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punkandsnacks · 4 years

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Between Wolves & Doves; Chapter Seven, Savagery.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violent thoughts in this chap !!! Kylo’s getting somewhat, territorial. Shall we say-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

When he came to her that night, her tears of grief were still drying on her cheeks. Catching in the fires light, like ribbons of sparkling amber.

If he had a soul, it would be crumbling in despair for glimpsing the sight of her like this.

“Oh, My little dove.” He sighs, weary and heart sore for her. She didn’t even have anyone to cry to or to embrace in her sadness. She always had to cry alone.

Tears staining onto the clasping embroidery of her laced pillow. Her supple form curled up into a fitful tense shape on the bed. Her toed off brown boots are strewn on the floor by the end of the bed.

Concern weights down the heavy lentil of his stern brow as he rounds the end of her bed to come closer. His big hand cupping the polished twists of the wood pillar of the mahogany frame. He steps over her boots. Coming to tower over where she rests on the mattress.

She’s still wearing her gown. The ash grey wool she wore earlier today. Her hair is still bound. Though it’s strictness is softened by wisps that have worked their way loose. Spilling over her cheeks and straying across the pillow. Like dark twisted roots.

She won’t wake. She never does. He sets himself carefully on the bed. Feels it give and creak beneath his weight. He watches her rest. Brings his hand up to stroke a thumb across the soft cushion of her damp cheek. Wet and salt clings to his skin.

He whispers to her. “I felt it. I felt your sadness. I felt it reach out to me. Calling to me.”

He leans down and kisses the tear away. When he does, when he tastes that sadness on his lips - a shatter of emotion and memory cracks through him. Like thunder splintering and charring an old oak. He is struck by it. Well and truly.

He can hear her mothers snarls, feel the crush of guilt and righteous anger drowning his sweet little dove. Being told she must obey to her family expectations. Start making them proud. Start thinking of marriage.

He sighs deeply as he pulls away. He didn’t even register the pretty floral of her skin he so loves. Not tonight.

Tonight, he is not a baying monster seeking for blood. He is a suitor who has deeply concerned, rushed to her side as he felt the worst woes of his lover.

He felt her despair. Her dying hope. He felt the waning happiness of their day wither. Like a dried flower hardening up in the frost or the heat. Seizing up it’s bright petals. Or shedding them. He’s felt how her family’s expectations strip her bare and leave her shredded and bruised.

Here, he just feels his jaw grit at the rage of it all. He grows wilder with anger. Can feel the black of it, thick like rotten honey, bleeding flushing into his veins.

“I wonder, do you feel me too? Are you so struck by all the things I perceive?” He asks to her. Not intending at all for his questions to be answered.

Their bond is strong - this cannot be denied. It’s tug engulfed them both from the second their eyes met. That blazing dazzling storm that took his breath away. The tempest of her influence quakes inside his chest.

Yet this...fondness, for her. A mere mortal. A simple, human girl. It is not so perishable. To look upon the last love and bond he has felt in his life, it seems so dangerously frail in comparison. Adoring her is like cherishing a birds eggshell. Like a faint ember glowing, about to extinguish. Yearning and waiting to be made bright.

Humans. All of them are so fleeting. So quick to bud and even quicker to fade. Like a dying little spark. Extinguished before it barely even thrives.

He can feel this spirit. This entwining of their souls. This dense entanglement of emotion. Can sense how it hungers to grow. Like him; it’s a bloodthirsty beast. Demands heart and cartilage and inky black ichor of blood to sustain it.

His yearning is more than he ever thought. And he knows how she wants it desperately also. Wants him. Their feelings have found symmetry in each other. This is the first time a woman has been more to him than a collection of veins to drink off.

“I confess; I care not if you can sense me yet. Because I sensed you the minute I saw you, Iris Ashton. And now I feel how trapped you are.” He explains softly.

“Little Dove. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you freed.” He promises.

He’s stroking her hair back off her face. Trying to soothe away the crinkling frown in her brow. The one that spoke highly of her turmoil.

“I would rip those pathetic beings you call relatives to pieces for making you suffer like this. I wouldn’t even drink them. Dove. I’d kill purely for the pleasure and the sport of it.” He pledges.

Somewhere in his mind, faintly, upon a distant echo of an echo, he can hear his makers voice. He can hear Draegan calling him a savage, chiding him for those words. He always was the one between the two, blessed with more leniency.

“Your mother is desperately trying to keep us apart. It will not be so. I will not stand for it.” He confesses.

“I will not.” He makes plain. Shakes his head. His words are quiet venom with the resolute strength of iron, but he’s softly caressing her cheek. Taking away all the tears and salty sadness with his fingertips.

“I have a foul temper and when people deny me the things I want. They will inevitably lose.” He growls.

He will kill. Maim. Slaughter and hunt without any whiff of so called or feared consequences. He’s a vampire. He’s above emotion. He does not subscribe to petty human clemency. There is no point in mercy being instilled in such savage beasts, after all. It would wither and die in the face of all the foul things he’s committed. The gore. The pain. The massacres. The bloodlust.

“I came tonight because you cried out for me. You cloud up every moment in my head. You live behind my closed eyelids when I rest at night...” He expresses.

He reaches his hand to cover her collarbone. Very close to the space over her heart. Warm skin soothes his icy palm. It’s been so long since he felt the flurry and flush of warmth. He can feel the quivering muscle tremble and tick under her skin. Gushes and guides her blood. The rattle of it pulses and echos through her vulnerable bones.

The fragility of her tiny timpani heart, beating away her time.

“And now your body beats for me. Each pump of your heart I can hear; and it sounds like it’s calling out my name. And I will always answer to it.” He promises. “I cannot ignore it, even should I wish too.”

He cannot fathom the enormity of this strangle hold she has across him. He can only nurture it’s budding into being. He will help blossom and thrive, whatever this may be.

He quirks a slight tip of a smile. It breaks the stoic nature of his scowl hardened face. Like strong waves being dashed on the rocks. It yielded.

“When I think back upon you sitting astride Kana today, it makes me smile. I had not thought you to be such a wild creature so ready to dash the rules.” He says in mirth.

He’d only looked at her and seen the etiquette she adheres too. He was pleasantly surprised to find she was no shrinking violet. He’s enamoured with uncovering more such stubborn wilderness within her.

“How glad I am for it. That little spit of fiery spirit that not even your foul mother can hope to tame. I’ve always been so enamoured with wild things.” He smiles.

He rubs his thumb across her forehead. His own brow creases when he feels the tremble and agony of her aching head. The raw sting of her red eyes. He rubs until that grey nimbus of her pain passes away. Like smoke on the gentle breeze. He soothes it away.

He is sure to put vastly happier thoughts into her head. Plants them there like seeds ready to sprout. He helps her recall every smile they’ve shared. Every ghost of a touch. Every look of their eyes clashing that sent rattles of desire wracking down her spine. His too, though she had no clue as to the potency of her charms.

No clue whatsoever- it’s one of his favourite things about her. Here is a power she doesn’t even know she wields. He will gladly instruct her to see it used.

He lets her see them this afternoon. Riding side by side in the frosty sunshine. Stroking the horses in their stalls. The way he caught her and reeled her in when she slipped off Kana’s back. He lets that warm happiness flow through her like golden ambrosia. The sweet honey nectar of happiness they share together.

He will have more. He will make it so.

He feels how her body is growing colder. He twists around and sees the fire in her hearth is crumbling low. Barely sustained. He crosses and sees to it. Stokes it with the iron poker and piles on more logs to see her kept warm.

Silently he walks back to the bed, to her side. Pulls up the fluffy eiderdown over her where it lay crumpled at her feet. The feathery down of it rumples and crushes and he tucks it around her prone body. Her human well-being, hangs loosely by a fine thread compared to his stronger senses.

He exhaled an amused sound to himself. “And they say I am the creature who bears no soul.” He speaks in detriment to his caring touches.

But so long as he is near, he will not see her suffer. From cold. From sadness. From anything that may ail her.

He has seen worse things than his own kind being blights upon humans. He’s witnessed plagues, wars, outbreaks of diseases too foul to name. The awful crippling frailty of suffering a human existence.

