#they gave him a british passport but this is about how baby he looked when he threw it away

[beatricethecat2]

"A road trip? How exciting!" Jeanie exclaims.

"They gave you that much time off?" Warren gruffs.

"I'm still working. Sometimes," Myka explains.

"Often," Helena quips.

"And you're still...doing whatever it is you do? For the Secret Service? You never did explain," Jeanie asks.

"'Secret' and 'in-service of' the government, yeah," Myka answers.

"A-And what do you do, Helena?" Jeanie asks.

"I..." Helena glances at Myka.

"...work at a rare book collection. In Montreal," Myka adds.

"For a private patron, specializing in Victorian tomes," Helena elaborates.

"Dad, you should show her your collection."

"Oh, I don't know," Warren grumbles. "Won't be as fancy as she's used to."

"So you're Canadian?" Jeanie presses.

"No, English," Helena says.

"But you work in Canada?"

"It is a British commonwealth."

"Was," Myka snips. "Was a British Commonwealth."

"Is." Helena shoots Myka a firm glance. "Hence the Queen on their currency. I'm not being—"

"But you are sometimes."

"I'm aware," Helena snaps. "I researched my residence. It was easier to obtain a visa there due to my UK passport."

"You only have a British one?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Why?"

"I thought they'd give you a..." Myka glances at her parents. "Never mind."

A beat passes as the conversation hits a lull.

"How long did you say you've been traveling?" Jeanie inquires.

"A few months?" Myka looks at Helena for confirmation.

"Two and a half."

"And you've been able to leave work that long?" Jeanie asks Helena.

"I've made arrangements."

Jeanie looks between the two of them, wheels turning in her head. "Did you meet in Montreal? When were you there, honey?" she asks Myka.

"We, um, met a few years earlier." Myka's hands twist together on her lap.

The room quiets as both Myka and Helena fail to elaborate.

"Did something happen at work like last time?" Warren throws out.

"No," Myka answers, a little too forcefully and Helena shies away from her shoulder. She looks in Helena's direction, but Helena won't meet her gaze.

"Something else happened. A few things, actually."

"They don't know about your--"

"No. I went looking for you after my surgery. Then this trip happened—"

"Surgery?" Warren blurts.

"Tumor on my ovaries. They thought it was cancer, but it turned out benign. I didn't tell anyone, but Pete knew something was off. He picked me up from my biopsy and a few weeks later, they cut it out."

"Oh, Myka," Jeanie says.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Warren asks.

"Work was so crazy, I didn't have time," Myka says.

"You were still working?" Jeanie asks.

"You should have stayed with us," Warren adds.

"Tracy just had the baby, and I didn't want you to worry—"

"Baby?" Helena looks at Myka, brow raised.

"I told you, didn't I?"

"I think I would have recalled."

"Sorry. He's what," Myka says, looking at her mom, "three, four months old now?"

"Four and a half. Does your sister know any of this? About you being sick?"

"No. I haven't talked to her much—"

"You've not seen your sister's child?" Helena's whole body turns as she glares at Myka incredulously. 

"I-I was recovering. Then I went to find you," Myka says, her tone small. "A-And, it's a baby, right? It just sort of lies there, drooling. I thought I'd wait until he was...walking or something."

"That will take quite some time."

"I saw pictures. I texted I'd see him at Christmas."

Helena and Jeanne share a look of judgement.

"What? I don't get the whole 'having kids' thing."

"You will when you find the right fellow," Warren advises.

"Dad, that's not..." Myka starts, then stops with a breathy grunt. "Helena and I are dating, OK?"

"Oh." Warren's eyes dart to Helena, his expression minimally surprised. "The right woman then."

"You two are dating?" Jeanie asks.

"I thought you could tell."

"You do seem close, which is unusual for you," Jeanie mumbles nodding thoughtfully to herself.

"So surgery and a new beau. Keeping secrets again, Myka? I thought we moved past that," Warren says.

"Helena's not a secre--' Myka's phone rings. "Oh, thank god." She hits accept. "Agent Bering...yes...hang on a sec," she says, striding out of the room.

Helena sits up straighter as all eyes fall on her.

"What's your position on kids?" Warren asks Helena.

"Myka doesn't want them, Warren," Jeanne says, lips pursed.

"Yes, but I'm asking her," Warren points with his eyes to Helena.

"I'm...inclined to agree with Mrs. Bering."

"Oh, Jeanie, please," Jeanie says to Helena. "No need to pressure the poor girl. You have one grandkid already. Be happy with that."

"But Myka's the smart one," Warren says.

"Oh, now you're on her side?" Jeanie quips. "All those years you pushed her—"

"Wells..." Warren interrupts, eyes on Helena. "Myka said your last name is Wells?"

"That is correct."

"Any relation to the author?"

Helena opens her mouth to answer just as Myka swoops in. "Distant," she says and pokes Helena with her elbow as she sits.

"What did they want," Helena asks.

"There's a thing nearby."

"And?" Helena frowns.

"I told them maybe."

"You should have said no. We're otherwise engaged." Helena nods towards Myka's parents.

"You work with Myka at...whatever it is she does?" Jeanie asks.

"She helps out sometimes," Myka explains.

"Often," Helena adds.

"Don't you have to be an agent?"

"She's a former one."

"But she's not American," Warren says.

"It's...a partnership. Of a kind. Not worth explaining."

"Go on," Warren grumbles. "Keep keeping us in the dark."

"You didn't tell me about your cataract surgery."

"We didn't want you to worry," Jeanie says. "They said it was routine."

Myka frowns.

The room quiets again.

"Your shop is quite impressive, Mr. Bering," Helena says, speaking up to fill the pause. "I'm curious about your collection. Myka's told me wonderful things."

"Ach, call me Warren," Warren says, his tone softening. "Let me dig out my Wells first editions. I'll meet you two in the back."

"Sure, Dad," Myka says, watching him leave the room. 

"Be civil with him," Myka whispers to Helena. "This was your idea."

"I'm aware--"

"Should we order Chinese or are you two not staying for dinner?" Jeanie asks, rising from the couch.

"We have that thing," Myka says, flashing her phone at Helena.

"Which can wait," Helena snips. "We'd be pleased to join you."

"Good," Jeanie says, her expression brightening. "Myka can tell us more about her surgery. I'll get you that moo shu pork you always liked."

"I haven't liked that since I was twelve."

"Oh, that's right...before your 'vegetarian' phase."

"Do tell," Helena says, perking up.

"She's thin now, but you should have seen her then. A beanpole!"

"I was still growing!"

"You lived on lettuce and Twizzlers."

"She still does."

"Hey, I pigged out at that barbecue place. You were the one picking at it."

"I wasn't familiar with the offerings."

"They don't have barbecue in England?" Jeanie asks.

"Not in her day," Myka pokes.

"That never gets old, does it." 

"Nope!" 

Helena scowls as Myka grins.

Jeanie looks on, confused.

"Order whatever, Mom. It'll be fine. We should go meet Dad."

"No, I'll bring you two the menu. I don't want to get the wrong thing. Or maybe we should get pizza? You have that in England, don't you, Helena?"

"Not in my day," Helena snips at Myka.

"Myka!" Warren bellows.

"Coming, Dad!" Myka looks at Jeanie. "Whatever you get is fine. Let's go." She grabs Helena's hand and drags her out of the room.

Jeanie shakes her head but smiles to herself as she watches them leave.

-----------------

Bering and Wells: Travelogged ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 6 Title: Colorado Springs: Rocky Mountain Way

Summary: Our intrepid pair travel north-east from Mesa Verde, meandering through the Rocky Mountains, hitting spots both familiar and new. As they descend from Pike's Peak, a last minute decision lands them on the Bering and Sons doorstep, with little, if any, prep work put into what meeting Myka's family might entail.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4, Episode 5

-----------------

***BONUS SCENE***

"Why don't you allow me to assist," Helena offers, hovering just behind Tracy.

"What's she saying?" Tracy asks Myka.

"Let her make the tea," Myka interprets.

"It's just tea, Myka. I'm not that sleep-deprived."

Helena looks at Myka, her exasperation evident.

"But she's English," Myka explains.

"So?"

"She can make it better."

"It's tea Myka, not rocket science."

"There is a science to it," Helena says, stepping closer to inspect Tracy's setup. "What sort of tea are you serving?"

"The kind with caffeine." Tracy pours water into the teapot and plucks four unlabelled bags from a silver plastic sheath. She plops the bags in the pot and covers it with the lid. "I don't remember the brand. I threw the box out and stuffed them in this one." She hands the box to Helena.

Helena's face droops.

"Helena's kind of a tea expert," Myka explains. "Maybe not as much as Steve--"

"Why didn't you say so! I have the fancy kind." Tracy rustles around the pantry and hands Myka boxes one by one. "Here's Raspberry Zinger and, um, some mint thing, and Sleepytime, but you wouldn't want that now. And I think..." She reaches deep into the cabinet and hauls out a tin. "African Autumn. I won it at a raffle at Kevin's work. But it's loose, not in bags. Such a hassle."

"Yes, indeed," Helena says, her tone slightly mocking. She takes the tin and scours its ingredients.

"How much sleep are you getting?" Myka asks.

"Not much. The kid needs fed all the time, and I'm the milk dispenser." Tracy cups a breast and jiggles it up and down.

Myka wrinkles her nose.

"Too gross for you, huh sis?" Tracy says.

"This ties in nicely to yesterday's conversation with your parents," Helena says.

"Aw, don't..." Myka says.

Tracy twirls around and faces Helena. "Don't listen to her. What did Mom and Dad say?"

"They seemed surprised...no, your father seemed surprised to hear Myka holds no interest in procreating."

"Myka, with kids? Ha! I'd love to see that." Tracy smacks Myka on the arm.

"I could if I wanted to," Myka mumbles, rubbing the smacked area.

"You'd be an excellent mother," Helena says.

 "You think so?"

"A helicopter parent, totally. She'd have a spreadsheet for every little thing. Dinner now. Nap now. And if the kid went off script..." Tracy gives an eye roll and a dismissive wave. "Do you have kids?" she asks Helena.

"Not at present."

"Do you want some?"

"I've made my peace with the subject," Helena says, adding a sage head nod.

"Too old?"

"Ha!" Myka's hand flies up to cover her huge grin.

"In a sense," Helena says, scowling.

A tinny cry directs all eyes to the baby monitor.

"Annnd he's up." Tracy groans. "Let me go grab him. I'll meet you in the living room."

"OK," Myka says, eyeing the teapot. "We'll just--"

"Go. Sit!" Tracy says, looking over her shoulder before leaving the room.

Myka and Helena shuffle off and settle on the couch.

"I'm sorry about all this kid stuff," Myka says.

"Twas I that 'poked the bear' today, so to speak," Helena says, scooting closer to Myka. "Did you not mention the child earlier because you thought it would upset me?"

"Maybe? I think it's more I felt guilty about not being as excited as everyone kept telling me I was supposed to be. So I just blocked it out."

"I see."

"Look, I know you were an uber-mom and everything, but is it ok with you how I feel? I don't want to ruin this." Myka takes hold of Helena's hands.

"I have made my peace with the subject. You saw the shell of a person I became to live out a fantasy of family."

"Yeah, but...and it pains me to say this, part of you was happy there."

"Fleetingly," Helena says, looking down at their intertwined hands, squeezing lightly. "But I do believe I'll make a better partner to you because of it, if that means anything."

"P-Partner?"

"Is that not the correct phrase? I have much to learn about modern terminology."

"It is if you...if you think I'm..."

Myka drifts towards an already leaning in Helena, their lips barely touching when...

"Here we are!" Tracy blurts, smiling down at the baby as she walks in. "Your nephew!" She displays the child to Myka.

"Hey, little buddy!" Myka smiles a toothy, performative smile, her eyes opening wider and rounder than usual.

"Waaahh," the baby cries.

"Did Aunt Myka scare you," Tracy says, bouncing him in her arms as his cries continue.

"All I did was smile!"

"Weirdly," Tracy grumps. "He's fussy sometimes."

"May I?" Helena asks, rising, holding out her hands.

"Knock yourself out," Tracy says, gently laying the baby and blanket in Helena's arms.

Helena cradles the boy and rocks him back and forth. "Shhh," she whispers from time to time. His cries decrease in length and volume until he gurgles and quiets down.

"There you are, little one," Helena says, her broad smile echoing her shining eyes. She shifts him to one side and pokes a finger into his tiny hand.

"Myka, your face!" Tracy blurts.

Myka stares at the scene in front of her. "You're r-really good at that," she says.

"I'd have suggested a nip of gin if he wouldn't quiet. But this one's an angel," Helena says.

"For him or for me?" Tracy asks.

"Perhaps both," Helena says, passing the baby back to Tracy. "He seems a tad peckish."

"Eternally," Tracy grumbles, settling into the rocking chair.

"Are you alright?" Helena asks Myka as she returns to the couch.

"I've never seen you smile like that."

"And it disturbed you?"

"No, it was...nice. Brighter than usual." 

"Brighter than for you?"

"Just...different."

"I do have a soft spot for infants--"

"So you were about to kiss when I walked in. I knew it!" Tracy blurts.

"Mom didn't tell you--whoa!" Myka shields her eyes as the baby latches onto Tracy's breast.

"All mom said was you were here with your girlfriend."

"Y-You couldn't give him a bottle?" Myka says.

"It's natural, Myka."

"But you're my sister, and that's your boob."

"I'm pleased wet nurses are out of fashion," Helena quips.

"Gin? Wet nurses? How old are you?" Tracy asks.

"Ugh," Myka grunts, face wrinkling as she chances a glance at Tracy. "What'd Mom say again?"

"You were here with your girlfriend. I thought she meant bestie."

"No girlfriend." Myka slips her hand into Helena's and smiles triumphantly.

"Leave it to Mom to understate that," Tracy says, her free hand reaching towards the end table but falling inches short of her goal.

"Allow me." Helena springs up and hands the towel to Tracy.

"Thank you." Tracy blots milk off of the baby's face and her chest. "Ugh, I completely forgot about the tea!" she says, looking up at Helena.

"Not to worry, I'll tend to it. Is there anything else you need?"

"A modesty curtain for Myka?" Tracy jokes.

Myka sticks her tongue out. Tracy reciprocates.

"Milk and sugar?" Helena asks.

"Yes, please," Tracy answers.

"Black for you, I know," Helena says to Myka. "Barbarian."

Myka sticks her tongue out at Helena.

Helena smiles and walks into the kitchen.

"Tell me everything," Tracy says once Helena's out of earshot.

"After you put that thing away," Myka says, pointing with her eyes at Tracy's chest.

"Prude."

"Helena would disagree."

Tracy gasps and throws the milk-stained towel at Myka.

"Gross!" Myka says, ducking away.

"Start talking," Tracy says, buttoning up her top with one hand. "Where on earth did you find her?" Becuase I think I want one, too "

END SCENE

-TBC-

NOTES: No artifacts this time, just a glimpse into family dynamics and H.G. and Myka's budding relationship. I rewatched the episode with Myka's parents to see where that was left in-canon and can't imagine it became more resolved over time. I did a tiny bit of research into Victorian breastfeeding practices and was surprised to have turned up some daguerrotypes/tin types from  the 1840's-60's. Apparently, it was a fashion in the US to have your portrait taken while breastfeeding (infant mortality being what is was back then). Look up Hyperallergic's article, "The Victorian-era Daguerrotypes of Women Breastfeeding" for more info. (And yes, nearly everything leads back to photographs somehow with me.) PS: Two more of these and I'll wrap up season one!

[searchingwardrobes]

Separate Ways

Happy birthday, @sherlockianwhovian! I’m sorry that I don’t write whump, but I did scribble in a notebook for several days writing this without technology in a foreign country, and it somehow ending up a monstrosity of over 7,000 words. Hopefully words that you’ll like. I was inspired by my trip, obviously, especially one night when a street performer came up and started serenading me and my husband during dinner. Being an introvert, I wanted to crawl under the table, but then my writer brain got a fic idea, so I guess it all worked out. And since I knew your birthday was coming up . . .

Summary: Killian Jones somehow becomes a constant companion on Emma and Henry's spring break vacation, helping them navigate their first time in a foreign country. But Emma can't let herself feel too much since she knows how this has to end: the two of them going their separate ways. If only her heart would get the memo.

Rating: T

Also on Ao3 and part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist which I can’t believe has 12 fics in it now!

Tagging: @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @bethacaciakay @thislassishooked @teamhook @kday426 @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @killian-whump @let-it-raines @hollyethecurious

True love won’t desert you. You know I still love you, though we touched and went our separate ways.

Emma’s toes dug into the warm brown sand and she couldn’t quite believe she had done it – she was in a foreign country, and best of all, she was sharing it with Henry.

Mary Margaret and David had almost hit the roof when they found out she was going to Colombia of all places on vacation.

“What about the drug cartels?”

Emma rolled her eyes at David. “First of all, there’s crime everywhere, even in Boston. Besides, its 2019, not 1992.”

Mary Margaret blinked, still in shock. “But it’s a third world country!”

“Which is exactly why a 4-star hotel costs forty US dollars a night!”

Granted, the rooms ended up being small with few amenities, but so were hotels in New York City and Boston. It was clean, that was the important thing.

“Can you believe we’re this close to the beach?” Henry exclaimed as he plopped down in the sand beneath their cabana. A cabana that only cost seven US dollars for the whole day. Ok, so the cabana was really just a plastic tarp held up by sticks, but still . . . seven dollars!

“Right kid?” Emma grinned as she settled into a white plastic chair. “Can you believe the view?”

“I hardly can,” Ruby grinned wolfishly as she eyed some handsome Colombian men over the rim of her sunglasses. The men were shirtless and were kicking a soccer ball around.

Ruby had been roped into coming by David and Mary Margaret. Not that the brunette minded, especially when the married couple footed the bill.

“You need someone to look after you,” David had said.

“By Ruby?” Emma had screeched. “This is a family vacation for me and Henry, not an opportunity for Ruby to hit the clubs for a solid week.”

“Hey,” Ruby had protested sarcastically,”I resemble that remark!”

“I’m serious, Rubes!”

“On my honor,” she swore, with her hand to her heart, “I will behave like Mary Margaret at Disney World.”

MM rolled her eyes at Ruby then grasped Emma’s hand. “Please take Ruby. I can’t travel in my third trimester, or I would go myself.”

Emma sighed, relenting. “Ok. If you promise not to have that baby while we’re gone!”

Mary Margaret smiled as she squeezed Emma’s hand. “Deal.”

“I’m getting in the water!” Henry declared as he stood and tossed his t-shirt down on the sand.

Emma eyed the water, then looked up and down the beach. “Uhh . . . sweetie, maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

Henry gaped at her. “Why not? This is a beach vacation!”

Emma gnawed on her lower lip. How should she put this? “I just don’t see any . . . tourists in the water.”

Henry eyed the water, crowded with people. “How do you know none of them are tourists?”

Ruby threw her head back and laughed. “Oh my God, Emma, seriously? It’s the ocean!”

“Well, we’re not supposed to drink the water, even to brush our teeth. How am I supposed to know?”

And honestly? Everything about this trip – getting their passports, following TSA guidelines to pack their carry-ons (because she sure as hell wasn’t paying fifty bucks to check bags), going through customs, exchanging their dollars for pesos – had been full of things Emma didn’t know. Even Spanish. You kind of miss that part in the states when you run away from your foster home at fifteen. High school Spanish I and II would have at least made it easier to ask where the bathrooms were.

Henry put his hands on his hips. “You’re telling me I can’t swim?”

She glanced over at an older couple down the beach. The man’s pale pot belly would likely be red as a lobster by noon while the white-haired woman wore a visor with the Atlanta Braves logo.

“They’re not swimming.”

Henry rolled his eyes, looking startlingly like Emma. “Probably because they are physically unable to.”

Emma heard a masculine laugh from the next cabana over but ignored it.

“Or maybe they know something we don’t know. The water is murky. Maybe its polluted.”

“It’s perfectly safe despite its color.”

Emma tilted her head and shielded her eyes to see the owner of the British accent. She had to force her jaw not to fall open because he was a fine specimen. Slight of build, yet muscular, with a gorgeously masculine chest of dark hair. The smile he gave her was swoon-worthy as were his bright blue eyes and tousled black hair.

“Killian Jones,” he introduced himself, extending his hand.

“Emma Swan,” she said as she took it.

“Ruby Lucas,” her friend purred, leaning forward to show off her ample cleavage.

