#career. it’s just sad that he’s now gone. the fact that March 1 was his last breath also made me realize that death can happen at any time

[skyleathero]

🕊✨❤️

[leclerc-s]

track 002. clean

 ─── ❝ gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean ❞  ───

series masterlist // previous //next

zoya can remember when she got the first letter. she was 8 and in 3rd grade, the teacher announced they would be getting pen pals. zoya had no clue what that meant but it sounded so cool, she went home and told her mom all about it that day. the next day her teacher had placed a hat in front of her and her classmates telling them it would be luck. zoya had crossed her fingers she would get a girl her age, instead she nearly cried when she saw the words logan, florida.

she wrote a small letter introducing herself and silently hoped he would never reply, she didn't want to talk to a boy. maybe if logan didn't reply she would get a new pen pal and maybe it would be a girl. but it would be just her luck that he would reply, she left the letter unopened until her dad almost ripped it, that was when she jumped and opened it. logan seemed nice, but all he did was talk about cars and formula 1. it wasn't zoya's biggest interest but she had talked about her american girl dolls her entire letter. for some strange reason, that she still couldn't explain, zoya had replied and the two struck up a good friendship.

logan may have been across the country but he quickly became her best friend. one of his last physical letters had been him begging for an email address to talk to her because he would be living in the uk for a long time, he didn't know if he would come back to live in states. zoya had pleaded with her mom to let her have an email, and when she caved, the communication with logan was non-stop. of course he always talked about formula 1 but now there was a boy named oscar added into the mix, and he NEVER shut up about him. if zoya hadn't heard of the many girls logan had crushed on she would've thought he was in love with oscar.

zoya torres talks about pen pals, drivers license, and formula one

posted march 2021

comments

username it's so cute that zoya's still friends with her old pen pal.

↳ username right? i stopped talking to my old pen pal when i was 10.

username this isn't weird at all zoya. it's so cute!

username love that the majority of the interview was zoya talking about her pen pal.

username love that she took every opportunity to call this man a basic white boy.

username how many facts does she know about formula one. like how many things did this guy tell her and they just stuck?

↳ username not very many, she said so herself towards the end of the interview. they also don't talk much these days because of her career and his career path is also demanding.

lando norris i spiraled and watched a bunch of zoya's interviews, so zoya, who's your penpal?

zoya torres HOW FAR BACK DID YOU GO?

natalia ruiz aww you have a penpal? that's so cute.

oscar piastri logan has a penpal to

logan sargeant traitor

freya vettel that's cute. how long have you two had your penpals for?

logan sargeant since i was 10 zoya torres i was 8

daniel jones-ricciardo holy shit, that's so fucking cute.

bailey winters fun fact: hope ur okay was inspired by zoya's penpal because they briefly fell out of touch back in 2020

zoya torres traitor

isabella perez I LOVE THAT SONG!

ollie bearman no, you just like crying to sad music isabella perez ollie shut the fuck up

freya vettel i caught her crying to tolerate it the other day

mae jones her dickhead ex showed up in miami, and she's allowed one sad song per day

zoya torres therapy helps!

isabella perez I DON'T NEED THERAPY!!

mick schumacher i needed therapy after the whole haas thing. sebastian vettel you didn't even go mick. you cried over a pint of ice cream for 2 hours mick schumacher but theoretically, i needed therapy. max verstappen i'd need therapy after dealing with maze-spin as my teammate

charles leclerc zoya has corrupted my daughter.

daphne jones-ricciardo she's 4 months old charles, there's nothing about her to corrupt natalia ruiz he means she can't sleep unless there's music playing.

charles leclerc i regret ever letting zoya live with us.

freya vettel that's bullshit and we all know it.

logan sargeant i don't see a problem, charles plays the piano??

natalia ruiz she can't sleep unless it's seven.

max verstappen I TOLD YOU I SHOULD'VE BEEN GODFATHER BUT NO YOU HAD TO GO WITH BITCHIARDO!! daniel jones-ricciardo fuck you verstappen

mae jones they only went with daniel because they wanted daphne as godmother...

natalia ruiz not true, it was either pierre or daniel because i got to pick little jewel's godmother.

pierre gasly IT COULD'VE BEEN ME?! charles leclerc but then you got drunkenly married in vegas and i knew daniel was the right choice

rowan todd that shit's going to haunt us for the rest of our lives

zoya torres digital footprint haunts you forever.

mae jones we should know zoya torres ooh let's not go there

lando norris i'm nosy, so how exactly did you two become friends?

zoya torres interesting question. i'm not answering. i like mystery.

mae jones ooh i agree!

lando norris boo!

zoyatorres posted new stories

forza ferrari something like that.

praying i don't get lost again. i do not need a repeat of miami

red boots to support dad, a gift from daniel in case you weren't sure. we should've saved them for austin.

liked by nataliaruiz, isabellaperez, maejones and others

zoyatorres i'm embracing the ferrari lifestyle at this point

view all comments

user07 every time she's posted charles she's made fun of him and i love that.

↳ zoyatorres someone needs to humble il predestinato and it's gonna be me!

freyavettel it sucks you in zoya, you have no choice but to let it swallow you whole.

↳ zoyatorres see i thought you were all joking, but you're not.

isabellaperez i demand pic credits for that one picture of you!

↳ zoyatorres my bad 📸 to zoya for the second picture!

charles_leclerc WHEN DID YOU GET IN MY CAR??

↳ zoyatorres te-he

↳ isabellaperez crimes were committed mr. leclerc

user87 the commitment to making fun of charles is everything to me

user99 nah cause my mind still can't wrap my head around zoya becoming friends with charles fucking leclerc

user19 she looks so good in red

lilymhe she's an icon

↳ zoyatorres marry me. i'll be a better wag for you than alex could ever be.

↳ alex_albon i will fight you torres. i am not afraid to resort to physical violence

↳ zoyatorres i could take you

maejones pretty girl ❤️

↳ zoyatorres call me ms. steal yo girl because i'm coming for every driver's girlfriends and wives. ricciardo-jones, you're next

↳ danieljricciardo what the hell did i ever do to deserve this?

↳ zoyatorres marry daphne fucking jones

↳ user28 she's so valid for that

user32 she looks so much happier these days and i don’t know what it is.

↳ user80 right? she dumped her ex an instantly became so happy.

↳ user51 not to mention she’s probably got all her frustrations and anger out when she was writing her new album

↳ user32 good for her, she deserves to be happy

↳ user51 facts, zoya deserves all the happiness in the world

taglist: @burningcupcakefire @arkhammaid @sunflower-golden-vol6 @applopie @lorarri @mypage-myfandoms @bb-swift @thewannabewriter @you-bleed-just-toknowyouarealive @stopeatread @hobiismyhopeu @lilsiz @alessioayla @niniluvsainz @au-ghosttype @cowboylikemets1989 @justtprachisblog @rmeddar123 @nichmeddar @landonorizzz @unluckyyoshi @Mimolovescookies @brekkers-whore @natcha888 @camdensreg @mycenterfold @dear-fifi @prongsvault @kaa212 @anxxiousaries @julesbabey1 @julesbabey @georgeparisole @Smnthnclj @dan3avocado @melissayalene @nothanqks @nikfigueiredo @bella-1 @namgification @jensonsonlybutton @chezmardybum @d3kstar @weekendlusting @ragioniera

strikethrough means i couldn't tag you

¡leclerc-s speaks! this one’s more of a filler but it does give you an insight on how logan and zoya became pen-pals. which i think is cute, so it's okay that this one is a filler.

¡disclaimer! this is in no way making assumptions about the people involved in this story, this is all fake. it is a fanfiction please don't take any of what is said seriously. this is all for entertainment purposes and as a creative outlet for me. enjoy!

[pink-sparkly-witch]

Soulmates: Chapter Seventeen – Goodbye, Supernatural! (Part 1)

Summary: It’s Ava’s last day on the set of Supernatural. After playing Hannah Singer on the show for five years, she is moving on to other things.

Characters: Jensen Ackles x Ava Broussard (OFC), Jared Padalecki x Gen Padalecki, characters families.

Warnings: Angst, a little bit of fluff, canon-level violence, language.

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: This is a filler chapter to move the story along. I’ve taken some artistic licence here, and while some stuff in the scene did happen, I’ve gone way off canon here to fit the story! The text in bold is a scene. As always, this hasn’t been beta’d; all mistakes are mine!

You can catch up here!

My Masterlist     AO3    Ko-Fi

March 2010

Today was going to be a sad day. Very sad. Jensen was barely talking to anyone, and Jared unusually kept to himself. Misha was wandering around like a lost puppy, and Genevieve looked like she would break down and cry any second. Nobody could find Ava either. She kept running off to God knows where only appearing from her hiding spot when Eric called her cell phone and told her they were ready for her to film.

Everyone was here too: The Ackles, The Broussards, The Padaleckis, The Corteses and, of course, Vicki. It was a momentous day on the set of Supernatural. Today, the show would lose its first main character. Two, technically. Hannah Singer was meeting her untimely demise at the hands of Ruby 2.0. Then she’d meet her end at the hands of a heartbroken and distraught Dean Winchester.

Everyone had tried to get her to stay except Jensen. He didn’t want her to make a career choice because of him, only telling her to do what was best for her and not listen to what everyone else wanted. The network, Eric, Jared. You name it, they’d tried to get her to sign another contract, but she declined. Kim, God rest his soul, and Eric had a very specific vision for Hannah. That vision ended at the end of season five in the way the script said, and she’d be damned if they changed a whole story arc just to keep her around.

She’d also considered that she and Jensen were getting married in two months. As much as she’d loved working on the show and with him and would always be grateful to Supernatural because it led her to him, she didn’t want to be in the position where people might claim she was only there because of her relationship with one of its stars. No - it was best to go out when people still wanted more of her.

Ava knew Hannah’s death would bring so much character development for Dean. Hell - even for Bobby, and she’d rather go out with a shocking bang knowing that so much of the fandom still wanted her around and to be Dean’s happy ending. His way out of the “life,” but she wouldn’t do it to the detriment of the show and its future plans.

She did feel sorry for Gen, though, knowing she’d get a lot of hate from a lot of people for her role in them losing their heroine. By now, though, most fans knew they were good friends in real life even though they played very convincing frenemies on the show.

The scene being filmed today was her last and the last one they’d film before the hiatus. Ava knew it wasn’t a permanent goodbye to the show. After all, nothing really stays dead in the world of Supernatural! It was a “see you later” at best until the time was right for a cameo or guest role. Besides, she’d been cast in a very exciting pilot with a lot of potential, and filming was starting right after their wedding. She felt a little bad they had to postpone their honeymoon, but as always, Jensen fully supported her. In fact, he was a massive fan of the source material for The Walking Dead, so he was more excited than she was for her new job!

Moving to a new role at a pivotal point in her relationship with Jensen would be hard. Still, she felt it was the right time to move on to new things. After being in each other’s pockets for so long, though, she wasn’t looking forward to not being with him all the time. She just had to keep reminding herself that in their industry, they’d been lucky enough to spend so much time together and build a strong foundation where their relationship flourished and was rock-solid. In a way, it was for the best because now, neither of them had to hold back on making career choices out of fear it would impact the other.

Ava hid in the secret spot she’d found during her first week on set. There was a man-made courtyard of sorts behind the craft services area. It was just an open space, but storage containers were placed in a way that blocked it off. Unless you were looking for it, you’d never even think you could navigate through them and into the solace she’d created there almost five years ago.

Cutesy bunting was running overhead from wall to wall. The “courtyard”, as she’d dubbed it, had an outdoor table and chairs, a parasol, plants, flowerpots, a bird bath and a punchbag. George from craft services had helped her put up some covered outdoor shelving, and she’d added pictures of herself, the cast and crew over the years. She planned to continue that little tradition with photos of new cast members and family additions whenever she visited Jensen on set.

The little wooden storage crate in the corner held the chair cushions, gardening tools, boxing gloves and a yoga mat. She’d also secretly acquired the paddling pool from the photo of Jared and Jensen dipping their feet in between takes. She chuckled, remembering Jared still had no clue what had happened to that thing!

She also fully intended to acquire her director’s chair and put it here before she left. She found it amusing that only she, Jensen and the craft services staff knew it was there, and someone would find her little hideaway whenever they disbanded the set in the future.

She’d come here countless times over the years to think, sulk, cry or just have some peace from the boys and their never-ending prank wars with each other. Or when she needed to let the dust settle when she was the prank puller. On a set where three-quarters of the people were male, she learned very early on that she couldn’t win, so her pranks were legendary. Go big or go home, right?

“Hey, Cupcake. What’re you doing out here on your own?” Ava chuckled; you never could get anything past her father!

“Hi, Dad. This is my secret hideout. Has been since I started here. How’d you find me?”

“Jensen told me where you might be. Swore me to secrecy too!” Bobby laughed and took a seat next to her.

“I found this place my first week on set. Added my own little touches to it, and it became my little haven away from all the testosterone on set!” Ava laughed. “No one knows it’s here. Only the craft services gods and Jensen.”

“How’re you holding up?”

“Uhm, okay, I guess. I’m trying not to think about it too much so I can get this last scene done and not completely break down. I don’t think it’ll be easy on any of us.”

“I know. And that’s why everyone’s here. To support you and the boys and, of course, Gen.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she smiled as she lay her head on his shoulder.

Father and daughter remained there; neither had to say anything. Their personalities were so similar they knew the other was content in their silent thoughts until Ava’s phone buzzed on the table.

“Show time,” she sighed and stood up.

“I’m proud of you, Ava,” Bobby said as he stood and kissed her forehead, Jensen taking a photo of the tender moment from the doorway into the kitchen. “Break a leg, Cupcake.”

With a shaky smile and even shakier breath, Ava headed towards the door, stopping mid-step when her eyes fell on her husband-to-be. He smiled sadly and opened his arms wide. Ava slid into his embrace like a million times before, wrapping her arms around his waist as his wound their way over her shoulders. With a kiss to the crown of her head, Jensen whispered softly, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Come on,” he prodded gently, draping one arm over her shoulders, and guided them towards the set.

They walked onto the set, her arm around his waist and his around her shoulders, to thunderous applause. Cast, crew, and family were all here to cheer her on in her last scene. She was thankful that all the emotional aftermath had already been filmed, as had Ruby’s ending. This was her death scene.

God, this is so weird! Ava thought as she looked around at all the tear-stained faces in the crowd, her eyes lingering longer on one person in particular. She squeezed Jensen tighter, stepped away from his comforting, protective arms, and walked across the floor with her arms open and straight into another’s.

“Oh my God, I can’t do this!” Gen’s sweet voice wavered in her ear.

“Yes, you can. It’s just another scene, and it’s gonna be fine,” Ava replied, voice light and calming. Gen shook her head, and Ava put her hands on her cheeks and moved so they were eye to eye. “We can, alright? Together. I’m right here with you, okay? We’ve got this, G!”

Tears were flowing around the room, but four faces remained neutral. Blank. They had a job to do. They had to hold it together. For now, at least.

“Now, come on!” Ava said upbeat. “Let’s get this show on the road!” she yelled, grabbing Gen tightly and lifting. She spun around quickly, making Gen squeal with laughter and breaking the tension.

“You don’t even know how hard this was! All the demons out for my head. No one knew. I was the best of those sons of bitches! The most loyal! Not even Alastair knew! Only Lilith! Yeah, I’m sure you’re a little angry right now, but I mean, come on, Sam! Even you have to admit… I’m… I’m awesome!” Ruby smirks as white smoke erupts from Hannah, and Lilith leaves her body.

Collapsing with a gasp, Hannah begins to panic as Ruby’s fingers squeeze together in mid-air, tightening her windpipe. “Please, Ruby. You don’t need to do this. We had a deal!” she says quietly, avoiding Dean’s hurt expression at the knowledge she’d done a deal with the proverbial devil to protect them. No - to save Sam.

“Lilith uses me to do her bidding,” Hannah continued. “Sam breaks the last seal, and you let us go. Please! Let us go!” Hannah begs, and Ruby cackles with sadistic glee.

“We didn’t have Jack, bitch. Lilith needed a prettier, more… mature vessel so that she and Sam could open the gates of Hell, and I told you what you needed to hear to make that happen. It’s done. We don’t need you anymore!”

“Ru-” Hannah doesn’t get to finish as Ruby flicks her wrist. Hannah’s neck jerks to the side, and she falls to the floor. Still… silent… dead from a broken neck.

“NO!” Dean roars, lurching forward with the demon blade firmly in his grip…

“Cut and standby!” Eric called as he rushed to the monitors to watch the take from each of the three camera angles. It felt like they were on standby for hours, but it was no more than minutes before he clapped his hands. “It’s in the can!” He declared to roaring whoops and applause.

“That is a season wrap for all cast, crew, and staff. A series wrap for Genevieve Padalecki and Ruby 2.0,” Eric said as everyone whistled and cheered. “And finally, as much as it pains me to say this, that is also a series wrap for Ava Broussard and Hannah Singer,” he walked over to her and hugged her.

“Speech!” Gen shouted at Ava, with everyone quickly echoing her and beginning a chant of “SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!” In her direction.

“Alright, alright! Don’t get your panties in a twist, guys,” Ava feigned embarrassment as cheers rang around the room. “For what might be the first time in my life, I can’t think of a single thing to say…”

“Sweet baby Jesus! Miracles do happen!” her dad shouted, and laughter erupted through the set.

“Quick, Jared, record this! We need evidence she can actually be rendered speechless!” Jensen said with more laughter in response.

“You know what? Screw all y’all!” Ava hollered in fake anger. “Okay. Here goes nothing!” Ava started once the laughter died down. “I was supposed to only be around for, at most, six episodes, which quickly became nine,” she chuckled. “But it became clear that someone somewhere saw something in me and my portrayal of Hannah.

“I had been working on another show, going between Wilmington and Vancouver to film both. I think it’s safe to say none of us had any idea that Hannah would come to mean so much to so many people. Especially me. Initially, when those nine episodes became fifteen in season one, I continued to work on both shows, and it became too much travelling across the country twice a week. I had every intention of walking away from Supernatural if they asked me to stay longer, but Eric and Kim sat me down and told me about their vision for Hannah’s journey, which ended with the scene you just saw.

“I knew right away that I had to see it through. I owed it to myself, Hannah, and everyone at Supernatural who made me part of their family. Always. No ifs or buts. No questions asked. They just invited me in with open arms and gave me a home in what was a very unsettling time for me professionally. Not to mention, almost as soon as I was permanently in the fold, my personal life went to shit, and every one of you was there for me. Sorry, I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

“So, as you all know, I left One Tree Hill and focused completely on Supernatural, and that has been the best decision I’ve made in my life. I’ve made friends for life in the crew. Found two new best friends in Gen and Misha. Gained Jared as the little brother I didn’t want,” everyone laughed. “And met the love of my life in Jensen.” A sweet ‘aww’ rang through the crowd, and Ava held her arm out, inviting Jensen to come to her.

“This is so bittersweet, and when I took this role, I could never have imagined the family I would gain, the fun I would have, and the love I’d find. This has been an amazing journey; for me and Hannah. I have learned and grown so much that I don’t think I’m the same girl who walked onto this set five years ago.”

“No, you’re not.” Jensen interrupted. “Some parts of her are still there and always will be, but you’ve grown to be a strong, brave, beautiful woman. You’re a fighter and a survivor, and we are lucky that we got to know you. It’s not hard to believe you’re going onto bigger and better things from here,” his voice cracked with emotion, and she could see the tears in his eyes. “And I, for one, cannot wait to see what you do in the future. On The Walking Dead or anywhere else.”

“This brings me to my final point; thank you. Each of you has made an impact in my life, and I love you all. Thank you for making me part of your family and for all the fun and laughs, tears and tantrums, debates, and philosophical conversations where we put the world to rights. We’ve celebrated holidays, birthdays, engagements, weddings, and births and, unfortunately mourned together. I love you all, and I will miss you!” The tears that she was defiantly holding back fell.

Cheers, applause, and whistles roared through the set. Jensen gathered her up in his strong, safe, and loving embrace, finally letting the tears fall and taking comfort from each other for a few minutes as the cheering continued.

“Alright,” Jensen said when he finally regained his emotions. “Please join Jared and me at The Sportsman bar downtown to celebrate another amazing season and say goodbye to our much better halves. I’m sure you’ll see them around set regularly, but we want to send our girls off with a bang. There’s no better way to do that than throwing a little Supernatural style shindig full of drunken shenanigans to do just that!”

Next Chapter >>

Jensen / Dean Tags: @akshi8278 @deanwanddamons @siospins2

Soulmates Tags: @deans-baby-momma

[we-are-inevitable]

modern art // javid (ch. 1)

A/N: hi !! so some of you may remember an old songfic i did in march of last year, titled ‘modern art’ after the song “IDK You Yet” by Alexander 23. well, i’ve always thought that that one shot would work great as a stand alone fic, and here we are! i have ch. 1 edited and SO MUCH of it as changed- like, for example, the fic is a chapter fic now !! regardless, i hope you guys like this !!

