#the most legible part of my notes is suddenly getting so much harder to look at because i'm writing over it in a different pen colour

[living-avarice]

changing how exactly one of the important bits in the first chapter happens for the like 3rd or 4th time, but that means we're getting closer to having it done in a much better way than it was planned before <3

[landwriter]

So, I don't know terribly much about the development of Old French to modern French. I DO know that some dialects are far more legible than others (such as that of the Romance) which is true for Middle English too.

Part of why French changed less, though, is because they had a solid literary tradition in the vernacular much earlier than the English, see the Romance as a good example. Hell, Old English is more stable in spelling than Middle English because there was a literary tradition there, too. The French were also the first to really sit down and write a prescriptivist guide on language. The English followed, but by that time, the word endings had already undergone so much lenition that the word final -e was hardly spoken and thus written anymore. It was not really used for the meter, they preferred French loans for that. (I also think the troubadour tradition may have affected the discrepancy between lyrics/poetry and the later developed prose). You can still see some Middle English variants in modern spelling though! Have would've been pronounced with an e at the end in Middle English, which is lost now. It ends on an /v/ now, a voiced fricative rather than a vowel. Knight is now, in IPA, /nait/ and has lost the k and ch sounds still there when the spelling was established.

If you compare English books of 100 years ago to English books now, their spelling is identical. If you compare Dutch books of 100 years ago to Dutch books now, the difference is Massive. Why? Because the English (like the French) don't really update how the language is written. The Dutch do, and this aids language change (not a bad thing!) and means that older texts look Really Old and become harder to access much faster.

Anyway to get back to the Romance, lol, basically it was a non stop bestseller from 1230 until c. 1510. After that it suddenly became a lot less popular. There are early print versions that have marginal notes that show people really USED the book to like learn from it as a lovers Bible.

Also, the editor you want for an Old French version of the Romance is Felix Lecoy (he edited the book in 3 volumes that were published in the late 60s/early 70s and I think you only need the first for Guillaume's section). It was based on a single manuscript (the other approach to an edition of a manuscript that survives in multiple sources is to make an archetypal text) and is generally considered the best/most scholarly source. Let me know if you're unable to find it, I may be able to help you out!

😭 The sheer KNOWLEDGE. Demolishing this content like I'm doing a kegstand. This is all so fuckin' fascinating!

All I have to add is that as far as prescriptivism goes, l'Académie française is pretty iconic and has been mentioned (usually disparagingly) by multiple French teachers I've had since at least grade nine - most often mocked for railing, in futility, against English borrow words like 'e-mail' and insisting on the neologism courriel - and for conservatism w/language change in general.

(Having now looked it up I am shocked and furious, I tell you, shocked and furious, that none of my teachers or professors mentioned that members of the Academy are called les immortels, yes, THE IMMORTALS, and wear special green robes that cost $50,000, and carry ceremonial swords unless they're a member of the clergy? There are 40 of them and members are inducted for life. I had been picturing a bunch of stodgy old professors arguing around a table about whether female government ministers should be called la ministre or not, but now I'm picturing the same thing, except they're all in fantastic uniforms and carrying swords that aren't strictly meant to be brandished but definitely sometimes are when the debates get real heated.)

Thank you so much for pointing me in the right direction for an edition! <3

[n0chanxes]

What “Matching Effort; Not Length” Means in Collaborative Writing [to me]

[small edit- this post looks like garbage on dash apparently but the organizational formatting is visible on my page ;;;;; hellsite why- Click to my page for an actually legible post lol T^T ]

Hey yall, its 7 30 in the morning and I can’t sleep even though I work tonight so Imma ramble for like half an hour to see if that makes me tired sfkjsdfhdj

I’ve been doing this for a long time. Like-- half my life, 13 years [I’m 26], ‘long’ and over the years I’ve gotten relatively comfortable figuring out what things go into a thread being successful [i/e fun and easy to keep going] and not fun. This is all obviously my opinion as both a solo story writer, avid reader [i have more favourite books than I do friend irl] and rp’er. And though this obviously isn’t some snooty checklist or anything, I’ve found that people who use some or one or even all of these things in their replies are the rp partners I still adore making stories with years down the road

Replying with the world and not just the character

This can be done pretty easily in ‘script’ replies as well as ‘lit’/wordy replies, but I never approach a reply like what my character is saying or doing is happening in a vacuum, because that’s not organically how life works. 

Are the characters in a busy café? Is there a long line? Is some asshole trying to cut which makes my character have to ask them to stop pushing around? 

How about walking down the street? It the traffic horrible that day, making them have to speak louder/move closer to your muse? Did they almost fall into a puddle or run into somebody? 

Oooor what about a night club? Is the music loud? Is the music shitty? Is it a little too crowded now even though it wasn’t like ten minutes ago, meaning our muses may want to move elsewhere

All this to say; think about your muses and people interacting in a space, not just two people talking/walking in a void.

Be comfortable with NPCs

There are a lot of humans on the planet! Like... a whole lot! Use them to buff up the story world you’re creating to make it more fun! This is also how I sometimes end up making a few of my favourite characters; they start out as NPCs to make my world more robust, and eventually I think up whole back stories for them [A good Example is Lux!]

Is that cafe owner making eyes at the other muse? Does that make your muse huffy and jealous? Or maybe that one dude who is still trying to cut in line gets a little too pushy and them and your muse have a little scuffle?

Is that a cute cat/dog? Sorry, gotta stop this very tense/flirty talk with your muse cus i have to pet this dog/cat.

Not only can these just be fun to picture, but a lotttt of character development can come from aspects of a world that aren’tt just because of muse A and muse b talking/thinking about each other, and can really buff up the foundation of whatever relationship muse and and muse b are developing whether its plotted or unplotted.

Be careful not to godmod- This isn’t nearly as much of an issue in this decade of rping as it was when I first started [it was bad lol] But just make sure these characters are feasible within a world. Don’t go and have muse a get randomly stabbed just because replies are hard to come by and you want to make muse b suddenly have to care about muse a. plot this shit out with your rp partner if you have even the smallest idea that some npc/event you have in mind might take away control/their right to control an event.

Reply to build off each other’s replies/characters; Not just to Reply. Give your partner’s character something to reply about.

I think , above most else, this can be the best or most frustrating part of an rp, and where I find I can lose interest in a thread or interaction. This is the most important thing I try to do, regardless of reply length or plot. This is what matched effort and not length means to me.

The most interesting aspect about rping to beings is being able to interact with them in real time, seeing this that its ever changing, real-time, and dynamic. If my character is stuttering a reply, eyes glancing every which way, sweating, but says everything is fine, getting a reply that doesn’t address any or the subtext or look to either amplify or fix a situation can be incredibly tiring.

Read a characters background/look for details in writing- Has ther other writer mentioned ther character has an interesting eye colour? Did the characters eye colour just change? Treat every reply as a chance to really build on something.

Did the character just say or do something that would logically result in some kind of shock/anger/attraction? Its okay to have your character shocked about things. Let them being an organic character/being.

Put equal effort in having interesting dialogue.-I can’t count the number of times on other blogs long ago [and long since dead] where I would give a few things in a script rp tp be interesting or cool to think on and reply about, things that were indicative to my character, only for literally all of it to be ignored in the next reply.

There aren’t many places for a story to go when two characters are just talking and walking together and nothing happens. 

Stagnation is the antithesis of progress, very literally.

And if you see or  a thread starting to become harder and harder to reply to, don’t be afraid to read through the thread and see if you notice a ‘drop’ or a place where you, your character, the world can add something which would be fun to reply to/react to/ imagine. 

And for god’s sake, read a characters about/have some information about your character at hand.

I am.....long winded [shocker, I know] and I know words can be hard. But at my core, I want to rp with you [yes you] because I like how you words and I like how you write characters. It is incredibly hard for me to know if a story would be fun or interesting if there is nothing about a character other than their fc.

Have crucial information in about sections, make sure you know about the other characters crucial information, this can be some of the things that help a thread start off a lot easier. These can be bullet points! Cool hair colour? Eye colour? Long fangs when angy? long fangs and red eyes when BigAngy?? Ears? Tails???? Anything thatt a character would notice upin first glance needs to be made clear to your rp partner so they and their character can operate more naturally in whatever world you’re creating together.

If you don’t have official abouts, that is fine, just make sure you have any information about the character ready for sharing! I use the sticky notes desktop app for characters I haven’t officially added yet and its a super helpful, low maintenance way to keep details about a possible/selective character on hand.

Talk shit out. Embrace a shifting story, figure out plot points that would be cool to see and write about. Have fun. Create worlds, universes, new characters! As long as both/all parties are on the same page, there is literally no end to what you can create together.

All of this applies to lit/novella/and script rps! I’ve had some very, very cool, in depth script rps in my time/on discord/aim so length is not a factor to fun, deep rps, its all in the mutual effort placed in the characters and their world.

[littlemisspp]

Invisible String | Mako

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Chapter 3

I bite my finger nails nervously, leg bouncing up and down as I stare at the telephone in front of me. It had been a day since Mako drove me home, and I've been too nervous to dial his number.

I had rehearsal at the conservatory tonight, so this was the perfect opportunity to call, but the nervousness in my body made my hands sweat and I couldn't muster the courage to make the phone call.

I stare at the slip of paper in my hand, his name and phone number quickly written out on the paper before me. His handwriting was neat, each letter well written and legible. It was yet another part of him I was starting to become fascinated by.

Eversince the conversation in his police kart I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

Mako? A rebel?

I couldn't believe it. Sure, it was none of my business but I was dying to learn more about him and his past. Everything about this mysterious police officer seemed to strike me with curiosity.

With a strong inhale I grab the phone, fingers dialing each number as I hold it up to my ear and wait. Within a few seconds someone picks up, my stomach bursting into butterflies.

"Republic City Police, this is Officer Mako"

"Mako" I smile, his voice sounding like velvet. "It's Elena Shen"

"Miss Shen" He replies, his voice seeming to perk up. Or maybe I was just imagining things.... "How are you?"

