#and not a blossom end rot in sight!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! finally achieved it

[tomatoluvr69]

You wish you were me so fucking bad right now…

#and not a blossom end rot in sight!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! finally achieved it #garden is ridiculously overgrown bc of 3 weeks no maintenance… #but mostly all the beautiful full sized tomatoes rotting on the vine made me sad like you guys should have at least eaten some… #ah well I knew that by going backpacking at the height of Tomato harvest I’d be making some sacrifices lol #garden #tomatoposting #and this is like. one third of the patch lol #literally couldn’t get to the rest without stepping on plant overgrowth but there are a bunch of full size slicers too

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book Four: War (Gladiolus x Reader) Chapter Fifteen

When morning came, Gladio and (Y/n) left their room and headed to the lobby. There, they found Ignis and Prompto chatting while Noctis was fast asleep in one of the cushy chairs.

The blonde was the first to spot the couple and pointed at them. "Y-You two..."

The shield eyes the marksman in confusion. "What about us?"

"Did the dirty!"

(Y/n)'s mouth open and closed in shock. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or be annoyed at his accusation. She decided to set the record straight instead. "Not sure where you got that idea, but we didn't do the "dirty"."

Prompto blinked in surprise. "Th-Then what was with all the noises?"

She grinned. "That was the sound of Gladio losing every round we played. He wouldn't give up until he won, but he gave in after the twentieth round of blackjack."

Gladio threw his arm around the girl's shoulders, pulling her into his side. "Little lady's one helluva blackjack player."

Noctis suddenly awoke from his nap when someone accidentally bumped into the chair. Seeing everyone was gathered, he got to his feet with a yawn. "We ready to head to the first secretary's estate?"

"Yes, let's," Ignis said.

They left the Leville and made their way to Camelia's estate. They took a few wrong turns due to Noctis' poor sense of direction, but they eventually arrived at their destination. The raven-haired boy addressed the guard on duty and headed into the estate, forced to leave behind everyone else.

While the four of them waited patiently for the negotiations to end, Prompto began pacing back and forth. He was becoming impatient and couldn't bear the silence between him and his friends.

Suddenly, the blonde screamed out in fright when someone appeared in front of him. He jumped back, nearly tripping over himself in the process. He placed a hand over his racing heart. "You were right, big guy. They're everywhere!"

(Y/n) greeted her sable-haired sister. "Haven't seen you in a while, Death. Looking as pale as usual."

Death snorted at War's humor. "Nice to see your sense of humor is still intact, Sis."

"Now I've finally met them all," Gladio spoke up.

The two Horsemen glanced at the shield before back at each other. "Anyway, I did some scouting of Altissia," Death said with a serious expression. "I had a small run-in with the high commander."

The redhead sighed. "Please tell me he doesn't have the dullahan's head..."

Death purses her lips slightly. "That...would be a lie."

"Dammit..."

"I did manage to eavesdrop and learn what he plans to do with the head. He plans on using it to cooperate with the dullahan, hoping it will do his bidding during the rite."

"That sounds...really bad," Prompto said.

"Altissia will be a slaughterhouse if that damned monster shows up," War stated.

"Which is why Pestilence, Famine, and myself have already begun evacuation details. We've also taken the liberty of setting up a few traps around the city," Death explained.

"What does the high commander hope to achieve by utilizing such a creature?" Ignis asked.

"To prevent Noctis from gaining the Tidemother's favor. Ravus will most likely cut a deal with the dullahan."

"What kinda deal?" Prompto inquired.

"If the dullahan manages to kill Noctis, Ravus will reward it by returning its head."

"I need to find that head," (Y/n) said. "It's somewhere in the city. I hope I can find it before the rite."

"Need a hand?" Gladio offered.

"Death and I can handle this."

"Well then, ready to start looking?" Death pondered.

"Yeah. Let's go."

The two Horsemen vanish. They reappeared on the opposite end of Altissia. Death looked around the now empty area. "This is where I spotted the high commander with the head."

War sniffed the air. She grimaced when receiving a whiff of the dullahan's head. "Well, the head was definitely here. It's starting to rot..." She turned to face her sister. "Any idea on which way Ravus went?"

"No idea," she nonchalantly replied. "Let's look around."

Death and War examine the area closely. They searched for any inkling that would lead them in the right direction. However, they couldn't find a single clue. (Y/n) gritted her teeth, clenching her fists. "There's nothing here. This place is a dead end."

"I'll check the southern part of the city. You search the western part." Without waiting for a response, Death vanished. War made her way down the street, noticing it was getting busier and busier. She scanned the crowd, sniffing the air. It was a mixture of flowers, fresh bread, and the one odor she was hoping to detect-rotting flesh. It was much stronger than earlier.

Pushing through the people and muttering small apologies as she did so, she did her best to follow the foul scent. She ran up and down streets in haste, hoping her search would be short and she'd be able to annihilate the dullahan before it could be used by the empire.

Eventually, War followed the scent to an alleyway. It was strong, but she couldn't tell from which direction the odor was coming from. She frantically looked around, huffing in annoyance. Continuing to search, she managed to enter another alleyway. This one was far from the main streets and was dark. The buildings blocked any sunlight that could possibly illuminate the area. Checking the darkest corners, she found the remains of a magitek trooper. (Y/n) kicked it in the side, making sure it was lifeless. When it didn't move, she kneeled down and examined the hollow machine.

Analyzing the damage to the machine's exterior, War realized the rotting odor was emanating from it. Her nose wrinkled at the horrid stench. "Guess this magitek handled the head..."

Just then, Death reappeared. She kneeled next to her sister, eyes focused on the dead machine. "What an awful stench..."

"Pretty sure it still doesn't compare to the wendigos."

"True. Those things smell like rotting corpses that were left out in the sun."

"That's...really specific," War mumbled.

The sable-haired girl clapped her hands together and immediately changed the subject. "Anyway, I think I found something. Follow me."

(Y/n) followed Death through the streets of Altissia. They eventually reached a less populated area where people were few and far between. Heading to the waterway, they stopped at the edge. War easily saw what her sister wanted her to see. There was a dead body of a young woman splayed out on the ground. Blood seeped from the wound on her chest, her wide eyes void of life. The redhead gasped in shock. She recognized the pattern of the wound. "The dullahan's already here?"

"This area is off-limits to civilians. It's being guarded by a small force of imperials already in the city," Death explained. "And that horrid stench is everywhere."

(Y/n) could only think of one possibility. "The high commander must've sectioned off this area of Altissia as a location to deal with the dullahan. As a pre-payment, he handed over a civilian to the monster. That would explain the body and the putrid odor."

"But how is the dullahan here without any of us sensing it?"

"That, I'm not sure."

War held up her hand, but Death stopped her. "What're you doing?"

"Burning the body. If someone else were to find it, the entire city might panic before the rite thinking there's a killer loose on the streets. The entire rite might be cancelled if the first secretary learned of the corpse."

Death released her sister's hand and let her burn the body. The corpse was soon a small pile of ash, but the smell of burning flesh added to the rotting odor veiling the area. "Now it really stinks..."

All of a sudden, War sensed someone behind them. Turning around, she saw Noctis, Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis. "What're you all doing here?"

"Pestilence informed us of your location," Ignis replied.

"So, what's going on?" Prompto wondered, glancing between the two Horsemen.

Death took it upon herself to share the gruesome nature of their finds. She even shared War's theory. Noctis couldn't believe what she was saying. "You really think the empire would just hand someone over to that thing?"

"They destroyed your home," War remarked. "You really think killing one more person is impossible?"

"Good point..."

Just then, (Y/n) noticed a red dot travel across the prince's body before settling on his forehead. Realizing what it was, she acted quickly and pushed him out of the way. The sound of a rifle being fired was the last she heard before a severe pain surged through her head and she collapsed.

Death, seeing the bullet pierce War's head, turned around to search for the sniper. When she found them, she disappeared and teleported to their location. Noctis was still in shock, staring at (Y/n)'s lifeless body.

"Get Noct out of here," Gladio demanded, looking at Ignis.

Ignis escorted Noctis back to the Leville. Prompto placed a hand over his mouth when he inaudibly gasped. "W-Was that...?"

"An assassin," Gladio answered as he fell to his knees beside the Horseman. He carefully placed a hand on her cheek, turning her face towards him. Seeing her lifeless (e/c) eyes and the bullet hole in her forehead, he gritted his teeth in anger.

The blonde was clearly still in shock from the sudden attempt on Noctis' life. "If (Y/n) hadn't done that..."

"Noct would be dead, I know," the shield hissed. His eyes were focused on the bullet hole in the girl's forehead. When seeing no signs of healing, his thoughts raced back to the time she appeared in Malmalam Thicket severely wounded. The feeling of losing her again blossomed inside him.

As Gladio went to search his pockets for a potion, Death returned. She kneeled beside her sister's body, analyzing the wound. When catching sight of the shield's worried expression, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing to worry about. The brain is a little tricky to heal and it'll take some time for her wound to mend. Luckily, War is the quickest healer out of all of us."

"How long will it take?" The brute asked.

"Roughly an hour."

Gladio gently scooped (Y/n) up into his arms and carried her back to the Leville with Prompto by his side. Death left, leaving her sister in their capable hands.

Back at the hotel, Gladio placed the girl on the bed in their room. Prompto, Noctis, and Ignis joined him a few minutes later. The shield explained to the prince and his advisor what Death told him. Seeing as they had no other place to be, the group decided to wait for (Y/n) to heal.

After an hour of waiting, the boys heard War groan. Gladio, who was sitting in the chair beside her bed, moved to sit on the bed. He combed a hand through her scarlet locks as life returned to her (e/c) eyes. "Welcome back, firecracker. How you feelin'?"

She pushed her body up and propped it against the headboard. "My head hurts..."

"I wonder why," he teased.

(Y/n) was tempted to push him off the bed, but she refrained from doing so. Looking away from Gladio, she gazed at the other boys. "Is everyone else okay?"

Prompto nodded with a small smile. "Yeah. We're great!"

"Good..."

"Hey, uh..." Noctis rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks for that, (Y/n). It's not even your job to protect me."

"It might not be my job, but I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself if I didn't do something knowing I could." That's when she noticed her sister was missing. "Where's Death?"

"She took it upon herself to deal with the assassin," Ignis said.

