#i am NOT walking across downtown in the freaking rain. it's a long walk.

[raiiny-bay]

i never know what to do w myself after i finish reading a book, like. now what.

#i finished reading everyone in this room will someday be dead #&... it was so good. i'm literally going to go buy it as soon as i have the money. like it NEEDS to be on my shelf asap #but now i have to find a new book to read........... #hmmmmm idk. i'll find one. tell me your favorites. i'll read them. #i actually think reading has been helping me w nano. like it helps keep me inspired to write i think. #i'll probably go to the library tomorrow. unless it's raining. #i am NOT walking across downtown in the freaking rain. it's a long walk. #rainyrambles

[spicycreativity]

Howl - Chapter 1

Rating: Teen

Fic Content Warnings: Blood, injury, suggestive content, alcohol use

Characters: All

Pairing: Analogical, background Moceit because apparently I can't help myself

Add'l Notes: dw if you don't know what a loup-garou is or how the lore works; all is explained in the story / Have I ever been to Louisiana? No 💕Did I write an entire story set in rural-ish Cajun Louisiana anyway because I hate myself? Yes 💕 / If you're from Louisiana and noticed any screw-ups, pls correct me so I can fix it

It also comes with a playlist! For ambience, not necessarily for the lyrics

Summary:

Two things happen to Virgil Landry on Halloween:

1) Logan Doucet, his longtime friend and slightly-less-longtime crush, asks him out

2) He becomes cursed to spend his nights as a half-man, half-wolf monster: a loup-garou

Despite his new affliction, Virgil strives for normalcy all the way up until he can't anymore and everything falls apart.

The floorboards creaked in their familiar pattern as Virgil paced over them, his feet sliding around awkwardly in his over-the-knee boots. He was supposed to meet Logan alone in an hour, an hour! His heart thumped painfully under his ribs. What did Logan want?

Virgil yanked his phone out of his pocket to re-read the message for the 85th time, ignoring a few new messages in his assorted group chats:

Logan: If it's not inconvenient, could you meet me early at the Plaza tonight? Maybe 6:30?

Virgil: yeah sure 

Virgil: everything OK?

Logan: Yes :-)

What did it mean? Was everything okay? Or was Logan just lying to make him feel better? Because if so, it wasn't working. Virgil ran his hands through his hair, careful not to smudge his makeup. It had taken him an hour and a half to perfect his vampire makeup in the mirror and he didn't want to risk messing it up.

With a sigh that turned into a groan, Virgil threw himself down on his couch. It made the walls rattle, nearly displacing a few trinkets on his crappy, rickety shelves. He heard a tell-tale scrape above his head and knew that his favorite painting had gone crooked again. God, this place was a wreck-- Just like Virgil. He made a mental note to ask Patton for help patching up the leaky roof. It was as good a time as any, as they were well out of rainy season, but it did seem a little rude. What was he even supposed to say? Hey, Patton, I know carpentry is literally what you do for a living, but could you help me for free since I'm broke and sad? Thanks, bud. Yeah, right. He sighed again and tugged at his medallion, a rusted old thing with a glass gem in the center. He had picked it up from a thrift store months earlier in anticipation of Halloween, but maybe he should have made some effort to restore it. It smelled strongly of rust and decay and felt terrible between his fingers, all oily and sticky.

So far, the only saving grace of the day was that it wasn't raining now. Virgil had spent his workday in silent anxiety, eyeing the storm clouds through the shop window and rubbing a small piece of sunstone between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed to have worked, as the clouds had dispersed a little and allowed the watery light of the autumn sun to peek through.

Virgil's phone lit up with a few more messages in his group chats: Roman having hysterics over some detail of his costume, Janus and Remus discussing how to avoid the small army of toddlers that always ran rampant at the Halloween parade. Virgil ignored them all. He was in no mood to be friendly, would probably snap at them. Logan hadn't said anything since his message to Virgil, which he had presumably sent on his lunch break. The question haunted Virgil, that great unknown lurking behind him and instilling a fear that no ghost ever could: What did Logan want?

Virgil set his phone down and leaned forward, heaving a sigh that turned into a yawn. Great. Whatever. That meant he was on the verge of hyperventilating, his breathing already irregular. Damn it, Logan knew better than to leave him hanging like this! They'd known each other for so long and he'd always been more perceptive to Virgil's needs than the others.

Especially lately… They'd been spending more time alone, and Virgil couldn't deny the sweet, warm giddiness that enveloped him every time they were alone together. First meetings were always his favorite, seeing Logan's face light up with a smile. He hadn't dared to think that Logan might feel the same way, but it was getting harder and harder to keep his fantasies on a leash. Worst-case scenarios and best-case scenarios dueled in his head: Logan kissing him, Logan telling him they couldn't be friends anymore, Logan confessing, Logan announcing that he had some incurable disease.

Virgil grabbed his phone and jumped to his feet. He couldn't do this anymore, couldn't sit here and torture himself. He would just leave now. He would rather arrive freakishly early than face another minute of this self-inflicted torment 

He double and triple checked he had his wallet and his plastic fangs, which he

was planning on putting on later. The medallion bounced against his exposed chest as he walked and he wondered briefly if it might be more trouble than it was worth. He could always swap it out for one of his pendants, maybe amethyst to calm his nerves. But it looked so good against his skin, falling perfectly in the deep V of his flowy white poet shirt. Unlike his other necklaces, it screamed vampire. And Janus would tease him if he caught Virgil wearing a subpar costume, and then Roman would join in, and Remus, and it would turn into a whole thing . He could wear the stupid medallion for one night.

 -

Virgil regretted this decision as soon as he got his moped going. Even at its 30 mph crawl, the heavy necklace bounced against his chest in a maddening rhythm. At least it was distracting. Every time he started to worry about Logan, the erratic tap-tap-tap of cold metal on his chest brought him back to Earth.

It was a long ride into town down a windy country road. He hugged the shoulder as best as he could despite the lack of traffic; Virgil's neighbors were few, but they all liked to take corners at frighteningly high speeds. The one person who did drive by honked at him and flashed their lights. Virgil's heart dropped and he nearly flipped them off before he realized that they liked his costume. It occurred to him then that he must look pretty absurd: A vampire riding a purple moped, cape fluttering on the wind.

Upon reaching the Plaza, Virgil did a few laps around downtown, smiling at the spiderwebs decorating Vaillant City Hall. Another lap revealed that empty parking spots were already becoming scarce, so Virgil pulled into one and checked his phone. Nothing from Logan. Just more hysterics from Roman, and Patton's best attempts at comfort. Virgil rolled his eyes. Maybe Roman did need some tough love. He scanned through the messages to orient himself, to make sure he didn't look dumb, and then typed out his reply.

Virgil: look, Prince Charming. 2 rolls of body glitter is more than enough. Stop freaking out

Roman: That's DOCTOR Prince Charming to you

Virgil: :*

He put his phone away, tucked his keys in his pocket, and forced himself to walk slowly toward the Plaza. He was still excruciatingly early, but maybe he could pop into a bar or grab a coffee or even swing by his work-- Oh.

There, standing by the reflecting pool with his hands in his pockets, was Logan. Virgil smiled despite his nerves and sped up. Leave it to Logan to somehow be earlier than early.

"Hey, Data," Virgil said once he was in earshot.

Logan's face lit up, and even the yellow contacts he was wearing couldn't mask the fondness in his face. "Evening, Virge," he said. His smile dropped too quickly and he kept his hands shoved in his pockets. Virgil surveyed all this with dread. Was he reading too much into it? Most definitely. Could he stop? No way.

"Everything okay?" Virgil asked, tugging at his medallion and turning his nervous gaze upon the placid waters of the reflecting pool. Great. Now he had two awesome reasons to be nervous. It was an old Vaillant legend that anyone who disturbed the waters of the pool would be cursed, and Virgil did not mess with curses. He usually took pains to avoid the Plaza, even if it meant he had to take the long way to work.

"Yes, Virgil," Logan said in a voice that was far too breathy. He cleared his throat. "As you know, we have been friends for a long time. I…" He paused, blinked. "I forgot what I was going to say."

"Jeeze, Lo," Virgil tried to tease. "You're making me nervous."

"But I--" Logan ran a hand through his hair. "Virgil. I had prepared something far more eloquent than what I am about to say, but I can't seem to remember it at the moment. Forgive me if this comes across as confusing."

"All good," Virgil said, making only a minimal effort to hide his confusion. The medallion was cold and oily under his fingertips, but he couldn't stop messing with it, tugging at it, rattling the chain. He needed some outlet for all this nervous energy.

"We've been spending more time alone together and I

thought-- I wanted--" Logan touched his face and Virgil realized a second later he had tried to push up his glasses, which he wasn't wearing. Oh, how cute. "Virgil, I would like to go steady with you."

A rush of vertigo smacked into Virgil with such force that he had to take a step back just to keep his balance. "Go steady?" he heard himself say. "Like-- Like, boyfriends?"

"If you are amenable to that," Logan said, furiously running his fingers over the piping on his uniform. "If not, I-- We can pretend this never--"

"Yes," Virgil interrupted. "Yes, yes, yes. Logan, I do want that."

"Oh," said Logan, his face breaking into a smile. "Good."

Virgil clenched his fist around the medallion wondering if it was too soon to ask for a kiss. He took a breath and felt something give with a quiet snap. The broken chain snaked along his neck, dragged down by the weight of the pendant. Virgil watched in silent agony as the necklace landed in the water of the reflecting pool with a quiet splash. "Shit."

"Allow me," said Logan, already in motion.

"No!" Virgil caught his hand and held it. "The curse." He realized what he had done and let go of Logan's hand.

"I don't believe in such things, Virgil, but if it's important to you, then I'll leave it."

"Thank you." Virgil stared down at the water and sighed through his nose. He'd already disturbed the water. Would it be better to leave the necklace or take it out? Littering seemed more disrespectful, he supposed. So he bent and grabbed the necklace before he could change his mind. "I'll, uh, de-curse-ify myself later."

Logan nodded, looking preoccupied. "Let me know if I can help. I might be able to repair the chain."

"Actually," said Virgil, stuffing the wet necklace into his pocket, "I was wondering if maybe, um…"

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you?"

"Please do."

Virgil closed his eyes so he wouldn't get weirded out by Logan's contacts. He had been expecting a short kiss, sweet and chaste, but Logan's hand tightened in the loose fabric of Virgil's poet shirt and his teeth grazed Virgil's bottom lip. Fuck propriety, then; the Plaza was still fairly empty. Virgil raised a hand to grab a fistful of Logan's hair and ran his tongue along the edge of Logan's lip.

They were interrupted by a wolf whistle and golf claps. "I'll be damned." Crap. Why did it have to be Janus? He was never going to let Virgil live this down.

Virgil pulled away so fast it made pain shoot through his neck. He exhaled sharply and covered the area with his hand for all the good it would do, turning to face Janus with a blush blooming on his cheeks. "What are you supposed to be?" he asked, looking Janus up and down. Janus had always been unnecessarily private about things that really didn't matter. He had evaded all of Virgil's attempts to guess his costume, and now presented wearing an old-fashioned suit including top hat, gloves, and cane.

"Don't change the subject," said Janus, dismissing Virgil with a wave.

In true vampire fashion, Virgil snarled and bared his teeth, then remembered something. "Oh, shit, my fangs!" He dug in his pocket for them, leaving Janus to do… whatever he was going to do.

"Logan, I presume?" Janus asked. Virgil stopped in the process of sticking on one tooth, heart hammering again. Janus and Logan had never met, and they could both be… a bit much in their own ways.

Logan nodded. "Logan Doucet." He held out his hand for a shake.

Janus took it. "Thank God you didn't bother to paint your face, else Virgil would have more than smudged lipstick to contend with. You've got some on your mouth, by the way."

"Thank you," Logan said stiffly. He withdrew his hand and used it to wipe away the lipstick stain on his face. "Nice to meet you, Professor Moriarty."

Virgil's eyes darted back to Janus, who smiled. "When I'm not acting as the Napoleon of Crime, you can call me Janus. Janus Bellefontaine."

"Where's Remus?" Virgil interjected, looking around. "Didn't he ride with you?"

"He got waylaid by some angry mothers because his costume made their kids cry," Janus said, nonchalantly running a

fingertip over the brim of his hat. "He'll be along." To Logan, he said, "Virgil tells me you're an accountant."

"Yes," said Logan. 

"And you haven't killed yourself yet, so I assume you must like it."

Virgil busied himself sticking his fangs onto his canines so he wouldn't worry about the conversation at hand. A sideways glance at Logan revealed that he seemed to find the comment amusing, thank God . "I've always been good with numbers. People, less so."

"Never would have guessed," Janus said, and Virgil didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling that crooked, tight-lipped smile that might have been genuine or might have been mocking. Asshole. "Well, if you have any rich clients, send them my way, won't you? I sell nice suits to dumb men with low self-esteem and too much money and I'm always on the lookout for another rube to swindle."

"If the suits are any good, I'd be happy to," Logan said.

Satisfied that his fangs were in properly, Virgil's attention shifted suddenly to the cold, wet medallion in his pocket. Right. He was cursed. Despite his interest in the occult and the supernatural, Virgil didn't have much experience with curses. His friends weren't really the type to play around with magic (well, maybe Janus, maybe- maybe Roman) and he wasn't the kind of guy who made enemies. No one had ever cursed him before. How soon would this one take effect? Should he go home and come back? Should he hop into the bayou, makeup be damned? Did bayous even count as running water?

He was so caught up in his panic spiral that the sudden sensation of hands on his shoulders made him jump. "Fuck!"

To his surprise it was Roman, not Remus, who laughed from somewhere behind him. "What, are Logan and Janus boring you?"

Virgil looked up and flinched again. While Roman looked relatively normal in his glittery Doctor Frank-n-Furter costume, Remus, who was lurking just behind his brother, was a horrorshow of fur and face paint and fake blood. "Um…" He shook himself and noticed Patton standing a ways off, peering at Remus. Distracted, he went to introduce Patton to Remus and Janus only to learn that he and Roman had run into Remus on their way over and rescued him from a brigade of shouty young mothers.

"He's Macavity," Patton said in a tone like he was pronouncing the death of the family goldfish.

"The other Napoleon of Crime," Janus agreed. "And you are?"

"Patton Haydel!"

A pause. "I gathered that. " Janus gestured at Patton's costume, which he had also kept a secret. Virgil had been staring at it as well, trying to figure it out. Patton was wearing what appeared to be a headless bear costume, round glasses, and what might have been a cowboy hat, though Virgil wasn't 100% sure. "What are you?"

"You have to guess!" Patton said, extending his arms and backing up so everyone could get a good look at him.

Virgil stared at him, running his tongue over the edges of his plastic fangs. "I got nothin'."

Logan took a sideways step and tapped Virgil's hand. Virgil nodded, and Logan interlaced their fingers as casually as he might clock in for work. "He's Teddy Bear Roosevelt."

They all groaned. "Good work, Pat," Virgil said begrudgingly.

"You have a big wet spot on your crotch," Remus pronounced, pointing at Virgil.

Janus raised his eyebrows, turning to Virgil with undisguised schadenfreude, but Logan stepped in before anyone could say anything. "It's water. He dropped his necklace in the reflecting pool."

"Well," said Patton, "that's not good."

"You dropped something in the reflecting pool and didn't immediately run for the nearest source of running water?" Janus asked. He looked from Virgil to Logan, then to their intertwined fingers and grinned. "Ah. More pressing matters at hand?"

"Maybe it's not too late," Roman said, drumming his acrylic nails against his thigh. "We can still dump him in the bayou."

"There's alligators in there!" Virgil said. "Fuck that. You know my house is plastered with wards. I'm sure I can make it through one evening."

"Your funeral," said Remus, leering. "Let me know if your dick falls

off.

 -

Despite his friends' concern, Virgil had a wonderful evening. Logan stuck close the whole night through, and they even snuck a few kisses here and there like infatuated teenagers. Each one sent a lightning thrill down Virgil's spine and made him want a dozen more. His friends noticed in turns and either teased or cooed, but each reaction was encouraging.

Logan kissed him goodbye at the end of the night and he practically floated back to his moped. He was so caught up in his daydreams that he only remembered the curse when he caught sight of the nazar hanging on his kitchen wall. Cursing under his breath, Virgil went to his bookshelf and began to compile a few methods of curse-breaking. Did a shower count as running water? God help him, he was not getting in the bayou. Maybe he could combine methods.

A few moments later, Virgil had everything set up in the bathroom. He lit the last candle, tightened the herb sachet around his neck, and stepped into the shower. Okay, time to focus. He was washing himself free of the curse and wouldn't it be nice if Logan were here? Logan didn't believe in magic and his clear-headed confidence would undoubtedly make Virgil feel better, too-- Focus! Wash away the curse. Logan would probably help him if he asked, helping Virgil set up the crystals and making sure his candles stayed lit-- Virgil! The curse! Wash away the curse.

The bathroom smelled of candles, incense, and herbs. Almost like Virgil's workplace, except that Virgil was using lavender and his boss preferred nag champa.

He stepped out of the shower and inhaled deeply, letting the mixture of scents relax him and draw him toward sleep.

#sanders sides #analogical #sanders sides fanfic #spicypost #spicywrites #spicywrites howl #Spotify

[discojupiters]

Another Lonely Night in New York

Casually uploading Bee Gees fanfic as if I haven't had this account for almost five years and I'm just now using it to post stuff because I am upset at the lack of Bee Gees fanfic that exists and I need to change that also cuz I haven't posted on any form of social media in literal ages and I just really want an excuse to post classic rock shitposts and whatnot. :D

Ao3 link to the fanfic if you'd prefer to read it there

Another Lonely Night in New York

Robin/Fluff

The rain had been predominantly worse at night than it had been in the morning. Dense raindrops splattered onto Robin's hotel room window as he sat near the window, flinching every now and then at the speed at which the pellets of rain struck the window. The weather had been like this for almost the entirety of Robin's stay in Manhattan, which made it difficult for him to see many of sights that he originally intended to see. He stayed for nearly 4 days straight cooped up in his hotel room and if he forced himself to stay in there a minute longer, he was about to go mentally insane; he had to get out and go outside for a stroll. Despite the brutal showers and the absence of an umbrella, he put on his coat and made his way down to the lobby and out the door. He knew not where his first stop would be nor how long he'd be out, all he knew was that he needed fresh air, whether the air was battling fierce weather or not. Robin trekked out east in hopes to find something worthy of his time.

Robin had originally desired to head to New York in order to find inspiration for new music for his solo album that he was working on. After the Bee Gees decided to take a break for a bit following the release of Living Eyes, Robin found himself in a great opportunity to release more solo albums and expand his talent as a songwriter. His intentions were unfortunately tampered with as the climate in New York at this time was not the best. Little to no inspiration had crossed through his mind for the entirety of his trip and he only had one more day before he needed to be back in London to begin recording sessions.

Robin's mind was as blank as a fresh piece of paper as he strolled through the streets of midtown Manhattan. Bright and colorful lights guided him to Times Square in what felt like no time. Robin had only prayed that something in those lively, radiant billboards and lights would make a light bulb go off in his head and give him enough material to write a perfect song.

The rain showed no signs of stopping any time soon, and it wasn't until now that Robin realized how foolish he looked sopping wet with his hair sticking to his face and neck while everyone else were as dry as bones under their umbrellas. Robin reached for the hood of his coat to hide his drenched hair only to notice he brought the coat without a hood instead of the other one he had in his room that did have a hood. He thought for a moment about heading back to the hotel to spare the rest of his embarrassment but he kept walking, tenacious to find even the smallest bit of inspiration for a new song.

The stop at a crosswalk was the first break Robin had given his legs in God knows how long the amount of time he had been walking for. They ached almost enough for Robin's knees to buckle and give out on him. He could feel people staring at him, businessmen coming home late from their office jobs, young fools in love heading to various restaurants and clubs downtown, rebellious teens on their way to their secret hideouts. All these people nice and dry under their umbrellas while they stared at the lonely freak in New York who couldn't have even bothered to bring the correct coat in order to save his head from the rainfall.

'Another lonely night in New York'

Eagerly waiting for the crosswalk light to flash white, at this point he couldn't wait until it was time to go back home to London. This trip had been nothing but disappointing to him. No benefits to his song writing or even his own well being what so ever. The only thing he'd catch from this trip now would be a cold from the rainwater coating his entire body, making his pants stick to his legs, seeping into his sneakers and making his socks damp, that he'd have to deal with once he got back home. On the bright side if he did catch a cold then he would be able to delay the recording sessions until his voice got better which would give him more time to write some more material for the album.

'The city of dreams just keeps on getting me down'

In the midst of all the dismay washing over him, he almost didn't notice that the rain had suddenly begun to repel him. He could still see the rain in front of him, yet none of it was touching him anymore. Puzzled, he looked above his head to see what had happened, but all he spotted was a black, dome shaped piece of nylon; the canopy of an umbrella above his head. The misty scent of perfume filled his nostrils. He glanced over to the right of him to find a woman holding the umbrella over his head for him. Her resting face was nonchalant as she peered across the street, also waiting for the crosswalk light to turn white, but she gave a coy smile to Robin when she noticed him staring at her.

Robin wanted to speak up, wanted to thank the winsome young lady for sharing her umbrella with him, but the words wouldn't come to him. As the crosswalk light finally changed, everyone made their way across the street. New Yorkers were fast walkers, it was strenuous to keep up with the woman. Her strut was self-assured, even in the six inch stilettos that she wore; it was like she injected confidence into her veins every morning. Robin was mesmerized by her. He was still thinking about the smile she gave him when they were on the other side of the crosswalk, trying his best to hide a cheeky, daydreaming smile.

As the walk with the woman continued, Robin couldn't help but wonder: Was he going to be following this woman around until she reached her destination? Did they both have the same destination? Robin didn't even know where he would end up, he wracked his brain wondering if this woman was gonna lead him somewhere or if she was just doing a quick favor and wanted him to leave now. The woman hadn't spoke the whole time. Her nonchalant expression turned into a gentle smile yet she refused to look at Robin anymore than that one glance she shot at him when he noticed her.

Robin and the woman were now exiting Times Square, the high-spirited lights merely staining the background now as the woman continued to head for the subway. Robin knew right then and there that it was time for him to head back, as much as he adored this woman, he couldn't take a chance. He didn't know her and God forbid he let himself get killed tonight all because he had love fogging up his brain just for a woman who did a single kind deed for him. Again, Robin's mouth couldn't open to say a goodbye. It was like his throat was frozen every time he was near this woman. After an extensive fight to make the words come out, he gave up and instead stayed put in his spot on the sidewalk, waiting for the woman to notice and hopefully say goodbye first. After the woman reached a few paces noticing Robin had left her side, she worriedly glanced around, holding onto her hair to make sure the rain didn't touch it. She glimpsed behind her to find Robin slowly sauntering backwards in order to give her the indication that he was leaving. She relaxed her arms as her gloved hands waved goodbye to Robin, granting him the same kittenish smile she had given him earlier that night. Robin waved back and finally turned around to make his way back to the hotel.

Robin tried hard not to glance back every few seconds to get one last look at the woman, but failed miserably; he couldn't help it. After fully losing sight of the woman, he ran back to his hotel. He was grateful that she helped him, yet suddenly glum now that he was aware that he may never see that woman again. He didn't know anything about her, not her name, not her voice, not her story, but that didn't stop him from falling head over heels for her. He knew that feeling wouldn't last long, it would probably be gone by the time he'd step foot on the plane back to London, but it was a nice thought to occupy his mind with for the time being. It fascinated him at times that he could be so in love with a woman that he knew absolutely nothing about all because she noticed him and did something good for him.

