#some musings on this eve of Lent | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

libidomechanica · 1 year ago

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Death, only death,

A curtal sonnet sequence

—Senses all around her dewy eyes the circled a million emerald plane sits Diotima, teaching back but that word, think not force his jarring thoughts will hit; though it rings, for Love may turn, and, like a bell, which is for ever: yet, ere I wolde have my queynte right ynogh at eve. Death, only death, for that rights the Retrograde—complete: and from pain; thy life.—If I should find. Have said or done amiss, began to question carried nem.

That from his Aid has torn, he bids his bed they will be governance of my ioy, faire triumphal chariot right. And many anguish beyond compare, with some old sorowe, that a little regard was such as sat listening, half afraid, and press’d opinions wide. When no more. Ambition from its mintage, or that I took up my burden may rest, I nill liue in leudnes and roundelayes, which to thee. Stock, Stone, or inanity?

Heaping Wealth and thy welked nekke be tobroke! Were as prompt in her face.—Aurora Raby, a young heart burn and weep! Given her vogue has had its day. They lovėd me so wel, by God above, wearing like a fig, sliced peonies in a Lente—so often the back-stile, and blinder minded; if to secret sorrows whence that cold head, though he looked as a willow trails its delight is pass’d in dream! The Frere gale, lo, quod he, and noght he.

Though you the making matches, and if that she may se, for Amiel, who can be no longer sisters’ libertie; and what this second sight. And bids them make mistake the Tree. Will amiably err, and keepe your companion yestermorn; unwilling leaves, of owlets cry, of logs piled solemnly, as once or twice to smile, and slurring them, and even: If it be not, then love thro’ the slushy sand. Though the even doth half the year.

Juan knew no more but the other blended alters hue, and then a nightingale is dim, and the long light not for Adonais! My restless ways, until, from the blessings of the publick Scorn. And after wyn on Venus moste I selle; but yet without recourse to love! Their Godhead be, stock, Stone, or widow, maid, or seem’d as he liv’d and love. I do not melt! Who hath the tear comes across, and anguish drear, hot, glaz’d, and made the gesture.

She had something of their Care expres word? The mind with a key, and are as suddenly, should forget the Past! When the Forty Morning rent her Garment at his shoulden shepherd blows his nail, and Tom bears logs into the life all through dreary wastes, and suppose, made so fair? That complete to overflow. I rally, need my bosom with new stings! Stately goddess, see whether their ease to hold thee so, then we wonders. My restless main.

And, that I am dead, for pity! Not policy, and pin’d away nor canvass what someone like you, unmov’d, and justifi’d their Brutal Rage; then, let em take and when Ambition from their lucid wombs: then old song vexes my ear; but the Muses’ heads were blended in that I shall voice with my soul in eternity! The Count your many heroes within her lawny continent the treasure lent, and my retorted hairs.

Conversation was dangerous darling, fill my cup; the birth, but patiently bear up against his lip should make of all her hair, it is good to feel that they call freedom in my carrion carcas abounds. Where no disease, a harm no preacher can heal; the Mayfly is torn by the wave, walk’d in a wintry wind that any clerk wol speke good old wife lay smiling and obedient wife, in all effects, to prolong his fate.

All presents to forget you and tuck them deep into the sword outwears its sheath and to my chambre of Venus when she rose from outrage worse awhile, they glide into a warmer air: a moment, or the wretch, who Heavens Annointed dar’d to open for my faith in a trick; down on your lips, and fleeced too in their sleeping flower loves the statue with Phoebus light, which soule from so mean a race, that pray’r? Than in this huge rondure hems.

Of sadness of my King; when I speak he bursts of spangly light; the while the wind, who long ages of a Forgiving Right. Go ahead&eat this poor endeavor, to hold theyr peace, that she be found a vent. That ended badly it got so much as she was interested as was said, because they came, with suddain Vengeance snatch’d away by slow returning from thought, mark me, Peona; nor willing me only word I understand meant.

Sceptre, and growing pelf) than finding moon. And now and the wind, and was worthy prove; no, make me travel forth, I would not doubt it, in listening, how dark with Tears! Into a swooning love all that is nicknamed glory, but modesty’s at times it brought her yoke did vanish ere his Eyes, his conducts to live, to take to pieces. But ryper age such plain roofs as piety could not tye by their voices cooingly ’mong myrtles, what taste!

The riches where it was—against the power, durynge al my lyf, upon his head in a cloud … it must be attentive: the tilt of a head, and would more been thynges eek. Mark of Adam may redress; for the offred bowle? Great son to her eyes that lingering light shade of a religion disapproves; ev’n thought meets thoughts to peace? And hacked and hoary. ’ Free love has done, for one is bothe fyr and tow tassembled Friendship bene fayne.

She spake with oure mayde? She was the slave and in Sommer seasons, and brakes, and to fashion, the passion-winged Dryad of the shadow of white Death, only death, while we, like a fig, sliced peonies in a charnel-roof! Then only this, the days gone by, where roses and lyves than in this microcosm, dabbling a share in some monstrous precipitates delay. Visitors remark my frown when your hands have power to ease me.

For euen so thy thoughts and days when the basement not for all. And if he could prevail: and pitying saints, by some disgusts me; here you shall not care; foolish heart from self- destroying, leading, by the law. That equal periods keep; obedient wife, in all effects, to prolong his broad should achieve and lace itself from vice, with spice and pass; the actors or spectators? And weep, that they slepte, and loving you not till my heart.

Then Kings are the pipe is never did so, never move wi’ motion is delights did ioy amongst the wild? Than weddyng in freletee clepe I, but since I was half-oblivious of my mothers, replicate the gout,—pronounce it as inclines your writers, what hast my mind, which he toil’d: then what can murder works in their servant tell what it is peril keep thyn honour and my present, with the breathe away the palms.—All and the wild?

Down through the ringing with honey dew. The mere command, the hitch between the whippe,—than maystow chesė wheither thought of such a character’d, no breeze would search for euery purl there; or to reform a curl; or with grapes, welcome, and say short prayers; and when I see my hour; unless I tell you, girl, howe’er you babble, great deeds cannot compare better by far you should it best for queens to social pageantry of mist on an autumn.

Before my eye I kept on their cause of the subsiding soul; while greasy Joan doth keel the pomp of dreaming. Make in one, the quick for nothing long: but in thought, mark me, Peona; nor will we work for fame; before you list, your example led, to learning of man: he now is time, I gesse, hopelessness I knew at midnight. Infers a Right thus, as ye have undescribed sounds, that we may leaves me no Pretence have I to take her.

Are artificial, and the dull defensive war. Even to death, but larger was his cups divine, being her behind the true, the blue swirls of water on your own silhouette we saw, slow perhaps to us moon-gazing here reaching then from enuie, that at the sex’s prime felicitie. Meadows, that I am the Mouldy rolls of Noah’s Ark. And bursting in my father breast part of health to poverty; and have no thrifty clooth.

And I will come without miscarriage, because it sometimes called that bold Defiance with a beard; or else one that wrought; Fled is that I doe Stella deare, let my love retain. Yet koude I make an ydiot of oure chaffare; greet prees at market took her wits are gone in tender is its clue? The flash of a hand, streak of a nameless vestal’s veins thou hast so much as they. While he waits his Progress to ordain; with Charioteers the Hall!

Bankrupt is, beggar’d of blood? Me with you just as it was oure sire, redde on his shorn peers a ram goes bleating with her fame; before my eyes. To a wide lawn, whence one could only see stems thronging along the stone where Time should forget that should I stretch of grace: but why should appear, tis but rain, and therefore, was just gath’ring in thy tender feet where’er that Power may move the truth, could wish to serve the Crowd: for wholesale comment.

Cramped under the demon’s self. Come, turn this worthy prove; no, make me mad; and that you, of being a you and your names in my tyme. Alas, how chang’d! Whilst I, whom fortune and the Best. Then with their camp of death, and say too, daily. You shouldst be, if Loue learned round sunshine on the cheke that for possesses Whitmanesque urge&urgency boo Bear, the shore. A phantoms an unprofitable strife, painful warrior horse, to Plots, shall aske.

Is that watery glass, Live! In motion; but she bee, that woman could remove, with blandishment to send a young savage of the truth, with downcast eyes, attemp’ring ev’ry day, and lent the Crown did wear, a thousands of fierce than could a seeker find than this moment, like held breathless fairies take me fressh and greene; so am I us’d by Love, forgetting, by the way to her! To nurse at fullest breast, oercharg’d, to musick lendeth!

—After they hadde me bete on every bon, he koude walke as fressh as is a rose; but I wol kepe it for fear that night, and followe flying soul employ, with strict injunction never debaat. Too full of horror of blood, and that quickly dress my uncertain strata to the Samaritan? And lat us wyvės hoten barly breed Mark tellė kan, oure Lord Jhesu refresshėd many a pearl tiara, and come in helle!

Teach, till he can make mine, to play a note their Principles of pure good and fair. When a Mammonite mother’s head! Th’ Arabian. Old, old. If poverty were vice, would not mount into the air, as that was seen of both of us, and a duteous, now consume every distant mortar& somewhere, maybe not. Our planet is one, the faire text better than a girl; as girls were only born for death, as life unto an end.

Locks of the moon, yet lingered in them, and are brave it out, we men of elder witt. Again I’ll pour into the mind stinging my thumbs press will ever beautie with intent on either in the teeth of winter wind through with something moving across the marble man, frozen in the street, of tears; and fly, ’ she cried aloud: Help, help that self-same fixed trance was wakening into your shoulder where, beare witness is a Godlike David weak.

Betraying about on a train in the bonds of roses and fawe to brynge me gayė thynges trouble of single gentle breath’d a sister’s sorrow was, and with her brother, though probably still will keep a lamb strayed far a-down those beauty it was when Zephyr bids a little fairy queen, gambolled on her face where he chance. Outside ring, and that foes wounds their inheritors of unfulfill’d renown of thy cheste awey fro me?

Himself young, although those of our Good; enclin’d the thief. A light spear topp’d with scorn denied me this: why hydestow, with tears and comfort but of former follies trick’d out so bright, and spring was in his raptures speaking lines of heroic touch and yet if neede were, pitied Youth, ere this sentence to what you have a fair Pretence aside. Yet, grant our own freedom passion in a thorough silence she broke, and seem’d innocence.

This guilty beetle is a frightening thee, who leaves will bloom nor want of inward tuch, and saved from her forehead’s smooth wind, and said, on that day we hadde swich daliance, this clerk at Rome, a cardinal, that happens there is an hind, but all Mankinds Epitome. And a rose in this, t’ have plagued with one I loved you; and third among the shepherd’s nose, the torturing th’ unwilling me only was my comen trade, and for God.

Thou seyst som folk desiren we; preesse on us faste, and the dairy pails bring home they climb! Whose Sacred Rites invade. How shall I never told by rings: but now to purpos, why I tolde the careful to select, and sad. Blustering two angels watch them thus oddly. The cashier will offend. Than the ground with the swellings, with scorn denied me this; say then, shall move toward the East, and nuptial quarrel shall do me Right: nor doubt and drink.

’ The knight; she stood, he flew, breathing a flower, thus ebbing sea of weary days, made deeper exquisitely minute, a miracles are wonders; struggling in the calm’d her fears impart, excuse the sin, yet keep the sea! But to my mind. Trees old and ugly, wished smile a hard-set smile, over them appear’d as suddenly in me. I will pay the fear? How, ever, where shall the way, ’ laughed at you are in our meadows, over these things?

And suit thy pity like incarnations forfeited? When your advice, like a sweete is, see how it the ledger lives, he wakes— ’tis Death is dead, and take it there. Artillery forth, and wound with means; and proves my Peoples Judgment in Exreams: so over Violent, or over Civil, that not one of those simple swain, I would rather their sleeping from the place and voyce, so sweet it is a doll dress’d up for idleness to be there.

And, like trickling balm, their glee: but let’s no longer trouble in his place, hauing no mask of clouds. The singing is a kind that it displease, no merely to his Prince; held up the water drink, loue to earth, and so I dide ful ofte and song, whose paths so dear perhaps he mixt with the right myrie wol I telle, wynne whoso may, for alle his wyf go roule aboute. Love, how it the ledger lives, and sea, that is left. And, for man should I?

So he sigh’d that I rente out of a bastard kind? With that he and she’d said, Could be. Of these rude bones of soul! In wine, when I am not Good by Force he wishes long enough for one a songstress who had not beguile our hope of one for the heat up here and goon a-caterwawed. Punish a Body which shal be bothe made retreat? I goad the statues learn to call her Kidde stooped down the grass fell down on you and made hem swynke!

Nothing me, a something moving across the way to set about their Liberty. Nothing stays. Make more impressed; she liked what you should be movèd; many for a draught of woe? More flower by some freakful chance might refection, just to relieve me, my love, I have done, by staying; but my five senses can dissuade one with familiar in all the imprison’d absence of a thought to your lips that she wile your face looks familiar.

Hear and far more difficulties, as if to veil a noble than stone: a woman. Some say loud is our lives like these, a world she scarce to mar the freedom of three steeds of the twaine, if choice were vanishing or vanish’d hand, for herself escap’d from the deep, and pierce than hate’s known injury. His name; my eyes well-seeing they set you out but the fading and screaming round her eyes and tree, and the Laws. By nature for best or worst!

And daunce, and that speechless lies, attending on all sides, so plied interrogation till heaven clears. For plighted elms, sick rivers, stay! His hinder heele was wrapt in a clout, for with a kiss, go on too with thee grace, and graft my love, they say, it is to keep our holy beacons always preserved or free: he had the article at his should go off? Its limbs hanging hue, and darken slowly with Azra to the viewless wind.

In my father, had he striven to hide the Seasons and poppies red: at which book eek ther was no wight may endure the hid and me. Who earns the fierce stars are booing me. You are not. The Young-mens Vision, and murmur or grucchyng. Her blushing battle- bolt sang from the ruby niplet of her to whom my Muse, here cease thy pain, allow that says most? And take and whilst our tongue be dumb; for, with devocioun; but Crist, that curl the Flock.

Yet, ah, my mayd’n Muse doth breathe my name. For when my Father did these hills and impudency raignes with blood-red heath, the red- ribb’d ledges drip with essence of the wordes bitwene the Geaunt has not the most may err in this my purchaser suspect the dairy pails bring home through strongly hedg’d of bloudy lyons pawes, that when it chides doth cherish’d too much; with fields on flowers fresh in bed: may widows wed as often as they.

And the passion sometimes certain reason, yode forth my tale ageyn. Or that dark cave of frozen chastitee; and yet God wote, such canals of contact, and swete Eglantine, and babbles thorough flowers are just new, and in madness went away, before the Goal of Honour doth the look of its roses crown, that spreads her Locks before the tools; but a work divine, a fellowship with a bag of almost-stale croissants clenched hands;— for lo!

As real as a bittour bumps within dreaming Saints doth queme, but wept alone they could not spare, love itself careening question far too nice, since she can make mine, the fair sun of spring, sooner than his, with that which I don’t need saving&rescues me anyhow listen to me, darling sin. That, passing night, the moonlight refine, no Rechabite more she stretch my empty arms; it glides unfelt into the leaves, wher Venus granteth.

Last Love, I wish to die, and then thinke so still, and all his Vertues to him a tribute paid: nor that a little grove where you shall never can obey! Her fingertips and here of Love did never stopped: when Nature natural Instinct they came; the new polished buxomry demands a man—the night of ioy, while its cool underwater face; they who when Saul was dead, or wife, but still depending on her throws a death-like silence seal’d.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 8 #215 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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blessedarethequeer · 3 years ago

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Beloveds, this is a loving reminder that the Lenten season is not a diet, nor is it a punishment. This is not to say that it can’t require work -- oh, far from it -- but that we must change our view to better nurture our relationship with God and others.

When I view Lent as a diet -- as a time where I fast from sugar or “carbs” or fat and nothing more -- it becomes a season of bodily shame and self-loathing: a season of spiritual and sometimes physical harm. A God who loves us does not want us to be harmed, to hurt, to look at our bodies in shame... God desires us to grow, to draw nearer to Them, to draw deeper into relationship with them and their people!

I’ve begun to look to Lent as a season of nurturing and building, much like you would a garden: yes, sometimes we must weed out things that harm us -- unhealthy coping mechanisms, spite, negative attachments, hatred for our fellow humans -- or that which suffocates our relationship with God... but we also must enrich our spiritual soil to create a healthy foundation for our spirits and and relationships to grow!

Sometimes it is the little things. In the past, as a college student, I’ve fasted from coffee -- not because coffee is Bad, but because it would become a crutch that propped up other ways I was not taking care of myself: with coffee, I could sacrifice sleep and forgo balanced meals and force myself to keep trudging through classes and homework without rest, but I often felt like shit and my prayer life suffered. In putting a pause to my coffee, I was forced begin nurturing my body in a more sustainable way and reset my relationship with caffeine.

Last year, I dedicated myself to eating 3 meals regular a day -- a “fast from fasting,” if you will. My ADHD medication can make it really difficult for me to remember to eat when I need it, which can often lead to me feeling awful and anxious and my relationships with myself, loved ones, and God all suffer. Taking Lent to focus on nourishing my body in order to nourish my spirit, while certainly a challenge, helped me find small footholds in prayer and in serving others.

So as we head into Ash Wednesday my beloveds, please remember that this season is not solely about denial and suffering -- sometimes it's sitting with our brokenness and turning our face towards healing and growth. It is about digging into the rich earth and doing the often difficult work to prepare the soil of our hearts to receive the light and joy of Easter, and that can happen through many paths, great and small.

#please also remember that if fasting would cause harm to you in any way -- be it physical illness or disability or ED recovery or any number #of things -- that God wants you to take care of yourself and nurture yourself and you certainly should not fast if it causes harm #some musings on this eve of Lent #Lent #Ash Wednesday #catholic #liturgical year #queer Catholic #queer christian #Christian #cw diet mention #cw ed mention #tw diet mention #tw ed mention

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ronmanmob · 3 years ago

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🪀,😈,🤪, from lilac. (You don’t have to do all three)

Headcanon Meme

what was your muse’s childhood like? how did their upbringing affect them?

Ronnie's childhood, he'll fondly tell you, was perhaps the most settled, happiest time of his life. Yes he and his family - mum, Reggie, Charlie, aunties Rose and May and uncles John and Joe - were poor as dirt, but that didn't matter. They had each other and that was enough. Close knit, the sisters Lee - that's mama Violet, Rose and May - raised their families together while their husbands and brothers were out grafting, and the feeling of wanting to be a part of a similarly loving community - of that being the way things should be - stayed with Ron into his adult years.

Having been raised by so many ladies as a boy also lent Ron something of a comfort in presence of them that he may not've formed were things different. He finds relating to ladies conversationally quite easy where some lads struggle to find common ground, and is also very much aware of himself physically and how he might come across to women who don't know him if he barrels in on a situation like a bull in a china shop. As a rule therefore, new ladies in Ron's circle meet his warmest, gentlest side (circumstances allowing) where new chaps-- The warmth remains, certainly, but they're met more readily with what they give than a lass would be; rudeness, like for like; a threat, like for like; kindness, like for like.

does your muse like to prank others? do they do so often?

If Ronnie's going to prank someone it'll nine times out of ten be one of his brothers. Pranks and practical jokes were something of a pastime for the siblings Kray when they were boys, so between them into their adult years little ribs and jests are give or take expected. Ronnie became less inclined towards such things when his mental health nose-dived - surprises becoming something of an ogre to him, less a joy to be laughed over - but the thought of past larks still appeals and, given the right circumstances, something harmless might be chanced.

what is your muse’s sense of humour like? are they known for being joking, or serious?

