#the book page with a picture of a boat is a scrap sent to me by a tumblr penfriend back in 2015

[pityroadart]

AUTUMN SICKNESS // art journal pages started back in october and finally finished today

[space-blue]

Artist and Hound

Iain Hund, former supernatural homicide detective, now mere magical vandalism inspector, feels the staleness of his car's air like a strangling hand upon his thoughts. He sends a last baleful glare at the wall he has pointlessly stalked for the past eight hours and starts his car to drive back to the station.

In all his years in the Sup-PD, Hund had never doubted his own righteousness. When the Harris case had come his way, he'd broken all the rules necessary to land the damn man behind bars and still felt like it was right. He had accepted his demotion as a cheap price to pay to save the public from the likes of Jack Harris. So when he put down his things on his new cramped desk at magical vandalism, and even after a year chasing Blues dealers, petty curse carvers, and weres doing their claws on public property, Iain Hund had remained serene. Regret bloomed in him when the Artist's case was made his top priority.

Tom, whom he shares his desk with, is a cold shoulder to cry on.

"No chance with this new stake-out then?" Met only by moody silence, Tom pushes a box of donut accross the desk. "You look like you need some."

"You eat donuts like a road cop."

"Well, those guys know what's up. Didn't you work with them, back in the day?"

"Yes," Iain sighs, dunking his hand in the proffered box, "and this case is the most pointless and disheartening task I've been given in my career, which includes these old patrols with the normal's police, writing tickets and shit."

"Come on, the Artist has been taunting us for years, but she can't be flawless. Guy with an ability like yours, what's that? Magikolour synaesthesia? Why go for stake-outs and CCTV? Why not make some traps? You've got more magical ability than this whole floor put together!"

"Tom, I'd need so many warrants for one trap, it's not ever happening. I think I got given this task as extra punishment. Something senseless to run after until I retire."

"What if they really think you can catch the vandal who's never been caught?"

"Why do they want that anyway? Because some loony normal might scrap some paint off a wall and somehow figue out there's something off with it? What am I to say to her if I catch her? 'You're under arrest for artistry. Your fingers will be broken... No, sorry, I mean, I need your address so we can send you fines!' Don't you think we'd all be better off with more art like hers in NY, and less wendigos or murderous weres I could put behind bars?"

"Hund, I don't wanna disappoint, but the world's been doing just fine without you. Also, moaning to me isn't getting you back into homicide and you know it. Artist is no murderer, maybe you've got to change your tactic, get original."

Iain, knowing good advice when he hears it, wonders about the changes he could make. The police, sup or normal's, has no name or face to put on the Artist. Even her gender is as good as the street word, rumours from the guy who knows a guy who's seen her.

Dusting donut crumbs from his notebooks, Iain peruses through weeks of drawings. When seen by normals or photographed, the Artist's work is static, if beautiful graffiti art. The drawings were to capture the details of what sups–anyone with a shred of magical ability–saw instead: myriads of images, sometimes a whole scene, with characters turning to the watcher, mouth opening in mute calls, sometimes the paint exploding out of the walls, pulling you in clouds of coruscant particles. In his book Iain has little boats on the calm waters of a lake, the face of a submerged god half hidden under lotuses; a pale man weeping liquid gold; a woman playing a sitar, each sound coming alive in the shape of a fantastical animal; a highway bridge pillar turned into an aquarium in which twirled a bigger-than-life mermaid; and many more. His notebook is far thicker than the case file ever was. In the last pages he finds the sketches made of a long mural of dancers. Their appearance changed depending on the angle you looked at it, a masquerade of shape-shifters. In it is a message for the man the Artist knows is on her trail, for hidden behind the legs of a dancer stands a black wolf-dog and though it has no collar, a golden tag gleams beneath its jaws, etched in the faintest strokes with the name Iain.

That's how she must see me: the law's dog on his invisible leash.

"Alright, let's get original."

"Mmh? Where are you going?"

"Hudson Heights. I'm gonna get friendlier with our local alchemists."

He leaves Tom to choke on his donut.

Alchemists have no claws or tooth to rend through you, but they don't need them. The power they wield, and their tendency for single minded obsession, makes them a prickly bunch, and the Sup-PD has a special unit for policing them. Iain's badge feels like a flimsy shield in his hand as he steps down from the sunny, all-American street and into the subterranean entrance to the alchemy quarters. The skills of the Artist and the finesse of her alchemical paints has already sent Iain deep inside those hidden galleries of shops and studios, where his questions revealed envy, admiration, and wholesalers of raw materials who did most business online and all proudly claimed her as a loyal customer, whilst unable or unwilling to prove anything.

The man at the entrance smiles at Hund.

"What do you want this time, cop?"

"Just visiting Toby Smith as a customer today." Iain grimaces. "Please."

The doorman grins sardonically, Smith being a famously irascible alchemist. He reaches for the door handle and applies his magic to it. To Iain it looks like a blue aura. A small displacement magic, that opens doors to other places. He nods his thanks and scuttles past and right into the maddening chaos of Toby Smith's shop.

"You again? What do you want now?" a disembodied voice asks from all corners.

Smith does business like this, never bothering to be present in the same room as his customers, his store guarded by an arsenal of curses that would make any hardened criminal as docile as a puppy.

"Paints."

"You're still after the Artist?"

"Ah, yes sir."

"You planning on defacing her work?"

"No sir. I–well, I like her work too. She caters to her fans though, and I thought, maybe, I can get to discuss with her somehow?"

Drawers open at invisible hands, glass jars and packets start drifting towards Iain.

"You're planning some sort of painting show-down? You've got guts Hund, I like it. Leave two hundred behind, follow the instructions on the packs, and work on your magic before mixing, unless you want blowing your moronic face off."

"Thanks sir."

"You're a better guy than I assumed."

"Sir?"

"Mixing paints to life is a tiny magic, but it's also very rare. The Artist has a unique gift. That someone with such a high grade magic as yours can appreciate her work is good. Maybe with you on her case she won't get wiped after all."

Iain mouth goes very dry.

"Wiped? Why would..."

His mind reels. It makes perfect sense now. Why bother with breaking fingers, indeed! Such a small gift, to breath life into a pot of already alchemical paint. It would take a tiny trap seal with her name on it to erase her magic as surely as if she were born a normal. He can picture his bosses, patting him on the shoulder. Good job Hund.

"Hund?"

"Thank you sir. For your honesty."