He places his hand on her elbow, atop the covers he shrouded her in. Her dreams eased by his influence. Her strains and stresses plucked away by his hands. He could do more than merely enchant her senses. He could alter them. Make her witness things if he wished to.

“How is it a creature like me can find such solace in even being near you.” He asks gently. Big fingertips of his grooming through her hair. Feeling the spun-bronze soft of it combing through his fingers.

He may never have an answer to that musing. An eternal query for him to ponder over through his ages. All he knows, is that he won’t be kept apart from her. Not for anyone’s wishes.

He stays until a cresting red-gold dawn. Blood and gold copper coins, spill slanted across the sky. The birds outside in Westwell’s meagre garden begin their song to herald to the new day.

He leaves her. Parts with a kiss to her cheek and before he slips from her sight and off into that blaze of a dawn, he leaves his initialled kerchief crumpled up in her hand.

The thought as to her confusion of how it got there, will make him smile. Now she has a token of him. That happy thought keeps him smug in temper, and buoyant for the whole day. He hopes it will jab at her acerbic mother.

Should teach her that no one stands in Lord Ren’s path. And even fewer live to tell the tale of having done so.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Iris really did applaud her mothers cruel sense of efficiency. Not but the next day, and Sergeant Armitage Hux and Mrs Hux call at Westwell to take tea.

As they alight from their carriage, Iris is sat at the window armchair. Watching their newcomers. A flash of brilliant red catches her eye, stark in the icy landscape of the frosted green and creamy cotswold stone gravel drive.

He wore his full ceremonial uniform under his black cape. Wool coat the shade of split veins. On his head, covering the copper of his short hair, sits a cocked half moon army hat. Fluffy red and white plumage darts up, sprouting from one side. Blood spattered on snowy doves feathers. The ultimate homage to war.

He looks terribly neat and well groomed. Meticulously so. Coat brushed. His cape is spotless. His white breeches are about as pristine as the snow that fell around the estate last night. His black boots gleam. Freshly polished and waxed. Iris bites her tongue when she sees he’s fully dressed for battle. Even his gold rapier sword hangs at his side. Bumping against his hip.

Hux turns and helps his mother down from the carriage. She is a stout woman of late age, with greying hair and a face that always looks pinched. Her pale face hidden in her frilly bonnet. A ruffled frill secured around her neck. A chemisette collar of rippled muslin, peaking in cresting white waves. Tied in a bow around her neck. Brushing under her chin. Collar starched and stiff. Holding her chin precariously high. Incredibly precocious.

Then again, the woman did always adore and admire looking down upon people. Haughtily peering down on her lessers.

Much of her dress is covered by her deep plum pelisse. She has lilac gloves on and is pinching her skirts up. Afraid of the mud. Sniffing in disdain at muddying her rose pink and mauve half boots with it. Iris shuts her book with a harsh snap. A sigh leaves her lips.

She sets her book aside. Mother appears in the parlour. Lifts up the arched curtain to better glimpse at their guests. She turns a casting eye over Iris’s dress.

“Your skirts are wrinkled and your hair is loose at the back. Fix it.” She instructs snappily with quick hurrying. Before turning back to seat herself elegantly on the settee opposite.

Their parlour was not quite the finest room in Britain. But it was cosy. Heavy blue velvet drapes line the windows with gold tassels trimmed on their edges. There is upholstered walnut settees and arm chairs with white and pink rosebud pattern on the seats.

The fire is lit and roaring amber in the austere grey of the stone hearth surround. Mother arranged an ostentatious vase of tall spilling blooms on the French end table across the room, by the door. Perfuming the air with violets and bluebells. Sugared fruit of exotic variety lay in the only silver bowl they have in the house. Polished especially. Desperate to show off their finery.

Mother is fussing with the crocheted lace doily on the table. Tugging it straight. Setting her grey satin skirts to fold nicely and neat around her knees. Tugging on her finest shawl around her shoulders. Hissing at Iris to set her legs straight. For she always sat most uncommonly. With one knee folded under the other.

Iris is in the upholstered linen armchair opposite to the settee. In the chair has seen better years. A twin set. They creak and crack under her weight. But it’s always done that ever since she was a child. It’s her favourite spot. The light is adequate for reading. Until Posy or Flora come marching in and clamour and demand the chair for they have to fix up their bonnets for church on Sunday. Heaven forfend they are seen out in the same bonnet twice.

Luckily today they preen and fuss in the parlour mirror before the housekeeper shows their guests into the front parlour. Posy is in a duck egg blue with a green ribbon at her waist. Flora is almost matching in a cotton white with a peony pink ribbon. They preen a moment longer until the door handle cracks and twists across the room. The two littlest Ashton’s dart quickly to take their places. Squeaking with giddy excitement. Plonking artlessly onto the furniture.

Iris’s mother frowns at her eldest daughters dour smile. She’d tugged her out of bed nearly at dawn this morning. Ordered her up. To bathe and wash and then dress her hair for Hux’s call.

Laced her tight into stays and her whisper-blue silk dress. Barely blue. Like a sky just turning at twilight. It had three quarter sleeves and handsome train. It it showed off the prettiness of her neck and shoulders. Especially when she wore her pearl sapphire earrings. They sparkle all across her neck.

She puts down her book on the end table. And looks up into the parlour doorway as Mrs Hux enters, preceding her son. Their stout almost-elderly matron of a housekeeper, Simpson, opens the door to them and curtseys. Announcing them. “Maratella Hux and Sergeant Hux. If you please, Ma’am.”

Maratella glides in first. Still with her parasol hooked upon the crook of her arm. She snaps her fingers at Simpson to take it and her bonnet.

“I would have disrobed more in the hall. But your entryway is most drafty and I do so fear getting dust on my bonnet. For it will never be gotten out easy in all this fine lace.” Simpson takes her bonnet and her parasol off her. She curtseys to Caroline.

“Mrs Ashton. You do keep such a snug parlour.” And then she turns and offhandedly stresses Posy, Flora and Iris. The whole bouquet. As if suddenly surprised they’re all here. “Oh. And I dare say such a pretty flock of gels.” She compliments.

“You remember my youngest’s. Posy and Flora. And of course, Iris. My eldest.”

Hux nods and lays particular care in Iris’s intended direction. He turns back to Mrs Ashton.

“I feel I must ride into town to immediately fetch the constable. Ma’am. You have been charged with a criminally beautiful set of daughters. Mrs Ashton.” Hux flatters. With an easy charm of a smile.

Two thirds of the Ashton bouquet giggle wildly, enamoured with the praise. The remaining third bites her tongue to guard it. To keep from rolling her eyes.

“You are very good, Sir. Please. Do come, be seated. I have rung for tea.” Mrs Ashton floats delicately to retake her seat. Mrs Hux daintily comports herself next to her friend.

Armitage remains stood. Arms tugged behind. Sword clanging his belt where he stands with a jaunt to one hip one leg kicked out.

“How are you? My dear Mrs Ashton...” Maratella greets. Taking Caroline’s hands into her own. She wore spotless calfskin gloves. Before she unbuttons the pearl fastenings and makes a show of peeling the expensive things off her tubby hands. Delicately pinching each fingertip and caressing the thing off her hand like she was doing it for exaggerated show. She wasn’t. She was merely acting elegantly as she thought she must.

“I am in good health. I thank you Mrs Hux.” She answers. “Your Armitage looks extremely well. London air must agree with you, Sir?” Mother simpers.

“It did serve me most splendidly. Ma’am. But I am more than pleased to be home. And most thankful for your invitation.” He bows politely and his sea foam green eyes flicker over to find Iris. She smiles meagrely at him, averts her gaze.

He cuts the figure of a tall man standing there, behind his short mother with his hands crossed precisely behind his back. Trying to make his lean chest look impressive with all his gleaming medals and polished gold buttons resting stitched to their black braiding wool patches. Soot. Gold. And blood. All in one uniform.

Armitage Hux had missed the main war of late. The Napoleonic wars which happened of 1815, just this last year gone. Iris wondered if Hux really ever equated the finery of such a uniform, with real true war.

Here he is. Trussed up like a clockwork toy-soldier. With his boots shining and his composure spotless. He’s a young man who has not seen the full horror of war. Iris can’t exactly boast of knowing any more than he. But his uniform spoke of such hope. Time will tell if he can seize the bravery needed to march onto a battlefield.

