#when you’re out in the woods in new england in winter and there’s just pine trees all around you as far as the eye can see

[magnus-rhymes-with-swagness]

missing the smell of snow and pine trees rn

[snapefiction]

#10. Slippery Slope - Snapemas Challenge

A/N: Day 10 of Snapemas! I know this one is delayed but also much longer than my usual ones and completely different and it feels weird to publish smut

This one got longer than I wanted it to and more sexual than I wanted it too as well. I had no time to proof read it again. So please only read this if you're 18+. Enjoy! 

Idea from @deepperplexity ´s Writing Challenge ! Check her Writings and the other Snapemas posts out! :)

❤️ Please remember that English isn’t my native language and that my Writings will include Mistakes and maybe weird formed sentences. ❤️

Pairing: Severus Snape x Adult!Reader

Warnings: Cursing, Mention of Violence/Pain, NSFW, Smut 18+!

Word count: 5170

Y/N - Your Name, Y/L/N - Your last name

#10. Slipperly Slope Smut - Snapemas Challenge

,When I’m back at home i´ll drink a cup of tea and just relax until New Years Eve.´ Thats what kept you moving through the small alley, hidden behind the shining Shops, the crowd of people and away from the small Cafe you work at. The cold made it’s way through your clothes and you felt naked. Like the freezing air left lovebites at your legs, crawling up to your chest, over your breasts, around the shoulders down your arms- you began to freeze. 

This Winter was the worst one you ever witnessed. Actually you and the cold were friends you never got used to snow and the ice. The Sun was already setting down as you crossed the corner of the alley before walking over to the small way leading to the last few houses of this dammed edge of England. You knew no one here. You came here alone a few years ago when there was no going back to your family, to the house you grew up in or anyone else. You were left completely alone and this hole- this last spot in this Town that no one - not even the ones who were born here knew- this is where you had to make yourself a home.

Taking one last deep breath only to release a small cloud of oxygen leaving your lungs seconds after you took the steps up to the entrance of your so what called home. But when you could already imagine the warmth of the safety hitting your skin your feet slipped on one of the steps and your chest, hands, knees and almost your nose hitted against the bricks from under your feet. Out of shock your fingers let go of your keys which flew right into the drain next to your House entrance. The Ice was even more merciless than the wind who crawled into your skin earlier. Mixed with little stones and dust from the street it pressed itself into your body and left little cuts. Closing your eyes for a second you knew that you wouldn’t be able to get those keys back as they would now already swimming deep down under the surface of the street. Trying to get up you checked your Hands. One Cut at the side of your hand that tried to hold you when you slipped. Your arm hurt, but it was alright. The worst thing were your rips. It felt like someone was punching you deeply and as you slid one of your fingers over them through your thick Jacket you already had to flinch. It was bad and all you wanted was this day to end. For a short moment you thought about letting all your emotions out. Crying out of Pain, Screaming out of anger, Pleading for something that felt like love, hoping for an way out of your daily dark thoughts and a way out of this place. Or maybe just a savior to call your own. But your rational thought overtook again.

You couldn’t stay out for any longer or else you’d become sick or probably could freeze to death. Biting your Nails you thought of a solution. The windows were all locked and you couldn’t climb on the wall as your ribs hurted too bad plus it was way to slippery, your spare key got stolen weeks ago, you didn’t knew how to unlock locked doors with a hair clip or anything else that would get you into your house but calling your landlord hoping he could help you. With a checking Glance over to the house a few meters away you hoped that your neighbours where home and no serial killers. Even if they were Serial Killers, it couldn’t get any worse than how you currently live and it would be more interesting than anything that had happened to you in the last few years in general. Also you knew how to do karate- or at least you thought you knew how to do it.

Slowly getting down on your icy steps and walking over to your neighbours house you gave it a closer look. It wasn’t special, it was one of there houses that you knew that they were there but probably never truly recognised. It was dark- no, it was dirty and old. Not very trustworthy but currently your only chance. As earlier you took a deep breath again and knocked, hoping for some warmth to release your tension that had build up from the long time in the cold. At first there was no answer. A desperation build up in you. Looking on the doorbell you saw the name written on it. ,S. Snape´. You never heard this name before.

,,Mr. Snape? Mr. Snape? Could you- I need help.“ Cringing at your own words, at the fact of how vulnerable you made yourself you knocked again.

,,If I could just use your cellphone for a minute- I’m your neighbour.“ The door opened only to reveal a tall man, with dark clothes and a strict look on his face. Not to mention his shoulder length, black hair and his perfume of tea, pine and old books. Taken by his presence you only realised that he was waiting for an introduction or explanation as he raised his dark eyebrow.

,,I- I slipped on my steps and my keys erm- flew into the drain. If I could call my Landlord really quick that’d be really nice.“ Closing his eyes for a second you noticed how deep brown- almost black- is that even possible- are. ,,I won’t bother you for long.“ Promising, pleading you looked up to him. With a small Move he went to the side so you could slide in.

,,Come in.“ He added to his obvious invite. His deep voice slightly echoed through the house. Following him you tried to brush some dirt off your Jacket without crossing the area where your skin still pulsates before entering the Kitchen where he simply put a Telephone in your hands. Thanking him with a small embarrassed smile and a short nod you dialled the number. You knew the number too well by now. There was always a problem at or with the house. Something was always broken and you had to call him every two weeks by now. The beeping wouldn’t stop and your mind already knew he wouldn’t pick up today. It was too late in the evening. Biting your Lip you hung up only to feel another heavy weight laying down on your chest. ,,Thank you, Mr. Snape.“ Mumbling you looked down to the ground only to remember that this was going to be an cold night. Wiping your running nose with the side of your arm and trying to keep the upcoming tears I your eyes you made your way back to the entrance from where your neighbour had led you. ,,Merry Christmas.“ You added before offering a last devastated smile and walking over back to the Entrance of your House. Mr. Snape hasn’t said anything but replied to you Merry Christmas with an ,,You too.“ Before he quickly closed the door.

So you sat in front of your door, the Back carefully leaned against the cold wood, trying not to touch your rip and letting the tears fall. Pulling your knees as close as possible you never felt this lonely before. The Tears rolled over your puffy cheeks which were also the last warm thing on you. What were you supposed to do but drown yourself in sorrow already? Never before has a Christmas be as bad as this one. Minutes passed and the last thing that came into your mind was sneaking back to work after everyone left. Until the cafe closed you still had a couple of hours to wait so you could sneak in from one of the windows that wasn’t working properly anymore. Sighing you now wiped your eyes. The cold was unbearable and just painful by now. Laying your head on your knees you hoped to hide from the falling snow that became heavier and heavier by now. But instead it made you almost fall asleep. You were just tired, your eyes so heavy and your mind so lost. A slumber almost reached you until you heard snow crunch in front of you. Weakly looking up you saw Mr. Snape. In his tall hands he held a patterned Blanket. ,,Would you like to come in? You’ll freeze to death out here.“ He was right. Your fingers were about to turn blue and until the cafe closed you were probably taken by the cold. With much caution he opened the Blanket to pull it over your shoulders and helped you up. Your feet hurt by now too, everything did. As Mr. Snape noticed your trembling he held his arm around you.

,,Let me help you.“ Drained you let him lead you, back into his house, through his kitchen in front of his cabin. Across of the Sofa he sat you on you saw a small reflection of yourself. Your lips were blue and not rosy anymore. This is where life has brought you. Taking a deep breath you leaned your head against the sofa. Taking in the sudden warm you are more and more tired. As the warmth hit your freezing skin you could feel little thunders hitting your skin and the storm inside of your growling. Too exhausted to care you drifted asleep.

As he sat the nameless woman down on his couch he instantly knew he had to warm her up. Make some tea, get more blankets, maybe something to eat too? But as he brought her a tea he noticed that she had fallen asleep by now. Silently he spoke a few Spells to make her feel better soon before getting back to the kitchen. Severus looked at the painting hanging above his fridge.

,,Lily, what the hell am I supposed to do?“ He whispered overwhelmed at the red haired woman. She just rolled his eyes.

,,She was almost freezing , maybe help her warm up? Ugh, you fought the dark lord and have no idea of how to treat humans. Kind of funny.“ Angrily he shot at her with an angry Glare. She was his best friend and knew perfectly fine how to pick up on him.

,,Genius.“ He mumbled sarcastically as he took out one of his pots out of his cupboards to warm up a chicken soup. Turning on the stove he scratched his collar only to reach the spot where Nagini left this deep scar. Whenever he heard someone mention the dark lord he had this feeling to itch his scar. It became an uncomfortable habitat.

,,You really need to work on your social anxiety. It’s been a few years by now.“ Lily now spoke softer and followed his steps with her eyes in worry.

,,Yes, seven to be exact but as you may have seen I opened the door to someone and let her in.“ Taking out his wand to do the rest of the cooking he pressed his lips together. Merlin, he loved his best friend but she could grow quite annoying sometimes.

,,Fine. Just be nice, okay? It was hard enough to get you open that door so you can at least be polite. She’s really not doing well.“ Again she was worried but now over that girl laying on the couch still wrapped in blankets and her winter jacket.

,,I am as always ,nice´.“ Severus now spoke, filled some soup in a small bowl, signed her to be quite and walked into his living room again.

Setting down the bowl he stood there awkwardly. Should he speak to her? Tap her shoulder? Let her sleep? He decided to clear his throat and watch her slowly wake up. Looking at her red puffy eyes made him feel sorry for his incompetence to let her stay from the moment she knocked on his door.   Collecting his words and building an sentence with everything he wanted to say he sat down on the small armchair to her right.

,,I made you soup.“ A poet. You’re a literal Poet, Severus. Dumbass he thought to himself before pointing at the Bowl in front of her. Again she just smiled shyly and kept her glance low from him. He’d really like to see her eyes. What colour were they exactly?

,,Thank you.“ Her hoarse voice made him remember the Tea he made for her. He brewed a new Kettle for her. Peppermint Tea. He always drinks black tea but for her he almost crawled into his cupboard only to find the last bag of peppermint tea. He again moved in his chair only to push the cup closer to her.

,,It’s Peppermint.“ Every inch of creativity has obviously left his Body, he thought to himself. Maybe ask about her day, he could almost hear Lilys Voice in the back of his Head. Well it must have been a bad one if she sat crying in front of her door and almost froze to death. Ask her something. Something creative. Thousands of Thoughts ran though his mind but non made him comfortable so he chosed the first one he could catch.

,,D- Do you like dogs?“ His voice trembled. The prettiest Girl he had met in a eternity was sitting in front of him and he asked her about-.. dogs?

You had to keep yourself together not to burst out laughing. Your Mouth almost couldn’t keep the warm tea in your mouth as you though about this terribly random question and your lips arched into a smile. Swallowing the sip you still ha din your mouth you nodded before placing the cup back down.

,,Actually, yes, I do. And what about you?“ Nodding he clasped his hands together visibly nervous.

,,I never had one but someone at my Work, Hagrid, had this huge dog. He was kind of precious. Scary but precious.“ Blinking a few times you tried to follow his intentions. Probably he was just trying to start some smalltalk. The mysterious scary man I just met a few hours ago invites me in to offer me soup and talk about dogs? Well, you loved dogs so that wasn’t the issue. It was just that his random kindness surprised you and totally caught you off guard.

,,Thank you again, Mr. Snape. That’s too kind of you.“ His tension eased and he took a deep breath.

,,My name is YN, by the way. YN YLN.“ You added before taking another sip. This Tea was terribly sweet. You preferred black tea to be honest but at this moment everything was perfect.

,,Severus. My Name is Severus.“ Smiling you ate the last spoonful of Soup before sitting back again.

,,Would you mind if I use your Bathroom before I leave?“

,,Leave? I thought you lost your keys?“ His Surprise was clearly to see.

,,Well, yes. I still need to find a place for tonight. I thought about staying at my working place that should be fine.. I guess.“ Your insecurity was clearly visible.

,,You can stay here.“ Scratching his throat he looked at you. ,,If you want to, of course.“ There was something in the way he looked at you, you knew he cared. And you’re not gonna lie, you weren’t hyped up about walking back all the way into the city just to maybe get into the crappy Cafe. Severus seemed trustworthy enough to stay the night, you told yourself and instantly hoped so.

,,Thank you again.“ Breathing out you felt release on your chest. The Ribs still hurt but the psychic stress eased a bit up. Thankfully for his offer you took off your jacket. Your skin wasn’t as cold as early anymore. Severus guided you to the Bathroom down the floor and could finally inspect your wounds on your ribs. Closing the door you quickly pulled up the shirt from the side only to reveal dark purple skin. ,,Shit.“ It was worse than you anticipated. Pulling your shirt back down again you now inspected your arms. You were okay. After the Holidays you should seek a Doctor but for now you couldn’t do anything but try to ignore this huge bruise. After using the Toilet you tried to wash your face. There was still some dirt above your eyebrow but you couldn’t move down. The Pain took your breath away.

,,Is everything okay?“ You heard Severus asking from the outside of the door. Opening the door you smiled at him awkwardly. ,

,Yes, sorry for taking do long I was just trying to wash my face.“ Confused he nodded and walked into the Bathroom only to give you a washcloth and a towel. ,,Take your time.“ Deciding whether her whether not to tell him you gave in.

,,It’s not about that. I tried to do it in the sink but..“ You moved your shirt up so he could see the bruise which even led over to your Back. He scrunched his face in empathy. ,,From slipping on the Steps?“ He asked more silently. ,,Uh huh.“ He signed you to sit on the rim of the Bathtub. ,,Let me get something really quick.“ He mumbled as his tall legs carried him away fastly. Waiting for him you firstly noticed how simple his house was. He had almost no personal items standing around. - Is this a sign for someone to be a serial Killer or was he just a minimalist or something? Wondering about his Edgy Style you almost didn’t hear him coming back. Holding two vials in his hands he gave you the green one. ,,If you let a few drops run over the Bruise it’ll be gone almost instantly.“

Instantly? He must be very convinced of his little medicine slime. Not really convinced you just agreed and pulled your shirt up again. He watched you opening the vial. ,, A few drops would do it.“

,,Could you help me? I can’t raise my arm that high I guess.“ Shyly he firstly hesitated but then took the vial back in his big hand. You liked his hands. They matched him well. Tall, Slender but pretty- for hands.

,,Ready?“ He asked and you nodded to signal him to start. Seconds later you felt something dripping over your Bruise. Even this small contact hurt. A slight Burn was felt and then it vanished. Confused you looked down. The Bruise was gone. ,,How does this work? I don’t understand?“ Turning back to Severus you noticed how he just smiled simply.

,,I told you it works wonders.“ Getting up to look in the Mirror you inspected it closely. Even the Lotion vanished.

,,What is this?“ As you attempted to walk back to him you almost bumped into him but could stop a few centimetres away from him.

,,It’s Bruisewort Balm.“ His deep voice left goosebumps on your skin. Severus was confusing you but also in a good way. Where were your Thoughts again? Today was the worst day you had in years and now all you could think about this tall black haired man in front of you. You thought he was pretty when you saw him earlier but now he was way more attractive. ,,I can help you with your cut hand as well.“ You felt the vibrations of his chest against yours. Did you got closer? Were you imagining it? As you didn’t answer he gently took your Hand in his. Again he opened the small vial and let a few drops fall on the wound. Your eyes were locked with the sight of his eyes as you didn’t even cared what he did. ,

,Staring is not very polite.“ He said low looking back to you as he finished healing your hand. Blushing you tried to look at something else but him but couldn’t find anything but his chest. ,,I’m Sorry.“ His fingers now took your chin in his Hand. Making you look up at him again.

,,What’s on your mind?“ Was he serious? His eyes wanders over your face scanning for any bruises. Breathing heavier you tried to think of something to say. Saying ,You, Mr.´ would be inappropriate, would it? Raising his Eyebrow you wondered if you said that loud. Your chin still between his fingers he got a little bit closer to you.

,,Use your words.“  He said demanding in an almost growling tone. This whole Situation made your knees weak. How could this shy man turn into such a  demanding one so quickly? Your thoughts were now racing in an incredible speed. He demanded the Truth? He’ll get the Truth.

,,About you, Mr. Snape.“ Not knowing why you didn’t call him by his Forename you bit your lip. His eyes wandered down your face, following the movements of your lips only to look back into your eyes. His Hand wandered down your side only to remain above your hip. You knew too well how this would end or at least you hoped it would end the way you thought it would. Feeling him so close you wished for nothing more but to feel his lips on yours. Feel him touching the places that were longing for him so badly.

,,Tell me what you want to do, Y/N.“ He whispered in your ear now. ,,What you want me to do.“ He added as he placed a small kiss on your neck right under your ear. Your chest was rising even faster now. Did he knew which effects these words had on you? Impatiently you waited for him to kiss you again. It didn’t matter where. If it was your cheek, chest, neck or your lips. But you needed it now.

,,Kiss me.“ His eyes looked into yours again. He raised his other hand only to let his thumb brush over your lower lip. His eyes always stayed on you. Licking his lip he slightly shook his head.

,,You have to ask nicely.“ He teased and his hand which touched your lip made its way to your neck. He held you close and there was no where else you’d want to be right now.

,,Please. Kiss me, Please.“ Smirking he got so close you could feel his nose slightly touching your cheek.

,,How polite.“  Was the last mumble he let out before his rosy Lips carefully touched yours only to deepen the kiss a few seconds after. A small Moan left your mouth. Feeling his lips curling into another smile again you had to smile too. Your chest was tingling and your body felt burning. Burning for more but he only let go. Desperate for his touch you only watched him letting go of you. Did you do something wrong? His long statue left the Bathroom. You stood there frozen, this time it was a different type of frozen as earlier. Turning to the mirror you quickly checked your look. Your Pupils were widened, your lips plump and you felt like everyone could see what type of thoughts you have about this man right now. Not thinking twice you followed him. ,,Severus-“ but he sat on the Armchair again. With a Book in his hands he looked like this wasn’t just happening while you stood in the doorframe and your panties were soaked only because of him.  He didn’t even respond to you calling his name. Getting back on the couch you just looked at him.  How he turned the page of the green, golden book. How his eyes scanned the sentences. How his shoulders leaned against the soft cushion of the armchair.

,,Severus?“ You repeated hoping for any type of attention. He lowered the book and his eyes darted yours waiting for your Question.  ,,Why did you leave?“ He raised the book again and began to spoke. ,

,I don’t want you to regret this.“ Regret? You shook your head.

,,I won’t.“ As if he didn’t hear it he continued reading. ,,Also, I’m probably not your type.“ He talked about everything you had in mind like it was the weather.

,,I think you’re my type.“ Trembling you were just whispering. He lowered the Book again only to lay it in his lap. ,

,Do you even know what type I am talking about?“ ,,You mean .. demanding?“ Trying not to laugh he nodded. ,,Demanding.“ He agreed using the words you used.

,,Please.“ You pleaded. Severus did something to you you couldn’t explain.

,,If you really want this you have to follow orders.“ Blindly you’d agree to anything he’d say.

,,I will.“ The excitement inside of you grew. What was he going to do to you?

,,On your Knees then.“ He just said and watched you slide from the couch on your knees. Smirking he got up and got closer to you. ,,Look up.“ He wasn’t speaking nicely anymore. It was just demands. His Hand took your chin in his hand again. This time it was more harsh but it made you only wanting more. ,,If you want me to stop, you’ll ask me to stop by my forename. Only then it’s Severus to you. Until we’re done its Mr. Snape. Understand?“ Your Heart was almost jumping out of your chest. You could feel the impatience between your legs only grow.

,,Understood, Mr. Snape.“ His eyes looked up and down and you again.

,,Now get up again and tell me what you want me to do to you?“ Getting up you noticed his Bulge growing.

,,I- I“ you stuttered. His Eyebrow arched up. He waited for you patiently. ,,I want to please you, Mr. Snape.“

His strict expression always faded whenever you worded your wishes. Even if he knew what was on your mind he loved how shy you were about it. Sitting down on the couch he looked up and down on you again. He had to hold him together not to take out his dick and just fuck you mindlessly. But he just tapped on his lap. Y/N sat down on him instantly.

,,Good Girl.“ Mumbling he placed kissed down her neck again. Sloppy ones, the type that would leave marks. Again she began to moan. It was like music to his ears. Her beautiful voice longing for him to touch her more, give her more of him. His mouth wandered down towards her chest only to be stopped by the edge of her Pullover. ,,Arms up, Kitten.“  He pulled up her Pullover only to reveal a lace bra. A deep Moan he has been holding for a few moments now finally left his Throat. His Dick throbbed against the fabric of his trousers. She must’ve felt it as she began to slightly rub her hip against him. His Mouth connected itself with her chest again. Biting carefully, kissing softly. Taking her breasts in his hands, cupping them completely only to make her moan louder as he pinched her nipples through the thin white lace.