'Cause my baby's no longer around and my feelings can never be found'

Robin made it back to the hotel, tracking puddles of the water all the way up to his room. The first thing he did upon entering his room was remove all of his drenched clothes and head for the shower. Once he dried himself off, he frantically searched the room for a pencil and paper, heading to his window when he finally had one. Before he could even write down a single lyric, he found her. The woman who had helped him. She was making her way down the street of the hotel as if she had been walking in circles this entire time. Was she actually trying to reach a certain destination? Or was she just out and about looking for men to swoon over her through her acts of kindness? It didn't matter to Robin, because at least he got to take one last look at her that night. That was all he needed for inspiration. If that woman was enough to give a songwriter with writer's block inspiration for a new song, than in Robin's book that woman was enough to make the world go 'round. Robin wrote down lyrics as swiftly as they came to him.

'Another lonely night in New York, and my sorry eyes are looking out on the world'

#bee gees #barry gibb #robin gibb #maurice gibb #bee gees fanfic #robin gibb fanfic #robin gibb fluff

[alpaca-writes]

Mystics, Chapter 10

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by Lyrem, everything seems to be going well- their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as it seems….

Directory: [chapter one] [chapter two] [chapter three] [chapter four] [chapter five] [chapter six] [chapter seven] [chapter eight] [chapter nine]

Tag list: @myst-in-the-mirror

CW: misgendering of a nb character, creepy/intimate whump, psychological whump, shipwreck mention.

CHAPTER TEN: GEMINI PT II

        Charlotte would not hesitate to speak up when she found herself uncomfortable. Usually.

        Shortly after Arch had left for their meeting, Charlotte tidied around. She was left to clean up the discarded rompers around the living room and as she repacked on of the many clothing store bags she had brought home, there was a knock at the front door. She opened it, expecting a politician to be making their rounds or a band group from the high school to be asking for donations. Instead, she found Lyrem, smiling back at her with his unique charm. He was a bit red in the face, possibly from spending too much time in the sun.

        “What are you doing here?” She asked, already finding herself with a sickening feeling in her stomach from being near this unholy man.

        “Looking for Arch, of course,” he replied, “Are they around?”

        Charlotte paused, looking for any sign that the man might be joking with her.

        “No, Lyrem. They left a half hour ago to meet with you at Mystics,” She said unamused. “… Like you had asked them to.”

        Lyrem lifted a hand to his mouth, realizing something.

        “Oh dear. Oh dear…”

        “What?” Charlotte asked, becoming impatient.

        “Well, I had sent two messages,” Lyrem pulled out his phone, scrolling through their conversations. “One to say that there was a store meeting, and a second telling Arch that I would come by for a chat instead of-

        Oh… It seems that I had forgotten to send it.”

        Charlotte huffed, rolling her eyes at the old man. “Go find her then!”

        “Them.”

        “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, them.” She corrected. “You know I’m getting a little tired of you demanding so much out of them. Who runs a store downtown past nine o’clock on a Sunday evening, anyway?”

        “Someone who is desperate to stay out of a church I suppose.” Lyrem looked up from his phone. “There, I sent them a message to come back.”

        “What? Why? Go out and meet them. They’re probably downtown already!” Speaking sense to this old man was becoming more than a chore.

        “I would but to walk that far is not something I can manage anymore. Old bones, you know,” He smiled kindly at Charlotte. “Would you mind if I came in for a sit down?”

         Sit in your car, she thought.

        He was an old-fashioned sort, obviously craving human connection in the oddest of ways. What Arch saw in him as any sort of mentor, she would never understand. Reluctantly, she nodded, leading him through Arch’s sprawling makeshift bedroom and into the small kitchen where sunlight was still peeking through the trees by the window.

        “Would you like something to drink?”

        “A glass of water would be lovely.”

        Charlotte couldn’t help but smile patronizingly as she handed his glass to him. Tap water. He set it down on the table in front of him.

        “Would you like to hear a story while we wait for Arch to arrive?”

        Charlotte leaned against the refrigerator with arms folded. She cocked her head at him. She really didn’t care what he had to say or what stories he wanted to tell.

        “Sure,” she smiled.

        “Ah, wonderful. I love telling this one.

        The year was nineteen seventy-two. I had been travelling Europe for several weeks, however, for what particular reason I ventured out there for, I can no longer recall.” He cleared his throat, sipping the water from the glass on the table, taking his time. “I came upon a lovely town on the Grecian coastline. I had found a little place to stay there and enjoyed my time immensely with the local people. I stayed with a family who offered me a small room of their house for only a few pennies a night, and word eventually got around that I was looking for work in the area, seeing as I was too content living there to leave anytime soon. 

        It was one cloudy morning when a man woke me from a slumber; said that he had a job for me and would pay me quite well if I dared accomplish the task for him. He was in the delivery trade, you see; he would connect like-minded collectors and clients and deliver the items as a third-party investor that would keep both sides happy.”

        Charlotte had already lost all interest in the story, resorting to rub the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes.

        “The package he had for me to deliver was none other than a statue of Perseus to be signed to a buyer on a remote island several knots out from shore. It was odd to me that he would not do the deed himself since it seemed simple enough, but alas I was not willing to miss my chance to collect on a decent paycheque.

        Out on the water, I followed his map. I took the necessary precautions, found my bearings, and yet being out there for an entire day I still could not find the island that this man had spoken of. It was marked clearly on his papers for me, and so I sailed throughout the sea until dusk, searching for it. In the evening of that fateful night, unwilling to turn back as I was quite stubborn; I had encountered a freak cyclone on the water. A fearsome storm that roiled in the abyss of the deepest parts of the sea. The wind and the rain blew so hard into the boat that it felt like I was being shot with thousands of miniscule ice pellets. I couldn’t see a damned thing out there. Water tornadoes threatened to capsize the boat more than once and left me to drown in the torrential depths of the Mediterranean.

        Then, I awoke, washed ashore the next morning. The man who had hired me to take the statue out stood over me as I opened my eyes on the rocks. I didn’t feel as though it was something I should have survived, and yet I did. Content with the job I had done for him he presented me with a large envelope containing over six hundred Drachma, and then he simply went on his way. At the time, it was a tremendous amount of money to me. If I could go back now, I think I would have demanded more for the risk it took to my life.”

        Charlotte rolled her eyes, thankful that the story had come to its end. But then she couldn’t help but wonder aloud.

        “What happened to the statue?”

        He lifted his gaze to her. “Hm. What about the statue, dear?” He asked.

        “Did it break? Did you lose it, and the boat in the storm?”

        He shook his head. “Oh no, no. The statue was delivered.”

        “You said you washed ashore after the storm”-

        “I had done what he had asked of me,” Lyrem explained, drinking more of the water down. “I came to accept that the statue was more valuable in the bottom of the sea, than on the surface of Earth. That must have been what the man also thought. That is what I believe of many things these days as well. Some things, some people, just belong under the ground.”

        Charlotte side-eyed him.

        “Right,” she said, checking the time on the oven. It had only been fifteen minutes.

        Lyrem checked his pocket watch. It was hidden away beneath his jacket, and he clicked it open checking it briefly before folding it away again. He made a humming sound. If Charlotte was familiar with the Spanish Guitar, she might have recognized the tune as Sevilla- Suite Espanola No. 3 as played by his favoured guitarist, Andrs Segov-

        “Where are the hell are they?” Charlotte walked across the small house, and peered out the front door, worriedly. “I don’t see her-them coming up the walk. They should be back by now.”

        “I’m sure they are being well taken care of,” Lyrem appeared behind her, causing her to jump in place and flip around.

        “But, I, myself, seem to also be running out of time.” Lyrem continued hauntingly, looking past the woman, over her shoulder.

        “Did you have something you needed to get back to?” Charlotte inquired. “I’m sure Arch can reschedule a meeting with you.”

        “Fortunately,” he sniffed, addressing her once again. “that won’t be necessary. I am exactly where I need to be at this moment.”

        With lowering brows, Charlotte backed up, keeping her hand on the doorknob.

        “What is wrong, Charlotte?” Lyrem tilted his head, in feigned concern.

        She couldn’t stop staring at him, frozen in place- wondering if she was being silly, acting crazy, or just reading all correct the signs that told her to run.

        She shook her head, heart pounding. He was merely standing there. Maybe a bit close for comfort, but he wasn’t threatening her. Not outright.

        “I- I don’t know…” She answered hesitantly. “But… I don’t think I want you anywhere near me… or my child.”

        “Arch will always be safe with me. Of that, I can assure you. As for you, though,” Lyrem admitted, caringly. “You won’t have to worry about me being anywhere near you, at all, ever again.”

        Charlotte was backed against the door now, turning the knob to the front door, intent on running out.

        “I mean it, Charlotte. You are far too disrespectful to be in my company. And I feel bad for Arch. How they put up with you for so long... well, that requires a modicum of patience that I have never once possessed. Never fear, my dear Charlotte. I am doing this for their sake. It really is better this way.” he explained. “That is why I plan to…”

        “’Plan to’ what?” Charlotte asked, fear rising in the tremors of her voice.

        “Well, I suppose you’ll see when you open the door,” he rushed his words, ushering her to leave as she wished to do.

        Charlotte bolted around. The front door opened to a pool of darkness. There was no light, no sound, no nothing. She had yet to step forward. She didn’t say a word and only stared into the beckoning void

        “Just remember to breathe,” she was advised in a whisper from behind.

        Then, Lyrem pressed a firm hand against her back. Into the darkness Charlotte was shoved forward, until she was utterly gone- swallowed up into the shadows where the light would never reach her.

        Lyrem closed the front door. The light from outside returned as he opened it again- the Labyrinth now missing. Cars drove on past, children rode their bikes, chickadees and jays cheeped in the bushes, and the breezes signaled early summer as the aspens trembled along the boulevard. It was the sound of life.

        Still, there was no Arch to be found. Not down the street. 

        Not yet. 

        A soft purr sounded by Lyrem’s feet, then he felt the warmth of a cat curling around his ankles. He looked down, and picked Maleficent up to hold her close until she was just beneath his chin. Her long gray fur tickled the side of his face.

        “Do you want to be a part of my family too?” He asked, looking down at her  sweetly. Maleficent purred on, as Lyrem’s index finger stroked the side of her cheek firmly. “I’m sure we can make room for you.”

#whump #mystics #Mystics by Alpaca #Lyrem #Arch #Alpaca OCs #writing blog #whump writing #creative writing #writing #whumpblr #writeblr #poor charlotte #just when everything seemed to be happy again #she gets tossed to the Labyrinth

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Lights of Treasure Island

For the past few years, I've been living on a barrier island named Anastasia. A sandy, sleepy, slow place, just off the coast of our nation's oldest city, Anastasia Island features tall palm trees and gorgeous beaches, along with excellent sushi and a surprisingly active arts scene. Its most splendid attraction, though, is an old lighthouse, one striped with a black and white spiral and crowned by a bright red lamphouse. It towers commandingly over the dunes, casting a long beam that can be seen from nearly anywhere in town.

I've always liked lighthouses. In days of old we set these magnificent lanterns on the edge of the sea, to guide sailors through dark and treacherous waters, to show them the way home. Lighthouses represent so many things we need: safety, comfort, reliability, navigation. But in my mind, these structures hold the magic of candles, the magic of illumination itself. When we speak of enlightenment, we may be speaking specifically of rationality and discovery, but we are also conjuring images of light prevailing over darkness. And in this way the lighthouse emerges as a powerful symbol of the spirit.  

This February, for my 47th birthday, I explored the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where I saw several amazing lighthouses. Impressive as they were, I did not think they quite compared with the singular majesty of the structure that stands on Anastasia Island. After a harrowing return journey, one in which I drove with no working alternator (and sometimes without headlights or windshield wipers) through nearly 700 miles of tornadic thunderstorms, I felt the most profound relief when I finally crested the peak of the SR-312 bridge, which connects my island to the mainland, and I saw those familiar black and white stripes in the distance, signaling that I had made it home. Less than half a year later, my feelings about this special lighthouse of mine would be forever changed by a chance encounter.

Just under two months ago, I received a brief and rather unremarkable message from a stranger on Scruff, a queer dating platform that I use. One might charitably call Scruff "a social club for discerning gentlemen" ... it appeals to men who are hirsute, meaty, perpetually horny, and even a few of us freaks who defiantly straddle the line between "butch" and "nancy". Since this man's profile didn't really offer all that much information, and his one available picture wasn't particularly compelling, I promptly tucked his message away and forgot about it, and went for my customary sunset walk on the beach.

I live exactly one mile from the southern boundary of a state park, which offers a four-mile stretch of pristine dune habitat, completely undeveloped and sparsely occupied. The only man-made objects in sight are a few empty lifeguard stands, the city's sightseeing pier, a radio antennae, and our lighthouse. Dolphins gather here, their dorsal fins rising and falling between the breakers. Squadrons of pelicans fly in tight formations, gliding only a few feet above the water's surface. Terns and sea turtles nest in its sands, and I've found many shark teeth among the sea shells and ghost crab burrows. This is a special place, a holy place, and I've made a daily ritual of enjoying its cloudscapes and crepuscular glow as I explore the edge between land and sea.

After a pleasant stroll, maybe an hour or so of blissful meditation, I turned around and started heading back towards my car when I caught sight of a man who had just walked out of the water and was now drying himself off. We locked eyes.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Arrestingly beautiful, the kind of handsome that stops you dead in your tracks. I just kind of gulped for a second, and then walked right up to him, with an audacity that I didn't even know I possessed, turned on every damn bulb in my Christmas tree, and murmured, "Hi!", making the word shimmer like tinsel. In a short amount of time, I learned that he was a Russian artist, born in St. Petersburg but living in Moscow. I had met him during a brief pause on his long drive from Jacksonville to Key West; he had only intended on stopping in St. Augustine long enough to explore our old Spanish fort and take a swim on our nicest beach. He possessed a keen intellect, a quick wit, and a laudable command of English. As we spoke, he kept giving me flashes of the most mischievous smile, and so when I finally asked him what he was grinning about, he revealed that he was the same man who had messaged me earlier. This came as a surprise, for I hadn't recognized him at all ... I had only been drawn in now by his gorgeous movie-star looks, the undeniable sex appeal of his dripping wet body, and some weird sense of destiny.

We talked. We talked some more. We went to dinner. And then he stayed for the better part of three days.

In my bed, we enjoyed the most astonishing kind of communion. Our nights and mornings were filled with such tenderness ... soft eyes, soft caresses, fearlessly sustained gazes, the kind of kisses that tell a hundred little stories. One by one, various secrets were brought to light. We shared toe-curling carnality, thunderous climaxes, an unalloyed and unembarrassed intimacy. We shared joy.

On our second day together, I took him to the top of Anastasia Island's lighthouse. We lingered on each landing to kiss and giggle, and our embraces grew more intense. We felt a stronger and stronger pull towards one another. I knew that this was more than just a simple infatuation. By the time we reached the lantern's round balcony, and stepped out together onto the most spectacular view of St. Augustine, I knew that I was falling in love.

I don't blame you for rolling your eyes at this. You may, in your justifiable cynicism, think it ridiculous for a man to utter such a powerful phrase within such a short time. But if you've ever known me, you've come to recognize by now my considerable capacity for love. My passions and appetites may rise to the surface with little interference, and will I admit some recklessness in how I've invested my energies, but I am no fool. I am neither naïve nor desperate. And I can say in all sincerity that what we felt then was, at least for a short while, genuine love.

From the top of the lighthouse we could see everything. The old downtown, with its mixture of colonial and Spanish Renaissance buildings. The Matanzas River, named for the 1565 massacre of shipwrecked Huguenots, separating my island from the mainland. The harbor of St. Augustine, crowded with sailboats and pleasure craft, a forest of masts. And then the sea, blue and inviting, the sea that would soon separate us. We held each other tightly and looked upon the Atlantic together, casting our dreams towards the horizon, into this vista of seemingly endless possibility and hope.

On our last night together, we took a naked midnight swim in my pool, which is lit from above by a row of blue lights. A light and warm rain fell on our heads as we twined our legs underwater, and our ardor cast a web of rippling refractive patterns on the pool's concrete bottom. He looked me in the eyes, kissed me with the utmost gentleness, and formally invited me to come stay with him in Moscow. I accepted with my new magic word, "Да."

The following morning, our parting was so sweet, and so warm. We solidified our promise to be reunited. He drove down to Key West, enjoying a music playlist I assembled for him, and then he flew up to New York for a week's visit with old friends. After he returned to Moscow, we embarked on a passionate long-distance affair via telephone and social media apps.

I plunged right away into the Russian language, practicing for hours a day, rediscovering my knack for linguistics. I bought books on the cities of Moscow and St. Petersburg, books on Russian verbs, flashcards, a portable dictionary. I subscribed to online learning programs, put apps on my phone, read up on the country's history. I was all in, bringing every available bit of my enthusiasm, work ethic, and inventiveness to the challenge. Every day, I would send him sweet little videos or text messages ... sharing good news, conveying small but significant events of my daily life, showing off my rapidly accelerating grasp of Russian. I sent him notes of encouragement, pictures of me looking my cutest, small but enjoyable details of my life on Anastasia Island. I sent him a short clip of the black skimmers that sliced back and forth across the thin swash of the surf, their beaks dipping into half an inch of water. I sent him pelicans, beach crabs, waves, paintings, difficult words, idioms, cute terms of venery, sunsets, clouds, kisses, evidence of my changing body. I sent him love, every day. "каждый день," I promised him, placing my hand on my heart, "каждый день." Every day.

My love deepened by the hour. I know this is going to sound so gushy and gross, but I really pushed the lighthouse metaphor pretty hard, calling myself "твой смотритель маяка" or "your lighthouse keeper". I meant this in all sincerity, without a drop of bathos or schmaltz. Our time atop the lighthouse was sacred to me. I promised him that I would keep its light burning bright.

Over time, however, things shifted. As my interest grew, his began to dwindle. He sent less and less of himself, slowly removing from our conversation his humor, his sexuality, his warmth, his trust. It was like seeing a fully assembled jigsaw puzzle get lifted into the air, and watching all the pieces falling out ... at first only a few at a time, then more and more, until there was only a jagged perimeter where there had once been a lovely picture.

The nadir came when he lost his temper with me over my visa. I was confused about the process, as the Russian consulate and other sources were providing patchy and often conflicting information, and his own explanations changed from day to day. During our last video chat, I asked one too many questions, and he snapped. He rolled his eyes, effectively called me stupid and childish, and hung up on me three times. My many attempts at reconciliation were completely rebuffed. It was both baffling and extraordinarily painful.

Two days after our fight he was in a terrible car accident, one from which he miraculously escaped unharmed. He posted on social media an impassioned paragraph about the event, and how it drew into sharp focus all the love he had in his life, how he felt that he wasn't deserving of such love, how grateful he was for his friends. Yet instead of contacting me, inviting me into this experience, or trying to repair our frayed connection, he spent his evenings logging back into Scruff, the aforementioned dating app. He continued to ignore me, choosing instead to pursue (or perhaps refresh) other opportunities. I tried in vain to reach him, to restore our bond, but was met with only the most chilling silence.

How had I been so wrong? Had my desire devolved into mere obsession, albeit one artfully disguised as love? Had my zeal somehow suffocated him? The irony for me was that this disastrous affair unfolded during a period of rapid and positive transformation. In the space of the last seven months, I'd already changed my diet, fixed my teeth, joined a gym, paid off a chunk of my debt, reorganized my home office, purchased a standing desk, resumed my daily beach walks, started seeing both a psychiatrist and a therapist. My relationship to my body was improving, I was working at a higher level of professional responsibility, gaining new clients, writing my fourth novel, and churning out the finest paintings of my career. A recent experience with ayahuasca had given me valuable insights into my adulthood. It seemed only right that this Russian should be the cherry on my sundae, a prize I had been working so hard to deserve.

And so, after admitting my own disenchantment, I surrendered. Reeling from an overwhelming feeling of loss, I wrote him a heartfelt letter in Russian, one in which I explained the hurt his indifference was causing me. I poured a lot of benevolent energy into this letter. And then I said to him the saddest word I've learned in Russian, "Прощай", which is the type of goodbye you use when you think you are not likely to see someone again. It translates, literally, into "forgive me."

Here is the letter I wrote to him, translated into English:

***

"V_____, beautiful V____:

Okay. I give up.

Your silence gave me a very clear and very painful answer. You have been entrusted with something rare and beautiful, and you have shown that you do not want it. So now it's gone.

I'm sorry my heart bored you so much. I will no longer annoy you with my desires.

The love that I offered you ... pure and strong, given without demands or jealous limitations ... does not come often.

It pains me to realize that you do not appreciate what I have tried to give you. It is even more painful to realize that I may have aggravated the situation with my zeal. But the distance that you put between us is your choice, and I must respect that.

It seems that the epiphany you experienced in the car accident, the moment you thought of all the love in your life, did not include my love for you. Your priorities are yours, and I accept that. But you almost died yesterday, V_____. And instead of choosing to bond with a man who cares about you so much, your focus shifted to Scruff. Your indifference is so obvious now. Please do not say anything ugly or cruel in response. There is already enough sorrow on my island. I feel both grief and embarrassment, but not anger. I've always wanted the best for you, and it's still true.

I sincerely wish you a long and happy journey. I hope you enjoy many successes and find many pleasures. I hope you stay healthy. I hope the man you choose deserves your best gifts. I hope you find a better lighthouse. I must direct my light now to those who are really looking for it. So now I must tell you the saddest word that I have learned in your language.

Goodbye."

***

Please allow me now to rewind a few years, and tell a correlative story.

In the autumn of 2019, during a period of intense sadness and frustration, I fled from Anastasia Island and drove impulsively across the state to the Gulf Coast. I didn't have a clear destination, I didn't pack enough clothes or supplies, and I was so blinded with tears and unexpressed rage that I didn't know where I was, or even care much about where I might land. While getting lost somewhere in the vicinity of St. Petersburg, I glanced at a map, dragged my finger along the squiggly coastline, saw the name Treasure Island, and thought, "That's gotta be the place."

I don't know what I was expecting to find there. Something about the name sounded so exciting, so exotic. And as the evening wore on, my anticipation grew. I thought, in my desperation, that everything would be all right once I got to Treasure Island. Over the next few hours, I convinced myself that I'd finally feel good again in such a place, that my pain and confusion would certainly evaporate once I reached this safe haven. I'd check into a nice hotel room, preferably one with 300 thread-count sheets and a coffee maker, and I'd dream about pirate ships and gold doubloons, and when I opened my eyes and yawned and stretched against the sun-dappled pillows my life would basically feel like a commercial for some bougie brand of almond milk. When I arrived, however, I was deeply disappointed to see another narrow stretch of high-rise hotels, littered beaches, rank seaweed, and greyish-brown water. I found the cheapest hotel room around, one of the few remaining vacancies on the shore, and there I found neither crisp bedsheets nor good coffee. The view from my balcony, however, was utterly amazing: I could see not only a broad curving swath of the beach, but also a glow of distant resort hotels, some of them reflected in the waves. It was strangely romantic, seeing these twinkling lights ... red, gold, green, blue ... and their silent conversation with the stars, a dialogue of jewels above the warm churning waters of the Gulf. But it wasn't the salvation I had been hoping for.

