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alexlabhont · 4 years ago

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I didn’t mean to fall in love with you

Chapter eleven

Book: Queen B - Choices (Universe)

Pairing: Poppy Min-Sinclair x Trans!Male MC (Beck Hughes)

Genre: Canon re-write (Because I can)

Rating: Anyone can read it, really

Tags: @dopeyouth @theymakemegayer @save-me-the-last-dance @poppysmc (If anyone want to be tagged in or removed, just tell me)

This is me trying to write by and for the Trans community, specially FTM community, meaning, trans guys, but I actually took the liberty to use They/them pronouns for everyone out there who´s interested (Also, the name Beck was the most neutral one I could find, trying to use the cannon Bea Hughes)

If you have any comment, PLEASE BE RESPECTFULL and patient with me. This is also my first english fanfic and english is not my mother language, so… i’m sorry fo the grammar errors. I also installed recently Grammary, so… hope its worth it.

This chapter contains some sensitive topics about tragedies and sex insinuations, I really didn't want to write it down with details both out of respect. I mean, personally, I didn't want to explain what's "under" in a fanfic, but if you do have doubts or curiosity, ask away in chat, especially if you are starting hormones, there is a lot for you to know about down there because it definitely changes something. Also, this other topic might touch a nerve and I really didn't do it without respect to the victims, so I'm sorry if it feels like that.

Previously

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Staten Island it’s the third-largest borough in New York, but it is the least populated. The northern part of the island is the most urbanized, with some areas of somewhat decayed housing blocks that didn’t attract attention at all. It was… ok? quiet? She wasn’t sure exactly what to say about that place, but what was another thing she wasn’t sure about? Well...

“Are you not going to tell me what are we doing?” Poppy asked once again, feeling irritated as they both walked through the breeze but warm streets. At first, she thought they were taking the bus but Beck asked something to a random guy and started walking for a really, really long time, what was all this about? Beck looked tense, kind of nervous, and that alone made her feel strange, unnerved. "Are you alright?" Poppy asked again, but this time she sounded worried.

"Yeah, I'm just…" They exhaled in an attempt to draw their nerves away from themself. "I'm pretty nervous. I've never done this before." Beck chuckled.

"Do what?" Poppy frowned, curiosity floating in her mind strongly, to be honest, she had never seen them so tense before, even though they were trying to look calm. Beck smirked and took her by the hand.

"Come on, I have to show you something."

"Is it too far?"

"Are you already tired?" Beck replied, mocking her with that sassy smile of theirs.

"Me? Absolutely no." She said, raising an eyebrow. "I could literally go for miles."

"I'll have to prove that myself." Beck winked and she couldn't help but laugh.

"You're a dimwit."

"Yeah" they shrugged. "I'm cute, though.”

“Barely.” She rolled her eyes, trying to suppress a smile but failing in the process so Beck laughed at it. Suddenly an unexpected drop felt swiftly in her nose, making her look up to the sky where a big, grey cloud was still above their heads. Soon, she felt raindrops in her hair, her clothes, her shoes!

“Oh, shoot. This is not good…” Beck said while they both walked faster, reaching out for cover in a shop awning.

“You think? These Jimmy choo are not even in the market yet!”

“Well, we don’t want them to be ruined, don’t we?."

"Of course not! What kind of dumb ques—"

Poppy didn't get to end the sentence, Beck took her by the wrist and started running full speed and nonstop. "Beck!" She screamed, the rain pouring down her body while that asshole laughed like a devilish kid. "Beck Hughes, let go of me this instant!!"

"We're almost there!" She heard them saying without turning to see her.

"Where are you taking me?!"

Beck slowed down little by little until they both stopped in front of a tiny, old, yellow house with barely two floors. Beck took the keys out of their pockets and opened the door, allowing Poppy to get inside the dark and quiet place.

“So… here we are.” Beck spoked turning on the lights.

The place that received them was the living room, but it was not an ordinary living room, it had neon lights currently exposing a purple color, a keyboard piano, a couple of guitars, and an old-fashioned mended couch with a lot of patches over black leather that actually looked really well together. The walls were exhibiting posters, framed cool landscape black and white photographs, and a Youtube silver plaque. She recognized the place right away.

“Wait… this is the place where you record your music.” She asked. Poppy watched Beck’s videos a lot recently at first the blonde was searching for information, then, to find a flaw to criticize with Chloe, but sooner rather than later Poppy found out… Beck was actually a really good musician, so sometimes when she was completely sure she was alone she’d listen to their songs while doing cardio or homework or whatever she was doing. “I was wondering where you found the location.”

“Yes… but also no. I mean, I do the videos here, but I have an audio booth upstairs. It’s actually a quiet neighborhood so it came in handy.” Beck took off their jacket, reaching out their hand to ask for Poppy’s. They both were wet, but not a lot, her shoes survived perfectly because they entered the house before a loud thunder sounded, followed by a deluge. “Damn, we do really dodge a bullet out there.”

“Yeah.” Poppy said, hugging herself. Without her coat, she felt a little cold. “Do you own this place?”

"No, this is my uncle’s." Beck whispered with reverence and a sad smile on their face. "My dad's little brother. He passed away."

"I— I'm sorry, Beck…" she managed to say, clueless about what exactly would someone do in this kind of situation.

"I didn't remember much about him, but my mom says he used to make these guitars out of plastic bottles as gifts for me to play them. She said I would go to the kitchen and play one for her to hear. She also said the sound was awful and she begged him to stop making them." Beck's smile was soft, turning on the heating, proud even though they were chuckling a little, spreading the same smile to Poppy. " 'I'm telling you, this little pal has talent.' he would say."

"Sounds to me like he made it to annoy your mom instead." Poppy said jokingly.

"Totally, he was a prankster." Beck replied, the emotions coming out from their eyes were difficult to tell. "And was one of the few dudes back at Farmsville that didn't want to settle down. The black sheep in every family… and the reason why my parents didn't want me to be here." Beck clutched their jaw, walking away from there to the kitchen. Poppy followed them in silence, feeling like it was something very private for Beck, seeing that vulnerable side of them again, but not hiding this time. "He was murdered years ago here in New York in a shooting. In Farmsville shootings don’t happen, so… They said it was dangerous going out of the farm to the big cities. That he brought this on himself... Took this out of the wrong way." The anger in Beck's voice was palpable in the air.

"Seriously? How can they be so selfish?" Poppy asked, how can someone be so fucking self-centered and dumbass to take a tragedy and blame it on one family member? She thought these things happened exclusively around that bunch of tight-ass people inside her parents’ social circle, but not inside a family farm.

"Back at home is different from here. Is a small town where everyone knows each other. They love routine and hard work and the good customs and shit… So when anyone goes against it… well— it's not funny."

Something clicked inside Poppy's mind.

"But then… How are you here?" Beck smiled but it didn't reach out to their sad eyes.

"Because I almost got killed."

Shock. Poppy couldn't help but feel agitated, her heart pounding loud against her chest and that same protective feeling that almost made her stab Bennett crawled its way towards her own core.

"What?" Poppy babbled, froze. Beck shrugged, with a weird grin as if they didn't know where to start, they caressed their neck, searching for the better way to put the puzzle together. They reach out for Poppy's hand, and she took it right away intertwining her fingers with Beck's.

"Coffee?" They asked. "It seems we will be stuck in here for a while.”

"It sounds nice." The words abandoned her mouth so fast that she even surprised herself, another red alarm ringed inside her mind, but now was not the time, so she ignored it again. Beck smiled and turned on a little coffee maker, bringing two mugs in silence. They both sat down on the surprisingly comfortable couch, Beck’s eyes were attentive at the black drink and the tension was still over their shoulders, she could see it so easily that Poppy wished for someone to take that weight out of Beck, so she took both cups and put them aside, sitting over Beck’s lap and intertwining her fingers with theirs, playing with them. Beck smiled a little and took a deep breath.

"I started to realize something was off inside of me when I was in high school. I mean, ‘till that day I was considered normal. I was the kind of child that played sports, climbed trees, and did hard work gladly. You know, average farm kid." Beck said, but even as they seemed to be calm, Poppy could feel the sweat in their palm, and a little shivering all over their body. "But I grow older and changes came, and puberty and—"

"Hey" Poppy stopped them from talking faster and faster. "You don't have to"

"I want to. " Beck interrupted, begging Poppy with their eyes. "I want you to know my past. I mean… if you want me to tell you, that is."

Poppy could have thought anything at that moment. She could have thought that she made it, that she had accomplished her very goal and knew she was about to have first-hand information to use against Farmsville, that she was spectacular for making it this far. She could have thought that now nobody would take her number one spot from her, or that she loved to have a new puppy to use in any way she wanted. But no.

All in what she could think about was Beck's heart opening up to her, trusting her for real this time. The connection intertwining both of them in a way that made her skin chill. Third alarm, but she muted it again.

"So? What are you waiting for? Go on." Poppy rolled her eyes, Beck had a goofy expression for a couple of seconds until Poppy smiled, squishing slightly their hands for reassurance. Beck's eyes glowed happily in which was the cutest gesture Poppy saw from someone that wasn't a dog in her entire life.

"I managed to handle myself a little for a while, but it definitely didn't last long. I was so afraid, I felt lost, and insecure. I didn’t know what was happening to me, why did I feel that way, trapped in my own skin... I stopped having friends because everyone could see how weird I was and nobody wanted to talk to me, except for this one girl: Bree Matthews."

Beck’s jaw tightened, their eyes wandering all over the place because of the nervousness.

“So, Bree and I started to hang out. Chill some time round. We were close, I mean, really, really close. She was the one who I told about my dysphoria first, and she was totally supportive. She helped me understand what I was going through, sometimes she would borrow her brother’s old clothes to give them to me and helped me pick my very first short haircut. Bree was my safe space in a town where I’d be mistreated just to use a bathroom. I kinda felt for her… so one night into the forest I kissed her. And~ it wasn’t a good idea.”

“What happened?”

“Well~ Daniel and his gang came into the picture and intimidated her, so she sold me as a pervert, a weirdo, among other… awful things. Can’t blame her, Daniel was a wrecked truck whenever he wanted so… yeah. My family found me eight hours after, all beat up from head to toes. I was unconscious and with an actually broken rib.” Beck tried to joke, but it was so bad at timing it actually made it worse for Poppy to hear. “I~ I almost die.” Beck sighed, as if with that they could put all that behind. “Anyway so she apologized to me through a phone call because she wanted to kiss me too but, you know, shit happens; I got better and now I’m in New York doing what I love so… Happy ending, right? It was funny, they didn’t let me use the bathroom but they all thought I was “male enough” to beat the crap out of me ever since.”

Poppy stopped playing with Beck’s hands, making them do the same. They told the end of the story so lightly as if they were talking about a T.V. show they just watched and not some really cruel harassment they went through for a long time. The strawberry blonde was a lot of things, bad things, but the things that beast did to Beck just because of their dysphoria? That was a whole new level that Poppy would never stoop into.

“How can you joke about things like that?”

“Well, I figured I had two ways to address the problem: Being insecure or making the most out of this. That’s why I do music. Yeah, my songs don’t talk about the transgender community directly, but I make sure everybody knows who am I. What I am. I write songs for people out there that feel just the same as I do. Not only transgender people, but the whole LGBTQ+ also needs representation! Folks having their back! And if I can reach at least one soul and show them that no matter how they were born, they can make it… Hell, I could die happily.”

The fire in their eyes, the passion radiating strongly from their body, from their words. It was impossible for Poppy to look away from Beck. Of course, Beck didn’t care about a spot in the T list, or and stupid award. Beck was more into their music, making their voice be heard. That was why they did claim to care less about competition, Beck was climbing their way to the top because of their conviction and resilience. It was curious how the more she learned about Beck, the more she felt drawn to them.

“You are so brave, do you know that?”

“And it only took me a delicate rib and trust issues.” Beck claimed proudly as if it was a bargain.

“Trust issues? Beck, you’re one of the most confident people l know!” They began to laugh, the blonde could feel their laughter below her because of the slight belly-shaking. “It’s irritating.”

“I am really amazing myself.” Poppy rolled her eyes at the flirty smirk Beck flashed towards her. “But I’m not insecure about myself… most of the time. I do have a hard time trusting in people. I mean, Daniel didn’t have a hold on me… Bree, on the other hand…” Beck shrugged. “But I do trust you, Poppy.”

Something inside the blonde felt off, those words accompanied by that good-natured smile made Poppy feel a bit guilty. Like, yeah, she was just trying to archive exactly that for her own benefit, it should feel like a win, right? But no.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, yet.” She said to herself. “For all we know, this is just some casual date.”

Maybe… give up? Maybe actually try and date Beck?

What could possibly go wrong?

“I trust you too, Beck.” She replied without a doubt. So she tossed her golden locks over one shoulder, leaning down to kiss Beck’s lips. She soon felt them kissing her back, sweetly, calmly at first but then it was obvious they both needed more than that. Poppy let go of Beck’s hands to place hers in their Beck, while they grabbed her by the waist. The heat soon took over her body, especially after they responded to it by biting Poppy’s bottom lip, making her moan. Poppy knew right away there was a change in Beck’s behavior, they were more confident, more secure, they actually felt ready and she had to say, that was a very welcome and pleasing development. But they were shaking still.

“What 's wrong? You don’t want to—?”

“No. No, it 's not it. It 's just…” Beck took a deep breath avoiding Poppy's gaze for a second before looking at her pleading while keeping hold on her. “I don’t want you to see me differently when you look at what I have beneath the clothes.” They confessed.

“I won’t. I promise.” She said, caressing the hair in the back of their nape. “This is just you, with all letters.” She smirked, trying to lighten the mood and she succeeded. Beck grinned from ear to ear, relieved, kissing her passionately, hungry and the Poppy did the same, tasting their tongue with hers. The caresses between the two became more intense and she couldn’t stand the fever growing anymore, so she took the edges of their favorite black t-shirt and pulled up, revealing Beck torso for the very first time.

She understood right away what Beck meant. Cutting through their chest there it was a thin, darker line, a scar that was slowly healing, but nevertheless it was there easy to pinpoint. It was strange, she had seen a lot of those mastectomy scars on google but Beck chest looked different somehow, strong, gym crafted, and the scar actually was interesting, sexy even.

“I don’t know what you were so scared of, Hughes. Hell, you’re hot as fuck, I hate you.”

Beck chukled, their confidence coming back.

“Yeah, well… There is not an ugly part on this body afterall.” They grinned.

“I’m going to erase that obnoxious smirk of yours.”

“You will?” Beck grabbed a hold on Poppy’s hair and pulled slightly but demanding backwards, exposing her neck to them to kiss and lick, causing a shaking sigh that turned the heat even higher for both. “Show me then.” They whispered over her skin, their breath brushing bristling her body.

Poppy pushed them down on the couch, kissing them hardly. This was war now, and she would definitely win.

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#my writing #poppy min sinclair #queen b choices #poppy x mc #choices stories you play #choices #choices poppy #bea hughes #mc x poppy #beck hughes #choices queen b mc #trans #ftm

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atomic-taco-muffin · 3 years ago

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Kingdom High Chapter 2

Warnings: same as the last chapter

Rating: SFW

Once upon a time... In a far away land, all eyes were on Apple as she made the most important declaration of her life.

“I am Apple White, daughter of Snow White, and I am ready to pledge my destiny,” She said. The students cheered for her. Suddenly everything froze.

Of course you'd start with Apple, always playing favorites. Start at the beginning of the school year.

Oh, fine. Gather round, friends, and let us tell you a story: the story of Ever After High, a high school for the teenage sons and daughters of the most famous fairy tale characters who ever lived. But this year was like no other for the students of Ever After High. Apple's Tale, the story of a Royal.

For it is the year of the Legacy Day; a momentous event where the students pledge to all the magical world to follow the same paths as their fairy tale parents. Apple and Briar were chatting and walking to the school.

“I can't believe it. Legacy Day happens this year and there's just ever so much to do!” Apple said.

“Totally, right! I mean this year's after party is gonna be a page ripper! I heard DJ N-Chant is gonna—” Briar said. Apple ran in front of Briar.

“Briar, it's not just about the party. This is destiny! Future queen! We can't let anyone post embarrassing pictures of us on MyChapter,” Apple said.

“Hey! Daughter of Sleeping Beauty. If I'm gonna be catching Z's for a hundred years, I gotta live it up now! Hm, and come on, no one would post anything bad about you!” Briar said as the two of them walked up the steps.

“Everybody loves you!” Briar said.

“It’s Apple White!” a pig swooned. A prince sighed, dreamily.

“Gorgeous!” Lilly-Bo Peep said. Her sheep bleated happily.

“Can I carry your books?” Tiny asked as he stepped in.

“Why, Tiny! Aren't you the sweetest little thing?” Apple said. She gave her books to him.

“Thank you!” She said.

“See? They love you! Oh-oh!” Briar said as she held Apple’s hands.

“I don't wanna miss a minute of our first day,” she said. Briar walked away to say hi to the other students.

“Hi, everybody! Hey, what's up? Howdy!” she said. In the distance was Daring Charming, standing alone with a hand over his mouth and laughing.

“Hey, Prince Daring! Um, why are you holding your hand over your mouth?” Apple said as she walked up to him.

“Well, you see, I just got my teeth whitened and Headmaster Grimm said I can't show people, 'cause...” Daring said.

“But your smile is so charming!”

“Well, you know...” He flashed his smile and it blinded Tiny.

“Ah! My eyes! I can't see! Ah!” Tiny said as he fell down.

“I’m okay!” he said. Daring and Apple giggled.

“Apple! Daring!” Blondie said. She giggled as Daring clicked his fingers.

“So, any juicy dating details for my Mirror Cast show?” she asked as she opened her MirrorPad.

“Talk to the Mirror!” she said as she pointed it at Apple.

“Ah, Blondie! Daring and I are still not a couple! This is high school,” Apple said. She held Daring’s hand.

“We've got forever after to be together!” she said.

“But you two are the perfect couple. Not too this, not too that, you're just right!” Blondie said.

“Come on, Apple, let's go get some lunch. Charm you later!” Daring said. He flashed his smile at Blondie and she covered her face. He and Apple walked away.

“Oh! Oh-ah!” Blondie giggled as she walked away.

And so that night, back in the Ever After dorms, Apple had a surprise waiting for her new roommate.

“You think Raven's gonna like this?” Briar asked. Apple ran over to her.

“Of course! What future Evil Queen wouldn't love an evil throne, an evil crown, and an evil haunted mirror?” Apple said.

“True. Huh. But why are you doing this for Raven?” Briar said.

“Because she's such an important part of my story! When she poisons me, it changes everything. Then the prince can wake me, and I become queen.” Apple held Briar’s hands.

“That's when I get my Happily Ever After,” she said as she winked.

“I need her!”

“Hey! Maddie?” Raven said from outside.

“Quick! Hide! I don't want Raven to know you helped me,” Apple said.

“I'll go out the window. I've never done that before,” Briar said as she ran over to the window.

“Ha ha!” she said as she jumped out the window.

“Wheeeeeee...!” she said. Apple turned around when Raven opened the door.

“Welcome home, roomie!” she said.

“Huh, good one, Apple. I'm rooming with Maddie this year,” Raven said.

“Not anymore!” Apple shook her head confidently.

“Huh?” Raven asked.

“Man! I am good-looking!” Daring said as he held out his hands.

“ ...eeeeee! Oh!” Briar said. Daring had caught her in his arms.

“Daring? How'd you know I was gonna be here?” Briar asked.

“Catching damsels in distress:” Daring said as he dropped Briar.

“It's kinda my thing,” he said.

“Well, that was A TOTAL RUSH!” Briar said as she stood up and ran back.

“Stay here! I'm going again,” she laughed and Daring readied his arms. In Book End, Briar and Apple were walking together.

“Hey, you wanna get a hocus latte?” Briar asked.

“Oh, that sounds magical. I love mine with nutmeg. How do you like yours?” Apple said.

“Oh, I like a-lot-a-lot-a-lot-a-lot of cream.” The two giggled together and they found Ashlynn at the front of her shoe store.

“Hey!” Ashlynn said.

“Hi, Ashlynn!” Apple said.

“Wanna go on a nature hike later? I haven't been in the woods in days and it just feels so good to get back to what really matters.”

“I got a shipment here; a three hundred new shoes for the Glass Slipper,” the delivery goose said.

“New! Shoes! Ahhh haha! Where?!” Ashlynn said. The delivery goose pointed to the sky and more delivery geese flew by with several packages. They dropped them below and Ashlynn caught all of them.

“It's a shoe thing!” Briar said.

“Well, she is Cinderella's daughter!” Apple said. Briar nodded in agreement. Suddenly the bell rang.

“Ooh, time for our Legacy Day rehearsal. I can't wait for everyone to get a glimpse of the queen I am going to become,” Apple said. Briar followed Apple but accidentally caught a shoe box falling from above. Ashlynn snatched it out of her hands while catching hundreds of boxes. Back at school, some students were gathered together for their Legacy Day rehearsal.

But what Apple didn't know was that Raven Queen had other plans...

That would change the world for the better.

For the worse!

“So, when your magical key appears, you insert it gently into the Storybook of Legends, then stand; shoulders back, and declare your destiny to the world! Have I made myself clear?” Headmaster Grimm said.

“But what if...” Raven asked as she held up a finger.

“No questions? Good. Who will go first?” Apple inched forward and raised her hand.

“Oh! Me! Me! Me! Em! Ah! Uh! Uh!” she said.

“Step right this way,” Grimm said. Apple took the key in his hand.

“My future queen,” Grimm said as he bowed in respect.

“I am Apple White, and I pledge to follow my destiny as the next Snow White!” Apple said.

“Perfect!” Grimm said. Apple turned around and returned the key.

“I know,” she said. Suddenly, there were some girls in the distance.

“Excuse me! Are you Headmaster Grimm?” one of the girls said.

“Yes, I am. Who might you be?” Grimm said.

“My name is Akaya. And these are my friends.” Akaya introduced her friends.

“Ahh, you must be our new transfer students. Come, come. We’re just doing our Legacy Day rehearsal,” Grimm said. The girls walked over to the platform and stood next to the students.

“Hi, I’m Apple White,” Apple whispered to Akaya.

“Hi, I’m Akaya.”

“That’s a pretty name. Are you a royal or a rebel?”

“I’m a royal.”

“Cool. I hope we get to be good friends this year.”

“Me too.” Akaya watched as the other students practiced their pledge.

“ I am Briar Beauty and I pledge to follow in my mom's footsteps and sleep for a hundred years,” Briar said, boringly.

“BUT BEFORE I DO, I'm gonna live every minute! Oh, speaking of which, my dorm room, Friday night, we're gonna blow the roof off the place, and—” she said.

“Next!” Grimm interrupted. Daring danced over to the podium.

“Hey, there! Charming. Daring Charming. I pledge to be just like my old man, King Charming: brave, good-looking, kind, good-looking, thoughtful, and good-looking,” he said as he clicked and smiled.

“Next!” Grimm said. Akaya walked over to the podium, nervously.

“U-um, my name is Akaya. A-and I pledge to b-become the next guardian o-of light,” she said.

“Excellent. Next!” Grimm said. Akaya walked back and stood next to Apple.

“Phew, didn’t know that it was that scary,” Akaya said.

“You did great!” Apple said.

“Thank you!” Akaya’s friends had their turn and it was not Raven’s turn.

“I'm Raven Queen and I pledge to follow my destiny as... um... I have a question,” she said.

“What is it?” Grimm asked.

“I was just wondering, I mean, what if I don't want to take the pledge?” Everyone gasped except for Akaya and her friends. Apple’s mouth fell open and Daring shutted her mouth.

“She has to do it!” she said as she smacked Daring in the face by accident.

“I mean, if-if she never poisons me, then I'll never fall asleep, and-and I'll never be kissed by my prince, and I'll never become queen, and I'll never have my Happily Ever After!” she said as she throttled Daring lightly.

“Now, Raven, erase that dangerous idea from your head. Continue!” Grimm said.

“I have to go,” Raven said as she ran off.

“What?!” Apple asked.

“But the rules are... The rules!” Grimm said.

“Um, what happens if you don’t take the pledge?” Akaya asked Apple.

“Something really bad happens to you,” she said.

“Oh.” Akaya looked at the podium nervously. Apple ran to the Enchanted Forest and cried.

And so Apple took refuge that night in the Enchanted Forest, wondering what would become of her destiny should Raven not follow hers.

Apple gasped as the Headmaster appeared right in front of her.

“Oh! Headmaster Grimm?” she said.

“Forgive me for startling you, my dear. I need you to keep an eye on your roommate, Raven. We must follow the paths set out before us. It's the only way to keep our world safe. Please, watch Raven and convince her of this. I know you'll do whatever it takes,” Grimm said.

“I'll...” The Headmaster was gone before Apple could finish her sentence.

And so, on the grave portent about to befall Ever After High...

Must you always be so dramatic?

Must you always ruin my ominous endings? I mean...

You're always taking the Royal side...

