the-caffeinated-hummingbird

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Author’s Note: Chapter Two! Chapter Two! Both this and the first chapter are also available on my Wattpad (TheHummingbirdWrites)! More on the way- I am having WAY too much fun with this little AU! 😄

Little Ghosts

Chapter Two

Hello Stranger

The trees that grew in Crescent Park were some of the oldest in town. They stood around the field and lake in a nearly perfect circle. Most days, they seemed insentient. But as Boris looked out across the water and into that draping canopy of Spanish moss, he could feel their gaze. No other presence in this monochrome scene, not the murkiness below him or the cloudy sky above, seemed more alive.

He recognized a few of them. Some were saplings when he first rode into town, but a couple were mighty enough, even then, to shield him from enemy fire. He wondered if they remembered, too. It was so long ago. They did not have the luxury of simply falling asleep in one century and awakening in another. The weight of time and memory had mangled their limbs, caused breakage and regrowth. Seeing them before him, his grief felt smaller. Small enough, at least, to find the strength to read her words, but not without wondering just how much of Marigold’s life they had witnessed. They knew, without telling, that she had looked up into their branches with amazement as an infant, she took her first steps in their shadow and walked many hours, many seasons, many years in their shelter and shade. She was there now, among them, hiding in plain sight.

Boris turned his attention to her words, carelessly penned in bright red ink. The color was striking, almost startling against surrounding grayness. Those letters held onto their brilliant hue, heedless of the passage of time. Coursing through the paper’s fibers. Never drying, never dying, like veins beneath flesh…

Hello Stranger,

I have written many letters in my life with no intention of ever sending them. I hope this one finds you and that it finds you well. I will try my best not to ramble. Time was never on our side. Pulling you in one direction and I in the other. Please know that every moment we spent together was precious to me. So precious, in fact, it seems selfish to ask for more. But there is something I must say now that I have returned to you, if only through the written world. I loved you dearly. I love you still. When I find myself in need of an embrace, it is yours that I recall. Sometimes when I am lonesome, I whisper your name into the deaf darkness of the night. Foolishly, I expect an answer every time. Where does love go when unrequited? Where does unfulfilled longing venture to? Does it disintegrate? Evaporate? Return in some new form? Does it live on in our hearts and continue to hope, heedless of reality?

I hope you are content. Not only in the present moment, but when you look ahead to the future. I hope that love- braver and stronger than mine could ever be, has found you and made an eternal home for itself in your heart. I know what it means to be a friend because you were a friend to me. I know what it is to listen without judgement but with loving patience because you sat beside me when I needed you most. I know love. Or rather, the daring heights love can reach. For in this world of tricksters and frauds, lies and illusions, I was fortunate enough to know a man of noble intentions. Whose heart was pure and good. I was blind. Most of us are. But I was also blessed. And your friendship is a blessing that I won’t soon forget. Farewell, sweet Boris. Never doubt your worth for a moment. For you have been and always will be a treasure in the eyes of those who love you.

Myself included…

-Marigold

A breath of cool air moved across the page and then outward- animating the water, the grass, the trees.

“Why?” Boris asked, lowly, uncertain of where to direct the question. But to contain it any longer would surely shatter his mortal form like glass. “Why am I here? Why did I awaken in this lonesome land, if only to love and lose and wallow in the pain of loss? What are you trying to tell me, by forever withholding heaven from my weary soul? I know very well what you want me to say and I will not give you the satisfaction because… I do not want her back. I do not want her back, do you hear me?! Keep her! Save her from this cruel fate. As for me, God, help me forget. Take this love from my heart and these memories from my mind. I cannot…” he paused to listen and wipe a tear from his cheek, “I cannot hold her anymore. Not in the way you can. And that is what I want for her. Peace, perfect peace.”

He did not notice at first, but as his tears fell, the sky began to cry, too. Raindrops toppled onto the open page. When his vision was clear enough to see what had happened, the ink was smudged beyond recognition. It streaked and rolled, pouring into the lake like drops of blood. The lifeblood of a precious secret that she had carried for years. This was farewell. Somehow it was more poignant, more final, than seeing her name in an obituary or standing before her open casket in the cemetery’s chapel. He let the piece of paper fall from his hands, into the lake. Recalling the words on that now empty page, he fell to his knees and called down into the water, the only words that he had left to say to her. “I loved you dearly. I love you still.”

A horn sounded from the street and he could see the shape of a silver city bus through the driving rain. At first, he considered waiting for the next one, but when the horn blared a second time, Boris rose to his feet. The driver was waving and although he did not recognize him, he could see an expression of concern plastered across his wrinkly face.

“I saw you fall over,” the old bus driver said as the door swung open, “scared me half to death! Are you alright? Can I give you a lift somewhere? I mean, it is my job, after all!”

Boris managed to smile, halfheartedly. A typical helpful Waterfordian! “I was waiting on the airport shuttle. It’s due to arrive in five minutes.”

“Shuttle doesn’t run through here. You’ll have to catch it at the Old Town Station. I’ll get you there, free of charge. Unless you’d rather walk there in this soup…”

Thunder rumbled overhead, a final push for him to accept the friendly stranger’s offer. With a nod, he started to climb onboard, but a reflection in the window, of a ghostly image walking through the trees behind him, startled Boris. It was her! He knew it in his soul! He turned around and called her name, but the apparition had already vanished without a trace.

“Marigold?” The old man narrowed his eyes. One was blue and the other one, a mossy shade of hazel green. “Marigold Casey? Did you know her? If you did, I am sorry. Please come inside, out of the rain…”

Boris found his seat in the empty bus, trying not to meet the driver’s sightline. But he had been so kind to him, it would be rude to ignore his presence, entirely. “She was my friend. My best friend, for a short while. How did you know her, Sir?”

“Friends call me Abe,” he nodded, then put the bus in motion, “Marigold was my goddaughter. Though I doubt she ever mentioned me. I had a falling out with her parents before she went off to college. Some silly thing about the Casey Schoolhouse. I’m glad it fell into her possession instead of mine. She really turned that old shack into something special. How about you?”

“I met her through a friend…” just as before, a reflection caught his eye. This time, on the side of a windowed building. Then another, then another. Each one a scene, a visual memory of her. Smiling, carefree Marigold. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t feel much like talking right now.”

“I don’t find you rude at all,” those strange eyes sparkled in the rearview mirror, “sit back and enjoy the ride, Boris.”

Had he not been so distracted by the kaleidoscope of images, reflected all around, Boris might have realized that he never once disclosed his name to Abe. All that he could do was stare. She was in the falling rain, the puddles on the pavement, the rolling river that cut through town. Not a window or mirror was left untouched by her colorful dresses, her golden waves of hair, her bright green eyes. As he stitched the pictures together in his mind, he realized that each one was a single glance that he had directed to her over the course of their friendship. Towards the end, however, reality gave way to what appeared to be wishes. In the place of their somber farewell, he saw them sitting high above the ground on a ferris wheel, dancing closely in her living room, walking hand-in-hand through Crescent Park on a sunny afternoon.

Then, last of all, just as she had imagined, a dock in Charleston Harbor. Her lovely premonition was only partially correct. His uniform was not historically accurate, but the aesthetic was there. This triviality was overshadowed by the white gown she wore. Etherial. With green vines and yellow flowers embroidered across the billowy fabric. Their friends were gathered, many in costume, holding glasses of bubbling champagne and cheering. He hadn’t realized that the bus was no longer in motion and Abe had turned toward him, his head cocked to the side.

“See anything interesting?” He asked, pulling the lever and popping the door open.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. How much do I owe you?”

“Owe me?” Abe laughed to himself, then reached out, not aggressively by any stretch of the imagination, but it was still an unwelcome move. He caught the hem of Boris’ coat and held onto it, with all his might. “Time is precious but it is also easily lost. Watch it closely. Hold it tightly. And remember my name. You will likely be seeing me again somewhere down the line.”

As he stumbled down the steps and onto the platform, Boris felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion seep into his body. His clothes felt five pounds heavier, at least, as though they had been submerged in water. He touched his coat and flannel, both were dry as bones. The sky, to his surprise, was devoid of any clouds. Even though it had been raining torrentially moments ago, before he disembarked. He approached the ticket counter and smiled at the young redheaded woman behind the glass.

“Back so soon?” She smirked, flirtatiously. “I know Waterford isn’t for everyone, but this must be a new record or something!”

“Waterford is lovely. But I’m ready to go home. Besides, I was here overnight,” he hesitated, sensing the young woman’s confusion, “wasn’t I?”

“You don’t remember? You asked me about three minutes ago if I had seen your ride. Curly hair, leopard print jacket, glittery eyeshadow. I think you said her name was Janelle or something along those lines. She’s driving you to your friend’s graduation…?”

The heaviness gave way to something more akin to levity. But he couldn’t bring himself to trust it. Not yet, anyway. “Oh, that’s right,” he offered, weakly, “you’ll have to forgive me. I’m very jet lagged and might have had a couple of drinks at the airport-“

“Drinks?!” A familiar voice with a high-pitched southern twang sounded from the entryway. Followed by the always eccentrically dressed Giselle Zipp. “Just start the party without me, why don’t you?!” She stomped closer, hands on her hips. “Boris Bordon, home at last! Get over here and give me a hug!” He obliged with some trepidation. “Mare will be overjoyed to see you. Overjoyed!” Thankfully, Giselle couldn’t see the tears gathering in his eyes. He continued to hug her, long enough to collect himself and swallow the lump in his throat.

The drive was painfully awkward. He spoke very little but thankfully, Giselle had no trouble filling the silence. She started off by questioning him, but received only very vague answers. Then she proceeded to rave about a mysterious old journal that had somehow found its way into the stack of reading materials she had brought to Marigold earlier on in her treatment.

“I really should have given it a closer look,” she confessed, speeding down the long dirt road that eventually lead to the facility. “Apparently, it’s a collection of plays written by Major Andre and… Captain Bordon. You heard me. You know more about it than I do. I’m not gonna pry. Marigold, on the other hand, is bound to give you an earful about it. What I really want to know, and forgive me if this comes across as insensitive, but I need to look out for my bestie… you’re not just after the journal, are you? That girl has carried a torch for you for years. She’s worked her butt off to get out of this place and I’m not denying her strength of character, no sir. But she’s sensitive. And I’ve seen her get burned before. Partially because of me… but… I guess what I really mean to ask you is… remember the 4th? All those years ago? When you came over to my apartment and told me that you had fallen in love with her? Are you… do you?”

