#crest of a wave radio show

[momentsinlove]

Moments In Love #30 with Ryan Kelsey

Picture Music - Pillow Music

Ströer Duo - Osterseen

Joe Mubare - What Is It?

Mess-esque - Beneath The Rain

HTRK - Real Headfuck

Joe Bogaert - Would You?

Everything But The Girl - Oxford Street

Omerta - Amour Fou

Richenel - Bruno

China Crisis - Be Suspicious

Rick Cuevas - The Birds

Cass & Gianni Brezzo - Autoscooter Lover

Heights Of Abraham - 10.55

Terre Thamelitz - Tranquilizer Demo

[prismatica-the-strange]

American Honey 🐝💛 | Don't Mind the Static, it's Automatic

This isn't exactly what I would call 'well written' as I'm just skipping through the first movie to get the ship introduction down. I also don't really know any terminology for things so...

Picrew | Showstopper by TobyMac | Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Bee isn't quite sure where they're going, but Sam seems excited to get there.

They pull up outside an apartment building and Sam lays on the horn a few times. A few minutes later a girl comes out and when she gets closer he realizes she's a lot cuter than the other humans he's seen.

He gets a little nervous as she steps around, appraising him.

"Shit Witwicky," She chuckles, leaning on her arms in the open window, "Picked a pretty thing didn't you?"

He startles and his horn goes off in a short burst, scaring all of them.

"It's got some kinks but I think it's great!" Sam grins, "I just wanted to come show off and say thanks for the five hundred bucks you gave me for my birthday."

"Ah, it's no problem kid," She pats his door, "How's it handle?"

"You wanna take her for a spin? You would know better than me."

"Lemme go grab a jacket and I might just take you up on that,"

She runs back inside and comes back with a red leather jacket, a pair of heart sunglasses, and a denim backpack.

His radio blares to life, "Oh see that girl! - I'll be your Honeybee!"

"What's with the radio?" She asks, opening the driver's side door, "Move."

Sam fumbles with a tape she tosses at him before looking at it confused.

"You just gonna stare at it or you gonna put it in, Witwicky?"

"Maybe I don't want to infect my car with your bad taste?"

"You wouldn't know good music if it bit you in the ass, put the damn tape in," She scoffs, throwing him in reverse and taking off.

"You know, maybe you don't have any other friends 'cause you're too bossy- would you slow down?"

They go back and forth for a while until they hit the dirt roads then the girl lays on the gas, laughing when Sam gets scared.

"Casey- CASEY fuck!" He screams, grabbing onto whatever he can reach when they take a hard turn, kicking up a cloud of dirt behind them, "Case, it's my car. Don't break it- I just got it!"

"Don't be a pussy, Sam!"

They catch air time when they crest a small hill and Bee's shrills of approval are drowned out by the music and his engine.

After a while, they drift to a stop at a lookout over the city.

Sam kicks open the passenger side door and storms around the hood, throwing open the driver's side, and yanking her out of the seat.

"I am never letting you drive my car again!"

"Calm down, kiddo," She shrugs him off and hops up to sit on his hood, "She runs fine and she'll keep running fine, breathe."

"And let's not forget I paid for an eighth of this car, Sammy."

"No," He argues, leaning next to her, "You gave me a present. I could have done anything with that money."

"Yeah, whatever LadiesMan... You have any luck with that Mikayla chick yet?"

"No, not yet- wait! Mikayla- shit!" He pulls her off the hood and shoves her toward the passenger side, "I was gonna go drive to the lake and-"

"Hey, stop pushing! If I get in, please don't tell me how you plan on wooing her, okay?"

She's at her friend Erik's the next night and finds herself far too high to drive. So, like the responsible adult she is, she decides to walk two blocks alone at night to crash at the Witwicky place instead.

But as soon as she sneaks past the gate she freezes at the sight of a bunch of giant robots all over his lawn.

"S-s-s-sam!" She can't get her voice past a loud whisper but it's enough to get their attention.

"We have an infiltrator. Shall I disbatch?" One asks, pointing some kind of canon at her.

A smaller one steps in front of her, waving its hands discouragingly at the other.

"Bumblebee, do you know this human?" The biggest asks and the yellow one glances back at her and nods its head.

She's about to book it back to Erik's when the yellow one transforms into a bright new Camero, the radio switching between stations.

"Oh, see that girl - I'll be your honeybee!" It plays softly and a spark of recognition is visible in her eyes. The driver's side door opens, "Get in - I'll explain later."

She hesitates, still considering running, but then the radio plays, "C'mon - Showstopper!"

"I am way too high for this," She mutters, getting in the car.

The big one signals for the group to fall back. 'Fall back' to where she doesn't know, but she doesn't get to ask before she lets out a terrified squeak when one of them walks into the powerlines and falls into the neighbor's garden.

"Calm down - it's alright! - Breathe, breathe, just breathe."

She nods and takes a deep breath, and he finds the way she still grips the seat adorable.

They can all hear Sam's parents yelling and he feels bad scaring her, but he has to turn back from his alt form to hide, quickly shuffling her onto the patio next to him where she won't be seen.

In the confusion of it all, she's left there and she hurries inside, giving his parents some bullshit excuse of her car having a flat nearby and her phone being dead.

"What the fuck is with your car, Witwicky?" She whisper-shouts at him in the kitchen, "What? You're hanging out with Jaegers now?"

"I can't- I can't do this right now. I just-" He digs through his bag, "I need you two to distract my parents while I sneak this out to them, okay?"

"I'm Mikayla," The girl on the other side of him says, offering a hand.

"Oh you're Mikayla," She almost exclaims, eyes wide, "I'm Casey, but people call me CC."

The three of them pile out of the kitchen to one Agent Simmons hassling his parents and Casey is swept up with them in their unmarked black government car, but not before she wriggles out of the grip of one of Simmon's men and decks him for being to rough. She goes down hard when he hits her back and is pretty out of it for a good part of the ride.

By the time they get Bee from the Sector 7 goons, Casey has been properly caught up and, thanks to Sam's quick thinking, her assault officially never happened.

It isn't until after they get their hands on the Cube does Bee really look at his human charges. Casey's left cheek has a large, dark bruise where the agent had hit her and he is pissed.

He chirps at her and tries to use his finger to tilt her face up to look at it better, "God help - the motherfucker who - did this."

"H-hey!" She chuckles awkwardly, pushing his hand away, "I'm all good. We've got bigger things to worry about."

The drive to LA is longer and more treacherous than anyone involved would like and Case has the hardest time not freaking out during her anxiety attack

Everyone is shocked, including her, when she becomes one of the most level-headed person there when the whole place turns into a warzone.

When Lenox sends Sam off alone to get the cube out, she insists on going with him, going as far as taking a gun from a soldier who no longer needs it.

She may not be his real big sister, but she's fiercely protective of him.

She ends up crashing through three floors when Megatron knocks Sam off and the fight is done by the time she hobbles back down to ground level.

Everyone tries to get back to normal after.

Casey and Bee end up getting a lot closer and even sneak out for late-night drives together.

That is until her great-aunt dies and leaves her vast estate on the East Coast to her and she moves.

But I'm sure fate has more in store for them.

[ch0wen]

So glad to see someone writing for Lemon I adore this man

Could you please write a sleepy smut for lemon x reader please :)

Like early morning or really late at night and one of the two (you can pick) can’t relax and is really stressed about the stressful day ahead/one they’ve had. Thank you!! Xx

Hiya, Anon! Thank you very much for sending this in! Here is my first official completed request for Lemon x Reader - I hope you like it!

Request: Early Bird Gets the Worm - Lemon x gn!reader

warnings: 18+(minors dni), unprotected sex, & cursing

"Wakey, wakey," your Fiance's voice is gently singing in your ear. He is placing sweet kisses on the back of your neck in spite of his hard dick pressing against you.

"You've got my attention," your voice still low with sleep but alert.

He was successful with his coaxing, as he is now buried balls deep in you.

“I hope you feel as good as I do, sweetheart, cuz holy fuck,” he whispers.

You moan, "I do. But what's with the early rising? No pun intended. Are you nervous about your work trip tonight or something?"

"Was it that obvious?"

"I mean there are only a few things that get you up this early. You're predictable," you tease.

He chuckles and leans in to kiss you. For a few moments, as he thrusts, it's just the sounds of your kissing and breathing against each other. Exploring hands touching and caressing one another; sending tingles all over your body.

The thuds of the headboard are not as nearly aggressive, unlike your other sessions. This moment is tender and gentle. Causing the bed only to rap the wall with each movement of his hips.

With his forehead pressed to yours, he can hear the tiny little sounds that barely make it out of your throat when he does something right - angling his hips to hit inside you there and rubbing your bundle of nerves just so.

Lemon is taking his time with you. You enjoy moments like this where there isn't anywhere Lemon needs to rush off to. He rolls his hips in deliberately unhurried thrusts, pulling nearly all the way out and then smoothly sliding all the way back in. The slow drag of his cock gradually builds your pleasure like a cresting wave.

You're holding onto Lemon tight with shaky hands grasping onto his arms and thighs wrapped around his hips. You whine high in your throat when the wave first washes over you, then the two of you ride out your ecstasy together. During your comedown, you're breathing him in through kisses.

He plants a few more to your cheeks and jaw then is pulling away to assumedly go rinse himself in the bathroom. So, you lay on your bed with your eyes closed and a stated smile. Until you hear soft music and your facial muscles contort into a confused frown. It's not the type of music that would naturally come from the radio. No, it's a song you have heard almost every other morning from the TV at the end of your bed or down in the living room.

The Thomas the Tank Engine theme song.

“Oh, Lem.”

“It’s a new Sunday special!”

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes pleading with yours before turning back towards the screen. You chuckle and playfully kick him in the back, as you cocoon yourself under the still-warm duvet. It’s silly he enjoys this children’s show being in his thirties but it’s only one quirk. It’s impressive that he has learned to read people efficiently this way.

Post-sex bliss is slowly breaking when you hear the front door slam closed and what can only be assumed to be the sound of complaining echoing through your house. It's Tangerine, no doubt. Hunting down his brother in order for them to begin planning for work or to bitch about some mild inconvenience.

They’re a close pair, and your friendship has grown with him as well. You all have a healthy dynamic. So, his uninvited entrances are normal. Because of that, you and Lemon stay unmoving on your bed. Although, Lemon being transfixed with this episode may have prevented him from hearing his brother’s approach.

You're making sure you’re modestly covered when Tangerine finally waltzes into your open doorway. He shares a smile with you then furrows his brow at his brother,

“Oh Jesus Christ, Lem. Put your fucking cock away while you’re watching Thomas, you dolt.”

[invisibleraven]

Date Night for Rose/Ray/Reggie? Pretty please and thank you.

After Reggie falls into Ray and Rose's bed, he kind of never wants to leave. Not only for the sex which is blazing hot, far better than the few fumbling encounters with fans he'd had in the past. But also, just being held by them, talking long into the night until their voices are hoarse and the sun is cresting the horizon.

But they have to leave the bedroom sometime, and Reggie worries that they won't work outside of there. He knows that he means more to them than the sex, it's not some twisted friends with benefits situation, but still. Rose and Ray have been together for years now, have their own groove. Yet he seems to fit into it like a greased wheel, cog moving together like clockwork.

But he's still surprised when Ray asks him what he wants to do for date night,

"Are you okay going out with the three of us?" Reggie asked. "Won't people talk?"

"No one we care about," Rose says with a shrug. "The Petal Pushers all know and gave me a heck yeah. Hazel is thrilled, she was rooting for you extra hard."

"Gosh I love Hazel," Reggie sighs.

"Don't we all," Ray quips. "Tori knows. She doesn't get it, but she loves us too much to raise a stink. And I work with artists who don't care about who you sleep with as long as the job gets done."

"So, date night?" Rose poses again.

"Um, my last date was in high school," Reggie replies with a blush, a time that seems like yesterday and a million years ago now. He never feels very young or naive around Ray and Rose but they were both in their twenties when he first met them, and he's passed his twenty first birthday not that long ago. But still...

"What did you do for dates then?" Ray asked. "I know we went to a fair few shows, but I get if that's a big no for you."

Reggie nods his head appreciatively. "What do you guys usually do?" They've gone on a few date nights since bringing him home, but he doubts nearly as many as they used to.

"Bowling, drive in, maybe a nice meal somewhere, nothing crazy," Rose answers. Which isn't far off from Reggie's history, only substitute bowling for the arcade and a nice meal with getting a slice somewhere.

"I like bowling," he supplies. "I'm no good at it though."

"Oh, neither are we," Ray says with a laugh.

"Speak for yourself," Rose interjects.

So they go bowling, with Rose kicking their asses, and crowing when she does. Reggie doesn't even care that his balls seem attached to the gutters, he's having too much fun jibing at Ray while shoveling nachos and watered down beer into his system.

Eventually though the rented shoes are pinching their toes and they decide to move on, stopping on the boardwalk for ice cream, enjoying the sound of crashing waves in the distance, the lights of the Santa Monica pier a distant blur.

"We should go there next time," Reggie suggests. "Ride the ferris wheel, eat our weight in funnel cakes and cotton candy."

"Sounds like a lovely second date," Rose replies. Ray hums in agreement, and the three of them swing their hands together as they make their way back to the car.

"Did you have fun lindo?" Ray asks as he drives them home, Rose kicking her feet up on the dash, singing along quietly to Heart playing on the radio.

"It was the best first date I've ever had," Reggie replied, smile wide, and then joins Rose for the chorus, their voices melding together as the Wilson sisters croon.

Then, at the door to their apartment, Ray and Rose both playfully give him goodnight kisses, like they would as if he was dropping them home. Only then they giggle as they pull Reggie inside and and engage in a few activities that the movies usually reserved for a third date.

But Reggie doesn't really care, because he knows they'll have hundreds of dates in the future, and he can't wait to go on every single one of them.

[protege-not-protagonist]

Criminal Minds: The Protégé Chapter 7

Ch 7: My Brother's Keeper Pt. 4

Blurb: The team Race to save the Tilsbury Family and Grace and Luke are forced to confront the unsub without back up. Does Grace have enough confidence in their profile to be able to talk him down?

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Audience: Recommended mature audience for depictions of violence and sexual references Author's Note: if you see a trigger warning that concerns you, you can scroll to end and I'll have a brief description what happens. I think that system should work well cause then those who don't want spoilers don't have to read the trigger warnings at the start and get spoiled. TW: Ableism, child death, violence, crime scene depiction, kidnapping, hostage situation, Nightmares.

Groton golf course, Groton, SD 11:00AM

They pulled into the parking lot and saw the van was already there. Her eyes swept over the chaotic scene. There was a state trooper giving CPR to a staff member at the blood spattered kiosk. The sheriff was forcing the van’s side door open, trying to free the parents cable tied to hand holds in the back. There was no sign of Alice or Brodey. There was also one of the three golf buggies missing from their designated parking spots near the kiosk.

‘He’s shot an innocent to steal a buggy. He’s devolving. There are too many obstacles to his fantasy.’ Grace concluded. ‘Alice doesn’t have long.’

Alvez turned off the siren, ‘I’m about to a very pedantic groundsman,’ he muttered and floored the accelerator. They tore across the car park and on to the green. Perfectly manicured grass flew in a wake behind them.

Grace radioed Prentiss, ‘The unsub is here, one civilian casualty. We need a medic, unsub currently has Alice. We’re engaging unsub.’

‘We’re five minutes out. Do not engage-’ They crested a hill and saw Brodey dragging a struggling Alice out of the buggy.

‘We have eyes on unsub. Prentiss, Alice doesn’t have five minutes.’ Grace relayed.

Prentiss was quiet for a few seconds, and Grace felt guilt settle in her stomach. The delay was because of her. Only one of them was armed.

Finally she said, ‘We’ll be there soon, do what you can.’

As they approached, Brodey pulled Alice to his chest and pressed a gun to her head. They stopped the car. Exiting the vehicle, they both took cover behind their doors, Alvez poking his gun around the side. Grace, her taser. Immediately, Brodey fired a shot at them. It whizzed into the grass. No casing left the chamber. She was right; it was a revolver, a six shooter.

‘Brodey Phillips, we’re with the FBI! Put down the weapon, step away from Alice!’ Alvez instructed.

He fired another shot at them, and Grace crammed herself behind her car door.

Alice screamed.

So did Brodey, ‘Come any closer and the next one’s through this squirt’s brains!’ He pressed the gun to Alice’s head, and she cried out, tears leaking from her eyes. He pressed it harder against her. 'Shut up!’

‘Let me goooo!’ she sniffled.

‘Listen to her, Brodey. She’s not your brother Jeremy, she not going to fix it.’ Alvez tried.

Brodey’s eyes went wide at the mention of his brother. ‘You’re ruining everything! You don’t understand! It’s not right! They have to fix it!’ He pointed the gun back at them and then flicked back to Alice quickly. It was an odd action, like he had slipped up. Grace then realised why.

Two shots to kill the Giles parents, one for the golf course staff member, two warning shots at them and if Brodey hadn’t reloaded in rapid city…. He couldn’t take them both, but he could take out Alice, so that is where he kept his gun trained.

Behind the car door, she waved one hand at her side discreetly to attract Alvez’s attention. His eyes flicked to her hand across the inside of the car. She raised her index finger into a one then extended her thumb into a finger gun and mimicked it firing. Alvez didn’t look at her as he showed her a thumbs up. He understood her message; Brodey only had one shot left.

'They Have to fix it! It's not supposed to be like this! It's not fair!' Brodey continued to rave. slowly walking backwards dragging Alice with him.

'Brodey I know, They didn’t even get your baby photos developed,’ she tried.

His eyes snapped to her. His face quivered.

She knew what it was like. It was then she realised that she might be the only member on this team who could empathise with this sick bastard. The person who could talk there way out of this. She didn't have a choice, Alice was in danger and Brodey was spirallying. Now or never.

She spoke louder, ‘Brodey, I saw how they treated you. It wasn’t fair.'

‘You saw?’ Brodey asked and focused his attention on her fully now.

Luke kept his gun trained on him as she raised her arms and made a show of putting away her weapon. She needed him to leave Alice, either get him to surrender or waste his last shot firing at them.Getting Alice clear was not an option. They could run, Alice could not. They had bullet-proof vests, Alice did not.

‘I did, and I agree, it’s not right.’ She stepped away from the protection of the car door.

He didn’t turn the gun on her, but she had drawn his attention. He cocked his head in confusion. He hadn’t expected her to agree. She saw a pleased glint in his eyes.

