#but once agin I refuse to take a new photo

[bigbrainbiology]

Doodletober 10

Pain and suffering on planet earth TvT

[sheilarice1]

(Silver death - part 3)

He bit me, I ended up free:

When we got back to the house the others went to the rooms they decided on and went to bed. I barley slept but got up at 5:30am the next morning. I grab some skinny jeans and my grey zip up, with a sky blue shirt underneath.

Slipping out the front door while not trying to wake anyone I walk out the the shed I throw open the grate and slide down the ladder.

I start to assess the damage the jet has taken.

From what I can see without moving anything and just walking around and inside the jet I realize: they were in a fire fight before they crashed, it's probably the reason they crashed.

Whoever they were fighting could be close by. Unless they killed the 'bad' guys.

Finally finishing with the assessing I start to repair, I put on music and sing.

By the time my favourite song ‘smoke filled room’ by a man named Mako played through I had upgraded the landing gears and breaks.

I talk with Jarvis for a little bit while Re-wiring the dash bored.

I am amazed by how well mannered he is considering who he was made by.

Then the pleasure of listening to Jarvis mock me arises when I touch two frayed wires together by accident and get launched 20 feet out the back of the jet.

Realizing someone that isn't an AI is laughing at me. I look around for the source of the laughter.

"Captain what are you doing here. And how long have you been here?"

"I came to find you. It's about 0700 hours and you weren't in your room when Bucky checked. I guessed you didn't eat breakfast and since you didn't eat supper I guessed you would be hungry. And as for your second question, you sing very well."

"Tell anyone and I will have your head. And I'm not hungry. But thanks for the thought."

"How are you not hungry? You didn't eat lunch, or dinner and now you are refusing breakfast. That's not heathy."

"Yah well. I don't remember to eat much. My body adapted to not eating so now I don't need to eat very often. Is anyone else up?"

"Yah. Most of the team is. Bucky was panicking when we realized you weren't in your room."

"Who's Bucky?"

"You call him Winter."

"Oh. Yah, it's that or James. I got hold of his file once and told him about who he was. Then I got sent on a mission and never went back."

"Oh?"

"Yah. Hulk almost killed me. Ripped my tracking device out of the back of my neck. I disappeared."

There was silence for a minute. During that time he stares at me while I tinker with the left thruster. "So Cap. What do you want for breakfast?"

Catching him off guard he stutters with his reply; "Um. Uh. What ever works."

"Okay. You like pancakes?"

"Yah. So does the rest of the team."

"Alrighty. Let's head back to the house. I will make pancakes then I will come back out and continue repairs."

Silence. I shrug wipe the grease that's on my hands onto my pants and saunter to the ladder, Captain following me.

Walking through the door into the kitchen to the house Winter tackles me with a hug.

"Where the hell were you?! You could've been taken or killed!"

"Wint I'm fine, I just couldn't sleep. So I went to start on the repairs for your jet. And I almost did die. Iron-Ass had some faulty wiring in the jet it gave me one hell of a shock."

"What do you mean faulty wiring?"

"Some wires were frayed and damaged and could have started on fire at any moment if heated to much. I'll get them replaced though."

"Good to know. I'll look at the other jets when we get back to New York."

"Smart man. Now, hungry anyone?"

"INDEAD I AM LADY OF SILVER! DO YOU HAVE POP TARTS?!"

"Sorry Thor I don't have any. I was going to make pancakes. Are those okay?" I am sincere while saying this.

"OF COURSE LADY OF SILVER!"

"Okay. Would you mind lowering your voice slightly? I have a slight headache from when took flight after I got the shock."

"I am sorry Lady of Silver. I did not mean to hurt your head."

"Oh you didn't hurt me Thor. It's just headaches are annoying. By the way what are you calling me 'Lady of Silver'?"

"Soldier of Winter was telling us of you because he was worried you had been taken!"

"Ah. I see."

I would like to know what Winter told them but I decide to leave my question for later.