War focused her gaze on Noctis. "If I were you, I wouldn't leave the hotel. Who knows how many assassins the empire has planted throughout Altissia."

"Good thing we don't plan on heading out again," the prince replied.

"Does this mean we're ordering room service?" Prompto asked with a gleam in his cerulean eyes.

"It appears so," the strategist answered.

"Speaking of food..." The blonde patted his stomach. "I'm kinda hungry now."

Ignis, Prompto, and Noctis left the room, leaving Gladio and (Y/n) by themselves. The girl slumped down on the bed, grabbing one of the pillows and using it to cover her face. "Damn... This headache is awful..." Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

Gladio had heard her complaint. "Anything I can do to help?"

With the pillow still over her face, she patted the empty spot beside her. That simple gesture was enough for him to understand. With a small smirk, he climbed onto the bed and laid down beside her. Before he could reach out and touch her, he received a pillow to the face. The moment he grabbed it and tossed it aside, (Y/n) straddled his waist. She placed her hands on his lower abdomen, which took him by surprise when he felt how cold her hands were. "Damn, your hands are freezing."

"Yeah, well, I was dead a few minute ago," she stated. "Moving past my irregular body temperature... You told me in the nightmare to keep on living and make up for all I've done. How am I doing so far?"

"Let's see..." Gladio counted the number of people she's saved and how many times. "You're doing pretty damn good so far. You get bonus points for saving Prince Charmless today since he's my responsibility."

"It'll take more time to make up for all my mistakes..." she sighed.

"Now it's my turn to ask a question." Gladio placed his hands on her hips, squeezing them gently. "Why the hell didn't you have your own shield when you were queen?"

"Gaius wasn't only my advisor. He was supposed to be my shield as well. It's ironic the person who was supposed to protect me wound up killing me. Probably makes a nice, twist-ending for a book." She leaned down closer, her face a couple of inches from his. "Tell me, Gladio. If you were my shield instead of Gaius, what do you think would've happened?"

"I'd make sure bastards like Gaius never could get near you. You wouldn't have to worry about manipulation and betrayal."

"Vanaheim's future would've been brighter if you were there for me instead of Gaius," she mumbled under her breath. "Noctis is lucky to have a man such as yourself as his shield, and that brings me to the next subject."

He arched a brow. "And what's that?"

"Whatever happens during the rite tomorrow, you do everything you can to protect Noctis."

"You think I can't protect you and him?"

"It's not that, but he should be your main priority. He is more important than me. But from your eyes, I can tell he already is. Good."

Gladio gripped her hips tighter and flipped their position. War was unfazed by his actions and continued to stare into his amber eyes. A few second passed before Gladio spoke up. "You make it sound like something's gonna happen to you tomorrow."

"None of us know what's going to happen tomorrow. I'm a pessimist. I'm already preparing for the worst."

"Then we better make this night count," he grinned before slamming his lips against hers, kissing her passionately.

It was a brief kiss due to (Y/n) pulling away a few seconds in. She looked around the room in puzzlement. "Do you hear that?"

He wasn't sure what she was talking about. "Hear what?"

A wicked grin manifested on her face. "The sound of me kicking your ass in blackjack."

"Maybe we should "do the dirty" instead."

"Only if you can beat me in blackjack."

"I'm definitely gonna win."

"We'll see about that..."

#ffxv #ffxv x reader #final fantasy xv #final fantasy xv x reader #gladiolus amicitia #gladiolus x reader #gladio x reader

[voidiots]

👻- Mind, Body, Spirit (Because why not? It's not as if she's not a mess mentally these days or anything.)

[Emoji Tarot Reading]

Una’to picks up the deck shuffling it for a short while a far away look in his eyes as he regards the woman before him. Speaking softly, just enough to be heard over the shuffling of his cards and the far off sounds of foot traffic outside of the alleyway.

“It helps if we consider such readings as checkups into our current states of being. Given we are ever in flux readings such as this one can change quickly. All the more since all readings are only meant to give insight, and don’t truly divine the future events that will come to play. A road map that’s ever changing”.

The shuffling stops, and he lays three cards before him on the cloth separating their spaces as diviner and querent. A triangle pointing to her, wrought in gold and black just like the cloth the cards now rest upon in their spread. The card farthest from him forming the tip seems to show an image of wisteria blossoms, ten strands of them. Below it are two cards, both with skull cups. One with eight in a dizzying pattern, and the other with four overflowing with flora.

He points to the one with the wisteria depiction, “We’ll start here, and then move down to the base. First is your mind. It’s state at present and what sorts of things you’re thinking about. The card here represents accomplishment, responsibility, and burden. You’ve been hard at work in order to bring something you wish to fruition. You’re nearing the end of the journey for this work and finding that it’s heavy and overburdening you. The responsibility you have created for yourself is too great. What can you do to lessen these feelings? Or to reach your ambitions with less of a burden dragging you down? Your mind may break from it sooner or later should you not find a way to lessen such weights...”

Eyes move down, as he said before, to the base cards, resting on the card with eight skull cups. “On to the state of your body at present and how you are feeling. The card here speaks to me of feelings of greed, smugness, and dissatisfaction. There is much for you to celebrate in regards to your body at present. You’ve nearly all you desire, and yet you feel there is something missing. There is no end in sight to your ideal, otherwise you may be missing something that’s key to you and it’s still not within your grasp. Body can be a cruel one to read, the state of our impermanence of course means we’re still living rotting corpses at times, and at others the ideal of perfection to others. Mind you, it’s best to love what you have while you have it when it comes to your body. Your youth, vitality, looks, and health... I’m sure you get the picture however. No need for me to prattle. You’ve this one body, and it seems you’ve all your limbs. Hopefully all your organs...”

Lifting the final card before his face he hums in thought slightly as he thinks over the card face he’s showing to the woman before him. “Finally the state of your spirit, and the message it must convey to you. The final card is one of bored, taking something for granted, and aloofness. Given that it’s cups, such things tend to be emotional in nature. In your search for meaning potential happiness has perhaps been ignored that has other wise been delivered upon you. Too much inner focus makes the world spin from view into nothingness. Look back to the world and rediscover it’s wonder to alleviate your spirit. Balance between the inner and outer world must be achieved. Often all three parts of yourself feed off one another, and so should you fix one at, the others should be easier to fix in return.”

The three cards are swiftly swept back up into his hands, and returned to the rest of the deck. Una’to rests his elbows upon his knees, fingers knit as a hammock for his chin as he regards the woman before him. “If you need more insight into certain aspects, do let me know. I only get a small picture of what may or may not be impacting you. As we are strangers yet. Should you wish for more cards to be pulled, simply tell me, and I can grant such a small wish”.

Thank you for the ask @rinrin-rinalys​! I hope it was a fun read and able to hit somewhere! No pictures this time sadly as the light is lost to me and I only have one lamp at my disposal.

Cards Drawn: Ten of Wands, Eight of Cups Reversed, Four of Cups Reversed.

[denofbloodandlove]