,,Take it off.“ Quickly she followed his orders.  He loved it whenever she’d do as he told her. Watching her revealing herself to him, grinding on his lap, slowly kneading her own breasts only for him to see he couldn’t help himself but thinking this must’ve been a dream. ,,YN, get up again.“ Her cheeks were so reed from all the stimulation she got from him, her eyes now wide open fearing she did something wrong. But as her shaking legs made her stand in front of Severus she knew she was more than just alright. His Hands wandered over her Breasts again. Pinching them, kissing them and letting his tongue slowly run over them. As his Mouth laid on one nipple his hand touched the other one. Whenever she moaned he would go harder, it would motivate him. Making him eager to bite lightly into them and then suddenly let go of her only to pull down her Jeans and make her undress completely for him. For his hungry eyes and dark thoughts. As her Panties hit the ground he could see how soaked they were. Quickly Severus pointed to the ground where she kneeled down again. He slowly opened the Button of his Pants. Pushing the clothes to his ankles he hissed as she without waiting or thinking about it begun to suck him off. Shyly she only took the Tip in at first. He gave her some Time but then carefully pressed her Head down further. He was already hard and had to take care that he wouldn’t cum right away. Her pretty eyes and the way she talked to him drove him crazy. Softly her tongue swirled around his member and it was too much for him. ,,Get on my lap again.“ Quickly she did as she was told only to slide down on his dick. ,,Ride it.“ Her innocent eyes could make him cum without she would have to touch him. Slowly she got up and down. YN´s Moaning was filling the room. Severus pinched her nipples again, her plump lips were almost begging to be kissed. She was a goddess. Without thinking about it he did it. Kissing her lips he felt like she was demanding now. He’d do anything for her at this point. Just the elegant way she rode his dick so well made him moan again.

,,Mr. Snape, I- I´m close.“ Huffing he looked her in the eyes again. ,,Close to what, baby? You need to use full sentences.“ She moaned even louder now. His Mouth again teasing her nipples. ,,I´m close- close to cum-m.“ He held her sides to guide her up and down by now. She was getting more and more exhausted. Her thrusts became more and more sloppy. ,,Then cum with me, will you?“ Y/N nodded.  ,,Yes, Mr. Snape.“ Her head hung on his shoulder as she was humming, making him hear her moans even closer and even more louder.  That was the last thing it took him to cum. Filling her up, closing his eyes enjoying the intimacy.  When they were done she didn’t got up instantly but waited a few seconds.

You felt his Arms holding you as his breathes hit your shoulder. Smiling you looked up at him again and pushed a few strains of hair out of his face. Daring to kiss him you felt so close to him, you never felt this intimacy before. It was a small but beautiful kiss before you slowly got up again and hurried to the bathroom to clean yourself. Severus instead just put on his Pants again and took off his long Pullover. There was no Time for that earlier. Smirking he walked into the kitchen so he could at least offer you a cup of tea.

,,You’re disgusting. Couldn’t you do that in your Bedroom?“ Lily grunted and made herself and Severus just laugh.

,,Oh shut it, Lily. You just could’ve changed the Painting. Now shh, Y/N´s coming back.“  She rolled her eyes and went back to her pose. Only to watch her best friend getting known to his future girlfriend.

Taglist: @deepperplexity , @monstreviolet , @wow-life-love4 @my taglist: Please only read if you're 18+! This chapter contains Smut!

Let me know if you want to be added in my Taglist. :)

[carewyncromwell]

“And at last I see the light! And it's like the fog has lifted... And at last I see the light, And it's like the sky is new! And it's warm and real and bright, And the world has somehow shifted... All at once everything is different Now that I see you...”

~ “I See the Light (cover),” by Elsie Lovelock and Kestin Howard

x~x~x~x

It’s interesting how, even when two parties know they have something special, it can still take a while before they find the right words to express how they feel and what they want. Even when Orion Amari and Carewyn Cromwell had each come to grips with their romantic feelings, it didn’t really change how many obstacles would be in the way of them living a traditional “happily-ever-after” with wedding bells and a little house of their own. Although yes, Orion felt deeply for Carewyn, as she did him, they both also greatly valued their own independence and autonomy. Carewyn and Orion didn’t even live in the same country anymore, one residing in England and the other Scotland, and their respective careers -- one at the London-based Ministry of Magic, the other for the Montrose Magpies Quidditch team -- would make it close to impossible for them to move. Merging households would be a nightmare under such circumstances...and yet, at the same time, neither Orion nor Carewyn was comfortable giving only part of their heart away. They both knew that the subject of their affection deserved everything and more from whatever partner they chose -- they just had no idea if they could be that “everything” for them, even if they wanted to.

That all changed, though, one day in December 1999, a year after the Second Wizarding War ended.

Carewyn’s feelings for Orion had not gone unnoticed by her closest friends. The lawyer’s unofficial twin and fellow “Fireball” Charlie Weasley had been almost affronted when he caught wind that Carewyn had let Orion stay the night on the futon in her living room without having made plans ahead of time -- Carewyn was a planner first and foremost and she never let Charlie crash at her place without giving her fair warning. Charlie vented his disbelief to Ben Copper and his wife Wendy @drinkyoursoupbitch, and they were both pretty shocked too. Wendy ended up following up with Carewyn later that week when she stopped by Carewyn’s office one evening for some coffee.

“On your futon, huh?” she said, her blue eyebrows raised and her lips spread into a playful smile.

Carewyn rolled her eyes up toward the skylight in her ceiling, her red lips turned up in a smile. "Charlie's that jealous about it?"

Her smile faded as she turned her focus toward her paperwork rather than look at Wendy. She wasn’t uncomfortable, of course -- she just had a lot of work to do that night before getting back home and starting dinner for herself and Erik, that was all.

“ ...Orion had had a late night, and he'd have to be back in London early the next morning. It'd be cruel to force him to go home and then lug himself and Eos out of bed so early, just to get back where he already was..."

Wendy's eyes twinkled knowingly. "Oh, of course. But still...is there something there?"

Carewyn kept her focus on the files she was sorting through, her blue eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly as she siphoned through them.

"I suppose it depends on what ‘something’ you're referring to,” she said after a moment. “If you're referring to a romantic relationship, then no, there is not." 

Was that a touch of melancholy in her eyes? Surely not. 

Wendy studied the other woman over the rim of her coffee cup as she took a long sip.

"I mean, Carey," she tapped the porcelain, considering her words carefully. Her tone shifted to a gentle sincerity, "is there an attraction there for you?"

Carewyn stopped rifling through her papers. She paused, before slowly closing her eyes and exhaling through her nose in a heavy sigh.

"...Of course there is," she admitted very softly. "I've always been fond of Orion -- I liked him pretty much immediately, and I respected him all the more, as the years went on. All I wonder is when that fondness...grew to the point that it had to plant roots. And what to do about it, now that it has..."

Wendy smiled fondly. "Well, I suppose the big question is, do you want to do anything? I mean...if you were looking for a tofu-eating Quidditch player to pine over, you certainly picked the best one."

Carewyn rested her head in her hand on her desk, her eyes falling onto the wood instead of looking up at her friend. "That's just it, Wendy, I...I do want to do something. I don't want to have to bottle this up -- I want to protect him, to take care of him and Eos, to...love him with everything I am. But..."

Her gaze moved up to the skylight too, her blue eyes deepening with more of that odd melancholy.

"...At school...when I dated Andre...I didn't know myself like I do now. I probably would've accepted a marriage, and a family, and frequent sex, at that time, not knowing any different. But now that I do know myself...know that I don't want that happy ending attached to most romances...how do I pursue a romantic relationship? How do I ask someone to date a woman who wouldn't give up her job and life for him...no matter how deep my feelings are?"

She closed her eyes, visibly hurting at this thought.

"Especially when...he's already been hurt before...when he's already had partners who tried to force him to give up everything, to please them?"

Carewyn bowed her head.

"...How can I love him the way he deserves, when I'm so selfish?"

Wendy considered her answer, her eyes drifting up to the skylight in Carewyn’s ceiling that reflected the London sky miles above them.

“They say that sacrifice is a foundation of love, and it’s true,” she said slowly, “but...sacrifice between two people who love each other is a two-way street. I love my work — you know I do. Ben knows how much I love it. But if he ever asked me to give up,” she gestured broadly, “everything...I’d do it. I wouldn’t want to, and Merlin, it would hurt like…well, more than anything in the world! But I’d do it. And…I know in my bones he would do the same for me. Hell, he’s almost died for me a few times...”

The old memories made her pause, closing her eyes briefly to try to block them out.

“Thing is…he doesn’t ask for that. He…won’t ask for it.”

Wendy looked back down at Carewyn seriously.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is...sometimes loving someone -- not just being in love, but really loving them -- means that you know you could ask them to move heaven and earth for you and they’d do it, no matter how much it’d hurt...but you won’t ask that. It’s good that you’re thinking about this now, of course -- but you don’t have to have it all figured out just yet. If you want this...don’t be afraid to let Orion in. Let him see everything you have, and everything you fear, and let him decide. Maybe he wouldn’t want you to give up everything you’ve built here for him. Maybe he would. Maybe he’d want you to meet him halfway, somehow. But…let him make that choice to love you, whatever it might look like. You’ll never know if it’s meant to be if you don’t ever ask if it could be.”

Although Carewyn didn't look Wendy in the face nearly at all as she spoke, it clearly was because she was taking in what she said and thinking hard, not because she wasn't listening. When Wendy was finished, Carewyn brought a hand up to brush her bangs out of her face, her hand sliding past her right eye as it went. Then, with a swallow, she forced herself to look Wendy in the face at last, even though her eyes were still full of so much emotion.

"...Thank you, Wendy.”

The lawyer couldn't keep eye contact very long. Soon her eyes once again almost of their own accord drifted off to the corner just over Wendy's shoulder.

"I suppose...I always have had a bad tendency, to put the bar too high for myself. Orion's never expected perfection from me, however much I expect it from myself..."

Her eyes softened noticeably.

"He’s always been happy with what he has, even while he’s reaching for something better. But I know he appreciates the work and time I put in, too...how much I care. Even when I care too much, and 'flare up like a Fire Crab.'”

She brought a hand up to try to hold in her giggling.

Wendy’s lips spread into a mischievous grin. “Hey, at least he doesn’t compare your temperament and coloring to a Billywig. But I guess it’s his way of getting back at me for calling him the Tofu King -- ”

In that moment, Ben Copper had abruptly run down the hall, skidding to a halt in the door frame of Carewyn’s office.

“Carey,” he said urgently, his face very white and grave, “the Aurors have just been sent to your street.”

Carewyn and Wendy both shot to their feet in alarm.

“What!?”

As the prosecutor for nearly all of the cases involving ex-Death Eaters, Carewyn had received a lot of recognition and praise, but she’d understandably also gotten a few anonymous death threats from people who had Death Eater sympathies. She wasn’t the only one -- quite a few other prominent members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement like Talbott and the newly hired Harry Potter got them too. This day in particular, however, a swarm of dementors -- newly banned from Azkaban by Minister Shacklebolt, in part due to their association with Lord Voldemort during the War -- had been set loose in several areas of London that contained the homes of prominent Ministry employees...including Carewyn’s. Naturally Carewyn herself was not home yet -- but her ward Erik had just returned from Hogwarts for winter break in the midst of his first year, and he as a latch-key kid was at their flat  completely alone until Carewyn got off work. 

Carewyn immediately dropped everything and rushed home as quickly as she could, Ben and Wendy in tow. When she arrived on her street corner, she found the neighborhood in chaos. The entire street was blanketed by unnatural, heavy black fog, as if it was being suffocated by a blanket made of mist and tar. Muggles were running blindly in all directions since they couldn’t see the dementors, while the Aurors who could cast Patronuses shot them at every part of the darkness they could reach. Ben, Wendy, and Carewyn immediately all cast theirs, and their dun stallion, unicorn, and Abraxan winged horse charged into the fray to help the Aurors’ other pearly white creatures in their fight. Carewyn herself was determined to find Erik and raced in the direction of her flat. As she and the Coppers drew close, however, they were startled by what they saw.

Carewyn’s Abraxan Patronus had charged to the front, flapping its wide wings in an attempt to break up the suffocating darkness. As it did so, another bright white Patronus soared through the air toward hers, gliding through the air with incredible grace and helping it beat the dementors back.

It was another Abraxan winged horse.

The second graceful Abraxan Patronus’s wings seemed to brush lightly over the wings of Carewyn’s before flying back in the direction it’d come from. Her eyes very wide, Carewyn raced after it, her own Patronus flying over her as she went. The second Abraxan Patronus ended up landing a short ways away, its wings spread protectively over two people knelt down on the ground -- a small almost-thirteen-year-old boy with curly blond hair and tears streaming down his pale face, and the Patronus’s caster, an olive-skinned man with an uneven haircut, a beard, and black eyes, dressed in harem pants, arm warmers, and loose-fitting robes.

It was Orion. And although Carewyn halted mid-step several feet away, her breath stilling in her throat, her Patronus flew down to meet Orion’s, the two Abraxans’ noses touching when they met.

Orion had known for years that his and Carewyn’s Patronuses were the same. The knowledge had surprised him, but he’d managed to keep his emotions in check at the time. Carewyn, however, didn’t do as well in containing hers -- her hands flew up to her mouth to try to suppress the choke that left her throat and although she didn’t cry, her eyes flooded with tears.

Her Patronus disappeared in a puff of white smoke as she barrelled over to them, collapsing onto her knees so she could pull Erik into her arms and hug him tightly, her face white with terror.

“Erik! Erik, thank Merlin -- ”

Erik was very pale and shaking in her arms, but he had trouble looking her in the face. His jaw was clenched hard as he clutched at Carewyn’s sleeve. Ben and Wendy rushed over too, looking just as harried.

“Erik -- kid, you okay?” asked Wendy.

Ben glanced from Erik in Carewyn’s arms to up at Orion and his Abraxan Patronus hovering over them, his brown eyes slightly narrowed. Orion’s face was just as solemn.

“I was in the area when I felt the dementors’ presence,” he explained. “I found him out here, shooting Lumos charms and Knockback Jinxes at the dementors to try to drive them away...it’s possible he may have come out to help, knowing Muggles can’t see them...”

Carewyn cradled Erik in her arms, her hands resting on his back and the back of his head protectively as she squeezed him tight and gently stroked his hair.

Leaving Erik at home alone was never an arrangement she’d liked, but he was old enough to be there at her flat without supervision, as long as he stayed inside and didn’t let anyone in. But clearly the protective enchantments she’d placed weren’t strong enough to prevent the dementors’ draining influence from creeping inside...and once Erik felt that, it was unsurprising to Carewyn that he’d wanted to do something about it. His history in dementor captivity when he was rounded up by Umbridge’s Muggle-Born Registration Commission was explanation enough.

She hadn’t done enough. She hadn’t thought that anyone would go so far as to threaten her son ward, while she wasn’t there to protect him...

Carewyn swallowed the huge, painful lump that had formed in her throat, closing her eyes tight to try to force back her tears. She had to show a brave face for Erik: he was scared enough as it was.

The image of Orion’s and her Patronuses touching noses rippled over her mind. The memory of their light, equally bright and perfectly matched, seemed to weaken the grip of the fear strangling her heart.

His Patronus was the same as hers. His soul...was the same as hers...protecting Erik when she hadn’t been there...flying to the side of hers, when it was most needed...

The memory filled her up with such courage and warmth that Carewyn thought she’d likely never struggle for ammunition to create another Patronus again.

“Erik...we need to get you inside,” the lawyer said at last, her voice coming out as a low, steadier whisper than before. “Some chocolate will help.”

Ben brought a hand onto Carewyn’s shoulder and squeezed it. “We’ll take care of things out here with the Aurors, Carey. You stay with Erik.”

Wendy glanced at Orion.

“Orion, maybe you should go with them with your Patronus...clear them a way back home, you know.”

Although her eyes and face were serious, the way her eyes flickered between Carewyn and Orion spoke volumes. Orion, his head bowing almost self-consciously, nodded. He tentatively brought an arm around Carewyn’s shoulders, his black eyes trailing over her face to down at Erik.

“Erik,” he said softly, “can you stand, little Jarvey?”

Although he wasn’t able to speak, Erik clutched onto Carewyn and Orion’s arms and used the grip to hoist himself up onto his feet. Sensing that he was still too weak and disoriented to walk on his own, Orion quickly swooped in and snaked one of his strong arms around the boy to hold him up.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. Carewyn moved to Erik’s other side and wrapped her own arm around Erik too, so that both she and Orion were supporting him. “...We’ve got you...”

Orion’s eyes met Carewyn’s over Erik’s head. The light from his Patronus reflected in their depths, making them resemble two tiny night skies flecked with stars. A perfect match for Carewyn’s, the color of which could be compared to a cloudless blue daytime sky.

((OOC: Thanks to @drinkyoursoupbitch for roleplaying that first scenario between Wendy and Carewyn with me so many months ago!! I’m so delighted I finally got to include it in this! 💙))

[beatersdoitbetter]

Cottage Christmas

Ember sputtered slightly, gagging as she landed in the one fireplace she always wanted to return to no matter what. She stumbled out of the green flames, coughing on the soot she had accidentally inhaled… again. The redhead hated using the Floo network but it was the fastest way of travel when she struggled so much with Apparation. She’d Splinched herself more than once last year in practice, unable to focus completely on her destination as well as she should have been. It was still a work in progress and she was getting a bit better at it, but she still much preferred her broom. It was much harder to go longer distances as well and since she and Anne were traveling all the way from Anne’s home in the south of England to Ember’s in Ireland, the Floo network was actually a good deal safer. She stepped down off of the fireplace, ducking the stockings hung from the mantel and onto the rug her mother had tossed in front of it to wipe her boots. She reached up to rub at her eyes, only dirtying her face further, but it didn’t matter what she looked like, she was home now.

Home.

The cottage Ember had grown up in was small and cozy but the best place she knew. The main room was open, the living room and kitchen combined in a space that was warm and welcoming. The wooden floor was soft and slightly uneven in places, hinting at the house’s age while the walls were fresher, made of both wood paneling in places as well as sheet rock. Her Da had built the furniture, the pieces carefully sanded and coated with a clear varnish to keep the natural color of the wood shining through. The walls that weren’t paneled or stone were painted a gentle sage green, giving a soft backdrop to the many photos and pieces of art that had been hung up. Childhood drawings were still pinned with magnets to the fridge, the center one two handprints shaped in a heart that Ember and Eveleen had made the summer after first year. A tree, already lit with lights and topped with a delicate star stood tall in the corner to one side of the fireplace. Currently the whole place smelt of apple crisp, pine, and a vague undertone of sawdust that was easy to miss unless you were looking for it.  

Toeing off her boots, Ember moved towards the front door to hang up her coat. Anne had been right behind her, saying last goodbyes to her family and would be along in a moment and she didn’t want to be in the way in case she tumbled out of the hearth. Ember was just propping her hat on a hook when a door creaked open and shut followed by footsteps across the wooden floor. She didn’t have to look to know where her mother was, she knew how many steps it took to get from the basement door to the living room. Meghan came into view, her hair as red as Ember’s though it was definitely going gray in places. She was taller than her daughter who had taken after her grandmother height-wise. The woman carried a wicker laundry basket full of fresh smelling sheets, the gentle lavender and honeysuckle trailing after her as it always seemed to. Ember froze, staring at her.

Meghan jumped, nearly dropping the basket, not used to Ember being so quiet when she got home. Normally she popped in, stomped across the floor and shouted to alert her mother of her presence, but then, things had been strained since the summertime. Ember had been more subdued, hiding in her room for that last month, not eating or letting Meghan in no matter how many times she had tried. She’d said goodbye on the train platform without so much as a hug, a ghost of the girl she’d been before. Meghan’s heart had been broken, but she’d continued to send care packages and kept in close contact with Victoire on her daughter’s well-being. Things had begun to improve, Victoire said and Ember had finally sent her a small note, saying she was going home for part of the winter break with a new friend and that both of them would be coming home Christmas morning round lunchtime. Eveleen and Coal would also be joining them, which excited and worried Meghan at the same time. She had never met Coal, but she had seen pictures of him that Ember had brought home. The likeness was uncanny… But of course she hadn’t told Ember that. Not yet. There had never been a good time.

“Mo leanbh.” Meghan dropped the basket then, carefully of course, and marched across the room, arms reaching for her daughter. She stopped though, about three feet away. The last time she’d gone to hug Ember she’d flinched away. It was extremely difficult, not being able to touch her, to hold her like she always had when the world was too much. She wasn’t so skinny now though. There was more flesh and color to her cheeks and her eyes were getting that old twinkle back into them that Meghan was much more used to. She looked like she’d been doing better.

“Mammy.” Ember launched herself forward, nearly knocking Meghan off her feet as she hugged onto her tightly, burying her face into her mother’s hair, breathing in the scent of unconditional love and safety. She let herself melt into her mother’s arms, the wool of her sweat slightly itchy against her cheek but Ember didn’t care. She had missed her Mam so much her heart had seemed to physically ache for her. She allowed herself to be squished, held, and rocked slightly back and forth as Meghan drank her in just as much.