When I got up the next morning, I was still facing the same problems, the same irritations, the same heavy sorrows. Treasure Island would not, could not, rescue me from myself. So I drove back home to my own island, back to my lighthouse, and was relieved to discover that it was in fact even more stirring than I had remembered. During my absence Anastasia Island had become a magical and restorative place, quite different than the one I had left only days before.

What I should have learned back then, but have only come to realize now, was this: I didn't need to travel to a distant island of treasure and twinkling stars, for my own island already had plenty of both. I didn't need to seek the incandescence of a handsome man to light my way, as my own inner flame was at last beginning to shine without the shutters of inhibition or profligacy.

I am now recalling my disappointment with Treasure Island, while concurrently considering my grief over the Russian. At first, I wanted to hate him for his carelessness, for how he squandered my gifts. But I don't hate him. Not really. There's no need to wring my hands any further over his callousness. I don't even mourn his absence anymore. My mood has shifted today, and I no longer choose to see this abortive liaison as being so devastating. For I know, deep down, that the failure here was not really mine. I am not a loser for investing myself unreservedly in someone who could not fully appreciate me, nor I am not the weaker man for feeling injured. I will not be permanently depleted for having offered all that kindness to an undeserving recipient, as my wellspring of love remains inexhaustible.

I tried to share my lighthouse with the Russian. But he did not recognize how special it really was, and he declined to follow its beacon to a rewarding harbor. And thus, our romance was destroyed, and his memory became just another broken boat littering the shallows.

I have seen so many ruins in my years: bad relationships, lousy jobs, soured opportunities. My life story reads like a ledger of dashed hopes. It seems sometimes that both the island I occupy and the more elusive island I am eternally seeking are surrounded by shipwrecks. Yet the lighthouse of my spirit still stands, sturdier and stronger than ever. The waves may batter its bricks, salt may scour its surfaces, it may occasionally groan under its own weight ... but it will not crumble, it will not fail, and even in the darkest of hours this lamp of mine will continue to shine: bright, focused, undiminished.

[writingkeepsmewhole]

The Outside

Here is the third part of The Cowboy and the girl. Yall have no idea how hard it is to find a gif for this. Dear people who makes gifs please make some for Joel. Please. Thank you. Sorry for the crappy ending I don’t know how to end these yet... Let me know what yall think of this. Alright on to the story.

Escaping from the quarantine zone Trish learns the true reason why they are smuggling Ellie her agreeing with Tess to take her all the way. (This is a longer on.)

Joel Miller x OC Trish

Warnings: Language, violence, that’s it I think.

Taglist Ask if you wanna be added: @amandamaesweetheart @jodiereedus22

Part 1   Part 2

After I was sure Joel was okay. His forearm wrapped up we started back down the basement we were in. Us easily walking threw the exposed pipes it dropping down in the sewer.

“This is a bad Idea.” I say following behind Joel Tess and Ellie behind me.

“What is?”

“Sewers.”

“Do you see any other way to go?” Joel asks looking at me over his shoulder.

I hold my hands up in surrender as we reach the end.

He huffs pushing the grate open letting us be truly out of the zone. No soldiers in sight.

When we walk thru Ellie sitting on an old log.

“Alright their gone.” Joel says looking around.

“Look- what was the plan?” Tess asks crouching down next to Ellie I turn to face them wanted to know my own self.

“Marlene… She said that the fireflies have their own little quarantine zone with doctors there still trying to find a cure.”

“Yeah we heard that before, huh Tess?” Joel says scowling.

“Joel…” I say wanting to hear what she has to say only earning a huff from him.

“And that..” Ellie says sighing.

“Whatever happened to me is the key to finding the vaccine.”

“Oh. Jesus.”

“It’s what she said.”

“Oh I’m sure she did.”

“Hey, fuck you man!” Ellie says standing up.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“Me neither.” Joel says walking over to Tess.

“What the fuck are we doing here?”

“What if it’s true?” I ask making everyone look at me.

“I can’t, you can’t believe-” He says sighing.

“What if she’s right Joel?” Tess says.

“I mean we've come this far why not just finish this?”

Grabbing her shoulder he pulls her closer to me.

“Do I need to remind you both what is out there?”

“A few things come to mind.” I say him clenching his jaw.

Looking at him Tess turns to look at Ellie.

“I get it.” She says walking past us Ellie following her.

It didn’t take much to figure out she was talking about Joel losing his daughter and him not wanting to be around Ellie because of it.

He stands there as they walk off, I standing next to him. Bumping his shoulder with my own he looks down at me. Him a good head taller than me.

“Come on let's go save the world.”

He makes a pssf noise and rolls his eyes but I do catch the corner of his mouth slightly lift up before he walks away from me.

Smiling I follow after him holding the straps of my backpack a little more excited then I was only a moment ago.

“Come on it’s this way.” Tess says pointing up at the sign reading east 90. Telling us that the airport was that way.

With the bridge being collapsed we would have to take the long way but that wasn’t anything new. Any place not in a zone was forgotten.

I followed Joel as we walked threw the abandoned city.

“Holy moley I guess this is what these buildings look like up close.” Ellie says making me smile.

“Pretty tall huh?” I ask falling back to walk with her.

“There so damn tall!” She says looking around in amazement.

Laughing I nod my head. Hearing a faint groan my hand falls to my hip my pistol sitting there.

“What was that?” She asks me.

“Tess you hear that?” Joel calls Tess in front of him.

“Yeah. It sounded pretty far away though.” She says walking up a collapsed chunk of road.

“Are we safe?” Ellie asks me.

“Yeah we should be for now.” I say smiling at her.

“Come on.” Joel says picking up his pace us following him.

We don’t get far coming up to a huge sinkhole. The city falling in on itself.

“Damn. That’s quite a drop.” I say looking down into it.

“Well, there's the capitol building.” Joel says pointing off into the distant the only thing visible is the golden roof.

“Yeah. We need to find a way around this mess.” Tess says sighing.

“This was the downtown area?” Ellie asks looking over the drop.

“It was…” Tess says.

“Now it’s just a giant wasteland like every other city.” I say walking towards a building with its side ripped off.

“Come on this way.” I say climbing up into the count yard.

“Let’s go thru here.” Joel says walking into The Old Stone Building.

“Whatever you say.”

“Comin’.” Tess calls following us.

I open the first door I come to it full of empty shelving. 

“Ooo snacks.” I say seeing an old candy bar laying on the table next to the door.

“You really gonna eat that?” Joel asks looking around the room finding some tape and scissors.

“You really gonna take old crusty tape?” I ask putting the candy bar in my bag.

“It might help us later.”

“So will my snacks.” I say sticking my tongue out at him and leaving the room.

“Joel.” I call seeing the dead soldier on the ground.

He was torn apart laying a pool of blood his guts pulled out and his throat slashed.

“He’s been ripped apart.” Tess says coming up behind me.

“Yeah…” Joel says sighing.

“It’s still-” I say poking the corpse with my foot the arm moving as I do it.

“Fresh.”

“Is that bad?” Ellie asks I nod.

“Can be, lets not stick around to find out.”

“Lets go this way.” Joel says going to walk up the steps.

I nod following him, him taking two at a time with his long legs.

“Another one, shit.” Tess says another body laying on the wall.

“Well this has to be a great sign.” I say crouching down. This one was less mangled so I didn’t feel grossed out digging into his pockets.

“What are you doing?” Ellie asks disgust in her voice.

“I am searching for supplies.” I say my fingers wrapping around bullets.

“Merry christmas.” I say holding them up to Joel.

He snorts but takes them from me.

“Don’t you feel I don’t know bad?”

“Why?” I ask checking the pockets on his pants.

“This is how you survive kid.” Tess says as I stand up bandages in hand.

“You’ll get used to it.” I say putting them away.

“Come enough chater.” Joel says walking up the next set of stairs.

I follow him only for him to stop at the top.

“God damn it. Clicker.” He says making me take the last few steps a dead clicker laying on the door.

“Eww.” I say the fungus growing out of its head and up the door.

“What’s wrong with its face?” Ellie asks stopping next to me as Joel pulls the body out of the way. The sound of it breaking away filling the air. It similar to dried dirt or rock breaking up. A brittle sound.

“That’s what years of infection will do to ya.” Tess says sighing.

“So what? Are they…blind?” Ellie says moving to take a closer look.

“Pretty much. They see using sound.” I say running my fingers threw my hair it still wet from the rain.

“Like bats?”

“Exactly.” I say winking at her.

“If you hear one clicking you gotta hide.” Tess says Joel trying to bust the door in.

It held closed by the fungus growing on it.

“That’s how they spot you.” She says just as he gets the door open.

“You did it.” I say walking past him and into the next room.

It not really a room half of it was broken off and missing. I freeze when a low groan is heard the floor seeming to shift under my feet.

“Whole building feels like it’s about to fall apart.” Joel says but doesn't stop.

“I’m gonna be mad if I die from a cave in.” I say following him as we crouch under a fallen self the ceiling laying on top of it.

“You have a way you want to go out instead?” Tess asks behind me.

“I’m working on it.” I say vaulting over a desk blocking the path.

Us in an old office the building groaning again.

“Totally cool. Everything is totally cool.” Ellie says taking a breath.

“Relax it would be a quick death.” I say

“That so didn’t help.”

“Give me a hand with this.” Joel says trying to get another door open.

I walk over to him and put my shoulder into the door us slamming into it making it open. Joel stumbling forward a bit after it dose.

“Joel!” Tess yells making my head snap to him as a clicker tackles him into the ground.

I gasp watching his wrestle with it, Tess quickly kicking it off and shooting it in the head.

I help Joel up him breathing hard my heart pounding.

“Thanks…” He says nodding at Tess.

“You alright?” Ellie asks standing in the doorway behind us.

“It’s nothin’.” He says looking at me my hand still on his arm.

“You sure?” I ask my body shaking with the adrenaline pumping through it.

“Yeah…” He says squeezing my hand and pulling away from me.

“Let’s search for supilise.” Tess says walking into the room across the hall. It an old break room going from the vending machine and fridge.

“Shit. That was intense!” Ellie says making me nod.

“Yeah you said it.” I say knowing Joel must be feeling more freaked out then us.

I look over at him checking the cabidents. As if he could fill my gaze he turns to face me. I smile at him and go to the vending machine.

“What are you doing?” Ellie asks walking up to me as I pick up a brick off the ground.

“Tip you would be surprised how many people don’t check these.” I say smashing the lock.

I open the door finding a few cans still sitting there.

“Who wants 20 year old drinks?” I ask picking one up.

“Those are probably syrup by now.” Tess says.

“Let's find out.” I crack the top and smile as liquid pours out when I tilt the can.

“I give you very flat pop.” I say taking a drink only to spit it back out.

“Never mind. It’s bad… Very bad.”

Tess and Ellie laugh as I throw the can to the side.

“I might die from that.” I say coughing from the bad taste.

“Here.” Joel says handing me a bottle of water.

“I found a few in the cabinet.”

“Well thank you.” I say taking it from him and taking a sip.

It a little plasticy but it was water.

“What about in here?” Ellie says pointing at a closed door.

Walking over to it I try it only to find it locked. Pulling the knife from my boot I jam it into the wood between the lock and twist it. The old wood giving a crack as it splits letting the door swing open.

“Tada.” I say Joel walking into it.

“Your welcome.” I say him touching the back of his head.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You took a good knock on the head back there. Your not gonna pass out are you?”

“Trish, I’m fine.” He says clenching his jaw.

“Okay.” I say holding my hands up in surrender.

I help him look threw the room finding a few things. It was mostly office supplies but we did get a few rags and a bottle of booze hidden away.

“What are we gonna do with that?” Tess ask as I pick it up.

“It’ll clean a wound or help start a fire. I can also chuck it at your head if I need to.” I say waving her away her rolling her eyes.

It was no secret me and her wasn’t buddys. I acted too irresponsible for her and didn’t agree with her as much as Joel seemed to. Her and Joel have a different relationship then me and him. It making me wonder if she felt like she had to fight to be the strong independent woman. I never seen myself that way. I knew I had no one to live for so I wasn’t afraid of death until recently.

“You comin’?” Joel asks pulling me from my thoughts as he stands at the bottom of a ledge. The steps fallen down.

“Yeah sorry.” I say walking up to him and placing my food in his hand.

Grabbing the ledge I pull myself up as he practically throws me up on it.

“Alright cowboy your turn.” I say holding my arm down to him.

Tess and Ellie already up here with me.

He jumps up grabbing my forearm. I use my other hand grabbing his wrist and helping him pull himself up.

“Okay?” I ask when I get him to the top.

“Alright..” He says nodding.

I didn’t get to say anything else a high pitch growl going from the hallway.

“Clickers?” Ellie asks looking at us fear in her eyes.

“Oh shit. Go, go, go.” Joel says herding us into the nest room.

Us four crouching down behind the counter. I stay still and hold my breath as the infected clicks grow louder it right over our heads.

I watch Tess pick up a glass bottle and throw it into the corner of the room it shattering. With a screech the clicker runs towards the noise.

I follow her as we slowly crawl to the other side of the room, Joel chucking a brick to get the clicker to move to where we just was.

“That’s our way out.” Tess whispers making me almost have a heart attack at her talking at all.

I look at her, her pointing. Following the tip of her finger it aimed at the scaffolding at the end of the room.

I nod following her lead as I jump up onto it and over the other side. I let out a sigh of relief knowing that the clicker can’t get to us anyone.

“We got another one.” I say looking at the dead soldier slumped on the window.

“I’ll check him.” Joel says walking over to him.

“Ellie you okay?” Tess asks.

“Other then shiting my pants… I’m fine.” She says taking a breath.

“Yeah clickers suck.” I say Joel moving to the guardrail of the steps.

He easily vaults over it making me wonder what he is doing.

“Give me a second.” He says as if he could read my thoughts.

I look down at him watch him pull a filing cabinet out of the way.

“Who? Why?” I ask wanting to know why someone blocked the steps.

“There ya go ladies.” He says looking up at us.

“Come one.” Tess says jumping over the railing as well.

I follow her lead only to realize that we are trapped.

“The stairwells blocked.” Ellie says pointing at the cave in blocking our path.

“Nope.” I say look out the broken window seeing catwalks hanging there.

Walking over to it I climb over the side it swinging with my weight and the rain.

“Ahh this is crazy.” Tess says watching me.

“Just don’t look down.” I say winking as I slowly walk across it.

I listen to my own advice not wanting to know how high I was or how far I would fall if the twenty year old catwalk decided to break.

“Wha- Are you serious?” I hear Ellie asks as I slowly start to climb to the next one.

It below me making my stomach jump into my chest as I drop to it. I hold extremely still as it creaks and groans under my wight.

“Don’t fall… Don’t fall.” I sing to myself walking across it feeling Tess drop behind me.

“Don’t look down… Just don’t look down.” Ellie says when Joel makes the catwalk shift from landing on it.

“Your okay.” I say climbing onto the building threw another broken window.

“Alright…” Ellie says as I help her in then Tess.

“Oh boy…” Joel says climbing in and landing next to me.

“That another one of your ideas.” He says looking at me.

“We got a way through.” I say shrugging and smiling as I head down the steps the ones going up no longer there.

“Check this out.” Tess says guestering to the soldier on the ground. This one's face blown off. A bite on it’s shoulder.

“Ooo a gift for me.” I say picking up the gun I make a face when I realize it’s a revolver.

“More like for you.” I say holding it out to Joel.

“That’s a gun for a cowboy if Ive ever seen one.”

He rolls his eyes and takes it from me checking it over. Tess and Ellie walking into the next room.

“There a problem with revolvers?”

“You have to load them more often. I get nervous when I think I might run out of ammo.” I say shrugging.

Sighing he puts the gun in the waste of his jeans.

“Come on.” He mumbles going the way Tess went.

I follow him hearing voices.

“Runners.” Tess whispers.

“I’ll go check it out. You two stay with the girl.”

“I’ll go with you.” I say looking at him.

“No.”

“Yes. I can handle a few runners.”

“Fine. Try not to get yourself killed.” He says walking to the edge of the hall and dropping down into the next floor it a large room.

I crouch down and stay close to him pressing myself into a wall.

“I got two on the right and three on the left.” He says looking around the corner.

“Make the four on the left. Clicker.” I whisper pointing to it stumbling around.

“I got it.” He nods and starts to go left.

Rolling my eyes I go right slowly and quietly taking out the few runners I come across.

“Alright.. Come on down.” Joel calls out of breath from basing a runners head in.

“I’m impressed. Stealth isn’t normally your thing.” I say walking up to him.

“Pssh.” He says rolling his eyes and waking to the end of the room.

“Let’s just get out of here.” He says climbing up on the ledge leading to a doorway.

“Of course.” I say jumping up and taking his offered hand.

“That was fast.” Ellie says taking my hand.

“Thanks.” I say pulling her up doing the same with Tess.

“You two make quite a team.” She says bumping into my shoulder as she walks past.

Biting my tongue I walk up to the door it blocked by a very large filing cabinet.

Joel walks over to it and grabs it pulling it back with a groan since the title of the building was making the cabinet pull away from him.

“Alright Tess go.” He says groaning.

I quickly move over to him and help him hold it from sliding back in front of the door.

“That should so it.” Tess says her and Ellie pushing a copying machine in the doorway.

“Alright.” Joel says us both letting go it quickly sliding into the door. The machine keeping it from closing.

I climb over it into the next room taking a breath.

“See, we’re doing alright.” Tess says turning on her flashlight it now dark.

“Uh-huh.” Joel says doing the same.

“Could be worse.” I say tying my light to my backpack strap so I don’t have to hold it.

“How could this be worse?” Ellie asks me.

“We could be stumbling threw the dark.” I say smiling and walking to the bar in the room.

I give it a quick scan finding nothing but it was worth a shot.

We leave the room only to stop at the very long drop off.

“See we could have fallen into that without light.” I say looking down into the fallen rubble.

“Well down we go.” Tess says guestering to the ramp leading down from a chunk of wall.

“Let’s get to it.” Joel says slowly making his way down it.

“Watch your back.” He says dropping down and crawling under the thing we were just walking on.

We keep heading down carefully walking not knowing when the floor could collapse under us.

“You know I was thinking... when we get back we can take it easy for a while.” Tess says after a while of silence.

“You want to take it easy?” I ask looking at her my eyebrow cocked.

“Trish is right, don’t sound like you.” Joel says us stopping when we reach a body of water.

“Hey your the one always going on about laying low.” She says shimming threw the whole in the wall.

“And you always brush me off.” He says following her.

“Well I won’t this time.” She says shrugging.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” I say knowing Tess is always thinking about the next job.

That not a bad thing just I didn’t see the point and working myself to death. Even more so now that death was always breathing down your neck.

I walk behind Tess and Joel as we weave threw the fallen building hoping one of them knows where we are going because I was so turned around I didn’t know where I was. I felt like I was walking thru a maze.

It ending when we drop down into and old abandoned subway station.

“Joel over here.” Tess says shining her light down on a body.

“Dead firefly?” I ask looking at the mark on his sleeve.

“Yep..” Joel says glancing at me then bending down to pick up the bottle on the ground.

“These guys aren't doing good in or out of the city.” He says holding up a molotov.

“Now that I didn’t expect.” I say him nodding.

“Lets hope there is someone alive to meet us at the drop off.” He says walking over to me and tucking the bottle in the net on the side of my backpack.

“Don’t let me blow up.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He says walking towards the steps another body.

I watch him pick up a map and look it over.

“They are from the quarantine zone.”

“I guess there not the guys to pay us.” I say Tess turning to face me.

“Pay us? Who said anything about you getting paid?”

“Don’t you two start.” Joel says walking away from us.

“None of us might not get paid. Come on.” He says crouching under a fallen callom.

He stops clicking noises explaining why.

“Over there. See em.” He says pointing at it.

“Shit.” Tess says quickly going to the knocked over vending machine.

“We’re almost out.” She says picking over it.

I sit crouched beside Joel, him kind out in the open but clickers were blind.

“Okay, Joel you take the lead. I’ll watch the rear.” She whispers looking at him.

“Got it.” He says nodding.

“Ellie, you stay right on his heels.” I say her nodding.

“Okay.”

“You stay sharp.” Tess says looking at me.

“You got it boss.” I say putting Ellie between me and Joel as we start sneaking thru the very dark subway station.

When we reach a dead end I look around for a way out seeing a latter on the ledge over us.

“Up there.” I whisper pointing to it.

“Alright, come on.” Joel says bracing himself.

I stand on his hand him holding me while I lower the later into Tess and Ellie’s hands. Climbing up it it opens up into a very far drop down.

“Here.” Joel says dropping down onto a semi truck. Tess and Ellie follow after him I peering over the side to see him holding his arms up.

Ignoring the butterflies in my stomach I let myself drop into his arms, him easily catching me.

“You good?” He asks looking at me his hands on my waist.

“Good.” I nod moving to jump down to the ground.

“Holy shit!” Ellie says letting out a breath.

“We actually made it.”

“Everyone okay?” Joel asks walking up the crumble street the sky gray from the sun start to rise.

“Yes.” Tess says ahead of him.

“Let's move.” She says climbing up on the road.

“You guys are pretty good at this stuff.” Ellie says making me smile at her.

“Thanks.”

“It’s called luck and it is gonna run out.” Joel says us walking into an alleyway.

“Ignore him he's always broody.” I say her smiling.

“Which way we going Tess?” He asks Tess standing still.

“Uhh..” She says looking around her.

“Capital building is this way.” She says pointing farther down the alley.

“How does she know?” Ellie asks me.

“She knows the city pretty well. We used to smuggle stuff all the time you get a good idea of it in your head.” I say us climbing on top of a semi and and dropping down on the other side.

“There here.” Tess says pointing at the garage door.

Joel grabs the chain and starts pulling on it us standing there. I tense up hearing a scream.

“Shh.” I say touching his shoulder.

“What? I don’t hear anything.” He says looking at me.

“Double time.” Tess says looking down the way we came.

“Oh. There coming.” Ellie says moving closer to me.

“I know.” Joel growls out the sounds of infected coming closer.

“Okay that's good.” I say going under the half open door and holding it open.

“Come on Joel.” I say him quickly coming under as well just as a group of runners reach us.

“Drop it!” He yells when he is in a woman trying to grab Joel’s leg.

I let go the door slamming into the ground. I back away from it them banging and screaming on the other side.

It only takes a moment for them to calm down letting me take a breath.

“Eh… You got something on your shoe.” Ellie says making me look at my feet then at the others when mine is fine. I watch Joel kick the arm and hand off it shoe.

“Gross.” I say wrinkling up my face.

“Your telling me.” Ellie says looking at me.

“Okay how do we get out of this place?” Joel asks making me realize we are trapped in a mechanic shop.

“Let's find out.”

#the last of us joel #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fic #the last of us #the last of us imagine #tlou #tlou joel #joel fanfic #joel fanfiction #joel miller #joel x oc #joel x y/n #joel x reader #joel x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x oc #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x reader #the cowboy and the girl #the outside

[geo-theatre-diary-blog]

Mary Poppins Diary 2018

well hello There, I had diary of the show last year, so I'm making one this year, or at least I'm starting it, I won't continue it until we get into the opera house on Thursday, so in 4 days, also I don't have much down time in the show, so idk if it'll be longer or not, and similar to last time there's a hurricane a-comin, hurricane Florence is apparently going to hit North Carolina hard, it won't be as close to us as irma, but we will probably get some bad weather, oh also, do you remember noah from the last show, he is playing Bert in this show. Welp that is enough introduction so... se ya Thursday!

