honey-badgers-library

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This low key explains so much about my first boyfriend, and how my current boyfriend needs to remind me it’s okay to say no if I want to, he won���t be mad and he’ll still love me if I disagree or assert myself.

OOF 

(original text from article by devon price)

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We’re Working on the Series!

With the main plot points done, we are now breaking down the main acts into books of their own! I’m so excited to get the first few chapters outlined to begin drafting!

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A Big Announcement:

I’ve decided that I want to write and finish an old original work of mine based off this old fanfiction I wrote but never completed:

As of right now, the series of novelettes and/or novellas is called Of Frosted Branches and Rice Wine, but that may change as I sit down and actually write the series. One of my goals for 2025 is to try and make some money off my writing and this was always conceptualized as my most mass-market idea—a fantasy romance YA story that could gain an audience rather quickly.

Hopefully this works and wish me luck!

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Where’s my False Guinevere retelling where she gets a happy ending? I would love to read her going on with her life and living as happily as she sees fit.

okay sorry thinking about false guinevere again and I think I get it now. like if you were raised alongside your beautiful sister, the beautiful daughter of the king, and she gets everything and everyone loves her and she marries the guy who pulls the sword out of the stone and she’s the queen now and everyone’s looking to her and knights are dying for her and you look exactly like her and you have her same face, your father’s face, but the man who raised you isn’t him because no one can talk about what the king did to your mom and everyone pretends it’s normal but actually they all know you were born from violence and you were never supposed to be born and there she is, your sister, with your same name, your same face, the most desired woman alive, and she is everything you’re not. i might also do something evil tbh

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Calling all house of Anubis fans!!!

After two years of waiting, my third chapter to my Jerome x Nina fic is out! Come read it now!

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OMG ANOTHER REDWALL FAN! HERE IS A LINK TO A COPY OF THE REDWALL COOKBOOK!

hobbies include: close reading the Redwall series to answer my most burning questions. such as:

- can I replicate any of these delicious-sounding foodstuffs and would they in fact be delicious if I was able to

- corollary to the above: are we just supposed to read “oat cream” and “nut cheese” every time we see the words “cream” and “cheese”? I think so. bc if not, what tha hell are their livestock animals

- what is Society like? I don’t think we ever see a Mouse City or even Mouse Town though we do see castles and obviously an abbey. are we supposed to believe that most creatures are either in wandering bands or these societies based around a single structure (castle/abbey?)

- they appear to have an idea of what currency is (the bad guys always want treasure — maybe just to have, not to sell? but less ambiguous is some dialogue I just read, “acorn for your thoughts?” “you can have them for free”) but again, we never see anyone using money or making goods for the market. is this after the fall of Mouse Capitalism? are the bad guys (the idea of rat pirates gives me a headache, vis a vis the political/economic systems needed to power piracy) raiding preindustrial mouse societies for treasure/meat?

- corollary to the above: the abbey creatures have oats and wheat but we don’t see anybody farming or trading for farm goods on a large enough scale. is the abbey “orchard” really a like an indigenous forest farm of mixed foodstuffs? is that possible if you live in the same place the whole year or only if you travel each season? I have to do some googling

- both the lack of mixed-species families and the idea of mixed-species families give me a headache. has a squirrel never fallen for a handsome otter? what is the culture shock like if you marry into a subterranean mole family?

- this is the least “important” question but this read through I’ve been desperately trying to figure out What Size Everything Else Is. i’ve come to the conclusion that everything other than animals are at mouse scale, given that they can make seaworthy vessels their own size (a mouse sized vessel with real-world-sized waves seems impossible) and pick and eat apples and plums. but so far it seems like they’ve avoided mentioning how tall trees are — like a person compared to a tree or a mouse compared to a tree?

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Like to charge, reblog to cast!

I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3

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Happy NaNoWriMo! Hope you’re making sure to take care of yourself and your writing!

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The Conversation

He bent down and placed a kiss on top of her head before heading to the kitchen. She felt herself relax, but everything about this situation screamed weird—even for her.

“You don’t like physical contact,” it wasn’t a question as she turned to her old friend.

“No, but I got better at accepting it,” the not like you ever stuck around to find out hung between them.

