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huntiingdogs · 3 years

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moonlight

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summary and here you are, fingers flitting across the monochrome keys as the scenery changes. he's by your side, meeting in the middle of two vastly different worlds. and as he's crying for whatever unknown reason; the moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it? is the one thing you want to ask him.

will your music reach him?

warnings. unedited, self indulgent, and impulsive one shot. that's it.

pairings. benny watts x gn! reader

words. 1911

notes. I have a couple of notes, so please read through them.

1. This is a literal word for word rewrite of the one scene in Your Lie in April where Kousei comforts Tsubaki while playing Clair de Lune on the piano and Tsubaki is crying.

2. Interpret this little one shot the way you want - romance, platonic, unrequited love, romantic love that hasn't been established, denied feelings, anything - I literally just whipped this up to get back into writing since I've been out of it, and I just finished watching The Queen's Gambit, so I spewed this piece within an hour (+ I am also in my ylia brainrot rn lol, leave me ALONE/nsrs lh).

I don't favour X Reader's to be honest, and when I do write them, it tends to be open to interpretation like this and/or is just pure self indulgent shit. But that's just me.

3. I don't know if I portrayed Benny's character correctly, and this is just how I see how he would act in terms of emotions and especially with this dynamic I have pictured between him and [Y/N]. Once again, this is purely self indulgent shit, I don't expect this being others preferable piece of work to read when it comes to this character.

4. And of course, enjoy [:

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There is a piano on the ground floor of the hotel.

That's the first distinctive feature you took notice of when you first took your first stroll across the hotel, passing by the clean grand piano in the foyer. Cushioned couches and seats surround it like a mini audience awaiting to gather whenever a player comes by and leisurely toys with its many keys.

But the reason why you are here isn't because of the piano; it's to support your long-time childhood friend, pretentious, egotistical yet kind renowned US Champion of chess, Benny Watts. Being close childhood friends with a practical prodigy is a one out of six chance by the chance roll of a die, the usual five out of six possibilities clustered with want-to-be stars and ordinary, regular people. People like you. Ordinary people like you weren't born with talent but stuffed with worthless pride and passion, and there's a distinct difference between the two. And that's the cruelness of the world. Not everyone is a Morphy, and not everyone is a Chopin. Not everyone is a genius. But even genuineness work hard, and it'd be an insult to disregard that hard work as simply and futile as "talent". But what do you know? You've been born in the concrete, and as much as you tried, no matter what hobby you pick up, nothing will ever satisfy you.

You had met Benny when you were his next-door neighbour, the typical humble American beginnings when people would interact with their environment because that's all children your age had: toys, your self-entertainment, if you were lucky enough a field and a park, but if not, then it's just you and the people around you. And of all the one out of six chances, one of those people around you would end up being a genius, or well, was already a genius at that age.

Now edging at nine at night, the hotel subdues into this tranquil, idle silence. Chipped chatters flutter the large foyer, and you approached the piano out of curiosity. You couldn't ignore it forever; the instrument that ate you up and chewed you up a thousand times. It's the life and death of you, as you've traded your soul and heart to music as much as the geniuses dedicated their life to their little area of expertise. But it wasn't enough. Your notes will never reach people the way you want them to, except maybe one person.

You sat on the piano with no eyes are staring yet, too coped into their separate conversations. And as you touched the first keys, no eyes bore on you. Maybe for a flit second, but other than that, none are merely interested. After all, the foyer is mainly empty, only consisting of the bars people and a couple of others who don't seem too interested in such riches of classical music.

'Clair de Lune, huh?'

The voice rang through the space, and you continued to play, the soft keys ringing, ringing, ringing. Will it reach them? Who are you playing for? Perhaps you're only playing for yourself.

'Thought you'd be up in your room preparing for tomorrow's matches,' you dully state, not satisfying Benny with your full attention.

From the corner of your eye, you spot him resting his hand on the side of the piano. He's like wet tissue underneath a shoe; you can't seem to shake him off. And upon figuring that he won't leave, you sigh. 'Sit down if you're not going to leave.' You pause your playing, shuffling to the edge of the cushioned leather seat.

Without uttering a response, Benny takes your offer without hesitation, but he doesn't face the piano instead, sitting the opposite way. Perhaps it's better that way, so his face isn't such vanity of a distraction. Then, you restart, gliding your fingers across the keys, like pressing a restart button. And when you play, it sounds like the full moon, tender, soft. A part of you feels like it sounds different from when you first played not a second ago, not so half-hearted. Wonder what could have caused that.

Benny isn't saying anything, and you figured it's because something is in his mind.

You were never good at reading the situation, but when it came to him, a chatterbox, a person who is like a light for moths, moments like these are rare but a motif you picked up from the many years you've known each other. The first time he silently sat next to you like this was when he had just got dumped, entering your home while you were idly playing the piano, and sitting next to you is Benny like a younger brother sulking in deep despair, ugly tears streaming his face. Crying doesn't suit him. He looked ugly and sad when he had a frown on his face, and it never fit him. So you always hoped that your playing always brings back the Benny you knew. The one that's light and enlightened by his regular smile, the one you knew that probably loved himself more than he loves those around him, ironically enough.

To you, Benny has always been like a kid brother. The genius brother. The one that always took the attention of your parents away from you, their kid. It infuriated you, of course, but then it's a netiquette reminder that you were supposed to be the opposite sex. And even if you did prove your parents wrong by picking up a passion and striving for the top of the world, your sex seemed to cut short of it, and nothing would ever satisfy them.

Despite that, you took Benny under your wing. He started as a quiet boy when your parents had introduced the two of you to each other. You were a little taller, more mature looking, and despite him being only a year younger than you, he looked like a four-year-old up against a six-year-old. But that shy persona washed away within a week of you two knowing each other.

'Something on your mind?' You ask as you slip across the keys, each note deep and rich.

Benny doesn't respond, and you have a feeling that he's scrunching his nose. He always does that when he lies or is anxious.

'Scrunching your nose isn't an answer, stupid,' you retort light-heartedly.

'Yeah,' Benny is quick to claim. 'Something's on my mind.' He doesn't elaborate, and you figure it's for the best. The two of you were never good at emotions.

No shadow passed your face when he responded with an agreement, but instead, you just continued playing. That's the only way you know how to express anything. If you were to ask him if he wanted to talk about it, he'd only shrug it off, no matter how much you would pry him.

But Benny let out a frustrated grumble, and he rashly swung towards you, so sharply that your fingers sprung from the keys as though they had burnt.

You stare at him as his face is still scrunched and creased. 'What is wrong with you. You're just sitting there and playing the piano, you music nerd. At least try to comfort me, you good-for-nothing-jerk - Shithead!'

Stunned blank, you stare at him, none of his words stinging or being like a slap in your face. Just a funny occurrence. It was always bantering between you two, and you're just glad that he can express his emotions like this.

Benny continues ranting to you, face tense with vigour. 'If you're going to be like that, it doesn't make any difference if you're here or not.' He almost whimpers.