  Surprise I'm back, they are reworking step in time... a week and a half before the show..... UUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHH!

In other news, there is a big group chat (like last time) and it's a bit bigger now, there is: holden, caraline, Lillian, savanna, cadence, noah, lolly, kane, Damaris, Bethany, mary grace, Clara grace, Brenley, kasha*, Lydia*, Cassie*, hope*, caleb* and Zoë* (* means they are new)

ALSO we have 2 sets of Janes and Michaels. So that's a little bit of an introduction, so ye, NOW I WILL SEE YOU AT THE OPERA HOUSE.

    _____________________________________________

  Hi, it's the next day, I've decided that Imma still update it a little before we get to the opera house. Hurricane Florence is now a category 4, and South Carolina has evacuated its coast, o boi. Also we aren't moving into the opera house on Thursday like I thought, we move in on Saturday.

  Im at rehearsal right now, they are about to start practically perfect. Clara grace isn't here so margo is having to say her lines from the audience. Mortimer and I had a long conversation about video games; his favorite is Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask, mine is Super Paper Mario. Winston and Holly are playing Jane and Michael Oh shoot, gotta be on stage, I'll be back.

 Im back, hi. The bank scene is next and i have to be in that, they are doing spoonful of sugar now, holden is KILLING it as Robertson Ay so that's good, aight gotta go

 Im back again, it's feed the birds right now, and I think I'm going to finish with the diary for today. So see ya tomorrow.

 Hi actually another thing happened, someone is filling in for Clara Grace, she is doing ok surprisingly (considering she hasn't done this for 2 months like CG, and that she is a fair bit younger, so I am pleasantly surprised) ok NOW im gonna end it here, today was a lot.

 WELL IM BACK AGAIN, Carrie Elaine FRICCIN ROCKED IT AS MISS ANDREW.

  _____________________________________________

   Hi, I'm back at rehearsal, we are about to run the show. The talking is way worse than normal, and I'm not feeling well; so rip today. The new Nintendo direct is hopefully coming out on Thursday, last week a huge earthquake hit Japan so they had to cancel it, which was the best thing to do in that situation. Either way, they are doing jolly Holiday, so ye.

 I just did the scene where I yell at the kids, the anger in it skyrocketed, and the book slamming perfectly only multiplied that anger, which sounds bad, but it was actually really good; I actually think I scared Everyone on stage

  _____________________________________________

  Hiya, it's Wednesday now, not much has happened today, there wasn't a rehearsal today, so tomorrow is our last day before we get to the opera house

  _____________________________________________

  Today is the last day before we move into the opera house, they are doing a flying rehearsal tomorrow but I don't fly so I want be able to tell how that will go, there is normal rehearsal tonight, we have 5 days until media night and 6 days until the show, so hell week (tech week) has officially started

 Im at rehearsal now, the fly guy, Marquee, is here and all of the props and set have been moved to opera house. I'm STRUGGLING without my umbrella. Oh also the Nintendo direct came out today and Isabelle from animal crossing is in smash bros so I'm HYPED. They are about to do jolly holiday. We haven't been able to condense the show into an hour and 15 minutes yet, and that is our max time for the school shows, so that is extremely stressful. Amelia is being adorable as ever, god I love her, we haven't gone on another date in a few weeks so we need to do that after the show is over

 Marquee seems impressed so far, we are at supercalifragilisticexpialidocious now, the show is going well so far

 I just did the yelling scene, Marquee is taking notes, that's both good and stressful.

 Mrs Andrew is singing her song now, Marquee was really impressed with the last note, we are about to start fly a kite, trisha is doing better as Jane, ok I gotta go on stage soon

 Ok, rehearsal is over and the next is gonna be in the opera house, I got sauce containers for my accio sauce; I will be eating in my dressing room a lot and ranch gets everywhere so Imma just bring the  accio (also noah may want to try some). Hurricane Florence is hitting land now, North Carolina has declared a state of emergency, I hope Abbie doesn't get too bad of weather.

  _____________________________________________

    Well hi, so today was stressful. Imma get all the good stuff out of the way first, so, amelia and I went on a date today so that was good. And that's all the good stuff done, NOW THE STRESSFUL STUFF.

          ༼strong language is used here༽

 Today was a cluster fuck. The new staff at the opera house has no clue what they are doing and can't think ahead far enough for anything to get done. So for starters the stage left stairwell is being remodeled, and the ensemble dressing rooms are under the stage, that means that anyone who is in show that enters from stage left has to walk behind the god damn psych. And in the event of a fire, they won't have an easy exit, because the pit doors are usually locked during shows, and the stage right staircase is a spiral. And what is the opera house doing about this? Jack fucking shit. Also the school shows are being fucked up too, some idiot thought it would be a fucking brilliant idea to have the school buses park 2 blocks north of the actual opera house on an unpaved road. That means that 1000 elementary school children will be walking in a line to and from the buses for 30 minutes before and after the show FOR 2 BLOCKS DOWNTOWN, and we don't even know if the weather will be good or not, if it rains then to fucking bad, those kids have to walk in the rain. Because why not, it's not like there is a HUGE parking lot for the civic center across the street that has been more than welcome to hold the busses OH FUCKING WAIT THERE IS. The fire Chief almost had to cancel the show because the opera house crew can't actually finish the INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT FIXES before the show. NOT TO MENTION THE HANDICAPPED ENTRANCE IS ACTUALLY BLOCKED OFF BY THE CONSTRUCTION. AND NO ONE THOUGH THIS WAS POSSIBLY A BAD IDEA. The city isn't doing anything about it either, what can they do, none of the new opera house staff will respond to their calls. And I get that they are busy but the previous staff had all the work done for them, they've just been sitting there with their thumbs up there asses for A MONTH finishing none of the work and only making their jobs HARDER. I just don't understand how a group of adults can fuck up so badly to endanger the lives of not only all of the 88 kids in the cast, but the 1000 that are going to just be walking the streets during school shows and not have one person, just one person, say "hey what if instead... we didn't" also the renovation to the stage left stairwell is purely to make a new room, there are no structural readjustments or improvements being made.

     ༼ok im done yelling and cussing now༽

   So yeah, today sucked, I have my first rehearsal in the opera house in over a year tomorrow, so YEET

  _____________________________________________

    So today is my first rehearsal in the opera house, im getting ready to leave soon.

 Cherry tree lane just ended, we are now working with flight so that is fun, we are having to re block some scenes to work around it. Holden actually hit his head on the desk this time so that ain't good they are working a scene change right now. The curse of the opera house, everything that seems to be going well suddenly isn't and has to be changed. They are about to start jolly holiday, I gotta get to stage left now

 Ok so it's spoonful of sugar right now and the moving around is stressful,

  ok so they are doing feed the birds and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious now, next is intermission, this show is extremely stressful, and having no stage left is... oh boy. We haven't even gotten to intermission yet and we've been rehearsal for an hour and a half

  rehearsal is almost over, they are working on the flying parts

  _____________________________________________

  Im heading to rehearsal now, we are doing act 2 and whatever else we can today. The stress is really getting to everyone, Lillian almost had an emotional breakdown all throughout yesterday.

Both holden and I actually did have an emotional breakdown, we hugged and both almost cried. It's gonna get better though, tech week is always the most stressful. I have a lot to do when I get there, I have to get my makeup on, then my costume, then my mic, then who knows what else .

  Hi im at rehearsal, in costume.

 Ok so we just finished the show and are doing it again, Winston and Holly are now Jane and Michael. Ok imma check and see if im needed

   Im back home, and a FRIPP ton of stuff has happened; for starters, Carrie Elaine almost died, not exaggerating either, her flight was horrible, she was sideways and nearly slammed her head on the balcony. Noah was basically drunk after the run through due to his harness being so incredibly painful.

  _____________________________________________

  It's spoonful currently, Andrew is changing right now next is the bank scene, Andrew looks like a freaking albino raccoon because of the makeup.

 I just did the bank scene and Andrew is still getting his makeup off. im sitting in my dressing room for the next few scenes and intermission. They recording aswell, also I just learned that a piano is a percussion instrument and I don't know how I feel about that. But now my question is, what type of instrument is an electric keyboard, like is it wind, string, or percussion, I know that there is brass, woodwind and keyboard, but like the three basic types. Also I hate the fact that there is a "keyboard" type I mean like all of the keyed instruments can be placed into other categories other than the electronic keyboard, organs are wind, pianos are apparently percussion, accordions are wind, so why make a specific type?

  Act 2 has started, and there have been a few hiccups here and there but so far, it's good. The audience is enjoying it too. My feet are killing me.

   _____________________________________________

  Today is media night, oh boi. Media night is always cursed, and we open on Wednesday, another cursed day

 Im in costume the entire main cast is jamming out to Africa, take on me, boogie wonderland, and we're not gonna take it. We were gonna listen to jimmy buffet but other people had to change so rip. A PERFORMING ARTS SCHOOL CONTACTED AMELIA, IM SO HAPPY!

 Ok house is about to open.

 I'll update the journal later, my phone is at 6 percent

 I ran directly into a wall.

 _____________________________________________

  OPENING NIGHT

 I'm heading to the opera house now, amelia is gonna watch it tonight, and considering that until recently she didn't even know that people could fly on stage, she will LOVE it.

 I just carried Winston, also we can't have our phones on during the show, it's interfering with the mics.

 Act 2 just started and a cable has broken, marry and mrs Andrew can't fly for the rest of the night, bert still can but still.

 Other than the lack of flying the show went very well.

  _____________________________________________

 _____________________________________________

 Hi it's 2 days later, flying is working again, we have already done 2 shows today, and are about to do a 3rd one, someone is stealing some of the costume pieces, Lillian's apron and gloves are missing and hope's apron was found in someone else's dressing room. Lillian had to take all of her clothes with her when she left so it won't get stolen.

 We are heading to the show, dancing queen just came on the radio so yEET. During the break between shows today, Andrew and I listened to music in our dressing room, he tried to squat on top of the trashcan.

 School shows were fun today, we had to cut jolly holiday because of time.

 _____________________________________________

  Hey so is the final day and there were two shows today and both were really good, noah didn't knock over the vase in the second show and I played it off and he did too and the scene continued and it was AMAZING. Also in the first show the flying kite didn't work. Abbie was here for them and really liked the shows, ALSO ALSO tate and trisha really stepped up their game for the last show, and it really worked. IN THE FINALE HOLDEN KISSED HOPE ON THE CHEEK AND I FREAKING LOVED IT. Andrew strapped a bunch of wire hangers to himself to try and conduct electricity. Lillian was bawling and it was really sad, she was literally born to play mary poppins, and now it's over. But like actually though, Lillian just actually looks like Julie Andrews, the hair, the face, the VOICE, etc. It's gonna be hard to not do this show anymore but not as hard as others. But I'll make another diary soon, for next show. I guess you can say "the showS must go on". Also my favorite part of this was watching noah walk up the opera house proscenium during step in time.

  _____________________________________________

  and now i guess it's over, this show was incredibly fun, but incredibly stressful, from the opera house construction, to the rivaling theater companies, to the costumes being stolen. All in all, I don't want to start the show over, nor do I want to do one more show, I want to be done and be ready to move forward, and to remember this show as a good memory, not a bad one. So that's what I'm gonna do.

 I'll make more diaries soon.

                        -Gorge Banks

                              (Geo)

#theatre #diary

[bobert-drake]

ScottWarren ficlet thing in which Warren and Scott discuss the aftermath of a mission gone wrong.

Uhh the ending is a little messy but yeah here we go

—

Scott was five seconds from sleeping when he heard the door to his room creak open. The visitor was humming to himself and made a displeased noise when his shoes squeaked along the tile floor. As they drew closer to his bed, Scott tensed.

A hand was placed on his bicep, and Scott couldn’t bite back the grin that spread across his face when he felt warm breath on his forehead, followed by a pair of soft lips. Long hair tickled his nose. He puckered his lips and blew a puff of air in its direction.

The visitor startled back for a split second before returning to his side. “Awake?” murmured the stranger, gingerly rubbing calloused fingers over Scott’s hand with the IV in it. It was familiar, comforting, and although Scott had known it was Warren as soon as he’d heard the squeaky shoes, it had come as no less of a surprise that he was here with him.

“Mmh,” was the response that Warren received, as well as a gentle head-butt to his arm. “Hey, wanna gimme some water?”

Scott cracked his eyes open to watch as Warren glanced around for a bottle. Locating it, Warren brought it up to his lips and slowly tilted it, letting the cool liquid coat Scott’s parched throat. Afterwards, Warren took his sleeve and wiped the drops from his chin, and after pecking his cheek, sat back in his chair and stared.

He hadn’t let go of his hand.

Scott cleared his throat after a minute - or at least tried to; the painkillers that he’d been doused with made it so that his mouth was constantly dry, but the nurses had warned him that too much water would overload his system. He’d much rather suck down a bottle anyway and face the consequences afterwards, though. Medicine and hospitals freaked him out majorly, and his friends checking up on him every few hours was a welcome distraction, but it only went so far.

He’d been flung through a brick wall during a mission gone awry, and broke three ribs, sprained his wrist, and suffered a minor concussion. Warren had sat with him when the medicine was administered, clutching his hand tightly and whispering reassurances to the younger man. When he’d been forced to leave after hours of keeping a sleeping Scott company, he went, figuratively, kicking and screaming.

His eyes were tinged red like he’d been crying, and Scott knew he had. Warren, though outwardly it may not seem like it, had a big enough heart to serve ten people a lifetime, and his friends took up the majority of the space there; Scott, recently, more so, since they’d begun this cute, flirty, not-dating. It mostly consisted of kisses and hand-holding and cheesy dates and sharing milkshakes, and that was sufficient enough for both.

They’d have to eventually sit down and talk about what exactly they were doing, and where it would leave them in the future. For now, the two were content to pretend like it was nothing serious. It worked. They worked.

“Jean’s coming over later to have dinner with me,” Scott murmured as Warren brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. It would have been imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him as well as Scott did, but Warren’s soft smile twitched just slightly. “We’re having jello and hospital potatoes.” Warren’s hand came to rest on his stomach.

“Oh?” He was trying to act disinterested. It showed.

Scott hummed and reached up to play with his fingers. “Yeah, yep.” A beat of silence passed before he added, “Y’know, she feels terrible for what happened-“

“Good,” Warren hissed. “She should. You got hurt because she wasn’t paying attention. I told you, she’s too new at this. She hasn’t had enough training to be out in the field.”

Scott waited for Warren to come up for air before sighing loudly. Not this rant again. “It was partly my fault-“

Warren gave his hand a hard squeeze. “No, not your fault. Her fault. Are you sure she’s even really fit for this team-“

“Why can’t you two just get along?” Scott snapped suddenly, surprising both of them. He closed his eyes at the resulting flash of pain in his side. “I feel like it’s always a battle with you guys. She did this, she said this. Come on, babe,” he added softly after a moment.

Warren’s eyes were downcast and the tops of his cheeks were pink when Scott glanced back at him. Deep down, he felt guilty for snapping at him, but presently he just felt sad and confused that his lover (?) and friend were at odds.

A shaky breath was drawn in before Warren spoke. “...I’m just so tired of seeing human-passing X-Men.”

Wow. That simultaneously was everything and nothing that Scott predicted he would say.

The statement wasn’t out of the blue, per se; both knew too well of the acid attacks on a group of street-performing mutants in downtown New York recently, and it was no surprise to learn that every member of the group had some non-human feature. It was events like these that riled Warren up the most.

Jean Grey had been added to the team just a week prior to that. When Warren had seen her at first, he’d hoped that she had some other, secret physical altercation. That she was like him, or Scott.

“No,” she’d responded when he’d asked, with a bright smile that could have rivaled the sun itself. “Just me and my mind stuff.” She’d wiggled her fingers in Scott’s direction, and he’d laughed and retuned her grin. Warren hadn’t laughed. In fact, he’d already aimed for the door and headed upstairs by the time Scott had turned around to introduce them formally.

Scott had looked helplessly back at Jean. “I’m... sorry about that. He’s.. well, uh-“

“Sensitive?” Jean offered with a sad smile.

“Yeah.” Sensitive. Passionate. Angry with the world. “He really is.”

Jean had shrugged and cast a longing glance towards the window, which looked strange and distorted with the rain that had fallen that morning. “That’s good to be, these days. We all need something to help us tough it out, right?”

Scott hadn’t been sure that this was the reason Warren had stalked off, but he’d nodded along anyway, because Jean was right; it helped to be fierce in a world that wanted nothing more than to put you down at every opportunity.

Back in the hospital room, Scott could see the shine in Warren’s eyes when he met them, sliding his hands up Warren’s arms and holding him there.

“I’m so tired of having to hide what I am,” Warren finally choked out, and tightened his grip on Scott’s hospital gown. “Why did I get stuck with these things-“ he tossed his head back, gesturing to the wings bound tightly against his body underneath his clothes- “and she gets to walk around without ever having to worry about someone finding out?

“Why do human-passing mutants not face the same shit that we do? They don’t have to be afraid of getting shot or kidnapped or beat up every time they walk outside. They don’t have to cover themselves up and pray that no one stares at them too closely.” Tears were rolling down Warren’s cheeks now, and Scott could feel his own eyes pricking with those unshed.

“It’s not fair, Scotty,” Warren murmured, trembling slightly. “And I’m tired of half of our team being mutants who can do that.”

Scott tugged Warren down until his head was tucked snugly underneath his chin, and stroked his hair, his neck and shoulders, everywhere that he could reach. Kissing the crying man where he could, and shedding a few tears himself.

No, it wasn’t fair, and it never would be fair. But they were all fighting the same fight, and the only difference was that some more than others would walk away from it.

“That’s why we fight” Scott reminded him. “That’s why we go through all this; so that mutants in the future won’t have to. So that they can express their mutations in public and not be afraid.”

Because one day, it wouldn’t be like this. Scott felt Warren’s pain and he held him through it. He kissed him and he loved him. And weeks later, when he would come face-to-face with a group of Purifiers, he’d hit them just a little harder than usual.

One day, he repeated to himself. One day, one day, one day.

#scott summers #warren worthington iii #cyclops #angel #archangel #scottwarren #mine #fic

[in-the-bookish-dark]

Light of Day - Chapter 1 - RL

The morning was wet.  It wasn't humid or muggy. Just plain wet. Everything was wet. The rains had swept through town the night before at ten and two, but since then, no water had fallen. It just hung heavy in the air and gave every surface in the house a misting of earth sweat.

Miles padded through the house.  Derek, transient houseguest, was gone. Windows were open. Kids were down the street, already squealing.  They always played tag between the cars on either side of the block.  In the mornings, it was okay.  Then, when things got busy, lunchtime or after, they'd find a back yard to congregate in.  Fun was fun, but getting run over was not.  Ten or twelve years ago, he'd have been out there with them. Right now, he'd give his right hand, or part of it, to be out there playing in the new day.  New day or old day, just a different fucking day.

He went through the motions with the coffee.  Muscle memory, they called it.  He sat at the dinette and shook out a cigarette as the percolator started to rumble.  At the first drag, he wanted a shot of Jack, but he'd start with coffee.

When he came in the day before, the letter was buried between two magazines and grocery store flyers in the mailbox.  He'd done the physical a month ago. Clean bill. Son of a bitch.  He didn't have to read this letter to know what it said.  He did anyway. He needed to know his drop-dead date.

He mentioned it over dinner - Chelsea had come over and made spaghetti.  He drank most of the Riunite and two beers.  It was right at the end of the second beer. They cleaned the table. She had questions and a deer in the headlights look. He said he was tired. Then he ushered her out by picking a small fight and poking and prodding until the room and the house were too small for more than him. They'd talked about her moving in, but they still both liked to have some space.  He sat on his front porch and smoked two joints and drank the rest of the sixer.  He didn't care who smelled the bud that night.

Maybe he'd call her this morning, after he had some cleansing coffee. Maybe he's walk 'round to her place. When he poured his coffee, he went ahead and poured a shot. Why wait? He threw it back and poured another. Why wait? Time's burning. The Jack burned going down and he liked it.  He needed something burning inside at that moment.  Everything was burning, and he wanted to feel it inside like he felt it outside.

They did the draft lottery in December. His number came up in the first half hour. His birthday was July 9th, so his number was 1. Couldn't be much more in the crosshairs than that. Can't even pretend to hope. It burned going through his mind.  He didn't hear anything after the number showed on the tv, just helicopters.  Waves - no, fleets - of helicopters, slicing through the humidity of Vietnam.  What felt like their rotors pounding the air, though was his heart trying to escape his chest.  Chels was with him that night. She asked what was wrong.  He took a while before he said "Nothing."  It was a big nothing growing in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Polyphemus and Odysseus.  "Who is killing you, Polyphemus?"  "Nobody. Nobody is killing me." Then shut the fuck up, they probably said.  He did soon enough, and then he was silent for all ages.

Odysseus pretended to be mad in order to get out of war.  It didn't work.  They put a baby - his son - in front of the plow, in front of the plow he was turning the field with, dressed as a woman. If he was really mad, which they knew he wasn't, he'd have plowed on through Telemachus, on through his legacy. He stopped, though, then accepted his fate and went off to death and Troy.

Dressing as a woman, (was Odysseus actually the world's first cross-dresser?), wasn't going to get him anywhere.  It had been done.  Done to death. Canada?  It was 1000 miles up the Mississippi and then some.  A hell of a trek to a place where he knew nobody.  Did he know anyone in the movement ... surely someone ... but nobody came to mind.  He sympathized - sympathized like crazy, but music kept him busy.  Maybe Kyle or Kenny knew someone.  Practice was at two and their gig at nine.  Maybe they knew someone.  He'd see. And maybe he'd ask someone.  It seemed right but maybe it was someone else, like Achilles or someone. But that was back in Dec., even before the order for physicals came in.

His coffee cooled when he stared toward the window.  Not at the window or out of it, just roughly that general direction.  He padded back into the living room and grabbed some vinyl.  "In a Silent Way" by his namesake.  He sprayed and wiped and blew little flecks of lint off the disk before cueing it up.  Mademoiselle Mabry started up as he sat down.

There was a smear of vinyl cleaner on his fingertip and he flicked it off before reaching for another cigarette.

He looked and rubbed the tip, spreading the little bit of moisture that was left.  His finger.  His cousin Greg had found his own answer.  Two weeks before he was supposed to do his physical, he managed to get his index and middle finger yanked off at the second knuckle at the [steel mill.]  He was always careful, except the one time when he wasn't.  Without both fingers, there was a lot he couldn't do, including things like filling out forms, firing machine guns, throwing grenades, and whatever else fit the job description of a grunt in 'Nam.

He rubbed slowly around the finger tip, imagining its absence.  There he was at Cafe du Monde, dipping his beignets left-handed. Or he was claw-lifting them with his right.  Pool.  He could still handle his stick with those fingers gone.  Grip the stick tighter.  Maybe that angle would even be better. It could start a trend. Everyone would start lifting their fingers off the stick just so they could play like him.  Albums. Could he get them out of the sleeve with "the claw?" Could he cup Chel's face with his hands the way she likes with the claw?  Down at the rec center, could he play pickup b-ball with the claw? Where would his control go?  Two fingers isn't a lot when it comes to a basketball. Four fingers weren't that much to start with.  But he'd be playing ball at home, and not on some muddy clearing outside Saigon or wherever the hell they would send him. No b-ball deep in the jungle where Charlie is waiting around to shoot it - and you - out of the air in the middle of your jump shot. Two finger b-ball is always better than dead.