WARNINGS: depression, anxiety, self-deprecation, past addiction, mentions of addiction, just general Bad Times- pls be mindful when reading !! it’s just very Not Happy rn ADDITIONAL INFO: all characters are in their mid-twenties in the fic. oh also this is probably important but it’s a soulmate au !!

Read On AO3!

tag list: @bound-for-santa-fe @wannabecowboypunk @shippingcannons @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside @smallsies @deliciouspeachpirate @newsies-is-my-erster 

Jack doesn't know what’s going on with himself, but he knows that he could really use his soulmate right about now.

They’ve communicated before. Never verbally, and never enough to reveal who they were. Perhaps they are both just... dealing with some unspoken fears, dealing with the worry of rejection sitting heavy in their chests. Perhaps they both like this mystery- the uncertainty that came with the notes scrawled across their bodies in a handwriting that isn’t their own.

Or perhaps they just aren’t ready to take the plunge. To grow up and face the harsh fact that, as soon as they meet, wherever and whenever that may be, a new chapter of their life will unfold. Consume them. Change anything and everything they’ve ever known or held dear.

They had been braver when they were children, that much was true. Jack remembers staying up late often, writing notes on his skin and watching in awe as the replies appeared. He remembers the giddy rush of trying to quickly wash off the ink on his wrist when they ran out of space to talk, and, oh, how they talked. There were school days when Jack would go to class exhausted, feeling like he’d been walking through quicksand for miles on end, but all of it had been worth it. The exhaustion he felt had been worth being able to talk to them until two, three, four in the morning. Sometimes he regretted it, of course, but only because it was harder for him to focus in class. Never because he was upset at them.

He could never be upset with them.

Even now, Jack remembers a lot about his soulmate. They liked music. They knew how to play the piano. They were into a few video games, even some that Jack had never played, and said that they always tried carrying a book with them wherever they went. Jack remembers that, as a younger kid, they liked Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, but also liked analyzing Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe and a bunch of other fancy authors that Jack had never even heard of. They were intimidatingly smart, and sometimes, would carefully correct Jack’s grammar whenever he misspelled a word or something- but they were never mean about it, they were just… there. A steady presence that he could count on.

Fifteen year old Jack dreamed of finding them one day. But now, twenty-five year old Jack is losing hope.

He can’t exactly help it. For starters, he and his soulmate haven’t communicated in… well, shit, it had to be nearly a year. Maybe nine months or so, but there’s no way to tell for sure, and even then, their conversations since reaching adulthood have been dull, for lack of a better word. A few positive comments here, a ‘have a good day’ there- it’s all so mundane, and neither of them can be blamed for it. They both have busy lives- or, well, Jack does, at least. His job as a graphic designer is hard enough on its own, but the added pressure of doing freelance work and commissions on the side has been eating away at him for weeks, coupled with debilitating self-doubt and lack of motivation for… anything.

Saying that he’s overwhelmed is the understatement of the century.

There is always another design, another client, another meeting, another deadline, another sleepless night as he stares at a blank canvas and prays for a spark of inspiration from whatever God is listening. Usually his inspiration comes from the world around him- his friends, city life, even the quiet confines of his apartment, but right now... Jack is stuck. He had holed himself up in his room days ago, trying and failing to get out of bed every morning when the time came to work- and thank God that the majority of his work could be done from home. His boss was understanding, too, to an extent.

Still, though, there’s a constant heavy weight on his chest that prevents him from moving most days, and he’s lucky if he even gets up long enough to shower or eat or do literally anything aside from lie in silence and count the cracks in his ceiling.

Nothing had happened to him recently to bring this on, from what he can tell. Jack has always been the happy-go-lucky leader, the man with a plan, the guy who always knew just what to say to motivate others into doing the best thing for themselves, but when that responsibility is reflected back onto himself, Jack feels helpless. There are words waiting to be said, sketches waiting to be drawn, designs waiting to be sent to clients… yet Jack lies there, motionless in his room for three days before he even has the energy, the willpower, to pull back his curtains and allow the sunlight to shine through. There is so much he wants to do, so much he needs to do, but he can't bring himself to do any of it.

In all twenty-five years of his life, through all of the things he’s been through, the ups and downs and foster homes and graduations and birthdays and funerals and therapists and rehab facilities and whatever the fuck else life decided to throw at him, Jack has never felt so worthless, so… lonely. His closest friends are all moving on with their lives. Many have already found their soulmate, have settled down and hidden their rowdy, rambunctious pasts behind skeletons in a closet. They’d all gotten their adventures done and over with in high school and college, and most are moving onto bigger and better things in life. They have careers. Families. Some have children, others have pets, a few have an insane amount of plants to care for.

All have seemingly left Jack behind in the dust.

No one told him when to flip the switch.

No one told him when he had aged out of adventure.

Now, they would never say it, but Jack knows. He knows. Saturday hangouts and trips to the bar had been replaced by Sunday church services and playdates for the kids. Rather than hearing yelling from his living room after his friends had all been teetering just on the edge between tipsy and fucked up, Jack hears the news, and documentaries, and podcasts, and the ghosts of a past life that he still seemed to be desperately clinging on to.

Katherine had been the one to tell him that he needed to grow up, though she didn’t put it in such a blunt manner. No, she’s just.... gently urging him to find a bigger apartment, or buy matching furniture from a place that is not a thrift store, or purchase dishes that weren’t of the plastic Walmart brand. She says it was because she wants to see him in a more professional, "adulty" lifestyle, but he knows it’s really because she can see that he’s a mess.

Deep down, Jack knows she’s right. She’s always right.

He just can’t help but feel cemented in place, dreaming of the past while dreading the new future ahead of him.

Jack never asked to feel so broken for no reason. All of the hope and optimism he had felt as a teenager was gone, lost in a sea of uncertain plans and shitty jobs and bill extensions and canvases dropped onto the floor with no rhyme or reason. And, yes, maybe Jack would look dramatic to someone who didn’t know his situation, but Jack knows what dramatic feels like. Dramatic feels like watching his best friend, Charlie, belt onstage in front of a backdrop that he helped create for the school play. Dramatic feels like laughing at the top of his lungs while walking through a random gas station at two in the morning, joined by Race and Al, all while higher than a kite. Dramatic feels like driving to the outskirts of the city with Katherine, climbing onto the roof of an old building and screaming about all of their stress, their anxiety, their insecurities, just to have some form of emotional release.

Dramatic doesn’t feel like sadness. It’s not supposed to.

Not for Jack.

He had been so… so happy, as a teenager. Proud and defiant and carefree. He was the kind of guy to skate and smoke weed in Central Park until midnight and take a math test at eight in the morning the next day. He was the kid who stood on a table in the cafeteria and came out as bisexual to everyone around him, just because of a dumbass bet that he didn’t even get paid for. He was the boy who wasn’t at all good in an academic sense, but who always knew how to talk himself out of trouble, who always came up with the most ridiculous- or most believable- lies to cover his ass when he needed it, who was always the class favorite, the teacher’s pet without meaning to be.

Jack had felt on top of the world back then, but now he’s struggling to even get off of the ground. The longer time goes on, the more lost Jack feels inside his own life. He feels like something was missing, something big. Something bigger than himself.

When his mother was alive, which now felt like lifetimes ago, she would often echo this old wives’ tale about how it’s best to find your soulmate while you’re younger, just to save them- and yourself- the pain of being alone for a long time. Jack had always kind of believed her; logically, he knew it was true, but he had always told himself that it wouldn’t happen to him. That he would be fine alone, though it wouldn’t be ideal, and that he would have plenty of time for soulmates after he got out and made a name for himself.

He’s starting to think, though, that maybe she was right. Maybe Jack had waited too long to make a move, to make contact again, because now, he just feels nauseous even thinking about it.

Don’t get him wrong, he knows the negative effects of self deprecation and not taking his own mental health seriously, he’s been to rehab before, blah, blah, blah, but, fuck, how could he put his soulmate through something like this? This fucked up state of mind he has now. Jack can’t even imagine talking to Katherine about this, and Katherine had been his best friend for over a decade. He can’t just meet his soulmate now- it’s been too long, he’s too messed up, they won’t like him, they’ll hate him for not trying hard enough, and Jack will just end up alone again, wasting away in his bedroom because no one fucking cares. No one cares. He has nobody.

That’s not true. He has Medda, his mom, his savior, his impulse control, but the thought of telling her that everything is acting up again makes him want to scream. He has Tony, but Tony has Al, and Tony and Al have a kid- a sweet little five year old girl who calls Jack ‘Uncle Jackie’ and takes no shit from anyone. He has Katherine, but Katherine has her soulmate- this dude named Darcy, who Jack doesn’t have much of an opinion on because they just met, like, a month ago, and Jack hasn’t exactly been emotionally ready for a hangout session between the three of them. He also has Charlie, and Charlie has certainly seen him in worse times- like when Jack was kind of hooked on pills for the entirety their freshman year of college- but Charlie has grad school to worry about and Charlie would hate him if he bothered him with this.

Still, there are other people who would listen, probably. He could easily talk to Elmer, or Romeo, or Specs, or Jojo or Finch or Sean or a fucking therapist but that’s just it, isn’t it? If he talks, he burdens, and Jack Francisco Kelly would rather run himself into the ground than be a burden anyone.

So, he makes a vow.

He makes eye contact with his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’s gripping onto the sink, holding on for dear life, as he stares into his own sunken eyes. He takes in his appearance. Damp, messy hair, falling down to cover his forehead. Pale skin, which isn’t normal at all. Dark circles have taken their place around his eyes, and his smile- one of his favorite things about himself- is… nonexistent.

Distantly, Jack registers himself dumping a full bottle of ibuprofen into the sink. And then, he does the same thing with the bottle of melatonin from his medicine cabinet. The valium follows. He lets the water run for a long time. It's not that he doesn't trust himself- he'd done so, so good in rehab, and he doesn't even feel urges that often anymore- but it's better safe than sorry, especially since he's like... this.

This is not the Jack Kelly he’s used to anymore. This is not the Jack Kelly he wants to be.

But this Jack Kelly is the one who vows not to reach out. The one who vows to only answer when his soulmate is ready, and maybe not even then.

He doesn’t have to wait long, though.

Not when a heart appears on the back of his hand the next morning.

It’s there when Jack wakes up, and, honestly, it almost brings Jack to tears- but not necessarily for happy reasons. Sure, Jack wants to be happy. Who wouldn’t be happy after seeing something like this? A lopsided heart drawn in red ink, right on the back of his left hand- it was the definition of a symbol, of a romantic gesture, and Jack wants so badly to write back, to strike up conversation, to draw a goddamn heart, but… he can’t.

He can’t, and that’s horrible of him, and he knows it.

Right now, though… Jack can’t even work up the courage, the energy, to call his mom.

His soulmate, whoever they are, is going to have to wait.

[pjstafford]

Letter to The Truly Like Lightning Book Club

I’m a person who likes to write, but I know I sometimes make spelling or grammatical mistakes which annoy people. I apologize in advance.

I do tend to be pretty open and honest about my feelings and I do feel deeply.

I kind of like social media to be upbeat and positive. I don’t really like to knock it too much when it isn’t. What’s the point!? Social Interaction between humans is sometimes problematic no matter what form it takes.

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. When it is triggered I have a flight response. On Twitter that means making my Twitter footprint smaller. I want to be smaller to protect myself. Yesterday, though, it seemed like I was being told that as small as my footprint had gotten, I wasn’t small enough. What do I do now? How small can I go before I’m gone.

I truly don’t know where to go with something that is not a life threatening problem, not a rocket science issue, but is a little thing about a book club. I believe it was The Who who sang this is not a social crisis, but just another tricky day for you. This morning is a Tricky day. I am really wondering...

Do we cancel the book club?

Do we have a steering committee to organize it differently?

Do we go off twitter?

Do we have a different facilitator?

Should I leave social media, maybe shave my head and take a vow of silence?

How I feel about this is extremely foolish and really desperately sad with just a smidge of anger.

I feel foolish because I thought the book club was going really, really well. I have loved the discussion. It has deepened my understanding of the book which I already enjoyed. It’s been fun. Imagine my surprise to find out there are issues. The sad and angry piece is a little complicated. So let me put the issues out first since that is what the club needs to discuss today. This is the fourth book club I have facilitated on Twitter. It has been my most pleasant experience until today. Every club has been formatted exactly the same. Apparently this one might need some restructuring.

1. When is the appropriate amount of time following a book’s publication to allow to pass before doing a public book club where people who may not be in the book club could still see the discussion? People who might read the book in the future or had started the book and wasn’t as far along might have spoilers. It’s a valid concern, but Twitter isn’t known for being a spoiler free zone. If a program drops on the East Coast two hours before my time, before I can watch spoilers exist on Twitter. However this book dropped February 2 and we waited until March 1st to begin the book club. We have a # but when people respond they don’t always use the #. Also some people don’t follow me and they are not part of the book club but because people retweet the questions they were showing up on people’s timeline when they didn’t want them there. So the compromise we arrived at was no body can retweet any question or response and every response must have the #. I’m still confused, though, about the rules. Movies/television =immediate spoilers acceptable, books= a month to six weeks is too soon. I was told it’s not a matter of rules but being nice. Ok. I want to be nice but what is the appropriate time because sometimes I don’t read a book for years? If we postpone the book club for six months, a year, three years, thirty? With the compromise reached, why do I care? Because why are we being so quiet and circumspect about a book I think people ought to know about and read. Sometimes social media helps create a buzz. What a shame that a book club that is reading the book critically and in depth is, to some degree, being told to not be so loud because, you know, Twitter is a spoiler free zone. To be clear, I think the persons who raise the concerns did so for legitimate reasons and out of concerns for future readers of the book, but when we talk about the reasons I am sad and angry you will see why this upset me we much. it’s not their fault but I responded poorly and I’m still coming down from my PTSD spiral.

2. Perhaps, the problem is that Twitter isn’t the appropriate forum for a book club. Maybe Discord or private messages or zoom. Yes. This is the fourth book club I’ve hosted on Twitter. I was asked in March last year if I would start a book club due to quarantine. They’ve all been successful so far. Why do I feel so silenced? Again I don’t think the person who suggested this meant anymore than oh, let’s solve the spoiler problem. But I have a particular reason for not wanting to be silenced.

3. Some people have read the full book already and want to talk about the book in its entirety. I see that. I really do. I just have never had a book club like that. That means waiting longer. Some people like the chapter a day. Should we do multiple book clubs ?

4. Are the questions too serious? The subject matter is complex. Would a different facilitator be more appropriate? One who wouldn’t highlight the controversial and serious issues!

Why am I sad and a little angry? Why did my PTSD kick in outside of it being a bad year and a stressful time at work and I’m tired? Haven’t had a day off I a long while. (No complaints I have a job). I’m tired.

April 2017 I started the Twitter account @hearteyes4david. I had help but it was mostly me. I kind of love David Duchovny’s writing. I have blogged about it and have said someday he will have a break out novel. I believe Truly Like Lightning should be it. But the account showed love for all things David and I believe it gave some fans some fun. I enjoyed being a part of it. We had newsletters and contests. But for me, I an first and foremost a fan of David’s writing. I write. I admire writers. His writing should not be diminished by his other careers. In March of last year with the lock down I was asked to facilitate a Miss Subways book club, then the lock down went on so we did his other two books. Twitter and hearteyes have been my happy place in this year. It’s hard when your happy place feels threatening.

I was fortunate enough to get an advance digital copy of the book to read. Wow. Different! Great! It is not because I am 😍. This is one of the best books I’ve read this century. I am an avid reader. I have a critical eye. I wrote a spoiler free review. Almost immediately a fan contacted me. Because of spoilers you shouldn’t have posted this. Why don’t you do a DM for those who are interested? Don’t do spoilers. It’s a spoiler free review. This fan continued to tell me that it would be best not to post about the book. ( you know, spoilers). Then fans who had not read the book but knew for a fact that every other page was full of sex scenes and drugs and it was essentially exactly like Californication (not remotely) started saying nothing should be posted on the 😍 page about this book. Then a fan who hadn’t read it complained about how it handled religion and said it would cause her personal pain to see anything about this book on the 😍 page. I kept saying. I actually don’t care if you read it or not. My suggestion is you mute, block or unfollow the account if you don’t like the content. “But the pain, could we at least not do the book club? “. 🥺🥺🥺. I was convinced that rather than have the controversy on the 😍 page I would choose to leave my happy place account I had created to start a small account and my fan related activities became far more focused. It might not seem like much, but the decision to leave 😍 was hard, but I wanted to talk about this book. These aren’t the only reasons but the three pronged fans really angry at me for a book I didn’t write which wasn’t even published yet was challenging during the holiday season of 2020. I made my Twitter footstep smaller. I passed the account to Charmion who is doing great.

So then I waited till March to talk about the book. In the meantime “fans” who hadn’t read the book, immediately started to spread lies and mistruths about the book including selective out of context screen shots. So much for “Spoilers”. Still I waited until March. So now I have a smaller account followed by 100 people which very few “super fans” know about and about 5-7 of us are talking about this book. That’s it. For 18 days we have discussed the difficult, complex flawed characters and how the book demonstrates that these characters actions caused harm to other characters and yet left us with empathy for all. We have not always agreed. It’s a book club. Reading one chapter a day.

Yet somehow we are too loud. My tweets were being retweeted. You know, have to be concerned about spoilers. Were there 15 hate filled tweets from people who shared screen caps they were sent of random out of context paragraphs, people who proudly say they haven’t read the book, don’t need to, they’re experts, 15 for every one of mine. Of course. But I’m too loud. You know. Spoilers

So I am sad. Desperately so. I walked away from an account I had poured a lot of love into because I believed in a book I wanted to talk about. After being pretty involved in the fandom, my current activities are pretty narrowed. I’m not sure I can continue to facilitate the book club. I guess my days involved in “fandom” outside of being a fan are drawing to a close. My happy place is kind of gone.

I’m angry because this book deserves to be critically read on its merits. I’m angry because I don’t like my voice to be silenced. I’m angry because I think there are fans who actually like the book who are in fact concerned about spoilers, but they don’t realize by silencing or at least quieting the discussion of fans who have read and want to discuss the book, they are only allowing the space for the haters voices to be heard. I’m angry at myself because every step of the way I should have handle this differently. I’m angry because I shouldn’t care so much. It’s not a Jan 6 insurrection, climate change, or world peace. It’s a book by an author who don’t need me to fight these battles.

Finally I’m simply confused about where or what to do. With an account of 100 followers some people who don’t follow me think I’m too loud because I’m posting about something they don’t want on their feed (David’s book) and someone might repost me. Because I feel threaten by people telling me too get smaller my response is to try and get smaller. So I shouldn’t post about David’s book because there are people in he fandom who don’t want to see posts about David’s book. Ok. I should come on Twitter and never interact because that way no one will ever see a post from me they don’t want to see🤷‍♀️. Mercy, I’m on a lobbyist, have you guys seen the political stuff I post on my other account? Yep, probably just the fandom stuff I need to walk away from except for, you know, being a fan, but never discussing it.

[foursideharmony]

The Cat, The Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 1)

Summary: In the wake of the events of Putting Others First, Roman is desperate to feel like the hero, even if for just an afternoon. He invites the core Sides on an adventure in the Imagination, patterned after one of the great works of children's literature that features heroes and villains. But stories in the Imagination can take on a life of their own, and this one seems bent on pushing Roman to be the villain... 

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: None so far

Word Count: 1463

Read on AO3: here

“I thought I was your hero.”

Roman’s own words echoed hollowly in his memory. The fact was that the…the occurrence with Deceit—Janus—had just been the culmination of a long, slow crisis of purpose for the prince. It wasn’t just the wedding vs. callback dilemma; it had been going on for months. Thomas’s cringing recollection of past phases he had gone through had gotten him wondering whether his current life path would eventually be added to that pile. There had been the encounter with the old friend who didn’t seem to think YouTube was a proper career. Before that had been the dispute with Logan over whether developing his artistic career was even valuable for its own sake, or just a way to keep the lights on and the fridge stocked. In fact…

It seemed to Roman that the period of misgivings had actually begun when Deceit was introduced to Thomas in the first place. Roman himself had inadvertently drawn the connection between acting and deception, and for all Logan’s reassurances to the contrary, a seed of doubt remained.

If lying was wrong, and acting was a form of lying, and Roman was the linchpin of Thomas’s acting abilities…did that make Roman the bad guy all along?

“I thought I was your hero.”

Was that why Thomas seemed to be hitting so many blocks when it came to his passions? Had Roman tainted his own function?