Iain goes home on autopilot, lost in his thoughts. He spends several evenings practising, and more building the final spell-works and paints before going out. He's mapped the Artist's work throughout Manhattan, and picked a wall she is likely to walk by. Finally he sits behind the wheel of his car and works a small shifting magic on his face. He has decided to go into the night to do what he's paid to stop. He feels shivers of anticipation and dread, a kinship and a respect stronger than ever before for the Artist who so inconspicuously prowls the nights.

He does her portrait, suggested, unfinished, broad strokes of paint revealing how little he knows of her. Sitting beside her stands a black hound with a golden tag, his muzzle resting in her lap, adoring eyes gazing up into her unpainted face waiting to be filled. Artist and Hound, he titles it.

A promise.

Two days later, Iain finds that the mouth of the Artist has been painted over in a slight smile.

~~ October 2018 – Theme : Small Magics

[wistfulcynic]

On What They Fall 2/4

So let me start by saying how much I hate @thisonesatellite. I mean obviously I don't hate her, I love her even though she has been HOGGING THE BRAIN, but I hate that EVERY TIME she says I’m going to need more chapters to tell my story I DO. I DO NEED THEM. Curse her. 

The upside of her eerie genius is that there are now three chapters in this fic. ONLY THREE, DAMMIT. 

I’d like to say that this one is less angsty than the first but that would be a LIE. 

The first angsty chapter can be found here on Tumblr or here on AO3. 

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is an angry young man. He has no family and few friends, and he’s stuck in a small town where everyone views him with fear and suspicion.

Everyone but Emma Swan.

She’s everything he wants in life and everything he can’t have. What he doesn’t know is that she wants him too.

Part 9 of Secret Things.

Rated: T

On AO3

Tagging some folks who might enjoy it: @kmomof4, @stahlop, @mariakov81, @teamhook, @resident-of-storybrooke, @darkcolinodonorgasm, @shireness-says, @thejollyroger-writer, @ohmightydevviepuu @jennjenn615 @superchocovian (Give me a shout if you’d like a tag for Chapter 3 THE REALLY VERY FINAL CHAPTER I MEAN IT THIS TIME)

Chapter 2: 

Killian doesn’t write and he doesn’t call. He doesn’t contact anyone except Belle, and she gets nothing but the odd text message sent at irregular intervals. She never tells anyone what the messages say and Emma can’t bear to ask. 

She googles him, though, in moments of weakness— when Graham pushes a bit too hard or when her parents smile at him too fondly, when Emma’s had a drink or two too many she gives in to the longing that is never not a part of her and searches for any scrap of information about him that she can find. 

Her searches come up empty, at first. She expects little else —he’s off on a boat after all— but then one day about a year after he left she searches for his name and finds an Instagram account. She holds her breath as she clicks on it, wondering if after so long it could possibly, actually be him. All the pictures are of landscapes and cityscapes and food and people— so many people, and though none of them are him she knows instinctively that this account is his. These are photographs he’s taken of his travels. 

She makes a second account for herself with a meaningless username and follows him. She checks his page daily, marking off all the places he visits on a globe she buys expressly for the purpose, charting his progress as he travels around the world. His photographs are gorgeous, full of colour and life, and they capture the spirit and the essence of each location. He’s a fantastic photographer, and it turns out an even better writer. 

One day when she checks his Instagram she sees a link to a blog. With shaking hands she clicks on it and finds a single post—a story, complete with pictures, of a day he spent in Vietnam. It was a hot day, he recounted, edging towards 50 Celsius (122 Fahrenheit, Emma learns from Google, and her jaw drops) and Killian spent it in a place called Hoi An, visiting an elderly couple who breed silkworms for the local trade and taking photographs in their un-air-conditioned house. By the late afternoon he was bathed in sweat, thirsty and grumpy and wanting nothing more than to get back to his boat and have a beer, sail out to sea to catch a cool breeze. When he returned to where he’d moored her, however, he discovered that some local children had cut his line and set his boat adrift off the coast. The children thought this was a hilarious joke, and Killian, despite his mood and the sweat pouring off him, found himself laughing along with them. With no other practical options available, he put his camera bag on his head, secured the strap under his chin, and carefully swam out to his boat. The water was warm, he wrote, like a tepid bath, bright blue and gentle, and it washed the sweat away and refreshed him. When he reached the boat he tossed the camera bag aboard along with the wet clothes he simply stripped off and then floated in the water, watching a thunderstorm roll in over the mountains behind the town. 

Emma devours the story eagerly, then goes back to the beginning and reads it again. His writing style is eloquent and engaging, his descriptions of the locations and people vivid and funny, and she feels like she’s there with him. She feels a pang at that realisation. If only she were there with him. 

The story ends with a final photograph, clearly taken from the deck of his boat. A stormy grey sky lit up by a flash of lighting arcing down over the tops of lush green mountains. The brown roofs of houses dotted around the lower elevations and down to the white sandy beach fronted by clear azure water. The caption reads: I had never known such contentment or such peace.

That he had to go to the other side of the world to find those things breaks her heart. 

She checks his blog daily and he updates it often, and soon she is only one of his regular readers. He gets dozens, then hundreds of comments on each post and he replies to them with charm and humour, and before too long advertisers begin to take notice. As do editors. 

His first professional article appears in Wanderlust about two and a half years after his departure from Storybrooke. More soon follow, and his blog is updated with less and less frequency. And then, four years after he left, he makes the cover of National Geographic. 

Emma cries as she reads it, huge, silent tears that leave tracks down her face, and with her fingertip she traces the small picture of him next to the article. His beard is thicker, she thinks, though he still hasn’t learned how to use a comb. 

Six months later he announces that he’s shutting down his blog because he’s written a book, a novel that will be published the following year. Emma is thrilled, and so proud of him. He always was good with words, as his impressive career in travel journalism proves, and she’s delighted he’s found an even more creative way to use that talent. But then she thinks about how, once, he would have given her this news himself, and her tears fall again. 

She thinks about how things were between them, so long ago now. How from the very beginning he fascinated her, that sullen, beautiful boy with his soft accent and his furious pain, the wary disbelief in his eyes when she brought him a blanket and the shock of intense connection when she shook his hand. Her persistent campaign to break through the bastion of his anger and discover the person beneath, her joy when she succeeded. The long, hot days of his first summer in Storybrooke, walking in the woods or sitting by the docks together, reading, listening to music, talking about everything. How in love with him she was and how she thought, in odd moments and snatches of glances that he might feel the same. 