“Henry Swan,” her son finished the introductions with a wide grin, “and see Mom, I can swim!”

“Not too far, though,” Killian warned. “The seas are rough in Caragena.” He pointed at a wall of rocks farther down the beach. “Did you notice these rock walls?”

“Yeah,” Henry said.

“Well, they put those up to create these u-shaped swimming areas, so stay inside the U. Understand what I mean?”

Henry nodded, and Killian turned his gaze to Emma. “I can keep an eye on him if you like. I’m a strong swimmer.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “I don’t let men I just met hang out with my ten-year-old.”

Killian dipped his head in what Emma imagined was some regal British thing. “Of course, how foolish of me. Well, good day to you all.”

Then he turned and jogged towards the water. Emma watched him dive into the surf, then stand up and shake out his wonderful hair, the water glistening off his skin.

“My. God.” Ruby muttered.

Emma shook her head, realizing she was ogling the man. “Ok, Henry, let’s go swimming.”

She hesitated, however, as her feet touched the surf. Henry plunged ahead of her, already jumping the waves. Emma looked down, disconcerted by the fact that she couldn’t see through the muddy water.

“It’s just because the sand is brown.”

Emma startled as she looked up into the wet face of Killian Jones. Droplets of water clung to the scruff on his face, an attractive feature she had failed to notice earlier.

“Oh . . . yes, well,” she was never tongue-tied in front of men, damn him! “Why is it brown?” She winced as she went on babbling. “If I hadn’t felt it between my toes, I would have thought it was dirt.”

Killian gestured out towards the waves. “There are no coral reefs nearby. That’s what makes sand white.”

“Oh.” Ugh. Still tongue-tied.

He smiled at her, and she felt the urge to push him. Her immediate attraction to him was messing with her cool demeanor, and it irritated the hell out of her. If he were to crash awkwardly onto his ass in the surf, it would level the playing field. Or something.

“Mom! Come one!” Henry yelled to her.

Emma ignored the annoyingly handsome Brit and her urge to shove him. She eased herself further into the water. She also refused to watch his muscular back as he cut through the waves again. Ok, maybe she snuck a peek. A tiny one.

Killian Jones popped up out of the water halfway between her and Henry. “Afraid of the water, love?”

“Not your love,” Emma snapped, “and I’m a fan of the beach, I’ll have you know. And boats too.”

“Just not the water?” he teased.

Emma scowled at him. “Just a little nervous about what lives in it, that’s all.”

He laughed again, then had the audacity to wink. Infuriating man.

**************************************************

Emma ended up letting Henry swim with Killian Jones after all. He wasn’t kidding about the rough water, and Emma herself had never been a strong swimmer. Besides, she was right there watching the two of them from their cabana. Eventually, Henry made new friends with some other kids in the water. Killian swam nearby to keep an eye on him, and Emma’s irritation towards him started to fade. Now Henry was building sand castles with his new friends while Killian sat beside Emma. The more they chatted, the more she realized that disliking him was impossible. He was handsome, and he liked to flirt, but she couldn’t deny there was depth to him.

Ruby was laughing and flirting while getting a soccer “lesson” from the Colombian hotties she had been drooling over earlier. Emma sighed as she watched her.

“How do they do it?”

“Do what?” Killian asked.

“How do Henry and Ruby get past the language barrier? They don’t know Spanish either, yet they don’t let it get in their way. While I just feel . . . lost and stupid.”

“Maybe it isn’t just the language.”

Emma’s eyes widened in surprise as he gazed thoughtfully at her. She had the strangest feeling he could read her thoughts.

“What I mean is,” he clarified, “Henry has always had you instilling confidence in him, so when he faces a new situation, he dives right in. Especially with you nearby.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

Killian shrugged. “It’s rather obvious. You’re an open book, love.”

What he didn’t say, of course, was that Emma’s lost feeling was about more than the language too. She squirmed in her chair, cleared her throat, and quickly changed the subject.

“Is it just me, or are there not many tourists here?”

“Not many foreign tourists you mean. Colombians do vacation, love. Like you Americans going to Florida?”

Emma’s face reddened as she covered her face with her hands. “Oh God, I sound like a shallow American.”

Killian chuckled. “Don’t be embarrassed. And a shallow American wouldn’t be staying in this part of Cartagena. Most Americans – and Europeans – stay in the fancy resorts on the other side of the city and take boats to the islands with white sandy beaches.”

“Oh,” Emma said, her heart sinking. She was such an idiot! “No wonder this hotel was so cheap.”

“Hey,” Killian said, leaning closer, “none of that. Why should you be embarrassed? I mean, why did you come here?”

His earnest expression put her more at ease. “I always wanted to see the world. But growing up in foster care, any vacation is practically impossible, much less to a foreign country. So it was my dream to see some place far away, then to share it with Henry. I started saving when he was a baby, and . . .” Emma shrugged, “this is what I could afford.”

She wasn’t surprised when Killian took the “foster kid” bomb in stride. Somehow, she got the feeling he already knew. He nodded at Henry.

“Look at him, Swan. He’s building sand castles with Colombian children. He’s staying in a part of the city that most Americans never see. You’re really showing him a bit of the country, not just the tourist traps.”

Emma watched as Henry and another boy dug a canal around their castle. A little girl ran up with a cup of ocean water to fill it. She smiled as the truth of Killian’s words washed over her.

“So,” she asked, settling back in her chair, “what brings a Brit to this part of Cartagena?”

A shadow seemed to cross over Killian’s face. “A promise,” he answered cryptically, then abruptly headed back to the water.

*****************************************************

Emma had always prided herself on being adaptable, but being in a foreign country for the first time in her life was challenging that assumption. After visiting the beach, she, Ruby, and Henry had walked a mile away from their hotel searching for a restaurant. Trip Advisor on her phone said a taco place was only half a mile, yet all they saw were dive bars. It felt like everyone was staring at them, and she was pretty sure she heard several chuckles along with the word gringo. Her blonde hair and pale skin stood out like a sore thumb. They finally gave up and trudged back to the hotel restaurant. The taco stand would have been cheaper, but in American dollars, even the “fancy” hotel food wasn’t astronomical. Trouble was, they didn’t know where else to go or how to ask where restaurants were. They were eating their third meal in a row there when they saw Killian Jones again.

“Look!” Henry cried out, waving the man over. “Hey, Killian!”

“Hello, Henry.”

Ruby flashed the man a toothy grin and pushed out a chair. “Join us.”

Killian glanced at Emma. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Henry insisted.

Apparently, Emma didn’t have a vote. Yet Killian didn’t sit until he got a nod from Emma.

“How are all of you today?” Killian asked, and Emma had to admit it was nice to hear someone besides Ruby and Henry speaking English.

What did you expect, Emma? That people would speak a foreign language in their own damn country? God, she was a shallow American.

The waitress arrived then and Killian ordered in perfect Spanish. The woman beamed at him with pleasure. Not that she hadn’t been polite to them earlier even though they ordered in slowly spoken English while pointing at the menu (which, thank God, was written in both Spanish and English). Still, Emma imagined it felt good for her to have a customer she could easily converse with.

“This is an awesome hamburger,” Henry told Killian before taking a bite, “the best I’ve ever eaten.”

“Henry, don’t talk with your mouth full, especially to a British guy!”

Killian laughed. “It’s okay, contrary to popular belief, we don’t all dine with the queen off china plates.”

“Still,” Emma mumbled as she handed her son a napkin on autopilot. As usual, he was getting ketchup all over his shirt. “And yes, the hamburger is good, but where’s the Colombian food? I didn’t travel to a foreign country to eat burgers and fries.”

Killian leaned back. “Have you been to the Old City yet?”

“The Old City?” Henry asked, licking ketchup off his fingers.

“The Old City is the best part of Cartagena, in my opinion. It’s surrounded by a fort that was built in 1536,” Killian told Henry. He turned to Emma. “I know a great restaurant there. I’d be happy to take the three of you.”

“That sounds great,” Ruby piped up, nudging Emam with her foot under the table.

“Umm . . .” Emma hesitated.

“Please, Mom?” Henry asked. “It sounds cool with the fort and everything. Like Pirates of the Caribbean!”

“Why don’t you just give us directions, Killian?”

“Mo-om, you couldn’t even find the taco stand.”

To Killian’s credit, he didn’t laugh.

****************************************************

“So explain the aversion to bananas, Swan.”

Emma, Henry, and Killian were walking along the top of the fort in Cartagena’s old city. Ruby had bowed out, and Emma suspected it had something to do with the soccer hunks who had been hovering around her friend since they arrived. The view was gorgeous, but the wind was brutal. Emma had to hold down her skirt with one hand her beach hat with the other.

They had just eaten dinner at a Colombian restaurant, which had been surprisingly hard to find in Old City. There were burger places, pizza places, and Italian places by the dozen. Killian had led them past all of them and into a tiny place tucked down a side street. Emma had an arepa – a thick, fluffy fried corn cake topped with strips of beef, peppers, onions, and rice, then literally drowned in cheese. Which was fine by Emma – cheese, in her opinion, made everything better. Arepas could be topped with a variety of things, so Henry had ordered one with chicken. The presentation may have been a bit messy, but it had been the best thing Emma had ever put into her mouth.

However, she had refused to even taste the side dish: fried cakes of mashed bananas.

Emma tilted her head back so she could see Killian from under the brim of her hat. “It has to do with a snotty two-year-old who got sick all over me in one of my group homes. I will never forget the smell of banana vomit.”

Killian made a face. “No wonder you won’t eat banana.”

They both laughed. Henry exclaimed over some old canons and ran ahead of them. She had to admit that strolling here with Killian was nice.

“Thanks for helping us order. I didn’t realize how overwhelming it would be to look at a menu and not be able to read any of it.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“Hey, Killian!” Henry shouted. “Did they shoot pirate ships with these canons?”

He ruffled Henry’s hair, and Emma’s breath caught at the sight.

“Perhaps, lad, but I have a feeling they were shooting more at the navies of warring countries. Pirates preferred to attack single ships at sea.”

Henry frowned in obvious disappointment. “That’s not what it shows in the movies.”

“You like pirates?”

“Yeah!”

“Me too. That’s why I’m here in Colombia, actually. It’s part of a bucket list so to speak that my brother Liam and I came up with. We wanted to travel to as many famous pirate ports as we could.”

Emma blinked in surprise, wondering how her son so easily extracted that information from the man when Killian had brushed her off completely the day before.

Henry tilted his head. “So where’s your brother?”

“Unfortunately, he passed before we could finish our trip.”

Emma’s heart softened at the pain in Killian’s face. Now she understood that promise he had mentioned.

*****************************************************

After that, Killian became a constant presence on their vacation. When they arrived at breakfast each morning in the hotel restaurant, he was already there saving them seats. When they headed out to the beach, Killian had already rented their cabanas for the day. He swam with them, helped them build massive sand castles, and translated flirtatious banter for Ruby and her soccer players. In the evenings when it was cooler, he took them to Old City, which was much larger than Emma had realized that first night.

With Killian as their guide and interpreter, they explored each and every corner of its charming cobblestone streets. Henry was right, it felt like a movie set straight from Pirates of the Caribbean.

Killian was also a huge help to Emma when paying for things. She never seemed to understand how many pesos they were asking her for, and even if she did, the denominations of the bills and coins made no sense to her. On top of that, she never could get the knack of converting the amount to US dollars in her head, so how would she know if she was being ripped off? She felt stupid and vulnerable, which was frightening.

“You’re not stupid, Swan,” Killian told her half a dozen times a day, “it’s just all foreign.”

She was definitely going to have a new understanding for non-English speakers when she got back to the states.

The Old City was also full of street performers. One night, Emma was entranced by a group of dancers. The women wore colorful ruffled blouses and white skirts and danced barefoot to the rhythm of bongo and djembe drums. The men were shirtless and wore white pants. The men and women both shook their hips faster than Emma would have thought possible.

“I bet I can shake my hips like that,” Killian teased, leaning close to whisper in her ear. He was still an impossible flirt. “How about you and I go out there and show them what we’ve got?”

His breath was hot on her neck and sent a shiver down her spine. “Please,” she scoffed, “a stiff Brit like you?”

He chuckled, “And what about your hips, Swan?”

Emma turned to look at him, her gaze lingering for a beat on his lips before locking onto his ocean blue eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

They were so close, their breaths mingled. Killian’s gaze drifted to her lips as he quipped back in a husky voice, “Maybe I would.”

Was Emma swaying towards him or was it the other way around?

“Mom!”

Henry’s voice sent them jumping apart. Emma’s face burned as if she’d been caught at something, but Henry seemed oblivious.

“Can I have some change for the dancers?”

“Um, sure kid,” Emma said. She handed him some, and Henry dashed off to drop them into the hat one of the dancers was holding out.

Killian gave her an awkward smile and scratched behind his ear. “Um, this side of the fort is right by the harbor.”

He gestured with his hand behind her, and Emma turned to see fishing boats and pleasure yachts bobbing nearby.

“My ship is docked there,” Killian continued, “and I thought you and Henry might like to see it?”

“You have a boat?”

“Pirates sail ships, love, not boats.”

Emma tilted her head, giving him a teasing smile. This was the first time he had seemed nervous, and she was reveling in it. “Okay, Captain, lead the way.”

Henry was beside himself with excitement as he raced around Killian’s yacht (because regardless of what Captain Jones said, that’s what it was). Emma leaned over the railing on the top deck, then turned and regarded Killian.

“What are you, Captain Jones? A spy? A con artist? A thief? Because here you are with a yacht, sailing around to tropical ports.” She cocked her head teasingly. “Or are you just a trust fund boy?”

She was relieved when Killian laughed, worried her tone was too bite. He sauntered into her personal space like he so often did, his tongue dragging across his bottom lip (he did that a lot too, she had noticed).

“You can clearly see I am not a boy,” he told her, laughter fading, and voice going husky.

She gripped the railing behind her a bit tighter, her heart pounding in her chest. Just when she thought he might lower his head and kiss her, his posture relaxed, and he leaned against the railing next to her.

“No, Swan,” he explained, tone turning serious, “like you, my brother and I spent most of our youth in foster care. When I was twelve and Liam sixteen, we finally got a foster father who broke through our armor of anger and cynicism. His name was Nemo, or that’s what he went by anyway. He was a retired Naval Admiral. And yes, he was wealthy, but it was his patience and his belief in us that made a difference.” Killian ran a hand along the railing, his gaze introspective. “He took us out on the water all the time.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I supposed it was the only way to force a conversation out of us. There was nowhere to escape.”

A smile broke out on Emma’s face as well. She’d never been that lucky in a foster home, but she could still relate. Mary Margaret had done the same thing to her on that road trip to Vermont.

“The things he taught us through sailing,” Killian continued, “were actually life lessons. With him out on the water, we found purpose and confidence and above all, family.”

“Where is Nemo now?”

“Gone. Just like my brother. He left Liam and I this yacht when he passed. He knew about our dream trip.”

Emma watched him gaze out over the water, his jaw clenching. She reached a hand out tentatively and rested it on his forearm. He smiled at her – and slowed as an invisible cord seemed to draw them nearer to one another.

“Killian!” Henry called out, and once again, they jumped apart, this time both of them chuckling.

They followed the sound of Henry’s voice below deck and into Killian’s quarters. They found Henry standing before a map.

“Have you really sailed to all of these places?”

Killian slapped Henry on the shoulder. “Aye, my boy. Our first stop was here, in Bermuda.”

“Wow,” Henry replied, leaning closer to the map. “I didn’t know it was so much farther north than all these other islands. Did you see the Bermuda triangle?”

“Of course. Liam and I snorkeled right by the Devil’s Head, the rock that some people claim is the tip of the triangle.”

“Awesome!”

Killian winked at Emma over Henry’s head. “Did you know that there are no true natives of Bermuda? The island was settled by the survivors of a shipwreck.”

“Mom, we’ve got to go to Bermuda next!”

“Thanks a lot, Captain,” Emma groaned, “you put ideas in his head. Next thing you know, he’ll want a yacht, too.”

“Come on Emma, take him.” He winked at her. “They’ve got the best rum you’ve ever tasted.”

“You take this pirate thing seriously, don’t you?”

Henry traced marks on the map. “St. Augustine, Florida; New Providence, Bahamas; Tortuga, Haiti; Port Royal, Jamaica . . . how cool! Why are you at the hotel? Why don’t you just sleep on your ship?”

“I did the first week I was here and sailed around the islands, Playa Blanca, San Bernardo . . . but I felt like I was around too many tourists. That’s why I booked a room where you and your mom are. I fell in love with The Old City, and the beach is much less crowded, thank God.”

Henry asked if Killian could show him more about how to sail the yacht, and the two of them headed above deck. Emma approached the map and ran her finger along the dots of all the ports Killian had visited, and she wondered: How many had Liam Jones seen before he died? And what exactly had happened to him?

*****************************************************

The next day, Killian took Emma, Killian, Ruby, and one of the soccer players she had been partying with named Mateo, out on his yacht. Thankfully, Ruby and her boy toy had behaved themselves. Killian took them to one of the islands with the famous white sandy beaches, and Emma found she agreed with Killian. It was too crowded and too touristy. They ended up only staying an hour, then spent the rest of the day sailing along the coast. When they got back to the hotel, they were all deliciously drowsy from the combination of sunshine and ocean air.

Killian walked them to their room, and as soon as Henry disappeared inside, he took Emma’s elbow gently.

“You leave the day after tomorrow, don’t you?”

Emma nodded wordlessly. He was leaning close again, his hand resting on the door frame behind her. Encroaching on her personal space seemed like his favorite past time. The most disturbing part of it was that Emma didn’t mind.

“I’d like to take you out before you go. Do you think Ruby might watch Henry tomorrow night?”

Emma’s pulse quickened. “I . . . I’m not sure. Ruby might want to spend her last night with Mateo or Alejo, or . . . what was the other guy’s name?”

Killian laughed as he ducked his head and scratched behind his ear. “Let me know at breakfast in the morning?”

Emma nodded, still unable to form words as he walked to the elevator.

“What do you mean, you’re not sure?” Ruby screeched in the elevator on their way to breakfast the next morning.

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to babysit your last night here.”

“I don’t need a babysitter!” Henry protested.

“Yes, you do, especially in a foreign country, kid.”

“I will gladly give up my last night with my soccer hunks to get you la -” Ruby cut off just in time, glancing at Henry, “looove, I mean, romance.”

“Yeah Mom, Killian really likes you,” Henry added, to Emma’s complete surprise. He wasn’t usually all that thrilled about the few men she’d been out with.

“But what’s the point? We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“The point is we are on a tropical Colombian vacation and you only live once, Emma,” Ruby answered with a firm nod of her head.

The elevator doors opened and Emma knew that Ruby and Henry were never going to let her get out of this date with Killian.

***************************************************

Emma had no idea why she had bothered spending all that time fixing her hair. She and Killian were strolling along the top of the fort in Old City, and her long blonde hair was whipping around her head. Why hadn’t she thought about the wind?

Killian didn’t seem to notice, however, as they chatted easily. He laughed when Emma spat a strand of hair out of her mouth.

“Ugh,” she grumbled, “I should have just worn it up.”

Killian reached out to tuck it behind her ear, sending a tingle straight down her earlobe and all the way down to her toes.

“We could get you a hat.”

Emma waved him off. If she had learned anything the past seven days, it was that Killian was much too generous with both her and Henry. “It’s fine.”

They settled down in one of the crenels of the fort wall. They seemed to be popular make out spots Emma had noticed, and she tried to tamp down the blush that threatened to rise to her cheeks as she thought about it. She pulled up her knees and looked out at the water.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Killian tilted his head, “I suppose so.”

“What happened to your brother?”

Killian was silent for a long moment. So long, she worried that he wouldn’t answer. Finally, he began to speak in a voice thick with emotion.

“When we got the yacht, we started planning this trip, but it was still sort of an abstract idea. Then Liam got the diagnosis.”

He stopped and rubbed at his eyes. Emma laid a hand reassuringly on his knee.

“Liam had been having joint pain for a while. One of his knees, an elbow, his neck. He thought they were from working out at the gym until the pain got so bad it kept him up all night. It was bone cancer and by the time it was diagnosed, it had spread through his whole body.”

“I’m so sorry, Killian.” She knew what it was to be alone, but to have family – such a small one – and then lose it all? She couldn’t imagine.

“They told us they could try chemo or radiation, but all it would do was buy him a few more months. Liam decided he would rather spend his last days on the water, on our dream trip, then suffering in the hospital.”

