#we all stand at the window and watch them drink from the birdbaths in the yard

[x-h3kk3ning-x]

Sometimes I forget that there are people who have never experienced the magic of living in an urban area, and randomly getting visited by deer in your yard. It's. Magical.

[ineffably-good]

Faeted (Good Omens AU)

Summary:  Ezra fell is an English professor at a prestigious academy for boys. Crowley is the lord of the Unseelie court in the lands without sunrise or moonfall. Somehow fate will bring them together.

Excerpt:  “That’s the only part that concerns you?” Ezra exclaimed. “My heart’s desire is apparently a large reptile and you’re just concerned about the laws of magic?”

Read it on AO3!

Chapter One

Ezra Fell laid down his chalk and turned to face the twelve teenage boys in his care. Twelve bodies ensconced in navy blazers jittered in barely concealed anticipation; twelve pairs of eyes jumped between him and the clock on the wall, ticking loudly as the last minutes of Friday lecture faded away.

There was no competing with the weekend, even at a school as prestigious as St. Aloysius Academy.

“Yes, yes, all right,” he sighed. “I expect you all to read the next section of the Faerie Queen for Monday, and to complete your permission slips for next week’s field trip.”

The bell clanged and the room was suddenly awash with the screeching sounds of chairs being pushed back and students exploding into motion.

“Class dismissed,” he called futilely, over the chaos.

Ezra sighed and wiped the chalk dust from his hands as he returned to his desk and began to straighten up his papers. There was a knock at the door and he smiled to see Miss Device, his friend and the resident art teacher, standing in the doorway. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a braid and there were tiny bits of paint speckled on her glasses and her cheek. She still wore the smock she’d placed over her dress to protect it from her students’ creative endeavors.

“Survived another week, did you?” she asked with a grin.

“Indeed I did, my dear,” Ezra replied. “And you? Still employed I assume?”

“So it seems,” she said. “So that’s a score of two for us, zero for the urchins. We just might get through this term yet. Supper at the pub at seven?”

“Of course! Wouldn’t miss it.”

Anathema sketched a little wave and disappeared around the corner towards her own room.

Read it on AO3!

--

Ezra gathered his things into his leather satchel and made his way outside. It was a beautiful fall day, and the air was crisp and bracing. He stretched in the angled sunlight for a moment and then headed off towards his home.

He passed through the school gates and enjoyed the walk for another twelve minutes before he found himself arriving at his own doorstep – a small, tidy, whitewashed cottage, just the right size for one. Many of the instructors at the academy lived on campus with the students, but Ezra valued his privacy and his quiet reading time too much for that; he’d felt lucky to find and purchase his own modest little home so close to the school when he’d been hired on five years ago.

He stopped to collect his post and examine the flowers in his front window box, and then let himself in with a contented sigh and immediately set about putting a kettle on to boil. Time for tea.

The clock over the mantel showed that he had a little over two hours before he needed to meet Anathema. With a happy wriggle, he carried his tea over to his favorite arm chair in front of the fire, sat down, and picked up the copy of The Mabinogion he’d been reading. It took him just a moment to find his place, and then the world disappeared as he was lost in tales of pre-Arthurian Britain.

--

Anathema was waiting for him when he parked his bicycle outside the pub later that evening. She waved to him from their usual table in the front window and he noted she had two pints ready for them.

“So, what were you reading that made you late this time?” Anathema asked.

“Oh, doing some background research on old Celtic and British legends,” Ezra answered. “Faeries and mounds and elfshot and fairy stroke and what have you. Fascinating stuff! I’m taking the boys out to visit a few sites on Monday afternoon and want to give them context.”

Anathema nodded. “Faeries,” she said solemnly, “are not generally the nice little creatures that people like to imagine. They are dangerous and unpredictable and not to be taken lightly.”

Ezra examined her closely. “In literature, you mean,” he said pointedly.

“Whatever makes you happy,” she said with an ambiguous smile.

“I know you believe in magic, of course, but are you telling me you believe in the fair folk too?”

Anathema shrugged and took a long drink from her pint. It left a bit of foam on her lip that she licked off before answering. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Ezra tutted at her fussily. “Now, now, using Shakespeare to win an argument with an English professor is completely unfair.”

“Who ever said I play fair?”

“Indeed,” Ezra said with a fond smile. “I keep forgetting that.”

They turned their attention to food, then to sharing the latest gossip from their respective departments as the munched on their fish and chips.

“What is your coven up to tonight, then?” Ezra asked pleasantly.

“Oh, you know. Preparing for the larger gathering next week. Scrying.”

“What are you scrying for?”

She shrugged. “It varies from person to person. Glimpses of the future. The face of your one true love. The essay question that will appear on next week’s exam.”

He laughed. “And you find that this works?”

“Well maybe not for essay questions,” she said with a wink. “Although if the will is strong, anything is possible.”

She stopped and looked at him more closely.

“Oh now, don’t start, my dear,” he protested, knowing what was coming.

“You should come join us,” she said. It was an old refrain and quite possibly the hundredth time she’d brought this up.

“My dear, covens are for women,” Ezra said primly.

“No, they aren’t,” she said. “We are an equal opportunity coven. And you’d fit right in.”

“Perhaps some other time,” he said, signaling for another round of pints.

“Really, Ezra. We’ve got a few men who work with us regularly. And with your powers of concentration and imagination, you’d be a natural.” She peered at him. “What’s the harm in giving it a chance?”

