#the lunchroom tapes

[thecoleopterawithana]

Hello!

I'm looking for a section of the lunchroom tape (from the Get Back sessions) where John says something to Paul along the lines of "I mean, you've only recently realised what you were doing to me". Does that ring any bells?

You seem to know your way around amoralto's archives, and I'm not having any luck searching there :)

Thanks!

Hi, @i-am-the-oyster (love the name, by the way)!

I think you might be referring to this section of the Lunchroom Tape:

JOHN: And it’s just that, you know. It’s only this year that you’ve suddenly realised, like who I am, or who he is, or anything like that.

I find this bit of the conversation particularly impenetrable; and all the more fascinating because of it. It's here that we have this famed exchange (whose full meaning still eludes me):

JOHN: Because you – ’cause you’ve suddenly got it all, you see. PAUL: Mm. JOHN: I know that, because of the way I am, like when we were in Mendips, like I said, “Do you like me?” or whatever it is. I’ve always – uh, played that one. PAUL: [laughs nervously] Yes. JOHN: So. PAUL: Uh, I’d been watching, I’d been watching. I’d been watching the picture. YOKO: Go back to George. What are we going to do about George?

I encourage folks to go listen to the full audio and transcript and try their hand at decoding it!

I don't know if it's accessible on the mobile app, but @amoralto has a separate page with links to all the Get Back excerpts, listed in chronological order. It's a pretty neat resource if you want to just binge through interesting little snippets from these sessions (some that made it onto the documentary, and many that didn't).

To those curious about the Lunchroom Tape in particular, here's a (play)list of all the transcribed excerpts, with @amoralto's descriptions for context:

We Have Egos

Over lunch, the remaining Beatles touch on George’s resignation from the band on the 10th, as well as a group meeting held the previous day which ended in less than desirable circumstances (with George leaving the room, frustrated by John’s persistently Yoko-filtered standard of communication). While Yoko contends that it would be easy for John (and Paul) to regain George’s favour, John points out that this is a more deeply-rooted issue than it may seem, compounded over the years by John and Paul’s treatment of George and his defaulted status within the group. Upon this problem of overriding egos, however, Paul suggests (passive-aggressively) that it isn’t just the Lennon-and-McCartney tandem that is causing George upset and consternation. 

Jealousy For You

As the problem of George’s current resignation from the band is discussed, John makes it about him and Paul wonders what it’s all worth.

The Way We All Feel Guilty About Our Relationship To Each Other

John contends with how the force of his partnership with Paul and his relationship with Yoko has negatively affected George and perhaps directly contributed to George’s walkout on the group three days prior.

Cabbage

During a discussion on how the rest of the group should move forward after George’s departure on the 10th, John wonders if they should get George back at all, suggesting his role as a Beatle is replaceable (unlike his own or Paul’s), and likens this unkindly to how Ringo first replaced Pete Best. Paul notes that John has been the top buck in getting himself heard (and getting his way) since the inception of the group (which John protests) and quickly reassures Ringo when he wryly declares himself to be little more than rabbit food for the group. Paul admits that both he and John have done one over on George, albeit unconsciously as an effect of the competition and unaware of how it may have hurt George in the process, but John argues that he’s known since early childhood how manipulative he himself can be, and has tried to curb it to little avail.

What You Are

In the middle of a personal discussion with John and Ringo about the band, its tenuous future, and their relationships with one another, Paul (in response to John’s admission of insecurity in the face of external pressures from the public and media to perform) is emphatic about his faith in them and their abilities and contends that whatever interpersonal problems they have can be resolved, for what their music is worth.

Working At A Relationship

While Yoko and Paul conduct their own conversation with each other, Linda talks to John about the inevitable difficulties any relationship faces - even in the context of a musical partnership - and why it doesn’t prove the relationship itself is an expired one. John (inexplicably or not) laments that the White Album doesn’t sound like the genuine, inspired band collaboration they achieved in the past. 

You've Got To Blame Yourself

As Paul encourages an unconfident Ringo to go ahead with his plans to record a solo LP, John hedgingly brings up his own apprehensions about following his instincts (especially when he’s not even sure what he really wants to do). In their inimitable and emotionally non-committal fashion, John and Paul engage in metaphors about intentions, conveying these intentions in actions, and how these actions may be conveyed by those who see it. (Basically: what John and Paul talk about when they talk about love.)

How Much More Have I Done Towards Helping You Write?

John and Paul have an obfuscating conversation about their songwriting partnership and creative process, which has been incapacitated by a lack of direction, misplaced (misread) intentions, and the unmet (unrealised) expectations they’ve inflicted upon each other. (In other words: issues. And some projecting of issues onto George, for good measure.)

What We're All About

In the midst of a personal discussion about working together within the band, John tries to explain the disconnect in their process, and why he can’t envision their songs the way Paul can. As both John and Paul circle around the issues of honest communication and (living up to) each other’s expectations, they eventually project onto George bring George into the quandary of the Lennon-McCartney partnership. 

[get-back-homeward]

January 13, 1969 Lunchroom Tapes

When Paul says to John “but I dont know what it is you want me to do!”, I felt that exasperation down to my toes.

Then he tries to communicate that his faith in the best of them.

“So I’m placing all the money, all the fame, and everything, on what you are.”

Chills.

[ceilidho]

prompt: IKEA soap/reader fic. PART 2. (read part 1 here) tags: dubcon

-

There’s a photo of you taped up on the inside of his locker. 

The glimpse you catch of it is quick. Not like you aren’t meant to see it, but more like Johnny’s so unconcerned with whether you see it or not that he doesn’t bother to make a show of it. Just reaches into his locker to grab his lunch and shuts it while you’re still gaping at the polaroid of someone that looks suspiciously like you in your store uniform. You hear someone clear their throat and you glance up, flinching when you meet Johnny’s eyes.

“Missing me already?” he teases, winking. “I’ll be back on the floor as soon as possible. ‘Promise, hen.”

“It’s not—” 

He’s already out the door and on the way to the lunchroom before you’re able to get the rest of your sentence out. 

Johnny seems to have a sixth sense for when you’re about to spurn his advances. Any other day he would have stuck around to listen to the rest of your sentence, but when he has an inkling that those words will be tinged by the flavour of rejection, he’s quick to book it. You privately have to admit it’s not a terrible strategy. It’s not often that you’re able to get the words out. 

It’s one of those rare shifts where you’re clocking in later than Johnny, missing his lunch break. Small mercies. It doesn’t mean much because your schedules still overlap a significant amount, but it does mean that you won’t be forced to choke down your lunch while Johnny sits opposite you at the lunch table and stares you down the entire half hour. 

“Wait, that was so fucking cute,” someone says from behind you. You turn on your heel to find a coworker staring at Johnny’s locker, properly enchanted by whatever she saw. Practically swooning. 

“What is?”

“Didn’t you see the picture he has of you? In his locker?” She says it with emphasis, giving you a significant look. 

“Yeah…I…don’t you think it’s a bit…like, weird?” you ask her, making sure to keep your voice low in case Johnny is still around the corner. You can’t help the way you glance down the hallway.

She frowns. “It’s cute. He’s like, smitten with you. I’ve never seen him with a crush on anyone before and I’ve worked with him for over a year. I think it’s kind of nice. Do you not like him or something?”

“Well, I just…we aren’t even dating and I think…I think he even has a photo of me as his lock screen—”

“Because if you aren’t interested in him, you should let him down now. It’s not fair of you to just string him along, you know. He’s a really good guy.”

You’re not sure about the whole good guy thing. Johnny acts like a nice guy most of the time, but you’ve had the unfortunate luck in getting to experience the other side of him.

The problem lies in the fact that Johnny is, you think, a genuinely likeable guy to everyone else. It’s not like your coworkers are all collectively wrong in their opinion of him—he really is an excellent coworker. A good sport, a funny guy; he lends a hand whenever someone needs help. He helped Jeff move two weeks ago, drove Daryl to the airport last Saturday, and looked after Sonya’s cat while she was away on vacation that one time. 

It’s with you that his good-time nature evaporates; his lazy, drawled predilection for joking around and indulging himself and others in a good ribbing replaced by a weird, manufactured kindness. Almost sickly sweet. He lays it on so thick around others that they think you experience the same friendship with Johnny that the rest of them get to enjoy. 

Not so.

None of them catch the way he’s always hovering, always staring at you. Eyes half-lidded; bedroom eyes in the middle of your shift, in the middle of the workplace. 

None of your coworkers are around when you’re at the register one day and Johnny takes his break to make a couple purchases, coming to your cash with a basket full of chocolate, wine, condoms, body butter, and batteries. No one except him notices the way you pause at the last item.

“Dinnae ken if your vibrator was rechargeable or not,” he says when you look at him funny, a big grin stretched across his face. Blue eyes gleaming almost feverishly. “Thought I’d be prepared either way.”

You scan his items in silence. When you hand him his bag, you try not to shudder when he purposefully glances his hand over yours. 

Worse are the days when Johnny comes in as a customer, the days when he’s off the schedule. When he shouldn’t even be at the store at all. No one notices the way he pesters you the entire time he’s in the store, insisting on you helping him with his purchases. If a coworker does happen to notice his presence (and how could they not when he’s such a formidable presence in any room, when he almost glows from the energy stockpiled in his body with nowhere else to go), he’ll make polite conversation, just long enough to not seem rude, before shifting his attention back to you. 

His conversation borders on interrogation. He asks you about your childhood and your friends and whether you have a partner or any previous partners. He makes you follow him to the bed section where he tries out all the mattresses and then asks you increasingly inappropriate questions like what mattress you have, what it feels like, how you sleep at night, what you wear to bed. 

When you rebuff him one too many times, he’s not shy about telling you off. 

“Ye just need a good fuck ta sort ye out,” Johnny snarls when you brush off another invite out to lunch one day. It’s not often that he loses his temper with you, so his anger makes your eyes widen, your pulse pick up. During morning shift assignments, he’d corralled your manager into pairing the two of you up on curbside pick-up orders, meaning that you’ve been stuck with him for hours, nowhere else to go. 

“Excuse me?” you say, voice going up a decibel. 

He leans across the front of the cart loaded with flowerpots and gardening tools. “I get it, hen. No one at home ta play with your pussy, huh? No choice but ta come into work all pent up and frustrated—”

“This is in like, the outer Hebrides of ‘none of your business’—”

“—clit’s probably all swollen too. Fuck.” He breathes out heavily through his nose, eyes darkening. “No wonder you’re always pissed off. I’d be too if I dinnae have a little replacement pussy at home.”

“You’re the reason I’m upset in the first place, Johnny.”

“Aw, I ken, bonnie,” he says with a pout, eyebrows slanting down like he really, truly pities you, the gesture immediately contradicted by his next words. “Promise I’ll make it better. Wanna meet outside my truck in a half hour?” 

You storm off before it comes to blows. Not that it’d ever be a fair fight. Johnny would probably hold you away with his palm against your head while you swung at him uselessly. You try not to think of that too often. Of him toying with you. Most of your interactions feel like that these days. Like he’s a big cat holding your tail down when you try to scramble away. 

When you beg your manager to switch shift assignments, the look you get could wilt flowers. It’s not completely your fault, even if your request is a bit inconveniencing. Johnny has your coworkers and management so wrapped around his finger that no one can even hazard a guess as to why you might be uncomfortable around him. 

It’s the only reason you haven’t complained to HR yet. There are channels and protocols for dealing with his behaviour, but watching people practically trip over themselves to please him reminds you that the likeliest outcome would be them transferring you to another store. It just doesn’t seem worth it.

You don’t think about how frazzled his words leave you for the rest of your shift. You don’t think about it because there’s nothing to think about. 

You know from the second that your manager reassigns you to women’s apparel that you’ve probably made a mistake. Customers buzz around you like gnats, like swarms of flies, and it’s only natural that you’d be compelled to swat a few. You hold on to the fraying edges of your patience with little finesse. About halfway through your shift, you get a stern talking to from your floor supervisor and put on an extra long break. You’re no less irritated when you get back though, somehow still agitated and snappy. 

Big hands clamp over your shoulders and squeeze like he’s giving you a massage, thumbs digging into the grooves of your upper back. He ignores the way you tense up.

“Hen, you’re making the customers uncomfortable with all your huffin’ and puffin’,” he whispers into your ear, a light chuckle falling out with his words. Amused by your attitude this time instead of ticked off. “If ye want, I could take ye ta the back room ta loosen ye up a bit. Make your day a little better. Dinnae think anybody will even notice if we dip away for a bit—’sides management will probably send me a gift basket if ye come back perky after a good shag.”

You shrug him off to go clock out, ignoring the way he chuckles as you storm off. No one knows if you go home and wear out the battery in your vibrator while thinking about Johnny’s words. Thinking about Johnny guiding you to his truck with a palm flat on your low back, pinkie teasing just under the waistband of your pants, before laying you out across the backseat and climbing on top of you.

You come when you think about how he’d have to keep the door open to fuck you in his car.

Unfortunately, you’re more than familiar with his sweet side as well. 

On your birthday, he comes in early with a sheet cake and organizes the employees so that the breakroom is dark when you come in. The entire staff is there when you switch on the lights, shouting your name and happy birthday, decked out in party hats and blowing into noisemakers.

It catches you off guard. Hits you right in the solar plexus and leaves you winded. You stand in the middle of the room like you’re under a spotlight and that spotlight is Johnny’s stare burning a hole in your head. For once, it doesn’t rankle. It leaves you feeling light, feathery, like floating down to earth. A coworker hands you a noisemaker and you smile until your eyes crinkle when you blow into it. 

You’re in a good enough mood that you don’t argue when he insists on sitting beside you. He got you the cake after all. Maybe it’s the least he deserves. Your goodwill lasts until Johnny tries to feed you a piece of cake with his fork; he winds up getting cake smushed all over your cheek when you turn your head away. 

“Johnny, ‘m not a baby,” you complain, wrinkling your nose when cake and icing slide down your face. “I can feed myself. This is so gross.”

“Shucks, hen, lemme get that. Shouldnae have turned your head,” Johnny curses, leaning over to scoop it off with his fingers. He holds them out to you, an offering. “Here ye go, kitty.”

You stare, horrified, until he shrugs like ‘suit yourself’ and pops them into his own mouth. Then drags the same spit covered fingers over your cheek again to keep cleaning you up. 

You can tell that it’s hopeless to complain by the way your coworkers giggle and gossip, eyes drawn to the two of you. Maybe it would be better if you were transferred. You only have so many ‘I’m not his work wife’s left in you. Something’s bound to give. You have a sneaking suspicion that it’s going to be you. 

On the walk to your car after your shift, which Johnny insists on doing like he does every time the two of you work a closing shift together, he jokingly asks if you’ve gotten your birthday spanks. He says it in that same awkward joking tone, just a bit too excited, staring at you too eagerly. Unblinking. Tuts his tongue when you tell him you’ve never heard of that before. 

You jolt and squeak at the pop on your ass when he insists on opening the door to your car and helping you in. The betrayed look you shoot him hardly penetrates through his shit-eating grin. 

“See ye tomorrow, kitty,” Johnny calls out, walking backwards away from you to where his truck is parked just a few spots away from yours. You think he would’ve parked right next to you if you hadn’t chosen a spot conveniently between two other cars. “More where that came from.”

Your hands shake against the steering wheel your whole drive home. Dreading tomorrow’s shift.