I'm known for my endings...

~~~~

Sora and the others watched as a large cloud of darkness was approaching them. Akaya was holding a crying Sayo in her arms.

“What can we do?” Akaya asked.

“Nothing. We’ve lost,” Sora said. The cloud of darkness invaded their home and everyone was transported to another world, far away from their original one.

#kingdom hearts #kingdomhearts #kingdom hearts imagine #kingdom+hearts+imagines #kingdom+hearts+imagine #kingdomhearts imagines #kingdomhearts+imagines #eah imagine #eah #ever after high #ever after high imagine

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valuentumbrian · 4 years ago

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ALERT: Bull Raids, Short Squeezes and Highly Unusual Market Activity

We are putting short investors on high alert!

By Brian Nelson, CFA

In late 2018, Valuentum published Value Trap, a book that warned to all that would heed its warning that a collapse in the traditional quant value factor was coming and that excessive volatility in the markets caused by price-agnostic trading--or those that aren’t paying attention to fair value estimate calculations--would only build and build to eventually reach extreme and irrational levels. The book, while hugely successful winning award after award, was largely ignored by the media, despite our best efforts to get the word out. Now, the chickens are coming home to roost.

Image Shown: The book Value Trap warned about the impending collapse of the value factor, and during 2020, the value factor registered its worst performance in history. We continue to believe large cap growth is underpriced. Image Source: Bloomberg.

As you are aware (and probably tired of hearing by now), the “value factor” had its worst showing in history during 2020, as predicted, and while broader market indices continue to reflect somewhat reasonable levels of volatility (following the excessive levels during the COVID-19 crash), we’re now starting to see the type of volatility on individual names that we think will only grow in number to eventually become large enough to impact broader market indices in time. Our “Call to Action” in Value Trap remains, and we encourage regulators to promote the application of active management (and enterprise valuation) via policy regulations that limit dangerous vehicles in a bid to ensure market integrity and stability for posterity. Indexing is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and its bite will leave deep scars in the financial system if not curbed.

To the layman, if you’re a believer in climate change and how this generation is harming the future, it’s far worse what is happening in finance today. Pollution is everywhere. With just ~10% of all trading based on discretionary fundamental fair value analysis, with indexing and quant trading increasing (momentum and trend following algorithms), with mis-education at all-time highs given the documented failures of perceived “truths” in quant finance, future generations may be left with a complete and absolute mess of a financial and market system if we don’t get back to enterprise valuation. Instructors: Teach your students well – teach them enterprise valuation. Make Value Trap required reading.

Gordon Gekko is wrong: Greed is not good. Brokers selling index funds pointing to failed modern portfolio theory as justification and quants running sophisticated algorithms based on short-cut multiple analysis and impractical data will only grow to be a recipe for disaster. Were it not for the swift action of the Fed/Treasury during the depths of the COVID-19 crisis, the financial system would have already witnessed its doom. Many stocks in indexes would have gone to zero, driving underperformance of traditional indexes relative to active management of mammoth proportions, all but securing the demise of Bogle’s folly. Far too many investors are not paying attention to the intrinsic worth of their assets--and counting on the Fed/Treasury to bail out indexers (not active managers) time and time again with tax-payer money is no plan for longevity. Indexing is not free or inexpensive; it has cost the tax payers hundreds of billions, maybe trillions.

We witnessed but a glimpse of irrational market activity and extreme levels of volatility earlier this year. On March 25, 2020, the SEC halted trading in shares of Zoom Technologies (ZOOM) because many were confusing its ticker symbol with a similarly named NASDAQ-listed company, Zoom Video Communications (ZM). More recently, a January 7th tweet by Tesla CEO Elon Musk saying nothing more than “Use Signal” sent shares of the stock Signal Advance (SIGL) over 400%+ higher. The only problem is that Musk was talking about a messaging app called Signal that rivals Facebook’s (FB) Messenger and Apple’s (AAPL) messaging service, not the company listed under the ticker SIGL. Traders may have been engaging in pump-and-dump schemes using misinformation as the tool, as Signal Advance now trades for ~$5.50, down from its irrational high of ~$38 per share.

Image Shown: Shares of Signal Advance (SIGL), a company that uses signal technologies in biomedicine and other areas, shot up aggressively on a tweet from Elon Musk saying to use a completely unrelated messaging app called Signal. Image Source: Yahoo, Twitter.

These are not one-off events. In the early months of 2020, irrational speculation also reached a precipice in the stocks of bankrupt and near-bankrupt companies, as speculators in the popular Robinhood app whipsawed prices of Hertz (HTZ), Whiting Petroleum (WLL), GNC (GNC), and Chesapeake Energy (CHKAQ) around. On June 8, 2020, for example, Hertz’s and Whiting Petroleum’s shares, while still lower significantly on the year, closed approximately 10-fold higher from prices around the time of their respective bankruptcy filings during this mania.

Then there was Hong-Kong listed ArtGo Holdings. The marble-stone miner’s share price ran up 3,800%, nearly 40-fold, during 2019, with the majority coming on news that MSCI would add the stock to its suite of indexes. However, just a couple weeks after the announcement, on November 21, 2019, MSCI pulled a U-turn, saying it would not add the stock to its indexes. The news sent shares of ArtGo Holdings tumbling 98% that Thursday morning, wiping clean an incredible $5.7 billion of market value. The markets are showing signs that the price-discovery mechanism is breaking down, and indexing is not an innocent bystander.

Image Shown: Shares of GameStop have been on an irrationally wild ride recently driven by what looks to have been an orchestrated and highly unethical (and perhaps illegal) short squeeze on the stock. According to some reports, during the pre-market session January 25, GameStop’s shares were up ~80%, and turned red during the trading session, with no fundamental news.

Recent “bull raids,” or aggressive and orchestrated “short squeezes” on stocks, have been the most prominent evidence of excessive volatility and irrational market behavior driven by Reddit WallStreetBets users and Robinhood traders, only exacerbated by price-agnostic trading from traditional quant algorithms. With a short interest of ~150%, GameStop’s (GME) shares, for example, went from a 52-week low of $2.57 in March 2020 to a 52-week high of $159.18 in January, and are now trading at ~$70-$80 per share at the time of this writing--still far above what may be considered to be a fair value estimate of the equity.

There are other instances, too. Other heavily shorted stocks including Express (EXPR), Macerich (MAC), Bed Bath & Beyond (BBBY), and AMC Entertainment (AMC) have been tools of trading madness in recent weeks. At the time of this writing, Express’ shares are up over 90%, Macerich’s are up 16%, Bed Bath & Beyond are up over 8%, and AMC’s are up over 28% -- all on no news other than they are companies with heavy short interest. As with the “fad” of investing in bankrupt companies earlier in 2020, it seems like the trading sharks are circling heavily-shorted names to drive aggressive short-squeezes, often in conjunction with the application of deep out of the money call options.

We’re paying close attention to these dynamics as we monitor our short idea considerations in the Exclusive publication. We’ve put up some tremendous success rates when it comes to short ideas—through October 2020, the success rate for short idea considerations was 92.3% over 52 ideas spanning 52 months--but we’re writing today in part to put our readers on high alert when it comes to short investing. Though we still like our latest two short idea considerations, DoorDash (DASH) and Palantir (PLTR), they have moved against us since we highlighted them. Palantir was up 25% on nothing more than news of a Demo Day. Our thesis on these ideas hasn’t changed, but the market’s behavior certainly has. For short investors, caution is the order of today.

Concluding Thoughts

We believe a fair value estimate on the S&P 500 (SPY) is 3,530-3,920, and with the S&P 500 trading at ~3,825 at the time of this writing, the markets are fairly valued based on common-sense metrics. You can read about how we value the market in our 2020 recap here. We maintain our view that the areas of big cap tech, large cap growth, and the NASDAQ are attractive, and we continue to point to Facebook (FB) and Alphabet (GOOG) as two of the most undervalued stocks on the market. Large cap growth (SCHG) has outperformed small cap value (IWN) roughly 60 percentage points since the beginning of 2019, or about the time that Value Trap was published. Best Ideas Newsletter holding Korn/Ferry (KFY) is one of the biggest fundamental mispricings we see at the moment.

That said, even though markets are fairly priced and we think certain areas offer bargains, systemic risks are increasing as price-agnostic trading in the likes of quant and indexing has now been augmented by trading from Reddit platforms such as WallStreetBets and Robinhood traders looking to make a big score in the market. We’re still playing it cool, and nothing should be surprising to our readers. We called almost every step of the way in 2020, and extreme and irrational levels of volatility are the next chapter in the book Value Trap. The markets won’t get completely out of whack for years yet, however, and we hope Value Trap, in raising awareness of the pitfalls of the ways of indexing and quant investors, will make it so the path to financial destruction will never materialize.

We’re available for any questions.

Most Shorted Stocks, short interest as a % of float: GME, FIZZ, DDS, MAC, BBBY, LGND, AMCX, SRG, GOGO, SPWR, AXDX

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Valuentum members have access to our 16-page stock reports, Valuentum Buying Index ratings, Dividend Cushion ratios, fair value estimates and ranges, dividend reports and more. Not a member? Subscribe today. The first 14 days are free.

Brian Nelson owns the SPY, SCHG, DIA, QQQ, VOT, and IWM. Some of the other companies written about in this article may be included in Valuentum's simulated newsletter portfolios. Contact Valuentum for more information about its editorial policies.

#$GME #$FIZZ #$DDS #$MAC #$BBBY #$LGND #$AMCX #$SRG #$GOGO #$SPWR #$AXDX

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heyheyitsstillgay · 6 years ago

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Escaping the Eyes

Phandom Phic Phight Entry #1 based on a prompt from @gottacatchghosts

#TeamGhosts team leader: @ibelieveinahappilyeverafter

Also available on FFN ; Next Entry

Words: 2,411; Status: Complete

Preparing himself as he clicked open the lock, he walked out of the cubicle and over to the sinks.

There it was again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Adamant to ignore it, he kept his eyes straight, washed and dried his hands and left the room.

It got worse. Contorting his face into a casual bored smirk, he waved to the friends waiting for him. Waved as though his skin wasn't currently trying to crawl away from him.

"Come on man, are you tryin' to make us late?" Called the tall blond, turning away and leading the group down the corridor.

"I'm sorry," Danny retorted, "did you want to arrive at English early? Personally I don't want to be sat at a desk listening to that voice drone on for a single second more than necessary." He snickered.

A sigh escaped the purple lips of the dark haired girl next to him.

"And you wonder why you're failing English."

"Hey! Don't act like you find it remotely interesting. You were complaining about the poetry he's assigned us for the whole of lunch break."

"That's because it's a billion years old written by fancy white guys who weren't even trying to include any of the symbolism we're supposed to be able to see."

"Maybe you're just not looking for their visions hard enough?" Her girlfriend teased.

Despite their apparent running late for class, Dash felt the need to break apart from the front of the group. Of all the gazes on them currently, it was Nathan's he took issue with specifically. How many times did the girl he was unashamedly drooling over have to say no before the geek got the message? Sooner or later the kid was going to get his glasses broken from being stuffed into his locker at the wrong angle. Serves him right. Two less eyes on them. Two out of hundreds.

Needless to say, Danny didn't focus in class. He took his seat, at the far back right, like always. To get as far away from the teachers scrutinising gaze as possible. To get as far away from everyone's dissecting glare as possible. Of course, that feeling was still there. Something still studied him. It was almost tangible, wind clawing through and ruffling his hair. Externally, boredom seemed to weigh him down, slumping backwards in his chair. In reality he was clenching his jaw and leaning away from the stress biting at his neck. Oh my god, can he spend one second not being torn apart, please?

He can't help that he's 'special' or 'better' or 'skilled'. He was born to successful parents, very well off inventors. They have an… interesting hobby. They just had to rope him and his sister into it. He's a Fenton, that comes with intelligence and precision. His dad's gene pool perfect for muscle development, his mom's skills perfect for fighting. Fentons were supposed to be ghost hunters, he'd been raised to defend, protect and fight from a young age. He enjoyed it, learning 'ghost hunting skills' was about the only time he actually saw his parents because they were so busy with the family business.

The school bell was like a starting horn. Sure he'd been roped into being on the football team, how couldn't he with his athleticism? But track had always been one of his favourites. Over the sound of chairs scraping against the floor, he yelled a "Laters!" to his friends as he threw his bag over his shoulder. He bolted out of the door.

Too many, too many, too many. He weaved through the groups of people beginning to form in the hallways. No way was he spending one more moment than necessary here. Sure he loves the friends he's made but, there's always just, so many eyes. So many people. Looking up to him? Watching him? Another one of the cool teens who could have no imperfections. Having to exist around the sheep who ate at his soul with just their stares, day in, day out. A nightmare. It drains him, makes him feel dead on his feet. Slamming out of the doors, smirking in anticipation, he darts behind a shed.

Why? This wasn't right. It was supposed to go away. If he was truly alone then how can he still feel it? His senses are heightened now, he knows that that's why his school life is so much more difficult than it used to be, ever since the accident. His body can't be lying to him about feeling something nearby, if it is then he may go insane.

"Hey Phantom." He scowls as he finally notices the techno-geek crouched in the dirt.

"I told you not to call me that, especially when I look like this. The hell are you doing here Foley?" Calm washes over Danny as Tucker looks back to his PDA.

"Waiting for you. You realise it's painfully obvious that you always hide behind here-"

"I do not hide."

"-after school at every opportunity and that you're never seen leaving this spot either. Sure morons go to this school but I didn't take you for one of them."

Danny knows Tucker doesn't understand him. Sure, the teen was there when it happened but that was all, he was still a nerd. Tucker wants attention from other people, Danny wants to be left to his friends and hobbies without everyone else's judging looks. Thoughts running through their heads, about him, as though they knew anything about him. He used to want to trade places with Tucker, he came across as kind of a loner but he has the ability to blend into the background, to do what he wants without scrutiny from everyone. When people look at Danny, they could be thinking anything about him; jealousy, loathing, admiration, hatred. When people look at Tucker, their eyes gloss over him, no second thoughts needed. When Danny glares at the people who look at him, it's out of envy that they don't know what it's like to live in a constant spotlight. Being in the A-list is so much, too much, it burns, his skin bubbling and melting under the pressure.

"Then what do you suggest?" Danny folds his arms and stands with his shoulders back.

"Dude, mix it up a bit, there are other places to hide in this school. Or just like, walk off school grounds like a normal person and duck into an alleyway on your way home."

"Yeah? Because normal people duck into alleyways?"

Eyes still locked on his PDA, the boy sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

"You're not normal anymore, man. If you're so insistent on hiding yourself then you should make it so no one will guess where to find you." Tucker stood from his spot on the floor and hoisted his backpack on.

"Tsk, whatever." Danny mumbles as he turns away.

No one is looking at him anymore. Otherworldly energy thrummed from within, Danny grasps at it, pacing forward slowly and increasing his speed, light surrounds him as he envelopes himself in the instinct he'd been suppressing all day. Mid-jump, he vanishes.

It's like surfacing from water. He inhales deeply and soars. His hair pushed back by the breeze, body spinning occasionally from the thrill of it all. He doesn't have to look down to know that the earth is moving away from him, or rather, he is pushing free of it. He reaches out his hand above him as the clouds near his fingertips. They don't feel like anything but they were still magnificent. The world morphed to pinks and blues and yellows as he moves through them and drops the invisibility. He doesn't need it anymore. No one could see him up here, he may as well not exist. It's bliss.

The stark green glow of his eyes reflect onto the clouds as he races above them. He can't stop the laugh that escapes his throat, so he doesn't, he doesn't need to.

Time passing is shown by the oranges swarming in the sky. If he pictures the clouds as a couch then he can just lounge among them. It's still too bright out to see the stars but that doesn't bother him much. There's always later, if he awakes at night from the cold again, he can come see the stars then. Some day he's gonna decide to be stupid enough to go further and see how close he can get to touching them without killing himself again like a total imbecile. Is it supposed to be worrying that he looks forward to it? He doesn't think he's meant to. Death has had a strange beauty and grace ever since he became part ghost about four months ago. It's so much happier than he expected it to be when he was human. Times like these, getting away from it all, makes him want to go through another tomorrow, to do it again. He has so much hope, he wants to stay here forever.

He doesn't, obviously. He has to eat at some point. Remind his parents, hilariously, that he's not dead.

He doesn't change back to his other form when he reaches the ground. Just casually strolls around as if the fact that he's glowing shouldn't be a big deal. He curls into himself to keep from being too recognisable as his human counterpart. No one gives him a second glance. It's like he's still invisible. He didn't try this for the first two months after the accident but since the beginning, other ghosts have been popping up everywhere. His parents have been overjoyed with the hunt, regular people give them a wide berth and try to pretend like the dead aren't floating among them.

He loves that. Doesn't even have to be invisible for people to look through him now. A blanket of calm envelops him for the whole walk. Arms hanging loose at his side, he takes in the beauty of the sky and trees from the ground and grins to himself. He doesn't notice any other ghosts on his way back, which is kind of a shame. Danny loves hanging out with the spirits, no one around even stops to wonder what they're doing, too busy backing away attempting to give them as much space as possible. It was Saturday tomorrow, he'd normally meet up with Ember and her friends and mess around on the high-street. He'll have to find something else to do this weekend though, she's been super busy working on an upcoming album for the human world. Danny had promised he'd tell his human friends about it, spread the hype around Casper High. She'd jumped at the idea, offering backstage passes for himself and his friends. He'd had to turn her down of course, there's no way he's being spotted with VIP passes to a concert as Fenton when he could hang from the rafters and prat around as a Phantom instead.

It's odd how he can sense that more people look at him as Fenton than they do when he's Phantom. He could float into Nasty Burger via the wall and the people inside would actually try to avoid his gaze. Thrilling.

His stroll home is quiet, even the voices in his head are calm. There are never more than two pairs of eyes on him at a time. Even then they always look away quickly. Transforming back in the alleyway by the side of his house, he scales the drain pipe to get into his room.

It's funny how much he enjoys being at his house too. There's a basement full of devices being designed to hunt things like him. It doesn't bother him, it's the portal in that room that makes it all worth it.

He's been there before, the first time was about a month after the accident. Spirits live there, they're actual people, a whole manner of shapes, but they all glow, like him. They glance at him with only mild curiosity and then they move on with their afterlives. Understanding is beginning to form for his parents obsession. It's like a whole other world. Green as far as you can see but there's more to it than that. So many greens, so many shapes and textures and things with purposes he can't even begin to comprehend. He really wants to though.

The beings there speak in a strange language too, he's heard them, is somehow able to understand them. Crowded around the portal, he's overheard rumours. Someone said they saw a being that was half ghost half human. It took a moment to think, maybe that's what he was? Everyone around the ghost who spoke about it laughed though.

"A creature of both worlds, you say?" They had been shaking their head in disbelief, "don't be ridiculous, something like that couldn't truly exist."

In a moment of courage and curiosity, Danny had nudged a child at the edge of the group, the boy was dressed like a wizard, a skeletal owl perched upon his shoulder.

"Y'know," Danny whispered, "I'm a human who can make myself look like a ghost, what does that make me?"

The kid who was already holding back giggles about the current topic burst into all out laughter. He curled his knees up into his chest as tears formed in his eyes.

"Stop it! That's so silly!" the boy exclaimed.

"No, I'm serious, I can." Danny smiled.

"Yeah?" said the boy, his eyes shone "Wanna play a game with it?"

The boy, Youngblood he called himself, ended up dressed like an Olympic racer. They spent an hour or so running back and forth across a long floating rock. "Running on our feet of all things!" Youngblood had laughed, both moving as though gravity affected them. Danny even let him win a few times. He made a new friend. The best bit? Anyone who noticed, didn't care. This was his life now, no one back home would figure any of it out just by looking at him.

Ghosts didn't think he was anything special. He could be invisible just like the rest of them. He could be himself and he knew none of them even cared. Didn't even believe he was human, Youngblood had decided he could shape-shift, Danny had shrugged his shoulders and went along with it when the kid told anyone.

His human friends were fun. His ghost friends made him feel free.

Based on GottaCatchGhosts' Prompt - A-lister Danny Fenton likes to relax on his days off by hanging out around town as his nobody counterpart, Danny Phantom. (basically, an AU where fenton is popular and phantom isn't.)

I accidentally glazed over the "on his days off" parts and only dedicated two paragraphs to "hanging out" whoops, hope it's okay

#phic phight #phic phight 2019 #phic phight 19 #own post #owly writes #danny phantom #danny fenton #a-lister danny! au #[sam and tucker were there for the portal accident but were only around his house for a group project]#[yes sam is an a-lister too i rubbed my greedy goblin hands over this au to add some casual goth princess because i can]#i can't think of any warnings that apply but let me know if ive done messed up #teamghosts #ficlet

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hlwim · 6 years ago

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Not All of Me Will End [3/3]

Summary: Nothing remains of her but what must be left behind. Tags: Character Death, Cancer, Tragedy, Angst, Bittersweet, Post-Canon Pairings: Royai, Edwin, Havolina AO3 ff.net

who tells your story

From the peak of the roof, Ed can see the long and lonely stretch of the rail line disappearing into the mountain. He still loves the cool whisper of its whistle far-off and heading in, but it doesn’t fill him with a longing for the road the way it used to. He’s a husband now, and teacher frequently and village councilor sometimes, and soon—alarmingly soon—a father.

The nearness of coming change is what’s driven him up a ladder, to straddle the shingles and, with nails clamped between his teeth, to patch holes and join new trestle to old. The house is getting cramped—the front half’s a real clinic now, with a proper doctor hired in from Rush Valley and the automail shop having swallowed all the basement. They get patients and clients and more visitors than they reasonably have beds for, and three months now Winry’s been asking when he’d get around to building that extension. He tried putting it off until Al was back, because of course alchemy will speed the work, but excuses are excuses are excuses.

“I’m not holding my knees closed for another four months!” she’d said, jabbing dead-center of his chest. “You’re plenty handy at carpenter work, and you’re owed about a million favors in town.”

And this was true—Ed never liked charging for his services, as the dregs of his state stipend are enough to keep them flush for ten lifetimes. But people around here insisted on showing gratitude in practical ways, like extra pounds of meat from the butcher or hand-wrought yarn for Granny’s knitting. Ed had had a crew up for most of the day: boys that hang around after class to hear his stories and poke at the holes, and the girls who spend summers baling hay and shearing sheep. In the space of a morning and an afternoon, they’d raised walls and laid the floor and wedged in a dozen or so windows. He sent them off to their homes for supper and admonished them not to return tomorrow, knowing anyway that there would be a cart of eager hands on its way back by dawn.

He sets the hammer against his knee and leans back, breathing deep. The breeze carries to him the quiet lull of church bells, and then Winry’s voice.

“There’s a telegram come for you,” she calls up, as Ed slides down the ladder and tosses his work gloves over a rung. She’s getting slower, huffing and waddling adorably, which Granny keeps mentioning is a sure sign the baby will be along any day now. “It came in with the invoices, but I didn’t open it.”

“Brigadier General Mustang,” Ed snorts, raggedly tearing the envelope open with his thumb. He only reads the first line before his fingers go numb, letting the delicate carbon sheet flutter to the ground.

“Ed, what is it?”

Breath seems suddenly hard to come by—though not from exertion.

“It…”

He wants to read it over again and won’t.

“It says Riza Hawkeye’s died.”

He has to be the one to tell Al. No telegram is going to find him in the chaos of the Chang clan’s village. It takes long enough to connect a call—Ed listens to the tick and buzz and tick for a good twenty minutes, and he holds the telegram flat beneath his hooked thumb and index finger. The words flash disconnected in his gaze: regret and informand Hawkeye and died. Funeral tomorrow—the telegram was a day late in arriving.

