#end of terminus date

[in-kaeya-we-thrust]

End-Of-Terminus Date

Not Azz-Azz and Iruma giving Clara the attention she needs😩

[carlsangel]

MY PARENTS’ RINGS

carl grimes x fem!reader

(you and carl have been “married” since childhood.)

tags: flufffff, slight angst, mentions of death.

masterlist here!

You’ve known Carl since you were born. Your moms were bestfriends from high school who’d miraculously gotten pregnant around the same time which, naturally, made you best friends as well. You can’t remember your guys’ first play date, you’d been having sleepovers with him every weekend as well.

Around kindergarten, there was an activity in class where you guys could make jewelry. Carl at the time was completely in love with you, although then you weren’t particularly interested in boys and were more interested in exploring and adventures, you needed someone to go on adventures with.

So, when he’d walked up to you on the playground with the ring he made very poorly, your five year old brain knew exactly where it was going. He proposed to you right there in the pokey wood chips under the slide which by the way was covered in cobwebs. How romantic. You thought that if he’d gone on many adventures with you previously, if he was your husband he’d be forced to be your adventure partner. So you said yes. On the condition he’d be by your side for all your escapades. “Anything for you angel.” He responded.

He held you to it, too. He’d continue to call you his wife and angel, a nickname that’d stick for the rest of your childhood. Everyone knew how much he’d loved you and how much he protected you from anything that could possibly harm you in any way. There was a spider in your room? He’d kill it. Someone was bothering you? He’d help you work it out. You got in an argument with your parents? He was close enough with them to argue with them for you. You ended up helping him through the death of his own father who was also someone you’d looked up to for a long time.

Then, the apocalypse started. You were at Carl’s house with Lori when Shane had arrived to round everyone up. They’d return back to your house to rally up your parents but when Shane went inside to get them, you heard his gun go off a couple times.

He walked out that house alone with a big frown on his face.

So you sobbed the whole time and Carl cuddled your side, holding your hand and occasionally shed some tears. He helped you process it, granted you both were ten but he knew what it was like to lose a parent. When Rick came back, he apologized oddly enough. “Angel…I’m sorry my dad came back.” He told you as you hid in the blanket on your cot that was set up in the Grimes’ tent. You flipped over on your side to look at him. “Why did yours get to come back and not mine?”

Your guys’ “marriage” hit a rough patch to say the least. At some point, Carl walked up to Rick with the dilemma. “My wife is mad at me…how do you make mom feel better?” He asked. Rick informed Lori on the situation and she helped you understand. So from there you dropped your little grudge and realized that you loved Carl back. It only took you maybe five years and yeah you were quite young to know you loved him the way you did, but he was the only person in your life who’d stay consistent; even with the world dying.

A good amount of time had passed, when Shane died the first thing you wanted to do was take anything he possibly had on him. So, you took his 22 necklace and his jacket. Handling his dead body that young wasn’t ideal but you needed to remember him. You shoved his necklace in your pockets and threw his jacket on before escaping from the walkers flooding into the farm.

Upon finding safety, you pull out Shane’s necklace to discover he’d kept your parents rings on his necklace. You didn’t say anything about it, you hid them for the right time. He’d notice them later but he kept quiet about it.

You’d gone through the prison, then Terminus. It felt like Carl had never stopped touching you throughout everything. He was holding your hand or maybe even had his hand gripping your thigh. He’d reassure you by holding you or kissing your cheek repeatedly. He made sure you were well fed while you and the group were on the road after losing Beth. “Here, Angel, take this.” He handed you half of his granola bar.

“Angel, need some water to wash that down?” Abraham nudged a water bottle your way, Carl looked at him funny which caught a couple people’s attentions. Abraham looked around. “What?” He questioned. No one really responded but Tara spoke up, clearing her throat awkwardly before speaking. “I’ve uh…I’ve learnt that ‘Angel’ is just a Carl thing.” She explains. Abraham processes and Rick sort of laughs. “Yeah I’ve known her since she’s was born…he won’t even let me call her that either.” He looks to Carl with a teasing smile, prompting the others to sort of smirk and giggle themselves. “Well my apologies.”

Carl gives Abraham a forgiving nod.

Getting to Alexandria was like a breath of fresh air. You and Carl were able to be somewhat of a normal teenage couple who could go on dates and make out in places they shouldn’t. He helped ease your nerves with the new environment, despite his own considering he didn’t know how real Alexandria really was.

He’d fallen more and more in love with you. At some point he’d brought up your kindergarten marriage.

“Do you remember when you said yes when I proposed to you in kindergarten?” He smiled at you as you leaned your head on his shoulder. The two of you were stargazing on a bench by Alexandria’s pond. “Yeah you’ve never let me forget it.” You respond with a small giggle. He pulled back to look at you. “Well I was thinking…with the way the world is and everything.” He chuckles nervously, looking down at your hands which were tightly gripping each other’s, “Maybe we can really be married.”

He stared at you, anticipating your answer. “Well, I dunno what you mean, we’ve been married this whole time.” You say sort of jokingly, causing him to smile, “I think you just mean official rings. I mean we’ve held the label this whole time. Not to mention you’ve stuck to your vows.” You remind him of how he’d promised to stick with you throughout everything. He nods for a moment, his eyes lingering on your face as he admires how beautiful you are in the light of the pretty moon. “Official rings would be nice.”

Without another word, you pulled your hand away, causing Carl’s expression to drop a tad as you dig into your pocket. Your hand comes back out of your jeans in a fist and you stick your hand out, gesturing for him to put his own out. He places his hand out flat and you drop two rings, the metals knocking into each other with a small clink as he looks into your eyes. “Wait really? Aren’t these…” His voice trails off and he looks at you intently.

“My parents’ rings.”

There’s a moment of silence before you take your dad’s ring from his palm and take his left hand, slipping it gently onto his ring finger. It fit perfectly, almost like it was fitted to him. He looks at it for what felt like ages before taking your mother’s ring in his hand. He gently held your left hand, sliding it on to your ring finger. The two of you put your hands between your bodies and just stare.

He tilts his head back up to look at you and before you could fully look at him he kissed you, gently holding the side of your face while he did so.

It was one of the thousands of kisses he’d given you, but this one was different.

Maybe you could go on honeymoon.

a/n: so anon actually wanted this full of fluff but i couldn’t help myself with some parts of angst LMAOOO sorry anon i hope u still like it. i actually think this is the cutest fucking thing i’ve written in a long ass time I LOVEEE IT SM!!! also for those who’ve been waiting for let me make it up to you part two THAT SHITS BEEN OUT idk not as many ppl saw it and there’s sm smut in that shit >_< anyway thank u sm for this cute ass request it was so fun to write and it got me out of my writing funk :)))

tag list: @zomb-1-egutzz @lunarnightt @ilikestrawberriesandwomen @hiro--aoki @h00d-tr4sh

[solomorne]

PROPAGANDA UNDERCUT!!!!

also i will be continuing murderbot dairies no matter what so it's not on here :3c

Mystery, Thriller, SciFi, books are around 300-400 pages

The plot surrounds Secret Service agent Ethan Burke's introduction to the remote small town of Wayward Pines, his new home from which he cannot escape. The residents of this picturesque town do not know how they got there and are forbidden to talk about their prior lives. An electric fence surrounds the town, and the residents are under 24-hour surveillance. The mysteries and horrors of the town build until Ethan discovers its secret. Then he must do his part to keep Wayward Pines protected from threats both within and beyond the fence. The series covers themes of isolation, bucolic Americana, time-displacement, man vs nature, human evolution, and cryonics.[citation needed] Crouch has acknowledged that he was inspired by the 1990–91 TV series Twin Peaks.[1]

Space Opera, LGBT, SciFi, books are around 300-400 pages

Follow a motley crew on an exciting journey through space-and one adventurous young explorer who discovers the meaning of family in the far reaches of the universe-in this light-hearted debut space opera from a rising sci-fi star.

i have been informed the pilot of the ship is in love with the ships ai and there's wire touching. so. you know

Horror, Thriller, Lovecraftian, SciFi, books are around 400-500 pages

The Threshold Universe is an ongoing book series written by Peter Clines and begins with the novel 14 published in 2012. The other books in the series included The Fold (2015), Dead Moon (2018), and Terminus (2020). Padlocked doors. Strange light fixtures. Mutant cockroaches. There are some odd things about Nate’s new apartment. Of course, he has other things on his mind. He hates his job. He has no money in the bank. No girlfriend. No plans for the future. So while his new home isn’t perfect, it’s livable. The rent is low, the property managers are friendly, and the odd little mysteries don’t nag at him too much. At least, not until he meets Mandy, his neighbour across the hall, and notices something unusual about her apartment. And Xela’s apartment. And Tim’s. And Veek’s. Because every room in this old Los Angeles brownstone has a mystery or two. Mysteries that stretch back over a hundred years. Some of them are in plain sight. Some are behind locked doors. And all together these mysteries could mean the end of Nate and his friends. Or the end of everything...

this series is Strange and every book feels entirely disconnected from the last in terms of desc so i included the first books desc... they ARE connected things just. go crazy i guess...........

Mystery, Thriller, Fantasy, SciFi, each book is around 300 pages

A girl named Rose is riding her new bike near her home in Deadwood, South Dakota, when she falls through the earth. She wakes up at the bottom of a square-shaped hole, its walls glowing with intricate carvings. But the firemen who come to save her peer down upon something even stranger: a little girl in the palm of a giant metal hand. Seventeen years later, the mystery of the bizarre artifact remains unsolved - the object's origins, architects, and purpose unknown. Carbon dating defies belief; military reports are redacted; theories are floated, then rejected. But some can never stop searching for answers. Rose Franklin is now a highly trained physicist leading a top-secret team to crack the hand's code. And along with her colleagues, she is being interviewed by a nameless interrogator whose power and purview are as enigmatic as the relic they seek. What's clear is that Rose and her compatriots are on the edge of unraveling history's most perplexing discovery, and finally figuring out what it portends for humanity. But once the pieces of the puzzle are in place, will the result be an instrument of lasting peace or a weapon of mass destruction?

