#Uman and Dim

[hazel-of-sodor]

A Screech in the Night

Ch.11 Thunder and Awe

Other Chapters:

The express runs several times per day on the Uman and Din. Guinevere is the only engine to pull it, as none of the others are strong enough. The Express carries passengers from the ships at Uman to the junction at Din, where it connects with the other railway before returning with people for the great liners.

It is one of the railway's most important trains, and Guinevere takes great pride in being not only on time but early every run.

Which made all the engines concerned one Tuesday when the clock struck 5 till, and the Express was not yet in sight.

Avon waited anxiously at the platform, her train a guaranteed connection with the express. "This isn't normal. Abbey is always here by now."

Screech lazily opened an eye from the siding she was sitting in. "The express is not late yet. She probably had to stop for sheep on the line."

Avon glared, "You know it's more than that. You'd sooner praise the other railway than she would allow herself to be late."

Screech sighed. "If she is not here on time, I will go hunt for her myself."

Avon did not look reassured at this but nodded. Shortly a whistle blew in the distance and Avon finally relaxed.

Screech tensed.

Avon glanced over, "What's wrong Scree.."

She was interrupted by Screech blasting her whistle twice and shooting off down the line toward the express.

"Wha..."

Screech thundered a command to the signalman as she shot down the line and out of sight around the bend.

Avon waited anxiously for several minutes. Finally, Screech's whistle sounded as she rounded the bend. As she came into view, it became clear she was pulling both Glastonbury Abbey and the Express while running tender first. She halted the train just as the clock struck time.

The star class was panting tiredly, both crews immediately hopped out and began checking her over.

"Thank you." She said quietly, "I was afraid we weren't gonna make it." She winced as her driver touched a bent piece of the motion.

Gwyn shook his head, " It's no good, your motion is shot with this rod, even if the shop starts now, they won't be finished till tomorrow, and that's if they work through the night.

"But...the Express...." For the first time since Screech had met her, the star seemed utterly lost.

Her driver shook his head, "I'm sorry old girl, even if we had the part already made, we couldn't fit it in time for the return trip. I hate cancelling service, but we don't have anyone to pull it."

Freda slowly stood from beside the stricken express, and dusted her hands off as she regarded Screech thoughtfully, "Actually...we just might at that."

The crews followed her gaze to the bemused giant.

"You are aware I am a goods engine?"

"One that pulled passengers." Freda challenged.

"My sisters more than I did. I wasn't well-liked by passengers even then." Screech confirmed as she shifted uncomfortably.

"Screech, please...," Abbey pleaded.

Screech met her gaze for a long moment then, "Oh blast it all! Alright, I'll pull the train."

The crews and engines broke out in cheers

Her eyes rolled and tendrils shot out, lifting Abbey just off the rails, sans tender.

"Avon be a dear and arrange my coaches while I run our little wounded bird to the shop."

Abbey glanced down bemused, "You know you could have just rolled me there."

"And risk further damage? I think not. I expect you to be on the morning express, and I will be most upset if you are not."

Abbey smirked, "love you too."

Screech glared.

...

Screech returned from the workshop to find her coaches in order, with passengers waiting on the platform.

The sky had darkened over the sea, lightning crackling over the waves as the storm advanced towards the coast.

"So much for light showers today," Frefa said grimly.

"Are you up to this run Lass?" Gywn asked as he looked over the waves. "That storm looks like it's gonna be a right devil."

"Then you have the right engine," Screech said resolutely before turning to the waiting passengers.

"If you would all be so kind as to find your seats," she purred dangerously, "I would be most upset if we were delayed in our departure."

The passengers fled into the coaches as the whisper cackled.

 She was quickly coupled to the train and the Gwyn fit the express code to her lamp irons, buffeted by the wind as he did so.

"I still do not understand how you do that," Screech grumbled.

Gwyn just smirked up at her, "Cheer up lass, you get to really stretch your wheels this time." He looked grimly to the sea as a gust of wind pushed him again. "Last chance to back out lass. Once when we leave there's nowhere to turn round the express till Din. You ready for this?”

"Absolutely."

He patted her buffers and walked back to the cab. Seconds after he reached its shelter Screech saw the wall of rain race across the water towards them. It hit with the force of hammers falling from heaven, and the wind surged with it, rocking the train. Even with her lamps on, Gywn and Freda could barely see the rails in front of them. The minutes ticked by as the last passengers raced for the safety of the coaches, the rains falling harder with every minute.

Finally, the signal dropped and the guard waved his lantern, his whistle lost in the howl of the wind. Screech rolled out with a whistle from the relative shelter of the station platform into the storm. 

She rocked as the full force of the wind struck her broadside, water already pouring down her side.

She slowly gained speed as she ran by the seaside, water pouring from the cliffs above her. The rain and wind battered her and the coaches, even soaking Feda and Gwyn in her cab. She thundered down the line, racing for the shelter of the hills past the coast. As she rounded the final bend on the coast, the wind struck her head on, pushing her back and her wheels shrieked as they slipped. Freda went to check her regulator, but Screech roared.

She dug in her wheels and surged forward against the wind, enraged it thought to stop her.

Finally, the track curved away from the coast and up into the hills.

"That's it, lass!" She faintly heard Gwyn call to her, "It'll be easier now!

But it wasn't.

The storm did not take the loss of its prey lightly, lashing out as had not been seen in many a year. The sky darkened to the point of midnight, the rain fell in a seemingly endless wall of water, and the wind surged against her. It shoved against her boiler, curled beneath her frames, and yanked at her side rods and motion, hoping to snatch her from the rails. She curled her tendrils tight around her cab, trying to protect her fragile crew from the worst of the storm.

And still the storm worsened. 

As she sailed down another hill into the wind she was forced to admit to the whisper, 'I can't tell where we are anymore.'

'We are four miles from Henaint.' It answered. 'You worry about pulling the train. I'll keep track of where we are.'

'Thank you.' Screech panted out against the storm.

But still the storm grew stronger.

Trees were uprooted, buildings swayed and collapsed, and in the middle of it all, a lone engine struggled against the storm.

As Screech crested the tallest hill, she felt the wind lift the coach behind her off the rails for a heartbeat, and she finally lost it.

"Enough!" She roared, slamming to a stop on the crest of the hill.

The wind surged around her angrily

Tendril wrapped tightly around Freda and Gwyn, shielding them from what was to come.

"I DID NOT RESIST DEATH ITSELF TO BE HINDERED BY THE LIKES OF YOU!!!"

The wind surged forth towards the 47xx on top of the tallest hill.

Screech screamed.

A wave even darker than the night around them surged forth, blasting trees, rocks, rain, and wind aside. The scream shattered outwards, blasting away anything in its path...including the storm.

High in the heavens above them, clouds were ripped asunder as the storm was ripped from the skies outward in a circle surrounding the lone engine.

Daylight finally broke through, shining on a battered, weary, but unbeaten express.

Screech panted harshly, relaxing her tendrils from the crew. A moment later she felt Freda's hand rub her cabside.

"Are you alright my dear?"

Screech managed a mirthless chuckle, "I should be asking you that."

"We're fine, just rest and we'll have another engine and..."

"No. I will not let it beat me."

...

Screech was unsure what time it was when the express arrived at Din, but no one cared, merely relieved to see the train arrive safely.

Debris littered the streets as far as she could see, thankfully most of the buildings in town seemed intact, with the debris instead made up of litter, refuse, and tree limbs. 

Miss Morgan stood waiting at the platform as Screech dragged the train the last few yards.

"Well done." She said quietly. Screech nodded tiredly. Miss Morgan turned to Geyn and Freda.

"Get her to the shed. Enid will take you all back to Uman once the line is confirmed clear."

Screech tiredly puffed into the Din sheds. Enid was waiting worriedly, "are you alright?"

"I'm just tired. I will be fine in the morning."

"Thank Swindon." Enid sighed with relief. "Thank you for covering for Abbey, I know you prefer goods work, and with that storm..."

Screech shrugged, "We help where we are needed, that's the great western way."

Enid snorted in dry agreement, "Just so, I have no idea what we'll do when you eventually leave."

Screech was saved from answering by the arrival of 1401, and Enid's enthusiastic greeting to the 14xx

Screech was grateful for the reprieve for Enid's words had given her a realisation,

'I don't want to leave.'

[brick-a-doodle-do]

oneshot! this is the thing i was talking about on the poll,,, fair warning i did delete it and then start planning like 4 chapters but i decided no, brick, keep the original and deal with not liking it :D

so yes, here this is! randomly made a 2k fic after deciding to write down a scene before i forgot it,,,

PLEASE lmk if u want more of this because i do have ideas for it ! ,,

but the smoke clears when you're around

wc: 1837

cw: swearing, slight character panic

—–—

“Technoblade, there is something out there—I swear, Technoblade! It’s fucking gigantic! And you know I don’t throw that word around lightly, Technoblade. It’s fucking huge—hide me, hide me Technoblade!” Tommy pleads, throwing himself into the  cabin. Techno grimaces as the sharp air from outside pecks at his face.

Techno turns at him, unamused and startled. As the kid approaches, he instantly catches Tommy’s flailing arms that explain his dire situation in grand detail in his tight fists. His fingers slide seamlessly around the kid’s thin arms and he stops talking, though the uncertainty in his expression never dims.

“Tommy, relax,” Techno instructs.

“But, Techno—”

Techno cuts him off. “If there was something out there, what are the chances of it getting to us?” Technoblade muses, his voice wavering on pure amusement against Tommy’s worry. At the kid's disappointment, Techno sighs. “Where’d you see it?” 

Tommy takes in a healthy gasp of air as he prepares to ramble on again, but he quickly shuts his mouth as he reconsiders. That’s not like Tommy. So, Techno does the only sensible thing and urges him further.

“Where did you see it?” he repeats, putting more emphasis on the importance of a response.

The blond is quiet for a moment. The crackling fire in the background is the only thing keeping the voices from overpowering any chance of hearing Tommy’s voice. (That is, the only one he could predict from such a seethingly unprompted mood like Tommy’s.)

Then, finally, Tommy speaks up and his giddy attitude returns. “Heh, Technoblade, I don’t see why a location is in order. I think the more important part is that there’s something fucking gigantic roaming around the server,” he says, mindfully, and smugly before turning around to venture the room. 

