#IT JUST KEEPS REVERBERATING OFF THE WALLS OF MY HALLOW MIND

[dylanconrique]

okay but just based off that millisecond clip of them kissing and the love and the tenderness.... whatever's going to happen to lucy to end her up in the hospital is gonna be so much more devastating than any of us could ever expect. we are so FUUUUCCCKKED!!!!!!

[red1culous]

Temperance

A/N: Anon asked for Villain!Reader. Also what is proofreading, I’ll do it later. Being this close to some form of divine power instilled in you a kind of calm that you had never experienced before. You weren’t a religious person at all but the emotions that you felt in empty churches was soothing and a welcomed contrast to the chaos of your daily life. Sometimes you would sit in silence for hours on end staring into space. You stayed until you could feel the thrum of hundreds of years of prayers that echoed off the hallowed walls of that sacred space. The blessings of whispered prayers enveloping and filling you with a sense of serenity. Sitting on the front pews as if acting as a witness to something you let your mind drift and wander, a meditative exercise that you had grown accustomed to.

Natasha knows you’re in there and she does her best to enter silently. But she knows you’ve heard her by the slight stiffening of your shoulders. Natasha is so attuned to you that every subtle movement you make is noted and she makes sure to keep a good distance away. You remain calm but ready to sprint at the slightest sign of trouble. She doesn’t want you to leave. Not yet at least. She was intrigued by you and it was something she was unable to control. There was an automatic response she felt to your presence. Some kind of weird push and pull towards you. The way her body would instinctively move in your direction with helpless longing was not something she could fight against. There were warning bells going off in her head but in spite of her heart she was powerless to do anything but remain entangled in this dangerous dance of desire. 

She decides to sit one row behind you. Not too far away but not too close either. “You waiting for God?” Natasha speaks softer than she usually would.

“I think you’re mistaking this for a Samuel Beckett play” you answer and Natasha can see you’re smiling by the slight raise of the apples of your cheeks.

Natasha leans forward in her seat. “Do you think God has stood you up?”

You chuckle at her words shaking your head slightly. “Who says I’m waiting for God?”

“Well…,” Natasha sighs as she fiddles with the necklace dangling around her neck, “…I’m pretty sure sitting in an empty church at 3am means you’re looking for some kinda divine intervention.” 

You turn your head slightly, searching her face. “Hmm I wonder Ms. Romanoff…could you be my divine intervention?” “I just tend to gravitate towards people…women…who want the same thing I do” she replies with a blush on her cheeks.

“Which is what exactly?” you continue as you turn your body completely to face hers.

“To have a good time. Some laughs. A lot of good sex.” She smiles wide at the last part and you smile watching her face light up.

“So you’re a player?” you add and she shoots you a nervous look. 

“They used to say in the Red Room that everybody without God is lonely.”

“So...,” you say rubbing at your chin as if deep in thought, “are we talking about God or are we talking about us?” 

“I’m just saying that everyone at some point of their lives is lonely. And there’s no shame in wanting to be with someone else to ease that loneliness…” she trails off making it sound like she had more to say but decided against it. 

“Are you…are you propositioning me, Romanoff?” you chuckle again, “…in a church no less?”

She ducks her head before raising her eyes to meet yours. The smile that graces her lips seem more genuine than any you’ve seen before. But you had to remind yourself that this was the Black Widow you were dealing with. Mistress of trickery and not someone to be taken lightly. “Kinky but no,” she answers after a beat or two, “I’m saying you should come with me.”

“Take me out to dinner first” you reply a smirk fixed on your face.

She laughs full and loud and the sound reverberates around you. “I mean, Y/N…that I can protect you if you come with me now.”

“Do you trust me?” you ask out of topic. You can tell she’s slightly taken aback by the question. 

“Y-yes I do.” She answers and you can hear the hesitation that laces her words. 

“Close your eyes.”

“What?” 

“Close your eyes…let’s call it a test of trust. If you trust me, close your eyes.” You challenge her raising an eyebrow. 

She considers you with a steely gaze. Then she takes a deep breath, straightens her back and closes her eyes. You wait for a few seconds. Maybe it was to convince yourself that she was really doing this. That Natasha Romanoff was sat in front of you with her eyes closed? Once you are satisfied you rise quietly and lean over the pews. You move your face closer to hers and when you are mere inches apart you wait one more time. You can feel her breath hot on your face and you’re certain she can feel yours. Then slowly you close the gap and leave a kiss on her lips. You can feel her flinch a little but she stays still and you linger, your lips on hers  a few seconds more before pulling away. Just before completely retreating you say onto her lips, “keep your eyes closed” as you lay something heavy in her lap. Just before exiting the church you look back at her one more time. Her eyes are still closed and you smile to yourself. Perhaps you would let her in. You swing the heavy wooden doors and noisily let yourself out. 

Natasha opens her eyes and turns to face the doors. She half expected you to come with her but she also knew you would probably decline her offer. She was however not prepared for the kiss you left. She touches her lips and like a teenager in love a small smile blooms on them. In her ear she hears static before the voice of Clint Barton booms loud and clear. “I guess we didn’t get her this time eh, Romanoff?”

Natasha looks up to one of the gargoyles perched high up on the pointed arches. She spots the archer and shakes her head.

“There’s always a next time. We’ll get her then.” He says shouldering his bow and climbing down trying to sound as optimistic as ever. 

“Mmm next time” Natasha says to herself as she stands and waits for Barton to approach. She fingers the package you left her. 

“I don’t get it,” he says trotting up to her side. He takes the package depositing it into his rucksack, “why would she go through the trouble of stealing that just to hand it back to you?”