“Yes, Giselle,” he replied, calmly, staring out the window at the white building ahead of them, “I am in love with her.”

It was a haunted place, where ghosts of the living and ghosts of the dead mingled in close quarters. From a distance, it looked like a charming Victorian-style inn. But the barred windows paired with the front gate quickly gave away its identity. A cluster of yellow balloons were tied to the mailbox. Collapsable tables with dollar store decorations could be seen through the chain link fence. The staff had clearly tried to make it pretty. Once inside the perimeter, Boris quickly found the prettiest sight of all.

She was seated at the base of an old oak tree, pen in hand. Looking up into the branches, searchingly. As though the words she sought after were perched high above her golden head. He didn’t want to disturb her and was content to simply watch for a while longer. She had a funny way of scowling at her writing. The one similarity she shared with his beloved Sylvia. What she did next, however, was purely Marigold Casey. She perused her work, capped the red pen, sprung to her feet, and started to read it out loud with elaborate gestures, like an actress on the stage. As she paced to and fro, the frills on her yellow dress fluttered in the breeze. This was the woman he remembered. Animated, boisterous. Then, suddenly, smiling. Smiling at him.

“Oh, my God! It’s you! I didn’t think you’d show!” She shouted, hastily closing the notebook and tucking it under her arm. Not quick enough. He had already seen the familiar shape of the two paragraph love letter. The one he read only hours earlier- years ahead of the now-present time. His heart swelled, but also ached to learn that she had penned it on the day of her graduation. “Hello, Stranger!”

She was skin and bones the last time he embraced her. Now, her arms and legs were strong and toned. Her complexion had a healthier glow than he had ever seen before. The only remaining trace of her inner demons could be seen in those pale green eyes. Even when alight with joy, that subtle sadness remained. He made a secret vow in that moment to stand beside her and take up arms against it.

“Hello, Stranger,” he replied. It might have been too forward of him, but she didn’t seem the least bit bothered when he smoothed his fingertips across her blushing, smiling cheek, reveling in its warmth.

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Author’s Note: Little Ghosts! Here we go! I was originally going to post on the 4th because it is fairly significant to the story, but chapter one was ready and I was really excited to share it! Chapter two should be up soon- it’s a lot lighter than this one, which is a bit of a doozy. But things have to get bad before they can get better right? I will also be posting to Wattpad once I get my cover to a place where I am proud of it. Oh! Also, this story will intersect slightly with my latest oneshot, “Who am I?” I’ll add notes for clarification as the story progresses. Confused? So am I! But writing is always as messy as it is fun for me! Hopefully you all will enjoy the mess and have as much fun reading this as I did writing it! Now, let’s give Bordon and Marigold a happy ending- heaven knows, they deserve one! 💖 And… scene!

Draw my eye to center stage

To the little ghost who wears my name…

-Mipso, “Down in the Water”

Chapter One

The Signs

There was a sign hanging in the cafe’s window, left behind from the day before. Boris didn’t have to read it to know what it entailed, he could have guessed it all. Line for line, verbatim. Still, there was something about its presence that stopped him in his tracks. He could have simply stepped inside. The lights were on. The door, propped open wide enough for the rich aroma of espresso and fresh pastries to waltz out onto the street, just like any other day. Perhaps if he saw it one more time in writing, he would find not only acceptance, but permission to move on with his life, along with the rest of the world.

His eyes scanned the message, almost obediently. The first half was painless, “Closed today so our staff can attend…” he collected himself and read on.

The remaining letters stood before her name like a firing squad, solemn and unforgiving. She had cheated death before. Made a career of it, according to some. From the moment they met, standing on a median in traffic, to their final embrace on her front porch, he was fully aware of her resilience. Her aptitude to live loudly and burn brightly in the face of all that haunted her. If anyone should live forever, it would surely be Marigold Casey. If anyone should die young, it would be her, too. No acceptance came. No permission. Only anger. Accompanied by the desperate desire to fire back at each horrible syllable.

It was over now and could never be revoked. The date and hour, the service and the burial all had passed, leaving behind a sequence of memories that he hoped would fade with the passage of time. But those immortal few with no discernible grave of their own, Boris included, can never forget such things.

“She would have hated this,” he grumbled, pulling the door open and stepping into the air conditioned building. All the tables were empty, a rarity for this time of day. “You should take that sign down,” he shouted into the chrome kitchen, “might get more foot traffic with it gone.”

A teenage boy with shaggy brown hair stepped out from the back room. Boris recognized him, but had to take a closer look to confirm. “Double Americano, yeah?” The boy asked, mindlessly punching a series of keys on the register.

“Better make it a triple today. Thanks, Tommy.”

“Done.” He rang it in and got started on the order, almost methodically. Yet another rarity. Tommy Martin was not exactly known for being thorough. “Giselle’s waiting for you on the back patio. You go ahead and I’ll bring it out.”

Boris left a twenty on the counter and told Tommy to keep the change. In hindsight, he felt bad for making the kid work. But he seemed to welcome the distraction. Anger again. Anger spiked with the sour taste of annoyance. “She would have hated this,” he repeated to himself. The thought was still there, but as he made his way through the cafe, it took on a new form. Marigold would not resent Waterford for moving on. She would want Coffee n’ San-tea to open and function as usual. But not like this, drowning in grim silence. She would be pained by those empty tables and seats, the quiet speakers hanging overhead. Pained by the overwhelming sense of hopelessness and defeat. The very antithesis of everything she stood for in life.

To him, she would always be a flower blooming through the darkness, towards a beam of narrow, unobtainable light. It was not enough to crave the sun. She had to embody it, to become it, somehow. She wore bright florals like plate armor. Optimism was her weapon of choice. Because of this, she was the happiest person he ever knew. The loneliest, too. But the happiest, regardless. “Joyful Always”, just as her headstone declared and the comforting eulogy disclosed. At least, it was meant to provide comfort to her loved ones, but it only deepened his pain to learn that her final words were not words at all, but a smile. Such intense devotion must have countered her mortality, right? If it truly was her time, surely she would have only vanished for a while. Vanished without a trace of her existence left behind. Swept away by a sunbeam, faded like starlight at the break of day.

Instead, the evidence of her mortality was all around him. The city she loved seemed to mirror her now. Death staged to resemble sleep. Only yesterday, he touched her cheek and whispered his farewell. All warmth was gone. All softness, too. Cold as marble and smooth as clay, holding only a whisper of color. If only he had touched her more in life, instead of merely admiring that sweetly blushing face. If only…

Like the cafe, the outdoor dining space was a ghost town. Occupied solely by frizzy-haired Giselle Zipp, who was seated at a small, metal table. Her eyes were glazed over and her hands remained motionless on either side of an untouched latte. The only acknowledgement she gave Boris was a single, absurd question, “Have you visited him yet?”

“Who? William? No.” The chair scraped loudly as he dragged it outward, across the concrete ground. “I was going to approach him yesterday, but thought better of it.”

“That isn’t who I meant,” she looked at the ring on his finger. Antiquated silver with a blue stone in the center. Nobody else in town knew how long he had worn it, save for its previous owner. “Henry. Or should I say, ‘John’?”

“I have no interest in combing the cemetery for an unmarked grave. Not after yesterday. I could barely stand in the yard for more than five minutes, hopefully nobody noticed…” he shook his head and breathed in deep, feeling Giselle’s judgmental gaze searing into the side of his face.

“Oh, I noticed. But I wasn’t surprised. You always had a talent for bailing on your friends. Did you even bother speaking to anyone? Anyone at all?”

He crossed his arms and looked at the ground where shadows of the nearby trees, the iron tables and chairs mingled in a dark dance. “I’m afraid you have it all backwards. Only one person bothered to speak to me.” His voice weakened, then snapped like a fragile branch in the wind. It was not the loneliness that caused this reaction, or the bitterness that he had been shown- but the kindness of that one man who sought him out in the chapel when everyone else had departed. “I’ll admit it. I was hiding in there when Pastor Benson found me. He said so, himself. Called it ‘the worst place to hide’. I think I know now what he meant by this.” There it was, the burning sob that Boris had carried in his throat for the better part of a week. He tried to fight it off, but was quickly defeated. Face in hands, he bent over his knees and wept, uncomforted.

Giselle nodded at Tommy, who placed the Americano on the outermost corner of the table and scuttled away. “Stop, Boris. Stop this right now. You know, you really should be ashamed of yourself. We all have it far worse than you do…” she caught a glimpse of the pain in his eyes when he looked up at her and decided, for at least a moment or two, that she had said enough.

“How is William?”

“Worse than me and I’m a damned mess. But nobody has it half as bad as their baby girl. He won’t even look at her. I hardly can, myself. Can you imagine? Barely a week old, without a soul in the world to love you.” She lifted the mug and contemplated taking a sip. “I’m mad, if you can’t tell. Real mad. At William, I think. And at you. But at myself most of all…” Boris started to cry again, but she really didn’t care. “Don’t give me that look, you know what you’ve done. And what you haven’t done, too.”

“No, I know. Trust me, I know. I could have been a better friend to her…”

“Damn straight you could have. I’m actually surprised you came. My best guess is Jake invited you on accident. But I’ve got something for you, anyway- something that Mare wanted me to give you should ‘the unforeseen happen’. Which it did.” She reached into a large, leopard print handbag and pulled out a piece of notebook paper, folded haphazardly down the middle. “Don’t worry, I didn’t snoop. I didn’t have to. I connected the dots a long time ago. She wrote it around the time you noped out of here and she was missing you like crazy. You don’t deserve to read it, but she wanted you to know. Just so there’s no confusion, she did not take these feelings for you to the grave. And if she did… well, then I guess I’d be mad at her, too.”