The Decay of Persephone Part 1

Please do not remove tags, do not steal, do not plagiarize, don’t be a douche canoe wrapped up in a blue waffle and take what came from me  The Decay of Persephone  Part One: The First Sight Time Frame: Unknown  Black leather wrapped gently over the God of the Underworlds feet, soft straps cradled hardened skin; skin that was burnt black in some places from the fires of his Realm. The leather, soft and subtle meshed with the arches and curves, hugging his flesh tightly as he walked among the greenery of his Brothers Realm; Zeus, the reason why Haides had even desired to visit this Realm. With every heavy step he took it brought him closer and closer to the grand palace of his brother, the God King of all Kings. However, Haides was going to take his time. Time he never had, for his life was surrounded with decay, around bleakness and death. His world was made up of dark skies filled with vibrating lights. Lights that twisted and flickered like that of a candle flame, from dark to a mesmerizing light only to be snuffed out by another bout of thick, heavy clouds sent to snuff out all the giving light. But here, here in the light of Zeus' realm he did not have that, the silent screams of the dead did not prevail over all things. Here, he was met with the sounds of birds chirping, of animals moving about in the lower brush, the sounds of hand maidens drifted upon the wind. A wind that as it touched his skin felt cool, not a scorching, seething turmoil that left the marks of black sand as it whipped across his face. Nay, this was what heaven was like, a heaven that he was so callously ripped from by his family. Zeus and Posidean had treacherously betrayed him to take their own places in the realms of sky and water, leaving his black soul to the Neatherealms of the dead. True, his soul and dead heart felt at home near the rivers of Styx and the fiery river Priphlegethon, a flowing mass of heat that warmed his cold skin. However here, in this vast and lush garden,  he could feel what the sun actually felt like. He could feel the cool breeze flow through his himation. He could enjoy how that same breeze would lift the chlamys, allowing it to flutter behind him by the will of Gaia not that of the deadly acrid winds that floated with Kharon as he ferried the souls of millions to his lands. Nay, here, he could pretend he knew peace. And he would pretend for as long as possible, for his time was limitless and the day was as young as the maidens that ran through the vast plains just ahead of his wanderings. Maidens that he was increasingly interested in with every dead step he took. Aye, if one would be following him, they would see death indeed following Haides, for the Underworld traveled with him; with a single foot fall, the green lush life would become stricken and decay would follow, leaving a blackened mark in the shape of his leathers. Stopping his trek, Haides wanted to stay here.  Stay in the green.  To ignore the fact that his body left Gaia soiled with death in his wake.  He wanted to ignore the ash that floated away from his footfalls as he moved.   His black eyes closed slowly, the orbs rolling back into his brain as his head tilted back slightly and his lungs filled with warm air.  Air that had no hint of rot and decay.  Brimestone and acid wafted away from his lungs as he inhaled so deeply it actually hurt his massive chest.   All the unpleasant odors that made up his home melted away into nothing. That nothing was replaced by the smell of millions of flowers.   Purple and pink aconite mixed with agallis.  Roses and asphodels drifted upon the wind around him as he breathed in and out to memorize this place.  A wind that wrapped around his body like a lover her would never have.  It caressed his skin, glided over his nerve endings. Sensations like no other, one that lifted the tiniest of hairs along his muscled legs and arms.  It was as if his body was rising to the winds kisses, needing more of it, for it was not made of the torridity he was accustomed to.  Nay, this was exquisite.  He felt as if he was in the Elysian Fields, a place for souls to find peace and happiness amongst their own.  Haides knew however, he was not amongst his own, never would be, but for this one reprieve he would banish the thoughts of being alone and cherish these fleeting moments.  For that is what his feeling where, but fleeting moments in a life time of hell. Stopping, Haides held his hands out slightly on either side of his form, his fingers splayed out as the wind pushed the plant life against his calloused palms, he could feel the softness of the flowers petals swipe lackadaisically against him.  The petals were cold against his hot skin as they powdered his hand with golden pollen, leaving his flesh tingling with the grains of life. Haides just stood there, in the field of beauty, absorbing the heat and magnificence of a world he rarely saw when he heard the first peals of laughter ring out.   The sound was like nothing he had ever heard before this day, its cadence lifted the very existence with joy.  So much so, that as he listened, the tiniest of hairs on his body began to lift, the skin on his forearms shivered from horripilation as his eyes slowly opened to seek the source of such beauty.  Haides’ hands closed and moved away from the flowers that had once brushed his palms and were now laying shriveled and burnt on the ground, his fingers curled into fist as anticipation filled his every cell.  He must find the source, his thoughts left that of this beautiful land and like a waterfall, cascaded into one mission:  her. Turning in circles, Haides soon left his rooted spot and began to trudge the land.  He no longer cared about the wind or the sun across his face, nor the sweet scents of the flowers that pollenated the air, nay, he only cared for finding and claiming the sound.   He was Haides, God of the Underworld and he would have what he wanted, take what he desired and in this moment, he desired her.  His thoughts stopped on that last verse as he came to a grassy knoll. Green, yellows, purples, oranges and blues swirled together as if Gaia herself had beckoned him herself to this exact place.   His brows drew down into determination as the wind lifted and rose, sweeping towards him unseen, a wind that carried her fresh Spring scent and a laughter so pure it nearly brought him to his knees.   A beauty of such caliber she made the mighty Aphrodite appears to be a hag.   Her hair flared about her in waves or golden reds, as if she were made of a sunset, a sunset that sat upon skin so creamed she glowed like the iridescence of pearls. The chemise she adorned left nothing to his imagination as the young kori plucked her flowers.  Her curves were bountiful as her limbs moved slowly and with precision. It seemed the sun itself had taken a love to her as it shone its rays, gifting Haides with a silhouette of bountiful curls between her legs and small darkened areolas. Young and bountiful, his young maiden tempted him, called to a fierce desire. A yearning to claim and take her, to have her with him for all time by his side.  She would be a Queen, would be his servant in death, by his side in the Underworld.   Haides was lost in time and space as he watched her bend and straightened with her ever growing bouquet of flowers.   Her arms never seemed to fall heavy from the abundance of petals as she drifted in and out of the different fields, her smile would brighten when she plucked another stem from the Mother setting atop the others.  Haides was obsessed, captivated with just the smallest of movements, each one like a private gift, specifically for his viewing.   But once never did she look towards the Dark God for she was so entranced with the life in her hands she did not feel the death at her feet.  His mind whirled of possibilities of claiming the Kori, thoughts so perverse and hated filled his every thought on how he would take her.  Must be act forceful? With calm? Or with wrath?  For he would take her, no matter her thoughts, she would be his.   As he pondered his ordeal, Haides missed the outside beings roaming around, missed the Goddess walking towards his future Queen. So immersed was he that it took him minutes to realize that Demeter had entered his hunt and was calling out to his maiden.   His hearing focused on a name that he would covet, Persephone, she called over and over until his maiden finally ran towards Demeter, calling her Mother.   Embracing one another, the two women toyed with the blossoms in hand, turning their back to him.  His eyes narrowed as her Mother whisked his prize away.   A burning anger sizzled through his veins as he watched his Queen leave his eyesight. And with no other thought, Haides flashed from his green stoop into that of his brothers palace.  Zeus would help him achieve his goal, for he would have the beautiful Persephone by his side, under him, atop him, and any other way he so desired for all eternity, no matter what.  

#sweetmisery #mywriting #mine

[rmjagonshi]

To Carry On Chapter 6

On AO3

Rising Storm

Clouds, thick and heavy with moisture, drifted over Papaya Island as people from all over the world gathered together for the Twenty Third Tenkaichi Budokai. The chance to see world class martial artists test their skills was a strong draw for many. For the fighters themselves, the chance to win the grand prize and be crowned the strongest in the world. Preliminary fights were brutal, and making it through even one of the preliminary rounds was call for bragging rights. But to make it to the actual tournament, that was a feat no average person could achieve. Unfortunately for many of those that entered, Goku was no ordinary fighter. Nor were his friends. Each had mastered feats virtually unknown by other schools of martial arts, and they were eager to show off what they had learned. Or were plotting assassinations.

Piccolo Junior waited atop the main tournament hall, watching the humans mill about like cows being herded along. Aimless, unnecessary. But he had no desire to start carnage. His father had basked in the mindless slaughter of the people. Hours whiled away thinking of ways to terrorize the world to bend to his every whim and then crushing the bowed heads. But Junior saw no reason for it. Sure, it made the populace afraid to rise up, afraid to do anything should their king turn his gaze on them. But humans did not suffer constant terror without repercussions. Eventually, they would burn out and rise up anyway and he would be forced to kill all of them. Ruling a kingdom devoid of subjects was a very boring and unproductive prospect.

If Junior was ever willing to be honest with himself, he didn’t want to rule. It was far too much work. A good king would work himself to the bone to supply his kingdom with wealth and prosperity. A tyrant would hoard it all for himself and let the people rot. Junior wanted neither. He could make anything he needed, and he had no real desire for physical means. His father had passed on the ideals of ruling the sniveling humans, but not the wish. What did world domination grant him that he could not do himself? At most, it might grant him a way to give humans a reason to fear him as they did. But the idea held little entertainment.

No, if Junior was willing to be honest with himself, he was here only to best his father’s killer in battle, and dominate all those who would oppose him. He cared nothing for the world. It could go on as it was, the current king continuing his thankless job, so long as they knew who really held the power. He would claim a parcel of land for himself, remote and bountiful. Humans would be barred from ever entering its borders upon punishment. Not death. No. Let them see what happens to them when they cross paths with the mighty Piccolo.

Besides, the humans were mildly amusing. All gathering and acting like children at the prospect of seeing those stronger than them compete. Paying exorbitant fees for colored bits of cloth and plastic to prove that they witnessed the tournament. Scattering and yelping as the clouds overhead broke and let loose the rain. Blossoms of color over the heads of the humans followed the start of the rain like flowers blooming in the sun. Strangely pretty. Junior raised his ki to rest atop his body, shielding him from the rain and drying his damp clothes.

He would wait for Goku. He wanted to get a good look at the one who killed his father. He wanted to memorize the face of his victim, his only challenge. But he had not yet arrived. None of them had. He could hear Goku’s friends murmuring to themselves, complaining that no one had come. Perhaps they would not. Perhaps the threat of him had driven them off. Or they were planning an ambush. It would be difficult to take him on one at a time, but together, they might have a chance. Junior had become powerful in the time since his birth, but he still had not reached his full potential. Accelerating his growth had limited his strength. This way, they would follow the rules of their little game and face him one on one, and he could crush them.  

He thought he’d sense them coming. Even someone with ki control could not hide themselves from him. But the woman’s voice brought his gaze back to the little group waiting for their friends. A newcomer had joined them. Junior’s ears twitched as he strained to hear over the rain. A name whispered in the thick air. Hushed. Then cries of recognition. “Goku! My you’ve grown! Goku, I can’t believe it’s you!”

And that’s when Junior saw him. The boy, no, man that had killed his father. A shot of adrenaline, cold as ice, pulsed through him. His chest felt tight, and he could feel his blood thrumming. It couldn’t be, but he recognized that silhouette from his dreams. A small grinning boy with the power of a monster in him, and a voice like venom. But this man was far taller than his father’s memories. He’d grown much in the last three years. Everything in his being told him that this was Goku. This was the reason he existed. But how?! How was this man Goku? Junior hadn’t even felt his ki! He had as much power in him as the rest of the weakling humans. But there was no mistaking that face. It was Goku, alright. But if Junior couldn’t sense his ki, then Goku was hiding it well. That could only mean he had learned much from Kami in the past three years. If he had mastered ki control to that degree, what else could he do?

Junior lowered his own ki and ducked behind the slope of the roof. Goku would know Junior was at the tournament, but there was no need for a confrontation just yet. There was fun to be had in the coming days as he whittled away at every last hope they had. Junior watched them as the rain died and the human rain blossoms were stowed away. Goku had signed his name to the tournament roster, but they were still waiting for the others. They may not make it in time. Though he would lament that chance to face them in the ring, he would relish in their expressions as they watched, unable to help, as he killed their would-be savior.

Hours ticked by. The sun hung low in the sky and the crowds dispersed to other activities. Still, no one came. Junior found it odd that he felt disappointed. It wasn't as if he wanted to see the monk again, but Krillin had said he was training to enter the tournament. Why say it if he wasn't going to show up? And it wasn't just him. Though Junior didn’t know their names, he had seen their faces in visions during his meditations. The faces of those that would stand against him. One scarred, one with a third eye, one with rosy cheeks. And of course, one cherub face with shining eyes. Each would fall to his hand if they stood in his way.

But time wore on, and still no one came. Fangs knit together and claws scratched at his exposed arms. They weren’t coming. All those months of training. All those grand proclamations of finally beating his rival, and nothing! What good was he? Just another stupid human who depended on words over actions. Or he was scared. Was that it? Krillin had discovered who Junior was and had fled instead of facing a member of the demon clan. Junior couldn’t exactly blame him, but it still raised his hackles to know he’d considered the coward worthy of respect, however briefly. An enemy, sure, but still someone worthy. Someone with integrity. Or so he’d thought. How weak was he that he ever considered someone who had shown him even an iota of kindness a friend? Just another human calling him a monster. Just another weakling hiding while someone else fights his battles for him.

Junior felt the wood burn against his chest, its weight pulling at his neck, choking him. He’d kept it. He didn’t know why, but he’d kept the little wooden carving. Junior reached under his gi and clutched at the wooden disk, ready to rip the thing from his neck and[CJ1]  incinerate it. How fickle was human friendship that they baulk at the mere hint of conflict? But the tighter he squeezed, the more he hesitated. Rough wooden edges sliced into his palm, flesh turning to char everywhere it touched. Leather wound around his throat, his mouth, and stole the very breath from his lungs. The weight of it dragged him down, farther and farther until he could feel himself falling over the edge of the roof. It would pull him further if he let it. So why couldn’t he tear it from his neck? It was weighing him down. Insufferable sentimentality.    

