know very well, your mother and I loved each other very much, and that`s how and why you came about…but that was a very long time ago. Now we just make each other miserable, and we just need to go our own directions”

“That still doesn`t explain why you were so fucking rude about it” Sam said, calmly responding. It was the first time he had ever cursed in his father`s prescence, and frankly, it impressed him.

Greg took another cigar from the wooden box, and waved it as an offering to Sam. Sam nodded, and awkwardly fumbled the lighter as he lit it up. He coughed, and took the cigar between his thumb and index finger, resting his arm on the arm of the chair, the way all the mob bosses did in the movies.

“You know what kid…you`re right. Maybe it was a bit much for me to have done what I did and said what I said the way I said it last night. I can`t take that back…but you know what? If I did it any other way, your mom and I would have second guessed it, gotten back together, and six months later I`d be thinking about doing the exact same thing again. I know it was a shitty thing to do but…that`s how your mom and I are. That`s how it would have worked out either way”

Sam didn`t seem satisfied with the explanation, and kept looking off in the distance, waiting for a further explanation.

“Listen, just help your mom out for a few weeks so she can find a place and get back on her own two feet. I assure you, after all of this is over, her and I are going to be far better off, and you`ll start to see that in both of us”

Sam continued to stare foreward, but then began to speak.

“I just can`t understand it. How two people can be together so long and now…it just happened so fast”.

“Yeah kid… it still kinda feels like just a…nightmare right now. Like it hasn`t really happened”

“Do you still care about her?”

“I`m…I`m not sure”

They now both stared foreward. For the next moment, Sam put the cigar in his mouth, stood up, and went to his car without saying goodbye. Greg couldn`t imagine it. He had lost Liz, and now he wasn`t sure if he had lost his son. It felt wrong, but he indulged his desire to ash his cigar, which had gone out in the long pauses of his conversation. He leaned over the chair to the rug, made two little eyes, and pondered what kind of face he should make. Had everything happened the way he thought, maybe it would have been happy. Had he really and truly regretted his decision, it would have been sad. All he could accomplish was a long, straight, simple stroke along the pattern.

                       There is a kind of surreal nature to the inside of Spencer’s bedroom. The junglewood timbers and the two hundred year old stonework of the roof are the first things he lays eyes on in the morning. When he gets up and looks around, there is a computer, and a primitive modern plumbing system jammed into the old washroom. The space felt hijacked by modern amenities and the ever demanding creature comforts of a technological generation. As Spencer rises, he is careful to have a steady hand as he shaves with the straight razor he bought at the old market when he got off the boat, appalled by the apparent lack of multiple blade technology. While it had been six months since then, and his aim had improved, not a week would go by before he would give himself a solid nick on the jaw, and he would be reminded of this embaressment when the salt of the sea was splashed in his barely visible wound.

           He was always a hard working kid, who quickly got over the whole “up ‘for dawn” moans and groans that were associated with being a professional fisherman. It took a particular kind of talent to get in his fishing overalls and his graphite grey hoodie, make a decent pot of coffee in the five dollar French press he had to work with, and head down to the docks in time, all with only three lights in the house.

           While it was dark in his house, when Spencer began to walk the streets is when his childhood fears really began to resurface. At least at night the darkness was always dulled by the sound of music and the songs of drunken tourists. This early in the morning, most everyone who was out the night before was holed up somewhere, or was enigmatically dumped in a gutter, resulting in more than one occasion when he would accidentally kick one. The resulting groan would scare the hell out of Spencer, sending him nervously jogging down the street for a moment, before he looked back and saw a tattered figure slowly shift on the ground. The sight gave him no relief, but he endured.

           The morning air in the town of Tileo had a bitter, metallic tang to it, which began to mix with the smell of dead or dying fish and sea air as he approached the docks.

“soon… it’ll be cinnamon… flour… rye” Spencer said to himself, panting as he shuffled towards the docks.

           Rook was always the first to greet the crew as they arrived. He didn’t wake up any earlier than the rest of them, he just slept in a little house by the dock where they docked the boat, always fiddling with a lobster trap or studying the weather reports when Spencer walked down the dock and jumped on the boat.

           “early as always” Rook slurred, not taking his eyes off the monitor.

           “I thought we established that you liked that kind of thing” Spencer slurred back, stacking the fixed traps on the back of the boat.

           “I do, but one day that enthusiasm will kill you”

           “trust me man, if the money weren’t good, I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic” Spencer replied, standing up to put his gloves on and give a cordial wave to Trip as he jumped on the boat, only a few minutes later than Spencer.

           “Hey Trip how`s it going?” Spencer asked, in the way he had been for the past four months. It seemed too sarcastic, too obnoxious to say “good morning”. There was an unspoken pact agreed upon by all the crew members to avoid the phrase in general.

           Trip gave Spencer a hearty pat on the back, and leaned over to help him drag in rope.

           “Feel good enough to make some money…shit it`s colder than a witchs’ teat today”

           Spencer was proud that he taught Trip that phrase.

           About fifteen minutes later, Margo appeared, quickly plodding towards the boat, hood up, her hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie.

           Ironically, she was the sunniest of the crew, typically buying something for the whole gang so they wouldn`t have to fish on empty stomachs. Today, it was a plastic netted bag of oranges.

“Thanks darlin’” Rook muttered, catching the orange as she tossed one to each of the crew.

           A few more moments were spent organizing the tackle and throwing overall straps over shoulders, and then Rook gave the word to cast off.

           The rhythm of work had become as automatic and unconscious as breathing to even Spencer. It went as followed. See bouy. Throw hook. Drag up trap. Empty trap into tank. Either stack the trap, or throw it back. Really the only person who had to actually think about their job was Rook, scanning the computer screen, and his paper maps, trying to find his traps and direct the crew which traps could wait, and which traps to pull in.

           Due to the constant, straining mononteny, conversations between the crew would be running, and incoherent as they haul in their catch. Despite how this description sounds, they did not suffer at all under this strenuous labor. When each lobster dumped in the tank essentialy was another five bucks in each of the crew`s pockets, they had very little reason to complain. This kind of money, fishing easy waters, attracted drifters and shills, old hands and young hopefuls alike. The beauty of most of these fishing boats based off Costa Marco was that hiring and firing, well that was all at the captain`s discretion, weeding out all the lowlifes who didn`t meet the island`s “exacting” standards. The territorial government of the islands was almost non-existent, which led to virtually no enforcement of labor laws. Rightly so, because the fishermen of Costa Marco lived under a non-verbal, contractual agreement. To work hard, not to piss anyone off, and to enjoy life once in a while. If you were the wrong kind of personality, the wrong kind of person, hell even if the captain thought your fashion sense was abhorrent, all of these things were grounds for firing. The result? A tightly knit community of hand-picked fishing boats and their captains. Now it would be obvious to discover that most boats had some unfair preferences for their crews, locals picking locals, Hispanics picking Hispanics, black captains picking black crews, all of this was rampant and obvious, but nobody complained. It was more like a friendly competition, to see who, or what kind of person could really bring in the most cash. Which really befuddled Spencer, who finally decided Trip might not be offended if he asked Rook why he brought on Trip.