“You know what Clint, I’ll ask her the next time we meet” she replies slightly annoyed.

Static returns to her ears. 

“I think it’s love” Tony chips in, in between a fit of giggles. “Shut it the both of you” she replies as Clint sniggers at the remark earning himself a shove and a sharp look from the former assassin. 

----

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[yasbxxgie]

Reggae Britannia (BBC Four, 2/11/11)

385 Willesden High Road is tucked away behind a row of dilapidated 19th century houses, its entrance obscured by high locked gates and a walled yard. But 385 is a treasure trove of reggae history. It's called Theorem, Music Village, and it's where we're recording several artist interviews for Reggae Britannia. As we arrive, there's a band in the studio rehearsing a romantic Lovers Rock number, there's a man up a rickety ladder painting the walls and another mopping up from an all night dance in the 'functions room' with its damp lino and garish red felt walls. T-Jae, the tall soft-spoken proprietor of what was once called BBMC (the Brent Black Music Cooperative) helps us with our camera gear. He's got coffee brewing in the kitchen beside an open can of condensed milk. Before T-Jae's time this was a leisure centre filled with rattle of pinball machines and the click of snooker balls - now replaced by the drum 'n bass of reggae rhythms leaking from the studio.

We're here to interview Dave Barker, one half of the Dave and Ansell Collins vocal duo who set the teenage mods alight, back in 1971, performing a novelty number called 'Double Barrel'. Dave's a quietly spoken man with a hint of a stammer. He tells us how, when he first came to this country (and he stayed here ever after) he peered out through the window of his BOAC plane as it banked over the smoking chimneys of the snow-covered houses below and wondered 'how come they have so many bakeries in England?' On the drive from the airport he was shocked at seeing white men digging the road and taking out garbage: 'Wow man, that was strange, you didn't see those things in Jamaica'. Nor dogs wearing winter vests, nor steak and kidney pies, nor that little sparrow he spied pecking the top off a milk bottle. He can't help himself: Dave sings a refrain from Matt Munro's 'Born Free' and segues into 'Summer Holiday'.

Dave arrived in the U.K exactly ten years before Theorem opened its doors to top British and Jamaican reggae artists passing through. Today, there's the legendary Max Romeo sitting on bench in the winter sunshine, his grey locks neatly tucked into a woolly beret. In 1969, Max brought his wicked song 'Wet Dream' to Britain and its risqué lyrics - which got it banned in clubs and on the BBC - made it an anthem for skinheads in dance halls all across Britain. He sings a few lines, diffidently explaining how it caused an 'upstir' among the rebellious youth of the time. He's a little ashamed of it now because, by the mid 70s, Max had embraced the wisdom of Rastafari. That was when he wrote and recorded some of reggae's most powerful and memorable music in the Black Ark studio of Lee Scratch Perry: 'War In A Babylon' and 'Chase The Devil'. When those songs arrived here, first as pre-releases and then remixed by Island Records, they inspired our fledgling roots reggae bands and then the punks and then Bob Marley too. Max intones a few lines from 'Chase The Devil', an ironic, cautionary tale that has been covered or sampled by dozens of musicians - including Jay-Z in 'The Black Album' - and was featured in the video-game Grand Theft Auto.

'I'm gonna put on an iron shirt and chase Satan out of earth' he sings. 'I'm gonna send him to outer space to find another race'. Max explains: 'The devil is the negative within the psyche. Chasing the devil means chasing the negative out of your mind.' There are people wandering in and out while he speaks; musicians carrying drums and guitars into this studio that's cold as a morgue, or dropping off an amp or a heavyweight speaker, or they've come to pay their respects to the master, with a hug or a high-five.

T-Jae comes sauntering by with a piece of carpet under his arm to help our sound recordist dampen the 'live' acoustic of the room (yes, we still have a sound recordist on our crew) and he tells me that among the band members in the studio today is none other than Bigga Morrison. Bigga's not a front man like Max, but a keyboard virtuoso and music director of renown. Reggae royalty. The band take a another break for a smoke in the yard and Bigga, immaculate in pin-striped suit and brogues, describes growing up in this country as a second generation West Indian: 'My parents had experienced troubles and threats on the streets, back in the '50s, with the Teddy Boys and such, but they wouldn't discuss those things because they wanted to keep you free from the pressures. But as we grew up, we took our message and our fight onto the streets with the roots and culture music we played in bands like Steel Pulse and Aswad.'

Later during the interview, I asked Bigga to show us how the British reggae producers, back in the early 1970s, added violins to the Jamaican imports to make them sound 'more classical'. Unfortunately, he's lost his glasses and so can't read the score. Tee Jay's on hand to send for a replacement pair. Bigga fills in time by playing us a delightful new track by his band the Skatronics, but when the glasses arrive, they're all wrong for Bigga. He wears them anyway, and peers astigmatically at the music for 'Young Gifted And Black' which is layered in symphonic-style strings. Bigga (educated at Trinity College of Music) explains how Jamaican reggae gradually transformed into a British musical experience, first through the dub sounds and conscious lyrics of hardworking roots groups like Aswad and then by the bands that went platinum: the 2 Tone crowd, UB40 and The Police. Bigga's being called back to rehearsals now, so we break for a late lunch. It's a choice of The New Golden Duck Chinese Take Away or the Caribbean place half a mile up the road. We do the walk and settle for salt fish and akee. Or rather, the others do. I choose the goat curry on plantains and soon regret it.