Ezra had to think about that one. Born into a conservative and very rich family, he’d long since abandoned his family’s religious beliefs and instead devoted himself to a life of the mind and the senses. He considered himself an open minded man, and didn’t mind at all that his closest friend considered herself a practicing witch. But to try it himself?

Anathema leaned forward and prepared to break out the big guns. “Really Ezra,” she said. “Where’s your academic curiosity?”

She sat back and tried not to grin while she watched that comment land.

He huffed in mock disgust. “You,” he said, shaking a finger, “are a menace. You are an American menace, come to Great Britain to corrupt the souls of our young.”

She continued to grin smugly at him, one eyebrow coolly raised.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said. “I’m not coming to your coven. But perhaps you can show me something about how scrying works, after dinner. I do admit to some curiosity about the process.”

Anathema made a fist pumping gesture, which Ezra primly ignored.

--

“Do you have some ink?” Anathema asked as they entered the cottage.

Ezra gave her a stern look and gestured around him at the overflow of books, papers, notebooks, and pens lying on every possible surface. “What do you think?” he asked. “Of course I have ink!”

“Grab it,” she said, “and a pitcher of fresh water, and a silver spoon if you have one, and meet me in the back garden.”

“No niceties? No sitting down for a biscuit first?” he teased.

“I’ve got a coven to get to in an hour,” she said, pushing her glasses back up on her nose. “If you want a little tutorial, we’ve got to do it now.”

Ezra set about gathering the items she’d asked for, placing them carefully on a wooden tray, and then stopped and added a few biscuits on a plate too, just in case someone got peckish.

When he emerged in the backyard, he found Anathema had upended the brackish water and leaves out of his old, stone birdbath and wiped it as clean as she could with just her hands, and then had pushed and pulled it out of its usual corner beneath the plum tree into a spot where it was open to the sky above.

“It’s actually a beautiful night for scrying,” she said. “Nice bright moon, no wind…”

“Oh lovely,” Ezra said, a tad sarcastically.

She punched him lightly in the arm. “You asked for a lesson in scrying. Don’t be a bastard.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, smoothing his face into a more agreeable expression. “What do we do?”

“First pour the water into the bowl,” she said, indicating the birdbath. “And then add a few drops of ink to make it darken. Then stir it with the silver spoon, three times clockwise.””

He did so.

“Now,” she said firmly, “it’s mostly about your intention at this point.”

“My intention?”

“What do you want to see?” she asked. “You don’t have to tell me, but think of a question in your mind, as clearly as you can, and focus on it while you take deep breaths and calm yourself.”

Ezra sat back and thought. What did he want to know? He thought about asking it to show him his family and what they were doing, but he wasn’t really interested in that, to be honest. His parents were undoubtedly at some fancy fund raiser, as that was how they spent most of their weekends, and his older brother was undoubtedly preparing for tomorrow’s sermon at his swanky parish. None of them were thinking about him and seeing them would just point out how hopelessly different their lives were from his.

Did he want to know about the possibility of love or romance? To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure. He’d never had a strong feeling that love and romance were for him. He hadn’t ever really met anyone who evinced a strong interest in him, other than the occasional school crush on an older boy or two. These interests were passing and short, and he’d found himself mostly content with his life alone. He had his books, and his students, and a few good friends. It wasn’t out of the question that cupid could encounter him someday, but it hadn’t happened yet.

“I don’t know what to ask for,” he finally admitted.

Anathema studied him quietly. “Why don’t you ask it to show you what you most need to see?”

He straightened up and smiled. “Why, my dear, that’s a perfect solution. Nice and open, difficult to misinterpret. I do like to be precise.” He closed his eyes and took a series of long, slow breaths. He concentrated on that statement, repeating it over and over. Show me what I most need to see. Show me what I most need to see. Show me what I most need to see.

After a few minutes, he felt calm and centered, and he opened his eyes to look at Anathema, who was watching him closely.

“Lean forward,” she said, “and look into the water. Keep breathing and try to relax, and just wait.”

“That’s it?” he asked doubtfully.

“That’s all it takes,” she said.

He placed a hand on either side of the cold stone basin and leaned forward to stare at the reflection of the moon in the dark, inky water. Nothing happened for several minutes. There was only his face, watery and distorted, and the reflection of the moon, wobbling a little as gentle ripples made their way out from the center of the pool. He realized he was holding the edges of the basin with a death grip and tried to loosen his hands a little, letting the tension flow out of him.

He took a deep steadying breath and leaned in a little further, still repeating the words in his head, and suddenly the image in the water shifted, into a pair of golden, snake-like eyes that blinked at him in surprise and then darkened in alarm. He had a brief impression of hair like flames and a sense of agitation as the eyes leaned closer towards the surface and then — disappeared.

Ezra leapt back as if the bird bath had bitten him.

“What did you see?” Anathema asked, taking in his breathless surprise.

“I — I’m not sure!” he stammered. “Eyes. Reptilian eyes. Possibly a snake? I think it saw me, too.”

“That’s impossible,” the witch said. “Scrying is one direction only; no one can see back across the connection.”

“That’s the only part that concerns you?” Ezra exclaimed. “My heart’s desire is apparently a large reptile and you’re just concerned about the laws of magic?”

Anathema started to make a smart comment and then noted his pallor and how rapidly he was breathing. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get a finger or two of scotch into you.” She took him by the elbow and led him into the house.