But a familiar blue aura teased along the edges of his mind. It was accompanied by three other powerful auras. Junior followed their movements, winding in and out of the city’s streets before making their way to the check in station to sign their names to the tournament roster. Junior felt the weight that threatened to crush him lift from his chest when he caught sight of a familiar round face. Krillin had kept his word. Gleeful voices echoed in the empty street as friends reunited. Junior tuned into his voice before he’d even realized he was searching for it. The crisp tenor easily distinguishable from the deeper baritones of the others. Junior let the sound wash through him, his mind drifting back to evenings sitting by the fire or huddled in a tent. He couldn’t help but smirk at the monk’s antics to show off to his friends. It seemed his cherub was one for dramatic entrances. It suited him.

A beat of silence cut through the excited voices. Confusion. Recognition. Disbelief. Goku had changed from the little boy they all remembered. Then, jubilation. A sour mass formed in Junior’s stomach hearing the unbridled joy dribbling from Krillin’s mouth as he fawned over Goku. The monk’s voice cracked, sounding thick and watery. Bitterness rose in the back of his throat that he struggled to swallow down. Junior turned. He’d seen enough. He’d gotten his first look at his target. Any further introductions could wait until the tournament. Let Goku have one night of celebration before his end.

̶

Krillin and Goku sat awake after everyone else had gone to their separate rooms. He still couldn’t get over how much Goku had grown since he’d seen him three years ago. Goku had shot up like a bamboo sprout and his training under Kami had changed his easygoing attitude. Despite their long separation, Goku seemed distracted. Gazing off into the distance for long periods at a time. Krillin was starting to worry about his friend. Goku didn’t laugh as easy. Wide, toothy grins from youth turned shy smiles. Krillin didn’t like it. He knew that Goku had killed Piccolo Daimou and had climbed Korin Tower and beyond, but he didn’t think that it would change Goku so much. Krillin missed his friend. He’d waited three years after being brought back to life to see him again. But Goku was preoccupied with something else.

After the tournament then. Krillin was no longer a student of Master Roshi, and could now go where he pleased. Goku had told him stories of the forest he grew up in. Of the little house where Goku lived with his grandpa. They could travel there together. Goku hadn’t been back to the little hut in years; it had to be in rough shape. He was going to wait until the tournament was over to see what Goku was up to before he suggested they make the journey to fix it up. It was the least he could do to thank Goku for everything.

But the silence was unnerving. It wasn’t unusual for them to sit quietly with one another, but this wasn’t quiet. This felt awkward. Krillin felt awkward with his best friend. And despite parts of his mind rebelling against it. Be opened his mouth to break the silence before the awkwardness consumed him.  

“So, Goku, how was training with Kami?” Probably the safest topic for now. Training. Easy and light.

Goku blinked in confusion a moment before answering. "It was really tough, and some days I thought I would never get any better."

Krillin waited for Goku to continue, but he didn't. Goku was off. He had been staring off into space for minutes at a time. Lost in his own thoughts. Something far out of character for his friend. Glue held his mouth shut instead of asking Goku to elaborate. They had been the best of friends and yet this was something that had never happened to them before. Sandpaper on skin. Feeling exposed, invasive. It should be easy to talk to his best friend. It HAD been easy until now. But Goku had clamed up at the first mention of his training under the God of Earth.

After an agonizing moment that had Krillion squirming in his seat, the far-away look in Goku's eyes faded and he turned to Krillin, warm and familiar “It was different, I guess. I actually trained with Mr. Popo for a lot of it. It took me ages to move without making a sound.” Goku paused, frowning at a particularly frustrating memory. “And I still don’t really know how he did it. I can move fast and hide my ki, but I still can’t get that bell to stay quiet for me. I still say he was using magic.”

Krillin had not earthly idea who this ‘Mr. Popo was, but it still brought a smile to his face. “Learn any special techniques? I know I’ve been working on some things.”

“Really? Like what?” Goku had perked up instantly, eyes lit with excitement.

Krillin just smirked. “Uh-uh. Not telling. That would ruin the surprise.”

Goku’s face deflated and out came the trademark pout Krillin remembered from their childhood. “But I don’t wanna wait. ‘Comon’. Tell me.”

“Nope.”

“At least tell me about your training. What did you do for the past three years?”

"Oh, yeah. Me, Tien and Yamcha all climbed Korin’s Tower. Took Yamcha three tries to get there. Tien got there first. I only fell once." Krillin grinned, face and chest puffed up with pride at getting one over on Yamcha.    

Goku smiled softly at his friend, eyes lighting up. "Did you see Bora and Upa?" Goku had made fast friends with Upa and his father while adventuring through the Land of Korin. Krillin was sure they would make a trip out there to see them too, after everything. Krillin was sure they would travel the world together looking for adventure.

"Yeah! We camped with them the night before we climbed. But they were gone when we came down. Some hunting trip. Upa was really glad to hear about you. He said he’d like to see you again when the tournament is over."

"Yeah. I'd like that, too." He said. "I haven't seen them since Shenron revived Bora." Goku sat up on the bed to face his friend. "If you went to see Korin, then you met Yajirobie, too, didn't you?"

"Yep. We trained with both of them for a few weeks before we all went our separate ways. I don’t know where Yamcha and Tien went after that."

"You guys didn’t train together?"

"Nope. I think Tien wanted to get back and train with Chaotzu. He and Yamcha have a bit of a rivalry going." He said, cheeky grin flying over Goku's naive head. "It’s kinda cute." He had seen the looks the two rivals had shared. Oh, Krillin knew there was nothing there, but he still found it immensely entertaining to tease them mercilessly. And seeing the usually calm and collected Tien flush with embarrassment left him in stitches.  

"Where did you go?" asked Goku. "Back to the old-timer’s place?"

"Nah. I stayed in Korin’s Forest. I wanted to see how much I could improve on my own." Krillin paused, deciding if he wanted to tell Goku of his strange friend. Some little string in his mind tugged at him, urging him to keep Junior a secret. He ignored it. "And I had a really great training partner."

Goku looked curious "Really? Who?"

"Truth be told, I don’t know." Krillin frowned. "He said he didn’t have a name. Guess his jerk of a father never gave him one."

"How do you know his father’s a jerk?"  

"I met him. Well, kinda." Krillin paused. "I was looking for a spot to make camp and heard screaming. Some big ugly was picking on a kid and cast some kind of spell." Daggers shot from his eyes. "I don’t know what it was, but the kid looked terrified. I kicked the creep's face in and rescued the kid. Then he tells me that the person was his father, and that his father was trying to kill him."

"That’s terrible!"

"Yeah, no kidding." Krillin said. "So, I said he could travel with me. I told him about the tournament and he seemed really excited about it. The kid was really good too. He was young, but he was strong. Kinda like you!" Krillin beamed at his best friend. "He could shoot his ki like the Kamehameha or Tien’s Dodonpa. When I asked him where he trained," Krillin paused and leaned closer, voice low and conspiratory, "he said he didn’t. Serious!"

Goku's eyes lit up and he sat at attention. Ears practically flaring to catch Krillin's every word. He could feel the faint rush he got when he battled someone strong. He wanted to meet Krillin's new friend. If he was as good as Krillin said, then he would be a great training partner.

Krillin pressed on. "We traveled together for almost a year and a half. And he grew really tall. Another thing you two have in common." He frowned, momentarily glaring at Goku for having grown so much taller than him. "And he got stronger right along with it. I couldn't keep up in the end. We seemed to really get along. I really liked him! I even told him about you and how you brought me back to life! Though I don't know if he believed me."

The more Krillin talked about this person, the more Goku wanted to meet them. The prospect of meeting someone important to Krillin and who was really strong to boot was making Goku practically vibrate with excitement.

"I wanna meet him! Did he come with you? I didn't see him when you got here. Did he check-in before you?" Goku was practically bouncing on the bed.

"I don't know where he is." Krillin's face drooped and his shoulders slumped. "Thing is, I woke up one morning and he was gone. No signs of struggle, nothing. He didn’t even take anything with him."

Goku felt disappointment wash over him and he stopped bouncing. "Krillin, I’m sorry."

Krillin gave him a weak smile. "Yeah. I looked for him for almost a week. But I couldn’t find him. I checked in every town I passed through, hoping someone had seen him. Nothing." He twisted his fingers in the hotel blankets, fiddling with the loose threads. Gaze locked on the wall beside the door. "I really hope he’s okay."

Goku's forehead scrunched. Krillin wasn't like this. Sure, Krillin wasn't brave all the time, and he was funny and pretended to be tougher than he was. But Krillin didn't fog over like that. Like Kami-sama did sometimes. Goku had waved a hand in front of the God's face once, and Kami never realized he was there. Just staring off at nothing. Mr. Popo said he was in deep thought. Goku figured he must be thinking really, really hard to not see something right in front of him.

Goku reached out a hand and gripped Krillin's knee, bringing his far-away look back to the present. "He’s fine. If he was as strong as you say, I’m sure he’s okay." Goku offered Krillin a cheerful smile. "And you said he wanted to participate in the tournament, right?" Krillin nodded. "Then maybe you’ll see him tomorrow. They’re holding the preliminary fights in the morning."

Krillin nodded twice, meeting Goku's gaze. "Yeah. You’re right. What am I worried about?" He laughed. "He’ll be fine. It’d be nice to see him again."

Krillin was excited to introduce Goku and Junior. He was sure that they would get along. Goku's easy-going and obnoxious friendliness was infectious and unbiased. Maybe they could even travel together! He had already planned to travel the world with Goku anyway. Having Junior with them would be all the better.    

*~*

The tournament hall was sparse compared to the previous years. Before, Krillin had to stand close to Goku to keep from getting trampled. But there were barely over a hundred. But as few as they were, Krillin could sense that those that had arrived for the preliminaries were all skilled fighters. Maybe not on Goku’s level, but still strong. Strong enough that he needed to be on his guard. It would be humiliating to make it all this way and not qualify for the tournament. He had trained for years to get another chance to show his friends what he could do.

They found an empty spot among the crowd to change into their uniforms. Master Roshi told them they had moved passed what he could teach. That they were no longer his students; they were fighting for their own names.

