#I've worked in an antique shop for two years now so I may have to be the one to write it actually

[ladiesandgentlehobbits]

Coffee shop AUs are cute and all, but I want to read an antique shop AU

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 2

Bruh. My back is HURTING from being hunched over my laptop lol. For some reason I've managed to shit out this next chapter at the speed of light, but I'm back at uni and deadlines are picking up so I can't guarantee another one for a couple weeks. ANYWAY - ALASTOR HAS FINALLY MADE AN APPEARANCE. Not in person yet, but he's here (in spirit). I also apologise to anyone not from Yorkshire, I've used some of our slang from there and it may not make sense, but MC's embracing her Northener crave for violence.

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 6800

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Descriptions of murder and dismemberment. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >

PART 1: Chapter 2

Another box for my trinkets it's trinketville.

Meraki (Definition): To put something of yourself into your work. (Noun)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Thursday, 7th November, 1929.

The first four months of your new apprenticeship had you thriving more than ever before since arriving in the US. The last time you had felt this joyous and satisfied you were nearly eighteen, the tickle of the long grass on your cheeks as you laid in the meadow at the height of spring, holding the bunch of wildflowers against the kaleidoscopic swirls of the evening tones of the sky above you, admiring the way the lowering sun hit the petals and the small bugs that floated around with its golden highlights. It was one of the few times you had managed to bring your racing mind to a stand-still; no voices; no random lines of songs in your head playing on replay; no worries about the chores you were procrastinating or the book your friend had recommended weeks ago that you were yet to touch. You remembered the feeling of the summer dress you wore, the texture of the leather messenger bag beside you gifted by the old woman who lived further down the lane of the village. She used to babysit you when your parents would travel to York days at a time for work or personal errands. You loved to skip down that lane, with your hand running along the rough stones of the ancient stone walls that lined the lanes of your little village you had spent your whole life in – also lining your mind with the cuts it gave you as you tried to climb over them with the twins over the years.

The routine of working at the repair shop had brought the blissful feeling of stability back, the hectic frenzy of travelling from hotel room to hotel room, checking your tickets a thousand times to make sure you were on the correct train platform, then checking again. You no longer had to worry about travel dates that would leave you feeling paralysed from doing anything else.

Mr LeBlanc had been an excellent teacher and manager, drilling skills into your mind since you stepped into the shop for your starter shift. It was certainly an experience: opening the double doors to a vintage collector’s dream, an antique emporium filled from floor to ceiling (and on the ceiling). Ralph had brought you behind the counter, to a room in the back that he gleefully revealed to be concealed by a door disguised as a bookshelf. The workshop hidden behind was every antique restorer’s sanctuary, and it was certainly yours. Drawers lining the walls filled with every tool that could file, chip away, or apply anything you could find. In the centre was a large wooden table – thick, sturdy planks covered in chips and splatters of paint and adhesives used over the years. This table would be the place you would spend the next four months, your hair tied back by a patterned silk bandana, Ralph showing you how to work with materials from wood to porcelain, metal to textiles. You would pour over books you had pulled from Mr LeBlanc’s bookshelves until late into the evening, until he sent you home with them in your bag, and you protected them with your life as you returned on the trams (or ‘streetcars’, as Americans called them) in the evening light.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he taught you everything he could, and you absorbed it all at the speed of light, your mind soaking up every piece of information like a dry sponge. By month three you had been given the go ahead to work on your first object from a customer – a small, spindly regency era chamber table belonging to a local gentleman. All it needed was some chips to be filled and repolishing, allowing Ralph to be confident enough in your abilities to complete it correctly. Your results came out on top, both Ralph and the customer being satisfied with your work, and you received the praise gleefully, along with the hefty tip the gentleman handed you over the counter. To you, everything was going fine and dandy.

Until October hit.

Apparently there were plenty of warning signs, according to most. They knew this was coming, your aunt knew this was coming. It was what she had said when you sat with her on the steps of the front porch.

“Shops are going to start disappearing.” She said, keeping her gaze ahead as she watched the cars sputter by. “With the rate this is going, I’m going to have to pull the boys out of school and get them working – I can’t keep the walls of this house up by myself.”

It had sent chills down your spine when you had picked up a newspaper, the words ‘Wall Street’ and ‘Stock Market Crash’ staining the pages for weeks. You put your mind and body into helping Mr LeBlanc, desperate for him to keep his business up and running. Unfortunately, as prices dropped, less people wanted to splurge the extra cash on something nice and antique, so you both lowered prices where you could, even going to lengths to hammer fliers to every street-post that advertised restoration jobs for any household item, promising customers that they would save money on repairs instead of buying it new.

It worked more than you thought, and it brought in enough income for Ralph to scratch by. He was also grateful you hadn’t asked for a raise to cope with the financial crisis, flat-out refusing when he had tried to hand you some tips he had received.

It was just the beginning of December when Ralph had called the house phone as you were getting ready for work. Ollie had yelled up the stairs to tell you and you scrambled down in your work trousers with your nightgown still on. Grabbing the phone, you listened to a raspy Mr LeBlanc as he told you he had falling ill with the usual winter flu. Unfortunately, being 63 meant that he was more susceptible to the illness, and was unsure if he would recover. If he did, it would still take a while, so he had asked you that morning if you were capable of running the shop solo. You had instantly said yes, refusing to let any sidetrack be his business’s downfall, so, with your head held high, you walked to his house, picking up any essential documents that he said you would need, and kept the shop up and running to the best of your abilities.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Friday, 6th December, 1929.

It was the Friday of the first week of December when you were an hour away from closing. You had been lucky that it had been pretty quiet the last few days, allowing you to settle into working your first ever Monday to Friday and getting to know the everyday things that were essential to keep the doors open. You had brought an armchair behind the counter – the gap between the counter and the wall was spacey enough for you to fit the chair and a small side table.

After not seeing any customers for over an hour, you had wandered off to the small side kitchen hidden by a Persian rug hung over the doorway to fetch yourself a warm cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake that Agnes had slipped into your lunch bag that day. Returning to the front, you placed the food and beverage on the side table, and sank into the chair, propping your feet up and delving into the book you had bought a few months ago.

Your eyes were drooping by the time you finished the tea and cake, and you rested your head on the back of the cushion, lowering your eyelids shut but remaining awake, knowing you had to get up soon in order to close in a half hour. Though the sudden sound of the shop’s bell chiming had you shooting out of your seat like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Scrambling to your feet, you scooted over to plop yourself on the counter stool, fixing yourself to look as presentable as possible as you faced the person entering. It was the mailman, stomping his boots to rid of the snow from the mild blizzard outside on the shoe rug by the door whilst holding a semi-large parcel under his arm. You recognised him from his rounds of the area, normally dropping off the odd parcel here and there for Ralph. Making sure the curls you had pressed into your hair overnight weren’t flattened at the back, you straightened out the silk scarf tied round the front of your head, flicking a curl out of your eye, and faced the man with a warm smile, to which he returned. He was a tall, young looking lad, older than you, but youth still shone in his eager eyes as he approached you.