Mei Chang’s grandmother answers, and Ed has to negotiate with the little Xingese he knows to be passed from house to house and reach his brother. Al answers with a breathy laugh, expecting happy news.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw her,” he says, voice cracking.

“Me either,” Ed replies quietly. The kitchen is black with night, and the light switch is too far for him to reach. “I think it was Central. Their engagement party? She looked so happy.”

“She did.”

There is a long silence where they can both cry, quietly, connected even through this distance.

“I’m going to have to decide soon, aren’t I?” Al asks helplessly. “I can’t have two homes forever. When I’m here, I feel like I should be there. And I should be, now, of all times…”

He takes a shuddering breath.

“I can’t believe she’s gone. Just… someone else we didn’t get to say goodbye to.”

Winry refuses to be left behind, so Ed pays extra for the private sleeping car, where cushions keep her from jostling left and right with the train’s sway. They’re west-bound, to some spit of a village called Wellesley and then ten miles farther. He’s received the instructions from Jean Havoc, who answered the telegram’s indicated number with a thick sigh.

“How long was she sick?” Ed had asked, twisting his empty hand against his leg.

“Not long,” Havoc said. “But too late to do anything about it.”

“How is he?”

“Bad. You’re probably going to miss the funeral, but there’s a thing after, at their house.”

“We’ll come.”

He expects the platform to be busier and maybe wreathed in black drapery, but it’s a little place hardly bigger than Resembool’s station. There are two benches inside, empty and facing the only window—rosette, perched high in the roof beams.

The village is small and packed densely, houses circled close against the encroaching trees. Half the streets are paved, but enough mud has tracked across the cobbles to paint them the same indistinguishable red-brown. Ed hates the car ride, for the way the poorly-upholstered bench forces them tightly together. The temperature seems to rise as they crawl farther and farther west—he’s the first to step out of the car when they arrive, and humidity nearly knocks him back against the fender.

The front door of the house is closed, and it seems no one is waiting to let them in.

“It’s lovely,” Winry says, huffing her way out with the help of Ed’s hand. “Except for the trees, we could almost be home again.”

Which is bizarrely true—unlike the wattle-and-daub look of West City or even the river-stone cobbles of Wellesley, the Hawkeye house rears back symmetrical and clad in white, imperiously simple in its understated decoration of blue paint on its shutters and doors. The windows look mottled in the sunlight: glazing thicker at the bottoms of each pane and fogged up, with the vaguest of colors and shapes moving behind them. He expects somehow for the house to extend up into the clouds, but it stops after two stories, beneath a slate tile roof and a chimney that lists against the tide of winds high above the trees.

Ed helps the taxi driver stack their bags on the grassy pavestones.

“Do we go and knock?” he asks, but Winry is already halfway up the walk. The door opens before she can reach for the knob—Jean Havoc on the other side, looking somewhat narrower than the last time they saw him, in his dress uniform and black sash.

“You made it,” he says, leaning in to Winry’s greeting hug. “I hope it wasn’t too hard.”

“It was nothing,” Winry says. “But we’re not imposing?”

“No, there’s plenty of room to stay. Someone’ll get your bags upstairs. We thought—”

He sighs, stepping aside to let them pass. The house is many degrees cooler than outside, despite the quiet hum of the implied crowd further in. The hall extends straight through to the back of the house, splitting two rooms on either side, and it is lined with tastefully sparse chairs and hanging lamps.

“We thought, it was better he wasn’t alone.”

“Where is he?”

“Kitchen, I think. Führer's receiving in the sitting room here. If you’re hungry or something, there’s food set out banquet-style, so help yourself.”

“Is—is she…?”

Ed can’t quite form the thought into words. The air is dense with cold and feels closed, dusty, disused.

“We buried her this morning,” Havoc says. “Real nice place, by some trees. Rebecca and I were here the day before she—”

It’s a visceral reaction, a wince that travels to a shudder.

“She didn’t want people to see her like that.”

“I wish we could have said goodbye at least,” Winry says.

“You did. Last time you saw her—whenever that was, that’s how she wanted you to remember her.”

At the far end of the hall is a closed door, puzzled together out of narrow squares of glass. The garden beyond bounces sunlight off its leaves and paths, tainting the white paneling green and yellow. No one outside—the wind that bothers the treetops can’t reach the ground, and the world enveloping this house is motionless as a painting.

“Let’s go on through, and you can get some food,” Havoc says. “I have to get back to Rebecca.”

He heads for the front room, and they follow. Winry keeps a hold of Ed’s hand.

The room is too crowded for furniture—he can guess at the location of a chair by the awkward gap between mourners, but for the most part, the memorial is standing room only. A sea of dress uniforms broken by the occasional black hat or short veil. The führer is sequestered behind his guards on the far left and snuffling into a handkerchief, surrounded by a crowd of lower officers Ed doesn’t recognize.

“Let’s go over to Mr. Armstrong,” Winry says. “Didn’t that other man there with him used to work with General Mustang?”

“Falman, yeah. He stayed up at Briggs after the big fight.”

Lieutenant General Armstrong is concealed by her brother’s broad, bowed shoulders, and she keeps one hand resting habitually on the hilt of her ceremonial saber, but her frown seems a different inflection.

“Hello, Fullmetal,” she says. “They weren’t sure you’d make it.”

“Gave up that title a few years ago. Now I’m just Ed.”

“Of course, Edward.”

Alex, gravelly and grave as ever, turns slowly to bring them into the small circle.

“I hope your journey here was not particularly arduous, considering your current condition.”

“Oh, I get into more trouble now than I did before,” Winry says with a small smile. “Lieutenant General, ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It wasn’t really mine.”

But her gaze doesn’t quite connect.

“Captain Hawkeye was a gifted officer—one of the finest I’ve had the privilege to serve with. She performed her duties as adjutant admirably, and she left me with a decent replacement.”

“I try my best,” Falman says, briefly tipping his wine glass. “It all happened so quickly towards the end—I saw her only a few months ago, and part of me was so certain this was all a hoax or a big misunderstanding. She never wavered. Never looked ill. It’s madness that she’s gone.”

“I gather it was a family affliction,” the lieutenant general says. “Her father died in a similar way, although I understand he had a little more time.”

Ever so lightly, Winry touches the back of Ed’s hand.

“I think I’d like to find a place to sit down.”

She won’t want company, but it’s as good an excuse as any to duck out. Winry finds an empty seat in the corner, on some antique-looking lounge, and she waves him aside.

“Go on,” she says. “Plenty of people around to get me whatever I need.”

He bends down to kiss her hairline and then straightens up again, catching the eye of Heymans Breda across the room.

“He’s not going to thank you for being here, but it really means a lot to him, to have us all around.”

“Havoc told us not to make arrangements for lodging,” Ed says, keeping his wrist straight and grip firm. Breda’s always been a bit of a hand-crusher, but Ed’s grown enough now to equal him out.

“Plenty of bedrooms,” Breda confirms. “Falman’s gotta go back with the Armstrongs, and the führer should be leaving any minute. But me, Havoc, you guys, Rebecca, and Gracia are all set upstairs. Not that you have to stay—if there’s something more pressing back home.”

“No,” Ed says. “We’re here, and we want to be here.”

Breda jams his hands back into his pockets.

“So how’s it been, being back home? Kept man—you miss the road at all?”

“A bit,” Ed says with a shrug. “But not enough to go out again. Al’s stories are enough for me.”

“His name’s always coming up in reports from Xing,” Breda says. “He thinking about making the move permanent?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he could be away from home like that. I think he likes going between. Especially now, with little niece or nephew on their way.”

“Congrats, by the way. We put your postcard up on the wall at work.”

Ed thanks him, and they fall silent for a while.

As predicted, the führer is gradually making his exit and filtering the crowd of most unfamiliars. Ed shifts slightly, half-wishing he had left his hair down to better hide his face. His gaze falls on a collage of photographs littering the wall to their right—shots of buildings and crowds and the insides of pubs he’s never seen. Only one of just the two of them that he can see: embracing in a snowfall, surrounded by friends.

“When were they married?” he asks.

“Right after they moved here. They were planning on a long engagement, until she made major and got moved out to Central as Armstrong’s proxy. Sounded like it was only a few weeks away, when…”

Breda grimaces.

“I hate this. I really hate it.”

They watch the führer and his guards file out. The old man walks heavily, leaning most of his frame on an ornate stick, gold-tipped and dark wood.

“Granddaughter’s fucking funeral, and he still has to show off his trophies.”

“That’s seditious,” Ed says, eyebrow raised.

“Who gives a shit? He’s gonna retire in a couple months anyway, and then we’re under Armstrong’s thumb.”

“Really? Not…?”

Breda shakes his head.

“So who would take over Briggs?”

“Whoever’s next in line, I guess. Funny how we put in all this work, and nothing changed.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Ed says. “A lot of people down around us are talking about organizing district conventions.”

“That should be fun to watch,” Breda sighs. “First woman führer in the history of this country, toppled by democracy.”

The entourage passes by Armstrong, but she doesn’t glance, keeping that imperious chin high in the air. She doesn’t look bored, exactly, but contemplative—as though always waiting for the start of the next engagement.

“I should go find him,” Ed sighs. “Tell him… whatever the hell you’re supposed to tell someone.”

“Look for Gracia. He’ll be nearby.”

She is found not far from the closed kitchen door, and she hugs him long enough that Ed can still smell her perfume after she steps back.

“It’s Mrs. Cotter now, actually,” she says, a bit sheepish.

“Oh, that’s—”

He stutters his way through it.

“I’m so happy for you. Is he… here?”

“No, he stayed back home to mind the shop. We have a bookstore together. He—”

She half-smiles.

“Herman and I met at a social group for widows and widowers—he lost his wife young, to sickness, and all of this… it’s too close for him still.”

She falters a moment, and then brightens again, like instinct.

“He’s really a wonderful man. They didn’t have children of their own, but he loves Elicia so dearly. And he likes Roy, and he liked Riza, too, but—someone had to run the shop.”

“What about you?” Ed asks. “Are you alright?”

“Maes was different,” she says, after a pause. “It was sudden. There was a lot we hadn’t had the chance to talk about, and there was so much left… undone. With this—with Riza, and with Herman’s wife—there was time. Decisions and plans that could be discussed.”

“Hard to know which one’s worse.”

She smiles again and gently squeezes Ed’s hand.

“He’s just in the kitchen. He needed some time away from the crowd, but you can go in.”

The door is heavy and seems only recently white-washed. The kitchen beyond is dazzlingly bright and decorated with jar after jar of wildflowers. Roy Mustang sits at the table with a faraway look in his eyes, one hand upturned and held loosely by Elicia. She has a canvas and palette set out and idly paints a quiet meadow scene.

Ed pulls out a chair, and as he drops into view, Roy blinks, suddenly focused.

“Have I seen you already?” he asks. “It’s been such a long day.”

“No, we just got here,” Ed says. He feels obligated to speak softly, to half-smile with sadness and temper his gaze with gentle understanding—but that is not, and has never been, how they were with each other. “I’m really sorry, Roy. But I wish you’d told us.”

“It wasn’t on purpose this time, I promise.”

“Yeah, Havoc said as much. That it’s how she wanted it.”

Roy nods, and beneath his elbow, Ed can see the glint of silver.

“You smoke now?” he asks. And Roy looks down, following the point of Ed’s finger, surprised almost to see the lighter.

“No,” he says. “It was hers.”

Something is engraved on the front, but it’s probably rude to ask. Elicia mixes blue and green on her palette.

“Where’s big brother?” she asks.

“He’s in Xing. He couldn’t make it back in time.”

Her nod is as slow as Roy’s was—she still wears her hair in twin bunches, but it’s long enough now to plait over each shoulder, and she doesn’t bother to look up. Her brush moves the canvas slightly on the polished wood, but she doesn’t let go of Roy’s hand.

“You know you can’t call me little brother anymore,” Ed says. “I’m gonna have a baby soon.”

“Mommy told me. She said you’re having a girl.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Well, I know it,” Elicia says. “I know everything. What’s her name gonna be?”

“We’re still not settled on one.”

Roy has returned to the blank stare—although it has shifted to the window and the empty garden beyond.

“I should go out,” he says, wearied by exhalation.

“Grumman just left,” Ed offers. “It’s probably safe.”

Elicia lets go without a look upward, focused solidly on her artwork. It’s encouragement, not callousness, as Roy closes his eyes and then stands, scraping the chair back. Every movement seems drawn up from a deep well of pain.

“Winry’s here?” he asks, focusing on Ed. They’re the same height now, but the hunch of shoulders shortens Roy—his uniform is hanging so horribly loose.

“Yeah, in the parlor. She needed to rest her feet a bit.”

He feels, half-heartedly, that he should offer a shoulder for Roy to lean on, but, soldier that he is, Roy straightens up, takes a breath, and steps through the door with shoulders square. No one notices—or at least they all have the courtesy to pretend otherwise—and Roy exhales, eyes focused on the floor. He still holds the lighter tight between his fingers, little flashes of silver catching Ed’s gaze now and again.

Winry is alone, but someone’s brought her a glass of water and a plate of little pastries. She smiles at seeing them and Ed smiles back, half-relieved, before realizing that Roy is no longer beside him.

He must have looked up at some point, and landed his gaze squarely across the room, on an over-large portrait of Riza Hawkeye. Ed can’t remember if he himself had noticed it until now—the führer had been standing in front of it, with his coterie of hangers-on, and Ed had always done his utmost to never again attract the attention of military men. Maybe there’d been a curtain draped across it.

It is clearly a depiction of Riza—blonde hair, brown eyes, pointed nose and chin, sharp jaw—but something about it is fundamentally, unshakably , flawed. He remembers a piercing gaze that could read a room and every man’s intentions in ten seconds flat, a quirk at the corners of her mouth that betrayed the arrival of a rare smile, and a squareness to her shoulders, as though she couldn’t fathom any posture but parade rest. The woman in the portrait wears Riza’s face, but she isn’t. Distant, demure, wrapped in some old-fashioned frock the color of sour milk. This woman sees nothing, feels nothing—sits silent and unblemished, pressed like a dead flower between sheets of cracked wax paper.

“Why?”

Roy is ash—unable to break the painting’s stare, knuckles white, swallowing hard against the tears watering his eyes. Gracia materializes at his elbow, arms ready to brace him from dropping like a stone.

“The führer wanted it out for display,” she says quietly. “I tried to tell him no.”

“All her pictures—”

“They’re safe. We’ll put them back up.”

“It’s not real.”

His voice breaks barely over a whisper, and Ed looks away, half-ashamed and unsure why. It seems most of the guests had the same instinct—only Breda and General Armstrong are watching, silently angry in their own separate ways.

“That’s enough for today,” Gracia says. “You don’t have to do anything else. Let’s just go upstairs, alright?”

He is, in so many ways, diminishing by the second. He speaks to no one as they move back through the parlor to the hall, and Ed has a vision suddenly of a hammer suspended by spider silk above a sheet of glass.

Winry slides her arms around his shoulders as he sits heavily on the cushion beside her.

“Everybody said the service was nice,” she tells him.

“But it wasn’t her?”

He feels her shrug and leans into it.

“Funerals are more for the people left behind. They’ve always been.”

A door closes somewhere upstairs, and Breda crosses the floor, seizing the painting at the corners. It lifts awkwardly, and he turns it to lean face-down against the wall, exposing an expanse of white paint and a series of empty nails.

The house empties in a trickle not long after—enough will be taking the same train back to Central that any residual mourning can be wrapped up at the station. Havoc takes up the mantle of awkwardly gracious host, shaking hands at the door and thanking each guest for their exit. Rebecca gathers Winry up to deal with the kitchen. They’ve been eating small plates all day, with no time to stop for a proper meal.

“Come on,” Breda says to Ed. “Let’s put things back the way they were.”

The portrait goes first—they carry it into the cellar together, to the pile of paper wrapping and snapped twine that had clearly been protecting it from view.

“When was this made?” Ed asks, draping the scraps as best he can.

“Couple years ago, I think. I guess he had one made of her mom once. Riza hated this thing.”

“They didn’t put in the scar on her neck.”

“Does that surprise you?” Breda sighs.

“No.”

The oil lamp hanging from the ceiling is set too high up—the shadow of a floor joist cuts sharply across the face, from cheek to cheek.

“I’d hate it too,” Ed mutters.

There’s several couches and tables to carry up and arrange, rugs to unroll, and lamps to dust off and plug in. Sunset floods the room as Ed adjusts the final cushion, frowning, and Breda stands at the empty wall with a handful of photo frames.

“I don’t know what order they were in,” he says, when Ed joins him.

“Does it matter?”

“I think it did.”

They try—the position of each nail gives a hint at the pattern, but something in the arrangement is definitely wrong to Ed’s eye. The muted swirl of colors, when viewed from a distance, are unbalanced, but he can’t think how to fix them. There isn’t even a common theme in the photos themselves to act as guide: flowers, rainy street scenes, crowded bars, books spilling from shelves all take equal space in simple frames. Breda gives up with a shrug.

“That’s gotta be good enough.”

Dinner is stew and bread at the table where Elicia’s left out her paintings to dry.

“I’m going to give one to Herman,” she says, kneeling on her seat to reach equal height with the adults.

“Can I have one?” Ed asks.

“If you pay me,” Elicia says with a shrug.

“Hey, I have to save money for the baby.”

“That’s not true. Uncle Roy says you’re loaded.”

Breda laughs, and smiles slip across a few other faces.

“You were an alchemist like him,” Elicia accuses. “And he said alchemists get lots of money from the military, so you’ve got lots of money to pay me.”

“Darling, please,” Gracia scolds, biting down her own smile. “It’s rude to discuss money at dinner.”

“Someone’s gotta fund that tuition,” Havoc says quietly.

Winry reaches beneath the table and squeezes Ed’s hand. He wonders if she’s thinking too of similar quiet moments of levity after a hard day of mourning. After Mom’s funeral, Granny had made them dinner and tucked them in and read funny stories from the newspaper until they all fell asleep. He’d felt wrong laughing, but it helped some.

Havoc and Rebecca are sorting through stacks of condolence cards and telegrams at the opposite end of the table, organization as soothing instinct. One pile is for strangers, diplomats, and sycophants—and a much smaller pile for the few that merit response, although Ed doubts Roy will be writing them himself.

“Poor kid,” Havoc sighs, setting another telegram on the response pile.

“Fuery?” Breda says, and Havoc nods.

“Where is he?” Ed asks.

“Middle of the Aerugian sea. Testing long-range communications. Still has six months on the tour.”

“That’s awful.”

Havoc nods at the piles.

“Especially now.”

Having picked the chair nearest the hall, Ed is the one to see the front door creak open, though Havoc hastily excuses himself to greet the newcomer—a large, stately-looking woman wrapped in black furs and a veiled hat, who sets down a pair of polished cases and envelopes Havoc in a hug.

“That rotten bastard had all the rail lines shut down like he was the only one who needed to be here. Where’s my boy?”

“Upstairs.”

“His mom,” Breda says quietly, to Ed’s unasked question. “Call her Christine.”

She leaves her bags for Havoc and takes each step heavily.

There’s no call for nightcap. Everyone is tired—Gracia collects plates as though to wash them, but Breda stops her.

“This isn’t important. It can wait for morning.”

Elicia leads Ed and Winry upstairs to their room: a study at the end of the floor, with desk and chairs pushed against the wall to make room for a low bed. A fireplace is set between the windows, but only as facade. The grate has been bricked over, and the old opening covered by a decorative screen.

“Mommy and me are next door,” she says. “Other side’s a bathroom and then Uncle Roy’s room. You got enough blankets?”

“We’ll be alright,” Winry replies for him. Elicia kisses them both on the cheek and closes the door—she has to use both hands and walks backwards to manage the weight.

Ed can’t find sleep. Winry hardly has a choice in the matter, barely settling on the mattress before she’s out. He doesn’t mind, though, loving the sweet openness of relaxation that smoothes every wrinkle of worry from her brow. He sets a hand on her belly to check, but really he hopes the baby will let her sleep.

Unfamiliar houses at night always seem to belong to another world entirely—he steps with care, knowing he has no chance of predicting which footfall might produce a creak. Every door is pulled shut, and there’s no sliver of light beneath any to betray whether he’s less alone than he feels.

Breda took the the sitting room for himself, and Ed hesitates at the top of the stairs, waiting in a long silence until the radio is switched off, and the rustle of fabric and cushions has stilled. He will not be able to explain to anyone who asks what he is doing, or why it must be done now, when stillness has closed over the house.

He at least remembers that the door to the basement is inside the kitchen, and that a box of matches is sitting beside the oil lamp at the bottom of the steps. It’s as cold as he’d expect, and he curses himself a bit for not bringing shoes. His automail foot might not mind, but the flesh one is burning on the dusty flagstones.

The portrait has already shed some of its paper veil—there must be a draft down here—and the peaks and valleys of paint pick up the lamp’s approaching glow and begin to glitter.

Again, he thinks, it’s not really Riza. Just the ideal of her: a porcelain mask with her lips and nose and something like the serious tilt of her brow. He’d only seen her hair down a handful of times—never styled in such old-fashioned curls. The dress as well is an oddity, lace and low-cut and gathered at her shoulders in little puffed sleeves. It reminds him a bit of Winry at five, in the church dress she ruined with mud.

Too much is missing. That thick line of flesh on her neck which stretched from ear to clavicle, the little spray of freckles perched at the end of her nose. She even had a thin scar on her cheek—he presses a finger to that stretch of canvas, knowing it’s wrong, knowing that he is diminishing what was intended as perfection. But hadn’t Breda said she hated it? And of course she would, knowing better than anyone the futility of hiding from all the ugly little truths she had to carry with her every day.

Ed wishes the artist had painted her looking away. The effect of unreality is greatest in her eyes, its eyes, with that dead stare straight forward, soulless and immobile. He would expect the sensation of being tracked—but shifting left and right, the pupils don’t seem to move. Fixed, forever. He wants to look over his own shoulder, seek from the shadows what must be lurking, what must be holding that frozen gaze, but he won’t.

She looked like this and not like this at the end, he’s certain—though he couldn’t bear the idea of asking, when the memory of his mother’s face is swimming so close beneath the surface. The stitched-shut eyes, the puffy dusting of powder to hide her already sinking features, the hands linked by fingers that were too stiff to bend right. It fills him with an aching hollow to think of Riza the same way. Like a scissors set beneath his ribcage and sawing straight across.

He cannot remember the last thing he said to her—it may have been as simple as good night.

Before leaving, he turns the portrait to face the wall, letting the shreds of paper spread limply across the floor beneath.

Only an hour of rest—then he’s up again, defeated, braiding back his hair and sliding uncomfortably into yesterday’s clothes. The sky outside is just beginning to gray, and he doesn’t want to bother anyone with running water. Breda’s still asleep in the sitting room. His snore rattles the glass a little, and Ed smiles, nudging into the kitchen door.

Someone else is awake. The coffee on the stove is warm, and there’s fresh crumbs of bread beside the butter dish. An apple core, perfectly cylindrical and neat, rests upright on the counter, just beginning to brown. But nothing else in the kitchen is disturbed—the chairs are pushed in, the dishes stacked in the sink, the empty jars lining every window sill sparkle with dust. Ed takes an apple for himself and pours a cup of coffee, not bothering to reheat it first.

The house seems to have gotten smaller somehow, overnight. The steps between the study upstairs and the basement could have covered a quarter mile, but now he hesitates even to lean against a table, as though the smallest scrape of sound will jolt everyone sleeping on the other side of a fragile curtain.

Haze dabbles the garden. The sun will have to work its way up through the trees, so lingering shadows fill the lawn like fallen leaves. Ed stands as close to the windows as he can, staring blankly through the mottled glass, thinking of nothing.

It takes a moment to notice the little bistro table sitting outside, one of its chairs askew on mossy flagstone. There’s a mug on the table, and an empty plate, and half a folded newspaper spilling from the cushion. Early risers always seeking solitude of some kind—he can smile at this, knowing it now so intimately himself.

From the right, Hayate suddenly enters the frame, trotting purposefully, sniffing out a path. And, behind him, swinging a stick to throw and be fetched, is Roy: gaunt, pale, grayed out and wavering through the window, like a branch caught beneath rushing waters. He whistles, and tosses the stick high, and then he returns to the chair and the table, neatening up his discards and pulling a thick leather satchel Ed hadn’t noticed, from the seat of the unused chair.

Their eyes meet through the window, and Roy raises a hand, either greeting or goodbye. Grateful he’d thought to put on his shoes, Ed crosses quickly into the hall and then outside, breathing the dewy air deep and coughing.

“Hey,” he says, wary.

“Hey,” Roy replies. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. I didn’t sleep much.”

Ed feels the sting of rudeness. What does that matter? Roy only nods, and Ed half-expects his head to shear from his neck completely, like tearing wet cardboard.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Roy says. “They all did so much yesterday. Figure they need their rest.”

“What about you?”

Roy glances down at the satchel, slung over his opposite shoulder. There’s something inside, something bulky and solid.

“That part hasn’t hit me,” he says. “I know it’s coming. Grief is exhausting, and your body doesn’t know what to do but sleep—but I’m not there.”