But Krillin and Goku, and later Yamcha, had all worn the orange turtle hermit gi for every tournament they had entered, and Krillin wasn't one for breaking tradition. When his friends had turned away to change, Krillin unzipped his bag to see familiar orange. Three weeks spent searching for a tailor who would take labor as trade and another two weeks searching for the correct combination of plants and mineral dyes to get the right shade. But it was worth it. Finally able to stand out, be unique. Goku and Yamcha were going to be so jealous. He thought about getting ones for them too, but he was unsure of their measurements, or if the gesture would even be welcome. Now, he was certainly glad he hadn't. Who would have thought that squat little Goku, no taller than himself, would shoot up like a bamboo sprout?

Krillin slid the top over his head, smoothing the folds of the gi over his chest so that the turtle symbol rested over his heart. He tied the violet belt tight and turned to his friends, grin pulled wide over his face and eyes shining with pride.

"What do you think!? I figured Master Roshi wouldn't bring us turtle uniforms, so I had my own made at a tailor shop!"

But the pride and glee Krillin felt at being so clever drained away when Yamcha turned and stood tall, the towel around his shoulders slipping away to reveal familiar orange and violet. His smile fell, twisting into a grimace in proportion to Yamcha's growing smirk.

"You and I figured the same thing."

Sure, there were a few things Krillin didn't like about Yamcha...okay, there were more than a few things. But that smug smirk was right at the top. The one good thing about all of them being at the tournament was that Krillin was guaranteed to face one of them. And he couldn't wait to wipe that smirk off Yamcha's face. Okay, so he wasn't going to stand out. But he could still finally get one over on Goku, right?

But Goku's tennor rang out over the dull roar of the crowd. Sharp and full of joy. And Krillin could feel his skin tense, stretched taught. His jaw popped and locked into place. And pressure nudged against the insides of his eyes. Krillin knew, even before he turned around, that his plan for individuality had failed, rolled over and died, and caught fire. "I did, too!"

"Gimmie a break!" Goku's normally infectious smile only made the pressure in his eyes worse. "Dang it! I wanted to be the only one to stand out."

His friends only grinned wider and laughed louder. He was half tempted to yank out his old Orin temple gi. The material was well made and was easy to travel in. It was part of the reason he hadn’t had the guts to burn it yet, though he really wanted to. But putting on the colors of the Orin Temple felt like an insult to his master, even to spite his friends. He kept the orange, resigned to the fate of blending into the shadows that were Goku and Yamcha. Tall bastards.

He turned away from them to rifle through his bag for a water bottle while Tien and Goku talked. Griping the bottle, Krillin met resistance and frowned. With another quick tug, the bottle was free, trailing a long stretch of white cloth with it. He blinked at it for a moment before recognition hit. It was the headband he’d bought for Junior. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He really hoped that his friend was okay. Not that anything would have happened to him, Junior was tough, but the kid was troubled. Brooding at times; far too young for the darkness that seemed to sit heavy in his heart.

A chill, like pins and needles shooting up his spine and radiating over the back of his head, sent Krillin shuddering, clutching the white cloth in a death grip. He turned, still kneeling to glance over at Goku to settle his nerves when he caught a flash of green in his periphery. Green, and purple. His eyes snapped over the form for several long second before he was sure.

Junior had grown. A LOT! He had been taller than Krillin before. But now, he towered over the monk. Heck, he was taller than Goku, who had become a giant over the past three years. The cape was new, but Krillin would recognize the turban and violet gi anywhere. He was missing the surcoat with the burned insignia, but Krillin guessed that it would be too childish to wear to such an event. Ignoring the fact that I definitely wouldn’t fit him anymore ‘How in the hell did everyone else grow and I got jack!?’  

Krillin had barely noticed that Goku and Tien had leaned together, whispering to one another. Or that Junior’s cold and calculating look was aimed at Goku. He was too excited to see his friend again. The words were out of his mouth before he’d even picked up on the tension his friends carried.

“Goku, is it possible that one of Piccolo’s creations survived?” “Hey! It’s him!”

Krillin had taken two steps forwards before his body prickled with tension. Something was wrong. Krillin blinked, ears finally making sense of the words Tien had said. “…possible that one of Piccolo’s creations…” His mind screeched to a halt at the one word that froze him to his core. Piccolo. But, that was Junior. And yeah, Junior wasn’t human, but he was no demon. There were plenty of non-humans in the stadium today. Why was green skin so unusual? Besides, Piccolo wasn’t, he was dead. Goku killed him. Sure, Krillin hadn’t seen it himself, but everyone had said so. Hell, he’d even seen a bio-pic on tv one of the few nights he was able to stay somewhere with cable. He strained to hear Goku’s next whispered words.  

“Something like that. But don’t say anything. We don’t want to start a panic.” Goku sounded so sure. But he was wrong. He had to be wrong. That was Junior. Krillin had told Goku about him just last night. But there was something…off about the way Junior carried himself. It sent more shivers racing down his spine.  

“Him who? Krillin, you know him?” Yamcha and his loud mouth. Neither Goku nor Tien had responded when he spoke; he had prayed that they hadn’t noticed him. But Nope. Yamcha had to make it obvious. Worse yet when Tien and Goku both turned to give him an uncomfortably serious look.  

‘LIE!’ Everything in him clenched. He had to lie. He needed time to think. But it was impossibly hard to do with nine eyes staring him down. Krillin scratched at the back of his neck. A really bad nervous habit and a clear tell, but he couldn’t help it. He hoped no once called him out on it.    

“Huh, oh, I-a, I, um, saw him yesterday when we checked in. Kinda stood out.” ‘Bad lie, bad lie!’ “I just thought he looked really strong.” ‘DEFELCT!’ “Do you know him, Goku?”

When all eyes turned to Goku, Krillin let out a little sigh. ‘Successfully deflected.’

“Yeah, he seemed to know you, was he giving you trouble?” ‘Oh, thank Kami in heaven.’ Yamcha’s big mouth was good for some things.

“Ah, no, actually Tien and I were just talking about that. He does look really strong, doesn’t he Tien?”

Krillin knew it was a lie. He had never known Goku to lie about anything before. He was beginning to think that he might not have known his friend as well as he had thought. Goku was lying. There was no doubt that Goku knew Junior. But, how, and why lie? And why on earth did he think Junior was…? Nope, he wasn’t even going to garner that thought with his time. But the more he tried to huck the thought into next week, the more it grew claws and dug into the soft meaty surface of his brain.  

Krillin had never actually seen Piccolo. The only thing he ever saw was some scrunched-face, winged thing touting his father’s rule and reaching for Goku’s dragon ball. It was green. Kind of, more yellow green. But it looked nothing like Junior. Krillin had seen blurry images of some other similar creatures on the tv show. Grainy footage and photos from eye witnesses and unfortunately deceased. But nothing that looked like Junior. And he doubts that he would ever get access to the footage from Piccolo’s live broadcast, if there even was any.

He really didn’t know if Junior was a member of the demon clan. He could be. But Krillin knew Junior; the kid was…odd, definitely dealing with trauma and struggling through a broken home, but not evil. No evil monster gets teary eyed over a badly carved pendant and awkwardly kisses their friend. He’s sure of that, at least. No. This was just hearsay. It would all blow over.

*~*

Despite Krillin’s surety that things would be fine, everything still felt off. Thanks to Choutzu (Krillin spared a wink in the small magician’s direction), none of them had to fight each other, and Junior was far enough down the line that he wasn’t in danger of facing them until the tournament proper either. Krillin watched as Junior worked his way through the preliminaries. Each fight ended swiftly and with varying levels of brutality. One contestant even gave up before Junior could even swing. Something was wrong. That was Junior, Krillin was sure of it. But the reserved child he remembered was gone. Replaced by someone who seemed to be fighting with fracturing restraint. Like he would gladly kill his opponents if he could. Junior had never been gentle, but he had never had this level of ruthlessness. And he seemed to be singling out Goku as his primary opponent, with the fanged grin he shot after every match. And the aura. Krillin could feel it snapping at the air around him, making Junior into a giant looming over them if he focused on it.  

Intimidation. Or the attempt. It was certainly working on the others who could sense ki. But not Goku. Goku wouldn’t be intimidated like that, but Krillin couldn’t shake the feeling that Goku was still on edge. Every time he spoke, his friends seemed calm and collected, but he caught Goku and Tien whispering to each other and shooting not inconspicuous glances at Junior. It confirmed his gut reaction to keep silent. If his friends were on edge around Junior, it would not end well to reveal their connection. He might even have to choose sides. Krillin shook his head. Nah, he was just being dramatic again.  It was still possible that this was all just a big misunderstanding. Maybe.

Krillin only got close once. He’d been standing to the side, watching Goku fight when a shadow briefly loomed over his shoulder. Krillin turned to see the billowing white cape flap in the breeze as he walked by.

“Hey!” He’d called out, taking a step to follow. But Junior’s tone stopped him dead. As sharp as a left hook to the jaw he hadn’t seen coming.

“Don’t.”

Krillin hadn’t. He just watched as Junior walked away, wondering what he’d done wrong. He stuck close to Goku after that. Always seeking out Junior from the corner of his eye. Not that it was hard. After every match, Junior would turn to Goku and flash that same grin as if to say ‘Did you see that? Do you see how strong I am?’

Never a glance to Krillin. Never a moment spared to watch Krillin breeze his way through the preliminaries as easily as Goku. He didn’t know what he’d done to screw it all over. The last Krillin remembered, Junior was teasing him about his crush on the cute girl they’d met in the last town they stopped in. Junior had been laughing then. Smiling. But not sinister. Easy. Happy. It was strange to see such malice on the face he used to fall asleep to each night.  

But as much as he wanted answers, there were more important things to worry about. Like Chaotzu being attacked by some assassin called Tao Pai Pai. Krillin didn’t know him, but Goku and Tien had told him the story. Tao Pai Pai had been Tien’s old teacher and had been paid by the Red Ribbon Army to kill Goku. That was all Krillin needed to know to understand this guy was bad news.

By the end, everyone besides Chaotzu had made it. Junior and the cute girl who seemed to know Goku included. Krillin had watched her fight. She was well trained, if a bit short tempered. But she, like everyone else it seemed, had her eyes set. The air was thick with tension as the eight of them gathered around the tournament announcer to draw their lots.

