#why did I gain almost thirty pounds this winter?

[malwarewolf404]

I had dieting fads and lately I got to thinking I should try limiting my portions to around the size of two baseballs (because I heard somewhere that’s generally how big a meal should be???) and while I want to say its been making me more mindful of how much I usually eat, I’m just hungry. I’m so hungry. And now Idk if I can eat a meal without feeling like a fatass.

[chubbology]

The Right Path

prompt: just wholesome and sweet wg

Jay knew he wasn’t the most remarkable guy. He’d never gotten the best grades in school; he’d never been great at sports. His hobbies were humble things like reading science fiction and playing fantasy games and going on walks late at night.

Moving back to his hometown after his college graduation, he struggled to find work. He ended up doing sedentary graveyard shifts that allowed him to eat on the job, and as a result, he gained almost forty pounds, becoming chubby for the first time in his life. It bothered him, getting too thick for his clothes. Working at a job he didn’t like. Being alone most of the time.

He felt sorry for himself, but he didn’t complain to his friends online; he just hoped, as he ate fast food on the way home again, that things would get better soon.

Of all places, he met them at a bookstore. Their name was Devon, and they dressed androgynous and plain, although their personality was like sunshine. Jay, an unconfessed romantic, just smiled wistfully as Devon told him a dozen reasons why the book Jay just picked up was the best he’d read in years. Devon, while not especially short, was lithe and cute, and - it was too nerve-wracking for Jay to ask for their number, even if only to keep in contact with a potential new friend. Instead, he thanked Devon and bought the book and got a milkshake on the way back, damning himself for being such a coward.

Later at home, he snacked on too many chips, then made himself a microwave mac and cheese dinner. He unbuttoned and unzipped his painfully tight jeans as he ate; he would have changed clothes first, but sometimes the anticipation of eating overwhelmed all thoughts in his mind. Including thoughts about Devon, thankfully. Forgetting he’d had a milkshake already, Jay found a bag of Halloween candy in the back of his pantry and started to work his way through it, right there in the kitchen. He ate chocolate after caramel chocolate with a one-track mind: to eat away his thoughts. It mostly worked, although sometimes he had to eat two or three at once. His shirt rode up a little, and he touched his distended belly. Even when the bag was empty, he craved more. His hands itched to eat. His tongue yearned to taste. Even with his button and fly undone, his jeans squeezed him.

The next time Jay saw Devon at the bookstore, he was another thirty pounds heavier. His hips and belly spilled over his waistband, stretching his t-shirt. His thighs naturally pressed together and his butt protruded quite a bit. He felt as overweight as he looked - even more so upon seeing that Devon looked as thin as ever.

Yet, despite Jay’s insecurities, Devon was the one who seemed shy as they talked, discussing books, then games. They migrated to the sitting area of the bookstore and Jay had to tug down his shirt a few times. His butt didn’t really fit in the narrow armchair, and his thighs warmed up quickly with his belly resting atop them. Jay worried that his moobs - which had grown particularly chubby in the last couple weeks - might be off-putting, but Devon kept talking with him like there was nothing more he wanted to do.

Even though Jay had already made up his mind to ask for Devon’s number this time, it was Devon who asked. So Jay, flustered as he was, gave it to him and tried his luck by asking them if they wanted to get something to eat. Devon agreed. Even better, Devon didn’t pick some health-food place, but claimed to be as ravenous as him. So they ordered two pizzas for delivery back at Jay’s apartment.

Jay nervously ate his whole pizza that night, then most of Devon’s - but only because Devon insisted. When Jay made one little self-deprecating comment about always eating too much, Devon said nonchalantly, “I say go for it. People should eat as much as they want. In my opinion, it’s not a bad thing to gain weight.”

Jay was so stunned he couldn’t even reply. They enjoyed the rest of the evening, talking and gaming and, in Jay’s case, snacking again later. Jay suspected this was the beginning of something.

They hung out more. And more. Soon they had their first kiss and started going out officially. As Jay got comfortable with having Devon around, he got comfortable with eating more often around him, too. As a result, Devon got comfortable with offering him food, bringing him food, encouraging him to eat more, to eat again - sometimes even talking Jay into eating when he wasn’t hungry. Jay wasn’t oblivious to what it all meant about Devon’s preferences, but he didn’t have the guts to confront them about it. Plus, he was happy to not hold back, and his cravings for sweets and snacks had only become more intense.

Jay never denied Devon anything, and so he outgrew his clothes again.

This time, though, Jay found he didn’t mind. Devon praised his body constantly, and only encouraged his hearty diet. Eventually the two of them did have a conversation about Devon enjoying feeding him, and of Jay enjoying being fed, and Jay got bigger from multiple stuffings throughout the weeks, he got happier, too. Even when he eventually got so heavy that waddling and panting became a way of life, he was no less happy: he and Devon laughed at diet commercials, learned to bake together, had sex after Jay got stuck in the closet doorway. In a deep, visceral way, the two of them revered the experience of Jay letting himself go completely.

For the first time in a long time, Jay felt truly accepted and loved, and as the months and years passed, he found a better job and left his old one. He didn’t ignore his family and online friends so much. He stopped with the sad internal monologues about the trajectory of his life and started telling himself that he was on the right path. Because he was. Regardless of any high weight or low income, if he was supported, and supported himself: he would do well in his life.

“Wow,” Devon said one Saturday morning, as Jay put away his fourth stack of pancakes. “You’re amazing.”

They were enjoying a big breakfast and the warm, springtime weather out on the patio of their new apartment. They’d both gained significant weight over the winter, but while Devon was only just entering chubby territory, Jay had to spread his legs to allow his belly to hang between them. His second chin sat out fat and permanent. Jay felt like a new person. Someone who didn’t try so hard to conform. Someone he honestly liked.

“I know,” Jay shrugged, smiling as he took another bite.

---

Thank you to the reader who commissioned this work!

I'd love to write more. Check me out <3 etsy.com/shop/Chubbology

[paullicino]

Ten Years

Taken from my Patreon.

Ten years is a long time. It’s long enough for many things to change, but also long enough for everything to remain the same.

I remember ten years ago as if it were yesterday, as if it passed by in the blink of an eye, with light and shadow, textures and taste all as familiar as ever.

A morning after. Shocked faces. A phone call. Events barely believable, yet all too real.

Ten years ago, my then partner and I were living in a top floor flat off Tottenham High Road. It was sweltering in the summer and the downstairs neighbours played dance music at four in the morning. But the views out the back bedroom window were of valleys of rooftops, sprouting television aerials and summited in the winter by the briefest dustings of snow.

The sun was for the front of the flat. The moon shone into our bedroom.

I remember that sunlight in the afternoon, sparkling through the shifting foliage of the tall trees outside. And I remember summer most of all. August.

We had a tap. A faucet. A great, overwrought thing that our landlady was obsessed with. It was the best tap ever, she said. It was large, curved and heavy, the pharaonic headdress worn atop a newly-fitted kitchen of which she was so proud. Wasn’t it exciting that we had such a good tap?

We just wanted our bed repaired. Our home wasn’t finished when we moved in and we slept on the sofa for weeks. When the mighty tap was finally installed, it was too heavy for its fitting. It teetered. Along with poorly-mounted cupboard doors with handles that prevented other cupboards from opening, its practicality was an afterthought.

The walk up Tottenham High Road took me to the only two locations I ever really visited, the supermarket and the job centre. The supermarket provided us with affordable food (though I’d watched the price of many staples almost double over five years) and the job centre provided me, an unemployed person, the money with which to buy that food.

The job centre, which was now extra special and had been rebranded Job Centre Plus, did not provide anyone the means with which they could get a job. It spent almost all of its time providing people with unemployment benefits. Most of the thousands of Tottenham residents who poured through its doors would’ve taken a job if they could’ve found one, but the listings at the centre itself were usually out of date, irrelevant or in some other way misfiled. Most employers don’t want to list their vacancies at the Job Centre Plus because they don’t want to employ the kind of people who go there.

Out of the Job Centre Plus and the supermarket, which one do you think burned that August?

I have written before about my strongest memory of the Job Centre Plus, but here it is again. It was of an old foreign woman and her daughter trying to speak to a clerk. The old woman didn’t speak English, so her daughter was attempting to explain that the woman was looking for work and thus registering as unemployed to gain unemployment benefit. The clerk was trying to explain that the woman was too old to work and should also be on disability benefit. The daughter was trying to explain that they had tried to navigate those systems and that they were obtuse and broken. Her mother just needed money. To live.

(Ten years before, in the summer of 2001, I’d first looked at the cost of moving out. I looked at rents around my Hampshire town, at the cost of housing and at the wages I needed to earn. England was expensive, I decided. It sure cost a lot just to live.)

Everyone was trying to explain everything. The job centre mostly wanted to give people their money and get rid of them, because there were many more lined up behind.

My strongest memory of the supermarket was of the man outside with no legs. He sat there panhandling in his wheelchair almost every day of the year. Britain had just launched its latest Astute-class nuclear submarine, each of which costs over one and a half billion pounds, but it was still a country where a man with no legs had to beg outside a shop.

I thought about that man long after I left Tottenham. I think about him here, now, ten years on.

My partner went abroad to see family and I spent some of the summer restarting my career as a freelance writer. I was fortunate with the connections and opportunities that I had, none of which would ever be found at a job centre, and I spent a lot of my time writing either to find work or simply for practice. I was writing on the night my street burned.

It began before dusk and I came home to find enormous police vehicles parked outside, the sort that are mobile command headquarters. Chains of armoured riot vans surged north. I heard there’d been a protest outside the police station and that a car or two had been burned. I checked the news occasionally. It didn’t have much to add.

Police vans kept coming, though all other traffic had stopped. The roads were closed, blocked by the police, and the latest news told me that petrol bombs had been thrown and a bus set alight. The reports were sparse.

The police in England are really good at responding to riots. They turn up in great swathes, on horses, in vans, or on foot and armed with batons and shields. They have all kinds of exciting equipment to help them. A year before, they’d kettled schoolchildren protesting the huge increase in university tuition fees, surrounding and slowly crushing hundreds of them in Trafalgar Square and on Westminster Bridge. Footage emerged of them beating the shit out of kids or dragging people out of wheelchairs. Here they were now in Tottenham, ready for more.

I kept trying to find news. The police had cordoned off most of the High Road, which meant the journalists that were arriving had no ability to find what was happening inside the riot. Distant footage of fires was the best most of them could provide. As I remember it now, the BBC had one van inside of the police cordon and couldn’t broadcast out because its dish had been damaged. I also have memories of a single journalist, almost in the thick of a mob, asking rioters to give them a moment to explain why they were protesting, or wondering why on earth they might want to block a BBC camera crew who were trying to film them.

What an inane question.

I found the news I wanted. I found it via Twitter and social media. And it was terrifying.

Broadcast news had described a riot not unlike any other. But the still relatively new sphere of social media was overflowing with witness statements, photographs and the kind of low-quality video that phones captured back then. People across Tottenham were panicking as they described growing crowds on the High Road burning not only vehicles, but also shops and businesses. They were breaking into commercial properties. They were looting. They were starting more fires. This had begun half a mile away from my home and it was spreading outward. The post office burned. Landmark businesses burned. Local shops burned and, with them, the flats and homes located above.

The updates kept coming and it’s almost impossible for me now to try to describe to you not only the sheer volume of panic and distress that waterfalled down my feed, but also the sense of utter hopelessness that came with it. People beyond the High Road described not just the violence spilling into their streets, the fights and the hundreds of looters, the fires and the damage, but also how there was no one who could stop this. No emergency services responded. Their phones went unanswered or the lines were jammed.

I read update after update that echoed the same, basic fact, something which I still struggle to comprehend even now, something I’d describe as barely believable: No help was coming.

But the social media updates kept coming. Looters were turning up with empty vans and loading them up with everything they could take. Buildings were being destroyed. A whole estate was being evacuated.

The news provided by the BBC and its peers remained limp and languid, so I spent all night reading these updates, discovering more nearby shops were being gutted, or how the retail park near me was looted to the point of emptiness, and I watched as even my own view out the window became broiling crowds of countless restless and angry people. I remember one man walking off into the darkness with brand new flatscreen televisions under each arm, the police vans now long gone. The night was regularly punctuated by shouts, screams, thumps and sometimes what might have been explosions. The sirens were always distant. The helicopters came and went.

I don’t know where the police cordon had gone. It felt almost as if they had given up and let Tottenham run rampant.

The sun came up and from that back bedroom window I saw smoke rising. I hadn’t slept. The news was full of irrelevant speculation and so, at five-thirty, I put on my shoes and walked the High Road. What I saw was barely believable. Sometimes I met the stunned gazes of other people doing the same, sometimes I avoided any eye contact. I have kept a diary for a long time now and this is what I recorded (slightly edited):

“This morning at about 5:30, as the sun rose, I tried to wander through Tottenham to take some pictures. It became one of the scariest walks I've ever taken.

The atmosphere was tense and unpleasant. Columns of smoke snaked upwards and the High Road and several other streets were blocked off or packed with police vehicles, many more of which were endlessly arriving, some from as far away as Kent.

The nearby retail park was littered with debris and many of its shopfronts were smashed. Groups of people, perhaps gangs, loitered everywhere. While some areas were busy with police officers, others were neglected and patrolled by hostile looking young men.

I didn't end up taking many pictures. I kept moving. Depending upon where you walk, Tottenham looks like a cross between a blitz bomb site and the mess after a chaotic festival.

Something still feels very different. Tottenham has hardly been rosy at the best of times, but today the sunshine can't seem to dispel a strange chill in the air. I myself can't stop thinking of all the homes that burned last night. It might not be immediately obvious to many people, but above a great deal of those shops set ablaze were flats, often family homes for very poor people. Many of those who had little now have less.”

A day after those first riots hit Tottenham, they went nationwide. London wasn’t done and, for a week, many major cities in England played host to their own riots. Tottenham was totally locked down, but it was far too late. The disorder had moved elsewhere.

I remember telling a colleague I worked with that I wouldn’t be finishing something that weekend. He laughed at the news and imagined it would all blow over. He was from a much wealthier background.

Then, everyone started trying to explain everything.

The BBC caught up with events the way a great-grandparent catches up with technology, fumbling and frowning. Goodness me, they said, in their middle class, broadcast-trained voices, and they joined in with the three broad lines of discussion that emerged. One asked how this could happen, one asked why this had happened, and one was about how this would never happen again, because the law would be firmer than ever, the punishments and prosecutions authoritative and absolute. The police were ready for more. They were going to get water cannons. I imagine those work particularly well on kids and wheelchairs.