A beat passes, and you can hear the clanging of the bartenders collecting glasses, clicking and shuffling. The world doesn't revolve around you two. You're merely the supporting side character beside a genius human, despite intelligence sewn in his blood, emotions and conflicts whirling inside him just like everyone else.

'Well...' You stare at him, watching as tears nearly gloss over his eyes, but you can't tell. 'Then I'll stay here.' You smile warmly. 'I'll be right here by your side.'

There's a strange moment when the two of you bore into each other's eyes. You stare at Benny elated, but concerned. But you knew more than to conflict him, so a calm persona veiled your features, not an ounce of shadows apart from the light of the silver moon passing the crevices of your face. And when you look at Benny, his eyes are like wet glass, eyebrows furrowed, and his lips are quivering. He's sniffling. You bet his head hurt based on how much he's attempting to hold back his tears.

You glance back down and pick up from where you left off, the keys holding every ounce of your heart and troubled soul in it. You knew Benny never liked it when people look at him when he cries, so you claim your place before he can go into a fit about how to "look away" from him. It happened when you had found him in the local playground tucked away from the rest of the world. And underneath that playset, he sobbed like the child he was over some business of a girl rejecting him.

You wonder what had happened that caused him to end up like this, especially before a fucking chess tournament. But what would you know that goes through that vast mind of his? While there is a genius, there is a human underneath that thicket of skills, passion, ego, and talent.

'Look at that, Benny,' you pause to acknowledge enthusiastically, glancing out the window and into the dark blue sky, illuminated with thousands of twinkling stars. 'The moon's out,' you say as you touch the keys tenderly. The chords are as intense as the deep black night outside. But the trail of those notes is as if the twinkling stars and the moon has a sound. It's a beautiful sound.

Benny furrows his brows, attempting to hold back tears. He's on the verge, and you knew it. Benny hated that you knew it. He hated how you had seen him at his worst, so there isn't any point to keep his calloused persona when around you. Still, there's that humanity in him, the overgrown roots of pride thorning him from being something as humiliating as being human.

'What the heck? What's that got to do with anything?' He sardonically says, more of a cryptic retaliation than a question.

You subtly beam, not poisoned by his sharp words, as you regard him a sincere glance. 'But, it's pretty,' you state, and you return to the comfort of the piano keys.

And beside you, you hear those pained tears beginning to seep through his eyes, probably slobbering through his face by now. People aren't watching. You knew this because by now, the foyer is mainly a voyeur, silver moonlight casting through the wide pained window. And the moonlight is unshifting, kind.

You don't know what is going through Benny's mind, and you don't think you ever will. Your dynamic is a meeting in the middle of two entirely different worlds. You've never been a part of his world made up of strategies and complexities. And he's never been part of yours built of pink stained wrists and monochrome notes and keys. But if you stay by his side, if your music can reach him, maybe he'll pick himself up. And that's all you can ever ask.

#benny watts #benny watts x reader #queens gambit #the queens gambit #fanfiction #the queen's gambit imagine #the your lie in april brainrot is being ruthless #clair de lune is such a beautiful piece of music #yes we are ignoring there is tension between these two while the bartenders just continue with their work help

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winchester90210 · 4 years

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The BH 90210 Rewrite. 1x15: Palm Springs (AKA A Fling in Palm Springs)

Rewrite Masterlist

Read the previous chapter here!

Chapter Summary: The gang heads to Palm Springs for President’s day weekend.

Warnings: swearing probably, lots of fluffy feelings, mentions of sex.

Words: 2,900

My work is not to be reposted and/or edited without my expressed written consent. (Reblogging is fine and encouraged!!!)

Feedback is incredibly appreciated!

A/N: Hope everyone enjoys this week’s episode! We are going to be skipping the next one but Laverne the gum-chomping waitress WILL make an appearance at some point in the series, so don’t worry. Next week the reader moves out with Brenda and deals with Class President election!

“You’re really gonna stay and work all weekend?” You launch yourself backwards onto the kitchen counter, the cold marble against your legs, “Kelly says anybody who’s anybody goes to Palm Springs.”

“You’re talking to Kelly again?” Your brother cocks an eyebrow at you as he cuts himself a brownie, stuffing half of it into his mouth.

“Well, no… Kelly told Brenda who told me— but what does it matter?” You steal the brownie pan from his other hand, and place it out of his reach, “Just because it’s from a secondary source doesn’t mean it’s not true. It’s a ritual. Like the geese flying south or something.”

“How do you expect to get there? It’s not like you have a car, or a bike, or can afford a plane ticket.” You stay silent for a moment, then give him a pleading, rosy smile. “Oh, no. No! You’re not taking Duke to Palm Springs.” Duke was Eric’s beloved cherry red ‘48 Ferrari. It was given to him on his eighteenth birthday, previously loved and adored by your father, and his father before that and blah blah blah.

“Please? I always take good care of it!” You beg, “I’ll even fill up the tank when I get back! What is it, a dollar per gallon?”

“Sorry. No way. You’ll have to ask Brenda,” he shrugs stubbornly, reaching around you and swiping the pan while you're preoccupied with the argument.

“I can’t! She’s riding with Kelly!”

“Then ask Brandon— look, this isn’t my problem, Y/N/N. Either find another ride or don’t go.”

“It has the original interior, the original grille work. It’s gorgeous,” Brandon enthuses, slipping his hand under your shirt and to your sides as you both lie in the backseat of Mondale, mid make-out session. Well, you were making out. Until he decided to stop it to talk about that car he wanted. Like guys often do. “and it’s only twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Twenty-five thousand? Brandon! No wonder your dad won’t buy you that thing. Dads are cheapskates, It’s just a fact of life.”

“Dylan‘s dad bought him a Porsche.”

“Babe, Dylan’s dad is facing a grand jury indictment,” you stifle a giggle as you pop a button off of his shirt.

“But my dad knows how hard I work,” Brandon grumbles, “And to top it all off, last night Nat told me that I can’t go to Palm Springs this weekend with you, and all of my friends because his sister is sick and now I have to work all weekend. But hey, you don’t hear me complaining, do ya?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“Hey there!” You’re greeted almost immediately by Brandon upon entering the Peach Pit, who’s over at the far end of the counter with a little blond boy. “What a nice surprise. I thought you’d be in packing mode for your trip… but knowing you, you packed early, didn’t you?”

“Always do,” you nod, taking the seat in front of him. You hand Brandon a modest wad of cash and kiss his cheek, making him smile. He mumbles a thanks as he stuffs it into his pocket and hands you a menu.

“Hey… do you ever get the feeling that the entire world is flying in first class, and you’re stuck with a folding chair in the baggage compartment?” He takes your hand in his, leaning over the counter.

“Never,” you deadpan. He studies your face, causing you to giggle into his shoulder.

“Liar!” He laughs genuinely, his eyes crinkling at the edges,“you total liar!” He straightens himself out, “This is Curtis.” He gestures to the adorable little boy beside you, “the hangout king of Beverly Hills.”