"I'm doing well" I smile, fingers playing with the cord of the phone. "I have rehearsal tonight at the conservatory. It should let out around 9:30"

"That sounds great, I can meet you out front," Mako declares.

"You can come early if you'd like" I muse, confused where this sudden burst of confidence came from. "I can show you around backstage, if you'd like"

"That sounds like fun" Mako says kindly, "How early should I be there?"

"9 o'clock?"

"Perfect" He replies, "I'll see you then"

"See you"

I hang up the phone, a small squeal of happiness coming from my lips as I jump up.

I had so much to do!

Hours later I sit at my vanity, dabbing the cotton sponge on my cheek delicately as I study myself in the mirror. I was never one to put on makeup, so I had to make sure this looked good.

A small knock comes from my door, the sound of chuckles making me turn.

"Since when do you put on rouge for rehearsal?" Vera smirked, leaning against the doorframe.

I blush, looking down.

I've been caught.

"Oh.. um" I brush my hair back, my sister's eyes widening.

"Is that a fresh coat of nail polish?" She quizzes, "El, what is going on?"

"It's nothing" I claim, nervously placing the sponge back in the compact.

"Oh please" Vera taunts, "I know when you're lying. Tell me"

I watch her stroll over to my bed, plopping down on the mattress as she looks at me in the mirror.

"Officer Mako is coming to the conservatory after rehearsal," I announced.

Her blue eyes widen again, mouth dropping in surprise.

"Is that the cute cop that follows the chief around?"

"Mhm" I hum, "Don't make a big deal out of it"

"How can I not?" Vera claims, "Why is he coming to your piano rehearsal?"

"Because he offered to drive me home afterwards so I don't have to ride my bike alone at night"

Vera's lips turn into a smirk, eyes squinting at me.

"He likes you"

"What? No way" I wave her off, "He barely knows me"

"Doesn't matter!" Vera shrugs, "He is a cop, his job is to protect you from robbers or something, not be your personal driver. Clearly he is doing this because he likes you"

"Or he is just dedicated to his job" I reason.

There was no way Mako liked me. He was way out of my league anyway. Besides, who am I to assume he didn't have a girlfriend already?

Vera snorts.

"He's a cop, Elena. Those guys barely get paid enough to buy dinner. Do you think he's going above and behind with that pay grade?"

I shrug, looking down at my hands.

"He really likes his job. He's passionate about it"

Vera shrugs, standing from the bed.

"Whatever you say, El" she hums tauntingly. "Let me know when he makes a move"

I blush, watching her leave.

Mako wouldn't make a move on me? Would he?

-Mako's POV-

I had been sitting in this kart for hours. My eyes scanning the seemingly empty street outside the conservatory. Something within me told me to go early and just watch, to make sure no harm came to the building on anyone who was inside.

Including Elena Shen.

Jeez, I'm such a dork.

I have talked to her once. Only one real conversation and she had been sticking to my mind like a curse. She was everywhere. I tried to file paperwork and her green eyes kept creeping into my head like a sick joke. How was I supposed to function like this?

I was only doing my job.

That was all I was here to do. My job.

I glance at my watch, 9:00 slowly rolling around as I slipped out of my car, making my way up the stairs and into the grand entry of the conservatory. It was my first time inside, I remember sleeping on the front steps as a child, but I was never lucky enough to see the interior.

I slip past the door and into the concert hall, the lights dimmed as only a few lights lit up the stage. There, sat at the black piano was a girl. Her long brown hair was tied into a loose bun as she marked notes on the pages in front of her.

Then before I could even catch my breath, she began to play.

I had heard the piano before, but never like this.

The notes started light and high, her fingers quieting pushing on the keys as she swayed her body to the music. I could see her eyes closing, her body moving ever so slightly with each chord she hit.

A small hit of silence and she was back again, her fingers pressing the keys harder as the notes grew louder and more bold. The music seemed to dance around her, the notes so beautiful and intoxicating I could hardly remember that I was standing in the entryway like an idiot.

Her head swayed with the music, hands quickly reaching up to turn pages as she kept her hands moving quickly up and down the keys. She was in her own world, and I was finding myself so enthralled by it I couldn't help but stare.

Suddenly the music stopped, her head turning to me with a smile.

"You're right on time!" she called, waving me up to the stage.

It took me a few moments to remember how to walk, my feet carrying me down the isle and up the stairs. Her smiling face became clearer.

"That was.... Incredible" I exhale, "Did you compose that yourself?"

She looks down, nodding gently.

"I did, yeah" She smiles, "Did you like it?"

"I loved it" I say, maybe too excitedly. Her cheeks seem to turn red as her eyes flicker down.

"How long did that take you to write?" I ask, shoving my hands nervously in my pockets.

She shrugs, "A few weeks or so. I had to edit it and make sure it sounded nice. But I think it'll work for the benefit"

"It's great," I enthuse.

She replies with a thank you, her green eyes brightening in excitement.

"Here" She waves, "I'll teach you a few chords"

I watch her scoot over on the bench, allowing me to sit on it beside her. I feel my shoulder brush against hers, eyes dumbly scanning the sheet music in front of us.

"I have no idea what any of that means" I confess, a small chuckle coming from her.

"It's really messy" She mumbles, "Most people wouldn't be able to understand it either"

I laugh, placing my fingers on the keys beside hers. Her thin hands rest over the keys, her fingers pressing down on a few of them at once.

"This is a C major" she announces, the sound of the keys echoing around the room.

"I have no idea how to do that" I laugh, trying to position my fingers like hers.

She laughs, reaching her left hand over mine and moving it over a few keys so they are resting in a new position.

"Press these three" She hums, pressing on my fingers so I'm hitting three new ivory keys.

I took a moment to admire how slim and small her fingers were compared to mine. There were so smooth and neat, unlike my hands that were cluttered with scars from numerous fights.

"Is this it?" I ask, looking down.

"Mhm" She hums, "C major"

"I'm feeling like a professional already" I chuckle.

She smiles, moving my fingers again and sliding them over the keys, this time resting on two ivory keys and a skinny black one.

"This is D major"

The sound echos around the room, my eyes watching her hands cup my own. I focus on my nerves, trying to keep the heat of my hands down.

I glance up at her, her eyes cast down to our hands as I study her face close up. She had a small nose, freckles littering her skin as her eyelashes were long and curled. I inhale and smell the scent of lavender, the smell calming my nervous as I brush my shoulder against hers.

She looks up, green eyes catching mine as she stares back at me. Her lips were pink and plump, a small set of dimples appearing on her cheeks as she blinks.

"Officer Mako" She says softly, seemingly in a trance.

"Just call me Mako" I whisper back, a small smile on my lips.

"Only if you call me Elena" She teases, green eyes flickering down.

I look down at her lips then back to her eyes, head slowly leaning in as my hand on the piano flips and grabs her small one, the sound of a few keys being hit falling silent on my ears as I watch her close her eyes.

I was about to brush my lips to hers when the sound of a door slamming made her jump, her hand breaking from mine as she brushed her hair behind her ear.

I cough, sitting back as we turn to see a stage worker come into view.

"Elena" the woman says kindly, "I just have a few questions about your backdrop for the benefit"

"Sure" Elena says, her cheeks a deep red as she slides off the bench. "I'll be right there"

The worker nods, turning and walking away before Elena turns to me, eyes cast down at her sheet music.

"I can meet you in the car" I suggest.

She nods, giving me a small smile as she clears her throat.

"I'll be out soon" She says quickly, shoving the papers into her bag and hurrying off the side of the stage.

I turn back to the keys, placing my fingers in the spot she taught me before pressing down.

"D major" I whisper to myself.

~

A/N: Sorry for the long wait! Life has been busy! 

Thank you for reading and making Invisible String Number 24 of the Mako X OC tag on wattpad! I am SO thrilled!

The piano piece Elena plays is “Dawn” composed by Jean-Yves Thibaudet from Pride & Prejudice (2005). I love this song so much and I recommend giving it a listen. I will be referencing it a lot in the chapters to come!

Don’t be shy! Message me to be added to the tag-list!

TAG-LIST: @zukostan221 @bispacesword 

[comicsandmakeup]

A House Filled with Pretty Things

Chapter 4: Group Therapy 

Notes: I finally have a beta. The gorgeous Rivkae-Winters has kindly agreed to beta my work. So we might just get some decent writing out of me. 

It’s a long chapter and I tried to break it up so it doesn’t hurt your eyes. Let me know what you think. You can also read it here. 

Warning: Discussion of miscarriage, infertility, and child loss in this chapter!

Three Months Later:

He hadn't wanted to share.

When Jason first joined the group at the behest of his mates, he had entertained the idea only because Chelsea, his psychologist, said that he didn't need to share just listen.

So he did.

He listened to omega after omega recalled their own journey with infertility and child loss. Each story sadder than the next. One omega lost six babies to miscarriage before finally throwing in the towel and declaring herself a childless omega. There was a bitter finality in her voice that made his stomach clench and his shoulders scrunch inward. Another spoke about how he and his mate tried for several years only to be met with disappointment after each heat. He knew that feeling all too well. Another spoke about how unfair all this was. There were so many abusive parents out there who couldn’t fathom what an absolute gift their children were. Yet he, who would adore his children, couldn't even have one. Jason had entertained similar thoughts as well.

He listened to each of these stories, his eyes always on the floor staring at his shoes. He stayed as far away from the group as he could, not interacting with any of the other attendees.

Like clockwork when it came time for him to share, he always shook his head and passed the baton on by stating "Not Ready." And like always, the group moved on to the next story.

Yet Jason continued to come to each of their weekly meeting and listen to their stories. He listened to the struggles of those around him and somehow the tightness that wrapped itself around his heart like barbed wire loosened. Their stories which were so similar to his somehow helped him breathe a little clearer. And without any conscious thought on his part, he slowly started to share.

The need to say something gripped him suddenly when they were all taking a breather from a heavy session. His turn was next and instead of passing the baton on, he gripped the metal stick harder in his fist. It signified that he had the floor and he could feel all of the attendees looking at him. Normally he would have hated all the attention but the emotions churning away at his gut held most of his focus.