‘Brodey, I understand. When it was just you, things were okay. Your life was perfect. But then when he came along, you would go days without talking to your own parents who lived in the same house… they’d be too tired to talk about your day. You’d have toast for dinner every night for months. They didn’t even say “good night,” or “I love you”… all they cared about was your brother. It’s like being starved. Isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, yeah! It is, they starved me of them!’ he nodded.

‘It’s not wrong to want that. It’s what every child deserves. You deserve to be loved. Your own family should have loved you, they should’ve stuck by you, they should have seen that you struggled, right? You didn’t want to hate Jeremy, but you hated the new school, you hated leaving your old friends. But it wasn’t his fault-’

But Brodey didn’t want to accept that. He was a narcissist. It would break his fantasy if he was to blame for the unfortunate parts of his life.

‘I was here first! I am perfect! I did everything right, and they only cared about him! He couldn’t even talk properly! But they listened to what he wanted!’

She took a step forward and held her hands up. ‘Okay Brodey, I’m listening and I know what you want. You want a proper chance at life, right? You want to have a happy, loving family and you want to do the right thing, cause that’s what you did when you got out of prison the first time, right? You were helpful. That’s who you are.’ She lied.

He nodded.

She gestured at Alice, ‘She isn’t going to give you that. Neither are her parents, Brodey, because they aren’t the people who did this to you. But I think you know that. I’m not going to lie to you. You’ve done a bad thing, because you kidnaped them, we have to take you in. We can’t just walk away. But if you let Alice go right now, and you tell your story, I think any sane judge would be lenient after everything you’ve been through.’ Grace said, hoping to make it seem like they didn’t know he had killed the Giles family or Jeremy. If she let on that they knew he had committed those murders, her lie wouldn’t make sense to him. He couldn’t know he was going away for life. He would feel cornered. Stroke his ego and let him think they only wanted him for kidnapping. Let him think he got away with it.

‘She’s right, Brodey,’ Alvez followed her lead, ‘This whole thing is understandable. You just want to make it right? You just want to be treated right. People will understand that. If we tell your story to the news and the papers, people will understand. You come in quietly and you’ll come out as a good guy.’

‘But I would rather not come in at all,’ he smiled and pressed the gun back to Alice’s stomach. ‘If my motive is so clear, they’ll understand why I did this. Do you think you can catch me if you’re too busy trying to save her?’

Grace refused to panic. Quickly and confidently, she spoke, ‘Do that and it’ll be like Jeremy all over again.’ Brodey glared at her at the mention of his brother’s name. ‘If you hurt Alice, no one will care about what happens to you. She’ll get all the sympathy. No one will care about what happened to you, only what you did to her. And when you go back to prison, Brodey, you know what they do to child killers in there, don’t you? Let her go and put the gun down. It’s the best option for you.’

‘I’ll shoot her, I will!’ He gritted and his eyes flicked between them and Alice.

‘Brodey, every trooper in the state has your picture. Feds and cops surround this golf course. We aren’t alone. You’re not going to get far.’ Alvez revealed.

Brodey began to tremble.

Grace took another step towards him. ‘I’m sorry Brodey, you’re not getting out of this, but how you come out of this, and the story the judge hears, that’s up to you. Hurting Alice isn't going to help you. Who do you want to be Brodey, how do you want to be seen? It's your choice.’

After a nail biting moment of silence, he threw Alice to the ground and lowered the gun to the ground and kicked it away from him. Alvez moved forward and pulled out handcuffs. Grace ran, scooped up the gun and grabbed Alice, lifting her further away for Brodey.

‘You’re alright sweetie, you’re gonna be okay,’ she reassured her and checked her over for injury.

‘I-I-I want m-my m-mo-m and d-dad,’ she sobbed.

‘Brodey Philips, you’re under arrest-’ he waited till the handcuffs firmly clicked on his wrist before adding, ‘-for the attempted murder of Alice, Mary and Joshua Tilsbry, the murder of the Giles family and the murders of Rita and Jeremy Phillips.’

‘No! No!’ Brodey screamed. ‘He never should have even been born. It wasn’t murder, it was mercy-’

Alvez grimaced in disgust, ‘Yeah, yeah, cool story, you have the right to remain silent-’ Brodey suddenly threw his weight against Alvez and got out of his grip. He charged towards her and Alice.

Without thinking, Grace stepped forward and grabbed his undefended shoulders and slammed her knee into his groin. He doubled over. She followed it with a punch to his solar plexus and sweeping his legs out from under him. Instantly, he lay face up on the ground sucking in breaths like a fish out of water. She brought down an axe kick to his chest to make sure he didn’t find any time to recover. He howled in pain. She drew out her taser and pointed it at him. ‘Don’t even try it!’

Alvez hauled him off the ground and into the car. ‘I’ll come back for her. I’m not going to put her in the car with him.’

‘You gonna be okay?’ She asked. Alvez stifled a chuckle. ‘Trust me, after that, I don’t think he’s got much fight left in him.’

She opened the trunk and pulled out an FBI issue jacket and the medical kit. She approached Alice again, offering her the jacket. The girl shivered and took it gingerly. Grace sat on the grass with her and helped her wrap it around her as they watched the car leave with Brodey.

‘You’re safe now Alice, I’m Grace, I’m with the FBI. I’m like a special police woman, okay? We’ve been looking for you all day. Are you hurt?’

‘No, I don’t think so, but he tied up my mom and dad. I want to see them,’ she said.

‘We saw them, they’re alright. I’ll take you to them when the car comes back, okay? They’re safe. Your sister is too. We’re flying her here on a plane super fast.’

‘Thank you for saving me. I was very scared.’

‘Well, that was very scary. I’d be scared too. You’re very brave, Alice.’ Grace smiled and spied a familiar character on Alice’s T-shirt. ‘I like your shirt, is that… Appa?’

‘Yeah it’s Appa, he is my favourite animal!’

‘Really? No way! He is my favourite too! I love Avatar. Who is your favourite character? Mine is Uncle Iroh.’ She saw Alvez speeding back towards them.

‘Sokka, I like Sokka, he’s funny.’

‘Woah, great choice. You’ll like my friend Agent Luke, he’s a bit like Sokka, He loves jerky and jokes.’ Alice giggled and Grace joined her. ‘Okay, I’m going to pick you up to get you in the car. You let me know if anything hurts, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Alice nodded.

When they arrived back at the parking lot, many flashing lights and uniforms crowded her vision. The golf staff member had been taken to the hospital. He was in a stable condition. It looked like he would pull through. Prentiss, Tara and Rossi had arrived, and seen Brodey off in the back of the sheriff’s car. Now, they were going to head back to the inn with the Tilsbry family and take statements. While waiting for the rest of the team and Bella to arrive from Rapid City. As Grace watched Mary and Josh embrace Alice with tears of joy in the parking lot, she allowed herself to smile. But it didn’t last. The feeling soured when she saw another vehicle pull up.

The Tilsbry’s had had a happy ending, but there was one young boy buried somewhere on this course that didn’t.

Rossi walked up to Grace as Dr Boland and the CSI team exited the car. He sighed and patted her shoulder affectionately. ‘Go find him, kid. We won’t be leaving till late tonight.’

She exhaled and stood up straight as the CSI team walked towards her for instruction. ‘Good afternoon, we have vegetation indicators that the body is located around the seventh hole. Once we locate the site, I want one by five metre surface transects of the area, and excavation in 5 centimetre spits till we reach bone, then I want every grain of dirt. It’s unlikely that Brodey will slip out of this one but, I want this to be nothing short of meticulous. Jeremy was nine years old. He deserves the respect of your time and care…’

--------

Gold Stallion Inn Groton, SD 7:00PM

Grace trudged through the doors of the Inn’s diner after washing the dirt off herself and packing her go bag. She had packed now, so the doctor could turn in early without being disturbed later. Dr Boland had opted to remain behind for an extra day to oversee the handover of the victims' bodies to the coroner and their families. Their Sunday brunch looked unlikely.

She made a bee-line for the hot water urn. As she brewed her tea, a voice interrupted from behind.

‘Good to see you still haven’t moved on to the hard stuff yet.’ She jumped, accidentally splashing too much milk in. Avery grinned at her holding a fist out to her.

'You're back,' she smiled and she bumped it with her own.

The rest of the team were back. She should have known. The room had grown louder. Her team were celebrating at a table where the hotel manager was delivering a tray of drinks.

‘Well, if you appreciate the real hard stuff my team’s about to have some, you wanna join them?’

‘I gonna have to take a rain check. I’m having an early one, I’m staying here with the good doctor, gotta make sure we wrap this up nicely. Though I’ve gotta say, not looking forward to flying commercially after I’ve had a taste of the lux life.’

She laughed, ‘Yeah, the lux life.’ She gestured to the case board and grizzly crime scene pictures.

He shrugged, ‘I get it now.’

‘Get what?’ She asked.

‘Why you chose the BAU.’

‘I’m sorry, Ave,‘ she sighed.

‘No, no, don’t be. We all knew you weren’t going to stay CSI forever. You’ve always been an instinct and theory girl. You never did like that your job just stopped at the collection of evidence. You always thought everything meant more. Every speck of anything, indicated a whole person.’

‘You can’t lead an archaeologist to a crime scene and expect them not to dig.’

Avery snorted, ‘True, but I think you like this part too.’ They both looked at the reunion of the Tilsbry family happening in the corner; their tearful smiles and deep hugs. They both smiled. ‘We never get this. Our only victory comes in a courtroom.’

‘Ave… this element of the job is a rewarding bonus we occasionally get, but I left because of something else.’

‘Wasn’t something I said?’ He joked.

‘No, you guys made it a very hard to leave.’ She said. ‘I was encouraged to apply. The BAU was already a man down and… it’s not common knowledge so don’t share this, but Rossi is retiring at the end of this year. That’s why Prentiss has been taking a more active role in the team while Rossi has been stepping back. With the scrutiny the units been under, it's likely they’re not going to hire another member once he goes. He and Prentiss both didn’t want to leave the team underhanded with the changes ahead, so they looked for someone young but skilled to fill the position. Someone who was gonna stay for a long time. Rossi’s an old friend, followed my career. He asked me personally if I would give the position a go. Thought I’d be a good fit. Also didn’t hurt that I was the one that figured out that Sicarius spiders where a C.O.D in that case. Made me a bit memorable.’

Avey let out a low whistle. ‘That’s got to be flattering, huh? Hard to say no to.’

‘I only did the trial period because Rossi asked, but I stayed because… I love it. I loved forensics, but it was just too final for me. I needed to feel like I could do something before it happened.’

‘I get that. But for me, that’s why I’m here. The dead don’t get deader. We can all take comfort in the fact that it’s done, that there’s nothing we could’ve done. Going from that finality, to constantly hunting these guys down, only to find another and another. That can burn you out. I just hope you’re not going to wear yourself out trying to save the world.’

‘I’m a realist Ave, I know I’m not going to save the world. I know there are always going to be people like Brodey… but it’s worth it if I save a few Alices along the way.’ She said with a sad smile. ‘ “You treated a symptom, the disease goes merrily on.” ’ She quoted with a sigh.

‘What is that, Freud?’ Avery asked and nudged her shoulder.

She scoffed, ‘No, BJ Hunnicutt, episode 23, season 7, of MASH.’

‘Ah should have known.’ He said and nodded at her. ‘Well, if you need someone to talk to, or watch MASH with when the disease gets too much, hit me up, I’ll try to keep an open mind and not beg you to come back to us.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, but also please hit me up whenever you and the gang go out for trivia or do anything fun. I’m trying to hang out with people outside of the context of work and crisis. I miss the AntiSocial-Social-Club events.’

‘And the AntiSocial-Social Fund Jar misses you. We’re going to have to have tone down the Christmas Party this year.’

She scoffed, ‘Oh come on, I did not talk about decomposition that much. And we’re in CSI. It’s appropriate to talk about.’

Avery rolled his eyes. ‘It wasn’t the topic, it was the fact that you talked about that stuff at lunch Grace! By the way, you still owe the jar 15 dollars.’

---------

BAU Private Jet, 10:00 PM

Most of the team were asleep or trying to as Grace washed out her mug and prepared to fill it with a hot chocolate.

‘Hey, good work today,’ Alvez told her as he quietly stepped into the kitchenette to refill his mug. Grace inwardly winced as she recalled their interaction earlier today.

‘Thank you, but uh… not all of it was good,’ she murmured.

He frowned. ‘What? No, the way you empathised with Brodey was good work. How’d you know about toast for dinner?’

‘That’s what I ate when the twins were born. It was all I could make if my parents accidentally fell asleep and forgot to make me dinner, or all they had the energy to cook for me. I was five, but Brodey would have been a teenager, a male only child, who couldn’t handle someone else taking his parents’ attention. Pretty safe assumption he wouldn’t cook by himself. Hence, toast. Two-minute noodles would have been my second guess.’ She explained, then quickly added, ‘My parent were great normally, the twins just wore them out in those few months. I wasn’t starved,‘ She reassured him. ‘But Alvez, I was talking about the way I acted earlier at the house.’

Alvez shrugged it off, ‘That’s okay-’

‘No, it’s not. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I don’t have an excuse other than today has been a bit personally grating. I got defensive, and I lashed out and I’m sorry. I just don’t want you guys to think that I’m not capable. I can handle it. I’m working on it and I won’t let it be a problem in the field-’

Luke held up his hand to stop her there. ‘Woah, Five-O, none of us think you’re not capable. We just worry about you, when you had the nightmare-’

‘Technically, it wasn’t a nightmare. If it doesn‘t wake you up, it’s classified as night terror-’

‘Don’t distract from the issue,’ he cut her off. ‘See, that’s what worries us. You don’t talk to us. We hardly even know what happened to you for those three days, and then you get defensive when we try to broach the subject. It only makes me worry more.’

She bit her lip. The team cared, that was why they pried. Deep down, she knew that. But it was always hard to believe. Her therapist encouraged her to trust people and share parts of herself in friendship. If she felt she did not feel like she had deep relationships, it may be because she didn’t allow them. To that advice, she argued she didn’t like what that she was insinuating and she did not have trust issues. But the fact that every therapy session was like pulling teeth said otherwise.

She sniffed and wipe away a tear that had formed without her noticing. ‘Sorry, I know you’re just trying to care for me. Sometimes I-I just have trouble figuring out when people are going through motions or are genuinely worried about me. Some profiler I am, huh?’

‘Grace, you don’t have to-’

‘No, I want to explain… I don’t want you to worry.’ She paused and nodded more at herself, reaffirming her decision. ‘The Robinson’s case, the memories, what happened, it doesn’t really bother me, most the time. That case wasn’t what the dream was about.’

‘Okay,’ Alvez nodded. They moved quietly past the sleeping team with their full mugs to the empty set of chairs in the corner of the dim cabin.

‘Before I was in the BAU, I helped put away this serial killer. He was a Psychopath, but he had a code he followed simillar to an injustice collector. He would target people who he thought of as hypocrites, and would mutilate and torture his victims according to how he perceived there true nature and then he bury them elaborately. Anyway long story short, it was my presentation of evidence in court that put him away. And after, he wrote me a letter from prison promising… Well, nothing good. In my dream, we were in court again, and he revealed there was another victim. He told me it was someone he chose especially for me. And then I was excavating the grave…’

Alvez listened carefully. ‘It was someone you cared about, wasn’t it?’

She hesitated before shaking her head. She wasn’t ready to explain why it was who it was to anyone on her team. ‘I… um not really like that, I don’t have a boyfriend or anyone like that. But you remember Harrison, the other survivor of the Robinson’s case?’

‘Yeah?’ He nodded. He had taken Harrison’s statement.

‘Well… that’s why JJ thought I was dreaming about the Robinson’s case. That’s who’s name I was murmuring when she woke me up. It was Harrison, and we found him and he was...' She shook her head not even wanting to conjure those images. She exhaled and continued. 'And I… don’t know, it just shouldn’t have happened. He escaped that basement with me. He saved my life. He should’ve had a long, happy life, and there he was hacked to bits, buried in the woods like he was nothing. But the worst thing was… I dream in third person.’

‘Third person, what do you mean?’ Alvez asked with a frown and leant closer.

‘Most of my dreams are like watching a movie. So when I’m in it. There’s two mes, there’s the real me, my mind, my consciousness who watches, and feels emotion, and then there's another me who I watch in third person do the action, like an actor. This dream version of me, when she found Harrison, she just kept going about the scene like it meant nothing. But the real me, I was screaming, I was crying. It was like that part of me that cares was just locked out… Then JJ woke me up, and it wasn’t locked away anymore and I just burst into tears. And I know I wouldn’t actually react that way, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve had that dream four times now.’

They sat in silence for a few moments. Already Grace felt relief in her chest, not even realising it had felt heavy before. Alvez seemed deep in thought, with a pensive expression that almost didn’t suit his usually smiling face.

‘That sucks. I’m sorry. Are you okay?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve had worse dreams, but this one, it’s just stuck with me, and I can’t figure out why it disturbs me so much. I think that’s partly what’s been bothering me even more.’ She answered and rested her head against the cabin window with a deep sigh.

‘I have an aunt that is really into this stuff. She does readings, and she has this big book that will tell you what everything is supposed to mean. Personally, I don’t believe all our dreams are significant. I mean, you tell me what a dream where I’m singing a karaoke duet with Roxie and then my teeth fall out is all about-’

‘-Well, teeth falling out is a common dream associated with stress. Talking animals are an indicator that someone watched an early 2000s movie with bad CGI talking animals before going to bed.’ She smiled. ‘I’m joking. I don’t think the nonsensical parts have deep meanings.’

He gave her a small chuckle. ‘I agree, but I think if it’s troubling you, there may be something behind it.’ Alvez reached out to place his hand over hers to stop her nervous fidgeting, and she didn’t flinch away. ‘Five-O, I’m no dream doctor, but I think the reason the dream shook you up so much is because it showed you what you’re really afraid of.’

‘Finding people I know as victims?’ She already knew she had that fear.

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps, I think we all fear that. But I think your dream shows you that you’re afraid of losing something you don’t even realise you value; your compassion. You’re afraid that this job will make you cold. And let me say this, Matthews; you don’t have to worry about that, ever. You care for every victim we encounter, even when they are dead. It’s part of who you are. I think it would be impossible for you not to care.’