“Afternoon ma’am,” he greeted, tipping his snow patterned hat. “I apologise for the snow on the floor, m’fraid the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

You waved him off, assuring that you were going to be cleaning up soon anyway. He inquired about Mr LeBlanc’s whereabouts, and you explained that his illness wasn’t letting up any time soon.

“Shame,” he said. “I know you’re probably not getting overrun, but it still must be complicated being a young woman running someone else’s business – especially near Christmas, having to trek home in the cold and wet by yourself.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright.” You laughed with a shake of your head, trying to not let your frustration show at the thought of him doubting your skills because of your gender. “He’s given me everything I need, and I can deal with the weather just fine. Wet and cold is the norm where I’m from.” Changing the subject, you gestured to the half-damp parcel still under his arm. “Is that addressed to Ralph or the shop?”

As if suddenly remembering the reason he was here, he quickly hauled the parcel from under his arm and slid it onto the counter.

“It’s for the shop.” He explained, gesturing a gloved hand to it. “S’pose it’s a last minute repair for a Christmas gift or somethin’.”

Placing your hands on either side, you slid the large square box towards you. Standing up from the stool, you peered at the top. Brushing off the half-melted snow, you read the handwriting that ornately spelled out the address - this was probably another repair.

The parcel itself was probably the neatest you had ever seen anything wrapped. The parcel paper was thick and expensive, the water and snow running off without leaving any trace behind except for a slight sheen, and the edges were folded so crisp and perfectly shaped and flat you wondered if whoever had wrapped it was human. Tied round like a present was a thick twine, looping into a bow directly in the middle of the top. You admired the dedication of whoever had put in the time to wrap this, running your fingers over the corners only to jerk them back slightly as the folds were so sharp they felt like they were slicing at your skin.

Looking back at the mailman, you thanked him for the delivery, and hoped him safe travels back home. Tipping his hat at you, he turned away with a farewell, and the bell chimed again when he opened the door, dipping his head against the wind as he faded into the white wall outside.

When the howling wind finally allowed the door to shut, you began the closing routine, knowing that there wouldn’t be anyone else today with the severity of the weather outside. After locking the exits and pulling the shutters closed and the blinds down, you kept the shops lanterns on as you lifted the hefty parcel with a grunt and shuffled through the hidden doorway into the workshop.

Sliding it onto the table, you got to work opening it up, pulling the twine bow free and taking some small hand-held shears to slice open the glued down folds to reveal a cardboard box.

Pulling the thick brown paper and twine out from underneath, you chucked them onto the other workbench pushed against the wall to the right. Placing the shears down, you pushed your fingernails between the gap of the serrated cardboard and swung the flaps open. Inside was a lot of loose cotton wool, and you reached in, removing the protective layer and chucking it onto the table whilst simultaneously thanking whoever had spent their time padding the box out. This uncovered a semi-large shape swaddled in a maroon-coloured knitted blanket, and you reached your arms in deep to wrap around the object and haul it out.

Laying it on the table, you pushed the box and wool out of the way, and gently began unwrapping the blanket, mindful that some repair jobs may start out with several shattered pieces that you certainly didn’t want to accidentally drop an lose amongst everything. Coming to the final layer, your nails slotted through some of the holes of the knitting and clacked against what sounded like solid wood, and slipping the material off, you had your first look at your new potential project.

It was an old radio. Well, not that old, considering radios had only been in circulation for a decade or so, but it was one of the earlier models, the features you recognised from when you visited the county Mayor’s house when you were in your early teens. It was shaped with a resemblance to a cathedral arch, the wood panelling around the edge looking like pillars that began swirling and spiralling into gothic patterns the closer you got to the top. These patterns decorating the fine grated material that covered the speaker, and a few dials were situated on the bottom half, and you immediately noticed one was missing.

Pulling a stool over, you sat down to get a closer look, and you noted down the damages that came to light. It had obviously been looked after over the years, but, as always, people are prone to accidents, and this radio seemed to have gone through a few. Apart from the dial that was missing, there was a large split down one side, between two of the panels, and scratches and slight dents from where it had obviously been dropped. Grabbing your notebook, you jotted down your initial observations, before diving your hands into the left over cotton in the box to search for anything that could assist you.

To your luck, you found a small linen bag about the size of your palm, that you untied to reveal the missing dial and a few pieces of wood that had come off in some areas. Returning to your notes, you were just about to start a proposal form for treatment when something caught your eye. Looking over to the blanket you had put to the side, your eyes landed on a fancy looking envelope.

Reaching over, your fingers clasped around the paper, the material just as thick and expensive feeling as the parcel wrap, and you brought it towards you, careful not to elbow anything in the process, because if they could afford fancy radios and paper during this crisis, then they certainly were expecting you to repair this with equally expensive standards. Holding the paper up you read the loopy handwriting on the front of the envelope:

To  the Owner.

Turning it over, you pried the even fancier wax seal apart as gently as you could as to not ruin the paper, and opening the flap, you reached in to slide out a folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, you began to read the matching, loopy words.

---

December 4 th, 1929

Dear Owner,

I do hope this package finds you well. I am delivering this fine radio to be repaired at your establishment, as it belongs to my dear Mother and I would be overjoyed to have it completed in time for Christmas. Unfortunately, it has suffered its fair share of drops and bumps, but from what I have heard from others in our beloved city, you should be able to do an excellent job. The outside is obvious with what needs to be done, but there are areas within the interior mechanics that require some repairs. Now, I would take it to the radio shop, but the man who owns it is oh-so unpleasant, and would take weeks to be returned.

I am sure you would be happy to take on this challenge, for my mother’s sake, and that you will do a splendid job.

Regards,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

You blinked. Then furrowing your brows, you read it again. And again. Did this guy want you to not only fix up the look of his mum’s radio, but magically know the ins and outs of radio technology? You shook your head, then did a quick once-over of the words scrawled onto the page. Yep, he wanted you to do a Frankenstein and completely resurrect the old thing.

Placing you elbow on the table, you rested your chin on your palm as you stared at the wall covered in tool across the room. There was no way you could do this, not without Mr LeBlanc still ill – though even if he was here, you didn’t know if he had any knowledge on radios. Sighing, you rubbed at your face tiredly, not caring if you smudged the mascara on your lashes, it wasn’t like anyone was going to walk in on you with panda eyes anyway. Letting out a prolonged groan, you came to the final decision of what to do.

Trudging back into the shop, you quickly made yourself another cup of tea, before snatching some of the letter paper and an envelope from under the counter. Slumping back onto the stool in the workshop, you placed the paper in front of you whilst reaching into one of the drawers attached to the table to grab a pen, then, taking a moment to think of what you were going to say, you began writing.