Cyberpunk, War, Dystopia, Fantasy, SciFi, books are 300-350 pages

My name is Rex. I am a good dog. Rex is also seven foot tall at the shoulder, bulletproof, bristling with heavy calibre weaponry and his voice resonates with subsonics especially designed to instil fear. With Dragon, Honey and Bees, he's part of a Multiform Assault Pack operating in the lawless anarchy of Campeche, south-eastern Mexico. Rex is a genetically engineered Bioform, a deadly weapon in a dirty war. He has the intelligence to carry out his orders and feedback implants to reward him when he does. All he wants to be is a Good Dog. And to do that he must do exactly what Master says and Master says he's got to kill a lot of enemies. But who, exactly, are the enemies? What happens when Master is tried as a war criminal? What rights does the Geneva Convention grant weapons? Do Rex and his fellow Bioforms even have a right to exist? And what happens when Rex slips his leash?

Horror, Fantasy, Gothic, Mystery, both books are around 140 pages

When Alex Easton, a retired soldier, receives word that their childhood friend Madeline Usher is dying, they race to the ancestral home of the Ushers in the remote countryside of Ruravia. What they find there is a nightmare of fungal growths and possessed wildlife, surrounding a dark, pulsing lake. Madeline sleepwalks and speaks in strange voices at night, and her brother Roderick is consumed with a mysterious malady of the nerves. Aided by a redoubtable British mycologist and a baffled American doctor, Alex must unravel the secret of the House of Usher before it consumes them all.

seen this get recommended to annihilation fans are bunch...

Mystery, Thriller, Crime, Fantasy, SciFi, Queer, first book is 450 pages, second book isn't out yet

In Daretana’s most opulent mansion, a high Imperial officer lies dead—killed, to all appearances, when a tree spontaneously erupted from his body. Even in this canton at the borders of the Empire, where contagions abound and the blood of the Leviathans works strange magical changes, it’s a death at once terrifying and impossible. Called in to investigate this mystery is Ana Dolabra, an investigator whose reputation for brilliance is matched only by her eccentricities. At her side is her new assistant, Dinios Kol. Din is an engraver, magically altered to possess a perfect memory. His job is to observe and report, and act as his superior’s eyes and ears--quite literally, in this case, as among Ana’s quirks are her insistence on wearing a blindfold at all times, and her refusal to step outside the walls of her home. Din is most perplexed by Ana’s ravenous appetite for information and her mind’s frenzied leaps—not to mention her cheerful disregard for propriety and the apparent joy she takes in scandalizing her young counterpart. Yet as the case unfolds and Ana makes one startling deduction after the next, he finds it hard to deny that she is, indeed, the Empire’s greatest detective. As the two close in on a mastermind and uncover a scheme that threatens the safety of the Empire itself, Din realizes he’s barely begun to assemble the puzzle that is Ana Dolabra—and wonders how long he’ll be able to keep his own secrets safe from her piercing intellect. Featuring an unforgettable Holmes-and-Watson style pairing, a gloriously labyrinthine plot, and a haunting and wholly original fantasy world, The Tainted Cup brilliantly reinvents the classic mystery tale.

ive got NO idea why this has the queer tag on goodreads but if these 2 holmes and watson likes end up being faggots together i am HERE i need to be HERE

Horror, Mystery, Thriller, Adventure, Paranormal, Fantasy, SciFi, books are 350-400 pages long

Not all secrets are meant to be found. If Indiana Jones lived in the X-Files era, he might bear at least a passing resemblance to Nolan Moore -- a rogue archaeologist hosting a documentary series derisively dismissed by the "real" experts, but beloved of conspiracy theorists. Nolan sets out to retrace the steps of an explorer from 1909 who claimed to have discovered a mysterious cavern high up in the ancient rock of the Grand Canyon. And, for once, he may have actually found what he seeks. Then the trip takes a nasty turn, and the cave begins turning against them in mysterious ways. Nolan's story becomes one of survival against seemingly impossible odds. The only way out is to answer a series of intriguing questions: What is this strange cave? How has it remained hidden for so long? And what secret does it conceal that made its last visitors attempt to seal it forever?

Cosy Mystery, Fantasy, SciFi, LGBT, both books are around 120 pages

Centuries before, robots of Panga gained self-awareness, laid down their tools, wandered, en masse into the wilderness, never to be seen again. They faded into myth and urban legend.Now the life of the tea monk who tells this story is upended by the arrival of a robot, there to honor the old promise of checking in. The robot cannot go back until the question of "what do people need?" is answered. But the answer to that question depends on who you ask, and how. They will need to ask it a lot. Chambers' series asks: in a world where people have what they want, does having more matter?

Mystery, Thriller, Crime, Espionage, Spy, books average to around 300 pages but there's.. a lot of books..... i have 9 books and 1 novella in this series

John le Carré classic novels deftly navigate readers through the intricate shadow worlds of international espionage with unsurpassed skill and knowledge, and have earned him -- and his hero, British Secret Service Agent George Smiley, who is introduced in this, his first novel -- unprecedented worldwide acclaim. George Smiley had liked Samuel Fennan, and now Fennan was dead from an apparent suicide. But why? Fennan, a Foreign Office man, had been under investigation for alleged Communist Party activities, but Smiley had made it clear that the investigation -- little more than a routine security check -- was over and that the file on Fennan could be closed. The very next day, Fennan was found dead with a note by his body saying his career was finished and he couldn't go on. Smiley was puzzled...

jeff vandermeer said le carré's work inspired authority which is my favourite book of all time . so. i'm interested

Post Apocalpytic, Dystopia, Space Opera, Fantasy, SciFi, books are 400-600 pages

A race for survival among the stars... Humanity's last survivors escaped earth's ruins to find a new home. But when they find it, can their desperation overcome its dangers? WHO WILL INHERIT THIS NEW EARTH? The last remnants of the human race left a dying Earth, desperate to find a new home among the stars. Following in the footsteps of their ancestors, they discover the greatest treasure of the past age—a world terraformed and prepared for human life. But all is not right in this new Eden. In the long years since the planet was abandoned, the work of its architects has borne disastrous fruit. The planet is not waiting for them, pristine and unoccupied. New masters have turned it from a refuge into mankind's worst nightmare. Now two civilizations are on a collision course, both testing the boundaries of what they will do to survive. As the fate of humanity hangs in the balance, who are the true heirs of this new Earth?

ive been told theres evolved jumping spiders in this and like. im here for that. my god am i here for that

Weird Fiction, Post Apocalyptic, Dystopia, Fantasy, SciFi, books are 200-300 pages

In a ruined, nameless city of the future, a woman named Rachel, who makes her living as a scavenger, finds a creature she names “Borne” entangled in the fur of Mord, a gigantic, despotic bear. Mord once prowled the corridors of the biotech organization known as the Company, which lies at the outskirts of the city, until he was experimented on, grew large, learned to fly and broke free. Driven insane by his torture at the Company, Mord terrorizes the city even as he provides sustenance for scavengers like Rachel.

jeff vandermeeeerrr..... also i love how he has a book called strange bird and a character called ghost bird in southern reach....

Weird Fiction, New Weird, Horror, Steampunk, Speculative Fiction, Fantasy, SciFi, the omnibus is 1.5k pages long

Before Area X, there was Ambergris. Jeff VanderMeer conceived what would become his first cult classic series of speculative works: the Ambergris Trilogy. Now, for the first time ever, the story of the sprawling metropolis of Ambergris is collected into a single volume, including City of Saints and Madmen, Shriek: An Afterword, and Finch. In City of Saints and Madmen, Jeff VanderMeer has reinvented the literature of the fantastic. You hold in your hands an invitation to a place unlike any you’ve ever visited–an invitation delivered by one of our most audacious and astonishing literary magicians. City of elegance and squalor. Of religious fervor and wanton lusts. And everywhere, on the walls of courtyards and churches, an incandescent fungus of mysterious and ominous origin. In Ambergris, a would-be suitor discovers that a sunlit street can become a killing ground in the blink of an eye. An artist receives an invitation to a beheading–and finds himself enchanted. And a patient in a mental institution is convinced he’s made up a city called Ambergris, imagined its every last detail, and that he’s really from a place called Chicago.… By turns sensuous and terrifying, filled with exotica and eroticism, this interwoven collection of stories, histories, and “eyewitness” reports invokes a universe within a puzzlebox where you can lose–and find–yourself again.

[painted-flag]

A DRUNKARD'S PATHOS - aegon targaryen

☾⋆⁺₊✧ elf!Aegon Targaryen Series

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Sequel book to 'Of Flowers and Death' but can be read as a standalone.

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Summary:

Following the advice of his good sister – the new elf Queen and Aemond’s wife – Aegon is sent on a journey of self-discovery across the kingdom's lands. Seeing it as an opportunity to drink his way through all the pubs and taverns that exist in their kingdom, he embarks on his travels. 

However, he finds himself enraptured in the foreboding mystery of a town that holds more secrets than its number of residents. The most alluring of all is a barmaid, Arlina, whose turbulent past forces him to reckon with his own. In the wake of a personal metamorphosis, Aegon finds his connection to Arlina as a means to the end of his struggles.

Yet, the secrets that lured him begin to close in and want for blood.

Arlina wishes to escape every notion of her past self, forcing her life into a cycle of monotony. With a few close friends, she lives in relative peace. On the eve of one night, the prince Aegon comes into her town and inadvertently causes an upheaval of change; in both her and the lives of others around her. 

A violent past, a secret dark magic organization, and the beating hearts of two stubborn, sorrowful elves circle the cursed town at the edge of the world. 

Can also be found on AO3, right here.

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Chapters:

Chapter 1: The Drunken Fool Chapter 2: The Merry Maiden Tavern Chapter 3: Nightmares Chapter 4: A Proper Peasant Chapter 5: The Last Harvest Chapter 6: A Body at the Edge of the Woods Chapter 7: An Investigation Begins Chapter 8: Peculiar Markings, Peculiar Cave Chapter 9: Just Friends Chapter 10: Nowhere Is Safe Chapter 11: On the Road Again Chapter 12: More Valuable Than Gold Chapter 13: The Queen's Advice Chapter 14: A Startling Revelation Chapter 15: Back to Orilon Chapter 16: Imprisoned Chapter 17: Denial Chapter 18: A Beautiful Sacrifice Chapter 19: Run, Little Lamb Chapter 20: A Final Deal Epilogue: Terminus

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Content warning: 18+ Smut, depictions of gore/violence, alcoholism, PTSD and anxiety attacks.

☾⋆⁺₊✧: Ah! I'm so excited to roll this one out. As stated above, it's a sequel but can also be read as a stand-alone work. The schedule for the release dates of chapters is susceptible to change, as the previous book went from weekly updates to multiple uploads a week -- which will likely happen for this piece.

