#v: Cemetery Roses

[asoiafcanonjonsnow]

Lyanna and Jon

Even his own mother had no place for him. The thought made him sad.

"Promise me, Ned" Lyanna's statue whispered. She wore a garland of pale blue roses and her eyes wept blood.

The Riddler - Nightwish // Jellwery - Dalmata Shop // Charity - Carlo Dolce // Jon V - AGOT // Tomb art - Père Lachaise Cemetery// Crying Mary Unknown // The death of Barbara Radziwill - Jósef Simmler // Eddard V - AGOT // Jon Snow - Aranza Sestayo // The Poet and the Pendulum - Nightwish

[oreramar]

Florist Talk: a flower shop calendar

So I talked about the average day in a flower shop. Now it's time to talk about the average year (usual disclaimer: US-centric, small town sort of knowledge is to be found here. Adjust as needed for a different setting, whether real or fictional; these notes are merely meant to provide grounding or ideas for your writing).

So, Month By Month:

January

Business is basically dead for most of this month.

It's too early for springy colors but nobody wants the red and white Xmas color combo anymore. Floral limbo.

Prep for V-day begins in earnest sometime around here.

Earliest V-day orders might start coming in middle-to-end of the month. Sometimes people think ordering super early means they can get roses for cheaper. This is not the case; they will be charged the price of the roses they're gonna get, not the roses that exist a month before.

February

VALENTINE'S DAY ALL HANDS ON DECK OH GOD SOMEONE HELP US

A longer post will be dedicated to V-day itself eventually. For now, know that there's usually a lull in business immediately after the day itself.

There may be leftover roses. Nobody will want the leftover roses. If your Florbo over-ordered these supplies, they will have a difficult time shifting them. Write a fic and have them donate roses to an elderly care facility or something.

March

Kinda dead for the most part, aside from a little bit of prep toward Palm Sunday and Easter and Prom (see April)

I always make stuff for St Patrick's day but very few people want flowers for St Patrick's day so there's not much point. Maybe this could be different in a community with more people who go all in on St Paddy's.

When there are orders, this is when people start to ask for "springy" flowers.

April

If there are Christian Churches around they might want Easter Lilies ordered in for Easter, and Palm Branches for Palm Sunday.

Sometimes people will ask for flowering mum plants too, usually in white, yellow, or lavender. The wholesalers always seem to send way more lavender mums than any others, like they're trying to get rid of them.

Prom Season - technically can stretch from mid-late March through April. Depends on how many high schools are in the area. This means lots of corsages and boutonnieres. If there's a single big school that's very local then that means one very, very busy weekend spent doing nothing but assembling these things the day before and getting them picked up and paid for the day of. Might make a focused post on these one day.

Secretary's Day / Administrative Professionals' Day - late April. Technically there's a Day for this but it also covers the entire week of that day as well. Businesses and Bosses buy small flowers or maybe candy bouquets for their various Admins. Can get a little busy.

May

Teachers Appreciation Day / Week - early in May, lots of school deliveries.

Nurses Appreciation Day/Week - the next week in May, lots of hospital/clinic deliveries.

MOTHER'S DAY OH GOD OH - oh it's not quite as bad, actually. People get their Mother's Day flowers the entire week before so it's less concentrated. Still a big one.

US has Memorial Day right at the end. This means arrangements made for placing in the local cemetery. Can be busy but isn't usually too bad.

June

Dead business. So bored.

July

Dead business. So bored.

Attempt at July 4th table arrangements. Not many tend to sell.

August

Dead business. So bored.

September

School is back in session, which means that any student, teacher, or school admin staff who has a birthday or anniversary on a weekday might get sent flowers or balloons or candy bouquets or things like that, which means Flower Shop business.

Preferred floral designs shift toward "fall" and "autumny" colors and flowers somewhere between August and September.

October

Not a lot going on specifically, but business still tends to be busier than in summer. Also, despite all efforts, Halloween does not tend to involve a lot of flower orders, which is a real shame because you can do some real fun things with orange, purple, and bright green flowers, and with hot glue strands on twigs to make cobwebs, and with black painted bowl vases to resemble cauldrons...

November

US has Thanskgiving this month and some people want fancy flower and taper candle centerpieces for their tables. A responsible florist will include tags warning people not to burn those candles unattended because while the floral arrangement isn't going to be dry by any means, it is still technically flammable, especially if the candle has burned very low and for a very long time.

December

Christmas also involves fancy flower and taper candle centerpieces for tables. Also like 80% of all floral arrangements are being done in red and/or white.

And that's more or less it. Set your writing appropriately for how busy you want the Florbo to be with their flower job - if the plot demands Florbo have a lot of free time or be very very bored, look at the summer months, or the downtime of early January or late February. If you wish for them to be overwhelmingly busy, set it the week before Valentine's or Mother's day, or pick an April weekend for a local Prom and give them like forty corsages to make on a single Friday. A more moderate or variable day to day structure might be in May, or one of the Autumn months, when there's usually plenty of everyday type stuff to do plus the wild card busy days around big funerals or the like, with random dead days peppered in there.

Happy writing!

[redmyeyes]

That's their closing message.

Are you going to vote for a woman whose laugh they don't like? Or are you going to vote for a guy

who fomented a violent coup attempt after a months long campaign to overturn the 2020 election

undercut the nation's response to a deadly pandemic that spiraled out of control because he tried to cover it up,

lied about its severity,

promoted sham treatments for it,

said we could cure it by injecting disinfectant and shining powerful lights inside the body

and became the first president since Herbert Hoover to oversee a net job loss.

Couldn't figure out how to close an umbrella,

cosplayed as a sanitation worker, even though he almost fell while getting into the truck

and pretended to work at McDonald's, even though he couldn't remember what the fryer was called.

Laughed about firing striking workers with the richest man alive,

bragged about refusing to pay overtime

and said I don't want a poor person running the economy.

Oversaw an increase in corporate profits while manufacturing jobs declined,

presided over an unprecedented spike in crime

while home prices rose by 30%,

the national debt rose by $8 trillion

and the number of Americans without health insurance rose by 3 million.

Tried to rip healthcare away from over 20 million Americans,

but reassured everyone by saying he had concepts of a plan,

told a story about the size of a dead golfer's penis,

regaled Boy Scouts with stories of sexy yacht parties,

humped the American flag not once but multiple times,

told women he would protect them whether they liked it or not,

and would put a man who was investigated for cutting the head off a whale with a chainsaw in charge of vaccines and women's health,

insulted service members,

feuded with Gold Star families

and violated federal law by staging a campaign event at a hallowed military cemetery.

Doctored a weather map with a Sharpie to lie about the path of a hurricane,

threw paper towels at hurricane victims,

hosted a speaker at a rally who called Puerto Rico a floating island of garbage,

claimed windmills cause cancer and kill whales,

said you have to flush toilets 15 times.

Called Hannibal Lecter a lovely man,

his National Security Adviser called him a dope,

his Secretary of State called him a moron,

his Chief of Staff called him an idiot and a fascist who said nice things about Hitler and Hitler's generals.

He suggested shooting protesters in the legs to his Secretary of Defense.

He reportedly suggested executing rivals and staffers for leaking information.

The former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff called him a fascist to the core.

He took millions from foreign officials,

including a possible $10 million bribe from Egypt.

His lawyers gave a press conference at a landscaping company.

He lost the popular vote twice,

got impeached twice,

got indicted four times

and was found guilty of 34 felony counts for falsifying business records to pay hush money to a porn star.

He asked a crowd whether they'd rather be electrocuted or eaten by a shark,

he possibly farted and definitely fell asleep in court.

Bragged about overturning Roe v. Wade,

called himself the father of IVF while admitting he didn't know what IVF was,

called the CEO of Apple Tim Apple,

misspelled his wife's name

and his own name,

said Nikki Haley was the Speaker of the House on January 6th.

Claimed the price of bacon goes up because the wind doesn't blow.

Got on Air Force One with toilet paper stuck to his shoe,

became the first president in history to stare directly at an eclipse,

melted down in a presidential debate

where he claimed migrants were eating dogs,

spread lies about the federal government's response to a hurricane that caused FEMA workers to relocate due to threats.

Dances like he's punching a ghost,

held a hate-filled rally at Madison Square Garden,

stole classified documents,

obstructed attempts to get them back,

called climate change a hoax,

proposed tariffs that economists say would increase prices and crater the economy,

halted an equal pay rule for women,

curtailed access to birth control,

picked a running mate who mocked childless cat ladies

and creeped out everyone when he tried to order donuts

and was accused of having sex with a couch,

which he did not do even though he might have.

But he didn't,

but maybe he did.

But he definitely did not. [shrugs]

Said Kamala Harris happened to turn Black,

claimed his crowd on January 6th was bigger than Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech,

was banned from doing business in the state of New York for three years,

just recently posed for the single worst photo of any human being that has ever been taken on the face of the fucking planet.

So, you know, it's a toss up.

[ca-suffit]

Don't you think it's strange for Louis to have a portrait of his brother and Claudia's dress at home but nothing that reminds him of Grace?I'm sure she probably had a less violent more peaceful life,I found it a bit ooc he loved his sister so much he was heartbroken when she said goodbye to him forever.I was hoping for something about, her or what she became,we will probably learn in future seasons.Does he ever see his sister again in the books?

(Other ppl feel free to give theories on this too if u want) I had taken it mostly to be about a specific type of grief, since both Paul and Claudia died as they did and it's assumed Grace did not. On a technical level too, idk if they'd have a real "prop" for her. He had that photo once but it could have been lost or washed out over time more easily than the dress or painting could have been damaged.

Louis' entire family dynamic in the show was v much a show only thing in a lot of ways. They're v sparse in the book itself. He does know his mother and sister (and eventually her husband too) after becoming a vampire. Him and his sister get along well too but it's nothing like what the show gives us for their relationship, it's a small paragraph here and there only.

As far as I remember, this is the final moment he sees his sister (who is unnamed in book canon). In the book, Louis "dies" in the plantation fire (that he set himself, although the public doesn't know that), so there's no burial scene between them like the show gave us.

"The sea lulled me to bad dreams, to sharp remembrances. A winter night in New Orleans when I wandered through the St. Louis cemetery and saw my sister, old and bent, a bouquet of white roses in her arms, the thorns carefully bound in an old parchment, her gray head bowed, her steps carrying her steadily along through the perilous dark to the grave where the stone of her brother Louis was set, side by side with that of his younger brother. . Louis, who had died in the fire of Pointe du Lac leaving a generous legacy to a godchild and namesake she never knew. Those flowers were for Louis, as if it had not been half a century since his death, as if her memory, like Louis's memory, left her no peace. Sorrow sharpened her ashen beauty, sorrow bent her narrow back. And what I would not have given, as I watched her, to touch her silver hair, to whisper love to her, if love would not have loosed on her remaining years a horror worse than grief. I left her with grief. Over and over and over."

