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bentforkent · 4 years

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to the moon and to saturn - chapter one

spencer reid x fem!reader

navigation and summary

word count: 2753

no content warnings

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seven

“you’re boring.”

“no, i’m not, y/n!”

“you never want to play pirates with me!”

spencer’s hair is long and his glasses are sliding down his nose. the light seeping into y/n’s room from her large bay window is muted by the white sheet covering it. the sheet rests precariously over a chair, forming a blanket fort carefully engineered by spencer, and haphazardly constructed by y/n. there are throw pillows tossed throughout the fort, and spencer makes an attempt to straighten them whenever he gets the chance. whenever he comes to y/n’s house, ringing her doorbell with a backpack full of books, they work together to add on to their secret hideaway. the white sheet is the newest addition, especially designed to let more natural light into the blanket burg. this follows a poor mishap where a lamp y/n had left on too long burnt a hole through her carpet.

previously, the pair had constructed a stuffed animal room, a reading corner, a designated snack area. y/n’s starting to run out of linens. the fort has been standing for weeks now, y/n’s parents very rarely involved enough to enter her room, giving her and spencer free reign to create their own imaginary worlds to play in undisturbed.

except spencer, with all his practicality, isn’t particularly adept at the “playing in imaginary worlds” part. y/n can’t comprehend that. it’s simple for her to slip into a different universe, enjoyable, even. she’s begged spencer to play mermaids, bank robbers, fbi agents, firefighters, princesses---you name it. spencer indulges her for the most part, but y/n can always tell that he’s not that into it. he’s much fonder of tucking into some obscure poetry book, reading aloud when y/n requests. she never comprehends much of what he’s saying, but he reads so confidently that it fills her with glee anyways.

for seven year olds, it’s clear to outsiders that they both don’t quite act their age. y/n, with her big doe eyes, dreams too much, her escapism both her greatest asset and most fatal flaw. spencer’s a stickler to the realistic, his pragmatic nature an unconscious choice that gives him a beautiful worldview but will make him grow up too fast. for now, though, the children don’t worry about that. they worry solely about balancing each other out and the purity that comes with being in youth.

y/n is splayed on her back on the floor of the fort, where her scratchy carpet is covered with a fluffy pink blanket. her hair fans out around her head in a halo. spencer’s physics book is closed and set gently in the corner, and he’s attempting to braid a small chunk of y/n’s hair. “pirates is my least favorite game,” he says.

“what about knights?” y/n angles herself to look back at him. she’s far too young to execute a soul searching gaze, but the way her eyes strain to scan his face comes close. she takes note of his facial expression giving away his inner thoughts. the way his lip quirks up indicates that he definitely does not want to play knights with the girl in front of him, but the softness in his eyes tells y/n that she’s won.

without another word, they crawl out from their blanket fort and jump onto the bed. “my armor is blue,” y/n says, unsheathing an imaginary sword and holding it up in joust. “knight armor was typically made of iron or steel, and there was no way to make it blue in the late 15th century,” spencer piped up, mirroring her actions. he likes playing at y/n’s house. his parents would never let him jump on the bed. y/n’s parents let the two of them do a lot of things, spencer thinks, and he’s never heard them fight like his parents do either.

“cool, spencer!” y/n says enthusiastically. she’s always enthusiastic when he tells her a fact, even though she rarely really understands him. she knows people are terrible to spencer because of his intellect, and had made a pact with herself when they first became friends that she would never ever ever be mean to spencer for being smart. “we can pretend, though. yours can be blue too!”

“okay,” he replies, and y/n begins to coach him through the game, attempting to loosen him up a bit. they play, bouncing around on the bed and wielding fake medieval weapons until the sun begins to go down and spencer remarks that he needs to go home before dark or his mom will be upset.

y/n reluctantly lets him leave, knowing that he has a lot less fun at his house, but finding comfort in the fact that he’ll come back the next day.

spencer and y/n spend every day together, without fail. they’re young, and they don’t know much about life, but they know that they’re the only people for each other. they’ve been inseparable since y/n had toddled into spencer’s first grade class and heard him reciting a john lyngate poem. her favorite book at that time was a brightly colored picture book, so she was both fascinated and confused by the boy in glasses in front of her. that day, they’d sat together on the bus and chatted the whole way home. the pure elation that occurred when the children realized they shared the same bus stop was unmatched. y/n, who’d just moved to las vegas, was relieved she’d met a friend in her new hometown.

she didn’t really meet any other friends after associating herself with spencer. he’d warned her that being his best friend was basically social suicide, but y/n was already attached to him like superglue. once, a girl in their class had tried to invite y/n to sit with her at lunch. the girl not-so-subtly made it clear that spencer was not invited to the table, and y/n had shut that down quickly with a swift spoonful of red jell-o down her shirt. spencer decided then that red jell-o was his favorite.

to sum it all up, in super simple terms, y/n and spencer were close. and everyone in their town knew it, including their parents, although both sets of adults were generally nonplussed about what their children were involved in as long as they were alive and surviving.

y/n’s parents aren’t neglectful, per se. she’d just had to learn how to fend for herself very early on. y/n’s existence had been an accident, and although she didn’t know that in explicit terms, it wasn’t hard to figure out based on the lack of maternal instincts from her mother. y/n’s mother sat on the back porch of their house a lot, looking out at their tiny, barren backyard with a cigarette in hand. her father went away on many business trips, coming back to greet the family only with a pat on y/n’s head before he padded up to the bedroom to slip into bed. one day, y/n would realize the intensity of the mental health problems both of her parents were suffering from, but as a child, the adults in her life just felt far away.

spencer’s parents were similar in a sense that they weren’t the best. rather than the silence that settled over y/n’s house, his home filled with argument. it’s why he found solace with y/n, with their blanket fort. y/n’d offered to let him live with them constantly, but spencer couldn’t leave his mother. his father? he couldn’t care less. but his mother...as much as spencer longs to spend his days curled up in y/n’s bed, reading, he knows above anything else, he’s got to protect his mother.

after closing the door behind spencer, y/n skips to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. her and spencer had made fresh lemonade the day before, squeezing lemons y/n had stolen from her neighbor’s tree. spencer had been in charge of the sugar, and he’d added way too much. the pair tried it, though, and liked the super sweet taste.

y/n fills her glass with ice, having to stand on her tippy toes to reach it in the freezer. after the cup is filled with the sugary beverage, she takes a second to peer out of the window and check on her mom outside. y/n expected to find her in her usual plastic chair, cloud of smoke encircling her. but she wasn’t there. this was odd. she sets her sweating glass down on the table, and wanders upstairs to get a location on her mother.

loud moans float down from the top of the stairs, and y/n, ever naive, follows the sound to its source. the stairs creak under her feet, her house old and probably close to crumbling. y/n pushes the door to her parents’ room open with both hands, and is immediately sick at the sight. at seven years old, she doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but she knows that whatever she is seeing is wrong.

william reid, spencer’s father, is laid naked next to her mother, also fully exposed. they’re startled by the door opening, shocked to see young y/n standing there, witnessing their adultery. the three of them are in a trance, suspended in surprise. y/n’s brain is moving a mile a minute, she knows, but she can’t seem to form any cohesive thoughts except “this is not right.” it feels like forever that y/n is holding eye contact with william before her mother speaks. “y/n,” she starts, but y/n doesn’t stick around to hear the end of the sentence. she’s out of the bedroom and out of the house in 30 seconds flat.

as she runs down the suburban street, she’s barely aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks or the pain in her feet. she’d forgotten shoes. she runs, runs, runs, hair flowing behind her. she runs until her thoughts catch up to her. where can she go? she realizes that her body had been taking her straight to spencer’s house, but she couldn’t. how could she look him in the eye? how could she tell him that her own mother is responsible for his family falling apart? how could she ever even be near him again? stopping in the middle of the road, y/n lets out an anguished scream. a ferocious scream. a scream that claws its way out of her chest. and then, sufficiently exhausted by both her physical activity and her emotional despair, she turns back the way she came and begins to trek back towards her house.

- - - - - -

“penny, i have no clue how you do your job,” y/n says, handing the blonde woman before her a hot macchiato in a to-go cup.

her hair is longer now, her eyes more weary. the wonder she felt as a child is long gone, sucked out of her on that fateful night. y/n hardly thinks about it anymore, but that night after she had gone home, her mother made her pack her bags and took her as far away from vegas as possible. as far away from spencer as possible. she never saw him again. it’s been almost twenty years since she’d last seen the geeky boy. the loss of her childhood best friend was a dull wound now, one tucked safely in the back of her subconscious. sometimes she wonders how he turned out, but their time together feels more like a dream than a memory.

y/n moved away from her parents as soon as she turned 18, straight to washington d.c.. with no money, no degree, no friends or family, y/n turned to her work. she got a job in a tiny coffee shop, and the elderly lady who owned it took her under her wing. her name was janice, and she was an old, childless widow. y/n’s kind disposition filled a void janice had given up on trying to fill, and the two became a fierce pair. janice provided y/n with the apartment above the shop, higher-than-minimum wage, and when janice passed five years later, y/n inherited the coffee shop itself. she’d been owning and running it ever since.

it was at this shop that she met penelope garcia. penelope frequented the kitschy coffee place before work, and had gained quite the soft spot for the raven-haired owner. the two of them chatted every morning as y/n flitted around behind the counter, making whatever caffeine-filled concoction penelope had ordered. eventually, their friendship progressed past casual small talk at y/n’s work into wine-filled sleepover nights at their apartments.

“my job is hard, my friend,” penelope replies, shuddering. “some of the stuff i see gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“yeah, like dead bodies.” y/n turns and begins making her own personal coffee to start the day, penelope leaning on the counter in front of her. “heebie jeebies is an understatement!” y/n faces penelope again and grins, pouring copious amounts of sugar into a mug that janice had used while running the café.

“you know, y/n, i only know one other person in the world that takes that much sugar in their coffee,” penelope remarks while she watches the barista stir her obscenely sweet coffee with a wooden stirrer.

“hmm, they must be my soulmate, then,” y/n says. penelope’s ears perk up at that. she makes her way to the door, and y/n raises her mug in lieu of a wave. “have fun at work, pen! see you at your place tonight! i’ll bring wine!” penelope responds with a witty goodbye and heads to work, just the jingle of the bells on the door to signify she was ever there.

-----

penelope saunters into the behavioral analysis unit office 30 minutes later, cup of coffee long empty. “good morning, babygirl,” derek says.

“i’ll show you a good morning, hot stuff,” penelope deadpans, walking through the bullpen to greet all of her coworkers. penelope’s so bright that she immediately lights up the dreary BAU.

“spencer!” she calls, prompting the shaggy haired doctor to look up from his desk.

“good morning, garcia,” he says with a small wave.

“this morning, i got coffee at my favorite place,” penelope begins to gush, “and the barista puts just as much sugar in her coffee as you do!”

spencer doesn't understand why garcia is telling him this until she continues.

“this particular barista happens to be super cute and also one of my closest friends.”

spencer shakes his head with a laugh. “no, garcia, i’m not letting you set me up again.”

“okay, the first one was not good, i’ll admit.” she perches on the edge of his desk.

“but i actually know this girl! and i love her!”

spencer shakes his head again, giving penelope a light, joking push off of her seat. “no,” he emphasizes, and garcia gives him a dramatic sigh.

“okay,” she says, dragging out the word. “i’m going to go to my lair now to give you time to

think about it.” she presses a kiss to the top of his head, and with a ruffle of his hair, she floats to her office.

i’ll convince him, she thinks. i mean, how could i not? coffee aside, the kids are perfect for each other. she doesn’t know how she missed the blatant similarities between them. penelope’s usually very perceptive, and that makes her really good at setting people up. i might as well be cupid, she thinks, except for that one date i’d sent spencer on. she chooses to ignore that one. a minor lapse in judgement.

penelope pulls out her phone to text y/n.

penelope (7:56): y/n, my love, my light, i have found the most perfect guy for you

y/n (7:57): no penny, not again

y/n (7:57): remember the last date you set me up on?

oh yeah, penelope remembers. she’d sent both of her friends on two completely separate, shitty dates. maybe cupid wasn’t the best nickname for her.

penelope (7:59): you’re right. ugh. ix-nay on that idea then

she attaches a lot of sad emojis, then tucks her phone away. there goes that. penelope tucks that idea away, into the depths of her brain, and forgets about it.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler smut #matthew gray gubler fluff #Spencer Reid angst #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds smut #my writing #to the moon and to saturn #to the moon and to saturn chapter one #Spencer Reid x you

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cassiabaggins · 4 years

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An Extra Burglar Chapter One: A Wizard At The Door

A/N: send me an ask or dm me if you want to be on the taglist!

Rating: K-T

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In a hole in the ground, there lived two hobbits. Not a nasty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and a wet oozy smell, nor a dry, bare, sandy hole, with nothing in it to sit down on or eat: It was a hobbit hole, and that means comfort.

This hole, or as a smial, as it was called, had, a perfectly round door like the top of a barrel, painted green, with a shiny, yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbits were fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill —The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for these hobbits: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (they had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over their garden, and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.

These hobbits were very well-to-do hobbits, brother and sister, and their name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how two Baggins’ had an adventure, and found themselves doing and saying things altogether unexpected. They may have lost the neighbours’ respect, but they gained—well, you will see whether they gained anything in the end.

The mother of these two siblings - of Bilbo and Cassia Baggins, that is- was the famous Belladonna Took, one of the three remarkable daughters of the Old Took, head of the hobbits who lived across The Water, the small river that ran at the foot of The Hill. It was often said (in other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but certainly there was still something not entirely hobbitlike about them, and once in a while members of the Took-clan would go and have adventures. Now Cassia, to the dread of her brother and the other Bagginses, took after her mother, in both looks and temperament. As round and small as any other hobbit, to be sure, with curls so dark they were nearly black, and eyes like bluebells. She had a penchant to get into terrible scrapes, whether by design or accident, no one could be sure. Bilbo was much more the picture of a proper Baggins, stout and sandy haired, solid and comfortable and respectable. Having no adventures and doing nothing unexpected. But people always supposed that deep down, there was something odd in him, from his Tookish side, that only needed a chance to come out. The chance never came until Bilbo was a grown up hobbit of fifty, and Cassia was an almost-grown-up hobbit of thirty-one. And it happened like this:

Bilbo and Cassia Baggins are out in the garden, enjoying the spring air and having the same argument they've had every morning for the last five years: whether and dwarf or an elf would be more interesting to meet.

“Elves have huge libraries,” Bilbo says, pointing at Cassia with his pipe. She rolls her eyes and pulls a weed up with particular viciousness

“We don't know that dwarves don't.” She replies, waving it at him, spraying soil all over, “In fact, we know so little about dwarves which makes them interesting!”

“Elves are great healers!”

“Dwarves are master craftsmen!”

They're so engrossed in their discussion (argument) that they don't notice the approach of a stranger until a shadow falls over them.

The both look up. And up. And up. Over tattered gray robes and a long, scraggly gray beard, into an elderly face with pale blue eyes, under a tall, conical blue hat. Bilbo blinks. Cassia stares.

“Good morning,” they say in unison.

“What do you mean?” The stranger asks, “do you mean to wish me a good morning or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”

“All of them at once I suppose” Bilbo says. Cassia nods in agreement, still dumbstruck. Bilbo continues, as he is wont to do, “And a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco out of doors, into the bargain. If you don't have a pipe about you, sit down and have a fill of mine! There’s no hurry, we have all the day before us!” He sits down on a seat by his door (for he had been standing near Cassia, who is still crouched in the daffodil beds) crosses his legs, and blows out a beautiful grey ring of smoke that sails up into the air without breaking and floats away over The Hill. “Very pretty!” says the stranger. “But I have no time to blow smoke-rings this morning. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.”

Cassia’s face lights up with a brilliant smile and she scrambles to her feet, showering dirt and weeds all over the path. “An adventure?!” she cries.

“I should think so—in these parts!” Says Bilbo at nearly the exact same time, “We are plain, quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can’t think what anybody sees in them,” (This last bit is a jibe directed at his sister) Bilbo sticks one thumb behind his suspenders, and blows out another even bigger smoke-ring. Then he takes out his morning letters, and begins to read, pretending to take no more notice of the old man, and probably hoping his sister would take the hint.

“That’s not true!” Cassia shoots back, “I want an adventure!”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Bilbo says. “We don’t want any adventures here, thank you. Good Morning!”

“To think,” the stranger says, “that I would live to be 'good morninged’ by Belladonna Took's children as if I were selling buttons at the door.”

“Are you?” Cassia asks. “Selling buttons, I mean.”

The stranger blinks. “No.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo splutters.

“You've changed, Bilbo Baggins, and not entirely for the better.”

“I'm sorry, do I know you?”

“Well, you know my name,” The stranger says, “Though you don't remember I belong to it. Cassia, I suppose, is just a bit too young. I'm Gandalf!”

Silence.

“And Gandalf means… me…”

Bilbo shifts, then realization dawns on his face. “G…. Gandalf! The Wandering Wizard. Who made such wonderful fireworks! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer's Eve.” He laughs. Then frowns. “I had no idea you were still in business.”

Gandalf looks put upon. “And where else should I be?”

Bilbo does not answer.

“Well,” Cassia says, “dead, I suppose. Or something. You do look very old, mister.”

Gandalf's lips twitch. Bilbo kicks his sister in the shin. “Ouch!”

“Well,” Gandalf says, his eyes twinkling, “I'm pleased to find you remember something about me, Bilbo Baggins. Even if it's only my fireworks.” He nods and points at Bilbo. “It'll be very good for you. And most amusing for me.” He glances at Cassia, his lips twitching again. “Most amusing indeed. I'll call the others.”

Bilbo splutters. “No. No!”

Cassia grins. “Yes!’

“No.” Bilbo says, dragging her towards the door. “We do not want any adventures here, thank you.”

“We do!”

“No, we don't! Not today. Not ever. No. I suggest you try over the hill or across the water. Good morning.”

With that, the older hobbit bundles the lass into Bag End and slams shut the green door.

Cassia stomps her foot. “No fair! I want to adventure!”

Bilbo blocks her way to the door. “No, no you don't!”

“Yes I do! Don't tell me what I do and don't want!”

Bilbo locks the door. “I'm telling you no!”

“You aren't my parent!”

“Maybe so! But I'm in charge of you until you come of age! So if in two years you want to go gallivanting off, be my guest! But not today and not while I have a say! ”

“You're being a real arsemunch, Bilbo Baggins!” Cassia shrieks.

“And you're being stupidly reckless, Cassia Baggins! Adventures are dangerous!”

Cassia opens her mouth again, but he slams his hand over it and points to the door, from which is coming a faint scratching noise. Bilbo drags her over and peers out the window.

He's met by a pale, glaring blue eye, and jumps back, knocking Cassia over.

“Hey!” She says.

“Hush!” Bilbo hisses. He hurries to the kitchen window and watches as the wizard walks off. “How terrible,” he sighs.

“I thought he was interesting!” Cassia says. “is he really a wizard?”

Bilbo sighs. “I don't know, Cassia. He's very odd and a little frightening, that's for sure.”

“I liked him.”

“Of course you did.”

#an extra burglar #bilbo baggins #cassia baggins #oc fic #my writing

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reddogf13 · 5 years

Text

Raw nerves ch 1

Pennywise x Beverly

summery: 7 years after pennywise tricked those kids into thinking they won, he unintentionally explodes a gas pipe. he wakes days later to discover hes being treated by Beverly. too weak to even walk he is forced to live under her roof. questioning her reasons for keeping him and why none of the other losers have come to end him. without knowing, the two join a path to heal each other.

status: complete

rated: M - fowl language and gore

previous chap: None

next chap: Raw nerves ch 2

_____________________________________

~ch:1 Discovered~

He played the part well against those children. Pretending to be so hurt he had to go into hibernation early. Remaining deep down for a mere few hours before rising back up to the surface. Avoiding them all to carefully snag a young meal. He wanted so badly to face them again and laugh in their faces over how they thought they won. While he was still here eating towns folk freely to satisfy his hunger. Unfortunately that wasn't completely true, they did have their own small win. Beating him down until he was far too weak to be as much a nuisance as normal. He couldn't take the time to scare his victims into a mouth-watering meal. He was stuck at simply eating to survive. He certainly couldn't afford to enter hibernation.

He kept this up for 7 years after their fight. Struggling to break even on his meals to make it where he could hibernate. He had to be so careful who he took from where or else the losers may catch on he's still stalking the streets. Another round with those children would be the true end. After 7 years they weren't exactly children anymore. A detail often slipping his mind as he stopped spying on all of them. Catching small glances of a few of them here or there in town to make sure of avoiding them.

Staying hidden underground these past months turning complicated. Derry had decided to completely renovate the water drainage. Something about not polluting the river anymore with car oil. Some dumb reason he didn't really understand. At least there was one good perk from all the construction. Lots of workers going in and out of these flooded tunnels. A few going missing here and there in the tunnels was nothing strange.

Catching the sounds of a few working on something he was happy to snag a meal. Workers being far too concerned about something to notice the water shifting. The tall clown dressed in silver approaching to bring their demise. What Pennywise didn't realize was that he should have been concerned too. Should have left them alone to fix the problem of a leaking gas pipe. His own tunnel vision of food leaving a permanent landmark on Derry known as “the canyon” or “the scar”.

He attacked one of the constructors that bumped into the other holding a shovel. The metal end scraping against a rock to create a small spark, but it was enough to light the gas filled tunnel. A loud sound followed by a blinding light was the last thing he truly remembered before a blackout. The deadlights that were truly him having disconnected temporarily for self preservation if his earthly form truly kicked the bucket. they couldn't see what was going on, but some things they figured out. His earthly form wasn't dead … yet. It was doing lots of emergency healing to stay alive that needed all the energy his body could spare.

All those hunts to regain their energy ruined by one mistake. There was nothing they could do but wait for the healing to fix enough for him to “wake”. If he even could wake as he may need to stay down. Revert to leeching off life force the old fashioned way through proximity over the better more active hunts. The Deadlights raged in the dark limbo they were trapped in. cursing their lack of awareness of the dangers to how they may have to spend the next few centuries building back their Pennywise puppet body from scratch.

Time had completely slipped from him in limbo. Not knowing if it had been a few days since the explosion or a few years. Having no vision on what Derry was going through. How they were handling the explosion that he wasn't sure of the size of. Was the explosion small and only around that tunnel? Or something that took out a couple houses?

The Deadlights were ready to see after realizing their puppet body had healed enough. Should they jump back into the form so soon? It was still badly damaged and who knows where he would wake. Under rubble or below the drainage water where he would have to struggle his way out to his lair? Only one way to find out and he could always rest back in limbo after he makes it to his pile to hide. The Deadlights focusing on their way back for his body to open his eyes. Blinded by sunlight pouring in through a window nearby.

“what?” he wheezed through the taste of his own blood. Looking around the room in first guessing a hospital had picked him up. Figuring right away that, that wasn't the case with the room having a wooden framed bed. A small couch next to the bed by a dresser covered in first aid kit supplies from an opened box. A few light dressers around the room and two light bed stands with lamps. A round ceiling light above lighting up the small lite blue room.

“some moron dragged me home?” he thought. Stiffly rising up from the bed wracked by oncoming pain. Muscles aching covered by more pain from burns spreading across his shoulders. Deep gouges crossing all over his chest marked by holes in the fabric. The edges of the tares stained in black dried blood that also stained the bandages applied all over him. Someone had patched him up in their home without bringing him to any hospital.

Unconcerned by the thought of running into any of the home owners. He would be happy to thank them for the shitty first aid patch work they did on him. A pair of hungry jaws to the face that would give him an easy, much needed, meal. More energy to speed his healing down in his home. Glancing out the window for a better idea of where he was to find the nearest water entrance. Growling at the sight of lots of trees from a 2nd floor window.