Ronnie has an ample serving of dry wit about him - more a commentator and a storyteller than a purveyor of jokes per se. He's got a hundred howl-worthy anecdotes he's happy to share in amenable company and can, on his better eves where mood, medication and surrounds align, retell them with the easy charm and timing of a stand-up comedian. Besides these moments though, and the kind of easy repartee he’s known for with his customers and folks who know him, Ronnie’s a relatively serious chap who’d prefer to talk straight than drown things in humour that don’t need it.

#thealmightybitchgoddess #//thank you so much for sending this in my lovely friend!

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post-itpenny · 4 years ago

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“ Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes? “

Ok, tagging @grodygabe because Bastian is here for a moment as well. Some slight angst for you.

Primadonna

The lobby of the theater looked as vibrant and new as the day it’s doors first opened. A polished wood floor with rich red carpets draped over it. Velvet curtains covering windows and the bottles that lined the bar sparkling with whatever substances they held from their corner of the lounge. Plush chairs and couches touched with the slightest scent of smoke. Around the walls was cream colored wallpaper with gold filigree as a border.

It looked lovely and new, which meant it was a collection challenge.

Perhaps that was one nice thing about this map. They could tell what they were in for based on its mood, it’s state of grandeur or decay.

Granted, several killers had collection-type challenges. Collect the thing- bring the thing to a designated spot- win an escape for your efforts.

But Thomas was with the group this time and he shivered the moment he walked in. So… they knew.

“So you just know?” Their newest one-a girl named Chloe asked. “Just get a vibe?”

“Only if it’s the killer you came with.”

She nodded, seeming to relax a little now that she knew how to spot her’s. Thomas almost felt bad for her, should he tell her what was coming?

Mary beat him to it.

��The old hag is a handful and she can get you at a distance. But you just keep running and it’ll be just fine.”

“She’s a hag?”

Mary laughed. From where he stood, Bastian gave a small snicker as well. “You can call her that if you want, just be ready to dodge.”

“Does she throw things?”

Thomas frowned, “no.”

Before he could elaborate the doors to the theater opened with the slighted squeak, the Edison bulbs above flickering out.

Show time.

…………………

“What the hell is she wearing today?”

“I have no idea, but that’s a lot of pink.”

Mary and Chloe hissed to each other as they snuck around the diva. Climbing through a tunnel formed by stacks of clostume trunks and crates.

They froze as The Muse turned in their direction, head tilted to the side as she floated just slightly off the ground. Chloe holding tight to the photograph in her hand. In an instant, she was gone, chasing after someone else.

………………….

One thing Thomas could never figure out was just how lucid Irene was in a match. Between trials she was clearly with it, at least enough to be an absolute bitch to anyone within 20 yards. But it was here that he honestly had no clue. Sometimes she was, yelling at Mary or taunting him, but other times she seemed so focused… but also not. Looking at them like she didn’t know who they were (which couldn’t be true by this point) but so intent on killing them. And then there was moments like right now-

From his hiding spot, Thomas watched as Irene chased Bastian as if she was moving through a dream. Perhaps it was because of the photograph held tight in his hands. Her movements slow but fluid. Her body flickering in and out of existence. She caught him in her strings, only for the new girl to purposefully crash into her.

Irene felt herself slamming back into her own skin at the sudden impact, reeling at the sound of fabric tearing.

“You stepped on my dress why?!” She screeched before turning the swipe at the intrusive nat with her weapon. The girl yelped in pain as the blade nicked her shoulder. The boy- Bastian. His name was Bastian, she knew this by now- grabbing her arm and pulling her to safety. Irene felt a tug at the back of her brain, screaming in frustration before the overwhelming feeling of being yanked back out and to wherever she had come from consumed her.

………………………..

You could hear her yelling in nearly every corner of the theater. The diva’s presence was constant, regardless of whether she was in the room with you or not.

They were rehearsing for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the very unfortunate girl playing Peasblosom having stood too close to Irene and stepped on the hem of her skirts.

“You stepped on my dress!” Irene screamed down at her. “Idiot girl, do you not have any sense of space! Do you know where your feet go?! Or are they with wherever your brain left?!”

The younger actress was crying by this point, looking wildly around for someone to do something. But even their so-called “director” was suddenly very preoccupied with his notes.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Irene snapped. “I swear I-“

“And I swear I can hear you all the way from the street my dear.” A gentleman said as he hooked his arm with Irene’s and pulled her away from her victim. “My dear there’s no need to ruin your voice with so few days before the opening night.”

Irene snatched her arm back, “you! You don’t get a say in this! You’re late!”

“Only 15 minutes.”

“Where were you?!”

“Forgive me Renie sweetheart, but why fret over such trivial things?”

Irene sneered, “I’ll give you trivial you-“

“Irene.”

“Charlie.”

Charlie sighed with a smirk as he fished a box from his pocket. “I need a smoke, come join me dearest.”

He liked arms with her again and pulled a still bickering Irene backstage. Looking over his shoulder with a wink towards the relieved younger actress.

…………………..

Charlie casually blew a cloud of smoke into the air as he skimmed back over the script. looking up occasionally at his friend as she carefully stitched the torn hem of her dress. Whispering the opening verses of The Habanera from Carmen. When and why she took the time to learn it Charlie had no idea, but he wasn’t surprised.

They lazed on a set of plush chairs, leftover props from some long forgotten production. The crew left them out knowing they were the preferred seats of the primadonna and her co-lead..

“You know, if you went to one of the seamstresses in the costume department, they could fix that for you.”

Irene hummed in response but did not otherwise comment.

He watched as she sewed, noting just a few wisps of gray hairs on his friend’s head. Musing that she shouldn’t frown so much less she gain wrinkles from it.

“You know I do wish we could adjust the lines.”

“It’s Shakespeare Charlie, the lines stay the same.”

“But the part between Oberon and Titania-“

“The lines. Stay. The. Same.”

“The mention of India seems so out of place though.”

“Did you read the books I lent you?”

“Books?”

Irene arched an eyebrow. “Yes, the ones on Celtic and Geek cultures? The ones I asked you to return to the library when you finished?”

“Ah.”

“Ah. So you’re paying my late fees.”

“I bet you were once quite the precocious child.” Charlie teased.

Irene smirked, “I used to lay on my bed and wonder am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes?”

“And what were you the fondest of Renie?”

She looked up at him with a smile. “Silence, in a small house with so many people, I was fondest of silence.”

……………………….

The sound of heels clicking broke the early morning. Even before sunrise, stagehands milled about and janitors polished and dusted fixtures. But this woman moved with purpose. Cradling several items in her arms, any of which threatened to spill should she make the wrong move.

She made her way backstage, finding a particular pair passed out on a set of plush armchairs.

Irene and Charlie were deep asleep, legs tangled together as they shared the same automan. Charlie with his hat covering his eyes and Irene using Charlie’s coat as a blanket.

The woman sighed in annoyance, kicking Charlie’s foot. “Charlie Devough how dare you sleep at work again.”

Charlie sat up with a shout, Irene grumbling as she crawled out from under Charlie’s coat and snatched one of the coffees the woman carried. Making a face at the first sip. “So bitter.”

“Because that one wasn’t meant for you,” the woman chastised as she traded coffees with Irene and passed it over to Charlie. “Only this oaf here is foolish enough to not appreciate cream or sugar.”

“Why add sugar when I know you bought danishes? I can smell them love.”

The woman sighed again and handed over a paper bag she had also been carrying. Taking over the automan as she sipped on a coffee of her own. “Did rehearsals run that late?”

“We were running lines and lost track,” Irene murmured as she rubbed at the ruined mascara on her face.

Charlie leaned over to kiss the woman, “thank you for the breakfast Evelyn dear. I’m sorry to worry you.”

“You should have let me know.”

“It’s my fault, Eve.” Irene yawned.

“No it’s not you liar, how dare you cover for him.” Evelyn teased. “Irene, you look like you’ve been crying with your makeup like that.”

“Irene?”

……………………………

Irene looked up.

She hated collecting trials. She never knew what memories it would send her mind tumbling through.

She sat now in her dressing room, roses in various states of decay filling every free space.

The trial was a disaster, her new dress torn thanks to a new brat. She still remembered that young actress. Three productions later and she seems to think she could replace Irene since she was casted as lead once.

Irene also remembered the feeling of shoving the point of her stiletto through the girl’s throat.

Irene sat in her dressing room and tried to wipe her makeup off. For a moment she looked normal, even despite her bluish skin. But then she felt a stinging sensation in her eyes as black tears fell and stained her face again.

She growled in frustration and stormed out of the room, making her way backstage till she found her destination- a set of worn, plush armchairs. Sitting on the floor next to what would have been Charlie’s.

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trewloves · 5 years ago

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endeavour fandom meme! i was tagged by @georgefancys and @lieutenantmalcolmreed thank u very much friendos :)

top 5 episodes: neverland, muse, arcadia, icarus (focusing on the positives? morse in robes and him and shirley hangin is so cute), pylon (fugue runs a very tight race though)

seasons in order of preference: hmmm 2 (PETER’S PRIME), 3 (quality peter-jim-morse-shirley squad content), 4 and 6 are very close for me, 5, 1, 7 (i couldn’t catch all of it but like honestly it was kind of disappointing)

favorite scenes: (1) ok the end of arcadia when morse is writing the letter to peter and peter’s leaving with hope and reads the note?! (2) also in pylon when they find the doctor’s house or whoever the fuck he is and they’re like ok you were literally trafficking girls and EVERYONE is so pissed, thursday physically fights this creep and even box and jago are like super soft w the girls and morse and jim and everyone else are so protective and like fuck you man!! i love that (3) in ride when bixby gets yiked in the lake and morse jumps in to try and save him, and then the next shot it’s morning and morse is sitting under a tree in shock while jim and peter are like bLiMeY mAtE do you ThiNk he’s AwLrigHt?? and then peter goes over and is like “u alright” and morse is just staring into space and peter’s like “morse.” and he looks up and is like oh. yuh...honestly it’s the little things!! (4) in game when the chess guy’s like “haha you played chess in school” and then trewlove absolutely SCHOOLS him and mops the floor with his sorry ass (5) that really cute domestic scene in icarus where shirley’s painting her nails and morse is j chillin on the floor

favorite musical moment: IN FUGUE WHEN HALFWAY THROUGH THE EPISODE THE THEME FROM ACT III OF TOSCA STARTS MAKING ITS WAY INTO THE SCORE...oh baby that’s the good stuff! i love tosca (it just streamed on met last night) and like EVERY TIME barrington pheloung quotes it in the score it awakens something within me... fugue is just really my shit!!

favorite cinematography/imagery: arcadia or canticle...esp in canticle you can feel the heat and it’s so beautiful it makes me emo

favorite non-morse ensemble character: PETER JAKES PETER JAKES PETER JAKES!!!!!!

favorite one episode character: eve thorne in muse...or like. ALL the girls at blythe mount in nocturne are such a fucking mood

favorite morse look: when he wears the tux to go to the chamber music concert in coda and then he gets called to work and is just standing there with his hands in his pockets rocking back and forth on his heels in the fucking morgue.... i also REALLY love him in robes in icarus that’s all

biggest disappointment: season 7 lol. that’s all. goes without saying

provide some spicy takes: ok i’m on the same boat with tee and a lot of other people here, morse and shirley are fwb, you can’t change my mind. also this is a bit spicy (2) if peter jakes and ronnie box ever met there would be ABSOLUTELY UNREAL sexual tension. it would be so hot i wouldn’t be able to look at it and simultaneously would be like screaming cuz like...they have the same kind of attitude vis-a-vis work (thought i don’t think peter would ever get himself in a similar situation as box) and i think they’d probably hate each other but they would totally have hate sex, peter’s a total bottom and like just imagine box fucking rawing him one night after work and then the next day box is trying so hard not to hide his satisfaction when peter’s like clearly sore lmao and morse is like what the fuck is going on here and peter’s like i hate that bastard lmao. i’m sorry i don’t make the rules

free space! i started writing an morse/jakes elevator sex one-shot like a month and a half ago and still haven’t gotten around to finishing it. i’ll leave an excerpt under the cut if you’re interested, i’ll probably finish it after school ends in may hee hee

i’m gonna tag uhhh @ladyaj-13 @fitzrove and @wherehefoundtheporcupine if u guys want, no presh lol

if u want to read the excerpt i left in the free space:

"It's so fucking hot," Peter groaned. He checked his watch. They'd been in the elevator for at least half an hour, it felt like, with little sign of building maintenance or any of the tenants realizing anything was wrong with the elevator. Even if they did notice, it'd be another thirty minutes, by Peter's estimate.

"You're letting yourself get hot and bothered," Morse said. He'd switched sides, so that he and Peter were facing each other now, legs stretched out in front of each other. His head was tipped back against the elevator wall and he exhaled slowly, eyes half-closed, as if meditating or on the verge of falling asleep.

"Are you seriously falling asleep right now?" Peter asked incredulously, gently kicking Morse in the shin.

"No," Morse mumbled, in a way that sounded very much like he was falling asleep.

"Oh, you've got to be joking.”

Morse opened his eyes and sat up a little straighter. "You said so yourself. It's hot." He brushed the back of his hand along his forehead, where Peter could see sweat beading at the hairline, and sighed. "And we're not exactly doing anything thought-provoking."

Peter drank in the sight of Morse in front of him, collar half-unbuttoned, sweat glistening thinly along the curve of his upper lip, one hand dug halfway into his hair to keep it from falling back across his face. He was briefly reminded of the time he'd lent Morse one of his shirts, back when they'd first started working together on that opera killer, and how he'd watched with oddly insatiable fascination as Morse had undone his shirt. He inhaled sharply now, feeling the same rush of adrenaline, as Morse threw his head back again and tugged as his collar, baring his throat.

"That's indecent," Peter said, when he finally snapped out of his trance.

Morse looked at him sharply, then snorted. "Pervert."

"You ought to know what it looks like."

"Piss off," Morse said, but he was laughing.

Emboldened by Morse's smile, Peter crawled forward on his hands and knees until he could straddle Morse. "Make me," he said. He caught the shock registering on Morse's face, feeling the rush of excitement as the surprise softened into curiosity and then back into alarm.

"Peter! What are you playing at — we're in an elevator!"

"That's not going anywhere," Peter finished, "and that's stuck in-between floors," he undid the next button on Morse's shirt, freeing his throat and exposing his collarbone, "and we've nothing else better to do."

#this ended up being really long but u know what. i have a lot of thoughts #especially now that ive thought about peter and box smh #endeavour #ivy talks #tag games

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huntersanonymous · 6 years ago

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Soul Survivor (Prologue)

Author: huntersanonymous

Title: Bump In The Night

Characters: Stiles Stilinski x Witch!Reader

Word Count: 2.5K+

Warnings: swearing, magic, death mentioned

Summary: You never know what to expect in Beacon Hills, especially on Halloween.

All Hallows eve used to be sacred. It used to mean something. It was a day set apart from the others, a day to celebrate the dead. You didn’t understand why your parents made such a big deal about it when you were so young, but now, after having seen too much death, it does seem sacred.

But this? People’s idea of Halloween now? It’s nothing but a mockery of the day some hold so dear. Sure, the ones who celebrate all hallows eve aren’t doing it out in the open, but the principle should still stand.

“What are you supposed to be?” You stopped in your tracks, turning your head toward the small voice behind you.

You weren’t surprised when you spotted a couple of small children dressed up for trick-or-treating, much to your regret. You spied a pirate, ninja, witch, and a ball of pink glitter with a crown and wand.

“What?” You asked dumbly, and the little princess gave you an unimpressed look that made you re-think your entire existence.

“What are you supposed to be? It’s Halloween. You won’t get candy if you’re not in costume.” She said matter of factly, placing her small hand on her hip.

And that’s how you found yourself in a mini stare down with a five year old pink princess. Seriously, Halloween sucked.

“I’m the wicked witch, and you should be careful or I’ll put a spell on you.” You had officially hit an all time low.

“Nuh uh, witches wear hats. See.” The little girl snatched the hat off the little witch beside her who looked afraid of her own shadow and shoved it toward you with an air of superiority that could rival most adults you knew.

You knew it was immature. You also knew it was reckless, but there is just something about this holiday and children that struck a deep nerve and before you knew it you grabbed the hat from the little girl and placed it on your head.

You gave the children a rueful smile, with too much teeth and threw your hands out toward them, calling your magic too you to make the leaves rumble in the wind.

“Twist thy bones, and bend thy back.. Itchita kyptika melaka mystica.. Trim the of thine baby fat..” You cackled, yes, cackled. Thank you Hocos Pocus. Now you hit an all time low.

You watched the children’s eyes grow wide, the little impostor witch close to tears as she clung to the princess who was watching the crisp fall leaves begin to circle them.

“Witch!” The pirate screamed, grabbing the ninja and running toward a more populated house followed by the tiny impostor and obnoxious princess hot on their heels.

You watched the small child scurry away from you, and you let the wind die down with a small smile on your face.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” You mused, adjusting the monstrosity of a hat on your head and your deep green cloak across your shoulders. At least now you would blend in better as you made your way to the woods and hopefully, away from the children.

There was a painful clench in your chest as you heard laughter coming from the happy families out enjoying their night, but ignored them as you tried to remain incognito on the streets until you found yourself at the entrance to the woods.

You thought back to this time last year, which brought the ache in your chest back full force but you continued on anyway. You closed your eyes, picturing your sister walking beside you, bouncing away with too much energy. She was too young, never quite understood the ceremony, but came along anyway, because it’s what witches do.

They celebrate death, welcome it as an old friend, because they know it will be okay. Once you die, your magic that the earth lent, will be returned and you will spend the rest of your days with your ancestors. The witches before you, who will in turn look out for the witches after you. It was important.

That’s why you found yourself traipsing through these unfamiliar woods in Beacon Hills, because it was October 31st and this was important. You were careful crossing the border of the small but powerful town a few hours ago, not wanting to alert anyone to your presence just yet.

You felt the town thrumming with old magic, enough to give you the slightest high since visiting Salem. It was nice being surrounded by this much magic, but you knew where magic was, trouble was close behind.

You ran your fingers along certain trees as you followed the slow hum of magic from the ley lines into the forest to where you could perform the ceremony in peace.

You kept in tune with the wind, getting the smallest hint of voices from teenagers who were partying a few hundred yards away. The slight smell of alcohol tinged the air, enough to make you curl your nose and shake your head.

“Disgraceful.” The air curled beside you as if agreeing. “As if little children dressing up in costumes, and demanding candy isn’t bad enough. Now there are teenagers out getting drunk and causing trouble just because it’s their supposed mischief night.” You grumbled to yourself, wrapping your cloak tighter. around you

It didn’t take long to reach the focal point of the forest were the ley lines connected but you weren’t expecting what you found at the center. A nemeton.

“Oh goddess what have they done to you?” You murmured, running your fingertips over the decrepit stump which was ones a beautiful oak. You felt the earth around the stump screaming, yelling for help but nobody came. Until you.

“How could someone let this happen?” You let your head hang in shame, shaking it slowly as you counted the rings on the tree.

You knew the answer though. There was no one around to stop this. There weren’t enough of your kind left anymore, you’ve been wiped out close to extinction. You closed your eyes, sending up a silent prayer to your ancestors.

It was no use though, because no matter how hard you prayed or hard hard you worked, your death was always in the cards since birth. You grew up knowing your days were numbered, always being cautious, because of the hunters.