There was a lot of talk about punishment, including from the Prime Minister, who decided to stop being on holiday in Tuscany only after England’s third night of rioting. I wonder if he had imagined it would all blow over.

Sometimes there was talk involving the people of Tottenham themselves, but it was more likely to be talk about them. A lot of people in Tottenham are Black and have families that trace back to the very first Windrush immigrants of the late 1940s. One Black Labour MP said it was important to talk about their experiences in London, their economic situation and their history of treatment by the police. After all, the spark that had set these riots alight was a protest outside the police headquarters, subsequent to the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, a Black man, something that called to mind a similarly suspicious death of a Black woman that also precipitated Tottenham’s 1985 riots.

For some people, the discussion became about how Black people had started the riots and been the chief participants. This wasn’t reflected in anything I saw either on social media or with my own eyes, in person, on the night. But nobody was stopping to ask me what I thought or what I saw.

Not long after that first riot, my partner called me to check I was okay and to ask if those barely believable things she’d seen on the news were really as bad as they seemed. They were. I rode the bus up the High Road on my way to Wood Green, then later to Walthamstow, both of which offered me temporary job centres that took the overspill from ours, thoroughly gutted by fire and then looted of all of its copper piping. The bus crept past burned-out shops and homes. I don’t know where those people have gone.

Later that year, my partner and I discovered that our income was low enough that we were eligible for housing benefit. It took us so long to try to apply for it that we moved home before any progress was made. When I found enough work to support myself, I visited the job centre to sign off, as we called it, to close my file. I asked a woman at reception what I needed to do. “Nothing,” she said, as the line behind me wound down several stories of stairs and out into the grey autumn street. “Just stop coming. Stop coming.”

Winter came and things rustled in the walls. There was a long, tall hedge along the High Road and I would look out the window to see men using it as a urinal. I only had to live in Tottenham for around a year and a half and I have good memories from that flat, but I also remember a stifling and sad place to live, from which I was lucky to move on. Tottenham was never my home and I never had to stay there, but I certainly feel that I came to get a sense of the place.

After moving out, our ex-landlady complained that we hadn’t left the oven as clean as she would’ve liked. She hiked the rent 9% while we were staying there. She never fixed anything that broke and provided excuses instead of solutions.

I found more work. I taught games and narrative for a semester at a small institution in East London. One of the things I asked my students to consider was the stories and the experiences of people who weren’t like them. I asked them to share how often they had been stopped and randomly searched by airport security. “Not just at the airport,” one student reminded me. “On the tube. On the street.”

My life continued to improve in many ways, but I still remembered the man in the wheelchair. The BBC and many other media outlets continued to talk about poverty and race, but not always to poor people or to people who weren’t white. In 2014 I wrote On Poverty and one of the most surprising responses I repeatedly received from people was “I had no idea that it was like this.” A friend of mine tried to apply for support for chronic health problems and documented her many struggles, including being required to explain exactly how many times a week she suffered from migraines (“You said it was two or three times a week. Well, is it two, or is it three?”). The news regularly reported growing homelessness, rising use of food banks and the inevitable deaths of people who weren’t just failed by broken systems, apathy and a lack of understanding, but also simply too poor to be alive.

I feel like some of the people I knew didn’t like how I kept returning to these topics. I feel, even more, that they didn’t at all understand. I remember some of these people waiving off the Brexit referendum as it approached, certain the country wouldn’t vote to amputate itself from the European Union. I don’t think they understood and I don’t think they’d seen the unhappy England that I had, both as a child and as an adult. I think they’d only seen, and been, very comfortable people.

I think these people would call themselves open-minded, progressive and keen to make the world better. I’m sure they could explain those views. At length.

If I think of those people now, I’m quite sure they are all still very comfortable, ten years on. I also think there is still a good chance that man is sat in that wheelchair outside of that supermarket, though he could also be dead by now, again simply too poor to be alive. No longer able to watch the sun sparkle through tall trees, see roofs dusted with snow or catch the moon peeping through his bedroom window.

Such things aren’t for poor people. We still get frustrated when we give them benefits or find out they own mobile phones.

---

Ten years on, Tottenham is almost a dream, a memory where the details have faded and the edges have softened. I have moved countries, had the privilege of travelling through work, enjoyed many different creative opportunities and benefited from free healthcare that has addressed difficult, long-term health issues. I have rationed my life according to a tight budget, but I’ve never had to face the overwhelming, unending hardships of others that I’ve shared neighbourhoods and postcodes with. I cannot ignore these people because they have so often been one street away, visiting the same shop or riding the same train. They are not an abstraction, they are right there, ready to tell us all about their lives.

Ten years on, Tottenham has one of the UK’s fastest-growing rates of unemployment, the latest statistic in the region’s long history of joblessness and poverty. Many of its residents, like poor people across the country, live paycheck to paycheck, at risk of financial ruin should they experience a single upheaval. Ten years on, the most reliable predictor of success and financial stability in the UK (as in many developed countries) is now considered to be the circumstances of your birth. The idea of social mobility is more irrelevant than ever, with much of your destiny decided before you are even born. Ten years on, almost a quarter of the population of the UK lives in poverty.

Ten years on, continued austerity, government apathy and cuts to social services has meant that, yes, ten years really is enough time for everything to stay the same. Without change, the problems people face become generational, systemic. Some people tell me that the 1980s were like this for certain families, regions, populations. I didn’t know. We were doing okay. Perhaps I didn’t get it, didn’t notice it, didn’t want to think about it.

Ten years on, Mark Duggan’s family filed a civil claim against the Metropolitan Police and were awarded an undisclosed sum, after his death was officially ruled a lawful killing in 2014. Lawyers for the Duggan claim commissioned this in-depth report on the shooting, which illustrated many problems with the official police version of events.

Ten years on, the UK government is trying to curtain the right to protest. It commissioned a review that concluded that the country has no systemic racism. It wants to limit the powers of the Electoral Commission and has considered conflating the concepts of whistleblowing and leaking with spying, meaning those who leak information could be treated as criminals. It is increasingly intent on punishing those who might express dissatisfaction.

And ten years on, as we all know, wages have not risen to match the rising costs of rent, food, utilities or transport. It sure costs a lot just to live.

Finally, in 2018, the UN Special Rapporteur on Poverty and Human Rights visited the United Kingdom and did speak with many of its poor. The resulting exhaustive and damning report concluded that “statistics alone cannot capture the full picture of poverty in the United Kingdom” and that “much of the glue that has held British society together since the Second World War has been deliberately removed and replaced with a harsh and uncaring ethos.” It described harsh, ill-conceived and out-of-touch support systems devised and doubled down on by a government that not only failed to understand poverty, but that couldn’t even measure it accurately. It also predicted that these things would only get worse, and without any consideration of the effect of extraordinary events, such as a global pandemic.

The government described the report as “barely believable.”

I don’t think any help is coming.

---

There’s a question that sometimes bounces around social media and it asks people this: “What radicalised you?” As if there was some moment that changed a person’s political beliefs and rearranged their perspective on the world.

Here’s the thing. I feel like my perspective is from the floor, skewed and sore after I fell between two stools, always unable to find an identity amongst wider British culture. I grew up too comfortable, too spoiled and too well-spoken to call myself working class, but I was easily alienated by schoolfriends with multiple bathrooms and university-educated parents. My interests and my sentiments aren’t supposed to be working class, but many of my life experiences and even philosophies are. I know what it’s like to memorise Shakespeare and to explain themes in Romantic-era art, as much as I know what it’s like to fight government systems that are ostensibly supposed to help, to be unable to afford your own home, to walk into a supermarket and look at staple foods you still can’t afford. You think about Descartes and then you think about which dinner provides the cheapest way to keep your body alive.

When I was a kid I remember going to friend’s houses where they were too poor to clean the carpet, or seeing them lose a parent to lung cancer, or the time someone showed me a gun hidden in their brother’s car. As an adult I wrote to my politicians to ask them what they were doing about poverty, about education, about the cost of living. I went to protests and signed petitions and supported charities both practically and financially. I suppose I was trying to articulate some of the skills I’d learned from in some situations to articulate the experiences I’d had in others. Surely you have to do something.

I both resent and appreciate aspects of both classes and I imagine I’ll never work out who I am or what I’m supposed to call myself. But I do know there are vastly different worlds and vastly different experiences within British culture and that many continue to be overlooked even when in plain sight. And it’s what I find most frustrating.

If there was one thing I learned, if not one thing that radicalised me, it wasn’t simply that poverty never goes away, it’s that it always needs to be explained. There are always, always people who don’t get it, who don’t notice it, who don’t want to think about it or who will puzzle over it from a distance as if it were some transient mirage they can never hope to touch. Those in power will continue to make decisions about poverty that they do not experience, in spite of the fact that making financially comfortable people the authority on money is like making able-bodied people the authority on wheelchair access, like making men the authority on women’s bodies, like making white people the authority on racism.

And so, ten years on, here I am again, writing about Tottenham, about class, about poverty and about ignorance, and only from a slightly different angle. I will write about these things more, not least because I’ve already started another work on these themes, but mostly because I will always need to. I don’t imagine that, during my lifetime, the explaining will ever stop. I don’t imagine that our societies will give up on punishing people for being poor in a world where it is so often simply too expensive to be alive. And I don’t imagine I will have any more patience for people who imagine it will all blow over.

I refuse to let you middle-class your way out of this.

I don’t have any solutions to these enormous and complex problems. I don’t have exhaustive lists of who exactly to blame or where precisely everything has gone wrong. But here’s what I believe: If we don’t talk about poverty, and if we don’t listen to those caught inside of it, it will never go away, and there will be infinitely more Tottenhams.

[enkelimagnus]

History

Bucky Barnes Gen, 2375 words, rated T

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 4 The Whole World is Watching

Bucky and Zemo find themselves talking about Sokovia, about family, and about where they come from.

TW: antisemitism mention

Read on AO3

Part 29 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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

"Were there Jews in Sokovia?"

Zemo came back to himself an hour or two ago. He’s resting now, a damp towel on what must be a pounding headache. If Walker had been a supersoldier, Zemo would be dead. The shield, sent flying like that by someone on the serum would have broken his neck with the force of its slamming into his temple.

He wouldn’t be laying there, drinking glass after glass of something probably not recommended for someone with a concussion. He’s dosed himself on painkillers as well. Hopefully, he won’t die before the Dora Milaje arrive. If he died under Bucky’s watch, he doesn’t think he would ever be forgiven.

Bucky’s been staring at the windows for a while now, just… waiting for Zemo to start talking again. He grew bored of it. Even if the windows are beautiful and make him lose time in memories of his childhood shul and on the necklaces they all wore.

"It was an Eastern European country. Of course there were,” Zemo answers in that almost amused matter-of-fact tone of his. The same kind he used when he talked about Marvin Gaye. Now Bucky gets Sam’s “He’s out of line, but he’s right.” His voice is hoarse though, a clear sign of what he’s just gone through. Bucky finds himself slightly satisfied by that crack.

"Where was your family from?" Zemo asks. Perhaps it’s the same sort of question that led to that conversation in the plane. Bucky didn’t need to tell him he was Jewish after that.

"Romania."

Zemo nods quietly. "Ah. Not far, actually. Is that why you found a hiding place there before I flushed you out?"

That’s an interesting question, and Bucky shouldn’t be surprised he’s asking it.

"Not really." He didn’t know his family was Romanian until a couple of months in, until a mother’s lullaby triggered an avalanche of memories. “Followed some memories there.”

“What did they do? Your parents?”

Bucky huffs and turns towards him. “Why do you want to know?” He asks, jutting out his chin. He doesn’t know if he wants to talk to Zemo about that. But Zemo’s the only one who has ever asked. Steve didn’t need to. And no one else has spent long enough with Bucky to wonder.

“I am curious,” Zemo shrugged. “This is not a trick. I have nothing to gain by having this information. Your parents are dead. They cannot be used as leverage.”

“You sure know a lot about leverage, huh Zemo?” His answer is sarcastic, poking. The ghost of the tension from earlier in the day, the one that made Bucky let go of his tight leash of control to break one of Zemo’s expensive cups, hovers between them for a moment.

“I am a criminal,” Zemo hums. “A killer. And a Baron. Of course, I know a lot about leverage, James.”

At least he doesn’t hide from the truth. Bucky guesses that those eight years in solitary gave him time to self-reflect.

They both fall silent for a moment again. Zemo sips his whiskey. Bucky wishes he could get drunk. The minutes tick by. The Dora Milaje could come any time now. It’s hanging in the air with the tension, with the silence.

“You didn’t answer my question, James,” the man’s voice comes from the couch where he’s lounging. “What did they do?”

“My da worked in a journal in Romania. A Yiddishe one,” Bucky explains. “Worked in a printing factory in America. My ma helped sell the papers on the market. When she moved here and had us, she didn’t start working again until everything crashed and da died. I was working, but it wasn’t enough. We were four kids, and there was Steve, and his ma too, until she passed.”

He stops talking. He’s saying too much. Way too much. Zemo doesn’t need to know those things, he shouldn’t be talking about those things. It’s too personal, too intimate. Even Hydra didn’t know. Why is he telling Zemo?

Because Zemo’s going to the Raft. He’s going to be buried there and never come out, and he won’t be able to tell anyone. You could tell him what Steve tasted like, he wouldn’t be able to talk.

“What did your parents do?” Bucky asks, turning the question back on Zemo. It’s not the same, of course not. Bucky’s pretty sure he could find all the information about Heinrich Zemo readily available online.

“My father was a Baron and a businessman,” Zemo replies anyway, evenly. “He was also a sitting member of Hydra’s European branch.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to Zemo. He can’t see him, only the back of his head. Is he smug? Is he happy he got to push one of Bucky’s buttons this way?

“You didn’t meet him, I believe,” Zemo continues. “At least as far as I am aware.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. What is there to say, thanks?

“My mother was a housewife. She was a Baroness. She did charity events, talked to people, was beautiful at my father’s side. That was what they did. As for myself, I was, as you know, in the army. Before my service, however, I studied in Oxford, Philosophy, Politics and Economics, before interning in Berlin for two years. Only then, after much partying and drinking, did I settle and join the ranks.”

Bucky leans against the counter, huffing. “You wanna talk about yourself a bunch today, don’t you?”

“I was going to follow that with a question on your own Curriculum Vitae, James.”

“Why? Wanna hire me?”