“How many of the ports did he make it to?” Emma asked gently.

“Only three. We started small, stopping at Clew Bay in Ireland before heading out into the Atlantic. He died in an emergency room in St. Augustine, Florida.”

Killian sniffed and ducked his head as he wiped at his tears. “He made me promise to finish the trip.”

“How many more ports do you have to go?”

Killian ran a hand down his face wearily. “None that we had planned. We talked about sailing along the Barbary Coast before heading home, but . . . “ he caught Emma’s gaze, “honestly? Until I met you and Henry, my travels have felt mostly empty.”

*********************************************************

They headed down to the streets of Old City, and Emma was still battling the wind. Killian pulled her to a street vendor who had floppy straw hats piled up for sale.

“Come on, Emma, let me buy you one.”

She was about to refuse when she spotted a beautiful, wide straw hat with a satiny rose-colored ribbon around the brim. She picked it up.

“You like that one?” Killian asked with a grin.

Emma plopped it on her head. “I don’t know. Is it too big?”

Killian’s blue eyes sparkled. “No. You look beautiful.”

Emma blushed. Killian already had his wallet out, bartering with the merchant in rapid Spanish. He handed over some pesos as he winked at Emma. A gust of wind blew past, and the hat went flying off her head. She snatched it right before it hit the ground.

“You need to use the strap, love, in this wind,” he admonished lightly, pulling the elastic under her chin. His fingers traced along her jaw as he did so, and the air felt thicker than it had before.

“See? Beautiful,” he whispered.

*******************************************************

Killian took Emma to a fancy Italian restaurant that had seating outside in one of the large courtyards of Old City. Emma’s shrimp pasta was delicious, and she continued to be amazed at how comfortable she felt talking and laughing with Killian over their meal.

Street performers circulated the courtyard; guitar players, percussionists, even a man blowing enormous bubbles to entertain the children. An older man with a guitar and a black curled mustache approached their table. He rattled off a question in Spanish. The only word Emma caught and understood was “amor.” Killian blushed – an adorable look on him actually – and said, “No, gracias.”

The man wouldn’t take no for an answer, however, and started serenading them. That alone had Emma blushing in mortification as everyone in the courtyard turned to look, but her embarrassment increased tenfold as the man began to sing – in English.

“Kiss me, my darling. Kiss me, my love. Our love overwhelms me. Kiss me with passion, my beautiful one.”

Killian caught her eye, and they both started laughing nervously. The tips of Killian’s ears were bright red, and Emma thought he had never seemed more irresistible.

Emma wasn’t sure if those were the only words to the song, or if they were the only words the man knew in English. At any rate, he sang the same words through three times. By then, Emma and Killian were both ducking their heads with their hands to their foreheads. Everyone else in the courtyard, on the other hand, had begun to pick up a chant: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Emma looked up and held Killian’s gaze, her face burning like it never had before. His lips quirked up in a half smile as he shrugged. Emma bit her lip and shrugged back. Killian’s half smile turned to a full-on grin. As the chanting grew louder, he leaned forward, and Emma leaned in to meet him. His lips met hers as cheers and hoots filled the courtyard. He kept it chaste, yet Emma head still spun at the feel of his lips soft against hers, his scruff rough against her chin. When he pulled away, the crowd clapped. He gave the guitarist a few coins, and the man said, “gracias,” before moving away.

All Emma could think was that if a simple kiss from Killian was that good, she couldn’t wait to get him alone.

*****************************************************

On the walk home, Killian took Emma’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Such a simple gesture, but it warmed her all over. They entered the hotel, and Emma slipped off her new hat, holding it by the strap. She swung it by her side as they waited for the elevator. She and Killian had gone quiet, and they kept cutting glances at each other. The elevator dinged, and Emma was thrilled to find it empty. They stood quietly side by side, but as soon as the doors shut, Emma turned and grabbed Killian by the lapels of his shirt. Her hat fell soundlessly to the elevator floor. When she crashed her lips into his, he responded immediately, burying one hand in her hair. She let go of his shirt as she tilted her head so she could finally run her fingers through his hair, something she had longed to do since that first day on the beach. Both their mouths were open and hungry, their tongues tangling, and Emma was on fire.

Killian tightened his arm around her waist to pull her flush against him, and his hand slid from her hair to caress her jaw, then her neck. As his hand explored her collar bone, she broke their kiss with a gasp and tilted her head back. Killian’s teeth dragged across her neck, his hand cupping one of her breasts.

“Emma,” he breathed against her skin, “are you wearing a bra?”

“No,” she gasped.

“You minx,” he growled.

Actually, she wasn’t wearing a bra for practical reasons. Her dress was a halter and she despised strapless bras with every fiber of her being. But if Killian wanted to believe she did it to tease him, then she wasn’t about to correct him.

The elevator opened with a ding to a blessedly empty hallway. Emma saw that they weren’t on the 22nd floor where her room was, but the 24th where Killian was staying. She hadn’t even noticed him hitting the button.

They didn’t stop their explorations of one another as they stumbled off the elevator. Killian pressed her against the nearest wall, but then he pulled back, resting his palms on the wall behind her.

“I didn’t mean to presume,” he told her, lust darkening his eyes. “Will you stay the night with me, Emma?”

She wanted to answer him with a searing kiss and wandering hands. God, every fiber of her being pulsed with need for him. But then she thought about doing the walk of shame back to the tiny room she was sharing with Henry. He was an inquisitive kid, and the only answers she’d be able to give would be lies. One thing she tried never to do was lie to her kid.

“I can’t,” she told Killian, trying to infuse her deep regret into her words, “Henry.”

He nodded, cupped her face, and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“I understand. Let me walk you back to your room.”

They turned back to the elevator. The hat he’d bought her was still lying on the floor.

*********************************************************

The flight was early in the morning, so they had to get a taxi at five a.m. When Killian had asked when they were leaving, she had lied and told him after lunch. Part of her felt bad about that, but she didn’t regret the lie. It would be easier this way.

So she was completely shocked when she heard a British accent shout “Swan!” just before she climbed into the taxi with Henry and Ruby.

“Killian! How did you -”

“Open book, remember?” he told her with a smile. “I texted Ruby last night after I left you at your door.”

Emma turned and glared at her friend, who looked way too smug.

“Killian!” Henry exclaimed, leaning out the door. “I knew you wouldn’t miss telling us goodbye.”

“Of course not, lad,” Killian replied, giving Henry a fist bump. Then he turned to Emma hesitantly, scratching behind his ear. “May I speak to you privately?”

Emma felt slight panic well up in her. “Our flight . . . “

“It will only take a minute.”

In the end, she couldn’t say no to those pleading blue eyes. She let him guide her gently a few steps away from the taxi.

“I realize you’ve only known me for a week,” he told her earnestly, “but I swear it feels like I’ve known you forever. I wasn’t sure if I could ever feel alive again after losing what little family I’ve ever had. Until I met you.”

Sadness filled Emma’s heart. “Please don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I when it’s true?” he replied gently, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“Because it only makes it harder to say goodbye.”

“It doesn’t have to be goodbye forever.”

“Yes it does. I’m American, you’re British. There’s an ocean between us.”

He took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “The world’s smaller than it used to be. I have your number already. We can make it work.”

“It would never last, Killian. This has to be goodbye.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his chastely. “I’ll never forget you.”

He smiled sadly. “And I’ll think of you always, Emma Swan.”

When Emma turned to get in the taxi, she forced herself not to look back.

**************************************************

Emma wasn’t sure if post-vacation depression was a thing, but if there was, she had it. Getting back into the routine of work and Henry’s school after eight days of leisure was tough. Then there was the realization that the trip she had planned for so long was over.

And then there was Killian. She felt like the memory of him - his eyes, his smile, his kisses – were always at the back of her mind. Tender words he had spoken to her and things they had shared were replayed over and over again. Sometimes Henry caught her daydreaming like a teenager. Killian was in her dreams when she fell asleep, too, and it was always the same dream – a replay of the end of their date. Only this time, she stayed the night and her dreams vividly tortured her with what she had missed.

They had been home for three agonizing weeks when they heard a knock at the door just as they were sitting down to breakfast. Henry looked at her in confusion.

“Are we expecting someone?”

“No,” she told Henry, holding up a hand, “stay here while I check it out.”

The last person she expected to find on the other side was Killian Jones, yet there he was, in all his handsome glory.

“Swan!” he exclaimed. “At last!”

As he surged forward to kiss her, Emma vaguely thought about her bed head, her baggy PJs, and her morning breath. But the feel of his lips against hers was so heavenly, she just melted into his kiss.

“What?” she gasped when the kiss ended. “How are you here?”

She held tight to the lapels of his jacket as if he might disappear at any moment.

“I’ve been miserable every day since we parted, so I decided to do something about it.”

“What about your promise to Liam? What about the Barbary Coast?”

He grinned at her, his thumb dragging over her lower lip. “Boston has a harbor last time I checked. As a matter of fact, my ship’s docked there now.”

“I don’t think pirates in the same breath as Boston.”

Killian’s hands were distracting her as they cupped her face, his thumb drawing circles on her cheeks.

“Emma, don’t you know what pirates search for?”

“Treasure?” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed. “And I’ve found mine.”

There were a million logistical questions she could have asked in that moment, but not a single one entered her mind. Instead, she laughed as Killian hoisted her up in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she kissed him and knew that going their separate ways was never an option.

[catalinda04]

Carried Away Chapter 52: On Tour

Masterlist

“Does everyone have their passports? Does everyone have their money? Good, then give mom and dad a hug, and let’s get on the move!” Lucy looked over her group of 22 students and two chaperones accompanying her to Europe. The students dispersed to find their parents and give them one last hug before their bus left the school parking lot for the airport. Lucy’s mom, Marie, and Emma were the two chaperones. John Claussen hugged his daughter tight, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before turning to his wife.

Looking around Lucy noted several tearful parents, and more than one tearful student waving goodbye to each other as they boarded the bus. The students were all excited for all the sights they would get to see, the parents were fearful to send their babies out into the world. Lucy felt an even mixture of nerves, excitement, and calm. The students had been raising money for this trip for two years, and it was finally here. She was getting to show her students a couple of her favorite cities in the world, and of course, Henry would be waiting for her in Madrid.

On the bus to the airport, Lucy talked strategy with Emma and Marie, assigned duty days, and talked group dynamics. Each chaperone was assigned a “team” of travelers. Lucy had hand picked her team of her favorite students, mostly consisting of her drama students.

“And Henry is joining us in Madrid?” Marie asked.

“Yes. His premier is the first night we’re in Madrid, then, hopefully, he’ll join us for the next day when we head out to Toledo.”

“Are you going to this premiere too?” Marie asked her daughter.

“No. I can’t leave the group. These parents have entrusted their kids to me. I can’t just go off for the evening and party. Plus I don’t have anything to wear. Can you imagine what a dress would look like by the time we’ve switched hotels three times?”

“I’m sure Emma and I could handle them for one evening.” Marie insisted.

“I don’t doubt that you could, but when push comes to shove, if anything happens, it’s my butt on the line.” Lucy explained.

“You, my dear, are much too cautious.”

“That’s not what you said last year when I said I was going to Europe for six weeks,” she reminded her mother.

“It comes and goes.” Marie laughed.

When Lucy and the group were checked in at the airport and had found their gate, Lucy released them to find lunch. “Stay in groups of 3 or more, don’t go out of security, and be back here by 1:30.” Lucy told the group before sending them off. She turned to Emma and Marie, “lunch?” She asked, and the two women nodded in agreement. They finally settled on a food court lunch, and went their separate ways before coming back to share a table. While Emma and Marie ate at a normal speed, Lucy sped through her meal.

“Hungry?” Emma asked laughing.

“No, I told Henry I’d call before we boarded. Then if we have enough time in Amsterdam, I’m going to call him after we land.” Lucy said. Emma gagged.

“Very funny. Do I need to remind you what you were like last Spring? And I haven’t seen him in almost a month.”

“Why didn’t he come after the Asia leg of the press tour?” Marie asked.

“I told him not to. Between the end of the year and last minute prep for the trip, I didn’t need the distraction. I mean we’ve talked almost every day, but it’s not the same.”

“Go. Talk to your ridiculously good looking, British boyfriend. We’ll see you at the gate.” Emma laughed, shooing her friend away.

Lucy found a quiet corner near their gate and called Henry. Lucy could hear the smile in his voice as he answered the call. After sharing their I miss yous and can’t wait to see yous, Lucy commented, “Emma says we’re nauseating. I told her to shut her trap.” Lucy laughed.

“Well done. I’m counting the days until I can see you again.” Henry said, making Lucy swoon.

“Me too. I’m torn. I don’t want the trip to go too fast, we’ve all been looking forward to this for two years, but I want to be in Madrid already so I can see you. I probably won’t be able to call much before Madrid. Internet is usually spotty at the hotels they book us in, and we’re so tired at the end of the day of touring anyway that all we want to do is shower off the day, and sleep. But I’ll be able to check my texts.”

“Remind me what your itinerary is again.” Henry said, loving how excited Lucy was when she talked about all the activities they had packed into very few days. Eventually the time came for the call to disconnect, the travelers were starting to congregate at the gate, and boarding would begin soon.

“Darcy, I have to go. I love you! And I’ll see you in 9 days. If I can call from Amsterdam, I will, but I also promised Sarah that I’d call her, since we’ll be so close.”

“Well, Cupcake, if I hear from you, I will, and if not, have a phenomenal time, and I will see you in 9 days. Madrid or bust.”

“I love you, Henry.” Lucy said thickly, her eyes watering slightly.

“I love you too, Lucy.” Henry said wistfully.

Lucy wiped her eyes and rejoined her group. They were allowed priority board because of the size of their group. Lucy settled into her cramped seat near the back of the plane, an aisle on her right side, her mother on her left. “I miss flying with Henry.” Lucy grumbled.

“Well, you’re stuck back here with us commoners for this trip. When you fly back to London, you can fly in luxury, until then I don’t want to hear it. You at least have an aisle.” Said her mother from the middle seat.

The flight passed uneventfully, and the group landed in Amsterdam, for a layover of a few hours before flying to Milan to start their tour. Lucy guided the tired teens through customs and they all found their gate. Lucy gave the same instructions as in Minneapolis. The travelers all looked exhausted, and went in search of coffee. Lucy attempted a call to Henry, but his phone went to voicemail. Lucy was disappointed but tried not to let her emotions take over. She was jet lagged and had to be on her game for the kids. She called Sarah, who did answer. They had a brief conversation, mostly about the upcoming trip, and the flight they had just finished. She was smiling by the time she disconnected the call with her friend. The kids were starting to migrate back to their gate. Most looking slightly more awake, and clutching shopping bags from airport stores.

Most of the group, including Lucy slept on the short flight from Amsterdam to Milan. Lucy led the tired but excited group through customs and baggage claim. Finally they met their tour director, Giuseppe, a handsome Italian man with gorgeous olive toned skin, and dark hair. “He’ll be popular with the girls.” Lucy thought as she introduced herself to him. He led the group to a waiting bus to take them to the Cinque Terre.

Once Lucy was sure her kids had what they needed, she approached Giuseppe. She had exchanged several emails with him before the tour, but now that the tour had started, she wanted to reconfirm that Henry would be welcome to join the group in Madrid.

“Ciao, Giuseppe.” Lucy said, taking a place in the seat next to the man.

“Ciao, Lucia. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to remind you that my boyfriend will be meeting us in Madrid, and will probably be coming with us to Toledo.”

“Yes, I remember, thank you for reminding me. Will he be joining us for any meals?”

“I don’t know. I’ll text him when I have WiFi. When do you need to know?”

“The day before is fine. But while I have have you up here, we have some things to take care of,” he said pulling a binder from his bag. He and Lucy arranged the students room assignments and talked about any food allergies the group had. Eventually the group arrived at their hotel in time to check in and explore the city for an hour or so before dinner.

Lucy looked around at her students, most looked like they would fall asleep in their pesto. Lucy felt the same. After their dinner, Lucy called a group meeting where she went over the following day’s itinerary, and scheduled curfew time. None of the students complained about the 9:00 curfew she set, they all went straight to their rooms for a decent night’s sleep.

The morning arrived bright and beautiful. The warm Italian air blew through the open window of her hotel room as Lucy readied herself for the first day of actual touring. She met all of the travelers in the hotel’s restaurant area for breakfast, and reminded them to pack or wear their swimsuits.

With more than a little confusion, the group managed to board their bus to the train station, then the train that would take them into the Cinque Terre. They arrived to the first of the five little villages around mid morning. The sign at the train station read, Riomaggiore. There were several people on the platform waiting to catch the train to the next village. Lucy instructed her travelers to disembark and stand clear of the other passengers until the train had departed.

Lucy was doing a quick head count of her team when she heard a voice ask her, “Mi scusi, Signorina. Dov’è it porto?”

Lucy finished her count, and turned toward the voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak ital...HENRY!” She exclaimed, recognizing the handsome man in the tank top, cargo shorts, and baseball cap. She ran to him, jumping to wrap her legs around his waist as her arms encircled his neck. She pressed her lips to his in a kiss that felt like coming home.

“Lucia? Scusami, but we’re going this way.” Lucy heard Giuseppe say behind her. Lucy jumped apart from Henry.

“Sorry, Giuseppe. This is my boyfriend Henry. Henry this is Giuseppe our tour director.” Lucy said, making introductions. The two men shook hands.

“I thought he was not joining us until Madrid.” Giuseppe said to Lucy.

“Oh, I’m just here for the day,” Henry explained. “I have to be in Rome for work in two days, so I thought I would pop in to see my girl.”

“Well, benvenuto in Italia.” Giuseppe greeted, “We’re all going this way.” He indicated behind him, out of the station. Lucy took Henry’s hand and they followed the group off the platform. Giuseppe led the group through the tunnel into the city, and gave directions to different sights, as well as the meeting time to go to the next village.

Lucy called her group around. “Ok guys. You heard Giuseppe. I want to to either be with an adult, or in groups of 3 or more. Be back here,” she pointed to the spot they were standing on, “by 11:20. That’s 10 minutes before Giuseppe’s time. Remember, groups of 3 or more, or with an adult, watch your belongings, and have some fun. You are excused.” Lucy said, sending the kids off. Most stayed for another minute to say hello to Henry, before they took off. Lucy turned to Emma and Marie. “Look what I found!” she pointed to Henry.

“It’s nice to see you again Henry.” Marie said, pulling the tall man in for a hug. This was the first time she had seen him since the breakup.

“Marie, it’s lovely to see you again. How are you?” Henry asked, returning the hug.

“Well, I’m in Italy, so I can’t complain,” she joked.

“Emma, lovely to see you again as well.” He hugged Lucy’s friend.

“Sure, first you take away my prom date, now you take away my travel companion. So rude,” Emma joked.

“Only for today. I’m on my way to Rome for some press obligations. I thought it would be fun to surprise everyone.” He explained wrapping his arm around Lucy’s shoulders. Lucy leaned into his side, smiling like a fool.

“Should we go explore?” Lucy asked the group, and the four set off up the hill through the town. They passed several groups of students.

“Really guys? Gelato at,” she checked her watch, “10:15 in the morning?”

“We’re on vacation,” was their response.

“Fair enough. But make sure you’re drinking water too!” She called to them as they walked on.

The four adults wandered the streets of the little village, popping into shops as they felt like it. Emma and Marie either hung back from the couple, or walked ahead, to give them some space.

At the appointed time, Lucy was pleased to see all of her students gathered on time. They boarded the train to the next village. Manarola, the sign for this village read. Lucy gave the students their gathering time, and let them roam freely. Lucy, Henry, Marie, and Emma found a cafe, and claimed a table. Emma and Henry ordered coffee, while Marie and Lucy ordered ice water. The day had turned quite warm. Henry kept the women entertained with stories from the press tour, most of which Lucy had already heard, but was happy to listen to again, simple because Henry was there in person telling the story.

The four wandered the city, making their way to waterfront, where a group of the students had found a rock and were jumping off of it, into the Mediterranean. Lucy laughed, took pictures, and warned them to be careful.

The group made their way to the last of the villages they would be visiting. Monterroso al Mare. Giuseppe told them they would have the most time here. They would meet back at the train station at 6:00 to go back to their hotel for the evening. Lucy organized her travelers, helping them find places to get lunch. Henry joined Lucy, Emma, Marie and six travelers at a long table at a quaint cafe. Lucy answered questions about Italian cuisine, proud that the students would expand their horizons.

