#why would you want socks with Clarksons face

[cheeseknives]

Etsy is my favourite website, what is this, what is that

[stephthenewgirl]

AGTAW — I: Twila Gilbert

“Twila, did you take my dark blue leather jacket?!” Elena Gilbert strides into her sister's bedroom without a simple thing as a kick. She halts upon laying her doe brown eyes on her sister; her mouth parted and her thin brows furrowing. There her sister stood in only a bra and panties but that's not what shocked her, it was the fact that Twila was in her underwear with a boy in her room. He sat at the edge of her queen-sized bed that was covered in gray and black sheets and heavy blankets. His elbows pressing down on his lap and his back hunched over. His deep brown eyes moved to the elder Gilbert twin.

The later twin — Twila — with celerity wheeled her body around, her large hazel brown eyes aimed at her sister sharply. Her body hiding the boy behind her midway. And the somewhat naked girl's medium brown hair that fell into a sepia reddish-brown moved sweetly and nimbly stroke her neck. A rainbow stripe shirt held between her fingers — a shirt she was about to put on before Elena intruded her bedroom.

Twila briskly put the rainbow shirt on, after she tugged the shirt down, stretching out slight folds on the fabric and she stomped her way towards the elder Gilbert. Elena's doe eyes stayed fixed on the boy that sits peacefully on her little sister's bed. She disliked this — and she disliked it even more that the boy who looked so peaceful and unbothered had no shirt on.

Why doesn't he have a shirt on? Elena query herself.

“Don't you know how to kick?” Twila asked heatedly. Elena's eyes fluttered to the younger twin.

“I-I. . .” The words just wouldn't come out. Her eyes wandered to the boy on her sister's bed. Elena wanted to say ''no boys allowed in the bedroom'', she wanted to ask why Twila had no clothing on and why was he shirtless, what was happening. Elena gasped as the boy known as Clarkson sent a wink to her then frowned.

Twila pushed Elena out of her room, slamming the door in her face.

“No boys in the room, Twila!” Elena finally found her voice.

“You're not my fucking mother, Elena!!” Twila waits to hear the footsteps of her sister walking away. It did not take long. Today, Elena had no energy to lecture her. Twila was grateful. She twirled back around, walking towards the end of her bed.

“Will, that was a show.” Clarkson Forsyth spoke, a lopsided smirk on his soft pink lips. Twila mocked smiled at the boy, picked up his black tee off her bed then threw it at him, hitting his face.

“Yeah, you would think that.” Their giggles bounded off the four walls. “Hurry up. Martin and Vera are picking us up in sixteen.” Twila told the boy as she made her way into her closet and yanked a pair of pants off the hanger.

“So should I hop out the window and wait for you outside?” Clarkson said, standing from the bed, the black shirt in his hold as he goes. He flipped the shirt over and slid his arms in the sleeves then pulled the shirt over his head and pulled it down over his body. Twila stepped out of the closet wearing dark blue loose jeans and held two pairs of black sneakers in her hand. She walked towards her bed, displaying a frown on her face.

“What? No.” Twila sits down at the end of her bed and pulls out the socks she tucked into her sneakers. “I'm fucking hungry, and I know you are too.” Twila slipped the sneakers on her feet and tied them up.

“I just don't want to start—” Clarkson started, taking small steps towards the Gilbert girl.

“Clark, you've been my best friend since kindergarten. My family knows you and Aunt Jenna is cool, and she likes you. You're not going to start anything. . .” Once she finished tying her shoelaces, Twila looked over to the obsidian hair strong-jawed boy. “. . . Okay.”

Clarkson chortle. “Yeah, okay.”

Twila nods slightly with a smile. “Okay.” She pushed herself off the bed. “Don't mind Elena, she's just being a prude. Elena's been all big-sister ever since mom and dad passed. The girl is only four minutes older than me but that is a mile for her.”

Clarkson cracks a tiny smile. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

Twila was quiet for a second, thinking of what to say. She looked up at her best friend and greeted him with a sad smile.

“Getting better. Can't do anything but get better. The world goes on.” Twila gives him a longer smile that forcefully reaches her cheeks. Clarkson pulls her into a hug. It took a while for Twila to react back, but she did; wrapping her arms around him tightly.

“Thanks — for being here for me. I didn't know what I would have done without you last night.”

It was late at night when the boy called, gasping with sobs and in need of his best friend. Twila immediately told him to come over. She sat up on her bed and rubbed her sleep away, awaiting his arrival. Finally arriving at the Gilbert home, Twila hugged him and listened to his recent problems with his father as he cried on her shoulder. Twila did not mind — Clarkson was there for her when her parents passed; even invited her to crash in his room when she did not feel like being at Caroline's. After his tears dried out, they watched Buffy together on her baby-blue-covered laptop — forgetting about the sadness as they laughed away.

“Of course, Clark. I will always be here for you.” Twila pulled from the hug, her hands clasping his biceps tenderly then she gave him a fast smile. “Now get off of me,” She pushed him jocosely. “C'mon, I'm starved.” Clarkson chortled with a head shake; the two grab their belongings and head downstairs.

Twila and Clarkson dumped their belongings on the sofa before passing the threshold into the kitchen. The gold sunlight streamed through the square window; the silhouette of the window slept on the kitchen Island and kissed Jeremy's naked arm.

“Good morning, Gilbert family!!.” Twila smiled wide at her family that was diffuse around the kitchen area.

“Morning, Twila,” Aunt Jenna says softly, tipping her head back from the refrigerator door, welcoming Twila back with a duplicate smile. Her eyesight moved to the boy beside her niece. “Oh, hey Clark. I didn't know you were here.”

“Yeah, I hope you don't mind. Just needed my best friend last night.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Jenna waves him off. “You are welcome anytime. Would you like some toast?”

Twila's eyes instantly widened, jerking her head from side to side, “Oh, no. I'm making waffles. Don't need you having us eating rocks, Aunt Jenna.”

“Not rocks, Twila. Just burnt toast.” The kitchen erupted with laughter for everyone's lips — even Jeremy's. The boy who had been in the dump all summer, spending his time with Vicki Donovan and drug heads. Both Gilbert twins were happy to hear him laugh again; they haven't heard it in a while. Elena shook her head in the corner with a smile and a mug in her hands. After, she pulled it closer to her lips, taking a sip. “Who needs lunch money?”

“Here!” Both Twila and Jeremy raised their hands, shouting.

“Elena?” Jenna walked to her bag that sits on the chair at the dinner table.

“No thanks, Aunt Jenna.”

“Okay.” The strawberry blond rummaged through her bag, pulling out three twenty-dollar bills. “Here you go.” Jenna handed Jeremy and Clarkson each a twenty.

“Oh no Jenna, you don't have to,” Clarkson says, declining the money.

“I know, I want to. So take the money.”

“Take the money!” Twila yelled, not sparing a glance over her shoulders. Her eyes were fixed on the waffles, she didn't want them to burn like Aunt Jenna does every time she cooks something.

“Yeah, or I'll take it.” Jeremy playfully stood up acting as if he was honestly going to, Aunt Jenna pushed him back on his seat.

“Sit down.” She told the boy. “Take it.” She utters to Clarkson, pushing it at his crest.

“Okay, okay. . . Thanks, Jenna.”

“No problem. Twila, yours is on the table.”

“Thanks, Jenna.”

“Don't you have a big presentation today?” Elena reminds the young caretaker.

“I'm meeting with my thesis advisor at. . .” Jenna glanced down at her watch and freaked, “Now. Crap!”

“Then go. We'll be fine.” Jenna nodded at Elena, she quickly put her hair up in a ponytail with a rubber band then grabbed her bag, and dashed out the side door.

Twila plopped the last waffle on top of the rest. Elena walked towards her sister, standing beside her.

“Why was Clarkson in your room?” Elena inquired.

The sepia brunette twisted her neck to her twin. “Because he came over last night.”

“Why?”

“Because he needed a friend, Elena. You know, like how Bonnie comes over when she needs you.”

“Bonnie's not a boy.”

Twila's brows narrowed down and her eyelids batted. She can't believe what Elena was saying to her right now. She angles her body, facing her sister.

“Elena, you know Clark for as long I've been friends with him.”

“Doesn't mean he's not a boy.”

Twila turned away from Elena; grabbing the pleat of waffles, she was done with this exchange. Before she walked off she targeted her big brown hazel eyes at her sister once more.

“I don't know when you've become such a wet blanket but stop with the mothering act. I can have whoever I want in my room.”Twila let Elena know, leaving her there speechless.

Twila was wordless while she ate her waffles, Jeremy and Clarkson on the other hand talked as if they were in a club meeting. The conversation with Elena left a sour taste in her mouth, she still enjoyed her waffles of course, but she was upset. Her big brown hazel eyes glared at her twin as she asked Jeremy a simple question: if he was okay. She snickers at Jeremy's response and rolled her eyes when Elena glanced at her with a confused pouty face.

Elena folds her arms and walks off from the three teens, not soon later Twila's phone buzzes. A text from Vera telling Twila she and Martin were outside. A small smile pulls at her perfect lips as she stares at the screen. Twila slides the phone back into her pocket and sights her eyes on her brother and best friend.

“Vera and Martin's outside.” Clarkson got the hint. He hopped off the stool, grabbing his pleat and then Twila's. She gave him a soft thank you. “Need a ride, Jer?”

“Sure.” Jeremy got off the stool taking his dish, going towards the sink. Clark and Jeremy end up in a —you go first, I go first— situation. Jeremy stepped aside letting Clarkson pass. Clark smiled up at him shyly. Twila looked at him with a knowing smile, and he ignored her smug look while he walked to the living room area grabbing his book bag on the sofa.

Twila walked up behind Clarkson, playfully bumping into him. “Oh, I'm sorry. You first. No, you go first. I go left, you go right? Oh, um. . . okay.” Twila laughed at her dramatic imitation of Jeremy and Clarkson's exchange in the kitchen.

“Ssh, shut up. He could hear you.” He whispered to the girl over his shoulder.

Twila rolls her eyes, “Oh, please.” She grins and moves from behind him, going to grab her book bag also. Clarkson shook his head, letting out a stressful sigh. Hoping Jeremy didn't hear his sister mocking.

“Come on, Jer!”

“Coming!” He placed the wet dish on the dish rack and rushed his way out of the kitchen grabbing his book bag on the chair head. “Hey Vera, Martin.” Jeremy greets his sister's two best friends. Vera is a square face, soft beige skin brunette with deep-set dark brown eyes. Her brows were black-filled and straight. Her hair was black and short in a pixie rat tail cut, her bangs were cut right above her eyebrows, and two long strips of black hair fell just under her chin on each side of her face.

“Hey, Jeremy.” Vera greeted back.

Martin was an almond skin boy with long brown hair and a handsome diamond-shaped face. His eyes are hooded, small, and brown. Martin is Vera's half-brother and was Twila's boyfriend of two years, now ex-boyfriend but still great friends.

“S'up, Jeremy. How's it been?” Martin made conversation.

“Okay. How about you?”

“Fan-fuckin-tastic. I got this new skateboard from my dad. It—”

“Please, stop talking about the skateboard. No one cares, Martin.” Vera twists her head briskly at her brother before aiming her sights back at the road.

“You're just mad I'm better than you.” Martin retorted.

“Ha! Better than me? Jokes. . . That was a funny joke.”

“You—”

“Please, can you turn on the radio? Don't need to hear your brother-sister bickering.” Jeremy and Clarkson chuckle at Twila's insult. Vera rolled her eyes yet she did what was told and made a turn; passing The Mystic Grill. The song WANNABE by Spice Girls blasted throughout the dark blue color car.

Vera, Clarkson, and Twila belled along with the song. Martin and Jeremy had no choice but to tolerate the ordeal of their boisterous singing.

“So, here's a story from A to Z. You wanna get with me, you gotta listen carefully. We got Em in the place who likes it in your face.” Twila bells.

“You got G like MC who likes it on a. Easy V doesn't come for free, she's a real lady. And as for me?” Vera follows.

“HA, YOU'LL SEE.” The three teens yell from the top of their lungs like a banshee's cry.

“C'mon guys.” An annoyed Jeremy wailed.

Martin's eyes traveled from the backseat to his sister. “Yeah, guys cut it off.”

“Slam your body down and wind it all around! Slam your body down and zig-a-zig ah!” They laughed at how irked the two boys were.

Twila pushed herself off her seat, her lips went to Martin's ear. “If you wanna be my lover!” Twila ear-splittingly sings.