He slouched a little more at her clipped tone. “How did you and the Hippie get together?” He asked her, trying to find anything to talk about that would soften her tone. She never used that tone with him—not even when he broke up with her and he basically froze her out.

Honestly, Cirá couldn’t help it.

She’s accepted her feelings surrounding the situation with Daniel was complicated.

But her hazel eyes snapped towards the tall man in the very small kitchen, grabbing the ice cream that she went overboard on getting. The smaller woman on her right answered for her. “That would be my doing,” Genevieve’s smirk was audible.

“Did you set them up?” Daniel asked Genevieve confused.

“She invited him to the wedding and I got tipsy,” Cirá explained simply.

“What she means to say is that she drank some champagne and pulled him down and kissed him. Honestly, three years of tension and you’d think someone would have done something before then!”

“Gen, I was trying to be careful—“

“No, you were overthinking it. You got drunk and stopped over thinking. Ergo, you got with Van Morrison over there.” Genevieve pointed her thumb behind her and sighed.

“Since when did you get comfortable with public displays of affection?” Daniel’s voice broke from the shock. His own green eyes widened as they landed on Cirá.

“Since I found out that one flute of champagne lowers my inhibitions and I have longer until the alcohol makes me pass out.” The brunette replied with a shrug.

She was twenty-five, no need to be petty anymore.

Not with this at least.

“And besides,” Cirá felt the words tumble out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Is it really PDA when it’s in a deserted hallway of a wedding reception?” Her innocent voice hid the smile that cut glass and stabbed someone in the back with it.

Okay maybe I can be a little petty with this at least.

“I was honestly impressed. With how much chocolate she consumed, I thought it would hit her much sooner.” Genevieve laughed good-naturedly. It worked wonders for diffusing tension. “It’s how she got the apple blossom tattoo!”

“Gen, I think you’re getting senile in your old age,” Cirá quipped as she pulled back the leather jacket sleeve. She held up her right wrist and a small apple blossom tattoo bloomed from the pale skin. “This was because I lost a dare to your daughter.”

“It was my bachelorette party, I can’t be responsible for my memories being foggy. I just forgot to eat with my two glasses of wine.”

Daniel, to his credit, kept his mouth shut... until Alex and Ruadhán began handing out the pints of ice cream. As Ruadhán handed Cirá her ice cream, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. They ignored the sounds of a man trying to reconcile the past with the present as he grinned. His green eyes wide and the metaphorical bushy tail fluffed up from his excitement.

“She did well today, right?” Ruadhán asked, slightly unaware of the conversation taking place before him.

“I still can’t believe that they had her come and speak. She was a nonentity outside of the classroom,” Daniel admitted.

“I was working. And, if I recall, you didn’t mind that I did.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything bad by it!” Daniel raised his hands in a surrendering gesture.

Cirá let it go.

It wasn’t worth the fight.

Not today.

“She might have kept to herself, but it’s not every day that one of their graduates becomes a best selling author!” Ruadhán pulled her in for a tight hug. His youth once again showing as she giggled at his exuberance. “My girlfriend is a best selling author!” The joy in that sentiment alone reminded Cirá why they worked in the first place.

“You were an amazing editor, by the way.” Hazel eyes met jade and the world slipped away.

Alex’s deep laugh broke the moment. “Ah, young love.” He sighed before looking to his wife. “See, Genevieve? This is why I said I wished I met you at seventeen.” The inside joke took a moment to settle in. Just a small moment however since Genevieve’s burgundy hair glinted with undercurrents of purple that matched the slight humorous fire in her eyes.

“Need I remind you that I am ten years older than you and I would’ve gotten a case if we met back then?”

“Fair enough. It’s good that I met you when I did then.” Alex’s smile lit up a room as he looked solely at his wife. His blue eyes then turned to Cirá and Ruadhán and took on a more brotherly tone. “Now, Cirá, I know you made it known that you liked your sari that represented the night sky and would love to wear it again, but—“

Daniel stood up abruptly.

His ice cream pint long since half eaten and melted to soup.

“Thanks for inviting me to your little post-Drew-talk get together, but I just remembered I need to go. My grandparents need me to check their fire extinguishers again.” Daniel’s voice scratched the good mood to a halt.

Cirá sighed and nodded.