Thank you all for the support! Wishing everyone a fantastic year to come. Go out there and kick some ass <3

☾⋆⁺₊✧ If you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

[the-independent-archive]

Fear Classes: Complete, and the OSS

And we have it! The chart of Epithetical Smirkian Classes of fear is complete. Behold!

Many thanks to all of you who helped out on this, most recently the contribution of Infinitesimal by @0-peddro. I'm really happy with it, and I hope you may be able to get some use out of it.

However, now that the epithets are complete, I can move onto the main project. The catalogue, and the OSS.

Now, as you all could probably figure out, and archive needs organising. And with something as wishy-washy as the supernatural, thats hard. So, I tried my best to create a solution. Key word, tried.

And well, here it is.

The Oxford Supernatural Serial (OSS)

The OSS, or 'Oxford Style', consists of three elements: Assignment, Manifestation, and Date. This is presented in the bellow form:

XYZ-0-YYYYMMDD

Now, beginning with the assignment. Each entry in the catalogue is assinged a epithet, based on which the manifestation in the entry most closely alignes with. The 24 epithets are listed below:

The Razing (RAZ) - Base violence/destruction

The Slaughter (SLA) - Indisciminant violence

Terminus (TRM) - Death, or life ending

The Extinction (EXT) - The world continuing without 'us'

The Devestation (DVS) - Destruction, usually physical

The Desolation (DES) - Emotional Loss

The Dark (DRK) - Darkness

The Lonely (LNY) - Isolation

The Falling Titan (TTN) - Colossi, huge spaces/structures

Infinitesimal (ITC) - Insignificance

Choke (CHK) - Physical suffocation, crushing

Too Much, Too Close (TCL) - Emotional suffocation

The Crawling Rot (ROT) - Rot, decay

The Hive (HVE) - Insects

The Great Spider (SPI) - Spiders

The Mother of Puppets (PPT) - Powerlessness, lack of control

The Hunt (HNT) - Being chased, followed

The Watcher (WCR) - Being watched

Beholding (BHL) - Being known

The Spiral  (SPR) - Impossible spaces

The Stranger (STR) - The uncanny

I Cannot Know (ICK) - Not knowing, being unable to know

Viscera (VSR) - Gore, being 'just meat'

I Am Not My Flesh (NMF) - Dysmorphia, dysphoria

In the event that an occurance can be related to multiple epithets with no clear choice as to which category best suites it, the classification MIX may be used. This classification is to be used in the form of

MIX:UVW:XYZ

with UVW and XYZ being the relevant epithets. For example, an entry with significant presence of rot and dysmorphia could be assigned

MIX:ROT:NMF

This can be extended as much as necessary.

Next, the manifestation. The manifestation of each occurance is the way in which the supernatural interacts with the world/recorder within the entry. This can be organised into one of four categories:

1 - Space/Location

2 - Object

3 - Animal

4 - Human

For example, if the subject of an entry was a cursed amulet, the entry would be assigned a 2.

Finally, date. This is the simplest. The date of an entry is simply the date of the occurance, in the format of date, month, year. For example, an entry for an occurance that took place on the 18th of October, 2018 woul read

20181018

If any part of the date is unknown, it is to be replaced with Xs.

Now, to give the full thing a test. Let us take an entry, taken on the 20th of April, 2025, where a warehouse worker spends weeks wandering the floor of the warehouse, which gradually alters and deforms as they progress through it, could be classified as follows:

SPR-1-20250420

Now this system does leave some room for subjectivity, but I feel it fulfills the aim well enough to serve as a useful classification system.

I'll probably be taking a short break now, before giving the back-log a proper crack, so you won't here much from me for a little bit, but Sara's still hanging about, and August should be back soon, and I'll get him on the computer to say hi to all of you. Until then, bye!

-Cass

[trans-masc-michelangelo]

I've been thinking of Young Justice season 3 episode 23 (also called "Terminus" if you Google what the name of the episode actually is) and how in that episode, it's basically confirmed that Dick Grayson (aka Nightwing aka the first Robin) had feelings for Wally West (aka the first Kid Flash). Not platonic, brotherly feelings. It basically confirmed that he had romantic feelings.

(Not in so many words, obviously. But the way he reacted when M'gann said it "also hacked into old memories... Old feelings" and he looked shocked then guilty pretty much confirms it in my book. Sorry not sorry. I love the gays.)

And in the accompanying comic of Young Justice on his birthday and how Babs said at the end when she's waiting at his apartment and he asks why she doesn't get together with him if she has feelings for him the same way he does and she says "because Wally's right, you're a dog. And you're not ready for me yet" but they're dating in season 3. After Wally died. After the man that Dick had feelings for him for who knows how long and didn't act on them for whatever reason (most definitely because he knew Wally didn't feel the same and Dick didn't want to ruin their friendship because he still wanted Wally in his life despite not having him be with him in the way he really wanted)

But then in season 4, Babs and Dick aren't dating anymore. (Who knows what happened, and who knows who broke it off, but they're not together in season 4.) And the previous season (which was a year before that season) he pretty much tells his best friends from the moment he formed bonds in the hero community that he was in love with one of their boyfriends who was also his best friend.

Don't even get me started on my theory of the Suit Change when he finally makes an appearance and the thing with trauma and how if you have a similar item or set up (or suit design) that it can make things worse... (If anyone wants the theory, lemme know and I can make another post, but this is it for now)

[youmakethelight]

My thoughts on romantic caryl??

Look I have thoughts about this. And I'm just going to word vomit for a min.

My caryl journey started when I watched a random s3 ep as my first time watching twd and it was when Daryl left the prison to be with Merle. And Beth went up to Carol and said she's pissed at him for leaving and I was like girl same and I think this woman will agree. And Carol said don't be and I was like oh ok that's daryl's wife. I don't know don't ask. Their vibes were just clearly married.

Very weird to find out when I went back to watch in full that in s1&2 they are in fact not married. Honestly completely forgot about them after that. In fact, when Carl suggested naming lil ass-kicker Carol (when they left her for dead in the tombs which btw, affectionately, wtf?), I was like - 'oh - Carol died? I didn't notice that whoops must have missed it'. Then post-terminus, daryl did a little affectionate headbutt while ugly crying after they hugged and so I was like - 'OH they must be extra close, whoops nearly missed that'. The chemistry was PALPABLE but even so, I just assumed I'd missed the scenes where their relationship was made more explicit.

Then just went about my life, thought they were cute, assumed they'd be a thing at some point, got unreasonably offended when my housemate said their relationship is brother and sister, but basically just forgot to think about it. Years passed and I decided they're just besties. I even argued that when my dad said he thought daryl would have dated carol - I was like 'nah I don't think so they're just besties'.

THEN SEASON 10. There were so many scenes that had me thinking they're about to make them a thing so I literally backtracked and now here I am absolutely insane about them. Carol pushing daryl to pursue a potential love interest while he says nah and looks intensely at her and her lips?? Carol's husband telling daryl to back off?? - I literally clapped like a freak in excitement for some petty twd drama. And literally like 12 billion other things.

I don't know what to tell you but there were so many romantic caryl hints in DD s1?? If they're not about to make daryl and his GIRLFRIEND canonically IN LOVE and have their HAPPY ENDING, I am literally confused.

PS. Please do not send me anything anti-caryl. I'm sensitive and overly invested now. I'm too far gone, leave me be. Thank you. Bye.

[my-mt-heart]

“The Book of Carol” Teaser

Well, that was some serious whiplash yesterday. Totally not suspicious. Not suspicious at all. I'm still uneasy about the show's leadership, but the teaser is by far the best reassurance we've gotten in a long while and Caryl fans are happier than I've seen them in over a year, so I'll take it. Hopefully we can expect exciting content like this to roll out consistently until S2 airs, but in the meantime, here are my thoughts on what we have...

Daryl's opening VO, "I dunno know if this is the place I'm supposed to be," is actually a line from the leaked 201 sides. In them, Daryl has a conversation with Isabelle, the details of which I'll discuss sometime after the finale airs, but what's relevant here is that it juxtaposes Daryl's conversation with Carol in Find Me. Whereas Daryl insists in the cabin that he does know where he's "supposed to be," implying that he belongs with Carol, something isn't feeling right about France or the "surrogate family" (🙄) the teaser immediately cuts to after that line. I don't know the context of the next lines of VO, "I've been thinking about all the people I left behind, wondering if they're still thinking about me," and I'm not entirely sure why Daryl assumes Carol may have moved on (need I remind you of the lunch date in S11), but obviously he's homesick. And, thanks to that very unambiguous tagline, we understand why. Daryl and Carol are each other’s home. They need each other to be happy.

Needless to say, Melissa is so good in this. She doesn't need gimmicks or anything artsy to make her performance stand out. Carol's agony over Daryl is right there in her eyes, her determination to find him clear in her voice. I especially love her soft "yes" to the man I suspect will accompany her to France (you can see his reflection in the rearview mirror when Carol is in the car surrounded by walkers). He seems reluctant to take up a cause he isn't emotionally invested in, meaning he doesn't know if he wants to embark on what's bound to be a long, dangerous journey for someone he hasn't met i.e. Daryl. So basically, he's asking Carol if she would do it if she was in his position and she assures him that she would. The dialogue is a bit convoluted to stick in a teaser, but the takeaway is supposed to be that Carol will do anything to find Daryl if there's hope he's still alive. Because, of course she would. Daryl should know that, just like Carol should know he'd worry about her even if she told him not to. They love each other. They told each other they love each other. These two have a lot of insecurities to sort out when they finally reunite, and I hope we get to watch those deep conversations take place when they aren't making out.

Carol riding Daryl's bike and carrying his crossbow are nostalgic, the first reminding me of when Daryl rode out of the Commonwealth in the series finale only this time I'm not fighting the urge to hurl something at the TV. I'm actually cheering Carol on as she sets off to find him and hopefully give him a stern talking to (I let you go on our road trip alone and you end up in France??) The second is reminiscent of No Sanctuary when she finds his crossbow at Terminus, and we all know where that led. The question is how will this reunion top it? Hint: there's only one right answer.

I wonder if collecting pieces of him keeps her grounded along the way, similar to how Dog became her connecting point after she and Daryl had their big fight in Find Me/Diverged. I'd ideally like to see flashbacks of Daryl teaching Carol how to ride and/or how to use the crossbow since it's never been established that she can do either. My expectations aren't high unfortunately because history tells me TWDU loves to take shortcuts. That was particularly the case in S11 as far as Caryl were concerned. If that continues though, it's going to be a major issue for me. Don't just toss out gimmicks you think will get us talking for a bit. Don't leave out the connective tissue. Earn what you want to show us.

