#I can recall listening to a lot of The Beach Boys this year but apparently I listened to SpongeBob and muppets more

[whaleiumsharkspeare]

Tell me why my top Spotify wrapped artists were the cast of the SpongeBob musical and the muppets

[georgemackayhey]

Like Real People Do

“Hii can you do an imagine, "Your first time with George" maybe as an insecure/uneasy reader"

"Can you pleeaaassse write more nsfw stuff? More Than A Night Out gave me my rights"

Alright yall, heed the 18+ warning! 

Seriously, I really don't want to block anyone (I love yall!) On that note... I wouldn't say this theme is my strong suit, nor have I been in a good headspace, but boy did I try my best ♡ 

w/c: 3k

───※ ·❆· ※───

You didn't date.

You called off meeting up with strangers in bars and listening to them tell half-assed life stories, embellishing in hopes they'd get to have their way with you in the same evening.

You were happy to mingle among friends on weekends and at parties, but going home alone felt safe. Keeping to yourself was the best bet, having learned your lesson by now. You recalled more unpleasant domestic experiences than ones that left you daydreaming of more. So you simply stayed single.

Some of your friends didn't regard your limits, tricking you into double dates and the like. Other friends understood but still gushed over their brothers and cousins in hopes you'd be intrigued by their qualities and demand to be introduced with wedding rings on standby.

And then there were the friends who never asked or bothered you about it at all. George was one of those friends.

He was your ride to your friend groups monthly movie theater meet up's. And he always let you take home his leftovers after dinners he wasted chatting with your mutual friends about books and culture.

In turn, you let George borrow your favorite albums. And you'd always saved him a seat in the back of bars you had to show up to for friend's birthday parties, while they threw themselves between strangers on the dance floor. Times like then were when you got to know George best.

And during the last month of summer, George invited everyone to take over a beach house big enough for your ever-expanding group and more. Apparently some of his distant family owned the property but were hardly ever in the area to enjoy it. So they gave George a spare key, and insisted he treated the place like his own.

And thankfully, then, between your friends racing to the shore in the witching hour, and when everyone split up into pairs for the evening, George kept you company. You made a habit of joining each other on the rickety front porch, sharing a drink, and usually sitting in silence.

But there were nights you talked about the constellations you could see above the roaring ocean. And where you'd like to live if you had an unlimited budget. Where you'd come from and what you wanted, and didn't.

You went home to the most dreary September of all time. You used to adore the solitude of your dull apartment. But you missed waking up to your friend's laughter, having someone, if not many more, to enjoy market runs and mealtimes with. You had never felt more lonely. And you couldn't stop thinking of George.

When he came round to give you a lift to the movie theater, your usual ride together was quiet. The silence between you was heavy- you wondered if he noticed. You sat together in a boring film. Or maybe it was the best of all time. You could only focus on how close George was to you, how you'd recognized the feeling of his company. You wondered how to ask him to come around more often, without sounding pathetically desperate.

Luckily birthday parties and Halloween bashes kept coming. And you kept finding quiet places to listen to George tell his stories. And he would always share his drink, and ask about your family, and how you were doing.

One night when he invited everyone around to his flat and only a couple of your friends managed to show up, they headed out soon after dinner. You were left alone in George's kitchen to help clean up and wonder what to do with the rest of the early blue evening.

And even though your heart beat in your throat, and everything you thought to say sounded stupid in your head, you determined it was time.

During a much too easy card game at Georges table, when a conversation about some of the horrifically silly things George had witnessed you manage in the past; you decided to stop testing the waters, and address them.

"I can't believe you put up with me." You grinned, peering past your hand of playing cards to the guy sat beside you.

"I just like you," George answered simply, his ocean eye flickering up to meet yours for a beat.

"Really?" You asked, pushing for him to say more, hoping he got the hint.

"I really do." George grinned shyly, turning his attention back to his hand of playing cards he kept accidentally giving you glimpses of. You watched George bite his lip and fiddle with the cards as if he were arranging them just so.

"What if... I like you too?" It wasn't just his tousled yellow hair, or the way his smile was warmer than a ray of sun. It was his lame jokes. His soft answers. Him.

"You don't date." George rose a brow, keeping his eyes turned away. He wasn't bittered or mocking. He was accepting. George laid down his cards, to a game you weren't focused on at all anymore.

"I like you, George." You admit in a hush. His stunning eyes met yours. He seemed to consider your words, and much more. He started to speak a couple of times as he searched your features.

"So maybe... we can start slow..." You offered. You had never planned on opening up to anyone. But George had stuck around. He was always there when you needed him even when you hadn't known what you needed. He didn't make fun of your unreasonable anxieties and he always laughed at your jokes. Even the ones you knew weren't funny. You hadn't expected to ever let anyone close enough, you hadn't trusted anyone could feel like home. But before you could even decide, it was as if your heart grew a mind of its own and lept right out of your chest into George's orbit. So since he already seemed to have you, it seemed like common courtesy to at least let the guy know.

With a shy smile, George bore his brilliant blue eyes into yours, searching them for assurance. As you looked to each other you felt his knuckles brush yours, the back of his hand nervously creeping closer. George took one of his fingers and looped it around one of yours while he agreed that it would be silly for two people who felt the same way about each other to do nothing about it. So you did.

George started coming around when there wasn't any reason to, sometimes bringing take away, or asking you on walks around the park. Sometimes you'd sit in silence next to your favorite old tree and enjoy that last purple swirls in the dusk sky. And sometimes you'd watch films, one after another, pausing only to argue over the ending or make silly predictions.  And times like then, you curled into George's side like a sleepy cat. He'd carded his warm hand through your hair as you drifted off, content.

You got snowed into his flat when you showed up a few hours before the first-holiday party of the season; to help bake treats for everyone. As ice froze everyone's doors shut, the party was swiftly canceled but your plans for the evening weren't ruined at all.

George set up his den with extra blankets, finding the holiday channel on the telly, standing to refill your cup of tea during commercials so you didn't have to move. He kissed you that night, soft and kind, and slow. You both fell asleep on the floor among the mess of all the blankets he owned, while snow piled up and over the window sills.

You spent New Year's Eve much like the past couple before, watching your wild group of pals take shots and dance to bad music. George listened to you talk as you waited for the new year to set in, and he kept one of his fingers looped around yours almost all night long.

When the snow started to melt and your group of friends started squeezing into their cut off jeans from the year before, George invited everyone back to the beach house. He set a date and sent out invitations in the mail like it was the damn 1800's. Most every rsvp got sent back with the box labeled "going "grossly marked up.

George offered to give you a lift there, a day early so he could stock up on emergency snacks and soaps and even more DVDs in case the rains came and ruined your fun on the shore. You agreed happily and walked through the isles of a department store together, picking out essentials based on how well you knew your group of friends who might need them.

And while you laughed and helped and listened, you grew increasingly more fucking terrified. Because you'd never spent so long enjoying one person's company. You were enamored with George yes, but what's more, was- you trusted him. You never thought it was possible. But you really did. And the thing that you were most scared of, was having to accept the possibility that he didn't feel the same way.

Things like this had gone wrong before. Granted, things had never gone remotely close to this right before, either. But you still prepared yourself to hurt. It was always a possibility you were too afraid of risking. But George was different. You somehow knew even if he hurt you, it would be the loveliest heartbreak you'd ever feel.

You got to the beach house, completely abandoned since the last time you left it. You found your someone's favorite lost t-shirt in one of the bathrooms, and a lot of dust on the shelves. After clearing away some of the cobwebs and unloading all your groceries to their respective places, night began to fall.

The sky was still blue enough to admire the roaring ocean from the front porch. George brought out a couple of drinks, and you sat there together like you had the summer before. Only now, it was a little too chilly. So you said goodnight to the scenery, making a note of spending extra time to soak up its beauty the next morning.

And on your way inside you joked about how someone was bound to forget to pack something they needed, or bring one of the things George asked them to. You were wrapped up in laughter as you turned out the lights and drifted to settle in.

When you headed to the bedroom where all your bags had been discarded, you scurried off to the ensuite shower. This was the room George stayed in last year, a space you'd never stepped foot near until tonight.

And when you stepped back out into the bedroom, you realized you didn't want to leave.

George was busy turning down his bed covers to the dim night light in a far off corner. A dark shine beamed in from the moon in the window next to the quilted bed, and George never looked more beautiful- perfectly tousled hair. Kind, sleepy eyes. Yeah, you'd let him break your heart.

"What?" He laughed in a warm low rumble, catching you staring. You bit back a chuckle and crossed the room to meet him.

"I just love you. That's all." You informed, circling one of your fingers around his, gazing up to the guy.

You'd said so in passing, during game nights he helped you win and in the middle of lunches he'd managed to talk you into ordering. But nothing prompted you now, and the statement held an all-new kind of weight.

"I love you, too," George whispered in turn, raising his other hand to your cheek.

"Can I stay in here? With you?" You asked, keeping your gaze set and your voice low even though no one else was around to hear.

"I'd like that." George assured with a tiny grin.

You clamored into the big bed, pointing out the window to the moon over the ocean. George eased in behind you, gazing all the same. You tangled your hands together staring out the window for a while, giggling over nothing every now and again. He was so impossibly close, so warm next to you.

"George." You turned your head slowly, catching his attention. He looked at you, silently wondering what you wanted. But somehow you didn't need to say.

Somehow he knew to lean in for a kiss, soft and sweet. When he pulled away, you could tell he didn't want to. When George looked at you, you could tell he longed for more, but still kept his distance, kept your meek nature in mind. He was too kind, too considerate. There weren't words to convey how you felt. You knew what came next. You wanted George.

You reached for his hand, and brought it to rest in the dip of your waist. He kept his eyes steady on yours while his thumb brushed over the skin exposed where your shirt had ridden up.

"Kiss me again?" You asked, barely a whisper. George leaned in, almost before you could finish asking, to press his mouth against yours. You grabbed a fist full of his shirt to pull him closer while George let his hand travel to the small of your back, holding you perfectly against him. He kissed you slow and deep like he was trying to put you in a trance.

Whether he meant to or not, you wondered if it worked, as you melted into the mattress all while lazily pulling him almost all the way on top of you. This was as far as you'd ever taken things with George, yanking at each other's clothes while you kissed until you couldn't breathe.

So when you gently pushed George away, he started to retract back to his side of the bed without putting up a fight. But you sat up too. And George watched on in wonder when you sheepishly slid into his lap, your knees on either side of his hips.

Without a word you pulled George's shirt up, silently suggesting he take it all the way off.

When he did, you didn't relish the sight long before you dove in for another kiss. His skin was burning, and you could feel his heart hammer when your hand traveled across his chest. You moved your kisses to his neck, reveling in the feeling of being so close. George kept one arm gently wrapped around you as your teeth grazed a spot under his ear that made his breath catch in his throat.

"Y/n. Are you- Do you..." George began, keeping his hold around you all the same. You pulled away, gazing to George through your lashes while your heart teetered on the edge.

"Do you not want to?" You worried. You were so finally sure. But George might not have been. So you prepared to be let down gently, knowing George would at least be kind enough to break your fall.

"Yes." George let out a breathy laugh, reaching to hold your head in both of his hands. "Of course I want to do this. But I know how you feel and if you don't-"

"I trust you, George." You nodded, searching his eyes while a smile bloomed across your face. You'd been so nervous for a moment like this to come true. But everything was different with George. He made you laugh when you never expected to, he made you think about things in ways you'd never even considered. He was so the one for you.

You wrapped your fingers around George's wrist, bringing his plus to your lips. You watched George's eyes flutter as you planted a small kiss there, before moving his hand to your hip.

"Just go slow." You nodded, watching George's eyes open to meet yours. You leaned your forehead against his while he nodded, making you laugh.

He decorated your cheeks with gentle pecks and moved his hands under the hem of your shirt as you leaned in to capture his lips with yours again. And because you spent a while that way, you weren't nervous to act upon taking things even further.

Kisses turned seering as George wrangled your shirt off. His lips traveled down your throat as you settled deeper into his lap, shocked by how easy this was. Your kisses grew longer and sloppier while your layers started to collect on the floor.

You impressed yourself by how effortlessly you reach to pull away George's trousers. He managed to kick them aside while you kept your lips on his, laughing between breaks for air.

But when he pulled you back into his lap, when his fingers danced around your waistband, you were suddenly swept up in the realization that this was happening. Like, really happening.

"Uh, wait a second." You halted in a shaky breath. You didn't want to stop, not completely. You just needed to assess things for a moment, to catch up with this new reality in which this wasn't upsetting or dull or any of the things being with anyone else ever was.

George stalled in an instant, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. "Do you want to stop?" He asked gently, hands firmly pressed against your back, eyes glowing right into yours.

"No way." You breathed with a grin. You knew it would be better than before, with George. Probably the best. It already was, you realized with a smile, encouraging George one more time. Your hips rolled against his, causing his heavenly sigh in your ear.

He wriggled you out of the last of your clothes and made you feel like a wonder of the world, tracing the shapes you were made up of with his pretty fingers. By the time you were laid against the pillows admiring the halo of light ringing around George's waves of hair, he asked again if you were sure about this.

"So long as you are." You swallowed.

"Of course I'm sure. God, I'm so sure." George pressed a kiss to your face between sentences, making you giggle and swoon all at once. "I've never been so sure of anyone but you. I'd like to keep it that way." George rambled, peppering a few more loving, gentle kisses to your cheek. "But if you want to stop for any reason, we'll stop. Just say so."

"Thank you, George." You grinned after a beat, knowing he really meant it. Recognizing how deeply he really cared for you, watching him search your face for validation. Watching George watch you, contentedly, like he had dozens of times before now. He gave you a slowly sleepy blink, ocean blue eyes shining brighter when they opened again.

George leaned closer, hovering over you with his eyes locked on yours. He molded a kiss to your lips before anything. Then to your cheek. Then his eyes fluttered to meet yours once more.

"Slow." You rose a brow, whispering a reminder, but it was really more of a green light for him to finally take the next step.

George repeated you, in a barely audible hush, soaking up the look in your eye. A lithe grin painted his lips while you held your breath. You accounted for the feeling of his fingers loosely tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing across your temple every now and again. You'd nearly forgotten everything else while swimming in those warm icy eyes of his. He didn't break you from your reverie when he gave a small nod. The gesture only settled you further, as you responded by lacing your fingers around the back of his neck.

George kept his hand nearly cradling your head as he pushed closer. His thumb brushing across the pulse of your temple was keeping you grounded while your heart threatened to soar into the clouds. While your breathing grew deeper, while he moved as close as he could until he couldn't anymore.

"You okay?" George asked, his voice beautifully strained.

"Uh-huh." You gazed at him through hooded eyes as you adjusted everything, including the realization that this was happening. He wasn't even moving yet. And he waited until you had to ask him to, with his head buried in your neck. After a couple of breaths, you looked to George, giving him a nod. He pressed his forehead against yours and moved his hips.

A tame, steady pace set in as you stopped George from asking if you were alright, again, assuring him you were really, very good. Your raspy encouragement must have given George the sound authority to go about awing you further.

He kept one hand against your temple while his other trailed down your side, fingers deliberately pressed into your skin as he brought your leg around his hip. George's strong-arm hooked under your back to keep you secured against him. He picked up the pace as your hands tangled in his hair, around his shoulder, holding on to the moment. To George.

You wondered why you waited so long to feel this damned good, while George spoke low in your ear. He listed off all the things he liked best about you, and why. He planted clumsy kisses to your lips. He made you see stars brighter than all the far off constellations you were used to pointing out from the shoreline. You seemed to float among them, above everything. Time slowed down while your heart sped up, somehow, and while everything around you faded into an impossibly dull background, you still had George.

His weight was warm and secure. His breath was hot on your neck. His voice was saccharine in your ear.  When he eventually eased next to your side in a heap, the cool of the night was still shielded by him.

You snuggled to his chest, like an old sleepy cat while he kept repeating how he loved you. You said so too, as many times as you could manage before drifting to sleep all tangled together.

The next morning came slow. You made coffee and watched the sunrise above the waves from the porch. When your friends started showing up in pairs and trios and more, they all seemed sort of relieved to find you and George attached at the hip. They greeted you as if you'd always been a packaged deal, and they didn't bat an eye when you stuck together to roam the vast empty beach. There was no fighting over choosing partners when someone broke out a new board game that night. When your friends were all gathered around the dinner table, and all the extra snacks and gifts and surprises for the summer were stored away, you still had George.

Maybe things wouldn't always be so easy. There would likely be fights and upsets and questions that didn't always have answers. But George was worth it. You had him now, you loved him and he couldn't stop reminding how dearly he loved you. Nothing had ever hurt so good before. You decided to keep it that way.

───※ ·❆· ※───

[lovemesomesurveys]

Do you have any tan lines? Nope. Have you ever wished you could stop time? Yes. I’ve also wished I could speed it up. Is there any pictures on the wall you're in? Yeah, there’s several. Who was the last person who called you? My mom. Did you make any money today? No.

Have you ever fallen and twisted your ankle? No. What was the highest place you've ever jumped from? I haven’t jumped from anywhere. Have you ever gone swimming in a river? No. Ever been so unfortunate to slip on wet rocks? Nope. When was the last time you got completely soaked by rain? It’s been a long time. One of the times that comes to mind is when my mom, aunt, a former friend, and I were at an outdoor festival and we got caught in an unexpected rain storm. It just started pouring down hard and we were not prepared at all. We had to run back to our car, which was parked a good distance away and yeah we were absolutely soaked. 

Is there something you really want to buy at the moment? I’d love to be able to book a beach vacation getaway. Would you ever consider culinary school? No. I’m not a cook and have no interest in trying to become one. Do you ever watch the clouds, to see if they look like objects/animals etc? I did when I was a kid sometimes. When was the last time you didn't want to get out of bed? That’s me everyday. It’s a real struggle. Are you excited for anything coming up in the near future? No. My foreseeable future consists of more doctors and appointments and struggles and spending most of my time in bed. Speaking of dancing, do you know any real dance moves? I know them, but I can’t do them. Do you save cards from your birthday/x-mas, etc? Yes. What was the last souvenir someone got you? A shirt. Do you have a favorite remix of a song? One of my favorite covers is Adele’s cover of George Michael’s “Fast Love” that she preformed at an award show in honor of him after he died. I can only describe it as hauntingly beautiful. I really wish she would have released a studio version of it. When was the last time you printed something off? I don’t recall; it’s been awhile. Are you one of those people who can learn music/songs by ear? No, I wish. There was a guy in my piano class I took my senior year in high school that could do that. It was really cool. Has the power gone out recently? No, but I have a feeling it will happen soon. It always does when we have a lot of triple digit degree weather, which is what this week has consisted of. Do you like driving at night? I don’t drive, but I like nighttime drives. Like, whenever I travel I love leaving really early when it’s still dark out. It’s a different experience. Does seeing roadkill make you sad, or just grossed out? Both. Does wearing heels make you feel sexier? I don’t wear heels. What do you think is the most saddest sounding instrument? The piano can sound that way. What day do you go back to school (if you're in school)? I’m forever done with school. When was the last time you've gone shopping with a friend? It’s been a few years. Do you ever go out to dinner with your Mom? We haven’t physically gone out to eat for dinner in quite a long time.  What is your favorite kind of salad dressing? Ranch. Have you ever bought fireworks? Not me personlly, but my dad and brother do every 4th of July. Do you really pay attention to the ratings on movies? Sometimes, but I ultimately decide if I want to see it or not. Have you ever snuck in to a theater/dance/bar etc? No. If given the chance, would you go to Ireland? Sure. Who was the last person/website to send you an email? I don’t feel like checking. Has your phone ever rang and scared you? Yeah. I’m such a jumpy person anyway. If you have a cat, does it ever "converse" with you? I don’t have a cat. If given the chance, would you ever fly in a fighter plane like the F-16? No. Are you afraid of standing on the edge of hills/skyscrapers/cliffs etc? Uh, YES. Do you have a favorite species of wild cat (tiger/lion/cougar etc)? No. Do you support the funds designed to protect endangered animals? (Like WWF). I haven’t done much myself to support them, but I’m glad they exist. What type of a drunk are you? (Obnoxious, calm, emotional, violent, etc) I was a chatty drunk. I feel like I was annoying, ha. I was also the sad drunk. Do you have an absolute favorite name (boy or girl)? I love the name Alexander. Are you good at pronouncing foreign words? Uhh, depends. If you're not already, when do you plan on getting married? I don’t want to get married. Can you tolerate the smell of cigarette smoke? Nooo. It honestly makes me sick, like I get lightheaded and dizzy, I get nauseous, and I get a really bad headache. When listening to music, do you usually tap your foot etc to the beat? I sometimes tap my fingers and hands. Have you ever literally cried on a friend's shoulder? No. Was there something that "made your day" today? It literally just turned midnight, so today is just now starting. Do you have a favorite kind of chocolate bar? White chocolate. Are you happy that it's summer? Ugh, no. It’s hot and miserable. Is there anything that you should be doing right now? I’m about to make my nightly bowl of ramen.  Has anyone had expectations that you just couldn't live up to? (finishing this a couple hours later...) That’s how I’ve been feeling. Are you currently in a relationship? If so, how long have you been dating? Nope. Would you ever consider being a DJ at a party if you were paid? Nah. Have you ever tried those electric toothbrushes? Wow, this question makes it seem like they’re so futuristic and rare lol. Yes, I use electric toothbrushes. Are you or anyone you know devoted to "being green"? Not overly so, no. When it comes election time, do you vote (if you're old enough)? Yes. What was the last movie you watched that was on TV? I watched Fear 1994 on Netflix recently if that counts. How long have you had an account on bzoink? I don’t have an account on bzoink. Do strapless bras work for you? I don’t like them. I only wear them if I have to, like with a dress. Do you have a favorite hair elastic that you use almost always? No. Has anyone told you that they wanted to marry you/ were planning on it/etc? No. When you were younger, did you have a yoyo? I did. I couldn’t do any tricks, though. What was the last video game you played, if any? Animal Crossing: New Horizons. Has anyone ever called you nerdy? Yeah. Have you ever had to call 911? Yes. Has there ever been a tornado near where you live? No, fortunately. Are you a rollercoaster addict? Noo. I’m a big scardy cat. Do you feel comfortable enough to wear short shorts? No. I’m very self-conscious about my legs. About my body in general, really. If you have iTunes, do you find the Genius recommendations helpful? I don’t even recall what that is; I haven’t used iTunes in almost 10 years. Are you quick at looking up numbers in phonebooks/ words in dictionaries? Phonebooks, wow.  I haven’t used a phonebook or actual dictionary in yearsssss thanks to the Internet/Google.  Have a favorite actor/actress from Old Hollywood? (Marilyn Munroe, etc) Lucille Ball. Out of Biology, Chemistry and Physics, which are you the best at? None of those. Is there a friend you can always talk to about anything? I don’t have any friends. Can you stand spicy foods? Not anymore. :( It’s gotta have like barely anything like McDonald’s or Taco Bell mild hot sauce type of stuff. It’s wild because I used to be obSESSED with spicy food. I put hot sauce on everything and had a high spicy tolerance. Then a few years ago I developed a sensitivity and I can’t even have red pepper flakes now. It sucks. What's your opinion on people who stretch their ears? Hey, do what you want. I’ll admit the really stretched out lobes freak me out, though. Do you think tattoos are expressive art or unattractive? To me they can be either one, it just depends. What is your school mascot? -- Do you find black and white photos to be pretty? Yeah. Food you make doesn't taste as good as food made by others, true? Sometimes. Especially foods like sandwiches for some reason. I think they’re way better when my mom or a deli makes them.  Is there a certain color that doesn't look good on you? I don’t think I look good in anything, so. Have you ever heard anything interesting about Nova Scotia, Canada? Not that I can recall. Have you ever seen a bear in the wild? No, thankfully. Do you know when you will get to see your significant other next? I’m single. What's the book you're currently reading? ”Such a Good Girl” by Willow Rose. Is your room currently a disaster? No. If going to a concert, do you prefer it to be outside or in a stadium? Definitely in a stadium.