What did it even mean to be a hero?

It had been so simple when they were young. A hero was someone who helped others, preferably by doing flashy, impressive things. Little Thomas had loved the idea of being a hero, and Roman—just Creativity, back then—had dutifully provided him with a portfolio of daydreams. In the fantasies Roman constructed, Thomas could be a firefighter, charging into a burning building in order to rescue a puppy. Or he could be a sheriff in the Old West, rounding up bandits and cattle rustlers. Or he could be a superhero, foiling bank robberies and catching crashing airplanes. But his favorite kind of hero to be was the fairytale prince with a magic sword, defeating wicked witches and saving fair maidens from dragons. He had sent his Creativity to tap that well so many times that the Side himself took on the form of the prince.

As Thomas grew, his ideas about heroism became more complicated, the focus of his imagination shifted, and Roman’s job changed drastically, to cover his Center’s artistic ambitions (and in time, his romantic ones). He hadn’t minded for the longest time, because Patton had been there to handle the new complexities. If Roman’s understanding of right and wrong was a floodlight sweeping across an open field, then Patton’s was a fog lamp, cutting through the gray haze of moral ambiguity. Roman had always been perfectly content to follow Patton’s lead, knowing that the father figure would never steer them wrong.

But now…Patton was sharing control of the fog lamp with Janus, whom Roman had always understood to be one of the greatest villains of Thomas’s mind. Janus embodied dishonesty, selfishness, temptation to evil—exactly the traits a true hero should reject. The gray haze was where he thrived the most; how could they possibly trust him to help guide Thomas through it?

Roman just wanted to understand.

“I thought I was your hero.”

And until he could understand, he just wanted a break from it all. A day where he could just follow his bliss without worrying that he was either playing into evil’s hands, or pushing Thomas to the breaking point. A day where he could just be the hero, and know that he was the hero, and that he wasn’t about to be sucker-punched by all these nuances.

A day like the old days.

He wanted—he needed—a simple adventure, one where good and evil were obvious, and he was the leader of the good guys, and they were able to beat the bad guys with a certain amount of peril and excitement but no actual doubt that they could do it and that it was the right thing to do. And he needed…he needed his fellow Sides (his fellow light Sides) to be involved, so that they would see him as the hero. He needed that. He could set it all up in advance and take them through it, smooth as cream. And they would all have a great time and the other three would lavish praise on him for treating them to something so beautiful.

And as long as he was revisiting Thomas’s childhood understanding of the world, why not go all the way and model his adventure on a story Thomas had loved in childhood? Not a Disney one, for a change…something a bit more intentionally meaningful than that.

He knew just the thing.

Roman set aside his current project and marched himself into the Imagination, intent on his mission.

*****

Hours later, the prince burst into the common area, practically vibrating with anticipation. Four heads swiveled to notice him. He took in the scene in an instant: Logan, standing at an easel with a large whiteboard propped upon it, bearing the heading “WORK/LIFE BALANCE” and a number of bullet points scrawled in three colors of dry-erase marker; Patton and Janus (ugh) sitting on the sofa nearby, engaged in relaxed discussion with the Logical Side and each other; Virgil at the other end of the sofa, headphones clamped over his ears, keeping a wary eye on the proceedings across the room while simultaneously scrolling through something on his phone.

Roman faltered, uncertain of how to begin.

Janus sighed loudly through his teeth—and it was a sigh, not exactly a serpentine hiss—and proclaimed “Mercy me, look at the time.” (There was no clock within his line of sight.) “We’ve been at this for so much longer than I expected while making hardly any progress. I’d best be on my way so we can pick it up again later once our heads have cleared.”

“Aw, Janus, you don’t have to go just because Roman’s here,” said Patton.

“Perhaps not, but I prefer to,” Janus said, shooting Roman a look before spinning on his heel and exiting the room. He assiduously swerved around Roman on the lower steps as he passed, making no physical contact.

“For the record,” Logan said, dismissing the whiteboard and easel, “we have actually made excellent progress in our discussion. I suspect that Janus was engaging in his trademark falsehoods.”

Roman squirmed internally a little. So did that mean…Janus didn’t prefer to leave? Then why—

“So!” Patton said, shifting the room back toward a chipper mood. “What’s going on, kiddo?”

Roman found his voice. “I would like to invite you three…on a quest! Well, more of an adventure than a quest, if you want to get technical. Please come! The story is all set up and we just have to run through it!”

Logan frowned slightly as he often did when considering new information. “Approximately how long do you expect it to take?”

“Hardly any time at all,” Roman stated with absolute confidence. “It has this sort of time…warp…thingie, built in. We go into the Imagination, have the adventure, and come back out at the moment just after we left.” No one replied, so he forged ahead. “And it should be totally safe! A little scary or sad in certain parts, maybe but I can personally guarantee a 100% happy ending.”

“A happy ending sounds pretty good,” said Patton.

“My principal objection has been eliminated as well,” Logan agreed.

Virgil heaved to his feet. “Sure, why not. Got nothing else to do tonight.”

Roman felt his heart swell with pride and affection. It was working! This was going to be amazing! “This means a lot to me, guys. Really. Come on, then! I can't wait to show you!”

He led them upstairs and to his room, where the doorway to the Imagination had been transformed for the occasion. It was always an ornate double door, made of dark-stained hardwood and covered with carvings of fantastic creatures, but now instead of being flush with the wall, it was part of a tall cabinet, a couple of feet deep and smelling faintly of cedar and camphor.

Roman took hold of the door handles and paused theatrically, looking over his should. “Do not be alarmed by what you see inside.” He threw the doors wide, revealing an assortment of fur coats.

“What is this,” Virgil scoffed playfully, “a wardr...wait a sec.” His eyes widened. “Wardrobe full of fur coats...time warp thingie...dude. Are you taking us to Narnia?”

Roman nodded, beaming. “I'm taking you to Narnia.”

[cultofbeatles]

hello reece i am the teach me led zep pls anon yes hi hello hehe idk what i wanna know mabye like ur fave song from each album and basic facts about each member ??? dont be afraid to ramble btw im taking all the info i can get !!!1!1!!! thank u sm ily 🥺

annie i have three words for you... i got you. i already told you this, but i am working on a “beginners guide to led zeppelin.” i planned on it being more giggles mainly, but i'm going back and adding a decent amount of information just for you

fun facts about led zeppelin and the beatles: led zeppelin were the band that beat the beatles record held for most attendance at a concert (55,000 people). on may 5, 1973 (and with no opening act) led zeppelin beat that record by having an attendance of 56,800 people. also! for the beatles movie ‘a hard days night’ jimmy page did the instrumental version of this boy that plays while ringo is wandering around. pretty rad. oh, and george harrison went to a led zeppelin party once and was thrown into a pool by john bonham. 

i gotta say this before i begin though, led zeppelin is one of those bands where hardly anything gets confirmed or denied. at least nothing “controversial” or anything more than basic gets an answer to it. so sometimes you gotta take things with a grain of salt, and you gotta just have the mindset of “well this might not be true so I'm not gonna claim it as so.” with that being said i'll start with getting you into led zeppelin. 

through the span of their short career led zeppelin had eight studio albums. 

led zeppelin (january 1969)

led zeppelin ll (october 1969)

led zeppelin lll (october 1970)

led zeppelin lV (november 1971) this album technically doesn't have a name but we all call it ‘led zeppelin lV since it was the fourth album

houses of the holy (march 1973)

physical graffiti (February 1975)

presence (march 1976)

in through the out door (august 1979) 

they also have a few live albums and compilation albums as well. but when people talk about led zeppelin albums they're mainly referring to these ones. i like all of their albums. i think they're all good. my personal favorites are the second and fourth albums. i do think that led zeppelins music isn't for everyone though. they're not as clean as some other bands are. I will list my favorite songs from each album. 

led zeppelin: good times bad times, dazed and confused, babe i'm gonna leave you, communication breakdown, how many more times, i can't quit you baby 

led zeppelin ll: whole lotta love, the lemon song, thank you, heartbreaker, moby dick, ramble on

led zeppelin ll: immigrant song, since i've been loving you, tangerine, that’s the way 

led zeppelin lV: black dog, rock and roll, stairway to heaven, misty mountain hop, going to california, when the levee breaks, the battle of evermore

houses of the holy: the song remains the same, the rain song, over the hills and far away, the ocean, no quarter, dancing days

physical graffiti: the rover, houses of the holy, kashmir, ten years gone, trampled under foot

presence: for your life, achilles last stand 

in through the out door: fool in the rain, all my love 

i think all of these are good starter songs for someone just now getting into led zeppelin. i hope you like them! they have one movie, the song remains the same, and it’s weird but also good. it’s basically concert footage of their madison square garden show but there’s also cuts of little skits they made? idk how to describe it lol.

in my beginners guide post i'll write more about the members and go into more details and funny facts about them. right now i'll just briefly introduce you to them. to talk about led zeppelin you have to start with the yardbirds. jimmy page (zeppelin’s guitarist) was in the yardbirds until they broke up in 1968 and then jimmy started looking for his “super group.” him and Peter grant (zeppelin’s manager) started looking for the best of the best people. in 1968 led zeppelin was formed. 

jimmy page is known as one of the best guitar players in rock history. he’s usually always in the top three listings. he was a session guitarist for a while and would fill in on people’s records. on Joe cocker’s version of ‘with a little help from my friends’ jimmy is playing the guitar on it. and he joined the yardbirds with eric clapton and jeff beck who are also listed as the best guitarists. he was a soft spoken, quiet dude. he seemed very shy and introverted. but then you read groupie stories about how he had whips, handcuffs, and razors. he was also given a lot of shit for studying crowley’s work, and was known for his “witchcraft ways.” he struggled with addiction (heroin and cocaine) and pulled himself through in the end. but he was, and still is, an amazing guitar player. he also produced all of zeppelin’s albums. so he’s an amazing producer as well. he got a lot of unnecessary hate and criticism back in the day (still does). and you can thank jimmy for all the newish led zeppelin stuff we get bc that’s all on him more than likely. 

john paul jones is known as one of the best bassists in rock history. he was not only zeppelin’s bassist but also keyboardist. and he can play recorder as well. like jimmy, he was also a session musician. jimmy and jones knew of each other  and when jones heard about jimmy putting a group together he called him. he was more of the serious member in a way. jimmy, bonham, and robert were more wild and would cause chaos. john paul jones would deadass book a room at another hotel and not tell anyone where he was. he just wasn't into that kind of thing. so I don't think he was really all that close to the other members. he felt left out a lot. him and john bonham were an amazing rhythm section. the best in history. they knew exactly what to do to stay in sync. he was also the one to find john bonham when he died. so that’s sad. 

robert plant is known as one of the best vocalists in rock history. his voice is *chef kiss.* i love him. he wasn't jimmy’s first pick in a singer. in fact, jimmy’s first pick was the one who recommended robert to jimmy and also said that he looked like “a greek god.” robert plant is just about the most attractive man ever. jimmy liked roberts voice a lot but doubted his songwriting skills so was weary of him at first. robert had never written songs until joining led zeppelin. robert was the reason john bonham joined the group. him and bonham were best friends before the group even formed and remained that way until bonham’s death. robert also went through a lot of shit during led zeppelin’s timeline and honestly i'm so proud of him for getting through all of it. right now robert likes to act like he was never in led zeppelin though lmao. 

john bonham is known as one of the best drummers in rock history. i’m not even kidding. his power behind the drums is mind-blowing. when he was approached by jimmy about the band he denied the offer. and continued to deny the offer bc he had a family to take care of, and didn't know how well this band would be. but it was robert plant who convinced him to join so they could play together. he loved his family very much (a wife and son who name is jason). he hated being away from them. he was known as the sweetest man ever unless he was drunk. the problem was that he was always drunk. he had a drinking problem. he did a lot of stupid shit when drunk. he died in 1980 after he had the equivalent of 40 shots of vodka and threw up in his sleep causing himself to choke. after he died, led zeppelin died as well. 

after john’s death the band called it quits. they all like to say it’s because no other drummer would be able to compare to bonham. robert says that he loved john bonham too much and couldn't force himself to go out there and do a show without him as the drummer. robert plant is likely the reason we’ll never get another zeppelin reunion show. there were three reunion shows in the past. the first reunion was their live aid show which fucking sucks. john paul jones wasn't even informed about the event and ended up on keyboard instead of bass, jimmy was likely on drugs bc of how out of it he was, robert’s voice is awful, and the drummers hardly knew the material. it was a rushed show but it was for charity and i'm sure they made a lot of money. the last show being the celebration day reunion in 2007 where jason bonham (john’s son) played the drums. it’s a really really good show and i cry every time i watch it. you can watch the whole thing on youtube. still to this day it’s evident that jimmy, Jason, and jones would love to do a reunion show again. 

led zeppelin is one of the few groups that can say all of their members were just about the best at what they did. each member will always be in the top ten rankings for lists of the best artists/musicians. that’s really impressive. they were really, really good together. I hope this was a good starter post! 

[milatherese]

Update No. 5 (*cue Mambo No. 5*) – 90 Days, School, Discernment (just a lil bit)

Note #1: This update is long. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Note #2: If you don’t know Mambo No. 5, you need to listen to it (even though the lyrics may be morally wrong, it is quite catchy).

“How was the 90 day journey of a tiny bit of asceticism?” you ask. (nobody cares but I’m pretending you do haha)

That’s a question I still ask myself several days later. 90 days is a lot to process. Therefore, I have included my short answer to this question here: – It was a bit hard in the beginning but got easier as the days went by – I especially enjoyed the no social media / limited communication – I hated cold showers, actually gave it up by the end of the first month or so because it did more harm than good (imo)

The beginning was a little rough, but about as good as sacrifice gets. (you can read my thoughts on that here, here, and here) About a month in, I couldn’t cope, at least physically. I ended up just doing what I felt I was strong enough to do.

January was a little rough. Ever since school started, I had headaches every day (including non-school days). (If you’re wondering why I never shared this with you and why I hid my pain, it was because I didn’t want you to worry.)

At first the headaches were tolerable. I could get through a 12-hour day with minimal pain. They got increasingly worse. I began taking Tylenol according to the recommended dosage (1-2 tablets every 4-6 hours). I didn’t take Tylenol every other day (I try to avoid medicine, if possible) but I eventually “graduated” to taking the extra strength Tylenol, also according to the recommended dosage. Eventually, the headaches began to impact my studying. I had limited time to study (I had to time my studying during the lesser painful waves of my headaches). I was so worried for one class that I spent all my time studying for that one class during lecture of another difficult class (I figured I could bring up my grade in the second class later). Despite my high of level of unpreparedness, I was looking forward to taking the exams for both classes. I thought my headaches were the result of stressing over those two classes. Unfortunately, taking the exams for those classes didn’t end the headaches. In fact, they may have increased the pain.

My headaches soon became unbearable. I couldn’t hide the pain any longer. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t eat out of fear that I would only make the pain worse. I was in tears from the pain. Massaging my head and using an ice pack didn’t reduce the pain. I wanted to rip my head off to get rid of the pain once and for all.

At this time, I decided it was time to begin thinking about seeing the doctor about this. (Yes, I should have already gone to the doctor but my pain isn’t really a concern to me.) I decided that I would go to the doctor if the headaches persist for another week.

The pain was at its absolute worst one Saturday. I had to call in sick for work (we had an event – which I was really looking forward to, btw). I spent the day crying from the pain (at this point, my body wasn’t really responding to Tylenol). Finally, the physical pain began to affect my mental health. I was trying to figure out the root cause of the pain. I began questioning all my decisions – transferring high schools, transferring universities, not applying to a certain community, leaving relationships, etc. I was wondering if this was some sort of a punishment for making the “wrong” decision (which I later learned is no such thing, more on this another day). I felt so lost and alone. I was wondering if this was a taste of what Mother St. Teresa described as a “long dark night.” (I referenced this before in my last update but I just can’t get her long dark night out of my head.) I eventually cried myself to sleep and slept the rest of the day until 2am the next day.

When I woke, I noticed the pain had disappeared and, with it, the emotional rollercoaster I was going through earlier. I was able to get some rest from the physical and emotional pain and my mind was finally functioning as it normally would – quiet and able to think logically. It was clear that my pain was not for torment but for me to focus on something more important than the pain itself. I decided to pray the Rosary for it had been several weeks since I had been able to pray the Rosary without distractions (I would either fall asleep or be distracted by the headache or my studies). I prayed God would help me discern what He wanted me to tend to. I felt that I should prayerfully consider my career path now that I was away from outside influences.

I began reflecting on my semester thus far. There was one day that my mom visited campus and overheard some girls complimenting and encouraging each other. She told me, “I want you to be in whatever major they’re in. They seem happy. You don’t.” At the time, I was too stubborn to see that my happiness was just a mask I put on to “be strong.” I remembered writing pre-labs and post-labs but barely understanding the material, only understanding the grammar necessary to produce acceptable scholarly work. I recalled being so stressed that I was rude to the whole world (except for work) to the point that my mom exclaimed, “Who are you? You’re not human anymore!”  She was right – I wasn’t myself.  That woke me up. I thought, “What good is my major if it only brings out the worst in me?” In prayer, felt called to pursue another career instead of MD/DO. I still don’t know what career exactly, but I’m trusting that my time studying and preparing for MD/DO will help me in my calling.

That Sunday, I informed my parents and one trusted relative of my decision to change majors and they were overjoyed. (My uncle seemed to have already known in the beginning that I would leave the MD/DO path, but wanted me to come to that decision myself.)

So, I changed majors back to Allied Health, B.S.

I met with my academic advisor (not the one who screwed me over, for any of those who know the story) and we came up with a school plan. Estimated graduation date was Fall 2021.

I dealt with this change as best I could and things were on the up and up…until it wasn’t.

Early February, I learned that a close priest friend had passed away, just 3 days shy of his birthday. I had been looking forward to his birthday (not that I would be with celebrating with him, just happy he would be celebrating another year) so hearing the news was devastating. He was like an uncle to me. To quote what I said at a memorial, he was “a great friend, a big brother, a father figure, a very holy man, a man for others.” (There’s so much I can say on him but I’ll leave that for another post) The first day, I seemed okay. Minimal feelings of sadness. It hadn’t hit me yet. It hit me the very next day. And it hit hard and long. I was crying everywhere I went whenever I was away from family and friends. Some days were harder than others (my supervisor sent me home early to give me time to grieve). I was going through so many emotions. I was frustrated that I was taking so long to grieve (I later learned that grief has no time limit) and annoyed that I did not feel comfortable talking to my family or friends about it. I had faced loss before (when Bro. Morgan passed away), but never anything as devastating as this. I did not know how to cope with grief. I struggled to stay focused during class (actually broke down in tears at least during one class each day) and to finish my work (skipped out on a staff meeting due to waterworks). I cancelled a couple meetings and called in sick to group therapy twice. I distanced myself from the world and those who love[d] me. Unfortunately, all this affected my studies once again. Despite my lighter load, I could not concentrate. I did not think of sharing all this with my professors as I felt like they wouldn’t understand (or maybe I was just being stubborn again?)

It came time for RECongress and I held it together (somewhat…more on that on another post). It was that Friday that I was able to study without getting distracted by grief. I had an exam the following Monday. But one day of studying 3+ weeks of material was not enough to pass the exam. So there went that.

February went by with each day bleeding into the next. Each day was a blur until one blessed night.

My brother had arrived home late from school one day and as he was pulling into our driveway (why do we park on driveways and drive on parkways) a beautiful dog approached him. I won’t go into details but the dog is now ours and has been the biggest blessing this semester, especially in helping our family cope with grief. We believe (as do others) that Father Suarez sent her to us.

Come March and April, things were finally on the up and up again. I was studying every day and keeping up with work. But then quarantine hit and things went downhill yet again. I did become more active on this blog since March 16th but inside I was deteriorating. However, it wasn’t as detrimental as January and February. Let’s just say that I learned the house is not conducive to studying, I may need a new prescription for glasses, and we need to find better internet (or move to a place with better cell signal). I failed a final due to failed internet connection (thanks be to God I got another shot at it). I took my two other finals in the car in the parking lot in front of Starbucks.

Quarantine has been the best and the worst for me. I realized that spiritually, I was thirsty. Thirsty for God. I live-streamed Mass and adoration daily and at odd hours, even doing homework and studying “with God.” The more things I had to do, the more I felt the need to “hang” with God (which, in retrospect, may have been a bad decision because I ended up procrastinating and losing a lot of sleep). I learned to value receiving the sacraments in-person now. I’m more aware of when I sin or am near sin. It has also reignited the flame of faith. I’ve been doing a lot more spiritual reading, especially now that APU semester is over (still have one class at a JC).