He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, uncomfortable and on edge. He very nearly passed on the baton when a pale hand clenched his. Startled he followed the hand up to a tiny face. Warm sympathetic eyes the color of caramel greeted him. It was Justin, one of the attendees who had just experienced a still-birth. The hand in his squeezed harder and he smiled gently.

Jason couldn't explain it. He normally hated when people touched him, especially strangers but Justin like the other people in this group didn't feel like strangers. They spent weeks disclosing their most intimate thoughts and deepest fears, and suddenly the words crawled out of his throat without any effort on his part

He returned Justin's squeeze before letting go and finally turned towards the rest of the group. Chelsea had a soft smile on her face and nodded for him to speak. The rest of the omegas in attendance each smiled encouragingly at him.

"My name is Todd. I'm a detective." He started. There was no way he could explain what his real job was, so detective it was. It didn't matter anyway. The identities of everyone in this room was anonymous per Sanctuary's rules. Batman made sure of that.

A chorus of "Hi Todd." sounded out around him. He smiled.

"My mates and I started trying to conceive eleven months ago. It seemed like everyone around us was having babies. And I never really thought much about it. I was happy for them but a baby never factored in my plans for the future. It was after one of my good friends gained sole custody of his baby that I even entertained the idea of having a child." He began. He furrowed his brow and returned his gaze back to the floor, it somehow helped him recall the details better.

"Being a single dad was hard and I wanted to help, so I'd watch the baby when he had to work late. Or come over to his house to help him cook dinner and make organic baby food." He smiled, recalling the early days with Lian and Roy. "It was nice. She was such a sweet baby, hardly fussy at all. I enjoyed spending time with her. Taking care of her. A couple of months later, a family friend invited us out to Metropolis to celebrate Christmas with them. My mates and I went to visit them. He and his wife were expecting. Around the same time one of my mate's friends had twins, and suddenly the idea of a baby sounded more and more appealing."

Jason could still feel that burning want inside of him as he told this story.

He hated himself a bit for that delusion.

"My mates must have had similar ideas because they were the ones that approached me with baby talk and I agreed. They seemed so happy. They had no idea I had similar thoughts for a while now." He reminisced.

"We started right away. Trying to conceive and at first it was fun." He laughed bitterly. "Then one heat passed, then the next, and the next and nothing. Absolutely nothing. Every pregnancy test came back negative. I started dreading my heats. My mates could tell, but I was determined. So we tried harder. Still Nothing."

"I started getting desperate so I read up all that I could. I researched the hell out of the subject and I started charting my heats. Recording my basal temperature and tried every baby making position Cosmo listed. And even after all of that. Nothing!" His grip on the metal baton turned his knuckles white as he recalled those hellish months.

"After six months of 'trying'." Jason let go of the baton with one hand to make air-quotes. "I finally went to the doctor. She told me that it would take a miracle for me to conceive. I had completely ruined my insides when I was younger."

He tried to take several calming breaths before he could continue. To at least make an attempt at legibility, still the words came running out of him. "Nexium. It was a prescription drug marketed to poor omegas as a heat suppressant.” And one that had quickly found its way onto Gotham’s streets as well.

“What they didn't tell you was that it caused irreparable damage. One in twelve omegas experienced drastic changes in their heat cycles. One in thirty showed signs of blood clots and loss of vision. And finally one in fifty showed signs of infertility after prolonged use."

Jason could feel the looks of sorrow even as he focused intently on his hands as they clutched the baton.

Yep, that was him.

Jason Todd, the omega with the worst possible luck.

"I was on it for two years. It was the cheapest thing on the market and I couldn't afford anything else. I didn't even read the side effects! I just wanted the burning under my skin to stop!" He sobbed. He couldn’t remember when he started crying, but the tears ran down his face, down his neck, wetting the collar of his shirt.

A thin hand, Justin's, rubbed soothing circles on his back. It reminded him of his mother, though Catherine was never well enough to comfort him.

That had always been his job.

Still it helped him carry on with the rest of his tragic tale.

"After my doctor's visit, I just shut down. I wanted nothing to do with babies. Kids in general. I threw away all my conception journals. All my charts. Everything. I refused to talk about with anyone, including my mates. They tried to get me to open up but I was dead set on putting all of it past me." Someone passed him some tissues so he took a couple of seconds to wipe his face before continuing. "I threw myself into my work, determined to move on. I acted like I hadn't spent the last six months trying to make a baby. For the next couple of months, all I did was work."

"I didn't even know I was pregnant." He gasped out. "There was no signs or symptoms. I had stopped journaling weeks ago, so I wasn't tracking anything. I wholeheartedly believed that I couldn't ever conceive, so I thought I didn't have anything to worry about." Tears continued to run down his face.

"I went out that night looking for three missing children." He explained, trying his best not to break down then and there.

"My partners and I, we found them in an abandoned warehouse, just on the outskirts of the city. They located and tended to the hostages while I subdued the perpetrator.” It should have been so simple.

“He didn't even hit me that hard. I have had worse over the course of my career, so I thought nothing of it.” Jason sucked in a breath through his nose and let it out slowly, struggling against the veritable tsunami of grief that had reached it’s crest inside of him.

“He was arrested and the kids returned to their families. It was by all accounts a win."

"I didn't even know anything was wrong until much later when the cramping began. I brushed it off at first but soon it radiated all across my back and genitals. I tried to take a bath, hoping that it would help. It didn't." Taking a shaky breath, he braced himself for the most damning details of the entire story.

"That's when I noticed the blood. I think I passed out. When I woke up, I was strapped to a hospital bed. They told me what happened. The child I wasn't supposed to have been able to conceive, I lost. The miracle baby I couldn't have, died before I could even meet him or her."

"Anyway that's my story." A bitter sob escaped unbidden, his lip quivering. Tears running down his face.

Jason passed the baton on, feeling lighter. Hollow. Lost in his own world as the Omega seated on his other side spoke.

[roggling]

The Proposal [Kidge AU] Part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

This is the last chapter guys! Hope You liked it!

The house was buzzing as people arrived to witness the wedding of Katie Holt and Keith Kogane. Katie was nervous. Of course, she is. Even if she’s pretending that the whole wedding is a sham with Keith, she can’t help but imagine how their wedding would have actually looked like if they proposed like a normal couple.

The Proposal. It was all because of that stupid proposal that she fell in love with him. That stupid proposal on the street where the two were constantly teasing the other. That stupid proposal that she wished Keith meant. But, now… now all she wanted to do was get through with the wedding so she can confess her feelings to Keith.

As Allura and her mom helped her dress, she could see Keith already dressed and heading for the barn. As the girls were fixing Katie’s dress, she shuffled towards the window to get a better look. The girls shuffled after Katie comically and Allura peeked over Katie’s shoulder to see what she was looking at.

Allura smiled once she realized who Katie was watching and turned her away, “You will get to see him in the barn. But for now, you are going to have to control yourself.” Colleen laughed at Allura’s reprimanding and Katie couldn’t help but blush. When Colleen placed the veil over her daughter’s head, Katie knew that it was time.

“We have to get down to the barn now.” Katie nodded and followed her mother down the stairs with Allura behind her holding the long tail of the dress. Allura was wearing a long pink dress with a slit all the way up to her upper left thigh with a v-neckline.

Katie breathed in deeply and tried to calm her nerves as she hugged her mother and Allura before they left to their seats. As Katie peeked to the audience, she worried as she saw Keith smiling at Grammy as she walked over to him to kiss him on the cheek.

"I still can't believe you're doing this." Katie turned around and saw her father standing before her with a disappointed look on his face, Katie sighed and began, "Dad I don't want to talk about it."

At that very moment, Pachelbel Canon in D starts playing and Katie hooks her left arm around her father's right. The two slowly walked down the aisle, Katie looking around, finding Hunk, Natalia, Matt, Shiro, Allura, Lance, and Uncle Coran.

They stopped right in the beginning of the walkway to give the audience time to look at her dress. It was a beautiful charmeuse, off shoulder dress showing off a small bit of cleavage (something Katie definitely didn't like). Her long honey brown hair was pulled into a side ladder braided bun.

Katie looked straight at Keith straight, admiring how handsome he looks in his suit and his beautiful purple eyes. Katie smiled at Keith but it wasn't for the audience, it was exclusively for him. It was a real smile. And Keith could tell.

He gave her a closed lip smile and once she finally arrived at the altar and gave her father a kiss on the cheek, he took her small hand in his huge calloused one and the two approached the priest.

Keith's mind has been running wild since the morning. He felt guilty for being so mean to Katie and for making her marry him against her will. He felt like one of those Disney villains. But he also wanted to go through with the wedding. Katie was the best girl he's ever met. She's a challenge to his quick wit, to his snarky responses, and to his empty threats. She's exactly what he needs in life to become the person he knows he could have been. She's exactly what he wants in life. But he doesn't want to live with someone who isn't happy to be with him, that's just cruel.

So when the priest began the ceremony, Keith lifted his finger to stop it. The priest paused his speech and turned to Keith, "Sir, do you have a question?" Katie's head turned to Keith quizzically as Keith shook his head, "No- I- uh. I have something to say."

The priest, confuzzled, asked, "Can't it wait till after?" Keith seemed hesitant but eventually shook his head, "No. No."

The priest motioned for Keith to go ahead and he turned around and faced the crowd, "Hi. Thank you all for coming out. I, uh... have an announcement to make. A confession, actually."

Katie turned to Keith with wide eyes, "What are you doing?"

Keith only ignored her and continued, "I am Korean. Yes. I'm Korean. With an expired visa who was about to be deported. And because I didn't want to leave this beautiful country, I forced Katie to marry me." The whole crowd gasped as Katie lowered her head and hissed, "Keith, stop it."

Keith continued, "See, Katherine has always had an amazing work ethic. She fought hard for what she deserved. For five years I watched her work harder and smarter than anyone else in the base, including myself. And I knew that if I threatened to destroy her dreams... she would do just about anything."

Keith looked down and choked up as he tried to compose himself, "So I blackmailed her to come up here and to lie to you. And I thought it would be easy to watch her do it." Keith paused, looking at all of Katie's family, "But it wasn't."