The title screen is an eyesore. For one thing, there are way too many fonts and for another, "Daryl Dixon" is the larger text despite the season centering on Carol. Like I said yesterday, Melissa and Norman are on equal footing. That is confirmed, but visuals like this give the appearance that Melissa/Carol carry less weight than Norman/Daryl which is complete bullshit. The original spinoff was going to be hers just as much as it was his, so why wouldn't that be the case now? That's a rhetorical question because I know the answer. It'd be really nice if AMC stopped punishing Melissa and her fans for their mistakes last year.

But to end on a positive note (I was doing so well, wasn't I?), the teaser is a good sign for Carol's/Caryl's story, and I'm excited about S2 again. With some help, I'll be keeping a close watch on how the season is marketed going forward. If the whiplash continues, if EPs keep insulting their audience, well…why stick around for it 🤷🏻‍♀️ But if hints such as that tagline persist or ramp up, we might actually be headed for explicit canon 👍🙏❤️

(I see my inbox is about to explode. I'll get to what I can tonight).

[greateasternj69]

Sorry for taking so long to get a new upload out, been busy with IRL stuff over the last month. But I have some art in the works so there is stuff on the way, and some of them are not an illustration for Tales of the Tarmingham Overhead this time. But it is a stand alone drawing relating to Tarmingham, featuring one of the locations on the Overhead and is right in the centre of Tarmingham.

Here we see Danwood and Sanworth pulling into Tarmingham City Centre Station during the rush hour on a warm summers day in 2021 (the reason I choose to set the image around 2021 and not 24 is because I have a piece of lore about a war that starts in 22 that happens in the 29A timeline, and it has something to do with an AI Sentient Machine army. I'll be doing more lore relating to this event, and this war at a later date and when I release the official 29A timeline) while on their usual service to seaside town of Searonby. Tarmingham City Centre is as it's name implies is located in the centre of the city of Tarmingham serving it's main financial and shopping district and is a major interchange and junction on the Overhead with both the line to Ronston Quarter another major junction with lines from there branching off to Walaceton, Searonby, Greenham, and the south city line to band the line to Blburgh Oakland, and the station is where the western city line to Slaidon Marsh begins and is a starting point for the newest line on the Overhead the city circle line, and consists of four platforms.

Opening with the first section of the Overhead in 1864 as part of the line to Walaceton, albeit without delay after an incident that occurred at the station that became the railways first major accident, when a supplies train was driven by a bunch of rioting protesters from the southern part of the city at full speed off the end of the then under construction station with the engines boiler exploding upon impact with the ground, destroying and damaging several nearby buildings in the process with the engines boiler being sent flying thousands of feet into the air and landing inside the hull of a merchant freighter. The station opening as part of the section between GER's terminus at Tarmingham Piccadilly Street and the GE&SEJR's terminus at Ruston Quarter as part of the Overheads efforts to provide easy access to the docks and to allow the overhead to expand further to Walaceton. The station became a major junction for the Slaidon Marsh line after that lines opening in 1876 which allowed passengers to exchange between trains running on that line and the Walaceton line.

Since it's opening the station has gone through at least two redevelopments throughout it's life, with the first from 1971-1974 and the second from 2010-2015, with the bridge it was built on and the stairs leading up to the platforms being the renovated but others the only elements of the original station to remain standing, with the station being the busiest station the Overhead's network and the busiest in Tarmingham with it continuing to fill it's role as the city centres most important public transport hub with the station having since received a third line to serve that being the Circle line which opened in 2017.

Universe 29A and Characters: © GreatEasternJ69

[bowlovercat]

I’ve been watching the new zombies trailer over and over again. This will be a long post about it, if you haven’t seen it then spoiler warning!

I feel like them showing Weavers room in-depth like this is building towards the shared hatred that him and Edward Richtofen have for one another now. His name is etched in the wall much more deeply than anything else, and very noticeably too. Also:

Smaller things I noticed were what I think is a name “Harry”(?) etched out in the wall. There’s a rumor Weaver accidentally killed Richtofen’s son and wife. It is at least confirmed that Weaver did accidentally kill a kid in the BOCW zombies intel where he claimed he didn’t know the kid was there and was very distraught as Maxis comforted him.

The date might just be the day they were taken into the terminus facility. I just thought it stood out. Along with the saying above the coatrack thing. “I will have no dreams in breathless…(slumber?)” I can’t make out the last word quite well but slumber is my best guess.

Also just a cool note is that it appears that Weaver is actually a decent artist. Just a fun little piece of info I like to see.

I also wonder what exactly the two weapons are pointed towards? Perhaps a metaphor for Richtofen or perhaps he’s just gone insane. If anyone understands Russian and can translate the text I’d be very appreciative ❤️

Grey, Carver, and Raptor one all look amazing and surprisingly built for their situation. Then again this is cod lol. I know in Carvers report he would hold little training sessions to keep moral up so it seemed to work. Also Raptor One’s smile looks like that Mewing meme and I can’t get it out of my head. His name was allegedly revealed to be Stoney Maddox

I’m really excited for Maya and what she will bring to the story. I also want to know who her brother is and how he potentially ended up on Richtofen’s shit list. Also she’s kinda cute like 👀

Also just now found out there’s a 10 image post limit LAME. I’ll make another post, a part 2 if you will. Cause I have one more theory.

[lilgoblinbitch]

poll time!

i do not really have a 'due date' for these drafts; like i said once before i kinda just release random drabbles here and there whenever i find the time. but these are easy peasy so i expect them to be finished by next week, possibly by the end of this week.

i also have a daryl smut request in the works, which may also be released by the end of this week. afterwards, more moodboards and then a rosita request. after that, carol requests.

[brandwhorestarscream]

Oooh, just go for any and all timelines you'd find interesting for the son-in-law ask? I'd love to hear any of them!

I'll just go down the line then!! :D

So, timeline 1 is canon: Galvatron and Terminus are dead long, long before Megatronus ever even meets Orion Pax. Terminus dies from infection after losing his legs in a mining accident, and Galvatron dies in the gladiator pits after a rigged match.

Timeline 2, the Destructicon timeline, Megatron dies when he's the equivalent of like. 2 months old. So that's out

Timeline 3, the self imposed exodus. Because the warframes abandoned cybertron about a 100 million years ago, Sentinel Prime was never assassin mated: i.e. he's still alive and kicking so Orion isn't ever selected for Primehood. In this one, he and Megatron don't meet until they're both far, far into adulthood--roughly where the first season of Transformers Prime starts--and ol Megs is actually in a committed relationship with someone else. Any guesses as to whom? (It's not Soundwave, though they did date for quite awhile)

Timeline 4 is where we actually get our first look at Megop! Big bad is still the corrupt Primacy and the Senate, so while Orion may never become the Prime in name, he's still a beloved leader of the resistance. Except this time 🤭 he and Megatron are on the same side, leading together as one. In this timeline, Galvatron and Terminus fled from Kaon with their sparkling after being warned of the horrible future by Galvatron-2: Megatronus and Orion met when they were children, and were close friends all while growing up. To be honest, those two were the absolute last ones to figure out they were in love: everyone and their carrier and also their turbohound knew they were going to end up together. In TL4, Galvatron and Terminus have watched Orion grow up alongside their son and are very fond of him: they're perfectly supportive of their relationship and probably also had a bet going on about how long it would take for them to realize their feelings.

Now, timeline 5... here's where we get into the really complicated stuff. In this one, the Senatorial system is abolished before war can ever break out, and that includes the Prime as a figurehead. This is a timeline where all of the civil rights issues are solved peacefully: the Matrix is returned to the gods' Acolytes for safe keeping as a holy relic, and as there's no war nor anymore Primal figurehead, the Matrix isn't called upon to take a new host.

Orion and Megatron meet when they're teenagers-to-young adults, and this is the one with the rapunzel-esque situation for Megatron. Except instead of a tower, he's kept secluded within the walls of Iacon's main Temple of Primus (it makes sense it context I swear, but that's a whole other post of its own). Galvatron keeps him confined out of fear for his life: he's lived through so many lives and has been visited by his previous selves so often it's made him incredibly paranoid and obsessive. Isolation is his greatest love: keep Megatronus away from anything and anyone that could hurt him, sequestered in one of the safest buildings on the planet. As a holy place of worship and frequented by the Chosen Ones of the gods (aka the Acolytes) the Temple is under constant watch from the Primal Vanguard. No one gets in if they're not supposed to be there. It's safe. Megatronus has never set foot outside since being brought in as a sparkling and is extremely sheltered: cue Orion getting dragged there against his will for a research project and falling helm over pedes for this pretty holy virgin type.

...Again. I promise you it makes sense in context. I'll sexualize my religious trauma as much as I want tyvm lmfao 😂

ANYWAY. The first time Galvatron meets Orion it's hate at first sight: via several little misunderstandings he thinks Orion is an invader in the Temple trying to hurt his only child and kinda goes ballistic. Even after everything has settled down and he's knows Megatron is safe, he still despises him. He wants the little upstart to stay far, far away from his baby. Wants everyone to stay away from his baby, really. No one is safe. No one can be trusted. It takes a long, long time for him to be even slightly ok with Orion's presence, and even longer for him to accept it when a relationship does bloom between them.

Terminus, on the other servo, quietly adores Orion. Megatronus really only has one friend growing up in the Temple: the only son of a rather religious Senator, little Shockwave. But he can't visit often so their boy rarely gets to speak with peers his age, and it makes him happy to see Megatronus interacting with another youngling. Orion is polite and sweet and genuinely a good kid, seeing them spend time together warms his old spark. He's really not at all surprised when Orion presents his first courting gift, and gives the young mech his blessing to pursue his only child.