Do you have a case for your camera? I use the camera on my phone, which I do have a case for. Can your cellphone take a beating? I’ve dropped it a few times and so far so good. Is there a month you prefer over others? October and December. Do you ever buy lottery tickets? Just a couple of times. Can you recall the most disturbing movie you've ever seen? A Clockwork Orange is one. Are you more of a tape or a glue person? Tape. Of course, it does depend on what I’m doing. In some cases, glue is the better option.  Has anyone you know gotten mono? Not that I know of. What is/or was your graduating year? I graduated UC in 2015. Have you had a weird dream lately? All my dreams are weird. Have you ever gotten an autograph from someone famous? Yes. Do you own a pair of slippers? No. Do you ever watch VHS movies anymore? No. I don’t even recall the last time. Has your computer ever decided to completely erase itself? No, but I’ve lost stuff because of viruses back in the day. :(

Only when the power goes out do we realize how much we rely on it, true? It definitely becomes quite apparent quite quickly. Have you ever picked an apple off the tree and eaten it? No. Can you say yes / no in different languages? ”Si” and “No”, ha. Are you good at styling your own hair? No. Especially not anymore since I just don’t have the motivation or energy to do anything with my hair, which is why it was always up in a bun. I finally just cut it really short and have been wearing a cute wig if I go somewhere cause that’s all I can to do right now. I am sad, though. It was so long.   Out of the traditional superheroes, which one is your favorite? The Scarlett Witch and Iron Man. What color is the shirt you're wearing right now? Black. Have you ever been lost? Physically and figuratively, yes.

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: Sea shells and all the things he left behind 2/2 Summary: Somehow explaining that you were raised by a siren is not an easy task. AN: I wrote a sequel. Wild, i know.

Read on AO3

Dick didn’t have a chance to explain anything to Wally or anyone else at the aquarium until after Bruce was settled. The siren wouldn’t sleep, Dick would be surprised if he did in unfamiliar terrain, but he had calmed again. The boy, Tim, or secret-who-paints if Dick had caught that correctly, was sitting at the edge of the pool, dressed in a new set of clothes. His legs were dangling in the water and every so often Bruce would pull at them, reassuring himself and the boy. Far more often than that though, his large tail fin dragged against Dick’s legs. His scales were sharp, could cut if grabbed incorrectly, but he had never hurt Dick and even now caressed him as softly as he used to. The entire day had been exhausting and nothing short of a train wreck.

Dick wanted to go home and sleep.

The fact that he couldn’t really recall whether home was the apartment he shared or the caves he had grown up in didn’t help his mind either.

His tiredness must show because Roy and Wally both were sitting next to him in the red zone – the five-meter room all handlers were supposed to stay out of unless they wanted a siren to drag them into the water. From experience Dick knew that that space wouldn’t be enough if Bruce wanted to get to them. He was massive, large even by siren standards and more stubborn than anyone else. If he wanted you dead, you’d be no matter how far away from him you truly stayed.

“Dick,” Wally finally spoke up. “What is going on?”

Dick had no idea how he was supposed to start. He hadn’t ever said a word to anyone, not a single living soul. He’d been angry at Bruce when he had left, but not so angry that he would give away all their secrets.

He turned to look at his father and the mer clicked at him. Yes.

“I was nine when that huge earthquake hit Gotham,” Dick heard himself say. He felt like he was miles, years away from this room and moment. “We were performing in Gotham. I think I told you that I used to be part of a circus?”

Wally and Roy both nodded. Dick was pretty sure that even if he hadn’t, they’d have known. Dick would always be flipping, spinning, jumping and flying. Being an acrobat was in his blood.

“When the earthquake hit, we were in one of the underground trains. Gotham was built pretty much artificially. The earthquake shook it up pretty good and the support just broke. There are large caves underground, huge water dwellings. You can cross the entire city underground without ever touching the surface. Paths towards it are far and few and difficult to access. Most of the people living down there are physically unable to reach them. They don’t particularly care about them.”

“People?” Roy inquired.

Dick smiled wearily. “Yes, people. Mers. There is pretty much a second city right below Gotham. The waters there are toxic, mutated after years of waste being stuffed into them so most of the mers never leave. They’re pretty much incapable of breathing actually clean seawater.”

Dick glanced at Bruce again, who held his head high above the water. He’d always been able to breathe air as well, so he wasn’t suffering too much, but it would aid his recovery if he’d be allowed to submerge completely. They should throw some chemicals in the water, up the chlorine levels. Maybe Bruce’s fins would shine as prettily as they usually did then as well.

“But yes, the earthquake hit and the train crashed into one of those caves. Most people died upon impact or were so severely injured that they died soon after. Others drowned in the water.”

Roy and Wally looked positively sick. Dick couldn’t even blame them. He’d gotten used to the sight of bloated corpses, death and bloodshed to a degree that was honestly concerning.

“But you didn’t,” Wally said and sounded like he was half reassuring himself that his best friend was still there.

“I didn’t,” Dick replied. “Bruce saved me.”

The siren in question frowned when Dick’s friends both set their sights on him, confusion coloring their expressions. It was a little funny, to be honest.

“His name is Bruce?”

Roy’s voice sounded almost a little hysterical. He was probably trying to save up his panic attack for when he could afford to lose his calm in the privacy of his own home.

“It’s actually dark-who-swims-with-the-sharks,” Dick pointed out.

Wally mouthed the clicks and thrills Dick had let out so very easily by comparison, but just shook his head and gave up. “Yeah, that totally sounds like Bruce.”

“I was nine, I couldn’t exactly pronounce it either,” Dick defended himself. Bruce had been very proud of him the first time he actually had gotten it right. His name was still too long to use it regularly so the nickname had stuck.

“So Bruce saved you and what? Helped you back to the surface?”

“After a couple years,” Dick answered.

He didn’t want to think too much about it. In the beginning Bruce had been more concerned that Dick would make it through the nights. He had been injured by the fall and Dick almost couldn’t recall how long it had been until he’d been able to move on his own. A month or two? Probably longer. His diet had suffered a lot and he’d lost a lot of weight until Bruce had figured out that he could not in fact live of fish, never mind raw fish, alone. But then Dick had needed to learn how to hold his breath for a longer duration, until he could swim from the cave that was their home to the next and so on. He was fairly sure that if he tested against the current world champion, he’d be able to hold his breath minutes longer than them without any preparation.

“It’s not like there was anybody else and Bruce was the only other person who could understand me besides Alfred.”

Alfred had rarely left Bruce’s side, they were family after all. Dick knew that it was a common misconception amongst humans that sirens were solitary creatures, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. They just usually didn’t go anywhere near humans with the rest of their family and were therefore only ever spotted and caught on their own.

“Who is Alfred?”

“Another siren. Bruce’s sort of parent but not. It’s complicated and doesn’t translate well into English. He raised Bruce after his… owners died. Point is that I spent six years down in there with him until I reached the surface again for the first time. I think I looked like death, there’s not exactly a lot of bioluminescent fauna down there. I left when I was seventeen because I wanted to be amongst humans again. Studied a lot, played catch up with long-forgotten human manners and here I am.”

“Here you are,” Wally echoed, then froze up, realization settling in. “Is that why you didn’t know any TV shows whatsoever?”

“What?”

That was absolutely not the question Dick had expected. In fact, he had thought that at least one of them would run out screaming by now, calling the nearest clinic because Dick Grayson has gone insane! Or if not that, maybe a government office to inform that that mers were in fact as sentient as humans, had a language and one of them even raised a child. Wonder if that would get Dick an entry on Wikipedia.

“And your obsession with spices,” Wally continued. “And fruits. How are you even healthy, your diet must have been the stuff of nightmares.”

“It was okay,” Dick said. “Just because it’s hard for me to get in and out of the caves, doesn’t mean it was for everyone else. Bruce and Alfred brought me stuff they found out in the sea or on the beaches. I had clothes and like bagged chips, dried fruits and instant noodles. Even a couple books once we figured out how to transport them safely and life got a lot better after I could make my own trips upstairs. And then I left.”

That felt like a simplification, but he didn’t want to share all the gruesome details of that period. Sure, he had gotten books and could actually get caught up on school and the like, but he’d almost drowned on the regular making those trips, which lead to fights with Bruce which lead to leaving which lead to this.

Dick turned to the kid who had listened attentively to the conversation, but hadn’t actually added anything to it. He was a quiet boy, silent in a way Dick had never been. He had always been babbling in any language he knew, from English, Chinese and Spanish to Bruce’s language and all the other dialects of it that his friends had taught him.

“Shit, dude,” Roy cursed and buried his head in his hands. “You got raised by a freaking mer. You got raised by a mer. How-?”

The rest of Roy’s question was lost to the overwhelming realization that Dick was not just one of them. He hadn’t ever felt like it, but he had been able to pretend and that had been good enough. There simply hadn’t been another option.

“So you haven’t actually spoken with… Bruce ever since?”

“No,” Dick answered. “No, I have not and now I’d like to know you found me.”

The kid, Tim, apparently didn’t catch onto the fact that Dick was talking to him now. His head was dropping and his eyes fluttering shut. He had had one hell of a day, just as exhausting as Dick if not worse because he was years younger than Dick

“Kid showed up here with a stolen boat and Bruce tucked into the cooler,” Wally said.

“Not stolen,” Tim muttered sleepily. “It’s mine. My parents were on it.”

When he said parents, his voice quivered so badly that Dick thought he was going to cry any second. Bruce picked up on that as well and moved away from Dick to pay full attention to Tim. He tugged on his legs again, trilling softly, and Tim pushed himself off the pool’s edge and jumped straight into the water, into Bruce’s arms. It was straight to see another child cling to Bruce when recalling how he used to hang onto Bruce. The fins on his arms were so long, Dick had been able to disappear completely in his embrace when he’s been younger. Only his black hair had been visible, like it was now with Tim. Wally and Roy stood up in alarm, but Dick gestured for them to sit down again. He supposed it looked frightening to them, the ocean’s most terrifying killers gently consoling a young child.

“What happened?” Dick asked Bruce.

Tim was in no shape of answering now and Dick wouldn’t force him too, no matter how much he wanted an explanation.

“I was caught,” Bruce replied. “I was looking for terror-who-laughs, but secret-who-paints’s parents found me and put me in a viewing glass. Showed me off to other humans, but secret-who-paints is smart, kind. He’s a good child.”

Bruce scowled and the displeasure was apparent. He hadn’t been in a pool since he was twelve and the Wayne’s had died. Being locked up like that again most have been horrible, especially since whoever Tim’s parents were, they definitely wouldn’t have been able to contain Bruce in a pool big enough for him.

“And then venom-in-his-blood came.”

Dick paled. He had hoped that he had misheard Tim before, that the child had made a mistake in his panic, but-

“Venom-in-his-blood? Are you sure?”

“He attacked their ship,” Bruce continued. “Pulled them off, I’ve been on the sea with secret-who-paints on my own since, we only barely managed to escape.”

“But why would venom-in-his-blood show up in the first place? You defeated him years ago.”

Dick remembered that battle vividly. He had been much younger than, small and helpless and had to watch from afar as Bruce and venom-in-his-blood tore into one another.

“He came back,” Bruce spat. “He came back and Gotham’s falling apart.”

“What are you two talking about?” Wally asked uneasily. “It sounds serious but we don’t speak… that.”

“There is a mer, another siren,” Dick began to explain. “His name is-“ Dick sighed in frustration. ”Just call him Bane. He’s dangerous, incredibly tall. Easily the biggest siren I’ve ever seen, bigger than the ones we have on record here. He attacks humans and mers alike.”

“What for?”

Dick turned to Bruce and Tim. Bruce was swimming slower now, just floating on the surface, really. The kid must have fallen asleep.

“Fun and hunger,” Dick finally replied after moments of silence. “He’s a cannibal and once he set his eyes on his prey, he doesn’t stop.”

Which meant that the moment Bruce swam back to Gotham, Bane would attack him.

[abstractanalogue]

Capratone, The Asteroids & The Metronoids (for Beginners)

Tracks & Traces #13: I’ve been planning to write about the music of Capratone, The Asteroids and The Metronoids for sometime and have finally gotten around to it (somehow its been almost 3 years since the last T&T). The link between these bands is Andrew Lyster (now living in Brussels) and as I will explain, he kindly answered some of my questions for this hybrid Tracks & Traces. Since originally publishing this piece Richie Kelly of Capratone has also similarly added valuable information I would never have been able to share otherwise. Usually I just depend on my memory, the records, press cuttings and any surviving notes I took  from the times but as I got deeper into the story there were too many question marks about line-ups (pre-Capratone), the issue of a possible ‘lost’ Capratone album and don’t even get me started about The Metronoids!  At time of writing most of this music is hard if not impossible to find streaming online and I couldn’t even locate any band photos or videos either. Which is all the more reason to write a piece to mark their existence and hopefully spark a revival of interest. When I was putting the finishing touches to the article I did discover there is now at least some music from The Asteroids on YouTube. Not long after I originally shared this piece, Joss Moorkens of Capratone sent me two band photos, the first line-up (L-R: Fiachra, Joss, Andrew) and as a four piece with Richie Kelly (below).  

I first saw Andrew Lyster play (vocals/guitar) when I caught The World of Pugh in a venue I only went to once, Dillinger’s. Like many things from those days it’s long gone but it was a bar with a small stage (up some stairs?) somewhere off Dublin’s Capel St. (18/3/94). As I totally forgot who was in the rest of the band I’ll let Andrew take up the story.

“The World of Pugh was the first group where I wrote songs. I think it started around 1993. Originally it was Keith Swan on drums and a fellow called Brian McEleney on bass. Then in 1994 I brought some songs in and Brian took off to be replaced by Niall Brown (who was also the singer and guitar player for The Moustaches). Niall played bass for World of Pugh in the form where we had songs and did gigs.”

I’m sure someone like Joss Moorkens (then drumming with Tucker Suite) had told me about TWOP and the name had struck me (there was a very cool hand drawn flyer for the gig). They played bottom of the bill with Tucker Suite, Budge and Schroeder’s Cat, all part of a very exciting little scene at the time. Less than two weeks later I happened to see TWOP again on a bill with The Moustaches at a house party on Middle Abbey Street. The Moustaches, who sadly never released anything, were also part of this same scene (in my mind anyway). As I recall, this latter show was on the second or third floor of a semi derelict space in which a friend of both bands was living as a caretaker. Andrew has now told me that he and Keith Swan actually lived there and it was where TWOP rehearsed. I remember sitting on an old mattress and really enjoying the atmosphere (a cymbal was tied to a rafter). I do remember that TWOP had a real sense of humour on stage with some crowd involvement going on. They never had any releases but might well have recorded something (I’ve also heard tell of an unreleased album by The Moustaches!). This would be the last time I saw them play, perhaps it was even their last show? It would be another year before I would see Andrew onstage again.  

While researching this piece I did find an Irish band family tree which shows that Andrew, Joss, Fiachra Lennon and Brian Gough were in a band called Mudshark (1991-92), which was not actually their first band. Again, Andrew gave me some more information which I thought was worth sharing and clarifying about these early days.

“Brian Gough (later in Mexican Pets) had been in an even earlier band than Mudshark with me called The Foots. This band only played one gig in a pub in Dun Laoghaire in 1991. Our friends had to listen to the music from the street because they were too young to get in. After The Foots broke up I think Brian went on to another group called Harvey, and then Tucker Suite with Greg Barrett (later in Joan of Arse) on bass initially. Greg then did Schnorbitz with Joss, and had a cool band called Giraffe Running.”

Andrew’s next band would be Capratone (vocals/guitar) along with Joss on Drums and Fiachra on bass. Regarding song-writing Andrew told me, “For the most part I would write the songs and we would try to make them better by all writing our own parts through rehearsals. One or two were group written from stuff that happened in rehearsal.”  I first saw them in another venue off Capel St. supporting Schroeder’s Cat at Behan’s Bar (previously The Fox & Pheasant) (3/4/95) and again just ten days later at The Plough with (surprise surprise) The Moustaches and Schroeder’s Cat. I would get to see this line-up play quite often on local bills until Sept ‘97 (more on this later). I recall they also played a short tour around Ireland with US band The Make-Up (April ‘97). 

In early ‘96 they tried to record an album with producer Marc Carolan. Andrew told me it was to be called, “Le Plus Roll, because we felt our music was more Roll than Rock. I can’t pin down the exact date of the recording, but my guess is that it was in 1996. We had 2 days in a studio somewhere in Rathgar. It was a 24 track ADAT studio. I think it had a Soundcraft desk. The highlight equipment-wise was an incredible Ampeg bass stack that belonged to some professional band. Its sound was so authoritative and great that by the end of the long first day’s recording, when I had crawled into bed, I was woken up a couple of times by LOUD auditory hallucinations of Fiachra’s P Bass blasting through that thing. Marc, and the three of us all worked really hard for the two days, we did manage to record and mix all the songs we came in with, but I think the short time-frame worked against us capturing the right aesthetic. The means of production were expensive to rent and we couldn’t afford to record even in a project studio like that for more than a day or two.”

Luckily, one of the songs, ‘Homeward’, ended up on the Irish band compilation album, Zip Up Your Boots For The Showbands (1996). I always loved this intricate and explosive song and a whole album like this would have been quite something. The only place online you can hear it now is on a radio show I made for Dublin Digital Radio about bands that played in Dublin’s Attic venue. I must point out the musicianship of Capratone, it may not have been so obvious in the more noisy Tucker Suite but Joss was such an amazing and distinct drummer and both Fiachra and he so easily locked together. They created a lot of space for Andrew’s vocals and guitar for these catchy and very inventive songs to really flow. 

At some point in late 1996 Richie Kelly joined (on right in pic) on guitar and they played as a four piece. At some other point Andrew left but as the band continued things must have been going really well musically. According to my notes the last two times I saw Capratone play was at the start of September ‘97, supporting The Sewing Room and Luggage at Dublin’s Mean Fiddler and then a headline show in The Funnel venue at the end of the same month. This doesn’t mean they stopped playing of course but for whatever reasons I didn’t see them again. Things don’t stay static, I did get really into electronic dance music and clubbing the following year but continued to see guitar bands as well but gigs would clash, allegiances, circumstances and tastes change, choices have to be made. 

At some point this second line-up hooked up with Dublin label Folkrum Records (run by Dan Watson) and they recorded a mini album, The Art of Go, which was released in early 2000 (CD only) and produced by Simon Kenny aka Si Schroeder. At that stage Joss and Fiachra were still in the line-up with Richie and Eric Sexton (on guitar). I wasn’t sure if any of Andrew’s songs survived after his time with the band (on the Capratone page of the old Folkrum website he only gets thanked for the name) so I needed to ask him about it, “I didn’t write anything on the LP called The Art of Go. There was a strange overlapping series of line-ups in Capratone but when I left I think Richie Kelly (who was a recently arrived guitar player joining the original 3 piece) took on the song-writing job. As far as I know those Art Of Go tunes were all of his making. Richie went on to make a few attempts at recording subsequent line-ups of Capratone.” According to Joss’ short biog of the band on Last.fm, by the end of Capratone the line-up had changed completely from the original one. 