It felt heavy in his hands, that little piece of paper. The note itself was alarmingly short. Two simple, cursive paragraphs scribbled in fine, red ink. A few lines and words were crossed out here and there. In truth, it didn’t seem like something written by Marigold. He had seen her writing before, longwinded and colorful with flowers doodled in the margins. But the penmanship was hers, as well as the vernacular.

“Should the unforeseen happen…” he pressed the page between his palms, as though in prayer. “She wrote this at the facility, I assume. Long before William arrived in this century. Forgive me for asking, but I must. When did she entrust this note to you? When did she ask you to give it to me in the event of her death?”

“You really are a piece of work, you know that?” Giselle massaged her temples. “Do you remember what you told me, about three weeks before Mare and Henry split? Forth of July, if that rings a bell? You knocked on my door at midnight. I’ve seen grown men cry before, Boris, but never like that. Remember why? Or do I have to remind you?”

“Giselle…”

“No. You can tell me what you had for breakfast on a random Saturday in 1779. It hasn’t even been a decade since that night. Did you really love her?”

“It makes no difference now.” He drank out of the steaming mug. It was piping hot and strong enough to give anyone the jitters after a single sip. “But yes.”

“Just so we’re clear, I don’t blame you for moving back to New York. The ghosting her and screening her calls, especially after learning what was going on… friends don’t do that. If you were scared to talk to her, you could have gone through me, just to wish her well. I’ve been annoyed with you for years, but what makes me furious now is that on top of all this, you haven’t made any efforts to bring her back.” She reached across the table and grabbed hold of his arm, digging her acrylic nails in deep. “Bring her back! I know you can. I know what you are. And the devil you’ve made deals with…”

For most of this uncomfortable conversation, tears notwithstanding, Boris managed to maintain at least some semblance of composure. Now enraged, he forced himself from Giselle’s grip, startling her. Startling himself, too. “Don’t!”

“Don’t what?”

“Mythologize Arthur Tarleton.” Another sip, longer and somehow more scalding than the first. “He is a con man with a stolen name. The only thing setting him apart from the rest is that he cons people like John and I. Besides, I already tried. I broke down his door the other day. I called him last night, begging for answers. For guidance. For anything. Do you want to know the worst part of all? He gave me an answer. Everything else, I pieced together after talking to Pastor Benson.”

“Did you now?”

“Have you ever noticed Arthur never visits this town? He’s terrified of it. Of the power that pulls us apart and brings us together again. He claimed to be the architect of our fate. But there is something divine at work here, Giselle. It is greater than you and I… and certainly… undoubtedly greater than some fraud in New York. We are ghosts on a stage, puppets on a string. Arthur has seen the stage, the players, the tapestry and has held in his hand the very fabric of time. But he is not their creator. Not yours, not mine. It should make me angry, too. God knows, it has in the past. But it is almost encouraging to know this. Calming, in a way. The table we sit at now, this building, the street has been visited by more ghosts than he has encountered in his lifetime. You want Marigold back. I do, too. What if… what if she is here already, standing in the unseen world on the other side of the veil? And all we have to do to be near her again is to stop bickering with one another and listen?”

For five whole seconds, they did just just this. The only sound was the blaring of a horn in the distance and the rumble of an airliner overhead. Then, nothing.

“Well, that was enlightening.” Giselle scoffed, retrieving a mirror from her bag and fixing the smudged mascara in the corner of her eye. “She gave me the note several months ago. When she first started having complications. Henry might have left her, but she always referred to you as ‘the one that got away’. You should have picked up the stupid phone. If anything, to give her closure. You broke her heart. Sure, William picked up the pieces and put them back together as best he could, but broken is broken. Broken is forever. I hope you know that. And that it haunts you for just that long, if not longer…”

With that, she left him to finish his coffee alone. But the silence was far too loud there. The stillness, overwhelming. The bus stop down the street was being rebuilt and the line had been rerouted through Crescent Park, two blocks away. As much as he hated the idea of walking through her old neighborhood, fate seemed to be fighting in its favor. So, he walked. Past the record store and the neighborhood market where he had seen her agonize over calories and pay for meager lunches with hands so trembly she could barely get her card into the chip reader. He saw the treelined street where her former home stood. Still a cheery shade of yellow and lovingly maintained by its new owners, but to Boris it seemed hollow and condemned.

These scenes were torturous. The park, worst of all. Even from a block away, he could see the bench. The one he chose to sit and sober up on, years ago on the Forth of July. Now, it wore a sun bleached scrap of cardboard that displayed the words, “Temporary Bus Stop��. He sighed, backed into yet another corner. Before moving in, however, a vision unlike anything he had ever witnessed before appeared. He could see them perfectly, two figures from the past, seated side by side. Her golden hair was curled and pulled into a high ponytail, bouncing and swaying with every move she made. The dead giveaway for the occasion was her flowery red, white and blue pinup dress and the matching bandana she had fashioned into a headband. For as fun and festive as she appeared, Marigold was anything but happy.

He could see himself, playfully tugging on one of her blonde ringlets and slurring stupidly, “Ding dong! What’s wrong?!”

For a moment, she looked like she was about to chuckle. Instead, she looked away, up into the sky. It must have been alight with fireworks because he could see bursts of colors reflected in her eyes. “I don’t think Henry loves me anymore.”

“Oh,” Boris watched his likeness grapple with this information. Not because he was blindsided by it. If anything, he was the first to see their romance unwind. He did nothing then. Nothing again. “Are you sure? It could just be a bad case of sour grapes!”

“Sour grapes?”

“Yes! It is Independence Day, after all. And the British lost. Pretty abysmally, I might add.”

They shared a laugh, louder than the joke had warranted. It would have gone on longer, if Marigold hadn’t reached for his hand. “I’m so glad we’re friends,” she wrinkled her nose, grinning now, almost like a child. “Wanna know a secret? I always imagined love and marriage would feel more like this.” Boris closed his eyes and suddenly, he was no longer an onlooker. He was there beside her, holding her hand in his. “Friendship,” she continued, “best friendship set on fire.”

“You really are drunk…”

Her eyes were so clear. Full of energy and brightness. Innocent, from a distance. Even when sorrowful, those eyes were never jaded. Now, up close, he saw at last the true nature of her pain. It was not a shadow, but a burning thing. A flame he could still feel the heat from, even now. “May I kiss you?”

“Marigold, you…” he moved closer to her, just as he had back then, without so much as a second thought. “You can do anything you want to me.”

Amusement surfaced in those eyes of hers. Then a sort of tender contemplation. “I’m really not that far gone. Just tipsy enough to be a little braver than usual… and I certainly wasn’t drunk the other night when I saw you in a dream. Would you like to know what I dreamt?” She was closer now than ever before, drowning his senses. “I saw your reflection while standing in a harbor. Charleston, I’m sure of it. Only… I think it was in a time that has long since passed. While we’re on the subject of the American Revolution. You were in uniform. And looked really, really good in red! I turned around and held you and just like this… I wonder why. I wonder what it meant. If it was a memory or a merely a wish. Whatever it was, it was beautiful…”

She kissed him, boldly, but it was also brief. Neither greater nor smaller in its longevity than the life of an unlabored breath. Her lips were warm and soft. He could taste the source of courage on her tongue, bourbon whiskey. A strange deviation from the crisp white wines she preferred. It was short, but sweet. She was never one for small talk. How then could this wordless conversation possibly be any different? It ended on a high point, just as their rhythm was found. They remained close, eyes locked and breathing deeply. The only forces stronger than the desire to continue were the vows and commitments that were keeping them apart.

“You should head home.” He said, lowly. She did not respond. Just sat there, staring softly into his soul. “May I walk you to your door?”

Marigold nodded, but did not move. Not even to blink, not even to breathe. “I’ve never been able to understand why time moves so much faster when you are nearby. I’m sorry…”

He drew her in again. Planning on being the one to kiss her now, but instead cowardice guided his lips to the apple of her cheek. Like yesterday, its warmth evaded him. He was no longer a participant in this scene, but a spectator. “No. It is true,” said his ghost. “There never seems to be enough. Let me walk with you. And I promise we will walk slowly.”

They moved away from him, then rose like vapors above the sidewalk. He had little time to recover. Grief arrived again, a merciless tidal wave. He reached into his coat pocket, finding the piece of paper and clutching it like a talisman. To remain at the bench might have been the responsible thing to do with his bus arriving in under five minutes. Yet, the thought of lingering in that haunted space, saddened him. He made his way into the park, stopping at the highest point of the footbridge that arched over Crescent Lake. There, he opened the letter- the final thread connecting them to one another, to their past and, in the case of this curious tale, their future.

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

… and my recent oneshot is snowballing into a bigger story. How could this happen? I knew this was going to happen. 🤦🏼‍♀️ Stand by.

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Curtain Speech: That’s what I’m calling author’s notes from now on. I had the idea for this oneshot while driving to get muffins (unrelated, at first) and pretty much knew it was going to make me crazy if I didn’t write it down. It takes place between “Marigold and the Historian” and “A Long and Lonely Mile” and is more of an au/what-if-scenario than anything. I suppose it also counts as a songfic since “Do You Want Me?” by Mipso is a bit of a motif throughout. What can I say? It’s a total jam! Oh! There is a small potential spoiler for “A Loyal Subject” towards the end but honestly, I’m playing around with a couple of different endings for that story. Yes, I do plan on finishing it soon. Anyway, this pairing has been in the back of my mind since it was first hinted that Boris and Marigold had small and unrequited affections for one another in The Joy That Was Mine and a few of my (horrible) unpublished free writes. So I figured, why not?! Let’s put these two in a petri dish together and see if we can get them to fall in love. And… scene!

Who am I to be your angel?

Who am I if not your friend?

Who am I if I’m all alone,

Wake me up if I’m dreaming again.

-Mipso

It was a very old building. At least, in its foundation and the bones that kept it standing upright through the centuries. Marigold Casey was aware of its history. Researching its past lives was an ideal way to occupy her mind. Far better than dwelling on its current use, anyway. There were bullet holes in the basement from when it was a rowdy inn. Or perhaps they were left over from its boarding house days. The shattered remains of old porcelain dolls could still be found if one sifted through the garden’s soil diligently enough. It saddened her to imagine the house as an orphanage. More so to hear tales of the resident ghost, an eleven year old girl, who lived there for seven long years and never found a home.

