#Charles Evenson

[palmofafreezinghand]

By an act of fate Charles Evenson finds himself in Ashland, Wisconsin searching for his missing wife. cw: references to domestic abuse and infant death.

on ao3 here.

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 6:07 PM. 

Washburn, Wisconsin. 

“Edward, no.” 

The car engine roared to life before the front door had a chance to slam shut. 

“Edward, please.” 

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake. 

“Edward, don’t.” 

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries were heard by no one but a confused, but sympathetic, doctor. 

__________________________________

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:01 AM. 

Union Depot. Ashland, Wisconsin. 

A steam whistle pierced the air as Charles Evenson’s train lurched out of the station, without him. 

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the depot. He desperately bent over to catch his breath, his knees cracking as they moved. Between the bullet in his hip and his age, the sprint across the station had his irregular pulse pounding against his skull. He grimaced as a toddler waved at him from the train window, pointing at him and then getting his mother’s attention. Charles lazily waved at the young woman gaping at him through the moving window, sneer never leaving his face. She caught his gaze, quickly looking away, pulling her son from the window in what seemed to be a mix of guilt for catching the train and… fear. 

“Excuse me, sir,” a shrill woman’s voice said behind him. He took a deep breath, attempting to wipe the irritation off his face, and turned to face the voice. An older, stout woman was standing in front of him, holding his wallet and cane in her hands. “I believe, you dropped these.” 

“Yes. Thank you,” he said, taking his belongings. In his haste, he had failed to notice. 

“Did you miss your train?” She asked. 

It was such a pity for a woman to have neither brains nor beauty, hopefully she was a half-decent cook. Although perhaps she was not as dim-witted as she appeared and used idiocy as a ruse to cover a much larger sin for a woman to possess: inquisitiveness. 

“Yes. I did not realize the service I took from Saint Paul was to a different station,” he huffed, tucking the wallet back into his coat pocket.  

Charles had naively believed his secretary could book his trip efficiently. Misplaced faith meant he was forced to run a mile and a half in a Wisconsin winter in ten minutes, miss his train, and endure a dull conversation with a prune. 

“You are not the first to make that mistake,” she smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and crooked. 

He refrained from rolling his eyes, the woman was older than his mother, and he could be polite, even if it took every ounce of his willpower. 

“You are from Saint Paul?” 

“No, I live in Columbus. I was in Minnesota for work.” The work was smuggling hundreds of dollars worth of moonshine, a detail best kept secret. 

“The only other train East today is towards Chicago. It doesn’t leave until nine this evening.” 

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Charles sighed. He flipped open his wallet and searched for a bill. His fingers first found a five but he quickly stuffed it back, fishing out a single dollar bill instead. 

He extended the dollar to the woman, she waved it off with her wrinkly bony fingers. What would it take to get her to leave? 

“No, no. Enjoy your time in Ashland. Perhaps now you can say hello to Mrs. Bauer,” she said, slowly walking away from the platform and back to the main doors. 

“Who?” He called after her, leaning down to pick up his baggage. 

“The woman in the photograph,” she said, turning to face him. He frowned and she quickly amended her statement. “Your wallet was open to a woman’s picture. Anne Bauer is it not?” 

His eyebrows furrowed. Was there a picture in his wallet? 

He dug in his pocket for the wallet, and flipped it open, greeted by a woman he had not seen in nearly eight months: his wife. 

Paul — Charles’ third eldest brother — had offered to take their portraits as a wedding present. Charles had still thought of her as lovable when he slipped the print in his wallet, the day before he left for the Front. It had been against protocol — which dictated all identifying artifacts were removed from your body — yet carrying a reminder of a woman he liked the idea of seemed necessary at the time. 

They had their… differences, and in the eight or so months he had lived without her he had missed her a handful of times. The morning he awoke to find her gone —  four sunrises after she truly left — he had been livid, which was quickly taken over by fear. The blood in their marital bed, the dried dirt under his nails, the occupied grave he had dug in her parent’s orchard. Details pointing to a sinister answer, she did not leave him in a fit of hysteria, he had escorted her out of this life. 

Reluctant to admit, even if only to himself, that he was a murderer he had visited her cousin in Milwaukee, who had once harbored her for two weeks. Mary swore on her own children’s lives she had not seen his wife and threatened to report the disappearance and all she knew about Charles’ conduct to the authorities if he did not leave. 

He returned home and concocted a lie about how he came home one night to find the lock broken and his wife missing. The neighbors who had heard screams of terror and fits of rage did not believe this lie, but they never said a word otherwise which is all that mattered. 

It had not crossed his mind she could still be alive, his conscious free. He held the wallet out to the old woman whom he was praying was confused. “This was the photograph?” 

“Yes. That’s her, the widow who teaches in Washburn.” 

That bitch. 

“You are a friend of hers?” She raised her left eyebrow at the word friend. 

An emphasis, there was no mistaking the meaning of. It was odd for a man to keep an image of a woman, who was not his wife, on his person. Especially when the woman was in a wedding gown. 

What relation would make it not odd? 

“My sister. I had not planned on visiting her since the trip was intended to be short but seeing as I will be in town until late I may be able to visit.” 

“Her brother,” the old woman smiled. “She’s such a sweet gal. Despite her circumstances. Has she had the babe yet? Last I heard she was almost due.” 

His stomach lurched. She had still been home nine months prior. Of course, she could have betrayed him causing her to flee. But deep in the pit of his stomach, he knew this was not the case. 

“We have not been able to write frequently as of late,” Charles lied, voice almost shaky. “She is busy, as you could imagine. Last I heard she had not, no.” 

“Well, do give Mrs. Bauer my regards,” the woman said before finally turning away for good. 

“Oh, I will.” 

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

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:25 AM 

Washburn, Wisconsin. 

A crisp ten-dollar bill had been enough to convince the cab driver to take Charles twelve miles to the small shoreline logging town and wait for an hour. 

In the almost half hour since he had realized his wife might be alive, and more significantly he might have a child, he wafted from well-disguised rage to sorrow. If it turned out that the crone in the station had a riddled memory and mistook his wife for an innocent widow would he be disappointed? If his wife was alive and well could he convince her to return home? How would he explain her initial disappearance or the potential child? Perhaps they could move? 

He was getting ahead of himself, he first needed a plan to meet ‘Mrs. Anne Bauer.’ If Anne was his wife, he could not simply waltz into the schoolhouse and demand she accompany him. She was charming enough to convince the town he was a madman, a threat, a danger. He needed to meet without an audience, at her home. Yet, if Mrs. Bauer was a widow whose only sin was bearing a mild resemblance to his wife he could not approach her at home without being escorted out of town by a Sheriff. 

As he approached the town’s tiny one-room post office he paused to observe the first townspeople he had seen. A middle-aged couple were making their way down the stairs, arms linked, the man carrying a stack of envelopes in his free hand. The woman’s face turned to surprise when she spotted a young blond man packing boxes into the back of an automobile. 

“Dr. Cullen!” The woman exclaimed, dropping her husband’s arm. 

The man, apparently a doctor, turned to face the woman and Charles was able to catch the man’s face. Odd, was the only way to describe the man. 

“Good morning, Mr. And Mrs. Birch,” Dr. Cullen said, stalling his packing to give them his full attention. 

“I have been searching for you but you’ve been practically missing this past month. My niece is staying with us for the season, you must come for dinner,” the woman insisted. 

“Oh, I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Birch. But I must decline, I have been told I am an awful dinner party guest, I am utterly incapable of upholding conversation not concerning diseases and organs.” 

“Then I will serve goose liver,” she countered. 

The doctor laughed but was unmoved. “Thank you but that will be unneccessary, Mrs. Birch.” 

“I will convince you one of these days,” she said pointedly, turning back towards her husband and linking her arm through his again. “Do not let her persuade you, Doctor,” Mr. Birch said over his shoulder. 