Back in Theorem, Bigga's at the keyboards and a couple of pretty female vocalists are delivering more saccharine Lovers Rock. And that's where we see Big Youth, in among them, gyrating his hips to the pounding bass and chugging upbeat of the guitar. He's chaperoned by a petite Italian lady from an artists' agency called Roots Rockers. She's Trish, and she's exhausted because they've only just returned from a nightmare flight from Spain. Trish is a miracle of calm and efficiency in the maelstrom of the struggling reggae business and it's clear all the artists adore her. Trish has offered us the opportunity to interview Big Youth, the toaster who excited British reggae fans with his revolutionary, rasta-inspired lyrics in the mid '70s. He's on top form today, his wiry body twisting and swaying in the interview chair as he sings lines from 'Hit The Road Jack', telling me how the great Ray Charles called him up one Christmas-time to admit that Big Youth's version was just 'the best'. 'Big Youth stole the scene,' he concludes. Modesty isn't one of Big Youth's virtues. But I can vouch for his status, and integrity. I first met him inside Randy's Record shop in Kingston Jamaica back in '77. He was checking out the sales of his album - visiting these record stores was about the only way an artist could tell how many were selling. He was as big a name as Marley at the time, and revered both on the island and over here. We met again - by chance - in Lagos, Nigeria, when he was on the run from some unscrupulous promoter. He's older and greyer now, but with no loss of energy, showmanship or sharp humour. And the red, gold and green implants in his front teeth are still there.

The filming days at Theorem haven't only been productive for our ninety minute programme, they've also been enormous fun. Maybe it's the familiarity and affection the artists have for this building, or maybe it's what they call 'the spirits' of the house: a combination of all those sounds and experiences imbedded in the cracking plaster walls, the creaky floorboards which once the feet of hallowed artists trod, or the reverberating bass you can hear down Theorem's honeycomb of corridors.

We'll be back here later in the week to interview the fiery, bubbly Lovers Rock singer Sylvia Tella, from Manchester; and Tippa Irie who came to fame DJing for the Saxon sound system, and maybe Dennis Bovell, the multi-talented producer/song writer and bass player, who did so much to anglicise reggae music in this country. Oh, and Trish says Dennis Alcapone's coming by, the dapper, bowler-hatted vocalist who brought a whole new style of toasting to these shores with songs like 'Guns Don't Argue': 'Don't call me Scarface, my name is Capone, C-A-P-O-N-E!'

For him, we'll haul our equipment boxes down the dark corridors of Theorem (we never could find the light switches, thriftily hidden away in recesses above door frames). Because we'll place him in a room, behind the studio, which is every reggae fan's dream, an Aladdin's cave of antique tape machines and mixers, and an expansive crimson casting couch. The wood-trim Rainderk desk dates from the early '70s when Reggae first exploded onto our pop charts with songs like 'Young Gifted And Black', bringing an upbeat musical thrill not just to those of Caribbean origin and the packs of skinheads who followed them around the country, but to the whole nation. This mixing desk was donated by Pete Townshend of The Who. It has made history since, recording reggae artists like The Wailers, Gregory Isaacs, Aswad, Janet Kay, Maxi Priest ... and so many more.

The traffic's slow on Willesden High Road as we leave the studios and T- Jae waves us into the evening gridlock and shuts the gates. Back-in-the-day, Theorem would be filling up with dreadlocked musicians and their natty entourage, ready for another all night session. Sometimes it still does, but with the proliferation of cheap home studios and a music industry in crisis, it's a whole lot quieter now. No sessions tonight. Just the rattling pipes, the whispering corridors, the vacant studio and the ghosts of British reggae history.

[jflashandclash]

Traitors of Olympus IV: Fall of the Sun

Thirty-Five: Maari

Stairs: The Real Villain in This Series

 Warning: Exposure to twelve-year-old psychopath and his antic imminent. Some mature themes.

           Merry learned a useful tip when hunting down wary Pax boys: follow the candy wrappers.

           She wondered if all Pax boys were as tidy as little Hurricane Katrinas. From what little she remembered of their house, she guessed each Pax room had its own private cleaning crew, and that certainly wasn’t to the benefit of the boys.

           Merry didn’t find the candy wrappers immediately. There was too much foot traffic around St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

           The white, gothic structure seemed designed to make Merry, who already felt pretty small, feel microscopic. With the sharpness of the cathedral’s many pinnacles, jutting to the sky like a knife rack, and the ominous, narrow windows, like those in a jail cell, Merry understood why cathedrals were often used in horror movies. If this thing were put on its side, it could be an intimidating battering ram.

           When Merry walked in, she was dizzied by the number of tourists, the brilliant lighting, and the gold and marble walls. One woman—a tour guide or an usher, Merry didn’t know—gave Merry a violently reproachful look, pointing to Merry’s jacket then making a cutting motion.

           Merry wasn’t sure what she meant, until she registered the lyrics,

           “And if you want a doctor,

           I’ll examine every inch of you.

           If you want a driver,

           Climb inside.

           Or, if you want to take me for a ride—“

           Merry sheepishly turned off her jacket’s music, guessing the Cathedral didn’t like to party Michael Buble style. She gave the woman a careless grin. 

          The times she’d spent the night at Kally’s house, Kally always offered to take Merry to service—or was it called Mass? The Kassands’ church met up in a local middle school’s cafeteria. Merry wondered how those humble parishioners would feel about this church’s hubris.

That was back when Merry was sad she could never tell Kally that Merry’s father was actually Dionysus. Merry frowned. Now, Kally was attending a party that someone else was throwing at Dionysus’ house, one Merry really hoped Kally would survive with little more than a sober hangover.

