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ohblackdiamond · 3 years

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little t&a deleted scene (julia)

i mentioned this and a couple other scenes from “little t&a” in an earlier post-- i’ve cleaned up and added to the bare bones of this. it’s really just an alternate take on the paul portion of chapter 25, where julia calls prior to or maybe instead of ace. thanks for the encouragement re: posting these, i appreciate it!

The phone rang before he could decide what else to do, whether to wait on Gene or eat something or waste awhile in front of the T.V. It startled him a little. Ever since Gene had come, he’d rarely been in the house enough to hear it ring. Another cushion from reality.

He ignored it. It kept ringing. Six times. Seven. Eventually, the answering machine tape started up, and he heard his own, actual voice, another piece of bewilderment.

“Hey, this is Paul Stanley. If you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Thanks.”

“Stan?”

He froze.

“Stan, this is Julia. Mom gave me your number--”

He picked up the phone before he could think to stop himself, throat suddenly desert-dry.

“Julia.”

“Who’s this?” The question was abrupt and immediate. Irritated. Julia was always far quicker to irritate than he was. The agitation still sent slight pinpricks of fear driving into his skin. Paul swallowed hard. He hadn’t even thought about it. God, he hadn’t even thought about what it’d be to talk to his sister the way he was now.

“I-it…” and, stupidly, he started to cough, trying to buy himself a second or two more on the line, desperately trying to drop his voice down at least a little, for all the good that would do. A week and a half ago, he would’ve hung up. He would have rather gone another three years without speaking to her. Now, something was tugging at him, awful and aching and desperate. “Julia, it’s-- it’s--”

“Who?”

“Don’t hang up. Please don’t hang up.” He took a breath. “I… I just want to… I can give him a message for you. Whatever you’ve gotta say, just let me know, and I’ll--”

“Has he told you about me?”

“Yeah.”

“He said I was crazy, didn’t he?” Julia snorted. “He is, too. He’s been in therapy since he was fifteen.”

Paul swallowed thickly.

“Really?”

“Stan’s a wreck. He wants everybody else to be just as fucked-up as he is.”

Paul’s tongue felt like cardboard. He wanted to argue with her. It had been three years since he’d seen her. Three years. He’d never reached out to her on his own. Never invited her to a concert, positive she’d come loaded or with a bunch of druggie friends or-- or mental. Julia was supposed to be somebody hidden away. Somebody with a carved-out space miles and miles apart from his life.

He didn’t support her. Not directly. He knew his parents gave her some of the money he sent them. He knew they had her contact information. He knew Bill had it, too, in case something happened to her that KISS’ publicity machine had to cover up. But he’d made a point of knowing nothing himself. Like not knowing where she was meant she couldn’t affect him. Couldn’t infect him, either. The terror he’d had as a child, not wanting to be in the same room with her, her anger, her rages, had morphed over time. Gone from terror of her to terror of being her. Wondering whether he’d be just the same. Whether he’d be a secret his parents didn’t want to bring up, whether he’d end up on pills and drugs and off-and-on committed, too. It scared him worse than anything else, going crazy, really crazy-- not just all worked up inside his own head, but out of control.

Sometimes, at his lowest, he thought the only reason he hadn’t had anything heavier than therapy as a teenager was because his parents couldn’t stand the thought of having two fucked-up, lunatic children. It was bad enough as it was. Him missing an ear and her crazy. Hilsen had assured him over and over that that wasn’t the case, reminding him he’d come of his own volition, reminding him he showed no signs of her illness. But he never could convince himself entirely. Not with the rest of what they had in common. The bisexuality he could pop off about casually to Gene or Ace or Peter or Bill, or even hint at in the music mags for shock value. It bothered him when he was at his lowest. It bothered him to know she was like that, too.

It bothered him more these days than it ever had before. Growing up, they hadn’t looked any more alike than most siblings, but right now, especially with his face softer, features not quite as jutting and angular, the similarities stood out more starkly. It was still his face, sure, but the flickers of resemblance were more pronounced, more uncomfortable. He’d kept thinking about her-- oh, hell, he thought about her a lot, anyway, every time he called his parents, every time he took Ericka out to the movies or to an amusement park. But she’d never been on his mind half this much before the curse. He was even talking to Gene about her at random-- Gene, who’d never figure out how much he’d pissed Paul off by calling him by Julia’s name.

(julia is out of her mind)

(she was nuts even then)

(you’re too hard on her)

(i have a right to be)

He couldn’t speak. He heard Julia blow a loud sigh against the receiver, and he was surprised she didn’t hang up at his silence.

“You don’t believe me, huh? God, I have all the stories on him. I see what’s in the magazines. Whatever he told you is a bunch of shit.”

“I know how he is.” Paul swallowed again. It wasn’t just his tongue feeling like cardboard now. The whole roof of his mouth was almost like sand. “He wants to talk to you.”

“No, he doesn’t. He hates me.”

“H-he… he wants to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For putting you down.”

It could’ve been him. Some of what had happened to her could have happened to him. Nineteen years old and knocked up by God knew what boyfriend. It could’ve happened easily. Just someone willing to pay him a little attention. As a guy, he’d fallen for Gene over something as pathetic as a tiny reassurance, and ended up all over him as soon as he’d gotten the opportunity. As a girl, a real girl, dumpy and easily rattled, desperate for attention and approval, he would’ve been the same. Would’ve gone for whoever looked his way, been willing to do anything. As a girl, he would’ve reaped all the consequences, too, instead of being able to shrug most of it off in the morning after.

“He can’t mean that.”

“He does, he…” Paul trailed, not knowing how to say it. “He didn’t know how bad you had it. Maybe he’s not ever going to know. He…”

“What the fuck did he say to you? Who the fuck are you?”

“Julia--”

“Who are you?”

He couldn’t tell her. Not like this. Not the way he was now. She’d never believe him. He couldn’t drop his voice down enough to really sound like himself. The inflections and the lisp were still there, but the pitch was all screwed up. She’d think he was trying to-- to make fun of her, or hurt her. Something. She’d never even realize it was him.

“H-he’s just been talking about you a lot, lately. That’s… that’s all.” Paul swallowed. “Let… let me have your number. Please. I’ll have him get back in touch.”

“He won’t call me.”

“He… he will. I swear.” His throat felt warm. “Maybe, maybe he wants to see you.”

She laughed shortly. He could almost picture her shaking her head. His throat only felt worse with each passing moment, heavy and hot, as he realized he was edging on a promise he couldn’t keep as long as he stayed this way.

Julia was the first memory he even had. Julia, much taller than he was, carrying around that Muffie doll, with the blonde hair and blue dress and red socks. He remembered wanting to just touch that doll, knowing, somehow, it had to be special, because she was holding it. He had gotten hold of it as soon as she set it down, tugging off the socks, and then she’d snatched it back.

All that time. All those years a room apart. Knowing her, being scared of her, angry with her, and now even the chance of connecting again was gone completely. The way he was now, he couldn’t ever see her again. He’d never, ever be able to see her. If he wanted even a shot at making things up with her, he’d have to go back. If he wanted his family at all, he had to stop fooling around, stop the outings and teasing and get it all over with. Cut it out for their sake, if not for his own.

“You’re nuts,” she said, and hung up the phone.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley

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reekierevelator · 5 years

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A Thing You Don’t See Every Day

‘Antarctica melting, the last white rhino, a man on the Moon, statues of famous women – that’s the kind of thing you don’t see every day – not a man buying beer in a pub.’