[aliciavance4228]

One Hundred Books

Decided to make this list in order to include in one post all the books that I found to be worth reading and would recommend to others. They're not in a specific order:

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

Dubliners by James Joyce

A Jounal of the Plague Year by Daniel Defoe

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

Art of War by Sun Tzu

The Trial by Kafka

Metamorphosis by Kafka

The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Dracula by Bram Stocker

The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

1984 by George Orwell

Animal Farm by George Orwell

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Dune by Frank Herbert

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

Crime and Punishment by Dostoievski

Notes from the Underground by Dostoievski

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

The Pianist by Władisław Szpilman

Don Quixote by Miquel de Cervantes

East of Eden by John Steinbeck

The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri

Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann

The Idiot by Dostoievski

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

The Insulted and Humiliated by Dostoievski

Foundation by Isaac Asimov

I, Robot by Isaac Asimov

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

Moby-Dick by Herman Meville

The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoievski

The Call of Cthulhu by Lovecraft

Dagon and other Macabre Tells by Lovecraft

The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli

Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar

The Shining by Stephen King

The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

The Enlightened Cave by Max Blecher

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

The God Factory by Karel Čapek

The Tongue Set Free by Elias Canetti

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream by Harlan Ellison

No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

Selected Poems by Jorge Louis Borges

The Prague Cemetery by Umberto Eco

Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk

The Setting Sun by Osamu Dazai

The Stranger by Albert Camus

The Plague by Albert Camus

Carrie by Stephen King

Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

Notre Dame of Paris by Victor Hugo

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

The Iliad by Homer

The Odyssey by Homer

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

The Tell-Tale Heart and other Writings by Edgar Allan Poe

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Hercule Poirot's Christmas by Agatha Christie

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

V for Vendetta by Alan Moore

The Red and the Black by Stendhal

The Queen's Gambit by Walter Tevis

It by Stephen King

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

The Death of Ivan Ilych

La Dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas fils

Pride and Predjudice by Jane Austen

...gotta pin this post and edit it later, when I'll have more time to do that.

[idkinsertfanreferencehere]

Vivas To Those Who Have Failed: The Paterson Silk Strike, 1913

Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! —Walt Whitman

I. The Red Flag

The newspapers said the strikers would hoist

the red flag of anarchy over the silk mills

of Paterson. At the strike meeting, a dyers' helper

from Naples rose as if from the steam of his labor,

lifted up  his hand and said here is the red flag:

brightly stained with dye for the silk of bow ties

and scarves, the skin and fingernails boiled away

for six dollars a week in the dye house.

He sat down without another word, sank back

into the fumes, name and face rubbed off

by oblivion's thumb like a Roman coin

from the earth of his birthplace dug up

after a thousand years, as the strikers

shouted the only praise he would ever hear. 

II. The River Floods the Avenue

He was the other Valentino, not the romantic sheik

and bullfighter of silent movie palaces who died too young,

but the Valentino standing on his stoop to watch detectives

hired by the company bully strikebreakers onto a trolley

and a chorus of strikers bellowing the banned word scab.

He was not a striker or a scab, but the bullet fired to scatter

the crowd pulled the cork in the wine barrel of Valentino's back.

His body, pale as the wings of a moth, lay beside his big-bellied wife.

Two white-veiled horses pulled the carriage to the cemetery.

Twenty thousand strikers walked behind the hearse, flooding

the avenue like the river that lit up the mills, surging around

the tombstones. Blood for blood, cried Tresca: at this signal,

thousands of hands dropped red carnations and ribbons

into the grave, till the coffin evaporated in a red sea.

III. The Insects in the Soup

Reed was a Harvard man. He wrote for the New York magazines.

Big Bill, the organizer, fixed his good eye on Reed and told him

of the strike. He stood on a tenement porch across from the mill

to escape the rain and listen to the weavers. The bluecoats

told him to move on. The Harvard man asked for a name to go

with the number on the badge, and the cops tried to unscrew

his arms from their sockets. When the judge asked his business,

Reed said: Poet. The judge said: Twenty days in the county jail.

Reed was a Harvard man. He taught the strikers Harvard songs,

the tunes to sing with rebel words at the gates of the mill. The strikers

taught him how to spot the insects in the soup, speaking in tongues

the gospel of One Big Union and the eight-hour day, cramming the jail

till the weary jailers had to unlock the doors. Reed would write:

There's war in Paterson. After it was over, he rode with Pancho Villa.

IV. The Little Agitator

The cops on horseback charged into the picket line.

The weavers raised their hands across their faces,

hands that knew the loom as their fathers' hands

knew the loom, and the billy clubs broke their fingers.

Hannah was seventeen, the captain of the picket line,

the Joan of Arc of the Silk Strike. The prosecutor called her

a little agitator. Shame, said the judge; if she picketed again,

he would ship her to the State Home for Girls in Trenton.

Hannah left the courthouse to picket the mill. She chased

a strikebreaker down the street, yelling in Yidish the word

for shame. Back in court, she hissed at the judge's sentence

of another striker. Hannah got twenty days in jail for hissing.

She sang all the way to jail. After the strike came the blacklist,

the counter at her husband's candy store, the words for shame.

V. Vivas to Those Who Have Failed

Strikers without shoes lose strikes. Twenty years after the weavers

and dyers' helpers returned hollow-eyed to the loom and the steam,

Mazziotti led the other silk mill workers marching down the avenue

in Paterson, singing the old union songs for five cents more an hour.

Once again the nightsticks cracked cheekbones like teacups.

Mazziotti pressed both hands to his head, squeezing red ribbons

from his scalp. There would be no buffalo nickel for an hour's work

at the mill, for the silk of bow ties and scarves. Skull remembered wood.

The brain thrown against the wall of the skull remembered too:

the Sons of Italy, the Workmen's Circle, Local 152, Industrial

Workers of the World, one-eyed Big Bill and Flynn the Rebel Girl

speaking in tongues to thousands the prophecy of an eight-hour day.

Mazziotti's son would become a doctor, his daughter a poet.

Vivas to those who have failed: for they become the river.

-Martín Espada, copyright 2015

[udoai]

Realistic photo close-up of a creepy gothic bride doll in grayscale watercolor style, standing in an overgrown cemetery with faded tombstones, big sunken eyes, mouth sewn shut, wearing a tattered lace wedding dress stained with dust and blood, clutching a bouquet of withered dark red roses, disheveled hair with dyed dark red flowers, foggy and desolate atmosphere, thorny rose stems scattered around, darkly whimsical mood blending macabre and fragile beauty --chaos 10 --ar 9:16 --style raw --stylize 300 --weird 300 --v 6.1

[sashayed]

Vivas To Those Who Have Failed: The Paterson Silk Strike, 1913

Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! —Walt Whitman

I. The Red Flag

The newspapers said the strikers would hoist the red flag of anarchy over the silk mills of Paterson. At the strike meeting, a dyers' helper from Naples rose as if from the steam of his labor, lifted up  his hand and said here is the red flag: brightly stained with dye for the silk of bow ties and scarves, the skin and fingernails boiled away for six dollars a week in the dye house.

He sat down without another word, sank back into the fumes, name and face rubbed off by oblivion's thumb like a Roman coin from the earth of his birthplace dug up after a thousand years, as the strikers shouted the only praise he would ever hear. 

II. The River Floods the Avenue

He was the other Valentino, not the romantic sheik and bullfighter of silent movie palaces who died too young, but the Valentino standing on his stoop to watch detectives hired by the company bully strikebreakers onto a trolley and a chorus of strikers bellowing the banned word scab. He was not a striker or a scab, but the bullet fired to scatter the crowd pulled the cork in the wine barrel of Valentino's back. His body, pale as the wings of a moth, lay beside his big-bellied wife.

Two white-veiled horses pulled the carriage to the cemetery. Twenty thousand strikers walked behind the hearse, flooding the avenue like the river that lit up the mills, surging around the tombstones. Blood for blood, cried Tresca: at this signal, thousands of hands dropped red carnations and ribbons into the grave, till the coffin evaporated in a red sea.

III. The Insects in the Soup

Reed was a Harvard man. He wrote for the New York magazines. Big Bill, the organizer, fixed his good eye on Reed and told him of the strike. He stood on a tenement porch across from the mill to escape the rain and listen to the weavers. The bluecoats told him to move on. The Harvard man asked for a name to go with the number on the badge, and the cops tried to unscrew his arms from their sockets. When the judge asked his business, Reed said: Poet. The judge said: Twenty days in the county jail.

Reed was a Harvard man. He taught the strikers Harvard songs, the tunes to sing with rebel words at the gates of the mill. The strikers taught him how to spot the insects in the soup, speaking in tongues the gospel of One Big Union and the eight-hour day, cramming the jail till the weary jailers had to unlock the doors. Reed would write: There's war in Paterson. After it was over, he rode with Pancho Villa.

IV. The Little Agitator

The cops on horseback charged into the picket line. The weavers raised their hands across their faces, hands that knew the loom as their fathers' hands knew the loom, and the billy clubs broke their fingers. Hannah was seventeen, the captain of the picket line, the Joan of Arc of the Silk Strike. The prosecutor called her a little agitator. Shame, said the judge; if she picketed again, he would ship her to the State Home for Girls in Trenton.

Hannah left the courthouse to picket the mill. She chased a strikebreaker down the street, yelling in Yidish the word for shame. Back in court, she hissed at the judge's sentence of another striker. Hannah got twenty days in jail for hissing. She sang all the way to jail. After the strike came the blacklist, the counter at her husband's candy store, the words for shame.

V. Vivas to Those Who Have Failed

Strikers without shoes lose strikes. Twenty years after the weavers and dyers' helpers returned hollow-eyed to the loom and the steam, Mazziotti led the other silk mill workers marching down the avenue in Paterson, singing the old union songs for five cents more an hour. Once again the nightsticks cracked cheekbones like teacups. Mazziotti pressed both hands to his head, squeezing red ribbons from his scalp. There would be no buffalo nickel for an hour's work at the mill, for the silk of bow ties and scarves. Skull remembered wood.

The brain thrown against the wall of the skull remembered too: the Sons of Italy, the Workmen's Circle, Local 152, Industrial Workers of the World, one-eyed Big Bill and Flynn the Rebel Girl speaking in tongues to thousands the prophecy of an eight-hour day. Mazziotti's son would become a doctor, his daughter a poet. Vivas to those who have failed: for they become the river.

