#thirty bucks for it not too shabby

[wittness]

LIQUOR STORE ANON. you would not BELIEVE what just happened..

i friggin. we ordered it from like 2 places and NEITHER of them had it.. ( why is it shown as available if you don’t have it stores, come on!! ). most other places either had a different one or if i got the 12 yr, i’d have to wait for it to arrive tomorrow.

had to actually go out to *potentially* get it from the only other store we found it. BUT I HAVE IT NOW. good god. very excited to try, and it better be good.

[bidoldaccount]

My new (but old) story!

Let’s take a walk:

1. The first chapter of this story has been sitting in my draft for years and a few days ago I was like “what good is a story in the drafts” ya know? Even if it’s not the best, someone outta see it. So I spend two days cranking out 18 chapters, just on a fucking roll. And I present the first chapter right here.

2. Ashton in this story is gender fluid. I am not gender fluid myself so I do not wish to offend or harm anyone with my writing so if you feel offended by it please, please let me know how I can fix it.

3. This is a GAY 5sos story. Hetero makes me ✨uncomfy✨ as I have recently discovered that I am a lesbian. Big shock. I know. Me too. Anyways, this story is lashton and malum so if you don’t like that, please pass it to someone who does.

4. The second chapter of this story is on Wattpad so if you want to read it I encourage you to hop on over there.

5. Enjoy 😌

Chapter One: Luke

The bench was cold beneath the sweater that luke had placed on top of it to cover the wet patches. Water was still trickling down from the trees, evidence of the rain that had been showering down just hours ago. Luke set his backpack on his feet so it wouldn't touch the wet ground. He dug around inside until he found his headphones, tugging on them a bit to get them untangled from his notebook. He zipped up his bag and looked up at the sky with a frown. It had been raining on and off for the past few days, casting a lazy, restless shadow over the school.

Luke stood up and tugged his backpack straps over his shoulders. He held onto the straps as he walked to the bus stop, plugging his headphones into his phone on the way there.

"Hey Luke!" Someone shouted just as he was about to put the second earbud into his ear. He turned around, his shoes squeaking slightly on the wet pavement. Behind him, there was a group of three boys and two girls, snickering to themselves as they stared over at Luke. The girls blindly giggled behind the three guys.

"Man, tell your mom to stop calling me. I thought the whole point was one night of fun," one of the boys smirked. Luke rolled his eyes as he turned back around, ignoring him and his snide comment.

"Does she have a card or something or do we just show up to the door with five bucks?"

“Come on man, you know she's not worth that much!"

"Ha! Right, maybe four? Three? How much for her to suck me off? Or would she do that for free?"

"She'd probably pay you!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Luke snapped, his cheeks red as he whipped around to face them.

"Oh damn, sorry Hemmings. Are you feeling left out? I'm not gay but you know Ashton would love to have you suck his dick." One of the guys was grabbing someone's shoulders then and wrapping his arm around the boys chest. At first glance Luke thought it was a girl, but upon further examination, Luke recognized the person.

Ashton Irwin was the only person that was genuinely open about their sexuality. Ashton was gender fluid, and judging by the checkered yellow and black skirt, black thigh highs, and shimmery lip gloss, she would be using feminine pronouns. Luke didn't know much about the schematics of gender fluidity, but he knows that he likes the way Ashton's not afraid to be themself.

"No, no, Ashy boy would love to get his mouth around him, wouldn't you Ash?" The boy with his arm around ashton squeezed a bit.

"Get off of me you asshole!" Ashton slipped from the boys grip easily, shoving hard at his chest. "You're a fucking prick!" She spat before storming away, her heavy boots thudding against the wet pavement. Luke rolled his eyes and started to climb onto the bus as the boys continued to throw insults at his expense. Luke dropped down into one of the bus seats, sinking a bit before the old cushion settled. He tuned out all of the other students piling on with music playing at a medium volume, only vaguely aware of someone sitting beside him. He stared out of the window, dotted with drops of rain and slightly foggy.

The bus was cold, but it was that type of cold that was also muggy to where you needed your jacket but your skin was always too warm. Luke leaned his head against the bus window as it started moving, slowly behind all of the other buses.

Just before they left the gate, Luke caught sight of Ashton again. She was sitting on a bench, typing furiously on her phone as her boot tapped incessantly against the ground. Luke couldn't peel his eyes away from her until she was physically out of sight. Her brow had been furrowed and her tan cheeks were flushed from the cold. Despite how angry she looked, she still looked incredibly beautiful, Luke could comfortably admit that to himself.

The bus ride was twenty minutes long and only a few kids got out at Luke's stop. Their neighborhood wasn't 90210 but it wasn't too shabby either. Two and three story houses with long driveways and high security fences. Luke walked thirty minutes away from the bus stop, the houses thinning out slightly the closer he got to the forest that lined the back of the neighborhood. His house was the last one on the block. It was a two story house, painted blue and half of the porch painted yellow. Luke dug his keys out from his backpack and unlocked the door quietly.

Immediate regret flooded through him when he half stepped inside. There was a point where you see some things so much that they just don't effect you anymore. Although most of those things are clowns, or spiders, or the dark, but none of those things are your mother on her knees for your neighbor, Mr Nelson.

Luke backed away and shut the door silently, banging his fist against his forehead. He walked around the side of the house, as he should have to begin with, and unlocked the gate. He secured the lock when he was through and walked a little further down into the yard.

There was a small cabin behind the house, standing at about 13 feet tall. Luke walked up 3 steps to stand on the porch, flipped through his keys, and unlocked the door. The entire cabin smelled like him, which settled something inside of his stomach. He dropped his backpack by the door and toed his shoes off beside it.

There was a record player in the middle of a tall bookshelf in the living room, filled to the brim with records. Luke picked out an Iron and Wine record and set it on the record player. He allowed the music to play at a low volume as he pulled his jacket off and collapsed onto the couch. It felt safe here. In his little cabin behind his house. His house where his mother was living up to the towns impression of her. His house where he hasn't slept in three years. He allowed Iron and Wine to wash away all of those thoughts and pushed him into sleep.

[valarie69a79-blog]

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[velvet-roads]

What Happens In Vegas: Chapter 2

Chapter 1:

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1565

Music: 22 Faces- Periphery/ Prelude 12/21- AFI

          It was monumentally disturbing to you how easy Cowboy thought it would be to catch his prey. The sad truth was, in Las Vegas it really wasn’t that hard. It wasn’t called ‘Sin City’ for shits and giggles. The place is just as dangerous as it is fun.

          Now that the vamp was dead, it was time to get out of Dodge. You pulled a black bandanna out of your bag and wrapped up your knife. It was best not to get blood all over everything. Then you went into the small bathroom to clean yourself up. Thank God you weren’t wearing much, it made wiping off noticeable blood that much easier. Once you were clean-ish and had removed your fingerprints off of any possible surfaces you could have touched without thinking, it was time to slip out quietly.  

          You pulled a nondescript, oversized, black, Las Vegas novelty zip up out of your bag and threw it on. Flipping up the hood, you exited the darkroom, keeping your head down. Vegas had cameras and video EVERYWHERE. Even when you had made it into the elevator, you still kept your eyes glued to the floor. You didn’t have the aggressive oaf to block you now.

          Several more people ended up joining you on your little ride down to the lobby. Though it was now after 2 in the morning, the entrance hall was still crowded; as were the streets. You felt so suspicious never looking up from the ground, cloaked in your hoodie with your fishnets and converse standing out from underneath. Fortunately though, you were not even close to the most disreputable looking thing in a two mile radius.        

          After walking a couple blocks, you discreetly left your jacket on a fire hydrant. Your outfit wasn’t that crazy for down town at 2 in the morning. You once saw a drag queen dressed as the little mermaid. Shell bra with fake boobs and all.

          The closest hotel to you now was the Bellagio, so you popped inside to buy a new hoodie. Granted it was warm enough in Vegas that you didn’t need a jacket but to you it wasn’t fun to be traipsing around the streets in so little. Plus, you were in a hurry before and weren’t sure you got all visible blood spatter off of you.

          There was no doubt in your mind that Cowboy was going to be found soon. Once the body was discovered there was most definitely going to be an investigation of some sort. That was your main reason for going in and getting a new sweatshirt. You stopped in the bathroom to remove your fishnets, found a drunk girl with the same color hair as you, who was willing to take a hundred bucks to change outfits with you, then you walked through the hotel and came out of the guest check-in entrance wearing a slutty blue dress. This way, even if the cops see you on the cameras, you no longer have that specific outfit.

          Then a thought occurred to you, Cowboy had friends. You were so concerned about not getting caught by the police that you hadn’t even thought of the other vampires yet. It was a good thing you had work in town because now you had to stay and finish off the rest of the fangs. However, all that excitement was going to have to wait at least a few hours because you needed to sleep.  

          Grabbing an Uber, you headed off the strip to a small campground thirty minutes out. It was a funny place. C.C Shooting Park was an RV park and a shooting range. It was nice to have a place to shoot a few if you needed the stress relief.  

          Your way of living, when it came to hunting, was a contrast to the general hunter population. Not including the honest wage, most hunters lived a life of fast food and cheap motels. Since death was inevitable in this line of work, you refused to let the last place to lay your head be a sketchy mattress. In place of a crappy motel, you lived in a van. Now that sounds very hippie/homeless but your van is not the gutter picture that most people would think of. There is no half naked woman on the side riding some sort of mythical creature.