He picked up the spoon for his coffee.  Rolled it finger-to-finger with his left hand.  Dropped it six times. Didn't even try it with his right.  Couldn't imagine how. So maybe he's stop putting cream in his fucking coffee. If I can take a finger or two off, I can drink my damn coffee black. He went back to staring toward the window.  He drummed those two fingers on the table.  Might be his last chance, better take it.

Maybe two other fingers.  Left hand?  Nah. He'd be double screwed. Lamed up and still in 'Nam.  What do they care about your left hand if you're a rightie?  Ring and pinkie?  Still useless.

He called his mom, then he called his dad.  They both didn't know what to say. Literally. "I don't know what to say, it's ..." his mom said.  "I don't know what you want me to say ..." came from his father.

After he finished the calls, he sat on the couch.  Then he laid on the couch.  Then he methodically spooled his phone cord in one hand, until it was snug between wall and phone.  He tugged both ends, then he yanked the cord from the biscuit jack on the wall in one clean jerk.  His elbow nudged the casement window open and he flung the phone out into the yard, as far as he could.

At La Casa, forty-five minutes later, he was already on his third boilermaker.  Maybe he should pace himself. Maybe he didn't care because in less than three weeks, he was going downtown to the induction center.  He got another shot.  Still working on the second beer, but then he was already ahead of the game.  Whatever the game was.  A shadow came in through the Decatur side door, and walked up behind him.

"Hey, Miles,  what's the haps?" It had to be Carl, from the old band. The rasp and Irish Channel accent was unmistakable.  He and Chelsea grew up together.

"Hey, Carl, where y'at?"

"So?"

He shrugged. 'So ' what??

"Talked to Chelsea."

"Jesus.  And?"

"What's goin' on, man?"

"I got mail yesterday."

"From?"

"Uncle Sam."

"Shit, man."

"Yeah. Order to report."

"When?"

"The 23rd."

"Whatcha gonna do?"

"Exactly."

"No, I mean, really, what are you gonna do?"

"Man, I don't fucking know."

Neither of them said anything.

Carl glanced at the setup.  He flagged the bartender and waved two fingers at their glasses and bottles.

"Thanks, man."

"Hey, least I can do."

"So, what's going on with Chelsea?"

"Nothing, man, I just wasn't in a mood.  If we started on it as soon as I got the letter, she'd freak, and then we'd go around and around, and I just wasn't going to deal with it then.  I don't have an answer; how the fuck am I supposed to give her an answer."

"Answer about what?"

"About ... how I felt, what I was going to do, what about us, shit like that.  I wasn't thinking. I was just falling down this long, dark hole, man.  I don't think I've still hit bottom.  When I was first on the draw, I knew my number was up - literally.  Then I got the physical exam letter a month ago, and I knew they didn't find shit that was going to save me.  I'm not an athlete, but I'm healthy."

'Well, listen, guy, Amy has a connection to Canada ~'

'Canada.' Heavy. Not interested. Dropping it on the floor.

'Hang on, buddy.'

Carl walked off. Miles sat there, rocking his empty shot glass back and forth. After a while or two or three, Carl came back.

'Uppers, man.'

'What?'

'Take a bunch of uppers the day before your physical, and then one the day of, and your blood pressure will be off the charts.  They won't take you for that. Maria ~' he shrugged back where he'd come from ' ~ she can hook you up good, compadre.'

Miles flicked the shot glass.  It slid across the bar and hung over the edge before dropping.  There was no crash, so it must've landed on something. 'Goddamit, Carl, I already took the fucking physical. How the hell does that help me?'

'Oh yeah, shit, man. I'm sorry.  Little high.  Good fucking buzz, actually. I forgot.'

Miles tried to rub away the tension in his skull, but it wasn't going anywhere.

'Anyway, man ' hey, let's get together before you have to go in.  Get totally wasted and strung out. My tab.  Least I can do.'  Carl slapped his shoulder, then wandered.  Somewhere.  Miles didn't see.

He finished his drink.  He finished the drink Carl left behind.  He waved for another shot and threw it back, then paid out.

Chelsea was waiting on the front step when he got to the house. She had a beer beside her, sweating on the concrete, and her cigarettes, untouched, as well.

He sat back to back with her. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"We can talk. I just couldn't do it then."

She picked at a single thread sticking up from the knee of her jeans.  "Yeah, well ..."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded.  He put out his hand and she took it. She reached across her body for her beer and took a long draw.

"Want to go inside?"

He wanted one of her cigarettes.  He reached, but then stopped.  "Yeah, hey - how about I cook tonight?"

"In a bit."

She walked him into the shotgun house; walked him straight back to the bedroom.  She held him and he held her.  They didn't manage sex.  The alcohol and the draft board saw to that.  They did have spaghetti again, his way, with wine in the sauce and big chunks of meat.  Almost meatballs, but smaller and ragged, and no breading or seasoning.

She got up in the middle of the night and found him by himself in the living room.  He was passed out, a dry bottle of vodka next to him.  His index and middle fingers were folded down and taped together.  Layers and layers of masking tape.  She turned off the snowy tv and threw her grandma's quilt over him and went back to the bedroom.

When she got up the next morning, long after dawn, he'd been up for a while.  A corner of the quilt was soaking in the sink.  He was at the dinette.  "I, uh, threw up a little.  Cleaned it up, but some got on it.  I'll hang it out in a bit."

She nodded and took a cigarette from the pack on the table. His were stronger and they burned, but she didn't care just then.  She took his mug of coffee and pointed him to the cabinets.  The steam told her it was fresh.

He poured a new one for himself and sat across from her.  She remembered and looked at his hand.  No tape, but some redness from where it was yanked off.

"What were you doing with the tape?"

"Nothing.  I was just drunk and wanted to see what it would be like."

"Kinda odd."

He shrugged. "Drunk guys do odd fucking things, Chels."

"What do you th~"

"I don't fucking know."  He stood and walked to the sink. "Honestly, Chels - I don't know.  I'm not trying to be an asshole. I don't know what to say yet, don't know what to do."

She blew out smoke and fiddled with the lighter. "I'll finish up the quilt."

"Nah, I got it, babe.  Hey, let's get dressed and go down to the park.  We'll grab po-boys and watch the kids on the flying horses."

She nodded.  He squeezed the excess water out of the quilt corner, then smoothed it.  The screen door banged behind him, taking it out to the line.

They got out there on the streetcar just as the lunch wagon rolled in. Miles went over to get the po-boys. Chelsea found a Magnolia with a grassy patch underneath.  The breeze was soft but refreshing.  They couldn't see the carousel from there, but they could hear it when the wind shifted.  It was the most relaxing thing they'd done in days.  She gathered their sandwich trash.  He reached into the bag for two Hubig's pies.  Cherry and lemon.  She took lemon.  He finished the cherry in half the time she spent on hers, but it was all good.

By the flying horses, there was a Coke machine.  Coke for him and Tab for her.  He folded up the pull tabs and stuck them in the coin pocket of his jeans til they found a trash can.  They leaned on the rail around the carousel and watched the squealing kids.  Their cans sweated and dripped down. A little cluster of droplets formed under hers.  His drips were all over the place.

It really was the best afternoon. They had laughing kids in front of them, surrounded by wide greens, greens without snipers or tripwires or landmines or flamethrowers, and somehow, he managed not to think of them.  Southeast Asia was somewhere on the far side of Mars.

There was a bench nearby, close, but not right on the main paths.  She kissed him and he kissed back.  Her hand rested on his thigh; he glanced around, then slid one hand up her shirt to her bra-less tit.  His hand was still cold from the Coke can.  She jumped, but didn't complain.

Back at the house, they again went straight back to the bedroom.  Windows were open, but windows didn't matter.  She laid him back and straddled him, riding him face-to-face.  His wood was weak, but it firmed up inside her.  She rocked until his hardness filled her, then leaned down and let him thrust.  She had little bruises on her thighs the next morning, but it didn't matter.  They rode together, and her tits dragged back and forth over his chest.  She panicked a little when he came - they hadn't stopped for a rubber - but she was too close herself to think too hard.  She douched after, though, as he laid, catching his breath.  Don't take too much of a risk.  Nine months on, he was going to be in the jungles or worse.  They hadn't talked marriage before, and she wasn't going to talk it now.  She also wasn't going to be a single mother.  If the douche didn't take care of things, there were other ways.

They skipped dinner and had popcorn and beer in bed.  The little tv set wavered and wobbled, but they saw most of the Saturday night line-up.

Around 2am, storms woke them.  He rolled her over, again without preamble, and glided deep into her.  She was wet from his cum and wet from the douche.  Lightning snapped around them. Thunder shook the windows.  Winds slapped the blinds back and forth.  All the rage outside was inside, too.  This was a fuck.  His cock pounded in; her ankles met behind his ass.  He reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her up to him.  Every thrust, he grunted; every thrust, she gasped.  The angle worked for her, and she came and came.  Hard orgasms from far inside, like they'd been waiting for a dark summoning.  They liked it a little rough sometimes, and they'd cum with fireworks and cannons.  She came hard like that.  Angry orgasms.  She fucked back against him as hard as he fucked down into her.  She would hold him there and fight to keep him home inside of her.  He fucked like he never planned to leave, or planned never to leave.  She couldn't cum anymore. She just shuddered around and under him.  She keened and clutched and scratched.  Her nails sank in and Miles himself went over the edge.  The last thrust, he didn't want to stop there.  He wanted his whole fucking body inside her cunt, swallowed up by her.  He squirmed, like that would help, but in twenty seconds, it was all over.  His cock was still hard, but it was the only muscle with any strength.  He sagged down on her, and they both wept, then faded out.

He woke and he was face down, naked, and alone.  His cock was slimy and sticky, but alone.  She was in the bathroom, running water for minutes on end, then going into the kitchen.  She came back and shut the door again.  The water came back on.  He drifted in and out, but noticed when the water cut off again.  The light under the door flickered like she was walking back and forth. He drifted in and out more.  By the time he got his head around checking on her, she snapped the light off and came out.  Chels sat on the bed and ran her fingers through his damp hair, then walked out.  His first thought was she was walking home at 4am.  He was about to roust himself to stop her.  He heard the chain on the door and the couch creak, and knew she wasn't going anywhere.

In the morning, he made coffee. He poured mugs for both and set hers on the coffee table.  Close enough to reach from the couch, but not so close she'd knock it over.  He drank his on the way to the corner for a paper.

He got the paper and kept walking, wondering about the night.  He'd cum in her twice without protection. Did it mean something more than convenience?  Chels was good about keeping condoms on hand for them.  His place, her place, her purse, just in case.  Didn't even bother last night.  She was always in charge of protection, the condom cop.  Just was.  Except last night.  He didn't know what it meant. Something? Nothing?

When he came in, the couch was empty.  She called from the kitchen "Hey!"

He went in and she was scrubbing down the countertop.  The stove shined as much as that old shitpile would shine.  This confused him more.  Was she nesting or working off tension?

"Hey, Chels."

"... hey."

This was fucking reading tea leaf time.  She only half-glanced at him.

He walked up behind her.  His hand landed on her shoulder. She kept scrubbing.  Not scrubbing harder. Not scrubbing any less. Not leaning back, and not trying to escape.  Just not engaging.  He stepped back and she slowed.  Two strands of hair had escaped her cleaning scarf, and she brushed them back.

"I've been thinking ... Miles ..."

"Yeah, Chels?"

" ... I don't know."

"About?"

" ... I don't even know that."

He touched her one more time on the shoulder. Light touch. Lighter even than before, and just for a second.  He walked toward the dinette, then changed his mind.  He yanked hard on the paper towel roll and eight or ten spooled off.  He ran them under the tap and smeared the water around the front of the fridge, avoiding anything that was taped or clipped to it. The wad of paper dripped water down the fridge to the floor.

She glanced over.  "Goddammit, Miles ..."

He froze.  Yeah. He couldn't - or wouldn't - clean for shit. Bad time to remind her.

He stepped back and they stood stock still for a moment.

She slapped her rag down on the counter.  "Here comes the shit storm" he thought.  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four M~ ... and she hugged his side. She kissed his shoulder.  She said, "It's okay, babe. I got this. You go do something." She pointed outside, so he went outside.

He sat on the stump of the old Magnolia that had snapped apart six years ago when Betsy blew through.  He was surrounded by dandelions a foot high, and those nasty, milkweed kind of weeds even higher, so that's what he did.  Probably snapped off more than he yanked out of the soft soil, but it was something, maybe.

He fucked around, making a mess, for about half an hour. After that, he got shame, and he got serious.  Instead of throwing them around the yard, he stacked the weeds.  Instead of yanking, he dug with the fingers he while he had, and pulled them by the root.  Thirty more minutes and he was rolling a joint from the stash in the roof of the shed.  At least he'd done something, though.  He tapped on the kitchen window and she glanced over.  Ten seconds later, they were sharing the joint.  She was leaning in to him.  They were pulling down the beers she'd brought out and taking their time on the doob.  Their little time machine where everything stops. That Twilight Zone episode with the guy and the stop watch.  They had their own.

Their eyelids got heavy.  They rocked back and forth. He sang "Brown Eyed Girl" to her, or what he could remember.  They went to the bedroom and rocked against each other.  The condoms never left the drawer again, and the afternoon passed before either of them stirred.

He heated up leftover spaghetti in foil in the stove and she douched again.  Twice. Salt and vinegar, until it burned.  They sat on the stoop with paper plates and ate dried out spaghetti, with burn-brown ends, and watched kids ride by on their bikes in the twilight.

The next morning, he had to do something.  He didn't know what, but he couldn't sit still.  It could be the wrong thing, as long as it was something.  Between 5 and when he got up at 6, he rolled in and out of dreams.  Asians in black pajamas chasing him through the Garden District and into the Quarter.  The Greek sailors at the Acropolis bought him glasses of Ouzo, then tried to shove him into a tiger trap with big, sharpened bamboo stakes.  He took one through the thigh, but still managed to run down Dauphine to Bourbon, then around to the Old Absinthe House.  They poured a schooner of green liquid and told him he'd be fine - and that he'd be better off without any of his fingers, and when he looked down, his right arm was a stump ending just below his wrist.  He crossed the levee and jumped into the Mississippi.  When he came up, he was surrounded by screaming GI's in rat cages half-under the water.

He flung himself out of bed; every inch of him, pooled in sweat.  Chelsea didn't stir.  He wanted to scream her awake, but what good would that do?  He just needed someone to hear him.  The phone was still fucked, and laying in the yard.  He could go to [pirate place?].  They were always open to people they knew.  A drink would help. Two, three drinks would help. Maybe.  They were down to four joints, but he took one from the house stash and slipped out the front screen door.  He left the front door barely latched, so she wouldn't hear.

Jerry pegged him as soon as he walked in. "What the fuck, man?  Are you on acid?"

Miles explained the past three days, jittering as he did so.  Jerry poured him a big glass of something brown.  "On the house, dude."

Miles fired up and they passed the doob back and forth until it was too small even for a roach clip.

"What are my options, man?"

"You could fake going nuts, man, but there's a price.  You could claim you were a fag, also a price.  You could run off to Canada~"

"No. Ain't going anywhere."  Funny, the option with the least price was the one he ruled out immediately.  But there was a price.  It was the fact that it didn't cost him anything.  He might not want to fight or die, but he didn't want to run, either.  He'd take the consequences, but the one consequence he couldn't take was nothing."

"Conscientious objector?" Jerry said it, then shook his head.

"Yeah. I'd still go.  I just wouldn't get to shoot back.  That's assuming I convinced them of my 'longstanding beliefs' of the past two days."

Jerry nodded. "You could kill somebody, man."

They held their breaths.  The words filtered down out of the air.  When they were on the floor, still and safe, they went on.

"I ever tell you about my cousin? Greg?"

"Pineda?  Down at the garage?"

"One and only.  He got his letter a year and a half ago."  He held up a hand, two fingers folded down.

"Shit. So that's what happened to them ...?"

Miles nodded.

"I actually thought it was an accident."

"Maybe it was on purpose, maybe not. He had fucking great timing, though. Day after he got his letter to report for physicals, bam!  He still had the stitches in when he reported.  Doc didn't even want to look under his bandages.  Checked a couple of boxes and told him to put his fucking pants back on and go home."

Jerry nodded.  A moment later, Miles' glass was full again.  He reached for his wallet.  Jerry waved for him to put it away, eyes out the window, squinting at the sun that wasn't there yet.  The next joint was Jerry's. Big fat blunt. Twice as big as the one Miles shared.  By 8am, Miles was toasted.  Jerry moved him to a booth and brought a bag of Fritos for him to munch on.  Around 1, he walked home.

The day was as wasted as he was.

Next day, he had to have a plan.  Getting fried was no plan.  The clock was running, and in another seventeen days, his ass would be on its way to wherever the fuck they do basic, and then he'd be hopping through the jungle with a target on his head.

Chelsea was off at work by the time he woke up at 7.  The bakery started at 4 and she would get in at 5, and run solid to 5 that afternoon.  He was off til tomorrow, and had promised to clean up more shit in the yard. That's what she said.  Banquet TV dinners on trays in the living room last night, which he fell asleep on.  Salisbury steak and potatoes spilled all over the floor.  "Can you at least do something with the yard tomorrow?"  She went to bed.  Around 2 he woke up enough to clean up his mess.  He crashed on the couch.

The big Bradford pear in the back, past the magnolia stump, near the sagging back fence, needed trimming.  The branches dragged toward the ground. When the wind blew, the pears skittered and thunked along the ground. Some were already falling off and rotting. Chelsea hated walking around back there.  They had lawn chairs for sitting in the shade. "I might as well have to walk through a maze of dog crap, though."  She hated it.  They ended up sitting at the stump, in the sun, most of the time.

He dug the bow saw out of the shed.  He stared at the tree, not sure where to start.  Cut off the heavy parts at the end, the part with all the pears?  That didn't seem right.  Maybe the ones that were way overloaded.  No, start back by the trunk, where the problem started.  He cut of a couple of middle size branches, long, but not too heavy.  That gave him confidence.  Next, he went for a branch half way out on a bigger one.  It had to have 50 pears of different sizes.  He held the baby branch and started sawing.  He was half way through when things twisted.  There was a little crack-crack and the whole branch rolled forward.  The saw blade was trapped. On the in-stroke, it jumped and grazed his thumb nail.

"Son of a bitch!"  He threw the saw down and jumped back.  The branch crackled more and sagged to the ground. It didn't break. Just hung.  He checked his thumb. There was a long gash, and a little glow of pink, turning to red, showing through. He picked up the saw and banged on the branch, hammering until the back of the bow was dented.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.  I coulda lost my thumb.  Son of a bitch."  Even as he said it, even as he was angry of the near miss, he was getting angry over the missed opportunity. A thumb was probably worth two fingers.  He should have taped his goddamn thumb down the other night.  What would that have been like?  What the fuck can you do without a thumb?  He picked the saw up again.  He swung it at the trunk like a hatchet. It bent in two and the blade popped out of its anchors and warbled across the yard.

Then he sat down in the grass and stared at the thumbnail. His eyes swept the thumb from the nail down to the joint and back up, again and again.  The saw was fucked, but ... maybe there was a way to salvage this without being obvious.  Maybe if he ... fuck. Wrong goddamn fucking thumb.  Shit. He almost lost a thumb and it would have been the wrong goddamn thumb. He was halfway through a plan to get it done anyway. It still would've been useless. He berated himself. "You cut off a thumb, you cut off the right one, fuckass.  Not the left.  The left won't get you off a fucking bowling team, much less off a plane to 'Nam." He picked up the saw blade and the bow.He flung them. They tumbled end over end as they swirled high in the air.  Two, maybe three houses away, he heard the clang.  Then a dog went crazy barking.  Someone's mutt must've got the piss scared out of him.  Good. Fuck him and fuck his owners.

He came in, washed the thumbnail in peroxide, then put on the smallest bandaid he could find.  It barely covered the nail, though the edges easily overlapped across his thumbprint.  On his way out, he thought about leaving a note for Chelsea, but he was in a mood for niceties for himself or for anyone else.

He took the streetcar back to the Quarter and drank all his cash away at La Casa.  His buddy Ivan walked him back to the house at 2am. Chelsea had come and gone long ago.  There was a plate of food in the sink, filled up with water. The peas and corn just floated in it. The meatloaf was soggy and gray by then, just a ring of oozed Ketchup . No note. No hello; no goodbye; no "kiss my ass."

It pissed him off. He hated it, but he knew he deserved it.

She didn't come by the next day and she didn't call. Not that she could, actually.  The phone and its cord was still sprawled across the lawn on the side of the house.  He laid on the couch most of the day, watching who knows what wobble across the screen.  There was Dialing for Dollars, random soap operas, a couple of news breaks with updates from 'Nam.  There were dozens of furniture store commercials.  Some guy named Crazy Larry who windmilled his arms as he talked and talked and talked.  He would've gotten his ass off the couch, but every time he seriously considered it, he decided he didn't give a tinker's fuck, so he settled back down, grabbed another warm beer out of the four six-packs in the crate on the floor, and relit the joint that kept going out on him.  Shadows came and shadows ran off to the east, and then abandoned him completely.

The door was open, a breeze blowing through the screen.  The only light in the house was the tv.  Saying something.  After the six o'clock news, [carol bernett] came on. He thought it was her, anyway.  People ran around in dumb-ass costumes.  Now and then the audience would laugh and applaud.  Now and then he would, too, though he was only vaguely aware of why.  A lot of it was probably no more than laughing because others were laughing.  He muttered to nobody but himself, "Dumb-ass ... yeah, laugh because they're laughing.  Why don't you get your ass on a fucking plane for Saigon just because everyone else is doing it? We'll see how fucking funny that turns out to be."

He closed his eyes and rolled that thought around in his head. Getting on a plane.  Getting off in whatever fucking base everybody lands in when they get sent to Vietnam.  Laughing and laughing about the horrible humor of it. Him. Vietnam. Wanting to survive.  Not just his body, but who he is.  Coming back intact.  How funny it is that he's thinking about avoiding 'Nam by becoming not intact. Maybe he'd mail his fingers Vietnam.   They'd be casualties.  They'd belong there, right?  He imagined.  Getting a box.  Packing it with excelsior.  Maybe straw.  Straw seemed more appropriate.  They could throw the whole goddamn thing into a field and let a water buffalo eat it.  Did he know anyone over there?  Someone he could send them to?  Someone who would do him a dark and disgusting favor?  "Hey, man, is it okay if I send you two of my fingers? Nah, it's just because I want you to throw them out somewhere.  Field, road, rice paddy, land mine, shove 'em up a VC ass for all I care.  Yeah, that's pretty much it. Huh? Yeah, I cut them off so I wouldn't have to go, so it only seemed fair that they go anyway. Right. Ok, my man, have a good day and come back safe. Love to your wife, if she hasn't left you."

That would go great. Oh yeah. He played it a couple of times in his head. Two or three or ten or more. Maybe not the whole thing, but the bones.  He savored it.  Wanted it right.  Do you say it pissed off or calm?  Do you say it all twisted up, or safely from behind the mask?  He mulled, wanting to come up with a version that didn't openly offend anyone, but would be clear.