---

December 6 th, 1929

Dear Mr Boudreaux,

Thank you for your enquiry. As much asI would love to fulfil your request, there are some issues regarding certain stages of the repairs. Mr LeBlanc, who owns the company, has taken ill this last week, and it is not yet known when he will recover, and I am the only member of staff he has employed at the moment. Unfortunately, I am not experienced in radio mechanics, and strongly advise that you come and collect the radio and take it to be repaired at a radio shop.

The radio can be returned here for outer repairs, but I am afraid that is the only option I can offer you at this time. The radio will be ready for you to collect from 9am on Monday morning. I do apologise for the inconvenience.

Regards,

---

Signing the first letter of your name, along with you surname, you read over what you had written. Satisfied, you sealed it in the envelope and got to work wrapping the radio back up. Quickly taking a candle, you took a peek in between the crack in the wood, the light shining on the innards. You definitely had no chance of fixing that, if the absolute mess of dislodged coils, wires and metal pieces inside said anything. Reluctantly you placed it back in its box wrapped up and padded with the cotton, before taping it up and re-glueing the parcel paper and twine back in place. It was a shame that you had to reject the request, the payment for the repair would have benefited you and Ralph quite a bit, and it made you feel awfully guilty to prevent someone’s gift for their mother, but it was out of your control. So, with the guilt hanging over your head, you pushed the parcel into the corner under one of the tables on sale.

Doing one last round of the shop, you extinguished the candles dotted around and flipped the light switches off except the main one by the door. With your coat and gloves on, you made sure the scarf was wrapped tight round your neck before grabbing your bag and did one last sweep of the place. Glancing in the corner, you took one last lingering look at the sorrowful parcel that sat under the table, but quickly snatched your eyes away, and grabbing the keys, you flipped the final light switch and stepped out into the cold, looking for the nearest post-box with the letter grasped in your hand.

--------------------------------------------------------------

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Monday, 9th December, 1929.

Monday came rolling round as usual, and you began your usual weekday routine of washing and dressing yourself before heading downstairs for breakfast. Scooping some scrambled eggs onto the toast on your plate, you trudged from the kitchen to the dining room, the slap of your bare feet on the tiles echoing through the wide hallway.

Shuffling through the doorway, you sat opposite Ollie, who, by the looks of it, was still waking up as he shovelled buttered toast into his mouth with his head still lying sideways on the table. Reaching over, you slapped the handle of your fork against his ear that stuck out from between his loose, dark curls, and he let out a whine as he sat up to face you with one eye glued shut, the other barely open, bread hanging from between his frown.

“You’ll choke eating like that.” You said as you scooped egg into your mouth.

Ollie dropped the toast from his mouth onto his plate. “Good.” He mumbled. “S’better than Miss Sammie droning on and ooonnnn about nonsense.” He flopped his head back on the table.

“Well enjoy it while you can.” You snorted. “If this crash gets any worse Mum will be pulling you both out to find jobs. And I know you two wouldn’t last a day in the workplace.”

He jerked his head back, scrunching his face in offence. “Like you would be any better.”

You deadpanned. “I’m currently working 9 -5, Monday to Friday, dumbass.” You jabbed back in annoyance, throwing a piece of crust at his forehead.

“Shit, forgot about that.” He grumbled, but perked up suddenly. “Yea, but you’ve only been working full time since last week!”

You chucked another crust. “Running a shop full time on my own – something I’ve never done before??”

“Still.” He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

You had opened your mouth to retort, but stopped halfway as Allie’s voice echoed through from the kitchen.

“There’s been another one!” he called out, almost excitedly, the thumping of his feet vibrating through the floorboards as he practically sprinted into the room with the morning newspaper grasped firmly in his hands. The two of us jerked back as he slammed it onto the table.

“Amuver!?” cried Ollie, voice muffled by food, though he quickly swallowed it. All evidence of his tiredness now gone, he snatched up the paper and brought it right up to his face. “It’s barely been a week!”

“I know!” Allie replied, his voice rising in volume every time he spoke. “At this point it could end up happening every month!”

You looked between the two of them confused since you couldn’t see what Ollie was reading. “What could happen?” you asked, perplexed.

The two of them froze, turning to stare at you. Their eyes darted to each other, before Ollie lowered the newspaper and spoke.

“…The murders?” He revealed, as if it was the most obvious thing.

You blinked, then looked between the two, more confused. “What murders?”

“What!?” Allie cried, bracing his hands on the table as he leant over it, eyes wide. “You’ve been gallivanting round town for seven months and don’t know about thee murders??”

You leant back slightly at the sight of your cousin’s crazy expression, and slowly shook your head. “I’m uh – not one to read the newspaper often.” You explained sheepishly.

He gaped, clearly shocked at your lack of knowledge about the subject. His head whipped to where his brother sat, and his hand reached out and snatched the newspaper from Ollie’s. You quickly moved your breakfast out of the way, saving your food from being flattened as Allie slammed the paper down and began aggressively prodding at the headline on the front page. Swatting his hand away, you read the giant words printed above a photograph of a lake you didn’t recognise.

‘BARRISTER FOUND BUTCHERED ON EMBANKMENT’

Suddenly intrigued, brought the paper closer to read the front column.

Tragedy strikes again in New Orleans as the remains of county barrister, Paul Morgan, were found on the embankment and in the water of Lake Cataouatche by visitors to the area. Morgan was reported missing last Wednesday by his wife, Martha, when he failed to return home for two days after a night out on Monday with his colleagues. It was reported that Morgan’s body was dismembered, and his head took several hours to locate. However, certain body parts are still missing, therefore the lake has been closed off to the public for the foreseeable future. Police are calling in and searching for potential suspects, and give their condolences to Paul’s close family and friends, stating that they are working overtime to bring the killer to justice and prevent any further deaths. Due to the nature and severity of the crime, it is possible that this is another victim of who the public dubs ‘The Bayou Butcher’. The Sheriff strongly encourages people to stick to an early curfew and remain indoors after nightfall, as the safety of the public cannot be guaranteed at this trying time. (More on Page 5)

You went to flip through, but the paper was pulled out your hands by Ollie who wanted to read it.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Allie hissed excitedly as he lowered himself onto the chair at the head of the table between you both. “This could be another Axeman!”

Ollie gasped, eyes sparkling. “Shit, it could!”

You perked up. “Another Axeman? How long has this guy been around?” you asked as you brought your breakfast back in front of you.

Allie turned to you, eyes shining in excitement. “The first body was found in 1927 – and the rest have been popping up every 2-3 months, but this is the first time there’s been two in less than two weeks!”

You narrowed your eyes in thought. “How do you know it’s all one guy?”