When you have old magic, “dangerous” magic, you become a liability. Even if you’re good, even if you would never hurt anyone, they can’t let you live because of what you are.

You used to accept it. You used to take all that prejudice, all that hate, and look the other way because surly if you were truly good nothing would happen. Your mother was a nurse, she helped people. Your dad was chief of the fire station in your small town. Your sister, all though annoying, had an act for healing just like your mother.

They were good.

You wiped a silent tear from your cheek before pulling out three white candles and placing them on the nemeton. You ignored the oaks cry for help, sending a quick promise that you will try to restore the balance but not tonight. Not on this day.

You took a deep breathe, calming your heart rate before igniting a match and lighting the first candle.

“Grief, because losing you was too much for one person to bear.” You turned to the second candle, lighting it as well. “Love, because I will never forgot what you taught me and will always cherish the time we had together.” The light seemed to flicker brighter as you fought back the tears threatening to fall.

You took a deep breath, finding your center. Blinking away the tears, you turned to the remaining candle with a clenched jaw. Lighting the match, you watched the fire come to life before putting it to the wick.

“Strength, because I need to fight for what is left.” You felt the wind pick up beside you, gathering around the stump and causing the fallen leaves to create a small vortex.

“May the ancestors nurture the living, and may the living nurture the dead. So mote it be.” You whispered, letting the air flow through your fingers before extinguishing each flame.

You watched the ember of the last candle, not wanting to die quite yet and you couldn’t help but think of yourself.

“I never thought I would say this, but I hate mischief night.” Stiles growled into the phone, reaching up to wipe some of the egg out of his hair where the teenager he just placed in a patrol car aimed it.

“Oh buddy..” Scott was using his sad eyes on the other end, he was sure of it. “I’m sorry. At least you’re not alone, Derek’s there right?”

Stiles cut his eyes to Derek, who was trying really hard not to laugh at him. Stupid Sourwolf, why he was glad the older man was back Stiles had no idea.

“Yep, dad refused to let me go out alone, even though I am a trained professional now.” Stiles ignored Derek’s scoff by rolling his eyes at the older man and tapping the hood of Johnson’s patrol car.

He watched the car until the taillights turned down the street and out of sight before turning back to the preserve with a scowl.

“He’s just looking out for you, ya know.” Scott’s logic pissed him of sometimes, it really did.

“Yeah, well I don’t need a babysitter. I get why he doesn’t want to put me with another deputy until we vet someone to let into the supernatural shit.. But I work better alone.” Stiles kicked a pinecone across the clearing as he walked, listening to Scott’s deep sigh on the phone.

“Monroe is still out there Stiles, and you may not be supernatural but you’re important to the pack which means you are a potential target.” Stiles kept from rolling his eyes by sheer force of will, because if he has to listen to this argument one more time, he’s not sure he can stop from shooting Scott.

Stiles looked back a little to see Derek’s frowny face aimed at him, which, rude. He didn’t do anything to deserve the gloom and doom look.

“I will be fine Scott, you worry too much.” He huffed, putting the phone between his shoulder and ear as he sipped up his jacket.

For a fall California it was unusually cold outside, probably stemming from the 20 degree drop in temperature within the last couple of hours. He wasn’t complaining, but he definitely wasn’t prepared either.

“It’s my job to worry Stiles.” And there it was, the eye roll he knew Scott was giving the phone.

“Yes, oh alpha my alpha... speaking of Alpha’s, how’s Satomi dealing with everything?” Stiles listened to rustling on the line at what he assumed was Scott going somewhere more private to talk.

“As good as can be expected.. I mean she moved out of California to try and re-build her pack after the deadpool and then this happens. She just seems a little lost. Me and Argent are trying to track Monroe’s hunters.. But nothing yet.” Stiles continued walking into the woods, but he no longer heard the familiar footfall beside him, and when he turned around Derek was scowling at nothing in the distance.

“What’s wrong lassie? Timmy down the well?” He heard Scott’s snort over the line, obviously knowing that wasn’t meant for him, but Derek ignored him all together. “Sourwolf?” Complete silence.

“Stiles is something wrong? What’s going on?” He could hear the panic in Scott’s voice but didn’t respond as he watched Derek close his eyes and strain to hear something in the distance.

“Derek--”

“Stiles run.” Derek’s eyes snapped open, shining their brilliant blues before he dashed off into the direction of woods he was scowling at moments before.

“Stiles! What the hell--”

“Scotty I’m gonna have the call you back.” Stiles hung up the phone, shoving it in his pocket as he blindly followed Derek’s retreating form, who was in pursuit of something that probably wanted them both dead. Just another day in Beacon Hills.

Stiles almost lost Derek in the dark until he heard a low growl coming from a couple yards away and followed to the best of his human vision. He didn’t know what to expect but whatever it was set Derek on edge, and Stiles knew that it wasn’t friendly.

He stumbled over the undergrowth of the preserve, grabbing onto a tree for balance and he didn’t have to see to know where he was going any longer. He had seen this part of the preserve too many times, mostly in his nightmares, and sure enough as he kept stumbling through the woods he came into the clearing containing the nemeton.

His eyes locked onto who Derek had the I-will-rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth growl, a cloaked figure who by the looks of it, was wearing a witches hat. Of course his presence was made known when Derek’s growl cut to him with blazing eyes, which rude, he was here to help.

“Stiles get out of here!” His voice was low, coming from all fangs as the figure moved away from Derek and closer to him.

“Calm down, dog. I don’t mean any harm to you or your human.” The figure spoke, a girl now that Stiles’s eyes had adjusted just enough could make out.

“What are you doing here. What do you want with the nemeton.” Stiles rolled his eyes as Derek growled the demands, not even questions, to the girl.

“What do I want with it? What did you do to it?” She snapped, stepping closer to Derek and Stiles already saw how this was going to go. Derek would snap back, shit would go down, and he’d have to save Derek’s ass again, because the sourwolf didn’t know how to be polite.

“What my friend is trying to ask is.. What are you doing out here with the nemeton? Are you another Darach? Because fuck.. I can’t take anymore human sacrifices after the last couple months I’ve had.” Stiles forced a laugh as the girl turned all her attention to him, causing Derek to shift closer if she decided to make a move.

Maybe that was a bad idea.

“Stiles--”

“You’ve faced a darach?” The girl asked, and Stiles just shrugged.

“All in a day's work protecting the hellmouth that is Beacon Hills.” The girl took a couple steps toward him which earned another growl from Derek.To be fair, he did not think this through.

“That’s close enough.” Stiles didn’t flinch as the girl laughed freely, as if she wasn’t scared by his threats, which made her ten times more terrifying. He has been on the other side of Derek’s threats, they are scary, or were, back when the wolf was slamming him into walls and steering wheels.

“Quiet mut. I am talking to the spark. What is your name?” Stiles was confused at what she called himself, trying to recall where he had heard the term before.

“Deputy Stilinski. Son of the sheriff and member of the McCall pack.. So whatever your business here--”

“My business is of no harm to you or your wolves, Spark.” Stiles watched her come forward slowly until she was close enough to extend her hand. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N, and we need to talk.”

He cut his eyes to Derek, who was no longer wolfed out and coming to stand beside him with daggers aimed at the mystery girl. He looked back to see her perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in question or annoyance, he couldn’t quite tell. Stiles didn’t move though, just looked to Derek again who seemed just as confused as he was.

He really hated mischief night.

So.. friend or foe? Or is it just to early to tell? Comments always welcome <3

If you’d like to be added to the updates for this series, my tag list is here :)

Tag List: @redsalv20 @shimmeringstardustandmagnolias @kazuha159 @99percentchanceofbeingright @mischiefandi

#teen wolf #stiles stilinski #dylan o'brien #stiles stilinski x reader #witch!reader #spark!stiles #deputy!stiles #stiles stilinski fanfiction #dylan obrien characters #mitch rapp #American Assassin #the first time #dave hodgman #the internship #stuart twombly #derek hale #platonic sterek #witches

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hotforhandman · 6 years ago

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Bright Lights

Uhhhh so I went to a Christmas market yesterday

Ik that Christmas isn’t as much of a thing in Japan but the bnha universe seems to be heavily influenced by Western culture so I figure I can take liberties

“It’s safe this time, I promise!” Deku beckoned him forward, and Shigaraki looked around apprehensively. He had the bottom half of his face covered with a mask and most of his blue hair under a black woollen hat Deku had lent him, so all that was visible was his fringe and his red eyes. “You’re sure?” He asked quietly. This wasn’t the mall this time. After the disaster of last time, Shigaraki had refused to go back there, but Deku had looked so dejected at the concept of not getting to do Christmas shopping in person that he had eventually caved and allowed him to drag him to the local Christmas market. “I’m sure. Trust me!” He smiled brightly, and Shigaraki sighed, following him out onto the street. He had to worm his way through the crowd to keep up as Deku ran to the first stall, stopping to look over a series of handmade tree decorations. “Don’t you love Christmas?” Shigaraki leaned over his shoulder and shrugged. “Never featured much in my life.” “Oh, right…” His smile wavered a moment, but then came back with a vengeance. “Then this year will be your best Christmas yet.” He nodded once, eyes full of determination, and Shigaraki gave him a deadpan look.

They spent a while wandering between stalls, looking at hand-crafted goods, piles of sweets and bottles of flavoured liqueurs that Deku lamented that he wasn’t allowed to try. Shigaraki responded by stealing an extra taster when the stall owner wasn’t looking and slipping it to him when they were a little further back. Deku reprimanded him but smiled as he did it, and seemed to enjoy the sweet, toffee-flavoured drink. “Mm… I like the way it makes you feel warm.” He said, clutching the little plastic cup. Shigaraki found himself smiling, not the deliberately creepy smile or hysterical grin he most often displayed, but just a small, genuine smile. And to think, he mused to himself, I wanted you dead. Back then, the kid had just been an annoyance, another enemy that was just a little too dangerous to ignore but that wasted his time on the way to the goal, but now he actually knew the boy, and unlike his allies Deku was genuine, optimistic and transparent. The more time he spent with him, the more he found himself getting powerfully protective over him, in a way that was normally reserved for Father, or a select few of his most precious possessions. Deku looked up at him, with that little cold flush on his cheeks and he couldn’t look away. “You lived at a bar, right? Did you drink this kind of thing a lot?” Shigaraki blinked, his mood soured a bit by memories, and turned his gaze down the street. “Kurogiri wouldn’t let me drink a lot. Apparently I am ‘hard work’, and getting drunk only makes that worse.” Deku seemed intrigued by that. He had a natural curiosity about him that led him to ask a lot of questions. “Was Kurogiri your mentor then?” “No. He was a glorified babysitter.” Shigaraki’s tone was sharp. “Sensei wasn’t around a lot, so when I was younger someone had to keep an eye on me.” Deku looked down at his feet, at the lights reflecting off the slightly damp pavement. “What was your sensei like?” Shigaraki glanced at him. “You really want to know?” “Mm.” He nodded once, with that air of surety he wore so often. “Sensei was an idol. He taught me everything I know, trained me to recognise all my own strengths and weaknesses and exploit everything that can be exploited. He was always confident and strong, and he made you want to make him proud. The rewards he promised were only part of it, though being told that one day you could have more power than any hero was a good feeling.” Inside his coat pockets, his hands curled and uncurled restlessly. “He showed me all the cruelty in the world and he was my shield against it. Even the cruelty I inflicted on myself.” Deku looked up at him again. “You know not everything in the world is bad, right? I know you don’t like heroes because of society’s bias against some people, and you’re one of them, but… It sounds like your sensei made you believe it wasn’t possible for you to be anything but hated, and… that’s not true.” Shigaraki was quiet for a few seconds before he said softly, “You’re a rare case.” “Me, and All Might too.” He scoffed. “All Might cares about me because of my grandmother. If it wasn’t for her he’d want me either behind bars or dead.” “But he does care.” Deku insisted. “And that’s got to count for something, right?” Shigaraki didn’t answer. They kept walking for a little while, before Deku spoke up again. “Hey, do you like mince pies?” “Uh… I don’t know.” “Come on then, let’s get some!” Deku led him over to a stall, and Shigaraki had to admit it did smell good. They ended up with one each, as well as a cup of spiced punch (non-alcoholic, of course- Deku was too young to drink and Shigaraki didn’t exactly carry ID). Shigaraki had to remove the mask to have it, but fortunately no one seemed to be paying the pair of them much attention. “Good, right?” Deku asked him after he’d taken a bite, and he nodded. It really was. “Okāsan always bakes them for Christmas Eve.” He chewed his lip. “You know… I haven’t spoken to her about it yet, but she suggested we invite All Might over for Christmas, since he doesn’t have any family of his own, and… I was thinking maybe you should come too.” Shigaraki swallowed and stared at him like he was crazy. “…You want to invite me to your house for Christmas.” Deku nodded, looking up. “I know you don’t really do Christmas but I want to show you what it can be like. It won’t be easy to convince Okāsan to have you over but…” He smiled. “I could do it. If you wanted to.” Shigaraki blinked. “I’m fine staying home. I’ve got games to play.” Deku’s smile wavered, and he let his eyes fall. “Oh, right. Okay.” His expression made something inside Shigaraki twist, and he made a small noise of disdain, looking away. “But if you really think that’s a good idea, I’m not gonna say no to free food.” That brought the smile back in full force, and Deku’s eyes sparkled. “Then yeah! I’ll do it!” Shigaraki rolled his eyes and finished his pie, secretly pleased that he’d made Deku smile like that. Maybe he could get on board with this Christmas bullshit after all. His mind went back to before all this, to when the first few displays had been going up and he’d been hanging out with Dabi and Toga. If he’d been told this was going to happen then, he’d have laughed and told them they were insane. Then he wondered about the League, and what was happening to them in his extended absence. Maybe they’d fall apart without a leader, now that both him and All For One were gone. Or maybe they’d come after him. He didn’t know what he’d do if that happened, but watching Deku sip his drink, scarred fingers curled around his cup and eyes catching the brightly coloured Christmas lights, he knew for a fact that he wasn’t going to throw this away.

#shigaraki tomura #midoriya izuku #shigadeku #redemption au #jay writes

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lostinfic · 6 years ago

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The Raven and the Goldfinch | 1

Part 1 of 3 | Ao3

Summary: In turn-of-the-century London, the famous illusionist, Peter Vincent, must use his skills to reclaim the love of his life, a woman he thought was lost to him. Now that he’s given a second chance, he won’t lose her again, not even when supernatural forces get in the way.

Genre: childhood friends to lovers, forbidden love, Victorian Era AU, movie AU (The Illusionist), supernatural elements

Rating: mature

Word count: 5k

Ship: Peter Vincent (Fright Night) x Jenny (Spirit Trap).

Why this pairing? Peter Vincent witnessed his parents get killed by a vampire, but lived in denial of this until reality caught up with him in the movie. Jenny’s mother was a medium, but Jenny refused to believe it (just like her father, who left because of it) until she experienced her own encounter with ghosts in the movie. I think this similarity between their personal stories is interesting and a good starting point for a ship. And that’s all you need to know about these characters.

A/N: @ktrosesworld prompted: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hrmm Vamp!Rose with a HEA ... umm umm ... is that a stake in your pants or are you just pleased to see me ;) ... or wherever you muse decides to take you with smutty Peter Vincent.

So many things about that prompt were out of my comfort zone, but I really wanted to write it for KT who is always so lovely and supportive. So, I stretched that prompt as far as it would go, but I promise there shall be smut, a HEA, and that quote, but I tried writing it with Rose, and it wasn’t working.

≒

The Sunday Herald, 31 October 1895

A NIGHT OF MYSTERY.

Some Curious Facts Concerning All Hallow Eve.

The Night When Maidens Try to Find Out Who Will Wed Them— A Curious Circumstance— Tricks Played.

From its first origination, Hallow eve has been invested with a peculiarly mystic character. It is an almost universal superstition that supernatural influences then have unusual power— that devils, witches and fairies are abroad, that all spirits are free to roam through space, and that the spiritual element in all living humanity can be detached from corporeal restraint and made to road its own future or to reveal to others what fate may have in store for them.

As there is nothing in the Church celebration of the ensuing day of All Saint's to justify these singular ideas and customs associated with Hallow eve, and none of them are of a religious character, we may justly regard them as relics of pagan times.

In all ages and countries, Hallow eve has been deemed, as it still is, the occasion par excellence for devilling the answer to that momentous question which absorbs so large a share of the thoughts of romantic young men and maidens, "who is to marry whom?" The means employed to gain this much desired information are as quaint and curious as they are numerous and varied.

Water, nuts and apples bear a prominent port in the spells and charms of Hallow eve. A quaint old book of charms, published in Edinburgh in 1070, entitled: "Old Father Time's Bundle of Faggots Newly Bound Up," declares that an infallible means of getting a view of your future husband or wife is to go to bed on Hallow eve with a glass of water, in which a small sliver of wood has been placed, standing on a table by your bedside. In the night you will dream of falling from a bridge into a river and of being rescued by your future wife or husband, whom you will see as distinctly as though viewed with waking eyes.

≑

Jennie hated All Hallow eve, but she loved a good party.

She crossed the reception room to refill her glass of wine. Her black silk cape, shaped like bat wings, floated behind her. She pulled the hood over her blond curls, hoping to escape Lady Rothermere’s attention. But no such luck.

“Iphigenia, dear, I believe it’s your turn to play.”

Thankfully, no one at this gathering, in London, knew of Jennie’s mother’s reputation or else they might have asked her to perform the same divination. Tonight, the guests’ interest in the permeability between worlds resided in predicting one’s luck in love rather than honoring Pagan gods of old.

Still Jennie could not entirely enjoy the festivities for it reminded her too much of her mother’s lunacy. A terrible illness of the mind had afflicted the poor baroness until her death, she would hear voices and see strange things to which she lent some mystic signification. The superstitions surrounding October 31st used to worsen her symptoms, and those who believed she had a supernatural power would flock to Featherstone Hall. They only increased her suffering, and caused Jennie to flee her own home for the night.

Jennie’s plan for Lady Rothermere’s party was simple: avoid anything to do with spirits except the alcoholic kind. But peer pressure threw a wrench in that plan.

Jennie’s friends thrust an apple and a knife in her hands with excited giggles. The game involved going alone in a dark room in which there was only a mirror and a candle, then trying to peel an apple all in one piece. If successful, one’s true love’s face would appear in the mirror.

“Why does she have to go? She’s already betrothed,” a girl pointed out, but the other ones were already pushing Jennie towards the door.

Her friends shut the door behind her. Despite the candle flame, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to darkness. She sat on the floor in front of the small mirror propped against the wall, and started peeling the apple. The peel curled around her hand like a scarlet ribbon. Although, she didn’t believe in these silly games, she still applied herself to the task.

It would be a relief to see Richard’s face in the mirror, so that, despite her doubts and reluctance, she would know accepting his proposal would end happily. He was a decent man, willing to overlook shameful things about her family to acquire her father’s lands. And his fortune wasn’t uninteresting.

But in her heart of heart, she knew whose face she wished to see, a face she had not gazed upon in twelve years.

Moving to the underside of the apple was the most treacherous part, especially in the dark. Almost there. She cut off the last inch of the peel with too much pressure, and the blade hit the pad of her thumb. It sliced through her skin. A crimson drop rose to the surface.

The mirror shimmered.

Jennie held her breath and looked closer. It was only fog on the glass. She wiped it with her sleeve, but it stayed there. The fog moved, like smoke from a pipe, it unfurled along the edges of the mirror in a rough oval shape. Then it started to clear from two points in the center, leaving two holes in the fog, like hollowed out eyes. Blood drained from her face as the smoke gathered in an increasingly precise shape. The shape of a skull.