“It’s a free country, I can hang out if I want!” The little boy whines.

“Hey, hey, relax, sport. No one said you couldn’t… but does your mom know how much time you spend here?”

“She’s the one that brung me! I told her the food’s not that good," Curtis criticizes, mowing down a plate of greasy french fries.

“See what I have to put up with to make a buck?” Brandon teases, grabbing a plate of food from the kitchen and dashing off to deliver it to a table. Once he’s gone, Curtis turns his stool to you.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Oh! Well, uh… no. But he’s… not not my boyfriend,” you waffle. Curtis narrows his eyes, confused. “Look, it’s complicated, kid."

“You give him that friendship bracelet he’s wearing?”

“Yeah, actually… he told you about that?”

The kid dodges your question, chewing on the straw of his drink, “Why aren’t you wearing one?”

“It's a long story, Curtis. Certainly one you don't have time for, okay?"

"I got plenty of time."

You couldn’t ride with your brother, you couldn’t ride with Brandon, there’s no way in hell you’re riding with Steve… that left one option. Brenda, Kelly, and Donna.

“Donna,” Kelly giggles, “we’re not going to Europe. You don’t need three bags!”

“Kelly, I have to dress according to the guys we meet. I mean— high school guys, college guys, grad school guys, dropout guys— you cannot dress the same for all guys. No,” Donna shakes her head disapprovingly, like she just dropped a fashion truth-bomb on all three of you. To be honest, though, she kind of did.

“I guess she has a point,” you laugh, propping yourself up against a locker, “Bring everything.”

Then Steve saunters over, in his usual confusingly patterned button-down, an agitated look spread across his face. He nods down to the innumerable bags on the floor.

“What, are we going to France?” He scoffs, only taking a moment before continuing, “Will you guys come on? There’s gonna be a lot of traffic on the roads." Gee, wonder what’s making him so delightful this afternoon.

“Hey gang!” Oh no. David Silver? What was he doing here? “Are we going to have a blast or what? Huh?” We?

The rest of the group is just as lost as you are, exchanging silent looks of terror to the person next to them. Steve takes note of this and clears his throat.

“There’s been a uh, slight change in plans.”

“It’s weird, I mean I want to be with Dylan and everything, but part of me just wants to get it over with. Like I’m the last person that hasn’t done it yet." Brenda confides uneasily as you all stand against Kelly’s convertible, waiting as the tank fills up.

“Brenda… you are,” Kelly replies.

“No you’re not!" You assure her, "Look, Bren, you’re really gonna like it… I think." Ha. Like you know any more than she does. Donna nods in agreement.

“Yeah, totally… probably. Maybe? I—“

Kelly cuts Donna off, “Listen, who would you rather be with? Dylan McKay or David Silver?”

“Bren, Dylan’s a wonderful guy. You’re gonna have a great time! And you brought protection, so there’s nothing to be worried about!” You place a soothing hand on her arm.

“Right!” Brenda smiles, “I mean, I care about him, he cares about me, it’s gonna be great, right?”

“My grandparents collect anything they can get their hands on,” David guides the four of you, sans Brenda plus Steve, as you wander his grandparents' house. It’s definitely nice, definitely big… kinda smells like patchouli and sunscreen in the best way. “When I was younger I used to travel with them but my dad’s mad at them about something so I don’t see ‘em much anymore.”

“What’s he mad about?” Donna asks.

“Well, my grandparents like my mom and think it’s, y’know, bad he wants to divorce her... Come on,” he waves you all over to him as he escapes through the back door, “I saved the best for last.” You reluctantly follow behind him, your shoes clacking down the concrete steps and into the depths of his backyard. It was gorgeous— a huge pool, palm trees, brick-lined lounging areas. You could get used to this.

“Dude, we are definitely styling out here in this little desert oasis,” Steve grins, “David, I always knew you had potential.” No you didn’t.

“Thanks, Steve,” David begins to venture further back, “but you ain’t seen nothin’ yet! Look, if anyone gets in the mood, you climb up this little terrace here to this hidden nook and nobody will bother you.” You step up another flight of brick-lined concrete stairs and through a small patch of greenery, to be met with a cute little private hot tub… with people in it.

“David?” The old woman gasps, clutching her small champagne flute.

“Grandma?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” The senior man, presumably (and hopefully) his grandfather groans.

“It was an amaaaazing trip!” David’s grandmother raves, pouring pretzels into a glass bowl as the group is gathered around the kitchen island.

“It was indescribable,” his grandfather agrees excitedly, “we would dance every night under the stars.” He pulls Kelly from her stool, picking her up and spinning her around as if they were about to tango.

“Ooh! Can somebody pull the ice cream?” His grandma asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Donna smiles.

“Triple. Chocolate. Chip. I mean, If we’re gonna do it, we should do it right.” Steve chuckles politely at the woman, though he looks like he wants to put a gun to his head.

“Well, I’ve never seen so many old fogies on one boat in my whole life. I mean, a floating rest home is what it was!” His grandpa laughs heartily, getting ice cream bowls from the cupboard,

“Oh, Henry, that’s not so. But hey, one day we woke up on the boat and we both said ‘Let’s go home!’” Funny. That’s exactly what you were thinking. “I mean, we missed our little house in the desert.”

“We sure did,” Henry smiles happily, grabbing his wife’s jaw gently and planting a big smooch on her. “And lucky for us, we would have missed you if we didn’t cut our trip short!”

“Uh, well you guys must be really tired. Huh?” David chuckles awkwardly.

“Oh, we’re exhausted!” The woman nods, “but hey, who cares? I am so excited to see you! And to finally meet some of your friends! Hey! Why don’t we all stay up late, chow down on the snacks, and get to know each other?” Oh, joy.

“This way ladies,” David’s grandma guides the three of you upstairs, her hand on your shoulder. “You’re gonna go up these stairs, down the hall, first door on your right, and you are gonna love it.” You hop up the steps with Kelly and Donna, bags in hand.

“Did you guys hear her?” Kelly starts, opening the door to the room and throwing her bags on an empty bed. Hey, she acknowledged you. That’s a start. “She said she was gonna invite all the cute guys from the neighborhood over to the pool tomorrow!”

“Steve is not gonna like that,” Donna

“Oh, who cares?” Kelly snickers, “I wonder how Brenda’s doing.”

“‘Oh! Dylan, what beautiful eyes you have!’” You joke, throwing your hand to your forehead and bowing backwards.

“‘Oh, Brenda, you are so exquisite!’” Donna joins in, giggling.

“Barf.”

You splash your feet in the Silver's pool, crowds of people surrounding it. Overwhelmed by the vast amount of new people, you're off by yourself, kicking the water around, staring at your feet.

"You know, there's room on this raft for two." You look up to Steve, lying back on a giant inflatable alligator. Ugh, if only it was a real one.