She stared at him in wonder. He was right. And he didn’t know how right he was. She was glad he thought she didn’t have to worry. She had him convinced it was easy for her to care, easy to be compassionate. It wasn’t. It was a choice. It was how she’d chosen to live and some days it was hard. It was hard when witnesses were accusatory and rude. It was hard when victims were horrible people. It was hard when unsubs were detestable. But she had seen what it was like to be cold. She even felt what it was like to switch off. Grace wouldn’t wish that upon her worst enemy.

‘Thanks, Luke,’ she managed a small smile at him as she wiped her face with the sleeve of her cardigan.

‘Anytime, hey, you can tell me anything. Okay? I’m a good sounding board.’ He rubbed her arm comfortingly, and she didn’t hate it.

‘I appreciate the offer, but for me, it’s more difficult to talk to… a friend, about this kinda stuff,’ she admitted. ‘And I do talk about stuff like this, just not with you or the others. I have a therapist I talk to. Just so you don’t worry that I’m bottling stuff up-' Luke grinned at her widely. She frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, just reeling from the fact that you just called your friend,’ he said.

Her eyes widened. ‘I’m so sorry, if I gave you the impression that you weren’t-’

He stopped her. ‘No, no, not at all. You just said it out loud, and I’m savouring it.’

She snorted at that and dug around in her bag, pulling out her business card. Under where it said, “Profiler with the Behavioural Analysis Unit” she wrote in big block letters.

“FRIEND OF SSA LUKE ALVEZ”

She passed it to him, and he laughed. ‘Well, now you have it in writing, so we both don’t forget.’

--------

Next Chapter

TW:

Ableism: Unsub is targeting physically disabled people and uses awful language to describe disabled people. Says some pretty awful things when being taken into custody.

mention of Child death: previous victims remember

kidnaping: the unsub has kidnapped a family.

Hostage situation: unsub has a child hostage and at gun point for the first section of the chapter, it turns out okay.

Nightmares: Grace tell Luke her nightmare it involves being emotionless while examining the grave of someone close to her.

Crime scene description: there are multiple in this chapter. a bit of jargon below:

'Spits' are the term use to label the layers archaeologists work with. For example if a hole is dug 12 Inches deep, that will be broken up into layers that are sifted for evidence. So you could have 2 large spits of 6 inches or 4 smaller spits of 3 inches or 6 tiny spits of 2 inches and so on. The smaller the spits the more detailed the investigation is but also the more time consuming.

NOTE:

Woohoo! that's the end of the first case. Did you like it? To those who thought, 'oh I see, you're taking a young neuro-spicy FBI agent, putting her in the BAU and traumatising her as she gets older until they become like there washed up mentor'… Sorry. Slaps Grace on the shoulder like a used car this one comes pre-traumatised. But that's not to say, there's no room for more. Gestures to Grace this baby can fit sooo much trauma in it.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this and let me know what you think so far. If you love it, or even just like it, please leave a comment and/or like, reblogs, it is much appreciated and it really motivates me.

[theredbackpack]

I saw Tisakorean live last week. I did not pay attention to the openers until right before the show started, but was blown away at the lineup: Texas Boyz, Yung Nation, and Trill Sammy with Dice Soho were the big names. Across these acts, you can draw a line from them to Tisakorean's new music. It was an incredible blend of circa-2011 blog-rap nostalgia that called to mind in the best way my nights at small sweaty clubs seeing eight rappers in a row over the course of four hours.

I don't know if you've seen the videos of Soulja Boy snapping, but I clocked it as a reaction to what Tisakorean is doing. It speaks to a trend/zeitgeist: concurrent to this is the embarrassing efforts to make "indie sleaze" a thing, which confusingly throws all manner of sounds and aesthetics anywhere from about 2004 to 2010 into a blender. The Dare kinda sound like LCD Soundsystem but they also remind me of mid-'00s detritus like The Bravery. I sense the same era rap music creeping on the margins: Homer Radio featured a slew of snap/dance music in a recent episode (#23, from April); indie sleaze nostalgia combined with "blog rap" podcasts point toward an endpoint destined to go just a few eras backward in time; the fact that 2003 was twenty years ago; this Druski skit that dropped the day I drafted this; and yes, Tisakorean's masterful album, Let Me Update My Status.

When Tisa appeared on the national stage in 2018, I thought he was riding the wave of a trend: regional dance rap that consisted of artists like Splurge and 10kcaash, alongside future footnotes like Lil Tecca. His 2019 debut, A Guide to Being a Partying Freshman, was met with a mixture of shrugs to light praise. A fun collaboration with Chance the Rapper seemed to seal his fate as a guy who would burn bright and hot but not for long.

The first time I thought "he has something" was 2020's "Bate Onna Bo" which weaved through so many movements in the span of four minutes it had to be the work of a musician with a real vision. By 2021 we got "Old School Cash" and "Silly Dude" and it was clear he was following his instincts and making the exact kind of music he wanted to make. This came to a head in 2022 with his EP 1st Round Pick and "Backseat," which was my favorite song of the year. Sometimes that's as far as an artist can go. But he pressed on: Let Me Update My Status underlines my thought that Tisakorean is an era-defining rapper in a time when artists make interminably long albums to game the streaming algorithm then disappear off the planet.

It may seem premature to call Tisakorean era-defining but that's where I landed. I don't mean he's sold the most albums or had the most hits, but in this age where you can have a few songs and leave no impact, that he's had an audience since 2018 is huge: that he's produced great music since at least 2020 is even more impressive. (While I never disliked his earliest music, it hits a lot better now in the context of his career arc.) A lot of people who liked "The Mop" may not be following him now, but artists who shed casual fans are probably doing something noteworthy. No one is good for three years, let alone five. I like Travis Porter more than your average person, but I'd argue at best they had a three year imperial phase. Now anyone starting a twitter reply with "buddy" doesn't know they exist.

The Atlanta snap/swag sound and movement from 2006 through about 2009 was a singular moment that came just as regional music was cresting (Houston famously in 2005, Three 6 Mafia won the Oscar in 2006), before blogs, before Drake. Early Gucci Mane was popping off and OJ da Juiceman became a household name within this precarious window. But as soon as all cool regional stuff became fodder for rappers on major labels and young hypebeasts like ASAP Rocky to absorb, it was over, which is why it's due for a renaissance.

It's getting harder to imagine life before smartphones, before omnipresent internet and connectivity, before literally every aspect of our lives was managed by at most three or four corporations. Kevin Durant's iconic BlackPlanet page might as well be the Dead Sea Scrolls as a relic of his personality expressed through that era of the internet. But any means of original expression becomes unlikelier as we get funneled into pre-ordained ways of being our ourselves, of consuming art and media and sports, to the fabric of our thoughts.

A few years ago Matty Healy described his life pre-internet the best I've heard it. It's not about the changes it brought, but that he cannot remember what it was like to live without it. He cannot remember what it felt like to feel things before the internet, and what it felt like to not have to think about the internet as he felt things, and that his life and experiences still had meaning. And this inability to remember will render us more vulnerable to exploitation, and feeling like we are not connected to our true selves.

It used to feel different to feel alone, to feel sad, happy, etc, without thinking about how to broadcast it. Even if you don't put yourself online like that, there's an inkling to want to. I took a ton of pictures and videos at the Tisa show and I put some in my stories, but I found I didn't want to share them permanently. They are for me.

Let Me Update My Status is a masterpiece in perfecting sounds from snap to crunk to mid-aughts Neptunes. It's a callback to a simpler time, which is nearly impossible to do without some subconscious argument we also need to return to simpler, regressive politics. What makes the album so invigorating is how thoroughly it plumbs the era as an aesthetic and sound, not just as an excuse to make goofy videos. Its accomplishment is how it demonstrates snap music as an organic form that was never a response to anything: it was not conservative in its values, instead it was a truly original and innovative Black American artform that took time to receive the respect it deserved. (Quick aside: yes there were people who always loved it and it was popular for a reason, but it was not considered a given until years later.)

In Kelefa Sanneh's Major Labels he says in spite of the liberal ideology at the heart of punk music, it was a conservative movement because art that aspires to either simplicity in its content (songs as political statements) or as a "return to form" (three chords and 4/4 time) is reactionary. The real-world impact of punk as ostensibly progressive expression was what came after it; it's Minor Threat and Green Day but also skinhead music. When mid-'10s revisionism took hold and people rightfully concluded "D4L were important" it took forgettable Big Sean and Kid Ink albums to get there; it took the critical adulation upon the arrival of artists as disparate as Kendrick Lamar, Future, and Waka Flocka Flame to get there; it took time to get there, to see what had shaped everything that preceded the moment as vital to the culture.

Tisakorean’s delirious ode to snap music locates within a specific timeframe from the past an emotional center and palette, finding new entry points into the sound, blending homemade beats with experimental forms as well as hyperpop to fashion an immersive triumph. There’s nothing one-dimensional about Let Me Update My Status and it also doesn’t conjure any Bush-era feelings of excess or doom, which it might do if it used nostalgia as a gimmick. I love Let Me Update My Status because it sounds exactly like how 2007 felt, and for me 2007 was a good year to be alive, using the internet not because I had to but because I wanted to.

///

Finally, Found Me Volume Two, released with my creative brother Fat Tony, released in February. Buy one here. It continues to be my favorite thing I do. I wrote about Lil Yachty for NPR. Read that here. I started a Linktree and will add to it when necessary; bookmark/follow me here.

[20th-century-personalities]

Dusty Street, a DJ familiar to Southern Californians as one of the pioneering female voices in rock radio.

She began her career in San Francisco, DJ-ing at freeform KMPX beginning in 1967 before moving on to KSAN in 1969, where she held court for a decade. She moved on to KROQ in 1979, as the new wave movement was cresting and making that station feel like a clubhouse for a new generation. Her other stints in L.A. radio included stops at KWST and KLOS. Street eventually moved to Las Vegas and then Cleveland, from which she did her SiriusXM show on the Deep Tracks channel.

[stu-evans]

Seal Deluxe Edition

Let me take you back, dear reader, to 1991. Operation Desert Storm arrived in Kuwait, The Soviet Union began to dissolve the USSR, Grunge is about to take over MTV, the enigmatic Freddie Mercury sadly passed away and my beloved Tottenham Hotspur won the F.A Cup (thirty one years later and I’m still waiting for another WEM-BER-LEE victory) 

Riding the crest of a musical wave however was Henry Olusegun Adeola Samuel AKA Seal. ‘Killer’ a song written alongside acid house DJ and producer Adamski was all over the pubs, clubs, radio stations and Ministry Of Sounds. Despite the single being released a good year before the album came out, it was still a certified banger by the time this debut album was released. It still remains a massive dancefloor tune and has stood the test of time, still influencing the dance masses to this day. 

Killer, however, is only one track, and to dismiss the rest of this record would be doing Seal and those who have worked on this record a major disservice. The beginning starts with exactly that ‘The Beginning’ is a great way to start the record, it introduces us to what we’re about to hear. There’s soul, RNB and dance laden hooks through the song and Seal’s voice, pure like golden honey is at the fore ‘The music takes you round and round, hold on to the love’ he pleads as the outro leaves us with an aching acoustic guitar. 

This album has a lot of heavy influences on it, listening back with older ears as they are now, I can pick up a country feel on ‘Deep Water’ it’s a really heavy song ‘a shade of pain and then we die’ it is mournful, sad and yet quite beautiful. I’d forgotten this song existed, shame on me. 

As strong as the aforementioned ‘Killer’ is, I was always more of a ‘Crazy’ fan. It is almost the elder relative, it is still a dance floor classic but it has a deeper meaning ‘in a sky full of people only some want to fly, isn’t that crazy?’ hell yes it is. This song still moves me, and surely that’s the definition of classic. 

The production on this record still stands up to this day. At the helm was Trevor Horn, who not only produced the album but released it on his own, newly formed, record label  ZTT Records. Horn declared this record as a turning point in his career and it is easy to hear why, tracks like ‘Whirlpool’ seem pretty simple but dig deeper and you’ll hear gospel and soul flowing through the speakers. 

The album was famously released twice, Horn was not happy with with original version so decided to remix a few of the songs, most noticeably on the song 'Violet' and reissue the album only a few months after the original had been in the shops.

It would be fair to say some the songs haven’t aged so well ‘Wild’ doesn’t live up to its name at all, but to be fair on the deluxe edition the live version definitely has the funk the recorded track lacks. ‘Future Love Paradise’ also seems to lack the drive I seemed to recall it once having. 

Closing the album then is ‘Violet’ a beautiful 80′s influenced soul ballad, hints of Cocteau Twins (I seem to recall Seal declaring himself a fan)  it drifts along with spoken word in the background, not in an Alexander O’Neal way thankfully. Has this record stood the test of 31 years? Yes and no, in some parts it sounds as fresh as it did back in 1991 and in others not so much. Now about that bloody Tottenham Hotspur and winning the F.A Cup...... 

The extras in this deluxe edition offer a peek into the late 80′s and early 90′s dancefloor. The William Orbit remixes are the ones that stand out for me (much as his work with Blur is my favourite of theirs) get your glowsticks out for KIller. There are A LOT of remixes, seven versions of Crazy alone! If remixes are your bag you’ll be in heaven. 

The live album was recorded at The Point in Dublin and does showcase Seal’s wonderful voice. It is a lovely addition and one I’d recommended checking out over the remixes, especially ‘Violet’ and ‘Show me’ 

As a trip back to 1991 this album wouldn't have been my first choice (Ten & Nevermind ruled my world back then) but as a more mature listener I really enjoyed the record and of course I dived in and listened to 'Kiss From A Rose' straight after. It gets my Seal of approval!

7/10

[adsosfraser]

The Stone’s Toll - Chapter One

Read on AO3

“Miss?” The young man lightly nudged the unconscious woman’s shoulder before him.

Claire felt the tickle of his breath on her cheek, checking for signs of life. Cool slender fingers pressed into her neck and a sigh of relief escaped his chest when the blood pounded through her veins. Her body jostled in the arms of the stranger. He adjusted himself under her shoulders to give more support to her neck before placing a firm backpack under her in his stead.

Darkness wrapped itself around Claire’s body like a vise. The echoes of forlorn and tormented screams lingered in her mind. Her body reeled from the recent trip, seeking peace amongst the waves of unconsciousness. She groaned as the burning pain in her back increased in its appetite for more flesh.

“Dinnae fash miss, I’m going to fetch ye some help. My name is Graham, Graham Munro. I’ll be right back.”

The slick grass grabbed at the man's heels, and his face burned red as he caught himself stumbling down the hillside, almost diving straight first into the dewy grass. Graham slowed his pace to allow his shoes a proper grip on the uneven hill, but broke out into a sprint as the smooth road below met him. He had hiked from Inverness that morning, so had no reliable means of transportation nearby. Graham hoped he could gather the attention of a car driving down the road, one specifically with an occupant strong enough to help him carry the woman at the foot of the stones.

Claire’s body was racked with a wave of nausea and she turned her head to the side to relieve herself of the bile within her throat. Her head split in two from the pressure within. She leaned back against the backpack under her neck and let her eyes close. She pushed back the pain, both in her heart and her body, and focused on flashes of red and blue and a lingering sensation on her lips. Claire reached up to touch her lips, but her arm didn’t allow the movement. She grimaced as the pain that started in her back inched its way towards the front of her body. Her hand rested on top where her child was but it elicited a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, not one of reassurance. She slowly and carefully brushed her fingertips along the outline of her womb, tears springing forth and she tightened her eyes in response.

She wanted to scream, to rage and curse the stones in front of her, but she barely had energy to open her eyes as it was. She wanted to grab Jamie’s head between her hands and vent her frustrations at the Scottish brute, more importantly she wanted him to wrap his arms around her and make her feel safe, but his presence and scent had since faded away in the wind. It felt like eternity between the moments she reluctantly touched the stones and had woken to a stranger’s touch.

After flailing his arms for what seemed like a quarter of an hour and feeling like an idiot during the entirety of the process, Graham finally spotted a streak of shiny black as a car rounded the corner. He started waving his arms vigorously as the car grew larger and larger in view. It slowed to a stop and shuddered as the engine turned off. A man with spectacles pressed tightly against his nose and woman with smile lines sat in the front seats, puzzled expressions at Graham’s appearance at the side of the road.

“Do you need help sir?” An American accent bled through the older man’s voice.

“Aye, there’s a lass at the foot of the stones up on that hill.” Graham squinted his eyes in the sun’s light and pointed, as the words raced out of his mouth with urgency. “I dinnae think she’s hurt terribly but I found her unconscious, thinking she was dead. I couldnae carry her myself and didn’t think it would amount to much wi’ out a car. Will ye help get her to the city?”

“Of course.” The man offered a tight lipped smile. “My wife and I were just going back to our hotel in Inverness.”

The door swung open and he gripped the sides of the car to steady his descent from the car. He limped slightly, a gift from a war king past, but kept pace with the young sprightly man before him.

“Be careful darling.” She offered her husband a small smile and crinkled her eyes.

His wife’s own condition was no better than his, with her hands twisted from the effects of arthritis, and she did not want to hinder their haste towards their destination.

The two men took their journey to the stones in stride, being careful not to slip up on the grass below them. The older man was steady in his ascent, while Graham rushed up in short bursts towards the hilltop, debating between waiting in pace with the older man and getting to the top as soon as he could. The older man made a gesture for him to go on and the confirmation made Graham rush the final stretch up towards the top.

“Miss?” Graham tried to rouse her again by shaking her shoulders.

Claire grumbled out an incoherent murmur in response. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead and cheeks feeling a warm flush in her skin, but not enough yet to worry him.

Claire forced her mouth to move but it was hard to place the word. She reached weak arms up to grab the collar of his shirt and trembled to pull on it.

“What- what’s the year?” Her voice croaked.

“Dinnae owerwork yerself miss. My name is Graham Munro and yer gonna be just fine. We’ll take you to the hospital ”

“What’s the goddamn year.” The words were weak on her mouth, almost a whisper, and didn’t create the forceful emphasis Claire desired.

“Why it’s the 17th of April, 1948, what else could it be?” It was a day after the fateful battle, the one that took- no she wouldn’t think about that just yet. It had taken her that long to stir awake.

“Who won?” Claire could clearly see the man in front of her now that her eyes and mind adjusted to the reality before her.

He could be no older than sixteen, with a lanky build and a pockmarked face. His eyes somehow sparkled with the naivety of youth, not yet showing the horrors of the world reflected in their depths. Blond strands obscured his forehead and slivers of his eyes.