Martin slapped his hand against his ear, “Twila, what the fuck!”

“You gotta get with my friend!” Vera sings.

“Friendships last forever!” Clarkson followed along.

“Friendship never eennnnds!” The three belled.

“That's not how it goes.”

“I don't give a shit, Martin. Now, get out of my car. We're here.” The long-haired boy rolled his eyes and pushed the car door open; he stepped out. The four other kids in the car followed shortly after.

“So — the boy had to sleep with her friends to be considered her lover?” Jeremy queried his eldest sister.

“That's not the message of the song, Jer.”

“Well, that's what it said.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Hey, Jeremy.” Vicki Donovan smiled making her way to Jeremy.

Jeremy copies and greets her back. “Hey, V.”

“Twila.” She uttered, moving her eyes to Twila.

“Victoria.” Twila gave a faint smile. Vicki and Twila were once good friends. They got especially close when Elena and Matt started dating but had a fallout this summer when she started to use her baby brother for his prescription pills and sleeping with him to avoid her own screwed-up life.

“Okay, let's go bitc—” Vera stops when her eyes set on Vicki Donovan. “Speaking of bitch.” Her hip cocked out, her fingers tucked into the back of her blue denim jeans pockets.

Vicki's mouth agape and her brows knitted. Her lips hastily retrieve with a curl and a scoff. Vera took hold of Twila's wrist, pulling the girl away from Vicki.

“See ya, Jeremy.” She said as the group of friends part ways from the young boy and ex-friend. “I still can't believe you allow him to be around her.”

“There are certain things I can tell Jeremy to do and certain things I could. He's hard-headed like that.” Twila explained with a shrug.

Lunch came fast for Twila. She had six-period lunch and had Mr. Tanner after. She was tired and glad the school day was almost over. Then she remembered she had to help Caroline with picking out some fresh faces for the new year try-outs after school. Great. She sighed.

“You look exhausted,” Vera slid, sitting down on the curved seat. She set her tray on the round cafeteria table. Today's lunch is a ham sandwich, chicken nuggets, apple, and a side of salads with a dressing of your choice and beverage. The food at Mystic Falls High wasn't so bad.

“I am.” Twila pushes her hair back, fingers gripping her hair softly. “I just wanted to go home after school and have a nice bubble bath, but I have try-out picking to do after school.” She wailed and pouted. Twila felt like sobbing, she truly needed and wanted that bubble bath.

“Aww, don't be so down, Twila. I'm sure you'll be fine.” Vera grabs a hold of her sandwich, taking a big bite.

“Let me detail it for you.” Twila leans forward, her hair falling as she moves her fingers and locks her big eyes with Vera's deep-set ones. “I'm try-out picking after school — with Caroline.”

“Ohh. . .” Vera sees the problem now.

Twila smiled tightly and her eyes squinted a bit and a little hum leaving her lips. Her smile says: now you get it. “It's going to be hell.”

“Aww, Twila. I'll be there for you.” Vera's mouth was occupied by food, she kept her teeth locked while her lips moved. The words came out muffled. Twila smiled anyway.

“You will?” Twila's lower lip pushes out.

Vera nods and speaks after swallowing. “If you need me, of course.”

“Aww, thanks,” The short-haired brunette joined her palm on top of Vera's hand. “But I can't do that to you.” She removed her hand, stealing Vera's apple. “I'll go through the belly of the beast on my own.” She takes a bit of the apple. Vera laughed.

“The belly of what beast?” Clarkson arrives, taking a spot next to Vera; Martin follows beside him.

Vera's eyes travel to the raven-haired boy. “Caroline.” She informed him.

“What about Caroline?” Martin questioned.

“I've got some fresh cheerleaders to pick out with Caroline after school.”

“Oh.” Clarkson and Martin mumble. Twila nods at the boys, chewing through the green apple.

Martin swallows down his food with water before speaking. “Aren't you co-captain? Can't you just do it another time?”

“No.” She placed the apple down on the table. “I'll just get it over with.”

“Clarkson, where were you last night?!” Barbie Forsyth asked, approaching the small group. Clarkson eyed up his sister. She stood with her hands at her hips.

“At Twila's.” He answered honestly. Barbie's eyes went to Twila; they had a squint to them.

“Of course.” She scoffed, shifting her eyes back at her brother.

The bottled blonde — Barbie Forsyth — never had a good relationship with Twila Josephine Gilbert. Ever since Twila ruined Barbie's gingerbread house in elementary school; just because she wanted a piece. And the other time they were partnered up in a history project. Barbie had done all the work and Twila just plastered her name on the paper. But those weren't the reasons why Barbie didn't like the big-eyed Gilbert all that well. For as long as she could remember, Clarkson and Twila were inseparable. She always felt like Twila was more of Clarkson's sister than she ever was.

“Why were you at her house?”

“I, uh. . . I needed someone to talk to.”

Barbie's head jerked forward. Unbelievable, she thought. “You could have talked to me.” Her light green eyes stayed on her brother; it made Clarkson feel guilty the way they were intensely piercing at him. Her eyelids blinked and she rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I wanted to speak to you last night.”

“Okay. . . What?”

Barbie glanced at Twila, who like everyone else at the table was focused on them. Barbie looked back at her brother. “Not here in front of her.” She yanked the boy, pulling him off his seat and away from the group.

Vera chortle, aiming her sight on Twila. “I'm guessing she still hates you for not doing the history project in middle school.”

“Ha, guessing?” Martin uttered. “It's a known fact she does.”

Twila laughed along with her friends, brushing down the fact that deep down she felt awful that her best friend's sister hated her for something she did in middle school. Not knowing that Barbie didn't dislike her because of some petty school project issue, the bottled blonde felt like Twila took her brother from her.

“Once our home state of Virginia joined the confederacy in 1861, it created a tremendous amount of tension within the state. People in Virginia's northwest region had different ideals than those from the traditional deep south. Then Virginia divided in 1863 with the northwest region joining the union.”

In the back corner of the room, Twila sat near the large windows. Mr. Tanner's voice was inaudible to her ears as she doodled in her history book. Through the windows, the evening sun rays hit the desk of students and the classroom floor. One golden glint shimmers comfortably on Twila's hair. A rainbow hues sat at her open history book, making Twila stop her hand movement. She admired the reflection of the colorful lights. Rainbows are one of Twila's favorable things about nature. Rainbows and heavy rain on a lazy afternoon, but she always hated the after smell. It always smelled of wet soil and moist greens.

Her large eyes wandered to the windows, it landed on the tree just outside Ms. Tanner's classroom. A crow sitting perfectly inanimate, as if it was a statue.

It was larger than most. Its feathers pitch as black but the little sunlight that hits its feathers shine a rainbow on it. It was sleek and had greedy dark claws and a sharp beak. Its black eyes glittered, and they were fixed on Elena; the brunette that sits two rolls down from Twila.

Twila watched the crow leer at her twin with this inclination in its eyes. Like how boys' eyes linger on a girl wearing tight clothes; those tops that pop out their cleavage or dresses that outline their bodies.

It was creepy, to say the least.

Then its dark eyes blink at Twila. The girl flinched back a bit, her eyes got broader, but they stayed on the bird. It was like the bird was challenging her; playing with her. A game of who would look away first.

The school bell boom, Twila flinched once more. Her eyes flutter to the front of the classroom seeing everyone packing up.

She lost.

Twila stood up, grabbing her book bag along, and followed her way out the room behind the crowd of teenagers. The short brunette sauntered her way through the crowded hall; she made a right, passing four classroom doors before reaching the staircase. She walked four flights of stairs down, landing on the first floor she went to her locker, putting and taking some of her things then — to Caroline she went.

Twila walked through the football field towards the concern the school gave the cheerleaders to practice. Her eyes gazed at the wannabe cheerleaders of all ages and sizes perfecting their moves. It brought a smile to her face.

Until Caroline spoke.

“Ugh, there you are.” The blonde's voice reached Gilbert's. Twila rolled her eyes. Always Caroline, the extra control Queen.

“Hello to you too, Care.” Twila drops her bag on the green cut grass. “Let's get this over with, shall we?” Some in the flock of wannabe cheerleaders chortle.

Caroline narrows her light bluish-green eyes before throwing Twila a mocked cheesy grin. The blonde pulled the sheet of paper to her eyesight. “Okay, first off you are going to be asked some questions — okay.” The group nods. “Okay, any of you guys have experience with cheerleading? Like gymnastics, dance, or have ever cheered before? If you have, raise your hand.” Caroline nods and marks it down. Caroline glanced to her side, “You want to say something, or are just going to stand there. Co-captain.”

Twila steps forward with a smirk. “All who have experienced step forward, those who don't. Please take a seat at the bleachers.” They followed their orders and Twila continued. “Now I want you all to show me what you've got. Jump, tumble, split, dance? Whatever you've got.”

The fourteen that step forward show Caroline and Twila what they could bring to the team. Both girls watched with sharp eyes. Twila had nicely commented on one girl who intended to do a cartwheel backflip after Caroline rudely told her she shouldn't try it again.

Twila told her she should. She did and succeeded. It was much better the second time around.

Throughout the try-out, Caroline rolled her eyes, scoffed, and scored the wannabe cheerleaders. Twila on the other hand praised and nicely Judged their performance. But she had snickered here and there with the blonde.

“Okay, we are done.” Twila was glad. “Those who made the team will be getting an email in two days and those who didn't,” Caroline sucked air through her teeth. “Too bad.” She shines her big smile, “Okay, bye.”

It was late afternoon and the sun cast a golden shadow upon the sky and Twila didn't care that it was four something when she got home, she was just happy she got her bubble bath. Her arms rest on the top edge of the tub and her hair held up by a black hair claw. She relaxed peacefully in the warm water and the smell of cinnamon, she bathed in the quietness. That was until Elena ruined it.

“Elena!” Twila shouts at her sister that breaks into the bathroom.

“Sorry,” Elena says. “Bleeding.” She put her foot on top of the toilet cover and rolled the bottom of her jeans up.

Twila looked down seeing the dry blood, “What happened?”

“I fell in the cemetery when I was running from a crow.

“Running from a crow?” It's brought a chill down Twila back. Her mind wondered if it could be the same crow watching her from the tree outside Ms. Tanner's window. No, she's just being paranoid.

“Yes.” Elena rolled down the leg of her jeans after cleaning the scraps on her leg and putting on a bandage.

“What were you doing at the cemetery?”

Elena put her foot down on the bathroom ground, sighed, and sat down on the bath cover. “I went to see mom and dad.”

Twila rolled her pretty eyes. “But you didn't see them, did you? You went to see a stone with their names plastered on it.” Twila's fingers wave in the bubble, playing with them. It was stupid for Elena to go see a piece of rock with their parent's names on it. It wasn't gonna bring them back, She thought, nothing was gonna bring them back.

Elena sighs and brushes her hair back. “I'm going to the grill, you want to come?”

“No thanks,” Twila looks over her shoulder. “I had a long day, I'm just gonna relax at home.”

The elder's twin nods, “Okay.” Elena left the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Twila fell back to the bath and relaxed once again.

A.N— Maine focus characters & Twila's outfit

[yungidreamer]

A Sprinkle of Love

Prompts: (from the Walking in a Winter Wonderland Collaboration) 

“From afar I’ve loved you, but never let it show. And every year another December comes and goes.” - Kelly Clarkson (Wrapped in Red)

“You’re here where you should be. Snow is falling as the carolers sing.” - Kelly Clarkson (Underneath the Tree)

Wordcount: 3.6k

Summary: Mingi has been in love with his neighbor across the street since she first moved in. Sadly, he’s never gotten up the confidence to do much more than stare at her longingly. But maybe, with a little Christmas magic, and with the help of some sweets, he can get the gift he has really been pining for... her heart.

Content warnings: None, this is pretty much pure fluff. Mingi is a nervous and adorable dork in love.

Mingi hummed as he carried the bag of groceries up to his front door on his hip. Christmas was coming soon and the cold weather that had fallen on the city made the air crisp. The puffs of his breath hung in the air like crystalline clouds. A shiver ran through him as he paused at the door to search for his keys. That familiar jingle filled his ears, almost like sleigh bells if you used your imagination.

From the house across the street he heard the soft foof of the door there open. Mingi’s eyes turned to see her scurry out the door carrying a bag of trash out to her trash can. As she dashed back to her front door, she noticed Mingi, giving him a quick wave before heading inside. He waved back, half forgetting that he was just standing at his open front door. Shaking himself mentally, Mingi stepped inside, slipped off his shoes and headed to the kitchen to put away his groceries.

