honestlopuk

[buglaur]

Hi I'm in Ireland #real

#pufferaskboxworldtour

fáilte go héirinn👋

[sapphirestones09]

AAAAAAA FINALLY! I'm done playing @oneknightstand-if. As part of the celebration, here is Rosie's colored sketch (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Lol, this looks like an anime title card And thus! The Stats!

Blobbed: Yep (We are what now?)

Bold : 205 (Is this high lol?) Sweet : 46 Sassy : 159 Optimist : 76

Health : 85 Mark Status : Healed Merlin Healing : 2 Merlin Forced Healing : 0

Caution : 9 Will : 7 Cloudcuckoolanderness : 42 (Not enough, we gotta go full cray cray) Silent : 7 Curse Level : 4 Fear Level : 6 Corruption : -5 (Is this low enough?) Mute : false Mindcontrol : false

Downtime : Had Breakfast | Snarfed Sweets | Shower Accident |

Route : Went into Store & Fought | (What I gotta use the hunting knives as soon as possible in some way right?)

New Inventory : Hairdryer | Sweets | Shower Mat | Everclear Alcohol (Molotov! Molotov! Molotov!) They Know : false | It Sees : Masked | You Replied False Some stats are missing when I scroll from the past posts in the forum. Such as Crazy Theory, Crazy Theory Level, Pottymouth, Serenades, Interpretative Dance, and a deep dive into the Adrian and Merlin's relationship stats (I WANT TO SEE HOW MANY TIMES I FLIRTED GODAMMIT!). I wonder if I can access it (╥ω╥) About Rosie!

You are currently known as Rosaline (Rosie) Bane a seemingly normal female wildlife biologist. You have red eyes, very long flowing icy blond hair, and a short and petite figure clad in a red cape with an amaranth face mask. People tend to take particular notice of your hair. At first glance, people tend to find you not very intimidating.

You excel at sword fighting, gardening, and having a magnetic personality. Meanwhile, you've got a weakness for prescription medications and enclosed spaces, as well as having anger management issues.

You have an ear piercing. You also have a couple of scars along your neck and wrist.

A tragic accident that claimed your whole family lies in your past and the fate of your future remains murky with the apocalypse ever looming in the background. At least no one has suspected that you are actually��a serial killer.

Your final words were "And now for a final word from our sponsor—"

Note! I didnt know I could play something as chaotic and as fun as this game provided me. Its super fun and enjoyable and yet amidst the chaos I loved the characters that was shown and grown to get attached to them to a degree. Both Merlin and Adrian are mysterious and enigmatic in their own ways that makes me look forward to the story and how it progresses towards their character. Also seeing Adrian being exasperated over Cloudcuckolander MC's antics tickles my funny bones more than I can admit. I admit I was reluctant to get into the game seeing as its such a huge one, but after playing all I can say is MOAR! I NEED MOAARRRR! AND PLEASE AUTHOR TELL ME HOW TO SUCCESSFULLY PASS THE STAT CHECK FOR MOONWALKING ON THE FENCING ROUTE! I NEED TO MOONWALK! I NEED THESE PEOPLE TO CLAP FOR ME! And please can we apologize to Adrian for punching him? (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ I know in the grand scheme of things, Adrian forgives us already but we still wanna apologize (ಡ‸ಡ) And oh boy, I think Im gonna draw lots and lots of fanarts now... Skill Stats!

Personality Stats!

Can we still claim to be a newbie after Merlin's extensive lore dump on us? Relationship Stats!

Inventory!

Your ultimate weapon is unknown.

You are currently armed with... nothing, at least as far as you know.

Cold Steel SRK survival knife

You also have on hand...

E-phone 7XL

several small bottles of prescription medications

photo of your family

Killer McKiller Face's favorite stuffed animal (Rip our micro pig (ಥ﹏ಥ))

well-worn Bible (To ward off evil of course!)

mystical Magic 8-Ball (Another holy item! I sure hope it does not contain anything otherworldly that will potentially endanger us and others ha.ha.ha (→_→)

small herb garden of eclectic plants including a mutant Venus Flytrap (The only queen Rosie will ever potentially bow to!)

collection of various survival & hunting knives

small bag of iridescent pearls

bottle of 95% alcohol Everclear (Molotov! Molotov! Molotov ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝)

slightly squished pastry (I KNOW MY PRIORITIES! AND ITS SWEETS!)

[phenomenal-savage]

The woman didn’t know what it was that woke her up.

It wasn’t a nightmare that roused her from slumber. It wasn’t a sound or a smell. There was just an underlying feeling of dread growing in her chest. Something was wrong. She opened her eyes and turned over to look at her alarm clock. The time read 1:35 AM. 

She sat up in her bed and looked around the room. From what she could see, nothing seemed to be out of place. Her window was locked up tight and her bedroom door was closed. Everything looked normal. She mulled over the details, trying to make sense of what was bothering her. Something was definitely wrong; the thought kept weighing on her mind. 

She blinked. 

The barking. There was no barking.

Her pug, Rex, had the most ear-piercing bark anyone has ever heard from a small dog. He barked at everything: new people, passing cars, squirrels. He’d even bark for the sake of it, no matter what time it was. Even so, she never minded the pug’s loud nature, especially at night. It was just another addition to the nocturnal soundtrack that lulled her to sleep. But now everything was strangely silent. 

She threw off her covers and got out of bed, grabbing a flashlight from her nightstand drawer and heading down the stairs to the kitchen. She opened the patio doors and shined her light outside. 

She didn’t notice anything wrong at first. The backyard looked the same as it always did, with her small garden and the doghouse in the corner. Her light wasn’t strong enough to reach the doghouse so she couldn’t see if Rex was inside. Maybe the pug had finally tired himself out after all the barking. 

Yet her dread still remained as she walked closer.

“Rex?” she called out, shining her flashlight across the yard. “Rex, come to mama.” 

She froze. 

Her backyard was enclosed inside a white wooden fence, just like many others in the neighborhood. There, on the side closest to the woods, was a hole. She flashed her light at the fence, her breathing growing heavy as she looked upon the wreckage. It looked as if something had burst through the wood, something strong and large. Broken pieces were scattered across the grass.

She took a step back from the sight. How did she not hear that? What could have…? Something squelched beneath her shoe. She shined her light down and gasped.

A bloodied, severed leg sat nestled in the grass. 

Sweeping her flashlight across the ground, she became fully aware of the bloody mess at her feet. Intestines, meaty chunks, and what looked to be paw prints littered the yard. She whimpered as she stared at the scattered pieces of viscera. What happened? Who or what could’ve done this? 

She directed her light to a darkened spot in a corner and screamed.

Sitting in a pool of blood was Rex’s head. His tongue hung limply from his mouth and his eyes were open, the pupils dark and blank. She took several steps back before falling onto the ground, her screams fading into sobs. 

And as her cries bled into the night air, a wolf’s howl reverberated in the distance.

Summary: "The story of twin brothers in the ordinary town of Rockwell, Maine. While having car trouble one night, one of them is attacked by a wild animal. Now, with the full moon approaching and a paranoid government agent hot on their trail, one brother races against the clock to find a cure while helplessly watching the other turn into a monster."

Fandom(s): Iron Giant, Ginger Snaps

Status: In Progress

Current Word Count: 12,252 (1 chapter)

Rating: Mature

Link: the dark after dusk, the wolf comes howlin'

[smileweakandwrong]

find the word!

tagged by @eskawrites and big thank you because work is painfully slow and I don't want to be productive.

rules: search your WIPs for the words you're given and share the extract they're from.

the words I was given are: glass, remain, unlikely, loyal, and wrong.

I'm pulling everything from chapters of I Will Remember You that haven't been posted yet because it's the only thing I'm working on that's not just an outline at the moment.

glass

Nancy left the porch and picked up a decent sized rock from what appeared to have been a rock garden before months of neglect killed off any non-local plant life. She balanced the weight of the rock in her palm, said, “Anything can be a key if you throw it hard enough,” and sent the rock smashing through the sidelight beside the door. Reaching through the new opening, careful of the jagged glass that surrounded it like a mouth full of teeth, Nancy flipped the deadbolt and opened the door.  Nothing appeared to be disturbed inside, certainly not like anyone had ransacked the place looking for hidden secrets about El or Brenner’s work. The rooms were minimally decorated in monochromatic colour schemes with utilitarian furniture and no photos on the walls, just the framed mass-produced prints that often hung in hotel rooms—snow-capped mountains, a boat at sea, a pair of wolves in the forest. Arbitrary art to break up the blankness. Someone had stayed here but no one had lived here. A turntable sat atop a cabinet with a single shelf of records. A newspaper was folded neatly on the kitchen table, the crossword fully filled in in pencil. 

remain

Nancy climbed out of the hole, digging her fingers into the hand holds and feeling the clay cake under her nails as the web-like blackness sunk back into them like it always did when the darkness in her made contact with its home. She scrambled over the top, crawled a few feet on her hands and knees, and threw up that morning’s gas station coffee and muffin onto the earth. She crawled away from her mess and collapsed down into the overgrown grass of the ball field, flat on her back, waiting for the seasick feeling in her stomach to calm. The grass had been left to grow unchecked since July. Mowing seemed pointless when the gates remained locked and large ‘Park Closed’ signs were fastened to the chain link fence that enclosed the field. It grew tall enough that when Nancy turned her head to the side she couldn’t see the base at third, her view swallowed up by feral field. If Robin were lying in the grass with her, she’d be making some joke about bases, trying to make some suggestive comment for only Nancy to hear and being about as successful at sounding smooth as she’d be if she picked up a bat and tried to hit a homerun over the back fence. But Robin wasn’t here to lay in the too-long, too-itchy grass with her, no one was, and that truth made Nancy want to roll over and vomit again.

unlikely (apparently the only appearance in the whole damn fic)

“Look, I don’t know what to do with you, but I can’t call the pound because I’m not supposed to be here and there’s no way I’m putting you in the car and taking you there myself. They’d probably just put you down anyway because you kind of suck, but it’s not your fault. Your job was protecting, you’ve got to be pretty brave and a little mean for that—” Nancy told the dog, opening the bag of food and scooping a generous amount into one of the shiny stainless steel bowls. “But I’ll tell you what, you can stay here and stay warm and fed until I figure it out as long as you dial back the crazy, deal?” The dog just licked its lips and waited until she slid the bowl across the concrete floor with her boot. She just watched as her unlikely new roommate started eating.

loyal and wrong exist in the same passage, how fun

The thing about guilt is that it’s excessively hard to smother, like a stubborn ember hanging onto its heat, loyal to its flame and ready to reignite the moment it's presented with oxygen and a new fuel source. Nancy had been trying to snuff out her guilt and stop dwelling on the shame that came paired with it like a buy one; get one free of her perceived wrongness, but it burned deep, smoldering on her kindling bones and filling her lungs with smoke from the inside out. Sometimes she’d make it an entire day without feeling the burning and think maybe she’d finally managed the impossible—believing that Robin’s reassuringly kind words were true—but then she’d see the freshly healed bite-mark scar on Robin's neck and the fire of guilt would consume her all over again. Guilt was hard to smother, especially when it burned Nancy’s palms every time she tried.

but I also like this bit, so wrong gets two

The centre backed onto a park space, basketball courts and a playground and a splash pad that would have been full of kids hanging onto summer a month ago. Now, it stood empty as the autumn leaves collected in little piles on the brightly painted concrete. A deflated green balloon clung to the branches of a nearly-bare tree like it was trying to recreate the summer greenery, a leftover scrap of latex from the million and a half balloons released over the city a few weeks ago. Nancy just shook her head as she noticed just how many dead balloons littered the city, a stupid idea gone wrong the way that most stupid ideas do. She watched as a small and shriveled but not-yet popped pink balloon bounced along the ground in the breeze and out into the road where it was finally flattened by traffic—just another pretty thing lost to the falsehood of good intentions. She looped around to the next street over that wasn’t blocked off by a police car and officer redirecting foot traffic, and made her way through the park to the back of the rec centre. 