After waving away the announcer’s concerns over his death, Krillin was the first to draw. Six. He’d been in the second to last match. Hard to say against who. Probably not Goku, not that he’d win anyway. Maybe Yamcha. Or Cuite. Maybe he could steal her away from Goku with his charm. He banished the thought almost immediately. Eh, not likely. The last girl he flirted with had laughed at him until she threw up. Heck, maybe he’d get lucky and get matched up with the dork who’d fumbled his way into the tournament. Easy win for him.

“Alright, Number one, tell me your name.”

“Tao Pai Pai.”

“Uh..right.” “Number two?”

“Tienshinhan.”

“Tien-shin-han. Okay.”

Krillin felt sorry for Tien. He didn’t know much beyond that Tao Pai Pai was a member of the Crane School and had taught Tien as a boy. The first match was going to be a hard one. Krillin tried to catch his eye, show some kind of support, but Tien wasn’t looking anywhere but at his opponent.

“Match two, Son Goku against Anonymous.”

Krillin sighed. Of course, Goku would get to fight the cute one. Things never worked out for him. Maybe he would get to fight Yamcha. The desert bandit was convinced that Krillin was a pushover because he lost to Goku. But Krillin had an ace or three up his sleeve. He’d show Yamcha. But if Tien and Goku were already up, Krillin would only fight them in the final round. Which meant…

“Number six?”

Krillin blinked and raised his hand. “Ah, here. Krillin.”

“Right. Third Match, Ma-Junior versus, Krillin.”

Wait. Ma-Junior? Evil? What? When the hell? Was everyone convinced that Junior was evil just because he looked different. But Junior hadn’t corrected him. Did Junior actually check in under that alias? WHY?

Krillin felt his skin prickle. Something pierced through him, pinning him to the tile floor. He turned, meeting deep blue eyes, almost black, that cut through the layer so his skin. Those eyes were familiar, but in a way that a long-forgotten toy left out in the rain looked familiar. They were the same, but distorted. Wrong. There was evil behind those eyes that shouldn’t be there. Malice that made his skin ripple with goosebumps.

Krillin guessed the only upside was that Junior was looking at him now. Junior’s icy stare trained on him, unwavering. Emerald lips pulled into a smirk that made him feel like a bug being examined. He could feel Junior’s gaze glossing over every inch of him, leaving tiny notes in his skin that itched. His breath hitched and his palms grew sticky with the first drops of sweat. Junior’s grin stretched wide. Krillin had wanted Junior’s attention before. Now he had it.  

 [CJ1]Rough wooden edges slicing into his palm, flesh turning to char everywhere it touched. Leather wound around his throat, his mouth, and stole the very breath from his lungs. The weight of it dragged him down, farther and farther until he could feel himself falling over the edge of the roof. It would pull him further if he let it. So why couldn’t he tear it from his neck? It was weighing him down. Insufferable sentimentality    

#krillin/piccolo #what we're left; to carry on #Krillin #Piccolo #krillin x piccolo

[penumbra-rp]

Congratulations Ricci, you have been accepted for the role of Marlene Mckinnon!

Thirty’s a dirty word for a young woman. Simultaneously, she’s failed to grow up yet succeeds in decaying. Grief doesn’t die, and nor does guilt, but kinder feelings perish slowly, driving Marlene to sigh through Order meetings, feeling hope’s rotting carrion reek a new stench of cynicism. She admits to nobody that she doesn’t believe in any of it. Still, she tries to cling to their ideals, praying that she might earn something for herself as a witness to the sincerity of their hope, waiting for a spark of life to reawaken amidst their earnestness of their idealism.

Admin Becky: Marlene has shaken off her past and shed the weight of perfectionism like a creature determined to find a new, more comfortable skin to grow into. Her stubborn cynicism will undoubtedly help keep the Order grounded, whilst those who dream of cutting corruption out of society may provide her with sparks of hope to alight the kindling of blind rebellion in her chest. I adore how she has formed a sense of maternal kinship towards all those looking to do the same, turning her into something of a figurehead, a beacon, for all those who are lost in the world as she had once been. It makes her so perfect for the Leaky Bucket, her sharpness enough to defend a place that is much a home to some people as it is a refuge.

Please check out our checklist for joining Penumbra.

01. Out of Character

NAME: Ricci

AGE: 20

YOUR BIRTHDAY: 01/25/99

PRONOUNS: she/her

TIMEZONE: GMT+8

02. In Character

CHARACTER: Marlene McKinnon

CHARACTER’S PRONOUNS: she/her

FACECLAIM: I’d like to play Sonoya Mizuno because having no titties is integral to Marlene as a person.

CHARACTER’S BIRTHDAY: 05/27/89

PERSONALITY:

[ + ] Diligent - Though most may assume such based on the careless with which she carries herself, Marlene isn’t lazy, just selective about what matters to her. When she finds something she cares about, she puts her all into making it work. Seeing the fruit of heartful labor is incredibly rewarding for her.

[ + ] Understanding - An unexpectedly sharp mind accompanies a secretly tender heart, and the combination allows Marlene to easily see situations through the eyes of others… when she wants to.

[ + ] Maternal - Deny it she may, but behind her mask of recklessness and flippancy is a woman that cares deeply about the people in her life. She notices that Order members are getting younger and younger and is overwhelmed with the desire to protect them, wanting to save them from suffering from the same cynicism she regards the world with.

[ + ] Bold - Whether it’s feigned or not is up to debate, but Marlene carries herself with a certain kind of confidence, unwilling to expose her vulnerabilities to anybody she isn’t close to. She isn’t afraid to take risks if it’s for something she cares about or believes in.

[ + ] Self-destructive - Her past history with family deaths and abandonment has left residues of self-loathing within her. Though not explicitly self-hating, Marlene occasionally regards her life with very little care, preferring thrill and adrenaline over her own welfare and safety.

[ + ] Hedonistic - When the working day is done: girls – they wanna have fun. Girls just wanna have fun. That’s all they really want.

[ + ] Irresponsible - It’s the first thing anybody notices. Laid-back and free-spirited as she is, Marlene prefers not to take herself, or life, seriously, preferring to face the tragedies of the world with a sharp wit and a strange, vulgar sense of humor. If life’s a joke, be the first to laugh, she says.

[ + ] Turbulent - Though never easily angered, Marlene is prone to bouts of mania and sadness, her emotions as ever-shifting as the earth’s climate ( thank you, Carrow energies ). She is driven less by ambitions and more by impulses, riding the next new wave of excitement whenever it comes.

BRIEF BULLET POINT BIO:

- Marlene McKinnon is twenty-six years old when her mother takes her own life. Midori, she says, nervous fingers flicking the corners of a page she has yet to read as her gaze lifts to meet the pairs of eyes stare, with scrutiny or with pity, at the newly-orphaned woman standing behind the funeral parlor podium. It should be easy to talk about a woman so many had loved (West End loses its angel to heaven, the obituary had said,) — but Marlene knows her mother has never been one for platitudes. So she tries harder. Midori was a great woman. A great mother. A pause. A breath. There was this time, when I was a kid, I remember —  she starts, and doesn’t finish, because in the precise moment Marlene scours her mind for a happy memory, she comes up empty.

- After half a lifetime of striving to crawl out of her mother’s shadow, it is ironic that death makes Midori’s already pervasive presence near inescapable. Tabloid writers and so-called journalists  hound Marlene with questions and interview requests in some futile attempt at digging up whatever was left of the story her mother failed to bury. Marlene denies them any answers. The facts they pry out of less trustworthy sources are somehow mostly correct:  Her husband’s death years ago had devastated her, but the marriage was tumultuous. She has not spoken to her daughter in more than five years. She left her with nothing.

- Nothing material. That much is true. The pain of abandonment stings but the blow hardly hurts her financially. In fact, she’s proud to say that in half a decade of estrangement, Marlene has built herself a place she could call her own. London isn’t the kindest to neophyte businesswomen, yet the Leaky Bucket has only blossomed under Marlene’s management, slowly growing into a home for scrappy university students and young adult delinquents, far rowdier than the upper class crowd her mother once surrounded herself with. It’s chaos, but it’s hers. Sometimes, her self-made success bears fruit to kinder daydreams. In the best of her imagination, she gets to greet Midori’s disgusted scowl with a grin and a sardonic, “Love me yet, ma?” In her worst, it’s Midori that smiles. The woman’s expression softens at the sight of her daughter’s work, her small lips forming words she would never have spoken outside of this contrived daydream: Marlene, I’m so proud of you.

- Midori leaves no will, no note. But all mothers, in some way or another, leave their daughters an inheritance of scars.

- What is hard to love is even harder to grieve. If the world remembers Midori for her voice, Marlene remembers her for her silence. Wide-eyed and love-starved, a child Marlene had begged for her mother’s affection in the only language the woman seemed to speak: achievements. Thus began a childhood of ballet and piano and voice lessons she hardly enjoyed but felt she needed to pursue, insatiate heart seizing whatever scraps of love she might find in her mother’s smallest of smiles. The harder she tried, the harder it got, because the more she strove to become her mother, the more she learned to accept the impossibility of growing into her mother’s insufferable perfection. The child will spend ballet recitals staring at two empty seats, silently praying for an audience she knows will not come. When Midori does come home, exhausted from hours upon hours of theatre rehearsals, Marlene will have her Clair de Lune rendition be dismissed with a cold frown and the words: You can do better. Outside her family, she will receive more appreciation, but her efforts will no doubt invite the disappointed gazes of her mother’s peers, matched with hushed remarks that the demons lurking within Marlene’s mind will later on replay: not as talented, not as charming, not as electric, not as beautiful, not as poised — she’s not her mother.

- Grief, complicated and disquieting, writhes within her bones. “My ma’ named me after Marlene Dietrich,” the present Marlene half laughs as she addresses the funeral visitors. “Guess she knew I was gonna grow up wanting to wear suits and fight Nazis.” This is the the truth, but not the one her gut feels it needs to spit out. Family, she thinks, is synonymous with fracture. Once, she was content with neglecting the word’s brokenness, but death shatters it past the point of repair. Stammering out a eulogy feels like choking on the shards of whatever it was she failed to fix. Inside, the fragments wound her. Later on, the tabloids will speculate the reason behind Midori McKinnon’s death and come to ill-founded conclusions that a self-loathing Marlene will find herself agreeing with: It was her daughter’s fault.