All eyes were on me as I walked around the kitchen cabinets getting the ingredients for pancakes. As they were cooking I set the table and got the bottle of syrup from the fridge.

"Why can I not see inside your head?"

"Because I don't like people in my head Scarlet. If you new what is in my head you would be terrified of me, and I would rather you not be."

"I would not be afraid you. I am sure that whatever is in your head is nothing compared to what I have seen in others."

"Winter, do you have any memories from missions we went together on?"

"Unfortunately."

"Would you like to show Wanda those memories? Preferably one that doesn't have much blood in it. Please."

"Wanda you watching?"

(Scarlett's P.O.V.)

Watching the memory Bucky has chosen to show I feel bad for this girl. She is only ten at the time this took place and she is being sent out to kill a scientist that was currently working against HYDRA.

Winter was following her as she walked through the house with her gun in its holster. The objective of the mission was to get some files and then kill the man.

"Mr. Rice, how are you on this fine night?"

Silver stands in the doorway leaning against the frame smirking at the man who is looking at a photo of a little girl.

"Jessica?"

"Sorry sir but I have many names. And as far as I know that's not one of them. We need some files. You're going to give them to us or I'm gonna kill you."

"Who's we?"

Winter steps out to where the scientist could see him.

"Ah. You work for HYDRA, I didn't realize that they recruited children."

"Yah well. Now you do, so now back to business. Where are the files you like to bring home? The ones your not allowed to?"

"Of-of course. But how do you know about them?"

"HYDRA has eyes and ears everywhere Mr. Rice. They did find out about your little girl did they not? The girl that could burn others with a single touch? The little girl that can disappear?"

"Can? She's still alive?"

"Of course. HYDRA needs her. Don't know where she is but give me the files and I can find out for you."

"Please! I'll give you the files. I just want my daughter back."

"Such a loving father. To bad you weren't home when she got taken."

Watching as he scrambles past Silver and as she follows him with a smirk they end up in an office area.

There are pictures around the room of his daughter her mother together.

Silver was a cute kid. She looks around the room with a scared look on her face as she turns to Winter. He shrugs and nods back at the man.

"Thank you for the files Mr. Rice. Unfortunately I can't hold up my end of the bargain, but in the bright side you get to see your wife.

She shoots him, though his heart.

(Silvers P.O.V.)

Scarlett gasps as she pulls from Winters mind.

"She killed her own father?"

All eyes turn to me once agin.

"Yes I killed my father. When I was taken he was away due to business. He came home to find my mothers body on the floor. Five years later when I was ten I was sent with Winter to eliminate a scientist who was working against HYDRA and collect some files he had. The mission was successful."

Everyone was silent. By the time someone had something to say pancakes were ready and we were all eating.

Banner who had been quiet since we had words the day before broke the silence. "So what about the Hulk. You said you were sent to kill him. So? Why didn't you finish your mission?"

"When I was sent to kill the Hulk my words had been spoken and I went to find you. I was right behind you when someone pulled a knife. I killed him but the hulk was already out. Considering I was given orders and under influence of my words I still tried killing him. Somehow I got spun around and the other guy bit the back of my neck where a tracking device was. When he ripped it out he ended up throwing me a block away. I hit my head hard enough that I regained control of myself and fled. I ended up here. So basically he bit me and I ended up free."

"May I see your neck? The scars I mean."

"For sure Widow. I can understand that you don't trust me yet. You are smart not to."

Taking off my zip-up sweater and pulling my hair to one side I turn my back to the deadly Widow allowing her to move my shirt to look at my scars.

"Holy shit."

[deadinchicago]

11 October - On the Run, Part 2

Not what you want to find in the graveyard. Photo source.

Today’s story has it all — escaped hyenas! Breeding programs in zoos! Visions of what seems to be a strange cryptid sneaking through Edgewater! A police vs. hyena standoff on Burnham Island in Graceland Cemetery!