“Pardon me?”

Claire set her voice with all the conviction and authority she could muster and shook the collar that was painfully gripped between her hands. “Who won the Battle of Culloden?”

Silence entered the space between the two and Graham tried to hide his baffled expression.

“Did my history teacher send ye all the way out here to chastise me?” He chuckled but the humour faded from his voice as he looked at her grim face.”Well, the English of course.”

Her body fell limp at the words and she crumpled harder into herself. She clutched her arms right around stomach and let the sobs ricochet off of the stones for the world to hear her grief. Hot tears sprang forth and her head hurt even more from the strain of her lamentation. She barely felt the four hands lifting her up as she let sleep win, not able to deal with any of it. The swaying rhythm of their walking gaits lulled her into peace.

***

“Mrs. Randall.” Her body shuddered at the name.

She looked away from the doctor with unshed tears. Her eyes wandered down to the street below. So many sights of joyous families as they strolled along the pavement. She quickly whipped her head away from the sight of a man reaching into a pram before him to pick up the newborn inside of it. He threw her up in the air in his arms and beamed, pecking his wife and daughter with a quick kiss on the kiss each.

The stones had ripped away her husband, her heart, her family, her life. What more could they have taken from her to make their existence only a harbinger of pain and death? She knew. Somehow she knew. It didn’t feel right after she went through, not that anything could anymore. She subconsciously clutched the flat area of her stomach.

“Mrs. Randall it appears that ye’ve suffered a miscarriage. It’s likely the stress of recent events, the dehydration, malnourishment, and burns considered, that…” His voice nulled out as background noise in her mind.

Of course the bloody stones wouldn’t allow safe passage to the both of them. It was a foolish notion. They didn’t even know if the baby could go through the stones when they crested the hill and canons sounded far away on the battlefield. She barely even knew how the stones actually worked. Perhaps they required payment, and they saw fit to take whatever they could from her, the only thing she still had. Her baby’s voice would join the agonising chorus within the stones. She should never have been so foolish. The baby was the last piece of Jamie she had and she lost it, just like Faith. She failed. She failed Jamie. She failed both her children. She failed. She wasn’t strong enough to fight it off.

Her mind seemed to go on autopilot as the hours passed until Frank’s arrival. She originally refused his visit but the doctor insisted, multiple times. She didn’t let herself think of anything besides the rush of cars from the window, their honks, incomprehensible speech, the blurring melodies of the radio, and the squeak of the nurse’s shoes. She hated the bloody noise but it was what kept everything away and her completely falling apart again.

She caught sight of a reflection in the window that made her heart race violently. She gripped the sheets at her sides and tried to calm herself. She tried to look for any difference in Frank’s face from his ancestor’s that could calm her. He slowly approached her side and stopped a good distance from her bed.

“Claire.”

“Frank.” Claire pushed back the venom in her voice, leaving it with a neutral taste.

“I’m back.”

“And I am so grateful.”

“Are you?”

“Of course. With all my heart.”

He reached out his hand towards her arm for comfort, connection perhaps. She flinched and flashes of the deep evil crossed the forefront of her mind.

“Sorry.” Though Frank didn’t know why he was apologising for trying to comfort his wife.

She couldn’t bring herself to smile at him. Or to look into his eyes. His words mushed together into a watercolour of grey, one that Claire didn’t much care for. The only words Claire could seem to retain was something about the reverend.

[passionate-reply]

Stan Ridgway is best remembered as the guy from Wall of Voodoo, and Wall of Voodoo are best remembered as the guys from “Mexican Radio.” But there’s a whole lot more to Ridgway’s solo career, which began with 1986′s The Big Heat--Americana, epic narratives, and a whole lot of digital synth. (Transcript below the break!)

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, we’ll be looking at an often overlooked solo debut: Stan Ridgway’s The Big Heat, first released in 1986.

Stan Ridgway is best remembered as the original frontman of Wall of Voodoo, and Wall of Voodoo, in turn, are best remembered for the single “Mexican Radio,” a landmark bit of New Wave eclecticism that became an unlikely hit thanks in large part to heavy rotation on MTV. That said, like a lot of ostensible “one-hit wonders,” the span of Ridgway’s artistic career is quite a bit more varied and more interesting than this solitary recording might suggest. While I don’t believe that “Mexican Radio” is simply a novelty song that can easily be dismissed, I will set it aside for the time being, because any attempt to cover the rest of Stan Ridgway’s work is probably better off without worrying about it. Instead, let’s take a look at his first bona fide solo release: the 1983 single, “Don’t Box Me In.”

Music: “Don’t Box Me In”

“Don’t Box Me In” was a collaboration between Ridgway and percussionist Stewart Copeland, then known chiefly for his work with the group The Police. While Copeland is now fairly well known for his work composing scores for cinema and video games, this was one of his first forays into that field: the soundtrack to Francis Ford Coppola’s film adaptation of Rumble Fish. Based on a novel by S. E. Hinton, most famous for The Outsiders, Rumble Fish was actually a tremendous flop for Coppola, perceived to be a bit too avant-garde for its own good, and Copeland’s percussion-led score for the film, experimental in its own right, certainly didn’t help that perception. Despite all of this, “Don’t Box Me In” managed to do fairly well for itself as a single, achieving substantial alternative radio play purely on its own merits. And merits it has, weaving together the experience of a fish trapped in a tiny bowl with a more universalized sense of human ennui, being overlooked and underestimated by everyone around you. Not to be underestimated himself, Ridgway has not only written these evocative lyrics, but delivers them in a manner that shows a complexity beyond his semi-affected Western twang, conveying fragility and uncertainty alongside indignation and determinedness. This is also the version of Stan Ridgway whom we meet when we listen to The Big Heat.

Music: “Camouflage”

Despite being the very last single released from The Big Heat, the eerie war yarn “Camouflage” would go on to be the most successful track from the album, and Ridgway’s best-known hit as a solo artist. Perhaps surprisingly, the single was largely snubbed in the charts of Ridgway’s native USA, becoming a much bigger hit throughout Europe. While playing the harmonica and sporting a bolo tie, Ridgway seems to almost play the character of the quintessential American, and perhaps it’s that quality that’s caused this apparent rift. Is it necessary to analyze his art through the lens of exoticism in order to find it appealing?

It’s a hard question for me to answer, personally--I might be from the US myself, but at the same time, the vast majority of the music I listen to is European, as a natural consequence of being chiefly a devotee of electronic music. There is still a sort of novelty factor I find in Ridgway’s work. I remain in awe of the fact that a musical genius exists who uses a hard R, and says “huh?” instead of “pardon me?” But, of course, I am amazed by this moreso because it makes me feel “represented,” for once, in a musical tradition which is important to me. If people from Britain’s crumbling industrial centers like Sheffield and Manchester have made great electronic music, then surely synthesisers can also tell the stories of the American Rust Belt, where I come from? For that, we’ll have to step away from the sort of typified narrative of “Camouflage,” and take a listen to the album’s title track.

Music: “The Big Heat”

“Camouflage” told us a tale as old as time, in which a benevolent ghost offers one last act of aid to a vulnerable human being. The album’s title track, on the other hand, alludes to a particularly 20th Century form of storytelling: the detective drama and film noir, as hinted at by its allusion to the classic Fritz Lang film of the same title. Ridgway assumes the perspective of the hardboiled detective, hot on the trail of some mysterious quarry, and it is the innocent passers-by he seeks information from who respond with the song’s banal refrain: “Everybody wants another piece of pie today.” For as much as people have mocked Ridgway’s singing style over the years, you’ve got to appreciate his lilting delivery of this line here in the first verse, where it comes from the mouth of a female character.

It’s easy, of course, to see such apparent non sequitur lyrics in Ridgway’s oeuvre as merely ridiculous, as many quickly do with the likes of “Mexican Radio,” but the more you listen to him, the more his style begins to make sense. The instinct to find humour in things is deeply connected to the feeling of being surprised, and encountering the unexpected. Ridgway happens to be all about delivering the unexpected, and it’s precisely the surface-level absurdities and surprises his lyricism offers that make us think more deeply about the stories he tells. The title track of The Big Heat isn’t about pie, but rather the fact that everybody its characters encounter appears to be grasping for more out of life, and hungry for something else. It’s what drives criminals to transgress against the law, and it’s also, perhaps, what drives the detective to devote himself to the pursuit of the abstract principle of “justice.” To both the villain and the hero of this story, the civilians they brush past are little more than means to an end, despite their display of greater wisdom and insight into these issues than anyone else. Ridgway excels at conveying this sort of saintly everymannishness, and does so with similar gusto on the track “Pick It Up (And Put It In Your Pocket)”.

Music: “Pick It Up (And Put It In Your Pocket)”

“Pick It Up (And Put It In Your Pocket)” was actually not released as a single, which is perhaps surprising given its hooky quality and sprightly synth backdrop. While “Camouflage” is assembled chiefly from traditional instruments, with only a subtle intrusion of Yamaha DX-7 to remind you that it came out in 1986, many of the other tracks, like this one and the title track, are willing to double down on electronic influences, and ride the wave of “peak synth-pop” that was easily cresting by the mid-1980s. That aside, the central theme of “Pick It Up (And Put It In Your Pocket)” is the quotidian avariciousness one encounters among ordinary folk, and the psychological effects of living in a “mean world.” While the text mostly revolves around the idea of living in fear, and the paranoia of knowing that “everything changes hands when it hits the ground,” it reaches a climax by showing us an actual situation where this occurs: the pathetic figure of a filthy old man who finds a small bill in the road, and, in a fit of folk superstitiousness, is said to “thank the street.” The song’s tension lives between the bustle of the jealous ones, and the reality of life for those desperate enough to pick up money from the street. Like many of Ridgway’s greatest works, this track simultaneously portrays the mentality of the common man in a direct and serious manner, but also opens up room for it to be criticized. This everyman bystander persona is assumed more directly in the track “Drive, She Said.”

Music: “Drive, She Said”

While the album’s more electronic elements are its main draw, in my eyes, there are still a number of tracks that remain dominated by traditional instruments, “Drive, She Said” being a prime example of them. While narratives are always at the center of Ridgway’s work, “Drive, She Said” moves us away from omniscient narration like that of “Pick It Up (And Put It In Your Pocket)” and back into the mind of a specific and individualized narrator--in this case, a cab driver who somewhat reluctantly transports a bank robber, with whom he might also be falling in love. While it doesn’t have the supernatural implications of “Camouflage,” the two stories do seem to have much in common: an ordinary person meets someone who quickly reveals their extraordinary nature, and despite the brevity of their encounter, the protagonist is deeply affected, and perhaps changed, by the events. Much as “Pick It Up (And Put It In Your Pocket)” sees fit to shatter its apparent main premise, with an interlude that shifts the tempo of the music as well as introduces the contrasting figure of the old beggar, “Drive, She Said” introduces an interlude of its own: the driver’s reverie, in which he runs away with his enigmatic passenger. As in many of Ridgway’s tales, we must consider both the beauty of a wonderful dream, and its sheer impossibility.

On the cover of The Big Heat, we see a portrait of Stan Ridgway looking glum, which is not itself terribly unusual for an album cover, though the fact that he’s behind a metal fence certainly is. The main focus of the image seems to be Ridgway’s environment, a bleak industrial setting full of towering machinery, and no other traces of human beings. The absence of other figures in this scene draws attention to the scale of the machines, as well as the fact that in many parts of the US, including my own, it’s very common to see equipment like this that’s fallen into disuse and disrepair. Much as ruined aqueducts and palaces mark the places in Europe where the Roman Empire had once held fast, these sorts of derelict manufacturing facilities are a common sight in America, and serve as reminders of the squandered “American Century.” While many album covers have shown me places I like to imagine myself visiting, I don’t have to imagine what being here might be like, having grown up in a place whose pride left soon after the steel industry did. It strikes me as exactly the kind of setting that Ridgway’s narratives ought to take place in: dirty, simple, well-intentioned, doomed, and all-American.

Ridgway’s follow-up to The Big Heat would be 1989’s *Mosquitos,* an album that largely abandons the many synthesiser-driven compositions found in his earlier work. It’s hard to fault him for this decision, given how much the mainstream appeared to be souring on synth-pop and electronic rock by the end of the decade, but it does mean that this album offers little I’d want to listen to recreationally. That is, with the exception of its third and final single, “Goin’ Southbound,” a practically epic drama of small-town drug smugglers trying to survive, and one that fires on all cylinders when it comes to fiddles dueling with digital synths. This track feels like it would fit right in on The Big Heat, so if you’ve enjoyed this album, don’t miss it.

Music: “Goin’ Southbound”

My favourite track on The Big Heat is “Salesman,” which, to my surprise, received a small advance promo release without ever becoming a true single. The titular character, an unctuous but insecure traveling salesman, is as rich a narrating persona as any of the many in Ridgway’s catalogue, and I love the way the refrain just feels like a song you might make up while idly doing something else, silly and yet primal at the same time. It captures the feeling of living “on the edge of the ball,” enjoying the freedom of spontaneity, but also, perhaps, suffering for its enforced sloppiness. That’s everything for today, thanks for listening!

Music: “Salesman”

[fallen420]

Rebel Spy - Chapter 1: The Child

Mando x OC

Summary: Aurora life becomes lonely after the war ends but when a familiar Mandalorain needs her help who is she to refuse

Series Playlist 

Prologue 

It's a nice breezy day on Naboo. I walk into one of the many cantinas, I order a drink, and I sit down in one of the booths in the back. I take out a book and begin to read.

Ever since the empire fell 5 years ago I've resided on the planet I always dreamed of living on, Naboo. The people are nice, the scenery is beautiful, and almost no crime happens here.

The door to the cantina opens and I can feel people around me getting tense and I hear whispers. I look up to see what the fuss is about and I see the same silver Mandalorian from Tatooine in front of me. Behind him is a floating pod of some kind. It's closed so I can't see what's inside.

I put the book down as he sits across from me. "I'm not here to hurt you, Aurora."

He remembers my name. It's been years how does he remember? He only ever saw it on the tracking forb.

"That's what somebody who wants to hurt me would say."

"Look Jabas dead anyway. You're safe." I look up into his visor feeling the weight being lifted off my shoulders. He adjusts in his seat then says quieter, "I need your help."

"Help? Me? You want my help? Why me?"

"Because you owe me."

"I can't be the only person in the galaxy who owes you something."

He takes a moment, "I have this...kid." He glances at the pod still floating there.

"You have a kid? A Mandalorian has a kid?"

"It's not mine mine. I..."

"Adopted it?"

"Sure."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Watch it while I collect bounties. Help take care of the ship. Stuff like that."

"Okay. I'll do it."

"Really? Just like that?"

I look around and shrug "What else am I doing?"

-

We start to walk back to his ship, "So can I actually see this kid?" He walks in front of me while the pod floats by his side. Why I chose to trust him, I don't know. I mean he let me go the last time, yeah but he's still a Mandalorian. It's not like my life was super fun and exciting anyway might as well babysit a mystery kid and hang out with an even more mysterious Mandalorian.

"You can on the Razor Crest where it's safe."

"Razor crest?"

"My ship."

"Ohh.."

He stops walking, "Wait. Don't you have a family to say goodbye too? You're not coming back who knows how long."

I look at him confused by the sudden burst of - caring. Very out of character for a Mandalorian. I shake my head no, "Nope. No family."

He turns around and walks forward again.

-

He closes the door to the ship and he finally opens the pod. It reveals a green baby with big eyes and ears. It's cute but also kinda ugly. "I was not expecting that."

I wave at it and coos while waving back.

"Where'd you get it?" I ask looking back at the Mandalorian.

"He was a bounty but I uh- I couldn't it."

"Mhm, so Mandalorians do have hearts."

He doesn't acknowledge my statement. "This is the fresher," he says pointing to a tiny room with a toilet and a small shower. "This is where you will sleep." he motions towards a tiny cot. He points into a room with the door closed. "That's where I sleep. Don't go in there."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"I'll give you half of what I get from collecting bounties for taking care of the kid." He begins to walk towards the cockpit.

"Wait," he stops, "What do I call you?"

"Mando." He climbs the latter.

I sit down on the cot and the kid looks up at me and coos, "This should be interesting."

-

The first night I get woken up to the ship shaking around. I check the kid who is still somehow asleep. I stand up holding onto the wall so I don't fall down. I make my way up to the cockpit.

"What the hell is going on?!" I yell over the shooting as I sit on the co-pilot's chair.

"We're being shot at."

No shit.

Mando dodges the blasts well.

"What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Hand over the child mando,"  his voice comes out the intercom.  He hits one of the engines and sparks fly around. "I might let you live."  

He hits us again.

"Hey you know you might want to uh shoot him back." He hits us again and alarms go off and Mando presses some buttons. "Look you fly, I'll shoot. Just get us behind him and I'll get the fucker." He nods and I grab hold of one of the guns,

"Hold on," Mando says and he flips us upside down dodging blasts, "Come on,"

"I can bring you in warm or I can bring you in cold."

"That's my line," Mando pulls the ship back and it grazes over the other guy's ship knocking out his gun. Now that we are behind him, I aim my gun and shoot. It hits his ship square on blowing it up. Mando looks at me and nods as a way of saying thank you.

He clicks a few more buttons, "Losing fuel." Then the power shuts off.

"Great." He gets up and clicks a button behind my chair. He sits back down clicking more things and the power turns back on, "Stars, this thing has a lot of buttons."

He turns on the radio, "This is Mos Eisely tower. We are tracking you. Head for bay three-five, over."

"Copy that," Mando says, "Locked in for three-five."

"Mos Eisley," I chuckle a little, "Ironic." I stand up with a yawn, "Well, while that was exciting I should get some sleep."

-

I was able to sleep for a few hours only to be awakened by the child's whines.

"Good morning," he coos back, "Hungry?" I stand up to grab him something to get

Mando climbs down the ladder from the cockpit, "Good you're awake."

"Good morning to you too."

"I found some work it shouldn't take me long to catch this bounty." I nod, "You stay here and watch the kid." He hands me a comlink, "If one of us gets into trouble we can use that to communicate. And somebody will be working on the ship outside. Do not let them see the kid."

"Got it," I say putting the comlink in my pocket. and with that the leaves. I turn back to the kid and hand him his food, "Looks like its just us."

-

I play with the kid for a while, read my book.

I take a shower in the tiny fresher. I look in the mirror to see my pink hair is fading away. Soon it'll be back to its natural color. I glance over the scars that cover my body from the war. I get dressed and decided the kid and I could use a good nap.