With a sigh, he opened his phone and started his Christmas playlist. It was the holidays, the time to be in a happy, magical mood. Darn it, he was going to enjoy this holiday, even if he couldn’t spend it with her.

From afar I’ve loved you, but never let it show. And every year another December comes and goes.

Mingi sighed at the lyrics wishing he was just a little stronger, a little braver. How many times had he missed the chance to ask her out? How many times had he chickened out of even just going across the street to talk to her? He banged his forehead against the wood of the cabinet door, as if that could knock a little bit of sense into him. Sadly, it mostly just made his head hurt.

She had moved in a week after he did and, for him it had been love at first sight. Her warm smile, laughing eyes, and the way she always waved whenever she noticed him just standing like an idiot on his doorstep, watching her. Thank goodness she was nice and at least seemed to not think he was a complete weirdo and idiot. A perception he might have deserved for as many times as she had caught him just staring.

A sharp knock sounded on the door, shocking him out of his self-pity. He couldn’t help but wonder who could be there. He had just talked to his parents and he knew that Yunho had already headed back home to spend the holidays with his family. No one else really came by to see him.

He shoved the last of his groceries in the cabinet and headed to the door to see who it could be. When he opened the door he felt his soul float out of his ear and his heart stop in his chest. There she was, standing at his door, looking adorable and bundled, holding a little plate of something covered in foil.

“Hi Mingi,” she said brightly. “Merry Christmas! I made some turtles yesterday and thought you might like to have some. Umm, so, here…” She pushed the plate towards him so he could take it and for a second all he could do was look at it. His brain told his hands to take it, and told his mouth to utter the simple words thank you, but somehow, none of his body seemed to work the way it was supposed to.

“Turtles?” He finally managed to ask as his hands started moving to the plate. All he could think of the little shelled creatures and he was almost positive she wouldn’t be handing him a plate of them to eat for Christmas.

“Oh!” She laughed, luckily reading his reaction as confusion. “Pecans, caramel, and chocolate. It’s a treat my family always makes this time of year. Wait, you don’t have a nut allergy...or are lactose intolerant?”

“No no,” he was quick to reply, taking the plate from her hands before she could take it back. He would have cherished them even if he was, he just wouldn’t have been able to taste them, but he still would have loved them. “Thanks so much.”

“I’m glad you can have them,” she smiled. “Umm, anyway, I also came over because I wanted to ask if you were free this evening. Would you like to come over and decorate some cookies?”

“Tonight?” He blinked at her.

“Yeah, if you’re busy, don’t worry about it,” she gave him a carefree shrug and another grin as she took half a step back.

“I can come,” he rushed to reply, wanting to kick himself for not saying yes right away.

“Okay, great,” She nodded, straightening the collar of her sweater. “See you at six then?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” he agreed, still holding the plate, gripped a little too tightly in his fingers.

“Good, good,” as she backed away, she stuffed her hands in her pocket. “Bye, see you tonight.”

Mingi watched her go, stuck where she had left him, holding the plate until she gave a final wave and disappeared through her front door. He couldn’t believe it. She had come over, she had invited him over. He felt giddy for a second before the butterflies in his stomach fluttered into a cloud that caused a little nausea to rise.

“It will be fine,” he told himself as he made his feet carry him inside, his eyes focused on the foil covered plate. “Don’t freak yourself out,” he told himself. “It’s just cookies. It doesn’t mean anything.” His voice came out with a little crack, like he was still some teen just hitting puberty. “She’ll probably have other people there anyway,” he reasoned, his stomach dropping a little at the realization she probably would. I mean why would she invite just me? He wondered to himself. She probably just thinks I’m a weird loner in need of a pity invite.

With a sigh he took the plate to the kitchen and set it on the counter. Pulling back the foil, he looked at the treats underneath. A smile teased at his lips. They really did look kind of like turtles. Four little legs on the sides and a little bump for the head. Picking one up, he took a bite and he had to admit, it was a lovely treat. A perfect mix of bitter and buttery from the nuts, creamy sweet from the caramel, and tart sweetness of the dark chocolate. Oh, he suddenly thought, I need to get her something in return for these. He started wracking his brain for ideas even as he moved towards the front door to head back to the store.

Mingi stood on her stoop, willing himself to take those last few steps to her front door, but the tingling weakness in his knees kept his feet glued where they were. She’s waiting for you, he scolded himself. She invited you, you can’t just not show up. As he stood there, willing himself to move, the door opened, warm light shining out through the crack as it grew until she slipped outside to greet him where he stood frozen.

“Are you ready to come in?” She asked, a teasing note to her voice.

“Yes,” he stuttered, finally getting his feet to move.

“Glad you could make it,” she commented as she stepped aside to let him inside. “I wasn’t sure you would actually come.”

“Why?” He asked, looking down at her with wide eyes as she shrugged off his coat.

“Well, you seemed a little wary when I invited you this afternoon,” she gave a self deprecating laugh. “I thought maybe you’d come up with some excuse to not come.”

“Oh, no,” Mingi shook his head and pushed the second of his shoes off with a little more force than necessary, causing him to become unsteady on his feet. As he teetered slightly on his single socked foot, she caught him, bringing their faces together to an awkwardly intimate distance. She’s so pretty, he thought as he looked into her eyes, their faces only a few inches apart.

“Let’s get to the kitchen,” she cleared her throat, taking a step back and breaking eye contact. “I have the dough all ready to roll out. You can help me pick the shapes we’ll be decorating.”

“Okay,” he agreed, following her through her cozily decorated living room, lit up by the glow of a well decorated tree tucked into a corner beside the hearth. Together they stepped into the little kitchen, warm and filled with the scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and orange. The white tiles of the backsplash glistened alongside the stainless steel of the cling wrap covered bowl that had been placed next to the sink. It felt like the sort of place that begged for company and a warm cup of hot cocoa topped with a fluffy marshmallow.

“Do you know how to roll out dough for cookies?” She asked as she offered him an apron.

“I did it a few times as a kid,” he shrugged. “I don’t remember it being hard at least.”

“Good,” she smiled and handed him a wooden rolling pin. “You can put those strong arms to good use then.” Turning to face the table, she laid out a silicon baking mat and put a light dusting of flour on it before pulling out the large ball of cold dough. “Okay just be careful. It is a little hard at the moment.”

Mingi nodded and stepped forward, a serious look on his face. This may just be cookies, but this was his chance to show her that he could be useful and that he was more than just her stuttering, nervous neighbor who lived across the street. Pursing his lips, he pressed the rolling pin into the middle of the mound, perhaps with a little more force than necessary, causing the dough and the baking mat to slip and the rolling pin in his hands to loudly thunk into the table.

“Oops,” he chuckled nervously.

“Gosh, I was afraid of that,” she sighed, looking perturbed at the dough. “I didn’t get it out far enough ahead of time.”

“I can do it,” Mingi said with determination. “I’ll just be a little more careful this time.”

“Are you sure?” She questioned, peering between him and the dough. “We can give it another 20 minutes to warm up.”

“I can do it,” he stated, giving the dough a look that said he was not a man to be challenged by mere flour and fats. He put the rolling pin back at the highest point, carefully pressing down, making it just a little flatter before picking it up and pressing it down again at a different angle. Ever so slowly, he managed to work it down into a flatter, wider slab of dough about the right thickness for cookies.

With a smile, she took the rolling pin and evened out the dough, spreading it a little thinner and a little wider. Finally satisfied, she stepped back and brushed her hands on the front of her apron to clean them off. She gave a little nod and minced over to the counter, gathering a mess of little metal shapes in her hands and bringing them over to the table where he was waiting.

“Okay, what do you think?” She asked as she let them tumble onto the table on the other side of the dough. “Trees? Ornaments? Reindeer?”

“I always think that trees taste better somehow,” Mingi admitted with a laugh.

“Okay I always feel that way about ornaments,” she giggled back, looking up at him with a joyful camaraderie. “Maybe let’s start with those two. I always feel bad eating the things that are supposed to have faces anyway.”

Mingi nodded with a look of sympathy at the quirk. Of course she would feel bad eating cookies with a face, it was just so her. He had been too scared to instigate anything with her, but every time she had stopped by to ask for something or to let him know about something that had happened in the neighborhood, it had been something that made his heart melt. From the time she had come over to remind him to check under his car for a cat she had seen run under it the evening before, just in case, to all the times he had come out to find his windows already scraped free from frost. The first couple of times, he had been completely baffled as to how it had happened, until he needed to head out a half an hour before his usual time and found her bundled up, scraper in hand, clearing up his window. She had been surprised to see him so early, but had greeted him happily, telling him she just had a little more to go. Since then, he had gotten up every morning when frost was likely, started coffee, and checked out his front window every ten minutes until he saw her coming or already at his car and quickly headed out to give her a mug of warm coffee as a thanks.

She handed him the cookie cutter shaped like a Christmas tree and picked up the mostly circular ornament shaped cutter and pressed it into the dough. Mingi followed suit and before long they were putting dozens of cookies on a tray ready to go into the pre-heated oven that was warming the room. She slid the full tray into the oven and set the timer before turning to him with a smile.

“I think we have enough for one more tray when that comes out,” hands on hips, she estimated looking at the scraps on the table. “More trees and ornaments or something else?”

“What about this?” He asked, picking up a heart shaped cutter.

“Sure,” she agreed, squeezing the scraps back into a ball to roll out again. “It’s never the wrong season for love.”

Mingi could feel a blush rising on his cheeks as he watched her roll out the dough again. Everything about her just made him soft and he really wished he had the courage to say so.

They finished the cookies in a flash, pulling them out of the oven and setting them on some racks to cool and setting to work making the icing in all the colors they needed and putting out all the balls, flakes, and sprinkles she had, ready to decorate. They were done well before the cookies were fully cool and she, as if she had read his mind when he had first entered, made them both big mugs of hot chocolate.

She guided him into the living room and turned on some holiday music and invited him to sit with her on the plush, blanket covered couch. Mingi took a seat, holding the Christmasy mug between both of his hands to keep them from fidgeting nervously. His eyes flicked to look at her as the first song filled the quiet air of the room.

“Oh look,” she said excitedly, setting her mug on the coffee table in front of them. “It’s snowing!”

“Is it?” Mingi asked, setting his own mug down and following her to look out her front window that looked out onto the yard and towards his house.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She enthused. “It’s really starting to feel like Christmas.”

“Yeah,” He agreed, stepping just a little bit closer to her. “Beautiful.”

“I love snow,” she sighed, looking up at him for a moment when she could bring herself to look away from the slowly falling fluffy flakes.

“Me too,” Mingi agreed. “Well at least when I don’t have to drive in it.”

“Well then, isn’t it lucky that you don’t have to go anywhere tonight?” She grinned.

“Yeah,” He looked down at her and wished for the hundredth time he was brave enough to just say… I think I love you. A jazzy piano version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas started playing and she stepped back from the window, moving as if she was going back to the couch only to pause in her tracks. Stepping back toward Mingi, she took one of his hands and pulled him close to her, effortlessly pulling them into a gentle embrace to move together in time to the music. They swayed together in time to the song and then the next, letting themselves get ever closer with each song.

Just at the moment when Mingi thought he might have the courage to say something, or maybe even lean in to steal a quick kiss, the bright peel of her doorbell startled them apart. She apologized, her cheeks a little pink if his eyes were to be trusted, and moved to answer the front door. The moment her door opened the clear, melodic sound of voices carried through it.

“Hark the herald angels sing,” sang the group of five carolers who stood on her porch, bundled warmly against the cold and the snow. Mingi came to stand behind her at the door watching and listening to the cheery group sing.

“Okay, $10 if you stay and sing two more songs, deal?” She offered as she dug into her pocket. “Do you by chance know Silver Bells?”

“Yeah, and deal!” An eager teenager in the middle nodded, extending their hand for the bill. The group broke into song and she leaned back gently against Mingi.

“Merry Christmas, Mingi,” she murmured quietly so that only he could hear her. “Since there isn’t going to be a better time than this… do you maybe want to go out on an actual date?”

“An actual date?” Mingi asked, eyes widening. Had he actually managed to get a date with her and not know it?

“You don’t have to,” she faltered slightly as she spoke. “And, ummm, I can always send the cookies to you if you just want to go—”

Mingi couldn’t let her finish that thought and leaned in, pressing his pillowy lips to hers as he pulled her close. A few of the carolers paused in their singing to let out little giggles and aww’s until the one who had taken the money cleared his throat and started singing a little louder.

“Is that a yes?” She asked with a blushing grin.