          You had a love of vintage cars so you lived in a purple and off-white VW camper van. The little shack on wheels had everything you would ever need; a full-size bed in the back with storage underneath, one side with enough counter space to have a small stove and a little sink, a tiny table with a few well-placed power outlets for your laptop or phone charger etc., and storage space galore. Seriously, there was storage everywhere. The space was small but extremely cozy. The only downside to the van life was not having your own bathroom. However, campground restrooms weren’t too bad, nine times out of ten.

         Life in your violet and cream camper wasn’t too shabby. If you wanted to go to the beach or camp in the rain forests of the Pacific Northwest, you could. Vanning it in hot as hell Vegas was definitely not your favorite. Luckily, one small fan, open windows and in some cases a dehumidifier worked wonders in quickly cooling the small space.

          You had the Uber driver drop you off at the entrance. It was going to be a little bit of a hike to your home but that was OK. It was secluded, quiet, and fairly safe. Walking through the dusty dead grass with nothing but the sound of the earth under your feet was cathartic. The stark silence in contrast to the club thumping you worked in was nice.

           Under the light of the half-moon you saw your little amethyst and ivory home, and you swore you could hear your bed calling you. As you unlocked and opened the door, you were greeted with a small gust of heat mixed with the scent of a cedar-wood and bourbon candle. That was another nice thing about a small space, it took no effort to make it smell nice. Inversely the same thing could be said about it being, less than fresh.

            Crawling inside, you promptly shut the doors and opened the sunroof to air out the stuffy space. Van life wasn’t for everyone. You had to enjoy nesting. That meant being cozy and in some cases cramped. All around you was beautiful wood paneling; the floor, counters, cabinets and walls. Most of your furniture covers were black, easy to re dye or didn’t show staining. For example, no one would know that you spilled red wine on your bed or that you had gotten makeup on your pillow.

           Even though you really didn’t want to, you had to take a shower. There was no doubt in your mind that you had missed some of the vamp blood on your quick cleanup, and it was very possibly in your hair. Under your bed was your clothing storage, dance wear, daily wear, and lounge. Each had their own drawer. You pulled out a black tank with a sassy saying (I put the fun in funeral), a pair of black shorts,  and a pair of flip-flops for the shower. Another random drawer held the shower essentials and a rather large bag of quarters. Most decent camping bathrooms required quarters for hot water. So, between that and the need to do laundry you always had a ton. The last thing you grabbed was the knife and the bandanna out of your bag. You figured that you might as well clean them too. A good hot shower after a hunt always felt amazing, both tension and excess vamp blood, going down the drain.  

           Once clean and refreshed the realization of how exhausted you were officially set in. Gathering up your things, you headed back to your van. You chuckled to yourself as you walked past the mirrors in the bathroom. Before your shower you looked like something out of a crazy 80s music video. Now it was just you, simple and plain you.  

          While your body was excited for sleep, your brain had other plans. That night/early morning, you dreamt about Cowboy’s friends and what they were going to want to do to you. Nightmares came with the territory and you were more than used to dealing with them but sometimes it would be nice to wake up from a nightmare in the arms of a great man. However, falling in love and keeping them alive was not something that was possible in this life. Not to mention, most normal guys tend to go running for the hills when they found out about your job and life. Rejection is one thing, but sending them running and screaming is something else.  

          As you laid in bed, you thought more about what your fictional Mr. wonderful would be like. Physically, Cowboy actually came pretty close. You liked a man who was masculine, a man who could handle himself. Most importantly, he had to be able to handle you.  

          Gripping your pillow tight, for the first time in a long time, you dreamt of your perfect man. A man you would never have.          

[amberlynnmurdock]

Digsy’s Diner (Chapter 3)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader 

Words: 1587 

Genre: fluff 

Summary: You get a surprise phone call at work. 

Notes: I consider this chapter an introduction to the issues Bucky and the reader will have to face at some point, as their relationship deepens. I won’t say more. Enjoy!!! 

TWO

“Oh, Brenda, he was an absolute dream. I haven’t been taken out in a while and he just–God–he was amazing!” You beamed as you cleaned off a plate and put it in the dish pit. Brenda squealed with excitement. She had always been like the older sister you never had, and when it came to a situation like romance, it was comforting to know she was there for you to talk to.

“Honey, you have no idea how happy I am to hear that. I’m so glad you had fun with him. I knew he couldn’t be a bad guy!” Brenda said.

“Yeah,” You said softly, “I mean, I still have to get to know him, like really know him,” you said to her, “but I like him.”

“Oh, I know,” She agreed, “But for now, we can admire. How old is he?”

You bit your lip and turned around the counter, “Twenty one.”

Brenda raised her eyebrows, “Y/N! He’s older than you?”

“Well, that’s not my fault! And he’s only two years older than me. What’s the big deal?”

“Does your mama know how old he is?”

“No,” You tell her.

“Then that’s the big deal!”

You sigh, “I’ll tell her at some point. But really, I don’t see the big deal here. I’m almost twenty.”

“That’s–the age is not the problem. You’re saving up for school, which you intend to go to soon! And him? He’s enlisting soon, you said. Your lives will be going in separate directions at some point, Y/N.”

“I’m not worried about that yet. No one is going to stop me from going to college. And plus, I want to have fun!” You defended.

“You can have fun, honey, but I just don’t want you to get hurt again,” Brenda’s voice is softer now, and you can tell she’s choosing her words carefully.

“Richard hurt me at a time where I didn’t know what anything meant, or was supposed to be. He took advantage of me. I know the warning signs now,” You explained to Brenda, but it sort of felt like you were explaining it to yourself.

Brenda raises her hands, “Alright, alright. I mean, I approve of Bucky–I just don’t know if I approve of this situation.”

“What situation?” You wink at her, and she laughs lightly as you walk away to wait your table.

Bucky hops of the bus and practically sprints to Steve’s apartment. He can’t wait to tell his best friend about the amazing girl he took out last night–you.

He bounds up the metal steps and knocks on Steve’s door, impatient for an answer.

“Just a minute!” Steve’s voice is heard through the wooden door. After a few locks unlatch, the door opens. Steve smiles,

“Hey, Buck. Why are you so out of breath?” He asks.

Bucky walks in as Steve opens the door wider. Kicking off his shoes, he sits down on the beat up sofa and sighs,

“I’m in love, Stevie. In love.”

Steve laughs as he shuts the door, sitting on the chair opposite the sofa, “You always say that.”

Bucky leans forward, “I’m being serious. I took out this amazing girl last night–Y/N–and she’s something else. She’s funny, sweet, a bit cheeky at some points. She’s beautiful, let me tell ya. And an amazing dancer. And she’s a writer! You’d love her, Steve. I want you to meet her as soon as I can make it happen!”

“Sounds like a real doll, Buck,” Steve smiled, “You really like her?”

“Yeah, I do. I can’t wait to see her again,” Bucky smiled to himself. Where was he going to take you next? Arcade? Coney Island? Milkshakes? There were so many things Bucky wanted to do with you, he didn’t even know where to start.

“How old is she?”

Bucky sighs, “Nineteen.”

“Nineteen?” Steve raises his eyebrows, “okay.”

“I know, but it doesn’t bother me. Two years not too shabby. I don’t see the big deal.”

“Well–let me put it to ya this way: you’re enlisting soon, right?”

“Right.”

“Right. What does she do again? Writer?”

“Well, she’s going to college soon to be professional.”

“A-ha. There it is.”

“What?”

“Buck, what if things got serious with this girl? Y/N? You’d be leaving and she’d be going, too.”

“I mean,” Bucky sighed, “It could work. I’d make sure of it.”

Steve noticed that this was probably the first time Bucky’s ever considered that issue. It’s written all over his face–he could tell that Bucky was already trying to find a solution in his head. That’s one of the things Steve really admired about Bucky. But that was also a weakness Bucky had, too. He often forgot to consider his own feelings in matters like this.

“I hope it does. I’d love to meet her.” Of course, Bucky had just came beaming in about you, and Steve didn’t want to rain on his parade. If anything happens, Steve would always be there for him.

“So, when are you going to see her again?”

“Y/N! Phone! And what did I say about phone calls, not on the clock!” Ken Digsy, the owner of Digsy’s Diner and your boss, calls for you. You immediately set down your glass of water. I didn’t tell anyone to call me, did I?

“Thanks, Ken,” You say sheepishly, “won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He waves you off, not that frustrated with the phone call. Once you were sure he was far enough, you put the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, doll. How’s work today?” It takes you a moment to register the voice, and once you do, you have to bite back a squeal of excitement. Instead, a big grin spreads across your face as you turn your body away from your tables.

“Oh, hi, Bucky. It’s actually pretty slow today, could be the weather,” You say a bit nervously.

“Ah, I see.”

“Is there anything wrong, Bucky?” You ask, curious as to why he’s calling you at work. It also just sunk in that he remembered what days you worked, and that for some reason meant a lot to you.

“No–nothing at all, doll. Just wanted to hear your voice,” Bucky says and you can see the cheeky smile on his face.

“That was so cheesy,” You reply, stifling a giggle.

“Was it? I thought it’d work on you!”

“Nope. You’ll have to try harder.”

“Okay well, how about this. What are you doing after work? Any plans?”

“Bucky, it’s almost the middle of June. I have absolutely no plans or homework or anything.”