We wake up to hammering from the ship being repaired. I decided to make myself useful clean up around here. I grab a rag and start dusting the shelves.

There's another room that Mando didn't show me. Curiosity gets the best of me and I open it. It opens and reveals a weapon room. He has blasters along the walls. "Woah." I pick up one of the smaller silver blasters. They feel new considering the pre-empire old ship.

I put it back but it wasn't balanced and falls. But it doesn't it the ground.

I blink to make sure I'm seeing it right.

Yep.

It's floating.

I look back at the kid who has his little hand out. Then it hits me.

He's using the goddamn force. I've only seen it once before but what else would this be.

I grab the gun and put it back carefully this time. He puts his hand down and slumps in the pod.

"Are you a-? Did you just use-?  Where did Mando find you?"

-

"Help!" I hear a woman's voice scream outside. Immediately I close the kid's pod and I grab the gun I looked at earlier, I grab the bullets and load it. I hear struggling and then the door opens but I already have my gun pointed at whoever it is.

A guy has a gun pointed to the women, who I assume was fixing the ship, head. They stand on the ramp while I still stand on the ship.

"Where's the kid?" He asks.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Drop your blaster or I shoot her."

I weigh my options. I mean yeah I don't know her but I still don't want her to die.

I remember the comlink in my pocket but if I reach for it who knows what he might do.

"I wouldn't try that I have a clear shot of your head right now." I don't

"Give me the kid."

"I don't have a goddamn kid. You got the wrong ship buddy."

Behind him I see Mando approaching slowly trying not to make his presence know.

"No, you see if I get that kid and that Mandalorian I'm gonna be famous."

It takes everything in me not to laugh at this arrogant kid.

Mando can't shot him without him shooting her on reaction.

"Ambitious there. Let's make a deal, let her go and we'll talk mhm? "

"How do I know you won't kill me?"

I sigh before putting the blaster down and putting my hands up, "Let her go."

He throws her to the side and before he can speak Mando shoots him and he falls to the ground.

The woman looks at both of us, "Thank you."

"The kid?" Mando asks me.

"Right here."

"Good," he hands the women credits before climbing onto the ship and closing the hatch.

"Where did you get the blaster?" he asks. I point towards his weapon room thingy. "Keep it."

"Are you sure?" He just nods, "Thank you."

[vannahfanfics]

Song of the Sea

Category: General Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Eri, Shota Aizawa, Hizashi Yamada

Eri jumped as her bedroom door burst open, followed by a very familiar voice announcing, “Hey, hey, stop what you’re doing, because we’re going to the beach todaaaaaayyy!” 

“The beach?” Eri said owlishly as she looked up from her tea table, where she was currently pouring imaginary tea for the myriad of stuffed animals seated around the small pink furniture. As Present Mic waltzed into her bedroom, wiggling his hips in a giddy little jig, his grin was nearly blinding. 

“That’s right, my dear! Summer is here, and your therapist thought it would be good for you to go out and get some sunshine!” he explained as he crouched down and picked up one of the ceramic cups. He shook it at her, silently demanding to be served, and Eri giggled delightedly as she used the floral-patterned teapot to distribute. Present Mic took a long, exaggerated sip of air, emerald eyes glittering playfully above the rim of the cup before he pulled it away from his lip with a loud, satisfied sigh. “Delicious! Anyway,” he said, bopping her on the nose as she continued to snicker, “How does that sound?” 

“I’ve never been to the beach before,” Eri considered, cocking her head to the side. From what she knew of the beach, it was supposed to be an enjoyable place indeed. Ever since being rescued from Overhaul’s clutches, she had been making considerable efforts to come out of her shell and do things that normal little girls did. A smile spread across her face as she imagined the rolling waves cresting on pristine white sands, tasting the salty sea breeze and feeling the sun kissing her skin. “Yeah! That sounds really fun!” she agreed with an emphatic nod. 

“Wonderful!” Present Mic trilled and clapped his hands together. “Let’s go, then!” 

“Wait, right now?” Eri squeaked in surprise as he hopped to his feet. She looked hesitantly at her array of stuffed animals. “But I haven’t finished the tea party.” It would be very rude of her to leave her guests wanting tea and snack cakes. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry!” Present Mic tutted, smacking himself in the forehead. “How rude of me! Scoot Mr. Teddy over so I can enjoy some tea too, Eri, dear.” Eri did as he wished, cackling as the tall man wormed his way into one of the wooden chairs, his knees hunched up under his chin. He grabbed one of the chocolate cream-filled pastries and devoured it in nearly one bite, crumbs raining down from his chin. “We’ll finish this first and then go to the beach!” 

Eri nodded eagerly and then proceeded to finish serving her guest, along with the newcomer Present Mic. Eraserhead found them there half an hour later, with his friend loudly regaling Eri’s stuffed bunny rabbit with a story about their high school glory days. Eri was cackling maniacally at his gut-bustingly funny rendition of Eraserhead falling asleep on the school rooftop and getting drenched by a surprise thunderstorm. 

“And he came trudging into class, dripping wet and had to explain—” Present Mic was interrupted as Eraserhead grunted in the doorway. His head whirled on his shoulders to look at the disgruntled teacher with wide emerald eyes. “Oh, hello, Shota.” 

“I thought we were taking Eri to the beach?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yes, but I had to finish my tea party!” Eri explained with a gesture at her stuffed animals, which all had snack cake-colored stains over their snouts. Eraserhead regarded the myriad of toys with silent consideration before nodding understandingly. 

“Right. Of course. Are you done now?” 

“Yes, I think so.” At her confirmation, Present Mic jumped up with a triumphant yowl, throwing his hands in the air. 

“Yeeeeeeeaaaahhhh! Beach time, beach time! Oh, Shota, did you bring it? Did you bring it?” Present Mic pestered as he zoomed up to Eraserhead and tugging elatedly on his shirt. The dark-haired hero scowled and shoved him away with an irritated, “Yes, yes, now get off!” Eri blinked confusingly as Present Mic bristled with excitement in the corner, and Eraserhead procured a plastic bag to fish something out of it. “If we’re going to the beach, you need a swimsuit,” he explained simply as he handed her the clothing item. 

Eri turned it over in her hands, eyes widening. It was a beautiful one-piece; three rows of red ruffles crossed the bust area diagonally, with strings coming up to tie around the back of her neck and others crisscrossing over where her shoulder blades would be. The rest of the fabric was creamy white and patterned with apples, complete with little stems and green leaves. As she admired the cute bathing suit, Present Mic dashed over, tucking his fists under his chin as he practically vibrated with excitement. 

“Do you like it?! Oh, when we saw it, we just knew it would look super cute!” 

“Mic, that’s gross.” 

“Eh? What’s the point of having an adorable daughter without dolling her up for the world to see?!” 

“Mic, she’s not your daughter.” 

“She might as well be!” Present Mic protested, hugging Eri close. As her cheek squished into his chest, Eri smiled sweetly and looked up at him. 

“I love it! Can I go put it on?” 

“Of course, of course!” Present Mic trilled, pushing her past Eraserhead to the hallway bathroom. “And while you get ready, Shota and I will get everything ready for our super-duper awesome day at the beach! Yeeaaaaaaaaaah!” 

Eri had to giggle at his enthusiasm; she found herself thoroughly hyped for the new adventure as he shut the bathroom door behind her and dragged Eraserhead off to prepare all the necessary items. She wormed out of her clothes and slipped into the bathing suit, careful not to tangle the strings as she tied them around her neck. It took a few tries as she was too short to use the mirror, so she had to fumble underneath her silvery hair to secure the knot. Eri felt pretty accomplished when she managed to do so without asking for the adults’ help. As soon as she unlocked the door and opened it back up, Present Mic was standing there in a muscle tee and a pair of yellow shorts with rainbow music notes all over them, a towel around his neck and that same grin on his face. 

“Kyaaaaaa! Shota, isn’t she the most adorable thing ever?” he howled with delight. Eraserhead, sporting a gray tee and some plain black swim trunks, lowered his shades to inspect Eri critically. Though he lifted his sunglasses before grunting his approval, she could see some color rise to his cheeks. Present Mic scurried over to secure her hair into a set of pigtails before ushering her to the door. “We’re gonna have so much fun! Ah, wait, wait, wait,” he said as she stepped out of the door. When she looked back in bewilderment, he was whipping out his cellphone. “Say cheese! I have to show everyone how cute Eri looks on her first day at the beach!” 

Eri reflexively smiled, wincing as the camera flash momentarily blinded her. Present Mic snickered to himself as his fingers flew across the keyboard, probably posting the picture everywhere it could be seen. That is until Eraserhead booted him out the doorway, causing Present Mic to yelp and rub his bum with a pout at his friend. Eraserhead just trudged past him, carrying a beach bag full of towels and other assorted items to the car. Eri tottered along after him, pigtails swinging with each trot. As she climbed into the backseat and buckled herself in, she peered curiously into the bag; before she could get a good look, Eraserhead reached back from the driver’s seat to close it. 

“You don’t want to ruin the surprise, do you?” he winked. Eri slumped a little as she was playfully admonished, but a surprise did sound fun. 

She obediently refrained from peeking during the ride. It became the furthest thing from her mind anyway as they neared the shore; she sat up in the seat to stare at the expanse of blue stretching along the horizon, red eyes wide as they behold the white rolling waves and even whiter rolling dunes. Colorful umbrellas and towels dotted the landscape. Beachgoers lounged in the shade reading books and listening to portable radios, played in the wet sand moistened by the tide, or frolicked in the surf, tossing balls and playing with inflatables. Eri bounced up and down, growing so excited that a little squeal bubbled out of her throat. When she looked impatiently to the front compartment of the car, both Eraserhead and Present Mic were smiling happily at her out of the corners of their eyes. 

As soon as they parked, Eri jumped out of the car to dash to the sand. She hopped off the boardwalk into the grainy stuff, gasping as her bare feet sank into the warm grains. She wiggled her toes, appreciating the way the sand moved around her feet like fluid. She then jumped up and down with a squeal, throwing up the fine sand all around her. 

“The beach! The beach!” she chanted, turning in a circle as she stamped around. Eraserhead chuckled as he walked up behind her, carrying an umbrella and two fold-out chairs over his shoulder. 

“Having fun already, kiddo? Wait until you see the water.” 

Eri gasped, whirling around so hard she lost her balance and bumped into Eraserhead’s legs. She could hear the waves rolling beyond the dunes, crashing and frothing. She ran up the side of the dune, grunting as she sunk deep into the sand, to clamber up to the top. She immediately sucked in a breath as the water came into view and the salty breeze hit her nose; it looked ethereal, the way the water rushed in and out, spraying up sea foam as it sank into the sand. Squeals of children and pleasant conversation floated on the breeze, creating a symphony of revelry on the tune of the ocean. 

“Wowwww…” she breathed exultantly, looking up at Eraserhead and Present Mic as they came walking up the dune. “We’re really gonna spend the day here?” It almost seemed too good to be true; tears of gratitude and joy welled up in her eyes as she looked back to the gently crashing waves. In the deep dungeons of Overhaul’s compound, she could only dream of the ocean. Now here it was, right before her very eyes, close enough to touch. 

“Of course,” Eraserhead smiled. He adjusted his grip on the chairs and umbrella before extending his hand to her. “Let me put this stuff down, and then we’ll go into the water, okay?” Eri nodded without looking at him, spellbound by the push-and-pull of the waves, but she reached for his hand on instinct. It wrapped around her small one, tough and calloused and warm, and led her down the side of the sand dune to the beach. Eraserhead left Present Mic to set up the chairs and umbrellas as he led Eri to the shoreline, where she stopped hesitantly in front of the water. The back-and-forth crashes almost seemed intimidating, now; surely, those waves could suck her right in and spirit her away into the great dark unknown. With a small whimper, she hugged Eraserhead’s leg and tugged at the ruffles of her bathing suit. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you go anywhere,” Eraserhead chuckled warmly and gave her back an encouraging pat. She clutched tight to his hand as she tentatively inched up to the waterline. As a wave came rolling up, foaming and dumping seashells into the wet sand, she dipped her foot into the water. She squealed and retracted it, giddy with relief. 

“It feels good!” Again, as the wave came cresting up, she edged forward, sticking her whole foot in this time. She laughed at the funny feeling of the bubbles popping against her skin and the water swirling around, making the shells bump against her ankle. She quickly leaned down to scoop up one. It was a cracked scallop shell, but the brown-and-cream patterning was so pretty that she still found herself holding it up to the sun to admire it. “So this once had a clam in it?” 

“Yep,” Eraserhead confirmed, taking it from her to look it over. “Now it’s an empty shell. It’s broken, but would you still like to keep it?” 

“Mhmm!” 

Eraserhead whistled to Present Mic, who obediently brought over a bucket that she could drop the shell into. Before she could dive down to get another one, Present Mic tapped her on the head with a tube of something. 

“Eri, let’s put on some sunscreen first, okay?” 

She nodded obediently, and he leaned down, popping open the cap and squeezing a generous amount of the thick white cream into his head. Eri scrunched up her face as he rubbed it all into the skin of her face, then slicked it over her arms, legs, and the bare areas of her back. She grimaced at first because it made her feel gross and sticky, but she tolerated it because she knew it would make him sad if she objected. 

The two men crouched beside her as she weaved her hands through the sloshing surf to catch the shells fluttering up from the deep, picking ones she liked to keep. She spent a good fifteen minutes there while the two looked on until Present Mic cleared his throat. 

“Eri, would you like to go swimming?” 

She straightened up, salty water dripping from her hands. 

“Oh, but I don’t know how to swim…” she said with a longing look out at the sea. It certainly looked fun and refreshing. She glanced back when Eraserhead chuckled and patted her on the head. 

“Don’t worry. We have floats for you.” As he said it, Present Mic approached, blowing up the second of a pair of strange-looking inflatables of transparent red plastic. Eraserhead dipped them in the water before sliding them up her arms, nestling them near her armpits. She flapped her arms up and down, giggling at the weird feeling of the plastic rubbing against her skin, and then watched as Eraserhead straightened up and offered her his hand again. Eri’s heart hummed with happiness as she reached up to take it, marveling at how strong yet soft it felt. 

Even with all the people around, there hadn’t been a moment yet that Eri felt nervous because she always felt safe with Eraserhead. She wasn’t daunted in the least as he helped her wade out into the surf, the sand squishing beneath her toes and the salt spray lapping at her upper body and face because she knew that he’d never let her be dragged away. As she went deep enough to have to tip her head back, she lifted up her legs and began wildly kicking her legs. The floaties kept her buoyant on the waves, and she bobbed in a circle around his legs, occasionally bumping into him as she panted with effort. 

“I’m swimming!” she screeched with delight, laughing as a wave pushed her up against his thighs. Eraserhead smirked as he pushed her a foot away, keeping a hold of her ankle. Eri squealed as she rolled onto her back and drifted on the sloshing water. “Mic, Mic, look!” she called to the blond as he came wading out into the water, his long hair piled into a bun atop his head. At that moment, a wave crashed over the back of her head, drenching her entirely. 

“Ah! Eri, dear, are you all right?” Present Mic exclaimed and raced toward her at the speed of an Olympic swimmer. 

“Ugh, you’re such a mother hen,” Eraserhead grunted as he calmly tugged the sputtering and coughing Eri close. “You okay?” he then asked, eyebrows pinched together. Eri flipped her dripping silver bangs out of her eyes, blinking rapidly as the salt stung, and sucked in a breath. After gathering her thoughts, she began laughing happily. 

“I got wet,” she snickered. Present Mic deflated in relief before scooping her up to mount her on his shoulders. Her squeals of happiness bounded up to join the caws of the seabirds as Present Mic roared and charged the waves, kicking at them on the pretense of defending Eri from the sea. She clutched onto his head as she kicked her little feet too, although that high up, she could only nab some of the bubbly froth spraying up. 

After about an hour of playing in the water, Eri retreated back inland to build a sandcastle. They decorated it with the shells she found, as well as bits of kelp and some driftwood. Present Mic declared her the queen of the castle and slapped a seaweed crown on her head; it felt really gross and slimy, so she chucked it at him on instinct, and Eraserhead started guffawing when it slapped across Present Mic’s face like an enormous mustache. 

As she was watching a hermit crab scuttle across the sand, a large yawn split her face. She reached up to rub her eye with her knuckles, smearing sand and salt particles over her eyebrow. 

“Tired, kiddo?” Eraserhead asked with a lopsided smile. She nodded and stood up to toddle over and hug his legs. He affectionately tousled her hair, which was dry and tangly from the salty water. Present Mic came up behind her to wrap her in a pink floral-patterned towel, and Eraserhead picked her up to carry her to their chairs and umbrellas. As he reclined in one of the fold-out chairs with a long sigh, she snuggled into his neck, playing with the ends of his long black hair. 

“Did you have fun?” he asked as she smiled sleepily up at him. 

“Mhmm,” she nodded and then yawned loudly again. As she nuzzled into him, enjoying the way the scent of salt mingled with the smell of his cologne, she quietly asked, “Can we come again sometime?” 

“Sure.” 

“Can Deku and Lemillion come too?” 

“Sure. I’m sure they’d love to.” 

Satisfied, Eri closed her eyes, embracing the drowsiness threatening to overtake her system. She listened to the rhythmic roll of the waves and the rush of the wind and the squawks of the seabirds and the symphony of shouts and laughs riding the wind. It really was a beautiful sound. As she sank into the sweet twilight of sleep, she found herself reminded again of all the heroes who risked their all to save her from the deep dark of the underground yakuza compound. 

Thanks to them… I can listen to the beach anytime I want to. Thank you… My heroes…

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Lights of Treasure Island

For the past few years, I've been living on a barrier island named Anastasia. A sandy, sleepy, slow place, just off the coast of our nation's oldest city, Anastasia Island features tall palm trees and gorgeous beaches, along with excellent sushi and a surprisingly active arts scene. Its most splendid attraction, though, is an old lighthouse, one striped with a black and white spiral and crowned by a bright red lamphouse. It towers commandingly over the dunes, casting a long beam that can be seen from nearly anywhere in town.

I've always liked lighthouses. In days of old we set these magnificent lanterns on the edge of the sea, to guide sailors through dark and treacherous waters, to show them the way home. Lighthouses represent so many things we need: safety, comfort, reliability, navigation. But in my mind, these structures hold the magic of candles, the magic of illumination itself. When we speak of enlightenment, we may be speaking specifically of rationality and discovery, but we are also conjuring images of light prevailing over darkness. And in this way the lighthouse emerges as a powerful symbol of the spirit.  