I'm not tagging anyone because anxiety, but feel free to play if you want!

Your words are shoelace, sidewalk, rusty, palm, sincere

[trainerspiral]

Forrest leads me through the gate into the orchard, the Lombre marching at his side and muttering sullenly to itself. I can't help but sigh at the beauty of the old trees, their branches clustered with berries of all colors.

My mind glances back to my previous visit here, so long ago. Ro and I had been traveling together, and things between us were getting tense. The Berry Master's house had been a bright spot on that difficult journey--a much-needed reprieve that allowed us to clear the air while we did humble chores in exchange for berries.

Back then, though, a simple wooden fence had enclosed the orchard, providing a lovely view of the woods beyond. Now a formidable stone wall topped with spikes hides the outside world completely. Stretching over the trees, its jagged shadow casts a sinister pall over the idyllic orchard.

"Why the wall?" I ask.

Forrest sighs. "Same reason we need to patrol." He pauses at the end of a row of Oran trees and points. "See there?"

I draw in a sharp breath. Three of the trees at the end are stunted and dead.

The Lombre mutters in a discomfited way. Forrest pats its head. "That's from a Grimer outbreak."

"Grimer?" I ask in disbelief. "Out here in the woods?" There are some naturalized Grimer in Hoenn, but the only places I've ever known of them congregating in significant numbers are the underground passes near Mt. Chimney, where they enjoy the heat and volcanic fumes.

Forrest nods grimly. "That big tech company, Koynlab? They started mining up around Mt. Chimney three months ago. Grimer and Koffing are dangerous for the workers, so the company has made an effort to clear them out of the mines." He scowls, anger darkening his amiable features. "Of course, they insist that they're keeping their environmental impact low. There's been a media campaign to convince the public the outbreaks are caused by stuff like trash burning and littering and unsecured dumpsters. But they can't fool us."

Koynlab. I think of the V4ST, of Nifti, and my stomach sinks. "I'm guessing the government hasn't been much help?"

"You guess right," he says drily. "We think their new lab in Sootopolis is creating a lot more waste than they say, too...the outbreaks seem to be moving in that direction." He shrugs. "But nothing's come out in the official inspections, so who knows."

"Anyway." He gestures at the dead trees. "A few months after they started mining, some Grimer squeezed under the fence and did this. A couple weeks later a bunch of Koffing ruined an entire crop of Cheri berries. Our Pokemon are mostly grass types trained to help with planting - our main defense was a team of Gloom that kept pest Pokemon out with their smell. No help against Grimer and Koffing, obviously. So we had the wall put in, and me a few others started training guard Pokemon." He sighs. "Unfortunately, the berries are too tempting to Pokemon to leave them in here unsupervised. So someone has to patrol when there's an outbreak."

"That's terrible," I say sympathetically.

"Yeah. We're dealing with it though." He smiles. "Anyway, it's getting dark. I better start working on that garden. Just walk around the perimeter with your Pokemon and keep an eye out. If you see anything sneaking in, you know what to do."

I'm not so sure, but I make my best attempt at a reassuring smile and thumbs up. He returns the gesture and goes back to the garden with his Lombre, leaving me alone in the swiftly darkening orchard. I turn and begin and steady march along the forbidding wall.

As the orchard falls into twilight, electric lights on poles flicker to life among the trees. My shadow stretches and shrinks as I pass each one. An evening wind rises in the trees. After 30 uneventful minutes, my nervous vigilance dulls and my less immediate anxieties slink back into my skull.

I hate how much the Berry Master's words bother me. It's you that doesn't know how to fight. Despite the pain of losing my Pokemon and the shame of my years in obscurity, there's still a nasty little piece of ego left to wriggle to the surface. I think of my Kalos team, my Champion team, of all the hard years of training and battle. I think of the world-class trainers I defeated, the talented upstarts whose meteoric rises ended with me, and my pride burns like dragonfire in my chest.

Then I think of ASH's face, of his poor Metagross, of the satisfaction I felt as I ordered my Eelektross to deliver the attack that would prove fatal. The fire churns inside me, but it doesn't go out; it only ignites the old argument with myself again, the schism between the part of me that wishes I'd been the loser and the part of me that could never have swallowed that loss.

And I think of Coba, tangled in String Shot as the Silcoon prepared to strike. Would he have survived if it had hit him instead of me? Logic says the answer is almost certainly yes--Pokemon do get killed, but they're tough, so much tougher than humans, made for fighting in a way we can only envy. Jumping in front of him was pure stupidity. The old me would never have done such a thing, treating a Pokemon like a helpless baby.

I stop in my tracks. Why did the Silcoon attack Coba? I squeeze my brain, trying to remember every detail of the scene. I was yelling at the V4ST, and when I turned back around he had been attacked. And while it was not strictly impossible that I'd be stupid enough to turn my back on an aggressive wild Pokemon, I didn't think that was the case. After all, Coba had not been hostile to it in any way. He had refused to even approach it.

But I started yelling at the V4ST, and Pokemon almost universally hate yelling. Maybe I had been the one the Silcoon perceived as dangerous.

And if that was the case, maybe Coba got hit because he'd tried to protect me.

Pokemon may have trouble understanding your words, but they understand your heart just fine.

It's not that Coba can't fight. It's that he knows I don't want him to.

It's unclear how long I stand there in the deepening dark, feeling the weight of that thought, before the wind shifts and I notice the smell. Rank, rotten, rancid--few words are adequate to describe it. Sewage, formaldehyde, body odor, brimstone--a rich, full orchestra of putrescent notes.

It's not hard to pinpoint the direction it's coming from. Against all desire, I cut across the orchard and head toward it, praying it's coming from the other side of the wall. At first I see nothing; I think I've got lucky. But then I notice a gleam--wetness caught in the electric light. A mucilaginous tendril of purple ooze creeping through the tiniest hole in the masonry, already puddling on the dirt below. Within seconds a wide, wet eye squeezes through.

I tear out the V4ST's ball and throw it to the ground in front of me. The Porygon2 bursts out.

"V4ST! Psychic attack!" I order.

The V4ST looks at the quickly-coalescing Grimer. Then it spins in a circle, looking all around itself. Then it looks at me.

"Drr-drr," it drones.

My heart lurches, but maybe it just doesn't know that attack. "Tri-Attack!" I say. No Porygon2 would be without that attack.

"Drr-drrrrr," it repeats, with more emphasis this time.

"Why?!" I shout.

The V4ST swoops toward me with a series of caustic beeps as the last glob of the Grimer begins to slide toward the ground.

"Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you!" I say, my voice high and tight with fear. "I'll be nicer, I promise, but please, please help me!"

The V4ST beeps harshly. Then it taps its beak hard on my breast pocket, making a dull clunking noise as it hits Coba's ball through my coat.

"Drr-drr," it reiterates.

I lurch back as the Grimer makes a sudden lunge in my direction. The V4ST whirls around to look, but the sludgy beast seems satisfied that I'm no threat. It starts to ooze toward the trees.

There's only about 30 feet between the wall and the first row of trees. Grimer are slow, but if I don't do anything it will get there and start destroying the orchard.

And I understand the V4ST's meaning. It can protect me, but it can't act as my Pokemon.

It has to be Coba.

I look hard at the V4ST. It looks back at me, impossible to read. I feel my hatred for it rising and swallow it down. It's not fair to blame the V4ST for doing what it's meant to do. I have to trust it to take care of things if they get out of hand.

Even if getting out of hand means Coba turns out to be a Missingno. Even if it means losing him.

As I pull out his ball, I'm more afraid than I've ever been going into a battle. But I remember the words of the Berry Master--words that old youngster me apparently needed to hear after all--and I do my best to call up the old battle-readiness of days past, and I throw the ball with all the ferocity I can summon.

Hearing the ball, the Grimer whirls toward the new threat with a wet snarl, and its stench hits me with nauseating force. Coba squeaks in shock and turns, scampering back in my direction.

"Coba!" I say, speaking to him for the first time in a commanding tone. He stops, studying me quizzically with one little black eye.

Through the sickness and pain and fear, I manage to stab my finger toward the Grimer and snarl, "Mud-slap!"

For a terrifying second, Coba simply looks at the Grimer, which has fixed him with its full attention now. He takes a bound in my direction, and I'm afraid he's going to refuse again.

But then he digs his little forepaws into the earth and shoots backward, sending a plume of mud directly into the Grimer's face.

The Grimer folds in on itself, handlike pseudopods swiping at its mud-caked eyes. I let out a shrill whoop of triumph, then choke on it as the V4ST drifts forward, its eyes laser-focused on Coba. My heart throbs in my ears and I feel my knees weaken as it hangs there, calculating, and then slowly turns to face me.

"Bi-bing," it chirps.

A beautiful sound. An undeniably affirmative, happy sound. I fold over with a sob of relief.

But I can't collapse in a blubbering heap just yet, because the Grimer makes a disgusting phlegmy noise and hawks a glob of Acid in Coba's direction. It goes wide thanks to the blinding mud, but it's a timely reminder that the fight isn't over.

"Great job, Coba!" I shout hoarsely. "Mud-slap!"

Coba performs the move again, and the Grimer burbles with pain and rage. It flings out a pseudopod and this time the attack connects. Coba shrieks as he rolls end over end toward me, and the Grimer surges forward.

"Coba!" I shout, locking every muscle in my body to keep myself from repeating the stupidity of my Silcoon encounter. He stands up, looking shaken, but he turns and hisses at the Grimer. I order another Mud-slap as the toxic Pokemon bears down on him, but this time his aim goes wide and the Grimer's Acid attack hits true. He screeches in pain and staggers to the ground as the poison seeps in.

I withdraw him and turn to the V4ST. "Help!" I plead.

"Drr-drr," it says, and I realize the Grimer has turned from the fight and is closing in on the trees. The V4ST is under no obligation to protect the trees, and now I have no way of protecting them, either.

Except one.

Clenching my jaw, half-thanking and half-cursing Ro, I pull out an empty Ultra Ball and let it fly before I have a chance to change my mind. It pulls the Grimer less than a yard from the nearest tree. It rolls around a few times, and then the light goes out.

"Bi-bing," the V4ST says.

@novelistash

[charlesandmartine]

Sunday 5th May 2024 - An Epilogue

Africa has been a real eye-opener for us both. It's been a place of contrast, bright colours, heat, friendly peoples, despair and triumph, poverty, wealth, political challenges ahead.

People travelling to South Africa naturally think of game reserves, but we have found a difference in these. There are the private game reserves that are contained behind a fence; if you put animals in that albeit very large area, those are the animals that you will see, apart from the ones eaten by others that is. Then there's the National Park approach where animals move freely from area to area, even across state borders. These are more natural but you don't know what you will find. But what is most rewarding is the opportunity to stand back and study the behaviours of the animals because it is a raw interpretation of all species including human beings. The interactive actions within a group, the exclusions, the challenge of the young males, the mourning of the dead, all points to similarities across species. We were told how a female baboon will hold onto her dead child for a week, mourning. An elephant who broke off an ear of a dead companion and carried it away also in mourning. Elephants will pass and pause by a fallen comrade. Animals will act in unison and concert for both protection and also to hunt.

Then we have seen the poverty and despair especially in Zimbabwe. An immensely rich country but riddled with corruption at high office. The people talking in despair of ever finding a way out of the current difficulties of corrupt politicians, eye watering inflation and unemployment. Opportunities that should be fair and available for everyone and a way out of squalor. Some of the most deprived dwellings we saw in South Africa we were assured were occupied by Zimbabwean people having fled the life they have had at home. But at all times the people we spoke to from SA, Botswana and Zimbabwe were delightful and so pleased we were there with them and so pleased also to talk of their lives.