It was a bitter riposte, and Dorcas paused afterwards, completely refraining from giving me grief for at least a further fifteen seconds. I watched the fire burn in her dark and narrowing eyes. In these situations it’s usual for the image of Andy Capp’s wife Flo to flit through my mind. Of course, Dorcas looks nothing like Flo. She wouldn’t be seen dead in a cleaner’s turban, and only a blind man could call her short and dumpy. But it was something about her temperament. I wondered, not for the first time, who really knows what goes on behind closed doors? There must be all kinds of things you don’t see every day.

I was long since tired of arguing with her. I simply ran up the white flag, feeling like one of those tired little timid men in a seaside postcard, returning home late a little the worse for wear, and finding his wife standing behind the door with a rolling pin, nursing her wrath to keep it warm. It was strange since we lived nowhere near the sea.

‘Yes, of course, you’re right, you’re always right Dorcas. I am, of course, more than somewhat prone to putting things badly when I try to paint a picture with words.’

‘Always doing that ridiculous what did you call it - reductio ad absurdum.’

‘Ah well, actually, no, that’s not strictly the case this time dear – I think you’ll find my figure of speech in this instance was more simple hyperbole. I confess exaggeration is not something unknown to me. No doubt you’ll agree that I do, now and then, inject a hint of unlikely excess into my conversation.’

Dorcas emitted a heavy artificial sigh that was almost a grunt.

‘Huh! And you’re not much better at making pictures with a camera, are you?’

I used to spend all my time and money on fine art photography. But art college was so long ago. Nowadays I relied on the occasional, albeit increasingly infrequent, wedding commission.

‘You are of course correct my dear. There seems little likelihood of art galleries dispensing with their Sanders, Woodmans and Cartier-Bressons to create a little space for my happy couples with their flower girl daughters.’

‘Are you being sarcastic Melville? Sarcasm’s the lowest form of wit! You think you can stand there smelling of stale beer and toss sarcastic remarks around?’

And so I was subjected to an avalanche of clichés and misunderstandings, all because after tumbling through the door at quarter to one I had merely chanced to suggest that it may well have been the first time I had seen Chalky put his hand in his pocket to buy a round. Certainly, it seemed reasonable to describe it as something you don’t see every day.

I count myself among the regular attenders at the upstairs room of the Lion and Unicorn, what the impoverished local cognoscenti regard as an informal arts club, and I for one could not recall it ever having happened before.

In in her domineering mode Dorcas can stick her claws into any casual remark simply in an effort to make me feel small and vulnerable. And never content with just that, Dorcas was also, as ever, intent on extracting, - it often seemed with pincers and forceps if necessary, - any item of gossip, innocuous, slanderous, or otherwise, to which I might have happened to gain access at any point in time when I was not actually in her immediate shadow, unsupervised as it were, beyond the reach of her flapping ears.

‘So, come on, tell us then,’ she demanded, and I noted the royal plural – always a clear indication that her level of ire was intensifying, of pressure being ramped up another notch, - ‘what brought it on? What was it that made old miserly Miseryguts happy, so full of joie de vivre as to suddenly want to spread his euphoria amongst all his alcoholic cronies? A big win on the Lottery perhaps?’

It struck me that Dorcas really needed to get a grip on herself, keep her feet on the ground. I mean, when money and the Lottery are all that are perpetually on your mind… And when, in any case, did an occasional few pints amount to becoming an alcoholic? And when were writers, painters, musicians, photographers merely cronies, even if, like me, they were admittedly just scraping by? But I refrained from raising these perfectly valid points as I could see her current mood was decidedly unreceptive.

Instead I merely asked ‘And when did miserly McGuire ever hand over folding money on a speculative venture such as the Lottery? You know he wouldn’t bet on a horse if it was the only one in the race.’

‘Are you trying to take me for a fool Melville Morton? I know no-one bets on a one-horse race. That’s a walk-over. The horse just walks over the course and collects the prize-money.’

‘Ah, yes, of course my dear, but actually, to be technically accurate, I think you’ll find it’s the owner who collects.’

‘Huh! I don’t want any more of your cheeky pettifogging nonsense Melville Morton. Insolence is unbecoming. My mother always said that and she was right. Consider your card marked. So what am I to conclude? Has Chalky come into money some other way? Maybe a legacy, some kind of inheritance?’

‘I’m afraid not my dear. If you recall Dorcas, his parents have long since gone to a better place. There’s only an old aunt and uncle, - and I’m afraid they have taken against him.’

‘Well they’d hate you too if you’d taken full advantage of their goodwill to hunker down in their flat for six months, all the time completely ruining it by attempting to turn it into some kind of artist’s studio - paint spattered over the walls and carpets, good curtains cut up to make some kind of collage, proper hardback books torn up to make piles of papier mâché to be shaped into horrible models of mutant people, the whole place stinking of turpentine.’

‘Of course, you’re absolutely right my love, but he was young and stupid back then. Weren’t we all? Sad that they never forgave him.’

‘Honestly, trying to get anything sensible out of you, Melville Morton, it’s like drawing teeth, isn’t it? Come on, what made the Miserable Creature suddenly want to share his happiness with your drunken gang of reprobates? Oh, no, wait a minute; don’t tell me - surely not a woman? Surely it hasn’t finally happened that some poor unfortunate woman has fallen into his clutches after all this time has she?’

‘Why does everything have to come down to sex or money with you Dorcas? There are other things in life you know.’

‘You’re as pathetic as he is Melville Morton. So, still no girlfriend for Chalky then. And, what, you’re telling me he’s found spiritual enlightenment? Become a Zen Buddhist? Joined some mad wee religious sect? Well has he?’

‘No, not as such Dorcas, not exactly that, no satori or epiphany seems to have struck him down like lightning as far as I can see. What it is, he feels he’s finally achieved something, his life’s ambition you might say. He feels himself existentially justified. He feels fulfilled.’

‘I thought he’d already achieved fulfillment by getting you and your idiot pals to pour drink down him year after year.’

‘No, this is recent, new. You see he announced that he’s got this fantastic thing. Something he says he’s wonderfully pleased with it, really over the moon, indeed overjoyed enough to want to demonstrate his immense pleasure by buying drinks all round.’

‘A thing? What kind of thing?’

‘Well, a kind of creation; I suppose what you might call an installation, maybe a sort of sculpture type of creation.’

‘You’re telling me that that penniless, deluded, failed artist has finally made something he thinks some fool is going to pay good money for?’

‘Yes, well, could be; maybe lots of money.’

‘So what does this thing look like then, this kind of thing you don’t see every day?’

‘Ah, well now, that’s tricky. You can’t really describe it. The words don’t exist. It’s indescribable. But it makes you uneasy. It makes you doubt yourself and everything you ever thought you knew. It makes you see the world differently. It makes you ponder the meaning of life itself. It makes you think whoever created it must be some kind of genius.’

‘Do you think I can’t tell when you’re reciting Chalky’s McGuire’s mad babblings like some kind of echo chamber? Melville Morton, for God’s sake, describe it in your own words.’

‘Well yes I will, I will, I’ll describe it to you as precisely as possible, just as soon as I’ve seen it.’

‘A hah!’ spat Dorcas. ‘Something you don’t see every day, eh? Might be something you never see any day is my guess!’

‘Well, no, I think we’ll definitely see it love, just so long as we’re prepared to help him through his current little difficulty.’