“That’s my girl.” Meghan finally pulled back, hands reaching up to press wild locks away from Ember’s face. “You’re absolutely filthy. Did you open your mouth in the floo again, you look like you’ve been eating soot and your hair! Did you brush it? Well I suppose the Floo would have mussed it, we’ll fix it. Perhaps a braid? Where’s your friend? Is she still coming? What did you do to your face this time? I swear every time I see you you’ve got another bandage! I don’t see why you don’t just heal them properly instead. I’ve made your favorite too, with extra sugar.”

Meghan hurried over to the kitchen, grabbing up the silver kettle from the stove and filling it with water. She placed it back down on a burner, snatched a dish towel off the oven handle and switched the water in the sink over to hot. “Come here, we’ll get you washed up while the water boils.”

“Mam...” Ember shook her head, but she was smiling as she followed after her mother. She reached for the towel but Meghan was already going at her face with it, rubbing her skin slightly raw as she washed the soot from the fireplace away. She peeled off the bandage Ember had had on her left cheek, eyed the scrape underneath and pulled out her wand. In two seconds flat, Ember’s skin flared hot and then cooled, the abrasion sealing over like it hadn’t been there to begin with.

“There. Better.” Meghan dropped the now dirty dish cloth into the sink as the flames in the fireplace lit up green. “Oh, that must be your friend now.”

“Mam, about that. Anne’s not just-”Ember paused, clamming up slightly, eyes shifting over to the fireplace. Her cheeks went pink at the sight of the tiny blond appearing among the flames. “She’s… she’s my...”

Meghan watched the way her daughter’s face got redder and redder as she glanced between her and the fireplace. The way her words got stuck in her throat, how she looked down at her feet and reached for the key hanging around her neck. It clicked quickly for Meghan, able to read her daughter quite well.  Meghan smiled, remembering how David had told her Ember, still so little at the time, had asked him if she could be a man so she could marry a pretty lady. He’d told her she didn’t have to be a man to do that, so she’d resolved to be a knight instead and a whole bunch of other things as all small children do. Meghan had thought that maybe it would be Eveleen, with the way Ember’s face flushed around her when they’d been about thirteen, but that has since passed. “Aye, Emmi. I understand.”

“It’s okay?” Ember bit her lower lip, looking up from her feet. Meghan nodded, reaching out to ruffle her hair.

“Best go make sure she hasn’t gotten soot in her mouth too. Though I suppose it’d make snogging you easier if she did.”

“Mam!”

[picorihero]

⚜ ; —–  [ 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 . ]

now this just makes me realize Mini would love reading some Shakespeare works.

ROMEO   &   JULIET.     suburban july.  scraped  knees. bruised  knuckles. blood  in  your  teeth. bare  feet  on  hot  concrete. restlessness. your  high  school’s  empty  parking lot. love  poems  in  your  diary. a  window  open  to  coax  in  the  breeze. burning  inside. an  ill - fitting  party  dress.  a  t - shirt  you  cut  up  yourself. the  time  you  tried  to  give  yourself  bangs.  biking  to  your  friends  house.  bubble  gum. gas  station  ice. the  feeling  that  you’ve  met  before. rebellion. a  car  radio  playing  down  the  street. cheap  fireworks. a  heart  drawn  on  the  inside  of  your  wrist  with  a  sharpie. switchblades.  red  solo  cups. dancing  in  your  bedroom.  screaming  yourself  hoarse.  running  out  of  options.  the  forlorn  looking  basketball  hoop  at  the  end  of  a  cul - de - sac.  climbing  onto  your  roof  at  night while  your  parents  are  asleep. flip - flops. a  eulogy  written  on  loose - leaf. the  merciless  noontime  sun.

HAMLET.     speaking  in  a  whisper. holding  your  breath. a  browning garden.  a  half  remembered  story. furniture  covered  with  sheets. fog  at  dawn,  mist  at  twilight. losing  touch. the  ethereal  space  between  winter  and  spring. the  soft  skin  at  your  temple.  the  crack  in  the  hallway  mirror. things  you’d  say  if  you  knew  the  words. uncombed  hair. books  with  writing  in  the  margins.  books  with  cracked  spines. books  with  lines  scratched  out.  prayers  on  all  souls’  day.  a chipped  ceramic  bathtub.  a  cold  stone  floor. the  uncomfortable  awareness  of  your  own  heartbeat.  the  sparrow  that  got  in  your  house. shadows. the  creek  you  played  in  as  a  child.  a  dirty  night  gown. an  oversized  t - shirt. a  collection  of  your  favorite  words. soil  beneath  your  nails. ghost  stories. the  strangeness  of  your  own  name  in  your  mouth. deep  silence. exhaustion. a  cliff  with  a  long,  long  drop  down.

THE   TWELFTH   NIGHT.     wicker  deck  furniture.  new  england  summer.  large  sunglasses  and  a  blonde  bob.  a  storm  over  the  ocean.  patio  umbrellas  flapping  in  the  wind.  the  smell  of  chlorine. muffled  laughter. sarcasm.  starched  cuffs. day drinking. bay  windows. the  idea  of  love. love  for  the  idea  of  love. love  for  love’s  sake. hangovers. wandering  over  the  sand  dunes. a  vagabond  with  a  guitar.  fishermen with  tattoos.  a  pretty  boy  with  a  slacked  tie.  a  lighthouse. growing  too  close. boat  shoes. feeling  yourself  change. big,  floppy  sunhats. double - speak. a  song  you  keep  listening  to. turning  red  under  their  gaze.  margaritas  drank  on  an  inflatable  pool  lounger. string  lights  on  a  balmy  night. sleepy  june  days. fights  you’re  unprepared  for. hope  you  weren’t  expecting. pranks  that  go  too  far.  bad  poetry. pining. becoming  less  of  a  stranger.

MACBETH.     the  space  where  your  grief  used  to  be.  a  bird that’s  lost  an  eye. old  blood  stains.  heavy  blinds. the  smell  of  sweat.  the  stillness  after  a  battle. a fake smile. a  curse.  the  taste  of  metal  at  the  back  of  your  tongue. your  house,  unfamiliar  in  the  dark.  a  dusty  crib.   the  smell  of  sulfur.  an  orange  pill  bottle.  streaks  in  the  sink. a black cocktail dress. your  hand  on  the  doorknob,  shaking. a  chilly  breeze. crunching  from  the  gravel  driveway  on  a  moonless  night. clenched  hands. a  rusty  swing  set. a  flashing  digital  clock  stuck  on  12 : 00.  a  snake  that  crosses  your  path.  an  owl  that  watches  you. a  dog  that  runs  when  you  approach. red  smoke,  dark  clouds. cool  steel. tile  floors. footsteps  in  the  hallway  late  at  night. a  baggy  suit  that  used  to  fit  before. visions. insomnia  headaches.  nursery  rhymes. being  too  far  in  to  go  back  now.

MUCH   ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.     the  high  drama  of  small  towns. a  pickup  truck. military  supply  duffel  bags  in  the  hall, hugs  all  around. tulip  bulbs. a  wraparound  porch.  a  pitcher  of  iced  tea.  a  rubber  halloween  mask. someone  on  your  level. ill - timed  proclamations.  stomach  clenching  laughter. rushing  in. not  minding  your  business. crepe  paper. white lies. secrets  written  down  and  thrown  away. southern  hospitality. homemade  curtains  in  the  kitchen. a  sink  full  of  roses. hiding  in  the  bushes. old  friends. the  wedding  dress  your  grandma  wore,  and  her  mama  before  her.  a  dog - eared  rhyming  dictionary. chamomile  with  honey. the  intimacy  of  big  parties.  lawn  flamingos. gossip.  a  crowded  church. friendly  rivalries. unfriendly  rivalries. love  at  five  hundredth  sight. not  realizing  you’re  home  until  you’re  there.

KING LEAR.     cement  block  buildings.  power  lines  that  birds  never  perch  on. the end of the world.  useless  words.   rainless  thunder,  heat  lighting. a  too  big  sky. arthritic  knuckles. broken  glass. chalk  cliffs. the  pulsing  red - black  behind  closed  eyes.  something  you  learned  too  late. wet  mud  that  sucks  up  your  shoes  while  you  walk. a  cold  stare. empty  picture  frames. empty  prayers. the  obscenity  of  seeing  your  parents  cry. a  treeless  landscape.  bloody  rags.   grappling  in  the  dark  with  reaching  hands. the  sharpness  at  the  the  tips  of  your  teeth.  the  blown  out  windows  of  a  skeletal  house. decay. jokes  that  aren’t  jokes.  biting  your  tongue.  prophesies.  aching  muscles. tired  feet. stinging  rain. invoking  the  gods. wondering  if  the  gods  are  listening. worrying  that  the  gods  are  dead. white  noise.  shivers.  numbness.  the  unequivocal  feeling  of  ending.

A   MIDSUMMER’S   NIGHT   DREAM.      the  smell  of  wet  soil  and  dead  leaves. listening  to  music  on  headphones  with  your  eyes  closed.  wildflowers.  the  distant  sparkle  of  lightning  bugs. a  pill  someone  slipped  you. fear  that  turns  into  excitement. excitement  that  turns  to  frenzy.  mossy  tree  trunks. a  pair  of  yellow  eyes  in  the  darkness. night  swimming. moonlight  through  the  leaves. a  bass  beat  in  your  chest. a  butterfly  landing  on  your  nose. a  kiss  from  a  stranger.  a  dark  hallow  in  an  old  tree. glow  in  the  dark  paint. drinking  on  an  empty  stomach. a  twig  breaking  behind  you. spinning  until  you’re  dizzy. finding  glitter  on  your  body  and  not  remembering  where  it  came  from. an  overgrown  path  through  the  woods. cool  dew  on  your  skin. a  dream  that  fades  with  waking. moths  drawn  to  the light. giving  yourself  over,  completely.  afterglow.  the  long,  loving,  velvety  night.

tagged by: @bxstiae​ ( thank u!! ) tagging : et tu brute

[thisunfoldinglife]

How I Came To Live in the Woods

Two years ago, my husband and I bought our dream house. This lovely seventies fixer-upper has robbed us of every last pound, consumed months of our time, and has signed us up for another decade of sweaty evenings and weekends spent painting, repairing, and renovating. We sometimes stop, paintbrush in hand, and ask each other, “any regrets?” Well…no—but we both pine for simpler times.  

I look around and marvel at this big house and everything we’ve accumulated since our move to England. We arrived eight years ago with only a few suitcases and a handful of hopes. Unlike normal people, we didn’t ship our furniture and household goods from America. Instead, we had a massive yard sale and sold the rest on Craig’s List. I said goodbye to my sewing machine, guitar, bike, and camping equipment. We had to rebuy everything from brooms to blankets, dishes to clocks, silverware to shoes. It’s amazing how long it takes to rebuild your collection of stuff, especially when money is scarce.

Yet all this didn’t faze me. I was already well versed in the art of minimalism. When I was twenty-eight, all my worldly possessions resided inside the boot of my car. They would remain there for two years, while I tried out life as a vagabond.  When you’re young, the promise of adventure can outweigh all fear. When it’s just you—no partner, no kids—just you and the great big sky, there are more chances you can take.

It all started after reading Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho’s book, “The Pilgrimage”, which sparked my desire to embark on a solo journey to Northern Spain to walk a 500-mile pilgrimage route that’s existed since the Middle Ages. Looking back, my decision to walk this ancient path set into motion a new trajectory for my life that wouldn’t be altered for several years. Walking the path for forty days, with nothing in my backpack but my journal, clothes, food, and water, certainly perfected my predilection for a minimal existence, but it was truly the time before and after the pilgrimage, that tested my resolve to embrace the unconventional life.  

I was desperate to get to Spain. I had travelled the length and breadth of The States, but outside of a quick hop to London, I hadn’t properly travelled overseas. I didn’t have any form of savings to purchase a plane ticket or even feed myself for the two months I’d be gone, yet still, I couldn’t ignore the pull to go. I had a sharp distaste for fear and regret, and a stronger desire to be the bold protagonist in my own life story, so I needed to find a way.

I was living at the time in Flagstaff, Arizona. This high-desert mountain town boasts turquoise blue skies and perpetual sunshine to beckon everyone outdoors. At 7,000 feet above sea level, it’s cooler than its neighbouring desert towns, and yields deep winter snows that will never meet the cacti of the south. Flagstaff’s natural beauty draws an alternative collection of hikers, skiers, hippies, and transients. The cost of living is high, but the desire to be there great, and so many people find whatever means they can to stay. I had heard about a few odd souls who camped in the surrounding national forest for weeks at a time. I would be one of them. It was the most feasible means of funding my travels. I was renting an apartment then, with a kindred friend, Marike. Partial to avoiding conformity, she too, knew the value in travel and adventure, and so she wasn’t hard to convince. Together, we gave up our apartment to head for the woods. I quickly sold my furniture, giving away everything that wouldn’t fit inside my small Toyota. All I had left were my books, photos, clothing and gear.

Marike and I set up our first camp in a clearing of aspens and pines a mile down a long dirt lane. It was close enough to make the morning trek to work, yet far enough from the main road to ease our minds about cops or potential serial killers. My tent was narrow and thin, but sufficient. We’d forage for firewood, heat cans of soup on the stove at night and pour water for each other to wash up in the morning. Every other day, we’d pay to shower at the local hostel. Being April, the snow still fell, and so the coldest nights would find us curled up in the car beneath heaps of blankets, where sleep was fickle and fragmented. It was challenging, uncomfortable, and at times scary, but also exhilarating. The difficulties were dotted with starry skies, deep conversations, and the perpetual fresh mountain air that magically invigorated us despite it all. I felt raw and alive, my eyes open and senses heightened. My inner strength was blossoming, and my fears grew smaller, giving way to a confidence that began to permeate all aspects of my life.

Soon after, I left for Spain. Walking the pilgrimage was an epic alter reality that inspired and stimulated me daily. The path had brought many wonders and gifts—among them, a thirst for freedom, both internal and external. I felt tethered to nothing and life’s possibilities seemed boundless. The journey had liberated me from nearly all my money and material possessions, so when I returned to Flagstaff, I wasn’t ready to buy furniture, pay rent, and adopt a normal life. So, I returned to the woods. Marike had left for other adventures, and I was on my own, uncertain of how long I’d be there.

I was a vulnerable single woman alone in the forest, but through either ignorance or grace, I felt protected. I enjoyed the town and the trails by day and spent time with friends in the evening. I’d often find my way to the local bookstore before bed. Their late hours gave me a pseudo living room to read and write before driving back to the forest. On my way to the woods, I’d roll down the window to inhale the sweet smell of wood smoke escaping from well-lit houses, where people sprawled happily on couches, glasses of wine in hand. The line between liberating and lonely began to blur as winter closed in, but still, I was in a pleasant state of surrender. I believed life would shepherd me to extraordinary things, and magically it did.

At a random party, in a place I had never been, I met a married couple, Vickie and Bruce, who were soon to sail around the coast of Mexico for three months. I foolishly disregarded them as a wealthy privileged pair whom I’d have nothing in common with. Yet as our conversation grew, I quickly realised that they were making sacrifices to pursue their dreams, the same as I. And, when they asked me to look after their pets and home while they were away, I was humbled with euphoric gratitude. It was a blessed encounter that, not only granted me a home during the cold winter months but brought me a lasting friendship. For this couple, who were once two strangers, became dear friends. And their home became a haven of warmth and stability, to write, relax, and even grieve when my father unexpectedly died months after. And, two years later, when I met my husband, Vickie presided over our wedding.

Vickie and Bruce went on several long jaunts to Mexico, in which I was always happy to look after their home and pets. And in between, I found several other house-sitting jobs. I stayed in homes with hot tubs and hammocks, along rivers and among mountains. The most remote dwellings were quiet and wild, and I’d spy elk, coyote, and bear. Some were affluent, and afforded me weeks of luxury, soaking in big baths, lounging on plush furniture and dining in stylish kitchens. Others were more rustic. One January, I looked after a cat in a converted camper van on the edge of town. Without any electricity or water, the camper had only a small built-in wood burner to shield me from the worst of the winter cold. In three feet of snow, I’d chop logs into kindling and fall asleep to a roaring fire that demanded to be rebuilt several hours later, yanking me from sleep to action.

When one job finished, another would harmoniously begin. I only occasionally camped in the woods in the interims. Everything seemed to fall into place to facilitate this unconventional existence. It gave me courage, trust, confidence, and the precious gift of time. In escaping from the rat race, I bought myself time—to simply be—a luxury I have so little of now. It’s hard to believe I lived like that for two years. But in my wandering spell, I’d somehow cultivated true peace within myself. And even now, in life’s most constricting moments, my soul still wanders free because of it.  

My vagabond days eventually proved their limitations, and I began to crave a place of my own. With great resistance, I exchanged my car—which brought me such freedom—for an apartment, where I acquired a rescue cat, a collection of mismatched furniture, and soon after, my husband.

I look around now at all this stuff—sofas and beds, tables and toys. I never thought I’d accumulate so much. Yet instead of weighing me down, it pleasantly anchors me. I think children need rooms and toys to call their own. As do I. And from the comfort of my couch, I now enjoy the smell of wine and wood-smoke from my own chimney. Someday I might don my backpack again and set off on another pilgrimage. Maybe I’ll even find a quiet spot in the forest to dwell for a while. But first, this house needs work and love, and as it’s filled to the brim, there is no more room for regret.

[best-reviews]