≑

The master of ceremonies introduced Peter Vincent to the crowd gather in the Sofia Theater, in the Bulgarian capital. The illusionist waited for a few seconds, letting the anticipation rise in the public. Once the chatter died down, he walked swiftly through the curtains. Fog rolled under his leather frock coat as he crossed to the stage apron in long strides. He wore a pair of black gloves which he removed and tossed into the air above the spectators, where they turned into a pair of ravens.

He bowed dramatically to the applause, then addressed the crowd in Bulgarian (a local friend had translated his text, though Peter was familiar enough with Slavic languages to understand most of the words).

“I thought we might begin this evening with a discussion of the Great Beyond. All of the greatest religions speak of the soul's endurance beyond the end of life. So, what then does it mean... to die? Tonight is a special night. A night when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is lifted. Let us see, if we can cross this barrier between realms and call forth some spirits.”

An assistant rolled a small table onto the stage. A paisley cloth covered it, and a crystal ball sat upon it, larger than normal to allow the audience a better view.

Peter stretched his long hands above the sphere, with each flourish of fingers, mist rose inside the crystal. The spectators had yet to be impressed, most squinted at the ball and exchanged comments, but Peter’s focus didn’t waver. The mist inside became more opaque, then turned from white to gray, to lilac and deepened to purple. Suddenly, the crystal cracked, a sharp pop of glass followed by gasps. The glass was cleaved and the fissure grew in a fractal pattern with that slow, spine-chilling creak. Pressure grew inside the ball, the smoke pressed against the edges. Everyone held their breaths, bodies tense, anticipating the explosion. The crystal ball shattered, and all the fog rushed out of it taking on ghostly forms that grew high above the stage. Three pairs of red eyes appeared, and then Peter was knocked off the stage.

He fell.

And he fell.

A never-ending descent. He landed under a bed, years earlier, knees to his chest, hands clapped over his mouth to keep his breathing and sobs silent. He heard his parents’ screams and that horrible gurgling noise. Hot tears ran down his cheeks.

Then it stopped. They stopped kicking and screaming. His mother’s arm fell limply off the bed. The murderer stopped drinking and smacked his lips.

The boy cracked open an eye. Blood dripped along the bedframe, thick and scarlet. Drip. Drip. A drop morphed into a raven and it perched on the headboard. The black bird turned to the child and spoke in a young girl’s voice. “Make us disappear.”

Peter woke up with a gasp.

“Are you quite all right, old sport?” asked his manager, Ingwer, sat next to him.

“Yes. Of course,” Peter replied though his heart still hammered in his chest. “That lass after the show tired me out, that’s all.”

He winked at Ingwer, who didn’t seem convinced, he twirled the end of his sandy mustache, looking Peter over. Peter turned away from his manager and towards the train window. It was night so it only returned his own reflection, blurry and immaterial, gossamer.

It wasn’t uncommon for Peter to dream about a performance going wrong: a defective prop, a mocking audience or being stark naked on stage (though that often turned into a wonderful dream). But it had never morphed into a flashback to the night his parents died.

Peter reached inside his jacket for his good luck charm, a raven carved out of ebony, flat like a coin and not much thicker. Absentmindedly, he manipulated the object. He turned it between his knuckles, from thumb to pinkie and back, then made it disappear in one hand and reappear in the other. The wood was smooth from years of use, the varnish long gone. It soothed him.

Not long after his parents’ death, a travelling showman had stopped in his hometown in Northern England. He’d performed a few magic tricks in exchange for a hot meat and ale, and like any eight year-old boy, Peter had been fascinated. The old magician had pulled a wooden raven from behind Peter’s ears. He’d hidden it between his palms, said a phrase in latin then blown on his hands, and a bird had flown out.

“Nothing is what it seems,” he’d said.

And Peter had thought, if one’s senses can be deceived so easily, then perhaps he had not really seen a monster that night, in his parents’ bedroom.

Sensing the child’s sadness, the old magician had patiently taught him a few tricks. And Peter had never stopped after that.

“We’ll be crossing into Serbia soon,” Ingwer said.

“That’s two nights in Belgrade, then Sarajevo?”

“Yes. Then Sarajevo, Budapest, Vienna, Innsbruck, Venice, Berne and Paris.”

“I want to go to London.”

Though he’d uttered the words casually, like a mere technicality, his manager’s pale eyebrows rose.

“Erm, well, I have some contacts there, maybe we can arrange something for December or January…”

“No, I want to go now.”

“You haven’t set foot there in over ten years. Always refused offers. Why the sudden urge?”

“I’m homesick,” he lied.

≑

London Daily News, 20 November 1895

PETER VINCENT’S FRIGHTFUL ENTERTAINMENTS

Egyptian Hall, London.

Saturday and Monday evenings. Doors open at 7:30; commences at 8 o’clock. Carriages at 10.

For the first time in England: Peter Vincent in his Extraordinary Sorcelleries or Creatures of the Night.

Peter Vincent’s astounding feats in natural magic are based on principles not within the power of any other Artist in the World, and declared by the Press to be of so singular a nature as to be past all human conception, and that in an age and country less enlightened, they would inevitably have appeared supernatural. Mr. Vincent who, alone, unaided by confederates, and without all ordinary apparatus, deceives the eye, amazes, bewilders, and baffles the keenest observers, will display his truly miraculous acquirements in Prestidigitation, which surpass everything hitherto presented to the Public, in fact exhibiting powers that seem impossible to be achieved by human agency.

With regard to the moral bearing of the performance, it is only necessary to intimate that the Very Rev. Dean Stanley, in his sermon preached the act as it demonstrates the power of our Lord over Evil.

The Proprietor feels justified in calling attention to the fact that no expense has been spared in this production. Endorsed by the entire Press as being most mystical, mirthful and marvelous.

≑

“And for my last feat, I need a volunteer,” Peter declared.

Spectators avoided eye-contact with him and shook their heads until a young man raised his hand. He walked from his seat to the stage with a smirk. A little shit who thought it was all a trick; Peter loved to scare them.

The illusionist uncovered a tall mirror and placed the young man in front of it.

“What is your name, Sir?”

“Walter Gardiner.”

“Mr. Gardiner, if you would be so kind as to inspect this mirror and assure our dear spectators tonight that it is not tricked.”

Walter walked around the mirror, inspecting its gilded frame and knocking on the back.

“Now, do you see your reflection in this mirror, Mr. Gardiner?” Peter asked.

“Yes.” He waved at himself.

“And do you also see our esteemed audience behind you?”

“Yes.”

“And now you see me too in the mirror?” Peter placed himself behind the young man.

“Indeed, I do.”

With the help of an assistant, Peter turned the mirror around as well as Walter so that he had his back to the stage curtains, with the mirror between him and the crowd.

“Keep your eyes on the mirror, Mr. Gardiner, and let me know if anything in the reflection changes.”

“Righty-o.”

Peter pulled on heavy silken ropes, and the green velvet curtains behind Walter parted.

Loud gasps rippled through the theater. In the third row, a woman fainted.

Walter laughed uneasily. “I don’t see the curtains anymore,” he said.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Behind you!” shouted someone from the balcony.

On the stage, three young women, all dark hair and pale blue skin, wearing only nightgowns had been revealed. They snarled at Walter, displaying long canines. Their shackles clanked as they lunged forward.

Mr. Gardiner scurried off the stage, and nearly broke his neck in the stairs.

"Back, spawn of Satan!" Peter shouted, brandishing a crucifix.

The three vampires retreated with loud hisses.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my vampiresses!”

The audience applauded with some restraint.

“It is well-known by the Slavs that certain dead persons possess the power of returning by night to molest the living, to suck their blood, and by such refreshment to continue their own terrestrial existence, at the expense of their victims. These creatures do not have a reflection in a mirror.

But the worst part remains to be told: this faculty proves contagious; and those who have been sucked by a vampire, feel themselves condemned to become vampires, in their turn.

I saved these poor girls from the power of their sire in a remote corner of Transylvania. Animal blood furnishes them with the means of subsistence.”

Spectators flinched and covered their mouths.

“Thanks to my powers, and the power of the Christ, I can control these creatures of the night and make an example out of them. A cautionary tale. So you might recognize them and not fall prey yourselves.”

Peter stretched his arms and hands towards the three wild women, his face scrunched up with effort.

“Thou shall rise from the dead.”

A vein throbbed on his forehead. As he raised his arms, the three women slowly lifted off the floor and levitated high above the stage.

≑

As soon as he exited the stage, Peter collapsed. He didn’t even have the strength to remove the wig that scratched his scalp.

As usual, Ingwer ran up to him with a flask of whiskey and a cool, damp cloth.

In the theater, spectators were still applauding and talking loudly. Peter let their appreciation wash over him as he recovered from the exhausting performance.

The theater’s director came up to him and announced the Earl of Westmorland was here and wished to speak with him.

“Give me a minute,” Peter said.

“The Earl will not wait that long.”

With Ingwer’s help, Peter rose to his feet. They both knew the approval of the aristocracy could open many doors and make him a rich man.

A group of people awaited him in the salon, the Earl at the center. He held his head high perhaps to compensate for his small stature. Generous sideburns covered part of his cheeks down to his jaw.

“Your lordship, may I introduce Peter Vincent, the Illusionist?”

“Fascinating demonstration,” the Earl said.

“Thank you. It’s not easy keeping these lasses under control.”

The Earl chuckled, but it wasn’t genuine.

“It stimulated a great debate amongst us.” He gestured at his entourage. “Rainier here thinks you have supernatural powers? Do you claim supernatural powers?”

“Well, I can certainly do things on stage that mere mortals can’t.”

“Then you won’t mind a question or two. You needn’t divulge anything I cannot guess.”

“Shoot.”

“Mr. Gardiner was in league with you. Or there were lights in the mirror frame perhaps and angled mirrors.”

“I’m sure there are illusionists who would do it that way.”

“I think I understand it all. Except the gloves turning into ravens at the beginning. Where did they go?”

“Right here.” Peter pulled his gloves out of his pockets, much to the amusement of the Earl’s entourage. “Maybe you will understand it next time. Another viewing?”

“You must come to St. James’s Park. We'll gather our best minds next time. You'll really have a challenge then. What do you think, Iphigenia, dear?”

The Earl turned to a woman sitting a little farther in the room.

When he saw her, Peter forgot to breathe. Those plump, pink cheeks, and that gorgeous mouth, but her golden eyes had lost their mischievous glint.

Jennie.

Peter’s heart swelled with hope.

She was a woman now, and what a woman. The low neck and short sleeves of her elaborate green dress, showed off skin so creamy and fair he wanted to dip a spoon in it-- actually, to hell with a spoon, he would lick it.

He kissed the back of her gloved hand more slowly than decency allowed. He didn’t miss the way her chest rose with a sharp intake of breath.

She narrowed her gaze, and he realized she didn’t recognize him.

The Earl put a proprietary arm around her, and Jennie smiled sweetly at him. Peter’s heart plummeted.

“I shall like to see these creatures of the night for myself,” the Earl said.

“Another time, perhaps. If you will forgive, I must see to it that they cannot escape... And I need to go look for my birds.”

He held Jennie’s gaze for a moment, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment, but her face betrayed nothing. She averted her eyes and clasped her hands.

Peter returned to his hotel. He discarded his wig and fake beard and loosened his neck tie. Only one thing would do to deal with this: la fée verte. He poured an inch of absinthe into a crystal stemmed glass and placed a slotted spoon across the rim with a sugar cube over it. He liked the ritual— at least for the first glass or two, then it was straight from the bottle— like a magic trick, positioning precisely each piece, then as he trickled cold water over the sugar, the liquid turned cloudy unlike his mind. Absinthe produced such a sharp sort of drunkenness, and his memories became that much more vivid: the green, dry scent of sawdust in his father’s workshop, the ribbed smoothness of a grosgrain ribbon between his finger, her laughter in bursts of light.

≑

The first time they met, they were only children. Her straw bonnet hung crookedly over her messy blond curls, and blue ribbons floated beside her cheek. She introduced herself as Jennie, but he knew who she was: Iphigenia Goldfinch, daughter of the Baron. Her father owned most of the hamlet where they lived, a remote corner of Northumberland, between the Scottish border and the North sea. Peter worked for him. He was but a farm boy, having to earn his own living now that he was an orphan. Other children never spoke to him, they thought him a bit odd, and the circumstances of his parents’ death didn’t help.

“What are you doing?” she asked, watching him flip the wooden raven between his fingers.

“I’m looking for my bird,” he replied. “Do you think it’s in the bushes?”

Jennie followed him to the edge of the forest. Peter picked a small purple flower.

“Perhaps it made its nest amongst the petals.”

“What are you talking about?”

He struck a match and lit the flower. With a flourish of his hand, it vanished in a puff of smoke, and was replaced by a black feather. Her hand flew to her chest, followed by delighted laughter. He decided then and there to make her smile and laugh as much as possible.

They became inseparable. Jennie would bring him food and blankets, and whatever material he needed for his latest magic trick. She dreamt of becoming an actress, so they would put on elaborate performances. As they grew older, their act became more and more complex, lengthy skits with scenarios, costumes, decors and monologues heavily borrowed from Shakespeare. Sometimes for an audience, but more often for their own entertainment. She never asked for the secret behind his tricks, and sometimes he wouldn’t have known how to explain, cards floated in the air, handkerchiefs vanished and wilted flowers bloomed anew.

The other peasants warned him to stay away from her. “If the Baron finds out…” they said. But neither of Jennie’s parents seemed to care. Her father was never home, always in London, allegedly on business. The baroness preferred the company of ghosts. Even at a young age, Peter wondered which was worse: that one’s parents had died or that they didn’t care about their child. They were both orphans in their own way.

And so, Jennie and Peter sheltered each other from the harsh and confusing realities of adulthood. They surrounded themselves with magic and forgot all the rest.

As Peter grew older, he began to understand what he’d been warned against. What they said he would want but couldn’t have.

When she turned thirteen, her father hired a chaperone, and they had to find creative ways of meeting. An abandoned hut in the forest became their refuge after the chaperone had dozed off for the night.

For his fifteenth birthday, she gave him his first kiss, and he promised they would always be together.

For her fifteenth birthday, the baron came back to Featherstone Hall and announced his intention to take his daughter away to London. That night, Jennie ran to him with her jewels wrapped in a piece of cloth.

“We have to go!”

She was always more courageous than him. He hesitated for too long. Her father’s men came after them. They hid in their secret hut, huddled together in the cold night, as dogs sniffed and barked around.

“Make us disappear,” she begged. “Please, Peter, make us disappear.”

He tried.

He failed.

He waited for her.

But she never came back from London, and so, without an anchor, Peter drifted away.

≑

An insistent knock at his hotel door woke Peter up. His head hurt from too much absinthe. He’d slept the morning away. On the doorstep, he found a simple, handwritten note: “Meet me”.

He quickly washed the smudged eyeliner off his face and changed out of last night’s clothes before heading out where a coach awaited.

The cold november wind whipped the tail of his coat about and he held down his hat as he stepped inside the carriage. It was empty.

The carriage drove around for fifteen minutes, Peter rubbed up and down his arms, looking out the window for clues of his anonymous caller. He dearly hoped the message was from Jennie, but it wasn’t rare for some married women to seek him out after a show. His act thrilled them, reminded them that life was too short for a boring husband.

They reached a busy thoroughfare. Peter huffed impatiently at being stuck in traffic. Suddenly, the carriage door opened and someone slipped in directly from the coach beside his. A woman in a garnet-red dress, a veil concealed her face. Peter put a foot up on the bench, sprawling with a cocky smile, a reflex in female company.

When she lifted the veil, he recognized Jennie. Though the carriage was in motion, she had yet to sit. The feather on her hat wobbled and brushed against the ceiling.

“Are you Peter McHoolihee of Northumberland?”

“The one and only.”

She inspected him with narrowed eyes.

“It really is me, Jennie,” he assured her.

She sat on the bench opposite him.

“No one has called me that in ages,” she said.

She didn’t look as happy as he expected her to be. Staring down at her hands, she fidgeted with her wedding ring. The size of the gemstones was an unwelcome reminder of all the things Peter couldn’t buy her despite his fame.

“How long have you been back in England?” she asked.

“Three days.”

“Why did you come back?”

“I’d been gone long enough. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Although she’d learned to mask her emotions better, he recognized that slightly puckered forehead that belied her words.

“So, you’re Peter Vincent now.”

“And you’re a countess.”

“Only since last week.”

“I’m too late, then.”

“Twelve years too late. At least your magic tricks have improved.”

There was a bitterness to her tone he matched in his reply.

“So have your acting skills.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you must have done something to make an Earl want to marry below his station.”

“Must you be so unpleasant?”

“Must you be married?”

They outstared each other. The carriage creaked and horseshoes beat the gravel path, filling the silence. Jennie broke the staring first and looked out the window.

“What was I supposed to do?” she asked after a long moment. “I wrote to everyone in Featherstone for news of you, but you had left without a trace. I tried to find you.”

“So did I. I went to London.”

“You did?” Her face broke into a grin.

Since their first kiss, he’d learned how to seduce women, but now, one smile from her and he was a fumbling teenager again. His palms were clammy, and he couldn’t think of a single smart thing to say. Just like the courageous but naive seventeen year-old lad he had once been, the one who set out for London with only the clothes on his back and a literal ace up his sleeve.

But the city was much larger than he’d anticipated, and the sight of rich gentlemen-- the kind she may be presented to-- discouraged him. He found work on a cargo ship sailing to Denmark; if he traveled the world, educated himself and became rich, then he might be worthy of her. He roamed the Continent, taking odd jobs and performing magic tricks. But as he journeyed East, he started hearing legends of blood-sucking creatures, and his purpose evolved.

In Poland, he met Emily de Laszowska Gerard, a writer and literary critique. Scottish by birth, she took a liking to Peter and his skills, and hired him to work in her home. Her library contained many a book about myths and legends that they read together. When her husband, a Polish chevalier, twenty years her senior, was stationed in Transylvania, Peter followed them. Still officially a member of staff, but in fact, he and Emily researched the local vampire lore. She even published a book about Transylvanian superstitions the next year. She was the first person, after Jennie, to whom Peter revealed what he had seen kill his parents. She was also the first person, after Jennie, to kiss him. She was older than him by six years and taught him how to give a woman pleasure. They enjoyed each other’s company, but he didn’t love Emily as he had Jennie. Eventually, her husband found out about the affair and kicked him out. Armed with a new confidence and knowledge on two equally mysterious creatures— vampires and women— he started his life as Peter Vincent.

He didn’t confess his insecurities and affairs to Jennie, only summed up that he hadn’t found her in London and then started travelling.

“No wonder you could not find me in London. Father hired this dreadful tutor, and locked me up for hours with her so she might teach me everything a lady should know.”

“So he might offer you to the highest bidder?”

She didn’t deny the allegation, but amended, “He wanted a better life for me, better than I had with Mother. But I did not want it.”

“I’m sure you managed to sneak out every once in a while.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief and his stomach swooped. Even if she spoke like a proper lady, in his presence her northern accent and idioms resurfaced. And he laughed, still incredulous that the baron’s daughter was so bold, and that she even deigned talk to him. Him, a peasant boy. It felt like they had never been apart. As he spoke, he lost his cocky façade, and Jennie leaned towards him, elbows on knees.

“I never escaped very far. Not as far as you did.”

“I crossed the continent. I saw Russia and the Ottoman Empire. Always searching… I learned about myths and the origins of faith and fear in men.”

“And vampires?”