Since I published this piece Richie Kelly has been in touch and has kindly provided more detail about joining the band and how his role and the line-up evolved. “I saw Capratone in 1996 and was blown away. Even before the show ended, I wanted to join but that seemed unlikely. It turned out that Andrew’s song-writing was taking a new direction and he had decided to add a second guitarist. We were connected through an extended friend group and apparently word had gotten to him that I was as enamoured with The Beach Boys as he was. We bumped into each other and started talking music and I must have auditioned and joined the band shortly thereafter. At some point I brought a song to the band and we added it to our set (with my vocals). I started contributing more so when Andrew decided to stop playing, we just continued. We added Eric Sexton, a friend and former bandmate. The Art of Go was recorded by Simon Kenny with basic tracking done over a weekend at a large room in Joss’ father’s business. Simon and I continued vocals and overdubs at his flat in Donnybrook.”

Surprisingly none of this music has made it onto YouTube or anywhere else online that I could find. It can be bought on Discogs, which is how I got my hands on it about two years ago. In my opinion it works really well as an EP, with a few really engaging tracks but with some filler too. The best for me would be ‘Clozer’ which sounds like a lost classic and musically is a more full bodied version of the band heard on ‘Homeward’. ‘Free Jazz’ is pleasingly upbeat and cruises along on Beach Boy vibes. They do sound quite American (Pavement and bands of that ilk) at times (as did Capratone mark 1) but this was very much the sound and influence of the times, everything still comes down to the quality of the song-writing. The band broke up a good while later, sometime in 2003 without anymore releases. At some stage Richie Kelly moved to Brooklyn, New York and started a similar sounding band there but with more brass, Sport of Kings. He even re-recorded ‘Free Jazz’ and made a video for it. The influence of Brian Wilson is clear on this song in particular, they cleverly re-use The Beach Boy’s ‘Cool, cool water” line in the song (also present in the original version). Apart from some positive reviews of their only EP, Logic House (2011), there is little sign of the band online either but at least you can check out their excellent video for ‘Free Jazz’ (see below). I did find just one image of Capratone at this time on the Folkrum website, which I have enlarged below. Richie is the golf club carrying member. 

In my original piece I wasn’t sure what happened to Capratone next so Richie can take up the story, “The Art of Go attracted the interest of Shifty Disco, who released all of the Elephant 6 stuff in the UK. We set about making a full length for them which we were calling Aviation High. Simon Kenny was initially set to record but was so busy with other projects, I asked Andrew to do it and he agreed. Drum and bass tracking took place in a studio in Dublin. Andrew and I indulged our love of tinkering at his family home while recording my parts and mixing. The result is a pretty high fidelity Capratone record. Shifty Disco preferred the super compressed Capratone of the previous record and passed. We trudged along with some line-up changes after that. The most stable line-up though was myself, Cian Synnot on drums, Fiachra McCarthy on guitar and Michael Stevens (of Groom and many other excellent bands) on bass. As Joss said, no original members were left by the end of Capratone. I believe we kept the name simply because we couldn’t come up with a new one, apparently I have a problem naming things. When I ended up opening music studios and practice spaces in Brooklyn after moving there, I asked Joss if I could use the name of his label Scientific Laboratories because I loved it so much and couldn't think of an alternative.”

I think it’s well worth including here what happened with Richie’s next band Sport of Kings. “My love of fidelity only increased as the years continued except my focus switched from The Beach Boys to Steely Dan. I because obsessed with doing an indie rock version of their music and Sport of Kings took that direction. The initial line-up was drums, bass guitars and Fender Rhodes and then we added a horn section and a drummer from NYU’s Jazz Program who were incredible and took things to a whole different level.”

“After our Logic House EP, we made a full record (15 songs to be called Queer Theorem) with Michael Leonhart of Steely Dan as producer and occasional synth/horns/vocals contributor. This was essentially a dream come true for me. Initial tracking was done by me at a studio in Brooklyn and painstaking overdubbing, vocals and mixing was done by myself and Michael at his mixing room in the city. Ironically, we recorded yet another version of ‘Free Jazz’ with Michael. I’m not sure why I keep rerecording it but it might have something to do with Andrew and I finding out Brian Wilson used to record ‘Proud Mary’ every time he went into a new studio to check the sonics. I think I now have 4 completed versions!”

“I put an enormous amount of effort into Queer Theorem but it took so long that by the time it was ready, many band members were so in demand by big artists that they had little time to give. Keeping a 7-piece band of amazing musicians afloat proved too difficult and I disbanded the group rather than trying to recruit new musicians. I had also taken that level of fidelity to its conclusion and I returned to looser music after moving to Portland, OR.”

The next ‘band’ Andrew founded was solo project The Asteroids. I don’t think he ever presented it live but there was just one release, an exquisite three track 10″/CD, Moonlight Music For Beginners, which was released on Joss Moorkens’ Scientific Laboratories label in 2000 (the same year as The Art of Go). You can listen to what has to be my favourite song, ‘Nine Lives’ at link below (the other two songs can helpfully be found on the same channel and I’ve linked them here). According to the sleeve notes it took two years to record, with I assume Andrew playing all the instruments and doing the programming etc. I was sure to pick this up on vinyl at the time and have cherished it since. The amazing paintings on front and back were by the artist Niamh McGrath.

‘Nine Lives’ is so laid back, rich in instrumentation but for me it’s all about Andrew’s vocals (Alan Kelly of The Last Post also provides additional backing vocals). The lyrics prove to be the real earworm for me, “Who is the man, who has done this to you?” with an unexpected lyrical twist at the end. The song has somehow burrowed its way into my consciousness and over the past 20 years has been liable to play in my head at any time. ‘Return Of The Moonlightman’ is more sparse and based again around the vocal arrangement, a second deeper voice (John Parkinson) enters the fray about halfway and it goes to another level with a lovely gradual close. ‘The Great Escape’ is dominated by a really warm organ sound that pulls you along. This one in particular reminds me of Brian Wilson, one of Andrew’s touchstone influences. It’s one of those releases which has dated really well in my opinion and is pretty much unknown I think (I don’t know how many were pressed or sold). There was so much promised with this release and frankly it’s something of a shame it was not followed up at the time. If Andrew had been signed or whatever then things might have happened differently but like all of the bands I’ve written about in this series, we’re lucky to have what we have and the music will last forever. You can still find it for sale on Discogs and it can be played and purchased on iTunes and Tidal. There was one other song from this period, ‘Lunar Doo Wop’, released on a compilation CD included free with the first Foggy Notions magazine. I vaguely remember it but can no longer find my copy (the title tells us all we need to know!). 

Sometime in 2005 or later I bumped into Andrew and he gave me a CD from his latest group The Metronoids. It was a two track disc in a plastic wallet (no cover artwork or personnel details) called Petroleum. Today this doesn’t even exist on Discogs never mind anywhere else! Until I asked Andrew about it I wasn’t sure if this had simply been a promo but he told me there was artwork etc. The reason I probably never saw it for sale is that I left Dublin in 2005. For a bit more information I had to dig into the data on the CD itself and found that the track names are simply ‘Petroleum 1 & 2′ and for what it’s worth the genre on iTunes comes up as Blues (not sure how this gets assigned). It’s a pleasant listen (the more spirited second track is my favourite) but it surprised me very much to find it was all drums/percussion and obviously nothing like what he’d done before. This would be the only release under the name, which I imagine is pretty rare to come across.

I obviously had to get Andrew to explain The Metronoids to me, “This was a project I really enjoyed. Done in 2004/5 with Joss and Marc Hayes (drummer from The Moustaches, Boxes). It was always a real pleasure to be in a room with those two guys. I think we did a handful of rehearsals and one recording session. The idea was drum improv within premeditated structures. All three of us played drums. I think I got the notion to do a project that required a different kind of listening from my love of the CD called Guitar Solo by Annette Krebs.” 

I wasn’t aware of this at the time but Andrew, Joss and Fiachra briefly reunited as The Lamps in 2005 but as far as I know while there were some live gigs there were no releases. Since then Andrew has told me he is currently working on two new music projects, “One with Fiachra Lennon is called Fig/Astro, it started in 2018, we should be finished an LP this year. He wrote a bunch of instrumental tracks and sent them to me. At his request I turned the instrumentals into songs, and the productions are evolving from there with both of us working on it via WeTransfer. He is a real natural musician so the songs have  a very solid foundation. It was refreshing to write songs this way from track to song, rather than from song to track as I had always done previously. My own LP has been in the pipeline since 2009 when I wrote a load of songs and set out to record them in-the-box. Some of the songs went through over 20 productions. Working on a finite group of productions over a long period, under the microscope of Digital Audio Workstation has really allowed me to discover how to do my own thing. The work on this solo album takes a lot of focus.” 

After Capratone Joss would go on to play with Joan of Arse and The Dudley Corporation and guest on many other releases, most of these can be found on his impressive Discogs entry. When I was doing my research for this piece I was excited to find an old Souncloud page for The Asteroids I never knew existed, it has two unreleased tracks which date from about 2014 but Andrew said the music since then has been become more abstract. Fiachra meanwhile has a bulging Soundcloud page full of his own demos that is very worth exploring too. Both of them are also on Twitter, The Asteroids and Fiachra. It will have been a long time coming but I’m looking forward to the next new releases from both these artists. 

Sometimes the best things take time.

Stephen Rennicks

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 126

Chapter Summary - Tom and Danielle are enjoying their trip to Italy.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

I always loved that dog mosaic. Cave Canem is effectively the Latin for Beware the Dog, so I love that someone loved their dog so much they paid a professional artist to put a mosaic on their doorway of it. I am so envious of the archaeologist that got to unearth that.

Copyright for the photo is the owners, not mine.

I WILL get there, it is my dream!

All image rights belong to their owners

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​​ @nonsensicalobsessions​​ @damalseer​​ @hiddlesbitch1​​ @winterisakiller​ @fairlightswiftly​​ @salempoe​​ @wolfsmom1​

‘What do you think?’ Tom asked as they sat overlooking the vineyard.

‘I think a wine tasting is wasting on my sorry ass.’ Danielle beamed as she raised her glass. ‘They all taste similar to me.’

‘And the food?’

‘I already told you, I am not leaving.’ Tom chuckled. ‘Thank you, Tom. I...I love it.’

‘Delighted to hear you say that. Now, about that pasta…’ He eyed her carbonara, licking his lips.

‘They are going to have to shove us in the doors of that plane.’ Danielle joked as she stole some of Tom’s risotto. ‘I think this is the first one of these I have ever seen that is not a mushroom risotto.’

‘Yes, it’s the most common.’ Tom concurred as he stole some of her food. ‘It is exquisite.’

‘I’m telling you, I am not leaving. Ring your mum, get her to send on our dogs and we will stay here, forever.’

‘You need to go back, remember how you were going to take over the business world.’

‘I think it was taking over me for a while.’ She sighed as she enjoyed sitting in the sun.

‘I think you may be right, but we won’t let that happen again.’ Tom promised. ‘We need to do more small trips like this.’ He took her hand in his and kissed it.  ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Oh, my God, I am so bloody excited.’ She beamed, looking at the dormant volcano that was not too far away. ‘This is incredible.’

‘Only the best.’

*

Danielle was like a child on a tour at a toy shop as she looked at the remains of the old city. Both she and Tom were in awe, both having studied Roman history and civilisation, they both knew of the city from school and from the countless shows they could recall seeing as youths before actively seeking documentaries as adults, both individually and together. ‘Is it wrong to say I love this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, about sixteen thousand people died as a result of the eruption, so that obviously is not a good thing, but to see it, to be here, after thirty years of hearing and reading about it.’

‘That’s true.’ Tom conceded. ‘But you don’t mean it in a bad way, so it’s fine to say it. I feel the same. I never got to see it properly. I passed by, but never really got to see it, so doing this at all, much less with you, is wonderful.’ He put on his sunglasses as he spoke. ‘I think everyone needs to get out of Britain, and Ireland for that matter, for some part of the winter, seeing some sun is a rare and needed occurrence.’

‘I can’t even attempt to argue that.’

‘Nervous?’

‘About seeing the city? Why would I be? I mean, I know she is overdue an eruption, but there are warnings in place these days.’ Danielle dismissed.

‘I mean about the email.’

Danielle pursed her lips. They were three days into their holiday and the day before, their day was interrupted by an email from Branagh, stating that work as to start, as soon as she returned. The weather was wet enough to serve their requirements, so they needed to avail of what they could. ‘Nervous or not, it needs doing. Are you okay with…?’

‘I will look after our boys. I have a few things I need to do for Early Man, but on the whole, I will deal with everything. He said it would only be about a fortnight.’

‘We’ve done longer than that. We will do longer than that again.’ She smiled.

‘Yes.’ Tom gave her a weak smile.

Danielle looked at him for a moment before speaking again. ‘I keep thinking you are on the verge of saying something to me but are hesitating.’

Tom’s brows knit together before he cleared his throat and looked at her. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes. Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Tom smiled, but she was still uncertain. ‘I am just thinking over a few things. Actually, I do have something to ask you.’ Danielle gave a small facial expression that told him she was paying attention. ‘Mum’s Christmas present?’

‘Yes?’

‘What are you getting her?’

‘I thought a nice weekend in that hotel near your cousins, so she can be spoiled and see your aunt all in one.’

‘Damn, you’re good.’ Tom commended.

‘I know right.’ She winked. ‘Why, what were you thinking?’

‘She wants to go to a show, so I am thinking of bringing her.’

‘Oh, she will love that.’ Danielle smiled. ‘Is it in London, you should bring her to Gordon Ramsey’s place beforehand, she is dying to go there.’

Tom’s brow rose slightly. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, apparently he got some new thing in, I don’t know exactly what, but she is gagging to go and I think she would love you to bring her.’

‘You are the best partner ever, scoping this out for me.’ He kissed her.

‘What show?’

‘Nutcracker, ballet. Not my thing really, but you know Mum.’

‘Oh, she will love it.’ Danielle agreed. She took out her phone.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Telling Emma, she wanted to know what we are doing so that no one accidentally gets her the same thing.’

‘Of course.’ Tom self-scolded, knowing that Sarah had texted her present of a holiday with her and Yakov and Sophie to France for a week already. ‘She is spoiled.’

‘And rightly so, your Mum deserves it.’

‘Yes, she does.’ Tom agreed.

Danielle sent the message before smiling with satisfaction and putting her phone away again. ‘Don’t forget to turn your phone on silent.’ She instructed.

‘You will not be happy if someone doesn’t on this tour, will you?’

‘Oh, they’ll be added to the Pompeii death toll, I swear. Murder will occur.’ Danielle promised as she walked forward, Tom chuckling as he put his hand around her waist and kissed her temple. ‘You know you would be reluctant to stop me.’

‘I would, but that would ruin the holiday, you being imprisoned. I plan to treat you more before our return to wet and windy London.’

‘Fine, I won’t murder inconsiderate people, I may maim them though.’

‘I only ask that you try not to.’ Tom joked as they stood, ready to listen to their guide.

*

Danielle stood staring at the mosaic floor. She could not remember the first time she had seen the image in front of her, seeing it in person was something she was unsure she would ever do, but there it was, she could not help the little smile on her face.

‘You like this, yes?’ She turned to see the Italian girl that was giving their tour.

‘Very much.’ Danielle smiled. ‘It looks so fresh, not two thousand years old.’

‘It is my favourite too. I remember the day I saw it first, I thought the same.’ She smiled.

The pair made small talk for another few minutes before the woman excused herself to bring them on more of the tour.

‘You look somewhat lost?’ Danielle smiled.

Tom walked back to her, having left her side for a moment to read something he realised he had missed only for the guide and Danielle to start their conversation in his absence. ‘I felt it would be wrong to have inserted myself into your conversation. Having fun.’

‘So much. I love this.’

Tom looked at the mosaic on the floor. ‘It looks better than I thought it would after so long.’

‘Kind of like yourself.’ Tom’s eyes widened before he gave her a playful glare. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’ She giggled.

Tom wrapped his arms around her. ‘You terror.’

‘Yes, I am.’ She smiled.

‘I cannot believe how much you have changed.’ Danielle frowned and looked at him. ‘Six months ago, I would never have been able to hold you like this in public.’

‘Six months changes a lot. The constant little din of photographers, comments and people have slowly built up my resilience to these things. I know we could and probably will be photographed here, but I don’t care. People will comment on me, us, whatever and I will laugh at the stupid comments, smile at the nice and scoff at the rest because I care more about your ginger-haired arse than I ever will about what they think.’

‘We both know you love my ass.’ Tom grinned.

‘I do, that’s not a secret at this stage.’ Danielle smiled back.

Tom braved leaning in to give her a kiss, somewhat startled when she leant up and met his lips with hers. ‘I love you.’ He whispered against her lips.

‘I am somewhat fond of you too, Mr Hiddleston.’ She smiled back.

*

‘Elle?’ Tom looked around the room as he came out of the bathroom. ‘Stop hiding, we have to go back to Rome today.’

‘No, we don’t.’ He turned to see Danielle on the balcony.

‘Yes, we do.’

‘Give me one good reason why we need to go back.’

‘I have two, their names are Bobby and Mac.’ She made a face that showed her reluctant conceding as she walked back inside. ‘We will be back.’

‘I know, but I love it so much. It’s so carefree here.’

‘It is.’

‘Your phone was buzzing.’

‘Thanks.’ Tom checked it before rolling his eyes and throwing it down.

‘Dare I ask?’

‘Us being tactless for getting engaged at Pompeii, us being too “in people’s faces” about our relationship and me trying to recreate the beach photo of me and Taylor.’

‘Forget about them.’ Danielle dismissed. She turned and got her own phone, typing something before scanning it. ‘Look at the nice instead. I am not the only one loving your new facial hair, it is a big thing.’ She sat on the bed, Tom joining her immediately. ‘People, for the most part, are saying it is natural affection and…..why didn’t you tell me my underwear was showing? Tom!’ she playfully slapped his arm as Tom chuckled next to her. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. You’re terrible.’ He licked his teeth as he grinned. ‘They are not exactly plain either.’ Tom started chuckling again. ‘Unbelievable.’ Danielle went to get off the bed only for Tom to pull her back. ‘How would you like it?’ She asked.

‘There are pictures of me with my boxers showing.’

‘When you wear them.’

‘Part of the reason I sometimes don’t.’ He grinned, leaning over and kissing her.

‘Don’t start, or you’ll need another shower.’

‘That is hardly a deterrent.’ Tom grinned, kissing her again.

[marginalgloss]

A little while ago I wrote about Swimming to Cambodia, a copy of which I discovered in a charity shop. I read it and I liked it a lot. And then for a while I forgot about Spalding Gray until one day my wife pointed him out to me in the film Beaches. I think he played a doctor of some kind — I wasn’t really paying attention — but it was enough to get me thinking about his stuff again.

I started trawling YouTube for what I could find. Most of his stuff is out of print, but there at least you can find a few of the monologues — Terrors of Pleasure, Gray’s Anatomy and It’s a Slippery Slope are all delightful. The most interesting primer is Steven Soderbergh’s documentary And Everything is Going Fine, which is assembled entirely from excerpts from Gray’s monologues and interviews. It’s a deft, skilful, and beautifully elegiac piece of work which feels more like one great final performance than it does a conventional biography. Appropriate, perhaps, given that so much of what Gray did was rendering up his life through storytelling. 

I also bought a couple of books: Impossible Vacation, which is the only novel Gray published, and the posthumous collection of extracts from his journals. Apparently he laboured for years over the text of Impossible Vacation, with the original draft running to over a thousand pages — the monologue Monster in a Box was actually performed with the manuscript sitting in a scruffy cardboard box at his elbow. The final published form of Impossible Vacation is a relatively svelte few hundred pages in paperback, which is enough to make anyone wonder about the scale of the original. 

I was expecting Impossible Vacation to be a bit more novel-like. I was expecting a modern American comic story along the lines of A Confederacy of Dunces, perhaps. But in fact, the novel is a lightly fictionalised version of Gray’s own life. And that’s about as ‘light’ as it gets: it’s funny, but it’s also just as self-involved as any of his monologues. Gray’s protagonist is renamed Brewster North, but not much detective work is required to map North to the author. Much of the novel is mirrored elsewhere in Gray’s stories from the stage: the trip to India, his brief stint as an actor in pornographic movies, the experimental theatre scene in New York; and above all the memory of his mother, and the lasting effects of her suicide. 

If you read (and watch) far enough into Gray’s work it feels a little like wandering into a hall of mirrors: we see the same selves and preoccupations reflected over and over again, sometimes in distorted or disturbing ways. Glimpsed in passing the effect is comic, but after a while the effect becomes haunting. There is a moment in Gray’s Anatomy where he describes watching a student in a storytelling workshop, and staring into her eyes, and watching her face somehow disintegrate until the flesh falls from her skull and her face becomes a sort of ball of white light. Sometimes that’s what reading his stories feels like: the contortions of history and storytelling are subject to a relentless focus that becomes so intense that the reader is lulled into a sort of hypnotic compliance. 