Despite all this, if anything there had the potential to be haunted, Marigold was convinced that it would be the item in her hands. A cordless telephone. Purchased new by the facility and placed in the back office less than ten years prior. It was chilling to think of how many conversations it had witnessed. Tidings of life and death and everything in between. Tears shed and secrets shared. Casual banter that was, in its own way, a haunted thing as well. Every call placed on it was inevitably tainted by the possibility of being the last time both parties would ever speak. So much more was lost in the surrounding rooms and corridors than life and will to live. Friendships ended there daily. Parents disowned their daughters. The flame of love was extinguished time and again. All by way of a horrible, unrelenting vortex. Sometimes, however, on the rarest of occasions, a call would guide a patient out of the cycle of worse, then better, then worse again… and onward to a new beginning.

Marigold held her breath, dialing a number that she knew by heart but never called. With trembling hands, she held the receiver to her ear. It rang twice, followed by the crackle of someone picking up on the other end of the line. He did not greet her, but this wasn’t particularly discouraging. She was always the one to speak first, even when she saw Boris in person.

“Do you know who this is?” She asked, sounding far meeker than she intended.

“Marigold Anderson.”

The familiar voice soothed her senses. It always did. “It’s Casey again. I dropped the ‘Anderson’ after Henry dropped off the face of the earth.” There was silence but she knew Boris well enough to anticipate this as well. “Do you know where I am calling you from?”

“I do. Giselle told me about four months back. I’ve been worried. I would have called, but I did not know what to say. It is so good to hear your voice…”

“Yours, too.” A lump formed in Marigold’s throat. Frustrated, she ignored it and talked louder. With just enough force to accidentally come across as angry. “Look, I won’t waste your time. There is a reason why I am calling. And it’s a good one, too.”

“You do not need a good reason to speak to a friend. Especially this one.”

The lump grew tenfold and she felt a warm tide of tears pooling in her eyes. He’d tugged on her heartstrings plenty of times before but she had been feeling even more sentimental than usual lately. She looked across the crudely decorated room, to a figure of the Buddha seated in lotus pose. Why rehab facilities had to disguise themselves as spas always evaded her. Apparently even historical locations were not immune to this trend. There was a leather-bound book on the arm of her chair. It balanced out the scene in some regards, seeing how it predated the building itself by at least thirty years. She touched its cover softly and the grainy texture pulled her back into the moment.

“I asked Giselle to bring me some of Henry’s books to read. One of them turned out to be a journal. Written in the year seventeen-seventy… hmmm,” they shared a laugh, she always was terrible at remembering anything numerical, “by two authors. I’d say one of their names out loud, but I’m pretty sure the staff would take the thing and sell it. The co-author means more to me, anyway. And to you, as well, I’m sure. Boris Bordon! Either an ancestor of yours or your namesake, at least! Let’s be honest, it’s not a name you hear every day.” Silence. Deeper and almost colder this time around. “Boris? You alright?”

“Could you elaborate on the subject matter, please? What did this Boris Bordon write about?

“Plays! Two of them are complete. A few of them were never finished or barely started. I know that it’s authentic, too. Henry never would have held onto a fake. He was an awful husband for sure, but a very good historian. Did he ever mention your potential ancestor?”

“He…” Boris sighed. “Yes. Not very much was known of him. Seventeen-seventy-hmmm was a very long time ago and besides… I’m done chasing ghosts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some history is better left to dust over on a shelf.”

She shrugged, then chuckled. “The plays are surprisingly humorous! Well, they made me smile! In a place where smiles are pretty scarce, no less.”

“Marigold…” Even though she could not see him, she could imagine his expression with stunning accuracy. Nearly everyone she knew had looked at her with concern at least once, but the way this emotion sat on his features was different. It was never paired with passiveness or aggravation. Even Giselle, her dearest friend in the world seemed to look at her in a way which read, ‘Why are you like this?’ Boris did not have a poker face, no. Instead he had the clearest eyes. ‘Tide pool eyes’. That’s what she called them. Not because they were shallow or easy to decipher, but because in any given moment, she could see the pureness of his thoughts in all of their complexity. ‘I see you as you are���, they seemed to say, ‘and though I do not always understand your pain, I will sit with you through it.’ And so he did, the miles between them notwithstanding. “Marigold? How are you, really?”

“Better.” She breathed in, searched her heart and exhaled honesty. “Better everyday. But I still have a long way to go.”

“What can I do to support you?”

“This. Just this I’ve really missed you. And also, I… I have something coming up two weeks from tomorrow. They call it a ‘graduation’ but Giselle in her infinitely dark sense of humor likes to say that, in my case, it’s a ‘see you again in two-to-three years party’. She’s been right on the money about that one, though, so I won’t give her too much grief. You wouldn’t want to attend, would you? It’s really low-key. I’m probably going to wear a dress, but what else is new? You’ll get to hear me play the banjo and read some of my terrible poetry! I can give you the book and… on second thought, scratch that! You’re all the way in New York and plane tickets are really expensive-“

“-I’ll be there.”

“Wait, what? Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. And excuse me for saying this, but Giselle should stay in her lane. This is a huge accomplishment for you and it should be celebrated. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

A knock sounded on the opposite side of the open door’s frame. “Time’s up, MareBear. There are two other gals lining up for the phone.”

“I have to go. But before I do, this has been nice. It almost feels like I should have been calling you all along.”

“You can call me whenever you want,” he grinned, “MareBear. I will see you very soon.”

…

The taste of freedom was always sweet at first. She remembered it well, just as she knew by heart the ingredients most likely to sour it in time. Seeing that old building grow smaller in the sideview mirror felt like a rocket launch and Marigold was content to take in the vast expanse of space. For a while, at least, she would enjoy the possibilities before her. The most exciting of which, surprisingly, was the man seated across from her in the back of Giselle’s mini van.

Marigold’s rough collie, Moxie, who she hadn’t seen for the better part of a year, was resting contently with her chin on her knee. She stroked the patches of white and chestnut fur, watching the kaleidoscope of expressions across Boris’ face as he read. Her heart was happy in that moment. The journal had not only brought them together again and given them a reason to reconnect, but it also invited Marigold to take a closer look at their friendship. She was blinded by her attraction to Henry, unable to realize that Boris was the one who did all the heavy lifting. He cared for her from the moment they met, three long years ago. He cared for her, still. Why else would he have made the trip?

Boris had changed very little. He seemed more sure of himself, certainly, but living alone in a big city would do that to just about anyone. His fashion sense had improved. Gone were the days of denim-on-denim. He still had the jeans, of course, but the collared shirt and heavy stubble made him especially easy on the eyes. That and he was still as sweet and as charming as she remembered him. He only wanted to skim through the journal’s pages, out of politeness, but seemed to become transfixed on a random section. Then another. Marigold continued to stare.

He sensed this and looked up from his reading. “I will have to revisit this later. Thank you for entrusting it to me.”

“My pleasure! Hey! How long will you be in town for? Maybe we can go to the cafe tomorrow and try to piece this puzzle together over coffee…”

“My flight leaves in the morning. But there is a bar at the hotel if you’d like to stay a while.” There was something about how he said this that intrigued Marigold. He didn’t mean it in such a way, surely. But it was almost sexy. Sometimes, unknowingly, that deep, rich voice of his would lower to a purr. Their eyes met and she held his gaze. Why was it always blue-eyed men who caused her to grow weak in the knees? Was there some ghost who haunted her? A man from one of her past lives who looked at her tenderly enough to forever alter the inner workings of her soul? “How does that sound? Marigold?”

She shook her head, if only to awaken from the momentary spell he’d placed on her. “Giselle might feel like we’re abandoning her and Moxie…”

“They’re invited, too,” Boris chuckled, wondering why she should suggest that the four of them would have to disperse into groups of two. “Even if the bar doesn’t work, there are lots of dog-friendly places in Charleston. Waterford, as well. I wouldn’t mind visiting some of our old haunts. But this is your day! Where would you like to go?”

“Uhm.” Again, she was distracted. Not by the nature of the conversation, but by how much Boris was talking. Usually his words were chosen and spoken with a certain amount of care. Today, it was rapid fire. He was flustered. She recognized this in him because she was, too. “Crescent Lake Park?”

“They’re setting up the Mid-Summer Fair at Crescent Lake,” Giselle interjected. “It’s supposed to open this evening. So if we get there now, we’d probably be like… tenth in line for churros. And I could really, really go for one.” She looked in the rearview mirror, saw Marigold enthusiastically and Boris second the motion.

…

Dusk had fallen at Crescent Lake Park and the lights of the fair cast a mesmerizing glow across the landscape. On the ground, it was chaos. A maddening cacophony of flashing colors and clashing sounds. But from above, you could almost see how it all fit together. The noise settled into a hum. The lights, into a blinking pulse. To say that it was tranquil up there, at the highest point of that giant ferris wheel would be a stretch. Yet, sitting at the top of it all and indulging in the syncopated heartbeat of the manmade wonder below had a strange sort of serenity to it.

Her fear of heights kept Giselle away from the rides. Boris would have steered clear of them, too, but he agreed to go on several with Marigold. He did not enjoy them as much as she did. In fact, he spent the brief duration of each one catastrophizing. Then convincing himself that there are worse ways to die than by way of some poorly assembled rattle trap. He would ultimately accept it, though, knowing that he had made her happy.

With sweaty palms, he grabbed hold of the bar across his lap as the ferris wheel climbed higher and higher into the soft summer sky.

“You can’t tell me you’re scared!” Marigold teased, placing her hand on his shoulder. “C’mon! After how brave you were on The Zipper!?!”

He breathed deeply, hoping to calm his nerves before she had the chance to realize that he was shaking. “You thought I was brave?”

“Yeah! Thinking the door is going to fly off the cage is actually a pretty common fear. Of course, if it did, you would have been better off holding the handle than onto me!”

He felt his face turn red. “That can’t be the strangest thing to ever happen on that ride. Be honest… are you the first person to ever eat a candy apple while inverted?”