“Iris looks exceedingly well. Do you not think so Armitage?” His mother urges.

“Indeed she does. Most handsome.” Hux says to the matronly mama’s. But he’s smiling right at her. He crosses the few short steps to the unoccupied twin chair where she’s sat by the window. Gracefully deposits himself into the chair.

Iris takes a subtle breath before she turns towards him. Sat demurely with her hands clasped on her knees and her back straight. When all she really wants to do is lounge. And slouch. And do anything to put him off the idea of marriage.

She was doomed to its sentence. She’d have rather sat here today and stuck pins in her eyes. Rather than conform to conversations about the weather, the local gossip, the tea or the snow outside. When all their mothers were really trying to arrange, was, when it boiled down to it? A forced mating ritual between the country gentry.

The way Mama and Mrs Hux are peering at them from their settee, is like they can already envisage the wedding clothes. And the names for the Hux babe they want to see, soiling in its cloth, and squalling loudly it’s bassinet.

Iris is sick to death of all this match making- but. She is the eldest Miss Ashton. She persists. When all she wants is to flee the room screaming.

“How did you find London this time of year? Must be miserably cold and busy.” Iris seeks.

“Yes. It was rather. Lucky my visit didn’t extend for too long. I am not so enamoured of city living. The society may be fine and resplendent. I did not suffer for a dinner invite the whole time I was in town. But the lifestyle suits me very ill. I much prefer my time spent back here at Walford.” He tells.

“And how is your regiment?” She enquires. He answers. They talk about his militia training. His fellow officers. His sword. His commission. They just lapse to the weather. When the door handle creaks again and in comes their procession of maids with the tea and cake.

Assam tea with a side of Cooks buttery baked ginger biscuits. Seed cake, and finger sandwiches. Made of fluffy pillow soft white bread. Filled with sliced tongue, or ham, with cornichon or yellow piccalilli.

Cook has even made her violet macarons. Gorgeous silky little round cakes of smooth, bright purple. Wedged either side of cloying sweet ganache. Almonds and sugar and all things made sweet with violet essence.

Iris knew mother must’ve gone through a fair amount of their family budget for such an indulgent French fancy. Sugar and eggs and coconut didn’t come cheap. Of course she would pour every hope and penny farthing they had spare into this venture. Anything to catch a suitor.

Caroline pours, and Julia hands around the cups. Leaves a macaron perched on Iris’s saucer. Waggles her brows at Iris, poking with good natured chiding fun for Hux, who was sat opposite her. Looking most keen.

Iris sips her tea from her blue and white spode cup and pays their silly maid no mind. Just because they both flutter eyes at anything of Male born, with nice thighs framed by their breeches.

He’s a soldier too? The maids will state that every romantic girl must get her heart broke by a soldier, just the once.

Hux sets his tea on the end table between them. Leaning a tad closer to initiate more intimate conversation.

“Do forgive my speaking bluntly, Miss Ashton. But I believe it is brightening up. Would you care to take a turn on the lawn with me?” He seeks. They had finished their tea. After all. And she must be polite.

“I’d be delighted to. Sergeant Hux.” She accepts. She stands and deposits her empty teacup down. He tells their Mothers of their plan. He sees Iris into the cold foyer and they pull on their coats. She wished she could find something repulsive in him. But really, he is a gentleman. He holds the door. Helps her into her pelisse. He’s not a horrible suitor. Maybe if he was she could hate him more keenly.

She wished she could be repulsed by his every action and snobbery. But he is, genial. He smiles warmly at her.

He takes her arm when they get outside. They walk along the drive in companionable, yet slightly awkward silence. Iris just knows their mothers will be fussing like clucking hens at the parlour window watching them. Planning a wedding for the spring after a suitably long engagement. Posy and Flora will be marvelling at every barest touch they share.

‘Did you see how he took your arm?’ Or ‘How he doted upon you... I should so like for a man to hold a door like that for me.’

Hux breaks the silence. They walk arm-in-arm around the curvature of the frozen pond.

“I know men aren’t supposed to be appraised of such matters. Miss Ashton. And if you’ll forgive me, I shall speak plainly-“ He declares to her.

He brings them to a stop. Ten to rly reaches out. His gloved fingers take her hand. She admires it. The plumage on his hat is battered in the wild wind. The only sounds she can hear is her bonnet ribbons fluttering and snapping on the wind. The birdsong chipping sweetly at her ears. The terrified drum of her heart.

“I came here today with the express purpose and intention of paying court to you, Iris.” He tells her. A hopeful smile on his lips.

His eyes crinkle at the corners with hope. His stark inky cape flaps on the breeze. She smells wool and boot polish. Stuck on the frosty landscape that glittered in his eyes.

Her chest breaks. Crushing in on itself.

She looks up into his face. The sun kissed gold upon her icy-white cheeks. Red tinted from the cold breeze. She swallows. Tipping her head slightly back so she can see his face past the woven peak of her bonnet.

Her mouth gapes and she looks down where he’s holding her hand- and it doesn’t feel right.

She feels like she wants to burst. Needles of hot and ice cold stab at her ribs like ferocious ten thousand little knives. She wants to be sick or run away. This isn’t the pair of hands that should be holding hers.

Sergeant Hux is terribly nice. Courteous and well bred. And more wealthy than her. But- but he’s not...

Lord Ren’s face strikes at her mind with so much power. She almost loses her breath. And her footing. She regains her composure. Even though it feels like something just yanked up inside her chest and tore away her lungs from where they are joined to her throat.

She plasters on a false meek smile.

“I see...” She remarks. Anything more witty or feeling was beyond her. She felt like soon, she’d fade into the air, like smoke. Just drift away.

“I know it is the especial wish of your mother, aswell as mine, that we are to consider each other as potential spouses. And I would very much- I should very much like to spend more time with you, if you’ve no objection?” He asks. Still clasping her hand.

“You are kind sir...” She stutters breath around the words. “Your attentions would be most welcome.” She lies.

She feels rotten.

“I know we know a little of each other. I believe there is some fondness between us. That could grow into respect, and, and possibly- one day, maybe more than that.” He approaches cautiously.

She nods. “You speak very bluntly of such matters. Sergeant Hux.” She says. He speaks as if they are already truths, come into fruition.

“I merely speak what is present. Miss Ashton. My- words are not finely crafted or driven by passion. They do not fall prettily. I am no astounding orator. Nor poet. But I do so believe that we might have a chance of making each other passably happy.” He declares once again.

“You shall never want for anything should we marry. You’d be a Sergeants wife and all that is offered it it’s income. I would treat you dearly, and- admire you as any husband should whilst you see to raising our offspring. These are, after all, matters that fall rightly to women.” He adds.

“Yes, indeed.” She guards her tongue before it becomes uncivil.

“We are invited to the Elton’s musicale, two nights forth. Thursday next. Would you do me the honour of your hand in the invite?” He seeks.

“Well. I-“ she swallows the sticky grey lump in her throat. How she’d love to be selfish and refuse. Her eyes still rimmed and raw from crying over all this last night. Heart sore. A great crack splintering through the middle of it like ancient rusted clay pottery. Her heart so badly wants anything- something more. Someone else.

She can’t do it. Mother would have her crucified. She wants her sisters to have a better comfort in life than what she’s had to suffer with being the family puppet. She wants her father to have new clothes and not have to worry. She wants to see Westwell safe from the bailiffs.

“I should be thrilled to attend.” She smiles. Her shattered heart crumbles that little bit more. Morphs into a wet mush of clay. Drowned by disappointment.

This wasn’t for her benefit- it’s for everyone else’s. And that was no reason to marry. She believes first and foremost in living for herself. Iris so badly wants to live for herself. To be her own person. She does not have that luxury and it’s suffocating.

She agreed because it was polite. Because he was a genial man and she didn’t wish him upset when he’s done nothing wrong, but let himself be manoeuvred into matrimony by his mother.

She agreed. For her sisters. For her father. Definitely not for her mother though. She doesn’t deserve even an ounce of her thoughts or considerations.

She agrees, even though all of Hampshire society knew that the musical performed by the Elton’s made all the local dogs howl. Even though several ‘accomplished’ young ladies of the ton, played their instruments so ill, everyone swore they could hear the thud of the long deceased composer banging their skull in lamentation and sheer agony on the lid of their coffin.