Martín Espada from Vivas to Those Who Have Failed, 2015

[mycitynowdotjpeg]

Starfish and Normal Lamron 🥺🥺

Starfish - Time Heals All Wounds

The Red House On The Shore

The sea rushed to meet the shore like long-lost lovers, waves cresting over sand as gentle as tender fingers against a cheek. The sun shone over the beach lined with a handful of homes on stilted foundations, made to withstand flood and high waves. Most were painted blue and white, though they’d been customized and changed over the years as residents had come and gone. One, though, was painted a rich red, near the far end, nestled between sand dunes that held a graveyard. The house itself had been expanded more than once, extra rooms built onto the sides closer to the cemetery than to the other houses, and additional levels bringing its total height to three storeys. The doors and windows were hung with rich tapestries of red and black and green, gold thread shining in the sun. The porch held several planter boxes lush with vegetation, providing fresh ingredients for the kitchen inside the front window. The smell of baked goods hung close to the house, permeating the air with the delightful aromas of fruits and sweets, and the crisp scent of fresh bread. 

Inside, a tiefling with ruddy brown skin and a long, spaded tail worked a dough against the counter with his clawed hands, nails too thick and sharp to be quite natural. There were several odd things about him, even for one of clear Infernal heritage. 

The first was that he glowed. Not all over, but his heart was like a beacon in his chest, shining golden light through his flesh, rippled with the shadows of his bones. His horns were curled with an age his face did not match: looping in ridged spirals, they rose above his head like a crown, the tips nearly grown entirely around a pair of golden rings. His legs were not that of a goat, but canine in nature, tipped with dainty black paws. He was dressed in the casual fashion of Mauelle, a loose sheer wrap tied around his waist, covering a bright red bikini bottom. His upper half was wrapped in red cloth, a baby sling holding an infant strapped to his chest. 

“Prosto zakroy glaza, solntse saditsya…” The Infernal melody slipped from his lips as he rocked the baby against his chest with the motion of rolling out his dough, slow and steady. “S toboy vse budet v poryadke, teper' nikto ne smozhet prichinit' tebe vreda…” Laying the dough over a tin, he began to shape it to form a crust. “S nastupleniyem utra my s toboy budem tsely i nevredimy…” 

“Normal?” 

Norm looked up as a gruff voice came from the doorway. He had to stoop, to peer into the room, even the ten-foot ceilings too short for his broad horns and enormous stature. 

“Voyage,” Normal said, smiling at the sight of his fiery beau, his arms cradled around a toddler tiefling girl, her riotous copper curls spilling over her face. She was angelic, her round face and orange skin like her father’s, with Normal’s intense blue eyes. “Is Cherish ready for school?” His tone was teasing, knowing his daughter was still fast asleep, not even dressed. 

“I’m waking her gently,” Voyage said, looking down at the four-year-old with a sparkle in his eye. His voice was hoarse as he said, “It’s her first day. I…” 

“I don’t know if I’m ready either,” Norm said softly, straightening up from the counter to hold the baby strapped to his chest closer. At nearly one year old, he was big for a tiefling baby, a hint of Voyage’s heritage already showing through his son. He was tawny in color like Voyage, too, his skin a rich tan, hindquarters like a lion’s. 

“Daddy, are you cooking pie for breakfast?” Peeking around Voyage was a tiefling boy, almost eight years old. His hair was a rich brown, dressed in a blue tunic and white trousers, a brown knapsack over one shoulder with a scroll poking out of it. He had amber green eyes, looking nothing like any of his parents, but beloved as their eldest child, followed by his two sisters and youngest brother. 

“I..am making a pie, yes, Gift,” Normal said with a chuckle, walking around the island in the kitchen to cup the side of Gi’s face. “It’s not for breakfast. I just…” 

“He bakes when he’s nervous,” Voyage said, smiling small and fond as he gently jostled Cherish, who stretched in his arms, mumbling in baby-talk under her breath. “It’s Cher’s first day of school, remember?” 

Gift nodded, but then asked, “Why does that make Daddy nervous?” Voyage arched an eyebrow at Norm as he set Cherish on the ground, her hooves clicking on the tile floor. 

“You know Cherish is special,” Normal began haltingly, and Gift nodded again. 

“You Wished for her,” he said seriously. 

“Yes,” Normal said gently, running his hand through Gift’s hair. “It was a long journey to that Wish, Gift. I lost her once. To have a day like today…” Norm smiled, sighing as he blinked back tears. “It’s just special. I want it to go well.” Gift puffed up his chest, brown and black tabby tail bristling. 

“I’ll protect her,” he declared. “Cher will always be safe with us, Daddy.” 

“I’m sure you will,” Voyage said, amused and warm as Cherish yawned widely, leaning against his leg. 

“School?” she asked, and Norm nodded, leaving his baking to follow his family into the den, where a human man with messy brown hair and soft white clothing was helping a six-year-old half-tiefling girl tie up her dress, her horns broad and thin like Voyage’s, her dark hair and bright eyes a striking contrast. 

“Charity, Papa and I are going to walk you to the school today,” Voyage said, prompting Medwin and their daughter to look up. She tilted her head curiously, and glanced over to where Cherish was climbing the stairs, Normal walking behind her. 

They ascended to the second level, Norm bending to take Cherish’s hand in his as they passed through the short hallway hung with mementos and paintings, the end of the hall bearing a grand artistic rendering of a phoenix, crimson feathers splayed over the canvas. They turned right to enter Cherish’s room, Normal letting go of her fingers to walk to the wardrobe and pull out an outfit for his daughter for the day. The baby on his chest fussed, and he soothed Courage with a kiss to his downy blonde hair. 

“Daddy?” 

Normal turned to see Cherish standing behind him, her face pinched with fear. 

“What if…what if nobody likes me?” she whispered, and Normal’s face softened, and he crouched down to cup her face. 

“You’re going to make so many friends, Cher,” Normal said softly, ocean-sapphire eyes meeting her desert-sky-colored irises. “It would be a lie to say everyone will like you, but I promise, you’ll make friends, too. And you will always have your family.” Cherish looked relieved, and reached up to wrap her arms around Norm’s neck. He embraced her, careful not to smother Courage. When they broke apart, Normal helped her get dressed, a rose-pink colored dress edged in golden thread. They descended the stairs again to meet the others in the den, Gift and Charity standing by the door with Voyage and Medwin. Norm bent to kiss each of his children, making Gift squirm and Charity giggle. He cupped Cherish’s face in his hands as he bent to kiss her forehead, smiling at her as Medwin opened the door and Voyage took the girls’ hands to lead them out of the house. Normal walked out onto the porch to watch them go, the five of them walking along the beach to the gates, where Mauelle waited. 

Norm kept his eyes on a mess of coppery curls as they shrank with distance, a smile playing around his lips. Courage cooed against his chest, and Normal sighed, losing sight of Cherish and their family as they passed through the gates to the city at large. He looked down at his newest son, still smiling as he brushed his fingers over his cheek, and, intent on finishing his pie while waiting for his family to come back, turned to walk back into the red house on the shore. 

[playlistjunkie]

The 99 Best Halloween Songs Your Party Playlist Needs ASAP

Cosmopolitan - 8/3/23

Bloody Mary - Lady Gaga

I Want Candy - Bow Wow Wow

Superstition - Stevie Wonder

Werewolves of London - Warren Zevon

Halloween - Misfits

Highway to Hell - AC/DC

Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps) - David Bowie

The Number of the Beast - Iron Maiden

Dracula's Wedding - Outkast

Is It Scary - Michael Jackson

Cemetery Drive - My Chemical Romance

Dracula - Gorillaz

Paint It, Black - The Rolling Stones

Heads Will Roll - Yeah Yeah Yeah

Unholy - Sam Smith ft. Kim Petras

Goo Goo Muck - The Cramps

Haunted - Taylor Swift

I Love the Dead - Alice Cooper

There Will Be Blood - Kim Petras

Nightmare - Halsey

Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites - Skrillex

Monster - Lady Gaga

Take What You Want - Post Malone

Disturbia - Rihanna

Feed My Frankenstein - Alice Cooper

Everyday Is Halloween - Ministry

She Wolf - Shakira

Bury a Friend - Billie Eilish

Dracula’s Wedding - Outkast feat. Kelis

Ghostbusters - Ray Parker Jr.

Monster - Kanye West feat. Jay Z, Rick Ross, Nicki Minaj, and Bon Iver

Spellbound - Siouxsie and the Banshees

Season of the Witch - Donovan

All Around Me - Flyleaf

Tombstone, Baby - Peaches

Somebody’s Watching Me - Rockwell

Monsta’ Mack - Sir Mix-a-Lot

Witchy Woman - Eagles

Enter Sandman - Metallica

Love Potion No. 9 - The Clovers

Black Magic Woman - Santana

Suspiria - Goblin

I Was a Teenage Werewolf - The Cramps

Debaser - Pixies

Rhiannon - Fleetwood Mac

Time Warp - from The Rocky Horror Picture Show

Release the Bats - The Birthday Party

X Files - Génération TV

Dead Man’s Party - Oingo Boingo

Howlin’ for You - The Black Keys

Shadows of the Night - Pat Benatar

Cold - The Cure

Ghost Ride It - Mistah F.A.B.

I Put a Spell on You - Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

Hungry Like the Wolf - Duran Duran

Halloween Theme - John Carpenter

Monster Mash - Bobby “Boris” Pickett & The Crypt-Kickers

Bela Lugosi’s Dead - Bauhaus

Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby - Cigarettes After Sex

Night - Zola Jesus

The Haunted Man - Bat for Lashes

Red Right Hand - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Never Land - Sisters of Mercy

Tainted Love -Soft Cell

The Devil Went Down to Georgia - Primus

Psycho Killer - Talking Heads

Werewolf Bar Mitzvah - Tracy Morgan and Donald Glover

(Don’t Fear) The Reaper - Blue Öyster Cult

Turn Off the Light - Kim Petras feat. Elvira, Mistress of the Dark

Ghost Town - The Specials

(Ghost) Riders in the Sky - Johnny Cash

Are You Ready for Freddy - The Fat Boys

Living Dead Girl - Rob Zombie

Devil in Me - Halsey

Zombie - The Pretty Reckless

Seven Devils - Florence and the Machine

Black Magic - Little Mix

Kill V. Maim - Grimes

Brujas - Princess Nokia

Mothercreep - FKA Twigs

Hang Me - Tancred

Haunted - Beyoncé

Bring Me to Life - Evanescence

Stranger Than Earth - Purity Ring

Bitch - Allie X

Roses - ABRA

Chimera - HANA

Gemini Feed - BANKS

Baby You're a Haunted House - Gerard Way

Zombie - The Cranberries

Spooky Scary Skeletons (Dma Illan Remix) - Andrew Gold

The Monster - Eminem feat. Rihanna

This Is Halloween - from The Nightmare Before Christmas

A Nightmare On My Street - DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince

Antichrist - The 1975

I'd Rather Be Burned As a Witch - Eartha Kitt

I Was All Over Her - Salvia Palth

Baby One More Time - The Marías

Thriller - Michael Jackson

[medecineformelancholy]