She laughed at this, but not too much. In fact, her mood quickly shifted from playful to almost somber. “Even after all the progress I have made, sweets are still kind of scary for me. I guess I was conflating the two. In a weird way. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I can never just be normal about anything.”

“Marigold…” Their seats shifted as the ride picked up speed. Boris looked down at his feet and saw how high above the ground they were. He wanted to shut his eyes as tightly as possible and keep them closed until the ride was over. But instead, he looked at her. “I think if you were normal, you wouldn’t have had such an incredible turnout at your graduation today. Hearing from your counselors and friends… they love you. People love you. I think it’s because you really, genuinely love them. Now you just need to learn how to give some of that love to yourself. Then you will be unstoppable.” Beside the lake, a pavilion stood over a makeshift dance floor. They could see the reflection of couples gathering inside, waiting for the first song. Marigold recognized it the moment it began to waltz through the speakers and it pulverized her senses like a blast of arctic air. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah! I love this band. I actually have this album on vinyl. The sheet music, too! This song always gives me goosebumps...”

“Sounds like someone I know.” Boris grinned. “It’s always key changes for her, though. Even if the song is bad, she gets goosebumps up and down her arms.”

Oops. She had forgotten about Emily. “That’s right. Your girlfriend is musically inclined…”

“To the point of unavailability. We broke it off about a year ago. ‘In another life’, I always like to say, ‘In another life, perhaps.’ In this one, it was for the better. Now if only I could figure out how to live it to the fullest instead of bouncing around from one temp job to the next. As exciting as New York may seem at first, it doesn’t take long for it to feel like one giant hamster wheel.”

Halfway up, the ferris wheel stalled. Then moved. Then stalled again. Riders began to disembark. New ones boarded, one wobbly seat at a time.

“Have you ever considered moving back to Waterford?”

“No. But now that I am back, I realize…” he stopped himself. “This has been nice. But there is nothing for me here. If I don’t keep searching, I will never find it.”

“See, this is why I like you, Boris. On the surface, you’re a man of few words but once I get you talking, we have the most profound conversations! What are you searching for, anyway? I mean, if you could do anything in this life, anything at all, what would it be?” She could tell immediately that her question had overwhelmed him. “Okay, I’ll rephrase.”

“No need. I’ll tell you, but… you go first!”

“Honestly? To never go back to rehab. To just be done with that chapter of my life forever. And to get back into teaching.”

Boris looked down again, only this time, he felt a bit more comfortable with being seated mid-air. “I believe you will. Just remember, you are in a better place now than you were before. I know it is difficult to see from your vantage point, but believe me, you’ve grown a great deal since I met you.”

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

“A new chapter,” he said, softly, “a new chapter, too.”

…

The bravest thing Marigold did all year was step back inside the house she once called home. It smelled the same as it always did, of coffee beans and incense. Something else, too. The faintest ghost of Henry’s favorite soap still lingered in the rooms above the staircase.

Giselle stayed for a while and offered to spend the night. Had Boris not returned to his hotel after leaving the fair, it might have been different. But Marigold wanted to be alone. Although she almost always preferred company to solitude, she needed time to reflect. To acclimate and make peace with the home she and Henry had made and destroyed- and where she resorted to destroying herself after their marriage ended.

She climbed the stairs, tossed her bathrobe and a clean towel in the dryer so she would have something warm to wrap up in after showering and turned the faucet on. It seemed surreal. To be by herself again after living in close quarters with twelve other women. She loved each one and viewed them as her sisters. Surely, battling the same demon would make someone as good as family. But it was exhausting. Being the resident optimist. Always striving to be cheerful and lighthearted in their presence. Now, she could let her guard down, run the tap until the water turned cold, laugh and cry and think out loud and sing, noisily and poorly, to her heart’s content.

She reached for a small box of handmade toiletries, a graduation gift from her roommate. In it were three matching bars of soap, shampoo, conditioner and a bottle of lotion. Coconut. Meh. She shrugged. It was certainly different from the usual floral fragrance profile she preferred. But the novelty of it quickly grew on her. It smelled like summer. And summer was a time and place in which she dearly wished to stay.

Feeling renewed, she started to towel off and smiled a friendly greeting to Moxie who pushed the bathroom door open with her nose.

“Guess I can’t always smell like I’ve been rolling around in a rosebush, huh, Mox?”

The collie blinked, then lunged at box, stealing a bar of soap and bolting out the door, into the hallway and down the stairs. This could not have happened at a worse time. The second that Marigold began her (very naked) pursuit of the thieving canine, the doorbell rang. Moxie went ballistic, of course, dropping the soap on the ground long enough to bark. And for Marigold to slip on it and crash into the hatrack. The doorbell rang again. Hastily, she snagged her yellow raincoat, buttoned it up all the way and threw open the door, revealing a very confused looking Boris Bordon on the other side.

“Sorry for the intrusion, I can come back later if you-” he began, but his train of thought was immediately derailed when Moxie snatched up the bar a second time and ran out onto the lawn.

Marigold pushed him aside, as gently as possible, jumped and tackled Moxie, and pried the soap out of her mouth. Upon returning to the porch, she looked at Boris, awkwardly. “You didn’t see my butt, did you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Oh. Well, shoot,” her eyes darted to where the collie sat, staring longingly at the item in her owner’s hand. “So, uh. Collies love coconuts. Apparently. Did you know that? Because I didn’t… didn’t know… uhm. Would you like to come in?”

He nodded, trying to meet her sightline, but Marigold had no interest in making eye contact with him at the moment. They stepped into the living room and she excused herself, returning shortly after in a long, yellow nightshirt and soft gray joggers. She looked pretty, he thought, with her golden hair swept up in a topknot and a pair of thick prescription glasses that he rarely saw her wear. She was usually so put together. Refined, if not a little quirky. But now, in such a relaxed state, he found that he could not take his eyes off of her.

“Thank you for letting me visit. I promise not to keep you long.”

“Honestly, Boris, I’m a little bummed that you’re leaving town tomorrow… so this is nice.” Silence. “What’s up?”

He softened his voice, almost to a whisper. Or in his case, that irresistible purr. “Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly.” She sat down on the couch and Boris did the same. “What’s going on? You seemed fine like two hours ago.”

“Do you remember the word you used to describe me to Henry? You know, when you and I first met?”

“I can think of a few… flustered, erratic… shy. You’ve changed a lot since then.”

“I know,” finally, he smiled again. But there was a sort of gravity to it. “Would it be possible for you to remember me as the man I used to be? Just for a little while?”

“Are you drunk?”

“I wish I were. That would make this so much easier.” The feeble smile fell from his lips. “How badly do you want to know about 18th century Boris Bordon?”

“Well, I mean he’s certainly piqued my interest as of late…”

“Again, do you trust me?”

“What’s not to trust?! You’re only one of my best friends! There’s absolutely nothing you could ever say or do to change that. I promise. Let me make you some tea.” She positioned herself to stand, but Boris reached out and lightly gripped her arm. “Okay, no more fairs for you. Did I hit you too hard on those bumper cars or…” their eyes met and she realized that his were red and damp with tears. “Hey. Hey? What’s wrong? I think the real question here is do you trust me?”

“I… “he stammered momentarily, then emboldened by patient and caring woman beside him, he began… “I delivered parcels before I was a soldier…”

At first, she doubted. Any reasonable person would. Still, she held her tongue and listened. There had to be some truth hidden within this elaborate fabrication. Perhaps he was just confused. Or trying to impress her with how convincingly he could make up a story on the spot. But Boris never lied. He was easily her most trustworthy friend. What’s more, hearing about this humble delivery boy in love with a wealthy general’s daughter, swept away by the rising tide of war, who lost everything because of his own humanity… she could not only picture the Boris she knew in this tragic role- he embodied it all so perfectly. Marigold had seen gifted actors perform on stage and studied footage of renowned masters of the craft. If it was merely an act, he surpassed them all. As the hours crept on, she moved past simply trying to believe that her friend and the flawed yet tenderhearted loyalist soldier were the same person- she knew it in her heart to be true.

He only looked away when the story became uncomfortable or when elaborating on a detail that caused him to feel embarrassment or shame. For the most part, Boris watched her eyes and she, in turn, watched his. Joy and pain, conviction and confusion, she felt each emotion as her own. From his first dance with Sylvia to his valiant effort to see her again despite the mortal wound he received in an ambush along the Santee, mere miles from where they now sat, she believed it all.

“I wanted nothing more than to hold her again. But the road was too long. The winter winds too cold for me to bear.” He stopped and looked through the nearest window. The sky was dark, illuminated only by a sliver of the crescent moon. “We were in the wilderness, a little over halfway through Virginia when the fate I had been running from caught up with me at last. I am not proud of who I became in my final hour. Banastre risked so much, turned away from his career just to help me return home. How did I repay him? By weeping. By begging for Sylvia. For John. For any hand to hold but his. That is my final memory of the life I lived before. Staring up into a wall of snowy pines, glistening in the early morning light. Sometimes in my dreams, I return to that place against my will. To suffer in agonizing pain, blinded by a beacon which to the lucky few means eternal rest. Now the only comfort I have is the belief that my son is there, behind that light. Behind the threshold I was not worthy to cross. And never will be. I am haunted by it all. Where one might hear a heartbeat, I hear my final words, pounding in my ears.”

“What were they?”

“I don’t want to die… Over and over, I made that wish. It came true. In one moment, I lay cowering in Banastre’s arms, in the next, I was standing on a dark stage in an empty theatre. 230 years and 230 miles from when and where I took my dying breath. And you… you don’t believe a word of it, do you?”

Marigold took his hand and gave it a comforting, confirming squeeze. “I believe everything you’ve ever told me. Including this.”

“There is more. You see, I am not the only one. I saw Sylvia again. She went by a different name. We tried, Marigold. Emily and I tried. But her heart did not obey our wishes and just as I chose John over her those many years ago, she chose her career over me.”

“I believe,” she muttered to the floor after collecting her thoughts, “you will find John Andre again. If that is what you want… let me help you. We can visit every place he ever stood, find every letter he ever wrote. Even if I have to step into the afterlife and drag him out of it into the land of the living. I will do anything, anything at all to reunite the two of you.”