“Well then, that’s perfect. I’ll pick you up at… three o’clock?”

You look at the clock and the amount of tables you still have. Besides the tables, you also had to do some side work before Ken would let you go.

“Three thirty,” You reply.

“Three thirty it is.”

Milkshakes. This is what Bucky had in mind when he called you, and this is what he did when you told him to try harder.

A man after your own heart.

You’re sitting across from each other, a hint of a smile on both of your faces as you sip your shakes. Yours strawberry, his vanilla. Bucky’s wearing a plain white tee shirt and suspenders. His hair isn’t combed back like it usually is–instead it’s a little blown out. Disheveled, but still put together. Effortless.

He catches you gazing at him and you look away, suddenly interested in the scenery outside the window. You hide the blush on your cheeks as Bucky leans in and takes your hands under the table.

You ask him about his day and he tells you he worked up until about two o’clock, and that was when he debated on calling you at work. He admits that he didn’t want to come off as creepy, but you didn’t take it that way at all. Actually, you thought it was sweet. Working in a restaurant could get stressful, so getting a call from someone you know from outside of work is like a breath of fresh air.

As Bucky tells you about this day, you feel yourself finding more things to admire about him. He’s funny, and he’s so genuine when he speaks–like every word and detail that goes into what he’s telling you serves a purpose. He doesn’t want to leave anything out.

“Can I ask you something?” You ask Bucky. Bucky nods earnestly,

“Anything, Y/N.”

“So… what exactly made you want to join the war?”

Your question appears to have caught him off guard, which makes sense since just before, Bucky was talking about how on a delivery once, the truck had gotten a flat tire and him and his coworker had to hitch hike back to Brooklyn.

“I want to fight for our country, and fight for the people who can’t,” Bucky replies, “that’s why.”

“That’s great, Bucky. When can I start calling you soldier?” You ask with a hint of a smile on your face.

Bucky looks at you for a moment–maybe this was a conversation meant for another time. A conversation that maybe he didn’t want to think about right now. But right now, it was the two of you in his favorite secret ice cream parlor in Brooklyn, in the almost middle of June, as you described it. So, Bucky smiles, and dips his head,

“How ‘bout once I get the uniform?”

“Deal.”

[elfnerdherder]

Ill Intentions: Chapter 6

You can read Chapter 6 on Ao3 Here

Check out my Patreon Here and support my writing! Every bit helps :)

Chapter 6: Flashbacks (The Writer’s Gimmick)

           He went to the mountains again, after he ensured no one else was around. As long as one wasn’t too much trouble, park rangers left well enough alone, and he figured that he had more than enough ability to keep quiet while he gathered his thoughts. That was the name of the game, he figured, as he picked his way along a small hiking trail. He needed to gather his thoughts, cast every which way as they were.

           The bodies were gone, but the scene remained. The bloodstains remained. Despite the fresh air, the death remained.

           Will sat down in the pine needles where he’d fallen just days before, and he stared at the space around him. The muted glow of his red headlamp ensured that he wouldn’t spook wildlife, although it did absolutely nothing to lend the space a lighter air. The bloodstains didn’t look as terrible in the red light, though. They could have been the remnants of spilled water, if his imagination hadn’t already repainted the bodies displayed with care and utmost purpose.

           He inhaled the taste of madness, and he decided that it was a meticulous sort of madness to be.

           Calculating. That is what he’d call the Chesapeake Ripper. Intelligent, calculating, and amidst his delicate reveling in the macabre, there was the soul of a poet.

           Will wondered if the Chesapeake Ripper was a writer as well, in his spare time, or if his artistic renditions were only best displayed with the use of flesh and blood.

           He stayed there for far longer than he meant to; time, for all of its clever uses, escaped him as he inhaled the scene where Mary Mai used to be. In its dips and sways, he wondered at her life, run as it was with the notifications on her watch. His own watch was quiet, keeping time with the digital face muted to a lowlight.

           It wasn’t until the sound of a raccoon behind him startled him from his reverie that he realized he’d accumulated dew along his skin and clothing. He blinked once, then rapidly to dispel the strange sense of time slipping away once more, and he stood, bones complaining and creaking from holding his pose for so long. The clock read 4:23 A.M.

           He didn’t leave Mary Mai behind on that mountain; rather, he took her with him, to better keep him company as he stayed awake the rest of the night, wondering at the care the Chesapeake Ripper took as he painted the world around him a lurid shade of red.

-

           He went to the alleyway where the homeless man tried to trip him. It was a long shot for him to still be there, but when Will saw him hunched next to the same broken crate of what he could now identify as tomatoes long gone bad, he figured he was more than just a homeless man.

           “How much?” he prompted.

           The man peered up at him, tilted his head so his fringe covered his milky eyes. Huddled into his jacket as he was, he gave the impression of something old, decrepit.

           “How much?” Will prompted again.

           “For him, twenty,” the man finally said through chapped lips. “For you, thirty.”

           Right. Will fished thirty bucks out of his wallet and handed it over. The man counted, then counted again. Satisfied, he tucked it up into the ski cap on his head and scratched lousy hair.

           “What do you know about the man from before?” Will asked.

           “What do you know about the man from before?” he replied.

           “Not enough. Not a name, not an occupation; you know something, though. He paid you to keep you here to wait for me.”

           “Did he?”

           Will scowled, motioning towards the ski cap where his money now lay.

           “He did,” the man said, relenting. He rubbed his stubbly jaw, mulling over Will’s shabby suit and tie done in only a half-Windsor. “He’d never dress like you, that’s for sure.”

           “Upper class?”

           “Very upper class. Socialite.”

           The Chesapeake Ripper was a socialite. Will nodded, mind turning at that. It would make sense that he’d have that sort of affluence, able to blend into the crowd where no one would ever suspect him. The rich had a way of doing that –being just aloof enough even without their dirty secrets. A socialite that liked their home private and untouched wouldn’t be questioned the same way a poor man with odd, eccentric tendencies would be.

           “He’s not American,” Will said.

           “European.”

           “Not English.”

           “Not French.”

           They considered one another, and Will sighed. “What did he tell you to give to me? Information? A riddle?”

           The man reached into the many jackets on his frame and retracted a letter, stained by fingers turning it over and over and over again. Not the Chesapeake Ripper’s fingers, but the hands of the man in front of him, one curious but not dumb. The wax seal on it was unbroken. Rather than the plain white copier paper of his riddles, it was a thick, rich material that felt like cloth fibers had been woven into it rather than just tree pulp.

           “Is that all?”

           “He said to say, ‘Good luck, Will Graham.’”

           Will started to walk away, then stopped. He glanced back at the man that watched, eyes yellowed and skin faded, wind-chapped. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

           The man laughed, stood up, and walked away from him.

           Seated at his desk, Will turned the letter over and over in his palms, getting a feel for the weight of the paper and just how expensive it was. He knew a guy that could probably find out which store it was purchased at, maybe find someone who’d let him look at the cameras and see what he could see.

           That would probably require him to be sociable, though.

           He opened the letter, slid fingers along the dried wax and withdrew the paper inside that was of equal thickness and weight. It matched, like he’d found a bargain set, something aged and faintly reminiscent of parchment.

Dear Will,

           You haven’t taken this to Jack Crawford. It’s also not an assumption that you haven’t informed him of our tête-à-tête –I know enough about you to be able to presume such things. No doubt now you’ve ruminated on the loss of Mary Mai for long enough that you have decided that you’ve been cheated something, and you’re going to see to it that I’m found and held accountable.

           I’m looking forward to this.

           You don’t recall how we met. I will remind you, if anything to remind you that there is someone in this world that sees your capacity for endless possibility. Two years ago, a man stumbled into me, drunk, shoving his way out of a bar with glasses askew and tone slurred. I hadn’t been looking for my latest victim; I’d satiated my hungers and curiosities for the time. There was just enough force in your violence, though, that I decided to see just what would become of you. I hadn’t yet decided if your end would be by myself or something else –alcohol poisoning? A mugging? –but I was curious. The human condition, rife with its imperfections, foolishness, and greed, is a curious thing.

           You found your way into an alley where a man with knife mange on his arm stopped you and demanded your money. Any other would have tried to console him or fight him. You did neither.

           Instead, you laughed.

           Your glasses, something I’d thought to be crooked from your inebriation, were straightened, and you met his eyes and bared your teeth like a wild animal. Crooked by forced appearance, by nothing more than the desire of an aesthetic to make you seem far weaker than you were.

           ‘Your hands are shaking from withdrawal, and the pale skin on your finger tells me a recent end to a rather serious relationship. Are you desperate, or are you merely stupid?’ you asked him. ‘That prison tattoo is fresh, probably infected. No doubt you thought I’d be an easy target for some quick cash, but you’re going to have to kill me to get it.’

           ‘I’ll kill you,’ the man promised you.

           ‘The roughened, hairless skin on your arm says yes, but there’s a look in your eyes that says no,’ you continued, unheeding of him. ‘Maybe because you’re looking in my eyes and seeing I’d rip your throat out with my teeth before I die. If you’re unsure if what you’re seeing is correct, I promise you it is. You’ll try to stab me, I’ll twist to the side, and I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.’

           ‘Just give me your money,’ he pressed. The knife shifted, a shaky hand from withdrawals, as you’d surmised.

           ‘No, no, haven’t you already realized? You’ve lost.’