Matt inhaled deeply, extremely close to beat Keith to a pulp (at least the most he could) for hurting his baby sister. Keith winced at the disappointed looks of the Holt clan but continued, "You are all wonderful people that deserve so much more than a scumbag than I. Don't let this come between you. I'm the one at fault. I'm sorry for lying to you all."

Katie pulled on Keith's arm, "Keith..."

Keith moved his hand away and turned to Katie, who looked like she was about to burst out in tears.

Keith sighed, but he knew that he was doing was right. So the last words he said to Katie were, "This was a deal and you held up your end, but now the deal is off."

Keith climbed down the stairs and stomped his way out, not before turning to Mr. Gilbertson, "You're my ride to the airport. Meet me at the dock." Mr. Gilbertson turned around and watched Keith with a smug look

Keith walked out of the barn in a rush and avoided everyone's gazes, knowing he might just break if he did.

Katie's eyes were watering as she stood there in a daze. She was only knocked into reality when she heard the door shut closed.

Katie turned to her family, who were all murmuring to themselves and she slowly walked down the altar towards her family. Colleen approached her daughter and reprimanded her with a voice laced with hurt, "What were you thinking?!" Katie shook her head, but she couldn't bring herself to talk to her family.

Allura approached her cousin too, grabbing Katie's hand to gain her attention, "You lied to us?"

Katie nodded slowly and let go of her cousin's hand, "Listen, I've got to put my head on straight. I'll explain everything later."

With that, Katie left her family and friends in the barn and walked out slowly at first. Once she finally reached outside, she picked up her dress and kicked off her heels. She ran at a full sprint towards the house, hoping to catch Keith before he left her.

She burst open the door and stepped inside. She looked around the living room and took off her veil. She took a glance upstairs and climbed them the fastest she could, jogging to the bedroom she shared the last three days. But when she got there, she didn't see the man she slowly learned to love. She found his suit and a golden pocket watch.

Beside it, she found a copy of her prints with a letter attached.

You were right. Your work is amazing. I lied because I knew I would lose you as an assistant the moment I turned in your work. But you are an amazing weapons designer with extraordinary ideas. I'll be sure to send your work to Bergen and Malloy along with my recommendation for you to be promoted to Commander. Along with your resume. I wish you the best, Katherine. Have a good life. You deserve it.

Keith

Katie stared at Keith's horrible, rushed penmanship, her hands tracing over every written word as she imagined him struggling to write legibly and quickly, wrinkling his nose as he concentrated. But as much as she wished that he was back, she still couldn't believe he would do that to her. Leaving her at the altar with a barn full of family and friends so she could alone explain all the sh*t she had to go through.

She crumbled the paper a bit as her anger grew more and more as she kept thinking about her idiot boss. Suddenly, she heard a knock on her door and she turned around.

There stood Lance wearing a simple tux with a white button down and turquoise tie. He had a smile on his face, "Well, that was... eventful. People are gonna be talking about this forever."

Katie looked at Lance, but her mind wasn't on Lance. It was on her stupid boss. "Yeah. Yeah."

Lance put his hands in his pockets, "Are you OK?"

Katie nodded but then the nod formed into a shake of the head, "Yeah-um- no. I just feel... You know what the problem is? The problem is that this man... is a gigantic pain in my *ss. First, he left me on the altar after he dropped the bomb about us being a sham couple and that he was blackmailing me. Then he goes ahead and leaves this note. 'Cause he doesn't have the decency, the humanity to do it to my face. Five years. Five years I work with this... this... d*ckbag with a stick up his *ss. Never once has he had a nice thing to say, and then he goes ahead and writes this crap!"

Katie crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room, not noticing Lance trying to calm her down by speaking to her in a soft voice, "Katie."

Katie, however, still went on with her angry rambling, "But none of that matters because we had a deal!"

Lance tried again by repeating her name softly, "Katie. Katie."

Katie quickly realized she was yelling and calmed down a bit, "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just... He makes me a little crazy sometimes with his bipolar sh*t."

Lance laughed and walked closer, "Yeah. I can tell."

Katie nodded and raised her eyebrows as if saying 'You see?'.

Lance tilted his head and pressed his lips together, "So you're just going to let him go?"

Katie looked straight at his eyes and he gave her a tight-lipped smile, him already knowing the answer as she brushed past him and to the front yard.

He followed close behind and helped her make her way down quickly.

Once she made it outside, all eyes were on her but she didn't care. She continued walking and tried to avoid the incoming questions from her family.

Matt saw her first and asked, "Where are you going?"

Katie brushed right past him, simply answering, "I have to talk to him."

Her father, however, was having none of that and grabbed a hold of her arm, "Why would you do that?"

Katie shook her arms loose and continued walking to the boat, not noticing that Lance stopped before he could get in between her and her father as she continued fighting with him, "It has nothing to do with you."

Sam stood in front of Katie and stood his ground, "I'm not gonna let you do this."

Grammy looked at the two with incredulous eyes and urged for them to stop fighting, "Stop! Stop it!"

Katie glared holes in her father's head, "I'm not asking for your permission. I'm a grown adult. I'm twenty-five for God's sake!"

Unbeknownst to them, Grammy's screams for the two to stop had ceased and she was slowly crumbling to the floor as she gripped the skin above her heart.

Colleen gasped and rushed to hold onto the beloved grandmother, "Annie! Sam! Sam!" Katie and Sam both snapped their heads to the grandmother being gently lowered to the floor by Lance and Matt.

Katie rushed to her grandmother, her bare feet carrying her to Annie in a flash and she desperately grasped her grandmother's hand and held it to her heart as tears tore paths through her cheeks.

It appeared as if someone called the ambulance the second Annie fell because after a few minutes of everyone panicking, she could hear the loud engine of a plane.

Soon enough, Matt tore her away from her grandmother as the paramedics secured her on a small gurney and boarded her on a plane, the family quickly climbing in after.

As soon as the door closed, the plane began the process of flight and was moving across the water, flying above the water a few seconds later.

Annie had a small mask on her face to supply her with oxygen as they made their way to the hospital, her eyes closed peacefully and her hands woven together on top of her stomach.

Sam sat their intertwining his hands with his wife's, silently praying that his mother makes it out alive. Matt and Katie only stared at their pale grandmother, both looking distraught. Katie had tears stained on her cheeks and she thanked Allura for using waterproof eyeliner.

Annie then moved her face and removed the mask so she could speak. Katie called out for her father and mother and the whole family scooted closer to Annie as she grabbed Katie's hand.

"You two need to stop fighting. You'll never see eye to eye. But your family." Grammy looked up to her son, Sam, and struggled out, "Promise me you'll stand by Katie. Even if you don't agree with her."

Sam nodded and tried to look away from his mother, "I promise." His voice failed him as he held his mother's wrinkled hand.

Grammy looked at Katie, whose eyes were brimming with tears once more, "Katie. Promise me you'll work harder to be a part of this family."

Katie nodded and managed to choke out, "I will. I will, Grammy."

Annie, now pleased with the promises, laid flat and closed her eyes, "Well, then, the spirits can take me."

Katie exhaled sharply as one of the paramedics placed the mask on her again, "Oh, Grammy."

The whole plane sat in silence as Grammy laid stiff. But suddenly, her eyes opened wide and mischievously and she sat up with ease, "I guess they're not ready for me."

The family sat in confusion as Grammy turned around and called out to the pilot, "I'm feeling much better, sonny. No need to take us to the hospital. Take us to the airport, please."

Katie breathed out in relief and disbelief and she clutched her rapid beating heart.

Sam shook his head, "Mom, what the hell? Were you faking the heart attack?" Colleen merely laughed as Matt exclaimed, "Come on!"

Grammy looked between the two and shook her head, "It was the only way I could get you two to shut up and get us to the airport!"

Suddenly a familiar voice spoke from the pilot's seat, "Grammy, we're not authorized to take you to the airport."

Grammy glared at the Hispanic and warned, "Lance McClain, don't make me call your mother."

Katie opened her eyes wide as she remembered that Lance had a part-time job as a pilot.

Once the plane landed Katie ran from the plane and onto the hard concrete, completely ignoring the hard pebbles digging into her feet.

She stood frozen in place as she saw the only 'Sitka Skyways' plane gaining speed on the tarmac. Suddenly, she saw her brother picking up his phone and frantically calling a number, "Chuck! Hey. It's Matt Holt."

Katie looked at her brother with an incredulous eye, not believing that he was calling a friend as she was trying to get to Keith.

Matt ignored his sister's gaze and continued his conversation, "Hey, uh- I need a favor from you buddy. Keith is on that plane and my sister's got to talk to him. Can you stop it?" Katie was thanking the stars that her brother was so social.

Katie couldn't hear anything but she assumed it was angering her brother because he ended up shouting, "Chuuuuck! I need you to stop the plane. Please."

Katie looked at her brother with hopeful eyes but he only shook his head and thanked Chuck before hanging up. Katie turned around and watched as the plane took off with Keith in it.

She watched sadly as the love of her life left her life... forever.

Sam soon walked behind his daughter and whispered, "I'm sorry, Pigeon, I didn't know how you felt about him."

Katie nodded and offered a sad smile as her mother consoled her by hugging her and rubbing her back, "Oh honey. It's going to be OK."

Katie only shook her head as she let loose some soft sobs.

The next day early in the morning, Keith was packing his office away into boxes. No one helped him. Some his soon-former-employees stopped by his glass door and peeked through to watch as he packed his trophies of his old high school football days.

But once they saw him grab a box, they scattered away and hid from his gaze. "Nyma!" Keith called out from inside the office as he struggled to open the door, eventually opening it by grabbing it with his hand and lowering his entire body in order for him to turn the knob.

Once he finally stepped out of the office, he didn't fail to notice Katie's desk. Specifically, a picture of her on her college graduation. Her radiant smile brighter than ever as she held her diploma and her acceptance letter to work for NASA.