At this question he seemed to get more excited, practically vibrating in his seat as he gestured to his twin. “Ollie and I have been collecting newspaper clippings on every murder that’s happened, and we’ve tried to eliminate any outliers – like, different weapons, ones that are bleedin’ obvious who did it – the rest all have the same MO: they never find the whole body.” He yammered on at light speed, emphasising each word with a loud thump of his finger prodding the table. “Sometimes it’s not obvious, I think they try to throw the police off by going for something small – like a finger – but there’s always something missing, and we know it’s them.”

You frowned. “Them?”

He shrugged. “Could be a woman.” You raised an eyebrow. “What!? I don’t discriminate! Women can be scary!” You slowly sat back in your seat, staring your cousin down. He pointed at you as he looked at his brother with wide eyes. “See!? You wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged a body in?”

Ollie swallowed the food he was chewing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused the second Great Fire of London because someone stole her food.” He said nonchalantly, before casually returning to his toast.

“Exactly!” cried Allie. “No wonder the government wants you all nice and buttoned up in a strait jacket!”

Dropping your fork with a clatter, you looked up at him in shock, mouth hanging open. He froze, quickly realising what he had said, and his face slowly scrunched up as he cringed.

“Too far?” he squeaked meekly as he glanced at you. “Sorry.”

Pouting, you glared silently before picking your fork back up.

A few moments of silence passed, before Ollie decided he had experienced enough of the dampened mood. “You know,” he began, catching your attention again. “We think the body parts aren’t just missing for the sake of it.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued again.

He looked you directly in the eye. “We think they’re eating them.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oo yummy, like a cannibal?” you queried, eyes darting to Allie, who perked back up, nodding. “So… there’s a cannibalistic serial killer running around New Orleans?”

Allie pointed a finger. “Serial killer, yes. Cannibal, possibly. We don’t actually have any proper evidence for that. I’m also going to skip the ‘yummy’ part, cuz I know you would never willingly consume human flesh.”

“You would be correct,” you confirmed with an amused smile, before glancing at the two. “Has mum ever suggested that you two should consider joining the police force?”

All you got were two matching cheshire grins in response.

----------------------------------------

After cleaning up your food, and disappointing the twins because no, you didn’t bring your serial killer books to America with you, because you didn’t want to be judged by the luggage inspectors on the ferry, besides, Jack the Ripper got a little boring after a while.

Even though it was interesting to learn about the current events of the city you were staying in, the subject of said current events did end up putting you on edge when you travelled to work that morning, with you clutching your bag a little tighter, and intensely staring down anyone who looked at you a little odd on the tram. It even got to the point where you had stepped off the tram, and spent the ten minute walk between there and the shop glancing down any alleyways as subtle as you could, even though you knew you would spot anyone against the white snow that reflected the morning sun into your poor, suffering eyes anyway.

Unlocking the shop doors, you stepped in, stomping the snow off of your boots on the mat before picking it up and shaking it off outside. Crossing the threshold of the room, you ducked under the rug into the kitchen, shrugging off your scarf and coat and hanging them up on the pegs.

You were just dusting off the old grandfather clock that was slotted between the shelves of smaller antique clocks when a knock echoed through the shop. Jumping slightly, you lowered the feather duster in your hand and looked over your shoulder to see the same mailman from Friday waving at you through the window in the door, his smile growing as you made eye contact with him . Placing the duster down, you quickly strode over to the door, twisting the locks before pulling it open and sticking you head through the gap.

“I do apologise Miss,” he began after you said hello. “I hate to interrupt you whilst your still getting ready to open, but my boss handed some priority mail to me – said I had to get it to you as soon as I could.” He held a letter out in front of you.

Frowning, confused, you slowly reached out and took the letter from his hands. “Okayyy…” Turning the letter around you came across some very familiar hand writing:

‘To Mr LeBlanc’s Employee.’

“Oh god.” You groaned quietly, your shoulders slumping. This could turn out to be quite nasty if this was going the way you thought it would.

The mailman glanced between the letter and your very prominent grimace. “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern shining in his eyes.

“Yea! Yea,” you breathed, glancing around the street with the dwindling hope that your client would show up to pick up his parcel, but the letter in your hand said otherwise. “Everything’s fine. Just some very small business issues.”

He glanced at your face again, and went to open his mouth, but hesitated, seemingly switching what he was going to say. “Well, uh, I hope everything goes well, ma’am. I’ll see you around?”

You nodded, still staring down the street. “Yea, sure. See you around.” You said distractedly. Quickly giving him a strained smile, you stepped back to close the door, and the man tipped his cap at you again before strolling away.

Walking over to the counter, you slumped onto the stool with a groan, chucking the letter down in front of you. Leaning your elbows on the surface, you rested your forehead against your palms as you glared at the words inked onto the paper. The way it was addressed to you already screamed passive-aggressive, and you hated confronting anything or anyone with a passion, and you certainly didn’t want to confront this Boudreaux guy because you denied his mum a Christmas present. With a loud whine, you slammed your head onto the counter before blindly patting the surface until you felt the thick paper and slowly dragged it towards you. Sitting back up, you held the seemingly innocent envelope in front of you, and stared at it for a couple more moments, before you couldn’t take it anymore and tore it open.

---

December 7 th, 1929

To the Employee of Mr LeBlanc,

I hope this letter has found you in post haste. I am deeply upset that you lack the skills of radio repair, after all it is a growing medium that most should be learning at this point. Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will refuse your rejection. The fliers you put out stated very clearly that you could repair ANY object, and it would be very disappointing for people to hear that it no longer has that skill to offer, since the only other option for radio repair during these trying times is a very unpleasant experience with that owner I mentioned.

I do hope my Mother’s radio will be fixed on time, I do hate to disappoint her. If Mr LeBlanc does not recover within the period, or you have any queries about the repair, please call the number I have written below.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Best Wishes,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

If your mouth hung open any further than you would be catching every insect that resided in the swamps surrounding the town.

Was this guy fucking for real??

You scoffed slightly. Then again. Eventually you scoffing spiralled into manic laughter as you guffawed at the audacity that this man thought he had. With wide eyes, you slammed the paper down back onto the counter, staring over at the wall because if you looked at those words any longer you would probably end up tracking this man down so you could shove his mother’s radio up his ass along with the fat metal rod that apparently already resided there.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed back the stool and stood up, deciding you needed you reset your mind before the first customers came in. Marching back to the kitchen, you spent the next five minutes sat in the middle of the floor, waiting for the kettle to boil as you very angrily stuffed the blueberry muffin you had brought in your mouth. You glanced at the clock and pouted as you realised you only had 15 minutes before you had to put on your best customer-friendly expression despite the metaphorical grey cloud that thundered above your head.