When everyone had finished their meals, Lucy asked their server for their checks. The server informed Lucy the bill had been taken care of by the gentleman at the end of the table, and nodded in Henry’s direction. Lucy gave him a look that said, thank you, and you shouldn’t have done that.

“Chicos and chicas, I think you all owe a very large grazie, to Henry. He paid for everyone’s lunch today.” she told the kids. Their eyes went wide, and a couple of the girls stood to give Henry a hug in thanks.

“Mom, Emma, I think Henry and I are going to wander by ourselves for a bit. We’ll meet you at the gelato stand by the train station in, say, two hours?”

“I wondered when you would cast us off. See you then.” Emma said, waving.

Henry and Lucy walked back to the beach. Henry claimed them a couple of beach chairs, and they sat in the shade, soaking in each others presence. Hey took off their shoes and walked down the beach, playing in the gentle waves rolling up on the sand. Then it happened. A girl approached Henry. He had been recognized. Lucy stood off to the side while Henry signed autographs and she volunteered to take pictures. Lucy wasn’t sure how long the picture session went on, but she looked at her watch, and caught Henry’s attention, pointing at her wrist, indicating it was time to go. Henry excused himself politely, took Lucy’s hand and together they walked toward the gelato stand. Lucy looked behind her to see more than one camera phone being pointed in their direction.

“Sorry about that darling.” Henry apologized.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I know that being with you in public carries the risk of attention. It’s just part and parcel of being with you.”

Henry kissed her temple, “Well thank you for tolerating it, Cupcake.”

“I tolerate it because I love you, Darcy.” Lucy replied kissing the underside of his jaw.

Lucy and Henry said goodbye at the train station. Lucy knew the entire bus of travelers was watching them, but she didn’t care. She kissed Henry deeply, and left him with a promise to see him in a week. Henry stood waving as the bus pulled away, and Lucy steadfastly didn’t meet the gazes of the other Tour Leaders on the bus. She assumed she’d probably get some questions from them at the leader’s meeting that night, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

Lucy stared out the window of the bus, when a voice drifted back to her. One of the students from one of the other groups was talking to his Tour Leader. “Superman was here today! I got my picture with him! Check it out!” The boy of about 15 showed his phone to his teacher. She looked at the screen, then back at Lucy. Yes, a lot of questions. Lucy thought to herself.

The rest of the trip passed quickly. Lucy managed to not lose any of her students, and to her knowledge none of them had snuck out at night. On the high-speed train from Barcelona to Madrid, Lucy looked the picture of impatience. Her fingers drummed on the armrest of her seat, she checked her watch, and the estimated arrival time.

“Honey, you need to calm down. You’re doing to give yourself an aneurysm. Settle down. The train will get to the station on time, and Henry will probably be waiting for you at the hotel, just like you arranged. But you need to stop that drumming before I break all of your fingers.” Marie said, putting her hand over her daughter’s.

“Sorry mom. I don’t know why I’m so anxious. I just saw him a week ago!”

“I believe they call it love honey.” Marie laughed, and Lucy managed to settle herself.

The train stopped at Atocha station, in the center of the city. Lucy and the group collected their luggage and began the trek to their hotel, which was just a few blocks from the station. Lucy, who had been at the back of the pack for most of the tour, lead the pack to the hotel. Henry was indeed waiting in the lobby. Lucy flung herself into his arms, ecstatic to see him again, then quickly separated from him. She had told her travelers that everything was hotter in Madrid, and she was right. She was a sweaty mess, just from the three block walk from the train station.

“Darling, I can’t stay. I have to get back to the press. But I will see you later. Leave your phone on, and I can call you when I’m done.” Henry said, kissing Lucy’s forehead before exiting the hotel as the last of the group arrived. Lucy didn’t see the wink exchanged by Marie and Henry.

The group deposited their luggage in their assigned rooms quickly, before heading right back out for lunch and a visit to the Prado museum. After spending their allotted two hours at the Prado, the group returned to the hotel to freshen-up for their evening tour in the Puerta del Sol and dinner nearby. Lucy unlocked the room she was sharing with her mother, and saw a garment bag hanging on the bathroom door that hadn’t been there when she left earlier. There was a note attached to the bag.

Cupcake -

I’ve worked out everything with your mother. Put on the dress, and make yourself look as beautiful as I think you are. A car will be around to collect you at 5:00.

Darcy

Lucy turned to her mother, who was smirking. “Mom, I told you. I can’t just leave the group. I’m responsible for them!”

     Marie walked to her daughter, and put her hand on her shoulders. “Dear, nothing is going to happen. Emma and I have this. Go have fun. We’re doing a walking tour and dinner, nothing bad is going to happen. Now, you had better start getting ready, you only have about 90 minutes.”

It was close, but with the help of Emma, Marie, and couple of the girls, Lucy was just being zipped into the dress Henry had procured for her, when the front desk called, telling her the car was waiting.

Marie surveyed her daughter. The dress was simple, but beautiful. The fabric was light and airy, which was a godsend in the hot Madrid atmosphere. The gorgeous sapphire blue material dipped into a V at Lucy’s neck. It flowed away from her waist gently down to her knee in the front, while the back had a slight train. The dress billowed whenever Lucy took a step, creating a dramatic silhouette. She looked beautiful. Henry had even thought to supply shoes for her. The simple white strappy sandals showcased the tan Lucy had acquired in the past week. One of the girls styled Lucy’s hair in a sideways braid, ending in curls. Paired with the dress, Marie barely recognized her daughter.

“Mom, here’s my phone. Call Henry’s number if there’s an emergency, and I will call you when we’re done at the premiere.” Lucy said, giving her mother a hug before rushing out the door and down to the waiting car.

Lucy found a driver waiting for her in the lobby. He escorted her out to the waiting car and opened the door for her. He navigated the Madrid city traffic with ease, and pulled up to a plaza near the Plaza Mayor. The driver came around to open the door for Lucy. She exited the car, and easily found the entrance to the red carpet. She showed the pass Henry had included in his note, and gave her name. She was led to a waiting area, but was not left waiting long, before Henry arrived, looking stunning in a cream colored suit with a shirt almost the same color as her dress.

“You came!” He yelled as he saw her, pulling her close carefully.

“I wasn’t really given much choice.” She gave him one of her teacher looks. “You colluded with my mother.”

“Are you terribly upset?” He asked, hoping he wasn’t in serious trouble.

“No. I wanted to come, but if anything happens, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair enough.” he agreed with a grin.

As they walked the red carpet, Lucy thought about how she’d gotten to this point. How she was now going to be in a newspaper in a third country. She, who normally tried to make sure there were as few pictures of her out in the public as possible, was now attending her second movie premiere at the arm of the lead actor.   

When the interviewers asked Henry about her and they discovered she was a Spanish teacher, they asked her to come forward as well. She begged off in the best Spanish she could muster in the situation. Her nerves had all but pushed all of her Spanish knowledge out of her brain. It took all she had to remember, “No gracias, este es la noche de mi novio. Lo siento. (No thank you. This is my boyfriend’s night.I’m sorry.) But she did notice an increase in the number of flashes after her profession was announced. “Aye dios mio.” she thought to herself.

Chapter 51           Chapter 53

Riomaggiore

Manarola

Monterroso Al Mare

Lucy’s Premiere Dress

[letterfromtrenwith]

Prescription Passion - Ch.1

My cheesily titled but I hope not cheesily written Carolight hospital AU :D

Dr Dwight Enys, coming home from several years abroad, takes a job in the A&£ dept of St Neot's hospital in Truro, not intending to be completely knocked for six by meeting a certain lovely dermatologist - Dr Caroline Penvenen.

Posting the first ch. for Carolight Week. 

~

Maternity Ward

“How in the Hell – “ Dwight glared at the blue plastic sign above the double swing doors, as if staring at it hard enough might change it into something that made sense. While he’d admittedly only been working here a week, he couldn’t fathom how anybody found their way around this hospital. It was like a bloody labyrinth. Although that was all relative considering that the last hospital he’d worked in had essentially been three wooden huts stuck together. The St. Neot’s Infirmary was something else altogether.

Technically, his shift was over for today, but since the A&E dept. was currently running a little understaffed he was still on call until late that evening, before having 48 hours off. He had been planning on going home, since his flat wasn’t too far way to make getting back in an emergency unworkable, and he still had some serious unpacking to do. However, what he’d intended to be a quick trip to the HR department to swap his temporary staff card for a permanent one – hideous passport photo and all – had turned into a trip down the rabbit hole.

Blessedly, he knew someone in the maternity unit who would be able to give him directions. Verity Poldark was a senior midwife at St Neot’s, and had been the one to suggest Dwight apply for a job there. He’d met her when he was at medical school with her cousin, Ross, and she’d been a trainee at the university’s teaching hospital.

Verity was standing at the nurse’s station when he went in, looking harassed, her hair coming loose from its pins. It didn’t really look like the time to bother her – maybe he could ask someone else – but she managed a smile when she saw him.

“Hi, Dwight. What brings you here?”

“Being horribly lost, I’m afraid. I was going to ask if you could show me the way but I’ve obviously caught you at a busy time.” The whiteboard behind the desk showed that four o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday was apparently a popular time to be in labour.

“No, it’s – “ Before Verity could finish her sentence, the doors swung open again behind Dwight, and Verity looked behind him, breaking into a much wider smile of what seemed like relief.

“George! Thank God!” Dwight turned to find that George was a fair-haired man of about the same age as him.

“Somebody call for an anaesthetist?”

“GET ME THE FUCKING DRUGS!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” George passed by Dwight without a second glance, heading into the room where the shout had emanated from. Verity made to follow him, but stopped.

“Are you doing anything at the minute, Dwight?”

“Er, no, not really.”

“Want to come and help deliver a very angry lady’s twins?” Dwight thought for a minute; about the pile of boxes he had to unpack and the papers from his aunt’s solicitor he still had to read.

“You know, I would.” 

~

Dwight suppressed a yawn as he signed off on yet another patient form – a 14 year old boy who’d suffered an asthma attack during a PE lesson; he would fine, but Dwight had strongly advised him that it probably wasn’t the best idea to leave his inhaler on his bedside table when he was going to be playing rugby.

This morning had been a complete whirlwind. Five minutes after he’d clocked on, four victims of a car accident had been rushed in, all of whom needed stabilising before surgery; and then an 89-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s who was incredibly distressed after a fall at her care home; two workmen who’d sustained mild burns after a piece of equipment had caught fire. On and on and on they’d come. Friday was often a busy day in A & E – no Saturday night, but it could get chaotic. Just before the 14 year old boy, Dwight had seen a time of death pronounced on an overdose case, so he wasn’t feeling his best.

His 48 hours off hadn’t given him much rest, in the end, although he had collapsed face down on his bed first thing on Wednesday morning after Mrs Teague’s 12 hour-labour, which had ended in the arrival of boy and girl twins, seemingly hale and hearty.

Unlike most of the British hospitals Dwight had worked in, St Neot’s actually had a pretty decent canteen, and he thought a ham salad baguette and packet of posh crisps would hit the spot.

“Dwight! Over here!” Verity waved at him from the corner, and he weaved his way between tables occupied by a mix of uniform clad nurses, doctors in scrubs and patients with dressing gowns over their hospital nighties – the odd one with a drip. He hoped none of them were skipping out on ‘nil by mouth’ orders.

“Hi, Verity. Hello.” Verity was sitting with George, the anaesthetist from Tuesday night, and another woman who’d also been at the delivery. In the chaos, Dwight had never got her name, but he’d gathered she was the on-call obstetrician. She was very pretty, with short, dark brown hair and soft features; her smile was wide and friendly, her eyes warm. Dwight could imagine her being a soothing presence for nervous mothers-to-be. Today, she’d swapped her scrubs for a smart sleeveless blouse, her glasses tucked into the neck.

“Didn’t get a chance to introduce you all properly the other night.” Verity smiled. “Dr Dwight Enys, this is Dr George Warleggan and Dr Elizabeth Warleggan.”

“I assume that’s not a coincidence?” Dwight sat, putting down his tray to exchange handshakes with the other two, who smiled at each other in a way which made their connection rather obvious.

“No. They’re our resident lovebirds.” Verity grinned and Elizabeth shook her head.

“Thank you for your help the other night, by the way.”

“How is Mrs Teague? And the babies?”

“Mmm,” Elizabeth took a pull on the straw of her drink. “All well. They were discharged yesterday – we kept the twins for observation since they both had low blood pressure, but they were right as rain after 24 hours or so.”

“Mrs Teague seemed very…overwhelmed by the experience.”

“Ha! I’ll say.” Verity shook her head. “It takes women lots of ways but, Ruth…”

“All that screaming…” Elizabeth sighed. “And for such a straightforward delivery, especially for twins. I blame TV, you know. People see all those histrionics and they think that’s how it should be.”

“Says the woman who gave me a black eye when she was giving birth!” George cried and Elizabeth gave a dramatic sigh, looking up in an exaggerated appeal to the heavens.

“That was an accident!” She looked at Dwight. “I reached out for his hand during a particularly hard contraction and he happened to be bending forward at the same time…”

“That’s her story!” Dwight laughed. This was obviously a well-worn argument, and he couldn’t help but smile at the obvious affection between the two of them.  He hadn’t got a proper look at George the other night – after administering the epidural he’d only needed to monitor Mrs Teague for a short while before the delivery team could take over, and then he’d been called away for a surgical procedure. Blue-eyed and fine-featured, he certainly made a handsome match with Elizabeth.

“So, how many children do you have?” Dwight asked.

“Two.” Elizabeth picked up her phone, scrolling through before handing it to him. The picture showed an adorable little boy of about three, with dark springy curls, peering curiously at a tiny light-haired baby. “Valentine, he’s nearly four now, and Ursula, she’s just turned one.”

“ – “ They obviously sensed his surprise at the unusual names, and Dwight was briefly afraid he’d offended them, but George smiled.  

“Valentine was born on Valentine’s day, and Ursula was Elizabeth’s great-aunt, she died just before the baby was born. Also, there’s surprisingly little that goes with ‘Warleggan’.”

They chatted more as they ate, Dwight telling them a little about his time with Medicines sans Frontieres – although nothing about why he’d joined the organisation in the first place; even Verity didn’t know the full details there, and he certainly wasn’t ready to talk about it with strangers, even ones as nice as these. He did explain that he’d come home to Cornwall to take care of his Aunt’s estate, and that Verity had persuaded him to join the staff at St Neot’s.

“She’s the best recruiter this place has got!” Elizabeth laughed. “She got her brother here, too. And Demelza!”

Dwight had known Francis for a while, too, although not as well as the other Poldarks – he’d gone to a different uni, and practiced in Scotland for a few years. He was now a consultant ophthalmologist at St.Neot’s – the only one, actually.

“Demelza?” He’d met an awful lot of people since arriving at the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but he couldn’t remember her. He was sure he’d remember someone with such an unusual name.

“One of the hospital pharmacists.” Verity explained. “I met her at a yoga class, and she told me she wanted a change from her old job…”

“I think Dr. Martin said we were short a few A & E nurses if you fancy taking that on?” Verity elbowed him and he laughed. Suddenly, there was a beeping noise, and all four of them rummaged in their pockets.

“It’s me. Emergency surgery. Nice to meet you, Dwight.” With a quick kiss for Elizabeth, George was gone, his wife smiling after him.

“Aww…” Verity cooed.

“Shut up.” Elizabeth said primly, fighting a grin.  

“No, I love it. You give this sad singleton hope for true love.” Verity sighed with exaggerated dreaminess, and Elizabeth snorted. After a moment, Dwight became aware of someone standing behind him, just as Elizabeth smiled widely.

“Caroline! Here, meet the new A & E registrar I told you about. Dwight, this is Dr Caroline Penvenen.” Dwight turned to greet the new arrival, and found himself completely lost for words.

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace

I’m going to regret this, but this is the sequel to Natalie Jones and the Stone Knight.  The Committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril are given their first proper job - looking after a possibly-cursed mummy.  As it turns out, though, the three-thousand-year-old corpse of Princess Sitamun is going to be the least of their problems...

It was a rainy day in September when the committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril met for the second time at Buckingham Palace.

It was a very informal meeting, but then, their first official gathering, two months earlier, had been pretty informal, too.  They were an ad hoc department, with no regalia, no buildings, no documents, and no particular qualifications for membership other than having been at the Battle of the Tower and the Queen liking you.  There’d been some hints that this new meeting would resolve at least some of these deficiencies, but Natasha Romanov – who for the past few years had been calling herself Natalie Jones and saw no reason to stop now – hoped not too many.  The last thing she wanted was to be part of the pomp and bombast of proper British government.

A valet took her car at the end of the Mall, and two guards escorted her through the sea of tourists’ umbrellas and opened the gate for her.  There, she was just in time to meet a second member of the Committee – Dr. Sam Wilson, their medical expert.  He grinned and waved to her.

“Natalie!” he said. ��“How’ve you been?”

“Not bad!”  Nat gave him a quick hug, and then both, with the guards, hurried across the sprawling pavement towards the palace steps.  “I’m still working in the archaeology department at Dundee,” she told him, raising her voice as thunder rumbled overhead.  “I’ve noticed my students are much more polite this year!” Her deeds at the Battle of the Tower, and her past as a Soviet spy, had been international news that summer.

Once on the palace porch the rain could no longer reach them.  Nat took down the hood of her jacket, and Sam pulled his hat off.

“What are you up to?” she asked, as the doormen let them inside.

“I’m working at Raptor Rescue near Eccleshall,” he replied.

“Good for you,” Nat nodded.  “Do the birds complain?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Sam.  “I thought people were whiny, but no – and the bigger the bird, the more of a baby they are.  There was this Golden Eagle, we named her Margo, who swore up and down that she was dying when all she had was an infected talon.  We amputated the toe and gave her some antibiotics, and she’s back in the wild now.”

“That’s wonderful,” Nat said, smiling warmly as she gave her wet jacket to a butler.  She would be the first to admit that her sense of empathy was badly stunted, but even to her there was something heartwarming about Sam not only getting to talk to birds like Sir Sigurd in the fairy tale, but finding a useful application for it.

The butler took their jackets away, and another man in a uniform entered the red-carpeted foyer.  “Sir Samuel? Lady Natalie?” he asked, startling two people who were more used to being addressed as ‘Doctor’.  “Her Majesty is waiting for you.  If you would come with me, please.”

They climbed a flight of stairs with an ornate, scrolling gilded railing, and followed a hallway lined with mirrors and elaborate candelabras.  Halfway down this they stopped outside a set of carved wooden doors, where three more Committee members were waiting.

These were good friends as far as Natasha and Sam were concerned, and there were more hugs and handshakes as everybody exchanged greetings.  Detective Inspector Sharon Carter was still working for the police in Inverness.  Sir Stephen of Rogsey spent most of his time there, too, in order to be close to Sharon while he took online courses to catch up on the science and history he’d missed while being turned to stone for a thousand years.  The third individual with them was a man in his sixties, short and a little overweight, with blue eyes and shaggy graying hair.   He smiled and raised a hand to greet Natasha first.

“Hi, Ginger Snap!” he said.

“Hi, Dad!”  Nat went up to hug him, too – he held her tight, and lifted her slightly off her feet. “Sorry I haven’t been emailing. It’s been very busy since the school year started.”

“I bet it has,” said Allen Jones, setting her down again.  “I hear you’re giving a talk on the Grail legend at Yale next year.”

“Yeah.  Apparently I’m an expert on it now or something.”  Nat rolled her eyes – the real thing had turned out to be very different from the stories.  “I still need to figure out what I’m going to say… I’ll probably do all the research and throw something together the night before.  How’s Blackpool?”  Allen was working there as an electrician.

“Damp,” he said, “but it’s actually nice to be back to work.  Retirement was getting boring.”

Sam looked around at everybody gathered.  Someone was missing.  “Where’s Francis?” he asked.  The sixth member of the Committee was Clint Francis from Barton-in-Fabis in Nottinghamshire, a man who’d briefly believed himself to be Robin Hood.  The delusion hadn’t lasted long, but when he got his memory back he’d been able to retain the legendary outlaw’s skill at archery.

“He texted,” said Sharon.  “Apparently he missed the train he was supposed to take and had to get a cab, so he’ll be here, just late.”

“That sounds about right,” Nat nodded.

“Guess what?”  Sharon looped her arm through Sir Stephen’s and smiled proudly.  “Steve got a job!”

“Good for him!” said Allen.  “What’s he doing?”