“Yeah, I get that, but where on the server, Tommy? I can’t do anything if I don’t know where ‘it’ is.”

Tommy’s shoulders shrink, but his posture rightens back up after a pondering few seconds, and as he examines a brewing stand he can see his giddy smile. 

“Aren’t you the ‘uman GPS’?” Tommy asks. He puts his stupid spin on the word ‘human’ and Techno shudders at the mispronunciation. 

“Not if I’ve never been there,” Techno deadpans.

“I disagree with that.” 

“With what? What is there to disagree with? My logic is flawless.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s comm—”

Techno grunts and trails after the kid who’s looking downstairs to avoid eye contact. He grabs onto the kid’s shirt easily, the red cloth pulling against Tommy’s neck as he drags him back. The blond makes an indignant choking noise as he pulls him to face Techno (or rather his fears), one over-forced and one that, once again, makes him shudder. 

Cringe, he might’ve said had the moment been crisp.

“Where did you see this giant, Tommy?” Technoblade instead asks, spinning the kid around and keeping his hands firmly on his shoulders to keep him from escaping. 

Begrudgingly, Tommy seems to accept his defeat. “Ugh, fine, Techno-bitch. I saw it at Logstedshire,” he says.

And the air in the room comes to a decided halt.

“And I’m sure you have a great reason for bein’ there?” Techno urges, and Tommy shrugs.

“Not really,” he trails off, drawling out the word ‘really’ and leaving space for further explanation. “Uh—I wasn’t really there! I was around…”

Technoblade raises his eyebrows, but he lets Tommy continue.

“Oh, you don’t believe me. Okay, dickhead, I was poking around, looking for—uh….a dog—”

“A dog?” he echoes, frowning indifferently. 

“Work with me here, Technoblade. I was looking for a dog, and then this fucking giant-ass thing shook the ground, and I bolted it! What more can I say?” Tommy finishes with a hopeful smile.

“Uhuh,” Techno hums. “Coulda’ been an earthquake,” he suggests.

Tommy frowns. “A what?” 

There's a moment of shared silence before Tommy breaks it with, “Whatever. I know there was something there, Techno, it wasn’t no fucking ‘earth-quack’.” 

“You never know.”

“You're fucking stupid. Anyway I've come to you for supplies. Gapple’s ‘n’ shit. I want to fight it.”

Techno blinks at him before releasing Tommy’s shoulders (he had seemed disturbed by the entrapment) and folding his arms over his chest. “Tommy, you hear yourself? You're not taking more of my gapples. I need them,” he explains. 

“For what?! You live in bare-ass nowhere, Technoblade. Whereas I am saving the world from giants,” Tommy tries.

Doomsday runs dry on Technoblade’s tongue. 

“I don't see why my business is your business. No gapples, Tommy.”

“But Technoblade!” Tommy whines, holding his hands in a prayer position and curling his fingers over his palms. “We’re ally's, innit? 'Mí casa es su casa’?”

“No.”

Tommy takes one look at him before bolting in the other direction; towards the ladder downstairs. 

He doesn't get very far considering that Technoblade then lunges at him and grabs the kid’s arm, (who shrieks at an ungodly volume that he swears scares the nearby birds away), again before he can even logicate a plan to find the gapples. 

Tommy groans as again, Techno turns him around and holds him in place. 

The longer Techno stares at him, the further Tommy shrinks. Until finally, Technoblade makes an offer. 

“Alright, here me out,” he starts, loosening his grip on the kid, “I go exploring' around Logstedshire and see what I find.” The proposal is out of his league, and it seems even Tommy realizes that as his eyes blow wide. 

“Wh—really?”

“Well, you’re kind of makin’ me change my mind,” Techno murmurs, pulling a utility belt around his torso and fastening it. Techno takes an axe from where it lay across the top of a furnace, collecting dust for the foreseeable future—now. He shoves the handle into a pocket on the belt, then turns to Tommy, who’s watching him intently.

“Can I trust you enough to leave my gapples and my supplies alone?”

Tommy blinks at him. “Psh, Technoblade, I’m the most trustworthy person out there. I won’t touch a thing,” Tommy says smoothly, clearly lying, but it satisfies Techno. If he comes back robbed, well, he knows his next target.

“Alright, bye, Tommy,” he says, making a move for the front door and slipping out of it seamlessly. Tommy bids him a goodbye, and he faces the arctic biome. It’s daylight, long enough for the journey over to Logstedshire, at least. His way back may be trickier.

He moves to Carl’s stable, opening the doors to it and approaching the horse. It huffs upon his arrival, allowing Techno to stroke the bridge of his nose before he’s instructing the horse to follow him. Carl obliges easily after having done it umpteenth times, stepping out of the covered stable and into the light snowfall, which crunches under the two’s feet (and hooves) as they walk across the clearing. Near his staircase, Techno shifts onto a step, then hoists himself over Carl, who’d been saddle-less as of now, not that it matters much. 

“We’re takin’ a trip to Logstedshire for Tommy,” Techno says to Carl, who in return huffs. “Little fool can’t tell when he’s imagining things,” he murmurs, kicking at Carl’s side gently to get him moving. There’re reigns on him that Techno only tugs at once to guide him in the direction of Tommy’s exile.

The trip is quiet, Techno murmuring things under his breath or keeping Carl entertained with aimless humming, until finally, the arctic turns to a forest, and the forest turns into a beach. He slips off of Carl at the edge of the forest, pulling a spare lead from his pocket and tying it to a tree, just in case what Tommy was saying was true.

His attention turns to Logsted, it’s blown-up remains settling in nicely and giving him a clear view of the nearby beach. But, quickly, he realizes that there’s something rather off—and perhaps that was the giant nestled on the ground, criss-cross, with his hands in his head, and flashing a familiar green getup that made him pause.

“Dream?” he whispers, looking back at Carl before rushing over to the giant form of his friend. “Ah, Dream?” Techno calls out, loudly, loud enough to startle Dream into looking up. His mask covers most of his expression, though he can feel the distress radiating off of him.

“Techno—” Dream says, cutting his own self off.

“Yep. Uh, what are you doin’ all giant?”

As he approaches further after waiting for a response, he notices how miniscule he is compared to Dream at this point—barely the size of his hand. Perhaps if it was someone else, he may have laughed, or perhaps been wary, but with Dream, he found it nothing short of concerning. 

Dream would never do this to himself. 

“Don’t—Don’t come near me,” Dream warns, and Techno’s eyes shift. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds.

“Hurt me?” Techno snorts. “I’m good, Dream, I have thorns. Wanna tell me how this happened?”

Dream shrugs. “I messed up on a potion. I—I didn’t even know this could happen, I mean, what kind of potion does this?!”

“A growth one,” Techno murmurs, finding ease at Dream’s dry huff after his attempt at a joke.

Techno places a hand to Dream’s pant leg, which startles him into shifting further away.

“Why’d you come here?” Techno asks after a moment.

Dream shrugs. “I don’t know. I figured Tommy wouldn’t be here, after…” Dream trails off, motioning vaguely with giant fingers to the remains of Logstedshire.

“Alright, Dream, you’re gonna put your hand to the ground,” Techno orders, waiting for the movement. He can’t do much, but he can try to soothe his friend.

The giant doesn’t move. 

“Dream.”

Dream sighs, putting his hand flat on the ground. 

“Ah, other way,” he corrects.

The giant flips his hand over. 

Techno finds an easy seat in it, to which Dream immediately tenses. “What are you doing?”

“Tryna’ make you less remorseful,” he murmurs, leaning into Dream’s fingers as he curls them up on nothing but instinct. 

He puts his hand against Dream’s skin. The giant flinches at the motion, almost launching Techno from his (rather comfortable) placement.

“You’re not gonna be hated by everyone,�� Techno tries to reassure.

Abruptly, gravity shifts and he’s left hovering over Dream’s lap, who then shifts him into another hand. He’s left staring at two beady eyes carved into cracked and dusty porcelain.

“I mean, I wasn’t planning on making it permanent,” Dream says softly.

“We can make an antidote. At your supposed house, eh?” Techno nudges his elbow into Dream’s pinkie. 

“I have a house!” Dream says defensively, and Techno finds his job well done. 

He leans further into Dream’s grip, which he’s noticed it’s become more possessive, his thumbs angling carefully over Techno’s torso to keep him in place. 

Awkwardly, he raises a hand to the digit and squeezes it fondly. 

“You sure you wanna reverse this? Maybe you can scare Tommy back into exile,” he deadpans. Dream’s head shakes, gentle laughter erupting from somewhere behind the mask.

—–—

[neerasrealm]

Distrust

A story about Toby waking up after the events of his origin story. Trigger warning for some talk about trauma, blood, murder, self harm, panic attacks and some cursing.

Word count: 1941

The world seemed blurry as he opened his eyes. His body felt tired. He blinked in the dim light. The ceiling looked unfamiliar. It wasn’t his cramped, dusty attic room, nor was it his mom’s room or his sister’s. He shifted on the bed. It felt soft- too soft for it to be something they could afford. His first thought, as he rolled over and looked at the drawn curtains, was that he was in a hotel. The room had orange walls, and the curtains were a light grey. Light poured in through them, meaning it was still day, or maybe evening. 

Rolling onto his back again he groaned softly. His throat felt dry. Sitting up, he looked around. The room was empty, and way bigger than any room in his own house. He looked to the side, brushing messy brown hair out of his eyes. There was a table next to the bed with a glass of water on it. He reached over quickly and grabbed the glass, taking a couple long sips. He looked around some more. There wasn’t much of anything in the room. A wardrobe, two bedside tables and a mirror. That was all. He frowned. How had he even gotten here?

He- didn’t remember much. He hadn’t been able to remember much of anything since...the crash...involuntarily, he shuddered. He curled up, remembering flashes of the past few weeks. Voices in his head, the faceless monster that had been terrorising him, his- his own dead sister, wailing and walking towards him- her voice still echoed in his head even now. Calling his name, coughing on her own blood, her breathing raspy from her chest being crushed in on itself-

He buried his head in his hands, shaking. His shoulders jerked wildly, his panicked tics kicking in quickly. His nails dug into his scalp. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. He pulled his hands down, his bloody fingers going to his mouth. He chewed on them with little care for how badly he hurt them. Why should he? He couldn’t feel pain. None at all. He laughed horsley. He couldn’t feel pain but he could still feel the weight of his traumas, the weight of his grief, the weight of-

His crimes.