Thinking for a moment, you shot back up, chucking the muffin case as you strode back through to the counter, and snatched the letter up, marching back to the kitchen over to the rotary phone on the table in the corner. Picking up the handset, you pressed it to your ear as you spun the number written out on the paper in front of you.

It rang for a moment, and you tried to picture the man who would – hopefully – receive your call. You expected to hear the gruff voice of some 50 year old, that would start yelling down the line about how incompetent you were, especially when he found out you were a woman, before you heard a crackle as it was picked up and a polite and much younger sounding “Hello?” came through.

You froze for a moment, your vision of some rude, old guy whooshed away at the voice of a much younger, more spritely man, and you pictured someone like the mailman, until you heard a louder, drawn out “Hellooo?”, the man on the other end seemingly becoming amused at your lack of response.

Snapping yourself out of the character builder you had in your mind, you quickly spoke. “Hello, do I happen to be talking to–”

“Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” You blinked as you were interrupted. “But I do believe you’ve accidentally called an American number!” The man said chipperly, though there was a condescending undertone – his amusement clearly growing at the thought of your apparent mistake. You guessed it was when he heard your accent.

“I- what?” you stammered down the receiver.

“Oh you poor thing.” He simpered over the line like some fake grandma comforting you after you tripped over. He was clearly having fun – you could just picture the fake pout he was putting on. “Like I said, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

No, this was definitely the right one. His attitude over the phone matched his attitude in the letter precisely.

You could hear him being to move to put the phone down, and you quickly called out. “WAIT NO!!” you cried, on the verge of an outrage. “I definitely put the right number in! Now, am I or am I not speaking to a Mister Boudreaux?”

“Oh! Do pardon me.~” He practically sing-songed. Oh, so now he was willing to listen? “Yes that is I, and to who do I owe the pleasure to be called by an English dame such as yourself?” the fake flirtatious tone had you picturing the faceless man laid on his front, kicking his legs as he twirled the coil between his fingers. You pushed that amusing thought down, however, when you caught sight of the piece of paper in your hand.

“I got your letter.”

“Ah,” It was like a switch was flipped, the man’s tone darkening slightly. “I see.”

Rereading the words this guy had put down, you could barely control yourself, and you pictured the time your mother had marched you down the lane to the house of a boy in your school year. That boy had given you a large bruise on your forehead, and instead of telling you that he did it because he fancied you, your mum decided to give him and his family the verbal lashing of your life. ‘I’m not raising you to snap at the slightest pressure like those London lasses, my love’, she had said, ‘You’re gonna go down kicking and screaming like it’s the last thing you’ll do’.

And that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.

“Right,” you began, your Yorkshire accent coming on full force. “I’m gonna need you t’ open yer lug ole, lad, cuz I dunno how you lot do customer service over here in America, but bein’ passive aggressive t’ someone who’s literally done nowt to deserve the absolute shite you’ve just given me makes you out t’ be a right knob’ead, you hear me?” You reprimanded. “If you don’t get your arse down to the shop by the end of the week, I’m putting ya mum’s radio down as unclaimed and selling it t’ the next person I see!”

You quickly slammed the phone down, too fuming to hear anything that Mr Boudreaux had to say. The only reason you felt a little guilty was that you knew nothing about this guy’s mum – she could be the sweetest woman in the world, and you just up and went and threatened to sell her possession! Though, with the way her son behaved, you would be surprised if she turned out to be just like him. Ugh, then you would be dealing with two of them.

Letting out a sigh, you picked up the phone again, instead dialling the phone number pinned to the corkboard on the wall. It rang for longer this time, and when it picked up you received a very loud coughing fit. When it died down, you finally spoke.

“Ralph I need your help.” You groaned, plopping yourself down on the spindly chair next to you with a defeated sigh.

“I’ve got the worst customer in the world.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Does uh, anyone want more memes?

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, and I do apologise for the sudden dialect change, I was desperate for MC to finally speak the way I do lol. See you soon for Chapter 3!!

Please let me know if you want to be added to the Taglist!

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[where-dreamers-go]

I posted 667 times in 2022

424 posts created (64%)

243 posts reblogged (36%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@girl-next-door-writes

@heckyeahnationaltreasure

@shenanigans-and-imagines

@princessxkenobi

@the-and-sign-anon

I tagged 559 of my posts in 2022

Only 16% of my posts had no tags

#where dreamers go - 354 posts

#star wars - 88 posts

#fandom goodness - 85 posts

#erica answers - 56 posts

#imagines - 45 posts

#eragon - 34 posts

#riley poole - 32 posts

#youtube - 30 posts

#national treasure - 28 posts

#eragon reaction - 27 posts

Longest Tag: 135 characters

#i will never forgive them if they kill off the original three. then i can't rewatch it. and it doesn't go with the rules of the islands

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Sam and Dean exchanged anxious looks.

"I'm sorry. What was that?" Gabriel asked.

"We left (Y/N) at the antique shop to keep an eye on the employee." Sam repeated as his shoulders dropped.

"With the vampire." Dean groaned. "Damnit."

Taking in a deep breath as the tension rose in the room, Gabriel stepped forward. "Out of all the...," he exhaled through his nose and continued, "You two are hunters. What were you thinking?" He held up a finger to hush them. "I'm going. And I hope you didn't want the employee alive."

"Hey," Dean gestured strongly with a hand. "How were we suppose to know they had a freakin' nest nearby?"

"Sammy here said all the windows are blocked out...genius." Said Gabriel before he took off to help you.

112 notes - Posted April 16, 2022

#4

Sighing, you continued staring at the green undergrowth. You had found a spot private enough for thinking without interruption. The Resistance's base was busy, your home away from home.

Events were picking up again and your heart ached with what you had left unsaid. Words and answers to what questions you had been dodging like blaster bolts. It had been too long.

"Hey you."

"Wah," you flinched.

"Sorry." Poe held up his hands. "I thought I'd come find you. You seem to be stuck in your head the past couple of days."

"Yeah." Your gaze traveled elsewhere.

"Hey now, don't go off without me." He said, regaining your attention. "Is there anything I can do? I know something's on your mind."

A weak smile pulled at your lips. Poe's kindness never surprised you.

"There's a lot...going on," you said quietly, "in my head, my heart, the galaxy..."

"We've made it this far," Poe offered you a smile. "And we'll still make it together."

"That's.... that's it though. I don't know what's going to happen. That's scary to think about, but... there's so much change and.... And I've realized that no matter what's happening, what has happened, and whatever it is I'm so afraid of.... It won't make me stop loving you."

Poe watched as your words were no longer whispers, but impassioned truths you had been hiding. All of your jumbled thoughts and feelings voiced to him.

See the full post

118 notes - Posted March 18, 2022

#3

"Halloween Mission" Connor x Reader

(Imagine: Connor searching for you when your phone's battery dies.)

(A/N: This got out of hand and is basically an insert reader. Guess this is my first one with rk800!