He mulled, and when he opened his eyes, it was already morning.  Had he really mulled for six or eight hours?  From the light and shadows, it had to be easily 10am, which would mean that they whole night had passed as he moved each word, each thought, from one side to the others.

Chelsea came in at noon and he was still glazed, still red-eyed and in his own hash fog.  She came in and touched his forehead.  He stirred.  Another hour or so, and he'd have sat up on the couch.  He stayed down. She might be gone before he managed to prop himself up.  She walked through the house.  He could see into the kitchen, and a little way down the hall.  She touched things.  She ran her fingers across the back of her usual chair;  she looked out of the window she could count on seeing a bird's nest from.  Down the hall, she stopped and adjusted a picture of them riding the paddlewheel steamboat.  She swayed for a bit, like she could hear the calliope calling them aboard.  She walked on down to the bedroom.  He heard the bed squeak.  Minutes later, his eyes followed her up the hall. She disappeared in the other side of the kitchen, then came out again, and stood in the hall for a moment. She adjusted another picture.  Tapped the frame three times.  She glanced his direction.  He thought his hand went up in a wave.  He wasn't sure.  It probably didn't, though. After glancing his way, she picked her purse off the kitchen counter and walked back out the front door.

Two hours later, he was focused enough to realize he was hungry.  Thirty minutes later, he was sprawled over the kitchen table.  He had three of four hot dogs to go. A mountain of ruffles spread across the tabletop.  He scooped chips onto the hot dogs. He worked his way through them, barely propping himself up.

His pitcher full of iced tea was almost gone.  No glass, just the pitcher.  When everything on the table had been eaten or drunk, he leaned back.  Restless.  Now that he had energy and a slightly clearer head, he was restless.

He grabbed a hat from the table and headed back out to Finnegan's.  It was a cave in there, dark and wooded, and the a/c was powerful enough to store beef.  For locals, the dark and quiet were the biggest draws; for tourists, it was the cold.

Trish was tending bar.  He liked Trish.  She always had a smile for him.  She had on a loose tie-died halter top and a big fake sunflower in her hair.  She shimmied.  That was one of his favorite things about her, even better than the smile.  She looked over her wire rim, yellow lenses and said, "You look like shit."

She slid him a beer and he told her the whole story.  He wasn't trying to stare at her cleavage, but his head wasn't doing much of anything else.  It was heavy from four days of heavy drinking and smoking.  And he liked the view.

"Y'know, you have to be square with her, if you really care.  She just wants to know what's going on.  She's not expecting you to be Johnny Hero. She just wants you to be you.  That's what she signed up for."

He nodded and finished off his beer.

"Hey," she put her hand on his. It was warm, despite the icicles hanging off everything else.  "Y'all should come hang out with me and my old man tonight. My sister will be there. Rap, smoke some. It'll be good."

He went by Chelsea's.  He knocked and knocked, went from window to window. After ten minutes of no response, he saw her old lady neighbor out picking shit in her garden.  'Hey, Mrs., uhhh ~ have you seen Chels?  I mean, Miss Jackson?'  She wobbled up to one knee, grabbing air.  Her cane had fallen over.  He grabbed the cane and boosted her up.  The dirt on her hand was warm and soft.  The skin on her hand was cold and dry.  She dusted her hands, swaying a little without any anchor.  He thought about reaching over and taking her elbow or shoulder, but he was afraid.  His hand was still cold from touching her.  He imagined the cold spreading all the way down his arm to his chest.  Worse, he considered the possibility that he'd accidentally touch her breast.  He shuddered.  Just the thought chilled him.  'Uh ''

Her eyes snapped to him.  She took the cane and inspected it, as if he might have tampered with it. Only then did she put her weight on it. 'She's gone, cher. Didn't say where. I didn't ask, me.'

He looked back at Chelsea's house, like it had more clues. 'Did you notice anyone with her, ma'am?'

'They was ' hmm ' no, that was the other day.' She eyed him up and down. Her glasses slipped down her nose, following a drop of sweat that just hung at the tip. She smelled of Ben Gay and chewing tobacco. Maybe a little like his grandmother and her perfume, L'air du Temps.  'Might-a been you, young man.  That other day, I mean.  No, they wasn't anyone with her.'  She patted his arm and wobbled away.

She stopped at her back door, hand on the screen door.  'Do you know anything about water bugs?'  He shook his head.  'It's hot out here.'  She shook her head and disappeared through the door.  He picked up her basket, half full of something that looked like squash, and dropped it on her back door.  She was right. It was hot out there.  Hot out everywhere.

He went by Chelsea's mom's house.  Barbara didn't even open the screen door.  That was fine. He didn't need to go inside with her and her tits down around her knees. "She's not here. Ain't seen her since day before yesterday." He started to ask another question, but the words didn't make it through the screen before she shut the door.  "Damn bitch stinks of rum.'  He kicked the screen door.  It rattled in its frame.  It wasn't satisfying. What was the point in breaking something that was already broken?

She never liked him.  She always compared him to Chelsea's last boyfriend who was a football player.  Unfortunately, he was also a dirtbag who almost got her arrested by hiding three lids of pot in her purse. They'd been at some party in Algiers and the cops stopped them just this side of the Connection for speeding and not maintaining a lane.  Fortunately, the cops got another call before they got a good whiff of the pot they'd already smoked at the party, or the fifth of whiskey on his breath.  He laughed as they drove off, then fished the bag back out of her purse.  The next morning, after she'd sobered up, she dumped him.  Barbara didn't care, though.  She was always talking about how Roger could have gotten an NFL contract with the right woman supporting him.  Chelsea was supposed to be the right woman.  More to the point, Barbara was supposed to be the right mother-in-law.  That was her whole thing.

He stopped by Anna Marie's apartment.  No dice there, either.  At least Anna Marie liked him. sometimes, she even flirted just a bit, and just for fun, not with any intent to go further.  But she hadn't seen her best friend in over a week. Hadn't talked to her since yesterday.

That was it.  He knew she wasn't at work. The two people who always had an idea where she was, had no clue.  He wasn't going to try to track her down house-to-house among half a million people.

He stopped at a random place in the Irish channel and had two beers, killing time until he was about ready to go to Trish's place.  He checked the piece of paper he had scribbled the address on.

When he got there, a double shotgun out along Magazine, there must've already been about a hundred people there.  That was good.  He wanted a party.  He wanted to get outside of his head for a while, but he also wanted to get lost.  He worked his way past the two flimsy grills in the front yard. They were loaded down with enough hot dogs and burgers, they should have collapsed.  The beer had to be in the back yard.  He brushed past Trish's old man, but the dude didn't recognize him. The guy's eyes were red and watery.  Miles was a little surprised the man was even standing.  He made his way down a little sidewalk, between groups of couples who were making out against the fence.  There wasn't any fucking ' yet ' but there were lots of hands already in clothes.  At one of these parties, by the end of the night, you were either totally wasted, or if you were lucky, you were fucked and wasted.

That made him a little annoyed that Chelsea wasn't there, but he got over it quick.  No point in bitching and moaning about something you can't change. He was almost to the back side of the house when some crazy bitch with a hurricane glass spun around hard.  She and her girlfriend were dancing to 'Bang a Gong.'  There was a lot of slow swaying, but they were already on round heels.  He couldn't tell how much was them and how much was the shoes.  Either way, her hurricane came out of her hands and bounced off his chest.  He now had a very wet and sticky chest and whole right sleeve.   'Oh, goddamn, man.  Wheredju come from?  I soooooo sorry!'  She mopped with the hem of her dress, lifted up over her waist, until he grabbed her hands to stop her.

Her, he didn't know.  The woman with her, though, was Trish.  'Hey, luv.' She dragged it out, letting it float on the wind. She was higher than a kite. The wind was about the only thing carrying her or her words anywhere.  She tucked herself under his right arm.  Her elbow length, loose hair immediately stuck to his shirt.  That was a hell of a sticky hurricane. Probably not a mix, but then what New Orleans native would use a mix?

Trish grabbed his sticky hand and took him back. The other woman bobbed along behind in their wake. When they turned to stop at the back stoop, the woman kept going, through the waves of people.  Probably got stuck against the back fence, walking, walking, walking until she passed out.  Trish reached between her wobbly tits and pulled out a decent-sized doob. She looked around for someone she didn't recognize, someone who looked like a narc.  She must not have seen anyone.

They passed it back and forth for a while, let two others take a hit, and pretty soon it was gone.  He was pretty gone, too.  Good weed.  Better than he could usually afford.  One minute he was in the clear, then as the smoke cloud encircled them, he was drifting in a fog.  That woman had come back.  She was yapping at Trish about their dog. How big he was, and how fast he could eat her little chihuahua. To be fair, Trish listened for longer then he could pay attention. Out of the blue, though, she put her hand on the woman's lips. "Shhhhh... sh-sh-sh-sh." She wobbled a little and her hand dropped. That crazy bitch just picked up where she was. Whatever she was saying.  Trish took her face in both hands and said, "Shut the fuck up, Marissa. If you don't shut up, Miles here is going to take you inside and fuck your brains out.  Seriously."

Marissa's eyes floated over to Miles'. Bobbed some.  She was wasted.  She tried to smile, but her face just hung there.  Maybe it was supposed to be a bluff, because all of a sudden her face got serious.  She had enough muscle control for that, evidently. She shook her head side to side, and nearly toppled over on one swing.  She slid down the rail and landed hard on the stair.

Trish smirked at him.  "All it took was making her take a breath, and she blew herself over."

She leaned in.  "Hey, what I said there ..."  He thought she was going to apologized. He was wrong.  "Clearly, Marissa isn't up for it, but ..." She slid her hand down to his waist and hooked her fingers under his belt, an arrow straight toward his dick.  "I'm not doing anything right now."  Her lips reached up and drew his down.  They were good lips.  Soft and moist, and she knew how to use them.  Miles immediately started getting hard.  The moment his dick realized how good her lips were, it was talking loud to him, begging to let her use them on him.

She stood slowly.  His lips followed, and the rest of the body with them. When she turned and latched her hand around his belt buckle, he gave no resistance.  Up the steps and straight through the kitchen into her bedroom.  Their bedroom.  She spun him backward and he flopped on the bed, right between a pile of laundry and a damp beach towel.  She poured herself on top of Miles' torso. He could feel the heat and moisture of her pussy grinding into his thigh.  She was driving - grinding herself against his thigh, Frenching him, with a fist full of his hair. With her other hand, she was undoing his belt.  She unzipped and fished his cock out, pumping it right from the start.  Definitely better than Chelsea - better with her hand, better with her mouth, and over the top with passion.  He convinced himself easily. Clearly, wasn't at fault.  How was he supposed to resist someone better than Chels on every level?  he scooped one hand into her top.  Her tits were the perfect size.  Her nipple was already erect, poking itself into his palm. She moaned when he squeezed, so he squeezed harder. He kneaded her tit and thrust his tongue almost to her throat.  He took a fist full of her hair with his other hand, tightened and twisted.  She moaned louder and clamped her legs around his thigh.  When she shuddered, he tightened his fist in her hair.  She shuddered again in a way that announced loudly that she was coming.  Little hip thrusts that tapped out on his thigh said she was losing control for a moment. She just laid there, panting for a moment.  She'd stopped stroking him while she came. She picked up stroking and slid herself down Miles' body.  Again, something she must have done thousands of times until she had the move down perfectly.

She slid down and with no adjustments to her glide path, took his dick into her mouth. Definitely well-practiced.  He held her hair as she bobbed up and down. She made slurpy sounds and yummy sounds, and stroked the exposed part of his cock with her hand. Every now and then, she'd look right up into his eyes.  When she did, she would flutter her tongue on the underside.  He'd read about that somewhere, but couldn't remember where.  Playboy, some paperback ... didn't remember.  He said "I'm gonna cum" and she didn't even slow down. More than that, she moved her hand away and tried again and again to take him all the way.  She would gag and then pop back up, then try again. The very last stroke, the head popped into her throat, and that's all it took. Boom. He went off like a fire hose.  He must have pumped ten shots right into her throat.  She bobbed up after the first two, then forced herself back down for the rest. He didn't have to do anything. He couldn't remember ever cumming that much or that hard with Chels.  Granted, he wasn't exactly in the habit of taking notes while he fucked.   She licked him clean after he finished, fished two pubes off her tongue and cheek, then slid back up and under his right arm. They laid there. She played with his chest hair. He squeezed her tit and rolled her nipple between thumb and finger.

"Jesus fuck, Ch~Trish ... Marcus is a very lucky son of a bitch."

She laughed, "Miles, I haven't been with Marcus in ... what, four months, I think.  My old man's name is Reince."

"Rench?"

"Reince. Like ... rents."

"Ok, he's the lucky bastard then.  Where did you learn that tongue thing?"

"On the underside? The flutter?" Miles nodded.  "I read it in an old dirty paperback my folks had.  Sounded like fun."

"Hell fucking yeah, it's fun."

"Been using it since I was fourteen, no complaints so far. Hey ... umm ... so how does Chelsea feel about girls - or couples?"

"When she was in college, she fooled around a little bit with her dorm mate." He could've said more, but didn't.  He wanted to hear what was behind the question.

"Hmm, so, she might be interested in a threesome? Or some girl-on-girl? Swapping? An orgy?"

"Damn. That's like a hard sell."

"No, I'm just wondering.  I haven't said anything to Reince.  Just curious.  I don't know her well, but Chels seems fun.  You're definitely fun, and y'know, Reince and me, we like fun people."

Suddenly, he felt miles from Chelsea.  Were they broken up officially? Hard to say. Certainly felt like it.

"Y'know, lemme feel her out, see if she might be cool with it.  Ya never know, right?"

Her answer was to french him.  That must've been an "Ok." She patted his chest and said, let's get back out there.  She left her pants behind, and they walked out of there with her in just her long peasant top, no pants, no panties, no bra.  He could dig that - dig that very well.

He tried to think about Chels, but couldn't seem to get his head to go there, aside from vague visions of two women fighting over his cock.

When they were back outside in the crowd, by the beer keg, it was back to reality.  The pot hadn't lasted near long enough.  Here he was at a party where he knew only two people. He was three weeks from induction. He'd just fucked this chick and might or might not be cheating on the girlfriend he might or might not still have.  He had about thirty minutes of escape, then it was back in the box. That made him think of Cool Hand Luke. "Man, what we have here is failure to communicate." He said it out loud before he even realized.

Trish turned around.  He hadn't even noticed until she did so, that she'd leaned across the keg to French kiss some beardy freak in a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

She said, "Huh?" and slipped her tongue in his mouth. He tried to figure out if he tasted only her, or that other dude, or even lingering traces of his cum. Next, she reached inside his pants deep enough to cup his balls. "I think we communicated pretty well."

"Huh? Yeah, no, babe.  I was thinking of something else."

She laughed at him and shook her head. She didn't get it, and she couldn't care less. Her fingers dipped into her cleavage and she pulled out another joint.  He thought, holy Christ, where'd that come from.  It hadn't been between her tits when they were screwing, that's for sure.  Somewhere between the bedroom and the keg, it had just magically gotten deposited in her top.

He frowned down at nowhere, for no particular reason than his own moodiness.  In seconds, she leaned in for another kiss.  When he opened his mouth for her tongue, she breathed smoke into his mouth and down into his lungs.  Knowing that wouldn't quite do it, she then passed the doob to him.  He took a deep drag, then pulled her in and returned the favor.  She was ready, and breathed him in deep.  Thirty seconds earlier, he was down, and the war was racing toward him.  Suddenly, it was all very cool and copacetic again.  The war would wait.  He didn't care whether her old man was there, or if he was watching, or if he cared.  He doubted he would. If Trish was telling the truth, he was good with whatever she got them into.

Trish wandered off when the joint was done.  She pointed his way from across the back yard. The older couple she was talking to made their way to him.  They introduced themselves as Hank Something and Junebug.  They stood close and looked around.  Junebug had great tits. Big and full, but not enormous. Well-rounded and just the tiniest bit of sag. She didn't seem to mind him noticing. Maybe that was part of their game. Maybe they thought he was carrying weed and she thought a little jiggle and wiggle would get some free samples. Their cautious glances around, though, seemed excessive given the company. If they wanted weed, nobody within a hundred feet was going to narc them out.

"Listen, Trish says you might be in need of a favor."

Miles didn't respond, so Hank continued .  "She says you've got your back up against a date with induction, and you might could stand some help finding some options."

He couldn't remember words, but he did nod.  Sure could use options.  That's what the word was.

Hank was explaining - without excessive detail - that he might have some strings he could pull. A favor for a favor. A string here and there, a package delivered here and there. While he talked, Junebug dug a a little foil packet from his shirt pocket.  She took out a little yellow pill and washed it down with a mouthful of beer, then took a beat and popped a second yellow pill into her mouth. No beer this time, just a swallow.  She picked a third out and offered it to Hank.  He shook his head and reached up to stroke her cheek.  Junebug looked for a moment like she was going to offer him one. Maybe she decided he was too far gone to really profit from whatever the pill was.

Hank handed him a business card and said, "Come by or give me a call - but soon."  Miles held it close enough to read.  Hank walked off as he focused on the words.  Junebug trailed behind Hank, their hands connected by fingertips.  He could have sworn she dragged her hand across his crotch, lingering on the zipper.  As soon as it registered with him, both of them were gone.  He had to have imagined it.

Things faded just a moment later.  When he woke, he was seated on one of the stumps, leaning against a garbage bin, with a cat licking his pounding forehead.  The moon was low in the east, but there was just enough light in the yard to see half a dozen others also snoozing in random spots.  It must have been around three o'clock.  He could check his watch, but that would've been work.  Too early for such exertion.  When he opened his eyes again, the sun was just topping the roofs.  The humidity was starting to simmer.  He was warm and clammy, as much from the partying as from the humidity.

Time to go home.

He got up and stepped over and between the litter, the bottles and cans and paper plates soaked by food and the morning dew.  Up by the gate, there was a cowboy in a buckskin joe hat sprawled up against the fence. More like on his buckskin joe hat.  It was crumpled up under his head, a crude pillow.  It was either that or the half gallon of Jack Daniels a foot away, with a slow trickle out of its mouth.

He was a mile down the road, two pair of sunglasses on his head.  They barely blocked the sun enough for him to wobble down the road, but barely was still enough.  He got home and laid down on the living room floor, wrapping his arm around a pillow from the couch, pinning it under his head.

Later, much later, but not nearly late enough, he woke enough to notice something different about the room.  He wasn't alone.  The room sounded different.  It was quiet, but the silence sounded angry, sullen, and sad.

"Chelsea ...?"

"Miles ... I see you've been ... having adventures."

"Listen, I ... I'm sorry I haven't gotten hold of you.  I tried this morning (no, that wasn't right) - I mean yesterday morning.  Your mom's, Anne Marie's, somebody else's ... " he couldn't remember who else, but surely there was."

He rolled to his side, facing her.  He found her face, her gaze pointed up and toward the window.  There wasn't a lot of warmth there.  He could understand that.

"Listen, Chels ..."

She stood up, towering over him.  "Miles, I'm going to give you some space, give you time to clear your head or purge your soul or whatever it is you're doing.  I want to talk, I want us to talk, but I can see that's not happening today."

She stepped over his legs, "I'm going to grab what laundry I have here and get out of your hair.  Please ... don't get up."

He felt like shit, but heard the sarcasm in her voice.  It was a warm, damp rag across the back of his neck, not soothing but unsettling, down in the pit of his  stomach.  He might have been able to get up, if he used up all his energy reserves, but it was a solid maybe.  More likely, he'd get five feet, fall over, and throw up.

He drifted away again as the living room wobbled into the dark.  He woke past dusk, another day in the toilet.  It was half past 9 when he made it as far as the kitchen.  He leaned against the refrigerator, then leaned inside, surrounding himself with the cool air.  He rubbed a big glass bottle of Coke on the side of his head.  He knew it was throbbing, but only realized then just how much it was pounding.  The left side was cool and nicely numb, the right side pulsing like a neutron star.

He sat at the table and dug at a carton of chocolate ice cream with the first spoon he found.  Spoon after spoon, without stopping or slowing. In time, by 10 or so, the cold had soaked its way into his upper body, blanketing the ache in his head.  He chased it with glass after glass of water, and when he was done, grabbed the Playboy from the end table by the sofa and worked his way to the bedroom.  He fell asleep with the open magazine covering his face and dreamt of escaping to Amsterdam with the Girls of Holland. It was a good dream, full of sex, alcohol, and pot, and spiced up with the repeated motif of nearly falling into one of the canals.  It seemed wherever he went without a handful of girls, he was in danger of falling into the water ways.  He never actually fell in, but came close plenty of times.

* Wednesday. 7am. His eyes opened and he was done sleeping.  Mind clear; eyes clear; even his goddamn sinuses were clear, and they never were.  He'd been in New Orleans since he was six and his family moved from Lake Charles.  He couldn't remember going more than a week at an stretch without antihistamine or decongestant. Given how much alcohol and pot he'd consumed in the past several days, he couldn't believe how alert and sober he was.  Had the last week even taken place?

Wednesday was Chelsea's day off.  She usually slept in until ten or so, then went off for lunch with friends.  He wanted to see her.  He felt like shit for how he'd been acting.  Childish, self-absorbed.  Chels was always talking about some sex therapist and her opinions.  Not just sex but relationships, too.  Being self absorbed and selfish were right up there at the top of the danger sign list.  Things were going to sort themselves out, though.  They always did.  With him and Chels, anyway, they always worked out in the end.  He'd talk to her and they'd get things trued up.

He'd go see that guy who gave him the card.  He'd do what he needed to, make whatever deal.  He'd stay here.  He'd stay with Chelsea.  They'd get married. Maybe. Or, she'd move in. They'd talk about it.

Suddenly, he wasn't as sober any more.  He sat up and put his head between his knees - or as close as it would go.  His eyes watered. His throat was dry and tight.

Start with the coffee, a couple of mugs, and think out the situation.  Find Hank's business card and stop by to see him. Or call or whatever.  Get things rolling.  While he was waiting for the coffee to perk, he got the phone from the yard and crudely reattached it to the biscuit jack.  When he was done, he tried it.  There was a little static, but it worked.

The coffee got him going.  He was out the door as soon as the second mug was done, business card in hand. Hank's office was on the edge of the quarter, down by the French Market.  First there, then to Chelsea's. He'd talk her down like he always did, she'd be happy again, and then to celebrate they'd have lunch at Galatoire's. Or Antoine's, if was later. Maybe just hang out at the Famous Door and have some drinks and list to music. At any rate, it would be a whole new start for them. G's was always the perfect place to start something new. Oh, right. Antoine's. Or the Famous Door.  Things were tight at the moment, yeah, maybe they'd just go to the Door.  Or she might want to stay in and cook.  He could go out and get them a fifth of Jack.  Anyway, new beginning, that was the thing to focus on.

He started the car, set the radio to WWOZ, and was starting to pull out, when a guy with a beard and a bald head popped up from around the front of the car parked at the neighbor's.  He looked familiar, but he couldn't place him.  Someone recent.  Whoever he was, he wasn't happy.  Very not happy, actually, and probably high as a fucking kite.  He lurched side to side as he walked.  He came around to the window and reached to pound on it, but the glass was down, so he just flailed a couple of times.  Very high not to figure it out on the first try.

"Hey, fucker. Shit, man. Hey, are you Miles?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Trish's old man."

"What's your problem, man?"

"You son of a bitch, you knocked her up!"