The grip on her hand tightened. “Oh, but my dear friend John and I were reunited. Again, by another name. Perhaps you have noticed the similarity between the surnames, ‘Anderson’ and ‘Andre’. I wanted you to know, but the only way to tell you would be by giving you the whole story. What was between us perished long before he found you, Marigold. Even before I found him again in this life. Henry Anderson was only ever a friend to me. He loved you. He told me so, time and again.”

“Did he now?” She frowned, bitterly wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but… I really need to be alone now. You must be so tired. Stay. For as long as you need. I have a guest room. We can sort out your flight home in the morning.”

“You believe me… don’t you?”

“Yes, Boris. I believe you. But the truth can be really heavy sometimes. Just give me an hour or two in my room so I can cry and think. Maybe sleep. You try to get some sleep, too.”

…

It was dawn when Marigold emerged from her isolation. From the landing, she could see light splashed across the living room floor. But it did not originate from the guest room or even the kitchen. Instead, it came from the tiny lamp on the top of her piano. Boris was seated on the bench, silently moving his fingers from one key to another, without pressing down.

“You play, I assume?” She asked, only after he sensed her presence. It would have been cruel to startle him.

“I did once. But I’m afraid I have forgotten how.”

“You never fully forget. Perhaps, if you’ll let me, I can help you remember…” Their eyes locked, weary from a sleepless night. Still, somehow, there were even more sparks between them than before. It was inevitable. Even from behind closed doors, their bond had strengthened. Blossomed into something wondrous and new over the stretch of a few short hours. Her sheet music was stored in a crate on the floor and she could tell just by looking at it that he had been sifting through her collection. “What song were you looking for, anyway?”

“The one from last night.”

Marigold stepped closer, then knelt beside him. It took only a moment for her to locate the piece of paper. He glanced at the notes on the page and was quietly pleased. It might take a couple of tries, but he would surely be able to play it. He pretended to be worse than he actually was, allowing her to position (then reposition) his fingers on the keys. He knew that she could sing well, having gone to a karaoke bar with her on more than one occasion. But it was different now that she was not trying to project or impress her friends. He would never tell her, but he preferred her voice this way. Pure and sweet and vulnerable, with no embellishments or vibrato. Almost like a lullaby, sleepily sung in the middle of the night. Feeling playful now, he decided to surprise her a bit at the chorus by not only chiming in, but harmonizing with her. In the end, it was the lyrics that derailed them both. The subtle yet potent accuracy of the line, “To a new place I have awoken.” The remaining words did not go unsung, but a new energy found them. A sort of daze. Then at the end, silence.

She could not explain it, but that silence frightened her. “Would you like some coffee? It’ll have to be black. I haven’t made it to the market yet for creamer or milk. They should be open soon, though. Maybe we could walk there and get some fresh air, sometimes that’s even better than caffeine…”

Boris lifted his hand, halting her nervous rant with a comforting, confirming grin. “Coffee would be lovely, thank you. And I don’t mind at all, I actually take mine black.”

“Really?” A peculiar notion warmed her heart. There was something so lovely, so intimate in learning this about him. “Well, that myth has been busted.”

“What myth?”

“The sweeter the person, the sweeter they like their coffee to be!” She could feel herself blushing. Hopefully the lighting was low enough for it to have gone unnoticed. “I’ll just… get started on that, then.” She fumbled with the kettle and the press. Burnt fingers were the least of her concerns. Especially when she heard him stand and walk slowly from the piano bench to the kitchen table. “I’ve made a decision. Would you like to hear it? Good. I’ve decided that I don’t want to discuss Henry anymore today. You said it best, ‘Some history is better left to dust over on a shelf.’ I believe the best course of action would be to let bygones be bygones. We should focus instead on what is before us and go from there. But that is going to require complete honesty. From both sides. You told me who you are and that was very painful for you, I know. It is not fair for me to ask for more information. But I need to know… why? Why did you tell me?”

“If I were to wager a guess, it would be the same reason why you called me two weeks ago.”

Trembling now, she passed him a steaming cup and took a sip of her own. It burned like hell, but she didn’t care. “I have another question. Don’t worry, it should be easier to answer than all the others have been so far. Did you know Annabelle Casey?”

“Yes. Not as well as I know you.” He, too, took a premature sip of his coffee and winced in pain. “But if I were to awaken tomorrow in the past… if I were to see her again, she would surely remind me of someone very dear to me. Someone I love.” Whether it was a smile or a frown or her jaw dropping in response, Boris would never know. She covered her mouth the instant that fateful word was spoken. “Now you know. Now there are no secrets left between us.”

It felt like the floor had been ripped out from under her feet. Only, there was no earth to fall towards or dark abyss to swallow her whole. There was no free fall. No skyward motion of being catapulted into the air. No, instead, it was the jarring realization that gravity had been an illusion all along. She did not have to grieve the past or bear the crushing weight of lost love anymore. Love was there in front of her and it never felt so right. But freedom is frightening. It is far easier to run back into one’s cage. With her hand still pressed firmly across her mouth, Marigold abandoned her coffee and ran into the living room. He followed, but kept his distance.

“We can’t do this, Boris. I’ve got baggage, you’ve got baggage. We can try to dance around it, sure! But we’re going to trip and fall. And get scraped and bruised all over. It will be a disaster! And you’re going to leave me, rightfully so! Just like Henry. You’re going to leave me halfway through the dance…”

“I would never.”

“Oh, yeah? Well. Prove it.”

There was a stack of vintage suitcases that Marigold had piled, one on top of the other, to create an end table beside the couch. Boris took each one and scattered them on the floor in front of the entertainment center.

“We need more baggage,” he said after stepping back to inspect his work, “go grab some of your tote bags while I find our song. Unless, of course, you’ve grown tired of hearing it.”

“I never have. And never will.” Marigold laughed, then gathered her large collection of totes, and threw them here and there on the ground between them. Then she watched Boris search for the album. “I will say, though… I do think you’re taking this idiom a bit too seriously. I meant dancing around our baggage as a negative thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be. We see the baggage, acknowledge it is there and work as a team to navigate our way around it. Now.” He dropped the needle on the song she knew very well… that he knew now, too. “May I have this dance?”

She accepted his hand. Her heart was pounding, certainly, but as he pulled her into his strong embrace, it seemed to leap, then soar. “See, goosebumps. Goosebumps every time.”

“Goosebumps every time…” he beamed. “Now, that I know I got the song right…” It was a faint gesture, had she blinked, she surely would have missed the burning in those deep blue eyes as they glanced at her lips.

“Boris. Please, don’t… Don’t stand there and watch me fall in love with you right now only to run off to some other time or place.”

“If ever I am to run again, it will be to your side. To the only soul I’ve ever encountered in all of my travels identical to my own. I see my hopes and fears, my weaknesses and strengths reflected in your eyes. In other lives, we barely scratched the surface or were nothing more than two ships passing in the night. But in this life, Marigold. This life is ours to do with as we please. Right now, I would like nothing more than to do what I should have done last night, sitting with you 75 feet in the air. I love you.”

Marigold stopped moving her feet, causing them both to stumble slightly, but it was an easy save. She was the first to move in, knowing him well enough to plan for his initial hesitation- and she was not wrong to make this assumption. “It was only a matter of time before you stole my heart away, Boris Bordon. Now I love you. I love all of you, fully. Completely. And it feels like stepping out into the sunlight for the very first time.”

No man had ever kissed her in such a way before. Lovers on the silver screen, emboldened by their passion, could never hold a candle to his tender urgency. Any words he had suppressed before were freed, born again as whispers of gentle motion on the tip of his tongue. But he did not only speak to her in kisses. One arm remained stationary, firmly positioned behind her back. His free hand grazed her features for a while, then found the tie at the base of her topknot and with great care, he tugged until her hair billowed downward. He followed its journey with his fingertips, across her collarbone and shoulder. She felt his eagerness, the desire to move lower. But he seemed to stall, to look before jumping.

“We can go upstairs if you’d like.” Marigold offered, moving even closer than before.

“Soon. This is the last track on the album. We should stay where we are until there is no longer music to be danced to.” His words carried a double meaning. In them, she found an invitation to her immediate desires but also, a solemn promise that he would never leave her side.

The song was nearly over. The choir singing in its final measures seemed to come from a loftier place than the old record player across from where they stood. Silence crept back into the space. But it was not an empty silence. They traversed the maze of suitcases and moved, hand-in-hand through the house they would both come to call home and the bed they would share well into old age. Time was still their master, as is the way with all mortal beings. In his case, time and mortality found him the moment he began to live again. Still, in their own special way, they managed to transcend it.

It is a very old town. The little yellow house on Foxglove Drive was young by comparison when their story began. Days collected like pages. Years, like chapters. If those walls could speak, they would tell a tale of hope and renewal.

Marigold returned to the classroom. Inspired by her perseverance, Boris rediscovered his love for music and with it, a career path that he never before considered. She taught English, he taught Band. Every summer, they combined forces to lead a musical theatre camp in the high school auditorium. Sometimes, they would be haunted by shadows of the past. Sometimes, his dreams would carry him back to the life he lived before and he would wonder if Marigold, herself, was nothing more than a passing vision of the night. But with the morning light, he would return to her loving arms. Just as he helped her find herself again. And again.

The End (?)

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Better late than never, Chapter 3 has been posted! Hopefully it will be easier to read than it was to write because… wow. A lot happens in this one and in contrast to chapters one and two, it’s pretty heavy stuff. William is positively atrocious. I cannot stress this enough. Annabelle is no cakewalk, either. But I got to write a poem for it, which is my favorite thing about this ship! Poems abound! 😄💖

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Chapter two! 🥳 Chapter two! 🥳

After nearly a month (oops 😅) of being more of a perfectionist about it than I care to admit (mostly because it is far from perfect and always will be) chapter two of my Only Through Victory rewrite is live at last! It’s slightly similar to the original, but is more fleshed out. With more of my original poetry. (Yay?) Annabelle is heaping bubbles of blunderbuss bananas… but that’s nothing new. Oh! And a beloved character from later on in my series makes a surprise appearance as well! They can both be found on my ff.net and my AO3! As always, I would be positively overjoyed to hear what you think of it- reviews really do help fuel my creativity! 💖📝🌻

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

At last— an update!