           Before he could speak, before he could lunge, the knife was no longer in his hands but yours, and the smile you drew across his guts with the acutest precision cast blood every which way, across your hands, your own stomach, your feet. In the dim light of the alley, Will Graham, I watched you smile as you eased him to the ground, a cold and detached hunger in your eyes as he gasped for help, hands holding his stomach in.

           You took the knife with you and cleaned it meticulously on your shirt as you went.

           I saved him, not because his life was of any form of intrinsic importance, but because as one that once worked in the field of medicine and surgery, I felt a responsibility to at least try. You, though; I decided that you would live. Not because of anything in regards to borrowed time, but because you were savage enough to steal it.

           You’ll be happy to know that he lived, and clearly no charges were filed against you.

           How banal was it for me to realize, finding you sometime later, that your life was not all such excitement and near-death experiences. You didn’t toe the line and let adrenaline and desire be your guide. You worked at a second-rate news agency that specialized in tacky miracle cream ads on the back page beside the rather sour words of a writer whose descriptors of chiffon fell flat. You followed the demands of your watch, beeps informing you of when to eat and drink. You wore glasses, not out of a need to see but a place to put your gaze rather than focus on anyone else around you. You were quiet. You were subdued.

           So much untapped potential you held to create art in your very hands, wasted.

           I’m curious about you, Mr. Graham. I am well aware of mankind’s capacity for violence –cruelty is a trait learned from our human ancestor’s, not our animal predecessors –but there was something so utterly dark and inhibited as yours. Upon reaching your home, did you realize your actions after waking to the sticky, dried substance coating your hands and lips? Did you panic, scrubbing it off into a sink stained with hard water, try and tell yourself it was a dream? Just what had you internalized that made you take it and return in full?

Do you fear that aspect of yourself? Do you fear your own Becoming, allowing that aspect to take hold and Make? I think that by the time this is all done, you won’t.

                                                                                                           -Chesapeake Ripper

           Will read it once, twice. On the third time, he absentmindedly gathered his things, informed Charlie that he had to do some footwork, and left Tattler News, buttoning his jacket against a crisp Fall wind that turned cheeks pink and noses red. The longer he walked, the faster his steps until he found himself not-quite jogging but not-quite walking, a pace that led him farther and farther away from the office until he found himself standing in front of a small pond where ducks paddled lazily through green water.

           He wheezed out a breath, staring at the ugly, questionable green moss and algae before he slid off his jacket, dropped his things, and promptly jumped in.

           The cold was a shock to his system, and it made his heart pound in every joint. Underneath the water that held a tinge of slime, he kept his eyes closed tight and held his breath, letting it soak down deep into his skin. When he could hold his breath no longer, he broke the surface and gulped in air, treading water. Just across the way, a father and daughter pair stared at him, hands full of bread crumbs.

           He swam back to shore and climbed out of the water as casually as he was able. In the face of their still gaping expressions, he explained, “I dropped something in there.”

           “Did you get it?” the daughter asked.

           “Oh, yes,” he said absently. He gathered his things and walked away, dripping water in sporadic splashes across the concrete.

           The taxi driver only let him in after he laid his jacket down across the seat.

           Upon arriving home, he showered and scrubbed himself, checking his watch to ensure nothing had happened to it. It was waterproof up to so many meters, allowing for quick dips in city ponds and long showers, and it responded to his lazy taps and prompts as he blinked hot water out of his eyes.

           As he dressed in another shabby pair of slacks and a button-up, his hands found their way to a knife in his sock drawer, and he turned it over in his hands as he slumped onto his bed and swallowed so hard he could audibly hear the gulp.

           Will Graham had a problem.

           He didn’t remember that night, written so prolifically on what felt like vellum with a rather thin nib from an elegant fountain pen.

           He did remember the next morning, though.

           He woke curled up on his bed with a knife cradled to his chest. He didn’t realize it was a knife, at first. Upon waking, his primary focus was the way liquor churned with his stomach acid, threatening mutiny of the most violent kind.

           He’d have probably kept it down, if the smell of blood hadn’t been so strong under his nose.

           He didn’t manage to make it to the bathroom, and after everything else that morning he, in the end, threw away his blankets and sheets stained with the aftermath of a terribly blurred night. Sitting dejected in his own vomit while his skin was hot and clammy, Will Graham stared down at the knife clenched in his fist, and he dropped it when he realized that it was stained with blood.

           As was the rest of him.

           He stripped the bed, as well as his clothes. Huddled at the bottom of the shower, he scrubbed blood from under his nails, off of the scruff of his face. A whimper passed his lips as he tried frantically to remember what had happened –nothing. It was not the blank wall that people described as memory loss, but more along the lines of an ocean wave, aspects of the evening sliding into place with ease, dipping into shallow spaces of sand to stay, other aspects wiped smooth, decimated with the force of just how much he’d consumed.

           He stayed in the shower until the water went cold, until he was shivering. No memory. No recollection. No idea.

           He thought to go to the police. After vomiting up bile and stomach acid, nothing left inside of him to give, he thought it was only right. He should have realized that subconsciously, he’d already decided to do anything but that as he washed the knife and scrubbed it with bleach, an old toothbrush he’d discovered at the back of a drawer the perfect tool to get into all of the fine places to reach.

           When he sat in his front room for a long time after, trash bag with his sheets and blankets by the door, he finally acknowledged that he was most certainly not going to do anything about it. Whatever it was, it could stay a mystery.

           He turned the knife over in his hands, admired the gut hook on the back. It was a hunting knife, something aged and loved tenderly with a leather-wrapped handle and a freshly sharpened edge. He never used it, tried often enough not to think about it, but every so often he sharpened it.

           According to the Chesapeake Ripper, it was because he’d used it before.

           It could very well be a lie, but he didn’t think it was. The day after that night had scared him, shocked him with the realization of just how capable he was of violence –violence towards what, he hadn’t known, but there’d been enough blood he’d assumed it was bad.

           He tilted the knife, scraped the blade along the hair of his arm. Hair fell against the sharp edge, broken with little effort. It made his skin pink, a half a breath’s pressure from breaking. Knife mange, the Ripper called it. A man with a knife tried to mug him, and in his most intoxicated of states, he’d laughed.

           The Ripper saw Will’s capacity for darkness, and he liked it.

           Where did that leave him?

-

           It left him with an odd taste in his mouth, and he reached out to Todd in marketing to help him track down where the paper came from. Todd was a quick, nervous man whose hands twitched and tapped too much. It didn’t take someone like Will to know it was because of cocaine, although the why behind the addiction was always something that intrigued him.

           He wasn’t quite sure if it was the journalist in him, or if it was the empathy disorder. Probably a bit of both.

           “It’s nice paper,” Todd said, feeling up the envelope. Will hadn’t thought it wise to give him the letter where his most sordid secret lay. “Real nice. Like rich cat nice.”

           “Like boutique nice?” Will wondered. He watched Todd’s fingers tap, and it made his own hand drum idly on his leg.

           “Like Staples couldn’t get their hands on it nice,” Todd said. “I could find it. What for, though?”

           “They sent donation money for the Mai family with no other information. We have to file something for donations, and I just need the name so that I can put it on record when it comes time for tax season,” he lied. Will realized that he was actually rather good at that.

           “So you find the place, find the name?” Todd nodded. He’d not yet reached the level of paranoia where he was suspect to the statements of any person. He was at a rather malleable level, all things considered. Impressionable. Usable.

           Will wasn’t sure how he felt, analyzing Todd and finding his addiction weakness to be of use to him –there was knowing it could be of use and actually taking advantage of it. He had to find The Ripper, though. He’d do what he had to.

           “Can you do it?”

           “What do I get for it?”

           “I keep Charlie out of here when you go to your stash that you keep down by the printers.”

           “Got it.” That was no debate. Charlie’s stash was sacred, and Will didn’t have to fork out extra cash just to get something.

           He walked away feeling a little dirty but ultimately hopeful.

           At Beverly’s desk, they looked over a few things, art references to the loving rendition of Birth of Venus, the cold and meticulous Wound Man, the archaic 100 Years of War. Of course, they were not the prints of such paintings –did that make them something other than art? He wasn’t sure. The bodies were placed with such care, such devotion, heads turned in supplication, hands grasping sticks made to look like crude swords. Heads bowed over the paper, Beverly seemed just as mystified as he was. When he looked up to her face, though, all he could see was disgust.

           “What do you think?” He tried not to sound like he was worried for her answer, unsure in the face of her expression.

           “This guy thinks this is art?” she asked.

           “…In his mind, it’s art. It’s a recreation, it’s…” He pondered over a word that wouldn’t make her nose scrunch up so high. “It’s uplifting, in a way. He takes them and makes them more.”

           “Makes them more?”

           “Immortalizes them.”

           “Huh.” He wasn’t sure what kind of ‘huh’ that was. Their heads bowed back down over the photos Freddie had managed to take. His stomach soured that she didn’t quite see what he could see. He knew what that said about him, that his empathy could somehow reach even these people in their final stages of life, recreations of something beautiful, somehow made More.

           “He used to be a doctor,” Will said quietly. Beverly peeked about to make sure Freddie wasn’t lurking.

           “You think?”

           Will knew, but he wasn’t going to say anything like that. “These people are being mutilated, but they’re also missing organs inside, right? Surgical trophies, taken out with skill and precision. There’s research to try and know how, then there’s going to school and actually knowing how to remove organs so well. It’d be messier if he wasn’t.”