Then autumn came and Killian turned eighteen. The morning of his birthday he dropped out of school, telling Emma without looking at her that with the chaos of his parents’ deaths and the struggle to find someone to take custody of him he missed his exams in England and here in the US everything was too different. He wouldn’t be able to graduate in the spring and he didn’t see the point of staying in school when he should be earning money. Now that there were no more funds from the state to support him, he said, he couldn’t be a burden on Belle. 

He got a job at the docks, working such long hours she barely ever saw him. When she did he was exhausted, worn in a way that worried her, though he always had a smile for her and a new book he discovered for her to read. His mind was so active, so curious, but when she tried to talk him into going back to school he refused to listen, withdrawing into himself if she even brought it up. 

Emma thinks about how he began to pull away from her, subtly at first, allowing the circumstances of their lives to do most of the work. She thinks of the gossip she began to hear about him, stories of sleeping with older women who would buy him alcohol, drinking until he passed out. She confronted him about it and he stonewalled her, telling her to go back to her high school boys and leave him in peace.  

Man whore, she hissed at him. 

Princess, he snarled back, turning the word into an insult.  

Emma cried herself to sleep that night, and the next day agreed to go to her senior prom with Neal Cassidy. 

--

 When word of Killian’s book gets out Storybrooke goes insane. Everyone seems to have forgotten the way they once treated him, the suspicion and distrust, the whispering behind his back, always waiting for him to explode in violence or do something that would get him locked up for good. All they remember now is that he’s a ‘local boy’—one born on a different continent, but that is also forgotten— and there is pride in their voices when they speak of him. There is speculation on when he’s going to ‘come home.’ 

Emma wants nothing more than for him to come home, but not like this, not into the clutches of these vultures, she thinks viciously, these people who made him feel like less than nothing and who now just want to trade on his acclaim. Yet she wants so badly to see him, to hear his voice again. He’s been gone five years and the wound is still open, still gaping and raw. By now she knows it will never heal, and if she lives to be a hundred she will never stop missing him. 

Graham knows it too. They’re still dating, sort of, in the sense that they go out together sometimes and they sleep together sometimes but Emma has never been able to fully commit to the relationship. She loves Graham but she’s not in love with him, as the cliché goes, and when Killian becomes the focus of eager conversation throughout the town Graham thinks he may finally know the reason why. 

“It’s Killian, isn’t it?” he asks her out of nowhere one day. They’re in the sheriff’s station where Emma now works alongside him, having graduated with her criminal justice degree and joined the force as a deputy. “You’re in love with him.” 

“What? How do you know?” She stares at him, too astonished to dissemble. 

“Emma, you should see your face whenever anyone mentions his name.” Graham smiles sadly. “I didn’t notice at first because— well, no one talked about him, but now his name’s getting thrown around all over the place and every time you hear it you look like your heart is breaking.” 

“Graham.” She has no idea what to say to him. 

“At least now I know why you couldn’t ever fall for me.”

“I’m so sorry.” Emma feels terrible. “I probably shouldn’t have— It’s just my dad was so—” 

“I know. I probably shouldn’t have pushed so hard. With hindsight it’s always been pretty obvious your heart wasn’t in it.” 

“I wish it could have been,” she says with a flare of anger. “Killian never wanted me, he left without even saying goodbye. I haven’t heard a word from him in five years, so why can’t I stop loving him?”

“What is it they say? True love never dies?” 

“I’ll have to find a way to kill it then, because I can’t live the rest of my life like this.” 

Graham stares at his hands for a long moment, and then he speaks. “You might not have to.” 

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t think— I don’t think Killian didn’t want you.” 

“What?” Emma glares at him but he doesn’t look up. 

“It’s not something we ever spoke of, but looking back.. hindsight and all, I see some things now that I didn’t want to see back then. He was always so tense when you were around, and his face when anyone said your name— well, it was a lot like yours is now when someone says his.”

She shakes her head. “You’re imagining things, Graham. Projecting—” 

“No, I don’t think I am,” he interrupts firmly, finally looking at her. “I think Killian loved you but thought he couldn’t give you what you needed and that’s why he left.” 

“And what exactly did he think I needed?” 

“Maybe you should ask him that.” 

Emma throws up her hands. “I just told you he hasn’t spoken to me in half a decade. I’ve got no idea where he even is.” 

“You’re a cop,” says Graham. “You have resources.” 

“Graham Humbert, are you suggesting I misappropriate—” 

“I’m not suggesting anything, Emma, other than that it seems you and Killian have a conversation that’s at least five years overdue, and maybe it’s time you finally had it.”

--

Two weeks later Killian’s book comes out. It’s an instant sensation, shooting to the top of the bestseller lists. All his Instagram followers and blog readers and travel magazine subscribers buy it and so do their friends and family. Emma buys a copy and stares for a long time at his name on the cover before she begins to read. 

The book is not a love story. It’s a story of love frustrated by life. It’s the story of a boy and a girl, the classic star-crossed lovers, who end up not dying in each other’s arms or living happily ever after but just… living. Ever after. 

It’s the story of bad timing and bad choices and circumstances that grind away at love until nothing remains but the ghost of it, and of two people who would once have done anything for each other but by the end barely speak. It’s beautifully written and it’s heartbreaking, and for Emma it hits her straight in her soul. Because she is the girl, and Killian is the boy, and she doesn’t even have to read the interview he gives to the New York Times Book Review, confessing that the woman he wrote about is based on a real person, to know that this is them. This is how Killian imagined the path their lives would take, if they got together all those years ago. This is why he left. 

Emma takes the book with her everywhere, rereading it in every spare moment, searching for something to convince her she’s wrong, that she’s imagining what isn’t there. She forgets to eat and barely sleeps, and finally she goes to see Belle, knocking on her door with the book clutched tightly to her chest. Belle hugs her, the minute she opens it. She’s read the book too. 

“He’s never coming back, is he?” Emma whispers. 

Belle shakes her head. “No.” 

She ushers Emma inside, sits her down on the sofa. Waits. 

Emma stares at the book, ruffling its pages and toying with its dust jacket. “Isn’t there anything that might make him— any reason he might want to— to come to Storybrooke again? Doesn’t he at least want to see you?”

Belle chooses her words carefully. “I visited him last Christmas,” she says gently. “In his new place, at his request. He doesn’t want to come back here. I— believe there are some things he thinks would hurt too much to revisit.” 

“The woman in his book.” 

“Yes.” 

Emma takes a deep breath, looks Belle straight in the eye. “Is it me?” She holds up the book. “Is she— me?”