A little over a year ago, I made an announcement on here that I was rewriting my first Patriot fic, Only Through Victory. I didn’t know how challenging this would be. Honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my head around how absolutely jarring it is to take something I made— something I love (despite its many, many flaws) and break it. Then attempt to build a stronger story with the pieces. It’s… bananas.

But I finally found the strength and confidence in the direction of this project to post the first chapter. It can be found on both my ff.net where the rest of my series is published and (drumroll, please) my AO3! I’ve been lurking there for a while, but have never posted my work on there before. Links can be found at the bottom of this post.

I’m really excited to see where this leads… not only to strengthen the foundation of my little series of stories- but to hopefully find some new readers and connect with other writers. After all, that is the best thing about fan fiction! So, if you are a fan of either The Patriot or Turn: Washington’s Spies… or if you’re a history buff… or a reader/writer looking for new work to read as well as a new writerly friend- this is where you can find me!

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Around 80% happy with the prologue I’ve been crafting for my Only Through Victory rewrite. The epilogue is a disaster, but at least I’ve solidified some kind of an overarching theme. One that plays nicely into the rest of the series, as well. Rewriting is absolutely bizarre, but it’s turning out to be incredibly rewarding and I’m getting really excited about getting the prologue and first chapter out there.

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

My latest word doodle concerning hot air balloons. And ghost ships, apparently. This might turn into something and started as a fanfic that I’ve been wanting to write for ages now, but can’t seem to find traction on. It also might just end up being its own thing entirely. I’m already drafting the next chapter and overall outline, which is a promising thing!

…

Chapter One

1927

Stella sat alone in the deep sand. Her eyes stung with fatigue as she gazed into the embers of a dying fire. Every morning for the last five weeks, she built a new one on the beach; each one bigger and brighter than the last. But her efforts, it seemed, were all in vain. At the end of the day, she would find herself in the same place, watching her beacon succumb to the nightly storms.

It was a slow and excruciating march towards an inevitable end. Time was ticking out. Resources were running thin. Worst of all, the frigid autumn winds were quickly descending on the North Atlantic. Rescue was her only hope and it was taking far too long to arrive.

Shivering, she stood and looked out across the vast horizon. There was nothing to see. Nothing but whitecaps tossing and churning in their endless dance. It was almost beautiful. If not, horrifyingly ironic. There was a time not so long ago when she craved such a liberating view. Craved it enough to race with abandon into the great unknown. Only to become lost within that void- a castaway at the edge of the world.

With a flicker of light and a narrow puff of smoke, the bonfire was no more. She turned away from its scorched remains and started to move inland.

The island was small and might have been traversable in a matter of minutes if it weren’t for its hostile terrain. Leafless branches and hollows covered the ground from beach to sandy beach. Sharp rocks studded the landscape. They reminded Stella of daggers, the way that they jutted out from the maze of dead vegetation.

She often wondered why the trees were bare and how long it had been since the last leaf fell. There were none on the ground and enough rain fell each night to sustain the tiny ecosystem well into October. Instead, it seemed as though the island had given up on living; or nature itself had written it off many years ago. Transforming it into skeleton, eerily animated by the gales that bounded across it with varying degrees of force.

Stella hadn’t moved more than three paces when a blast of cold air intervened. It flapped violently against her coat, causing a tiny piece of paper to flutter free. Her heart sunk when she saw what the wind had taken and she darted after it with minimal grace.

The moon and stars above were hidden by a thick veil of clouds, but there was just enough light to see the photograph twist and turn mid-air. Pictures of home were not exactly a rare commodity. There were many back at camp along with countless rolls of undeveloped film. This one, however, was cherished beyond measure.

The image grew smaller with each passing moment until finally, it became ensnared in the clutches of a mangled tree. She leapt and seized it. Then perhaps against her better judgement, Stella studied the photo closer than she previously had the heart to. Tears came but they were quickly blinked away.

It was taken the day before departure and seemed more like a relic from lifetimes passed. That said, her memory of the moment it captured was anything but hazy. No, she remembered it all down to the finest detail:

Standing side by side with her older brother as the crowds gathered. Their bright orange balloon glowing behind them like a giant jack o�� lantern on the lawn. Her name, The Fortune, was proudly displayed on the nylon envelope, its letters performed a fiery dance with every blast from the roaring burner.

Stella’s palms were sweating and her mouth was dry and sore from smiling so widely for so long. Cameras flashed. Jovial voices boomed. Underscoring that electrifying murmur were the sounds of the farm they both grew up on.

The hens were clucking and wandering aimlessly in their coop. The goats were up to their usual antics and broke free from their pen that night. A handful could be seen in the photo’s background, climbing on the guests’ cars.

She could still smell the orchard where the peaches grew plump and ripe. Their fragrance mingled with the vines of honeysuckle in the side yard. Below them grew her favorite of all, the night blooming moonflower. It was there among those etherial blossoms that Stella first imagined she could fly. Even after ballooning stole her away, she mused about that place in the garden often and how it seemed to be a reflection of the night sky.

For twenty years, this was her reality. A quiet life on a quiet country road in North Carolina- and countless fantasies of being anywhere but there.

At least she had her brother to go on adventures with. And oh! What adventures! Each one leading up to their greatest ambition of all: To be the first to pilot a balloon across the Atlantic.

They talked so long about making the flight. First in secret, but gregarious little Stella could never hold onto any secret for long. They were ridiculed and lectured by some, encouraged by others. Eventually, with their parents’ feeble blessing and full support from the press, things were set into motion at last. It seemed like a dream come true. In many ways, it was.

Now she was completely alone, surrounded by the ruins of that dream.

Their magnificent balloon rested in a bed of jagged boulders. Not far from where it lay, a shallow grave could be found on the beach. True, it hurt to see her brother’s picture. But the makeshift marker bearing his name and epitaph wore on her spirit more than anything on the island.

She smiled at the gangly boy’s image. He always looked so amused, like he was on the verge of laughing. His lively hazel eyes were magnified, almost comically, by a large pair of bifocals. The sideways baseball cap he sported did a mediocre job covering his shock of golden hair. It stuck out around the edges in tufts. But he didn’t seem to care. He had far more important matters to occupy his tireless mind.

This was how she chose to remember him. Quiet, calculating Roland Albright. A schemer if there ever was one. This journey was his grand design. If it weren’t for his careful planning, they would still be back home, giving balloon rides for a dollar every Sunday. They were quite the team. A local gem, some might say. But it was his enterprise, at least Stella felt this way. Merely along for the ride at best. At worst, a pebble in his shoe.

She was only like him in appearance. In every other way, she was his opposite- always causing a scene and never thinking anything through.

She looked the same as back then, with a few minor changes. Apart from her lanky form being further slimmed by hunger, her hair was longer and significantly more disheveled than ever before.

Several lacerations lingered on her forehead and cheeks. Her knees and arms were scraped and bruised, but she had gotten off easy. For this, Stella’s eyes carried her greatest transformation of all. That sparkle of mischief had tarnished into weariness. Their sense of joyful optimism turned cautious. Lastly, her glasses were crooked, but she considered that to be the only bittersweet blessing to come out of this disaster. Before they were always sliding down the bridge of her nose. Now bent, they stayed in place.

It was a silly thing to miss. But growing up, Roland laughed about her sliding glasses often; claiming her struggle would end once she “grew into” her Albright nose: strong and Roman. She looked forward to that day but stopped believing it would ever come in her late teenage years. She would be stuck with her strange little snub nose forever, a truth too distant and obsolete to matter now.

Bored and frustrated with her own image, Stella turned her attention back to his.

He was leaning in slightly, listening to her speak. Not that he needed to, she had no trouble being heard.

She closed her eyes, recalling the exchange:

“People truly are remarkable! Don’t you think, Roland? First they scoffed and now well… now we seem to have the whole world on our side!”

“Oh, sure. They’re all Team Albright tonight. Tomorrow morning, too. But a few days down the line…” the corner of his mouth twitched.

“What do you mean?”

“People get bored, Kid. Especially in this podunk town. They check the tabloids every day for a juicy story and nothing- I repeat, nothing is juicer than a tragedy.”

Stella frowned, pushing her oversized glasses back into place. “Quite the optimist you are…”

“You know they’re already making bets? Our neighbors and patrons! Actually betting on how and where our balloon is going to go down! I shouldn’t be too surprised. It is human nature, after all. Just think of the Romans! To these clowns, we’re a pair of gladiators and this little adventure of ours is the tiger they’re about to uncage.”

“Stella the Gladiator!” Her eyes sparkled. “Now, that’s a title!”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Hmmm. Let’s see here, it is either, ‘never trust a crowd, especially one that is cheering for you’ or some deeply philosophical nonsense about how humans are the worst. Disregarding yourself from the equation, obviously. Am I close?”

“I give you a B-. Only because you left out the most important part.” Roland laughed to see his sister arch her eyebrow, a trait that she only developed after spending too much time with him. “This isn’t every man for himself. It’s us against the world.” He waited, just long enough for her to smile before souring the otherwise sweet sentiment. “And everyone knows you’d be completely helpless without me!”

His words combined with the crushing weight of silence pulled Stella back into reality.

“Not helpless,” she muttered into the wind, “but lost. Even if I am found someday, I will still be just as lost as I am now.”

With the photo held more securely than before, she made the lonesome trek back to camp.

��

The Fortune’s remains made a passable shelter. Its wicker gondola was remarkably still intact, nestled between two large stones. In one corner of the basket, a yellow quilt was neatly folded and topped with a ragged old plush lion. The other half housed a workspace that had fallen into disrepair. Her camera and journal had not been touched in weeks. Both were her refuge, before and especially after the crash. But there was nothing left to say about the island, no bleak space she hadn’t photographed.

Most of the nylon was salvageable and she draped it over the rocks before retiring, tying it down in several locations with rope. She was always careful with the materials, still holding onto the hope that she would retrieve them after being rescued and that the craft would someday fly again. A fool’s hope, indeed, but it kept her going.