"Why don't you ask your new girlfriends?" You point behind you to the two girls, who you could only think to describe as biker babes, lounging together. Porcelain white skin, spiked black bikinis, way more makeup than you need for a pool party. "They look pretty interested."

"Can you imagine what it would be like if you were interested? You know, me instead of Brandon?" You feign a gag, shaking your head.

"I don't really want to, Steve," you cringe dramatically as he chuckles, "but thanks for getting that thought haunting my dreams forever. Really appreciate it."

"Remember—" He wags his pointer finger at your face, eyes narrowing lightheartedly, "I saw you first." He puts his foot flat against the concrete wall of the pool, kicking off, but as soon as he's far enough— he guffaws. Of course he laughs at his own jokes.

"Dylan, hi!" You practically leap over to him in the foyer, your damp feet leaving faint footprints on the cold floor. "So?"

He shakes his head, brows furrowed ever so slightly, "So?"

"How'd it go?" You raise your eyebrows excitedly.

"How'd what go?"

"With Brenda!" He groans at that.

"Don't ask."

"Well, it's too late, I already did."

"What's with you girls?" Oh, this should be good. "You see a guy with another girl and you immediately think they're sleeping with her?! What is that?! I mean, every time a female customer goes into the Pit-- do you lose it at Brandon?"

"Can't say I do. They usually want him. But thankfully it's not the other way around… look, if this is about the other Walsh-- and McKay, it better be, or else I have questions-- just talk to her about it. Have an adult conversation."

"Easy for you to say, you're dating the king of good family values. The kid's a Hartley House episode."

You open the fridge in the kitchen, helping David’s grandparents scoop out ice cream. You fidget with the scoop in your hands before setting it down. After a devastating loss of Charades, you had to comfort your friends with ice cream. It was the only option, really.

“How do you guys do it?” They both look up from the bowls to stare at you. “The whole long-term relationship thing,” you clarify. “It’s just so… scary.”

“You’re right,” Henry nods, “It’s very scary. Trusting someone, with your heart, your intimate feelings. I mean, before we got married, Adele broke up with me seven different times. Running for the hills was our solution to every problem. Giving yourself to that person— trusting that they’re going to cherish you, to value you and every intimate part of yourself— that is the hardest thing.”

Adele jumps in, “And you have to accept each other for who you are. For every flaw and every perfection, you have to let the other person be who they are. But when you do find the person you can really be yourself with, who you can have fun with, and fully trust… it is the greatest feeling in the world.” She takes the scoop from in front of you and begins scooping. “Who is he? It’s not David, is it?”

You giggle, “No. No, it’s not David. His name’s Brandon, he’s—“ you can’t stop a grin from slowly breaking out on your face, “He’s great. He’s kind, and considerate, and totally crazy about me... but it’s still scary, y’know? My last relationship didn’t exactly end on great terms. And if I barely even liked the other guy but I was still totally obliterated by it ending… I can’t imagine how I’d feel with Brandon. I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life. I guess you can imagine how much of a major scare that is, huh?”

“Seven break-ups, sweetheart. I can imagine.”

"He even set up a meal plan for the kid! I can show you the security cameras if you want to see them," Nat indulges. You never thought you’d say this, but you were thrilled to be back in Beverly Hills. You missed your own bed, the Peach Pit… the cute waiter at the Peach Pit. And you’re thrilled to be eating something that isn’t ice cream.

"Oh, don't you dare! I cannot handle any more of that guy being good with kids or else he's gonna get me to procreate with him-- and nobody wants a bunch of little Walshes running around here," you snort, stirring your water mindlessly with the straw. Nat shrugs as he picks up an order.

“I could use the extra help!” As per usual, he booms out in laughter, walking away with the plate of food.

“What’s he so happy about?” You twist your head to the kitchen and you’re faced with your overtly-paternal and charitable lover.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just you fathering a sweet little homeless boy for the weekend,” you have to halt yourself from fawning over him. He’s probably the only teenage boy that would tolerate a little kid, let alone help them out like he did.

“He told you about that?”

“You mean how you not only befriended the little boy, but fed him for free, and made sure that his whole family would stay fed until they got back on their feet? Yeah, he might’ve. I mean I laughed, I cried— it was the feel-good story of the year, B.” He smiles at his feet as he ties his apron around his waist.

“I really missed you this weekend, Y/N/N.”

“Well, I’m here to stay now,” you smile as he kisses the top of your head.

“I’m a real lucky guy, you know that?”

“That’s funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

Taglist: @be-patient-be-good @mpmarypoppins @bevelyhills90210 @blueoz @harleylilo88 @princess-ghost-alien @hueycat2004 @l4life @keepcalm-and-beyou @palefiregiver @bitch-imma-head-out

#beverly hills 90210 #90210 #bh90210 #bh 90210 #rewrite #brandon walsh x reader #brandon walsh #brenda walsh #shannen doherty #luke perry #dylan mckay #beverly hills 90210 imagine #beverly hills 90210 x reader #brandon walsh imagine #kelly taylor #david silver #donna martin #jason priestley

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theeurekaproject · 4 years

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Fratres in Armis

“You’re late.” “I know.” T sunk back into the crowd, trying to blend in with the rest of his cohort. He wished mess dress allowed for the use of helmets; he stuck out like a sore thumb when the TB-class soldiers faces were uncovered. He didn’t need to receive any more comments about how strange it was that he resembled the Imperatrix so closely, almost as if he was her brother. The people who pointed and gossiped were mostly conspiracy theorists whose obsession with uncovering the secrets of the Imperials bordered on insanity, but T had no intention of making anyone aware that the observations they’d dismissed as fringe lunatic nonsense were more accurate than anyone thought.

“Did you at least—“ “Yes, I gave her the chip.” T fidgeted uncomfortably, trying to shield his face from the onlookers. “We should stop talking about this.”

“Then what do you want to talk about?” Ace asked, clearly bored.

“How about how incredible it is that our glorious Imperatrix has taken her rightful place on the throne of Eleutheria?” T replied loudly, making sure he was in earshot of their centurion.

“Yes, let us bask in her glorious presence.” Ace rolled his eyes, though based on the way he was looking at Acidalia, he didn’t mind “basking in her presence” as much as he claimed he did.

The men around them whispered amongst themselves. It was technically a breach of decorum, but nobody seemed to mind—the noise of the cornicenes was loud enough to drone out any errant rumors. Still, T could hear scattered fragments of conversations, words like bastard and Martian and filia nullius. Momentarily, he wished he could inform them who they were speaking to. They’d shape up real quick if they knew the man in front of them was the son of Alestra Cipher.

But to reveal his heritage would be foolish, and it would only fuel the rumor mill to give hints and implications, so T didn’t bother to try to stop the conversation. He’d long since made his peace with the fact that high society would never see his sister as legitimate, and Acidalia most likely had, too. When the revolution came, these haughty scandalmongers would be outnumbered by the people they oppressed, and T would have his justice then.

Until that moment came, though, he would sit and let the nonbelievers complain.