           My Teddy Bear and Kallybae will take care of each other, Merry assured herself. Kallybae can keep the Paxbaby in-line, and Calex can shoot Alabaster if anything bad happens.[1]

           Organ music replaced Merry’s jazz. People were filing into the massive doors and, she realized for a surreal moment that it was the weekend.

           Merry did everything she could to dodge around the uncomfortable holiness of the place, excusing herself and improvising several stories to dodge around Mass…. staff? Is that what they were called?

           One man, someone who crossed himself as he came into the Cathedral, gave her a compassionate smile and Merry realized that she probably looked like a homeless person with how dirty she was.

           Some confused wanderings, lots of blatant lies, and many Jesuses later, Merry found some back stairs that seemed off limits from the everyday chap.

           The real demigod killer: stairs.

           With a groan, Merry started up. No elevators in the house of God.[2]

           For the first half of the climb, Merry twitched to reactivate her jacket. Children of Dionysus: not designed for stealth missions. The glory of the church disappeared to dark walls. All she had for sound was the hallow echo of Mass happening a few floors below, and the reverberation of her footsteps.

           The second half started fun, (as much as climbing stairs could start fun) but made her choke up. There was graffiti all over the stairwells. Some of it was carved into the walls, some of it was painted. Much of it was dated to the 1920’s, with people claiming fame to graffiting a famous cathedral. One depicted two towers in white, one on fire, with the words, “2001” Bad Year. Never forget.

           Merry frowned and took a break at the next window. Below, she could see Atlas, holding the world up, at least a hundred or two hundred feet below.  He looked small.

           If viewed from the right angle, Merry theorized Atlas might look like he was challenging God with a capital G, saying he’d been here first, and no matter what the big man did, he’d preserver after. He might even heft his world at the Cathedral, just to see if he could topple it.

           Bells chimed, making the whole tower shudder.

           Merry covered her mouth so she wouldn’t scream. She knew the Cathedral’s bells went off at noon. She’d heard them in town before, but she’d never been so close.

           While the bells sang, someone seemed to pull a curtain over the window.

           At first, Merry thought there was a massive cloud, or maybe an airplane off course. But the darkness didn’t go away. Atlas had disappeared with the lack of street lamps on. Windows glowed ominously on the streets of New York. Some street lamps began to flicker.

           Merry’s stomach twisted.

           From what Percy said, Eris would come back “when the sun comes down.” Merry’s mind blazed through all the elements—of Hemera’s kidnapping, the reports of Nyx being upset, Eris wanting the Golden Net to capture a goddess.

           The attack must have started.

           As fast as she could, Merry ran up the stairs.

           By the time Merry found the trail of candy wrappers, dodged around some bell ringers, and made it to the landing where the candy wrappers lead (more stairs continued upward), she didn’t hop onto the landing with her shoulders confidently back, her hands on her hips, and a smile on her lips, like the Indian Wonder Woman she wanted to be.

           She almost collapsed on it.

           No amount of training could have prepared her for those stairs. She wished Dionysus had a bikini setting on her parka. Her sweat made her clothing cold and wet, and she knew—though on fire now—once her body temperature regulated, the world would be freezing.

           A child’s giggle made Merry choke back her gasps.

           She stumbled forward, unprepared to immediately confront Hiro and Percy’s little sister.

           The room was smaller and far more intimate than she’d been ready for. The jury-rigged baby roller coaster—a mash up of ropes strung across a buttress in the ceiling—dangled an empty crib out a shattered window.

           Merry frowned at the colorful glass still littering the floor. She wondered if Hiro had made one of his little talisman bubbles to contain the sound and if he was as skilled as his siblings with the Mist to conceal his hideout.

           There was a giant mirror against one wall. Well, Merry knew it wasn’t a mirror. It reflected an image of Camp Half-Blood, of Percy sitting on a throne with a light-up, neon sign above his head, grinding his nails into the chair’s armrests, moving his mouth in a noiseless scream at something happening beyond the mirror’s edge. His features looked ghastly in the queer mix of lighting.

           Merry forgot that they’d soundproofed Hiro’s mirror, so Hiro and Lapis couldn’t eavesdrop on their meeting. She almost wished they hadn’t, so she knew what was going on.

           Overall, she was happier they had.

           She needed to keep her mind on the task at hand.

           There was the twelve-year-old boy with Asiatic features, darted suspenders, a burgundy button down, long, flowing black hair, and a revolver wedged in either shoulder holster. He held both of the baby’s hands, keeping her upright as though the baby walked on her own. Hiro was slightly hunched as he inched their way across the room. The baby giggled with delight at the game.

           When he noticed Merry walk in, Hiro moved the baby’s hands in a wave. His smile twisted from one of wonder to one of devilish delight.    

           “You know, you don’t need to live this life of crime and kidnapping,” Merry reminded him between gasps. “You drop the threats, and you could make a great Hiro the Babysitting Hero, LLC.”

           She wanted to have more time to plan and collect herself. This would have been better if she seemed calm.

           Between the darkness outside, the camp’s timer being cut in a quarter, and the likelihood of peril for her friends there, she felt a tiny bit stressed.

           When Merry managed to stand up taller, putting her hands on her hips, she towered over Hiro. He would have looked like a cute Pax baby if she didn’t know that he was a tiny, evil thing.

           Hiro whisked the baby up. He danced her over to the crib, gently set her down, and rolled the crib a foot inside the window.

           The movement caught Percy’s attention. His mouth moved. Merry tried not to notice how the son of Poseidon was begging her to act. To remotely focus on the problem at hand, she’d have to convince herself Mr. Water Muffin wasn’t able to see them.