Warnings: none. Unless you count a mild reference to Assassin's Creed.

Word Count: ?? I'm on my phone.)

~~~

Of all nights, it was Halloween.

People were trick or treating, going to parties, working late shifts, causing mischief, eating candy, and a list of over fifty activities.

Connor had thought of them all and more unsavory ones. He had hoped that this year would be calm in the city. A big hope, but his nonetheless.

Deviancy tended to do that. Emotions.

Along with deviancy came new experiences and friendships. You were both of those surprises for Connor.

A friendship that may have started oddly, however neither of you would trade a second of it. Connor valued you as a friend. He cared. He could talk to you about anything. He trusted you.

Halloween night he worried.

Already knowing you were joining other friends to an event, Connor didn't want to interrupt your fun. Yet, you sent him photos throughout the night nonetheless. That wasn't the problem.

The issue arose when his texts were left unread. A promise of another set of photos was left empty. Your voicemail being the only reply Connor could receive.

He waited fifteen minutes. After that he checked to see your location via your phone. Nothing. No update.

Thirty minutes later, Connor was passing the third long line of guests as they waited to board an attraction.

In his life, he had not scanned so many faces in such a short amount of time.

Connor needed to find you. In a place that crowded, there was no telling what could have happened to you.

Hopefully nothing, Connor thought. This could be a sign of overreacting. He shouldered passed a group of people dressed as hooded assassins.

"Need help, man?" One of them asked.

"No, no, no." Another said with a grin and then said dramatically, "he's on a mission. He's got a contract."

The friend bumped the other and rolled their eyes.

Connor decided to amuse them. To add to their fun target than load them with his worry. Smirking, Connor backed away saying, "I always accomplish my mission."

Leaving the excited chatter behind him was one of his many steps. The event space was large. It was a challenge he didn't hesitate to take.

He eyed an enthusiastic crowd in front of a live band and hesitated.

They said they were thinking of skipping--

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice. Connor turned around.

"Connor!" You called out in surprise and relief.

The android ran up to you without delay. "Are you alright? You didn't answer your phone and your location was offline--"

See the full post

242 notes - Posted October 29, 2022

#2

In regards to the upcoming game Disney Dreamlight Valley, I hope future characters come from more "bronze age animation" movies.

For example:

Treasure Planet

The Emperor's New Groove

Brother Bear

Also, oh my goodness we get Merlin and hopefully the educated owl, Archimedes.

I'm also hoping for anything Encanto and Aladdin.

But OMG what if they add Oliver And Company??? Or 101 Dalmatians?!?

I want to design my avatar's house with dalmatian spots.

264 notes - Posted August 11, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

“Just Ask” Bernard the elf x elf!Reader

(A/N: Requested by Anon, for anything Bernard. I’m counting us all lucky that I didn’t need to ask for any prompts or anything this time. Just jumped right into writing. Am I okay? Gosh. So…this was suppose to be an Imagine: Santa trying to help Bernard find out if you like him. Warnings: None. Word Count: 445 words)

The North Pole. A place known for its workshop, elves, reindeer, and magic. Christmas spirit.

People’s first thoughts of the North Pole tended not to be an image of an elf starting to panic at the idea of asking another elf out on a date.

“You’ve waited this long, Bernard.” Santa reasoned. “Just find the right moment…and…ask.”

Bernard sighed.

“You haven’t exactly been that subtle.”

“What?”

“They show up,” Santa gestured with his hand, “and snap. Heart eyes.”

“I—no.” Bernard stood firm. “I don’t know for certain ow they feel about me and the last thing I want is to ruin our friendship by crossing a line.”

Santa groaned, looking to the ceiling. “It’s not a line.”

Putting his hands on his hips was a telltale sign that Bernard was more than a little worked up. Why wouldn’t he be? They were discussing a decision that would change his life. He could not take it lightly.

“Oh.” Santa grinned with an idea. “How about you flirt with another elf in front of them? See if they get jealous. Then you’ll know.”

“Wha—,” Bernard gasped, hands going up to his face for a second. “Nope.” He shook his head.

“Then the next time you see them….you ask them out?”

“Okay! Alright.” Bernard took a breath.

Santa smiled, relieved. “Well that’s good…” His eyes glanced over the elf’s shoulder. The smile spread into a grin.

“Excuse me, Santa.”

Your voice made Bernard’s heart leap. For more than one reason. He wasn’t sure he could even turn around.

“Yes?”

“May I speak with Bernard for a moment? I promise it won’t take long.”

The splitting grin on Santa’s face and your close presence made Bernard want to stuff himself into his satchel.

“Of course.” He looked to his head elf. “Bernard, I’ll be in the Naughty and Nice Center.”

Both you and Bernard watched momentarily as Santa left you two alone.

Taking a quiet breath in, Bernard composed himself. He was the head elf after all.

Bernard turned around and faced you.

Upon seeing his face, you smiled.

His knees felt like jelly.

“Hello Bernard.”

“Hi.”

See the full post

272 notes - Posted November 1, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[casspurrjoybell-17]

Hart and Hunter - Chapter 31 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

Julian Hart

"My grandfather?"

"More like his grandfather. I went down to the town archives to poke around. I was hoping to find some original building plans but instead I found this. Hang on..."

I wait and a moment later my phone pings as it receives a texted image.

I open it and find a picture of an old photograph.

It's an old-timey portrait of a man seated in a chair.

He has handsome features, slicked-down hair and a somewhat severe expression and he stares directly at the camera with an intensity I feel across the span of time.

He also looks vaguely familiar.

My phone pings again as a second image comes through.

This one appears to be of the photograph's back, on which two words are written in an antique script I can barely decipher.

Freya squints at it over my shoulder.

"Julius Hart?"

"Yeah," Grace confirms.

"And you would not believe the number of dusty boxes of un- cataloged crap I had to sort through before I found even a crumb of information on the guy. Even that is barely a mention but... hang on."

There's another pause as a third image comes through.

This one is a picture of a microfilm screen showing a page from an old newspaper.

I enlarge the image and read aloud.

May 12, 1885 — SPRING LAKES, CALIFORNIA.

Mayor Josiah Inglewood of Spring Lakes has announced the construction of a new town center, to be designed by architect Julius Hart. After a harsh winter marked by bitter losses for the small mountain community, Mayor Inglewood asserts that the modernized buildings will bring new life and prosperity to the region. Lingering anger and resentment following the mysterious disappearances of seven children over the past year has plagued Inglewood's campaign and his choice of Hart to lead the project has not escaped scrutiny. Hailing from Ireland via New York, Hart is well known among Spiritualist circles as a man to call when a problem defies rational solutions. His presence in Spring Lakes has aroused curiosity and suspicion, as well as hope. Since his arrival, no further disappearances have occurred and some... including this reporter... have wondered if there might not be some connection between the two. Construction of the new buildings is slated to begin within the month.

I look up at Freya and see my shock mirrored on her face.

"I did some digging, too," Chloe says, chiming in over the line.