Keith cleared his throat and looked around for Nyma, spotting her as she talked with Rolo. "Nyma. Nyma. I need for you to send the boxes in my office to this address, please."

Keith shamelessly interrupted their conversation and offered Nyma a small slip of paper with Keith's family's old home's address.

Nyma took it and skimmed through it nodding and looking back up to the Commander. "Yeah. Sure. Uh- Commander?" Nyma's eyes were focusing on a figure behind Keith and she pointed at it as Keith asked, "What? What?"

Keith followed what Nyma's finger was pointing at and his gaze landed upon a short, panting, honey-haired, and hazel-eyed beauty heading straight for him.

"Katherine," Keith muttered as he looked around the room, finding all eyes on what's about to go down. His gaze landed on Katie again and he looked at her up and down, taking notice of her messy hair and the fact that she was out of breath, "Why are you panting?"

Katie tried to calm her breathing as she closed in on Keith, "'Cause I've been running."

"Really? From Alaska."

"No dumb butt. From the garage where I parked my car."

"Oh."

"We need to talk."

"Well, I don't have time to talk. I have to catch a 5:45 to Daejeon." Keith turned back to Nyma and handed her the box as he began giving orders, "I need the boxes to go out today-"

"Keith."

"I want to make sure everything is-"

"Keith! Stop talking!"

Keith twirled around to face a furious Katie and he sheepishly skimmed through the room, watching all the employees duck from his gaze.

Katie immediately went back to her normal tone of voice and continued, "Gotta say something. This will just take a sec."

Keith crossed his arms and looked to the floor, "Fine. What?"

Katie crumbled up the jacket she held in her hand and used one hand to emphasize her words as she spoke. "Four days ago... I loathed you. I used to dream about you getting lost in one of your missions or poisoned."

Keith nodded, "That's nice."

Katie continued, "I told you to stop talking. Then we had a little adventure in Alaska and things started to change. They changed when we kissed. And when you told me about your tattoo. Even when you were checking me out half-naked."

The crowd started chuckling and murmuring after they heard that and Keith blushed before adding, "You also checked me out."

Katie smirked and continued, "Hell yeah I did. But I didn't realize any of this until I was standing alone. In a barn. Husband-less."

Keith tried to look away from Katie as she took a step closer, "You can imagine my anger until I realized that the man I love is getting kicked out of the country."

Keith froze as his eyes met Katie's own full of love. Katie took another step closer, "So, Keith. Marry me..." Keith shifted in his spot to recover his shocked face, "...Because I'd like to date you."

Katie, although being a woman, seemed completely confident over proposing to a man. All the girls awed at Katie as she stood confidently in front of the Commander.

Keith, however, hesitantly shook his head and struggled to whisper, "Trust me. You don't really want to be with me."

Katie nodded and whispered back, "Yes, I do."

Keith shook his head again and whispered, "You deserve someone better-"

"I think I should have a say on who I deserve, Keith." Katie retorted angrily, offended that he would make such accusations on himself.

Keith shook his head, "This'll be much easier if we just forget everything that happened and I just left."

Katie nodded, "You're right. That would be easier."

Keith nodded along with her and shrugged as he tried to keep himself from crying at the thought of leaving Katie.

He took a step closer and took one last look into Katie's beautiful, unique set of hazel brown eyes. His eyes traveled down to her lips, but he respectfully looked back into her eyes as he whispered, "I'm scared."

Katie took that moment to really explore Keith's dark violet eyes. His mutation that makes him so... him. The deep color of violet transported her to space itself. The never-ending void of space.

Katie nodded and whispered back, "Me too."

At that moment, Katie threw her jacket to a chair. Her right hand grabbed Keith's tie and pulled him lower as her left lost itself in the forest of Keith's black hair.

The crowd gasped as their lips met in a slow passionate kiss. Keith's arms slid up to Katie's waist as he pulled her closer to him and to close the distance they had between.

The two relished in the other's love. All their love poured out into one kiss. Katie took control of the kiss, not that Keith minded, and her hands placed themselves along both sides of Keith's jaw as the kiss extended.

Once the two pulled apart, they slowly opened their eyes and Keith smirked once he saw how red Katie's face was and whispered, "Aren't you supposed to get down on your knee or something?"

Katie, who was still holding on to Keith's face, whispered back, "I'm gonna take that as a yes."

Keith nodded, "OK."

Katie looked back down to Keith's lips and licked her own as she pulled him back for another kiss, this one much more feverish. The crowd behind them chattering as they shared multiple kisses, not one forgetting to express a small declaration of love in its wake. Katie's hand slid down from Keith's jaw to his chest as she led the kisses to a much slower pace until they stopped completely and stared lovingly into the other's eyes.

In the background, Katie could hear Plaxum yell out, "Yeah! Show him who's boss Katie!"

The couple only laughed as they pulled into kiss again in front of the room, not even caring if they saw them anymore.

Behind the two, stood Lance (who was the one who flew Katie all the way to Texas). He was smiling as he watched the two happily making out in the office. Plaxum was also watching the two with a smile and sighed, "It's great to see those two finally got together."

Lance nodded and turned his head to look at the bluenette next to her, immediately blushing the second he saw her, "Y-yeah."

Plaxum also turned to look at the man she was talking to, her cheeks also turning pink once she saw his face. "Um... My name's Plaxum."

Lance smiled and extended his hand, "Lance." The two turned back to the couple making out in the middle of the room, then they both turned simultaneously and both said at the same time, "Do you want my number?"

Katie and Keith both pulled apart laughing once they heard that and pulled apart to look at Plaxum and Lance hand the other their number.

Keith turned and smiled as he watched Katie watch her two friends with amusement. Katie turned back to Keith and asked, "What?"

Keith shook his head and pulled Katie close again, "Mine."

Katie smiled as the two started yet another kiss and she silently thanked jack*ss Keith for being a jerkwad and forcing her to marry him. Because if not, she wouldn't have met the real Keith and she would have never fallen in love with him.

Bonus:

"So, let me see if I got this right. You two are engaged again." Mr. Gilbertson sat in front of both Keith and Katie in his office as they tried to once again apply for a fiance visa.

Both Keith and Katie nodded, Keith, holding Katie's hand.

Mr. Gilbertson rose a quizzical brow, "For real?"

Keith chuckled, "Yeah."

Mr. Gilbertson sighed, "You sure you want to go through with this because one wrong answer and I'm going to take you down!"

Both Katie and Keith glanced at each other in worry. Not worry about if they were going to answer the questions right. No. They were worried because Mr. Gilbertson is kinda crazy.

"O...kay."

Mr. Gilbertson narrowed his eyes and smiled, "Let's do it."

[afangirlsplaylist]

Say Yes

Giveaway fic for @mythicalseries

Author: afangirlsplaylist

Rating: Teens and Up

Warnings: Mention of injury (blood)

Word Count: 2,014

Summary: Rhink thinks film school is his and Link’s future - until he is given a vision of just how wrong he is. 

Notes: based on the prompt: ‘a "ghosts of past, present and future" kind of situation after R and L get into a big fight’ I took this to a slightly different place than you were thinking of I’m sorry.

Read it on archiveofourown

No matter how much he wished he could Rhett wasn’t able to remember his dreams very often. Most of the time they got left behind on his pillow when he got up, and the ones he did remember were mind numbingly normal. He spent most nights desperately trying to conjure up an image of blondor, dragons, or the beach, only to get stuck dreaming about something mundane like filming. 

So he wasn’t sure what was different about this one. Maybe it was because he'd had Link on his mind all day - since he’d been arguing with his dad about film school till he’d exhausted himself. Or it might’ve been because he’d collapsed onto his bed with his throat hoarse from yelling and his emotions running high. Whatever it was, something about the night made his dream feel more real than anything he felt when he was awake. 

Where-ever he was in this dream made no sense. The dim light felt like an empty hall or unlit stage, but the humming of distant voices and a soft tinkling sound reminded him of a forest or a creek. Yet he couldn’t place any of the voices or see any running water - only the broad back of his friend standing a couple of feet in front of him. 

It was Link but it wasn't Link. He was wearing a pair of turtle shell glasses and even though Rhett knew his Link was several months younger than him this man looked like he'd been out of college for at least a decade. He figured this version of his friend must be doing well for himself - judging from the stylish sweeping up-do, the red and grey mix pattern suit, and the shiny Rolex draped on his wrist. He looked the picture of happiness, wealth and success, making Rhett’s mouth fall open a little in impressed shock.

This Link didn’t even glance his way when he went to stand beside him, so Rhett almost jumped when he spoke. 

"You talk to your dad about film school today?” The older Link asked.

Rhett couldn’t even acknowledge the question, too busy staring at Link as if he had been asked to play spot the difference. “Link?”

“Not your Link. Not yet.” The older Link said with a smile.

Rhett found the answer rather ominous but unfortunately Link didn’t care to elaborate any further. "Film school - you talked to him?" Link asked again. 

I don't know, why the heck do you want to talk to me about that when you’re from the freaking future or something? Rhett desperately wanted to say, but instead he said. "Yeah, I'm talking him into letting me go with you. Or... other you."

“Don’t.” Link said harshly.

Rhett had never heard his Link talk to him with a tone of authority like that in his life. He wanted to ask what was so wrong with film school, but for a second time the words wouldn't come out. “Why?”

Instead of answering Link stared off into the distance - where one of the humming voices was growing louder. “That’s why.”  

The approaching voice was quickly joined by a small body - no older than nine, storming up to them and clutching a piece of paper in his hand. If Rhett had any doubts about what it was they were erased when he noticed the blood dripping from the palm of the younger Link. It was a deep slice, but Rhett was more alarmed by the tears falling from his face.

“Why would you forget about this?” The younger Link accused, holding up the paper as his voice rang with anger and disappointment. "We made a pact old man."

"I..." Rhett couldn't finish his words, too stunned by the raging young Link in his face. All he could do was gawk at the boy’s split palm and the living, breathing blast from the past standing before him.

"You nothing." Young Link spat, throwing the paper into the dirt and mashing it in with the toe of his soccer shoes. "Go to the damn film school for all I care."