‘Difficulty? What problem has he found to be miserable about now?’

‘Ah well it’s just that his landlord has ejected him from that dilapidated hovel he was calling home and is insisting that Chalky owes him money for repairs as well as rent. The unfortunate fact is that Chalky’s homeless, spiritually happy it’s true, but quite homeless.’

‘For God’s sake Melville, you’re not suggesting…?

‘It would only be for a week or two at most my dear.’

‘Melville, I’ve got to hand it to you. You’ve got some brass neck. You’ve come up with some crackers in your time, but this tops the lot. You think that pathetic old miserly miseryguts McGuire is going to come and live here – here with us?’

‘Don’t you want to see his amazing creation?’

‘Melville, I don’t care if his miraculous work of art is a ten times tremendous improvement on the Venus de Milo. If it ever finds its way through this door you’ll see something else you don’t see every day – me packing my bags and slamming the door behind me.’

‘Actually, technically, to be fair dear, maybe not every day, but I’m sure you remember I have actually seen that once or twice before.’

And that was the flashgun moment. She swung the rolling pin which right up until that second I’d been sure had only ever existed in comic strips or as a figment of my alcohol doused overwrought imagination. I didn’t see it coming at all. Probably why I’ll never make it as a fine art photographer. It was a thing you don’t see every day.

============

[Sculpture: Foot and Arch by Ganesh Gohain, Bellahouston Art Park, Glasgow

#Reekie Revelator #short story #humour #humor #arguments

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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now there's green light in my eyes ch. 1

author ladyalix

cw / alcohol

ship: trixya

1920s/Great Gatsby AU for Trixya! Trixie is a Milwaukee girl visiting her cousin Pearl in New York, Katya is a Russian refugee in the bootlegging business, murder and lovers and speakeasies and general 1920s New York fun ensue! Trixie, Katya, Kennedy, and Pearl are cis girls, Max is a cis man, and Violet is a gay/genderfluid Italian gangster who does drag!

more on ao3 @ladyalix

I know what the gangsters think of me. I can converse with them as easily in their native Italian as in English, I smoke and drink like one of them. My clothing is cut low to lead them into business deals, coerce them into thinking I actually give a damn about them personally. They like to believe it, and so they do.

But these men, I do not find them attractive. No, the one who makes my heart race is someone entirely different.

___

Trixie Mattel’s summer in New York was hard to run by her mother. It was safer in Wisconsin, Mamma had argued. The city wasn’t proper for a nice girl like Trixie, only nineteen, chaste and well-mannered - she belonged in a small town, helping Mamma run her dress shop, biding the days until she married whatever good-natured man came along first. Ever since Papa had died when she was eleven, Trixie had spent her summers working. It wasn’t easy without a man in the house, but they made do with what they had. Trixie had stopped asking for new clothing long ago, learned to pretend not to be hungry on the days when there wasn’t money for food. When Mamma took in sewing and laundry and cleaned rich ladies’ houses Trixie came along and helped; the most important thing, though, Mamma always said, was that she did not lose her dignity and class. Mamma grew up in New York; her sister’s daughter Pearl, who was five years older than Trixie, lived there now. Mamma had left it all behind to marry Trixie’s father, a love story she told with wistful eyes and sighs whenever Trixie could coax it out of her.

“They didn’t want me marrying him,” she said. “He was an Indian from Wisconsin and I was a socialite from New York. It was quite the scandal back in the day - in all the papers, you know. It was unthinkable. But when you love someone, sometimes boundaries that stark cease to exist. When you love someone everything falls into place.”

And so Trixie and her mother, cut off from any inheritance, still acted like socialites even when there was nothing to eat, when there was no coal in the fireplace, when Trixie had to drop out of school for a year and take in mending. She held onto that secret knowledge, that she came from New York and had the manners and poise and dignity to show for it, like it was a treasure. A pearl, like her cousin’s name. She’d never met Pearl, but the two had corresponded for many years of Trixie’s childhood. Trixie could tell she was a pretty girl even in black and white - lithe and elfin with big eyes. Pearl often wrote of lavish parties and beach holidays and trips abroad; she married an Englishman named Max Malanaphy last year. Trixie idolized her. And this year, the summer she would be turning nineteen, Pearl had finally sent her the letter Trixie had been waiting for as long as she could remember.

My Dear Trixie,

I hope Wisconsin is doing you well! You must be DREADFULLY bored! Would you like to spend your summer staying with us in New York? I’ll pay for train fare. I’m sure you are old enough now that Aunt Eleanor won’t mind. Do write back!

Love, your Pearl. xxxx

Trixie’s mother had been reluctant - Trixie was too naive, too trusting, too young, she had fretted.

“But Mamma,” Trixie had argued, “It’s Pearl . You know her. She’s a very responsible girl. I won’t get into trouble with her and Max - Mr. Malanaphy - looking after me. And she said she’ll pay for train fare!”

Her mother had sighed.

“Tell Pearl we shall pay her back,” she finally said. “But… perhaps. You have been very helpful lately, very mature. It might do you good to get out of Wisconsin for a summer.”

So here she was, in New York City. Max and Pearl had a flat overlooking Central Park which was one of the nicest places Trixie had ever seen, more beautifully decorated even than the mayor’s house back home where she used to clean the floors.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Max said warmly, his accent betraying his British roots and making him seem very sophisticated. Though he wasn’t too much older than Pearl, his hair was already a steely grey. He was handsome, Trixie guessed, tall and lanky with a long straight nose and fair skin. He’d been an officer in the war, with medals to prove it, but now worked somehow in trade. Trixie was rather confused about the exact nature of his job, but he did do well for himself, it seemed. Pearl was just as pretty as Trixie had pictured her, even more so maybe. Her hair was pale blonde, her eyes blue and shaded by long dark lashes. She dressed well, too; pale, floaty dresses that showed off her slim, attractive figure in a way Trixie’s mother would have considered vulgar. Trixie considered it wonderful.

“Tonight we’re going to see the most wonderful jazz singer,” Pearl gushed as she bustled about the flat, tidying up what was to be Trixie’s new roo,. “Kennedy Davenport herself. They say she’s the Josephine Baker of New York.”

Trixie had no idea who Josephine Baker was, but she nodded.

“Am I coming with you?”

“Of course,” said Pearl. “If you want to. And you must promise not to write home about where it is.”

“What do you mean?”

Pearl smirked. “I guess you know drinking alcohol is illegal now,” she said. Trixie nodded again, suspicious.

“Well, Max and I just happen to know a little place that gets around that pesky Eighteenth,” she grinned. “It also happens to be an absolute hotspot of talent in every colour, shape, and size. None of which you’d find on the outside, either. But it’s all very hush-hush. Can you keep it a secret?”

Trixie frowned, considering. She couldn’t help thinking of her mother’s warnings, her promises to stay out of trouble, but eventually she squared her shoulders. “Yes. I can.”

“Oh, isn’t that the bee’s knees !” chirped Pearl, clasping her hands together in excitement. “I hope you have something nice to wear!”

Max beckoned for Trixie to follow him and Pearl down a flight of steps to the basement of an old unassuming brownstone - something so well hidden, so inconspicuous, that by day it would have had no hint of its true nature.

“This definitely doesn’t seem legal,” muttered Trixie. Max nodded understandingly, his grey hair illuminated by the gas lamps, his pale face almost haunting in the dim shadow.