“There is a chapel in the city of Inverness with a very fine stained glass window depicting the martyrdom of Saint Andrew the Apostle,” Sir Stephen explained. “The window was damaged by some godless vandals and since I am familiar with the painting of glass, the city has engaged me to repair it, using as much of the original glass as possible and painting the new pieces to match.”

“That’s perfect,” said Nat.  Before the Lady of the Lake had made him a warrior, Sir Stephen had wanted to be a painter.  Restoring medieval windows was ideal, and would keep the restless man from getting bored.

The carved door opened, and two security men in elegantly tailored suits emerged to check everybody’s identification one last time.  Once they were satisfied, the taller one opened the door wide to show them in.  “Right this way,” he said.  “Her Majesty the Queen and his Grace the Earl of Dudley are inside.”

Beyond the doors was an immense drawing room with turquoise rugs, filled with gilded furniture and hung with portraits of people in wigs and fancy coats, many of them larger than life-sized.  General Fury, the recently-created Earl of Dudley, was waiting just inside.  He greeted them with a smile.  Fury was the head of the CAAP, although he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do anything in that capacity and appeared to have hoped he never would.  He had also made it known that he hated the idea of having a title, which was perhaps why he was dressed in his military uniform, with an eyepatch.

“What happened to the glass eye?” asked Sam.

“My granddaughters like the patch better,” Fury replied.  “Apparently it makes me look like a pirate.  It’ll get old eventually and they’ll start to miss me popping the glass eye out and back in again.”

“Down here!” called a voice from the far end of the room.

There, on an elaborately carved and brocaded Louis the Fifteenth sofa with many embroidered cushions, was the Queen of England.  It was only ten AM, but she already had a drink in her hand, and was watching somebody feed pieces of haggis to one of her corgis on the seat beside her. She was dressed in a shade of fuchsia that clashed violently with the turquoise carpeting, and made it difficult to look directly at her.  From what Nat knew of the Queen, she’d done this on purpose.

“Nice to see you all looking well,” said the Queen, as they gathered around her – standing, since even knights and ladies didn’t sit in the presence of the monarch without special permission.  “Sir Stephen, you’re looking as offensively attractive as ever.  Where’s the sixth guy?”

“He missed the train,” said Sam.  “He’s on his way.”

“Figures,” said the Queen.  She tossed back the rest of her drink and held out the glass for one of her servants to refill.  “Well, I’ve a lot to do today.  I’m opening a women’s centre in Vauxhall at lunchtime, and then I’m heading up to Suffolk to look for a stud.”

There was a pause.  The Queen waited for one of them to say something, but nobody dared.

“For my stables,” she finally added, disappointed.  “So let’s get down to business.  I’ve got a surprise for you!  Stop looming over me like bloody Stonehenge and I’ll show you.”

The six present members of the CAAP murmured thanks and arranged themselves on the sofas and ottomans around her.  The corgi regarded them with suspicious eyes, but was soon distracted by the haggis again.

“First of all,” the Queen said, “We got these.  Michaels, come here.”

One of the men in suits – evidently Mr. Michaels – stepped forward to hand out leather-bound booklets the size of passports.  The black covers were undecorated, but when Natasha opened hers she found a photograph of herself with her name and an identification number on one side, and on the other a gold badge with a stylized depiction of the White Tower behind the image of Sir Stephen’s magical shield, with supporters. Instead of the traditional British lion and unicorn, these were a gorilla and a sabre-toothed tiger, two of the sculptures that had come to life in the Tower grounds.  The whole thing was surrounded by a wreath of ivy, and at the bottom was a banner that said Committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril.

“The College of Heralds finally came up with something I didn’t hate,” the Queen said, “so we are pleased to present you with badges.  Museums and archaeological sites across the country and our remaining overseas territories have instructions to let you in if you’ve got one of these.  Promise me you won’t use them to rob anyone.”

“I’ll give Mr. Francis his, if and when he shows up,” said Natasha, taking Clint’s badge too.  She looked over at Allen, who was smiling and shaking his head as he looked at his own. He’d ever imagined he’d have anything like it.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” said Fury formally.  He tucked his into his breast pocket.

“Second,” the Queen went on, “we’ve got your first proper assignment.”

That made everyone look up.  Exactly what the CAAP was supposed to do was a little uncertain.  The Holy Grail and Kracness Circle had been some very perilous archaeology, but nobody was sure what else might be in that category.

“As you may have read in the news,” said the Queen, “the Victoria and Albert is giving the sarcophagus of Princess Sitamun back to Egypt, mummy and all.  It’s some sort of gesture of reconciliation, or something like that, although as I understand it, it was the French who stole the damned thing.  It’s being put on a train next week to go to Cairo, where a Dr. Mostafa will take charge of moving it to their museum.  The folks in charge are a bit worried about the whole affair and have requested that you go along.”

“In case the mummy gets up?” asked Sharon.

“Seems so.”  The Queen shrugged.  “It’s a mummy – there’s probably six different curses on the moldy old bitch and they’re taking no chances.”

Nat looked around at the others.  Babysitting a corpse wasn’t exactly the sort of thing they’d had in mind when they agreed to be a part of this organization, but there were probably far worse things they could have been asked to do.

“So we just drop the mummy off in Egypt and then we come home?” she asked.

“You can sightsee a bit.  I won’t stop you,” said the Queen.  “But that’s all the museum folks want, is you tagging along just in case.”

“We can do that,” Sharon decided.

“Absolutely,” Natasha agreed.

“I always wanted to see the pyramids,” said Allen.

“Wonderful!” said the Queen.  “I’ll let them know and they can give you the departure information.  Now, does anybody want a drink before I run off?”

They turned down alcohol, since it was still early in the morning, but did allow the butler to serve them tea and coffee.  The Queen puttered off with her corgi trotting behind her, but Fury stayed a bit to chat – and ten minutes after her Majesty had left, Clint Francis arrived.  He was soaking wet and carrying a Starbucks cup in one hand, and panting as he was escorted in by two guards who were jogging to keep up with him.

“Hi!” he said cheerfully.  “What did I miss?”

[finnyct90]

Untitled pulp fiction

They were not ready for the blast of tropical heat that greeted them as the French speaking flight attendant opened the door of the battered old Cessna. The bright sun and the dust filtering in, they squinted, grabbed the 2 small duffle bags and filed out on the tarmac. The heat and humidity was overwhelming as they walked into the open, World War II vintage corrugated tin hangar that served as a passenger terminal and immigration office. “Wish we had remembered to get sunglasses” she whispered.

“Passenger Terminal” was a loose term for this place. They threaded their way through the mass of people and he noticed pallets of neatly stacked sacks, coffee maybe? Maybe something else… There were all manner of crude wooden cages and chickens running loose. Stalls of market sellers, calling to the crowd, babies crying, dark young solders standing with soviet era rifles at the doors and the ever present overwhelming “perfume” of the 3rd world tropics.

They crossed the terminal to a counter under a rusting sign hung from chains, “Customs”. The counter was staffed by a grey haired black man in the remnants of what appeared to be a uniform from the British government, from back when they thought they could tame this place. Sweating, partly from the heat and partly from nerves, He hoped that they did not look too conspicuous, wearing clothes more fitting for fall in New England than a vacation to the Caribbean. He glanced over at the woman who also was tightly grabbing the handle of the second bag.   “Just stick with the story” he thought to himself. He could see that she was tired, the last 36 hours beginning to take its toll, little or no sleep between them.

“Captain James”, the customs agent introduced himself with a colonial British accent and looked them both over with a sharp eye. They produced their passports as requested and the captain studied the paperwork as he asked the typical series of questions…”the purpose of your stay”? …Vacation… “How long are you planning to stay?”...oh a week.. Pausing and looking up at them, seeming to study their responses....”and all you have for a week are these two bags?” She had been quiet but at the moment, she turned, smiled at him and with a bit of a laugh said “all we need is our bathing suits”.  Reaching over and squeezing her hand, he hoped it would not be for the last time. After a moment of silence while the captain stared at the couple, he sighed, withdrew a well-worn stamp from the desk drawer and with a flourish, he stamped both passports.  “Welcome, please enjoy your stay.”

Exiting the Terminal, walking out into the bright sunlight, they were met by the clamor of car horns, diesel exhaust and Rasta-rap blaring from a taxi radio.  It took them a minute to acclimate and adjust. They were on a busy commercial strip, signs beckoning for everything from Gold jewelry to Tee Shirts, it was like the entire island population was in search of those tourist dollars. He turned to her, squinting and said, we’ve got to find a place to stay, we need to get some rest…she nodded, still scanning the brightly painted pastel storefronts across the busy street, “look” she said, “take this” handing him an ISLAND LIFE booklet she had grabbed off the newsstand, “take this and get us a table over there, pointing to an open air café, I will meet you there, I have to get some things”. Overcome with exhaustion, it felt good to be given direction, He crossed the street, his hand still holding the small duffle and got a table on the sidewalk under the shade of a faded orange umbrella.

He had finished one Red Stripe while scanning the hotel ads interspersed between articles on scuba expeditions, local history and flashy offshore banking institutions in the ISLAND LIFE.  Tearing a page from the book he was just starting to wonder if she had second thoughts when she appeared, transformed, a blue sundress replaced the jeans and sweater that she had left with, a floppy hat and sunglasses on her head, she grinned as she caught his expression of surprise. He noticed the second duffel was now shoved down into one of those “beach bags” both hands now carrying large shopping bags. “Well, we need to fit in” she leaned over to him as she sat down. He caught a whiff of sweet perfume and for a second he flashed back to that girl he knew those many years ago. “You, you look amazing “was all he could manage before she pushed one of the bags toward him, “I guessed at the sizes” “you need to get out of those clothes” she said nodding at the rest room toward the back of the café.

The neatly dressed waiter returned and she ordered a rum punch and asked for menus, he nodded to another Red Stripe, picked up the shopping bag and headed to the restroom. Digging into the bag, he found a pair of Bermuda shorts, a subdued short sleeve button down, a pair of faux wayfarers and flip flops…OMG, I am Charlie Harper he chucked to himself. Stuffing his “fall in New England” clothes into the shopping bag, he looked into the mirror… ugh, he sighed at the reflection of the man staring back.   “Well, at least the sunglasses hide my baggy eyes”, he ran his fingers through a mess of grey hair, splashed some water on his face and returned back to her.

She was well into the tropical punch as the waiter returned with plates of fresh grouper, lemon slices and plantains.  “Thank You” he said to her over the top of his sunglasses, she laughed, reached over to him, he froze for a brief minute, not knowing how to react,  she leaned in and pulled the sun glasses off, “you left the sticker on” , here she said, handing them back, “now you look like a tourist”.

The Sun had moved in it’s arc just enough to put the sidewalk in shadow as they paid the check. They crossed to opposite side of the street lined with island cabs and were immediately engaged by a young local man leaning on the side of a battered passenger van. “Where you going Mon?” the driver asked.  He pulled the ripped page from his shirt pocket and said “Sapphire Beach resort”, “Can you take us?”. “No Problem Mon, Carleton Jones at your service!” Carleton reached behind him slid the side door open and beckoned them into the worn bench seats and the sticky sweet smell of way too many air fresheners placed about the cabin.  It had been many years since he had been in the Islands but as the van left the small commercial street he could see that not much changes. The van creaked and suffered from a life of potholes and narrow, winding roads. If the van ever did have shocks, they were long worn out, it creaked and pitched almost in time with the ska music playing from the radio. She held tightly to the arm rest and grabbed his knee each time the van would dive around some blind corner with a wall of rock or a cliff within inches of the window.  It takes some time to adjust to “wrong” side of the road traffic.

They were heading for the far end of the island, he thought it would be good to get out of town, away from the airport, away from the noise.  She was staring out the window as drove out of town and the road became less busy and hectic. They passed through the shanty towns and goat farms of the central hills getting glimpses of the blue Caribbean sea in the distance. He was thinking about something she said before they left the airport in Toronto, only a day before but it seemed like ages ago…

Funny thing about an Island, it can be a refuge, protecting those that are there from the outside world or it can hold you captive, stuck, with no means to escape. I think the British first realized it when they decided that Australia was the perfect prison, no way out. Island life is like that, it can look so attractive from the outside, but if you’re trapped, a prisoner of the island, and it can become hell.  His own life was like living on an island in many ways, and this trip, the events of the last couple days, an escape, “a run for it”...only he had never planned for an accomplice.  

He had only met with her to tell her that he was going on a short vacation, he felt that he owed her that, but at some point over coffee that morning, 3 days ago, he spilled the beans… She had that way about her, easy to talk to, interested and interesting to talk with. Time seemed to go by much too fast and at the same time, stand still when he was with her. Sharing his plan with her may have been foolish but to him it seemed so natural and as the story poured out she looked down into her coffee, expressionless. When the coffee was done, they stood, she gave him a hug and wished him good luck, “be careful, take care of yourself”. He was only a few miles down the road when the text message displayed on the phone “Wait for me, I am coming with you”.

[shirleylawson]

Four Days in Dubai

After I unpacked my bag last Wednesday from my London/Brighton trip to see my girl I was told by my darling husband to re pack, as we were off to Dubai the next day. Just got back from 4 days in Dubai, first time in the Middle East and not a social visit so absolutely exhausted. We had to go for us to basically make the final decision on whether or not to sign on the dotted line to transfer there or not (and I had a few wee contacts of my own to see, but keeping quiet about them at the moment, due to my superstition) and of course this time wifey had to come along as she is the one who has the final yay or nay at the end of the day!. Firstly, 4 days is not enough to get a real feel for a place but, depending on your pace, and ours was approx. 4 hours sleep per night, you can get a fair idea. If I had to choose whether or not to live there according to the flight, then the deal is done! We travelled Economy Class, of course, but with United Emirates Airlines, it doesn't feel like economy. Three tunnels take you onto the aircraft, one for First class, one Business and us cattle classes in Economy. We had to pass through the last two aisles of Business to get to our seats without even a whiff of the champagne and caviar being served in First, but the sight of the business class was enough to make me wonder if they all sat through there in First Class in a Living Room setting with shag pile carpet, full four poster beds and a log fire! Our flight was wonderful. Five hours and 40 minutes of sheer relaxation. A warm fluffy blanket and big soft pillow on every seat, which reclined backward and outward for your legs. Huge TV/Computer/Games Station/CD Radio in front with 700 channels to choose from. All the latest movies, I watched, My Sisters Keeper, Julie& Julia a bit of Malcolm in the Middle and listened to some of the new Red Hot Chilly CD and we had arrived, being served three times in between with wines, and a wonderful three course meal. There was an under aircraft camera to watch the assent from Rome and descent into Dubai. As we approached Dubai airport the first thing that stuck me was the proximity of the airport to the actual city. The runway seemed to be in the very centre of all these magnificent buildings and I felt I could reach out and touch the tips of them. From the air Dubai has a skyline similar to Manhattan but on a grander scale and with the lights and glitz of Las Vegas thrown in. I could see the Burg Dubai (tallest building in the world) rising above them all and it was spectacular. We disembarked and the airport was not a disappointment after the flight. It was huge and as I stood at passport control I looked up and couldn’t see the where the building ended, all I could see where lights and water falls and sky trains whizzing past, I felt like I’d stepped into another century. All airport staff are fluent in English and are only too willing to assist you with any enquiries you may have with a smile. It took a fair hike to eventually arrive outside but of course we were standing on Travelators the whole time and trying to take in the sights of the airport. I never thought an airport would make me want to get the old camera out (unfortunately it was packed away). The floors were white glistening marble with the gleam of silver everywhere (had to keep on the Prada sunglasses, also to show these Arabs I’m a classy Italian broad), sparkly little fairy lights and fabulous water features accompanied by music. Never mind a bloody hotel, I thought, lets just go get some sleeping bags and park here for the 4 days! We wouldn’t have needed the sleeping bags as it turned out, with an abundance of leather reclining seats in front of TV’s and computers. The services offered inside the airport were also very impressive, a line of pristine baby buggies in wonderful Disney Technicolor lined one wall for complimentary use and looked like a baby had never had it’s nappy soaked bum near one. Outside the warm night air hit us. It was 11.30pm but still warm and me in my boots and padded jacket. Our dear friend from Rome Paolo was coming to pick us up. He’s been living and working there for just over a year now and we’ve known him for 13 years, so we trusted his judgment of life in Dubai. Outside there was a queue of limousines and hummer limos…………..does no one have a normal car in this city?? Apparently not, Paolo drove up in his huge 4 by 4 Merc! The drive to his apartment took all of 20 minutes and then I saw some of the real Dubai City!!!! I craned my neck out the window the entire journey as Stefano and Paolo chatted away and caught up after not seeing each other for some time. Row after row after row of the most spectacular examples of 21st century architecture lined the streets to my left. Each building making me gasp until the two second gap of the next. Apartments blocks, office blocks, hotels and restaurants each one more impressive than the other. To the right was the sea. A pier stretching as far as the eye could see in the shape of a palm tree full of hotels, swimming pools and talcum powder beaches. Paolo’s apartment was on the 22nd floor of a dark blue building, the glass looked dark blue from the outside but normal from the inside. His balcony had a sea view to the right with the Marina and all the amenities it had to offer, a pool directly below and the skyline of glittering, sky scrapping buildings to the left. We sat out there drinking and talking and laughing (Paolo’s girlfriend lives with him) till 4 am which was silly, since Stefano had to be up early in the morning and had a hectic few days ahead, but he managed! He went off to “Internet City”, the main office area of the city by 08.30hrs and I set off to check out the local area. Taxis are in abundance (just like Rome I hear you say…………….not), in fact, there is even no need to raise your arm or call for one, they seem to instinctively know you are coming to the road for a taxi and up they pull. Out gets the driver and opens the back door for you, with polite, thank you Madams and welcomes. All the locals speak perfect English I soon learnt, even though I insisted on speaking to everyone in Italian!!! Please don’t ask me why I did this, as I have no logical explanation why my seriously defective brain seems to work slightly different to the norm. After 4 days of doing this and seriously analysing why I would speak in Italian to these polite English speaking people, I can only assume it’s because in my brain they are foreign, and with all foreigners I speak Italian (I did it in Greece last year also) as that’s MY foreign language that I know! Does it make any sense to anyone? Please tell me it does! Shopping malls are pretty standard (by Dubai standards of course, think airport, sky trains and water features) but they had Marks and Spencer’s, Debenhams (dedicated to British readers) New Look, Top Shop………every single High Street British shop including, of course, Italian designer shops and the American chains, although I have to say it was a mainly British city from the signs (lift not elevator) and the electric plugs in the houses (heaven, adaptor stayed in the bag for 4 days). To give you an idea of the size of the mall it is equivalent to 73 football fields with over 700 shops (I read this outside;) and has an indoor ski resort in which you can ski or snow board or sledge the day away and swear as far as the eye can see that you were in the Alpine Mountains. Lisa, Paolo’s girlfriend and I headed down to check out the beach which was a 5 minutes walk from the apartment. The beach had long white sandy beaches running into the crystal clear sea, the Persian Gulf, (surely they can’t have cleaned that up manually as well?) which gave me time to digest my lunch and listen to some tunes on my ipod whilst catching some much missed sun rays. Since it is after all November, it started to get a wee bit chilly around 6pm, so we headed up to the apartment and joined our men folk in the pool for a swim. Whilst swimming my laps of the pool I see three women chatting away at the side of the pool and detect Scottish accents. Swimming a little closer, not only are they Scottish but from Glasgow so I casually, accidentally swim up to them and say, “Hi, are those Scottish accents I hear?” “Yes, one of them replies “I’m from Newlands” We get into a wee bit of chit chat and discuss how long they’ve been living there (one 9 years, one 5 years and one a sister who’s just visiting) and why we are there and I’m trying to decide if it’s for me. I ask if they like living there and the two that live there say it’s like living in paradise. “So?”, one says, “What do you think, do you like it”. “Well I can’t really tell at this point as it’s only been a day and at the moment I kind of know how Scarlett Johansson felt in Lost in Translation, it all feels a bit like a golden cage and surreal to me. “Where have you come from?” she asks, to which I answer Rome, I’ve been living in Rome for the last 6 years. “AAAAhhh” she says with a look of disgust on her face, “well if you can cope with living in Rome you can cope with living anywhere!!!!!” well (directed to my Italian friends and other international friends living in Rome) it was like someone had insulted my kid! You know that feeling? Like, you can moan and complain about your own kids all you want but,……………. if someone else does!!! I thought, you cheeky cow, I never thought I would feel so defensive about Rome. I told her I think I would miss the history and the piazza’s and the general integration and embracement of the Italian culture, but was still feeling a little shell shocked by her comment when Stefano, who was eaves dropping said, “So you’re from Glasgow?”, Yes she said, we moved from Glasgow to here. “Well”, says Stefano, “I suppose anywhere would feel like Paradise straight from Glasgow!” Shabam!!!! and he swam away leaving me smiling and wondering how I never manage to think of smart comments at the right time. First night dinner was had at the Royal Hotel Meridian, the hotels seem to be the place where all the local expats hang out for drinks and eating as alcohol is not served in pavement open air cafes. No idea what the star rating is of this hotel as it seems to be the same rating as every hotel I have seen but if I worked for the AA hotel rating system, I would give this a big 10 star rating. I felt like a super star. When I went to the bathroom the door was opened for me and I reluctantly stepped into the cubicle, checking my back that she wasn’t following me in to wipe my ass. She very discreetly left the restroom and returned when she heard me open my door with a clean hot towel and even put on the bloomin tap, (hey, this kind of service was giving to me in Starbucks that morning, not quite on that level but not too far off). I returned to find the waiter rush tomy chair for my return. I really wanted to say, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, “Look darlin, I’m a sure thing, I’ve been living in Rome for 6 years and I’m impressed if you say sorry after bumping into me, it’s really easy, no need for this, honest!”. The guys went inside to choose the fish and lobsters that were still swimming around happily, so I declined. The most amazing fish and crab was served and eaten by all (we were joined by another couple who are friends of Paolo’s) and we then walked down to the hotel swimming pool and drank some drinks under the gazebo and looked out over at the spectacular grounds. Stefano and I went for a walk in the gardens and he put his arm around me and said, this is the life I have always wanted to give you, would you rather be here or in Rome right now. I looked around and said, without a doubt it is spectacular and breathtaking but honestly………….I’d rather be snuggled up with my huge log fire crackling away under our blanket watching TV in Rome! Over in the bar we could hear some English football being watched by some Brits on a big screen TV and some Scottish accents in the balmy night air. We left to go onto another bar called Budda Bar which was in an Indian style,(I suppose the clue is in the name) and had a cocktail before deciding at around 2am that since we had to get up at 08.30am we had better head for home. Another step out into the night with a taxi stopping before you even know if you need one yourself and another fare of 10 dirham’s which is less than 2 euro’s (10 dirham’s is 1.80 euro) and when we gave him a 20 he was most grateful. By the way, we took a taxi back to the airport which is around 25-30 minutes and it cost 12 euro, with luggage and helping in and out of the car. We both walked down to the seafront at lunchtime the next day relaxed and knowing that the work part was over and lets really see this place. We stopped into Starbucks and had a coffee and decided to drive up the desert and go sand dune quad biking. The drive wasn’t long, around 45 mins before we reached a landscape untouched by human hand of approx. 2,500 miles of desert. It was still bright and sunny when we paid for our buggies and all four of us headed over to the “practice area” to get the hang of the buggies before excitedly driving through the gate and heading straight for the desert. The first mile or so you can see that people have been coming here at night and having bonfires or whatever and leaving their rubbish behind (bastards!) but after that it’s miles and miles and miles of swooping dunes and wind brushed sand with no sign of human touch. In the distance a few wild camels and apart from that just…………..nothing! It was such fun! Stefano took a dune a bit too cockily and toppled his buggy over but apart from his pride, nothing was hurt! The sun started to set and we all four stopped at the top of a huge dune around 60 ft high and watched this wonderful sight. You feel the silence and no one said anything for a few minutes (which believe me is a wonderment in itself from Paolo). Then once again we were off all racing along and over taking one another and we all reached the top of a dune at the same time and braked hard to look down at a straight vertical drop of around 60 feet. We all parked and looked down and decided that we wouldn’t take the chance and put the buggies into reverse, we lacked the needed adrenaline rush of an 18 year old at this point and with a combined age of around 150 years, we all headed back to the flag in the distance, which was our marker flag for returning the buggies. What a fabulous experience. That night we went out for a Persian meal in a restaurant set on a channel not unlike sitting in Venice, only a few years younger. Again, first class service, first class meal and wonderful wine. We thought about going to the cinema one night but decided it was really silly to go to the cinema when we had such little time and you can go to the cinema anywhere, although looking at the website of the nearest cinema was enough entertainment in itself. Huge individual leather reclining lazy boys in pairs or fours. All with waitress service of meals, wines or snacks accomplished by the push of a button on your chair. Basically, to summarise the rest of the trip was very short indeed and I would have loved to have had another week or two there. We slipped away early one morning, insisting that Paolo stay in bed as taxi’s are so cheap, and there we were back in the wonderful airport where I felt I had been in only yesterday. Whilst waiting for my flight I popped into the toilet to be greeted by another towel/open door woman and thought, how will I survive without you in Rome? We landed at Fiumicino airport in the morning and before going outside to call the Park&Go guy to get our car I ran into the tobacco shop to buy cigarettes. As the woman threw my change down on the counter ignoring my outstretched hand and saying nothing but nodding to the next customer to tell her what he wanted I thought, yip, back in Italy, a vero?. In conclusion…………….we spent a very stressful next few hours back at home discussing back and forth the pro’s and con’s of staying in Rome or leaving and working and living in Dubai. I would miss my house terribly, and the friends I have made. Stefano would miss the outdoor life and his horses. I would miss my dogs. He looked like a 12 year old boy at one point and I felt so bad for him that he couldn’t make the decision. If we don’t like it we can stay a minimum of one year perhaps 18 months. If we do……….. indefinitely. The house here in Rome will always be ours, we will rent it out and in fact already have an interested family without even having advertised. Chris will come live with us when he finishes school and there are an abundance of British Colleges and Universities although I think he has his heart set on sailing school. I would spend July and August in Rome to escape the 50 degree temperatures over there and to have Jen over for the summer as that’s where all her friends will be returning from University for the summer are and where she feels is home. She will of course come to Dubai to visit us and I will go there, but we already agreed that if this job was taken, that summers would be spent in a rented apartment in the city centre of Rome. Without talking about finances, although it’s hard not to as they are incomparable, I would be able to go to Brighton and see Jen whenever I wanted to without worrying about how much the flight was and staying as long as I wanted.  I could go up to Glasgow to see Chris for the next year or so till he is with us also or have him come down for weekends in Brighton. Money would be no issue. We have made the decision. It’s a yes!