This February, for my 47th birthday, I explored the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where I saw several amazing lighthouses. Impressive as they were, I did not think they quite compared with the singular majesty of the structure that stands on Anastasia Island. After a harrowing return journey, one in which I drove with no working alternator (and sometimes without headlights or windshield wipers) through nearly 700 miles of tornadic thunderstorms, I felt the most profound relief when I finally crested the peak of the SR-312 bridge, which connects my island to the mainland, and I saw those familiar black and white stripes in the distance, signaling that I had made it home. Less than half a year later, my feelings about this special lighthouse of mine would be forever changed by a chance encounter.

Just under two months ago, I received a brief and rather unremarkable message from a stranger on Scruff, a queer dating platform that I use. One might charitably call Scruff "a social club for discerning gentlemen" ... it appeals to men who are hirsute, meaty, perpetually horny, and even a few of us freaks who defiantly straddle the line between "butch" and "nancy". Since this man's profile didn't really offer all that much information, and his one available picture wasn't particularly compelling, I promptly tucked his message away and forgot about it, and went for my customary sunset walk on the beach.

I live exactly one mile from the southern boundary of a state park, which offers a four-mile stretch of pristine dune habitat, completely undeveloped and sparsely occupied. The only man-made objects in sight are a few empty lifeguard stands, the city's sightseeing pier, a radio antennae, and our lighthouse. Dolphins gather here, their dorsal fins rising and falling between the breakers. Squadrons of pelicans fly in tight formations, gliding only a few feet above the water's surface. Terns and sea turtles nest in its sands, and I've found many shark teeth among the sea shells and ghost crab burrows. This is a special place, a holy place, and I've made a daily ritual of enjoying its cloudscapes and crepuscular glow as I explore the edge between land and sea.

After a pleasant stroll, maybe an hour or so of blissful meditation, I turned around and started heading back towards my car when I caught sight of a man who had just walked out of the water and was now drying himself off. We locked eyes.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Arrestingly beautiful, the kind of handsome that stops you dead in your tracks. I just kind of gulped for a second, and then walked right up to him, with an audacity that I didn't even know I possessed, turned on every damn bulb in my Christmas tree, and murmured, "Hi!", making the word shimmer like tinsel. In a short amount of time, I learned that he was a Russian artist, born in St. Petersburg but living in Moscow. I had met him during a brief pause on his long drive from Jacksonville to Key West; he had only intended on stopping in St. Augustine long enough to explore our old Spanish fort and take a swim on our nicest beach. He possessed a keen intellect, a quick wit, and a laudable command of English. As we spoke, he kept giving me flashes of the most mischievous smile, and so when I finally asked him what he was grinning about, he revealed that he was the same man who had messaged me earlier. This came as a surprise, for I hadn't recognized him at all ... I had only been drawn in now by his gorgeous movie-star looks, the undeniable sex appeal of his dripping wet body, and some weird sense of destiny.

We talked. We talked some more. We went to dinner. And then he stayed for the better part of three days.

In my bed, we enjoyed the most astonishing kind of communion. Our nights and mornings were filled with such tenderness ... soft eyes, soft caresses, fearlessly sustained gazes, the kind of kisses that tell a hundred little stories. One by one, various secrets were brought to light. We shared toe-curling carnality, thunderous climaxes, an unalloyed and unembarrassed intimacy. We shared joy.

On our second day together, I took him to the top of Anastasia Island's lighthouse. We lingered on each landing to kiss and giggle, and our embraces grew more intense. We felt a stronger and stronger pull towards one another. I knew that this was more than just a simple infatuation. By the time we reached the lantern's round balcony, and stepped out together onto the most spectacular view of St. Augustine, I knew that I was falling in love.

I don't blame you for rolling your eyes at this. You may, in your justifiable cynicism, think it ridiculous for a man to utter such a powerful phrase within such a short time. But if you've ever known me, you've come to recognize by now my considerable capacity for love. My passions and appetites may rise to the surface with little interference, and will I admit some recklessness in how I've invested my energies, but I am no fool. I am neither naïve nor desperate. And I can say in all sincerity that what we felt then was, at least for a short while, genuine love.

From the top of the lighthouse we could see everything. The old downtown, with its mixture of colonial and Spanish Renaissance buildings. The Matanzas River, named for the 1565 massacre of shipwrecked Huguenots, separating my island from the mainland. The harbor of St. Augustine, crowded with sailboats and pleasure craft, a forest of masts. And then the sea, blue and inviting, the sea that would soon separate us. We held each other tightly and looked upon the Atlantic together, casting our dreams towards the horizon, into this vista of seemingly endless possibility and hope.

On our last night together, we took a naked midnight swim in my pool, which is lit from above by a row of blue lights. A light and warm rain fell on our heads as we twined our legs underwater, and our ardor cast a web of rippling refractive patterns on the pool's concrete bottom. He looked me in the eyes, kissed me with the utmost gentleness, and formally invited me to come stay with him in Moscow. I accepted with my new magic word, "Да."

The following morning, our parting was so sweet, and so warm. We solidified our promise to be reunited. He drove down to Key West, enjoying a music playlist I assembled for him, and then he flew up to New York for a week's visit with old friends. After he returned to Moscow, we embarked on a passionate long-distance affair via telephone and social media apps.

I plunged right away into the Russian language, practicing for hours a day, rediscovering my knack for linguistics. I bought books on the cities of Moscow and St. Petersburg, books on Russian verbs, flashcards, a portable dictionary. I subscribed to online learning programs, put apps on my phone, read up on the country's history. I was all in, bringing every available bit of my enthusiasm, work ethic, and inventiveness to the challenge. Every day, I would send him sweet little videos or text messages ... sharing good news, conveying small but significant events of my daily life, showing off my rapidly accelerating grasp of Russian. I sent him notes of encouragement, pictures of me looking my cutest, small but enjoyable details of my life on Anastasia Island. I sent him a short clip of the black skimmers that sliced back and forth across the thin swash of the surf, their beaks dipping into half an inch of water. I sent him pelicans, beach crabs, waves, paintings, difficult words, idioms, cute terms of venery, sunsets, clouds, kisses, evidence of my changing body. I sent him love, every day. "каждый день," I promised him, placing my hand on my heart, "каждый день." Every day.

My love deepened by the hour. I know this is going to sound so gushy and gross, but I really pushed the lighthouse metaphor pretty hard, calling myself "твой смотритель маяка" or "your lighthouse keeper". I meant this in all sincerity, without a drop of bathos or schmaltz. Our time atop the lighthouse was sacred to me. I promised him that I would keep its light burning bright.

Over time, however, things shifted. As my interest grew, his began to dwindle. He sent less and less of himself, slowly removing from our conversation his humor, his sexuality, his warmth, his trust. It was like seeing a fully assembled jigsaw puzzle get lifted into the air, and watching all the pieces falling out ... at first only a few at a time, then more and more, until there was only a jagged perimeter where there had once been a lovely picture.

The nadir came when he lost his temper with me over my visa. I was confused about the process, as the Russian consulate and other sources were providing patchy and often conflicting information, and his own explanations changed from day to day. During our last video chat, I asked one too many questions, and he snapped. He rolled his eyes, effectively called me stupid and childish, and hung up on me three times. My many attempts at reconciliation were completely rebuffed. It was both baffling and extraordinarily painful.

Two days after our fight he was in a terrible car accident, one from which he miraculously escaped unharmed. He posted on social media an impassioned paragraph about the event, and how it drew into sharp focus all the love he had in his life, how he felt that he wasn't deserving of such love, how grateful he was for his friends. Yet instead of contacting me, inviting me into this experience, or trying to repair our frayed connection, he spent his evenings logging back into Scruff, the aforementioned dating app. He continued to ignore me, choosing instead to pursue (or perhaps refresh) other opportunities. I tried in vain to reach him, to restore our bond, but was met with only the most chilling silence.

How had I been so wrong? Had my desire devolved into mere obsession, albeit one artfully disguised as love? Had my zeal somehow suffocated him? The irony for me was that this disastrous affair unfolded during a period of rapid and positive transformation. In the space of the last seven months, I'd already changed my diet, fixed my teeth, joined a gym, paid off a chunk of my debt, reorganized my home office, purchased a standing desk, resumed my daily beach walks, started seeing both a psychiatrist and a therapist. My relationship to my body was improving, I was working at a higher level of professional responsibility, gaining new clients, writing my fourth novel, and churning out the finest paintings of my career. A recent experience with ayahuasca had given me valuable insights into my adulthood. It seemed only right that this Russian should be the cherry on my sundae, a prize I had been working so hard to deserve.

And so, after admitting my own disenchantment, I surrendered. Reeling from an overwhelming feeling of loss, I wrote him a heartfelt letter in Russian, one in which I explained the hurt his indifference was causing me. I poured a lot of benevolent energy into this letter. And then I said to him the saddest word I've learned in Russian, "Про��ай", which is the type of goodbye you use when you think you are not likely to see someone again. It translates, literally, into "forgive me."

Here is the letter I wrote to him, translated into English:

***

"V_____, beautiful V____:

Okay. I give up.

Your silence gave me a very clear and very painful answer. You have been entrusted with something rare and beautiful, and you have shown that you do not want it. So now it's gone.

I'm sorry my heart bored you so much. I will no longer annoy you with my desires.

The love that I offered you ... pure and strong, given without demands or jealous limitations ... does not come often.

It pains me to realize that you do not appreciate what I have tried to give you. It is even more painful to realize that I may have aggravated the situation with my zeal. But the distance that you put between us is your choice, and I must respect that.

It seems that the epiphany you experienced in the car accident, the moment you thought of all the love in your life, did not include my love for you. Your priorities are yours, and I accept that. But you almost died yesterday, V_____. And instead of choosing to bond with a man who cares about you so much, your focus shifted to Scruff. Your indifference is so obvious now. Please do not say anything ugly or cruel in response. There is already enough sorrow on my island. I feel both grief and embarrassment, but not anger. I've always wanted the best for you, and it's still true.

I sincerely wish you a long and happy journey. I hope you enjoy many successes and find many pleasures. I hope you stay healthy. I hope the man you choose deserves your best gifts. I hope you find a better lighthouse. I must direct my light now to those who are really looking for it. So now I must tell you the saddest word that I have learned in your language.

Goodbye."

***

Please allow me now to rewind a few years, and tell a correlative story.

In the autumn of 2019, during a period of intense sadness and frustration, I fled from Anastasia Island and drove impulsively across the state to the Gulf Coast. I didn't have a clear destination, I didn't pack enough clothes or supplies, and I was so blinded with tears and unexpressed rage that I didn't know where I was, or even care much about where I might land. While getting lost somewhere in the vicinity of St. Petersburg, I glanced at a map, dragged my finger along the squiggly coastline, saw the name Treasure Island, and thought, "That's gotta be the place."

I don't know what I was expecting to find there. Something about the name sounded so exciting, so exotic. And as the evening wore on, my anticipation grew. I thought, in my desperation, that everything would be all right once I got to Treasure Island. Over the next few hours, I convinced myself that I'd finally feel good again in such a place, that my pain and confusion would certainly evaporate once I reached this safe haven. I'd check into a nice hotel room, preferably one with 300 thread-count sheets and a coffee maker, and I'd dream about pirate ships and gold doubloons, and when I opened my eyes and yawned and stretched against the sun-dappled pillows my life would basically feel like a commercial for some bougie brand of almond milk. When I arrived, however, I was deeply disappointed to see another narrow stretch of high-rise hotels, littered beaches, rank seaweed, and greyish-brown water. I found the cheapest hotel room around, one of the few remaining vacancies on the shore, and there I found neither crisp bedsheets nor good coffee. The view from my balcony, however, was utterly amazing: I could see not only a broad curving swath of the beach, but also a glow of distant resort hotels, some of them reflected in the waves. It was strangely romantic, seeing these twinkling lights ... red, gold, green, blue ... and their silent conversation with the stars, a dialogue of jewels above the warm churning waters of the Gulf. But it wasn't the salvation I had been hoping for.

When I got up the next morning, I was still facing the same problems, the same irritations, the same heavy sorrows. Treasure Island would not, could not, rescue me from myself. So I drove back home to my own island, back to my lighthouse, and was relieved to discover that it was in fact even more stirring than I had remembered. During my absence Anastasia Island had become a magical and restorative place, quite different than the one I had left only days before.

What I should have learned back then, but have only come to realize now, was this: I didn't need to travel to a distant island of treasure and twinkling stars, for my own island already had plenty of both. I didn't need to seek the incandescence of a handsome man to light my way, as my own inner flame was at last beginning to shine without the shutters of inhibition or profligacy.

I am now recalling my disappointment with Treasure Island, while concurrently considering my grief over the Russian. At first, I wanted to hate him for his carelessness, for how he squandered my gifts. But I don't hate him. Not really. There's no need to wring my hands any further over his callousness. I don't even mourn his absence anymore. My mood has shifted today, and I no longer choose to see this abortive liaison as being so devastating. For I know, deep down, that the failure here was not really mine. I am not a loser for investing myself unreservedly in someone who could not fully appreciate me, nor I am not the weaker man for feeling injured. I will not be permanently depleted for having offered all that kindness to an undeserving recipient, as my wellspring of love remains inexhaustible.

I tried to share my lighthouse with the Russian. But he did not recognize how special it really was, and he declined to follow its beacon to a rewarding harbor. And thus, our romance was destroyed, and his memory became just another broken boat littering the shallows.

I have seen so many ruins in my years: bad relationships, lousy jobs, soured opportunities. My life story reads like a ledger of dashed hopes. It seems sometimes that both the island I occupy and the more elusive island I am eternally seeking are surrounded by shipwrecks. Yet the lighthouse of my spirit still stands, sturdier and stronger than ever. The waves may batter its bricks, salt may scour its surfaces, it may occasionally groan under its own weight ... but it will not crumble, it will not fail, and even in the darkest of hours this lamp of mine will continue to shine: bright, focused, undiminished.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

What Do We Have?

Based on the word: Onsra: n., the bittersweet feeling that occurs in those who know their love won't last.

What happens when what you have with someone isn't quite what you wanted it to be?

***No one has my permission to repost this fic, including translation***

Reader Insert, No specific gender, race, or sexuality!

Is lovers to friends a trope? Because, I think I want it to be a trope.

Enjoy my masterlist

____________________________________________

Calum’s not sure when he first noticed it. It might’ve been somewhere between all the nights sitting out in his backyard as you both sip from sweating glasses and all the afternoons at your place where you’d show him some recipe you wanted to try and he agreed to be sous chef. Some of those dishes turned out better than others. But somewhere in between all that, Calum knows. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy or call it intuition. After making his mistakes, having his wild youth, Calum was ready to set his life on cruise control and take the bumps and lumps but enjoy the ride. 

It was different for you. He saw that. You took every opportunity by the horns and if it blew up in your face, there was hell to pay for it. Every blue was more vibrant. Every spark shined ten times brighter. Calum would be a liar if he said he didn’t like that. If that didn’t tickle his fancy to see the passion in you. But it made him ponder. It made him wonder would you leave at the first hitch. Would you cut ties when he had to go? That’s the inevitable truth. He would have to leave eventually, with touring and promotion. 

“You’re thinking too much.”

Calum looks to his left, where you are curled up with Duke on your lap. The afternoon sun is just cresting its peak. It’s warm out, a breeze blowing through the privacy shrubbery every so often that helps the both of you forget that sweat is pooling down your backs and on your foreheads. “It’s not a crime to think.”

“But it might be a crime to think too much.”

“And what do you suggest that I do instead hm?” You had come over, just to hang out. Your latest binge together on Netflix had been fully consumed. The two of you sat on Calum’s couch scrolling endlessly through the suggestions but there wasn’t anything that caught either of your eyes. That’s when you suggested just taking a dip in the pool, or at least just stepping outside for some fresh air. 

Now, you grow restless. Wanting to do something, go somewhere, see something, taste something new. It doesn’t really matter the specifics. “The new arcade place just opened up near the mall. We can go there.”

Calum nods. There’s no shock that he feels at your suggestion. He sees the twinkle even behind the way you bite down on your lower lip. There it is, the insatiable urge to take on something. “The least I can do is kick your ass in skee ball since you took today off.”

Fixing Calum with a glare, you stand, Duke safely tucked in your arms. “You’re on, Hood.” 

He watches you, feet silent over the concrete as you saunter back into the house. His fingertips don’t ache like they used too. He should’ve run after you, tickled your sides, or pinched your ass and made you laugh. But instead, he sits, watches you go and wonders if he’s actually going to beat you or not. He wonders if his skills can handle his own trash talk. It wouldn’t hurt his pride if his skills were lackluster. 

In the car, he lets you control the radio. You fiddle for a moment before your phone connects and softly through his speaker he hears an old school funky bassline. You watch the cut of Calum’s jaw and the way he reclines into the driver seat. The sight makes your chest warm but you wonder if Calum really wants to go to the arcade. You worry he’s only going because you want to go, because you can’t sit still. Would he ever grow tired of you? Would he ever try to tie you down, make you into something that you weren’t? 

It would wear him thin eventually, you figured. He had a much slower pace that he liked to consume life at. You chalk it up to the fact that he’s life can be so jammed packed for months if not a year at a time with touring that when he can get a moment to relax, he savors it like children and ice cream before dinner. You didn’t truly think he would try to make you into something you’re not. Though the thought and worry never fully escapes you. It seems like no one would ever fully escape their fears, just enough to let the delusion settle in. Everyone would escape just enough to let their hair down and not look over their shoulder at every moment, just every once and awhile. 

In bright red and pink neon lights, Arcadeocity blinks in front of them. Calum pulls into a parking spot. It’s not terribly business given it’s the middle of the week and the summer hasn’t officially hit just yet. “Ready to get your ass kicked?” he teases, one hand guiding the seatbelt as it slides back against the inner frame. 

“The question is are you ready to pay for drinks after I kick your ass?”

“I was born ready.”

Inside, it’s dim and there are some kids running about. But it’s quiet. Calum heads to the counter, gathering the quarters. You look over, seeing the racing games, the ones where you sit and the ones with the bikes. A machine goes off, lots of buzzing and high zings. You look over to see one of the machines lighting up, the conditioned response for any winner. Two small boys are cheering, arms raising above their heads as the machine spits out the tickets in return. 