“Yes, it's a big, sure, happy yes,” Mingi grinned back, cupping her cheek with his big hand.

“Do you want to stay over tonight,” she pressed, holding his hand to her face.

“Can I?” He asked, excitement flaring in his chest.

“Well,” she shrugged. “You’re here where you should be. Snow is falling as the carolers sing. It would be a real shame not to let the moment we have last.”

“Yes please,” He leaned in again, taking her lips as the carolers finished the last song and started off towards the next house, snickering slightly at the cute couple. They moved inside when the nip of the frosty air was stronger than the pleasing fog of finally confessing that had enveloped them. Pulling her inside, Mingi closed the door behind them. As they stepped inside, something caught Mingi’s eyes, a little something sticking out of the pocket on his coat.

“Oh wait,” he burst out, reaching for it. “I have something for you.”

“Something?” She asked, following his gaze to see the little box poking out of his coat pocket.

“Yeah,” He blushed as he pulled it out and handed it to her. “I wanted to get you something as a thank you for the turtles… and for all the mornings that you helped me out with the frost on the car windows.”

“I didn’t mind,” she clutched the little red box to her chest. “I had to do mine in the mornings anyway. A few more windows wasn’t that much more time.”

“You didn’t have to,” he gave her a wistful look and wished he had gathered the courage to ask her out months and months ago. How many kisses had he missed? How much more?

With a last smile up at him she slipped the ribbons off the box and took off the lid. She let out a little oh at the sight of the little bracelet that sat inside the box on a pillow of black velvet. The small silver chain had a single pendant hanging on it; a little frosted snowflake.

“Oh Mingi,” she sighed happily. “It’s beautiful. You shouldn’t have… it’s… it's too much to give me in return for a little candy.”

“It’s a thank you for every morning of helping me and for every wave you gave me when you caught me staring from across the street,” He explained, pulling it out and fastening it around her wrist. “And maybe now when you see it, you’ll remember today and think of me.”

“I wouldn’t need a bracelet to remember today,” she replied gently, lifting her hand to cup his cheek and bring his lips back to hers. “This will be a Christmas I’ll never forget, I can already tell.”

Mingi melted into her kiss, enjoying the warmth of her body where it pressed against him. She seemed to fit him perfectly just like he had always hoped.

“Do you want to work on decorating the cookies?” She asked, pulling back and drawing in a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” he agreed, brushing a little kiss over the corner of her lips. “Let’s decorate the cookies. We have time for everything now.”

“Merry Christmas, Mingi,” she pressed her forehead to his.

“Merry Christmas, my angel,” he responded with a giddy smile.

Masterlist

[twloha]

Meet the Interns: Brittney

Things I like: Besides TWLOHA... alligators, Demi Lovato, my little brother, the USWNT team, concerts, Texas, the Dallas Cowboys, Whataburger, aquariums and zoos, traveling, watching YouTube videos, Netflix, One Tree Hill, going out to eat with my friends, socks, chips and salsa, pandas, tattoos, animals, snorkeling, the ocean, going to the movies, being with my family, a good documentary, meeting new people, breakfast tacos, sweet tea, and again, alligators.

Why I’m here: I’m here because mental health issues and addiction have always been close to my heart. Having loved ones who have struggled with these issues has made me even more connected. I’m here because I want to help anyone and everyone who is struggling. I want them to know that treatment and recovery are possible. I want them to know that it is okay to not be okay. I want loved ones of those struggling to not give up and to know that things will get better.

I’ve been a fan of TWLOHA for a while, so to now be part of the team is a dream come true.  I truly believe TWLOHA is making a difference and I am honored to be a part of this organization that presents hope and connects people to help.

I would most likely stuff the office fridge with: Anything spicy, leftover pizza, ranch, fruit, breakfast food, stuff for tacos, hot sauce, leftover Olive Garden, and Smucker’s Uncrustables.

On the weekends, you can find me: Going on new adventures, hanging out with my friends, at a concert, taking a road trip, at a soccer game, at the beach, at the gym, watching Netflix, trying new restaurants, (currently) reading Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis (I highly recommend it!), and watching YouTube videos.  

We’re jamming to your playlist on a road trip, what artists are we listening to? Top hits, The Summer Set, Demi Lovato, Khalid, Ellie Goulding, Julia Michaels, worship songs, LANY, Shawn McDonald, Alessia Cara, Taylor Swift, Ariana Grande, The Jonas Brothers (THEY’RE BACK!), Halsey, Selena (we are both from Corpus Christi!), Slightly Stoopid, Lil Wayne, Nicki, Katy Perry, Fall Out Boy, 90’s music, Spice Girls, Fletcher, more of The Summer Set, Avril Lavigne, Mayday Parade, Kelly Clarkson, and All Time Low.

You scored free tickets to see your favorite performer live! Who is it? DEMI LOVATO. And I’m taking my sister so we can laugh and cry and scream together.    

If you have dibs on the TV, what are you most likely watching? One Tree Hill, Grey’s Anatomy, Riverdale, any rom-com, the Demi Lovato documentary, Pitch Perfect, Shameless, Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, GLOW, Stranger Things, MTV’s The Challenge, and The Voice.

If you could book a trip to anywhere, where would you go? Australia, to dive the Great Barrier Reef. China, to see pandas. Or anywhere in Europe!

What challenges you and takes you out of your comfort zone? The unknown. For me, that is basically this internship. Leaving my job, my family, and everything I knew back home to come to a different state, live with strangers, and work in a field I have never worked in before. The more I am out of my comfort zone, the more I grow so I knew this scary step was a necessary one I had to take. It’s been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Although the unknown has been challenging, it has been so, so worth it.

To learn more about becoming an intern click here.

[alfareria]

@roseirani​ tagged me in this a few days ago, thank you so much sweetheart! 

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE SONG(S) TO SING?  

tbh my guilty pleasure is singing to pop music from early 2000′s. I will belt my lungs out to those songs. U guys know what i mean; too little too late by jojo, im with you by avril lavigne, irreplaceable by beyonce, breakaway by kelly clarkson. all bops and we all know it. 

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE FLOWER/TREE/PLANT?

I love succulents, they’re so interesting and different! Almost all the plants I own are succulents, plus they’re supposed to be easier to take care of which is partially true? They are more drought resistant but I don’t think they’re easier to take care of. I also love willow trees, maple trees, sunflowers, and magnolias!

FAVOURITE COLOURS?

mustard yellow! Not the condiment ew i hate mustard and that is NOT mustard yellow. greens, pinks, dark blues like sapphire and royal blue. reds and oranges. 

WHAT DO YOU ALWAYS DOODLE?

left eyes usually lol, lips and little geometric patterns

HOW DO YOU TAKE YOUR COFFEE/TEA?

Usually sweet with either sugar, creamer or honey! I also like my tea sweet sometimes with sugar or honey. I love chamomile tea and green tea. Oooh also ginger and honey tea is so good and chamomile citrus is a new favorite! 

FAVORITE CANDLE SCENT?

I ADORE candles. I love woodwick candles, the sound is so pleasing. My favorite scents are citrus, apple, cinnamon, anything that is sweet or fresh without being overbearing. 

SUNRISE OR SUNSET?

sunsets! They’re so wonderful and picturesque as the sun sinks behind the green hills i love it 

WHAT PERFUME DO YOU WEAR?

perfume give me headaches :c

WHAT’S YOUR GO-TO DANCE MOVE WHEN YOU’RE ALONE?

umm i usually move the hips like u would in mexican dances lol! Idk if that makes sense but it’s hip swaying and/or moving my whole upper body. Idk how to describe it! sometimes i do these little made up steps and i like to move with the beat. 

FAVOURITE QUOTE(S)?

I dread this question all the time bc im always full of words i can’t think of my favorite ones; feels like my heads cluttered. I recently added some quotes to my journal about healing that i saw on here and my favorite from that was 

“keep busy with survival, imitate the trees, learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long. not even pain. sit it out. let it all pass. let it go.” -- may sarton

the other quote is from the book im currently reading called “remedios” by aurora levins morales which i recommend to everyone, it’s so beautifully written it takes my breath away. 

“this is what we are left with: fragments of shell, splinters of wood, shreds of bark, stories changed almost beyond recognition after passing through so many other mouths: the men, the warriors, the priests.”

FAVOURITE SELF CARE ROUTINE(S)?

collaging is my go-to. I’ve been collaging these past few days, i like going through magazines and finding any colors or textures that look interesting to me then pairing them together. reading, writing in my journal, dancing when no one is home with complete abandonment, listening to music, burning incense/sage/palo santo, taking walks in the vineyard across my house, preparing myself a simple breakfast while i play music! taking a shower lol. I’ll do a face mask or something, play some music and afterwards take my time in getting dressed and then brush my hair. listening to music!! 

FUZZY SOCKS OR HOUSE SLIPPERS?

both? I don’t like walking around my house without slippers, even in socks

WHAT COLOUR ARE YOUR EYES?

brown, in the sunlight they turn a very light chocolate color

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE EYE COLOUR ON OTHERS?

brown, hazel, light brown

FAVOURITE SEASON? WHY?

autumn! I love all the colors and how it’s not entirely winter yet. It’s cold but not too cold and all the bugs are gone! I love drinking tea during those times. Staying inside with a warm blanket and reading 

NECK, CHEEK, OR NOSE KISSES?

meh i don’t really care for any of those but i’m most comfortable with cheek

WHAT DOES YOUR HAPPY PLACE LOOK LIKE?

a room to myself in an apartment i share with my best friend and maybe another friend. My room is spacious, decorated with dozens of plants. A nice medium sized bay window opens to a view of the city. I have a bookshelf overflowing with all my books. Photos, art and other pieces like ticket stubs are tacked on a cork board. The room feels warmly lived in and somewhat cluttered but clean, with a soft white color scheme. A place that you can feel like you can just sit and create something; anything.

FAVOURITE BREED OF DOG?

i love all dogs!!!!

DO YOU EVER WANT TO BE MARRIED?

Yes i’m open to it but it’s not a wish of mine i suppose

CURSIVE OR PRINT?

print, im sick of cursive after having to spend all those years in school learning it 

FAVOURITE WEATHER?

thunder storms, rainy days, warm bright days with plenty of sunlight and a cool breeze, 

i’ll tag @buensol @lavnderlesbian @merede @guckkastcn @santapescadora

[bitletsanddrabbles]

Don’t Shoot the Butler

I keep trying to work this scene in someplace and it keeps resisting, so I decided to just type it up, stick it here, and get on with life.

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Characters: Mary Crawley, Robert Crawley, George Crawley, Thomas Barrow, Dr. Clarkson

Relationships: General

Notes: Completely adapted from my own childhood.

It felt good to be out of the office. Normally, Lady Mary loved her work. There was a surprising sense of satisfaction to be found sitting at her desk, looking over records and plans, trying to anticipate whatever the future might throw her way. In the month since the birth of her second son, however, sitting too long in the still silence made her edgy. It wasn't so bad if Henry or Tom were there, but when they were in York with their own work, which was the case on this particular day, it got to be intolerable. So it was with a feeling of profound relief that she left the office behind and headed back toward Downton Abbey.

It was a lovely day. Perhaps, she thought, she would arrange for an outdoor picnic for the children when Sybbie got home from school. Her mother should be home from the hospital by then, so if her father were willing to come along, they'd have the two mobile children outnumbered.  George and Sybbie were largely well behaved, but she tended to err on the side of caution when it came to play dates.

She was only marginally surprised to find her father sitting outside, on the shaded bench, reading. He normally was indoors at this time of day, still seeing to the budget, which was all she would let him oversee these days. Still, the weather was lovely and she was ready for a break herself, so rather than puzzling over the deviation in his behavior, she simply walked over to him, smiling. "Hello, Papa. Taking a break? I thought you were determined to keep working until you were in  your grave."

Robert glanced up at her, grimaced, and returned his eyes to his book. "There was too much racket to work," he informed her, turning the page.

"Racket?" The very concept confused Mary. She couldn't think of a single household activity, at least upstairs, that could constitute as 'racket', and she doubted even Mrs. Patmore could yell loudly enough to be heard in the library from the kitchen. Even if the children had convinced nanny and Barrow to let them out of the nursery for a bit, there shouldn't have been 'racket'. The only thing she could possibly think of was that something had set off the puppy. "What, did Tiaa find something to chase?"