Acidalia was making a speech again, another meaningless sermon about how very thankful she was for the mother who’d never been anything but violently abusive for the entirety of her life. Alestra stood next to her, a mocking caricature of a proud parent. To the untrained eye, she appeared harmless and maternal, but T didn’t need his enhanced vision to see that her eyes were anything but loving. Behind them was Aleskynn, bored and annoyed, twiddling her thumbs in between posing extravagantly for the cameras. Later her picture would be on the newsreels and splattered all over the Internet; she knew that the media favored photos of her over photos of Acidalia.

Aleskynn was a classic Eleutherian beauty, and once she grew up, men would be bending over backwards for her favor. If marriage as a concept still existed on Terra, she’d probably have a thousand proposals from soldiers each more wealthy and powerful than the last. She was only 13, but that didn’t deter anyone. T had nearly killed a man behind a bar in Appalachia for saying something that involved Aleskynn’s name and the age of consent; T had never met his little half-sister, but it didn’t take much for the big-brother instinct to kick in. Everyone else had dismissed it as an act of drunken violence, and he’d gotten off with a slap on the wrist, which was no doubt because he was a TB-class immune and the other man was an O9-class miles. Pulling rank almost always felt wrong, but that time, it was far more gratifying than T would have liked to admit.

T worried about Aleskynn sometimes, though Acidalia assured him that she’d be fine. She was no doubt the favorite daughter; her birth was what convinced Alestra to repeal the one-child law she’d passed in a fit of rage one night when some advisor had implored her to do something, anything, about Eleutheria’s dying environment. It took quite a lot to make Alestra change her mind, especially when it didn’t benefit her in the least. She didn’t have to listen to her own rules—it was generally understood that noblewomen, especially the Imperatrices, were excluded from nearly all legislation they passed. So going through the process of rewriting the law so that mothers could have multiple daughters was uncharacteristic. Alestra was extremely attached to Aleskynn—so much so that they practically shared a name—and perhaps that attachment had finally let her see the joy she was preventing other mothers from experiencing. (It was attachment, not love—T was convinced that Alestra was not at all capable of love.) He still remembered the night when Principissa Aleskynn was born, though he was only four years old at the time. They’d all watched the announcement, clustered around the screen in their home base. Alestra lifted her up like something out of Leo Regem, and the crowds below cheered, like the birth of a princess affected them in any sort of positive way. Maybe they just liked cute children with dazzlingly pale skin and golden-yellow hair. So they cheered for their new Principissa, and Alestra made a lovely speech about how sometimes when things go bad, you just have to start again anew. T was eight when he realized that it was nothing but a thinly-veiled way to make fun of Acidalia in front of the entire nation, and eleven when he realized that not only was she effectively disowning Acidalia, she was disowning him, too (if it even counted as “disowning” when she never acknowledged his existence in the first place.) His blood had boiled, then, and it continued to boil now, red-hot anger coursing through his veins as he watched the rest of the crowd stare rapturously at Alestra like she was God Himself.

But even Aleskynn being the favorite child didn’t save her from anything. Celestia was reportedly Alestra’s favorite sister, and that didn’t help her make it past the age of 7. It would only take one small thing, one little slip up, for Aleskynn to feel her mother’s wrath. And even if by some miracle she managed to avoid the brunt of Alestra’s insanity, she was still growing up in a horrific, cutthroat environment where innocent people were mercilessly slaughtered for crimes they didn’t commit on a regular basis. That was no place for a child to be.

Not that T had had a particularly wonderful childhood himself. At least they didn’t put underage immunes into combat; lower-ranking men had it even worse.

He used to wish he’d been born with an X chromosome; then Alestra would have no choice but to acknowledge him, and he’d be second-in-line. Perhaps then he’d actually know Aleskynn, and perhaps he and Acidalia would have been able to spend their childhoods together. But then he’d have the responsibilities of leading a planet, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever handle politics as seamlessly and perfectly as Acidalia did. Legitimate or not, she was practically made for the job, though T thought she could use a little more self-preservation.

Eventually Alestra’s voice stopped, and the crowd cheered again, mostly. The few servants scattered throughout the flock just looked at one another. T didn’t blame them; they had no reason to like Alestra, or anyone else in the upper class, for that matter. Then Acidalia started talking, and it was just another version of their mother’s meaningless, droning, scripted speech. She spoke like she was filled with emotion, but when T looked at her face, it was blank, empty. He started to doze off again, lost in his own mind, then suddenly something jerked him back to the present.

“You okay?” Ace asked under his breath.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” T shook his head. But there was something bothering him, some gut feeling that told him there was a problem. He scanned the men around him quickly—other than Ace, he didn’t trust any of them very much. Still, none of them seemed to be saying or doing anything incriminating. The man on his left stared at Acidalia mindlessly, no doubt ignoring her speech like T had been, and most of the others seemed wrapped up in a whispered conversation about bets they placed on the outcome of this year’s Winter Olympics. They all seemed relatively innocent. So what, then…?

Then he caught it. A woman stood a ways behind Acidalia, finger on the trigger of a very well-concealed laser pistol. His heart raced for a second and he tried to convince himself that he was being paranoid, that someone else would have noticed such a blatant assassination attempt, then he remembered that nobody else would have noticed at all. High-ranking supersoldiers, or at least the young men who would one day become supersoldiers, were the only people with accurate enough vision to see the woman from here, and T was the only supersoldier who was paying attention to Acidalia whatsoever.

Silently, he elbowed Ace, who looked at him curiously. He nodded towards the podium and Ace’s bright brown eyes suddenly displayed a look of recognition, and—

And then a million things happened in about one Planck second.

T tackled the woman to the ground without a second thought. She shrieked and set off the gun, though thankfully not in his direction—the laser went flying through the crowd, scattering Aleskynn and her ladies-in-waiting, who ducked for cover under chairs and behind their mothers. Behind him, Ace had Acidalia pinned to the ground, and luckily she had the sense not to move. T heard only her panicked “Quid—?” before she too realized the events that were unfolding, and she pulled herself out from Ace’s grip, darting off into the crowd and leaving Ace clutching at the remnants of her torn organza skirt.

T’s momentary distraction allowed the woman to wrestle out of his arms and fire another shot, which he easily dodged; she was clearly untrained, and he wondered if she’d ever even used a gun before. The laser ricocheted off the ceiling and hit someone in the audience, sending an emergency services crew that appeared out of nowhere sprinting to attend to her. Desperate, T hit the woman across the face, and blood flew across her white ballgown, leaving thick, scarlet-red stains. She fell back, dazed, nose bleeding, and T grabbed the gun out of her hand and kicked her to the side. He looked at the Imperial Guard, who stood behind Alestra dutifully, but they didn’t even seem to notice him. Of course they wouldn’t—half of them were probably in on the plan.