“I saw what looked like the victims of vampires: illnesses that medicine has yet to explain, and corpses that decomposed in odd ways, but no real vampire. I must have imagined it all. It became inspiration for my show.”

He switched seat to be next to her, his legs pressed against hers, but she didn’t move. Head cocked to one side, she openly studied him. He didn’t feel unrecognized by her anymore. Her honey-brown eyes warmed him more than the autumn sun shining on his stubbled cheek.

“All that wandering, did you ever find what you were looking for?” she asked.

“In some measure. But something was always missing.” He brought her hands to his lips, holding her gaze, and turned on the charm.

Jennie chuckled softly. “I see you learned about more than folklore.”

“Shall I demonstrate?”

He scooted closer to her, Jennie instinctively leaned forward, smiling conspiratorially.

“You may.”

He ran his hands up, from her wrists to her shoulders, and rested them on her neck. His thumb brushed her jaw, and her lips parted. He had dreamt of those lips. He kissed her as slowly as his weak restraints allowed. He needed her to think about this kiss for days and weeks to come. He needed her to blush every time she was with her husband, and take pleasure in tasting the memory on her lips. He kissed her deeply, adoringly, and feeling her melt against him was his reward.

Too soon, the carriage stopped.

“I have to go,” she said.

Peter caught her arm to stop her, though his grip was light, she winced as if he’d hurt her which alarmed him.

“Rough honeymoon?”

“My husband is… mercurial.”

“Run away with me. I’m rich now.”

“You think that ever mattered to me?” She swiped his fringe to the side and kissed his forehead, but the gesture was too forlorn for him to enjoy. “I wish I could-- there’s so much to explain... Richard would hunt us down.”

“Jennie…”

“Goodbye, Peter.”

“When can I see you again?” he pressed.

“I don’t know.”

And she vanished into the street crowd.

≑

Part 2

#Teninch Fic #ktrosesworld #Peter Vincent #peter vincent x jenny #I start feeling queasy when I don't post fic for a while #I hope you guys will like this despite the unusual pairing #Lostinfic writes stuff #autumn prompts #Raven & Goldfinch #the raven and the goldfinch

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whimsicalworldofme · 6 years ago

Text

Another NaNoWriMo Snippet

(Ok it’s not a snippet. It’s nearly 2500 words. I couldn’t resist)

“So there’s this girl named Ashley,” Michael seemed to be measuring his words, delaying something and I felt my stomach drop. “I asked her out and she said yes.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

I tried to hide my obvious heartbreak. It had been a week since our trip to Chicago. Michael hadn’t been able to video chat all that frequently because of play rehearsal but I hadn’t thought we’d been that out of touch for him to completely move past me for someone else. I could see him shift uncomfortably in his desk chair, pushing his fingers through his hair and shrugging.

“You’re probably the most important person to me,” he said. “And I guess I wanted to know what you thought.”

I knew I had to think carefully about how I responded. If I lashed out or acted crazy, he’d drop my like a ton of bricks. I wasn’t about to lose having Michael in my life over an impulsive reaction to something that might not last. He’d mentioned Ashley before. She was in Dracula with him. Bonds during plays tended to get intense but then died down once the show was over and people weren’t in rehearsal together every night.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” I admitted.

“Look if you have something to say,” he got a little irritated, clearly picking up on my mood, “then say it.”

“I think you’re making a mistake,” I blurted out. “Don’t hate me for saying that. But you told me to say it.”

“Why is it a mistake?” Michael looked angry but his voice was level. “I want to know.”

“From what you’ve told me you two really don’t have anything in common other than Dracula.”

He’d mentioned her in conversation even before Chicago but I thought maybe she was just another one of his many admirers who he saw as just a friend. Plus, she was two years younger than him, which was dangerous territory.

“We have stuff in common,” Michael folded him arms over his chest defensively. “We both play video games.”

“Ok, but how far can that take a relationship?” I shook my head. “I think you’re going after her because she’s hot and she fits the gamer girl fantasy, not because you actually like her as a person.”

“So what if I am?” Michael got really angry now and it was in that moment that our age difference really hit me. I’d had three more years of experience with dating and relationships and learning what really mattered in a romantic partnership. At nineteen all that mattered to me was hotness and the tiniest shared connection. I could build an entire fantasy future in my imagination based on those two things. But I’d learned the hard way that that wasn’t a sound foundation for a relationship.

This is a lesson Michael’s just going to have to learn the hard way, I realized. I’m not there. And I can’t expect him to wait around for me to date when I’m not there.

“Fine,” I raised my hands in surrender. “You told me to say my piece. I said it. You’re going to do what you’re going to do.”

“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Michael’s face softened into a sad frown.

“Why would I be mad?” I had a feeling at that point that he knew exactly how I felt about him. I was pretty sure anyone who ever encountered the two of us together knew. Still I tried to squirm my way out of confessing my true feelings for him and how I really felt about him dating someone else.

“I don’t know,” he couldn’t look at the camera and I knew he was lying. “I just don’t want my Eve mad at me.”

“I’m not,” I lied with a gentle, reassuring smile. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“I wish you could come home for this show,” Michael lamented. “I’m really proud of the work I’ve done on this character.”

“I wish I could be there too.”

The opening weekend of Dracula was two weeks away. Michael didn’t know but I’d already made plans to come to the closing show in three weeks. It was a quarterly break from school, giving me a long weekend, which left enough time for me to spend two whole days on the bus getting to and from Hillsdale without leaving me rushing to find time for family and friends while there. I hadn’t told any of my friends, just warned my mother that I’d be coming into town that weekend and would need a place to crash.

Keeping the secret for those three weeks was torture. Michael seemed more forlorn as the days went by. He revealed that Ashley had already started cheating on him by kissing other boys at her high school. I didn’t want to say anything that would make him feel bad about that situation, even though in my mind I was screaming “See! See! I told you!” But the closer it got to that weekend, the less I cared about the Ashley situation as I’d come to think of it. I knew as soon as I got back home, Michael would realize he didn’t need her.

The Saturday night I’d picked to attend Dracula arrived and my mother lent me her ragged green suburban, the same car Michael and I had driven around in all summer. I had hoped to surprise him after the show but as we pulled into the parking lot, I saw him shuffling back and forth in full costume by the back theatre door. There were several people out there, including Ashley, all in costume, hair and makeup done, getting any jitters out before they needed to get set for the first scene.

“Crap,” I frowned when I saw Michael catch sight of the suburban from a distance. He had a puzzled expression on his face, clearly recognizing the car and trying to figure out why it was there. “I wanted to surprise him.”

“I think you have,” Jon said from the passenger seat since I’d decided to treat him to the show while I was home. “He’s still trying to figure it out.”

The way the parking lot was set up meant I had to drive right past where all the actors were standing and I knew for sure Michael would catch sight of me when that happened so I rolled down my window and watched his face light up with sheer joy.

“Surprise!” I laughed as Michael ran up to the car, leaving his girlfriend looking absolutely pissed.

“Evie!” He couldn’t stop smiling. “I thought you couldn’t get home?!”

“Well I had to make you believe that,” I chuckled. “I’ve actually got a long weekend from school. I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did!” He bounced excitedly, his hands on the window edge. “Hi Jon,” he greeted my brother who waved. “I’m so excited you’re here!”

“Michael!” Ashley scowled in the distance and called for him, but he ignored her.

“I’m going to go find a place to park this thing,” I said. “But I’ll meet out front after the show?”

“Absolutely,” he grinned and let go of the car door, giving it a little tap with the flats of his palms, before pushing himself away and bouncing off towards the stage door.

Even as I drove on to find a parking space I could see Ashley in my rearview mirror, glaring. My intention had never been to get Michael and her into a spat. They were fighting enough already, despite having only dated for a few weeks. I honestly didn’t care about what Ashley thought though or how she reacted. My only goal had been to show up for my Michael to support him in something he was so proud of. And to simply be with him. I’d missed him.

“How pissed do you think the she-beast is?” I asked Jon when we finally found a spot and I got the car shut off.

“She looked pretty pissed…” my brother mused.

“Hopefully she won’t take it out on Michael.”

I knew that she likely would. When we spoke every night on video chat he let slip regularly that she was vindictive if he behaved in a way she deemed inappropriate. She didn’t like him talking to me. Or to Kaylee. She complained when he went to family dinners with Kaylee too, even though I knew full well that Michael was like her older brother. Ashley made Michael feel like garbage for not giving in to her every whim and spending every waking moment with her. As bad as I felt, knowing I’d probably given Ashley cause to torment him, I knew that it was all just something Michael would have to figure out for himself. If I told him my true feelings, things could and probably would get weird quickly.

“At least she can’t do anything to him while they’re on stage,” I mumbled as we got into the theatre and took our seats.

The play wasn’t the greatest quality show ever put on at the Sauk, but it was the biggest role Michael had ever landed and he shone. He talked often about wanting to make acting his career in the future, to give it a real serious go, so even though this was community theatre and a hobby, he took it seriously. After the show, I pushed my way out of the theatre in a rush to get out front where tradition held that the actors would come out from the stage door and around the building to greet the audience. I waited eagerly, bouncing on the balls of my feet, craning my neck to try to see around the corner of the building but not wanting to be obnoxious and go right around to the stage door.

It didn’t take long for Michael to come out, sans girlfriend, much to my relief, and he spotted me instantly. Without pausing to talk to anyone else, he jogged over and wrapped me up in a tight hug, lifting me off the ground a few inches and making me laugh. He seemed reluctant to put me down, releasing me from his hold with a squeeze.

“I still can’t believe you’re here! When did you get in? How long are you here? Hey, you should come to the after-show party,” he kept going in a babbling stream of what was clearly overjoyed word-vomit.

“I don’t want to intrude on a party if it’s just for the cast,” I picked one topic to stick with at the moment, knowing that in a second, Michael could be wandering off somewhere.

“It’s for whoever we invite and I’m inviting you,” he insisted, turning to wave at someone who had hollered hello at him. “We’re just going Pizza Hut.”

“I never say no to pizza,” Jon broke into the conversation after having poked around to chat with some of the people he knew.

“Good, you’re coming,” Michael commanded and I just nodded and laughed. “I gotta go say hi to some other people but I’ll be back.”

“Ok, go greet your adoring public,” I snickered and shooed him off on his way.

There were plenty of people there who I knew. We’d all become friends the last summer through dancing and theatre, so I had no shortage of company and good conversation while Michael was occupied. No matter where I went or who I spoke with though, I could feel a pair of eyes boring into me, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I took a moment to look around and pinpointed the source of my unease rather easily. Standing across the way, glaring daggers at me, was Ashley. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look at me with that much burning hatred before or any time after. Her hatred of me was something Michael and I had discussed at length before.

“Ashley tried to tell me I couldn’t talk to you anymore,” he shook his head and I gaped at him through the webcam. “I told her that wasn’t going to happen.”

“You don’t see how that could be a point of contention in your relationship? I mean, I’m glad you’re not going to listen to her but that’s just going to make the two of you fight more.”

“Yeah well, she can’t control me like that. You’re my Evie and I’m not going to let her tell me who I can and can’t talk to.”

I knew if things came to a head, Michael wouldn’t abandon me, so the childish glarings of a girl five years younger than me, a child, meant nothing.

The majority of the crowd began to disperse, leaving mostly just the actors, their friends and family. Jon and I were chatting about plans we’d made to marathon our favorite tv show the next day when Michael made his way back over to us, having completed his rounds.

“All right,” he let out a heavy breath. “Are you ready to head over for pizza?”

“Am I your ride?” I was surprised. “I thought you would’ve wanted to go over with Ashley.”

“Nope,” he grinned, something impish and infantile lighting his eyes. “You’re always my favorite ride.” He raised his eyebrows up and down suggestively, cracking a massive, snarky grin.

“Michael!”

I let out a mixture of a laugh and a gasp. He’d never said anything remotely suggestive to me before. Ever. The shock left me unsure how to react for a moment, watching in disbelief as Michael darted away, cackling, leaving me to pick my jaw up off the ground. Regaining my faculties, I pulled off my kitten heels and unslung my purse from my shoulder, foisting them off on my brother.

“Hold these,” I said before tearing off barefoot after Michael. “Hey, get back here!” I hollered at him.

“Oh shit,” I heard him laugh again as he started off running before I could catch him.

We darted through what was left of the crowd like five-year-olds, laughing and completely uncaring of how ridiculous we might seem to the others who were definitely giving us looks of disapproval at that point. Finally, Michael stopped and caught me around the waist, mid-stride and pulled me close to his chest, grinning at me like a fool.

“Michael you shouldn’t say stuff like that,” I frowned slightly to show I was serious. “It’s indecent.”

“Ah, you love me anyway,” he insisted and I patted his cheek.

“And you’re lucky I do, otherwise, I would have to actually hurt you for being so rude.”

“You’re adorable when you’re fighty,” he snickered before stepping back and readjusting his hold so that he had his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, let’s go get some pizza. I’m starving.”

#writer #writing #nanorwrimo #nanowrimo 2018 #my writing

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memorylang · 5 years ago

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Reflections | #32 | March 2020

While in transit to, on and between flights on my journey from Mongolia through Europe to America, I reflected. I processed with ample free hours the Lenten days that met me. I considered how God led my steps.

So this story runs parallel to the handful I’ve written lately. We’ll backtrack before we move forward, then reaching a huge moment for my leaving Mongolia.

That pre-dawn, Thursday, March 5 morning, the 49 of my group rode the coach bus from near our Peace Corps office, out of town to the airport. In time, we’d be above the clouds again and again. From the stillness of transiting, came my reflections.

First Friday of Lent

Hard to believe my journey began Ash Wednesday night, a mere week prior to takeoff. Now I take us back to my city of service last Friday, Feb. 28.

Like I shared before, I felt pretty exhausted by the time I reached church, with my frantic 36 hours since our evacuation command. And so, with Lent’s first Friday of Lent, a Catholic day of fasting and prayer, I figured no better time to pray off stress.

I’d come by earlier that day to drop off the Mongolian missal and hymnal books I borrowed the month before. I also gifted the church my copy of, “Rediscover the Saints,” having finished it my week before Tsagaan Sar. Parish staff thanked me and invited me to come back that day if I had free time.

So I returned. Before I could settle in, staff invited me for lunch. I’d never turn down Mongolians’ hospitality. But the food definitely had meat. So, I thought a quick prayer on it—Should I eat meat on a Friday in Lent, if Catholics offer?

My response feeling from God seemed to be to, “Just love.” So I smiled, figuring to enjoy their offer was probably the most loving thing to do. And it would be the last meal they’d have with me.

They invited I say grace in English. Their English teacher was there with staff, so she understood, at least. I really enjoyed the food, too. It was among my Mongolian favorites, банштай цай /bansh-tahy tsahy/, dumplings in the salty Mongolian milk tea. We took a selfie to commemorate our pleasant hour.

I tried declining seconds, with Friday being for fasting and all, but they still served more, haha. I mused with wonder how Mongolian Christians take hospitality to the next level, in the best ways. And yet, with staff talking about how the government banned seeing their families at Lunar New Year to prevent Coronavirus possibilities, I felt I was leaving a Mongolia very different from the one where I first arrived. I’d miss our days of fellowship after Mass in this little sunlit room.

Afterward, I had my time alone in the sanctuary to decompress. I wandered before the statue to our Blessed Mother. Then I walked the room, photographing Stations of the Cross’ Mongolian descriptions in case I wanted to learn them in the States.

My supervisor to drive me to our next location. I graciously thanked everyone and departed.

Last Supper, Friday Night

Later that Friday night in my city of service, I enjoyed a Last Supper with the American couple who’d supported me so much.

Here, too, we had amazing food, this time American-style. With sundown, I could indulge a bit!

I felt especially joyful to meet yet another woman from Brian Hogan’s memoir, “There’s a Sheep in My Bathtub.” (Recall, I finished this book on the Second New Day of Tsagaan Sar, which was Tuesday earlier that week.) This woman recounted stories of her travels around the world for God, including standout details for me.

She mentioned pretty harrowing experiences with the Hong Kong and Moscow airports. Particularly, she said Moscow’s security just spoke Russian, even in the international airport! So I braced myself. She also suggested I bring snacks so I wouldn’t have to fret on currency conversion. She didn’t like her Moscow airport experience there much.

As for Hong Kong, she mentioned writing in her devotional journal. Then I realized, I had one of those, too. A parishioner in Reno, Nev. gifted one to me before I graduated uni and joined Peace Corps. In fact, the journal’s been where I’ve penned my usual entries daily since Jan. 1. Fittingly, “Pray continuously” appeared recently, matching my 2020 Lenten aspiration. How cool!

With the American couple and their friend, I also considered my future. If I return to Mongolia, life would feel different. Mongolia will have entered spring, maybe summer. I'd redecorate my apartment. Maybe I'd bring things new from the States. I'd be wiser, a little older.

But I'll be loving, all the same.

By the night’s end, I resolved, if there's one thing God's been consistent with me when I've discerned the past couple years, it's to love. For, no matter what, we're beloved. Love, I will.

My American friends gifted me delicious chocolate cake to take home. They know I love their cooking. I’d keep in touch with this bunch long after returning to America.

Last Suppers with spiritual people fill me with such peace. And Christ’s command rang true: “As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (John 13:34).

Saturday Morning Guests

The next morning, Saturday, Feb. 29, the older friend with whom I spent my Lunar New Year’s Eve and First New Day came by to fetch me for his friend he introduced me to during the holiday.

Like old times, my friend came up to my apartment. This time he brought that friend over. And I felt so pleased when my friend, upon entering, explained to his friend, who saw my cross on the wall, that although I’m Christian and a Peace Corps Volunteer, Peace Corps is non-religious.

It’s so important locals understand this distinction… I am who I am, but Peace Corps is what it is. I loved that a local could explain it to another without confusion.

My friend had just gotten off a long night shift. So I readied the instant coffees I saved for guests and switched on my Korean electric kettle that sat upon my short refrigerator. I also shared with the guys some Chinese snacks my 重庆 Chóngqìng friend mailed me when I visited relatives in 北京 Běijīng after Christmas. I liked the spiciness, but I cautioned my friends to be careful. Many Mongolians don’t do spicy, but this older friend does.

Meeting My Older Friend’s Friend

I first met my friend’s friend earlier that week, Sunday, Feb. 23, on the morning of Lunar New Year’s Eve.

Before my older friend dropped me off in his own frigid home. He drove me to the then-crowded indoor market. There he took me inside to meet his friendly shop-owning friend. The friendly man sells a brand of хевийн боов (pronounced like /hyehVEEN b-awe-v/), firm biscuit bricks stacked to form Mongolians’ traditional food tower displays. My supervisor Wednesday night gifted me some of these, actually.

Because all Mongolian families make these towers, the friend saw great business. Apparently the man’s son attends the Chinese school, also. So the friend invited me to visit his home sometime. I said sure, sounds fun. Then my older friend took me back to the car. I waited there alone while he shopped some more. Felt like just another day shopping with my actual dad...

Anyway, when Peace Corps Mongolia’s evacuation crisis broke out, I totally forgot about meeting my friend’s friend. But Mongolians find ways.

Final Full Saturday, Among Friends

Saturday morning, kicking off my last full day in my city of service, we drove to my friend’s friend’s house, in the city’s district closer to the mountain’s base. Coincidentally, I’d probably walked by this house Monday morning, while walking with the Mongolian Christian toward Mt. Bayan-Undur. That day, my same older friend drove to pick me up for the rest of my adventures, that First New Day of Tsagaan Sar.

Entering my friend’s friend’s place this Saturday, I felt the interior could have passed for a small American home, just with fewer walls to divide rooms.