The yet doesn’t come. They stare at each other, fifteen feet apart, shoes sponging up every bit of water clinging to the grass. Ed feels a knot balling up in his stomach, and Hayate comes trotting back from the brush, happily depositing the stick at Roy’s feet and leaning against his leg with a contented huff. Roy’s fingers drum against whatever’s in that satchel.

“Listen—” he says, and stops himself with a grimace. “There’s something I need to do.”

Ed’s fingers go cold. He shoves them into his pockets, hoping to hide the blanch.

“Could I come with?” he asks, knowing either answer is pointless to his intentions.

“Yeah,” Roy says, as a little awful smile flits across his mouth. “I think she’d like that.”

They go on wordlessly. Roy leads, stepping into the brush while Hayate gallops back and forth, more interested in the worried birds than the stick Ed helplessly tosses ahead. A twinging part of him worries about poison oak, so he follows almost directly in Roy’s wake, figuring he’ll at least get some warning this way.

The trees rise up fast around them, dense almost as soon as they leave the lawn. It’s not too dissimilar from the forests at home, if a bit thicker, and Ed is warmed by the sudden rush of memory, of trailing along behind his mother while she scoured the forest floor for blackberries.

Distantly, crows scream themselves awake and are answered by the trill of songbirds irritated at the interruption. Vaguely, Ed can see rodents scampering through the branches and starting fights over the meaty rinds of not-quite-ripe walnuts. The branches overhead protected everyone from the night’s rain, and the air as well feels thinner and cooler threading through his lungs.

Roy stops suddenly and points up.

“Do you know what that is?” he asks, and Ed can see a small, sturdy lashing of planks jutting out from a tree, maybe fifteen feet up. No ladder, but the greenish remains of rope hang from one corner, hinting at past ascensions.

“No,” he says.

“It’s a deer blind.”

Roy is smiling, eyes fixed on the wood.

“She built it. And then it collapsed, so she built it again until it stayed up. She never had anyone to tell her how—she learned it all in books. What to do.”

“How old was she?”

“I think seven or eight. It was before I met her, anyway.”

Ed feels a little strange for having assumed the place belonged to Mustang—which of course made little sense in the context of Mustang’s money and the sparse living style Ed had seen of Hawkeye’s apartment in Central and, later, her quarters up at Briggs. He’d always felt a kind of kinship in pragmatism with her.

Of course Roy is city-bred—it shows mostly obvious in his shoulders and the casual disregard of his stride. He’s moved a few steps, close enough to rest a hand on the tree’s mossy bark.

“Sometimes I’d climb up with her, when I was bored or her father was in one of his moods. I’m sure I always ruined hours of work—drove every animal in a square mile far away with the noise I made climbing up. But she liked it. She’d ask me to read sometimes. So I’d bring whatever text I was studying and just drone. I don’t know how it didn’t drive her crazy.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“What?”

“You grew up together.”

Roy shrugs.

“Sort of. I asked her father to take me on as his apprentice in alchemy, and he agreed.”

Ed cranes his neck up, as though he could see the top of the blind with just a shift of perspective.

“Sometimes I’d bring her food, if she’d been out a while. We’d climb down at night, and she’d always stop to check her traps before going. I never understood how she could see, but I think she just had it memorized.”

Roy laughs a little—he looks down, and Ed follows, seeing now the narrow, clear path of dirt sheltered by overgrown weeds. They turn back and walk on, and Roy eagerly points out various landmarks that barely rise above the overgrowth. A split-rail fence where she used to walk and balance and then overtip in his waiting arms, a jagged boulder which marks the end of the property in only a technical sense, a tree that forks half-dead and points on one end to a deep pool.

“She said we couldn’t go too far,” he says, pausing to whistle Hayate back. “I never found out why, but I think she was just messing with me. She did that a lot. I knew nothing, and I was a fun target for teasing.”

He breathes deep, with a ragged half-smile.

“We’re almost there,” he says. “Over left.”

The path slopes down and turns craggy—Ed follows Roy’s cautious lead in picking his way down the jutting stones and roots. Somewhere very nearby, a creek is whispering its way through pebbles. Roy stops about ten feet down the incline, jostling between the satchel and Hayate’s thumping tail, and he pulls aside a section of hanging leaves.

“Here,” he says, nodding at Ed to step through first.

On the other side of the curtain is a strange, squat room lined in crumbling stone and mortar. A few wood beams remain of a roof, and flowered ivy grows thick as thatch across. Part of the collapsed wall on the eastern side forms a narrow shelf, and Ed can see a series of dirty glass jars and small animal bones strewn across it as decoration. The stream must be nearby—it echoes quietly around his ears.

The floor is half stone and half dirt, pitted with moss and soft under every step. Pollen perfumes the air, and the haze of coming sun swamps the small space.

He feels—enveloped. Warm, solid, as though the air could take shape and form itself into comfort. The quiet here is reverent, a stillness so close to the peace of an undisturbed pond moments before a pebble stumbles from the shore and breaks the surface.

“What is this?” Ed breathes.

“It used to be a mill,” Roy says, dodging. He nudges a patch of moss, revealing the cool glisten of old leaves beneath. Decay, but a sweetness of promised renewal. These ruins sit untouched by rot.

“A mill?”

“Probably a hundred years ago. They dammed the river up in town, and all the little creeks like this one dried up. You can still see the wheel outside.”

He points, and then indicates the shadow of a long pole past their feet.

“They’d hook a donkey to a harness, and he’d drag the wheel into the water and out, as they needed.”

Roy goes silent, and Ed nods.

It’s a nice place—this deep in the woods, truly indistinguishable from home. Here, Ed can conjure the memories of stick forts he’d built with Al as easily as if he could step back through that curtain of vine and find his baby brother, mud-splattered and impatient to play.

“This was her temple,” Roy says quietly. His voice is thick—he’s staring down at the leather satchel on his hip, and Hayate leans patiently against his leg. “When she was little, they taught her about Xerxes—how they had a hundred gods, and all the gods had temples. But she got it wrong. She thought—she thought that the people built the temples first, and then waited for the gods to show up.”

There’s the slightest streak of blackening against one wall—a fire she built as she built the blind? Where she might have sat and she might have watched, willing the effort to be something less than vain?

“So she made this. She’d used it before, as a place to rest during a hunt or as a shelter when her father was in one of his moods. But she thought it would do good as a temple—she planted those vines and cleared space, and tried to assemble an altar.”

Even now, gone, Ed cannot picture her as anything but the woman she was. Full grown, she parts the veil and passes through, solid determination painting her face as she gently twists the flowering vines around the roof beams, as she gathers wildflowers into the glass jars, as she arranges the littlest bones into the vague shape of an invented summoning ritual.

“But no one ever came, of course. So she gave up on it. She kept using the place because she needed it, but she said it sometimes felt a little like failure. When she first brought me here, and told me, there was so much disgust for herself in her voice… but I thought it was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.”

The satchel unbuckles beneath his careful fingers, and then Roy is lifting a small vase into the air—a flat, reflectionless glaze stoppered with a dark wood lid. No bigger than a milk jug, and hefted so perfectly in the cradle of Roy’s palm. He catches Ed’s stare and nods.

“Yeah. She told me, when it came down to it, what happened after was my choice. Funerals and burials—she said whatever it was, I’d be the one who had to live with it. When she wanted to come back here, to—”

The tiniest little split. It had happened, it was happening, even now. Even with all that she was, contained in so small a space.

“To die,” Roy finishes, as though the word might pull all his insides out. “I knew immediately this is what I wanted.”

“Did you tell the old man?”

“No,” Roy says. “He thinks he buried her next to her mother and the man they both hated. He has no right to this.”

A sentiment Ed can find no fault in.

“I always thought we’d…”

A tear escapes, twisting towards the corner of Roy’s mouth and then disappearing down his chin.

“I thought if we had a daughter, we’d bring her here.”

He rotates the urn around in his hands, gently caressing the surface.

“This is where you should be,” he says to it, and then steps forward, clearing a little space between the jars and bones, and he nestles the urn at the center.

The sun follows them back to the house, tracing their steps and silence. Even from the edge of the lawn, Ed can see movement inside the kitchen. Winry will still be asleep, and hopefully it’s early enough that no one will have thought of sending a search party.

Roy pauses at the table on the patio, still with its dirty plate and folded newspaper.

“I wonder,” he says, “if I could ask you a favor.”

“Anything.”

Too quick—Ed winces, hoping it won’t fester into regret.

“She spent a lot of time writing. Towards the end.”

“Memoirs?”

“Some of it.”

Slowly, imperceptible maybe from the right distance, Roy is beginning to crumble. It’s over, and it’s just starting to catch up with him. Without a thought, Ed sets one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm, and he guides Roy to sit in the empty chair, clearing the cushion of the other for himself.

“She had so many ideas,” Roy says. “Things she wanted to say, things she wanted. Not for herself—for everyone. The future of the country.”

The last he says like he’s quoting something. Tears fill his eyes and spill over—more blind now than when he crossed through the Gate, all those years ago. Ed wonders, idly, fleeting, if she’ll wait for him there, if she’ll rise and meet him with hand outstretched, all time and distance collapsed to the infinite they still step through and see together.

“I can’t look at it. Not yet.”

A ray of light hits his eyes directly, and Roy blinks, shutting it out for only a moment.

“But it’s not right to hide it. Everything she wrote is important, and people should see it.”

The door behind them opens: Gracia steps outside with a cup of coffee, approaching them slowly.

“I had ulterior motives putting you and Winry in the study.”

“So you need an editor?” Ed asks.

“Only if you’re willing.”

“I’m honored that you asked.”

Gracia crosses to his side, glancing at the empty bag between his feet.

“So it’s done?” she says, rubbing gently between his shoulders.

“Yeah. Ed came with.”

“It was beautiful,” Ed says with a nod. “It felt like the right place.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’m tired,” Roy sighs. “I think I’m going to sleep now.”

He rises with a sudden heaviness, as though his center of gravity has suddenly rushed upwards above his heart. Hayate curls along beside him, a brace to rest against once or twice on the long walk back inside the house.

Everyone else is up and filtering through the various rooms, maintaining a reverent silence. Even Winry, having folded the bed linens neatly at each corner before heading into the bathroom. Through the walls, Ed can hear alternately the thrumming chant of water rushing through the pipes and the indecipherable murmur of Elicia’s voice.

He closes the door and crosses to the desk pushed up against the wall. Too dark or too distracted last night to notice, he sees now the cascade of papers spread across its surface.

This cannot be disturbed just yet—he feels this commandment sharply, so instead he simply looks. Leaning over, scanning his gaze across the jumbled words, picking up only flashes of the sentiments contained within. A torn shred, somewhat standing free of the pile, makes him turn his head against his shoulder to read more closely.

It’s a list—of titles, by his guess. Anarchist from the Deathbed, Non Omnis Moriar, Rights of the Amestrian Citizen: strong, stout, even a little seditious.

The chair is still pulled out a little ways, and with a bit of effort, he manages to sit without moving it. The window on his right pours sunlight across the desk top. A pen lies between his hands, he realizes, tossed against a seam of parchment and then rolled back to rest in a crease, sideways, careless of a dribble of ink, as though any moment she might return and take it up again.

He sets his fingers along the grooves—she was right-handed, and held the tip between three fingers, leaving her little finger to trail on the page, to guide the lilt of her writing.

He holds it just the same. He breathes. He pulls the first, the last, of her words forward, and he begins to read.

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on this earth.

“Late Fragment” by Raymond Carter

#edward elric #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #royai #fmab #hlwim fic #not all of me will end #long post

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mischiefmakingmuses · 6 years ago

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Tawagoto’s Gate: The Disappearance of Tokyo Ghetto

[Here is a fanfic I wrote for all you lovely people, I hope you have an enjoy.]

Chapter 1: The Adventures Of Mumu-chan

In a world where darkness and light intertwined heavily and lovingly, never fully separating from each other and always continuing through existence in their dance of love and death, lived a Girl by the name of Mumu, who was secretly the Moon in a previous life. When Link did not manage to save Termina from Majora's Wrath due to being distracted by a Massive Display of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, 2,400 Doughnuts All Shaped and Flavored Like Several Pokémon, Yokai, and Digimon (As Created For "The Great Mons Game War Against Pretentious Pokémon Fans Who Think Pokémon is the Only Mons Game When in Reality the Megami Tensei Series is the Literal Ur Example of All Mons Games"), all of Termina was banished to The Shadow Realm, but in the middle of The World of Light, and it was here that the Moon took her new form as Mumu-chan.

By Day she was a regular Schoolgirl, and By Night she became The World's Greatest Magical Girl. She was The Only One who could save the town's cats from falling prey to the Evil Tree Organization, who would often capture the poor cats and trap them up on high branches from which they could not leap down from. Every other night, she was visited by her Good Friend Tuxedo Mask...a month ago, Tuxedo Mask had begun to help out a Man from town named Mike Dawson, who was trying to find out what happened to his Totally Not Girlfriend, Rita Scanlon. Even one day, Mike Dawson interrogated Tuxedo Mask.

"Tuxedo Mask, what was YOUR relationship with Rita," asked Mike Dawson.

"My work here is done," Tuxedo Mask declared before being beamed up by his spaceship and transforming into A Whole Chicken In A Can.

It was when Things were beginning to fall apart. At One Point, Mumu-chan saw Nobita and Doraemon at a candy store!!! And she saw Kitaro and Nezumi-Otoko getting ramen at a ramen stall!!! What was going on?!

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

In this hard boiled world there is only one hard boiled detective named Gummie, who was a octopus bat alien thing given form on Jack Box's Drawful 2 one day when the Author wanted to be cute in a Twitch stream they frequented.

With a Large Pretzel Stick in their mouth, Gummie looked over the case files while her dear friend Star Sheep sat in the corner playing Splatoon 2 For The Nintendo Switch™, for the Salmonids were something Star Sheep became really obsessed with because they were Funny Fish and Very Interesting.

"Do you think this is a homicide case?" Gummie asked Star Sheep, pulling the Pretzel Stick out of his mouth and acting as if it were a cigar.

"Sorry, I'm Splet," Star Sheep replied.

"Hmm. That's true," Gummie mused, lifting up her hat to look outside the window. It was a Marvelous Night, but they had not been making much headway on the case so far. Perhaps it was time to get Reinforcements involved. "We don't even have a sus cuz the sec with a mo's got a perf al."

"Eko, You Don't Drink," Star Sheep commented wisely from the corner.

"Shut up, Maya, we're getting burgers," Gummie proclaimed loudly as he put the Pretzel Stick back in their mouth.

Chapter 3: Help Me Dr. Cox

The Next Day Gummie and Star Sheep left to find Reinforcements, first coming by Richard AKA Dr. Dick AKA Dr. Cox because the Author Wanted To Be Meta and The Real Dr. Dick knew Everything that they had planned for the week that had passed.

In front of a Dollar Tree, Gummie and Star Sheep awaited for Richard to show up, playing a bootleg version of Where In Time Is Carmen Sandiego? For The Nintendo Switch™ which landed on their doorstep one day. The reality of the situation was that the game functioned almost entirely like the PC version except that The Baron wasn't called Baron Grinnit, but Baron Wasteland Because I Think That Makes More Sense.

"When my mom and I played this game, we really liked Ivan Idea," Gummie admitted.

"How are we even doing this?" Star Sheep asked, without the monotone tone that this fanfic is read in as it's being written Because It's Ironic. It was then that Gummie squinted their eyes at the screen, only for the screen to melt away and turn into The World Ends With You: Final Remix.

"Oh hey, look, it's Neku," Gummie murmured happily. "Y'know, I really love Neku?"

"Yeah, I know," Star Sheep replied. "Comfort character, right?"

"I'm inclined to believe so," Gummie answered as he attempted to play the song Calling which was her favorite song because he first heard it in the DS version in 2012 and it really stuck with them.

It was then that Richard had finally shown up. She looked around with shifty eyes, seeming a bit nervous and unsettled.

"I don't think I'm supposed to be here," Dr. Dick admitted.

"I'm vaguely getting that kind of idea too," Gummie commented. "Anyway, so I heard from my friends Smile, Urien, Netalina, Gambit, and Jizo that their friends Nobita and Doraemon have gone missing, and have no idea where to go to find them."

"Eko?" Star Sheep began, pulling on Gummie's wing. "I'm sorry, but...how do you know about the Yokai?"

Both Richard and Gummie looked at Star Sheep wide eyed, in Gummie's case you couldn't tell very well because they always made it a point to never reveal their eyes.

"Shit. Shit. SHIT. I don't know what's going on." Gummie grabbed the sides of his head in confusion, narrowing their eyes at the ground. "Something's extremely wrong here."

It was then that Kaite20 had suddenly shown up. Yes, her name is actually Kaite20 because she feels the need to constantly append the "20" to her name even when just "Kaite" would suffice.

"Hey, you guys, I found a portal somewhere and it kind of looks like one you might see in Puyo Puyo Puyo Puyo Puyo Puyo Land. Is that...supposed to be normal?"

Gummie stared at Kaite in shock.

"Like hell it is," they responded. "Guys, we're going to the portal. Don't be surprised if we end up having Adventures in Bootleg again."

Chapter 4: Peter Was Not Available So Phoebe And Plumule Are Here

Through the portal, they had reached the home of Mumu-chan, in a place between the Shadow Realm and the World of Light. It wasn't QUITE time to play Lifelight, though.

"This feels more like how in ChalkZone, half of the world was day and half of the world was night," Star Sheep commented. And she was right, as the town was split entirely between night day, right down the middle.

"...this is cool but complicated," stated Dr. Cox.

"Focus guys, I'm inclined to believe that Nobita and Doraemon are here somewhere. I dunno how the FUCK they ended up here, but I imagine that they HAVE to be here," Gummie commented.

"Do you think it's because of...HIM?" Kaite asked.

"Absolutely not, because if anything makes sense in this goddamn world we're trapped in, it's that They Above wouldn't fucking put him in this story. Then again, I have no idea who else it could be."

"You're getting KINDA too meta, now," said Richard. "Sounds like a fanfic."

"It IS a fanfic, Dr. Dick," Gummie responded. "So that means that we'll probably meet the Kitaro Family and Ittan-Momen will be really suave and shit despite not being a major character. Also we now have an autistic girl and her baby bird monster friend on the team because They Above asked a certain someone if they wanted some influence on the story."

"Actually, he's more or less my tulpa." And there was Phoebe, with Plumule right next to her. The tiny bird monster chirped in an affirmative manner.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's tulpas all the way down. ANYWAY, you guys, we need to find Nobita and Doraemon. The first step is finding Ittan-Momen flying around because like Hell he won't be here."

As if on cue, a dashing white cloth with beautiful blue eyes flew through the area and down the street.

"Fuckin' typical; OK, let's go." Gummie spread their arms...wings and took to the air, trying his best to keep up with the white cloth. Naturally, being part of the Kitaro Family and being Objectively The Best Kitaro Character In The Universe, at least according to the Author, Ittan-Momen was very fast and hard to keep up with. "Hey, sir, would you mind slowing down? I'll buy you some sweet potato sake if you do."

"Huh, what? Are ya talkin' to me?" Ittan-Momen flipped over in the air to look at Gummie, who wasn't keeping up very well. The cloth stopped and allowed the alien to catch up to him. "Do ya need me for somethin'?"

"First of all, very honored to meet you. Congrats on actually making it into a written work made by my Ghost Writer! They really like your voice and manner of speaking...down to the subtitles that Crunchyroll gives you."

"...Huh...? What...? I don't really understand," Ittan-Momen said. He was blushing though. "Anyway, what do ya need me for?"

"Gonna take a wild guess and say your friend Kitaro is somewhere in the area! Have either of you happened to see a boy in glasses, yellow shirt, black hair, kinda looks like a loser? Or his robot cat friend, no ears, bright smile, red collar with a bell, white belly, a pocket on said belly? I'm inclined to believe that we have a trickster afoot and that those two have been taken here for some reason...as well as you and Kitaro."

"Err..." Ittan-Momen tilted his head slightly to the side. "Yeah, I think so. I'm still not sure I really understand, though..."

"Don't worry about it!" Gummie piped up. "Just let my friends catch up with us and then you can take us to Kitaro, alright?"

"Cotton shochi!"

Chapter 5: When You're Too Afraid To Wake Up

At Ittan-Momen's introduction, the group found Nobita and Doraemon, who were actually having a conversation with GeGeGe no Kitaro himself. While presenting himself politely, it seemed like a lot of the futuristic aspects of Doraemon's existence had confused Kitaro quite a bit. He was just getting used to the fact that people had Smartphones, what was this about a 4th Dimensional Gadget Pocket...?

"Really glad to meet you, Kitaro! Yes, They Above is right, you are definitely Badass Adorable," Gummie gushed.

"Um...thank you," Kitaro replied quietly. "Ittan-Momen, who are...your friends?"

"Don't know. The purple one asked me to bring them to you."

"Sorry, Eko, I'm kindof tuning out here, hahaha. Everything I know about these guys is just what you've told me before..." Star Sheep laughed nervously.

"Trust me, if this got any more out of control, then fucking Ashens would've been mentioned. By the way, he gave the whole chicken in a can a negative review because it just looked like a melted chicken carcass.

"Anyway, Nobita, we've finally found you--and GeGeGe no Kitaro, to boot--at Urien and friends' request, so I'd consider this case closed..." Gummie adjusted her glasses. "...except that someone obviously was behind everyone's displacement, including ours and Kitaro's. So that means the case is still open...until we find the culprit!"

"I thought it was just Ekoro," Nobita replied.

"Ekoro?" Kitaro asked.

"Who's Ekoro?" Richard asked as well, despite the fact that The Real Dr. Dick knew very well who Ekoro was.

"I don't know any Ekoro," Phoebe replied bluntly. Plumule cheeped in agreement.

"I thought you said it couldn't be Ekoro," Kaite responded.

"I did," Gummie said. "So that means that it's someone we don't actually know. Kitaro, do you sense youkai activity?"

"Yes," Kitaro replied without skipping a beat. Gummie's sight wandered to the top of his head, where his ahoge was pointing straight up.

"Well, golly gee, that was fucking easy. Which Youkai of the Week do you think could've possibly done this?"

"I don't know," Kitaro responded. "It's not any youkai I've ever encountered."

"But they're a youkai? And they're close?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't consider myself a youkai, per say..." came a voice. Everyone looked around, but to no avail. Suddenly, the world fell apart. The group panicked for a second, until the voice came back. "Give it a moment, I'll send you all back home in a second!"

They tried to focus on the source of the voice. It was coming from a definitive direction, but it still seemed like no one was there...

"I'm right here," came the voice again. Everyone looked downwards. In the middle of the group was...something. Almost exclusively what could be made out was a white mask with three heart-shaped holes in it and two horns. The rest of...whatever it was...was completely transparent. Its shaped was also inconceivable, almost as it was hardly there at all.

"The fuck are you, a Phanto?" Gummie asked in a sassy tone.

"Not...really. I'm not a youkai, either. Or a demon. Or really anything...I guess that means I'm...nothing?" It seemed to put a hand over where its chin would be. "It's kind of hard to be here, sorry."

"O...kay...so why did you bring everyone here?"

"Oh! I just wanted to have some fun and let you all construct a silly story in a world of my creation! I hope you enjoyed it! Happy April Fools'!" Nobody seemed impressed. "Aw, c'mon, I can't imagine it was that bad? I understand that all of you enjoy ridiculous humor like this! Not counting Kitaro and friends, of course, because they don't really represent anyone in The Other World, but surely the rest of you found parts of it funny!"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Dr. Dick asked.

"I don't really know! I would say I'm Nanashi but Kitaro and Ittan-Momen would get mad. But similarly to him, I have no name. No one's given me one, and I might never have one."

"Oh, I know you," Gummie responded, "you're the one They Above have been struggling with for a while; they call you Not Melon."

"Ah, but that's not actually my name. Similarly to how they've called other characters in progress 'Not Ekoro' and the like. I don't have a name yet. But, I do have a birthday! It's today! April 1st is my birthday!"

"I'm inclined to believe that's bullshit because your concept has been floating around for more than a fucking week," Gummie grumbled.

"Well, they didn't make Smile on May 18th, and yet that's his birthday, right? And Urien was conceived sometime in November or December, but his birthday is somewhere in June or July, but it's still not decided because they want a date that would perfectly reflect Urien's personality similar to how it seemed to happen with Smile, right?"

"Wait, Urien's birthday is in June or July?" Nobita asked. "It would've been great to know that last year!"

"Yeah, but the date's still up in the air. Plus, that plot thread was going to be explored with Ekoro, with Star Sheep's Ghost Writer taking the role of Ringo so she and They Above could roleplay some fluffy EkoRin stuff. And then they decided that they didn't want to do anymore, and ran out of time anyway."

"...I think that's beyond even my understanding, Mister...err...what did you say your name was again?" Doraemon asked, tilting his head.

"Ah, well...firstly, I'm not a mister...and secondly...I don't have one. However, my birthday being today was inspired by Subeta's Elwood's birthday being today, and that Elwood's Pizza is in between time and space, kinda like me! Ultimately They Above decided they actually wanted to go down this route for me!"

"...OK." Both Nobita and Doraemon had given up at this point.