[theolivetree123]

◇ Yuuki's New Club ◇

Yuuki stared at the poster in their hand. They furrowed their brow as their hand stiffened, trying not to tear the paper in frustration. Their other hand grew sweaty with fear, and the tape in that hand turned damp. Grim, Ace and Deuce simply stared. This nervousness was nothing new from Yuuki.

"Come on, Henchman, just put up the sign already!" Grim yelled causing Yuuki to drop the tape.

Yuuki groaned as they clumsily picked up the tape from the ground. "Ugh, its... it's not that simple for me, Grim! I mean, gosh... in my world, people treated me like a speck of literal dust! It's not unusual for me to not want to but myself out there. Ugh, why did Crowely even allow me to make this stupid club..."

Deuce walked to Yuuki, putting a hand on their shoulder. "Yuuki, if you need us to put up these poster for you, we can. But, just so you know, I think your club will be amazing! Whether people join or not."

Ace lightly pushed Deuce away. "Ugh, don't let them off the hook, Deuce! Yuuki should be able to do this themselves. They shouldn't be relying on us to do stuff for em! Do you remember last week when we had to give an entire presentation because Yuuki was too afraid to go up in front of the class? Or maybe when-"

"Okay! Okay! I get it, Ace..." Yuuki quickly interrupted Ace and then looked at their poster.

☆「Art Club」☆

Founded by Yuuki Kamiyama, Art Club will be for people to not only make art, but research it, learn about its origins, and come to appreciate the work that goes into making a masterpiece.

If you'd like to join, please meet Yuuki in class 1-F tomorrow immediately after school ends.

Yuuki stared at the words. Who would want to join this club? Who would want to join Yuuki? They sighed. "Do you guys think anyone would want to join this club?"

Grim, Ace and Deuce paused for a moment. Then Ace spoke up. "Of course, Yuuki. There's gotta be at least one person in this school who loves art as much as you do. I'm sure of it!"

Deuce smiled. "I agree. You'll surely find people for your club here."

Grim jumped onto Yuuki's shoulder. "Yeah! C'mon Yuuki, you gotta think positive!"

Yuuki sighed again and smiled as they brushed their hair to the side. "I sure hope you guys are right." Then, Yuuki tore a piece of tape and stuck the poster to the lunchroom wall.

"Okay, let's get out of here before I change my mind..." Yuuki quickly turned away from the poster. Ace and Deuce followed.

◇ Welcome to Art Club! ◇

Yuuki has made their very own club! In classroom 1-F, they hold Art Club.

Yuuki would love some new members! Would you be willing to join?

Rules:

Only NRC students can join!

Everyone can participate! Whether you're following me or not.

No NSFW!

You can make fanart, make cards, write fanfics, etc.

Tag me if you choose to make anything for this mini event!

If you choose to make a card, you can use these club card blanks from my good friend, trinket!

I made the club badges below and the classroom background above. Please credit me if you use them! I have made an Art Club badge for every single canon NRC dorm.

Dress Code:

All you have to do is wear your club shirt (a shirt with the club badge on it). That's it! Everything else is up to you.

I will be posting Yuuki's own club card, as well!

◇ Club Members ◇

Yuubeni Chōga - @bunniehunn

That's it!

If you have any questions, please ask me!

Tagging below:

@cheerleaderman @moonyasnow @ashipiko @babyghoul138 @skibidibabygirl @skriblee-ksk @oya-oya-okay @the-rini-rush @twtysevapr @taruruchi @scint1llat3 @screamintoad @bunniehunn @gimmeurmoneyagh @offorestsongs @shinysparklesapphires @beneathsakurashade @gl00myb3arz @fell-e @the-trinket-witch @boopshoops

Let me know if you don't want to be tagged!

[eddiemunson-reader-shame]

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader: Space Oddity, Part 1

In my ongoing quest to write more self indulgent reader inserts, I present to you: Weird Reader.

Sorry guys, but in school I played with the girls who pretended to be Warrior Cats, and ate lunch with guys who unironically did the Naruto run. The only thing separating me from this reader in this story is the fact that I mask in public and unmask at home.

[Chapter Two]

***

“You want me to play D&D with you guys?”

You watched with suspicious eyes as Mike Wheeler and Dustin Henderson nodded frantically, stirring the sweet, syrupy dessert of fruit cocktail in your lunch tray compartment. Staring at you was like staring at a taxidermy raccoon: you were dead eyed, but still positioned as though you could jump out and give someone rabies.

If he had been asked at gunpoint, Mike would have admitted that you were a last resort choice.

“Yeah…” Mike said cautiously, trying not to stare directly into your eyes.

Dustin smiled, leaning forward.

“You like D&D, right?” He tried, hopeful.

Everyone they had asked in Hawkins High had so far said no to subbing in for Lucas Sinclair, and Mike had balked at the idea of even thinking of asking you when they got rejected for the fifth time. You were even worse than the freaks of Hawkins High. The collective student body had come together as one to declare that you were a weird, mean bitch.

“I like what I’ve heard of it…” you mumbled, “I never played it before…”

Dustin’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Really?” He asked, his geometric pattern button up nearly dipping into his open can of chocolate pudding, “Never ever? So you’d need to be taught?”

Before you could venture an answer, Mike pulled him back.

“Could you-… Could you just excuse us please? Thank you.”

You nodded slowly while Mike dragged Dustin away to a corner of the bustling lunchroom. While they conversed in hushed whispers, you sat there alone, the students sharing your space giving you a wide berth at the head of the lunch table.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Mike hissed at Dustin, “You’re going to ask The Bitch to play, and she’s never even played D&D before?!”

Mike knew the stories. Robin had once asked to borrow a pencil from your jubilee of pens you kept in the pocket of your shortalls. Reluctantly you agreed, and then you had a meltdown when she took the flat contractor’s pencil with the He-Man sticker on it. Steve had told any of The Party who would listen about his encounter: even Eleven could perfectly recite the story about the weird girl who had flat tired Steve in the hall every day at 9am when he walked by Mrs. Click’s class, ruining the backs of his brown suede moccasins so often that his mom stopped replacing them after a while. His description of the perp matched you exactly.

Even Mike on his first day of school had been subject to your oddities. A casual lunchtime stroll found him tripping over a trap, made of plastic milk crates and dead branches you’d constructed by the football field. The encounter ended with him being subjected to your twenty minute screaming lecture on why it was rude of him to wreck the “houses” you’d made for the skinks that darted around the concrete walkways.

Mike Wheeler hated you because of reputation, but Dustin knew better than to fall victim to heresy. He had seen the drawings of dragons, daleks, dinosaurs, wolves and mermaids on xerox paper you had left behind once in the lunchroom. When he found you to give them back (you didn’t say thank you), he’d been gifted with a drawing a day later in his locker: a very detailed Spock giving the Vulcan salute, “Live Long and Prosper” written underneath in bubble letters above your loopy cursive signature. He still kept it taped to his Geometry folder.

“Dude, yes! Chill out!” Dustin hissed back, looking at you fondly from a distance, “You remember what Eddie said? ‘Find the little lost sheepies that need us’. Look at her, man. Doesn’t that scream little lost sheep to you?”

They turned to look at you simultaneously. After looking both ways to check the coast was clear, you commandeered Dustin’s abandoned chocolate pudding. Spooning the syrupy peaches, pears, pineapple, and single half of maraschino cherry of your fruit cocktail inside, you mixed the chocolate and fruit together. Lathing up the leftover pudding with your tongue, the spoon was licked clean before you tossed it vaguely into an indignant girl’s creamed corn, but she was too afraid to yell at you while you were armed with chocolate.

With great relish you began eating your concoction with your fingers.

Mike grimaced while Dustin just laughed.

“She’s perfect.” Dustin gushed, “And you should see her drawings, they’re badass!”

“Just because she’s a gross weirdo who’s good at drawing doesn’t mean she knows jackshit about tabletop games!” Mike growled, nearly gagging when he saw you mop up the leftover pudding in the can with your bread roll, “You bring a beginner into Hellfire Club, Eddie’s gonna blow a goddamn gasket! He’s already on the warpath because of Lucas’ championship game tonight, can you imagine what he’ll do when we bring in The Bitch?!”

“Mike, relax. Eddie’s not going to know she’s a novice. Everyone still flips through the handbook, they won’t notice if she does it. We’ll give her a crash course, I’ll even let her borrow my Player’s Handbook so she can come in looking like she at least knows the basics. And if Eddie does get pissed we can just… ease him into the idea that a succulent babe wants to play with him.”

Dustin made the shape of a curved figure with his hands, while Mike looked ready to punch him in the groin.

“You think he’s going to fold for a fat girl?” Mike snarled.

“… Shut up Mike,” Dustin said, immediately protective of you, “He’s going to fold for a cute girl. Look at her! Soft arms, round face, thick thighs… Eddie’s gonna lose his goddamn mind, man! That’s like his ideal type.”

They continued to argue back and forth, finally coming to a grudging resolution when Dustin dragged Mike back by the shirt to your lunch table.

“If this goes to shit, I know where you live.” Mike hissed quietly.

“Shhhh!” Dustin slapped Mike’s arm before looking back at you with a dopey grin.

You were staring down both of them, eyes flicking from Dustin to Mike. The empty pudding cup can was sitting exactly where it had been once full before, but the pop top was gone, and you were pretending like you hadn’t just gone to town on an unholy concoction.

“I made a decision.” You said suddenly.

The two freshmen looked at one another, before leaning in closer. Mike looked skeptical, but Dustin’s grin was nearly splitting his face in half.

“I’ll play with you guys.” You said after a few seconds.

Dustin couldn’t help but fist pump into the air, nearly tipping over backwards on his chair while Mike just grimaced like he was about to puke. An imperfect smile with chocolate teeth flashed at the boys, and you were just about to speak when Mike stopped the party.

“Okay, listen… if you’re going to play, you’re going to have to put in the work, it’s not like playing Monopoly.” He said, staring you down, “This is serious shit.”

You closed your mouth, head tilting to the side.

“Oh… I thought it was like, making your own characters and pretending to be them and stuff.” You said.

“It is, but it’s a lot more nuanced than that. Our Advanced D&D campaigns are different. We play very combat heavy sessions, we use actual strategy in battle. It’s not a goddamn tea party.”

“And Eddie takes the rules very seriously…” Dustin chimed in, “So we’ll have to familiarize you with the basics.”

“Eddie!?”

Both boys jumped back as you banged your hands on the table, getting up close and nearly crawling on top over to them. The students sitting next to you collectively jumped, the metal legs of their chairs scraping and making a horrid screech against the linoleum flooring.

“You mean… you’re talking about Eddie The Freak, right?” You hissed under your breath.

“Eddie Munson.” Dustin corrected, frowning when you called him a freak, “He’s the dungeon master of our club… of Hellfire Club.”

Your eyes widened, and your chest began to rise and fall rapidly.

“You’re right though. That is the very same freak.” Mike cut in, lowering his pitch hoping that feeding into the negativity would scare you away, “He’s a dick to newcomers. You might get the boot if he finds out we brought you in without having any background knowledge of D&D.”

His words made you shrink back, looking at your lunch tray and the little mess of chocolate you’d unknowingly splattered on your clothes. Dustin could have killed Mike, while the latter just looked smug.

And then… you began to giggle.

“Okay…” you smiled.

“Okay?!” Mike and Dustin repeated.

Mike managed to speak up while Dustin was still picking his smiling jaw up off the floor.

“You’re sure you still want to play?” Mike asked, panicking as he pulled out all the stops to get you to quit, “Eddie is not a patient guy with new players, he’s going to rip you to pieces and sacrifice you to the devil!”

You nodded quickly, breathlessly hyperventilating.

“Yeah…! I… If Eddie Munson is running the game… I really wanna play.”

Dustin gave a high pitched giggle of his own and shook Mike’s shoulder, absolutely loving the way your face broke out into a goofy grin. You didn’t even flinch at Mike’s attempts to scare you.

“You got a thing for him or something?” Mike ventured cautiously.

“Yes.”

You answered so unabashedly, with no hesitation, that for a minute it actually endeared you to Mike. Who knew that The Bitch of Hawkins High was actually a human being with wants and needs?

“Wait… are you serious?” Mike asked.

“Uh huh…”

You giggled, biting your lower lip and covering your burning face.

“I think… I think he’s really hot…”

If they had been drinking Tab, they would have spit the liquid out all over you.

“You think Eddie’s hot?” Dustin wheezed.

“Yeah… um… I’ve had this like monster crush on Eddie since I was in fifth grade. He did like this talent show and played the guitar real good, and he’s all loud and funny and crazy and I think he’s got a real charming smile…”

The cadence in your already deep contralto was lilting into a mezzo soprano the more you talked about their sadistic dungeon master, and you were rocking side to side in your plastic chair while Dustin and Mike just watched you make a complete ass of yourself.

This probably would have turned into two hours of blabbing, had not Mike refocused you and Dustin and begun to actually lay out the basics of TSR’s Advanced Dungeons and Dragons. No time to lose, back to business. If you were going to play with Eddie you had a lot of catching up to do. They had a spare set of dice, and Mike helped you roll for stats as Dustin began to write out a crude character sheet for you based on your imaginative ideas.

“We can probably make you a character very quickly.” Mike said, flipping through his own Mead Composition notebook as he checked past characters that had died valiantly in battle, “I have one you can use. Barbarians are stupid easy for first timers since you’re just hitting shit with a sword-...”

“I want a character based on my story I’m writing!” You exclaimed, and then you subjected Mike to your brief (lie) synopsis of one of many witchy characters who was cursed by a dark goddess.

It took a lot of adjusting and words that held no meaning to you, like “Domain of Trickery” and “Cleric of Shar”. The two freshmen helped you settle on a character that would be deemed useful for Hellfire’s campaign, and made sure to force feed you every rule and spell that Gygax and Arneson had conceived for your chosen class. True to his word, Dustin let you borrow the Player’s Handbook he carried with him at all times when the bell to conclude lunch rang out. You took it with promises that you’d give it back when you met them outside of the drama room later after school, already burying your nose in the pages when you walked off to your class.

The boys saw a different side of you that possibly no one else in the school ever had: a familiar side, a human side. A side that was brutally honest and sometimes a little mean, but just as vulnerable and relatable as anyone else. A consensus had been reached during their shared English class: you were definitely weird, but actually pretty smart and imaginative. Possibilities of keeping you on as a permanent member were being discussed when Dustin and Mike found you hiding behind the lockers just outside the drama room around three pm.

“What are you doing?” Mike asked.

You shook your head, clutching your fat trapper keeper to your chest and handing Dustin back his Player’s Handbook.

“Eddie’s in there…” you muttered, chewing on the spine of your trapper keeper covered in duct tape

“Yeah, he usually gets there with Jeff, Gareth and Frank really early, to set up the map and the dice towers.” Mike nodded.

From the rectangular slat of a window, one could see Gareth and Frank meticulously setting up Jenga pieces and miniatures on top of a slab of butcher paper marked in sharpie, janky cindrilical tubes painted to look like castle towers were set up at each place at the table (the dice towers, fashioned from Pringles cans, cardboard, glue and paint). Eddie and Jeff were deep in conversation, plugging in lamps and electric candelabras left over from the drama club’s last production of ‘Pride and Prejudice’. Inside the mood was almost holy, reverent (or like Eddie liked to call it: a softcore porn on Valentine’s day mood), and the boys couldn’t help the eagerness as they went to the door.

You, however, stayed firmly planted behind the lockers.

“What are you doing?!” Mike hissed, “Come on! We’re gonna be late because of you!”