“Arthur, hush,” Mrs. Burch said, lightly smacking her husband. 

The doctor smiled to himself as the couple walked down the street. 

“If you told them the truth you were attached she would relent,” Charles said, walking towards the doctor. 

“Oh, I am n- How did you? What gave you that impression?” 

“You have the air of a man shackled by a doe-eyed girl.” 

“I would not use the term shackled,” Dr. Cullen said quietly. 

“Ah, you are hoping to be attached.” “Perhaps,” the doctor smiled at his feet. 

Charles knew soon enough the young man would realize the trap that was a blushing innocent but for now, he was intoxicated by the thrill of a nice girl. 

“Do you live around here?” Charles asked. He figured if anyone were to know the people of a town it would be the doctor. 

“Yes, further North. I work in the city,” Dr. Cullen said, resuming sorting his packages. “You are visiting, I presume.” 

“Yes, Anne Bauer, do you know her?” 

The doctor froze for a split second, something that should have gone unnoticed. “I believe the name sounds familiar,” he said slowly, focusing unnaturally on his task. He had loaded all the boxes and was now unnecessarily sorting them. 

“She’s a widow, currently expecting, a teacher.” 

The doctor nodded, ‘mhm-ing’ to himself. A noncommittal, unsatisfactory answer. 

Charles dug his wallet out of his pocket, pulling the photo out of the wallet. He handed the paper over to the doctor. “Her?” 

The doctor held the photo delicately, staring at it for half a minute. “She is young here, but yes, I knew her,” he said, finally tearing his eyes from the image. “You knew her well?” 

“Yes, yes, we’re quite close. If you could tell me wher—” 

“I apologize for being the one to break this news, Anne passed last month.” 

Charles could feel his jaw drop. His legs felt like river reeds, swaying in the stream. “She… She’s dead?” 

“You have my deepest sympathies,” Dr. Cullen said with solemnity. 

“The child?” 

“Her son passed shortly before her, lung fever.” 

Charles Evenson had a son that he lost every chance to know because of his own selfish, cruel actions. 

“Th-thank you,” Charles told the doctor, starting to walk, more accurately stumble, back down the street. He did not hear the doctor call after him offering him the photo and asking if Charles was alright. His mind was lost in images of a son that never would be. 

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

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 5:57 PM. 

Washburn, Wisconsin. 

Carlisle could hear his two companions inside as he made his way slowly down the dirt driveway. The familiar banter was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds. While the transition into their world had not been entirely smooth, Esme had become a priceless addition to his life. 

“Oh, I loathe this one,” Esme sighed as Edward began to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23. 

“It’s Beethoven,” Edward responded curtly, continuing on with the composition with masterful precision. 

“It is utterly depressing.” 

“Depressing,” Edward scoffed. 

Carlisle smiled to himself as he parked the automobile. Esme was still reluctant to express any of her opinions freely but when she did allow the two men to know her thoughts on music it often sparked heated debates. 

“I imagine this is what plays in a murderer’s mind before he kills.” 

“You have too vivid an imagination for your own good,” Edward teased. 

Carlisle tried to open the door quietly, so as to not disturb the scene of domesticity but his efforts were interrupted by a pleasant, “Good evening, Dr. Cullen.” 

“Good evening, Ms. Platt,” he said, moving quickly to join the pair in the sitting room. 

“Please, call me Esme.” 

“I will not drop honorifics while you insist on calling me Doctor,” he said for what had to be the twentieth time, earning him a roll of her eyes. He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, listening to Edward play the “depressing” tune. Esme returned her attention to the book in her lap. 

Carlisle allowed his eyes to slip close briefly while he listened. “I suppose it is rather intense,” he acquiesced, opening his eyes as Edward began to play even more passionately. 

“Not you too,” Edward huffed, attention never leaving the keys. 

“Thank you,” Esme smiled slightly, she still had yet to freely smile in the time he had known her. “How was your day?” 

“Quite fine,” Carlisle said. For hours he had debated how to broach the subject of the man in town. Esme’s constitution was delicate, to put it mildly. To remind her she was mourned could be potentially disastrous. Yet, as soon as he saw her his resolve to keep the man a secret crumpled. “I met someone in town I would like to ask you about.” 

“Oh?” 

“He was quite charming, very personable. He was not from Ashland. You once mentioned you have a brother, correct?” 

“Harry,” she nodded, “he died in the war.” 

That complicated the matter. Carlisle had presumed by the man’s reaction he was a close dear connection, one personally affected by the loss. Her brother seemed the logical conclusion based on how Esme discussed her childhood. How awful for her to have lost both her beloved brother and husband to the war. 

Edward’s fingers halted mid-note. “Carlisle,” he said between clenched teeth. “Think of that face again.” 

Carlisle did as instructed, unsure what significance the old friend of Esme’s held in the boy’s mind. Although, Edward had been overly paranoid about leaving any trace of Esme in Washburn’s history, going as far as to erase hospital records that so much as mentioned her son. Whomever this past connection was had left Washburn without fuss as soon as he realized who he sought was no more. Edward was, as usual, overreacting. 

“When did you see him?”  

“A quarter past nine?” Carlisle guessed. “Edward, the man poses no threat.” 

“You have no idea the threat,” Edward said, standing from his bench and storming out of the room in one swift furious move. 

Esme’s gaze followed Edward from the piano to the doorframe, and a look of recognition hit her face. “Did he have a cane?” She asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Carlisle said, turning his attention back to her. Esme’s eyes were wide with an emotion he dared say was fear. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Esme was off the couch and bolting after Edward. Carlisle followed out of pure confusion. 

“Edward, please,” she pleaded, running down the hallway.  

“Esme, stay,” Edward spat in a tone harsher than Carlisle had ever heard him use, throwing the front door open. 

“Edward, do not do anything to him.” 

“Go inside, Esme.” 

“No,” she grabbed his arm. He flinched but froze in his step, refusing to use force to remove her. “You are not to find him. I am pleading with you.” Her voice was close to a tearless sob. 

“Esme, the things he did to you,” Edward hissed. A statement that made Carlisle’s stomach turn. The things he did to you. The wedding portrait he had stored away in his medical bag. The man’s shock at the passing of her son. How Esme flinched every time someone raised their voice. No? 

Edward nodded brusquely in Carlisle’s direction. “He must be dealt with.”

“Edward.” 

“I will not kill him,” Edward said quietly, in a tone not entirely convincing. He placed one hand over Esme’s on his arm. “I promise.” 

“Who is this man?” Carlisle asked, stepping towards the two. Although he presumed he knew a fraction of the answer already. 

Esme glanced back at him eyes wide, mouth agape. Edward used her moment of distraction to pry himself away, marching towards the automobile. 

“Esme will explain. I will be back.”

“Edward, no.” 

The car engine roared to life. 

“Edward, please.” 

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake. 

“Edward, don’t.” 

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries eventually turned into explanations which turned into tearless sobs. 

When Edward finally did return it was with clean hands, finding Charles had unfortunately made his train and was out of Ashland, alive and well. 

#charles evenson #esme cullen #esme platt #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #my stories #twilight fanfiction #thank you thank you thank you to the anon who requested this!!

[jessicanjpa]

I lost the ask somehow, but @stregoni-benefici asked for 9, 10, and 11 for Esme using the Sensory Headcanons ask list:

9. (romantic) Favorite way to be touched?

(In bed) Esme loves the way Carlisle just...holds her after sex, sometimes for hours. It's one of those ways he couldn't be more different from Charles. She loves feeling safe in his arms, being surrounded by his scent for hours on end. It's also one of the few times she feels she has all of Carlisle—she can feel his complete relaxation, his complete absorption in her and her alone.

(Not in bed) This one is ironic, but Esme loves how Carlisle comes up behind her while she's working on something, puts his arms around her, and buries his face in the side of her neck to kiss her. It's ironic because Carlisle was careful not to do this sort of thing at first. It's generally unwise to startle newborns in any situation, and Esme was even more flinch-y than most because of her years with Charles. But now she loves it and Carlisle is comfortable doing it—and if she's concentrating hard enough on something, he's actually able to sneak up on her.