“Hey…Hey Rook?” Spencer asked, panting as he bent over to throw a trap in the water.

Rook looked up from his monitors quickly, obviously bored with his task as the weather seemed to be pretty much dead for the day

“What`s up Spence?”

“I`ve been working on this boat for a while now and…”

“Yeah?”

“I know how things are around here…Ah let me cut to the chase”

“Spit it out man” Rook asked, laughing a little at Spencer`s awkwardness.

“I`m just wondering why you brought on Trip…I mean, I know he`s a good fisherman and all, and a really nice guy, but…From what I see that isn`t what most people do around here”

Trip looked up from the back of the boat while spencer was asking his question, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, as if he couldn`t help just being an awesome guy, but his mood became serious when Spencer finished, his gaze turning to Rook.

Rook paused and stroked his salt and pepper beard, taking a quick glance at Margo, and then returning to his thoughts

“You said it yourself. Great fisherman, great guy. What else could I ask for?”

“Yeah Good point good point…” Spencer became nervous, as he now looked like a flaming racist.

“Oh don`t go shaking in your boots now Spence. I know you meant well” Trip piped up, grinning at Spencer, empathetic to his existential plight.

Spencer smiled nervously and shook his head, sighing as he bent back down to throw another trap.

           Margo, largely oblivious to this whole exchange, staring off into the ocean, readied the last hook for the morning. Throwing it with impressive accuracy, a skill that was acquired over years of experience, and thankfully carried over to horseshoes. The effects of her habit were unpredictable at best. Sometimes she would be warm and sunny, optimistic and happy with the disposition of freshly poured chamomile tea. Other times, it was exactly as a hangover should be, a writhing, seething pain in her gut and a pounding in her head that always drove her to the point of swearing off the stuff for good, and made her despise every ray of sunlight or moment of attention thrown her way. Today however, was a great day. She had long figured out the exact formula for warding off these hangovers, that being exactly seven and a half hours of sleep, with two cups of coffee and half a lemon before leaving for work. That recipe always perked her right up as she made her own stroll down to the docks. It was that state of contentment, a lack of bereavement, that was almost better than getting high itself. In this kind of condition, she was really and truly just a fisherman on an exotic island.

            As the crew halted work for the lunch break, huddling over the canvas covered interior of the boat as the midday sun bore down on them, Margo decided to make a tactical move. For almost a year and a half, she would always turn over a plastic bucket and sit between the two fiberglass benches that ran the length of the covered section of the boat. Rook would wheel around his chair in the cabin, opening the door to talk to the rest of the crew, Trip would sprawl himself out along the right bench, and Spencer would sit, with a hunched posture, nervously leaning against one of the polls holding up the canvas on the end of the left bench toward`s the captain`s cabin. In this fantastic mood she was in, she decided to sit directly next to Spencer. Within a far closer proximity than could be deemed permissible between coworkers or aquaintences. A single hand length, to be exact.

           Spencer, munching away at a chicken wrap he had constructed himself, tried to play off the gravity of such a maneuver. Surely her bucket was no longer suitable for sitting, after all a rather rotten lobster did explode near the bottom. No amount of bleach could…

           Never mind that tragedy! This wasn’t some kind of middle school panic attack he should be thrown into. Enough fanticising. Just…talk.

           Thankfully, Rook broke the slow silent munching between the four of them.

“You know Spence, you were a little right about earlier”

“About what” He calmly,, yet nervously responded.

“About how it was unusual I took on Trip”

“Oh yeah?” Spencer calmly replied.

“You see… there is a story attached to his being here”

Trip rolled his eyes and scoffed, laying back on the bench in amusement.

“About oh I`d say coming on six years ago, I was just a lowlife truck driver, travelling the mainland for no other reason than sheer boredom.”

Spencer was relieved this appeared to be a happy story, as was indicated by Trip`s relaxed posture, and apparent annoyance for hearing this story-

“Close to a dozen times you`ve told this story old man” Trip piped up packing away his belongings, quickly trying to get back to work

“Oh ho ho not so fast there man, and that`s an order…I`m telling the story and you`re going to like it” Rook commanded, pointing one of his thick, calloused fingers at Trip.

Trip dramatically slumped his shoulders, and plopped back on the bench with a grin on his face, and his hands covering his cheeks.

“You see, one day down by Orlando, after hauling a whole bed full of toilet paper, I decided that I had had enough of that shit…”

There was a long pause, when nobody would appreciate his-

“Woooooooow” Margo said

“I know right?” Rook grinned, chuckled to himself a bit, and moved on.

“I just parked the truck by the beach, and took some time to weigh my options. After a long while of just watching the um…sunset…yeah the sunset”

“Huh” Margo sarcastically snorted, fully aware of his “admirations”

“As I was saying” Rook continued,

“All of the sudden, this crazy sonofabitch just runs a ground, right on the beach, out of nowhere, clinging to the steering wheel like Ahab”

Trip now began to nervously recoil, smiling and giving one or two laughs as the story continued

“Me being the only one there who wasn`t passed out, who actually knew what was going on there, I ran over to check out what was going on”

“Ran?” Trip asked with the foxy smile that dressed his sarcasm.

“Shut up asshole I`m telling the story. How about when you tell it you can say I flopped like a seal and dragged myself across the beach ok? Christ”

The crew now laughed in unison at Rook`s flustered anger, so much so that even he couldn`t keep a straight face.

Stopping himself to guffaw every now and then, he proceeded,

“So…heh, this guy is just like…completely out of it, absolutely dead tired, and I ask him, “Hey man are you okay?”, and heh heh, this guy just said, “I`m going to be a…Father!””

Spencer laughed the loudest, Margo only laughing because his was so infectious. She had heard this story a couple times before, but she didn`t want to seem too distant.

“I know! With the dramatic pause and everything!... Jesus Christ that was so damn funny, but let me tell you, I didn’t let him know that!”

Rook settled himself, and resumed in more technical terms, talking with his hands as he described the next part of the story.

“So Trip here was hungover something fierce, and judging by the bottle in his hand, he was trying to drink his way out of it. That didn`t really help his situation, because he was almost three feet on shore at that point, and nobody else seemed to give enough of a damn to help. At that point, only a few people had whipped out their phones to take pictures of it”

“You know I`m really disappointed that I don`t get to tell this story, because I`m sure someone must`ve called the cops” Trip added, partly shameful that he was drunk, alone, at sea, which is something every fisherman knows is incredibly dangerous.