“I don’t wanna go in…!” You snapped back, suddenly shy.

Mike looked at Dustin, ready to destroy him, while Dustin tried to talk you down.

“Hey, hey! Come on, it’s okay. Don’t worry! You have a good character, and if you need help you can just sit with me and Mike-…”

“But what if he doesn’t like me?” You protested.

“I swear to you on my mother that Eddie is going to love you.” Dustin said, trying to calm you down, “You’re great. You actually came with a character to play, and he’s going to be so happy that a girl is showing interest in his hobbies.”

You were about to turn tail and leave when you felt an iron grip around the meat of your bicep, pulling you forward with an unnatural strength born entirely of Nerd Rage.

“Oh hell no!” Mike said, pulling you kicking and protesting towards the door, “You’re not doing this to me right now god dammit! You’re going to get your ass in there, and you’re going to play! I didn’t sit through lunch listening to your weird edgy character backstory just so you could pussy out at the last minute! Now get your ass. In. NOW!”

With a harsh shove, you flew into the drama room – tripping on your own two feet trying to catch yourself – and spilling the contents of your trapper keeper all over the ground. Strong hands caught you before you face planted into the floor, holding you steady.

“Easy, easy!” Called out a familiar voice, “Goddamn... What the hell was that for, Mike?! You could’ve broken her nos-…”

Eddie Munson’s voice trailed off, and the boys watched as their fearless leader, their metalhead bard, began to stare open mouthed slack jawed at you.

“You told us to find a lost sheep.” Mike snarled, “So here she is.”

[heylittleriotact]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Thank you for the tag @preciouslittlebhaalbae - I love ember and I’m excited to see how this oneshot plays out! ♥️

I’m on vacation this week and not getting a whole lot of writing done, but here’s the first part of Chapter 20 of i heard people are dying to get in here.

🌱💚🌱💚🌱💚🌱

Three Months Later

A world-weary sigh found its way past Rook's lips as she studied the cremation paperwork in her hand.

1 x Ashen Pewter

3 x Ashen Pewter Miniature

2 x Sterling Silver Teardrop Pendant

1 x Sterling Silver Dog Tag Pendant

"Fucking hate filling jewelry..." she muttered, tossing the cremation contract onto the counter and lifting the small blue Rubbermaid container over to the hand towel that was spread out.

She found the cardboard boxes containing the urns taped shut and bearing the name of the deceased scribbled in Sharpie on the side: one big one, three little ones, and three small jewelry boxes.

Using a box cutter, she opened the largest box and pulled out the styrofoam prism that was packed tightly inside, gently laying it on the counter and lifting away one half to reveal the urn within. Snagging the contract again, she looked at the personalization field of the printed document.

Name: First, Last; D.O.B. - D.O.D.; 'Forever In Our Hearts'; Font: Elegant Script.

Her eyes went back and forth between the information on the paper and the front of the matte finish, grey-blue metal urn: it would have been checked over when the crem received it, but Rook had learned not to rely on other people's eyes when several-hundred-dollars worth of merchandise was on the table.

Satisfied that the manufacturer hadn't mistakenly engraved 'Arnold' instead of 'Ronald', Rook slipped the urn from the styrofoam and set about filling it: the lid was popped off the Rubbermaid to reveal the clear plastic bag of cremated remains within, sealed with a twist-tie, the scorched metal cremation tag resting against the backdrop of powdery grey and white skeletal remains.

It was Tuesday, and this urn was due to be received by the family the next day, along with three others that Becks hadn't seen fit to fill during the weekend when she covered the chapel for Rook's days off.

If there was one thing she'd learned in the months she'd been at Pemberly, it was that no one actually seemed to understand how fucking busy it actually was. For some reason because it wasn't as big as Hilldwell or Arbor Heights, it was automatically assumed that it didn't boast nearly the same volume of calls on a monthly basis - a fact that Rook took it upon herself to disprove one day when it wasn't insanely busy and sat down to calculate and average out the monthly calls that Pemberly got versus the amount that Hilldwell and Arbor Heights got. While Pemberly tailed both chapels by an average of thirty or so calls, it still averaged out to eighty-odd calls per month, which worked out to between two and three new calls per day, and nearly twenty per week.

That was a lot of dead people. A lot of grieving people coming through the doors. A lot of identifications and arrangements and obituaries and clothing drop-offs and urn pick ups.

And she was the only admin there.

There were no funeral attendants or directors unless there was a service or visitation scheduled, and half the attendants that ended up there were happy to sit in the lunchroom snacking on greasy hamburgers and fries during services instead of actually doing anything useful.

She had a housekeeper when she first moved, but Eloise had been on stress leave for over a month by then, and management seemed to think that along with every other aspect of the chapel, Rook surely had more than enough time to vacuum, mop, dust, shovel snow, and prepare coffee and cookies for arrangement meetings.

She glanced over her shoulder at the cremation container on a bier behind her and prayed that by the time her other two identifications were finished and she could move this one into a free visitation room, the person inside wouldn't be a mess of purge, which would be just her luck.

Emmrich was scheduled to come to the chapel for three o'clock arrangements, and she found herself hoping his graveside service at one would wrap up early enough so that he could come early - she felt a bit pathetic relying on him for help, but on a day like today, an extra set of hands would be extremely welcomed...

She pulled a fresh plastic bag from the drawer under the counter and arranged it inside the empty Ashen Pewter after sticking a label with the decedent's name, date of death, and cremation number to the bag itself and the bottom of the urn: if the urn ever went missing, or the bag of cremated remains was removed from the urn for whatever reason, this way the remains could be identified and returned to McDermott & Rafferty so someone could contact the family.

Having done this many times by now, Rook made short work of filling the main urn, the keepsakes, and was carefully spooning finely ground but gritty ash into the last of the pendants when she heard the side door in the garage slam, announcing the entrance of another employee.

"You made it!" She called to the adjacent space, rolling the threading of the small screw in the small puddle of blue thread-locker she'd squeezed onto a paper towel and using the small Allen wrench provided to negotiate the small metal piece into place on the back of the pendant. She gave it a couple of quick twists and squinted at the pendant, wiping away a bit of excess thread-locker and then setting it down with the others to dry. "I was wondering when you'd get here–" she negotiated around the cremation container in the middle of the room and entered the garage. "– how was the graveside?"

The welcome sight of Emmrich did not greet her in the garage, however, but rather the daft pink face of Derek, flanked by none other than... Elgar'nan?

Rook stiffened, immediately on the defensive the moment that vile cologne assaulted her nose.

What the fuck are these clowns doing here? They better not be fixing to fire me...

"Hello, Rook," Derek said, in his hollow yet amiable tone. "I'm giving Elgar'nan a tour of our facilities. Pemberly is our last stop - I’ll take Emmrich’s three o’clock arrangements since I’m already here.”

You mean you’ll sit in the arrangement office with the family for two hours and accomplish absolutely nothing and leave the rest for me to follow up with tomorrow?

Tagging: @xxnashiraxx @aldisobey @emmg @ollypopwrites @razildor

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Writer tip: Repeating a character trait doesn't make it true.

"he/she/they were clever." said ad nauseum doesn't make it true. Prove it in the text, demonstrate it.

I mean you could tell me. And you could show me the university certificate, but it doesn't make it true and I won't believe you.

s/He was an inventor. Fine. He was an inventor, then demonstrate it in the text. Are they a one-trick pony and can't apply it after you introduce it? Then I think he stole the invention. He doesn't know how it works, can't demonstrate it being useful in other applications, can't figure out how to invent anything on the spot, has no mind of being an engineer. I don't believe you. Give me the mindset of the person.

The person was intelligent... again, demonstrate this is true in the text by them using words in context that makes them sound emotionally and intellectually intelligent. I'd be much more impressed if they were explaining fancy mathematical theory to a three year old using three-year old language than I would be them using long multi-syllabic words at random. That takes extra intelligence, to me. Fermat's Theorem AND be sensitive enough to get a Three year old's attention, hold it, and get the kid to understand. That's like intelligence on steroids.

It's not show or tell in this case, it's *actually put it into the text* instead of slamming me with the character trait over and over.

If I went around telling everyone every ten seconds I was smart, and I was clever, would you believe me? If I said I got into Yale, maybe you would wince and ask something like, Iunno, were you a nepo?

But if I told you I watched an episode of MacGyver and then broke apart a mechanical pencil for the spring and used some sticky tack to fix a screen door. That would lead some credence to how I was smart.

(BTW, he wasn't fixing a screen door in the episode).

If I told you I used dental floss to make a locking door open from the other side, you might believe me (It was a lunchroom push door. I'd gone to the dentist the previous day and had it in my pocket. I got sick of getting up for the door, so rigged it.)

BTW, this isn't a copy-paste moment, but to think up your own creative solutions to problems and try to borrow the mindset of everything can be fixed with duct tape, for example.

In another words, the more I demonstrate the logic, the mindset, then you'll start to believe me.

This person was creative. Still doesn't make it true. This person did avante garde paintings challenging colonialism and a dying planet using mixed mediums and trash, might tip those scales.

Frankly, I don't care if you tell me, or if you show me, just demonstrate it on the page it's true instead of repeating it over and over at me.

Go MacGyver with your engineer. Know your art movements for your artist. Know your pirouettes for your ballerinas. Pick up at least a fraction of the mindsets, so when Iunno, a computer engineer looks at someone saying the UX person told them that the program functions, but it doesn't actually work, it makes sense. (I saw a Japanese drama do this brilliantly, BTW, and I was delighted. On the flip side, I've seen people try to pass HTML and Javascript as "programming" especially badly formatted Javascript. I'm looking at you Square Space. WTF was with that badly formatted Javascript and calling that "programming". I may lack game, but seriously, that's not a good advertisement. Look, our program spits out terrible javascript and we don't know what programming and scripting is...) This is why the best writers are nerds. Wok Hei for your Chinese chef. I spent 3 hours looking up old waterwheels to get the engineering.

Again, don't use AI to get there, do the work and find an edge to play with. A gap. Because AI can't find gaps. A lot of professions have mindsets or varying mindsets. And if you capture that, you'll get ahead. Did I watch Cells at Work because doctors highly recommended the anime, yes I did. But I also picked up how doctors think.

BTW, dropping into process story structure for a little bit to demonstrate the impact or the brilliance of a chef, a painter, an engineer, etc usually tips people over the edge. It doesn't have to consume that long in the book either.

[m1ssunderstanding]

Get Back Rewatch 55 Years On: Day Eight

So Ringo walks in first thing in the morning carrying not one, but two drinks. Either he’s being very gentlemanly to MLH (likely) or we’re getting a peek at his alcohol problem (also likely)

Ringo your boooots! Ugh, I want them so bad. And paired with the shiny red shirt and jeans? Like if Dorothy was rodeo royalty.

Paul’s defense-mechanism overdone charm coming in strong today. Playfighting with some random old man, winking at someone else as he walks by, all chipper and bouncy, boyish and cute.

“If it came to a push . . . between Yoko and the Beatles, it’s Yoko, you know . . . ‘Why do you build me up, build me up, buttercup baby, just to let me down?” Linda grabs his hand and he shuts up. Another on my list of covers with *meaning* and if this one isn’t obvious, I don’t know what is. Even Linda was embarrassed for him. But here’s the thing. He’s so sure that if he pushed John to choose between Yoko and the band, that John’d choose Yoko. And he’s probably right there. But what John wants, IMO, whether he knows it or not, is for Paul to push him to choose between Yoko and HIM. Not the band. I really do think that’s what John wants and the fact that Paul’s not doing that confirms John’s belief that Paul doesn’t love him.

“Permanently engaged?” *literally starts to vibrate with anxiety* *whistles to self-soothe*

Okay, but, if I’m remembering correctly, actually in the nagras Paul’s answer to MLH’s “Do you think if you put any pressure on him that he’d go your way a bit more?” is actually “I don’t know, you know . . . can’t be bothered.” Not. “I don’t know, you know . . . and then there were two.” As AKOM said in one of their Get Back episodes, that line is actually a joke not even from that moment. So the tears? Real. The line? No.

Ringo is Not a fan of Paul just casually planning ways to announce the breakup.

Couldn’t even get a picture of Paul jumping out of his chair to talk to John because he moves so fast. Poor baby.

I wonder how early on Linda and Paul developed the “she says what he can’t say while he’s gone” play? You know? I definitely don’t think this early, but this moment does remind me of that little strategy of theirs.

“He’s coming in.” Just now takes his coat off. Meaning he's just now decided to stay? Or he's just now remembered he's still got it on? Either way, Paul's suddenly all easy smiles, relaxed, joking. John’s coming in. What could be wrong?

I was literally so pissed when I first watched this lunchroom conversation. I won’t claim to be a nagras expert or anything, but I was very familiar with the secretly-taped conversation, and it was just so butchered and spliced. Also, even if it was just them talking, it’s still not a private conversation. They’re in a crowded public space. So it’s still coded and veiled and layered etc. MLH you should’ve bugged their coats for the meeting at George’s if you’d wanted a private convo. (obvs I don’t condone that sort of thing don’t come at me)

Paul and John invite Ringo to go see George. Ringo: I was going anyway. Of course you were. Ringo’s the glue, everyone. Lewisohn can think it’s John that everyone had their closest relationship with in the group, but actually, it’s Ringo.

Ringo and Mal’s little two-step. Adorable!

See, and Ringo being the one to suggest they rehearse. It’s not just Paul being bossy all the time, kids, and it’s not just John being a leader all the time, kids. Sometimes it’s Ringo.

“Why don’t I leave my favorite guitar here as a sign?” “Look, look, what greater faith could a man have than to leave his list?” You know, like when that mean teacher makes you give them a shoe or your phone or something when they let you borrow a pencil just to make sure you won’t steal it?

[brokeitwiththepowerofmathamatics]

Fanfic - Ghost of the Cards

This was written for a "back to school" fic challenge on a DP server I'm in. It was beta read by HeroineofTime!

For the challenge, we had to write a fic that was around going back to school, and had to include in some way homework, detention, backpack, friends, and bells.

(ao3 here) (ff.net here)

Danny knew that Dash and the A-Listers would probably try to find some way to make his life miserable, but he had to admit this was actually kind of funny.

Danny huffed as he ran up to the school doors. Yes, he could have just flown in using his ghost powers while invisible, then pop out of one of the bathroom stalls or something, but after the summer vacation, and the multitude of close calls of almost being caught by… well… everyone… (no Jazz, he was not being careless because he wanted to be caught and freed from the burden of secrecy) he decided not to risk using his powers at school today.

In retrospect, that didn't help anything.

Danny walked through the school doors, he was greeted by the sight of one of the lunchroom tables laid out in the school entryway. Star and Paulina were sitting at the table, greeting all the students as they came in, and handing out little boxes.

Danny resolved himself to ignore it, but he didn't get a chance to.

"Hey! Fenton!" Star called out. Danny sighed and walked over. Star glanced over at Paulina and the two of them started giggling.

Danny already had a bad feeling but now it was worse. "Hey, Star," he greeted.

"Hello!" Star said, sitting up straight. Her posture was perfect, not leaning in any friendly manner, but she wasn’t leaning away like she normally would. (At least, while people could see her) "Here! Take this!" she said, handing him one of the boxes. Her voice was oddly chipper for a typical interaction with him. "The art club kept meeting over the summer, and we came up with something fun! The teachers are all helping out with this!"