She stood and motioned him to the hallway to their side. It was small. Everything in the apartment was small. So after thirty feet and an open door, they were in a deserted hallway. Face to face.

“When did you get comfortable with physical affection?” Daniel asked the moment the door closed. His own green eyes poured into Cirá’s. Silently, he pleaded for an answer.

“Therapy. It took three years and an understanding that a twenty-year-old fucked me up a lot more at seventeen than I thought.” She answered it honestly. No emotion leaked into her voice. She honestly had none left to give that topic right now.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You never gave me a chance—not in the way I really needed. But you always respected my boundaries.”

“That’s the bare minimum.”

“And so you finally get it.”

“We really were fucked up at twenty-one weren’t we?”

“Everyone is. We just learn to live with it.”

[honey-badgers-library]

Scenes from an Irish Pub

Stop and Stare

The tree stood tall in the back room. She couldn’t tell if it was fake or real, but it was always covered in leaves and fairy lights when she saw it. The cracked back tile of the glass covered room looked worn with time, and she waited. It was—how long was it since she was last there? Three, four years?

Not that it mattered.

The wool coat was shed immediately. Her hand made for her throat as she palmed her fake rose quartz necklace. The room roared with laughter from all sides. The smell of various alcoholic beverages pulled her under. The pounding of her pulse causing her to panic.

What was she doing?

She hadn’t seen him in years.

As far as she was aware, he could’ve changed so much.

They’ve kept in sporadic touch, of course they had. But—

“How is it my mom lives right across the street and you always beat me here?” The dry humor of the voice shook her from her thoughts. He sat down across from her and next to the wall. It was the exact same position that they found themselves in four years ago.

All she did was shrug.

A small, forced smirk played at the corner of her mouth. “I thought being late was unbecoming of a Captain,” she replied.

“I’m not late, you’re simply early, Alina.”

“Well, someone has been taking lessons from Julie Andrews then.”

It was a tease, but she always teased him.

He raised an eyebrow and she sighed. She looked awkwardly at the table. Great, my reference went right over his he—

“Well, she’s a queen for a reason,” the dry, deeper timbre of his voice caught her off guard. Her head snapped up at him, eyes wide. His own gray eyes sparked with mirth. “Contrary to popular belief, I have seen the Princess Diaries duology.”

Alina sputtered. “E-excuse you, Tommy! I’ll have ya know that was not what I was thinkin’!” The smile that fought its way onto her elfin face was genuine.

Tommy grinned back. “Too easy, Lina.” He passed her a menu and asked, “so are you gonna drink this time or would a Shirley Temple still do?”

Alina huffed before rolling her eyes. “Shirley Temple please, I still can’t hold my booze.”

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The Mistwalker’s Must-Have Mixtape

II. Movin’ Right Along

Eleonora looked at her Walkman 2192. She clutched it in her hands. A life line within the slowly receding fog as she curled up beneath a tree. The tree’s shadow loomed over her; the branches slowly crawled away from the trunk and hung low. Eleonora knew she should be frightened—and she was. But then the branches of the tree twisted and curved. Downward toward Eleonora it went. Wrapped around her, in front of her. Much like the old poem “The Giving Tree”, protecting its favorite human and giving her all she could.

She sighed and snuggled closer to the tree. “Thank you,” her voice sounded much softer, weaker than when she was at home. “I don’t know what your name is, so it feels kinda rude to tell you thank you without a name—”

A small laugh erupted from her throat. Small and hysterical, Eleonora felt the tears tear through her as the tsunami of emotions overcame her. She shook with the utter fear and rage at being alone. Her ringletted brown hair frizzed with the rising humidity almost immediately. And she smelled the shift before it occurred. The ions bounced and changed and danced around this little forest or moor that she found herself in.

How to describe the smell before it rained? Eleonora knew what her home smelled like. The flowers bloomed just in time for the thunderstorms. They smelled clean and citrusy with some form of spice. A homey clean smell came from these flowers that only bloomed when it thundered and lightning. On top of the thunderflowers, the air carried a distinct fresh smell. Something everyone associated with rain, that fresh clean smell that made a person stop to take a deep breath in. Memento Mori, after it rained, was the best place to be for Eleonora.

Wherever she was didn’t smell like that.