The train journey was fabulous but it highlighted the difference in circumstances more perhaps than any other part of the trip. We were enclosed within our cocoon; the train being at that moment our world, one of opulence and wealth now voyeuristic to their world outside of it. The small children running after the train down the track reaching out for anything we might throw to them was symbolic in every way to the inequality of the two worlds and the distance between us increasing due to the speed of the train, so also perhaps we see how these two groups of humanity, here in the 21st century are growing further apart. It was interesting that a few black people told us that things were actually better for them during the years of apartheid, not because of the inequalities clearly, but because for them there were jobs.

Then of course there are the Americans! We met up with two lovely ladies from Philadelphia; one of whom said she would vote for her cat before she would vote for Trump. We got on so well with them during our time at Chobe. Other Americans sadly we didn't. But what a year this will be and what outcomes can we expect? SA elections end of May, US in November and UK sometime. Apprehension in SA, despair everywhere for possibilities in US and resignation in UK.

Then there's the food. The spices. I have eaten crocodile (tastes a bit like chicken), kudu, ostrich (lovely) and springbok (national animal!) Enjoyed every single meal. Train food was gorgeous. Fantastic spices.

Our route started in Cape Town; a great city especially the Waterfront where we stayed. Quite a cosmopolitan place, international but very friendly and our first introduction to Africa. The Garden Route took us as far as Port Elizabeth and into the Shamwari Game Reserve. If we had returned home after the Garden Route, we would have said well that was nice but not too special. But Shamwari started to change that view. The Reserve was such an excellent introduction to the big 5 and the location, facilities and professionalism of the rangers was outstanding. Chobe National Park in Botswana for our next safari took a different format with the emphasis on viewing from the Chobe River. We were able to spot animals from a different perspective entirely and gave us a feeling and liking for Botswana and her people. We really loved this place. Then entering Zimbabwe and seeing the staggering force of nature in the form of the Victoria Falls, fed by the mighty Zambezi River, with 300,000 gallons of water per second crashing over the precipice. Our time was running out, but before we returned we had the terrific five day Rovos Rail trip from Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe to Pretoria in SA taking us to yet another game National Park, then Bulawayo to see the grave of Cecil John Rhodes; an inspirational person from the late nineteenth century. And then the final jewel in the crown, Pretoria, a surprisingly interesting place; a city that is one hundred percent Africa.

Great trip, much to reflect on and hope for what comes next...... Some people say Africa gets under your skin like an itch. Only time will tell if we need to scratch it.

[emimillerart]

Bitter

A little short story I wrote for a competition once. If our emotions manifested as blooms and vines, what would suppressing them do?

--

Petals brim bitter and sharp in my throat. I choke them back as I watch her.

Elena.

She floats through the garden. Wildflowers strain close to kiss her tawny skin. Wisteria catches on the breeze, settling in her charcoal hair. Little lilac sailboats on the waves of her tresses.

She laughs: widely, recklessly, and the roses and lavender that foam at her lips and sprout from her veins tumble around her. When she cups her palms, white orchids unfold their wings and flutter gently. She throws me a smile, and I drink deep of her brown eyes.

“I could die happy here.” Even her voice is a song.

“What, in Nana’s garden?” I get to my feet, brushing dirt off the back of my jeans.

“You know what I mean.”

And I sort of do. The way the garden is, with tall trees and a proud fence hiding it from the world. Tui song and the hush of wind through leaves drowns out the hum of cars along Sturges Road.

Elena likes that. Being hidden, enclosed, but with the endless blue sky above. God knows the plants love her for it. A jealous green tendril writhes up my throat. I clench at it, and it withers back to seed.

When I approach her through the long grass, the dry stalks and crawling things shy away from me. Call me Moses, I guess. I snatch up a big dandelion, snap its stalk. Clear blood sticks to my fingers, and with a satisfied grin I blow its babies away.

Elena frowns at me when I do this. Fight against it, I mean. Nature. Us. I blow some of the little dandelion seeds in her face. They cling to her like snowflakes.

“Tillie, why do you hate the garden so much?”

“I don’t hate it.”

She brushes the limp strands of dirty blond hair out of my face, and I hate the way her touch makes my blood sing. She tucks one of her orchids behind my ear.

“It’s scared of you.”

I crush the dandelion stem between my fingers. “Maybe it should be.”

The sap stinks, crowds bitter and sharp in my nose. I turn abruptly and head for the winding path that leads back to the house. Since Nana moved to the hospice, I’ve been in charge of looking out for the garden. Under her wrinkled fingers it thrived, green and happy and full of life.

It’s doing alright by itself. It is. I only come out here when Elena is over, when the blossoms open and the trees hum, and the grass swirls around in a gentle dance. When it’s just me, it sits static and solemn.

Arms slip around my waist, and she presses up against my back.

“You’ve stopped talking to me,” she whispers, her breath perfume against my neck.

Suddenly it’s too much. How warm she is, how soft and comforting, and so damn at peace with everything. I squirm, trying to get out of her grip. Vines and leaves and creeping things in my veins are bursting to escape—

I clamp my teeth shut, petals and flower buds cluttering my jaw and tongue like bile. Elena feels my discomfort and lets go. The air kisses cold in the absence of her.

“You can’t just keep everything in. You need to talk, Tillie. About your Nana, about anything—”

I can hear the tears in her words, but I can’t spit a rebuttal around the flowers crowding my mouth. I open the distance between us, and it’s the maw of some monster I’m terrified will swallow me whole.

I hate myself when she cries.

#

Elena stops coming round. The garden begins to wilt, shrinking away in splintered yellow stalks. I stand in the kitchen, by the big window framed with empty herb planters, and watch the flowers die. They curl up on themselves like paper caught in a flame.

My phone lights up, buzzing viciously until it nearly falls off the counter. I glance at Mum’s profile pic — she’s using a dumb filter that puts butterflies around her head — then reject the call.

I yank the yellow cotton and lace curtains closed. The fabric reminds me of Elena’s favourite dress.

It comes again. That itching and writhing in my veins, heat and spark of anger, and the only way it wants to get out: tiger lilies and birds-of-paradise, spiking through my throat and clawing against my cheeks.

I scratch Elena out of my mind, and the flowers pull away, dormant. It’s easier to be like barren soil. Like the yellow clay I would dig up in the backyard as a kid. Cold and predictable.

#

Fixing mistakes feels better in the moonlight.

Soil clings to my fingers, gets into all the cracks and crevices, that rusty smell of damp earth. The flowers are all gone, the wisteria withered and brown. I scoop out a hole, set the tiny sprout inside. A zebrina. The boy behind the counter said it was the easiest to grow. Impossible to kill.

Grey slants of moonlight glint off the skeletal remnants of the garden around me. I think of Nana, and guilt twists my heart so abruptly I don’t stop the petals in time. I slap a hand over my mouth, vines and tendrils trying to force their way through the slits between my fingers.

Breathe.

Breathe again.

My heart hammers, but my breathing slows. Traitorous petals retreat.

#

I take to roaming the streets in the evenings, drawn to the warm glow and tinkling laughter of the pubs in town. Floral perfume clogs the air, mingling with stale beer and cigarette smoke. It sticks in my throat like tar.

Sometimes they look askance at me. My hoodie is stained from the Chinese takeaway I had two days ago, my white keds splattered black with soil.

I pretend I’m waiting for someone, mindlessly tapping on my phone, clutching a tote bag to my side. They soon forget I’m there, Guinness easing the laughter from their throats. With flirting and joy and dreaded emotion comes fronds and leaves and flower buds.

When they’re not looking I scrabble to pick up the cuttings from the ground, concrete wet from rain scraping my knuckles. I shove it all into my bag.

When I have enough I skulk away, back up the hill, my hood pulled tight over my head. Nana’s house sits squat at the end of the drive, the hedges of the garden leafless and brown, lined in silver from the security light. Tenuous excitement builds in my chest. I can fix it. She’ll talk to me again.

The trellis gate creaks on its hinges, the neighbour’s dog half-heartedly barking at the noise. With an erratic wildness I pull up all the seedlings that failed to take, all shrivelled up and brown like dead worms on the pavement after a summer rainfall. That Plant Barn kid was such a liar.

The stolen flowers go into the graves the dead ones left behind. It should work. They’re different, the plants that come from us. For once, the dirt feels good under my nails. Warm and full of promise.

#

The flowers are still there the next day. Their leaves pucker open, the blossoms waving back and forth, searching. Another sunshower glitters across the lawn, and for once I leave the kitchen curtains open.

The happiness building in my chest threatens to splinter and take root. I turn away from the window, rubbing a shaking hand across my chest, and pull my phone out. The red notification bubble on my messenger app sends a shiver of cold anxiety down my spine. I scroll through, my eyes glazing over the messages, watching the unread count spool down.

A few from me to Elena, before I stopped trying. We called our chat ‘dumb ATLA stans’. I hesitate with my thumb over the Delete Chat button. It’s a ghost of her, like the garden and the curtains and her perfume that still clings to my old sweaters.

I tap out of the app without deleting the messages, setting the phone face-down on the counter. Mum has been threatening to come by, and though the garden is a shadow of itself I let a small bud of contentment grow in my belly. I don’t need Elena to coax beauty from the garden. I’ve done it alone.

#

It only takes a week before the stolen flowers die. Perhaps they knew they weren’t supposed to be there, in a garden not of their blood. Tomorrow Mum’ll come over, fussing over my thrifted clothes and trying to flog off her unwanted eyeshadow palettes to me. I won’t be able to hide the garden from her.

I sit on the old blue bench beneath the pohutukawa tree. The faded paint is the only colourful thing left, splattered in red needle blossoms. Moonlight slashes silver over dead grass. A sea of shattered mirrors. I can’t sleep. If I sleep, the morning will come sooner.

My phone is on 5%, but I scroll through my social feeds anyway, the bright screen drowning the garden into inky blackness. I land on a picture of Elena, and my heart stutters in my mouth. She hasn’t blocked me.

She’s up on a mountain somewhere, the sea behind her a pale, insignificant ribbon. The golden evening glow lights up her olive skin, and she’s smiling big and bright, a knee pulled up under her chin, the breeze teasing out strands of her hair. Jasmine blossoms fall about her like rain.

It always was that way. Her: sunshine and ease and gold. Me: still and calm and blue. She said I was the ocean, depthless and unknowable. It’s clear now; I was the one holding her under, drowning her light.

My phone shuts down. I blink a few times, the pink rectangle afterimage of the screen floating across my vision. An inverse portrait of her. She fades, and the garden returns, barren as a graveyard.

My chest burns. I curl my fists so hard my fingernails break skin. Jaw clenched, breath rolling over in sharp, shuddering gasps. My heart hammers a warning, but I can’t stop. I can’t keep holding everything back.

Dawn bleeds pink over the horizon, and I finally let myself cry. For Elena. For Nana. For whoever else I trod over like they were weeds. My tears are hot and salty, and I can’t stop them. I won’t stop them. Flowers burst between my teeth.

I surrender.

Succumb to the petals unfurling and choking my nostrils with their perfume. Jasmine and orange blossom, lilies and buttercups. I grasp my hair in my hands, my sobs choked and stuttering around the vines I want to gnash at with my teeth. But I don’t. Not this time.

#

I wake to the sound of hammering on the front door. With a start, I jerk upright, blossoms scattering from my lap to the ground. Mum is going to kill me. The grind and clunk of the spare key in the lock. She’s going to see the garden—

The garden—

I try to blink the dream from my eyes. Life. Lush green, peppering of bright wildflowers. The wisteria blooming. Honeybees bobbing in and out of the blossoms.

It’s not exactly the same as Nana had it. There’s more yellow, all sunflowers and daffodils and marigolds. Mum’s calling my name, her voice distant as though underwater. My bare feet press into the grass, and for once, I don’t mind how it pricks my soft skin.

The wildflowers shift, wavering for a moment. Unsure. I offer a hesitant smile, and gently brush my hand through the stalks. Like wind skimming across a lake, the flowers bend toward me.

I laugh, truly and deeply and recklessly, and scatter orchids from my palms.

[the-ravens-requiem]

Plague-Tober 2023 #2 - Puddle

It was a cozy, rainy day at the shop.

