#but still. i look to her my shining axe with strings in need of tuning but eager

[izzy-b-hands]

every time. every time without fail, that i go on a Dethklok/Brendan's music overall binge as I have been lately. I find myself looking at my guitar like. If only i knew how. if only i could do it right. I could hold her and shred and have fun making music.

alas. my skills are too lacking*

*to clarify, I struggle to read music & learn by ear, but my memory also struggles with remembering chords/finger placements/tabs so even tho i can usually hear how a song should go enough to identify notes & whatnot, and can, with enough time spent noodling, eventually recreate it on guitar. That is not conducive nor useful in actually playing and getting better at it and makes it feel like an Impossible Task lmao.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 23)

When Hao-Bai had mentioned that they were nearing the end of the grassland, Azula hadn’t thought that, that would mean entering a forest that seemed just as endless. It is such a stark contrast to the still quietness of the plains. Here in the forest there is movement all around and a noise for every nook and cranny.

It leaves her with a potent sense of yearning. Yearning for another afternoon spent on the bridge with Hajime chucking chunks of bread at turtle-ducks. He always had to remind her to either take smaller chunks or throw them less forcefully. “They are light and I have to make sure that I throw them hard enough to reach the turtle-ducks.”

Hajime would roll his eyes and mutter, “you and Atsu are horrible.”

There is no pond in this forest as far as she can see and there are no turtle-ducks. There are, however, scampering toad-squirrels and lop-eared rabbits. A lively abundance of them. It is rather comforting.

“How much better are you feeling?” Hao-Bai asks.

“Significantly. Why?”

“Min-Ta and I could use some help with something if you are able.”

Azula nods, whatever it is, she supposes it is the least she can do given that they have saved, cared for, cleaned, and fed her. “What do you need help with?”

Hao-Bai brings the ostrich-horses to a halt, slips off of it, and retrieves an axe.  He gestures to the second, empty cart. “I’m a lumberjack by trade, an extra hand would be very helpful, if you’re able.”

She takes the axe. “I used to harvest turnips…”

He offers her a gentle smile. “Long as you’ve got some arm strength and pick the right trees, it isn’t so hard.”

Azula shifts the axe in her arm and gives the forest a skeptical scan. None of the tree trunks looks particularly small. This isn’t exactly a beginner friendly forest. “This is going to take hours?”

Hao-Bai chuckles. “My wife and I can down trees in fourteen to fifteen minutes.”

“You’ve been doing this for a long time.” Azula counters. “I did gardening.” Gardening and firebending better than the best of people. Once upon a time she could scale buildings and take down foes twice her height and weight. But, Agni, it has been so long and that vast plain has drained her so thoroughly. She isn’t sure that she still has her shine. She hasn’t exactly retained her toned build.

“You said that your name is Azula, right?” Min-Ta asks.

She nods.

“As in Princess Azula?”

She nods again.

“Then I’m sure that you can handle this.” The woman smiles. “It’s all about knowing when blunt force is required and when it’s time to start sawing.”

Again she tests the weight of the axe in her hands.

“Follow me, I can show you.” Hao-Bai motions. The man has her standing before a massive pine. “A lot of people seem to think that it’s all about the axe. Really the axes is used to give you  a start. Give it a good hit, a sixty degree angle ought to do it.” He pauses, presumably to make sure that she is still following. She confirms with a nod and he returns it before continuing. “You are going to make a decent notch at the base of the tree, put the axe down, and start sawing. Your tree will fall in the direction of the notch.” He pauses once more. “I think it’s common sense, but, in case they don’t teach that in your nobility schools, after you make that last strike you run in the opposite direction of the fall. But don’t go straight back, in case the tree decides to fall the wrong way. You go off to the side a bit.”

He creates his first notch, “I anticipate the tree falling that way.” He points. “So when I make the final chop, I wanna be right here.” He comes to stand several feet back and well off to the side.

“I could have figured that out.”

He shakes, “had a young man who couldn’t, I don’t take that chance now.” He holds up the saw and brings it to the trunk. “Watch me first, then you and my wife can get to work.”

She finds herself a spot to sit and observes the man as he sinks his axe into the tree one final time. With a notch created to his liking. He takes to it with a saw. Within minutes there comes a great crack. And with the great crack comes a great toppling. Somehow, she finds it sad to watch such a proud and majestic thing drop. To see it’s vivid green branches meet the ground. She wonder if this is what it was like to watch her fall.

She gets to her feet and makes her way over to the smallest tree that she can find. Mimicking the arc of Hao-Bai’s arms to the best of her ability. And when axe meets three, the force of it vibrates down her arm and to her chest.

Her strike doesn’t deal as much damage as Hao-Bai’s had. She recalls that she has never really been one for powerful hits and jabs but rather subtle and effective ones. She is quick and nimble, she isn’t a tank like Hao-Bai.

Her work isn’t so quick and it takes several blows to create a worthy knotch. She is breathless by the time she begins to make use of the saw. And she breathes heavier still by the time she cuts it all the way through. When it falls it kicks up a satisfying aroma of damp bark and sap.

Every now and then Hao-Bai pauses his work to steal a glance at her. The burly man doesn’t seem to mind that she is only able to fell one tree for every three that he and his wife take down.

Azula find that even when she is through with her work she can hear it in her ears, a steady and rhythmic knocking. Her hands are well and calloused again and her muscles throb. She has to finish one last tree. Just one more.

By the time, Hao-Bai is satisfied with their haul, the crickets are waking and the night chill has begun to set in. She is covered in sap and smells lightly of sweat and heavily of resin. She hasn’t felt so sore since the last time she’d run through the hardest of her katas.

She huffs and has herself a seat on one of their newly chopped stumps. She fans herself with her hand.

“Here you go.” Min-Ta holds out a steaming bowl.

Azula takes it and cradles it in her palms, savoring the way it warms them.

“Thank you for your help. Means a lot.” Hao-Bai pats her shoulder. “Ya did good work.”

Azula nods. She stirs her soup and brings the spoon to her lips. She likes to think that she catches onto things quickly. She furrows her brows into her soup, strangely quickly. She wonders if she is better suited to be a peasant than a princess. Wonders if she had gotten it wrong all along, that she hadn’t been born with the divine right to rule, but rather the divine right to do literally anything but.

“I always heard that the Fire Nation did things differently,” Min-Ta remarks as though reading her mind, “I didn’t realize that royalty was trained to labor.”

“I’m self taught.” Azula shrugs. Though the labors of war must count as well.

“All the better.” Hao-Bai chuckles.

Azula hands her empty bowl back and wanders her way over to the caravan. The lumberjack begins tuning his guitar as she retires for the night. She unbinds her hair and curls herself up.

“You really wore her out.” Ta-Min laughs.

“The woman is a hard worker.” He notes.

She supposes that it is kind to fall asleep to compliments. It has been a while since she has. She falls asleep to a now familiar singing and the delicate strings of a pipa. Atsu and Caihong would have loved the melody. That day she learns to appreciate a day of hard work.

.oOo.

TyLee hands her a glass of water, “how are your crops?”

Azula gestures to them and frowns, “the strawberries have begun growing in the turnip garden.”

She isn’t sure how that could have come to be until she catches Sokka grimacing. “I might have mixed up the seeds, maybe.”

“How?” Azula grumbles. “Turnip seeds are a blackish red and strawberry seeds are more of a yellow-brown.”

“Does it really matter, they’re growing just fine?”

“They are supposed to be growing just fine in neat and separate crops.” Azula folds her arms over her chest.

“Or, they can grow happily together.” He wraps his arms around her torso and rests his chin on her shoulder.

“You can get as cuddly as you want, Sokka, that won’t change that you are a dreadful gardener.”

He kisses her neck. “I don’t need to be a good gardener as long as I am a helpful and supportive one.”

TyLee clasps her hands together, “you guys are so-o cute.” She turns to Mai, “they’re cute, aren’t they.”

Mai shrugs. “Sure.”

Azula wiggles her way out of his grasp, picks up a spade, and closes Sokka’s finger around it. “You are going to help me dig these up and plant them where they belong, with the other strawberries.”

“Is that even possible?”

Azula nods, “I’ve seen Seukhyun do it. As long as you don’t damage the roots…” She pauses. “Actually, I’ll worry about the strawberries, you dig me a few holes to put them in. They should be spaced approximately eighteen inches apart for ample growing room. Use a measuring tape if you must.”

He rubs the back of his head. “Geeze, you’re taking this gardening thing seriously.”

“Sokka, do you know what you get when you don’t take this gardening thing seriously?”

“What?”

“A dead strawberry field and complaining townsfolk.”

“There are no complaining townsfolk in this scenario.”

“I’m the complaining townsfolk, Sokka.”

The man sighs and she gives him a faux-innocent smile, a bat of her lashes. “Alright fine, eighteen inches apart.”  He hooks her around the middle again and gives her a gentle shake before taking the shovel. “You better appreciate my hard work.”

“Do a good job and I will.” Azula shrugs.

For a good while she simply observes his work. Only when she is satisfied that he is doing it to her liking does she begin carefully digging the strawberries out of their current places. “We’re going to need more turnip seeds to fill in the spaces left by the strawberries.”

“Then let’s go into town and buy some seeds.”

“We’ll finish here first.” Azula carefully plucks the first strawberry from its place and tucks it into the hole that Sokka has just dug. It is tedious and methodical work, but eventually she has the transplant done.

She stands up and dusts the dirt off of her knees and palms. Regardless she is going to need a bath. “Ready?”

“You’re not going to get all washed up first?”

Azula shrugs. “We’re going to the marketplace, not a prestigious theater.” She brushes a sweep of hair out of her face. The look on Sokka’s tells her that he is still unused to some of her more lax mannerisms. Though she is certain that it relaxes him.

.oOo.

Somehow he still has to get used to seeing her like this. Free and relatively untroubled. Confused and still hurt but able to smile. In one hand she holds her small burlap pouch of seeds, in the other is his hand.

Her touch is warm and somewhat calloused but soft all the same. Her personality seems to have a very similar texture.

He think that she enjoys being out and about, wandering the streets of Caldera city with a breeze in her hair. Especially now that she has grown accustomed to people gawking every  now and again. He is under the impression that they like to stare simply because she has only just begun making more intimate public appearances. It might also be that she is holding hands with a waterbender with a light dusting of dirt on her robes.

He listens to her has she explains her exact vision for their garden and how they should approach it, nodding and commending her perfect attention to detail. It is nice to see her being so enthusiastic about something.

Truth be told, he rather hated gardening. He never had to worry about it in the tribes and it always came hard to him. But he finds that he doesn’t have to pretend to be interested, her own delight is rather easy to cling to.

“We could also try planting bananas.” She muses. Though he isn’t sure if she is actually speaking to him anymore or if she is talking to herself. “But I heard that those are more challenging and I would like to--” She stops short and brings her walk to a halt.

“Why are we--”

She seems to study the crowd very intensely and his stomach squirms. Until now it has slipped his mind that there might still be people who harbor resentment towards her. But when she locks eyes, it is with a child. A small girl with ruddy cheeks, long hair, and vivid green, Earth Kingdom eyes.

“Rikka!” She shouts.

Azula’s face pales. Her hand goes stiff in his.

[wordsthativelost]

Stalking Jack

Hey, look what I found on an old flash drive!  I guess that counts as “words I’ve lost - and found” I don’t even have a place to post original fic any more.  Might as well put it here. I wrote this when I was very depressed.  I still think it’s *interesting* if not necessarily *good* CONTENT WARNINGS: suggested child abuse, hints at sexual abuse, suggested violence. -----

    "My real mother would never make me do that," you say to me.

    All children tell themselves secretly that they have other, better, parents somewhere -- kinder, grander, more exciting -- or so I have heard.  I never did, but then I was never one for daydreaming.  Not like you.  Most children are not brave enough, cruel enough, to speak that story aloud.

    You, however, stand before me, your eyes now level with mine, your father's broad jaw jutting forward, and cross wiry arms against a chest that is no longer quite so thin. You repeat, "My real mother would allow me to stay."  To hide the trembling, you push your hand through that ragged straw hair with its gleam of sunrise, covering your eyes so I do not see the hurt.  O my careless burden, my Jack, your words slice my heart in two, and it falls empty to the dirt floor between us; but no blame spills out, no blame at all.

    How can I blame you for denying me, denying this the home I made for you?  We are dirty and dark, rough and ramshackle, no place for you, O my shining youth, my shame, all sunlight and softness and the sweet drone of summer bees.  Surely you could not have sprung from between these splintered thighs, slipped from this chinked womb.  