[rachelisnotatwork]

Ich war eine Berlinerin

A long time ago I decided in a daydreaming moment to spend a month at language school in Germany. In my head this was going to be largely drifting around town feeling cultured and multi-lingual. So I merrily booked some lessons and an airbnb in Berlin. Then it got closer to the time and I remembered I absolutely hated every minute of German lessons at school, and the only way to drift around feeling cultured and multi-lingual would be from cramming German into my aged brain. This triggered what could best be described as the “complaining phase”, which was weeks of bitching to Marcel that I didn’t want to go, I hate German grammar and this was the worst idea of my life.

We arrived 5 days before language school started in order to get settled. This mostly involved me complaining at a number of places around the city, and on a trip out of town. Our first weekend was forecast to be sunny so we decided to head out into the countryside of the East to go canoeing. Step one was rent a car, which turned out to be phenomenally expensive and involve driving out to the airport. We then immediately took the wrong turning and circled the whole airport trying to find our way out...and straight into a non-moving traffic jam. Google maps refused to consider there might be any possible alternative routes to spending 2 hours in a traffic jam. Neither did our car satnav. So instead I decided to get creative with the map and managed to navigate around the whole thing, whilst being incredibly smug about it (which I’m sure Marcel deeply appreciated).

When we finally got out to the East I was pleasantly surprised. The only real news that reaches the UK of rural East Germany is neo-Nazis and depopulation. Thankfully the first wasn’t visible where we were, and the second meant lots of wildlife. We saw a real live stork (not delivering a baby) before we even got there.

Our canoe trip was down the Havel to try and see beavers (of the wildlife variety). It was a stunning day and a pleasantly quiet river. Naturally we saw zero beavers, and due to Marcel’s ambitious nature we had to paddle back at speed to get back from our 16km run before dark. My muscles were screaming (and only screamed more over the next few days). We also had to return the car before 21.30, which involved driving back and then getting lost in the airport AGAIN and circling it twice. Now feel like I know the roundabouts of Tegel extremely well.

After bitching about language school heavily, it turned out to be...surprisingly fun. Or I got stockholm syndrome. Not really sure, but after a couple of weeks I had settled into a very nice routine of morning classes, then a leisurely lunch at our awesome airbnbs with the best views in the world, followed by museums or excursions in the afternoon. My language school card bought me an annual museums pass for 25 euros, so I got to relive the student dream again!

It was pretty hot whilst we were there so we got into the local lake swimming culture. Our favourite turned out to be Krumme Lanke. It is surrounded by forest but still accessible from town. On day one we were there, we saw a grass snake emerge from the bank and go for a little swim with it’s head above water. Being from the UK where wildlife is...sparse, this was extremely exciting. When we returned a few days later, it was much busier and I thought to myself “poor snake, it has no chance of a swim today”. Only to find myself looking down whilst swimming in the water a couple of hours later to find the snake swimming entirely underwater by my legs. Turns out whilst I like wildlife there are limits and that is definitely one of my limits.

One of the other benefits of it being hot was I decided a policy of daily ice creams was essential. We started off at our local ice cream place but then one day found an amazing place that was about a 15 minute walk from our house. I then took to making Marcel take daily walks in the broiling heat with me to eat them. We also discovered that German museums don’t really do air-con after some of the hottest museum trips of my life to the Stasi Museum and Ephraim-Palais Museum. Sort of surprised we didn’t have to step over the collapsed forms of over-heated tourists between exhibits.

My language school did an afternoon programme of lectures, seminars and activities. Whilst Marcel was around, I didn’t attend any as for some weird reason Marcel didn’t want to hang out and listen to someone explain things very slowly in basic German to a bunch of language learners. Odd that. However at one point he went off to visit his relatives near Frankfurt and I decided to attend a seminar on art in the Third Reich. This was a great lecture but lead me to become...somewhat over-confident with my German. On Marcel’s return I decided we should escape the boiling weather by doing one of the tours run by “Underground Berlin”. They did one inside a flak turm and because the tour timing was more convenient in German that in English, I decided I’d be fine going on that one.

My first indication that I might not be fine was when our guide took a huge breath before starting because it turned out he was one of those people who had a lot of information to impart and didn’t want to waste time doing so. A rapid torrent of German poured forth from him, with me barely able to assess where one word finished and the next started. Which would have been fine if it hadn’t been the safety briefing he was giving as he handed out hard hats. Would strongly advise not getting over-confident with your language skills when you are going to be touring a half-blown up bomb site. I spent most of the tour understanding nothing but trying desperately to copy the others in the hope of not dying down there. Marcel very nicely said it was very technical and harder to understand than his C2 language exam he had to do to prove he was a real German, and then gave me a long summary afterwards about what the whole tour had actually been about. Anyway it was a really cool site and I thoroughly recommend you sign up for the (English language) tour of it. Plus the park it is in has red squirrels, which Marcel and I got unbelievably excited about but actually turns out to be really common in Europe.

Other cool tours we did included one of the Bundestag, which was free although it was hardly spontaneous. You had to email to book tickets ages in advance and then bring your passport (weirdly not the only exhibition I had to do that for, also had to do it for the world press photography exhibition which was taking place in a political party’s head office [as you do]. I think this might feel more normal for Germans who are used to carrying ID at all times, but if you are British it is quite hard to remember and feels strange). The tour was pretty interesting though and there is uncovered Russian graffiti all over the walls inside from the second world war, which was cool to see.

Beyond that we largely mooched and ate a lot. We were staying upstairs from a fondue restaurant and a vietnamese place, and just around the corner from a vegan Szechaun restaurant. As a result, we did ate out a LOT. Also given how hot it got, we very much appreciated not using our kitchen and letting someone else heat up their place by using their oven. Instead we’d just eat out and admire the views from our amazing balcony.

It got hotter and hotter until towards the end of our stay we had three days of epic thunderstorms in a row. We had a great view from our balcony of the Fernsehturm, which Marcel managed to see get hit by lightening twice, both times after I had despaired of seeing it happen. The first two days the thunderstorms were at about midnight and kept us awake with constant lightening and huge claps of thunder. The last day it happened at about 6.30. Which was sub-optimal as that was when my mother’s flight from London was due to land. Weather went from fine to “wind so strong the leaves and flying upward past our 5th floor balcony, followed by rain and mist so thick we couldn’t see anything anymore” in about 5 minutes. We constantly checked my mother’s flight updates online and her landing time kept getting pushed back and back. And then suddenly it just disappeared entirely from the landing/landed screen. Note to German airports, this is not very reassuring. Nor is it when you phone the airport and ask what happened to the flight and you say you “don’t know”. We then looked on the BA website, who said the flight had been diverted to Hamburg. We phoned Hamburg to check this and they said they didn’t know and hadn’t heard about that. Thankfully at just about the point when a full freak out was starting, my mother texted to say they had landed in Hamburg after several terrifying abortive attempts to land in Berlin. They did then fly them back to Berlin when the storm finished so she arrived pretty late and then we had to take a huge diversion back to her hotel because of trees blown over the in the street. Oh the delightful summer weather.

By the end of the month, I was entirely in love with Berlin and the relaxed life of a language school attendee. But alas we’d planned a road trip and our airbnb booking was running out so I had to say a very reluctant goodbye to my language class and Berlin and hit the road.

[random-imagines-blog]

British Blood, American Heart {Sherlock Half-Sister Oneshot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 2300

The digital clock on your computer went from 6:59 to 7:00 and you let out a sigh of relief. It was finally time to return home, curl up on your couch and binge watch Netflix to your hearts content. It took you a couple of minutes to shut the computer down, gather your things in your bag and start to head towards the exit. It was a bit strange today - usually some of your co-workers invite you out to some sort of event and keep you here coming up with polite excuses until well after you could be home. But all you got today was a couple of smiles and a ‘Have a great weekend’ from them. Not that you were complaining. You could easily get used to this change.

There was something about the common people that you worked with. You didn’t really consider yourself to be a snob but you always somehow believed that you were above them. You were certainly smarter than the whole lot of them put together but you weren’t ready to apply it because you didn’t want the attention of being the know-it-all geeky girl. It was bad enough people had already called you Hermione throughout University.

The office that you worked for had a shitty parking garage. There were always spraypainters down there, people hanging out and doing drugs. It wasn’t very well patrolled by the security guards either so you opted to just rent out a space in a public parking lot down the street. It was worth it, knowing your car was safe and being able to get a bit more fresh air in the process. As you went out into the late afternoon sun - weak, much like the tea that was left in your thermos - you eagerly planned out your night. A couple more chapters of your Clive Barker book, an episode or two of something on Netflix, your favorite TV dinner and then at last - your bed.

But your plans seemed to be foiled quickly. As you turned the corner to get to the block where your car was waiting for you, your work-required heels clicking against the sidewalk, you felt a sharp sting on your arm, and then things started to get blurry. It was like trying to look through binoculars that weren’t adjusted properly. Everything was moving, blurring together. The building next to you no longer seemed to be solid and the ground felt like you were walking on a pool cover while it was still on the water. This caused a major migraine and you closed your eyes instinctively to fight against it, but it would be a while before you opened them again. You remembered the sound of a bell as you were dragged through a door, you felt something bump into your leg - or maybe your leg bumped into it - and then nothing more.

The telephone in Mycroft Holmes’s office rang. And rang. And rang. Nobody was there to pick it up. The building was utterly silent, with only the sound of the London rain against the windows and the electronic buzz of the security system to break up the ringing. An automated voice asked the caller to leave a message or to call another number in case of emergencies, two beeps and then a hushed, mumbling sound from a female, calling out for help. It was cut off as the time limit for messages came to a close, and then it was only the buzzing and the rain once again.

Sherlock gets a call the next morning. He didn’t want to answer it but John had rudely shoved the telephone in his face. He had heard Mycroft say something about family, and John thought it was important enough to really require Sherlock’s attention, and broke his concentration from .. whatever it was that Sherlock was studying at that moment. Different fibers in brands of ribbons, it looked to be.

Sherlock did not give any of his sarcastic remarks, but rather looked confused, and then enlightened at something. “I knew it.” He said, standing up, phone clutched in his hand, held close to his ear. “We’ll meet you at the airport. John - we’re going to America.”

“What for? John asked, reaching for his cane. He knew that something was afoot, and he was going to need the damn thing to keep his body steady, since his mind was going to be racing at whatever it was that was making Sherlock leave not only the home, but the continent!

“You’ll learn - go and pack our bags. I have some thinking to do.” He disappeared into the kitchen, calling for Mrs. Hudson to make him a cup of tea, rather than do it himself.

An hour later, when Sherlock and John met Mycroft at Heathrow, Mycroft was not alone. Behind him, with their cases packed, were his parents. They both looked very nervous, which did not give any indication to John what was going on. And he continued to ask. He had his passport in hand, and they were being rushed off to one of Mycroft’s own private planes. Nothing about this was telling him where he was going on this plane. He couldn’t even guess.

Once they were all situated on the plane, Mycroft looked over at his parents. “Why don’t you explain to John what’s going on? I think I’d like to hear this story.” He adjusted his impeccable suit, and gave the impression that he was about to hear something that he had heard a hundred times before, like he would not be surprised by any line of it. John, as well as the three other people in the private plane, all looked towards Mr. Holmes with expectations. The well-dressed man adjusted his tie and started his tale nervously.

“I could never bear the thought of telling you all about this,” He said, holding onto his wife’s hand.

“I had an affair.” Mrs. Holmes said, surprising everyone. “I know, monstrous of me. I do love your father very much boys but it took some time. I had to do something to get out of the house with you playing your Detectives Sherlock, or you berating your brother Mike.”

“Mycroft.” The older brother said, sniffling distastefully. He always did hate that nickname.

Mrs Holmes refrained from rolling her eyes. “Another maths professor who helped me edit my book . I got pregnant and went on a vacation for a while, you’ll remember, I went and stayed with Aunt Jean-”

“We don’t have an Aunt Jean. I just thought you left dad.” Sherlock said, remembering the time apart from his mother now.

“Yes, well, I had the baby and we had decided it would be best if the father raised it, so he brought your half-sister to America.”

“Did something happen to her?” John asked, trying to figure out why he was being told this and why they were headed on a plane to America.

“I got a call from an old friend of yours. Sherlock. Moriarty. He’s found her and is asking for a trade. I’ve thought about it-” Mycroft started.

“Me for her?” Sherlock stated. “That’s preposterous. Why would I trade -”

“You’re not.” Mycroft said, leaning forward. “We’re going to get her back. I’ve done a bit of research on her. Quite smart, wasted talent, seems like a Holmes trait.” He looked over at his brother. “We could use her.”

“We are not using anyone.” Mr. Holmes said, getting attention again. “We are going to find her, and bring her home. With us or with her father. Any questions?”

The plane was silent as the information was processed. There was a long way to go, and plenty of time for questions later.

You woke up to complete darkness. You had to raise your fingers to your own eyes to feel that they were open, that’s how black the room was. You weren’t tied down, you could tell that much. You felt heavy but it was from the drugs that were in your system, not from restraints. You reached around you and felt nothing. You crawled a couple of feet and finally, your shoulder hit against bars. Hands grasping out to feel your surrounds, you could feel the metal rods now, jutting up. You got to your feet, holding onto them for support, and like you suspected they were buried both in floor and ceiling. Stepping to the side, you felt wall, and so you went the other way, and more wall. Some steps away from the bars made you come to the conclusion that you were in a cell of some sort. It felt like an old jail.

You didn’t make a sound. It might be beneficial if the kidnappers thought that you were still asleep. You could perhaps overhear them, but you heard no voices.

You sat down to conserve your strength. Your stomach growled and your mouth grew dry but you didn’t make a complaint or ask for anything. Someone out there was surely watching over you, and you did not want them to know that you were awake.

You got a little sleep - you thought. With the silence and the darkness, it was hard to tell whether you were conscious or not. You had no way to tell the time, your phone had been taken from you and there was no ticking clocks. Damn this digital age, at least it would have given you something to count.

Moriarty was nowhere to be seen but this was where all the tracks had lead Sherlock to. He was a detective, not a hound dog, so tracking wasn’t his specialty but he was able to figure out where Moriarty might go. Where Sherlock himself would go. He’d poked around your office, your apartment, gone through your things. He’d seen pictures of you, as had John. John saw the family resemblance in the eyes, the curly hair, the stiff posture.