“Well they only called the cops after I pulled the next stunt…so I got the idea to just unhitch my truck, and just… push him out to sea”

“No way!” spencer interjected, amazed that such a thing could even be accomplished. He remembered a time when the whole family was on leave, and the car his parents rented to go to the beach almost got stuck in the sand. Should`ve known better.

“Yes way, so I deflated my tires a bit, and after twenty minutes of that, I just drove out and over, and ever so slowly, pushed him out to sea. Now I had either neglected to tell him, or maybe he just forgot that I was going to do this, so he was just freaking out this whole time just screaming, “what are you doing you crazy white man!”

Rook had attempted to impersonate Trip`s accent in that last part, which got a good laugh out of the whole crew.

“So once I had got him free, I got a little thought in my head, and I just said “Hey, fuck it” and I jumped on the boat with him”

“That`s fuckin insane man” Spencer replied, noticing Margo almost hanging on his shoulder, the heat of her overworked body warming his right arm, just barely out of reach.

“Two days later, a few angry calls with the truck company and the bank, and here I am…you see that house on the end of the dock used to be Trip`s old dive, but I bought it for a pretty sum from him, and paid for most of the boat. And that my scrawny friend, is how a low down truck driver became the captain of a lobster boat. Fun story eh?”

           Work continued as normally as it does on a Saturday in the sea.  The only thing that changed really about the routine is that on this particular Saturday, Rook demanded that they all go bowling at the only lanes in town, which for reasons…disappointingly within comprehension, was called, “The Long Dock”.

           Nobody in the crew actually had a car, because really, there wasn`t a need. Besides, the only thing you could buy on the island were old steel shipping containers with wheels, or whatever passed for drivable in the pool of old Chevrolets or Cadillac’s imported back in the 80s. Only a small, select few of wealthy CEO`s camped out on the far side of the island actually had new, even nice cars, but they rarely mixed with the gentiles of Tileo. Why would they? The cobblestone streets were so awfully maintained that you could lose a toddler in the gaps. For the Crew though, they wouldn`t have it any other way. People like Rook and Margo grew up hating rich guys and their million dollar carbon-coated palaces. The real fun of Tileo was just walking the streets, brushing up against the occasional sweaty islander, weaving and winding through the historical pathways and not so new infrastructure. It was an organic experience, which began to clash at the bowling alley.

           You see, the only really well developed, actually paved road that ran through the outskirts of town, went by the alley. All of that roadwork and development had happened during the nickel mining boom back in the 80s, which “The Long Dock” truly reflected. Gaudy neon lighting, stale, pale concrete walls, and brushed steel and glass doors that looked like the rust was finally getting to them. In the parking lot, the dichotomy was clearly noticeable. On the right side of the doors, there were Maseratis, Porches, Mclarens, so on and so forth. On the left, were the old Ford trucks, the beamers, and even the occasional indian motorcycle.

           The inside of the alley was equally divided, hell there were even separate counters on each side. Over the last five years or so, the rich guys and their heirs began to notice something about their collective of mansions and resorts they called Keith`s Bay. What a god awful name it had, and how tasteless all their neighbors were. Each one would try to one up the other, adding an infinity pool or a twelve story New England lighthouse. Between the upper-middle class tourists and sheltered trust fund kids, a few of the residents formed a small clique, the only clique that ever ducked out of town for more than twenty minutes to go into the jungle and “focus their chi” with the maid. These ten or twelve guys were a bunch of savvy internet millionaires, old coal mine owners, and fast food moguls that felt that because they went to the bowling alley twice a week, they were the “real islanders”, and the rest of the whiney losers that just hung out in town were inferior to them.

           Of course the locals and others like the crew had some disdain for these guys. Not that they were rich, but that:

“They really just fuck with the way everyone is around here. I`ve been to that stupid fucking “Douche Bay” man. All it is, is a bunch of huge, white buildings…and I`m not a racist or anything Spence, but the whole place is just filled with Asians who don`t speak a lick of English”

“I think they`re Koreans man” Spence added, trying to break up Trip`s angry monologue with some analysis as they picked out their balls.

           Spence always chose a purple ball. He didn`t know why. He didn’t care. It`s just a habit like any other. But for some reason, he felt pissed that the guys from Douche Bay had monopolized the rack that the balls were on. No matter. He`d just use an orange ball. Fuckers.

           “What difference does it make? Asians are Asians man” Trip continued, waiting for his turn, as Rook, as a rule, always went first.

           “Hey man, you`re telling me you`re not racist, but that`s kinda racist to say. What would you think if I said hey, “Blacks are Blacks”. It just completely disregards the individual differences between the different groups, and believe me, they make the distinction” Spencer argued.

           “Well at least I look different than a guy from the Bronx or a guy straight out of Darfur. They all look like they`re all coming out of the same iphone factory” Trip grunted, tossing his first ball.

“Shit…a seven ten split” he muttered

           Rook and Margo laughed a little, and Spencer lightened up.

           “I don`t think the bowling gods appreciated that comment” Spencer said, waiting for Trip to attempt a spare.

           “Well whatever the fuck I think about Asians, the fact of the matter is that they`re being treated like slaves. They all live in these shitty condos and its like, fuck, why don`t they just build a bunkhouse and chain`em to the floor at night. They can`t leave, they all eat at the one Chinese-“

“Korean” Margo jokingly interrupted

“Fuck you Mo” Trip scoffed in an embaressed, high pitched laugh

Rook chimed in, grabbing the sides of his eyes to squint them, “Don`t you mean Fook yuu?”

Margo and Spencer mimmiked the captain, prancing around Trip, squinting their eyes and professing their love for ramen noodles. Trip`s unwarranted distrust of Asians was often the subject of teasing.

           After three games of heated competition between the four, Rook emerged as the winner, by only three points over Trip.

“A truly worthy opponent...well now my wrist`s sore. Who wants a drink?” Rook bellowed.

“Not me man, it`s already midnight, I`ve gotta get home” Trip trailed off, laying his ball back on the rack

             Chapter Two: Sour Shots

           The greatest part about the jungles of Costa Marco was that nobody seemed to be there. At least, that was the best part to Greg. Propped up against a tree stump, balancing a tin of coffee on a rock next to the humble cooking fire, he took stock of his provisions, seeing just how long he could stay in the mountains.

“Another week maybe. So long as I don`t mind eating rice and tuna for the last few days” he muttered to himself, hoisting himself up and sliding on his poncho

           It had been several months since he kicked Liz out. Or at least, that`s how everyone seemed to take stock of it. What Sam or the coven of witches Liz called friends thought about him didn’t matter He cared more about how many pairs of dry socks he had in his bag.

“It`s a midlife crisis” they`d say.