- The desire to become worse than the bad daughter her parents seemed to believe her to be exacerbated during her college years, ignited by the unexpected invitation to a selective extra-curricular club headed by a certain Albus Dumbledore. Eighteen years old and already far too jaded to fully believe in their fanciful ideals of change, Marlene accepted the invitation half-heartedly, less for their causes and more for the new warmth of knowing she belonged somewhere. Still, in their presence, she found herself braver. The long stirring spark of anger finally turned flame, triggering a new pattern of explosive dinner rows with her father, which pushes an already silent Midori deeper and deeper into her shell. The Order of the Phoenix brought about a new era of rebellions: against corporate giants, against her family, against expectations.

- Mostly, she rebelled against herself. Graffitied a body that failed to be perfect, needling ink stains over skin she always loathed wearing, singed her insides with liquor and passed-around party pills. Here is the revolution against the girl who got it all wrong. Staring at the mirror, she made peace with the woman behind the glass — an unwanted daughter who will make herself repulsive if the only alternative was accepting that she was unlovable. Michaelangelo said: I saw an angel in the marble in and carved until I set him free. With the new knowledge that she was not made of marble and possessed no inner angel, Marlene stopped carving herself in her mother’s shape.

- Too many scandals. Too many arrests. They told her she couldn’t come home anymore. She wanted to tell them it never felt like a home anyway, but her anger was quieter than her grief. The stammering of her heart and her eyes’ threat of tears reminded her later that the daughter who craved their love hadn’t died in a revolution fire as she suspected. She just became quieter. The urge to beg for their acceptance was too loud to ignore, but she willed herself to forget it, and with a pocket full of too much borrowed money and her sights on a burnt wreckage, she set off to carve herself a place of her own.

-Only years into adulthood does Marlene learn to blame herself less. It happens sometimes. Some people are built with their atoms all wrong, their fuses too short, their gears too rusty. Brilliant as the public claimed her mind was, to those close to her, it seemed Midori’s brain was short of the ability to process happiness, to register hope. Perhaps it’s merely genetics, or the high stress of nightly West End performances, or perhaps her mother, and her mother’s mother, and every mother that preceded, had all starved their daughters of love — this is their heirloom, this absence — and none of them learned to give what they never received.

- The child Marlene’s dream of becoming her mother sees fruit later on, albeit in all the worst ways. Her eyes are her mother’s. The way they see the world in sepia tones. Her heart is her mother’s. The way it feels bone-hollow and restless in its hunger for colour. Her exhaustion. Her cynicism. Her loneliness. When she hears the news of her mother’s passing, all she can think of is that college summer spent driving a breaknecking Volvo down vacant roads if only to have that adrenaline-roused daydream of collision burst against all her empty.

- Thirty’s a dirty word for a young woman. Simultaneously, she’s failed to grow up yet succeeds in decaying. Grief doesn’t die, and nor does guilt, but kinder feelings perish slowly, driving Marlene to sigh through Order meetings, feeling hope’s rotting carrion reek a new stench of cynicism. She admits to nobody that she doesn’t believe in any of it. Still, she tries to cling to their ideals, praying that she might earn something for herself as a witness to the sincerity of their hope, waiting for a spark of life to reawaken amidst their earnestness of their idealism.

- The younger Order members, with willingness to throw their lives away for impossible ambitions, terrify her to no end. But they awaken something in her, a new protective instinct, a maternal spark. She wants to save them from her fate, defend their youthful optimism from whatever threatens it. Family, she has always believed, is synonymous with fracture. As the Leaky Bucket bustles with the liveliness of young rebels, they sweep up the shards of old and construct a new definition, one that allows hope to blossom, slowly and organically, within Marlene. If she cannot save the world, she will protect every bold soul that has the audacity to try.

INTERVIEW

i. How do you feel about your current occupation?

Marlene lays her back against the wall of the Leaky Bucket’s storefront, offering a wide grin to the video camera in front of her. Turning away, she crosses one leg, plucks a cigarette out of a pack tucked in the small pocket of ripped black jeans, and sets the tail end ablaze with a lighter, less because she feels like having a drag and more because it might look cool on video.

Perhaps it doesn’t, but the inhale of smoke feels good anyway. “I feel incredibly lucky. Enjoying what you do isn’t a privilege everyone is afforded.” Marlene folds her arms, letting her cigarette dangle between two fingers. “My Ma’ used to say that life in late capitalism is like a Japanese claw machine. All the opportunities are laid out in front of you, seemingly within reach, but the chances of getting anything are actually slim to fuckin’ none.” Her mother never actually said that, but the metaphor was too good to go to waste, and attributing her own words to somebody else makes her seem far less pretentious than she feels at the moment. A knife of a smile cuts through her face. “So let’s fuck up all the claw machines, yeah?”

ii. What song would you say describes yourself?

The drums come first. Then, a single chord. Then, the abrupt, unwanted stab of truth — MY GOD, I’M SO LONELY, SO I OPEN THE —

“Off the top of my head?” Marlene laughs a little, a flippant shrug rolling off her shoulders. “No Scrubs?”

Despite her words, a different song plays in her mind without her warranting, echoing from the memory of having it on repeat weeks earlier, a day before her monthly cycle was due. In her hormone-induced despair, Marlene had drowned herself in cheap wine and the honesty of an annoyingly catchy pop song, all at the expense of any perceived rationality. No, she forces her mind to sing, I don’t want your number, no— nobody, nobody, nobody — I ain’t gonna give you mine and no — NOBODY, NOBODY, NOBODY —

The Marlene of memory sang along as she stared at the bathroom mirror, dragging cotton pads over the streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. Through her tears, she laughed about the melodrama of it all — the runny makeup, the snot on her nose, her being alone, her naked reflection, her illogical emotions — angry and amused when the more practical side of her mind had made an unglamorous acknowledgment of Maybelline eyeliner’s waterproof quality and interrupted the movie-worthiness of her misery, all while she adjusted the seriousness of her expression to validate herself to a nonexistent voyeur that might have found something poetic in her PMS. “I’ve been big and small,” she blubbered through snot and laughs and half-breaths, “And big and small… and big and small… again and…” And still, nobody wants me. Still, nobody… wants… me… “Give me one good movie kiss… and I’ll be…”

NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY!

The Marlene of present tilts her head, leaning back to take a long drag of her cigarette. “Nothing comes to mind, really.”

iii. Does reputation matter to you?

The chorus of tiny Mitskis fall silent in her mind as a new thought interrupts their melody, prompting her fingers to click against her skin with one abrupt snap. “Bad Reputation!” she says, grin falling open in excitement. “Joan Jett. What a fuckin’ banger. Bit cliche,” she adds, dismissing the notion of her own predictability with an expression of mild disdain and a noncommittal wave of her free hand, “but succinct enough to answer both questions. You could say it’s two birds with one Joan.” Marlene punctuates her sentence with a laugh that rings hollower by the second, ever mortified by her own cheesiness, then raises her chin to greet the camera with a wide, self-loathing grin. “Edit that out or I’ll stab somebody.”

iii. …Does reputation matter to you?

The breath she inhales comes out through her nose as a quiet chuckle. “What a unique question. Genuinely.” Her palm strikes her chest, above her heart. “I don’t think I’ve ever been asked this before.”

Marlene’s smile fades as she presses the tip of her cigarette to her lips. After one long drag, she exhales, letting a now pensive gaze rest on the wisps of dissipating smoke.

It’s hard to be honest when it comes at the risk of being known. Past the smoke tendrils, Marlene’s brown eyes linger on the camerawoman in front of her. Small ashes rain from the tail end of her cigarette. An expression of uncharacteristic earnestness sweeps over her features. “It’s a bit…” she trails, biting her lip. “Complicated.”  

If thirty years of life taught Marlene anything, it’s that most women spent their existences doing less growing, and more outgrowing. It’s a hasty generalization that she draws from the narrow pool of her own experiences, but sometimes, she thinks it’s true. Sometimes she looks at women and tries to guess what they hate about themselves. What they like, too. The camera operator is pudgy and small and square-jawed, but she carries herself with confidence behind the lens, as if she knows she belongs  there. The girl is beautiful. Marlene wonders if she can tell it to herself without doubt.

She thinks of a younger Marlene, sixteen and tightening a belt around her waist as far as it could go to create proportions that would distract from the absence in her chest. This younger Marlene is overcritical of her reflection: narrow eyes, a flat nose, small lips.  Reputations, Marlene thinks, stem from appearances, and appearances are all any girl is ever taught to care about. I think all women grow up hating themselves, she doesn’t say.

“The world we live in carries far too much prejudice,” she says instead, though she wonders if serious words carry any weight if they are said by a person that seems to never take anything seriously. Marlene furrows her eyebrows. “I’m a woman of colour and a lesbian. You get things like catcalling, sexism, homophobia, microaggressions. Not all the time, obviously — people aren’t as bad as we make them out to be — but you have all these unpleasant experiences scattered throughout your existence.”

The younger Marlene doesn’t look anyone in the eye. She keeps her head down, afraid that if anyone looks close enough, they’ll discover the dirty secret lurking in her gaze. In the rare occasions where one does find it, it’s not bad, because they’re ecstatic to unearth a glimpse the same irreverence reflected in somebody else’s. The younger Marlene lets another girl slip a hand under her Catholic school uniform and finds that her touch makes her hate herself less, but the thought of being seen sucks the air out of her lungs harder than a belt tied too tightly around her waist.

“Women like me,” she says, drawing her words out slowly as not to let any useless emotions spill out, “all we have to do is exist, and people of more small-minded worlds automatically draw their own conclusions.” Feeling a new load weighing down her shoulders, Marlene shrugs. “We’re born with bad reputations.”

She doesn’t know what she can do for the world. She doesn’t know how to pry the hatred out of women. How to help them outgrow the unnecessary need to be beautiful. She thinks of other, younger, smaller Marlenes out there, wants to teach them to laugh at the absence of mass on their chests and point instead to the pulse heaving against it — there, she will tell them. That’s the most beautiful part of you.

And she thinks of the Marlenes who are afraid of this pulse and what it wants to love. Her heart swells with the urge to save them, but she doesn’t know how. If she could build a world where love was easier, she would. “Does it matter to me? I like to pretend it doesn’t. But I know —“ she pauses, nervous, afraid of being misconstrued, and wills every bit of sincerity to leak through her words. “I know I don’t want anybody else to suffer. So it matters.”

iv. What is your relationship with your parents like?