Even though she’ll be sat next to a man who has promised only to love her dearly. He is a nice man. That is simply it. She feels unworthy and ignorant. She doesn’t want the things she’s supposed too.

She’s overwhelmed. Her head is spinning, and her mouth as sticky dry as a chasm of sand. They’re not even courting properly, or engaged and she wants to pick up her skirts and flee across the horizon. She wants to run. To breathe. To be free from this nice courtesy that she doesn’t want.

She wants more out of her life than that of being a broodmare of a sergeants wife. The expectations don’t stop the day she says ‘I do.’ The fetid things will live on and on. Until she becomes the perfect bride. Then the most perfect housekeeper slash wife. Then a doting mother to a child she’s sure she doesn’t want. Fathered by a man who loves her with lukewarm and polite affection.

Can a soul really be satisfied by such a light caress of passion?

Hers is begging and screaming for more. She’s read in books about exotic cities and lands. Blue blue, so very blue seas and oceans, vaster than her comprehension. Wide wide skies filled with sunsets she could only dream of glimpsing at.

She’s read of snowy mountains and thick pine woodland. Air full of sap and snow. Of sunny cities entirely made out of blue bricks in Morocco. Or ones in Asia painted the entire street rosebud pink just for one visiting dignitary.

She’s heard teasing dribbles of exotic accents and tastes and cultures. She wants to see the bursting heated streets lined with saccharine Mango trees in India. Perfume of it in the air, of spices and sweetness. Wants to see the terracotta catholic loud renaissance of Florence. She wanted to see Castles and chateaus and forts and grand ballrooms. And American railways across the plains of the wild west and-

She’ll never have any of those things. Not a one. Her future was written and decided. And it is appearing bleak.

She thirsts and wants things she’ll never see. Such opulence in the world out there. And instead? She’ll be manacled to a husband and the children and the stove in this tiny savage spit of a village. Until old age and death comes to take her away. Return her to the heat and rot of earth and maggots to help fade her to nothing. Until all that remains of her, is dirty bones and her loved one’s scraps of memories.

Hux smiles. Brings her hand up to lay a gentle kiss upon her glove. “I anticipate it eagerly.” He says. She offers a wobbly smile that she tries to make stand strong.

She can feel eyes stabbing into her back - most likely from the direction of the parlour window. Mama and Mrs Hux stood at the parlour’s front facing windows. Appraising their fine match.

But there’s something else- something that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Something altogether much more unwholesome. She feels a cold chill burst and slither up her spine. Horribly slow.

Hux has taken her palm to place it in his elbow once again. And they wander now around the rest of the pond. He remarks how beautiful the great spreading horse chestnut tree must be in spring. Iris smiles her agreement.

Peering around. Everywhere in her garden she looked, all was empty. She can’t see their gardener, Higgins, trimming verges or shrubbery. She looks between the copses of the vast spread of trees that shield her view, past the shrubs and the neat hedges. There was nothing. They were the only two people outside the house, out here.

So why does Iris feel as if they aren’t?

Her eyes catch on the bare mulberry tree, the sprawling trunk is bare and black. Like dead curled up spiders legs. Swaying in the breeze.

A black shape sits in that tree. A raven or a jackdaw bird possibly. Onyx black. Curling feet and a sharp inky beak. Fixated its beady glittering honey-black eyes on the both of them. Not moving an inch. Hunched and peering down over them.

Iris looks at it for a long moment. Watches the wind ruffling it’s feathers. It stays fixing its look on her. And it doesn’t move. Not scared. Not at all intimidated by her presence.

Hux jolts her out of her gawping at an unsuspecting bird. It gives a scratchy caw of a call, and spreads its flapping great wings. Soars up into the icy soft of the pearl sky and soars away over the house.

“Miss Ashton?” Hux asks again. A tad louder to capture her attention.

“Forgive me. Lost in my thoughts...” She laughs explains in mirth, turns back and smiles to him. He smiles awkwardly and ducks his head. Discusses the weather with her once again.

They head back into the house for more tea. Caroline gives Iris such a sickly smile when they come back into the room.

Hux announces to Mrs Ashton that he should like to pay call to Iris and escort her to the Musicale next week. Mrs Ashton accepts delightedly.

Mrs Hux adds onto that enjoyment. “Why, we should get a party together. Such a merry gathering! The Ashton’s and the Hux’s shall all attend. You know we have two carriages, Mrs Ashton. Hux may escort all your lovely daughters. And you and Mr Ashton May ride with me and Brendol.” She organised with a giddy grin. Tapping her companions knee.

Iris stands there next to Hux. Feeling very much as if her life is being lived for her. She has no choice in the matter. She is chattel.

Thankfully, after arranging the outing. Maratella and Hux take their leave. They are going on into Pembleton for a general perusal. And Hux needs more boot polish. And she is in desperate need of new ribbons for her hat. Iris shrewdly eyes the hefty bonnet on the woman’s head, groaning under the weight of lace and ribbons and muslin.

Hux kisses her hand again. Bows to her before he leaves. Iris swallows nervously. But doesn’t let her expression betray it. Flora and Posy giggle and whisper to each other. Flourishing into gossip as he leaves the room.

Iris stands looking at the door for a second after it’s shut. Mother sees them off to the front door.

Iris waits to hear the latch on the front door go. When she does she strides quickly for the parlour door, she yanks it open and tears across the foyer and upstairs. Her feet loudly slap each step as she holds her skirts bunched in her fingers.

When she gets to her room she throws the door open with such ferocity the door handle smacks loudly to the wall. She starts getting at the fastenings of her dress. Unloops them and manages to get down to her chemise and her stays. She throws the fine dress away to crumple to her bed. It balloons on the air and floats gently down. Mourning the loss of being worn.

She is at her wardrobe, ruffling through angrily. She’s so breathless. Her lungs are not getting air. Why can’t she breathe? Her mind is racing a million miles a minute. She’s sweaty and clammy and her temples are pounding straining pulsing. Every heartbeat hurts her head. Throat clawing shut.

She won’t cry. She wilfully clamps her teeth shut-she won’t.

She skips herself into her simple beige muslin dress. And shoved her arms through the old wool blue pelisse. Stabs her feet into her boots. Heads back downstairs with her scarf to hand. Every nerve balances on the precise of a knifes edge.

She gets to the front door when her mother appears, peering into the hallway from the parlour doorway. “Precisely where do you think you’re going?” She seeks. Frowning. Face pulled into a scowl.

“I’ve done my duty for today surely. Have I not? What more do you want from me. I’m done parading myself like a witless idiot. I need a walk and some air.” She offers curtly. Slipping out the front door.

Slamming it shut behind her before her mothers next shrill words pierce her ears. No doubt cursing her daughter for daring to have such an insulting commodity as a functioning brain.

She walks quick. Off up the front drive. Let’s the sting of cold rip at her eyes and her cheeks. Taking deep dragging breaths. It feels like she’d swallowed an entire ream of dressmakers pins. Stabbing and squeezing more pain into her.

She puffs and pants and finally feels like she’s gained some breathing space. Coming into the woods near Westwell and shuts her eyes and lets the sounds soothe her frayed self.

The wood pigeons. A cuckoo’s call. The hiss of leaves scratching against their branches in the wind. High above. The crunch of her boots on twigs and frosted leaves mushed underfoot.

The tactile scratch of her gloves hands scraping across the rough bark of trees around her. She leans back against one of them. Looks up at it’s dead brown leaves. Elm tree.

It’s nice to let something sturdy take her weight for once. She doesn’t often have that luxury.

She regains control of her senses. Of her ragged breath and thumping heart. The cold wind wraps around her snugly. Letting her envelope herself in this silence. Breath escapes silver and wispy from her lips.

A twig snaps far off in the tree’s-

Her eyes shoot open. Scanning all around. Sickly bile rising to the back of her throat. She steps away from the elm tree and lets her eyes flicker all around the woodland. Over the ash brown of the trees and the brush of golden leaves mingled with crystals of frost on the ground.

She turns her head around and then loses her breath. Except this time, it is not of her own making.