    "Good.  Then ask your real mother for food and a fire," I say harshly.  Like this hovel, I have no shelter left to offer, and the Spring turning is still many weeks away.  "Go and find work, for there is nothing more for you here."

    Your eyes, molten gold, flow away from mine. "There's still the cow.  I could take her to the knacker's yard."

    "What?  She is all that I have left from..."  I do not finish. I do not think of the time before.

    "She is too old.  She is useless.  She requires feed and water and gives no milk in return."

    "She is not yours to sell."  This is true.  The cow had been a gift to me, a calf then, with eyes as warm and whimsical as a promise of faithfulness and fertility.  It is also true that she is now withered and dry.  I am still not ready to let her go.  "You would kill her to purchase a few more days of idle scribbling?"

    At that, your eyes flash.  "I am not idle!"  You shake your hand at me, still gripping the stick of charcoal you use to etch your fancies on scraps of wood and bark.  "You have never understood.  You have never cared about what is important to me!"

    No, I do not understand you, O my strange one, my changeling child.  How you drink tales and eat stories, how you exhaust yourself from your pretend battles and lie spent, bleeding words from a thousand invisible cuts.  But still the ice in my chest melts before your fire.  "See that you get a good price for her, then," is all I say.

    But when you return the next evening, you bring me no cheese for our supper, no wood for our fire.  No copper coins to purchase a few more tomorrows.  Instead, you show me a fist filled with foolish fancies, and your mouth drips with dreams like poisoned honey.  A strange man, you tell me, a man with flaxen hair and the eyes of a lion, met you on the forest path and offered you great things. You traded my cow, my past, for his promises and plans.

    I say nothing. You chatter on nonsensically, but I cannot hear you over the howling in my ears and I cannot see you for the darkness in my eyes. I take your folly and fling it out the door, scattering your daydreams like dirt in our yard, and you fall silent, and I think that now the rage in your heart will choke the hunger in your belly.  

    Maybe this time your stories are true.  Maybe you are not my son.

    In the morning you are gone.  You have followed this stranger's ensnaring lures, I tell myself.  Trapped in the clinging vines of your own imaginings, you climb them into the clouds of fairytales, the fog of let's-pretend.

    I hope that someone will feed you there.

    As for me, I search beneath my pillow for my small bag of precious things:  a faded blue ribbon, a crumbled flower wrapped in a yellowing scrap of lace, many tiny ivory teeth that tumble onto my hand, biting into the palm.  There is also the ring, the one your father gave me six months before you were born.  I use my own teeth to pry out the stone, sparkling topaz, like his eyes, like your eyes. It glitters like the deceitful endings of your magpie daydreams, and I close my fist tightly. The Travelers will come by soon, when the Winter rains end.  Perhaps they will trade me supplies and seeds for the empty silver band.

    Weeks later, I am digging in my new garden with a stout sharpened stick.  You return to me, your golden eyes blazing like the sun reflected in the puddles all around me. Sitting in the doorway, you watch me kneel in the mud, and spin me fantastic tales of a giant's mansion, filled with amazing treasures. No, you did not see the giant, you admit; but you met his woman, a delicate, fragile, timid thing.  She pitied you, you say.  She fed you, and cosseted you, and hid you when the giant returned, his voice like thunder.  The woman told you to run, and you did, ran all the way back to me.

    "And look what she gave me!"  Your voice cracks like ice with excitement, as you shove a small purse into my hands. "Gold! Jewels! She says that all the giant's fortune shall be mine!"

    I look inside, and my eyes see only the dull gleam of brass buttons and bright shining beads.  O my besotted fool, my dreamer.  When have you ever seen real gold, real jewels, so that you should recognize them?  But then, when have I?

    I say nothing.  Instead I give you hot soup, made from the wild onions and cattails I have gathered near the lake.  You eat three bowls' worth, scowling all the while, comparing the meal to the rich scraps from the giant's table.  "But you shall eat such food now, shall you not?" you tease me. You insist that you must go back on the morrow, to fetch me more wealth from the giant's store.

    When you have left, I pull out my last set of spare sheets.  The cotton is soft from many washings, but still not worn through.  I boil the cloth with the onion peelings until it is the color of ripe wheat, of new butter, of your father's hair, your hair, shimmering under the smoking tallow-dips as you struggle to soothe your frantic fantasies to lay quivering, flat upon the page. I cut and pin and stitch it into a fine dress, such as an alderman's wife might wear, and sew the buttons you brought me down the front and sleeves.  Tomorrow I will bring this into town, and see if I can trade it for an iron trowel.  

    It is only two weeks later when you return again. I am searching the ground for fallen sticks to burn; although the days are warmer now, it still grows cold at night. "My father!" you shout as you rush to me. "The giant's woman told me of my father!"  Your words spray out like stones from beneath a cart wheel.  I flinch as they strike me.  Your father, you say, your real father, was a great man, a fine lord, a king! Indeed, he was the true owner of the grand house where you have been hiding for so many days. The giant came and slew him, and cast you, his infant heir, away into poverty and filth.  Surely, you ask me, it is your duty to reclaim all that should be yours by right?

    My duty is to feed you.  I grind acorns dug from the beneath the bracken and set to boil for hours.  They taste bitter and flat, so I stir in a handful of dried berries and the last of the windfallen apples.  You wolf down the porridge and grimace, but then you grin at me, like you are hiding the most delicious secret.  "Look at what I brought you from the giant's house this time!"  You thrust an odd bundle of carved sticks and wires into my hands, fingers stained brown and purple from cooking.  You tell me that this is a harp, that I can hang it in the doorway, and the wind will make it sing with marvelous, magical tunes. You say that it will make me less dull, make my days pass quickly and my sleep more restful.

    I say nothing.  You are so pleased with yourself and your gift.  O my heartless poet, my clown, what need have I now for music? Your father whistled haunting melodies to me once, when I was young and lovely, and I would hum them back to you as you suckled greedily at my breast, to put you to sleep so your father could have his turn.  If I want songs I can go listen to the senseless yammerings of the forest birds. My days are too short and my dreams too empty as it is.

    When you are gone the next morning, I turn the little device over in my hand, recalling your tales of talismans and triumph with a sour smile. I take the beads you brought me, and string them on my old blue ribbon, wrapping it around and around the delicate wooden frame.  A few early jonquils stuck here and there give a festive look.  The blacksmith believes me to be a hedge-witch, and has been pressing me to supply him with love charms.  Surely he will exchange this pretty bauble for a sharp axe.  Who knows, it might even work.

    You return to me again, only eight days gone. I am chopping at a dead tree with my new axe, pleased to depend no longer upon finding sticks on the ground. You are running through the trees, pale hair streaming behind you, something clutched against your chest.  "The axe!  Give me the axe!" you shout, shoving a squirming hissing bundle into my arms.  Snatching the axe, you whirl about to face the path to our house.

    I look down and see that I am holding a goose. It pecks at me.

    "She betrayed me!" you say, voice raw with fury and hurt.  The goose? No, the giant's woman.  She had assured you that everything in that fine house should be yours.  That you should eat at the giant's table.  Wear his clothes.  Sleep in his bed.  She took your hand, you tell me trembling, and brought you to his rooms with silk soft words, promising to uncover his most secret treasure.  

    O my wounded innocent, my dupe.  I hear the axe sing like a harp as it slices through the air, chopping your story into slivers. You asked her instead to take you to the giant's larder.  So that you might share his delicacies with me, foraging too long in the dirt and the muck. The giant's woman flushed red and hot and sharp, answering that she'd as soon give you a goose that laid golden eggs as provide a feast for the harlot of the woods.  

    Your eyes flicker with hot angry flames as you repeat her words. Do you believe that they shall burn me?

    When you asked to see this goose, she laughed at you. She pointed to the kitchen gardens, where the chickens wandered foolishly, and she laughed and laughed, and then the giant returned.

    Stop thief she shouted, and he lunged for you. You ran, you say, and you ran, and as you ran she grabbed shrieking at the giant, and you ran.  In the yard you saw the goose, the golden goose, and you snatched it and you ran. And now the giant is running too, running after you, coming for you.  Coming for us.  Down the forest path to our little hut.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you cry, "I will protect you," and O my brash brazen boy, my hero, you are weeping and angry and confused and terrifying, and I lift the axe from your hand.

    I say something.  "Take this wretched bird into the house and shut the door." And I turn and I wait for this giant.

    I stand ready, axe held level.  I shall chop down that strangling vine you have been climbing.  I shall hew it out, root and branch, and no clinging tendril shall remain to claim you. I shall bite deep with my blade until the sap gushes out sticky and wet, and washes away any hidden thorns.

#

    When I come back inside the little house, you sit still and huddled on your bed.  Your eyes, your golden eyes, are bright and full of tears and terror, not dark and empty like your father's are now. "You were a great lady once, mother," you whisper to me. "You were a queen in a splendid castle."

    I say nothing. But I nod, and hold you close until you fall asleep against me.  When your breathing is slow and soft, I go back to my small garden, and finish weeding among the pushing green that reaches already to my knees.  Later tonight I will take my axe and strike the goose dead.  It would be wiser, I suppose, to keep it for the eggs, but I can render the carcass for the good yellow fat instead.  I will make you many dip candles, O my treasure, O my song, O my prince, my son, and they shall burn clean and bright; and you shall scribble out your stories by their golden glow for many months to come.

    Besides, goose broth will taste well with these beans.

[theabominableblogger]

Rewatching “Crimson Peak”

Discussing this movie on the Gotham group chat with @ckatattack and decided “Eff it, Imma watch it again.”

Lez go!

“Rent movie for $3.99″ absolutely

Holy crap, I forgot about this opening lullaby during the logo.  Holy shit.

For some reason, the bloody Edith in the opening shot really looks like something the girl behind MadeYewLook should do.  Other Alexis, hear me out!

These colors (in young Edith’s bedroom)!

*flinches when the first ghost puts her hand on Young Edith’s shoulder*

You ever had someone put their hand on your shoulder when you’re like seconds away from falling asleep?  Scariest shit ever.

*silently jams out to the music when Edith is traveling to the publisher*

I freaking LOVE Edith’s yellow dress in this movie.  The puffy shoulders, the black under dress, the straw hat, love it.

“Actually, Mrs. McMichael, I would prefer Mary Shelley.  She died a widow.”  *z snaps*

“The ghost is just a metaphor.  For the past.”  Boom there’s the whole movie.

“He told me it needed a love story.  Can you believe that?”  AGAIN-

Also holy shit, Bobby from Supernatural is Edith’s dad!

For a second, I thought this typing house looked like a science fair.

AND THERE HE [Tom HIddleston] ISSSS!!

I’m sorry, I’m just smiling... so hard at this [Edith and Thomas’s first scene together]

Listen, if we get a scene in the Loki TV show where we see him in an outfit very close to the one he wears in this movie, I will... die.  That’s it.  I’ll just die.

The aesthetics for most of Guillermo del Toro’s movies are wonderful.  The like 95% period accurate clothing, the yellow lighting, the red and green wallpapers OH MY GOD I JUST NOTICED THE RED AND GREEN

*The door knob starts creaking*  Oh boy

That shot of Edith’s face in half shadow when she’s about ready to close the door but she sees the ghost of her mother?  Good stuff.

*Thomas waits near the staircase*  OH SNAP HE LOOK GOOD

OHHHHHHH THAT TRANSITIONNNNN [from the staircase to the ballroom]!!

I also love the detail that Lucille’s dress is ten years too old for her because she is still stuck in the past when it comes to life.

*grins like an idiot when Thomas offers the candle to Edith*

There are so many people gasping in this scene

I wonder if they actually did try to do the waltz with the actual candle lit for filming or did they do some VFX to make it look like it was lit the whole time?  Part of me thinks that that flame’s real but I don’t know.

Where have I seen the guy who plays the investigator before?

“The man that just left, among other ailments, is colorblind....only the majority around him does.  Now that man will never perceive the colors red or green.  He only accepts their existence because the majority around him does.”  “Perhaps we only notice things when the time comes for us to see them.”  OH MY GOD ALL THE RED AND GREEN IN EDITH’S HOME

Charlie Hunnam’s Britsh accent slipped in when he said “understand”

Also I want this man to play Green Arrow in the DCEU

Did she [Lucille] just rub the dead butterfly on her face?

*Close of ants feeding on dead butterfly*  Thanks, that was needed.

*Thomas reveals the ring he was going to give Edith*  BOY YOU KNEW HER FOR LIKE A THREE DAYS AND A NIGHT

Were those all the previous marriage certificates?