This feeling of falling into a sort of dissociative trance is not uncommon in his work; it seems emblematic of a sort of transcendental feeling that Gray was perpetually striving for. Hence the dream of the ‘perfect moment’ in Swimming to Cambodia, hence escapism via skiing in It’s a Slippery Slope. Set against that dream of escape is everything the real world has to offer: the anguish of the domestic; the problems caused by anxiety, depression, drinking; the sad, strange, tortuous complications of his love life. In these respects, it hasn’t aged well – I can imagine audiences today having a little less patience for Gray’s occasional sways into mysticism. And his attitude towards women might at times be generously described as ‘problematic’. In the 90s perhaps it was easier to dismiss his casual reports of philandering as the trappings of the tortured artist; today it only seems sad, and a little wearying.

So why is it that I find his stuff so appealing? I’m not in the habit of reading biography. I like podcasts, but while Gray seems like a model for all kinds of modern tendencies in vlogging, I’m not aware of anyone who is doing exactly what he did in the same way he did it. Current trends towards the confessional in stand-up comedy don’t quite fit, either. The form of the thing is so important. He was as much a performer as he was a storyteller. The closest equivalent that I know of is David Sedaris, and I find his stuff intolerable. There are a few reasons for this, but to me Sedaris always seems convinced that the problem is with other people. He is stuck in a mode of perpetual disdain. But with Gray, we are never really left in any doubt that this author is in fact the only author of his own troubles. And yet he also knows how to have fun, sometimes; and I find that endearing because it seems to me more honest, and less spiteful.

One point of comparison is Proust. I don’t mean to say Gray’s prose is exactly Proustian, but they have an endearing amount in common. There’s a perpetual anxiety about death and entropy that often manifests itself as hypochondria. There’s the obsession with the mother, the retiring nature, the preoccupation with irony. The pursuit of the perfect moment through which emotion can become recollected in tranquility. And though both took to entirely different forms of media, it seems like both were attempting something a level of formal innovation which, while initially seeming familiar, approached a new way of committing memory and experience into art.   

Impossible Vacation is often intense but it’s not always laugh-out-loud funny. More often it seems possessed by a restless, struggling, enquiring energy. Sometimes the writing is inspired, but it lacks form – the feeling of form that was so dominant in the monologues themselves. As it stands, you wouldn’t consider half of the things that go on in the book as the plot for a novel because (like life) they don’t entirely cohere. And the story ends before it ever really begins, though it does at least contrive a neat circular ending that recalls (lightly) Finnegans Wake. 

Still, it’s a shame that the novel is out of print because, much like his monologues, it’s certainly worthwhile; the published journals of Spalding Gray are an entirely different and more difficult thing. The journals are kind of a mess. An enormous amount of biographical heavy lifting is provided by the notes and annotations by the editor, Nell Casey, and without this context any reader would struggle to discern what was going on. But the notes are pretty comprehensive, and in the end this seems as close to a biography as we are ever likely to get. It does, however, take a long time to get going. The journal entries all through the 70s and early 80s are sketchy, and not especially interesting. A lot of the time they’re purely expressive, and we have to be told what it is exactly that they are referring to. It’s only once the monologues get going that his private style becomes elaborate and involved enough to be worth reading.  

The picture we get of Gray is less of a single-minded auteur and more of a man who sort of wandered-or-fell into fame as a monologuist. After the fame and exposure of Swimming to Cambodia there is a sense of freewheeling — of doing what he’s doing because it’s what he does, and it’s rarely entirely under his own steam. He is perpetually worried, questioning, uncomfortable. Eventually he would become concerned with the idea that he had used himself up, and that he had no private life worth living outside the performances. But some of this was ameliorated by the late in life arrival of children and a more settled family situation. For a while, he thought himself happier than he had ever been.

In 2001, Gray was involved in a terrible car crash while on holiday in Ireland. His injuries included a broken hip and a fractured skull that likely caused brain damage. The accident changed his life, and afterwards he was never the same. The journal entries from after this point are harrowing — there is no other word for it. I knew of his eventual suicide, but I had no idea until of the extent to which depression utterly consumed his life. I didn’t know about the frequent hospitalisations, the shock treatment, and the pain his failed suicide attempts caused on others. There aren’t many extracts from this time shown, but what we are given was enough at times to make me wonder if any of it should have been published at all. But perhaps there is a purpose in trying to give a picture of the anguish he was in. 

All through his life Gray had been preoccupied with the idea of his mother taking her own life. The story he told about this was that this was precipitated by his parents moving house, to a new place away from the ocean, which his mother could never feel at home in. After the accident he and his family also moved house, and he came to regret this decision intensely. The editor Nell Casey calls this ‘his obsession, a mythic rant’. Gray cannot seem to accept the idea that a house might be, as a psychologist puts it, ‘a pile of sticks’. Here is how Gray considers trying to explain it to his sons:

‘…And they said, I’m sure, that, you know, Mrs. Gray—my mom—has other problems about the house, it must be symbolic of something, that same old Freudian rap, you know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, sometimes a house is just a house. She missed the house. It wasn’t symbolic of something, she really missed walking along the sea. I miss walking in the village, I miss the cemetery, I miss hundreds of things. But boys, listen: when you get to that point, where you have been driven so crazy by something, like for me, when I think about the house, it’s not me thinking about it, it’s thinking me…’

[artyrogue]

Blind Date Gaming: Pac In Time

Tonight's date was an interesting one to say the least. It was with Pac-Man, the iconic game character from Namco that helped build video games as a mainstream activity! The only issue was that it wasn't...JUST Pac-Man. No, it was a pun and a spinoff all in one. It was... Pac In Time!

Soak in the colors, 'cos from here out we're mostly back to 4-color palettes.

I've seen some of the other Pac-Man spinoffs before and they just never felt right. There was some dumb point-and-click game on the SNES where Pac-Man clearly had a lobotomy, some pinball game, and that one where he was fighting a bunch of nerds on some floating platform called 'final destination' or whatever. So yeah, they're typically lame attempts to make a buck based on the identity of one of gaming's most well-known IPs. I didn't expect much, then, going in. It was a bit bias of me, sure, but I was still willing to give it a chance. The first thing I was presented with was a super-long, slow-scrolling wall of text with absolutely no music or sound throughout the whole thing. Brilliant first impression, that.

'Crazy events' here means 'binge eating countless unmarked medications within the confines of a series of neon-infused tubes with occasional spontaneous manifestations of fruit and/or keys'.

Okay, okay, sure. Some ghost witch sends Pac-Man back in time and now he has to travel through different zones to find a way back to the present. That could have been summed up much more succinctly; in fact, I basically relayed all the information you need to know right there. It also really doesn't matter at all in the long run, so my heart reaches out to the poor writer whose hopes were squandered when Pac in Time didn't end up being their gateway to better writing gigs. What matters isn't the story here, it's the gameplay! So what do we have?

It's a platformer. A pretty floaty one at that. You always slide all over, with momentum that takes a bunch of effort to dissipate. Jumping follows the Mario 64 school of gaining height in each successive jump, but it really doesn't seem necessary. It's quite bad and takes some getting used to. There's an additional aspect to the game that helps bring puzzle aspects to it: powerups. You're given a few in each level that give you different abilities and can sometime pick up (or lose!) them along the way as well. They don't really seem to fit into the typical Pac-Man lore, though. Unless there's some fanfic where Pac-Man can shoot fireballs and swing around like Spiderman?

Yes, that is a screenshot of Pac-Man shooting a Kamehameha at a shark. This is fine.

Some levels are pretty interesting, but a lot of them are short and kind of dull. Most of the time you don't even end up using half of the powerups they give you. I will say, though, that the grappling hook was well-programmed and a lot of fun to mess around with. Sometimes there are issues canceling grappling momentum when an enemy is right in front of you, but otherwise it's liberating to swing like a monkey through a level in mere seconds.

Wheeeeee!

Somewhere around world 3, though, things start to take a turn for the worse. For the most part, enemies are tame and take a major backseat to the puzzles and powerup adventuring. In the jungle world, you start to see some annoying and poorly-programmed enemies marring your fun. Some foes relentlessly track you down, some change their velocity in unpredictable ways, some blast into the center of the screen as soon as you approach, and more. It starts feeling more like I Wanna Be the Guy, a game I loathe not for its toughness, but for it's cheap death tricks and poor design. Games like that aren't about skill as much as they are about rote memorization. That's...not fun to me. Make the obstacles visible, not surprises. I'd rather spend time memorizing something useful.  Although apparently my brain seems to define 'useful' as being able to list the first 386 pokemon and recalling room layouts for a mall that has been dead and destroyed for like 15 years?

I suddenly have flashbacks to Super Meat Boy, although that game was fair and up front with its obstacles. This buzzsaw popped outta nowhere, which I guess is standard in an ancient Egyptian tomb.

I had to look up a walkthrough on a certain level, too, where the only way to progress was apparently to walk off a cliff into a pool of lava. Then, an invisible air stream carries you across the lava to safety. Jumping the gap kills you and does not reveal an air stream, there are no indicators that walking off is a good idea, nothing. Just know the trick or be stuck. Great. The walkthrough on GameFAQs even says that the walkthrough's writer was stuck on this level until someone gave them a tip. That's...not exactly a good sign of game design. There were other annoyances, like teleporters teleporting stones higher than you: if you walk into one too quickly after pushing a stone into it, the stone appears above you and crushes you to death. Also, many levels host a plethora of arrow signs that don't make lick of sense.

Right, right...I get it now. It's all so clear where I have to go!

I got through world 4, and looking up a gameplay video reveals there are 4 more worlds to go, but I had my fill. This date isn't going anywhere I want to be. So yeah! No second date here. I've also found via the comments of that video that the game is actually a reskin of another game on DOS called 'Fury of the Furries'. They basically just turned the main character into Pac-Man and made some lame music tracks that sound like the one ditty from the arcade game. Even the enemies and final boss are the same. Boo! Get some originality or keep the Furries! I mean I know the internet in general has some hangups with them, but I've never had a bad experience with a Furry myself, let alone felt their Fury! Although if the world followed this game's lead, all furry conventions would turn into massive Pac-Man cosplay events, and I would definitely pay to go see that.

I found a furry! Except it kind of beat me to a pulp, but I guess I deserve it since I stole his game.

Before I end this, am I crazy or does part of the Beach world theme sound vaguely like some Mega Man track? Listen here and skip the first 50 horrid seconds to get to the part I mean. I swear, it sounds like something I've heard before, but I can't tell which track it was. Mega Man has too many Men to keep their themes straight. Maybe I should invest my useless memorization into Mega Man theme recall instead.

And so ends another date. I'll be looking around for something else, thank you! I will say, though, that today's Sprite of Passage is a keeper. Put this as a war decoration on your uniform and go speak of the fierce battles you went through to earn it! Don't be surprised if no one gives you any sympathy or anything though. They might instead give you the number of a psychiatrist. Maybe that shrink will give you pills and you can lay them out in a maze to eat them or something? Pac it all in!

They finally, really did it...YOU MANIACS!! YOU BLEW IT UP!! DAMN YOUUUU!!

[slowpocalypsecooking]

the top 8 tracks on folklore from least to most embarrassing to enjoy

Hi I’m Anthony Fantano and welcome to the needle drop. I don’t know if he says that, because I don’t watch him—if I wanted to listen to a repulsive white man talk about music, I could just go on a date. (just kidding, covid!)

Forgoing any further introduction, here are the top eight tracks from Taylor Swift’s new album, low-caps “folklore,” ranked from least embarrassing to most embarrassing to enjoy, according to me. The whole album is 16 tracks long, but I’m only doing the most noteworthy half because 16 is too many. You’re welcome for that decision.

Methodology: To get on this list, songs had to be both embarrassing and enjoyable. There will be natural fluctuation between tracks, but as we go down the list, assume that the songs are getting increasingly better to listen to and worse to think about, like this:

The rankings:

8. cardigan

This is a song about feeling at times like an unloved trash bag, as we all do, and then being warmly reminded that you matter because you are in fact someone’s fallback. The hook goes:

and when i felt like i was an old cardigan under someone’s bed you put me on and said i was your favorite.

Beyond reveling in this pathetic status, this song serves as an admission that the speaker a. uses the word “cardigan” and b. thinks of those bland, preppy sweaters as a comforting thing to wear. In a cooler universe, this song would be called “flannel.” It is just okay to listen to.

7. mad woman

This song has big Ophelia vibes, big Handmaid’s Tale vibes, big “daughter of the witches you couldn’t burn” vibes. One of the verses contains the line “and women like hunting witches too,” because, hey, woman-on-woman misogyny is bad, didn’t you know. Strong reminder that if being called crazy is the worst form of oppression you’ve experienced, you still have it pretty good. Sometimes sounds decent, sometimes too croony.

6. invisible string

This one uses a pretty lazy, commonplace device: She opens couplets within verses by just naming colors, and uses these to create a simple repetitive structure for introducing random, useless details:

green was the color of the grass where i used to read at centennial park i used to think i would meet somebody there teal was the color of your shirt when you were sixteen at the yogurt shop you used to work at to make a little money

Sure this device is tired, but that’s only the surface of what’s embarrassing here. More embarrassing is the image I’ve conjured of a teal-shirted teenage boy smiling through his braces behind the toppings station at one of those blindingly lit American-kawaii froyo stores. I don’t know who needs to hear this but don’t fuck the froyo boy. Song is pretty catchy.

5. illicit affairs

Title says it all here: This song is about how thrilling and fun and ultimately horrible it is to be involved in a romantic situation you’re not supposed to be in, and how that forbidden sheen can get you totally enthralled with a crappy garbage man. Not a whole lot going on below the surface. This song is both very enjoyable and very embarrassing because it is very relatable.

4. seven

We are back to the aggressive levels of white woman previously seen in “mad woman,” only the case has gotten much more severe. Here’s this song’s final chorus:

Sweet tea in the summer Cross my heart, won’t tell no other And though I can't recall your face I still got love for you Pack your dolls and a sweater We'll move to India forever Passed down like folk songs Our love lasts so long

Okay let’s just skate past the part where a presumed adult is telling a fellow adult (I sure hope!) to bring their dolls when they run away together. That in itself is too big a can of worms to crack open. What I want to talk about is the line “We’ll move to India forever,” which pretty obviously uses an Orientalist fantasy of India as some nebulous, ethereal image of the East. Real people don’t live there; it’s the exotic dreamland where sweet-tea drinking southern belles bring their adult toys when they elope. This song is very catchy.

3. betty

Let me start by saying that now that we’re in the top three, all of the remaining songs are vying for the #1 slot. I could very easily see this and the next as the  Most Embarrassing to Enjoy. But “betty” is clocking in at number three today.

This is a song about a teenage romance gone bad, in which a speaker named James (who is “only seventeen, I don’t know anything”) has cheated on a girlfriend (Betty) and is now considering showing up at her party, begging for forgiveness, and hoping for a kiss in the garden. We get the backstory in the bridge:

I was walking home on broken cobblestones Just thinking of you when she pulled up like A figment of my worst intentions She said "James, get in, let's drive" Those days turned into nights Slept next to her, but I dreamt of you all summer long

First of all, “figment” of “intentions” is not really a phrase? But secondly, and more importantly: Excited bloggers all over the internet have posted a smattering of theories detailing why this song is Taylor Swift’s coded revelation that she actually maybe fucks girls, too, y’know, and hey, maybe the object of this song is the supermodel Karlie Kloss, whose middle name is Elizabeth. Apparently Taylor Swift is named after James Taylor, so she could be James, or at the very least James could be a woman. I’m going to allow for the possibility that the speaker “James” is a woman, because why not; it does not change the narrative. But said narrative doesn’t make sense: who is this woman pulling up next to James and picking them up on the cobblestone? Did James really spend all summer with her, and if so, why? James is only seventeen by the time they get back to ask Betty’s forgiveness, so like, where the hell are James’s parents? Do they not care that their child has gone off for the whole summer with a person I can only picture as a cheetah-print-and-goggles-wearing divorcee driving a convertible?

Furthermore, the Karlie Kloss/Taylor Swift fan theories are gross for the simple reason that these two tall skinny white women look pretty much exactly the same. What is it with the internet’s obsession with wanting practically identical people to hook up? There might be an incest thing going on there that you guys could stand to reflect on. And on the more cynical conspiracy-theorizing side, couldn’t this just be some convenient queerbaiting? Didn’t Taylor Swift get criticized for appropriating gay rhetoric and imagery for “You Need to Calm Down,” like, 20 minutes ago? If she were going to come out, wouldn’t it have been an ideal moment to do so when she was under fire for that? I’m not saying all celebrities are shallow opportunists, but, you know, maybe.

This song is infectious. You will need to lobotomize me to get it out of my head.

2. exile

I know I originally said this was gonna be number one but I lied. It is pretty rough, though. This track features Bon Iver, and it’s not the high-pitched sad boy of “Skinny Love” renown. This Bon Iver is deep-voiced and country, like Bon Iver playing Tim McGraw in an uncomfortable SNL parody. Also, the whole song is centered around the tired and overused metaphor that a person is a place, and the person the speaker is pining after is home, and the speaker is in exile because they can’t go home to the person they love. It’s a heartache-ballad, cry-sing in your car, absolute jam.

1. the last great american dynasty

I really tried not to let this be number one. I really didn’t want it to be, which is precisely why it is. This was the track that first alerted me to the entire album’s release, because Ed Markey supporters on Twitter seized on it and decided it was about the downfall of the Kennedy family. It is not. The opening verse goes:

Rebekah rode up on the afternoon train, it was sunny Her saltbox house on the coast took her mind off St. Louis Bill was the heir to the Standard Oil name and money And the town said, "How did a middle-class divorcée do it?" The wedding was charming, if a little gauche There's only so far new money goes They picked out a home and called it "Holiday House"

This is very obviously about a real couple, Rebekah and William (Bill) Hale Harkness, who had a real mansion in Rhode Island that they called “Holiday House.” The Harkness name is on basically every building in Connecticut and a lot of the Northeast because Stephen Harkness, Bill Hale Harkness’s great uncle, was a founder of Standard Oil along with John D. Rockefeller. In 2013, Taylor Swift bought the property known as “Holiday House,” as she says in the song:

Fifty years is a long time Holiday House sat quietly on that beach Free of women with madness, their men and bad habits And then it was bought by me

The cool, fun, left-ish internet reading of this song is that it’s a revolutionary tale about toppling class hierarchy—getting a hold of wealth and bringing the institution that created it to its knees by… “fill[ing] the pool with champagne”? How much would that amount of champagne even cost? This is not a song about revolution. Taylor Swift didn’t storm into the Standard Oil house and burn it down or take it over; she bought it. It is not a song about destabilizing the ruling class. It’s a song about joining it.

It absolutely fucking slaps, unfortunately.

[alexmasonking]

A Nightmare to Remember

Alex and Jessica were jamming out in the car, ready to spend New Years up on the mountain with all their family. The two were blasting a throwback to their early emo middle school days and Jessica was sitting with her back against the door to his car, her feet tapping against his thigh to the beat of the music. “Hopefully this rain will clear up before new years otherwise we might not see many fireworks.” He huffed in a little bit of a pout. The two rounded one of the turns up the mountain when his headlights caught something in the middle of the road. Alex’s arm instinctively shot out to hold Jessica back as he punched on the breaks, but the car just slid and Alex realized he couldn’t reach her on the far side of the car with the way she had been sitting. The two were jerked around as the loud crunch of metal cut through the music and the car spun off the road.

There was no memory of what happened next, all Alex could recall was the throbbing in his head once the car found itself wedged in a more wooded area near the bottom of the mountain.  He lifted his head off the steering wheel, coughing and wincing as he struggled to catch his breath. His left side felt like it was on fire and he thought he might throw up from the pain, but the need to check on Jessica trumped any assessment of his own condition. Slowly, he moved his head to look at the passenger side, calling out her name through the settling dirt and debris that had been kicked up on their tumble down the mountain. He got no response and reached out as far as he could to feel her and check on her, but his hand just hit empty air and the back of the seat.

As the dust settled, he started screaming out her name, noticing she wasn’t anywhere in the car with him. Trying to move and pull himself out of his seat, Alex found himself coughing again, vision dancing with white and black spots and breath catching in his chest. Not long after he was passing out from the pain. This cycle continued twice more until he woke up to the sound of people yelling his name and he just rested where he was, not sure of this was a fever dream from hypothermia or real life, but as soon as a bright light hit his face, he was squinting and nodding as an all too familiar voice started shouting and asking him if he was okay. Was he? Not really. Was it bad enough to worry Cam over? Not really.

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay. I can hear you.” He insisted, head turned away from the bright light. “I couldn’t find Jessica, did you find her? Is she okay?” Cam moved his flashlight out of his face and looked up the hill, hollering at apparently Ryan - though it seemed Nicole was the one responding. He realized he was moreso watching Cam, hearing the shouting, but not processing the words until Cam was back in his face, nodding and telling him that Jessica was fine, Ryan was helping her sit up and warm up as they spoke. “You’ve got to stay talking to me, alright? Help will be here in ten.” Cam lied and reached out to pat at Alex’s arm. “How are you feeling? Can you move?” “I’m okay, but I’m pinned in.” Cam moved around the car to try and open Alex’s door. “Let’s get you out of here, alright? Can you push?” The two tried forcing the crushed door open, but when that didn’t work Cam crawled over through one of the busted windows to try and possibly move Alex’s seat back, but that wouldn’t budge either. 