           “So?”

           “What if he knew these people? What if he’d spoken with them, interacted with them?”

           Like he’d spoken with and interacted with me, apparently.

           “You think maybe he found some of them while working in the hospital?” Beverly asked. “Or maybe all of them?”

           “There are no other ties to one another, I looked. Maybe medical records?”

           “Maybe online records?” Beverly suggested.

           “Do we have a way of finding out?”

           They let out curt sighs in unison, and Will’s watch beeped. Time for a water break. He stood, walked over to the water cooler, ruminated on his theory. It made sense for the Chesapeake Ripper to have once been a surgeon –he’d said he was once a doctor. Did they all go to the same hospital? The same doctor? Similar injuries? As much as people liked to create fear with the idea that there was no rhyme or reason to his choices, there had to be something. For some, it was hair color; others, foot size. Even faint, even obscure, there had to be something that made them stand out to the Ripper.

           He finished his water and tapped the icon on the watch. That was four waters for the day versus four coffees. The fact that the watch had an app so that he could see just how much coffee it took for him to function versus water for him to stay hydrated made him wonder just how many other people in the world were like him, slaves to a device that made them appear relatively normal.

           There was Mary Mai, at least. Maybe others used schedules, notes, agendas, or were rich enough to have a secretary do it for them. Just how many people were there like him?

           At the very least, he figured the Chesapeake Ripper was somewhat like him. Normal enough for no one to question. Normal enough that as he tied and stitched tabards onto the bodies of his victims, no one thought to look in the creases of his palms to see the blood.

-

           He got home late; his watch’s reminders were furious, insistent that he’d missed dinner and his evening water. It did congratulate him, however, on his steps for the day. Countless trips to and from his desk to Beverly’s ensured that he hadn’t by any means doubled his step goal, but he’d at least made a good headway.

           Do you want to increase your step goal to match your current records? The watch asked.

           “No,” he replied out loud, and he dismissed the notification. There was supposed to be something satisfying about meeting a goal so well that they wanted you to create a new one. He still hadn’t found an app to care about things like that.

           He did care, however, when he looked up from his watch to see that dinner had been laid out for him, rich and decadent smells wafting from a plate whose intricate filigree on the side boasted something far more luxurious than his dinnerware within his shabby cupboards.

           It looked like lamb; certainly it smelled like lamb. Laid out alongside something that appeared to be mashed cauliflower and parsley in a dark, savory sauce, it gave all indications that it was definitely lamb.

           Will wasn’t entirely sure of that, though.

           Next to the plate was a glass of wine and a glass of water. Propped up beside the glasses, a note lay. It was the same material as the letter that Todd was now investigating, written with the same, careful hand. Will dragged a pinky along one of the curling ‘T’s and bit his lip.

           You should be more particular about the things that you put into your body, especially if you’re going to try and catch me. Enjoy.

           There was no guarantee that it was lamb. Will eyed it with extreme prejudice as he sat down, and he dragged a finger through the sauce before he tasted it. Heady. Flavorful. A hint of thyme and basil. He glanced about the room, but it appeared that nothing else had been tampered with; no Chesapeake Ripper lurked to surprise him with another dinner-for-two.

           If anything, it was entirely likely that this was Mary Mai, laid out in the most exquisite of ways for the Ripper’s amusement, just to see what Will would do.

           Which begged the question: what was he going to do?

           He should call Crawford and try to see if they could glean any prints from the plate or the glass. He should throw the meat away, disgusted with the idea that it could potentially be human meat on his plate.

           And yet…

           In the silence and loneliness of his shabby, rundown apartment, Will Graham picked up a fork with curved, silver tines, and he grasped the matching knife in his other hand. With no one to witness his actions, no one to hiss censure in his ear, he deliberately cut a piece of meat and took a bite, savoring the taste on his tongue.

A special thanks to my patrons, @hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @sylarana @starlit-catastrophe Duhaunt6 and Superlurk! <3

[erinarachma]

Roya-Allyn First Meet #2

   It was rather an awkward first meeting but eventually nice.

   He took her to--she convinced--his favorite side of town. He greeted some people while they both took a walk; the vegetable shop lady, the older kids whom he received sweets, the men in their thirties playing dice, and a younger kid who had just finished his part-time job. After leaving the older kids at the town square, Roya pulled out his hand to give her two pieces of candies after throwing berry-flavored one into his mouth.

"Want some?" He asked. His bangs were long 'till his eyebrows got covered, she thought, it's kinda cute actually. She stopped her small steps and staring at plastic-covered, translucent candies but no movements were made.

"It's okay, I already had a lot in my drawer," he added. Allyn moved her right hand to take them from his palm and nodded in thanks.

"The endorphin, like everyone used to say. I tend to eat it when I tinkering my robots or fixing everybody's stuff,"

"Robots?" she asked. She never had seen such a complicated mechanical object around town since she lived here. Her memories never recall such technology either.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "You didn't see it earlier?"

She shrugged her shoulders faintly. "I thought that was just you repairing things like, radio or something," she replied and feeling guilty to not paying attention at him better.

"Oh, that's my job too, but Pa never give me more difficult tasks than that," he sounded slightly dispirited. While they walk, Roya knocked a can with the inner side of his left feet until it jumped up to another side of the street, clanking and whanging lightly near wooden crates. "It's so exciting to create such an artificial living thing. I want to study it deeper and the truth is, our kingdom didn't have such a specialist, "

Allyn nodded in half-understanding. Boys could be this nerd if they loved their hobbies. "BTW, are you Sir Halberick's granddaughter or something?"

Her honey-like pupils rolled to the side while creating a slight surprise jolt from her small body. "Oh, nothing like that..." she amended quickly. “He took me in after the war. He'd been taking care of me since then.”

Roya's calm green eyes appeared to be frigid and slight doleful that second. He hummed ambiguously then murmuring in silent, "After that, huh. Never get enough of it," and continued to crunch sweets inside his mouth recklessly, shoved his gloved hands into the trouser pockets.

   Uneasy ambiances which prickling down between those two new-met teenagers started to tickle her sense of curiosity. She knew, more than half of total children who lived here were orphans, as a consequence of the late conflict two or three years ago. Apart from that obvious fact, he seemed to not giving too much opinion on it. Well, not that she's interested in that. She even didn’t remember the feeling of losing her parents. She budged her right hand up in idle and started to scrape candy's wrapper with her short nail. The plastic cover's edge was not seen, no matter how hard her nail grazing it. What a troublesome sweetmeat!

"Are you working part-time too?" he asked her. He started to switch his interest to her attempt opening the wrapper.

She paused her finger movement and looking up to think. "Uh, yeah. Starting next weekdays, I guess?" She answered vaguely.

“Oh... Which sector are you in?"

"I don't know. Gramps said I should meet Maggie to learn more. I'm so useless at this job, for not knowing anything,"

"Your first time in the business, huh... good luck, um--"

"Allyn,"

"Allyn? Is that your name?"

"Of course. I'm impressed on how you could have a chat and take a walk together with me in more than ten minutes without knowing my name,"

"Sorry." He coughed while looking sheepishly. "My bad habit,"

"Apology accepted," she smiled and held her laugh. "So, you joined the Petrireis too?"

"Sometimes, when I need money. Maggie knew me so well, so she always assigned me to far places for getting more bucks. Much money, many spare parts to buy. Even though in here they're more like a junk that brand-new parts," he said. His tone sounded like he's proud of his job.

"Is it fun to join it?"

   The auburn-haired young man eying her innocent stare with raised eyebrows. "Well, I think it's fun. You meet people and all. You'd get to know many places. Even though I prefer chatting with other mechanics than running around in town," he shrugged. "But these days, it's so rare to see them, y'know? I think they had been moved to Tragflache, for the sake of helping those damned Rothus. Maybe my father and I just lucky to not get caught--or maybe we're too down-to-earth to not get known in this town..."

"If my gramps knows your father, then you're famous too. In my opinion, though."

"Really? Well, Sir Halberick is amazing, so we're lucky to know him. I adore him so much."

   When they stepped in the border of Central Block, they accidentally stopped in front of a place. It's kind of shabby, with dimly lit room behind the dusty windows. Roya let out an 'Oh!' sounds, gestured the place with his index finger. "It's the main base," he added. Allyn trying to peek what's inside but it's too dim to view the place from afar.

"It's not that clear looking from here, isn't it?"

He sighed. "I don't have any appointments in there and I'm not in the mood to look at those packages still piling in a dreadful mountainous way, but... okay, let's take a closer look."

   His long steps echoing around the corridor while his hand lightly grasping her wrist to get closer to the base of so-called Petrireis. After another three steps, Roya pointed at the woman in her orange jumpsuit and bob-styled brown hair covered in a hat who organized dozens of boxes, mouthed 'Maggie' comically and grinned before a loud voice calling his name from inside. It seemed someone caught him making fun of her.

"Roya!"

   Roya switched his attention to that dull-looking window which divides the main street and the main room of the base. That waving hands excitedly shown from the man with thick-framed glasses and orange-blue jacket which stood behind transparent glass. She could hear a long whistle from her side and a similar wave copied by Roya.

"Hey, Tim!"

   Tim mouthed something similar like 'C'mere for a second, I need to talk to you.' while continuing to wave his hand. Roya moved back for a bit and pointing at himself. The guy with glasses nodded, furiously gesturing them to come closer.