“no houses? This place by the factories?” he questioned. Derry was small with the houses always next to another. The only place he knew a house may not have neighbors was at the edge of the abandoned factories. But that wasn't so bad as that meant the large river would be right next door between all those trees. He turned back to walk toward the bedroom door. Stepping out from the carpeted room out into the wooden floored hall. The loud tapping of liquid catching his attention to look down. His blood was leaving a black trail where he walked. A sign of how badly damaged he was with blood unable to dissolve away through the air. A shameful sight he hated to have happen in all his billions of years on the earth.

He grumbled in continuing down the hall upon passing a bedroom door the small hall ended. The walled side on his left, having an open closet, ending to an open railed hall. Able to see down into a living room area that connected to two other rooms. A kitchen toward the left and a sun room off to the right nearby the stairs ending. Catching the scent of lavender that he recognized, who ever they were, was a female living here alone. Having a sense of deja vu that the scent was something he dealt with before. Tossing the thought aside on his way to the stairs that he needed to take a pause at the top of. Taking it slow on his way down to the front door. Opening it had him alarmed by the unknown location. There was not a single house anywhere near the one he was in. where was this house out in the middle of nowhere? Worst of all that meant the river wasn't here neither any water drains. There wasn't even a modern street in front, but a long gravel driveway turning to a far off dirt road.

Grumbling in thought over the roads. “by the farms in the country.” it had to be. Thinking of what to do next in the condition he was in. there was no entrance back to his lair around here. Was he fit enough to travel the long walk back to town? Couldn't stick around here so he figured he would make up a plan along the way. He wasn't willing to stay here for some human to return home who knows when if they were a farmer. Traveling his way down the roads he recognized more the further he got. Keeping more around the trees in thick brush to hide from passing cars. He didn't want to deal with humans stopping to ask him all sorts of questions of how he was. He wanted to get home so that he could rest away all these wounds without interference.

It was getting late in the day and despite all his walking he was halfway to any drainage pipe. The Deadlights debating on weather another black out would be required. He wanted to make it home, but all this bleeding was sinking his emergency energy.

“fine.” he snarled to his injured form. Getting down to rest where he wasn't in the open forest brush. If some crackhead found him and attempted to do anything. Then, hey, he would get a freely delivered meal right to him. Blacking out enough for his body to “sleep” and rejuvenate itself to get up in the morning.

Finding it strange that it wasn't long before somebody found him out in the middle of nowhere. Maybe 15 minutes after he rested down. Sensing the light of a flashlight waving over him he kept still. If they got any closer to look he could grab them. Catching the scent of lavender thinking back to the scent at that country house. Must have been the one living in that house if that was the case. Did they see him gone and went out to find them? This could work to his advantage if he acted hopelessly sick from his injuries. Have them approach to help him up where he could go right for the throat.

He opened his eye for a peek at the situation. Blinded by the flashlight shining into his eye before it moved away. When his vision adjusted to the new found darkness he was furious at the sight of her.

Beverly marsh looking down at him, flashlight in hand, while he was so injured. His mind panicked over what to do now that his hidden survival was exposed to the losers. remembering why that scent was so familiar to him. It was hers and that house was hers as well. Did she drag him home to keep him somewhere long enough to gather the rest of the losers? If she had caught up to him they wouldn't be too far behind. He had to run so that he could hide or should he kill her while he had the chance? What if they were separate and she hadn't called for them yet?

He bared his teeth at her in an aggressive growl. He couldn't fight even if he wanted to and needed her to back off. His only chance was to run enough into the forest and blend in under a thick bush until they gave up the search. His home wouldn't be safe after this as that would be where they first look. Standing was turning fruitless after so many attempts. Was this it for his body? Forced to spend the next centuries recreating himself? Down in front of her in a mess of his own blood.

He glared at her with dagger eyes as she stood there staring back. Taking off her leather jacket to open it between her hands. Tossing it over his head making him pissed off even more. “did she cover me as if I am a terrified bird?!” He wasn't some stupid creature made docile in the dark. He wasn't blinded either and was still aware she was standing there. He'd show her how this damned jacket truly made him feel. Roaring out in ripping it off to bite into the clothing. Finding joy in feeling the chunks shredded by his teeth. Treating it as if he would with her by making each piece smaller and smaller.

Stopping when the jacket was thoroughly reduced to shreds beyond repair. Held back only by the vast taste of blood feeling his mouth. Did he manage to snag her and not realize? No, she was still standing there having taken a few steps back as he raged over the jacket. He dropped a piece of it from his mouth to then realize it was his mouth filled by the liquid. All the stress of ripping apart the jacket had collapsed his body. He wheezed though the blood unending in its flowing from his jaws. Deadlights screaming in thought to flee the body, but what about Beverly? This could be the last moment to save this body from destruction. Deciding if it was too damaged to even flee from her it wasn't worth sticking around in. blacking out to separate back into the limbo void. Keeping an eye on the body's little remaining connection for it to finally sever.

The deadlights waited for they were sure was a while passing in Derry. Feeling instead that the body was healing again. Curious as to what happened that night in the woods. The losers didn't kill their body while it was left helpless? Keeping him alive for what purpose? To have a sporty chance at him instead of kicking him while he was down? The deadlights would have to wait and see. As soon as the body gathered enough energy they filled out the form to wake.

Feeling battered down from all the energy wasted by stress. Unprepared to feel a stinging pain to one wound he lashed out. Snarling through gritted teeth to slash out a hand of sharp claws. Feeling the startled breath of the one he attacked right as they dodged his swing. A close call for Beverly sitting not too far with a handful of cotton and the other holding a bottle of alcohol. Off the rush of his swing he needed to lie back down into the bed. Taking in that she had managed to drag him back to the house for more treatments. She didn't make a move toward him until after he calmed down. Dabbing the alcohol covered cotton over another wound. His body twitching and tensing to lash out, yet unable to spend enough energy for it. Growling at her being the one thing he could do.

Quieting down when she stopped to tell him something. “I need to remove your shirt.” after all the first aid she attempted with his clothes on doing no good. Sensing how uncomfortable she was to say that as well as defeated. He didn't bother to answer if she was asking for permission. Displeased enough by how much she was touching him when he didn't need her help. Growling again when she reached for the first red pom button to snap free. Despite not wanting to remove it he allowed the freed clothing to dissolve off him. Avoiding the need to be touched more in struggling to slip it off the rest of the way. Continuing his growling the rest of the time she took treating him.

Taking a good look at her for the first time in years. Having grown half a foot taller with her red hair still kept mostly short at shoulder length. Wearing A new denim jacket over a short sleeved shirt flowing past her hips to mid thigh. Dark jean pants whose ends were covered over by her black leather boots.

Patching his wounds in finishing off her at home treatment. Cleaning away all the bloody cotton balls into the trash. Leaving the room with old bloody sheets in a basket she switched off the light with a close of the door. Giving him time to somewhat rest without her poking and prodding him. Questioning why she did all this. Why the other losers weren't here to gawk at him for a laugh. Maybe they would come in the morning to deal with him. Perhaps what he though earlier in the forest was true. She hadn't called them at all about him living. Bill he was sure wouldn't wait to see him in the morning. He would have been the first to rush down and kick his skull in.

this gave him the chance to save himself from being discovered. Kill Beverly as soon as possible like he wanted before. To make a meal out of her would be best, but he couldn't afford the chance of her calling for help if she slipped his grip. Subtle would have to be how he played the game. Kill her slowly so by the time she realized what happened it would be too late. For now he had to rest for the right moment when she made a mistake. Thinking that it wouldn't be long if she kept treating him like a hospital patient. He closed his eyes to “sleep” the night away. Body building energy without “blacking out” like humans did or needing his darkened limbo.

Eventually he felt the warmth of the morning sun across his exposed chest. Hearing from afar an alarm clock going off to be stopped a moment later. Listening as Beverly wandered around the house eventually coming up to his door. Entering as quietly as possible on the assumption that she thought he was sleeping. Listening to her walk around in checking over him without touching. Heading back over to the first aid kit she left on the bedside stand. Rustling through it to grab something then carefully peeling a bandage away. He expected her to replace it and leave it at that for the next one. Not dab another cloth over it soaked in burning alcohol. Body reacting instinctively on its own in lashing out toward the pain.

Biting down into her arm with curved rows of teeth hooking into the soft flesh. He didn't plan this, but her fatal mistake of being so close was working for the better. Ready to yank back for the limb to pop off. Lucky for Beverly his energy in the sudden lash out was spent. Pulling back his jaws weakened into slacking open enough for her to twist free. Surprised she got free the proper way instead of reflexively yanking back. When victims yanked themselves free it shredding their arms further on his curved teeth. instead she pushed forward deeper into his jaws to unhook the teeth first then pulling free.

He snarled at her as she looked at her bloody torn arm. Rushing out with the first aid kit to the bathroom down the hall. He wasn't happy that his meal escaped his jaws, however her death was sealed the same. Grinning at the bathroom door down the hall he could see from the bed. That injury was guaranteed to get infected instantly and after a day or so it would be far past rotten.

“Disinfect it all you want. Your arm can't be saved by a bottle of alcohol.” he chuckled to himself. Turning serious as he watched her leave with a freshly bandaged arm back to her bedroom. Changing out of a bloody sleeved shirt into a cleaner one. Walking back to shut his door without trying to do anymore treatments to him. Amused by the small glare she shot him as if what he did wasn't expected. Her footsteps going down the stairs to pass through the front door. a car starting to drive off down the road.

“where is she going?” he thought. Worry growing on maybe she went to fetch the others after that retaliation. “ time for me to take another trip down the road.” rising off the bed to unsteadily stand against the wall.

#It (2017)#pennywise #beverly marsh #raw nerves ch 1 #7 years after movie

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ladylynse · 5 years

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole: Wirt had heard a lot of stories about college, but somehow, he still wasn’t prepared for one of his roommate’s crazy friends to smuggle a hatchet into their dorm room. Future fic/college AU. Crossover with Over the Garden Wall, Danny Phantom, Gravity Falls, and Trollhunters.

Part II! (Part I; also on FF/AO3)

Wirt spent almost every free moment he had in the library.

In hindsight, it was rather inevitable that he’d run into Wendy’s roommate.

She found him first, sliding into a seat across from him and quietly clearing her throat. When he looked up, she pointed at the text he was reading. “That one’s hardly a reliable source,” she said.

He forced a laugh. “It’s paranormal science. Nothing’s going to be a reliable source.”

Her features lost their hint of a smile, falling into a tight frown. “That one’s pseudoscience, not science. If you’ve seen something—”

“I never said I saw anything!”

She raised her eyebrows, purposefully darting her eyes around. He didn’t need to turn his head to know people were staring. This was the fifth floor. It had the most uncomfortable chairs. People didn’t tend to stick around and chat here; the lower floors were more popular for group projects that slid into conversational procrastination. Usually, ringing (or buzzing or dinging) phones or sneezes were the only things heard above murmured conversation, the hum of laptops, and rustling paper.

He sunk into his seat and lowered his voice. “Look, this is just for an assignment. It’s not whatever you’re thinking.”

“You can talk to me, you know. I won’t think you’re crazy.”

Didn’t mean he didn’t think she was crazy.

“Hey.” She waited until he met her eyes before continuing, “I’ve seen things that most people wouldn’t believe are real. And, no, it wasn’t just a one-off thing or something I ate. So if you need someone to talk to who won’t judge you, I’m all ears.”

“Thanks, but there’s nothing to talk about.” Wirt gathered up his books, ignored the hurt look on Jazz’s face, and hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he was running away.

XXXXXXXX

When Toby tossed a new pair of socks onto his bed when Wirt was trying to finish his paper on Machiavelli, Wirt just looked over at Toby. He didn’t even need to move the socks from the book they’d landed on; Toby knew the question for what it was. “I think I lost a pair last time I did the laundry,” he said. “Figured I should repay you.”

They weren’t pink and fuzzy, so it wasn’t payback for something he couldn’t remember doing. It was true that Wirt hadn’t been able to find a few of his socks, but he’d assumed they’d just gotten shoved under something and would turn up eventually.

Sure, they hadn’t magically reappeared after yesterday when it had been his turn to do their laundry (they’d started taking turns because neither of them particularly liked scrounging for quarters or hauling everything to the machines), but he’d just kinda thought that he’d…missed them. He was missing a few singles, not a pair, so it had seemed more likely.

“Nana wouldn’t let me live it down otherwise,” Toby added.

“Uh, right.” Wirt could believe that. Toby’s Nana seemed big on doing the right thing, even if he wasn’t wholly convinced she always knew what the right thing was. At least, he was thankful for the cookies she’d sent them. The clean underwear ‘in case they got hit by a bus or into worse trouble’ had been a little more…questionable. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and Wendy says to stop avoiding her and ignoring her texts. She needs to talk to you.”

“I’m not avoiding her!”

Toby snorted. “I might’ve believed that if you’d come back with ‘about what?’, but whatever. She mentioned something about her roommate. Maybe that’s why.”

“Her roommate is nuts,” Wirt muttered, not caring about being charitable right now. It was…rough. Every assignment in class seemed to be due at all once, and he had trouble focusing on any of them with this…this…whatever it was hanging over his head.

He had seen something.

He was pretty sure it wasn’t something related to the Unknown, but that was only because he hadn’t recognized it. And because he was also pretty sure it was something Toby was involved in, and Toby….

Toby was weird, and the Unknown had been weird, but this felt…different.

Maybe he was just jumping to conclusions, though. There had to be a perfectly rational explanation for what he’d seen. Maybe it had been a dream, and the paper had just been Toby’s study notes. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fallen asleep reading them. Or maybe it did have something to do with the Unknown after all. Somehow. He’d had nothing to do with it for years. Maybe he’d managed to forget what it felt like. He still had the journal with him where he’d written the entire experience down and had actually reread it in preparation for that creative writing assignment, but he’d never found the right words to recreate the feeling the Unknown had given him. Not really.

But…but if it did have something to do with the Unknown, why nothing until now?

Maybe Toby wasn’t even the target. Maybe things were just…reaching out. For him.

Or maybe Toby had ended up in the Unknown once, too, and managed to escape?

No, he couldn’t have. He would have said something. Probably. Because he had to know it was far too unlikely that Wirt could just pull all that out of his hat if he’d been through a very similar experience.

But if it wasn’t the Unknown, what else was there?

…Maybe he really had seen an animal? Just a trained one? There could have been someone outside the window to remove the screen and send in…whatever it had been. A racoon with weird colouration? Or something else that could climb like that? And be trained to carry messages?

Maybe it was a robot. Just…a quiet robot. With random sounds programmed into it so no one got close enough to figure out what it was when it was sent out.

Or maybe Toby had another friend who was so good at that kind of thing that they were working on artificial intelligence and this entire thing was just a series of test runs.

Given the friends of Toby’s that Wirt had met, he was not about to rule out that possibility. Heck, for all he knew, it could be Jazz. She apparently had weapons stashed all over the place. Maybe she had advanced tech, too. That Wendy had found, since Jazz apparently couldn’t hide stuff from her. Wendy could have commandeered something and was using it to send messages to Toby in the middle of the night. Just because she could. He wouldn’t put that past her, either.

Toby snorted. “I don’t think Wendy would argue with you there. She still can’t believe Jazz practically lives in the library. But seriously. Talk to her. Or just go over there. She got out of class at four. She should be back by now. You don’t even have to text or call first.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to finish this.” Wirt made a vague gesture towards the laptop and the mess of books that had overtaken his bed.

“You’ve been working on it since before I got back from my lab. Take a break.”

“I don’t have time for a break!”

“You’ll be more productive if you take one. Isn’t that what they say?”

Wirt rolled his eyes. “A five minute break and a fifteen minute walk to Wendy’s are very different things. Especially when you factor in a conversation and the walk back.”

“You still need a break. And the walk will do you good.”

Wirt argued.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised he lost.

XXXXXXX

“About time,” Wendy said, stepping back to let him in. She and Jazz were renting a tiny, two-bedroom apartment just off campus. It was cheap and showed its age, all chipped paint, worn carpet, creaking floors, and a musty smell that wasn’t quite overwhelmed by the fumes from the fast-food joint next door. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and if they wanted to be close enough to walk to campus, they’d have had limited options. Given the convenience, Wirt didn’t want to know how much the two of them had to cough up for rent each month.

“Um….”

“It wouldn’t kill you to reply to your text messages, you know.”

“I was…busy.”

“And avoiding me.”

“And me,” Jazz piped up as she walked out to join them in the tiny entryway. “What do you want to drink, Wirt?”

“Uh….”

“I’ll get you some water.” She disappeared back the way she’d come, presumably to the kitchen. Wirt slid off his shoes and shrugged off his coat, which Wendy hung in the closet.

Two steps took him to the entryway of the kitchen, and if he didn’t turn, he’d head straight for the living room. He hesitated until Wendy pushed him gently from behind, prodding him forward. “Comfy chairs,” she said.

The chairs would feel more comfortable if he wasn’t walking into an interrogation. Jazz fished out a coaster from beneath a psychology text book and set a glass of water down on it beside him, and she sat in the chair on the other side of the end table. Wendy snagged a rolling chair from a desk, wheeling it over to join them. Neither of the girls spoke.

“Um. I wasn’t, uh, avoiding you guys.”

Jazz’s eyebrows shot up. “Weren’t you? Really, Wirt, you can tell me. I grew up in Amity Park. I have seen unbelievable.”

That might be so, but he’d never heard of Amity Park.

Wendy stretched, cracking her knuckles. “Gravity Falls isn’t without its stories, either.”

He stared at them. “Wait. This isn’t still about that story I wrote about the Unknown, is it?”

“I don’t know, is it?” Jazz asked, turning the question back on him. “I rather thought it was about whatever you were researching in the library. Clearly, though, if the Unknown is involved—”

Why had he ever opened his mouth? He knew what her major was. “It’s not.” That was unconvincing even to his own ears.

“But you brought it up.”

“She mentioned stories!” He pointed at Wendy, desperate for an out. She was just smirking and enjoying the show.

“But you immediately thought of the Unknown.”

Wirt was pretty sure Jazz had handed him the shovel and he was halfway into digging his own grave. “Because someone would never let that drop. A couple someones, actually.”

“So Wendy and Toby have mentioned it recently?”

“Well, yeah.” Wirt stopped.

Thought about it for a moment.

They hadn’t.

Not for a couple of weeks, at the very least. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard them harp on about it since he’d seen the whatever-it-was. He hadn’t been spending a lot of time with either of them, too focused on figuring out what the heck he’d seen and not failing his classes in the meantime.

And from the look on Jazz’s face, she knew that perfectly well.

“Okay, so maybe not,” amended Wirt, even though he knew he was well past six feet under, “but it’s definitely been too often for something that should have been forgotten. Seriously. It was just a creative writing assignment. No one’s made a big deal about any of the others.”

“Maybe the others had a different sort of truth to them than this one did.”

Wirt frowned. “Wait, you haven’t read it, have you?” She shouldn’t have. He’d never shown her. But he didn’t trust Wendy.

“I know enough about it,” Jazz said, which wasn’t really an answer because she could know enough about it if Wendy had told her or if Wendy—or, heck, maybe even Toby—had broken into his laptop and emailed her the file or copied it to a flash drive or something.

“It’s. Just. A. Story.” He was tired of repeating himself.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Jazz said, leaning back in her chair. Wirt blinked. “How about I tell you a story, though?”

“Wait, what?”

“Can I tell you a story?”

He didn’t have time for this. That essay wasn’t going to finish itself. But…. “Like, a story story or—?”

Jazz smiled. “A ghost story.”

He couldn’t tell if she was kidding. A quick glance at Wendy confirmed she hadn’t expected this, either. Still, she looked…interested, leaning forward and finally focusing on Jazz instead of him.

“Amity Park has its share of ghost stories,” Jazz added when he didn’t stop her.

He still couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. Was she just making stuff up to try to get him to talk? He hadn’t framed the Unknown as a ghost story for his assignment, but in hindsight it could’ve been read like that. And she had caught him looking up different types of ghosts….

“They say the veil is thin there,” Jazz said, a quirk about her lips hinting at some inside joke. Wendy didn’t seem to get it, either. Frankly, Wirt was surprised she didn’t know the whole story already. He’d kinda figured she’d have gotten it out of Jazz by now—especially if she’d found Jazz’s hidden weapons in less than a week.

…Was this why Jazz had weapons in the first place?

“Natural portals are abundant. Not between this world and the next, but between our world and the Ghost Zone, the realm where ghosts dwell—the ones not trapped on our plane of existence, anyway. One day, a pair of well-meaning scientists decided to set up shop and tear through the veil to create a doorway so that they could better study the world of ghosts. It wasn’t until after they’d succeeded that they realized the dangers of the other side.”

A ghost zone? Why not just call it the afterlife? Wirt opened his mouth, but Jazz held up a hand to silence him. “The people of the town adapted and even grew to accept the daily disruptions of ghost attacks.”

Daily? She was definitely making this up. He just had no idea why.

“But then one day, the Fright Knight arrived, heralding the return of his king and issuing a royal decree. Some of the people tried to fight back, and the entire town was punished for their efforts, completely subsumed by the Ghost Zone. The scientists were able to erect a protective barrier with the help of others, but they could not reverse the town’s transportation. They had been taken to another realm, and the town could not be restored by ordinary human means. Not alone.”

“Wait. You’re telling me an entire town got sucked into a different world?” Even for a story, it was a stretch. She had to know how that sounded. One or two people, even a larger group, sure. Fine. But an entire town? “I thought you were a psych major, not creative writing.” Although maybe this was why she wasn’t in creative writing. She had the basics down, but she went a little too far, even for the whole suspension of belief thing. The best ghost stories were the ones that could feasibly happen, that couldn’t quite be explained away by logic or circumstance.

Now, what had happened to him and Greg? Okay, so maybe it didn’t sound feasible to someone who thought it was just a story, but it had only been them, not everyone else who’d been in the graveyard. And the struggle of two people surviving a place like the Unknown made for a better story than an entire group who brought various eclectic skills to the table. Stories were better when there was a sense of risk, not a certainty of eventual triumph.

Sure, the fact the town couldn’t be restored ‘by ordinary human means alone’ or whatever was probably meant to build suspense, but she wasn’t—

“Trust me, she’s a psych major,” Wendy said. “Now stop interrupting. Was there some kind of prophecy? There must have been if you couldn’t just fight your way out, right?”

Why…why was Wendy talking like this was something that had really happened to Jazz? Like it was a normal thing? Like she’d gone through something similar where there had been a prophecy, and it had been important, since without it, she—and whoever else—couldn’t fight her way out? Jazz had straight up said it was a ghost story.

Her names could use work—Ghost Zone? Fright Knight?—but then again, they might not be her names. If she wasn’t making this up, if she had heard the story as a kid or at summer camp or something, then it would be easier to keep the names the same rather than change them and forget what she’d called things mid-story.

He wasn’t convinced she wasn’t trying to make some point with this, though. When Wendy had read his story, she’d wondered if he’d been talking about death. About the afterlife. He couldn’t blame her, given that he’d still called it the Unknown, but—

“To start everything,” Jazz allowed. “Prophesized power begins this story, really. Greed for it awakened the king from his slumber in the first place.”

Okay, so probably not making it up on the spot unless she was really good at that kind of thing. He didn’t know her well enough to tell. He couldn’t think on his feet half as well as Greg, but it was a good skill to have, and if she was planning on being a psychologist, it would make sense that she could adapt to whatever was thrown at her better than other people.

“But the prophecy didn’t end it? Didn’t hint at a way to defeat the king?”

“Only what must be done was known, not how it would be accomplished.”

“Well, teamwork, obviously,” Wirt said. That’s how these things went. Especially when there was a townful of people to help.

“More calling truces, uniting foes against a common enemy, and fighting for survival and a way of life as much as for friends and family, but yes. Teamwork. Pariah Dark could never have been defeated by any one person alone, nor even by a small group.”