"Actually!" they piped up, clapping their hands together...or something? They were so intangible it wasn't really clear. "They Above decided to plan all this out as a way to introduce me, even though I kind of don't fully exist yet! That's part of the reason why you can't really tell what I look like...the only thing confirmed is my mask, you see?

"Anyway, that means that you, I, and the Yokai might all meet up sometime soon, in another universe! Exciting right? I'm really looking forward to it!"

"Did you understand any of that, Kitaro-san?" Ittan-Momen asked.

"No," Kitaro answered bluntly.

"It's OK, you aren't really involved. They Above are just such a huge fan of you guys that they wanted to include you. Anyway...as much as I'd love to stay and chat with you all, it's time for you guys to go back, and for this story to come to a close.

"It was really nice meeting you all! Especially because...I don't really have any friends yet! But, again, I hope you all enjoyed your time here, and I'm looking forward to meeting you all again! I'm not sure when or where, but it'll definitely happen!"

And all will fade to black.

Chapter 6: Home At Last

Gummie awoke with a start. Apparently they had fallen asleep on their desk. Star Sheep was in the corner, playing Splatoon 2 For The Nintendo Switch™.

"Star Sheep, what the hell happened last night?"

"I'm not really sure, but I had a really crazy dream where we went to solve a case...something about two people going missing? And then Kitaro was there?"

"Kitaro? You mean like GeGeGe no Kitaro Kitaro?"

"Yeah. Also there was that guy, there was that guy you like."

"Ittan-Momen?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck yes. I had the same dream too. Ittan-Momen was fucking incredible." Star Sheep turned to her friend's general direction and gave him a warm smile.

"Glad you liked it."

At the end of the day, much fun was had...and also Nezumi-Otoko Is Still Underground.

Thank you to @astarrymusenight, @jellipuddi, @robocatandboy, @timeandspaceandmagic, and my Twitter friend Peter Puzzling for letting me use your characters/personas!

#fanfic

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cagedbirdsong · 7 years ago

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hello everyone! here i am with the next part of to build a home! i hope you all enjoy it ~ it was fun to write. not a super action packed chapter but a lot of information condensed pretty quick. we’re getting into the good stuff, people!

before reading, please note that this chapter takes place almost exactly a year after the last chapter. this is because a lot of the stuff i wanted to have happen was easier to write with a small time gap, and there was also no need in my mind to bore you guys with lots of small details and filler chapters. in an effort to keep the story moving, i saw it as the best decision!

without further ado, here we go! feedback is welcomed, encouraged, and appreciated (as always). much love to all of you - you’re the reason i do this.

Part Six

Castle Leoch, Summer 1745

“It’s getting a wee bit uncomfortable around here for my taste,” Murtagh muttered, finishing relieving himself against a tree and jostling his kilt back into place. He glanced over at Jamie, who was similarly making himself orderly, and folded his arms. “We should go. Ye dinna want tae get caught ‘tween Colum and Dougal if they’ve their minds set apart.”

Jamie sighed, wiping his hands on his coat and folding his arms, turning to look out over a small pasture of milling sheep. “Aye, I know.” Over the last few months, tension in Castle Leoch had skyrocketed to an all time high. When he and Claire had arrived the previous spring, there had been the murmurings of a division between the Mackenzie chief and the war chief, but everything had come to a head much quicker than Jamie liked. Rather than murmurings, there was now flat out talk of Dougal’s support for the Bonnie Prince Charlie, and some of the men had even begun to declare themselves along with him. To Jamie, it felt as if he were perched on a ledge. Below him, rocks and churning waters lie waiting, and at his back some great beast crept closer and closer. He could feel its hot breath on his neck. Jump, or turn and fight? Had this been the issue a few years prior, he would have known his answer immediately, but he had Claire to worry about now, and the decision was not one that came lightly.

“So, what say ye? Why not home to Lallybroch?” Murtagh’s thick brows were furrowed, and he chewed pensively on his moustache.

Jamie shook his head, hands dropping to his sides. “And risk having Ian and Jenny, not ta mention all the tenants, brought into it? Pick sides and have the British hate them or the rest o’ the Scots? No, I dinna think so. I’m still Laird, and it’s my job to protect them. Going home would do naught but make things worse.”

Murtagh grunted a little, running a hand along his chin as the two began to walk back down towards the Castle. “Aye, well enough. What about just going then? We could live on the road, we’ve done it before. It wouldnae be hard.”

While he was, to a degree, right, Jamie snorted and shook his head, curls bouncing. “Would ye have me sleeping beneath a tree with my wife come winter?” His tone was in jest, but his eyes were dull and far-off. “I promised to protect her as well, make sure she has food, a bed to sleep. I’ll no go back on that either. Besides, thing have been good for us here. After Brigid,” he paused, “well, I’m no’ quick to uproot us again.”

He thought he heard Murtgah mutter something about married life making him soft, but his godfather nodded and clapped his shoulder briefly. “I ken it, laddie. I was there. But ye canna be thinking a bed o’ snakes to be safer than a bed o’ grass, hmph? Ye must make the decision before it’s too late, Jamie.” He gave him a pointed look and Jamie sighed, running a hand down his face.

“I hear ye, a charaid. I’ll talk it o’er with Claire, aye? I dinna think we need worry just yet.” But even as he offered Murtagh a smile and they fell into step on the road back to the castle, he wondered how much of what he said was true. How much time did they have? And would it be enough?

Claire looked up as Jamie entered the room with a smile, bent over the washbasin and running her wet hands through her hair. She wore a thin shift and had the shutters open to admit some of the cool night air. “Long day?” She asked, twisting her curls up into a bun as he shrugged out of his coat, offering her a smile in return as he hung it up.

“Oh, aye. I’m proper sore but no worse for wear than last ye saw me.” He toed off his boots and set them down as well, pausing to give Claire a quick kiss as he crossed to the washbasin to take his turn wiping some of the dirt from the day off his arms and face. “And you, my Sassenach? How was your day?”

“Oh, not terribly exciting, I’m afraid,” she said, setting a clean nightshirt on the bed for him. “One of the young boys got hit in the head with a rock while they were playing down by the river and needed a few stitches above his eye. He should heal up nicely. Other than that it was mostly runny noses and runny asses, if you can believe it.”

Jamie chuckled, holding his head over the basin to pour water from the ewer over his hair. When he was done, he shook like a dog and finished getting ready for the night, tugging the clean shirt she had laid out for him on. “Oh, aye. Seems everyone has a cold or a stomach bug. I blame the neeps Mrs. Fitz has been cooking, but dinna tell her I told ye that.”

“Careful,” Claire laughed, going to close the shutters in hopes of keeping out bugs and bats while they slept. “If she hears you’re talking bad about all her hard work you’ll get nothing but scraps for your dinner and she’ll likely beat you with the wooden spoon.” She stooped to blow out the candle on the table and climbed into next to Jamie, scooting down beneath the covers to lie with him. “When I went down for dinner she told me she sent one of the boys down to the fields with some food for you and Murtagh. Did you eat?”

Jamie vibrated against her back with a hum of laughter and leaned his nose down into her hair, taking a deep breath. She must have been collecting sage today, he thought: she reeked of it. “Aye, I’m alright.” He paused, wondering if he should bring up the conversation he had with Murtagh, and Claire rolled in his arms to face him, sliding her chilly feet down his legs as she scooted closer, head tilted to look up at his face.

“What’s bothering you?” She asked softly, running a hand through his wet curls. “Something’s been off about you since you came in, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. Is everything alright with Murtagh?”

Jamie sighed and pressed his forehead to hers, rubbing circles in the small of her back. “Everything’s well wi’ the auld fool, it’s just something we were talking about earlier that’s got me thinking.” He closed his eyes for a moment, taking comfort in the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp, and then opened his eyes and licked his lips, taking a deep breath. “Dougal supports the Jacobites, ye ken that already, and Colum willna pledge his allegiance to the Bonnie Prince.” He paused.

“Yes, of course. I think everyone more or less knows that.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “What else?”

“Well,” Jamie began again. “Ye must have heard the whispers round the castle the last few weeks, folk saying they’ll side wi’ Dougal should it come to it, help raise funds for the Jacobite cause.” Claire nodded. “Dougal’s declared himself outright now, broken the oath he swore to Colum. There’s talk of a mutiny, and people have begun dividing already. Just this afternoon two o’ the men down tending cows got in a fight o’er what we should be doing.”

Claire frowned, her hands stilling in his hair. “Yes, I’d heard rumour of all of this from some of the women earlier, but what do you mean by it? Surely you don’t mean to declare, do you? One way or another?” From the tone in her voice, Jamie took it she already knew what his decision was, and was just waiting for him to voice it.

“No, and there lies the issue o’ it. If I dinna come out and say I’ll stand by Colum, he’ll take my silence as treachery. But if I do come out and support him, I’ll have Dougal and the men who follow him to answer to. Same thing goes for if I declare myself a Jacobite. I canna see an outcome that doesna end wi’ my head on a pike.” He was frowning by now as well, a crease of worry between his brows, and Claire shuddered in his arms, pressing closer to him.

“What are you suggesting we do, then?”

“Murtagh thinks we should leave,” Jamie sighed, “get out and get clear o’ here before everything boils over and we canna avoid leaning one way or another. There still might be time enough that if we leave it willna be seen as taking sides. It would be the best - the safest - decision.”

Claire leaned back to look at him a bit better, face half shadowed in the dark of the bedroom. “I’m sensing a but here, James Fraser.”

He nodded. “Aye. We can leave, but we canna go back to Lallybroch, no’ wi’ the risk o’ all of this blowing back on Ian and Jenny and the tenants. At least this way we have some time, they have some time, and we can think about what we’re going to do before we declare for one side or the other. Murtagh suggests we live on the road, but I told him that willna do either. Not yet.”

Claire was quiet for a few moments, thinking, and her hand came to rest on Jamie’s chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath her palm. “What about your cousin Jared? You’ve been in contact with him, haven’t you? I’m sure he could give us somewhere to stay until this all blows over.” Her tone was hopeful, but Jamie knew, and so did she, that it would not just be the dispute among the Mackenzie clan that would be the issue: it would soon become the entirety of Scotland dividing and deciding whether or not to support the prince across the sea or remain under British rule.

“Jared would help us, aye, of course, but I dinna see how that option is any better.” Jamie moved to sit up a bit, leaning to light the candle on his bedside table, and Claire propped herself on her elbow, one hand playing with the hem of his shirt as she looked up at him. “Besides, it’s Paris where Charlie’s gathering supporters. To go there could be more dangerous than to stay here.”

“Maybe the French countryside then,” Claire offered, pursing her lips. “We could find somewhere to stay until Culloden gets closer and we have to come back and try to keep Lallybroch safe. You could work on a farm I’m sure, and maybe I could start a practice. I - we could start over, at least for now. We could be safe and happy for the next two years, at least. And who knows. Maybe all of this will work itself out and the men at Lallybroch won’t even need to get involved. If you don’t pledge yourself to the Prince he can’t call upon your men for service. Maybe we just need to stay off the radar, is all?” She looked up at him with a strange look in her eyes, and Jamie sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Aye, maybe,” he said softly. “But I canna think any more on it right now, and worrying willna do either of us any good. Let’s just get some sleep, mm? And we can think about it when it gets closer.” He scooted back down to lay next to Claire, tucking his arm beneath her as she cuddled up against his side, legs entwined with his and her head resting on his chest. “There should be time enough for us to make a plan.”

He felt her nod a little and the room went quiet, but he made no move to blow out the candle and neither one of them fell asleep for a long while.

“Claire?” Jamie tapped one knuckle on the half open door of the Beaton’s room as he ducked inside, eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room in comparison to the hall.

Claire was bustling over something in the back of the room, and looked up when he came in, turning towards the door. “Yes, just back here. Come in and shut the door behind you.” She didn’t sound like something was wrong, but there was a pinched tone to her voice, and he locked the door quickly, feeling anxious.

“Claire? Are ye alright? The lad who came to fetch me at the stable said to hurry.” He crossed the floor to come stand by her, peering down at the table. There were a few pieces of parchment, typical letters from Ian and Jenny, one from Jared, and a few notes in Claire’s scrawling writing. There was one that caught his eye immediately, set aside from the rest, and he reached for it with suddenly clammy hands, his heart hammering.

“I saw the seal and opened it,” Claire whispered, moving closer to his side. “A man I didn’t recognize brought it in and gave me explicit directions to give it to you.” Her voice was uneasy, and she touched one hand to Jamie’s coat as he unfolded the paper. It bore a simple red wax seal, but there was an insignia on the back that made his skin crawl.

“It’s from Prince Charlie,” he said, his voice sounding odd and far away in his own ears as he began to skim the letter. “It’s thanking those listed below for their support of the Jacobite cause, requesting they gather men to fight.” He stopped reading to glance over at Claire, whose face had gone pale and tight. He kept reading. “He says he’s coming to Scotland. He’s going to try and fight the British.” Beneath the letter were dozens of listed names, supporters.

Jamie’s throat grew tight and he licked his lips, setting the envelope down on the table without a word.

“Jamie?” Claire breathed, and he could hear the fear in her voice.

It had been just over a week since they had talked about leaving Castle Leoch, refraining from declaring for one side or the other. They thought they had time. Apparently, their time had run up, and Jamie wondered briefly if there had actually ever been any chance for them at all, or if time had run out on them long ago.

In neat, dark black ink on the bottom of the page, five words sealed their fate: James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.

#to build a home #to build a home part six #outlander #outlander fanfic #cagedbirdsong #canon divergence au #thanks to those of you who checked this out on ao3 when it went up last night!#and thanks to all of you who read this for your continued love and support ~ every single comment i get from you guys makes my day #you make it all worth it!

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spencer-quinn · 6 years ago

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Choose Life (2010)

GUYS I really hope you love Curly as much as I do. If you don’t understand any references/slang lemme know cause I LOVE gushing about British culture cause I’m vain lol. I mostly muted it, but I didn’t wanna lose his roots.

When Jordan had said “my roommate’s back later, he’ll drive you home,” Spencer hadn’t exactly anticipated carpooling during a drug deal. He’d left that part out.

‘Curly’ has a mop of dark hair falling in ringlets around his face. He opens the window before lighting a cigarette and the brunette strands blow out of his eyes in the wind. Thick eyebrows and dark lashes frame hooded eyes that droop in the outer corners just a little. Spencer wonders how much that has to do with drugs and how much it has to do with genetics. It looks good on him, nonetheless.

The teenager watches shamelessly as the stranger holds the smoke between his lips whilst he fumbles in the storage compartment, fishing out a flip phone.

“So Spencer,” Curly mumbles around the cigarette. Spencer realises now that it’s a joint, but makes no comment. “You and Jordan are…”

“Just friends. We uh,” he breathes out a laugh, “we just met yesterday.”

The man hums, eyes darting from the road ahead to the phone he holds near to his lap, texting hurriedly as he drives before dropping the device back into the compartment.

He takes the joint from his lips and holds it between his fingers as his hand joins the other on the steering wheel. He has blue smudges over his eyelids and something sparkly scattered in his hair and Spencer feels like he’s in another world. He’s obscurely beautiful.

“You’re just messing about?”

Spencer just shrugs at first, until Curly takes his eyes off the road to look at him expectantly like Spencer owes him this much. “I guess. I’m not sure I’d even label it as—“

“I’m taking the piss, love.” Curly has an accent that Spencer can’t quite place, a loose drawl throwing him off. “J doesn’t bring anyone back to the flat unless it’s for sex or drugs. The only reason he keeps me around anymore is because my Molly is mint.”

Spencer hums this time as he turns back around in his seat and props his feet up on the filthy dashboard, head still turned in the man’s direction as Curly continues to speak about not being able to feel his fingers and it being the best feeling in the world.

Unsure of how to respond, Spencer instead asks, “what kind of name is Curly,” which the man seems to find funny, his answer held up for a moment as he giggles at the bluntness of the question.

“The kids at school used to call me Curly Wurly, after this candy bar they sell in England.” He’s smiling as he explains. “It just stuck. I can’t remember the last time anybody but my mum used my real name.”

“So you are British?”

“I am,” he confirms, sounding proud and Spencer wants to tell him how hot that is, but instead says “cool” and looks back towards the road.

*****

Curly is rarely home, apparently, because the next time Spencer sees him is around three weeks later. He gets a call from Jordan during Geography and tells his teacher it’s an emergency as he slips out of the room with his phone pressed against his ear. Turns out it was. The idiot got arrested and needed a babysitter for his roommate whom “absolutely cannot spend the night alone.”

“What a prick,” is Curly’s immediate reaction, but he’s smiling with those same hooded eyes as he rocks back and forth in the doorway of the apartment. His eyelids are grey-black today, and Spencer’s not sure if his irises are dark or his pupils are dilated, but the charcoal compliments it either way. His nails are orange and his hair is free of glitter but far from clean as it falls manically over his head.

“I was meant to stay here tonight,” Spencer lies to save the man’s pride, arms crossed as his eyes dart from his face and into the apartment where an open door at the other side projects bright colours around the distant room. The colours switch in time with the heavy electro beat that shakes the corridor.

“Well. A’ight then,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand over his belly as the fingertips of the other tap against the doorframe until he steps aside. “You better come in.”

***

“… Keh?” Spencer frowns, arms folded on the coffee table in front of him as his ass grows numb against the trodden-down carpet. Curly’s sorting through baggies on the surface with one hand as he chews on the thumbnail of the other. He pulls his hand from his mouth as he shakes his head.

“Ket-t-t.” he corrects, adding more than enough emphasis to the T this time. Spencer’s learned that his accent doesn’t allow for that to come naturally. “Ketamine.”

“Right. Which is?”

“A drug.” His reply is short, but he glances up through his lashes with a smug smile before he adds, “an anesthetic. Times fifty. Dead good if you don’t fancy feeling your arse for an hour or so.”

“I don’t need drugs for that on your shitty carpet,” Spencer retorts and Curly just tells him to piss off as he begins to cram small, clear ziplock bags into a tin box.

He holds up both of his pointer fingers to suggest one moment as he raises to his feet without the assistance of his hands. He waltzes over to a door that Spencer’s never entered which, when he opens it, spits out the rumbling bass from earlier, forgotten behind the wood that’s just thick enough to dull the impact enough to provide nothing but a heavy hum.

Spencer watches him mess with something on the top of his dresser as the flashing lights from his TV continue to illuminate the room. Curly leans over the surface, tight curls becoming a veil to hide his face. Spencer doesn’t need to see his face or the chipped wood to know what he’s sniffing. The man knocks his head back then, hair flung from his eyes as he stares up at the ceiling, arms hung at his side as his chest rises and falls. Spencer continues to watch until Curly stumbles backward, away from the doorway and out of view.

The teenager takes a sip of his water and places his glass back on the CD that serves as a coaster. He listens as Curly flicks through a few tracks in his bedroom, until he’s satisfied enough to reenter the lounge, closing the door behind him to return them to the dull and comfortable murmur.

“D’you want anythin’,” Curly asks, and Spencer can’t help but notice that the further gone he looks, the looser his pronunciation becomes. Vowels melt between softened consonants and feathered digraphs, giving away the man’s rough edges.

Spencer shakes his head -absolutely not- and instead asks, “where in England are you from?”

“Essex.” He doesn’t sound emotionally involved as he expands; “East London. A shithole,” and crashes onto the couch behind Spencer, who turns to lean back against the coffee table to maintain eyes on the man. “Until I was eighteen.”

Curly sticks out his tongue like it’s too big for his mouth, and stays like that for a while as his gaze returns to the ceiling, eyes wandering up, up, up, until they’re almost all white. Then suddenly, his mouth pulls into a grin and his eyes are on Spencer again.

“And now I’m here, and I can’t fucking see.”

“And we’re smiling about that?”

Curly nods slowly, his smile diluting as he mumbles “yeh” before the dim room falls silent.

There’s no bulb in the ceiling fixture and the only source of light now is the streetlight outside the window, shining intrusively into the room as the curtains lay in a pile on the ground. The floor is covered in bottles and cans and the carpet is soiled with stains that Spencer doesn’t want to know about. He’s been here for a couple of hours, and it feels like he’s only just catching his breath.

Curly’s shirt is gone - Spencer can’t remember when that happened - and his tattoos are far more sporadic than Jordan’s, whose chest looks like a complete piece in comparison to Curly’s dotted doodles. He has one nipple pierced and the bar matches his orange nails, Spencer notes as the man drags a trembling hand over his chest, which rises as falls as if he’d been thrashing and shrieking for the past two hours as opposed to sorting pills and powders on a coffee table. Spencer doesn’t feel safe and he’s hungry and the room is cold but everything about the man has his brain chanting stay.

Curly screams for the sake of it and the silence shatters.

“Love. Let’s dance.”

***

“You’re ridiculous,” Spencer pants, eyes bright and eager so as not to miss a beat as Curly moves against him, hands holding the teenager’s face as he sings against his cheek. It’s a song Spencer’s never heard, which makes sense since Curly introduced the playlist as “the best Brit classics you’ll ever fucking hear!”

He doesn’t really get the music; the pronunciation is just as lazy as Curly’s and the words of almost every song paint a painfully average picture. Curly belts them out though, like he resonates with them, and it somehow keeps him captivated. Nostalgia, Spencer thinks.

He grins against Spencer’s cheek, so close that his teeth graze his skin as he says, “you’re gorgeous.”

“You’re high.”

“So fucking high,” Curly agrees as he steps back, linking their fingers and holding their joined hands above their heads to twirl himself beneath them before it turns into what Spencer swears is a lazy jive.

He laughs as he lets himself fall against the wall, panting as Curly goes on, spinning and swaying around the room like a hurricane, stumbling on trash and dishes as he goes. He continues to sing, yelling out “you’re all sheeps and cattle!” as he points to the streetlight outside. Spencer’s almost riled himself up enough to push himself away from the wall and back into the centre of the room when the apartment door opens, and a head of buzzed blonde hair ducks into the room.

Jordan takes one look at Curly and grumbles “oh fuck me” as he paces across the lounge and into his housemate’s room, barely glancing Spencer’s way. The apartment falls into a screeching silence before he reemerges. Spencer’s ears ring in the absence of the music and Curly wines at Jordan for turning it off.

“I’ve been gone for less than twenty-four hours and you’ve turned the apartment into Beverley’s.”

Still bouncing on his toes, hands held awkward and limp against his chest, Curly says, “Beverley’s is a mint bar,” just as Spencer asks, “who’s Beverley?”

Jordan just rolls his eyes, snatching a lighter from the side and pulling a cigarette from his pocket as Curly goes on to explain exactly why Beverley’s is ‘more than just an Irish pub’.

“Yeah, I’m really great, thanks for asking,” the blonde grumbles over him sarcastically and falls back onto the couch. “What was jail like? Oh, y’know. Cold. Lonely.”

“What happened?” Spencer’s question comes out quiet and he shuffles across the room to sit beside him. Curly’s still talking but it’s mostly to himself now.

“Oh, well, as well as finding the weed in my car, they found your fucking money-” he points at Curly, finally regaining his attention. “- and thought I was dealing. What the fuck was your cash doing in my car, Curly?”

“Was hiding it,” Curly mumbles and Spencer’s pretty sure that, if the guy had one, his tail would be tucked between his legs now.

“Of course you were,” he scoffs, smoke clouding his breath. “Keep me out of it, alright? I smoke, I don’t deal. Fuckin’ lucky they didn’t keep me.”

Curly perches on the edge of the coffee table, nodding as he says, “sorry mate,” and proceeds to knock Spencer’s water onto the ground. There are worse things in the carpet, and they all seem to think the same thing, judging by the fact that they ignore it as it soaks into the ground. Probably an improvement, if anything.

“S’alright. They couldn’t charge me,” he shrugs after a long pause. He looks dissatisfies even as he visibly shakes it off like he doesn’t have time to dwell. “Have you eaten yet?” Before the question is even entirely out, Spencer says no. “Cool. Chinese, then. And then-“ he wraps an arm around Spencer’s shoulders. “- I’m taking you home.”

“But-“

“Curly’s gonna need my full attention tonight, sweetheart.” He’s already holding his phone to his ear and, before Spencer can argue, he asks, “what’s your order?”

***

Curly doesn’t make it until the arrival of the food, so Spencer doesn’t go home after all. The man passes out on the floor mid-way through tidying up after himself. Jordan tells Spencer “get your ass in there” once they’ve eaten, and nods towards his own room with the first smile Spencer’s seen from him since he got home.

“How did you meet him?” Spencer asks around an hour later, under the sheets as he watches Jordan search for his underwear on the ground and step back into them.