With a scoff of relief, Marlene decides that her quota for serious answers has been met. “My Da’s Catholic. My Ma’s Asian. I’m a clinically depressed raging homosexual with sixteen tattoos, five piercings, two terminated pregnancies, three previous arrests, zero university diplomas, an alcohol business, a nicotine problem, and a mild to mildly severe addiction to being a little bit of a cunt.” The corner of her mouth curls into a small smirk. Marlene turns to the camera, shooting a wink that brims with both impishness and affection. “Naturally, I’m their pride and joy.”

v. What languages can you speak?

A length of sleek black hair falls over her face as Marlene throws her head down, hand hovering above her mouth to conceal the quiet laugh of a scoff that escapes her throat. “Trickiest question that’s been asked thus far.” Leaning back, Marlene raises an eyebrow, mouth quirked into a flippant smile. “Because I’m getting this sinking feeling there’s a secretly correct answer, and if I don’t give it, the Duolingo Owl will find my address and set my house on fire.”

vi. If your home was on fire and you could only save one item, what would you choose?

Brown eyes widen in mild horror. “…Russian For Beginners.”

vii. Which Hogwarts University faculty did you study at? The Gryffindor School of Applied Science, the Ravenclaw School of Humanities, the Slytherin School of Social Science, or the Hufflepuff School of Art?

“When I was younger, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, just that I wanted to do something good. So Environmental Science.” The fact that Marlene McKinnon studied in Gryffindor surprises a lot of people. The fact that she never finished the course surprises less. “It’s funny, because I think I did a lot more harm than good. In my second year I ended up dating someone in the non-renewable energy industry. I cheated on her — not my best moment — and it pissed her off — understandably so — and long story short, I guess it’s half my fault that there’s now a hole in the ozone layer in the shape of my pussy.”

vix. What is your social media username?

“I don’t want strangers on my personal accounts but —“ Marlene pauses to snag a slip of paper from her pocket, reading off a spiel she had prepared moments ago. “‘Follow The Leaky Bucket on Instagram at Instagram-Dot-Com-Slash-Capital-T-The-Dot-Capital-L-Leaky-Capital-B-Bucket for a chance to access our secret menu.’” Throwing her hand to her forehead in one lazy salute, Marlene turns to the camera and offers a smile and one last farewell wink. “And review us on Yelp, while you’re at it.”

#accepted

[char27martin]

2016 April PAD Challenge: Results

Okay, long overdue, but here they are: the 2016 April PAD Challenge results post. We tried a new method of narrowing down the poems via e-mail submissions, and well, then we changed e-mail platforms. So reading the poems was not as smooth as I was hoping, but that’s okay.

I did get through them all, and I loved reading them. Just as I loved reading all the personalized messages; y’all make me feel so lucky to do what I do. For real. Thank you!

*****

Order the New Poet’s Market!

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Click to continue.

*****

This year, I’ve decided to share my Top 20 list (in no particular order) of poems that resonated with me. They’re not the only good poems I read, of course, out of the hundreds sent my way; they’re just the ones that jumped out at me more.

The Motley Fool, by Anders Bylund

The tart on his tongue has turned to tact

  Starfish, by Angie Bell

It’s funny how the unexpected can form an instant community

like that July morning

at Siesta Key when a delegation of starfish drew us all together as we dipped our toes in the warm gulf waters

beachgoers laughing and squealing

pointing and talking to each other splashing and swimming among the starfish that day

we formed a temporary friendship

over the joy of the ocean’s offerings years later across the land “remember when” will be heard

and tales of the starfish will be told

  In Response to Langston Hughes’ April Rain Song, by Arcadia Sturdivant

I wish I could like rain’s kisses I wish I could bear raindrops on my head I wish I could listen to rain like a lullaby I rather have the sun kiss me I rather have sunrays through my hair I rather have the sun beckon me to come outside

  Snipping Through Life, by Azma Sheikh

The distance from you to me is amusingly the same as the distance between two blades of a scissor. The more we close in, the more it cuts.

  Puckish Love, by William Preston

Love holds forth its humble hands and proffers new hope to the heart; hate, ensconced in iron bands, demands that love depart.

Hate, sufficient unto itself, boasts pride as its only rule; love, a peripatetic elf, is willing to play the fool.

Love willingly risks the flares of fear to gain a glimpse of glee; in love, therefore, I bid you, dear: play the fool for me.

  Their One Spring Task: Out-do the Other Sparkles, by Barb Peters

Ours hang against the April wall, the first to bloom then blink. They straggle, stretch their necks, all gawk and inexperience.

These jonquils shy too much–their counterparts are lonely clouds. No flutter dance near sidewalks, lacking in experience.

Come on, square shoulders, shout: “We’re better than the dandelions!” Instead, they cling in twos or threes, limp packs of inexperience.

If Wordsworth napped upon our couch, no dreams of blissful swathes. Let’s plant ourselves narcissus crowds enacting his experience.

We’ll write our names, dear love, each daff an edge of golden cursive on a flounce of white. We’ll rise in spring, forever back for our experience.

  Giddy Up, by Beverly Finney

Those leather boots with the pointed toe and the stout heel insist on a stirrup, the flash and smell of a lathered flank, the snort of a mane in the jingle of reins, the switch of a long tail, thunder of hooves pounding the earth. That’s where I go pulling them on, tugging hard with the red-handled hooks until my high arch passes the narrow turn and my foot settles into the swagger I know I will wear all day.

  Jaded, by Charise Hoge

Somewhere in the heart of harm I want to sweep you off your calloused feet, your callousness nestling in a hyacinth wreath – drunk on spring perfuming the crevices where love rots, where cradles splinter, to unearth the eager crook of your arm.

  Fool, by Connie Blitz

I’m just a fool who likes to spend time experimenting with rhythm and rhyme. I’ll never get rich in this word game. I won’t find fortune. I won’t find fame, but I have found a kindred soul or two, not a lot, just a few, who also like to put words in a string, creating pearls of wisdom, making lingual bling.

  Early Memory, by Connie Peters

My red plastic boots dangled as Dad lifted me up to peer down at Grandma asleep in her casket.

  First Time, by Christina Perry

That first time you whispered breathlessly I love you, as you held me in your arms all I could do was shudder, wipe tears from bloodshot eyes, and moan as I gazed over your left shoulder. Even in that moment of disorientation, with a lip already swelling from the impact of your fist, I knew you had just upped the ante–and I hated you for it.

*****

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*****

Three Cherry Tree Blossoms, by Sara McNulty

Raindrops fall through arcing pink umbrellas three cherry blossom trees

  Origami, by Sara Ramsdell

I crease you into the flat folds of a paper crane a thousand patient times, coupling wing and string into the repetitive rudimentary vessel of one lavish wish.

  Dead End Perspective, by Stevie Mitchell

If I paint myself into a corner, it’s so I know I’ll be part of the picture.

  Fulfillment, by Ellen Evans -after “Ode to the Flute,” by Ross Gay

A man sings by throwing his voice through the flute a man turns himself into air through the flute a man sings a ventriloquist song and the flute is at last fulfilled

  To the Girl Who Likes the Lady Horses Best, by Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming -response to “how to triumph like a girl,” by Ada Limon

It is beautiful to be believed. A little girl who thinks, who knows, who wants to run @ 40mph, who can solve a math equation and understand biology. She can draw the 8-pound heart of a lady horse, with heart valves, aorta and vena cava, heavy with blood. A girl who knows her own heart beats like a machine, a pump beneath her shirt. A genius girl who wants to win, who will win, if she is believed.

  Havana’s Sun, by Danielle C. Robinson

over turquoise water, we stretched and hovered like vessels until our skin broke through a ring of currents. then we stumbled ashore and laid flat under the Havana sun. shared lavish kisses, played rock, paper, scissors until my gap-tooth became gaudy. realizing, at that moment, you were no longer on my blacklist.

  You Can’t Buy Ruby Slippers at a Kansas Hardware Store, by De Jackson

That was no ordinary twister, Mister, and Dorothy had a dream and now she’s on the hunt for just the right shade of crimson heels. Blue and white check and black MaryJanes are, at best, as country bumpkin as it gets, and she’s had a taste of the just-right click of yellow brick, and emeralds. Auntie Em

disapproves, of course. And you and you and you were there, but now you’re frowning, doubting her judgment and her sanity and her desire for pretty feet. No need to worry. It’s just that she’s heard a faint cackle from the West, and she’s thinking it’s best that she work up the courage (heart, wicked smarts) to find her way back (home).

  Untitled (Woman Playing Solitaire), by Pamela Taylor -Inspired by Kitchen Table Series, by Carrie Mae Weems

The girls keep quiet and out of sight. They know to stay away from the kitchen table when mama plays solitaire.

The parakeet shifts over in its cage, peeks at the card held aloft, chirps once for black, twice for red.

She studies the upturned cards like tarot. This is the only time she controls the stacked deck, where she can deal a better hand.

Her nightgown shimmers in the stark light. She rolls the sleeves up to her elbows. The cigarette continues its slow burn.

  The Flute Remembers, by Bruce W. Niedt -after “Ode to the Flute,” by Ross Gay

And then a man looks at a flute beside him and asks How did you learn to catch the wind? and the flute remembers a time before silver and keys that locked in the wind and remembers days of wood and finger holes and how people would dance to its wind the same wind that has blown for ages and ages the same wind that blew across a hollow reed fifty-thousand years ago just as a man was passing.

  Skip Toodle-loo, by Candace Kubinec

Just skip it flip it right into the pond let that ring, sink, I think get lost in the muck stuck in the ooze skip the roses weak psychoses of apologies skip town instead go ahead I’m through with you so toodle-loo, buckaroo

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And there you go! I hope you enjoyed these poems as much as I did.

Because of how I looked over the 2016 poems, I couldn’t figure out a good person to name as Poet Laureate, but I hope to bring that back with the 2017 challenge. More on that later this week.

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Robert Lee Brewer is the editor of Poet’s Market and author of Solving the World’s Problems. Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

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Check out these other poetic posts:

Bryan Borland: Poet Interview.

Collecting Poems Into a Book: 5 Poets Share Their Method.

WD Poetic Form Challenge: Diminishing Verse.

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