“I was worried too, my first time. But don’t worry. The cops tend to overlook this place. Mostly because of Madame Zamolodchikova’s bribery.”

“And her sex appeal,” snorted Pearl. “You know she’d be in prison for alcohol possession right now if she didn’t look like she did.”

Trixie gulped.

“Madame what ?”

Pearl laughed.

“Katya Zamolodchikova. Max, we know her well enough, you can stop putting on airs.” Max huffed.

“First-name bases are overrated, darling.”

The speakeasy was dark, clouded with smoke and pervasive with the scent of alcohol. A black girl with large light eyes and an elaborate feathered costume sang jazz on a small raised stage.

“Kennedy Davenport,” whispered Max, “an absolute genius. I can’t believe she’s performing at Madame Zamo’s. She’s been signed with all the big labels uptown already.”

The band picked up and began to play a peppier jazz tune.

“Oh, let’s dance,” exclaimed Pearl, grasping onto her lover’s wrist. She looked vibrant and lovely even in the dim light, her pale blonde hair coiffed into finger-waves and her thin, flat-chested body draped in a short pale pink dress.

Trixie hung back, feeling inadequate and dumpy in the pale blue gingham she’d brought from home. It was too modest and too hokey and too Wisconsin for a place like this.

“Don’t you want to dance?” called Pearl, expertly twisting her body into the Charleston with Max.

“Um…” Trixie froze. “I think I’ll watch. For now.” She sat on a plush red couch, folding her legs the way her mother had always taught her. This - the dress that looked nunlike next to Pearl’s - was still the shortest dress she’d ever worn. As she sat, it hiked above her knees and made her feel very daring and very, very bad.

“It’s quite all right, darling,” came a gravelly, foreign voice from startlingly close behind her. Trixie turned around to face an elegant blonde woman, all red lips and picture star hair and sharp cheekbones and bony limbs, dressed in furs and diamonds and reeking of smoke. “Not everyone is a dancer. Some of us prefer to sit back and watch, yes?”

“Leave her alone, Katya,” said Pearl, rolling her eyes as she walked towards Trixie and the mysterious woman. “Trixie’s terrified, the poor dear.”

Katya , thought Trixie as the realization dawned in her brain, this is the owner of the speakeasy, the bootlegger, herself.

“Terrified? Trixie, dear, you have no reason to be terrified,” cooed the blonde woman, the “r”s in her speech trilled and drawn out. “You are not hiding in ditch from Red Army.”

Trixie blinked.

“ What ?”

“I am only teasing,” affirmed this Katya. “Can I get you something to drink? What do you like?”

“I’ve, um, actually never drank alcohol before,” confessed Trixie.

“Have you not?” Katya’s eyes, which were a startling blue, filled with mischief. “Well, today we have a little bit of everything. Scotch from Scotland, gin from England, vodka from Russia, champagne from France, rum from the West Indies.”

Trixie had no idea what any of those things tasted like, but she knew what champagne was; she decided on ordering that.

“A good choice, Trixie,” commented Katya as she bustled about, pouring a glass.

“How is business on the North Shore, Miss Zamolodchikova?” murmured Max, pronouncing the foreign surname perfectly. He’d obviously practiced.

“Oh, excellent, excellent. You have spoken with Dardo about the latest shipment?”

“Of course.” Pearl glanced nervously at Trixie, who had been pretending not to pay attention.

“This doesn’t concern you, Trixie,” she whispered, giving her hand a squeeze - amiable, yet firm in its message to make herself scarce.

“Oh. All right. Sorry.”

Trixie left the couch, casting glances the others’ way and kicking herself inwardly for not realizing that Pearl herself - and Max, too, then, were bootleggers, gangsters. It certainly explained Max’s wealth and his frequent trips to London.

As the night dragged on, Trixie tried hard not to trail after Pearl, but it proved difficult. Katya seemed to take Trixie under her wing, providing her with drinks and making small talk. Trixie learnt the older woman was originally from Russia, and had spent time living with artists and ingenues in Paris before settling comfortably in Long Island, nestled on the funds from her speakeasy.

“It is, of course, ridiculous what you must do to have a little fun in this country,” she explained, taking a drag on a cigarette. Trixie always thought of cigarettes as being in the realm of men, but Katya managed to make it feminine and even sensual. It was no wonder, she thought, that all the gangster men went after her.

“Why don’t you go back to your country, then?” asked Trixie. She realized how rude she must have sounded only when the Russian woman’s blue eyes misted with tears.

“Oh, my dear, I have no country to go back to. Ever since damn Communists killed the tsar. I came to Paris as refugee when I was not much older than you, you see. All alone - my parents were killed in the fighting.” Katya swallowed hard. “Everything you see, I make myself. My entire life here in America, I make myself.”

“‘Golly,” whispered Trixie. Her childhood had been far from ideal; she knew what it was to be hungry, to wear clothes that never fit right. But poor as she had been, Katya’s story made her background seem near idyllic.

“It is all right. We all have our crosses to bear,” said Katya quietly. “I do not dwell too much in the past. And besides, in Russia I could not do this ,” she said, grasping Trixie’s bare thigh with her pale hand. Trixie tensed.

“What is wrong with you?” she exclaimed. The Russian’s hand felt good, exciting even, but it was all wrong. Men weren’t supposed to do this to ladies, let alone other ladies. Trixie’s mother would probably have a heart attack if she could see her daughter right now.

Katya retracted her hand, a look of shame spreading across her face.

“I am sorry, Trixie, I thought you knew. Here in my bar, we are very open about our… sexual differences, you see. In Paris it was all the rage. Every woman I knew was intimate with other women. But New York, even, is not Paris. This I know now.” Trixie’s anger faded as she saw Katya’s face etched with worry. Katya was no predator - she was just a woman, a woman like Trixie, who fell in love with other women. Maybe, just maybe, Trixie even felt the same way. The Russian woman was so unlike anyone back home, she couldn’t be sure; the way she smoked like a man, the way her accent made Trixie’s name a rolling wave, the way she showed so much kindness and openness and understanding. The way this place seemed to be safe for people like Kennedy to sing and Katya to love, it couldn’t be a bad thing. When you love someone everything falls into place…

“I hope we can still be friends, Trixie,” Katya was saying now. “Nothing really happened.”

“Yeah. Nothing happened,” confirmed Trixie. “But if something were to happen, I don’t think I would mind.”

#please remember your tags!!#trixya #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #rpdr fanfiction #ladyalix #great gatsby au #green light in my eyes #lesbian au #aag