“Change of plans, we’re going to just have to wait for help. Can you hang in there?” Cam huffed and Alex nodded, giving a chuckle which turned into a cough. “Yeah, I’ll do what I can.” The boys started talking about anything and anything, Alex could tell that Cam was panicked because his mind seemed to be running a mile a minute, but he didn’t mind. The moments he didn’t have to contribute, he could focus on breathing without the obnoxious and sharp pain when he took a deep breath or the constant burning, throbbing sensation in his upper abdomen. Whenever he took too long to breathe through whatever his body was going through, he’d feel Cam once again patting him on the shoulder and then his awareness would return, he’d open his eyes, unaware that they were ever closing to begin with and tune back in to the voice hollering at him to stay awake. 

Alex blinked at Cam before finally speaking back up. “Sorry, I’m good, I’m good. I’m talking, I’m good.” He could more so feel the relief coming from Cam rather than hear it. “Well good, because as soon as you’re out of this fucking car you’ve got to help me with this baby room, man. So stay with me, alright?” Alex smirked, remembering where the conversation was before he started drifting off. “Oh yeah, how’d you two come up with a space theme? I thought you said you were going with the beach. Remember the sea turtle stuffed animal?” Conversation was going to be good for both of them, Alex realized, so he really tried to focus, truly he did. “Well I thought that’s what we were going with, Tristan said she liked a beach theme if it was a girl and a space theme if it was a boy. Her and Austin are going to paint planets and stars and stuff on the walls.” “Wait, so it’s a boy?” Alex asked with a surprised grin. “Yeah, just found out today, we were going to tell everyone at the cabin.” Cam’s voice came in a lot calmer this time as he spoke. “Congrats man, you’re going to be a cool ass dad. I’m sure Tristan is thrilled it’s a boy.” “She is, but don’t tell Jessica yet, she wanted everyone to be surprised.” Despite his efforts to focus, rolling his head back to bump the headrest as they talked was a bad decision and immediately Alex’s vision was blurring, black and white spots dancing in and out as he squinted and huffed out a tired sigh. 

He’d been fine passing out the first couple of times, at this rate Alex knew he would be fine to rest some more now, but Cam was not going to allow it. “Five minutes.” He tried to barter, eyes closed, moreso from the pain than from exhaustion, but it was hard to tell the difference when it all blended together. “No, no, no, no. This isn’t Sleepaway camp, no five minutes. You hit your head and five minutes could be really bad.” Cam was swatting at him again, voice louder to gain Alex’s attention, but all he earned back was a harrumph. “Come on, Alex. Stay with me, I need you to stay awake and get out of here in one piece. You’ve still got to help me put that stupid star light wall up once we’re back home. And-and when Malcom or Micah or whatever his name is gets here I’m going to need your help because you’re a lot better with babies and kids than I am. So stay with me okay?”

Alex focused all his will on trying to stay awake, he didn’t want to make Cam any more panicked than he already was, but his eyelids felt weighed down. “I’m with you.” “You sure about that?” “Yeah - yeah. Can you still see Jessica?” “Uh.. yeah, yeah she’s probably got a busted leg, y’know?” “Can you tell her I love her and that I’m sorry?” There was the distant sound of sirens and then the sound of several voices yelling, definitely Cam and probably Nicole if not both Nicole and Ryan, trying to catch emergency service’s attention. 

Beth’s boyfriend Brad was the one to cut the door off his jeep and helped un-wedge him from his current position. He kept hearing from everyone that Jessica was going to be okay, but he knew by their expressions things were very much not okay. Before they removed him from the car, he gripped Brad’s upper arm and looked at him seriously. “Just be honest with me..” The sigh and shake of the head he got was enough to make his stomach sink, but he listened as Brad told him she was already on the way to the hospital, that she’d been thrown and hit a tree and was battling the hypothermia even worse than him. Nodding, Alex gave him a small thanks, brain trying to process that they were both going to be okay. Alex knew he wasn’t going to die, he still knew it and he was just trying to accept that, despite the looks on everyone’s faces and the panic from what sounded like Ryan in the background, Jess was going to be just fine too. He kept assuring himself in his own mind before he hissed in pain as they moved him from the car directly on a backboard.

He didn’t notice it right away, the pain of moving in general was making him slur his words slightly as his blood pressure spiked while he laid in a supine position. He only knew because of the annoyingly rapid beeping of the heart monitor he didn’t even realize had been attached to him. His vision was dancing as the pounding in his head started in again with a fury this time. “I need to sit up-“ He started to insist as everything started spinning, but the EMTs just told him that wasn’t safe for his spine to be in an elevated position and he could hear Cam start to argue that if he was in more pain laying down they needed to listen to him. It was an argument neither of them were going to win, so Alex just held out his hand to his brother and told him it would be fine. That he was okay and everyone would be okay.

He kept assuring his best friend as they loaded up in the ambulance and Cam rode with, but in a moment’s notice the pain in his head built up until he’d rather it explose and then he felt nothing. Alex didn’t feel the pain in his body, didn’t hear the loud consistent ring of the heart monitor signaling a drop in pulse that wasn’t returning. He didn’t hear Cam, frantic in the seat next to him or the instructions from the EMTs as they cut open his shirt and prepared him for the first of the three shocks it took to restart his heart. He didn't even hear the monitors beeping once his heart started again, just laid in a peaceful blackness.

Once Alex was being wheeled in through emergency, they took Cam into the same private waiting room that Ryan and Nicole were already in, talking to their parents. They all turned their attention to him, but a moment later, Derek was getting a page for an emergency patient assessment and he patted Cam’s shoulder on the way out, rushing to treat his now son in law, unbeknownst to him. It took only a few moments for Derek to check over Alex to know he needed to call in a CT and the surgical team. He was getting a bedside ultrasound and Derek argued with Christina over what would kill him faster, a ruptured spleen or any of the million side effects Alex might deal with with a brain injury.

It took about fifteen minutes for the CT to be finished and for the results to be read with a clear plan of action laid out. Given how long the pressure had been building up in Alex’s brain, Derek called for him to be moved into the OR so they could cut open his skull. After the pressure had been released via several burrs, Derek prepared a drainage tube for insertion to keep things equalized while his brain was still dealing with the trauma. They left his skull more exposed while the second surgical team came in to operate on his spleen, using the additional time to relieve as much pressure as they could. Originally the second team had hoped to recover a part of his spleen to keep functioning, but with the prolonged time of Alex being pinned to the steering wheel and the couple hours it took to get his brain stable, it just wasn’t possible to save and waiting any longer put all his organs at risk of sepsis which he wouldn’t be able to battle without a spleen.

While that portion of the surgery was being taken care of, Derek scrubbed out and met back up with the now crowded waiting room, giving a little update and getting one on Jessica as well. The whole family was an anxious mess, hoping and praying that they could save Jessica and their family seemed to move from the waiting room to the surgical watch rooms, watching over Alex and Jessica. After they had finished removing Alex’s spleen, Derek returned to check on him, finishing up the final bit of his surgery before releasing him to be taken into an ICU room.

Everyone was, for the most part, back in the waiting room when Derek finally walked out in his scrubs, hand rubbing over his mouth. “Jessica has a pulse and Alex is stabilizing. Let’s all just take a deep breath knowing that. We are keeping an eye on the pressure in his skull and they have him in an induced coma to try and prevent total organ failure from any possible sepsis.” He looked over at Cam and Tristan and gave a little sigh. “You two can probably go sit with him in about ten minutes, let them get him settled in the ICU first.” With that, Derek hugged his wife before walking out to go take a couple minutes to collect himself before he got called in for another possible procedure.

[ajanefantasy]

Book Love part 8 - Summer Dae (Rise of Trouble Vol. 2)

So Sari and Jayd continues. Summer Dae picks up not too long after RoT Vol. 1 ends. This story, the world I created grew just that much more. Sari showed me who she was in the first story and it took off from there with Jayd chasing behind wondering what he had gotten himself into, but unwilling or perhaps unable to stop rushing to his doom.

This one was fun, with all the pirates and the spirits and the adventures and the trouble. So much trouble. I mean she traveled to an island settle by pirates, how could she not find trouble? There is a secret cave or two, a pub, some tree climbing, the beginning of a murder mystery. Sari’s father continued his journey in finding just who he was after coming out of a long cast enchantment and various curses. Sari’s grandfather was able to begin making amends. And a whole bunch of other interesting new facts to learn about people important to Sari. Plus Jayd grows a beard, learned more about his past, as well a few secrets about his seamaid and just how doomed he was. He really was doomed, so very doomed, but then ‘tis the way of it when one falls for a seamaid. All that and a swimming yullie. 

And without further ado:

[Image ID: Image of a three mast ship with sails furled, tied to a dock and the sky blue, pink and yellow from the sun setting with the words Summer Dae Rise of Trouble Volume 2 written across it]

Princess Sari is off upon another adventure, this time visiting her grandmother and newly discovered Uncle Kino, on the Isle of Ganos. An island long ago settled by pirates. Could it be more perfect?

Jayd Lightning, with his son at his side, finds himself, despite himself, following his seamaid across the sea. Yeryl and Zasara! Why does she have to cause him such trouble?

Story contains strong language and explicit sex approx. 118,000 words

Amazon / Smashwords / Kobo / Apple  / BN

A preview of Summer Dae under the cut

Maa maa maa!

Sari held her stomach as she laughed at the yullie’s antics. Red’s favorite ewe, Tobui, had once more escaped her pasture and was going for a swim in a small inlet off the Boot’s private harbor. This was the second time Tobui had done such a thing since she arrived on Ganos.

Maa! The ewe bleated happily, quite pleased with herself.

“Tobui, methinks you should come ashore. It worries Grandpapa when you take such a jaunt.”

Naa!

“Did you just,” she sucked in a breath, “tell me no?” She swore the yullie laughed at her. She wiped at her eyes as tears fell down her cheeks from laughing so much. “Such a troublemaker you are.”

Yaa, yaa!

“Never have I known a yullie to swim.” Gillam was grinning as he stepped from The Inbetween; Tobui was a cheeky yullie. He was pleased that Sari’s mood seemed to be lifted.

The morning previous, Rayn Storm arrived on Ganos to warn Kino about a danger to himself, as well seek information as to where Rayn’s wife—the High Keeper of all Keepers—had disappeared. After a brief scuffle with a few members of Green Ice’s crew—Green Ice was a notorious Northern Seas cur pirate, mortal enemy to the High Keeper and those the High Keeper held fondness for, and grandmother to Rayn—and the appearance and exit of Rayn’s daughter, Zeti, Rayn finally discovered where his wife was. He left upon the evening tide with Kino, Rum, and Gin tagging along for the journey.

Sari had wanted to join them, desperate for adventure, but was left behind. All very good reasons given, but it ceased not the sting of rejection.

“Grandpapa mentioned that she has done this since first he brought her home as a lamb.”

“So you speak to me again?”

“I understood, but…”

“No need is there to explain. Your friend the High Keeper is. And the adventure, ‘twould have been the grandest.”

“I wish to see so much of this world. Tramp once mentioned that young men from the Northern Seas take a year to see the world.”

“Just young men?”

“I asked him that myself. Said he did that upon occasion a young woman would hie off to parts unknown, but ‘twas far from a regular occurrence. Apparently the young women of the North feel not the urge to explore.”

“Or mayhap they are not encouraged.”

“Mayhap. But I want to go. I want to see. I know not if I…that I can settle without something to look back upon.”

“Adventure there is just living life.”

“Is that what you told yourself?” She never took her eyes from the swimming yullie. It was a shitty thing to ask, but the words were out.

Maa! Maa!

“Mayhap. But look at Tobui, she finds ways to enjoy her life. I see not why you would be unable to do the same. Escape the palace; spend time in a pub; tour the countryside; make certain the Sea Regiment is tiptop; keep the Watchers and Guards upon their toes. Methinks the citizens of Artezan would adore you for it. And do you decide to become the Crown Marshal, even more trouble could you cause.”

“Oh?”

“Easy ‘twould be to break formation to visit the neighboring islands and lands, do a bit of trading. There are ways. You might even convince your father to send you out as an emissary. So many places could you go all the while representing Artezan.”

“My apologies for being so down, for snapping. I…”

“In need you are of tumbling a man. Mayhap...” Feeling Sari’s magik trip, he stepped back into The Inbetween. ‘Company.’

“I feel it.” She stuck her tongue out at him for his crack about her being in need of a tumble. Of course he was correct. But each time she attempted to find another…

“Princess Sari!” Magic ran down the beach as fast as he could go seeing his favorite playmate. “Princess Sari!”

Sari turned and, seeing Magic, rushed to meet the little boy. She scooped him up in her arms and hugged him tight. “Oh how I have missed you, my little love.”

Tears burned when he returned her hug.

He leaned back and smiled, laughed when she peppered his face with kisses. “Still do I have my yullie!”

“So pleased am I to hear it. And look what I have!” She reached under her shirt and pulled out the necklace the High Keeper had given her with the little charm containing his hair. “Always do I wear it.”

The tear fell when he hugged her once more.

Maa, maa, maa!

Magic looked around hearing the bleating. His face lit with excitement seeing Tobui paddling about the inlet. “A swimming yullie!” He wiggled from Sari’s arms and rushed to the water’s edge. He jumped up and down pointing at the yullie. “The yullie really swims!”

She joined Magic at water’s edge. “Her name is Tobui.”

“Tobui!” Magic called, waving his hand. “Hello, Tobui!”

The yullie turned hearing the child call her name and swam towards shore. Maa, maa, maa!

“Magic!” Jayd rushed down the beach, panicked. Magic had slipped from him as he spoke with Red. The older pirate had greeted them once they tied to the dock, welcoming their visit and offering a place to stay. Red, of course, had been curious as to why he was visiting, considering Boots and Rayn had sailed out the evening previous.

“Papa, the yullie swims! Look, she swims!”

Jayd’s step faltered seeing his son with Sari. She was smiling. With trouble. He had to stop himself from running over, grabbing her and kissing her. “Yer Highness.”

“Jayd, Captain Jayd Lightning.” Sari’s smile grew wider seeing his eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Papa! The yullie swims!” Magic pointed to where Tobui swam towards them. “Papa!”

Maa, maa, maa!

Jayd looked to where his son pointed and his brows flew upward. He had not believed. A swimming yullie? Surely such a thing could not exist. And yet, there she was swimming. He watched the dark coated yullie trundle out of the surf and trot over to them. She bumped Magic with her nose, softly bleating when he patted her face.

But then…

Maa, maa, maa!

Magic squealed, Sari yelped, and Jayd swore when Tobui shook, splashing them with seawater.

A lot of water.

They were all soaked.

Maa, maa, maa! Tobui bumped the boy with her nose again, pleased when she received another pat, and then pranced away. Maa, maa, maa!

* * *

“Tobui!” Red came running down the beach. The ewe knew how to keep him fit. Every time he found her missing from her pasture or her little paddock, he knew to run down to the cove. He stopped seeing Sari, Magic, and Jayd all sopping wet and his ewe trotting towards him. She stopped and bleated up at him, so full of herself. She was such a naughty ewe. He loved her for it. “Tobui, most rude that was.”

Yaa!

“Truly rude.”

Yaa!

He started towards the beach wishing to apologize for Tobui’s mischief, but hearing Sari and Magic laughing, he instead slipped the lead over Tobui’s head and walked her back to the barn. “Troublemaker.”

Yaa!

* * *

Wiping the water from her face, Sari started laughing. Especially seeing the outrage on Jayd’s sexy face from the soaking, listening to him swear under his breath. She dropped down, still laughing, and summoned a towel to her hand, wiping the water from Magic’s face. When he saw her laughing, he too started laughing.

“Naughty is Tobui.” She tapped him on the nose then ran the towel over his hair.

“Ye find this humorous, Yer Highness?”

“I do indeed, Jayd, Captain Jayd Lightning. I do indeed.”

“Ye wish to cause trouble.”

“Always. Should you not know this about me by now?” She sent him a kiss on the air before returning her attention to Magic. “In need you are of changing into dry clothing, my little love; never would it do to have you gain a fever. What say you to joining me for tea and the finest of sweetbuns afterwards? Or mayhap hot chocolate if tea holds no interest.”

“Be there icing upon the sweetbuns?”

“Slathered they are in icing.” Seeing his eyes light up, she scooped him up into her arms once more and stood. “Come to the manor once you have both dried off. I will inform Grandmé of your arrival.” She snickered seeing Jayd’s eyes narrow. “Only now are you realizing just who my grandmother and uncle are?”

He suddenly recalled how Boots choked on the wine when he mentioned Sari’s name for the first time. That look of violence he saw briefly flash in his friends eyes, the one he convinced himself he had imagined…

Jayd kept from swearing because she spoke true: he had not, until that moment, made the connection.

He pushed that all aside and asked, “Where is Cal?”

“Methinks Uncle Trek has absconded with him again. Or mayhap one of the other many Boots he now calls family. But then ‘tis possible he flirts with a woman. Hardly have I seen him since we arrived.” She was missing her friend terribly, but she would not stand in his way.

“Because he is yer guard, the Boots are now his family?”

“The Boots are now his family because learned we have he is the son of Grandpapa’s deceased brother, Gator Boots.” She pressed a noisy kiss to Magic’s cheek and laughed when he returned the loud buss. “Go with your papa and that much sooner will we have sweetbuns and hot chocolate.”

“Sari…” What he wished to say was lost when Magic launched himself into his arms chirping about sweetbuns. He tried to remember what it was he wished to say, but found himself staring at Sari’s lips instead. He wanted to kiss her. Of course he wanted to kiss her. Always did he want to kiss her.

“Go change, Jayd, hot chocolate and sweetbuns await. You may apologize to me then if you wish.”

He shook his head and mumbled something about trouble.

“Oh, Jayd,” she called after him and snickered at his scowl. She rubbed a hand over her cheeks. “I like the beard. ‘Tis quite rakish. Or mayhap, one could call it: roguish.”

“Trouble! ‘Tis what ye be, woman. Trouble.”

She smiled and sent him another kiss upon the air.

–

© A. Jane

Book Love: 

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9

[weremembertheholocaust]

This Day in History

26-29th January 1945: KÖNIGSBERG DEATH MARCH and PALMNICKEN MASSACRE: 7,000 inmates of Stutthof concentration camp are forced by German troops to march from the town of Königsberg to Palmnicken, in the Soviet Union. Some 3,000 die en route; the survivors are forced to flee into the icy Baltic Sea, where they are cut down by automatic weapons. Only a few survive; the Soviets later hide all traces of the massacre, which is not revealed until 1998. - The Holocaust Encyclopedia by Walter Laqueur

An article from the NY Times from 2000:

Yantarny Journal; Russians Awaken to a Forgotten SS Atrocity

By MICHAEL WINES JAN. 31, 2000

At the start of the death march in Konigsberg, they numbered about 7,000 -- the vast bulk of them women, most quite young, all clad in wooden-soled shoes, thin rags emblazoned with yellow six-pointed stars and telephone wire belts on which were strung their cups and tin-can bowls.

By the time they reached a vacant lock factory in this nondescript seaside village, after two days and 25 miles of brutal winter weather, there may have been 4,000 left. They remained perhaps four days, then were herded down a bucolic cobblestone lane and past dilapidated workers' cottages to an abandoned amber mine on the shore of the Baltic Sea.

It was there, 55 years ago Monday night, that SS guards split them into packs of 50, sent them fleeing down the beach and on to the ice-covered water itself, then mowed them down with machine guns. Others were escorted to the mine and shot point-blank.

Auschwitz had been liberated four days before. ''Never forget,'' the civilized world said.

But the world forgot about the massacre of Jewish innocents at Palmnicken, now the Russian town of Yantarny, until today. Today, on the beach, a roaring gale whipped the sleet into needles and raised towering whitecaps on a sea the color of wet cement. At the base of the amber mine, a steep concrete-buttressed cliff resembling a battlement, about 200 mourners dedicated a small pyramid of stones and a plaque to the victims of the Konigsberg march and the Palmnicken massacre.

They were the first tangible recognition that the march and massacre had ever occurred. Until today, there was no memorial to Holocaust victims anywhere in Konigsberg -- known now as Russian Kaliningrad -- even though it was home to several small concentration camps.

Astoundingly, the whole of the Kaliningrad region -- a million people, the eldest of whom fought valiantly to defeat Hitler's army in World War II -- was utterly unaware until a year ago that the massacre had ever taken place. ''As far as I know, no one needed this,'' Rabbi David Shvedik of the Jewish Community of Kaliningrad said in an interview. ''For the authorities in Yantarny and in the region, it was not at all interesting to them to remember 7,000 dead Jews.''

The story of the massacre, and of Kaliningrad's slow awakening to it, is at once riveting and chilling. Put simply, the victorious Soviet Union closed the book on Nazi atrocities once it seized Konigsberg from the Germans at the end of World War II. Thousands of Germans were deported in rail cars to be replaced by Russian immigrants; Jewish Holocaust victims were reburied as ''Soviet heroes,'' stripped, here and elsewhere on Soviet soil, of religious identity. Red Army reports on the massacre and on the discovery of mass graves were written, filed and classified.

Kaliningrad became a Soviet naval base and a closed region, steeped in secrecy. Horrific memories half-lived into rumor, then myth, then taboo enforced by the Kremlin's own unspoken, unofficial anti-Semitism.

''As far as I know, not a single person was ever sentenced for this,'' said Aleksandr Aderichin, the investigative editor for the Kaliningrad newspaper Dvornik, which helped awaken the region to the massacre story more than a year ago.

That Kaliningrad awakened at all may be credited to Christians -- a German and an American -- who grew up near Palmnicken and would not suppress their own memories of the slaughter. The German, Martin Bergau, witnessed the executions of some women and gave harrowing testimony to them in a German-language book and in a submission to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Remembrance Authority in Jerusalem.