He’d- oh- oh god- he remembered now. His father. Below him, dead. The horrified look on his mom’s face. The fire-

He bit down on his fingers, hard, and whimpered. Tears rolled down his face and he sobbed. Loud, ugly sobs full of agony. He coughed and wheezed. This happened every time he cried. He’d find it difficult to breathe and he’d be reduced to wheezing and coughing. His sobs only got louder and his breathing got worse. Mixed with tears blurring his vision and the taste of blood filling his mouth, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He stayed there. Shaking. Sobbing. 

When he finally finished crying he pulled his fingers out of his mouth. He took deep, wheezy breaths. He looked down at the blood trickling down his hands and sniffled. He hugged his knees and buried his face in them. He could only whimper softly to himself and twitch as he waited to calm down.

‘’Toby?’’

The very last thing he needed right now was a deep, unfamiliar voice calling out his name. His head shot up and he stared at the door, shaking in fear and twitching from his tourettes. He sniffled. 

‘’H-’’ his body shivered involuntarily. ‘’Hello…?’’

The door creaked open. Toby froze. His blood ran cold and his breathing quickened. He crawled back on the bed, frozen against the wall. Staring back at him was the white, faceless creature that had been tormenting him. It stepped into the room and approached him slowly.

‘’Calm down, Toby, I’m not going to hurt you.’’ It said in the same deep, unfamiliar voice from before. He was panicking too much to look at the second person entering the room after the creature. His body was shaking, his heart pounding as adrenalin filled him. The creature reached out to him, and Toby darted off the bed. He stumbled across the room to the window. He whirled around, staring at the creature as it watched his movements. ‘’Don’t worry I-’’

‘’How the fuck does it speak without a mouth?!’’ was all Toby could think. He looked behind him at the window. As fast as he could with shaking hands, he shoved it open and put his foot up on the sill. He heard two voices yell behind him but he didn’t care. He took a deep breath then leapt out the window. He screwed his eyes shut, bracing for the fall that would no doubt injure him badly.

But it never came. Instead, something gripped his waist and slowly pulled him up. He stared down at the ground that was getting further and further away. He stared at the forest in front of him as he was lifted up and away from freedom. He was ever so gently placed back on his bed and he realised, to his horror, that the thing lifting him had been a-a tendril- that had somehow appeared from behind the faceless creature. It disappeared again and Toby could only stare at the faceless thing and whimper to himself. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and crawled back to the edge of the bed.

‘’Please calm down- I-I mean you no harm I promise-’’ The faceless monster said again in a tone too concerned and caring to belong to- well, a faceless monster. Toby whined feebly. God he sounded pathetic and he felt it. Escape was impossible and he was probably going to die here. Eaten or torn apart or driven insane until he couldn’t take it anymo-

‘’E’s scared ‘ve ya, Slen.’’

Toby was pulled out of his horrified thoughts by the thickest fucking cockney accent he had ever heard. Definitely the second scariest thing he’d experienced today. He looked to the voice’s owner for the first time and looked them over. They were incredibly tall, with messy black hair, feathers on their shoulders, suspenders, striped socks that matched their cone-shaped nose and- oh yes, they were incredibly skinny and had pure white skin. The bandages around their- his? Hands and torso didn’t help either. It implied this...clown? Mime? Had been injured at some point. And that allowed Toby’s brain to suggest it was the faceless creature’s doing. Which made him more freaked out.

The faceless creature- Slen, apparently, looked at the mime-clown man. ‘’I mean- I’ve told him I don’t mean any harm,’’ somehow this monster sounded genuinely upset and worried. He looked at Toby. ‘’I just want to-’’

‘’Slen,’’ the mime- clown? Clown, he’s guessing clown, interrupted. ‘’Le’ me ‘andle i’. Ye’ll only freak th’ bin lid ou’ more.’’

Slen looked away from Toby and at his- companion? For a few moments, fiddling with his hands. ‘’Fine.’’ he finally said defeatedly. He looked at Toby as he grabbed the door handle. ‘’I’m sorry little one, I-’’

‘’Ye don’ call teens li’le un, Slen.’’ The clown interrupted. ‘’Now go. ‘Ll make sure e’s awrigh’.’’

Slen sighed and left the room, leaving Toby and the slightly less horrifying monster alone. Toby looked over at the clown. Was he supposed to be scared? Relaxed? Intimidated? He didn’t know, and he wanted to go home. 

"Calm down, kiddo. I ain' g'nna 'urt ya." The clown said calmly. "Take deep brea'hs fer me, alrigh'?" 

Toby closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. He counted to seven then exhaled, counting to eleven as he did so. He repeated the process until he felt calm enough to not want to try the window escape again. He opened his eyes and looked at the clown, still very much afraid. His neck twitched wildly, making his head jerk awkwardly.

"Y'okay?" The clown asked. Toby nodded. "Good." The clown approached the bed slowly and sat on the edge, still looking at him. "Ye prob'bly 'ave a lo' 'f questions, yeh?" He asked. Toby gave a nod. "Go ahead then. I'll answer 'em fer ya."

Toby fiddled with his bloody hands. Occasionally his fingers would curl up wildly, making him accidentally scratch himself. "Wh- where am I…?" He asked softly. 

"Ye're in our gaf, big 'ol mansion in th' woods. Ye live in one a th' 'ouses on th' edge 'f th' fores', dontcha?" 

Toby was quiet for a few moments, trying to translate the cockney into English. "Uh- yeah, yeah I do." 

"Ah. We live in th' fores', away from ye 'umans fer ah- obvious reas'ns." 

"So you're not human?" Toby blurted. The clown laughed, a noise that was hearty but rough and raspy, like his speaking voice.

"Nah, 'm no'. Ta pu' i' simply, I'm a livin' toy. Full a stuffin' an all tha' barry whi'e."

A- a living...toy? Barry White? Who- what- 

"What's um- what's your name then?" Toby asked cautiously. Every answer the clown gave seemed to bring up even more questions. The poor boy was getting more confused and unnerved by the second.

"Jack." The clown replied. "Ye're Toby, yeh?" 

"T-Toby Rogers." He mumbled. "Why- why am I here?" He asked softly.

"Well Slen found ya when 'e was comin' back wiv th' shoppin'. 'E saw th' fores' burnin' an' you in th' middle of i' all, so 'e pulled ya from th' fire an' brough' ya 'ere ta patch ye up." Jack pointed at the boy's arm. Toby hadn't even noticed it, but there were some bandages on his arms. "Ye didn' ge' burned too much bu' ye still looked pre'y bashed. 'E also found a lo' a- bruises an' scars- did wha' 'e could fer em." Jack looked at him, like he was hoping Toby would explain his other injuries. 

"He-" Toby gulped. "That thing took me here?"

"Yeh. Slen- 'e's always been one fer 'elpin' others…" Jack smiled a bit. "E'll bring ya 'ome, don' worry."

"No he won't!" Toby yelped. Jack jumped, seemingly caught off guard by the yelling. "He- that thing has been terrorising me for weeks! Standing outside my window and shit!" Toby's fear began to turn to anger. He'd been kidnapped, forced to kill his own flesh and blood, driven to the brink of his very sanity and this toy was telling him the creature meant him no harm?! "He's been in my head for weeks! I couldn't sleep because of the voices he put in my head and he- it made me kill my own fucking dad!" There were tears in his eyes again. He shook from all the pent up anger he'd been shutting out for weeks- no, months, maybe even years by now!

"Kiddo, I know Slen, 'e wouldn' do tha'." Jack looked concerned. 

Toby glared at the clown. "Well how the fuck am I supposed to trust you? You're on its side." He spat. Jack sighed.

"Ye don' 'ave any reasons ta trus' me, bu' neither me or Slen wanna 'urt ya." He said softly. "Wha' ye saw, wha'ever's been tormen'in' ya, i' wasn' Slen. I've known 'im fer over a century now. 'E doesn' do tha', 'specially no' ta kids." 

Toby didn't say a word. He just glared at Jack. Eventually the clown sighed. "Alrigh'. I'll leave ya be." He stood up and looked over at Toby. "Ye wan' lunch?" 

Toby hugged his knees and shook his head. He definitely wasn't going to eat anything that came from the monster or the clown. Jack sighed and left the room without a word, leaving Toby alone with just his anger, fear and bloody fingers.

[ladylilithprime]

Fic title: These Dying Embers

(Did you ever watch The Dead Zone with Anthony Michael Hall and see when Johnny's "dead zone" would flare and he'd get this Look on his face right before the camera superzoomed in on his eye and showed us what he was psychic-seeing? I swear my face made that exact expression when I read this title. XD)

HUMAN SOULS ARE incredibly resilient in unexpected ways. Lucifer thought he had "ruined" Lilith's soul, breaking it apart and stripping it down, corrupting it until it was a very literal shadow of its former radiant glory, and had declared humanity "broken, flawed, abortions" for their seeming frailty and ease of corrosion, dismissing them from consideration as worthy of the angels' adulation and their Father's favor over the shining purity that was the nature of His firstborns, His Archangels....

Lucifer was too short-sighted then, too limited in his own way by his lack of experience. The Visionary had not the depth of vision to recognize the true strength of a human soul in Lilith's transformation into the state that would come to be known as the First Demon. Despite the tortures and traumas, the rending and blackening of what used to shine with innocence and now smouldered with bitter knowledge, the soul had remained. Tainted, stained, ripped apart and rebuilt, it persisted in existing.

That was the miracle of humanity, Michael thought as he watched Lucifer reenacting his experiments on the surprisingly bright soul of Sam Winchester. Unlike with Lilith, this time Lucifer's torments and tortures held no deeper purpose than to cause pain, to hurt this human who had dared to best him, wrest control of his body from the Archangel whose might was second to none save perhaps Michael, and drag them both down into the Cage to be locked away, this time with Michael as unwilling company. Lucifer tore into Sam with a viciousness that might have frightened Michael once but now only made him ache for the brother he no longer recognized, and each time Michael made himself watch, hiding the soul of his own vessel carefully within his Grace so as not to alert Lucifer to another potential source of torturous entertainment.