Zemo chuckles, a puffy sound immediately followed by a sharp intake of breath. Pain, perhaps. That’ll teach him.

“Humor me?” he asks and for some reason, Bucky shrugs and decides to do so.

“Top student in Washington High School until ‘33, graduated early, started working. Making girls’ dresses. Working on the docs in the evening too,” Bucky recounts, sighing softly. “Got drafted. Deployed in ‘43. The rest you know.”

“No college despite being a so-called top student?” Zemo asks. Bucky can feel the airquotes in his voice.

Bucky huffs loudly. “We didn’t have that kind of money. We could have, without the crash. Could have gotten a scholarship, but it wasn’t… Da passed, and I had to make sure there was food on the table.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sure you’d be able to afford some sort of degree now.”

“Not an option.”

He’s not going to start explaining all the way Hydra fucked him up, how his attention span is shorter than it’s ever been except when a mission is involved, how his brain flips through languages constantly. How he would have issues handling the workload, the students around him. Crowded lecture halls would be terrible for his brain.

He doesn’t know what he wants to do after this.

Maybe just read books and go on runs and eat kugel and drink vodka. Those sound like good things to do.

"I saw Sokovia fall," Bucky says after a moment. "I was in Austria."

Zemo’s curious loose attitude shifts as Bucky says that.

“It made a big cloud,” Bucky keeps going. He doesn’t know why. “I barely had my mind, but I knew what I was seeing was world-ending. Catastrophic. Horrifying.”

“I was in Novi Grad for a chunk of the battle, before the city rose. And then I ordered my unit to run. To save their families if they could.” Zemo’s voice is quiet, tight with horrible grief. It’s been nine years and it’s still intense. Bucky guesses he hasn’t had anyone to talk about it with. It’s strange that it’s with him. “I was on the road to my father’s property when the city fell. Chunks of it fell around me, like terrible lethal snow.”

Bucky understands that. He remembers days on the front line in France, where the bombs falling from the sky almost looked like rain until they hit the ground and exploded and killed. Sometimes, at night, the lights in the sky were painfully beautiful.

“I have German citizenship, because of my mother’s own German citizenship. My father insisted I claim it, so I interned at the Bundestag for a couple of years in my twenties. Perhaps he was a visionary, perhaps he knew that one day Sokovia would come to fall and I wouldn’t be able to be Sokovian anymore. It’s strange.” He hums. “To know I do not have a home anymore.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what that feels like?” Zemo adds after a moment.

Bucky hums. “Borders change, political regimes fall. By all accounts, I’m American, but I spent more time in my life speaking Russian than I did speaking English. And yet, the Soviet Union has been gone for over thirty years. And I only learned that ten years ago. The America I grew up in is gone, too. So… I’m nothing. I’m nowhere.”

“Do you know what the strangest part of all of this is, James?” Zemo asks. “Sokovia is gone. In dust. There are no places I can go that still look the same as they once did. There are no buildings still standing. Their stones will one day be in museums, without context. It’s like it never existed, really. Memories are good, but they only last one lifetime, if that long.”

“In a hundred years, those memories will be gone,” Bucky finishes for him.

Zemo finishes his glass. “I’m the King of Sokovia,” he says then, and Bucky immediately wonders if they shouldn’t try to seek some sort of medical assistance.

“I’m royalty. The last living royal of Sokovia. I’m the King,” he explains. “King of ash, King of a memorial. King of the dead.”

“Yeah, I doubt Wanda Maximoff would accept you as King,” Bucky quips, and Zemo chuckles.

“Ah, the Maximoff girl,” he mutters. “Do you know just how many times her head was in the visor of my rifle?” He asks, and Bucky can hear the smirk, the predator’s grin in his voice. “When I was with EKO Scorpion, watching her and her anarchist friends… Do you know how many times I could have killed her?”

“Why didn’t you? Bucky asks with genuine curiosity.

“She wasn’t dangerous then. She was just a girl, an idealistic teenager. She hadn’t met Hydra yet. I had no reason to end her life.”

He shifts on the couch, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from God knows where on his person. He tosses it over to him. Bucky catches them, and the following lighter. He doesn’t ask why Zemo doesn’t take one. They’re cheap, from a Slavic brand. The tobacco blend is familiar to Bucky. His handlers used to smoke it.

The lighter is familiar too, a Zippo. It clicks and sounds like the hundreds of thousands Bucky has heard in his life.

“The Maximoffs were Sokovian Jews,” Zemo says after Bucky pulls the preliminary drag of his cigarette. White plumes wave over his face for a moment. “Wanda and Pietro wore the marks of their heritage for years on the front lines of their revolution.”

Bucky frowns a little. “I don’t remember it from the images, afterwards.”

“I can only guess they took it off when they joined Hydra,” Zemo points out. Bucky takes a hard long drag and the taste is like a ghost of Soviet pride. “Von Strucker was an antisemite.”

Bucky chuckles at that. Of course he was. “What a surprise,” he mutters sarcastically.

“He was not one of the hidden ones either,” Zemo points out. “He was quite loud about his opinions when he believed himself in the right circles.”

“You sure seem to know a lot about von Strucker’s views, Zemo,” Bucky says quietly.

“He was a Baron of Sokovia too. I saw him several times a year, for official occasions of the royalty, and informal meetings at my family’s estate for most of my life. He and I were not that far apart in age, I must admit we shared toys once upon a time, in palaces like the one Karli and her friends now occupy.”

The world is small, especially the kind of world Hydra, the Soldier and the Avengers lived in. Bucky doesn’t exactly believe that he never met Zemo’s father. He doesn’t know if he would remember it if he had. Unless he was given the man’s name in some way, he probably was nothing but another higher up, another possible handler, another persona had to obey.

“So your government knew Hydra was in Sokovia?” Bucky asks, pulling more on his cigarette, trying to parse out a timeline of events.

“The government was Hydra,” Zemo replies, his voice heavy. “It had been for decades. Truth is, I never knew Sokovia without Hydra encroaching on it like a tumor.”

Bucky shifts, humming quietly. Zemo’s hatred of Hydra is surprising now that he knows his father was. “Why aren’t you Hydra, then? If your family was?”

Zemo shrugs. He has that sharp intake of breath again, probably accompanied by a wince.

“When the main Hydra branch fell, in 2014, I was only 35,” he mutters. “I was getting invited to the parties, of course, as the heir of the Baron, but… I guess I was too green for these people. Contrary to Wolfgang, I didn’t share a lot of their ideals. Perhaps I did, as a youth, believe some of their lies… It is impossible not to take in some of your parents’ philosophy.”

Bucky huffs, shaking his head. “So what? You met a poor Jew once and it changed you?” He asks sarcastically.

Zemo shakes his head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t tell you. I don’t believe it was a singular event.”

He wouldn’t be the first rich kid to find some cause to care about as a rebellion from the parental authority. Bucky doesn’t say anything more about that. It’s not good to dwell on these things. What is going to come from confronting it anyway?

“Either way, let’s both be thankful I am not Hydra, yes?” Zemo shifts, standing back up slightly, to rest in a better direction.

Yeah. Let’s be thankful.

Sam comes in then with his computer and Bucky takes the opportunity to see himself in the bathroom, thinking everything over.

[blarfkey]

Zev/Ellana “Shh. You better be quiet if you don’t want to get caught.” Rated E

For @sharkapologists

BTW I having a lot of fun practicing smut with these promps, haha.

At first it looks so innocent. Barely bigger than her thumb and dark red, Ellana doesn't even know what the hell it is.

"This is my present?" she asks dubiously.

"Don't look so disappointed, mi amor. We are going to have a lot of fun with it."

"Okay, great. But what is it?"

"Oh, your innocence never fails to delight me. Here. Let me demonstrate."

He takes the device from her and cups it in his hand. It's so small that it disappears entirely behind his fingers. Then he cups her between her legs.

Nothing happens.

"Wow," Ellana drawls out.

Zevran chuckles against her neck. "Give me a moment."

He pulls out his phone with his other hand, opening up a harmless looking app with a button and then --

Out of nowhere the thing starts buzzing right against her clit, sending an immediate shock wave of pleasure, even though her jeans.

“Fuck!"

Ellana scrabbles for purchase against his shoulders, her hips jerking up against his hand. Zevran chuckles again, pressing kisses down her neck while she grinds against his hand, rapidly turning into a needy, hot mess. The sensation, so new and so different and so intense, makes her come embarrassingly fast and embarrassingly loud.

"Did you enjoy that, carina?" Zevran switches the device off and pulls his hand away. "Your blush is redder than it is."

Ellana's still trying to catch her breath, her chest pounding. "What the fuck is that?"

Zevran places the device in her hand with an unbearable smirk. It's warm.

"It's a vibrator," he says. "Except this one is very special."

A vibrator. Ellana looks down. She's heard of them, but she's never actually seen one. It doesn’t look like much but damn does it pack a punch.

"How so?"

"Because it's designed to fit discretely in your underwear and it's controlled remotely by my phone. The range is incredible."

Zevran gives her an unbearable smirk before leaning in. "You are going to have to learn to be quieter, Ellana, because I am going to be making you cum all day tomorrow," he adds against her ear.

Zevran lied. That fucking bastard has not been making her cum all day. He's been making almost cum all day, but just when she gets close, the vibrations will stop. How the fuck does he know?

He also didn't tell her that the vibrator comes with different settings. In addition to the steady buzzing that gotten her off so quickly last night, there's a soft fluttering pulse that does nothing but tease her, a sharp, staccato that makes her jump in her seat, and heart beat pulse that makes her see stars and never lasts more than a few seconds at a time because he hates her.

The worst part is that she has no idea when it will activate. She can sit through half an hour of lecture with nothing and then suddenly have her pen ricochet across the paper when it starts again.

She's spent all day pissed off and unable to concentrate, thighs pressed together and fighting the urge to squirm in her seat. 

Krem actually asked if she had a fever at lunch and she had to convince him she was perfectly fine in between bites of her sandwich and the soft fluttering pulses of the vibrator that drive her mad and do little else.

Thank the gods today she doesn't have Dr. Sten.

He was right about one thing -- it really is discrete. No one can see it through her jeans and no one can hear it and it's somehow worse that Ellana's losing her sanity and no one would be able to tell why.

That afternoon she stalks down to the math tutoring room, armed with a stormy expression and her problem set for the week. At this point she could probably get through it alone without too many issues, but Zevran fucking owes her right now and she is going to collect.

Of course today of all days the tutoring room is packed. Ellana has to wait until Zevran gets done with another student -- teased by the vibrator on it's softest setting -- her fingers gripping her textbook until she's white knuckled.

When the freshman finally fucking leaves, Ellana stalks over to his table and slams the book down loud enough to make the guy at the table beside them flinch.

Zevran gives her a sunny smile. "Good afternoon! How may I help you?"

"You fucking son of a bitch," she hisses, sitting down.

"I'm sorry? What have I done to offend?" He blinks innocently. "Haven't you peaked many mountains today?"

She leans across the table, glaring at him. "I haven't peaked any mountains today," she says in the barest whisper.

Zevran leans back and smirks. "I know. But unfortunately for you, I'm closing today, so unless you have some. . . problems you need solving, you will have to go home and wait for another two hours or so.”

"I do have problems," she says, flipping the book open.

A slow smile crosses his face. "Well. Let's get to work, shall we?"

She spends the better part of those two hours struggling. After a year of help, Ellana has made significant gains in math. Not that anyone could tell in that moment.

Zevran explains patiently how to break down each problem and she looks down, mind blanking every time the vibrator pulses suddenly against her. He keeps his phone hidden under the table so she has no idea when he start it up again.

Sometimes he will let sit there for several minutes, undisturbed, while she jumps at every tiny sound or movement and sometimes he will leave it on the lowest setting to slowly drive her mad while she tries to solve complex equations.

And sometimes he gives her the illusion of impending relief, forcing her to bite her lip to keep from crying out and control her breathing while the people around her carry on, oblivious.

And just when she's skirting the edge of what promises to be the most bone shaking orgasm of her life, it stops and she has to fight not to cry or murder someone.

By the time five thirty rolls around, the room is empty save for them and she's a soaking, aching mess of a person, teetering on the edge of insanity.

Zevran packs his messenger back with care, his phone on the table and Ellana's eyes dart over to it. It would be so easy to take it and push that button and sit on it to keep him from getting to it. By this point she could probably cum in ten seconds or less.

His eyes meet hers, the corner of his mouth crooking up.

"Ellana, mi amor, please turn the lights off for me."

He knows. Godsdamn it. Ellana sighs and stands up, stalking over to the light switch by the door in a huff.

The room plunges into darkness -- the winter sun having just set -- and a second later the vibrator starts up again, the heart-beat pulse that knocks the air out of her. Zevran crowds her up against the wall, sliding his leg between her thighs to press the vibrator closer against her.

"Shiiiit," she whiness, fingers digging into the front of his shirt.

"Shhhh," he says. "You should be quiet if you don't want to get caught."

A desperate, needy sound builds up in her throat. "I can't."

He presses his hand hard against her open mouth, muffling the scream spills from her as she cums harder than she ever has in her life.

She reaches up to pull his hand away but Zevran refuses to budge. Instead of backing off, he pushes her harder against the wall, his hand a firm grip over her mouth.

"Oh mi amor," he breathes against her ear. "Did you think you were only going to cum once? The phone is on the table -- we're not stopping any time soon."

She's never come more than once before -- is that even possible?

His other hand snakes underneath her shirt and sports bra to knead and pinch at her nipples. He kisses his way up and down the side of neck, teeth scraping, sucking almost hard enough to leave a mark. It's almost too much -- the steady pulse of the vibrator, the added pressure of his leg between her thighs, her breasts, her neck --

Ellana comes again, her orgasm lighting through her nerves like electricity and it's pleasure and agony both.

"One more time, my sweet girl,” he croons. “One more time.”

He kisses past her clavicle, down her sternum, pulling her shirt and bra up and latching onto one of her nipples, teeth scraping over it exactly the way that drives her crazy. He undoes her jeans with practiced perfection, chuckling against her breast as his fingers glide over the sticky fluid that has seeped through her underwear to coat her inner thighs. Pushing the side of her underwear, he slips one long finger into her soaking, desperate entrance and Ellana screams against his hand.

Her hips stutter and grind against his leg, she's so wet it's dripping down her thigh now and the world has reduced itself to nothing but overwhelming sensations.

Fuck. FUCK!