"Uh… thanks? What is it?" Danny asked, tilting the box over in his hands. It was a cardboard box that was printed to look like the outside of Casper High, with a large ‘TCG’ floating over the school's name. There was also a piece of masking tape on the back, that Danny noticed wasn't on the others.

This box had been marked for him.

"It's a card game! You should know all about those!"

Danny sighed. "Not really? Look, I know I'm a nerd, but I like video games and space." Danny shook the box around. "Card games haven't been my thing."

Star rolled her eyes. "Whatever, look, I gotta keep handing these out." She looked past him and raised her hand. "Kwan! Over here!"

Where Kwan was, Dash soon followed, so Danny dashed away.

Danny checked where his locker was supposed to be, before running up the stairs to the top floor. Fighting the urge to pump a fist as he did so. Not only was it the top floor, but it was close to a janitor closet, and in a dead end part of the school. Not many people would be coming by here unless it was specifically to drop stuff at their locker, or go to the history teacher's room that was on the other side of the wall.

And more importantly, Sam and Tucker were apparently next to him as well.

Thank Clockwork for small mercies.

"You're welcome," Tucker said as he took a stack of cards from Sam.

"Don't mention it, I don't want to see it, I don't want to hear about them, and the moment I’m allowed to get my hands around Paulina’s little neck I’ll-"

Danny jogged up and interrupted their conversation. "Whoa, what's going on?" he asked. He couldn’t help but be proud of himself, this was about as far as you could get from the school entrance, and despite jogging the whole way, he wasn’t out of breath at all. Apparently, the early morning jogs with Sam were actually helping.

Sam whirled toward Danny, and then zero'd in on the box in his hands. "It's that stupid card game that Star and Paulina started.” she spat, pointing at it with about as much hate as she had for the pink dresses her mother kept buying her. “They started with- hey wait, Danny, don't-"

But, Danny kept opening the box. "I just want to see what the big deal is." He opened the box as Sam stammered. She opened and closed her mouth multiple times before giving up and biting down on a knuckle.

The box contained several booster packs of cards, each wrapped up in foil, and a booklet that was probably the game rules. In all honesty, Danny was impressed. He wasn't a connoisseur of playing cards or anything, but this seemed very much like the cards he'd see at the big box stores.

Danny tore up the first pack and looked at the cards. He frowned when he saw the first card that greeted him was a picture of Dash. It was a picture of his bully at what was probably last year's homecoming football game, with two golden stars above it. Underneath the picture were two boxes, one with a red sword along with a 5, and another with a blue shield with an 8. At the bottom of the card was a big box saying, "Teamplayer, for every other card on the field with the text teamplayer on, this card gains 1 power and 1 toughness."

Danny rolled his eyes and flipped through the cards. Obviously the reason why this box was marked wasn't because he was supposed to see Dash's ugly mug. Sam continued to stare nervously as Danny went through the cards.

Danny paused on another card, this one wasn’t a photo, but a drawn art piece of Ember. Instead of the stars, there was a green letter ‘G’ above the picture. Ember had a 10 for the sword, and the shield had a 10 as well.

At the bottom of her card was a similar box as Dash’s card. “Leader, when this card is played, take a card from your hand and put it in one of the lanes next to this card. It must follow normal summoning rules.”

Danny huffed. “Ember would hate this card, she doesn’t do duets.” The comment got a laugh out of Tucker but Sam continued to look nervous. She wouldn’t be worried if it was a ghost (other than him) being upset, that meant this wasn’t what had gotten under her skin. So, Danny continued flipping through the cards.

Then he found it.

It was a picture of him, looking panicked. Danny recognized it as around one of the times Skulker really had it out for him from last year during prom. His card was lacking any of the stars, but it also had a big fat 0 next to the power and toughness stats.

The only saving grace to his card was the bottom text, which Danny read aloud. "Moving on, when this card dies, play another card."

The hall was silent for a moment as Danny processed what he was seeing. Sam reached out carefully towards Danny, almost like she was afraid he'd break down in front of him.

Danny couldn't take it anymore.

He started laughing. Full blown laughs, the ugly ones that made you wheeze cause you weren't able to breath properly.

"Danny?" Sam asked, bewildered.

"Oh my gosh, this is perfect!" Danny got out before gasping for air. "I can't believe- oh my god- they did- I can't- I can't breathe, oh my god I can't breathe! I'm laughing too hard!"

"Okay, Danny, seriously…" Sam said, folding her arms and tapping her foot against the ground. "This isn't funny."

Danny took several big gulps full of air. "Sam, it's really funny." Sam continued to glare and Danny leaned forward and whispered. "Sam, my card's power is going ghost." He frowned. "Wait, do you think-"

"That the A-Lister's know?" Tucker interrupted, shuffling his cards around, "Nah, if they did, Dash would be worshiping the ground you walk on, not talking about how he can't wait to see your face when you see your card."

"I think he's gonna be pretty disappointed."

Sam huffed and leaned against the lockers. "You're both taking this pretty well considering the school is basically systematically bullying Danny." She turned toward Danny and her eyebrows rose slightly. "I'm gonna be honest. I'm not okay with this. I'm not. I know you're saying it's funny, but Danny… the school made a card that said your only purpose is to die… That's really messed up."

Danny shrugged and checked that no one was coming down the hall before shoving his hand through his locker door and hanging up his backpack. "I mean, they're not wrong."

"Danny!"

Danny turned to face Sam. "Sam, I'm a straight D student… I'm also the-" Danny checked the hall again and still didn't see anyone coming around the corner, "-the local super hero. Literally, my superpower is to die on command. It's really exactly wrong... Also, where is everyone else? School starts in like… thirty minutes doesn't it?"

Sam's eyes narrowed and she turned toward Tucker, Tucker however was laughing. "Jazz moved your clocks ahead so you'd make it on time. We got like an hour and half."

"What! I can't believe she'd do that!" Danny paused then shrugged. "Well, actually I can and I think that's worse."

Sam reached over and pulled on Danny's arm. "I'm not letting this drop," she said, holding eye contact with Danny and holding onto his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly tight, and her arm was shaking slightly. "It's not okay that the school did this, you know? You're allowed to be mad about it."

"I'm not though! Sam, I really don't care."

"Well, fine, but I do… I'm not okay with them doing this. I'm gonna tear the school a new one," she said, grabbing Danny's arm with her other hand. "When I get home, I'm talking to my grandma and I'm finding the best lawyer I can and then Mr. Lancer can kiss every bonus he'd ever get goodb-"

Danny sighed and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, interrupting her litigious rant. "Sam, aren't you the one always telling me not to worry about what other people think?" His hand slid from the top of her shoulder as he ran his hand up and down her arm, trying to get her to calm down.

Sam shook her head, though she leaned into his touch. "This is very different, and you know it,” she whispered.

"Hey, guys?" Tucker interrupted from his spot on the floor. "I hate to end this tender moment, but it gets better." Tucker waved the booklet around in front of Danny and Danny snatched it out of his hands.

Danny read for a few moments before his eyes went wide. "Oh… oh!"

Tucker smiled and started nodding. "You're seeing it too, aren't you?"

"Dude, there's no way-"

"I read the whole thing back to back, yeah, no, it's EXACTLY what you're thinking it is!"

Sam frowned. "What on earth are you guys-"

"Danny!" The trio turned around to see Jazz marching up to them. "Danny, did you-" She froze as she saw the rule book in Danny's hands. "Oh, you opened the pack, didn't you?"

Danny waved the cards around. "Yeah, I did. Why?"

Jazz frowned and straightened her back. "Cause I did too, and I got one of your cards."

Danny perked up. "Really? Can I have it?"

Jazz took a step back, and folded her arms across her chest. "Uhh…" She glanced up at Sam who walked over to Jazz's side. "No?" it shouldn't have sounded like a question, but it definitely did.

"He's already seen it," Sam groaned. "I'm telling him he can be mad about it-"

"Guys, guys, listen, my card's power is dying. It's objectively hilarious."

Jazz glared at Danny. "No, the card is… I mean… it's…" Jazz's righteous anger slowly fizzled out as she stammered, unsure of exactly what she was saying. Obviously she knew the implications of what the card was saying, but she didn't want to say it herself.

"Wait, wait…" Danny interrupted, shaking his hands about in the air. Before he pointed at Jazz and raised his voice. "You moved my clocks forward! I could have been sleeping!"

Jazz rolled her eyes. "You'll be thankful since you can actually get your textbooks because you got here on time." She huffed and ran a hand through her hair. "Danny, I really don't think you're getting how serious this is."

This time it was Danny's turn to roll his eyes. "The A-Listers made a stupid card game, tried to make a joke about me being useless, accidentally made a joke that is so accurate that probably every single one of us has wondered if the secret is out." At that, everyone else suddenly refused to make eye contact.

"I mean…" Tucker began scratching under his beret.

Sam coughed. "Paulina for all her faults is pretty observant."

Jazz huffed. "It's better than what this actually is."

Danny just raised an eyebrow at them and folded his arms. The silence stretched for a moment before Sam walked up to Danny. "Danny, you're my best friend. Sorry Tuck, no offense."

"Some taken," Tucker responded cheerfully.

"And because you're my best friend, I don't care if you are or aren't bothered by the stupid card. 'Cause I am. The school told my best friend he was worthless, and I'm not okay with that. Maybe they didn't mean that, maybe it just slipped through. But that's what this looks like to me, and probably looks like to all the kids in the school."

"Except for all the card nerds," Tucker chimed in.

"What?" Jazz asked, turning towards Tucker. "Why?"

Instead of an answer, the four of them jumped as screams came from down the stairs. The four exchanged glances before running down the stairs. They followed the screams and fleeing students back towards the school entrance, where almost everyone was fleeing from a terrifying ghost.

"I AM THE BOX GHOST!"

Terrifying if you hadn't been paying attention the entirety of last year, that is.

Five students groaned, Tucker, Sam, and Jazz all turned to see that Valerie had appeared. The four of them froze as one, realizing they were not as alone as they thought they were, and they started to think about how to get the others to leave so that one of the two ghost hunters here could fight the ghost in peace.

Except Danny was not having it.

"For the love of fudge and Clockwork!" Danny shouted, marching towards the Box Ghost. He snatched up one of the card boxes as he marched toward the floating annoyance. "You, Box Ghost. I have a box here, a shiny cardboard box. I give you this, you leave. Okay?"

The Box Ghost floated closer to Danny. "That is indeed a splendid box most shiny…" The Box Ghost mused as he rubbed his chin. Inspecting the box for blemishes and appropriate squareness.

Danny reached up and grabbed the Box Ghost by his shirt, pulling him down to eye level. He then whispered to him, "If you don't take the box and make like a ghost and disappear, then the next time Phantom sees you, he's gonna shove his fist so far down your throat you'll be tasting rubber for the rest of your afterlife.” The Box Ghost’s eyes widened, perhaps sensing that Danny was very much serious. He snatched the box out of Danny’s hands before floating back out of reach. “HA HA, the BOX GHOST accepts your tribute! He shall now go far away and uncover the secrets of your mysterious cardboard-!”

“We get it,” Danny growled.

The Box Ghost jumped back about three feet, before shouting, “BEWARE!” as a final farewell, and then flying through the walls.

Danny huffed and wiped his hands on his jeans before turning back towards his friends. He took two steps before he heard someone say, “Fenton?”

Danny turned to see Star peeking at him from behind an overturned table, apparently that was the source of the spilled boxes that Danny had picked from. Good to see that the training from the last year or so had stuck when dealing with ghosts. Danny reached down and picked up a couple of the boxes. Of the three he grabbed, one had masking tape on the back of it, like the one that had been given to him.

Danny juggled the boxes around to get a free hand to lift the table back upright. “I don’t know why you two are freaking out, it’s just the Box Ghost…” At their incredulous looks and Jazz clearing her throat behind him, Danny coughed and quickly added, “I mean… even I’ve stopped running from the Box Ghost over the summer.”

Star and Paulina looked at each other as Danny put the boxes down, though the marked box he kept. He ran his fingers over the masking tape and then gave a pointed look at each of them. Paulina looked at the box then at Danny, before recognition lit up in her eye. It was replaced a moment later as she realized that he knew what that meant. Her eyes widened and she glanced at Danny’s friends. Tucker and Valerie were picking up boxes, but Sam and Jazz were steadfastly not.

If looks could shoot ectoblasts, Paulina and Star would have gone ghost right there.

Paulina took a step back as Star held out a hand for the box, giving him her nicest, warmest, and fakest smile. “Well, thanks, Fenton!”

Danny pulled back and said, “I’m keeping this one.”

Star’s smile dropped just slightly. “Oh? But you already got one?”

Danny tapped on the masking tape with his index finger. “It’s got my card in it, doesn’t it?” At that Star’s smile dropped and her eyes went wide. Danny turned around and started walking away. He walked over to where Valerie, Jazz, Tucker, and Sam were all talking. “Hey, Valerie!” Danny greeted.

Valerie shifted uncomfortably. Glancing between him and the others.“Hey, Danny,” she greeted back hesitantly. Before he could ask what was bothering her, she barreled on. “What’s that about your card?”

Jazz turned toward Danny as he started tearing into the box. “The school made that card game, and everyone has a card.” She explained. “The A-Listers used the opportunity to try and bully Danny.”

“What?” Valerie gasped.

“Sweet!” Danny exclaimed after tearing open the packs. “I got two of mine!” He held them up in victory, but Valerie snatched them out of his hand. “Hey! Give me those! I fought a ghost for them!”

Valerie scoffed. “Yeah, right. Anyone with a brain can deal with the Box Ghost.”

“Which explains why the A-Listers were hiding from him.”

Valerie did not continue the quippy back and forth, instead her jaw dropped as she read the card. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“I don’t make a habit of lying,” Sam lied. Lying was second nature to all of them at this point, though Danny would admit he still wasn’t good at thinking on his feet. “The card’s only purpose is to get on the field and die.”

Danny snatched the cards back. “Guys, you’re making it out to be so much worse than it is.”

Valerie whirled on Danny. “Danny! This is awful! Look, I’ve looked past a lot of Star and Paulina’s stuff, but this is bad…”

Danny shuffled through the cards. “Guys, seriously drop it. I’m sure the A-Lister’s weren’t thinking, cause if they were they wouldn’t have made my card so strong.”

Everyone except for Tucker, who had actually read the rule book, looked at each other confused and managed to ask, “What?”

Then the doors of the building got thrown open. Some people screamed and dove for cover, others started running without thinking, while a few others turned to look at the new threat.

Maddie Fenton walked into the school building with fire and fury behind her. Her eyes sweeped the entrance hallway before falling on Jazz and Danny. She marched over to them, and Danny immediately went ramrod straight as he recognized just how pissed she was. He hadn’ seen her this mad since he had broken the vase she had bought.

(In his defense, it was haunted.)

“Jazz, sweetie,” she began, her voice icy cold. “May I see what you were calling about?”

Jazz produced one of the cards and handed it over to her mother. “Yeah, I got one right here.”

Danny opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it as he saw the look on his mother’s face. She growled and turned. “Come along kids, I’m going to have a talk with the school principal, right now.”

No longer in his mom’s sight, Danny found his voice, though his feet followed after her like a duckling. “Mom, please, listen to me. This is not that big of a deal!”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that, sweetie.”

“No, seriously!” Danny turned to Jazz as his mom marched through the school halls. “Jazz, please back me up!”

Jazz sighed and gave him a look like he should know better. “Danny, I’m the one who called her over this.”