10. Something about their physical appearance they're embarrassed about

Lucky Esme is supposedly the only vampire to ever have jelly belly...? (the extra soft, wiggly skin on one's abdomen shortly after giving birth) more headcanons here

11. Something about their appearance they love?

Her hair! Esme has always loved her hair, but becoming a vampire really brought out the caramel highlights and made those gentle waves permanent. Another plus is that vampires can hold their arms up indefinitely to craft any style they can dream up.

#Inbox #Esme #Hair #Appearance #Body image #Sexytimes #Carlisle/Esme #Pregnancy #Charles Evenson #Domestic abuse #Ask list #Headcanons

[panlight]

#panlight polls #twilight renaissance

[needahugfromesme]

Still thinking about vampire Esme and human Carlisle...

Esme, a 16th-century England midwife and widow of potion dealer Charles Evenson, was sentenced to death by hanging in a witch trial for helping women get abortions and was transformed into a vampire when she was near death. A hundred years later she knew about the witch hunt in London led by old pastor Cullen. The old pastor died before she made it to London and the duty was handed over to his son Carlisle. On her way to kill Carlisle, they meet in a church. Their conversation and Carlisle's mention of scepticism made Esme realise that he didn't want to hurt innocent people, but he was still a vampire hunter, believing that they were demons and fallen souls. Somehow, Esme hesitated. Meanwhile, Carlisle, the naive young man, quickly falls in love with the immensely beautiful and intelligent woman he just met, before discovering she is a vampire...

#twilight #carlisle x esme #vampire esme x human carlisle #twilight au #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #don't know when i'll start writing the fanfic or finishing it but im trying #once I get the primary sources and structure of my new thesis chapter

[denalilily]

HIIII 2 4 5 15 pls :D

Hi!! twilight asks! I think?

2. who is your least favorite character? why?

hmmm maybe charles evenson or royce king? or carlisle and alistair's dads, don't remember much about them but I remember they sucked. there aren't any characters I hate or I just don't focus on them, but of the characters we actually meet in the books maybe renata (the sycophantic guard) or lauren

4. who is your favorite member of the wolf pack? why?

leah! I like her sarcastic attitude.

5. who is your favorite of the “humans?” why?

mike newton, he's such a meme

15. which character do you most want to have a spin-off? why?

definitely kate, not only because she's my fav character but I think seeing her thoughts would be so interesting. I've read a lot of denali coven fanfics but only a few oneshots are from kate's pov so that would be so cool! if the next twilight book were about kate's life with garrett and her coven after breaking dawn, it would immediately fix everything that's wrong with my life 🥹❤️

#asks

[twilightsleepjunkie]

“The bruises,” it was obvious the moment he saw her that she was hiding. Even if she were using her real name. She was too stiff when she spoke and her hands sat too prim by her sides.

He could excuse some of the mannerisms as a consequence to growing up and maturing in general, but Esme was trying to pose as someone else entirely.  

“Tell me,” a giddy smile flashed across Ms. Platt’s face and Carlisle caught a glimpse of the woman she used to be.  

“In your story, was it brutal? Did he die a horrible death?”

“I mentioned how he came back in pieces.” That part wasn’t a lie, more akin to a prediction; if Carlisle crossed paths with Charles Evenson.

#esme x carlisle #esme cullen #carlisle cullen #Small town doctor #Her baby lives #I don't have a title

[thehorrortree]

Submission Window: January 1st – January 7th, 2024 Payment: 3 cents per word for original fiction. 5k words = $150, 20 dollars for artwork chosen as interior content. Negotiable, 100 dollars for cover art. Negotiable. Theme: cosmic horror, Lovecraftian, and weird fiction and non-fiction essays that explore the state of horror as well as philosophies often found in cosmic horror Cosmic Horror Monthly is a horror and weird fiction magazine edited by Charles Tyra. Submission periods are twice yearly from January 1st – January 7th and July 1st – July 7th. January stories accepted will appear in issues July – December July stories accepted will appear in issues January – June SUBMISSION PROCEDURES We are now accepting non-fiction submissions as well as fiction. We would love to see non-fiction essays that explore the state of horror as well as philosophies often found in cosmic horror, i.e. pessimism, nihilism, existentialism, etc. Instructions: All writing must be submitted via email to [email protected]. When submitting, include a little background information about yourself in the body and attach the story in the form of a Microsoft Word file. Please include a word count and a brief synopsis of the work. For artwork, please put a link to the gallery/pieces in the body of the email along with any relevant background information. You may also attach example art. Acceptable file formats for attachments are DOC and DOCX for fiction, JPG, and PNG for art. The subject line of the email should read: “CHM Fiction Submission” for fiction, “CHM Non-Fiction Submission” for non-fiction, and “CHM Art Submission” for art. Guidelines Cosmic Horror Monthly is seeking cosmic horror, Lovecraftian, and weird fiction. If you aren’t sure if your work qualifies, submit it. No subject is off-limits and we do encourage writers to try and push the status quo. Please only submit a single story once and only submit one story per email. Multiple submissions are strongly discouraged. Every email will be checked! We are interested in stories written by human beings only. Simultaneous submissions are allowed. At this time, we are strongly favoring stories with a contemporary narrative style. Lovecraftian themes and mythos works are welcomed but try to avoid Lovecraft pastiche and styles mimicking that of his writer circle from the early 20th century. In terms of style, we are fans of Laird Barron, John Langan, Mike Allen, Hailey Piper, Brian Evenson, Thomas Ligotti, Jon Padgett, Gemma Files, Nicole Cushing, and more. Submit your manuscript in Shunn Standard Manuscript Format (Modern or Classic). Word Count: We are open to stories of 1000-5000 words. Stories in the range of 2500-4000 words are preferred. Art If you are an artist, please submit pieces that you feel might be fitting to appear on the cover or in the interior of the magazine. If it is helpful, the magazine runs at a size of 5.5 x 8.5 inches. We do not publish art that utilizes Artificial Intelligence (AI) in its creation. Payment 3 cents per word for original fiction. 5k words = $150 No reprints at this time. 20 dollars for artwork chosen as interior content. Negotiable. 100 dollars for cover art. Negotiable. To review rights, please request the artist/publisher or the writer/publisher contract. Questions/Problems Email [email protected] for all inquiries. Diversity Statement: We believe that the horror genre’s diversity is its greatest strength, and we wish that viewpoint to be reflected in our story content and our submission queues; we welcome submissions from writers of every race, religion, nationality, gender, and sexual orientation. Sexual themes and stories with strong sexual content are acceptable, but Cosmic Horror Monthly is not a market for erotica. If in doubt, feel free to send your story in and let us decide. Please no fan fiction for existing creative universes not in the public domain. The Cthulhu mythos is fair game but be careful using common or worn-out genre tropes—trust us, we’ve seen it all at this point.

We prefer to be surprised. If you’re not sure if your story is suitable, don’t query; please just go ahead and submit and let us decide. You are welcome to resubmit previously rejected stories if they have been significantly revised. Via: Cosmic Horror Monthly.

[queeryouthautonomy]

State march masterpost (updated as information comes in!)