Her third orgasm hurts the way a good massage hurts, her walls fluttering and clenching around his finger. She doesn't think she could take another one, but luckily for her, Zevran pulls both his hand and the vibrator from her ruined underwear and tugs her jeans back up.

He takes a moment to lick the vibrator clean before stowing it in his pocket and holy fucking hell.

Ellana slumps to the floor while he gathers his things, turning the vibrator off with his phone. She's too boneless to move.

"Come, Ellana," he says, striding over to her and holding out his hand. "Let's get you home."

She glares at him balefully. "Let's get you home. I have vengeance to enact."

He gives her a wolfish smile. "I look forward to it."

[waltwest]

The Freelancer

The following is the first thirteen pages of a short story I am writing titled “The Freelancer”. I hope you enjoy. I apologize for the unappealing formatting, this site does not have the most comprehensive text editor.

                                          I.

             Studying the Keurig machine, I wondered how many complacent people it took to ware the word “brew” off the button, leaving behind nothing more than a “b” and an “e”, which looked curiously like an “s”. I imagined this instant coffee machine as the alter in which lost souls came to pay tribute to each morning before assuming their monotonously drudging tasks; lips drawn, eyes downcast. These people were never happy, not even content. It certainly wasn’t a wish of theirs to be here. Men who dreamt of becoming accomplished composers became pencil pushers. Women who yearned to be animators had landed at secretary. The office is where you come to lay your ambition to rest. Maybe it is a lack of assertiveness in demeanor which lands one here, maybe it is the fate of mere circumstance.

           But I, Maxwell Goodman, knew what my job meant; I knew I worked among the dead. Luckily, there was a spark of life that incessantly flickered within me. With my ten ounce mug full before me, I reluctantly took my communion once again.

           Safely back within the confines of my particle board cubicle, the manila folders and stacks of paper demanding this or that seemed to never be satisfied.

           God, who knew lightbulbs could generate so much paperwork, I thought to myself.

           I sat in silence and regarded the congregation of slain trees covering my desk. My collar was sticking to my neck… Trying to strangle me, for God’s sake. My mouth was dry and coated with the thick taste of cheap coffee. My desktop stared into my eyes expectantly, patiently waiting for me to pound away on the keyboard like a good boy… Like I was supposed to. The bulbs may be bright, but they can’t sell themselves!  That’s what my boss Lonny loved to say. Lonny… God, how can someone be balding so terribly at thirty years old? Is it just bad genetics, or too much cortisol?

           I felt a hand clap on my shoulder. “Max-o! Lovely morning, isn’t it? Hey, in case you weren’t aware, Sweet Charade is having a bogo on donuts until the end of the week…”

           Speak of the devil.

           I swiveled my squeaky and unbalanced office chair to face my boss. “Gee, thanks for filling me in, Lonny. You know how much I love that maple-iced.” I responded, attempting to sound enthusiastic. Lonny was a nice guy, he really was. It’s really difficult to be rude to a guy like Lonny, with his premature baldness and all. You kind of had to feel sorry for him in a way, it was impossible to predict whether or not he was just one snide comment away from completely breaking down. He’s kind of unstable, emotionally. Also, his wife died last year. She fell off a cliff. No really, she did. Her and Lonny took a vacation to the Grand Canyon last August. Kept complaining about how bright the sun was and how she “couldn’t see a damn thing.” Next thing you know, she was trying to take a picture of a bird flying above and somehow managed to fall right off the edge of a cliff. Worst part is, she was eight months pregnant with their son, they were going to name him Clint... So yeah, all in all it’s pretty tough being rude to Lonny.

           “I know they’re your favorite, it’s why I told you. Oh, hey-“Lonny pulled his other hand from behind his back, revealing a bloated manila envelope”-think you could handle this for me? Just a little bit of inventory mumbo-jumbo. Nothing too serious!” He was really trying to exude a devastating level of charm, though the effort was ineffective.

           One side of the envelope was sagging down in the air under its own mind-numbing weight. I never thought an envelope could actually look depressed, it almost made me giggle. Grudgingly, I acquiesced and accepted the package with the lift of the eyebrows and a nod. I didn’t want to be mean, but I also didn’t want him to think I was thrilled about all the extra nonsense. Hell, he might’ve even pulled another folder out of his waistband or something if he got the idea I was happy about it. “Here, how about closing this deal for a thousand LED’s to the grocery store down the street as well…” No, I had enough paper, truly.

           Lonny gave me another hearty clap on the shoulder, his bulbous belly jiggling a bit from the force. Again, I had to prevent myself from giggling… I find myself doing that more frequently than I would care to admit. I get the urge to laugh at the worst times, always. “Thanks, Max. I know I can always count on you.” He confided with a smile of endearment. It was difficult to tell whether that was a positive thing or if this was going to come back and bite me in the ass. Probably the latter.

           Ole��� Lonny then gave a sly wink and swaggered off with the air of one who just successfully pawned off his work to an underling, because he could. What a bastard, I thought. He was an alright guy though, I suppose.

           After a formalized second trip to the alter, I submerged myself in the humming of the fluorescents above me and the ocean of paper before me. Seven more hours…

           At precisely 4:59pm, I slapped all of the folders shut and jabbed the power button on my computer with vehemence. My eyes burned like hell, my head was pounding from all of the caffeine, and my hands were all clammy. Very uncomfortable. God, I couldn’t help but to feel that it wasn’t worth it at the end of each day. I was constantly attacked by the bigger picture. What purpose was I serving? What kind of impact was I having on the world? I dwelled upon these questions often, but couldn’t stand beginning to think about the answers.

           After I ended my quick demoralizing contemplation, the sodden procession of rejects began to file out of the glass door. And with the exchanging of “goodbyes” and “see you tomorrows,” my co-workers fell into their hybrid sedans and putted on down the road. Usually I am pulling into my apartment complex before anyone has even started their cars, but I felt like watching today. Sometimes I like to detach myself from situations and just observe.

          Like this one time, I was sitting on one of those couches that are situated in the walkway at the mall. You know, those areas where they have four couches are situated in a square all cozy and whatnot, just in case the going gets too rough. Anyway, I was sitting on one of those couches, just watching. I peered into a shoe store and beheld a child throwing a royal fit, really overdoing it. He was around tromping everywhere, steam spilling out of his ears and all. He was screeching about a pair of shoes he wanted but couldn’t have. They were these real hip joints, green canvas with blue laces. They were disgustingly ugly, if you want to know the truth. Knowing how these retail stores are, I bet they were like a billion bucks. “I want the shoes! I want the shoes!” He was yelling.

          “I can’t get you those… I can’t. I’m sorry, you know I would...”  His father replied weakly, trying his damnedest to not contribute to the mayhem. He looked sad as hell, embarrassed even. I couldn’t tell whether he was embarrassed because he couldn’t afford the shoes, or because his son was being such an ass about it; I suppose it could’ve been a mixture of both.

          “Mommy would get them for me! Call Mommy! I want Mommy!” The kid was belligerent. Stompin’ his snow boots all around the store, trying to leave imprints in the god damn carpet. It was winter by the way, Christmas time.

          “Oh, you know I can’t do that… I’m sorry, I can’t afford the shoes son. Daddy can’t afford them right now.” He was really trying to be quiet and take control of his bratty offspring. Gosh, he looked so ashamed. I cannot stand ungrateful kids. The father ended up buying his son a cheaper pair of sneakers, to the stomping child’s dismay. I say he shouldn’t have bought him any shoes at all, the way he was acting.

          There was something disturbing and insightful about that encounter, though. If I had just been walking by and heard the kid hollering I would have thought he was acting like a bastard, and that would’ve been it. And he was acting like a bastard, don’t get me wrong. But it is intriguing how the layers of the family dynamic unravels, the more you just watch and listen. The divorced parents, the mother always outdoing the father in order to gain their son’s favor… I was able to see a man who didn’t really know what he was doing with his life, or how he’d even gotten there in the first place… He wasn’t in control, maybe he never was. Maybe he never will be. So yeah, I enjoy sitting back and observing sometimes, beats the hell out of boring conversation.

          Anyway, it was time for me to leave work. I grabbed my pointless little leather satchel and walked out the door. Outside, the air felt nice and fresh… I love the revitalizing effects of fresh air. It was especially neat that evening because there was also one of those breezes that whips really good every so often. It made me hungry. So, I decided I would grab some Chinese food on the way to my apartment. It’s on the way, and I have a huge thing for oriental food… especially lo mein noodles.

                                         II.

             Pint of greasy noodles clutched in hand, I stepped into the elevator of my building and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, the top floor. I have a fear of heights, so initially I was not too keen on the idea of living so high up. But the thing was, I was pretty down on my luck, I suppose you could even say I was vulnerable. I needed a place quickly and this building was convenient for me… As I said, once I realized the only space for rent was on the top floor, I became a little nervous. But, the woman whom I talked to about the whole thing convinced me that rent was actually cheaper on the top floor. So, despite my uneasiness with heights of any kind, I took the place thinking I was scoring some sort of exclusive insider deal. But, after a few months of residing there and conversing with my neighbors, I learned I was paying around $96 more a month than most people in the whole god damn building. Even the other tenants on my floor were paying less than me. Something about my apartment being a “colonial” this that and the other. I don’t know. I swear to God I’m too gullible sometimes. I still had a year left on my lease.

           Up, up, up the elevator went. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, ding! Thirteen. The doors opened and I made my way down the hall. I will admit, the building itself was not too impressive. The ceilings had a few leaks, the walls were painted an awful yellow. Sometimes the air conditioner shut off randomly. But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. Everything could always be worse, don’t ever forget that.

           Of course, my special “colonial” apartment was way at the end of the hallway, number 327. As I approached my rickety door, my eyes locked onto a lone piece of mail sticking out of the little metal mailbox. A quick pulse of endorphins spread throughout my brain. I love getting mail. I pulled the envelope out. It was from the Print Box publishing company! Panic, fear, and excitement rose within my chest all at once.

           I guess I forgot to tell you. I have longed to be an author for as long as I can remember. It is my dream, I guess you could say. Unfortunately, I haven’t had any luck getting published, or even acknowledged for that matter. I have written many different stories and have sent them to every publishing house imaginable. I’ve even sent short clips to shitty magazines hoping to get a bite, to no avail. The only responses I have gotten have been rejections. Most often they don’t even take the time to respond… Trust me, it’s not like I wanted to sell lightbulbs as a career, you should realize that by now.

           And while I had never received positive criticism or encouragement in the past, it was impossible to not feel hopeful when I got a letter back from a publisher. I believed that one day my luck would shift. It had to… Right?

           I hurried and shoved the key into the door, then shot straight to the couch to read what Print Box had to say. My noodles sat on the coffee table, untouched and getting slightly cold.

           I ended up sitting frozen for a couple of minutes, staring at the front of the envelope… As if the address lines were going to tell me that it was going to be okay, this time was different. Really, I was savoring the moment. I had a certain amount of measured confidence when it came to this letter. In my opinion, the story I sent to Print Box was amazing, one of my best yet. It was a story about an inter-galactic space traveler who ends up meeting God and finding out He’s not how everyone thinks He is. I promise it’s not as crumby as it sounds. It was good. You would just have to read it.

           Life seemed to be still around me; a foreboding, ominous stillness. Blood was rushing to my ears. My hands shaking ever so slightly, I ran my finger underneath the seal, and took out the prophecy within. Please, let this be it. Please.

           It read as follows:

           “Dear Mr. Goodman,

           We received your manuscript for ‘Creator’s Paradox’. After review, we are terribly sorry to inform you that we have decided not to publish your work. It is simply not a fit for us.

Best Wishes,

Print Box Publications”

           A cold knife sank deep into my chest. What? That’s it? The letter trembled in my hands. The excitement and hope fled my body entirely, and had been replaced by sorrow and confusion, even anger. How could this be? I should have known. I shouldn’t have expected anything more. Why would this time be any different? It was then that I thought maybe I should just give up. I am no good at this, I absolutely suck. That must be it… They say to chase your dreams, but what if you are just terrible? I had never felt such dread. Maybe I was meant to sell lightbulbs for a living…

           Unceremoniously I ripped the bad news in half and let it fall onto the table. Sinking back into the frayed cloth couch, I would have been completely okay with just disappearing in that moment, I felt deflated.

           After a shameful amount of sulking, I forced down the then limp noodles, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and slid out onto the balcony.

           The night was warm, but not unreasonably so. It was that time of year when you keep a jacket in the backseat of your car, because you can never be certain which way the thermometer will flow. But even though the night was cozy, I had a rain cloud hovering over my head. I was already beginning to accept my future. The cardboard cutout life I was going to surrender to. 401k’s, strategies to improve my credit score… That sort of thing.

           I sipped my beer and looked out upon the terrain before me, in the most reflective of moods. I had to admit, the view was pleasurable from up here. I lived in the boot heel of Indiana, by the way. An area of the world where it is commonplace for urban and rural landscapes to collide, battling for a prominent grip over the territory. Upon my perch, I could see and feel the city below me: the streetlamps, stoplights, cars honking at nothing in particular, the smell of gas and concrete which invaded the nostrils. But when I looked beyond the ring of cityscape, seemingly endless fields and  small hillocks rolled into the horizon, with a strip of highway interceding here and there. The occasional semi would be finding its way through the night, like a worm over soil. It was comforting in a way, made you feel like you could always just escape if you wanted to or needed to.

           I found and traced one semi making his way across the fields. He was at such a distance, I could only distinguish him by the studded lights that adorned his truck. He looked so lonely, plodding along out there, all by himself. I wondered, was he happy? Did he choose his life for himself? Or did he just throw in the towel, like I was having thoughts of doing… I suppose I would never find out. Not like I could pluck him off the road and ask him. Or her. I shouldn’t just assume they are a man. I wonder how much truck drivers make? I heard they bring in quite a bit of dough, actually… I pictured myself taking the reigns of my own eighteen-wheeler; soaking in the sights, getting into a bit of trouble at the various truck stops. It didn’t feel right, though. For a moment I felt my skin squirm.

           The fight of two alley cats below suddenly tore me out of my trance. I noticed I was rubbing my fingers together really hard, and all of a sudden the stench of garbage filled the air. It was all discomforting. I realized that this was the moment that was going to lay the foundation for the rest of my time on Earth. Will I push onward, and become who I want to be? Or do I choose the easy, less turbulent path, and adjust. We all stumble upon this fork in the road at some point throughout our lives. Although, unfortunately, most are blind to the path tucked behind the brush, the path we were each destined to take. We only see the wider, more trodden path of conformity.