Maybe this was some old camp story and she’d just changed it to a town from a bunch of campers to make that fact less obvious. It had a moral to it and everything. Work together, help each other out. Maybe even unite against an opposing cabin despite initial opposition within. Jazz might’ve spent a summer as a counsellor somewhere. It would’ve given her an opportunity to work with kids from various backgrounds, which would stand up as good experience when she got to job hunting.

And it would explain why she seemed to know this story so well.

“But sometimes it’s a small group or one person who makes all the difference in the world,” Wendy said softly. “When it comes down to the wire and greater risks need to be taken. Sometimes, only one person can choose to make that sacrifice, even when others want to help.”

Jazz raised her eyebrows, and Wendy’s defensive barrier immediately fell back into place as she sat up. “What? Wirt’s the only one allowed to predict how this went down?”

Seriously, why was she saying that like it had happened?

“Of course not,” Jazz said. “I just…hadn’t realized.”

Hadn’t realized what?

“Anyway, keep going.”

No. Wait. Hadn’t realized what? What was he missing?

“It’s like you said. They came together, friend and foe alike, and helped turn the tide. There was even one who sacrificed more than the rest, and, really, it is that smaller group you mentioned that ensured he didn’t lose everything in the process.” Jazz shrugged. “But it’s just a story.”

“But….” No. She wanted him to ask. She must. That’s why she’d cut things off so abruptly. If he asked, he’d be playing right into whatever trap she’d set. Because there had to be something. He’d walked into enough of them already to know that.

Maybe Wendy didn’t believe this as much as she seemed to and was just playing off Jazz. To get to him. And get him to…something. He wasn’t even sure. What did they want, for him to admit that the Unknown wasn’t just a story? Why? So they could laugh at him for believing such a thing? That didn’t make sense. They weren’t cruel.

So what were they really after?

Wirt suddenly realized Jazz and Wendy were staring at him, waiting for him to continue. He swallowed. “Um, I mean, stories, ah, sometimes have a bit of truth in them, and….” And something. He didn’t know where he’d been going with that. Nowhere, probably.

Jazz smiled. “Exactly.”

Wait.

“What’s the truth in your story, Wirt?”

He’d walked right into that, hadn’t he?

Maybe he could still pull this off and convince them to drop it for good. “That I had fun imagining it?” he offered. He needed them to believe him when he said it was just a story.

“Ideas come from somewhere,” Wendy pointed out.

Of course she wouldn’t drop it. That would be too easy. “Yeah, a dream, but who knows before that. I just remembered some of what I’d been dreaming about and made up what I didn’t.”

For a split second, identical expressions of fear passed over the girls’ faces.

And then they both managed to school their expressions into a more normal response, mainly boredom (Wendy) and allowance (Jazz).

He had no idea what they’d been thinking.

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

He had a feeling he’d find out eventually, though. One way or another. He just wished he knew now whether or not they were in this together. They probably were—Jazz was still more acquaintance than friend in his book, since he didn’t know her that well, despite whatever this was—but if they were, why hadn’t Jazz filled Wendy in on her plan? And if they weren’t, why would Jazz bother with any of this in the first place?

This didn’t make sense.

Wirt drained half his water, just so he didn’t have to fill the silence, but that only gave Jazz the opportunity to ask, “Do you dream like that often?”

“What?” It was a weird question. “You mean like where I remember it, right? Aren’t we supposed to dream every night even if we don’t remember them?”

Jazz just smiled.

“Well…no? I don’t usually remember my dreams. I guess I just woke up at the right time with this one.”

They looked relieved.

Why did they both look relieved?

“Do you ever have lucid dreams?” pressed Jazz. “Where you’re aware that you’re dreaming and can take control of it?”

He had no idea where this line of questioning was supposed to be going. “No. I mean, maybe once, just kinda steering away from a nightmare if that counts, but I don’t know for sure. Nothing that I really remember.”

“How often do you have nightmares?”

That one came from Wendy, and it was seemed to add credence to the idea that they were working together after all. “Not really often? I don’t remember the last one I had.” Because he was certain that he’d really seen something, that it hadn’t just been a nightmare. It couldn’t have been. Not when the note had been there the next morning. “C’mon, guys, what’s this about? You have to know how weird all this sounds.”

“This is your standard for weird, then,” Jazz said, as if that clarified something.

“Well, yeah? It would be anyone’s standard, wouldn’t it?”

Wendy glanced at Jazz. “Kinda makes him seem sweet and innocent for thinking that, doesn’t it?”

Okay, that confirmed it. They were in this together. And trolling him. They had to be.

Wirt got to his feet. “Look, this has been…fun, I guess, but I really need to finish my essay. Are you satisfied that I’m not avoiding you now?”

“Answer your text messages like the normal person you claim to be,” Wendy shot back, “and then I’ll believe that.”

Wirt rolled his eyes. “Fine, but don’t expect instant responses. Like I said, I’m busy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Jazz was smiling again as she rose to join him, but he couldn’t see falsehood hidden behind it. Maybe she was just a genuinely cheerful person. Or, more likely, she was deeply amused by his reaction to all of this. “Thanks, Wirt. You’ve been a great help.”

A great help for what?

“A good sport,” Wendy agreed. She didn’t move from her chair. “Don’t be a stranger, Wirt. You and Toby can come over for supper on the weekend if you want. I’m teaching Jazz to cook, but I promise she’s past the point of accidentally poisoning you.”

“I’m not that bad.”

Wendy snorted. “You ate raw pierogies and then asked me if they were supposed to be that hard.”

“That was one time.”

“Yeah? Well, just because you cut the mouldy part off the tomatoes—or anything else—it doesn’t mean the rest is fine.”

“Um. I think I’ll pass on your home cooking,” Wirt said, overriding Jazz’s mutters about not being used to food lasting long enough to spoil like that. “I’m on the meal plan anyway, just like everyone else in res.”

“Like that’s any better. I may not eat there, but I’ve heard stories.”

“It’s better than your food was at the beginning of the year,” Wendy pointed out. “And don’t even get me started on your scavenging skills. If you were left on your own in the woods, you’d eat something poisonous the minute you started looking for food.”

Jazz frowned but didn’t deny it, which probably meant her scavenging skills were on par with his. “Just face it, Wendy. We’re not all going to survive the apocalypse,” joked Wirt.

She glared at him. “At least Jazz can hit a target.”

“That took me a while,” allowed Jazz, “but ghost hunting pays off.”

No. She was kidding. He knew that. He’d started it. He’d opened the door with the apocalypse quip. Of course she’d walked through it. She was friends with Wendy. Roommates. Which had to rub off. That comment had nothing to do with her old campfire story.

…Right?

-|-

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#danny phantom #gravity falls #otgw #trollhunters #crossover #fanfiction #my writing #ladylynse #snippets #crossover snippet #dp snippet #gf snippet #otgw snippet #trollhunters snippet #(shh I know that's not the plural of pierogi)#(but I say it with an s so that's how I spelled it)

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kootenaygoon · 6 years

Photo

Somebody who isn’t there

by Will Johnson

This story was originally published in OCW Magazine

The walls of our tent throbbed like the wet insides of a womb. Rain hammered against the thin fabric. Huddled with me in the darkness, Cat squished a pinch of salvia into a black pipe. She was a shadow, a warm wetness pressed against me. The wind outside sounded supernatural. We were on the top of a mountain just outside Dawson City, nearing midnight.

Cat rustled around in her jacket for a lighter. “I’ll meet you at the ocean,” she said. Our song.

Cat wore a damp hooded sweatshirt and a woolly toque, her dirty jeans bunched up on her mud-speckled hiking boots. She lay in my lap with her head against my chest and inhaled deeply. The smoke licked out of her wet mouth. She coughed hard, passed me the pipe.

I thumbed the lighter and felt smoke fill my lungs. Lightning spots erupted in my vision. With an exhalation I sank into my sleeping bag and let the pipe fall to the moist floor.

Cat began to squirm. She interlocked her fingers with mine. She tossed her head from one side to the next and made gasping, croaking, whistling noises. Her body trembled.

I didn’t feel anything.

“Cat,” I said. “Cat, I don’t think it worked.”

She couldn’t hear me. She writhed up until her damp cheek pressed against my neck.

“Cat, I don’t feel it,” I said.

With her sweaty hands squeezed tight in mine, I realized I couldn’t reach her. At least for the next few moments, she was gone. I could smell her scalp, her neck, her skin. I could feel her hands and hold her against me but she simply wasn’t there.

***

I’ve collected so many stories about Cat it’s hard to keep track of them all. Spend enough time with me and you’ll hear me repeat the same ones over and over again. I perfect my timing with each recounting. I add and drop details. I streamline the narrative.

It started at a hostel in the Yukon, when she sunk down across the dining room table from me and introduced herself. I was tinkering away on my computer, having just finished my first day as the summer intern for the Whitehorse Star.

We had a quick chemistry. I liked the way she languidly sprawled her arms out on the table. She swore loudly. Her upper lip curled high up over her teeth when she smiled. She made me feel like an exotic animal, like being a writer was the most peculiar thing she’d ever heard of. When I asked her why she left Powell River, she laughed.

“In that town, you either get knocked up or you get out,” she said.

I wrote down her words in my little black journal. In school I’d learned how to identify pertinent quotes. When she told me she had run away from her ex-boyfriend, I was already filling in the gaps of her back-story. I had come to the Yukon expecting some sort of spiritual retreat. Cat seemed dissatisfied in all the ways I wanted to be. We walked along the Yukon River as the last sheets of ice slowly sagged into the water.

Cat wore baggy sweaters and toques that hung low over her eyes. We were watching the current from the riverside hiking trail when she told me that she was gay. She’d been with guys in the past, but now she was only interested in girls.

“Girls are easy,” she said. “I don’t like all the bullshit.”

This was just another reason to be intrigued by her. It gave my story colour. I could come home at the end of the summer and tell my friends I’d fallen in love with a lesbian. But she seemed to think I was the exciting one. She asked about my life at the University of Victoria. I delivered carefully rehearsed monologues about drunken fights, about my friends from home, about girls I had dated.

We went to the pool together. We spent half an hour lazing in the shallow end. Beads of water trickled down her forehead, collected in her eyebrows.

“Just so you know, I’m not going to fuck you,” she said.

She smiled at me, then stood up and headed for the change rooms.

***

Sometimes I worry that I’m just a dancing bear. Before I met Cat, it had been years since I’d had a girlfriend. I felt incapable of making real human connections. I was insecure about my round belly, my reasonably normal upbringing, my comfortable lifestyle. I wanted to be complicated.

Cat was lying naked on my stomach when I told her this. “I kind of like your big belly,” she said. “I like that you’re a dancing bear.”

I’d come back to the hostel half drunk a week earlier. We made out on her bed, pawed at each other playfully. I unclasped her bra, but she insisted on keeping her jeans firmly in place. It wasn’t until I passed out that she slinked out of them. I woke up to find her groping around inside my boxer shorts.

She was filling in for the hostel manager the next night, and was staying in the private upstairs bedroom. Down the hall were rows of bunk beds full of sleeping travellers. We worried that our creaking would disturb their sleep. We switched from one position to the next, always stopping when the bed started to buck and bang.

“Let’s just do it on the fucking floor,” she said.

The next morning the hostel manager showed up while we were still in bed and Cat was fired.

I found an apartment in town and Cat stayed with me. We sank into a comfortable routine. Each morning the ethereal Yukon sunlight would overwhelm my bedroom and I would slip out from underneath the covers. I was surprised by how quickly I became accustomed to waking up beside someone. When she wasn’t there I would swoop my arm under the blankets, disappointed to feel nothing but sheets.

***

Cat had mentioned her past relationship with Sean briefly, but he seemed like a footnote in her narrative. I felt like nothing could disturb our Northern refuge. But one day in June he tossed some clothes into a backpack and bought a plane ticket to Whitehorse.

When Cat heard, she couldn’t tell anyone what was going on. Instead she sprinted to her bike and took off. I chased after her. After about ten minutes of biking in circles, Sean called her name from down the sidewalk. Her head whipped in his direction.

“Turn around, Will. Please, just go,” she yelled.

She tossed her bike to the ground and ran to his arms. I watched them kiss. It was a sickeningly perfect moment.

Sean was an easy villain. He was brawny, bearded and dumb. He worked as a bartender and had simple interests, according to Cat. He liked drinking, fucking and playing pool. They had lived together for months and he cheated on her multiple times.

“Girls just can’t say no to him,” she told me. “He could have anyone. The only reason he wants me is because he can’t have me.”

I hated competing with him. He had grown up in Powell River and knew stories about Cat I would probably never hear. He teased her and poked her in the ribs. She glanced guiltily in my direction whenever she laughed.

“Why do I have to choose a life?” she asked me.

She started smoking. She stopped sleeping. When I asked her if she loved him, she nodded sadly. She wondered aloud what would happen if he stayed.

She took Sean back to the airport a little more than two weeks after he arrived. I could hardly believe my luck. I couldn’t wait until we could both forget that he ever came. This was just an unfortunate chapter in our story. But the first time I went to kiss her, she turned away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The rest of the summer Cat had a quiet torment behind her eyes. She holed up in an apartment on the outskirts of town. She smothered pieces of paper in charcoal rainbows and drug-induced paint soup. By the end of August we were both miserable. I dropped her off on the side of the Alaska Highway. She planned to hitchhike back to Vancouver.

I saw her stick up her thumb in my rearview mirror as I drove away.

***

I started writing our story when I got back to UVic in September. I published a column about her in the student newspaper and got a piece published in a literary journal. Cat had become an almost mythical character in my mind—a tortured, mysterious loner. I loved her contradictions, loved the way I could never quite reach her. Somehow the more fucked up she was, the more I liked her.

She came to visit me in Victoria before she left to travel overseas. It felt strange to see her in a new setting. She ambled up to me on campus, and it was like meeting someone who had wandered out of a dream.

My friends had already heard all the stories. There was the time we went swimming in a frozen lake. Or the time we jumped of a cliff in Miles Canyon. One of my favourites was the time she asked me to shave her head. They listened, amused, as I constructed my tragic love story.

Cat called me from the airport the day she left for Europe. “I’ll send you an e-mail when I get there, dancing bear,” she said.

My friends all thought our relationship was dysfunctional, but I convinced myself I didn’t have a choice. I was stuck being in love with her. Sometimes I hoped I’d meet someone else, but most of the time I was comfortable getting random e-mails and postcards. I told a friend how I felt once.

“Sometimes it’s easier to love someone who isn’t there,” she said.

***

Sometimes I wonder if I invented Cat. When I look at pictures of her, she looks hopelessly ordinary. She has innocent blue eyes, soft blond hair. She looks like about twenty different girls from my high school.

But I’ve seen her jump off bridges into roiling rivers. She once lay topless in my lap for an hour in the middle of a public park. She’s worked in a carpet museum in Turkey and an elephant sanctuary in Thailand. She’s five years younger than me, yet she’s managed to work her way through nearly twenty countries in Europe, the Middle East and Southeast Asia. She sends me postcards from Lebanon, Georgia, Vietnam. Sometimes there are only a few swords scribbled on them. Other times she scrawls intricate labyrinthine doodles. I often wonder if I love her just because I want to be her.

Every time I haven’t seen her for a while, I’m a little startled to discover that she’s human. I’m surprised by how familiar she feels. I recognize her musk, the ways her fingers hang loosely in mine. The first time she returned from a trip overseas, I was waiting at the Vancouver Airport. She loped out of the terminal with a relieved smile and an overloaded backpack. She smelled like incense and smoke. She tasted like someplace far away. In my car we sat with our foreheads together, trembling. I dragged my bottom lips over hers.

“Hey you,” she said. “Been a while.”

***

I have a picture of Cat in my scrapbook. I took it on an August afternoon. She’s dancing on a small beach in Brentwood Bay. The sun glints off the water. Her nose and chest are sunburned and freckled. She smiles like she just told a naughty joke, her head swept up in triumph. Beads of ocean water dribble down from her tiny breasts to her taut stomach. Her nipples have small barbells through them. Her pubic hair is soft fuzz.

We drove along the Patricia Bay Highway on my scooter that day. She sang at the top of her lungs, her voice lost in the wind rushing by our helmets.

“’Tis a gift to be simple, ‘tis a gift to be free, ‘tis a gift to come down where we ought to be, and when we find ourselves in the place just right, we’ll be in the valley of love and delight,” she sang. It’s an old hymn she loves.

Days like this make me want to hang on to her.

***

Cat and I planned a vacation together during my reading break. Things had been going well since she’d gotten back from her second trip, and I was getting used to her phone calls from Powell River. She showed up in Victoria, only to inexplicably break down in bed beside me late that night.

“I can’t explain,” she said. “Not everyone can talk like you can.”

I convinced her to come to Tofino as planned, and we spent a day driving up island. She sat backwards in the passenger seat, carefully rolling a joint. We got stoned in Duncan and listened to music until we got to Ucluelet. She rested her hand lightly in mine.

I was excited to introduce her to my friends. But when we went out for sushi she just pushed a spicy scallop roll around on her plate. She carefully dissected it and ate it with her fingers.

“I’m going home,” she told me. “You can drive me or I can hitch.”

She hated that my friends were so interested in her; that they already knew so much about her life. She didn’t feel like she deserved the attention.

“You’ve built me up so much I can never live up to it,” she said. “I can’t fucking deal with it.”

I agreed to drive her to Port Alberni. On the way I stopped at North Chesterman Beach. We looked out at the grey ocean. Surfers paddled lazily a few hundred feet out. They bobbed in and out of sight. Cat sat on a beach log, her hood up around her face.

We started arguing on the side of the road when we got to town. She wrenched the door of my car open, snatched her backpack and hurried down the sidewalk. I threw the car in park and ran after her.

“Listen, let’s just forget this. Okay? I’m not mad, let’s not say goodbye like this. Please?” I said. “It was a shitty trip. We’ll get over it, okay? I love you.”

It was the middle of the afternoon and the sidewalk was crowded. Cat didn’t slow her pace. I glanced around, saw people parking their cars in front of Safeway and coming out of 7-11 with coffee. Cars swished by. My narrative was falling apart.

“I don’t want this. Why do you even bother with me?” she said, pausing for a moment to spit her words at me.

“Not everything is a fucking story, Will.”

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itriednottothinkaboutit · 7 years

Text

Day 1: At Watford

This is my first Carry On ficlet (it’s more like a Simon POV ramble) — I hope you enjoy it! 1695 words.

Before

I thought it was a coincidence. The moment the thing inside me let loose (the red hot spiky thing that felt like a hand pushing my face under water and blood rushing in my ears louder than 100-foot drop waterfall), the heat pipes in the room burst and the sprinklers went off and the fire alarms kept blaring because the room was filled with smoke even though I couldn’t see any fire but I could smell it despite the water pouring down on our heads. There was screaming, naturally. And all the chaos you’d expect with four adults trying to evacuate twenty or so orphans with any semblance of order amidst a freak explosion of unknown origin. What ever happened to “stop, drop and roll”? “Duck and cover”? “Keep calm, carry on?” “Standard emergency procedures?” It was more like “Everyone yell as loud as you can and try to get the hell out of here right quick we need to take a headcount where the hell is the bloody fire brigade we’re all going to die so unbridled panicking is clearly the only option!”

Coincidence my arse.

My bunkmate at the time was a real rodent-faced bully named—get this—Rabbit. (Don’t think that was his given name unless his parents were real wackadoo hippy types so I can only assume he chose that noble moniker himself or it was foisted upon him as an insulting nickname and he chose to live with it and own it, which would have been cool if he weren’t such a sadistic prick). He was all pale and jumpy and the whites of his eyes always looked a little pink and he had really unfortunate stick-out-y ears and was probably the fastest kid in the home on the football pitch that year so it made a certain level of sense. Anyway, I hated him. I’d just turned 11, he was 13 and we were made to share a bunk in a room with two other lads. My strategy as far back as I could remember was the nose-down, keep-to-yourself, don’t-get-noticed method when it came to potential bullies but Rabbit had it out for me from the first day he moved in and tried to force me to give up my rightfully earned bottom bunk (which I had already set up with towels/jumpers hanging round for privacy curtains and all my pictures taped up to the wall). When I refused, he got all up in my face and the next thing I know we’re having it out and I accidentally slam him into a rung on the bunk’s ladder causing him to chip his front tooth (which gave him even more of a rabbit look, come to think). You’d think after that inauspicious beginning the powers that be would have thought it wise to switch his room, but no, not only did they keep us as bunkmates but I had to give up the bottom bunk and had my sports and telly privileges revoked for a month and was told that if I was caught fighting ever again they’d put me in for another transfer. Rabbit and I kept fighting after that but just not with any adults around. It was never that I wanted to—I honestly avoided him as much as I could—but the whole bunkmates thing put a damper on that particular strategy. The day the pipes exploded, Rabbit had me pinned to the ground and was performing his patented “B.B.” move (short for Bollocks Buster…not much further explanation needed) which in addition to the knee-to-bollocks situation also involved this Chinese water torture-style loogie move where he would let a bit of spit dangle slowly above my face while I could do nothing but squirm under the weight of his loathing and his muscles that had had two whole years more than mine to get to the point where it was not only easy but fun for him to ruthlessly torment a younger and smaller boy. I hated him so much right then and I wanted him off of me so badly I thought I would explode. And then I kind of did. Along with all the heater pipes on the 2nd floor of the care home.

After

After the explosion, after the funny guy with the long beard and posh accent and green cloak and weird tool belt showed up to let me know I’d be enrolling in a special school for kids with extraordinary talents like mine (‘What talents?’ I’d asked, genuinely curious because I’m rubbish at maths and only so-so at sports but he just smiled all Chesire Cat like and patted his chest and said ‘The talents right here’ as if that was any help at all) and after I was pretty sure he wasn’t a psycho here-kid-have-some-candy-it’s-in-my-van type because the other adults seemed to trust him (I suppose he brought some legitimate birth certificate papers with him though I’ve never seen them) and because he knew all about me, knew every home I’d lived in, every school I’d attended, and knew things sometimes spontaneously combusted when I was around (I’d thought I just had terrible luck with being around faulty explosion-prone electronics but it turns out I was the one doing the exploding, go figure), after he explained to me about Normals vs Magicians and told me I was ready to return at last to my rightful place in The World of Mages (which is not actually a “real” magical place, like how Narnia is, but more like a secret society, which was wicked confusing at first) and that he would be taking me to a place called Watford School of Magicks, (which is actually a real place) and that Watford would be my real home, if I wanted it be, for the next eight years. After my heart did a funny terrible leap thing when he said the words ‘real home’ and he gave me the choice whether to stay or go with him, after he gave a name to that ferocious monster-fireworks-lightning storm feeling inside me and called it ‘magic’, after I decided to believe him and trust him 100%, after I let myself, after we packed up all my worldly possessions and stuffed them in a duffel bag and traveled further than I’d had my whole life and ended up at the iron gates of an honest-to-god castle with an honest-to-god moat and flying buttresses and all that Medieval stuff, after I’d had my first taste of Watford food and nearly lost my god-damn head from how incredible it tasted, after it seemed liked I’d finally managed to scrape a bit of luck for the first time in my life and thought I might actually have a shot at a bit of happiness after all because as far as I could tell Watford was the happiest place in this world or any world full stop. It was only after all that that I realized I’d be forced to live with a roommate again who disliked me the minute he clamped eyes on me. I guess some things never change.

At Watford

At Watford, the parts of me that didn’t make sense before, the thing inside me that felt out-of-joint and freakish and too much pressure to stay locked up inside the walls of my body, well, that part of me still doesn’t make a ton of sense here but it’s at least more socially acceptable when I go off than it did when I was around Normals. (And the heater pipes must have some special magickal protection because they’ve never combusted around me here. Yet).