There is a dark shape looming out of the trees. A big shape. A monstrous shape. A big meaty tangle of black-grey smudged fur. Pointed ears, a long snout. Eyes standing stark. Eyes that are more golden than a tuscan sun.

A wolf.

She watches as this beast assesses her from afar. Gently picking its paws over the foliage and mess of brittle twigs and mud on the wood floor. It’s paws were as big as dinner plates. It’s not baring it’s teeth at her. She imagines those teeth are bigger and sharper than most silver daggers or pocket knives.

It’s ears are swivelled in her direction. Eyes fixed on her too.

She stays still. Frozen to the spot she’s rooted too. Trying not to tremble in fear as tears, hot and molten silver, fill stinging at her eyes. She shivers with the ache of staying so still. Not daring to move one muscle.

This is the beast that’s been attacking the soused farmhands. The one that’s been hunting for blood. She doesn’t quite appreciate how much of a true statement that is.

When it’s about a foot away from her- it suddenly stops. Raises its lowered head. She sees the long line of its shaggy neck. Fur shining the shade of matte coal. It regards her with casual concern. It’s not growling. Or stalking her every move.

She stops holding such tension in her body. She’s used to the wolf hounds they have on the farm. Shaggy slobbering lumbering dogs who go insane for the dried liver, and fresh bones cook saves for them when she had a haunch of pork.

She remembers how their dogs go apoplectic for them. Gnawing at the fresh gummy blood and meat on those bones. She swallows at the not so appropriate visual of bloodied bones, right at this second. When she could have her throat ripped open by this savage wolf.

She watches as it comes closer by two steps from those big lethal paws. Then it sits.

She swallows. The way she knows canines. Sitting is not a sign of a rabid beast baying for blood.

“You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” Lord Ren’s voice ricochets through her head. Like a distant echo. Smoke on the air. Did she imagine it, or recall it?

What else was it he had said? She can vaguely recall. “Wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them.”

So she does the only thing she can think of. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe she’s putting herself in greater danger? But the wolf’s tranquility makes her brave.

She makes herself look less like a threat. Slowly sinks to a crouch, joining it. Her knees stab into the frosty ground as she sinks down. Coming eye to eye with the creature.

So close now she can see the various flecks of honey in its eyes. Can see every strand of fur where they stand rigid from its sleekly shaggy coat.

She rests fully on her bent knees. Damning her dress. Dancing the wet frost and mud bleeding into her dress. She tilts her slightly head at the wolf.

“Where did you come from then?” She asks it. Seeing the huge ears turn to her.

Where she’s crouched, it’s almost taller than her, sat down. On all fours it would have come up well past her hip she’d imagine. It was no stretch to perceive how this could be the creature that’s been attacking men around these parts of late. It is a brutely sized beast.

Meaty shoulders, a slim body, long strong legs and a powerful tail. Immense and strong.

“I know I should most likely be scared of a creature like you.... But you don’t seem very dangerous, to me... I’m sure if you were hungry enough to kill me you would’ve done so by now.” She counters to it.

It tilts his head and licks its chops. Flashes her the ivory sabres that it had for teeth. She looks down to it’s intimidating big paws. The claws almost bigger than her fingers. Another flurry of fear shivers through her.

“Are you the only one of your kind? You must be lonely. Are there any more of you hereabouts?...” She seeks. Wobbly voice straightening out when she unknots her tongue.

The wolf just sits. And watches her. Doesn’t move. Just looks.

Those gold eyes harrowing in their ferocity. She feels like they burn her. Yet. Why does she feel like she’s seen those buttery-honey eyes once or twice before-

She must be mad. They should call the doctor to come take her away to the nearest mental institution and pin her into a straight jacket. Here she is sat talking to a wolf.

“I know better than any what being lonely is like I suppose...” She adds softly.

Maybe she is insane. She has the oddest inclination- she reaches up. But not before stopping to take her gloves off. She leaves them crumpled in her lap. And extends her hand towards the beast.

She somehow already knows it won’t harm her.

It still sits there. Even as she gets her fingers to stroke the side of its neck. Fur so soft and thick under her palm. Silky smooth. She’d never felt a pelt this smooth.

It makes a deep appreciative growl in the back of its throat at being petted. A deep husking rumbling noise. A chuff of breath.

A sudden noise makes her shrink back. The wolf sharply turns its head. She looks too. A horse and rider galloping through the far lane, off in the woods

By the time she twists back, the wolf is gone. Sprinting off through the trees. Far to the horizon.

A black blur in the woods. And she is alone once more.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

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ragewrites · 5 years

Quote

o lord, do you hear? the way the plains cry out your name — the way the soil is singing, the way the forest prays for clemency — how we are all burnt underfoot and left to smolder, charred by your absence, by the sins of our fellow man — how the whole world is dying as it lies awaiting absolution, for the sun to give way to late grain rains; o lord, do you hear? the wild way my heart beats in its' cage, blood fervent, echoing the same sacraments took by priests who did their worship at your younger altars? o, lord; do you hear?

end of an era; or, a prayer to perun november 15th, 2018 / / lianna schreiber

#spilled ink #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #poetry #poem #free verse #freeverse #freeform #free form #inkstain #quotidie #yes this is about climate change #and yes i am equating all sky gods to the abrahamic him #2018

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playpretendx · 5 years

Text

Homecoming

“There was a legend ‘bout th’well in th’garden.”

“What well’n what garden?”

Blue eyes met brown in a shared gaze of perplexity through the dust particles floating about the small living room. She’d done it again, started a story without provocation or preface. Sweat pooled up in tiny beads across Alice’s forehead as the daylight outside leaked through the boarded windows of the musky swamp house she and her lover, Cal, chose to make a home in. From the looks of the rotted wood that made up the structure and the moldy floral wallpaper peeling away from the walls, it must have been decades since anyone entered the home before them. They shared the space with skittish mice and various bugs and spiders, but it was theirs. The mattress that smelled of mildew, the long and muggy days, and the nights full of fireflies, dancing in the darkness to the incongruous tune of the cicadas in the swamp that surrounded them, all of it was theirs.

It was theirs because of him. When Dean landed himself in the ward, it was Cal that saved her from loneliness. When the monsters reported her as a runaway, it was Cal that hid her away from prying eyes. His haggard appearance was enough to make anyone cross the street to avoid him, but Alice couldn’t help but see a saviour when she looked at him. She bit her lip anxiously while he slid down the wall to sit next to her on the floor and started preparing their latest dose of bliss. His hair hung over his gaunt face in oily strands as he flicked the lighter on beneath the already charred spoon. The sight of the flame sent a wave of excitement through her; it illuminated beautifully in the dark to shine a light on the true object of her affection. What began as a recreational escape from the troubles of the real world had quickly turned into an obsession. It had only been a few hours since the last time they went chasing dragons and it was still too long. The smell of the burning metal and the sound of the bubbling tar prompted her to tap her fingers impatiently against the floorboards. Cal seemed to notice her change in mood. A smile pulled at his lips as he broke the silence, “Ya gonna tell me ‘bout that well ‘r what?”

Shaken from her thoughts, Alice cleared her drying throat, attempting to compose herself as she responded, “What well?”

“Th’well’n th’garden.”

“What well in what garden?”

“Th’one with th’legend.”

“Oh… right.” She sighed, bringing her eyes back to him, “I dunno why I thought of it. When me ‘n Dean was with… them… we went onna fam’ly trip t’England. It was real pretty ‘n cold. I always thought castles only existed in stories, but there was real old castles there. Even th’hotel we stayed in was a castle. Felt like a princess every time I walked ‘round th��place.”—she paused for a moment as Cal moved closer to her and rolled her sleeve up—“There was this well in th’garden, surrounded by some pretty pink flowers. Th’lady that was tendin’ t’th’flowers told me that somma th’townfolk thought th’well was cursed ‘cause people used t’bathe at th’well t’wash their sins away. An’ over time there wasn’t nothin’ left in th’well but evil ‘cause all th’sins tainted th’water. Didn’ think sucha pretty place could be s’bad…”

Tumbling down the rabbit hole of thought again, her words trailed off into another moment of silence. She went back to the garden, remembering the smell of rain in the air and how cold the stones of the well felt under her hands as she peered down into it. She remembered squinting into the darkness of it, wondering if evil really did dwell somewhere beneath the mossy water. Part of her was genuinely afraid that some creature’s hand would burst forth from the depths and drag her down to Hell. There was no way she could have known that just inside the castle, just a few yards away, evil was on the grounds, but only as a visitor. She couldn’t have known that Dean had already been trying and failing to escape the Devil and his roving hands.