The soft crackle of the fireplace offered Doctor some company as they watched the raindrops trickle lazily down the front-facing glass window.

There had been little customers today, and that was fine by Doctor. It was a sleepy sort of afternoon, grey clouds overhead and the wind fortified with autumn's chill. A good day for cozying up with a blanket and reading a good book.

Doctor was idily thinking about cold season starting soon. How they'd need to stock up on honey from their beekeeping friend in town, and replenish their supply of different herbs and berries that could soothe throats and halt the mundane agony of coughing fits. Simple things, easy cures. Honest work.

Suddenly, a steam-like apparation formed itself around Doctor's shoulder, slowly manifesting into the shape of a cat. The happy meow in greeting sounded echoed and far-away, though the glowing yellow eyes of the ghost were bright and steady.

"Oh, little Spectre! How charming it is of you to visit me on such a lovely day." Doctor cooed, pleasantly surprised by her sudden appearance. The cat languished across their arm comfortably, peering up into the red glass eyes of the mask. As quickly as she relaxed, however, she suddenly perked up and dropped to the floor, fluffy tail faded but pleasantly at attention.

She began to float towards the door, pausing and turning every few steps as if to beseech her new master to follow her. Doctor ambled along her trail before she disappeared through the door. With languid movements, Doctor followed her outside and into the front garden, enclosed with a wrought iron fence.

"Silly cat, what could you possibly want in the rain?" Doctor stood with their hands on their hips, teasingly admonishing the ghost.

In response, the cat wound up its body for a moment and then jumped into a puddle. The water was unaffected besides the barest hint of disturbance, perhaps by the wind, though this seemed to please the cat. She jumped again and again, mostly using her front paws to try to splash, though her incorporeal form did not afford her much luck. Nevertheless her tail was high and she seemed to be in a playful mood. After repeating the action a few times, she wound herself around Doctor's legs, purring and making figure eights.

"Imagine that. A cat that loves playing in water." Doctor leaned down to 'pet' her, though their gloved hand passed through her steam-like body. "You are so strange and odd, my sweetling."

Doctor 'picked up' Spectre in their arms and was still for a moment, as if thinking, then with sudden joyous laughter -- they too jumped into the puddle. It splashed around their legs, though the waxen suit saved them from getting wet.

Abandoning decorum, Doctor began stomping with their heavy boots. It reminded them of being a child. Before they were this, before they were anything but a simple babe with dreams and hopes wider than the sky. Before they knew terror or fear or hatred, the way a man's eyes loses light when they die. Before they knew the smell of blood, the feel of a blade in their hand. Doctor had once been something innocent, like Spectre, and sometimes it felt so far away. It felt like lifetimes ago. And perhaps it was.

But for now, there was this. There was the rain, and Spectre, and there was the puddle.

[teabooksandsweets]

A City of Bells

Chapter IV — Part I

Wednesday came and Jocelyn and the children once more sallied forth watched from the front door by Grandfather and Grandmother and from an upper window by Sarah and Ellen. In the placid life of Torminster tea-parties were of importance. They lay on the surface of existence like the markings of the hours on a clock face, measuring the slow movement of time. Events were remembered in relation to tea-parties. “It was the day I went to the Archdeacon’s in my blue silk,” a Torminster lady would say if asked when her cook gave notice. Or, “We made twelve pounds of crab-apple jelly that year. I counted the pots when I came back from Canon Roderick’s … I wore my puce.”

So it was important that Jocelyn and the children should go to tea with Mrs. Jameson. Sarah gave Jocelyn’s suit an extra pressing and Ellen sewed new elastic in the children’s sailor hats, put a white collar on Henrietta’s smock and bought her a new pair of strap shoes.

Jocelyn, apart from the fact that he wanted to see Felicity again, felt that the event was epoch-making. He put the feeling down to the fact that the Torminster houses stood in walled gardens, so that when you want to tea next door you seemed to be going a journey into a foreign country.

In Torminster there was no looking over a low fence to see what the butcher was taking next door for dinner, and no watching the road outside through railings to see who attended next door’s tea-party to which you had not been invited. No. High walls enclosed you as in a moated fortress and you could know nothing at all of the goings-on of next door except by a system of espionage carried on through the agency of whichever of the tradesmen happened at the moment to be walking out with cook.

From this followed the feeling that next door was a long way off. You went out through the door in your wall and banged it shut behind you. You were now separated from your own citadel. Your hollyhocks and your roses were hidden from you and if you could see anything of your house it was only the top of a crinkled roof; the eyes of the house, the windows, could no longer meet yours and you felt as thought the house had turned its back on you. Abandoned, you turned to your right, advanced a few paces and found yourself opposite another closed door in a high wall … Next door … You could see nothing of it and for all you knew anything might have happened beyond that wall since you were there last. The house might have been painted magenta, or peacocks might have been introduced in the kitchen-garden and mock-turtles in the front garden, they might have a new lawnmower or a bird-bath, or simply anything. You laid your hand upon the door handle with an expectant heart, like a sailor who has sailed from across the seas and lets down his anchor in a foreign harbour.

Savouring this feeling Jocelyn paused for a moment at Mrs. Jameson’s door. It was scarlet, with a brass handle, and over the top of the wall looked white lilac-trees already in blossom. The green and white and red made him think of a Chinese plate picturing that enchanting world of bridges and pagodas and lovers who never grow tired.

“Hurry! Hurry!” whispered Henrietta, alternately raising herself on her toes and swinging back on to her heels again, to get the stiffness out of her new, squeaking strap shoes.

The promise of something fantastic contained in Mrs. Jameson’s scarlet garden door was fulfilled when one got inside, for her garden was like the palette of a child’s paintbox, a confused jumble of all the brightest colours on earth. It was too early for the geraniums and calceolarias that she loved, but there were red tulips, golden marigolds and blue irises in profusion. There were also a sundial, a pond with goldfish in it and a hammock of striped red and green, all of them looking rather odd against the formal dignity of the Queen Anne house behind them.

It was one of the charms of Torminster that though the houses were all of them old they were of different periods, so that Queen Anne jostled William the Conqueror and Queen Elizabeth patronized the Georges. They all had different atmospheres, too, Grandfather’s being monastic and Mrs. Jameson’s mad Chinese.

Jocelyn and the children mounted the steps to the front door and rang the bell. It was answered by Felicity, who wore her simple blue frock and looked extremely out of place against the assortment of bric-à-brac that the hall contained. Tiger skins lay on the floor, bamboo tables stood about loaded with every kind of silver ornament and the shields and spears of savages covered every space on the walls not already occupied by sticky oil-paintings and photographs of Mrs. Jameson’s relations.

There was a twinkle in Felicity’s eye as she ushered them in. “I thought I’d better let you in myself,” she said, “so as to explain things. Come upstairs and mind the thistles.”

Jocelyn saw to his astonishment that the banisters had bunches of thistles tied on to them.

“There are no back-stairs for the maids to use,” explained Felicity, “and so Aunt Adelaide ties thistles to the banisters so that the maids shan’t put their hands on them.”

She walked prancingly up a few stairs, Jocelyn toiling after, and then stopped again. “I’d better explain Aunt Adelaide’s clothes. She always dresses in the colours of the Church’s seasons, stockings and all. She wears purple in Lent, red at Whitsun, white during festivals and green the rest of the year.” She pranced on a little farther, stopping again to give her final instructions. “Whatever you do don’t contradict Aunt Adelaide, because that upsets her. And if you don’t like parrots, pretend you do.”

“Why?” asked Hugh Anthony.

“Don’t ask questions, Hugh Anthony,” Jocelyn whispered hoarsely.

The drawing-room was a lovely room, curtained, carpeted and furnished in scarlet. There were so many chairs and tables and china ornaments and photographs that it was almost impossible to move, and in each of the four corners of the room was a green parrot in a cage.

Mrs. Jameson rose at their entry and came graciously to meet them. She was a tall and very dignified old woman clothed from head to foot in snow white, it being still the season of Easter, and scintillating with jewels. Her fingers were covered with them, and her wrists, and the bodice of her silk dress, and a string of pearls was even twisted in her white hair. She looked like some superb, barbaric princess until one looked at her face, which was that of a bewildered child.

“Good afternoon,” she said in her deep tones. “Sit down. And are these the dear children? I have seen them in the Cathedral at divine service, but I have never yet had the pleasure of receiving them in my house.”

She shook hands graciously with Jocelyn and the children, who were mercifully struck dumb with astonishment, while the parrots yelled, “Good-bye, dear,” in chorus. Then they all sat down before a silver tea-tray and quantities of plates containing every kind of sugar cake.

When she had poured out the tea, and asked them if they liked milk and sugar, Mrs. Jameson seemed to drift off into a dream and became silent. Felicity and Jocelyn chatted with some constraint about London and the weather, and the children, still overwhelmed, just ate. Only the four parrots were really voluble. “Give us a kiss,” said one. “Scratch Poll,” said another. “Good-bye,” said the third firmly, while the fourth hinted over and over again, “Must you really go now?”

Half-way through tea Mrs. Jameson came to life. “I am sure you are interested in missions,” she said to Jocelyn. Remembering that she must not be contradicted he said that he was.

“Then you will like to hear,” she said, “that on the spot where my dear husband was killed there is now a Christian church and school; so you see his death was not wasted.”

“No, indeed,” said Jocelyn gently.

“There’s nothing I hate more than waste,” went on Mrs. Jameson, her mind swinging off to another topic. “But for me there’d have been a great deal of waste when that young man who lived in the Market Place ran away. What was his name? Ferranti.”

“How do you mean, Aunt?” inquired Felicity with interest.

“His effects were sold, dear, to pay his bills, and I was the first arrival at the sale. I always go to sales. I always say it’s wonderful what one can pick up at them … Well, yes … When I arrived there were piles of papers, newspapers and magazines and so on, lying stacked on the floor in a corner of the room. ‘What are you going to do with those, Mr. Jones?’ I said to the auctioneer. ‘Burn them, ma’am,’ he said, ‘they’re no use to no one.’ ‘What waste, Mr. Jones!’ I said. ‘I’ll buy them to light my fires with.’ And I did. I hate waste.”

“And are they all used up?” asked Jocelyn.

“Not yet,” said Mrs. Jameson, “for I had a good deal of paper of my own laid by, but I’m getting through them gradually.”

“I think it was very foreseeing of you to buy those papers,” said Jocelyn gravely.

Felicity beamed at him. He was being sweet to Mrs. Jameson and she liked him more than ever for it, for she loved her godmother. She was no more mad, Felicity always maintained, than Felicity herself. She had suffered a great grief and the effect of it upon her had been to make her a child again. Womanhood with its sorrows had been too much for her and subconsciously refusing to face it she had turned backwards into her childhood. But she was always perfectly rational, she never told lies, she never had delusions. She was amazingly generous, giving of herself and her money to every good cause that came along, she was loving and deeply religious and pathetically trusting.

“I should like to play spillikins with the children,” she said to Felicity when tea was over. “You can take Captain Irvin into the garden.”

Behind the house there was a walled vegetable-garden and down the middle of it ran a wide, moss-grown path arched over by nut-trees, and here Felicity and Jocelyn strolled up and down. The thick moss deadened the sound of their footsteps and the interlaced bright green leaves made Jocelyn think of carved, lacquered Chinese screens obligingly put up by Nature to ensure privacy while his friendship with Felicity put out its first timid leaves.

But only Jocelyn was conscious of timidity, for Felicity did not know the meaning of the word. She had been given the happy gift of a spirit that faced outward and she bothered about herself and her feelings as little as it is possible for a human being to do. Artist though she was the thought of self-expression was hardly ever in her mind except as a gift that was hers to give. When she acted it was of the waiting audience in the dark auditorium that she thought, not of herself. They wanted something of her and her response was as fresh and natural as the reply of the trees to spring sunshine.