The encounter left Ezra off balance and out of sorts for the rest of the evening. He saw Anathema off after more tea and a bit of whiskey, then set about trying to settle down and focus on lesson planning, but found himself distracted by thoughts of those golden, reptilian eyes widening in surprise and alarm. Who on earth was that supposed to be? His soulmate? He might not know a lot about the larger world outside of the academy, but he was fairly certain that nobody human had eyes like that.

[the-number-26]

Through the Handprint in the Steam

Thank god for the rain. It washes away all of the filth of this place, collects it all in dark tubes beneath the streets and carries it off to a place I don’t see and don’t have to think about ever again.

It rains hard here. It gets into your boots. Around here, when it rains, it pours.

Bottles and cans, and all manner of unwanted discarded things, substances, clumps, and piles, collect in cesspools around tiny barred cave entrances built into the roads.

One sip of this towns’ storm-water runoff would leave you drunk, stoned, high, and diseased for the rest of your life.

The clouds get all dressed up, they put on makeup, they puff up themselves like a prized hen out on the ocean before making their grand entrance. With all their white, black, and grey, they dressed for all the weddings, funerals, baby showers, and business meetings to be rained on today. They waltz in from the horizon like shining princesses down a marble staircase, always unfashionably early to the party.

People rush around, shouting, “Rain! Rain!”

Around here shouting “rain!” is like shouting “fire!” in a movie theater. People start frantically running about.

I see people ten stories up, reaching out their windows into alleys, risking their lives, trying to get their underwear off the clotheslines.

Old men sitting in silence at the bar look out the window and finally have something to talk about, they all turn to each other and say, “looks like rain.” before turning back to their beers and liquors in silence.

There’s no calm before the storm, around here, there’s chaos and chaos and chaos. It’s a chaotic ballet- like the Number 26 bus’ window wipers sliding in and out of each others space in perfect harmony.

I swear I’ve seen big burly construction workers dodging raindrops, never stopping their working, oblivious to the rain, they somehow always seem dry.

I’ve seen little kids getting swept down the road like a kite in the wind.

I’ve seen an old woman pull umbrellas out of her sleeves like a magician.

Sewer grates start to steam like the whole town’s a steamboat running down the river; sinking. We all sink together, and the rain gets into everything. It gets into your boots.

When the cloud hits land it hits it like a sack of bricks, like a thousand pianos falling off a thousand towers, like a big wet wrecking ball, it smashes into the whole city at once. You can see it coming, a big black wall sweeping in from the horizon and covering ground with godly speed. It charges at you like a line of calvary.

Few things can make you feel so small, it’s a humbling experience, watching that army of seemingly infinite raindrops. The size of the cloud is unfathomable. There’s no comparison, no reference point, nothing to help you gain any perspective, except it would seem the entirety of the world’s curvature.  From skyline to skyline, there’s nothing but black, grey, and blinding white. It’s a colossal, unstoppable, beast.

Like a mother coming to give you a bath, it sweeps in whether you want it too or not. All of our kicking and futile screaming insignificant to its power and authority. It says, “you will be clean now.”

Businessmen groan like unruly children as if to ask self-righteously, “how dare you make me wet?” They blame everyone they can- the weatherman- but the only thing there to blame is that great big beast lingering just off the coast. They shake their fist at it as it comes in undeterred, and they’re left shaking in their impotent rage, soaking wet, their dress shoes full of water, socks and feet forever wet.

Savvier businessmen run out onto the sidewalk selling ponchos and umbrellas to passerbys for five times the value. Like a hoplite, they’re surrounded by a shield wall of umbrellas, advertising how perfectly dry they still are. But when the wind really comes, it’ll snap the umbrellas back, making them perfect funnels for collecting the water. Their boots will be left soaking wet.

Even the bees stop working when it rains, but around this city, people never rest. You should see the grey men in their grey coats rushing down the street. You can see their internal debate raging behind their eyes, the question, should they break the old rule they learned in the halls of their grade schools? And burst into an unruly and forbidden run- going against all social graces. They stand at intersections, rain getting into their boots, hating themselves for being ruled by a tiny neon red hand flashing across the street.

Rain. An ineffable thing. The feeling of the rush of the wind hitting you and snatching the breath out of your mouth, the sound of the applause of a billion droplets bursting on the ground, rooftops, and branches. The trees dancing, and the leaves clapping together in their praise. The petrichor wafting out of the earth, and with the smell, old memories thought long forgotten but buried deep within.

Rain, impossible to describe, yet understood by everyone.

They say no two snowflakes are alike, and the same is true about droplets. Like different instruments, each makes a different pitter and patter as they fall. The result is the most magnificent symphony ever orchestrated. I swear if you close your eyes and listen you can hear each unique drop bursting.

The first few brave droplets always come much earlier than the rest. They pat the heads, backs, and shoulders of a certain few.

I see one of those few look up to the sky in disbelief and shout, “It’s raining!” to all those around to listen.

The one next to him looks up to the sky for proof. Her palms held open to the sky swaying back and forth, trying to catch invisible falling specks of water.

Then the wind comes. Suddenly. It steals newspapers, and skips off with them down the street whistling. It opens windows, and it slams doors. It snatches hats, and it ruffles hair. It puts out fires and stokes embers. And it touches everything.

It grows strong and rips through the streets with icy fury. It passes straight through walls, jackets, and skin. It shoots right through me, rattles around inside my ribcage, and freezes me from the inside out.  

I see an old man walking bent over into the wind, each arduous step bringing him two backward.