With these few times, Sherlock started to feel like he was getting to know you. He understood your head. Your exasperation, your lack of meaningful friendships, he related to your self-isolation and did not see it as problematic as your father and his family had.

He really was determined to get you back to that life safe before this turned into a murder case.

The beams from flashlights caught your attention. It could easily be a trap. You’ve been in the dark for hours, holding in your bladder, feeling the pain of it but you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction of having to sit in a cell with your own urine drying in the corner, oh no.

But you hoped rescue would come soon so that you wouldn’t pee your pants either.

You sunk down lower to the ground, closing your eyes to pretend to sleep. There was nothing at all in here you could use as a weapon except for your very own fists. With at least twelve hours gone by without food, perhaps a day or more but twelves hours definitely, you weren’t at your strongest.

There were voices. British. That made you think that these men definitely with the kidnappers. No American cops that you knew of spoke in those accents.

The beam went over your cell and passed over your face. The brightness hurt your eyes, despite them being closed. You did your best to keep your face calm, like you were sleeping, and not show the anger that you were feeling at being kept here. Or the fear. If your eyes were open, they surely would see.

“She’s in here!” A loud, posh sounding voice said. There was scrambling of feet. More voices. Loud ones. You waited the sound of a key unlocking the door to this cell but it did not come. Just the sound of grunts as they tried to bend the metal. Guess there wasn’t a door.

You finally opened your eyes and risked looking. It was a mess with the flashlights pointing everywhere. Some had been set down on the ground to face the bars. You sat up and tried to make out the shapes. You doubted it would be anyone that you recognized, but you thought you saw some police hats on some of the heads. You covered your eyes against the light.

“We’re going to get you out, y/n.” An older voice said, sounding desperate as they tried to get at the bars.

“It’s no use.” One of the cops said. “They’re too strong. Won’t bend.”

“He got her in there somehow.” A calm, British voice said. “So there has to be a way out.”

A couple of the police looking ones disappeared. In their absence, a shorter man - you could still only see silhouettes, rolled a flashlight between the bars towards you. You took it and used it to look around the interior of the room, see where you had been sitting. There didn’t seem to be a way out, and there was no door in the bars. You had no idea how you had gotten in here.

“How’d you guys find me?” You inquired right away. “And who are you? Did I get flown into England without realizing it?”

“No,” The one with the curly hair said, as the police came back with the proper tools to cut the bars to finally get you out of this hell hole. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I’m-”

Someone cleared their throat in the background, and a man came forward who was dressed in an impeccable suit. He looked more out of place than a sword at a gunshow.

“I’m Mycroft Holmes and we are your half brothers.” He introduced.

[dwestfieldblog]

SU SUNG’S COSMICS ENGINE!

More guerilla ontology (or as much as I can manage in a few pages)...Utopiate! Meanwhile, right here...the snakes of Orion continue their battle with the wolves of Sirius...Indeed do a multiple of conspiracies contend in the night. And in broad bare faced daylight too. Am I kidding? How seriously should you take a comedian? In Arabic, the words poet, prophet and madman are all interchangeable. I am none of these things. Hello. Being, distracted by 'reality'...Anyway...'Shepherdess no temptation that Poussin Teniers hold the key peace 681 by the cross and this horse of God I complete this daemon guardian at noon blue apples.' Ok?

'....Or was the final secret simply and bluntly, that there really is an interstellar ESP channel, to which you can tune in by meta programming your nervous system?'  (RAW) Anyone heard any new transmissions from UMMO recently? 

Been listening to several long lectures from the Psychedelic Salon podcasts  with Lorenzo, only found it two weeks ago on Archive.org. Endless fascination via Dr Terrance ('I'm somewhat immune to paranoia, so those of you who aren't...gaze in wonder') McKenna, the Beats, Leary, Hakim Bey and of course Robert Anton Wilson, jewels of human/cosmic wisdom/humour. A nice idea recommending more scientists, doctors and architects etc take mushrooms. (micro dosing in Silicon Valley had significantly positive results in problem solving.) Of course research into this was closed down as soon as drug companies got wind of it and ran to the various governments they help fund in return for brutal legislation against this.  

How many of us are 'criminals' simply because the donors to those who lead us do not want their programmes interrupted by anything they cannot control and pay for laws to be passed? Millions. Oil barons, weapons manufacturers, drug companies, fundamentalist religions all hindering our evolving in the name of greed for money and power. Obvious to say. Give 'em all mushrooms, deepen their perception, widen their truth, change their minds and open their hearts? (Pause for sardonic grin.) Those who feel powerless get used to being treated like cattle. And those used to getting their own way at the expense of others enjoy it and will continue.

And speaking of stasis and decay...America stepping heavily on its own dick again in Alabama with their abortion law, don't matter none if the foetus is caused by rape and/or incest...for it is surely against the will of God even though HE (arf) gave us free will. Bullburgers to that. The one who carries it, gives birth to it and is (in the majority of cases from the year dot) feeds and raises it, has The Right. Not God, man or the 'law'. Equal rights? Some men have never been equal to women. Some of us may have bigger muscles and better logic fnord but that is only enough for a certain type of survival. Life, liberty and the glorious pursuit of our penis...'Man is a fool, and woman, for tolerating him, is a damn fool'.Mark Twain wrote that. Bill Hicks had it right years ago...put all the unwanted babies on the steps of the courthouse and let the judges who pass such foul laws raise them. As one of the placards of the women outside the State House in (Sweet Home) Alabama read: 'Senators' mistresses and daughters will always have their abortion choice rights'.

Reminds me of an old song by Consolidated...'If you don't want a Nazi in your house, don't let one, don't know a fundamentalist till you've met one, if you memorized your civil rights, don't forget one, if you don't want an abortion, DON'T GET ONE! ...Do you think women want to kill their own babies...if you've got your own twisted baggage then maybe...'

The USA is 9.6 Million km squared with 328 million people, China has 17 million km squared and 1.4 billion people. Soon to be implanted with chips from Huawei, hi hi hi... 'A tyrant does not make his tyranny possible. It is made possible by the people and not otherwise'. Jack Parsons. On the desolate anniversary of Tienanmen Square today, it doesn't look as if the tyranny there is going to vanish for another few decades...and in America either/or maybe...

More religious news...The recent (ish) new law in Brunei where homosexuality was to be punishable by stoning to death has now been rescinded in the face of a small worldwide outcry. Ordained in the Koran, another holy book dictated by god to a chosen human, so no need at all to worry about being misinterpreted and getting lost in translation eh? A clear and perfect relay of information where an Infinite Being commands that no man may cuddle another man on pain of execution. Murder being acceptable when Big Daddy says so. The eternal and (non corporeal) Punishing Father figure. Ufff and a charming photo of a priest with a couple of young boys beside him burning Harry Potter books in Poland because apparently JK Rowling is working for Satan. No matter that the morals in her books are based on good triumphing over evil thanks to self sacrifice, friendships and the desire to save the world from badness. It has WITCHES and WIZARDS in it and magic and alchemy. No matter that Christ learned much of his healing and wisdom from John the Essene who also practised such things. Burning books...how quaint. Only fundamentalists, nazis and the scientific community (when faced with Wilhelm Reich's life work) do this. Well I only liked Snape anyway. And...fairy tales are now banned from many schools in Spain. More Roman Catholic common sense in action.  

Sudan and Libya raging again, encouraged by the Kremlin (but to be fair to them, they had plenty of useful lessons from watching the CIA at work in the seventies and eighties) Destabilisation is always a good way of creating power vacuums and making sure your chosen puppet ascends to the throne made of the skulls and gold of enemies. Kim Wrong Un took the slow train to meet Baldhead...the Pilsbury cheese dough boy now fat enough to feed an entire North Korean family living on donkeys and grass. Almost funny but mostly truly Disgusting. 43 percent of the populace (according to this years UN report) are suffering from malnutrition...600 escapees have given gave evidence. Tie him down to a feasting table...

Still amuses me (although with gathering darkness) that in seeking to regain 'control' of their own countries, so many are following the populists with their bigoted and fascist ideas, oblivious that the leaders of such parties are mostly being funded via the Kremlin. Speaking of which, nice to see the always decent and rational libertarian Steve Bannon assisting Le Pen in France. How many in Britain think that the Russian government is doing a good job? Are they thinking at all, or just looking forward to the chlorine washed chicken, hormone injected beef and genetically modified maize soon to pollute our green and pleasant fracked land from America? Yum yum yum, yab yab yab...

To be born British, is to win first prize in the lottery of life'. Cecil Rhodes. If blonde Boris wins, I will be VERY tempted not to get a new UK passport, I pray heartily that the the British people are truly not so mindwreckingly stupid to choose such a proven liar and self serving bullshit merchant. Inexcusable if they do as the USA.

The president speaks with a reptile tongue, trump behaving exactly as a chimpanzee alpha as shown on anthropological tv and in Reicheian psychology...loudest voice blaming other skin types for disease and crime etc. You are a foul stain sir, a smear on on the windows of perception. However, a Hansard Society survey was published by The Times...it seems that more than half of Britons now want to be led by a political 'strongman' who is 'willing to break the rules'. I have been writing and saying for the last thirty years that the political situation in the UK has been piece by piece, organised to influence the people to vote into office what I always called a British Stalin. Because everyone (most) are now SO deeply enraged with useless 'public servants', it would be a highly logical step and a simple way to democratically elect such a person. I expect either the next or next next prime minister to be the One. And then we can only hope that a V for Vendetta type scenario plays out before too many are rounded up and vanished. 

Worth inserting a longish salient quote from Robert Anton Wilson’s book Everything is Under Control; ‘...Dr (Willheim) Reich vastly offended many people by his sociological theory, which holds that fascism is just an exaggerated form of of the basic structure of sex-negative socities and has existed under other names in every civilization based on sexual repression. In this theory, the character and muscular armor of the average citizen -  a submissive and frightened attitude anchored in body reflexes- causes the average person to want a strong authority figure above them. Tyranny, in this model, is not created by tyrants alone but by neurotic masses who want tyrants. This quite possibly maybe explains much about the mentality of various countries and who they have (and continue to chose) chosen as their leaders.

Extinction Rebellion...sun shields in space? Forests of artificial trees to vacuum the Co2? hmmm...Biodiversity, a million species dying and unlikely to be saved, links in the chain being removed one by one thousand. Hard to be an optimist in the face of humanity knowingly getting to this point, having been told and shown over and over again. Dammed liberal atheist scientists spreading facts and proof just to get funding for their pet global warming projects eh? Take a look at all those who are against cutting carbon emissions, reducing arms and speak in favour of fracking, drilling for oil, deeper landfills (out of sight out of mind) genetically modified food etc and see whether there is common theme in their linguistics and behaviour patterns. Short term gain at the expense of the future and an almost evil approach to humanity. As if they have read The Power of Now and taken all the wrong inferences from it. Optimism takes will power, use it or lose it says the hyper manic 'realist', constantly looking for the next possible negative, reductio ad absurdum...

Loving diversity and collages (and goulash) I firmly believe in mixing the races and religions, (wherever and whenever and if ever they choose to intermarry... blend them all. Humanity will not become one homogeneous lump but a mass group of those evolved beyond the manipulations based on such, recognising the old hippy truth of one world and multi dimensions. The new wave or particle, depending what instrument of sense you use to perceive the phase transition. 'A society grows great when old men plant trees, whose shade they know they shall never sit in'..... 'If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?' Rumi

False users/sock puppets on facebook and twitter, ranting robots turned lose with a tap of a finger and blackmail swindles...One recent email to me in Chinese had two words in English, one of which was 'Bitcoin'. Translated, it read that the writer had my passwords and would release my browser history to all in my address book unless several thousand bitcoins were sent to an account. A month later a further email in bad English from a presumed female told me she had filmed our last sexual encounter years ago and all the depraved things we did...this too would be made public unless...Well good luck to you darling, porn comedies are always worth watching. Just as research of course. Ho was the Chinese god of laughter...

The Instagram suicide of the unhappy Malaysian teenage girl who asked in an on-line poll whether she should kill herself or not. 70percent of her followers said 'Do it' and are now facing arrest. Since day one of me first looking at the internet and the comments on twitter, youtube et al, it was immediately apparent just how many web users are dumb/souldead and have nothing to offer of any goodness. On all the online places where I exist in a twilight world, the comments are disabled. I make no money from my music or writing, I do it because I wish to and enjoy it...and already know I am an idiot without being told. (I I I...yuck, have to get back to E Prime and remove I and Is, life seems to deepen with freedom and happiness when this method is   (damn) applied.) I wish a safe journey with love to the girl for next time, never listen to those who are heartless. Vampires all.

Meanwhile...inside the epic of Gilgamesh and still swinging like an ape from the Golden Bough, the mind observing the mind, the heart feeling the heart, walking the May time streets dizzy with waves of empathy, going home to re-balance...from philosophy in the bedroom, to the universe next door, my flat with traces of lavender, cinnamon and patchooli with a hint of vanilla, coffee and yesterday night's marijuana smoke. A day of preparing and next morning early up the hill alone to the sunlit portal, half and half crossover, transmit and receive. Time dissolved the time dissolved, all in a dilation of an hour arf. Dionysus, Aphrodite and Apollo, walking hand in hand through the apocalypse...laughing with intent...'The uncanny...is just the right hemisphere's way of violently capturing our attention'. RAW.

I was given Oak, Holly and Hornbeam in a rescue remedy by a wise woman in a wooden room. A month after this cure for creeping horror, she gave me a bottle of good Irish Whiskey for my birthday, which (in spite of my liver and pancreas) was too beautiful to resist. Steadily drank it over the next three days of resurrection along with some high grade weed. In spite of how a lot of my writing may come across,  I hadn't smoked grass/dope since late 1994, yes really. Now I find I can multi task with total focus on all, listening to two hour lectures while listening to instrumental music, reading from a Kindle and writing at the same time. This works for about 150 minutes and then I need to go and lie down to dream,:-)

Information gathering speed until it becomes energy. Lost among the octaves.... inverted comas, images flash and then dissolve, they melt to universal. Nothing exists until it is perceived. The 'universe' didn't explode as such, but came through. Black holes inverted until gravity/pressure built up waves of energy and gave birth through the hole. All 'Illumination' ideas come from genetic/subatomic memory and the babys' memory of being born into the light. The process is repeated endlessly in infinite multidimensional loops. A chain of eternal creation and evolution. Easy eh?:-) And don't forget, a journey of a million aeons begins with but a single trip...

'Opinions result from perceptions and perceptions reinforce opinions which then further control perceptions, in a repeating loop that logic can never penetrate.' Stasis and decay result unless a little shock of the new is introduced one way or the other to 'startle the brain enough to reframe its experiences. Be aware of the God. If you are timid enough to stop with what is natural, Nature will elude your grasp forever' de sade. Who defines what is natural? Any old perverted psychopath with a quill pen? Take it easy or give it hard...

Our universe consists of 'non simultaneously apprehended events', which we process, interactively. This means we need to update our data often, in order to survive and evolve. The problem comes with those who just close down, especially dogmatic fundamentalists, when they believe they have found 'the truth'... The conspiracy of counter evolution stems from them. Keep updating your data...all the way back to the cosmic giggle )+(

[nathan9el1b0-blog]

Pope Francis 'to give Charlie Gard a Vatican passport'

Pope Francis 'to give Charlie Gard a Vatican passport' | Daily Mail Online The Pope is said to be prepared to offer a Vatican passport to terminally-ill Charlie Gard, to allow him to fly to Italy for potentially life-saving treatment. Sources suggest court rulings that have determined the 11-month-old's life support should be switched off could be overcome by making the little boy a citizen of the Pope's Vatican City. It has emerged hours after Charlie's parents released a tearful image inside the hospital chapel at Great Ormond Street Hospital, saying the space gave them peace and tranquility through their trials. According to the Sun, the Pope is looking at offering the passport to allow legal parameters to be overcome. Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal Pietro Parolin, added: 'We are doing whatever we can.' The Pope is prepared to offer a Vatican passport to allow the 11-month-old to travel outside of other legal parameters Connie and Chris paid a visit to the chapel at Great Ormond Street Hospital as they continue to hope they can take him to America for treatment The Pope is said to be ready to offer a Vatican passport to the baby boy to trump the rulings in this country about his future Connie and Chris claimed today that they are being kept in the dark, with hospital bosses having meetings without inviting them. Last night Miss Yates said: 'Doctors have kept us in the dark. We can only hope that various meetings they've been having, to which we have not been invited, are positive and that they will let us take Charlie to the US for treatment.' A spokesman for the family added: 'While meetings have been carrying on all week around them, doctors at the hospital have not thought to include them. 'On rare occasions when Connie and Chris are invited in to meetings, they feel ambushed. 'They are called at very short notice, leaving no time for them to get a lawyer to accompany them. The way they are continually treated, as if their views as parents don't matter, is heaping stress on them at a time when naturally they are http://www.hotfrog.com/business/newcastle-movers_42589429 already very distressed.' The family have released photos of Charlie's first haircut, done earlier this week. Miss Yates said: 'Charlie's beautiful hair was getting decidedly long. I always think it is a very poignant moment for any mum when her baby is old enough to have a first haircut.' Protestors on Thursday gathered in support of Charlie, in the hope he could get to America for more treatment It came after the parents released an image inside the hospital's chapel, about which Connie said: 'Chris and I have gone through some dark moments and continue to go through every parent's worst nightmare as Charlie's life hangs in the balance. 'When things simply get too much to bear, we find the beautiful chapel at the hospital a place of great peace and tranquility.' St Christopher's chapel, described by Oscar Wilde as 'the most delightful private chapel in London' provides sanctuary for staff, children and families as of some of the sickest children in the country. Earlier this week, Pope Francis said he hopes doctors will allow the parents of 10-month-old Charlie Gard to 'care for their child until the end' and protesters gathered outside Buckingham Palace to protest against a court decision to allow the baby's life support machine to be switched off. Banners read 'don't let me die' and 'save Charlie Gard' as the lined the streets in protest on Thursday In a statement today, the Vatican said: 'The Holy Father follows with affection and emotion the affair of little Charlie Gard and expresses his closeness to his parents. 'He prays for them, hoping that their desire to accompany and care for their child until the end is not disregarded.' Connie and Chris shared the picture as the Labour Party leader joined the debate on Charlie's future, which still hangs in the balance. Jeremy Corbyn has admitted he too would do 'anything' to save Charlie if it was his own son and said: 'I feel absolutely for the parents'. The Labour leader said Charlie's parents are right to fight for their baby because 'any parent would want their child to get the best possible treatment'. But Mr Corbynstopped short of calling for Great Ormond Street to let them take the ten-month-old to America. Chris Gard and Connie Yates released this new picture of their son Charlie and are 'overwhelmed' after Donald Trump and the Pope offered their support - but the hopes of saving him are fading Jeremy Corbyn (pictured today) would do 'anything' if his child was as ill as Charlie Gard and said today: 'I feel absolutely for the parents'. He said: 'All I can say is that any parent would feel for those parents and say if it was my child that was going through a terrible, terrible trauma like this, a life threatening trauma, you'd move might and main to get them the best treatment they can. I fully understand that'. RELATED ARTICLESPrevious1NextTheresa May and Boris Johnson both REFUSE to step in to help...'Don't give up... miracles do happen' Mother of 'Italian... Share this articleShare Charlie's future looks increasingly bleak today with doctors refusing to let him leave the hospital and Theresa May and Boris Johnson deciding not to intervene. And some medical experts have urged his parents to accept the difficult reality now facing them. 'Any parent going through this would want their child to get the best possible treatment that could be found anywhere, and I think it is up to us to ensure they do get that best possible treatment. Q&A: Can Charlie be saved at the 11th hour? Charlie's parents said they had been denied their final wish to be able to take their son home to die and felt 'let down' after losing their legal fight How can doctors end Charlie's life against his parents' wishes? Great Ormond Street (GOSH) took Charlie's case to the High Court and a judge agreed to allow them to end Charlie's treatment because it was not in his 'best interests' after he agreed it will cause him pain and will not improve his condition. The Court of Appeal, the Supreme Court and the European Court of Human Rights all rejected appeals by his parents Chris Gard and Connie Yates, who believe they should have the final say on their son's treatment. Can the doctors change their mind and not turn off his life support? Yes. Great Ormond Street could go back to the High Court to stop the order they fought for this year. The process of gaining a Consent Order could be done on an urgent basis and completed in less than two hours. Experts have told MailOnline this is the only way Charlie could travel to America or Rome for treatment because his parents' appeals appear to have been exhausted. Can the hospital stop his parents taking him to America without permission? Yes. If doctors believe that any parent will cause suffering to their child, police can be called in to arrest them using Powers of Protection legislation. In the case of young cancer sufferer Ashya King his parents faced a European Arrest Warrant after absconding with their son who was in hospital. Charlie is on a ventilator so would require a team of medical staff to move him and his equipment. Why won't the hospital let Charlie die at home? Connie Yates and Chris Gard say doctors have denied their 'final wish' to take Charlie home to die. Travelling to a hospice was also denied. While judges ruled that his treatment should end, there is nothing in the judgments that says the little boy cannot be outside the hospital. Great Ormond Street refused to tell MailOnline on what basis that decision was taken. 'It is difficult to judge what a medical, a medically qualified person, has assessed on the case, I haven't seen that, I'm not medically qualified'. Theresa May is braced for a grilling by Donald Trump on saving Charlie Gard tomorrow. The White House has requested a one-to-one meeting with the Prime Minister at the G20 gathering of world leaders in Hamburg. The agenda for the hour-long meeting has not been released, but Downing Street is preparing for the Charlie case to come up. President Trump has declared America's staunch support for saving the desperately ill 11-month-old boy. His family say Mr Trump has 'a very good understanding of the whole case'. Yesterday it emerged the White House has been phoning the family and also the office of Health Secretary Jeremy Hunt. And the international tug-of-love over Charlie intensified as Italy also urged Britain to help save him. The Italian Foreign Minister personally lobbied his counterpart Boris Johnson in a phone call between Rome and London. It follows interventions by Pope Francis, who tweeted of the 'duty to defend human life', and the Vatican, which has offered the papal hospital in Rome to treat Charlie. Mrs May's meeting with Mr Trump tomorrow is likely to be dominated by the North Korea missile crisis and the prospects for a post-Brexit trade deal. But Number 10 is preparing a detailed briefing for the PM on Charlie's case in anticipation of likely questions from the President. Until now, Ministers have not been involved in briefing the White House on the little boy, and his rare genetic condition, leaving the task to his family, the hospital and Department of Health lawyers. Last night a White House source said: 'The President is deeply moved by the heartbreaking situation facing Charlie Gard and his parents. 'Although the President himself has not spoken to the family, members of the administration, assisted by British officials, have done so. 'President Trump has no desire to pressure the family in any way. However, he does want them to know that he is willing to provide assistance should they need any. 'As a father and grandfather, President Trump understands the limitless love one has for a child and he wishes to be helpful to Charlie Gard and his family, as does Pope Francis and millions of families worldwide'. Charlie Gard's parents have been offered support in their case by President Trump but Theresa May and Boris Johnson have declined to get involved President Trump and the White House has asked for a one-to-one with Theresa May and Downing St is preparing for it to include a chat about Charlie Gard Officials insist Mrs May cannot intervene in the case unless new evidence is produced to persuade Charlie's doctors and the courts that treatment abroad offers a realistic prospect of improvement in his condition. But the baby boy's parents, Connie Yates and Chris Gard, have steadfastly refused to give up hope Miss Yates said: 'The support from the Pope and the President has given us hope. They are traditional men who believe in the family. 'They believe in our case and understand why we believe it is right to continue fighting so hard to save Charlie.' But despite Mr Trump's tweet on Monday that America would be 'delighted' to help Charlie, his future appeared bleak yesterday. Mrs May told the Commons the matter was in the hands of Great Ormond Street Hospital, where Charlie is in intensive care. And the hospital, which won legal battles all the way to the Supreme Court to be allowed to remove his life-support, claimed its hands were tied by https://foursquare.com/v/newcastle-movers/58b9a969000bef4879f13a77 the courts. Chris Gard and Connie Yates with their son Charlie Gard. They have refused to give up hope through a high court battle to treat their son The President waded in to offer his support too, but the words don't seem to be changing his future Senior legal sources said the various court rulings mean doctors are obliged to withdraw Charlie's artificial ventilator and prevent him from going to America to try experimental therapy. They said even if the hospital changed its stance, it would take another court case to reverse the http://www.neustarlocaleze.biz/directory/Listing/View/901830688 rulings, which effectively demand Charlie must die. But friends of the boy's parents disputed this, saying there was no legal reason why Great Ormond Street could not back down. It is still possible the hospital will at least agree to allow Charlie to go home to die - which his parents said was their 'final wish' if all else failed. But they are still desperate to take him to the United States, where a specialist doctor is ready to try an experimental therapy on Charlie for free. Charlie's parents Chris Gard and Connie Yates, who wanted him to undergo a therapy trial in the US, must accept the difficult reality facing them, said Jonathan Montgomery, a professor of health care law at University College London. The Italian Foreign Minister personally lobbied his counterpart Boris Johnson in a phone call between Rome and London He said: 'This is not a case where Charlie's parents have not been listened to.