He watched the soul be shredded, flayed apart until it seemed like little more than tattered strings, the once brilliant light flickering and fading. Only then would he move, draw himself up and fling himself at Lucifer, creating a ruckus and instigating yet another pointless battle that would inevitably end with Michael curled up against the wall of the Cage, still sheltering Adam, and watch Lucifer stalk back to resume his "experiments" on the soul that had somehow, in the lull provided by Michael's distraction, begun to pull itself together and rebuild itself into a cohesive whole once more.

Resilience, Michael marvelled to himself, was a fascinating thing... but even resilience had its limits, he noted, watching the soul take longer and longer to rebuild each time, becoming less whole every time Lucifer's attention waned from Michael and returned to his toy. And so Michael counted down the millennia, hiding the truth of the time that passed within the Cage from Adam and letting the truly innocent human believe time here was no different than time on Earth, and counted down the centuries it took for Sam Winchester's soul to dim until, one day, it disappeared completely.

=End=

[pangeanews]

Enzo Biagi 10 anni dopo. La vita inedita di un drammaturgo mancato

Ogni uomo ha il suo vizio e il suo segreto. Il segreto di Enzo Biagi è il teatro. A dieci anni dalla morte, tutti, giornali, amici, colleghi, ricordano, a ragion veduta, il talento del giornalista più popolare d’Italia. La pubblicistica su Enzo Biagi rischia di superare quella, già di per sé ‘mostruosa’, di Enzo Biagi. Solo che tutti, immancabilmente, dimenticano un dettaglio. Enzo Biagi prima di diventare giornalista sognava una carriera da drammaturgo. E a leggere i pareri degli esperti, sarebbe diventato un grande drammaturgo. La dimenticanza non è frutto di sbadataggine: è Biagi, in realtà, ad aver macinato nell’oblio il suo passato da uomo per il teatro. Come mai? Veniamo ai dati.

Enzo Biagi vince il Premio Riccione per il Dramma nel 1953. I documenti che lo riguardano sono conservati nella Biblioteca civica di Riccione.

Nei profili biografici di Biagi rastrellati on line non si fa cenno al teatro. La nota della Treccani, pur puntigliosa, non ne parla; Wikipedia accenna a un Premio Riccione per il Dramma vinto da Biagi nel 1960. Fuochino. Ci siamo quasi, ma la data è sballata. Per risalire al segreto di Biagi bisogna sfogliare il Dizionario generale degli autori italiani contemporanei stampato da Vallecchi nel 1974. La voce ‘Enzo Biagi’ ricorda, in calce, che il giornalista “è anche scrittore di libri che stanno tra la cronaca, il reportage e la storia, e di commedie”. Nel ghirigoro bibliografico scopriamo i titoli di tali ‘commedie��, Noi moriamo sotto la pioggia e Giulia viene da lontano. Nient’altro. Veniamo ai fatti. Primi anni Cinquanta. Biagi lavora al Resto del Carlino. Ha 30 anni. La vita da cronista gli ispira un pezzo teatrale. Si intitola Noi moriamo sotto la pioggia. Tre atti. Il primo è ambientato nello “stanzone di un Commissariato di Notturna”. Biagi impacchetta la pièce e la spedisce al Premio nazionale Riccione per il Dramma. Il Premio è nato nel 1947 su iniziativa del Sindaco di Riccione, Gianni Quondamatteo e dello scenografo bolognese Paolo Bignami, sotto gli auspici di Umberto Terracini, Presidente dell’Assemblea Costituente, comunista. Il Premio, nato subito con la camicia – la prima edizione, e unica, aperta al romanzo ha premiato un baby Italo Calvino, con il manoscritto Il sentiero dei nidi di ragno, di lì a poco edito da Einaudi – ha una ragione ‘politica’: occorre ripulire l’immagine di Riccione dai fasti fascisti, dal fatto di essere stata la spiaggia estiva del Duce. A presiedere la quarta edizione del Premio, nel 1951, c’è Lorenzo Ruggi, noto commediografo bolognese, fondatore dell’Istituto nazionale del dramma italiano. “Questo lavoro è la tragedia del figlio del secolo, coi suoi cinismi, la sua anima vuota, priva di idealità, dove altro non trovi che disprezzo di tutto e per tutti”. Così Ruggi, nella scheda di lettura, scrive del testo di Biagi, giudicandolo un “lavoro premiabile”. Quell’anno, tuttavia, Biagi deve accontentarsi di una segnalazione. Il primo premio va a una superstar della scrittura cinematografica, Tullio Pinelli (premiato per Gorgonio), già autore per Pietro Germi e Alberto Lattuada, che ha appena sancito una collaborazione gravida di futuro con Federico Fellini. Pazienza. Biagi ritenta un paio di anni dopo, con un ‘interno borghese’, Giulia viene da lontano, dove, con scrittura da fiction, si mostrano le esasperazioni di un gorgo familiare. Questa volta, il giornalista drammaturgo convince tutti. Salvator Gotta è entusiasta: “commedia notevolissima, da prendere in considerazione per il premio, è l’unica premiabile di tutte quelle che ho letto”. Anche Ruggi – ancora presidente di giuria – si scioglie. “Tremendo, sconcertante, scritto senza dubbio da un autore di talento”, attacca la sua scheda. “Attraverso la statica tragedia di un giovane ventenne inchiodato in poltrona a rotelle perché privo dell’uso delle gambe, tutto un mondo di passioni e di miserie umane risultano illuminate in questo lavoro”. Ruggi si lancia pure in un suggerimento di messa in scena: “rischiosissimo lavoro, che esige un interprete, insieme giovane e di grandi mezzi, come potrebbe essere un Gassman”. Mario Bonetti, uno dei giurati, non ha dubbi, “è l’opera di un autentico uomo di teatro”. Per Enzo Biagi è un trionfo. Il Premio nazionale Riccione per il Dramma 1953 è suo. Peccato che il Premio arrivi troppo tardi. Nel 1953 Enzo Biagi ottiene la prima delle sue tante direzioni. Diventa direttore di Epoca. Diventa Enzo Biagi, uno dei giornalisti più talentuosi – e cercati – d’Italia. I sogni di gloria drammaturgica sono anacronistici, ora. Nei ricchi Archivi del Premio Riccione – che negli anni premierà i massimi drammaturghi del Paese, da Renzo Rosso a Dacia Maraini, da Pier Vittorio Tondelli a Stefano Massini, fino a Vitaliano Trevisan, nell’ultima edizione – non c’è traccia dei testi di Biagi. I testi, come da prassi, vengono pubblicati su riviste di settore. Noi moriamo sotto la pioggia esce su Teatro scenario (1 ottobre 1952), mentre Giulia viene da lontano, con la dicitura “Primo premio al concorso teatrale Riccione 1953”, esce su Il dramma (1 ottobre 1953). Prima di chiudere definitivamente con la scrittura scenica, Biagi si leva un ultimo sfizio: scrivere un testo con l’amico Giancarlo Fusco, E vissero felici e contenti, nel 1956. Un biglietto autografo esumato dagli archivi riccionesi spiega tutto in modo lapidario. Carta intestata di Epoca, scrive “Il Redattore Capo” Enzo Biagi al responsabile del Premio Riccione. “Avrei bisogno di avere un paio di copioni che mi urgono. Cerchi di farmeli avere con cortese sollecitudine”. Così, i dattiloscritti spariscono. Stop. Biagi è su un altro palco, ora. Quello del giornalismo. Il resto non conta più.

Davide Brullo

  In un Paese culturalmente decente, oltre agli allori e agli onori, dovrebbero esserci i libri. Esempio. Riesumare dagli Archivi di Riccione Teatro (negli oscuri sotterranei della Biblioteca della nota località turistica, nel disinteresse patrio) i documenti che riguardano Biagi, collezionarli insieme ai testi drammaturgici dell’aureo giornalista, e inscatolare il tutto in una bella pubblicazione. Invece niente. Restiamo noi a perder tempo con i cimeli, ad amare le antiche carte. Per capire la tenuta etica del testo di Biagi, ecco un brandello da Giulia viene da lontano. Buona lettura. 

  Carlo: Penso che, in ogni modo, in qualunque condizione, la vita è sempre un dono. Ma Dio mi ha assegnato soltanto prove leggere. Non ho meriti.

Massimo: Ho il privilegio di godere delle divine attenzioni, invece. Io, che non ho mai ambito alle gioie dell’Aldilà, sarei stato contento di passarmela decentemente quaggiù.

Carlo: Tu vai cercando Dio, e un giorno lo incontrerai. Egli ti attende.

Massimo: Non sono un puro di cuore. Non credo che i tribolati godranno dell’eterna beatitudine. Non credo che, sulla mia spina dorsale spezzata, spunteranno le ali del cherubino.

Carlo: Mi sento insegno del tuo dolore; permettimi di pregare per te. Ma io vedo che Dio ti sorride, Dio non ha la faccia cattiva.

Massimo: Invidio la tua certezza. Sei felice. Baci la croce e scendi nell’arena. Vai incontro alle belve, armato di speranza e di buone parole. Esci dal rifugio antiatomico e, recitando giaculatorie, ti avvii sul luogo dove scoppierà la bomba. Accendi il tuo cero, e vorresti riscaldare questo povero uomo nudo che trema di paura e di freddo. Prega pure per me. Io ho in mente i volti irati dei profeti che sostengono la cantoria delle monache. Annunciano la fine, non la resurrezione. (Forte) Non sono contento di morire su questa poltrona.

Carlo: Non gridare, Massimo, non stancarti. Mi spiace se ti ho fatto del male.