Home will always be lilac flowers to me. I'm around ten, and it's Sunday the week after Easter. This day is called Provody in our culture, the day to honour the dead. I'm with my whole family at a cemetery, going from one grave of a distant relative to another. We stop at the graves of my grandmothers' sister, Nadia, who died at twenty in an accident, and her mother. The ones who knew her share their memories. It's morning but the sun is already high up, and my feet are tired from walking, and I should be bored but somehow the day is filled with excitement. I explore the lilac tree nearby in search of magic flowers with five petals instead of four. I eat the ones I find and make wishes for each - probably silly kid wishes. We live candies at the grave, splash some wine around and move on. It's spring right after Easter, 2018, and I come home for the weekend from the university in Kyiv. I study functional analysis night and day in preparation for a colloquim, and spend time with my family, eat grandma's cakes and drink her homemade wine. I go out to meet V., and we just walk around the block and to the river. The lilac trees surround every house, deep blueish purple, rose, white and magenta. It should feel like a dream but it's the most awake I have ever been. We laugh so much, and take pictures on my old film camera, and talk of hardships while holding hands, and I never want to leave. Last year that association became broken, tainted. Twenty four men were killed at night on March 1st, 2022, when russian troops entered the city. They tried to stand defence in Lilac Park, armed with molotovs and old riffles against tanks. They had no chance, yet it was not stupidy, but a desperate wish to protect our homeland against all odds. I will remember their bravery forever. The next day Kherson was taken. Now the flowers are in bloom again, and I won't be there to see it. Every day I ask myself if I will have a home to return to, and no one knows the answer. As I walk from the university in Potsdam, I look at people and catch myself in envy. These thoughts are ugly and it's hard to admit that I'm capable of them. Why are these people happy, their little pretty houses taken care of and protected, their loved ones in their arms? Will I ever have that back? I cannot remember what it's like to not be broken. And how they will never understand. My proffesor says how the prices went up so much because of the war, and they have to save energy, and I feel white hot flames of rage, and I'm so ashamed at the same time. Of course she doesn't know what it's like to hear missiles landing - one, two, three, windows shaking, and then there's no power or water for days. And I had it easy. I had it so easy in Kyiv, but what about the south and the east? It would be cruel of me to demand her understanding, because to understand you have to live through it, and no one should ever live through it. I get so scared when I hear airplane noises. It's almost funny; I never even witnessed a bombing from an airplane, only long-range missiles, yet I cannot help the panic spreading in my chest. I stare at the sky stupidly, almost waiting for it to break with fire. Sometimes I lay awake at night and it's so quiet here, but I never feel calm. I think of the time two months ago when I woke up from the sound of an explosition, jumped up in bed, and then layed for hours with ringing in my ears, listening to my heart beating so loud as if it would never calm down. Now I don't believe it ever will.

[creativeprojectdevelopmet]

Portfolio, Documentation and Pitch (Games Art and Design) - Idea

I thought of a new world view, somewhere there is a tradition of water burials, they have a lake next to them, and people put their graves at the bottom of the lake, secure the bodies to the tombstone holders at the bottom of the lake, and then one day a couple of people rowed out to the cemetery to visit their deceased loved ones, as they always do. As a result, their bodies at the bottom of the lake formed water ghosts, which rose to the surface and tried to pull those who were in the boat out of the boat.

As for the water ghosts, first of all, I saw the artist (Daniel, n.d.) do this kind of water ghost, but I think it is oppressive because the water ghost is too big.

Reference

Daniel, J, V (n.d.) "The Siren HD Metal Print" [image]. https://www.artstation.com/prints/hd_metal_print/Vj5/the-siren. [Accessed 16 Feb 2024]

[faithnfrivolity]

Trump’s Lawyer Walked Into a Trap

By the end of the argument, everyone knew it.

By George T. Conway III

January 10, 2024, 5 AM ET

A photo-illustration featuring a photo of Donald Trump and photo of his supporters against a black background

Amanda Andrade-Rhoades / Bloomberg / Getty; Kent Nishimura / Getty

It was a cold and rainy morning in Washington, D.C., yesterday. Five years ago, Donald Trump said that was enough to deter him from visiting Aisne-Marne American Cemetery, to commemorate the fallen American soldiers—soldiers who died defending the nation whose Constitution he had sought to abrogate but now seeks to invoke. But yesterday, he showed up anyway. Appearing in court was more important to him, because this was about him.

And so at 9:25 a.m., the former president and his entourage strode into Courtroom 31 of the E. Barrett Prettyman United States Courthouse on Constitution Avenue, just a few blocks away from the Capitol his supporters had ransacked three years ago Friday, and took their seats. It took just a few short minutes for their case to come completely apart.

The wood-paneled walls of the courtroom display large official portraits of many of the renowned judges who have served on the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, known colloquially as the D.C. Circuit and long considered to be the second-most important appellate court in the land. The faces gazing down from the walls were mostly male, with a couple of exceptions. Near the front on the left side, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, wearing a trademark jabot, had one of the better views, directly overlooking the bench, counsel table, and podium. I envied her vantage point; from her perch, I could have seen the expressions of all the players, including the defendant. I found it hard not to wonder what she would have thought of these proceedings.

Delta Community Credit Union

No doubt she would have approved of the panel of judges who heard the case: three women, of differing backgrounds and of fine reputations, each sworn to “administer justice without respect to persons, and do equal right to the poor and the rich.” The question these jurists faced in the appeal they heard yesterday—styled United States of America v. Donald J. Trump, No. 23–3228—came down to whether justice could be administered to a former president of the United States.

Everyone rose, including Trump, as the women in black robes entered the courtroom. The court quickly got to work. D. John Sauer, a former solicitor general of Missouri (appointed by then–state Attorney General Josh Hawley), an advocate with an exceptionally gravelly voice that runs as fast as any New Yorker’s, stepped to the podium to speak for Trump.

From the October 2023 issue: The courtroom is a very unhappy place for Donald Trump

Before he could say anything, the presiding judge, Karen LeCraft Henderson, a George H. W. Bush appointee who nearly a quarter century ago had taken Ken Starr’s seat on the court, immediately asked Sauer whether the court had jurisdiction to hear the appeal. This wasn’t an issue the parties raised—it surfaced in a friend-of-the-court brief—but the judges understandably wanted to hear what the parties had to say about it.

In a nutshell, the jurisdictional question arose from the fact that the federal courts strongly disfavor “interlocutory” appeals—challenges to district-court rulings before the district court finally decides the whole case. That disfavor can be overcome, on occasion, for appeals of so-called collateral orders: orders deciding issues that are sufficiently divorced from the ultimate merits of the case and that might be effectively unreviewable in a later appeal after a final judgment. In a case called Midland Asphalt Corp. v. United States, the Supreme Court made clear that the collateral-order exception must be narrowly construed, particularly in criminal cases. No court has ever addressed how Midland Asphalt applies to a criminal prosecution of a former president for acts he committed in office.

Sauer, as expected, argued that the exception does apply, and that the court could hear the appeal. I say expected because it could be no other way for his client: If this appeal were dismissed, Trump would not be able to pursue his claim of immunity from prosecution until after he is (as I admittedly hope he will be) convicted and sentenced.

The panel member seemingly most interested in the jurisdictional question was Judge J. Michelle Childs, a Biden appointee who, before joining the D.C. Circuit, had served for 12 years as a federal district judge in South Carolina. Midland Asphalt states that defendants can’t make interlocutory criminal appeals raising issues of immunity from prosecution unless there’s “an explicit statutory or constitutional guarantee that trial will not occur.” Childs’s questions focused on the fact that, whether or not Trump has immunity, the guarantee that he’s relying on isn’t “explicit”—he argues that it’s inherent in the separation of powers. Sauer didn’t have much of a response to this line of inquiry, other than to say, in effect, that presidential immunity claims are special, and that explicit didn’t really mean “explicit.” He did get a little help, though, from Judge Henderson, who made the suggestion that Midland Asphalt was itself only a suggestion from the Supreme Court.

But the jurisdictional back-and-forth was merely a sideshow; what everyone came to hear was the merits of Trump’s immunity argument, and the court’s reaction to it. Sauer and the judges soon obliged. Sauer warned, in effect, that the heavens would fall—ruat caelum, for fanciers of Latin legal axioms—were his client tried for his crimes. “To authorize the prosecution of a president for his official acts would open a Pandora’s box from which this nation may never recover.” He elaborated: “Could George W. Bush be prosecuted for obstruction of an official proceeding for allegedly giving false information to Congress to induce the nation to go to war in Iraq under false pretenses? Could President Obama be potentially charged with murder for allegedly authorizing drone strikes targeting U.S. citizens located abroad?”

Sauer never got the chance to answer his own rhetorical questions, because at this point, the panel’s most incisive and persistent questioner jumped in. “Can I explore the implications of what you are arguing?” inquired Judge Florence Y. Pan, a Biden appointee and longtime federal prosecutor in the nation’s capital who also served on the Superior Court as well as the United States District Court there. “I understand your position to be that a president is immune from criminal prosecution for any official act, even if that action is taken for an unlawful or unconstitutional purpose. Is that correct?”

Sauer’s answer: Yes, but with an exception. The exception being that, if a president is impeached by the House of Representatives and convicted by the Senate, then and only then can he be prosecuted in a criminal court, after he leaves office, for the offenses for which the Senate had convicted him.

This was not a great answer. As I wrote a couple of days ago about Trump’s Supreme Court certiorari petition in his Colorado ballot-disqualification case, appellate courts usually don’t find convincing a litigant’s efforts to combine two weak points in order to make a stronger one. Usually, the weakness in one bad argument bleeds into the other, and vice versa—producing a sum that is even less than its parts. And that’s what happened here.

As Judge Pan’s question pointed out, Trump’s main argument on this appeal is that presidents can’t be prosecuted for their official acts. That argument is based on a line of civil cases establishing that presidents can’t be held liable via monetary damages for their official actions—more specifically, as the Supreme Court held in 1981 in Nixon v. Fitzgerald, there is “absolute Presidential immunity from damages liability for acts within the ‘outer perimeter’ of his official responsibility.”

I know a fair bit about this line of precedent, because (in what seems now to be another life), I ghostwrote the Supreme Court brief for Paula Jones that defeated President Bill Clinton’s claim of immunity, 9–0, in Clinton v. Jones in 1997. Suffice it to say that the rationale behind Fitzgerald encompasses only civil liability because it is grounded in the fear that, if presidents could be hauled into civil court by the countless people affected by their official acts, then the leader of the free world might fear doing his or her job. And even if this protection from civil-damages liability could be extended into the criminal realm, it surely oughtn’t apply here, where Trump was not only acting beyond the “outer perimeter” of his official responsibility, but utterly abjuring that official responsibility.

Still, Trump’s immunity argument is at least an argument: Not a good one, not a winner, but not completely and totally ridiculous. I can’t say it wasn’t worth the old college try. The same cannot be said about the other major contention Trump has urged on this appeal, the argument that Sauer took to conflating with the immunity argument in response to Judge Pan’s questioning.