And the story starts with one gnarly hyena named “Jim”.

Hyenas have been a feature at Lincoln Park Zoo since at least the 1890s. The Tribune writes lovingly of all the animals, but not of the hyenas. They were seen as a feared, snarling, angry group that chewed up metal and anything that came near them. In one report from June 1896 on the arrival of two new hyenas to the zoo, the Tribune wrote that “Gaping thousands...thanked their lucky stars that there were bars for the bloody jaws of the animals to exercise themselves on.” (link) Another report from just a couple months prior recorded the arrival of spring and the coming of moving all the animals to their outdoor cages. Again, the Tribune lovingly praised all the animals except the hyenas:

“There is one animal in a nice, big cage all by his lonesome, with whom the keeper attempts no familiarities. It is Jack, the great striped hyena. Day and night he paces back and forth behind the bars, and refuses to take the slightest friendly notice of anybody. He never sleeps until after midnight, and then only a few moments at a time. He will curl himself up in the middle of the cage, as far away from the bars on all sides as he can get, and drop off into a light doze. He springs up as though he had been shot at whenever the slightest unusual noise is made, and is away on his restless, sneaking, half gallop from side to side, with an ugly gleam in his wicked green eyes. ‘I have no use for that fellow,’ said the keeper. ‘He is agin (sic) everybody, and you cannot make friends with him. He will take no bribe of any kind, and you cannot coax him to do anything. He is a bad lot, but I suppose he cannot help it, as he was born that way.’” (link)

Obviously, the hyena was hardly the most liked animal at the zoo.

Wiley Jim, likely a different hyena (but of the same temperament) as Jack, was in a bad mood. He was the recent father of the first hyena born in captivity (according to the Tribune article from 1897), but he’d been taken from his mate (called Mrs. Jim in the article) and child and locked in a separate cage. One day, the keepers realized he’d been rather quiet, and when they went to check on him found that he’d chewed through the bars on his cage. He was spotted trying to free Mrs. Jim by gnawing on her cage, but a watchman threw a club at him and scared him off. Wiley Jim then ran away, snarling as he went, and soon the Lincoln Park neighborhood was in an uproar on the missing mad hyena.

Jim had been missing for a day, and that day turned into night. He was somewhere in the Buena Park neighborhood, and mothers kept their children inside for the day, all frightened about what an angry hyena might do to a small child. There was one man who hadn’t heard the story however, the Night Watchman of Graceland Cemetery, Fred Brooks. Brooks was doing his evening rounds in the graveyard when he noticed something on the path in front of him. It was a huge animal, snarling, meandering about. Brooks looked at it for a while, not shooting it, but not moving towards it, either. As a night watchman, he might have expected to see something strange in the cemetery at night, but likely not a spitting ethereal beast roaming amongst the mausoleums. Brooks turned the other way and didn’t tell anyone about the creature, fearing he’d be laughed at. It wasn’t until the next day he spotted the article on the missing hyena and gave a call to the zoo.

Officials immediately swept in to the cemetery, where they found nearly all the workers in a tizzy about seeing the great beast ambling down the road. A great hyena hunt then ensued, with the animal keepers trying to catch him alive, the Graceland crew advancing with gardening trowels and pitchforks, and even some random locals attempting to hunt him down with rifles. But it was the keepers who chased him to the northern part of Graceland, towards Lake Windemere. There, they managed to corner him on a small island in the lake (what would eventually become the final resting place of famed Chicago architect Daniel Burnham). The keepers slowly cornered him, getting closer and closer with a pole and ropes, but the hyena outmaneuvered them and dashed past with a snarl, no doubt terrifying the poor zookeepers. Once again, he was on the run.

For several days there were no concrete sightings of Wiley Jim, despite searching areas to which he was likely to run. Officials even searched Calvary Cemetery in Evanston, playing on the idea that the hyena had already been in one local cemetery, and that hyenas were grave desecrators. It wasn’t until a few days later that he was sighted near a retirement home several miles away. One man woke in the middle of the night to hear his hounds going crazy. He went outside and spotted the strange looking beast, which started to charge. The man then proceeded to climb the tree he was standing under without a second thought, and the hyena disappeared again.