All times are local time unless otherwise specified. Reblogs are off because this is a living, regularly updated post; please see our website or send an ask for more information! Post you can reblog is here. Alabama: Florence—114 W Mobile St -> 200 S Court St, 3/31, 3:30pm (link) Montgomery—Alabama State House, 3/31, 1pm (link)

Alaska: Anchorage—Dimond Center -> Costco Wholesale, 3/31, 12pm

Arizona: Prescott—Prescott Courthouse, 3/31, 2pm Sierra Vista—Fry and Coronado -> City Hall, 3/31, 3pm (link) Tuscon—Tuscon City Hall, 3/31, 4pm (link)

Arkansas: Eureka Springs—Basin Spring Park, 3/31, 6pm (link) Little Rock—Lucie’s Place, 3/31, 6pm Marion—Brunetti Park -> Marion City Hall, 3/31, 5pm

California: Castro Valley—Castro Valley High School (non-students please join in once the protest has left school grounds) -> Corner of Redwood Rd and Castro Valley Blvd, 3/30, 3:35pm (link) Fresno—N Blackstone Ave & E Nees Ave, 3/31, 4pm (link) Hollywood—Corner of Sunset & Vine, 3/30, 4:15pm Merced—3055 Loughborough Dr -> Laura's Fountain -Applegate Park 1045 W 25th St, 3/31, 4:30pm (link) Pomona—Pomona Pride Center 836 S -> City Hall, 3/31, 4pm (link) Riverside—Back To The Grind Coffee Shop –> Riverside City Hall, 3/31, 4pm (link) Sacramento—Capitol Complex, 3/31, 12pm (link) San Diego—Balboa Park at the Bea Evenson Foundation -> El Prado, 3/31, 5pm San Francisco—Corner of Turk & Taylor -> City Hall, 3/25, 11am (link) | Patricia's Green -> City Hall, 3/31, 2:15pm (link) San Jose—San Jose City Hall, 3/31, 5:30pm (link) Santa Ana—Brad Brafford LGBT Center on 4th, 3/31, 6pm (link)

Colorado: Denver—Civic Center Park, 3/17, 8:30pm | West Steps of the Capitol, 3/24, 11am (link)

Connecticut: Bristol—131 N Main Street, 3/31, 1pm Fairfield—Upper Quad of Sacred Heart University, 3/31, 4pm New Haven—corner of Chaple and Church St, 3/31, 4pm

Delaware: Wilmington—Delaware Historical Society –> Rodney Square, 3/31, 6pm (link)

District of Colombia: Union Station -> US Capitol, 3/31, 3pm (link)

Florida: Altamonte Springs—3/31, 9am (link) Naples—Cambier Park, 3/31, 6pm (link) Ocala—Pine Plaza -> City Hall, 3/31, 3:30pm Orlando—Dr Philips Performing Arts Center, 3/31, 11am Port Orange—Corner of Yorktowne Blvd. and Dunlawton Ave -> Port Orange Regional Library, 3/31, 4:30pm Tallahassee—state Capitol building, 3/31, 2pm (link) Venice—Town Center -> Venice Beach, 3/31, 10:30am

Georgia: Atlanta—state Capitol building, 3/31, 12pm (link) Dalton—3/31, 11am (link) Gainesville—Gainesville Square –> Jesse Jewell Parkway (in front of CVS), 3/31, 5pm Savannah—Forsyth Park -> City Hall & back, 3/31, 6pm

Hawaii: Honolulu—state Capitol building, 3/31, 3:30pm

Idaho: Boise—TBD Shelley—Shelley City Park, 3/31, 2pm

Illinois: Champaign—McKinley Foundation Church Chapel, University of Illinois, 3/31, 5:30pm Chicago—Grant Park, 3/31, 5pm Rockford—1005 5th Ave, 3/31, 5pm (link) Streamwood—7 Augusta Dr –> 7 S Sutton Rd, 3/31, 8am (link)

Indiana: Fort Wayne—Boone Street Playlot -> Allen County Courthouse, 3/23, 3pm (link) | Allen County Courthouse, 3/31, 5pm (link) Hanover—Hanover College Quad, 3/31, 1pm Indianapolis—433 N Capital Ave -> 1 Monument Circle, 3/31, 3pm Terre Haute—Terre Haute Courthouse, 3/31, 5pm

Iowa: Des Moines—state Capitol building (West Capitol Terrace Stage), 3/31, 6pm (link) Dubuque—Dubuque Courthouse -> Washington Park, 3/31, 4pm (link) Iowa City—Pentacrest -> Wesley Center, 3/31, 6pm (link)

Kansas: Lenexa—Lenexa Rec Center -> City Hall, 3/31, 5pm Topeka—state Capitol building entrance, 3/31, 5pm (link) Wichita—121 E Douglas Ave, 3/31, 4pm (link)

Kentucky: Frankfort—front of Annex Building, 3/29, 9:30am (link) | Kentucky State Capitol, 4/8, 1pm (link) Lawrenceburg—Anderson County Courthouse -> 44 Anna Mac Clarke Ave, 4/3, 3pm (link) Lexington—Robert F. Stephens Courthouse Plaza, 3/31, 4:30pm | Outside of the Old Fayette County Courthouse, 3/31, 6pm

Louisiana: Lake Charles—Prein Lake Park, 3/31, 12pm New Orleans—Washington Square Park 700 Elysian Fields Ave, 3/31, 5pm (link)

Maine: Bangor—West Market Square, 3/31, 6pm Portland—456 Congress St, 3/31, 6pm (link) Rockland—Intersection of Main Street and Park Street (near Walgreens and Maine Sport) –> Chapman Park, 3/31, 5:30pm

Maryland: Baltimore—400 E Biddle St, 3/31, 5pm Oakland—32 Oak St –> 305 E Oak St, 3/31, 3pm (link)

Massachusetts: Boston—state house, 3/18, 11am (link) | state house, 3/28, 10am (link) Sunderland—North Star, 45 Amherst Road, 3/31, 12pm

Michigan: Detroit—Woodward-Warren Park, 3/31, 5pm (link) Fenton—Rackham Park, 3/31, 6pm (link) Grand Rapids—Downtown, 3/31, 5pm Lansing—state Capitol building, 3/31, 11am

Minnesota: Saint Paul—state Capitol building, 3/31, 9am (link)

Mississippi:

Missouri: Columbia—701 East Broadway Blvd, 3/31, 5:30pm (link) | Uptown Columbia –> Downtown Columbia, 4/15, 9am Jefferson City—Missouri State Capitol, 3/29, 2pm (link) St Louis—11911 Dorsett Rd –> 715 NW Plz Dr, 4/27, 1pm

Montana: Missoula—Missoula Courthouse, 3/31, 5pm (link)

Nebraska: Lincoln—state Capitol building, 3/31, 5:30pm

Nevada: Las Vegas—Las Vegas TransPride Center -> The LGBTQ Center of Southern Nevada, 3/31, 11am (link)

New Hampshire: Keene—Keene State College Campus Main Entrance -> Center Square, 3/31, 5pm (link)

New Jersey: Flemington—Flemington Historic Courthouse -> Flemington DIY, 3/31, 3:45pm (link) Trenton—State House, 3/31, 3pm (link)

New Mexico: Albuquerque—Civic Plaza, 3/31, 5pm Santa Fe—State Capitol -> the Attorney General's office, 3/31, 11am

New York: Albany—Washington Square Park -> Capitol Park, 3/31, 1pm Canandaigua—7 Mill St, 3/31, 3pm Forest Hills—Forest Hills Station, 3/31, 2:30pm New Paltz—SUNY New Paltz Campus, 3/31, 3:30pm New York City—Union Square -> Washington Square Park, 3/31, 5pm (link) | Times Square, 3/31, 5pm Penn Yan—Yates County Courthouse, 3/31, 3pm (link) Plattsburgh—Hawkins Pond -> Samuel Champlain Monument Park, 3/23, 3pm Utica—Genesee-Parkway Intersection, 3/31, 5pm Westchester—SUNY Purchase College, 3/31, 5pm

North Carolina: Asheville—TBD Mooresville—Freedom Park -> Town Hall, 3/31, 2:30pm (link) Raleigh—John Chavis Memorial Park, 3/31, 1pm Wilmington—Historic Thalian Hall Steps, 3/31, 5pm (link)

North Dakota:

Ohio: Cleveland—Free Stamp @ Willard Park -> City Hall, 3/31, 4pm Cleveland Heights—City Hall, 3/31, 11am (link) Columbus—Goodale Park, 3/31, 5pm Dayton—Lily’s Dayton (329 E 5th St) –> Courthouse Square (23 N Main St), 3/31, 4pm Lakewood Park—Lakewood Park, 3/31, 4pm (link) Madison—Madison Village Square Park, 3/31, 4pm (link)

Oklahoma: Oklahoma City—Supreme Court of Oklahoma -> state Capitol building, 3/31, 5pm Tulsa—Central Library, 3/31, 4pm (link)

Oregon: Bend—Drake Park, 3/31, 5pm Hillsboro—Civic Center -> 145 NE 2nd Ave, 3/31, 5pm Medford—Vogel Plaza 200 E. Main Street, 3/31, 4pm Portland—Tom McCall Waterfront Park -> Pioneer Courthouse, 3/31, 2pm

Pennsylvania: Harrisburg—state Capitol building, 3/31, 1pm (link) Oil City—Oil City -> Franklin, 3/31, 8am Philadelphia—Temple University Bell Tower, 3/29, 1pm (link) | City Hall, 3/31, 6pm (link) Pittsburgh—City County Building, 3/31, 5pm (link)

Rhode Island: Providence—the Wheeler School -> state Capitol building, 3/31, 11:30am

South Carolina: Columbia—State House Grounds, 3/31, 2pm Greenville—300 S Main St, 3/31, 3pm (link)

South Dakota: Brookings—City Council Building, 3/31, 5pm (link) Rapid City—Main Street Square, 3/31, 5pm

Tennessee: Knoxville—Downtown Hilton, 3/31, 10:30am (link) | Gay Street & Market Square (where the water fountain markers are), 3/31, 2pm Memphis—Civic Center Plaza, 3/16, 4pm

Texas: Amarillo—Amarillo Chamber of Commerce -> Potter County Courthouse, 3/31, 5pm Austin—state Capitol building, 3/20, 9am (link) Dallas—Main St Garden Park 1902 Main St, 3/18, 12pm (link) | Pacific Plaza, 3/31, 3pm Houston—Discovery Green Park -> City Hall, 3/31, 11:30am Killeen—101 N College St -> 1114 N Fort Hood St, 3/31, 5:30pm Lubbock—Mahon Library parking lot -> county Courthouse, 3/31, 5pm San Antonio—San Antonio Courthouse, 3/31, 6:30pm (link)

Utah: Salt Lake City—state Capitol building, 3/31, 5pm (link)

Vermont: Montpelier—Montpelier State House, 3/31, 12pm (link)

Virginia: Richmond—Open High School -> state Capitol building, 3/31, 3pm

Washington: La Center—by the bridge into town, 3/31, 5pm Olympia—Heritage Park -> state Capitol building, 3/31, 3:30pm Seattle—SeaTac Airport Station, 3/31, 1pm | Volunteer Park -> Seattle Courthouse, 3/31, 4pm (link) Spokane—Cracker Building, 3/18, 12pm (link) Walla Walla—Pioneer Park -> Land Title Plaza, 3/31, 3:45pm (link) Wenatchee—Memorial Park, 3/31, 4pm

West Virginia: Charleston—3/31, 4:30pm

Wisconsin: Appleton—Houdini Plaza, 3/31, 10am (link) Janesville—Corner of East Court Street/Jackman Street -> Corner of West Court Street/South Locust Street, 3/31, 2pm Kenosha—Civic Center Park, 3/31, 12pm Madison—Library Mall, 3/18, 2:30pm (link) | 534 State St –> Wisconsin State Capitol, 3/31, 12pm Milwaukee—TBD

Wyoming:

CANADA: Toronto, Ontario 3/17, 3pm, US Consulate (link)

#queer youth assemble #march for queer and trans youth autonomy #queer youth #queer pride #queer #trans healthcare #trans rights #trans #trans day of visibility #transgender #activists #activism #youth rights #protest

[wastheheart]

Sacred Romantic Moments prompt

Carlisle said “you’re worthy of my love.”

Meme (thank you!)

She had a May wedding. She remembers how she mentioned perhaps having it on the farm, but the idea was scoffed at, brushed away immediately by her mother. No, she could not marry the respectable Charles Evenson on the farm.

The church it was.

She only ever attended for appearances, much preferring not to go at all. Even breaking her leg had not granted her respite from uncomfortable pews and regurgitated bible verses.

At least the had a bell tower. She remembered the cacophony of peeling bells when she arrived at the church. She was grateful for the noise, the way in which they drowned out her doubts and forced her through wooden doors. The noise continued as she left newly wed, the chaos a sign of what was to come.

She had never been worthy of Charles' love. She had never considered that he was incapable of loving or even the idea that it was he who was unworthy of her love.

Carlisle pulls her from her thoughts with his comment. She finds her body once more, Carlisle sitting opposite her on the windowseat. If she concentrates just a little harder, she can feel the glass of the window against her back and the windowsill beneath her.

She glances down at intertwined fingers resting against her lap. She's nervously fidgeting with her wedding ring— did she say he deserved someone better? Most likely, she has considered herself second hand—used goods—since remembering her marriage to Charles.

Carlisle doesn't let her avoid his gaze for long. Gentle fingers tilt her chin up, coaxing her to concentrate on his face as he repeats himself.

"You're worthy of my love."

She offers a lopsided smile, one that trembles with the effort to believe him. Eventually, she snakes arms around his hips as her head rests against his chest. She does it partly to hide the disbelief in her eyes and mostly to drown herself in his scent.

She had a May wedding, but she had never known anyone worth loving in that capacity until she found Carlisle.

They have eternity; perhaps she will learn to feel worthy of his love, yet.

#answered ask #c; carlisle cullen #;nonnie #v; undetermined

[shewastheheart]

ooh so we're doing prompts now? in that case: Esme and Carlisle high school AU?

A/N: Well, this is exciting! I love prompts so thank you very much :)

Set in Esme's era of the early 1900s.

-

“Is there any chance we could eventually decide on a new meeting spot?” Carlisle grunts, following her up the thinning branches of the trees. 

Esme laughs down at him, the sound like the soft song of a bell. “Come on, Cullen. Use those muscles.”

He huffs up at her in annoyance, but they both know it’s feigned. They both know he would follow her anywhere. 

The tree house preceded them in existence, built unknown and what he presumed had to be ages ago. They had no idea if it was actually safe or sturdy enough to spend as much time as they do inside the makeshift home of wooden planks. But it was Esme’s favorite place to be, so naturally, it had become his too. 

When they made it to the tree house’s ledge, Esme hoists herself up using the rope they’d tied to one of the branches protruding through the walls inside. Per usual, he looks away, avoiding the precarious flutter of her skirt at her knees. He follows her in by clutching the hand she offers for leverage.

The boards of wall were covered in Esme’s sketches and paintings, her sketchbook and art supplies tucked safely in a box they’d brought up in the summer upon finding the place. Her passion nestled next to his, the study materials for medical school and the poetry books buried inside so his father would never find them. 

It was here they could both be their true selves, with no judgment from parents or peers. Here, they could dream and laugh. She avoided the scrutiny of her parents, the criticism that stole her girlhood, and he could dodge his father’s harsh words and even harsher hands. 

His father had never liked him, not after his mother died in delivery. The local pastor had an affinity for secret drinking to forget it all, the alcohol coaxing his usual quiet rage to the surface; Carlisle was the perfect target. Esme never saw the bruises, but he knew she suspected things. She was too observant for her own good. 

“How’d you make it past him today?” she inquires now, lighting an oil lamp in the corner, careful to drag it away from the wall. 

“He wasn’t home yet,” Carlisle answers evenly, dropping to his haunches in front of the keepsake box. “I’ll think of something before we get back. What are you going to tell yours?”