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have an unexpected announcement.  Sir Thomas?”  *sinks down in seat and hisses nervously*

*is extremely uncomfortable when Thomas has to insult Edith’s novel in front of her*

*Edith slaps Thomas*  Well he took that pretty well.

*Lucille in the doorway of the dining room*  You know what, eff you.

*jaw drops in horror when someone smashes Mr. Cushing’s face in the sink repeatedly, killing him*

I love that Edith is still in her nightgown and she still has bed head (of a sorts) and yet she ran to the hotel, just throwing on a coat and leaving her reading glasses on.

*slams hands on laptop*  THESE.  TRANSITIONS.

I FORGOT ABOUT THE PUPPER!

BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THE GREEN WALLPAPER, SET DESIGNERS!

I’m sorry, was that a slight kiss mark on Edith’s chin?  Did I see that right?

Boy, you be hugging your sister for way too long...

*Lucille refuses to give Edith a copy of the keys*  Electric chair.

“You chose her.  Why?”  BECAUSE HE LOVES HER YOU BITCH

*One of the ghosts sneaks up on Edith in the bathroom*  We see you, @actordougjones!!  I see you!!

*Thomas loudly stirs Edith’s tea for her*  I’m suddenly flashing back to the tea cup from “Get Out”

So would the Sunken Place for this scenario just be completely red from the red clay?  Thoughts to think about.

Wait, how long is Mia Wasikowska’s hair?  Is that all real?  Jeez!  The last time I had hair down to my butt was in elementary school.

“Mother.”  Oo woo oo...

Look, I’ve already seen this movie, but I already want Lucille to shut the hell up.

I’m sorry, was that a porn book Lucille just showed Edith?

Well damn they replaced that sink real quick!

*Thomas watches Edith as she watches one of his contraptions*  S T O P

Mr. del Toro, you have been reading my list of favorite romantic tropes.  Sir please-

*Edith and Thomas kiss passionately*  OH... OHH...

*gestures in the air with frustration when Lucille enters the room*

GO AWAY

Can we start taking shots every time Edith starts wandering around the halls in her nightgown holding a candelabra in this movie?

GREEEEEENNNNNN...

*One of the ghosts starts crawling on the floor, moaning and wailing*  Haha me

*to the tune of “Sugar We’re Going Down”*  WE’RE GOING DOWN DOWN INTO THE RED CLAY BASEMENT!  EDITH WE’RE GOING DOWN-

“My hands are getting rough.  Your father would approve.”  Why would I just realize that?  Man, I’m getting slow.

The last time I watched this movie was in 2016.  I watched the trailer back when I was a senior in high school.  And I watched that trailer multiple times.

I love the ghost as the scarecrow

Girl, you are coughing up blood.  You have been poisoned.

Edith back at it again wandering around at night!  Take a shot!

This was a terrible decision for me to watch this at like midnight.  Why did I do this?

OK, so which one of these ghosts is Javier Botet?

Oh my gosh, the chair Edith is in is bigger than last time because she’s being swallowed by the house. 

AND ANOTHER TRANSITION!

“Sir Thomas is already married.”  BUM BUM BUMMM!!

*has to look away as Thomas and Edith get it on*

Aaand there’s the English countryside right there.  I’m gonna look back away now.

“Lucille, we’re back!”  Lucille, you son of a bitch.

“You slept there?  You two... alone...”  Yeah, that’s what husband and wife do.  They get together, sleep together, do a lot of things together.  Jesus.

“I was so alone.  I can’t be alone.”  Lady, I just want you to shut the hell up.

OK, so now I forget what’s in the ES suitcase?  Enola’s body?  What’s up?

Oh, it’s just a suitcase full of other stuff.  Never mind.  I thought it was gonna be her body.

Lemme guess the ghost is gonna rise out of the red goo?  Yep!

I’m getting a lot of callbacks to “The Shining” like with all the red and then the ghost with the ax in her head climbing out of the tub

Jessica Chastain’s accent keeps slipping.  Am I the only one who’s noticed?

*laughing*  Oh my God, again!  Take a shot!

Oh my God they freaking swindled a lady in a wheelchair.  Ohhhh my God...

WAIT I FORGOT THAT WAS ENOLA’S DOG!

“The poison... is in the tea!”  Funnnnnnnnn....

Oh but of course she got snowed in. 

“I [Lucille] tended Mother in this bed.”  *so done*

STOP EFFING... SCRAPING THE TEA CUP GODDAMN

STOP IT

So is Lucille the older sibling?  Oh yeah she is because she said she tended to their mom

*completely done with Lucille’s BS*

Whoever did the set design for Allerdale Hall, I want to send them flowers and my love

OK I know for a fact that that’s Doug Jones as the ghost of Enola

WAIT I FORGOT ABOUT THIS SHIT

*quickly rips out earphones*

*cue a very long string of expletives and looking up and away from the screen*

EXCUSE ME HER [expletive] BACK IS BROKEN!  SHE HAS LOST THE WILL TO WALK!

*singing* ALAAANNNN THE UNSUNG HE-ROOOOOO!!!

LUCILLE I WANT YOU *laughing* TO SHUT THE HELL UP

*gasps*  WAIT SHE TOOK THE RING BACK FROM EDITH!

“I’m [Alan] here to take you [Edith] away.”  *singing*  They’re going to take me away, a ha, they’re going to take me away!

Wait he’s a doctor and he just yanks that sucker out of his arm pit?  You’d think he’d be smarter than that.

OH MY GOD THEY KILLED THE DOG

*shakes head at the whole fiasco*

*ends up glaring at Lucille as she tosses Edith’s manuscript in the fire*

Edith, while she’s looking away, just freaking tear that... *mimes tearing motion*

Oh my God of course she [Lucille] has a drawer full of the victim’s hairs

“You told me you loved me!”  “I do!”  AGH

*Thomas throws the law papers in the fire*  YAASSSS!!

*gasps when Lucille stabs Thomas*

*jaw drops in horror when Thomas just shanked IN THE FACE*

GOD AND YOU CAN HEAR THE BONE-

*Thomas dies*  Jeeesus... that was a good death scene.

God the shot of Lucille running down the stairs from behind?  Ugh!  And with the flowing fabric behind her!  Freaking gorgeous

*Edith goes down in the elevator*  Bye bish

That is a huge freaking meat cleaver

Seeing Edith with her steak knife going up against Lucille reminds me of that freaking chainsaw fight from “Mandy” with Nicholas Cage

This final set piece!

*Edith goes up against Lucille with a shovel*  MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA!  YOU KILLED MY FATHER!  PREPARE TO DIE!

*Ghost Thomas*  Those prosthetics look amazing

*Ghost Thomas nuzzles against Edith’s hand before disappearing*  God it’s the little movements.  del Toro freaking GETS it

*nods when the end credits start*

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (6)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Buckets of fluff.

A/N: Bucky’s reaction to the story takes her by surprise, a poor old truck gets hot-wired, and Bucky uses an ax because if Steve can do it so can he. Here’s what happens after the reveal. After this chapter, things take a turn for the angsty (shocking I know), so please bathe in the fluff while it’s here.  

Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

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Previously...

Just like that, he offers his whole heart and she gives hers freely in return. Both know their world is dark and unforgiving, and this war could make liars of them both, but neither cares. To find love in this bleak life is a rare opportunity and the temptation is too strong.

Bucky kisses her one last time and rises to his feet. She watches him pause at her bedroom door to give one more crooked smile, and then the door is clicking shut and he’s gone. Alone again, she curls into a ball under the heavy blankets.

It’s hell, she thinks, to love a soldier.

Burying her face in the faded green pillow, her heartbroken tears fall fast and thick, soaking silently into the soft cotton.

*****

MISSION REPORT

LAST MISSION PARAMETERS RECALLED AND RE-ACTIVATED. APPROPRIATE TOOLS COMMANDEERED TO ADDRESS ISSUES AND SECURE ADDITIONAL SUPPORT. SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT WILL BE UNDERTAKEN BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH FINAL PLAN.

He fingers the blunt edge of the tool. Scratches his temple with it and closes his eyes.

His whole body is shaking.

His whole body is sweating.

Now he digs that blunt metal into his temple until the skin splits. A thin line of blood follows the path of his jawline, dripping into his lap.

*****

Is it really any different than the morning he left? Orange flames dance in the fireplace, a comforting tune. The fire is soothing, but the silence is the opposite – thick, heavy, and colored with confusion.

Bucky sits in the armchair. Elbows propped up, one metal, one human, both digging painfully into his thighs, he keeps his face buried in his hands. There’s a dull throbbing in his head and for the first time he can remember, he has a fucking headache. The door in his head, the one that opens into the past when the memories come calling, is still shut tight. He can feel them behind it, pounding like a battering ram to break free, but nothing happens.

The door stays closed, the past stays hidden.

And he stays perfectly still.

The leather of her chair creaks as she rises to her feet, walking to the bookcase without a word. Dropping his hands, Bucky watches her select a fat novel from the bottom shelf. When she turns to face him, he sees her open it to reveal a hollow space - inside lies yet another small lockbox. Scrolling through the dial, she selects a series of numbers and it clicks open. Pulling free a thick packet of paper, she sets it gingerly on the coffee table and steps back to wait.

In front of him lies a pile of envelopes, cracked and yellowed with age. Raising wary eyes, he finds her watching at him, her posture rigid.

“I just threw everything at you. I’m sorry, Bucky. I don’t know what I thought would happen, maybe I should have told you in the beginning, but the last time we met you didn’t know, so I wasn’t sure at first and then I didn’t know how to say it and then time passed and it was so – it was nice to have you here and I didn’t want to freak you out and I know life is completely different now, neither of us are who we were during the war, you don’t – ” she breaks off, aware she’s rambling.

Shaking her head, she just stops. Stares beseechingly at him, waiting.

There’s his cue, the one telling him to speak.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. He closes it, staring at her. Then he tries again – but his voice is gone. Shaking his head, he looks back at the letters.

“Okay,” she whispers, and he hears a catch in her breath. “Okay. I don’t – expect anything. You don’t have to respond. I can just – give you some space.”

She walks to the front door of the cabin and gathers her coat from the rough wooden peg. Hand on the doorknob, she looks back once more to find him hunched immobile on the couch, staring at the pile of paper, and her shoulders fall.

Cold air breezes through the door and then it snicks shut. Like always, Bucky is left with nothing but the echoing silence of his thoughts.

Long moments pass before he reaches for the letters. A thin, dirty white string binds them together and it takes several tugs to release. The paper crackles warningly under his fingers, a result of old age and frequent readings, and he handles them gently. Selecting an envelope from the top, he opens it carefully, unfolding a delicate sheet of paper.

It’s like an electric shock, when he sees the writing.

Faded letters spill across the page, narrow words in a firm backhand slant that Bucky recognizes. So many things about him have changed over the years, but his handwriting was never one of them. Through the decades it’s remained the same, unalterable as the blue of his eyes and that small bit of constancy was a weird blessing to his fractured sanity.

One sweep of the letters and there’s no doubt in his mind. They’re from him. That fact is irrefutable.

His eyes scan down the page, picking out snippets of text. Occasional words and phrases are redacted, inked over in swipes of black where the US Army got exasperated hands on his stories, but most of it is there.

And there, in the warm little cabin, the truth of her memories shines like a beacon in the darkness of his past.

February 27, 1944

…so damn cold up here. I had ice in places I’d rather not say.

I swear to god, there’s nothing I’d like more right now than to be back in your arms. Can’t stop thinking about our last night – the boys are giving me hell every day, telling me to stop mooning around, but you make it real damn hard to think of anything else.

Sure as hell won’t say it in front of those idiots, but I got to thinking the other night and I don’t know what it is you bring out in me, but I figure you’ll indulge me getting all sappy for a minute. That morning we headed out, I left something pretty damn important behind - so I’m asking you to hold real tight to my heart darlin. You stole it fair and square that day we met, and I know there ain’t a safer place in the world than in your hands. 

Stay warm and stay safe.

Love,

Jimmy

May 2, 1944

…and I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so hard! We’d set up a row of bottles we found and were throwing Delilah around, trying to knock them off and G got a little cocky. Tried to throw it behind his back and it ricocheted off a god damn tree, hit him in the knees and knocked his legs out. He fell face first, got a mouthful of mud and I swear to god, we laughed for an hour. Every time I thought we were done, G got this look on his face, acting all high and mighty, and it set us off again. He recovered just fine, but his knees were bruised all black and purple. It’s good for him though, keeps him humble.