Her mind then went to where Dean was now. All she had ever seen of mental institutions had been on television and in movies. Upon hearing his fate after the trial, she’d had so many questions that nobody bothered to answer or even really listen to. Would they tie him up in some jacket while they lobotomized him? Would he come out the other side a completely different person? Could he forgive her for not seeing? Twins were supposed to have some otherworldly connection, yet she somehow overlooked his pain and allowed it to go on. It should have been her. He would have seen it; Dean was the best brother anyone could hope to have, and she had failed him. Brow furrowed, she mulled over what the coming days would bring. Just a month after their eighteenth birthday, it was decided that Dean was well enough to have a second chance at life. She and Cal were set to pick him up from the institution. The questions that had plagued her for the last three years would finally be answered and she wasn’t sure she was prepared for it.

Warmth suddenly shot into her arm and moved like a wave through the rest of her body. Alice had been so far from reality that she hadn’t even felt Cal tie the tourniquet or stick the needle in. Pain, guilt, anger, sadness, everything she had felt just before was falling away like wheat in the wind. The world was melting away to make room for the heavens. Though she had fallen over to lie on the floor, she felt herself floating into the sky. Like the character for whom she was named, she was drifting off into her Wonderland. It wasn’t long before Cal joined her on the floor, his hand finding hers as they slipped into the beyond together. All she could feel was peace. She had her love beside her and, come tomorrow, Dean would be free again.

Everything was finally going to be perfect.

---

A thump on the ground and a splash of water on the face roused Alice from her slumber. Rubbing her eyes, she looked up to see Dean standing over her. His face was twisted into what looked like disgust. As she lifted herself to her feet, he brought a hand up to rub his forehead and grumbled, “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

Overlooking his obvious disdain, Alice wasted no time in pulling him into her arms and holding him tight as she could while her head rested against his chest. She had imagined seeing him again countless times over the years, but this was the first time she was able to reach out and actually hold him. The embrace seemed to calm him for a moment, his arms moving around her shoulders to return her affection. Tears had only just started to sting her eyes when he pulled away from her and gave her a look over. Crossing her arms over her chest and squirming a bit under the heat of his scrutiny, she glanced over at Cal, who was just starting to wake.

“You weren’t s’posed t’get out till tomorrow.” She finally murmured, trying to hide her shame, “Me ‘n Cal was gonna pick ya up an’ take ya t’lunch ‘r somethin’.”

“I got out when I was s’posed to, Ali.” Dean replied, his voice growing louder. Ignoring Cal’s mumbling, he snatched up Alice’s arm to examine the various track marks and scars that riddled her skin. She tried to pull away from him, but his grip only tightened around her wrist as he continued, “But I guess y’don’t even know what day it is, do ya?”—when Alice was finally able to free herself from him, she pulled her sleeve down and turned from him—“I waited outside that fuckin’ hellhole fer two fuckin’ hours ‘fore I figured y’done fergot ‘bout me. Went lookin’ all over town fer ya only t’find out from Chuckie fuckin’ Davis that th’best place t’find ya is some busted ass gator shed in th’middle of th’fuckin’ swamp ‘cause this’s where y’come t’shoot up. I almost punched that snaggle-toothed gopher fucker right in th’jaw fer even thinkin’ you’d be up t’this shit.”

They had slept all day and all night. This was supposed to be the day that everything started over again and she already fucked it up. Unable to contain herself, Alice’s tears of joy quickly turned into sobs of despair. She moved to the corner of the room furthest from her brother and turned away from him. Cal, finally alert enough to comprehend the gravity of the situation, stepped between them and put a hand out in an attempt to calm Dean. The dryness of his throat caused his voice to crackle a bit as he spoke, “You don’t need t’be talkin’ t’yer sister like—”

“Who th’fuck’r you t’tell me how I should talk t’my sister?” Dean cut in, sizing up Cal’s near skeletal figure. Alice had never noticed how just how emaciated her lover was until that moment; compared to Dean, he looked like a stack of twigs. She wondered how she must have looked. Days out from her last shower, hair a tangled mess of leaves and twigs, and once perfect skin now riddled with razor trails and needle holes. The day was supposed to be one of reunion and new beginnings, but now she wanted nothing more than to disappear. Before Cal could answer the obviously rhetorical question, Dean pushed past him and went on, “Don’t bother, I don’t give a shit. She’s comin’ with me an’ you can stay in this shit stain of a shack an’ get hepatitis by yer own damn self.”

Cal’s eyes found Alice in a silent plea for her to object, but when she opened her mouth to do so, nothing came out. Just hours before Dean walked through the door of that decrepit house, Cal was the world. Everything she did centered around him. At least, she thought that was the case. Now that she was faced with the decision to stay with him or leave with her brother, she found that it wasn’t Cal that held her longing gaze, she was looking at the empty syringe on the floor. Gentle fingers found her hand and gave her a quick tug. She looked back at Dean to find that his anger had been replaced with what appeared to be clemency. Their silent communication rang loud in her mind; they were one again. With a nod, she moved toward the door on timid feet, unsure of what awaited them on the outside. Dean had just picked his bag from the ground when Cal found his voice again.

“Y’can’t jus’ walk in here an’ take ‘r away like she’s yers. I—”

Dean cut him off again, this time with a fist to the face. Easily toppled, Cal fell to the floor while Dean crouched next to him and tapped his reddened cheek to get his attention again, “She ain’t mine an’ she ain’t yers. She ain’t nobody’s. But, I’ll be fucked if I let’r make the same mistakes our cum dumpster of a momma did. I dunno what fuckin’ sewer she fished y’out of while I’s gone, but I suggest y’slither back on down inta it after we leave. ‘R maybe get yer shit t’gether.”

Knowing better than to argue, Cal remained on the floor as Dean straightened himself, slung his bag over his shoulder, and went for the door, beckoning Alice to follow. Knees weak and eyes sore, she obliged walked with him out into the light of the day.

“Where’re we goin’?” She asked quietly, not daring to meet his gaze just yet. Dean let out a sigh and turned to look at her. Finally allowing himself to smile just a bit, he replied, “I dunno. West?”

#alice drabble

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masterofd1saster · 2 years

Text

CJ current events 1fed22

NBC has a montage of carjackings.

Leave some space in front of and behind your vehicle so you can maneuver. Be careful where you drive, park, and buy gas.

***

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-60160424 speculates a short list of nominees to replace J. Breyer: Ketanji Brown Jackson, 51, Leondra Kruger, 45, and, most intriguing, Julianna Michelle Childs, 55. Lord Humungous's money is on J. Childs.

***

A man who set a deadly fire in a Minneapolis pawn shop during the 2020 George Floyd riots was spared a murder charge and sentenced to just 10 years after federal prosecutors invoked Martin Luther King Jr. and asked the judge to show leniency.

Montez Terriel Lee, 26, pleaded guilty to a single count of arson and was sentenced earlier this month to 10 years in federal prison — much less than the 16 1/2 to 20-year punishment outlined in the sentencing guidelines.***

Two months after the fire, the charred remains of 30-year-old Oscar Lee Stewart were found in the rubble. Although Stewart's death was attributed to the fire in the prosecutor's sentencing memo, he was not charged with it.***

Lee, who was wearing a mask, was caught on camera pouring liquid out from a metal container throughout the pawn store. The video then cuts to outside the pawnshop and shows the building burning and Lee holding up his fist in defiance. The man taking the video says, "Oh s***, you really did it!"

A second video begins with Lee standing in front of the pawnshop as it burns. Someone is heard asking, "What you do, Tez?" with Lee responding, "F*** this place. We're going to burn this bitch down!"

A third video shows Lee with a group of men joking about restaurants they are going to "hit" next. It then cuts to a cellphone recording that shows the looting of the pawnshop, according to an affidavit by Laine Sellner, a special agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, who was given the videos by an informant.