God damn it, Acidalia, he thought, what did I tell you? He spared a glance at the bleeding woman he’d just knocked to the floor. Though she was covering most of her face with her gloved hands, he recognized her immediately as Cassiopeia, last of house Generalis, one of Alestra’s favorite followers. Then he had the abrupt revelation that to anyone in the audience, this would look very, very bad. He and Ace had just tackled the Imperatrix to the ground while shots flew in indiscernible directions—to the innocent members of the court, they probably looked like assassins, and to the Nova conspirators, they were criminals for stopping their plans from coming to fruition.

He spared a second to look for Acidalia, who was easy to spot in a crowd of pale blondes. Her curtain of black hair wavered behind her like a flag—or a target. Then he jumped off the podium and made a beeline for her, taking advantage of the chaos surrounding him and the fact that nearly every other man here was dressed in the same uniform he wore. Ace followed, vanishing into the crowd of identical soldiers and leaving a trail of organza and satin fabric behind.

Acidalia sat near the entrance with her gun drawn, looking like a complete wreck. Her dress were coming apart at the seams where Ace had torn it, exposing at least half a dozen petticoats and a very uncomfortable-looking cage crinoline. One sleeve had fallen from its place on her shoulder, revealing a bright purple bruise, and her entire bodice was drenched in Cassiopeia’s blood.

“I never knew House Generalis had such a grudge against me,” she mentioned casually, like everything that had just preceded the conversation was completely normal.

“For Christ’s sake, Acidalia, what are you doing?” T groaned. “Get the hell out of here. I can handle it.” “I don’t need you being in any more danger than you already are. I can handle myself.”

“No one woman can ‘handle herself’ in a room where everyone else wants to kill her, Dalia.” “Neither can one boy.” “They aren’t specifically targeting me!” T yelled, exasperated. One of the girls, a gray-eyed Scientia who didn’t exactly look like she belonged here, stared at him in fear. “Look at these people,” he hissed at Acidalia. “Cassiopeia almost killed you, and the two noblewomen beside her most definitely saw, but they didn’t do shit. That means they were almost certainly in on it. Our mother’s a complete sociopath—she wants you dead more than anyone else—and even if there is a single other sympathetic soul in this room, they’re probably too afraid of her to do anything. I’m also reasonably sure that at least one of Aleskynn’s friends is a spy. Face it—this is not a good location for you right now.”

Acidalia looked at the crowd hesitantly, then lowered her gun. “You’re right,” she admitted, “and I hate it. This place is going to become a bloodbath in a few minutes, and it’ll all be over me. I do hate leaving wars I started.”

“Stop taking responsibility for things you weren’t involved in. You didn’t make any of these assholes join the Nova.” She looked at him, her eyes forlorn. T knew what she was silently saying—maybe she hadn’t intentionally started any wars, but her birth and subsequent ascension was the catalyst for years of tension coming to a head. But she couldn’t control where she was born any more than a common Cantator—the Ciphers liked to pretend they were hand-picked by some vague immortal god to rule over the Empire, but that was all a sort of pseudotheology limited to propaganda, and Acidalia knew that better than anyone else ever could. She had no reason to feel guilty.

“Dalia,” T said again, “go. I know you want to stay here and protect me, but you’re in so much more danger than I am right now. Please, just leave.”

Acidalia bit her lip, but she lowered her gun. “If I listen to you and run right now,” she said, “you need to promise two things to me.”

“Anything,” T said. “Cross my heart.” “One: tell Artemis I’m alive at some point. She doesn’t deserve to spend the next few days panicking about me; she has her own issues, and we certainly don’t need anyone else in the court picking up on the fact that she seems inordinately concerned about the bastard Imperatrix they’ve all decided to kill,” Acidalia said. “Not that they don’t have enough evidence against her already, but, well… I’d rather have them be suspicious than certain. Understood?” T nodded. “Makes perfect sense to me, though I might have a difficult time convincing Ace. He and Artemis don’t exactly love each other.” “Ace’s petty squabbles with his superior officers are irrelevant. Please promise me you’ll at least tell her.”

“I will. I swear.” That was easy enough—barely even a mission. “And number two?” “When I leave, you leave too,” Acidalia said firmly. “No staying behind to investigate new assassination plots or interrogate potential spies or do anything else you weren’t explicitly assigned. I am not letting you put yourself in more unnecessary danger.”

His heart sunk. “But—“ “Listen to me. You are seventeen. You have so much life left to live, and if you stick around here for any longer, you drastically increase your chances of being captured or killed. I never thought I’d tell you this, but please, for all that is holy, find Ace and proceed to your assignment in the Underground. You’ll be much safer down there.” T almost voiced a protest, but Acidalia’s expression said clearly that she was not in the mood to argue. She was scarily good at forcing others to bend to her will, and, like the rest of the planet, T was prone to forgetting all thoughts of resistance the minute he looked at her face. She was so domineering, every bit the empress she was born to be, and even though he knew, logically, that she would never so much as lay a finger on him, it felt unwise to even try to oppose her.

“Okay,” he said finally, hoping he wouldn’t regret it later. “I promise. Now run, please.” Behind them, he could already hear more shots firing—laser guns were quiet, but not silent, and if he listened closely, his enhanced hearing could just barely pick up on the whoosh of laser bolts over the sounds of screaming.

“It does sound like the calvary has arrived.” Acidalia spared a glance over T’s head. “I love you. Don’t do anything stupid.” “You know me.” T smiled reassuringly. “Now go.”

She looked over at him one last time, as if to ensure that he was still standing there, then tore off down the hallway, leaving a trail of fabric and diamond dust. Even after all these years, it still shocked T somewhat to see how careless she was with money. Lab-grown or not, diamonds were expensive, and the amount of precious stones that had been on her ruined dress could probably have fed a family for months.

Not that he really blamed Acidalia for being clueless about value and worth. Alestra hadn’t exactly given her the world’s best education regarding economics.

He stood there for a few seconds, making sure she’d actually left. She was almost always truthful with him, but there had been isolated incidents where she’d lied for his protection, and, uncommon though they were, they’d taught him to never really trust anything she said about her own safety. Acidalia wasn’t dumb, but she was dangerously selfless, especially when it came to her loved ones. T had seen older boys with that same magnanimous altruism. They usually didn’t make it past twenty.

Ace caught up to him just as he finished sweeping the hallways, which were, evidently, clear of Acidalia (though he wouldn’t put it past her to be sitting someplace up in the rafters acting like a royal sniper.) At some point, the torn pieces of her skirt had come apart, and they stuck to Ace with static cling. Strips of fraying lace dangled from his uniform, catching on pins and wrapping around badges, leaving behind tiny white threads that made him look like he’d been caught in one of Eleutheria’s famously rare snowstorms.

“You look like you have dandruff,” T said flatly, reading up to brush some of the white debris off of Ace’s shoulder.

“You look like you have heatstroke,” he retorted, his voice equally as deadpan. “Where’s your sister?”

“Gone.”

Ace frowned. “I was hoping to meet her.” “Not a good time for her to schedule an audience. And don’t call her my sister, you don’t know who’s listening.”