G says hello, by the way, and hopes you’re doing well.

And now the rest of them are hanging over my shoulder and asking if they can all come over someday and you can make them that potato soup you made for me, and I’m sorry, I promise I’ll find new friends when this damn war is over…

Love,

Jimmy

July 23, 1944

You know, the first thing I want to do when I get home, is go to one of those drive-in movie theaters. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, they’re new in America, but it’s a real basic idea - there’s a big screen and you drive into a parking lot and watch a movie from the car. It sounds weird, but I went once and it was great. And good lord, the teenagers love it. They pretend to watch a movie and spend the entire time getting all frisky, and no one’s the wiser.

So, here’s what I’m thinking.

You. Me. A big box of popcorn and a couple bottles of Pepsi. It’s dark outside and once the movie starts, no one will pay us any attention. Maybe we watch the movie, or even better - maybe we don’t. I can’t think of anything I’d love more, than spending two straight hours kissing you. You’re already an addiction for me darlin, but add a little salt to your lips, and I don’t think you’ll ever get rid of me. We could steam up the windows, give those kids a run for their money. I can’t wait to show you.

You’re going to love it, I promise.

Love,

Jimmy

September 18, 1944

Morning Darlin,

I’m on watch and it’s early, suns not even up yet. Should be paying attention and I am (I swear!), but the stars are so damn bright and like everything beautiful in this world, they make me think of you. You know, I never understood how many stars there were until I got to Europe. Never saw much of anything growing up, the city lights were too much. Now though, I sit here, and there’s this – infinity, I guess – staring back at me and it makes me feel small. Like I’m this tiny thing in the universe and why the hell would the universe care about one more soldier with a busted conscience and too many kills to his name.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s okay, in the grand scheme of the world. I don’t need to be famous or remembered or anything. I’m okay being one of many, because there’s a big damn difference between me and every other schmuck out here sweating and humping through the mud.

That big difference is you. This thing we have, it keeps me going. Every damn day.

Your last letter came just when I needed it. Been real hard out here lately. More than it’s ever been. How the hell’s this thing not over? How’d the world get here? I don’t understand it. Never will. All I know, is that I’m so damn ready to hang up my gun and put this all behind me. No more killing, no more tramping through the rain and camping in the snow. No more sleeping with a gun in one hand a knife in the other. I know it does no good to complain and I don’t want to put it on you. Guess I’m just tired.

But you know, I’ve been thinking about the future lately. What life will mean when this thing ends, how we all move on. What happens next. Sometimes I can’t see much past the next mission, but god willing, I’ll see you soon. There’s something important I want to ask you and I need to see your face when I do.

Wish I was there with you.

All my love,

Jimmy

Bucky reads through 12 different letters. When he finishes, he starts back at the beginning and reads them all again.

These words, these promises - they turn him inside out.

On the surface, perhaps some of the words make no sense, but wartime correspondence is unique - no names, no locations, nothing permitted that could be an identifier if letters were intercepted by the enemy. So maybe Bucky doesn’t remember writing these specific letters, but history and common sense tell him enough.

Which is why certain things buried in those simple words are so important – they trigger the patchy album of memories Steve’s given back to him, and it all begins to make sense.

Particularly those names.

Delilah. During the war, it’s what the Howlies called Steve’s shield. Steve got all red and flustered when he grudgingly reminded Bucky, saying Dugan liked to joke it needed a pretty, fancy name, because ‘oh gee whiz boys, Captain Rogers is so pretty and fancy.’ Bucky still calls it that now and then, a muscle memory screech that bursts unconsciously forth when he’s diving to the ground, trying to avoid a vibranium concussion as Steve flings it around the room.

G. That must be Steve. It makes sense in the context. His middle name was Grant, and very few people would have known. It wasn’t released to the public until after his plane went down, so it would have been hard to decipher.

And god dammit all to hell. Jimmy.

Bucky Barnes was a blood-soaked legend throughout the European theatre, and his quirky name was instantly recognizable. But Jimmy - it was one of those silly things that popped up when half the Commando unit had the name James. A silly moniker, one only used for messages and mission reports.

Now here it is in another context. Exactly like Steve told him.

The strange thing though, is that even with these letters and her story and confirmation from Steve’s tales - there are still no memories of her that he can recall. Normally they come flooding back when someone hands him information like she’s done, but they’re still inaccessible in his brain and that fact sits bitter in his stomach. All he can claim are the tentative words offered from her heart, through these quiet recollections and worn handwriting scrawled across yellowed paper.

But the icy rock lodged in his gut begins to melt when it dawns on him.

Before everything, before he fell from that train, before his life crashed and burned, he had something. He had someone. He had a life and a future and a woman who loved him.

He was in love with someone.

His brain still refuses to show him the past, but his heart – that’s another matter. Like an iron fist, muscle memory grips him and the curtain lifts. It’s a god damn tragedy that he can’t remember her, that he can’t recall the feel of her lips or the scent of her skin or any of the words she must have gifted him in her letters. It’s a tragedy and he’ll never forgive himself, but in this moment, he realizes that it’s okay.

This is why his breath catches every time she smiles at him. This is why he felt his stomach plunge the first time she spoke. This is why her laugh sets his blood on fire.

Because his heart never forgot her. Not once, not for a single moment.

Against all odds, across the endless chasm of space and time, they found each other again. Maybe this is it. Maybe after all the shit he’s been dealt, Fate decided to lift her endless ban on allowing Bucky Barnes a measure of happiness.

Maybe Fate is giving them another chance.

Well if that’s the case, he’s sure as god damn hell not going to lose it.

“Shit,” he breathes, jumping to his feet. Flying to the door, he throws it open, panicked she’s somehow slipped away, disappeared and left him all alone.

And then he skids to a stop.

Wrapped in her fluffy winter coat, she sits huddled on the front steps. At the sound of the door, she stumbles to her feet and spins to face him. Her hands are clenched in tight fists at her side and there is such naked, desperate hope in her eyes. To be seen, to be loved.

To be remembered.

Bucky steps slowly onto the porch. Cautiously, as though he’s afraid she could shatter, he reaches for her. Burning hot palms lay gently on her frozen cheeks, wandering blue eyes search every inch of her face, and he hears her breath snap harshly.

He leans closer, lets gentle lips ghost over her forehead, over fluttering eyelids, over the tip of her nose, to the softness of her lips. Searching, searching, searching, searing the scent of her skin back into his brain. When he touches hesitant lips to hers, he feels her mouth open to him, and he drinks up her shaky breath with a contented sigh.

Pulling back, he looks into wide eyes brimming with fierce, terrified love. Without a second thought, he lays himself at her mercy and begs the forgiveness he should have requested decades ago.

“I’m here. I’m here now, and I’m so god damn sorry I took so long.” Rubbing his thumb lightly over her lips, he stares in wonder. His gaze roams hungrily over her face, drinking in the color of her eyes, the shape of her nose, the curve of her lips. Every detail he never knew he missed until suddenly he did. “I see you. I see all of you. Let me memorize it, I never want to forget again.”

In the next moment, her shoulders begin to tremble. Small tremors at first, until her whole body is shaking, her breath rattling in her lungs, and the dam breaks.

“Bucky,” she whispers and her voice cracks, the sob ripping from her throat. “Bucky.”

Gravity brings them together, two dying stars collapsing into each other. He folds her in his arms and in the steel cage of his body, protected against the world, she lets go and she cries. She cries for everything.

For her past. For Bucky. For the life they could have had and for everything they lost. For all the secrets and hiding and half-truths. For everything both of them have done. For the decades spent apart, the solitude she fell into, and the horrors he endured.

Tears pour out, great heaving sobs and she burrows into him, the first real taste of heat she’s felt since that barren Parisian apartment at the dawning of 1970. His hands rub up and down her back, and he hushes her softly, murmuring soothing words again and again.

“You’re okay, I’m here, I got you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not letting go.”

Gently picking her up, he slips back into the warmth of the living room, locking the door against the cold night. Stepping carefully to the couch, he falls into the velvety cushions, hugging her close. She sobs seventy years of heartbreak against his chest, and Bucky rocks her, answering her pain with hot, silent tears dripping down his cheeks.

*****

The night crawls by, a full white moon traveling a slow arc above the small cabin, while he cradles her in his arms. In the final hour before dawn, he rises from the couch.

Emotionally drained, she fell asleep hours ago. Now, she curls into him as he carries her up the stairs to her bed. Unwilling to let go for even a moment, he keeps her tucked to his chest when he sinks into the soft pillows. In the depths of sleep, she hugs him tighter, winding herself around him.

Where does he end, and where does she begin? It’s impossible to define.

Her refusal to let go is fine with him. Bucky doesn’t plan to leave anytime soon.

In her sleep, she sighs in contentment, because for the first time in a lifetime, she feels warm. Safe and protected, she doesn’t need a pile of blankets.

Bucky is enough.

*****

Light filters through the tall evergreens outside her window and when she wakes, she’s surrounded by heat. Opening puffy eyes, she finds Bucky lying beside her, bright eyes calm and watchful.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

“Bucky?” she whispers, disbelief clear in her eyes. “You’re still here?”

He runs a light finger down her cheek. “I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”

There they are, the words she’s wanted her entire life. She has no clue if they’ll fade away, but for now, she lets herself believe him, because hope feels so much softer than the black abyss of depression.

“You’ll stay?” she repeats numbly. Needing to hear the words one more time.

“I’ll stay,” he answers, his fingers still brushing her skin. “Long as you’ll let me. We have a love story to remember.”

*****

So, he stays.

Bit by bit, they begin to discover who they are now, after decades apart. Bit by bit, she offers small memories that he clings to with ferocious enthusiasm. Bit by bit, they find the new rhythm of a life together.

And bit by bit, they fall back in love.

*****

Gripping a mug of coffee between fingerless gloved fingers, she gives him a dubious look.

“Have you ever chopped wood before?”

“Nah, but how hard can it be?” Bucky shrugs, hefting the ax. “Steve said he did it. I can do it.”

He balances a chunk of wood on the stump and scrutinizes it from all angles, before choosing his approach. Lining up the blade, he takes aim and with a smooth swing, slices it neatly in two.

His eyes dance excitedly when he looks at her. “I feel like this could be cathartic. Can I keep going?”

She looks at the huge pile of logs stacked behind him. “Knock yourself out.”

He considers her for a moment and then stands up a fat log, twisting it to sit level in the snow, away from any bark shrapnel, but close enough he can see her.

“Keep me company?” he asks.

She plops happily on the log, savoring the image of his tall, heavily muscled form. “Anytime,” she says softly.

*****

“I saw in that journal, you watched the moon landing? Back in ’68?”

Her eyes light up. “I did. It was unbelievable.”

“Wish I could’ve seen it,” Bucky says wistfully. “Would’ve been so cool.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, “it really was.”

The ax embeds in the stump with a thwack and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. He comes over to her and leans down, his mouth warm when it touches hers.

“You were right,” he admits. “I’d have signed up with NASA in a heartbeat, if I could’ve.”

“I thought you might,” she murmurs against his lips and he hums.

“Hey. Would you go up to space with me?”

She kisses the tip of his nose. “I’ll go anywhere with you.”

*****

“Since you’ve come back, what’s the strangest mission you’ve been on?”

Bucky contemplates the question, while he searches for the perfect chunk of wood.

“Well, last year there was this one where a crazy ass botanist engineered this breed of super Venus Fly Traps that came to life.”

“A crazy what? No.”

“Dead serious. It caught me in the middle of the fight and broke its teeth on my arm,” he says, shuddering. “Got all this sticky saliva shit on me. So fucking gross. When I got home, I threw away all the plants in the Tower, you know. Just in case.”

She presses her lips together, but a fit of hysterical giggles makes her double-over, clutching her stomach.

“Cross my heart,” Bucky insists. He plants his hands on his hips and pulls a face. “I can’t believe you’re laughing, I was terrified!”

*****

“Tell me more things about you,” he grunts as he swings the ax. “Like for instance, why did you keep a bunch of t-shirts from Bon Jovi’s 1986 tour?”

Looking over to her, he finds her eyes comically wide. Deer in the headlights. He can practically see her mind racing while she debates the answer.

“Um. Okay, so listen,” she starts, and Bucky feels a silly grin beginning. “No, stop. I mean it. Bucky, shut up!”

Laughter spills out at her embarrassment.

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles. “I won’t laugh. I’m interested. Just wanna hear more about you. Continue. Please.”

Arms crossed, she sighs heavily and shoots him an embarrassed look.