“He was always kind of an asshole”

“You deserved better anyway”

           After it all went down, he was barraged with calls from her friends, who either berated him, or acted as mediators for negotiations. That was how he got the money to take some time off. Climbing around the tight path of a mountain trail, he began to rant, as he always would when he was positive he was alone. The trees and the snakes were the only ones who seemed to listen anyway.

“She sold the fucking café…bet it was for a vacation with a little peurto rican guy” he grunted, hoping over a log

“At least she gave me half. Fucking half…goddamn I hate her. Every opportunity she got to tell me to fuck myself, she took it. Then she pisses and moans about being lonely…ha…never was a problem before I met you…”

           This kind of therapy could go either way for Greg at this point. He would either put a machete through a tree, or he`d end up laying on a rock, calmly listening to the rustling of wild boars in the bushes.

           He had the money to do these kind of things now. Early retirement was treating him well. But overall, he wasn`t satisfied.

           At least, not until he put together the perfect storm of simplistic material satisfaction.

“Ok Greg…just like the little seniorita in Kipp`s Cove taught you”

           He had stopped at the peak of the lush mountain cliff, sluffing off his pack and setting Tequila`s little wooden cage to the side, under the shade of a leafy bush. Pulling a couple of limes and a tin cup out of his pockets, he began to ruminate on his recent bar-hopping adventures. Greg was a real people person, a man of culture. It was also his personal belief, that the best way to understand a people and their ways was to drink what they drank, the way they drank it.

“And the Venezuelans are bitter socialists” he said, as he spat out the strange concoction he conducted from memory

           Watching the acrid liquid drip down the rock as the afternoon sun braized his skin suddenly gave him a bout of existential dread. This wasn’t the life he wanted to live. This wasn`t anywhere near where he wanted to be at his age. Farting around on a tropical island with a lizard, divorced, unemployed, pickling himself with every latin beverage under the sun.

“Christ…Pete`s a goddamned English professor. Josh has what- seven kids?” he muttered to himself, taking stock of the accomplisments of his old college friends.

“And I mean, Fred smoked so much weed we thought he`d lose a chromosome. Now he`s making six figures with a tire company”.

Greg`s morose self pity turned to anger, and then to a calm, quite acceptance.  There was a reason he went on these hikes. To disconnect himself from that kind of anxiety and appreciate his surroundings, slowly mellowing his mood with a neat burbon and Cuban cigar, allowing the breeze to massage his lurid eyes.

“Regardless…there needs to be a change” he said, swaying the bottle over to Tequila`s bowl, giving him a few more drops.

“Nothing major. The last thing I need is to go back to the states. They`d probably institutionalize me the second I got off the plane”

Greg chuckled to himself, feeling the handle of his machete gouging into his side as he took another swig.

“I need a simple job. A simple job, that makes me feel fulfilled *swig* as a man”

           By this time, the horizon was dark with storm clouds and an evening sunset coming on, creating a molasses enamel on all the rocks on the shore. In the distance, Greg could see the ships coming in, bobbing gently on the calm ocean glass. Soon, fantasies of being out on the open ocean fishing the ocean`s bounty danced across his addled brain.

“what a wonderful profession. Where being a drunk shrew is actually a virtue”

Or so he thought

             That night, a storm did indeed roll over the island. It was fierce, for sure, but not fierce enough to stop the festivities from continuing inside one of the many lively dive bars. There were even a few fishermen playing a rather extreme drinking game. If you flinched at a lightening strike, you drank. As you could probably guess, Spencer wasn`t doing too well.

“Look at him, still shaking like a leaf even three shots in!” Trip scolded

           It was true. Spencer was in fact, visibly nervous. Not neccesarily because the thunder and lightening were beginning to sear the masts of every boat in the harbor, but because the alcohol was beginning to convince him that now was the time confront Margo about his feelings. Rook, sporting an even longer salt and pepper beard, could see from the head of the table at the back of the sour smelling shack that the kid was going to make a big mistake. And, maybe, a small part of him was feeling territorial.

Placing his big paw of a left hand on spencer`s chest, he saved him

“ Boy, stay down. Look at these hands” he gargled, slamming a beer down in his right hand

At that moment, a flash and rumble, but not a single quiver from those beastly mitts.

Spencer was forced to try and get ahold of the reigns of his depth perception. Standing felt like something he was disinterested, the sullen and aged booth he sat at becoming fuzzy to the touch. Suddenly the seven or maybe only five shots he had downed had caught up to him all at once, and he wasn`t going to have any more, or else risk an incident like last month where Trip had ruined strawberries for him forever.

           Margo was far more sober, but certaintly not by choice. Nobody else had noticed but she had only finished half of her glass of light beer from the tap that may as well have been creek water given its quality and the horrifically poorly washed glass it came in. Her interests were growing more and more desperate with every joke or story she had to smirk and gesticulate her way through. The only thing keeping her from picking up her chair and using it to fight her way through the packed cigar box of a dive bar she was crammed in to get home and get her shit was the face that the storm outside could put a two by four through her chest at any minute. Death might be preferable to having to pan across the bar one more time to see the well exposed crack of Captain Stug`s ass trying to escape his cargo shorts at the bar. Stug was too old of a salt for anyone that wasn`t the bartender to tell him what to do, so on his ass marched outward as stug got more and more drunk. Christ. It was like watching a seal clubbing on national geographic. Could’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so hard to watch.

           “10 bucks I get this quarter in there” Rook said, holding the silver coin between his calloused index finger and thumb. Margo noticed that the whole table had been staring like she did. Spencer saw that others in the room were either giving Stug a wide berth, or sizing up their own marksmanship competitions.

           Looking to find some immature joy, Margo joined in.

           “I`ll fucking take that. You haven`t thrown a hook since I came on, doubt you could hit an ass crack at twenty paces” Margo joked. The others would have laughed if they weren`t all pushed to their respective limits. Margo and Rook slammed down what their bleary eyes perceived to be ten dollars a piece on the stained wood table, then Rook sized up his target. In one majestic, fluid motion the quarter left his hand, flying straight and true over the bar counter, tapping between bottles of whatever the hell Cesar could stack behind him.

 “gat..damnint” Rook grumbled, shuffling back into his seat as Margo swabbed her hand across the table, scooping up the crumpled dollars. She didn`t care. She needed to go home.

           The taste in her mouth was like she`d threw up a flower shop. She hated it she hated it she hated it. The heat and the sweat and the air and the smell the smell the smell. Too many people too many things, eyes, sandels, fucking stray cats every fucking five fucking feet in this tiny fucking block on this tiny fucking island. Home. She needed to get home.