           As I stood at the helm of my splitting path, I knew within my heart which route I was going to take. There was no question… I was going to part the foliage and venture into the canopied forest.

                                         III.

             The time was getting close to ten, but I had struck a vein of determination and inspiration. I was not going to simply shrug it off and go to sleep.

           Back and forth I paced around the cramped living room. Couch. Coffee table. Television, resting upon an empty entertainment center. Plastic lamp situated in the corner. Generic cream carpeting. Bland, unextraordinary.

           I paced and paced, contemplatively gripping my chin.

           I knew I had to write something. But what should I write a story about? Gosh, I began to get nervous. In the early twentieth century, here was this Italian novelist named Cesare Pavese. There is a quote of his wherein he states, “the only joy in the world is to begin.” The only feeling I get when I begin something is anxiety and confusion… I can see where he is coming from though, I suppose. There is bound to be intrigue when diving into something new. And anxiety. Shit, where the hell did those Valium go?

           My pacing shifted its course to the bathroom. On the way I passed the boring ass photos that were framed in the four-foot-wide hallway, standing guard. A vase of flowers sitting on a patio table. A tire swing. It felt like the first time I had ever seen these pictures. So generic… So dumb. God, they made me want to puke. Why didn’t I take them down whenever I moved in? My blood pressure was rising. Fucking stock photos.

           I crashed into the bathroom and swung the mirror open. The ole’ medicine cabinet, baby. Where everyone goes when in need of a little chemical therapy. We’re all guilty…

           Sifting through prescriptions old and new, some in my name, others not, I eventually found what I was searching for. Also, upon studying the array of medications in front of me, I realized I may have a slight drug problem. Oh well, it’s not as bad as it once was.

           I recall one incident in particular from the past. I must have taken twelve Xanax bars, maybe more. I went to the park (I love the park) and was feeding some pigeons; leftover Doritos I had found in my car, they were at least four months past the expiration date. Anyway, after just tossing chips around all over the sidewalk for about half an hour, I took a particularly special interest in one of the pigeons. He was a bit smaller than the rest, and one of his eyes was circled in black. Incredibly unique, at least in comparison the others. He was really taking control of the situation too, despite his size. Really getting in there, hardly sharing any of the precious chips. Greedy bastard… I think that’s why I liked him so well.

           Anyway, I decided that I needed him. You know, with his attitude, maybe he could protect my pad or something. I don’t know, I was pretty high. So, after wrestling with him for a bit (if you can picture that), it became clear I could not just pick the rowdy fucker up. Had a lot of fight in him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had pulled out a cigar from beneath his wing and started puffin’ at me, head all cockeyed and whatnot. “C’maaaaaaaaaan, that all ya got?” I had to regroup, construct a more inventive method of capture.

           Bingo. Easy. He may have been all brawn, but he still had an observable weakness… Doritos.

           With an inward smirk, I strategically (and sloppily) began making a trail of chip crumbs that led to the opened passenger-side door of my car. Worked like a charm, perhaps too well. The whole damn flock began tottering and flapping over to my car. At this point I realized my coveted plan may have had a detrimental absence of foresight,  I thought I was surely doomed. But as always, there was a solution. When the horde got within a few feet of my vehicle, I started kickin’ and screamin’ at all of them. They all flew away quick as can be, except for my new friend of course, the bravest of them all. Victory. I finally managed to coerce the prize fighter into my car with one last huge Dorito, and off to the races we went.

           He shit all over my seats, my dashboard, everything. God, it was terrible. Stunk like hell, too.  To make a long story short, we were never meant to be friends. He continued to mercilessly defecate all over the apartment, pecked the hell out of my ankles, he was extremely aggressive… Not house trained in the slightest.

           Needless to say, I was positively sick of this bastard by this point… I decided the best course of action would be turning him into profit. I took him down to the gas station and tried to peddle him off to the cashier for three dollars… He declined. But to be fair, I believe if he wasn’t at work and whatnot, trying to look good for his boss, he would have gone for it. He truly looked like he wanted that pigeon something fierce… Got all wide-eyed, sweat gathering at the brow. Either he wanted that pigeon, or he was deathly afraid of it. It was almost weird, his intensity.

           Yeah, I used to be kind of awful about it. That happened right after high school. I wasn’t too productive back then, sometimes I wish I could go back and change those years.

           Anyway, I quickly swallowed forty-five milligrams of Valium in the bathroom, on account of my soaring blood pressure and all. The stock photos didn’t help. Plus, I really needed to buckle down and figure out what I was going to write and how I was going to blow the socks off of the publishers and leave their feet steaming. This had to be the big one.

                                         IV.

             I set up shop in the kitchen, the only place in my apartment that has a table and chair. I had my tools for creation all laid out. A trio of freshly sharpened pencils, a pad of paper, and one of those noise machines that produces rainforest sounds and whatnot. Yes, I like those, and yes, I still believe in pencil & paper. Staring at a computer screen for extended periods of time isn’t quite healthy for you. It’s terrible on the eyes, you know. Additionally, there is something therapeutic about manually writing out each letter of a word, your hand carefully forming every one of those curves… The act feels intimate, and poking at a keyboard just isn’t the same. But I digress.

           Let’s see… Romance novels are too cheesy, you almost always know how they are going to end. I had already recently tried my hand at space exploration. Though space is endless, making the potential for stories based in space limitless as well. Still, I wasn’t really in the mood at that moment. Ugh, brainstorming is too much work, truly. This is why I like it best when the ideas come to me naturally.

           Just as I was delving deeper into thought, or trying to, my phone rang from the counter behind me. It gave me a shock, partly because it was getting so late and partly because hardly anyone ever called me.

           Casually I looked to see who my caller was. “Silas,” the screen read. Of course. Silas is an old pal from school that I kept in touch with for some reason. He’s a morally decent guy I suppose, has a good heart. He just never quite grew up.

           “Hello?”

           “Maximillian! What’s up?” He was totally stoned. In the background I could hear the bubbling of a bong along with feminine laughter. I heard something else too, faintly… Was that… Street Fighter?

           “Hey, Silas. It’s almost one in the morning, what’s going on?” I tried my darndest not to sound rude, sometimes I have a problem with that.

           “Oh, nothin’ much man…” More laughter, it caused me to wonder what the hell was so funny. “Hey, Max, do you have any molly? Need some molly… Ecstasy.”

           Initially I figured he was stoned, but he was progressively sounding more drunk than anything. Probably both. “Silas, I haven’t done molly in over three years. What the hell are you thinkin’, do I got any molly? No, I do not… Are you fuckin’ drunk?” This guy blew my mind sometimes.

           Awkward silence. More bubbling. And yes, that was certainly Street Fighter. “Damn dude, my bad… For some reason I thought you might.” More silence. Generally, it’s difficult for this man to process more than a couple of sentences at a time… Got a hell of a heart though. “Well, okay. Hey, do you know anybody who does?” He sounded wistful, maybe even a bit desperate. All the sudden I had the feeling I was not the first person he called about this. It made me sad in a way.

           I sat crisscross on the tile. Why there instead of the chair? I don’t know, it’s what I felt like doing then, okay? I liked the fresh perspective. “No, ‘fraid not. Haven’t touched the stuff in a long time.” Pause. “What the hell ya been up to anyway, Silas?” I was genuinely interested. I began picking at the tile with my fingernail.

           “Uhhh, nothing really. I-…” He really had to think about what he had been up to. “Went to a Cannibal Corpse concert last week. Yeah, concert and stuff.” He sounded like he was about to fall asleep, or become a corpse himself. God, look at all that dust beneath the fridge…

           Just then, I got a wonderful idea. “Gee, that sounds like loads of fun. Hey, Silas. If you were going to write a story, what would it be about? You know, if you were just going to write a story or something… About anything.” I was curious. I wanted to squeeze his mushy brain and see what came out. Plus, the Valium had me feeling a bit conversative.

           The line was quiet for awhile. I could’ve sworn he had fallen asleep, phone pinned between his shoulder and cheek, slobber dripping from his chin. “-A story? Story… Probably about a barbarian or something. Barbarian who has a club and nails chicks in his cave. Like Conan, I guess.” Silence… “Hey, Conan nailed chicks in caves, right?” He was asking someone next to him.

           Boom, inspiration flooded the inside of my head, almost making me dizzy. How didn’t I think of this before?

Obviously, his idea was stupid. But the barbarian aspect intrigued me. How fun would that be? A barbarian who finds himself in a world of magic. Brings it back to Earth for the betterment of humanity. I don’t know, something silly like that. Something people will read, something that will keep them entertained.

           Silas focused his attention back to me. I had almost forgotten I was on the phone with him. “Max, buddy. Hey, Max. Do you have any molly, by chance?”

           I didn’t have the time for this anymore. I needed to get to work. “Sorry, gotta go. Goodbye, Silas.” I hung up the phone. Krosmere… That’s what his name will be.

           I bounced up from the floor and positioned myself back at the table.

           I took a deep breath, turned on the trusty rainfall machine, and poised my pencil. It was time to craft the legacy of Krosmere, rogue barbarian. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so excited to start something. I was now beginning to feel the meaning of Cesare Pavese’s words.

                                        V.

             A ray of early morning sun dove into the kitchen from the window above the sink, casting the table before me in an orange-red glow. There I was, hunched over my papers, clad only in an old white tee-shirt and a pair of pinstripe boxers. Every hallow in my body had filled with salty perspiration.

           Truly, I had not realized how late it was getting. Or, rather, how early… I risked a glance at the clock on the oven. “5:41am” it read in its obnoxious neon green radiance. Somewhere down the hallway I could hear the maddening wail of my alarm clock trying to be a voice of reason or something, I suppose. How did I not hear that until now? BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH. God, I just wanted to throw the damn thing against the wall. I have done that quite a few times already. Like after Cinco De Mayo last year. Threw that motherfucker so good it flew out of my room and smacked the wall in the hallway. Or after the Colts lost the Super Bowl. Hell, it wasn’t even morning time, and I’m not into sports! I just went into my room and punted the sumbitch right into the ceiling. I can be childish sometimes. There was also that one time when my ex-girlfriend threw the alarm clock at me… Does that even count? I don’t know. My alarm clock is actually quite beaten up, I should probably buy a new one.

           “5:47am”. As I sat there a couple more moments, I felt intruded upon. As if the sun was invading my privacy, putting me on a stage for all the world to laugh at. Don’t you hate that?

           I strutted to my bedroom, sticky boxers and all, and silenced the howling beast. On my way out, after tripping over an extension cord gone awry, I stood face-to-face with the blasphemous stock photos. Those motherfuckers were taunting me, I know they were. The flowers! The fucking tire swing! Are you kidding me? Rage flared within me. I seriously could not begin to tell you why or how I allowed these abominations to remain for so long. They really made me want to puke.

           Instinctively I tore the frames from the wall and stomped back to the kitchen with them tucked under my arm. I could’ve sworn to God they were burning me with their wickedness, their phoniness.

           I found myself in front of the window, the same window the damn sun broke in through. I disengaged the lock and threw it open. A blast of chill air sucked inward, air you could tell was leftover from the night. It had a nice smell. It was then that I realized how muggy it had been in the kitchen. Like two (or more) people were in here having sex all night or something. If only.

           I peered outside into the shifting sky. You know, there isn’t a lot to brag about in Indiana, but the sunrises are absolutely beautiful. Picturesque, you could say. Deep reds that bleed over the entire Earth, splashes of orange, streaks of lavender. They are serene.

           I felt a searing on my side. Pulling the photos out from my arm, I flung them out into the open air without so much as a last glance. I suppose I could have thrown them in the trash, but then they would still be inside the apartment. They had to be eradicated, and immediately. With pleasure I envisioned gravity pulling them down, down, down, all thirteen floors, where they would meet their well-deserved demise on the sidewalk below. Gosh, I hope they don’t hit anything… An afterthought.

           It took only a grain of sand in the hourglass of our universe for the photos to collide with the pavement, marked by a satisfying crash. Later some would testify that a dog’s yelp followed just after the commotion, but I heard no such thing.

           Smug and triumphant with a menace destroyed, I turned on my heel, only to be blasted with more joy as my gaze fell upon my papers on the table. Oh, my work! My lovely work!

           The lack of sleep, the now sweat stained boxers… It had all been worth it. I had spent all night crafting the structure for what I know, without a doubt, will be my best story ever. The big one.

           I had finished the outline, was already on the second chapter of the story. Hell, I even sketched out a picture of ole’ Krosmere. A muscle-bound barbarian. Thick, long brown hair (like mine). I made him only have one nipple, though. You know, to add character and all that. Really, I am a terrible artist. I couldn’t draw my way out of a two-dimensional square if I had to.

           I still had about three hours until I needed to start selling lightbulbs, which was fine with me. You can do a lot in three hours, if you really try. I figured I could make some breakfast, get cleaned up, maybe even go for a walk. Working through the day without a wink of sleep was not something I really looked forward to, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Adderall. I’m fairly sure I had someone’s script in my cabinet still. You know, for emergencies and the like.

           With a newfound pep in my step, I threw the pan onto the rusted stove and began cracking some eggs, whistling along with the birds perched among the rooftops outside.

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 4

Aedion tells his story.  Read Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.

He stood in the watch tower, crossbow in hand, looking north.  The air still had the bite of winter, but the snow drops were beginning to show their white heads and spring was nearly here.  It had been two years to the day since he had lost everything and the world had gone to hell, and  eighteen months since he’d been taken by the enemy.  Eighteen months in which he’d gained a few inches and thirty pounds of muscle, while his voice had finished deepening to a rich, rolling baritone, his accent no less pronounced but no longer mocked.  In which he’d learned how to use the crossbow, and the mace, and to fight as easily from horseback as from the ground.  Eighteen months for him to make friends among the soldiers, the kitchen staff, the laundresses, the gardeners, the stable hands.  For him to learn how they patrolled, how they strategized, to become the voice they all listened for.  For him to have been earmarked for advancement as an officer, for even Perrington to stop tracking his every move.

Eighteen months for them to forget that they had a wolf in their midst.  

*****

Delaney was waiting for him as he came out of the tower at the end of his watch.  He strode over to her with a nod, and she fell in as he passed.  They walked in silence towards the mess hall, her eyes drifting to him periodically.  He’d grown since she’d met him, put on about thirty pounds of muscle, and even though his broadening frame needed at least thirty pounds more he was still the largest person at the camp.  He’d never intimidated her, not since that night he’d cried out his heart-pain in the granary, but today she couldn’t quite ignore the clenched jaw, the tension in his shoulders that made him loom over her even more than usual.