Instead it smelled sweet. Honey and sugar peppered the air as everything shifted. The smell of fresh baked cookies ended up filling her nose the moment the thunder cracked and the rain began to pour. Just as the rain splattered across the grass, the tree’s branches fanned out. The leaves looked vaguely umbrella-like and acted as a tent for Eleonora. “T-thank you again,” Eleonora sniffed softly. “I wish I could give you something in return.”

“You sing, don’t you?” A booming accented voice surrounded Eleonora. Out of shock, the fifteen-year-old jumped up and hit her head on a branch. The branch then moved out of the way, and the voice continued. “Oh, I’m sorry dearie! I shoulda warned ya about the branch above your head there.”

Eleonora paused.

The voice, matronly in its tone, kept rambling. “I always forget to warn the travelers that take shelter in my tree. My branches are heavy and I prefer to keep them closer to the ground. I hope you don’t mind, dearie.”

As she rubbed her head, the ringletted teenager found her eyes widening as she realized the voice was coming from behind her. Eleonora stood as straight as a rod. “You can speak!” She exclaimed.

“Aye, so can you,” was the tree’s amused response.

“I’m sorry,” the girl began. Her bright blue eyes widened as the singular thought replayed in her head. I am talking to a tree. I am talking to a motherfucking tree and it’s talking back. Holy fucking shit! “I’ve never spoken to a tree that talked back before. I’m a bit shocked.”

“Ah! A new adventurer is in my midsts then!” The tree’s trunk began to move and reform. Suddenly, a spirit of an older, slightly rotund woman popped out of the door that replaced the trunk. Her skin seemed leathery with wrinkles that mirrored the pattern of the tree bark. “My name is Cottage, and I am the last of my kind. Come in, and allow me to give you some warm food and drink.”

“How would I repay you?” Eleonora asked, slightly wary of the woman. “I don’t have any money, and I just walked into the woods through the mist. I wouldn’t know what to give in return for the hospitality.”

“Nevermind that now dearie,” Cottage responded with a lackadaisical wave. “Perhaps a song would be a good trade, but, for now, come in and receive some shelter from the rain. It’s been a while since a Mistwalker has been at my table.”

“Mistwalker? What’s a Mistwalk—”

Eleonora couldn’t finish her sentence as Cottage took her hand and led her through the door. Confused, and feeling the stabs of hunger, the teenager followed the very granny-looking woman who wore a mushroom cap atop her head. Better to eat something warm than accidentally poison herself with some random plant.

Movin' right along in search of good times and good news

Cottage’s space within — or was it below? — her tree felt like how Eleonora imagined the homes of her neighbors to feel like. Cottage rummaged around the messy kitchenette. Flowers and leaves hung down around the handles. Everything looked rustic and old with the wood covered in moss and some form of fungus growing in beautiful patterns. Eleonora glanced at Cottage, who’s poke-a-dotted mushroom cap looked skewed, and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Cottage, but where are we?”

“You’ve never seen a Cottage Tree before?” was Cottage’s equally bewildered reply. The older woman — dryad-tree-nymph-thing? — struggled with grabbing a few plates and cups.

“No, sorry,” Eleonora apologized as she rushed to help Cottage with the dishes. “Want me to place these on the table?”

“Oh yes, dearie, thank you!”

Cottage went back to the pot on the stove as Eleonora set the small table. It grew out from the floor, with ivy vines forming the chairs around it. The kitchen table contained another covering of soft, green moss. She placed each wooden plate and cup in front of the two seats. The fifteen-year-old watched in awe as the leaves on the vine came to life and grouped together as a back and seat cushion.

“Now, dearie,” Cottage began practically out of nowhere. “You asked what a Mistwalker is, correct?” She came around the table with two oven mitts made from some sort of plant. It looked waxy and furry at the same time. Still the organic matter wouldn’t burn, nor did the wooden pot now that Eleonora thought about it. All the child could do was nod in agreement as her mind was filled once again with one single question — WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?!

“Well, lovely, I wish the Overworlders would actually explain to their saplings what happens to them when they hit puberty. By the Land!” Cottage groaned in annoyance for her fellow living beings in the world. She took a ladle practically out of thin air. She placed it in the large pot and Eleonora smelled something salty and bitter from the pot. There was an underlying scent of cooking meat — it reminded Eleonora of the Cuban skirt steak David made her for dinner one day.