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zellbellart · 7 years

Text

White Wastes

An orange glow seemed to bathe everything in a richness that almost made the room hard to bear, but it faded as quickly as it had come. The moon replaced it in a haste that would have been frightening had it not been the middle of winter with the odd bells that came with it. Half-lidded, exhausted, and very nude, a certain blonde Seeker stretched with a few pops of his joints. The cigarette between his lips billowed with his breath inward and a smoke reached its many arms toward the ceiling when he exhaled. Its small flicker of light managed to illuminate just enough around him, revealing a form hidden beneath crimson satin. Everything except a head of chestnut hair. Nyx stared at the mass of blankets next to him atop the massive cherry wood bed he'd obtained for his temporary living space. Neither of the two upon it seemed to take up much space as it stretched forward and around them. It wasn't unlikely that the Miqo'te had found himself in the company of multiple ladies of lesser virtue there. One strong, tanned hand poked out from beneath the sheets to press into pale, ivory skin. When only but a small groan emanated from her and she rolled to the far edge of the bed, Nyx grimaced and sat forward, “Beth… yet gonnae have’ta ge’ goin’. Sun’s doon…”. His voice seemed to urge her to pull the blankets around herself tighter, causing Nyx’s ears to flatten against his skull. “Fer feck’s sake…” The darkness consumed the room for a brief moment as he tossed the sheet from himself and both of his feet connected with the hardwood floor beneath. A cold chill shot through his body and he danced around quietly until his feet became accustomed to the frigid surface. He made no effort to cover himself as he traipsed towards an overly elegant sitting area in a corner of the room where a familiar array of clothing laid haphazardly scattered across the floor. Slowly, casually, he clothed himself as he came to each piece. A pair of leather pants, a vest, fingerless gloves, boots, and various other garments, finally covered him. As he cast a glance out the window, he started to pull on a fur lined jacket at the first sight of a falling snow. Having been stationed in Ishgard so long, he knew quite well that even being inside wasn't enough to stay completely warm against the biting winds that followed fresh snowfall. After one last check to make sure the sleeping brunette in the bed behind him was, indeed, still slumbering, he rearranged the cigarette between his lips, crept towards the door, and slid out into a surprisingly dumpy looking hallway. A single lantern lit the far end as he passed a series of closed doors and came to a stairwell that descended at least eight flights. Each landing glowed with an odd bluish light until he touched boot to floor in front of a door. A gloved hand slid around a rusted knob and pushed forward until he reappeared in a dimly lit, although somehow rustic looking bar. Only a few patrons looked his way as he came into view and a tall, raven-haired Elezen flagged him over to the side, a bar rag in hand as he washed down the liquor stained counters. “Ah, Master Ashkala, awake after your romp I see. A shame that you missed the evening rush…as you can see”, with a hand, he gestured towards the handful of guests enjoying their drinks in the lesser lit areas of the Crow’s Nest. Nyx’s eyes followed but the sarcasm on his “dear friend’s” voice was not lost on him. The way it dripped with an air of pure arrogance with a hint of amusement always grated on his nerves. “Well, is love t’sit ‘ere an’ have ye eye fuck me all nigh’, bu’ there's another cigarette with meh name on i’”, Nyx narrowed amber eyes at the bemused Elezen as he straightened and headed for a dark, massive door on the other end of the bar. A coat hanger near the door, with a carved crow perched atop it, nearly collapsed under the weight of many patrons’ coats and jackets, but the Seeker grasped for a dingy grey parka. Pulling it around his shoulders, he pressed his hands to the door’s face and pushed far harder than he thought he'd need. Rook watched him before a suppressed laugh escaped his lips, “Have fun trying to light a cigarette with that frigid wind, Master Ashkala. I'll be sure to leave you a toddy if you don't turn into a statue”. Nyx slammed the door behind him, willingly thrusting himself into the bitter cold. Snow had already begun to pile up against the door, and waves of it swept against his boots as the assaulting winds sought to seal the Crow’s Nest in an icy grave. Both of his hands plunged into his pockets and he hopelessly sucked upon the end of a drowned cigarette. Its flame had perished as soon as his face graced the world of Ishgard. The snow beneath his feet already crunched and he knew he'd not be able to stay outside long…and he silently hoped that the woman in his room would leave lest he have to rent a space elsewhere for the night. He'd not once broken that promise to himself; no woman bedded and allowed to stay the night. They clung too much when allowed to do so. He shivered at the thought, glad that the setting would mask any prying eyes from knowing that something troubled him on his impromptu smoke break. With nowhere in mind to go, he allowed his feet to carry him and somehow ended up far higher than he'd intended. Amber eyes watched the streets below where he often analyzed the life of the “ants” that carried on about their lives. He'd seen shady dealings, alleyway romances, lonely strangers…things that all seemed to draw him back as if he were watching past lives through a magnifying glass. Sometimes it was enough to drive him mildly insane as he wondered just what those below him experienced on a daily basis. But tonight he found that the scenes unfolding beneath him were as entertaining as the antics of Rook, people flitting to and from dimly lit stalls, purchasing goods, and rushing back home in the blizzard that surely would devour the wooden carts within the next few bells. A sigh escaped him, both because of a lack of entertainment and the simple fact that Rook had been right. A metallic clinking sounded around him as he tried time and again to give live to the end of the paper stick that protruded from his lips…to no avail. Fuck. And so he found his feet moving of their accord again, headed towards a questionable part of the Brume. At least she'd be gone in the morning and there'd be less of a reminder of his utter and complete waste of time.

#writing #Nyx ashkala #ffxiv #balmung #character writing

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ajadelight · 5 years

Text

Cell Phone Affair - Part Final

She hit up three more strangers for use of their cell phone and then retired to her apartment. She called Ralph. “What you got for me, buddy?” “I got John Morgan. He’s the head teller at Bank of Chicago in the Rantoul Branch. He’s married to Yvonne for 7 years. They have no children but don’t know why. She doesn’t work and looks like she doesn’t want to. Found a few pictures of her and she looks sort of on the dumpy side, probably from too much eating and excessive couch sitting during the day. She’s beautiful, but she doesn’t look functional or enthusiastic. I’d probably reject dating her.” Wow! Got a live one there. I sent a text about Clyde and Jean, and the one who fed me, Danielle. The other three are Jimmy, Susan, and Robert. I just gave them an intriguing bully type of invitation.” “Cool. I’ll work on the other three and I might have a film crew available on this one. Wow! You rock, Amanda. I mean I really admire your courage. I’d have been dead on the first one.” “Not if you’re goal oriented and have an abundant blessing of feminine wiles and persuasion. Wink, wink. Pout a little. Look a little innocent. Look like a waif a little. Expose my cleavage a little. And these jeans that I stained to look like I’ve peed really attract and distract the men. And some women too. And the doors open without offering up sexual activity. I love it. Catch you later.”