And so now it was Jocelyn of whom she thought. He had given her a moment of rather strange experience that had seemed to bring him very close to her. When he had stood in the Market Place and looked at her through the window of Ferranti’s house he had seemed to see her herself, the essential untrimmed person whom she had told him was not Felicity Summers but only Felicity, and his look had thrilled her and comforted the lonely place that cries out for help deep inside every human being. Until that moment she had hardly realized that the place existed, but the sudden touch of healing applied to the ache and then withdrawn again had woken her up to awareness. Conscious now of this empty room at the centre of her being, it had been with almost a fellow-feeling that she had learnt from the cook that Jocelyn had taken that house in the Market Place … The poor thing would not be forlorn any more, and neither would Jocelyn.

“I’m so glad about your house,” she said impulsively.

“What house?” said Jocelyn.

“That house of Ferranti’s that you are turning into a bookshop.”

“But I didn’t know I was,” said the bewildered Jocelyn.

“What?”

“Whoever told you I was?”

“Aunt Adelaide’s cook. Everyone in Torminster knows about your bookshop and we’re all so pleased.”

“But how can everyone in Torminster know about it when I don’t know about it myself?”

Felicity began to laugh. “In Torminster everyone knows much more about one than one does oneself, you’ll find.”

“But I haven’t said a word about it to a soul!”

“But perhaps you’ve thought a thought about it to yourself?”

“Well, it did just cross my mind that it would be fun to keep a shop in Torminster, but it was only an idea—”

“That’s enough for Torminster. It’s one of those places where thoughts blow from one mind to another and then sprout. It’s the quiet, you know. Quiet is to thoughts what air is to seeds. It’s wonderful what receptive minds Torminster people have. Now Keziah, the cook, only has to walk past a person’s house and she knows all their family history, especially the parts they wouldn’t want her to know. It just blows out of their minds and sprouts in her.” A note of anxiety crept into her voice. “You don’t mean to tell me that you aren’t going to open that shop?”

“But of course not. Why should I?”

All the happiness went out of Felicity’s face and she looked like a lovely child whose toy has been snatched away. “Oh, I am so disappointed!”

“But why?” said Jocelyn gently.

“Because Torminster needs a good bookshop so badly. What with the relaxing climate and the soporific effect of the bells Torminster people have minds like Tennyson’s lotus-eaters.”

“But a bookshop wouldn’t alter the climate or stop the bells.”

“No, but it might counteract their mental effect … And I hate that darling house to be empty. I love it as though it were a person and I want it to be lived in.”

“Someone else will take it if I don’t.”

“No, they won’t, because of there being no drains.”

“I don’t see why it should be me to suffer a drainless existence for the sake of the minds of Torminster.”

“Oh, please! Please!” begged Felicity, and Jocelyn saw to his astonishment that she was near tears. He had yet to discover the passionate energy which she bestowed on any new idea.

“But I’ve no capital,” he pleaded.

“You must have your pension, and your Grandfather would help.”

“But who would buy the books?”

“The Dean and Chapter. And you could have a circulating library. And we’d have a special department for the children and it would all be perfectly lovely.”

“I couldn’t let Grandfather lend me money,” said Jocelyn firmly.

“If that isn’t just like a man!” said Felicity with a sudden flash of the temper that was a part of her temperament. “I thought you had more sense than most, but you’re just like all the rest, as proud as Lucifer. You’ll disappoint disappoint us all and leave that house to its loneliness and prevent the Dean and Chapter learning a little something rather than stoop to a bit of humility!”

Jocelyn tried to change the topic of conversation, not knowing yet that Felicity could never be got to talk of something else until she had said the last word on the first subject, but was entirely unsuccessful … In sheer self-defence he found himself discussing the books that should be bought and the style of furniture best suited to the house with the green door.

[reverend-dog]

I Know Your Secret

The folded piece of paper fluttered in to breeze, as if it wanted free from the windshield wiper’s captivity. Monica left off loading groceries to round her car and pluck it from its shackles. She unfolded it and read the message. It consisted of just four small words, but they made Monica feel as if she had just stepped into a freezer.

I know your secret.

Monica fought the urge to scan her surroundings for any surveillance, though she had less success quieting the hammer of her heart. Instead, she tucked the note into a pocket and returned to the groceries. As she worked, she cast surreptitious glances around. She saw nobody openly watching, but motion from a nearby truck caught her attention. A small, folded piece of paper, held under the windshield wiper, identical to the one on her car.

Trunk shut, Monica strolled over to the unfamiliar truck. After a quick glance around, she snatched the note and read it. I know your secret.

“Hm,” Monica grunted, and cast around the parking lot some more. She counted a dozen other cars, each with a note folded and held identically. A sigh of relief blasted from her lips, and she chuckled at herself as she walked back to her own car. As she pulled onto the street, though, a sobering thought introduced itself.

“Honey, I’m home!” Monica sang out as she shouldered the front door open and stepped inside, bags hanging from both hands.

“Mom!” sang a voice in youthful falsetto. The thump of padded paws from upstairs accompanied the reply, and barely preceded a four-legged blur that cleared the railing to sail down and land in front of Monica. A lithe form crouched, grinning a fanged grin, body gleaming with tourmaline scales.

Monica cocked her head and feigned a reproachful glare. “Home from school not even an hour, and already undressed!” She shook her head. “Anything to get out of helping me carry stuff in, is that it?”

The dragonet saw through Monica’s counterfeit ire with ease born of long practice. “Bet I could go out and come back in with ‘em, and nobody’d notice.” He grinned. “Practice ran late, and I didn’t have time to shower at school. By the time I got home, I couldn’t stand myself.”

Monica nodded. “And once you’re clean, nothing feels better than your own skin. I get it. Where’s your mother?”

“Garden,” the dragonet supplied, then turned and sprinted up the stairs. He lifted up on his hindlegs as he went, and his form flowed into a prepubescent boy. “I’ll get dressed and help with the groceries!” he announced.

Monica set the bags on the kitchen counter, then pushed through the glass-paned back door and out into the yard. A wooden fence as tall as zoning laws permitted enclosed the area, concealing it from any angle but directly overhead. Meticulous rows of vegetables and herbs took up nearly all the space, the only exception being the wooden deck, which was devoid of furniture. Sprawled across the lacquered planks on her back lay another dragon, a more mature and feminine version of Monica’s son.

“Now I see where Elliott gets it,” Monica chided, hands on hips. “Working hard, I see.”

One eye opened to regard her. “If you were any saltier,” the dragon rumbled, “only a horse would want to lick you. Long day at the plant?”

Monica shrugged. “Average.” She pulled her shirt over her head, then shimmied out of her jeans. Her form stretched and flowed, scales replacing skin. “Shove over,” she urged, “I want some too.”

The other dragon grinned saucily. “Some what?” she teased, as she rolled over and reached for Monica.

“Not now!” Monica batted her hand aside. “Elliott’s coming in with the rest of the groceries!”

“So?” taunted her partner. “Wouldn’t be the first time he’s caught us.”

“Betty,” Monica let gravity into her tone, “something happened at the store.” She pulled the note from her jeans pocket, pinched between two talons, and handed it to Betty.

“Holy shit,” Betty whispered after a glance at the note. “How could they know? We’ve been careful!”

“They may not,” Monica conjectured. “Half the cars in the lot had a note like that. They may suspect we’re in the area, but that’s it.”

Betty frowned in worry. “We going to move,” she asked, “or hope they give up?”

Monica’s brow ridges drew down. “Neither,” she growled. “I’m going to call in the favor Salazar owes me, have him scry that note. We worked too hard for this house. I’m not giving it up without a fight.”

Betty’s ridges arched. “A hunt?” Her tone radiated hope.

Monica nodded. “Hunting the hunters.”

[audiovisualrecall]

I love when I'm trying to write a comment to argue against an idiot insisting pet cats need to free-roam (unique to pet cats, since dogs don't need this!) But then Facebook decided to just glitch out in the middle and go to the next fucking video instead. I'm ANGRY. People are so enamored with this misconception that it's GOOD for pet cats to free-roam. They were like 'if you don't live somewhere your cat can free roam then you shouldn't have a cat' that's the most fucked up bullshit I've ever heard. It's bad for the pet, it's bad for other animals, it's bad for their people because they bring home diseases like toxoplasmosis, it's bad for the environment, it's bad for other people with other pets. Pet cats kill for fun, lots of birds are endangered or even extinct because of pet cats free roaming. Rosming cats fight, spreading diseases and resulting in injuries as well. Pet cats are a prey species as much as predator and are also at risk from hawks and eagles, wolves, coyotes, mountain lions, foxes, and/or raccoons, gators, crocs, stray dogs, etc etc etc like no matter where you live there is Something that wants to eat your cat. Most areas cars and trucks are also a threat to cats' safety/lives, as are things like poison set out for rats or mice (directly or by eating a poisoned rodent!), deliberate harm from other humans who dislike cats or otherwise want to harm them, and various other dangers to the cat's health. Roaming cats are in constant potential danger they should Not have to be in because they are PETS. they also cause harm to the health of other cats, people, birds, and the environment in other ways becasue they are PETS and thus invasive tbh.

People walking around believing that bullshit that PET cats need to free roam pisses me off and stresses me out. Like. This is something which NO other PET animal NEEDS or is like. magically entitled to - dogs are not allowed to free roam, they get walked on a fucking leash, or you install a garden fence that can keep them contained in your garden (preferably while supervised, for cats at least), or for cats you can also make a Catio. Dogs can be off leash outdoors in dog parks, they can also be off leash in other safe spaces if recall-trained, and even that is a topic with a lot of bickering over it. But people also train their dogs, or at least used to, if they wanted to have them off-leash anyway elsewhere. Because the threat to the dog and to others is not worth it. Like, a sheepdog is not on a leash because they are trained and they are doing a job. A free-roaming cat is not comparable. A dog that trots alongside its owner leash less, or a dog that goes and picks up your order at the deli for you (had a neighbor who did this. that dog was on a mission and did not even look at a single squirrel or anything) or a dog that runs in an enclosed park, or on your property while you are nearby able to recall it, is not in any way remotely comparable to allowing a pet cat to free-roam.

Grrrrr I wish I could have just posted that damn comment. I wish I could shake these people by the shoulders and change their minds !!!!!! How many cats have they killed with their attitude? How many birds have their pet cats killed for fun?

[chaotic-on-main]

Maple, fireside, Bonfire, cranberry <3

hi hi mai!! thank you so much for sending in an ask :3 i hope you're doing well over there!

maple - is there a hobby/skill that you've always wanted to try but never did?

probably art, specifically digitally! i bought a tablet to try it out but like most things with my adhd brain, i lost motivation and didn't start. i always think how nice it would be to be able to draw my own things but i just can't find the energy to learn. also drumming! i like to sing, i can play guitar and bass, but the drums was never anything i had easy access to lol.

fireside - if you had your dream wardrobe, what would it look like?

tbh i kinda already have my dream wardrobe! cozy comfort is a must but my set styles depend on the day. i can go from summery floral to dark grunge. i like airy pastel shirts but i also like dark hoodies/sweaters/flannels and band/anime t-shirts. the only thing that stays the same are shorts/skinny jeans and vans/combat boots. 99% of the time you'll find me in merchandise whether it be bands, animes, or critical role lmao. so i don't think i have a dream wardrobe. if anything, i just want more money to buy more merch hoodies/sweaters/t-shirts lmao

exactly like this but with band/anime/critical role merch!

bonfire - describe your dream house

- i love quaint spaces! so a small house is perfect for me, or even a condo/apartment (but owned of course). - something with lots of natural light but with curtains for extra protection at night. - an extensive safety system because i'm extremely jumpy at night and it would offer extra peace lol. - one floor is perfect with 2 bedrooms and one and half bathroom. i'm not expecting kids so one room will be the bedroom and the other will be a shared gaming/office space for me and my husband (have y'all seen those shared gaming rooms where there's two desks and one tv and they're all set up with the best equipment and lit up by nothing but fairy lights and neon lamps? yeah that). - the living room may be sparse because we're spending most of our time in the gaming room. but it will be used to showcase all of my books/manga and figures. - and the KITCHEN. i LOVE to cook so i want a large kitchen, probably the largest room in the house next to the gaming room. all french countryside styled. a large fridge, tons of counter space, and a spacious pantry/spice rack. every cooking gadget you can imagine. - maybe a little vegetable garden in the back broken up by seasonal flowers and it's all enclosed by a wooden fence (extra privacy). - the overheads will never be on or used so lamps and fairylights are a must!!

gaming room like this, but with two desks. and big windows that get closed up with black out curtains when it's time to cozy up for the evening. i love the clouds too!! i wish i could do that. and the sofa might be an L shaped one because i love to spread out. also a mini fridge and little shelf for my goblin snacks. the kitchen kinda like this, but lower ceilings are fine. i just want a lot of space and a big stove/sink. l;akjsd;lfj

cranberry - what's one physical feature that you get complimented on?

hmm probably my eyes! i have wide, unknowing ones lmao think of an Espurr from pokemon. they're also so dark they look black but they're just really dark brown lol.

send me autumnal asks!