At Watford, I’ve got Penny. And Agatha. And The Mage. And Ebb and the goats. I’ve got The Sword of Mages, which comes when I call it. I’ve got lessons (and Penny to help me try to be less rubbish at lessons). Sometimes I’ve got football. Sometimes I’ve got VIP missions for The Mage. Sometimes all of Watford and everything and everyone in it feel like a part of me. Even Baz, as much as I’m loathe to admit it.

Oh yeah, at Watford, I’ve got Baz. Even though I can’t really help that part. (It’s the damn Crucible’s fault). At Watford, I’ve got our room. The same room I’ve lived in the whole time I’ve been here. (I never had one place that was mine for that long before).

Rooms at the care homes were made of cinder blocks and had terrible florescent lighting and stains on the carpet and of course, the dreaded bunk beds. Some of the homes were better than others in trying to make the atmosphere cozier but the vibe across the board was more bunker/prison cell than Martha Stewart. We could put things up on the wall of course, which I did at first, until another kid tore it down or vandalized it or made fun. I learned pretty early on that it was best to keep the things I really cared about hidden.

At Watford, I’ve got a whole en suite (well, Baz and I have got a whole en suite). I’ve got a feather bed and a bathroom to ourselves (with a tub with claws and everything!) and a window that overlooks the moat and a desk and a wardrobe for my uniforms. The floors and furniture are made of dark, gleaming wood. The type of buttery wood you just want to rub your hands all over. I wish my cross was made out of the same dark wood, but it’s metal. (I should look into that, whether a wood cross would be a vampire deterrent or not. Probably not).

At Watford, I’ve got my (technically unconfirmed) suspicion that I’ve a roommate who’s a vampire that would love nothing more kill me and take down The Mage and all he stands for. Funny enough, I still prefer that over Rabbit.

At Watford, I’ve got the Humdrum after me and the mysterious magic holes and the prophecy to live up to. I’ve still got to fight. A lot. (Some things really do never change). But I have something now I didn’t have before. Hope.

#carry on countdown #coc 2017 #simon snow #carry on fic #mine

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thatlittledevil-blog · 7 years

Text

Previous posts under jump.

The old studio was so quiet now. It used to be so full of life, Sammy working on his music, the ink department working away, photography clicking away at the cels. But now it was so quiet. The floorboards creaked under him as he moved down the narrow hallway, the sound of his breath keeping him going. The weight of the axe in his hand only lent so much comfort before his thoughts wandered. Why the hell had Joey brought him back here? What the hell was that thing that was after him? Or those things that had attacked him back in the sound studio? What the hell had those things even done to Sammy? There were too many questions, too much walking to get to them. But nevertheless he kept walking, the sounds of the floorboards fading as he got lost in his thoughts, becoming dangerously oblivious. And it was a dangerous, dangerous place to be oblivious. Soon, his footsteps were almost completely quiet, as if he was walking in a carpeted hall. If he’d chanced to look down, he might have seen how the gaps between the old boards were becoming bigger, more starkly-defined, as ink started to ooze, dribble by drip, up through the cracks. The knotholes started to weep ink, running into a chain of dull puddles that trailed him, silently, down the hall. Henry was just wondering the fates of the other coworkers he left behind, trying to keep mental note of who he'd seen since the split, who he knew was ok, when a wet footstep, so out of place to the sounds he was used to, hit his ears. He looked down at the ink pooling around his already stained to hell shoes. Fingers tightened around the axe in his hand as Henry turned, expecting to face more of those things that had attacked him in the sound studio. Nothing. No noise, no movement. The hallway was as silent as an empty throat. The only sign of pursuit was his own inky footsteps, the track reaching right up to his heels. Henry expelled a deep breath when nothing met him. At this point he was surprised this place was still standing with all the forced machinery and the ink leaking everywhere. He'd already given up on saving his clothes and shoes long ago. His eyes followed the trail. Wary now, Henry turned back around, holding his axe closer now as he took a few steps forward, then quickly looked back. Still nothing but his own footprints. Sighing, Henry pushed aside the inkling that he might just be going mad and focused on continuing down the hall. Behind him, the trail of footsteps started to disappear. They faded one by one, for all the world as if the wood had sucked them back under. The track erased itself a little quicker than he walked, so that by the time he’d nearly reached the door at the end of the hall, they were all gone. His attention fixed ahead, Henry had no way of seeing this odd little show… but he would have been hard-pressed to miss it when his footsteps overtook him, and pattered on, printing themselves one by one towards the far door. Behind him, the trail of footsteps started to disappear. Henry stopped dead in his tracks as his own footprints walked on in front of him. He'd seen a lot of odd things since he’d first stepped back into the studio, but it seemed to keep finding new ways to send utter shivers down his back. Any sensible man would have turned and run, but Henry knew there was no turning back. He looked to the door, his memory of the studio layout dim, and the rubbed off nameplate on the door certainly wasn't helping. He reached for the doorknob, his other hand holding the axe ready as slowly he opened the door, trying to prepare himself for anything he might find. The doorknob was unpleasantly sticky to the touch, but it turned. The room on the other side looked fairly normal, or at least normal for a room in an old cartoon studio that looked as if it had been picked nearly clean years earlier. This might have been storage for equipment or archiving, lined with shelves, but by now most of the shelves were empty or dismantled. Their tall skeletal shapes cluttered up the room, turning what should have been a straight walk across into a shadowy maze. A faint hollow sound drifted from somewhere up above. Pipes settling under pressure, maybe, or something much less benign. Just what I needed, Henry thought to himself. Flickering, dim light bulbs overhead offered light, but little comfort as he found himself wishing for a flashlight. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for one as he started to squeeze behind a set of filing cabinets. Flecks of dust hung as he looked up, unable to see the high ceiling in the darkness. It could be hiding anything at this point. The footsteps tracked ahead of him, turned once, headed for a wall. At the skirting-board they didn’t hesitate, tracking on up the faded wallpaper and into the shadows that choked the ceiling. A gentle thudding, like water draining through ancient plumbing. Knowing this place, it probably wasn’t water at all. Another corner brought Henry to a clear space in the shelves, where a thick layer of yellowing paper lay scattered across the floor. As he drew nearer, ink started to drip from the darkness above and spatter across the paper at the very centre. The tickly pattering sped up, and then as if all the pigment from the phantom footsteps let go at once, the dripping became a rain, a heavy downspout that slurried across the paper in a fast-spreading pond. Henry felt his back press up to a row of shelves as the black rain spilled in front of him it seemed far too late to try and trek his way through the growing pool. The ink would slow him too much, make him too vulnerable to whoever those footprints belonged to. He measured up the empty shelves like ingredients one side of the spread, trying to figure out if he could somehow climb across them as the floor creaked under the weight of the growing mess of ink. The ink pooled out, threatening Henry’s splattered shoes. Just before it filled the clearing completely, the centre of the lake bulged, convex and pulsing, snapped upwards. A long sharp angle, bent like a fish-hook, snaked upwards and wrenched back with a nasty cracking sound, spraying ink in an arterial spatter. Mounds started to roll and lump up on the uppermost point. Slowly, the thing started to take the shape of a groping arm, long sagging clawlike fingers- a hand. Henry swore under his breath, holding the axe at the ready as he didn't bother to inspect the ink that spattered his shirt. He contemplated lashing out at whatever it was before it hit him first, yet he didn't move. The lights shuddered, a light rain of dust falling as the hand thudded against the floorboards, as if trying to find purchase against the slippery, slimy wood. A second arm clawed out of the pool and slapped palm-down on the boards, leaving a dark smear. The growth of the thing hurt the eyes and affronted the brain, seesawing between something taking shape from a lake of ink and something simply climbing out of a dark hole in the floor. Something like a head, two sharp horns like a crescent moon, a long, hunched torso. It was the thing from the Ink Machine again- the thing Sammy had been so eager to meet. It turned its head. The one thing it had- that it had a lot of- was teeth. The ink coursed down over its huge, fixed grin. It had no eyes, at least none that could be seen under the running mass of ink above the teeth, but somehow it seemed to be looking right at him. Henry scrambled, pressing even further back against the shelving and bracing his hand against it. There was a creak, followed swiftly by a sharp CRACK as Henry's weight blew out the shelves fasteners. He went down, his back painfully scraping against the lower shelf as stacks of paper and empty art supplies rained down on him. His vision cleared to find the thing looming over him. He looked to his hand for the axe, but all he found was a old model sheet under his hand, now marked with an inky hand print. His eyes flicked back to the entity, and something clicked. There was no way this thing could be... "Bendy?" The thing drew itself up, looming over him, and made a noise like a fingernail being dragged slowly down a pane of glass, scraping against the limits of human hearing. The last of the pool of ink drew itself up into its feet, leaving the boards black and dry like sticks of charcoal, and the teeth parted like a zipper and it screamed. Henry couldn't stand the sound, clapping his hands over his ears as empty jars around him developed cracks at the sheer force of the scream. He recognized he had to get away, and quick before the thing decided to stop screaming and start using its teeth instead. The axe had slid towards the thing’s forming feet. If he could just get to it- As soon as his hand started to move, the thing lashed out with a claw far too long and misshapen to be human and swatted the axe across the floor, fetching it up against the base of some shelves with a heavy clanng. The claw fell to the monster’s side, and it stepped forwards, heavily. One foot was twisted somehow, almost backwards, and dragged. With a lurch, it set the other cloven foot on Henry’s chest and leaned over him, drooling ink, grinning as the weight of its body bore down on the human’s gut. The weight pinned Henry to the floor, his chest struggling to heave under the massive weight of the formed ink, dangerously pooling over his neck and close to his mouth. It was making more sense now as he could see the thing bending over him, the two horns making the creatures identity firmer in his mind. It was a long shot, but seeing this thing didn't seem to have any other plans besides smothering him- "It's really you, isn't it?" Henry moved carefully so he could talk without the threat of the sticky ink pooling into his mouth. "God, Bendy, what did he do to you... this was him, yeah? Joey?" The thing drew back sharply, then gave a cracking, congested full-body jerk that shoved Henry flat on his back against the floor. It was making another sound, now- a clogged, livid growl. "Rrrrehhhhh... ghhhllrrrrhhh..." A dragging gurgle. "LllllhhhhrrRRRRRR..." Henry grunted as the thing pressed into him, eyes widening as the thing made more sounds. Was it really trying to respond to him? If he could keep it grunting it could buy him more time to get out of this... if his growing curiosity didn't make him stay that is. "Is... Is that a yes?" He kept his eyes focused on what he guessed was its head for any sign of a nod. The thing didn't nod, and any idea that it was simply offering a 'yes' evaporated in the next second as it bared its dripping teeth and snarled. The tone of the noise it was making shifted and broke, like punctuation, like a single word. "Llllllhhhhheye...rrrhhhhhh..." "Llllyyyyyre?" Henry repeated, trying to process the word and then it hit him.Liar. His head flashed back to the scrawlings on the wall before. "The creator lied to us." He had written that off as delusions from Sammy. He'd wished now that he had been right. "Wait, me?" He would have pointed to himself were his arm not pinned under a huge mass of oozing ink. He tilted his head, managing to look around the hissing beast. The axe had bounced off the shelf and landed close to his foot. A foot that wasn't trapped under the ink. Henry tried to keep his attention on 'Bendy' as he stretched his leg, toeing towards the axe, trying to reel it in "L-look, you probably got the wrong guy, I left the studio thirty years ago..." The thing didn't seem to notice Henry's careful inch towards the axe. It made a harsh gurgling sound and slammed its heavy right arm- was it an arm? It had something like a hand, with too many joints in too few fingers, parting and merging over and over- straight into the floor by Henry's head. The limb stretched and splattered on contact, but the floorboards splintered with the force of the blow. "Ah, you must mean me, then," Henry managed, wincing away from the blow, swallowing his fear. He felt his toe touch the axe. So close. "Look, whatever you are, and if you can understand me...." He stared straight into the things face and trailed off as a wave of familiarity washed over him. No. He just had to distract the thing "God you really do look familar-" It yanked back, taking a good chunk of floor with it, the clawlike hand full of shards of wood. The gurgling hiss grew louder, right to the point where it nearly sounded like words again. This time, though, the sound was unintelligible. It choked and spat ink, dragging great furrowed rents in the floor. Fury or frustration, it was hard to tell. Probably both. It was distracted just enough for Henry to reign the axe in under his foot. He waited for the thing to look away before he gave one good tug. The axe slid along the slippery wood floor and bounced against another shelf before Henry managed to grab it firmly in his hand. Mustering all his strength before the monster could realize what he was doing, he swung it at the limb that was holding him to the floor. He didn't feel the steel break through anything solid, yet the leg buckled a bit at the slice. Henry rolled out as best he could out from under it, trying to keep hold of the axe this time as he attempted to get to his feet as quickly as possible The creature made a horrible noise as the axe struck its leg. The weight left Henry's chest and it staggered, hunched against the badly-twisted shelf, claws on the metal sending syrupy rivulets of ink pattering from shelf to shelf towards the ground. For a few moments it was down, hurt, and a weird distorted sound crawled out of its clenched teeth. A whimper, maybe, pain and confusion in a blurry phantom voice. Henry was up and running, moving around the thing and heading for an opening in the opposite direction when the whimper hit his ear. The unexpected emotion made his feet stumble and trip over each other. He fell to a knee, his hand leaving a black smudge as it braced against a filing cabinet. Daring a glance back he could see the thing hunched over for a moment before it started to move again. Panicking, he turned to keep going, stepping over an old camera and heading towards another row of filing cabinets towards the back of the room. The thing was getting closer, Henry could feel it as He ran into the cabinets hands first. A yellowing label stared back at him. "Legal papers- studio staff" it read, barely visible in the dim light "Just great" Henry thought, unaware that his lips were moving as they spoke his thoughts aloud in frustration. "I'm going to die surrounded by reminders of Joeys backstabbing. Just great!!!” The creature lurched after him, leaving a glistening trail of ink. This was a dead end, no way out short of climbing the teetering shelves. The lights flickered crazily as it closed the distance. Did it hear him? Maybe. It drew itself up in its tracks, shuddering, then drew back a bulky, dripping fistful of claws. An attempt to climb only made an old handle threaten to break when Henry put his weight on it. He turned to face the oncoming monster, erratic glints reflecting off the axe as he held it defensivly. He spoke reflexivly as the thing reared, ready to strike "Bendy, stop!!" Silence. The monster's claw quivered, made a scary little twitch downwards, stilled. A short tense moment, and then it let out a strange sound and slammed the claw heavily into the floorboards. It was still frighteningly close. As the bulbs overhead sputtered and popped, it turned away, dragging its misshapen limb, snarling to itself. Henry flinched, bracing for the impact that never came. The thing had actually listened to him. Then that meant... Henry lowered his guard, keeping the axe tight in his hold only to hold it up again when the hand slammed close. "Geez! Careful!!" A testy noise from the thing made him ease off the anger for now. "Bendy...is this... But you're just some cartoon, not real!" He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself then the other. It growled, the long twisted arch of its back still towards him. Turning back, it made a convulsive rippling movement that looked weirdly familiar. It looked like the action of an animal - or even a human - gagging, trying not to be sick. Another full-body retch, and a dense glop of ink and something else that spilled from the melting face and splattered on the floor. The thing curled in on itself, either unable to see or for the moment uninterested in Henry or the soaking wad of what looked like paper lying in the splatter of ink between them. "Uh...." Henry stared down at the wad for a moment before slowly reaching, keeping an eye on Bendy at all times before he felt his hand touch at it. Snatching it up quickly Henry returned back to the cabinet. Eyes cast a wayward glance at the thing as he quickly unfolded it, Axe tucked under his arm. He paused, shaking it a bit and some loose globs of ink flew off the crumpled page and onto the floor. "Ew," Henry announced before looking to to read the ink-smeared document. Despite having been inside a being of ink, the document was surprisingly readable. Henry’s heart dropped when he recognized it. In his hand was a model sheet, or at least what used to be one. Someone had scribbled all over it. Pockets of scribbles and globs of ink dotted the Bendy turnaround, drawing something in a haphazard reflection of the monster that stood before him. "Bendy: perfect turnaround" had been scratched over the sheets title in handwriting that even through its shakiness Henry identified easily. "Joey... did he plan this? This isn't right at all..." He looked up to Bendy, "Maybe.... maybe I can fix you back on model... is that what you want?" The thing growled, a low and gurgling sound like thick liquid draining from a clogged sink. It might have been a response, but perhaps it had exhausted its conversational skills by forcing out that single word. Between the terrible yawn of barred teeth and the constant flow of ink, talking clearly wasn't its forte. Not any more, anyway. The gurgle grew lower as the thing swung away, flecking the dusty shelves with ink. Even without words, the noise was expressive. It sounded pained. "Well, hold on there-" Henry sat up, watching the thing turn. Sure it was a monstrosity, but he recognized the pain in its voice. He looked, finding a pencil that had rolled off the shelf when it buckled. Henry picked it up, looking to the sulking creature. Well, it wouldn't be the oddest thing he'd done today. Carefully, he moved to it, making sure the thing could hear his steps as he drew closer, raising the pencil. "Hold still for a minute, okay? I'm not gonna hurtcha." His hand felt practiced as he drew lines he hadn't drawn in decades, arm working instinctively as he detailed a well-known crescent shape. The pencil cut a small line into the mass of ink, some of the mas dripping on his hands. Immediately, the ink stopped dripping, instead rising to fill the groove and fanning outwards, creating a smooth surface on the inner portion of Bendy’s horns.

"Holy shit." The thing hissed and shrank under his pen, both flinching away and literally dwindling in size. Henry's lines seemed to constrain the large, ebbing, flowing mess of a shape, forcing it into a tighter, more compact mass. "Hold still-" he told it. The thing certainly didn't seemed pained by his work. He carefully ran his pencil along the side curvature of what formed into a loose, wobbly circle. He'd never drawn in three dimensional space before, but the ink seemed eager for direction. He stepped back after a moment, the creature now resembling a mass with a horned ball atop it, the face still a dripping mess with ink covering its eyes. "Alright, that feel a little better?" he asked. The space around Henry felt damp and hot and gritty, as if the ink was leeching into the air itself, burning off with a sickly smell like a lightbox running far too bright. The thing's newly-shaped head shuddered, dipping towards the floor as it hunched up and turned its melting face towards Henry. ".....prrhhhheeeeeezhh...." Henry’s heart ached for the thing. "Alright, hold on-" He knelt down on one knee. Cupping its head with one hand, he looked at the thing, mentally figuring out where the lines would go before he placed them. He didn't seem to mind the ink that oozed onto his hand as he made a decisive but gentle stroke, half of a widows peak. The flowing ink bowed to the line immediately, revealing what looked like a half-inked eye. He kept following the curvature of Bendys mask, finishing one side before he did the other, bringing needed symmetry. The rest was easy. Familiar ovals and pie shapes. A bending oval mouth. Lines for teeth. The ink followed his pen like it was acting under the influence of a strong magnet. The shape coalesced together more and more, faster and faster as if following some bizarre physics-defying momentum, until the hulking shape was barely up to Henry's knees and the pool of ink at his feet had been all but absorbed. The eyes, small and bright, blinked. The piano teeth parted, finally, and the thing coughed and spat ink, hunching and planting small hands- with distinct fingers now, and thumbs- on the floor. The heat in the room had reached a high point as the ink drew itself into a solid form, the sulphur scent hanging in the air. Henry hopped back instinctively when the thing hunched over, not that it would have made any difference if any of the coughed-up ink got on his shoes. He could barely believe what- who- was there, right in front of him. Someone he had given such a memorable portion of his life to was now living, breathing... and hurling ink on the wood floor. "...Bendy?" Bendy -and yes, it was finally impossible for Henry to identify the bizarre creature as anything or anyone else, at least in shape- pulled himself up, sharply, unsteadily. He had dwindled to a fraction of the monster's initial size, and had no choice but to look up at Henry, wobbling a little in a way that hurt the eyes at first, wiping a trail of black from the corner of his mouth. He had a face now, the bone-white, rounded shape that Henry had traced in the ink of his head. "Huh... hh... Henry?" "Bendy?" Henry echoed dumbly for a moment before he shook his head, bringing him back to this impossible present. "Holy shit, it is you! How- why-?" He realized as he spoke that his questions weren't any different than the questions he'd been asking about most everything since he arrived here, and his brain settled on one. "What the hell did Joey do?!" The living cartoon looked down at himself, holding up his own small paws for inspection. Toon hands, naturally, three fingers, one thumb. Pointy at the tips. He turned them over, made fists, then let them fall to his sides. "Joey drew," he said, as if it was an obvious statement. He reached behind his back and produced a pair of white gloves, began pulling them on as he spoke. Toon gloves, too, with neat little oval darts on the backs. "Not a bad sketch job, Hank. Con-siderin'. After all this time, I woulda thought you'd need a cheat sheet." "It's like riding a bike, one can never truly forget," Henry stammered, marvelling at the gloves taken from thin air. "God this... is this what all this is about? Joey was always a bit passionate, but I never thought he'd go and somehow make you real." Joey's 'perfect' model sheet was still lying on the ground between them, a crumply, inky mess. Bendy hooked it up and pulled it straight in both hands, the ink that saturated it somehow failing to even touch the immaculate gloves. "Life's just full of surprises, ain't it?" He tucked the paper away, presumably in the same place he'd found the gloves, then looked up at the man. In those first few moments after the change in shape, he'd looked bewildered, shocked even, to see Henry there- odd, considering the monster-Bendy had been stalking him ruthlessly all over the studio. Now, though, the bright little eyes narrowed, and the toon looked away. "Where is Joey? You seen him?" Henry himself was having a bit of whiplash, now having a civil conversation with something that had hissed the word "liar" in a thick gurgle mere minutes ago. He blinked, the question taking a moment to register. "I- I don't know. To be honest, finding him is one of the things that brought me here. He sends me a note telling me to come see the place next time I'm in town, next thing I know I find this whole place-" He glanced at the toons stylized horns "-has gone to hell!" "He invited you here?" Bendy, gloves on hips, was surveying the archive room, the labyrinth of shelves around them, the dented cabinets. "I guess I should apologize for givin' you the runaround. I figure I've not exactly been myself, lately." He squared up against a shelf and held up a hand at the level of his head for a moment, then glanced back, another bright, vindictive glance. "Made me kinda diminutive, didn't ya? Three heads nothin'? I guess I'm lucky you remembered how to draw me at all." Henry regarded Bendy cautiously as the toon casually brushed off its earlier pursuit of him. “Three heads works on paper, but a bit harder to remember when one is drawing in three dimensional space. But like I said, there are just some things you never forget." He looked to his forgotten axe on the floor and, as he pocketed his pen, moved to retrieve it. He had to admit, as wary as he was of Bendy, he couldn't help but marvel at the way he moved, so like the old frames he'd spent hours drawing. "Well. Neither of us are going to get any answers or find Joey hanging around here. We'd better find a way out."

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yourobedientslytherin · 7 years

Text

The Upper Hand: Jefferson x Reader {Part 3}

Part 1 | Part 2

Hamilton - Modern AU (Law School)

Jefferson x Reader

2404 words

Hey, guys! I just wanted to say wow I can’t believe people are actually reading this and, even more shocking, you actually like it! I’m having a blast writing this and the feedback I’ve been getting is super awesome. I hope you enjoy part 3!

With a groan Thomas throws the pen on his desk and rubs his eyes, cursing Y/N and her ambitious, overworking, 110% effort personality. The pressure she is putting on him combined with his other classload is starting to get to him. The two had had a total of four meetings after that first one, and each time she reminded him how much this project was worth and the amount of effort he needed to put into it (he can recite her inspiring (in her opinion) speech with her at this point). Doesn’t she know that he already puts a lot of pressure on himself in his studies? He didn’t become the second-ranked student in their class of 500 by smoking joints and partying all weekend or playing hacky sack or whatever she thinks he does in his spare time.