“Look, it’s not that big a deal. I may have had a crush on Bon Jovi. Okay? It was 1986 and I loved that album and his voice was so sexy and he had this beautiful hair, and I just – you promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

She grabs a piece of wood and throws it at his leg and he laughs harder.

*****

After a long day of chopping wood, her shed is bursting at the seams. Warm and cozy on her couch, Bucky stares off into space, while she sits beside him, absorbed in a book.

“Did I get blood all over the seats in your truck?” he asks suddenly.

Wrinkling her nose, she glances up and gives him an apologetic look. “Yeah. You did. I need to get it cleaned. Or buy seat covers, so I don’t have to explain why it looks like a murder scene.”

“Ugh,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs good-naturedly and grins. “I don’t mind. Least no one will steal it.”

She goes back to her book. He goes back to spacing off.

“But you have another truck in that old shed, right? Didn’t I see one?”

“Yes, an old clunker from the ‘50s. It hasn’t run for years though.”

“Hmm.”

Bemused, her lips quirk up. “Any reason you’re asking?”

“Just thinking,” he mumbles vaguely.

He goes back to spacing off. She goes back to her book.

Two minutes later, he jumps up and she topples over into the cushions. Looking down, he rubs his mouth while she untangles herself from her blanket.

“Shit. Sorry. Got an idea,” he says, offering her a hand. Pulling her to her feet, he starts collecting the multitude of blankets strewn about the living room, folding them into piles. Tucking them under his arm, he heads into the kitchen, rummaging in the cabinet for a bottle of wine and two plastic cups. Striding over to the front door, he sets the pile down and grabs her winter coat, extending it out without a word.

“What is this?” she asks suspiciously, shrugging into the coat. Bucky takes a knobby wool scarf from a hook and helps her wrap it securely around her throat.

“Get your gloves,” he replies. “And those furry snow boots.”

Finally buttoned up, he appraises her from head to toe, satisfied with the result. Grabbing his own coat, he pulls it carelessly on, picks up the pile of blankets and wine, and opens the door.

“Follow me,” he says, heading down the porch.

Stomping toward the rickety garage near the cabin, he pulls open the doors and props them open. Sitting in the small space, is an old light blue Land Rover.

Bucky takes her puffy gloved hand and pulls her to the passenger side door. Opening it with a dramatic flourish, he nods for her to get in.

“It doesn’t even run, Bucky,” she argues, climbing up into the dusty seats.

Bucky goes to the driver’s door and slides inside. Giving her a grin, he flips the flashlight on his phone and hands it to her, lighting up the interior of the cab while he reaches blindly below the steering column.

“Any chance you got a screwdriver?”

“I do, actually,” she answers, flipping open the glove box to snag the wobbly screwdriver that went to die there years ago. But where it’s normally nestled, she finds only blank space.

She blinks. How strange. When was the last time she was even in this truck?

“No matter,” Bucky grunts, and with a few strategic jerks, he pulls the metal cover away. A nest of tangled wires falls loose, ribbons of white and red and yellow. She shines the light on his fiddling, and with a practiced hand, he selects several and strips the ends until they fray. Tapping them together a few times, she hears the sharp crackle of electric current and suddenly the ancient truck sputters to life.

“What? How?” she asks excitedly. “How’d you do that?”

Bucky grins and tucks the wires away. The gas gauge shows a nearly full tank, so he fiddles with the dials and cranks the heat up full blast. It smells like wet leaves and a hint of motor oil, but there’s a welcome nostalgia to the scent. Unfolding the blankets, Bucky wraps one around her shoulders, and spreads another over their laps. He situates her legs across his thighs and wraps an arm around her.

“Reading those letters, I saw I made you a promise. Said I’d take you to a drive-in movie. Here we are, seventy god forsaken years later, and I still haven’t taken you on a date. Seems overdue,” he thumbs through the video app on his phone until he finds an old favorite. Pressing play, he props it up on the dash and turns to her with a crooked smile. “This is my favorite movie. Thinkin’ you might like it too.”

The screen is blank and then a tornado of sound surrounds them and big white letters flash across a black and white screen.

“Oh,” she sighs delightedly. Humming contentedly, he drops a kiss to her forehead and she lays her head on his shoulder, while the opening theme from The Wizard of Oz begins to play. “You’re amazing Bucky Barnes.”

“Well, that’s what I’m always telling people,” he agrees, his voice sweet against her skin. “I’m glad you agree.”

Watching the movie together is an experience. Bucky hums along to the music while she repeats the dialogue under her breath. The movie is clearly an old hat for them both, and the familiarity is comforting.

It’s not until Dorothy’s skipping down the yellow brick road in her sparkly red shoes, that she notices he’s gone quiet. Glancing at him, she finds blue eyes riveted on her. A slow smile spreads over his face, and he leans down to leave a featherlight kiss at the corner of her mouth; then the hinge of her jaw; then the smooth spot behind her ear.

“I thought we were watching a movie,” she murmurs, tilting her head to offer up the curve of her neck.

“But we’re at the drive-in,” Bucky answers, his lips tracing the shell of her ear. She shivers at the feel and tries to scoot closer. “This is what the kids do. They ignore the show and make out, right?”

“Yes, I think I read that somewhere,” she replies breathlessly. “A letter I had from a rather charming soldier. Some American, I think.”

Rubbing his scratchy face along her neck, he makes a disapproving noise and his teeth nip her ear.

“Charming American soldier, huh? What’s his name? I’m gonna kick his ass.”

“No ass kicking.” She pokes him in the belly and he grunts a surprised laugh. “I sort of like him.”

*****

The truck still idles along, while the windows have long since fogged over. Dorothy makes it back to Kansas safe and sound, returned to a world of black and white. There’s no place like home, Bucky hears the voiceover in the background. Immersed in reacquainting himself with the taste of her lips, he agrees.

There really is no place like home.

*****

“Was it always like this?” he murmurs the next night. Laying face-down on the couch, his face is nuzzled in her lap, his arms wound around her waist. Cool fingers scratch lightly at his scalp and he rubs against her like a cat.

“Well, you were a little sappy sometimes,” she teases. “But I loved it.”

Muffled laughter rumbles deep in his chest and he hugs her tighter.

“This feels so easy. Never thought I’d get something like this.”

“Sometimes you get lucky, I guess. You fit with someone, like they were made for you. That was us.”

“I just wish I could remember.” Disappointment vibrates in every syllable. “All those years with Hydra, that shit’s coming back. Nightmares and — memories of what I did to people. I don’t understand why that’s there, and my stupid ass brain refuses to give me you.”

Her hand pauses briefly, before resuming the gentle strokes.

“I know,” she says, and Bucky hears the thread of sorrow wound through her words. “None of this was fair. You deserved so much more than what they did and I - I’m so sorry Bucky.”

“No, don’t. I’m the one who should be apologizing.” He rolls onto his back and pillows his head in her lap. His expression is dark when he grinds out the words. “I just left you. Fell off a fuckin’ train and left you alone. I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

For the longest time, she doesn’t speak. Lost in thought, she gazes out the living room windows, fingers still absently stroking his hair. When she finally looks down, he sees ancient resignation in her face.

“Listen to me. I never want you to apologize Bucky, it was a war. I walked into loving you with my eyes wide open and I don’t regret a single day. I never have. You were worth it.” She pauses, and a strange look comes over her face, an odd blend of sadness and regret and - fear. It disappears as quickly as it comes, and her voice drops to a low whisper. “I’m full of memories. After all these years, after everything I - after being alone for so long. Sometimes I think I’ll drown from them.”

Drowning in the past. There’s a feeling he knows. Curling his fingers around the back of her neck, he tugs her face down.

“Give them to me then,” he breathes against her lips. “I get it. Better than anyone. Remembering things, sometimes it’s a burden. You don’t have to do it alone. I’m with you now, let me help.”

The sentiment breaks her heart.

She says nothing. She kisses him instead.

*****

In the middle of the night, watching the stars wink through the window of her bedroom, she lays awake and thinks.

Bucky is sprawled on his stomach beside her, still dressed in his old sweats and his Captain America shirt. One arm is curved tight around her waist, a leg thrown over her knee, his deep even breaths warm against her neck. It’s funny, she muses. He sleeps the same as he did during their brief time together in 1944. With his nose to her skin and his limbs clutching her tight. Like her softness is the balm he needs to combat the horrors that come for him in his dreams.

It’s strange, in a way. He knows her more intimately than anyone on Earth. Emotionally. Physically. But even with a knowledge of what they used to be, he keeps a tight rein on his desire, nothing more than chaste brushes of his fingers that leave her restless for more. But while his hands may be innocent, his kisses still leave her breathless - they’re untamed, wild and enthusiastic, overflowing with passion. Before though, where his lips carried a hint of frantic panic, now there’s one big difference.

They have time. Something they never had before.

There’s no miserable march back into the suffocating arms of war. No desperate need to hide from Hydra after a stolen rendezvous in the night. Time is finally on their side, to rebuild his memories of their past, to create new memories together. An infinite world of opportunities sits before them and she revels in that fact.

Beneath it all though, remains that nagging flicker of fear.

Because as happy as she is now, she’s terrified of the future and the possibility it could all end once more. After finding him again, after slipping back into his arms, after falling in love again, she knows if he were to leave now? It would break her for good. There’d be no coming back from it. Life has stolen him from her too many times already.

This time, hope would not be enough to tether together the shattered remnants of a heart.

Shifting deeper into the pillows, he hugs her tighter. His lips brush her skin and he presses a sleepy kiss to her shoulder.

“Can’t sleep?” he mumbles groggily.

“Just thinking,” she whispers. “I’m okay, go back to sleep.”

Bucky hums in drowsy agreement and goes quiet. Minutes pass and his breathing resumes the steady pattern and she resumes her dreary train of thought.

What is it, about the middle of the night, she wonders drily, that makes your brain relive the worst parts of your life?

On and on it goes. The steady beat of his heart, the heat of his skin, the dangerous trajectory of her thoughts. Until his soft voice breaks the silence of the night, pulling her back to the present.

“Can you tell me another story? Another memory about us?”

Another memory. A simple request. Memories are the one thing she can always do.

“What do you want to know?” she asks, petting his tangled mess of hair.

“Everything. Tell me more of our love story,” he murmurs, his voice raspy with sleep. He snuggles impossibly closer. “I wanna know it all.”

I wanna know it all. An innocent request.

There are so many things she wants to tell him. Things she needs to tell him. But those words, those memories, they’re buried too deep and she can’t. Unearthing them would destroy her.

Instead, her mind weaves through their love story, pulling forward a memory she’s replayed a thousand times before. The memory of his one other visit to the village, right before their world went pear-shaped. She was hesitant to tell him about that night, about the question he asked, because she knows he’s not the same. They’re not the same and she doesn’t want him to think -

But her heart beats faster.

Twisting a lock of his hair around her finger, she gropes for the right words, his fingers stroking lightly down her arm.

I wanna know it all.

In the middle of the night, watching the stars wink through the window of her bedroom, she takes a deep breath.

*****

Next chapter

*****

Tags are open right now, if you want one, please send me a DM or ASK.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 24: The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Chapters: 24/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Let’s try this again) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Reader, Thor(Marvel) Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Time For Exciting Legal Bullshit, Loki Sincerely Apologizes For The First Time, Don’t Get Used To It Summary: Reader finally becomes Official, Loki starts to really get his shit together, Thor enables them both.

Andsvarr sat on the end of his cot, face in his hands to hide his embarrassment and his rage. Moments before, his father had stormed out in a fury, after bursting in and, in front of everybody, causing a huge row. Someone had informed him that Andsvarr had been removed from the honor of a room in the royal chambers, and relegated back into the barracks with the commoners. Someone had told him that you were now in that room, and Alarr, ever ready to find insult to him and his, had drawn some unflattering conclusions. Andsvarr had naturally tried to defend you honor, after all, he knew you; his father did not. All it had led to was a wrathful argument, and a disturbance of the relative peace of the barracks.

He would hear about all the lost sleep later, no doubt.

                                                                    *****

You were dressed and eating breakfast when Loki knocked on your door, and you bid him enter without any hesitation. He sat quietly at the foot of your bed, waiting to be acknowledged, which was very different for him, and you deliberately took a few more bites before saying anything. You weren't actually all that angry with him anymore, and after this week or so to yourself, just thinking and doing new things, you weren't all that frightened anymore either. Brunnhilde had told you that regular exercise could help with depression and anxiety, and she may well have been right. You felt strong now.