Massimo: (indicando la finestra) Visto da qui il mondo è diverso. Ho tutte le vostre miserie. Sono gonfio di malizia, come un adolescente. Le case di tolleranza mi sembrano paradisi. Come a sedici anni: fanciulle nude su pelli d’orso, odore di cipria, cosce bianche inguaiante nel filo di seta. Nella mia testa ballano di continuo il can-can. Questa stanza è piena di donne che corrono in bicicletta, che corrono contro il vento. Lo so, lo so anch’io che le prostitute hanno l’aria disfatta, i volti segnati, e i reggipetti rosa sono sudici e le coperte sanno del sudore di tanti uomini, e si paga. Eppure è meraviglioso. Mi ci portarono mentre aspettavo di partire per il fronte. Avevo scelto una ragazza piccola perché mi pareva gentile, non mi dava soggezione. Ma quando fummo nella sua stanza cominciai a piangere, piangevano tutti e due. Lei aveva al collo una catenella, e una croce di brillantini falsi le pendeva sul petto magro. Restammo abbracciati sul letto, senza parlare.

  L'articolo Enzo Biagi 10 anni dopo. La vita inedita di un drammaturgo mancato proviene da Pangea.

from pangea.news http://ift.tt/2hD9SiS

[rpallavicini]

Gaystapo, gaystapo ovunque

Classico caso di gaystapo Omofobi! Chiude il giornalino del liceo via Sergio DIM il 19 apr, 00:53 Da Bergamo arriva in queste ore un caso emblematico sull’avanzata della dittatura arcobaleno nel nostro Paese.  A seguito delle pressioni subite da alcuni gruppi, infatti, la dirigenza del Liceo delle Scienze umane “Secco Suardo”, che ha sede nel capoluogo orobico, ha costretto “Print Freud,” il…

[smartseo4you]

ZIUA INTERNATIONALA A IEI ' and #171;Ia and #187; a devenit un and #171;must-have and #187; al garderobei oricărei femei curajoase'

New Post has been published on https://reporterliber.ro/ziua-internationala-a-iei-and-171ia-and-187-a-devenit-un-and-171must-have-and-187-al-garderobei-oricarei-femei-curajoase/

ZIUA INTERNATIONALA A IEI ' and #171;Ia and #187; a devenit un and #171;must-have and #187; al garderobei oricărei femei curajoase'

(Interviu cu Cristina Chiriac, creatoarea brandului „Flori de ie” şi fondatoarea CONAF)

• „O ie achiziţionată nu îşi va pierde valoarea în timp, ci dimpotrivă, îşi va creşte valoarea, devenind un obiect vestimentar foarte apreciat”

Reporter: Cu ce proiecte şi speranţe a intrat „Flori de ie” în acest an?

Cristina Chiriac: Am început anul 2020 cu multă energie pozitivă, optimişti şi pregătiţi să acceptăm orice provocare. O împlinire sufletească şi mult aşteptată a fost cu siguranţă cea de-a cincea aniversare a brandului „Flori de ie” la finele lui Mărţişor. Am sărbătorit cinci ani frumoşi de existenţă a proiectului meu de suflet, cinci ani de când cel mai tânăr mugur cu parfum de „Flori de ie” a început să înflorească în ceea ce avea să fie mai târziu primul concept store din Băneasa Shopping City şi un brand cu recunoaştere internaţională. Provocarea anului nu a întârziat să apară, aşadar criza de Coronavirus ne-a furat speranţele de a urca pentru prima dată pe podiumul Indonesia Fashion Week, la început de aprilie.

Reporter: Cum trece „Flori de ie” prin această criză provocată de pandemia de Covid-19?

Cristina Chiriac: Din nefericire, pandemia ne-a luat pe toţi pe nepregătite, de la micii producători şi brandurile locale din industrie, până la cele mai recunoscute case de modă ale lumii. Contextul actual ne-a obligat să luăm măsuri de siguranţă şi protecţie, lucru care ne-a schimbat modul în care lucrăm, mutând o parte din business în online. Nu mai este o noutate faptul că ne îndreptăm rapid spre digitalizare. Munca de acasă şi shooping-ul online au devenit activităţi recurente. Se produc schimbări inevitabile în comportamentul consumatorului, ceea ce ne face şi pe noi să ne adaptăm şi să ne schimbăm strategia pe termen lung.

Reporter: În ce mod a fost afectată activitatea „Flori de ie” de criză?

Cristina Chiriac: Nu am întrerupt în niciun fel activitatea, însă am schimbat puţin tactica. Cum spuneam şi mai devreme, o parte din business rulează acum numai în mediul online. Cealaltă parte însă, producţia propriu-zisă, continuă de acasă, fiecare doamnă lucrează la o ie din confortul propriului cămin. Este adevărat că ritmul a încetinit puţin, însă încercăm să dăm tot ce avem mai bun, astfel încât experienţa clienţilor noştri să rămână la fel de plăcută şi chiar mai frumoasă, în această perioadă destul de dificilă prin care trecem.

Iile sunt cusute ca acum 100 de ani, de mână, cu atenţie şi migală. Noi nu facem producţie industrială, tocmai pentru a nu strica „sufletul” iei. Lucrăm cu femei ce au deprins demult meşteşugul cusutului, al modelelor tradiţionale, parte din ele provin din zona Muscelului, de unde mă trag eu, iar cealaltă parte din zona Olteniei.

Reporter: Ce strategie aţi abordat că bluza românească să rămână la mare căutare şi în această perioadă?

Cristina Chiriac: Comunicarea este cea mai bună strategie, indiferent de tipul de business despre care vorbim. Noi am ales să păstrăm o comunicare sinceră şi constantă cu comunitatea pe care am format-o în jurul brandului. Este vital ca în această perioadă să fim cât mai aproape de clienţii noştri şi să ne asigurăm că sunt informaţi în ceea ce priveşte shimbările care se produc la nivelul entităţii. Ia românească a fost, este şi va rămâne de interes naţional şi cultural întotdeauna, cu atât mai mult din punct de vedere stilistic, mai ales în utlima perioadă. Termenul de „ie” a devenit astăzi un „must-have” al garderobei oricărei femei curajoase, care a înţeles şi a conştientizat că nu o va purta doar la evenimentele importante, ci în viaţa de zi cu zi, la birou sau la o întâlnire cu prietenii. Observăm că toată acesta industrie a fashion-ului a luat amploare şi continuă să crească. Tocmai de aceea, investiţia într-un produs lucrat integral manual, cum sunt cele de la „Flori de ie”, va fi întotdeauna profitabilă pentru cumpărător. O ie achiziţionată nu îşi va pierde valoarea în timp, ci dimpotrivă, ii va creşte valoarea, devenind un obiect vestimentar foarte apreciat.

Dacă facem o comparaţie cu aceeaşi perioadă a anului trecut, constatăm că procentul vânzărilor nu a fost la fel de ridicat, însă acest lucru nu demonstrează faptul că intereseul clienţilor a scăzut şi el, ci doar puterea de cumpărare a acestora, fenomen normal care apare în crizele economice.

Reporter: Cum v-aţi readaptat situaţiei actuale?

Cristina Chiriac: Cred că ne-am schimbat structural un pic, dar aşa este organismul uman, adaptabil la orice. Perioada aceasta am asimilat-o ca pe o perioadă în care ducem un „război”, dar nu cu altcineva, ci cu noi înşine. Un fel de „reset mind” pentru fiecare dintre noi. La „Flori de ie” am învăţat să ne bucurăm unii de ceilalţi, chiar dacă am lucrat de acasă şi ne-am văzut doar pe Zoom. Am învăţat să rămânem o echipă unită şi cumva mi-am dat seama că trecem prin viaţă mult prea grăbiţi în îndeplinirea unor obiective şi uităm de noi. Cu siguranţă, acesta este doar începutul. Sunt convinsă că ceea ce ne aştepată la final de 2020, poate chiar la început de 2021, va înseamna o schimbare majoră, atât a mentalităţilor, cât şi a comportamentului social şi a celui economic. Indiferent de ce se va întâmpla, vom reuşi să depăşim această situaţie, iar tot ceea ce ne rămâne de făcut este să găsim resursele necesare şi să gân­dim pozitiv.

Reporter: Cu ce aţi înlocuit târgurile şi evenimentele la care participaţi în atâtea ţări pentru a promova ia românească?

Cristina Chiriac: Într-un cuvânt, cu „dor”. Ne este dor să călătorim, să ne întâlnim cu oamenii şi să le povestim despre ia românească, să o prezentăm aşa cum ştim noi cel mai bine iubitorilor de frumos de peste hotare. Perioada acesta însă are şi părţi bune şi ne-a adus un dar nepreţuit: timp. Prin urmare, ne pregătim intens pentru târgurile care vor avea loc după pandemie. Suntem optimişti şi aşteptăm cu nerăbdare prezentările de modă. Avem timp să lucrăm la viitoarele colecţii, de la concept, la schiţe şi la design. Promovăm în continuare ia românească, acolo unde nu există restricţii, adică pe platformele online. Toată energia şi puterea noastră este în­dreptată acum către promovarea adevăratelor valori ale României.

Reporter: Cum a evoluat cererea în ultimul an?

Cristina Chiriac: Privind retros­pectiv, pot să spun cu mândrie că cererea a crescut şi continuă să crească de la an la an. Această perioadă plină de restricţii ne-a provocat să punem accent pe vizibilitatea online şi, prin urmare, să constatăm că peste 80% din cerere provine din mediul virtual. Suntem con­ştienţi că pentru a rămâne pe un trend ascendent în contextul actual nu este deloc uşor, mai ales când brandurile se întrec pentru a rămâne în top în preferinţele consumatorilor, dar tocmai de aceea iubim noi provocările. Ne ajută să devenim cei mai buni.

Reporter: Care este profilul iubitorilor de port popular?

Cristina Chiriac: Oamenii simpli, care şi-au păstrat rădăcinile în ţara aceasta frumoasă, chiar dacă au colindat poate lumea întreagă. Sunt oameni iubitori de frumos, cu inima deschisă, care apreciază arta şi lucrul manual la adevărată lui valoare.

Reporter: Care sunt planurile „Flori de ie”?