           Margo suddenly, abandoning any kind of formal convention, stood up and walked out of the bar, the wind and rain whipping momentarily like a jack in the box as she opened and closed the door behind her. Spencer was too out of it to do anything, but others were slightly alarmed. A few, tired of waiting, tried to follow her out but were blown back by healthy gusts of wind. Spencer was worried. And he wondered why she would leave like that.

“Should we call the cops? No way she makes it out there!” he yelled to Trip and Rook

“Cops are busy enough, wouldn`t risk it. Woman`s always been skittish. Her house ain`t far so I wouldn`t worry too much. Either of you wanna hear about the time I got held up by a biker gang?” Rook largely brushed off Spencer`s distress, motioning to a waitress for more whatever would occupy his time. This grew into what could only be a fruitless and flirtatious conversation.

           Spencer turned to Trip for some sympathy.

“ Are you just going to sit back and let this happen?”

“ If anything man she`s got the right idea. I`ve gotta go check on my family at some point tonight. The whipping I`ll get if I`m not back by midnight oof” Trip joked.

           No one was taking him seriously, which would have made Spencer feel uneasy if he were more sober, but like any young guy with a background like his, he was curious.

           “well I`m going” Spencer said, gathering his wallet and finishing his drink. He put up his hood on his rubber coat, bracing himself for his excursion. Before he left, Trip followed behind him with his own boat issued rubber coat, and the two of them turned to give a gruff but well understood farewell to Rook, who was far more comfortable wading out the whole storm and then some in the back of that bar.

           “I think you`re crazy boy” Trip said to Spencer.

           “But good luck anyway. I`ll see you whenever Rook says its safe to work again” Trip said, putting his hand on Spencer`s shoulder, then opening the door, fighting the wind walking towards his home on the shore.

           Spencer couldn`t believe it, but the wind felt rather calm as he walked towards margo`s home. It was almost as if all the old geezers and shop owners were just trying to find an excuse to drink, or at least jumped on a better excuse than most. As he crossed the street past the more tourist focused bar with its stained colonial white walls, a gust of wind picked him up off his feet and tossed him on the cobblestone street, with every attempt to fight the gust and stand up just resulting in him being rolled another five feet down the street. This dance lasted for what felt like an eternity, until he crawled behind an old chocolate shop to get out of the wind.

“Sweet jesus…how the hell did Margo do in this?”

           Clinging hand over hand to the railings on the storefronts, Margo finally reached the trail that led to her home. All that it took was a run over a fairly wide patch of open ground to the start of the trail. Her mind wandered to the swaying of the trees in the violent wind, how small she felt as she watched a hundred trees move like dogs on a beach playing with a ball. Digging in her heels and thinking only of the sweet relief behind a mere hundred or so yards of woods. Thinking only of relief, of calm, of the comfort that awaited her so close in the present, her body moved like she was all tendon. Her desperation drove her arms and legs to precisely and intensely grip the trees and earth, when she stumbled, to nearly fling herself towards her front door. Her body slammed against the wood door like it was a queen sized bed with silk sheets. Before she could process anything else she was inside, and feet guiding her unconsciously to the drawer she kept her stash. Clean clean finally clean. Cold and clear and free free from fat hairy yellow toothed bastards.

           Sweet Christ. How did she ever go any longer than a day without this?

             Spencer wasn`t sure if she had made it home. The wind was getting worse and worse and there was no way

[another-writer]

Poker

A/N: so this was supposed to go up on Friday in honour of our super soldier’s 100th birthday but I was away for a wedding and had no time to put this up. Hope you enjoy this fluffy piece I put together xx

Summary: It’s Bucky’s 100th, there’s a poker game going on, and you’re stuck in Spain with a marmot. 

Word count: 2,242

Warnings: a couple swear words

You were late. You  were so late. You planned to be back at the compound almost five hours ago now, but a storm had ripped your plans to shreds and you had been forced to wait in the quinjet in the midst of the Pyrenees mountains along the border of Spain and France. You were alone except for the marmot that seemed to be following you around but niether you nor the marmot were enough of an expert pilot to navigate the jet through a storm this sizable. With a dying phone, you had managed to contact Clint and let him  know that you were safe but also forced to wait out the heavy wind and rain. 

You were lucky that your mission hadn’t resulted in you getting too scuffed up; after some file retrieval, you simply had some difficulty getting back to the quinjet thanks to the start of the storm so the only damage was that you were starting to sweat despite the cold temperature of the mountain. 

You were beyond pissed at yourself and this weather - tonight was poker night. You usually played on Thursdays but since Bucky loved it and today was his birthday, there was a huge poker session going on at the compound. 

Right.

It was also your boyfriend’s birthday. 

Tony sighed sharply as he tossed the watch that evolved into the protective glove onto the growing pile of poker chips in the centre of the coffee table. He was met with confused eyes.

‘I’m out of chips,’ he argued and Clint and Steve snickered at the emptiness in front of him.

‘That means you’re out of the game,’ Natasha corrected. ‘You can’t even call, Stark.’

‘Let him play,’ Bucky smirked, meeting Tony’s eye. ‘That watch’ll come in handy. Maybe I’ll have Steve hit it around a little with his shield.’

Tony glared at him. ‘You’re pretty confident, Robocop.’

‘Says the man with no chips left,’ Bucky countered, and Tony’s eyes drifted to the columns of colourful poker chips that surrounded the soldier like a small fortress. 

‘Why does everyone think it’s a good idea to give shit to the man who shelters you?’

Sam reached behind him to the bookshelf; he brought and held out a glass jar to Tony who sighed and dug around in his pockets, only to pull out an expensive fountain pen which he then put into the jar.

‘You guys think I just carry around cash?’

‘We use the swear jar to pay for our annual dinner at Masa. We can’t pay with a pen,’ Steve argued. 

‘Someone remind me why Steve’s even part of that?’ Clint piped up. ‘’s far as I’m aware, it’s only Sam, Nat, Tony, Barnes and I who even contribute enough to earn that dinner.’

‘Cap’s put in more than you think,’ Nat reasoned, a taunting smile playing across her lips as she tossed twenty dollars worth of chips on the coffee table to stay in the game. ‘First time, he put ten bucks instead of one, he felt so bad.’

‘How do you know that?’ Steve cried, as Clint fell back cackling. 

Bucky watched with bright eyes the people around him, taking the scene in as a break from the game. The remnants of his birthday cake (which were the parts that had been covered in candle wax thanks to Natasha’s brilliant idea of stuffing exactly one hundred candles on the surface) lay forgotten in the kitchen. Packaging from the take out from Bucky’s favourite diner lay scattered around them as they played. The lights were dim, the background music was nostalgic, the food was good (there was still another bag of burgers left to get through) and Bucky was holding a full house (three queens, two jacks) in his hand. Plus, this June would mark his first ever Swear Jar Dinner at New York’s most expensive restaurant, a tradition that had only started two years ago.