Ace rolled his eyes. “Like anyone here will put the pieces together.” “Alestra would. We look very alike.” T and Acidalia could easily be recognized as siblings if they were stood side by side; they both had Alestra’s slender face and high cheekbones, coupled with their father’s deep brown eyes, brown skin, and pitch-black hair. The combination of “noble Eleutherian” and “penniless Martian” was not common, and it wouldn’t take a genius to see that they were more than strangers. Alestra had given birth to T, even if she’d have liked to forget it, and she was no idiot—she’d be quick to realize their relationship. T didn’t know the ramifications that would have, but considering his mother’s dislike of Acidalia, he had a feeling that it wouldn’t end well.

“We still can’t risk it,” he said, not wanting to argue with Ace any longer. “We need to get out of here. We have to go to the Underground at some point, anyway, and it’s too dangerous to stick around much longer.” The fighting behind them had mostly stopped, but it would probably not look very good if a Magistratus rounded the corner to see Acidalia missing and Ace clutching at the remnants of her torn clothes.

“Ironic, isn’t it? Who’d have thought that the Underground is safer than nice, pretty uptown Appalachia.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be in a place where nobody has any idea who you are.” T glanced one last time at the crowd of diplomats and the police trying to keep them in line before pulling Ace down another hallway. He knew this place like the back of his hand—he and Acidalia had spent their adolescent years hiding from Alestra in these stark white corridors. It wasn’t unusual for soldiers to be seen around the palace, especially high-ranking immunes like Ace and himself, but they’d always been cautious, just in case. The stakes were too high for them to let their masks slip. The planet had never been closer to a civil war, and T didn’t want to be the harbinger of a new era of violence—that was, if it wasn’t already written in his DNA.

#eurekaproject #on the edge of eureka #chapters #POV T #T #Acidalia #Ace (Character)#Cassiopeia