"Probably had been banging his old computer this whole weekend," he told Allyn by turning his head a bit lower. "He gets itchy when it's broken,"

   The one whose Roya called Maggie before looked rather tired behind her huffs and sighs, but she vigorously scribbling down notes and counting how many boxes around her. She turned her head after lining up smaller size boxes in front of her then blinked when her eyes found a familiar figure arriving at her doorsteps.

"Oh, Roya, now isn't your shift to deliver packages, though?" she said, inclining her head in confusion while her mouth forming a circular shape.

Roya waved his right hand in front of his face, declining. "Nah, I don't want to if you offer it, anyway. I just got called by Tim," he replied. "Now we're here... why don't you ask something to her, Allyn?"

"Me?" She felt her voice squeaking like a rubber duck.

"Yes! It'll be better if you asking her questions now since this young lady is idle doing nothing,"

"Hey! I arranged packages for tomorrow shifts!" Maggie spat, her hands ready to throw him a newly arrived box of tapes.

"Is it okay?" Allyn grasped both her hands in confuse.

"Maggie, this girl is new here, you know Sir Halberick? She's his relative, granddaughter or something,"

"Ooh, then you know Calavi?" Allyn nodded. "What a coincidence! I'm her friend since school days!"

"You were young too before, huh--OUCH, it's hurt!"

"Shut up, troublemaker. Go see Tim in the office,"

   It was interestingly funny to see Roya threw Maggie a deathly glare while walking past the counter full of stamped boxes and rubbed his reddened ear roughly. Her views changed. No matter how negative the perception of his in her head, Allyn started to like this young boy and his antics. It's funny and playful yet he has another serious side in him. The older woman just clicked her tongue, hands-on hip, shouting another call of Tim's full name to get out from his lair.

"So... Allyn?"

Her train of thoughts broke again after countless mind-thinking and daydreams that day. "Yes, ma'am?" Allyn answered automatically. Maggie seemed a little bit surprised. She snorted and laughed at her response.

"No, no, don't call me that! That nickname makes me feel like an old lady. Just 'Maggie'," said the brown-haired young woman, smiling.

"Okay." Like a good student she was, Allyn nodded and tried to focus on what Maggie would say.

But, Maggie just straightened her body while putting her hands on the table, her face changed in slight curious vibe. "Now, before I tell you the details of our systems, can you tell me how's Calavi is doing?"

TBC

[wyndottestreet]

The How & Why Now: My First Book (3/3)

From The What, How & Why Now Of My First Book by Adam Fike.

Part Three: The How & Why Now.

At the end of the last century, my Wife and I were in the process of moving West. I had a very shabby draft of the book together. So I bought one of those publishing guides with all the New York and London addresses. The newest one. Thick. Pricey. Very specific about which places were looking for submissions and which were not. With very specific instructions about whether to send samples with your polite letter, worded very much like a Beatles song.

Over a long and stressful period of time there was a lot of printing and envelopes and stamps. I remember it as all very stressful. But off they went.

And then they came back. Most of them, though I stopped counting. Unopened, with angry red ink. Sometimes in stamp form, some in pointed handwriting: No Submissions!

I would hold the envelopes up next to the listing in the book and shrug. Enough of that. And into the drawer it went.

PEOPLE MAKING DANGER: Short fiction anthology of well-paced thrillers, full of suspense, surprises and dark humor. COMING SOON!

However, there was a lot to suggest that things would change in terms of publishing. To what extent and precisely how, no one could guess (except, of course, some future Bond villains I can think of, currently making our world a more magical place).

When my Dad started out in the printing industry in the 1960’s, they were still pouring silver into molds to make letters. That’s what type-setting means. In the Washington D.C. area, printing was as important as tourism and government and points were called picas. When I was a kid, he owned a large company that provided color separation for offset-lithograph printing. He had to start his own courier company to get all the elements around town. They had an early computer that could do basic effects, like put the texture of an orange on an apple. (I remember that in their brochure, I particularly enjoyed a photo of the front side of a lady in a bikini composited seamlessly with a photo her backside, blurred somewhere around her belly button. Very thought provoking technology.) This one piece of equipment, around the size of small car, cost a million dollars.

These days that’s called Photoshop. You could probably do most of it in your phone.

Book publishing for authors traditionally breaks down to a writer convincing an agent to convince a publisher to add their words to the thousands of pages they’ll be printing next year. Because mainly their business is filling warehouses with books. They get paid more when the books sell. It’s a shame when they don’t. Either way, they get paid to produce them and write off any loses. Publishers are only printers with nicer cocktail parties.

The simple market psychology of all this is rooted in the fact that life is short. People simply want somebody to sign off before they waste their time paying attention. So the better the person vouching for you, the further you fly. As a reader, if the Big Publisher likes you, how bad could you be? And the Big Publisher simply figures, well, that Fancy Agent likes this book, and the Fancy Agent likes money as much as I do, so let’s give it a whirl. They pay themselves to do the art, they pay themselves to the do the marketing. You fly yourself to do the talk shows. And they make much more money printing text books.

So I guess I decided to wait until that all went away a little bit.

See, I spent my High School and College years learning to be a community newspaper reporter. Then that kind of reporter and that kind of news went away. I showed up in Los Angeles and spent a few happy years on independent movie sets, in pitches, in post production, until technology, 2008 and a poorly-timed Writer’s strike drove independent film from the Earth. So I know how things end. What I started looking around for instead is something brand new.

And that’s Amazon. And that’s direct-print publishing.

My Bride now oversees a travel magazine which has an almost half-million piece run twice a year. The magazines pop out one at a time from a big, automated, printer/binder system at a fraction of the cost or time. And are all fully customizable.

Those warehouses full of spinning metal plates, gone. The expert press operators with gigantic overtime checks, gone. Cans and cans of ink. Huge pallets of paper. The scary machine with a big open blade that could cut through a telephone book. Trucks so full of paper they sink into hot asphalt. That noise. Those smells. My first job in one of my Dad’s printing shops, carrying boxes, gluing notepads and sweeping the floor. Gone. My first newspaper job on small-town daily, my chair a few feet from a pair of swinging doors beside a whirring press spitting our words onto the street. Long gone.

The good news is, you may never have to buy a chatty lunch for an overpriced book agent ever again.

So, here’s the hustle. Your book, even electronically, is an item for sale like anything else on Amazon, a corporation both benevolent and evil, sort of like fire. They give you the marketplace and the remarkable technology to format and distribute your work, yourself, directly to a reader. Not for free, of course. They take their cut. And they want you to buy their ads, per click. Sort of like buying ten dollars worth of raffle tickets. If that gets you fifty clicks, those are your opportunities to convert a sale. If the ebook sells for three dollars and Amazon takes thirty percent, you get about two bucks. So if you sell five, you made your money back. Sell fifty and you clear ninety. If your paperback sells for eight or nine dollars and they keep three to print it, that’s still two bucks in your PayPal. Sounds great.

Except . . . Amazon. Those folks don’t make it easy. Again, that’s another essay for another day.

Where does that leave us?

A traditional publisher does, and always did, look to the author to promote themselves or at least be famous in the first place. Which is why a celebrity chef or former actor or disgraced politician will always have a place and there will always be that industry on some level. Coffee tables need books too. This won’t change. These authors will always carry the full support of a giant, successful mechanism.

For contemporary fiction, however, for the first time since Steve Gutenberg invented the bible, somebody writing really has nothing standing between themselves and the person reading. (And yes, this includes in airports and on beaches.)

Fine, but with this sudden rush of words into the marketplace, how will the cream rise, as it were? What about all the inevitable not-ready-for-an-audience nonsense?

Don’t worry. Turns out, everybody’s a critic. I am confident it will all find a way to curate itself . . . and so begins the next hustle.

Which brings us back to me. Hi. In my experience, making things is easy. It’s showing it to people that’s hard.

I pushed the publish button on this book last year and headed to the airport for the holidays. The sensation was that of walking around with all of your skin peeled off. Terrifying, but, you know, brisk.

One last story. At that printing shop I worked at as a kid, a guy came to the loading dock one afternoon, looking for a box of books they’d just finished. The book was, I think, a history of classic matchbook covers. They were his. Put it together himself. Paid for it himself. Had no real way to sell them or anything. This was end of the 80’s. Maybe flea markets or something. Fellow collectors.

There was real dissonance for me in that moment, looking at that poor guy smiling down at the first book he dug out of the box. Turning it over in his hands. I mean, it’s not like somebody picked him up and brushed him off and said, hey, come with me, my super-special friend, because you too are an extraordinary creator of thought, with a stamp on your spine that proves too all that you are one of us.

Wasn’t that cheating somehow? Or pretending? Wasn’t this just a regular guy?

Yeah, Paul, so he was. And so am I.

For more info about: Lights Along The Interstate On Goodreads and Amazon

Read the first post HERE

The How & Why Now: My First Book (3/3) was originally published on Wyndotte Street Presents Original Comedy And Music

[hopingforbabyblog]

Today is big, like really big. If you are new here let me catch you up quickly. I’ve struggled with infertility for about 4.5 years. I’ve had six miscarriages, all from natural conception. I’ve done two egg retrievals and only had one embryo. Our embryo has been cryopreserved for a while. After nearly two years of medical and other issues come up (see Our Timeline), I am finally able to do this transfer. It’s been such a long, exhausting road but I am finally, finally here. 