“Mutual friends. He works at the club now.” There’s a heavy silence, like something else is bursting to be said. He adds, “we dated for a while,” with a short laugh, like it’s not a big deal.

*****

Spencer thinks it might be a big deal. There’s a guy called Jeff that used to work at the tattoo parlour who’s throwing a party to ‘get it all out of his system’ before he starts college - he’d said “it’s never too late” before they all cheered to it. It’s a Wednesday which is ridiculous, but the turn-out isn’t half bad.

Spencer’s spent more time with Curly than he has with Jordan tonight, because the two men seem to be arguing and, well, Curly can’t take care of himself these days. Spencer’s not had a drop of alcohol - wouldn’t dream of it in a place like this - but he lost Curly for a little while and, when he resurfaced, his eyes were wide and his body was all bones and no muscle.

The man is just as pale as ever and his plain white shirt only has three buttons fastened. He wipes his palm over the sheen of his chest, hand hanging loosely from his wrist. He moves like a marionette as he says, “I just fucking miss it all,” eyes on the house. He sways a little, then allows himself to fall to his side. It’s as if his strings are released when he collapses onto Spencer, his limbs landing wherever they land and his head landing in Spencer’s lap by pure fortune.

“What do you miss?” Spencer shifts a little, because the wall they’re sat on is digging into his ass and Curly’s weight isn’t helping.

“He’s mad at me again. I said I’d stop,” he wines as he rubs his face against Spencer’s knee. “He won’t wait forever.”

He combs his fingers through Curly’s hair. “What’s he waiting for?” There’s a silent understanding that ‘he’ is the short blonde that’s leaned against the kitchen sink inside, back to the window ahead of them. “Curly?”

“I feel sick.”

“Okay. You wanna go?” Spencer helps him sit up again, already standing from the wall and letting the man hold onto his elbows. Curly lets go to wipe the back of his hand beneath his nose, and when he pulls it away, blood smudges his face.

“You can go. I’ll wait for J.”

“No, c’mon. We’ll find some space inside.”

Inside is the last place he wants to be, having found an undeniable disliking for parties like these just recently, but it’s October and it’s cold and he doesn’t want to leave by himself anyway.

There’s a front and back lounge, and they find an armchair for the both of them to squeeze onto but they’re barely there for ten minutes before a group of boys is dragging Curly off again. They call him ‘Curls’ and Spencer feels a pang of jealousy as he’s forced to acknowledge that, despite having spent the last three hours alone with him among the crowds, Curly is not his person.

He lets him go with his friends, who help him to his feet and ruffle his hair as they go, and the timing seems almost too perfect for it to be a coincidence when Jordan slips through the group of people to claim Spencer.

“Finally. You’re all mine.” He pulls Spencer up by the hand and he must be drunk because he’s beaming. He says, “been waiting my fuckin’ turn,” which Spencer actually kind of hates, but he returns the kiss that the man takes from him anyway and lets him drag him away, back into the kitchen.

He pushes Spencer into the room, crowded up against his back with his hands on his stomach, beneath his shirt - cropped, thanks to Curly who recons the past of fashion is the future of fashion - as he announces “here he is!”

It’s mostly men in the room and Jordan’s introductions go right over his head, but his chest against Spencer’s back is the comfort he’s been needing to feel all night. He nods politely, smiles at a few of Jordan’s friends, and whispers over his shoulder, “Curly’s upstairs. He doesn’t look so good.”

Jordan just scoffs, mutters “fucking idiot,” and grabs the back of Spencer’s neck with one hand and the neck of a bottle with the other.

#para #self para #para:choose life #I LOVE CURLY FUCK #curly

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emionadventure-blog · 6 years ago

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Ireland Part Two

I’m two weeks out from hopping on a plane to Korea with a one way ticket and hoping for the best. Cue freak-out now. I promise I have two blog posts coming about packing up my apartment and saying goodbye to the good ol’ U.S. of A coming up...but today I want to close my eyes and pretend I’m still on vacation.

So, picking up a little before our magical stay in an actual castle (see previous post), we actually went from Dunluce Castle/Carrick A Rede rope bridge and drove along the coast down into Republic of Ireland. And let me just say...that’s the easiest border crossing I’ve literally ever done. In that Rob just drove across. While I napped. The only indication that you have technically entered another country is that the road signs are all of a sudden in Gaelic and English.

Our next and final stop for the day was Slieve League, which are less famous (but honestly more picturesque) than Moher, but still worth a visit. Except we took a wrong turn and ended up at the trailhead for One Man’s Pass...which is definitely on my bucket list. It was, like most wrong turns and detours we took in Ireland, a very happy accident though. To get to the trailhead, you have to drive through this gate that makes you feel like you’re entering someone’s property and very quickly discover the gate is there to keep someone’s sheep in.

They are literally everywhere, and surrounded by sweeping, epic landscape that Ireland should really copyright at this point because it’s everywhere but never stops being amazing or exciting. We were the only people at the trailhead and spent over an hour just running around and playing with the camera and trying to get the sheep to approach us (they are not tame by any means and pretty shy) before we figured out we weren’t at Slieve League and hopped back in the car.

We got to the actual cliffs right at dusk and the Celtic gods must have been smiling down on us because once again, we were practically alone. Also, there were sheep everywhere here too, (honestly that will be a theme of this trip because I never got tired of seeing them) and they were pretty fearless...walking in the road, climbing onto cliff ledges to get to a particular plant...it was enough to give me vertigo just from watching.

That night we stayed in Donegal, which, after all of the natural beauty we had been seeing the past few days, really gave off a tourist trap vibe and was swarming with tour buses. We stayed at a hostel above a bar with a shared bathroom that had been a little bit falsely advertised and in the middle of the night woke up to a very loud one night stand happening in the room adjacent. Needless to say, it wasn’t a highlight of the trip, and the next day we didn’t bother sticking around very long.

We spent most of the day driving to get to the somewhat remote town that Tullaun castle was in, but took a detour (mostly at my begging) to see the burial site of the poet W. B. Yeats and the church his father was a deacon at. Rob had no idea who Yeats was or that he wrote anything but I am an unapologetic literature nerd and went as far to pick flowers to lay at his gravesite. We also took a second literary detour and stopped at Lough Gill, which is the site of the Lake Isle of Innisfree, about which Yeats wrote his famous poem with the same name.

We stopped at a convenience store and got a huge junk food hall, took the short hike in to where there’s a viewing area of the small island, and had a little picnic with the buzzing sounds of summer bugs and soft water lapping at stones serenaded us. It was so peaceful and beautiful, it erased the unpleasantness of the night before and, after reciting the poem of course, we headed on to the castle.

The next morning we got a late start because honestly we really didn’t want to leave and ended up at the cliffs of Moher around 12:30-1:00 and, rather unsurprisingly, it was absolutely swarming with tour buses and shoebies.

Thankfully most of the crowds stayed within the fenced in area and we ventured beyond that which made the trip completely worth it. If you don’t have kids or a fear of heights, I highly recommend taking the extra walk. The further we got along the cliff’s edge, the less crowded it became. It was actually really beautiful, but it we didn’t take a ton of video here, so it doesn’t make it into the YouTube video.

We spent about an hour here and then drove to the Dingle peninsula. Our plan was to check in to our AirBnB, get dinner somewhere, and then find a cool spot to take pictures of the sunset. It took us a little longer than normal because we stopped a couple times to take pictures of the random graveyards and ruins that are apparently just scattered around Ireland in people’s back yards.

I know it makes us typical tourists but everything in Ireland is so beautiful, you really can’t help yourself.

We arrived at our AirBnB, which ended up being an in-law apartment attached to someone’s house in the actual middle of nowhere. (not to mention we were still coming down from the high of staying at the castle). So we dropped our bags and checked the map for the fastest path into the actual town of Dingle.

The map highlighted a road that went pretty much straight there and we innocently got into the car and headed to dinner. This road was Conor’s Pass, and the second happy accident we encountered and maybe my favorite part of the entire trip. Conor’s pass is a winding road that takes you up and across an actual mountain to get to the coastal town of Dingle. It was technically a two-lane road, but super narrow, even by Irish standards. There was cliff-face on one side and cliff drop-off on the other, with no guard rail or protection from the edge except for sheep fences and the occasional low rock wall, which meant the views were absolutely the most spectacular thing I saw during the entire time we were in Ireland.

As we drove, it just kept getting better and better, and the radio was playing this beautiful, lilting Irish music and the air was cool and crisp and hit you in the face and made your lungs expand to accommodate it and everything was so lush it almost looked fake. We were giggling like little kids as we drove through and once we got to Dingle and had dinner, we decided to say screw the sunset and go play around on Conor’s Pass a little bit more. Which is not to say that Dingle wasn’t the quaintest little town ever. If I was planning a trip to Ireland again, I would stay there instead of the beachside AirBnB.

After dinner at a local pub, we drove back through the pass, stopping at the overlook to the pictures. It was so loud up there because of the wind that we literally could not hear what the other person was saying. Someone at the pub had given us a tip to stop at a pull-off about halfway down and climb up to the top. It was around dusk when we got there, and there wasn’t exactly stone steps leading the way up. If you watch the YouTube video, you can see me clambering up these giant boulders in a skirt and sandals. But, guys. When we got to the top what we saw took our breath away. There was a basin of cool mountain water, surrounded on three sided by steep cliff face in the grey-purple stone color that seems to be all over Ireland.

There was a mist hanging low so we couldn’t see the top of the cliff face, making it seem like God himself was hovering above the basin in a mystical cloud. Every whisper echoed back at us from the cliffs inside the cloud.

The pool itself was in a depression of what seemed like solid stone that shifted colors from grey to green to orange and the water was so clear and still it was almost like a mirror. I absolutely took my shoes off and waded in and it was ice-cold, but not in a biting way. It woke me up and made me feel healthy and rejuvenated. If there was ever a place in our entire trip that made me believe that magic was real, it was Conor’s pass.

The next stop on the following day was Dursey Island cable car, which I had just read about online and thought sounded cool. We arrived right as it opened and had the trip over pretty much to ourselves. This is another one of those things that, if you’re afraid of heights, might not be your cup of tea.

The cable car itself is pretty small and rickety, and we could see the ocean through the floorboards and it creaked across the divide. There are actual residents of the island, and you can walk into the tiny little town (we’re talking like, five buildings small), but Rob and I took a path that lead up across the high ridge of the island and chased around some sheep. And by chased I mean we approached slowly and sat still for long periods of time to get pictures. No sheep were harmed in the making of this blog post.

After Dursey, we headed into Cork. And here’s the thing...the natural countryside of Ireland is probably the closest to heaven a person can get without actually dying and ascending themselves. So the cities really don’t have a huge chance when compared to that. What I will say about Cork is that it’s super quirky and seems to have a pretty big music scene and nightlife, so if that’s your cup of tea definitely make a stop.

Our final destination was Dublin, but we need to detour from our story to talk about Newgrange.

Newgrange monument is a neolithic archeological site that is mostly original and probably the closest experience we can get to experiencing “prehistoric man”. It’s right on the cusp. We were here midday and there were definitely people around, but it was mostly older Irish and British tourists and everyone was speaking in kind of hushed tones for some reason, so it still felt peaceful and special.

The monument itself is on a giant hill so you have great views of the countryside on all sides. There’s a giant carved stone at the entrance of the mound, which is original and a lot cooler than it sounds.

Just behind that is the entrance to the mound, but you can’t take pictures or film inside. Going inside was actually super cool. The walls have original carvings on them and the tour guides (who you cannot enter without) are really good at briefly explaining how and why the mound was used and pointing out different points of interest that the untrained eye might miss. They also shut the lights off at one point to demonstrate how the entrance was engineered to allow light in.

The entrance hallway is super low and narrow, as seen in this illegal picture snapped by my husband, the rebel. I’m 5′2 and 125 pounds and I was ducking and turning sideways at parts, so if you’re claustrophobic...just be aware.

Our final stop of the Most Epic Irish Road Trip was Dublin. We spent the most time here out of any city in Ireland and it was only like two full days, so we tried to cram as much in as possible.

We did the tour of the Guinness factory, where I tried my very first Guinness ever and practiced pouring one while I fought panic as a large group of strangers watched my every mistake.

We went to Trinity college where I got to check a huge thing off my literary nerd bucket list and visit the Long Room library and see the Book of Kells (no photos allowed), which was amazing, although if you want a more up-close experience with illuminated texts where you can actually take pictures I HIGHLY recommend the Chester Beatty Library.

We toured St. Patrick’s Cathedral, which was gorgeous and chock full of cool history and anecdotes around every corner (like the fact that Jonathan Swift wrote and preached a sermon there about the evils of napping in church).

We went to the National Museum of Ireland which was way cooler than we expected because the entire thing is devoted to Irish history from the neolithic period onward. They have more examples of the circular stone carvings like the one was saw at Newgrange, jewelry design from that time period, actual clothing preserved from bogs and, of course, bog bodies, which were like a trainwreck you can’t stop watching but also a revered experience combined into one.

And thus ended our journey! Ireland hides a lot of hidden treasures that even I, someone who has always wanted to visit, wasn’t expecting. The people are warm, friendly, and always smiling. The food was WAY better than any food channel gives them credit for, and it’s low-key probably one of the most consistently beautiful places on earth. I feel so lucky to have had the ability and opportunity to go here, and it definitely isn't my last time.

And of course, what would a trip to one of the world’s literature capitals be without a trip to a bookstore!

Ulysses rare and used books is something I could have dreamed up out of my imagination and if you are book-lover and have a LOT of money to drop, a book from here is really the only souvenir you need.

For more footage on all of the amazing places we visited, as well as some I didn’t talk about here make sure to check out my newest YouTube video, and for more pictures of our incredible trip check out my instagram! Links to both in bio.

Until the next adventure...

Emi

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idiopathicsmile · 7 years ago

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so, last week i was thinking somebody should write a comic about a shy teen superhero whose powers are fueled directly by her own sense of embarrassment

then i, uh, wrote a ten-page script for it? and wound up kind of liking it a lot?

so consider yourself cordially invited to read issue #1 of my extremely indie superhero comic, and if you wish, you can illustrate it inside your mind, using the power of imagination!

(A teen girl sits on a swivel chair in her bedroom, facing the viewer. She’s got braces and glasses. Her hair is in a messy braid.)

PONNI: Hi! My name is Ponni Murthy. I’m sixteen, and um…

(We zoom out a little. She’s wearing a T-shit that says “The Moon ROCKS!” She’s holding a cane—covered in glow-in-the-dark star stickers—in one hand, and a stuffed animal cat—wearing a sloppily homemade astronaut costume—in the other. Posters cover the walls: fantasy movies, rocket ships, Ada Lovelace, Aamir Khan, Sally Ride, etc. She has multiple posters of the solar system. She gestures dramatically with her cane-hand)

PONNI: I LOVE OUTER SPACE!

(We return to her face. She looks very earnest.)

PONNI: That’s not, uh, directly relevant to the story, I just—I love it, so much.

(She has now taken on a pensive expression)

PONNI: I love a lot of stuff. But I used to feel a little weird about that.

(She is cheerful again)

PONNI: This is the story of how I got over (some of) my shyness, and rescued a gymnasium full of people, using dark powers I only kind of understand!

PONNI: We begin last year…

(Close-up on her stuffed cat, which is now holding a title card that reads): THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF PONNI MURTHY A.K.A. SHAME-FLAME THE UNCONQUERABLE)

(We are in a high school hallway. Ponni has one hand on her cane, the other hand on a wheelie backpack. She’s wearing a T-shirt with a stylized drawing of Mars on it and the words “Seein’ red.” Hand-drawn arrows and words identify her as “Ponni Murthy, Freshman” “Only South Asian girl in the entire school” “Plays bassoon in school orchestra (entry level)”, “Favorite Mars rover: changes daily”)

(A cute boy is waving. Arrows identify him as “Westley Bolt, senior” “Plays cello (first chair!)” “Those eyelashes! Hot dang” “Favorite movement from Holst’s The Planets Suite: ‘Venus: The Peace Bringer’ (sensitive!!!)”)

(Ponni waves back.)

WESTLEY: Uh, hey…Amanda.

(Ponni turns around. He was waving to Amanda, standing just behind her.) (Arrows identify Amanda as “Amanda Nolan, senior” “Flautist (second chair)” “Favorite space-adjacent detail: unknown” “Probably a really nice person”)

(Ponni watches them walk off together.)

(Close-up on Ponni’s face, which has gone sort of blank.) CAPTION: Engulfed by a white-hot, all-consuming embarrassment, like sinking into surface of the sun! A VOICE FROM “OFF-SCREEN”: Ponni?

CAPTION: Roiling shame-waves blast in all directions, too powerful to be contained in the body of a single American teen! Can it be that my sheer humiliation has gone…supernova? THE SAME VOICE: Ponni!

PONNI: What?

(We zoom out a little. Her friend Vanessa has joined her. Oh, and also…) VANESSA: Your arm’s on fire.

(Ponni looks down and sees this for the first time.) PONNI: OH CRIPES! OH CRIPES, OH CRIPES! VANESSA: HOW DID YOU NOT NOTICE?

(The fire grows) PONNI: (Terrified but also embarrassed) Can anybody see??? VANESSA: WHO CARES, YOU’RE ON FIRE. PONNI: I couldn’t feel it!

PONNI: I still can’t, it’s just kind of warm and tingly.

(Close-up on Vanessa) VANESSA: You’re in shock. Stop, drop, and roll, kiddo c’mon. (Arrows identify her as “Vanessa Delbeau, freshman” “Acts cool but we watch a LOT of Star Trek together” “Favorite astronaut: Mae Jemison” “Threatens makeovers sometimes but so far so good”)

PONNI: I’m not in shock! Look, it’s not even burning my skin.

(Vanessa peers at Ponni’s arm. Sure enough, her skin is fine.) VANESSA: Whoa…what even…

(The fire has vanished.) (Ponni and Vanessa stare at each other)

(They stare at each other for another beat.)

VANESSA: … “Cripes?”

(Ponni’s arm starts to smolder again.) PONNI: If I wanna start babysitting, I need to set a good example!

(Vanessa shrugs. Ponni’s arm fire goes out.)

ANDY: Hey guys! (Arrows identify him as “Andy Shin, sophomore” “Black sheep of the wrestling team” “The only other Asian kid in my neighborhood (we high-five a lot)” “Favorite planet: Uranus (lol)” ANDY: You’re not gonna believe this but they let us out of gym five minutes early and--

VANESSA: Ponni can control fire with her mind.

PONNI (embarrassed): “Control” is, um, a strong word? (Ponni holds up her arm, which is smoldering again) ANDY: Dude! That’s awesome!

(Ponni’s arms are extinguished.) VANESSA: Shouldn’t you, like, go to a doctor? ANDY: You don’t go to the doctor for superpowers! You go to the nearest evildoers and show them your wrath, or whatever!

VANESSA: So just…keep our eyes peeled for all the secret volcano lairs of suburban Michigan? PONNI: I don’t really…have wrath… A VOICE FROM OFF-SCREEN: Stop! Please!

(Andy, Vanessa, and Ponni turn to the other side of the hallway. A boy labeled “Freshman? (not sure)” is addressing two upperclassmen labeled “Bully 1” and “Bully 2.” Bully 1 is holding something above his head.) FRESHMAN: I need to turn that in next period! BULLY 1: Well duh, maybe you shouldn’t have made it out of candy!

FRESHMAN: Don’t eat my homework, come on! BULLY 2 (Affecting a snotty voice, clear from his face he’s mocking Freshman) : Yeah, come on!

PONNI: Is that… VANESSA: A surprisingly good model of a 14th century castle, built out of Starbursts? I think so. I might need new glasses. PONNI: No.

(Closeup on Ponni’s face) PONNI: Evildoers.

PONNI (striding right up to the bullies): Hey! Quit bothering that guy and give him back his castle, he probably spent a lot of time on it! BULLY 1: Or what?

PONNI: Or you’ll regret it. (Ponni holds out her non-cane arm like it’s about to erupt into flames.)

(It does not erupt into flames. Nothing happens. There is a long beat.)

(Ponni still has her free arm out)

CAPTION: Was it all just a fevered imagining? It can’t be, Vanessa and Andy bore witness as well. Unless they, too, are mere shadows, empty projections of my shattered, lonely psyche…

BULLY 2 (to Ponni) : Hey, Unibrow! Out of the way, Tiny Tim!

(Close-up on Ponni. She is almost crying)

(New panel, also a close-up on Ponni) PONNI: WHY DOES YOUR SEXIST, RACIST, ABLEIST BULLCRAP STILL SOMEHOW GET TO HURT MY FEELINGS? IT’S NOT FUNNY OR CLEVER, IT’S JUST MEAN!

(A tear slides down Ponni’s face) PONNI: YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO MAKE ME SAD! IT’S SO HUMILIATING!

(Zoom out. Both of Ponni’s arms are producing fireballs. The bullies are cowering in place, eyes wide.) CAPTION: That’s what triggers this power! My own embarrassment! Whoa, weird.

NEW PANEL: A WHOLE LOT OF SCREAMING AND FLEEING LATER…

(Andy and Vanessa are helping Freshman(?) re-assemble all his stuff. Ponni is no longer on fire) ANDY: Here’s your castle back, Trevor. VANESSA: Nice work on those turrets. (Arrow identifies Freshman(?) as “Trevor! Apparently”) Trevor: Uh, thanks. (To Ponni) Are you…okay?

PONNI: I’m fine. Are you? FRESHMAN(?): Yeah. Uh, I’m Trevor, hi. What should I call you?

PONNI: How about…Shame-Flame the Unconquerable.

VANESSA (whispering): I think he meant your name. PONNI: Oh! Ponni! (She holds out her hand to shake. There’s a flame coming off her palm. Awkward.)

PONNI (putting her hand back down) : Uh, good luck with your castle project! TREVOR: Thanks. Good luck…fighting crime?

(Ponni and Andy give Vanessa huge matching grins) New panel: Later that day, after school… (Vanessa and Andy are waiting outside Ponni’s bathroom door.)

VANESSA: Are you ready yet? PONNI (from inside) : Almost! VANESSA: Never thought I’d get to help design a superhero costume. ANDY: I did. VANESSA: Really? ANDY: Aim high, y’know? VANESSA: Ponni, c’mon! PONNI (from inside): I can’t believe people are gonna see me like this.

(The door swings open to reveal Ponni’s superhero outfit. Labels explain: “my dorkiest bike helmet”, “elbow pads”, “knee pads”, “ancient fanny pack I found in my parents’ closet”, “a wolf T-shirt (with noticeable mustard stain)”, a tutu labeled “(not sure why I had this??)”, a hideous plastic necklace “my least favorite aunt gave me this for my 11th birthday” and “sneakers with black socks.”)

ANDY: If your theory about your power is right, this is like, basically a super suit. VANESSA: The fanny pack’s a nice touch. What’s in there? PONNI: (grimly) Naked baby photos. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.

VANESSA: Ready? PONNI: Let’s go save the world.

Caption: For a while, everything went exactly as planned… PONNI (approaching a guy mugging a woman) : Stop right there! MUGGER: What the…what’s this kid doing here?

(PONNI makes an embarrassed face)

(We see the scene in silhouette—Ponni’s hands producing fireballs, the mugger jumping straight up in terror)

(We cut to Ponni foiling a bank robbery) PONNI: Give back that money right now! MASKED ROBBER: Is that a bike helmet? I…are you serious?

(Everybody in the bank stares at Ponni, who looks down.)

(There’s a hint of flames in her eyes)

(The next panel is Ponni grinning, both masked robbers raising their hands in surrender. The wall behind them is singed like she was outlining them in fireballs.)

(Cut to a very fancy-looking office. A wealthy businessman is sitting at a desk, pen poised over some paperwork.)

PONNI (from under his desk): Put the pen down! Don’t you dare put together another predatory subprime mortgage! BUSINESSMAN: Security! Security! PONNI: What you’re doing is wrong and you know it!

(Businessman stares at her. She is still balled up under his desk.) BUSINESSMAN: Listen, kid, do you even know what a subprime mortgage is? Or did you hear one thing on the news, and now you think you’re an expert? PONNI: You’re hurting innocent people! BUSINESSMAN: How long have you been under there?

PONNI: Um.

PONNI: I don’t…um…listen, I’ve got what’s called Juvenille Arthritis? And I was having a really good day this morning, pain-wise, so I thought I’d be okay down here, but now everything hurts and my cane’s at a weird angle. (she winces) Uh, I know I broke into your office, but can you help me up?

(close up on Businessman) BUSINESSMAN: …you’ve got to be kidding m—is your hand starting to smoke?

(Cut to a newspaper headline: MORTGAGE CRISIS AVERTED. The accompanying photo is Ponni sitting in a comfortable chair, giving a big thumb’s up)

CAPTION: But then things began to get more complicated. (Ponni is facing off against a Mad Scientist.) PONNI: Disarm that giant laser, right now! MAD SCIENTIST: Why should I listen to a child in a tutu and gym shoes?

PONNI: Because I’m the best darn hero this town’s got! CAPTION: Wait, what?

CAPTION: I try to summon up that rising, burning tide of self-consciousness, but I’ve done so much in this ridiculous costume, wearing it just feels good. I have to find a new path back to that terrible feeling. PONNI (beginning to panic): Uh…I get super excited when my teacher assigns us science projects! MAD SCIENTIST: Who doesn’t? (Reaches towards the laser.)

PONNI: I cried the first time I watched Shrek! MAD SCIENTIST: …each to their own?

PONNI: Stop! Stop right now, in the name of my 90,000-word Labyrinth/Harry Potter crossover fic! MAD SCIENTIST: …huh?

PONNI: I mean, Jareth had to…learn magic somewhere, right? So why not Hogwarts? The heroine is this seventh-year Ravenclaw student, who, yeah, it’s just me except she’s like, super super gifted at magic and she’s got a baby penguin for a familiar! I wound up naming my pet guinea pig after that penguin! I’ve been writing it for three and a half years. It’s got over a hundred chapters, and all the chapter titles are song lyrics!