When Bucky had first come back into the world, his birthday was the last thing on his mind. He had confronted his mortality in many ways other than celebrating a year past. And then, to his surprise, this was the night he was met with. For some reason, he hadn’t thought birthdays were on the Avengers’ agendas but he realised that he appreciated the sentiment. After a moment of bashfulness when the cake was presented to him with Sam recording his reaction, Bucky found himself melting into the custom.

There was no existential crisis; there was no breakdown. Bucky knew he was older than time should have allowed, in a world much different to the one he used to be rooted in, but he had confronted these worries and discomforts on so many other occasions.

It should have been perfect. Poker, food, the prospect of winning Tony’s mechanical glove. Except you were missing. The last contact he had had with you was before you had left on your mission; the last word he heard was from Clint who said you were waiting out a storm. Bucky knew you would be alright - at least, he hoped and convinced himself - but in simple terms, he wished you were with him.

‘I checked the forecast,’ Steve muttered, as if reading Bucky’s mind. ‘The storm’s clearing, I’m sure she’s left by now.’ 

After another twenty minutes of game play (Tony having thrown in another watch and his glasses), the round had come to an end when Clint lay down his hand, showing four aces and a king.

Sam groaned loudly, almost like a battle cry, and threw his arm through the bettings, making them scatter all over the table. 

‘This fucking close,’ he grumbled, throwing his cards down to show a full house with tens and jacks. 

Bucky grinned sheepishly, completely unwavered by Clint’s win, or Sam’s frustration. ‘Not quite, Pigeon Toes,’ he smirked, laying his own cards down for him to see. The icing on the cake had been Tony’s junk of a hand - a melting pot of threes, twos, and fives. 

‘There you go, birthday boy,’ Clint succumbed, sloppily tossing Tony’s mechanical watch to Bucky, who smoothly caught it and grinned, as Sam stuffed a dollar bill into the jar. ‘I’ll let you keep that. Give ‘im hell.’

Bucky held the watch up as if toasting him. 

By the time you reached the compound, it was nearing two o’clock in the morning and you had managed to leave the marmot behind in the mountains. A heavy weight rested in your stomach; this was Bucky’s first birthday he would actually celebrate since before the Second World War and you missed it. You knew Bucky was in good hands while you were away and you knew that Bucky wouldn’t actually be upset with you because it wasn’t like him to get upset over something like this. But that only made you want to be there more because Bucky deserved the small pockets of happiness amongst the big ones. 

You landed the quinjet in the hangar; your tactical suit was unzipped halfway so that its torso hung around your hips revealing the full-sleeved black t-shirt you wore underneath. Your boots were caked in melting snow-covered mud; consciously, you ran your fingers through your hair to tame it after having it attacked by the rough winds and went to see if Bucky was still awake.

Poker tournaments tended to last a while so you figured he was. 

When you exited the lift, however, you were met with minimal sound. You walked through the corridor and saw Steve leave the kitchen; he turned when he heard your footsteps.

‘Nice to see you in once piece,’ he grinned amusingly, but you could see relief in his eyes. The guy had so worried about you while you were gone. 

‘You guys finished?’ you asked quietly. 

‘Yeah, not long ago.’ Steve didn’t look pissed; his eyebrows weren’t creasing in the disappointed father style they tended to do. Good signs. 

You groaned. ‘I can’t believe I missed it,’ you grumbled self-deprecatingly. ‘How was it?’

‘Tony went bankrupt and then started using his actual possessions to stay in the game; he was bluffing the whole time and lost anyway. Sam threw a tantrum.’

‘Sounds like the best time,’ you smirked. ‘Did Bucky have fun?’

‘He did,’ Steve replied. ‘It was nice to see actually. He’s still awake I think, he’ll be happy you’re back.’

You smiled at him, making your way to Bucky’s room; you caught a glimpse of the living room - leftover poker chips and a deck of cards messily packed up and the scent of burgers from the diner you had been to a few times with Bucky lingered in the air. You could tell you missed a good night. 

Bucky’s door was ajar, you pushed it open further and knocked on the door frame, standing in the entrance to his room. 

‘Hey, Soldier.’ 

Bucky, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed reading a book, looked up, seeming thrown for a moment before he regarded you with the same warmth he always had done. Light blue eyes blanketed in familiar comfort. 

He smiled and stood up, walking towards you and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close to him despite the dirt on your clothes. You instinctively reciprocated, your arms going around his waist and head buried in his chest, the material of his t-shirt soft (much softer than the tree trunk you had fallen into earlier in the mountains, but that was another story). 

It was quiet for a moment, Bucky’s face buried in your hair before he spoke.

‘Hey,’ he murmured, the simplicity making you snicker.  

‘Happy -’ You glanced at the clock on his wall ‘- belated birthday, Bucky.’

He kissed your forehead and lead you to sit down on his bed with him. 

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, hands running over you arms like he was checking for wounds. 

You smirked at his worry. ‘I’m fine, Bucky, I promise.’

‘I missed you,’ he said just as quietly but you detected no disappointment in his voice. 

You nuzzled his neck and pulled his arm around your shoulders, completely unable to tear yourself away form him. He was so warm and soft. 

‘I would say the same but,’ you sighed, ‘the marmot I ran into was much more interesting so ...’ 

Bucky nudged your ribs making you squeal lightly and jolt in his arms at the contact. 

‘Bucky, ‘m so sorry I wasn’t here,’ you groaned quietly. 

‘’s okay, I’m not mad,’ he murmured back. ‘I knew you wanted to be here; I get the job, doll, I do the same one,’ he joked. 

You leaned down to untie your boots. 

‘Steve said you all had a good time. You owe me a game, Solider.’

‘Clint kicked our asses and we didn’t even see it coming. Sam took it hard.’

‘He can be such a brat when he loses,’ you giggled, already coming up with ways to tease him for when you saw him next. ‘He’s great though.’

‘Is Sam as great as the marmot?’

‘Nothing will ever be as great as the marmot.’

You rested a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, toying softly with his hair. He hummed appreciatively, leaning into your touch.

‘Tony put a pen in the Swear Jar.’

‘Doesn’t he just carry out cash?’

‘Apparently not. We’ll treat it like a placeholder, I guess.’

‘Was it one of his fountain pens? Those things can be like two hundred dollars a piece.’ 

Bucky traced patterns along your shoulder, playing with your hair and brushing it aside, making goosebumps rise all over your skin. 

‘I can’t believe you’re a hundred years old,’ you admitted. ‘We joked about it but now it’s actually true.’

‘I can’t believe I’m a hundred years old,’ Bucky murmured. ‘It’s kind of the same feeling I got when I turned twenty-five - that I was finally getting old. Now I am old.’

‘Did you have an existential crisis over the passing of time and age?’ you asked, your tone slightly teasing. 