“That I’m out with one of my many suitors, learning the intricate delicacy of becoming a housewife,” she muses. She joked about it a lot, but he knew her parents’ expectations infuriated her on the inside, the constant push for marriage, the lack of interest in her even completing her education. Esme wanted to go to college, to make something of her life; her parents wanted her to let Charles Evenson court her.

“Do they think you’re out with Charles?” he asks next.

She shoots him a look. “Perhaps. They never seem to respond well to me spending hours with my best friend who is a male, three years older than me, and protestant.”

“Isn't Evenson older than you? And is he even Jewish?”

“I think it has more to do with his family name and the money behind it,” she mutters. “Isn’t that why your dad hates me? Family name and lack of money?”

“My father hates no one but me,” Carlisle chuckles, plopping to the floor and resting his back to the wall. “But ultimately, I think he wants me in chapel, training for my future.”

“Hard to train to become a world famous doctor in a church,” she murmurs, settling beside him and bumping her shoulder to his.

He offers her a soft smile, he can’t help it. No one’s ever had faith in him before, but she does. He has no idea why, but Esme believes in him more than he thinks he may believe in God. 

“I'm going to graduate soon, Carlisle,” she says conspiratorially, curling her knees up and letting them brush his side, “Then we’re going to get out of here, you and me.”

He turns his head to stare over at her, finds her already waiting with liquid green eyes and a tender smile. His gaze unthinkingly falls to her lips. 

He’s wanted to kiss her for years now, ever since he met her.

He swallows hard and drops his forehead against hers instead. “Promise?”

He can see her lashes fluttering, blinking furiously as if to clear a haze before she finds herself again.

“Of course,” she chuckles, reaching for his arm and squeezing. “I’ll go wherever you wanna go, Carlisle. Anywhere but here.”

-

Esme usually meets him every day after school in the forest behind her house. Neither of them rarely go home beforehand unless necessary, but Carlisle has to pass his on his way here from the school and sometimes gets delayed.

She’s been waiting for over half an hour.

She frowns and glances to the darkening forest, wondering if there’s a chance he went in without her, if he’s already waiting in the tree house. 

She debates for a long moment before trekking into the maze of trees and brush she’s carved a path through many times before. If he isn’t there, then that means he was caught on his way and she’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see him.

She’s halfway through the ten minute walk when it starts to drizzle, the darkening clouds bleeding into the darkening sky and releasing downpour. Esme hastens her walk to a run, her book bag slapping against her back at she races to the tree. 

The lamp in the tree above is lit.

She begins to climb, nearly slipping a couple of times, huffing as she finally reaches the top. Peering over the edge of the landing just to ensure it is him in there, she sees Carlisle sitting on the floor, back to the wall and head tilted back exposing his profile. His eyes are closed and a frown is carved deep into his mouth. She wants to draw him, trace the outline of his throat with her pencil, follow it with the tips of her fingers. 

Esme shakes the thoughts away and climbs the rest of the way inside, shaking the dampened curls of her hair. It’s then that she sees the floor, covered in ripped pages.

Her heart sinks as she silently plucks the first scrap of paper her fingers touch from the ground, one of his anatomy book pages torn. He doesn’t stir until she’s nearly across the tiny room, blinking as if emerging from a daze. 

“Esme?”

That is also when she sees the entirety of his face. His left cheek is slashed with a cut, his eye blackened and swelling.

He stands as she gasps, closing the distance to better inspect, but he catches her wrists when her hands rise to his face. 

“It’s fine,” he whispers, and outrage pools like fire in her veins.

“This is not fine,” she hisses, tears stinging her eyes unexpectedly. “I know he did this, I know it was him-”

“It doesn’t matter!” he growls, dropping her wrists and turning away from her. “None of it matters anymore. He - he’s sending me away for leadership training in the city. I finally told him it’s not what I want, that I wanted to heal people in a different way. I told him I was twenty-one and he couldn’t force me to do this and - well, he disagreed.”

Esme bit down on her lip and followed his retreat from her, tentatively touching his chin with trembling fingertips. He let her, staring down at her with sorrow that bled from the ocean blue of his eyes.

“Let’s just go now,” she breathes, watching the storm raging in those eyes threaten to settle, confusion like a lightning bolt of calm. “We can leave, we can-”

“Esme, we can’t,” he whispers sullen. “You haven’t graduated, neither of us has any real money, we can't-”

“I can still go to school, so can you, we can just live somewhere else and-”

“No,” he quiets her, placing gentle hands on her shoulders. “We can’t just... we have to think this through better, longer.”

“You’re not going back there,” she gets out, shaking her head furiously before reaching forward to wrap her arms around his neck.

He stands there, stock still for a long moment. Carlisle is not used to affection, the soft nudge of her shoulder or the gentle press of her forehead to his always a breath-stealing instance that passes far too quickly between them. But right now? She needs him as much as she'd like to believe he needs her.

She's not letting go.

-

She's not letting go, so he wraps his arms around her slim waist.

They stay like that for a long time, her quiet breathing settling his pounding heart, and he lets his body relax into hers.

The rain pounds on the wooden walls of their tree house, his secret sanctuary found with her. Esme is soaking wet against him, the drench of her clothing bleeding into his, but he doesn't care. He wants to stay like this forever.

But then Esme is pulling back, one of her arms retracting to lift between them. He closes his eyes as he thin fingers rise to his cheek, scaling the length of his swollen flesh, her fingertips like ice to the searing pain surrounding his eye.

"Oh, Carlisle," she whispers mournfully, those tender fingers traipsing downwards to linger at his chin.

He hesitates, not wanting to see the ache of pity for him, but slowly opens his eyes again.

Her gaze is trailing down his cheek, examining the cut from his father's ring, but then they are falling to his lips.

"You need ice," she mumbles, but her thumb is touching his bottom lip now, tracing the outline of his mouth.

Carlisle leans forward tentatively, just to rest his forehead to hers as they so often do, but Esme is lifting on her toes, their noses brushing.

"Esme." He doesn't know what else to say, just her name - a question, a request, a plea all in one.

Her lashes are fluttering at her cheeks, her pale skin glistening with raindrops, and then she is pressing her lips to his, uncertain and shy and the most beautiful thing he's ever experienced.

-

Carlisle stiffens completely under the touch of her mouth, but only for a moment. Neither one of them know what they're doing, but all she's ever known with certainty is that she loves this boy and she's wanted to kiss him since they found this treehouse.

His hands slip up the curve of her spine to cup her cheeks, his lips moving to fit against hers more properly, like a puzzle piece they've been looking for for months.

Esme sighs and holds his inflamed cheek in her palm while her other tangles through the fine, blonde locks of his hair.

Her heart is beating like a nervous bird in her chest, fluttering hard and frantic against her ribs, taking flight when Carlisle kisses her again and again and again.

"I want to go," he breathes against the part of her lips. "Wherever you go."

Her mouth breaks into a smile against his and she kisses him once more.

"Good."

-

Carlisle wraps her in the blanket they keep in the corner, curling her close against him as they settle in against the wall. They talk for hours, like always, this time about his father, everything he's never told her. She holds his hand, fingers twined securely through his, head tucked under his chin with her cheek flat against his collarbone.

"You'll just stay here tonight. I'll pack a bag and meet you in the morning when I leave for school. I have enough money saved for train tickets."

"Where do you want to go?" Carlisle asks.

"Columbus," she shrugs against him. "Or we can leave Ohio entirely. Where do you want to go to med school?"

"Esme," he chuckles, running fingers through the wild curls of her hair, still damp and drying from the rain. "It's not all about med school."

"I know," she huffs, shifting against him to sit up, her green eyes brimming with possibilities when they meet his. "But I'm happy to teach anywhere, Carlisle. I know you've studied more medical institutions and colleges than I've cared to look at for my degree. I know you have a preference."

To be honest, it's been forever since he even thought about where to go. His dream for the longest time now has simply been to leave their small town in Ohio, with her.

He sighs. "Okay, how about... Chicago?" he throws out, expecting her to scoff at him, but instead, her eyes light up.