She slept lightly and dreamlessly for the better part of an hour. Then held her vigil as the violent storm blew through. Sometimes when flashes of lightning painted the fabric and the wind glided over top of it just right, Stella would pretend The Fortune was aloft once more, sailing above the ocean into the setting sun. That was where the three of them belonged. Flying and free, not broken and defeated on some desolate rock.

Just before dawn, a lovely and welcome noise rose over the roaring tide. It was a sound that she never thought her ears would hear again, but desperately hoped they would: the clanging of a ship’s bell.

She raced outside and quickly located the shadowy outline of a large vessel. It was a ways off and blanketed by a thin veil of fog, but with a bright enough signal it could easily be alerted.

The emergency kit had a single flare left, having used one their first night castaway and the second in a fit of desperation when it became clear that Roland was dying. Bonfires took time to make and time was of the essence. No, this would require a more creative approach.

She worked quickly, removing and storing the makeshift canopy before scrambling back to the burner. It had been dormant for so long, but quickly ignited with a thunderous roar. It was a familiar sound. An exciting sound. Her heart began to race. Streams of light poured over the surrounding rocks, causing them to glow from bottom to top.

After a while, she checked to see if her plan had worked and was pleased with the results.

The ship moved and turned slightly. It seemed responsive, then settled on a course that would carry it just east of the island. Perhaps its captain saw the brilliant anomaly through his spyglass and was strategizing for a safe approach.

She continued pulling the cord, confident in how much fuel remained. The island had been spotted and her faith in this skyrocketed as the vessel grew ever closer. Soon, she made for the beach, waving frantically and shouting at the top of her lungs. Those onboard would surely see and hear her.

She knew vessels well enough to identify it as an old wooden brigantine- one that had seen better days. Its sails were in rough shape and so was the faded Union Jack sailing noiselessly above deck. She saw its name, The Sand Viper, written across its bulwarks in chipping paint.

The ship itself was no apparition, it was very real. The bell was chiming, yes, but with no discernible rhythm. Had she been in a more rational state of mind, she would have acknowledged its barren quarters and how its many windows were devoid of any light. There was nobody onboard. No captain. No crew. Just a derelict vessel floating aimlessly at the ocean’s indefinite will.

It turned and started to crawl slowly away. She waded out into the rough tide, cold water seeping into the fibers of her linen dress and flannel shirt. The Sand Viper continued drifting until it was gone. Still, its bell continued clanging until that sound, too, faded.

“They’re coming back,” she assured herself against all logic. For a long while, she remained in place, staring into the mist as it became softly aglow with the colors of morning. It would have been so lovely, to stand in the company of other living souls. Seafarers. Adventurers, like herself.

Imagination was what she always turned to in moments like this. But instead of meditating on who she might have met that morning, her attention turned to who she had lost.

Despite how close they were when he was alive and how grieved she was by his sudden death, Stella had yet to visit Roland’s grave. In fact, she made a concerted effort to ignore it. Yet somehow, it always ended up in the corner of her eye.

It was just as she left it. The rock she painted was in perfect condition, practically untouched by the elements. On it, his name, the dates marking his 26 year stay on the earth and a poem that meant more to Stella than it ever did to him. A wave of unanticipated anger washed over her, at herself most of all. He deserved better.

“I’m sorry,” Stella began, wiping her tiny nose on the sleeve of her flannel. “It must be so lonely here. Or maybe you’ve enjoyed the quiet. Some time away from my… what did you call them? ‘Unrelenting flights of fancy?’ Sure. I was never realistic, that’s what I had you for. I try to imagine what you would say if you were still here. But as time continues to fill the empty space between you and I, even imagination falls short. I should have listened better. Stopped talking so much and really, truly listened to you. Maybe I’d still be able to hear you now.” For a moment, Stella paused and waited. For what, exactly, she did not know. But the silence of the moment was chilling and it was easier to speak than to hear nothing. “All I know for sure is that you would not tell me to give up. Even if giving up is the best option, I believe wholeheartedly that you would never say that to me. You-“ her thoughts were immediately derailed by the noise that had awoken her. She listened to the bell without turning and, infuriated by its empty presence, felt a painful knot form in the back of her throat.

She did not cry. She didn’t have the chance to do so. An earsplitting crash, louder than thunder rattled the ground below her feet. Splinters of wood shot inland from the rocky shoreline, lodging themselves in the sand like spears. A long shadow settled on the ground. It eclipsed the patch of sunlight that had fallen, unnoticed, on the grave during Stella’s visit. Feeling a chill, she looked over her shoulder and saw a giant mast draped with tattered sails. The ghostly Sand Viper had returned and was practically daring her to explore its vacant quarters…

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Little rant but…

Reason #Infinity why Annabelle Casey is one of my favorite characters to write, ever:

I’ll get an idea for a poem, start scribbling it down and realize that it sounds significantly more like Annabelle’s authorial voice than my own. After a while, I’ll go back to a scene that I’ve been struggling to write/re-write (which has been many of them not going to lie)… I will then become positively flabbergasted upon realizing, not only how well the scene and the poem fit together, but how vastly everything improves through the addition of it!

So… I just give her the floor and allow her to wax poetical like the amazing little weirdo that she is! It’s just really cool. Like she is behind the scenes working on the story with me. 🥹💖

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

I need to start sharing my poems again. So in the spirit of that… and also insomnia. 😆

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Nano Update:

Between yesterday and today, I wrote around 6k. About Atlantis. And hot air balloons. My Nano has nothing to do with Atlantis. Or hot air balloons for that matter. 😅🤦🏼‍♀️

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

What I love about writing my Nano by hand: Less headaches from looking at a screen for extended periods of time.

What I absolutely detest about writing my Nano by hand: Counting how many words I have written.

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

It is decided…

I am doing NANOWRIMO again this year and am planning (by this, of course I mean “hoping” more than anything) to be more consistent with it and with my Writeblr in general.

I have so many ideas. Ideas are not what I struggle with. No, that is execution. But the first step to any project is deciding to begin… so, let’s do this! 😁

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

Week 1: Going Nanners

My decision to blog this November came out of nowhere and with unyielding intensity. I brainstormed for most of the morning on November first. As usual, the exercise left me energized, ecstatic and severely scatterbrained; which seems to encapsulate my ongoing relationship with Nano. All of this is perfectly normal. I start the month with a towering dirty laundry list of what I plan on accomplishing, overwhelm myself horrendously and spend the remaining weeks doggy paddling against the breakers until I reach calmer seas. I have something to show for myself at the end of this struggle, sure, but the story that I long to tell and I remain oceans apart.

Last year was no exception. However, it was as challenging as it was wonderful. The “end” result was a new story in my series that I had been chomping at the bit to tell for several years now. Burnout, too. Terrible, depressing, unrelenting burnout- but what is writing if one refuses to take the good with the bad? I am happy with last year’s project and happy with my series, despite its many, many, many glaring deficiencies.

So what is next?! What point am I trying to convey with this gobbledegook of a blog post?! I’ll try my best to explain with minimal rambling. (There will be rambling.)

After clumsily cobbling together the final chapter of “The Joy that was Mine”, I stepped away from Waterford for maybe a month. The bug hunted me down soon after; biting me extra, extra, extra hard on my butt. I had no other choice. I started writing again, but it was different this time. Since January, I have been working on a new story, sort of an alternate reality that stems from a chapter in “Joy”. It is messy, incomplete and written entirely by hand in my horrific cursive scrawl. Parts of it are more than salvageable and eventually, it will go live. It is important to note before proceeding that it is not my Nano for this year. Next year, maybe. But not this year. This story, unofficially titled “The Great Hummingbird Rescue” was penned in solitude. That comes with reward and merit, certainly, but writing is such a communal endeavor for me. Writing about writing is the point here. Writing about writing gives me introspection beyond introspection. Hopefully in reading my writing about writing, I can reach out, beyond my obscure little world and help others. To inspire. That is my ultimate goal and why these weekly blog posts will be part of my process this year.

Speaking of goals…

I have so many ideas for this series. While I am taking my time exploring those avenues (mostly through journaling) there is so much work to be done on the foundation. Yes, these stories are more about the process than any finished project. I honestly don’t know if it will ever be finished and I know for a fact that it never has been and never will be perfect. I wouldn’t have in any other way! So, my goal for Nano this year is to do some serious work on the first story (“Only Through Victory”).

The first draft was written five years ago when I was brand new to the fandom and right around the time I changed universities (transferred) and switched my major from Theatre Performance to Creative Writing. All that I knew was that Colonel Tavington is dreamy and I needed to write a self-insert stat! I had no idea how many other projects this blatant wish fulfillment fic would birth. I had no idea what the creation of Annabelle Casey would unlock inside of my heart. I had no idea that I would build Waterford- my beloved little river town, a deeply sentimental conglomeration of the city in Arizona that raised me and wonderful, gentle, neighborly Portland- who loves so fiercely and shines so brightly that it is now imploding, collapsing in on itself like a dying star. Waterford has been my solace through the destruction of my previous life and the construction of my current one. It is the heart and soul of this ongoing series and the reason why my well of ideas and inspiration has yet to run dry. “Only Through Victory” needs revision. Annabelle needs to be fleshed out more and so does Waterford. That isn’t because the story is a total train wreck (although my inner perfectionist constantly argues otherwise.) These stories are a treasure to me and they deserve to be polished.

So, that is where I am right now. Happily going Nanners just as NaNoWriMo intended. Weekly blog posts about the revision/rewriting process can be found here on my Writeblr. Snippets and poems will be common occurrences, too. There is a lot in the works right now, so if it seems like I’m being elusive, I’m not. Just all over the map and terribly, terribly scatterbrained. Happy Nano to all and to all a good write!

[the-caffeinated-hummingbird]

There is a garden growing

Somewhere deep inside of me.

A secret well worth knowing

That no eyes will never see.

Where every petal, leaf and vine

Springs forth from long-lost cares.

Every hope I once called mine,

Now grow in silence there.

One day when I am old and worn,

I’ll hear the garden’s song.

And there will be no need to mourn-

We were one all along.

In you grows a garden.