Loki was dressed rather fancy today, in a golden chest plate that was probably actually nornbein. It was covered in intricate scrollwork, matched to his bracers and greaves. He even wore his horns, though these were more of a crown than a helmet.

“You clean up nice.” You teased. “What's the occasion?”

“You are, my dear. I am taking you to see the History Hall, and it is being made into an Official Visit.”

So that was why your dress was more lavish than usual today. This one even had some beads sewn onto it, and the strings between the oval strap-brooches were no longer braided yarn, but strings of glass beads. Your sash was, again, no longer braid, but a length of embroidered cloth, with a buckle in the shape of a tail-biting snake.

“How Official, are we talking?”

“Oh, it's basically an inspection. That way, we will have the entire place to ourselves, and it will be sure to be in top shape. Afterwards, the king requests both our presences in the main throne room. This will also be very Official, if somewhat informal. It is to discuss your future: what you want, what we can offer, what it all means for you. So that you no longer have to be unsure of where you are going, or what to do with yourself. Does this sound acceptable?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I think that'll be really helpful. I like the room, by the way. It actually looks like someone lives here.”

“That is exactly what I was aiming for.” Loki said proudly. “If you would like, we can go into town, and I can take you to the shops, to get yourself some things. Toiletries, books, whatever you want.”

“I noticed that my mythology book has gone missing.”

“I removed it. It was full of misinformation, and it distressed you. I hope you don't find this too disagreeable?” He seemed to be actually apprehensive about your reaction; though his expression hadn't changed, there was a tenseness around his eyes.

“I'm not angry about that, if you're worried. I'm more...embarrassed by it all.” Finished with your meal, you stood nervously, and he echoed your actions. “I should have asked. I should have tried to find out if any of that was true or not, and instead I acted like...like that. I'm sorry, Loki. I'll always ask, from now on.”

You glanced up at him, entreating forgiveness, to find that he was not looking directly at you, but a little to the side. He held his arms slightly open, just far enough that you could fit between them. So that was his answer.

You stepped in and hugged him.

“There are many things I should have asked as well.” He admitted. “I was so sure I had everything under control. But you are a human, accustomed to a different life, and a different culture, with life experiences that I have no parallel for. I should have asked for your opinions, your thoughts. I didn't treat you like a person, and for that I...I also apologize. Going forward, let us not fear to speak to one another. Let us help each other to...Help each other.”

You looked up at him. He glanced down at you.

“It sounded better in my head.” He muttered.

“Loki Silvertongue, master of eloquence.”

“Now see here-” He mock-scolded, interrupted by knocking at the door. The two of you separated immediately, and Loki sighed heavily. “Yes, enter.”

Andsvarr peeked in. “Your Highness? A missive from the king.” He handed Loki a folded piece of paper, smiled and waved at you, and then took his leave.

Loki scanned the paper. “Hm. It looks as if we must rearrange our activities for the day. My brother wishes to see us first thing. The museum must wait for later in the day. Shall we?”

He offered his arm, and you took it.

                                                                         ******

The main throne room would soon deserve a better name, if the half-finished grandeur around you was any indication. There would be murals on the walls and high ceiling, several of them already sketched out and the painting begun. There would be tapestries or weavings, though right now, there was only one. It looked like there would also be ornate light fixtures, and perhaps some kind of mosaic on the floor. It was going to be very impressive, but for now, it simply felt like a construction zone.

One that, you noticed with gratitude, had been swept scrupulously clean.

Thor looked much more serious than you were used to, clothed in his own finery; silver and red. He too, wore a crown-like version of his helmet, shining wings framing his lengthening hair. To your surprise and confusion, he wore a golden eyepatch; something you had never seen him in.

“What happened?” You whispered.

“Oh, it's just eyeball maintenance day. The old thing needs regular cleaning and tune-ups.”

“I am suddenly thirteen times more nervous than I was before, thank you.”

“He has a mechanical prosthetic eye. Ha, did you think it was heterochromia?”

“After this, I'm going to go find a dictionary, look up that word, and then hit you with it.”

“The word, or the dictionary?”

“Step forward.” Thor commanded sternly. Your spine straightened. Oops. Probably should not be gossiping about the king, in front of the king.

The two of you crossed the rest of the gap between you and Thor, following the narrow strip of carpet all the way up to the stepped dais that held the throne. It was just a large and sturdy chair, nothing all that fancy. It didn't look very comfortable, but it did have a compartment on one side that held Stormbreaker. You wondered how often the King of Asgard needed a weapon in his own throne room.

“Loki Odinson, Aesir, Crown Prince of Asgard, Former King of Asgard. Heir of Ice. Spear of Ragnarok, Defender of Asgard. God of Mischief. Slayer of Laufey, Who Avenged the Queen, Foremost Seidmader, Secret Defender-”

It went on and on, a litany of Loki's names and accomplishments, spoken in a sort of sonorous almost-chant that reverberated off the walls.

“-Who is this that you bring before me? Present your petitioner to me.”

“I am pleased to present to you _____ ______, Native of Midgard, Bearer of the Sapphire Rune, Ax-Thief, Blade-Thief, Novice Sorceress, Survivor. Provider of Bread. Baker of Cinnamon Rolls.”

Wow, he had really liked them, hadn't he?

“I petition that she be appointed Seidkona to myself, that she may add her service to me, and that we may stand stronger together.”

“And why should I grant this appointment? State your reasons.”

Thor still sounded stern, but you could see the twitch of a smile on his lips, from the cinnamon roll comment.

This must all be some kind of special rite. Not only had Loki not lost an ounce of his noble posture under Thor's seeming 'doubt', but he seemed to expect it. Neither of the two had acted so formal before, but this ceremonial act must simply be the way these things were done, for the two of them to be so perfectly well-versed in the proceedings.

You, however, didn't quite know what to  expect. Thor wouldn't really refuse this, would he? Depending on Loki's answer? This was all already planned. But maybe this was all necessary to make it really official. Like a baptism for someone who has already converted, or a second interview.

“First, and also foremost: I have, one way or another, the right by birth, to gather a proper retinue of advisors and attendants. The Seidknona is among the most important of the advisory positions, and I feel that _____'s fresh and outside perspective would be most valuable in navigating life on this planet.

As a human who is learning Asgardian magic, she will be an important bridge between our peoples, and as an individual with a unique, personal connection to myself, it would be well for me to keep her close, and heed her.

And thirdly, I have an obligation to her, and her care. I have pledged to provide for her, and that includes more than just food, clothes, and shelter. It includes pastimes and opportunity, education and career. All of this can be wrapped up in this single appointment, one I am owed by blood, and one she is owed by word.”

“All noted. And you, _____ ______, what do you say on your own behalf?”

Your turn? What could you say that Loki hadn't? What made you worthy?

“Um, well. I stole your ax right out of your hand, and I'm only going to get better. Also, I'll make you more cinnamon rolls.”

Loki actually broke posture to glance sharply down at you. “You too.” You reassured him.

Thor broke the same, by laughing. “A bargain! I agree! Now, I'll just need you both to sign this and it'll be official...” From behind the compartment that held Stormbreaker, he retrieved a large book, and a wooden box. The book was full of runic writing, which you could not read yet, but when Loki signed, you could almost make out his name.

“Do I...Should I...”

“English is fine.” Thor said.

“But what does it say?” You wouldn't sign until you knew nothing objectionable was hidden in the runes. You were pretty sure Thor wouldn't lie about that. “Sorry if that's rude.”

Loki was smiling. “Suspicion is freedom, my dear. Always trust that first, for as long as it takes to find the answers. But do try to find the answers. Suspicion alone will not inform you.”

“You just don't want to get punched in the face again.”

He shrugged. “That part wasn't so bad.”

Thor cleared his throat. “This is merely fancy writing that boils down to your official appointment to Seidkona-in-training, giving you permission to exercise the powers and privileges of that title, and securing your agreement to fulfill the duties of the office. I'll have a translated copy delivered to you, if you would like.”

“Before or after I've signed? I mean, if I sign, and then I find something disagreeable in the copy, then-”

“Then you may use the power of your office to dispute it.” Thor said.

You looked between the two of them. “I can do that?” It hadn't occurred to you that you could fight back against the king.

“Of course. This isn't actually an absolute monarchy, no matter how much it functions like one. We do have a constitution, and it allows for a wide range of legal protections, up to and including the right to take legal action against my person.”

“Oh. Well. All right.” There was a lot you had to learn, and all of it as soon as possible. You signed, just hoping that you really knew what you were doing.

“There are also a few other documents for you to sign, if you wish.” Thor flipped the page. “This one grants you Asgardian citizenship. I can't do anything about Icelandic citizenship; that'll have to be a separate thing, if you want it. But this guarantees that the rights and privileges of an Asgardian citizen belong to you, that you are subject to our laws, our justice, and out protection. With this, you can't legally be removed from New Asgard without your or my permission.”

That sounded just fine. You signed the page without hesitation.

“And this one transfers legal responsibility for you from Loki, to myself.”

You glanced back and forth between them. “I don't understand.”

“It is a failsafe to secure your quality of life.” Loki explained. “Since you will be appointed to me, and spending a great deal of time with me, we might...get on each others nerves, you might say? This agreement forbids me personally from issuing you any form of punishment that might effect your life. I will not be able to banish you, have you detained or imprisoned, have you removed from your lodgings, nor contained within them. I will not be allowed to issue physical punishment, nor deprive you of any necessities of life or happiness, nor rescind any gifts or privileges previously offered. It even specifically states that I may not use magic for any of these purposes either. The responsibility for all of that falls upon Thor, and I must expressly seek his permission for any of it. Which I am unlikely to do over some petty squabble.”

“You agreed to that?” You asked, shocked at the amount of power over you that he was giving up.

He raised his chin. “I suggested it. I cannot have a Seidkona who tiptoes around me as if there is glass in her shoes. You must not fear to speak. I will still be responsible for your safety and your keeping, but he will be responsible for your legality.”

You signed without another word.

Both brothers looked immensely pleased. You were sure you did too: this took a great burden of worry from your shoulders, after all. Loki's power over your living conditions had been a source of anxiety for you from day one, but now he had willingly given up all that power. He hadn't even been forced to do it!

“From now on, you will be spending a great deal of time with me.” Loki said. “You will need to shadow me, be beside me at all times, watch and learn from me. You'll be learning the language, the history, and I will be more attentive to your magical training. I know this sounds a bit overwhelming, worry not; I won't pile too much on you at once. And you have proven to be a swift learner. I have every confidence that you will pick things up with all speed.”

That was very gratifying to hear, considering how borderline insulting he had been in those first few days of knowing him. Though, come to think of it, he had never cast any real doubt on your intelligence.

“And you'll be getting a stipend as well, so you needn't worry about being entirely reliant on me. You'll be able to resume what hobbies you have. Do you use a cellphone? We can get you one of those as well, should you require it.”

“Actually that would be really useful!” You brightened even more. A real job, education, companionship, some of the trappings of actually existing within a society...This was what you needed, to feel like you were a functional member of a community.

As a vacation, this whole situation had been terrible. But as a new life opportunity...

It had potential.

[eurosong]

Undo my ESC - 2019, SF1

Hello there, folks, and welcome to the first part of Undo my ESC, where I take a look at the field this year and, for each country, make a feasible change – as small as, for example, minor tinkerings with the staging, or as big as a different song completely winning a national final. It’s all light-hearted and just my opinion, of course. Allons-y... Cyprus: We start off completely in the deep end. I loathe “Fuego”, and this repackaged Fue2.0 is no better and is indeed perhaps worse to me given that I hate desperate attempts to catch lightning in the same jar. I also find Tamta a very unsympathetic character. I don’t know what I’d do to improve this, other than replace the internal selection with a national final with some songs actually in Greek and with local character. Montenegro: Things do not improve... but at least the solution is easier! Montenegro had a decent national final in which literally any other song would have been a better choice. I particularly liked “Nevinost”, and so did the unfortunately out-voted expert jury, so would be tempted to give D mol’s ticket to Tel Aviv to its artist, Ivana Popović, instead. I do find D mol to be sweet kids though, so the other part of me would be sad to rob them of their time in the limelight and would instead have taken the 90s throwback and bizarre random background sound elements out of their song, replaced the score with one that emphasised the traditional musical elements, and kept the lyrics in Montenegrin.