Timeline 6 diverges pretty late and much of TL5's canon carries over. This timeline split comes when they're already married adults, so there's no change there

Timeline 7 is just. Universal oblivion: there is no more universe. So uh... moot point

I hope you enjoyed this! I hope I answered your question ok. I know I didn't exactly touch on High Lord Protector stuff, but honestly it doesn't ever really crop up in Hindsight. I can say, independent of timelines and individual canons, they'd be very proud to see their son ascend to such a position, but would also be scared to death. That's such a big change, after all! And a dangerous position to take on 🥺 they worry about their baby

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 2.28

202 BC – Liu Bang is enthroned as the Emperor of China, beginning four centuries of rule by the Han dynasty. 870 – The Fourth Council of Constantinople closes. 1525 – Aztec king Cuauhtémoc is executed on the order of conquistador Hernán Cortés. 1638 – The Scottish National Covenant is signed in Edinburgh. 1835 – Elias Lönnrot signed and dated the first version of the Kalevala, the so-called foreword to the Old Kalevala. 1844 – A gun explodes on board the steam warship USS Princeton during a pleasure cruise down the Potomac River, killing six, including Secretary of State Abel Upshur. President John Tyler, who was also on board, was not injured from the blast. 1922 – The United Kingdom ends its protectorate over Egypt through a Unilateral Declaration of Independence. 1925 – The Charlevoix-Kamouraska earthquake strikes northeastern North America. 1947 – February 28 Incident: In Taiwan, civil disorder is put down with the death of an estimated 28,000 civilians. 1958 – A school bus in Floyd County, Kentucky hits a wrecker truck and plunges down an embankment into the rain-swollen Levisa Fork river. The driver and 26 children die in one of the worst school bus accidents in U.S. history. 1959 – Discoverer 1, an American spy satellite that is the first object intended to achieve a polar orbit, is launched but fails to achieve orbit. 1966 – A NASA T-38 Talon crashes into the McDonnell Aircraft factory while attempting a poor-visibility landing at Lambert Field, St. Louis, killing astronauts Elliot See and Charles Bassett. 1969 – The 1969 Portugal earthquake hits Portugal, Spain and Morocco. 1974 – The British election ended in a hung parliament after the Jeremy Thorpe-led Liberal Party achieved their biggest vote. 1975 – In London, an underground train fails to stop at Moorgate terminus station and crashes into the end of the tunnel, killing 43 people. 1983 – The final episode of MAS*H airs, with almost 110 million viewers. 1985 – The Provisional Irish Republican Army carries out a mortar attack on the Royal Ulster Constabulary police station at Newry, killing nine officers. 1986 – Olof Palme, 26th Prime Minister of Sweden, is assassinated in Stockholm. 1993 – Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (ATF) agents raid the Branch Davidian church in Waco, Texas with a warrant to arrest the group's leader David Koresh starting a 51-day standoff. 1997 – An earthquake in northern Iran is responsible for about 1,100 deaths. 1997 – A Turkish military memorandum resulted with collapse of the government in Turkey. 2001 – The 2001 Nisqually earthquake, having a moment magnitude of 6.8, with epicenter in the southern Puget Sound, damages Seattle metropolitan area. 2002 – During the religious violence in Gujarat, 97 people are killed in the Naroda Patiya massacre and 69 in the Gulbarg Society massacre. 2013 – Pope Benedict XVI resigns as the pope of the Catholic Church, becoming the first pope to do so since Pope Gregory XII, in 1415. 2023 – Two trains collide south of the Vale of Tempe in Greece, leading to the deaths of at least 57 people and leaving 58 missing and 85 injured.

[ker18]

Beautiful Disaster (2)

Hello again, friends. I am really into the whole writing thing right now. But, I am no professional and all this is just a work of fan fiction from a wretched, battered soul. There may be absurd grammatical errors within this work, but please be gentle with me... :D

This was in no way intended to hurt or harm. Only to express thoughts in my head.

I do not claim to know anymore than anyone else in the issues plaguing the characters in the fanfic and this is not in anyway related to whatever truth they might actually hold.

With that said... please, enjoy... xD

-Sometime in the Future-

The leaves were rustling and tumbling over each other on the blanket of greens and yellows, the scent markers avid with dawn of the equinox, the tinge of fiery reds eminent in the overhang. The season was already showing signs of the beginning of the end but there she still was, sat on her front porch, looking out into the hibernating world. For five years, it had been hibernating… Five long insufferable years, filled with longing, yearning, and emptiness. For so long, she held on to the hope that there would still be another chance, an opportunity to make things right, a break in the stunt, or a redemption from the solitude.

She could still recall the last minutes, the fleeting moment, the pain – the excruciating grief, the tears, and the last goodbye before the actual fall. The recollection was as vivid as the day itself, no shield from the hurt, still inevitable in the way it came crashing down. For five years, she relived that moment over and over, every hour that dusk rolled by. She would convene herself on the same seat - blanket across her lap, a cup of jasmine tea in hand, thoughts in normalized disarray- and just allow the emotions to flood in.

There was an insincere calm that came with the chaos. First, memories would crash-in of the time when things were happier. The smiles, the dates, the late night talks, the stargazing moments, the promises, the sweet-nothings, the laughs, the hyper-awareness, the water colors, the teasing, the succumbing, the holding-back and then giving-in, the kisses, the touches, the skin-on-skins, the hugs, the warmth, the comfort, the scents, the breaths… the LOVE. All these came tumbling down as soon as the flood gates were released. She’d let them. It was the only way she could feel again. For those few minutes of seclusion, she would allow herself to relive it all and let it seep to revitalize her bones. This was the daily ‘bend before the break’… The instant where the grays showed other hues and she felt perpetual again.

“Babe? I’ll be here. You’ve got me. You know that, right?”

She recalled the cascade of emotions that overtook her the moment she heard those words, coming from the only mouth she could ever want them from. Those sakura lips were her life-force, her only means of survival in the world full of pandemonium. That voice was her voice of reason- the silencer to the unruliness of their day-to-day. Five years ago – and to present – she hadn’t a clue how she would go through every day without hearing that sweet influence. Up to date, her mind still processed that voice, still kept her promise to take the conversations to heart. Pain ensued in her chest where her heart lay, and she let it. Clutching at an imaginary handhold as tears threatened to fall, she moved onto another memory.

“Can you come over? Or should I just make my way to you?... You know what? Pick me up, please?”

Her mind’s eye reread the words and she remembered getting in her car, driving like crazy with one destination in mind. She overlooked the rain, the slippery street, the honks and beeps of traffic as she sped towards her terminus. All she knew at the time was that she needed to be in those arms, just as urgently as their owner needed her to be. She recapped exactly how that night went. As soon as the door was opened to allow her entry into more than just the room, she was enveloped into the warmest embrace. She remembered the whispers of gratitude as the strong arms weaved her into more than just body against her. She felt her heart soar and melt at the same time – melt in to what felt like home. There was no need to move, no need to speak, no need to mind, no need to do anything else but be in each other’s arms… and for that night, they stayed in. There was no rush in those moments, no race to finish anything that they started - there was just them, in the quiet of a room, their thoughts on full display for each other’s regard. Serene touches and sighs, beauty and grace, time and focus, unparalleled devotion were the courters of that night. And, these were welcomed with ardor.

”How could you, Babe? What does this mean for us?” Silent tears drowned the conversation until the silence was broken with the sweetest let down, “I’ll always love you, Babe. But, I can't... I'm sorry..."

The bitterest I love you she’d ever heard was that one right there. It felt like her world came crashing down on her that night, and every night since then. She saw the tortured look of love and betrayal on the face of the only person who had stuck by her through thick and thin. Suddenly, her voice of reason had ran out of reasons – reasons to fight for her, for them –and that’s when she knew that it was over. The sudden emptiness that masked those eyes that she loved, the coldness that radiated from the body she once burned to touch, the brusqueness of the rejection that arose – she felt it all smack her in the middle of her chest. Her heart fell and shattered, and she failed to find herself any excuses to save it from the instant break. ‘Coz she knew she hurt the one she gave it to and there was no greater pain than to see the hurt mirrored at her.

She scoffed and squeezed her eyes tightly shut as tears fell freely at the memory - eyes that had grown tired, but never ran out of sorrow. The sobs racked her body, making her hunch in on herself to pacify the sudden tear she felt in her battered heart. Because, until today, she still felt the ache, she still mourned her loss, she still loved the ghost of her derelict lover. She remembered the incalculable emotions that ran across the face of the one that once was so certain of her – the one that traumatized her the most was the look of agonized love. She couldn’t unsee that but what frustrated her the most was that she chose to walk away without letting herself explain... She was a coward! She was the biggest fool! She shouldn’t have! She shouldn’t have listened to that goodbye and held on. She would have… if she’d only known that it was going to be the last time.

               That was it. That one mistake was what cost her everything. The cross she bore for the past five years was born of that infuriating moment when she chose her pride over the love she had. In the snap of an instant, the click of a button, the turn of a head, and the blink of an eye, it was all gone. And it took her heart with it. The one thing that kept her together was the one thing that fell her. And, woe to her, she knew that it was all her fault. She let the tears fall freely now – crying in the way a forsaken soul would – cascades of lamented water soaking the blanket that was now pulled up to her chin. She bawled and she broke down, like yesterday, like the past months, like the last five years since that fateful day.

“Off to somewhere new... Time to heal.

 But, I’ll always love you…”

The last story she read before the radio silence. The last message to her, broadcasted for all to see. It haunted her and scarred her deeply. She saw and felt the remorse in those words, but also the exigency to leave. She felt the defeat wash over her. She pulled herself away and watched herself crumble and rupture, but she did nothing else to quell the decided.

               For months on end, she fell into a monotonous existence, only doing the bare minimum to survive. She lost time, she lost connections, and she lost herself. But nothing could compare to what she actually lost inside. She still kept on until hope reared its head. Deep within, she hoped - maybe, one day, she’d be given the chance… maybe one day, she’d be able to make things right. Maybe, one day, her love would come back… But, for now, she allowed herself these precious moments. The moments to reminisce and drown her system with actual feelings. She lived for these advent moments where she discovered exactly how much she felt, loved and lost.

               She basked in the ambience. Her lachrymose disposition slowly subsiding as she stared off into the last rays of the sunlight over the horizon. She wiped her tears, gearing up to head inside and resume her morose life.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Her heart leaped at the voice. It was the voice from her thoughts… the voice she would never forget. The voice that brought a torrent of emotions with it. Her brain seared in anguish, threatening to explode at the seeming reality of that familiar timber. She refused to look for a moment, fear eminent in her chest to find nothing but the phantom of her memory, but her curiosity broke loose and made her turn towards the source of the dulcet voice. And there, time stopped – eyes, nose, lips, hair, smile, and regard… there was Love! She failed at words at first, exasperated joy and pain overcoming her. She stood slowly, air and strength refusing to support her. The speaker walked towards her, climbing the two steps to reach her on the porch, reaching for her hands with sincerity and adoration, familiarity engraved in her sights. When contact was made, calmness ensued…

“Hi…” She finally said, breathlessly, heart in her hands – figuratively but literally. 