"Okay," she agrees, smiling broadly at him. "There will be more opportunity there, more progression, it'll likely be easier for me to get into a new high school, fast track to my graduation, and then we can go to university together and-"

He's grinning when he leans forward to kiss her.

-

Esme leaves him that night with reluctance, hating the idea of him being alone, especially after all he's gone through. But if she doesn't arrive home soon, her parents will notice her absence and their plans will surely be dashed.

She promises to return within the next few hours, sealing the words with a firm kiss his mouth that has his fingers fisting in the collar of her shirt.

She packs and hardly sleeps, rising with the sun and leaving with her school bag slung over her shoulder, absent of books, filled instead with clothing, some food, and money stolen from her parents.

Esme moves through the woods with bated breath, her heart accelerating as the tree house comes into view. She climbs the branches as fast as she can, leaving her book bag on the forest floor, but when she reaches the entry to the room... no one is there.

"Carlisle?" she calls softly, feeling like a fool for it, but - but why isn't he here? She knows him, knows he would never just leave without telling her, without leaving her some kind of clue. Climbing inside, she notices a few drops of blood that were not there last night, the paper rippings now cleared from the floor.

But upon further inspection, there is nothing else. No sign of Carlisle at all.

Something in her heart plummets to her stomach, hope roiling in acid, but she forces it away and folds her legs beneath her to sit against the wall.

He'll come back for her, he will. She'll just wait.

And she does, all day long. She waits so long that her father eventually treks out into the woods searching for her, probably noticing she never came home from school that day.

She remains hidden in the tree house until the distant shouts of her name disappear, knowing she needs to formulate some kind of reason for why she was out so late, but her mind feels numb.

Carlisle is gone and he left without her.

#twilight fanfiction #esme cullen #carlisle cullen #twilight au #twilight #esme x carlisle #carlesme #tw: domestic violence #anon #prompt! #my writing #this went from exciting to horrible real quick #i'm sorry!

[palmofafreezinghand]

under the apple trees

Charles Evenson searches for his wife in 1920 and finds something haunting under the apple trees, or Charles thinks he killed his wife. on ao3 here. content warnings: references to domestic violence, sexual assault, burying alive, murder, and alcohol abuse.

June 16, 1920.

Charles Evenson awoke to the feeling of an ice pick piercing his skull. The sip of bootlegged whiskey he presumed to be water, had last night’s dinner threatening to make itself known. As the wrinkles in his face deepened — making him look like his father more each passing day — his tolerance for the drink that once sustained his youth deteriorated. 

He stumbled to the bathroom, tripping over his own feet as he squinted to avoid the rising sun peeking through the blinds. He had asked his wife to replace the flimsy lace curtains to something more substantial. She refused, whining she had spent hours crocheting them while he was away. He didn’t have the energy to fight her. 

The bathroom door was closed, a sliver of light telling him his wife was holed up in there, again. The same sight and pain in his head had greeted him the morning prior, and the one before that. 

Naively he had presumed she was avoiding him, throwing one of her hysteric fits after a disagreement. The memory of their fight had evaded him, the cause long forgotten. What remained was dried blood caked to his knuckles, pools of rust-colored stains on their bedsheets, and a knife lodged in the kitchen countertop. 

That morning, unlike the two previously, he twisted the doorknob. His shoulders straightened, preparing for one of their early morning fights. It was a habit of theirs. The oak door creaked open to reveal an empty room. 

“Hello?” He muttered. The only response he received was the flicker of the overhead light. 

The impending disagreement escalated. He let the anger simmer as he went about his routine; using the restroom, showering, cooking himself a breakfast he burned, smoking a cigarette without opening a window. 

He half-heartedly searched the rest of the house, paying closer attention to her typical hiding places. She was nowhere to be found. The impending battle jumped another pitch, his nails dug into his palm. 

She had insisted on publicly embarrassing him before. Less than a month into marriage, after she had pushed him too far, she had run off to her parents. A weekend with her cousin for Christmas had turned into a week. He was forced to traipse all the way out to Milwaukee. He refused to acknowledge how exhilarating those fights had been. The hours spent sitting in ugly silence as a train engine chugged along, a tea kettle at a near boiling point for an uncomfortable, unnatural amount of time until the kettle nearly exploded. A shrill scream as a room was drowned in blinding steam. 

A thrill ran down his spine as he began to think of the hunt. It was cut abruptly by the realization she may not be hiding but hidden.      

———————   

He pulled his automobile off the dirt farm road, parking in between dense rows of fruit trees he knew well. Despite its density, Charles knew the orchard had not turned a profit in nearly a decade. The peaches were never quite sweet enough, the apples never red enough, the plums too tart. 

The Platt’s grove had made a brilliant hiding place for Charles over the years. In the few months they courted, they had secretly met in the orchard a handful of times, away from her mother’s grating inquisitiveness. 

Once they were married, many months in, he had met another woman among the trees. One less stubborn, who did not pester, a woman whose name he could not, nor cared to, remember. He had met a half dozen forgettable women thereafter. 

A little over a year into their marriage, in the middle of the night he had raced to the grove. His wife wrapped in a bed sheet lying lifeless on the back bench seat. Frantically he had dug a grave under the apple trees, under the light of his headlights and the full moon. Four scoops of dirt had been thrown into the shallow grave —  making a point to cover her face first — when she screamed. He helped her out, and they went home and never spoke again. 

Less than a month later, after one particularly loud argument, he snuck back onto the property, spending most of the night digging the small hole into a proper grave. He covered the grave with a board and leaves, telling himself it was a precaution. He would never need it.  

When he returned from the front the times he thought he would need it were countless — countless fights and snide remarks — but he had never used it, at least not as a grave. An occasional barrel from his friends in New Straitsville had been stored in the hole to avoid his wife’s nagging. 

The engine shut off as he stepped out of the car, scanning the night. It smelled like rain and wet soil. The cicadas screamed, a deafening incessant buzz. 

He looked for the heart he had carved in the trunk of an old apple tree; hoping if someone ever discovered the symbol they would suspect adolescent antics, not a morbid gravestone. The trunks looked as if they went on for miles, rows, and rows of evenly spaced trees taunting him. 

He walked further into the grove, twigs crunching under his boots, his step quickening. The sun was almost done rising, the old farmer was undoubtedly moving about his routine, unaware of the potential disaster lurking in his yard. 

Charles could foresee one of the old hounds digging up the grave, dropping her femur at the front door. He shook his head violently, the ice pick returning to its familiar place in his skull. 

She was hiding, throwing a fit, mocking him. She was not buried hundreds of feet from her childhood home at the hands of her husband. 

His search was a precaution, he would not kill his wife. 

The boy’s face flickered across his mind. He shook his head. That was different, war. His life had been on the line, anyone would have done that. 

He was not evil. His wife’s screams echoed in his brain, her pleading, the words ‘no, God no,’ beat in his brain like a pulse. The blood, hers, under his nails, on his knuckles, the bruise on his forearm. Disagreements, like any other married couple. 

They had disagreements, but it wasn’t the only thing they had. The happy moments. Summer evenings were spent watching the neighborhood as they sat on the porch swing, nursing a drink. The feast she had cooked when he returned home after sixteen months. The taste of apple pie, the promise he made to do better, her genuine smile. The first time he had brought her to his house, she had prattled on about decorations and Christmas stockings. The moment they learned she was expecting, and every moment after, the bump, the kicks, the nursery that would never be used. 

The light of his lantern fell on a mound of fresh dirt, five feet long, and three feet wide. Shit. Shit. Shit.

No. 

She was not dead. 

He did not kill her. 

He had not held a pathetic burial for a pitiful woman, and forgotten entirely. 

No. 

Excuses for the public began racing through his head: she ran in the middle of the night, it was a complete surprise. No, that would lead to questions about why she would leave him. She could not handle the grief any longer. She slipped on the stairs. 