Try These Tips to Keep Your Christmas Tree Fresh and Greener

Winter holidays

Don’t we all love the holidays, the cinnamon smell, the excitement of buying and getting the perfect gift, the general vibe that seems to make you forget about stress and life’s low moments. However, we believe that the Christmas tree is the star of the holidays. If you’re not making it to get to Santa Claus’ heart, then you’re definitely doing it for your little ones. Some of us, like those who are huge fans of the winter holidays, would start decorating sooner than anyone would even think. You can’t blame them, though. It’s really soul nurturing to see those colorful lights going on and off. It makes you feel like a kid again, doesn’t it? But how could you keep the Christmas tree fresh and green through the holidays? It’s kind of tricky if you’re one of those who love the smell of an all-natural tree. However, as always, we have your back on this. We’ve gathered some really useful tips. These will help you keep that Christmas tree alive and kicking! A little history on the Christmas tree For starters, there’s no actual exact information to let us know where Christmas trees were first used. It’s assumed that about 1,000 years ago, in some Northern European countries, people started this tradition. While nowadays, we’re proudly placing our holiday decorated trees in a special place of the house, where everybody can notice them, back in the old days things were quite different. It seems that people used to hang their Christmas trees upside down from the ceiling. Chains were used to keep them in place and attached to either the chandeliers or lighting hooks. Across Europe, especially the Northern parts, people didn’t use the whole tree, but rather just a branch or a smaller plant. So if you were to have a time machine and you’d go back in the early days of this tradition being started, you’d see cherry or hawthorn plants. Sounds pretty strange, doesn’t it? Well, this wasn’t all! Those who couldn’t afford a real plant, were turning to wood pieces that they’d put in a pyramid. It really looked like a real tree, which they’d decorate with paper, apples, and candles. First Christmas tree Going back to when this tradition started, it seems that Germany is the place where a home was first decorated with such a tree. Preacher Martin Luther is known as the first person to have brought a Christmas tree in his home, in the 16th century. The story of this event talks about the man walking one night before Christmas into the woods. The image that he saw, with the starts shinning through the tree’s branches, was the trigger. He was so impressed with the scene he saw that, as he got home, he told his kids that it made him think of Jesus. He imagined that he went down from the stars to have an earthly experience on Christmas time. Christmas trees around the world There are many parts in the world, where Christmas trees are decorated each year in public spaces, just to please people’s eyes. As you may already now, the tree in Trafalgar Square, London, England, represents one of the most famous ones. In fact, the tree represents a gift that Norway offers the UK each year, as a thank you for all the help they got during the World War II. Also the United States of America have their own tradition of decorating huge Christmas trees during the holidays. The White House has this tradition since the 1920s, where they place a beautifully decorated tree on their front lawn. There are many other parts in the world, where people have different views on what Christmas trees are all about. For instance, New Zealand uses as a holiday tree one that’s called ‘Pohutakawa’ that has red flowers. In other parts of the world, like India, Christmas trees are the Banana or Mango trees, which people sometimes decorate. No matter what one might say, a natural Christmas tree represents a really fun to do and beautiful holiday decoration. And many people agree on this, if we were to judge by the surveys. It seems that in 2015, 25.9 million real trees were purchased, summing up a total of $1.32 billion, according to the National Christmas Tree Association. However, as beautiful as a natural tree may sound, there are some issues you might bump into. So how do you keep it fresh and green during the whole holiday season? Keep on reading to find out our useful tips! Give it water as soon as possible! What you’re bringing home is a real and alive plant. Therefore, if you want to provide its freshness on a long run, then you’ll have to give it enough water. Like with any other living plants, water is the number one key-ingredient for a successful recipe. Experts suggest that appropriately hydrating your Christmas tree should do a very good job in keeping it fresh and green. According to co-owner of the Sugar Pines Farm in Chesterland, OH, Jane Neubauer, you can easily do this. You just have to buy a tree stand that comes with a built-in reservoir. If you check it regularly, there’s no way that you’ll not built a healthy relationship with your Christmas tree. You’ll get to understand how much water your holiday tree really needs. This built-n reservoir is magic because you can re-fill it regularly so that your plant doesn’t have to suffer not even for a bit. Also, nowadays you can buy all sorts of additives that are meant to maintain a certain water absorption and to keep away any possible bacteria. However, these are not as important as keeping your Christmas tree well-watered. Keep its trunk trimmed It’s quite an interesting process that takes place each time a tree is first cut. In order to close the wound, sap comes into the scene to seal the bottom. This is what makes it quite difficult for the tree to absorb enough water. Experts recommend to place a fresh cut at the bottom of your Christmas tree right before you put it in water. Another very important tip to keep in mind is that you should always put up the tree as soon as possible. Try to doing this the same day you bring it home. So how do you do this trick? Just take a saw and trim half an inch off the trunk. Do this before you place in water in a reservoir stand. Specialists advise that you should go for a perpendicular cut to the axis of the stem. Avoid as much as possible to make the cut on the trunk at an angle or in a V-shape. Otherwise, keeping your tree in an upright position in the stand can be difficult. However, if you cannot put up the tree right in the same day you bought it, we have a short-term solution for you. Experts say that keeping it in a cool place with plenty of water should do the job. But, as you might have figured out already, it is best to set your Christmas tree as soon as possible. Water it Did we already mention this? Well, yes, but in this part of the article, we’re trying to make you fully understand this tree’s need. As you followed our first tip, you should already have a water stand for your Christmas tree. Check it daily for water levels and keep in mind this general rule: one quart of water goes for each inch of your tree’s stem diameter. You should let go of those popular beliefs that if you drill a hole in the bottom of the trunk you’ll have your tree for a longer time. Also, that tip with using a certain temperature to water it is quite overrated. However, according to some debates, it seems that your tree’s longevity might depend on certain substances. Some people believe that using corn syrup, aspirin, or sugar can keep your tree healthy for a longer period of time. Well, we read through several sources and we found out that a recent study concluded that none of these substances could do better than clean water. It’s not to say that these do any harm, but rather that they are not too effective, either. However, nothing should keep you from experimenting! It’s your Christmas tree, in the end, right? Keep your tree out of any heat sources or lights Heat or direct exposure to sunlight won’t do your Christmas tree any good! Also, placing it too near the furnace can easily make it dry faster. It can become dry and brittle if it has too much heat coming its way, as experts say. As the decorating lights are concerned, those small lights are not to be avoided. Also, you can still go for the big ones if you keep on appropriately watering your tree the right way. Another useful trick is to lower the temperature in the room where you place it. This will slow down the drying process. However, if your tree does dry out, then you should seriously think of recycling it. Just take it out of your house and don’t burn it in the fireplace or wood stove. Turn off the lights This one tip is not only good for your tree’s longevity, but also for your well-being, as well. The idea is that lights, kept on for too long, can become very hot. This can lead to your tree drying faster and even, unfortunately, cause a fire chaos. Do things the right way and play it safe! If you’re not around for more hours in a row, just turn the lights off. You can’t monitor your tree so be smart about this! Also, it’s extremely important to always do a check up on your light installation. Make sure that all your bulbs function normally and that none of their cords for the lights are worn or frayed. It is what it is: real tress can catch fire. Just follow the general safety rules and your holidays will be another beautiful memory to add in your life’s repertoire! Conclusions Hopefully, you found good and useful content in this article. It’s no rocket science to keep your Christmas tree fresh and green for a longer period of time. Just make sure you completely understand what keeping a real tree indoor is all about and you should be just fine! It’s worth all the effort, we think, to keep that Christmas vibe going on, with a beautiful, taken care of tree. Give out tips a try and see for yourself! Read the full article

[seastole-a]

                        SHAKESPEARE  AESTHETICS                        

𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨   &.    𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐭.       suburban  july.  scraped  knees.  bruised  knuckles.  blood  in  your  teeth.  bare  feet  on  hot  concrete.   restlessness.   your  high  school’s  empty  parking lot.  love  poems  in  your  diary.    a  window  open  to  coax  in  the  breeze.    burning  inside.    an  ill - fitting  party  dress.   a  t - shirt  you  cut  up  yourself.   the  time  you  tried  to  give  yourself  bangs.    biking  to  your  friends  house.   bubble  gum.    gas  station  ice.     the  feeling  that  you’ve  met  before.   rebellion.    a  car  radio  playing  down  the  street.  cheap  fireworks.   a  heart  drawn  on  the  inside  of  your  wrist  with  a  sharpie.    switchblades.    red  solo  cups.    dancing  in  your  bedroom.   screaming  yourself  hoarse.   running  out  of  options.   the  forlorn  looking  basketball  hoop  at  the  end  of  a  cul - de - sac.    climbing  onto  your  roof  at  night  while  your  parents  are  asleep.    flip - flops.    a  eulogy  written  on  loose - leaf.    the  merciless  noontime  sun.

𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐥𝐞𝐭.       speaking  in  a  whisper.    holding  your  breath.   a  browning  garden.   a  half  remembered  story.   furniture  covered  with  sheets.   fog  at  dawn,   mist  at  twilight.  losing  touch.    the  ethereal  space  between  winter  and  spring.    the  soft  skin  at  your  temple.    the  crack  in  the  hallway  mirror.    things  you’d  say  if  you  knew  the  words.  uncombed  hair.    books  with  writing  in  the  margins.   books  with  cracked  spines.   books  with  lines  scratched  out.    prayers  on  all  souls’  day.    a  chipped  ceramic  bathtub.    a  cold  stone  floor.    the  uncomfortable  awareness  of  your  own  heartbeat.    the  sparrow  that  got  in  your  house.    shadows.    the  creek  you  played  in  as  a  child.    a  dirty  night  gown.    an  oversized  t - shirt.    a  collection  of  your  favorite  words.    soil  beneath  your  nails.   ghost  stories.      the  strangeness  of  your  own  name  in  your  mouth.     deep  silence.  exhaustion.   a  cliff  with  a  long,  long  drop  down.

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐭𝐡  𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.       wicker  deck  furniture.    new  england  summer.    large  sunglasses  and  a  blonde  bob.    a  storm  over  the  ocean.    patio  umbrellas  flapping  in  the  wind.    the  smell  of  chlorine.    muffled  laughter.    sarcasm.    starched  cuffs.    day  drinking.   bay  windows.     the  idea  of  love.     love  for  the  idea  of  love.     love  for  love’s  sake. hangovers.     wandering  over  the  sand  dunes.     a  vagabond  with  a  guitar.      fishermen  with  tattoos.   a  pretty  boy  with  a  slacked  tie.   a  lighthouse.    growing  too  close.    boat  shoes.    feeling  yourself  change.     big,  floppy  sunhats.    double - speak.    a  song  you  keep  listening  to.    turning  red  under  their  gaze.    margaritas  drank  on  an  inflatable  pool  lounger.    string  lights  on  a  balmy  night.   sleepy  june  days.   fights  you’re  unprepared  for.    hope  you  weren’t  expecting.    pranks  that  go  too  far.    bad  poetry.    pining. becoming  less  of  a  stranger.

𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐡.       the  space  where  your  grief  used  to  be.    a  bird  that’s  lost  an  eye.    old  blood  stains.   heavy  blinds.    the  smell  of  sweat.   the  stillness  after  a  battle.   a  fake  smile.    a  curse.    the  taste  of  metal  at  the  back  of  your  tongue.   your  house,  unfamiliar  in  the  dark.   a  dusty  crib.   the  smell  of  sulfur.    an  orange  pill  bottle.    streaks  in  the  sink.    a  black  cocktail  dress.    your  hand  on  the  doorknob,  shaking.    a  chilly  breeze.  crunching  from  the  gravel  driveway  on  a  moonless  night.    clenched  hands.    a  rusty  swing  set.    a  flashing  digital  clock  stuck  on  12 : 00.    a  snake  that  crosses  your  path.   an  owl  that  watches  you.    a  dog  that  runs  when  you  approach.    red  smoke,  dark  clouds.   cool  steel.   tile  floors.  footsteps  in  the  hallway  late  at  night.   a  baggy  suit  that  used  to  fit  before.   visions.   insomnia  headaches.   nursery  rhymes.   being  too  far  in  to  go  back  now.

𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡  𝐚𝐝𝐨  𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭  𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.       the  high  drama  of  small  towns.   a  pickup  truck.  military  supply  duffel  bags  in  the  hall,  hugs  all  around.   tulip  bulbs.   a  wraparound  porch.  a  pitcher  of  iced  tea.    a  rubber  halloween  mask.   someone  on  your  level.   ill - timed  proclamations.   stomach  clenching  laughter.   rushing  in.  not  minding  your  business. crepe  paper.  white  lies.    secrets  written  down  and  thrown  away.    southern  hospitality.  homemade  curtains  in  the  kitchen.   a  sink  full  of  roses.   hiding  in  the  bushes.   old  friends.    the  wedding  dress  your  grandma  wore,  and  her  mama  before  her.    a  dog - eared  rhyming  dictionary.    chamomile  with  honey.    the  intimacy  of  big  parties.    lawn  flamingos.    gossip.    a  crowded  church.    friendly  rivalries.    unfriendly  rivalries.    shit  getting  real.    love  at  five  hundredth  sight.    not  realizing  you’re  home  until  you’re  there.

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠  𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫.       cement  block  buildings.    power  lines  that  birds  never  perch  on.   the  end  of  the  world.    useless  words.    rainless  thunder,   heat  lighting,   a  too  big  sky.    arthritic  knuckles.    broken  glass.   chalk  cliffs.  the  pulsing  red - black  behind  closed  eyes.    something  you  learned  too  late.    wet  mud  that  sucks  up  your  shoes  while  you  walk.  a  cold  stare.    empty  picture  frames.   empty  prayers.   the  obscenity  of  seeing  your  parents cry.   a  treeless  landscape.    bloody  rags.    grappling  in  the  dark  with  reaching  hands.   the  sharpness  at  the  the  tips  of  your  teeth.   the  blown  out  windows  of  a  skeletal  house.    decay.    jokes  that  aren’t  jokes.    biting  your  tongue.    prophecies.   aching  muscles,   tired  feet.   stinging  rain.    invoking  the  gods.    wondering  if  the  gods  are  listening.    worrying  that  the  gods  are  dead.    white  noise.   shivers.   numbness.   the  unequivocal  feeling  of  ending.

𝐚  𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫  𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭’𝐬  𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦.     the  smell  of  wet  soil  and  dead  leaves.  listening  to  music  on  headphones  with  your  eyes  closed.    wildflowers.    the  distant  sparkle  of  lightning  bugs.   a  pill  someone  slipped  you.   fear  that  turns  into  excitement.  excitement  that  turns  to  frenzy.   mossy  tree  trunks.   a  pair  of  yellow  eyes  in  the  darkness.   night  swimming.   moonlight  through  the  leaves. a  bass  beat  in  your  chest.  a  butterfly  landing  on  your  nose.  a  kiss  from  a  stranger.   a  dark  hallow  in  an  old  tree.   glow  in  the  dark  paint.   drinking  on  an  empty  stomach.  a  twig  breaking  behind  you.    spinning  until  you’re  dizzy.    finding  glitter  on  your  body  and  not  remembering  where  it  came  from.    an  overgrown  path  through  the  woods.    cool  dew  on  your  skin.    a  dream  that  fades  with  waking.    moths  drawn  to  the  light.    giving  yourself  over,  completely.    afterglow.    the  long,   loving,   velvety  night.

tagged by:            @diamonrose   thank you binch 

tagging:           just steal it if you haven’t done it already !!

[citialiin]

ooc ; thank u for tagging me in fun memes and stuff! ヽ(　･∀･)ﾉ so i dont flood ppls dashes i just wait until i have a few & put them under readmores.

HORROR ARCHETYPE AESTHETICS tagged by: @ betelguide

GOTHIC HORROR.

gaslights.   corsets.   ballrooms.   candlelight.   mist.   starless nights.   full moons.  cobbled streets.   horse-drawn carriages.   mysterious strangers.   bogs.   moors.  forests.   mountains.   castles.   velvet.   silver.   brass.   gold.   jewels.   domino masks.   the opera.  dangerous romances.   tragic romances.   violins.   roses.   lilies.   empty graves.   crosses.   cemeteries.   snow.   ice.   the gallows.   crows.   milk-white skin.  ambiguous illness.  fangs.   pointed nails.   something howling in the night.   capes.   gloves.   top hats.   straight razors.   lightning.   pipe organs.   underground caverns.   bats.   mice.   rats.   ravens.   cats.   pearls.   attics.   talismans.   axes.   wood.  isolation in a room full of people.   vampires.   werewolves.   ghosts.   coffins.   western europe.   eastern europe.   bones.   churches.   catacombs.   mausoleums.   spiders.   books.

CLASSIC HORROR.

black   &   white.   powder puffs.   red lipstick.   winged eyeliner.   white kitten heels.  black lace lingerie.   icy blue eyes.   rain.   abandoned cars.   skeletons.   acid.  poison.   voyeurism.   switchblades.   strangling.   overcoats.   looking over your shoulder.   trans-atlantic accents.   private detectives.   dinner parties.   haunted mansions.   alcohol in glass decanters.   cobwebs.   perfect blonde curls.   kitchen knives.   shock.   cellars.  dust.  dark alleys.   empty streets.   driving at night.   horn-rimmed glasses.   radiation.  zombies.   serial murder.   paranoia.   the city.   witches.  the devil.   cannibalism.  conspiracies.   amulets.   abject terror.   the american south.   the american northeast.    england.   analog cameras.

SLASHERS.

bloodbaths.   massacres.   wanton nudity.   newspapers.   leather jackets.   letterman jackets.   converse sneakers.   obscured faces.   social unrest.   bonfires.   lakes.  babysitters.   suburbia.   high school.   lockers.   dead leaves in the fall.   jack-o’-lanterns.   outdated television sets.   nightmares.   psychiatrists.   hospitals.  unstoppable forces.   gunfire.   police.   landline telephones.   household objects turned into improvised weapons.   halloween.   secrets.   revelations.   character masks.  scrunchies.   queerness.   wild curls.   morbid humor.   jeering children.  parties.   fire.   swearing.  revulsion.   california.   the american midwest.   ambulances.

PARANORMAL HORROR.

malevolent spirits.   seances.   spells.   missing bodies.   hidden graves.   white noise.   static.   flickering lights.   rings of salt.   demons.   poltergeists.   dark histories.   old buildings.  cold air.   mausoleums.   wells.   urban exploration.   a dog barking at something you can’t see.   black ooze.   old photographs.   faces you can swear you’ve seen before  but can’t for the life of you figure out where.   dark bodies of water.   crucifixes.   priests.   possession.   exorcisms.   dolls.   jump scares.

CRYPTID   &   URBAN LEGEND HORROR.

ALIENS.  blinding light.   dark woods.   driving at night.   claw-marks.   bite-marks.   men in black.   memory loss.  dismembered bodies.   sewers.   flashlights.   cell phones.   video cameras.   cars with tinted windows.   abandoned houses.   unlabeled cassette tapes.  bugs.   big cities.   urban crimes.  clowns.   something rustling outside your window. glowing light.   unsolved mysteries.   suburbia.   mirrors.   the american pacific northwest.   the american midwest.   the american east coast.   hiking   /   backpacking.

THRILLERS.

daylight.   fluorescent lighting.   morgues.   asylums.   unwavering eye contact.  tension.   lit rooms with no one inside them.   a dog digging in the newly-planted flower bed.  steely gazes.   paperwork.   anagrams.   codes.   convicted killers.  missing persons.  law enforcement.   federal agents.  small towns.   suspicion.   paranoia.   subdued terror. dimly-lit parking lots.

CLASSIC NOVELIST AESTHETICS tagged by: @ finestprize

JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets, flowers in the rain, sunlight slipping through clouds,  lazy summer afternoons, the heavy scent of musk, flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,  fireflies on a cool summer night, being wrapped in fresh bed sheets, the ache of wanting what you can never have, dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite,  soft lips and soft whispers, fingers through hair, names of lovers carved in trees, broken glass,  the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.   crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,  mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,  empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,  bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,  cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,  a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered, the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater, parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing, the contrast of blood against snow,  a purple split lip oozing blood,  black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time, the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.  the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,  decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,  the way not even light can escape a black hole, the rich smell of old books, delicate veins in the wrist, ghosts filling lungs,  shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,  rusting metal, nostalgia that aches,  the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,  pouring rain and mud, a child’s fear of the dark,  thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,  the silence of three a.m.,  ouija boards and urban legends. (WHO WROTE THIS???? HAVE YOU EVER OBSESSIVELY POURED OVER HP LOVECRAFT LIKE I HAVE??? THIS SUCKS!!! THESE ARE NOT HP LOVECRAFT AT ALL WHERE IS THE SECTION ABOUT CLIMBING UP MOUNTAINS TO SUMMON ELDER GODS AND HOWLING AT THE MOON LIKE A MADMAN AND HAVING A WIZARD BEAT YOU TO DEATH IN YOUR OWN HOUSE)

JACK KEROUAC.   the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,  travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,  coffee shops late at night, car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark, naps spent in the sun,  novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins, the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders, ignoring flaws and loving life,  wind through hair,  depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals, a quiet sunrise,  walks alone, when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe, dazzling people, open lands stretching out into infinity, falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.   the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,  hollow bones,  a preserved heart held in hands,  twinkling stars above an old graveyard,  the way everything turns to dust,  silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames,  perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,  death as bricks in the heart,  lips barely brushing against each other, glassy glazed eyes,  biting into a lemon,  heart-shaped bruises,  rotting flowers on a grave,  dried blood and spilled liquor,  the hush of dusk when it begins raining,  the intimacy of a secret.

LITERARY ARCHETYPE MEME tagged by: @ manenimittliv

HOMERIC EPITHET:  You are THE GREAT TELLER OF TALES

The Greek hero Odysseus had many epithets ascribed to him (others included “much-enduring,” “cunning,” and “man of twists and turns”), and this was one of them, so you’re in good company.

FATAL FLAW: YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH THE IDEA OF A PERSON.

And then I deleted the rest of this because it didn’t really apply to him. Oh well

LITERARY SETTING: GATSBY'S MANSION

You got Gatsby’s mansion! This larger-than-life crib is the perfect place for a party animal like yourself. It’s located on the Long Island Sound (ideal for swimming, lounging, obsessively staring across the water with a LaCroix in your hand and unattainable fantasies on your mind, etc.), but it’s also just a train ride away from New York City (city of dreams and $1 pizza). But let’s not forget the best part: it’s got a library that’ll make you wanna grab a fluffy blanket and a chai latte and literally never see the light of day again.

this is a lot of useless information. steal them if youd like

[agntkalashnikov]

SHAKESPEARE  AESTHETICS  .

*  REPOST  ,  DO  NOT  REBLOG .

ROMEO  &.  JULIET .   suburban  july .   scraped  knees .   bruised  knuckles . blood  in  your  teeth . bare  feet  on  hot  concrete .   restlessness .   your  high school’s  empty  parking  lot .   love  poems  in  your  diary . a  window  open  to  coax  in  a  breeze .  burning  inside .  an  ill - fitting  party  dress .   a  t - shirt  you  cut  up  yourself .   the  time  you  tried  to  give  yourself  bangs .   biking  to  your  friends  house .   bubble  gum .   gas  station  ice .  the  feeling  that  you’ve  met  before .  rebellion .   a  car  radio  playing  down  the  street .   cheap  fireworks .  a  heart  drawn  on  the  inside  of  your  wrist  with  a  sharpie . switchblades . red  solo  cups . dancing  in  your  bedroom .  screaming  yourself  hoarse .   running  out  of  options .  the  forlorn - looking  basketball  hoop  at  the  end  of  the  cul - de - sac . climbing  onto  your  roof  at  night  while  your  parents  are  asleep .  flip - flops .   a  eulogy  written  on  loose - leaf .   the  merciless  noontime  sun .

HAMLET . speaking  in  a  whisper .  holding  your  breath .  a  browning  garden .   a  half - remembered  story . furniture  covered  with  sheets .   fog  at  dawn .   mist  at  twilight .  losing  touch .  the  ethereal  space  between  winter  and  spring .  the  soft  skin  at  your  temple . the  crack  in  the  hallway  mirror . things  you’d  say  if  you  knew  the  words . uncombed  hair .   books  with  writing  in  the  margins .   books  with  cracked  spines .  books  with  lines  scratched  out .   prayers  on  all  souls’  day .  a  chipped  ceramic  bathtub .   a  cold  stone  floor .   uncomfortable  awareness  of  your  own  heartbeat . the  sparrow  that  got  in  your  house .   shadows .   the  creek  you  played  in  as  a  child .  a  dirty  night  gown .  a  big  black  t - shirt .   a  collection  of  your  favorite  words .   soil  under  your  nails .  ghost  stories .   the  strangeness  of  your  own  name  in  your  mouth .   deep  silence .   exhaustion .  a  cliff  with  a  long ,  long  drop  down .