           When Merry tried to take another slow step forward, Hiro withdrew one pistol, aimed it at the baby, and held up a hand in a “stop” motion.

           Merry froze. “Sorry there, honey buns. I didn’t mean to give you the heebie jeebies. See? I’m little ol’ me. I’m not a rough and tough meanie. I’m a pacifist that doesn’t even kill mosquitoes. I bear no weapons.”

           Hiro’s eyes seemed to flash. His grin turned crooked and—for an instant—he looked like a younger version of Pax. Well, maybe the anime version.

           Hiro holstered his gun again. He pointed to her, then shook his vest with the other hand. He mimed removing his vest.

           “Oh, my parka?” Merry asked, innocently. Her ragged breath almost clogged in her throat. Her jacket was her one defense. She’d never looked at it as a weapon, but—if Hiro had and Lapis had been watching their movements, or seen the video of how she’d made the Heroic Handsomes of Olympus dance—he knew better.

           Merry gingerly took off her jacket, hoping he couldn’t see how much she was trembling. She had to look calm. Remembering all the times her adoptive father had lost it, she had to keep him calm until she was ready. She wasn’t ready yet.

           Merry tossed her parka into the hallway. She still wore an inverted SPQR shirt and a pair of jeans.

           When she tried to take another step forward, Hiro held his hand up again.

           Merry paused. She forced another careless smile. “What now, sugar plum?”

           Hiro reached up with one hand to pick up the corner of his button down shirt and shake it.

           Merry stared at him. There was a major flaw in her plan: the whole not speaking ASL. Maybe Hiro wouldn’t mind if they paused to phone a friend for translation.

           When Hiro made the same motion again, his expression impatient, Merry felt her mouth move to form the “oh” shape.

           Although she towered over Hiro by at least a foot, Merry felt as small as when she’d entered the church.

           He made another motion, putting one hand flat in front of him, and miming grabbing from it and throwing it away. He grabbed the collar of his shirt again, shaking it.

           Merry swallowed. “Well, don’t you demand a lot?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t shake and hoping she wasn’t about to look like a total moron due to misunderstanding him.          

           Slowly, Merry pulled her SPQR shirt up. She paused to make sure she understood Hiro’s command.

           His lips twitched. He redid the “toss away” motion.

           Merry took her shirt off the rest of the way and tossed it into the hall beside her parka. She forced herself not to cross her hands in front of herself or to cover her Lane Bryant bra. She immediately regretted wishing for a bikini version of her parka. Drafty bell towers in New York winter: not a warm place for an un-dress rehearsal.

           Hiro burst into giggles. He covered his mouth with one hand and slapped his knee with the other. His dark hair spilled forward. The locks covered the darts lining his suspenders and the guns, so Merry could pretend this was a horrible prank from one of Nikhil’s friends, not demands from a budding psychopath. She’d caught Nikhil’s friends watching her change once and then assured some nasty rumor warfare the next day to teach basic human decency. Merry assumed Nikhil found out as well, since those friends had some busted lips and black eyes.

           She felt nauseous to remember Hiro was even younger than Nikhil’s friends.

           “See? No place to hide weapons, sugar plum,” she hummed, trying to keep her smile.

           Hiro wiped tears from his eyes. When he looked up at her, those dark spheres glistened with playful glee. He put his hand flat against his legs, then moved them up to grip his belt. Then he made the same “toss away” motion.  

           Merry felt her chin jut to one side. This one was a little demon. “Alright. Full dis-clothes-sure. That’s it, though,” Merry said, her voice cracking against her will. “I’m not so clever as to hide weapons anywhere else.”

           She just hoped, in all the time that Hiro and Lapis had spent spying on their group, they never noticed she did, in fact, use her chest as a cell phone pocket, though it was currently in her back pocket.

           Merry tried to look calm as she unlaced her boots, set them to the side. Even the smiling Hello Kitties on her socks looked worried. She undid her jeans, shimmied out of them, and then tossed them with her parka and shirt.

           Her trembles became uncontrollable. From fear, humiliation, or the icy draft coming in the window, she wasn’t sure, but some nice internal heating or—again—a Leo Valdez or Calex to keep her warm—that’s what she would ask her Christian friends for Christmas this year. That and the whole world peace thing to actually happen.

           Yesterday, when they had to flip their SPQR shirts inside out to hide the logo from the monsters inhabiting club HMM, she was pleased to have on one of her flashy, jazzy bras. Calex had been carrying her and she knew it drove the poor Brit bonkers. Merry knew that she had made a son of Eros blush. That was one way she hoped she could convey the, I may not be ready for kissies and cuddles, but I do trust you more than the average homo sapien.

           Now, she wished she were wearing the set of underwear that she kept at her dad’s house, simple and conservative. Not that it ever made a difference, she thought. Her step father was never rainbows and kittens for Merry no matter what she wore.

           Hiro had burst into giggles again. He motioned her inside before skipping over to the mirror.

           Merry forgot Percy could see them.

           The son of Poseidon looked furious. His mouth moved to shout at Hiro. His eyes darted from them back to the camp.

           Hiro tapped the top of the mirror twice and the screen turned into a reflection, showing the twinkling eyes of a demented twelve-year-old and a sixteen-year-old Indian girl, mostly naked, shivering, whose smile was so stiff, it could have belonged to a Bharatanatyam doll.

           Judging by Hiro’s reactions, that’s what the child thought of her: he was allowed to play with the world for the first time without familial or adult intervention and wanted a new toy.

           To swallow her panic, Merry reviewed her plan. Step one: get the baby to the most remote, safest part of the room. Keep Hiro calm.