[primeindiahospital]

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When it comes to quality, affordability, and expertise, Prime Indian Hospitals consistently ranks as the Best Gastroenterology Hospital in Chennai. Here’s why:

1. Advanced Diagnostic Infrastructure

Equipped with cutting-edge HD endoscopes, NBI (Narrow Band Imaging), and high-resolution imaging tools for accurate detection of digestive issues.

2. Expert Team of Gastroenterologists

Board-certified and highly experienced doctors provide individualized treatment plans based on thorough evaluation and diagnosis.

3. Minimally Invasive Procedures

State-of-the-art laparoscopic and robotic-assisted surgeries offer reduced recovery time, minimal scarring, and greater patient comfort.

4. Comprehensive Liver Care

From hepatitis to fatty liver to cirrhosis, the hospital offers specialized hepatology services with close monitoring and follow-up.

5. 24/7 Emergency Gastroenterology Services

The hospital handles urgent cases such as GI bleeding, pancreatitis, and bowel obstruction round-the-clock with dedicated ICUs and surgical teams.

6. Affordable and Transparent Pricing

Offers medical packages and transparent billing, making high-quality care accessible to all socioeconomic groups.

Conditions Treated at Gastroenterology Hospitals in Chennai

The best gastroenterology hospitals, including Prime Indian Hospital, treat a wide range of digestive and liver conditions, including:

GERD and Acid Reflux

Peptic Ulcers and Gastritis

IBS and IBD (Crohn’s Disease, Ulcerative Colitis)

Cirrhosis, Hepatitis A, B, C

Pancreatitis (acute & chronic)

Colon and Rectal Cancer

Gallstones and Biliary Obstruction

Top Services Offered at Gastroenterology Hospitals in Chennai

To ensure precise diagnosis and effective treatment, leading gastro hospitals offer:

Endoscopy & Colonoscopy

ERCP & Capsule Endoscopy

Liver Function and Imaging Tests

Bariatric (Weight-Loss) GI Surgery

Nutrition Counseling for Digestive Wellness

Preventive Health Screening Programs

Conclusion

Choosing the Best Gastroenterology Hospital in Chennai is essential for ensuring long-term digestive health. Prime Indian Hospitals excels with its advanced diagnostic tools, minimally invasive treatment options, experienced medical team, and compassionate care.

From routine GI problems to complex liver diseases, the hospital offers expert-led treatment and round-the-clock support, earning its reputation as the Top Gastroenterology Hospital in Chennai. If you are seeking trusted, effective, and patient-centered digestive healthcare, Prime Indian Hospital is your ideal choice. Read Also: https://primeindianhospitals.com/best-gynecologist-in-chennai/

[kahztiy]

YD6-71 (ZA) Phantom Flights Through a Labyrinth, and Boys: Across Continents

BOOK SYNOPSIS: Step into this journey of becoming, where the cosmos whispers its secrets, and identity blooms like dawn. This story is an unfolding suite of chapters clarifying my book: The Code: Horizon of Infinity—a philosophical memoir exploring: How The universe Sculpted Our Minds. Through Aetheria, the lens of consciousness, aware of her need for a body to reveal herself and exercise her wishes, the narrative leads to her birth and the name she will claim: Sunshine. 

Chapter Preface: Between JFK and Jan Smuts, the path blurs—Paris, perhaps, or Brussels lost in a contrail of forgetting. This is the phantom return: not to a place, but to sons waiting behind court orders, to a brother’s embrace, and an ex-wife’s silence. Aetheria guides the descent; Nyx veils the route. In the quiet hum of reunion, the question remains: Who gets to arrive—and who is allowed to stay?

#PhantomFlight, #MemoirInTransit, #FathersAndSons, #LabyrinthOfMemory, #ExileAndArrival, #AcrossContinents, 

YD6-71 (ZA) Phantom Flights Through a Labyrinth, and Boys: Across Continents

Riding on an Aladdin rag, with New York gifts in my luggage, and J.F. Kennedy is long behind. London’s Heathrow—cosmic, deja vu—wide corridors with leading signs that read, ‘Exit.’ The rolling walkway carries me among far-spread travelers. I dawdled in the gleaming wash of the floor slipping past. Then my stride awakens—to walk on. Thoughts trickle of passengers: A brief crossing over the North Sea channel breezes through, then eastward—through France. Eric waits. And faithful to my sister Ingrid, the journey emerged unfeasible.

I’m caught—entangled at the crux—splitting the skies, by a ten-day sleepover nudging Johannesburg into mind. I slogged my calf-bloated suitcase through Heathrow terminus, just as a British Airways flight boarding crossed my path. I jungled through Sabena exigencies—a run to the Foreign Exchange hatch, then back again—before a clean red carbon ticket issued in hand. 

I swore at myself, weaseling through the suffocating crowd, sweating out my original wish for London—booked a year earlier, born in the moment of an idea, walking through Sandton City’s mall where I’d drawn my departure tickets. A launch point to shed Jean and her legal team, piggybacking on my name. But the world has changed—since its needs.

On those end-of-year festive season flights, I seem to shed the worst of life behind. Looking forward carries its own promise—flickering in a labyrinth of crisscrossing journeys: Rio de Janeiro, Tel Aviv, Paris, Brussels. While my body cringes in its seat, mind twiddling. . . doodling in mid-existence, fading behind the boarding pass. 

I’m consuming another summer open-date flight—Paris hovering like a half-consumed destination. Walking the ground, overhead signs flash: a fork blinks. ‘Passengers in transit.’ I just spotted the easy way out of an adventure—but impatience weaves through me. I must wait until the end-of-year to catch my course—saddened that reaching my boys still isn't an option.

The music resonates—a voice breathes, “on the wings of love.” Cosmic, atmospheric—a gauzy spray paints my mind, like traces of Roman roads beneath asphalt. 1961 camouflaged—regretful behind progress. The rural airport has changed over the years. I walk the concrete apron to the terminal, shadows of memory trailing behind.

Across the gleaming corridors, past the grown plate-glass crystal barrier that chokes the passengers at passport control. I taper down the concourse. A carousel, self-service, heaving of luggage—passing under the scrutinous eyes of customs officers. Year after year, I slip through with an outdated computer for Lionel to tinker with. Or Peter Few’s ordered video camera. Now, Gavin's radio. Lionel's printer. I pass, chilled with anticipation of being stopped.

Then—at the whisk of smoked glass—my eyes leap free, held back by a crowd of greetings eyes, eager, but I’m invisible, not their character. Repose my steps, to scan through a crest of eyes and shoulders—fumbling my purse, pecking among the scatter of international coins—a twenty-cent piece. Beneath my search for a phone, a dark-blond boy breaches clear from a gateway of thick sliver tube that holds back the crowds—nearing. In a stroke, his round face shades from his mother, Caroline, to feature my brother Ivo, as a child—but he vanishes beneath my eyelid, as Ivo himself, figures, a head-and-shoulders above, pressing his giant frame through the throng. He emerges—solid, towering.

Cosmic, my words echo, “Hoe wiste U dat?—How did you know I arrived today?” We stroll behind Sheldon, his arms raised, hands steering the trolley stacked with luggage, gliding across a gleaming wash of the floor. From the peeking eye-slit of light—Aetheria's mirage spies on us, bending Helios’ reach to her own whisper. It dawns on me, intuitive: ‘Ilona.’ The usual family telegraph making its rounds, threading whispers through her siblings.

Cautious of the black hollow of the zebra line, but drawn by the surge of white-stepping stones of piano keys, the rhythm of our pace threading through the cast shade. Beyond the edge of the angled concrete columns, tethered to the overhead driveway logic architecture for ‘departure’ traffic—shoved the furthest thing from mind right now. We stepped into Helios at the crest of the day, the asphalt fading beneath the bright blaze of the Highveld summers, blurring the plaza and spilling into a glimmering parking lot beyond a shady curb. Sunlight prickles my face. I turn again to Ivo. “Hoe wiste dat ik vandaag zou komen, Deze morgen?—How did you know I'd come today. This morning?”

Contrary to Ilona’s draping shadow, Ivo echoed: “De M'ma het, gisteravond gebeld en gezegd dat je misschien vandaag op de vlucht zou zijn.──Mother did phone last night, saying you might be on the flight today.” We stepped the pebbled paved plaza down the curb. Ivo and Sheldon, in a breath, debated the parking spot amidst the glitter of glass and sleek undulations of metal. The heel of my steps cushioned in the softened tar, carrying me to the metallic silver-gray Mercedes as its trunk lid lifted. My luggage fluttered at Ivo's hands—like winged—before being stowed into the dark depths. Sheldon's flat palm brought down the trunk shut. We climbed aboard and drove away. 

I gazed through the framing windshield—an extension of a flight—hovering, still seated in the comfort of the Aladdin rug, the magic cloud of my life being tended to. My mind doodled over the airport's intricate roads, drifting from year to year. Only the Holiday Inn tower seems to have gained a moat around its island, and Ivo, justifying the detour, notched to the historic pivot, “Ik sal langst hier. . .—I'll try this way; it’s shorter, I think.”

Steering the car, a fragmented course blotched uncertainties. My seat, no more uncomfortable than in flight, yet my ego—ever surpassing—begged to wrestle doubts. I flipped through them: ‘Am I the only one bugging siblings for a place to lodge?' Squelching guilt as I rode with gifts in my luggage—involuntary to seeing the old year out and the new year in.  

We stopped at the intersection by the road sign, where the traversing thoroughfare was stitched with a dual railway line—shy, peeking against the azure sky. A sketch of convent’s black washing lines—memory strung out to dry—spanning electrified cable punctuated gantries, threads hung from another hemispheric. A gauze of Johannesburg blurring distant—valleys weaseling through the wavy hills—resurges a quarter of a century—more carriage than career—grounding what still hovered.

Exhausted—my spirit still trailing in the jet’s contrail—my brother, a decade my junior and at peace with the landmarks of the present, weasels onto a horseshoe overpass above trickling highway traffic, threading into a suburban street. The wheel coils a turn—into a side road. No sooner, we face a cul-de-sac, a flicker of deja vu—an island in the sky, a recollection of my landing, bright-colored fins shimmering among distant airport structures. He veers counterwise, but no sooner, a gateway to a villa in the sky rises—its eaves shading the fenestrated facade. The car rocks through the gutter and halts on the brick driveway before a green garage door. 