That second argument relies on what’s called the Constitution’s impeachment-judgment clause, in Article I, Section 3. That provision, in its entirety, says (with the relevant part italicized):

Judgment in Cases of Impeachment shall not extend further than to removal from Office, and disqualification to hold and enjoy any Office of honor, Trust or Profit under the United States: but the Party convicted shall nevertheless be liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment and Punishment, according to Law.

By its express terms, all this language does is make sure everyone understands that double-jeopardy protections don’t apply when a federal public official is impeached, convicted, and removed from office. The clause makes clear that the official may still go to jail—that he remains “subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment and Punishment” even after he is removed from his job.

But Trump’s lawyers contend that this text says something it absolutely does not say: that, if a public official, namely the president, is not impeached and removed by Congress, then he cannot be prosecuted under criminal law. This is fallacious reasoning by “negative inference,” as Judge Childs dismissively put it, and it’s absurd for any number of reasons even apart from the plain meaning of the English language the clause uses. For one thing, a wealth of historical evidence contradicts the argument. As Justice Joseph Story explained in his Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States, even after an acquittal at an impeachment trial, the accused should still be liable to face a criminal trial, for “if no such second trial could be had, then the grossest official offenders might escape without any substantial punishment, even for crimes.”

David A. Graham: The cases against Trump: a guide

For another, a public official might be acquitted in the Senate for reasons other than the merits of the impeachment charges against him. In fact, that’s exactly what happened at Trump’s second impeachment trial. As Special Counsel Jack Smith noted in his D.C. Circuit brief, “At least 31 of the 43 Senators who voted to acquit the defendant”—Trump—“explained that their decision to do so rested in whole or in part on their agreement with the defendant’s argument that the Senate lacked jurisdiction to try him because he was no longer in office.” Worse yet, as Henderson and Pan later pointed out during the argument, Trump’s own lawyers conceded to the Senate in February 2021 that, even if Trump were not convicted on the impeachment charges, he could still be criminally charged. Oops.

I could go on about the impeachment-judgment clause, and the members of the panel certainly did, but the bottom line is that Trump’s argument about that clause was frivolous, and not worth making. In fact, Sauer, by extending that argument to make a limited concession to Pan’s questioning about whether he was arguing that presidents could never be criminally prosecuted—remember, he said that this could happen if the president is first convicted by the Senate—unwittingly set a nasty trap for himself.

A trap that Pan’s brilliant interrogation shut tight.

The judge wasted no time in drilling into the implications and inconsistencies in Sauer’s position. Pan asked, incredulously, “Could a president order SEAL Team Six to assassinate a political rival? That’s an official act—an order to SEAL Team Six.”

To which Sauer replied, unresponsively, that a president would quickly be impeached and removed for that. This was followed by more unresponsive words from Sauer.

Pan wanted an answer—to the question she had asked.

Pan: I asked you a yes-or-no question. Could a president who ordered SEAL Team Six to assassinate a political rival [and] who was not impeached, would he be subject to criminal prosecution?

Sauer: If he were impeached and convicted first—

Pan: So your answer is no?

Sauer: My answer is a qualified yes.

The filibustering then continued, with Sauer rambling on about Department of Justice Office of Legal Counsel memorandums, James Madison, the abuse of the criminal process. Many words.

Pan interrupted again: “I asked you a series of hypotheticals about criminal actions that could be taken by a president and could be considered official acts and have asked you: Would such a president be subject to criminal prosecution if he’s not impeached and convicted? And your answer, your yes-or-no answer, is no?”

Sauer, realizing he was being cornered somehow, tried to avoid the door closing behind him. But Pan was having none of it. Like the experienced prosecutor she is, she insisted on an answer, and wasn’t going to let go. (If this judging thing doesn’t work out for her, I’d love to see her host Meet the Press someday.)

She and Sauer went around and around on this a few more times. But the damage was done, and Pan’s point was devastatingly made—in essence, that Sauer was arguing out of both sides of his mouth. On the one hand, Sauer argued that the Constitution gave the president absolute immunity for his official acts, lest we have political prosecutions of former presidents. On the other hand, if the United States Congress—a political body if ever there was one—effectively gives permission (by impeaching and convicting), well, then, yes, a president can be prosecuted, and—wait for it—he’s not absolutely immune.

It’s hard to know whether the criminal defendant, sitting at the counsel table, could understand enough of the dialogue to know that his immunity argument had completely collapsed, right then and there. But it had.

Sometimes during appellate arguments, there’s a moment when you know exactly how the court will come out. And this was one. I once had such a moment, fortunately in my favor. My one and only argument before the U.S. Supreme Court was in a case about whether federal securities laws could impose liability for securities transactions occurring abroad. I was arguing in the negative, on behalf of an Australian bank. My opponent was up first, arguing in favor of applying American law. I figured I had the conservative justices, but I was a bit less sure about the more liberal justices.

After some preliminary questions to my adversary about jurisdiction, the Court got to the merits. I’ll never forget it. Justice Ginsburg asked a question that was more like a statement: “This case is Australian plaintiff, Australian defendant, shares purchased in Australia. It has ‘Australia’ written all over it.” I don’t know whether I heard the rest of her question, or my opponent’s answer. But I knew right then and there, before having uttered a word to the Court, that my client had won.

As for the special counsel on Tuesday morning, he, too—like everyone else in the courtroom—knew from Judge Pan’s withering questioning and Sauer’s evasive responses to her that Trump is going to lose. The only question is how quickly it will happen. I have little doubt it will be soon.

[excusethequality]

My 2023 in Film

Part 6: 251-300

Good golly, I'm finally nearly done listing these! Perhaps next year I should just keep up with it and that way won't have to run this marathon. Although this year was kind of an outlier, so I don't anticipate reaching these numbers again.

Link to Part 1

Link to Part II

Link to Part III

Link to Part IV

Link to Part V

* = rewatched

[++] = I loved it [+] = I liked it [=] = I am indifferent about it [-] = Not my thing [--] = I hate it

Click on the list number to get a trailer for it.

251.

The Human Voice (2020) ---Short Film Drama

A woman tries to come to terms with the end of a relationship. [-]

252.

Strange Way of Life (2023) ---Short Film Queer Western Romance

Two gunslingers with a past meet again after 25 years. Unfortunately there is extenuating circumstances to their reunion. [+]

253.

Shivers (1975) *

See #131

254.

Carnival of Souls (1962) ---Psychological Horror

A woman struggles to move on with her life after a tragic accident. [+]

255.

Phantasm (1979) * ---Sci-Fi Horror

A pair of brothers begin to suspect that there is something very odd going on at the local cemetery. [-]

256.

I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997) * ---Horror

When a group of friends swear to take a shameful secret to their grave, they learn that that might be sooner than they thought. [+]

257.

Shock (1977) ---Horror

A woman tries to start fresh in the home she once shared with her now deceased husband. But when her son starts acting strangely she learns that her ex-husband's influence has affected her son. [-]

258.

Tales from the Hood 2 (2018) ---Anthology Horror

An author is hired to read stories to prototype law enforcement robots because...of reasons. [-]

259.

The Seed (2021) ---Cosmic Horror

A group influencers go to a mansion in the Mojave Desert to livestream a meteor shower only to wind up being influenced by something themselves. [=]

260.

The Rats Are Coming! The Werewolves Are Here! (1972) ---Horror

The daughter of an eccentric family of werewolves returns home with her new husband. [--]

261.

Hellbender (2021) ---Horror

A teenage daughter lives alone in the woods with her mother when a chance encounter with someone from the outside world reveals the truth behind her isolation. [=]

262.

The Wind (2018) ---Prairie Horror

In late 19th century America a newlywed couple move to the unpopulated prairies of New Mexico. After spending so much time by herself the wife begins to wonder what is worse: if you were truly all alone out there or if you weren't? [=]

263.

Slotherhouse (2023) ---Creature Feature Horror

A sorority gets a pet sloth only to learn that this sloth is out for blood. [-]

264.

The Wolfman (2010) ---Horror

In 1891 an actor returns home to England due to a family emergency only to the find the situation is more dire and strange than he could have imagined. [=]

265.

Shiva Baby (2020) *

See #175

266.

Violent Night (2022) ---Holiday Action

A family of uber-rich snobs is attacked by a group of mercenaries and the only one who can save them is Old Saint Nick. [-]

267.

Black Roses (1988) ---Rock 'n Roll Horror

A group of demons starts a band and use their devil music to hypnotize youths into being evil. [=]

268.

Snoop Dogg's Hood of Horror (2006) ---Anthology Horror

A gang member sells his soul and becomes a hound of hell, doomed to tell us the spooky tales of the inner-city people whose supernatural encounter will damn them to hell. [-]

269.

Killers of the Flower Moon (2023) ---Period Crime Drama

The story behind the brutal murders of Osage Nation members in 1920s Oklahoma becomes a metaphor for white America's relationship with indigenous peoples. [+]

270.

Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers (1995) * ---Horror Sequel

Michael Myers is back and he's after his niece, her newborn child, and anyone who gets in his way. [-]

271.

Popcorn (1991) ---Horror

When a group of college students attempt to put on horror movie marathon they draw the attention of a serial killer. [=]

272.

Drag Me to Hell (2009) ---Horror

An old woman who refuses to take responsibilities for her own actions and doesn't understand how capitalism works curses a bank employee to be dragged to hell. [=]

273.

The Gorgon (1964) ---Horror

A German village in 1910 is terrorized by a gorgon hiding in human form. [-]

274.

Let the Wrong One In (2021) ---Horror Comedy

A young man struggles with what to do when his older brother is bitten by a vampire and asks him for sanctuary. [-]

275.

Dr Jekyll & Sister Hyde (1971) *

See #220

276.

Fright Night (2011) ---Horror Comedy

A teenager becomes convinced that his next door neighbor is actually a deadly vampire. [=]

277.

The Last Witch Hunter (2015) ---Fantasy Action Adventure

Hundreds of years ago a knight manages to defeat a powerful witch and in return is cursed with eternal life. Now in the present day he discovers a plot to bring the witch back after a friend of his is murdered. [=]

278.

Elvira's Haunted Hills (2011) ---Spooky Comedy

Elvira and her handmaiden are on their way to Paris when they find themselves stranded without lodging. They are taken in by a doctor and invited to stay at his castle only to discover that there is something strange going on there. [-]

279.

The Theater Bizarre (2011) ---Anthology Horror

A woman enters an abandoned theater and each shown a series of 6 gruesome stories. [-]

280.

The Midnight Hour (1985) ---Comedy Horror Romance

One Halloween night some high school kids inadvertently raise the dead. [+]

281.

Escape Room (2019) ---Horror

A group of people who were all sole survivors of tragic accidents are invited to a mysterious escape room. [=]

282.