Rhett looked to the adult Link for help but the young Link ran off into the darkness before he could say anything more - leaving him to gingerly pick up what was left of the paper.

"Give it up." Adult Link suggested. "It's gone even in my time."

Seeing as the words were barely legible and the thing was caked in dirt Rhett reluctantly cast it aside, where it quickly sunk into the dirt again. Even without the paper in his hand he could still feel it shaking, stunned by the level of hatred he’d seen in the little Link’s eyes when he looked at him. 

He turned to the adult Link beside him for some kind of comfort, feeling the need to defend himself.

"It was what you wanted." Rhett said, shaking his head in confusion. "I mean it's what my Link wants." He corrected.

"It was.” Adult Link spoke up. “But you don’t realize you're hurting him a lot more by going to film school. It ain't supposed to happen."

"Then what is supposed to happen?" Rhett asked, starting to feel peeved.

As if a spotlight had fallen on a piece of stage Rhett hadn't noticed before, his attention was caught by a preteen girl playing in the corner. She had a pretty face, long blonde hair, and a laugh that rang out just like Link’s.

“She’s beautiful.” Rhett commented, a strange sensation in his gut telling him who she was. “Yours?”

A wide smile stretched across Link’s face as his gaze followed her. “She is.” He said proudly. “Just like her mom.”

“Her mom, huh?” Rhett teased, the weirdness of the dream temporarily forgotten. “When do I get to meet her? She treat you right?"

The smile dropped from Link’s face and he went suddenly serious again. "You don’t. Not if you don’t say yes to your dad and let me follow you. You know if you don't I’ll just end up whenever you’re going, and her mom won’t exist in my life."

He turned back to his daughter as if to prove a point. "Neither will she.” He added, before nodding his head in the direction of two boys Rhett hadn’t noticed. “Or them.”

Rhett’s eyes followed Link’s gesture and he spotted the tell-tale shaggy Neal hair on the heads of the two boys, although they had softer facial features that had to come from their mother. He'd just opened his mouth to speak before Link beat him to it.

“Lincoln and Lando.” Link answered his question for him.

“Gave him the family name, huh?” Rhett said in amusement. "What's with Lando?"

"Star Wars character. Don't ask." Link ordered.

Rhett snorted with laughter. "You ain't gunna change a bit man."

Link’s face couldn’t help betraying a smile. "I'm beginning to think you haven't either." 

Rhett resisted the urge to swat him with his hand before he was distracted by the sound of more children running over to join the others.

"They're yours." Link told him, and Rhett's head spun around so fast he rubbed at his neck to make sure he hadn't got whiplash.

"They're what?"

"They're yours." Link repeated patiently.

He should’ve been able to see the other two children as easily as he’d seen Link’s, but no matter how hard Rhett squinted he couldn't quite make out their faces. It was like someone had taken a sharpie and blacked out their faces in his mind, before muting the audio of their voices while they were at it. 

“I don’t even get to know what they look like?” Rhett complained.

"You don't get them at all unless you say yes to your dad.” Link told him.

Rhett swallowed hard, already scrapping the idea of film school as his heart beat for the two nameless, faceless, boys that were meant to be his. Nothing that meant losing any of this could be worth trying, but part of him still wanted to know that something would’ve stayed the same - that there was one small unwavering part of him that could survive the upheaval. 

"I’d have you at least right?" Rhett asked, nudging his older friend as if he already knew the answer. Link didn't nudge back.

“You’d lose me in two years.” Link said bluntly, watching as Rhett’s smile fell.

“Says who?” Rhett pressed. “What about the oath?

Link mouth went tight as he stared down at the remnants of the oath on the ground with tired, sympathetic eyes. “Even blood oaths have their limits man. I’d only be happy for so long in film school before I wanted something else. We'd just.... lose touch.”

"That's bullshit." Rhett growled, angrier more at the idea of letting that happen than anything else.

"Hey I agree." Link told him, holding up his hand's defensively. "But it happens."

Rhett thought back to the present Link, sleeping soundly on the floor by his bed with no worry of them ever going separate ways. It was then he realised he hadn't given any thought to who would be in HIS bed.

"And my wife? I'm assuming if your married I'm married too." Rhett asked.

"Yeah you are." Link told him, rolling his eyes a little. "Don't flatter yourself I got married first."

"Is she good looking?" Rhett pried harder, once again trying to get a look at the faces of his boys in the distance. Link took a moment to answer, giving Jessie some thought.

"Your wife's hot I guess." He shrugged.

"Hey!" Rhett yelled, indignant.

"Well she is!" Link countered, losing a touch of his cool mystique. "She ain't yours yet dude."

Rhett looked like he wanted to chew him out further but he bit his tongue in favour of getting more questions answered while he still could. "Is she older or younger?"

Link thought carefully about his answer. "She's a little younger but don't give up on her." He advised. "And you should probably think about growing a beard when you're a little older. She likes it."

"Yeah that's right." Rhett said smugly, stroking his currently smooth jaw and imagining a thick beard coating it.

Link just groaned. “You’re even worse at this age. I forgot."

Before Rhett could ask him what he meant by that Link started walking off in the direction of the children. It wasn’t until then that he noticed those bright, childish voices were getting quieter by the second, and panic took over as he remembered one thing he hadn’t asked about.

"What's it like?" Rhett called after him, practically screaming as he felt the dream starting to fade around him. "What we do?"

By the time Link had an answer for him it was almost too late, but he stopped and turned around quick enough for Rhett to catch it.

"Mythical."

Link was gone once the word had left his lips, leaving Rhett to succumb to the pull of the waking world.

He woke up with a shuddering gasp in his own bed a second later, his head ringing with memories that were already starting to slip away from him. It was almost a shock when he heard his Link stirring on the floor below him - very present and now awake.

"Wha' you dreaming about?" Link asked groggily, his eyes still half closed as he lifted his head.

Rhett held his forehead in an attempt to remember exactly what had happened - but all he had was a select few bits and pieces. It felt as though someone was erasing everything he tried to recall, until it was so foggy he stopped trying. "I can't remember."

"Then shu'up." Link mumbled, throwing a small pillow in Rhett's general direction before rolling over and immediately falling asleep again.

Rhett looked affectionately at what he could see of his friend in the darkness - his mind made up. He didn't remember much of the dream but he did know one thing.

He was going to study engineering and Link was coming with him.

Hope you liked this @mythicalseries :) thanks for the cool prompt!

[ulfwolf]

The Northern Lights of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor: My home

Did you know that the aurora borealis makes a sound? It emits a sort of electrical hiss, a subtle shifting of audible frequencies, as it both shapeshifts and colorshifts across the black, star-studded sky.

I count myself very fortunate to have been born and raised in northern Sweden where each winter we had vivid northern lights (norrsken—literally, northern shine) a dozen or so times a year.

These were gigantic, multi-colored church organ pipes covering half the northern sky, fluttering or shivering slowly in the sun-particle breeze while whispering its unoiled song to all little humans standing in the snow, head back in awe.

The first several times I saw the northern lights I had yet to hear of Bach or any of his music, but I was introduced to this god of music sooner than most in that we lived a five-minute walk from our local church which sported a very impressive (I’d go so far as to say magnificent) organ, and in that the church organist was also my music teacher and he had invited me to come hear him practice any time I wanted.

The keyboards to this organ were housed in the choir loft (some call it the church balcony) at the rear of the church which you reached by climbing a narrow and spiraling set of stone steps.

Sometimes of a quiet winter night I could actually hear him play even from our house (yes, I’d have to be outside, of course, and yes, it would have to be very quiet) and then I’d rush up to the church, climb the stairs and debouch into this wonderful space that housed not only the multiple-keyboard organ cockpit, but also the seats for the choir and (of course) the magnificent pipes.

And there he would sit (his name was Harald) both hands and both feet busy with their magic. He’d sense me arriving and turn and smile at me without stopping. Me, I’d sit down and just watch and listen.

Now, it was not that I knew that the music was written by Bach—yes, he may have mentioned it but that did not register at the time. What did register, however, was Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, which Harald played more than once (he obviously loved it, too). Those ten heavenly opening notes found two eager ears and a forever home in this young boy, listening in open-mouthed wonder to his music teacher’s conjurer’s trick.

The association between the northern lights and the grand pipes of the church organ is easily made—they do sport the same features—and it’s only a few short associative steps from there to seeing Bach up there in the winter sky (once I learned that he had written the Toccata and Fugue).

To be honest, perhaps it’s not so much that this stellar piece of music was my home (as I wrote in the Wolfku above); it’s more that I became a home for it, and from there on, looking up at the divine winter-night spectacle, there they were, both Harald and Johannes Sebastian, smiling down at me.

That said, let’s fast forward a few years, and I now live in Stockholm in a very cold little apartment with a very good stereo system. One night—and, yes, I must admit to being high on hashish this night—I put on Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, and as the heavens opened in those first ten notes, I saw the familiar northern lights right there in my room, real as anything, descending through the ceiling.

Fast forward a few more years, and I wrote a short story about just that night called “Bach Lights,” which I’ve included it below. It tells of the wonder and why I still am a home for Bach, and he a home for me.

:

Bach Lights

The Winter Dawn is timid this far north. That is why she tiptoed up to my window and then hesitated, as if unsure about what to do next.

Within, Night, her brother and contrast, lingered in many places: on the windows and along the floor as frost, in the cold hash pipe as ash, in the lava lamp as yellow and red bubbly ghost still rising and falling and rising and falling from the heat of the little bulb that could.

On the table as story.

The sun scaled the sky a little more before Sister Dawn finally worked up the courage to pry herself through the frosted glass and heavy curtains and onto my face where she settled and with the help of pure physical (as in bathroom) needs found and excavated me.

I opened my eyes to wonder at the ceiling, then turned to my left to wonder at the all the little letters written on the wall, then turned to my right to wonder at the table, then at the large sheet of paper on the table with many more inky letters scrawled all over it, all mine. And when I say wondered, I really mean wondered, for as yet I could not imagine what I might have written on wall and paper.