CAPTION: I wait for the icy judgment to surface in his face. It does. I wait for the burning shame to overtake me. It doesn’t. Maybe it’s a little silly, but back before my powers took hold, working on that story was one of the few times I felt in control. It was fun to create something purely for myself. And cripes, it’s not like I was trying to destroy the world with a laser or something. I actually feel almost…proud. Uh-oh.

MAD SCIENTIST: Any last words? PONNI: Listen, if you’re going to kill me, can you do it fast? My curfew’s in twenty minutes.

MAD SCIENTIST: …your curfew is seven? PONNI: Well yeah, on weeknights! MAD SCIENTIST: Seven? You have to be home before the bedtime of most first graders?

(Flames appear in Ponni’s eyes.)

(Cut to Ponni walking away from a terrified scientist and a melted laser.) CAPTION: Way too many close calls lately. And now I only have nineteen minutes to get home. Crap. CAPTION: Then, in the middle of a pep assembly, things get worse. (A gigantic crablike monster has burst through the wall of the gym.)

PONNI: Stand down, stranger! Shame-Flame the Unconquerable is here! MONSTER: Then let me just say, Shame-Flame…

(scary close-up of the crab monster’s face) MONSTER: I respect you as an equal. CAPTION: Yikes, word’s gotten around. My foes are getting cleverer.

PONNI: How can you respect someone with a 7 pm curfew! MONSTER: That doesn’t reflect on you; it just means your parents want you to be safe. PONNI: Oh yeah? Well, I’m totally excited to take Advanced Trig next year! MONSTER: You’re preparing yourself for a job in the lucrative STEM field. No shame in that. PONNI: No, I mean, I love math for math’s sake. I’ve written little jingles about all my favorite numbers!

MONSTER: Well, that’s convenient. (Scoops up a handful of band members in one claw.) I hear music is good for the digestion.

PONNI: C’mon! Other than Vanessa and Andy, I’ve got no friends my age! Half the reason I don’t wear makeup is I don’t know how to do it right! Ever since Toy Story I talk to my stuffed animals, just in case! Doesn’t anyone want to laugh at me?

(Ponni looks around. Everyone is just panicking.) CAPTION: Cripes cripes cripes!

PONNI: Gosh, I said I’d defeat you and I can’t even summon the fire to light a birthday candle. Now that’s humiliating, right? MONSTER (pauses with that clawful of band members inches away from its terrible mouth): Not really, Shame-Flame.

MONSTER: It’s just sad.

CAPTION: Well, that’s it. No other way.

PONNI: (cupping her hands to her mouth) Westley Bolt! Hey, Westley! (Westley is sitting four rows down. He turns around.)

PONNI: I’ve had a crush on you since sixth grade! WESTLEY: I know. I was just hoping you wouldn’t bring it up. I don’t like you back. You’re weird. Obviously.

PONNI (smiles, badass) : Oh, I know.

PONNI (turning back towards the monster) And I’ve gotta say, now that everybody knows how long I was hung up on somebody so wrong for me, it’s a little…oh shoot, what’s the word I’m looking for, here?

(The next panel is just flames)

(Then the smoke clears, Ponni’s fire is gone and the monster has fled, having dropped those band kids safely on the ground. It turns out that Trevor was also among them.)

TREVOR: That was incredible! Ponni, you saved our lives! You’re my hero!

(A tiny flame of embarrassment shoots out of Ponni’s hand.) PONNI: Oh, um. You’re welcome? Anytime, sir. VANESSA (seeing the fire) : Ponni, your— PONNI: I KNOW.

(EPILOGUE: Ponni is back to present day, sitting on her desk chair in her room.) PONNI: Nobody was seriously hurt. Not even the crab monster, I don’t think. It took the rest of the school year to repair the gym. Andy got to switch out his PE class with an elective. He took astronomy, thinking it would be a blowoff class, but the teacher wasn’t very good so I got to explain a bunch of stuff to him! Me and Trevor dated for a few months, but he got super clingy when I left for math camp, so we broke up. C’est la vie. Oh, also I went to math camp! It was super daunting at first, and I got nervous and made mistakes. Luckily, my threshold for embarrassment is sky-high at this point, so y’know, I bounced back and enjoyed the heck out of it.

PONNI: Of course, not sure what that means for the next time some sinister force threatens our town. What happens when Shame-Flame gets…shame-proof?

A VOICE FROM OFF PANEL: No way! I found it! ANOTHER VOICE: Found what?

(Ponni looks over at Andy and Vanessa, who have been on the floor, going through a box of Ponni’s old things.) ANDY: Right here! The video of that anti-drug puppet show she did in fifth grade! PONNI: It wasn’t…for a class or anything, I was just really mega- against drugs. ANDY: Am I right in thinking it was a rock opera? PONNI: Uh… VANESSA: Ponni, what are the odds you still remember all the lyrics? CAPTION: Just kidding. That cringey feeling comes for all of us, sooner or later.

(Ponni, Andy, and Vanessa are roasting marshmallows on forks, using Ponni’s burning hand as heat.) VANESSA: Come on, one verse! PONNI: Next crab monster, Vanessa. Next crab monster. CAPTION: I guess it’s just a question of what you do with that feeling.

(Close-up of Ponni’s stuffed cat from the very beginning. It’s holding a card that says “THE END.”)

#and if a few of these characters look slightly familiar to eagle-eyed readers #yes you are correct #these are the novel version of the characters #(in my heart of hearts this story is written by ponni and illustrated by an artist friend of hers #between issues of their cat astronaut comic #in exchange for proof-reading her friend's college application essays)#(he probably had other people he could've asked for help but also knew that he needed a project #to distract from those college application jitters)#(so everybody won i guess)

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lassluna · 7 years ago

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Never Forget Your First CS AU WEEK Day 7: Free Choice

Sneak Peak of Lost Ones for CS AU week. Lost Ones is the third part of a series I’ve been working on for quite a while now. I’m currently going through the previous two,Freeing the Witch and The Purple Fairy, with my beta @notoriouscs in preparation for releasing Lost Ones.

ffn Ao3

Killian doesn’t realize he dozed off until he feels Emma’s hand on his back rubbing slow gentle circles and her hair tickling his cheek as his head rests on her shoulder. He can hear her humming to him, something nice and soothing.

He keeps his eyes shut and his breathing as level as possible to keep Emma close. But it isn’t long before he hears Lily and Henry’s voices and feels Emma slowly ease herself up from beside him. He “startled” awake.

Emma doesn’t even look back at him. She is busy comforting Lily over whatever happened after he’d dozed off. Killian feels guilty for his inability to stay awake long enough to hear the report.

“A beanstalk?” he hears Henry echo, bringing his attention back to the conversation. “Cool!” the boy exclaims. “Do we get to chop it down when we’re done?”

From what Killian gathers whatever they are looking for is at the top of one.

Of course, he knows it won’t be that simple.

Lily chuckles at Henry, rubbing his hair affectionately. Henry audibly sighs in frustration, attempting to shoo his mother’s hand away. It doesn’t seem to work.

“I only have enough magic for two,” Aurora says sadly. “I wish I could help more.”

Lily looks at Aurora nervously, as if she isn’t sure how to respond. “Thank you, Aurora! Any help is much appreciated.” At least it’s civil.

“I guess Emma and I will be doing some climbing,” Elsa chimes in.

“How do you figure that?” Lily replies. “What makes you think I want to sit this one out?”

Elsa takes a step forward. “You really trust us enough to leave your brat with me and your dear sister?”

Lily’s grip on Henry tightens. “Are you threatening my son?” she snaps. “Because if you are, then who’s climbing that beanstalk will be the least of your worries.”

Killian can feel her anger intensifying. He stands suddenly, sauntering over and snatching one of the leather cuffs off the table before anyone can stop him.

“Killian –“ Emma tries to stop him. She wants to dissuade him from fighting, from fighting to save his own damn life. He knows she’s trying to protect him, but right now he doesn’t want her protection.

“You want me to fight for my life, Swan? Well this is me fighting. I’m climbing the bloody beanstalk,” he snaps. “If you want this cuff, you’re going to have to cut off my hand to get it.”

Everyone save Elsa looks quietly uneasy with his proclamation. The Ice Queen has no problem voicing what the rest are thinking.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll fall off? That you’ll wear out your pitiful form and drop dead?” Elsa says bluntly. “We all know you didn’t decided to take a little nap while Lily was dealing with her sibling issues.”

“It’s my life. No one is more determined than I am.”

Emma crosses her arms and steps forward, green eyes blazing. “Except for me.”

Now she cares?

He meets her gaze evenly. “Then I guess we’re in agreement, love. You and I will face whatever the hell is up there,” he declares, before lowering his voice so only she can hear. “And you can tell me what’s going on with you.” Because something was going on with her and he refused to be kept in the dark.

She glares at him before snatching the other cuff. “Then we better get going.”

XXX

“Still think you can handle it?” Elsa mocks as Killian stands beneath the towering monster of a plant. The beanstalk stretches out for miles above them, making him swallow thickly at the thought of climbing that high. It looks like he could climb forever and still not reach the top.

“Bloody hell,” he can’t help but curse.

“That’s what the cuffs are for,” Aurora offers. “The stalk is enchanted to shake you off, but as long as you’re wearing those, you’ll repel the enchantment.”

“Or maybe they’ll get us high enough up that we’ll make craters when they inevitably fail,” Emma hisses at her.

Aurora doesn’t flinch. “Those will get you where you need to go.” She looks over at Killian. “He doesn’t have the time for you to mistrust me.”

Killian nods. “I believe her,” he tells Emma. “Besides, you can just transport us to the ground if needed right?”

Emma agrees

.“Look who’s paying attention,” Elsa teases.

Killian rolls his eyes. “We better get climbing.” he insists.

Emma nods and approaches the beanstalk, considering exactly how to start. She grabs a handful of leaves and pulls. It seems steady enough, and heaves herself up to a foothold a few feet off the ground. Killian takes a shaky breath and begins to climb as well. It’s rough going for him at first. He keeps pulling on weak leaves and losing his footing. Emma has to slow her pace as she watches him struggle. But after a few precarious minutes, Killian gets into the rhythm enough to keep a steady pace.

Through it all, Emma doesn’t say a word. It’s unsettling. “Most would take your silence as off putting, but I love a challenge,” he says, catching her gaze to throw her a smirk.

“Concentrating,” she mutters, turning her face away from him.

“You’re afraid to talk, to reveal yourself,” he observes. “But I don’t need you to talk. after all we’ve been through together, you’re an open book to me.”

That earns him a crack of a smile. “Am I?”

He nods. She is. “Something is troubling you. You’re afraid to trust me,” he responds, moving himself closer to her as he climbs. “You think pushing me away will make things better, but I promise you, it won’t.” He thought they were past this already. He thought they both realized this during their time at the Merry Men Camp. “It’s proven to only make everything worse.”

She considers her response for a minute before answering him coldly, “I thought you were used to people not trusting you.”

“Ah yes, the deckhand thing,” he says evenly, hoisting himself up a little faster to keep her from pulling too far ahead in an attempt to escape the conversation. “But I don’t think it’s me you’ve lost your faith in, Swan. It’s yourself.”

She stops cold, frozen in an awkward hold on the beanstalk.

Killian knows he hit the nail right on the head. “My mother said something, didn’t she? She always had a knack for finding people’s weaknesses and hitting them where it hurts the most,” he explains..“First time Eric met her, he came back so rattled that he almost quit his job on the Jewel to buy a sheep farm. Please don’t let her make you doubt yourself.”

Emma looks at him, her expression softening for the first time in awhile. “What if she’s right?” she whispers.

“Right about what?” He asks, getting closer to her now that she’s stopped climbing. “Let me in, Swan.”

“That I’ll suck you into the darkness with me,” she says after a long pause.

“Sw –“ he cuts off when he hears a sickening creak and sees Emma’s eyes go wide. The branch she’s holding starts to snap and she is moments from falling. Everything seems to move in slow motion before Killian’s eyes.

Hell no.

He swings over, grabbing her hand. He’s yanked down as gravity tries to take her from him, but he doesn’t let go.

“Killian!” Emma yells. He takes a few quick breaths to gather his strength, then hauls her up and against him. He pins her to the stalk with his body, one hand on her shoulder to hold her in place.. She breathes heavily against him, holding on to him tightly.

Bloody hell! She’s safe. And now he’s got her where he wants her for what he needs to say. He has no intention of letting her go. Right here, or ever.

He loves her.

“Emma Swan, when we first met, you asked me what I wanted, and I couldn’t answer you, I was a fool and a coward, but even then you had me enchanted. Well let me make it clear now if it wasn’t clear before, I want you. I want the Dark Swan, I want Princess Leia, and I want just Emma. I’m a fan of every part of you.” He watches her walls crumble at his declaration.

“And I’m a fan of you,” she says softly, hand reaching up to his neck, just where he can feel the throbbing of his poison. “I don’t want to lose you, to this, to darkness. I can’t.”

He smirks. “Then don’t. Don’t shut me out. Don’t let doubt get in the way.”

Emma sighs and rests her head on his shoulder, as if she’s giving into some long-resisted temptation. He kisses the top of her head. He’s giving in to the very same vice. He waited as long as he could bear, but his body was starting to ache. He was dying after all.

“As much as I adore having you pinned to this stalk, love, my arm’s starting to hurt.”

Her eyes flash open as she remembers where they are. She finds a handhold to support herself, freeing him to use both arms to hold himself up.

“Thanks for catching me,” she murmurs.

“Anything for you,” he replies with a wink, helping lighten the mood.

With a deep breath and a toss of her hair, Swan regains her usual fire. “Race you to the top!”

“And what does the winner get?” Killian teases.

She looks him over sinfully slowly. “I may have something in mind,” she replies, her eyes glimmering.

“Vixen.”

#cs au week 2k17 #Captain Swan #Dark Swan #deckhand hook #cs ff #sneak peak #once upon a time #once fanfic

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memoryofadream · 6 years ago

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Heaven’s Brothers- a Fix-It for Michael and Lucifer

Or, In Which Heaven’s Most Powerful Archangels Get Along and Aren’t Dicks

“In a perfect world, one we’ve never known, we would never need to face the world alone.”

Humans often got a lot of things about Heaven, God, and his angels wrong. Michael, the second eldest archangel, knew this for a fact. For one, his father did not care who they fell in love with. The color of their skin, their gender, it didn’t matter. The humans could love whomever they chose to and need not fear punishment.

And all that they did in the name of God, much of it wasn’t what Father wanted. Wars, and persecution, and death, he’d often bemoaned to Michael and his siblings, were not things he wanted done in his name. But still the humans persisted.

Michael was lamenting one such situation, the persecution of a poor man who hadn’t done anything wrong, but was still being beaten to death by an angry crowd, when a feathery wing cuffed him over the head.

It was his older brother, Lucifer, grinning at him. The smile fell off his face when he saw what Michael was watching.

“I can’t believe that Dad wants us to love these creatures above all else. Look at them! That poor man did nothing wrong, and yet they’re still going to kill him, simply because they are blinded by their arrogance and judgement.” Lucifer scowled.

“Morningstar, don’t talk like that.” Michael cajoled. “Not all of them are bad. Just yesterday I was watching a girl teaching her sister how to make a pot out of clay. They ended up having a splash fight in the river when they went to clean their hands.”

Lucifer smiled, genuinely. “You always see the best in everything, don’t you, Mike?”

“One of us has to, Luci, with you being cynical all the time. Come on, I’ll race you to the gardens.” Michael spread his wings and took off, laughing as Lucifer followed close behind him.

Michael loved his brother, really, he did. It was just that Lucifer somehow ended up getting himself into the oddest of messes, like he did just now.

His brother’s wings, once a pure white, were now bright pink.

“Oh, Morningstar, how did this happen?” Michael groaned. Lucifer spun around in a circle, admiring his new colorful plumage.

“I like it! It’s unique, and it suits me, don’t you think?” The other angel spread his wings and arms, grinning like a dork. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the feathers were sparkling like diamonds under the sun. “Now I really do look like a star, Mikey!”

Fortunately, their father was plenty amused by the whole situation. He pointed out a bird to Lucifer, a pink one whose feathers matched his. He called it a “flamingo”.

Stars, even in Heaven, were beautiful. In fact, one might go so far as to say the stars were even better in Heaven. Up there, they looked so much closer, like if you just flew high enough you could hold one in your hands. And the sky was clear and beautiful, every star like a diamond in a sea of velvet.

Michael loved the stars. Every night, he liked to go to one particular spot in Heaven’s gardens, one where the trees opened into a small circular clearing. In the center, there was soft grass, and if you looked up, the sky was framed by the leafy tree branches.

Tonight, he’d stayed in the clearing far longer than usual. He couldn’t sleep. Michael sat in the grass and watched the stars, noting each constellation as it appeared. He jumped as a warm, soft weight settled around his shoulders. Lucifer sat beside him in the grass.

“Hey, Mikey. You weren’t in bed, so I came to look for you. What’s on your mind, little brother?”

“I just wanted to look at the stars some more.”

“Ah. They are beautiful, aren’t they?”

They woke up the next morning, dewdrops gathering on their feathers, to Gabriel running past them, laughing and being chased by two of the younger angels, Balthazar and Castiel.

“Gabe’s far better with the little ones than I am.” Michael laughed.

…

For all the times that they seemed thick as thieves, Michael and Lucifer did fight, as all brothers did. One of the greatest fights they’d ever had was the one concerning humanity. Lucifer never quite let go of the fact that humans were just a little too, well, human.

“Michael, you stupid sheep. Just because you’re content to follow Father’s every word, doesn’t mean I have to be! Did it ever occur to you that even Father can make mistakes? That he’s not perfect, and none of us are perfect, and humans are definitely not perfect! Those creatures are horrible to each other!” Lucifer roared.

It was another one of their fights over humanity. This time, though, they were fighting worse than ever before. A little away, Gabriel was shielding Balthazar and Castiel with his wings as the younger angels watched their big brothers argue. The two archangels’ eyes were literally blazing with light.

“Lucifer, Father knows far better than you ever will! That’s your problem. You think you know so much about the world, but you really don’t. And you know what? I think you know that, and it irks you that you’ll never fully understand! And the fact that Father and all the rest of our siblings see something in the humans that you can’t, that just digs at you, doesn’t it?” Michael’s feathers were so puffed up that they were nearly standing straight, and his wings were almost two times their normal size.

There was a lull in the argument. Michael and Lucifer glared at each other, and it seemed for a moment like the fight might be over, until there was a shhiiink sound as Lucifer drew his angel blade.

Gabriel’s eyes widened and his throat worked nervously. He pushed his little brothers further behind him and considered running for Raphael.

Michael narrowed his eyes and drew his own blade. The two paced in a circle, sizing each other up, wondering if this fight was worth it. And then Lucifer lunged.

And Michael wasn’t fast enough to completely get out of the way. His brother’s blade cut across his forearm. Blood and glowing blue grace flowed from the wound.

Lucifer’s eyes widened as he stared at his little brother, and at the cut on his arm. He spun around and launched himself into the air, leaving Michael clutching his injury and staring furiously after him.

No one sat under the stars in the clearing that night. Lucifer didn’t show up. Michael tucked his arm, now bandaged, to his chest and wished they’d stopped the fight and apologized sooner. Not to mention they’d scared poor sweet little Cassie.

Sunrise was beautiful the next morning. Michael watched as it rose over a small town, and he watched a father teach his young son how to ride a horse, and a pair of girls sneak out to kiss in the dying shadows behind a house.

He needed to find his brother.

Lucifer had one spot in particular that he liked to go to whenever the family got to be too much for him. In a mountain range, there was a lake, and its water was a stunning green color. The air was cool and the land was beautiful and it calmed him.

Wingbeats sounded behind him. He didn’t turn around.

“Luci?”

Michael sounded younger then than he had in a very long time. It was almost enough to make Lucifer turn around. Almost.

“Luci, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you, and I get it. Humans can be awful. They cheat and steal and lie and hurt themselves and each other but we’re angels, Luce. It’s not exactly a fair comparison, is it? And look, we still fight amongst ourselves but you’re still my brother and damn it all I still love you, Luci.” Michael’s voice cracked on the last sentence.

And finally, Lucifer turned around and rose to his feet. His little brother was standing there, wings drooping, arms by his sides. A pang of guilt went through him, seeing the bandage on one. Enveloping Michael in his wings, he whispered back, “I love you too, Mikey. I’m sorry.”

They stood there for a few seconds, and then Michael whispered, “Lucifer, promise me you’ll stay.”

It was an odd question, that. “Of course, Mike. Where else would I go?”

#michael #lucifer #supernatural #fanfiction #fix it #gabriel #castiel #balthazar #good brothers #sue me #heaven's brothers

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wretchedor30 · 7 years ago

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Zeke’s Peeks Episode 2

This is episode 2 of the ongoing saga of Zeke, a planeswalker from Earth. It is intended to be made into a cartoon, so there is some mention of camera angles and such. If you haven’t read episode 1, it is available here: https://wretchedor30.tumblr.com/post/161897465264/zekes-peeks-ep-1-revised

As always, my mailbox is open for any questions or feedback!

Zeke's Peeks: A Magic Adventure Naktamun and the Note or Friends in Low Places

The episode opens on Naktamun, on the plane of Amonkhet. The courtyard is full of youth training, and the mummies that are training them. Some are practicing slashes with khopesh, some practice jabs with spears, some mummies simply spot for the weightlifters. After a few moments, Zeke races in on Phreida, the Phelddagrif, who is flying low while bobbing and weaving. Zeke is frequently looking behind them, and a spear flies as Phreida dives to roughly eye-level. Both mummies and citizens of Naktamun have stopped to watch the scene unfold. Zeke looks back again and sees a [Minotaur Sureshot] firing an arrow directly at Phreida. Zeke closes his eyes to concentrate, and Phreida fades out just in time for the arrow to miss.

Zeke’s eyes jerk open as gravity takes effect, and the arrow flies between his legs, where Phreida had been just a moment earlier. Zeke stumbles a bit as he lands, but is quickly back on his feet. Those in the courtyard continue to watch without intervening. The mummies are motionless, awaiting the attention of those they are training. Before Zeke takes even 4 steps, a [Nef-Crop Entangler] is able to catch Zeke’s ankles in a pair of thrown bolas, and though Zeke is able to put out his arms to catch his fall, the Entangler is quickly upon him and the Sureshot only a few paces behind with an arrow trained upon Zeke.

A shadow looms over Zeke and we see the shadow of wings beating unhurriedly. The wingbeats are rather loud, but not obnoxious, as Zeke lifts his head to find himself at the feet of an angel landing. Zeke looks into the face of the [Winged Shepherd].

“I only asked if anyone had seen my sister!” Zeke cries out, as if to the city itself. The entangler throws a net over Zeke easily. “You speak of your crop-mate?” The angel asks. “No, my sister. We’re family, we have the same parents!” “Family is blasphemy. The God-Pharoah is the father of all, and Naktamun is our mother.” The angel reaches under Zeke with his cane and twists, sealing Zeke inside the net. The angel beats his wings and rises toward the Hekma. As they rise, Zeke looks around the city, they rise higher, and Zeke begins to squint, they continue to rise, and Zeke reaches into his deckbox, concentrating for a moment, and an [Explorer's Scope] coalesces into his other hand. With the scope, he continues to search Naktamun.

When Zeke has finally been taken just under the peak of the Hekma, the angel flies through as if unimpeded. Zeke tries for a few moments to peer through, but the Hekma blurs what is on the other side, and Zeke scans the horizon a bit, there is little to see other than sand and the wandering dead. "I'm Zeke, by the way, what's your name?" Zeke says, reaching his hand out for a handshake. The angel overlooks the gesture, continuing to fly above the Hekma, now toward the deserts beyond. "So..." Zeke continues, withdrawing his hand, "You're a boy angel? I've never met a boy angel." "I am who I am, my body does not define me," responds the [Winged Shepherd]. "What about if you were an aven? You'd still have wings, sure, but would you really still be the same person?" "I would still think as I do, and serve the God-Pharoah. May his return come quickly. I would not think differently simply because of what body I wear. Our bodies are temporary, our worthiness eternal. Who you are is deeper than the flesh." "Aren't your feelings just part of your culture, though?" "Zeke, is it? When you were born, did you know your name? And, though not knowing your name, is it any less yours? Your name is a part of your culture, but it is also part of you, and it is yours to change, to redefine yourself. You are who you choose to be. And I choose to be a servant of the will of the God-Pharoah." "That's really philosophical and deep. I just meant that all the other angels I've met before were women." "If they still serve justice, does that matter, Zeke?" Zeke has a face of a sudden epiphany, a new worldview brought on by viewing a new world. And with that reminder of perspective, he begins using the telescope again. As he looks out, Zeke sees that the angel is heading in the direction of some sandwurms, Zeke puts the scope back in his deckbox. "You seem like a very kind and insightful angel. Naktamun is lucky to have you." "And you seem like a reasonable and intelligent young lad. I weep that Naktamun loses one such as yourself to blasphemy." "You should probably let me down here. If we go much further the sandwurms could cause a problem for you getting back." "Then this is as far as I may take you, Zeke. I wish we had met under better circumstances. May your journeys outside the Hekma find you worthy, that you may find the answers you seek," the angel says, setting Zeke's net gently on the sand. He twists the cane holding it closed so that it falls open, and begins to take off again. "You still didn't tell me your name!" Zeke calls out as the angel begins to flap his wings. "I am Loren. Be well, Zeke." "Be well, Loren." As Loren flies back toward the Hekma, Zeke watches for a moment, until the scene nearly matches the art in [Cast Out]. As Loren fades from view, Zeke turns the other direction, and begins to walk.