[ellitegrand]

10 Reasons Why You Should Choose Prestige Lavender Fields @ Lakeside Habitat Phase 2

Are you considering a new home in Prestige Lavender Fields @ Lakeside Habitat Phase 2 in Bangalore? Even if you’re still undecided about making a move, here are ten reasons why Prestige Lavender Fields @ Lakeside Habitat Phase 2 is an excellent choice.

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2. Prestige Lavender Fields Unique Amenities: In Prestige Lavinder Fields estate you’ll find an array of features that make it unique from the other gated communities in Karnataka. You can take a dip in its exquisite pool or go for a refreshing walk around its well-manicured garden courts; get boutique fresh groceries from its village style shops; and enjoy your days around its calm lake areas -all within the security of their private fences!

3. Prestige Lavender Fields High Security: All properties have modernized security systems integrated with CCTV surveillance for overall safety and convenience for residents living inside this estate. This includes 24/7 patrolling guards stationed at all strategic points and intercom system as a quick form of communication between residents and security personnel when needed!

4. Prestige Lavender Fields Eco Friendly & Sustainable Living Environment: Living spaces here are designed in compliance with the best green building standards that help reduce energy consumption while maintaining optimum comfort levels with your family indoors.. The Solar farms located on-site help light up ambiences at night while saving energy costs during hot summer days!

5. Prestige Lavender Fields Award Winning Community Designation: Costantino International Landscape Awards 2014 was awarded to this community as part of its prestigious title since it ensures all landscapes become more livable as they’re designed according to sustainable urban practices – preserving biodiversity while aesthetically pleasing to residential environments nearby!

6. Prestige Lavender Fields Low Impulse Noise Vibration – Unlikely other neighborhoods close by where loud street sounds penetrate walls surrounding homes causing uncomfortable noises indoors, Prestige Lavinder Fields has low impulse noise vibration levels due to strategically placed noise reducing shields installed on both entrance roads leading into their enclosed community gates!

7. Prestige Lavender Fields Easy Accessibility: CLF Township offers easy accessibility via expressways connecting them directly towards key major cities like Bengaluru International Airport (BIA), Electronic City & Mysore Road ; while always having employees who assist drivers whenever they face parking trouble in public areas too! Besides these major highways there are several alternative avenues which offer transport solutions into downtown Bangalore; like train routes along one side or taxi services running beside another section providing passerbyers uninterrupted transportation solutions throughout all hours!!

8. Prestige Lavender Fields Clean Surroundings: You won’t find any unpleasant waste or garbage littered around these pleasant surroundings because dedicated garbage management personnel ensure every single bit gets collected thrice weekly (on established designated days) ; thoroughly disposing anything unwanted or discarded before getting into people’s hands thus keeping their clean & sky maintained high!!

9. Prestige Lavender Fields Socialization Programs For Kids: Exclusive kids playgrounds and regular socialization activities organized by local residents ensure young children get trained on much needed soft skills required everyday such 21st century classroom life while growing up together whole discovering new hobbies such playing instruments together in fun enjoyable music captures – even though none end up knowing how to really play something professionally but none minds cause everybody gets benefitate tremendously here by working closely together learning inherent values essential throughout life cycle!!

10. Prestige Lavender Fields Outdoor Amenities suitable For Everyone: This highly sought after neighborhood enclave provides ample walking trails filled with blooming plants surrounded those trees allowing families exercise outdoors without stepping far away; There be also Tennis courts near facilities which let parents spend quality time working their cardio muscle strength whilst their little ones look on amazed watching professionals hit balls back forth over netting settings installed… And If swimming looking then Olympic sized pool indoor available exclusively for members only helps relax breezy hot summer anytime!!

[open--till--midnight]

Settling Down

geralt x gn!reader & daughter

summary | geralt settles down, this is pure fluff without plot

warnings | idk, kids?

wc | 1k

a/n | Ugh I didn’t know if I should have made this for eskel or geralt. I chose geralt but it could be read either way I guess, also we’re pretending ciri doesn’t exist in this for reasons that will become clear, also also, I'm obsessed with witchers and flower crowns soooo

You and Geralt had both lived long lives and had many more years to come. Being blessed with long life made it easier for a relationship with a witcher. He knew those he grew close to would all fade. Their lives were mortal, short, and sweet. But he knew he could be with you for as long as you wanted him. You frequently assured him that meant forever.

Though neither of you looked it, you were getting old. The nomadic lifestyle, once perfect for the two of you, became unreasonable to keep up. Your dream had always been to settle down in a quaint cottage, resting in the middle of an idyllic forest. After a sleepy conversation, that is exactly what you did.

After a bit of searching, you found your home. Ivy ran up the sides, not yet breaching the sturdy stone walls. The once pink roof, now faded, hung over the sides and had intricate trim bordering it. In the back, there was a sizeable garden already enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. An arbor was set in the middle, though worn by weather, it was still sturdy.

The inside was just as picturesque. The kitchen was separated from the hearth and couches by a couple of beams and a table. Two bedrooms rested just past it. A perfect home for its newest inhabitants.

It was now two years since you and Geralt took in your daughter. You wouldn’t call her anything else, even if she wasn’t biologically yours. When you first found her, you guessed she was around three years old, still plenty of time to give her a good childhood and take on the role of loving parents. Roles you both took exceedingly seriously.

It was hard, at first, getting her to bond with Geralt. His demeanor was gruff, and he lacked the emotional intelligence required by a child. On top of that, he was frequently gone. With an extra mouth to feed, the money you earned selling your herbs and produce wasn’t enough. So Geralt picked up more contracts nearby.

Understandably, she had grown much closer to you than him. This resulted in late nights reassuring your lover that things would come around. It would just take time. He didn’t want to upset you, so he agreed. Not bothering to explain how hard it was on him. You did notice, however. How could you not? Knowing he wouldn’t want to talk about it, you settled with providing him the reassurance he needed and continued helping him through the situation.

This wasn’t to say that your daughter didn’t love him. Quite the opposite, actually. Her favorite words to say were ‘I love you’. It was just assumed by the two of you that she’d never had anyone to say it to before, so he was compensating. It was sweet, really, but not sweeter than her hugs. She would cling to the two of you, sometimes refusing to let go.

Soon, the two of you figured out the issue with her so-called favoritism. Geralt wasn’t reliable. Not to an eight-year-old. You knew that when he left it was so he could earn a living, but the child couldn’t understand that. Without the knowledge of how the world works, all she saw was someone who was supposed to be reliable leaving. Even if he always came back.

But now she was old enough to help out with the garden, which meant you could expand it. This allowed more crops to sell at the market. With the extra income, Geralt didn’t need to leave quite as often. Hunts were now less often and much shorter, to the delight of all three of you.

Now, your child would request Geralt to read her to sleep. She had already come to him about her nightmares, for obvious reasons, but now she asked him to cuddle if she was still too scared to sleep. These small actions by the little girl brought a smile to the witcher’s face.

Before he met you, he thought that nothing would penetrate his heart, make him soft, but you did that. He frequently joked that you’d ruined him, that he was unable to be a proper witcher because of you. This was all a surprise, yes, but nothing compared to the effect his daughter had on him. She inhabited his heart as well as his mind, and he melted at the mere thought of her.

The little family that you created became his home, his safe space. Every moment spent with the two of you was better than the last. His favorite moments, though, were the ones with no obligations. The moments when he could just be. Moments like this.

Geralt was sprawled out on his back, laying on the soft and bright green grass by the river. His two favorite people were sitting on either side of him. You had helped the little girl collect flowers before settling beside Geralt. You had busied yourself with weaving them into crowns, a tiny one for your daughter, a larger one for you, and an even larger one for the witcher on the grass.

The little girl plucked the stems off of the flowers so only about an inch remained. These flowers were meticulously tucked into Geralt’s hair. She had already begged you to pull the top layer of hair back and braid it so it would be out of his face. You complied without hesitation and didn’t even bothering to ask Geralt. It pleased the little girl.

“That is so pretty, love.” You spoke through a wide grin, looking down at your witcher.

“Yes yes yes! You are so cute!”

Your daughter's compliment brought a faint blush to his face. He fought the urge to deny the claim before you shot him a deadly stare. He grumbled before talking.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You are very talented.”

“Really!”

“Yes, really. Are you kidding?” He squeezed her hand before grabbing a couple of flowers and putting them in her hair.

“Look, you’re talented too!” Her grin was infectious.

Before he could respond, she yawned.

“Getting sleepy, are we?”

“Nope.” Seconds later, she yawned again.

“Right.” He stood up, motioning for her to hop up on his back. Once she was on, he grabbed your hand and started the short walk back home.

[wellpresseddaisy]

The Poshest Bedstead in Islington

Part 9

Dear Harry,

I know Ron wrote you, but I'm fairly sure he left out most of the important things that you need to know. His letter was only a page and a half, and he didn't use the back side of the page at all! 

I hope you'll be able to be here soon. We miss you terribly. 

This is going to be an exceedingly long letter because I want you to feel like you've been here with us. I don't want you to feel left out, at all.

It's been strange, being here without you. Initially, Mrs. Weasley made it sound like we'd have an awful lot of cleaning up to do, but the house really is lovely. 

It's one of those Georgian townhouses, but not as narrow as one might think. Mr. Black said at one point an enterprising ancestor purchased the adjoining homes and had them taken down. Between that and what I'm fairly certain are space expansion charms, there are expansive gardens around the place. It's funny, from the front of the house you can't tell there's gardens at all. The gates at the side make it look more like an alley entrance. 

Mrs. Weasley is in seventh heaven right now with everything to do in the garden. I admit I don't know a great deal about designing pleasure gardens (that's what Mrs. Weasley calls it), but the result is spectacular. She's a very patient teacher, as well. I'm learning loads from her, about flowers and herbs and all kinds of things. 

Inside, there's four floors of living space and a basement. The ground floor has the dining room, Mr. Black's study, a brilliant library, and at the back beyond the kitchen, a potions lab for our use. There's a professional setup in the basement, but that's Professor Snape's domain. Did you know he's in and out? He and Mr. Black seems to have mended fences, too, for they'll actually speak civilly to one another. Professor Snape even stays for dinner sometimes!

I'd tell you more about the library, but I may run out of stationary if I try! Oh, Harry, it's wonderful! I know I spend too much time in there, but there are so many things to learn and it has so many more books than Hogwarts!

(I am quite put out with Hogwarts at the moment. I'll tell you more later on, but they have behaved abominably!)

The first floor is where we spend a great deal of time. Mr. Black says that it has two modes: family and entertaining. Family mode means the first floor has a morning room and a billiard room.

Entertaining mode replaces those with a ballroom and a tea room. Isn't that brilliant? We mostly use the morning room, the drawing room, and the little anteroom off the drawing room. That's been fitted up with study tables and bookcases and things so we can do some work without being completely cut off from everyone else.