An hour later Amanda called Yvonne. “How’s it going, Yvonne? Are you feeling all dandy and happy?” “So-so. Who’s this? Why are you concerned?” “I’m concerned because of John, your husband. Do you know him?” “What? Why are you concerned with him? Who is this?” “Here we go again. Always want unimportant things first. Who are you? Why are you? Question, prod, question, probe, anything but listen to the important things first!” “Knowing those things might keep me from hanging up on you. I’m not used to dealing with strangers and strange phone calls.” “Okay. I’m Amanda Collins. You’re Yvonne Morgan. I’m concerned with your husband because of what happened this morning. He loaned me his cell phone to make a call. During that call, he learned that I’m going to die in four days and it really shook him up. However, Ralph called John several times until John yelled at him. Ralph doesn’t want to see me die. John is so-so about it, but he tried to talk me out of it.” “You’re going to die and you know when?” “Yes. It’s scheduled on Saturday at noon, at the fountain in Walton Park. You want to come and join the crowd?” “Really? Is it an execution, or something? Never hear about that at noon in public. That’s very odd.” “I know. However, it’s me. I’m going to shoot myself by the fountain.” “That’s a nasty way to go.” “I know. I thought of a hanging, but there’s nothing around to assist me. I know I could rent a portable scaffold, but I wouldn’t be able to return it.” “Bummer. I’ve seen a man hanged and it was interesting. I’d like to see a woman hanged. I could return the scaffold for you. Which company has that? Is it A 2 Z Rentals or Acme Jiffy Rent?” Amanda moved the phone away and looked at it crossly. What the hell? She thought. She is a live one. She’s talking like me. “Uh, it would be A 2 Z. They deliver and set up, but don’t pick up after use.” “Interesting. What about price wise?” “They have two models. One is you stand on a chair and put the noose around your neck and wobble the chair out from under your feet. You drop only a few inches at most but that method works. Your neck stretches a wee bit while the rope cuts off the air supply. My dislike is it takes 14-20 minutes to die slowly from suffocation. It runs $250. The other model is faster, but you need someone to handcuff you, then put the noose around your neck, and then pull the handle to release the trap door. That breaks your neck and hastens your departure. That one runs $675 and has the pulley, the rope with noose pre-made, the 1000-pound tested tie bar for securing the rope, a knife for cutting it afterward, and the handcuffs with no key.” “Hmm. That second one sounds better. It must stretch your neck more while it snaps your neck from your spine and does an instant tighten up on your windpipe. You could think, ‘Oh, fuck!’ but never have the time to say it. Are you sure I can’t talk you into that one? I’d help you. I’d love to see your dainty little feet kicking around for something solid and not finding it. I hear girls pee after a few minutes.” “No. I’ve already decided.” “Darn my normal luck.” “You’ll get over it. Before Saturday I’ll send you a link for some women hangings on-line. That should satisfy your curiosity and give you a thrill. Anyway, I have my granddad’s service pistol and it’s loaded. I’ll do it that way, but thanks for the offer. That’s kind of you.” “You’re welcome. Now, why are you doing it?” “Because I’m tired of being left out, not thought of, not cared about, unloved, disowned and unwanted. I was the prototype for caring about people, whether I know them or not. You’ll find that out in a moment. But people don’t return that. It’s like they’re one-way streets and never want to give back. So, Saturday at noon, POW! Let them be sorry for a change.” “I’m sorry you let it get that far, Amanda. What about me?” “You? I’ve seen some pictures of you and after seeing John this morning, I think you and he have problems with love, sex, and rock and roll. You do, don’t you?” Yvonne was silent. “Did he tell you?” “He told me nothing with his mouth. Most men don’t unless they’re dealing with a prostitute. Then they slip her a couple of 20s and flap their gums something fierce. But I saw the way he watched me before my odd request. I drank too much the night before and I peed myself and he couldn’t seem to break away from that fact. Then I saw some pictures from the wedding online and then some of you now, and it breaks my heart, Yvonne. He hasn’t done you in what, maybe 3 months?” “Try 4 and it’s not because I haven’t tried, I do. He ignores me or just tells me to quit and moves me aside and opts for another channel on television and most often with a beer. And I try, Amanda. I even walk naked between the sofa and the television and he waves hard at me and tells me to get the F out of the way and get some clothes on. I don’t know what to do! One of his buddy’s is putting the make on me, but I’ve ignored him, so far. However, I’m getting desperate enough to take him up on that offer, regardless of the hell that might break loose. I mean I want it bad and he’s like from another planet where that doesn’t happen.” “Do you want some help? “Yes, please! What am I doing wrong?” “Well, get a grip and listen up. The first thing you do is lose those drab gray sweatpants. You wear them all the time, don’t you?” “Yes.” “Stop. Do you have ginger in the house? Doesn’t matter if it’s raw or powder.” “Yes. We both like ginger so I have some fresh root.” “Good. How about miniskirts and halters?” “Yes.” “Good. We can’t do anything about the tummy today, but we will get you laid. You can go to a gym and start a healthy nutrition plan on your own soon. For tonight leave your sweats and chartreuse tee in the hamper. Shower and dry everything but your coochie. Then, while it’s still slightly damp, rub it with some fresh ginger root and put your pants on. Top that with a short mini and a halter without the bra. Tie your hair back in a tail and use the same ginger root to dab behind your ears. Lose the necklace. Leave your skin there, inviting for some nibbling. Then don’t mention or even hint at sex. Just do what you normally do without that intrusion, add that temptation and tease, and before the night’s over, he’ll have you in bed and breathless. Can you do that?” “Yes. That sounds kind of exciting, even for me.” “Good. Then hit the gym and don’t diet. Consult with a nutritionist and let them help you lose the tummy fat and tone up your legs and ABS. And never parade naked in front of him, never. Try to adjust your habits so he never sees you even half naked. If you want a max tease to rip his pants open, stop undressing with a tight bra on and keep the rest covered, unless you drag him in the shower with you. Lock the door when you bathe. Change clothes there instead of standing over him in bed. Mysterious yourself up some. Keep the lights dim enough to be scarcely visible or don’t even let him kiss you in the bedroom unless the lights are completely out. Burn some candles for dancing light and lots of dark wispy shadows. Shift positions and move or slap his hands lightly to slow him down when he tries to uncover the good stuff. Make him work to get what you make him want. Your mystifying coochie will take care of everything else. And trust me, he can use it and never see it. All he needs is his fingers and his fence post when it’s ready. You can cut off the visual for the remainder of your together intercourses and he’ll be happy. So, will you for that matter.” “SCORE!” “That’s the ticket, Yvonne.” “What about daytime interlude that’s not planned?” “Fit your bedroom windows with heavy curtains and insist it happen there. Keep the curtains closed and when you reach the point of letting our clothes come off, cover from the waist down with a bed sheet. Force it to happen without even seeing your legs. And when you’re ready, adjust the sheet ONLY enough to let him inside while he’s kissing you or watching your eyes. Mystery! Imagination! Secrecy! Concealment! Keep yourself changing and put a different x on every treasure map you spring on him.” “Dang, Amanda. That sounds very exciting. My what a wellspring of sexual knowledge.” You can do it. Just practice them all and teach him to work with your sensuality until you get it.” “I will. Thanks, Amanda. I wish I could help you. I have your number, so I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what happened.” “Thanks, sweetheart. You do that and have a great night tonight.”

She took a break and called Jean. Immediately Jean was on her case. Who is this? Why are you calling me?” “Your moral conscious, honey. This is Amanda. I talked with you, or rather listened to you yell at me earlier today. Remember?” “Yes. Why call me again?” “Because all that yelling told me you’re horny and not getting regular sexual relief. Otherwise, you’d not have been so hostile. Instant answer, please. True or false?” Jean sighed. “True. I thought it was you exhausting him.” “Nope. Social media is good for some things, Jean. It’s good for visuals versus a sexy voice, like you possess, at least on the phone. You’re dressed most of the time like the last woman I just helped. You dress comfortably in your own home, but to Clyde and the rest of the world, it sure looks sloppy and makes you appear very unkempt. The clothing and your body language say you’re a homeless woman but living in a home and wondering why you can’t get laid.” “Wow! That pisses me off, but I like your blunt approach.” “And right off hand, I’d say that you’ve not showered in 4 or 5 days and if you dropped your jeans, you’d probably smell like piss. That’s not a sexual turn-on for most men or even women. Why don’t you shower more frequently?” “Because I don’t think I smell bad.” “To you, maybe not, but to Clyde and other folks, you stink, honey. Besides the lack of smelling your own BO, why? Is there a reason?” “I don’t like to spend the time doing that. It takes 20 to 30 minutes and since I’m married, I didn’t figure it would matter that much. It’s not like I’m trying to date him and get his attention.” “Well, news flash, honey buns, if you want to get laid regularly, you need to spend the time bathing, or else spend the time with fantastic plastic for a cheap unsatisfying thrill. How’s that for blunt?”