"Tiaa is a little four legged saint who would never disturb my work," her father informed her primly, marking his place and closing his book in favor of looking up at her. It was complete balderdash, of course, but he said it solemnly. "No, Barrow has hurt himself somehow. Doctor Clarkson is up to look at it, of course, but apparently George is inconsolable for some reason. He, in turn, was upsetting Edward, so Nanny brought Eddie down to the drawing room, so now if I want to get anything done, I have to do it over a crying infant and a screaming five year old."

Mary rolled her eyes and decided this was not the best time to bring up a possible picnic. "Is Barrow alright at least?"

"I have no idea. The coroner hasn't shown up, so I'll take that as a good sign."

"Really, Papa! You might show a bit more concern." Mary wasn't entirely certain when she'd grown protective of Downton's resident trouble maker. It certainly wasn't when he'd rescued her sister from a fire. She suspected it was about the time her son had added "favorite toy" to Barrow's list of duties. Either way, she was not pleased by the idea of his being injured.

Robert gave her an unimpressed look. "Mary, if it were anything serious, they'd have told me rather than simply driving me out of my house with noise."

Admittedly, he had a point. If anything Nanny was known for exaggerating problems, not the other way around. Still, if her son was upset, Mary was going to look into it. "Well I'm going to see how things are going. Shall I send Tiaa to fetch you if it's quiet?"

"No, send one of the staff. It's what we pay them for."

"You just don't want to be chasing your precious saint of a puppy around the estate for the next hour and a half." With one last arch look, Mary headed for the house. With Barrow indisposed and Andrew probably running ten different directions at once as a result, she let herself through the door.

It was immediately apparent why her father (who loved his grandchildren, but was entirely unsuited to dealing with them when they were upset) had left the house.  The drawing room was quiet, which meant Nanny had managed to get Edward settled, but she could hear George's sobbing from the entry. Admittedly, sound carried very well in the stone halls and vaulted ceilings of Downton's gallery and hall, but to be heard from the nursery the boy had to be making quite a fuss.

By the time she had rushed (in a proper, lady-like manner, of course) up the gallery stairs and down the hall to the nursery, she was exceedingly glad she'd run into her father before entering the house. If she hadn't, she'd have been in a state of panic, convinced that someone was out-and-out murdering her son. The door to the nursery stood open, which at least partially explained the noise level. When she reached it, Mary found the most mystifying tableau.

Barrow sat in one of the nursery chairs. The butler had one shoe on and one shoe, along with it's sock, off, but otherwise looked completely normal. George was in his lap clinging to him as if his life depended on it, absolutely howling with anguish, tear streaming down his cheeks and his nose all over snot, despite Barrow's patting him on the back and dabbing his face with a handkerchief. Doctor Clarkson stood against the far wall, bag in hand, giving them plenty of room and looking completely lost.

If she'd been told George had been injured, or if there had been any side of it, things would have made sense to Mary. As it was, she felt as lost as the doctor looked. "Georgie?" Since only Doctor Clarkson seemed to hear her, she took several steps into the room and tried again, raising her voice in an effort to be heard over the din. "Georgie, darling, what's wrong?"

That at least got Barrow's attention (bless the man's good hearing, for once) and he managed to coax George into looking her direction. The second he saw his mother, the five-year-old slid out of Barrow's lap and came running. Mary knelt down and stretched her arms to him, pulling him close as he reached her and trying not to wince as he cried into her ear. "Georgie, please, calm down. Mommy's here." She pulled back enough to smooth her hand over his hair, making little shushing noises at him. "Won't you tell me what's wrong?"

It was difficult to sound soothing at an audible volume under the circumstances, but apparently she'd managed, because George's sobbing took the form of words. Shuddering, gasping, barely decipherable words, but words none-the-less. "He...he's going to sh...shoot Mr....Mr. Barrow!" One chubby finger pointed to Doctor Clarkson.

From the expressions on their faces, this was more than either of the men had managed to get out of the boy. Also, they had no idea what he was talking about.

Progress, at least, was progress, so Mary tried again. "Why would anyone shoot Mr. Barrow?" she asked, keeping her voice completely reasonable. She hoped that when he saw she wasn't concerned, George would become less concerned himself. "Why don't you start from the beginning and tell me what's happened?"

While George was distracted, Doctor Clarkson edged his way over and knelt down to examine Barrow's exposed ankle. The butler winced a bit, but didn't seem to be in excruciating pain.

"We...we were on a hunt," George explained. He was still crying, but at least having to concentrate on whole sentences brought his volume down a bit. "And Mr. Barrow hurt his...his leg...just like Legionnaire..." The sniffles increased again, almost obliterating the soft conversation between doctor and patient.

"Legionnaire?"

"One of the horses."

The pieces started to fall into place in Mary's head. From the expression on his face, they were doing the same for Barrow. This was, over all, a good thing, because George was becoming more garbled again as he finished. "And so...so now they're going to have to...to shoot Mr....Mr....." The boy dissolved once more into noisy, messy sobbing and buried his face against his mother's shoulder, rendering the rest of his sentence incomprehensible.

Sighing, torn between sympathy for her son's distress and strained amusement, Mary pulled him against her and patted his back. "There, there, Georgie, it's all right. I promise, Mr. Barrow will be perfectly all right. You don't shoot butlers with broken legs."

[j-e-green-blog]

The Demon Inheritance (1)

Croma, The Demon Inheritance, Chapter One

(Not a fanfic... An original work. Please comment and stuff?)

There are always two parts to that ever-repeating dream. In the first half of it, there is always a teen with shock-white hair, his slender fingers wrapped around a long blade. I’m never afraid when this part happens. I always feel safe and relaxed, protected. He unsheathes the sword, directs my hands around the handle, and teaches me how to use it. Although this nightmare had repeated exactly the same way every month, this fraction was never the same. I always learned something new. I always mastered it soon after. Soon, the teen with the white hair vanishes. He leaves me in the room with another weapon, much smaller, only a few inches in length. A hammer. I look up at a shadowy woman, who stands across the room. She is slick, laughing, holding another weapon in her hand that looks vaguely like the shadow of a knife. The next moments pass in a blur, and then we are both lying on the ground in a puddle of something thick, wet, and hot. My hammer is stuck inside of her eye, although I can’t see in the darkness where I have wounded her. The back of her knife is in my arm. My pain is numb compared to the overwhelming fear and guilt that flood my senses, and I look down at my victim. In the window of the room, a flash of light etches across the blinds where a car is rushing down the street. And for a few mere seconds, I can see her face. She is dead, thin lips gaping, green eyes glazed over. There is no mistaking who she is. My mother. I woke on the darkest hours of the day. Through my window that lacked both curtains and blinds, the first strands of violet-blue light lifted up from the horizon; the presence of light only made the rest of the world appear darker. My room was like midnight-colored ink spilled onto a canvas of shadows. The soft glow of the white walls spilled a partially-visible ring around my room, but one had to squint to tell it apart from everything else. There were certain familiar things I knew were there despite the darkness. The dream catcher by my door, spotted feathers hanging down on brown threads, strung by aqua beads; my bedsheets made to look like static in design; the lengthy, knotted curls of my blonde locks against my pillow. The closet door on another wall across room my bed was slightly opened. I could tell by the morphed shape of the shadow. Exhaustion possessed my eyes as I adjusted them in the darkness. My heart beat at a quick rate, making my body shudder at every change in pulse. It didn’t matter how many times I dreamed of killing my mother, I was always afraid and confused in the aftermath. Most times, I thought the dream had become reality - my body was wet with hot sweat, feeling as sticky and sodden as the blood felt in the dream. I usually awoke clamping something hard in the midst of my fear, which I mistook for the handle of a knife. That night, however, was very different. I knew truth from fiction. There was a difference in what my mind saw and what my eyes did. I immediately knew I was in my bedroom, unharmed. And more importantly, my mother was as safe as I was. The dreams were getting more and more persistent. At times, I would daydream and zone out completely. Then, those horrible visions would occupy my mind. As if my phone had emitted a cosmic power to alert others of when I was awake, my ringtone began playing. It was the beginning tune to a Metallica song. My phone was lit up on top of my dresser, which was hardly an inch away from my bed. I grabbed my phone. Then, I discovered a fact that any other person my age would have moaned in remorse at: it was a Monday. The wicked word occupied my home screen. I felt a thankful that it was the worst of my problems now. The call was from my closest friend, Mary Clarkson. In the middle of reviewing tips for acting, her childish grin sprung up into my view as she called a second time. I took a second to observe the pale, adolescent face of the girl on my screen. Her locks were as dark as the feathers on a raven, and as equally curly as mine. Her bright green eyes were lit with excitement and joy. Her pink lips were cornered by dimples. I tapped the “answer call” button. “Hey, Emma.” It was Mary’s voice, low and soft. “I wanted to call to… Sorry, did I wake you?” Despite her apology, I could hear the indifference even through the static. I rubbed my head. It’s too early for this… My temples were throbbing, so I took the liberty of laying down in bed to give myself a moment to wake. My head sank into the pillow, and I curled my arm to hold my phone at my ear. “No,” I said to her. “I had that nightmare again. It traumatized me before you could tire me out with lack of sleep, sorry.” My best friend seemed to ignore the news on the dream. Why not? I had it so often anyways. It wasn't exactly a new concern. “I was just informed that there’s a play tomorrow. Cause, you know, I follow the school’s facebook page and you don’t. And you have to try out!” Those were my worries. School, grades, a friend, dramas - which were in plays rather than in my relationships. Life was a good thing when I wasn’t sleeping or zoning out. I forced myself to sit up in bed, interested. “I’m listening, Mary. What’s the play?” “Take a guess. It’s Romeo and Juliet! Obviously, you have to be Juliet. But here’s the twist! When Romeo tries to kiss you, stab him in the face!” Her smoky voice crackled a bit from my awful phone service (which was always my comeback for Mary’s “the government is listening in on your conversations” jokes; obviously, they couldn’t listen in when my call kept dropping). “Kissing is overrated. I can’t believe the  drama teacher. ‘Please make out for us, and we’ll call it an act!’ Pssh, what perverts.” “Especially the gym teacher,” I agreed softly, keeping my voice low enough so that my mother would stay sleeping a room over. “Telling us to bend over and do obscene gestures…” “And the English teacher. Telling us to read,” Mary said. She could be heard faking a shudder. "How disgusting." “How is that dirty?” “I dunno. Ask him. Some people are really weird when it comes to that stuff.” There was a thud on the other line of the phone. Mary was probably getting dressed, too. I laughed. “Reading fetish. How the hell?” “There’s literally a fetish for everything, dude.” "Yeah," I said, muffling my laughter. "That is kind of true. People are weird. And everyone wonders why I hate them." I placed the phone on speaker, a risk I was willing to take to be able to get dressed and speak to my friend at the same time. I pushed myself off of the bed and sauntered over to my closet, pulled the door open lazily, and skimmed my eyes over my vast collection of shirts without really looking at them. “You think I’ll make a good Juliet?” I asked over my shoulder, in the direction of my phone. "Maybe I'll get some recognition as an actress." “You’ll make the best Juliet. And you know what?” I pulled out a short-sleeved black t-shirt with a slight dip in the neck, barely glancing at it. All I had in my closet looked the same to me, all in shades of gray or black, not too showy nor frilly. And only a rare some were colorful. I began pulling my checkered pajama shirt over my head and threw it to the hamper behind my dresser. I missed, but I would deal with it later. “What is it, Mary?” “I’ll even see you act! Jealous me, who hates this work of Shakespeare with a fiery passion because he is a more well-known scriptwriter than me, will go watch you make out with a guy and act all confused-like.” Her laughter crackled with static through the phone. “Before it even happens, I’ll record you reading your lines and sell it to the English teacher! What porn site do you think he uses? Because you will totally be famous on there!” I knew she was grinning. I didn’t have to see her face to know that. “But seriously, you’ll make a fine Juliet. It isn’t as if you haven’t memorized all the words in private for preparation of this day. Or, like, any play in preparation…” I slipped the black t-shirt on over my bra, then stumbled over to my drawer where my variety of pants lay in wait. “I’m not that obsessed with acting, Mary.” Although I was being defensive, my tone was cool, emotionless. “I mean, I have some memorized… And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I… Um, but that’s normal, isn’t it?” “No, my soul sister, it isn’t!” Mary’s laughter, as it always did, crackled. “And it isn’t impressive if that’s all you know.” "Romeo, oh Romeo, where for art thou, Romeo?" I quoted, chuckling. "Then again, everyone knows those lines." "Yep." I slipped on a pair of black skinny jeans. By now, the dawn light was crawling faster in the sky towards my home. I could see better, but all was still dark. “That isn’t all I have memorized, but if you want to listen to it all, it may take quite a while.” “And you aren’t obsessed?” she asked, question taking on a sarcastic tone. “No. I like Hamlet much better, as far as Shakespeare goes. He isn't even my favorite. He's just noticed.” For a moment, my best friend, my soul sister, breathed gently into the phone, saying nothing but a lagging ellipsis. I finished dressing, followed by socks, shoes, deodorant, and fixing my long, curly hair. Then, I sat on the bed with the phone beside me. My slow huff of breath gradually went into unison with hers, which, through the phone, was a few seconds behind of what it really was. Through sound, our lungs moved as one, as if we were breathing through the same organs. As if we were the same human being. It was the uncommon moments like these where Mary erased my doubts and left nothing but throughout adoration for her, our friendship, and our unity. Who could have a better friend? Finally, I broke the moment. “I’m going to go make my family breakfast. Bye. See you later, Mary." “See ya, sister!” She was the first to click the “end call” button. Her face flashed across the screen, followed by the crimson words: Call Ended. Before long, I was staring at my wallpaper, which was a sassy meme of James Hetfield. He was a bit blurred on the screen. I sighed, already heading out of my room. My destination was to the fridge to scramble eggs. “Every day this happens, sister. When is it gonna change? We talk, we dress, we get to school… The plainness of everyday life is killing me.” That was an exageration. If anything was killing me, it was my murder dreams.