           “Hiro, can we keep the baby in the room while Auntie Merry is here? Wouldn’t want her catching a cold while we’re having all our fun, now would we?” she asked, trying to sound lackadaisical. She didn’t want Hiro to think she cared too much about Percy’s little sister. If Hiro was developing the acute narcissism that she suspected, then that would make him jealous. “And, so she doesn’t get in the way of any of our games? I want all my focus to be on you.”

           Hiro thought about this for a minute, then nodded his head vigorously. He wheeled the crib further into the room, to the end of its pulley, closer to the exit.

           Then, the younger boy skipped over to Merry’s side, grabbed her arm, and tugged her closer to the window, where he had a pizza box, baby food, puzzle, and some other games set on a spare altar.

           Good to be away from the baby. Bad to be closer to the window. Merry’s shivers became uncontrollable. Step two: try this the easy-peasy way.

           “Alrighty, tiny, fierce one,” she said. “I like your puzzle. You like, jaguars, eh?”

           The puzzle had a black jaguar depicted with its cub.

           Hiro nodded his head, putting another piece into the corner.

           Merry bobbed her head approvingly. Her mind filtered through jazz songs to keep calm. She ached for her parka or a boom[3] box. She’d even settle for elevator Muzak. Augh. “You know, it looks like you’ve made quite a pickle. You got the tiny Jackson all bundled up. It seems like you like her though, right? Or, at least playing with her?”

           Hiro nodded his head again. He fished inside the pizza box, revealing some pepperoni slices.

           “You wouldn’t want to hurt her though, would you?” she asked.

           Hiro shrugged, withdrawing two slices. Merry wished she knew ASL. Or telepathy. Though, really, telepathy might just disturb her right now.

           “What makes you want to do this then?” she asked gently. She struggled to remember what Lapis had called Pax and Axel. “Is it because of Ajaxapax and Tufted Ears? I heard you were pretty mad at your big brothers. They were meanies to leave you with your father, weren’t they?”

           Hiro slowed in his movements. His cheerful expression soured. He frowned up at her. In an uncertain motion, he nodded his head.

           Hiro offered her a slice of pepperoni pizza.

           “Thank you, sugar plum, but I only eat veggies. No meat for me. Though, that was considerate and lovely of you,” she said, trying to make her smile sweet.

           Hiro shrugged, putting one piece down. He munched the other, eyeing her suspiciously.

           “No one trusts a vegetarian,” she remembered her little brother teasing.

           Merry shook the memory off. This little one was nothing like her brother. “There are other ways to get their attention, you know. Lots of other alternatives and some fun ones—”

           There were lots of alternatives she’d brainstormed on the way over. She wanted to suggest some pranks—Paxes seemed to love pranks. Lots of ways to end this peacefully, so Hiro could skip out of here with her, she could convince Percy not to murder the twelve-year-old, they could send Hiro home to Grandma Chiich for some solid, Mayan scolding, and they could set Hiro up for some major rehabilitative therapy. They could piece the broken Pax family together into a ball of furry mischief.

           Merry never got to say any of her suggestions.

           Hiro withdrew his handgun and pistol-whipped her across the face.

 Thanks for reading!!! We have one more encounter with this psychotic little shit. Tune in next week for Merry’s chapter: Things are NOT Fun and Fancy Free.

[1] Yea, I super forgot that Merry doesn’t know that Calex isn’t with Kally anymore. She’ll definitely destroy him psychologically for that later.

[2] False. Lots of Cathedrals have elevators nowadays.

[3] First accidentally wrote, “Bomb box,” then “boob box,” and finally caught it correctly the third time. -.-

[beaflower77]

Docility And Rank

She lifted the next vellum. And read, feeling exhaustion from doing so. 

The summer without you is cold. Excruciating cold. The winters are no better My Love. The winds searing down the paths, hitting, slamming against window panes. My sighs, my heart collapsing from the shear weight of sorrow without you. When will be the day of your return?

The next letter was similar. 

The geese and other flock have returned once again. The clouds billow and bust with new brushes of gales cascading down through the valley. I watch the swans glide by. They seem calm, happy, translucent even, floating past, dipping their bills in the shallow waters to pluck green stuffs to fill their endless hungry bellies. 

But my heart, My Love, it remains endlessly void of emotions without you. My nights are empty, still. The darkness finds me lost. Many nights I find myself weaving the paths of corridors searching for something, I do not know what. I know I will not find you. Until you return. Until you do, I will keep my vigil fast.

“Wow!,” Beatrice exclaimed. “So sad, so haunting. What are these?” She brought the lot of the letters to Master Maimen. “Master.,” Beatrice asked, showing him the little box of letters, “What are these?” Taking one look at the box, Master Maimen sighed. “Where did you find these Beatrice? These are..,” he began. And he smiled a sad, mournful smile of long ago remembrances. Unfolding another letter, reading “The halls are dank, fusty as I wander lost. My heart, my fae, my mind is lost. When will you return? I feel you yet within the shadows. Every hall, every bend, I seek you out. I find you not. I beseech you return. The hours, the days, they are long and lonely. No, stay, do your duty. Do not listen to such fooling meanderings of my mind.”  

Placing the latest letter down carefully on his desk, “These are long, lost love letters Beatrice. They were written by a lovely, yet lonely elf to his fair maiden.” Intrigue worked its’ way into Beatrice and she sat in the chair opposite the Librarian. “What happened?,” she asked. Sighing, remembering, Master Maimen slouched back against his chair, and began, “What didn’t happen. As the story goes, the ellon Saerdaer had a new bride, Duvaindis. He was a guard. A mighty guard, similar to Echthelion. Duvaindis, why she was beautiful and dark and extremely fair. All who looked upon felt blessed in her presence. One of the most kind of elliths. Saerdaer had waited long for her as his wife. And they wed. And were very happy for many years. But duty calls sometimes. And duty called for Duvaindis.” 