“Pretty much in my face,” Jean said. “That’s the way I roll. And if I were straight or lesbian, your waist would be the line of demarcation, if I could get that far. Stale sweaty skin is up there on the gag scale.” “Oops! That hurts, but it makes sense. Why hasn’t he complained about it?” “He has. Every time he rejects sex with you, that’s a complaint. Every time he holds you at arms’ length, that’s a complaint. If he sniffs loudly and wrinkles his nose, that’s a complaint. But if you don’t understand and make an adjustment, then he has options to take care of himself.” “Oh, boy. That sucks!” “Sure does. From the cursory time I was with him today, I don’t see him going outside for another woman to handle the sex. It must happen when he’s in the shower, or you are and he disposes of the evidence. And you’d be so down on yourself, you’d never think of looking in the trash for a condom or something else to show.” The phone dropped and she heard mumbling in the background until she picked it up again. “I’m hurting. I’d never have thought to look. I’m sorry, Clyde, but just you wait. You’ll not have the chance to do this again; not unless I’m doing it for you.” “What?” asked Amanda. “A paper towel that can’t be denied.” “Um, um. I just got off the phone with another woman who had a similar problem. The solution is the same for you. Do you care to listen?” asked Amanda. “Yes. Since you figured me out so swiftly, lay it on me. I’m really hurting now. Are you really going to use the gun on Saturday?” “Yes. I can help other people, but I’m finished trying to help myself.” “Is there no way to stop you? There must be somebody or a group of people who can love you enough to keep you loved and wanting to be alive. Are you sure I can’t help you back enough?” “Hey, girlfriend, there’s always hope. Show up 20 minutes early on Saturday and give me the best Used Car Sales pitch the world has ever heard and we’ll see what happens. You might luck out. We both might luck out. Just show up and hit me with your best shot.

“Now pay attention to what I say. I want a call in the morning with a victory shout.”

Saturday morning at 11:30 Amanda was at the fountain, dressed in her clean but ragged clothes. She lay the weapon down on a chair by the table and covered it with a newspaper. Jean arrived at 11:35 and did not wait for her prepared sales pitch. She finished and stood back to see her effect on Amanda. “Man, that was good! You want to be that close a friend with me?” “Yes, and if necessary, I’ll become bisexual to keep you healthy, adjusted, and very alive.” A rental truck appeared and hailed her. “This is the place. Unload them next to the fountain. Jean watched as 6 tables and 36 chairs appeared and Amanda conned them into setting them up for her. Before they left, a DJ parked behind their van and asked where to put the equipment. Amanda showed him and then turned to a curious Jean. “Hey, girlfriend. That sales pitch really impressed me. We’ll give it a great try because I don’t want to die right now; not with so many people loving me. It’s wonderful to find someone who believes, acts and loves like you do.” She gave her a kiss on the mouth. “Great news! So, what’s really happening here?” Yvonne appeared and ran to join them from her car. “Okay, which one is Amanda?” “Me. I am the guilty party,” Yvonne grabbed in a bear hug. “Great. I’m Yvonne and I’ve destroyed all the death threats against you and all the bodily harm I wished to inflict. Wow, did I get laid! Felt like a virgin, losing it again after 4 months. Awesome! Now, can we stop this silly horse shit that you are committing suicide?” “Okay. You convinced me to live.” Two food vending trucks pulled up and parked on the curb. All the parties were right behind them and they all gathered at the fountain and waited anxiously for Amanda to speak or fire the weapon to take half her head off. She beckoned to Susan to stand beside her. “Hello, friends. Welcome to my suicide party. Thank you so much for showing up. I really didn’t want to do this, but what the hey? I wanted to get your attention. I’ve done all I can for you over the years. I’ve not missed a birthday or anniversary yet and I’m waiting on you to get busy with babies so I can add them to my heart and communication list. And while I waited, I also waited for this, but you missed it 3 times. DJ, hit it.” The DJ played Happy Birthday and Amanda started singing it to herself as the people blushed and then joined in at her request. She laughed with them about how she put the hoax over on them and welcomed the new additions to her friendly family. “The food vendors are the grill and drink stand for today. It will cost you nothing. I’ve saved three years for this day. What makes it extra special is I’m coming out today. I just can’t hide it any longer.” The DJ stopped the music and the gathering grew deathly quiet and watched her expectantly as she hugged Susan and kissed her cheek. “Yes. Ralph is not my biological brother. He just acted that way, until 3 months ago and we became lovers. And now we’ve encountered an oops and I’m like 9 weeks pregnant. And since we’ve loved each other undercover for so long, next month, same time, same place, we expect you all to join us here when we say our wedding vows. In the meantime, happy birthday to me and please party down!”

The End

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readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