As Zeke begins to walk, we go to a -- Commercial Break -- Zeke is skimming through his deckbox while he continues to trudge through the desert. He looks up from his deckbox to wipe his brow, and scans the horizon for landmarks, shade, signs of life, or even signs of unlife. Due to the heat refraction on the desert sands, Zeke can't see very far. "Well, Phreida could fly up to get a better perspective, maybe find a good place to go. Except she doesn't like hot weather like this, and I don't know when we'd be able to find any water. Explorer's Scope would be good if I could find some high ground to look around, but again it looks like mostly just sand dunes. I could use a Fog to hopefully cool it down a bit, but that doesn't last long anyway. I just need to get out of the heat to think. You can't cast lands, or I'd just make a for... I can't play an Forest, but that doesn't mean this can't be one!" Zeke looks around again, checking for any incoming adversaries, and then pulls [Convincing Mirage] from the deckbox.

As he concentrates, sprouts peek their way out of the sand, quickly growing into saplings. They quickly grow into trees, which look like acacias. After the trees are roughly 10 feet high, there is a loud *thunk* noise from off in the distance. Zeke's eyes pop open, and he runs to investigate. "Who's there?" Zeke yells further into the forest. "I am but a sheep, blinded by a false shepherd! Please help me." "I'm coming. Keep talking so I can find you. Why aren't you in Naktamun?" "It's been months since I was banished. I simply wanted to see my child! When I asked Oketra, she told me that a child's only parent is the God-Pharoah and Naktamun. I kept searching, was labelled a dissenter, and was abandoned to the wastes." Zeke steps past some trees and can see the man now. We recognize the man from the art in the card [Doomed Dissenter], except he is currently in a large glass bowl that is stuck upside down between a few trees, so it is unable to tip back upright.

"I was exiled by an angel because I asked if anyone had seen my sister. The angels said there are only crop-mates, not brothers or sisters. Here, take my hand and I can pull you out." Zeke reaches out and the older man takes his hand. After assisting, Zeke says, "I'm Zeke," before letting go. "Kafele. Well met, Zeke. I didn't make it this far to get stuck in a bowl." "This far? Is this not where you've been staying since you left the city?" "No. There's a group of us. We're actually hoping to break back into Naktamun and let the people know the truth. When you are outside the Naktamun, it is the zombies that protect the Hekma. Most of us are not warriors, so we cannot fight our way through. We watch and wait for an opening. A few weeks ago this dome appeared, and the wandering avoid this area for some reason, so it allows us to use it as an outpost so that we can spy on those guarding the Hekma for longer periods, even keeping some rations. Most importantly, we can find more of those that are banished before ill befalls them." There is a snapping of many trees, and the ground begins to rumble. A wild [Desert Cerodon] appears!

"Didn't you just finish saying this area was safe?!" Zeke yells as they both start running from the cerodon. "I said there were no more undead in this area. That looks very much alive!" Zeke pulls out his deckbox, shuffling through it. His eyes brighten as he slides out a card, and he turns to face the best with his eyes already closed in concentration. The cerodon doesn't slow down, aiming right for where Zeke stands. As it reaches Zeke's outstretched card, the cerodon seems to shrink into it. The camera twists from a panorama from the charging to an overhead of the card, a [Swords to Plowshares].

Kafele has stopped dead in his tracks, and looks back to Zeke as if seeing a ghost. "Zeke, what did you just do?" Zeke: "Phreida isn't big enough to take on a cerodon. So I exiled it, instead. I... don't actually know what happens to them, then." Kafele: "Phreida?" Zeke: "She's my familiar. She's a phelddagrif. We make a great team, but she doesn't do well in the heat, so I'm keeping her safe." Kafele: "I've never heard of a phelddagrif, but it seems I know some people you should probably meet. People with your ability are rare, but you aren't the first in these parts." Zeke: "Maybe it's my sister? Even if not, maybe they've seen her! Let's go, Kafele! Once we're out of these woods, I can cast [Salt Road Patrol] to help us cross the desert. The patrol is used to this environment."

The tree block their view of the sky and stars, making navigation nearly impossible. They simply choose the direction opposite the cerodon's path, and tred onward. Soon the trees begin to clear, and they find themselves at the edge of the Forest.

Standing just inside the shade provided by the last of the trees, Zeke pulls out his deckbox and begins to shuffle through. The camera view is above the two of them, looking down but not directly. "Zeke?" Kafele says, but Zeke doesn't seem to notice. "Zeke?" Repeats Kafele, a bit more insistently. "Just a second, Kafele, I'm looking for the Patrol." "I don't think the zombies will wait for you to find it, Zeke." "Zombies?" The camera pans up to the facing horizon, showing the tedium of desert is interrupted by two figures. A [Cursed Minotaur] and [Festering Mummy] are approaching.

"Okay, well. A 3/2 with Menace and a 1/1 that can decrease toughness..." "Zeke, they're getting closer..." "Don't worry, Kafele, I have just the thing," Zeke says, pulling up his sleeves. He reaches into his deckbox and pulls out a [Regal Caracal] and a [Swiftfoot Boots]. His eyes close as the zombies draw ever more near, and the pair of boots forms around Kafele's feet as the Caracal rises up from the sand and shakes itself clean. Two more cats appear in the same manner.

The two smaller cats move to intercept the Minotaur, who lowers his head and charges. The caracal leisurely moves toward the Mummy, then moves into a pouncing stance. As the mummy gets closer, the cat pounces and catches a loose wrapping on the mummy, pulling it loose, causing the mummy to fall to the desert sand, where it crumbles to dust. The screen shifts to the other two cats, and the fallen minotaur. One cat is already turning to sand, and the other nudges the head of the first before also turning to sand. Zeke concentrates a moment, and both the Caracal and the two cats that are now sand all disappear. Behind them, the forest also shimmers like a mirage before being replaced by the desert it was before Zeke came. "Where did they go?" "Back to the safety of their home, I think. We should be going, though. Do you know which way? Kafele points, Zeke closes his eyes and a [Salt Road Patrol] forms.

--Commercial Break--

"You're sure this is the right way, Kafele?" Zeke asks. "Fairly certain. Most of the desert looks the same, the wind can change the dunes and cover anything to use to get your bearings. So instead we look to the sky, but the sun's movements have been uncertain. We should see tracks soon, leading to our main camp." The camera is in front of the patrol, which passes under. Behind them we see the tracks disappearing into the distance. Other than the tracks, the art matches [Approach of the Second Sun]. The camera turns to face the other direction, and pans across a seemingly endless desert.

"There!" Kafele points, and the camera zooms a bit on a [Supply Caravan] cresting a dune.

Zeke and the patrol adjust direction toward the caravan, which seems to have stopped for a rest. As they draw near, a [Trueheart Duelist] blocks their path, her weapons drawn.

"Who goes there?" The duelist shouts. "I am but a sheep, blinded by a false shepher," Kafele calls back. "Then together we will form a new flock. Come, and I will lead you to my trough." The duelist turns to escort them to the caravan, and in the distance a single black pillar rises from the horizon. The duelist pauses, and the pillar seems to split and become two. "It's still on our tail, everyone! Pack up quickly, we can't let it get any closer." The duelist is moving through the caravan, giving instructions and assisting with packing for those that need it. As he follows the duelist, Zeke sees a diverse lot form the caravan. There are young and old, male and female, Khenra, Naga, Aven and Human. The duelist looks back to Zeke, Kafele, and their patrol. "I apologize our introductions must be short-lived. We call it the Grim Strider. It's been following us for days. It doesn't rest, it doesn't feed, it doesn't speed up or slow down; it just follows. One of our rank tried to fight it on his first day, to prove himself worthy. He was new to our flock, and his sacrifice didn't even give it pause." Zeke turns to Kafele, "Kafele, go with them. Ask about my sister. I'll catch up soon." Zeke pulls out his deckbox and begins to look through it, his eyes already closing. The [Salt Road Patrol] does some stretches, as if warming up before a workout. The duelist begins to protest, "We've already lost one, your sacrifice will mean nothing except a waste of supplies" but is interrupted by Kafele, "Trust the boy, he wields mighty magics, the kind that may just save us." The [Grim Strider] crests the dune as the rest of the caravan begins to head out. Zeke's eyes open, and he looks in the hexagon where the Strider's eyes would be.

The camera angle is above and behind Zeke, akin to being on the top of the patrol's carriage. "[FEROCIOUS CHARGE]!" Zeke yells, and the patrol rushes headlong into the strider's path. The camera stays in its location as the patrol rushes forward, and despite the growing distance the patrol doesn't grow smaller in perspective, until it rams the strider in the chest and doesn't lose any momentum. A cloud of black dust rises from where the strider was, and the camera zooms in to Zeke at the helm of the patrol.

"Good thing we had time to Outlast before it attacked, or I don't know how that would have gone." The patrol turns around, and though it doesn't go as fast as when it was charging, it catches up to the caravan in short order, where we see it has stopped to take a rest that it has been denying itself for days. Zeke heads to the front where he sees Kafele and the duelist, and each person he passes points and whispers, with a few shouting "Thank you!" and other gratitudes, others simply lost in awe at the young boy that presented them with a miracle. Finally, he gets to Kafele. "You have saved this caravan, Zeke, and thus you ensure all of those outside the Hekma may live another day. We owe you our lives, but all I may offer in return is my [Honed Khopesh]. Simply ask, and I will help you however I am able," says the duelist.

"We didn't really have time before, but I'm Zeke," he says, sticking out his hand for a handshake, which is accepted. "I'm here looking for my sister, do you know where she might be? She wasn't in the caravan." "If she is outside the Hekma, it will be at our base camp. It is an oasis from the heat and horrors. With the [Grim Strider] no longer following, we can return without fear of the havoc it would bring. It's a pleasure to meet you, Zeke. I am Akiiki." They begin to walk, and the screen begins to fade as if for commercial. "Akiiki. When you say they can 'live another day'... do you mean until both sun sets, or..." -- Commercial Break -- As the program comes back on, the caravan is approaching a mesa with a large cave on the side they are going to. The inside is simply dark, and the outside of the mesa is as featureless as the desert surrounding it. "How did you find this place?" Zeke asks Akiiki. "We didn't. We were traveling, thirsty and tired. A young woman known to few declared 'Enough!' and crushed a ring in her hand before shouting 'I wish for [Lush Growth]!' She opened her hand and the ring fell, and where it landed sprouts rose from the sand, and the sand began to shift as the cliffs rose. Now it is our safe haven from the dangers of the desert" Akiiki answers.

Zeke sits bolt upright. "I bet that was my sister! Do you know where I can find her?" As Zeke asks, the travelers pass out of the short cave and into the interior of the mesa. Zeke looks up to the sky, and other than the lack of birds, it is quite similar to the art of Lush Growth. "She was a hero after that, but though everyone knew her, she chose to spend her time with few. She hasn't been seen for a few weeks, but was close to Nagaina. Nagaina works the garden." Akiiki points to a small orchard a distance away. Zeke heads toward it while Kafele and Akiiki continue with the caravan. Zeke calls out, "Nagaina! Nagaina?" "Hello," a voice in the orchard responds. Zeke turns to see a [Naga Vitalist] is the one responding. Zeke is relieved to have found someone that may have known his sister, and is not off-put or surprised by that someone being a giant reptile.

"I heard that you may have known my sister, her name is Esmeralda." "You are called Zeke then, brother of Esmeralda?" "I am! How did you know?" "It was nearly a month ago that your sister left us. We were grateful for her, but she insisted that she must leave to find her way back to you. She left this for you, in case you came here looking for her." Nagaina reaches into her corset and pulls out a note, handing it to Zeke. Zeke reads the note for a moment, though we do not see what it says. "She was on Alara, and was trying to return. Based on this place, it must have been Naya. Now I know where to look. Thank you, Nagaina," Zeke says, giving Nagaina a large hug. The world is already fading back to Zeke's room, where an open pack of Amonkhet cards lays on his desk, showing the 15 cards he met with in his travel (Not Regal Caracal, he already had that one). Zeke leaps from the desk and rushes downstairs and to the front door, where he almost bumps into his father who is just returning from work. "Where ya goin', kiddo?" "Just across the street!" "Okay, bring something home for your sist... Dinner is at 8, just make sure you're back in time for it, okay Zeke?" "I'll be home in plenty of time, Dad. Love you!" Zeke gets to the street, looks both ways, dashes across the street and into Communications Outpost IX. As he enters the automatic doors, we see the Missing Person sign for Esmeralda is still hanging, though beginning to fade a bit. Zeke gets in line to get a pack of Shards of Alara cards, as the cards are kept behind the counter. The cashier is in her early twenties, wears a planeswalker symbol T-shirt and earrings that match it. She stands about a head taller than Zeke. The person in front of Zeke is asking questions about what she thinks of various cards and mechanics, and though the cashier is answering politely, it is clear she would rather be helping clear the line. Her gaze frequently shifts to those waiting in line, and she is giving shorter answers, though still remaining polite. While waiting for the person at the front of the line to take the hint, Zeke overhears a commotion at the back of the store. "It's a simple question. Is it short for Samuel or Samantha?" A man with grey in his beard asks someone roughly Zeke's age. Sam, the youth, has short black hair that is spiked up, and is wearing jeans and a T-shirt that is just a bit too big. "Robert?" Zeke calls from the front of the store, approaching the grey-beard. "Isn't Karn your main commander? Don't you always get upset when people call Karn an it, simply because Karn says he's a he? And that's in an artifact deck, where half of the contraptions aren't hes or shes. Seems a bit ironic for you. Maybe you just need to broaden your horizons and branch out a bit, add some color to your life. Maybe Mardu? [Alesha, Who Smiles at Death] could bring some insight to your deckbuilding, I think."

The rest of the gaming area went silent when Zeke had raised his voice from the front of the store, but was now a mix of laughter and "oooo"s. "Rob, I'm pretty sure you just got schooled by a twelve year-old," Tyler says. "Maybe you should leave off the other one. I hear they hunt in packs." "Fine, fine. Sam it is," says Robert, as though it had not become such a large issue. "Hi Sam, I'm Zeke," Zeke says, reaching out for a handshake. "Hi Zeke. I just moved here, and heard this was a good place to meet other geeks. I was about to leave and not come back. I mean, I don't even know how to play this card game, even." "You are in for a treat then, Sam. I only have one question. Robots or aliens?" "Uhh... alien, I guess?" "Good deal. I made an Eldrazi and a construct deck. Eldrazi are a threat from beyond the edges of the multiverse. The deck is colorless, so you don't need to worry about having the wrong colors of mana or anything. I think it's a good way to learn and teach Magic. I mean, if you've got time and want to learn?" "That'd be great, actually. Thanks, Zeke!" "My pleasure," Zeke says, handing a deck with Ulamog on top of it to Zeke. "So the first thing to know about playing Magic is: You are a planeswalker."

END!

#zeke's peeks #episode 2 #mtg #magic #fanfic #mtg fanfic #Amonkhet #Zeke #magic the gathering #cartoon #writing

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dailymusingsofamedic · 4 years ago

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25th May 2020 - Orff

Carl Orff (1895-1982)

Gisei, Das Opfer (1913) https://open.spotify.com/album/74d2v19w4fuI8aPcRkVi99?si=MqdFYt9VRIuezbY-YEqMGg

‘O’ is another letter that doesn’t have huge amounts to offer in terms of composers. I’ve chosen Orff because I’m genuinely intrigued to see what else this composer has put out apart from Carmina Burana. I wonder if Orff suspected that his magnum opus would be used in every single ‘dramatic’ moment in reality TV for the intellectually challenged from now until presumably the end of time. You’ve all heard Camrina Burana, but what else did Orff do? I’ve chosen a fairly early work of his, written at just 18 years of age. It’s a story of a Japanese calligraphy teacher who kills one of his pupils, but not the right one, and his parents are sad, basically. Apparently heavily influenced (perhaps pillaged) from Debussy, it was not performed until 2010. Also, Orf is a viral skin infection passed to humans by infected sheep and goats, colloquially known as scabby mouth in the farming community. And who said I couldn’t get music and medicine into the same blog?

Get ready, this is a long one!

Above - do we think this might me set in Japan?

1. Vorspiel: introduction. A very quiet and tender opening by the eerie female voices. Also with some windy noises. A few lines spread around the woodwind, and then things begin to get a bit more exciting with the introduction of the tune in the cello part (maybe viola). I think the choir are humming. I don’t know about Debussy, but the section from 1:35 sounds exactly like Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloe. Not quite as nice though. I mean, there’s no denying this overture is nice to listen to, and quite interesting, but it doesn’t sound new. Interesting trombone solo with wind machine. Aren’t they synonymous? Ehhhhh. 3:35 is a shock. Is this where the boy gets killed? No idea.

2. Vorspiel: No demo yama. Right, so this is still the overture. The section with strings harp and female voices from about 0:56 is really cool, atmospheric. 1:36 sounds a bit ominous again, with tremolos, then some brass, then hahaha that tuba solo at the end is cracking me up. Firstly, is that all people think tubas can do. Plod plod bitch. Secondly, what happens to the sound at the end of the last note?? Is it a weird vibrato? Is it running out of air? It sounds like such a wispy sound considering the instrument it’s coming from.

3. Vorspiel: Die Gottheit nahm das Opfer am. This means ‘the deity accepted the sacrifice’. That seems like a big plot point considering we’re still apparently in the overture. Or as google translate calls it: foreplay. Scary baritone and interesting textures with the brass in the next section, both muted and un-. Oh the singing sounds German, at least he used a real language in this opera. The accompaniment sounds like accompaniment, and by that I mean, I feel like there should be some singing over the top a lot of the time when there isn’t. Lots of lovely tuba. Ooooh 2:24 could be more in tune I think…it does sound quite high to be fair. Actually, the rest of the singing so far has been pretty good. Lots of hard Ts. 3:35 is a really interesting section, it’s very grand but then diminishes into being pretty scary again very well.

4. Vorspiel: Dann…tiefste Nacht. Then deepest night. 0:13 onwards all feels a bit familiar as well, from other composers works. I have to say it doesn’t sounds very ‘deepest night’. The last movement did more. I had a heart attack at 1:21. There’s lots of variation over the next few minutes. I’d love to see what’s meant to be happening on stage. Without that, it does feel a little disjointed. The little harp scale up to 3:55 brings us to a really lovely section actually. That harmony’s interesting, as is the instrumentation. Laughed again at 5:05. How else would we know we were in japan if not for some exposed gong/tamtam notes? It’s tuned for the singer to come in at least! “Doot Doot Doot” is fun. Then the shit hits the fan. The orchestral accompaniment does sounds at times a little like a concerto for orchestra, with solos from bassoon, tuba, double basses. It’s nicely written. Again the end of this part feels like I need to be watching something alongside it. The texture at the end is fantastic. I don’t know what’s playing but I like it.

Above - Cut the vorspiel, I’m ready for the main event. Also, if you look closely you can see the TV I’m thinking of buying.

5. Oper: introduction. Ok so we’re into the actual opera now. Well, nearly, we’ve finished foreplay anyway. Nice controlled accelerando, and the clarinet part’s pretty cool, before we’re back to the first section. I like this so far. A great introduction to the meat of the work.

6. Oper: Wollt ihr Ruhe halten. Or as my other half often says to me when they’ve run out of my favourite dim sum at Ping Pong: ‘Do you want to keep calm?’. Solo violin pretending to be a butterfly (Schmetterling) isn’t very nice. I’ve never heard a butterfly sound like that. The duet from 1:15 is lovely, however brief.

7. Oper: Sakura! Sakura! I’m hoping this is how star of Rupaul’s Drag Race Season 12; Rock M Sakura got her name, but I feel like the reference may be a little niche. Starts off with the waily woman from the last movement. Now she’s wailing ‘Sakura’ though. Who is Sakura? I feel like actually this could do with a little more accompaniment than just harp. The singer is a little overpowering at times, although her pianos are really soft and well done.

Above - life imitating art.

8. Oper: Ist’s erlaubt? It’s allowed. What’s allowed? A synopsis would really ameliorate my listening experience I’m sure, but that’s effort, and I can’t read, type, and listen at the same time. Another excellent tuba demonstration at 0:25. There’s a nice cough at 0:59. Is this a live recording? Maybe this is the only time it’s ever been performed. Are trombone chords every in tune? Not according to 1:53 of this. 2:33 all gets a bit exciting briefly. The string entry at 3:15 is very inaccurate. That must be the violas. More out of tune trombone at 4:03. I feel like the orchestra are maybe sight-reading because they know this isn’t going to be a roaring success…Again 5:00 onwards is very directionless. All jokes aside, the tamtam playing is great, and the sound is dampened at exactly the right time. It’s really effective. At 6:02 what is happening? Is that two tubas? Or a tuba and something else being badly played, out of tune on top. I can’t tell, but it’s bad. HA that dramatic ending is then followed by one solitary note on the tamtam which sounds very much like an accident.

9. Oper: Sei nicht mehr Traurig. Don’t be sad any more. Or, what Alex says to me 2 weeks after we went out for that dim sum-less meal. Interesting harmony. Quite waily again though.

10. Oper: Oh! Bauerngeischter. Oh! Peasant hunt!!! That is not what I was expecting. Oh wait, it’s actually Bauerngesichter – peasant faces, much better. Fanfare central. Maybe it is a peasant hunt too? Bassoon trills are fun. I have absolutely no clue what that is 0:38. If anyone could enlighten me, I would be very grateful. Is it a contrabassoon played high? I honestly have no clue; it could even be stringed at a push. Beefy last note though. I mostly spend the rest of this movement wondering what that instrument was. I can’t find the bloody instrumentation anywhere. Snapped out of my stupor by laughing at the random extra tuba note at 3:11. HERE IT IS AGAIN at 3:46. So weird, so out of tune in the higher portions. That’s why it’s on its own I think.

Above - Orf; why you should wash your hands at the petting zoo!!

11. Oper: Hinter uns lag die Stadt. The city was behind us. If you listen carefully at 0:02 you can hear the tuba player stick his hand in a crisp packet. Nice combination of the bass, and high register of the harp, I like that quite a lot. It’s more interesting than the bass and tuba duet afterwards. 2:00 is straight out of Daphnis again for 2 seconds. The trombone chord at 3:22 is eventually in tune, but it doesn’t start that way.

12. Oper: Ihr wart doch heut’ beim Mahl des Bonzen? If you had given me 1,000 goes at guessing this translation, I would never have come out with the correct answer: You were eating the fat cat today? This seems to be a rather rude question judging by the bloke’s reaction. This baritone bit is quite recitative-y, I just wish I could understand what they were saying. From 2:00, the orchestral parts are exciting, if a little forced. 2:50, we see this weird tuba vibe again. And the chord at 3:06 is actually really nice, as Roxxxy Andrews would say: thick and juicy. String entry at 3:30 is very messy again. Another heart attack at 4:48. So screechy. More of the same until the end.

13. Oper: Entlasst nun eure Schuler, Genzo. Now release your students Genzo. Heard across the country in March, when money-grabbing boarding schools tried to keep their students during the pandemic for ‘safety’ reasons. More tuba. 0:14 – what is this person playing at. The entry of this mysterious companion of the half decent tuba sounds like they flutter-tongue that entry. I often joke “Oh I could do a better job” but in this case, I think I actually could. IS it just a low horn? I can’t tell. Lots of to-and-fro between a couple of the men now, but I don’t know what about. One sounds much angrier than the other. I assume the calligrapher is the friendly sounding one, but that’s a very stereotypical assumption.

14. Oper: Hm! Seltsam! Hm! Strange! You’re telling me. Nice little bit of spoken word. It’s actually nicer than hearing them belting all the time. There’s a glass harmonium or some glasses being played at 0:50, sounds quite cool. Probably not worth the expense of renting one. Christ, calm down at 1:08. They briefly switch to English at 1:53, but ‘can shoe size’ doesn’t make much sense, or is at least very cryptic. Someone undoes their Velcro shoe at 3:09, maybe that’s what it’s referring to. 3:34 is nice, and I get the Debussy vibes here. Again at 4:00.

15. Oper: Macht auf! Macht auf! Open Up! X2. Orff does love whacking two very low instruments next to each other and just hoping they can play in tune. Spoiler alert, they can’t. I like the dramatic knocking on the door. Just sing, love, it’s louder. The lady sounds worried about something. If only I knew what. 2:09 is fun. The chord at 3:23 sounds exactly like what you would hear in a film set in Transylvania when the camera pans to Dracula’s house. More shit low playing at several more points in the next section. 4:50 to the end is great actually.

16. Oper: Die Sonne sinkt! The sun is setting (I assume, I didn’t actually look that one up). The tuba and miscellaneous other instrument’s last hurrah before a random piano plays 3 chords, someone coughs and the strings forget to come in; all before 1:00. Why is there now a piano? Wouldn’t the harp have done the same job? The end is quite simple, but it sounds nice. Although the last chord is uncomfortable and sounds very unfinished. Deliberately I’m sure.

Overall – 6/10. Well that was a couple of hours of my life I will never get back. I’m perhaps being harsh because opera obviously isn’t meant to be just heard, and with the right staging, and acting and me being able to understand the plot, it might be a nice little work. A lot of the problems I have with this are actually with the playing rather than the writing, although many of the tuning issues may be attributable to weird instrumentation. Either way, it’s certainly got areas of interest, but there’s lots of weak parts too. It’s not going to be accompanying the talentless droves on the X-Factor any time soon, put it that way.

Below is what Orff intended for his music, in its purest form:

youtube

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