Danny tried to argue his case with both of them, but made no progress. It wasn’t much longer before Danny was running a hand down his face as his Mom towered over Principal Ishiyama. “I would like to speak to whoever was in charge of the school’s card game.”

The principal looked behind her at Danny (who was mouthing an apology) and Jazz (who was trying to develop ghost powers to immolate someone with her brain) before meeting her gaze. “Uh… is there a problem?”

“Yes,” Maddie stated. “The teacher?”

“Well, the card game was made by the school’s art club so-”

“The art club has a supervisor. Who. Is. It.” There was no inflection in her words, Danny had heard her speak kinder to the ghosts she had captured.

The principal wavered for a moment before reaching over to her phone. She pressed a few buttons before the school’s P.A system turned on. “Would Mr. Lancer please come to the principal’s office immediately?”

“Sit, children.” Maddie ordered, and Danny and Jazz jumped into the chairs that were set across from the desk.

Once they were sitting, Danny frowned and noticed something. “Uh… should we leave a chair for Mr. Lancer?”

Maddie didn’t break eye contact with the principal. “No.”

They sat in an awkward quiet with Maddie glaring at Principal Ishiyama the entire time before Mr. Lancer stepped into the office. “You wanted to see me?” He asked, “I’m still setting up for class, so-”

Maddie turned toward him. Slowly and insidiously, Danny wouldn’t have been surprised if he heard the sounds of hinges creaking as her head carefully and measuredly turned toward his teacher. “You were in charge of the school’s card game?”

“Uhh, in a manner of speaking? I was just supervising, ensuring the students weren’t misusing school property, or fielding questions.” Lancer answered as he walked over toward the principal’s side. By the looks on their faces, neither knew what this was about.

“Hm,” Maddie vocalized, and Danny winced. That was not a sound of acknowledgement, but the sound of you-have-done-exactly-as-I-expected-you-would-and-now-I’m-disappointed-in-you which was a lot of information given in a single syllable but he was quite familiar with it. “And just how were the card’s strength and health determined?”

“Well, the rules are using power and toughness, but a card’s power was how many clubs and after school activities a student was in, while toughness was a base of 5, with an additional 1 for every grade of B or 2 for A, and a loss of 1 for every detention that a student had.”

The principal leaned forward and cut in. “Ms. Fenton-”

“Doctor,” Maddie corrected, and both Danny and Jazz winced. Their mother usually didn’t care about her title, stating she was a mother and wife first and foremost. She only insisted on being called doctor when she wanted to make a point.

It obviously threw Ishiyama for a loop. She cleared her throat and continued. “Dr. Fenton, perhaps you should explain what exactly-”

“Ms. Ishiyama, were you aware that Mr. Lancer here allowed the school to produce a card that implied my son had no benefit? That all he could do was die?”

Mr. Lancer’s eyes widened. “Excuse me! That is-”

Maddie refused to look in his direction. Instead holding up a hand to cut him off. “And that my son’s special ability is called moving on.”

At this point, Danny jumped up. “Hold on, can I get a say in this?” Danny waved his hands and stood next to the principal, who was beginning to turn pale. “Mom, that’s an inside joke of the school. You know I’ve had to go to the bathroom a lot ever since the accident, so when I have to interrupt class to, Mr. Lancer will give me permission and then say, ‘Moving on’. I know it looks bad, but it’s just an inside joke of the school.”

Mr. Lancer raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Mr. Fenton, I-”

Maddie whirled on him. “Shall I also point out that you are also exposing students’ grades to everyone as well? You must have shared them if the cards are a reflection of their grades.”

Mr. Lancer folded his arms. “I did not, the students asked for a formula for making the numbers, and I ran it myself. The students don’t know anyone’s grades.”

“Yet, you have my son having a zero for his health?” Maddie snapped.

“Even if he had turned in all his homework with 100% grades, which everyone in this room knows he has not, with the number of detentions he has received the last year, he’d still be at a zero.” Mr. Lancer said, shooting Danny a look.

Maddie slammed her hands on principal Ishiyama’s desk. “Do not blame my son for this!”

The principal raised her hands. “Dr. Fenton, I acknowledge that we have done you and your family a major disservice. Even if it was an inside joke, the context is important,” she said, shooting Mr. Lancer a withering glare. “Dare I say, our English teacher should be more than aware of something like that.”

Jazz cleared her throat. “May I ask a question?”

Maddie leaned back and answered for everyone. “Go ahead, sweetie…” even as Danny was shaking his head no.

“Mr. Lancer, did you have any inkling of what was going on?”

“Excuse me?” He said brow furrowing.

“Were you or were not aware that it was very likely that the A-Listers, Star, Paulina, Dash, and Kwan were using this as an opportunity to bully my little brother?”

Mr. Lancer opened his mouth to respond before taking a moment to clear his throat and respond. “I did not know that they were intending to do this, no.”

Maddie frowned and Ishiyama let out a sigh of relief. But Jazz continued, “But did you suspect it? Did you have reason to believe that they were going to do this?”

Lancer was quiet and didn’t answer, instead he chewed on his lip for a moment.

It was a moment too long, and Maddie turned to the principal. “I want him fired.”

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement that doesn’t-”

“He’s either fired, or Fentonworks stops funding the school repairs and anti-ghost tech.”

Danny put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle. “Okay! Okay! No! Mom!” Danny clapped his hands in front of his chest before pointing at her with them. “They can’t fire Mr. Lancer, the school already is having enough trouble finding new teachers because they’re quitting the moment they hear about ghost attacks. Not only that, but if you stop helping the school, the school is gonna have to shut down!”

“Daniel,” Maddie started, her voice deceptively calm and collected. “If this school is not a safe space for my children, then it can burn for all I care.”

“OOooookay!” Danny shouted, holding up his hands. “I understand you’re upset, but-”

“Daniel. I get upset when your father eats more than his share of the mashed potatoes. I get upset when my experiments get ruined by ghost attacks. I get upset when you kids forget to do your chores.

“I am not upset. I am furious.”

“But I’m not,” Danny groaned, pointing at himself. “Look, I know what the card looks like, seriously, I do. Everyone is telling me to be mad about it, but…” He trailed off as he looked out the door and he ran to the door. “Hey! Hey! Mikey! Yeah, come over here real quick.”

He led the quiet nerd into the office and then closed the door behind him. “Okay, this is gonna be quick. You got the school game, right?”

Mikey adjusted his glasses. “Uh, yes, Star gave me a box this morning when I walked in.”

“Right, okay. You read the rule book right?”

“Of course! Front to back three times! I wouldn’t be a proud member of the game club if I didn’t!”

“How many Danny Fenton cards do you have?”

“I’ve gotten my hands on ten so far.”

“How much would I need to pay you in order to get you to give me those cards?”

“If Paulina came in here and asked for a date in exchange, I still wouldn’t give them up. You can pry them from my cold dead and nerdy hands.”

“No, seriously. I think I got like forty bucks in my pocket-”

“No.”

“Thank you, that is all.”

The principal frowned and watched as Danny pushed Mikey out the door and closed it again. “What was the point of that?”

Danny took a deep breath. “Mr. Lancer… do you have a deck?” At his teacher’s nod, Danny then asked a question. “You have several of my cards in your deck, don’t you?”

Mr. Lancer threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t. The art club wouldn’t let us cheat and build our decks with the cards we wanted. We had to draft them.”

“The point?” Maddie said huffing.

Danny sighed. “Yes, Dash, Star, Paulina and Kwan… I’m not sold on Kwan here, all tried to bully me by making a bad card. They failed so so hard.” Danny blinked. “In all honesty? The card is very accurate. The card game is about fighting ghosts. So, obviously I’m the most intelligent person in the deck, the moment ghosts show up, I’m outta there.”

“Into the graveyard,” Jazz snipped.

Danny rolled his eyes. “Fine, how about this? They can release a new rule book, one where the graveyard is called the discard pile instead?”

Maddie pursed her lips. “Danny, you’re really insistent this doesn’t change. Why?”

“Because I’m not gonna be happy if I don’t get to beat my bully at literally his own game.” The school bell rang and Danny started inching his way to the door. “Okay, Mom? You can hash it out with the principal, but no asking for Mr. Lancer to be fired, no threatening the school, and definitely no changing my card's effects? Okay? Please?” Danny thought for a moment and then tacked on, “I love you?” The fact that sounded like a question probably didn’t help his chances in getting her to calm down.

Maddie sighed and looked toward the ceiling. “Alright, alright.” She stood up. “I will let Principal Ishiyama here discuss with Mr. Lancer what they should do, but tomorrow I will be back. This time, with my husband as well. And I assure you, he won’t be as calm as me.”

The threat definitely worked, as both of them paled as they thought about what a rampaging Jack Fenton would be like.

The Fentons left the room together, and Maddie handed Jazz back the card. “I really don’t like this.” She said, though she didn’t seem surprised when Danny snatched the card from Jazz and put it in his pocket. “But you… seem to know what you’re doing?”

“The only request I have is that Jazz records it when Dash realizes how dumb he is.” Danny turned and then started running back down the hall. “Gotta get to class! I’ll see you guys later!”

Danny ran back to his locker, put the cards in his pocket away, and then ran to class. He turned the corner before a hand grabbed his shirt and slammed him into a locker. “Heard you went crying to mommy, Fenturd.”

“Dash, we have got to stop meeting like this.” Danny said, rolling his eyes. “And for the record, I didn’t. You pissed off Jazz, who then called my mom. I tried to tell her it was not a big deal.”

Dash hesitated, trying to slot the square peg into the round hole. Danny could practically see the thoughts slip out of his head before he got mad again. “Well, I guess I gotta crush ya before your mom ruins the fun. Lunch time, bring a deck.”

“See you then!” Danny saluted. His hand fell back to his side and he looked down. “Dash… aren’t you gonna put me down?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Well, I know this is gonna be hard, but can you think faster? I want to be on time to class for a change.”

A few moments later, Danny phased his way out of the locker he had been stuffed into. He sighed and brushed off shirt. “Man, I really hope I start taking more after my dad soon. I would love to not fit in lockers anymore.”

***

Lunch time came around, and Danny walked in with his head held high. Mikey might not have traded his cards for a date with Paulina, but Phantom signing the Phantom card (which was a 10/10 by the way, with both Teamplayer and Leader keywords) was worth the trade.

It seemed like the entire school was there waiting for this fight. Danny walked down an aisle flanked by students on either side of him that closed around him as he approached Dash sitting at a lunch table.

Danny stopped at the tablet. “Seriously, did you really pick the table furthest from the door? Are you sure you’re not one of the drama kids?” He turned toward Star, who was actually looking pretty uncomfortable. “Star, you’ve been in the school plays right? You should totally try to get Dash to join in this year, looks like he’d have fun with it.”

Star didn’t answer; instead she stepped behind Kwan, who looked a little sick, and Paulina, who was shifting around as the entire school stared at them.

“It’s time to duel, Fenton.” Dash said, slamming his palm against the table.

Danny rolled his eyes. “Alright alright, if you’re that ready to lose” he said, sitting down at the table. Danny took his deck out and started shuffling it. It wasn’t much to shuffle; the deck size was only twenty cards after all.

Dash frowned, but then drew his starting hand. “Good, I’m ready. As the cool one, I’m going first.” He smiled at Danny. “Okay, for my first card, I’m playing Danny Fenton!” He threw the card on the table, “Oh, whoops! He died.” He laughed and Danny looked over at the other A-Listers who were taking a slight step back.

“Well, moving on,” Dash chuckled. “I get to play another card. So I play Mikey! A 3/10 with supporter!”

“Ooh, look at you, already talking like a card gamer!” Danny crowed.

“Shut it, Fenton! I’m not a nerd like you!” He folded his arms. “It’s your turn now. I can’t attack on the first turn.”

Danny nodded and raised an eyebrow. “Did you remember to draw at the end of your turn?” Dash quietly reached over and refilled his hand before Danny made a show of thinking. “Hmm… which card, which card…” He tapped his chin and then shouted. “Ah! I know!” He put a card down in front of Dash’s card. “I play Danny Fenton!” He paused. “Oh shit! I died! Oh well. Anyways.”

Dash blinked. “You really used your stupid card?”

“Hey, it’s my turn still! Jeez, I can still do something awesome!” Danny thought for a moment longer. “Oh, okay, let’s try this! I play Danny Fenton!” Dash’s brow furrowed as Danny continued. “Oh shit, I died again! I hope it was a quick one! Like maybe my neck snapped. I’d hate for it to be a slow one.” The rest of the A Listers took another step back and tried to blend into the crowd as Danny made a big deal of his card dying. “It’s okay, thanks to moving on, I get another shot! Umm… Okay, okay, I got it. I play Danny Fenton!”

Dash scoffed. “You really put three of your cards in your stupid deck?”

Danny laughed. “Three? No. Dash, my deck uses fifteen of them!”

Dash looked around, seeing confusion on most of the nearby students. “Wait, wait, you really used half your deck for your dumb worthless card?”

Danny stared at Dash for a moment. “Okay, Dash, you wanna repeat that in your head and see where you went wrong?” Dash froze like a deer in headlights before Danny sighed. “Okay, I’m pretty sure your card is bunk because wow are you bad at math. That’s not half my deck, that’s three quarters.”

“Why?”

“Tucker, please explain to the man.”

Tucker stepped out of the crowd holding up the rule book. “Cards are broken down into four categories, zero star cards, one star cards, two star cards, and ghost cards. In order to play a one star card in a lane, that lane must already have a zero star card in it. In order to play a two star card, there must already be a one star card in that lane already. Ghost cards require a total of three stars worth of cards in the lane. For every card in the graveyard, the number of stars needed for a ghost card to be summoned is reduced by one by removing those cards from play.”

Danny pointed at the three Danny Fenton cards in his graveyard. “I needed fifteen to ensure my draw chances are good enough. Which they obviously are. Oh, and by the way… moving on. You know her, you love her, let us hear you scream her name-”

“Please don’t.” Sam called out from the sidelines.

“It’s Ember McLain!” Danny shouted as he put down an Ember card slightly to the right of the Mikey card. “Ember has the Leader keyword, which lets me put down another card. So let’s hear it for her backup singer, Danny Fenton!” he said, putting down his card again. “Oh, shit, she killed him! That bastard! Oh well… moving on.” Danny held up his hand. “Now, I only got one card left, so I have to play it, it’s Danny Fenton!”

Danny paused as he put down his card. “Okay, so I’m hoping you’re seeing where this is going.”

Dash stood up. “Hold on, you’re out of cards!”

“Tucker?”

“In a situation where you are asked to play a card but don’t have any in hand, then you draw another card.”

“So, I draw and let’s see, am I feeling lucky? Dash, can you do math? What are the chances of me drawing a Danny Fenton card? Come on, I know you can do it.”

“Fuck you!” Dash shouted, beginning to move around the table.

“What’s the matter, Dash?” Valerie called out. “Can’t win a card game?”

“A card game you helped make?” Sam jeered.

Dash froze, and Danny took the opportunity to draw. “Yes! I indeed drew a Danny Fenton card! So, let’s continue…” Danny flipped through his deck, drawing his card multiple times, before finally he drew a different card.

“Sorry Mikey!” Danny shouted, “You’re about to get stepped on by Ember!”

“Awesome!”

Danny pinched the brow of his nose. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that. Alright, Ember’s card doesn’t actually play a card, it’s using special wording so I guess that’s it.” He snapped his finger. “Oh, wait! It isn’t! I attack! Ember steps on Mikey, removing him, and then Ember swings and hits you in the face.” Danny smiled and leaned back. “Now it’s your turn.”