Picking up one of the vellums, Master Maemen unfolded, read another aloud. 

The orcs parade themselves long and hard past us. They think we know not they are here. They deceive themselves. They are but heavy, luggish stones, boulders against a dam. Breaking, trying to break it apart. And we, the soldiers of light. The warriors of good and just. We slay them, fouling the waters, spoiling the steams, the rivers with putrid, fetid waste of destruction. But you, My Love, my glorious wife, you shine and glitter above these ugly, living things. Oh, if you were but here. Your radiance would take my breath away. My heart would collapse and enfold upon itself if it were not for the sole responsibilities we each must endure till your return. Duvaindis, I will wait out eternity. I shall walk the dark and hallow halls of death but to see again the gleam of your heart overshadowing my love for you. 

Beatrice listened intently as the latest letter was read. She watched Master Maimen as he walked the room. Pacing was more like it. “Did they ever get together again?,” she asked. She wanted to know. Their love seemed so genuine, so heartfelt, so sad. Her heart was breaking just thinking of the two lovers. She knew the answer before Maimen said it. “No.,” he said. “They were meant to.,” Maimen started. “Duvanidis did return. The caravan, assembled, complete with hand maidens, soldiers accompanying Duvandis started out. They made it through the mountain passes unscathed. She even carried two small muskrats as pets back for her beloved husband.” Beatrice stopped him. “I thought elves did not agree with pets. Everyone here has such a difficult time with mine.” A certain irk went through Beatrice thinking that an elf would be so bold to have a pet and it be accepted. A smile reverberated with Maimen. “No.,” he agreed. “Elves are not known for their love of pets. However, for Duvaindis. All were willing to forgo that rule. Even Lord Elrond. Her intent, I believe, was to bring it home and set it free.” “So.,” again she insisted. “What happened?” 

Master Maimen paused in his retelling of the tragedy and shook his head. “A tragedy befell them both.,” was all Maimen let fall from his lips. Beatrice was not satisfied with that. “Tell me.,” Beatrice implored. He poured tea. Added a lump of sugar to hers. “The caravan reached the city. A rider was sent ahead to inform Lord Elrond and Saerdaer. Saerdaer suited up and rode out to meet them. But his horse, broke stride, lunged, and fell. From the bridge. Duvaindis saw it all.” Beatrice forgot to drink. 

“So overcome of grief and sorrow, she hurdled herself off her charge and gazed upon his lifeless body lying, broken on the rocks below. A wail you have never experienced before let loose from those lips of hers. As she painstakingly made her way down the cliff, hoping beyond all that he was still alive, she could see he was gone. In that briefest of moments of pain and suffering, Duvaindis drew her dagger and slit her own throat, befalling herself against her husband.” Beatrice was speechless. Such misery, such deep, sorrowful waiting and longing for the other, to be over in a moment of senselessness. 

As Master Maimen watched Beatrice, he stirred her pretty, teal cup of steaming tea for her. “And that, my dear Beatrice, was the end of their story. A senseless tragedy gone awry.” And he waited for her to say something. She couldn’t, but Beatrice did read silently some more of the letters, sipped her tea and wondered what they would have been like had they each lived to this day. “Oh.,” mused Maimen. “Saerdaer might have even been greater than our beloved Glorfindel. And Duvaindis, perhaps an elfling or two.” Maimen smiled a gentle expression of tenderness as he sipped from his own cup. “What happened to the muskrats?,” Beatrice asked, swallowing control over her wasteful tears. “Erestor coddled them for awhile before releasing them into the forests. Both it and its’ mate. All the kits you see running around the woods are the descendants from Saerdear and Duvaindis. So, in a way,” Maimen said, “They continue to live on in our hearts.” She could take no more and set her cup carefully down. 

Beatrice blew her nose rather noisily, stood, dusted off her indigo colored tunic and leggings, gave Master Maimen back the mahogany box and excused herself for the day. Walking slowly down the corridors Beatrice traced her fingers along the walls, thinking, down to the study Lindir was occupying. “Hi.,” she said, giving him a small, shy smile, interrupting his reading and penmenship. Looking up, noticing her pensive, troubled mood, Lindir slowly placed his quill upon its’ stand. “Hi.,” he replied, lifting his hand to meet her face and chin, pulling her closer, ending in a soft embrace. “What troubles you Sweatheart?,” Lindir softly begged. Shrugging, Beatrice only hugged him tighter, arms clasped about his neck, burying her head against his robes, smelling the way he was, “I just miss you.,” she whispered. A tight squeeze was his reply and her reward. 

[brendamariesmith]

If I Could Leave You Anything ...