Just when I think the world’s about to crumble and everything’s going to get ripped apart the rain finally comes. It starts slow, with a pitter and a patter here and there, a snap, a pop, a tap on the shoulder. Then it builds. It gets faster. Before I know it there’s more water than air. I see people struggling to breathe through the droplets.

I see a girl spread her arms wide, her hands open to the sky with little birdbaths in her palms, her hair blowing in the wind, sticking her tongue out at the dark cloud, drinking in the sky between her laughs.

With the world getting ripped apart around her, she stands facing that huge cloud utterly undeterred. She stands invincible.

I watch it all pass through the handprint in the steam on the yellow window of the Number 26 bus.

Read more short stories and check out the writing prompt at https://thenumber26.net/

[antiquechampagne]

Chapter 28 - Sleep Walking

The rest of the trek back to Goodneighbor was unusually silent.  Payne found her mind playing the whole disastrous return trip over and over as they avoided super mutant patrols and raider nests. Not only was she worried about how much damage she had caused with Hancock confidence in her, but rehashing her past had dredged up old baggage she thought long since buried. She started to second guess every interaction with him, over analyzing her word choices, how he reacted to her.

She adjusted the new knife strapped to her thigh for no particular reason, trying to break herself free from her intrusive thoughts. The long elegantly curved blade extended from below the wrist, ending in a viciously pointed tip. She found a deeply scratched “D” in the handle when they made a pit stop, wondering what significance the letter might have had.

Fahrenheit met them at the door to the Old State House, ushering Hancock in with a disgruntled look, several papers in her hand.

“No rest for the wicked!” Hancock shrugged before disappearing inside.

Payne took her leave, needing to clean up after the trip. For the next week, she went through the motions: guarding Hancock, patrolling, even half-listening to Magnolia sing in The Third Rail. She found her mind under assault by random memories at random times that clung to her and spread like a poisonous vine.

Walking back to her hotel room one morning in a fog, mentally exhausted after a night of slow drinking. As she rounded the corner, she found the Memory Den looming in front of her. She had never given much thought to the wares the establishment pedaled. The past was something she rarely thought about. She found it not worth disturbing the long settled dust… but now? The past pressed up against her mind, bleeding through to the present. Before she had realized it, her hand was pushing open the doors.

Irma looked up in surprise. “Well, good morning to you, sweetheart! Isn’t it a bit early for a social call? Kent’s probably still in his pajamas.”

Payne looked around nervously. “This… isn’t a social call, Irma.” She paused, unsure how to proceed.

“Just last week we paid our…oh.” Irma caught Payne eyeing the closest memory lounger and thought a moment. “Let me go see if Dr. Amari’s up, dear. Give me a minute.” Irma rose from her chaise lounge. “I’m not promising anything. Amari’s pretty stringent when it comes to screening new clients.” An easy smile curled her rosy lips. “At least I know you’re good for the caps.”

Alone, Payne listened to the strange rhythmic humming emitted by the machines surrounding her. She pressed her hand to the cold glass, peering inside. She was contemplating walking out, embarrassed to even be standing in the lobby, when Dr. Amari appeared.

“The memory loungers are complex pieces of equipment. Please don’t lean on them,” chided the doctor. Payne straightened up and quickly removed her hand. “Irma says you’re interested in our services. She also seems to think you could endure the procedure. Reliving memories… can be quite jarring if you haven’t prepared properly.”

“I been in here enough to know the spiel, Amari. I’m not going to live in a pod like Kent. I just want to... see some family I haven’t seen in a long time. That’s all.”

“Memories with people are easier, especially ones with loved ones,” Irma said. “Just focus on them, and you should do just fine.”

“Fine.” Amari said curtly. Money changed hands. “Just sit down in a lounger. Focus on a strong memory while I lock onto it.”

Payne laid down on the plush reclined chair of an open pod. She was glad to see a lack of restraints as the glass dome lowered around her. A television monitor suspended inches from her face, crackling with static and snow.

“All right. I’m scanning the hippocampus now. Good. Synchronizing the temporal lobes…”

“Let the show begin!” Irma chimed cheerfully.

Payne felt the hum of the machine grow louder as her vision went a snowy white.

“We’re almost there. Your memory is loading now.” Dr. Amari’s voice sounded tinny and distant, like she was whispering through a metal pipe. “We’ll be monitoring you.” Payne felt her heart rate jump at the phrase. Why was she doing this to herself? Putting herself in the hands of a doctor, of all people. That didn’t go so great the last time…

“Just relax, please. Focus on the memory.”

Payne forced herself to calm down, remembering the last truly happy time she had with her family.

Suddenly she found herself standing on a sidewalk, a bright blue sky above her head. The gentle rays of the kind fall sun warmed her skin. She could not suppress a wide, genuine smile. In front of her stood the perfect salmon-pink house of her childhood, complete with her mother’s concrete birdbath front and center in their yard. She could detect the delicate sweet smell of her mother’s baking wafting through the air. The house was decorated for Halloween, with black bats hung from the eaves and grinning carved pumpkins on the front porch. She was home!

Payne felt as if her heart stopped. Looking through the living room’s giant plate-glass window, two familiar silhouettes sat, lit only by the movie playing on the television set. She noticed it was her mother’s favorite horror flick, Dementia. And there they sat, her mother and brother, sharing popcorn as they watch their family’s annual horror movie marathon on her birthday. She froze, terrified that if she dared to move, the whole fragile world could disintegrate before her. Tears welled in her eyes seeing the two talking and laughing jovially together. Silently, the shadow of her brother got up and moved out of the room. Finally, Payne broke out of her trepidation and raced up the walk.