Dash stared down at the table, which hadn’t had his Mikey card removed yet. But it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t beat Danny. Danny had, on his first turn, effectively defeated Dash. The game wasn’t over, and it wouldn’t be for a while. It’d take multiple turns for Danny to win the game. But anything Dash could play would be immediately doomed to be crushed under Danny’s ghost team.

The rest of this game would be Dash getting wailed on as Danny chunked his health over the course of several turns, with the entire school watching.

Dash scoffed. “It’s a stupid game anyways,” he said, turning around and pushing his way through the crowd.

Danny stood up and grabbed Dash’s deck and waved it up in the air. “Wait, wait, Dash! Don’t you want your deck?” Dash predictably didn’t respond. Danny scoffed as Sam and Tucker approached him. “Yeah, that tracks,” he said, grabbing the hand Dash had left on the table.

“So, did Dash fill his deck with A Listers?” Tucker asked.

“Well, let’s see…” Danny said, flipping through Dash’s deck. He continued until he came across one card. “Oh come on!”

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, looking over his shoulder.

Danny held out the card that was bothering him. “There’s an Inviso-Bill card!”

Sam gave Danny an unamused glance. “Really? You’re bothered by that, more than the fact that Dash set up a card that you instantly die?”

“Well, yeah!” Danny said, “My name’s not Inviso-Bill!”

“What do you mean your name?”

Danny turned toward the speaker. And as Star stared at him confused, he realized that he had completely forgotten people were watching. “What? I didn’t say that. I said his name isn’t Inviso-Bill.”

“Wait…” Valerie said, stepping forward, pushing a finger into his chest. “Is that what you meant by your superpower is to die on command?”

Danny turned toward Sam, who was the best liar out of them. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, do you?”

Valerie folded her arms. “My locker is just around the corner of the hallway where your locker is. I heard you say that.”

“And my cards! Phantom was asking for them earlier!”

Star gasped. “Wait wait wait, is THAT why you’re not scared of the Box Ghost?”

“...Uh oh…”

[snitling]

I've been thinking all day about the bit of the lunchroom tapes where John says "my jealousy for you" to Paul (italics are his), and did he mean jealousy like people tend to use it when they mean envy, or does he actually mean jealousy, meaning something he wants to keep all to himself

[got-ticket-to-ride]

Words of Love | Buddy Holly | John & Paul

I've been listening to Words of Love by the Beatles for a week now. Like nonstop on loop like a madwoman.

Originally released by Buddy Holly in June 20, 1957 just shortly before that legendary fete meeting.

I can imagine John and Paul listening to this record nonstop, bonding over the music and their love for Buddy in 1957.

Then in October 1964, they decide to cover the song. Harmonizing in typical Everly Brothers fashion, singing into one mic, eye to eye.

Eyes glinting, smiles in their controlled voices :

Hold me close and Tell me how you feel Tell me love is real Words of love you Whisper soft and true Darling, I love you Let me hear you say The words I long to hear Darling, when you're near Words of love you Whisper soft and true Darling, I love you

In 1985, Paul Mccartney sung the song all by himself. Without John to harmonize with. You know how John sings his Elvis tunes by himself reminiscing on his memories with Paul? I think that's what Paul does when he sings Buddy Holly songs.

“No, up until the advent of Buddy Holly, he would never be seen out with glasses, Buddy Holly, who was a big favourite of ours, wore glasses so John felt a bit better about wearing the glasses then…" ~Paul Mccartney

"I know that, because of the way I am, like when we were in Mendips, like I said, “Do you like me?” or whatever it is. I’ve always – uh, played that one." ~John Lennon while speaking to Paul from the Lunchroom Tape

This song particularly reminded me that John Lennon always needed the reassurance from his loved ones because of his abandonment issues.

[shybunnie20]

These are some thoughts I had about Eddie and Dustin’s friendship while listening to Black Sabbath’s Die Young. Plus a little video edit

Warning: Recounts of Eddie’s death, swearing

Perched atop the roof of the Munson trailer, Dustin bangs his head along to “Master of Puppets,” perfectly in sync with the whining amp beside him. It’s ingrained, thanks to Eddie, who introduced him to a different world of music. Eddie entrusted the younger boy with his cherished tapes, and Dustin wore them out, eager to report back with what songs he took a liking to.

Eddie’s bedroom was a sanctuary of sound where he assumed the role of mentor, guiding Dustin through the labyrinth of famous riffs and lyrics. Eddie was a purist, a devotee of the raw power of metal. He kept Dustin well-versed in the history of it and made sure that he understood that mainstream bands like AC/DC, Mötley Crüe, and KISS—while undeniably popular—fail to embody the true spirit of heavy music.

Eddie took it upon himself to school Dustin in the art of headbanging, imparting the proper technique. He demonstrated how to get the most movement out of their curly hair without completely fucking up their necks. Even so, pulling a muscle is a right of passage.

Dustin has never been one to shy away from being himself, and in Eddie, he found an older reflection. Eddie faces plenty of adversity being misunderstood, poor, and a failed graduate twice over. Despite that, he remains true to himself. In Dustin's eyes, he's the most badass motherfucker because he has heart.

Eddie sought out Dustin in the lunchroom, recognizing his younger self in him. He embraced Dustin wholeheartedly before they even learned each other’s names. Eddie shattered the assumption that high school has to be bleak for outcasts.

All of those moments have led to this. Eddie, whose light had shone blindingly, has been torn from the sky and lies on the cold ground. Gasping for breath with blood-stained lips, he insists that Dustin can become the man he can no longer be. 

Eddie gradually dims while wrapped in his friend’s embrace. With his dying breaths, Eddie pleads for Dustin to promise that he’ll lead their friends. With the agony of mortality closing in on Eddie, Dustin affirms his commitment to finding the strength to go on.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but Eddie needs Dustin to know that he believes in him. Dungeons and Dragons isn’t merely a pastime—it’s their haven. Hellfire Club is a family bound not by blood, but they’re family all the same.

Dustin nods, his cheeks wet as the tears roll from them. He isn’t sure that he can keep his word, not when Eddie is sputtering his parting ones. Amidst the thundering pulse in his ears and the sky, Dustin takes on the burden of etching every tremor of Eddie’s final utterances to memory. Each fleeting second slips away as the grains of sand cascade within the crystal confines of time. 

Eddie is more than someone Dustin shares memories with, and the moment Eddie’s heart stills, he has become one himself. Eddie is now a memory devoid of breath and a heartbeat, a distant echo of what once was. Yet, Dustin will remain steadfast in his resolve to resuscitate the essence of who Eddie was.

While he never got the chance to showcase his talent for more than a few drunks at The Hideout, Eddie did get to play for Dustin. He got to headline the most metal concert in the history of the world with his best friend.

Eddie the Freak, Eddie the Banished, Eddie the Remembered.

★My Masterlist

[jeanjauthor]

If you need to use Libby, et al, to read my books?

USE IT OR STOP READING MY BOOKS.

I will ALWAYS support libraries.

They were my refuge. They were my solace. they were my hiding place from lunchroom bullies. They were my happy place. They were the greatest relief on my poor-as-heck parents' wallets.

I wore hand-me downs so my parents could afford to have me bring home the BOX of Scholastic Books, because everyone else only had their parents buy one or two, and I'd get half a dozen or more. But my parents were deeply, deeply relieved when I learned to ride my bike to take myself to the nearest public library. And the bus to another public library. And they were willing to pay the gas to drive me there (because I couldn't always manage to bring back all of those books on my own).

LIbraries were the first places where I got online, and first found fandom archives. Libraries were the first places where I could rent cassette tapes and LP records for playing music I could never afford to buy. Libraries were the first places where I started learning book heraldry (how to make coats-of-arms), and getting inspiration for medieval clothing ideas, and books on art and archaeology.

Libraries are places where you go to learn what your bullies don't want you to know, whether they're schoolyard bullies, or workplace bullies, or political bullies. Some libraries even allow you to check out portable pieces of technology for a short while, such as sewing machines. And they absolutely will help you figure out how to fill out certain kinds of paperwork, even if they can't fill it out for you. Libraries are places where you can go to find other resources in your communities.

Libraries need you to interact with them to keep all of these services, and many more, properly funded each & every year.

I will ALWAYS support libraries.

"Don't use Libby because it costs libraries too much, pirate instead" is such a weird, anti-patron, anti-author take that somehow manages to also be anti-library, in my professional librarian-ass opinion.

It's well documented that pirating books negatively affects authors directly* in a way that pirating movies or TV shows doesn't affect actors or writers, so I will likely always be anti-book piracy unless there's absolutely, positively no other option (i.e. the book simply doesn't exist outside of online archives at all, or in a particular language).

Also, yeah, Libby and Hoopla licenses are really expensive, but libraries buy them SO THAT PATRONS CAN USE THEM. If you're gonna be pissed at anybody about this shitty state of affairs, be pissed at publishing companies and continue to use Libby or Hoopla at your library so we can continue to justify having it to our funding bodies.

One of the best ways to support your library having services you like is to USE THOSE SERVICES. Yes, even if they are expensive.

*Yes, this is a blog post, but it's a blog post filled with links to news articles. If you can click one link, you can click another.

[sapfromsaplings]

"Z."

(June 10, 2024)

i remember when i first noticed that you liked me back. for sure. i had my doubts when you offered to sit next to me when i was bored. i took note when you gave me some salt and vinegar almonds the next day. i had a feeling when you really wanted me to go to your house, and when you didn’t want me to leave you waiting for your bus by yourself. i was surprised when you saw me lying on the ground and still wanted to sit with me. i liked the smile you had while we were talking in the locker room after the weekend. your face dropped when you saw my wrist wrapped in compression tape. i think my heart skipped a few beats when you said you enjoyed reading my poetry, and on the roof, when he had to tap me for you to get my attention.

but i noticed that thursday. during lunch you texted me that you had some work to do that night and i couldn’t come over. i was bummed out, but you invited me to that back table in the lunchroom. our friends had to drag me over there. i hadn’t changed the bandage since the day before and you got really concerned for me, so concerned that you went with our friend to get tape yourself from the gym teachers. we both knew that i didn’t need the tape anymore, but you wrapped my wrist anyway, and your work made it look like i had hurt my finger instead. i was trying to do some math, but i couldn’t focus with you over my shoulder, our arms grazing each other, the urge for you to get closer ever so stronger, and your eyes seemingly glued to your phone, but i could tell they were actually fixated on me. you asked me if i even knew what i was doing, and i nervously looked at you and said “nope” (i would’ve understood more if i wasn’t so into you). you put your head on my shoulder for a split second, and i put my head on your shoulder. you didn’t move, you didn’t mind, it was comfy.

then you video called me when we were trying to figure out when to hang out. it was a different kind of intimacy, the kind where you really get to know someone more. you showed me your room, your cluttered bookshelf, and your adorable bunny you call “Bunny.” i fell so hard, your sweet, gentle heart exposed to the world for just a moment. i swore there were hearts in my eyes that day. my heart was all over the place. a smile was plastered on my face. i couldn’t stop thinking about you that night. i felt so giddy.

god, you looked so pretty friday.

i wish i would’ve told you that then.

[heylittleriotact]

𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐌𝐮𝐜𝐡, 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

Read below or on ao3

Three Months Later

A world-weary sigh found its way past Rook's lips as she studied the cremation paperwork in her hand.

1 x Ashen Pewter

3 x Ashen Pewter Miniature

2 x Sterling Silver Teardrop Pendant

1 x Sterling Silver Dog Tag Pendant

"Fucking hate filling jewelry..." she muttered, tossing the cremation contract onto the counter and lifting the small blue Rubbermaid container over to the hand towel that was spread out.

She found the cardboard boxes containing the urns taped shut and bearing the name of the deceased scribbled in Sharpie on the side: one big one, three little ones, and three small jewelry boxes.

Using a box cutter, she opened the largest box and pulled out the styrofoam prism that was packed tightly inside, gently laying it on the counter and lifting away one half to reveal the urn within. Snagging the contract again, she looked at the personalization field of the printed document.

Name: First, Last; D.O.B. - D.O.D.; 'Forever In Our Hearts'; Font: Elegant Script.

Her eyes went back and forth between the information on the paper and the front of the matte finish, grey-blue metal urn: it would have been checked over when the crem received it, but Rook had learned not to rely on other people's eyes when several-hundred-dollars worth of merchandise was on the table.

Satisfied that the manufacturer hadn't mistakenly engraved 'Arnold' instead of 'Ronald', Rook slipped the urn from the styrofoam and set about filling it: the lid was popped off the Rubbermaid to reveal the clear plastic bag of cremated remains within, sealed with a twist-tie, the scorched metal cremation tag resting against the backdrop of powdery grey and white skeletal remains.

It was Tuesday, and this urn was due to be received by the family the next day, along with three others that Becks hadn't seen fit to fill during the weekend when she covered the chapel for Rook's days off.

If there was one thing she'd learned in the months she'd been at Pemberly, it was that no one actually seemed to understand how fucking busy it actually was. For some reason because it wasn't as big as Hilldwell or Arbor Heights, it was automatically assumed that it didn't boast nearly the same volume of calls on a monthly basis - a fact that Rook took it upon herself to disprove one day when it wasn't insanely busy and sat down to calculate and average out the monthly calls that Pemberly got versus the amount that Hilldwell and Arbor Heights got. While Pemberly tailed both chapels by an average of thirty or so calls, it still averaged out to eighty-odd calls per month, which worked out to between two and three new calls per day, and nearly twenty per week.

That was a lot of dead people. A lot of grieving people coming through the doors. A lot of identifications and arrangements and obituaries and clothing drop-offs and urn pick ups.

And she was the only admin there.

There were no funeral attendants or directors unless there was a service or visitation scheduled, and half the attendants that ended up there were happy to sit in the lunchroom snacking on greasy hamburgers and fries during services instead of actually doing anything useful.

She had a housekeeper when she first moved, but Elo’isa had been on stress leave for over a month by then, and management seemed to think that along with every other aspect of the chapel, Rook surely had more than enough time to vacuum, mop, dust, shovel snow, and prepare coffee and cookies for arrangement meetings.

She glanced over her shoulder at the cremation container on a bier behind her and prayed that by the time her other two identifications were finished and she could move this one into a free visitation room, the person inside wouldn't be a mess of purge, which would be just her luck.

Emmrich was scheduled to come to the chapel for three o'clock arrangements, and she found herself hoping his graveside service at one would wrap up early enough so that he could come early - she felt a bit pathetic relying on him for help, but on a day like today, an extra set of hands would be extremely welcomed...

She pulled a fresh plastic bag from the drawer under the counter and arranged it inside the empty Ashen Pewter after sticking a label with the funeral home’s address and phone number, the decedent's name, date of death, and cremation number to the bag itself and the bottom of the urn: if the urn ever went missing, or the bag of cremated remains was removed from the urn for whatever reason, this way the remains could be identified and returned to McDermott & Rafferty so someone could contact the family and return them.

Having done this many times by now, Rook made short work of filling the main urn, the keepsakes, and was carefully spooning finely ground but gritty ash into the last of the pendants when she heard the side door in the garage slam, announcing the entrance of another employee.