Halloween at Aunt Ethel's (2019) ---Comedy Horror

The kids in town suspect a woman named Ethel of killing and eating kids every Halloween. They are correct. If everyone was thinking this why did no one tell the police? The film makes you wonder about a lot things. Not in a thought-provoking kind of way mind you, just in the quietly confused kind of way that comes with poor writing. [--]

283.

Hackers (1995) * ---Queer Crime Drama

A group of teenage hackers must clear their names and prevent an ecological disaster when an evil computer genius tries to frame them for a crime. [++]

284.

The Angry Black Girl and Her Monster (2023) ---Sci-Fi Horror

A smart young girl tries to bring her brother back to life in a world where everyone seems to want them dead. [=]

285.

The Witch (2015) * ---Period Fantasy Horror

A series of terrible misfortunes have a family in 1600s New England looking for a someone to blame and their eyes are set on superstitions and their young teenage daughter. [++]

286.

ManFish (2022) ---Comedy Horror

A depressed man finds someone who truly understands him when he discovers a manfish creature on the beach. His wife and brother, however, have different plans for it. [-]

287.

The Hallow (2015) ---Folk Horror

A British family moves to rural Ireland for work and—in historical fashion—fails to respect its land, people, and stories. After poking their nose where it doesn't belong they become the target of a group of ancient creatures. [+]

288.

Cube (2021) ---Horror Remake

A Japanese remake of the 1997 Canadian movie Cube. [-]

289.

Halloween H2O: 20 Years Later (1998) ---Horror Sequel

20 years after the events of Halloween II Michael Meyers finally manages to track Laurie down and get back to what he does best: being a menace. [=]

290.

Priscilla (2023) ---BioPic Drama

A biopic about Priscilla Presley and her toxic relationship with Elvis. [-]

291.

Quiz Lady (2023) ---Comedy Adventure

Two estranged sisters reunite and attempt to win a game show in order to raise the money they need to cover their mother's gambling debts and get their dog back. [+]

292.

The Wolf House (2018) ---Animated Horror Fairy Tale

An fairy tale interpretation of the case of the Colonia Dignidad in 1970s Chile. [+]

293.

Ginger Snaps (2000) * ---Coming-of-Age Horror

The relationship between two teenage sisters will never be the same when one them starts bleeding, growing hair where there wasn't hair before, cramping, and more. Because, you guessed it, it's the time of the month for werewolves. [+]

294.

Goodbye Pork Pie (1980) ---Crime Adventure Comedy

Two fellas with nothing to lose decide to drive a stolen car across New Zealand. [=]

295.

Petite Maman (2021) ---Magical-Realism Coming-of-Age Drama

An eight-year-old girl struggles to deal with the pain of having recently lost her grandmother and the fear of losing her mother. While exploring the woods one day she encounters a girl her own age and the two bond. [++]

296.

My Life as a Zucchini (2016) ---Animated Coming-of-Age Drama Comedy

A child has to go live at an orphanage and begins to learn what family really means. [++]

297.

Training Day (2001) ---Crime Thriller

An LA cop is up for a promotion contingent on a one day ride along evaluation from a narcotics officer. He soon learns he is about to the get the training session of a life time: in how corrupt law enforcement really is. [+]

298.

Shin Godzilla (2016) ---Creature Feature

A massive radioactive creature begins to attack Japan and a bloated bureaucracy is preventing anything from getting done about it. With time ticking down before the rest of the world aggressively intervenes the people of Japan will have to work together to find a solution. [--]

299.

Till Death (2021) ---Thriller

A woman tries to get rid of her abusive husband, but that is hard to do when his body is currently handcuffed to her wrist. [+]

300.

Little Woods (2018) ---Drama Crime

Ollie is on probation after serving time for smuggling prescription drugs from Canada into her small North Dakotan town to help the poor people there. Trying to do everything she can to put her old life behind her, familial bonds begin to pull her back into her old ways when her sister needs medical help and can't afford it. [+]

[vampbait-a]

|| Cemetery Roses - Ch. 8

|| co-written with @cynaram    Posted with permission.    Previous:  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 

In Which Lessons Are Learned And Tea Is Had

Horst opened his eyes in the dark enclosure of his coffin. He noted the sounds of the house: the ticking of the clock in the hall above, the sound of a human heart.

So he is alive, Horst thought as he rose to dress.

Horst’s pocket square smote at Johannes’ sensibilities, as usual.  This time he kept his feelings to himself; he was going to need Horst’s help, and for once, he wasn’t sure what Horst would say.  He buttered toast and greeted his brother. “Good evening.”

"Is it?" Horst paused to regard his brother. There was an additional adjective in the greeting, and Horst had learned long ago that the younger Cabal's good moods were suspect.

"I'm glad to see you're alive and still mostly human. I was beginning to think you'd eloped with that vampire girl."

Cabal contained his urge to correct Horst’s understanding of the species Llamiae as opposed to the genus Vampire.  “I have seen her, yes.  She is going to assist my work.”  He wondered if he should lie and say that Laurelai had enquired after Horst, but any advantage gained by that fiction would not survive their next meeting.

"Assist in your work? That does sound personal. What are you up to?" Horst's misgivings about his brother's activities deepened.  "What happened while you were away?"

“It was eventful.  And it has become personal,” Cabal said with grim understatement.  He narrated recent events: the possession, the murderous gardener, the bizarre empathic experience.  He tried to distil it down to the most relevant and appealing points. He didn't often talk to Horst about his work.

“Mademoiselle Laurelai is able to channel her ghost.  Berenice’s ghost.”  He had to say her name.  Clarity was important.  “I have spoken with her twice.”  He heard himself say it, and his speech slowed.  “I have spoken with her, Horst.  I could not be deceived.”

As much as Horst often did not like his younger sibling's work, he was intrigued. Hearing what had happened caused him alarm and curiosity. What sort of relationship was his younger brother building with this mysterious Laurelai?

Horst was silent for a moment, weighing what he had been told against what he knew of his brother. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop, considering.

"When you spoke with her," Horst began, choosing his words carefully; "Did she know where she was? Was she conscious, or was it like the soldier you told me about? The one you found in the station?"

Somewhere, there was a faint feeling of relief; he had expected Horst to condemn the situation, to insist he stop.  "It was something like that at first.  Toward the end she became more aware.  She knew the body she was in was not her own.  I believe she may become more aware with repeated contacts."

"I see." Horst looked thoughtfully into the fire, frowning. He saw so little of his brother these days, heard little of what he was doing in his work, and Horst had begun to worry that Johannes might never emerge from the lab.

That he might never heal.

Laurelai might be an odd person, but she had saved Johannes’ life. Horst sighed, looking back at his brother. That had to count for something, he hoped.

"And she can just… have ghosts in her head without ill effects? I saw one of those stage performances once, a séance. The actress was carried offstage." Horst looked seriously at his younger brother.  "And what are you doing for her in return? I have the feeling that you aren't telling me everything."

Cabal smiled thinly.  “For one thing, she wants clothing to replace those leather things.  I will acquire something.  Unless you want to help?”  He felt a rising of his hopes; maybe this could be Horst’s problem, not his?

"Oh, no, you go right ahead. Enjoy the experience." Horst straightened, looking at Johannes with barely contained mirth at the idea. He covered his mouth with one hand, suppressing a giggle at the idea of Johannes muddling through a Ladies’ catalogue.

Fine.   He would leave some sensible catalogues around and wait for Horst to break, as he inevitably would when it came to fashion.  “Also, she will be coming here for lessons in reading and in passing among humans.  It is my responsibility, but she would benefit from your guidance.”

"Wait what's that?" all traces of mirth vanished, and Horst sat up straight. "Me? A mentor? To her?"

Cabal tilted his head.  “She knows nothing of humans, obviously, and I think she is the only one of her kind. She is completely isolated.  She could be no more than an animal if she wanted, yet I saw her feed three times, and she left the men alive.”  Cabal never said it; he rarely thought it, but he was proud of his brother.   “She could be like you, to a degree.”  He picked up the marmalade jar and inspected the marks in the glass.  “I can teach her to read; she is intelligent, and I think she can apply herself.  I can teach her to attract less attention among humans.  I cannot teach her not to be a monster.”  He looked up at Horst, his eyebrows raised. “Think of it as a public service for the pub-going population.”

Horst had misgivings, but thought it best to let Johannes give his explanation. Horst heard so few of them. He was surprised more by what he saw in Johannes' expression and heard in his voice then he was by anything else.

Slowly, Horst smiled. Johannes liked Laurelai, though how much was uncertain. He did not bother to bring up the fact that making Laurelai more like him would actually be doing her a great disservice, as she appeared to be mostly-alive. He envied her that, and wondered about it. Thoughts for another time.

"You're curious about her. Was this tutoring her suggestion, or yours?" Horst asked, arching a brow. "Do you… do you perform experiments together? Is she your laboratory assistant?"

Though he was gently teasing, Horst hoped the answer was yes.

Cabal felt that Horst had missed the point.  “She is a psychic medium.  I am not going to have her washing test tubes.  No, she will attempt to channel Berenice’s spirit.  It is a rare talent.  Literacy is not, but few tutors would tolerate her supernumerary fangs. I am curious about her subspecies as it contrasts with yours.  Over the next few weeks, I will ask her to provide some blood and saliva samples for comparison.”  Cabal’s expression was bland; he hadn’t caught the innuendo.

"So your answer is yes, then." Horst had sobered, but still felt that it would be wrong to discourage Johannes. There were so few things that could excite his younger sibling, it seemed. It was nice to see him talking again. Socializing.

"Alright, I'll play nice when she comes to call." Horst stood up again, intending to make the long-avoided trip to town. He turned to leave, then paused- a thought occurring to him.

"Do you think she might be able to help you, in my case?" He asked, trying to seem casual. "She is alive, you know. I've been thinking about that, and while I won't interfere with this... thing you're proposing now..." Horst sighed.   "You won't hurt her."  

It wasn't a question.

Cabal did not reply.  How could Horst expect anyone to promise that?

Instead, he answered the earlier question. “It is my hope studying her half-vampiric condition may cast light on yours.  She still lives on blood, cannot eat, must flee the sun.  But all data is good data.”  Cabal squeezed a lemon slice with an air of frustration.  There was never enough time.  What of his experiments with the gas?  What of Horst?  What of Bea’s spirit, flickering in and out?  The weight of it pressed upon him.  He drank his tea and blotted out the thoughts.  One thing at a time, in order.  

“I will consider her clothing today.  Perhaps I will find something in the village.”

Horst stared hard at his little brother. He knew that trying to extract reassurance would glean nominal reward at best: Johannes was a scientist. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Do you know her size?" Horst experienced a sudden urge to look at Ladies’ fashion catalogues, his eyes glazing momentarily. Then he remembered his shredded waistcoat, and the feeling fled.  "Helena has a dress shop in town, she's very good. I'm sure you'll find something lovely."

Oh.  Was that who owned the dress shop?  Cabal recalled an incident with an escaped laboratory failure that had nested in her yardage.  He removed the village from the list of possibilities.