He could move, let her slip from everyone’s memory as he lived a life without her. 

“Charles?” A deep voice called out through the trees. 

Charles's head snapped to attention. “Hello, George,” he called to the father-in-law he had not seen in nearly four years. 

He needed an excuse, now, because she was, he did, and he had. Or at least that’s what he believed. 

#charles evenson #esme cullen #esme platt #cw domestic abuse #my stories #this scene is referenced in charles evenson's very unlucky day and bride of cullen and i think one more but i couldn't find it #one day i'll make one of those boards with string with all the stories referenced in other stories

[jessicanjpa]

Mad hatter and King of Hearts and you tell me who you want to tell me about. :)

(from the An OC's Adventures in Canonland ask game)

Mad Hatter: How would the story be different if they weren't around?

A little corner of Edward's brain still blames Margaret Weiss for his slippery slope in 1927. She was a delicious nobody, just a girl who sat next to him in Biology. Not a singer, but some people really do smell better than others. Edward got a little... studious about Margaret's scent during a time of adolescent moral upheaval and it soon devolved into having fantasies about killing her. He very nearly did kill her on his way out of town, but fortunately Charles Evenson popped into his head and the whole thing became more heroic from that moment on. To this day, Edward thinks "If she hadn't been around, maybe those thoughts would have come and gone without incident."

They would not have. Edward needed those rebellious years, so they were going to happen no matter what.

King of Hearts: How are they most likely to die (If already dead, how did they die?)

When death came up, I immediately consulted my list of red shirt OCs. Let's talk about Sergeant Lockewood! He was in Jasper's Confederate regiment, the Texas Fifth Cavalry, and the one who accompanied him on the evacuation mission to Houston. This poor guy was never going to amount to much, but at least he was superstitious enough to take the vampire rumors seriously. Jasper laughed in his face.

Lockewood didn't get a Yankee bullet like the others. The cause of death was, you guessed it, Jasper. (I haven't written this one yet.)

#inbox #wow apparently I never gave Lockewood a first name?? #eh *shrugs* red shirt #for non-Trekkies that means he was invented solely for the purpose of being dispensable #OC: Margaret Weiss #OC: _____ Lockewood #Edward #Jasper #ask game

[panlight]

They are all real characters I promise

Max - J. Jenks' assistant, the one who goes on and on about how hawt vampire!Bella is (that's his only purpose, I think).

Kevin - one of the newborns in Bree Tanner, Raoul's second-in-command. Bree is sent hunting with him in the opening scene.

Lizzie - that random girl at the park in Breaking Dawn who likes cars and Jacob tries desperately to imprint on. If only. (Also just realized that she has the name Renesmee should have had! Lizzie is almost certainly short for Elizabeth).

Shelly - another newborn from Bree Tanner. She falls in love with a newborn named Steve and they ran away together. Riley told the others they died in the sun. Also would accept Mrs. Cope, the receptionist as the high school as her first name is also Shelly.

Charles (not Evenson or Swan. A different one) - the mate of Makenna in Breaking Dawn. He has some lie detecting/truth knowing power that his somehow different than Maggie of the Irish coven's.

Katie Marshall - one of the high school kids, she's dating Eric Yorkie in New Moon and takes Bella's job at Newton's when she leaves.

Austin Marks - Ben Cheney's best friend, apparently, and the older brother of the kid who sold Bella the motorcycles. This was the one I was like "who?!?!" about when I was on the wiki. No memory of him at all.

[divescustos]

in his rebellious period, even while dealing with the monsters he did, edward never made them suffer, he had his evidence, he knew what they were and what they had done. much as he would put his animal prey out of its misery before drinking, he did the same with the men he murdered.

except one.

edward's first victim suffered at his hands. justice, in his mind. vengeance, in the voice of his father. but he was broken long before edward finally drank, letting the blood loss eventually kill him. it wasn't pleasant, laced with drugs and alcohol, but edward relished it all the same.

charles evenson, he argued, deserved it for what he had done to esme.

#☾ ⟶ ❝ headcanon ❞

[cullentorn]

“You provided us with a common enemy. You allied us."

Name: Edward Cullen.

Age: 18/100

Species: Vampire

Backstory:

Edward is the adoptive son of Carlisle and Esme Cullen, as well as the son-in-law of Charlie Swan and Renée Dwyer. He is the adoptive brother of Emmett and Alice Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale.

Edward Anthony Masen was born on June 20, 1901 in Chicago, Illinois; the only child of Edward and Elizabeth Masen. His father provided Edward with many advantages as a successful lawyer, including music lessons and the opportunity to attend private school; however, he and his father were rather emotionally distant due to his busy career that often drew him away from home for business. This absence was made up for by his relationship with his mother; he was the center of her life.

Edward excelled at his studies and became an accomplished pianist. As he grew older, Edward became enamored with the life of a soldier. World War I raged during most of his adolescence, and Edward dreamed of joining the army as soon as he turned 18, which he reminisced about in Midnight Sun, saying that his love for his mother was the only thing that made him reluctant to the thought other than his underage. That changed, however, when he and his parents became sick with the Spanish Influenza in 1918. His father died in the first wave of the influenza. Edward's mother later contracted the Spanish Influenza and begged the doctor who was taking care of them, Dr. Carlisle Cullen, to do everything within his power to save her son. (Elizabeth: "You must do everything in your power. What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward.") Carlisle acted on her wishes when Edward was near death himself. Shortly after Elizabeth died, Carlisle took Edward from the hospital, brought him to his house, and there changed him into a vampire.

Edward formed a deep bond with Carlisle, who became a father figure to him, gaining Edward's trust and love the way his natural father never had. It was Carlisle who first realized Edward's telepathic abilities; he noticed Edward answering questions that Carlisle had not asked aloud. Edward had always had a knack for reading people; after his transformation, this ability blossomed into a true psychic talent. In 1921, Edward gained a mother when Carlisle changed Esme into a vampire to save her life after her suicide attempt. Edward was still young enough to appreciate a mother's care, and Esme gave it to him.Edward during his period of rebellion.

Edward did have a rebellious period at the beginning of his vampire life and left Carlisle and Esme in 1927. During his lone time, he used his mind reading ability to attack the worst people of society, thinking that, as long as he was serving justice, it would not matter that he was feeding on humans. His first victim was Esme's abusive ex-husband, Charles Evenson. A few years later, he regretted this decision and returned to Carlisle's family and their diet of animal blood in 1931. In 1933, Carlisle changed a would-be socialite named Rosalie Hale into a vampire after finding her left for dead by her fiancé. Carlisle and Esme were sometimes concerned that he had no romance in his life, which was partly what prompted Carlisle to change Rosalie. However, as stunningly beautiful as Rosalie was, Edward could not stand her shallow and self-absorbed mind, and the two became nothing more than siblings, and weren't always on good terms. In 1935, Emmett McCarty joined the family when Rosalie found him near death from a bear attack and fell in love with him. Already vampires, Jasper and Alice sought out and found the Cullens in 1950, and adopted themselves into the family after both escaping their tragic pasts. The moment they arrived, Alice moved into Edward's room, much to his dismay.

When the Cullen family were living in Alaska, they encountered the Denali coven, the only other group that shared their diet of animal blood. The leader Tanya showed affection toward Edward, but he did not share that interest.

Edward and his family have moved to Beacon Hills, resuming him in his education again, hoping to keep a low profile.

#beaconhillshqintro

[queenofglassbeliever]

I refuse to acknowledge that Esme ever used the Evenson name when she no longer had to. I know that when she married Charles she took his name, but I belive that when she ran away from him and she posed as a war widow she went back to using her maiden name.

Esme was in a whole new state. No one knew Esme Platt in Ashland, Wisconsin. No one knew that Platt wasn't her married name.

#esme cullen #the twilight saga #twilight #twilight renaissance #esme platt #esme anne platt #esme anne cullen #twilight saga #twilight books #twilight series