TWELFTH  NIGHT .  wicker  deck  furniture .   new  england  summer .   big  dark  sunglasses  and  a  blonde  bob .   a  storm  over  the  ocean .   patio  umbrellas  flapping  in  the  wind .   chlorine  smell .   muffled  laughter .  sarcasm .  starched  cuffs .   day  drinking .   bay  windows .   the  idea  of  love .  love  for  the  idea  of  love .   love  for  love’s  sake .  hangovers .   wandering  over  the  sand  dunes .   a  vagabond  with  a  guitar .   fisherman  with  tattoos .   a  pretty  boy  with  a  slacked  tie . a  lighthouse .   growing  too  close . boat  shoes . feeling  yourself  change . finger  guns .   big , floppy  sunhats .   double - speak .   a  song  you  keep  listening  to .  turning  red  under  their  gaze .  margaritas  drunk  on  an  inflatable  pool  lounger .  string  lights  on  a  balmy  night .  sleepy  june  days .   fights  you’re  unprepared  for .   hope  you  weren’t  expecting . pranks  that  go  too  far .  bad  poetry .  pining . pool  noodles .   becoming  less  of  a  stranger .

MACBETH .  the  space  where  your  grief  used  to  be . a  bird  that’s  lost  an  eye .  old  blood  stains . heavy  blinds .   the  smell  of  sweat .  the  stillness  after  a  battle .  a  fake  smile .  a  curse .  the  taste  of  metal  at  the  back  of  your  tongue .   your  house ,  unfamiliar  in  the  dark .  a  dusty  crib .   a  sulfur  smell . an  orange  pill  bottle . streaks  in  the  sink .   a  black  cocktail  dress .   your  hand  on  the  doorknob ,  shaking . a  chilly  breeze .   crunching  from  the  gravel  driveway  on  a  moonless  night .clenched  hands . a  rusty  swing  set .   a  flashing  digital  clock  stuck  on  12 : 00 .  a  snake  that  crosses  your  path .  an  owl  that  watched  you . a  dog  that  runs  when  you  approach .  red  smoke .   dark  clouds .  cool  steel .   tile  floors .  footsteps  in  the  hallway  late  at  night .  a  baggy  suit  that  used  to  fit  before .   visions .   insomnia  headaches . nursery  rhymes .   being  too  far  in  to  go  back  now .

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING .   the  high  drama  of  small  towns .  a  pickup  truck , military  supply  duffel  bags  in  the  hall , hugs  all  around .  tulip  bulbs .   a  wraparound  porch ,  a  pitcher  of  iced  tea .  barbecue .   a  rubber  halloween  mask .someone  on  your  level . indian summer .   ill - timed  proclamations .  stomach - clenching  laughter .  rushing  in .   not  minding  your  business .   crepe  paper .   white  lies .   secrets  written  down  and  thrown  away .  southern  hospitality .   homemade  curtains  in  the  kitchen . a  sink  full  of  roses .   hiding  in  the  bushes . old  friends .   the  wedding  dress  your  grandma  wore ,  and  her  mama  before  her .  a  dog - eared  rhyming  dictionary .   chamomile  with  honey .  the  intimacy  of  big  parties .   lawn  flamingos .   gossip .   a  crowded  church . friendly  rivalries . unfriendly  rivalries .  shit  getting  real . love  at  five hundredth  sight .   not  realizing  you  have  a  home  until  you’re  there .

KING  LEAR .   cement  block  buildings .  power  lines  that  birds  never  perch  on .   the  end  of  the  world .   useless  words .   rainless  thunder ,  heat  lightning ,  a  too - big  sky . arthritic  knuckles . broken  glass . chalk  cliffs . the  pulsing  red - black  behind  closed  eyes . something  you  learned  too  late . wet  mud  that  sucks  up  your  shoes  while  you  walk .  a  cold  stare .  empty  picture  frames . empty  prayers . the  obscenity  of  seeing  your  parents  cry .   a  treeless  landscape .   bloody  rags . grappling  in  the  dark  with  reaching  hands . the  sharpness  at  the  tips  of  your  teeth .  the  blown - out  windows  of  a  skeletal  house .  decay . jokes  that  aren’t  jokes ,  shutting  up , holding  your  tongue .   prophecies . aching  muscles ,  tired  feet .  stinging  rain .   invoking  the  gods .   worshiping  if  the  gods  are  listening . wondering  if  the  gods  are  dead .  white  noise .   shivers . numbness .  the  unequivocal  feeling  of  ending .

A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT’S  DREAM .  the  smell  of  wet  soil  and  dead  leaves . listening  to  music  on  headphones  with  your  eyes  closed .  wildflowers .   the  distant  sparkle  of  lightning  bugs .   a  pill  somebody  slipped  you .   fear  that  turns  into  excitement , excitement  that  turns  to  frenzy .  mossy  tree  trunks .   a  pair  of  yellow  eyes  in  the  darkness .   night  swimming . moonlight  through  the  leaves . a  bass  beat  in  your  chest .  a  butterfly  landing  on  your  nose .   a  kiss  from  a  stranger .   a  dark  hallow  in  an  old  tree .  glow - in - the - dark  paint .   drinking  on  an  empty  stomach .   a  twig  breaking  behind  you .  spinning  until  you’re  dizzy .   finding  glitter  on  your  body  and  not  remembering  where  it  came  from .   an  overgrown  path  through  the  woods . cool  dew  on  your  skin .  a  dream  that  fades  with  waking .  moths  drawn  to  the  light .   giving  yourself  over ,  completely .   afterglow .   the long ,  loving ,  velvety  night .

tagged by:   @charrte

tagging :  once  again  just  lift  it  from  me  sdfhgj

[vnd---archive-blog]

SHAKESPEARE  AESTHETICS  .

*  REPOST  ,  DO  NOT  REBLOG .

ROMEO  &.  JULIET .   suburban  july .   scraped  knees .   bruised  knuckles . blood  in  your  teeth .  bare  feet  on  hot  concrete .   restlessness .   your  high school’s  empty  parking  lot .   love  poems  in  your  diary .   a  window  open  to  coax  in  a  breeze .   burning  inside .   an  ill - fitting  party  dress .   a  t - shirt  you  cut  up  yourself .   the  time  you  tried  to  give  yourself  bangs .   biking  to  your  friends  house .   bubble  gum .   gas  station  ice .   the  feeling  that  you’ve  met  before . rebellion .   a  car  radio  playing  down  the  street .  cheap  fireworks .   a  heart  drawn  on  the  inside  of  your  wrist  with  a  sharpie . switchblades . red  solo  cups .  dancing  in  your  bedroom .   screaming  yourself  hoarse .   running  out  of  options . the  forlorn - looking  basketball  hoop  at  the  end  of  the  cul - de - sac .   climbing  onto  your  roof  at  night  while  your  parents  are  asleep .  flip - flops .   a  eulogy  written  on  loose - leaf .   the  merciless  noontime  sun .

HAMLET . speaking  in  a  whisper .   holding  your  breath .   a  browning  garden .   a  half - remembered  story .  furniture  covered  with  sheets . fog  at  dawn .   mist  at  twilight .   losing  touch .   the  ethereal  space  between  winter  and  spring . the  soft  skin  at  your  temple .   the  crack  in  the  hallway  mirror .  things  you’d  say  if  you  knew  the  words .   uncombed  hair .   books  with  writing  in  the  margins .   books  with  cracked  spines .  books  with  lines  scratched  out .   prayers  on  all  souls’  day .  a  chipped  ceramic  bathtub .   a  cold  stone  floor .   uncomfortable  awareness  of  your  own  heartbeat .   the  sparrow  that  got  in  your  house .   shadows .   the  creek  you  played  in  as  a  child .   a  dirty  night  gown .   a  big  black  t - shirt .   a  collection  of  your  favorite  words .   soil  under  your  nails .   ghost  stories .   the  strangeness  of  your  own  name  in  your  mouth .   deep  silence .   exhaustion .   a  cliff  with  a  long ,  long  drop  down .

TWELFTH  NIGHT . wicker  deck  furniture .   new  england  summer .   big  dark  sunglasses  and  a  blonde  bob .   a  storm  over  the  ocean .   patio  umbrellas  flapping  in  the  wind .   chlorine  smell .   muffled  laughter .   sarcasm .   starched  cuffs .   day  drinking .   bay  windows .   the  idea  of  love .   love  for  the  idea  of  love .   love  for  love’s  sake .   hangovers .   wandering  over  the  sand  dunes .  a  vagabond  with  a  guitar .   fisherman  with  tattoos .   a  pretty  boy  with  a  slacked  tie .   a  lighthouse .   growing  too  close . boat  shoes .   feeling  yourself  change .  finger  guns .   big , floppy  sunhats .   double - speak .   a  song  you  keep  listening  to . turning  red  under  their  gaze .   margaritas  drunk  on  an  inflatable  pool  lounger .  string  lights  on  a  balmy  night .   sleepy  june  days .   fights  you’re  unprepared  for .   hope  you  weren’t  expecting .   pranks  that  go  too  far . bad  poetry .   pining . pool  noodles .   becoming  less  of  a  stranger .

MACBETH .   the  space  where  your  grief  used  to  be . a  bird  that’s  lost  an  eye .   old  blood  stains .  heavy  blinds .   the  smell  of  sweat .  the  stillness  after  a  battle .  a  fake  smile .   a  curse .   the  taste  of  metal  at  the  back  of  your  tongue .   your  house ,  unfamiliar  in  the  dark .   a  dusty  crib .   a  sulfur  smell .  an  orange  pill  bottle .   streaks  in  the  sink .   a  black  cocktail  dress .   your  hand  on  the  doorknob ,  shaking .  a  chilly  breeze . crunching  from  the  gravel  driveway  on  a  moonless  night . clenched  hands .  a  rusty  swing  set .   a  flashing  digital  clock  stuck  on  12 : 00 .   a  snake  that  crosses  your  path .   an  owl  that  watched  you .   a  dog  that  runs  when  you  approach .   red  smoke .   dark  clouds .   cool  steel .   tile  floors .   footsteps  in  the  hallway  late  at  night .   a  baggy  suit  that  used  to  fit  before .   visions .   insomnia  headaches .   nursery  ryhmes .   being  too  far  in  to  go  back  now .

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING .   the  high  drama  of  small  towns .   a  pickup  truck ,  military  supply  duffel  bags  in  the  hall ,  hugs  all  around .   tulip  bulbs .   a  wraparound  porch ,  a  pitcher  of  iced  tea .  barbecue .   a  rubber  halloween  mask .   someone  on  your  level .   indian summer .   ill - timed  proclamations .   stomach - clenching  laughter .   rushing  in .   not  minding  your  business .   crepe  paper .   white  lies .   secrets  written  down  and  thrown  away .   southern  hospitality .   homemade  curtains  in  the  kitchen .   a  sink  full  of  roses .   hiding  in  the  bushes .   old  friends .   the  wedding  dress  your  grandma  wore ,  and  her  mama  before  her .   a  dog - eared  rhyming  dictonary .   chamomile  with  honey .   the  intimacy  of  big  parties .   lawn  flamingos .   gossip .   a  crowded  church .   friendly  rivalries .   unfriendly  rivalries .   shit  getting  real .   love  at  five hundredth  sight .   not  realizing  you  have  a  home  until  you’re  there .

KING  LEAR .   cement  block  buildings .   power  lines  that  birds  never  perch  on .   the  end  of  the  world .   useless  words .   rainless  thunder ,  heat  lightning ,  a  too - big  sky .   arthritic  knuckles .   broken  glass .  chalk  cliffs .  the  pulsing  red - black  behind  closed  eyes .   something  you  learned  too  late .   wet  mud  that  sucks  up  your  shoes  while  you  walk .   a  cold  stare .   empty  picture  frames . empty  prayers .   the  obscenity  of  seeing  your  parents  cry .   a  treeless  landscape .   bloody  rags . grappling  in  the  dark  with  reaching  hands .   the  sharpness  at  the  tips  of  your  teeth . the  blown - out  windows  of  a  skeletal  house . decay .   jokes  that  aren’t  jokes ,  shutting  up ,  holding  your  tongue .   prophecies .   aching  muscles ,  tired  feet .   stinging  rain .   invoking  the  gods .   worshiping  if  the  gods  are  listening .   wondering  if  the  gods  are  dead .   white  noise .   shivers .   numbness .   the  unequivocal  feeling  of  ending .

A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT’S  DREAM . the  smell  of  wet  soil  and  dead  leaves . listening  to  music  on  headphones  with  your  eyes  closed .   wildflowers .   the  distant  sparkle  of  lightning  bugs .   a  pill  somebody  slipped  you .   fear  that  turns  into  excitement ,  excitement  that  turns  to  frenzy .   mossy  tree  trunks .   a  pair  of  yellow  eyes  in  the  darkness .   night  swimming .   moonlight  through  the  leaves .   a  bass  beat  in  your  chest . a  butterfly  landing  on  your  nose .   a  kiss  from  a  stranger .   a  dark  hallow  in  an  old  tree .   glow - in - the - dark  paint .   drinking  on  an  empty  stomach .   a  twig  breaking  behind  you . spinning  until  you’re  dizzy .   finding  glitter  on  your  body  and  not  remembering  where  it  came  from .   an  overgrown  path  through  the  woods .   cool  dew  on  your  skin .   a  dream  that  fades  with  waking . moths  drawn  to  the  light .   giving  yourself  over ,  completely .   afterglow .   the long ,  loving ,  velvety  night .

TAGGED  BY  :   @tchstone TAGGING :   anyone can steal it just go for it and tag me u wu .

[thewhiterabbit42]

Ground Rules

Part 4  of Home for the Holidays (Masterlist)

Summary:  You finally arrive at your destination where you find the accommodations aren’t quite what you expected.

Pairings: (eventual) Gabriel x Reader

Warnings/tags: Human Gabriel, slow burn, bed sharing, implied PTSD

Word Count: 2180

Author’s Note:  BRING ON THE TROPES.  Also, my muse is really digging the slow burn.  

Special thanks to my wonderful beta @sumara62 for all her help and support <3

***Please do not repost or copy my work to any other site without my written permission.  Giving credit does NOT count.  Reblogging is ok.***

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Gabriel had fallen asleep again, which was honestly for the best.  Your trip had taken longer than anticipated once you got into the heart of the country.  Winding, one-lane roads replaced interstates and highways, making it tough to make good time when you became stuck behind slower cars.  

The route itself became more scenic. The only things you passed anymore were lakes, rivers, trees, and the occasional small town that broke up the stretches of untouched countryside.  Maybe Gabriel would have enjoyed the landscapes, but you had a feeling the monotony would have only made him crawl out of his skin.

You had just passed through the last little pocket of humanity left on your drive when he began to stir.  He ran a hand over his face, his fingers continuing up through his hair. It took some time for gold to shake its glassy look as he scanned the surrounding area.  You wondered if he was going to be one of those slow to wake individuals who needed to ease into their day.

After a few minutes he cleared his throat, his voice a little scratchy.  “Anyone else, and I’d be worried about why we’re headed this far into the woods.”  

He didn’t quite sound like he was joking.  

“I have plenty of places to hide bodies that are much closer to Kansas,” you assured him, trying to keep things light.  He let out a soft snort but left things there, drawn in once more by his thoughts or the scenery. You weren’t sure which anymore.  

It took another fifteen minutes before your turn came into view, and you were glad to see the gates had been left open.  You had debated whether or not to come in through the back, but over the river and through the woods seemed the best way to arrive without drawing attention.  Your current plates were from Arkansas, an unusual state to be visiting up this far. You hoped your friends still kept an extra set of local plates stashed in their barn to help you blend in.

You eased your way onto the long, sloping driveway, taking your time to scout what you could see of the grounds on your way up.  When you crested the hill, the treeline broke and the inn came into view. It looked so different from the last time you were there.  You were used to thick woods, lush lawn, green as far as the eye could see.

Everything had become faded, muted now that autumn’s colorful song had passed, leaving only brittleness and bare branches behind.  A number of tall pines was the only spark of color along with the bright white siding of the structure itself, and you imagined it must be quite the sight to behold in the fall when the leaves turned.  

The snow would come, however, and change the barren view before you.  There was that dry, winter nip in the air that promised soon.  A series of aches flared throughout your body, and you weren’t certain if it was due to just the thought of a winter storm, the result of your long drive, or if it was another set of memories unlocking beneath your skin.  

Nothing good had ever brought you here, yet you felt a sense of calm as you neared the building.  You had spent more time in this place than any other over the last several years. It might have been as close to home as you came.  

“We’re staying here?”  Gabriel asked, wide eyes painting his words with disbelief as he stared up at the structure.

You could only imagine what he expected considering hunting didn’t really go hand in hand with having any tangible resources.  He’d probably envisioned some run down, oversized house that tried to pass as habitable.

Red and Roxy weren’t your average hunters, however, and, in Gabriel’s defense, this place was more impressive than your standard inn.  The architecture was a mixture of a few traditional New England styles with modern additions, and the building itself was a combination of a three-floored original structure and a two story addition that had been added along the side in a way that made the structure appear to wrap around itself.  

The guest rooms were located in the original half, with each room having its own window.  The newer wing was where your friends lived, having renovated it from storage into an apartment so they could live on site.  They also added a wraparound porch that ran along the front entrance facing the east, making it a prime spot to spend the morning.  You could see a few of the chairs still remained, though most had been removed in anticipation of the colder weather.

“Well, I’m staying here,” you teased, inclining your head up at the large, red building you began to pass.  “You’re welcome to sleep in the barn, if you’d like.”

He had no other comments after that.

You parked your car along along the back entryway, content that this side of the property kept your presence shielded from either entrance to the property.  The inside was far different than the exterior. Quiet, dark, and eerie, it looked more like a potential case. It didn’t help that your friends were in the midst of some construction.  

Clean, plastic sheeting hung down across walls and overlaid every doorway you passed.  Most of the furniture had been covered with sheets and the floors removed, leaving thick boards of plywood as the only thing that stood between you and the basement.  You noted that the kitchen, thankfully, appeared fully functional as you passed through the hallway that connected to the main entrance.

You didn’t bother switching on the lights until you reached the front foyer, dispelling the gloomy atmosphere.  The large open area was welcoming, adorned with bright colored wood that gave the room a cozy, rustic feel. The front desk sat off to the side, bare, save for a white envelope with your name across it.  The fact that the script was neat and legible suggested Roxy was the one who had left it.

You picked it up, noting the unusual heaviness to it before you opened the flap.  Inside was an antique key and a note written in the same handwriting.

Sorry about how the place looks - we finally got around to renovating, but needed to take care of a few things before we could finish.  We managed to get one of the rooms completed after you called. Here’s the key. We should be back within a week.

Your brows drew together.  Your friends had no family left (or at least in Red’s case, none that he’d consider family anymore), and since purchasing the inn they made it a point to stay local.  What kind of business could they have that would pull them away for that long?

Help yourself to whatever you need (if you can find it - and if you do, please put it back some place that makes sense since Red’s idea of organization translates to finding the first available place to stash something).  

Your lips pulled up, imagining your friend’s frustration at her other half’s less than stellar ability to keep track of anything that wasn’t anti-angel or barbecue sauce.

Oh and just one more thing - I haven’t gotten a chance to discuss that thing we talked about.  

You frowned.  You didn’t remember any thing, unless...

You know… the large, feathered elephant in the room.  

You knew it.  You knew the moment Red wasn’t there to greet you with a stern nod and Gabriel with a shotgun that she had lost nerve to tell him his mortal enemy would be living under his roof.

You sighed.  What the hell were you supposed to do now?

One cluster at a time.   

You were getting awfully tired of telling yourself that.

We’ll figure it out though, Roxy finished.  We always do.  

Sure you guys did.  Usually after certain words were exchanged, and sometimes certain bullets.  

“Something wrong?” Gabriel asked, his body moving closely behind yours as he peered over your shoulder.  Your instincts flailed as snippets of sensation exploded across your system and--

--white sterile tile, unforgiving fingers digging tight into your skin, your entire body burning, from the harsh antiseptic smell in your nose, to the tears in your eyes, to the heavy rage and betrayal searing through your veins--

--you let out a yelp, clutching the paper to your chest as you spun around.  Hearing his voice was the only thing that kept you from attacking. Mostly. You hit him soundly in the chest, your panic quickly morphing into anger.  

“Yeesh, someone’s jumpy these days.”  The look he gave you contradicted the flippant remark, helping to dampen some of your ire.  

“Of course I’m jumpy, I’m a hunter” you reminded him, hoping to ease some of the worry on his face.  “A very sleep deprived one.”

“Shall we fix that?” He asked.  “Because my next suggestion would be to disarm you if you have other plans.”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.  He still looked more serious than anything, but his words began to shake off some of their stiffness.

“Rule number one: always stay armed,” you instructed.  The only reason you were still alive was because you made sure you had your main weapon, a backup, and a backup for your backup if possible.  