“I do not have her size, but….”  He could measure the Llamia. He imagined himself doing so.  On the other hand, he could buy everything in three sizes. Problem solved.  “I will handle everything.  She will arrive after sundown on Friday.”

"Friday?" Horst made a face; he had plans for Friday. "Can't you do it on Monday or a Thursday? Why Friday?" He sighed, remembering who he was talking to.  "Alright, I'll chaperone your playdate. But next week either choose a different day or call Zee to help you."

Cabal had prepared himself for Laurelai’s first reading lesson.  He had acquired materials, which he set out upon the library desk.  He had even decided to wear his cardigan instead of his jacket, as it seemed vaguely in keeping with the role of tutor, and besides, he had a chill.

Horst had busied himself in the kitchen upon waking, having put off his trip to town for a night. He had chosen to bake - anything to keep him nice and occupied and away from his brother's guest.

Shortly after eight, Laurelai arrived carrying a small rose bush in a broken pot. After scattering the garden pixies with a growl and flash of fang, she crouched beside the herbaceous border. Discarding the broken crockery among the stones, Laurelai planted the black-velvet flowers in the soft earth bordering the wall. Smiling with satisfaction, she stood, dusted her hands on her bottom and knocked on the door.

“Good evening, mademoiselle.  Please, come in.”  At this point, a courteous host should offer to take his guest’s coat and hat, but Laurelai travelled without either, so that part of the implicit lesson was abandoned. She didn’t even appear to own shoes.  “You appear to be in good health.”

"Bonne nuit, mon ami." Laurelai had bathed and cleaned and repaired her clothing as best as she could. Normally wild curls hung in smooth ebon waves; combed back over her shoulders and still damp. She smiled pleasantly and nodded, gesturing behind her.   "I brought you this, for your garden."

The black roses shouldn’t have been visible in the moonlight, but they were, as if there was a sullen sheen to the plant.  “Thank you. It is an attractive plant,” he admitted. “I hope it will survive.  The conditions are unforgiving.”  

Laurelai wiped her bare feet on the mat and stepped inside.   "They like the climate, and acidic soil suits them, unlike your unfortunate Carsons." She had identified the blossomless bramble that housed the pixies and had begun to formulate a strategy for reaching an understanding with the creatures, or exterminate them as blight. Garden infestations aside, her expression was warm in reply to Cabal's gratitude.

“I am pleased that you like them.  Your home is very bright. Are you very blind when it is dark? Why do you have dark glasses in your bag, if you like light?" The gas lamps were harsh, and she blinked and squinted in discomfort, unaccustomed.

“This is not as bright as daylight.  I do not often wear the glasses indoors or at night. Though my night vision is good by human standards, it is nonexistent by yours.  Follow me.”  Cabal led her to the library, bypassing the odor of vanilla and a rustle of parchment paper coming from the kitchen.   There, her directed Laurelai to the desk and its paper, pencils, and colorful alphabet book.

"Oui, I am often surprised that humans go outside at night. You act like you are invincible; it is almost sad." Laurelai's tone was conversational, even sympathetic of his mortal limitations. How fragile her fearless human friend was! She admired his salt, and his posterior, as she followed him through the house.

Cabal was perplexed by being cast in the role of the brave but vulnerable individual who gallantly transcended his weakness.  Of course, everything supernatural was stronger and faster and more fatally toothed, but… he was certain there was a flaw in her reasoning somewhere.  

The library was not as brightly lit, and Laurelai paused in the door to examine a sconce.  "How do you make them work? Where is the flame?" Without waiting for an answer, she perused the room. Pausing to look at a framed picture, hands clasped behind her back to prevent curious exploring. It was difficult not to touch such amazing things, and she forgot herself several times despite her best efforts.

“Why will you not call me Laurelai?”

He took a moment to compose his answer.  “With the exception of Horst, I address people formally.”  Was this coming back to flocks and him being welcome in her nest?

"I shared my bed with you, Johannes," Laurelai's lower lip threatened to pout. "You saved my life, and still you doubt me."

There was a loud clang from the kitchen at the word “bed.”  He might have to address that misconception later.   “And you, mademoiselle, accuse me of doubting you when I refuse intimacies.  I will not be bullied, but it does not mean I expect you to attack me.”

"Bullied?"  Laurelai turned away from the shelves, frowning in dismay. She did not understand why the idea of familiarity upset him- she had made no advances, despite her natural playfulness and desires.  Had she misspoken?

"I have not made myself clear. Forgive me, I do not know how to make you understand, cherè." Laurelai sat down in the chair before the desk, and folded her hands in her lap with a sigh. The intricacies of human socialization escaped her experience, and she had little choice but to concede to his greater wisdom. Even more frustrating was her limited grasp of English; too many nuances lost in translation.

"It does not matter. Call me as you like." Laurelai gazed off at the hearth, her expression unreadable.

"May I ask why Monsieur Horst is a vampire, while you are not?"

Cabal gave the books and paper a longing glance.  She was prepared to discuss anything awkward and painful, it seemed.   “In a minute.”  He disliked the paranoid feeling that she had agendas and wishes in this partnership he did not understand, however harmless they were.  

“Mademoiselle Laurelai, try to make me understand what you want from me and why. With reference, if you please, to the significance of given names and llamia nests, as well as any other subjects you find relevant.  And what, if you please, is a flock?”

Laurelai's lower lip quirked irksomely, and she looked down at her hands. He was quick to demand answers of her, and yet many of her simple queries went ignored. Not for the first time, she considered shaking him violently.

Instead, she took a deep breath and examined her fingernails for traces of blood or dirt.

"When we met in your garden, we became friends, no? I returned your silver, and we played a game. This is known." she looked up at him evenly, spreading her hands as she presented the facts. "I respect that you do not want my kiss, and those other rules you made. I have not betrayed the things you confide in me, nor would I wish to pry in affairs that are not my own."

"But then that man tried to kill us. I do not like to remember that." she lowered her voice; her tone earnest. "I was afraid for you. You did not have to fight for me. What am I to you? Nothing."

Here, her hand pressed over the sliced leather at her ribs- the wound healed but present in memory. Laurelai looked up at Cabal, frowning.  "I do not know the word for it. But I treat you as one of my own, and you address me as a stranger. It is offensive, to me."

Cabal’s eyes unfocussed as he made mental notes.  “So by ‘flock’ you meant you were considering me ‘one of your own.’”  He was unashamed when thinking it through as an abstract concept.  “And a flock shares the nest?  So by rejecting the nest I was implicitly rejecting your offer of kinship status?”

"Oui. After a fashion." Laurelai's lashes lowered and rose in catlike agreement, and she lounged back in the deep leather chair.  Her lower lip threatened a pout.  "I treat you as an equal. You treat me as a stranger. Is that not doubt?"

Cabal was silent.  He knew she would wait for his answer, and he needed time to express it.  “I brought this house here more than ten years ago, stick and stone.”

“In that time, four people have been allowed to enter.  The police sergeant from the village, Horst, one other, and yourself. Alone of that group, I have invited you into my home, into my work, and, briefly, into my mind.  It does not seem to me like I am treating you as a stranger, however I address you or wherever I sleep.  I regret that this bruises your sensibilities, but you must not ask more of me.”  

Laurelai's brow lifted as Cabal explained his point of view, her expression open. She nodded when he was finished, collecting her thoughts. Perspective gained, the perceived insult eased.

"I am not easily bruised, cherè." Laurelai smiled a little and laughed as her posture relaxed, and combed a hand back through her hair.  "I am glad you told me this, it is much different from what I was thinking. Call me as you like, I do not mind so much."

Cabal nodded, unexpectedly relieved.  “Shall we continue to your first reading lesson?”

"Oui, I would like that." Laurelai's eyes brightened, and she sat more upright, the arch of her torso causing the slashed side of her leather vest to gape. Pale ribs showed beneath, unmarked.

Clothing next week, Cabal thought.  "Are you familiar with the letters of the alphabet?"  He had bought the book he thought would appeal most to Laurelai. It had colour illustrations and touches of gilding.

"No, but I know my name. It is how I found my cemetery." Laurelai smiled a little and tugged the edge of her vest down as she moved to the edge of her seat.

"This is - hm.  An English book.  It might have been easier to start with French, but there are advantages to starting with the most untidy and irrational language, and besides, it is where you live."  

"Oh, it is pretty!" Laurelai was enticed by the illustrations, and she leaned close to look over Cabal's shoulder. He opened the book so she could see it and started to read.  

“A is for….?”

“Une pomme- ah- apple?” Laurelai liked this game. “Brioche! No, bread!”

Cabal soon realized that some of the examples were more familiar to her than others.

"Carousel.. I like those."

Cabal pictured Laurelai on a carousel, surrounded by children and their parents and suppressed a smile.  “D is for duck.  E is for elephant.”

"Fleur?" Laurelai touched the next page, recognizing the illusion and drawing a conclusion. Her fingers traced the F, and she lingered on the page, tracing each letter.  She moved on to the next page, frowning at the illustrated greengrocer. The rows of vegetables and smiling family meant nothing to her.

"What is that?"

“A greengrocer’s.  They sell fruits and vegetables.”  

There were these odd lacunae in her memory, he thought.  Things she must once have known that she had forgotten.  Vampires rarely experienced a loss of memory with the change, though the memories were often incomprehensible to them as they lost the ability to feel love or loyalty.  Laurelai’s psychology seemed human, if foreign.  

He continued reading, pausing to allow her to make the connection between the shape of the letter, the sound, and the example given.

"The sounds are different, in here." Laurelai tapped the side of her head with her index finger, looking puzzled as she took the alphabet book into her lap. She flipped backwards through the pages, sounding soft consonants under her breath as she sought examples on each page.

She seemed to forget that Cabal was present.

“Are they?” Cabal was bemused for a moment. “What sounds do they make in your head?”

She didn't answer at first, quietly repeating the sounds under her breath. Puzzled, she sat back and shook her head. "Different, it is like.. I do not know how to describe."

"Hullo Miss Laurelai," Horst smiled warmly from the doorway, carrying a tray of Assam tea and freshly baked currant scones. He nodded to Johannes, and placed the tray on the edge of the desk. "Thought you might like to have a little snack while you work."

Cabal gave his brother a narrow look.  “Miss Laurelai does not eat… scones.  As you well know.  Is this purely for my benefit?  How kind. How completely unmotivated by anything but brotherly affection.  How unsuspicious.”

Laurelai had fallen quiet as Horst had entered, watching him warily. She held her book closed upon her lap, lavender eyes flicking from one brother to the other. She neither acknowledged the greeting, nor replied, watchful.

Horst was unaffected by his younger brother's vitriol. He smiled pleasantly and nodded, looking at Laurelai. Seeing that she did not smile back, his confidence wavered; an unfamiliar feeling.