"You made it!" She called to the adjacent space, rolling the threading of the small screw in the small puddle of blue thread-locker she'd squeezed onto a paper towel and using the small Allen wrench provided to negotiate the small metal piece into place on the back of the pendant. She gave it a couple of quick twists and squinted at the pendant, wiping away a bit of excess thread-locker and then setting it down with the others to dry. "I was wondering when you'd get here–" she negotiated around the cremation container in the middle of the room and entered the garage. "– how was the graveside?"

The welcome sight of Emmrich did not greet her in the garage, however, but rather the daft pink face of Derek, flanked by none other than... Elgar'nan?

Rook stiffened, immediately on the defensive the moment that vile cologne assaulted her nose.

What the fuck are these clowns doing here? They better not be fixing to fire me...

"Hello, Rook," Derek said, in his hollow yet amiable tone. "I'm giving Elgar'nan a tour of our facilities. Pemberly is our last stop - I’ll take Emmrich’s three o’clock arrangements since I’m already here.”

You mean you’ll sit in the arrangement office with the family for two hours and accomplish absolutely nothing and leave the rest for me to follow up with tomorrow?

Rook plastered on a smile that was as fake as Derek’s. “Of course. I’ll let Central know so they can reschedule Emmrich.”

“That won’t be a problem, will it?”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you prick?

“Why would it be?” She queried with enough polite obliviousness she thought she was deserving of some sort of medal. “I’ll leave you to your tour - better get started on coffee and cookies.”

Rook started to move towards the door into the main building, but Derek’s voice rang out again in the echoing garage.

“Have you been properly introduced to our new benefactor?”

Rook paused, arm falling to her side as she turned back towards the two men. Elgar’nan loomed behind Derek, dressed in a burgundy and black satin suit that made up for what it lacked in elegance and charm with the fact that it was clearly worth more than whatever high-end but still off-the-rack affair Derek was wearing. His eyes were as cold and cruel as they had been the night she bumped into him at the party, and his thin lips curled in a familiar scowl of disdain indicating that he remembered her too.

“Depending on what your definition of ‘proper’ is, I guess - we crossed paths at the Wintersend dinner, yeah?” She tipped her head to the side and squinted as if trying to remember a hazy memory.

Dudes like this hated when you didn’t care enough about them to remember them.

Something frigid, predatory, and calculating locked into place behind his depthless eyes - like some binary protocol demanding her demise had been executed within the core of a soulless machine designed to hunt living prey.

Or maybe she had just watched The Terminator with Emmrich the other night and she had murderous cyborg assassins on the brain. Either way - whatever she had seen in Elgar’nan’s stillness was unnatural and vicious.

“In a manner of speaking…” he purred through clenched teeth, every syllable betraying the forced grimace that he likely thought was a smile.

She was already on his bad side, but she didn’t particularly care to be on his good one anyway. Regardless, she’d worked for enough egotistical assholes that she knew outright antagonizing this person - especially this person - would be a dumb fucking idea.

“Oh yeah! Yeah, I remember you now!” She made an abrupt departure from the other side of the garage and closed the distance between them, extending a hand past. “Rook. Nice to meet you. Properly.”

A massive and meaty hand engulfed hers, squeezing hard enough to make her eyes water. She could hear his unnaturally white teeth grinding together as if this performative gesture of civility towards the nobody-office-bitch took great personal effort.

“A pleasure,” he rumbled, though Rook very much doubted it was.

“Rook is a student in the program. She’s studying for her uh…” Derek looked blankly at Rook who had repossessed her hand and was doing her best to avoid massaging her aching knuckles in front of either of these people. “Are you studying for a single or dual license?”

“Dual.” Rook managed, unable to keep the pain from her voice. “Funeral Director and Embalmer.”

You knew that too you stupid bastard. I’ve only worked here for the majority of a year…

“I’m certain you’ll be a credit to your profession,” Elgar’nan said dismissively, his black eyes wandering distractedly over the walls of the garage, his words similar to those Emmrich had said to her but lacking any warmth or encouragement. “Now if you please - we have a tour to embark on, and I believe you have the monumentally important task of… what was it again?” His gaze landed on her once more. “Ah yes - that’s right: baking cookies.”

The sick stretch of his smile at his own words was so smug that Rook immediately made a mental note to wipe a few boogers on anything she was ever expected to serve him… sneeze in his coffee mug…spit in his water glass…

Also, what kind of asshole ripped on baking cookies for sad grieving people?

Pondering this question, she excused herself and opened the door to retreat from the garage as quickly as possible.

“Where’s your blazer, Rook?”

Taking advantage of the fact that Derek couldn’t see her face from his vantage point, she indulged herself a deep roll of the eyes before walking back into the prep room, grabbing her blazer from the back of the door, and shrugging it on. Employees weren’t meant to be in common areas of the chapel without their blazers and name-tags - Maker forbid a family catch a glimpse of exposed white shirt sleeves and swoon from the very scandal of it all.

She hustled back to the office and pulled her phone out of the inner pocket of her blazer and fired off a text to Emmrich:

‘I’ll call Central and let them know, but FYI - Derek is here with our new friend Elgar’nan and he says he’ll take your 3:00.’

She looked down at her right hand and the indentation left on her middle finger from her ring where Elgar’nan’s hand had crushed it into her skin, then she sent another message:

‘Also, Elgar’nan is a dickhead.’

He must have been finished at the graveside and either back at Hilldwell or en route to Pemberly, because his response came quickly.

‘Thank you for letting me know, darling. Please be careful. I love you.’

Please be careful.

Well that was nothing if not disconcerting.

‘I love you too.’

Hours. It felt like he’d been taunting and teasing her for literal hours with his head and his fingers between her thighs, so skillfully working her into a tizzy only to pull back with a soft and knowing chuckle, depriving her of the release that was threatening to incinerate her from the inside out.

He’d heaped praises and compliments on her in the pitch darkness of the room, all while trailing gentle kisses over the bare skin of her trembling legs.

‘Good girl…’

‘You taste divine…’

‘I know you can last just a little longer for me, can’t you, darling?’

She nearly came the moment she felt the assuring heat of his cock slip past her entrance - the sensation of fullness - of being connected with him - more than enough to pop her cork in her current state of overstimulation.

He muffled her whimper with his mouth on hers, his own exhalation causing loose strands of hair to flutter away from her face, slowly pushing deeper and deeper as she tightened around him, feeling the friction of every tantalizing inch… knowing that he wanted her to hold on… to wait.

When she felt the welcome weight of him settled fully against her hips, and the way he readjusted his grip on her hands, fingers slotted so perfectly between her own where they rested on the pillow above her head, she knew that he was not far off either.

Memories of a bad day were banished by each sensuous slow movement against her - within her - his lips electrifyingly close to her ear as he whispered words that were only for her, though no one else was present to hear them.

“My darling Rook… so warm and wet for me…”

“Yeah…” she breathed. “F-fuck yes…”

Was her brain flooded in oxytocin, rendering her utterly delusional, or was she actually certain in that moment that by some fluke of chaotic cosmic design, his cock was made for her —? or her cunt for him?

Such questions…

She couldn’t see a thing, but she didn’t need to see him in this dark space to bear witness to the softness in his touch as he gently slipped her left leg upwards to rest over his shoulder, and the earnest care in his voice as he wound his fingers between hers once more, murmuring soothing placations in answer to her hushed moans the way one would appease a wild animal with its leg caught in a snare.

“That’s it… very good, darling - oh… here?” He rolled his hips against hers, sending a wave of effervescent shocks up her spine. “Right… here…?” Another serpentine, patient, deep thrust, and Rook was seeing stars.

“Deeper,” she plead from somewhere up in the stratosphere, mind utterly vacant of thoughts of Derek or Elgar’nan, or endlessly filling memorial jewelry. “Please… oh, oh… fuck… please…”

“Only because you asked so very nicely,” he mumbled against her neck, but she knew he would have done it anyway… even if she had crassly told him to dick her deep and fuck her like he meant it.

His left hand departed her right to guide her other leg over his shoulder, her hamstrings protesting slightly at the double-stretch they were subjected to.

“Ah, so this is why you’ve been making me do yoga with you…” she surmised, grateful that he couldn’t see the surely charming double-chin she was wearing in this position.

His laugh filtered through the darkness - her favourite one: the warm, closed-lipped sound of delight that came directly from the core of his chest - somewhere around the neighbourhood of the heart.

His hand skimmed over her ankle, down the side of her calf, then meandered sensually over her thigh and up the plane of her belly, reaching past her to snag a vacant pillow.

“Not a motive - nor even an ulterior one - but an enjoyable side-benefit, admittedly. Lift your hips a little, please.”

Rook did as she was told and let her weight relax when she felt the pillow underneath her, propping her hips up just enough to ease the burn in her thighs.

“Better?”

“Mhmm…”

Emmrich found her palms with his again, then her lips, then rocked forward again in a motion that was less of a thrust, and more of a meeting.

“Ah!”

He immediately froze and inquired after her comfort, to which she nodded, her nose rubbing along his and she urged him to continue, revelling in the weightless jolt that rippled through her lower belly as he hit places that Rook didn't even know existed.

"Stay with me, darling..." he whispered in the same intimate, private tone as he had before, the tip of his cock brushing against something deep inside of her that she was quite sure sent her to another dimension for a fraction of a second. He gripped her hand - still tender from her interaction with Elgar'nan earlier - just a bit tighter while being mindful of the lingering ache. "...ohhh, Rook... you are doing so, so well for me, my dear... letting me take my time with you like this… so soft... so perfect..."

"Maker Emmrich..." she rasped, her own voice barely audible as his soft pubic area rubbed against her clit, his cock fully seated within her: he didn't withdraw with each movement of his hips, but rather chased the intimacy of their connection, undulating with the rhythmic ebb and flow of a patient but steadfast tide, letting her feel the weight and pressure of him before easing back just enough to grant her the space and freedom to breathe. "Deeper..." she entreated again. "I want to be like this with you forever..."

She heard him groan softly, and then the rustle of the sheets under his knees; a deep inhalation - oh, he was close...

His hands left hers, one to grip her around the thigh to intensify the pressure of his languid, rich movements; the other to trace her lips with his dextrous, feather-light touch.

"Forever sounds rather lovely, doesn't it...?' He mused, breath catching when Rook took him by the wrist and sucked his index and middle finger into her mouth, moaning around them in agreement as he hit that deep, sensitive place in her core once again. She laved her tongue against them tasting herself and whining needily when he moved again, pressing down on her tongue. His cock throbbed against her walls.

"F-fuck... cum for me, Emmrich - fi-fill me up... please... please..." she extracted the fingers for long enough to say before replacing them, a ragged sound escaping her when that sinfully decadent pressure returned somewhere behind her navel. "I want you to fuck me till I’m pregnant…” she whined as she continued to lick and suck on his long fingers, utterly lost in sensation and the overwhelming love for this man that filled her heart.

He stilled completely for a second time and pulled away from her, and though she couldn't see his face, she knew he must be wearing that beloved expression of wide-eyed and slack-jawed surprise that he only wore when she said something truly out of pocket.

"Is... is that what you want?" He whispered into the blackness.

Rook, emboldened, teetering on the brink of orgasm, and mind-bogglingly horny, dragged her teeth up his fingers then said, "Yes. Yes - that is exactly what I want..."

“Ahhh… Rook - what a beautiful sight that would be…”

He collided with her, crushing her into the mattress and smothering her mouth in a kiss that was so intense that their teeth knocked together. He thrust sloppily into her this time - an unrefined sequence of movements that wordlessly confirmed that he too rather liked the idea of planting his seed in the fertile soil of her womb.

He moved once, twice, and she swallowed his ragged cry, her tongue brushing hungrily against his as he came - and she did too.

She'd climaxed at the same time as a lover maybe a handful of times since she became sexually active in her late teens, but not a single instance came close to holding a candle to the utterly transcendental occurrence of chemical reactions that were lighting up her brain and sending veritable shockwaves of pleasure through what felt like every nerve in her body at that exact moment.

She could feel everything: every twitch of his cock still buried to the hilt inside of her, the warm flood of his thick, heavy cum coating her walls and filling empty space; the tremble of his arms as he shifted her legs from his shoulders and embraced her, her own arms and legs tangling within him... over him... around him... so tightly that they may as well have been a singular entity in the passing of time that marked their joint completion.

His fingers twined into her hair and he broke away from their kiss to utter breathless adulations, praises, and promises of love eternal against her lips.

"Do... you truly feel that way about me?" He asked when it was over, curled around her, enveloping her completely with his willowy frame, and Rook had never felt safer and more cherished in her life as she did then.

She kissed the back of his hand, feeling the soft give of protruding veins under her lips, then rested her face against the broad expanse of it. "I don't think I want to go anywhere in this life without you, Emmrich… and that's not just because you bought me a car."

His hot breath hit her neck as he nuzzled into her hair, and it mingled with the slow, warm spread of what could only be tears as they leeched over her skin.

"I think I want to marry you, Rook."

Oh.

"Is that why you’re crying?" She trailed her lips over his hand again.

"I... I'm not entirely sure."

There was a hesitance in his words - something that went unspoken, though what it could be, Rook couldn’t say.

She flipped over so she was facing him, pleased by the warm, familiar sensation of his cum pooling between her legs. She kissed his lips, then the corner of his mouth, then trailed her tongue over the sharp angle of his cheekbone, collecting the tears that dwelled there.

"Not every question needs an answer right away," she soothed, wriggling up against him so their bodies were flush and her forehead was against his.

"Did you just lick my face?"

She grinned into the darkness and giggled, and she knew he was smiling too. "No, it was Manfred." She laughed louder when he pinched her bare ass and she flinched. "Okay, okay, okay - I'm sorry. I just wanted to make you smile. Now go to sleep... and I'll be right here when you wake up."

He pressed his lips to hers and cupped her cheek in his hand.

"There isn't a doubt in my mind that you will be."

Somewhere in the liminal hours before the dawn, she woke to the sound of Emmrich speaking to someone, and the feeling of his fingers slowly slipping through her hair.

At some point in the she’d ended up draped over his lap, and she tried to make sense of what was happening as sleep slowly relinquished its hold on her.

“Dear oh dear - very grim business indeed.” He paused and waited for whoever was on the other end of the phone to speak, and Rook frowned: he wasn’t on call tonight. Who was he talking to?

She sat up and frowned at him questioningly: the dim lamp on his side of the bed illuminated his face and he offered her a sleepy smile before collecting her hand and silently kissing the backs of her fingers as whoever was on the other end of the line continued speaking.

“Yes, of course, Inspector Gallus… no, no - no trouble at all: I’ll gladly attend.” He paused, then laughed cordially. “No need to fret: we both know that late night phone calls are the norm for one in my profession, as it stands…” his eyes widened slightly and a flush of colour crept over his cheeks at whatever was said in response. “How could… now how could you possibly know that there’s someone here with me?”

Rook could make out the sound of a woman laughing on the other end of the phone, clever and haughty.

“No matter,” he asserted in a flustered attempt to save some face. “I assure you it’s no trouble for me to attend. I’ll be at the morgue within the hour - I expect someone will be there to grant me entrance?”

The morgue?

“Thank you. Take care, Inspector Gallus - see you soon.” He ended the call and the phone slipped from his hand onto the bedspread so he could hold Rook tight. She closed her eyes and inhaled, basking in his scent and his warmth. “Sorry for waking you, darling.”

“‘S’okay…” she murmured, smiling at the gentle tickle of his chest hair against her nose. “I take it your gifts are required by Nevarra’s Finest?”

“Indeed.” He twirled some of her hair around his fingers and kissed the crown of her head. “Though I would much rather stay here with you…”

She would much prefer that too, but she knew Emmrich felt a sort of duty towards the dead that he aided in this capacity: there would be no talking him into staying.