"I found some mentions of a 'Hart' family in my uncle's journals. They were some sort of 'Shifter hunters' but they were all killed off or died out over time. Julian, I think you're the last of their line."

I grimace.

"Great. So, if you're right, I've got wolf-slayers on one side and Shifter hunters on the other. Dane will love that."

"Dane won't give a shit," Freya says.

"The important thing is that whatever happened with the portal back then, your great-great-great-grand-pappy was a part of it. Didn't you say Stephanie saw children in the Shadowlands?"

"Yeah but no children have been reported missing, that I'm aware," I say.

"This is amazing work, anyway, Grace... you, too, Chloe. Obviously the portal and maybe the skin-changers and Fae, have caused trouble before. I just... don't know how it's connected to what's happening now."

Freya sighs.

"Too bad the one person who could probably tell us everything can't speak."

Even as she says this, it hits me.

"Rhiannon," I gasp.

"The rune in Stephanie's shop said 'Hart.' I thought it was about me or my grandpa but what if she was trying to tell us something else? Something about this Julius guy and whatever happened back then?"

"If only there was some way we could ask her," Freya says dryly.

"Maybe there is," I say, my excitement... somewhat feverish from lack of sleep and compounded emotions... growing with every word.

"The spell-kit Danni gave me worked, in its own way and I think Danni has a real Gift... whether they know it or not. Maybe they know something about breaking curses. You said yourself you've seen something similar, right?"

"Similar in effect. That was human magic. This is probably Fae and I have no idea if what works for one would work for the other."

"I say it's worth a try. Chloe, Grace... thank you both. This is the biggest break we've had yet. Maybe you two should be the detectives from now on."

"I'll stick to research, thanks," Grace says.

"I'm not the one who enjoys running headlong into danger. That said, be careful, Julian and call us if you need anything."

I promise that I will and hang up before grabbing my wallet and keys.

"Whoa, where you going?" Freya asks.

"To see Danni. You stay here and wait for Dane."

"No, no, no. That's not how this works, Juju. We stick together, you hear me?"

"Tell that to Dane. We're supposed to be equals, Mates, a team but the second he thinks there's something real to do, he 'goes solo.' Well, he's not the only one who can. So you can either stop me, come with me or let me go because I'm not waiting for him this time."

Freya stares at me as if seeing me for the first time, and then shakes her head.

"Okay, fine... I'll come with you. Just leave him a note or something, okay? Don't let him come back, in whatever state he's in and find the house empty and you gone. He looks tough on the outside but... well, you know how he is."

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding, and cover my eyes with my hand.

As angry as I am, I understand my mate well enough.

"Okay. Give me a minute."

Grabbing a pen and a pad of sticky notes, I scribble a message, then crumple it up and try again.

On the fifth attempt, I think I have it right.

Dane, gone to Danni's for supplies love you. Julian

Dane will know what it means, while to any other eyes it appears innocuous.

I stick it to the outside of the front door at eye level, the bright yellow paper unmissable against the dark wood, before walking to my car.

As Freya follows me, I pause beside the vehicle and turn in a slow circle, sweeping the land with my gaze.

By this time the sun is up, and the meadow glitters with dew beneath its first golden rays.

The forest beyond is quiet and still, except for the usual busyness of birds. There's no sign of Dane.

Casting Freya a glance, I find her watching me with a worried frown.

I shake my head, open the car door and get behind the wheel.

She circles around and gets in the passenger side, folding her long limbs into the small space.

We share a look and I feel a sort of understanding pass between us.

Then I start the engine, put the car in gear and turn towards town.

[gigslist]

What Show Biz Women Wear

Dispelling some show biz fashion myths. Working the biz in various arts a couple of decades, a few awkward fashion situations have popped up. Making it a God send that the women in my family love high-end fashion and we all can sew. Situations especially backstage networking and in meetings with decision makers. Sometimes also on stage. Good presentation is a practicality to get connections, sponsorships and funding. So your business can pay wages. Good presentation is better chances of opportunities to grow. Not flashy designer labels nor fashionably thin. Well tailored, tasteful and tailored to your body shape.  For a concert gig I was sitting in a meeting with some big shirts and my boss who dressed like a new age hippie. I was in black jeans and black 3/4 sleeve silk with boat neck. The meet was downtown San Francisco, California. The San Francisco that put New Age and Hippie on the modern world map. The big shirts all but ignored my boss and only talked to me. Awkward on so many levels.  I've seen hippie women chased out of cafes, stopped by security at building doors and blocked by office receptionists. In San Francisco, USA and Melbourne, Australia. They are not being assholes. Billionaire's staff have high standards, because it’s their job. As well as serve coffee, good receptionists and airline hosts are greenroom bouncers and fashion curators by other names. There is another reason why Hippie in the boardroom dims your chances. The 1967 Summer of Love in Haight Ashbury was only 3 months and mostly 12 and 13 year old runaways. Really and truly. San Francisco was never a Hippie town; it has been a bohemian town since La Belle Epoque. So when big shirts see Hippie, they subconsciously think 12 year old about to over-dose. Or Janis Joplin about to drink herself to death.  I met Chet Helms on the backstairs of a warehouse party in San Francisco, and we shared a couple of joints. Manager of Janis Joplin and producer of the 1967 Human Bein. He became a dear friend, and I became an alumni of Family Dog. Chet wasn’t a hippie. He was a beatnik. He supported his disabled brother and wife and kid with an antique shop and art gallery. He was also a proper Texas gentleman and mostly wore a suit and tie off camera.  How the name "Hippie" evolved was from 1960s hipster beatniks. The beatniks who couldn’t afford rent in hip North Beach lived in low rent Haight Ashbury. ‘Hippie’ was the nickname the beatniks gave the 12 and 13 year old runaways. It is short for ‘Baby Hipster.’  A huge NO NO for big girls and older women on stage and camera or off stage and camera is short shorts. You know the thigh rubbing snatch grabbing spandex or satin too tight underwear short shorts? Men only look at your fanny to see if there is a wet patch and women don’t know where to look. They will remember very little about you or what you do. They will try not to remember your short shorts. By now some of you are thinking about the pile of tie dye, spandex and old lace you will have to take to the thrift store. But before you start decimating your wardrobe, you might be able to upcycle some of it. Upcycling is making something old into something new.  