Finland: Three strikes and I am almost out. I really struggle with the new UMK format – I understand the logic behind it, just as I did when it was a thing in the UK in the early 90s, but I think it only really works if an artist has a wide-ranging repertoire. If not, then you end up with 3 samey songs that only appeal to people who like the music styles that artist makes. I’m not an EDM fan and I would have taken the relative flop of Saara Aalto last year as indication to return to a multi-artist UMK. Plenty of artists from previous years who could be worth a spot in one such.

Poland: I was disappointed by the disappearance of Poland’s national final, but I can’t say I was too surprised after a few underperforming years. I have to commend the Polish broadcasters for going for something popular within their own country, without being overly preöccupied as to how it would play outwith their borders. Pali się is one of those entries that I don’t like much but which I respect. My changes would be to remove the pointless English intro and outro, which, if one were not paying attention, one might not notice actually being in English. I’d also try to make the song a little less linear, as the song feels mostly confined to one pace.

Slovenia: Finally, we come to a country where I can change next to nothing. Many people I know were disappointed that “Kaos” was not elected as the Slovenes’ song. Whilst I found it an earworm, I really didn’t like her haughty, “I’m only in EMA to promote my new disc” attitude – and I really preferred the delectable, contemplative and intimate “Sebi.” It’s pure elegance in simplicity, and I wouldn’t need to change a thing.

Czechia: I appreciate the Czechs’ creätive way of bypassing the expenses of a traditional national final – whilst still giving fans a choice – by holding their selection online. Really cute this year was the way they tried to equalise differences in funding by making the candidates’ official video be a low-budget affair filmed in their flats. I liked quite a few songs of their selection, with the eventual winner, “Friend of a friend”, middle of my rankings. I would, of course, opt for my #1 of the NF to win instead, the delightful slice of “Bohemiana del Rey” style that was “True Colours.”

Hungary: Hungary’s A Dal has the cachet to attract a number of returning artists, so it was not surprising that, eventually, it would be won by someone who’d triumphed before – and I’m delighted it was Joci Papái, one of the biggest revelations of the Hungarian NFs for me. Yet, as is often the case with folk coming back to take a second bite of the cherry, the sophomore effort comes short of the first – “Az én apám” is lovely, touching, but lacks the bite and edge that “Origo” had. I might have JP come second and hopefully return for a second victory in 2020/1 with something a bit stronger, and send in his place the soaring but melancholic “Madár, repülj”.

Belarus: Life is too short to do some things, and whilst I try to listen to pretty much every national final song, one of the things life is too short for is intensively following the Belarusian national finals with their hundred-odd auditions. I saw a few, though, and they were a rum lot. Musically, Aura’s touching “Čaravala” was probably the best of those I heard – but was also strangely won over by the unpretentious, fun ode to tubers that was “Potato, aka Buľba” and depending on my mood, I might give it the nod either.

Serbia: Beovizija had a great lineüp yet again, and there were a number of songs I would have been happy to have gotten the win, including the eventual winner, but also those of Saška Janks, Extra Nena and Ivana Vladović. The latter’s beautiful “Moja bol”, with strings to die for, was my favourite on the night, but in retrospect, I’m not sure I’d replace the equally stunning “Kruna.” I’d be tempted to send it in its acoustic version though, where Nevena’s lovely voice stands out even better.

Belgium: Ô, Belgium. I adored “City Lights”, and so my expectations were really high. This is nice enough, but a bit beige, and doesn’t quite deliver, especially the way the enjoyably tense verses lead to an anticlimactically limp chorus. I’d change that with something that actually feels like a pay off to the verses and the Walloons would have a better shot of shining again.

Georgia: I have to say that, once again, I find myself being one of the few people I know who has some love for Georgia. Whilst it wasn’t truly my cup of tea, I appreciated and enjoyed Iriao’s song last year on some level, and the same is true of Oto’s – he has a powerful voice and it’s a strong, if rather unsettling song. I think, though, that I prefer the darkly ethereal Sevdisperi zgva, which sounds like what I imagine would result if Björk were tasked to write a Bond tune.

Australia: After a few years of rumours, Oz finally jumped on the national final train, and, credit where it is due, it was one of the most intriguing national finals of the year. It was as if SBS had decided to atone for its aggressively MOR pop picks of previous years by actually showcasing some musical diversity. Unlike a lot of folk, I don’t dislike “Zero gravity” – it has a meaningful lyrical background and some quirky charm. But there’s no question about whether I would replace it and with what. I still get chills every time I listen to “2000 and Whatever” – the sheer, irrepressible burst of positive energy and the power of its “kulila miranyi” still give me goosebumps. Damn straight one of the best song of the entire year.

Iceland: Given the amount of hype Hatari have received – and how fans flooded videos of its competitors with comments about how they shouldn’t “fuck up” by picking them instead – I may be one of the very few who would change the result there. Yet, I almost definitely would, even though I typically like lesser-heard genres at Eurovision and like the heavier, industrial musical style. And yet, I find this quite trying. It seems like a very knowing, art school student pastiche and I’m not here for their “above the contest” feel or the BDSM gimmickry. I’d be tempted to replace this with the low-key but lovely “Hvað ef ég get ekki elskað”, or to at least pare back the OTT disdainful irony.

Estonia: It feels almost like another era when I was a firm exponent of the idea of Eesti being Beesti. Three years of immense disappointments will quench that type of fire. Whilst leaving behind the stunning Spirit Animal in 2017 and opting for a generic poperatic vocal exercise in 2018 were excruciating, this might be the biggest let down yet – a land of so many talented musicians having to rely on an Avicii pastiche sang with no small difficulty by a reedy-voiced Swede. I found Eesti Laul very slim pickings this year, and found the other two frontrunners to be rather bland too – even the delightful Sandra Nurmsalu came with a tune that, whilst pleasant, sounded less nomadic epic and more toilet tissue commercial backing track. I would have gone for Kadiah’s delicate “Believe” as my pick instead.

Portugal: FdC was once again one of the best national finals, and the one for whose result I was perhaps most anxious. There were a few songs I really liked, like “Pugna”, “Mais brilhante...” and “Inércia”, but when the dust settled, there was only one song I wanted to see winning – “Telemóveis,” of course, which I was delighted to see prevail. I have some real worries about the bizarre staging distracting from the message and emotional power of the song, though. There’s so much going on, and it might be enough to push people from being entranced to being weirded out. I’d get rid of the spoons, sort out the clothes and try to make things impressive without being so extra.

Greece: I actually really like Greece this year, even if I’m still pissed off at what they did to “Don’t forget the sun” in their dubiously axed national final last year. Her voice is beautiful, the music is uplifting and anthemic, the æsthetic is curious and a bit culty, but at least memorable. The one thing I don’t like? The lyrics, which sound like a bunch of motivational Instagram quote clichés loosely knitted together. Sing something actually meaningful, preferably in Greek.

San Marino: Lord, I’m not going to start because if I do, I shan’t stop. All I’ll say is that San Marino’s “troll nation” status is wearing thin for me. Unbelievably, hundreds of talented people came out in numbers last year willing to represent them, and yet they went with a song written supposedly in 5 minutes but probably in half that. I’d have invited Sara de Blue back instead to make up for the bizarre fiasco that was last year’s 1in360. And the automatic qualifiers:

France: If France’s national delegation aren’t rethinking their voting system after this year, then they ought to be. It’s the opposite of Sweden, where the juries really have the power and the televote is scattered – all you need is a frenzied following to overturn a low jury placement. I liked a great number of Destination Eurovision’s selection this year. I would have taken pretty much ány single one of them over the snivelling, bombastic, self-aggrandising drivel that is Roi. With regards to what to send in its place, I’m torn between the powerful “Là haut”; the adorably, quintessentially French “Allez leur dire”; or the energetic, indefatigable earworm that was “On cherche encore”.

Israel: Boy howdy, Israel sure want to do their level best to avoid fluking a 1979 and winning on home ground, eh? I heard there were many big names who sent songs in, though I’m unsure if any of them would have helped to make the stormy Kobi seem more sympathetic. I think I would have opted to let Ketreyah perform for the hosts instead.

Spain: After a great national final last year, I was really disappointed with the subpar quality of the so-called eurotemazos which were anything but. Miki’s song was the best of a bad lot and at least he didn’t have the hideously negative attitude some of the other people, who seemed surprised and aghast that the winner of a contest related to Eurovision could end up performing there. I’d try to give Miki a song that matched his energy with at least a bit more lyrical depth.

Join me in some days when I evaluate what I would change with SF2!

[agnesmariedayao]

10 Things You Learned in Preschool That'll Help You With best piano for beginners

BALDWIN THERES a new baby in the house. She weighs 600 pounds and has a whole mouthful of teeth. Eighty-eight! She is adopted, not our own, technically, and because of the circumstances of the adoption, we have already named her - Mother. If this baby could talk rather than rattle the windows when she sounds off, she might express objections to the dateline on this column. Her family name is Steinway.

Shes a grand baby, and vice versa, five and a half feet long. She fits the alcove in our living room as though it was made for her. She was born in the Steinway workshops 42 years ago, and came to us in the spring.

She arrived somewhat out of tune, but so might you be if youd just been trucked to Long Island from Maine standing on your head. The circumstances of the adoption:

The mother of a friend bought the piano in 1940 (the year is inscribed on Mothers gold cast-iron harp) for her family, and while the acquisition certainly added to the class of the living room, nobody in the family but my friends mother played the piano, and at that only two songs.

Some years back, my friends mother died, and when the estate was dealt with, the piano was an outstanding item. My friends spouse is a classical pianist and already has a piano. And so the 1940 Steinway needed a good home, my friend told me, and it was adopted by a couple who live in Maine.

The couple were planning a major move to Maryland, but in the apartment they wanted, there was no room for a baby grand. And so, once again, the Steinway needed a good home. A Steinway, I said. I had a Steinway once. Incredible instrument. Tough action - really made you learn to play. Even to read music. I ...

You what? my friend inquired. Well, I said, it was a lot like your friends problem. We were living in a one-story ranch home in Hicksville and the grand was a D model, just below concert length, see, and it took up most of the living room. So I traded it in for a spinet. Got a good deal.

I did not tell my friend that, when playing for parties, I had whacked that Steinway so hard that I broke the hammer of the middle G and had stamped the pedals so hard that the sustaining pedal stuck forever, making the notes all run together if you touched that pedal. There was a madness in my method. I wanted a Steinway again.

And so the adoption was arranged. I would pay half the cost of the moving - a Steinway, for $100! The going price for such an instrument, old as Mother is, is something around $5,000 - and the piano would stay with us for my lifetime, then revert to my friend or heirs. But the adoptive owners took their time about moving.

Robert Frederick McMorrows fingers itched for the Steinway as much as mine did. He is one of our resident adult sons who is already a bass-guitar player and is studying piano. Our spinet, a Sterling, has given us 22 years of service and is still in good voice, but the coils of the deep-bass strings are unraveling.

The other resident adult son, Thomas, is an electric-guitar player whose amplifying equipment would crowd a stageful of Rolling Stones.A grand piano? he howled. Where are you going to put it?

Pay no attention to him, Robert said. Howm I going to sleep with that thing going off like a cannon under me? Thomas asked. You guys practice all hours of the day and night! The neighbors will all go deaf!

Months went by. And then, in the spring, we received a call from somebody called Al, who had just turned off the Long Island Expressway and was confused, as any State-of-Mainer might be, about how to get to Baldwin. I gave him directions. Ill be on our corner waiting for you to guide you in, I said.

Nearly an hour went by. Then the biggest tractor-trailer rig that has ever come down Grand Avenue rumbled toward me. I pointed into our street. Al made the turn and the top of his rig performed some tree surgery on a neighbors venerable maple. Neighbors came out to gape. Another piano? said Mike Ruggierio Sr., from across the street. Why dont you just hire a band?

Al and his helper moved the piano, wrapped in quilts, into our alcove and set it up. How can you lift a thing like that? the former Eileen Palmer asked. Ive moved these alone, Al said.

Piano movers are mighty men; I remembered, when my first piano was delivered to an apartment I was living in, not having the money to tip the movers who had wrestled the thing up six flights, and the boss mover saying, quietly, If I had an ax, Id chop that thing up for firewood.

I paid the money, Al and his man went off toward Maryland, and the former Eileen Palmer bent over the keys. She played two bars of a song taught her by a piano teacher when she was a girl in Portland, Ore. Havent heard that in years, I said.

Wont hear it again - I never learned the rest, she said. I remembered my friend telling me of listening to Mothers mother playing her two numbers, Traumerei and Au Matin. Sit down and play this thing, my wife said.

Robert Frederick McMorrow stood over me as I ran through My Shining Hour. That was the test piece I had played in the showroom of the piano company house that had the spinet, and the Sterlings sound sold it to me.