Her accidental admission of her class ranking had surprised him. He always assumed that she was average, maybe slightly above, that Hammy or one of the other HamilDorks helped her with her homework. Perhaps Thomas could find it in him to respect her enough to accept her suggestions and opinions about their project. She had definitely shown him that she was worth her salt by correcting his misinterpretation of a statute and quoting several laws and precedented cases from memory, which all helped strengthen their defense. One of the HamilDorks is actually useful—surprise!

He groans again just as James walks past his open door. His best friend/roommate lets out a chuckle and leans against the doorframe.

“Having problems?”

Thomas throws another pen against the wall over his desk, disappointed that it didn’t puncture a hole in the wall. “Yup.”

“Let me guess,” James says. “The little milkmaid from Kansas made another schedule for your case?”

For some odd reason, James’ condescending tone creates a little tickle of irritation in Thomas’ chest. His mind conjures an image of Y/N pulling her hair into a ponytail as she leans over her notes, her teeth working her rose-colored bottom lip as she concentrates. “She’s from Nebraska, James.”

“Does it matter?” he scoffs. “I think she needs to pull that stick out of her ass and relax. You’re top in the class. You’ll get it done no problem.”

Thomas clenches his fist and struggles to keep his voice even. “Perhaps you should focus on starting your own project, James. You know Hercules Mulligan isn’t going to be much help.”

He doesn’t see James furrow his eyebrows in thought, wondering why he is suddenly defending Y/N instead of joining in on making fun of her.

“You’re right,” James mutters after a pregnant pause. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with her tonight?”

In a panic, Thomas checks his watch, realizing that he’s lost track of time. It’s already eight. “Oh, shit!” he yells, hurriedly gathering his case papers and defense notes and shoving them into his bag. James thoughtfully observes Thomas as he quickly grabs a jacket and pulls on his shoes. His friend pauses in front of the mirror, runs a hand over his shortly cropped beard, and swats at a few rogue curls.

Thomas pushes past his roommate and jogs to the door, pulling it open hurriedly when his phone rings. He answers it, standing in the doorway to their two-bedroom apartment. His eyebrows meet in a frown as he listens to the person on the other end.

“What? The library is closed? Why? … Water pipe maintenance? Sounds like a bunch of—sorry… Uh, I don’t know where else to go. A lot of the local restaurants close at nine, so that would only give us an hour of work… Yeah, I know we need to keep on schedule.”

James appears in Thomas’ peripheral vision and clears his throat to grab Thomas’ attention. “I’m going to Aaron Burr’s for the evening to study for the Theories of Civil Law exam tomorrow,” he announces.

Thomas nods, his face brightening just enough for James to notice. “Okay, how about we work at my place? Madison is gone for the evening so he won’t distract us… Perfect! Let me give you the address…”

“This is where you live?” you ask, following Jefferson into the living room. “This is so…normal.”

He laughs and motions for you to sit on either of the mismatched couches (one dark brown leather, the other a god-awful blue and green plaid—you choose the leather). On the light wood coffee table are pens, pencils, and highlighters, along with a variety of sweating unopened root beer and orange soda cans. The perpendicular couches face a large flat screen TV mounted on the wall. Under the TV is a long thin table with what looks like an XBOX, a Wii, and two ugly red and black striped vases.

“What did you expect?” he asks, smirking. “Designer décor? An open floor plan with hardwood floors? A bear skin rug? A roaring fireplace and a wet bar? Four-car garage?”

You shrug. “I dunno. I heard you lived in France for a couple of years, so maybe baguettes and wine? Miniature Eiffel Tower sculptures?”

“Actually, these—” he gestures to the two red and black vases under the TV— “did come from France. What do you think?” he asks excitedly.

Should you tell him your real opinion or lie through your teeth? He looks so innocently happy, like a kid who made a picture frame made of macaroni noodles for their parent. You can’t squash on that kind of pure, unadulterated pride.

“They’re very nice,” you say politely.

“You hate them.” He shrugs. “You’re from Nebraska. What do you know about taste?”

Instead of yelling at him for insulting you and your home state like you would have a week ago, you laugh. Your amiability shocks both of you, and your laughter quickly dies on your lips. Awkward silence. He shoves one hand into his jeans pockets and rubs the back of his neck with the other. You smooth your skirt and lick your lips, looking anywhere but at him or his red French vases.

“So…” Jefferson finally breaks the silence. “I think we have everything we need here. Help yourself to a soda. Unless you want something else to drink?”

You shake your head. “Oh, no thanks. This is fine.”

“Okay. Let’s get to work.” He takes a seat on the other couch and spreads out his defense notes.

The two of you alternately bounce ideas off each other and work in silence for the next hour. You discovered that sitting on the carpeted floor and using the coffee table as a desk is more comfortable than leaning over it while sitting on the couch around the twenty minute mark. He realized that chugging two root beers and one orange soda leads to a lot of bathroom breaks halfway through the orange soda. You both found out that listening to a classical study mix on Pandora through his TV increased productivity after he yelled at you for humming an obnoxious popular hip-hop song you’d listened to on the way over.

“Do you have any more pieces of paper?” you ask after an hour of note-taking and paging through your textbooks.

He looks over the table as if he expects it to be there, frowning when he doesn’t see any. “I thought I brought some out…”

“All I see are pens and highlighters here.”

“I have some paper in my room.” He pulls his long legs out from under the coffee table and stands, groaning as he stretches his muscles. “Ahhh, man, you should really get up and stretch. We’ve been sitting too long.”

He disappears down the hall toward his and Madison’s rooms as you push yourself to your feet, echoing his groans. You start walking, slowly, across the living room floor, stepping over books and your backpack and your shoes, when you hear a crash and Jefferson’s strangled yelp. It sounded like a rainstorm.

Curious and concerned, you follow the sound of his cursing down the hall and into the bedroom on the left. You clap a hand over your mouth as you try to stop the laughter at the scene in his room. Jefferson glares at you, lying prostrate on the floor, partially buried under an avalanche of hundreds of boxes of mac ‘n’ cheese. His closet door reveals another hundred identical boxes stacked on high shelves.

“What on earth…” You shake your head, your shoulders shaking as you try to hold in your laughter. “I have so many questions.”

He curses again and sits up, pushing macaroni boxes off of him. “I can’t believe my precious betrayed me..” he murmurs breathlessly.

“Okay, first question. Why do you have so much boxed mac ‘n’ cheese? This is really unhealthy.”

“Um, excuse you?” Jefferson leaps to his feet, indignant, and begins pacing back and forth in front of you. He reminds you of Washington when he gets really passionate during a lecture.

“Macaroni and cheese is the food of the gods. This is the perfect food for any occasion—birthday, Christmas, christenings, job interviews, bad days, good days, you name it! It should be everyone’s comfort food. It’s cheesy goodness with soft pasta, carbs and dairy, so it’s totally healthy. It’s easy to make—takes less than fifteen minutes. Plus, I memorized the directions so I don’t even have to look at the box. Are you impressed yet?”

“You are insane.” You look over the boxes in disbelief. “How much did this all cost?”

“I buy it in bulk, so less than you think.” His smile widens as he nods eagerly.

“Why was it in your closet?”

“Not enough room in the kitchen cupboards. Madison hates it anyway, so he told me to keep it out of his sight. I have another box of boxes under my bed, too.”

You suddenly realize that you are standing in his bedroom. You take in the décor, the grey-and-white-striped comforter on the bed, the magenta throw pillow, the Eiffel Tower poster hung over his side table, the bookshelf full of books (lots about France and one curiously titled The Miracle of Macaroni and Cheese: Variations of the Best Comfort Food), the desk in the corner strewn with textbooks, papers, and writing utensils. Above his desk handwritten notes, printed quotes, and pictures have been taped or tacked to the wall.

“That’s my Wall of Inspiration,” he says, and you realize he’s been watching you as you look around his room. You take a step closer and read quotes about success and hard work from Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Steve Jobs before finding one printed on magenta paper in a large, fancy script:

Nothing can stop the man with the right mental attitude from achieving his goal; nothing on earth can help the man with the wrong mental attitude.

That’s really true, you think, wondering who wrote it. You read the author’s name in smaller print under the quote:

--Thomas Jefferson

“Ha! You quoted yourself on your Wall of Inspiration? That’s a lot of ego, Jefferson.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “I am big enough to admit that I am often inspired by myself.”

You shake your head at him reproachfully but you can’t knock the satisfied smirk off his face. His inflated sense of self makes you want to slap him but you also kind of admire him for it. He believes in himself and his abilities. He is comfortable in his own skin and doesn’t care about what other people think about him, which is evident by the magenta T-shirt with the words Qu’est-ce que j’ai raté? You find yourself secretly wishing that you had half the confidence he had.

Beside his quote on the Wall of Inspiration is a picture of Jefferson and a pretty girl with long curly hair and sunkissed skin. She is smiling at the camera, her nose crinkling cutely as Jefferson kisses her cheek. His girlfriend, you realize. You feel the smile on your face fade.

“That’s a cute picture,” you say, trying to act normal. “Who is she?”

His eyebrows move closer together as he follows your finger to the picture. “Oh, that’s Martha,” he says tersely, as if that answers your question. Technically it does, but it also produces more questions. Is she his girlfriend? Are they broken up? Why is she still on the wall? Is she around? Why haven’t you seen her around?

Wait, it’s none of your business, why do you care? It’s not like you like Jefferson. He’s an insufferable, overconfident jerk who wears too much magenta and has insulted you too many times for you to ever like him as anything more than a classmate. That’s what you two are—classmates and partners on a school project. That’s it. There’s no way you could ever be attracted to him.

Almost as though he had heard your inner monologue, Jefferson bends down to begin picking up the boxes of mac ‘n’ cheese strewn across his floor. His jeans tighten around his ass, giving you a front-row view of how round and—for lack of a better word—perfect it is. You can see the muscles in his back as his magenta shirt stretches with his reach. How had you never noticed how fit he was? It was as if someone had given you glasses that suddenly cleared up your vision so you could notice small details that you hadn’t before. Like the swell of his biceps as he lifts a big cardboard box full of boxes of mac ‘n’ cheese back onto the top shelf of his closet. You’ve always been an arm girl, you admit to yourself as you admire his toned muscles.

He glances over his shoulder at you and smirks as if he can read your thoughts. You shake your head hard, clearing your mind.

“We should probably get back to work,” Jefferson says, holding out a blank yellow legal pad.

You nod dumbly and take the pad from him, cursing your face as it betrays you with a deep blush. The blood makes your face hot and pounds in your ears as you follow him back to the living room. You fan yourself with the pad when he isn’t looking. Now you can’t help but watch his muscles as he sits back down, his back against the plaid couch and his legs stretched out in front of him.

Shit, you think. This can’t be good.

#hamilton #thomas jefferson #thomas jefferson x reader #the upper hand #castielandcomics

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cowboyschool · 4 years

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All about termites and ways to combat them

Termites are an insect that lives in societies called colonies with an estimated number from 30,000 to 2.5 million individuals and feeds on cellulose available in many daily human uses (clothing - paper - carpets - carpets - mats - curtains - pillows and mattresses - wooden furniture). Termite colony cults: 1- The worker: It is responsible for all the damage caused by termite infections as it feeds and nurtures all colony colonies, and represents about 97% of the colony's population and its color is faded, sterile, and blind. 2- Soldiers: He is responsible for guarding and protecting the colony with strong and toothy jaws, and the head is dark in color and represents one third of the length of the body and the rest of the body is light faded color, and the number reaches from 1 - 3% of the colony population and the insect is sterile and blind. 3- Individual winged sexual fertile individuals: Two fertile, winged individuals appear in the fall and spring whose color is dark and have eyes to see and wings which are fertile and turn into queens and kings to create new colonies. 4- The Queen: It is the result of fertile sexual individuals. There is a single queen in the colony and works to link all members of the colony and produce eggs, where it lays about 6 eggs per minute, and only one king lives with it in the colony. Termite damage: Termites feed on cellulose, which is found in nature differently, for example. Houses and installations He attacks houses built of raw bricks, as well as cement. In the first, the underground termites extract parts of the figs from the inside of the bricks and work to separate them from the inside, which leads to the collapse of the building. It can also attack human property through walls such as cupboards, stored materials, fabrics, doors, wooden windows, etc. .

In the case of concrete buildings, he attacks wood, doors, windows, wood furniture, and parquet floors, by breaking through the concrete barriers. Shaun and silos It causes great losses in the loss of grains that are fed on it, as well as the containers containing it, and in the face, it attacks dates, corn, and crops that are spread on the ground for the purpose of drying in the sun or by the heat of the air. the trees It attacks palm trees and fruit trees of all kinds and causes drying and death of trees or obtaining a crop of low value and quantity. Crops It attacks all types of crops cultivated in termite-infected lands, and such infections are concentrated in the Upper Egypt regions such as sugar cane, corn, wheat and sesame. It also attacks stored crops such as rice, dates, wheat, etc. Other sources Such as books, papers, records, railroad flanges, telegraph columns, telephone, cardboard, clothing, and simplicity. . And others. Manifestations of termite infection Raw bricks have injuries and tunnels In houses built with raw bricks, the walls are destroyed, and they are deflated from the inside. The adherence of the mats and mats is adhered to the ground and when removed it tears and shows the effects of eating ants from the ants and the presence of parts of the soil where they erode. Eat adjacent wood such as cupboards, etc., windows, doors, and roofs made from tree logs. At night, he hears a crackling fire. The floors made of wood (parquet) are eroded and, when removed, see the soil where the food is eaten. Mud pipes, other than walls and windows, start from the ground and extend to the source of the injury.

Infected wood roof In the case of shaun and grain stores, it is possible to see the adhesion of the sachets and the sprouts to the floor and torn as a result of eating insects In the case of trees, tunnels and clay masses are seen on the trunks of trees, and the presence of clay layer on the lower part of the tree trunk with dryness and burning of the ends of branches and the appearance of a black color. In the case of crops, the dryness of crops and the appearance of wilt are observed, despite the availability of water in the soil and the presence of foci free of plants that gradually extend to the whole field and the death of plants.

The walls are demolished and deflated from the inside Termite Control: 1. In the affected lands designated for construction, the land is cleaned from the residues of cellulosic materials such as straw, husks, woods, and dry plants. A trench is made around the building with a width of 30 cm and a depth of 30 cm surrounding the area and adjacent to the walls and walls of the building. Construction should not be done on the entire treated area, but construction requires an area less than the treated area by at least half a meter from each side. Palm injury and the presence of clay soil 1. In concrete buildings, all the concrete columns are treated with abundant sprinkling from the bottom of the soil surface up to a distance of at least one meter, and wood windows and other wood parts are treated with the pesticide solution dissolved in kerosene before performing the different paints process. 2. The need for adequate ventilation holes and adequate lighting in the rooms. 3. Failure to treat wooden walls and ceilings with pesticides in homes even if they were infected. 4. In the case of shaun, a concrete base with a thickness of at least (5 cm) is made as a forging floor after performing the previous treatment in the municipal buildings (spraying the land on which the terrace is) or the treatment of pallet woods that the sacks are lined with after waxed bedding before sealing the sacks. Therapeutic control methods: 1. Pesticide solutions are made to treat infected buildings by treating all the wood in the building with the wood solution in the building with the pesticide solution dissolved in kerosene. Make a trench around the building adjacent 2. A trench is made around the building and affixed to the wall with a width of 30 x 30 cm depth and sprayed with a pesticide solution at a rate of 4 liters of solution per square meter then the soil is filled 3. Holes are made in the floors, whether tiles, soil, or parquet, at a per-square per square meter, and then treated by pushing the spray solution at a rate of 4 liters per per-hole. 4. In the case of affected trees, a trench is made around the tree 50 cm from the trunk (30 x 30). With tunnels and clay blocks broken, therapeutic traps are placed in the trench and the soil is quenched. The most important pesticides used: 1. Water emulsions: (Dorspan 4TC, 2% - Nurban 48% M (2%). 1. Dissolved solutions: (Drospan 4 TC at 6 cm3 / L - Purpan 48% M at 6 cm / L). Predicting infectious termitesPredicting infection in the field of pest control is important as it reduces injury and makes the damage worse or prevents it altogether before it occurs, which saves a lot of time, time and costs in the control work, in addition to protecting the environment from pollution as much as possible and the severity of the subterranean termite insects concentrate in not seeing the insect itself Immediately but only the effects of its attack and the damage it causes. One way to predict infection is the Sevenfold trap. Trap components and installation The trap consists mainly of the body of the trap made of corrugated board, length (15 cm) and diameter (5 - 7 cm). The body of the trap is covered with polyethylene (kesnylon) encapsulated from one end and the other end extends to about (2 cm) before the end of the trap and fixed with a connecting stick. The trap body made of corrugated cardboard works mainly as a cellulosic material that attracts the insect, in addition to the inserts on it working on the presence of industrial tunnels that entice the insect to be present internally for the longest time, in addition to the insect feeding on the trap itself and the polyethylene (nylon bag) keeps the trap moisture for the longest period A possible time to attract the insect. Thus, the insect has both food (cellulose), moisture (moistening the trap), and darkness (burial under the ground). At daytime, the temperature rises and the water evaporates from the trap, thus remaining valid for more than a month.This is done in three ways: 1. Corrosion of the carton. 2. The presence of insects in the wrinkles of the carton. 3. The presence of soil attached to the trap where the erosion. How to useThe trap is placed in water to the point of wetness and then buried on the ground surface and the nylon bag is on the ground. Traps are collected, inspected and changed monthly.The expected benefits of the trap: 1. One of the most important means of identifying the presence of an insect 2. It is used to estimate the efficacy and effectiveness of pesticides used in control. 3. When needed to protect economic places and predict an attack from an insect before damage occurs. 4. Used to conduct environmental studies on the insect. 5. They are used as poison baits, whether chemical or biological. Trap placement places 1. For places treated with pesticides where the treatment is evaluated and its duration. 2. About economically important places (paper mills, ammunition, timber, stores, etc.) 3. Where to set up new cities to predict whether or not they exist, as well as reclamation places in new lands. 4. When applying the control to know the places and number of colonies to reduce the amount of pesticides used and the costs of control in the case of limited injury, which is a flat injury case and its contents internally from furniture and parquet and any wooden products fumigation (smoking) by methyl bromide gas where the period of closing the treated place is three days and when ventilation by specialists The place is left for another two to three days, to not coexist in the treated place until the existing gas is sublimated and the ventilation done well in the event of unlimited injury, which is the injury of most apartments in the apartment building or termite injuries to the concrete blocks. The walls and insects have built external houses located on the surface of the walls, and so the building is completely evaporated so that all residents agree on that and with the place left for a period of no less than three days or 72 hours as a minimum and a period of two days ventilation places provided that the ventilation is done with the knowledge of specialists Notes: * Evaporation With methyl bromide, it eliminates the present from all insects and their insect phases and does not work as a protection against insects, as it is a gas that transcends ventilation * After the evaporation process, if it happens that the winged termite again attacked the building or apartment, it must be sprayed with any insecticide while it is in the winged insect, so it is easy to die It is not left to live long Other insects because they are insects coming from outside the building, and this happens in the migration season and starts from the end of March to October, and more in April, May, and September and October * Take into account the spraying of pesticides that contain an effective substance Chloro-levros in the ground before the construction of buildings with the paint of concrete and walls below Soil upon construction until the first floor with a layer of bitumen in order to reduce the injury from the subterranean termites as well as the partial infected in the Smouha region * termites may infect the leaves and feed on them such as erosion of some manuscripts one hundred years old in India manifestations of injury the appearance of winged individuals in the seasons of migration and is characterized by that i The wings are more than twice the length of the belly of insects, winged insects, external houses on the surface of the walls inside which white termites live, having what resembles sand with more roundness ... It is insect droppings that flow from some holes of infected wood and are known as digested woods. Yeast may be similar to imported beer. The presence of this insect In wood that has been hollowed out by the accumulation of broken wings, termite insect size A) Male termites are about 10 mm long. B) The termite queen is about 15 mm long and has a white stomach. C) Termites are about 7 mm long and have normal jaws. D) The termite solder is about 10 mm long and is characterized by strong jaws. And transferred from the Egyptian newspaper Al-Ahram, the following termites turned into a problem that haunts the people of Alexandria and causes them great losses. Many areas of the governorate witnessed attacks of legions that exceeded their danger of damaging wooden furniture in homes to dig tunnels beneath the foundations of buildings and try to damage even concrete cement, which is what specialists warn of as It represents a danger to the housing units, and directly threatens their residents, which causes the families to submit thousands of reports to the officials in the area. It is rude to work to end their suffering with termite armies, says Dr. Hussein Abdullah - Professor of Economic Insects, Executive Director of the Economic Insects Unit, for Control and Production at the Faculty of Agriculture - Termite is one of the most dangerous insect pests that affect wood and its products as well as grazing trees and crops, as it affects homes, manufactured wood and furniture And wooden floors .. The termite infection is spread in most parts of the country, especially adjacent to the sea and the Gulf, and causes huge losses estimated in millions, in addition to that the termites are a social insect living in large colonies consisting of a few p Of millions of individuals with white colors or yellowing, where inhabit the soil, timber and adapted to some serious these types of living inside homes, causing severe damage to everything inside wood homes in record time since the start of the injury. He adds that termites feed on wood and wood products that contain cellulose, as it can digest cellulose due to the presence of primary microorganisms within the gut that supply it with the enzymes needed for digestion, and although the termites have a loose body it is equipped with hard teeth that can cut wood and feed on it .. Also, termites can feed on paper products, floors, paints, wall papers, books, clothes, textiles, and furnishings inside homes, and about widespread termites and areas where they collect it says that there are several types of termites, including subterranean ants. P is one of the most dangerous types of ants, as the colony includes more than 7 million individuals. Members of this species live under the surface of the soil and feed on wood near the surface of the soil and buried in it or on the surface of the soil, which is the most important species that causes damage at the level of the world and lives in tunnels and consists of The soil is mixed with wood, waste, and insect secretions .. This type is mainly spread in agricultural areas and adapts to cities with concrete buildings and buildings built on agricultural land where it is attracted to the moisture generated in the walls from water leakage from pipes and water and sewage tanks and then builds its colonies under o The building is under or under floors, and it occupies wave voids in empty brick walls and extends its tunnels inside it to reach the doors and windows .. When the injury intensifies, tunnels can be seen on the walls of buildings from the outside and from the inside, and Dr. Mamdouh Idris, professor of economic insects at the Faculty of Agriculture - assures that This type of termite spreads to entire houses, buildings and areas, according to complaints received by the Economic Insects Unit at the Faculty of Agriculture and the symptoms of injury represented by the destruction of wooden and parquet floors and door and window frames, as ventilation tunnels appear inside the affected wood and The corridors within which the subterranean termites walk on the walls and walls and their sections with a question .. Why do the screams of citizens in the eastern region in particular, in particular, increase? He replied: The type of termites that appeared and spread in the eastern region is considered to be underground, because the eastern region was a past years ago an agricultural area rich in organic materials and the ground water level is high and also infected with termites under the ground and after the spread of construction and the increase in building and construction movement in that region the problem started As the soil has not been treated with the necessary pesticides and specialized to combat this type of termite, it was a fierce attack on wood in residential buildings, alongside that one of the most important problems in the eastern region is that a very large number of apartments are closed, thus being a fertile source of infection for the rest Residential apartments, it was helped by this that this species feeds on wood from the inside with distance from the surface layer of wood, so the infection is so widespread that Dr. Mamdouh Idris continues his speech by saying: The environmental conditions contribute greatly to the spread of this type of pest where moisture forms an environment Like me in order to generate this insect and this humidity resulting from water leakage from tanks and sewage pipes .. This is in addition to an important factor for the atmosphere is the nature of the eastern region climate, which is characterized by high humidity in general and this increases the possibility of the seriousness of this type of termite that spreads image Scary with blood Al-Khobar, Al-Qatif, Dhahran, Al-Azizia, Khozama, Al-Jisra, Al-Rakka, Green Belt, Golden Belt, Doha, Al-Dana, Saihat, Safwa, and Jubail. On the other types of termites that afflict most of the eastern regions, it says: There is a dry white ant that nourishes its members on dry timber .. Its colonies are complete inhabiting Dry wood on the surface of the earth, such as wood, furniture, bedrooms, salons, doors and windows. This type is characterized by the slow growth of its colonies due to the severity of the dryness of the woods in which it lives as well due to its minimal water needs. And for science, wood with this type drops small pellets, pellets that resemble sand grains, which are semi-digested wood that is produced by nymphs of termites .. and this type is spread in most of the eastern regions, it leads to the destruction of wooden furniture and furniture within a short time. At the time of migration, the colony is inside it and needs a high percentage of humidity. It often affects damaged wood, and in general it is considered of little economic importance. The control is costly. As for Dr. Maher Ibrahim - Professor of Pesticides and Executive Director of the Pest Control and Environmental Protection Unit - he believes that the spread of termites has become widespread in most of the eastern regions, and environmental conditions and the urban movement have contributed to the spread of termites besides the transported soil [backfill] from the affected place For another free from ants .. In this sense, it confirms a problem that is increasing in a big way, and now the losses have reached hundreds of thousands of riyals and if they do not combine

Translated from:

شركة مكافحة النمل الابيض بالدمام

شركة مكافحة النمل الابيض بالرياض

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joyfilledwander · 6 years

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As with any new [to you] house, there’s going to be quirky little things. Maybe it’s an usual layout or tile choice. Every previous owner has different tastes and preferences. Well, the same is here in Indonesia…but on a totally different level. As I shared in my first blog post in this series, we are right in the middle of renovating & recreating our newest Indonesian home. And before I share about some of the changes & updates we’ve been making, I have to share with some of the quirks we’re facing right off the bat.