In a sentencing memo signed by acting U.S. Attorney W. Anders Folk and Assistant U.S. Attorney Thomas Calhoun-Lopez, prosecutors praised Lee for his "candor" and argued that he should be given a lighter sentence because he burned down a commercial building and did not commit the offense for personal gain. Though prosecutors admitted that when Lee raised his fist in defiance, it was "terribly misguided, and his actions had tragic, unthinkable consequences," they also thought Lee "[appeared] to believe that he was, in Dr. King's eloquent words, engaging in 'the language of the unheard.'" *** https://www.washingtonexaminer.com/news/prosecutors-win-light-sentence-for-man-who-set-deadly-fire-during-floyd-riots

The memo is available at https://alphanews.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Montez-Lee-Sentencing-Opinion.pdf

***

An Oklahoma man was executed Thursday at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester, Oklahoma, marking the country's first execution of the year.

Donald Grant, 46, was declared dead at 10:16 a.m. local time after receiving a lethal injection with no complications, according to Oklahoma Attorney General John O'Connor. He was convicted of brutally killing two hotel workers in 2001.***

Grant admitted to the deaths of Smith and McElyea in a hotel robbery in a clemency hearing in November when he apologized for the murders.***

According to prosecutors, both women begged for their lives before being shot and stabbed. Smith was also bludgeoned.*** https://www.washingtonexaminer.com/news/oklahoma-man-executed-for-slaying-of-two-hotel-workers

***

A 26-year-old woman who pleaded guilty to sexually assaulting a 10-year-old girl in Palmdale might be sentenced to a short stay in juvenile hall or granted probation at a court hearing this month, sparking another round of outrage over Los Angeles County Dist. Atty. George Gascón’s all-or-nothing criminal justice reform platform.

The complicated case of Hannah Tubbs has drawn increasing frustration from law enforcement officials and politicians in recent weeks, who say the situation once again highlights the problem with Gascón’s blanket ban on trying juveniles as adults.

Tubbs, who identifies as female, was two weeks shy of her 18th birthday when prosecutors say she walked into the women’s restroom of a Denny’s restaurant in 2014, grabbed a 10-year-old girl by the throat and locked her in a stall, court records show. Tubbs then shoved her hand down the girl’s pants and sexually assaulted her, prosecutors say, stopping only after someone else entered the restroom.***

But Tubbs was not linked to the crime until 2019, when her DNA was entered into a database after she was arrested on suspicion of battery in Idaho, said Lt. Richard Ruiz of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department’s Special Victims Bureau.***

Prosecutors filed charges against Tubbs in early 2020, shortly after Gascón took office. The reform-minded prosecutor has flatly refused to try juveniles as adults, citing scientific studies showing that adolescent brain development isn’t complete until age 25 and asserting young offenders can still be rehabilitated in juvenile custody, while they would only be hardened in adult prisons.

But Tubbs’ criminal record extends beyond the Denny’s attack and into her adult life.

She has also been arrested for battery, drug possession and probation violations in Idaho and Washington, where she also has a pending misdemeanor case, Ruiz said. Tubbs was convicted of assault with a deadly weapon in Kern County and faced a prior allegation of sexually assaulting a minor, which did not result in a prosecution, according to Ruiz and a review of court records.***

The district attorney also expressed concern that Tubbs herself would be victimized if placed in an adult facility as a transgender woman and noted a probation report actually recommended Tubbs be sentenced to home confinement. Instead, Gascón said, prosecutors asked for Tubbs to be kept in custody for two years where she could receive treatment and therapy.

Even then, the county’s ability to house Tubbs has been called into question. At 26, Tubbs is too old to be legally held in a county juvenile detention facility. But in the three years since Gov. Gavin Newsom announced his plans to dissolve the state Division of Juvenile Justice, which would normally house defendants in situations similar to Tubbs, the county has not put together a replacement program*** https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2022-01-15/sexual-assault-of-10-year-old-sparks-latest-criticism-of-l-a-district-attorneys-policies

***

Cold case

Madeleine Furey-Livaudais, 33, Dolores Barajas, 53, Gwendolyn Harris, 27, and Parks, 17 were murdered in Adams County, Colorado between 1978 & 81. The murders remained unsolved.

Joe Michael Ervin murdered Aurora, Colorado police Officer Debra Sue Corr on June 27, 1981 during a traffic stop. While in custody on July 1, he committed suicide.

In 2009, an Adams County sheriff’s detective reviewed the Parks case and selected about 20 items of evidence for potential DNA analysis, most of which had been examined before DNA analysis was an option, according to an Adams County Sheriff’s Office news release.

In 2011, a detective re-examined those items by swabbing an empty glass tube that previously had contained evidence obtained from Park, hoping to collect trace residue of DNA. The detective found the DNA of an unknown male, sheriff’s officials said.

The profile was entered into a DNA database and later linked to evidence from the three other cases being investigated by the Denver Police Department.

Genetic genealogy work that began in 2019 on the suspect’s DNA led to a positive ancestry link in Texas. Last summer, police conducted a familial search in Texas, resulting in the identification of a close biological relative of the suspect, who, at that point, still had not been identified.

The investigators pegged Ervin as a potential suspect, and DNA evidence from his exhumed body matched evidence taken from the crime scenes of the murders, police said. He had not been considered a suspect at the time of the killings or his after his arrest in the shooting death of the Aurora officer, Denver police confirmed.*** https://www.denverpost.com/2022/01/28/joe-michael-ervin-murder-suspect-denver/

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Boudin's parents were terrorist murderers

Prosecutors at the San Francisco District Attorney’s Office are being accused of withholding evidence in hopes of convicting a San Francisco police officer of excessive force.

The NBC Bay Area's Investigative Unit has learned a criminal investigator for the DA’s office, Magen Hayashi, testified Thursday that she was ordered by her own co-workers – attorneys inside the district attorney’s office – to withhold evidence, and said she believed she would have been fired if she refused.

District Attorney Chesa Boudin and his office did not respond to requests for comment.

The allegations stem from the ongoing criminal case against San Francisco Police Officer Terrance Stangel, who is accused of unnecessarily beating a man with his baton more than two years ago.

During her testimony, Hayashi told a judge she never disclosed the fact that she interviewed a witness who said just before Officer Stangel pulled out his baton, the man he struck could be seen beating a woman. In court documents filed earlier this week, Stangel’s attorney, Nicole Pifari, argued Stangel’s use of force was “reasonable and lawful under the circumstances and existing law.”*** https://www.nbcbayarea.com/investigations/sf-das-office-accused-of-withholding-evidence-in-effort-to-convict-cop-of-excessive-force/2792285/

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***Yesterday, in Department 27 Hayashi admitted that she lied to SFPD Investigators about her interview with a witness living in Sacramento. Hayashi said she was told, under the threat of being fired, to remove the exculpatory evidence from the arrest warrant she prepared on Officer Stangel. Only a week before Hayashi’s warrant, another DA investigator had been fired by Boudin because he resisted removing similar exculpatory evidence on a different case against an SFPD officer. So, firing was a credible threat to the single mom.*** https://loub.substack.com/p/under-oath-da-investigator-admits

Smash but not grab

Usman Bhatti owns Maaz Jewelers inside the Tanforan Mall in San Bruno, California. On Friday [21jan22?] around 1:06 p.m. five men came into attempt a smash & grab robbery. All they accomplished was a smash b/c Mr Bhatti confronted them with a firearm. KVTU.

watch https://abc7news.com/video/embed/?pid=11512755

There was a successful smash & grab at another jewelry store at the same mall the next Mon. https://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/smash-and-grab-robbery-Tanforan-Mall-jewelry-store-16805534.php https://public.powerdms.com/SanBrunoPD/documents/2399742?fbclid=IwAR3TRHGQnethYbRj9tj2tM8OB3MYaaMkTkqYJg3rxb6yMXDMC34r6bAH3dw

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In a democracy, you get what people vote for

Jason Williams is the DA of New Orleans, Louisiana. His campaign was funded by George Soros.

Since he became district attorney, less than one out of every five felony cases have ended with a felony conviction (17%). Approximately 67% result in dismissal without legal consequences for the alleged criminal offender. And about 20% of the felony cases dismissed were crimes of violence.