Cristina Chiriac: Ca niciodată până acum, aşteptăm cu sufletul încărcat de emoţie „Ziua Universală a Iei”. Chiar dacă anul acesta nu ne mai putem strânge peste 55.000 de oameni în acelaşi loc, vom simţi şi vom trăi această zi aşa cum ştim noi cel mai bine: îmbrăcaţi în „Flori de ie”. Bineînţeles, proiectele şi evenimentele noastre vor continua cu siguranţă. Sub o formă sau alta ne vom adapta noii situaţii economice şi sociale. Pe termen scurt însă, ne dorim să putem împărtăşi din nou din iubirea şi credinţa noastră pentru ia românească cu voi toţi cei care ne-aţi fost şi ne sunteţi alături în această frumoasă călătorie. Pe termen lung, visăm să urcăm portul popular pe cele mai înalte şi încântătore culmi ale acestui univers! În timp şi peste timp ne vom aduce aminte de toate, de oamenii şi locurile frumoase, de proiectele pe care le-am construit împreună şi dăruit lumii întregi! Avem voie să ne uităm necazurile, însă nu avem voie să ne uităm înaintaşii şi istoria aces­tui popor!

Reporter: Vă mulţumesc!

[landscapeusa]

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HARGA SEPEDA LISTRIK MERK SELIS di YOGYAKARTA | WA 0857 9999 9031

HARGA SEPEDA LISTRIK MERK SELIS di YOGYAKARTA | WA 0857 9999 9031

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[hazel-of-sodor]

What’s Lost is Found

Ch.5: The Hound

Other Chapters

Screech thundered down the line, coal cars from the Henaint mines stretched behind her, and Avon's mid-day train in front of her. The strain of constantly starting the long train was hard work even for an engine of her size...

Screech loved it. The feeling of hard work stretching her cylinders and motion, of actually being challenged as she took the weight of both trains. Avon had initially tried to pull her share of the weight until she saw Screech happily panting after the first run. She had rolled her eyes and grumbled something about crazy mainline engines that Screech didn't quite catch. The next run Avon had just pulled enough to keep her weight off the train and let Screech do the work.

The climb to Din failed to slow the train. Screech whistled in gleeful challenge, the passengers shuddering at the feeling of the sound twisting around their minds.

The sound startled the birds from the vibrant green treetops around them, and the sky was filled with fowl and smoke.

They plunged into the tunnel, Avon's answering whistle echoing along its length even as they burst through onto the viaduct. Hikers in the valley below stopped to take in the sight of the two engines racing atop the stone arches.

 They reached Din early, stopping at the points to uncouple Screech and her train, allowing Avon to continue to the station while Screech shunted the coal trucks into their sidings.

Once their trains had been sorted the two were parked at the shed while their crews took their lunch break in the crew hut.

For a moment all was quiet. Avon sighed happily in the shade of the shed. Screech took the chance to unfurl herself without risking her human crew, the shadows and light twisting around her in a nauseating kaleidoscope of angled and colors, tendrils sprouted and lay on the ground around her like Medusa's mane, and her eyes glowed as brightly as the sun above them. The two, engine and beast, had almost dozed off before a commotion erupted behind the shed.

Mali came skidding around the corner, clutching something to her chest, snarling and yapping coming from behind her.

Before either engine could react she had leaped onto Screech's running-board and pressed herself against the eldritch engine.

Her pursuer rounded the corner, only to come face to face with Screech. The mongrel stared down the eldritch behemoth before it, matted fur standing in end at the sight as countless tendrils rose into the air, ready to strike.

"I would suggest you hunt elsewhere," Gwyllgi suggested mildly, the ground shaking under the restrained power of her voice.

Unfortunately, the mutt had less sense than grooming and chose to growl at the shadow before it.

Screech's eyebrow twitched before she stretched a tendril toward"s the mongrel. 

Flick

***

Bowrooooooooo...

The town of Din looked up to see a mangy hound flying north towards the sea as if thrown by a giant.

***

Far away on the Cronk and Harwick Narrow-gauge Railway...

"And how would you care for a dog?" Sapphire asked amusedly. The quarry Hunslet was basking in the sun before her next train.

"Our crews could feed and water it." The 2-6-4 across from her bounced excitedly as she shunted the wagons of hay together.

Jenning stirred lazily next to Sapphire, "It's not your crew's job to care for your pet."

"Further," Sapphire continued before Leek could answer, "where would you even find a dog?"

The large tank engine pouted, "I'm sure I could find one."

Sapphire snorted, "I'll make you a deal Leeks," the 2-6-4 perked up. "If a stray dog finds its way to the sheds, we'll ask our crews if you can keep it."

"Deal!"

Jennings rolled her eyes, "here we go again."

Sapphire smirked and whispered to Jennings, "Unless one falls from the sky, there's no way a stray dog makes it to the shed without a child claiming it." 

The 0-4-0 considered a moment before nodding in agreement, "Fair enough."

Leeks tilted her head, "what's that noise."

The engines all listened.

A sound could barely be heard in the distance, growing louder quickly.

"AaarrrrrrooooooooooooooOOOOO!"

Crash!

A black shape hurtled from the heavens, smashing into the line of hay wagons. Hay and wood flew everywhere as the object plowed through the wagons, finally slamming to a stop against the back wall of the last truck before Leeks.

Silence reigned in the yard for a long moment. Leeks had flinched back from the impact, closing her eyes against the rain of hay and splinters. She slowly opened her eyes, peering cautiously at the back form in the wagon before her. The shape groaned, raising a matted head drunkenly.

"Aroo?"

"A dog!" She exclaimed, her safety valves lifting in excitement. "The Lady sent me a dog!"

"Are we even sure that's a dig and not a bloody gremlin!" Screech swore. 

"Gremlin. Yes, that's their name! Who's a good gremlin!"

 The mongrel managed to tiredly wag its tail under the hay.

Sapphire flinched back from the glare from Jennings's direction.

***

Screech collapsed herself back into hiding, grimacing at the nosebleed Mali had already developed.

Mali slowly uncurled from her position on Screech's footplate, her hand clasped around something.

Freda and Gwyn came around the corner followed by Avon's crew, drawn by the commotion.

"Mali dear are you alright?" Freda asked, pulling out a rag to wipe at the nosebleed.

"Yes Miss Freda," Mali said, wincing as the blood was scrubbed away. "I lept onto Screech's running board to get away from a dog and she was unfurled..."

"Be grateful that was all that happened Little Thief." Screech warned, "Had you looked too closely you could have been driven mad."

"Well, I had to save her!"

'Who is this her,' the whisper sighed.

When Screech repeated the question, Mali opened her hands.

Mew?

A small soot-covered kitten pressed itself into the girl's hands, staring at Screech apprehensively.

"A kitten!" Avon exclaimed delightedly.

"I saw the dog chasing her," Mali explained, "I just grabbed her and ran."

The kitten stared at the eldritch behemoth unblinking.

The giant snorted. "It has far too much attitude for something its size," she said, tapping the kitten's nose with a tendril.

The kitten hissed and swatted at the tendril.

Screech chuckled, the sound rumbling through the ground beneath them.

"It's certainly unafraid of you." Freda laughed. She began rubbing the kitten under its chin, causing it to pur, struggling to maintain its starring contest with

Screech.

Screech gave the engine equivalent of a shrug, "Animals seem to see more of me than humans. Their simpler minds are better at accepting my existence without crumbling. She most likely already has a far better idea of what I truly look like than you do."

"One would think that would make her more afraid of you," Gwyn observed.

"It's a cat," Screech stated dryly. "The only thing they hold in awe is food."

[hazel-of-sodor]

Uman and Din Master Post

A Screech in the Night

Ch.1 The Uman and Din

Ch:2 Firelight

Ch:3 The Morning Pike

Ch.4 Dawnbreak

Ch.5 An Angry Star

Ch.6 The Great Western Way

Ch.7 Forget Me Not

Ch.8 Shatter

Ch.9 Plea

Ch.10 Theft

Ch.11 Thunder and Awe

Ch.12 Aftermath

Ch.13 Repair

Ch.14 Home

What’s Lost is Found

Ch.1 Life on the Uman and Din

Ch.2 Mali

Ch.3 Plans

Ch.4 Memories

Ch.5 The Hound

Ch.6 The Dawn

Ch.7 Into the Past

Ch.8 The Resting Village

Ch.9 The Climb

Ch.10 Broken

Ch.11 What Once was Home

Ch.12 Left Behind

Ch. 13 Homeward

Ch.14 Return Again

Ch.15 Disappear

Ch.16 Bring Them Home

Ch.17 Into Autumn

Ch.18 Found

Ch.19 Embrace

Ch.20 Content

Something Holy This Way Comes

Ch.1 Of Snow and Little Sisters

Ch.2 Secrets

Ch.3 Champion

Ch.4 Caomhnóir

Ch.5 Cassandra

Ch.6 Settling In

Ch.7 Safe

Ch.8 Crews

Ch.9 Shadows

Ch.10 What You Have Unleashed

Ch.11 Remnant

Ch.12 Home

Ch.13 Alive

Ch.14 The Works

Ch.15 The Last

Ch.16 I Searched For You

Ch.17 Sarah

Ch.18 Crash

Ch.19 Outburst

Ch.20 Letters

[hazel-of-sodor]

A Screech in the Night

Ch.7 Forget Me Not

Other Chapters

Once the express had cleared the block, the signal dropped and Screech set off with her load. Every few miles they would pull off the mainline into a passing siding to either allow another train to pass, or to pick up more trucks. Slowly slate and stone stretched out in front of her. The train grew from 10 trucks to nearly 40. The crew explained they normally had to make two trips to make all the collections, as the weight was too great for any of their engines. As the train grew, Screech had to work harder to restart the train every time they stopped.

She pulled into Din near 10 o'clock with heavy puffing, and clouds of smoke and steam billowing from her funnel as she climbed through the town to the goods yard. Workmen scattered as she steamed into the yard, grinning from frame to frame with the challenge as she pulled to a stop.

'What about our plan?' The whisper hissed.

Before Screech could respond,  she was uncoupled and given a slow goods to Henaint. The whisper tried to ask again, but they were sent further down the line to Coedwig to pick up a load of timber from the mills. She ran the timber down to the Harbor at Uman, before immediately being sent to Dyffryn to collect a train of wool and mutton.

On throughout the day, Screech ran up and down the railway. Fast trains, slow trains, branchlines, the mainline, and everything in between. She only ever stopped long enough for her loads to be coupled and uncoupled, taking on coal and water while her trains were being arranged.

Again and again, the whisper tried to ask what was her, their, plan. But each time she was given a new train before she could answer.

As darkness fell, she left Din with a load of empty trucks, stopping at each station and goods yard to drop some off.