I know I don’t live in America anymore. I haven’t for a long time! But it’s hard to turn off my American thinking when it comes to a house layout, function, and decor. This new house, while beautiful in many aspects, is still distinctly Indonesian. It is at times, completely in contrast to my American aesthetic. Here’s a few examples of some of the unique aspects in our new place.

Air Conditioning I grew up in Florida. I know what it’s like to be hot. But I also know what it’s like to come in from the oppressive humidity of a Florida summer and instantly cool down in the glorious air conditioning. And while Indonesia lies directly on the equator, homes definitely don’t do air conditioning like American homes. The weather on our island ranges from 70 – 90 degrees Fahrenheit year round. Yet, homes here don’t have central air conditioning. Indonesian homes are designed to be opened with either doors or windows so the air can flow through. Single room air conditioning units can be installed per room, and can cool down a room quite nicely.

Our new home had one air conditioner already installed in the master bedroom. We checked it before we moved in to make sure it worked. Success. We could comfortably sleep in our new home the first night. However, we did fail to notice a few quirks in the master bedroom that would limit the coolness. For example, we have this beautiful wood carving for a bedroom door. It’s very ornate and very Indonesian. It’s also full of holes that easily allow any cool air in the room right out. Oops. Also, our master bathroom has cutouts in the wall to let moisture or smelly air out…but also air conditioning. Just close the bathroom door you say? We don’t have one. Add that as another quirk. So we spent our first night sweating it out under the “air conditioning” until we get up, buy a fan, and cover up all the air conditioning escaping holes of our room.

Master Bedroom Before

Open cutouts in the bathroom

Bathrooms Oh, bathrooms in this country. I’m quite grateful that we actually have two toilets that we can sit down on, and not have to squat over. Other parts of our bathrooms, I’m not so excited about. For example, both of our bathrooms are missing a bathroom sink. Toilet and shower, yes. Bathroom sink, no. I don’t understand the culture enough to know why this is so normal. We looked at many houses without bathroom sinks, and many of our foreign friends talked about having to install them after moving in. I need to do more research on this. But we will be adding one ASAP. Our master bathroom has an interesting shower situation as well. The current way it is set up I can either shower with the shower head above my head outside of the tub and get the entire bathroom floor and toilet wet, or I can shower in the bathtub with the shower head at my knees. I am completely confused. Our guest bath has a shower head overhead, so that’s nice. But it also has the Indonesian “tub” for bucket flushing toilets. I’m guessing this bathroom once had a squat toilet that need a tub of standing water so you could scoop a bucket of water to flush it. The squat toilet is gone, but the tub is still there. There’s so much work to be done here.

Master Bath Before

Guest Bath Before

Design Choices Good design, taste and aesthetic preferences vary wildly across cultures, countries and people groups. This is obvious through fashion, art, and more. It is also quite obvious in home design as well. Here’s some of the more unique design choices the builders of this home made, which I doubt I would have made myself.

Different tiles, paints & woods: I’m not 100% sure how many different colors & patterns of tile are in my house. There’s one on the master bedroom floor that is different than all the other floors in the house. There’s about 4 different designs of tile in the master bath. There’s three different designs in the kitchen. There’s different wood staining on different doors, with completely different shades of wood on just one door. There’s a dull yellow paint that does nothing for the beauty of the house. No carpet anywhere to be seen. Which is probably best, because it would mold quickly!

Ceilings: I don’t mind a nice crown molding, but these ornate details is just a bit extravagant!

Master Bedroom Door: Speaking of extravagant. Look. at. this. door. Indonesians have an incredible gift of wood carving and creativity with handiwork. However, this is a bit excessive as an entrance to our bedroom. Perhaps I should just call it the royal throne room!

Picture Window: I don’t even know how to justify this one. This giant 8 foot long window looks out on a gray wall of nothing. There’s fake tree trunks on either side of the wall for….??? There’s a 2 foot gap between the window and wall, as though the previous tenants planned to add a fish pond. I don’t think I’ll be adding one of those with a small child. Maybe some plants? Who knows. For now, our living room has a picturesque view of….nothing.

Master bath has FOUR different tiles!

That master bedroom entrance though…

That door, that ceiling, that picture window? I can’t even

Closets I kind of forgot this was a weird one, until I started talking about our house to my American friends. Indonesian homes don’t have closets. I’ve never seen one. We all use wardrobes. Again, not sure why, but this is standard across every Indonesian home or hotel I’ve seen. Our home came with one large wardrobe for the master bedroom, which is great. But we will need to get a few more for the guest bedroom and baby’s bedroom too. Let the furniture shopping begin!

Kitchen Counters I would say generally that Indonesian people aren’t the tallest in the world. I think that’s the Dutch actually. Thankfully, I’m not an extremely tall person either, so usually I don’t mind living in a country designed for shorter people. Now my 6’2” husband probably has a different opinion. Especially when it comes to the kitchen counters in our new house. They are so short, I can’t imagine an adult using them comfortably. I’m pretty sure that when my daughter is a toddler, she will be able to use them well.

Courtyard We have this cool courtyard on the back side of the house, which would be a great play area for my little one. Or a spot to dry laundry. Or just put a table and chairs and enjoy the breeze during the windy season. However. Currently, it is a walking hazard. There’s pipes sticking out of the ground. There’s loose tile laying around. The nice stonework stop partway through and ends in a concrete mess. And the ceiling is so low, that no air or light can get through, creating a dingy feeling in the back of the house. It could be a relatively easy fix, that would make a big change!

Outlets I haven’t seen this one before. Outlets at shoulder height…or higher! Why? How? What?

Electricity Speaking of electricity, this isn’t a quirk in just this house, but every home in Indonesia. Electricity is prepaid. As in we have a meter that we load up with credit, and when it runs out, our electricity just turns off. Which has happened more than once to us, because we forget to refill the meter!

There’s probably so much more I could add about the oddities of housing in Indonesia, but I’ll stop here. So much about life outside of my home culture is a learning experience, and renovating this new home is no exception. I’ve added new words to my vocabulary, I’ve found my way around our new town, and I’ve been able to laugh at the absurd moments through all of these quirks. What’s next? We shall see.

Moving into my new home in #Indonesia has revealed many strange & funny aspects about houses here. For more, check out my second #HomeMakeover blog post! #travelblogger #travel As with any new house, there’s going to be quirky little things. Maybe it’s an usual layout or tile choice.

#home makeover #indonesia #renovation #travel blogger

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placeoftheclearlight · 6 years

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The Man Who Planted Trees by Jean Giono

For a human character to reveal truly exceptional qualities, one must have the good fortune to be able to observe its performance over many years. If this performance is devoid of all egoism, if its guiding motive is unparalleled generosity, if it is absolutely certain that there is no thought of recompense and that, in addition, it has left its visible mark upon the earth, then there can be no mistake.

About forty years ago I was taking a long trip on foot over mountain heights quite unknown to tourists, in that ancient region where the Alps thrust down into Provence. All this, at the time I embarked upon my long walk through these deserted regions, was barren and colorless land. Nothing grew there but wild lavender.

I was crossing the area at its widest point, and after three days’ walking, found myself in the midst of unparalleled desolation. I camped near the vestiges of an abandoned village. I had run out of water the day before, and had to find some. These clustered houses, although in ruins, like an old wasps’ nest, suggested that there must once have been a spring or well here. There was indeed a spring, but it was dry. The five or six houses, roofless, gnawed by wind and rain, the tiny chapel with its crumbling steeple, stood about like the houses and chapels in living villages, but all life had vanished.

It was a fine June day, brilliant with sunlight, but over this unsheltered land, high in the sky, the wind blew with unendurable ferocity. It growled over carcasses of the houses like a lion disturbed at its meal. I had to move my camp.

After five hours’ walking I had still not found water and there was nothing to give me any hope of finding any. All about me was the same dryness, the same coarse grasses. I thought I glimpsed in the distance a small black silhouette, upright, and took it for the trunk of a solitary tree. In any case I started toward it. It was a shepherd. Thirty sheep were lying about him on the baking earth.

He gave me a drink from his water-gourd and, a little later, took me to his cottage in a fold of the plain. He drew his water - excellent water - from a very deep natural well above which he had constructed a primitive winch.

The man spoke little. This is the way of those who live alone, but one felt that he has sure of himself, and confident in his assurance. That was unexpected in this barren country. He lived, not in a cabin, but in a real house built of stone that bore plain evidence of how his own efforts had reclaimed the ruin he had found there on his arrival. His roof was strong and sound. The wind on its tiles made the sound of the sea upon its shore.

The place was in order, the dishes washed, the floor swept, his rifle oiled; his soup was boiling over the fire. I noticed then that he was cleanly shaved, that all his buttons were firmly sewed on, that his clothing had been mended with the meticulous care that makes the mending invisible. He shared his soup with me and afterwards, when I offered my tobacco pouch, he told me that he did not smoke. His dog, as silent as himself, was friendly without being servile.

It was understood from the first that I should spend the night there; the nearest village was still more than a day and a half away. And besides I was perfectly familiar with the nature of the rare villages in that region. There were four or five of them scattered well apart from each other on these mountain slopes, among white oak thickets, at the extreme end of the wagon roads. They were inhabited by charcoal burners, and the living was bad. Families, crowded together in a climate that is excessively harsh both in winter and in summer, found no escape from the unceasing conflict of personalities. Irrational ambition reached inordinate proportions in the continual desire for escape. The men took their wagonloads of charcoal to the town, then returned. The soundest characters broke under the perpetual grind. The women nursed their grievances. There was rivalry in everything, over the price of charcoal as over a pew in the church, over warring virtues as over warring vices as well as over the ceaseless combat between virtue and vice. And over all there was the wind, also ceaseless, to rasp upon the nerves. There were epidemics of suicide and frequent cases of insanity, usually homicidal.

The shepherd went to fetch a small sack and poured out a heap of acorns on the table. He began to inspect them, one by one, with great concentration, separating the good from the bad. I smoked my pipe. I did offer to help him. He told me that it was his job. And in fact, seeing the care he devoted to the task, I did not insist. That was the whole of our conversation. When he had set aside a large enough pile of good acorns he counted them out by tens, meanwhile eliminating the small ones or those which were slightly cracked, for now he examined them more closely. When he had thus selected one hundred perfect acorns he stopped and we went to bed.

There was peace in being with this man. The next day I asked if I might rest here for a day. He found it quite natural - or, to be more exact, he gave me the impression that nothing could startle him. The rest was not absolutely necessary, but I was interested and wished to know more about him. He opened the pen and led his flock to pasture. Before leaving, he plunged his sack of carefully selected and counted acorns into a pail of water.

I noticed that he carried for a stick an iron rod as thick as my thumb and about a yard and a half long. Resting myself by walking, I followed a path parallel to his. His pasture was in a valley. He left the dog in charge of the little flock and climbed toward where I stood. I was afraid that he was about the rebuke me for my indiscretion, but it was not that at all: this was the way he was going, and he invited me to go along if I had nothing better to do. He climbed to the top of the ridge, about a hundred yards away.

There he began thrusting his iron rod into the earth, making a hole in which he planted an acorn; then he refilled the hole. He was planting oak trees. I asked him if the land belonged to him. He answered no. Did he know whose it was? He did not. He supposed it was community property, or perhaps belonged to people who cared nothing about it. He was not interested in finding out whose it was. He planted his hundred acorns with the greatest care.

After the midday meal the resumed his planting. I suppose I must have been fairly insistent in my questioning, for he answered me. For three years he had been planting trees in this wilderness. He had planted one hundred thousand. Of the hundred thousand, twenty thousand had sprouted. Of the twenty thousand he still expected to lose half, to rodents or to the unpredictable designs of Providence. There remained ten thousand oak trees to grow where nothing had grown before.

That was when I began to wonder about the age of this man. He was obviously over fifty. Fifty-five, he told me. His name was Elezeard Bouffier. He had once had a farm in the lowlands. There he had his life. He had lost his only son, then this wife. He had withdrawn into this solitude where his pleasure was to live leisurely with his lambs and his dog. It was his opinion that this land was dying for want of trees. He added that, having no very pressing business of his own, he had resolved to remedy this state of affairs.

Since I was at that time, in spite of my youth, leading a solitary life, I understood how to deal gently with solitary spirits. But my very youth forced me to consider the future in relation to myself and to a certain quest for happiness. I told him that in thirty years his ten thousand oaks would be magnificent. He answered quite simply that if God granted him life, in thirty years he would have planted so many more that these ten thousand would be like a drop of water in the ocean.

Besides, he was now studying the reproduction of beech trees and had a nursery of seedlings grown from beechnuts near his cottage. The seedlings, which he had protected from his sheep with a wire fence, were very beautiful. He was also considering birches for the valleys where, he told me, there was a certain amount of moisture a few yards below the surface of the soil.

The next day, we parted.

The following year came the War of 1914, in which I was involved for the next five years. An infantry man hardly had time for reflecting upon trees. To tell the truth, the thing itself had made no impression upon me; I had considered as a hobby, a stamp collection, and forgotten it.

The war was over, I found myself possessed of a tiny demobilization bonus and a huge desire to breathe fresh air for a while. It was with no other objective that I again took the road to the barren lands.

The countryside had not changed. However, beyond the deserted village I glimpsed in the distance a sort of grayish mist that covered the mountaintops like a carpet. Since the day before, I had begun to think again of the shepherd tree-planter. “Ten thousand oaks,” I reflected, “really take up quite a bit of space.”

I had seen too many men die during those five years not to imagine easily that Elzeard Bouffier was dead, especially since, at twenty, one regards men of fifty as old men with nothing left to do but die.

He was not dead. As a matter of fact, he was extremely spry. He had changed jobs. Now he had only four sheep but, instead, a hundred beehives. He had got rid of the sheep because they threatened his young trees. For, he told me (and I saw for myself), the war had disturbed him not at all. He had imperturbably continued to plant.

The oaks of 1910 were then ten years old and taller than either of us. It was an impressive spectacle. I was literally speechless and, as he did not talk, we spent the whole day walking in silence through his forest. In three sections, it measured eleven kilometers in length and three kilometers at its greatest width. When you remembered that all this had sprung from the hands and the soul of this one man, without technical resources, you understand that men could be as effectual as God in other realms than that of destruction.

He had pursued his plan, and beech trees as high as my shoulder, spreading out as far as the eye could reach, confirmed it. He showed me handsome clumps of birch planted five years before - that is, in 1915, when I had been fighting at Verdun. He had set them out in all the valleys where he had guessed - and rightly - that there was moisture almost at the surface of the ground. They were as delicate as young girls, and very well established.

Creation seemed to come about in a sort of chain reaction. He did not worry about it; he was determinedly pursuing his task in all its simplicity; but as we went back toward the village I saw water flowing in brooks that had been dry since the memory of man. This was the most impressive result of chain reaction that I had seen. These dry streams had once, long ago, run with water. Some of the dreary villages I mentioned before had been built on the sites of ancient Roman settlements, traces of which still remained; and archaeologists, exploring there, had found fishhooks where, in the twentieth century, cisterns were needed to assure a small supply of water.

The wind, too, scattered seeds. As the water reappeared, so there reappeared willows, rushes, meadows, gardens, flowers, and a certain purpose in being alive. But the transformation took place so gradually that it became part of the pattern without causing any astonishment. Hunters, climbing into the wilderness in pursuit of hares or wild boar, had of course noticed the sudden growth of little trees, but had attributed it to some natural caprice of the earth. That is why no one meddled with Elzeard Bouffier’s work. If he had been detected he would have had opposition. He was indetectable. Who in the villages or in the administration could have dreamed of such perseverance in a magnificent generosity?

To have anything like a precise idea of this exceptional character one must not forget that he worked in total solitude: so total that, toward the end of his life, he lost the habit of speech. Or perhaps it was that he saw no need for it.

In 1933 he received a visit from a forest ranger who notified him of an order against lighting fires out of doors for fear of endangering the growth of this natural forest. It was the first time, that man told him naively, that he had ever heard of a forest growing out of its own accord. At that time Bouffier was about to plant beeches at a spot some twelve kilometers from his cottage. In order to avoid traveling back and forth - for he was then seventy-five - he planned to build a stone cabin right at the plantation. The next year he did so.

In 1935 a whole delegation came from the Government to examine the “natural forest.” There was a high official from the Forest Service, a deputy, technicians. There was a great deal of ineffectual talk. It was decided that some thing must be done and, fortunately, nothing was done except the only helpful thing: the whole forest was placed under the protection of the State, and charcoal burning prohibited. For it was impossible not to be captivated by the beauty of those young trees in fullness of health, and they cast their spell over the deputy himself.

A friend of mine was among the forestry officers of the delegation. To him I explained the mystery. One day the following week we went together to see Elezeard Bouffier. We found him hard at work, some ten kilometers from the spot where the inspection had taken place.

This forester was not my friend for nothing. He was aware of values. He knew how to keep silent. I delivered the eggs I had brought as a present. We shared our lunch among the three of us and spent several hours in wordless contemplation of the countryside.

In the direction from which we had come the slopes were covered with trees twenty to twenty-five feet tall. I remembered how the land had looked in 1913: a desert … Peaceful, regular toil, the vigorous mountain air, frugality and, above all, serenity of spirit had endowed this old man with awe-inspiring health. He was one of God’s athletes. I wondered how many more acres he was going to cover with trees.

Before leaving, my friend simply made a brief suggestion about certain species of trees that the soil here seemed particularly suited for. He did not force the point. “For the very good reason,” he told me later,” that Bouffier knows more about it than I do.” At the end of an hour’s walking - having turned it over his mind - he added, “He knows a lot more about it than anybody. He’s discovered a wonderful way to be happy!”

It was thanks to this officer that not only the forest but also the happiness of the man was protected. He delegated three rangers to the task, and so terrorized them that they remained proof against all the bottles of wine the charcoal burners could offer.

The only serious danger to the work occurred during the war of 1939. As cars were being run on gazogenes (wood-burning generators), there was never enough wood. Cutting was started among the oaks of 1910, but the area was so far from any railroads that the enterprise turned out to be financially unsound. It was abandoned. The shepherd had seen nothing of it. He was thirty kilometers away, peacefully continuing his work, ignoring the war of ‘39 as he had ignored that of ’14.

I saw Elzeard Bouffier for the last time in June of 1945. He was then eighty-seven. I had started back along the route through the wastelands; by now, in spite of the disorder in which the war had left the country, there was a bus running between the Durance Valley and the mountain. I attributed the fact that I no longer recognized the scenes of my earlier journeys to this relatively speedy transportation. It seemed to me, too, that the route took me through new territory. It took the name of a village to convince me that I was actually in that region that had been all ruins and desolation.

The bus put me down at Vergons. In 1913 this hamlet of ten or twelve houses had three inhabitants. They had been savage creatures, hating one another, living by trapping game, little removed, both physically and morally, from the conditions of prehistoric man. All about them nettles were feeding upon the remains of abandoned houses. Their condition had been beyond hope. For them, nothing but to await death - a situation which rarely predisposes to virtue.

Everything was changed. Even the air. Instead of the harsh dry winds that used to attack me, a gentle breeze was blowing, laden with scents. A sound like water came from the mountains: it was the wind in the forest. Most amazing of all, I heard the actual sound of water falling into a pool. I saw that a fountain had been built, that it flowed freely and - what touched me most - that some one had planted a linden beside it, a linden that must have been four years old, already in full leaf, the incontestable symbol of resurrection.

Besides, Vergons bore evidence of labor at the sort of undertaking for which hope is required. Hope, then, had returned. Ruins had been cleared away, dilapidated walls torn down and five houses restored. Now there were twenty-eight inhabitants, four of them young married couples. The new houses, freshly plastered, were surrounded by gardens where vegetables and flowers grew in orderly confusion, cabbages and roses, leeks and snapdragons, celery and anemones. It was now a village where one would like to live.

From that point on I went on foot. The war just finished had not yet allowed the full blooming of life, but Lazarus was out of the tomb. On the lower slopes of the mountain I saw little fields of barely and of rye; deep in the narrow valleys the meadows were turning green.

It has taken only the eight years since then for the whole countryside to glow with health and prosperity. On the site of ruins I had seen in 1913 now stand neat farms, cleanly plastered, testifying to a happy and comfortable life. The old streams, fed by the rains and snows that the forest conserves, are flowing again. Their waters have been channeled. On each farm, in groves of maples, fountain pools overflow on to carpets of fresh mint. Little by little the villages have been rebuilt. People from the plains, where land is costly, have settled here, bringing youth, motion, the spirit of adventure. Along the roads you meet hearty men and women, boys and girls who understand laughter and have recovered a taste for picnics. Counting the former population, unrecognizable now that they live in comfort, more than ten thousand people owe their happiness to Elezeard Bouffier.

When I reflect that one man, armed only with his own physical and moral resources, was able to cause this land of Canaan to spring from the wasteland, I am convinced that in spite of everything, humanity is admirable. But when I compute the unfailing greatness of spirit and the tenacity of benevolence that it must have taken to achieve this result, I am taken with an immense respect for that old and unlearned peasant who was able to complete a work worthy of God.

Elezeard Bouffier died peacefully in 1947 at the hospice in Banon.