I've always liked being in my room to study, for the quiet, but I rather like being able to hear a bit of music or conversation or the like. I'll get to what we're studying, too, in a bit. The drawing room is at the front of the house. Down the hall is the morning room (we have most of our meals there since Mr. Black says he doesn't relish having to shout down a table for sixty in the dining room) and the billiard room. Beyond those are some of the bedrooms. Mr. Black has his little suite back there and that's also where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Professor Lupin have rooms.

Ron and the twins and Ginny and I all sleep upstairs. Ron has a room in the mezzanine area (I've enclosed a floor plan of the house so you're not horribly confused) with the twins. Ginny and I share a room next to the old day and night nurseries. Sirius fixed up the old night nursery as a room for you—not because he thinks you're a child or anything like that—so you could have a bit more privacy. It's at the front of the house, but it's buffered from everything else by the old day nursery. That's been made over into a space for, well, you primarily. We aren't using it at all until you're here because we know Mr. Black wants to be the one to show you what he's had done. He hasn't said, but it seemed obvious enough even to Ron.

The fourth floor is all guest rooms and then above that is the attics.

Kreacher, Mr. Black's house elf (although that is a bit confusing, because everyone seems to listen to Kreacher and Mr. Black just tells us to listen to Nanny. I really need to ask more questions, because I'm beginning to think I wasn't given accurate information about house elves in the first place. And I don't know anyone who would have the courage to argue with Kreacher, anyhow. Not even you, Harry!) is superintending our summer studies. 

He had an absolute fit over our handwriting and bemoaned what was becoming of Hogwarts. We're all going to have to do penmanship lessons. He's also checking our work to OWL standard, at least. I'm half-convinced he's checking it to NEWT standard, because I've had to revise my Charms essay five times. It's really very good for us and for our academic discipline, but five times is a bit much. I think Ron's had to revise most of his work almost double that. We have essay drafting notebooks, now, instead of using up loose parchment, so Kreacher can correct those and look back to make sure we've added corrections. 

He's also horribly critical of our writing style. Beyond OWL subject work (and the fourth year curriculum for Ginny), he has us working on our academic writing. We'd only just started that when I left for Hogwarts, so it's wonderful to be challenged that way again. Oh! And mathematics and geography and etiquette and all sorts of other subjects! Kreacher says we can't be well-rounded gentlepersons if we don't know these things. I wasn't sure of Kreacher at first, you know, but when I asked if he was happy he told me that this was the happiest he's been since he left Wales with the Tudor party.

Do you think that's true, Harry? Could he have lived so long? He said that an elf who is happy and devoted to a family will live as long as the family exists, even if that's just one person. And to gain an elf's devotion is a special gift. I think you may want to ask him about Dobby. You know how devoted he is to you.

Oh, I'm so happy Mr. Black said we could write as much as we wished. There are so many things you should know, and you know I love to write long letters. Mrs. Weasley said that skimpy letters were as bad as skimpy petticoats. I can write my parents, too, which I didn't think I'd be able to do. Kreacher takes the letters for us. He said that he thinks my parents, despite not being of a long magical lineage, are both healers and scholars and he respects that in a person.

Harry, did you know that Diagon and the different buildings we thought were scattered around London aren't actually the magical world? That the ISS was what they call a Great Working and in 1692 the magicals of the world got together and completed a feat of magic, creating a copy of the world as it was then? And they've updated a few times, although that's a bit murkier. This London looks more like the ordnance survey maps from the late nineteenth century than anything else, although the most surprising things remain.

(Please don't laugh that I've looked at those. I really wanted to see Holmes' London and Dad thought it would be a good way to visualize.)

I just wish we'd known. That we'd been taught. Ron and Mrs. Weasley both thought we knew already and were shocked that there wasn't more of an introduction for non-magical students (Kreacher informed us all that he thought Muggle and its derivatives quite rude). They both thought Hogwarts would have a class for us. They're meant to do a day out, as well, although that's supposed to be in second year and we were all a bit preoccupied for days out.

We're being taught now. Kreacher took one look at the assignments I saved from history and I never want to see that look on his face again. He's developing a curriculum to catch us all up to OWL standard. And we'll be taking OWLs in subjects Hogwarts doesn't teach, like geography and mathematics and etiquette and writing and literature and needlework. Kreacher has some very set Ideas about what makes a well-rounded person. My parents and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley agree.

Apparently magical geography is different because when they split from the non-magical world, everyone was too busy trying to come up with working governments to colonize anywhere. It's fascinating to see what the world could have looked like. 

I can't say that I'm enjoying needlework as much. I never had to do any beyond knitting and Kreacher is a tartar about crooked stitches. The only good thing it that we're all learning, even Ron. Apparently most of the magical world thinks it pretty rude to gender magic or really anything else. Irksomely, Ron is better at it than me and Ginny. He's also much better at what Kreacher calls domestic economy. I may not be taking that OWL. It depends on whether or not I can meet the standards, which is an appalling thing to have to write.

I cannot, for the life of me, get a pastry cream to set properly or a pastry crust to stay whole and uncrumbled. Mum says that not everyone can be good at everything, but baking is science, really. I should be good at it. I follow the formula exactly. Ron, of course, says that you have to feel pastry cream in your heart. What I feel cannot be put into words without Kreacher scolding. Or my mum.

I don't think I mentioned yet that my parents know everything now. I told them the whole when I got home and Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Black told them what they knew, as well. Mr. Black invited my parents to the house before we came to stay so they could see where I'd be living and with whom. It's certainly the most consideration anyone other than Mrs. Weasley has given their feelings.

Apparently, Hogwarts never reported that I'd been petrified or any of it! Mum and Dad were furious, and I can't blame them. I thought for sure they'd have known. They've asked Mrs. Weasley to be their proxy in the magical world since they can't trust our school. They're also furious that there are so many subjects either shoddily taught or not taught at all. We're actually fairly advanced in Potions, though, and about where we ought to be for Transfiguration, Herbology, and Charms. Our advanced Potions curriculum has not stopped Kreacher from drilling us in preparation. I've sliced, diced, minced, pressed, grated, and ground ingredients until I could do it in my sleep!

Well, enough schoolwork. I don't want to put you to sleep. I know it sounds like that's all we do, but it isn't. When we arrived, Mr. Black told us that he hadn't furnished our rooms yet because he wanted us to make spaces we liked. We were allowed to go through all the furniture in the attics. Harry, I've never seen that much furniture in one place, not even in a showroom. At one point the Black family used this house as a dumping ground for anything they weren't using. When Mr. Black's parents moved in, they magically expanded the attics and moved everything up there. 

Ginny and I found some lovely pieces for our room (all matching!), and Ron found things he liked, too. The twins were more concerned with setting up their shed at the end of the garden, so Mr. Black decided. They really oughtn't have done that. He seems so very adult, but give him a chance to cause havoc and he will. The screaming started just after we'd all gone up to bed. (You'd be amazed at how well-regulated a household we are.) Mr. Black had left a few traps about their room. I don't know the particulars, but they were terribly impressed. 

After we sorted out our rooms, Mrs. Weasley and Kreacher superintended us finding more formal clothes we liked. No jeans in Black House! Well, I'm sure no one would ban them outright, but Kreacher feels they should only be worn for heavy work. And also that young gentlepersons do not do that kind of heavy work. 

In any case, the attics were stuffed full of clothes and every kind of accessory you might want from what looked like the late seventeenth century on. I think I saw a few medieval bits and bobs in there, too. We were all outfitted with complete wardrobes and didn't make even the smallest dent in the collection. I don't think you're ever going to have to buy clothing again, Harry. Just the amount of fabric in bolts up there! Mrs. Weasley and Kreacher are teaching all of us how to make our own underthings. They both said it's the best way to learn to sew because no one will ever see a wonky seam (although Kreacher will make you pick it out and do it again) and you can make them as plain or as embellished as you like. 

Ron and Ginny both liked Regency best, but the top boots and breeches style, not the pantaloons or trousers. Ginny laughed until she had hiccups at Ron wearing what Mrs. Weasley called Inexpressibles and hessian boots. The trousers were so tight I think it was only magic that allowed him to move at all! And the hessians had tassels. Tassels, Harry. I didn't laugh because I didn't want to hurt Ron's feelings, even if he thought he looked pretty silly. I'm sure I looked just as silly trying on some of the things, too. 

I settled on 1920s styles. I'm not sure that's what I'll want to wear forever—some of the 1940s clothes were so lovely—but for now it feels comfortable. I feel most like me in a smart jumper and skirt, you know. I even liked the frocks so much more than anything modern. Mrs. Weasley blinked at the length on some of the skirts, but they have hems that can be let down a trifle and Ron had on trousers that left nothing to the imagination. The wonders of bias cutting, I suppose.

I know clothing may not be terribly interesting to you, or maybe it is, now? I liked that I could have really smart jumpers and skirts and frocks from the later part of the decade, but also some really very sweet and pretty things from the start of the decade. Not that later styles weren't sweet; they just tended a bit more sophisticated. Er, this is a bit embarrassing, but the 1920s things also make me feel just a little bit like Harriet Vane at Oxford (ask Kreacher for a novel called Strong Poison). I know she'd have been there a bit earlier, but I feel so very dashing with my school robe (or any outer robe) over a smart frock. 

I thought about Regency frocks because I've read so much Heyer (oh! You must read The Grand Sophy), but the 20s things suited me so much better. It's funny how they had such similar shapes but one suits better than the other. 

And I like the 20s hats better than bonnets. There were some adorable bonnets, but I think I'm just not a bonnet kind of person.

And speaking of Oxford, did you know that they exist here just as the do in the non-magical world? I was so angry when I heard that. Mr. Black said that it might be that it's difficult to get an established magical family to sponsor one, but that's just nonsense! He's going to sponsor me, actually. He talked it all out with my parents, which is why it was alright for him to make sure my wardrobe was magical world adequate. Anyway, can you believe they hid the existence of magical Oxford and Cambridge from me? I know many don't like people coming from the non-magical side, but I expected better of our professors, especially Professor McGonagall. 

Without the Black family sponsoring me, I'd never achieve what I really want to. It's infuriating and I'm trying not to be so bloody angry all the time, but I hate being lied to. I hate it with a passion. And they did lie to us, by omission at least. 

How many other students have stagnated, never reaching their full potential because certain departments or careers want a degree from a university? How many are never matched with an appropriate family or even apprenticeship program? It's disgusting is what it is. They're churning out people with nowhere to go but into a low-level Ministry job that leads to nothing or back to the non-magical world. 

No wonder so many students leave. Mum and Dad have half a mind to see if they can just find tutors for me after this year. You can do both OWLs and NEWTs privately, but I think they'd prefer I have some professional guidance for this first set of exams. Much good it'll do me if having to revise my essay five times is any indication of the quality of our education so far.

Kreacher, an elf who has been alive since before the Tudor dynasty began, is a better instructor than half of ours.

I'd really better not spill any more vitriol on the page. I'd like you to enjoy receiving my letters, not dread another inky outburst.

Please let me know how you're getting on? Is Kreacher being an absolute dictator about your education, as well? I'd imagine he is. Mr. Black, too. He's much more of a stickler for work properly done than I'd ever imagined. He got quite cross with Ron for trying to skive off and read him such a lecture.

What are you wearing? I never thought I'd be so interested in fashion, but with Kreacher and Mr. Black and Mrs. Weasley explaining things it's fascinating. 

I miss you. I know Ron does, too. Maybe we do live in each other's pockets, but it's such a wonderful friendship. 

Mr. Black is working on gaining his freedom and he says you'll be here as soon as he can manage. I hope it's very soon. He'd had owls at all hours and I think they're trying to arrange a meeting. I know he'll write you, but it's good to have a few sources. 

Now, before I go on any longer, I remain

Your devoted friend,

Hermione

PS I saw that closing in a book of letters in the library and just had to use it. Because I am.