***

As every other day in the half-lived school semester had hypothesized, Mary Clarkson and I entered Millton High School together, already too deep in conversation to be pulled out by our surroundings. Nonetheless, even the most inattentive kid in our grade couldn’t help but notice the mainstream details. A locker or two had a violent message scrawled across it, a couple lockers more had embarrassing images marked on them. Some identifiable kids around our age, sixteen at most and fourteen at least, stood in the halls pointlessly. Some kissed, some bullied a “lesser” classmate. It both made me sick and comforted me at the same time. These were the worries every single one of us was occupied with. Only years away from a freedom that had more downs than ups, and we didn’t even attempt to care. Our troubles and strife only originated from love, friendship, and household family problems. No one had to go to war yet, no one had to sell their entire lives away for family yet… And yet, the fact false loves and fake friends were the only things they cared for sickened me. I narrowed my eyes as we past a locker with a sticky note on it. The note read: EMO FAG. Irritation flared at me. What kind of sick person does this entertain? Stupid, stupid… I squeezed my backpack to my chest as if to force out a huff. Then, I ripped the note off of the locker. Mary gave the note an annoyed glance. “Which locker did you find that on? We should tell someone, right?” “Why?” I asked. “It doesn’t stop anything. We’ll find out who owns that locker and you can talk to them later.” I avoided people; I couldn’t help anyone when I was just irritated at their existence the entire time. “Isn’t that the Duncan guy’s locker, actually?” We moved out into the hall again. “Yeah,” Mary said. “I think so. The guy who broke his arm, so his eyeliner is all messed up now cause he can't put it on?" "Yeah, that's the guy." "He's actually got a nice taste in music. He's kind of weird, but, you know," Mary said, "Cool. Cool but weird." She guestured back at the locker, smiling. "I wish you could tolerate people sometimes. We could make friends with him." I said nothing. A boy bumped me in the hallway, jutting his shoulder into the side of my chest. I gasped, flinging my backpack onto the marble floor below us both. My angry yell was muffled by the murmur of other teens. The boy turned to look at me with rich, violet eyes. His mouth was set in a cheeky grin. By this point in the year, I could identify those strange irises of his from anywhere. They were famous in Millton High School. “Dammit, Dillan Raking,” I said. The boy walked on, dipping his head to a tilt towards his sneakers. The back of his taco-themed jacket shrank as he walked away, as if nothing had happened. I scooped my backpack up from the floor with one arm. “What’s his damn problem? Hitting me like that…” Hatred flared inside of me like fire in my stomach. “He doesn’t pay you attention,” said Mary. “Then he goes all out suddenly to be rude… Doesn’t matter, Sis. He’s just jealous of your wicked moustache!” She turned to stare after where Dillan had walked off. I turned to look at her. I didn’t laugh, but I did pass on a small smile. Although I loved her, she invoked just as much confusion in me as affection. I buried my pack against my chest. “Doesn’t matter. Most people I know are jerks. C’mon, let’s go face Mr. Bluethorne.” Gary Bluethorne was the math teacher. He had the expression of the Grinch before reformation and the student-named ego of any other mathematics educator ever: evil. He could as well have been the antiChrist in the minds of teens who lacked a figure in their life they could blame evil on. As any other day before, he sat behind the front desk. His eyes, as dark as a coal from the center of Hell - as dark as my eyes - were narrowed under his thick brows. His hair, unbrushed, was as dark as vantablack. Mary and I entered at once, side-by-side. He scowled at us, the tanned skin around his nose wrinkling. “You’re early.” He entwined his fingers with each other. “Better be early than on time!” Mary said, smiling. “Be happy we don’t come in late, Mr. Bluethorne.” My friend took me by the hand and led me to our window seats, where she sat in front of me and I sat behind her. The places we chose made it ultimately harder for us to talk, but we both liked window seats, where all the magical events were seen happening outside. I had good enough grades to watch a couple of bird fight over bread for a minute, didn’t I? “A delinquent is much better than a goody-two-shoes, Miss Clarkson. A delinquent will go somewhere in life, even if the place they go is prison. A goody-two-shoes will be bullied their whole lives.” There was a crack in his deep voice. "From childhood to adulthood." And there went a debate, two outcast teenage girls versus a mathematical antiChrist. I situated myself into my seat, resting my eyes on his calloused, olive hands rather than his eyes that were so frighteningly like mine. “Actually, I think that if we survive this age, we rise above bullying. In adulthood, we don’t have enough time or patience to give other adults swirlies,” I told him. It was my turn to twine my fingers together and lean back behind my desk. Gary Bluethorne scoffed. “Then what do you call harassment?” “I call it harassment,” Mary said. He was about to open his mouth to say something to contradict our thoughts, perhaps “Harassment is another term for bullying in adulthood”, knowing him. However, the bell to begin class rang out with a shrill cry. Mr. Bluethorne shut his mouth with a wavering expression of annoyance on his face, one brow twitching. With a wrinkle of disgust centering from his nose, the other students began to file in. To my dismay, Dillan Raking sat two seats away from me. An empty seat in between us kept me from reaching over and smacking him for what he had done earlier. Dillan’s inseparable friend, Delta Waters, sat by Mary. Other familiar people came in, claiming chairs as their own. The seat beside me, as every other day, went unfilled. Each teenager sat by friends, talking as if they hadn’t seen each other in months. Mary and I, however, merely glanced at each other with a smile and turned to pay attention. Gary Bluethorne smacked the chalk board with his paddle, which had tattered apple stickers running up its side. “Alright, settle down!” A blondie sneered and hissed, “This joke still uses a chalkboard! That’s so old, it's gross." Fango Mills, the smartest boy in the grade, defended him with, “I think the new stuff is overrated. The old things are cool!” He pushed his glasses back to the crook of his nose. I propped my chin up on my knuckles, glaring towards the board. Then my blood ran cold. The air slowed around me and the murmer of other teens went static. Beside the clutter littered across Gary Bluethorne’s desk, there stood a boy. His head was shyly dipped towards his white tennis shoes, where he shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t the fact he was new there that caught my attention, nor the foreign size of his electric blue eyes. It wasn’t the oval shape of his face, which suggested some strange nationality I had never seen before. It wasn’t the color of his skin, which was so pale that his veins showed through. What I noticed was so much more than that. It was the shock white hair that lied slick over his head and covered his right eye. The hair that made him look like a ghost. The hair that made him look like the man from my dream, the man who always gave me the weapon to murder my mother. "We've got a new kid," Gary said. "Make him feel welcome." He pat the boy on the back, seemingly disgusted at touching him. "Sit anywhere you like." Funny enough, there was only one seat open. The stranger took the seat beside me, alont with the overpowering smell of nicotine. That smile of his was enough to make the marrow in my bones freeze. It was for the fear of him that I turned back to Gary as he went on with our lesson on scientific notation. It was for the fear of him that I tried to ignore it. And, thank God, the boy didn't dare speak to me.

***

I stood in the all-too-familiar school theater. Some older men were already helping set up props as the interested younger actors for the lead roles, such as myself, stood before them. I could count on one hand how many people seemed genuinely interested in helping this play. The try-outs for the play, Romeo and Juliet, were anything but overwhelming. There were merely three potential Juliet’s in line, including me. Then, there were easily six Romeo’s. I bet Mary five dollars that they were only there so they could kiss an attractive girl at some point during rehearsal, then chicken out of the play. It wasn’t above them. Among the Romeo positions were Dillan Raking himself, Delta Waters, and Fango Mills. The presence of Fango surprised me, seeing as how he was more of the type to narrate the play, if anything. Dillan and Delta were laughing loudly, shoving each other in line, not taking anything seriously. Two of the other boys in line were in a grade above me, and I hadn’t the slightest clue who they were. Then, the eerie, pale boy from earlier stood at a distance behind them. He wore a slightly bored, calm expression, turning to glance at me curiously every few moments. He tried to hide his glances by pulling his white hoodie over his head, but it wasn’t working. I noticed. In the line of girls trying out for the role of Juliet, there were two giggling girls in front of me. One looked to be anorexic. Her hair fell in inky lengths against her forehead, and a black braid tied itself into her hair neatly. She wore her lips a size too big and a shade too red, and she seemed to have overused the golden eye makeup. Her friend wore a long, neatly trimmed ponytail with a couple pounds of makeup more. I could hardly tell what color their eyes were. They also wore matching pink t-shirts depicting different Bible passages. Much like the new kid, I stood a few feet behind their gossip and inspected the potential Romeo’s instead. Which one could I be paired with? Which insufferable sack of meat is going to be my parter in this play? The hairs on my neck prickled. The new kid was staring at me again, and he wasn’t making any attempt to hide it now. Deeming the new kid a creep, I prayed that Fango would be the get the part; he seemed to be the only one even slightly respectful of the play, besides me. In all honesty, the girls in front of me probably only wanted to be able to kiss a boy. It wouldn’t be above them. I'm not sexist. I hate all genders! The new kid leaned over a bit, holding his arms against his chest. “Your name is Emma, correct? Emma Whitestone?” The melody of his voice stayed true to his unknown nationality, carrying an uncanny accent to his words. English seemed uncomfortable for his tongue, and he pronounced his words in a richer way. It didn’t seem that the American language was his first. All the while, it was a bit enjoyable to listen to, in an eerily hypnotic way. And a huge part of me hated his voice. I crossed my arms over my chest, glancing away in fear that I would melt him with the heat of my glare. “Yes, it is. What’s it to you?” “My name is Oliver.” I was expecting something more cultured from him. After all, he didn’t seem to be born in America. English, clearly, wasn't even his first language. I shuffled my feet and moved the blonde curls out of my face. “Why are you trying out for Romeo, Oliver?” In all truth, the new kid was making me nervous. The shock-white hair brought me into a fearful sweat, reminding me of the hot and sticky blood that had covered me in the recurring nightmare. I had no doubt that he was the same person who gave me the weapon in my dream. “You’re new. Best not to complicate yourself with all this extra stuff.” Oliver shrugged. “When I am somewhere, I try to make my mark on where I am… I don’t stay there long, but it still matters to me.” He cracked his knuckles and flushed, as if he had said something he regretted, became suddenly shy, or something else along the lines. “I want to do as much as I can… Besides, I have been told I am a legitimate actor.” “Legitimate actor, eh?” I said. Perhaps something could be learned from him, good or bad, if he is an actor. It was no secret to anyone that I was borderline obsessed with chasing the career of an actress. “And you wanting to be Romeo has nothing to do with whoever is Juliet?” He looked genuinely confused, silver brows knit. “Why would it have anything to do with the part of Juliet, Emma? Should it?” “Hehe, you’re an okay actor, alright.” “Thank you! Although I never showed you my abilities, so I am a bit confused on where your conclusion came from! Nevertheless, I am honered. I assume you are a legitimate actor, as well. Dillan Raking has made a lot of references to how much you enjoy the position of acting. He seems a little… mocking, when he speaks about you… However, I think your determination is admirable!” He flashed another smile, and I fought the goosebumps off of my skin. I narrowed my eyes at Oliver, eyebrows crinkling, trying to assess if he was being honest. Probably not. No one found me admirable. The little bit of information about Dillan was new to me, but the pure strangeness of the new kid was more of a concern to me at the moment. It wasn’t like kids didn’t mock me when they weren’t drooling, anyways. Suddenly, Gary Bluethorne called, “Emma Whitestone, you’re up!” I didn’t even glance back at Oliver as I made my way up to stage to try out for the role of Juliet. However, even turned away from him, I could feel the phantom of his blue eyes leech onto me, still watching. Still draining the courage from me. I shuddered under the chill of his gaze, and stepped onto the unfinished scene. When I turned to the crowd watching the try-outs, I found it wasn’t Mary, waving excitedly from the seats in front of the stage, that I gulped nervously at. It was Oliver. And it wasn’t the tryouts I was afraid of. Of course, that was Oliver, too. The man who becomes the accomplice to the murder in my night terrors.