Belle sighs, but there’s no point in lying. The woman in the book is so obviously Emma. She’s kept Killian’s secret as long as she could, but if he’s going to put his heart on display in the pages of an international bestseller there’s only so much that she can do to protect it for him. 

“Yes,” she says. “It’s you.” 

“Then he… he loved me?” 

Belle nods, and Emma’s fingers grip the book tightly. “Did he leave town because of me?”

“He did. He loved you deeply, Emma, but he never acted on it because he believed you didn’t feel the same, and even if you did he couldn’t give you the life you deserved. Then you started dating Graham and couldn’t bear to watch you fall in love with someone else.” 

“He’s such an idiot,” hisses Emma, and Belle does rather agree. Yet she’s not sorry Killian left Storybrooke; he’d never have made anything of himself had he stayed. He’s got the life he deserves now, and he’s stable, if not quite happy. He’s been seeing a therapist and working through the scars from his past. For the first time in all the years she’s known him anger isn’t his defining feature, and while she does think his book takes rather too pessimistic a view of the life they might have had together, she’s certain none of the progress he’s made would have been possible if he’d remained here in this town with Emma, however much he loved her. 

“Tell me something, Emma,” she says. “If Killian had told you he loved you before he left, what would you have done?” 

“Gone with him,” says Emma, without a second’s hesitation. 

Belle gives her a hard look. “You would have given up everything —your education, your family, your home— to live with him on a boat, scraping by on his savings?” 

“Yes.” Emma thinks about the picture from his first blog post, the calm and contentment he’d found floating off the coast of Vietnam. She would have given up anything to experience that with him. Just to be with him. “All I’ve ever really wanted is to have a life with him. The details of that life don’t really matter. I mean, they do, but— we could have worked them out together.”

Belle smiles and gives her head a little shake. One of these days, she thinks, she’ll stop underestimating Emma Swan. “He’s living in New York now,” she says casually. “In a neighbourhood called the Bowery. Bought himself a nice little flat there. Apparently the advance on his next book was a generous one.” 

Emma swallows hard before she speaks. “Is he planning to stay there?” she asks. 

“I think so,” says Belle. “I think he’s ready to stop wandering and find his place.” 

--

Emma has been with the sheriff’s department for three years and she’s never once abused the power that comes with her position. She doesn’t speed or park where she shouldn’t, or even cut in line at Granny’s as even Graham has been known to do. She’s never even jaywalked. But when she learns where Killian lives, his very neighbourhood in fact, she busts out every cop trick she knows to find his address. 

When she has it she sits for a long time, thinking. Then she opens Google Street View. She feels a bit like a stalker, looking online at the very building where he lives, but she can’t help herself. And if she goes through with her plan then she will quite literally be stalking him and via not-quite-legal means as well. 

But she can’t get Graham’s words out of her head. A conversation at least five years overdue. She wants to know why he left, why he pushed her away even before that, why he didn’t trust her to love him enough to make everything else irrelevant. She needs to hear it from his own mouth, not from Graham’s or Belle’s or anyone else’s. She needs to know.  

She doesn’t tell anyone where she’s going or what she intends to do. Her dad is surprised when she asks for two weeks off work— she’s not had so much as a sick day since she started— but when he and her mother ask about her plans she tells them she just needs some time away after her breakup with Graham. Her father’s mouth goes grim; he’s not happy about that breakup. But he says nothing and her mother hugs her and tells her to take all the time she needs. 

--

The next morning finds her at Killian’s door, trying to calm her racing heartbeat as she stares at the number on it, gathers her courage, and rings the bell. When he appears her breath stops. Her world stops. He looks good, is all she can think. Older, of course, filled out and more solid, with thick scruff along his jaw and his hair neatly trimmed if less than neatly combed. He’s always been good looking, but in the past the anger and defiance that so often marred his features made it hard to see. But now… now the anger is nowhere to be seen and he is beautiful, his smile shining as brilliantly as she remembers until he recognises her and it fades away. 

“Swan,” he gasps, staring at her with wide eyes. “What— why are you—” 

“I read your book,” she says breathlessly. 

“Ah.” 

“I loved it. You’re an incredible writer.” 

He drops his eyes and rubs his neck, a pink flush spreading over his cheekbones. Some things haven’t changed, she thinks. He never could handle praise.

“Erm, well, yes. Thank you,” he says. “Um. Come in, Swan.” 

He steps back to allow her entrance and she feels breathless again as she takes in his apartment. It’s plainly furnished but everywhere there are things, all manner of them, clearly souvenirs of his travels. Sculptures and paintings and knickknacks and other little touches of the life he’s lived without her. She spins slowly around, wide-eyed. 

“This is amazing.” 

“Aye, well, I’ve done some travelling.” 

“I know. I read your blog too, and your Instagram.” 

“You— really?” 

She turns to look at him. “Yeah. I’ve been following you for a while. On the internet at least.” 

“That’s— well, I don’t really know. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t think you—” I didn’t think you cared. She hears the words he doesn’t say. 

The urge to touch him is so strong she digs her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from reaching out, wrapping him in her arms and never letting go. She notices that he seems to be doing the same, one hand stuffed deep in his pocket and the other a tight fist at his side. The tension Graham spoke of is there as well. It radiates from him, belying his casual posture. He was always tense around her in those later years, she remembers. Now she has some new ideas about why. 

She doesn’t know what to say, though, how to start the conversation she needs them to have. 

He starts it for her. “Why are you here, Swan?” he asks. 

“Belle told me where you live.” 

“That’s a how, not a why,” he says, with a small smile.  

“I just wanted to see you.” 

“Why?”

She tries to sort through all the reasons: because she still loves him and always will, because she missed him every second he was gone and she’s so angry at him for leaving without even a goodbye but also she’s proud of him for what he’s accomplished, for pulling himself out of the life he hated and finding success through his talent and hard work and sheer stubbornness. She tries to sort through the chaos of her thoughts but before she can the door opens and a woman rushes in. 

“Sorry I’m late, I— oh. I didn’t know you were expecting any visitors.” 

“I wasn’t.” Killian smiles at the woman as she approaches them. She’s tall and elegant with dark hair that tumbles in wild curls down her back. Emma feels small and dowdy next to her, and when she kisses Killian in greeting Emma can’t suppress a flinch. 

“This is Emma,” says Killian. “A friend from Storybrooke.” 

The woman looks at her with sharp interest. “I thought you didn’t have any friends there.” 