“What’s with you?” She finally interrupted his reverie.  

“Nothing,” he snapped back.  She merely raised an eyebrow in return, and he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, roughing up the patchy stubble that was beginning to grow along his jaw.  “Sorry.  Today’s just…hard.”

She didn’t ask why; if he wanted to tell her, he would.  He only seemed to get moody if something reminded him of his prior life.  It was the worst kept secret in camp that he was no mere captured warrior-in-training but a prince of Terrasen.  Her brother Raedan had told her first, in gleeful whispers over dinner one night.  Raedan had also been the one who had gushed breathlessly over the speed and grace with which Aedion fought, who preened every time the prince praised him or gave him advice.  The boys were nearly the same age but were about as similar as a barn cat and a mountain lion.

It had been many months since Delaney had been able to stop skulking around the fort, thanks to this hulking giant by her side.  Even she couldn’t really have told how the friendship had happened exactly, given that laundresses and trainees didn’t spend time together. Initially they just kept bumping into each other, she trying to hide from the men in the camp, he being too restless to settle in the barracks with the other boys after the evening meal.  He always headed for the stables and would spend long periods grooming the horses.  Like everyone else, the stable boys at first thought he was odd, but he laughed and joked and worked his way into their acceptance.  When her own wanderings took her by there as he was leaving, they would nod hello and exchange a few words, awkward at first but soon warming into conversation.  She found her feet carrying her there more and more often, and eventually she ended up spending the evenings among the warm-smelling beasts, passing Aedion a curry comb or dandy brush as he worked.   There was something soothing about the stables: the rhythmic noise of chewing, the quiet rustling in straw, the large curious eyes that surveyed her from under forelocks.  

Once again it was Raedan who made her aware of the gossip that swarmed the camp.  This time the rumor was that Aedion had taken her as his lover.  She had laughed in her brother’s awestruck face when he asked her if it were true.  It hadn’t taken her long, though, to realize how much that particular falsehood benefitted her.  Nobody would dare approach a girl with that fierce warrior-prince as a lover regardless of his age.  Pretty soon she began seeking him out in daylight hours, frequently joining him at meals or bringing him clean towels after training, and he accepted the change of routine warmly and without question.  She had never asked him if he knew the rumors, but his protective posturing when she was near the older men in camp indicated he did.  

She had also never dared ask him if he did in fact care for her.  Not when she could never care for him in that way, when her love could never be more than that of an adopted-sister.

*****

They were almost at the mess hall when something penetrated Aedion’s foul mood.  Someone was staring at Delaney.  He stiffened and looked around in the growing dark, to find three men standing on the general’s front step, looking in their direction.  Looking at him, not her.  He inhaled deeply.  Their scents were unfamiliar, and one of them had that same odd metallic smell that he sometimes noticed on Perrington.  He looked away, pretending he hadn’t seen them, and shouldered Delaney through the door.  She glanced up at him, her face tight, for once not peppering him with her usual teasing insults.  Gods.  He was being such a prick today.    

After grabbing food at random from the long buffet, oblivious to what he selected, he followed her to where she sat with her sisters.  Avis smiled at them sweetly, while Maida studied his plate.  “Do you really like gravy on your peas?” she asked, though with her lisp it sounded more like “peathe.”  

He looked down at his plate. In his fog, he had in fact put gravy all over his peas and asparagus, missing his potatoes and pork entirely.  Shrugging, he shoveled a forkful into his mouth and chewed vigorously, crossing his eyes at her.  She giggled and primly selected a tiny piece of potato that Avis had cut for her.  With his next bite, he made an even more grotesque face, and soon both girls were laughing while Delaney smiled indulgently at her sisters.  They were interrupted by Raedan dropping his plate loudly on the table, accompanied by a small splash of gravy.  Aedion suppressed a grin.  No matter where he sat - with Delaney and her sisters, with the trainees, with the stable hands - Raedan appeared.  The only table he wouldn’t approach was that of the older soldiers who had accepted Aedion’s pushing his way in grudgingly, but were unlikely to welcome another.

“Did you hear?” Raedan asked, nearly vibrating with excitement.  “The selectors for officer training just came!”  Ah.  So that was who those men were.  “I heard you were on their list.  And so was Cobden, and Ayner, and Hardwin, and Torr.  And some of the older men.”  He somehow managed to fit a giant mound of pork and potatoes into his mouth, and then continued, muffled, “I can’t believe they’re going to take you to be an officer, you’re only sixteen.”

Delaney glared at her brother in warning.  “We don’t know they’re going to pick him,” she snapped.  “They only usually take a couple, and they’ve never taken anyone below eighteen before.”  

Struggling manfully to swallow, Raedan choked for a second before replying, “You just don’t want your lover going to Rifthold.”

There was a beat of silence while Avis and Maida looked back and forth between Aedion and Delaney, eyes round, mouths open.  Aedion could feel the heat rising in his face.  He had heard the rumors but didn’t think anyone really believed them, least of all Delaney’s own family.  It occurred to him that he had no idea what she had told her family about him, or even what her own feelings were about him.  She treated him much as she treated Raedan, though she obviously relied on him more for protection.  Despite the fact that his cock seemed to have a mind of its own these days, he had never thought of her as anything other than a sister-friend.  The possibility that she felt more…

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She interrupted his reverie with a reach across the table to smack her brother in the head.  “We talked about this ages ago.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging, ignoring his mussed-up hair.  “I didn’t believe you.”

She laughed then, and the younger girls relaxed.  “Obviously.  No, it’s just,” she turned to Aedion, tone earnest, “they never have taken anyone under eighteen.  I didn’t want you to feel…”

He grinned back, that cocky, irritating smile that always riled her up.  “You didn’t want me to feel inadequate if they chose someone else?”  Now it was her turn to blush.  “Nah, it would’ve been their loss.”

“I should’ve known nothing could make you feel inadequate, you arrogant bastard.”  He quirked an eyebrow at her, and her flush deepened.  Shit.  He probably should talk about this with her.  Sometime when they weren’t surrounded by her family.  Oh gods, if she really did want him like that, what would he do?  He’d never been with anyone yet, relying on his hand to take the edge off, and to think about that with Delaney…His skin crawled.  It’s not that she wasn’t pretty, she was probably the prettiest girl…woman…at the fort; it just felt wrong somehow.  Maybe because she was the only real friend he had left.  Or because with her snarly bossiness masking her fears, Delaney kind of reminded him of Aelin.  He glanced sideways at her, at the bloom her blush had left on her face, at the wariness that remained in her hazel eyes despite her joking manner.  Shit.

*****

Shit.  Trust Raedan to blurt that out in front of the girls and Aedion.  Poor Aedion, he looked like his foot was caught in a trap though he was obviously trying to ignore it.  The rest of the meal passed in a blur of talk about training and joking with the girls.  Maida had forgotten all about it once she dug into the stewed cinnamon apples Aedion brought her, but Avis kept glancing between them, hope shining in her round face.

After the meal they split up, Delaney walking the girls back to the hut, Aedion heading to the stables, Raedan to the barracks.  “So are you?” Avis asked the second they were out of earshot.  

“Am I what?” Delaney hedged.

“His lover.”

She sighed.  “No, honey.  I’m not.”

“But why not?” Maida chimed in.  “He’s nice.  And he’s strong.  And he’s handsome.”

Delaney couldn’t help but laugh at that.  “Yes, he’s all of those.”

“So why don’t you like him?”

“I do like him,” she replied, “I just don’t love him.  I can’t.”  Two young brows furrowed in confusion and she sighed again.  “I don’t know how to explain it.”

The girls were silent for the rest of the walk back to the empty hut.  Their mother was nowhere to be found, and Delaney didn’t want to know where she was.  As she supervised the washing of faces and cleaning of teeth, she could see Avis turning it all over in her head.  Finally, after tucking them in, Avis whispered, “I wish you could.”

Delaney smiled a little sadly as she kissed Avis’ temple.  “Me too, honey.  Me too.”

*****

Aedion walked to the stables in a bit of a daze, his mind a swirl of emotions.  He grabbed some brushes and settled in to groom Sparrow, the giant gray mare with the ironic name he had been assigned for training.  She pinned her ears as he entered her stall, but when she realized he was going to let her eat she ignored him.  The rhythm of currying the loose hair off of her was soothing, and his head began to clear for the first time all day.

Officer training.  He was on the list for officer training.  If only he could actually be made an officer, perhaps be given a force of his own…  There would be no better way to seed discord than within the King’s vast army itself.  But it would have to be done carefully.  He would have to fight and kill for the King before he could hope to advance, would have to come up with a way of hiding his true intentions while not turning any rebels he found against him.  Was it even possible, he wondered, to win the trust of the people who mattered while keeping up appearances by slaughtering for the enemy?

He was still mulling that over when Delaney entered the stable.  A twinge of guilt shot through him.  She headed over and leaned against the stall door watching him in silence.  He nodded a greeting and bent over to inspect Sparrow’s shoes and clean her feet.  “I told them,” she said after looking around that nobody was near.  He set the foot down and straightened to meet her eye over the horse’s broad back.  “I told them there was nothing like that between us.”  Her eyes were clear and free of any strong emotion.

“How did they take it?” he asked, unsure how to respond.

Her lips quirked up in a crooked half-smile.  “Avis is disappointed.  She thinks you’re handsome.”

“Well, obviously,” he said, gesturing to himself.  She grinned, and he went on.  “Are you…okay with this?”

“Yeah.  You’re really not my type.”  

Relief warred with indignation at her response, and he had to laugh internally at his own inconsistency.  “Oh?  Why not?”

Delaney took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive into dark unknown water.  “Well, you’re almost pretty enough, but I’m pretty sure you have a cock and that disqualifies you.”

Oh.  OH.  Well, that he understood, though he was not exactly particular about such things.  She was looking at him worriedly, waiting for his reaction.  “I can prove that fact if you want to erase all doubt,” he said without thinking, and was rewarded for his carelessness by a gut-busting belt of laughter.

“No need, unless you’ve been stuffing socks down your pants at all hours of the day,” she replied tartly.  He flushed at that and picked up a dandy brush and set to work on Sparrow’s mane.  “Are you disappointed?” she asked more gently.  

Turning to her, he shook his head.  “No, you’re not really my type either.”

“What’s you’re type, then?”

He shrugged, not thinking “anyone but you” was an acceptable answer.  “Um, I don’t really know. Just not people who remind me of my cousin.”  

It was Delaney’s turn to be startled.  “I remind you of your cousin?”  He nodded, turning back to the horse to hide the pricking in his eyes that started whenever he thought of Aelin.  When he  turned back she was looking at him speculatively.  “Have you ever?”

He knew what she meant.  “No.  You?”

She shook her head and he resumed his brushing.  “You could, you know.  Pretty much anyone here would be happy to help you past that particular milestone.”  His brain rebelled against that, though his cock thought it was a fantastic idea.  Traitor.  Damn thing had a worse hair trigger than his crossbow.  He kept his hips facing the horse while trying to think about dysentery, the bloated carcass of a deer he had once found in the woods, that time he had thrown a rotten egg at Ren and Ren had tackled him and rubbed it in his hair in retaliation.  None of it worked until Delaney added with a cynical snort, “Actually if you have some silver on you my mother would probably take care of it any time.”      

Aedion shuddered at the thought.  She was the same age as Evalin had been, and plus the whole concept of fucking Delaney’s mother felt like incest.  He patted Sparrow, who just shoved her face deeper into her hay, and put away the brushes.  They headed out into the dark camp; it was a cloudy night and the only light came from the barracks and the huts.  As soon as they were away from the stables, Delaney asked casually, “So, do I look like her?”

It took Aedion a moment to think of who she meant.  “My cousin?”  He laughed a little.  “Gods no.”

“But you said -”

“Yeah, I didn’t mean in looks.  Aelin looked like me, just tinier.  Gods, she was so small…”  Suddenly he wanted to talk about her.  It was like now, two years after her death she was demanding he remember every detail.  He held his huge hands out in front of him, staring at the palms as they walked.  “I came over when I was five, and she had just been born.  I remember when they let me hold her for the first time.  She was so fragile, I couldn’t believe they’d trust me not to break her.  And she just gave this huge yawn, and blinked at me, and I…”  His voice broke a little then, but he wasn’t ashamed.  “I was in love.”

“I know what you mean.”  Delaney’s voice was thick.  “I don’t really remember when Raedan was a baby, I was too young, but with Avis, there was just so much trust.  Nobody trusted me.  I don’t blame them, I was a wild little fool who climbed all the trees and stole the jam and once let the horses out into the garden, but Avis didn’t know about any of that.  She just believed I’d keep her safe.  So I did,” she finished simply.

Aedion shifted course towards the small herb garden that backed the kitchens and sat down on the low retaining wall, Delaney settling next to him.  “She was wild too.  I spent half my life chasing after her trying to keep her from destroying stuff, and the other half knocking around kids who made fun of her.” He laughed a little.  “Well, of us.  Everyone said I was too attached to her.”  He was quiet for a long moment, until Delaney shifted so she was pressing her arm against his.  

“How did she die?” she asked, and though her voice was little more than a whisper it felt like a scream.

“You don’t know the story?”  She shook her head.  “I would have thought everyone knew how Adarlan came to take over Terrasen.”

She shrugged, the tension in her body belying the casual gesture.“All I was ever told was that the king of Terrasen and his heir were assassinated, and that Adarlan was going to try to stabilize the continent by taking over.  Then the lords organized an army against us so we had to fight.  But what does your cousin have to do with it?”  When he didn’t respond, she prompted, “I mean, I know you’re a prince of Terrasen, so I’m guessing she was a princess?”

“Gods,” he said under his breath.  He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would somehow make it easier to talk about it.  “I’m not actually a prince of Terrasen,” he said.  “I’m a prince of Wendlyn, that’s where I was born.  My mother was Evalin Ashryver’s cousin.  Evalin married Rhoe Galathynius, who was heir to the crown of Terrasen, and Aelin was their daughter.”  He tapped a finger against the retaining wall, trying to figure out how much to tell this daughter of Adarlan.  “Two years ago today, the King of Adarlan and Prince Dorian came to visit.  Now, Aelin had fire magic, and she didn’t always have great control.”  Opening his eyes, he glanced over at Delaney, who was staring off into the dark, listening tightly.  “She had an…episode, and they thought that taking her to their country house would be safest.  Everyone was kind of afraid of her, her gift was so strong.”  He paused again, almost seeing that bright flame flickering before him.