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Hey - Pat from StarterStory.com here with another interview.Today's interview is with Nick Griffiths of Any Old Lights, a brand that sells vintage lightingSome stats:Product: Vintage LightingRevenue/mo: $35,000Started: May 2014Location: Fowey, Cornwall, UKFounders: 2Employees: 3Hello! Who are you and what business did you start?I’m Nick Griffiths. For 25 years I was a freelance journalist in London; now I run Any Old Lights, selling vintage nautical and industrial lighting, online and from a shop by the sea in Cornwall, UK. You never quite know where life will take you!We’re always on the hunt for quality lighting that’s a little different from the norm. Much of the good stuff is up to 70 years old and supplies are inevitably going to dry up. So we also created our own Revivals brand of lighting. When a light looks like it’s disappearing from circulation, we create our own version, with little twists.Noticeably cheaper than the originals, these Revivals lights are very popular with both domestic and commercial customers on a budget. We also sell higher-end products like our very own Lighthouse, which I dreamed up one evening during a walk along the cliffs near our home.Given Any Old Lights’ strong nautical theme, I couldn’t resist delving into the maritime antiques and curios market - packed with salted history and stunning designs - so we also source and sell anything from vintage ships’ bells to brass engine-order telegraphs. Our vintage ships’ clocks are incredibly popular, especially with American customers.Any Old Lights has won awards along the way and keeps growing in popularity, selling worldwide to anyone from high-street giants and celebrity bars to Middle Eastern hotel groups, turning over last year £250,000.What's your backstory and how did you come up with the idea?I must have written millions of words in my lifetime - for magazines, newspapers and my books - and I loved every minute of it. But kids come along and maybe the city life isn’t ideal for them growing up.So in Summer 2011, my family moved to Cornwall, a delightful and quirky county that takes up the final chunk bottom-left of the map of England, where my wife, Sinead, had grown up. Now the kids have beaches and boats and crabbing. And I had…...To reboot my entire career.I took a course in WordPress web design and started building websites. One was for a fledgling online vintage lighting business, set up by my friend, Patrick. I came up with the name, built the site, and within weeks we had orders coming in. Including one to Hong Kong! We were gobsmacked.Patrick asked if I wanted to become a joint director, and in the absence of any better ideas, I said Yes. I knew nothing about lighting (though I have a degree in Electrical Engineering, I could barely wire a plug), less so vintage lighting. I remember when we opened a pop-up shop during our first winter in business, people coming in, discussing vintage lighting brands, and me nodding sagely (blankly), thinking: I’m going to need to learn a lot of stuff.And I did. That’s the beauty of starting a business - you have to cram knowledge into your aching grey matter, day in, day out. And it’s really exciting. So new and different and initially bewildering. But cracking it is a major buzz.Patrick left Any Old Lights early in 2016 and I gained a new co-director: my wife!These days, I am actually an expert in vintage lighting - a veritable mine of information! Who’d have thought it? Certainly not me.Take us through the process of designing, prototyping, and manufacturing your first product.Aside from our Revivals versions of vintage lights, cast in metals, we’ve also been looking to the future. And that future has to involve acrylics (recyclable) and LED.That future is RetroFutures, by Any Old Lights.These are laser-cut acrylic lights with integrated LED COB (chip-on-board) rings, running off 12V so incredibly economical to run and eco-friendly. Our very first pattern - we call it Cage - was based on the design of a vintage Lemar nautical wall light (from which we’d already removed the wall-arm and added a hook to create a Revivals pendant light).You can see the two side-by-side here.Our Cage has been through numerous iterations during its year in development. Originally it had a hook, same as the original, and a light bulb, and screws holding it together - all gone. Our designer is a local colleague, and we have a profit-share agreement once we start selling, otherwise, the collective expense would have been beyond us.I’ve had custom parts created, having chanced upon an excellent, trustworthy supplier of electronics in China. (That was a major concern - it seems such a lottery given so many options, and I got lucky.) But we’re keen to create the light itself in the UK, and I’ve been getting quotes for acrylic supplies, laser-cutting, assembly and packaging, such that we’re geared for the RetroFutures launch in January 2018.For market research, we took a bunch of prototypes to a major London hospitality industry show in October, on the advice of a mentor, where we listened to experts and were deeply heartened by the positive response. Annoyingly, the timing was all wrong for us as we weren’t ready to supply, so bar gaining contacts we wasted our money.That poor advice aside, we’ve taken advantage of plenty of free mentoring by local business organisations - funded by the European Union and devastatingly already disappearing thanks to the lunatic Brexit vote - who’ve advised on all aspects of our task, from design protection to wholesale pricing.Putting this project together has cost us thousands - we’ll crowdfund our first 100 RF lights to help recoup - stressed me out more than ever before, and we’ve no idea whether it will fly. But I’d far rather try new things than coast along. Watch this space.Describe the process of launching the business.We launched online back in May 2014 - seems like a lifetime ago - with a few vintage ships’ lights sourced from a UK supplier. There was no fanfare.When I went into partnership with Patrick, we put in £9,000 each of our own money, and have never taken out a loan or overdraft since. I feel if you get to that stage, you’re in the wrong business. The banks have zero interest in actually helping small businesses - likewise this government.Come winter 2014 we were offered a pop-up shop in a local coffee shop that closed for the down season. We took it. Who wouldn’t? And it went really well: we sold things and got to meet our customers. It made us realise we needed a retail space.So we moved into a shop-share in a 13th century ground-floor space, where the ceilings were so low I moved like Quasimodo. (One time I was serving a customer and hadn’t realised I’d stood up directly beneath a light shade, which I was effectively wearing as a hat. Oh, the japes.)Come February 2018, we moved again, into a former boutique with tired decor. I ripped off the boarding and found 1920s tiling throughout the shop, which turned out to be a former butchers. Same outside, having scraped off layers of paint. It really fits our vibe and we’ve increased takings year-on-year by some 25 per cent.Going back to the beginnings, then: the key to early success is working hard and learning fast. We made mistakes aplenty and always vowed never to repeat them. Sometimes we succeeded!And be prepared to go with your gut and take risks. Where’s the fun (actual genuine terror) otherwise?Since launch, what has worked to attract and retain customers?Key to our success has been good SEO. I read everything I could about the subject - too often finding conflicting advice - and dived in.Our website uses WordPress with WooCommerce, and the Yoast SEO plugin is a must. I also lashed out around £2000 to hire an SEO specialist; that was a couple of years ago and everything they instigated already seems to be out of date.So I’ve just completed another, current SEO course, which tiresomely calls for a complete site rewrite - can’t be helped. The dividends will be reaped.It’s all about diving into Google: Google My Business, Google Tag Manager, Google Search Console, Google Keyword Planner - all four are imperatives. (He set them up for me, or I’d still be gibbering in a corner, imagining little green men flying overhead.)Did you know that there’s no such thing as “top of Google” any longer? Everyone - including me and you, when we check - sees slightly different ranking dependent upon our search history, location, etc (don’t ask me what the etc is). The only true check of keyword ranking is Google Search Console.So I take my obvious keywords - Vintage Nautical Lighting, Vintage Bulkhead Light… - and run them through Keyword Planner, to find which is the most popular similar term, as well as checking alternatives I can pepper around my text. A blog is a great way of sneaking keywords in on a regular basis. No one reads the things, so be bold. Just don’t cram keywords - it has to read naturally or Google will penalise you.I’ve spent nothing on Facebook ads and precious little on Google Ads, which I’ve always found impenetrable (and Google’s documentation, still more so). However, the recent SEO course tutor suggested it’s very hard for a small business to survive on organic traffic alone - heartening that we have done - so I’m lashing out more on hiring a specialist to help me negotiate the Google Ads maze. So much cash can be wasted on ill-conceived online advertising, the expert hire is a no-brainer, unless you have the time and knowledge to learn yourself.Unfortunately, my demographic missed out on internet teaching at school, so the jargon is pure Greek to me.Obviously, we also maintain Facebook (750 followers), Twitter (1825 followers) and more recently started focussing on Instagram (735 followers), alongside LinkedIn and email lists. Social media is both a blessing and a curse - don’t spread yourself too thinly.Remember Google+? Thought not. In desperation to keep up with the Googleses, I spent hours setting up an account and populating it - only to get one follower (the only other person on Google+). I set up Pinterest, too, and allowed it to lay fallow.Pick your weapons and focus on those: we’re keenest on Facebook and Instagram. But still there are only so many hours in the day and there are few of us.Plus it’s bloody boring. Don’t beat yourself up.We use ActiveCampaign, which has way more flexibility than MailChimp, though it’s paid for. We’d built up decent databases of well over 2000 subscribers, which GDPR helpfully massacred in one afternoon. So we build again.I tried eBay selling, but it’s not right for our quality products - there are too many cheap, inferior imitators - and I’ve looked into Amazon but again worry it’s not a great match, for the same reason. Best sales alternative to the website for us has been Etsy, which suits our quality vintage vibe.How are you doing today and what does the future look like?The fact that we’ve barely used online advertising and its remarketing capabilities, but are now gearing up to do so, surely bodes well, as it can only boost sales.We turned over £250,000 last year, with net gains rising from a £7K loss in our first year of trading to £20K profit last financial year. Over the year the split is roughly 50:50 online vs shop, with the shop doing best in the summer when the tourists are here, and vice versa in the winter when they aren’t.Overheads are a concern in this business, which requires a large warehouse space, as well as our bricks-and-mortar shop and its staff. Launching RetroFutures, coupled with online advertising and the building of our brands, we plan to take us to the next level.Through starting the business, have you learned anything particularly helpful or advantageous?This vintage lighting business is a very traditional business, with heavy physical products that need shipping great distances, as well as the warehousing. It’s been a steep learning curve fraught with overheads and naive errors.Finding trusted suppliers and a decent shipping agent has been key to our success. We’ve been burnt in the past - those madly heavy portholes were supposed to have been stripped and polished, my friend - so we dump the deadwood and keep the gold dust. That’s often trial and error, so we make small sample orders from new suppliers and build slowly.Maintaining stock numbers is a constant quandary. If we have an unexpected run on one pattern, we’re looking six weeks minimum for a restock - production and shipping - and equally, we don’t want unsold stockpiling up in the warehouse.I’d rather go Out of Stock, as customers are often happy with an alternative, though there’s a happy medium. It’s all about identifying your popular items and ordering big, and trimming off the less popular patterns. Identify and maintain the core.What platform/tools do you use for your business?Our website runs on WordPress and WooCommerce, and we also sell online via Etsy. WooCommerce plugins such as WooWaitlist (notifying a customer when you’re back in stock) and Recover Abandoned Cart have been very useful. There are plenty more if you do a little Googling around your specific requirements.ActiveCampaign, I’ve mentioned - you can use it to set up email automation, as well as creating the usual lists and campaigns. Worth a look.And I’ve just started experimenting with the free live chat app, tawk.to, on our website. It’s a little complicated to get your head around, but the support is good and I’m up and running now.We’re a small team, so I worried about replying in time, but it’s working out OK. I’ve definitely made sales that would otherwise have disappeared on the back of it, and customers go away with a positive experience even if we can’t help.What have been the most influential books, podcasts, or other resources?I Google everything. If I’ve a website issue - cut and paste the error message directly into Google.Whatever it is, Google it. Someone, somewhere, will have the answer for you (for free).Advice for other entrepreneurs who want to get started or are just starting out?Learn fast. Find good staff to support you. Ask for help from anyone who knows better than you - don’t be embarrassed.Research local organisations that advise small businesses and use them. Don’t expect miracles; appreciate the small victories. Build slowly. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes - just avoid repeating them.Focus your resources on core areas that you can see are making a difference. Be resilient. And pat yourself on the back every now and again!Where can we go to learn more?Website: https://anyoldlights.co.ukBlog: https://anyoldlights.co.uk/any-old-lights-blogLiked this text interview? Check out the full interview with photos.

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