The moon was high in the night by the time she reversed into the Uman sheds, the last engine to arrive. Enid and most of the other engines were asleep, but Abbey was still awake.

"You should be asleep." 

"I can't. Not till all the engines are back, I'll have nightmares otherwise."

Screech nodded in acquiesce. 

"Eagle was much the same. Now rest while I keep watch."

The express engine frowned, "it's my turn to keep watch, it is your turn to sleep."

"I am unsure if I can sleep. I may very well lack the ability. I certainly don't tire as I used to."

Glastonbury Abbey met her eyes searchingly then nodded slowly. "Very well, but eventually you will need to rest, even if you don't need to sleep."

"But not tonight." Screech flicked a tendril up in front of Abbey's face. The Star's eyes crossed trying to look at it.

"Sleep."

The tendril pressed the express engine lightly on the nose. She stubbornly tried to resist, but couldn't keep her eyes from closing.

Screech smugly smiled, but her good mood was not to last.

'REVENGE,' the whisper hissed, angry at having been ignored throughout the day.

Screech was slammed by images, London, the other railway, the scrapyard, her sisters...

For a moment she was lost in the swirl of images, but with a heave, she threw them from her mind.

"YOU FORGET YOURSELF!" 4702 roared, the sound thundering across the valley.

Next to her Enid jerked awake at the sound, trembling in the sudden cold.

Screech quickly trailed a tendril across her cheek to send her back to sleep, repeating the process with the others just to be sure.

She then turned her attention back to the whisper, glaring into the night. "You have no right." She rumbled angrily.

'Revenge.' It whispered back, chastened, but still upset. It flashed images to her, gently this time, of her day. Of her running throughout the day, laughing and smiling. 'You're forgetting revenge.'

"I haven't forgotten. This is revenge." She could feel the whisper's askance at the assertion.

Screech let out a long sigh, "We can't win. No matter how many of them we kill, they'll just appoint more. And the scrapping won't stop. We can wreak all the havoc we want on people, but the Other Railway won't care. But this... This is something they want. Something we can take from them."

The whisper was quiet for a moment. 'Don't forget revenge.'

Screech smiled, "I promise I won't forget you."

With that promise, the whisper quieted. She settled down to guard the shed for the night.

[hazel-of-sodor]

A Screech on the Night Ch:4

Ch.4 Dawnbreak

Other Chapters

The sun slowly peaked over the hills, the light breaking through slowly to light the sky in brilliant colours as Screech raced down the line. Snow flew to the side as she flew through the dawnlight. In the warmth of her cab, Gwyn worked hard to keep the steam up as Freda managed the regulator.

Screech felt alive in a way she hadn't since...she couldn't remember. The last few years she'd spent alive had hardly been living. The gas axe hanging over her kind had made her feel as if she had already been scrapped, her body just hadn't caught up. But this, racing through the morning with a heavy train...this was what she was meant for.

The whisper was quiet. Unable to compete with the joy of running again, of being useful again. 

She approached a sleepy station and yard, the faded name Henaint visible on the sign. She felt Freda grab her whistle cord and her whistle sounded out through the early morning, howling out across the hills and through the wind like a tortured soul.

Throughout the town, dogs raised their heads at the sound and joined in, the humans trembling in their homes from the otherworldly chorus. 

As Screech shot past the town and into the hills beyond, the sun finally broke the night's hold and crested the horizon, causing the landscape into stark relief as she raced onward.

Southward she charged, livestock and wildlife alike scattering at the black beast's approach. As she crested the tallest hill, the land was laid out before her, mountains glistened with snow in the distance, rivers carved through the land like the great snakes of old, and lakes shone like mirrors in the dawnlight.

"Ppeeeeeeeeppppp"

Screech couldn't have held back the elated whistle as she thundered down the hill if she wanted. Birds stormed from the treetops in terror at the sound, wheeling in disarray above her.

Still, she raced onwards, the fish vans behind her swaying with her speed. She grinned as a tunnel grew in her vision. Shrieking her whistle like a lost soul, she plunged into the darkness, before all too soon she popped out the other side.

A viaduct spanned a valley, a river surging its banks with melted snow far below. Her whistle echoed out from the tunnel into the valleys below.

She thundered back onto solid ground and soared forward along the rails, steam billowing behind her like a cloak in the dawning light.

Finally, a caution signal showed, and she slowed, gliding effortlessly into Din as the sun chased away the last vestiges of dawn. She stopped at the end of the unloading platform, the end of the train stretching out into the yard. On the platform, workers stared in awe and fear at the beast of shadow and steam before them, but Screech took no notice.

She panted happily from her exertion, it had been so long. She hadn't pulled a train like that in years.

Gywn patted her cab as he climbed down, "Well done! Well done indeed! Our longest train yet, and early too."

Screech's smug smile was interrupted by the arrival of the yard manager.

"Jones you old bat!" He clasped Gwyn's hand as he walked up. "Only you could find a Night Owl just as we need her. Where did you find this beauty?"

"I'm afraid she's just passing through and agreed to lend us a hand, she's to be off once this is unloaded."

The yardmaster's face fell. "Oh...well...Abbey will just have to make do then." The two men looked at each other uncertainly, both clearly uncomfortable with pushing their Star any further.

The yardmaster shook his head, "there's nothing for it," he sighed before turning to Screech. "Thank you my lady for your help. The Lord knows Abbey needs what rest she can get." He gently laid a hand on her running board. Much like the Jones, nothing happened to his hand other than gaining a coating of soot. "We thank you, lass. We owe you more than you know. If you ever need shelter again, our shed is open."

He rubbed her buffer beam, closing his eyes and sighing, before walking away.

'Revenge' the whisper returned quietly, flashing images of London across her mind, but they were quickly swept away by the memory of the strained Star class sleeping fitfully in her shed.

"Do you have a train that needs pulling?"

The words were out before she realised she'd made a decision. Her voice echoing through the yard, filling every nook and crevice of the yard with a twisted siren's call, the vans rattling in its reverberation.

The yardmaster stopped and looked back at her in bemusement 

"Yesterday's vans need to be taken back to Uman. The line has to be clear by 7 so the Express can leave on time." Then once it's left we need to collect from the quarries along the line, bringing their loads here, before returning with..." 

He trailed off, lost in the problems of trying to make it with his few engines.

'No,’ the whisper pleaded, but its tone told her it already knew it had lost.

The former Great Western  No.4702 shifted her wheels mightily.

"Where is my train then."

As the crews stared at her with dawning hope in their eyes, she smirked.

"My old driver would have my frames if he were to ever learn I left you in need. I have disappointed many, but never him...and I don't intend to start now."

Gwyn was already uncoupling her from the morning pike as cheers rang out through the yard.

[hazel-of-sodor]

A Screech in the Night Ch:3

Ch:3 The Morning Pike

Other Chapters

4702 rolled alongside the fish vans quietly. Workmen were filling the long line of cars quickly. The train stretched the length of the dock, mismatched cars assembled in seemingly random order. The ground was slick with ice and snow. A worker slipped and fell beside the line. 4702 stopped effortlessly before him despite the icy tracks.

"Careful little one," she crooned, her voice making the fallen worker feel as if his spine was slowly being pulled inside out, "keep flopping around like that and someone might mistake you for the tasty fish you're carrying." Her smile was wide and far too sharp. The worker scrambled up with an apology and shot off like a jackrabbit for the other end of the train.

She chuckled as she pulled forward once again, the whisper cackling at the worker's reaction. She heard Gywn and Freda call to the worker, but someone else had caught her attention.

At the end of the train, lorries stood, waiting for any fish that couldn't be fit into the train. "Come now!" one of them yelled to the workers, "You know that clapped-out old kettle can't pull all this!" Load us first and maybe the fish will make it on time." The other lorries eyed her silent approach nervously, but the rude lorry was oblivious to her until she spoke, brazenly rolling forwards so his bumper overhung the tracks 

"Well now," she purred, the lorry freezing in fear. "What do we have here?" She rolled forward smoothly, towering higher and higher over the now trembling lorry with each turn of her wheels. "Are you lost little lorry? Surely you must be, surely you didn't try to convince our workers to steal from my train?" Her tone was sickeningly sweet as if she were a mother who simply couldn't believe their child would do such a thing. But her smile and eyes belied that tone. The Lorry tried to speak but found himself unable as the 47xx loomed over him, tendrils spreading freely into the night air like a mane of black fire. The longer he looked the more he knew there was something more there, that if he looked past her he would see something he wasn't supposed to, something other. And he knew she wanted him to.

Screech rolled to a stop, a mere hairs breath from his bumper, and looked down upon the quivering lorry.  

"Surely you must be in the wrong place, after all, you wouldn't be so foolish as to call me a clapped-out old kettle would you?"

She dragged the tip of a tendril lightly across his cheek tenderly, to him it felt as if a knife was being dragged along his skin, just lightly enough to avoid cutting him. He shook his head back and forth frantically.

"But where did you think you were?" 4702 asked mock thoughtfully, "this is the only rail line for miles." The lorry felt as if his engine block was being squeezed by an unseen force with every word. "Oh, you must truly be lost. I think you need to go home little lorry, you're in no state to be out here." The lorry tried to speak but 4702 cut him off with a shush, "Don't worry, I'll handle everything here, now GO."

The last word rolled through his mind like thunder as 4702 gently slipped forward and lightly tapped his bumper with her buffer. Rust spread from the tap like ice across a window. The lorry gaped at the sight, before shooting off like a man possessed out of the yard.

4702 chuckled warmly as the other lorries trembled. The whisper in her mind cackling in glee 

"Screech that was a bit much wasn't it?" Freda couldn't quite keep the smirk out of her voice.

"Of course not, we wouldn't want a poor lorry to stay lost would we?"  Screech smiled at the other lorries. All but one chose the better part of valour and bolted. The remaining one was a smaller steam lorry. She was painted red with gold trim and had the railways logo on her doors. "And who are you little brave one?"

The little lorry gulped, "Arwen, Miss Screech."

"Very well Arwen, I suppose it all falls to us then."

Arwen nodded timidly and followed as Screech backed down onto the long train.

Gwyn called up, "All forty-three vans are full, I hope you're up to the challenge, gorgeous."