I heaved myself halfway up and onto my elbow to wonder a little harder at the sheet of paper: so many letters, all running around scratchily in my barely legible hand. And looking, and looking again, and making out a word or two or three it came back to me, little by a little more: that long, glorious and wordy exhaling under the spell of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor.

I sat all the way up now and retrieved the sheet from the table, wrapped the blanket around me (noticing my breath as faint mist in the cold air), leaned back against the thick wall behind me, and began to read in earnest.

Reading, I returned to the night before and again fell in with Brother Cold and Dark (aka Brother Night)—Cold and Dark despite the two gas burners on my stove burning as high as they would go and hissing heat into his icy heart and despite the little kerosene heater that did all it could to give the gas burners a hand from its frosty corner.

But those were only gestures at warmth, for I live in Stockholm and it is deep winter in the capital N North with a meter of snow outside my window, glittering now and would be sharp to the touch, I could well imagine, and would squeak now underfoot, I could well imagine.

And in this capital N North my room is a tall rectangular box of frigid space: a three-meter-high ceiling with two almost meter-thick walls colder than death facing the outside, another wall nearly as cold facing the entrance way, and a fourth (not so cold but not-at-all warm) wall that I shared with my neighbor. It is in this box of winter that Brother Night and I spent an interesting evening; a cold and stoned evening—just me, though, with the stoned part, Brother Night doesn’t smoke hashish.

Initially, after a pipe or two, I had sailed across first one ocean (the Atlantic) and then a continent (USA) to reach the next ocean (the Pacific) and the big city by the water they call Los Angeles which had gifted me the Doors and their Strange Days Long Playing (LP) record. Leaving my very good speakers as stereo adventure I listened through all of side one and then all of side two and still my frosty wings were spread and eager to go places so I carefully lifted the Doors LP off the turntable and returned it to its sleeve (only touching the record edges), then found and disrobed and carefully lowered a Bach LP onto the turntable instead. Then, as carefully, brought out the stylus from its cradle and lowered it, slowly, slowly, respectfully, the way you should always lower even the most eager stylus onto Bach.

I have a theory: Bach is God. Well, if not God God then at least of the same substance, of that I have no doubt.

:

Of sounds there are none more God-like than those first measures of the Toccata and Fugue in D-minor (or D-Moll as my Archiv German pressing says). They arrived through the ceiling, from a distant somewhere up there in the darkness, as descending lashes of beauty to kill the frozen silence.

Stunned, I reached for pen and paper as would a photographer for his camera when suddenly stumbling upon extraterrestrial aliens—slowly, carefully, centimeter-by-centimeter—hoping not to draw their attention, you know, spook them.

I had to get him down om paper.

Him God. Him Bach. Had to. For were I not to let what now flowed into me, flow through me and then out of me as ink onto this stiff paper I would overfill and drown in beauty. Not a bad way to go mind you, but I was young then and not ready that final passage just yet.

But I did not reach for pen and paper inconspicuously enough. Those first few measures, midflight, spotted my movement and rushed me and wrestled me to the floor where some part of me, some sunny sandy California part of me somehow remained in the Doors’ Los Angeles: prostrate upon Santa Monica beach sand, warm ear to the warm ground listening to the Pacific, listening to wave upon wave reaching sand like wind reaching trees but another part of me—most of me—remained in the wintry Stockholm here and now hearing Bach/God descend and I scrambled back on my feet and discovered a pen in my hand and the sheet of stiff paper on my table and then I began to write down all that Bach said.

Those first few measures again, resurrected in a lower register, circling, then entering me like so many lovers: through my ears, through my eyes, through my skin, embracing me each as they entered. My body sang with Bach. Then the vision.

It was brother North Wind: the ever dawn of the northern lights, their shimmering pipes of icy organ rising shifting rising in a mid-winter fantasy making snow sing. It was God coming down through my ceiling as the aurora borealis and I knew then and there that Bach and God are indeed one and the same.

Then the world rises. It starts somewhere in the engine room of time, his feet on the lower pedals, hands too to the keyboard left as he begins to lift the planet. My room vibrates with the effort, with the strength and sheer joy of that rising. I am water I am wave I am blue ink and I flow onto stiffly white frame after frame of photographed aliens or no one will ever believe me I actually hear this.

The lifting escalates and crescendos and is done escalating now and flings open the door onto Spring.

I hear and see and follow with the tip of my very costly fountain pen which I bought just the other day knowing full well I could not afford it. But these were the days when a check was automatically good because you signed it and gave it to the clerk who then handed you the pen with smile. I have since learned the meaning of the word overdrawn, but meanwhile here it is in my hand and anyway, it’s too late to take it back now, no matter how expensive it was, so I do with it what I hoped and dreamed I would do with it and I write with it.

And out into Spring: The doors are flung wide open, onto narrow crystal steps that dance up into the morning into sky. No more brother North Wind now, just dawn and dew and those little lakes of silver that form on my petals and leaves and do to sense of smell what Michelangelo does to rock.

I wish I could cry matching tears.

Though for whose benefit? I am overcome, yes, but not beyond control. So, un-crying, I keep writing. I no longer know exactly what I say or why really just that I know that this is a capital M Moment and I am having some sort of epiphany here and maybe just maybe I’m a genius of some kind that someone is waiting to discover and make immensely rich and warm and to move out of this freezing almost ceiling-less room so full of darkness and frost and this immense music.

Sound as Mountain. Physical. And I confess I lose my way. In Him.

I reach the end of the paper and there is more to write as I sail on, cast about by waves—a soul in blessed turmoil. And then a new cresting that lets me sprout wings and out and over I glide. He does this to you, you know, God does. Bach does.

I have taken leave of Stockholm of winter of snow and Boreas’ and Bach’s Light and now there is only ocean reflecting soul and I cannot comprehend how anyone encumbered with arms and legs and fingers and toes could possibly have conceived and composed beauty such as this, wings such as these and again I remind myself that I am in His presence, sailing His air, and that for Him all is possible.

I turn the sheet over. The one sheet. I only have the one sheet? Why have I only the one sheet? But wondering does not turn it into several, so instead I turn it over and continue this scribbly dance on the other side and I hope that at least some small vestige of what enters actually exits as I race ahead by one inky Swedish word after another and turning my head now I see a path that perhaps can be followed, perhaps should be followed, perhaps must be followed, or I will never find my way back.

What goes through God’s mind when he writes music like this? What could possibly inspire Him, source of all inspiration? But something does and did and am I really the first to hear this? To hear what He meant. To see what He saw.

There are islets below. They could be Greece or they could be Australia or they could be our own Stockholm archipelago in the summer I don’t know and really, I don’t care as long as my wings carry me and I don’t fly too close to the sun.

My speakers make a faint hum from an inverter I need in this old apartment, so old it only has direct current (DC) electricity which needs chopping up into little AC bits to drive my stereo and that’s what makes them hum but God doesn’t care and I no longer notice. Now there is only space and the windy tapestry of pipes as I approach the edge of the second page and there is so much more to say but nowhere to say it so I turn to the clean wall behind me and now I have a sheet to last me.

We sail on, Bach and God and I for the final measure.

Timid Sister Dawn (she is very perceptive) sees all this of course which is perhaps why she finally ventured through frosty panes and heavy curtain to find my face, beneath which I sleep the sleep of last night’s frost and though I slowly know her on my face up there on the somewhere surface I choose to ignore her for a while. But she has come to stay and soon manages to dispel her brother to some nether, even colder region, to under my bed perhaps and into corners where he will sulk till the sun sets again to set him loose and she tugs me gently and tells me to wake up, to wake all the way up and to open my eyes.

:

“So what do you think?” I ask.

My friend gets to the bottom of the stiff sheet and mumbles, without taking his eyes off the text, “Amazing.” Then he turns the sheet over.

“Do you think your dad might publish it?” I ask. His dad is an editor of some sort. It’s a small magazine, but quite prestigious I’m told.

“I would think so,” he says and keeps reading. “Surreal,” he adds after another while, still not taking his eyes off my scribbles.

Then he gets to the bottom of the second page and says, “Does it end here?”

He turns the sheet over again and over again and over again looking for a better ending. “Where is the rest?”

“On my wall,” I remember.

http://rowansongs.com/blog/2019/2/2/the-wolfku-garden-22

[ulfwolf]

Toccata and Fugue — Musing 22

The Northern Lights of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor: My home

Did you know that the aurora borealis makes a sound? It emits a sort of electrical hiss, a subtle shifting of audible frequencies, as it both shapeshifts and colorshifts across the black, star-studded sky.

I count myself very fortunate to have been born and raised in northern Sweden where each winter we had vivid northern lights (norrsken—literally, northern shine) a dozen or so times a year.

These were gigantic, multi-colored church organ pipes covering half the northern sky, fluttering or shivering slowly in the sun-particle breeze while whispering its unoiled song to all little humans standing in the snow, head back in awe.

The first several times I saw the northern lights I had yet to hear of Bach or any of his music, but I was introduced to this god of music sooner than most in that we lived a five-minute walk from our local church which sported a very impressive (I’d go so far as to say magnificent) organ, and in that the church organist was also my music teacher and he had invited me to come hear him practice any time I wanted.

The keyboards to this organ were housed in the choir loft (some call it the church balcony) at the rear of the church which you reached by climbing a narrow and spiraling set of stone steps.

Sometimes of a quiet winter night I could actually hear him play even from our house (yes, I’d have to be outside, of course, and yes, it would have to be very quiet) and then I’d rush up to the church, climb the stairs and debouch into this wonderful space that housed not only the multiple-keyboard organ cockpit, but also the seats for the choir and (of course) the magnificent pipes.

And there he would sit (his name was Harald) both hands and both feet busy with their magic. He’d sense me arriving and turn and smile at me without stopping. Me, I’d sit down and just watch and listen.

Now, it was not that I knew that the music was written by Bach—yes, he may have mentioned it but that did not register at the time. What did register, however, was Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, which Harald played more than once (he obviously loved it, too). Those ten heavenly opening notes found two eager ears and a forever home in this young boy, listening in open-mouthed wonder to his music teacher’s conjurer’s trick.