What a sound, Thomas McMorrow said. I got up. He sat down. He tested the bass authority. Hey, Dad, you cant play this thing, he said. The keys are like pumping iron!

Theyre supposed to be, Robert Frederick McMorrow said. May I? I had to go out. R..F McM. looked like part of the piano as he ran through Beethovens Fur Elise. He may play that piano all night, his mother said. He did. I couldnt wait for him to leave on business of his own, the next day. At the keyboard, I felt like a Horowitz commanding a concert hall: all that expanse of mahogany stretching out in front of me, when, playing a spinet, the pianist is usually staring at a wall.

To accommodate the Steinway, the Sterling had been moved into the dining room. It looked sad there. To give it equal time with Mother, I went over to it when Oh, You Crazy Moon entered my mind. It felt like a toy. When the tuner came, I had him bring both pianos up to pitch. Duet, anyone?

[r-29-blog]

A short gait

It’s Friday afternoon. My eyes gleam in the summer sunlight. It shakes me, tearing off my shirt

  Graceful gaits gaily walk down the crooked road; a gait of laughter strolls down the crooked road. As my sight remains fixed in the distance, I see the vibrant lights emanating from the insides of manufactured bliss. It shines so brightly through its transparent, glass windows. I see it gleaming in the distance as it slaps me in the face with its own incantation of laughter. It roars and howls to the tune of blues and microhouse, a hyper-minimalistic amalgamation of oppression and monotony. There, among the breeze, it subtly interlocks its fragile pale hands onto the spiked gloves of my head. Strings in the background begin to take place. I let the movement flow through my ears, upwards and toward the stimuli ridding itself of studs and dust.

           In the far distance, no longer than a short half-minute strut, I see the transparent barrier barring me from my destination. I make two strides closer and realize that it does not do anything but remain in front of myself. I make another two steps—this time without losing that lost third. Here, and among myself, I see the steps I once lost, remembering the instances in which my hair, with its rocks and steps flowing in the sky, eating its own carcasses and smiling along the way, grew. A dazzling three rattlesnakes long, with its slimy tips and steering-wheel eyes, the tips of my wavy mahogany locks reach upward my nipple. It is so soft and yet so malice with its gentle presence perfectly concurrent with the breast it lay upon. Shrieking, noting the moments that pass—one, two…two….two—, and realizing the ineptitude that surrounds me, I begin to think.

           To my left, resembling a monstrous white devil, a body continues its mechanical struts, dressed in mismatched colors, patterns clashing, the large sign of their logo shirt nearly repulses me more than the giant word that fills their chest. It shines brighter than the entire shirt, where eventually no shirt could actually be seen. Instantly, the shirt disappeared, leaving behind only the luminous language with its accented serif finishes carefully embracing the empty presence it harbors along with a calloused thumb attempting to subdue its naked kin. I chuckled to myself, realizing that the image that I had just described was nothing more than a pure hoax, a trick to play on you—my dear reader—an empty gasp that shrieks in your ears and erupts into laughter brief moments following your death. I dance on your grave for you are dead! Good day, good bye, no longer am I compelled to appease your pathetic existence. No longer do I have to live and hope that your wretched mouth gasps for its final breaths, “Help! Please do not do this to me. I have done nothing wrong. My son…He is no longer with me and I cannot do anything but make sure that he has his lunch in the morning. Kind stranger, would you not be so helpful as to give my son and her crimson red suitcase a ride to the airport. She is going home tomorrow afternoon, but he will lack the time that is absolutely needed for orientating themselves in the sky.” At last, with this final breath—one, that I may add, can only take more than a few seconds— you scream: Mon-SURE Koo-rtz, il VEE-re.

           I momentarily stopped. Before the end of this sentence the person will have continued walking forward, gaily strutting while whistling the tune of Kant’s third critique, and, at last, cross me so that I may continue toward my destination. There it is, the light that comes from the distance and crosses my sight and figures itself around the chilling days and the chilling nights. I hear a knife cutting cheese and garlic, the smoky scent of lemon chicken sautéing on a small portable stove—and let me tell you, I purchased this contraption for only sixty dollars on amazon.com. It’s refurbished, but who isn’t these days?

           Tangents seem to keep bringing me away from the actual point that I am attempting to make. However, now that I am done thinking, I will no longer be incoherent. My eyes will look forward, sternly march toward the distant fluorescent light, and ensure that we traverse the short space marking the threshold between my body and the concrete monolith. There—there—here—air—I wait. I see a light blinking. It is a red hand ordering me: HALT. It stares at me and continues blinking. I stare at it back realizing that the abyss that surrounds it is covered by “SKATE OR DIE” stickers. I scoff. Only then do I realize that it is I who stares back at the individual staring at the abyss. I have become the abyss and the nuisance it has caused various street-dwellers. The sanguine hate…halt symbol has stopped blinking. I stare and now a slim white palm faces me. I remember the instances of friends who carried bags with an open palm, its finger closely attached to one another, bearing a single dark eye in its center. It stared at me and I remembered a time even further behind, a time in which was not quite new to me as it happened in a time quite distant from here. Although, at this point, I am quite unsure as to exact direction this distance occupied. Was it left? Or up? Or possibly to the side? I could no longer tell.

           The large axe oscillates until a large cannon falls from the sky, its rigid dance with gravity, shooting as its descent further descends toward the dirty dirt that I stand upon. At last, the demons to my left, with their monumental size and inept control seem, and it is only this choice of words, to finally come to a complete stop. Allowed to continue, I cross the scorching hot earth and I feel the blazing red sun stab me with its pricked fingers, unshaven for no less than thirty-three days. Here, at last, I could finally see the very light that separated me and the object of my desire. I saw it. It looked at me. I saw the light that came between us. I moved forward, passing the signs that suggested that all of its interior organs—and do not forget its esophagus—were made in the U.S.A.

           Fuck the skies that turn bright as I valiantly march past the concrete painted lines under my feet. They walk further and faster and see how the other timid feet around me do nothing but gawk. They are squeamishly walking while thinking about jolly mundanity. They stand there, walking without motion and without thought. How is it that they can do so much, and manage to remain all the same, without thinking and wanting what it is that they are? The gleaming lights still emanate from the transparent glass. It is a window into my soul. My father used to tell me that eyes were the window into another’s soul. Too bad I did not have a father; he was castrated the moment I was born. I castrated him.

It was a glorious event. I remember distinctly seeing his face full of anguish followed by his butterfly screams. He pleaded for assistance, asking me to help him and to eradicate the pain. I stood there with his freshly cut testicles in my left hand and, in my right, I held the dull machete that I slit his balls with. Its sharp edges, now covered with a glorious halting glow, were no longer visible. He continued crying and begging for mercy. I continued standing there. I looked into his eyes and tried to find his soul. Alas, all I saw were the empty signs saying that he, too, was made in the U.S.A.

           After this sudden and quite anticlimactic realization I looked down at his bleeding groin, a gateway back into the same myth I was destined to fulfill. This thought enraged me. I did the only thing I could do at that point. I approached him. I embraced him and thanked him for all of the help he had hitherto provided me. He was always there, a positive paternal figure ensuring that I continued to abide by rigorous masculine standards, ensuring that his image would be reproduced so that I could carry on this inept last name. The shark teeth, now visible and still doused in an ornamental crimson, called me to do it. I sat there thinking of the conversations I would have with my interiority, only to realize that it would do nothing but fuel the additional anger I felt. So I lifted up my machete and with one small swipe I severed my father’s head. And the moment that my little tiny butter knife managed to separate a tablespoon of butter, his head began falling down toward the cement-colored floor.

           This severed head—although I cannot think that a head would retain its figure if it is no longer membered—rolled across the ossified gum and bits of crumbs. Eventually it managed to reach the pigeon a few miles to my right. With another short swoop, I picked up his head and stared into its now white eyes. Once again I tried to see if I could see his soul. I looked in, and after a few seconds, in its periphery, I saw it glow. I began panicking, regretting these actions and not wanting them to have occurred. I was on the verge of tears since I realized that I had fulfilled this carnal, oedipal destiny. I was troubled by the emptiness that filled me and the means by which I had killed the only one who was willing to push me forward into normalcy.

           My eyes blinked. I continue past the transparent windows, seeing the boxes bearing logos and homes. This place was going out of business, a fate suffered by so many others. Alas, what was I to do? I continued my gay gait down the feces-covered path, whistling the tunes of Tina Turner and Miles Davis, two prominent myths. I look down and my father’s head now in my right hand, with each of his testicles now in his eyes. My father always had piss-poor vision. His mouth suddenly opened. He began speaking to me: my child, you have forsaken me; you have disturbed order; you will no longer survive; you will no longer exist; Just remember this day; you will never bear the same pain as I do today. It is not in vain for I enjoy you as you enjoy cloudy skies. Following this bizarre sight and after the lips no longer gave words, I chuckled. Suddenly the chuckle grew, growing at an exponential rate, and it became a roar in less than three seconds. I raised the head, still in my left hand, up to my perfectly membered body, locked eyes with this Acephale-like head, and looked once more for the soul. After an hour, I looked for that small luminosity I once encountered, only to be immensely disappointed. I should mention that I did not stop laughing, or rather roaring this entire time. His lips began to move once more, but they did not create a sound. So I spoke for him: you are not my father, you never were. We lied to you and now your home is destroyed. So be free and become one with the earth, no longer needing to trouble me with your inane quotes. I threw his head back into the sea that I crossed, and rapid sharks shortly came, devouring this putrid skull.

           After this vexatious debacle, the headless body finally arose, professed its immense gratitude, and then proceeded to join me for a stroll.

             The chilling evening air whispered in my ears while the radiating lights, much like lighthouses, flashed in front of my face as I walked past storefronts and shoes. The eyes that stare and see me here only say hello to each other. They laugh. They gawk. They eat their processed meats and beans in-between diced spices folded together in a grand concoction of grand doctrine of American consumerism. How tragic that they pay so much for what, three hundred miles south, consider to be peasant food. Truly, when the wall arises, where will they be able to find a meal without spice? Oh well. I keep walking past the various storefront windows. On my left, there’s a restaurant that sells Mexican food. It’s a chain restaurant that is often considered to be healthy despite its past dealings with the largest and unhealthiest food conglomerate in the fast-food industry. “But you really have to love it,” I hear a voice say. I chuckle to myself realizing the irony in their statement. It is unite interesting knowing that others themselves can willingly transform an object and do so in such a short period of time. Yet, why should this even matter? Time is such an important thing for us, and yet we cannot seem to ever do without it. We are not slaves to capitalism! No we are slaves to time! Although who could ever tell the difference?

           While I kept walking forward, right in the middle of two different street corners, I begin to notice the vacancies. There were three glasses bearing ‘For Lease’ signs. I walked as I saw my reflection follow me as I traversed the road. It followed me and kept me company, for I was quite the recluse. I sat there looking inward, not just into the paper-covered windows, but also into my own mind. There, I saw the glass-windows lined with brown paper with three separate signs evenly separated from one another. They all bore the same message: FOR SALE. What did it mean? What was this sign trying to convey to me? Was it selling itself? How could it? It could not simply stand upright, shake my hand and say “DEAR FRIEND, how lovely you look, how amazing the wind blows alongside my hair. How I wish to sell myself to, allowing you to do all as you please to.” Immediately after, the building turns around, and begins running toward the snow-covered hills. As they move closer to the cliff’s apex, he suddenly stops and yells back “FOR SALE.”

           I walk past this first sign and I notice the second sign, a twin to the former. This one does not look back at me. It just stares into the nothingness that surrounds me. After making prolonged contact with this strange sign, it gets up, moves to the side and covers its sibling. It says: WHY CAN YOU NOT TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN YOU AND I? I was stunned. I stopped walking. I kept glaring at the brown-paper lined glass window with its signs, one sign now over the other. Imagine selling crack out of your grandmother’s room. It is truly a sight and a thought, one that seems nearly impossible but yet all too real. It is the reality in which some of exist. Those of us who often lose ourselves to the system. Or rather, are lost to the system. For how does anyone end up in such a wretched position, constantly subject to violence, discrimination, and instability without it being necessitated. There are often instances of tractors of time who merely mow lawns. These were the same lawns owned by the slave-masters. The slave-masters always ensured that their thoughts were cut nice and short, tailored to match everyone else in the community neighborhood. After all, they did not want to receive a citation for an unkempt lawn.  

           The last sign did not bear anything but a number combination: 930-293-7381.