If I Could Leave You Anything . . . .

from a middle-aged hippie peacenik, retiring student co-op manager & mom, who can’t help it, to young cooperators & activists everywhere, who are perilously undervalued by the world

 When Bull Connor, with his fire hose, blasting down the blacks

         Bared his hateful racist face on my TV

I was ten then but I knew that I could not abide

         Such a shameful world, so rife with bigotry

 Fall-out shelters, nuclear warheads, and the Bay of Pigs

         Nixon, Johnson and their brutal Viet Nam

Down went JF–, RF–, MLK and Malcolm X

         Kent State young ones, Watts Black Panthers, Weathermen bombs

 This was Not the good America we’d all be trained to love

         This was Nothing like it was Supposed to be

The Constitution was Supposed to give us equal rights,

         The Declaration of Independence to make us free

 I thought if I could but explain this to my mom and dad

         Maybe they would make it all just go away

But the yelling that ensued, it made us all feel bad

         So I scrambled to the streets to join the fray

 We went Railing at the Buggers in the Pentagon

         The Usurpers, heads, necks, shoulders in the sand

We flung Daisies at the warriors with their rifles drawn

         The Purveyors of the Darkness, Lo, The Man

 Demonstrations with our Fists raised on the boulevard

         Reverberations in the Hallowed Halls of State

When the Klan came, we all mooned them ‘cause their hearts were hard

         And we Ridiculed their sniveling, smoldering hate

 With our Peace signs and our placards we blew kisses to

         The sad soldiers in the convoys on the street

We sang Prayers among the treetops and our wishes flew

         Up to Buddha, Nature, Jesus, Allah’s feet

 Then No-Nukers, Nuclear Freezers marched forth hand in hand

         With our balloons and babies strapped across our backs

This was after we had all gone Back to the Land

         Some made homes, the rest returned to face the facts

 Yet our songsters, storytellers, the best orators,

         Oh, the drummers, puppeteers and trippers all

Could but Ding the mighty armor of the Ruling Class

         We descended to a funk, a weary pall

 They just kept Winning, they kept Killing, they kept Building Bombs

         and their Bulldozers kept Ravaging the night

Till my mind became a boggled glob of gelled recoil

         and my heart curled up and cowered in the fright

 For the feebleness of organized resistance fell

         to ring more hollow in my head than empty wind

All our Bleeding, Chanting, Demonstrating Righteousness

         seemed to make so little difference in the end

 I had all but given up when bright-eyed young ones called

         to riddle me with questions on the spot

What of Money? And how Capital? Wherewith Real Estate?

         Yo, what can you help us do with what we’ve got?

 They had Rochdale with its honor and its heritage

         They paid Maddening attention to be fair

They were punk-haired true believers in an alternate path

         with a proven way, a righteous savvy air

 They were anything but victims, they knew instinctively

         That they must interface with capitalist market force

So they could beat them at their own game, take the winnings home

         to breed a sanctuary of freedom at its source

 They gave me reason to keep struggling, to keep keepin’ on

         I found respite in the Hope they held inside

Their tender eyes of innocence, their sweet resolve

         Gave me something to believe in, with it Pride

 If the Blackguards with their War chests had only met them first

         Had they heard the simple truths from mouths so fresh

Would the Knowing of the Sharing of the Common Trust

         have had them taking different courses? Who can guess?

 From all the Bleeping, trivial arguments, all the late night angst

         All the tedium cooperation brings

With the Brilliant and the Valiant and the Freakazoids,

         I have garnered the most value from One Thing

  If any Warring or Destruction or Devastating Rage

         Could be calmed or stopped or staved-off before the act

Then Cooperation, Sharing, the Comradery of Us Fools

         and the Savoring of Difference is the track

 That can Topple Trembling Tyrants, lift the Poor Ones up

         Return Power to the People, to the Tribe

Turn the Armories into Temples, Smelt the Monarch’s Crown

         Give our Hope back, sorely wounded, but Alive

 All the socioeconomic political debate

         with its systems, process, structures, in its course

`Tis the Compromise ‘tween Isms, Yes, the Rule of Hope

         It’s the world’s most Shining Solitary Force

On the scale of humankind you are the Prosperous Ones

         You have Real Estate and Cash down at the Bank

You must nurture all who join you and not put them down

         just because they, in your minds, somehow don’t rank

 You have Triumphed toward your Purpose in so many ways

         You’re still Cooking while so many are not there

The big Challenge that you now face lies Within Your Souls

         Drop your Power Trips, Petty Hassling, Take Great Care

 This Co-op makes it on its Details, it’s a House of Cards

         If you Tamper with its Base, it Could fall down

When you re-arrange the pieces, Look upon the Whole

         Lest you Displace the walls that keep it off the ground

 And the Process, so Imposing, nothing Sexy there

         The great Temptation is to Pole Vault right on by

But if you Include the Views of All Affected by your choice

         Your Collective Works will Stand the tests of Time

 Don’t learn Everything the hardest way it could be learned

         Build on what your forebears left you from the past

Pass the torch before you leave, share the gems you’ve earned

         It’s the Only way the Legacy can last

  Shovel Shit till you turn Blue then fall down, Laugh and Cry

         Keep your focus, Keep your Eyes Upon the Prize

Never Quit, DO NOT GIVE UP, Love Each Other Well

         Please Learn to steer before you drive off in the night

 Take from those who went before and find your own way too

         Be Relentless in your protection of the Trust

Make your Mom’s Proud and your Founders Rest to know that You

         will not devalue what they left or let it rust

 Show the World what I’ve seen in you, lo, these many years:

         When threats ensnare you and the co-op’s on the line

Despite your cheeky, surly youth and inexperience

         If it’s important, you ‘most Always do What’s Right

 And the Magic of Pure Agreement, your Most Powerful Tool

         You must Cherish it with All your Earthly Might

For it’s the Whole of You, Your Vision, from whence Attainment streams

         Lock on Toward It, Plunge Forth Boldly, Hold on Tight

 And,

If I could leave you anything . . . Perspective

         Is the One thing I would most So Love to Give

A dimension to your viewpoints, a belonging

         A sense of Humor, History, Patience as you Live

                                             Written in October 1999 for her retirement party