“Hate to break it to you, sweets, but that rule’s been broken from the start,” he replied.  

You blinked once.  Twice. Once more for good measure.  Because it was sure as hell better than unleashing the fury that flowed into your veins.  “They didn’t give you anything?”

“They didn’t even trust me with the toaster,” he said with a bitter smile.

Just when you thought your opinion of the Winchesters couldn’t get any worse.  

You clenched your jaw, hard, probably ensuring that some lucky dentist would be putting their kid through college in the near future.  You reached across your body, unclipping the gun from your side before offering it to him. “Every other bullet in this is a devil’s trap.  You can have it until we get you your own.”

He looked impressed for a moment as he took it from you, testing the weight in his hand before his eyes flicked back up to you.  “What about you?”

You lifted the other side of your shirt to reveal a second weapon.  

“Can’t be too careful these days,” you explained, shifting slightly as that intense look overtook his gaze again. You brushed past him, eager to escape his scrutiny.  “Come on. Let’s go find our room.”  

“Wait - room?” He echoed after a few moments.  You pulled the key out of the envelop and held it up over your head, his footsteps hastily shuffling in your direction.  You braced yourself, waiting for him to make some comment, but he didn’t say another word.

You would have preferred it if he did.  You knew how to handle his jokes; the silence, however, was harder to navigate, especially when there seemed to be so much of it.  

Thankfully your room was one of the first on the second floor, leaving only the short ascent up the main staircase before you found yourself at your door.  You slid the key into the lock, giving it a firm turn before pushing your way in. What you walked into had your eyes growing wide.

The design was a combination of intricate masonry and warm wooden tones.  Unlike the rest of the house, the hardwood flooring was intact, recently replaced but still retaining a rustic, worn look to it.  To the right lay a fireplace and mantel, built from stone and laid into the wall with a small outcropping in front of it, where the spare wood and tools for the fire were stored.  

Both remaining walls had windows, and you realized this was the room that sat in the front corner of the house, giving you the best view of the sunrise and surrounding area.  The incredible scene became lost on you, however, as your eyes remained riveted on the furniture… or lack thereof.

A solitary bed adorned the space, looking out of place with its antique headboard stained several shades darker than the floor and decadent throw pillows and comforter.  You would bet the sheets were just as lavish, and you almost dropped your face into your palm. What were you supposed to do now? There was no way you were going to make him sleep on the floor and your body was in no condition to try and brave it.  

“You know, if you wanted to snuggle, all you had to do was ask,” Gabriel teased, doing his best to give you space as he peered in around the opposite side of the doorframe.  This time there was something beneath his tone, breathing life back into his words and features as he gave you the tiniest smirk.   

“Rule number two:,” you announced, suddenly finding the need to re-prioritize your guidelines. “Keep your hands to yourself…”

Next Chapter>>

ALL the tags: 

@girl-next-door-writes @sumara62 @fand0maniac @feelmyroarrrr @omgreganlove @jannalionheart @baritonechick, @deaths-maiden @lucifer-in-leather @stone-met    @blondecoffeecake  @raspberrypuddle @ourloveisforthelovely @the-moose-of-baskerville @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @crowley-you-sinnamon-roll @tistai @christinalibertymikaelson @room-with-a-cat @authoressskr @revwinchester @flufy07 @greieba

Gabe Squad:

@theblackenedsky @bloodstained-porcelain-doll @pepperwoodatnight @lacqueluster @samikitten @a-vast-african-plain @onlyanothersocialcasualty @kazosa @carryon-wayward-winchester @nobodys-baby-now @dlb1999 @ludwigs-a-monster

Home for the Holidays: @unleashthemidnight @archangelgabriellives @4evergeek @schizonephilim @winchestergirl-13 @keepingcalmisoverratedgoddamnit

[thep0rnfairy]

No Room at the Inn - Day 1

Ugh, I apologize for falling so far behind on getting your Wincest Love Week submission to you but hopefully you’ll enjoy the early s1 setting and the budding angstyness. I have a feeling this is going to be part one of at least three so don’t hate me too much for leaving both you and the boys hanging without much in the way of nsfw content. *winks* Hope you like it!

Sam gasped and reached out to grip whatever he could to keep himself on the front bench of the Impala as the back end skidded for what felt like the millionth time on the icy road. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe slowly in and out as he remembered why he’d gone out west to California to go to school. Snow and ice were not his friends due to far too many winters spent crammed into the back of the Impala praying that they wouldn’t go careening off into the pine tree infested oblivion because of taking a turn just a little too fast.

“Dean, we’ve gotta find a motel, a hotel, a goddamn barn for Christ’s sake,” he grumped. “Anything to get off this damn road before we get ourselves killed.”

“I’ve been trying, Sam, not my fault the last few places were all booked up with stranded travelers,” huffed Dean.

Sam grunted in acknowledgement, his brain reviewing the number of times they’d stopped since they’d left Nazareth and gone chasing after a couple easy cases in New England to try and clear their heads. They’d taken out a vengeful spirit in western Massachusetts a few days back and they had been headed to tackle reports of what sounded like a black dog stalking around in the Adirondacks only to be sidelined by a pre-holiday snow storm. He stared out into the icy darkness until he spotted a white sign up ahead advertising for an inn.

“Turn up ahead.”

“Turn where?”

“Up there, see the sign.”

Sam wound up bracing himself yet again as the Impala’s tires squealed, trying to find enough purchase to make the turn that he’d pointed out. Thankfully Dean seemed to handle the big ass boat of a car far better than their Dad ever had and managed to keep them from sliding into a ditch as they bounced along the slushy dirt and gravel road toward the inn that he’d spotted the sign for. Warm beams of yellow light welcomed them as they approached and though he had a feeling the place would likely max out their latest credit card it would be well worth it to be off the treacherous roads.

“Well, Sammy, let’s see if there’s any room at the inn,” snickered Dean.

Sam scowled weakly at his brother who was grinning from ear to ear as he shut off the car and pushed open the door. He huffed and shook his head as he followed Dean’s lead, noting the holiday wreath hanging on the door and the pine garland bedecked columns as they approached. He kept his head down to hide the way tears stung at the corners of his eyes, thinking back to just a little over a month ago and the life he’d left behind. It was easy to distract himself once they were inside, soaking up the warmth and admiring the woodwork.

“You’re in luck, gentlemen, we happen to have one room left. It’s one of our nicest rooms on the second floor toward the rear so it’s nice and quiet.”

“Perfect, we’ll take it, how much?” inquired Dean.

The choked sound Dean made when the woman quoted him the price had Sam fighting to hide a grin but he knew that Dean would suck it up and take the room at this point rather than risk both their lives out on the road. He crossed back over to stand with his older brother and his brow creased with confusion at the look the woman behind the desk was giving them.

“So? Last minute holiday getaway huh?” she prodded.

“Uh, no…not exactly,” responded Dean.

“Mmmm hmmmm,” she hummed, eying them both. “Well, if you gentlemen need anything at all, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Sam watched his brother take the key to their room in hand and caught it in his own as Dean flipped it his way.

“Go on up and warm up, Sam,” he instructed. “I’ll grab the bags.”

“But…”

He pressed his lips in a flat line as he watched Dean go then turned to the desk clerk who was still smiling at the two of them like they were a pair of puppies or something equally cute. He managed to get directions to the room in question and his jaw dropped as he opened the door to reveal a fireplace, a large wardrobe, and most important of all, one bed. He stood in the doorway, frozen in disbelief as he thought back to the last time he and Dean had shared a bed.

It had been a night in the depths of winter like the one they were escaping by staying at the inn. Dad had stayed late at the bar or so he’d claimed when he’d showed up the next morning. Ice on the power lines had taken out the furnace in the room where he and Dean were staying and the two of them had made a nest for themselves between the blankets from both beds. He’d been about twelve or thirteen at the time and so it’d been awkward when Dean had asked him to strip down in order to better share body heat between the two of them. He’d kept his boxers on but they’d done little to hide what the feeling of Dean’s body spooned up against his back was doing to him. He knew it was wrong, had dug into just where and why and how wrong when he’d gone away to school but that hadn’t kept him from snuggling as close to Dean as he could during the night. His morning wood had given him away and he hadn’t missed the flash of fear in his brother’s eyes when Dean jerked back from him. They’d made a point to avoid sleeping together in any way, shape, or form ever since even when their Dad had taken them camping. Until now.

Sam jerked back to the present when he felt a hand land on his shoulder and found himself looking down rather than up into the bottle green eyes of his big brother.

“Something wrong, Sam?”

He looked from Dean to the room they’d reserved for the night then back at his brother waiting for the bad news to sink in.

“One bed,” he croaked out.

He watched Dean’s face as the problem registered and he half expected his brother to pick back up their bags from the floor and usher him back downstairs to return the key. He swallowed hard as Dean tugged at his lower lip with his teeth consideringly before crossing the threshold into the room.

“Well, explains why the clerk offered me a bottle of some kind of fancy wine on the house when I came back in,” mused Dean.

“She thinks we’re a couple,” sighed Sam.

He ran his fingers back through his moppish hair but didn’t follow Dean into the room just yet.

“Maybe…maybe we should go…”

His whole body ran hot then cold when Dean’s gaze zeroed in on him. He could already feel nervous sweat beading up along the nape of his neck as he fought the urge to hide from his brother. Almost four years of separation had done little to ease the unruly feelings that he’d been harboring for Dean since they’d been teens. Even falling in love with Jessica hadn’t completely replaced his brother in the forefront of his thoughts. He wasn’t sure if he could continue to keep up the charade of the annoying little brother if they were forced to share a bed again.

“No,” huffed Dean. “No, we can make this work. I’m too fuckin’ tired and it’s too dangerous for me to be drivin’ tired with the roads this messed up.”

“How?”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” responded Dean, trading the bags he’d been holding for a pillow from the bed. “We’ve got a fireplace, I’ll be warm enough.”

“And cranky as hell tomorrow morning because the floor’s hard,” countered Sam.

“We’ve got a bathtub don’t we? I’ve made that work before.”

“Dean…”

Sam sighed in defeat as his brain picked apart both of Dean’s solutions to their single bed problem.

“Who says I want the bed anyway?” he huffed.

“Sam…”

“No, really,” continued Sam. “It’s a queen sized bed. My feet will hang off the end. Which means you should take the bed, not me.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ pull that lawyer crap on me,” retorted Dean. “I’m not letting you sleep on the floor or in the tub when there’s a damn good bed right over there.”

“And I’m supposed to let you sleep somewhere else and have to put up with your grumpy ass in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Hell no.” grumbled Sam.

He crossed his arms and stared Dean down, daring his brother to continue arguing with him. He wasn’t about to admit to just how much sharing a bed with Dean terrified him considering the way his whole body was already getting keyed up with arousal just from the idea of it. He wasn’t sure how long they stood staring at each other before Dean finally threw the pillow back on the bed and with a noise of complete frustration, turned away and focused on building a fire in the fireplace rather than Sam. Sam exhaled slowly and grabbed his bag, darting into the bathroom to try and get his runaway emotions back in hand by dousing cold water on his face.

“Stupid, so fuckin’ stupid,” he muttered.

He ran his dripping fingers back through the mess of his hair and hung his head as he tried to think about anything but Dean. He still remembered the way his brother had looked sprawled in bed in just boxers and a t-shirt when he’d come back from the coffee run before they’d taken on the demon on a plane case in Pennsylvania. He’d allowed himself the rare luxury of letting his gaze skim up along Dean’s legs to the firm curve of his ass and the firm spread of his back. It had been sheer dumb luck that the phone call about the case had managed to distract him from having to hide the way his jeans had gotten just a little too tight for comfort when he’d sat down on the opposite bed. He swallowed hard as he reached down to adjust himself, dreading just what awaited him on the other side of the bathroom door.

“You can do this,” he murmured to himself. “You can do…”

The sound of a fist beating on the bathroom door snapped Sam out of his quiet rah-rah moment and had his heart pounding louder than John Bonham on Dean’s Zeppelin mix.

“Hurry up, man! You’re not the only one that needs to pee, y'know,” snarked Dean.

Sam didn’t respond for fear of his voice cracking with the amount of nerves thrumming through his body. Instead he hurriedly finished stripping down to just his tee and boxers before opening the door and quickly brushing past Dean in his eager rush for the toilet.

“Knew you shouldn’t have gotten that 44 ounce at the last fill up,” he muttered under his breath as the door slammed behind Dean.

He detoured over to the fireplace after he’d dropped his bag on the small side table and held out his hands, basking briefly in the warmth to fend off the remaining chill from their drive in. He prayed they wouldn’t wind up stuck here for more than one night but with the weather being what it was they’d still likely be lucky if they made it out come morning.

He eyed the single queen sized bed with dread wishing that at least if they’d had to get stuck with just one that it would’ve been king sized to give them just a little more room. He took in a deep breath and released it slowly, fighting the urge to run far and fast that was painfully familiar as he crossed to the single bed and tugged back the covers. He climbed under the down comforter and practically burrowed into the pillow, cocooning himself in the safety of the bed linens as a way of trying to block out the thoughts racing through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on his breathing, attempting to manage the steady in and out that would hopefully either lead to sleep or at least fool his big brother into thinking he was asleep. He caught the soft creak of the bathroom door opening over the crackle of the fire Dean had lit and followed the track of the soft familiar footfalls as they grew closer to the bed.

“Dammit, Sammy,” muttered Dean.

Sam kept his eyes closed; still trying to feign sleep in the hopes they could get through the night without dealing with the elephant lurking in the room. He waited with baited breath for Dean to turn back the covers and join him and was surprised when he didn’t feel the dip of Dean’s weight settling onto the mattress beside him. Instead, he felt the press of one of Dean’s hands on his side of the mattress and he could almost picture the way Dean was leaning down over him when he felt his brother’s breath.

“I’ve fuckin’ missed you so much,” whispered Dean. “There’s so many things I wanna say but I can’t…I can’t…it’s not…it’s not right.”

Sam felt his breath and heartbeat stutter almost in tandem as Dean’s whispered admissions to what he thought was a fast asleep brother sank into his heart and mind.

’No…no way, he can’t be saying what I think he’s saying,’ he thought.

He fought down a shiver of want as he felt the warmth of Dean’s breath get closer as the mattress sank further beneath his brother’s hand. It took every ounce of self-control for him not to lean into Dean’s touch when he felt the calloused palm of his brother’s other hand come to rest against his cheek and he forced his eyes to stay closed despite how badly he wanted to see Dean’s face. For a moment he thought that would be it, that touching him would be enough to sate whatever it was that Dean was feeling. He found out just how wrong he was when he felt Dean’s breath fan against his lips just before his brother’s lips brushed against his own. Hot, raw desire and want chased the cold sting of fear like a cat and mouse game through his body as he realized that he hadn’t been quite as alone in having feelings for his brother. He swallowed back the fear and allowed his lips to part just slightly to see if Dean would take the bait and go for another kiss.

‘C'mon, c'mon, please, Dean,’ he thought.

“God, Sam,” breathed Dean.

His brother’s words ghosted against his lips just before Dean kissed him again, teasing his tongue along the slight parting of his lips as though trying to coax him into opening further. He allowed his lips to open further, playing right into his brother’s hands and indulging him even though he had a feeling if Dean knew he was really awake that it would all grind to a halt. His fingers tightened their grip on the sheets as he fought the urge to reach out and touch Dean, to bury his hands in the ragged spikes of his hair especially as his brother’s tongue brushed against his own. He tried to fight back a desirous groan only for it to break low and long from the depths of his throat which halted Dean in his tracks. He fought the urge to whimper when he felt his brother retreat and he knew that if there was ever going to be a chance for him to let Dean know how he felt, it was now. He opened his eyes and reached out to pin down the hand that his brother had been pressing into the mattress to keep Dean from running away.

“Stay,” he rasped, “Please stay, Dean.”

To be continued…

Holy shit, nonnie! I LOVE LOVE LOVE this! I can’t wait to see where this is going!

[cassiecantyousee]

All I Really Need to Know I Learned on Summer Staff

If you can believe it, it’s been one month since Irma (it hit Barbuda on September 6th, and officially made landfall in the Keys the morning of September 10th). I’ve been back home for over two weeks, and things are nowhere near back to normal. So here’s another attempt at getting my thoughts down before too much time passes. Also, I spent two summers in college working on the ropes course at Saranac, a Young Life camp in the Adirondacks. That will become important later.

Just a heads up: I’m not going to post a lot of pictures, because I find it sort of weird. I’ll post some of my own house, but I felt uncomfortable sharing other people’s hardship. If you’re curious about the destruction in the Keys, there are a lot of photos and videos posted by or with the permission of the residents themselves. Feel free to do some Google searches, or you can message me privately and I can send you some links. Also, I’ve included some good donation links later, but they are not comprehensive! Feel free to find another organization you care about and donate there (but yes, there is a Mote link in there!). Okay, on with the show:

After quick stops in Orlando (to get my car) and Boca (to sleep!) I drove back into the Keys on the morning of Thursday, September 21st. The Keys had opened to residents on Sunday, and Wednesday had been the last day of the checkpoint so I could just drive right in. That in itself felt weird. It was one of those moments where I had trouble remembering that I am 26 years old and not 10; I kept waiting for someone to come to their senses and send me away. Clearly this unaccompanied child should not be allowed into a disaster zone! How irresponsible! Obviously that didn’t happen, because I AM 26, and a legal resident of the Keys, and therefore totally allowed to be there. So after that brief existential panic, the drive continued.

The first thing I noticed was the foliage: all the leaves were off the trees. It looked like New England in the winter (without the snow, obviously). Since there’s no foliage in the Keys that does this normally, it looked very odd. I could see into neighborhoods off the side of Route 1 that I had never been able to see before. There were also big piles of debris by the side of the road, but these were mostly vegetation. I know some places in Key Largo were hit very hard, and I don’t want to minimize that, but the beginning of the drive looked reasonably okay (part of this was also that Key Largo residents were allowed to return sooner, so they had already done a lot of clean-up).

As I continued south, things started to get worse. Entire trees were down, and more and more of the debris piles were made up of people’s personal belongings. Refrigerators, mattresses, shelves, coffee tables, and everything else were piled by the side of the road. In the upper Keys many of these piles had already started being consolidated, but as I drove they started spreading out. Every home and business had a similar pile, and the piles were often at least a full story tall.

When I hit Marathon, it started getting hard. The upper Keys I essentially just drive through, but Marathon I’ve actually spent a lot of time in. It was also the beginning of the worst of the destruction. Businesses that I’d been to in the past were completely flattened, telephone poles were snapped in half, and many side streets were completely impassable due to debris. But even that wasn’t as bad as when I hit Big Pine Key.

While I don’t live on Big Pine, I’m very close. It’s where I go to church, go to the library, shop for groceries, and pick up Chinese food. Many dear friends live on Big Pine, and it was decimated. There’s so much destruction it’s a bit hard to describe, but believe me when I say it’s hard to see. Entire streets were reduced to piles of rubble. The next few islands (including mine) looked much the same. My usual gas station had been literally knocked over. The entire roof that was over the pumps was bent over and lying on its side. By the time I was turning down my street, I thought there was no way my house could be in as good shape as my roommates said it was. I had seen all these newer, better quality homes completely destroyed, how could ours have survived? So I braced myself as I prepared to see how the Gulf side of Ramrod Key had fared.

As it turns out (and as you probably already saw on Facebook) hurricanes are extremely random and we live in a miracle house on a miracle street. Our house had a roof, all four walls, and had only gotten about a foot of water inside. The Atlantic side of Ramrod (where we used to live!) had seen multiple streets completely flattened. A house two blocks closer to the water than us got an eight-foot storm surge (we know because the owner stayed and took pictures). I think that part of what saved us is an extremely lucky location: between our street and the Gulf is the largest area of preserved hardwood hammock habitat in the Keys (our version of a climax forest), and that absorbed a lot of the surge. But we could just as easily have been hit by the pockets of extreme wind or tornados. We truly got very lucky. And since I didn’t get back until Thursday, I never even had to live without power, AC, and running water.

That being said, there’s a lot of work to do. When I first got back the entire lower Keys had a weird swampy smell from all of the flooding (TCI friends: it smelled like the salinas!). So being outside to do yard work wasn’t super pleasant. And while most of our house has cement walls and tile floors, we have to rip out anything that might be growing mold. This includes any and all drywall up to a certain height, the one room with wood flooring, all of our doors, and most of our living room furniture (those of you who have visited: we saved the tall bar chairs! I was so glad).  The dishwasher, microwave, and washer and dryer all work, but the stove is broken. Also somehow the grill, which was outside the whole time, is fine. Our sheds were largely reduced to kindling, and we lost most of the little fruit trees in our back yard. Personally, I had to throw out my futon mattress (old to begin with) and two empty bookshelves (very cheap from Kmart). So no huge losses there, and all of my actual personal stuff is fine. We’re making a lot of progress, and some wonderful friends have come to help us. I’m learning so many life skills!