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morbidnun-blog · 7 years

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How to Explain to Which Cleansing Corporation One Really should Use

čištění koberců There are a lot of cleansing firms out there and the big difference among an enough, undesirable, and great cleaning corporation actually make a big difference. So how do you know which expert cleansing business to use? Here is a record of 15 issues to seem for in advance of choosing a cleaning services. After reading this record, you will know how to explain to which cleaning company is fantastic and which one particular isn't really (before you employ the service of them): 1. Get price prices from at minimum a few organizations. There are a several motives why this need to be performed. Not only to know which cleansing organization is the very best priced but also to see how much a hole there is in the selling prices for the same service. "You get what you pay for" may well be cliche but that does not make it untrue. While if the variances in selling prices aren't so great, it's in all probability greatest to go with whatever qualified cleansing organization gives you the most bang for your buck. But if the discrepancy in rates is exponentially various, this should inform you something and give you a cause to be skeptical. Also when inquiring for what the price quotes are, it is advisable to question if the cost estimates consist of anything (the components and the labor) and how significantly a particular custom made cleansing service may possibly be in further to the cleansing expert services which are offered. two. Check with how extended they've been in small business. There are a lot of firms which arrive and go so a small business that has managed to continue to be in enterprise for awhile suggests one thing positive about the cleansing organization. Although longevity is not a guarantee of greatness, it ought to be a component that is weighed in. (Right after all, how can a business remain open for so quite a few a long time if devoid of having content returning shoppers?) 3. Request if they promise their work. Most companies say that your satisfaction is confirmed, but what does that suggest? Does it suggest they will offer you you a refund if you are dissatisfied? It's critical to find this out in advance of you retain the services of everyone to do a task for you (particularly one that guarantees pleasure). 4. Ask for a list of references. A good organization will have faithful and content consumers. It truly is sensible to check with for a listing of references so you can really feel at ease figuring out that you are dealing with a cleansing organization that has a massive customer foundation of satisfied clients. five. Can they offer all the cleaning expert services you will need? When employing a qualified cleaners it's ideal to know all the expert services they offer you. Why retain the services of a bunch of cleaning firms when you can seek the services of one particular to do all the work opportunities you will need? It can be less difficult to hold monitor of a single corporation you are selecting (and not getting to go about this listing each and every time you seek the services of a new cleansing organization) more than many? Does the cleansing firm do floor waxing, carpet cleaning, have a maid services? It truly is very best to know all the companies they provide ahead of you seek the services of a them. If there are two cleansing companies to choose from and all other issues being equal, it truly is most likely greatest to seek the services of the one that delivers the most providers. 6. Do they provide eco-friendly cleansing goods? Many thanks to the influx of the environmentally friendly cleansing motion, just one can retain the services of a environmentally friendly cleaning organization with out worrying if the goods they use are less excellent simply because they are good for you. Presently, green cleaning does just as excellent a career as non-inexperienced cleaning, but does it much better, considering that it cleans devoid of including substances and toxic compounds to the earth. If you are fascinated in eco-friendly cleaning, make certain the professional cleaners you are searching for satisfy the green seal of approval. seven. Do they offer you 24/seven emergency cleaning expert services? If there is an crisis, this kind of as a flood, broken pipes, clogged toilet, or other this sort of problems that need to be quickly dealt with, it is reassuring that you can call the cleansing corporation any time of working day to help save you from any disasters that may possibly happen. Following all, your cleansing business need to already be acquainted with your building and has access to it, so it really is easier for them to resolve cleansing emergencies and disasters than an individual who hasn't worked for you prior to. 8. Are they accredited, bonded and insured? It really is critical when selecting a cleansing corporation (or any corporation for that subject) to make absolutely sure that they are certified to do the work. Also make certain that there are bonded, which implies that they are dependable for any damages, loss, or any other failure that may well transpire. A specialist cleaning enterprise currently being bonded assures that you will not have to experience any losses on their aspect since they are dependable for any damages, or failures that could quite possibly come up. Also, under no circumstances retain the services of a cleansing firm that can't show you evidence that they are insured. 9. Is a customer provider agent assigned to your account? At times it truly is tough to get a immediate make contact with to the man or woman who is cleaning for you and if you phone the cleansing company you may well be directed to an individual unfamiliar with your account. Make confident you know who is functioning on your account and if there is a immediate number you can call them at (so you never have to squander unwanted time currently being transferred and scoping them out). 10. How do you know if how they keep track of your requests and any issues you have? Request how the corporation how they will deal with your difficulties or requests. How will you know when the concern is fixed or the ask for is done? Make certain they have a very clear method in location to assess, deal with and follow up. eleven. Will they produce a personalized cleaning prepare for you? Just before a cleansing assistance delivers you with a quotation, they need to occur seem at your making and check with inquiries about what you are hunting for and how they can personalize the get the job done for you. It is critical to hire qualified cleaners that have a custom-made cleansing perform plan. After all, you are hiring them, so they ought to provide you with what you want, not what they want. 12. Are the cleaners effectively educated in very best market techniques? Acquiring a workers that if correctly experienced will assurance that the cleansing firm you employ the service of will give you the greatest cleaning provider offered. It is also essential to make sure that the staff members is adequately trained simply because specific house (like flooring and desks) can accidentally be scratched if cleaned improper, so know that the cleansing firm's workers is appropriately qualified to in cleansing will ensure that novice scratches as a end result of cleaning improperly will not arise. 13. Be certain they carry out background checks on cleaning and management staff. You are giving your cleansing firm access to your property. Make positive they are building sure that their personnel is honest (this ought to be a supplied and if a company does not conduct qualifications check out, it's uncertain that they would continue to be in small business quite long). 14. Do they have a deep/depth cleaning agenda? Unfortunately quite a few cleansing businesses forget about (or just really don't supply) specific cleansing.Comprehensive cleaning (also identified as substantial dusting) is executing a thorough dusting occupation, cleaning the air vents, undertaking air vent and edge vacuuming to protect against buildup of dust and grime. Ask your cleansing firm if they do a deep cleaning. If not, come across one particular that does, considering that undertaking this is the greatest way to insure that a buildup of bacteria and dirt doesn't occur. High dusting must be done considerably usually, so check with not only if the cleansing support performs a deep cleaning, but how usually they do it. Also, Google how often a deep cleansing must be done so you know that when they states how typically they complete a deep cleansing that that is actually usually ample. fifteen. Request about how they examine your creating and the cleaning they do. In purchase to make sure that a cleansing company offers you with the ideal support possible it really is essential to make confident that they have intervals in which they examine your office environment to make sure it maintains its cleanliness. It's essential to make confident that cleaning companies supply periodic inspections this displays that the cleaning firm really cares about their buyers and are interested in not just undertaking a once via cleansing occupation, but comparable to a medical doctor, are intrigued in examining up on your developing to see how it is performing. If you stick to these 15 issues, you are ensured to locate a significantly better cleaning business then if you just look for blindly. It is critical to consider the time to make absolutely sure that the cleansing firm you locate is the very best a single achievable and adhering to this recommendations maximizes your opportunity so achievement. Good luck in your research!

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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An Unexpected Party

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats - the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill - The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it - and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river. This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure, found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have lost the neighbours' respect, but he gained-well, you will see whether he gained anything in the end. The mother of our particular hobbit... what is a hobbit? I suppose hobbits need some description nowadays, since they have become rare and shy of the Big People, as they call us. They are (or were) a little people, about half our height, and smaller than the bearded Dwarves. Hobbits have no beards. There is little or no magic about them, except the ordinary everyday sort which helps them to disappear quietly and quickly when large stupid folk like you and me come blundering along, making a noise like elephants which they can hear a mile off. They are inclined to be at in the stomach; they dress in bright colours (chiefly green and yellow); wear no shoes, because their feet grow natural leathery soles and thick warm brown hair like the stuff on their heads (which is curly); have long clever brown fingers, good-natured faces, and laugh deep fruity laughs (especially after dinner, which they have twice a day when they can get it). Now you know enough to go on with. As I was saying, the mother of this hobbit - of Bilbo Baggins, that is - was the fabulous Belladonna Took, one of the three remarkable daughters of the Old Took, head of the hobbits who lived across The Water, the small river that ran at the foot of The Hill. It was often said (in other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but certainly there was still something not entirely hobbit-like about them, - and once in a while members of the Took-clan would go and have adventures. They discreetly disappeared, and the family hushed it up; but the fact remained that the Tooks were not as respectable as the Bagginses, though they were undoubtedly richer. Not that Belladonna Took ever had any adventures after she became Mrs. Bungo Baggins. Bungo, that was Bilbo's father, built the most luxurious hobbit-hole for her (and partly with her money) that was to be found either under The Hill or over The Hill or across The Water, and there they remained to the end of their days. Still it is probable that Bilbo, her only son, although he looked and behaved exactly like a second edition of his solid and comfortable father, got something a bit queer in his makeup from the Took side, something that only waited for a chance to come out. The chance never arrived, until Bilbo Baggins was grown up, being about fifty years old or so, and living in the beautiful hobbit-hole built by his father, which I have just described for you, until he had in fact apparently settled down immovably. By some curious chance one morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more green, and the hobbits were still numerous and prosperous, and Bilbo Baggins was standing at his door after breakfast smoking an enormous long wooden pipe that reached nearly down to his woolly toes (neatly brushed) - Gandalf came by. Gandalf! If you had heard only a quarter of what I have heard about him, and I have only heard very little of all there is to hear, you would be prepared for any sort I of remarkable tale. Tales and adventures sprouted up all over the place wherever he went, in the most extraordinary fashion. He had not been down that way under The Hill for ages and ages, not since his friend the Old Took died, in fact, and the hobbits had almost forgotten what he looked like. He had been away over The Hill and across The Water on business of his own since they were all small hobbit-boys and hobbit-girls. All that the unsuspecting Bilbo saw that morning was an old man with a staff. He had a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, a silver scarf over which a white beard hung down below his waist, and immense black boots. "Good morning!" said Bilbo, and he meant it. The sun was shining, and the grass was very green. But Gandalf looked at him from under long bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat. "What do you mean?" be said. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is morning to be good on?" "All of them at once," said Bilbo. "And a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco out of doors, into the bargain. If you have a pipe about you, sit down and have a fill of mine! There's no hurry, we have all the day before us!" Then Bilbo sat down on a seat by his door, crossed his legs, and blew out a beautiful grey ring of smoke that sailed up into the air without breaking and floated away over The Hill. "Very pretty!" said Gandalf. "But I have no time to blow smoke-rings this morning. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it's very difficult to find anyone." I should think so - in these parts! We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in them, said our Mr. Baggins, and stuck one thumb behind his braces, and blew out another even bigger smoke-ring. Then he took out his morning letters, and begin to read, pretending to take no more notice of the old man. He had decided that he was not quite his sort, and wanted him to go away. But the old man did not move. He stood leaning on his stick and gazing at the hobbit without saying anything, till Bilbo got quite uncomfortable and even a little cross. "Good morning!" he said at last. "We don't want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water." By this he meant that the conversation was at an end. "What a lot of things you do use Good morning for!" said Gandalf. "Now you mean that you want to get rid of me, and that it won't be good till I move off." "Not at all, not at all, my dear sir! Let me see, I don't think I know your name?" "Yes, yes, my dear sir - and I do know your name, Mr. Bilbo Baggins. And you do know my name, though you don't remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me! To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took's son, as if I was selling buttons at the door!" "Gandalf, Gandalf! Good gracious me! Not the wandering wizard that gave Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone till ordered? Not the fellow who used to tell such wonderful tales at parties, about dragons and goblins and giants and the rescue of princesses and the unexpected luck of widows' sons? Not the man that used to make such particularly excellent fireworks! I remember those! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer's Eve. Splendid! They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire and hang in the twilight all evening!" You will notice already that Mr. Baggins was not quite so prosy as he liked to believe, also that he was very fond of flowers. "Dear me!" she went on. "Not the Gandalf who was responsible for so many quiet lads and lasses going off into the Blue for mad adventures. Anything from climbing trees to visiting Elves - or sailing in ships, sailing to other shores! Bless me, life used to be quite inter - I mean, you used to upset things badly in these parts once upon a time. I beg your pardon, but I had no idea you were still in business." "Where else should I be?" said the wizard. "All the same I am pleased to find you remember something about me. You seem to remember my fireworks kindly, at any rate, land that is not without hope. Indeed for your old grand-father Took's sake, and for the sake of poor Belladonna, I will give you what you asked for." "I beg your pardon, I haven't asked for anything!" "Yes, you have! Twice now. My pardon. I give it you. In fact I will go so far as to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very good for you and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it." "Sorry! I don't want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea - any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good-bye!" With that the hobbit turned and scuttled inside his round green door, and shut it as quickly as he dared, not to seen rude. Wizards after all are wizards. "What on earth did I ask him to tea for!" he said to him-self, as he went to the pantry. He had only just had break fast, but he thought a cake or two and a drink of something would do him good after his fright. Gandalf in the meantime was still standing outside the door, and laughing long but quietly. After a while he stepped up, and with the spike of his staff scratched a queer sign on the hobbit's beautiful green front-door. Then he strode away, just about the time when Bilbo was finishing his second cake and beginning to think that he had escape adventures very well. The next day he had almost forgotten about Gandalf. He did not remember things very well, unless he put them down on his Engagement Tablet: like this: Gandalf 'a Wednesday. Yesterday he had been too flustered to do anything of the kind. Just before tea-time there came a tremendous ring on the front-door bell, and then he remembered! He rushed and put on the kettle, and put out another cup and saucer and an extra cake or two, and ran to the door. "I am so sorry to keep you waiting!" he was going to say, when he saw that it was not Gandalf at all. It was a dwarf with a blue beard tucked into a golden belt, and very bright eyes under his dark-green hood. As soon a the door was opened, he pushed inside, just as if he had been expected. He hung his hooded cloak on the nearest peg, and "Dwalin at your service!" he said with a low bow. "Bilbo Baggins at yours!" said the hobbit, too surprised to ask any questions for the moment. When the silence that followed had become uncomfortable, he added: "I am just about to take tea; pray come and have some with me." A little stiff perhaps, but he meant it kindly. And what would you do, if an uninvited dwarf came and hung his things up in your hall without a word of explanation? They had not been at table long, in fact they had hardly reached the third cake, when there came another even louder ring at the bell. "Excuse me!" said the hobbit, and off he went to the door. "So you have got here at last!" was what he was going to say to Gandalf this time. But it was not Gandalf. Instead there was a very old-looking dwarf on the step with a white beard and a scarlet hood; and he too hopped inside as soon as the door was open, just as if he had been invited. "I see they have begun to arrive already," he said when he caught sight of Dwalin's green hood hanging up. He hung his red one next to it, and "Balin at your service!" he said with his hand on his breast. "Thank you!" said Bilbo with a gasp. It was not the correct thing to say, but they have begun to arrive had flustered him badly. He liked visitors, but he liked to know them before they arrived, and he preferred to ask them himself. He had a horrible thought that the cakes might run short, and then he-as the host: he knew his duty and stuck to it however painful-he might have to go without. "Come along in, and have some tea!" he managed to say after taking a deep breath. "A little beer would suit me better, if it is all the same to you, my good sir," said Balin with the white beard. "But I don't mind some cake-seed-cake, if you have any." "Lots!" Bilbo found himself answering, to his own surprise; and he found himself scuttling off, too, to the cellar to fill a pint beer-mug, and to the pantry to fetch two beautiful round seed-cakes which he had baked that afternoon for his after-supper morsel. When he got back Balin and Dwalin were talking at the table like old friends (as a matter of fact they were brothers). Bilbo plumped down the beer and the cake in front of them, when loud came a ring at the bell again, and then another ring. "Gandalf for certain this time," he thought as he puffed along the passage. But it was not. It was two more dwarves, both with blue hoods, silver belts, and yellow beards; and each of them carried a bag of tools and a spade. In they hopped, as soon as the door began to open-Bilbo was hardly surprised at all. "What can I do for you, my dwarves?" he said. "Kili at your service!" said the one. "And Fili!" added the other; and they both swept off their blue hoods and bowed. "At yours and your family's!" replied Bilbo, remembering his manners this time. "Dwalin and Balin here already, I see," said Kili. "Let us join the throng!" "Throng!" thought Mr. Baggins. "I don't like the sound of that. I really must sit down for a minute and collect my wits, and have a drink." He had only just had a sip-in the corner, while the four dwarves sat around the table, and talked about mines and gold and troubles with the goblins, and the depredations of dragons, and lots of other things which he did not understand, and did not want to, for they sounded much too adventurous-when, ding-dong-a-ling-' dang, his bell rang again, as if some naughty little hobbit-boy was trying to pull the handle off. "Someone at the door!" he said, blinking. "Some four, I should say by the sound," said Fili. "Be-sides, we saw them coming along behind us in the distance." The poor little hobbit sat down in the hall and put his head in his hands, and wondered what had happened, and what was going to happen, and whether they would all stay to supper. Then the bell rang again louder than ever, and he had to run to the door. It was not four after all, it was FIVE. Another dwarf had come along while he was wondering in the hall. He had hardly turned the knob, be-x)re they were all inside, bowing and saying "at your service" one after another. Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, and Gloin were their names; and very soon two purple hoods, a grey hood, a brown hood, and a white hood were hanging on the pegs, and off they marched with their broad hands stuck in their gold and silver belts to join the others. Already it had almost become a throng. Some called for ale, and some for porter, and one for coffee, and all of them for cakes; so the hobbit was kept very busy for a while. A big jug of coffee bad just been set in the hearth, the seed-cakes were gone, and the dwarves were starting on a round of buttered scones, when there came-a loud knock. Not a ring, but a hard rat-tat on the hobbit's beautiful green door. Somebody was banging with a stick! Bilbo rushed along the passage, very angry, and altogether bewildered and bewuthered-this was the most awkward Wednesday he ever remembered. He pulled open the door with a jerk, and they all fell in, one on top of the other. More dwarves, four more! And there was Gandalf behind, leaning on his staff and laughing. He had made quite a dent on the beautiful door; he had also, by the way, knocked out the secret mark that he had put there the morning before. "Carefully! Carefully!" he said. "It is not like you, Bilbo, to keep friends waiting on the mat, and then open the door like a pop-gun! Let me introduce Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and especially Thorin!" "At your service!" said Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur standing in a row. Then they hung up two yellow hoods and a pale green one; and also a sky-blue one with a long silver tassel. This last belonged to Thorin, an enormously important dwarf, in fact no other than the great Thorin Oakenshield himself, who was not at all pleased at falling flat on Bilbo's mat with Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur on top of him. For one thing Bombur was immensely fat and heavy. Thorin indeed was very haughty, and said nothing about service; but poor Mr. Baggins said he was sorry so many times, that at last he grunted "pray don't mention it," and stopped frowning. "Now we are all here!" said Gandalf, looking at the row of thirteen hoods-the best detachable party hoods-and his own hat hanging on the pegs. "Quite a merry gathering! I hope there is something left for the late-comers to eat and drink! What's that? Tea! No thank you! A little red wine, I think, for me." "And for me," said Thorin. "And raspberry jam and apple-tart," said Bifur. "And mince-pies and cheese," said Bofur. "And pork-pie and salad," said Bombur. "And more cakes-and ale-and coffee, if you don't mind," called the other dwarves through the door. "Put on a few eggs, there's a good fellow!" Gandalf called after him, as the hobbit stumped off to the pantries. "And just bring out the cold chicken and pickles!" "Seems to know as much about the inside of my larders as I do myself!" thought Mr. Baggins, who was feeling positively flummoxed, and was beginning to wonder whether a most wretched adventure had not come right into his house. By the time he had got all the bottles and dishes and knives and forks and glasses and plates and spoons and things piled up on big trays, he was getting very hot, and red in the face, and annoyed. "Confusticate and bebother these dwarves!" he said aloud. "Why don't they come and lend a hand?" Lo and behold! there stood Balin and Dwalin at the door of the kitchen, and Fili and Kili behind them, and before he could say knife they had whisked the trays and a couple of small tables into the parlour and set out everything afresh. Gandalf sat at the head of the party with the thirteen, dwarves all round: and Bilbo sat on a stool at the fireside, nibbling at a biscuit (his appetite was quite taken away), and trying to look as if this was all perfectly ordinary and. not in the least an adventure. The dwarves ate and ate, and talked and talked, and time got on. At last they pushed their chairs back, and Bilbo made a move to collect the plates and glasses. "I suppose you will all stay to supper?" he said in his politest unpressing tones. "Of course!" said Thorin. "And after. We shan't get through the business till late, and we must have some music first. Now to clear up!" Thereupon the twelve dwarves-not Thorin, he was too important, and stayed talking to Gandalf-jumped to their feet and made tall piles of all the things. Off they went, not waiting for trays, balancing columns of plates, each with a bottle on the top, with one hand, while the hobbit ran after them almost squeaking with fright: "please be careful!" and "please, don't trouble! I can manage." But the dwarves only started to sing: "Chip the glasses and crack the plates! Blunt the knives and bend the forks! That's what Bilbo Baggins hates- Smash the bottles and burn the corks! Cut the cloth and tread on the fat! Pour the milk on the pantry floor! Leave the bones on the bedroom mat! Splash the wine on every door! Dump the crocks in a boiling bawl; Pound them up with a thumping pole; And when you've finished, if any are whole, Send them down the hall to roll ! That's what Bilbo Baggins hates! So, carefully! carefully with the plates!" And of course they did none of these dreadful things, and everything was cleaned and put away safe as quick as lightning, while the hobbit was turning round and round in the middle of the kitchen trying to see what they were doing. Then they went back, and found Thorin with his feet on the fender smoking a pipe. He was blowing the most enormous smoke-rings, and wherever he told one to go, it went-up the chimney, or behind the clock on the man-telpiece, or under the table, or round and round the ceiling; but wherever it went it was not quick enough to escape Gandalf. Pop! he sent a smaller smoke-ring from his short clay-pipe straight through each one of Thorin's. The Gandalf's smoke-ring would go green and come back to hover over the wizard's head. He had quite a cloud of them about him already, and in the dim light it made him look strange and sorcerous. Bilbo stood still and watched-he loved smoke-rings-and then be blushed to think how proud he had been yesterday morning of the smoke-rings he had sent up the wind over The Hill. "Now for some music!" said Thorin. "Bring out the instruments!" Kili and Fili rushed for their bags and brought back little fiddles; Dori, Nori, and Ori brought out flutes from somewhere inside their coats; Bombur produced a drum from the hall; Bifur and Bofur went out too, and came back with clarinets that they had left among the walking-sticks Dwalin and Balin said: "Excuse me, I left mine in the porch!" "Just bring mine in with you," said Thorin. They came back with viols as big as themselves, and with Thorin's harp wrapped in a green cloth. It was a beautiful gold-en harp, and when Thorin struck it the music began all at once, so sudden and sweet that Bilbo forgot everything else, and was swept away into dark lands under strange moons, far over The Water and very far from his hobbit-hole under The Hill. The dark came into the room from the little window that opened in the side of The Hill; the firelight flickered-it was April-and still they played on, while the shadow of Gandalf's beard wagged against the wall. The dark filled all the room, and the fire died down, and the shadows were lost, and still they played on. And suddenly first one and then another began to sing as they played, deep-throated singing of the dwarves in the deep places of their ancient homes; and this is like a fragment of their song, if it can be like their song without their music. "Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away ere break of day To seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells. For ancient king and elvish lord There many a gloaming golden hoard They shaped and wrought, and light they caught To hide in gems on hilt of sword. On silver necklaces they strung The flowering stars, on crowns they hung The dragon-fire, in twisted wire They meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselves And harps of gold; where no man delves There lay they long, and many a song Was sung unheard by men or elves. The pines were roaring on the height, The winds were moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; The trees like torches biased with light, The bells were ringing in the dale And men looked up with faces pale; The dragon's ire more fierce than fire Laid low their towers and houses frail. The mountain smoked beneath the moon; The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled their hall to dying -fall Beneath his feet, beneath the moon. Far over the misty mountains grim To dungeons deep and caverns dim We must away, ere break of day, To win our harps and gold from him!" As they sang the hobbit felt the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him, a fierce and jealous love, the desire of the hearts of dwarves. Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick. He looked out of the window. The stars were out in a dark sky above the trees. He thought of the jewels of the dwarves shining in dark caverns. Suddenly in the wood beyond The Water a flame leapt up - probably somebody lighting a wood-fire-and he thought of plundering dragons settling on his quiet Hill and kindling it all to flames. He shuddered; and very quickly he was plain Mr. Baggins of Bag-End, Under-Hill, again. He got up trembling. He had less than half a mind to fetch the lamp, and more than half a mind to pretend to, and go and hide behind the beer barrels in the cellar, and not come out again until all the dwarves had gone away. Suddenly he found that the music and the singing had stopped, and they were all looking at him with eyes shining in the dark. "Where are you going?" said Thorin, in a tone that seemed to show that he guessed both halves of the hobbit's mind. "What about a little light?" said Bilbo apologetically. "We like the dark," said the dwarves. "Dark for dark business! There are many hours before dawn." "Of course!" said Bilbo, and sat down in a hurry. He missed the stool and sat in the fender, knocking over the poker and shovel with a crash. "Hush!" said Gandalf. "Let Thorin speak!" And this is bow Thorin began. "Gandalf, dwarves and Mr. Baggins! We are not together in the house of our friend and fellow conspirator, this most excellent and audacious hobbit-may the hair on his toes never fall out! all praise to his wine and ale!-" He paused for breath and for a polite remark from the hob-bit, but the compliments were quite lost on-poor Bilbo Baggins, who was wagging his mouth in protest at being called audacious and worst of all fellow conspirator, though no noise came out, he was so flummoxed. So Thorin went on: "We are met to discuss our plans, our ways, means, policy and devices. We shall soon before the break of day start on our long journey, a journey from which some of us, or perhaps all of us (except our friend and counsellor, the ingenious wizard Gandalf) may never return. It is a solemn moment. Our object is, I take it, well known to us all. To the estimable Mr. Baggins, and perhaps to one or two of the younger dwarves (I think I should be right in naming Kili and Fili, for instance), the exact situation at the moment may require a little brief explanation-" This was Thorin's style. He was an important dwarf. If he had been allowed, he would probably have gone on like this until he was out of breath, without telling any one there 'anything that was not known already. But he was rudely interrupted. Poor Bilbo couldn't bear it any longer. At may never return he began to feel a shriek coming up inside, and very soon it burst out like the whistle of an engine coming out of a tunnel. All the dwarves sprang Bp knocking over the table. Gandalf struck a blue light on the end of his magic staff, and in its firework glare the poor little hobbit could be seen kneeling on the hearth-rug, shaking like a jelly that was melting. Then he fell flat on the floor, and kept on calling out "struck by lightning, struck by lightning!" over and over again; and that was all they could get out of him for a long time. So they took him and laid him out of the way on the drawing-room sofa with a drink at his elbow, and they went back to their dark business. "Excitable little fellow," said Gandalf, as they sat down again. "Gets funny queer fits, but he is one of the best, one of the best-as fierce as a dragon in a pinch." If you have ever seen a dragon in a pinch, you will realise that this was only poetical exaggeration applied to any hobbit, even to Old Took's great- granduncle Bullroarer, who was so huge (for a hobbit) that he could ride a horse. He charged the ranks of the goblins of Mount Gram in the Battle of the Green Fields, and knocked their king Gol-firnbul's head clean off with a wooden club. It sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole, and in this way the battle was won and the game of Golf invented at the same moment. In the meanwhile, however, Bullroarer's gentler descendant was reviving in the drawing-room. After a while and a drink he crept nervously to the door of the parlour. This is what he heard, Gloin speaking: "Humph!" (or some snort more or less like that). "Will he do, do you think? It is all very well for Gandalf to talk about this hobbit being fierce, but one shriek like that in a moment of excitement would be enough to wake the dragon and all his relatives, and kill the lot of us. I think it sounded more like fright than excitement! In fact, if it bad not been for the sign on the door, I should have been sure we had come to the wrong house. As soon as I clapped eyes on the little fellow bobbing and puffing on the mat, I had my doubts. He looks more like a grocer-than a burglar!" Then Mr. Baggins turned the handle and went in. The Took side had won. He suddenly felt he would go without bed and breakfast to be thought fierce. As for little fellow bobbing on the mat it almost made him really fierce. Many a time afterwards the Baggins part regretted what he did now, and he said to himself: "Bilbo, you were a fool; you walked right in and put your foot in it." "Pardon me," he said, "if I have overheard words that you were saying. I don't pretend to understand what you are talking about, or your reference to burglars, but I think I am right in believing" (this is what he called being on his dignity) "that you think I am no good. I will show you. I have no signs on my door-it was painted a week ago-, and I am quite sure you have come to the wrong house. As soon as I saw your funny faces on the door-step, I had my doubts. But treat it as the right one. Tell me what you want done, and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild Were-worms in the Last Desert. I bad a great-great-great-granduncle once, Bullroarer Took, and -" "Yes, yes, but that was long ago," said Gloin. "I was talking about you. And I assure you there is a mark on this door-the usual one in the trade, or used to be. Burglar wants a good job, plenty of Excitement and reasonable Reward, that's how it is usually read. You ^an say Expert Treasure-hunter instead of Burglar if you like. Some of them do. It's all the same to us. Gandalf told us that there was a man of the sort in these parts looking for a Job at once, and that he had arranged for a meeting here this Wednesday tea-time." "Of course there is a mark," said Gandalf. "I put it there myself. For very good reasons. You asked me to find the fourteenth man for your expedition, and I chose Mr. Baggins. Just let any one say I chose the wrong man or the wrong house, and you can stop at thirteen and have all the bad luck you like, or go back to digging coal." He scowled so angrily at Gloin that the dwarf huddled back in his chair; and when Bilbo tried to open his mouth to ask a question, he turned and frowned at him and stuck oat his bushy eyebrows, till Bilbo shut his mouth tight with a snap. "That's right," said Gandalf. "Let's have no more argument. I have chosen Mr. Baggins and that ought to !6te enough for all of you. If I say he is a Burglar, a Burglar he is, or will be when the time comes. There is a lot more in him than you guess, and a deal more than he has any idea of himself. You may (possibly) all live to thank me yet. Now Bilbo, my boy, fetch the lamp, and let's have little light on this!" On the table in the light of a big lamp with a red shad he spread a piece of parchment rather like a map. "This was made by Thror, your grandfather, Thorin, he said in answer to the dwarves' excited questions. "It is a plan of the Mountain." "I don't see that this will help us much," said Thorin disappointedly after a glance. "I remember the Mountain well enough and the lands about it. And I know where Mirkwood is, and the Withered Heath where the great dragons bred." "There is a dragon marked in red on the Mountain, said Balin, "but it will be easy enough to find him without that, if ever we arrive there." "There is one point that you haven't noticed," said the wizard, "and that is the secret entrance. You see that rune on the West side, and the hand pointing to it from the other runes? That marks a hidden passage to the Lower Halls. "It may have been secret once," said Thorin, "but how do we know that it is secret any longer? Old Smaug had lived there long enough now to find out anything there is to know about those caves." "He may-but he can't have used it for years and years. "Why?" "Because it is too small. 'Five feet high the door and three may walk abreast' say the runes, but Smaug could not creep into a hole that size, not even when he was a young dragon, certainly not after devouring so many of the dwarves and men of Dale." "It seems a great big hole to me," squeaked Bilbo (who had no experience of dragons and only of hobbit-holes) He was getting excited and interested again, so that he forgot to keep his mouth shut. He loved maps, and in his hall there hung a large one of the Country Round with all his favourite walks marked on it in red ink. "How could such a large door be kept secret from everybody outside, apart from the dragon?" he asked. He was only a little hobbit you must remember. "In lots of ways," said Gandalf. "But in what way this one has been hidden we don't know without going to see. From what it says on the map I should guess there is a closed door which has been made to look exactly like the side of the Mountain. That is the usual dwarves' method - I think that is right, isn't it?" "Quite right," said Thorin. "Also," went on Gandalf, "I forgot to mention that with the map went a key, a small and curious key. Here it is!" he said, and handed to Thorin a key with a long barrel and intricate wards, made of silver. "Keep it safe!" "Indeed I will," said Thorin, and he fastened it upon a fine chain that hung about his neck and under his jacket. "Now things begin to look more hopeful. This news alters them much for-the better. So far we have had no clear idea what to do. We thought of going East, as quiet and careful as we could, as far as the Long Lake. After that the trouble would begin." "A long time before that, if I know anything about the loads East," interrupted Gandalf. "We might go from there up along the River Running," went on Thorin taking no notice, "and so to the ruins of Dale-the old town in the valley there, under the shadow of the Mountain. But we none of us liked the idea of the Front Gate. The river runs right out of it through the great cliff at the South of the Mountain, and out of it comes the dragon too-far too often, unless he has changed." "That would be no good," said the wizard, "not without a mighty Warrior, even a Hero. I tried to find one; but warriors are busy fighting one another in distant lands, and in this neighbourhood heroes are scarce, or simply lot to be found. Swords in these parts are mostly blunt, and axes are used for trees, and shields as cradles or dish-covers; and dragons are comfortably far-off (and therefore legendary). That is why I settled on burglary-especially when I remembered the existence of a Side-door. And here is our little Bilbo Baggins, the burglar, the chosen and selected burglar. So now let's get on and make some plans." "Very well then," said Thorin, "supposing the burglar-expert gives us some ideas or suggestions." He turned with mock-politeness to Bilbo. "First I should like to know a bit more about things," said he, feeling all confused and a bit shaky inside, but so far still lookishly determined to go on with things. "I mean about the gold and the dragon, and all that, and how it got there, and who it belongs to, and so on and further." "Bless me!" said Thorin, "haven't you got a map? and didn't you hear our song? and haven't we been talking about all this for hours?" "All the same, I should like it all plain and clear," said he obstinately, putting on his business manner (usually reserved for people who tried to borrow money off him), and doing his best to appear wise and prudent and professional and live up to Gandalf's recommendation. "Also I should like to know about risks, out-of-pocket expenses, time required and remuneration, and so forth"-by which he meant: "What am I going to get out of it? and am I going to come back alive?" "O very well," said Thorin. "Long ago in my grandfather Thror's time our family was driven out of the far North, and came back with all their wealth and their tools to this Mountain on the map. It had been discovered by my far ancestor, Thrain the Old, but now they mined and they tunnelled and they made huger halls and greater workshops -and in addition I believe they found a good deal of gold and a great many jewels too. Anyway they grew immensely rich and famous, and my grandfather was King under the Mountain again and treated with great reverence by the mortal men, who lived to the South, and were gradually spreading up the Running River as far as the valley overshadowed by the Mountain. They built the merry town of Dale there in those days. Kings used to send for our smiths, and reward even the least skilful most richly. Fathers would beg us to take their sons as apprentices, and pay us handsomely, especially in food-supplies, which we never bothered to grow or find for ourselves. Altogether those were good days for us, and the poorest of us had money to spend and to lend, and leisure to make beautiful things just for the. fun of it, not to speak of the most marvellous and magical toys, the like of which is not to be found in the world now-a-days. So my grandfather's halls became full of armour and jewels and carvings and cups, and the toy-market of Dale was the wonder of the North. "Undoubtedly that was what brought the dragon. Dragons steal gold and jewels, you know, from men and elves and dwarves, wherever they can find them; and they guard their plunder as long as they live (which is practically forever, unless they are killed), and never enjoy a brass ring of it. Indeed they hardly know a good bit of work from a bad, though they usually have a good notion of the current market value; and they can't make a thing for themselves, not even mend a little loose scale of their armour. There were lots of dragons in the North in those days, and gold was probably getting scarce up there, with the dwarves flying south or getting killed, and all the general waste and destruction that dragons make going from bad to worse. There was a most specially greedy, strong and wicked worm called Smaug. One day he flew up into the air and came south. The first we heard of it was a noise like a hurricane coming from the North, and the pine-trees on the Mountain creaking and cracking in the wind. Some of the dwarves who happened to be outside (I was one luckily -a fine adventurous lad in those days, always wandering about, and it saved my life that day)-well, from a good way off we saw the dragon settle on our mountain in a spout of flame. Then he came down the slopes and when he reached the woods they all went up in fire. By that time all the bells were ringing in Dale and the warriors were arming. The dwarves rushed out of their great gate; but there was the dragon waiting for them. None escaped that way. The river rushed up in steam and a fog fell on Dale, and in the fog the dragon came on them and destroyed most of the warriors-the usual unhappy story, it was only too common in those days. Then he went back and crept in through the Front Gate and routed out all the halls, and lanes, and tunnels, alleys, cellars, mansions and passages. After that there were no dwarves left alive inside, and he took all their wealth for himself. Probably, for that is the dragons' way, he has piled it all up in a great heap far inside, and sleeps on it for a bed. Later he used to crawl out of the great gate and come by night to Dale, and carry away people, especially maidens, to eat, until Dale was ruined, and all the people dead or gone. What goes on there now I don't know for certain, but I don't suppose anyone lives nearer to the Mountain than the far edge of the Long Lake now-a-days. "The few of us that were well outside sat and wept in hiding, and cursed Smaug; and there we were unexpectedly joined by my father and my grandfather with singed beards. They looked very grim but they said very little. When I asked how they had got away, they told me to hold my tongue, and said that one day in the proper time I should know. After that we went away, and we have had to earn our livings as best we could up and down the lands, often enough sinking as low as blacksmith-work or even coalmining. But we have never forgotten our stolen treasure. And even now, when I will allow we have a good bit laid by and are not so badly off"-here Thorin stroked the gold chain round his neck-"we still mean to get it back, and to bring our curses home to Smaug-if we can. "I have often wondered about my father's and my grandfather's escape. I see now they must have had a private Side-door which only they knew about. But apparently they made a map, and I should like to know how Gandalf got hold of it, and why it did not come down to me, the rightful heir." "I did not 'get hold of it,' I was given it," said the wizard. "Your grandfather Thror was killed, you remember, in the mines of Moria by Azog the Goblin -" "Curse his name, yes," said Thorin. "And Thrain your father went away on the twenty-first of April, a hundred years ago last Thursday, and has never been seen by you since-" "True, true," said Thorin. "Well, your father gave me this to give to you; and if I have chosen my own time and way of handing it over, you can hardly blame me, considering the trouble I had to find you. Your father could not remember his own name when he gave me the paper, and he never told me yours; so on the whole I think I ought to be praised and thanked. Here it is," said he handing the map to Thorin. "I don't understand," said Thorin, and Bilbo felt he would have liked to say the same. The explanation did not seem to explain. "Your grandfather," said the wizard slowly and grimly, "gave the map to his son for safety before he went to the mines of Moria. Your father went away to try his luck with the map after your grandfather was killed; and lots of adventures of a most unpleasant sort he had, but he never got near the Mountain. How he got there I don't know, but I found him a prisoner in the dungeons of the Necromancer." "Whatever were you doing there?" asked Thorin with a shudder, and all the dwarves shivered. "Never you mind. I was finding things out, as usual; and a nasty dangerous business it was. Even I, Gandalf, only just escaped. I tried to save your father, but it was too late. He was witless and wandering, and had forgotten almost everything except the map and the key." "We have long ago paid the goblins of Moria," said Thorin; "we must give a thought to the Necromancer." "Don't be absurd! He is an enemy quite beyond the powers of all the dwarves put together, if they could all be collected again from the four corners of the world. The one thing your father wished was for his son to read the map and use the key. The dragon and the Mountain are more than big enough tasks for you!" "Hear, hear!" said Bilbo, and accidentally said it aloud, "Hear what?" they all said turning suddenly towards him, and he was so flustered that he answered "Hear what I have got to say!" "What's that?" they asked. "Well, I should say that you ought to go East and have a look round. After all there is the Side-door, and dragons must sleep sometimes, I suppose. If you sit on the doorstep long enough, I daresay you will think of something. And well, don't you know, I think we have talked long enough for one night, if you see what I mean. What about bed, and an early start, and all that? I will give you a good breakfast before you go." "Before we go, I suppose you mean," said Thorin. "Aren't you the burglar? And isn't sitting on the door-step your job, not to speak of getting inside the door? But I agree about bed and breakfast. I like eggs with my ham, when starting on a journey: fried not poached, and mind you don't break 'em." After all the others had ordered their breakfasts without so much as a please (which annoyed Bilbo very much), they all got up. The hobbit had to find room for them all, and filled all his spare-rooms and made beds on chairs and sofas, before he got them all stowed and went to his own little bed very tired and not altogether happy. One thing he did make his mind up about was not to bother to get up very early and cook everybody else's wretched breakfast. The Tookishness was wearing off, and he was not now quite so sure that he was going on any journey in the morning. As he lay in bed he could hear Thorin still humming to himself in the best bedroom next to him: "Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To find our long-forgotten gold." Bilbo went to sleep with that in his ears, and it gave him very uncomfortable dreams. It was long after the break of day, when he woke up.