‘I actually didn’t,’ Bucky admitted. ‘I just ... I’m one hundred years old.’ 

You snickered at the tone of wonder in his voice. 

Bucky was quiet for a while, fingers still tracing patterns on your skin; leaning into his chest, you could feel him relaxing into your touch.

‘You know, when I was in college, I said that the maximum age gap I would accept between me and the guy I would end up with would be, like, four years or something.’

‘I think I’ve exceeded that, doll.’

‘Only a little,’ you reasoned humorously.

‘A couple years,’ Bucky bargained, pretending to be completely serious. ‘’m glad you could make an exception for me,’ he snickered.

‘A couple years,’ you agreed fondly. ‘For what it’s worth, you don’t look a day over eighty-four.’

‘Doll,’ Bucky sighed with feigned sentiment, ‘that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.’

You chuckled at him. ‘You’re such a loser,’ you muttered. ‘But before I forget, I need to give you your birthday present.’

‘[Y/N], you don’t have to -’

‘I swear, James, -’

‘Okay, okay,’ Bucky chuckled, still not letting go of your hand. ‘Just, later, yeah?’

You smiled questioningly at him but allowed him to pull you back onto the bed anyway. 

‘What are you doing, Buchanan?’ 

‘I love you,’ he murmured as though that offered an explanation, pulling you to his chest where you nuzzled comfortably. ‘Just wanna sit here.’

‘Bucky, I smell like a forest,’ you groaned tiredly. 

‘Shh, ‘s fine.’

For a while, you leaned into his arms, both of you getting lost in the hazy warmth of his room and each other’s comfortable body heat. Bucky’s fingers were trailing through your hair.  

‘What even is a marmot?’ he asked after some time.

You blinked. ‘’m not even sure. It kind of looked like a beaver. Maybe they’re snow beavers.’ 

‘You must be a scientist or somethin’, doll,’ Bucky murmured sardonically, snickering when you flicked the back of his head sharply. 

‘For all you know, I could be. Part of day I’m an Avenger. Other part of day, I’m a  zoologist.’

He smirked lazily.

‘Bucky?’ Your tired tone paralleled his.

‘[Y/N]?’

‘I don’t want to keep you up if you’re tired.’

‘What is it, baby?’

‘I get the sentiment,’ you mumbled, ‘but ‘m really hungry.’

‘Burgers?’

‘Lemme shower first, because I’m disgusting, and then burgers.’

[sparklecarehospital]

it says sparklecare murders rudolph, not uni murders rudolph, uni and rudolph would be Bros and drink mountain dew together because they both have uncontrollable light-up appendages. I'm saying cuddles pulls an all-out assassination of Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer and cuts his nose off and tries to make the santa Claus foundation pay ransom money so he can even surgically attach the nose to another replacement reindeer. im not talking ten hundred grand, cuddles is like the illegal purveyor of reindeer organs, he's gonna go bigger, im talking ten billion. he's gonna hold rudolph's decapitated nose for a ransom of ten billion smackaroos. and there's no way santa has that much money. I mean think about it, he's completely non-profit, gives away billions of toys to children every single year for the cost of what? billions of cookies and gallons of milk. nobody's giving Santa birthday cards with 100 bucks in them, he's doing all that giving out of the kindness of his jolly heart. so you know what that means? he and his elves can't afford that ransom. of course the patients of sparklecare are gonna see this happening. they're gonna see santa crying over his loss of and inability to replace rudolph. and no doctors are gonna try and talk cuddles out of his money laundering schemes. everyone's gonna see Christmas about to be cancelled. so many kids disappointed. but then Barry gets the idea that maybe uni can be rudolph for Santa. he's got a horn, he's got wings and the ability to fly, why not? but uni tells him he can't make his horn light up voluntarily because it only does that when he gets. y'know. when he gets excited. antsy pantsy. horny. so barry tells uni he'll buy him skyrim if he does it. they save christmas

sparklecare christmas special idea

uni the rainbow horned unicorn

[dreams-a-plethora]

We open on an establishing shot, as the camera pans down we see the name of a store, Game Sensations. The date pops up on the screen, May 10th, 1997. we hear the doorbell chime as we cut to three late middle-school to early high-school aged kids looking around the shop. A group of boys between the ages of 12-15. They’re sneaking about the card game part of the store looking at the new games, when we here generic dialog.

“Dude, do you ever think we’ll get a Lotus? I’ve been talking to Bobby, and he says that card is legit.” A tall kid asks.

“I don’t know man, but I really don’t see the game going anywhere. Now this Porybon game, that has legs.” A smaller chubby kid responds

These two kids look like your average 90’s nerds. One is taller and lanky, while the other shorter and a bit of noticeable chub. Both of them wearing glasses. Labels pop up labeling the tall one “George” and the chubby one ‘Billy”

“You dickweasles wouldn’t know good cards games if it bit you on the ass, now this one,” the third kid pulls a pack off of the shelf of what looks to be a post-apocalyptic game. “This game is legit.”

“You can’t use the same adjective that George used, be original” Billy chimes in.

“Also, your mother would be very disappointed hearing her little Gordo talking that way.” George says, mockingly.

This one is a shorter and fatter than Billy, his label pops up and we catch his name, “Gordo”

“Ahh, fuck you guys.” Gordo says, shuffling away.

“You kids gonna buy something or just stand around devaluing my merchandise?” The shopkeeper yells from behind a counter.

“Sorry Steve.” George walks up to the counter and lays down two packs of Tragic cards.

The shopkeeper rings up the cards and puts them in a bag, “Hey kid, you coming to this tournament I’m doing? First prize is an entire box of Tragic cards.” Steve hands the kid a flier.

“I mean, I can try. But I can’t prom...” The word trails off as we hear the doorbell chime once again. In walks your average nerds definition of a perfect woman, about 16, tall, pretty, and wearing a Porybon t-shirt. She also appears to be of Asian decent.

“Hey Haruki,” The shopkeeper addresses her, “The usual I presume?”

“Eventually,” Haruki responds, as her label pops up on the screen. “But I’m mostly here to blow some time before my parents find me.”

Haruki makes her way to the back of the store and pulls out a deck of cards. She then starts idly flipping through them.

George grabs the shopkeepers collar and almost shouts in his face. “You need to tell me everything you know about her.”

The shopkeeper pulls himself away and straightens his shirt, “Easy Casanova, all I know is her name is Haruki Yumi, and she plays Porybon. She’s quite good at it too, one of the top players in this store.”

“I will give you a hundred dollars for a phone number or an e-mail address.” George says pulling out his wallet.

“Kid, look. I know you’re in love or whatever, but I can’t be giving out a customer’s information like that.” The shopkeeper responds.