But it’s been a couple weeks of this now, and the fatigue is starting to set in. I know people always say this, but it’s really true: surviving a disaster is one thing, recovering afterwards is entirely another. Every time we complete one task, there are suddenly five more that we hadn’t even thought of yet. Have you ever seen that Tom Hanks movie The Money Pit? It’s like that. I don’t think I’ll ever find that movie entertaining again. Our house is livable, but it’s not like it’s back to normal. One bedroom is completely under construction, our counters are still covered with hurricane rations, and we haven’t replaced the doors yet so they keep sliding across the floor in a manner that makes it sound like the house is haunted. Plus, after a few more torrential rainstorms, the roof started leaking. We’re getting one of those blue roofs from the Army Corps of Engineers, but they have a lot of houses to get to (don’t worry, we’ve patched it for now). And since it’s so hard to dispose of waste in the Keys (not a lot of land), there are still piles of debris everywhere. They’re starting to consolidate them, so there are these giant walls made up of essentially people’s entire lives lining the highway. They’re honestly about three stories tall.

The biggest thing though, is that we’re all just so TIRED. It’s hard to go to work all day, where you’re probably cleaning up from the hurricane, to then go back home and have to keep cleaning up from the hurricane until you go to bed. You can’t escape it. I catch myself getting irritable, and fed up, and impatient. You start feeling desperate for just one part of your life to be how it was before the storm, but that’s impossible. It’s not an exaggeration to say that people’s lives will never be the same. Some may argue that it’s just stuff, but that’s not really true. It’s your home. It’s where you made a life, made memories, maybe where you raised your family. For me, it’s the first place that felt like home after I graduated college. It’s been destroyed, and the work it’s going to take to fix it looks endless right now. Your emotional “home base” is gone, which is exhausting enough even before you factor in all the physical labor needed to bring it back. There is no home base anymore; there are only piles of trash and drywall. I just really want to stress how tired we all are, especially because we’re actually doing really well (I promise!). So if those of us who were comparatively lucky feel like this, imagine how everyone else feels. Imagine the tragedy in Puerto Rico. Donald Trump can go suck an egg, everyone is working their butts off.

To finally bring all of this back to the title of the post, I never thought two summers at camp would prove so useful years later. The skills I learned on Summer Staff have been invaluable. After safely seeing hundreds of teenagers through a high ropes course I feel pretty prepared for a variety of disasters. The obvious skills, like experience with landscaping and power tools (#ropescapenance4eva) have obviously been helpful, but also the ability to work long hours, keep a good attitude (hopefully), and work as a team with people I just met. Also, I’m pretty good at cleaning bathrooms. There hasn’t been any call for safe belaying techniques yet, but if that comes up I’ll be ready.

But the most important thing I learned is the result of one specific Bible study. Without getting too theological or technical, we were talking about the importance God gives rest and also about how in the Jewish tradition (so also in the Old Testament) the day starts at sundown. That means the day starts with rest, and ends with work. After some more Biblical digging, we finally crystallized an idea that changed how I think about rest forever: you should rest FOR your work, not FROM your work. In other words: rest first, work later. So often we use our rest time, be it actual sleep or something else, as a time to obsess about the previous day when what we SHOULD be using it for is storing up energy for the tasks that lie ahead tomorrow. Put yesterday behind you, rest up, and move forward. It’s purely a mental game; I’m not saying my sleep pattern changed drastically or something. But this shift in mentality (when I remember it) really helps me not get burnt out. To be honest, I had totally forgotten this little piece of wisdom until I came across a quote I had put in my planner a month earlier. It’s by Robert Louis Stevenson, and he said: “Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds that you plant.” So that’s all I’m really trying to say to my fellow hurricane people. Rest for the work ahead, and don’t worry, you’ve been planting a whole forest. We’ll see it grow eventually.

And there really are a lot of bright spots in all of this. Neighbors helping neighbors and so on. Various Facebook groups have actually done a great job distributing key recovery information, and even in returning personal property to their rightful owners. Despite some sensationalist reports (helped along by some paranoia), we’ve barely seen any looting. Volunteers have been coming down from the mainland, and we were sent so much bottled water and non-perishable food we now have too much. If you want to help, and you’re close, we can always use more work teams. If you want to help, and you’re farther away, find a local organization to support and just send money. They’ll get it to where it needs to go.

And please PLEASE help Puerto Rico. They are in much worse shape than we are, and the government didn’t move to help them nearly as quickly as it moved to help us. They are fellow Americans (which really shouldn’t be the point, but it needs to be said), and they need help. Send some.

Before I go: eternal thanks to everyone who has reached out, offered help, checked up on me, or even just sent me funny YouTube videos. Your support and compassion truly means the world to me. And ESPECIALLY thank you to the friends and family I stayed with throughout this whole ordeal! I will be forever grateful. Rest up, everybody.

[iridulcentdays]

I keep thinking of the line "Raise your glass to Freedom" from Hamilton's "Story of Tonight". Maybe set during the American Revolution, talking about Russia's involvement (or non-involvement as the case may be). Extra challenge might include England, for whatever reason (maybe?).

Hah! Here we finally go! Again, I am avoiding packing because I’m a terrible procrastinator and don’t be like me kids. Also I had a blizzard today. And, here you go. I wrote a few different versions of this but this is the one I love. Hope you like it dear. You always leave such lovely comments, so this is a thank you as well. :)

[RusAme]  With Love, A

Rated T for violence and historical inaccuracies, 4k 

I,

Today I’m working on finding Arthur. I hope I can come home soon. I miss you so much, it hurts. Winter is coming soon, I can already feel it in the air. I know you would say how thin blooded I am, but it’s hard when you don’t have the right shoes. Supplies are scarce here right now, so I can’t even get the right boots. But hey! Perks of being me. Frostbite isn’t permanent.  Anyway, Orion’s high in the sky, and it always makes me think of your eyes. You’ve got starlight trapped in them.

I guess it’s good you’re never going to read this. This is way too sappy.

I hope you’re okay.

Love,

A

                                                         …***…

Alfred sat at the tavern table, finishing his letter before shutting the journal closed. He took a long sip of his beer, and listened to the chatter of the room. It was dark out. The deep maw of night. Alfred watched the British soldiers in the corner and watched the barkeep’s daughter collect glasses. The officers were mostly quiet, chatting to themselves, but Alfred had caught one of them watching the girl far too closely for his liking.

They went an hour later without a problem. Alfred brought his empty glass over to her. Watched her hands shake. “Are you alright?” he asked.

She nodded, a petulant frown on her lips. “They make me so mad,” she muttered. Her eyes flickered to his sling. “How is your arm?”

Alfred shrugged, ignoring the flare of pain. “Better than the horse,” he said with a wry grin. He’d hurt it being thrown from his horse when the animal had been shot by a British soldier. He’d managed to get away, but now found himself trapped in the city, waiting for any of the redcoats to put it together that he was the spy they were looking for. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Good night Elise.”“Good Night, Alfred,” she said and busied herself with cleaning.

Alfred walked the rickety tavern staircase before getting to his room. He unlocked the door with a heavy sigh, tossing his journal to the bed and looked out the window. It was a moonless night. Alfred turned to the room, glancing around before he dropped to his knees and tied a floorboard loose. Silently pulling the wood away, he pulled out his iPhone and wallet, staring at the two anachronistic items. The battery was long dead, but Alfred kept the two items. He ran his thumb along the rounded edge of the phone.

Hoofbeats echoed across cobblestone at a frantic speed. Alfred stood up, items at hand and looked out the dark window. British soldiers were coming towards the inn. Alfred cursed and shoved his stuff into his rucksack, grabbed the journal, and bolted out the door. He made his way to the roof, quietly easing out of a window before making his escape on the closely bundled buildings of the city.

                                                        …***…

I,

Do you remember that time we talked about what a modern miracle sanitization and healthcare had become? I really miss it. I don’t think we really remember how awful smallpox is. Also pain killers. Really miss that. No, don’t worry. I’m not sick or injured. Well, not that bad. Okay, so I’m in the hospital. But don’t worry! It’s not bad. I’ll be out soon.

I miss you.

With love,

A

                                                        …***…

Alfred had been shot through the arm during his escape. The musket ball had lodged into his bicep and had to be surgically removed. The whiskey was hot down his throat as he got ready. It took two men to hold him still–and that was with him holding his strength back. The wound of course became infected. How could it not? Alfred had demanded that the needle be sanitized over the fire, but apparently that wasn’t enough. He spent a week in the basement of a church, caught in fever and wanting to die. Every day they took out the dead and buried them in the churchyard adjacent to them.

The fever broke just as the doctor was deciding to amputate his arm or not. Alfred, stuck in the fever’s grip, couldn’t explain properly that that was a dumb idea because he would heal on his own, just give him time. Luckily he didn’t have to fight off the doctor and his saw and was out three days later with a new pair of used boots from an unlucky soldier who had died the day before.

Alfred looked up into the warm blue sky. He was going to kill Arthur.

                                                        …***…

I,

I’m sorry. I never got to tell you that, did I? I let you hang up angry. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to tell you, but I am sorry. You make me so mad, some days, that I can’t even think straight. And it’s over stupid shit! Things that mean nothing.

It’s been five months. I don’t know if time moves the same for you, but I hope not. You must be worried sick. Are my people okay? Are you okay?

It’ll be over soon. I know where Arthur is. I’ll make him fix this.

I’ve taken to carrying a bow and arrow again. It’s silent and has more fatalities than musket shots. Also I can make the arrows for free, since I learned that as a kid. I’ve been staying in the forest. Foraging is easy right now since it’s mid autumn, but I’m worried about winter. The reds know what I’ve been doing and there’s a bounty on me, so I can’t spend time in the city unless it’s free of the Brits. Of course, since Arthur’s staying with his troops, I have to go into enemy territory.

Do you remember that night we took my truck and drove out into the desert? And watched the stars? I think about that a lot. You fell asleep on me and drooled on my sweater. I teased you about it the next day and you kept turning red.

I’ll be fine. I love you,

A

                                                        …***…

Alfred sat in a tree, watching the underbrush haphazardly as he divided his attention between the ground and his arm. The scar of a musket ball was bright red, puckered and shiny in new healing skin. Alfred sighed and brought his sleeve down. He rested his head against the rough bark of the pine tree he sat in, eyes scanning the gray clouds spreading through the sky. He watched two British soldiers walk through the thicket. Alfred took a sip of water from his canteen. He straddled the branch, took his bow and notched his arrow. A breath. Pulled back. Aimed.

                                                        …***…

I,

Good news, I found out where Arthur is. Took a little digging is all. I know I said I knew where he was, but turns out he decided to head towards New York instead. Doesn’t like what Howes is doing I guess. It’s weird, knowing what’s going to happen, but not knowing at the same time. I keep slipping, saying things I shouldn’t. And I know! I can hear the lecture, but sometimes things get stuck in your vocabulary. Like, ‘best thing since sliced bread’. Guess what. I sound like an idiot. There is no sliced bread. Not for a while, at least.

I think I should of gotten rid of the stuff that came with me, but what if future archeologists find it! Actually, that might be pretty funny. Maybe I should bury it and see if anyone finds it. I won’t get rid of my wallet though. You gave that to me a year ago for Christmas. There’s a photo of us, too. I should burn it. Photos don’t exist yet. But I won’t.

Somedays I think I’m forgetting what you sound like. I sound like an idiot, don’t I? It’s only been 8 months. We used to go years without seeing each other. Do you remember how we would send tape recorders of our voices to each other because international phone calls cost too much? I would give you a monologue for an hour, but when I would get your tape, I would go to my bedroom and lay in my bed and just listen to you. Sometimes I would fall asleep to your voice and dream of you.

It’s the dead of winter right now, so I’m glad you taught me how to make fires with snow damp wood. All ten fingers thank you. I caught a rabbit yesterday and have been eating that. I don’t have enough salt to make it into jerky, but I think I can boil the bones with some dried veggies and sop it up with Jonnycake. I stopped at a farmhouse the other day and the daughter let me stay the night with the horses. She’s the one who gave be the extra food. Guess I won’t have to go on that diet after all, huh?

I’m sorry I’m not home just yet. Keep waiting for me, okay?

I love you so goddamn much.

A

                                                        …***…

Alfred watched the British camp from afar. He was holed up against the tree line, curled up in a deep gray coat. A musket sat in his hands. The fires in the distance smudges the sky and Alfred envied their warmth. He waited for dusk.

In the distance Alfred watched a man on horseback ride past the sentry of the encampment. White tents lined the country side in neat rows. The horse stopped at a large tent near the center and the rider climbed off, heading inside.

Alfred turned to the men hiding in the brush behind him. “Tell the General that Lieutenant Colonel  Williams didn’t come back. He’s off to support Howes.” The men nodded, slipping off into the forest. Alfred turned back to the camp, watching the large tent carefully.

England.

Alfred knew the war was still a point of contention between them. He tried to not bring it up, and he didn’t invite England over when it was near July. Which was a shame, because his country was beautiful in July. Usually he had a big party, and recently Russia would come over and spend a week with him. Alfred loved it. They would go fishing and sailing and eat too many burgers and watch the sky explode in color.

Alfred would always kiss him under the stars. Ivan would always hold him through the night, fingers entangling in his hair, lips brushing against naked skin, whispering his name until the world dissolved into the singularity of them.

It was heaven on earth for one great night.

But this year, something had happened between him and Arthur. Arthur had gotten drunk, Alfred was called to go get him before he did something stupid. France was sick and didn’t want to get out of the hotel bed and get him. So Alfred went, ready to carry the moping nation back to his hotel room. Instead, Alfred got spitfire. Words were said. Regret was instant. Alfred had let go of him in an alley, ready to give Arthur a piece of his mind when the world dissolved into crimson fire.

Alfred awoke in a field, surrounded by blue cornflowers, staring at a pale gray sky. In 1777, as he would later find out.

Alfred shifted his musket, crouching low as he melted back into the shadows of the woods.

                                                        …***…

I,

I’m going to do something stupid.

I’m not perfect. I know I do and say bad things. I hurt you. Sometimes I say things even though I know they’ll hurt you. I don’t deserve you.

But I’m glad you were mine, no matter how short the time.

I’ll rip this page out if I make it, but if I don’t…well.

I love you.

(I wish I had one more day with you)

Love always, 
A

                                                        …***…

Alfred’s hands were tied behind his back, rough rope scraping his wrists raw. He glanced to the other soldier caught. A knife wound over his eye bled onto the rugs of the tent. No one had tried to stop the bleeding. He’d loose the eye, but Alfred felt that they wouldn’t be worrying about that in a few hours.

The officer sat in a chair, reading a document he had taken off the other man. Alfred’s journal lay out on the desk as well. Alfred was glad he had buried his phone and wallet in the woods, just in case. He stared at the journal and back to the officer when he cleared his throat. “These documents clearly mark that you have eschewed your country and spies against England. You have been sentenced to death and will be shot at dawn.” Cold eyes stared down and them unforgivingly and he turned to the soldiers guarding Alfred and his compatriot. “Take them to the prison.”

“Wait,” Alfred said. He looked at the Colonel and added, “I know Arthur Kirkland is here. Tell him you have Alfred F. Jones.”

The Colonel frowned. “He will not grant stay of execution.”

“Sure,” Alfred said. “Just tell him, please. A last request.”

He nodded and then turned, a clear dismissal. Alfred and the other man were forced up and marched out. Alfred glanced back, looking at his journal before he walked out of the tent.

                                                        …***…

He was tied to a pole, kneeling in mud as he waited for dawn. He fell asleep, arms screaming against their bonds.

                                                        …***…

Alfred awoke when a boot kicked his leg. The moon cast a pearly hue to the world and he stared into green eyes, confused.

“You are not Alfred Jones,” came the cold hiss.

Alfred blinked, sleep trapping his tongue. He glanced around, and then back to Arthur’s furious face. “Yeah, I am,” he finally said.

“I know Alfred, he’s a lot younger than you,” Arthur muttered. He crossed his arms.

“in ’27 you gave me a silk rabbit for my birthday. I played with it outside and dropped it in a puddle getting it all muddy. I thought you were going to yell at me so I hid in a cabinet until you found me crying. You cleaned up the toy, dried it by the fire and put me to bed without a single chiding. There’s still a water stain on the left side.” Alfred watched Arthur’s eyes sharpen. “Christmas ’02 I gave you a spoon I carved out of horn. It had a flower cut into it. You said you use it for sugar back home.”

“Why do you know this?”

“Because I’m Alfred,” he said slowly. He hesitated and added, “And I need your help.”

Silence. Then, “Bring him to my tent, but make sure he’s thoroughly restrained. I need to speak with him.”

“Sir–”

“That is an order, lieutenant.” Arthur turned and walked away.

Alfred was released from the pole and roughly hauled to Arthur’s tent.

                                                        …***…

Alfred was sure they weren’t trying to insinuate anything, but he was tied to the foot of Arthur’s bed. He shoved as his body got warm again and looked up when the tent flap opened. Arthur pulled off his gloves, not looking at Alfred and walked further into the interior. He sat at a small chair, looking at the papers littering it. Alfred recognized the documents as the same ones the colonel had looked at earlier. His journal sat on the corner of the table.

“Why are you so much older?” England asked. 

America frowned, trying to decide what to say. He settled on as much truth as he could. England  always seemed to know when he was lying. “This isn’t my time. You cast a spell on me and I woke up 240 years in the past.”

“The past?” England glared at him, clearly not believing him. “What do you mean?”

“We got into a fight and you cast a spell on me. Next thing I know it’s 1777 and I’d really like to go back.”

“A fight?” England stood up and walked so he was standing in front of Alfred. Alfred tilted his jaw up defiantly. “What were we fighting about?”

Alfred hesitated and said slowly, “My attempt at independence.” just saying attempt felt rancid on his tongue, but England’s lips curled in pleasure.

“Ah, so that ends up quelled then?” Alfred said nothing. England continued, a faint smile on his lips. “Of course it will be. Your attempt at rallying your people has been pitiful. You are my colony, and always will be.” Alfred bit down on his tongue. Hard. “I do hope it’s over soon though.”

“Afraid not,” Alfred said dryly.

“Hm. Ah well.” England walked back over to the desk and tapped the journal. He picked it up, thumbing through the entries.

“The spell?” Alfred offered.

England sighed. “I am afraid there’s nothing I can do.” He carded his fingers through his hair, a grimace plain on his face.

“Sure you can. Magic me back.”

“No. It’s not possible.”

“Why not?” Alfred growled.

England sat on the bed, pointing at him with the journal. “Because the spell only works for sending back. You can’t go forward.”

His heartbeat quickened and Alfred’s mouth went dry. “What? Just rewrite the spell or whatever.”

“Clearly in 240 years I never explained magic to you,” England said. He curled his fingers and a soft green light appeared. Alfred stared at it. “I can only follow the old laws. These spells have existed longer than spoken word. I can’t just create one out of thin air.” The light disappeared and England crossed his arms.

Alfred stared down at the ground. He listened to paper rustle and said, “Please don’t read that.”

“Why?”

“They’re letters. To someone back home.”

England stared at him and closed the journal after a long pause. Alfred sagged in relief, and in doing so, found himself touching the sharp head of a nail. He stilled.

“Someone back home?” England repeated in confusion. He looked down to the journal again, flipping through the pages.

“Yeah,” Alfred said. He began to rub the rope against the edge, ignoring when the nail cut his palm instead.

England continued to flip through the pages. “I’m going to send you to England, I think. I can figure out what to do with you after the war. And this way you can’t try to change anything. This little rebellion will still fail.” Alfred sawed through the rope. He tensed his arms, ready to snap what threads were left. “And then we are going to set things right.”

Alfred took a breath and broke the ropes, launching himself at Arthur at the same time. They struggled, and Alfred managed to pin him to the ground despite a jab from his bony elbow that broke his nose. Blood streamed down. “Sorry, Arthur, I really am. We’re pretty good friends again, but Christ you’re a dick this era. And you know what? Little rebellion doesn’t fail. And one of the most popular plays of the time is about this little rebellion, okay?”  Alfred huffed, grabbing his journal and placing into his pocket all of two seconds before Arthur flipped him over, fast like an eel.

“You’ll pay for that, boy.” England snarled, fingers circling his neck. Alfred scrabbled for a weapon. He found a canteen and crashed it against England’s face.

“Cheers, mate.” Alfred said, getting to his feet as England lay dazed on the ground. Alfred took a swig of the water and raised it up. “Raise a glass to freedom,” he half sang and tossed the canteen to the floor as he slipped out of the tent.

Alfred dabbed at the blood on his face and chest, walking between the shadows of the tents as he attempted his escape. When he tripped into the lantern light of the patrol, he knew it was over. The alarm was sounded, and he swerved to avoid a gunshot to the arm.

Instead he got one to the chest. Alfred stumbled, listening to the cacophony of the camp. The exit of the camp was in sight. He was so close. Blood bubbled on his lips and he fell to the wet earth. Alfred took a painful breath in, coughing as his chest seized. He didn’t know what would happen to him. He shouldn’t die, but he wasn’t a personification of this nation. That was for the young boy training in Valley Forge. No, his nation was that shining beacon on a hill, far off in the future. The world was closing in, gray clouding his vision, as England shoved his way to the front.