“Who’s the woman who called you?”

“Inspector Neve Gallus. One of the sharpest minds that the Nevarra City Police has at their disposal. I’ve assisted in a number of her investigations, and to my knowledge not a single case that she’s been assigned has ever gone unsolved: she’s something of a force of nature.”

“Mmmmm… sounds like competition…” she didn’t mean it: couldn’t find it in herself to believably feign jealousy. Not when he held her like he was holding her then.

But it got a chuckle from him: a tired and amused sound seated behind his heart. “You have nothing to fear, darling - from anyone. Ever.”

“I know,” Rook smiled, and Emmrich finally untangled himself from her and slipped from the bed, seeming to realize that if he didn’t start making moves, he wouldn’t leave at all.

Naked and wonderfully disheveled, he pulled the covers back up over Rook, tucking her in with care and pushing a strand of passion-mussed hair from her face. “Go back to sleep, dear… you need to be up in a few hours and I won’t have you going to work exhausted.”

Rook pushed herself up on her palms and started climbing out of bed anyway, stifling a yawn as she did so. “I’ll walk you to the door,” she said, ignoring his exasperated sigh and following him to the dresser where she helped herself to soft and well-loved Velvet Underground t-shirt while he began to dress properly in chinos and one of his beloved cashmere sweaters. She picked out a pair of socks for him - the ‘Duck Around & Find Out’ ones - which she draped over the edge of the dresser drawer with a cheeky smile, then went to use the bathroom.

When she was done - because Maker forbid he infringe on her privacy - Emmrich went to the vanity and ran a comb through his hair, forgoing any product but taming it into some semblance of order that he apparently deemed passable for a late night visit to the city morgue, then he brushed his teeth, prodding curiously at the bags under his eyes and pulling the skin under his eye taut between two fingers so his crow’s feet disappeared before letting it go slack again.

“Rethinking your skincare regime?” She leaned against the counter next to him, waiting for his reply until he spit his toothpaste into the sink with more elegance than one should be allowed and wiped his face with the black hand towel on the counter.

“Merely trying to unravel the mystery of what you see in an old man…” he mumbled, “I’m certainly not getting any younger, and I fear that I look older than ever…”

She pushed away from the counter and pulled him away from the mirror and out of the bathroom. “That’s enough of that. Nobody likes how they look at three in the morning.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stop it,” Rook interjected, maintaining levity despite her exasperation: why did he always pick the strangest times to get in his head about things? “I just told you I wanted you knock me up, and you mentioned you’d like to marry me someday—” he opened his mouth to say something but Rook forged on. “— so don’t start getting all tangled up in ‘whys’ and ‘hows.’”

“Yes, as far as hypothetical impregnation goes - unless you…”

“I didn’t have my IUD removed without telling you, no, so you can’t actually put one in the oven. But…” she felt somewhat childish saying it… admitting to this fantasy. “… isn’t it a little bit fun to pretend that you could?”

“Yes, I suppose there’s a certain… primitive allure, but—”

She closed the distance between them, slipping her arms around his narrow waist and walking them back until he bumped rather awkwardly against the wall.

“‘A certain primitive allure’,” she repeated, pressing herself against him, and guiding his hands to cup her bare ass. “By which you mean you enjoy the idea of fucking me over, and over, and over again… whenever you can… knowing that wherever I go, your cum is dripping down my thigh… your sperm doing what they need to do to fertilize the egg that waits so patiently for its champion…”

He needed to go, she knew that, but after all the teasing earlier, it only seemed fair that she exact her pound of flesh in return…

“Rook…”

Her hand drifted over the front of his pants, massaging the aspect of his anatomy that appeared eagerly responsive to the exhilarating and erotic fantasy she was weaving.

“You of all people must have put some thought into it at some point…” She probed innocently, tightening her thighs around his firm upper leg and finding the glorious friction of his clothed body against her naked cunt. His fingertips dug into her asscheeks. “Having a family, that is.”

Emmrich swallowed hard, apparently using all of his resolve to remove his hands from her rear and place them on her waist to stop her slow grinding against his thigh. “N-not seriously for… ah!” She squeezed his balls gently. “For a long time.”

“Mmmm… I think I’d make a pretty good mother, don’t you?” She purred, licking his neck and tasting the remnants of sweat and cologne on his skin. “I bet I’d look cute as fuck all round and pregnant… my tits all big and—”

“Rook…” he said again, though his tone was less of warning and more of pleading desperation this time. “You would: a m-marvelous mother, and the idea of making you into one is… is…” words seemed to fail him and swallowed again and shook his head as if shaking off a daze. “But right now I need to—”

“Go commune with the dead.” She finished for him, mind filled with the image of Emmrich’s big, long-fingered hands reverently splayed over her swollen belly, his lips trailing over the shape of her burgeoning womb…

She’d always assumed she’d be a mother someday, but had never craved it before… not with immature, unreliable partners like Tommy or any of her other fun but unserious dalliances…

She had never wanted it like she wanted it now - and it almost frightened her how bad she wanted it.

“There are… considerations. Reasons why… I…” he stopped short, exhaling the remainder of his breath as he took both of her hands in his. “We can speak more about it later.”

He kissed her right hand, then her left, then her lips. Glancing down between them, he noted the bulge in his pants, and the wet patch of his own cum from earlier and Rook’s arousal seeping into the straw coloured khaki where she’d humped his leg, another weary sigh escaping to join Rook’s apologetic titter.

“Sorry - let me grab you a different pair of pants.” She planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Combed. Angora. Wool: I can’t just throw these in the wash, darling.”

Oh Maker he’s so cute when he gets all bitchy…

“At least you’re getting laid,” she smiled pleasantly, extending a fresh pair of gray chinos to him.

“I’m of the mind to make you experience the joy of carefully handwashing them yourself…” he muttered, handing Rook his belt and stepping out of the khakis. “Naked.”

“There’s the dirty old man I fell in love with,” she beamed.

He changed into the other pants and together they made their way to the garage, Manfred trailing them, inquiring dozily as to why Emmrich was dressed as though he was leaving the house at this hour.

When they got to the door, Rook scooped the soft white cat into her arms and waved a paw at Emmrich.

“Can you say ‘bye-bye Emmrich’?”

“Mraooooow?”

“We’ll work on it.”

Emmrich donned his coat and gave Rook a kiss, and Manfred a thorough scratch under the chin: the cat purred deeply and wrapped his tail around Rook’s forearm.

“Lock the door behind me and set the alarm, then straight back to bed: you need your rest, darling.”

“Straight back to bed,” she promised.

“Good.” He leaned down for one more kiss, this one deeper and sweeter than the last - Rook felt her stomach flutter. “I love you, Rook, and please know that… I meant everything that I said to you tonight. All of it.”

She felt the corners of her mouth lift. “I know you did. I love you too. Now go do what you need to do and come back before the sun rises, okay?”

He returned the smile and then left, the door to the garage sealing shut behind him. Rook did as she was told and locked it, then punched the buttons on the wall panel to arm the alarm system.

“Do you want Emmrich’s side of the bed while he’s away?” She asked Manfred, gently booping his pink nose as she started back down the hallway. “I bet it’s still kinda warm.”

He shifted in her arms as she walked, wriggling free and landing softly on his paws before emitting a triumphant hiss and vanishing into Emmrich’s office.

"Awwww man c'mon... you know you're not supposed to go in there." Rook flipped the light on and surveyed the meticulously organized study in search of Manfred. "Something-something 'delicate curios', something-something 'priceless volumes' - you know how he is..."

She dropped to her knees to look behind an antique globe that she knew housed a selection of carefully curated scotches and brandies. "Ugh... he usually keeps the door to his office closed. Of course the one time I have to babysit, you get in here... if you break something I'm not covering for your furry ass."

Following the sound of an amused hiss from somewhere near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, she got to her feet.

"Manfred!"

The white cat had leapt from behind a milk-crate of old 45s, causing a pedestal table to wobble, sending a miniature bust of Socrates hurtling to the floor with a crash. Frightened by the sudden cacophony, he streaked under the heavy black walnut desk in the centre of the room.

"Dude. It's too fucking late for this!" Rook whined: she was truthfully very tired, and wanted nothing more than to curl up back in bed. "Come on..." she cooed gently, wriggling her fingers under the desk at Manfred. "Pspspsps..." she reached closer but retreated when razor sharp claws slashed through the air. "And here I thought we were friends." She straightened and put one hand on her hip, leaning into it. "Tell you what, I'll cut you a deal: I treat you to a midnight snack - an entire can of wet food - and I won't breathe a word of this to your father." She pointed at the shattered bust of Socrates. "I can make that disappear. But, you need to trot your ass out of here without bloodshed and let me go back to sleep, kapish?"

Manfred licked his lips, pink tongue darting up almost to his eye, then folded his paws underneath him and laid down.

"Of course not," Rook sighed, dragging her hand over her face. "Kapish nothing - I'm talking to a fucking cat..." She started thinking of alternative methods of extracting Manfred aside from bribery, initially considering oven mitts, but was promptly derailed when her eyes landed on a neatly organized selection of paperback books on the desk to the left of Emmrich's ancient Compaq computer.

All thoughts of cat-herding vanished, and she picked up the topmost book, skimming the title: ‘The Hard Questions: 100 Essential Questions To Ask Before You Say 'I Do'’. She read the back, then set it down to pick up the second book, which was John M. Gottman's 'The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work'.

"Oh..." she breathed.

It wasn't that she hadn't believed him when he'd said he wanted to marry her, but... but maybe there was some dark, undeserving part of her that didn’t want to: a twisted aspect of self that insisted his words were merely the clever weaving of sentiment courtesy of a man far older and more experienced than she. A man who knew full-well that those words were what she wanted to hear...

People who said things solely for the benefit of the person they were saying them to didn't secretly purchase and read books about said topic.

Rook swallowed past the lump in her throat as everything that had until now been a novel but unlikely possibility suddenly became very, very real.

Marry Emmrich? Spend their lives together? Start a family?

Never feel alone or unloved, ever again?

“Of course you had to read up first…”

A teardrop crashed onto the cover of 'Seven Principles' and a tremulous laugh escaped from Rook. She wiped the tear away with the back of her hand and moved to place it on top of the other book. There was something else on the desk that had been concealed under the two books: thinner, more like a pamphlet or brochure.

Wiping her eyes, she plucked it up from the desk, taking in the easily readable, punchy font on the the front which was charmingly rendered over an image of a breathtaking mountain-range at sunset:

What Would You Do With Infinite Time?

What If You Could Exist Eternally?

Perpetual Knowledge. Perpetual Growth. Perpetual Unity.

Possibilities Made Endless...

Rook's mouth went dry.

She flipped the brochure open - it was actually a folder, similar to the ones they gave to families during arrangements, stuffed with paperwork and catalogues.

There was text printed on the left side of the folder itself:

Suppose the greatest minds of our time were still with us today - and not only with us, but capable of conversing - of collaborating - of sharing ideas. What cosmic mysteries would reveal themselves with the weight of the intellectual powerhouses of Einstein, Sagan, Hawking, Galileo, and du Châtelet collectively behind them? Would we live in a world free of cancer, blight, pestilence, and physical suffering if we could leverage the remarkable minds of Hippocrates, Blackwell, Jenner, Fleming, and Lister? What if Mozart was still composing music? What if Shakespeare still blessed us with plays?

Legacy Integrated Cybernetic Host is a marriage of modern sciences: cryogenics and industry-leading cloud-based computer software bring the potential of these hypotheticals to life. At NecroByte Laboratories, we are carefully curating a host of the best and brightest minds that society has to offer with the hope of accumulating a cloud-based library of sentient knowledge and wisdom that will redefine society’s relationship with life, death, and legacy… All For A Better Tomorrow.

Unable to comprehend what she was reading, Rook turned to the other side of the folder, to the letter at the front atop what looked to be other various forms and correspondence.

Dear Mr. Volkarin,

Enclosed is the final report detailing the results of your Intelligent Quotient exam, Bionic Aptitude Tier, and Keller-Magnusson Neurological Typology Bracket.

Upon careful review of your results, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the sixth and final portion of the application process to become a part of the prestigious and benevolent future that is Legacy Integrated Cybernetic Host.

The final application process includes an assessment of your overall brain health at a cellular level, as well as a full and unbiased third-party assessment of your day-to-day responsibilities and relationships (including but not limited to: familial [by blood or marriage], spousal, non-platonic [friendly], platonic [friendly], professional, and otherwise transactional.)

We kindly ask that you provide our office a list of contact names, phone numbers, and email addresses of anyone in your life who falls under the umbrella of any of the aforementioned categories by no later than July 1. A lab appointment for the clinical assessment of your brain may be scheduled by visiting our website —

The rest was concealed by the bottom of the folder.

The letter was dated just before Wintersend…

Rook slammed the brochure shut and dropped it on the desk like it was covered in ants.

Redefine society’s relationship with life, death, and legacy?

Cryogenics and mention of uploading sentient thought into cloud-based storage centers… how is that even possible?

All that came to mind was a wall of brains, floating in jars, wrinkled and pink with wires and cables plugged into them that lead to a massive computer in whatever depressing windowless basement such a setup would occupy.

Is… is that what he wants to be? A… a fucking brain in a jar?! A prop in a fucking Hitchcock short?!

And of course it’s all framed so altruistically, but I fucking know him well enough to know this is just… just an excuse to get out of dying like the rest of us…

Tears of joy at the prospect of a perfect future were replaced with tears of mortified betrayal.

“Fuck my life,” she muttered before bitterly dropping the books in the waste paper basket, and vanishing from the room, leaving Manfred to do as he pleased in Emmrich’s dark office.

[dustedmagazine]

Staubitz and Waterhouse — Out and About (Gertrude Tapes)

Out and About by Staubitz and Waterhouse

In a basement one rainy evening several years ago I saw Mary Staubitz perform a set as her improvisational noise alter-ego Donna Parker. Midway through her set, everyone's phones went off at once, making a familiarly awful sound: Flash flood warning. 

Later, the booker grumbled that people should have had their phones off. Maybe he had a point, but when it happened, as I recall, Staubitz laughed. For a moment, the harsh, robotic staccato of the alert had melded with her set. 

Staubitz and Russ Waterhouse, her partner in art and in general, often blur the lines between life and music, and they do so here on Out and About. Starting with the bird songs and neighborhood chatter heard from their stoop in Pawtucket, RI, the album moves through a variety of lively locales. There are stops at an antique market, a hectic school lunchroom, a bar where the regulars argue about music. One barfly challenges some real or hypothetical person to listen to Buddy Rich and Mel Tormé “and come back and tell me you don’t like jazz.”

Some moments, like that last one, are literal, others begin as extended patches of white noise which might eventually take the shape of something familiar: A copy machine, a car wash, a breathy snore. 

The audioscapes of Staubitz and Waterhouse are Les Blank-ian in their loosely held documentary storytelling style. Out and About’s weirdo spontaneity is rooted in thoughtful construction. It’s dreamy, oddly wholesome Americana: Nostalgic, funny, strange, surprising and satisfying. 

Side B was recorded in 2022, during a trip to the Hudson Valley. At Tubby’s, the duo plays a set that echoes the sounds we’ve already heard from the streets and rooms of Pawtucket and beyond, as if the duo is regurgitating their daily lives on stage. Living and performing, forever intertwined. 

Margaret Welsh