#Hobbit

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vacationsoup · 6 years

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New Post has been published on https://vacationsoup.com/diy/

DIY? How Hard Can it Be?

To DIY, Or To Not DIY

Owning a B&B requires a surprisingly wide skillset. Sure, you've got to be able to make breakfast (and beds), but apart from the other myriad of jobs including marketing, accountancy, technology, gardening etc, you've also got to be pretty handy when it comes to DIY.

The constant use of your home, bedrooms and bathrooms mean they'll start to show their age pretty quickly if you're not repairing, refreshing or replacing them on a regular basis. OK, you can pay a tradesman to do that all for you but given the prices some of these guys (and gals) charge, the cost soon mounts up. Ergo, the typical B&Ber also becomes a pretty proficient DIYer too. We say proficient of course, but that's not always the best description, as we're about to demonstrate, although I think it's fair to say that even the most expert tradesman is likely to make mistakes on occasion. Just ask the plumber who put our heating system in and forgot to cap off a pipe in the loft before filling the system!

As you may know, we've been engaged in our usual winter job of refurbishing a couple of our ensuites. In this case one involved replacing the old shower with a brand new shiny and powerful one as you can see below;

Having installed the funky triple shower valve and pressure tested everything to make sure nothing leaked, I was feeling extremely pleased with myself. This feeling of pleasure proved to be somewhat premature however. Those of you with a plumbing bent will note from the photo below, that the thermostatic valve (the middle one) doesn't yet have its securing collar fitted. Those of you without a plumbing bent will notice a big brass thing with some spindles sticking out of it.

That evening, as I sat in front of the PC, using another of my myriad of skills (looking at cute kittens on Facebook) I heard what can only be described as someone flushing the toilet upstairs. This might not sound surprising to you, but I knew we didn't have any guests staying and I also knew Helen was in the shower, scrubbing up after a hard days DIY. It probably took all of about 25 Nano seconds for my brain to work out that spending all day doing plumbing, followed by the unexpected sound of a large amount of water going somewhere wasn't a good thing. Instinctively, I leapt up from the cute kitty mewing on my screen, and dashed upstairs, only to be met by a scene that was initially quite hard to understand. On one side of the ensuite was the wall containing the shower valve, spewing out a zillion gallons of water, and on the opposite side of the ensuite was the other wall, where the spewing water was bouncing off. Given that I'd also taken up the floor to access the shower tray drain (which wasn't connected), the resultant cascade was disappearing down under the floor, like someone had pulled the plug out of a bath! Luckily the prehistoric part of my brain instinctively shoved my hand over the 3 inch hole from where the thermostatic valve had magically disappeared, in an attempt to stem the flow. This mostly worked, as long as I didn't move a muscle and pressed my hand as hard as I physically could against the pressure of the water trying to leave the valve. At this point I thought "OK, great. Now what?" as water dripped off both walls and swirled around my now, very wet socked feet. Luckily, I had my phone in my pocket, so preceded to dial the house phone with my one free hand, even though the movement of retrieving my phone allowed large jets of water to spurt from between the fingers of my other hand.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Helen was wondering why I wasn't answering the phone, when I was last seen sitting right next to it. A large number of seconds passed before she stopped drying herself from her recent shower, wrapped one towel around her body and another around her head, in that twirly whirly turban way that only women can master, and picked up the phone.

Upstairs, Helen's somewhat irritated voice echoed from my phone, but before she could finish berating me for not answering the phone, I demanded she bring the Vax up to the ensuite as soon as possible. There were two main problems with this request. Firstly, Helen's version of asap meant, only when she'd finished drying and beautifying herself and secondly, the water-sucking VAX was brand new and was still in the box, which meant extracting it from a million square meters of polystyrene foam and associated plastic packaging.

Some minutes later Helen arrived, still wearing her towel ensemble, carrying the freshly unpacked VAX and a bunch of plastic accessories which didn't appear to be of any use unless you wanted to remove water from strangely shaped orifices. After fumbling with the VAX for a further few minutes, and getting nowhere particularly helpful, I decided it was much more urgent to relieve the pressure on my aching arm by turning off the shower water supply taps, located at the far end of the loft. As I knew exactly where the supply taps were, it was decided that I should dash up to the loft and turn them off. Clearly this meant Helen would have to put her hand over the hole to prevent water cascading out and joining the other zillion gallons that had already gurgled off somewhere under the floorboards. Somewhat optimistically, we attempted a choreographed removal of my hand, followed seamlessly by Helen plugging the hole with hers. The first part went really well as I removed my hand, exactly as planned. That's when things went downhill somewhat. It wasn't so much that Helen didn't shove her hand over the hole immediately, but the half second delay allowed the full force of the water to burst forth, soaking us both before joining the river we'd already created. Helen bravely struggled against the water, but it continued to spray in all directions between the fingers of her small and dainty hand. Fortunately I observed her lack of success before I dashed up to the loft so I removed her hand (followed by another torrent) and shoved mine back where it had been previously. At this point I was getting physically exhausted from pressing against the force of the water so requested (ok, ordered) Helen to get into the loft and turn off the effing water! "I just need to get dressed first" she shouted, to which I suggested that wandering downstairs whilst I waited for her to dry her hair, find something to wear then wander back up again was probably going to take a tad too long. In response to my calm and reasonable questioning, she marched out of the ensuite in her towels, which were by now looking slightly less mystical, and attempted to get into the loft.

The first thing you should know about the loft, is that the hatch and ladder were put in by me. This means I am fully conversant with its little foibles. Helen unfortunately isn't au fait with the ladder that drops down and tries to smash you in the head when you open the hatch, nor the latch mechanism that stabs you in the back when you're climbing the ladder, if you don't put it in exactly the right position. As such, by the time she'd managed to get into the loft, she'd barely escaped from being rendered unconscious by the ladder, but had been gouged in the back by the latch, which also removed the towel covering her modesty. The twirly whirly turban towel still remained intact on her head though! After a small amount of naked stomping around Helen yelled something unintelligible down to me in the ensuite. "What?!" I yelled "I'VE TURNED THE WATER OFF! she bellowed. Still not really hearing her, I shouted back "TURN THE EFFING WATER OFF!!" Her next reply I did hear. "I'VE TURNED THE EFFING WATER OFF. STOP SHOUTING AT ME BECAUSE I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I'VE GOT A TOWEL ON MY HEAD!!

I have to admit I felt a small amount of joy on removing my hand from the shower valve, even though I was left with a nice circular imprint of it in the centre of my palm. As I stood there, surrounded by the drip, drip of water, Helen disappeared downstairs. Again my joy was somewhat short-lived as the fire alarm went off, deafening me with its incessant wailing.

Meanwhile Helen was downstairs discovering where all the water had gone. As I already had the buckets upstairs she was armed with various bowls, cups and other inappropriate vessels attempting to catch the multiple columns of water emerging through the ceiling from the ensuite above. There was a particularly large column emerging from the main light (which as still on), various smaller ones coming from invisible holes in the ceiling and another larger one coming out the bottom of the smoke detector, which is connected to the fire alarm!

The fact that all this happened the day after we'd painted said ceiling, and that all our worldly goods were piled below the emerging water because we were also having the carpets replaced means that I may just remember to fit the retaining collar on shower valves in future. If I don't, I'm sure Helen will remind me 🙂

Still, we've still got a couple of weeks to go before we reopen. It will all look lovely by then 🙂

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placeoftheclearlight · 7 years

Text

The Man Who Planted Trees

The next day, we parted.

Elezeard Bouffier died peacefully in 1947 at the hospice in Banon

By Jean Giono

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