Steps led down into the velvet gloom. There were cobwebs and dust, and air that smelled as though it had been locked in a pyramid for a thousand years. 'People don't come down here very often,' said Ysabell. 'I'll lead the way.' Mort felt something was owed. 'I must say,' he said, 'you're a real brick.' 'You mean pink, square and dumpy? You really know how to talk to a girl, my boy.' 'Mort,' said Mort automatically. The Stack was as dark and silent as a cave deep underground. The shelves were barely far enough apart for one person to walk between them, and towered up well beyond the dome of candlelight. They were particularly eerie because they were silent. There were no more lives to write; the books slept. But Mort felt that they slept like cats, with one eye open. They were aware. 'I came down here once,' said Ysabell, whispering. 'If you go far enough along the shelves the books run out and there's clay tablets and lumps of stone and animal skins and everyone's called Ug and Zog.' The silence was almost tangible. Mort could feel the books watching them as they tramped through the hot, silent passages. Everyone who had ever lived was here somewhere, right back to the first people that the gods had baked out of mud or whatever. They didn't exactly resent him, they were just wondering about why he was here. 'Did you get past Ug and Zog?' he hissed. There's a lot of people would be very interested to know what's there.' 'I got frightened. It's a long way and I didn't have enough candles.' 'Pity.' Ysabell stopped so sharply that Mort cannoned into the back of her. This would be about the right area,' she said. 'What now?' Mort peered at the faded names on the spines. 'They don't seem to be in any order!' he moaned. They looked up. They wandered down a couple of side alleys. They pulled a few books off the lowest shelves at random, raising pillows of dust. 'This is silly,' said Mort at last. There's millions of lives here. The chances of finding his are worse than —' Ysabell laid her hand against his mouth. 'Listen!' Mort mumbled a bit through her fingers and then got the message. He strained his ears, striving to hear anything above the heavy hiss of absolute silence. And then he found it. A faint, irritable scratching. High, high overhead, somewhere in the impenetrable darkness on the cliff of shelves, a life was still being written. They looked at each other, their eyes widening. Then Ysabell said, 'We passed a ladder back there. On wheels.' The little castors on the bottom squeaked as Mort rolled it back. The top end moved too, as if it was fixed to another set of wheels somewhere up in the darkness. 'Right,' he said. 'Give me the candle, and —' 'If the candle's going up, then so am I,' said Ysabell firmly. 'You stop down here and move the ladder when I say. And don't argue.' 'It might be dangerous up there,' said Mort gallantly. 'It might be dangerous down here,' Ysabell pointed out. 'So I'll be up the ladder with the candle, thank you.' She set her foot on the bottom rung and was soon no more than a frilly shadow outlined in a halo of candlelight that soon began to shrink. Mort steadied the ladder and tried not to think of all the lives pressing in on him. Occasionally a meteor of hot wax would thump into the floor beside him, raising a crater in the dust. Ysabell was now a faint glow far above, and he could feel every footstep as it vibrated down the ladder. She stopped. It seemed to be for quite a long time. Then her voice floated down, deadened by the weight of silence around them. 'Mort, I've found it.' 'Good. Bring it down.' 'Mort, you were right.' 'Okay, thanks. Now bring it down,' 'Yes, Mort, but which one?' 'Don't mess about, that candle won't last much longer.' 'Mort!' 'What?' 'Mort, there's a whole shelf!' Now it really was dawn, that cusp of the day that belonged to no-one except the seagulls in Morpork docks, the tide that rolled in up the river, and a warm turnwise wind that added a smell of spring to the complex odour of the city. Death sat on a bollard, looking out to sea. He had decided to stop being drunk. It made his head ache. He'd tried fishing, dancing, gambling and drink, allegedly four of life's greatest pleasures, and wasn't sure that he saw the point. Food he was happy with – Death liked a good meal as much as anyone else. He couldn't think of any other pleasures of the flesh or, rather, he could, but they were, well, fleshy, and he couldn't see how it would be possible to go about them without some major bodily restructuring, which he wasn't going to contemplate. Besides, humans seemed to leave off doing them as they grew older, so presumably they couldn't be that attractive. Death began to feel that he wouldn't understand people as long as he lived. The sun made the cobbles steam and Death felt the faintest tingling of that little springtime urge that can send a thousand tons of sap pumping through fifty feet of timber in a forest. The seagulls swooped and dived around him. A one-eyed cat, down to its eighth life and its last ear, emerged from its lair in a heap of abandoned fish boxes, stretched, yawned, and rubbed itself against his legs. The breeze, cutting through Ankh's famous smell, brought a hint of spices and fresh bread. Death was bewildered. He couldn't fight it. He was actually feeling glad to be alive, and very reluctant to be Death. I MUST BE SICKENING FOR SOMETHING, he thought. Mort eased himself up the ladder alongside Ysabell. It was shaky, but seemed to be safe. At least the height didn't bother him; everything below was just blackness. Some of Albert's earlier volumes were very nearly falling apart. He reached out for one at random, feeling the ladder tremble underneath them as he did so, brought it back and opened it somewhere in the middle. 'Move the candle this way,' he said. 'Can you read it?' 'Sort of —' — “turnered hys hand, butt was sorelie vexed that alle menne at laste comme to nort, viz. Deathe, and vowed hymme to seke Imortalitie yn his pride. 'Thus,' he tolde the younge wizzerds, 'we may take unto ourselfes the mantel of Goddes.' Thee next day, yt being raining, Alberto” — 'It's written in Old,' he said. 'Before they invented spelling. Let's have a look at the latest one.' It was Albert all right. Mort caught several references to fried bread. 'Let's have a look at what he's doing now,' said Ysabell. 'Do you think we should? It's a bit like spying.' 'So what? Scared?' 'All right.' He flicked through until he came to the unfilled pages, and then turned back until he found the story of Albert's life, crawling across the page at surprising speed considering it was the middle of the night; most biographies didn't have much to say about sleep, unless the dreams were particularly vivid. 'Hold the candle properly, will you? I don't want to get grease on his life.' 'Why not? He likes grease.' 'Stop giggling, you'll have us both off. Now look at this bit. . . . — 'He crept through the dusty darkness of the Stack —' Ysabell read – 'his eyes fixed on the tiny glow of candlelight high above. Prying, he thought, poking away at things that shouldn't concern them, the little devils' — 'Mort! He's —' 'Shut up! I'm reading!' — 'soon put a stop to this. Albert crept silently to the foot of the ladder, spat on his hands, and got ready to push. The master'd never know; he was acting strange these days and it was all that lad's fault, and' — Mort looked up into Ysabell's horrified eyes. Then the girl took the book out of Mort's hand, held it at arm's length while her gaze remained fixed woodenly on his, and let it go. Mort watched her lips move and then realised that he, too, was counting under his breath. Three, four — There was a dull thump, a muffled cry, and silence. 'Do you think you've killed him?' said Mort, after a while. 'What, here? Anyway, I didn't notice any better ideas coming from you.' 'No, but – he is an old man, after all.' 'No, he's not,' said Ysabell sharply, starting down the ladder. 'Two thousand years?' 'Not a day over sixty-seven.' 'The books said —' 'I told you, time doesn't apply here. Not real time. Don't you listen, boy?' 'Mort,' said Mort. 'And stop treading on my fingers, I'm going as fast as I can.' 'Sorry.' 'And don't act so wet. Have you any idea how boring it is living here?' 'Probably not,' said Mort, adding with genuine longing, 'I've heard about boredom but I've never had a chance to try it.' 'It's dreadful.' 'If it comes to that, excitement isn't all it's cracked up to be.' 'Anything's got to be better than this.' There was a groan from below, and then a stream of swearwords. Ysabell peered into the gloom. 'Obviously I didn't damage his cursing muscles,' she said. 'I don't think I ought to listen to words like that. It could be bad for my moral fibre.' They found Albert slumped against the foot of the bookshelf, muttering and holding his arm. 'There's no need to make that kind of fuss,' said Ysabell briskly. 'You're not hurt; father simply doesn't allow that kind of thing to happen.' 'What did you have to go and do that for?' he moaned. 'I didn't mean any harm.' 'You were going to push us off,' said Mort, trying to help him up. 'I read it. I'm surprised you didn't use magic.' Albert glared at him. 'Oh, so you've found out, have you?' he said quietly. Then much good may it do you. You've no right to go prying.' He struggled to his feet, shook off Mort's hand, and stumbled back along the hushed shelves. 'No, wait,' said Mort, 'I need your help!' 'Well, of course,' said Albert over his shoulder. 'It stands to reason, doesn't it? You thought, I'll just go and pry into someone's private life and then I'll drop it on him and then I'll ask him to help me.' 'I only wanted to find out if you were really you,' said Mort, running after him. 'I am. Everyone is.' 'But if you don't help me something terrible will happen! There's this princess, and she —' Terrible things happen all the time, boy —' '— Mort —' '— and no-one expects me to do anything about it.' 'But you were the greatest!' Albert stopped for a moment, but did not look around. 'Was the greatest, was the greatest. And don't you try to butter me up. I ain't butterable.' 'They've got statues to you and everything,' said Mort, trying not to yawn. 'More fool them, then.' Albert reached the foot of the steps into the library proper, stamped up them and stood outlined against the candlelight from the library. 'You mean you won't help?' said Mort. 'Not even if you can?' 'Give the boy a prize,' growled Albert. 'And it's no good thinking you can appeal to my better nature under this here crusty exterior,' he added, 'cos my interior's pretty damn crusty too.' They heard him cross the library floor as though he had a grudge against it, and slam the door behind him. 'Well,' said Mort, uncertainly. 'What did you expect?' snapped Ysabell. 'He doesn't care for anyone much except father.' 'It's just that I thought someone like him would help if I explained it properly,' said Mort. He sagged. The rush of energy that had propelled him through the long night had evaporated, filling his mind with lead. 'You know he was a famous wizard?' That doesn't mean anything, wizards aren't necessarily nice. Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards because a refusal often offends, I read somewhere.' Ysabell stepped closer to Mort and peered at him with some concern. 'You look like something left on a plate,' she said.

#Mort

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