“Two hundred, and I’ll sign up for your tournament.” George counters.

“Deal”

Quick succession of shots, handshake, cash register (With sound), paperbag, then a smash cut into George’s room. Gordo and Billy are playing some card game on his bed, while George has his eyes glued to the monitor.

“She didn’t look all that impressive to me.” Gordo pipes in, “I hit you with this guy.”

“That’s because you’re racist Gordo,” Billy responds, “Blocking it.”

“I’m not racist. I’m picky.” Gordo pouts, folding his arms.

“You just don’t get it,” George finally replies, “this girl is my dream. I searched the email that Steve gave me and it turns out she’s got her own Demonfire fan page. All about her, and her love of card games.” George turns the monitor to face the bed. “She’s also only a year older than me. I think this is my soulmate.”

“Ten bucks says she made it herself.” Gordo says.

“Slow your rolls there Casanova,” Billy replies.

“That’s the same thing the shopkeeper called him” Gordo responds”

“Whatever, the point is, she probably has no idea you exist. You don’t want to go full stalker dude.” Billy finishes his thought.

“I’m not stalking her...” George starts.

“You did just pay the shopkeeper two hundred dollars for her e-mail,” Billy interrupts.

“...I’m just trying to get some base knowledge before I approach her.” George continues.

“Whatever man, but if you end up in juvy, I’m not visiting.” Billy turns back to Gordo, “Have you finished your turn? I need to kill you and head home.”

As we fade to black we hear George under his breath say Haruki’s name.

The lights come back on, as we see George sitting in front of his computer again. On his screen an open instant message window sits. Completely empty. The camera pans to the time and date, 10:31 AM, May 24th 1997. George sighs and sits up straight. He starts typing.

“Hello Haruki! I got this email from a mutual friend. You’re into Porybon? That’s sweet, I’m a Tragic player myself. If you want we could teach each other our respective games. I’ve never played Porybon but I’ve heard it’s fun. If you ever want to, just let me know.”

George stares at the message, closes his eyes and presses enter. The computer beeps announcing this lapse in judgment. He looks at the screen again and realizes something. He quickly types up a follow up.

“My name is George, by the way.” He presses enter and sighs a little in relief.

“Now all I need to do is wait for a response.” Enter time lapse of George just shuffling around his chair. As we come out of lapse we hear George yell, “Why hasn’t she gotten back to me!” George slams his fists on his desk and we hear faintly in the background “Hey, knock that shit off!”

“Sorry dad.”

Then out of the blue the computer makes another sound. George turns to look at it as words pop onto the screen.

“im sorry, who are you?”

George’s heart skips a beat as he reads and re-reads the words on the screen. He quickly types out a response.

“I’m George, like I said.”

“and you got this email how?”

“A mutual friend?”

“which friend?”

“Shit,” George whispers to himself.

“Pamela?” He types, cringing to himself.

“i dont know a pamela. wait, hold on. your profile pic. i know who you are.”

“What?”

“youre the dude who always stares at me at sensations.”

A montage of moments where George is staring at Haruki plays, and every time she makes eye contact with him, he looks away quite obviously.

“is that how you knew i play porybon? wow thats creepy.”

“Wait, no.”

“who really gave you my email? were you searching for it? are you you some sort of stalker? if i see you coming anywhere near me im going to call steve over and get you banned, you hear me?”

“No, but...”

“but what?”

“I just thought, we could be friends.”

“and this is how you introduce yourself? after staring at me for weeks? nah man, youre weird. i dont want anything to do with this. hope to never see your face again.”

Yumi-chan has gone offline.

George looks at the screen, dumbfounded. “What just happened?” he manages to squeak out.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” we hear Billy’s voice say, the camera pans to George’s bed as the day changes. Billy and Gordo are sitting on George’s bed, while George rummages through his closet.

“Take me through this plan one more time?” Gordo asks.

George still rummaging responds, “Look, she said she never wanted to see my face again, right? So I just have to re-introduce myself without showing her my face.” He pulls out a Samus Aran costume and throws it at Billy.

“George, I gotta say, this is pathetic even by my standards.” Billy says, as we see Gordo trying to put the helmet on in the background.

“I’ve got to try, this girl is my soulmate, and I can’t let it end on such a sour note.”

“Dude, listen to yourself. She already thinks you’re a stalker. You need to be less of a stalker. This isn’t going to do anything but creep her out more. You’re going to get a retraining order against you, and you’re going to get us kicked out of Sensations. And I like Sensations.”

“So then what am I going to do, Billy?” George sighs.

“You could shoot Ronald Reagan” Gordo chimed in.

“Ooorrrr, you could man the hell up and apologize.” Billy retorts.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You fucking payed a guy two hundred dollars for her e-mail address, you dipshit. You stared at her for hours freaking her the hell out, instead of just introducing yourself like a normal person. And even now, even after she made it clear she doesn’t want you to bother her, instead of being like ‘Alright, I’m sorry about my behavior’ you’re ‘I’m going to dress up in a costume to trick her into talking to me.’” Billy nearly screams, finger pressing against the bridge of his nose.

“Well, if you say it like that.” George pouts, he sits down and slouches in his computer chair.

“Look, George, you’re my friend. So I’m going to say this as plainly as I can. You’re a complete dumbass. There’s a Porybon tournament going on today, and I’m sure she’s going to be there. All you need to do is apologize. And if she still says ‘go to hell’ well at least you can stop obsessing.”

“And no Samus costume?”

“If that’s a real question, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“And I’ll film it.” Gordo adds.

George closes he eyes and sighs again, he does that a lot, it’s a personality trait. When he opens his eyes, we’re transported to the outside of Game Sensations. Almost instinctively, he goes towards the Tragic cards and pulls a pack of the latest set. He eyes flick to the play area and tries to find the face of Haruki. Then we hear the door chimes, and then off camera.

“Oh, hell no. Steve!”

George turns around and see’s Haruki, who just walked in. Steve seemingly glides into frame and places his hand onto George’s shoulder.

“Unless you’re playing in the tournament, you’ve got to leave.” Steve says, tightening his grip.

“Wait, before I do, I just wanted to apologize. I know it won’t mean much, but I’m sorry about how I was, and am. I just thought you were really pretty, and cool and I’m a dweeb. So I had no idea how to actually approach you. And while that doesn’t excuse my behavior, I hope it does at least explain it. If I could, I’d wish to start fresh from the introductions. But if you still want nothing to do with me, I can understand that.” George says with a bow.

After a few seconds of thought, Haruki responds. “If we do, you’re going to be on real thin ice.”

“I think I can deal with that.” George says, smiling.

And then I woke up.

Or so I thought, Dream within a dream. But the layer two was me trying to write down the dream I just had. Getting frustrated, realizing I was still sleeping.

And then I woke up, in actuality this time.