As she reached for the door, a single gunshot shattered the bucolic peace of the pristine pre-war neighborhood. Time dilated and stretched. Payne could hear her mother’s blood-freezing scream behind the door. Looking down, bright red blood seeped under the front door, oozing past the toes of her shoes.

“MOM! ADEN!” she screamed, pounding on the door that would not budge no matter how much she pushed. Somewhere close, a deafening claxon began blaring. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how this happened… and yet it was happening…everything, all at once. In the sky, missiles streaked across a darkening horizon, choked with strange glowing green clouds.

“What the hell?” cried the tinny voice, far away from the horror unfolding around Payne. “Get her out. NOW!”

Ignoring the voice, Payne renewed her assault on her front door, cursing in frustration. She had to get to her family, needed to protect them from the horrors only she knew were coming. Her heart pounded in her chest, dread making bile rise in her throat.

Suddenly, Payne felt hands wrap around her arms and begin to pull her away and down the sidewalk. Skeletal figures wearing soiled and tattered nursing uniforms dragged her, their long needle-like fingers digging into the flesh of her arms, dripping glowing green ooze. She kicked and shoved, trying to twist from their ironclad grip. The bombs exploded in the sky. Payne screamed as the whole world went white.

“Just calm down, sweetie.”

She could still feel hands holding her down. In full panic, not knowing where she was, Payne threw off her attackers with a violent shove. Then, she did what she always did. She ran.

__

Kent arrived at the second-floor landing of the Old State House, huffing and panting. The closest guard on ran to his side.

“Hancock…” He puffed. “Payne…”

The noisy commotion brought Hancock out, followed closely by Fahrenheit. “Kent? What’s going on?” he asked.

Still winded, Kent took a deep breath. “Payne went to the Memory Den.” Hancock’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know what happened, but she freaked out…”

Before Kent could finish his sentence, Hancock rushed out the door and into the street. It didn’t take him long to find where Payne had run to. A crowd of drifters and Neighborhood Watch had gathered a cautious distance around a small metal shack at the end of the barricaded street past the hotel.

He stopped next to a watchman. Without having to ask, the man issued a report.

“From what I hear, Payne ran out of the Memory Den like a bat outta hell. Never saw anyone move that fast… but she’s holed up in Randy’s shack there. Blocked up the door and screams if anyone gets close. Thank God Randy wasn’t in there when she busted in… They says Irma’s pretty banged up. Amari’s helping her out right now. We’re not really sure what to do next.”

Hancock clapped him on the back, a wordless thanks. “Wish me luck.”

“What? Boss… you can’t go in there!”

“Don’t worry about your old Mayor. Did you forget I have a silver tongue?” He popped a Mentat in his mouth. “A little extra boost couldn’t hurt, either.”

Hancock strode through the crowd. He stopped to ask an onlooker to borrow a sack hood hanging from their waistband before walking up to the small shack. He peered through the spaces between the table and bed that had been hastily thrown into the doorway. He could see Payne pressed between the wall and a tall dresser. She rocked as she rubbed her arms, her head down and eyes pressed closed.

Quietly, he asked, “Payne?”

“GO AWAY!” she roared in response, not even looking his direction.

“Come on, Payne. It’s me...” Something glass shattered as it hit the upturned table, so close to his face he had to brush a few shards off it. He thought for a moment.

“Dahlia?” he offered, almost whispering. Payne stopped rocking. “Dahl, listen to me. It’s Hancock. All I want to do is talk.” She slowly turned her head and finally looked at him, her eyes squinting as if she was trying to focus on something far in the distance. Her face was red and angry, burned by her run into the daylight. He carefully moved some of the furniture aside, mindful to reduce any noises that might startle her. Walking into the one-room shack, he stopped as Payne tensed up.

“Alright, I’ll just sit right here until you feel like saying something.” Hancock sat cross-legged on the dirty floor and watched her, a calm and patient expression on his face.  This wasn’t the first time he had talked someone down, though normally it was from some drug-induced haze. He studied her as she anxiously watched him. He wasn’t sure if she was actually seeing him at first. Her eyes darted all around the room, following unseen phantoms. Eventually she squirmed so that she faced him, still wedged partially in her protective corner.

Finally she asked timidly, “Hancock? Is that you?” She scrutinized his face. “Are you really here?”

“It’s me, sunshine. Looks like you’re in a bit of a bad way.” He didn’t move as she tentatively stretched out her hand to gingerly touch his knee. She found it solid and unwavering, firm in its existence in time and space. Some of the tension released from her shoulders.

“Where am I?” She put her hands to her temples, the specter of a claxon reeling in her ears. “When am I?”

“You’re in Goodneighbor. It’s 2287. The bombs fell over 200 years ago. Specifically, you are squatting in Randy’s place… well, what’s left of it. He might not be too fond of your redecorating the place.”

Payne looked around the disheveled room, frowning as if seeing it for the first time. She hung her head between her curled up knees. “I fucked up pretty bad, didn’t I?”

Hancock scooted closer, resting his back on the wall next to her. “Nothing an apology or two won’t amend.” Hancock remembered the one time he had run afoul of Amari, spilling a full bottle of vodka on one of her machines. “Maybe caps, too. That helps.”

An uneasy silence settled between them.

“What happened in there?” he cautiously ventured. “I didn’t really peg you as a Memory Den kinda gal.”