There are tables off to the sides, for parents to sit, sip at their drinks and pray their children can keep occupied enough to not worry them for a small blimp of time. Though their gazes never leave their children for too long. One mother raises her hand, calling out the child’s name. “You’re going too far.”

“Oh, it’s not going to hurt them,” the father counters. “You remember the code right?” he calls outs. 

You spot the small child, dressed in blue overalls and high top sneakers. “I remember Dad.” They’re no older than eight or so, you figure. 

He waves them on. “Go head. Just make sure to check in after every game, alright?” 

The child nods, a grin on their face. “Thanks, Dad!” 

“Should we work our way up to the main event?” Calum asks, rejoining you now. His pockets jiggle a little. 

You turn your attention to him, thinking for the slightest moment that Calum would be that kind of dad, if he ever wanted to be. That would let his kid go and be free. But the second they needed him he’d swoop in. That’s what he did. Calum kind of swooped in it seemed to be his MO especially since that’s how the two of you met. You’d be lying if you said otherwise. You hadn’t even seen him in the aisle, preoccupied with trying to avoid the kids that had just cut the corner. You stumbled, managing to avoid them and right when you thought you’d wind up smacking into the shelves holding up rice and pasta, strong arms wound around your arm to keep your balance. 

“Racing game first?”

He nods. The dimness cut by the lights and glitz of the games, his eyes look like blackholes. Or maybe more like tunnels with a light at the end of them with the shiny reflection right in the middle of his pupil. 

Calum wins the first race and nearly beats you for third in the second race. As you both slip off the motorcycles, you collect the tickets from your machines. “I’m better with four wheels,” you laugh.

With a thumb over his shoulder, he grins. “I’ve got a pocket full of change. Prove it, sweets.”

You do. Pulling ahead of Calum in both races. You come in third while he comes in fifth in the first. You manage a dirty fourth place, leaving Calum in seventh. It shouldn’t have been fourth but somehow you landed on a shortcut that saved you from eighth up to fifth. It was a fight for fourth but you managed it as you downshifted into fifth gear in the game and took the straightaway with ease.  

“What the actual hell?” Calum laughs, after seeing you actually using the clutch and stick shift. “I didn’t think any of that actually mattered?”

“Dad taught me how to drive stick shift and now it’s just a habit now, I guess.” 

It’s with a click of his tongue that Calum nods but admits his defeat. The both of you are observing, wondering where to go next. He asks you, if there’s anything that interests you. You could spend hours here, playing every game in sight. But you let him choose. You let him set the pace. Maybe it’s in the hopes that you can keep hold onto Calum for just a little bit longer. “You wanted to come here. I’m sure you’re dying to play something,” he concedes. 

“Let’s shoot some hoops,” you suggest. 

“You don’t--you sure?” It’s a silent nod and a gentle grasp of his wrist before you lead him to the basketball hoops. You two don’t even need to make it a competition. Just for fun. Just something to laugh while you do, attempting to throw him off his rhythm by flattering but never being successful. In the end, you don’t read the red numbers at the screen, just take the tickets it does give you. 

“Skee ball?” he asks, folding his tickets. It seems to go on forever, the end hitting the floor and somehow crawling over it too just a little. 

“Sure. If you’re ready to cry of course.”

Calum’s ears are full of the sounds of the game, taunting them, praising them, lighting up and shouting at every ball that sinks into a hole. But right below that is your laughter, your shriek, “You’re supposed to let me win!”

He has no rebuttal, just a feeling. Something like amusement and a tiny bit of guilt. Like maybe he should be more mindful, like maybe he should be toying more carefully. But at the same time, his chest flutters, when you shove at his shoulder and let out an indignant squawk that turns up into a laugh. He won by 100 points. “Round two?”

“Of fucking course,” you huff. Calum drops the quarters into your upturn palm and you guys feed them into their slots simultaneously. He wins again. 75 points as the lead, which stings less, but still. “It’s just an off day,” you say. There’s a smirk on your face and you can accept the defeat but not without a little bit of stink about it. 

Over the course of an hour, you two play more games, stopping for a quick snack break. At the end, you go up to the counter first, Calum excusing himself for a moment to the restroom. There’s a small stuffed dog hanging on the second most top shelf. His ticket cost is high but after some successful rounds on the racetrack, you manage to squeak just enough to get him.  When Calum returns, you’re standing with your arms behind your back. “You hiding something.” It’s more of a question but it comes out factual. 

“Me? No, never.”

He laughs. At the counter, Calum looks over the possibilities. Part of him knows he should go the extravagant route. He’s done it before, with the stuffed animals and big ticket items. But he spies some alien trinkets instead and grabs two for you. He still has a stack left, so he grabs the small bean bag toy in the shape of a soccer ball. “You’ve still got quite the haul left,” the attendant states. 

“Save ‘em for the next kid.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. They’ll need them more than me.” Before Calum can reach you, you hold the stuff toy in front of your chest. “Very cute.”

“For you.” 

His brow twitches, pulling down like he can’t quite believe it. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” You urge him to take it and swallow down the urge to tell him he can give it to Duke. You want him to know it’s for him. No matter what. You did it for him. 

“Thank you.” Almost sheepishly he exchanges the stuffed toy for alien trinkets. One’s a keychain and you smile. “Perfect for the collection?”

“Of course.” It is perfect. It’s thoughtful. And part of you wants to kick yourself for not getting the inflatable soccer ball, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Because clearly those are more Calum, those are more thoughtful than just a stuffed animal. Calum makes a show though, buckling the dog into the backseat, after shifting the towel that Duke usually rests on and maybe, it’s not such a bad gift after all. 

It’s in the car as Calum ponders aloud choices for dinner that you asked to be taken back to your place. You do have an early morning and Calum doesn’t think too much of it. It’s not until that gets back home and settles the stuffed dog onto his bed that he remembers the recipe the both of you were going to try. He had gone to the grocery store and everything. It feels wrong to try it without you. He can’t let it go to waste though. 

I’m going to drop you off a plate. That’s the text from him not even ten minutes after he drops you off. You remember all at once the dinner plans. How could you have forgotten that? Truth be told, you had fun. Arcadeocity scratched that itch to get out. But you didn’t want to intrude too much on Calum’s free time. Which, when the hell did that start being a concern? Calum was pretty direct and honest if he needed time to himself. 

Maybe it was just a time thing. You were starting to understand Calum more and even though he would be vocal about needing space, you knew how much he valued it. And you valued your own space too. Truth be told, you were starting to want more of it. Or maybe it was more time to do whatever by yourself. Or maybe the reason really didn’t matter because now, sitting on your own couch, you feel a little less like you’ve been stuffed into a box. 

Calum arrives at your door with a reusable bag full. “I just made the whole recipe and split it in half. You can take it into work tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” 

It’s a quick brush, his lips pressing into the flesh of your forehead. “Of course.” 

___________________

Of course that feeling comes back. When Calum calls and hears the rattle of music in the background, he knows you’re out. It’s the second weekend in a row you’ve walked out on the town. The second weekend in the row you’ve made those plans without really consulting Calum, just going. Not that you thought you’d be out again. But when your coworker mentioned wanting to go out, you didn’t want the opportunity to pass you by. Letting Calum didn’t quite cross your mind either. 

Part of Calum feels like he should be fighting more against that, fighting to maybe get more time. But he doesn’t. “Have fun. Let me know if you need a ride,” he says, unsure if he needs to shout to be heard over the receiver. 

“Okay, will do!” The call ends and he drops into his sofa. Part of him is relieved, strangely. He doesn’t have to worry about having to do something. He doesn’t have to muster up the energy. He had it. If you weren’t out and about, he wouldn’t have minded doing something but he’d rather sit at home. 

Was he wrong for that? Was it wrong to thank the high heavens you had already preoccupied yourself without him?  Was it wrong to know something wasn’t going to make it all the way to the end but just wanting to take the ride while it was still offered? He enjoys his time with you. He enjoys the laughs and the crazy adventures. But god, did he like doing nothing too. There was nothing wrong with that. Right?

His phone shakes again, later in the night with a text from you. Made it home safely. Am buzzed and I should never wear clothes with buttons ever again when drinking. 

He calls in response. “What happened with said buttons?”

“Fly was open,” you sigh in return, sinking into your own mattress. “Embarrassing.” His giggles cut through the slight fog of alcohol. “Don’t laugh.”

“Sorry, that’s a laughable offense, sweets.”

“Humph!” 

“Need me to come over?”

“Nah, not that drunk. Have-have you got no faith in me?”

“No, I have all the faith in you. Drink some water, okay?” You hum in your agreement, mumbling a good night to him. 

______________

“How long’s the tour?”

“Just shy of seven months. There are breaks, of course.”

You nod. “Of course.” They needed them for their own sanity and health. “I’ll watch Duke. You know I don’t mind.” He hasn’t asked. And Calum doesn’t really need to ask. You’ve always taken the chance to watch over the old man when Calum’s gone. You think you should’ve noticed Calum’s stubble before now. It’s not quite stubble really any more, on the cusp of being the start to a true beard. He usually doesn’t let it get this long. 

How long has it been? You’ve texted and called. But somehow in the catalog of your mind you can’t place the last time you saw him in person for longer than a few minutes. It doesn’t feel wrong, in the sense that you’re worried that things are falling apart. But it is strange. It’s almost like air between you--something that you know is there but can’t quite put a finger on it. It’s somehow distance but not distant. The strange new normal the two of you have created. And you want to be sad. It’s a strange guilt to see now more than ever what’s been expanding between the two of you, but not being upset that it’s happening. 

“I scheduled his appointments already,” Calum says, sliding a couple sheets of paper over to you. “Well, the major ones. I know your summer schedule’s a little different so I tried to keep that in mind too. Thanks again.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” 

Calum’s sure this will be the start of the end. And you are too. But that doesn’t stop you from messaging him just shy of three weeks from the start of the tour. Rehearsals are getting longer and more tiresome. His answers to text and calls are coming later in the night.  I’m dropping off a plate for you.  You send it on your lunch break, hoping that by the time you get off, Calum’s replied. 

And he has: Only if it’s not too much of a bother. Thankyou. 

It’s not long after returning home that you’re back in your car, Calum’s food resting on the floor to keep it from tipping over. At the gate, you worry it’ll take you too long to reach Calum to get inside, but thankfully, Luke and Michael are just ahead of you and let you in. The three of you wander back into the studio space. Michael explains at length the mechanics of a game to Luke. You’re not sure if he’s convincing the taller man, but Luke takes in each detail with a thoughtful face. 

“Please tell me you’re teaching any of this,” Luke teases, glancing at you.

“Dude, I’m just dropping off food. I’ve got nothing.” 

He laughs but agrees ultimately to give a test to Michael’s latest video game obsession. As the door to the space opens, you can’t help but let the soft smile crest your face at Calum’s stretched out figure on the floor. You’re not sure if he’s sleeping, but you know from experience if he gets too relaxed in any position anywhere he can and will fall asleep. “It would be such a shame,” you start, voice bouncing off the walls. Calum cracks a smile even though his eyes are still closed. “If this bowl of pad see ew just happened to take a bad stumble. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” he calls out from the floor. He’s slow to look up at you. But when he does, it’s a long gander. You’re still in your work clothes, though the shoes tell him you definitely did go home first. 

“Home cooked,” you offer, lifting the glass container and setting it on the table where Luke, Ashton, and Michael have gathered. 

“Really, thanks. It means a lot.” 

“Of course.”

Calum thinks about that phrase for long after you’re gone and long after he’s consumed the sweet and yet savory noodles. Like, of course--like you wouldn’t be doing anything else but helping him out majorly. Of course, you’d go from a crazy day at work to fixing him dinner. Like of course he shouldn’t have to worry constantly. Like of course this is normal. And it is normal, in some ways. But it’s not normal in others. It’s not normal, he thinks, to go weeks without seeing you and not feeling a super deep ache. There was the missing he felt when he wanted to see his mum, or his sister. But they had always kind of been away from him, ever since he moved out. Calum did miss you, but it never fully consumed him. Never made him mope, or be too down. Or maybe it was normal? Maybe it showed how much the two of you were secure with each other. 

____________________

Did you want to spend a few days together? Rehearsals are pretty much done. I know you’re still working though. 

Calum can’t seem to hit send. 

That last sentence is his out. It’s a way for you to say no without having to feel like an asshole. He knows that. He knows you’ll know that the second you read the text. But he can’t bring himself to delete it. 

With a swift kick of boldness, Calum taps the up arrow. The text lifts and then settles and Delivered sits right underneath the blue text in gray. It’s only an extra ten minutes from your place to work. I don’t mind. 

Most mornings, of the four that you spend with Calum right before the shuttle bus comes to get him, he whines as your alarm goes off. “You can spare five more minutes,” he mumbles into his pillow, one arm raised, not fully like the limbs much too heavy for his body to carry. And at this time in the morning, half past 6, it probably is too heavy to carry. 

“Only five,” you laugh before sliding back into bed, but not under the covers. 

Calum always curls back up into your side, arm thrown across your torso. “Can’t believe you’d leave this nice, warm bed.” 

He almost never mentions leaving him. He doesn't mention leaving you. It’s always the nice, warm bed you’d be leaving, that he’d be leaving. This nestle of comfort and known territory being the only thing tying the two of you together. 

You have to stop yourself from saying it’s just a bed. That any old bed can be nice and warm. Because it always could be any old bed that can be nice and warm. But do you want any old bed or do you want Calum’s? Do you want somebody else? Do you want to fly across skies? Or do you want Calum? 

“It is a nice, warm bed,” you say instead. It’s an agreement that whatever it is between you is nice. Though, you’re not convinced it’ll last. 

The first week of Calum on tour turns into a second. That second one turns into a third. And by the third week rolls around, the most your phone buzzes or chimes with anything related to Calum is a quick picture attached with a few lines about what’s going on in his world. You’re not even sure besides keeping him updated on Duke when you’ve talked about your life if you told Calum about the impromptu trip to Vegas. Or if you told him about your promotion at work. 

Somehow all of that just seems so mundane and so not the thing he’d care to hear about until he calls. It’s an early morning for you. “I see your end of the globe hasn’t gone up in flames yet.”

You shake your head with a tuft of laughter. “No, it’s still thriving. Just adjusting to this new job.”

“You quit your old one? Do you need anything to tide you over?”

“No, no, just a new position.” You almost start to say that you had to have told him. But if he’s asking, if he’s concerned, then you must have forgotten.

“Tell me about it.” 

“My job is not exciting,” you call out, grabbing your clothes from inside the closet. 

“Doesn’t matter. Bore me with the details.” You do. Enough so that, when you’re finally dressed and sitting down to eat breakfast, you can see him with his eyes drooping. “Bored him literally to sleep,” you laugh. 

“I am not asleep,” he responds with a sleepy mumble. 

“Sure you’re not.”

A month into the tour, Calum works it to have you flown out. Calum’s greet you in the car from the airport, the two of you laughing, falling into each other’s side, but ultimately always shifting back into place, resting into the back of the seat instead of each other. Calum’s not phased, not when you run ahead up to the historic hotel. He’s not phased when you run ahead of him at the museums are long the streets during your visit. But he knows it’s killing you. When the bands backstage, and you stare out of the windows, he knows it’s killing you not to get out there. Not to see the country, the cities, the people. 

“Tomorrow we can go adventuring,” he tells you, leaning up against the wall as you’ve curled yourself up into the window sill. 

“You’ve got another show tomorrow.”

He just winks at you, leaning forward to kiss the top of your head. And then he’s gone, back to the sofa, laughing as someone shows him something on their phone. The guys fall instantly back into their chaos. You watch, knowing you could fall into it too. You know their antics and their sense of humor. But yet, you sit in the window sill. You watch the birds fly pass. You watch people wander. You hear the slight cry of fans waiting for them and you know this isn’t really meant for you. 

This isn’t something that would saitatee you in the long run. 

You find out later after the show and he’s had a chance for a quick shower, that in the wee hours of the morning, just eeking pass one, Calum and you wander through nightlife. Arm in arm, you meander down streets, up city blocks, stopping at storefronts just to oogle over their displays. The skies are a little clearer. You can stop, leaning up against some random fence to watch the stars for a little it.

“It’s weird to think that I’m watching some stars last breathe. Like we’re so close, but so far away from the heavens. And they really just go on forever,” you whisper. 

Calum hums, sliding his hands into the pocket of the hoodie draped over your body. His fingers wrap around yours in the pocket. “But it’s almost like they are giving us their last wish, maybe. Giving us one last guiding light.”

 It’s almost four am when you find yourselves back at the front doors of the hotel. You’re laughing at Calum’s slurred speech due to drowsiness. He’s going to regret this in the morning maybe and you can only hope that there’s a pot of coffee big enough to help. His slumber is heavy next to you. Your brain is wired. You can feel it buzzing in your fingertips. How do you tell Calum that you don’t want to lose him but maybe the romanticism between the two of you isn’t there anymore? Was it ever really there to begin with?

With three days left on this trip, you don’t say anything at first. How do you even verbalize that? What are the right words? You don’t sleep that night either. When Calum reaches out for you, his arm feels like hot steel. Like it’s burning you for feeling any different. On the second night, you slip further into the seats in the back of the bus--there’s no stopping at a hotel this time--, your blanket pulled up to your chin, nothing plays on the TV in front of you. You know you can’t avoid him. Not at a time like this. But you’re still not sure if you can mention is just yet, if you have the nerves to do it. 

The door slides open and Calum is there, leaning against the faux frame and his body moves with ease at the jostle of the bus. “Mind if I pop a seat next to you?”

“Of course not.” It’s an automatic reply. And really you don’t mind. But you can tell by the way he nods, biting his lips and settles next to you but not into you that he’s aware of something too. But you’re aware now you can’t duck out of this conversation. There’s no turning back now. 

“You say ‘of course’ a lot, you know?”

“Something tells me that now isn’t the right time to say ‘of course, I know’ so I’ll refrain from using it.” 

His laughter is a quick exhalation, facing the blank screen too. “Are you--” he starts and then stops. He fiddles with his thumb nail for a second and then turns, bringing one leg up under the other and his hoodie cladded arm rests on the back of the sofa. “If it’s not--I’m not sure if our relationship is what it was before.”

You exhale. Your shoulders straighten under the blanket and you shift, sitting to face Calum more. There’s no sadness. Not even the clench of his jaw which he does when he’s trying to hold something back, when he doesn’t want to say what’s fully on his mind. “I-I don’t think so either.”