“Christ,” he said.

“Sorry,” Alfred mumbled. His fingers slipped uselessly on the journal, half pulling it out and staining the edges of the pages red. He looked up at England. “Tell Ivan, sorry.”

He shut his eyes.

                                                        …***…

A car screeched loudly and there was a scream. Alfred coughed again, squeezing his eyes shut against bright light. “ What the fuck?!” A woman screamed. “Call 911!”

                                                        …***…

Alfred awoke to soft beeping and the familiar and bitter smell of antiseptic. He blinked, looking about the room. He was in a hospital. Alfred turned his head, groaning at the slight throb in his chest. Fingers curled around his knee and Alfred jolted.

“Sorry,” he heard. “You surprised me.”

“Arthur?” Alfred asked in confusion. He stared at the other nation who had recoiled from his bedside.

They fell silent, staring at each other before Arthur stood. “I should go get a nurse to let them know you’re all right.” He made no move to leave. Alfred let him stand in silence. Arthur cleared his throat. “I– Apologies Alfred. I know…I know this is my fault. I–”

“Do the others know?” Alfred asked.

“What? No.” Arthur paused, shame creeping up his face. “No. Ivan knows. He banned me from seeing you, but he had to go to the hotel and sleep. So, no. He’s the only one.”

“Then let’s keep this between us. I’m not forgiving you,” Alfred elaborated. He was still pissed this happened in the first place. “But I don’t think anyone else needs to know everything.”

England stared at him in surprise and nodded. “Thank you. I– I should go and, uhm, get the nurse.” He walked out slowly and paused at the door. “I gave Ivan your journal, you know.”

“What?” Alfred stared at him. He rubbed at his neck, the movement sore.

“You gave me the journal before you, well, disappeared. I gave it to him when I realized what had happened.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t kill you.”

“I mailed it to him. I’m not daft enough to be within swinging range.” Alfred chuckled and stopped when the pain flared. England tapped his fingers against the door frame. “I couldn’t watch you get shot twice, you know. That day. I saw you die the first time.”

Alfred looked up. England left.

A nurse came in and examined him and by the time she was done, Alfred was exhausted. He laid down on the bed, looking up when a shadow was casted by the dull orange florescent light. Alfred blinked. Watched as Ivan walked in and quietly closed the door behind him. “Babe,” Alfred breathed.

Ivan crossed the room and stood at Alfred’s bedside. Alfred held his hand out, smiling when Ivan’s cool fingers wrapped around his. His thumb swept over the ridges of his knuckles. “You were gone for 8 and a half months.”

“Damn.” He’d hoped time had moved differently.

Ivan pulled out the journal from his coat pocket and waved it slowly. “The letters helped. I read each entry.”

“Yeah?” Alfred asked, blush warming his cheeks.

“You take too many chances,” Ivan murmured, and leaned down to kiss him. Alfred smiled when they parted and Ivan kissed his hand. “Do not do that.”

“I had to get back.” A loopy smile crested Alfred’s face. “I had someone waiting back home for me.”

“I am glad you are back,” Ivan agreed. He kissed Alfred again, this one slower and more intimate. God he missed him “but do not get shot in the chest again.”

“I’ll try. Not my favorite pastime.”

Ivan gave him a wry grin and sat down. He pulled another book out and placed it on the small table next to the bed.

“What’s that?” Alfred asked.

“My journal.” Ivan turned and looked out the window when Alfred gave him a questioning look. “These are my letters to you.”

“Oh my god you big sap,” Alfred said as his cheeks burned. Ivan looked affronted and Alfred chuckled. “I love you so much.”

Ivan huffed. “I love you.”

“Read me them? My eyes hurt.”

“No.”

“Babe!”

“I am not that big a sap.”

“Aw, come on,” Alfred said. He shut his eyes, squeezing Ivan’s fingers. Ivan huffed, and began to talk. He didn’t read the letters, but told Alfred about everything he’d missed. Alfred fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

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Maple Quotes

Official Website: Maple Quotes

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• A lone maple leaf resting on sand Have you ever been out for a late autumn walk in the closing part of the afternoon, and suddenly looked up to realize that the leaves have practically all gone? And the sun has set and the day gone before you knew it, and with that a cold wind blows across the landscape? That’s retirement. – Stephen Leacock • A river is the most human and companionable of all inanimate things. It has a life, a character, a voice of its own; and it is as full of good fellowship as a sugar maple is of sap. It can talk in various tones, loud or low, and of many subjects grave and gay…. For real company and friendship there is nothing, outside of the animal kingdom, that is comparable to a river. – Henry Van Dyke • A sad sort of vulnerability was wafting from her, making the night smell like maple syrup. – Sarah Addison Allen • A solitary maple on a woodside flames in single scarlet, recalls nothing so much as the daughter of a noble house dressed for a fancy ball, with the whole family gathered around to admire her before she goes. – Henry James • A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn’t it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures? – Ivan Turgenev • After the keen still days of September, the October sun filled the world with mellow warmth…The maple tree in front of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her…In October any wonderful unexpected thing might be possible. – Elizabeth George Speare • Again the blackbirds sings; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers. – John Greenleaf Whittier • And again it snowed, and again the sun came out. In the mornings on the way to the station Franklin counted the new snowmen that had sprung up mysteriously overnight or the old ones that had been stricken with disease and lay cracked apart-a head here, a broken body and three lumps of coal there-and one day he looked up from a piece of snow-colored rice paper and knew he was done. It was as simple as that: you bent over your work night after night, and one day you were done. Snow still lay in dirty streaks on the ground but clusters of yellow-green flowers hung from the sugar maples. – Steven Millhauser • Anne reveled in the world of color about her. “Oh, Marilla,” she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it? Look at these maple branches. Don’t they give you a thrill–several thrills? – Lucy Maud Montgomery • Around in silent grandeur stood The stately children of the wood; Maple and elm and towering pine Mantled in folds of dark woodbine. – Julia Caroline Dorr

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Maple', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_maple').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_maple img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • But truth be told, I’m not as dour-looking as I would like. I’m stuck with this round, sweetie-pie face, tiny heart-shaped lips, the daintiest dimples, and apple cheeks so rosy I appear in a perpetual blush. At five foot four, I barely squeak by average height. And then there’s my voice: straight out of second grade. I come across so young and innocent and harmless that I have been carded for buying maple syrup. Tourists feel more safe approaching me for directions, telemarketers always ask if my mother is home, and waitresses always, always call me ‘Hon. – Sarah Vowell

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• Catch a vista of maples in that long light and you see Autumn glowing through the leaves…. The promise of gold and crimson is there among the branches, though as yet it is achieved on only a stray branch, an impatient limb or an occasional small tree which has not yet learned to time its changes. – Hal Borland • Consider the many special delights a lawn affords: soft mattress for a creeping baby; worm hatchery for a robin; croquet or badminton court; baseball diamond; restful green perspectives leading the eye to a background of flower beds, shrubs, or hedge; green shadows – “This lawn, a carpet all alive/With shadows flung from leaves’ – as changing and as spellbinding as the waves of the sea, whether flecked with sunlight under trees of light foliage, like elm and locust, or deep, dark, solid shade, moving slowly as the tide, under maple and oak. This carpet! – Katharine Sergeant Angell White • Do you think I’m wonderful? she asked him one day as they leaned against the trunk of a petrified maple. No, he said. Why? Because so many girls are wonderful. I imagine hundreds of men have called their loves wonderful today, and it’s only noon. You couldn’t be something that hundreds of others are. – Jonathan Safran Foer • Everyone had a Japanese maple, although after Pearl Harbor most of these were patriotically poisoned, ringbarked and extirpated. – Barry Humphries • For anyone who lives in the oak-and-maple area of New England, there is a perennial temptation to plunge into a purple sea of adjectives about October. – Hal Borland • For hours she had lain in a kind of gentle torpor, not unlike that sweet lassitude which masters one in the hush of a midsummer noon, when the heat seems to have silenced the very birds and insects, and, lying sunk in the tasselled meadow grasses, one looks up through a level roofing of maple-leaves at the vast, shadowless, and unsuggestive blue. – Edith Wharton • For watching sports, I tend to drink Guinness; early evenings always begin well with a Grey Goose and tonic with plenty of lime; and on a cold winters night, theres nothing quite like a glass of Black Maple Hill… an absolute peach of a bourbon. – Martin Bashir • Freezing concentrates sugar (maple sugar), alcohol, and salt solutions as efficiently as heating distils water or alcohol from solutions. Open pans of maple sugar can have the surface ice removed regularly (each day) until a sugar concentrate remains. Salts in water, and alcohol in ferment liquors can be concentrated in the same way. – Bill Mollison • I always feel at home where the sugar maple grows…. glorious in autumn, a fountain of coolness in summer, sugar in its veins, gold in its foliage, warmth in its fibers, and health in it the year round. – John Burroughs • I always go to the lowest common denominator for that ingredient. So if I think squash, I try to think what it means to me — and if it doesn’t mean anything to me, I’m not gonna do well when I cook it. So [squash] means to me: fall, maple syrup, cinnamon, and things just come into your head so you can narrow the vortex and make it a bit smaller and you go with something because there’s no time. – Geoffrey Zakarian • I always have a good quality extra virgin olive oil. A cheap quality oil will end up cheapening your dishes. And I love sweetening my dishes with maple syrup. It has a bit of a bitter kick at the end that works wonderfully in savory dishes. – Nadia Giosia • I am passionate about tea, running, the idea that we are bound only by the limits of our imaginations, and maple syrup. – Misha Collins • I ate breakfast in the kitchen by candle-light, and then drove the five miles to the station through the most glorious October colouring. The sun came up on the way, and the swamp maples and dogwood glowed crimson and orange and the stone walls and cornfields sparkled with hoar frost; the air was keen and clear and full of promise. I knew something was going to happen. – Jean Webster • I drink maple syrup. Then I’m hyper so I just run around like crazy and work it all off. – Rachel McAdams • I grew up trying to play for the Toronto Maple Leafs, not Team Canada. Didn’t even know it existed. – Adam Oates • I happen to know everything there is to know about maple syrup! I love maple syrup. I love maple syrup on pancakes. I love it on pizza. And I take maple syrup and put a little bit in my hair when I’ve had a rough week. What do you think holds it up, slick? – Vince Vaughn • I have a maple leaf tattoo over my heart, quite literally, and my two favorite things on Earth are being in Canada and making movies. – Jay Baruchel • I like Toronto a lot, it’s a good city. The only thing that really annoys me about Toronto is that you’re turning Maple Leaf Gardens into a grocery store, which is absolutely nothing short of disgusting. – Rick Wakeman • I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, the air gold and so clean it quivers. – Leif Enger • I sit where the leaves of the maple and the gnarled and knotted gum are circling and drifting around me. – Alice Cary • I think maybe, if I could be a Canadian super hero, I’d have some kind of freezing power and some sort of maple syrup weapon. Could be a little sticky. – Nathan Fillion • I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple. – Janet Fitch • I used to go to Maple Leafs games all the time when Nic shot To Die For here in Toronto. This is a great city. I love it here. – Tom Cruise • I was cutting and threading pipe in the tunnels to get water into the shower rooms for athletics. I was repairing old metal windows, fixing cement walls where rain was coming through, and drying out the maple gym floors in hopes of removing the warping. – Tom Baker • I was just getting acquainted with the wood. I wanted to see if it was maple or pine. – Kurt Rambis • If it’s not 100 per cent pure maple syrup, it can’t be called ‘pure maple syrup. – Nancy Greene • If you’ve only got one day to live, come see the Toronto Maple Leafs. It’ll seem like forever. – Pat LaFontaine • I’m not from a maple producing area and so my maple syrup credentials are very much of the eating side. – Nancy Greene • I’m very proud to be wearing the “C” for the Maple Leafs. It puts a smile on my face everyday – Mats Sundin • In New York and New England the sap starts up in the sugar maple the very day the bluebird arrives, and sugar-making begins forthwith. The bird is generally a mere disembodied voice; a rumor in the air for two or three days before it takes visible shape before you. – John Burroughs • In spring when maple buds are red, We turn the clock an hour ahead; Which means, each April that arrives, We lose an hour out of our lives.

Who cares? When autumn birds in flocks Fly southward, back we turn the clocks, And so regain a lovely thing That missing hour we lost in spring. – Phyllis McGinley • In the long dusks of summer we walked the suburban streets through scents of maple and cut grass, waiting for something to happen. – Steven Millhauser • It is a poor observance of our first century as a nation if we run up a flag of surrender with three dying maple leaves on it. – Charlotte Whitton • It is a vast wilderness of rocks in a sea of light, colored and glowing like oak and maple in autumn, when the sun gold is richest – John Muir • Leaf fans loyalty is unshakeable. The fans keep coming back and it hurts, I have been there. I have lost in game six to go to the finals with the Maple Leafs, against Carolina and what a great final that would have been. – Curtis Joseph • Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer. – Sara Teasdale • Many of the artifacts of my house had become potential devices for my own destruction: the attic rafters (and an outside maple or two) a means to hang myself, the garage a place to inhale carbon monoxide, the bathtub a vessel to receive the flow from my opened arteries. The kitchen knives in their drawers had but one purpose for me. – William Styron • Maples are such sociable trees … They’re always rustling and whispering to you. – Lucy Maud Montgomery • Maple-trees are the cows of trees (spring-milked). – Henry Ward Beecher • Much can they praise the trees so straight and high, The sailing pine,the cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry, The builder oak, sole king of forests all, The aspin good for staves, the cypress funeral, The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors And poets sage, the fir that weepest still, The yew obedient to the bender’s will, The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill, The myrrh sweet-bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill, The fruitful olive, and the platane round, The carver holm, the maple seldom inward sound. – Edmund Spenser • My end goal in the piano is to play Scott Joplin’s ‘Maple Leaf Rag. – Miranda Leek • My first semester I had only nine students. Hoping they might view me as professional and well prepared, I arrived bearing name tags fashioned in the shape of maple leaves. – David Sedaris • My love of maple syrup. I’ve been known to knock back a can over a couple days: A swig here, a swig there, and next thing you know it’s gone. It’s a habit I have to stave off. I don’t want to lose all my teeth. – Rufus Wainwright • My uncle, Mr. Stephen Maple, had been at the same time the most successful and the least respectable of our family, so that we hardly knew whether to take credit for his wealth or to feel ashamed of his position. – Arthur Conan Doyle • No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam? At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me. Ho! hillyho! heigh O! Hillyho! In the clear October morning. – Edmund Clarence Stedman • October turned my maple’s leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers: Soon these will slip from the twigs’ weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser’s fingers. – Thomas Bailey Aldrich • Oh! to be a child again. My only treasures, bits of shell and stone and glass. To love nothing but maple sugar. To fear nothing but a big dog. To go to sleep without dreading the morrow. To wake up with a shout. Not to have seen a dead face. Not to dread a living one. To be able to believe. – Fanny Fern • One day the ‘Maple Leaf’ will make me King of Ragtime Composers. – Scott Joplin • Our lives are like islands in the sea, or like trees in the forest. The maple and the pine may whisper to each other with their leaves … But the trees also commingle their roots in the darkness underground, and the islands also hang together through the ocean’s bottom. – William James • Spring has many American faces. There are cities where it will come and go in a day and counties where it hangs around and never quite gets there. Summer is drawn blinds in Louisiana, long winds in Wyoming, shade of elms and maples in New England. – Archibald MacLeish • That`s a maple leaf, Canadian, not just for being too European but too Canadian. Not so subtly putting [Ted] Cruz`s face inside that maple leaf there. – Chris Hayes • The approach to that movie wasn’t, ‘Lets make this movie about Amsterdam and maple syrup.’ The concept was, ‘Lets go to Amsterdam. Amsterdam is fun.’ So we flew to Amsterdam with our cameras and we saw what happened and then we got back and we sat down and we said, ‘What’s the movie here.’ That’s when we realized that the movie was ‘The Maple Syrup Saga’. – Casey Neistat • The ash her purple drops forgivingly And sadly, breaking not the general hush; The maple swamps glow like a sunset sea, Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; All round the wood’s edge creeps the skirting blaze, Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush. – James Russell Lowell • The food that’s never let me down in life is porridge, especially with milk and maple syrup, which is delicious. Paris isn’t a porridge place, but I can buy it in London when I’m there and bring it back with me. – Marianne Faithfull • The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit’s one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself like a once-blind man unbound. The gaps are the clefts in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fiords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock-more than a maple-universe. – Annie Dillard • The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry’s cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I’ll put a trinket on. – Emily Dickinson • The rinsed foam swirled into one drain that always clogged come October when the maples dropped Canadian propaganda over everything. – Daniel Handler • The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. – Bliss Carman • The spirit of the year, like bacchant crowned, With lighted torch goes careless on his way; And soon bursts into flame the maple’s spray, And vines are running fire along the ground. – Edith M. Thomas • The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown. – John Updike • The sugar maple is remarkable for its clean ankle. The groves of these trees looked like vast forest sheds, their branches stopping short at a uniform height, four or five feet from the ground, like eaves, as if they had been trimmed by art, so that you could look under and through the whole grove with its leafy canopy, as under a tent whose curtain is raised. – Henry David Thoreau • The summer ends and we wonder who we are And there you go, my friends, with your boxes in your car And today I passed the high school, the river, the maple tree I passed the farms that made it Through the last days of the century And I knew that I was going to learn again Again, in this less hazy light I saw the fields beyond the fields The fields beyond the field – Dar Williams • The very uprightness of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude and vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a background, where the pine flourishes and the jay still screams. – Henry David Thoreau • The wilderness is near as well as dear to every man. Even the oldest villages are indebted to the border of wild wood which surrounds them, more than to the gardens of men. There is something indescribably inspiriting and beautiful in the aspect of the forest skirting and occasionally jutting into the midst of new towns, which, like the sand-heaps of fresh fox-burrows, have sprung up in their midst. The very uprightness of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude and vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a background, where the pine flourishes and the jay still screams. – Henry David Thoreau • The woman is not just a pleasure, nor even a problem. She is a meniscus that allows the absolute to have a shape, that lets him skate however briefly on the mystery, her presence luminous on the ordinary and the grand. Like the odor at night in Pittsburgh’s empty streets after summer rain on maples and sycamore. – Jack Gilbert • The world of life, of spontaneity, the world of dawn and sunset and starlight, the world of soil and sunshine, of meadow and woodland, of hickory and oak and maple and hemlock and pineland forests, of wildlife dwelling around us, of the river and its wellbeing–all of this [is] the integral community in which we live. – Thomas Berry • There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow • There were so many miracles at work: that a blossom might become a peach, that a bee could make honey in its thorax, that rain might someday fall. I thought then about the seasons changing, and in the gray of night I could almost will myself to see the azure sky, the gold of the maple leaves, the crimson of the ripe apples, the hoarfrost on the grass. – Jane Hamilton • There’s nothing people like better than being asked an easy question. For some reason, we’re flattered when a stranger asks us where Maple Street is in our hometown and we can tell him. – Andy Rooney • This fastest of all games [hockey] has become almost as much of a national svmbol as the maple leaf. – Lester B. Pearson • This hill crossed with broken pines and maples lumpy with the burial mounds of uprooted hemlocks (hurricane of ’38) out of their rotting hearts generations rise trying once more to become the forest just beyond them tall enough to be called trees in their youth like aspen a bouquet of young beech is gathered they still wear last summer’s leaves the lightest brown almost translucent how their stubbornness has decorated the winter woods. – Grace Paley • To her bier Comes the year Not with weeping and distress, as mortals do, But, to guide her way to it, All the trees have torches lit; Blazing red the maples shine the woodlands through. – Lucy Larcom • We don’t want you convicted for condiment theft. You go to that prison, you’ll meet big-time operators. Maple syrup stealers. – Deb Caletti • We must keep these waters for wild rice, these trees for maple syrup, our lakes for fish, and our land and aquifers for all of our relatives – whether they have fins, roots, wings, or paws. – Winona LaDuke • We would much prefer to see ownership in the hands of the Maple Group, if only because we would much rather see Canadian ownership of our stock exchange. What we are first of all interested in is making sure that Montreal is able to preserve that niche or expertise. – Jean Charest • When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing’d insects of the sky. – William C. Bryant • When you were a kid, if you went to the Montreal Forum or a hockey game at Maple Leaf Gardens, which I did, there was a great feeling. The new stadiums don’t have it. Why don’t they have it? Building codes. – Frank Gehry • With the fans and the Toronto Maple Leafs organization, the way I’ve been treated here has been awesome. – Mats Sundin • Writing an informative yet compact thriller is a lot like making maple sugar candy. You have to tap hundreds of trees – boil vats and vats of raw sap – evaporate the water – and keep boiling until you’ve distilled a tiny nugget that encapsulates the essence. – Dan Brown • You cannot imprison me!” He bellowed. “I am Hyperion! I am-” The bark closed over his face. Grover took his pipes from his mouth. “You are a very nice maple tree. – Rick Riordan

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