“I…” Payne choked on her words. She had no idea how to formulate what had happened into a coherent thought. Nothing made any sense to her. She started again. “At first everything was fine… I was in front of my mother’s house, but then…” Her mind stumbled. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “It was like the most horrific nightmare you can imagine, tailor-made for me. Everything happened at once… my brother shooting himself… the bombs falling… the nurses pushing poison into me.” She folded in on herself again, hugging her body desperately.

“I’m sorry. I messed up,” she whimpered. Hancock could see tears well in her eyes. “I just… I just wanted to see them again. My mother. My brother. I wanted my last memory to be a happy one… not…” The words caught in her throat.

Payne found Hancock’s hand unexpectedly on top of her own. Instinctively, she curled her fingers around his, clinging to his steady presence.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Even dream girls have nightmares sometimes.” He smiled weakly, and to his surprise, Payne returned the gesture.

“I suppose so,” she said. “At least the air raid sirens have stopped.”

Hancock gave her hand a gentle squeeze. To him, she seemed over the worst of it. “I think you might want to see how Irma’s doing. I heard you roughed her up a bit right before your impromptu ‘hide-and-seek’ session.”

“Oh shit,” Payne spat and stood up. She was a bit shaky, but moved towards the door.

“Hold on. You’ll need this.” Hancock tossed her the sackcloth mask. She nodded in thanks before slipping it over her head. They carefully put as much of Randy’s possessions back where she had found them.

“Time to go mend some fences.” Payne stepped out into the daylight with Hancock.

The crowd murmured. A sallow-looking man trudged out of the throng.

“Nothing better be broken in there!” Randy huffed.

Hancock pressed a few caps into his palm. “Get yourself something nice, okay?” Payne raised a hand in protest. He waved it away. “You’ve got bigger fish to fry. Let me handle this one.”

Back inside the Memory Den, Payne removed her mask gingerly. Kent rushed up to Payne’s side as soon as the duo entered.

“Oh my god… Are you okay, Payne?” he asked, worry tight across he sinewy features. “You gave us all quite a fright.”

“Kent, I…” Payne started, but as she looked up, the sight of Irma reclining on her chaise lounge with her arm wrapped in bandages and suspended with a crude sling arrested her thoughts.

“Irma!?” she started to rush to her friend’s side. Dr. Amari, kneeling next to the memory lounger Payne had been using, glared at her. Payne slowed her steps as she drew close. “What… did I do?”

“You damn near ripped Irma’s arm off!” Dr. Amari exploded, pointing an accusatory finger her way.

“Now, Amari, stop being so dramatic. I’ll be fine… unless you think your bandaging isn’t up to snuff.” Amari huffed. Irma turned back to Payne, wincing with the effort. “You pack quite a punch, gal. When you threw me off and ran, I landed badly. Amari says I broke my collarbone and pulled some ligaments.” A pained look passed over Payne’s already downtrodden features. “Hey now, I knew it was risky grabbing you while you were in there… in the state you were in.”

“I’m sorry, Irma. I’ll make it up to you, somehow.”

“Don’t worry about me, dear.” Irma cooed.

“Irma might let you off easy, but I certainly am not. Look at what your little ‘brainstorming’ session did to the lounger!” Amari still knelt beside the machine.

“I’m sorry. I will find some way to fix this. I’ll get the caps…”

Dr. Amari was keenly examining the egg-like glass dome of the pod. Large spidery cracks radiated out from a single point of impact. “How the hell did you manage to crack nano-carbon infused industrial safety glass? It’s not like I can just put in an order to get a replacement shipped here!”

Payne just stood looking at the floor. She had nothing she could say or do, so she did nothing at all.

Finally standing, Dr. Amari turned to face her. But Amari’s anger seemed to cool slightly upon seeing the silent pain written in Payne’s down-turned eyes and ridged frame. “But we’ll figure out something.” Amari’s analytical eyes scrutinized Payne’s rosy complexion. “What happened out there? You’re as red as a boiled mirelurk!”

“I’ll be fine.” Payne mumbled.

“No. You need a thorough post-procedure examination. From what I saw on the monitors, your hippocampal and amygdalar synapses lit up like a Christmas tree. Cross firing and mistiming like that could cause extreme neural fatigue! I need to make sure you aren’t suffering from a stroke or some other kind of brain injury. Just give me a moment and I’ll perform the tests.”

Payne stood stone-still. Dr. Amari waited for some kind of answer or response. None was forthcoming.

Hancock cleared this throat and put a hand on her shoulder.“Payne?” he cautiously ventured.

“No.” She didn’t even move her head. Amari looked confused, unsure how to proceed.

“Oh, come on, honey. Amari will use her best bedside manner.” Irma tried coaxing her.

Payne seemed rooted to the spot.

“Right…” Hancock remembered. “No doctors.” Amari’s nose wrinkled, offense blooming on her cheeks. Hancock put a hand out, waving Amari to give him a moment. “Payne?” Her eyes shifted to him. “Would it be okay if stay with you? I’ll make sure nothing goes south, watch her the whole time. You won’t be alone.”

Amari gave him a sideways look and almost dismissed him, given there were already several people in the room, but Payne’s posture began to relax.

Payne thought. After a few seconds, she nodded. She quickly added “No needles.”

“What?” Amari balked.

Hancock shot her a quick irritated glare, screaming ‘get on board, sister!’ with wide black eyes.

“Gah, fine. No needles.” Amari motioned to a lounger. The muscles in Payne’s jaw tightened. “Of course… no chairs too?” frustration saturated her words.

Hancock pulled over a disused folding chair. “What about this?”