Despite this, discernment got a bit murky. I began questioning my vocation and doing a lot more “reality checks” (and a lot more second-guessing). Frankly, I don’t think I would survive living in a community of all women since all my close friends are men. (Or is that an excuse I am making for myself?) I don’t think I would make a great mother either so perhaps I’m meant to be single? (Or am I just a harsh critic of myself and I would actually be a great mother?) I had not really spoken to my spiritual director in months (transportation and schedule issues, both on my part).

A priest I met at RECongress learned I was discerning religious life (if you didn’t know this, I hope this isn’t a surprise) and asked me to email him as soon as possible in case I need guidance. I didn’t email him until April 1st so that may have contributed to my overthinking. He replied a couple weeks later (and I replied a couple days after that and am still awaiting a response). I asked God for “another sign, for some clarity” and He gave me another. However, everything still looks murky to me. I feel both consolation and desolation at the same time. I might be facing another identity crisis like last semester. Aye.

Ok this is way longer than I had planned so I’m just gonna stop right here.

If you read this far, thank you for reading. If you relate to anything I shared, I hope you know that you’re not alone and that if you ever need anything (even if it’s just a listening ear), I’ll do my best to help. Just ask. (And if you need something but I haven’t replied in a long time, just reach out again. I forget to reply to messages quite often.)

[caveling]

Chapter 1: Pupils

Moss had fallen in love with her people's funeral ceremony at a young age, shortly after one of her grandfathers had passed away. She marched somberly with her parents and a few close relatives down the narrow tunnel to the deepest part of the caverns where the air was stifling and cold. It was her first time being that deep in the cave, and being a small child she wasn't sure what was really going on. But her family marched on quietly until the tunnel opened up to a wide room with an unusual mixture of scents.

Wood smoke and incense, an overpowering combination, was the first thing she noticed as they all spread out into the space before them. It was a warm, thick fragrance that drifted around them and clung to everything it touched. Traces of bark, sap, and flowers that she didn't even recognize wove themselves into her hair and brushed against her skin. 

The strength of it was overwhelming, but after a moment she realized that the smoke was barely stronger than the other, less pleasant odor in the room.

She had learned in school that Death’s River ran alongside Brambor Cave, deep underground, crossing into Brambor at a handful of points before it flowed out into the ocean. The funeral chamber was the last point of access to the river before the estuary, and the flow down here was gentle and steady enough that sometimes seawater would wash back upstream, bringing all manner of creatures with it that would feed on the remains of the dead as they were slowly carried out into the sea. She took a deep breath, and for the first time smelled and tasted the briny odor of seawater on the cold air. That was the moment she realized why her family was gathered here. Someone had died and was about to be dropped into the river.

Finally, the scent of medicine and illness surfaced, having been hidden under everything else.

A shiver danced over her skin, and she searched the room, trying to sift through the soft, sorrowful murmurs of the adults around her, hoping for a hint of what was to happen next, and when. Someone mentioned her grandfather's name, another began to sob, and Moss's heart ached in sympathy, but there was nothing she could do. The melancholy atmosphere was too much for an innocent child like herself to bear, and she only wanted to go home. She tugged on her mother's shawl, ready to ask if she could leave, when a new voice sounded out over the crowd.

They seemed to have come from nowhere, and as they passed by Moss she realized that it was because the scent of the funeral chamber was woven so tightly into their clothes and skin that they seemed to be a part of the room itself. They introduced themself as Flint, the funeral director, and asked for everyone's attention. Moss fidgeted with her sleeves, listening only partly to the long sermon that followed.  Flint dragged on for nearly half an hour, speaking of peaceful waters and how the accomplishments one made in life were guaranteed to echo on after one was gone.

There was a break in ceremony that followed, as those around her began to speak of memories of her late grandfather. They recalled what kind of person he was, and what he had done throughout his life. Some could barely speak, their voices tired from crying. Moss had nothing of her own to share, having only met the man once, she didn't really know much about him. So she kept quiet, nuzzling into her mother's side as the conversation around them gradually fell silent.

Once everyone had run out of things to say, Flint began to tap out a slow, gentle rhythm on a metal drum. Two people shuffled forward to move the body, picking him up with two lengths of rope and carrying him over to the cliff, where they lowered his body gently into the river. As he drifted away, the atmosphere around them began to lift. Moss could hardly believe it, that the sorrow that had been so tangible at the start of the hour was slowly evaporating until she could barely feel it.

After everything was over, and her family filed back up the tunnel toward their home, she began to wonder how Flint could blend into the scenery, and so easily change the emotional atmosphere of a group of people who were grieving so heavily. She wondered if there had to be some sort of magic in the chamber, or in the ceremony itself.

A few days later, she snuck back down to the funeral chamber and explored the room fully, fiddling with everything from Flint's metal drum to the tarps that were kept to wrap the deceased. With out the incense burning, and the ceaseless shuffling of a sad group of people, the chamber seemed much calmer. She could finally hear the flow of the river passing by, and the soft scuttling of the sea creatures that were moving along the walls above the water.

Finally, she sat down on the cliff, dangling her legs over the edge, and started speaking to the sea creatures. She asked them if they noticed her grandfather drifting by a few days ago, and whether or not he had already made it to the ocean. She wondered how he was doing there. Neither the urchins nor the crabs could answer her back, but that wasn't going to stop a child with an active imagination from having a conversation with all of them. She pretended that they told her stories of him, building houses on the ocean floor and dancing among the eels. The idea that he was enjoying himself, and spending time with every other dead caveling in the ocean, finally put her mind at ease about the whole thing. Eventually, she got tired of talking to herself and made her way back home,  where her parents were sound asleep. She joined them, vowing that she would return to the funeral chamber once again soon, to talk some more.

For a few weeks after that she returned again and again, usually after waking from a bad dream, or early in the morning before her parents were up. She enjoyed passing her time there, making up stories about all the people who now lived in the ocean.

One unfortunate morning she had fallen asleep by the cliff's edge, and was woken by a shocked Flint screeching in fear when they realized they weren't alone. Flint immediately took Moss to her parents, and the three of them gave her a stern lecture about playing near deep water. She thought it entirely unfair that she was in trouble when she hadn't even been playing, but she understood well enough that their main fear was her falling into the water with no one there to help her.

So, a few days later, she made her way back down to the chamber when she was certain Flint would be there too. She told them she missed her friends, and begged them to let her sit in while they worked. Flint was... hesitant to have a child around while they prepared the chamber for a ceremony. But they assured her that if she could convince her parents to let her apprentice under them as a mortician, they would let her hang around as much as she liked. With supervision.

Moss ran back to her parents eagerly and pleaded with them for the apprenticeship. They were clearly surprised enough that Moss was so interested in studying for a career at age eight to begin with, saying nothing of the fact that she was so eager to study under the mortician. They eventually came to an agreement, that if she became Flint's apprentice and didn't like it, she would be free to back out. If she did back out though, it was clearly a sign that she wasn't ready for work, and it would be a few years before they'd allow her any other sort of apprenticeship.

That was good enough for her. She went back to Flint to tell them the good news.

It was a surprise to them that her parents had agreed, and an even bigger surprise that they finally had an apprentice. They shrugged and handed her a broom. Delegation didn't come naturally to them, nor did teaching, but one way or another, they'd figure things out over time.

Moss was fine with whatever work Flint assigned to her, from sweeping to preparing batches of incense. The few hours she would now spend daily down near the river were peaceful, and she was at ease. It was embarrassing to speak out loud to her marine friends in front of her new teacher, so instead she would hum for them the songs that Flint taught her.

Over time, her interest expanded from the chamber itself to everything that happened within. She learned to help Flint during ceremony, grew strong enough to lower the bodies of the deceased into the river without dropping them. She memorized dozens of calming songs, and learned how to speak clearly during a sermon. It turned out to be a job she was well suited for, and after several years by Flint's side, it was hard to imagine herself doing anything else in life.

But early one morning, she woke up on the stone floor of the funeral chamber, with Flint's hands pressed to her aching scalp. Her clothes were soaked in the slick puddle that surrounded her body, and by the smell of it she guessed it was her own blood spilled out around her. Flint rubbed one palm over her forehead, softly pleading with her to stay alive. A soft, golden light glowed on the skin of their palm. She had no idea they were imbued with healing magic, but there it was, apparently being used on her.

She groaned and turned herself over, eliciting a surprised cry of joy from Flint. She tried to push herself up onto her knees, but her palm slid on the wet stone and she found herself face down on the floor, in more pain than she was in just a moment ago. Flint told her to move slowly, that they weren't sure how well their imbuement worked in the first place, and that if Moss was awake they could run for help. There were a few other imbued healers in Brambor, each with more experience than them.

"No, don't leave me down here," she pleaded. There was a cold feeling in her chest. There was a new sensation crawling over her, one that she didn't have words for yet.

She was being watched.

[redditnosleep]

Has Anyone Heard of The Left/Right Game?

by NeonTempo

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 (Final)

Sorry I’ve not been in touch guys. It’s been a busy month. However, I’m pleased to announce that, as of yesterday night, I’ve finally touched down in Phoenix, Arizona.

I’m posting this log from my first American hotel room, which offers a gorgeous view of both the state hospital and a local prison. Auspicious times.

Drop me a line if you’re in the city or if you have any information at all.

The Left/Right Game [DRAFT 1] 15/02/2017

As the darkness closes in, I find myself dragged deeper and deeper into the depths of my own subconscious, until I sink through the back of my mind into an indescribable place. A featureless, directionless, timeless void that exists at the weakest point of life.

I can feel myself drifting away, surrendered to an almost imperceptible tide, carried slowly but inexorably from the world.

The rest of the night unfolds in fleeting snapshots.

I briefly feel my body lift up from the ground, gravity pulling at my limbs as I’m conveyed through the forest.

An unknowable stretch of time later, I feel a distinct burning sensation to my right. In the world I currently inhabit, only an echo of the pain reaches me, but I can tell that it was once substantial. Unable to divine its purpose, I let the sensation fade away, before descending once more into the placid darkness.

When my eyes finally work themselves open, the sun is beginning to rise. Without an ounce of strength left in my body, all I can do is peer through my eyelashes, taking in the vague scene before me.

I’m in the back of the Wrangler, propped up against a soft pillar of luggage. There's somebody kneeling beside me, tugging at my right shoulder. When I try to address them, I discover that my voice has withered to a spectral whisper, so frail that it hardly exists at all.

AS: … Rob…

Hearing my voice, the figure shuffles round and kneels before me, staring into my eyes as they slowly regain their focus.

ROB: You just lay back Miss Sharma, I just finished patchin’ you up but I gotta make sure it’s good work.

AS: Wh… what happened to you?

ROB: Denise had me at gunpoint, had to act like I was all but dead. When she into the forest, I got free, took the med kit into the trees, fixed myself up a little. I was comin’ to help when I heard this awful noise. Went to check it out... that’s when I found you.

AS:... Is the engine running?

ROB: Wanted to warm up the place for you. You were in shock, and since the battery don’t run down anymore I thought-

AS: No I mean… how? The key, it got-

ROB: You think I’d risk gettin’ out this far with only one copy of my car key?

Rob seems almost insulted, and thinking back to everything I’ve learned about him over the course of this trip, I can see why he might be. Even in my weakened state I can’t help but laugh; though it admittedly comes out as stilted wheezing, diffusing quietly into the air.

AS: No that’s… that’s actually very “you”. I think Bluejay would’ve appreciated that information last night.

ROB: Yeah well, she didn’t ask.

AS: … I’m glad you made it Rob.

ROB: Glad you made it too. They build’em tough down in London.

I rest my head back against the luggage.

AS: I’m from Bristol.

ROB: Of course… yeah of course that’s… sorry…

Rob tries to recover his smile, but it slips quickly from his grasp. In its absence, his features cringe into sudden, uncontrollable sadness.

ROB: Miss Sharma I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!

Rob Guthard’s weathered face bursts into a heaving mess of tears. He repeats those two words as he lumbers towards me, throwing his arms around my waist and resting his head on my left shoulder. My hand feels like lead as I raise it up and brush it against his hair, holding him against me.

As the man continues to sob, I let my head roll slowly to the right, observing the damage to my arm. Last night, lost in the muddled throes of shock, the harm had been unquantifiable, the details drowned out by the encompassing haze of severe blood loss and a blaring, primal alarm which had forced me to move without questioning why. Now that I’m on the other side, bathed in the quiet warmth of the Wrangler, I’m able to fully assess the extent of my injury.

Everything below my right elbow is gone.

It feels almost like a dream. My upper arm is practically unblemished, save for a few dark bruises from last night’s fall, yet it descends an impossibly short distance before ending in a blunt, surreal stump. The wound itself is hidden from view, swaddled in fresh white bandages.

I can’t seem to figure out how I should feel and, consequently, I don’t seem to feel anything.

AS: It’s ok Rob. It’s ok.

ROB: I never… I never meant for any of this to-

AS: I know… I know.

Rob pulls back, his eyes still watering.

ROB: I’ll take you home, ok? I’ll find somewhere to turn around and we’ll get you home.

I can tell Rob’s offer is genuine, and to be honest I’m a little surprised. I still remember our verbal agreement, forged at the mouth of the tunnel; that he would not be turning his car around until he reached the road’s end. I never expected he’d be the one to renege on the deal.

I’m aware this could be my best chance to leave it all behind; to flee from the horrors of the road, before they take even more of me. I know the way back. I know that it leads to safety, to family, to blessed normality. However, as an insidious voice in the back of my mind quietly notes, it doesn’t lead to answers.

AS:... I’m still game if you are.

Rob sends me a heartbroken smile, which I would return if I had the strength. In that moment, a sombre understanding develops between us. An understanding that after everything we’ve seen, everything that’s happened, we’re both still choosing the secrets of the road. The decision reveals something about us, exposing a driving force behind our actions that negates our concern for survival, and overshadows the imagined protests of our loved ones.

It’s a decision only two broken people would make.

Rob spends the morning packing up the Wrangler, giving me time to rest. The fact that he’s walking around at all is remarkable, let alone conducting his usual routine at his usual pace. As I begin to feel life crawl slowly back into my veins, I wonder whether the strange force that has sustained us both, as well as the Wrangler’s fuel tank, could also have a mild restorative effect. The notion should bring me comfort; instead it makes me feel like a lobster in a tank.

A few hours later, Rob carries me out of the car, letting me rest in the doorframe. In front of me lie three mounds of dirt, raised slightly from the surrounding earth. Two are headed by crosses, formed from knotted sticks bound tightly together. The grave on the far left lies bare, bereft of any religious affiliation.

AS: Is that… Bluejay’s? Without the cross?

ROB: Didn’t think she’d want one.

AS: She wouldn’t have done that for you, you know.

ROB: Good thing I ain’t her then. I buried what I can, but that was some state she was in. Did the child kill her?

Rob goes to throw a foldable spade into the back of the car. For a brief moment, I consider letting his statement go unanswered.

AS: No, it didn’t… I did.

Rob immediately marches back round, his brow furrowed in confusion.

AS: I hid a C4 charge in my satchel. When she took the bag I… well…

I gesture to the bare grave. Rob looks as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

ROB: Where did you-

AS: From your son’s car.

I watch as my quiet assertion strikes Rob’s ears, as its meaning burrows through his consciousness, its implications contorting his features into a look of shame and damning revelation.

I can tell from his reaction that I’ve got it right.

We haven’t had a chance to speak since I learned his son’s name. That piece of information formed the crucial thread, stringing together the strange and seemingly incongruent discoveries I’d encountered on the road. Earlier in the week I may have been worried to confront him with this information, but things are different now. We’ve come too far, we’ve been through too much and, if he’s truly ferrying me somewhere with malicious intent, I’m powerless to stop him anyway.

I raise a weak hand towards him; a quiet request for assistance.

AS: I think it’s time we had a second interview.

Following a tense and guilty silence, Rob simply nods and helps me into the passenger seat.

ROB: It wasn’t military. It was commercial.

The Wrangler continues to crawl through the forest. I’ve stayed quiet for almost half an hour, letting Rob formulate a response in his own words, and in his own time.

AS: Commercial?

ROB: Yeah, explosive charges for controlled demolition. Bobby was in the business, had his own firm.

AS: You must’ve been proud.

ROB: Yeah… yeah he built that place up from nothin’. Tourin’ his office was one of the best days of my life.

AS: So… how did he end up out here?

Rob grows quiet, reluctantly accepting that he’ll have to start from the beginning.

ROB: … Bobby was a smart kid… smarter than I ever was. He coulda run the farm at 15 but, country life didn’t take. Instead he moved away to Phoenix, picked up a college degree, got himself a steady career.

AS: A steady career? That’s pretty rebellious for a Guthard.

ROB: Hah… well we were pretty different people… didn’t always get along. I was still a courier in those days, always jettin’ off somewhere new. ‘Course I went to Japan, stayed there a while. Then…

AS: Aokigahara.

ROB: That’s right. Changed everythin’. Came home after five years with a new hobby. Bobby didn’t care for the stories but... his ma had died sudden while I was away; we both wanted to start over, be in each other’s lives more so... he came with me to the Pacific North West, trackin’ down Sasquatch. Creature didn’t show, but Bobby had a good time campin’ so he kept joinin’ me. Before long he was doin’ the research himself, organisin’ trips, pickin’ up rumours of strange stuff all across the country.

AS: Sounds like a nice time for you both.

ROB: It was.

AS: So… was it Bobby who discovered the Left/Right Game?

ROB: … He called me up one day, outta the blue. This was about three years ago. Said he’d found a set of rules; said we should try out. To be honest, I thought our trippin’ days were over; I was back in Alabama and he was startin’ up a family of his own, but suddenly he’s tellin’ me to meet him in Phoenix so, of course I went along.

AS: And this time, you both realised it was real.

ROB: Bobby knew as soon as we reached the tunnel. He passed that way every day, knew it wasn’t supposed to be there but… there it was. He said that was the most amazing thing he ever saw. We charted it over the next year, whenever we could get the time together, but we moved slow, mapped the place out, turned back on the regular. It took us a while before we got the courage to stay on the road overnight, both of us were terrified the tunnel would disappear or somethin’.

I can tell Rob is replaying the events in his head. The reminiscence almost makes him smile.

ROB: Bobby’s wife was a real doll. Used to work in his office. Kindest girl I ever met, funny too. There was a decade between’em but you could tell they were good for each other. He shared everything with her, including the road. In fact, once Bobby got a little more secure with the rules, they started to map it together…explorin’ their own little world.

After a brief pause, Rob’s expression sinks slightly; the reminiscence is growing darker.

ROB: Few months go by, I’m hearin’ from Bobby a little less but, I expected that. Then one evenin’ I get a call from the hospital, tellin’ me my boy had walked into some ER in Phoenix.

AS: Was he ok?

ROB: No. He was in a bad way. Leg all busted up, delirious, askin’ for Marjorie. They found her bag in his car but... she was nowhere to be found.

AS: Bobby lost her on the road.

ROB: Yeah, that’s right.

AS: On our second night here, after we lost Ace, you told me the road had never hurt anyone before.

ROB: Well, that wasn’t a lie at least. It wasn’t the road that got’em.

AS: … What do you mean?

ROB: They made it to the forest. None of us had got that far before but… this time they pushed a little further than usual.

AS: Do you know why?

ROB: They were gonna have a kid. Marjorie was almost due… wasn’t travellin’ so well. I think they knew they wouldn’t be hittin’ the road for a while. It was like a uh… like a last hurrah I guess.

AS: But only Bobby came back?

ROB: They explored the woods till nightfall. When Bobby said they had to turn back… Marjorie didn’t want to. He never told me why, never told me what happened. By the end of that trip, Marjorie was still out there and he was in a hospital bed.

Rob takes a moment to collect himself, to put the facts in order. The trees are starting to grow thin, sunlight bursting through the widening gaps in the canopy. It looks like we’re nearing the forest’s end.

ROB: Bobby took a month or so to recover. Boy was desperate to get his wife back, and of course he’d become a suspect in her disappearance. Needless to say the first thing he did was head onto the road to find Marjorie.

AS: But he didn’t.

ROB: Nope… No he found her. Just uh… a little sooner than he thought.

I take a moment to process Rob’s implication. Suddenly I feel a stone drop in my stomach.

AS: She was on the 34th turn.

Rob nods solemnly.

ROB: Wasn’t the woman he knew of course. Stood there all day, just mumblin’ about the road. Didn’t even recognise him. I remember he called me up right after he first saw her there, his heart breakin’. He tried almost every day from then on, always stoppin’ at that turn. He’d yell, he’d plead, he’d bring pictures and gifts but… she never responded. Don’t know if it was really her but, whatever was on that corner, it belonged to the road.

ROB: Bobby lost somethin’ of himself on that corner. After a while, his fascination with the game turned sour, turned to hate. He thought the road was somethin’ evil, that it had no place linking into our world.