Entry written prior to posted date.

Catch up on my previous FET prep posts here.

    What was it like to do an embryo transfer during COVID-19?

My husband was unable to take time off work to be with me. Even if he was here, he wouldn’t be allowed in the procedure room due to my clinic’s COVID-19 policy, that only allows the patient in the waiting room and procedure room. Plus I’m not here to do any sightseeing while COVID-19 is going on, and the numbers are much higher in Seattle compared to back home in Anchorage. I’m only staying inside the hotel other than going to my procedure. Essentially I’m self-isolating while in Seattle.  My clinic requires all patients and staff to wear masks to that is reassuring.

I bought a plastic face shield from Amazon not too long ago and wore it on my flights. I felt a little safer wearing it, especially when I heard a lot of sneezing and some coughing coming from all parts of the plane. I wanted to take extra precautions if I become pregnant and to also protect my family members who are immunocompromised. My state requires a negative COVID test and/or 14-day quarantine once residents and visitors arrive in Alaska. I’m actually surprised that Seattle doesn’t have this in place, I’ve heard this is due to their recent decline in cases. But their overall numbers are a lot higher than back home. So when I go back home I will need to do a COVID test right there at the airport.

  Looking like a turbo nerd in my face shield, but with all the sneezing and coughing I hear around me on the plane a feel a little better with this.

  The Deathbed Test

Several years ago when I was conflicted on what to do about my infertility diagnosis, when my head and my heart were at odds, I decided to do the “deathbed” test. You’ve probably already heard of this, but if not, it essentially is a question you ask yourself. Imagine you are on your deathbed, thinking back on your choices in life. Ask yourself, “Will I regret not doing _______?” You can fill in the blank with whatever scenario you are currently debating. For me personally, I find that this is a great question to ask to get clarity. 

I asked myself years ago, “Will I regret not trying to get reproductive assistance to have a baby?” For me, it was a lightning bolt of realization, a strong and resounding, “Yes, I will regret not trying.” Even if I try and try and I reach the point where I decide to stop, at least I can look back on my life and know I did everything possible to make it happen. So here I am now, doing all I can. There have been times where I’ve experienced extreme exhaustion physically and mentally form all of this, to the point where I question whether I will be able to continue if this doesn’t work. The outcome and timeline may not be what I want, but as long as I am making my best effort, I will be content. 

Good Luck Charm

If you’ve been around the infertility block, you’ll know that embryo transfers are a time for hopeful traditions. It’s all in an effort to embrace the possibility that maybe your embryo will implant and you will become pregnant. Some of those include wearing colorful lucky socks with pineapples (symbol of fertility). Some socks say “IVF got this,” which doubles as a self-empowering statement, as well as telling others you are going through IVF with a hopeful heart. My personal favorite is the one that says “Sticky Vibes” with a smiling pineapple. There are also T-shirts made specifically for transfer day. People have seriously carved out an entire niche business around transfer day products. 

With everything going on I’ve been so busy planning for my transfer that I forgot to order lucky socks or a shirt. But despite the plethora of socks and shirts to choose from, I decided to do a quicker and, as it turns out, a much more affordable option. I went to my local craft store, Michael’s, picked out a pineapple charm and attached it to a matching gold chain. Only three bucks, not too shabby. I decided to wear it on my transfer day, which you can see in my pictures further below.

  Pineapple Necklace I bought from Michael’s craft store.

  Just Before the Transfer

I decided to take a couple pictures just before I left my hotel for my transfer. In these pictures it captures my gratitude for having made it this far as well as my hopefulness, that just maybe this will work. It’s a long shot, but I need to take it. I’m happy to have this opportunity. These pictures are of pure joy, despite not knowing what the future holds. I know I am doing all I can, with all I have. 

    After I downed 24 ounces of water between 1:00pm-1:30pm for my 2:00pm procedure, I was good to go. For your transfer most doctors recommend you come in with a full bladder which I’ve heard helps them see what’s going on better during the ultrasound when they do the transfer. I put on my necklace, snapped those quick photos to capture the moment, then I was on my way to the clinic.

As we pulled up to the clinic something unusual happened. There was a pedestrian trying to cross in front of my Uber. He was pushing a cart with a fully assembled office chair inside. Instead of slowly moving from the sidewalk to the road itself he pushed the cart hard and the office chair flew out of the cart and across the street. He started cursing as my driver had to completely drive into the other lane to get around him as he picked up his chair. The driver had to do this because there were cars quickly piling up behind us. My driver pulled further up beyond the man, who managed to get the chair back into his cart. Stay with me here, because all of this comes together with something that happens later.

I got out of my Uber, thanked the driver, and walked across the street to my clinic. The man with the cart is now yelling loudly, and although he is yelling I cannot understand anything he is saying. It sounds like fast-paced gibberish. I don’t know if he’s yelling at my driver, or me, or at the situation. I can’t make out anything he is saying. But he’s got his cart, the chair inside the cart again, and he made it across the street without getting hurt. No a big deal, other than maybe a slight blow to his ego. I open up the door to my clinic and make my way to the surgery center. 

The way this building is set up there is a big open lobby area where no matter what floor you are on you can look down onto the lobby. So after I got off the elevator I was walking towards the surgery center. Just before I got to the surgery center door I heard a loud slam come from downstairs in the lobby. I glanced down and saw the man that had been on the street with the cart was now pushing the cart into the entrance door, struggling to get into the building while he was yelling. I could hear him all the way up on the fourth floor, across the whole building.  In all honesty, I felt like it was none of my business, plus I had my procedure I had to get to on time.

I quickly signed a few papers in the surgery center and sat down in the waiting room. I could feel myself smiling and sighing with relief. I’m here, I’m finally here. After everything I’ve been through, this could actually work. I’m minutes away from my long awaited embryo transfer. I’ve waited almost two years for this moment. 

A few seconds after I sat down another patient came in, a guy. At first I thought he was here to support his partner. But I heard the receptionist say something about his surgery to him. Ball surgery I thought to myself. Ouch. This surgery center strictly deals with reproductive issues. Granted I am woefully informed on male reproductive surgery options, other than testicular surgery where they can actually extract sperm if the man has problems producing sperm the good old fashioned way. I’m making assumptions about this guy, and I could be totally wrong. If you are reading this and you were that guy in the office I apologize if my assumptions were wrong. 

  Fire Alarm Goes off Just Before Transfer

Both he and I sat there quietly for about two minutes. Then I thought I saw a quick flash of light.  Maybe the fluorescent light above us flickered briefly. A few seconds later I saw the bright flash again. This time I noticed the guy sitting across from me was looking up at the ceiling. I looked up to see what he was looking at. I realized he was looking at the silent fire alarm flashing for the third time now. No sound, maybe it’s a test. Then…waaaaaah, waaaaaah, waaaaa– “Are you for real?!” I shouted at the alarm. Here I was about to finally do my embryo transfer, and then of the all the moments for the fire alarm to go off it goes off now. What the actual f**k?!

    Not knowing the circumstances I got up and evacuated with everyone else. We all filed down the emergency stairs and out of the building. I’m not sure how many people evacuated but there looked to be at least 50 people that evacuated. Initially I was feeling angry about the situation, but as soon as I stepped into the alleyway, I started to feel stress shoot through my body. I decided to call my husband and it helped to hear his voice as he tried to reassure me that it was probably a false alarm. But now I had so many questions come to me all at once. I posted about it on Instagram:

“Is my embryo sitting thawed out already? How long will it survive sitting there if it is thawed? Is this a false alarm or is the building really on fire somewhere?

I was stressed to the max.

My bladder was very full (needed for transfer).

I had no clue what would happen to my embryo.

Thirty minutes later the fireman gave the all clear. I overheard the staff say that it turns out someone pulled the fire alarm…” (Instagram @hopingforbabyblog)

I’m no detective, but I’m thinking the man who was yelling gibberish and slamming his shopping cart into the front door may have been the culprit. But I don’t know for sure, that’s my best guess though. What a fantastic day this is turning out to be. It’s truly the exact opposite experience someone should be having before their embryo transfer. You are supposed to be reducing your stress level, meditating, thinking happy thoughts, and all that s**t. All of that was out the window for me now.

I could still feel my heart pounding with anxiety when I got back into the office. I asked the receptionist right away, “Is my embryo okay? Was it sitting there thawed out?” She reassured me that it was not thawed out because they hadn’t called me back yet. Phew! Oh my God, I was literally minutes away from that scenario. When I got called back to the procedure room I saw my doctor in the hallway, she smiled and said, “Hey it could have been worse,” which is true I suppose. 

  The Transfer

I changed quickly in the procedure room and got into position in the super awkward exam table. This one is different from your typical table. This one splays out your legs so far that if you aren’t flexible it feels like you are going to break in half. No one told me I needed to be flexible for this procedure. “I don’t think I can bend that way” jokingly told the sonographer. But I managed to make it work. “Are you okay?”she asked me. I laughed again and said, “Not really.” She adjusted the leg holders a bit inward. It was better, but not comfortable by any means. I guess it’s supposed to be that way for this particular procedure, not like with your annual exam.

The sonographer checked my bladder briefly to see if it was full enough. After this friggin’ fire alarm and waiting nearly an hour with a full bladder I felt super uncomfortable. But my bladder had to be full for the procedure. Here’s what I wrote on Instagram account later:

“Despite someone pulling the fire alarm right before my embryo transfer (see previous post), I was still able to do my transfer. And yes, I had to hold from going pee with a full bladder (required for transfer) while the fireman were inside for about 30 minutes.