It is a case where their hopes for improvement are not justified by the evidence that they and others have put before the courts. 'The case is tragic, but we owe it to Charlie to take decisions based on evidence. Hope requires some foundation if it is to justify subjecting him to harm.' Mitochondrial disease, a rare genetic condition from which Charlie is suffering - and which leaves him unable to see, hear or move - is 'cruel' and without a cure, said Professor Sian Harding, director of the BHF Cardiovascular Regenerative Medicine Centre at Imperial College. Prof Harding said: 'Mitochondrial diseases are cruel because they strike babies and young children, who rapidly deteriorate. It is because there is no cure that the scientific and medical community have concentrated on pre-conception mitochondrial therapy, and it has been an enormous advance that this is now licensed by the Government. It allows parents with these mutations to have healthy children, though sadly cannot help babies already born.' Dr Giles Birchley, senior research associate in surgical innovation and bioethics at the University of Bristol, said 'only the most desperate cases reach the courts'. He said: 'It is natural to reach out to that child's poor parents, whose suffering is dreadful. But putting any terminally ill child through an experimental treatment which cannot make them better will not help either that child or their parents. It will only prolong that child's hurt and suffering.' Professor Dominic Wilkinson, director of medical ethics at the University of Oxford, said doctors must take the 'ethical course'. He said: 'Sadly, reluctantly, doctors and judges are justified in concluding that continuing life support is not always helpful for a child and is in fact doing more harm than good. 'Providing comfort, avoiding painful and unhelpful medical treatments, supporting the child and family for their remaining time: sometimes that is the best that we can do, and the only ethical course.' After Mr Trump's tweet, the youngster became a global cause celebre, and US television shows have taken up the campaign to save him, with one denouncing British courts as a 'death panel'. Yesterday Italian Foreign Minister Angelino Alfano phoned Mr Johnson at the Foreign Office to discuss the Vatican's offer to treat Charlie at the 'Pope's hospital' in Rome. Pope Francis's spokesman had already vowed to 'overcome' any legal obstacles to get Charlie there. But Mr Johnson refused to step in, with a source close to the Foreign Secretary saying he told the Italian minister: 'This was a deeply tragic and complex case for all involved, and it was right that decisions continued to be led by expert medical opinion, supported by the courts, in line with Charlie's best interests'. The High Court, Appeal Court, Supreme Court and European Court of Human Rights have all ruled Charlie is brain-damaged, is suffering pain, has no hope of recovery and his 'best interests' are to die. Charlie's type of mitochondrial depletion syndrome is so rare, he is only the 16th sufferer worldwide. The disease drains energy from his body's organs and muscles, and he can only breathe with the help of a mechanical ventilator. It is unclear why the hospital has not yet removed Charlie's ventilator, a week after being given the green light to do so when the parents exhausted all their legal options. The High Court, Appeal Court, Supreme Court and European Court of Human Rights have all ruled Charlie is brain-damaged, is suffering pain, has no hope of recovery and his 'best interests' are to die Charlie is only the 16th sufferer of the incredibly rare disease worldwide, and cannot breathe without a ventilator Miss Yates, 31, and Mr Gard, 32, of South West London, say their son is not brain damaged and showing signs of improvement. They are mounting a round-the-clock vigil at his hospital bedside, after begging doctors for more time to say their goodbyes. It is understood the hospital has already delayed his death twice. At Prime Minister's Questions yesterday, the family's MP, Seema Malhotra, asked Mrs May if she would 'do all she can' to help Charlie go to America and 'try to make this happen'. Mr May replied: 'It's an unimaginable position for anybody to be in and I fully understand and appreciate any parent in these circumstances would want to do anything possible.' It is understood the hospital has delayed turning off life support twice, as Chris and Connie say their son is not brain damaged But she made clear it was a matter for the hospital doctors by saying she was 'confident Great Ormond Street will consider any information that comes forward'. Appearing on ITV's Good Morning Britain yesterday, renowned scientist and genetics expert Lord Winston criticised Mr Trump and the Pope. He said: 'One has to accept the loss of a child is about the worst injury that any person can have... but having said that, these interferences from the Vatican and from Donald Trump seem to me to be extremely unhelpful and very cruel, actually, because this child has been dealt with at a hospital which has huge expertise in mitochondrial disease and is being offered a break in an [Italian] hospital that has never published anything on this disease, as far as I'm aware.' Great Ormond Street has not issued any statement so far this week. Social media has got world behind him... Charlie's army of supporters have harnessed the power of social media to spread their message across the globe. Slogans such as SaveCharlieGard and JeSuisCharlie have been widely shared online with such success that Twitter and Facebook have struggled to cope. Online comments that went viral in Italy led to the Vatican joining the campaign, followed yesterday by the Italian government. And in America tweets and Facebook posts have been published at the rate of about one a second. Supporters have been getting their message across with emotive images. One compared Charlie and mother Connie Yates to the Madonna and Child. Another painting showed a mother protecting her baby - a reference to Charlie's parents' refusal to let the terminally ill boy die. The campaign to save the 11-month-old has been driven by posts linking to petitions and fundraising sites. However, some supporters say they have become victims of software that automatically classes their postings as spam. Twitter and Facebook run programmes that weed out 'robotic' marketing campaigns with similar content. It has led to complaints of censorship by social media firms. One poster said: 'We will not be silent, we are Charlie's Army.' http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4673276/Pope-Francis-Charlie-Gard-Vatican-passport.html

[cubaverdad]

Interview with El Sexto (Danilo Maldonado) in San Francisco

Interview with El Sexto (Danilo Maldonado) in San Francisco Danilo "El Sexto" Maldonado is in San Francisco, planning for the opening of his art exhibit, "Angels and Demons," at the Immersive ART LAB, 3255A Third Street, May 11, 6-10pm. His exhibit is sponsored by the Human Rights Foundation as part of its Art in Protest series. This interview took place with the translation help of Alexandra Martínez. Regina Anavy: Danilo, I know that you've already had interviews with the Los Angeles Times, the Washington Post and other people about your experiences as a political prisoner in Cuba. Now I want to ask you about your artistic process. How you were able to create art while you were in prison? Danilo Maldonado: I wasn't able to paint in prison. I could only draw. RA: How did you get drawing materials? DM: To draw, all I need is pencils and plain sheets of paper. RA: Did you have visitors who brought you these materials? DA: My family brought colored pencils and pens and paper. RA: Did the authorities try to prevent you from having these materials? DM: Yes, that happened. They search everything, and a lot of the things they take away. For example, they didn't let my mother take in my asthma medication, but I could get pens and little notebooks, as long as there was nothing already written on them. RA: What did you do without your medication? DM: A friend provided it for me until my mother finally was able to bring it in. RA: How did you have the space to draw in a cell with other people? DM: The same place where I was living and sleeping was the place where I could draw: my bed. I wrote letters but also spent my time drawing. RA: How did you get your drawings out? DM: In Valle Grande, I could always get somebody to help me take out the drawings. Someone who worked with an official but who wasn't part of the searching, even sometimes an official. RA: So people were mainly sympathetic to you? DM: Some, yes. When I was in the isolation cell in Valle Grande, a doctor at one point gave me a sheet of paper and a pen so I could draw. RA: It's good to know that there were people inside the system who wanted to help you. DM: Yes. RA: How long have you been living in Miami? DM: I've been here for roughly four months in total in the U.S. RA: Are you here permanently or are you planning to go back to Cuba? DA: At the moment it doesn't make much sense – it's not very logical – for me to be in Cuba. I can't keep going to jail every five minutes. I can't help my family. Now I'm trying to start a new life here, and I'm trying to focus on my career. There are a few motives for me to return, of course, because that's my country, that's my place, but I'm not sure when that will be. RA: I understand you're having a baby with Alexandra. Congratulations. How did you two meet? Alexandra Martinez: I met him over a year ago in Miami. I'm a local journalist in Miami, and he was there for an art show, and I interviewed him, and then a few months later I went to visit family in Cuba and we started dating. DM: It was her plan to be together. She went after me. And she's been supporting me ever since. There have been a lot of dark moments but also some nice moments. RA: Alexandra, are you still working as a reporter in Miami? Alexandra Martinez: Freelancing. I went with him to Cuba for a month, and I was reporting from there. That was our original plan, for me to do that from Cuba with him, and then he went to jail. There was a moment when they didn't want me to visit Danilo. They tried taking my camera away, and then when he was in jail they wouldn't let me see him at first. They said that I was American and I wasn't really his spouse. So I couldn't see him. And then I was with his mom trying to visit him, waiting outside the prison, and in that very moment we hear Danilo's voice, and he's screaming, "They're taking me to Combinado del Este." And that was the first time that Danilo and I had seen each other in a month. They move prisoners around without informing the family. Families have to struggle to find out where the prisoners are, and it was lucky that we were out there. DM: In 55 days I was moved to six prisons. RA: And each time your family didn't know where they had taken you? DM: No. But I would always find a way to relate the news back to my mom. Whether that was through a prisoner who had recently been released or a friend who worked there, I would always find a way to get the news back to her. RA: Were you allowed to have telephone calls? DM: No. It was always very difficult for me to get to the phone. It was complicated, because if the guards helped me they would get into trouble. RA: Did you have trouble getting a visa to come to the U.S.? DM: No. I have a five-year travel visa. RA: Are you planning to study art here? DM: If they pay me, I will teach. I'm not a student anymore. I absorb what's going on around me, and it would be difficult for someone else coming from a different tradition, a different place and time to teach me something. I've always drawn from when I was little. I had art history professors; then I studied marketing and public relations. RA: I understand your mother is in Cuba and you also have a daughter there. DM: Yes, but my mother can't travel. She doesn't have a passport. My daughter has a British passport, like her mother, and I'm trying to see if they will be able to come over here, so I can see my daughter. RA: Is your art recognized in Cuba as much as it is outside? DM: There are many people who know me, who recognize me in many parts of Cuba, in my neighborhood. I didn't make myself famous on social media at first. I'm a graffiti artist who invaded the street, and the people on the street know me. It's a different type of thing, because bloggers, journalists and people who tweet or do interviews are famous on social media, but I'm coming from the street and this gives me a different type of visibility. For example, on May Day, May 1, the activist who went out with the American flag and was beaten, many people had known him and seen him before, but never on the television screen. Although many people would never dare do that, many people now know about him, like the famous Reggaeton artist, Chacal. They will give a shout-out in a concert, and the popular rap group, Los Aldeanos, who are on film, critical of the Regime, have made songs about me as well. Now is when I'm able to take my career to another level of visibility. I'm really just trying to show and teach others through my own conduct. RA: Do you feel now that you're outside that you're getting more information about what is going on in Cuba with opponents of the Regime? DM: Yes, now I can get a lot more, but I already have my network and I'm well connected. I know what's going on in my neighborhood. RA: Is this through the Internet, telephone, word of mouth? DM: Facebook. RA: What was your reaction when Obama suddenly ended the wet foot /dry foot policy? DM: Unfortunately the issue of immigration and people entering the country is really only a concern for the president of that country. Really it was Obama's decision whether or not to end the policy. The reason Cubans emigrate is not really Obama's fault. The blame is on the Castro Regime for forcing people to leave. And at the end of the day, I'm more concerned about the problems facing the Cuban people. Even I could have been a victim of the change, of not being able to come into the country, but really the people to blame is the Castro government. The main concern is changing things inside Cuba. The dictatorship is to blame for me even being here right now. The country's a prison. Look at all the people who attacked the man with the flag. There are people who get attacked and don't appear on television. But we need to be very clear about who's to blame here, because maybe even if they [the Castro Regime] are brought to international trial, they could be set free, and we need to be very clear. Who's to blame? The guard in the prison? The police officer who didn't want to open the door for me or the security guard who was beating me up for saying something? In this case both of them are guilty, RA: Our mutual friend, Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo wants to ask you this question: Was it easy to find a tattoo artist willing to put the image of the martyrs, Laura Pollán and Oswaldo Payá on your skin? Tell us about that experience and what it means to you. [There is a You Tube video of the tattooing.] DM: Yes. A friend made the appointment. I explained what I wanted to do. He told me, "Don't record my face." And immediately I had a solo appointment just for me. Another problem with art is that tattoo artists in Cuba are persecuted by the Regime. It's not a legal business. They don't give out licenses. Everyone is persecuted. RA: Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo has another question: In 2011, in the first article ever published about you, which appeared in Diario de Cuba, he quoted you as saying that you were like "the noise of the people." Today, six years later, what do you feel is the noise of Cuba? DM: I believe that there's some "noise" now with respect to graffiti. There are a few graffiti street artists, like Yulier [Yulier Rodríguez Pérez]. I love his work. He does graffiti on the street, very morose-looking surrealist creatures. He's not outrightly political; he doesn't associate himself with anything political. Right now I'm in a process of war against the bad in Cuba, and even heroes like José Martí had to leave Cuba and go into exile for some years. So I consider what I'm doing now to be part of this process, part of this war that I'm fighting. I didn't leave to forget about what's going on. I don't stop working. I don't stop thinking every moment, every day, about what I started and what I want to achieve. So there's a lot left to do. RA: What about what's happening in Venezuela. What would it take for a movement like that to happen in Cuba? DM: No, it's a different situation. The people in Venezuela are completely different. RA: What do you predict will happen when Raúl steps down in 2018? DA: I don't like predictions. The future belongs to the future. But I believe that what comes after Raúl is going to be another Castro. They will put different faces, different people to control the economy, different people to control different sectors, but at the end of the day they're all puppets for the Regime. And one day they can put up on the television that so-and-so, like Miguel Díaz Canel, is betraying the revolution. Mariela Castro knows what she's doing with the homosexual community, running around with the flag, and they're trying to make out that what she's doing is not a political campaign, not a political strategy, but of course it is. What's coming is Mariela. That's what they're preparing. She's taking a political platform. And if it were the sons, they would have created a political campaign for them. But the only thing people see is Mariela Castro going around, touting herself, doing whatever she wants and getting away with it, so we can only imagine that she is staging a political campaign to build the next face, the future of the revolution, something progressive, a human rights activist, a woman. RA: But she wont be officially replacing her father. DM: No. I wouldn't dare make that type of prediction, but I can see that she'll be the president; she'll be the one controlling everything from behind the scenes. It will all be the same. RA: So we should talk about your upcoming art exhibit in San Francisco. DM: I'll be inside of a cell for three days not eating anything, just drinking water. RA: And at night? DM: Same thing. I'll be drawing portraits of political prisoners to raise awareness not just in Cuba but also in the whole world. RA: What about a bathroom? DM: There is one inside the cell. RA: Are you going to have more of your paintings up in the gallery? DM: There will be a total of about 20-25 paintings, all the drawings I did in prison and the most recent ones. They will be for sale. RA: And this exhibit is going on how long? DM: Two weeks, but I'll only be there for three days. RA: What are your future plans? DM: I'll continue with my work here. First I'm trying to take my art to the next level. Not just in the U.S. but in the whole world, the free world. Now there's a show coming up called "Angels and Demons," on May 11. Then I'm going to Europe for an Oslo Freedom Forum and Internet event, and then in September, this same show is going to Houston. The goal is to not stop working, to build a larger platform, so that when I decide to go back to Cuba, I will have a larger following, a larger layer of protection. We're dealing with a group of murderers, of assassins, and we don't know if they will detain me or not, so I have to keep doing what I'm doing. That's my job. Source: Interview with El Sexto (Danilo Maldonado) in San Francisco – Translating Cuba - http://ift.tt/2pA8Aa9 via Blogger http://ift.tt/2r2O2Iv