“How do you expect me to diagnose anything if I can’t even check for proper brain function? I can’t wave my hand over her head and see an fMRI!”

“No needles and no loungers. Take it or leave it.” It was clear Payne was not going to budge.

Dr. Amari threw her hands up in. “What a waste of my time. If you drop dead of a hemorrhagic stroke, don’t blame me!”

Hancock unfolded the chair. Payne gingerly sat, her palms balled in her lap. A grumbling Amari pulled out a battered doctor’s bag, pulling equipment out on a nearby computer bank. She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Payne’s upper arm. Hancock watched as Payne looked away, her eyes wide, darting around the room as she fought to stay in the chair. Her hands clenched, kneading her thighs.

“Sit still, please,” ordered Amari.

Hancock leaned against the boxy metal mainframe. “Hey!” Payne looked up into his mischievously sparkling eyes. “What did the necrophiliac say to his girlfriend?”

Payne scrunched up her face. “What?”

“What did the necrophiliac say to his girlfriend?” he said again.

“How the fuck should I know?” Annoyed, Payne blinked as Amari took a light and looked in darting eyes.

“I really dig ya!” Hancock snickered.

It took a moment, but a weak smile broke Payne’s frigid features. A few scrawny laughs broke through her fear-heightened panic. “That’s a horrible joke.”

“Yeah? How about this one?” Amari brought out a small hammer, tapping Payne’s knees and elbows. “A ghoul walks into a bar. The bartender tells him ‘We don’t serve ghouls here!’ The ghoul says to him ‘That’s fine. Is the human fresh?’”

“Jeezzzus!” Payne shook her head. “Don’t quit your day job. Stand-up doesn’t suit you. At least not with those dad jokes.”

Amari stood up and addressed them. “From the little I can tell, you are okay neurologically… but your blood pressure is sky high.” She looked to turn away, but returned to face Payne, her severe eyes a bit softer than before. “If you ever feel like you might be able to stomach a proper examination, come back.”

She paused again.

“You know, everything experienced in the Memory Den is kept strictly confidential.” She finished cleaning up her tools.

Payne mulled over the exact import of her words. How much did she actually see in those monitors?

“You should go get some rest, and that is my professional opinion. Whatever happened to you in the lounger, it put you through the wringer.”

Author Notes: This is my first beta read chapter. I hope I can start improving my writing. Be patient, but I hope it will be worth it!

[sussex-nature-lover]

Saturday 27th February 2021

Big Coats

Look at the garden. The sun’s out. What a difference from just a couple of weeks back. The woods are so busy and there’s singing all day long. I won’t be needing my ‘big coat’ again for ages - or so I hope, not that it’s had many outings at all this past season.

Our lady Pheasant total is seven regulars plus one occasional and the lads, here they are with one teeny Robin in their midst. They’re a really good example of little and large getting along well together.

The House Sparrows regular perch by the Conifers caught my eye out of the side window and this time it’s occupied by a Blackbird and a Song Thrush who were having a little tussle. Despite the size difference, the Thrush wasn’t daunted and it didn’t really amount to anything. By the way, I’m still working on the mystery bird that I can’t identify from that same spot. I’m veering towards a very small female House Sparrow perhaps, kind of small Dunnock sized. I’d almost settled on a Dunnock but think the colours are much rich. I’ll post when I think I’ve decided, but I wouldn’t hold your breath in anticipation to be honest.

This morning the Blackbird was visiting on the roof and then while I was on the phone to Ms NW tE, we had a Goldfinch visit at the birdbath. It’s hard to capture a shot at the best of times, as you know well, but one handed whilst chatting, impossible. Crow has kept watch and declared that the Goldie dips its head for a quick drink exactly three times and then takes off quick sharp.

A rather damp Blackbird

Yesterday though I had a good viewing and took loads of photos. It was late in the afternoon as I’d gone upstairs to draw the curtains, so it wasn’t great light for pics and, because of who it was, it turns out most of them look identical.

The Reveal

Sparrowhawk is back, so I’m going to have a really good look at them here because it’s been a while since I spotted one.

The kind of good news is that Sparrowhawks can only thrive if their prey is present in good numbers and has a healthy population. Here’s the fact file

Scientific name: Accipiter nisus

Family: Buzzards, kites & allies

Status: Resident breeder and passage migrant

Breeding pairs: 35,000

Wintering birds: 100,000

Conservation status: Green

Length: 28 – 39 cm

Wingspan: 60 – 67cm

Weight: 110 – 350g

Average lifespan: 4 years

When I say the photos are all the same, it’s quite incredible how patiently birds of prey can sit still, observing and biding their time.

Sparrowhawks are small, broad and rounded-winged raptors with long tails and long, thin yellow legs. They can be difficult to spot but we usually remember to look out for one when we realise the feeders have gone quiet and we can’t see any birds around. We know all their regular perches.

The male bird is somewhere between a Blackbird and a Collared Dove in size, although the one below looks larger. He will have a blue-slate grey back and white underparts showing rufous barring and reddish cheeks. You’ll notice they are greyer on the breast and belly areas

The white flight feathers have conspicuous dark grey bars.The bill is hooked and is grey with a black tip and yellow cere.

Females have reddish cheeks, brownish-grey upperparts and less rufous barring than the male. They have a more prominent white line above the eye. 