“I believe I said I didn’t have many,” Killian replies with a grin. “She’s one.” He turns back to Emma and the smile slips away. “This is Milah, my agent,” he tells her. “And, ah, my girlfriend.” 

Emma doesn’t flinch this time, she’s frozen by the stab of pain through her heart, though she knew this was coming from the moment the woman came through his door. Of course he has a girlfriend, she thinks, he’s moved on with his life. He’s been moving on, for the past five years. She’s the one who can’t let go. 

She feels like she’s watching herself from outside her body as she summons a smile from God knows where and shakes Milah’s hand. She says all the right things— nice to meet you and yes, here on vacation and just in the neighbourhood, thought I’d look him up. From the expression in Milah’s pale eyes she doesn’t believe a word of it. 

“Well, I’m sorry to cut your reunion short, Emma, but I’m afraid Killian has an appointment and we’re already running late,” she says briskly. 

“Yes, of course,” Emma, replies, leaping to her feet and grabbing her things. “I’ll just… it was nice to meet you Milah, and to see you Killian. I’ll, uh, find my way out.” She forces herself not to run. 

Killian catches up to her as she’s waiting at the elevator. “Swan!” he calls, and Emma wills the elevator to come faster, wishes she’d just taken the stairs. She tries not to turn around, but he calls her name again she can’t resist the entreaty in his voice. 

“Where are you staying?” he asks, all in a rush. “For how long? Can I— can we—” he takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’d love to see you before you go. If you like, that is. Can I take you for coffee or something?” 

The elevator doors open and she steps inside, turns to look at him almost against her will.

“Swan,” he says again, and his voice is so soft. 

She gives him the name of her hotel, forces herself not to be thrilled by the warmth of his smile. The first smile he’s directed at her in five years. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning,” he says, and she nods as the doors slide shut. It’s just a platitude, she tells herself, just something people say. She won’t get her hopes up. 

She won’t. 

--

Killian returns to his apartment where Milah is waiting, actually tapping her toe on the floor as she stares at her phone with a stony expression. He ignores her mood, grabs his jacket and his satchel and holds open the door. 

“Are you coming?” he asks. 

She sweeps by him without a word and he follows her downstairs to where a town car is waiting. There is no sign of Emma in the street.

They sit in silence as the car navigates the heavy traffic. Killian is lost in his thoughts, unnerved by the way his skin is tingling, his blood pounding hot in his veins. This reaction is insane, he thinks, they didn’t even touch. Just seeing Emma again has shaken him to his core and he can’t work out how he feels about it. He never expected to see her anywhere but in his dreams. 

“That was her, wasn’t it?” says Milah, interrupting his reverie. “The woman from your book.” 

“Aye.” He regrets Emma’s presence in his book, resents it a bit. He tried to write the woman differently but no matter what he did she refused to be anyone but Emma. In the end he gave in, hoping that writing about her might excise her from his heart. It didn’t. Nothing ever could. 

Milah is silent for several streets. When she speaks again her voice is carefully neutral. “Are you going to tell her you’re still in love with her?” she asks. “That you’ve never stopped?”

“Milah—” he begins, but she cuts him off with a short, sharp gesture of her hand.

“It’s okay, Killian. Well, it’s not okay, but I’ve always known you didn’t love me the way you love her.” She gives a wry smile. “I just never imagined she’d show up at your door.” 

“No, nor I.” 

“What are you going to do about it?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know.” 

Milah pauses again, chooses her words carefully. “You know you’ll never be completely happy without her, right?” 

He nods. “I know. But—” He hesitates, and she steps in.

“But you don’t think you deserve to be.” She gives him a probing look. “You do, you know.”

Killian stares at his hands, fighting against the memories that are starting to engulf him, things he hasn’t allowed himself to think about for years. Emma’s laugh, the way she smiled at him, the sunlight in her hair. Her father’s face whenever he saw them together. The way people in Storybrooke used to watch them, resentfully, as though his mere presence in her orbit would despoil their princess. 

He shakes his head.“You don’t understand. Emma, she’s perfect—” 

“She’s not,” snorts Milah, and meets his glare with a calm stare of her own. “She’s just a woman. A lovely one, yes, and by your account a remarkable one. But still just a woman. One who loves you.” 

His heart squeezes at that thought, one his brain refuses to entertain. “She doesn’t,” he insists, “she’s just being—” 

“Oh, stop it!” snaps Milah. “Stop making excuses. It’s fucking obvious to anyone with eyes. She’s as bad at hiding her feelings as you are. That woman is crazy in love with you and the only reason you can’t see it is because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t deserve her,” insists Killian, his jaw set stubbornly. 

Milah rolls her eyes, huffs out a breath. “You know what, maybe this is for the best,” she says. “Your moods were driving me crazy anyway.” 

“What, are you breaking up with me?”

“Yes. Yes I am. I can do better than a self-loathing nomad who’s in love with someone else.” 

They glare at each other. “You probably can,” says Killian. 

“Damn straight,” says Milah. 

“You will still be my agent, right?” 

“Of course I will. You’re my fucking cash cow, love.” 

Their glares fade into grins and they laugh. “Maybe it is for the best,” he concedes. “I like you too much to impose myself on you.” 

“Stop that,” says Milah. “That self deprecation gets really bloody tiresome. Just tell Blondie you love her, the rest will sort itself out. And quit holding her up in your mind like some sort of goddess. She’s just a woman.” 

Killian doesn’t reply. 

--

He calls Belle late that night. She answers after many rings with a sleepy “Hello?” He’s woken her up. He expects he should be sorry for that but he isn’t; he’s too mad at her for telling Emma where to find him. For destroying the peace he’s worked so hard to achieve. 

“Why,” he chokes out. He’s been sitting alone for hours fighting the urge to drink, unable to sleep, thinking about Emma and remembering and trying not to tumble back into feelings he thought he’d escaped. “Why would you tell her where I was?”

“What?” says Belle, and there is genuine confusion in her voice. “Killian? Who did I tell what to?” She must be tired, thinks Killian, if she’s dangling prepositions. 

“Emma,” he snarls. “You told her where I live. Why? Why, when you know how I—” 

“Hold on,” Belle is awake now, and there’s a snap in her tone. “I told Emma you live in New York but I didn’t give her your address. Why? Is she there?” 

“Aye.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “She appeared at my door this afternoon.” 

“Ah.” Belle sounds satisfied. 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

“Killian. Please think about this. She tracked you down. She went to a lot of trouble to find you. Why do you think she would do that?” 

“I’ve no bloody clue.” 