Her stomach thundered across the small space before Cottage continued. “Oh dearie, sit, eat! Make yourself at home, you look bone-thin now that I get a good look at ye!”

So, Eleonora took a seat.

We're storming the big town—yeah, storm is right, should it be snowing?

“You’re in a Cottage Tree currently,” Cottage finally said after they ate their fill of stew and biscuits. “Cottage Trees were abundant centuries ago as way stations for weary travelers when they need a—”

A small bouquet of bell flowers appeared between the two ladies at the table. They jiggled three times, the sound of church bell tolls erupting from their vines.

“We have a visitor.” Cottage grinned widely.

[honey-badgers-library]

Just a random thing everyone should know about: a guy went out and wrote a small monograph on the oral and cultural history of John Wick and the modern day action genre. I saw it in a Barnes and Noble but didn’t think to buy it. Less than 24 hours later, I regret it. So if you see They Really Shouldn’t Have Killed His Dog, buy it. Just to say you have a historical monograph about the John Wick movies.

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When your brain decides homework isn’t important but creating a fictional religion for your fictional world that won’t even factor into your story is:

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Sukiyaki and Spirited Away

Ue o muite arukou, namida go koborenai youni. Omoidasu haru no hitoribocchi no yoru.

Her eyes popped open as the sunlight streamed through her thin curtains. The music box on her counter had an odd habit of waking her up with different songs—ones that she never heard but felt so familiar. This morning wasn’t any different. She swung her windows wide open, the country air brought to life the stale, paint-chipped bedroom. The ivory and gold music box bathed in the sunlight and she grinned as it played.

“Thank you and good morning, spirits!” The brunette exclaimed as she pulled out a green gown from the closet. Without much thought to how it happened, the young woman now wore the gown. It’s deep forest color accented her hair and eyes quite well, and she pulled out a deep purple gown should this one have something terrible befall it.

Almost always, without fail, did something terrible befall her gowns when she went out. It annoyed the headmistress of the magical finishing school she attended to no end, but it wasn’t like she cared. No, instead she counted the days until her swashbuckling, retired adventurer of an uncle came for her. The Old Man promised—and he 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 his promises. Her wall on the inside of her closet contained chalk tick marks of the days she’d been here; the spirits of the school keeping track for her as she attended to her studies.

The fresh, crisp air smelled of freshly fallen rain and wet grass as the morning breeze swept through her room. With it, thunder crashed somewhere far off on the horizon, perhaps to the east or the west. The brunette never faired well directionally.

None of it mattered though, as the song played this morning and she stuffed the purple gown in her satchel.

Ue o muite arukou nijinda hoshi o kazoete. Omoidasu natsu no hi, hitoribocchi no yoru.

The music box continued its song, one that the brunette knew in her bones but couldn’t remember why. It felt like home—a bittersweet wonderful home that gave her true peace. And her uncle, this song reminder her of the dangerous swashbuckling rogue that held the ocean in his palm. She looked at the chalk tick marks in the back of her closet once more and locked her jaw.

𝘚𝘰𝘰𝘯.

Soon her uncle would come for her, him and Mr. Choi, and all she had to do was wait. Try to be as patient as possible, try to make the best of it, but wait.

The door to her room swung open and almost hit the young woman square in the nose. Without much of an explanation, but a long sigh of exasperated fondness, the honey badger raised an eyebrow. “Ms. Kimura, you wouldn’t know anything about the chalk in the classrooms going missing, would you?” The honey badger asked with the twinkle of amusement in her dark eyes.

“Mrs. Brandy,” Ms. Kimura replied with a small smile and a coy tone, “it’s not my fault the ghosts like me. I pay attention to them. Although the Fair Folk may be your culprits.”

The honey badger laughed merrily at her apprentice before leading the way out of the room. Ms. Kimura followed, knocking into mahogany tables and almost hitting paintings done by fellow students as she turned. Mrs. Brandy seemed to be avoided by those who were dangerously close to stepping on a paw or knocking into her head. It was a short walk to the library in which the young woman apprenticed under the honey badger, but, by the end, she almost needed to change her forest green gown twice due to it catching on rose thorns.