"I wanted to say hello, and knowing that you're not likely to feed yourself without a reminder, I thought I'd do something nice. People do nice things for each other all the time, did you know that? Funny old world." Horst winked at Laurelai, hoping she would enjoy his humor.

She did not, and gazed balefully back before looking at Johannes. "It is me he is curious about. Vampires always are."

“I have never known Horst to be overburdened with curiosity.”  Cabal was beginning to get the feeling that Laurelai actively disliked his brother.  Was it some natural antipathy of species?  “We were working, Horst.  But… did you bring lemon?”

"Well, I might be a tiny bit curious, but only because I'd like to get to know you." Horst smiled at Laurelai. He felt that he was on unsteady ground with her and wanted to fix whatever social misstep he had made. "I like to get to know my little brother's lady friends."

Laurelai did not respond, but looked vaguely uncomfortable. She nodded, and looked down at her book.

"Lemon? Oh, back in a mo'," Horst had never felt so awkward, and his smile felt like a mask as he returned to the kitchen.

“He always forgets the lemon.”  Cabal straightened the papers.  “You are under no obligation to socialize with Horst.  Although.  People do generally want to.”

Laurelai watched Cabal, silent for a moment as she considered whether or not to reply. After all, he had not asked for an explanation.

"I have not had good experiences, in the past." she confided, looking back down at the elaborately drawn ‘T’ upon the page. She did not like anything that made her feel weak, which Horst most certainly had at their first meeting. She traced the gilded illustration with a finger.

"Why does this page show a Horn, and yet the letter is not that sound?" Laurelai attempted to change the subject.

Cabal disliked straying from the task at hand, but she had piqued his curiosity. "You have been mistreated by other vampires?"  

Laurelai's gaze turned inward, her shoulders slouching slightly. She was silent a moment longer- her thoughts faraway.

"Oui."

"How did they...  that is, in what way...."  The cross-examination forming in Cabal's mind came to a jerking halt as he took in her bowed shoulders.  "That is...."  There would be a better time, he told himself, to learn about vampire-llamia relations.  "A trumpet.  That is a trumpet, a type of horn."

"For sex, or blood. Sometimes for sport- how should I know?" Laurelai's gaze remained unblinking, fixed upon Cabal's. His answer to her question was either disregarded or assimilated- it was impossible to know.

She tilted her head, apparently waiting.

After a moment, Cabal nodded.  "Then naturally you are wary."  He tried to stop there, but could not.  "Horst is a good man.  You are safe here.  And if he could not protect you," Cabal had a feeling this sentence was getting away from him, but there was no way to divert it now, "then I would.  Under the terms of our agreement.  Now, the letter 'U.'"

Laurelai's expression turned querulous for a moment- confusion and surprise mingling. His vow was heartfelt. She could not recall another instance where she felt such camaraderie.

Standing in one fluid movement- book toppling to the floor- Laurelai cupped Cabal's face and kissed his forehead. Then she sat down with a happy coo and retrieved the book from where it had fallen.

Cabal wasn’t sure she saw the severe look that rewarded the kiss; it was not one of his best efforts.  He had cobbled it together hastily from a confused expression, and it came from a desire to remind her of the rules, not from genuine ire.  “Mademoiselle,” But her gesture had not felt threatening. Inexplicably, she was happy again. It struck Cabal that she was like Horst in that way; nothing clouded her temperament for long.  It baffled him.  “May we return to work?”

"Oui." Laurelai favored the scientist with a fond, fanged smile- tinted with a hint of mischief. Legs folded beneath her, she perched on the edge of Cabal's desk and peered at the book.

"Umber-alla?" she blinked, frowning. "Parasol?"

"Indeed. But waterproof."

The next few letters passed without incident.  Cabal sipped his tea as they arrived at the final page.  "Are you familiar with this animal?"

No sooner than had Laurelai turned the page, the book went flying--

                --the Llamia hissing down at the offending illustration from atop the bookshelves.

         "Zebra."

Unperturbed, Cabal placed his cup back in the saucer.  "Indeed.  An impractical and unpleasant animal.  That concludes today's lesson.  I will not detain you with such simple material next time.”  She had been able to read once, he suspected; she was already sounding out words.  “You may take this book with you, if you wish."  He withdrew his notebook.

"I need to hold our next lesson a day or two late.  I find I have a commitment.  Is that acceptable?"  He glanced up.

Satisfied that the illustrated embodiment of nightmares would not gallop off the page and harm her, Laurelai lowered herself to the floor. She lifted the book and folded it closed, considering Cabal's proposal. She placed the book atop his desk.

"One night? Or two?" she asked in return. "I must have care for my roses. It grows colder."

He shrugged. "I should return by daylight on the Saturday, and I will be rested by that evening.  We may meet then, or a later day."

Laurelai's expression became thoughtful as first she had to recall what day it was- counting on her fingers. She nodded solemnly, rocking from heel to toe as an idea bloomed.

"I could go with you? I could protect you, or be helpful in some other way? And my lesson would be to travel. As a human woman."

Cabal did not dismiss the idea out of hand.  He believed in the value of applied learning.  "The idea has merit, and were I tutoring you in theft from mid-range British museums, I might require you to accompany me.  But you wish to learn to pass among humans." Her acrobatic skills might be very useful, he thought.

Laurelai nodded, and, in an effort to persuade him, she smiled, clasped her hands politely before herself and subtly batted her eyelashes. "I have no need to learn how to break into the museum, cherè, I go there quite often. I like the ghosts."  She smiled, her tone softly pleading.

"If I promise to wear a dress, and speak only French, could I not also provide you with security of alibi?"  She had heard the term over the wireless, and found it intriguing. What games humans played!

Cabal’s eyes narrowed as he considered the advantages and disadvantages of her offer. He had planned to go in while the museum was closed and smash a case open with a hammer.  If he was interrupted, no number of be-gowned Frenchwomen would provide a sufficient alibi, although a llamia might be of some use. He might be able to accommodate her wishes while gaining her help.  Laurelai was a habituée of the building; at least she would not slow him down. 

“Perhaps. You might accompany me to the town,” it was unnecessary for the theft but would be good practice for her, “and assist me during the acquisition.  After, I would return here alone.”

"You mean I would not have to stay and watch you growl at your notebook?" This was a bonus to the plan, which would also allow the time she needed to acquire certain chemicals she needed for her roses.  Perhaps she might practice her new skills in a tavern or two. "Oui, this is acceptable."

Cabal was confused.  Growl at his notebook?  Possibly her English was faulty.  "Very well, then."  This was an excellent development: an efficient use of both their time, and advantageous to them both.  There was no reason to feel any misgivings.

Laurelai smiled at Cabal's agreement, a gesture that complimented her features and showed off deadly dentition.

"Oui, bon. I will arrive at the customary time." She paused, a thought occurring. "You may tell your brother I will need a dress, hm?"

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hello! Could I send a request of Leona, Riddle, and Idia seeing their s/o in a matching costume of their Scary Monsters one, as a surprise?

(Only if this is alright! Please don’t overwork yourself and Happy early Halloween! 🎃)

Curiouser and Curiouser...

Leona seems both taken aback and amused that you’d have the audacity to impersonate a pirate captain. He doesn’t much care for the aesthetical appeal of having the same costume, but he’s excited to see what kind of a challenge you’ll put up for him--as well as what kind of entertainment you can provide.

He casually makes mention that you’ll freeze to death in that outfit, given your lack of fur and how low-cut the V line of the shirt is. Before you have a chance to talk back, Leona has already stripped off his own jacket and tossed it over your shoulders. “Button up for the night, herbivore. You’ll need it,” he says gruffly.

There’s plenty about your pirate costume that Leona can exploit to tease you. All the little golden accessories clink together when you move, making it easy to locate you at a moment’s notice--and with the hat being too large for your head, one tip is all it takes to send it at an angle to obscure your vision. The annoyed glares and pouts you send Leona’s way just makes it all the more enthralling for him.

He slips off his own eyepatch and replaces it over your vacant eye, blinding you and leaving you as his mercy. All you’ll have to guide you is the languid call of his rich voice, beckoning you to draw closer and closer to his arms.

“There isn’t enough room on this pirate ship for two captains,” he murmurs, his smile lazy yet conspiratorial as his arms close around you. “Normally, I’d make you walk the plank or something, but I’m not feeling it today. How about this instead: you can be my second-in-command, now and forever.”

Riddle carefully examines you from head to toe as he circles you, a finger curled against his lip. He’s one for tidy appearances, and this is no exception. He’s not concerned with the “cuteness” or the shock of having matching costumes, he only wants to make sure you look proper in it!

Riddle has a tendency to fuss if he finds something out of place. He’ll set to immediately correcting it, of course--be it a loose ribbon/lace or a crooked rose--accompanied by light tutting. (If you ever have a wardrobe malfunction, he makes it clear that you can always come to him for help.)

He spends the most time fiddling with the veil hanging from your hat, batting it around, twisting it up in a knot, trying to find the ideal way for it to suspend. Riddle likes being able to see the full extent of you, but it’s just not possible with that tattered veil. Ultimately, he allows it to fall across your face, just the same as his.

When your outfit is fixed to his liking, Riddle gives one final full-body dust-off, then steps back with nod and a pleased smile. “There we are. Why, you look as though you’ve just risen fresh from the grave. On any other day, I’d say you were a rose cut for this garden... but today, you are a skeletal gravedigger fit for this cemetery.”

“It’s a shame that I can’t catch a full glimpse of you with this in the way. But I should consider this an opportunity to rehearse.” He fingers the veil--fabric he had not so long ago considered bothersome--and lifts it from your face, planting a quick kiss on your cheek. “Until death do us part.”

Idia mistakes you for an Ignihyde student at first, since a pumpkin helmet is completely hiding your face. It’s not until you pop the helmet off that he realizes it’s you, matted hair and all, strands plastered to your cheeks and forehead.

If he had more grace like those pretty boys from the manga/anime you’re really into, maybe Idia would stride up with a swagger and help brush your hair aside Maybe he’d cup your face in his hands and stare deep into your eyes, against a background littered with roses and sparkles.

... But this is Idia we’re talking about, and this isn’t a corny shoujo manga. He doesn’t have that confidence. So instead, he just kind of stands there and awkwardly stares while his brain processes the scene.

Idia approaches you as if in a trance, grasping onto your arm with a shaky hand--to test if he’s dreaming or seeing things. And how real you are, warm flesh and thrumming heart and all. His hand snakes from your arm to your hands, and his gaze shyly cuts to yours. You can make out the tips of his hair fading into a peachy pink, and his pointed teeth flashing from behind his blue lips.

“I-It really is you. S-Surprising me out of the blue with a couple’s cosplay... Landing a critical hit on my life points like that... Hihihi... It’s sneaky of you, b-but... It makes me happy.” Idia's hair deepens to red, and his grip on your hands tightens as his next words fumble out. “If I’m the Pumpkin Knight... then y-you must be my Pumpkin King.”