***

At night, another dream came. I had never had a dream like it, which was a nice change from the usual murder and blood. The horizon blushes across the edge of a desert, one that gives me an eerie sense of familiarity. The flushing hues of pink and blue flash in neon shades against the sky, along with a color that, surprisingly, I have never seen before. The sun itself is a crisp, burnt orb of cold light settling on the split of day and night. The shadows were already reaching forward towards me, wrapping the tendril prongs of shade fingers around my body. There are no trees in sight to cast any extra, darker shadows; instead, there is only a castle. It’s only meters away. The castle has a sandy texture to it, as if there had recently been a sandstorm that madly swept the area. Wherever that wind had gone, it was over; now, there lie a blanket of nothingness over the land. No wind disturbs me as I trudge up an unsettled dune towards the great building. It is as if this place has only recently been touched by the elements and wasn’t used to it. At the door of the castle, the handle is made of dusty gold. The door itself is marble. There are three stories to the miniature castle, and I know them all automatically: the living spaces and such are at the bottom, the rooms are mostly in the middle, the library and a training room tops the project… Great dune barriers rise up to protect the walls of the castle, all except for the front. At both the side of the building and the rooftop, there is a garden where the fruit and vegetables never die. I am not sure how I know about this castle, but I do. In some sense, I belong there. I can smell the people inside, a rough guess of eleven scents flowing into my nostrils. A few of them smell like me, as if they had been covered in the scent of sulfur and fruit. Some more smell like mist and mint. Some smell like heavy water and spring grass. Every single one of them smelled like the desert: hot, dry, dusty… I found my feet, bare and exposed to the hardened clumps of sand, moving completely on their own. They moved towards the castle, towards the people, towards the familiar strangeness that lie in wait for me. I’m at the door in a matter of seconds, whereas it should have taken minutes for someone who was not running. Not only is my sense of smell amazing here, but I seem to be quicker than my waking body now. I lift my fist at the door marble, ready to knock, but a strange instinct fills me instead. It tells me that this is my home, that I don’t have to knock. So, instead, I wrap my long fingers around the dusty golden door knob. I’m consumed with a sense of relief, like a soldier going home, or like a formerly abducted child going home again. I think the sense leaned towards the first. Yes, I am a soldier going home. The door opens with a lagging creak, and I waste no time hurrying inside. In the castle (it does not look like a castle, but it feels rude not to call it one), the first room looks like an old-fashioned den in a polished wood house. There’s a moose head mounted onto the wall across from me, but it looks like it’s a piece of art instead of a hunting trophy. Just below the moose head is a mirror streaked with scratches on one lower corner, tilted upwards a bit so the reflection would show the ceiling instead. Under all of this was a dresser with a vase of fake flowers on the table, who seemed to be made by the same person who made the false hunting trophy. It had a simular taste of artistry. Although there are no doors, there are two other rooms. One is a dark kitchen, the other is an empty space accompanied by stairs. The metal in the stairs is a color I had never seen before, and its luster was complicated. The railing was made up of polished obsidian. The steps were packed sand, mixed with some strange other material. I chose to walk up the nearest staircase, which led to a dark hallway that looked as if it should belong in a hotel. The carpet was clean, despite some sand visible on it. The flooring beneath the fur carpeting was made of black wood. At the very end of the hall was a doorway with two chairs on either side of it. There were twelve doors, six on each flank of the hallway. I found myself following the second door to the left by instinct. My heart pounded against my ribs, shaking my body with each little leap it gave. I had the feeling I wasn’t just returning home, but going back to an old friend that I had missed for forever. When I saw that the man inside was unfamiliar, I outwardly slouched. However, the man greets me with great joy. He bounds over, smothers me in a hug, and gives a loud laugh. His arms are toned ring around my head, and his chest sending of wafts of smell. He is one of the people who smelled like water and spring grass, sun and sand. Whoever he is, he knows me. But I am not looking for him. I’m looking for someone else. “It’s you, Emma Whitestone!” “Do you know where he is?” I ask, blunt. I wasn’t sure who I was looking for, but I hoped this stranger did. I peel back from the hug, looking up at him. He is tall, face designed in a foreign way as if his nationality was not even one of earth. His eyes are black, but a different kind of black from mine. He feels ancient, although he looks young. “I can’t find him.” He says, “Yeah. He’s in the library. You be good to him.” He moves the black hair from his forehead. “You be good to him, or I’ll probably have to cut your hands off.” I ignore the threat. “How do you know who I am looking for?” “Easy. You’re looking for your Apotropaic. Every Extant does when they come here. You’re the Kalos Extant of Wind. Welcome home, Emma Whitestone.” I could have stayed and asked him the many questions I had. However, I had pressing urges to find my “Apotropaic”. I need to find them. It’s not a want. It’s almost as if I will starve or dehydrate without the “Apotropaic’s” presence. As soon as I leave the room, hidden memories flow into my head. They are all memories of names, associated with the scents I smell from the rooms down the hallway. Mun. Gan. Ace. Ace is undoubtedly the man who hugged me and pointed me towards my Apotropaic moments ago. Caleb. Carter. Another name mutes itself, and I know by instinct that it is the name of the person I am looking for - the Apotropaic. Jupus. Ebony. Nahara. These are the names that swell my chest a bit, as if I am more than proud to know them, although I have no clue who they are. Fango. Dillan. Delta. I know them, but I don’t care. I’m not going to stop by and greet them. I don’t like them, and I need to find the man with a missing name. He is the only one I need to see. He is the only one I need to speak to. He is the only one I need to become familiar with. I move to the end of the hall, entering the door in between the two chairs. Behind the door is a library. The complicatedness of the library doesn’t match the rest of the castle, which is very casual and country-like. It’s humongous, royal purple sheets draped around the walls, ladders needed to be able to reach the tops of the bookshelves. The door to the library was not locked when I went up. That fact led me to believe there were no security issues with the place. There was a fireplace, and a boy reclined on a handmade chair with a quarter-read book. The boy’s presence excited me; he is the one I am searching for. I step into the library, and a burst of wind flows into the room. Some books shudder on their shelves, and pages twitch at the sudden air. The boy, sitting in the handmade chair with his back to me, shuts his book with a sudden force. He is happy to see me, too. He’s even happier than I am. His happiness rolls off of him in thick waves. I amble over as he stands and faces me. He grins innocently and says, “I knew it, my Extant…” He leaps onto the fragile table in his way by the chair, then bounces off to greet me. He wraps his arms around my shoulder and buries my chin into the crook of his corded neck, squeezing me into his chest. He is shorter than me, but it doesn’t matter. I awkwardly stand there for a moment, then he pulls away and he glances me over. “What is your name?” he asks. He wants to make sure I know. He already knows who I am. “Emma Whitestone,” I say. He keeps going with a couple more questions. “What is your kingdom? There are six. And you belong to one of them.” “Kalos.” “What are you?” is his last query. “I am a demon,” I say, sure. I am not ashamed of what I am by nature. I am actually noble, rather than hellish. The word 'demon' means nothing more than the makings of my blood and flesh. There are too many things more important. An expression of enjoyment flashes across his pale face. His lower lip is being nibbled by his small front teeth, and his eyes glow in an ocean of happiness. “You’re waking up! This is so amazing! Wait until the Minium prophet appears! We’ll have the whole set! Are you completely lucid, Emma Whitestone?” Something bats my heart when he says ‘Minium’, but I ignore it. “I don’t feel like I am in complete control of myself right now, but I know I am… asleep…” ‘Dreaming’ sounds like the wrong word to use. “As if it will fade and, for now, I’m only half conscious, half-aware.” “Your Earth self knows nothing of here, but she will, in time. She may even remember this dream.” He takes my hand in his slender, artistically carved fingers, leads me to the chair, and invites me to sit in it. I do, and he stands before me. “And you don’t completely understand, either.” “But I will.” He dips his head. “Yes. Now, it is time to both wake and sleep, my Extant. Your night will be over soon, and ours will start. Farewell, my Extant, Emma Whitestone.” I decide to say his name this time. “Goodbye, my Apotropaic, Oliver Kalos.” I press my head into the side of the chair, nuzzling the furry coat cushion with my body. Oliver stands before me, watching as I fall asleep. I question myself, What is it that I don’t understand? And when the world goes dark on me, I ask, What do I understand? My attitude, my vision…  All of it shifted. I found myself, cast from the dream, staring up at the ceiling. I hadn’t dreamed of killing my mother again, and that was a positive first. Still, the notion of dreaming about the white-haired boy again was horrifying. The image of him pumped adrenaline, cool and icy, through my blood. But there was an eerie fact: lingering in the air was the scent of the library and old books. I could pick up the scent of oranges. And I had the distinct feeling that, although I woke in my home, Oliver was still watching me. It was as if his blue eyes were still trained on my body, and a small part of me was still slumbering in that chair.

(END OF FIRST CHAPTER. Not a lot of peeps are gonna read this but eh... Did those of you who did like it?)

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The barefooted Maestro

The journalist Jeremy Clarkson has his gargantuan stomach and the pianist Glenn Gould had his wooden chair. Novelist Mary Shelly (think Frankenstein) wrote with a Boa Constrictor around her neck, and artist Salvador Dalí carried around a piece of Spanish driftwood. Nigel Kennedy performs in an Aston Villa t-shirt and Robert Emery, yes that's me, conducts barefoot.

Most creative people have a little foible or two. But over the years I've had more people ask me about my bare feet than I've had hangovers; and now you know what a large-scale problem this is, I've decided to address it.

Is it because I can feel the music more with my naked skin touching the ground and feeling the vibrations?

No. I'm not that clever. Dame Evelyn Glennie can do this - but even though she is a percussionist, she is actually very clever; and also profoundly deaf, so she had a good reason to learn that skill.

Is it because I connect more with the music?

No. That is just a silly idea and anyone who says that is more pompous than Jacob Rees-Mogg - and that's a difficult task to achieve.

Is it because I get hot waving my arms around, so this helps cool me down?

No. I mean, yes I do get hot, and yes, it probably does keep me slightly cooler than a pair of Church's formal black patent leather shoes with Paul Smith formal black cotton socks - but that's not the reason.

Is it because it's cheaper?

Now we are just getting to the ridiculous; of course having no shoes is cheaper than having shoes; especially Church's - but that's a silly answer to a stupid question.

Is it to gain attention?

No. I can do that without my feet thank you very much. I've never been very good at dancing, and I don't have especially beautiful feet, so I wouldn't naturally highlight them.

At this point, I imagine the hot water is starting to boil in a quest for a simple answer. So here you are:

Back in 2010 I was young and foolish. I was also conducting the Sinfonieorchester Basel. It was three performances of a European band called the Lovebugs, fused with one of the worlds great orchestras, resulting in a hybrid of rock energy with classical and filmic excitement. To make myself comfortable in long, arduous rehearsals, I often took my shoes and socks off; and I'm afraid to say, even wore shorts. I know you're disappointed and can't understand how someone could be so careless, but it's incredible how scruffy and Hagrid-esq performers are when they don't have an audience to play to.

Now, fast-forward to three minutes before making my big entrance in front of a screaming, excited audience who range from the pre-pubescent through to the odd octogenarian. I'm doing my side-of-stage ritual. It's not a superstitious thing, and occasionally I don't need to do this, but sometimes I lack the energy to go and do my job. My theory is that a couple of hours before a performance, my body and mind start to go into a slumber of subconscious relaxation. I don't want to eat. Don't want to talk. Don't want to move. Actually, I don't want to do anything; especially go on stage. And that's the irony - because I love being on stage. I've learned by now that it's just my way of conserving the massive amount of energy needed to perform like a lunatic version of Jiminy Cricket. It's the calm before the storm. And with any storm, there needs some brewing time, like a good cuppa.