“But! This is not your house.” I exclaimed, thinking he made a courtesy stop.

“Het is thuis”—It is home--we moved. A bigger house. Sold the other.”

Then, Ivo, as if things happen in a flock—among siblings. "Het hele gezin is verhuisd.—The whole family has moved. Ilona to Hazyview, Igor to a smaller house at the far end of Randburg. Kidding me. “Het is al goed. . .—it's good I came to the airport; you wouldn't have found anybody.”

In a half-daze, I stepped to the rear of the car. "Leave it for now, I'm tired," my voice rhymed from behind the monster of my ego, gnawing at the fact that no verbal invitation had been extended to lodge with his family. But Sheldon and Ivo, untroubled, swung my luggage into sunlight. After them, I pressed the trunk lid into its shadowed depth.

Father and son led the way, through a facing gate bathed in the golden haze of an alleyway—wedged between the garage and a precast concrete wall that peeked over the bright white house gable of the house. A side gate swung open, and a pelt of fluff—a puppy—shot between our legs. Meanwhile, the father, an Alsatian, stood poised in the haze that blanketed the green backyard lawns. Ears pricked, alert to Ivo's command. Sheldon couldn’t master the pup’s erratic, wild greeting loops—no shouting could heel him. 

The kitchen window flickers—our reflection slipping past. We turned the corner to a stable door off the patio, Ivo stressing with the bottom leaf to keep the dogs outside. But Aetheria rides Helios’ light, spilling into the kitchen, bending the glare like threads of a mirage. In the shadowy depth, Caroline figures at the stove, steam billowing from simmering pots. Behind her, the two little girls—the smaller one sucking fingers—half-tethered at their mother’s skirt—shy, silent, yet driven by curiosity to welcome the stranger in me.

"Hi! Ivan." Caroline blurted, 

I sink through my knees—bent—tall as my brother is, she’s a little woman. We meet in an uneasy embrace, a brief kiss—her voice resonating: "I'll show you where. . ."

Turning away, Caroline and the girls—Charleen and Sherrilee—slip ahead of me through the gaping doorway of the kitchen. To the far right, Igor and Sheldon's shadows vanish, their presence echoing a narrow passage wall, exchanged in a piped echo—steps in the shadows. 

Until in the distant peeking doorway light, the little crowd jostles—fluttering before a wing of a saucer that dissimulates the planter’s manicured street-front yard. Aetheria’s flavor lingers—in the mirage. Bend in Helios' light, it crosses the shade of the eaves, pleading to the wall’s almost fully waking window, spilling over the trims and windowsill. Silhouettes gathered and bustled, emerging in Sheldon’s room.

"Come now, get out of the way." Caroline, with her Moon in Virgo, resonates with firm authority. Ivo echoes her in fewer, deeper tones. Little shoes scuffled, retreating across the parquet like a small storm pattering behind the blind wall, their echoes piping through the passageway.

A gauzy veil of light cleared to reveal Caroline—needn’t mentioned—the neatness spoke for itself. An inviting bed ran along the lateral wall, dressed in a brown-and-white checkered duvet. An oversized black pillow puffed with quiet pride beside the window’s deep—trimmed folds of gathered drapes.

I sized up the shelves—parked with a collection of scaled-down cars, airplanes, motorbikes. At my feet, on the bare parquet, stood an antique chest. Atop it, a museum piece: a mechanical typewriter, with a few blank sheets neatly stacked beside it. ‘What does a young boy of ten do with a typewriter?’ I wondered—forgetting, for a moment, my own legacy behind De_P’pa, my father’s typewriter. I thought, this is so fantastic. So neat, so precise—a world apart from my school exercise book, a quilt, and an ink pot to dip. “Just a fly’s walk. . .” echoed my teacher’s voice, as I scribbled tracing the faint ruled lines in my exercise book.

Then I turned, throwing a glance toward Caroline and my brother, the last trickle through the gaping doorway. My luggage posed at my feet—an unspoken invitation—lingering in stillness after Sheldon’s reluctance to leave his room. "First things first," I voice, edged with an apologetic reverence—"Can I use the phone to call my boys?" 

"It's in our bedroom, Ivan. Go in, you'll be at ease, to speak with your boys." Caroline’s words resonate like a pointer. "There."

I hesitated before darkness pooling in the angle, the shadows of sentinels juxtaposed at the corner where the passageway veers toward the rear bathroom and toilet doors. In my baffled pause, Caroline’s hand led, swinging the door inward, gesturing behind the door leaf, "There is the phone." 

In my hesitation for a phone in another spot, I sensed the thick atmosphere of intimacy I couldn’t shy from. My mind bruised on the king-size island of a bed—square and soft—in the gloom of drawn thick curtains, cracked with slivers of sunlight. Caroline’s sillage of fresh air trailed behind.

The red phone stared, gleaming rat-eyed, cornered and ready to leap. I snatched the handset—lyrical, a heartbeat, a verse woven into my fingertips, dialing. I turned away from the breeze-swaggering drapes, swung my hips into the cane chair, its creaks rocking me willingly. ‘Isn’t that fun?’ 

I waited, as the distant, muffled ringing stretched thin, tautening my patience.

‘Maybe I dialed the wrong number?’ echoed in my head, nagging. I  redialed, my mind lending itself to the keypad’s rhythm, tracing the 8-0-2—the Kelvin exchange rising from the savanna, as an incantation threaded memory. It rhymed with 5-00-5, the house before the cradle of Lionel and Gavin—but there is no answer.

The reed creaked—lamentably—as I was brought to the verge of anxiety. Flirting with thoughts: ‘If Jean had learned the date of my arrival. . .’ her Sun in Rat, raising her wrath like a storm on the horizon.

I left the chair rocking behind me, and out the gaping doorway. I walked the little wooden block floor, in refrain cosmic music sigh resonating in mind: 

“In the misty moonlight; 

By the flickering firelight; 

Any place is all right;

Long as I'm with you. . .” 

The melody wove into memory—Lionel and Gavin, captivated by those remnants from one of my construction sites. As the afterglow of sunset pressed against the sliding doors, shadows thickened before bedtime. They would balance each piece with careful fingers. Then pause—breaths held—before pulling one free from the bottom to their delight, watching the tower crumble in a cascade of laughter. 

By evening, after another try to reach my boys, I walked a memory map traced by the chevron parquet underfoot, each step an echo of their small hands stacking wooden blocks. I glanced through the gaping kitchen doorway, silent in its shadows. Beyond it, the next juxtaposed yawning doorway, they framed wooden dining furniture hunkered in darkness. Then, came around the wall, distant voices coming to fetch me. I brushed off the lingering stare of lounge upholstery—silent, heavy, watchful—as if shaking off dust from a forgotten room.

I crossed the somber bar-room and paused at the bright thread of light slipping beneath the flagstone step under the archway. Offside, the Alsatians’ sad eyes flickering beyond the glaze—occasional and watchful, begging to enter. Nyx’s dark cloak wrapped their shadows, her gaze lingering behind the glass of the patio’s French doors with wing windows, watching what I saw from my angle. 

Ivo's large arm draped over his chubby little wife, the three siblings twisted by their feet, eyes hovering over the coffee table. Fixated on the flickering colors of the television screen—absorbed in a cartoon’s whimsical chaos.  

I stepped into the limelight—no one perturbed by my intrusion into their cozy leisure. Catching Caroline’s inquisitive glance, I shrugged off the thought, its edges slipping out, gathering into a voice that lingered in the air. “I'll try again, later in the evening.” 

A cosmic rhyme drifted in, unbidden, threading through the stillness: 

“Is it all in the stars tonight?

Is it all in . . . mind? 

That . . . will never come?

A sentimental dream, my feelings based on instinct.” 

The words half-resonate, linger like stardust caught in the fluorescent light.  

Angelic and dozy, the children left for bed, from finding my place besides my brother on the wide couch. "Aren't you tired?" Caroline’s echoes past Ivo’s chest, lingering in the air for the umpteenth time.

"Yes," my breath rolls out, "but if I go to bed now, I won't fall asleep." 

The midnight’s broadcast on SABC flickered, then the screen swarmed with a gray gauze—static. We rose and drifted off, trailing through the passage until the corner doors. With a soft exchange of “Goodnight,” we disappeared into the rooms beyond.

I climbed into bed. ‘Black sheets?’ A breeze from my arrival swept across the black pillow, soothing my head. Who would’ve thought—Nyx—to slip into the arms of Morpheus.

Helios' peeked through the curtain cracks, after the birds had fluttered and chirped, splashing silly among the silent leaves of the bush, before the household awoke. I stirred—cocooned in the covers, weathering out patience.

By nine, I had dozed through worlds—landing, taking flights, checking my next options. My skeptical Warthog lay curled in its lair, while my free-spirited Gemini hovered, lingering for a place to nail myself down, to carve out a career I could bring among the normal—responsible. 

My thoughts drift to Ivo and Caroline's household awakening—tiny footsteps pattering in and out of rooms, warming the milieu after Nyx’s chill. Punctuated by those overriding giant stomps—until frightful, evacuated peace returned through the house. I dressed and went searching for the little family. Helios' glow seeped through the windows, illuminating their scattered silhouette around the kitchen table for breakfast. With hawk's eyes on my wristwatch, holding back for ten o'clock—not to rattle Jean’s feathers that bear upon my boys. 

Caroline offered her phone line, guiding me between the facing archways—opposite an African artist’s hand-whittled bar counter. The somber sideboard cradled a docile beige phone. I dialed, poised, listened to the distant ringing tone, dispatching the Hydra eyes of my mind's familiar craft, settling shyly, embedding the pine ceiling hovering the floor-through entrance. 

Helios' flaring across the north and south yards, glowing against the amber-bullion-glazed entrances. Light threads through the glass, coalescing in the hallway—a golden-bright mirage, suspended in the heart of home. In the shadow pooled by the northern entrance—cradle the phone. 

The line livens, Gavin’s voice chirps like morning's birds fluttering in the leafy swells. "Where are you, dad?" he asked—then fell into a thoughtful hush. 

"In New York," I replied, pausing—waiting for his response. It didn’t come.

"But, Dad. . . you're so clear," Gavin’s voice resonates, feathered with hesitation. I caught the edge of his doubt. I held the silence too long, feeling the pull of his longing.