[infinitelysordinary]

who has the biggest base on empires smp? (as of july 1st, 2021)

a somewhat in-depth mathematical deep dive into empire smp’s bases

THE CONTEXT.

for the past two weeks or so, scott (also known as: scott smajor, smajor, smajor1995, dangthatsalongname, and branding nightmare) has been building up his second base, effectively taking down his starter house.

most of this building occured during his streams, where he often proclaimed that he thought he was building the “biggest base on the server.” when his third empires smp video came out on june 26, 2021, his titled said “The Biggest Base on the Server! - Minecraft Empires SMP - Ep.03.”

however, the day after, joel (aka smallishbeans) uploaded his fourth episode of empires smp, titled “Building My House! | Empires SMP | Ep.4 (1.17 Survival).” within this video, he claimed that he had the biggest house on the empires smp server. he even went as far as to trap an afk scott in a cage of stone, and writing out three signs asking scott to change the title of his recent video.

[Image Description: A zoomed in screenshot from Joel’s newest video. The screenshot was taken within Scott’s house. There are two walls shown and a birch floor. In the middle, there are three oak signs. Joel’s crosshair is on the middle sign.

The first sign says: “Hello Scott, please can you change your video title as”

The second sign says: “It says you have the biggest base. This is wrong. My base is bigger”

The third sign says: “Come have a look if you want. - Joel”]

so, that begs the question: who has the biggest base on the empires smp out of scott and joel?

THE SEMANTICS.

now, for the purposes of today’s adventure, we’re only going to be counting the volume within the base. this does not include windows, outside accents, bridges, gardens, walls, doorways, or anything else that is not within the confines of the base itself. floors and/or divides do not count towards the total, as they take up space and are not “easily moved.”

the only exception is balconies--the space on a balcony counts towards the total, though that space is counted differently. on enclosed balcony, i.e. a balcony that is surrounded by fences and has a roof-like structure that blocks out rain, all the space that fits between the fences, the roof, and the floor count.

on an open balcony, i.e. a balcony that only has fences and a floor, with no roof, only the two blocks of air on top of the floor and in between the fences count.

similarly, both of their bases are defined by their respective houses that they built during the episode. their farms, tents, bridges, and any other structure that they have built previous do not count towards the total.

i will be only using screenshots from their own videos, e.g., i will use scott’s video (published june 26, 2021) to find the volume of his base, and use joel’s video (published june 27, 2021) to find the volume of his base. anything that scott has added between his video and joel’s will not be counted, neither will anything that either of them created after the fact.

i will not be counting joel’s most recent video, titled “Pranking Lizzie, Interiors & Windmills! | Empires SMP | Ep.5 (1.17 Survival)”, because that was uploaded when i was writing this analysis. like, after i finished all my counting, but when i was writing this post. so, uh-

also, i am not counting anyone else’s bases within this experiment, though i do believe others have similarly sized bases. the other creators not a part of this post until they officially get involved in the ‘rivalry’

THE METHOD.

first of all, volume is calculated in minecraft blocks cubed. a typical ‘minecraft block’ is just a full block, like planks, logs, or stone. i’m not going to calculate this accurately (i.e. counting the space that the glass panes leave behind), mostly because i cannot be assed.

SMAJOR’S BASE.

the volume of smajor’s house, in theory, is relatively easy to find. because his house is just a right pentagonal prism, we can use the formula B*h to find the volume. B is the area of the ‘base’ (which, in this case, is the front/back of his house), and h is the depth of his house.

[Image Description: Two screenshots from Scott’s newest video. Both screenshots have lowered transparency, and are slightly dulled.

One screenshot is of the inside of his house, as he looks at the back. The floor is still grass, though the walls are up. There are dozens of arrows within the floor and towards the back of the wall. On top of the screenshot, someone has noted that there are 13 Minecraft blocks across the back of Scott’s house.

The second screenshot is from the outside of Scott’s house, as he looks up at it. The house appears to be finished. On top of the screenshot, someone has noted that there are 10 Minecraft blocks from the floor up to the start of the room. There is a red marking where the roof hits the wall.]

there are two parts that add up to B: the rectangular bit, and the roof. in these two screenshots, i’m finding the area of the rectangular bit.

the rectangular bit is 13 blocks across and 10 blocks wide.

[Image Description: A screenshot from Scott’s newest video, with lowered transparency and slightly dulled. It’s from Scott’s timelapse, taken up in the air. Scott isn’t finished building his house. One side of the roof is done, as well as all of the walls below and the two faces. 

There are various notations on the screenshot. A blue marking on the bottom counts 10 Minecraft blocks up. A block above that, a red marking notes that the roof, at its widest point, is 15 Minecraft blocks wide. Another red marking notes the slope of the room. An arrow points towards the top of the roof, saying “later adds on 3 blocks here”

To the right, there is a header saying “TO-SCALE MODEL:” Below, there is a pixel model of the front and back of Scott’s house, which are the same. There is a blue rectangular section on the bottom. On top, there is a red roof. There are 3 purple pixels on the top. Markings on the model show the measurements. A dotted line goes through the model, splitting it up into two sections: a rectangle on the bottom, and the roof on top.

Inside the rectangular section, someone has noted down “11 * 13 = 143 mb^2″ the “143 mb^2″ boxed in. Inside the roof section, someone has noted down “111 mb^2″

Below the screenshot, someone has handwritten “143 + 111 = 254 mb^2″]

the second part is the roof. the roof goes outwards for two blocks, and then goes back inwards. using this reference for the roof, the previous two screenshots for the bit underneath, and cross referencing them to find out where they meet, i created a to-scale model of it!

i found the area of the to-scale model, and B = 254 mb^2

[Image Description: A screenshot from Scott’s video, with lowered transparency and slightly dulled. The house isn’t finished--there’s only half of the side wall and the front detailing. The screenshot is taken from Scott’s timelapse, and is from the side of his base; only the side wall is visible.

Someone has marked over the screenshot with a lime green pen. On the top right, someone has written “* coutning the inner wall only”. An arrow is drawn upwards from one side of the side wall. It says “wall starts here”. On the other side of the wall, there is another arrow that says “wall ends here”. In between the two arrows, someone has made tick marks indicating where the blocks are. On the bottom, someone has noted down “3-wide doorway” by the side entrance. Off to the bottom ride, it says “24 px deep”]

next, i used this screenshot to find the h of scott’s base! this was a bit harder because scott doesn’t show the bottom of his base until he’s already detailed it, but with the precise use of my Big Brain (and my wacom tablet), i counted that it was 24 pixels deep.

so, B * h = V = 254 * 24 = 6096 mc^3

but we AREN’T DONE YET

[Image Description: On the left, there are 3 screenshots from Scott’s newest video stacked vertically on top of each other. The first one is of the side doorway. Pink ticks mark the how many blocks wide and tall the doorway is. On the right of the first screenshot, there is a solid pixellated model of the doorway in the same pink. Inside the model, someone has written “18 mb^3″ in white. On the right of the model, someone has written “volume of the side door-way” in pink.

The next screenshot is taken from the inside of Scott’s base, showing the front doorway. Orange ticks mark how many blocks tall and wide the bottom section of the front doorway is. It is 8 blocks wide and 3 blocks tall. The bottom most screenshot is a picture from Scott’s timelapse, where half of the roof hasn’t been built yet. Someone has drawn lines on the building going horizontally, dividing the top section of the front doorway into three sections: one 3 block section on the bottom, and two 2 block sections on top. On the right of these two screenshots, there is a solid pixellated model of the front doorway, labelled accordingly, in orange. Inside the model, someone has written “39 mb^3″

Below the screenshots and the models, someone has written “6096 - 39 - 18 = Vi = 6039 mb^3]

see, scot also has two main doorways: one at the entrance and one on the right side. i used the first screenshot to find the volume of the side doorway, and the next two screenshots to find the volume of the front doorway.

(this is the part where i might be wrong--i couldn’t find a reliable reference for the the front doorway, so i had to use an extremely zoomed out version. the stripped spruce log section underneath the window is either 2 or 3 blocks tall. i assumed 3 based on the bottom most screenshot but like. i could be wrong)

anyway, the first doorway is 18 mb^3, and the second is 39 mc^3. so, the total final volume for scott’s base is 6039 mb^3.

JOEL’S BASE.

joel’s base, on the other hand, is genuinely fucking insane. like, seriously. what the fuck, joel. you couldn’t have made it harder for me to do my job (it does look amazing though and i love it so much)

so, instead of taking screenshots and calculating the volume of his base through those references, i decided to build a replica of joel’s base in my own creative world, and after fill it with sand. i could then count all the sand from his base and add it up to achieve a (somewhat accurate) volume for his base

[Image Description: An array of screenshots of a replica of Joel’s base, laid out in a three by two grid. Each is labelled with a black, comic-style font. The first screenshot is taken from the front of the replica from up in the air, and is labelled “FRONT.” The second screenshot, which is to the right of the first screenshot, is taken from the right of the replica from up in the air, and is labelled “RIGHT SIDE.” The third screenshot is taken from the back of the replica from jup in the air, and is labelled “BACK.” The fourth screenshot is taken from the left of the replica up in the air, and is labelled “LEFT SIDE.” The fifth screenshot is taken from the front of the base, and the player is on the ground. It is labelled “FRONT (FROM THE GROUND).” The last screenshot is taken from the inside of the base, looking towards the back. It is labelled “INTERIOR (FROM THE GROUND).”]

anyway, most of his base is relatively easy to copy. my replica is pictured above. there are two time lapses within his video that show his process of building his base. the first timelapse (4:59-5:54) is shot from the front of his base, and angled slightly downwards, and is where i got most of my references from. the second timelapse (9:48-9:55) is shot from the diagonally back left of his base, and is what i referenced for the back of my replica.

the roofs themselves are symmetrical: barring the roofs’ intersection, the blue and red roofs are the same the entire way around. this is why, even though i technically didn’t see the back of joel’s base, i knew what it looked like and could get an accurate replica of it.

the only problem is that he never showcases the base from the left. this means that the red and blue roof intersection on the left could be very wrong. the only reference i got for this part was a screenshot at 6:12 (pictured below). this only showcases the inside of the roof, and from bad lighting, but it’s better than nothing.

other than that, though, i’m. pretty sure my replica is accurate! 

[Image Description: A screenshot taken from Joel’s video, from approximately 6:12 in the video. Joel is inside his base, staring up at the red roof from the bottom. The floor is lit up by torches, but the details of the roof are barely visible in the darkness.]

next, i filled his entire base with sand. this was the most tedious part--never have i ever placed so much goddamn sand in minecraft. do not recommend, 0/10

i made sure that i filled the entire base by going into spectator mode! (i can’t fit the pics in here because, well, image limit. but i promise the entire build is full)

and, after 2 diamond shovels, two stacks of torches, a handful of night vision potions, here is how much sand i have:

[Image Description: Four screenshots, layed out in a two by two grid. The first three screenshots showcase the inside of three different double chests. They are all filled to the brim with stacks of sand. On the first screenshot, there are two notations, both in blue: one that notes out that there are 9 columns in a double chest, and another that notes that there are 6 rows in a double chest. The last screenshot is that of the interior of partially-full double chest, with 21 full stacks within it. Someone has noted down “21 stacks” in red.

Underneath the four screenshots, someone has written “number of stacks * 64 = Vt” in black. Beneath that, someone has written “there is 54 stacks in the full double chests” in blue. Beneath that, someone has written “( (54) (3) + 21) (64) = Vt,” in various colours. “(54)(3)” is in blue, while “21″ is in red. The rest is in black.

On the bottom, someone has written “Vt = 11,712 mb^3″]

the final total for joel’s base, as of july 1st, 2021, is 11,712 mb^3

THE CONCLUSION + TL;DR.

scott smajor’s title was not a lie, or at least not at the time. he had the biggest base on the server as of that upload. but soon after, joel created a base that was nearly two times scott’s, creating the bigger base out of the two of them.

so, yeah! joel has a bigger base than scott as of july 1st, 2021

this is because 11,712 mb^3 > 6039 mb^3

thank u and goodnight. send me any asks if u find anything wrong with this stupidly lost post, or if you want any progress pics! love y’all