My brewing time involves jumping up and down on the spot. Waving my arms in circles, and generally trying to make the stage management as uncomfortable as possible with my psychedelic movements. That puts a smile on my face and also fires up the starter motor for the energy I need.

So back to the side of the stage and pre-pubescent octogenarian folk. I'm waiting to make my entrance when the promotor looks at me with horror. "What on earth are you doing?" he screamed at me. I froze.

For the first time in my life, I thought I was going to be fired. I imagined Alan Trump or Donald Sugar peering around the corner with their wagging finger, but I didn't know why.

"Why are you wearing shoes" barks the promotor. At this point, I'm more confused than my cat, who is called Penguin. "Why am I wearing shoes? Because I'm about to go on stage and conduct the Basel Symphony Orchestra" I retort. And then, he composed the fateful sentence that has plagued me all my career:

"If you conduct in rehearsals bare-foot because you feel most comfortable, why don't you conduct in concerts bare-foot. Isn't it about time concert halls were less formal? Take those shoes and socks off right now and go have fun!"

So I did. I went on stage and had the biggest buzz not only when the mixed-aged audience erupted, but with the second wave of applause that came when they saw my little bare feet. The next day, the front page of the Basler Zeitung had a photo of my feet, with a caption of 'the cool barefooted conductor'.

I had no idea back then that feet were like Marmite. People either loved me conducting barefooted or hated it. There seemed to be nothing in between. Of course the attention it gave me with the second applause and the newspaper cover massaged my ego, so one could say I told a little white lie when I said I didn't do it for the publicity. But scouts honour, I didn't know that publicity would arise from something we all do at least once a day!

Nevertheless, I'm not a fan of stirring up things (unless it's on the last Sunday before Advent), so I've decided, here and now, that I'll stop with the whole barefoot thing in concerts. I can't be bothered with the negativity around what should be a fun, laughable little quirk. So I'll say good luck to Clarkson with his beer-barrel and Kennedy with his football shirt; I hope they can continue with their fanciful follies. As for Dali, Shelly and Gould, it's interesting they are remembered not for their oddities, but for the creations they left us. Perhaps I should have learned from this, but then I wouldn't have been called 'the cool barefooted conductor'; and with all that patent leather and cotton, I'd be too hot.

Book & Music recommendations discussing Conducting & Sinfonieorchester Basel

The Conductor - A fascinating novel; not the story of Shostakovich. This is the story of a man caught in the white heat of obsession. A man who inspired an entire city, much less a ragged orchestra of half-starved musicians, to an act of resistance and hope in a time of war. Karl Eliasberg. The Conductor.

The Great Conductors - Most Popular Symphonies and Orchestral Favorites - A remarkable 30-CD collection brings together 30 world-class conductors representing the cream of crop - including Herbert von Karajan, Arturo Toscanini, Otto Klemperer, Pierre Monteux, Eugene Ormandy, Bruno Walter, Sir Thomas Beecham, Leonard Bernstein, Leopold Stokowski, Sir Georg Solti and George Szell.

Weingartner: Complete Symphonies [Marko Letonja, Sinfonieorchester Basel] - Marko Letonja and the Basel Symphony Orchestra set out on this adventurous journey of discovery with devotion and virtuosic skill over these 7 disks. Felix Weingartner an internationally acclaimed conductor and a highly influential figure in Basel's music world he also bequeathed to posterity an extensive compositional oeuvre marked by timeless freshness.

Stravinsky:Petrouchka [Sinfonieorchester Basel; Maki Namekawa, Dennis Russell Davies] - A beautiful recording of this incredible piece.

Brucker: Complete Symphonies [Tapiola Sinfonietta; Northern Sinfonia; Sinfonieorchester Basel, Mario Venzago] - 10 CD’s and a DVD of Mario Venzago conducting.

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[airoasis]

How You Can Increase Your Daily Inspiration

This is a guest post by Peter Bailey. He is the owner of – a manufacturer of offline marketing products. In his spare time, he enjoys writing about his knowledge of traditional marketing principles, but adapting them for the online marketing environment.

At its core, motivation is our desire to do things. It’s the difference between getting up early and hitting the gym and lazing around the house all day. It plays a crucial role in setting and attaining our goals.

Some people just seem to have it more than others – grit, self-control, drive, work ethic, persistence, motivation – whatever you prefer to call it. And it’s probably not surprising to learn that it’s a common trait among successful people. So does this mean motivation is part of our genetic makeup? Or is it something we can learn to develop, like learning a new language or taking up a new sport.

In fact, research shows there are several ways you can influence your own levels of motivation and self-control, and these are not always the most obvious solution. If you’re feeling too nervous about something, leading you to procrastinate and put off getting started, you should try to calm down, right? Not necessarily…

If you’re looking for ways to increase your daily motivation, here are some researched-backed ideas to help you succeed in your everyday pursuits.

Use that nervous energy

Have you ever noticed how similar the symptoms of feeling nervous are to feeling excited? Fast heartbeat, trembling hands, brain racing… Although nervous energy might be stopping you from getting on with a task, trying to calm down isn’t necessarily the way forward.

This energy can be useful, and when channeled right, can actually help increase performance. The next time you can’t bring yourself to do something – ask your boss for a raise, confront a colleague about a problem, etc… –  because you’re simply too nervous, tell yourself that what you’re feeling is excitement.

This is a process called “reappraisal”, and a large amount of research has gone into studying its effects when it comes to motivation and other emotions.

In an experiment which required one group of people to make a work-related speech and another group to carry out difficult math problems, they found that the individuals who had talked about feeling “excited” before the task outperformed those who talked about feeling nervous, calm, or were told to try and remain calm.

So the next time you’re procrastinating on a task due to nerves, reappraise the situation and tell yourself that you’re excited about getting it done. You may not feel any different after telling yourself once, but keep working at it and think of it as developing a new skill.

Listen to motivational music

Studies show that listening to just one minute of motivational music can give you a significant physiological advantage. McGinn references a 1995 study which compared the performance of athletes who listened to the Rocky theme before a race to those who waited in silence.

Although both groups had run the same time in the past, their results showed that the group that listened to Rocky music ran faster, had a quicker heartbeat, tense muscles, and lower anxiety levels than the runners who didn’t listen to any music.

If the Rocky theme isn’t for you, fear not, as there are plenty of songs out there that can help you feel more motivated. , a leading researcher on music and performance, suggests that the key to finding motivational music lies in any song which you find physically energizing, stimulating, or activating.

Of course, the best song will differ from person to person. Whilst the Rocky song may get one individual’s blood pumping, Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)” may do just the trick for another.

If you’re feeling unmotivated due to a lack of energy, the physiological effects of listening to a motivating song could give you the boost you need.

Give yourself a fresh start

The 1st of January is generally considered a good time to wipe the slate clean and give yourself a fresh start for the year to come. But for most people, this is just an arbitrary point in life which is no better than, say, the 3rd of June.

You can give yourself a fresh start any day of the year, which should lead to a new burst of energy, according to a study carried out by the . Inter-temporal markers can encourage you to disconnect from past failures and help promote a big-picture view of life, which in turn leaves you feeling more motivated to get things done.

Giving yourself a fresh start doesn’t have to be a lengthy period of contemplation, you can do it in five minutes. Think of a recent event which had an impact in your life, such as a promotion or a breakup, and contrive a fresh start. Once you do it you’ll find it more believable than just reading the advice in this article.

It’s best to sit down, craft a message, write it down, and make it as concrete as possible. Whether you want to make changes in your life or stop putting off your dream, tell yourself that “from today, I’m going to make things happen”.  

Develop your own ritual

Many professionals have some sort of ritual they carry out before getting ready for work. Think of an athlete warming up, a pianist playing scales, or the simple act of enjoying a cup of coffee before starting work.

Research shows that having a consistent ritual can actually improve performance, so if you don’t have one yet, it’s time to develop one. But don’t just copy what seems to be working for someone else, customize a ritual for you.

Sports psychologist have devoted a lot of time to studying the rituals that athletes carry out before they compete. Mostly, they found that athletes who use a well-conceived and consistent routine tend to perform better than those who don’t have one.

Having a consistent routine is a great way to beat procrastination and get you in the right headspace. By developing a – and let’s face it, taking that first step is often the hardest part – you can make this process much easier.

Developing personal rituals and using them consistently can make you happier and more productive. So whether you adjust your sock height so they match (a la Rafael Nadal) or wear a lucky pair of shorts before a big event (hey, Michael Jordan), you’ll be creating a mechanism which will help you focus and tackle whatever you need to get done.

The (surprising) value of superstition

As long as we’re on the subject of increasing motivation, it’s important not to underestimate the value of superstition. Okay, so this may an unscientific method of motivating yourself, but as with other ways of increasing motivation, this also been studied.

As mentioned above, carrying out certain rituals before starting your day can help you be more productive and put off procrastination, but they don’t need to be logical or rational. Far from it. It’s whatever works for you

The same goes for good luck charms. Deep down you may know your lucky pen doesn’t really have the magical powers to help you answer exam questions, but you use it anyway, just in case.

Why? Because at the end of the day, it gives you more confidence and makes you feel more effective, a positive thing when it comes to motivation.

McGinn references another study where golfers were divided into groups. One group was told they would be playing with a PGA player’s club, whilst the others played with their usual club.

Results showed that the group who believed they were playing with a PGA player’s club thought the shot looked easier than it was and sank 32 percent more putts than the control group, showing the power that your mind can have over your performance.

Strike a high-power pose

Research suggests that body language plays a very important role in communication. Not only does it affect how we’re perceived by others, but it can also affect our internal body chemistry.

, a professor at the Harvard School of Business, puts forward that nonverbal communication (body language) may be just as important as verbal communication, and one of the ways you can communicate nonverbally is with a “power pose”.

There are two kinds of power poses, high, and low. A high-power pose involves having your body open instead of hunched up, such as standing with your chest out, arms spread, and not slouching. The aim is to take up a great deal of space.

A low-power pose, on the other hand, is anything which makes you look small and bunched up, such as sitting down with your arms crossed over your body or sitting and slouching over a table.    

According to research, holding a high-power pose for just two minutes is enough to increase your levels of testosterone, which is associated with confidence, and reduce your levels of cortisol, which is associated with stress.

So effectively, standing hip-width apart with your hands on your hips for two minutes can be enough to create a physiological change in your body which leads to a boost in confidence and a reduction in stress.

Try incorporating this stance into your routine and see if it increases your daily motivation. It will only take up two minutes of your time!

Choose dopamine-releasing rewards

In simple terms, eat some dark chocolate. Many that eating chocolate produces an increase in serotonin, a neurotransmitter that promotes the feeling of calm, and an increase in phenylethylamine, which promotes stimulation.

As well as this, it triggers a dopamine release which can elevate your heart rate and increase motivation, and even acts as a mild antidepressant, as your brain responds to the stimulus by promoting blissful emotions.

Of course, you should eat it in moderation and always try to maintain a healthy diet. If chocolate really isn’t your thing, there are plenty of other healthy, dopamine-triggering foods you can eat such as apples, bananas, berries, seeds, nuts, avocados, beets, and artichokes.

How to motivate someone else

Even if you don’t personally struggle to feel motivated, you may encounter times when the people around you need a little push, such as motivating your work team or giving a friend a pep talk.

If you’re struggling to get your message across, you can take lead from the 5-step formula that general Stanley McChrystal used whenever he addressed special operations units such as the Navy Seals.

Here’s what I’m asking you to do.

Here’s why it’s important.

Here’s why I know you can do it.

Think about what you’ve done together before.

Now let’s go and do it.

From giving Monday morning sales meetings to helping a friend through difficult times, it’s amazing how the right words can make a big impact when it comes to motivating others.

Final Thoughts

Feeling more motivated should help you figure out what you want, help you power through the pain period, and get you on the road to being the person you want to be.

The good news is, you do have some influence over how motivated you feel, and the advice above should help give you a boost if you feel you’re lacking the “get-up-and-go” attitude you need to set and attain your goals.

Remember, you don’t need to logic your way to motivation. It’s possible that not everything on this list will work for you, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to make sense, it’s all about how you feel.

Once you find something that makes you feel more motivated, stick to it. If that means you listen to the Rocky song on your way to work, stand in a high-power pose for two minutes, adjust your socks, and then have a bite of chocolate, then so be it.

This is a guest post by Peter Bailey. He is the owner of – a manufacturer of offline marketing products. In his spare time, he enjoys writing about his knowledge of traditional marketing principles, but adapting them for the online marketing environment.