The next morning was his last. Wiley Jim came upon Superintendent Mertens of the retirement home, who was picking strawberries in the garden outside. Mertens heard a strange russling behind him, and when he turned around he locked eyes with the animal. Mertens ran off and sounded the alarm, grabbing a gun. As the hyena tried to escape, he was shot dead.

If he hadn’t been found that morning, he might had disappeared forever. Officials had decided that the chase had been going on for long enough, and if they didn’t find him in the next day or so they would give up.

Happy October 12th, and watch out for loose hyenas.

[fieldsjessica]

Finn, Fiona and Imogen

“Good day, young fella, what may I do fer ya?” asked the sweet faced old woman at her door.

“I’ve come seeking a room to let,” I said in reply.

“Ay then, ya’ better have a look. Follow on.” Turning she added, “If’n you’ll latch the door behind.”

Up three dark shabby flights we treaded and at the top a single door. From her ample bosom she pulled a single key and applied it with a tug. Inside a surprisingly light drenched room with a sink, water closet, a lumpy looking bed and the skyline of Dublin gloriously splayed below.

“I’ll take it now, if I may. How much do you need?”

“Four pound a week, 12 if you’re wantin’ breakfast and dinner,” she replied. “And no cookin’ other than tea in here, ya’ understand?

“Yes, ma’am, I’d rather take my meals with you, and are there others?”

Yes, yes, you’ll see. Supper, then, is at six sharp and I’ll not beg nor even call you to sit. And, I’ll be wantin’ the money now, in advance. What is your name, lad, how d’ya come to be called?”

“It is Finn ma’am, and you?”

“Oh, oh!!!” she shouted while running out the room, “ me roast, it’s Ovenwith!” She’d left without her money. Trusting I’d see her at six, I closed the door and tried the tap for hot water. A little chunky and decidedly brown, it sputtered and spat then ran somewhat clearer but not in the least bit warm, so I pulled some and put on the kettle. Preparing to pour a bowl of nearly clean water in which to wash I stripped my shirt, just then a soft knock fell upon the door. Assuming it to be Mrs. Ovenwith, I opened. To both our surprise, there I stood half naked before the most breathtaking red headed woman I had ever laid my eye upon. Her eyes lit on my bare chest while simultaneously she blushed. Turning, she scattered off without one word. I called after but to no effect. Ah well, perhaps I’ll see her at dinner, I surely hoped so.

It’s only even barely begun and I’m awash in a sea of questions, clues, perhaps even half rememberances. Dare I think so? The house, the skyline, an ample fragrant grandmother smell, a beautiful redheaded woman with lily white porcelain skin and soft cloud blue eyes looking in at me. Ah, well, only time shall tell.

The water kettle began to whistle. I cleaned up, then tried out the very lumpy bed. Though travel weary I could not sleep so I set out for a long walk, lunch and a pint at the furthest pub along my sojourn way into the back streets and allies of the ancient city. Sitting there in the dim room over an empty plate and half full mug I observed, well eavesdropped really, three old fellas fast at a game of one-ups-man-ship . . . tall tales and outrageous lies, so they implied or perhaps I inferred.

I couldn’t believe my ears as one recounted the occurrence, not thirty years ago, of three mysterious disappearances all n one stormy night. A certain wealthy landholder, his squire son and also the child of a beautiful young commoner — all vanished that night without a trace, never again to be seen. The story unfolded thus: the young squire bedded a commoner, a young widow of uncommon beauty known as Imogen, who hence bore a son. The coward would not step forward to take responsibility or even quietly acknowledge his offspring and heir. Of course, the poor young mother was besmirched, ostracized by her community and broken hearted. She truly believed it to be true love and just once let down her guard.