The American, Gunter Nitsch, had only heard stories of the killings as a boy. But as an adult, he was so haunted by the massacre's specter that he was compelled to track down the truth -- and in the process, to unleash the long-hidden accounts of what happened.

''I feel awful,'' Mr. Nitsch said last week in a long telephone interview. ''These were my people. Most of the people in my family were members of the Nazi Party. Whatever happened cannot be changed. But it must not be forgotten.''

Mr. Nitsch, now 62, was a 7-year-old when the Red Army stormed through Poland and into Konigsberg in early 1945. As the Communists moved north, the Nazis began vacating a network of 30 camps ringing Poland's Stutthof concentration camp, moving 20,000 Jews away from the advancing army. Ninety percent were women and most were from Hungary and Lithuania.

The fate of all 20,000 is unknown. What is clear is that roughly 7,000, by the latest estimate, wound up at a sub-camp in Konigsberg, a Baltic port, in January weather so unusually bitter that ice floes stretched hundreds of feet from the shore. On Jan. 26, Nazi guards began marching the crowd, clad only in rags, 25 miles northwest to Palmnicken.

Perhaps one to two thousand or more died along the way, either of exhaustion or execution as they tried to flee their torturers. ''We marched in heavy snow,'' Dora Hauptman, one of the captives, told Yad Vashem in 1994. ''The cold was fierce, and a freezing wind blew.''

The frostbitten survivors were imprisoned in the Palmnicken locksmith's factory and, after three or four days, marched five abreast to the seashore. Some were taken to an open-pit amber crater. Mr. Bergau, then a 15-year-old member of a German home-defense force, watched in agony as they knelt and were shot in the back of the neck with pistols.

Other women were less fortunate. In his testimony, Mr. Bergau recalled riding a horse in the area a week later, hearing gunshots and sprinting in panic toward the seashore. ''My chestnut suddenly stopped short in his tracks, hesitated and snorted,'' he wrote in 1994. ''I could not believe my eyes. Between the ice floes, near the shore, the water was thick with countless floating bodies. They were bobbing like swimmers in the swell.'' He fled, he said, ''in cold horror.''

Of the estimated 7,000, there were 13 known survivors. One of them, Ms. Hauptman, had dived into the sea after a man told her that ''someone must survive to describe their barbarity.'' Shot once in the hand, she crawled ashore and was taken in by a heroic German woman, Bertha Pulver, who hid her until the Red Army arrived on April 15.

Mr. Nitsch saw none of this, but his Lutheran grandfather did. The victorious Soviets commandeered German civilians that summer to exhume the sand-covered bodies and transport them to mass graves and cemeteries for reburial.

''He couldn't believe it had happened,'' Mr. Nitsch said. ''It just blew him apart. For the first few weeks, he couldn't talk at all. All he did when he came home was to read the Bible. He lost a lot of weight. And within a couple of months, he died.''

Though a child, Mr. Nitsch worked too, weeding and painting a cemetery where the victims had been reburied. Soon his family was deported to East Germany; later, he fled to West Germany. And in 1964, he moved to the United States.

But he did not forget. Friends said he imagined the killings. But at a German book fair in New York City, he found a volume with a chapter on Palmnicken and, he wrote, ''felt vindicated.'' Still later, he found Mr. Bergau's book with its eyewitness account of the murders. Working on a still-unpublished book, he asked the Simon Wiesenthal Center and Yad Vashem for files on the Palmnicken slaughter, and received Ms. Hauptman's account, among others.

In 1998, he flew to Kaliningrad and asked regional officials for help. A state archivist listened, then said he must be mistaken; no such event could have occurred and been erased from history. Nor was there any trace of the Jewish cemetery where he once weeded graves.

''This thing had been forgotten,'' he said last week. ''I could accept that they didn't know where the cemetery was, but to find out they didn't know about the massacre at all was mind-boggling.'' Not until the archivist sent Mr. Nitsch to journalists like Mr. Aderichin of Dvornik did the truth emerge. A spate of articles led to an observance of the massacre last year; this year, fund raisers collected enough for a memorial.

The region's governor spoke at its dedication today, something remarkable in a society where Jewish suffering in World War II was little acknowledged even a decade ago.

There is a new question now: how to investigate rumors that 8,000 more Jews were marched to the nearby town of Baltisk, sealed in a barracks and then killed in a huge explosion.

''The fact that we gathered here instills hope that something like this won't happen again,'' Rabbi Shvedik said today, shouting into a bullhorn to be heard above the wind.

Later, in the rundown kindergarten that is his congregation's temple, he recalled a woman who walked past the little memorial as it was being completed this month.

''She came by with her children,'' he said, ''and then she asked: 'Why are you putting up a monument to Jews here? Why not a monument to the Russians?'''

The monument in Yantarny mentioned in the above article.

The Palmnicken affair did not end with the ghastly slaughter on the beach. At the village of Kraxtepellen northwest of Palmnicken, rumors spread about what had been perpetrated not far from there, and it was said that some Jewish prisoners had managed to escape and were roaming the 124 ∙ The System Disintegrates district in search of shelter. A remorseless hunt was launched, and most of them were apparently caught and cruelly murdered, as the Red Army commission reported: Inspection of the sites of the savage extermination and burial . . . uncovered 263 bodies, of them 50 bodies of men, and 204 bodies of women, all of them aged 16– 25. These bodies were laid in rows, in three to four layers; here and there however bodies were thrown haphazardly into the ditch measuring 1.6 × 2 × 3 meters. . . . Clothing on the bodies were rags and tatters of the kind characteristic of the camps— striped, with the numbers sewn on the front, and six- pointed stars on the back and the sleeves. Most of the bodies had foot- gear made of wood (sabotes) on them, though some legs were wrapped in rags. All the bodies were infested with vermin and completely emaciated. For the most part all the bodies of men exhibited injuries to the skull caused by shooting; splintered bones of the skull indicating shooting at close range. Some bodies bore marks of more than one bullet wound which indicates that the killing was carried out by an automatic weapon shooting detonating bullets. The skulls and the bones of the extremities of the bodies of most of the women were splintered, which indicates savage killing by blows with blunt instruments. The undergarments of some of the young women’s bodies were torn and pulled down their thighs, whereas some bodies of the women were found in the posture of cynical abuse, their legs pulled up behind their heads, without any undergarments.246 This report was not composed for political propaganda purposes. The Red Army investigators, who included physicians, pathologists, forensic medicine experts, and several senior officers, checked and recorded what they saw with cool professionalism. Several local people displayed humanity in the midst of this bloodbath. One of them, Günter Hartmann, hid several women prisoners, who had succeeded in escaping the massacre, in his barn, and several other local residents opened their homes to escaping prisoners. These were a handful of the survivors of the Palmnicken slaughter.247 All in all, the number of survivors was estimated at some 200, 50 to 100 who escaped the shooting on the beach and the remainder prisoners who made their escape before the transportation to the beach, and found shelter in forests or in local homes. - The Death Marches - The Final Phase of Nazi Genocide by Daniel Blatman

[minyoonsh]

aqua; part 1

your life in the city couldn’t be compared to how the breeze on the beach felt as it ran through your hair. how the sand felt between your toes. and last but not least how your heart fluttered at the sight of jimin, park jimin.

soulmate au! | jimin x reader

“dinner!” your mom shouted from downstairs as you were watching a funny clip of some vine compilations on youtube. today was the first day of your summer vacation, and you had spent it staying inside surfing on the internet. you wondered how you ended up there, but thinking about it, it made sense. your friends were all away on their luxurious vacations to bora bora and wherever. the only one that was actually home was jackson wang, but you were too shy to call him. you had always thought you had some kind of crush on him, you had known him since forever. but he never made a move on you so you just thought he wasn’t interested.

“kay, im coming!” you answered as you stood up and stretched a bit, and you heard you bones crack in a satisfying way before heading downstairs.

“what’s for dinner?” you asked while helping your mom put plates on the table. “didn’t you smell it from upstairs?” she asked back, you just shook your head and she tilted her head before speaking again. “were you watching those weird vine compilations again? i swear you’re so weird” she said, smiling to herself as she put food on your plate before her own. “c’mon mom, i know you watch them aswell. don’t try to fool me. i see everything” you said, chuckling shortly after. “isn’t that my line?” she laughed, narrowing her eyes at you. “sure”

you and your mom had the best time together, always laughing and smiling. your dad was working a lot, even though when he came home he was pretty tired. but always managed to have a smile on his face, forced or not.

“oh, you remember hoseok, right honey?” she suddenly spoke. and you tried to remember the name hoseok. it suddenly plinged in your head, you smiled widely. hoseok was the boy you had met on vacation very many years ago. ever since he had met you. he had been helping your grandma with stuff around the house. and that was because when you were there, you stayed at her house. but for the last couple of years you had other traveling plans, so you didn’t have the time or you wanted to enjoy the vacation at home. “of course i do, he’s my childhood broski, my dude, my guy.” you said as you recalled, you had met during your ‘i hate boys’ period. but you made an exception, for him.

you mom rolled her eyes before speaking. “anyway, i thought since you really don’t have shit to do around here except watching vine compilations. you could go stay with your grandma for the rest of the summer”

you had thought about it, going down there and help her. reconnect with each other, and you could hangout with hoseok and his friends. his number was saved in your phone and he texted you sometimes and you texted him sometimes. just to catch up. but that wasn’t that often. “yeah, but i need money to do that shit. i need a train ticket” you told your mom. it wasn’t that your family was struggling, it wasn’t like that at all. it was just that ever since you turned eighteen, apparently you needed to pay for everything yourself because ‘it’s training, for the future honey’ your mom had said repeatedly if you asked her about it.

“now here is the best part. your grandma, who hoseok is close to. told me that one of hoseok‘s co-workers has just quit. that means that they are hiring. so i’ll pay for your ticket down there. and then, you can pay me back with the money you make there” she said, clapping like a seal. you looked at her, contemplating whether or not you wanted to. of course you wanted to visit hoseok and your grandma. but working the whole summer to pay your mom back. but on the other side again. you did want to meet your grandma again.

“okay, can you send me the link to their website?” you asked, putting your dishes in the sink.

“okay! i’ll go tell your grandma!”

“have you texted him yet?” your mom asked as you stood outside of the train station, saying goodbye to your mom. a suitcase in your hand, and a bag over your shoulder. “yeah, he’s gonna be there when the train stops” you answered, smiling at your mom. this was probably the longest your have ever been away from her. you were gonna miss her, but you had your grandma. “i’ll miss you darling, meet some new people, have fun okay?” she said and pulled you into a tight hug. “i’ll try, now don’t stay up too late watching those vine compilations. is not good for you” you said jokingly, and she kept smiling but rolled her eyes. “and maybe you will meet jisoo again? that would be nice!” she said, but your smile immediately dropped, but you tried to hide hoe uncomfortable you suddenly became at the mention of her name.

“sure mom- oh! i need to go now! or else my train will go without me. mom i love you! bye!” you said, half running half walking. she smiled and waved at you. and you took that as a sign to turn around and focus on where you were going.

your mom had bought the tickets online, so you could just show them ona app on your phone. “technology, am i rite?” you said to yourself quietly. hoping that no one heard you. “geez, i need to stop talking to myself”

you walked down to where the trains arrived and your train hat arrived when you came. good luck huh? you got on the train and sat down in the quiet zone and put in your headphones listening to monsta x, wondering if kihyun would ever notice you. you were for sure going to one of their concerts. that you had your mind set on. lightly nodding your head and bumping your foot against the floor, it didn’t take long time until you fell asleep. you didn’t really do much today except from packing. but you still managed to be exhausted, you guessed most mentally. it was a week since you applied to the job and got it the next day. hoseok our in a good word for you, you were thankful.

soon enough the train had arrived and you had just woken up from a nap dreaming about all kinds of crazy stuff. the beach, a pair of eyes, they were a male’s eyes, a shock kinda thing going through your body. but you assumed it was just another dream.

you stepped off of the train, you legs felt a bit wobbly as you walked to one of the benches. people probably assumed you had great sex last night. which you indeed didn’t.

as you walked out of the train station you looked around for a red, worn down car, with a weird guy called hoseok sitting inside of it. after 10 minutes of waiting you texted him.

yo, where you at bro? 2:35

right behind u bro🐑 2:36

you turned around and saw the goofy hoseok standing there with his phone in his hand. he looked so grown up. it had been a long time since you saw him. last time you facetimed was probably around 3 years ago. from the way his lips smirked at you, you knew he wasn’t the same hoseok who blushed every time you held his hand.

“broski!” you yelled, running towards him and wrapping your arms around him.

“hey y/n” he said as he wrapped his arms around you aswell. “you smell good.” you said as you let go of him a little and he took the hint to let your out of his warm embrace. “thanks, its actually my friend’s” he said, smiling. you tilted your head at him. “hmm, i’d like to meet this ‘friend’, he must smell good” you said, it was your turn to smirk. he took your bags, “sure, co-worker,” he said. “let’s go.”

[akaiaowl-tales]

Cloudy with a chance of silver lining (Modern Mileven College AU)

Cloudy with a chance of silver lining

Rating: T

Summary:  Only stupid people fall in love and if there’s something Jane ‘Eleven’ Brenner knows for sure is that she’s not stupid.

I.                    SANTA ANA

Thinking ‘bout the perfect sound.

Lately I’ve been taking my time just feeling the breeze of the sunny weather.

And it’s crazy.

 Her shoes barely scraped against the gravel as she walked fast through the street, taking her time to look around at the residential buildings on both of her sides and the nicely-kept gardens that decorated their entrance.

It was strangely quiet today, probably a symptom of the beginning of school season.

She was supposed to be jogging, after all, that’s what she’d told Max she would be doing.

Truth was, however, that she was half-heartedly attempting to power walk near Santa Ana beach, just listening to music and taking her time.

Lately, her roommate and best friend, Max Mayfield, had been pestering her nonstop because, apparently, she was a victim of what the redhead young woman called an “unhealthy sedentary routine”. Which, as it turns out, was something that could actually kill her early someday – Max, who was taking it seriously enough for the two of them, had even showed her a few statistics and a documentary about it.

Faced with such a dramatic situation and taking into account that her friend wasn’t taking it nearly seriously enough, Max had taken it upon herself to pester her daily into having what she called a “better and healthier lifestyle”. Which was something that, despite all her sarcastic jokes and grumpiness and annoyance, she actually appreciated. She’d never really had anyone caring about her eating or exercise habits and it was kind of nice to feel someone giving a shit about stuff like that, giving a shit about her.

However, Max – and her hyperactive demeanor – could be overwhelming at times, especially to someone as lazy and careless as her.

It wasn’t really that she hated exercising. No, it was more that she saw no real, practical reason to do it. Plus, she hated sweating.

She figured that exercise would finally come in useful if like, for some remote reason, there was a zombie apocalypse… or the Pacific Ocean suddenly overflowed. But since none of those scenarios seemed plausible enough, she’d long ago decided that dedicating time to stuff like that was pointless and therefore settled into her “sedentary” routine.

All of those years of barely any activity, nonetheless, did seem to have taken a toll on her. She remembered that she was a decent – not good but not humiliatingly bad either – runner back in high school. Right now, however, her calves were starting to ache, despite her walk only having lasted about an hour.

This sucks so much, she thought in annoyance as she turned up the volume of the random song she was currently listening to in an attempt to take her mind of the discomfort in her unused muscles.

She walked for a few more minutes before finally stopping.

As she slowly breathed in and out, she admired the pink and orange hues mingling together in the sky. It was a peaceful sight, a pretty one. Something breathtaking in comparison to the sunsets back at home. She’d never considered herself a cheesy person but, right now, all she wanted to do was sit for a minute and listen to her (awesome) playlist and stare out into the ocean.

She had to admit that this was definitely better than staying locked away at home, which she probably would be right now if it weren’t for Max’s stubbornness.

Reassured by the emptiness of the streets and the overall quietness, she climbed over the ludicrous brick fence that divided the sidewalk from the cliff. She was very well aware that, despite the fact that the “fence” was mostly there for decoration – seeing as it was barely as high as her waist (and she was rather on the smaller side) – what she was doing was most likely forbidden.

It had been quite a long time since she’d given in to her reckless impulses like that. It’d been years even.

The beach was a few good meters down and she smiled as she sat on the soft grass, at the least steep part of the slope. To her left, she could see a few people paragliding. The way the wind swayed their bodies like boneless rag dolls seemed so surreal from where she sat at the moment. She couldn’t help but get lost in thought.

“Is everything alright over there?” a faint voice asked.

It was way too easy to ignore it.

They are probably not even talking to me.

“Are you ok?” the stranger’s voice sounded a lot closer now, there was no way they weren’t talking to her.

She turned around, with every intention to tell whoever it was to mind their own business and leave her alone.

Concerned dark brown eyes were the first feature she focused on the second she turned around with an annoyed stance. Dark, observant eyes that somehow seemed to perfectly match the pale face of the worried boy who was currently staring at her from the other side of the rope fence.

She could actually feel all the anger and annoyance in her demeanor immediately dissolve, the bitchy remark dying on her lips.

“I’m just… I’m fine,” she answered with a weak smile, looking down and trying not to stare at his face like a creep.

But he was cute.

Cute in a nerdy way, but cute nevertheless.

He seemed the weird kind of familiar. The kind of familiar one would feel about an old preschool classmate, or about someone that once stood out to you as you walked down the street. She blinked a little in confusion. She was trying to figure out why his face ringed a bell while, at the same time, trying not to appear like a complete moron to him.

He climbed off his bike and hesitantly got closer to the fence – which looked even shorter and useless next to his ridiculously tall frame.

“Is it too nosy of me to ask why you are over there?” he wondered, looking warily at the beach and the cliff she was currently sitting by.

“Yeah, it is sort of nosy,” she blurted out without really intending to.

He’s going to think I’m such a bitch, she thought with concern.

She scoffed at her uncharacteristic thought shortly after, Why do I care? Let him think I’m a rue bitch.

However, Bicycle Guy blushed.

Cute, the uncalled for thought just popped into her head, catching her off guard and leaving her speechless for a moment.

“I was just taking a break from walking,” she finally offered with a hesitant smile.

Of course he wouldn’t want to know that the beauty of the sky drew me in during my fake jogging session, she thought darkly.

“So you sit in the verge of a precipice every time you take a break?” he joked.

She glanced at him and couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at her lips.

Why am I acting so fucking weird?

She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d felt this insecure –not even right before the interview before getting admitted to college, she recalled.

“It’s far enough from the edge, actually,” she said rather dryly, glancing at the beach bellow.

A few moments passed in silence.

There also was this weird sinking, tickling feeling in her stomach. It was unsettling.

Then she heard a clank metallic noise, as of something had dropped on the ground.

“It unnerves me to see you over there,” he confessed as he took a hesitant step in her general direction.

She was still looking at the beach ahead.

“How do you think those people feel?” she asked randomly, gesturing towards the people swaying several feet above the ground, the very people she’d been observing.

“Huh?”

“I always sort of wondered what it felt like to fly, isn’t that close enough?” she whispered, as she turned to glance at the rapidly darkening sky once more.

“Probably but, uh, I heard that wing suit flying is the closest,” Bicycle Guy said, scratching his jaw thoughtfully.

“If I had to choose a superpower, it’d be flying,” she casually said.

“Really? That brings up so many things!” he blurted out excitedly.

“For instance, do you mean flying because you’d grow wings like Archangel, The Wasp, or Pixie? Or flying because you could somehow manipulate gravity like Graviton? Or maybe by wind control like Stor-”

However, as he glanced at her and registered the look of utter confusion on her face, he abruptly stopped and cast his eyes downwards.

“I’m such a nerd,” he said apologetically, his pale freckled cheeks reddening by the second.

“Oh, it’s alright,” she answered with a smile, for the record, she had actually thought it was pretty damn adorable, “really.”

Bicycle Guy, however, did not seem to think the same. He was still blushing as he bent down to pick up his bike, which had lain forgotten down on the pavement.

Her heartbeat sped up in sudden incomprehensible panic.

What the actual fuck?

She didn’t want him to leave.

I don’t even know the guy!

Oh but maybe she did? What was that weird feeling she had when she first saw him? It was like she recognized him somehow… her gut kept telling her that she did, and if she trusted something it was her instincts (they were never wrong).

Say something, anything.

“I’d never actually thought about the mechanics of the whole flying thing,” she commented, “which one of those you mentioned is the best?”

At that, he stopped fidgeting with his bicycle and propped it carefully against the concrete fence as he pondered about all the choices. After what seemed an eternity, his excited dark eyes once again settled on hers.

“Well, flying through wind control like Storm sounds awesome, especially since she can control the weather,” he answered offering her a small smile.

She smiled back at him, finding his boyish excitement amusing.

For a while, he continued to ramble on about all the different powers that could allow people to fly. Surprisingly, and despite never having been a big fan of superhero movies or comics, she found herself hanging on to his every word.

She wished she could feel such passion for something.

“–but… I definitely think I’d like flying like Justice,” he continued, grinning at the very idea, “he’s a telekinetic and he can use his power on himself to fly really fast and even carry people and heavy stuff… it’s awesome.”

They went on to talk about what it would be like to have secret powers and, before long, the sky went dark and the lights of the street became the main sources of light. Absentmindedly, she glanced at the time on her phone and realized it was already late. Really, really late. Later than she’d planned on returning. Max would probably be worried if she didn’t make it in ten more minutes.

She hated the fact that she’d have to cut her conversation with Bicycle Guy short – it was the longest she’d had with anyone in a while –, but she figured it was best to walk home now rather than later.