The association between the northern lights and the grand pipes of the church organ is easily made—they do sport the same features—and it’s only a few short associative steps from there to seeing Bach up there in the winter sky (once I learned that he had written the Toccata and Fugue).

To be honest, perhaps it’s not so much that this stellar piece of music was my home (as I wrote in the Wolfku above); it’s more that I became a home for it, and from there on, looking up at the divine winter-night spectacle, there they were, both Harald and Johannes Sebastian, smiling down at me.

That said, let’s fast forward a few years, and I now live in Stockholm in a very cold little apartment with a very good stereo system. One night—and, yes, I must admit to being high on hashish this night—I put on Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, and as the heavens opened in those first ten notes, I saw the familiar northern lights right there in my room, real as anything, descending through the ceiling.

Fast forward a few more years, and I wrote a short story about just that night called “Bach Lights,” which I’ve included it below. It tells of the wonder and why I still am a home for Bach, and he a home for me.

:

Bach Lights

The Winter Dawn is timid this far north. That is why she tiptoed up to my window and then hesitated, as if unsure about what to do next.

Within, Night, her brother and contrast, lingered in many places: on the windows and along the floor as frost, in the cold hash pipe as ash, in the lava lamp as yellow and red bubbly ghost still rising and falling and rising and falling from the heat of the little bulb that could.

On the table as story.

The sun scaled the sky a little more before Sister Dawn finally worked up the courage to pry herself through the frosted glass and heavy curtains and onto my face where she settled and with the help of pure physical (as in bathroom) needs found and excavated me.

I opened my eyes to wonder at the ceiling, then turned to my left to wonder at the all the little letters written on the wall, then turned to my right to wonder at the table, then at the large sheet of paper on the table with many more inky letters scrawled all over it, all mine. And when I say wondered, I really mean wondered, for as yet I could not imagine what I might have written on wall and paper.

I heaved myself halfway up and onto my elbow to wonder a little harder at the sheet of paper: so many letters, all running around scratchily in my barely legible hand. And looking, and looking again, and making out a word or two or three it came back to me, little by a little more: that long, glorious and wordy exhaling under the spell of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor.

I sat all the way up now and retrieved the sheet from the table, wrapped the blanket around me (noticing my breath as faint mist in the cold air), leaned back against the thick wall behind me, and began to read in earnest.

Reading, I returned to the night before and again fell in with Brother Cold and Dark (aka Brother Night)—Cold and Dark despite the two gas burners on my stove burning as high as they would go and hissing heat into his icy heart and despite the little kerosene heater that did all it could to give the gas burners a hand from its frosty corner.

But those were only gestures at warmth, for I live in Stockholm and it is deep winter in the capital N North with a meter of snow outside my window, glittering now and would be sharp to the touch, I could well imagine, and would squeak now underfoot, I could well imagine.

And in this capital N North my room is a tall rectangular box of frigid space: a three-meter-high ceiling with two almost meter-thick walls colder than death facing the outside, another wall nearly as cold facing the entrance way, and a fourth (not so cold but not-at-all warm) wall that I shared with my neighbor. It is in this box of winter that Brother Night and I spent an interesting evening; a cold and stoned evening—just me, though, with the stoned part, Brother Night doesn’t smoke hashish.

Initially, after a pipe or two, I had sailed across first one ocean (the Atlantic) and then a continent (USA) to reach the next ocean (the Pacific) and the big city by the water they call Los Angeles which had gifted me the Doors and their Strange Days Long Playing (LP) record. Leaving my very good speakers as stereo adventure I listened through all of side one and then all of side two and still my frosty wings were spread and eager to go places so I carefully lifted the Doors LP off the turntable and returned it to its sleeve (only touching the record edges), then found and disrobed and carefully lowered a Bach LP onto the turntable instead. Then, as carefully, brought out the stylus from its cradle and lowered it, slowly, slowly, respectfully, the way you should always lower even the most eager stylus onto Bach.

I have a theory: Bach is God. Well, if not God God then at least of the same substance, of that I have no doubt.

:

Of sounds there are none more God-like than those first measures of the Toccata and Fugue in D-minor (or D-Moll as my Archiv German pressing says). They arrived through the ceiling, from a distant somewhere up there in the darkness, as descending lashes of beauty to kill the frozen silence.

Stunned, I reached for pen and paper as would a photographer for his camera when suddenly stumbling upon extraterrestrial aliens—slowly, carefully, centimeter-by-centimeter—hoping not to draw their attention, you know, spook them.

I had to get him down om paper.

Him God. Him Bach. Had to. For were I not to let what now flowed into me, flow through me and then out of me as ink onto this stiff paper I would overfill and drown in beauty. Not a bad way to go mind you, but I was young then and not ready that final passage just yet.

But I did not reach for pen and paper inconspicuously enough. Those first few measures, midflight, spotted my movement and rushed me and wrestled me to the floor where some part of me, some sunny sandy California part of me somehow remained in the Doors’ Los Angeles: prostrate upon Santa Monica beach sand, warm ear to the warm ground listening to the Pacific, listening to wave upon wave reaching sand like wind reaching trees but another part of me—most of me—remained in the wintry Stockholm here and now hearing Bach/God descend and I scrambled back on my feet and discovered a pen in my hand and the sheet of stiff paper on my table and then I began to write down all that Bach said.

Those first few measures again, resurrected in a lower register, circling, then entering me like so many lovers: through my ears, through my eyes, through my skin, embracing me each as they entered. My body sang with Bach. Then the vision.

It was brother North Wind: the ever dawn of the northern lights, their shimmering pipes of icy organ rising shifting rising in a mid-winter fantasy making snow sing. It was God coming down through my ceiling as the aurora borealis and I knew then and there that Bach and God are indeed one and the same.

Then the world rises. It starts somewhere in the engine room of time, his feet on the lower pedals, hands too to the keyboard left as he begins to lift the planet. My room vibrates with the effort, with the strength and sheer joy of that rising. I am water I am wave I am blue ink and I flow onto stiffly white frame after frame of photographed aliens or no one will ever believe me I actually hear this.

The lifting escalates and crescendos and is done escalating now and flings open the door onto Spring.

I hear and see and follow with the tip of my very costly fountain pen which I bought just the other day knowing full well I could not afford it. But these were the days when a check was automatically good because you signed it and gave it to the clerk who then handed you the pen with smile. I have since learned the meaning of the word overdrawn, but meanwhile here it is in my hand and anyway, it’s too late to take it back now, no matter how expensive it was, so I do with it what I hoped and dreamed I would do with it and I write with it.

And out into Spring: The doors are flung wide open, onto narrow crystal steps that dance up into the morning into sky. No more brother North Wind now, just dawn and dew and those little lakes of silver that form on my petals and leaves and do to sense of smell what Michelangelo does to rock.

I wish I could cry matching tears.

Though for whose benefit? I am overcome, yes, but not beyond control. So, un-crying, I keep writing. I no longer know exactly what I say or why really just that I know that this is a capital M Moment and I am having some sort of epiphany here and maybe just maybe I’m a genius of some kind that someone is waiting to discover and make immensely rich and warm and to move out of this freezing almost ceiling-less room so full of darkness and frost and this immense music.

Sound as Mountain. Physical. And I confess I lose my way. In Him.

I reach the end of the paper and there is more to write as I sail on, cast about by waves—a soul in blessed turmoil. And then a new cresting that lets me sprout wings and out and over I glide. He does this to you, you know, God does. Bach does.

I have taken leave of Stockholm of winter of snow and Boreas’ and Bach’s Light and now there is only ocean reflecting soul and I cannot comprehend how anyone encumbered with arms and legs and fingers and toes could possibly have conceived and composed beauty such as this, wings such as these and again I remind myself that I am in His presence, sailing His air, and that for Him all is possible.

I turn the sheet over. The one sheet. I only have the one sheet? Why have I only the one sheet? But wondering does not turn it into several, so instead I turn it over and continue this scribbly dance on the other side and I hope that at least some small vestige of what enters actually exits as I race ahead by one inky Swedish word after another and turning my head now I see a path that perhaps can be followed, perhaps should be followed, perhaps must be followed, or I will never find my way back.

What goes through God’s mind when he writes music like this? What could possibly inspire Him, source of all inspiration? But something does and did and am I really the first to hear this? To hear what He meant. To see what He saw.

There are islets below. They could be Greece or they could be Australia or they could be our own Stockholm archipelago in the summer I don’t know and really, I don’t care as long as my wings carry me and I don’t fly too close to the sun.

My speakers make a faint hum from an inverter I need in this old apartment, so old it only has direct current (DC) electricity which needs chopping up into little AC bits to drive my stereo and that’s what makes them hum but God doesn’t care and I no longer notice. Now there is only space and the windy tapestry of pipes as I approach the edge of the second page and there is so much more to say but nowhere to say it so I turn to the clean wall behind me and now I have a sheet to last me.

We sail on, Bach and God and I for the final measure.

Timid Sister Dawn (she is very perceptive) sees all this of course which is perhaps why she finally ventured through frosty panes and heavy curtain to find my face, beneath which I sleep the sleep of last night’s frost and though I slowly know her on my face up there on the somewhere surface I choose to ignore her for a while. But she has come to stay and soon manages to dispel her brother to some nether, even colder region, to under my bed perhaps and into corners where he will sulk till the sun sets again to set him loose and she tugs me gently and tells me to wake up, to wake all the way up and to open my eyes.

:

“So what do you think?” I ask.

My friend gets to the bottom of the stiff sheet and mumbles, without taking his eyes off the text, “Amazing.” Then he turns the sheet over.

“Do you think your dad might publish it?” I ask. His dad is an editor of some sort. It’s a small magazine, but quite prestigious I’m told.

“I would think so,” he says and keeps reading. “Surreal,” he adds after another while, still not taking his eyes off my scribbles.

Then he gets to the bottom of the second page and says, “Does it end here?”

He turns the sheet over again and over again and over again looking for a better ending. “Where is the rest?”

“On my wall,” I remember.

::

P.S. If you like what you’ve read here and would like to contribute to the creative motion, as it were, you can do so via PayPal: here.