Imogen’s mother, who had been abandoned by her husband in childbirth, took great pity on her daughter’s plight and, despite the town’s abject disapproval, allowed Imogen to keep the child and raise her at home with her young daughter, Fiona. They lived with the mark and refused to be beaten, until one storm torn winter night in a terror of wind and rain the door to their domicile was blown down. In all of the clatter and scramble and confusion neither mother nor daughter saw the boy stolen away into the night. Throughout the following days, weeks and months the mystery was never solved, and furthermore, on that very same night both the landholder and his son had gone missing with obvious blood stained signs of struggle and dastardly doings.

I longed to stay longer, to ask questions and to determine the possible whereabouts of the alleged estate but, even more, I wished not to miss my first dinner, to pay Mrs. Ovenwith and to meet her guests, so I took my leave. All the way back his story made me think, could this thing actually have happened?

Something’s brought me here that I’ve not yet told you, so I suppose now’s as good a time as any. I never knew my mother and my father was a stranger in a strange land. You see, I grew up from the time I remember in New Orleans, Louisanna, USA. My father was an elegant man, aloof and superior. He never would tell me about our family except that we were from Ireland which, of course, was obvious by his manner of speech and mine to some extent. We lived well but estranged. Everything about him was remote, and he was filled with an emptiness that could never be dislodged, even to his dying breath. Yet, he held me, always, close to him, not wanting me to grow up, to become independent. When he passed I was left a small fortune and the ample home in which we lived, and also an empty orphaned feeling of my own, inside. I searched his belongings for clues to our past and only this did I find: an address in Dublin and a photo of the most beautiful young woman and her carbon copy girl child.

Reaching for the latch, the my lodging door flew open and once again, this wonderful creature! “Oh, here we are agin’, she exclaimed. “At least, this time you are not naked.”

“I was not! Am I on time for dinner and will you attend?”

“Go right through,” she replied on her way out.

In the dining room, seven guests were taking their seats while Mrs. Ovenwith carried in two giant platters of fine smelling fare. “Oh, there ya’ are, young fella. Welcome, sit yourself and we’ll get started. Make your acquaintances around . . . ha, here you are Fiona! Have ya’ made acquaintance with Finn?”

Back in my room at the top of the stairs, with full belly and swirling head, I began to reel and feel woozie. I lied upon the lumpy bumpy bed and pulled out the one relic of my past, the tattered black and white photograph. Surely this could be none other than Fiona, I thought. She looks exactly like this mother in my picture some thirty years past. Impossible! Improbable to be sure, but if it is so, could it mean that the story in the pub actually is true? Could it have been my own father who disappeared on that stormy night, could it have been me who was stolen from this very house, the same child that was stolen from under Imogen and her mother’s noses? And where did the old man go? My head throbbed in crashing, clashing thoughts and feelings, questions and inexplicable posits. Somewhere deep within, I nearly remembered my mother, my grandmother, my sister, my home. They’ve thought me dead and gone, I’m sure, but here I am quite alive, and wanting nothing more than to transcend my orphan story — to reconnect, to reknit the fabric of my life, my people — to rewrite my destiny, not as a lone and lonely solo soul, but as a thread in an Irish family quilt.

Over the next two weeks time I got to know Mrs. Ovenwith and Fiona a bit better. We became friends, I would even say. One day I screwed up my courage and asked about the story of the missing child, the landholder and his son, the squire. Mrs. Ovenwith’s hand froze in the sink as I watched closely. Her back grew straight and taught, slowly turning to me the old woman said, “It is the great heartbreak of our family that our tiny Fion was disappeared. My daughter Imogen died of the grief of it long before her death. At first, we were accused of devil’s play and all sort of evils. Now Fiona and me’s all there’s left but we make the best of our lot and life, in any case.”

From my breast pocket I pulled my precious relic saying only, “My father died two months ago, and all I am left of my history was your address and this picture. What do you make of it?”

Jessica Fields © June 6, 2018