“You do,” says Belle sharply. “You’re just being obtuse. What did she say?” 

“Not much. The timing was complicated.” 

“Well, talk to her. Just talk. See what comes out.” There’s a pause as Belle sighs. “You’ve spent so long thinking you can’t have good things, Killian, I suppose it must be difficult to change that mindset. But you have to. You can have the things you want. You are allowed to be happy.” 

“I—” He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Get some sleep,” Belle tells him. “Talk to Emma in the morning. And keep me informed.” 

“Aye.” 

He hangs up the phone and drops onto his sofa, letting his head fall into his hands. Belle’s words ring in his ears. 

You are allowed to be happy. 

[thepelagoislands]

New Island: Mokupuni o ke Ahi (Island of Fire)

This island was written by Rachel-mun!

@gun-nun | @violinsnotheanswer | @jake-out-the-humans | @lannathepopstar

One must sail for hours upon hours before finding this island. As the voyagers draw closer to the island, they will see that it is a volcanic island and is currently active. As a matter of fact, it’s always been active and has never ceased spewing its molten rock. There are lava flows that fall off of the edge of the water, raising its temperature to dangerous levels, so be sure not to fall into the ocean. Steam rises from the water surrounding the island, giving it a sort of mist that shrouds the outskirts. There is a black stone port in which you can dock your boat.

As you venture through the island to go inland, you will see several glowing flows of lava headed towards the edges of the island. It moves much like a river of molasses. There is no explicit path for the voyagers to follow, so it’s up to them to navigate the way towards the center of the island. As the voyagers travel closer to said island’s center, they will come across a village that has been burned down. The insides and outsides of the stone buildings are covered in a black char and some of the roofs have collapsed in. In one of the houses, if one was able to pry open the drawer to the desk, they will find 2,000g. There is nothing else to be found in the village, as everything else has been burned to ash.

At the base of the volcano there will be a temple decorated in red and gold, but the stone that makes its walls is pitch black. Hot lava runs in a river on either side of the temple, but seems to have naturally (or unnaturally?) avoided it. The temple is raised up on black stone pillars and can only be reached by ascending a long, narrow staircase with no railings. A pretty dangerous architectural move, actually. Once you reach the top, you’ll see that the floor is made from beautifully smooth obsidian, gold specks throughout it. The temple doors are heavy black stone, though, and are hard to open on your own. Enter the temple and you will be in the main prayer room.

Main Prayer Room: This room is the largest in the temple, the floors of obsidian continuing throughout here and the rest of the temple. However, there is something amiss in the room. The altar that is at the back of the room has been desecrated. The offerings of gold coins and rubies have been thrown off of the altar and are sprawled about the floor. Gather up the gold and it will come to 1,000g. Gather up the rubies and you’ll find eight. Nothing of consequence will come from taking these items. There is nothing else to be found in the main prayer room, but there are four doors: one to the left, one to the right, one with a gold door to the left of the altar, and one with a red door to the right of the altar.

Left Door (Dining Room): Enter this room and you’ll come to the dining area. There is a table that previously had a meal set up on it, but everything is once again destroyed and thrown about the table and the floor. The paintings that hang on the wall are ripped to ribbons and scraps of them lay on the floor. The kitchen has been torn through as well, all of the pots and pans and utensils on the floor and counters. There is some broken glass there, too. The knives from the block are thrown at the wall across the room, sticking out like someone was playing a game with them. If you look closely, you’ll find that one is missing from the set.

Right Door (Bedroom): This room appears to be a bedroom of sorts, but for only one person. The bed in the center of the room is regal, tall beams on every corner that hold up a red canopy made of silk. It’s comfortable but ashy. No ash can be found in the room besides on the bed, though. In the bedside tables you will find some love letters signed from a woman named Aredhel. One of the letters has some tear stains on it, and reads:

Dearest Dominic,

While we remain apart in land I know that we come together every night in our dreams. My heart aches for your touch every minute that we are separated, but I know that we will be reunited someday.

Our plan to remain in the sky is proving to be most wise, as we have gone undetected for some time now. However, one of the lookouts noticed something pass by in the clouds. We are unsure of what it could be. A scout? A dragon? We haven’t the slightest idea. All I know is that we are on alert, but feel that we remain safe up here. 

I wish dearly that I could descend down once again and be with you on your island. To live among the molten earth whose heat could rival our passion; how exciting it must be! I pray daily that we will soon be together and I can rejoice in being within your grasp. I dream nightly of the night we shared when we first met and how your whispered affections never leave my ears. I fear I’ve become distracted again whilst thinking about it… 

Dominic, I hope that you are living well and have prospered in your new position as the temple’s leader. I know that you will make the other fire mages proud of you, as I am. Be a good leader, and remember that your power does not define who you are. Only you have the power to define yourself. 

With as much love as the Sun has light, your beloved Aredhel.

There are a few other letters, all from the same woman and the dates on the letters span over the course of a year. Also in the bedside table is a ring with silver metal and an obsidian gem in the center. Perhaps it’s an engagement ring? There are some clothes in the closet, but otherwise there isn’t much else to be found in the bedroom.

Gold Door (Library): Enter this room and you’ll come into the library where there are rows of shelves, all stacked full with books. It appears that ancient information has been re-recorded into these books for better storage. The language is all in an indecipherable language, but there are a few books that have pictures of people using moves that involve fire magic. Some books are records of the people who have lived on the island. According to the most recent records, there should have been around twenty people living on the island of varying ages. There lies the question: where are they? The burned village obviously doesn’t bode well with this information. At the back of the library you’ll find a spell book that looks ancient as ancient can be. It’s large, far too large actually. It looks impossible to carry and annoyingly and cartoonishly big. Open it and you’ll find pages upon pages of the same indecipherable language as in other books. There are maps, however, and some descriptions of the small sections of map. It all details other islands and there are four islands in particular who have symbols next to them. One that resembles flowing water is by one island, one that depicts a flower growing from soil next to another, some squiggly lines next to another that looks like wind, and finally one that has a flame drawn next to it. The only thing that is readable to the voyagers is a word written down, but with no island to name: Exire. There is nothing else to be found in the Library.

Red Door (Long Hallway to the Balcony): Enter this room and you’ll be taken down a long, narrow hallway. There is nothing on the walls and only a few torches to light the way, the light of them reflecting off of the shiny obsidian floor. You can hear someone… sobbing? It’s coming from the end of the hall. Continue down the hallway and you’ll come to the balcony.