Extending my tease for Lionel, I shortcut—saddened, leaving Gavin’s little heart adrift, held in that silence, the doubtful sonance of his voice, "but Dad? You're so near." 

"No, Gavy. . . " my voice breathes. "I'm here in South Africa. With Ivo."

A tremor of doubts crept back in his voice. "Are you? Daddy!" Beneath it, a vibrancy—certain in its ebb, his radiant little heart—I felt blossoming inside my chest. Breaking my cruelty, on a breath that reached into the past. "Gavy! How is your tummy?" 

"It's all right. Daddy." 

As this little boy could melt me to tears—puncture my heart—back in New York, when, with the help of his brother, his nightmare emerged, sentient of a flight crash. I sensed the truth unspoken—the cause, untenable: his longing. I had briefed Gavin about London, about the stopover where I’d changed course—rescheduling my flight. 

Then, I heard his peaceful voice rolling and fade through the house: "Lionel. Lionel. . ." 

The line held in a hush. In retrospect, I caught a pressure before an air current from the far playroom—stirring through the architecture, slipping across the lounge’s piled carpet. Footsteps squelch across the embossed Italian ceramics, surge in my mind. Then broke the silence.

"Hi, Dad. Where are you?"

“Lionel! What happened last night?”

"We’re at Granny’s, unpacking the carton boxes. . .” His voice surges to mind—Jean’s mother—then fades just as swiftly, like a distant dream slipping through the edges of wakefulness.

Yet, it was crucial to sense the prevailing temperature in their household. "Lionel," and in another breath. "Go ask your mother if you can come with me to Hazyview. To see Bon'ma and Bom'pa." I hung in suspense on the thin thread of a hollowed line. His spirit in tide and ebb hard to follow in his retreat—withdraw. Tasked with standing up to Jean—lounging, facing the illusion of the past on a television. Flinging over my sentient expectation—bounced back—his voice cracks through the line: "We can only come on Sundays." 

I understood. In Jean's language, that meant; NO.

"Lionel," I loosely insinuate—this isn’t a visit; it’s a sentence. "Go back to your mother. Tell her, "I didn't come from New York to see you on Sundays.” But then I was back on a flight. The skies opened; turbulence gave way to the calm. . . of oblivion. The ridicule of ten-to-five echoed across distant mountains, fading into an atmospheric gray blur, stirring up the past years. In despair, last year, I laid charges at the Bramley police station—anything I could think of: blackmail, extortion, contempt of court—knowing nothing would come of it.

“Lionel,”—“I've kept my side of the agreement all year. I wrote to your mother and made payments to your and Gavin's Bob account. 

Gavin returned, his little voice cutting through the line. "Daddy! My mother doesn't want to let us go with you." 

"Where is Lionel?" I gasped.

"Lionel is inside. He says he doesn't want to talk anymore." 

"Gavy!" I urged, "Go and call him back. Tell him, I promise—no more messages. I just need to explain—." 

A long pause stretched across the line, then Lionel returned. "Yaa?" 

"You shouldn't be in the middle of this"—"I'll speak to Peter.” 

"Peter's gone to Sun City," Lionel sighs. "For seven days." 

"Lionel, don't worry,"—"I'll sort this out. We'll be together for the holidays." The words had just rolled out, that my mind snatched back—an instinctive bank reconciliation, running through the numbers. "Call Gavin." 

When I hooked the handset, I repeated my promise to Gavin—Lionel wouldn’t explain what had happened. The line had gone cold, but I was burning.

I flipped through the White Pages of the telephone directory and dialed the number. “Sun City Hotel,” the native woman answered, then patched me through. The receptionist’s voice returned: "There is nobody." On the edge of her imagination, the hotel's paging system echoes a cosmic rhyme—Mister Few, there is a call for you. Please pick up the phone. Wherever you are. 

I waited—my routed call tracing a path through the homeland, threading across Bophuthatswana's villages of mud huts—how I wished it were so. Instead, from Kempton Park, I reached Hillbrow. Where I used to pick up Janine. I followed her pointing finger, listening to her Jazz, as we slipped onto the asphalt, stretching into the night toward the Magaliesbergs. Headlight vanishing beneath Rustenburg streetlights, before resurging on a stretch, then fading as we weaseled past the glowing parking fields, straight up the hill, and parked alongside Sun City Hotel. The ex-croupier unleashed herself into the casino, swallowed whole by the roulette table.  

"Peter Few," my brother-in-law’s voice broke through, splintering my sense of place. To figure out his pudgy silhouette, short trimmed beard, that telltale hesitation caught behind his breath.  

"You didn't guess it could be me, did you?" as I listen for my reception with this Leo.

"No." Short of breath, his breath short, gasping to match the urgency.

"I've just landed."—"And Jean is up to her usual malice. She won't let me have Lionel and Gavin."

"We're coming back tomorrow afternoon," Peter echoed.

‘Tomorrow?’—floated beyond the distant hills. 

By dusk that following evening, along the graded curb, the Nissan Bakkie came to a halt before the house. I had roamed the shopping center and the streets of Halfway House—impatient—until five to seven. When I pulled into Vorna Valley onto the grassy sidewalk. I peeked across the clinker-brick precast wall, behind which the house’s fenestrated facade sat quiet—its drapes drawn. Off to the side, the driveway was bare.

Headlight splashed against the locked steel-framed wooden gates. Peter unwound the window. "Hi, Peter,"—"Hi, Rita," as she stepped out, cutting the light beam, the gates swung, the driveway lay bare in a spill of light. "Should I close the gate?" as the red taillights of the coasting Mercedes. Stopped. Fluttering the wing doors. The entrance awakened from darkness with lights greeting, and figures flitted unpacking the car. As I slouched an approach, “Do you want me to shut the gates?” 

"Yes," Peter throws back, lugging bags from the car's trunk after Rita disappeared briefly inside the house. I followed, in a rescue mission for two innocent little boys.

"Take a seat," echoes with a shutting door. as Peter settled down more bags by the kitchen counter. Rita slipped through the back doorway with her two daughters—a few years younger than my boys—ushering them through their last leap to bed. I lingered behind, pulling out a chair at the round table with the widest view of the open L-shaped living area, watching as Peter unpacked food from the fridge and spread it out across the worktop.

Rita joined her husband. With the kettle on the boil, she poured three cups. "Ivan, you don't take milk? No sugar?" 

"That's right." My voice flirted in the air, untethered.

"And how are Lionel and Gavin?" Rita’s question shimmered.

"I haven't seen them yet," my reply drifted on a breeze.  

Peter touched the sore subject—not with the expected magic wand, of a phone call, but with a discourse—"I thought about it. Rita and I discussed it, and there is nothing I can do. Jean will not move. She has proven that before. She even told Rita to get out of her house. It had to do with the letters." 

‘The letters?’—awakening a ploy I didn’t remember. 

“The ones Rita used to hand the boys—quietly, once a week, when she visited.’ Peter voiced. "Jean found out." It sparked a thought when my boys complained, back when we were still a family: “If you ever want to hide something from your mother—tuck it in her wardrobe. Or with her stuff!”

"What about Ronnie?” broke through my thoughts.

“He won't talk to his sister,” Peter echoed. “Ronnie’s wiped his hands off the affair. He doesn't want anything to do with it anymore. He told Jean, ‘It's your life, and you better sort it out.’ Said she was wrong to use the children." 

"What about Jean's mother?" fluttered in my doubt, distanced and fragile. 

Peter’s voice emanated from behind the kitchen counter, busy with snackwiches. "The only one who can still move her," meaning, Jean's mother, “is the old lady herself." If Lionel had to go to his grandmother with the unhappy jam. . . I believe she’d talk seriously to Jean.” 

But! Don't forget,” Peter insisted, “the old lady wiped her hands off paying lawyers. If the old-man were still alive, he’d have let her follow through—that holographic milieu living before me ever since Jean packed her bags with her boys--lawyer hatching cases, folders spread on her lap. Peter sighs, “Jean’s mother—you know how tight she is with her money.” He breathed in another thought. “But! Lionel is her apple's eye. If anyone could get something moving, it’d be him." 

Peter brought his snackwich to the table, and with it, he quietly highlighted the old-lady's indifference toward Gavin. It twisted the knife in my chest. It hurt—knowing Jean preferred Lionel too. The toasts left a few crumbs on the china, as Peter added—outside, Nyx lingered, an eye staring through the crack of the curtain into the light, while Rita stood adrift, free from her mother and wife’s shores. "There is only one solution, then," Peter said. "You need to speak to her." 

Deep inside, I knew he was right. But the deceit—years of it—made the thought unbearable. "I don't want to do that," slips out of my mind, to them both. ‘Talking to Jean?’ creeps, chilling under my skin, infeasible. My heart sagged under the weight of not resolving anything tonight. Then the lion cub in Gavin purred his distant words, crumbling the monster of my ego to rubble. I stepped out of the rubble. "I think you're right, Peter."—"I think. . . I feel it's what Jean wants—to speak with me."

Trailing Peter into the sleeping quarters, behind a side door, the click of a switch lit the Kalamazoo System salesman’s study. He turned away, leaving me behind his desk. I dialed my boys’ house number. Lionel answers—his voice staunch. ‘You deserve to be punished for what's happening with us,’ crossed his mind. And I knew--I’d have to wait. Wait until he grew his senses, maybe into adulthood, and relationship did the talking. I sighed--"Lionel, will you call your mother?"  

Lionel came back on the line, "She doesn't want to talk to you." Through Lionel's doubt, my mind gives that little edge on me—"Just tell your mother, "--“if she wants to solve matters—she better talk to me." 

He couldn’t have said more than two words before Jean's voice sprang to live through the earpiece.

At the labyrinth of open fight tickets and gateways, I linger. Each year, my boys grow a notch—the little one trying to catch up with his brother. Yet, in my heart, they remain just that: the little boys, caught in a thought. And when I stand again at the hub—continent shifting behind me. the past year is still unconsumed. The road ahead across Africa spells one thing: a problem I can’t shy from—not unless I want to see the fool in me.

You are welcome to read all the chapters and explore more at my website: How the Universe Sculptured Our Mind. I spend an absurd amount of time chasing expression—perhaps to shame. But the challenge is mine, updates may occur without notice, shaping the timeline, perceptions. The gift is yours: thoughts, echoes, reflections. I take them with gratitude. And you—who are you, reading these lines, stepping into my genre, my style, the quiet current of my subject?