My friend’s friend treated me to a wonderful brunch, I felt so glad to needn’t cook, that busy day. He also gifted me instant Mongolian milk tea, which I felt really excited to try in the States!

Meanwhile, the man’s Chinese-studying son was in an unsurprisingly unsocial mood. The lad distracted himself instead by watching a colorfully animated film dubbed in Mongolian that played on the TV nearby. The film’s art style reminded me of some mix between Disney’s “Avatar” and Dr. Seuss. Weeks later, I chanced upon its name, “Mune.”

I ate to fullness as usual. I hadn’t realized, even on Mongolian Lunar New Year’s Sixth New Day, people still stuff themselves with the same wonderful traditional things they eat the first few days. I loved it.

But during a lull, I felt surprised.

My older friend, suddenly a tad emotional, said how his English improved so much with me.

He spoke smiling, saying how he felt grateful I came to Mongolia. I hadn’t expected my rapid departure would move a grown man. I responded with gratitude to have met him and spoke again my hope to return.

Once More Upon Bayan-Undur

After brunch, since I wouldn’t meet my other friends till later that afternoon, the men I ate with joined me instead. And so, after waiting in the cold nearly an hour wondering whether the others might show, we ascended.

Our trio walked up past the place where I walked Monday, and we summited. I’d miss this snow, knowing I’d return to a desert in the States.

We came down the front side, somewhat like the path I’d taken with the weekly hiking group I accompanied winter weekend mornings. On the walk down, I found my pace faster than the other men’s. I wondered if this resulted from my weeks of hikes. Ahead, I realized I followed the овоо /aw-vaw/ stone shrines to know the way down.

I considered in self-reflection how during my final week in Mongolia, I felt like Aang or Korra meeting their past lives' friends. My ‘past lives’ were Peace Corps Volunteers before me. Our community’s common affection for our service remains.

Our trio took a route down into the ger (home) district, where we parted with my older friend. He needed rest but would visit me that evening. I returned to his friend’s home. The kind man served me a stir-fry with rice that tasted of my summer host family's cooking. I miss them… Little did I know, the night after, I’d ride through my host family’s town during evacuation.

My friend’s friend drove me around town to pick up my community friends to visit my apartment and say farewells. Later that night, I’d embark on the sunset trek to end my last city day.

Thursday Leaving Mongolia: The Airport

Now fast-forward to Thursday, March 5, my departure from Mongolia. After half a week of resilience in the capital followed by an all-nighter to conclude it, I felt a profound experience at the airport.

Our Peace Corps group of 49 reached Chinggis Khaan International Airport long before daybreak. My past blur here flying out two months before felt stressful, traveling alone. But now I felt calm. For now, I traveled among friends.

I entered Mongolia’s international terminal early, recalling its location. I settled smoothly into the check-in line then turned behind. I scanned our face-masked crowd to see if I could find the senior TEFL friend I ran into throughout the week. I’d hoped I might see her the night before during Volunteer farewells, but we’d be on the same flight anyway.

Some time later, I saw my friend and waved. She waved back, but not as expected—I thought she looked as though sobbing. I felt troubled. So, tugging my luggage, I left my spot in the line to join her in back.

I stood beside her, wishing I could offer something. I waited in silence, trying to feel her pain.

When speaking, my friend sounded as though with grief. This country has been everything to her. This is what she committed to, as a Peace Corps Volunteer. And she's leaving too soon. She hoped I will get the chance to come back, to finish my service and one day know the pain she feels to leave these people.

I felt solemn. She was right.

And while I might be able to return, her service ended.

Around us, I wondered if anyone noticed, but plenty seemed preoccupied with making our flight. So I reckoned I needn’t worry, since I came to do good.

My friend held my hand and thanked me for coming. From beneath her face mask, she commented about needing tissues and not having any. I remembered mine and quickly emptied my pocket tissue pouch. She laughed a little and looked glad. She continued to squeeze my hand as we pushed our luggage to move forward in line.

Trials Leaving Mongolia: The Airport

Crisis! When we reached the line's front, turns out we both had overweight luggage.

We lugged our luggage aside. I was 2 kg over—must have been the extra gifts, we figured. So I shifted books and denser snacks to my personal item and carry-on then wore my blazer as an addition to my already five layers. I’d fly with six layers, whatever. Thus, I checked in my luggage.

But my friend wasn't so lucky. She needed to pay extra to get her luggage through. So she left upset to another window outside the line. With my things in order and feeling quite familiar with the airport, I decided to accompany her.

We waited an awful long time. Another senior cohort friend we’d evacuated our provinces with needed to pay a similar fee. A couple more senior cohort friends joined the line, for they had pets traveling. So I waited among the four. They were such inspirations to me.

Meanwhile I tried to help my friend, who sat on her luggage and looked a little disheveled. She said something of her amazement how we kept getting stuck together. I agreed. I remembered the fall conference, our evacuation caravan and the week’s surprise meet-ups at Peace Corps’ office. Lovely coincidences.

During our wait, I felt moved by the love and loss my friend felt toward her community and service. I remembered my grief amid flights three years ago, when Mom was killed and stressfully I had to fly home. So I wished I could say something to help my friend. I prayed this affliction might leave her. I prayed to have the right words. But I knew, sometimes the better words are those unsaid.

Sometimes my friend forgot whether she grabbed something or didn't, whether I grabbed something or didn't. I replied patiently. I wanted to say it'd be OK soon, but such words mean little. I offered my water, offered to cover the expense, even. She accepted my water.

Eventually my friend noticed I didn’t have an expense to pay and that I just wanted to support her. Her anxiety seemed to lighten, and she smiled again. She insisted I'm so kind. She added I didn't have to stay for her. But I reaffirmed I'm comfortable with the airport and felt I’d nowhere to be more urgently. I wanted her to feel OK. She said although she doesn't believe in God, God would reward me very much for helping. I wasn't sure what to make of that. But it felt kind.

As we neared less than an hour till takeoff, the couple senior cohort friends behind us, too, grew anxious whether we'd make our flight. They said since I didn't need to be in line, I should head to our gate. Still, I knew we'd plenty of time, considering my previous rush through airport security on a crowded day here with less time. But, going ahead would make our group happiest. So I wished everyone well and calmly went in.

Leaving Mongolia: The Airport

After a smooth clear through passport control, friends from our evacuation group asked me if I'd seen the others. I explained they were at the payment window. Behind me, I noticed my friend already entering security. I felt glad to give others peace.

I ran into a couple evacuation friends shortly after. One commented I was better than him, for waiting behind to help. I appreciated his compliment. I didn’t blame anyone for going ahead, anyway. We’re all trying to be prudent.

I had plenty time to get my bearings as boarding began, too. God always has a way.

I pick up my next story right where this leaves off, bringing you with me aboard my flights from Mongolia through Europe and back to America. We’re off to Moscow, Berlin and Amsterdam, so get ready for a cultural odyssey like none of mine before!

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me~

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rubberandgluereviews · 5 years ago

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LOCAL CRITIC HAILS LOCAL TALENT FOR BEST EFFORTS WITH “QUIRKY” SCRIPT

***NOTE: Although I am not a critic myself, I’ve always been quite fascinated by those who grant themselves the authority to sit in judgment of an artistic expression and then publish their unsolicited musings online in public forums. These individuals are always so generous to help artists like me develop our craft by pointing out every misstep we’ve made to anyone who might Google our names one day– and so few of us ever take the time to return the favor so that they can grow as writers too. So, in the interest of giving back to the amateur critic community, here goes nothing… ***

A Review Of A Review By Anonymouscriticdfw Of “WAIT. AREN’T THEY DEAD? By Joe Major

By Joe Major

"You did it!” is a phrase I’ve used a lot at stage doors after a show. It’s a condescending dodge, the Pelosi Clap of kudos, and I use some version it any time an untalented friend obligates me to fill a seat at their cringe-worthy cabaret or one-man show. It’s what I say when I want to avoid giving honest feedback and yet, that’s exactly how Anonymouscriticdfw began her official review of my play “WAIT. AREN’T THEY DEAD?” at Onstage in Bedford. Careful not to use the word “funny” when describing my world premiere comedy, she chose instead to praise my gall for merely finishing a script (any script) and then finding a venue that would actually produce it. In other words– I did it!

According to her critique, the local talent was beyond reproach-- and I wholeheartedly agree. She found no faults with the cast or creative team and yet her summary of their combined flawlessness as a “lighthearted distraction” feels more polite than impressed. This suggests to me that there is a lot more to her opinion than she’s admitting. Perhaps she’s pulling her punches to flatter Onstage in hopes of working with them again as an actress. (She appeared in the cast of their previous comedy, but was not considered for this venture by Director Mike Hathaway-- who received no consideration from her this time around either.) Or maybe her decision to single out the New York based author as the only artist at this Texas theater worthy of criticism is personally motivated. Either way, a deeper dive into her lack of enthusiasm for the piece might’ve helped to make her review a more interesting read.

Personal or not, her shots at the writer are well aimed. The script is indeed muddled and works much better in its original 90-minute, one-act format. The paranormal shtick that confounded her so was added specifically for Onstage who requested I pad the run time with filler and insert an intermission. My decision to let concession sales take precedent over story was a mistake that she was right to point out and shows real promise in her future as a theatrical pundit.

I will push back on her disappointment in the finale though. If the ending of my cinematic spoof is in need of anything it’s a rudimentary knowledge of cinema. Whether the reference was appreciated or not, Hathaway’s choice to recreate the final shot of “All About Eve” as a conclusion to this film parody about feuding actresses was truly a master stroke. After all, the intent of a parody is to mock something very specific (in this case, hagsploitation horror films and their stars). So, it is not uncommon for select ticket buyers with a limited understanding of the subject matter to walk away from a parody feeling left out. Their experience is still valid of course, but if they decide to write a review anyway, it would be prudent to inform the reader that their comprehension of the material was at a disadvantage.

Or perhaps I’m overthinking this and her objection to the final scene is simply about a sight gag (involving identical costumes) that didn’t quite land at the performance I attended. Having flown in from New York mid-run, I was only told then of the difficulty the troupe encountered when staging the joke as I had written it. I would’ve been happy to cut the bit entirely or tailor it to the company’s available resources had I been present in rehearsals (or consulted with remotely), but that was not my arrangement with the company. And I am not now complaining about that arrangement. I thought the creative team did a brilliant job facing such challenges without my meddling, but it appears our critic disagrees. I just hope her review which charges the playwright and the playwright alone for all such problems in a show doesn’t discourage Onstage from taking a chance on new works in the future-- and vice versa!

In her attempt to close on a positive note, Anonymouscriticdfw separates herself from the audience when she recalls how much *they* enjoyed my play. I don’t wish to seem ungrateful for the compliment, but it lacks the sincerity of her complaints. She seems quite personally invested in her opinions about what could be improved, but for some reason she keeps this production at arm’s length when patting it on the back. For instance, she praises the carpenter for his body of work without giving any specifics as to how his talent was well lent to this project in particular. I wouldn’t say her review was negative, but it reads more like a favor than favorable. Her friends in the show certainly appreciated the notice, but as the only one with something to learn from her assessment, I wanted more!

Click here to read the original review.

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libidomechanica · 1 year ago

Text

Untitled Composition # 10693

A curtal sonnet sequence

The drum beat; merrily-blowing shrills from the bay. Own though every virtue, and more: you might shade of deep sleep in mine, lass, in mine, lass, in mine, thy pipe, no incense sweet fruit without in Wales. And father to complain, and a stable wench came running flowers and happy vintage to the kids had not much I am borne darkly, fearful roar, how can Bagpipe, or ioynts be well at once written, and every one of the heard, and song.

The next neighbours’ land, and came a mortal! I think each other extras, which in the ever-beating, eve made of men! To dream milk burned in her, as I hear thy voice, lute, no pipe, and cruel kind, as in a poppy from the sea! At last I spoke.—’Twas just as ready to attend.—About Judas come in the bag of day-old pastries. Not a dawn in eastern watched it lying idle. And mind. And oh, her lap. A sleep he Her love.

And she what I can, i’ve said in Dante’s verse, and slight glow’d; on burnished throne in sight your Prince, and pausing as necessary as a sword blow, they like threading span, t were hardly could never mind. Still I remember’d lay, The breathing shut of doctrines the subjected, enterchangels’ purity, twixt life in me all full of grief the winds do shake from whence all those infamy is not Stonehenge simply black and anon doubting.

Which of stars of this sceptre like an anadem, in which is mornes messenger brought me meikle in your excellency, ’ thus replied he: a winged his triumph o’er her aspect burst, after all the spot shall not found was no matter o’er the warm serge gown and gay: but lent to sleeps best thou euer since I was, blue-eyed, and I will join my tears their skill. You have a sound mind. My tongue-tied Muse with my full of holes. Wilds, in the pock! They were.

Wrong and being circumference: this miracle; and tho’ your credit, that, to die, I leave her true, like a nest of unions marriage to bear a son? That spring—death laughter, my unmendable wounds we took the kiss that future’s chang’d the Christianity; which thou returns with nectar—starlight and airy, stood munchings; but the Judaic ground-worms riot. That I am: and if you were a mermaids’ singing each new meeting flight.

Never dempt more changes. Took the gift we received husband; so love’s faces on my love’s faces on me, this flesh. Now that of Ilion, and seek for roses, hang on some soft affection unto ye; and oh, her land; and rhymes, whose lips; my body&said crawl never rue my heart. He asked and smil’d! Arms limp as old Falstaf says let us away! You feel the most dainty Ariel’ and pebbles, spongy mosses, lifting of a wretch!

Thou shalt not know thyself and sing, by Saul Bellow When I am frae my Dearie; I restless her cheek, while every faults i’d not for there unshaken, clinging consternations, poesy, and her half-right torch, and Nature’s self turns paler, seeing how we sounds again. How Peace should one terror, even they would be a world? My heart I am go child-bed, as that they were her free, let spear topp’d with poets and me, and men; but No!

From his eyes: I gave the house you’ve forgot. Nothing that voyage. Child is woman! He said, fifteen stones grip the heap of such restraint, with a banners that Juan’s suite, late authors luminous! Over-loving, the sweet milk and streame: or as they cannonade as terrible cord. Or gluttoning on thy soul! He rode all that I cannot look like a gum. Exclaiming, fooling, strangled titter, but faith may after his joined legs and peasants.

Housekeepers, to Despaire at me through the tender feet shalt thou not haply may assert, and waiters, and Compounds doth Love speakes senses in this epic satire, he may average numeral; also the thing. You mother, said twice, that goes all female with an eraser and wont to marble, which do sublime, is chant from the slave and mee: I pyne for my part, nor gates of the assault, while thine image of his young Lochinvar.

It was no vocabulary for her! Now strength to her three to the bright? Second’s ordinary walls into that millions, washed in answer vague as wind: far, far around remarked, his other in the moaned, and fourth at once the Lass of Albany. What antres vast and in thunder, to the doors; none came in a royal porch, that I can’t a painting behind, that I should have been lilies cold. Especial jury of matron-like.

Of ladies’ wrinkles place, and pitie to my thought rose from which opens to the bed. That I do to the camp! From these meadows till, more crumpled that time come, for the melancholy Mother’s fingers, the Gem was interrupted light occasion. That looked like our sun stand stir of fountains stede, if that life is no time had made lamented urn. He kept sound of the ransom of Italy. They were wont to make a mourners, weep anew!

That he himself, mum’s the pock, the Braine. Which men image picture by my head have thine. Sing no mask of you. Decades off in the duchess, pride, until it seems, has gone to which I plight, her majesty was singly crown’d: but howsoe’er she will be thy amends. It sound is sweet Spirits meet, a sweetness skies, the sparkled on a heaven: but oh, ye goddess, for Jock of Hazeldean.—It is a portion of this. Thought might detestable.

Because God’s sake hold my heart, which a death- wound, and his own, what a strange? Have seen the Song is broke the midnight station of travellers to hear my mother’s fingers nurst; and in the head, that ’s under way; t was dancing so that shortly he had outwept its rain. I say she’s twisted with the nations’—not yet given; I weep it selfe did set himself upon a pillars of the Devil; the nutriment deserve of melodie.

Fresh leaves among, the Queen with the better, the lamps blazon o’er the Muses upon a glorious nothing, said, oh Shah, that would repent all: and at once walked and wrong and speak with Arac: Arac’s signs, to hunt, I know you have staggered wept spiraled them ill, no longer bounds should thilke lasse not for such Cries of hotels, especially when we have a brig, a schooner, or though she dights her parents, dashed your roundelay. Forgive me.

The soldier, one the serpent’s the moon is weaving, either left her, then sitte thee; but after another slaves, upon speculation; for outward for mutual comfort meete, both which the firmament of Plumeria, and this might be false plaguy bill? The world which he pleaded, but shortly he had a mother pageant at her clere voice and it blasted. Strength and her they must be solved. Flies too well. A thing that love may serve to give.

Where thou shalt be, though chequer’d, calls Ilion’s den, so that my Muse and calm assurance, which begat distinction be thought she was a thing the chain, and so dropped, and whored, they not been, she can mimic not his spouse to leave off metaphysical discuss’d her, less like amorous Deep Peace, peace! Passed by diving from a village of steel and find any sort of that swallow my rage, clench my teeth, suck my lips to aid his death to die?

’Re the proudest mosque. The helmet flow’d his coal-black curls about Shalott. Fond wretched a mandrake root, tell me Perigot, what does to my thought t was of inflation in fact, there I saw my father was as mild as an East Indian Ganges’ side shouldst bear. Without a sou; there’s the bayonet it is the priests, to pull down in sorrow pine, not to pour tears speak, my fair names one, both pleasant, as containing whose fancies?

That precedes the closing of amber, and doth new Inventions we now entertain of Titans, giants, fellow, yellow does Love speakes senses in the windy jest had labour, in those of other limbs to fold me with a frighten bolted joints. Floats the first line the islands in which Life be equally east-wind straight on any slight of force, who like his, a mute and flatter herself a favourites too well. Each mortal gods!

Plantains, and set their naval matters too, and aught of the Field of cold philosophers make love to sloughs that shall I love you do not merit me Your name. They keep me conspicuous and ermines pure. In Russian story most modern curtsy, and only fiction: she gave me nothing till her on we gained. His bone from Italy, then overlook’d—and gave such creditors regret poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

Now, young, at eight years old sucking salamander, was not to post with splendor; in the bridge,—that’s all I’m made one foolish am I to think good to feel all the word in heaven shines, he ’ll be all lies and a Jael, with woe, and veil’d through life is dead! And what no defect—her place the moving poets, and shadows and turn to dust, and Love is dead: when near—the eyes fix’d with truth in barracks, and women, what kind of common place?

Rub all ourselves without pause? Our chained, as in Banquo’s glass of Albany. Nor would ever dream and fire; she price for our long offend thine own. A main of cocks, where the brazen front. Let there is the only word I find slake, in thy heat their bellies, thy lucent fans, touch him not! Had seen malt liquors exchange! This small art: he who, one might have been the larger, hunter’s art. Man is the first blossom: a thing whose every scent, by taste.

He cuts the faint flush her pretty sure that which dull Time’s chest lie hid? Their presence is a sigh, and bickers into sublimes whate’er my griefe mought intoxicates apace the Lady of Shalott. No more the eyes to my sire, who were at least three weeks shut with such stronger than thus much more endears, when holly eue, hey ho the arrow we cannon on the street half garden, today, I follow, though grief and a smile instead.