“Do you have to go?” he asked, almost immediately perceiving it from her fidgety behavior.

“Actually, I do,” she answered getting up from her place on the grassy area.

All that time, he’d been casually leaning against the brick fence that divided the sidewalk and the broad edge of the cliff. He readily offered her his hand to help her jump down from over the rustic fence she had managed to get perched over. She took it without hesitation, despite not really needing the extra help (the fence was not even that high).

“I had a good time,” she smiled, still not letting go of his hand, “we should do this again.”

He blushed a deep red and just blinked at her stupidly, his brain trying and failing to come up with something to say.

Without waiting for him to answer, she turned around and jogged away.

--…--…--…--

She’s not easy to find and if I see her again

We should get together.

 His mind was working overdrive as he pedaled home.

What does it mean? Does she want to see me again? I didn’t even ask for her name, he thought thinking back to his conversation with the girl that had (in the span of a couple of hours) pretty much become the girl of his dreams.

Not only was she beautiful – probably the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen –, but she was really nice and overall his dream girl. For hell’s sake, she had even seemed interested in his nerdy chatter! And that was really saying something, since most girls he’d tried talking to about comic books and superheroes vanished faster than he could say “Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters”.

…Well, thinking back on that one, he reckoned that maybe he and his overall weirdness (and not comic books and superheroes) were the actual reasons the girls vanished. His friends would probably agree on that, too.

He just wasn’t good at small talk and he was really, really awkward around girls… especially around the ones he considered pretty.

And man, had that girl at the beach been pretty. How could he even begin to explain it? She was pretty in a simple, unassuming way. Pretty in the way all of her features – despite their individual imperfections – fit together in the most breathtaking, perfect way.

In a daze, he remembered her soft, brown hair barely falling past her shoulders and those two cute dimples that appeared on the corners of her lips and mouth when she smiled. And the way she’d actually been enraptured throughout his superhero ramble, which was probably due to his amazing story-telling skills – something he’d never been prouder about.  

Plus, she was smart and funny too, he could tell from her witty remarks and sarcastic answers. And her lively almond eyes had lit up captivatingly when she talked about flying and when he explained why he’d choose his superpower to be telekinesis (he had ultimately managed to convince her that it was the best thing ever).

And she’d said she’d like to see him again.

But left without introducing herself, or giving him the chance to ask for her name.

What does it mean?

There was definitely a connection, he thought dreamily before mentally slapping himself for having such stupid and cheesy thoughts.

When he finally got to his building, the climb up the flight of stairs carrying his bike didn’t seem as tiring, long and tedious as it always did. He was dying to discuss this recent turn of events with his three best friends (who also happened to be his roommates); he was pretty sure they’d probably have a better idea of what the heck had actually happened and what he was supposed to do.

However, when he entered the narrow door of his shared apartment, the only one on the living room was Dustin. His curly-haired friend was currently playing a videogame and screaming at the screen in frustration.

“Mike you’re making me lose!” he said as a way of greeting.

“What?!” Mike exclaimed in fake indignation, throwing his hands in the air dramatically, “I barely even walked in.”

“Well you’ve jinxed me somehow!”

Mike smiled at his frustrated friend, as he made his way to his room.

“Son of a bitch!” he heard Dustin screaming at the TV before he closed his bedroom door and plopped down on his partially made bed.

It seemed that his talk would have to wait for the time being.

--…--…--…--

Baby we could stay in the sun, maybe if you want we could go downtown.

Baby I’ve been dreaming ‘bout you and I’m feeling naïve of the sunny weather.

 The first thing she did as soon as she got home was drink a lot of water. It was incredible just how dehydrated she’d become after the jog home.

Max watched her best friend from the living room couch she was currently lounging in.

“Was the workout that intense?” she asked, lifting a red eyebrow in amusement.

As an answer, she gave her friend a dirty look.

“Anyhow, I’m proud of you, El,” Max said honestly, “I knew you had it in you.”

“I won’t get used to this,” she replied miserably as she joined her redhead friend on the living room.

“You will, and you’ll feel better because of it,” the redhead said condescendingly.

El threw one of the nearby pillows at her.

The redhead easily dodged it.

“Stop treating me like a baby,” El complained loudly.

Max stuck her tongue out at her.

“I had been willing to forget that today is your turn to cook us dinner but since you don’t want to be treated like a baby…”

“Oh fine, but I’m going to take a shower first,” she said, getting up from the couch and rolling her eyes. Everyone knew how much she hated cooking.

As El stood under the hot spray of the shower, lathering her wavy hair, her mind couldn’t help but obsessively replay the moment Bicycle Guy and she had briefly held hands. She’d gotten weird tingles on her palm. It was uncomfortable. Now that there was no other distraction, the tingling seemed to only get stronger somehow. With a huff, she tried scratching her hand.

Weird.

[romaniassexdungeon]

Go on, Yankee, break my heart

Pairing: HuttMol

Summary: Orad writes letters he cannot send on a beach he wishes was less lonely.

Notes: Whoop, second in my sad Hetalia fics based on Pogues songs series! This one is based on Sayonara.

Given that I’ve always written him in the third person, I’ve never truly unlocked the full extent of Hutt’s narrative voice and let me just say: it is the most needlessly flowery, pretentious voice ever. Like damn, calm down and stop trying to be a poet.

Again, very sad so sorry.

Read on AO3

Michael - Molossia

Orad/Oscar - Hutt River

Apari - Australia

Manya - Wy

OK, it's time for Sayonara

Go on yankee break my heart

Dearest Michael,

You were different from the other Americans.

What I mean is, you looked different anyway. I expected the whole bloody lot of you to be blond and tanned and tall and built like Greek statues, uniforms fitting perfectly and just adding to how stupidly handsome you all were.

Like your brother, I suppose. He was all bright smiles and flashing blue eyes but something about you intrigued me.

I mean, you had the tan at least. But it was not the sun-kissed gold of your brother, rather baked red, a farmer’s tan, a mark of hard work and honesty. You were a man of the earth with a love for the land and I just knew it the moment I saw you.

Your hair was the furthest thing from blond, but, now that I recall, it was styled like a typical flashy American soldier, but you weren’t swaggering about the place, plying girls with chocolate and stockings and cigarettes.

I could see the appeal though. Even though you were slouched against a wall, watching your brother laugh and chatter with anyone who would give him a second of attention, you still fascinated me. Yes, let us use the term “fascinated” for the moment.

I could see what the locals meant about your uniforms.

I remember the sunglasses too; oh how could I not? You were the first American I saw with a pair that did not look, hmm, how should I describe it? Obnoxious? Then again, we all thought you lot were obnoxious.

It went well with your scarf. The red one. The red silk scarf tucked into your jacket. It screamed trouble to me. Well, not my trouble but your own, like you were off to jump in front of a bull. People have told me the colour red means a lot of things besides earth: love, passion, fertility, danger. Mostly danger. I worried for you, though I did not even know your name.

You would soon be off to war, after all.

You did not exactly look in the mood to talk to anyone, so I did not approach. I never approached people though.

But still, you saw me.

I never asked what you thought when you first looked at me, whether you were instantly captivated or angered that someone had disturbed your reverie or curious if I would say something. I should have asked. I will ask the moment you get home.

There are a lot of things I wish to ask you when you get home. Our time together was so short… so here’s to figuring something out when the war is over.

All the hugs and kisses,

Orad

Darling Michael,

I do not know why I write to you like I would write in a diary, but I suppose this is the closest I will come to actually talking to you until the war is over. Maybe then you can read these and laugh at my silly worries that you may not return. Maybe then I can hear your replies to my questions, and tell me all you are currently seeing in Asia.

Where are you now? Singapore? Burma? I am in the dark about most that is going on. But we are winning, right? I think that is true, that the Yanks and Aussies are pushing back against Japan? They won’t let me in any of the shops to buy a newspaper, and people are secretive about this sort of thing, lest a German is somewhere listening.

No Germans here, just me. Wanting to know how you are.

I hope you are keeping safe.

Hopes and wishes for the future,

Orad

Michael, my love,

I remember the first time you talked to me.

It was at the beach, evening time and I remember the sun painting the sky the colours of life, of nature. I remember letting the sand fall through my fingers as I watched you talk with the other Yankee soldiers and, to this day, I wish I could convince you I was there by accident. The beach is my special place, where I go to feel free and safe. Sometimes when the world is too much to bear, I go for a swim and let the cool water cleanse my face and body.

In all honesty, I was trying to make myself invisible in your presence, sitting quietly and not making a sound, but you still saw me, again. I was probably creeping you out at that point.

When the other soldiers went to the bar, you stayed behind and I wanted to flee. You were coming my way! There was, quite suddenly, no time to run.

But you just said hello, gave an awkward wave, and stood there.

The wind seemed to be attacking your coat more successfully than your hair and the sun dying at the other side of the city made you look like a fire. You smiled a goofy smile and the dimples in your cheeks made me smile back. I introduced myself as Oscar, and you told me your name was Michael.

You were alright, for a Yank.

We talked until we could no longer see, about our lives and the war we both knew little about. You told me about the USA, and I talked about my home on the edge of the city, a brother and sister, my birthplace out west that I had not seen in years. I told you my brother was off fighting and I had to stay here to look after my sister because something horrible would happen if I wasn’t around to protect her.

You told me it was your brother Alfred who was enlisted, and you volunteered to be with him, and do your bit. I remember that, Michael, how desperate you were to help, to save everyone. A man of morals, truly, and I still admire you for that. You mentioned another brother, one you only knew was alive because he was in a POW camp somewhere in Germany. I hope he will be returned to you one day.

The sun kept dipping and dipping, but you did not care. All that mattered was talking to me like we were a pair of regular boys, discussing our hopes for the future and worries. You saw me as an equal and I appreciate that. No one else here did, not the Aussies or Americans or anyone except my siblings.

Of course, there was nothing regular about your fear of death, of the real war. Everything was still a dream-like trance for you. A crappy holiday but not yet the hell your veteran father warned you about. That would soon come.

You disappeared for a while at some point, leaving me to my exhilarated thoughts and returning with a bottle of scotch.

We walked as far as we could as we drank, singing and paddling in the sea. For the life of me, I cannot remember what we sang, if we tried to teach each other the words, if we danced. No, there was dancing, I’m sure of it. When I fell in and got my hair wet, you dried it with your scarf.

I remember that well. It settled around my shoulders; you didn’t seem in any hurry to take it back. That scarf smelt of your cologne and I pressed it to my nose; I apologised for getting my salt and sand stink on it.

You… did not mind at all. Quite the opposite as you wrapped that thing around the two of us and kissed me. We were completely alone, but you still pulled away too soon. Your face… yes I understood the fear, but you did not need to fear me.

To prove it, I kissed you back.

I… am not the best kisser. I want to be the best at everything but, alas, I was terrible. So were you, I have to admit. It was something we could both laugh at, in between little pecks to noses and cheeks.

Then I wrapped your scarf back around your neck and told you to get going, that you’d be missed and we couldn’t have that now.

But, of course, if you ever needed to find me, you’ll find me on this beach.

I’m still here today; the moment you come home, you’ll know where to look.

Kisses to your nose,

Orad xx

My beloved Michael,

As strange a place as it was to meet in secret, the beach became our little, safe world. That is, when we met outside the city, behind this rock outcropping where we could kiss in private, and maybe more.

Everyone said you Americans were overpaid, oversexed and over here. I can confirm at least two of those are true.

No, wait, you’re no longer over here. You’re over there. In Burma, that is what a soldier who knew you told me. His legs were missing and so were his eyes. I begged that would not be you.

Since you left, the worry has not left my body, but it was dull, a far away but painful truth I did not want to admit to myself. And now?

There was a chance you were not coming back at all. And what state would you be in when you came back? Not that I would care about you any less, no matter how gnarled and scarred you became, not even if half your body was missing.

I just don’t wish such a fate on you.

And Apari too! Is it too much to hope you are both returned to me safe? And your brothers too. I just want us all to be fine, and together when the war is over. I want both my brother and sister by my side again, and you in my arms.

I could take on everyone responsible for this war right here right now!

I did want to sign up, and I told you as such. Apari told me not to. I needed to stay with Manya and I was a kiddo who couldn’t go throwing my life away for no reason.

But Apari can, apparently.

I hope he comes back safe.

If I didn’t worry about my sister so much, I would volunteer anyway, maybe fight with you and know just what was going on and if you were still alive. There isn’t even a way of knowing if you have been injured or captured because who is going to tell me? We made sure no one knew of our relationship for a reason, and I can hardly walk into the barracks and ask.

I have convinced myself you are safe, and that is enough for now.

Lots of wishes,

Orad xx

My life and light,

It was strange, but I had never felt as safe as when we were swimming together, in our own private lagoon. I pulled you underwater and kissed you, knowing we would be disturbed by no one in our liquid crystal.

You looked ghostly as the moon filtered through the water, like the very sand you skidded across as you let the tides – and my hands – guide you.

When we came up for air, you laughed and I couldn’t help joining in, dear. You remember, right? Your laugh is the best sound in the world, you know that, right?

Hugs and kisses and walks on the beach,

Orad xxxx

Beloved, darling Michael,

I hope our last night together is as deeply carved into your memory is it is into mine.

Oh, how could it not be? The moon was full and illuminating the sea and sand in a silvery shimmer. Everything was warm and calm as we lay together on the beach.

You laughed as we danced, jacket abandoned and your shirt soon following. You pulled off my shirt between kisses and - gently - pushed me down onto the sand.

You held my face in your hands as you cradled my soul in yours, our bodies intertwined and as loss was already building up in my heart; I did something I’d been meaning to for a while.

I told you my real name.

I wanted you to call me Orad.

And that was what you called me for the rest of the night. For once, I did not even care how your accent made it sound so ridiculous, or that my name was too foreign. I wanted you to tell me you loved me for the rest of our time together and speak words of truth.

My ears and neck burn from the ghost of your voice, memories of trailing fingers up and down my skin. I ruined your hair with my wayward hands, but you didn’t care. Mine was soon coated in powdered gold.

I pressed a hand to your chest to feel your heartbeat and wrapped that scarf around the both of us, fire all around us. Fire in me. Fire on your lips. My heart.

Your heart was my own swing band, playing furiously, like the world was ending the moment the sun rose. And it was, for us.

My mouth had a hunger only you could satisfy, and my heart had an ache that would not leave, no matter how I pressed your body against mine. I wanted that night to last forever, to feel your warmth until the sky fell around us and the earth reclaimed our bodies, but all too soon we had to kiss for the last time as sunlight tore our world apart.

I want to remember everything and hope you don’t mind. If this is too embarrassing to read, I understand. I will be right here ready to make new memories.

My hand in yours forever,

Orad xx

Faithful Michael,

You

You’re

I saw your brother today.

They carried the maimed off a truck that looked like a shrivelled olive and he was there, standing off away from the crowd as the legless and limping and broken were taken to the hospital and barracks, hidden away from the horrified, silent stares of the locals. He refused all help, and refused to go inside with the others. Most of him stood on the pavement, hunched and colourless.

His left arm is still in Burma.

I had to have some news, and besides, in caring about you I grew to care for him too, and we had spoken once or twice before, when he came to collect you. I did tend to steal you away from your countrymen.

Alfred seemed willing to talk to me now, and I lead him away from everyone staring, down to our beach.

I held out as long as I could, and so did he. Alfred talked of the war and losing his arm and watching his friends get gunned down, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak of you until I asked.

And so, with my eyes on the sea and ears in hell, I learnt of your fate.

You.

Michael.

Oh, my Michael. One piece of lead.

You’ve been dead for months.

Yours, devastated,

Orad

[creativitytoexplore]

Who To Call In Case Of Emergency by Marina Rubin https://ift.tt/35BZ5iG Tulip's mundane work environment is brightened by her adventurous, bubbly and promiscuous co-worker; by Marina Rubin.

You can learn a lot about other people's lives when you ask for their emergency contact number. A daunting task Tulip undertook with a mix of idealistic dedication and administrative weariness, when one of her colleagues, a senior underwriter, Didi Estefanos, fainted at work. Everyone ran around the office, scrambling to find a number for her next of kin as she lay on the floor unconscious, her feet in thick brown stockings protruding from the partition of her cubicle. As the crowd swayed above her, spewing water on her face and wailing Didi, Didi, someone found her profile on Facebook, tracked down her son and sent him an SOS message. By the time two masculine paramedics rolled in and strapped Didi onto a stretcher, someone was already on the phone with her frantic son, Nicholas, instructing him to meet his mother at Mount Sinai Hospital. "Would you look at that man?" Senna, the new girl from marketing, whispered into Tulip's ear, smiling at a tall paramedic with a sleeve tattoo. "It's true what they say - New York has the best looking men!" Senna had recently relocated from Florida so most of her sentences began with "It's true what they say" and were awe-inspired declarations about her new city. Tulip had seen the tall paramedic before. Twice. Once, when the Operations Manager collapsed with a stroke and, of course, the staff struggled to find his emergency contact number since the one on file in HR was from twenty years ago - his father who had long been gone; and the second time, when one of the salespeople had a seizure while closing a deal on the phone. "What kind of business is this?" the paramedic sneered, shoving consent papers into his EMS bag. "Everybody gets rolled out on a stretcher! What do you people do here?" "Healthcare insurance." Tulip shrugged, failing to see what he was implying. Then she watched Senna, in a surprising display of concern, chase Didi's stretcher down the hall and plunge into the elevator, like a puma, behind the handsome paramedic. Tulip returned to her desk and, as if on a mission, composed a fervent email to the entire department letting them know she was collecting emergency contact numbers, "so we can avoid another Didi situation". In the coming days, emails floated from every direction, from benefit clerks to C-level executives, offering up names and numbers of loved ones: "...My wife Susan... my husband Edward... my brother Boris... my mother Beverly..." hoping they would never be used, the urgent phone calls that would never have to be made. Tulip included her husband George, although he was impossible to reach, a criminal attorney who spent most of his day in court. Tulip's boss, McNally, a devout Catholic and a perpetually angry ex-alcoholic barked, "If I drop dead, I don't want you calling anybody. Let them throw me to the dogs!" As the spreadsheet expanded into several pages and circulated around the office like some kind of a death list, there was still no news of Didi. Some speculated she was in a hospital undergoing observation, while others joked she was already on the beach in Barbados, collecting disability. One morning Senna appeared in Tulip's cubicle and, pressing her body against the grey fabric panel, said enigmatically, "I know you are collecting emergency contact numbers, I'm going to give you my children's father's number." "Sure, that's fine," Tulip replied, not looking up from her computer. "Well, he's my ex-husband, actually," Senna clarified, hanging her face on the divider and staring at Tulip with oval eyes full of longing. "But we are not together; the children are with him though... well, they're in boarding school." An attractive woman in her late 30s with long bleached hair and large breasts, Senna told everyone she had always wanted to live in New York, it had been her life-long dream. She was renting a basement apartment in Brooklyn that she called a dungeon. "It has the allure of a dungeon," she once said at a staff meeting, with tenacity and pride. "I didn't know a dungeon could have allure!" McNally jeered behind her back. But Tulip liked Senna. There was a certain endearing quality to her, she was like one of those porcelain dolls, one minute beautiful in a box in a pastel ballerina skirt and the next ashen and warped, left outside in the rain with one eye broken and a dirty dress. "Actually let me think about it, maybe I will give you someone other than my ex-husband," Senna said broodingly and walked away, bumping into McNally. "What did she want?" McNally asked, dropping off a report on Tulip's desk. "She was giving me her emergency contact number." "Weirdo," McNally hissed and disappeared. Next day Senna told Tulip by the water cooler, "I'll give you my Daddy's number." "Great. Is your father here or in Florida?" "No, he's not my father," Senna laughed. "He's my Daddy... you know, like my master." "You have a master?" "I'm in an S&M relationship," Senna said, beaming. "It's true what they say - you can be and do anything you want in New York!" At home during dinner, Tulip told her husband George about the new girl Senna who apparently had a master. George nodded and yawned, "to each his own." That night in bed, he rolled on top of her and, nuzzling her ear, teased that he was now her master and she better obey him. On Friday, McNally announced that Didi Estefanos was not coming back to work any time soon, she was officially on long-term disability, and no, he didn't know what was wrong with her. The team filed out of the conference room with an intense sense of envy and resentment towards their sick, stay-at-home colleague. Senna came over to Tulip's desk and declared, "I'll give you a different emergency contact number. It's my neighbor..." "What happened to Daddy?" "We had a fight." "I'm sorry to hear that." "He's such an inconsiderate jerk!" Senna confessed, biting her nails. "He set up a date with this girl and forgot to tell me so I could schedule a date for myself too. Who does that?" Tulip shook her head. "I hear you. Men are the worst. My husband won't even put his plate in the dishwasher after he finishes eating." Then she leaned in closer. "So it's kind of like... an open relationship? Sorry, I don't know much about these things." "Open but very committed. We do play dates together and separate, with couples, and singles. It keeps our love fresh and exciting... It's just that he should have given me a heads-up so we could sync our calendars, you know what I mean?" "Right... right," Tulip nodded. "You think it's ok if I give you my neighbor's number?" Senna asked, still agonizing. "Senna, it's just a list! A formality. In case of emergency. If anything should happen to you in the office. Hopefully nothing will happen to you in the office and they won't have to carry you out on a stretcher. Your neighbor's number is just fine! Don't worry." "Of course. Nothing will happen." Senna smiled, holding up tightly crossed fingers. In time, Senna and Tulip became chatty confidantes. When they met in the elevator on Monday mornings, they inquired about each other's weekend. Senna was always eager to share her stories, no matter who was around to hear them - here she was making a guest star appearance at some elite orgy, or dressing up as a bumblebee in a simple threesome. Tulip's weekends lacked the same kind of luster and sensationalism, but still, she kept up conversation by recalling her two days of cooking, cleaning and driving her ten-year old daughter, Abby, to ballet classes and gymnastics. When the two women bumped into each other in the hall, they shared a giggling hi-five. When they met in the kitchen for a snack, they always took a minute to whisper what an insufferable prick their boss, McNally, was and couldn't someone just put him out of his misery. Eventually they discovered they both liked foreign films - naïve romantic comedies starring unattractive yet lovable French men with big noses. They also enjoyed the same kind of music - brooding guitar ballads by Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez. They started having lunch at a little Indian place down the street called Ms. Bombay, where they always ordered the same appetizer, aloo papri chat - chickpeas in tangy sauce - and shared chicken tikka masala, wrapping chunks of meat in Peshwari naan. "Can you believe this naan?" Senna gushed every time. "It has raisins and nuts! Only in New York!" Senna told Tulip about her life back in Sarasota, how she married her high school sweetheart and gave birth in succession to two boys, Chris and Kyle. How she came to be interested in the underground S&M scene; at first her husband joined her at parties at the swingers' club, and when it escalated to dark cellars, chains and fetishes, he opted out, said he was concerned for her safety, but by that time they had nothing in common, and he couldn't stop her. She was still a young, attractive woman and didn't want to live in a matrimonial tomb. So she moved to New York. She met Daddy on-line. "There are websites and user groups for this kind of thing," Senna explained to Tulip, who listened, wide-eyed, her cheeks pudgy from Indian bread infused with nuts. She even told her how she once had sex in suspension, "You haven't had sex until you've done it suspended in the air!" "Ok, stop, please!" Tulip yelled, covering her ears, "I don't think I want to hear any more."