Female Sparrowhawks are about twice the weight of males, one of the largest differences between sexes in any bird of prey. This enables her to carry extra body reserves needed for reproduction and to go for several days without a meal, but it also means she is a less agile hunter than the male. Females are therefore more likely to take larger prey like Pigeons and males will typically hunt small songbirds. Sometimes they ambush their prey from a perch, while other times they may fly low, suddenly changing direction to fool it.

After a while, when they’re patiently staking out the territory, you see the bird standing on one leg only, I’m presuming, but it’s the same technique Elephants use, I think and is possibly the origin of ‘take the weight off...’ (your feet) meaning to sit and rest.

Between May and July, Sparrowhawks nest in dense woodland, so we have a good environment for them here. Both male and female build the nest inthe fork of a tree. It’s a platform made of sticks and twigs with little or no additional vegetation for comfort. The female lays 2-7 white eggs that are smooth and glossy and have a bluish tint and dark brown markings. She incubates the eggs for 32-34 days and until they’re old enough to be left alone, the male bird will hunt to feed both the female and their brood. Chicks fledge at 26-30 days but will be fed for a further month or thereabouts, by both their parents. 

Juvenile Sparrowhawks are similar to the female but with browner upperparts and wider stripes on the underparts than adults.

Sparrowhawks reach sexual maturity between 1 and 3 years.

I think today’s looks like a young adult female.

She’s taken up the same location as this smaller male in a photo from my picture library. See what I mean about the Big Coat title, although she looks less like a coat wearer and more as though she favours a sweeping cape.

Over the centuries the natural balance between Sparrowhawks and their prey had meant that hawk numbers remained stable. They’ve no serious predators, although chicks and fledglings can be taken by Pine Martens and Goshawks. This threat isn’t really significant as both of these are scarce in the UK.

In the 1800s, however, they suffered persecution at the hands of Victorian trophy hunters or landowners and gamekeepers. Even today we’re seeing distressing reports of various birds of prey being targeted.

During the Second World War their numbers began to recover, but by 1950 they were declining again as a result of the widespread use of organochlorine pesticides, such as DDT. These accumulated in the birds and resulted in a number of problems, including thinning of eggshells that reduced breeding success. By the late 1950s Sparrowhawk numbers crashed across the UK, and they almost disappeared from eastern England where the use of these pesticides was heaviest. It took until 1986 for DDT to be banned in the UK.

Also from the library, hiding in the big tree at the end of the garden

As well as feeding on birds, Sparrowhawks will also catch rodents, young hares, rabbits and other small mammals. Some people are worried that Sparrowhawks eat too many small birds and cause their population to fall, or even become extinct. Emotions can cloud the fact that the scientific research points to the contrary. Long-term scientific studies have shown that Sparrowhawks generally have no, or little impact on songbird populations, but I can speak from personal experience how distressing it is to witness the hunt and kill and it’s a reason why we removed the window feeder.

It is also worth remembering that Sparrowhawks and songbirds have existed side by side for thousands of years without any detrimental effect on songbird numbers. Food availability and the number of suitable nesting sites naturally restrict the number of Sparrowhawks in an area.

Small birds can rear between five and 15 young in a season. In the absence of predators such as Sparrowhawks, the vast majority of these would die anyway, of starvation or disease. The reason that small birds raise so many young is an evolutionary adaptation because so many will perish.

Only one or two of these 5-15 young need to survive and breed in order to keep the songbird population stable. If they all survived to breed there wouldn't be enough nest holes, caterpillars or territories to support such numbers.

Sparrowhawks remove the most vulnerable individuals, so those with the best escape tactics thrive. The fittest and healthiest are much more likely to breed successfully and produce a greater number of fitter young birds that have a better chance of survival.

If habitat is diverse and contains plenty of food and cover for small birds, the balance is tipped further in favour of the prey. It’s why we have feeders hanging from the towers and near the shelter of the multi stemmed palm.

So there we have it, both sides of the story. I always say that we’re lucky we can pop to a shop or order in, birds and animals have to start each day hunting for the food they need for themselves and their families. It’s all the circle of life, even though we don’t like to witness it and you’ve got to admit that the Raptors are a truly magnificent group of birds, imposing, majestic and beautiful just as much as their tiny relatives.

FUN FACT:

The colour of a Sparrowhawk’s eyes changes and depends on its age and gender. Typically younger birds have greenish-yellow eyes which become brighter yellow within the first couple of years of their life. In some older Sparrowhawks, the eye colour can become orange or, occasionally, in males even turn to a shade of red. 

♦ all bird photos above are my own

For comparison

Photo credit: Birdspot UK

Goshawks were all but extinct as a breeding bird in the UK by the end of the 19th century due to loss of woodland habitat and persecution from gamekeepers. Deliberate and accidental reintroductions have seen the population slowly recover.

Measurements:Length:48-62cm

Wingspan:135-165cm

Weight:600-1,100g (male); 900-2,000g (female)

UK breeding:280-430 pairs

FROM THE NEWS THIS WEEK:

The ultimate BIG Coat!

The ultimate Before photo

A rogue overgrown sheep found roaming through regional Australia has been shorn of his 35kg (77lbs) fleece – a weight even greater than that of the famous New Zealand sheep, Shrek, who was captured in 2005 after six years on the loose. Imagine carrying that excess weight around with you...although I’m beginning to feel a bit the same myself!

The merino ram, dubbed Baarack by rescuers, was discovered wandering alone with an extraordinarily overgrown wool coat, and was promptly shorn to save his life.

What a smart young man he is, with his little light designer coat. Hope he gets a Spring in his step now.

You can read the full story Here (outside link)