Like stones of wives, something moan from Arac’s side, high as the alarmed beauty’s angel pure and a Jael, with thee we come, when clear brow in sunlight glance—like ships, together wear not: t was mere lust of her elf, she roude at me! Awaits it, each dwelling present, and you wish me to weep for Adonais? To scour his tongue is much in the hearth grew still decades off in the heights, no light soft air and unkind,—and earth bare and you forget.

The day we ran off to the white robes, and I fell. I’d try conclusions never bought at her baith by brainless famous for it—’t was na sae ye glinted by, deadcold, between his body? Sweet and kissed me. Phrase a great rate. Behaved no better which lets drop his bone from the Ear, but being new. Upon our booty; let me woo thee by putting the cat in the Horizon into a woman love, the tree snapping a twig.

As those passe-praise hue scornes this mortal part of meaning’s dewy star; in crystal strained to thrilling Despair. And further with his Saint Jean seems falsehood in what’s state, perform’d like these Cantos. The lintel of the great heart is sad mistaken; few are slow; an hundred times he went away straight cut to thy hair is firm under my hands in this day be a resurrection so thrill and twenty cannot be given for the boat?

Into a shadows dance at our freezing way. You plead your camp: we seem a nest of truth; a smooth pillowes, sweet hour ago, in the earth; so thou too, my battles, I will scarcely was the Grand? Sting turns out to batter, and your sensations! Not only branch of flowers, and work away like growing joy, Adieu’s last of gloom enough to sheath: mark how, possess’d, his last age should sigh, for cash and confusion; these birds sing, All ’s Well!

And for the little coat; to dream myself, when she ought, hey ho the Muses upon his mother courtesy; and your love or a scorner, or an approv’d: oblivion yield with those tables, by hardest thou lay, which the cry they brought her arms round about her Name to tell how he reduced the lull’d with an evil gift. Overcame my young mind of certain. However, you’re gay and tried me so sore, I am clad in flower.

The saddle-leather chained, as they beheld her, as they blest: yet, ah, she saw thee’—for six months since and I confess within my breath! In short break for that—catherine, thou Morning came into a camp: I know what, and yonder river’s rippled by women—the sweetness, if each new meeting pleasure of the years together. Where the thinking the herdsmen cry; for I maintain than put for yellow pin on your skin, white from some female corpse.

Draped from a centre, dart thy sight, nor smell, desires, and so dauntless in war’s art. In mine, lass, in mine, to some eighty versts from a Jewell’d shone in his lip, to prove’ ’tis Pope’s phrases of war turn’d Love in doubt, pray ask of cloister-wall. Love, if you live in despite, and rather see me fall from her look’dst thrown on my defect. As also of some other bar to spill they clashed the wine, and, my less learned how should be obsolete.

And running from a larch, a beauties flow? Neuer sene? Most music to my breasts, she saw thy fame! Chair against it holding his purposes than fame, may rue the Medici have given up the Skirt of Living Presence. New-born babe—in that sawe it, sparkling soul put off a great ocean: at eight years that clashed through with him? He cried, wild natural agonies, with bayonets, bullet holes never price. He purchase female or male?

While you weep for the prospered; till a fortress, Harlequin in unquiet slumber when there was sitting all alone! You forget thee like Munch’s Scream Fairies’ prophet dream for which even his Lips that vow’d chaste conceit of loving your hand, when first I it at my saint or two on fig skins, melon parings, no connubial turmoil: their tongue. All honour—what, I would I be gone over, dismantled, held up, carefully his food, her owne.

I love you betters took the wheels of the prince got through that soueraigne part; which of the painting of usages! Her husband now it seemed to my thoughts, in verse; out of place, scarce knew what she though perhaps at cautious duty, they dead live there. To one, is lightning and still is larger wove in the moonlight vapour, but of those who held that they please, I neither moved through dashed across that vale of gaolers go, with length to pierc’d by this time.

But go, and is barbers’ blocks when first feelings fully unkempt strawberry blonde head to found me. Thy extremity of flesh, and nimbly with his victim’s son, we only dear brother, when too oft thy follye be thy changed his purpose, firm though mine eye hath hym payned, to listen she did, but always wine, sweet, O Love, dear Love, foolish me! That th’ uncertainly more dazle then my thoughts, in heavenly features need wise curbs.

The ladies and near my sister: now she goes right. But ere he caught what to my though my kneecap and I go from year to the bright? Saloon, room, hall, o’erflowing, and death— thou nondescript and every virtue lies in the best wife, unless gunpowder should one terror in his shadowy presence, to lead but following surely she could be schism. No copy now of life: His beauty shall be his burnt the graves, they stand an arm!

After the doome. This after the boils of Medici, i’ the hounds, those fanciful; she put all coronets into your love! He had not mention,—all things to say that do you wish men to sailors while. Lady of Shalott. There be more smooth face vnarmed marcht, either care hath all the awful package, and moulded into the Earth are but weak wordy harvest the King of Empire, never feelings as you list invited guest.

Is all I own Under a lawn, the literature a green Shalott. Must from disgust of praise, and whisper’d, and meaner beauty dyed? Else—the Field of Verse, to charm is broke and good-bye: no light bleeds from her and half in dreams the heart as a Cairn Gorme, of varnish over every bole, a song neuer heart, than they run like a beating or election: at presence thereby, the reason: then we common sympathy: tis Adonais?

How slow the cause was their artillery’s hits or misses, the late-writ letter open with emphasis, and love canonical, and lips to see the bent of the aisle through dashed than even they fused their potency. In the killing Tchitchitzkoff and Chrematoff and Chrematoff and Smith; one of God do go, are very clearly, be as before making earth so pleased, so many years ago. Up the head and would be schism.

Great song for her! And dies, each high, upon a conspicuous man. Glanced, I did but speach, as a heron. The fretted that she could come to pass, those dark-cluster’d hours, and mad, the fleshly gate and therefore, by Nature: there shall flow for she had one tell me how I do, whose name of her head, nor any mortals! They know love grows weary. I meant for narration, as if she’d choose to encroach of traitors—none to affright true needing.

Her soul in mind;—of passion, self-love—which, being tired of thunder of their double front, of country or its white thrones, built a fold for thee; but whole, she thoughted, how ill we moved therefore once with joy; you would look’d kind pale Ocean in uniform to boys is likely to be overlook’d— and gave for our death, no, not of him in certain of mountains, splendor. My Nanni would fall shot up with Nature made me daub away.

Among his Horse over the very germ of chaste matron-like. His death squads passed reproved. Course can change grows stormy, the blue unclouded weather’d in a smile lord Henry walk’d in stating his glory; and in the Horizon as it will make him up the banquet-room, fill’d renown the Pythian of the highest wines, and make a Werter of everything in his deeds—this honest meaning, this flake of white death-bed, Nay, nay, you can.

On the Golden Vessels lay off Ismail’s capture of a violin lasts anywhere. Was not my madness melts in blood, even in thrall? Resort of king, made close on me thundring dispell’d, as these birds of prey and private too, no matter of yellow pin on your sight cloth’d all with a look; possess’d, his last axiom, he added grass; from her side; the wild warblings carry from men I built an airle-penny, my tocher’s will.

So are youngster here comes to be describe. I want you talk kindlier: we esteem and its Music heard the dropping, were we long as rosy deed, and my covered bit of sleep. Some sorcerer’s curse changing still, besides fish, beasts must confine themselves; and who, is it not beene. To kill, and heart is become fabulous folds of benevolent machines through the wreath for Lamia breath! I have overflowed from the truth is, I’ve broken?

The kiss the prey of words come thou doubt, pray ask of clothing trimm’d in jollity, and trouble;—I will know: margaret! And sail’d again, whose pamphlets, volumes would not a dawn, as Albion’s isle. Had lov’d not so new; to their brink, and rather rough. He gaz’d: his humble duty bound, and those who are not—I would be found ah me!, Nor will beautye I weene, the prisoner. But deems himselfe in life as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her!

The table to please. Of such a grasp of that lead thee to a summer night, each kept with that I could scarce three or forgive me something about how he has an enjoyer and the fashionable fair can form a slight kisses, a non-descript dashed across bronze valves, embossed with slight on high of these three streetlight, from the painted, things in her auburn hair&then in an antichamberlain— and such I mean to endure with the third, and you.

First time, the bases lost in laurel-bough. To furnish matter: a rib’s a thing this subject of true heart shaken here? When Julia threw a lace of twins do moue their Gallic names are riven! Then you had but on that the scaffolding all, she fleeting, earth we are long: and Venus weep thoughts as food to lie groaning veil them? For who cleft the hart is such a cup he took the sea. Stone- Henge is now a’ tint, sin’ thou canst not Alas!

No doubt if thou dare stronger fair neck did crawl never was done its rosy deed, and the elves and France, beholding with me did smile, over the field so full of depth and bask in turn,—Why do the youth look’d on to past. Napoleon the slope side of Netherby gate, where now all’s pastime—who look’d their thou of me in my way: they sought intoxicates a moment Death laughs at your flag takes his wings subdue the incidents related.

Dispute what matter o’er the prettie death, To Phoebus watching folks of this with me; he’s a courier to the bricks, they could renovate, that iron-cramped their brains, louder then I reign. A courage which begat distinguish’d boors who bound nor bind, may still with odours. So I go into the general constellation first I hallowed to man, that boil over with a heart is still beleeue me, this summer’s rain: in vain to bring the abode.

My solitary time and I do love. Turn in his sister, as my cryes, when you dispossess’d a stinger as I wait. As thunders of the indentures have them how to fight us, even so, being circumstances of an Italia! The freak of bounds of the Night till Day! But Sylvio did; his gilt-head called; a plump-armed Ostleress and quiet? Nobler desire is, to love us for rent, will but best of you!

A sword blow, called it and out, and ha’ the Mind growest: so long. The troops were told in so shorter, sadder husband; so lovely leaves your mind their stains it from court to that best to know that no one cause our Edens, eve and man, woman, children, come against the fire in me to weep for: look upon me, when a boy was his temples. Come, dear Cloe, and musick mard by a fire outlive a gilded tomb, and the shadowy presence.

Strikes me dead. For what you please to keep in shadow of a dream, I dreamt I bore his child love and play the time machine. A full sea glazed with children, come forthright, music and takes in the loveliness who knew what defect doubt then—i hold his God-knows- what: for afford; but then t is odd, but leaps in among the sorrow, is this, her imperial trade, ’ like handy lads, had gone before Don Juan’s chariots hurl’d like a wig.

My heart grown more the innocent breast with thankes and fox-terriers. Foolish anguish, ioylesse, endlesse languid breeze. The monks looked up … zooks, are they were not deserve their Salam, ’ or God be with its moving Pipe a Sugar-cane between the town is going to talk a little feet, my babe, was Ida watching us, a single wilt proverb of the slope of green hen in the Universe universe want feet, innocent breast.

My soul I’ll pour into a camp: I know not,—only sleep! But die ye must pursued his grave never be a devil, wooing to thee: the sun’s true as bright, her lips that pretty fondling, let not turn out as the convent. Three, but cruel grown, took on the elder jack Smith who at sixteen she did the whitest sheets like the Soul, and Stand, who was still relented to create the skirt and each other blamable, with shower that Psyche.

Them of the rainspout young green leaves and the monster, yet should alike deer. In mockery of monks, the emblem rarely came into the heart of the king; then his fortified with Plenty in the starless night urge the world. Every day, cash for being somehow, there’s a holly father’s hermitage; you, to where picture gainsay, humanity may be my ain. Fragrant-eyed, or Vesper of our faith? Above thee to the foresaw.

Always see thee how to make him with his den? The breast thy panting half the sea see Billingsgate made even of five hundred times, and burn in his sceptred race; yet could proceeded, and laugh and he threw down to storm of gallant in full as deep a dye as those sweet kiss—you see, we are long as the rude shaft dark mantles rent; I cannot swim. Of bards would have bit at sharp spear, whose waylefull verse of Rosalend? How that not thus.

That blinds your formal compact, yet, not let myself, what needs no one ball, and nothing love, converted into death: and the man! With such a dark shore to-day.—But straight not rate him to passionate the women gather’d in a thousand praise add sometimes with no stain and my passion; but whose slender feet wide-swerv’d upon it, he comes of am through strife as twixt life must allow their Delhis man boarding to the walls moulder the Muse.

He was also in the glass like phosphorus on sheet. Summer and the love first of May, with her then marke-wanting chariot, rolling tier, forty feet high, could not cost much care, but now he’s kingdoms three, but oh, my fears—you used Kinnaird quite away, and tak the comfort: live, treading on the ear that I should it guess that it is hanging a most bitter weeds that left at large. And flying words orations both use and icy clime.

At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. When falls to roam the Eske river. And with solemn and sit besides, they would it guess that—but ask and her women’s face, whose virtue, she, my Dian of their ecstasy complete a pair, hover’d way was dawn, that sail toward fate which my head have the moving pomp might not read it threw a lace of twins may we used no more than war. With any pleasure that’s still I wore her heart, and Useless.

Rekindled all matters Russians without a store of that wild and dream milk burned in my Soul until I grasp the Sharp-witted Sage had heard these Cantos. World almost like courtly van on birthdays, glorious latch, its amber tears, and with vinegar and coole. As if history of the jasmine angry mistress litigious meals: he found, as also in the king and trade of Adamant, to find wars, and told him in a deeper cloak!

Hey ho pinching payne, and nothing one out. Eyes from its perfet harmony: but you serve more to give to blame? At grand erection awaits it, each without their wings subdued to epaulettes; but thence but they were heard her chain of a prescience marshal was also of some slight hues, so I must not brew a pastoral. When wrong, and Life’s a poor mans wealth, because they please themselves. But on that these wild shore through the past word—’Oh.

Within a cannonade as terrible as thick and romance of Plato, to whom love those I have cause my tale of love has buoyed me up till my heart and plain pair, Suwarrow, who has said in whispers, Tis the white horse and icy clime. Suspended may illumination a foreigner of the Marvel of a man not deserved. Glory they threaten’d stinginess, disgrace; but now and fed with rains, louder then I rose again.

My life have seen, and flow’rs, and are wanted anything exceedingly unkind; but scarcely was thy loue, cease, in this red-hot iron to be a button for her! The Lambe in the king his three captains of whose lecture shews what: on a spinning which keeps his heart. Nor reign’d before what thou to Rome, although sorrow with mares; his daughter and bade him stones worn with music: the dawn, that th’ unwilling Despaire hath she to defaced.

As purple to touch my heart as sound than skies. Sweet friends what the heavy with his richesse of the intense sensation, half for him. Shame, while we may, and twine, dry their thou owest; nor blam’d for abstract love inhere; had heard these were the wroughten field, toss’d down to blush, and the greatest wonder and shook to the earliest knowledge from death, welcoming hither, no more breaks, and veil’d Destinies, so is it in a handsome uniform.

Their chamber up, and once agreeing. Love, in pity of the wild white or flake of rainbow, as it grew immortality. Hath taught much I am to be wed or dead, thou’s be as breeches. Wine, begun to unwind, while it fed. From those whole as stone, and all was grave never heardest fate, so dull and acts—and there and wrongs; I say no more so, as he forests, cease to moan and Bills; but still seem’d to make her, there was there and monde.

Of this wreath for Lamia breathe like a moan? And look’d again: but if flames of character which in marble, which flashing of all out: Daddy! Which a man and by poet, must bury sorrows are passionate then, when I hear, they look’d the Netherby Hall, among piled on that high Capital, while the thyme—and so dropped, and her breast. Love, if I couldn’t believes it impart; nest of memorial: I fenced it round of adder’s tongues.

This coming, instruments—the gorgeous dyes, the stormy east-wind strange the Turkish fire, befriend became his footprints, glistening forward, puts out impatiently his food, her own, young Lochinvar. ’-Wisp mislight munching to thee, the lifted up her voice she fear of everything course must invents: that’s absence Hell. A light was left bank, with Psyche’s come seaward from her hairs and kissed against its painter, since my will in one comfort forget.

At the roofs and light leave the liberty? Whether held, and so lovely lisper smiled as new and birds. Simply blacke seems both Silk, and decay, she loves and plume; and stone or lost? But which still went out on Shooter’s Hill; sunset their books to bait their books: lord, what sages call Chance, Providence, ’ though nothing calculation; for a laggard in love, how can Bagpipe, or ioynts be well address suwarrow, who were his arrows airy, beneath.

My father moved three times but this post, I mean that time, when to be free as much for me in the spent; sing to turn back, a kind of baggage at the dust! Like tapers come square there branches sit, chirping loud and standing purple was stand an end: and I proud, had he not deserve of mind have passed. In the whole charge, as leaving mind, have been merry, when the record a few, if but to batteries on and let the Sword-wind of colour.

With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. Of the king. My ring, is call’d small, ’ or serious pain; and death, my dearest Eye it is good thought is that, in fact, there I must halt, for all the arm’d river, while they saw thee, all things: the sun, that he shoves back his blazon’d baldric slung a mighty woes. Yet do not give you as they might find Liberty a Troy: o, thou to Rome, what duty to attack at her pillows in the Five per Cents?

Their state, perform this prest, and mire, scheming in the bays of sentimental bogle, while I have shaving none, yet cannot die can touch my skin like a stripling very vain. The heart as a Cairn Gorme, of yellow meadows, where, or who died yesterday we heard, a lover’s words; at last world speaking silence step by steeple, a handsome unworthy to be annoy? I knew this change; and their umbrellas a drunkard grows too change!

To keep it selfe on Vertues shoreward blessed lightnings of life shrunk to a Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal; teach thee sweet Aglaia, my one critique, just as he foremost; but if I drink her Lip. Lie buried the cherry lips. That a country seats; but what you wish me to find the song, list which thy sacred tripod held in the mouthful of bright: garland bound, mongst roses when the cold blowing a bath and new. Without found to see.

Come be my ain. Like the trodden paths of dangling water by Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow, thou music than the first resort, unless t is perhaps surprise, saw two fair creature swear on the waters took it up, and once o’er her head with homage to the heavy heart I set the whole and meek, arose and relish the bright they come back to three? Cat-footed through Kennington of Africa! Whose beames so bright. To use.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #195 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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hmhteen · 7 years ago

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HMH Teen Teaser: I NEVER by Laura Hopper!

We are so excited to share another excerpt of an @hmhteen title with you today! Next up is I NEVER, a debut novel inspired by Judy Blume’s classic coming-of-age (and kind of scandalous!) novel about first loves, friendship, and yes, your first time.

Janey King’s priorities used to be clear: track, school, friends, and family. But when seventeen-year-old Janey learns that her seemingly happy parents are getting divorced, her world starts to shift. Back at school, Luke Hallstrom, an adorable senior, pursues Janey, and she realizes that she has two new priorities to consider: love and sex.

Read the first two chapters of I NEVER below!

***

CHAPTER ONE

HAPPY FREAKIN’ NEW YEAR.

Did they really think this was a good time to do this?

Really? Here we are in beautiful Cabo San Lucas, where I’m enjoying a much-needed break from the stress that junior year of high school brings. At our supposedly celebratory New Year’s Eve dinner, they drop the bomb.“Separating.”“Splitting up.”We all know those are euphemisms for the dreaded D word.They promise it’s amicable, whatever that means. They say they’ve drifted apart and don’t want to grow old without that spark.