ROB: I was checkin’ up on him at that point, every few days or so. One weekend he said he was doin’ better, even said he’d been in to work. I thought maybe things were turnin’ round but... then he went quiet; didn’t pick up his phone for three days. I had my place in Phoenix by that point, and a spare key to his house. That’s where I found the note; tellin’ me he’d gone back through. One last bid to find his wife… and if he couldn’t bring her back well-

AS: He was going to destroy the tunnel.

ROB: Cut the road off from the world. I played the game in Phoenix, Chicago, a few different places, but that one tunnel is what links you to the road. I looked around his garage, found the box for a phone, lot of electronics all over the place… pretty clear what he’d done. So I jump in my car.

We pass out of the forest, onto a long narrow road. In the distance, I can see our route winding up a towering wall of sandstone, disappearing into a set of rolling mountains.

ROB: He passed me on his way back, just before I hit Jubilation. Thunderin’ down the road at full speed, drivin’ like crazy. That’s when I knew he hadn’t found her… that he was goin’ to take out the tunnel, end the game once and for all.

AS: But he never got that far.

ROB: I tried to talk to him. Called his cell, tried the radio frequencies, there was a number on the sim card documentation that he had, god help me I even messaged him on that one. In the end it was just me and him, racin’ back to Phoenix. He was faster than me but I was drivin’ better. After few bad corners I caught up...

AS: You ran him off the road.

Rob stares out at the faraway ridges, his hands grasping the steering wheel.

ROB: Cell service don’t work through the tunnel. He knew that. He was either goin’ to blow it up on this side… or while he was in there.

AS: So you were trying to save him or save yourself?

ROB: Neither. I was tryin’ to save the road... Say what you want about this place Miss Sharma, but it’s a doorway out of everythin’ we ever known. It’s the road out of… out of reality. It may be the most significant frontier we ever cross and that’s… part of me knew, that was too important for one man to take away.

For the second time today, Rob battles back tears, and for the second time, he fails. They roll silently down his cheek as he continues on.

ROB: He was more injured than I thought. He’d hurt himself bad before he reached me, that’s why he was headed to the tunnel so quick. He wanted to destroy it while he still could.

ROB: The road had taken almost everythin’ from him, and then I took the rest… I denied him his hope, took away his chance to leave the world on his own terms. In the end he didn’t even seem angry… he just asked after Marjorie. Asked me why she did it, why she left. I laid him to rest there, visited the place often but… I never had a good answer for him. That’s when I started preppin’ the next run.

AS: So you posted his logs online, and pretended to discover them.

ROB: Thought people would ask less questions that way.

AS: And where did we all fit in to this? Why did you bring us here with you?

ROB: I guess… I thought it was time the world knew. Didn’t want all this to end up an old man’s secret. Honest to God, if I knew the road was gonna… I swear I never woulda brought you here.

Rob’s features tighten, all his shame and guilt rising to the fore. I can’t say it isn’t deserved. Despite his intentions, despite his penitence, the man had blinded himself to clear dangers, hurt those closest to him and, on a road where secrets had killed so many, he’d kept the most significant one of all.

Well, perhaps not the most significant.

AS: You didn’t bring us here Rob.

Rob turns to me, confused.

AS: I met someone in the forest last night, a figure, just like the one you saw in Japan, “looked like static you see on a TV screen” … I think it was you Rob. I think I saw you and I think that… all those years ago…

In my current state, the mechanics of the event, and their stunning implications, lie beyond my explanatory capacity. In the end, I just raise my lost right arm, and wait for Rob to make the connection.

A moment later the car screeches to a halt.

Rob stares straight ahead, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. I’m aware that beneath his stone-set features, every square inch of grey matter is fighting to process the fresh revelation. If it’s true that, in those quiet woods, I somehow reached across the decades to a young Rob Guthard, then it changes everything. The twisting narratives that led us to this point, Rob’s burgeoning obsession, his son’s tragic fate, they all took root in that single moment. More than a decade prior to my own birth, I’d placed us on the path which would lead me to his door.

As chaotic as the road often seems, that moment in the forest hints at something deeper, something intentional.

Rob steps out of the car for a while, before wordlessly climbing back in and firing up the Wrangler. From that point on we continue as two silent passengers, lost in thought, disappearing into the sandstone mountains.

We travel across the thin mountain road for the next two hours, a wall of crooked rock hemming us in. When we pass onto the other side, and the outcrop falls away, the landscape below us has changed completely, and we’re treated to a strange and breath-taking sight.

The Wrangler is traversing the cliffs above a vast, flat desert; a tundra of vibrant orange stretching as far as the eye can see. I can just make out the road, cutting a meandering path through the sand far below us. At the centre of this otherwise featureless expanse, a collection of monolithic structures, towering columns of glass and metal, rise from the ground, connected by a web of long perpendicular streets.

AS: There’s a city… there’s a city on the road.

Rob keeps his eyes forward. Despite the epic majesty of the cityscape below us. I can tell that his mind is elsewhere, that he’s still digesting the contents of our interview. In the end, I think it best to leave him alone with his thoughts.

We stay on the mountain for another twenty minutes, before finally winding down to the desert floor. The space ahead of us is two-tone; the sharp saffron of the desert and the deep blue sky, separated by a thin, even horizon. The only objects that cross this perfect boundary, are the hulking grey towers of the city, rising from the sand, and bursting through into the heavens.

We snake along the desert road, the city looming ever larger as we make our tentative approach toward the border. There’s an eerie contrast to the threshold as we cross it; the cupreous glow of the sand switches to grey, the scorching heat instantly cools, and perhaps most notably, what little sound there was is negated entirely. As we delve down an empty, perfectly maintained throughway, I realise that I can’t hear anything at all except for the Wrangler’s steady rumblings.

AS: It’s quiet.

ROB: That’s fine by me.

AS: Who do you think built this place?

ROB: I don’t know. Maybe whatever brought us here. Could be that no one built it… maybe it just is.

I wonder if he’s right. It’s hard to think such a place would exist for any practical purpose. The city looks off somehow, as if it was built from conjecture, by an architect who had only heard of cities through poorly translated rumour. All the broad features are present, skyscrapers, lampposts, window cleaning platforms, but nothing deeper. It’s an empty shell. An ornament in the middle of the desert.

As we turn down the next few roads, I stare up at the monolithic structures, each one standing at least a hundred stories tall. My eyes track back down the countless strata of dark windows, as I contemplate what it might be like to live in such a place.

When I reach the ground floor, I’m presented with my answer.

There’s a young man standing at the ground floor window, his hand resting against the glass. He’s wearing a dark grey suit, and a look of almost mesmeric shock. His mouth open, his hands shaking, his unblinking eyes staring past us as the Wrangler rolls by.

My eyes quickly track back up the skyscraper’s glass facade, scrutinising each row of windows in turn. I’d naively hoped the buildings would be empty, that this place would be nothing more than a colossal ghost town. Now that I know otherwise, each pane of glass feels like a dark pool of water; still on the surface, but with sinister potential lurking within its depths.

A few seconds later, more of them arrive. There aren’t many at first; just a few scattered figures stepping up to their windows, pressing themselves against to the glass. However, like a light sprinkling of rain that erupts into a downpour, the frequency of their arrival quickly doubles, then triples, until not a single space lies unoccupied. The Wrangler shrinks, subject to the scrutiny of countless individuals, on every floor, in every window, all of them clad in the same monochromatic formalwear and staring down at us like the emissaries of a grand tribunal. As the Wrangler passes by, they continue to stare straight ahead, though it’s clear they’re aware of our presence.

AS: Rob. Rob there’s-

ROB: I see’em.

Rob puts his foot down, shedding the weight of a thousand pairs of eyes as he leaves the building behind. As the final column of windows slips by us, I glance back, hoping to see them return to the depths of the building. Instead, in those last few moments, I witness their collective demeanour fracture into a desperate frenzy, their mouths opening in a silent scream as they slam their fists against the glass.

Turning back around, I stare into the buildings that currently flank our vehicle. The figures have already arrived at the windows, and their calm is already fading.

AS: Rob, we need to go faster.

ROB: I’m on it.

The Wrangler growls with renewed ferocity as Rob plants his foot onto the gas. We lurch towards the next corner, accelerating down the road as Rob scans for any hidden turns. I achingly shift in my seat, keeping an eye on the scene developing in our wake.

Shards of broken window begin to rain onto the asphalt. Watching the shattered pieces tumble through the air, it’s apparent that the quiet in this city isn’t simply due to a lack of activity. The torrent of splintered glass is completely silent, even as it crashes against the impervious ground.

Nothing in this city makes a noise. Nothing except us.

The thunderous engine of the Wrangler has never sounded so loud.

Looking up, I witness hundreds of hands gripping the shattered window frames, unable to turn myself away as thousands of polished black shoes step over the threshold. The figures stream out from every floor, forming an incomprehensible deluge of humanity.

The first wave strikes the ground, with more and more landing against them; a heap of tangled figures struggling to separate themselves. Much like the residents of Jubilation, and everyone else we’ve encountered on the road, they appear impervious to the fatal harm such an act should impart. Those that landed on their feet hardly even stop, turning towards us, and sprinting after the Wrangler. It doesn’t take long for the rest of the writhing mass to resolve itself, its constituent individuals joining the frantic stampede, their chaotic charge and desperate screams bereft of any perceivable sound.

Even in the midst of the frenzied pursuit, as a foreboding shower of glass falls from every building we pass, the world outside remains silent; the chaos made even more incomprehensible framed against the ungodly stillness in which it takes place.

Rob screeches around the corner, drifting onto a long and open street. The roadway ahead is flanked by skyscrapers disappearing to a narrow vanishing point. As we race down this next stretch of road towards a large intersection, the ever growing mob bursts onto the street behind us, taking the corner with supreme coordination and continuing tirelessly in our direction.

A split second later, I’m struck by an abrupt and pervasive idea. It feels unlike any thought I’ve ever had before, less of a notion, and more a prescient hybrid of intuition and de ja vu, as if the course of action we must take is obvious to me, despite my not knowing why.

I force my voice above a grating whisper.

AS: Rob. We need to drop something behind us… something loud.

ROB: What’re you thinkin’?

AS: I uh… you just have to trust me ok? We still have most of the plastic explosive could you-

ROB: Nah, if you took out the blasting cap I ain’t got time to make a new one.

Rob’s glances into the rear view, then back to the road. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head.

ROB: But that the only explosive on-board. Think you can drive?

AS: I guess we can find out.

The car thunders across the tarmac as I clumsily grasp the wheel, shifting myself over and working my foot onto the accelerator. Rob lifts himself away and climbs past me into the back of the Wrangler. In my weak state, every shuddering motion makes my bones rattle. With each subsequent gearshift, I’m forced to take my remaining hand off the wheel and reach across to the stick. The effort is precarious and awkward, my aching limbs puppeteered by will power and adrenaline, every passing second a battle to maintain control.

The windows up ahead are starting to fracture. The noise of the Wrangler is carrying, and the entire city is starting to pre-empt our arrival. Behind me, I can hear the ripping of duct tape, the tearing of fabric and the clattering of falling luggage. I’m not sure what’s taking place behind me. I just have to trust that Rob has a plan.

I hear the back door swing open just before we reach the intersection, a metallic scraping along the Wrangler’s floor, and a pained grunt from Rob as he throws something onto the road behind us.

Reaching the crossroads, I slide my hand along the wheel and twist it sharply to the right. As the car lurches round, and onto the next road, I feel my heart sink dramatically. We’ve been overtaken. The windows ahead of us are shattered, the front doors lay broken on the street, and the building’s desperate inhabitants are rushing towards us, blocking off our only means of escape.

I slam my foot onto the break, and the Wrangler shudders to a halt, the engine stalling and cutting out. The streets are now spilling over, an overwhelming swarm converging on our position from four directions. I look back to Rob, and he meets my gaze, his eyes brimming with dismayed finality.

An explosion shudders through the air behind us. I look out the back window to see a shattered jerry can, one of Rob’s now superfluous fuel reserves, its dark green shell violently compromised, its contents spilled out across the road and cast alight. Now that the engine isn’t running, the echo of the blast and roar of the primal, balletic flame fills the afternoon air.

The trajectory of the maddened crowd changes instantaneously, the silent Wrangler has fallen from their collective attention, as they refocus onto the smouldering flames. Those up ahead continue to rush past us, streaming around the Wrangler as they scramble to the spilled pool of gasoline, digging their hands into the blaze, grasping hopelessly at the fire.

Delicately, careful not to make a single shred of noise, I climb out of the driver’s seat, joining Rob in the back of the Wrangler.

He addresses me in a confused whisper.

ROB: Why don’t they care about us? What are they doing?

AS: … It’s the sound. They want it for themselves.

I don’t how I’m so sure, but I know that it’s the case. The jerry can creaks and screams as the city dwellers tear it into smaller and smaller pieces, frantically examining every jagged scrap. With each passing second, as the fire dies down, the crowd grows increasingly distressed, as if a precious commodity is slipping through their fingers.

AS: They don’t understand it. They’ll pull it apart trying to figure it out and they’ll never get any closer… and then it’ll be quiet again.

ROB: Where you gettin’ this from?

AS: I don’t know, just a uh… just a feeling.

ROB: Well... pretty sure they woulda pulled us apart too. I’d say we’re pretty lucky.

AS: Hah, yeah… pretty lucky.

As the last of the gasoline is eaten up, and the fire dies away, the city dwellers remain in the streets. Devoid of their momentary sense of purpose, their prize vanishing into the ether, the crowd’s desperation fades into a hushed despondency. I watch them as they pass by, countless faces wracked with sorrow, their aimless shuffling forming a lonesome sea, a grayscale ocean that spans the desolate city.

The Wrangler is now adrift in the centre of that ocean. It’s clear that any attempt to start the engine would bring the entire city down on us, reigniting their futile hope, causing them to tear through the car, and anything inside it.

For the foreseeable future, we’re completely stranded.

ROB: Don’t worry about it, ok?

AS: I don’t think they’re going to leave Rob.

ROB: They’ll leave.

AS: Ok… and what then? They’ll still be everywhere.

ROB: Hey, we’re a smart pair. We’ll think of somethin’.

In the eerie, pervasive calm that surrounds us, I sit myself down next to Rob and lean back against the wall, with nothing else to do but wait for our situation to change. After watching the figures outside for over an hour, the only thing that’s different is a strange needling sensation that feels like it’s emanating from now absent forearm.

AS: My uh… my arm hurts… how’s that possible-

ROB: Don’t worry that’s uh… it’s called Phantom Limb. You got some sensation right? Like you still got somethin’ there? A lotta people get that after amputations. Here…

Rob reaches into his medical kit and retracts a blue jar of tablets. Twisting off the cap, he shakes two pills free.

ROB: You’re gonna need these for the pain.

I stare at the tablets for a moment, before collecting them from his open palm. He passes me his canteen and I swallow them down in two weak gulps.

AS: You have a lot of experience with amputations?

ROB: … More than you’d think.

My brow furrows. Though I’d meant my remark as a passing jibe, Rob’s response rings with a strange sincerity. It takes me a moment to realise why that is.

AS: I forgot... you were drafted. You never talked about it.

ROB: Been thinkin’ about it a lot though. Bunch of strangers brought together under false pretences, told that we were servin’ a grand purpose by some old liar. Guess it’s interestin’ how time repeats itself. Now that I think about it, he drove a Jeep too.

AS: Rob… I told you, you didn’t bring us here-

ROB: That don’t change nuthin’. Don’t change what I did… to you, to Bobby, to any of ‘em. Maybe you were there in the forest but I was the one who started this, the one who kept askin’ what was at the end of the road.

AS: What do you think is at the end Rob?

ROB: Startin to think that ain’t for me to know. I been movin’ from place to place so long, seen everyone else settle down. Far as I can see, the end of the road is just wherever you decide to stop.

I rest my head on Rob’s shoulder. He gently places his arm around me. It isn’t long before medication starts to take effect, quietly overtaking my already weakened constitution. The pain subsides, dulled along with the rest of my senses. The sun is still streaming through the windshield as my eyes begin to drift shut.

I watch the figures pass the window, my eyelids getting weaker.

AS: I don’t want this to be the end Rob.

ROB: I know Miss Sharma, I know.

The last thing I see before I fall into a dreamless artificial sleep, is Rob Guthard’s hand reaching for the rifle.

When my eyes work themselves open, the sun is beginning to set.

I’ve been moved. As my vision adjusts, it becomes clear that I’m still in the Wrangler. My head resting against a pile of fresh clothes, a soft travel blanket laid across me.

I glance around to find that Rob’s nowhere to be seen.

Momentarily forgetting the situation outside the car, I attempt to call out for him. The syllable catches in my throat as a shambling figure passes by the window, wringing its hands in despair and casting a long shadow through the car.

With a renewed sense of caution, I slide the blanket to one side, and slowly make my way to the up front.

The cabin is similarly empty, except for a single scrap of paper, torn from my notebook. It lies on the driver’s seat, a small object hidden within the fold. When I open it, I find my headphones and five neatly written words:

“Channel One To All Cars”

My hand starts to shake as I rest the note on the dashboard, slowly climbing through and placing myself gently into the driver’s seat. My heart in my throat, I insert the headphones into the jack of the CB radio, take a single, quivering breath in, and press the first button.

AS: Rob?

ROB: I’m uh… I’m sorry Miss Sharma.

AS: Rob, where are you?

ROB: Down the road a little. Got myself to one of the rooftops. I know I always hated cities but, once you’re above it, the view’s really somethin’.

AS: Come back Rob. Come back... please.

ROB: I wish I could. I do. But we both know those things ain’t leavin. And you need the car to get where ever you gotta go so… best I can do is make some ruckus, draw’em outta your way.

I rest my head against the steering wheel, bracing myself against the weight of his words.

AS: I can’t do this without you.

ROB: I don’t think that’s true Miss Sharma. I think whatever’s on this road… it wants you to make it all the way. All I was meant to do was bring you this far. Now you don’t have to listen to it, you can turn around and head home… but either way only one of us is drivin’ outta here. So I guess the only question left is... which way d’you wanna go?

AS: Well… are you ahead of me or behind me?

ROB: I can be anywhere. It’s your choice Miss Sharma.

In the wake of Rob’s words, in the shadow of the decision, I’m cast into silence; not because the choice is hard, but because I’m ashamed that it’s so easy. It was made the moment I first stepped into the Wrangler, and renewed in every perplexing moment since. The need to know, to comprehend, to uncover the truth has been with me all my life, but I never knew its roots ran so deep, that it would endure so ardently when everything else, everyone else, had been stripped away.

I stare into the rear view mirror, seeing myself for the very first time, and I have to admit I’m scared.

AS: Stay where you are Rob.

ROB: Hah… ok Miss Sharma… you ready?

AS: … Yeah. I’m ready.

ROB: Alright then… suppose it’s about time this thing did some good.

The shot explodes through the radio, before a faint booming echo reaches me on the quiet city air.

Its effect on the city dwellers is immediate. Their collective melancholy shatters in an instant, replaced by a renewed fixation. Before I know it, the disparate crowd unites once more into a stampeding horde, rushing past the windows of the Wrangler and back down the road towards the source of the noise.

ROB: They on their way?

As the last of the city dwellers disappear behind me, I run my hand across the steering wheel, and down to the ignition.

AS: Yeah… yeah they’re on their way.

ROB: Ok then... what’re you waitin’ for?

With a fateful twist of the key, the Wrangler roars back to life. The wheels kick against the asphalt, transporting me through the streets of the city. As I barrel away from the intersection, I see a small contingent of pursuers rushing around the corner behind me.

Rob fires the rifle again, maintaining the attention of the majority. The stragglers fall away in my rear view mirror, losing ground against the Wrangler.

I take the first left, then the next possible right, then another left, a few minutes later I eventually find myself on the last stretch of road, leading me back into the vast and empty desert.

ROB: So, you gonna make it?

AS: Yeah, I’m gonna make it.

ROB: Good. That’s good. Miss Sharma, if uh… if you find Marjorie, if you get a chance to let me know… well it’s more than I deserve but-.

AS: Of course… of course I will.

ROB: I appreciate that. Ok, they’re gonna be here soon so… I’m gonna go radio silent for a while. If I call, you’ll know I made it out. If I don’t call… you just assume I made it out, ok?

AS: Please tell me you’re going to be alright, Rob.

ROB: … It’s been a real honour drivin’ with you Miss Sharma.

The sound of a final shot reverberates through the radio, its echo drowned out by the roaring engine of the Wrangler. The world shifts around me as I burst out of the city, and back onto the desert road.

The way ahead is laden with immense possibility, yet as I disappear into the vastness of the desert, I can only think of what I’ve left behind. Rob J Guthard had his flaws, marked by loss, driven by obsession, his good intentions often paving the way to tragedy and heartbreak.