In the library, however, was Headmistress Heathrow and she raised an eyebrow at Ms. Kimura 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 disapprovingly. “You’re late,” her scratchy voice reproached the pair as Mrs. Brandy shifted into a slightly masculine looking older woman. Ms. Kimura kept her face blank and straightened her posture.

“Headmistress, I thought the arrangement was for Ms. Kimura to learn other techniques of medicinal training under my tutelage due to her unique set of magical abilities.” Mrs. Brandy’s Scottish accent turned deadly by the end of the question. “What exactly are you saying we are late for?”

“I have finally found a suitable squad for the Lucky Charm to start working with. She leaves this afternoon.” The headmistress explained in a clipped, no-nonsense tone.

Mrs. Brandy opened her mouth then closed it. The short, silver haired woman flailed her hands around and took a menacing step toward the lady in charge. “If you forget, Selena,” she spat the woman’s name as if it were poison. “The only reason you have this job is because of 𝘮𝘺 decisions. I can take it away just as easily. The young woman is not ready to be in the field! Not only does the one person she trust is me, but taking her away from me will only put her more at risk! I can’t allow it!”

“You forget your place, Evelyn,” The Headmistress hissed back. “This, arguably, is what the Lucky Charm is meant for—“

“My name is Kimura Hana. You may call me Ms. Kimura or Hana, but never by the call sign forced upon me,” Hana spoke softly but defiantly. It carried through the library, freezing the two older women in their place. Her green eyes hardened to emeralds. Her stance firmly rooted her to the ground. She lifted her face defiantly in the air, her seven freckles across her nose a badge of honor. “And I will not be going.”

“You are a member of W.H.O. whether you like it or not. That means you will be joining this squad of newly graduated recruits.” Then after a silent beat, she added, “As the Lucky Charm no less.”

“If I refuse?”

“There have been arrangements made for Mrs. Brandy’s retirement.”

Hana looked to her mentor. The older lady had been nothing but kind to her the past month and a half she’s been here. Just as Mrs. Brandy was about to lunge at the headmistress, Hana lifted her head. A forced retirement was not the way to repay this lovely woman. Especially when the young lady didn’t know what kind of forced retirement it was. “Fine, but only because I don’t want Mrs. Brandy to suffer because of me.”

“Go to your room and pack. You leave at thirteen hundred hours.”

“Yes, Headmistress,” the saccharine voice stilled the room once more.

“How do you work with her?” The headmistress growled at Mrs. Brandy, the bare minimum of her patience running thin.

Hana only kept her eye leveled at the older woman. “Mrs. Brandy only requested my best and did not scold me if I handed her my worst. You on the other hand demand my perfection and my silent compliance. Perhaps learn from your seemingly superior in how to handle your students better next time.”

Ue o muite arukou, namida ga koborenai youni. Nakinagara aruku hitoribocchi no yoru.

Hana sat on the ship, her small, thin music box in hand. Her luggage was out in the cargo room. She played with the ladybug necklace as she waited for her departure, a book on healing plants and a honey badger silver chain bookmark on her lap. The song was finished, and a new one began.

[honey-badgers-library]

The Storm Brewing in the East

Yuichi Kimura sat in his dojo, hand on the hilt of his practice sword. His companion stood silently to the side before finally letting out a sigh. “We couldn’t find her, Mr. Kimura.”

The young-looking man quickly rose to his feet and attacked the practice dummy with a series of strikes and blows from the bamboo sword. The movements delivered with such precision and strength that, when the kendo sword came back to his hip, the dummy ended up six feet away from him. It laid there on the ground. Yuichi took a fortifying breath and gave a broken smile to his most faithful assistant. “Please excuse my outburst, Mr. Choi,” the head of the Kimura family began. “I’m still a bit rusty at controlling my anger. It’s been a while since something like this has—“

The friend of his father raised a hand to cut him off. “Yuichi, I would be disappointed if you turned to drink, but you haven’t as much as it tempted you on your patrols. I, and your father, are proud of you for that.”

Yuichi felt a true small smile from at the older man.

“That being said,” Mr. Choi began with a knowing look in his eye. “I noticed that the offerings on the altars have been replenished, including the sake.”

“I had Mami refill the sake for my father. But yes, I asked for their advice and I still have no idea what to do.”