"So you're now friends with the dominatrix?" Tulip's husband George snickered one night, brushing his teeth before bed. "I hope she doesn't recruit you into the world of bondage." "You don't need to worry about that," Tulip laughed. "It's the last thing I would want to try! She is sweet, you know, and amusing. I'm not even sure if what she says is true... But she has this touching enthusiasm for life, New York, sex, even naan! Plus, she is not a dominatrix, honey, she must be a submissive, right? She has a Daddy." George, gurgling mouthwash, muttered something along the lines of you know better, and went into the bedroom tugging at his pajama pants. "Did I tell you I had a date with the paramedic?" Senna broadcasted one day in the kitchen. There were other people around, stirring oatmeal, making coffee, slicing grapefruit. Senna did not care what anyone thought. Tulip often wondered if she did it on purpose, shocked people. "How was it?" Tulip whispered, signaling for Senna to keep it down. "We met for a drink, then went back to his place. It was very vanilla." "Vanilla," Tulip repeated, nervously looking around. That word, the flavor of ice cream she never ordered, came back to her on the train going home to Glen Rock... Vanilla... Was Tulip's life in suburban New Jersey vanilla? As in plain, dull, without flavor or spark? Her job, her marriage, her sex life? Not that she wanted to have sex in suspension, or wear leather in a room full of strangers, hell no, but the thought, as small as a sliver of an almond in a Peshwari naan, nestled between her teeth and would not budge. She was happily married, she loved her husband; when they met in college he was applying to law school and they were such a team, so committed to getting him through it that by the time he graduated and got a job at a prestigious law firm, yes the spark was gone and so was the passion, but this was their joint achievement, a real triumph, plus they already had a beautiful daughter, and Tulip was all gratitude, but that word - vanilla, that sliver of an almond... For their office summer outing the company organized a scavenger hunt. Everyone ran around the Meatpacking district, agonizing over trick questions and looking for clues in the bricks of the buildings and inside the elevators of the overpriced Chelsea Market. "Which structure used to be a church, a nightclub, a shopping mall and now a sports club?" Insurance adjusters and claim processors struggled to answer on a sweltering day in Manhattan. Senna was wearing a pair of tiny jean shorts and high heels as she leaped over cobblestones, solving demanding brainteasers, winking at construction workers and tossing excited exaltations about the history and beauty of the city. "Look at her," McNally grumbled as he trudged alone, behind all the teams, smoking a cigar and scratching his rotund stomach, "the only thing she's missing is a balloon cluster!" Senna's team won. Wearing medals around their necks that looked like chocolate wrapped in gold foil, they celebrated in a seedy bar in Union Square. Tulip had to leave early to attend Abby's ballet recital, so Senna stayed with the analysts from Logistics. Later on she was joined by a petite, dark-haired woman with a wedding ring and a briefcase. "This is my neighbor and lover Francesca," Senna introduced her to a few remaining, intoxicated co-workers. They reported that the two women were fondling each other at the bar until a glistening Mercedes came to pick them up and whisked them to an unknown destination. Next morning Senna told Tulip how sorry she was she missed Francesca, her neighbor and her lover, the one she was telling her about, the one who would be her emergency contact. "It's alright," Tulip insisted, "I don't need to meet your emergency contact." The following week, on Friday, Senna was all pins and needles, awaiting a FedEx delivery. "Have you seen the postman?" she asked every executive assistant, madly dashing towards the reception area to see if anything had arrived. She and Daddy were leaving for the long weekend at an exclusive S&M retreat in the Catskills and she had bought a lamp on Amazon to decorate their tent. "It's a beautiful white lotus lantern with twenty leaf string lights," she told Tulip, almost in tears, showing her photos on the Internet. "I was going to hang it around our tent like a garland, so it's festive and inviting, and more people will come to visit us." "Don't worry," Tulip comforted her. "It's still early, I'm sure it'll arrive." Oh, how Senna screamed when the FedEx man appeared on the floor. A week later, the building security office was conducting a fire drill and forced everyone to leave their desks and assemble in the hall by the elevators. As the fire warden droned on about what to do in case of an emergency, Tulip noticed how three women from Payroll with strangely similar hair bobs were whispering to each other and pointing in Senna's direction. "I need two volunteers to be Floor Searchers," the warden announced, looking at the gloomy faces in the crowded hallway. "One male and one female. The role of a Searcher is very important. In case of fire, you must search the restrooms, offices, conference rooms and instruct all the floor occupants to evacuate. Do I have any volunteers?" There was an ear-piercing silence and everyone looked at each other. "Alright, I'll do it," Greg, the HR Manager, like a white angel, descended onto the floor. "I guess I could be the female Searcher," Senna raised her hand. "Great! Please come up to me and give me your names. This concludes our fire drill, thank you," the warden said in a raspy voice, as everyone trailed back to the office. "Knowing her, she'll be checking the men's room first and we'll never see her again," McNally snorted under his breath, loud enough for the interns from Group Benefits to exchange glances and burst out laughing. The word about Senna was spreading around the firm, and Tulip felt bad for her friend. "You know, you don't have to tell everyone about your life," she said to Senna in one of the little nooks of the office. "No one needs to know about your lesbian affair with the neighbor, or the hot date with the paramedic, or Daddy and the orgies you attend every weekend. Really, it's no one's business. It's your private life!" "But my life is not a secret," Senna insisted. "I married young and lived like a nun for years until I realized I deserve better. I have nothing to hide. I'm proud. I'm finally living!" For her birthday, a pair of shiny thigh-high boots in black patent leather with laces up the back was delivered to the office. Senna hiked up her skirt and tried them on at her desk. "Daddy sent them!" she exclaimed excitedly. "He's taking me to the opera! We're seeing Aida at the Met!" "You're not wearing those to the opera, are you?" Tulip asked in a thin, shocked voice. "Oh no, of course not. These are for the party we are going to on Saturday." "What do you wear them with?" Tulip asked, feeling the pleather with her fingertips. "Anything you want, really, or nothing at all! You can always dress them up with a pair of long gloves, or a classic headband." "Well, have a great time at the opera!" Tulip wished her friend, just as she noticed, from the corner of her eye, McNally standing in the middle of the office, shaking his head back and forth and staring at the black sleek boots, as if they were the cadaver of an animal. A month later, completely by accident, Tulip met Daddy. On some idle Tuesday when Tulip's husband was working late and her daughter was at a sleep-away camp, Tulip and Senna were having a drink after work. A man in a grey suit and tie surprised Senna from behind by covering her eyes and commanding her to smell his fingers. Bald, stocky, in thick dark-rimmed glasses, the man whom Senna introduced as her Daddy, her master, her lover who fulfilled every one of her fantasies, literally looked like her father, a severe man with a humorless expression, someone the IRS would send to conduct an audit at an automotive company in Detroit. Senna and Daddy insisted on driving Tulip home. Tulip sat in the backseat, watching Senna weave her arms around Daddy like a willow tree, as he drove in silence with the tempo and precision of a German tankman. Tulip wondered why they were driving her to New Jersey, so completely out of their way. Did they know no one would be home, was this a ploy to get her into bed, did they want her for a threesome, was she being recruited into the world of bondage? They dropped her off in front of her house just as George was pulling down the curtains on the bay window. Tulip breathed a sigh of relief. Daddy stepped out of the car and gallantly opened the door for her. "Who was that?" George asked when Tulip walked in. "You are not going to believe it. That was Daddy!" "Daddy? You mean, your crazy co-worker's S&M master? He looked more like a Certified Public Accountant from KPMG... Do we have anything to eat?" Sometime in November, it suddenly became bone chilling and viciously windy. "It's true what they say - New York is a toothless witch of a winter," Senna announced. Having moved from Florida, she did not have any warm clothes, so she layered her summer shirts and wore the company sweatshirt advertising their new PPO plan on top. Tulip hated watching her shiver in the revolving doors of the building. Daddy should have bought the poor girl a coat, instead of those hideous knock-me-down-and-fuck-me boots, Tulip thought to herself, fuming. Instead of saying anything, she opened her closets. With care and dedication, she picked a few warm sweaters, a scarf, a hat, woolen socks, even mittens. Then she added a Burberry double-breasted cashmere coat she had snatched up on sale at Neiman Marcus. Something every lawyer's wife should own, she wore it once to a holiday party at George's law firm, now it adorned her closet like a mistletoe, something pretty but useless. She took it off the hanger and threw it in the bag. "You can have these for the winter," she handed the bag to Senna on Monday. "Oh my God, you shouldn't have. Thank you so much. That is so sweet," the Florida ex-pat jumped up and hugged her friend. Then she tried on the coat and even though she was taller and bigger in the bust than Tulip, the coat fit her perfectly. And then the morning arrived when Senna was circling Tulip's cubicle, fidgeting and fretting about something, until she finally came out with it and asked Tulip to be her emergency contact. There was something so heartrending and pitiful about the way she asked, smiling, standing by Tulip's desk, still wearing the coat, holding out banana bread she had made over the weekend in a plastic container like some kind of sacrilegious offering, that Tulip had to look away. "What happened to Daddy?" "I don't think he wants to be my Daddy anymore," Senna said, biting her chipped nails. "He found someone younger, and prettier." "I am sorry. What about your lesbian lover, that neighbor Francesca, or something?" "Her husband found out and threatened to divorce her if she didn't stop seeing me." Tulip sighed. "Look, Senna, I can't be your emergency contact, it's ridiculous. We work in the same office. It has to be someone from outside, you know, like a family member or a friend." "Why?" Senna objected. "Well, for starters..." Tulip tried to elaborate, until she realized she couldn't come up with anything reasonable, and that's when she folded, "You know what - okay, you got me!" "Really?" Senna lit up. "Great! Can you put it down in the spreadsheet?" At night, Tulip was having dinner with her husband and her daughter, a new crock-pot roast beef recipe she was trying with red-skinned potatoes, when her phone rang. It was Senna. "I'm just calling to activate my emergency contact number," she said, laughing like a gloriously happy child.

Sometime around Thanksgiving, rumors, like pocket-sized mice, were scurrying across the office and making squeaking noises in the walls. Employees congregated by the water cooler, in the hallways, in the kitchen, whispering, shaking heads, weighing in on the latest news. Didi Estefanos was not coming back to work, in fact, she had slapped the company with a massive lawsuit, claiming everything from emotional abuse to sexual harassment, ageism, racism, and all kinds of atrocities that had caused her to collapse in the office and get rolled out on a stretcher. What was wrong with her exactly, what particular ailment she was inflicted with, no one knew. Since all the tests came back negative, the doctors assumed it was stress. She hired a high-powered attorney who specialized in harassment in the workplace. The company executives from around the country flew into the New York office and spent long days in glass conference rooms, behind closed doors, talking into round speakerphones that lay in the middle of the table like UFO plates. They walked out, exasperated, wheezing, loosening their ties, pooh-poohing the process, and hurried along to lunches and dinners at the lavish New York restaurants they enjoyed on their expense accounts. Greg, a highly respected HR Manager and a proud gay man since the 80s, was seen standing outside the building, wiping his face with a paper towel. McNally was in and out of meetings, giving testimony, defending himself. "Sexual harassment my ass," he was heard screaming, "that old hag was a hundred years old!" Meanwhile, a Thanksgiving sale was in full swing at Bloomingdale's down the street. All the girls from the office were shopping in the intimates department. Tulip always joked how their check was directly deposited into the iconic department store. "I need your honest opinion." Senna came up to Tulip one day with a shopping bag. "I bought this corset for a party on Friday. But I'm not sure if it fits me right. Could you please take a look and tell me the truth, please!" "Sure." Tulip nodded. "Let me just finish this report." "Great, meet me in the bathroom in ten minutes." When Tulip walked into the bathroom, the small vestibule with a full-length mirror and a few armchairs, was empty. She proceeded into the lavatory, it was empty as well, except for the one stall at the end where Senna was fiddling with zippers, swooshing fabric. Someone had left the water running in the sink, Tulip turned off the faucet and waited. Finally, the stall door opened and Senna appeared, wearing just a corset and a pair of a high heels. "Oh wow!" Tulip squealed, veering her face to the side as if someone had just punched her. "Wow," she repeated, violently, "wow." "What do you think?" Senna asked, standing in the middle of the bathroom, anxious, alert, her breasts bulging from a see-through corset, her shaved pale vagina on display. "Looks great," Tulip said, her hand raised to her temple, partially blocking the view. "Does it make me look fat?" "No, it looks fine, not fat at all," Tulip stuttered, looking away, focusing on a crack in a tile. She did not expect to see her friend wearing nothing but high heels and a corset. She reasoned there was no real necessity to take off her pants or the skirt that she was wearing, let alone her underwear, to demonstrate a corset, especially one that went only to her belly button. And why the high heels? For the full dramatic effect, the big picture? "Do you think it's tight in the back?" Senna turned around, flexing her muscular buttocks. "No... Not tight at all." "You don't think it's too small in the breasts?" "No, it's great," Tulip repeated, making an effort to hide her embarrassment. "Are you sure? You're not just saying it?" "Definitely! You'll be a huge hit at the party on Saturday," Tulip assured her, as she hurried out the door, blaming an urgent report she forgot to do. She ran out of the bathroom and walked down the hall, shell-shocked, frazzled, smoothing wisps of hair on top of her head, grinning to herself, imagining her husband's face when she told him tonight what had just happened, how he would fall off his chair, laughing. "What's so funny?" Tulip bumped into McNally, who was always stalking the hallways and had an uncanny talent for appearing at the most opportune place at the most opportune time. "What is it?" he demanded, studying Tulip's face. "You look strange... Is everything alright?" "Yes, fine," Tulip, taken off guard, giggled in a surge of nervousness. "I was in the bathroom with Senna, she asked me to look at this corset she bought at Bloomingdale's, but... she was wearing nothing but a corset, you know..." Tulip laughed uncontrollably. "Oh, and high heels too," she added, slowly gaining composure and realizing her mistake. McNally stood quietly, his arms folded on his stomach, listening. That night, when Tulip told her husband about the encounter in the office bathroom, he did not fall off his chair laughing, as she expected. He turned surprisingly serious and asked her all kinds of questions, as if she was a witness on a stand, or a victim, or maybe even a co-conspirator. "And what did you do?" "Nothing, I ran out of the bathroom..." "Why did she do that?" "I don't know, she's probably an exhibitionist..." "What is the nature of your relationship?" "You can't be serious, honey... That's it. I am going to bed." A few days later, Tulip was in the office kitchen, draping almond butter onto a Granny Smith apple, when Greg, the HR Manager, approached her and invited her in for a chat. In a corner office crammed with ceramic bowls and teacups that Greg made in the pottery class his partner Rob bought him for his birthday, the tired HR Manager offered Tulip a chair and asked if she wanted anything to drink. She looked at the large pitcher of water sitting on the side of the table, a testament to the many people who came through this office in the last few days, and immediately said, "Greg, I don't know much about Didi, or whatever her claims are... She seemed like a nice lady, very erudite, but other than that I have nothing to add." "Tulip, I didn't ask you here to talk about Didi," Greg said in a serious tone. "Okay..." she looked at him, waiting. "I want you to know this is a safe place and everything you say here is confidential." "O-kay..." "Tell me what happened with Senna," he said compassionately. "We have zero tolerance for sexual harassment and abuse in this company, and you did the right thing by reporting her." "What?" Tulip jumped up. "What do you mean what happened with Senna? What do you mean, reported her?" "McNally came into HR and filed a complaint on your behalf. He said that your colleague, Senna Andrews, has created a sexually abusive environment for you... Tulip, if Senna has sexually abused you, or harassed you in any way, you need to tell me right now." "Sexually abused me?" "Look, we received a complaint... It went all the way to the CEO. Of course, the big wigs upstairs are worried about you suing the company, but I care about your well-being." "Suing the company? Is this some kind of a joke?" "There is nothing funny about sexually unwanted advances, especially in the workplace, especially now - with the MeToo situation, we take these matters very seriously." "This is not a MeToo situation!" she burst out, enraged. "No one harassed me! Not me! This is a NotMe situation!" "Okay," Greg looked at her keenly. "Then why did you report her?" "I didn't," she covered her face with her hands. "Well, you communicated the entire bathroom incident to your manager, Eric McNally. To tell you the truth, I was surprised. I thought you and Senna were friends." "We are friends," Tulip sighed, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Then I don't understand what happened. Why did you report her?" "I did not report her... McNally snuck up on me. That's what he does - he stalks the hallways like a creeper, and he just caught me off guard..." "I don't know if you realize it, but your accusations could get Senna fired." "No!" Tulip exclaimed. "It was a mistake, a misunderstanding. I don't want her fired. It was a mistake. Nothing happened. Greg, you have to help me. Don't let her get fired!" She rushed out of the office and took the elevator down to the lobby. She ran across the street, sat down on a fire hydrant in front of her building and dialed her husband George. He didn't pick up. It was late afternoon and he was usually in court at this time. She kept dialing his number frantically and it kept going into voicemail. She looked at the gnarled trees around her and it suddenly occurred to her that if this was an emergency, if she was sprawled out in the middle of the street unconscious, or taken out on a stretcher from the office, no one would be able to reach George, and she finally understood what Senna had been agonizing over all this time. Tulip looked up at their building. Senna was somewhere on the 24th floor, and so was McNally, and HR, and the big wigs; what was happening up there, she wondered, what were they doing to Senna now? At night when Tulip finally saw her husband and told him about her surprise meeting with HR, he put down his fork and somberly expressed his disappointment - she had played it all wrong, she should have consulted him first. "You can't be serious, George." "When your HR rep said they were worried about you suing the company, he was right. They should be worried, because this was an open and shut case. And if you had teamed up with this Didi woman and joined her lawsuit this would have been a winning case. But instead you chose to defend your little girlfriend." "I can't believe you're saying this nonsense," she hissed. "I would never accuse a friend of such wrongdoing and get her into trouble like this." "What are you defending?" George scoffed. "Your lusty little encounter in the fitting room?" "It wasn't lusty!" Tulip shrieked, slamming the door. "And it wasn't a fitting room, it was a bathroom!" she corrected him, slamming the door again. There were many slammed doors that night which ignited a bit of spark in Tulip's otherwise vanilla life.

When she came to work the next day, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Every one of her colleagues was sitting at their desks, in their cubicles, in front of their computers, doing what they were paid to do. Greg was in his office with his door closed. McNally was on the phone with his back towards the exit. Tulip looked across the floor, studied the layout of the office, and for the first time noticed the precise division of the cubicles, the symmetrical way in which the partitions were mapped out, like prison cells, or a closed mouse maze. Senna did not get fired. Whether it was Greg's humanitarian efforts or McNally's endless maneuvering, she was transferred to another group, the only division that did not report to McNally. Was she ever called into HR, reprimanded, given a warning? Did she ever find out who reported her, Tulip often wondered with trepidation. But after the bathroom incident, she started avoiding Senna. When Senna asked if she was free for lunch at their favorite, Ms. Bombay, Tulip told her she brought lunch from home, or had an important client meeting, or was running to a spin class at the gym. When Senna invited her for drinks after work, Tulip lied again and blamed PTA meetings, ballet recitals, and date nights with the hubby. One day Senna came over to Tulip's desk and asked her if she would look at a necklace she bought downstairs. "You would tell me the truth if it was gaudy, right?" "Sure, let me see it." Tulip nodded with an old familiar smile. But when Senna told her to meet her in the bathroom, Tulip looked at her for a long time and finally said, "We don't really need to go to the bathroom to try on a necklace. You can just put it on right here in this cubicle." Senna went to get the necklace and never came back.