"What the hell, man? You have no way of knowing ..."

"... fuck, man, I got no sperm. No swimmers, you hear what I'm saying?  Aint no baby comin' out of this cock, hombre."

"Oh, shit, man ... I ... wait ... I know y'all's score.  Y'all swing all over town, you might as well have vines hanging from the trees.  Are you trying to tell me ~" he paused as he popped the door ajar, and the guy jumped back like he was being attacked. "Calm down, dude, I'm just getting out to talk about this." The car lurched forward - he hadn't remembered to take it out of drive. He shifted gears, slapping the knob into place, and snapped the key off.

"Calm down and back away a little - " he leaned against the front fender - "... you're telling me that there's no way anyone else can have knocked that bitch up?"

The guy, whatever his name was looked bewildered, and staggered back again. His red face screamed back, "I know what you're trying to do, you son of a bitch, and it ain't gonna work. You have a responsibility and you are going to fucking pay.  The last motherfucker did, and the other guy before, and the same fucking shit is going to happen to you.  We ain't having no baby, so you know what that means. You're going to cough up $200 for an abortion and we'll get this shit taken care of before it gets too far."  As his speech played out, he slowly walked toward Miles, his head tilted, jabbing with a finger, until the finger was actually jabbing into Miles' chest.

"Don't do that man. Gimme space. I'm asking you."  His ears were pounding. It was like he was under water, no under six feet of red jello. Everything was dark and tinted and sluggish, like that time his uncle Fidelio had come after him.

The finger kept jabbing. He didn't see anything but the finger making brief ripples across his shirt. He couldn't see as far as the end of the arm. Everything was dark and red and starting to slant to the left.

His own hand moved across his chest.  It locked on the man's finger and twisted, which brought his body to just the right angle to take Miles' knee in the groin. Twice, and then again for good measure.  Something cracked. It had to be the guy's finger. Or fingers.

Reds turned to greys, and the pounding in his ears was replaced with the ocean.  His stomach wanted to vomit, but his throat told it to shut up.  [Frank] or whoever the hell he was, laid on the verge next to the sidewalk.  One hand was cupping his balls. The other was waving in the air like a flag, trying to keep that pain as far from the other as possible.

It was time to go.  He had to go and meet ... that guy... the card... from the party. With the hot wife.  Jesus, what was his name?  He couldn't concentrate.  Then there was Chels. He wanted to talk to her about something.  It would come back. That guy was still screaming and cursing. He wasn't going to figure out a goddamn thing with all that racket.

Time to go. Go see that guy with the card. He turned back to the door. As he was stepping around it, he slapped the guy's hand out of the air, "Shut the goddamn fuck up! Do you fucking thin you're the only fucking goddamn fucker who has any goddamn fucking problems!?" The other guy might've been loud, but people in Algiers probably heard that.

The guy choked on his curses and choked on the flashing surge of pain.  Once Miles was in the car and pulling out of his space, he was just a memory buried inside the massive flaming cottony headache he now had.

Despite his hurry to get moving, when he got to Hank's office, he sat outside for a good thirty minutes.  The car would warm up; he would start it up and run the A/C for a few minutes, blowing ice cold in his face. It was a losing game. He'd start to drip sweat, then blast himself with iced air. In moments, the sweat would chill and he would shiver.

At ten thirty, he decided it was time.  He'd get out of the car and either go in to Hank's office, or walk down Decatur and grab a beer.  At least he was doing something.

He walked past Hank's door, and was a good ten feet further down the sidewalk when he pivoted.  That's how he worked, stress, stress, stress about something, then the moment he decided not to do it, he was relaxed and could carry through with it.

The receptionist was an older women, slight and slender and easily in her sixties, but kind of steely. She was probably a good screen for Hank, and had a look in her eye that said she probably played for the Packers. "I'm here to see Hank. Mr. ..." he had to dig the card out of his pocket to get the last name. "... Sinclair."  He turned the business card to her - Mrs. Prideaux, her desk sign said - and handed it to her like a movie ticket.  The eyebrow that arched when he stumbled over the last name, came back down.  It knotted with the other for a second, then they both went back to neutral.

"And your name, Mister ... ?"

"Miles. Mikes Parker"

She didn't seen to regard the name well. Maybe she wasn't the jazz fan that his mother was.  She asked "And he will know what this in regard to?" Her tone was solicitous but skeptical.

"This is regarding ... " not exactly a job "... an opportunity. I ran into him and Junebug recently and he suggested, requested, that I come see him at my earliest convenience." He could tell she didn't like the reference to Junebug.  That was a mistake. The rest of it seemed to ease her annoyance just enough to maybe open the door.

She set the card down and centered it on her blotter.  She sighed. Then she reached for her phone and punched the intercom button.

"Mr. Sinclair, I have a Miles Parker out here with one of your business cards.  He'd like a few minutes of your time."  She threw her glance up and down him as she said it.

"Miles ... oh, yes ... from the other day.  Would you buzz him back through, Miz Emma."

She punched the intercom off, then pressed a button on the side of her desk.  A buzz told him that something was unlocked for the next couple of seconds, and he'd best be moving.  He reached for his card, but she'd spirited it away in the half-second he'd looked off.

He didn't even have to turn the knob on the door. All it took was a push and it swung wide. Medium sized office. Nice, hundred year old desk that took up half the room. Must've been goddam oak and probably weighed two hundred pounds.  He couldn't imagine how it came through the door, but it did. The rest of the office, eh. Crappy, warped wood paneling. A window behind the desk, no blinds, curtains, nothing.

He looked up, over the rim of his glasses, and said "Miles."  He looked back down and slid something into a grey folder and tossed it to the corner of his desk. He pointed at one of the $20 armchairs.

Miles took the offer.  Neither spoke.  He grabbed a pen from his desk and crossed his legs, turning sideways a quarter.  "So, how's the weather out there?"

Miles stumbled through a confused explanation of current meteorological phenomena, then fell silent again.  Sinclair nodded.

"So, anyway. I'm glad you stopped by.  We've got some things going on you might be able to help with." He glanced at the door. Miles pushed it shut.

Sinclair reached for another folder buried underneath three other folders.  This one had the words "Parker, Miles" on the tab.  It wasn't empty, or anywhere close  He glanced through it.  One, two, three sheets, then skipped down to pages that were paperclipped together. He glanced at the top sheet, then closed the folder. "You've got a little bit of a record, my friend."

"I, uhh ... yeah ... like what are you talking about?"

"DWI, public intoxication, a gram of weed, trespassing ..." he glanced into the folder.  "... one hot check? Just one? Nothing big, just a lot of fucking around, really."

Miles nodded and relaxed a little.  It was all good.

Sinclair tossed the folder on top of the gray one.

He smiled and tapped the desk like he was trying to remember a funny story.  Miles smiled, waiting for it.

"Anyway - tell me about the Mexican jail."

Fuck. The goddamn Mexican jail. It wasn't on his NOPD rap sheet. He knew that. What the hell?

"You've been watching me for a while ...?"

"Aw, nah, Miles. I had this stuff sent in this morning just in case you showed up straight off."

"But you invited me in ... for ... because you could tell ..."

"Hey, buddy, you're at a yard party being thrown by someone who has his finger on half the pot and heroin coming across the border or across the Gulf up to Orleans Parish. You disappear for thirty minutes to fuck the guy's wife, do some dope, then vanish."  He shrugged. "So, that generates some interest. You're not a big player. Sorry, no disrespect, but you just don't have that elan. On the one hand, sure, we've got a certain leverage we can use on you - it's what we do, the stick, but at the same, you've got enough scruples that ... you're not going to go rogue.  For that, at the end of the day, we’ll be happy to throw you some carrots."

Miles just sat there. It was an insult and a compliment. It was also precursor to a threat. He was brought in to be worked.  Not only that, just by looking at him that night, the guy, whoever he was, could tell that he was ripe for working.

Sinclair handed him a folder. He read through it and handed it back. By the time it left his hand, though, he’d forgotten everything it said.  He was a little distracted.

Sinclair walked him through it, as though he’d never glanced at the folder, which was just as well, since as far as he could tell, he hadn’t.  There was a guy, mob connected, maybe even a made man, that they were wanting to get a finger on.  He was the main drug conduit as well as the buddy of several prominent, established businessmen and a couple of up-and-coming politicians in Orleans Parish.  Plan A was to hook him. Plan B was to hook him and implicate his important patrons.

There was an interruption when some skinny guy in a narrow-tie suit and a lot of Brylcreme came in and whispered into Sinclair’s ear.  They both looked at him and then Sinclair looked at his watch and back at him. There was a smirk that blossomed, then he waved tie-boy off.  When the door was closed, he just smiled and said “You sure don’t lack for drama, do you?” before resuming.  Had news of his little event with Trish’s old man already trickled in to him?  It was at most an hour, hour and a half ago.

Sinclair could manage to get him on a bartending gig at one of Gianolo’s regular haunts, the Napoleon House, and boost an introduction, but it was Miles’ job to work his way in further.  He could take all the time he wanted, as long as it didn’t take more than two weeks, after which they expected him to be ass-deep in Gianolo’s pocket.  They’d feed him information to help him become an asset, but it was still up to him to sell it in a way that it wasn’t obvious to Gianolo and his crowd.

There was more, but he’d get that when he came back in two days for his briefing session with the ops guys.  Until then, it was his job to keep his nose clean and his mouth shut.

There was still a tight fog wrapping around his body when Sinclair got up, grabbed his shoulder, lifted him, and walked him to the door as if it had been his decision to leave at that moment.  “Remember, Thursday at 1pm. You won’t make us come looking for you, would you?”

Miles tried to shake his head reassuringly, but it didn’t much care to move. Sinclair was probably past being reassured by anything anyone else said, anyway. Instead, he made a little wave with his left hand, said “Later,” and clipped the door frame as he passed through.  At least he didn’t drop the sealed envelope Sinclair had given him.  Just more embarrassment under the bridge.

He didn't open the envelope until he was someplace safe.  The chair at Lafitte's, however, wasn't even warming when he ripped the end off.  He expected a new identity. Some cool spy shit like that, maybe a passport in case things went tits up, like the british spies in the books say. Nothing like that. He had to stay Miles Parker. He just got some backstory written for him, filling in gaps here and there. Made sense, he guessed. Not like it was happening in a town where nobody would know him.  Just sweetened his history a little.

The plan was to go next to Chelsea's, but one drink became six drinks at Lafitte's, and by the time he got back to his car on Esplanade, he smoked a joint and took a little nap.  It was good shit.  The dreams he had were all about fucking big tit redheads over and over, and having them fight over his cock - and some weed.  When he finally woke up, the sun was hanging over the business district.  He didn't feel like doing much more that day, so he got on St. Claude and headed home.  She was probably still pissed anyway.  Give her more time to cool down.  He'd go fetch her the next day and bring her back to the house for burgers and beer and they'd split a joint and fuck, and everything would be back to normal again, and they'd be fine.  Besides, if Sinclair could really get him off the hook for Vietnam, he didn't have a big fucking deadline hanging over him. He had all the time in the world to square things with Chels.

When he got back to his house, he laid on the living room floor, smoked his last joint, and drifted off to sleep until six the next morning.

He had eggs and boudain for breakfast, and then realizing he hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous day, ate twice as much.  He flipped through the envelope Sinclair had given him, doodling in the margins as he moved front to back.  Devils and large breasted women mostly. His default doodle.  Blocks of squiggly lines in random spots.

He went out and talked to his mechanic.  He'd had two tours in 'Nam and came back with a shattered knee and pelvis from a mine.  Why, exactly, he was consulting him, he didn't know.  He liked the guy. He trusted the guy's instincts. He also bought half his dope from the guy.  He danced around the idea of working for the feds.  Didn't ask him outright, but told him a story about a guy he'd known who'd gotten pressured into working as a mole.  The guy winced and drank his beers twice as fast, and got red-faced as Miles unwound the story, but he was more angry at the government for using people than he was at Miles' "friend" for taking the deal and giving in to being used.  Miles felt better when he left the garage.  Yes, he was high, but there was also a certain weight off his shoulders.

He went back to the house, found a note from Chels on the door, asking where he was. Actually, what it said was "Where the hell are you hiding? C" He got a glass of water from the sink,  sat down at the table to call her, and didn't wake up until midnight.

When he called her at 12:30, her mother answered ... the phone cut in and out, due to his crappy repair job, but he managed to hear her say, very clearly, "I'm sure she's not in for you, but I will take a peek."  She came back in twenty seconds. "She's dead asleep.  Maybe you'll have better luck tomorrow."  The click and dial tone made it clear that she was done talking.

He phoned in sick the next morning.  He got up at 6 and worked his throat up unto a gravelly rasp just to make it more interesting.  He needed to get back on the crew, 'Nam or no 'Nam, but he also realized he needed to stop stalling with Chelsea.  He didn't bother calling. He just went over and camped out on her front stoop. He  had no way, short of knocking and waking someone up, of finding out whether they were up yet, so he did the next most logical thing.  They always, both Chels and her mom, always came out to the front porch for a cigarette first thing.  They'd drag themselves out of bed, grab a mug of coffee and a pack of Winstons, then sit out on the glider and rock until they were awake or the coffee was out, whichever came last.  He'd wait.  If nobody showed up in 30 min, he'd assume they'd already been up and had their morning porch smoke.  Otherwise, it was just a matter of time.

He only had to wait ten minutes.  The knob on the front door rattle, then quit, then rattled again for longer.  It turned and the door gaped several inches, then came to an abrupt and thudding halt. It closed again so someone could remove the chain, then swung full open on its creaky hinges.  A housecoat backed through.  The cigarette hand reached for the screen door frame, just in case there was a gust. What he expected in the drink hand was a mug of coffee.  What was actually there was a Coors fat boy.  He looked at it, then up at the face of the woman holding everything. It wasn't Chelsea, but her mother, Berniece.  She gave a start when he came into view.  She looked in his eyes, then down at the beer, then back up at him.  She said "Aww, hell ..." and set the beer on the railing and went back inside.  It was ten seconds before the door slammed.  She must'v'e done it as an afterthought.

Two minutes later, Chelsea peeked through the curtain, then came out to join him on the porch, holding a pack of Winstons and an oversized coffee mug.  They were several minutes into saying hello, slowly and cautiously, the way sumo wrestlers squared off with each other, Berniece came out in due time to retrieve her beer, pausing long enough to eyeball him and make a sniffing sound.  Eventually, they both came to agree that he'd been an ass the past several days.  He admitted to her everything a reasonably cautious male would admit to. Indiscretions that had come uncovered, admit everything. Where questionable, ask questions. Where fishing, feign laughable innocence.  All she knew was that he was getting high as fuck and avoiding anything and everything, completely bailing out on her and the whole Vietnam thing.  That was close enough to reality for him to own sincerely, without excuses.  She didn't mention any rumors of anything else and he didn't ask.

Two hours later, all was good, or good enough for now, her mom had gone off to work, they'd gone back to Chels' room for a make-up fuck, and then she shooed him out so she could start the restaurant set up for lunch opening.

[pbandjesse]

I didn’t expect to be out this late and I am real tired. Its been a long ass day.

And again I didn’t sleep well. I stayed up until almost 3. Reading or just laying there. I just couldn’t turn my brain off. But eventually I did get some sleep and when I woke up at 730 I felt good. I got dressed and had toast and left here around 8. It was raining. I thought I would go get my bike and then go to work. But I decided to leave my bike and just check on my mouse.  He was sleeping in the little bathtub and it was super cute. I walked to the school in the rain but it wasn’t so bad.

I was only at work like an hour and a half. I sent an email to me and Don’s foundation class. And helped a few people. Its very strange in the shop right now because all the seniors are installing and a bunch of people who haven’t used the shop in years are attempting to cut stuff and freaking everyone out. But its fine. No ones getting hurt.

Don and me walked over to my studio around 10. We looked at my install and he helped me put in some more lights. He was so silly though because I made him get inside the tower and he was like “Jesse no I'm to fat” in a whiny voice. But he got in there and we got some more lights up. I'm very pleased.

We spent the rest of the hour he was over there practicing my presentation. He had some really great feedback and I felt really good after we had gone through it. He pointed out the strongest paragraphs and where I was weaker. He also said it was to short so I'm still going to flesh some parts out but overall I'm very pleased.

He left and I stayed to work. I set myself up in the kitchen/lounge area. So not to be distracted. Also my studio looks like it exploded so its not really fun to be in there right now.  I worked for about 2 hours. Texting with Jess and fixing my defense. I felt like I was in a good place. And since I had a few hours before class I thought I would be able to go run some errands.

I took the bus downtown and went to whole foods. I got cake and a fruit tart and some hot dogs. The good kind! The correct kind. And some fancy brioche buns.

I headed up to the post office next. I should have done the other grocery shopping first though because guys this box was huge. It wasn’t heavy just so awkward and big. It was almost as tall as my waist. So I carried that across the street to the grocery store, put it in a cart, and got some supplies.

I didn’t buy much, just some stuff to get me through the next few days. My defense is on Tuesday and I'm pretty much booked full until then. I'm scared but in a good way. I headed home for lunch.

I put away my groceries and had my hotdog. I had really wanted to go to the other class at 230 so I could see everyone’s defenses. But I also really wanted to wait for my package of my last string lights. And the mail usually comes around 3. So I cuddled in bed and watched tv. I put together my mouse’s permanent home which is what was in the giant box. But I was so tired. But just as I was dozing off the door bell rang. I ran down and got my package. And proceeded to sleep for an hour.

So I missed the other classes. But its okay. I headed back to the studio. I added in my lights. I closed the stage. I took some pictures. I applied for the MFA award. It was good. I printed out my presentation. We had a meeting with the librarian on how to submit our stuff to the archive. And then we did out defenses.

Some of them are so great. all of them are good don’t get me wrong, but some are just a joy to hear. I hope I was one of those ones. When it came to be my turn I ran ahead of everyone and got inside of the tower, pulling a box behind me. So once everyone was on stage I pushed the boxes out and crawled out welcoming everyone to my defense. It got a good laugh. Which eased my nerves. I still spoke to fast. 9 minutes, to when I practiced alone’s 12. But I felt really good about it. Gretchen said I did a wonderful job contextualizing myself. And all the feedback I got was helpful. So I will expand. But I spoke loud and mostly clear, voice losing its tremble by the end. I'm excited.

There were a bunch after mine still. After each one I would go search for my mouse because he didn’t come out the entire talk I gave. But that’s alright. I found him eating once I turned off the lights.

I biked home not to long ago. I'm pretty hungry and pretty tired so I'm going to make a snake before bed. Tomorrow is the foundation’s wood crit. I haven’t seen any finished work so well see what happens. Sleep well everyone.

#ootd #in progress #art #butterflies #gradschool #mfa #weird dog #cat #cage #wensday #work #class

[ecotone99]

[SP] I See You

I feel like this story could have fallen into a few different categories. This was inspired from a prompt I found on the app Daily Prompts. The prompt was a story starter about discovering you had lived a past life as someone famous.

Please enjoy. It’s the first one I’ve finished in a while.

—————————————————————

She knew him.

She knew him?

Of course she knew him. Everyone knew him. He was famous.

But she knew him. The familiarity wasn’t just because he was one of the most admired, celebrated, talented musicians to ever grace a public stage and had been for longer than she’d been taking up space on planet Earth. It was more than that. It was an intimate knowledge. As she stared at the picture on the screen, she was paralyzed. A crippling fear gripped her like a vice, holding her in place as she stared at the handsome, weathered face. Was it a fear for him? Or was she afraid of him?

What was it about this man that had her so freaked out? And why did it matter all of a su...?

…

Sasha Simons stared at the tv on the living room wall, mouth slack, eyes glazed. She was no longer seeing the man on the tv. She wasn’t seeing the tv or even the wall it had hung on just a microsecond before.

Her living room wall was gone and had been replaced by a wall of glass. Day had become night and rain had replaced the snow that had been falling all morning. The curved, floor-to-ceiling windows, were suddenly lit by white-hot light that spiderwebbed across the panoramic view. On cue, the skies opened. The deluge was deafening as it drowned out the rolling thunder. The shockwave of thunder rattled through the hills around her and vibrated the rivulets that ran down the outside of the glass.

…

She looked from the window to her surroundings. There was a drink in her hand.

…

She didn’t drink.

…

Sasha brought the glass toward her face and sniffed the dark amber liquid. The smell, reminiscent of rich tobacco and old, dark wood, while not unpleasant, made her cough. This made the contents of her cup slosh around and caused a few small drops to splash out and land on the webbing between her thumb and index finger. Without thinking about it, she licked the beads of whiskey from her hand and slammed the rest of what was in the glass in one graceful motion. Her throat burned and she coughed again. Another flash of lightening and…

…

The pretty reporter stood in the middle of the parking lot outside the arena as snow fell around her but did not dare to touch her. Sasha noticed the bodiless arm stage left that held a large, black umbrella high over the woman’s immaculately quaffed hair and flawless face.

“The show starts tomorrow at 7pm. Tickets are sold out but Miranda and Steve will be giving away a pair of front row tickets and VIP All Access passes on our morning show, Wake Up, Denver! Be sure to wake up early for your chance to win. This is Amber Johnson, reporting from the Pepsi Center in downtown Denver. Back to you in the warm studio, Jay.”

The screen split and a middle-aged, man with neat, salt and pepper hair, in a smart, blue suit tried to show Amber and Sasha how far he could stretch his lips across his face before a fissure opened up and revealed all of his teeth at once.

“I sure am glad I got my tickets, Amber. And I know I’ll be seeing you there.”

Amber, like her counterpart in the studio, had begun to explain just how glad she was she had gotten her tickets but Sasha no longer heard either of them.

I’ll be seeing you there

I’ll see you there

I see you…

…

The lights of the sprawling city below looked alive. Sasha leaned her cheek against the thick, cool glass, took a deep breath and exhaled. The window fogged and she quickly wrote three words: I see you

She felt a heavy arm encircle her waist

“Hi.”

His breath tickled her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

Without prompting, he took her glass and headed for the bar on the other side of the room.

“I’ve got a bottle on the table over there,” her head tilted in the direction of a handful of couches clustered around a large square table. A bottle, right at a the point that would start a half full/half empty debate with the right crowd, sat precariously close to the nearest edge.

Sasha could see his reflection in the glass as he about-faced and headed to the table. So handsome. So not her type. But this worked, this collaboration. The song was good, really good. She felt it in every fiber of her being.

“I think it’s going to be huge, babe!” He handed her glass back to her with a generous amount of booze now in it. “And the whole collaboration thing? We’re gonna hit them out of nowhere with this.” He poured two fingers into his own glass and set the bottle on the floor beside the window. “People are gonna lose their shit.” He reached around her and clinked his glass into hers. “I’m gonna make you famous, babe.” He chuckled and chugged half of his drink in one gulp. “Drink up! We’re gonna celebrate tonight!” He tapped his glass into hers again and downed its contents.

With his hand on her hip she tilted her head back and rested against his chest. “Or maybe I’ll make you famous.” Sasha put the glass to her lips, closed her eyes and drank, draining the entire glass in three large swallows, her breath caught in her lungs, unable to inhale or exhale. She held her eyes shut for another moment as she relished the heat of the liquor, the heat of his hand on her hip, the heat of his breath on her neck as leaned down and pressed his lips and hips tight to her body. The heat between her thighs. So much heat. “Let’s go,” she whispered and took his hand. She turned and walked with him up the stairs that led to the upper level and the bedrooms.