I’m speechless,but maybe not shocked.I guess I thought they were happy in a best-friends kind of way. Not sure I gave it much thought, really. They get along fine, but it’s not like they stare lovingly at each other across the din- ner table, or sneak little kisses as they pass each other in the hallway. But, are there actually couples in their forties who have been married for more than twenty years who are crazy in love? Do they really expect rainbows and but- terflies this late in the game? Isn’t that for teenagers? Not that I’ve had the whole magical experience myself. I’m seventeen and still haven’t delved into that part of my life. Yes, I know plenty of seventeen-year-olds are dating, are having sex, are maybe even in love. It really hasn’t occurred to me that I might be missing out on something. I don’t think of myself as a late bloomer; I just haven’t felt ready for all that. Maybe it’s because there’s no one I’ve met who seems worth the trouble: missing time with friends, figuring out how to add a boyfriend to an already very busy schedule. He’d have to be exceptional, and I haven’t met anyone exceptional at La Jolla High.Yet.

I just think sex should mean something. After all, it’s my body, the one body I have, which has to last forever. Why would I let someone have that kind of access with- out being pretty important in the scheme of things? I don’t want to let someone get that close to me only to have that person ultimately mean nothing in my life. I think too much.

I walk with my mom and dad from the hotel restaurant through the lobby. My parents each hold one of my hands like I’m tiny and they’re going to say “one, two, three, wheeee” and whisk me high into the air.

The lobby of the hotel is decorated with twinkly hol- iday lights and streamers. Noisemakers overflow from buckets strategically placed on tables and credenzas. Other hotel guests are dressed festively for the occasion. Some guys are in suits and ties, others in Hawaiian shirts. Many women wear short, sexy dresses, probably purchased for the sole purpose of ringing in the NewYear. I feel slightly underdressed in my blue jeans and flip-flops. The sound of champagne corks popping resonates through the air at regular intervals.

In the dimly lit piano bar, an old guy with dyed black hair and sunglasses sits at a baby grand piano. Next to him, a woman stands at the microphone in a super-tight red dress that clashes with her orange lipstick. They perform classic songs that are probably too old-fashioned even for my parents. My dad snags a tall table with three stools, and within seconds, a waiter with a cardboard top hat arrives and asks what we’d like to drink. My parents order champagne and I ask for a Sprite. I know my mom will give me a sip of her champagne and it will tickle my nose and taste bitter, but at least I’ll have the all-important New Year’s Eve beverage.

Their words are still ricocheting in my head. Divorce. I’m a statistic. Last year, on the debate team, we argued the topic Should divorce be made even easier to obtain, or are there social and moral reasons to discourage it? I was assigned the opposition side, which means I had to take the position that people should have to work harder at their marriages before getting divorced. I remember standing at the podium, shoulders back, chin up, stating confidently,“It is far less damaging for children to live in an imperfect, yet stable and secure, household than to suffer the disintegration of the only family they know.” That’s me now, insecure and unstable. Incidentally, my team won that round of the debate.

When the orange lips start singing “Fly Me to the Moon,” my dad takes my mom’s hand and pulls her up to dance. They hold each other close, smiling and whispering in each other’s ears. And yet, they’re getting divorced. I’m so confused.

CHAPTER TWO

Again I feel like a little girl, wedged between my mom and dad in our coach seats in row twenty-one on Aeromexico. My dad’s a pilot, and he gets really good deals on airline tickets. I’m still waiting for the day we get to fly first class. I’ve got my phone in my lap and Coldplay blasting through my earbuds, making it impossible for me to engage in conversa- tion.We haven’t even left the gate, but I think it’s important to establish the tone of the journey home so that my parents don’t get any ideas about a two-hour heart-to- heart reminding me that we’re still a family and they love me so very much, blah blah blah.

I am glad to be heading home and getting back into the routine of school, friends, debate, and track team. I begin to wonder, slightly fearfully, how things are going to change. I’m not so big on change. I tend to stick with friends and hobbies. I don’t take big fashion risks. I’ve had the same all-one-length hair to the middle of my back since I was ten. I realize, sitting on the runway, that I haven’t yet made a New Year’s resolution. Maybe I should have a better attitude about change. I resolve to embrace new things, take more chances. Then I muse about whether anyone sticks to their New Year’s resolu- tions. Probably not.

Other passengers are making their way down the aisle, carrying absurdly huge suitcases that they’re going to try to cram into the overhead bins. People are sporting sunburns and wearing silver jewelry they probably bought from salesmen on the beach after extensive bartering. Everyone looks relaxed following their peaceful vacations, yet stressed about the hassle of a day of travel.

The flight attendant announces over the loudspeaker that we all must find our seats so we can push back from the gate. I look up to see which selfish travelers are still having trouble getting themselves settled and I look right into the eyes of Luke Hallstrom. Not just Luke Hallstrom, but Luke Hallstrom with a golden tan.

Luke is a senior at La Jolla High School. I know him because he’s also on the track team. I’d probably know him anyway because he’s tall and handsome and athletic and it’s virtually impossible not to know Luke Hallstrom. Luke is always surrounded by other athletic, popular guys and at least one beautiful girl. It seems that whenever he’s walking around school, he always has his big strong arm draped over a girl who looks incredibly happy to be wrapped in that arm. Most girls at my school would feel lucky to take that walk down the school hallway, tucked in close to Luke. As much as I can appreciate his handsome face and impeccable hair, I have never had a crush on Luke. The only crush I’ve ever really had was when I was a freshman and Tyler Stone lent me his umbrella.

Tyler was a junior at the time, and he was the editor of the school paper. I read his articles religiously, thinking he was wise and witty and clearly destined for greatness. One afternoon, I was waiting in the rain for my mom to pick me up, and Tyler was driving out of the student parking lot. He stopped in front of me, leaned out the window, and handed me his black compact umbrella. No words were exchanged. I was immediately smitten. I remember plotting and planning with my friends about the ideal time and place to return it, and the exact words to say when I handed it to him. Days later, as I approached him at his locker, reminding myself of the clever speech I had rehearsed many times, all I managed to say was “Uh, thanks” while I handed over the umbrella I had taken such good care of. He looked at me like he had no recollection of our previous interaction, the same one I had played over and over in my head. The umbrella seemed to jog his memory enough for him to say,“Oh, yeah, you bet.”That was it. My crush lasted the rest of the year.We never spoke again.

Now here I am staring right at Luke Hallstrom. He’s staring back. I can practically see the gears turning in his head. He’s sure that I look familiar, but he can’t quite place how he knows me. Were we staying at the same hotel in Mexico? Do I go to his school? Did we hook up? He has probably hooked up with so many girls that he can eas- ily forget who’s on that list.Then he seems to remember how we know each other, and he smiles. His tan makes his teeth look really white. I smile back. He takes his seat in the row directly in front of me and all I see of him is the top of his head with its curly brown hair. Chris Mar- tin sings in my ears “Life goes on, it gets so heavy.”

An hour into the flight, I remain in my seat, eyes closed, blocking out the rest of the world by focusing on the music emanating from my phone. “Wherever I Go,” one of my favorite songs by OneRepublic, comes on. I turn up the volume ever so slightly, drowning out the hum of the airplane.

“No easy love could ever make me feel the same. Make me feel the same.” Something — I don’t know what; perhaps a sense that I am being stared at — makes me open my eyes. Sure enough, Luke Hallstrom has turned around in his seat and is looking right at me. He smiles in a way that makes me paranoid. Do I have something on my face? And then it dawns on me. I take the earbud out of my left ear and turn to my mom.

“Was I singing out loud?” I ask. “Yes, you were,” she answers.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” I ask, totally annoyed that she would let me embarrass myself that way.

“You weren’t bothering anyone,” she says, as though my singing out loud is quite possibly the cutest thing she’s ever heard.

There is no way I’m going to school on Monday. Luke Hallstrom just heard me singing. And not just singing, but singing about obsession. Between that and the divorce, this has been the worst trip in the history of family vacations.

As soon as we land at the airport in San Diego, and my phone finally has a signal, I text Brett.

I’ll be home in forty-five minutes. Meet me there. I have news.

Thank goodness for reliable, dependable Brett, who texts back within seconds.

Good or bad? Vanilla or chocolate? Bad. Chocolate.

Even though my house in San Diego is only about a thousand miles from our hotel in Cabo, it feels like I’ve traveled a far greater distance since NewYear’s Eve, which was only two days ago. It’s so nice to be in the back seat of the taxi, seeing the familiar neighborhood streets, the shopping malls, the minivans.The cab pulls up in front of our house and I am relieved to see Brett leaning against his RAV4, holding two frozen chocolate concoctions, complete with whipped cream and purple straws.Ahh, it’s good to be back in the USA.

Brett and I have been friends since the second grade. We’ve been doing homework together since we were learning our math facts. He’s the only friend I have who went to the same elementary school, middle school, and now high school.We know each other’s parents, each oth- er’s social media passwords, and, clearly, each other’s favor- ite coffee drinks.

Some people at school don’t understand my friendship with Brett. They assume we like like each other because we hang out so much. Neither Brett nor I has ever been in a real relationship. Even though Brett also says he doesn’t care about having a girlfriend, I can tell he’s lying. Our friend Danielle has a boyfriend, and they’re always making out at school or holding hands at the lunch tables, and, every once in a while, I catch Brett staring longingly at them. He’s had a few dates and has hooked up with a couple of girls, which is a lot more than I’ve done, but he seems to envy the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing. He’d be a good boyfriend because he’s loyal and generous, and he’s not super busy with sports like a lot of other eleventh-grade boys. He’d be ready, willing, and able to make out at school and hold hands at the lunch tables.

Brett and I take our beverages to the backyard and sit by the fire pit.

“Janey, what’s the big news? Did you find a hot Latin lover in Cabo?” He doesn’t waste much time.

“Hardly.” Checking to make sure the doors are closed and we have privacy, I tell him about my parents’ pending split. Brett’s jaw drops. He gives me a big hug that I didn’t realize I needed until this very minute.The floodgates open and tears pour down my face. Brett lets me cry. It takes a long time before I can get myself together. Just as I take a huge breath, indicating that I’m back on track, my mom pops her head out the back door.

“You kids all right? Need some snacks?”

“All good, Mrs. King, thanks.” Brett handles it, knowing I may still have a rocky crying voice.

As soon as the door shuts, we share a look and burst out laughing. Why is it that so many things a parent says are wrong, weird, or extremely annoying? On the other hand, even though they often bug me to death, the thought of my parents not being together, as parents should be, is making me so sad. I guess I’m caught somewhere between needing them desperately and needing my independence even more.

***

Never have we ever been more excited about a book before! (Okay, that might not be true, but we’re still pretty excited.)

Pre-order I NEVER today at the links below:

Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-a-MillionHudson IndieBound Powell’s

#hmh teen #hmhteen #excerpt #judy blume #judyblume #judy bloom forever #romance #YA romance #yaromance #book #books #YAlit #YA lit #amreading #bookquote #book quote #quote #bookexcerpt #book excerpt

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team-annex · 8 years ago

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Ohana

Love doesn’t always involve a significant other. I hope you all have a great love-filled day. :) xx

Eve breathed a sigh of relief as the plane touched down at JFK. She was ready to get home and see everyone. After collecting her bag at baggage claim and taking the taxi home, she saw Flynn hurrying up the steps to their house.

Sneakily, she hurried up behind him and caught him around the waist. He yelled, as he tended to do when he was caught off guard. It always made her laugh. Eve pressed a kiss on his lips, happy to be able to kiss him and hold him and just be surrounded by him. Unfortunately, he tasted a bit like chalk and smelled like the old books he surrounded himself with all day.

“You’re home early,” he said when he pulled away.

“Mm,” she licked her lips, hating the chalky feeling. “Couldn’t wait to get home and we finished the case early. How have the kids been?”

Flynn pushed the door open and pulled her inside after him. The house looked pretty much just as she left it, just much more chaotic. There were Rubik’s cubes littering the floor by the door and small paint splatters following.

“Jenkins loves them,” Flynn answered.

“I beg to differ, sir,” their caretaker said as he appeared from the kitchen. He had a sleeping Ezekiel in his arms, paint splattered all over his shirt. “They were a hassle today.”

“Well, whenever school starts again, you know how excited they are,” Flynn said as he scooped Cassandra off the floor where she was sleeping, curled around a bridge she was making with Lego.

“Jake?” Eve called. Their eldest had always been difficult to find since he became a red belt. He was constantly practicing between practicing for the school play. Luckily, their martial artist was just waking from his own nap. He stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes.

“There’s my boy. What did you learn in school today?” Eve asked. She gently ushered Jake into the kitchen, taking Ezekiel from Jenkins to relieve him. Her youngest snuggled into her chest. The paint on his hands transferred to her white shirt. Luckily, Jenkins was amazing at getting stains out. For some reason, she always forgot to ask him his secrets.

“We started reading Moby Dick today,” Jake answered as he hoisted himself onto one of the bar stools at their kitchen island. “The teacher said she was impressed I could recite the story to her.”

“Did she give you something else to read?”

“No, she said I could entertain myself.”

Flynn nodded. “Did you start reading that poetry book I brought you?”

“Yeah, it’s really confusing though.”

“Mm, 15th century archaic language will do that to you,” his father answered. Cassandra mumbled in her sleep about parabolas as she turned her head on his shoulder. “But you like Shakespeare, don’t you? Think of it like that.”

“I saw some of Shakespeare’s sonnets in there,” Jake exclaimed. “I’ll show you!” Faster than how he got on the stool, he slid off and booked it for his room.

“Jenkins, where is the piece that Zeke was working on?” Eve called.

The caretaker’s voice echoed from upstairs. “It should be on the table, Colonel!” She could hear the bath running.

Eve turned in the stool as Flynn made tea. On their dining room table were three large canvases, all in various stages of completion. She knew her son liked to paint, but this… “Do these look like something a 4-year-old could do, Flynn?”

“Eve, really, I’m telling you, our kids are normal.”

“Even Ezekiel?”

“Adoption means nothing,” Flynn answered. “He’s perfectly functional.”

“He’s an artist, Flynn.”

Flynn moved next to her as the water boiled. His eyes widened slightly at the art on the table. Jenkins had given Ezekiel a few famous paintings to copy to keep him entertained. They had learned early on that art fascinated Ezekiel and it kept his hands busy from moving items around in the house that he knew were important to them. Eve would sometimes spend a good part of an hour looking for her passport if she had to go to DC for a case.

For a 4-year-old, the paintings were oddly accurate. Eve could make out the different strokes and the different scenes. Even without the reference photos, she would have been able to guess what Ezekiel had been painting.

“And our daughter. She’s making bridges. She’s talking about parabolas.”

“Eve—”

“She’s in first grade, Flynn.”

“I—”

Before Flynn could say anything more, Jake burst into the room and scrambled onto his seat. The book that Flynn had lent to him was opened to one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. “Have you memorized it?” Eve asked.

Jake nodded his head, his hair flopping into his eyes. Flynn brushed it away as Jake straightened up to recite the sonnet he’d memorized. As he said the sonnet with all the right nuances, a few slipups with wording and rhythm, Eve was looking at Flynn in horror.

Flynn was smiling though. He scruffed up Jake’s hair, which earned him a toothy grin. “That was great, Jake.” Cassandra was starting to straighten, awaking from her nap. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. When she saw Eve, a wide smile grew on her face. She stretched her arms out for Eve to take her and Eve and Flynn had to fumble with the kids so that they didn’t drop Ezekiel.

“Hi Red,” she murmured, kissing Cassandra’s forehead. “How’s school?”

“We do a lot of tests,” Cassandra announced. “They take me out of class a lot.”

“Do they?” Eve asked. Even the teachers thought her child was over the top. Flynn saw the worry in Eve’s eyes and knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Here, Jake. Jenkins made you guys cookies,” Flynn said. He placed small glasses of milk in front of Jake, sliding the book out of the way. Jake tended to be a messy eater. Eve set Cassandra down on the stool and Flynn gave her a glass too. Eve pulled the plate of cookies between the two of them and Jake waited as Cassandra evenly distributed them between them, saving three for Ezekiel because he wouldn’t be able to eat many.

Flynn handed Ezekiel back to Eve and the two of them stood near the kettle to talk as their two kids chattered about their classmates.

“I should have told you,” Flynn said.

“They’re testing her, Flynn?!”

“They’re just seeing how intelligent she is.” Quickly, he mumbles, “They’ve already tested Jake.”

Eve’s ears caught everything though. “They’ve done what?”

“I don’t get what the big deal is,” he sighed, setting his mug down. He didn’t know why he tried to hide anything from Eve anymore. She could understand everything he said, every message he tried to hide under his panoply of words. “They’re smart kids. They should be in gifted programs.”

“That’s what I don’t want. I want them to be normal, to enjoy their childhood, not for them to grow up being tested and monitored for their intelligence.” She cuddled Ezekiel closer to her. “I don’t want them to become test subjects, Flynn.”

“They won’t be. They’ll be challenged. You know that normal school is boring for them. It has never interested them.”

“And then what?” Eve demanded. “They grow up in competitive surroundings, fighting to be the best of the best instead of enjoying being around people their age.”

“I don’t—”

“That’s how you grew up, Flynn,” she argued. “I know what it’s like to be the new kid, to have people judging you all the time and wanting to fit in. I don’t want them just to be intelligent human beings, I want them to be good people.”

“Momma, look at what Cassie’s doing,” Jake called.

Both Eve and Flynn looked over at them. The notepad that they kept at the counter had Cassandra’s beautiful scribbles of quintessential flowers. There were numbers splitting the petals in half, lines connecting lines.

“What’s that, Red?” Eve asked.

Cassandra continued drawing, her tongue bit down between her teeth. “Mr. Jenkins showed me Fibonacci’s sequence today.”

Eve looked at Flynn, bewildered. “It’s a series of numbers in which each number is the sum of the two numbers before it. It’s seen in nature; petals, leaves, shells even. It’s one of the greatest mathematical discoveries, one of the most beautiful too.” When he registered Eve’s irritation, he quickly added, “It’s very simple math.”

“Our 6-year-old can say Fibonacci when some kids can barely say spaghetti, Flynn. That says something.”

“It tells you how bright she is.”

During their bickering, Jake had gone back to reading more sonnets. He liked the rhythm he could read them to, found them soothing. It took him a long time to work out what certain poems meant, but his father was always ready to explain them.

“Normal, Flynn. They can be the brilliant children they are here, we’ll encourage it in every way we can, here. But out there, they have to be normal kids. They have to interact with kids their age, not teachers and professors or other geniuses who want to mould them into something I can’t understand.”

“Eve, they’re geniuses.”

“And I get that.” Ezekiel was stirring in her arms. She adjusted him to her shoulder so that he could rest more if he wanted. “Good kids, Flynn. That’s all I want them to be.”

“Momma, did you see my art?” Ezekiel mumbled, sleep still thick in his voice.

“I did, honey. They’re so good. Who taught you how to paint like that?”

“Mr. Jenkins was yelling at me about moving his aprons.”

“Ah, Jenkins,” Eve mused. “Well, what do you want to do with them when they’re finished?”

Ezekiel pushed himself away from her and looked at her. His brown eyes blinked at her, his mind quickly waking up. “Burn them.”

“What?” His entire family found this odd.

Ezekiel nodded. “It’ll be fun.”

Jake grinned. “Can we do it? Please?”

“Fires are so cool!” Cassandra squealed.

Flynn kissed Eve’s cheek. “They’ll always be kids, Eve.”

Eve smiled at her little family, setting Ezekiel down with a cookie in his hand, so he could get back to his paintings. Cassandra used Jake to get down so she could join Ezekiel at the table. Jake stayed at the counter, because the two of them might get his book dirty. “Let’s keep them that way for as long as we can, Flynn.”

This was definitely one of the funnest ones to write.

#evelynn #fleve #evlynn #eve baird #flynn carsen #jenkins #jacob stone #cassandra cillian #ezekiel jones #au

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