“But you weren’t.”  It wasn’t a question.

“No.  I wasn’t.  But they didn’t let me go with them, just Rhoe and Evalin and Aelin went, with Evalin’s lady-in-waiting and a few other household staff.   That night, King Orlon was assassinated in his bed in Orynth, and at the same time, miles away, so were Rhoe and Evalin.”

“And Aelin?”

“She was the one who found them,” and at the thought of his fierce Fireheart finding her dead parents his voice broke.  “She found them in their bed with their throats cut.  One of the servants rode to Orynth in a panic, and they left Lady Marion and Aelin behind.  I don’t know if they thought they were safer there because they hadn’t been touched, or what.  Meanwhile, the King of Adarlan ordered me to be locked up in the tower.  For my safety, supposedly.”  He snorted, but there was no humor in the sound.  “The whole castle was in confusion, and nobody thought to ride out for Aelin.  By the time they did, they found Marion beheaded in the kitchen and Aelin was gone.”

Delaney was staring at him now, hand over her mouth and tears coursing down her cheeks.  “Where did she go?” she whispered, as if she were afraid to know the answer.  

“They followed her tracks down to the river.  There were hoof prints, too, so we think she was pursued.  Or herded, more like.  The bridge had been cut, and the tracks ran right to where it should have been, then disappeared.  It was freezing water, and the river runs fast, and she was never a strong swimmer…”  He put his head in his hands, unable to see anything but her tiny body and golden head being swept under the current.  Delaney slipped her arm through his, and wrapped that arm around her and pulled her in close enough to rest his cheek on her hair.  She stiffened, then relaxed into the hold.

“What happened to you?” she asked after a while.

“I stayed locked in the tower for over a month, until after magic disappeared.  Then some of Rhoe’s men broke me out and I joined the lords.  After I was captured in that last battle Terrasen surrendered and here I am.”  The first frogs of spring were beginning to call in the small pond beyond the fort wall.  Delaney shifted a little and Aedion released her, then stood and held out his hand to help her up.  She took it and once she was on her feet she studied him for a moment.

“And why are you still here?”

He had been asking himself that question all day, but he knew he couldn’t tell Delaney the answer he had come to, so he settled for a different truth. “Because they haven’t killed me yet.  Because I have nowhere else to go.”

*****

Delaney didn’t want to admit how much Aedion’s story had shaken her.  As she lay in her loft bed with her sisters, she thought of the lies she had been fed - that the Terrasen royal family had been assassinated by a foreign force; that Adarlan was just trying to keep the continent intact by taking over the country.  It was clear from his dry tone when he mentioned the King of Adarlan that he didn’t believe his presence there was a coincidence, though it would be treason to suggest otherwise.

Most of all, she pictured Avis or Maida finding their mother dead, then running for their lives only to drown in an icy river.  She thought of Raedan being locked in a tower while he learned of the death of one of his sisters.  Would he have raged as no doubt Aedion had done?  Would he have even lived and remained sane through all that loss?  And in the end, would he betray his country for the sake of his own survival?  

Long into the night, she watched the girls’ steady breathing.  Sometimes she reached out and touched their hair to reassure herself of their existence, thinking of Aedion clinging to her so tightly while he told his story, as if she were the one he was keeping from the water.  

[magically-strange]

Costumed Craving...

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Bog sat outside on his balcony watching the sun as it sank behind the tall trees dotting the residential neighborhood that ran alongside his apartment complex.  The only difference from the norm was the lack of a beer bottle in his hand and his haggard expression.  

It was now four and a half weeks since that Halloween party.  The nip in the air confirmed that winter was fast approaching, but Bog’s blue sheepskin jacket was still in the closet.  He didn’t seem to feel the chill.  Or at least, it didn’t seem to bother him anymore.

Yet another weird entry to his ‘the-fuck-is-going-on-with-me?’ list.  

After another week, he’d given up on binging, much to the relief of his bank account.  The odd, restless craving was still there, but he’d managed to determine that his body was only instinctually assuming it was food he wanted.  Yet no matter what he tried, nothing satisfied him.  Not even his mother’s famous Thanksgiving dinner.

Bog had always had a good appetite, especially for his mom’s cooking, but when even she pointed out that he might be overdoing it, something was definitely wrong.

Honey, I didn’t even eat that much when I pregnant with you!  

On top of that, he’d had three more of those…heart palpitations.  They were random and just as frighteningly strong as the first.  It was really starting to scare him.  If it was serious, then he might have to go to…

Shuddering, Bog hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller.

Bog hated hospitals.  They reminded him of those terrible months when he was fifteen, and his father was wasting away from lung cancer.  He remembered it all, clear as glass.  The once mighty and fearsome Briar King drying up like a raisin, spewing so much anger and bitterness from his constant pain and growing weakness, eventually followed by his quiet, unsettling acceptance of his impending death, and then watching his pallor turn a horrible, greyish yellow as he was at last taken off his life support.

Ever since then, Bog experienced a terrible anxiety when it came to hospitals.  Even driving past one made him uncomfortable.  Over the summer, when his childhood friend Brutus and his wife were having their baby at St. Mary’s, Bog of course had to be there for them, but his hands were shaking the whole time.  He had to sit beside a large window in the waiting room to keep his breathing even, and like a nervous toddler, he made sure his mother didn’t leave his sight as she chatted with Brutus’s parents.

It sucked feeling so helpless, and what was worse, was that Bog had allowed his fear to make stupid decisions about his health.  While his mother had taken up water aerobics, ate less processed meats in favor of more whole grains and beans, and visited the doctor more often after his father’s passing, Bog avoided even the simplest routine checkups.  

What if they found something?  

Something deadly?

And then send him to the hospital…

…where they’d put him in one of those hideous beds…

…in their soulless, cream-colored rooms…

…so they could stick him all over with needles…

…and never let him leave…

…until the damn EKG machine sang that final prolonged note?

Bog dragged his hands across his face and took a deep breath to quell the inner tremors rising from his thoughts.  He needed to calm down.  For all he knew, a panic attack could trigger another palpitation.  Plus, he’d finally forced himself into the clinic on Monday.

Dr. Plum had been his parents’ physician and friend since before Bog was born, so he trusted her like an aunt, even if she could be a bit overly-eccentric for his personal taste. All that mattered was that she was good at her job, and she cared.

Too bad she couldn’t give him any solid answers.  

You’re the healthiest thirty-one-year-old man I’ve ever seen, sweetie.  You say you’ve been eating quite a lot lately, but you haven’t gained a single pound since your mother dragged you here six months ago when you had that nasty flu.  Now you said you’re not experiencing any chest discomfort, dizziness, fainting, or shortness of breath with your palpitations, but I’ll run a few tests just in case, and I’m going to increase your Prozac strength to 40mg to counteract your anxiety.  In the meantime, I want you to take it easy and enjoy yourself, okay?  You’d be surprised at how often all this mystery turns out to be nothing more than stress.

Bog had wisely kept his mouth shut and thanked her, but he seriously doubted that any of this was because of stress.  What did he have to be stressed about?  He had a great job, that he was in control of.  He was independent.  He was apparently healthy.  He even had a special someone now…

After running into Marianne again at the supermarket two days after their steamy encounter at the mall, he decided to take the plunge.  She couldn’t distract him, there were too many witnesses around, and no convenient places to hide and get racy in a grocery store, so he asked her to have dinner with him.  

There was a lump in his throat as he watched the confliction play on her face, but when she’d given him a hopeful smile and accepted, he could’ve done a somersault right there in the bread aisle.  

Then they may or may not have made out for a while in his truck after making their purchases.  It was nice to actually see her leave for once.

They’d gone out on quite a few dates since then.  Dinner, lunch, movies, dancing, hiking, the amusement park, the museum, even the 80s arcade!  

And Bog was loving it all!

He’d never enjoyed talking to someone as much as he did Marianne.  It was amazing how much they realized they had in common, besides sex and an appreciation for classic Elvis; she’d even chuckled at the cosmic humor of Bog’s last name being ‘King’.  They both loved horror movies, rock & roll, video games, Chinese food, history, camping, and urban exploration.  She liked to sing and collect swords, and she taught boxing in her own gym.  She’d also lost a parent, too; her mother to a plane crash in 1996.  

Furthermore, she knew what it was like to have your heart broken.  To Bog’s shock, her fiancé had cheated on her the day before their wedding. What a complete and utter dumbass!    

In Bog’s case, it had been about two years since he’d been dumped by the woman he thought he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.  It hurt like a bitch, but in all honesty, he should’ve seen it coming. The warning signs were all there, and he would’ve noticed them, if he hadn’t been so blinded by the aesthetic.

Not that Marianne didn’t have enough of that going on herself.  Sometimes, Bog would look at her and just…forget how to speak.  She was so beautiful and fun and tough and different.

He knew he was dangerously close to having it really bad for her, and she certainly wasn’t doing anything to discourage him.

The dating hadn’t stopped their fooling around, and whenever it got that far, Bog would still pass out and wake up alone, but thankfully, Marianne had cooled it when it came to trying anything to hot and heavy in public. Lately, she’d wait until they got to his place, but one of these days, by God, he was gonna make her breakfast before she left!

Being around Marianne made almost everything better.  The awful craving seemed…less so, when she was near.  No palpitations, no hunger, no funk.  He felt stronger and more care free with her.    

Which was why he was out here right now.  Plum had called an hour ago to tell him that all the tests she’d run came back negative. In her own words, his heart was practically in mint condition.  

Then she’d asked him a certain question.

I want you to call me immediately if something else happens.  But before I go, you said your symptoms started the morning after a Halloween party, correct?  Can you think of anything else that might’ve happened around that time, Bog?  Anything strange at all?

Bog thought back on that night.

He’d opened his own beer bottle that night and hadn’t set it down until he threw it away.  He didn’t eat any of the food, because he’d had Subway beforehand. He hadn’t even smoked the joints some of the guests were passing around.

So, there wasn’t-

Without warning, an image of a brown-eyed, dark fairy temptress walking towards him through a crowd of costumes came to the forefront of his mind….

No.  

No, that was just crazy!

He’d told Plum he didn’t have a clue, and hung up.

It was crazy…

…right?

He didn’t go inside until well after dark.

[thereadersmuse]

Congratulations for your engagement! Awesome news. :) How did it all unfold?

Sorry about the delay in answering and also keeping those interested waiting. This weekend/week so far has been a whirlwind of good insanity. So this seems like as good an opportunity as any to get into it with that post I promised!Saturday started normal, slept in a little bit and then kind of got pulled into Mr. Muse’s strangely frantic bursts of activity and cleaned the house while side-eying him as he made food for no particular reason. At this point I figured there was something birthday related going on as my ancient ass was going to turn 30 on Monday (at that point two days away).Then, pretty much out of the blue we drove an hour and a half away and met his cousin (whom I hadn’t met yet) and while I talked to her almost husband I noticed her and Mr. Muse sneaking boxes into the back of our vehicle. Then we left. Cue more side-eying.Instead of heading home Mr. Muse decided we should go for a hike. I thought, hey why not. And it was decided to go do the short trail close by that had a gorgeous waterfall at the end. It is a spot we both love as it is this small cedar tree ecosystem stuffed into a ravine. And it smells so good! I had never seen it in winter so we pull in and head out.We get to the waterfall and god- it is gorgeous. The waterfall had been almost frozen over - but was still flowing almost skipping here and there through the deep snow. So beautiful. Then Mr. Muse grins at me- straight up GRINS. And like the absolutely gorgeous moron that he is, pretends to slip down to one knee.That was it.That was the moment. He asked me to marry him.It was perfect.He is perfect.The ring is b e y o n d perfect.I teared up and said yes - obviously.Then, naturally, he slipped trying to get up to kiss me. He ended up grabbing my arm while his feet made like the roadrunner on ice - moving fast but going no where. I laughed until I hiccuped. It was very US.More than anything it reminded me that despite having a ring on my finger, nothing has really changed at all. And that was a good feeling.

I figured that was it as we walked back to the car. I figured it was time to go home and maybe tear all his clothes off and horrify our elderly neighbors but then- then he is like- we can go home for a bit but we need to go grocery shopping.*cue screeching brake sound*Grocery shopping? Like- you want to take your level one wife grocery shopping? I was like- alright apparently we are already T H A T married. Cool. I can quietly weep on the candy aisle or something.“I was like fine- you could be getting sex but naw. Let’s go to Save-on so I can at least get dinosours and regret all my life choices when they inevitably give me heartburn.”But again I was cruelly denied. 

We went to the shitty mall with the shitty non-dinosours carrying grocery store.

Or so I thought-

He led me down a staircase I had never noticed before and to a-

Bowling alley?!?!?

A very dark bowling alley with crazy flashing lights and bad carpet choices.

K?

At this point I was beginning to understand that something else was going on, but before I could pry out the information- BAM- about thirty people jumped out of the dark and yelled-

SURPRISE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I might have peed myself.

Like, just a little bit.

Like, maybe a tinkle.

After I finished hugging a bunch of family and friends I suddenly realized that Mr. Muse is a f u c k i n g genius. Literally everyone I wanted to tell other than a few traveling friends was here- so I cleared my throat and said- “I have a surprise too!” I flashed the ring and I swear to GOD I am still partially deaf from the screaming.

Anyway, it was a birthday surprise party - no one knew about the engagement so it was kinda cool that it was like a two-in-one party. There was much bowling and balloons and I had to wear a god awful strobe light pin all afternoon and it was glorious. I hadn’t been bowling in like 15 years and I sucked so bad, it was great. 

Then we moved the party back to our place where I walked in to find the house full of birthday decorations and FOOD. The party didn’t end till around 11pm and then it was scrambling around for sheets for my sister and her husband who were going to stay for a few days. They left early Tuesday morning so that was why I was very busy and didn’t have time to catch you guys all up sooner.

PS: The thing we picked up from Mr. Muse’s cousin was three boxes of handmade cupcakes. Aka the reason I probably gained ten pounds. They were so good. There was Chocolate Raspberry, Kahlua Coffee Chocolate, and Triple Chocolate. I like chocolate and as you might imagine, Mr. Muse might have just caught on to that in the seven years we have been together so far.