When I was finally able to go back inside I only had one thing on my mind while they were inserting my embryo…”please don’t pee, please don’t pee, PLEEEASE!” I had to go so badly now that we were running late for my transfer.

Near the last few minutes I could feel my heart rate going down. They told me that because I hadn’t been called back when the alarm went off, they hadn’t thawed the embryo yet. So my embryo was perfectly fine just chillin’ in cryopreservation while I was nearly having a panic attack outside on the sidewalk.

The embryologist said my embryo looks “beautiful” and that it was hatching, which I’ve heard is a good sign. I was able to go to the bathroom right after the transfer, THANK YOU JESUS!

I cannot believe this happened today, but I’m even more surprised I was still able to do the transfer despite the situation. What a rollercoaster of emotions! Phew! Right now I’m just relaxing in my hotel.”  (Instagram @hopingforbabyblog)

  My Embryo

Before they transferred my embryo they handed me a card with a close-up photo of my embryo. They let me know my embryo was hatching and that it looked really good. I was so flustered from the fire alarm I didn’t think to ask what grade it was. But I figured it was good since they said it looked like a high quality embryo. It was amazing to see this embryo not only in the photo but also in real time. They let me know the embryo survived the thaw and they let me watch on the screen as the embryologist carefully sucked my embryo into the thin catheter. The embryologist walked over to my doctor, who then inserted the embryo inside me. Afterwards the embryologist examines the catheter to make sure the embryo is no longer inside and that it was successfully transfered. It only took a few minutes and it was over. I was  looking at the photo of my embryo on the drive back to my hotel. Maybe this little embryo will turn into a pregnancy, that will turn into a live-birth. Maybe I will finally have a baby. I felt like my hope had been renewed.

    Good Eats

I decided to hop on the bandwagon and participate in the fun tradition of eating McDonald’s French fries right after embryo transfer. If you ever wonder why women from the infertility community are happily posing on Instagram or Facebook with french fries after their transfer, the belief is that it may help with the embryo implanting. I don’t really buy into this theory. I just like french fries. I was most of the way through my fries and then I remembered I wanted to take a picture, just for funsies. I feel like I evened it out with a healthy salad later that night. It was one of the best salads I’ve ever had. If you are ever in Seattle, go to Joey Restaurant and order the Farmers Market Salmon Salad. Friggin’ amazing! Super healthy. 

  Post-transfer Fries

  Yummy Salmon Salad while watching 90 Day Fiance Marathon at my hotel.

  Will my Embryo Implant?

I’m happy that I was still able to do my transfer, but it was so stressful. I don’t know whether the high stress will impact the embryo implanting. You always hear fertility doctors saying that we need to do everything to be as relaxed as possible, so what will come of this situation. The only thing I can do is try to chill out at the hotel tonight and tomorrow morning. I leave on my plane tomorrow afternoon. Now I need to wait to see if my embryo implants or not. I’ll need to do a quantitative hCG blood test here soon. I’ll be posting more photos of my trip on Instagram here later.

Embryo Transfer Day Today is big, like really big. If you are new here let me catch you up quickly.

[pavanblazze]

My first story:  Chapter 1: Leila Frasburn

I still feel nervous, getting out of the train for the first time in my life, out of the little county for the first time, moving to the city. “A fresh start,” I said to myself and started to walk out to the street where I start to wave my hand for a taxi. A lady with a child trolley walking by told me, “Haha, just call an Uber” I just stood there wondering what this word Uber meant. Perhaps it was a taxi God that I had to pray to get the blessing of finding a ride. I walk towards a small corner with a sign saying “Taxi” where I waited for 10 mins carrying my leather trunk. It would easily weigh 20 pounds but its nothing for a farm girl like me. I have been always carrying the haystacks and helping my dad with the lumber. I guess the Uber god gave me a free blessing as I was received by an old yellow color car, with an old driver easily in his 60’s, his face was grumpy and was wearing a hat that reminded me of the taxi drivers from movies that we used to watch together with my family when we drove up to the Barrison’s for dinners at their place.

“Where to?” asked the grumpy old man. “To the city!” I said to him in a smile. I hopped into the back seat of the taxi where it was a bit worn out leather seat awaiting to warmed up by my butt that was already sore from this plane ride. I frown yet sit in the back, holding my leather trunk in my lap. What if it falls down on the road from this rust bucket trunk while we drive? I can’t take that risk as this is all I have now. The old driver started to drive for a few minutes with strange music playing from his car.

“New to the city?” he asked looking at me into the rear mirror. “No, I have been here before, my cousin lives here!” I replied. I didn’t want him to know it was my first time out of my small town. “Where to, in the city?” he asked me grumpily staring at the slowing cars that gathered near a red light. “Where to?..” I wondered that myself but I had to ask him “..to the busiest street in town please!”

“That would be Curtmore square. Its busier than usual as the town parade is happening in a week. I can’t drive you till there but can drop you off few blocks away.” I wonder what he meant by ‘few blocks’, are these as big as blocks of wood? Or blocks of concrete? It all sounded strange but I just politely nodded facing the mirror still holding onto my trunk. He finally pulled over near this water faucet on the street and asked me for twenty dollars. “Twenty bucks! Outrageous!” Had this been our farm, my father would have dropped you in the next town for free as a friendly gesture. I guess the town folk are not as friendly as they say. It was my turn to make the grumpy face and give him the twenty dollars. I did not expect taxi in the city would be such a thorough fare.

I snap out of my costly taxi resentment and hold my trunk with both hands and start walking on the street with a big smile. The streets had really big buildings for which I couldn’t see the tops of. There were lot of boards, lot of people wearing suits, with smaller leather trunks than mine that could be held with one hand easily. The women were wearing coats too, making them look like soldiers from a bygone era, just without their helmets. I take a deep breath taking into me all the scenery and I yell.

“CHARIOTTE!!! WHERE ARE YOU!!!” “CHAARIOTTEEE! I HAVE COME TO SEE YOU!!!” To my amusement, many heads turned towards me, but that didn’t last very long. They all just continued walking to their own pace, facing the ground, looking at these tiny boxes in their hands. I just stood there for what felt like an eternity in the sunlight, that’s sparkling through the snow which appeared to have fallen a few days ago, judging from its grey and murky appearance.

“Hungry lady?” a hot dog stand guy, who appeared bored out of his job tried to start a conversation with me “..would you like to eat a hot dog?” He didn’t seem grumpy like the driver before. He was a man in this thirties with a moustache on his face and bored look in his eyes. “Yes please! I always wanted to try a hot dog. I only heard stories about them being so good!” He took a long piece of meat and put it in a bread and looked at me saying “honey mustard or Barbecue sauce?” What was this barbecue sauce, it sounded really funny. “I shall try the barbecue sauce please” I replied with a smile, hoping he’d cheer up a bit. He finally handed it to me wrapped in a paper napkin which I received in a smile. I opened the napkin and took a bite out of it. “Oh this barbecue sauce thing tastes amazing! You must be a very talented chef!” I give him a bright smile covered with barbecue sauce on my lips like a little kid. To my demise, his expression remained concrete as he started to speak up. “That would be two dollar fifty lady.”

“WHAT!!!” He’s charging money for helping a hungry lady? Why should I give him money, I mean he offered it. “But you offered it to me, why are you charging me money?” His facial expression finally changed, however to the worse. He glared at me saying “I have been standing all day here lady! I don’t have time to deal with your bullshit. You better pay me my two fifty before I call the cops.” I frantically pulled out three dollars from my bag and handed them to him, to which he kept glaring at me while giving me the change. I chose to walk away from him as he seemed really hostile. Why are city people so mean? They offer you food and then ask you for money after you take a bite into it.

It started to snow slowly with tiny snow flecks falling down the sky. “Where is this Chariotte? I need to find her soon before I catch a cold” I muttered to myself. Chariotte was my third cousin who lived in the city, she visited me 12 years ago when we both were 17 along with her parents who wanted to have a thrilling holiday by staying in a farm. She told me then that, if I had any problem in my life, I can always visit her in the city.  She was very attractive when I met her on our farm for the first time. Curly golden blonde hair, blue eyes, freckle skin. She even wore pants at that age itself. I would shy away from trying my father’s old pants as he would always complain about itching in his pants. I wonder if Chariotte was too resistant to the itches caused by pants. As for me I am just standing here now in a brick red colored gown which was keep my torso warm, but my arms were freezing.

I was walking in the streets, holding my leather trunk, shivering as my arms were exposed to the cold snowflakes. I got lost in the streets and ended up in an alleyway which still had boards and shops but very few people walk by. I personally am not afraid of being alone. Heck, I even tilled our field alone all day before returning to my father to receive a pat on my head. It started to get dusky in the evening and I was lost in this city and now I have reached in a place where I see nothing but trash cans and rubbish bins. There were shabby people putting a fire in a bin and feeling warm, with filthy cats surrounding them. I was in the wrong parts of town. I fear and run towards a street which looked like it still had some stores open. I finally sit down under a street light and say to myself, “Chariotte.. if only I could find you. Where are you Chariotte?”, I face the street and hug my leather trunk and felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Leila.. Is that you? Oh my god, what are you doing here!?”