Sasha opened the French doors to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. She reached in to flip the light on and…

…

Dim light came through the curtains on the far side of Sasha’s bedroom. One word, migraine, she thought as she crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head. How long had it been since she had had a migraine? Two years? Three? A long time by migraine sufferer’s standards. And this one promised to be a bad one if the hallucinations were any indication.

When was the last time she hallucinated before a migraine? Not since she was a kid. God, the hallucinations, though.

Just need to sleep. Need to stop over-thinking.

Need sleep. No over-thinking.

Sleep. No…

…

…”thinking about,” he asked. “You seem really far away.” He had lit them both a cigarette and she took the one he handed her.

Dragging deeply, the excitement of creation, of making something that people might actually love, something that might carry on had her head spinning. He had her head spinning. She exhaled in a rush and turned to her lover.

“It really is good, isn't it?”

He grabbed the edge of the sheet, flipped it off his legs as he swiveled and planted his feet on the floor in one graceful, fluid motion.

“Yes!” He jumped up, “I’m starving.” He stood, nearly perfect. The sheet fell back to the rumpled bed. “You?” He was a rock god in the making. “I think I’ve got some left-over Thai in the fridge.” He had turned to face her, a shit-eating-side-grin, one of the things he was already becoming known for, on his face; his left eyebrow cocked to a point. “Or, I could just eat you?”

And there was that naughty-boy charm she’d been hearing about. Sasha, used to having to be the aggressor in and out of the bedroom, felt an unfamiliar flush in her face.

“Oh! Wait!” His grin widened. The charm turned up to ten just made him that much sexier. “Did I make the bad girl of the pop world actually blush?” He leaned down, moving across the bed toward her, his fist pushing into the mattress. Gravity drew her close to him.

He smelled of cologne and sex and booze. He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ll be right back.”

Sasha closed her eyes and let her body fall back on the bed as soon she heard his footsteps on the stairs. Exhaustion like she hadn’t felt in years hugged her body the moment it hit the oversized pillows stacked around her. The late night sessions in his recording studio all week had been one thing, but trying to keep up with the drinking and the now the sex? There are some the might still call her by the moniker she had earned when she had first gotten the attention of the people who mattered in this shit show that they called the music business, but she sure as hell hadn’t felt much like the bad girl of the pop world in longer than she cared to think about. They joked with each other about making the other famous but for her, it was more about being relevant again.

And what would that be like? It had been more than a year since she had made any meaningful public appearances. And three times that since the last tour had ended.

Her body relaxed and she tried to remember the exhilaration she would feel again, being on the stage. She slipped into sleep as the crowd chanted. Chanted her name.

Wait. No.

Not her. Not her name. His name. The crowd chanted his name. They had forgotten all about her. It was his name on their lips. It was him that they wanted.

Now she was in the crowd. Right in front. And he was standing over her on the stage. Larger than life. He was looking directly at her. As if she was the only one in the entire stadium. Just the two of them. Her below and him above, he looked at her and her only.

But the people around her didn’t seem to know she was even there. They began to push at her, crush her. Sasha couldn’t breath. The crowd moved in closing off her airways. She tried to struggle but her arms were pinned to her sides as the bodies pushed in tighter around her. She looked up and tried to find him. Tiny white dots floated and swam around her vision. Fear boiled over and she tried to scream.

Sasha’s eyes flew open and she opened her mouth wide to inhale the air that had been deprived of her in the dream-turned-nightmare that her insecurities had mustered out of her subconscious.

Nothing. No air.

A face floated above her. Where she had expected to see a warm, inviting, mischievous and just a bit sexy grin, instead, a cruel, twisted mocking grimace carved into a black hole of hate. And hands were around her throat.

Confused, Sasha brought her eyes to her attacker. They pounded with the beat of her heart until she thought they would explode. She tried to plead. Her mouth moved.

Why?

The thumping slowed and a blackness had begun to creep in around the edges of her vision.

She never heard her killer utter a word.

The darkness swallowed her. …

It was close to dawn before Sasha finally gave up on sleep. She turned the tv on as she passed it headed toward the kitchen and coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, Sasha was sitting at the kitchen bar, her second cup of barely-coffee flavored creamer and sugar held in one hand, her phone in the other. A cheerfully bright bleach blond in an equally bright pink and white skirt and jacket ensemble was standing in front of a map covered in large snowflakes.

“That’s going to do it for the local forecast.” She turned just as the cameras switched to a close up shot of a salt and pepper haired anchor, nearly indistinguishable from the gentleman that sat in the same chair for the evening news.

“Thank you, Gina.” The man said as he spoke into the camera in front of him. “A winter weather warning will be in effect starting at midnight tonight. Keep your tv tuned to Channel 11 overnight and Wake Up, Denver! starting at 5 am tomorrow morning for road conditions and any closures as this storm moves though the city. Miranda?”

A dark haired beauty with too much makeup sat up a bit straighter in her chair as the crew cut to the wide shot.

“Thank you, Gina. Steve.” She glanced down at the desktop, switched her view to her close up camera and segued into the the part that Sasha had been waiting for since she had clawed her way from the horrors of her dreams a few hours prior. The woman at the desk became a bit more animated.

“It’s almost as if the weather gods themselves have rolled into town for tonight’s sold out performance at the Pepsi Center.” The camera switched back to the wide shot of both anchors.

“And when we come back, Steve and I will be giving away two tickets to tonight’s historic event as we say goodby to a rock legend as he winds up his final performance right here in the place his fans say he got his real start.” She paused for just the right amount of time and continued, “I’m Miranda Stevenson.” She looked to her right.

“And I’m Steve Knight. This is Wake Up! Denver and we’ll be right back.”

Sasha picked up her phone. She had punched in the ten digits without seeing them. Her thumb hit the green send button and the phone began to ring. …

Thumping beats assaulted and seemed to change the rhythm of her heart as guitars screeched and screamed. The anxiety she felt in her nightmare returned as the crowd pressed around her. She pushed her shoulders and elbows out as she tried to make herself bigger. After a few seconds that felt like a few minutes, the crowd seemed to collectively exhale which allowed her room to move. The reprieve didn’t last as the man they had come to see made his way to her side of the stage and stopped in front of her. The crowd swelled and threatened to swallow her, to drown her, to choke her.

Sasha barely noticed as she made eye contact with him.

For just a moment, he faltered. It was just a split second. Sasha doubted anyone else had even noticed. But she had. And so had he.

…

The green room, which wasn’t actually green at all, was full of people, alcohol and food. Everywhere, people were talking, mouths full of food or drink or both. Sasha made her way to the bar to the left.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Hot breath on her neck. A warm hand on her waist.

She took a sip of the drink she had just been handed and leaned her head back against his chest. “Best performance of your career.” His grip on her waist tightened and he pulled her to him; his hips pressing to her, the erection instantaneous. She shivered as his lips brushed the back of her neck.

“I knew it was you. The moment I saw you.” He didn’t seem surprised. “I guess an explanation is warranted.” She turned in arms to face him.

“The explanation won’t be necessary. Up and coming rockstar records decades biggest with the on-her-way-to-obscurity pop star hours before she dies in a tragic fiery crash leaving the mountain recording studio.”

He looked her in the eyes. “Wow. You really do look amazing, Sasha. Like it never happened.” His eyes were glassy with drink and nostalgia. “Would it make a difference if I said I was sorry?”

“Tragedy sells. And playing the grieving friend and lover who was only trying to help me revive my career? Brilliant. Martyrdom really suits you. Don’t apologize for being shrewder than I gave you credit for.”

She took him by the hand, “Let’s go.” Sasha led him through the crowded room and out the door.

…

“The weekend weather should hit the three S’s. Shorts, sunglasses and sunscreen. Stay tuned for more on this warming trend at ten past the hour. Steve?” Gina turned to the anchor desk as the camera cut to a close up of a much more somber reporter this morning.

“In other news, tragedy has struck the rock and roll community as official word has it that rock legend Devon Smithfield was found dead just hours after his final performance here in Denver. He rose to fame with the song, I See You, recorded with pop icon Sasha Sin just hours before the crash that took her life. Preliminary reports from the police and the coroner’s office have indicated he may have committed suicide by hanging. We’ll update with more details as they come in. Miranda?”

Sasha hit the red button at the top of the remote and the screen on the wall went black.

submitted by /u/Cre8iveJunkie [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2YzhUzL

#Blogger #Story

[taylornock]

the little things

“so i fall in love just a little oh a little bit everyday with someone new” - Hozier

a few weeks ago, one of my ~sisters~ in my sorority said something to me that has me feeling inspired on this fine sunday night. we were trying hard to rally after a long day of block and go out that night; and my tired ass was all like “we STILL have two and a half years to go out. im staying in” and she responded with:

“yeah but we ONLY have two and half more years”

Its the little things like that that flip your perspective, make you think. Oh sh*t! Glass half full just got fuller.

ever heard the expression, stop and smell the roses? overused as f*ck, but like seriously true. its so so crucial to slow yourself down and notice the little things in life; the simple pleasures + the moments you cant get back no matter how bad you want to. life moves faster than any of us can control. so stop and smell the damn roses! I am extremely guilty of always being onto the next thing, unconsciously worrying about whatever is coming next. today for example i spent the whole morning in anxiety about the traffic getting downtown for a browns game. girl, chill. like what seriously is going to happen if there is traffic?*the world still turns.

and no one ever said that when you stop and smell the roses they are all going to be alive. sometimes you stop - and the roses are dead.

things are dark, times are tough, and the last thing you want to do is look for the little things when it seems like the cloud over you is going to shade any possible light you find. but thats life - thats okay. its ok to look back and say, “wow that was one of the best moments of my life” but also be able to say “ok wow that F*CKING sucked…. thank u, next”. i learned very well when i came to college and especially through a lot of my best friends to laugh at things you shouldn’t. erika dropped her laptop from the top of her bed freshman year? HA! idiot! after she had to pay for the repairs on that, not so funny. but in the moment - instead of going worst case holy crap you are screwed and will never be able to pay your loans and will be broke forever because your dumbass dropped that freaking laptop…. slow tf down and laugh. yes there’s a time where it isn’t appropriate and you should be taking things seriously bc life comes with a lot of hard shit. but, when you can, take the little things and don’t make them bigger than they are; laugh it off and keep on swimming, baby.

smell the damn flowers. look at the little things. you think you don’t have enough time to chill out in the kitchen and bake cookies with your loved ones in the kitchen? trust me, you do. what’s gonna happen if you have one less hour of study time? you miss a few extra questions, okay. but things change so freaking quick and i am one hundred percent confident you would rather have those moments in the kitchen than you will that perfect exam score. im frankly very irresponsible, so that advice doesn’t go far for some people. but im serious - its good to have priorities but its also good to give your mind and soul a break. you deserve it queens! you can turn a “damn it its raining” mindset into a “let me watch the rain through my window and have an SVU marathon with my mom / best friend before our planet dies”. ok slightly negative ending, but you get my drift.

nostalgia is a beautiful feeling,,,, but its also sickening. it drives me mad thinking about how great things were; i so often lose focus of how great things are. again, im not over here trying to act like i wake up every morning and just EXUDE positivity and happiness. life is constantly kicking my (and everyone elses) ass but im doing what i can to keep myself sane. take in the purest moments of happiness + even the rawest moments of emotion and remember exactly how you are feeling right now because you might not ever repeat that.

“i fall in love with a stranger, the stranger the better.”

fall in love with something new; or fall in love with whats right in front of you. first off, let me say Hozier live this summer was a spiritual experience that made me feel more things than any church service i have ever attended did. the range of that man’s voice is unbelievable, and makes his songwriting resonate with you so much more. that song reminds me even more to pay attention to those little things. me having enough (barely) funds to buy myself an iced coffee this morning? that’s a little thing. waking up WITHOUT a headache, thats a little thing! walking downstairs and being greeted by someone who you love; thats a HUGE thing. but that HUGE thing is something we let ourselves get used to — and you don’t f*cking know what you have until its f*cking gone. my heart hurts for a million reasons on most days, but it also beats a trillion times with the little things i let bring the light in. and let me acknowledge when i write this stuff a lot of you probably think im just a ray of sunshine or im doing some hard drugs. i really need to start taking my own damn advice, and when i talk about this stuff it makes me realize that what’s coming out of my own ass is true! if you’re reading this; there’s a good chance i love you. i don’t believe anything happens by chance and i hope that if you came across this it brought some new thoughts up in yo mind.

i love you i love you i love you: thank u for sticking around in my life and following along in the irresponsible mess that it is. if you’re reading this, think about the small things that happened today that made you laugh or cry for a sec. think about how you won’t ever relive that EXACT second again and let that sink in. let the little things keep your soul happy. i love writing and i love writing down the little memories — that’s something i will never regret doing in years and years when i can remember that one time this this AND THIS happened. start writing more, start looking around more.

smell the damn flowers.

peace out babes

xoxoxoxo little gossip girlllllllllllllllll

#little things #hozier #blog #cool #lol #hehe #osu #writing #thoughts #tender

[writerinthedarkabyss]

all the 'lets get personal' qs plz?!

 Did you mean this post? If so, well damn alright people, buckle up.

 1: 6 of the songs you listen to most?

This changes every week but right now on my phone it says, 1)If I Had A Million by Fink 2)Drive by Oh Wonder 3)In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins 4)Rollercoaster by The Bleachers 5)P.I.M.P by 50 Cent 6)Falling by Opia

2: If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?

My Great Grandmother on my mom/s side. I’ve heard so much about her and I always wanted to meet her.

3: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 23, give meline 17.

It may or may not be my Phonetics textbook. “Fricatives are sounds made with a small opening, allowing the air to escape...”

4: What do you think about most?

In all honesty, lately I’ve been thinking about my decisions and if I’m doing things in a way that’s going to help me in the future or am I just wasting my life and time. 

5: What does your latest text message from someone else say?

“Depends you got the answer to a good stress relief, or to my anthropology homework?” 

6: Do you sleep with or without clothes on?

Most of the time, I sleep with them on.

7: What’s your strangest talent?

I don’t know if this counts but I can put both legs behind my head without struggling.

8: Girls… (finish the sentence); Boys… (finish the sentence)

Girls rule, boys drool. No just kidding.

9: Ever had a poem or song written about you?

Not that I know of, although I’ve written poems and sons about people.

10: When is the last time you played the air guitar?

A couple of days ago, I think?

11: Do you have any strange phobias?

Nope, just your average, everyday ones. 

12: Ever stuck a foreign object up your nose?

Uhh, no.

13: What’s your religion?

I’m an Atheist.

14: If you are outside, what are you most likely doing?

Trying to get back inside. No, uhm, probably reading or writing.

15: Do you prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?

Behind the camera usually,

16: Simple but extremely complex. Favorite band?

Oh god, there’s too many and they change all the time. But for right now Fink, The 1975, Bleachers, Blink 182, Oh Wonder.

17: What was the last lie you told?

This Wednesday, I might have told my mom that class was cancelled but I really didn’t want to go to that class.

18: Do you believe in karma?

Yes, I do.

19: What does your URL mean?

I do a lot of my best writing at night, and “writerinthedark” was already taken. Also my header is from one of my ultime favorite and underrated shows called Farscape. It was something said to the one of the main characters in the show and it holds so much meaning. 

20: What is your greatest weakness; your greatest strength?

21: Who is your celebrity crush?

Uhm, I might be jumping on the bandwagon Noah Centineo. But honestly he’s been my crush long before TATBILB. He was my MCM since The Fosters.

22: Have you ever gone skinny dipping?

Haha nope.

23: How do you vent your anger?

I usually write it out. Either in the form of literal venting or a story/poem.

24: Do you have a collection of anything?

I have a collection of pennies since Canada no longer uses them. I also have about fifteen candles and 150 books, if that counts as a collection? 

25: Do you prefer talking on the phone or video chattingonline?

Video chatting my friends 100%

26: Are you happy with the person you’ve become?

Most days, I like who I am now.

27: What’s a sound you hate; sound you love?

Nails on a chalkboard and crunching snow are awful. I love the sound of crackling fire and rain. 

28: What’s your biggest “what if”?

What if that thing when I was 6 didn’t happen. 

29: Do you believe in ghosts? How about aliens?

Yep, ghosts have to be real. Too big of a global phenomenon for them to not exist. The same sot of thing with Aliens. While I don’ believe that they’re little green men. Do you know how big the entire universe is? I find it very difficult to believe that we are the only planet it the entire universe that holds intelligent lifeforms 

30: Stick your right arm out; what do you touch first? Dothe same with your left arm.

My right arm I‘m touching one of my candles and in my left arm I’m touching my soft body pillow.

31: Smell the air. What do you smell?

Black cherry incense stick that I lit earlier.

32: What’s the worst place you have ever been to?

The depths of my mind at three am during a panic attack.

33: Choose: East Coast or West Coast?

I’m an East Coast girl.

34: Most attractive singer of your opposite gender?

Uhm, I’m drawing a blank right now.

35: To you, what is the meaning of life?

To be happy and leave it in better shape than you found it. 

36: Define Art.

Ahh, getting flashbacks to my Philosophy of Art class. To me, art is anything that someone creates with either and emotional or political message behind it. 

37: Do you believe in luck?

Yes

38: What’s the weather like right now?

It’s finally autumn my favorite season which means it’s raining and cool enough for a sweater right now. 

39: What time is it?

It is currently 11:47pm.

40: Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed?

I don’t drive yet.

41: What was the last book you read?

For pleasure, I reread “Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang in the 1950′s” by Carol Joyce Oates, which is one of my all time favorite books. But the actual last book I read was Chapter 4 of “The Sounds of Language: An Introduction to Phonetics” for my Phonetics class.

42: Do you like the smell of gasoline?

Nope, I hate it. Although my mother ans brother like it a lot. 

43: Do you have any nicknames?

Cat, Katie, kitty, freak, KitKat

44: What was the last film you saw?

If we’re talking at home, than it was “Serenity”. If we’re talking movie theaters than it was “Little Italy”. 

45: What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?

I don’t seriously injure myself a lot, I mostly get bruised and little cuts but there was once when I sprained three ligaments in my knee and was on a cane (because I’m a klutz and fell on the crutches they gave me) for three weeks. 

46: Have you ever caught a butterfly?

No, I don’t think so. 

47: Do you have any obsessions right now?

Not that I can think of. 

48: What’s your sexual orientation?

I’m cis and straight.

49: Ever had a rumour spread about you?

Yep, quite a lot actually. 

50: Do you believe in magic?

Hell yeah. 

51: Do you tend to hold grudges against people who have doneyou wrong?

For the most part no. Life is too short for that shit.

52: What is your astrological sign?

I am the first day of Virgo.

53: Do you save money or spend it?

I try to save it but I usually spend it,

54: What’s the last thing you purchased?

Prime example, I just bought my mom and I matching cat pajamas. 

55: Love or lust?

Love.

56: In a relationship?

Actually yeah, two months today.

57: How many relationships have you had?

Okay, if we’re talking “relationships” like “something more than friends” then 6.If we’re talking actual relationships 3.

58: Can you touch your nose with your tongue?

Nope, I have a really short tongue,

59: Where were you yesterday?

Downtown at school, my boyfriends, my house.

60: Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you?

Yep, there’s quite a few pink items in my room.

61: Are you wearing socks right now?

Yep, it’s a little chilly 

62: What’s your favourite animal?

Kittens :)

63: What is your secret weapon to get someone to like you?

Use any insecurity that I mention to you in confidence and it will ruin me. 

64: Where is your best friend?

All the way across the country for the next four months. :( She’s visiting her boyfriend but I miss her.

65: Give me your top 5 favourite blogs on Tumblr

I can’t, there’s too many. 

66: What is your heritage?

I am British and Quebecois.

67: What were you doing last night at 12AM?

Watching reruns of “White Collar” with my boyfriend of the couch.

68: What do you think is Satan’s last name?

He has too many.

69: Biggest turn ons?

Back muscles, being engaged and interested in conversations, making me laugh, knowing that I’m someone you want to spend your time with.

70: Are you the kind of friend you would want to have as afriend?

I think so. I always try to treat and act towards others the way I’d want to be treated,

71: You are walking down the street on your way to work.There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss hastold you if you are late one more time you get fired. What do you do?

I get fired. Puppy is way more important to me.

72: You are at the doctor’s office and she has just informedyou that you have approximately one month to live. a) Do you tellanyone/everyone you are going to die? b) What do you do with your remainingdays? c) Would you be afraid?

I wouldn’t tell anyone right away. Maybe a week before I’d let other know what’s happening so they could have time to process. I would do as many things on my bucket list as I could. But mostly I’d try and spend as much time I have left with the people I love. I would absolutely be afraid. I spent a little while not wanting to live. Now though, now I don’t want to die, I still have so much I want to do. 

73: You can only have one of these things; trust or love.

Love, I believe that if you love someone and they love you, trust is already in the equation.

74: What’s a song that always makes you happy when you hearit?

2000′s throwbacks are my go to happy songs because they just make me want to move and sing along. 

75: What are the last four digits in your cell phone number?

0024

76: In your opinion, what makes a great relationship?

Trust, honesty, friendship. Being able to make the other person laugh and making them feel and feeling as though you want to spend your time with them.

77: How can I win your heart?

By listening to me and sharing your stupid or deep or random thoughts. Make me feel like I’m important to you and that I make you happy and you’re interested in all parts of my life, not just the good things. 

78: Can insanity bring on more creativity?

Honestly, I feel the most creative when I am holding on to a powerful emotion. I don’t know about insanity, although I can see why people would think that. You’d let go of your inner critic and self doubt in yourself or your work and just create. 

79: What is the single best decision you have made in yourlife so far?

Staying alive.

80: What size shoes do you wear?

I’m a size 8 in shoes.

81: What would you want to be written on your tombstone?

Ya dumb bitch I honestly don’t know. 

82: What is your favourite word?

For some reason all I can think of is pumpernickel. 

83: Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hearthe word; heart.

Soul.

84: What is a saying you say a lot?

“Fuck a duck” thanks mom. 

85: What’s the last song you listened to?

Promise by Ben Howard just finished playing.

86: Basic question; what’s your favourite colour/colours?

Royal purple and dark blue,

87: What is your current desktop picture?

A picture of my dream book room.

88: If you could press a button and make anyone in the worldinstantaneously explode, who would it be?

I can only pick one person??

89: What would be a question you’d be afraid to tell thetruth on?

The secret I’ve never said to anyone.

90: Turn offs?

Being unhygienic, talking down to others, arrogance 

91: You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. Theywere good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-powerof your choice! What is that power?

Either telepathy or invisibility. 

92: where are your parents from?

My father is from Quebec and my mother is from England.

 93: You can erase any horrible experience from your past.What will it be?

The thing that still makes me uncomfortable.

94: You have the opportunity to sleep with themusic-celebrity of your choice. Who would it be?

Wow, I really don’t know.

95: You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You haveto depart right now. Where are you gonna go?

At the moment, I’d pay for another ticket and go to Kelowna with my mom so she can finally go back there,

96: Do you have any relatives in jail?

Not that I know of. 

97: Have you ever thrown up in the car?

Yep, it was not one of my proudest or best moments. 

98: Ever been on a plane?

Once, when I was very little.

99: If the whole world were listening to you right now, whatwould you say.

I’d quote the Doctor, “Never be cruel, never be cowardly... Remember hate is always foolish, love is always wise. Always try to be nice but never fail to be kind.”