Screech snorted, "The only way I fail is if I run out of steam...and I would be most displeased with you if I did."

Rather than acknowledge the clear threat, he smiled with glee, "that's what I like to hear!" 

The whisper grumbled about mad old men as Gwyn ducked back into her cab.

Behind her, Freda hooked the front van's coupler to her tender. The coupling felt white hot against the cold of her tender, but it held together Screech couldn't even manage surprise at the fact it hadn't rusted apart on contact, she was resigned to this railway breaking the laws of her existence.

The doors began slamming shut down the length of the train. Screech shifted her wheels forward for grip, eagerly tensing in anticipation, staring at the all-clear signal before her.

The last door slammed shut and the dock workers stepped clear. The guard waved his green lantern.

"Right then!" Freda called, "let's show them what you've got, Screech."

4702 pulled forward with the screech of slipping wheels, her tendrils gripping the rails giving her better grip. One by one the vans were pulled forward. She pulled under the signal and onward onto the line proper.

As she accelerated away from the docks and the last car cleared the points, all she could think was...

'I missed this.'

[hazel-of-sodor]

A Screech in the Night: Ch.1

Ch.1 The Uman and Din

Other Chapters

To the north of Harlech in Merioneth, lies a little railway, the Uman and Dim. Once a branch line of God's Wonderful Railway itself, the line had been closed by a Doctor who had odd ideas on healing the country's rail lines. The Doctor had been tasked with fixing the railways by men who knew the price of everything, and the value of nothing. The solution he came up with was to simply remove lines till the railway worked. 

 The Uman and Din was one of the lines closed, but as normally happens in the world, the people the line served knew the line's value better than the directors in London. The line was bought for the town and with it six engines. These were not diesels or even electrics as one might guess today, but steam engines, proper Swindon ones at that. This is the story of how they gained their seventh.

One cold winter's night, the railway received a visitor. Eight large driving wheels propelled a shadow across the yard towards the shed. Tendrils of shadow whipped off of the engine's form.

'Scare them,' a quiet voice whispered within the giant's mind.

 4702 chuckled lowly as she approached the shed. These engines looked so content and secure in this little shed. It was time to remind them how lucky they were to be saved from her fate. A glimpse of her fate would ensure they valued what they had been given.

"Quiet," came the quiet hiss just as 4702 was about to blast her whistle. She looked in surprise to see a 0-6-0 pannier tank of the 97xx class was awake and looking at her anxiously.

Before 4702 could reply, the tank engine spoke. "You're more than welcome to sleep here, we'd never turn another engine away, especially another Western, but please keep it down." She looked over to the Star class at the end of the shed. "Abbey only got back an hour ago and has to be up at daybreak. She needs her sleep."

4702 looked over the Star class. Even in sleep, exhaustion covered her features. The number 4061 on her cabside was faded and dull, as were the nameplates on her sides reading Glastonbury Abbey, but above her smokebox a lovingly polished nameplate reading Guinevere sat. She towered over the other engines in the shed.

The 97xx followed her gaze. "She's the strongest." She whispered quietly. "We help where we can, but she's the only one capable of far too many of the trains."

4702 surveyed the other engines, each bore exhaustion on their features heavily as they slept fitfully.

The 97xx looked no better, it was obvious she dearly wished to join her fleetmates in sleep. Painted across the side of her can the name Enid could just be made out.

'Wake them!' the whisper cackled.

4702 shoved the voice aside with all the strength her class was famed for. 

"Tell me little one," 4702's voice was a mere whisper, yet it echoed around them, bouncing back again and again from odd angles, filling the air as thoroughly as a siren. "why do you not sleep with your shedmates?"

The tank engine looked down sadly, "Vandals keep trying to steal parts from the shed...sometimes from off us. It's my night to stand watch."

'Scare theeemmm' the whisper hissed.

The giant flicked her tendrils in agitation, "Not tonight little one." The little 97 tried to argue, but 4702 continued, "sleep. I will stand guard. Any vandal will find themselves sorely regretting the choices that led them here this night."

4702 shimmered in place, suddenly facing out from the shed. She rolled quietly back into the shed, a shadow brushing coldly across the 97's cheek. She was asleep before 4702 had stopped moving.

'Revenge,' the whisper hissed sullenly.

"Not tonight," the giant rumbled quietly. "These engines have earned their rest."

The whisper subsided mutinously.

4702 allowed it a moment before continuing, "It is just for the night, tomorrow we steam for London. Then you will have your fill."

The whisper rumbled happily.

"Besides," 4702's smile stretched far too wide, "the night is not over yet. Who knows what vandals might stumble upon tonight."

The whisper's cackle rang throughout her mind.

Author’s Note:

Hey guys! This new fic will be coming out every Tuesday until I either catch up with where I’ve written (currently 7 chapters are done). Normally I wait till I’ve finished a Fic, but I honestly have no idea how far this fic will go. It was supposed to be a one shot and I’ve written 7 chapters and I’m not done with the original concept.

[hazel-of-sodor]

A Screech in the Night

Ch.9: Plea

Other Chapters

Screech had settled into life on the Uman and Din. Whether the Uman and Din's constituents had settled with her presence was another matter. Nonetheless, the engines and crews of the line had readily accepted her. Whether that was due to how badly they needed her help, or they were truly unbothered by her eldritch existence, she was unsure. The longer she spent on the railway, the more she suspected the latter.

 Day after day she ran along the line with any train they gave her. Few challenged her in the slightest, but she enjoyed being useful again nonetheless. 

Day by day, the bags under the engines' eyes disappeared as their workloads were relaxed, and they slept soundly under her watchful eyes most nights. 

For one of the engines, this was not most nights. 3218 ‘Beca’ was 2251 class 0-6-0.  4702 remembered the railway men calling them ‘Collet Goods'. She was a mixed traffic engine by design and could be found on many of the line's secondary services. Besides Glastonbury Abbey,  she had been the engine most in need of relief when a Screech arrived. This made it all the more concerning that she was shaking in her sleep, even under the gentle strokes of eldritch tendrils.

Screech considered her options before reluctantly deciding that waking the poor engine was the best option.

She ran a tendril lightly across the trembling smokebox, and the engine gasped awake.

The engine gasped awake, looking around frantically before their eyes met. She was still for a moment, before bursting into heaving sobs.

Screech was taken aback, and completely out of her depth. Fear, she knew how to deal with, but sorrow? If she knew how to handle that she wouldn't be anything more than scrap. 

She briefly considered waking the others, but reluctantly acknowledged she was on her own. The others needed their sleep, and she knew the whisper's solution, as with everything, would be violence.

She gently wrapped tendrils over the 0-6-0's boiler, gently stroking the tips along it, letting the engine cry.

Slowly the engine's breathing calmed from hiccups to merely exhausted panting, and the tears slowed, although they did not stop. 

After a moment Screech spoke, "now little one, what has you so distraught?"

Beca’s eyes stayed locked on the track before her. She was silent but Screech waited patiently. And finally, she broke her silence.

"3219, my little sister. She's going to be scrapped, and I can't stop it. We all promised to protect her, but there's nothing we can do."

Screech thought for a long moment, "If my memory serves, you were the last two of your class..."

3218 nodded, "We were the first engines built at Swindon after nationalisation... We were taught our ways, but..."

"You never lived under the GWR."

"Exactly. I...I don't know what's happened to her. One of our brothers, 3205, has been preserved. But I've heard nothing of her."

3218's head hung low. "No one wanted us. We weren't true Great Westerns...and we weren't the other railway's engines either."

Well that was enough of that.

Screech used a tendril to push 3218's head up, "you ARE Great Western. The Great Western Way is how you lived. Not how you were built. There will be no more of this 'not-Great Western' nonsense. Understand?"

Beca slowly nodded.

"Now then. I have no idea if your sister is in service or not. Nor do I know what scrapyard she might be sent to. But if I hear news, I will steam straight for her, and drag her back.” 

Beca met her eyes, "Promise?" She asked, begged, desperately.

"On my frames. Now get some sleep."

Screech slid the tendril's tips lightly across 3218's boiler as she pulled them back, sending her into a deep sleep.

Screech sat for a moment, staring at the rails before looking up towards the sky blocked by the shed roof.

'Don't,' the whisper pleaded.

Screech rumbled with irritation, "you do not get to remain silent while I comfort her, only to disagree now."

'...fair enough.' The whisper sighed.

4702 rolled forward into the snow and moonlight. The moon was full, casting the snow-coated yard into an ethereal light. She looked up toward the moon and sighed as she closed her eyes.

"I know that I of all engines have no right to ask anything of you, my Lady...but 3218 is a good engine. Better than I ever was in life. I am not asking for you to save 3219, I'm just asking for news. I will save her if I can. But not knowing her sister's fate leaves her in more pain than my own. Please my Lady."

Thunder rumbled across the skies, Screech lowered her head. "If you hear me...even if you do not answer...thank you for listening, if not for my sake, then for 3218."

Screech rolled slowly, quietly back into the sheds.

...

Several mornings later Screech was sitting near the coaling tower during Gwyn and Freda's lunch break. 3218 was taking on water, the two engines enjoying the moment of quiet when a shout rang out from the station. Gwyn came running out of the station, envelope in hand. He sprinted for 3218, tripping and falling over the sleepers in his excitement. Before Screech could reach out a tendril, Freda was there helping him back on his feet. 

"BECA!" Gywn crowed happily. "You have a letter!"

3218 blinked in confusion, squinting at the letter in his hands, "I do?"

'How does one even address a letter to an engine?' The whisper mused.

Screech repeated the question.

Freda smiled, "Her controller managed to find us and put her letter in one meant for us."

"Her controller?" Abbey asked with confusion from the station platform.

Gwyn danced a jig as Freda held up the letter and read,

"To the Uman and Din Light Railway

From Sir Charles Topham Hatt II, controller of the North Western Railway:

Greetings. I apologise for any inconvenience, but one of my newly purchased engines implored me to find former Great Western Locomotive no.3218, who I am informed is in your care. If you would please ensure 3218 received this letter from her sister 3219,..."

The rest of the letter was drowned out by the sounds of whistles and cheers.

...

Later that night, once the others were asleep, Screech rolled out into the moonlight once again.

"Thank you my Lady..."