Mr. Choi nodded once the silence settled between the two men. Yuichi crossed the dojo to place the practice sword back in its place on the rack. The only sound was the clapping of sandals on the wood floor. The smell of the ocean, salty and fresh, blew in with the wind. The last of the tension left Yuichi as he took a long look at his father’s best friend.

Mr. Choi was growing older, getting on in years. He refused to have his load lightened, but Yuichi feared that staying in his employ might actually kill the old man. The sixty-six-year-old looked at the almost-ninety-year-old assistant and shook his head. “Mr. Choi, I have one question to ask you if you don’t mind. It may break my father’s confidence in you and I would never ask under any other circumstance—“

“Yuichi, it would break your father’s confidence not to advise you. You may ask me anything.”

“It has been a month. In that time, we’ve gotten two phone calls from Hana and we haven’t been able to find her in Okinawa. Now, I am faced with a decision. Break the promise I made to my father, and be a terrible son, to keep a promise made to my brother after he and his wife passed on. Or break the promise to Hatori and Francine, and be a terrible brother, to keep the promise I made to my father.”

Mr. Choi made a noise and Yuichi took it as a sign to let the elder speak. “And you have made your decision it seems,” the old man said as Yuichi felt Mr. Choi observe the lock in his jaw and the steel behind his eyes. Granted, he needed to bend his knees to catch a glimpse at Yuichi’s eyes. “So what are you trying to ask me?”

Yuichi sighed. He gripped tightly on to his gi top and willed himself to meet the man face to face.

His body shook. And, not for the first time that month he felt the ocean beneath his skin pulling him under. He wanted to reach out, to grab the key that stood at his friend’s side and find the liquor cabinet. He wanted to drown himself in whiskey and sake and bourbon and whatever else was in the locked cabinet in the butler’s pantry. To give in and sink beneath his sins and failures before his own magic did him in.

But then what would happen to Hana? Mushi needed him, needed someone to help her because of her own coping mechanisms kept her from truly helping herself. She was taken from him and was no longer on the island. She was waiting for him to save her and take her home.

And what about Mr. Choi? Who just praised him not five minutes ago for not giving into temptation?

So Yuichi stood firm. The ocean roared within his blood, but he stilled its stormy rage. It would be free, and W.H.O. would drown—sink to the bottom of the blue abyss and torn asunder before its final resting place welcomed it with open arms. “Would my father hate me for resurrecting the Kimura Crime Family?”

The words hung between the two men.

The ocean waves crashed onto the shore, loud and calming to Yuichi as the silence dragged on. Finally, Mr. Choi patted the younger man on his shoulder. “Your father has been gone these twenty-two years. You are the head of the family now, even if there is only the three of us left. Send the letters if you must, but know that your father would want you to be your own man now.”

Yuichi nodded and gave Mr. Choi a bear hug. “We send the invitations to tea now.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Mr. Choi laughed in response.

Later that night, five families received hand written letters requesting to meet for tea this coming Friday. The note was signed by a name they hadn’t heard from in almost forty years.

Yuichi Kimura.

With that, The Storm brewed in the East.

[honey-badgers-library]

Call It

“Call it,” the voice pierced through your thoughts as you struggled with throwing the blanket in the washing machine. Your eyes snapped to his. The confusion laid bare as you slunk down and slammed the door shut.

“What?” You asked, waving your hands around as off swatting away a fly.

“Call it.” He said it again, a smirk to his mouth and a piece of licorice poking out through his teeth. The palm of his right hand positioned itself on the top of his left. Dark eyes sparking with mischief as he dared you to answer.

You raised an eyebrow and set the alarm on your phone. “Heads,” you sighed.

The right hand lifted from the left.

Tails.

“Wrong one,” he smiled wildly and you scoffed at the continuation of the thought. “How about a date with the winner?”

Without much thought, you took your cup of water in hand. Debating, though mind probably made up already. “Why should I?” You asked, weighing the options before you actually decided to go through with it.

“You lost.”

“The terms weren’t clear, Emo Boy.”

“You still—“

The shriek that filled your ears may have given you some form of vindictive glee. The ice cold water dripped on the floor, creating a small pool around his seat. You grinned, sharp and slightly unhinged. “Next time, set terms or anything goes.”