PPS: The RING - it is a ruby with diamonds, obviously. But the way Mr. Muse did it was that he had the stone cut by a professional gemstone cutter. And because of that and how amazing the cutter was, the stone is completely unique. There is no other stone like it in the world. 99.9% of gems hit the market already cut. Mr. Muse chose a hunk of Ruby and had it cut professionally instead. He also selected the diamonds and made sure they were not only good quality but not conflict diamonds. After the stone was cut he had it mailed to him and selected a jeweler. He settled with one in town that specializes in custom work only. And when Mr. Muse brought it in the man behind the counter nearly had a stroke. He was floored by how gorgeous the stone was and how exquisite the cut was and how unique- blah blah. Then he started babbling about how to go about setting it. Mr. Muse laughed when he told me this later, about how he basically ‘broke’ the jeweler. Apparently Mr. Muse and the guy went back and forth for a few weeks before settling on a design that would look like ‘both of us’ personality wise, as well as being an appropriate setting for the stone. As you can see in the pictures it is rather large and needed special requirements in order to be secure. 

This ring though, guys- when the light hits? It is radiant. It is the most stunning piece of jewelry I own, and that is taking out all emotion from the picture. My family likes jewelry so I do have my fair share. Mr. Muse knocked this one right out of the park in so many ways, I knew this was in the works for ACTUAL years. The dork made me watch a slideshow once of different ring styles two years ago even. He is my dork and I adore him to the end of the earth tbh. We knew we were lifers a long time ago, this was just a matter of putting a ring on it. And damn am I one happy gal!

[andrewdburton]

Wishing for a walkable neighborhood

“You sure slept in late,” I said to Kim this morning.

“I know,” she said. “I was up for two hours in the middle of the night. I was thinking about you. I was thinking about everything we talked about at our family meeting.”

“For two hours?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Kim said. “My wheels were spinning. I was trying to figure out why you've been so unhappy since we moved to this house. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it's because we don't live in a walkable neighborhood. That's so important for you. I think it makes a real difference to your mental health.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” I said.

Walk Score: Seven

Actually, when we moved to this place two-and-a-half years ago, the lack of walkability was a very real consideration. I thought about it. I talked about it. I wrote about it. In the end, though, I decided that the pros of the move would outweigh the cons.

Since we moved, I haven't thought much about the lack of walkability here. I'm aware of it, sure, and I sometimes bemoan the fact that I can't just walk for errands. But Kim could be right. This could be a critical factor in my (lack of) recent happiness.

The condo had a Walk Score of 68, a Bike Score of 81, and a Transit Score of 37. Our current country cottage has a Walk Score of 7, a Bike Score of 24, and a Transit Score of 0. (The only reason our Walk Score isn't a zero? There are nearby schools and parks.)

At our old place, the 0.5-mile walk to the nearest grocery store took ten minutes. Now, the two nearest grocery stores are both 1.5 miles away — or half an hour by foot. (Plus there's 625 feet of elevation change on one route, an average grade of about 7.5%.)

At the condo, walking to restaurants took a little longer than walking to the grocery store — by two minutes. And there were a dozen good eateries to choose from! Here, it's the same 1.5-mile walk to reach lesser-quality restaurants (and, again, half of them are at the bottom of a huge hill).

When we lived in Portland, it was easy to walk for nearly every errand. If the place I needed wasn't in the half-mile radius of our immediate neighborhood, it was almost certainly within the one-mile radius of our extended neighborhood. And some summer afternoons, I'd make the 2.7-mile walk to the next neighborhood over in order to access even more stores and services.

Here, outside of the two shopping centers that are 1.5 miles away, there are two additional commercial pockets that are each 2.9 miles away (at the bottom of the hill). Those walks are doable — but not often.

Gone are the days when at three in the afternoon, I'd decide what to make for dinner, then walk to the grocery store to pick up ingredients. Gone are the days of spontaneously deciding to walk to Thai food for lunch. Gone are the days of walking the four miles into downtown Portland from the condo to meet readers and colleagues.

A Cascade Effect

Before we moved, I averaged about 12,000 steps per day. Last month, I averaged 6287 steps per day. Most of those steps are from walking the dog. A few times per year, I'll walk for errands. Mostly, though, I drive.

Other indicators are worrisome too. In the thirty months since we've lived here, I've gained thirty pounds. (I'm pleased to report that I seem to have arrested this weight gain, however, and am now losing weight.) My net worth has dropped $300,000 (!!!). I now get a few social interactions per week instead of a few per day.

I can't say there's a causal relationship between the move and these changes (although it sure seems likely). And I'm not saying that I want to leave this house. Because I don't. I told Kim as much this morning.

“I'll do whatever it takes to improve your mental health,” Kim said this morning. “Even if it means moving.”

I waved her off. “I think you're probably right about this. I think the lack of walkability probably has had a huge impact on me. But I don't want to move. That feels foolish. I love this place. I love my life here with you and our animals. I don't want to leave.”

Instead, I think I need to force myself to get out and walk more. I need to accept where I live and walk regardless.

A decade ago, when Kris and I were still married and living on the other side of the river, I was in a similar situation. The nearest grocery store was exactly one mile away. There were a few restaurants within 1.5 miles of the house. If I was feeling ambitious, I could walk the 2.7 miles to the nearest downtown area to access even more stuff.

For most of the time I lived in that house, I did not walk for errands. But during my last couple of years with Kris, I learned to walk. It became something I looked forward to. By the time we split up, I was often walking the five-mile roundtrip to the nearest town for lunch. I think that's something I could (and should) do here.

Time to Walk

“You know what?” Kim said as we prepared to walk the dog this morning. “I think you might want to consider renting an office somewhere nearby. Even if it's just a small place. It'd be a way for you to get out of the house. And if the office was somewhere walkable, you could scratch that itch too.”

Maybe Kim's right. I don't know.

This morning, I sifted through Craigslist to see if there's any local office space for rent. There is, but not much. Five miles from our house, in the center of the next city over, there are two spots available.

The first space is 129 square feet for $325 per month.

The second space is 161 square feet for $425 per month.

Both of these spaces are in the same building, and the building is in the heart of a walkable downtown where we already do many of our errands. Plus, there's a Regus shared office space at the bottom our our hill, about 2.5 miles from the house. That's certainly walkable in summer and bike-able most of the year. (There's no much else in that particular neighborhood though.)

I've already sent email regarding the office space. Tomorrow, I'll drop by the Regus building to check out my options there. I think Kim may be on to something here.

In the meantime, I'm absolutely going to make myself walk more often — despite the fact that meterological winter starts today. When the cats need food, I'll walk to the pet store. For small shopping trips, I'll walk to the grocery store. And once or twice each week, I'll walk to a local restaurant for lunch (and to work).

Instead of being passive, instead of allowing myself to be unhappy due to my circumstances (circumstances that I chose), it's time for me to be proactive, time for me to do the things that I know bring me increased well-being. And that means walking.

The post Wishing for a walkable neighborhood appeared first on Get Rich Slowly.

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[chasecreativewriting-blog]

Final Essay

The name “Chase Azarian” can mean an entirely different thing depending on the person you mention it to. Yes, I know many can say the same thing about their own names, but I feel like my story is different. Someone who knew me from Mrs. Thompson’s third grade class will have a vastly different opinion about me compared to someone in my Intro to Entrepreneurship course with Professor Minkoff. So, I would like to take this time to analyze my life in three distinct time periods: Elementary school, high school, and college, and as a result, have the ability to compare who I was to who I am.

   The Chase Azarian from elementary school was the most extroverted introvert on the planet. I liked to talk to kids my age and had a great friend group growing up, but at a young age I was always intimidated by authority. To this day I’m still not sure why, but anytime a teacher would walk into the classroom, I would shut up immediately. I was petrified at the thought of getting in trouble. Maybe I thought that if I got in trouble with the teacher my dad would go berserk when I got home that afternoon, or maybe I was simply uncomfortable when it came to adults who would try to discipline me. Whatever the reason, dealing with adults in charge was my biggest fear growing up, and it was a phase I would not grow out of for a while.

   When I was a kid, I knew I never wanted to pursue a professional career in sports. I know that’s the cliche’ dream for every young boy, but it just never interested me. On the opposite side of that spectrum though, I absolutely loved playing sports. I was the type of kid that had to always be moving around and doing something during their free time, so sports was naturally the perfect outlet that allowed me to do that. Not only did I like being active, but I also enjoyed participating in a diversity of games, which is why my main goal as a child was to just try as many sports out as possible and see which one I enjoyed the most.  I didn’t love sports necessarily because of the sports themselves (even though a majority of them were still a ton of fun to play as a kid), but rather for the team dynamic I was able to experience five to six days a week, every single week.. Some of the friends who I am closest with now had been a teammate at one point in my life, and a majority of my favorite memories from my childhood involve hanging out with either my soccer, basketball, baseball, or wrestling team. It was when my old, introverted self felt the most extroverted, and I loved every second of it.

   High school was an entirely different story. From the beginning, I knew I wanted to ditch the introverted part of myself entirely. It was just a trait that I knew was not worth keeping, so I made it my priority from day one to just socialize with as many people as possible and see who I would get along with (even though two of my best friends growing up ended up coming to the same private high school anyway). Immediately I wanted to find a way to get involved, so I ended up joining the football team the summer before my freshmen year.

   Playing freshmen football was one of the best decisions I had made up to that point in my life. Growing up (and even today) it had always been my favorite sport to watch, but I never actually thought about joining a team for some reason. So one late day in May 2011, I just showed up to the first practice and never looked back. I was horrible at first, mainly due to the fact that I simply wasn’t big enough to play at the defensive end position, but that did not stop me from sticking to the position.

After months of practice, lifting, running, and other torturous physical training, I eventually caught on and became pretty decent at the position. As a defensive football player, there really is no bigger rush of adrenaline than getting up after sacking the quarterback, and I genuinely believe that every tackle I made built my confidence more and more over the course of the season. In the end, the freshmen football team went undefeated, the team became a brotherhood, and we all couldn’t wait to see what was in store over the next three years.

However, Sophomore year was a different experience. The school decided to hire an entirely new coaching staff, led by a head coach who will remain unnamed for this essay. Also, I I should definitely emphasize that I was not the introvert Chase Azarian from elementary school at this point in my life. I was known to be a class clown who did not really take anything too seriously, and that mindset definitely did not fit with this new head coach’s agenda.

The next few months were torture. Most of the kids from the freshmen team dropped, as I was part of the sole nine remaining freshmen of the original thirty eight. The new coach was, for the lack of a better word, an absolute asshole, especially to the kids who liked to joke around and didn’t take everything incredibly serious. Now it’s pretty obvious where the story is going at this point, so to save time I’ll just let you know it seemed like this head coach was really out to get me personally, almost more than any other player on the team. Whether that’s actually true or not, we may never know (But trust me, we all knew), and it got to the point where I just found no enjoyment from playing football anymore. I lost the spark, and I wanted to do something better with my time. So, on one beautiful August morning at an eight hour practice, the coach had his daily “Let me yell at Chase Azarian for absolutely nothing” routine, and I just snapped. The first time I had ever snapped at any authoritative figure in my entire life. I really don’t think it’s necessary to type out exactly what I said back to the coach, but just know there were lots of pretty insulting things that came out of my mouth. Once I was done ranting, I dropped my equipment, saluted to my boys on the team, and walked off the field. The football career was finished for good, and I had never felt so relieved in my entire life. I had just overcame my biggest fear as a child, and although it may not be a respectable highlight from my life, it is a memory I think about every day as one of the proudest moments of my life.

The Chase Azarian from college is a difficult one to describe just because there are two sides to it: There’s the freshmen year Chase Azarian, and then there’s the sophomore year Chase Azarian.

Freshmen year truly sucked for me. Not to say there wasn’t good things about it, because there were. I made some great friends, made some great memories, and stayed on top of my studies. In fact, the reason I dreaded freshman year was because of something that had nothing to do with Rutgers. On September 11th, 2015, I found out one of my soccer friends from back home was killed in a car crash. I have dealt with a lot of death in my life, but my life was never more drastically changed from a single event than the loss of this kid. I was in shock the entire day, and once I snapped out of that I cried for probably only the seventh time in my life, but I did it for about ten hours in my claustrophobic dorm room. This was the first (and luckily only)  time in my life where I experienced real depression. And no, I don’t mean just being really sad for a few weeks, I mean like the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I was terrified to drive for months, let alone even get in a car with anybody. I never wanted to go out with friends, and I completely stopped exercising and dieting causing me to gain thirty pounds throughout the school year. I felt disgusted with myself, but had no drive to make a change. And when you add an awful roommate to the entire situation, it just made my freshmen year a living hell.

However, things got back on track once I got away from the dorming life. I spent the summer at home trying to get back to the fun version of Chase Azarian back to life by slowly getting back to the norm of things. I got back into working out and lost a good amount of the weight I had gained (there’s still room for improvement, but I’ll take what I can get), got back into driving, and made sure to constantly be hanging out with my friends. Once I came back to school at the beginning of sophomore year, things just became way nicer. A roommate that was actually a close friend, a beautiful apartment that I could actually walk around without going insane, and just a much nicer life.

However, life threw another hard punch at me over winter break when my parents told me they were getting a divorce. I really wasn’t surprised when they told me since they’ve always kind of hated each other since I was fourteen. Although they did manage to throw a real surprise in their announcement ceremony when they told my sister and I that they were going to completely stop financially supporting us at the end of this current school year. So once June 1st hits, I will be completely on my own. To say I nearly puked when I heard this would be the understatement of the century, considering I was sad, confused, terrified, and pissed all at the same time. So, this is the moment where Chase Azarian truly grew up. This past semester, I’ve been committed to working two steady videographer jobs (Rutgers Football and University Career Services), on top of taking seventeen credits so I can start preparing for the incredibly hard storm that is bound to happen in the next coming weeks.

At school my friends supported me, but I wanted something even more. I needed a substitution of some type, almost like a group dynamic I loved to have as a child from playing sports. And then, my roommate and his friends convinced me to come out and rush their fraternity. Long story short, I accepted their bid, became a new member, and have slowly realized that joining was quite possibly the best decision I have ever made in my entire life. Never before had I met a group of guys that instantly had my back, who immediately wanted to help me out with my current situation, or who just always wanted to find something to do.

At the end of the day, Chase Azarian, just like every other person on the planet, has changed over time. Your past is your greatest history book, and you can help develop who you want to be based off of your experiences. I went from being the shy kid in the classroom, to the class clown, to the person who realized there are times to have fun, but also times to man up and take some responsibility. I have absolutely no regrets (even though I wish some of those mistakes panned out a little bit better), and I intend on constantly improving myself as a human being day by day. As my local Philadelphia hero Rocky said:

“Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a very mean and nasty place and I don't care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done.”