As the tears begin to roll down my cheeks, I decide to remember him differently; as a valued friend, a good man and, above all else, a great story.

No matter how you tell it.

[life-of-khanoor]

July 6, 2021

I never ended up posting my April draft because I had more to say and think about but I just forgot about it because during such a traumatic moment in my life I decided the smart thing to do would be to add more stress to my life even though I never even dealt with the first stress. 

It all came crumbling down. All of it. 

Moral of the story: Take care of your mental health because if your mental health isn’t in order then no matter how much time and energy you pour into everything else - it won’t matter. You need to be okay internally for your external to be okay. 

I don’t know where to start. But I’m going to be more consistent with these journal entries, because I have decided to start therapy. I started therapy that was offered at my school in November of last year, but the therapist was only available every 3 weeks and she agreed my problems needed more consistent time to be dealt with. So in December I stopped any form of therapy. In late March to early April, all the truth came out. All the ugly, hideous truth about my past came out to my significant other at the time. I told him that the person he was feeling so insecure about for the 1st year of our relationship, was not my best friend but actually my ex-boyfriend and someone I had been hooking up with while we were together. This ugly truth only came out after his truth came out which was that he also was indulging in some form of cheating not physical, but through the exchange of pictures. Honestly, I wasn't expecting it at all. Which made me realize, he’s actually a really good liar. This made me start thinking about how I could trust him as he goes into dental school with so many females around him. It was driving me insane. Still does from time to time but I just remember that whatever happens, well, God willed it. 

Anyways, instead of dealing with the issue, I had a more pressuring matter at hand. The MCAT. The bane of my existence came knocking on my door when I could least handle it. But I had to go in head first because if I didn’t take it now, I would not be able to apply to medical school this cycle, and if that didn’t happen I would be wasting another year of my life and I would be a bigger pile of uselessness. My family already thought of me as useless and wasting their money and if I didn’t take the MCAT, apply to medical school, and get in - I would be proving them right. Well, from May to the end of June I began my grind, I was putting in 8-10 hours a day of studying. I was trying by absolute darn hardest to get it all but 2 weeks before my MCAT, the anxiety hit me in the face. I was waking up every morning with anxiety attacks, the day before my MCAT I woke up and had a panic attack and was crying and was not okay. I honestly still don't think I am. I started therapy but I’ve only gone to 1 session and I unloaded so much past grief and trauma like it’s all so much that’s happened. And I’m trying to get back into it but honestly I’m not ready like clearly I’m not I feel so manic. Through this depressive period in my life (which is still happening but to a lesser extent now that I know I’m holding onto something I need to let go of), I can say for a fact that my “boyfriend” has not in  been supportive. If anything, he's made it worse. But thankfully, I met this amazing girl who’s been so supportive even though she has her own issues. I really feel like God send her to me. So if you’re reading this god, thanks for that. 

The MCAT didn’t happen. Day before my MCAT I realized I couldn’t do it, I wasn’t ready - not in terms of my prep and not at all in terms of my mental health. That night the boyfriend that I cheated on, who decided to stay with me because of the “goodness” in his heart, unloaded all his hatred, resentment, and angst toward me. This mixed with my own feelings of failure and uncertainty ended it for me. I could not handle it. I could not do it, I could not. I had all this hate for myself pent up. I tried killing myself. This wasn’t the first time I tried or thought about killing myself in the past month and a half. I wanted to end my life, I can’t handle it anymore. It all hurts so much I feel so lost all the time. I feel so empty. Like the shell of a person. I feel alone. And this person man, this guy just isn’t worth it. You know you spend 2 years of your life with someone, they become so ingrained in you, so intertwined with you and you think this is meant to be because you can’t see it working any other way right? But it’s nothing but pain anymore. It’s just a constant reminder of everything bad. Even if now I’m not that person anymore like it’s not possible to live it down. And he thinks it’s possible. God I fucking feel so suffocated with him. I feel locked up. The whole time he stayed with me during my MCAT prep, he made it feel like he was doing me such a huge favor, and indeed he really was but it was because he wanted to be there, I didn’t ask him to be there for me. I was ready to leave, that was the only option that even seemed in any way viable. It’s not like I do better with him around, if anything this whole relationship has been my lowest productivity. But he insisted on staying, and I regret letting him. For fucks sake I cheated on you not once, not twice but probably 5 times, what makes you think we’re meant for each other. We’re not. We had something good. But I ruined it. We keep trying to hold onto our past relationship, what WAS good. But what’s good right now? What? Is there any good right now? You might think it because I’m pasting this smile onto my face because you’re starting dental school and moving to NYC and I don’t want to be a Negative Nancy. But nothing is good. God fucking nothing. I don’t even ENJOY talking to you anymore. I get anxious because I think you’ll judge me for this or that. I’m walking on eggshells with you. I talk to you and I feel the weight on my shoulders getting heavier and my heart feeling weaker. Just because YOU think you’re there for me, doesn’t mean you’re what I need. I can’t even talk to you honestly. I can’t talk to you and feel like I can’t be 100% myself. I feel so scared to even say things anymore so I don’t say them. God you’re not my boyfriend, I don’t even think I’d consider you a friend. There’s no love here. There was. But there isn’t anymore. I listen to our songs and feel nothing. I look at our pictures and I feel sad. There’s nothing between us anymore. You're just hurting me more and more and more. And now I’m here every other day contemplating suicide, like what do you want from me damnit what do you want? It feels like you just wanna suck me dry until there's nothing left. Something with such a bad bad history, could never be something good. Not now anyways. Not after such a fresh deep wound. I need to heal and he does too. We're not together because we love each other lol, we’re together because we’re comfortable here. It’s familiar. But he's about to start the rest of his career in a different city and I need to start the rest of my life without my past weighing me down. So it’s over. 

Ending this relationship is probably going to be the best thing I’ve done for myself in a really really really long time. I can already feel the weight being lifted off my shoulders. Maybe all the praying in the middle of the night, waking up with panic attacks, imagining myself dead, maybe this is what it all came down to. Maybe I needed to rid myself of this before I could move onto greater things. God really is the greatest of planners. 

I feel so light after getting all this off my chest. I genuinely cannot go another day with this in my life anymore. I think that all this time, all this mental hurt and anguish has been an inner fight with myself. The struggle because I was ready to grow but I wasn’t willing to let go. 

[the-record-columns]

Feb. 12, 2020: Columns

A friend first, then a banker…

(Editor’s note: This column was written by Ken Welborn shortly after the death in 2010 of his longtime friend, Ronald “Ron” Shoemaker.)

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

I simply do not know to express the sadness I feel as I write today about my friend, Ron Shoemaker.

For my entire adult life, Ron was there whenever I needed him with wise counsel, patience and understanding.  Anytime I had the opportunity to introduce Ron, I would always do so as “…my friend, Ron,” and the fact that he was my banker would only come up if appropriate or necessary.  While he made his entire career in the realm of finance, his true legacy is that of an honest man, a good family man, a brother like no other — and a trusted friend.

Ron Shoemaker was what I like to refer to as an old-line banker, one who could read people as well as financial statements, and who would place character ahead of collateral when circumstances called for it.  Ron truly cared about his customers, never more clearly evidenced to me than the time, back in the old NCNB days, when he didn’t loan me the money.

I had gotten myself involved in a circumstance (the proverbial good cause) that had gone south and I had been convinced by the gentleman in charge that I had no choice but to ante up $10,000 as my part to clean up the mess.  I went to see Ron, explained what had transpired to him, and asked to borrow the money. 

He then asked me several questions about my involvement in the deal, studied about it a minute or two and then leaned forward and said, “I’ll loan you the money, I promise, but I want you to do something for me first.” 

He then went on to tell me that he didn’t think what was going on was fair to me; that I was being scammed, and that I should see an attorney before I agreed to pay a dime.  I kind of hesitated, so, without another word, he picked up his phone and called Jim Moore, asking him if he could see Ken Welborn for a few minutes. 

About an hour later, as I left Jim’s law office in the old Northwestern Bank Building, he told me I was fortunate to have a friend like Ron looking out for me, because I had no liability whatever in this deal, and if anyone argued with me to simply tell them “…you’ll see them in court.”

When I went by to thank Ron, he smiled broadly and said, “I have heard your daddy the preacher say many times that there is no right way to do the wrong thing, and this is plainly wrong.”  

That was my friend Ron talking — clearly the banker Ron took a back seat that day.

I followed him when he went to Southern National Bank (now BB&T), and was as happy as anyone in the county when, some years later, he told me he and a group of directors were forming what came to be Wilkes National Bank and then Northwestern National Bank.  They made a great success of that company, catering particularly to small businesses and individuals; and by understanding just how personal folks take a banking relationship.  Simply put, they treated their customers the way they would want to be treated. 

That attitude came from the top down, from Ron Shoemaker.

After his retirement, I mostly saw him when he was out to eat with his wife, Jane — who always looked as though she just left the beauty shop.  I would tease him about still dressing up like a banker, even after retirement, and he would remind me he needed the coat pockets to hold the fifty or so pictures he always carried of his grandson; his newest pride and joy.

Ron’s health had been failing for the past few years, and I cannot even imagine what he went through, but clearly he didn’t have to go it alone — his family stood by him steadfastly.  He remained positive and upbeat, always finding the best in whatever circumstance he was facing. 

He was a man at peace with himself, with his family, and with God. 

I am a better man for having known him.

                                               Ron Shoemaker                                   May 1, 1940—February 12, 2010                                                Rest in Peace

The Perfect Valentines Gift Does Exist

By HEATHER DEAN

Record Reporter

Disclaimer: I’m that girl.

I would rather spend the day curled up with a good book and a warm beverage instead of going out in public.

Contrary to popular belief, people like us do exist outside of fairy tales and movies, and there’s nothing supernatural about it. Think about it: Books are so much better than the blasé “flowers, chocolates, and promises you don’t intend to keep” on the most commercialized day of the year, posing as a holiday.

Last summer, my two daughters and I spent the day at Biltmore. We toured the house and gardens, and then went to the shops. They made a bee line for the candy store and I perused for a bit at the other treasures before going into the bookstore. (Side note: If I ever win the lottery, I will have a library that puts Mr. Vanderbilt’s to shame.) After about 30 minutes I heard a familiar voice echo in the hallway. It was my youngest. “TOLD you mom would be in the bookshop!” They came in and we looked over books together, discussing the history, language and Edwardian clothing surrounding the primary books in the shop, as well as swooning over the calligraphy sets. As I made my purchase the shopkeeper said “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversations. You have such well behaved and intelligent children. Thank you for that.”    

I told her it was generational- my mom instilled that same love for history and leaning in her children, and I am grateful that my kids have inherited that as well. Of course they have inherited my tenaciousness as well and more than once a letter has been sent home about them debating in the class when the information about something historical has been inaccurate. (Guess the administration wasn’t ready for a first grader to know about the Celts, or a third grader to know her Greek gods.)  

I say all this because there is an invaluable opportunity here in Wilkes next week to get that perfect Valentines Day gift. The Friends of the Library Used Book Sale is Thursday, Feb. 13, 5 p.m. to 7 p.m., Friday and Saturday, Feb. 14 and Feb. 15, 9 a.m. - 5 p.m.

So go ahead and lay out a candlelit table, with favored beverage and lots of candy, but don’t miss this opportunity to wow and amaze your significant other by placing a book they would love at the table setting.  

 Collusion in disguise?

By AMBASSADOR EARL COX and KATHLEEN COX

Special to The Record

On March 2, Israelis will go to the polls again for the third time in one year to elect, or re-elect, their prime minister.  One week ago, MSNBC audiences were told by Bill Kristol, a NeverTrump propagandist, that if Prime Minister Netanyahu is defeated, then the Democrats have a better chance of winning the White House.  Given the Democrat’s deep-in-the-gut hatred for Donald Trump, is it beyond the realm of possibility to think their operatives could have a hand in helping to swing the election against Netanyahu?  On this we must keep a close watch for even a hint of collusion. It’s interesting to note the players on Team Gantz, better known as the Blue and White party - Netanyahu’s major opposition. More on this later.

With Trump’s newly unveiled peace plan, Netanyahu is in an awkward and difficult position. Attached to that plan was a map. After the peace plan was published, Israelis noticed problems with the attached map.  Large sections of Highway 60 which crosses Judea and Samaria from north to south, is placed outside of Israeli jurisdiction.  Without correction, entire Israeli communities, equaling approximately 700,000 individual Israelis, will be isolated outside of Israeli jurisdiction. 

Israel has always insisted that any viable peace plan must make clear provision for defensible borders.  As unbelievable as it is, the map was crafted in error.  Netanyahu’s team is now working on the corrections.  If not completed before the March 2nd elections, Netanyahu will be in political trouble.  

Last Monday, Gantz, along with two of his senior campaign advisors and strategists, traveled to Washington to meet with President Trump.  Prior to Gantz’s arrival, light was shed on his two traveling companions, Ronen Tzur and Joel Benenson.  Both have Tweeted numerous vicious attacks on President Trump even going so far as to compare him to Hitler.  After meeting with President Trump, Gantz left Washington with Trump’s peace plan tucked underarm and knowing of the errors on the map.  As Israel’s former Chief of Staff for the Israel Defense Forces, Gantz is a superb strategist.  As such, he returned to Israel and announced that he intended to present the plan to the Knesset for approval.  Knowing that Netanyahu’s base of support, which are the Likud, right-wing lawmakers and the right-religious bloc, could not pass the plan with errors, even though they support it overall.  Forcing them to publicly oppose the plan would serve the best interests of both Gantz’s party and the Democrats.  With Netanyahu supporters opposing the plan, both the plan and Netanyahu would be discredited in the eyes of voters.  This would force many to simply stay away from the polls on March 2nd.All of this, the defeat of the plan and the defeat of Netanyahu, would bode well for the Democrats.  

Now, a word about the players.  Who are Joel Benenson and Ronen Tzur of Team Gantz?  Both are currently serving as senior campaign advisors to Gantz. As it turns out, Benenson helped shape the policies and positions of the Democrat Party.  He served as Obama’s senior political strategist in the 2008 and 2012 elections and he also served as Hillary Clinton’s senior political strategist in 2016.  The Israeli left is clearly intertwined with the Democrat Party.  Gantz’s announcement that he intended to present the plan to the Knesset for approval, along with the faulty map, was not a sign of his support for the peace plan but rather a cleverly disguised attempt to discredit Trump and Netanyahu.  It seems foul play may be underway.  Dare I suggest collusion?  

 Leather Britches and a good talk

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

I think it’s safe to say that food has the unique capacity to nourish the body as well as relationships of all sorts.

During lunch with a friend not long ago, our lunch included among other things a tasty Amish potato salad which was made with chunks of potato with easy blending to leave good amounts of the potato structure intact. Based on its flavor profile, I do believe that the traditional Amish recipe was followed.

As the meal progressed, my friend looked up and said, “While this is a good potato salad, my mama made the best I have ever eaten. Hers was creamy and had a yellow tent to it.” He went on to share memories about his sweet mother and how well she treated him. He is confident that he was her favorite child.

The stories progressed to when he was invited to a Homecoming at the Hinshaw Baptist Church. As is tradition, there were all sorts of good foods to enjoy, including a potato salad that appeared to be creamy and had a familiar yellow tent to it.

With modest expectations, he spooned out a good helping and when he set down to eat, was instantly flooded with memories of his mama’s potato salad. He could not believe what he was tasting. He immediately went on a search to find the maker of the dish that had stirred so many memories.

He found her and to his delight she not only knew his mother but had learned from her how to make that creamy potato salad that featured a hint of yellow mustard for flavor and color.

The maker could not have been more pleased to know that a recipe learned long ago, brought forward such wonderful and meaningful memories on that day.

I attended an event not long ago where the Appalachian Song Writer, Singer and Storyteller William Ritter presented a program titled “Songs, Stories and Seeds.”

I had met Will several years prior during a gathering of the storyteller’s series “Liars Bench” which was being hosted at Western Carolina University. The series was produced by the renowned and colorful storyteller Gary Carden. We had cameras rolling for the evening and it was a great event.

On this day, however, he shared stories about Appalachian inspired music and the not so talked about seed sharing system of the Appalachian Region.

Much of Will’s talk was around the culture of seed sharing and some of the music was about the same thing. I loved his story about “Leather Britches” and the song he penned titled “Greasy Beans.”

I liked the “Leathers Britches” because they brought back memories of my grandparents stringing the beans on a thread and hanging them to dry. In the cooler months when fresh beans were not growing, they were rehydrated and cooked. The have a very different flavor; some folks like them and some do not. I like them because of the memory. They are hard to find these days because it’s easy to get fresh food year-round. However, there are some folks who still make them.  

Will’s song about “Greasy Beans” talks about the love people have for the unique aspects of the bean. The plants run long, and the beans are best eaten big and plump.

After Will’s program, we set and talked about music, heirloom seed sharing, and good mountain stories for about three hours. It was a good time and it all started around food memories.

When I think about all the great conversations I have had around food, I am confident that if food or a good beverage were not involved, the visits would have been much shorter. Sometimes a quick visit is good, but often, a little lingering is much better.

 Carl White is the Executive Producer and Host of the award-winning syndicated TV show Carl White’s Life In The Carolinas. The weekly show is now in its 11th year of syndication and can be seen in the Charlotte market on WJZY Fox 46 Saturday’s at noon and My 12. The show also streams on Amazon Prime. For more information visit www.lifeinthecarolinas.com. You can email Carl at Carl@lifeinthecarolinas.com.

[so-not-that-cool]

Jesus Was a Cross Maker

Summary: Seventh year AU where Baz and Simon (and Company) start working together to take on the Humdrum, help Simon get a handle on his magic, and have werewolf adventures.

Word Count: 61,100 (part two of And You’ll Never Walk Alone. Part one is Happy People Shine Brighter, but I recap the relevant info in this one in case you don’t want to go back and see their first kiss i mean what is wrong with you.)

Rating : T

Tags: SnowBaz, get ready for a slow burn, angst, so much fluff when you get there you won’t be able to handle it, fight scenes, plot, our boys falling in love

Find on AO3 ➡️ Chapter 1

BAZ

           There’s no one else on the railway platform. Just me, and the grey morning light. All the parents will come in on the next train, and all the students will leave with them later this afternoon. Tomorrow, if they’re eighth years. They’ll want to stay for Leaver’s Ball tonight. But for now, it’s just me. I’m sitting on my trunk, head in my hands, trying to think about anything but last night. But I can’t.

Last night confirmed everything I’ve always known. Snow’s a bloody hero, and I never will be. No matter what I do, I’ll always be a monster in his eyes. Dark creature. I carried him out of there, and he still turned away. I could see the disgust on his face. I try to tell myself I don’t care. Of course I care. Even more so after last night. After he sacrificed himself. For me. Courageous fuck.

           He was brilliant. But he doesn’t want me.

           At least it happened now. I have the whole summer away. I can forget about him. Maybe this will do the trick. One final rejection. One final confirmation of what I've been telling myself for years. I try to think about something else. Anything else.

           Crowley.

           Even now I can’t let go. I can’t forget how he told me to protect myself. Can’t forget him calling my name, calling for me... Can’t forget his hands on my shirt. Or the smell of smoke as he slept in my bed. How am I ever going to sleep in that bed and not feel him there? The way his back pressed into my chest each time he took a breath. And how I couldn’t relax until he took the next one.

           I’m utterly spent. I fed before the fight, but then I used more magic in a few hours than I would normally do in weeks. And then I couldn’t sleep. And I couldn’t stay.

           Part of me regrets leaving. If Bunce hadn’t been there, maybe we could have talked… maybe…

           No. This is exactly why I had to go. I can’t keep up this stupid dream anymore. It’s sick. To want something you know you can’t have. To obsess about it. The only sane thing is to move on.

           But I can’t.

SIMON

           I don’t think about Watford when I’m in care. I don’t let myself. I don’t think about the food or my room or Penny or Agatha or the Mage. It hurts too much to be tormented with all the good things you can’t touch. But thinking about Baz has always been the exception. He never was a good thing, never a thing I thought I’d miss, so he wasn’t off limits. I’d spend all summer wondering what he was up to, what he was plotting for me… Like last summer, I grew three inches and I kept wondering if I’d finally be taller than him. Kept imagining what it would be like to look down on him, finally. But I got back and he was still taller than me. And I think he’s grown since then, too.

           Only, I don’t think I mind so much now. I kind of like it. Actually, the more I think about it, I like a lot of things about Baz. I always thought I was dead jealous; of how strong he is, and graceful, and good at sports, and magic, and languages. But now I just admire it. It’s just… cool. I dunno. I mean, don't get me wrong. There's still so many things about him that drive me mad. He's so smug and posh and even when we're not fighting, he still doesn't let his guard down. I still never know what he's thinking. But...