Balcony: Open the door at the end of the hallway to come onto the balcony that face the spewing volcano. The glow of the lava lights the scene (at night) and you’ll see a man in official-looking priest robes standing at the end of the balcony. He’s holding the missing knife from the balcony and is about to stab himself in the heart when the voyagers come onto the balcony. He’s a tall man with black, long hair and there are two wolf ears that sit atop his head. When he notices the voyagers enter, he snaps his head towards them with bared, fanged teeth. He begins to speak. 

“Who are you?! Why have you come here?!”

The voyagers can attempt to explain that they are from the islands and just happened upon the island, but the priest will hear none of it. He doesn’t hold the knife to his chest anymore, but he still holds it in one hand as he faces the voyagers. 

“If you’ve come to tell me she’s dead, I already know. I learned long ago…”

It seems he won’t listen to what the voyagers are saying. He’s stuck in his own world of hurt and grief. 

“I couldn’t be the man she wanted me to be… The people who lived here, those fire mages I was supposed to protect and teach… I was the one who killed them in the end. How could I have done such a thing in my anger at the gods for taking her away from me?” 

So it turns out he was the one who burned down the village. The voyagers can determine how they feel with that information. He will still continue talking. 

“What did she do to deserve such a fate?” He looks at the voyagers wildly, tears falling again and voice on the verge of hysteria. “Why couldn’t they have sent that dragon here to kill us all instead?! At least we’d have had a chance to survive! And now, look!” He gestures wildly to the volcano. “The Gods are furious with me! I’ve been the most foul, murderous, awful priest! I don’t deserve this!”

At this point, he will procure a flame and hold his hand to his own neck, burning himself. He lets out a scream of pain and drops to his knees. If the voyagers attempt to come close to him, he will use his fire magic against you to keep you away. He burns his throat until it is charred and bleeding and he speaks again, his voice a strained scream. 

“I’ll be with her again! I must! I’d rather die like this than live another day on this fucking planet without her!”

After that, the priest will grab the knife and stab himself in the heart, screaming in anguish once again before collapsing to the ground and dying. The voyagers can do nothing to stop his death, but his last word uttered before he finally stops breathing is his lover’s name in a gargled whisper.

Once the priest has died, the ground begins to shake with the power of the volcano. It seems like it’s about to erupt violently and you have only a short head start to make it back to the boat. There is a boom like thunder as the voyagers run back to the port, the volcano shooting molten rocks into the air. The voyagers must dodge the falling hot rocks and escape the fury of the volcano as it erupts. The ground shakes and the voyagers must tread carefully so as not to fall into any lava. 

Once you get to the boat, you’ll be safe to escape but you will see the violent eruption spew molten lava across the island, the explosion as it does so deafening and can be heard even on Leuda and Arcadia. The island’s volcano will become dormant as soon as the final eruption is completed, eruption possible in the rune sphere is ever removed, but will remain dormant until then. 

The rune sphere of the island is buried deep in the volcano’s side, impossible to retrieve.

[bhtum1595world]

Glynn Griffiths my wonderful friend, a friend as close as a brother, my touchstone                     in all matters of life, has died. Glynn was 67 and leaves behind his                beloved daughter Georgia and Annie his soulmate.

Glynn at my book launch in the Hoop and Grapes pub just off Fleet Street, London, May 2016

  Glynn had just started out on the next stage of his eventful life. He had his sculpture studio in Cheltenham where he made so many of his impossible dreams involving mother-earth and man-made come to life.

Glynn Griffiths Art Exhibition at the Parabola Art Gallery, Cheltenham, England. Work by the artist Glynn Griffiths ( seen in blue shirt, long hair ).

Glynn Griffiths Art Exhibition at the Parabola Art Gallery, Cheltenham, England. Work by the artist Glynn Griffiths ( seen in blue shirt, long hair ).

He recently bought a campervan before buying ‘Haddie’ his beautiful house boat moored at Hebden Bridge. For the first time in many years he had his entire ‘Art Book’ collection out of packing cases and on shelves waiting to be read….in short Glynn was chilled out and happy.

Glynn Griffiths with his daughter Georgia at his Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths with his daughter Georgia at his Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

I knew Glynn for nearly 30 years since he came to this country from his native South Africa with his wife Annie back in the mid 1980’s. He came from Jagersfontein a small town in the Free State and trained as a photographer on the Cape Times. Although his yearning was for the Veldt of South Africa, he was a British subject, and proud of his family roots in South Wales.

  Glynn in the Canary Wharf Indy offices in the 1990’s

  Glynn was an established photographer of some note in SA and upon arriving in London he had little trouble getting photographic assignments from the British press based then in Fleet Street. He started ‘shifting’ for the London Evening Standard while living with Annie in a campervan parked up on the South Bank in the centre of London. Before long a photo editor recognised Glynn’s ‘artistic photographic’ talents and suggested that his style of photography would be more suited to the newly launched ‘Independent’ newspaper.

Glynn was taken aboard the fledgling ‘Indy’ first as a freelance and then onto the staff. He covered the usual gamut of assignments for a daily national newspaper: portraits, hard news, overseas stories and soft features.

Following the Kings Cross fire tragedy where over 30 people died Glynn made one his most definitive images of Kwasi Afari Minta, who was severely burnt but survived. The picture won Glynn a first prize in the prestigious World Press Photo Awards.

Kwasi Afari Minta

In 1988, he covered the Clapham rail crash close to his then home in south London where 35 passengers died. His powerful picture was the first to cover the entire front page of the paper, Glynn had well and truly arrived and made his mark. He became known for his quiet observational intelligent photography and was trusted to make ‘something’ from nothing. In October 1989, he was sent to cover the San Francisco earthquake where over 60 died and thousands were injured. During just a matter of hours on the ground he produced a fine coverage resulting in a front-page news picture and a back-page photo spread.

Glynn covered the transitional elections in Namibia and South Africa. He spent time on Mount Athos communing with the monks and making a fine set of quiet contemplative images there but perhaps Glynn’s most recognised and almost certainly his most favoured photograph was of Nelson Mandela at his final election rally in Cape Town during the first all-race South African elections in April 1994.

Nelson Mandela photographed by Glynn and published by Gerry Brakus in The New Statesmen in 2013

  Glynn was one of the sweetest most charming of men in the tough world of news photography. He made friends with most that he met…I have never heard a bad word against the man, few can be as well liked in our business.

Glynn Griffiths on the left, with on the back row, David Sandison, myself Brian Harris, Mykel Nicolaou, and Guy Simpson and Lauries Lewis in front…photographed by my son Jacob S. Harris at the Kalamzoo Club in London.