Chet and I had old-fashioned upbringings. Women and girls always dress nicely and well mannered. And they make their own clothes, sometimes from handed down clothes. My grandmother and both mums style themselves from head to toe to go grocery shopping. It may sound complicated and straight, but it does open more doors than tie die or spandex. Men and women decisions makers are often shoe freaks. Not crazy shoes with 8inch heals that make you look like a stilt walker with a back problem. Sexy designer looking quality shoes, especially if you can’t see the logo. Except in Hip Hop, where the bigger the logo the better, even if it is fake. No offense, I see it as a form of modern art. It is a balance of being a high-end hooker and strategic mercenary under the cover of a progressive royal princess. For want of better words to describe it. And don’t play dumb, but don’t show off unless you are a performer on a stage. What you wear on stage is one thing. What you wear doing business or representing a business is another. Including show business. And it makes a huge difference when traveling. I've had seat upgrades a few times without asking. Airline hosts like stylish attractive women to keep their wealthy travelers company. It doesn’t have to be a big name designer. Simple, well cut and tailored to compliment your body shape. And you are not spilling or bulging out of it. Nice, neat and non-threatening. Simpler is better and always great shoes. Great shoes maketh the man and maketh the woman. Weird, but true. I love shoes. If your job requires a costume on stage: for rock and roll, simply make it stylish tasteful and black to get started. For film, nice jeans and perfectly tailored suit-like jacket. For country great jeans, fabulous belt buckle and a body tailored button up shirt. EDM spandex and sparkle. Grateful Dead tie dye or steampunk. Hip Hop white and gold. On stage and camera should all be custom body enhancing couture and original. Take sewing lessons. It is how my grandma and two mums always look great. My neighbor in Haight Ashbury was stylist fashion and hair and makeup for the Rolling Stones and New York Dolls. She is getting frail and can't get up and down stairs now. She still looks rock and roll chic. In a long black cashmere coat, long straight cut blonde hair with bangs/fringe. Dark glasses and fashionably thin. We share a love of fashion and sewing.  Alternative/hippie big girls and older women can look cool and tasteful. Then other women share your pics and vids to social media. It's part of the Bible for social media pros. For performers to have great costumes, even more so.  The photos are clothes I designed and handmade in Haight Ashbury, San Francisco. The fashion catwalk shows were invitationals. Costumes are part time occasional 3D art thing of mine. All one of a kind from upcycled materials. They get shared a bit by fans of all colors and shapes.  Show some of these to your questionably dressed girlfriends. Maybe they will get inspired to take up sewing or work with a local designer:) Fashion is wonderful cross promo. 

[oldolk]

I've dispatched a swan

180612

It's nine o'clock and my room is too dark to do any more tidying because the light on the ceiling doesn't work anymore. The bulb hands haphazardly from exposed wires where the cover has fallen down as a result of the threads wearing away. My bedroom has the kind of ceiling you can skin your knuckles on; I say this from experience, as I've done it numerous times while pulling the covers around myself. Lack of space removes the luxury of sleeping close to ground level. But hopefully soon I'll be sleeping at less lofty a height.

I spent most of the day cleaning my room. The dust makes me ill so I have to wear a medical mask. I haven't been able to clean for a number of years, so I ended up coming across a lot of interesting things.

When I was around eleven years old I went on a school trip to a fishing town in France. I didn't have any friends and spent most of my time hanging around with a specific teacher. I remember her taking a photograph of me holding a baby goat. I remember holding a baby goat. The other girls I shared a room with only talked to me when they noticed that I could wiggle my toes. I remember finding cuttlefish bones on the beach. The former two fragments are things I suddenly remembered and didn't want to lose. But I bought a goat figurine while I was there. It was covered in sleek fur and was incredibly soft, I can still remember it. I remember asking my religious education teacher why goats were bad and sheep were good, and the rest of the class laughed so she scolded me for impertinence when I was serious and I still don't know the answer. I enjoy digressions, are they bothersome?

Today I found the goat in a sort of cabinet box I made once upon a time. The box is a little smaller than a sheet of paper, and a little over ten centimetres deep, and it has oddly segmented shelves inside. The edges are covered in carefully selected newspaper clippings, and inside is a collage of monochrome trees and flowers and bookshelves and preserved insects. It also contained an old key made out of something resembling wax, and a plaster cast of the fingers on my right hand made so they stick out rather than being an imprint. The box would also contain a book made out of clay if it hadn't been stolen from the classroom - it even had my name written on the spine. Perhaps that's why it was taken. But back to the goat. I still don't know what the fur was, but most of it had fallen away into odd black dust shavings, exposing the plastic strangely. Instead of something elegant, it now looks like a piece of bad taxidermy. In a way it’s a little sad, but if anything I think it looks more beautiful than before. It stares out at me crookedly from where the book would have been. I'll put it somewhere more prominent when I've redone my room.

I hold a soft spot for broken and imperfect things. There was a ridiculously poorly taxidermied polecat in the antique shop in my hometown for ages. His facial expression was completely different dependant on the angle you viewed him from - from the few photographs I have of him, the highlights were intense exestentism, and comical frustration. If he'd been making these expressions while alive it's likely he'd have been an internet sensation. But most people don't care for taxidermy. Because he was put together so poorly, he was only forty pounds - which may still seem steep to some, but generally taxidermied animals of that size start from seventy, which for me is completely unobtainable. But he was situated inside a large tank - alongside a rabbit which was taxidermied to appear dead rather than alive, a concept which I find somewhat ironic – and I didn't have anywhere near enough space. He was there for so many years, I thought I'd eventually have enough space for him. But I never did, and one day when I went into the antique shop, he was gone. I suppose I can just hope that he went to someone who appreciates him as much as I did, but every time I go in the shop I can't help but feel a little sad that he slipped away from me.

At the moment, almost everyone I know is struggling. And I'm trying really hard to support them all, and do the best I can, but I still feel like it's not enough. I'm tired from cleaning but also emotionally tired. I'm used to the feeling of wanting to help when you can't, but I've never had so many of those situations at once. I can't bring couples back together. I can't offer financial help. I have no hope at even denting the grief that comes from losing a mother. I desperately wish I could, but I can't.

And I don't know even how to summarise what my dad is going through. Part of me is worried he might try and take his own life. I haven't had that worry for at least five years and now it's back. I went out for tea with him this morning – it ended up only being an hour because I told him he should take the doctor's appointment he'd turned down because he was seeing me. I wore a shirt with a swan on because he thinks they're good omens, but there were only geese by the river. I told him a condensed version of things with Birdman (I've opted for a pseudonym in this case) and he talked about thirteen and I told him it was only four from nine (being intentionally cryptic must be even more annoying than changing topics) and he told me to watch my drink and I told him that wouldn't be necessary. My favourite tea at the place we went to today is called Marco Polo and it seems to be aptly named considering everything – I’m the one saying Marco. Describing carrot cake is the only context in which the word moist is acceptably used due to mass hysteria.

I thought this was all going to be about writing, but a lot of it seems to be about my life. Maybe that's just today. It's ten o'clock and my room is too dark to do any more tidying.