           But I keep thinking about how nice it’s going to be to go back and not worry about fighting him anymore. To be like it was back in March when I could ask him about homework, and just talk... I know I shouldn’t, but I think about what it would be like to have his help fighting the Humdrum. Between Penny and him, they’d have it sorted by Christmas I bet. I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t even know if he’d be willing to do that. I mean, Penny says he can’t be a complete villain, not if he’s fighting werewolves. (Will he still do that, now that he’s been Turned? Again?)

           “I don’t think you’d have feelings for anyone truly evil.” she said before we left Watford. "And no one truly evil could be interested in you."

           I hope she’s right. I know he hates the Humdrum as much as the next magician. I know he does nice things for people he cares about. I know he cares if I live or die. And I know he’s a blinding good kisser. That’s not really proof of anything, just nice to remember. I spend whole days remembering that. It fills up half of June.

           Then there’s the other half. The other thing I can’t stop thinking about that’s not quite about Watford and therefore not off limits. I killed a person.

           Penny told me the werewolf was Dr Lang. I remember him. He took an interest in me in our third year, and I liked his class. I’ve always done better in science than Elocution or Magic Words or any of the bloody languages at Watford. He even thought I might do well in a career in science, which was nice of him to say considering we all know I really only have one future. I was sad when he left, and used to ask his daughter how he was doing when I'd see her. And now I’ve killed him. I don’t even know if she knows.

           Penny says he was bit in our third year. That was my fault, too. If I’d have only taken the were dogs out sooner, none of this would have happened. I relive the night of the full moon over and over, sometimes even in my dreams. I scare the other kids in care when I scream myself awake. I must have said something in my sleep, because I’ve heard them whisper that I’m a killer. And they’re right.

           If only I hadn’t gone off… But I had to. Penny says the harness was what helped Dr Lang keep control of the beast inside him, and I’d already destroyed that. If I hadn’t destroyed the harness… But that was an accident, and I only did it because he was going after Baz. If Baz hadn’t been there… But I probably would have gone off just the same, that’s what the doctor wanted… I go around like this in circles, but it does nothing but make the black hole in my chest bigger. I can’t undo it. Nothing makes it ok.

           I guess Dr Lang told Penny he knew he was going to die. That it was all part of his plan. He didn’t tell her why, though. Then someone destroyed all of his notes, so we never will know what the hell it was all for. It’s all so miserably pointless.

           I get angry with him sometimes. That he put me in that position. That he purposely pushed me to that point. And I don’t even know why. That his daughter won’t even know what happened to him, why he’s gone. I’ll have to face her in the autumn. I’ll have to tell her. If my parents were dead, I’d want someone to tell me.

           Anyway, when I get really low— like, lower than low, sub-basement level low, I think of Baz. I remember that in that moment, I thought it was the beast or Baz. And I made the only choice I could make. That is, if Penny’s right and Baz isn’t evil.

           Thank Merlin, Penny is usually right.

PENELOPE

           Agatha and I have hung out alone three times this summer. Three times I've tried to tell her about Baz and Simon, and three times I've donked it up. It's probably hard for any girl to hear that her ex has moved on, even if she is over him already. Is it going to be even harder to hear he's moved on for a bloke? I keep thinking, she has to understand. I mean, she’ll get it, right? Since she had a crush on Baz, too. But maybe that only makes it worse. Like being rejected twice over, by Baz and Simon. I mean, it's not her fault or anything. Like, literally nothing she could have done would have made them want her. (Wait, maybe that makes it worse.)

           I have to do it today. We’re painting our nails, and I’m sure there’s a better way to do this with magic. Some way to make the polish go on and dry instantly. That way you don’t ruin it when you inevitably have to pee as soon as you’re done applying it. Agatha is getting bored. She’s probably going to leave soon, and I have no idea how to bring up the fact that Simon and Baz kissed. (Maybe because I have to pinch myself every time I think it.)

           “I wonder what Simon’s up to this summer.” I try to sound like I’m just thinking aloud. (It’s the best I can manage.)

           Agatha shrugs. Great. Good job, Penny.

           “Are you two still not talking?” I try again.

           She shrugs again. Morgana. “We’re not not talking,” she finally says. “I mean, we said goodbye at the gate.”

           “Do you think you’ll come back to sit at our table in the fall?” I’m asking for myself as well. I do miss Agatha.

           “Well, yeah, sure. Sometimes.” I frown. She shrugs and looks away. Is she going to be sitting with Dev, now? Wait, is Baz going to be sitting with us? “Sometimes I’ll probably sit with Trixie and Keris.”

           I nearly knock over the bottle of Vicious Trollop I was using. “Why?”

           "Because I'm their friend? You know, just because you don't like them doesn't mean they're not good people."

           "Good people? Good people would have the common decency not to make out three feet from my head when I'm trying to sleep!"

           She shakes her head at me."Sometimes I think you're a little homophobic, Penny."

           "Pardon?" I say, mocking politeness. I'm this close to telling her. This close to blowing her clueless little mind.

           (Or maybe not.)

           I just tell her I would think it's was gross no matter who Trixie snogged if it was three feet from my face.

           "Well, outside of that, they're actually pretty nice. Really into girly stuff, unlike some people." Agatha sighs and starts packing up her nail polishes. Penelope, why do you put your foot in your mouth so much? And doubly so with Agatha?

           "Hey, I'm sorry." I say quickly. "I think it's cool you're hanging out with them. I don't have to get it."

           "Thanks, Penny. I think that was almost nice," she says. She lets me squirm for a second, then laughs. "I never thought you'd be thrilled about it. But can you not..." she closes one eye and scrunches up her face, "can you not make me feel like a prat about it? 'Cause I really don't want to spend the last two years at Watford only hanging around guys who've chucked me. Or who I've chucked."

           Oh. Maybe I won't tell her then. In fact, I think Simon should tell her, if anyone. Maybe no one will have to. Maybe the whole thing will fall apart and she won't even have to know. Except, that would be awful. Merry Morgana. What if it doesn't work out?

           "Pen? I really do have to go." I didn't notice Agatha has stood up and is waiting for me to walk her out. "I'm meeting Keris and Minty to go shopping. You... you could come?"

           I know she's only offering to be polite. The places those girls shop don't even carry clothes in my size.

           "No, that's fine. Micah and I have a Skype date." It's not a lie. We do. Tomorrow.

           Actually, I spend the whole rest of the afternoon looking up spells to cure heartbreak on my laptop, just in case. Simon’s always been obsessed with Baz; I’m afraid that won’t change even if his feelings for him have. If it doesn’t work out… I don’t think wallowing will cut it this time.

[caedmonfaith]

Reckless Endangerment

Summary:  Rose Tyler's smile was a drug, and he was addicted. Like any addict, he'd do anything to get his fix.

12/Rose, rated M for swearing (like, a lot of swearing) and eventual smut, chapter 1 rated T. for @timepetalsprompts​ weekly prompt. Fanart by the amazing and talented @rishidiams​

Written after a sequel to China Rose was requested. 

Beta’s by RishiDiams and @tenroseforeverandever - thank you!

World’s biggest ‘thank you’s to the ladies of Leather Fetish - @beth51276, @rishidiams, @wipedcleanbysummer - for putting up with my endless fixation on this project. <3

Chapter 1

16 December, 2016

He sat in his office, staring at the two small boxes, trying to figure out how he found himself in this position. He had no idea what had possessed him.

Well, that was a lie. He knew exactly what had possessed him. It was the same thing that possessed him every time he saw it. He was a powerful man, but Rose Tyler’s smile was his weakness, and he wanted to see it all the time. Preferably directed at him. That was terribly unlikely, though.

Ian Docherty was a bastard.

That wasn’t an insult to his character, merely a descriptor. One he didn’t mind, just as he didn’t mind his nickname, ‘the Oncoming Storm’. He was well aware of the fact that he was a bastard and made no apologies for that fact. As a Queen’s Counsel to the Crown Court, a barrister and a litigator, being an arsehole was a vital part of his makeup, necessary to his career.

But Ian had his soft spots, too.

When he’d first heard nearly eleven months ago that Sarah Jane wanted to take on a new pupil, he’d rolled his eyes. The nine partners in the firm - three senior and six junior - had been called on to vote whether or not to bring this person in. The ‘Smith’ of Stewart, Docherty, and Smith, Sarah Jane, had a habit of taking young prospective solicitors under her wing. Though he’d always scoffed at his friend and partner, even he had to admit that she had a knack for picking out exceptionally talented solicitors-to-be. More than half had been hired on permanently by the firm at the end of their pupilage year.

Still, he had no patience for them fumbling around with wide doe eyes and searching for the spare fucking copy paper and all of the other trappings of new hires. Leave that shit to someone else, thanks ever so.

It had been clear to Ian that Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, the other senior partner besides himself and Sarah Jane, was in favor of hiring this Rose Tyler, and the junior partners would vote as they felt prudent, which was to say that they wouldn’t be voting against the senior partners.

Ian had known it was a losing battle and he’d backed down into a ‘yea’ vote, but not before making his position clear: “I don’t give a fuck. Just don’t expect me to be leading this chit around by the fucking hand, alright?”

Alistair had chuckled and assured him that nobody expected any such thing, then instructed Sarah Jane to bring the girl in to meet the partners of her new workplace.

Rose had come in, looking as shy as they all did, but absolutely gorgeous. Blonde, with a wide, lush mouth, generous curves, and topaz eyes, she’d arrested his attention from the moment he’d seen her.

He’d shaken his head to clear it. So what? She was gorgeous, yes, but he was forty-five years old. He’d had his head turned by a woman before, more than once.

Then she’d given the room a shy smile, and that’s when it happened. On 26 January, 2016, Rose Tyler smiled, and Ian Docherty discovered that he had a weakness big enough to drive a lorry through.

One would think that over the course of nearly a year, an infatuation would fade away into nothing. Ian’s, however, did no such thing.

Rose worked under Sarah Jane, so despite the fact that her cubicle was only five yards away from his office door, he never had any real reason to speak with her. She was very punctual, coming in early most days, and he always missed her in the car park. She never seemed to work on any of his cases the way past pupils had, so that wasn’t an excuse. He had run into her in the break room once or twice, but there was always a red-haired girl with her and he wasn’t able to say more than ‘hello’.

Still, he was a barrister, a damned good one, and he had learned things about Rose Tyler. He’d learned that she’d grown up on a council estate, and had worked herself to the bone to put herself through law school. He’d learned that she liked ethnic food, particularly Italian and Indian. He’d learned that she lived alone and didn’t have a boyfriend. He’d learned that her favorite color was yellow. He’d learned that she kept herself healthy: she ran a couple times a week and she had a yoga class on Wednesday and a spin class on Saturday mornings. And he’d learned that while she wasn’t averse to the occasional night out of drinks with friends, she preferred to spend her evenings quietly, at home.

Ian had been hoping that somewhere in everything he’d learned, he’d find something that was a complete turn-off and would put an end to this...crush he seemed to have on her. But he hadn’t. Everything he’d learned only added to his opinion that she was the ideal woman.

Everyone else in the firm seemed to agree: everybody loved Rose. She was universally adored and hailed as being kind, funny, sweet, and talented. Nothing he’d seen suggested otherwise.

Not that any of that made a difference in the situation. She was laughably out of his league. Rose was young and beautiful; a bright spot in everyone’s day. He, meanwhile, was - well, he was not. He was old, crotchety, bad-tempered, and had earned his nickname. Not to mention she was his subordinate - and a pupil to boot. She wasn’t just out of his league, she was off-limits.

But oh, how he lived for her smiles. He didn’t catch them often but when he did, they brightened him. He could live off the memory of one of her smiles for days, but like an addict, he craved more. He could never get enough. Rose Tyler’s happiness was his drug.

When his assistant, Clara, had approached him with the idea of a staff Christmas lunch and gift exchange, he’d waved his hand dismissively. Sure. Whatever. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with assprints on the fucking copier this way. And it would be easy to make himself scarce. Brilliant.

When he’d heard that the gift exchange would be a Secret Santa and that Clara was organizing it, he was a bit more interested. Not that he’d actually put his name in a hat for something so inane, of course. He’d already be receiving a plethora of stupid gifts he never asked for: boxes of candy, coffee blends, asinine shit like that. No, ta, he wouldn’t be signing up to get more. Utterly fucking ridiculous, that.

But if Rose would be participating...well, that would make things a bit different. He couldn’t outright buy her a gift for a multitude of reasons - not the least of which was that she may not appreciate a gift from him. Surely she could have any man she wanted. A besotted old barrister twenty years her senior would hold zero appeal.

And yet...if he were to give her something under the cover of being her Secret Santa, something she really wanted, something anonymous, she may smile. And even if that smile wasn’t directed at him (why would she ever smile at him?), it would be for him. He understood the difference, and he’d have the satisfaction of knowing that he’d put it there. That he’d been able to make Rose Tyler happy.

Close enough. He’d take it. The knowledge that he’d made her happy would be enough.

When Clara had left the large bucket on the corner of her desk for everyone to drop their names and a short list of things they liked, he’d smirked. When she’d gone to lunch and left the bucket unguarded, he’d snuck out and pilfered Rose’s name.

Name: Rose Tyler Likes: I like coffee, chocolate covered cherries, comfy socks, scented lotion (no vanilla, please) and reading.

She sounded even more like the perfect woman than she had before. He detested vanilla and loved to read. He’d suspected, of course, that she was the epitome of what an ideal woman should be, but now there was evidence.

But those were the kinds of things one would expect to get at a holiday party. Nothing there was good enough. He wanted to make her day, her week. He wanted to really make her happy.

So he took to slinking around the bullpen outside his office often, but not so often as to arouse suspicion. He made up bullshit excuses to be there and eavesdropped on his employees, learning much more than he’d ever wanted to know about them and their lives. The red haired girl that was always around Rose had just married a little over a month ago, and her honeymoon in Majorca had been ‘magical’. Some young bloke - Adam something, he thought - enjoyed bragging about how clever he was and how attractive that was to women, though he stopped just short of talking about actual conquests. Ian desperately wanted to take the boy down a peg, but resisted.

Finally, just as he was about to give up, he got the information he’d been angling for.

“Of course, it’ll never happen,” Rose was saying from the other side of the cubicle wall. He waited. “I’ll never find it, and I’d never be able to afford it if I did.”

“And it’s just the butter dish you need?” came another female voice, probably the redhead.

“Yeah, and the creamer bowl. It was my grandmother’s set, but I broke the creamer bowl when I was little and the butter dish is just...gone. You know?”

“What’d it look like?”

“Oh, it was nothing special, I don’t suppose.” Rose sounded...wistful. Sad. That would never do. “The pattern is white with pink and yellow flowers on it. It’s called ‘old country roses’. Not very original, eh?”

The two women laughed, and he jotted the pattern name down on his hand as well as the required dishes, all in an unreadable shorthand in case he was stopped along the way. Then he turned on his heel and marched back to his office.

Money was no object to Ian; his salary was quite large and he had more than enough saved up to live comfortably for the rest of his life. He could afford the dishes, whatever they cost. And it would be worth it. It would all be worth it for that smile that lit up her whole face and the knowledge that he put it there.

So he went to his office and found the dishes online without too much trouble. They were sold by a company that specialized in replacing lost or broken pieces of china. He purchased them, paid for the expedited shipping, printed out the receipt, and sat back in his chair. She’d love it, and he would be a hero - even if nobody knew it but him.

He stared now - two weeks later and the day of the party - at the two boxes on his desk and sent up a prayer that this wouldn’t explode in his face.

~*~O~*~

Ian had originally planned to be anywhere but at the office during the Christmas party, but the memory of Rose Tyler’s smile and the knowledge that she may be wearing it today because of him was too big a lure.

Everyone in the office was visibly shocked when he put in his appearance, piling his plate with sub-par nibbles the firm had apparently paid for and doing his damndest to seem pleasant and festive by making small talk with the partners and his subordinates. He even managed to join in a conversation that Rose was a part of, though she seemed shy with him around. The knowledge frustrated him greatly.

After an interminable amount of time, the gift exchange was announced. Clara shot him a worried look, saying she was concerned because he’d be left out, but he plastered a smile on and assured her, honestly, that he had more than enough gifts on his desk and for her not to worry about it. He did elect, though, not to join the circle of chairs that had formed, opting instead to lean against a partition across from Rose and watch the annual exchange go down.

The gifts exchanged were the typical idiotic bullshit of the same type he was sure were resting on his desk: boxes of chocolates, mugs full of powdered hot cocoa mix, calendars, etc. There was the occasional thoughtful gift: a pair of movie tickets, a picture frame to the red-haired woman, but on the whole it was stupid shit. Typical. Predictable.

Then Rose’s bag was handed to her. Ian stiffened, his back going ramrod straight while he did his best to look unaffected. She raised and lowered the bag into her hand a couple of times and beamed, remarking on the weight. His heart pounded wildly in his ears.

Setting the gift in her lap, she pulled out the tissue paper and exclaimed, laughing. “Chocolate covered cherries!” A few of the people in the group laughed with her - Rose’s laugh was contagious - and she opened the box and popped one into her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss when she bit down.

He clenched his fists at his sides, but made no other move.

She reached into the bag again.

“What’s this? Looks like two boxes...” She pulled one out and popped the little strip of tape that held it closed. When it opened, she gasped.

“What is it?” the redhead asked.

“It’s the butter dish! The one I was telling you about! Oh, you shouldn’t have!” She threw her arms around her friend’s neck and squeezed.

“I didn’t!” she protested, puzzled, patting Rose on the back until she sat up. “Donna was my Secret Santa recipient.”

Rose cast a confused look at her, then at Donna who confirmed with a nod. Donna sat right in front of where Ian was standing, and he prayed that Rose wouldn’t look at him. He didn’t think he was that good an actor.

“What else is in it?” Rose’s friend asked, peering over the edge of the bag. “You said there were two boxes.”

Rose lay the butter dish box carefully in her lap, then reached in for the other box. Popping the tape on that one with a guarded look, she melted into tears when she saw what was inside.

“It’s the creamer bowl! Oh, I love it so much!”

The redhead leaned to the side and threw one arm around her, giving her a hug while Rose sniffled. Then she looked up. “Which one of you did this? I can’t - which of you was it?”

Everyone, including him, shrugged, and she looked a bit exasperated, but happy.

“Thank you so much, whoever you are. This means...this means the world to me, and I love you for it.”

Her smile was bright, the biggest he’d ever seen, and his heart stopped at her words. Maybe he should -

No. She was happy, and that was all he had wanted. All he did want. And he was...yes. Looking at her smile, he was happy, too.

He hung around for the rest of the gift exchange for appearance’s sake, sneaking glances to where Rose sat, still smiling, then he slipped off as soon as he was able.

It had gone better than he’d expected, he reflected as he left. She’d been truly delighted, and he rejoiced in the knowledge that he’d made her day.

He’d made Rose Tyler smile. He’d done it.

He felt like a hero and allowed himself a large, genuine smile as he turned and walked back to his office, closing the door behind him. Rose had been so happy with his gift that she’d cried. Real tears! He threaded his fingers behind his head and kicked his feet up on his desk, grinning at the ceiling.

Clara knocked at the door and he called for her to come in, smiling at her when she did. She had been his paralegal for five years and, for the last five months, she’d also been his personal assistant. She was young, beautiful, and capable, absolutely invaluable to him, and he regarded her as something of a friend. It was very rare that he asked her for information that she didn’t either know or have right on hand, and she wasn’t afraid of his towering temper the way others were. She knew when to stay out of his way and how to let his insults roll off her back, because he never really meant them. Yes, Clara was a godsend, and he’d gladly double her salary to keep her.

“Ian? Do you want a plate of nibbles to take home?”

He waved her off. “No, Clara, thank you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, a half smile on her lips, and stepped into his office fully. “What’s with you?”

“What do you mean, what’s with me?”

“You said thank you. You’re being…pleasant.”

“Can’t a man be in a good mood?”

She snorted. “Not you.”

“Why, Clara Oswald. I feel positively discriminated against.”

“Now you’re joking?” She crossed her arms and cocked one hip to the side. “Something’s going on.”

He rolled his eyes. “Nothing’s going on. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine then, keep your secrets,” she said dismissively, then walked over to his desk to pick up the files he was finished with. “See if I care.”

Ian grinned at her, couldn’t help it. He was too damned pleased to do anything else.

“That’s awfully fucking kind of you, Clara, letting me be happy.” She gave him a withering look that just made him smile brighter.

“Ms. Smith is out of the office starting Monday. She’ll be back on January second.”

“Good for Sarah Jane.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “I’m just giving you a heads up in case she comes by and asks you to cover her cases while she’s out of town or something.”

“Duly noted. Anything else?”