He gives a thoughtful nod, resting a hand on your leg, over the fuzzy black fabric. “And it’s not that I don’t have love for you. Nothing has happened, like nothing you did or said, or anything bad but.”

“It’s just different between us.”  Different doesn’t feel quite whole, so you unfurl finally from the mass and out of habit, pick at the fuzz on the end of his sleeves. “Well, more like, I’ve realized maybe what we wanted wasn’t what we needed? If that makes sense?”

“It makes sense.” Calum watches your fingers, pinching and rolling at the small balls of cotton. “I-I won’t mind if you stay or go. I’d like you to stay. There’s the museum you always wanted to go to in our next city, but if it’s too weird or anything, I totally understand.”

You shake your head, gaze lifting to his. He’s still chewing over his lip but he looks mostly calm. The nerves are obvious but this conversation is going better than you could’ve anticipated. “I don’t feel pressured to leave at all. I just, do you need space? If you need me to go, I’ll take the next flight out. You’ve got a job to do and I don’t want you to be in a weird headspace with me around. And I would hate--,”

He cuts you off with a squeeze of your hand. “You’re rambling. And no, I don’t want you to leave. I haven’t properly seen you in a few weeks. I still really enjoy your company. But it’s just, not like before, you know. Besides, you still owe drinks from when I kicked your ass in skee ball.”

His grin is small at first but it grows when you flap, releasing your hand from his hold and fold your arms across your chest. “The way I remember it, you would owe drinks if I beat you. Not that I owed drinks for losing.” 

When Calum giggles, you have to laugh. In all the previous breakups, you know laughing immediately after shouldn’t be happening. But everything’s different with Calum. All along the two of you were shifting, settling into the version of the bond you needed with each other, not necessarily the prescribed one from society, or the one that you wanted. 

“Would you be, like, upset if I took a separate bunk?” you asks. 

“Of course not,” Calum returns with a grin. 

Honestly, you feel relieved waking up the next day, for the most part. It should be awkward, but there’s something between you and Calum. There’s something you both get about each other that even in the face of change this bond doesn’t feel broken. It feels mended, finally and completely free too. No guilts, no second thoughts and what you should be doing or what you think Calum expects of you. 

It definitely carries a small sting. There’s no lying, a small bit of your routine and your normal is now gone and that worries you for when you go back home. Like, is it still acceptable that you steal his Santa Cruz hoodie? And when Calum catches your gaze from the otherside of the dressing room, he wonders if he can still kiss your forehead, still hold your hand? Or is that crossing the line? He airs on the side of caution for now, just smiles at you and you smile in return. 

Just before leaving, you fold his hoodie up, placing it on his bunk next to the not fully folded blanket that reveals his iPad. 

When Calum goes to his bunk he sees the hoodie. His heart drops, he won’t lie. When he picks it up, it feels heavy. Not physically, but he kinda wanted you to keep it. Something crinkles. He unfurls it. Nothing falls out but he can hear something. So he continues until he finds the hoodie pocket. 

I know, I know. I wanted to give you this back. Just for the moment. We’re still good like we said before. But I know it’s your favorite right behind the Empathy one. Kick ass on stage. Rock out. 

Calum smiles, neatly folding the note and slips into his bag that he takes into the venues. When the months slip by, show after show mildly interrupted with Duke updates and occasionally things about yourself, Calum finally finds himself able to sit on his own couch. Kick his feet up on his own coffee table. He’s able to decompress. He decompresses enough to fall asleep. A knock at the door jolts him awake. Wiping at the corner of his eyes and his mouth, he jumps from his couch. 

“You were totally asleep,” you grin when the door swings open. 

“Was not,” he retorts. Duke bars from below, jumping at Calum’s leg. “Oh, bubba. How are you?” 

“Good, just missed his pops.” 

Collecting Duke into his arms, Calum stands. “How are you? How’s life?”

“I’m good. Life’s good.” You lift the bag on your arm. “I brought you a plate. Or maybe like four.”

“You--you didn’t have to,” Calum returns. “But of course you did anyway.”

“Of course I did,” you laugh. “Mind if I come in? You can just love on Duke. I’ll reheat the spaghetti.”

He nods, allowing you inside. It’s much more than a plate as you unload the dish and a few other sides. It’s enough for him to eat dinner for a week almost. You always fixed more than he could ever eat. “How’s the move going?” The last time the two of you talked you mentioned needing a new place. Something a little bit bigger to accommodate your needs and the potential of housing your own dog or cat. You’re not entirely sure right now.  

“It’s going slow. But it’s going. Trying to sort out what to toss.”

“I can help, if you want.” Calum watches as you set the plate down in front of him. “Be the voice of reason when you know you really should toss the thing, but can’t do it without a nudge.”

“Or be the nagging voice that tells me to keep it. You know how this goes.”

Calum nods, setting Duke in the seat. “I know.”

“What are you doing? Sit. Eat.”

Two scoops of spaghetti or heaped onto a second plate. You manage to keep Duke away from Calum’s food. The plate hits the table with a muted thud. “If it’s not too much too soon, eat with me? ”

“Of course.” 

“There it is again,” he laughs. 

“What? I’ll leave. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Whoa, slow down. Eat. Then you can huff and puff and blow my house down.”

With a click of your tongue, fork posed in hand, you watch Calum return to his seat. Duke in his lap, just like you knew would happen. “That sounds like a good idea.”

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Lawmakers welcome a guy to Congress – and the messiah shows up

Who Is Rev. Moon? ‘Returning Lord,’ ‘Messiah,’ Publisher of the Washington Times

John Gorenfeld – PoliPoint Press

The following is an adapted excerpt from John Gorenfeld’s “Bad Moon Rising: How Reverend Moon Created the Washington Times, Seduced the Religious Right, and Built an American Kingdom” (Polipoint Press, 2008).

The video is from a 1997 Washington Times party where Moon said he founded the newspaper to save the world. In it, he also demands that his employees rid the world of “free sex,” meaning sexual intercourse beyond the purifying influence of his mass weddings.

One chilly Tuesday evening, strange things were afoot on Capitol Hill. The U.S. Senate was hosting a ceremony at the request of a wealthy, elderly newspaper publisher who wanted official recognition as a majestic, divine visitor to Washington. The Dirksen Senate Office Building made for an unlikely temple: a formidable seven-story block of white marble, looming on a street corner diagonally across from the Capitol Dome, its marble pediment is inscribed, “THE SENATE IS THE LIVING SYMBOL OF OUR UNION OF STATES.”

On March 23, 2004, U.S. lawmakers were filmed here in a conference room, paying tribute to the enigmatic Reverend Sun Myung Moon, then eighty-four, and his wife, Hak Ja, sixty-four.

As the cameras rolled, two congressmen presented the Koreans with matching royal costumes. Wearing the burgundy robes and shining crowns, which crested into jagged golden pinnacles, the married couple smiled and waved for the cameras.

Who was this self-proclaimed monarch? In the 1970s, the evening news had presented Moon, the ranting, middle-aged business tycoon who wore flowing robes on special occasions, as Korea’s answer to L. Ron Hubbard, someone for college students to avoid, luring thousands of young Americans into a cult in which they sold carnations on the street and married spouses he chose for them. But the media had moved on to other nightmares, leaving Moon, forgotten, to reinvent himself. Now time had wizened him into an elderly patriarch, wearing an ashen face for his coronation. An orange Senate VIP name tag remained pinned to his gray suit, peeking out from between rows of curly gold filigree, as he stood on stage at the head of a red carpet.

The King of Peace, the Lord of the Fourth Israel, the Messiah, they called him now – and the publisher of the Washington Times. Though over a dozen congressmen attended his pageant, no one spoke a word of it to the press, not at first. By the time the secret was out, and ABC News was broadcasting the strange sights, it was three months later – summertime – and school was coming soon to the States. Soon grand parade marshals would drive teen queens and their bouquets around football fields, and the helmets of varsity teams would crash through banners. And homecoming would not be so different, insisted the two hapless congressmen, from the Reverend Moon’s rites, which had become a scandal.

“People crown kings and queens at homecoming parades all the time,” the liberal Chicago representative Danny Davis (D-IL) said.

“I remember the king and queen thing,” said Rep. Roscoe Bartlett (R-MD). “But we have the king and queen of the prom, the king and queen of 4-H, the Mardi Gras and all sorts of other things. I had no idea what he was king of.”

Yes, they admitted, it was them on camera, walking in the procession with slow, worshipful steps, bowing to the stage where the Moons stood. Those were Davis’s hands, wearing white gloves to avoid defiling the embroidered pillow he carried, a crown bobbing on it, to be lain on the brow of Mrs. Moon; that was Bartlett carrying the burgundy cape for Mr. Moon’s shoulders. Neither seemed embarrassed.

The “throne room” itself belonged to the U.S. Senate, whose Rules Committee, under Republican senator Trent Lott (R-MS), had the final say in who booked rooms and whether visitors could be anointed kings in them. And a senator had to sign off on that. The name of the senator, said one of the evening’s hosts, the defrocked Catholic priest George Stallings, was “shrouded in mystery.”

“There are moments that best play straight,” CNN anchor Aaron Brown said after I discovered the pageant. “So here goes. Lawmakers welcome a guy to Congress – and the messiah shows up.”

The coronation had been disguised as a Washington awards dinner, sponsored by a conservative, pro-war senator who had modestly kept his name out of the picture. The party began normally enough, serving portions of chicken and fish from the buffet and windy politicians’ speeches from the podium. But through a bait and switch – and a strange internal logic – room G-50 of the Senate office building, all marble and eagle seals, changed during the course of the evening into a fantasy throne room, complete with long red carpet, for the stern monarch of the Washington Times, the influential conservative newspaper that warns of immigrants and threats to Christmas – and who also controls United Press International (UPI), the formerly great news agency.

Moon walked from the chilly evening into the marble building dressed in a suit with bow tie and rose corsage. When he got up to deliver his keynote address, it was in a gravelly northern dialect of Korean, a farmer’s accent. Gripping the podium, he gruffly admonished the crowd, which included members of Congress, to accept him as “God’s ambassador, sent to earth with His full authority.”

With a printed copy of the speech before them – headlined Declaring the Era of the Peace Kingdom – guests listened to an English translation in radio earpieces. “The time has come for you to open your hearts,” Moon said, “and receive the secrets that Heaven is disclosing in this age through me.” To prove his credentials, he spoke of testimonials on his behalf – from the lips of the dead, with whom he claimed the power to converse. “The five great saints,” he said – meaning Jesus, Confucius, Buddha, Muhammad, and the Hindu prophet Shankara [Socrates] – “and many other leaders in the spirit world, including even Communist leaders such as Marx and Lenin, who committed all manner of barbarity and murders on earth, and dictators such as Hitler and Stalin, have found strength in my teachings, mended their ways and been reborn as new persons.”

His boasts were underscored with whoops and cheers from his followers, who had the good seats. To their church, the moment was a shining vindication for years of hardship: for being treated in the press as predators and for seeing their Christ-like hero, the Reverend Moon, forced onto the witness stand by U.S. tax attorneys, Sen. Bob Dole, and others between 1975 and 1984. Behind the gavels of government, these Pontius Pilates had pronounced Moon an enemy of the American family and the advance man for a South Korean dictator. The Reagan Justice Department had even sent Moon to prison [for tax evasion and document forgery]. But now Moon was active in family values politics, and members of Congress were as submissive as puppies. Moon prevailed.

Believing they were saving the world, Moon’s men had faced desperate pressure to arrange the awards dinner. The Senate event’s emcee was Michael Jenkins, leader of the American Unification Church, a white, middle-aged, blandly enthusiastic spokesman for the cause. In the autumn of 2003, Jenkins recalls in a sermon found online, the Reverend Moon had instructed him three times, first in a low voice, then louder, that unless the world enacted Moon’s plan for world peace, millions would die in a new Middle East Holocaust. “Not six million,” Jenkins said, “but six hundred million.” That fall the Times publisher fished for hours on his boat, while his apostles begged him not to strain his health. “You tell me to rest,” Moon retorted, “but I’m determining the course of history.” When Moon goes reeling off the coast of Kodiak, Alaska – where the church-owned True World Foods cannery annually ships out over twenty million pounds of salmon and other seafood – his followers believe his fishing also mends the wounds of the Cosmos. One day, the elderly fisherman accused Jenkins’s American archdiocese of taking the mission lightly. Far from it, Jenkins proclaimed from the pulpit. “Our American members are willing to die,” he said. “They’re willing to die. Once they understand God’s will, they’ll die.”

Had the Reverend Moon’s crowning at the Dirksen Senate Office Building not been filmed and photographed from seemingly every possible angle, and broadcast on ABC’s World News Tonight and Fox, and giggled at by The Daily Show’s Jon Stewart, and compared in a New York Times op-ed with an act of the Roman emperor who nominated his horse to the senate, it might have remained a mad whisper among Senate aides.

▲ Sun Myung Moon and Hak Ja Han are wearing Korean shaman crowns with symbolic antlers and trees (the seven branches represent the seven levels of heaven with the Moons enthroned at the top).

Continue reading here

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Bad Moon Rising: How Reverend Moon Created The Washington Times, Seduced the Religious Right, and Built an American Kingdom by John Gorenfeld

Sun Myung Moon – Emperor, and God

Shamanism is at the heart of Sun Myung Moon’s church

Sun Myung Moon: The Emperor of the Universe, transcript and links

[3nding]

Sanremo Italian Song Festival: love at first sight

It all started with Inna, my Russian teacher. I thought that she had had enough of my tardiness, lack of concentration, yawning, incomplete homework; while I prepared myself for a severe chastisement, I still tried a “You are right, from tomorrow I will put more effort”. Much to my surprise, Inna, instead looked at me with resignation and started singing “Parole, parole, parole…” (words, words, words..). I said, “Pardon?”  And she answered, in Russian, “Slova.”

“How do you know the Italian singer Mina?” I asked her. Inna soon abandoned our language class in favour of a nostalgic monologue about her memories of watching Sanremo Italian Song Festival on channel 1 of Soviet State TV when she was a young girl. I started reviewing the images that I had registered recently, but not put into the “correct” context: posters advertising Al Bano’s concert (October 2013), Celentano’s songs on the radio, and being apostrophized with the gag from the song of singer Toto Cutugno “Un Italiano? Un Italiano vero?” (“An Italian? A real Italian?”), all in Moscow. I surfaced from my thoughts and in her dulcet, calming tone Inna continued. “The streets were empty, people no matter their age, were glued to the television set, from grandparents their grandchildren. We girls would make sketches from the clothes and would sew identical ones for ourselves. We found it most unusual that Romina was taller than Al Bano, so we would gaze at her feet but there were no high heels, she was wearing flats! Was she a giant? He a midget? We ignored the height issue and concentrated on the fashion and decided we liked them too, the “balekti”, ballet flats. We would sing along, although we didn’t understand what the lyrics meant, except for ‘Felicità’ (happiness). My love for the Italian language was born with Sanremo, and consequently the reason for studying it at University. Italian is a sweet, mellow language, which makes it remarkably close to the essence of the Russian soul. For us Russians, Sanremo was a breath of fresh air, a window on Europe, the only one on the Western world. The Festival of the canzonets, all about love, passion and happiness, was the only western TV show the Soviet government would allow to be aired”. 

The reason why Soviet TV broadcasted the Festival is a mystery that maybe finds its roots in the Russian love for classical music, for the “Bel Canto”, in the first cultural agreement between Italy and the USSR in 1960. Already in 1965, Gianni Morandi and Rita Pavone were with the Cantagiro (Italian summer Festival) at Gorky Park in Moscow. Anyway, no matter the reasoning behind it, what is hard fact is that the Festival of Sanremo is a piece of musical

heritage enjoyed as much by Russians as it is enjoyed by Italians. In 1973 the radio transmitted a programme about former Festival winners like Mudugno, Bobby Solo and Peppino di Capri. Inna’s father recorded this production with a reel-to-reel tape recorder and then made pirated prints. That’s how “Non ho l’età “ (“I’m not old enough”) by Gigliola Cinquetti conquered the whole apartment block. The first time songs from the Festival were aired on television was in 1982, during a show about “foreign melodies”. Ten songs were shown in 1983 and in 1984 programmes were made exclusively about the Festival, which were then aired in the whole Soviet Union giving the performers universal glory! From 1987 onwards, San Remo has become an important part of the Russian Kultura, keeping pace with Perestrojka, and two evenings each year have been dedicated to the Festival. In 1989 clips of all the winners were broadcasted. In 1990 all of the competitors were examined. In 1991 and 1992 both of the two Finals were shown from start to finish. From 1994 to 1998, when Russia was hit by a crisis, Sanremo Festival adapted itself and was transmitted in a limited version. Silence for 15 years and then…Sanremo returned on the crest of a wave in 2013, shown live and for the full five nights of its entire length! This exciting event saw Toto Kutunio performing together with the Red Army Choir singing “L’Italiano”. Furthermore Andrei Malakhov, (a popular Russian TV presenter), dedicated his show “Tonight” to the Festival. On that occasion he reminded of: “In 1987  Sanremo Festival was shown purposefully on Holy Easter night, on 19th of April  (to prevent people from going to Mass). My parents were absolutely against me watching that show “on that very holy night”, so I had to record the concert and watch it later”.

After Malakhov’s show was aired, the demand for holidays to Italy and Sanremo went through the roof in travel agencies. Italian songs from that era onwards were all the rage into every single radio and TV show, and the records signed by the State label, Melodia, were everywhere. Al Bano and Romina Power, Ricchi e Poveri, Pupo, Mattia Bazar, Riccardo Fogli and much more were invited for music tours in Moscow, Leningrad and in many, many Soviet Republics until they were finally given the privilege of being awarded a show in the Kremlin in 2005 – the ultra-special “Sanremo Gathers Its Friends.” This also involved singers that were less well known in Russia, like Amedeo Minghi and Anna Oxa, to perform together with famous Russian singers, like Valeria, Nikolay Baskov amongst others.The decision of showing San Remo in the 80s was an absolute goldmine of opportunities for a handful of artists that, maybe inadvertently, wrote the soundtrack of Russian history and inspired the love for Made in Italy in the ex Soviet Union.

The moral is: Sanremo was born during the Cold War. It grew throughout the Soviet era, survived its decline and blossomed in the global age.

A “Real Italian” miracle: long life to Sanremo – truly Russian too!

- WebArchive