Additionally, the Advocate elaborated on Williams’s devastating decisions since he was elected. According to the Metropolitan Crime Commission’s latest report, in 2021, Williams rejected 46% of violent felony arrests for such criminal acts as murder, rape, kidnapping, carjacking, and robbery, among others. That represents an 84% increase over his predecessor.*** https://www.washingtonexaminer.com/opinion/jason-williams-the-soros-backed-da-in-new-orleans-who-protects-criminals-over-citizens

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Mara Salvatrucha thank you for your interest in rehabilitation and restorative justice, but at this point, it remains organizationally imperative to pursue other operational opportunities....

WASHINGTON (AP) — The federal prison system has been placed on a nationwide lockdown after two inmates were killed and two others were injured Monday during a gang altercation at a federal penitentiary in Texas.

The incident happened around 11:30 a.m. Monday at USP Beaumont, a federal prison in Beaumont, Texas. The altercation involved members of the violent MS-13 street gang, two people familiar with the matter told The Associated Press. The people could not discuss an ongoing investigation and spoke to the AP on condition of anonymity.***

The lockdown, being instituted at the agency’s more than 120 federal prisons across the U.S., was prompted by fears of potential retaliation and concern violence could spread to other facilities. During a nationwide lockdown, inmates are kept in their cells most of the day and visiting is canceled. Because of a spike in coronavirus cases in federal prisons, social visits at nearly every facility have been canceled already.*** https://www.koin.com/news/politics/us-federal-prisons-on-lockdown-after-2-texas-inmates-killed/

***

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tebbyclinic11 · 6 years

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Home-grown harvest: Chicory | The Caterer

New Post has been published on http://kitchengadgetsreviews.com/home-grown-harvest-chicory-the-caterer/

Home-grown harvest: Chicory | The Caterer

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A chef’s craft is all about balancing flavours, and the bitterness of chicory can play a part in a well-rounded recipe, says Russell Brown.

Modern science has shown that around 25% of the population are “super tasters”: people who have a double copy of a gene that makes them more responsive to bitter tastes. It is therefore no wonder that bitter leaves, such as chicory, can prove unpopular. Toxic items are generally bitter and our sense of taste and smell has evolved to protect us from consuming dangerous things. But conversely, as a species, we accept a degree of risk and, as such, have discovered a wider range of foods that are safe to eat – something that has contributed to the success of the human race.

Combine the genetics with a general move towards sweeter food and it makes vegetables and leaves that fall into the bitter spectrum a tough sell. Many plant breeders and growers are breeding out bitter flavours in food – the prevalence of the pink grapefruit as opposed to yellow is a case in point. On the other hand, where drinks are concerned, we actively seek out bitter tastes, and double-hopped IPAs, coffee and cocktails such as the Negroni are all hugely popular.

Generally, this aversion to bitter foods is an Anglo-Saxon trait. In Italy especially, bitter flavours are an intrinsic and popular part of the cuisine. Think aperitifs, a radicchio salad with walnuts, roast duck with cime di rapa, a bergamot pudding or a double espresso.

Forcing and blanching are two growing techniques that have evolved to reduce the bitterness in plants. Dandelion, for example, is often blanched by covering it with terracotta pots on a small scale or black polythene on a commercial basis. Rhubarb and chicory – also known as witloof or endive – are forced, which is somewhat different. For chicory, the plant is field-grown initially and forms a parsnip-like root with a very leafy top. The roots are lifted and the tops trimmed before moving to cold storage. Once this cycle is complete, the roots are moved to forcing sheds where the warmer temperature starts the new shoot, known as a chicon, growing. As with rhubarb, this is done in near darkness to prevent the head colouring and developing those bitter flavours. It takes around 21 days for the heads to reach a harvestable size, and for wholesale they are often wrapped in blue paper to block out the light.

The main UK grower is a company called DGM Growers in Lincolnshire and its produce is available from a number of UK supermarkets and wholesalers. The crop is available all year round, but it has particular relevance to the chef in winter when few other British leaves are available. The main season is considered to be November to April.

Balancing flavours is all part of the chef’s craft, and bitterness plays a hugely important part in the success of a dish. It often cleanses the palate and balances both sweetness and richness. Chicory is certainly versatile and it can be cooked or can be served raw. Thinly sliced it can be cooked down into a marmalade; it can also be braised or caramelised and it cooks well sous vide. Josh Eggleton, chef-proprietor at the Pony & Trap in Chew Magna, Bristol, uses soy sauce and orange juice to braise chicory, and José Pizarro in London pairs chicory with breaded goats’ cheese and clementines in a winter salad. Matt Budden, executive chef at Schpoons & Forx in Bournemouth, serves a salad of duck confit with both red and white chicory, watercress, Roquefort and a mustard dressing.

Buying and storage tips

The key thing with chicory is to keep it refrigerated and in the dark.

Heads should be firm and crisp.

Avoid heads that are turning green or brown.

Market report

Italy, Holland and Belgium are the biggest suppliers of chicory, and it is available all year round. Dutch chicory is the most popular as it is better value for money; Belgian chicory is higher in quality but is a lot smaller and usually more expensive.

Yellow chicory is always cheaper than red as there is a lot more yellow leaf around. Chefs should look to pay around £2-£2.50 per kilo for yellow; the price of red, on the other hand, can change on a daily basis. For example, in the middle of December red chicory costs around £3.60 per kilo, but in January it can reach up to £10.30 a kilo.

Ashley Clemence, Total Produce http://totalproducelocal.co.uk

Roast breast of duck with caramelised chicory and charred clementines

Serves 6

For the sauce 2 banana shallots, finely sliced 1 clove garlic, crushed 50ml olive oil 200ml cider 100ml orange juice 4 sprigs thyme 1 litre duck or chicken stock Cornflour, to thicken

For the chicory 6 chicory, halved and core cut away 2tbs honey 200ml chicken stock 50g butter Lemon juice, to taste Maldon sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

For the duck 6 duck breasts Maldon sea salt

To serve 3 clementines, skin removed, halved and charred on the cut surface

Start by making the sauce. Sweat off the shallots and garlic in the olive oil until tender and then increase the heat to caramelise lightly. Add the cider, orange juice and thyme and reduce to a syrup. Add the stock and reduce by around three-quarters. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Thicken with the cornflour to give a light sauce consistency. Pass into a clean pan, pushing down well on the solids.

Drizzle the cut surface of the chicory with the honey and season well. Place it cut-side down into a hot, dry non-stick pan to caramelise the surface. Add the stock and butter along with a squeeze of lemon juice, turn the chicory over and baste well. Cover with parchment or a butter paper and transfer to a 180°C oven and cook for six to eight minutes, basting occasionally.

Score the duck skin in a diamond pattern without cutting into the flesh. Season the skin with Maldon salt and place skin-side down in a medium-hot pan. Cook until the skin begins to colour and the fat starts to render. Season the flesh side and turn over, cook for one minute to seal the meat and flatten out the breast. Return to the skin side and drain any excess fat. Cook until the skin is golden and beginning to crisp. Transfer to the oven for three to four minutes until done. Remove to rest skin-side up.

To serve, slice the duck breasts lengthwise and place on the plate cut-side up. Lay the chicory piece to one side and the charred clementine to the other. Drizzle over a little sauce to finish.

Spaghetti with chicory, apple and pancetta

Serves 4

400g good-quality, dried spaghetti Maldon sea salt and freshly ground black pepper 150g pancetta lardons 1 clove garlic, finely sliced 200ml vegetable stock 1 large crisp apple, peeled and cut into small batons 1 head of red chicory, finely sliced Lemon juice, to taste 50g Parmesan, finely grated, plus extra to serve

Bring a large pan of water to the boil, add salt and then cook the pasta for eight to 10 minutes until it is al dente.

In the meantime, cook the pancetta lardons in a heavy sauté pan until golden and the fat has rendered. Add the garlic and cook for a further minute. Add the stock and allow to reduce by half. Once cooked, add the lightly drained pasta, making sure to reserve the cooking water. Toss the pasta with the sauce and allow to cook together for one minute. Add the apple and chicory and cook until the chicory is just wilted. Adjust the seasoning and add lemon juice to taste. Remove from the heat and stir in the 50g of Parmesan with a little of the pasta cooking water to create a creamy sauce.

Divide between bowls and serve with extra grated Parmesan.

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