“No...unless you want to tell me what has you so chipper?”

Ian waved his hand and gave her his usual dismissal. “Go away, Clara.”

She grinned mischievously and left his office, the large stack of files in one arm. Ian stared at the door for a few minutes after she left, contemplating what she’d said.

Sarah Jane was Rose’s pupil supervisor, meaning that Rose worked on her cases, and the cases that Rose had on her own were supervised by her. They were required, by nature of the pupilage, to work together closely until Rose received her practicing certificate at the end of her year as a pupil.

But if Sarah Jane was out of town, that would leave Rose unsupervised. He didn’t think for a second that someone as talented and bright as Rose would need any real supervision, but if he could talk Sarah Jane into leaving her cases with him…

He shot from his chair and strode to Sarah Jane’s office without much more thought. As was his custom, he opened her door and went right in.

“Ian,” Sarah Jane greeted him from behind her desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I understand you’re going out of town for the holidays.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’m leaving tomorrow and will be gone until New Year’s Eve.”

“Who’s covering your caseload in that time?”

“Craig Owens.”

“Give it to me,” he said. “Owens is a fucking idiot. You don’t want him to bollocks something up while you’re gone.”

“I don’t think he’s going to bollocks anything up while I’m gone,” she said, a little tartly. “He is a partner in this law firm -”

“A junior partner.”

“ - and he is perfectly qualified to handle whatever may arise in those two weeks.”

“Do you really want to risk it? Especially with the Orestes Milton case?”

“There is nothing scheduled on the Milton case until February. There’s nothing scheduled on any of my cases until after I get back, which is why I feel secure leaving them in Owens’ care.”

Ian ground his teeth. It was out of character for him to be asking for the cases and he knew it. Pressing the issue might make her suspicious as to his motives, and he couldn’t afford that. It could be a disaster. But -

“Besides,” Sarah Jane interrupted his train of thought, “if I gave you my case files, I’d have to hand my pupil over to you as well, and I can’t do that. You’d scare the hell out of the poor girl, and she’d never come back.”

“I’m not that bad,” he muttered, knowing it was a lie even as he said it. He was that bad, if not worse.

She just burst out laughing. “You think you’re not that bad? Really, Ian? You made a judge cry!”

“That’s not...that’s not what fucking happened,” he protested feebly. It had always served his purpose for people to believe that was the case, so he’d never corrected anyone until now. He was suddenly wishing that he had.

Sarah Jane didn’t answer, just mopped her eyes and stood, dropping files in her briefcase. “I appreciate the offer, Ian, but Owens will handle everything. He’s got instructions to call me if anything major comes up, but I’ve been planning this trip for almost a year. Nothing is going to come up.”

“I hope you’re right.” Inspiration struck him then. “Why don’t you have him let me know if he has a problem, instead of bothering you on your holiday?”

She stopped what she was doing and peered at him. “Why is this so important to you?”

Fuck. Time to backpedal.

“It’s not. I just want you to have a decent fucking holiday. Seems you deserve it, yeah?”

She didn’t look convinced, but nodded anyway. “Alright. I’ll tell him if there’s an emergency to talk to you first. Provided he isn’t terrified. But I doubt he’ll have a need to.”

“Fantastic,” he muttered.

“Have a happy Christmas, Ian,” Sarah Jane said, and Ian recognized it for the dismissal it was.

“Happy Christmas to you, too.” He threw one hand up in farewell and walked back to his office with considerably less bounce than he’d had when he left.

Once there, he flopped into his chair and started scheming. Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with a legitimate reason to start a conversation with Rose Tyler. But the concept of talking to her had taken root now and wouldn’t let go.

“You alright there, boss?”

Clara startled him when she walked into his office and dropped a pile of fresh files on his desk.

“What’s this?” he asked, ignoring her question and flipping open the top file.

“It’s the Orson depositions. Thought you might like to go over them this weekend.”

“There’s nothing I’d like fucking better,” he muttered, glancing over the first page and scowling, then closing it and lying back in his chair, dragging his hands down his face.

“Cheer up, Ian,” Clara admonished him as she walked out. “You were in a good mood twenty minutes ago. It must have been a good day until then.”

She left and Ian was left sitting in his office alone. Clara was right. It had been a very good day until he’d been denied an excuse to talk to Rose. But that wasn’t the end of the world, he decided. He’d get another chance. The universe owed him one. Something would happen that would give him the opportunity to speak with her. He had no idea what, nor what he would say when that opportunity arose, but he’d cross that bridge when he got there.

He just needed to be patient.

[jansen1107]

How the Mighty Have Fallen

I started 2017 unemployed. I’m now on my third week. It feels strange to be writing that, especially where the national unemployment rate in the U.S. stands at 4.7% as of now. Almost everyone I know has a job. So, what happened with me?

The last job I had was a three-month gig working freelance for $55 an hour at my former ad agency, which I had left full-time in June after four years. They were nice enough to have me back to help out with some projects. My gig was supposed to go through to this year with the possibility of going full-time on a new account, but my manager spoke to HR and HR spoke to the Finance department. Finance came back with a resounding “No!” And here I am.

From 2014 to 2015, and shortly after I moved to New York City, I would receive as many as 3 recruiters a week bombarding my LinkedIn in box with invitations to interview for other companies. Sometimes they’d get really ballsy and write to my work email. The ad agency I worked for had just moved me to their New York office at the end of summer 2013, so I ignored the offers coming in. There was a clause with my agency where if you left within a year of being transferred, you had to pay back all of the moving fees. In some cases, companies that hire you will pay the fee. I saw this happen with a guy who was moved to the New York office from North Carolina and who left after eight months. He and I would end up at the same agency later… and I would leave that agency in flames.

Within the first couple years of moving to New York, I received some heady offers to interview with companies that were all outside of the city. It seemed like just having “New York” stamped on my resume suddenly made me desirable to companies in other regions. One recruiter asked if I’d be interested in interviewing as a medical editor for an ad agency in San Diego. Another asked if I’d be interested in running my own editorial department for a new agency in Denver. It was so tempting, but I turned them down. I had just gone through the stress of moving all my shit (and I have A LOT of shit) and my cat to New York. Why would I want to go through that again so soon?

This morning, when I logged in to Facebook, I was taunted by one of those flashback posts from two years ago today. In that post, I humble bragged about being offered an interview with an agency in Raleigh, North Carolina. Although I didn’t want it, I asked if any of my friends would be interested. I believe in sharing the wealth, and if I have good fortune and don’t need it, I’m certainly okay with passing it along to someone who might.

Those were good times. I definitely felt like a rock star back then, and I said to myself, “I hope these job offers are still coming in when I’ll need them.” Famous last words.

Back in June of 2016, I finally heeded the siren call of the job recruiters. Big mistake. The recruiter offered me the biggest salary yet. With my rent going up another $100 in September, I really needed to find a job that would pay. This place seemed like it would fit the bill, no pun intended.

The agency (I’ll call them Beige) was not the right fit for me from go, and a little voice inside my head told me to turn back. I should have listened, but I overrode my instincts and went ahead with the interview. The recruiters were really gunning for me to take the job. I found out during several phone calls I had with them that they were getting a huge fee for placing me, based on my salary. They assured me that this place was all about work/life balance and I wouldn’t be expected to stay late like so many other agencies. (“You’ll be able to get home in time to have dinner and hang out with your cat.”) During the onsite interview, the woman who would end up being my boss very sweetly told me that Beige didn’t believe in overworking its editors. I wouldn’t be expected to work more than 40 hours a week because I needed to be fresh to do my job, she said. While work/life balance had never been an issue at my old agency, everyone I talked to was making this place sound like a country club with great pay. How could I say no? And, believe me, I did stall right up until the eleventh hour because of that nagging voice in my head. But pressure from the recruiters and Beige caused me to give in. (Or, I chose to give in. I have to take responsibility for this.)

Basically, the fuckers lied to me.

Within the first few weeks of being crammed into what felt like an open-air market with impeccably dressed people, I soon discovered that I was actually working in a sweatshop. A typical workday never went below 9 hours and 11 to 12 hours was not unusual or even questioned. I worked three Saturdays in a row because the account managers couldn’t say no to a bullying client that demanded the world on a silver platter. (We were constantly being reminded that our competitors were always showing the client how they could do things better.)

I’ve gone on at length about this experience in an earlier blog entry, if you care to read it, so I’m not going to beat this dead horse anymore. Suffice it to say, Beige was a shit show of an agency. I felt like I had been shanghaied to work on a pirate ship and that I could stick it out or walk the plank. One Monday morning, after my boss called me to her desk to deliver some sugar-coated criticism, I decided to walk the plank. It was probably the best thing I did for my health. But for my career? Not so much.

When I updated my resume on LinkedIn following this debacle, it seemed like the emails from recruiters dried up almost immediately. There was one who showed interest, and I agreed to let her place my resume with an agency that I had turned down a couple years before. Days went by after she submitted it, and there was no call. I’ve always been used to things happening very quickly. I have a lot of great experience. When I submit a resume, I almost always get a call the next day for an interview, and I usually have a new job by the following Monday. Not this time.

My mother asked me if I thought I had been blacklisted. While I don’t think Beige is wasting their time putting out the word about what a dud I was (that would be highly illegal, I imagine), I do think that the three scant months now appearing on my resume is giving some potential employers pause. The recruiter I mentioned earlier told me one potential employer was pleased that Beige was on my resume, but then I didn’t hear a word after that. I imagine the recruiter played up the fact that I worked at Beige, but then when the potential employer had the resume in hand, they looked at the timeline and asked, “What happened here?”

So, do I lie on my resume? Should I delete that bit of time and just say in an interview (if I get one) that I took the summer off to write a novel? Or take care of my elderly grandmother? Or to find myself? It’s tempting to just wipe it out, but then it becomes a lie by omission. And there’s always the danger of ending up at another agency with someone who remembers me from Beige and then tells my manager, who can’t seem to recall Beige ever being on my resume. It’s a real conundrum.

At times like these, I think about the hoops some of my ancestors had to jump through to find work. In the 1920s, my great-grandmother had just divorced my alcoholic great-grandfather at a time when divorce was taboo. On top of that, she had a three-year-old son (my grandfather) whom she had to cart off to relatives just so she could pass herself off as an unmarried woman and get a teaching job. It’s sad to think now.

On my father’s side, my Native American ancestors oftentimes had to pass themselves off as white just so they could get jobs and housing. As a result of the horrible bigotry they faced, they went deep into the racial closet, and we have no idea what tribe we’re descended from. And we’d like to know. (My parents both just did the DNA spit test, so I’m hoping we’ll have some answers soon.)

The point of all this is that the times have changed but the bullshit remains the same. Talented people with great experience are discriminated against for circumstances beyond their control. For me, ageism is a very real issue I have to contend with. My mother says it doesn’t hit until one is in his/her 50s, but I’ve already felt the sting in my 40s. I could also be denied a government job simply for the fact that I’m gay and because my orientation doesn’t jive with a Christian doing the hiring. Gaps in employment are scrutinized and can cost you a job. And if I do take a job, and it sucks, and I leave after three months—an employer is going to look at me, out of context, like I’m a quitter, regardless of the names and years of experience I have to show. I’m dead in the water.

As of this writing, I’ve sent out close to 10 resumes during the past couple weeks. Of those, I’ve only spoken to one recruiter who is trying to place me with one of several agencies within her domain. I’m hopeful, but I know the reality is that I could end up like so many executives who found themselves without a job and are now working as greeters at Walmart—and wondering what the hell went wrong. I say that will never happen to me, but will it?

I’ve applied for unemployment at the urging of my friend Julie and stand to gain a whopping $430 a week in benefits, if I’m even accepted. (That doesn’t go far in NYC, believe me.) My student loans have been put on hold for three months as a hardship forbearance. Luckily, my Obamacare health insurance is paid through March 1. (Small blessings.) I’ve already started to extract some toys from my toy collection to sell on eBay. (I did this back in 2005 during a work downturn and managed to pay my utilities this way for several months.) And I’m contemplating cashing in one smallish 401k account that would allow me to pay my rent and utilities for six months while I look. (This is fine for the short-term, but my 80-year-old self might suffer from it.) That would be a last-ditch effort following two months without a job offer. The gears are always turning, and I’m trying to be resourceful and keep my head above water. Hopefully, something will happen before then.

Sigh… Welcome to 21st-century America. It’s true what they say: The more things change, the more they stay the same. It isn’t doing much to help us, let me tell ya.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qc0Fi8kxnE

[torentialtribute]

Time for Cardiff to care about money was BEFORE Emiliano Sala died 

Again, Cardiff had undoubtedly acted differently in dealing with the transfer and affairs of Emiliano Sala. The fact is that they did not.

They do not pay attention to their return from a private journey to France ; they did not ask too many questions about the interest in their services from other clubs; they were not too curious about who had received what and why, from his transfer.

Until they stayed behind with a £ 15 million bill for a dead rush. Sorry, but that's the bottom line. This is all that it is about now: the bottom line. The dignified ceremonies and speeches are over and what remains is the coldest, hardest dispute about money.

Had the Piper PA-46 Malibu controlled by David Ibbotson landed safely in January 21, Sala was now fully engaged in Cardiff's fight against relegation, had he scored the goals Cardiff hoped they were buying, there would be nothing more to see about any of the goals.

Not only the rent, ownership and stewardship of a light aircraft, but questions about discounts from agents and inflated fees and third-party ownership and Bordeaux 50 percent.

Cardiff does not ask FIFA, FA or the police, according to the latest shipments, to investigate any of their other transfer deals or negotiations.

They do not want them to poke around in the six that related to Unique Sports Management, the company that counts Neil Warnock & # 39; s, for example, is James among his employees. James Warnock is believed to have been involved in Cardiff cases involving at least three players – Sean Morrison, Rhys Healey and Craig Noone – but the club seems happy with that.

They also seem to have no problem with Jack McKay, his Willie McKay who helped to mediate the room deal, signing a two and a half year contract as a professional at the club in January 2018 , despite having less than an exceptional career

McKay started his career at Doncaster – a club with which his father was involved – before he was loaned to Ilkeston, signed for Leeds, loaned to Airdrieonians, signed for Cardiff, and lent to Chesterfield in the National League. Given Cardiff took third place in the championship and pursued Premier League promotion after McKay's signing, this seems an excellent, if not a player who was already 21 and scored only one goal, for Airdrieonians against Peterhead in the third category Scottish football.

McKay is actually a striker.

By happy coincidence, another son of Willie, the twin brother of Jack, Paul, was also considered good enough to be signed. by Cardiff, at exactly the same time. He had also been with Doncaster and Ilkeston, as well as with Gainsborough Trinity and finally Leeds, where he had played one game against non-ally Sutton United in the FA Cup.

This checkered family tree, It was enough to get him a contract with Cardiff until 2020, just like his brother. Paul is now on loan to Morecambe, currently in League Two, where he played 18 games over four matches.

So nothing there that Cardiff might want to see FIFA or the FA – much like the transfer of Sol Bamba, whose move from Leeds was led by Mark McKay, also the son of Willie, through his company ExCel Foot.

Bamba went from the season 2016-17 as the captain of Leeds United to his contract canceled after four games, which means that Cardiff has been added as a free agent.

Cardiff won widespread praise for their worthy dealings with the

They were respectful, they were appropriate, their manager Warnock spoke sincerely about his emotions, their fans Reaction with empathy and heat on the loss.

Then Nantes set the first account.

This is the club that in the year they last degraded from the Premier

This is the club that, after having dismissed Malky Mackay as manager and Iain Moody as sports director, late accusations were made both for unlawful actions regarding transfers and interim payments, which remain unproven, with the case overturned in March 2017. Much of the anger of that time was concentrated around the signing of a young striker, Andreas Cornelius, for a then record price of £ 8m from FC Copenhagen. Cornelius, like Sala, would score the goals to keep Cardiff in the Premier League. He was a nasty flop and failed to find the net in one of his eleven matches.

Vincent Tan, the owner, blamed Mackay and Moody, as if the transfer market is an exact science. I have argued that the real compensation for Cornelius – who has since gone back to Copenhagen, Atalanta in the Serie A and currently Bordeaux – was £ 10 million and that his wage was £ 45,000 per week.

Had he been able to prove that Mackay or Moody acted shamefully, he might have tried to withhold or collect payments to Copenhagen. Room was also a record amount. Does this pattern sound familiar?

Take numbers 2-6, which relate to the crash itself.

Who made the decision to put a room in the room? on the plane Why does not the owner of the plane come forward? Did the plane have a license to take commercial passengers? Was pilot Ibbotson in possession of a permit to transport passengers?

These are things for Cardiff, not for Nantes. The refusal of the club to take responsibility for the bygone journey of Sala would be sad if it was not so tragic. On 19 January Sala & # 39; s transfer was announced by the club.

& # 39; It has been a long process to secure the services of Emiliano, but I am very glad that we are now in a position where we can confirm his signature, & # 39; said chief executive Ken Choo. I'm sure all Cardiff City fans will join me to see that we're drawing our records in a Bluebirds shirt. & # 39;

Sounds quite unambiguous. So why are the Nantes cases that organized his trip two days later? It is said that Cardiff has sent a text message with some British Airways flight options. That is it? A text? No follow-up conversation? No insistence on planned routes?

Cardiff may not have known the exact shortcomings of the arrangements, but let's not pretend they were all over it. This is their record signature – and they do not know who they put him on the plane? They do not know who owned the plane? They do not even know if the flight, or the pilot, had a permit?

Questions 7-10 regarding the transfer: was the space owned by a third party? Yes. Are Sala & # 39; s previous Club Bordeaux due 50% of the transfer fee as part of a resale clause negotiated in 2015? What was transfer from broker Willie McKay? Was McKay's commission, or part of the transfer fee, to be split between other parties involved in the deal – if so, who?

Do they ask the same questions about the Bamba deal? Do they ask why Leeds would cancel their captain's contract and let him go to a rival from the same division?

Do they ask why a club months away from promotion to the Premier League twin brothers would draw whose football experience places them anywhere near that level?

What does Bordeaux want with Cardiff, do you want to see McKay's assignment? None of this is their business;

If someone is still in the dark about motivation, question No 1 should provide clarity: was Sala a Nantes player when I stepped on the fatal flight?

The Premier League also stated that it is not possible to refer to the President of the United Kingdom. that the international transfer certificate of Sala was registered with the FA of Wales, and that he was mentioned in a squadron registered at the death of the Premier League. Cardiff needs to know this, so why are they asking?

Were Cardiff taken for a ride on Room? Remove possible. For unknown reasons, Willie McKay thought it would be useful to reveal an e-mail he had sent to Sala. Prior to the move, which said that he deliberately released stories about the pursuit of rival clubs to only interest you.

Is that ethical? No. It's usual? Absolutely. The media is full of stories planned by agents, by clubs, by managers, by players, to promote their business, to expand markets.

According to reports, Room, who had a productive start of the season

Cardiff could not figure that out? It was not a big deal, but it was not a big deal. They had no other agents to ask, no friends, no allies in boardrooms or backroom staff? Not to mention names, but to find out in which areas a club might look. Of the six noted, only two added a striker to their team in January. Crystal Palace took Michy Batshuayi on loan, Burnley bought Peter Crouch from Stoke.

Playing on the market is a bit like poker or any auction. It is about knowing or feeling a bluff when a rival is willing to go all-in.

The story that connects West Ham, Palace and Fulham with Room can still be found online. It was published in the Daily Mirror on December 4, 2018 and amounts to 209 words, reading as a standard plant of an agent that arouses interest

It is the oldest trick in the book. The people used to have a column in their northern editions called Soccer Scene. It contained short gossip from the four divisions.

Most of the information came from managers. The guy from Doncaster would call. & Arsenal followed our right back. We would let him go for £ 50,000. & # 39; Was Arsenal serious? Maybe, maybe, but if it was in The People, Doncaster could get a scout from Newcastle or Everton to check him out. And they might have a chance of £ 40,000.

Pop in the middle of a manager's office in the middle of the week and, chances were he would have a copy of Soccer Scene on his desk. It ran for decades and since Warnock was a player and manager in small clubs in the north during that time, Cardiff's idea was such rubes that 200 words in the Mirror forced them to divide by £ 15 million, feeling unnecessarily a little ripe

When approaching the January window, all speculation about Sala suggested the presence of a decent goal scorer in Nantes, that the club was willing to raise money and possibly there is competition.

Is Sala's deal above reproach or forensic investigation? No. Too many agents and transparency is lacking in crucial areas. The family of the player deserves better at least, deserves an answer.

Yet Cardiff are the right people to ask the questions and ask for the right reasons? Not really. None of these cruel ethical investigations seemed necessary when Sala lived.

There is a moment when Cardiff begins to care about where their money went. It is when the room disappears from their radar forever.

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