Photograph of Glynn with his Independent Newspaper photographer friends at one of our London based memory lane evenings. L-R: Back row unknown, Nick Turpin, John Voos, Glynn Griffiths,member of the band,Craig Easton in glasses. Front row: Laurie Lewis, Brian Harris, David Sandison, Kay Richardson, Guy Simpson and Tom Pilston…photographic selfie made by precariously balancing my very expensive Leica M9 on a wine bottle.

A charming quiet evening in an Italian eatery in Camden, London with Laurie Lewis on left, Glynn Griffiths, Guy Simpson and John Voos…I’m behind the camera

Glynn and John Voos catching up at yet another photographers night out in London

Independent Newspaper Foreign Desk 30th Anniversary Party at The Frontline Club, Paddington, London. 6 October 2016

A collection of photographs showing Glynn top left at the 30th Indy Foreign desk bash at the Frontline Club, with David Sandison at my book launch, at a gallery gig in east London where Glynn showed off his major piece made from nails and scorched wood and meetin’ and greetin’ at yet another opening…

After leaving the Indy in the late 1990’s to once again pursue a freelance career Glynn took up freelance picture editing and left London with his family to live in Cheltenham.

Glynn Griffiths Art Exhibition at the Parabola Art Gallery, Cheltenham, England. Work by the artist Glynn Griffiths

Specimen 1101, Beech, polypropylene rod, pyrographic markings at the Parabola Art Gallery, Cheltenham, England. Work by the artist Glynn Griffiths 

Glynn Griffiths Art Exhibition at the Parabola Art Gallery, Cheltenham, England. 

Glynn became frustrated with the limitations as to what he could achieve visually just by using a camera…photography per se began to bore him, photography was merely the means to an end and the end became the motive for Glynn’s next endeavour.

In his early 60’s Glynn went back to school…to Wimbledon College of Arts where he studied for an MA in Sculpture. His work involving ‘mother nature and handmade product’ was challenging to the uninitiated. His references were the deserts of his homeland in South Africa, he was excited about dry bones, a feather, a scrap of wood or iron weathered by the elements which he used in assembly’s contrasting with Perspex, cable ties, nails and hardware bought from his local store.

He sold several pieces, one piece made to order for a client in America and more through various galleries in London and Cheltenham. In the mid 2000’s he was awarded the Clifford Chance prize and exhibited in their Canary Wharf offices receiving much praise for the scope of his work.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

Glynn Griffiths with his daughter Georgia at his Exhibition-Growth, ‘Gravity & Balance’ at The Horse Box Gallery, 50 Grosvenor Hill, London.

  In the mid 2000’s when both Glynn and myself were going through our own personal crisis we both talked our problems through with long conversations as he commuted by motorway from Cheltenham to London…I called them our M4 chats. We started a photo-exchange where once a week we would make a photograph, print it and write something on the print about our thoughts for that day. We kept this going for over two years and I have over 100 original Glynn Griffiths photographs and drawings all signed and annotated…some of my most precious possessions.

      I asked Glynn to help me photo edit my auto-biographical book in 2014-5. We spent several days in the cold of my garage going through hundreds of proof prints before getting my selection down from and unmanageable 2000 images to an almost manageable 3-400 photographs.

Glynn editing down the thousands of images to a manageable 400 plus for my book…we finally got it down to less than 200.

Some months later myself Glynn and designer Professor Phil Cleaver spent many 18 hour days and nights moving images and words around on screen and in hard copy before finishing my project at the printers. Not a bad word was said, not an argument, just complete calm…without Glynn I would still be shuffling my work about completely lost in the confusion of editing.

Glynn and ‘pooch’ editing Brian Harris’s book ’…and then the Prime Minister hit me…’ with Professor Phil Cleaver of et-al Design

Glynn at Geoff Neal Printers in Feltham, west London checking the print quality

  Glynn had many who loved him: fellow photographers, editors, photo editors, his family and friends in South Africa, his drinking pals in Cheltenham, Glynn was not a drinker – preferring a half pint of beer or a glass of red wine with some good conversation and fine home cooking

Glynn Griffiths enjoying our wonderful Lasagne and several bottles of Montepulciano at our home in Thaxted…watched by his new best friend, Thelma

Glynn mellowing in our home with Thelma…the other cat

  …Glynn was the arch polymath, he was a photographer, an artist, a sculptor, a cartoonist, a photo editor

  Some of Glynn’s wonderfully dry wit showing through in his cartoons

  …he could mend things and make things… only a month ago producing a fantastic sculptural piece consisting of a hill of bicycles that occupied a roundabout in Cheltenham to celebrate a Round Britain Cycle Race.

Glynn was just so many things…he was in fact a renaissance man through and through, with his ‘hippy’ clothes and ponytail, his grey beard and funny hat.

 Striking a pose as W.G. Grace

Only a couple of weeks back he came down from Hebden Bridge in his motorhome to help me celebrate my 65th birthday in Southend-on-Sea with my partner Nikki and my son Jacob. We enjoyed the ‘best fish and chips in the world’ and walked the ‘prom’…we enjoyed the penny arcades and Glynn was happy.

Glynn with Nikki, myself and my son Jacob in Southend-on-Sea for my 65th birthday…on the prom prom prom…and in the penny arcades…September 2017

He followed us home to Thaxted and we spent the night putting some red wine away and the world to rights…in the morning I cooked breakfast, bacon, toast, eggs and baked beans. Glynn asked me why I stored my tins of baked beans upside down in the store cupboard. I replied that if the tins were upside down in store, when you opened them the beans were at the lid end and they all came out in one hit rather than having the hunt the last of the beans out with a spoon. He thought that was one of the most wonderful of ideas and in his last text to me a few days later he thanked Nikki and I for our hospitality but most of all he thanked us for showing him how to store his baked beans, he said it’s always wonderful to learn something new at 67!!

On the morning of the 16th of September I helped Glynn pack up his campervan with a case of Adnams Claret and a couple of large A2 size photographic prints from me to him as a present for all his hard work on my book. He said he was finally going to get around to reading it now he had the space and time. He drove out of the car park in Thaxted en route to the Tate Britain in London where he could park up for the weekend for free…and that was the last time I saw him.

  My dear friend Glynn, I will miss you so much but I am privileged to have known you…you lovely gentle guy. RIP.

      My friend Glynn Glynn Griffiths my wonderful friend, a friend as close as a brother, my touchstone                     in all matters of life, has died.