#cricket sweater Producer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cowboygenesis · 29 days

Text

1: spice rolls and dew jam | din djarin x reader

part 1 of the "brown eyes" series: masterlist.

pairing: din djarin x reader

chapter warnings: none.

word count: 5.7k

series summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible.

notes: this fic is set a while after the corvus arc in season 2, after din sets to find a teacher for grogu. there's tons of flavor-lore here, some of it canon, some of it completely made up (by me). smut happens late because im a slave to slow burn. but enjoy the mutual pining!

You have known this your entire life.

The air smells like fresh earth and wildflowers when you open your kitchen window that morning. The fog clings low to the ground as a cool breeze seeps into your home, making you swaddle yourself tighter within your knitted sweater.

Your cold-numbed fingers wrap tightly around the ceramic mug cupped in your hands, periodically bringing it to your lips for a languid sip. The caf scalds your tongue, but you persevere. Outside, the sun rises above the horizon, peeking over the tall treeline and illuminating the town with a subtle, golden glow.

Across your makeshift garden stands a small stripe of farmland, glistening with freshly sowed soil and soft patches of stray grass. You spot your elderly neighbor strolling about with a blanket-covered basket and wave her hello when she smiles at you. Her breath comes out in a thin cloud of condensation which you see as it mends with the dewy air.

You exhale. It’s unremarkable, peaceful. Predictable. The way it’s been for as long as you can remember.

You have known this your entire life. But today, the air feels thicker. Your hands slip against the polished wood when you reach for your hairbrush, and the Shiir fruit you have for breakfast tastes soured as you bite into the soft, dotted flesh.

It all started three days ago, when a small craft landed in the nearby woods. It was the dead of night, silent besides the howling of sifflings and a distant cricket song filling the empty void.

You didn't see it happen, nor did your neighbors, as the first whispers came from the children: wide-eyed and brimming with interest, they gossiped quietly of a strange craft that emerged just before dawn, sleek and noiseless, nestled beneath the canopy of trees that surround your little village. No one emerged from it, they chimed. The forest swallowed it whole as if it had always been hidden in the cloud of greenery.

At first, it was just another embellished story—a tale spun from boredom or fantasies, something for the local folk to entertain themselves with during the quieter nights at the cantina.

But as the hours turned into days, the usual vibrancy of your community turned subdued with the whispered rumors. And sure, people started talking, but nobody dared to see the ship for themselves. Such was their Maker-fearing nature.

You, like many others, grew quite curious as the stories spread. When you walked down the stone-laid path to the town’s square every morning, your eyes followed along the treeline, glimpsing between the foliage in a silent hope of catching something inexplicable: a metallic wing, a flailing cape, or even a hint of movement. But nothing ever came.

You finish your drink and place the cup in the sink, the clink of ceramic echoing in your quiet kitchen as you let the residual warmth of the caf envelop you. You make a mental note to stock up on the good stuff as soon as the Mon Gazza traders come through your town next time.

You lean against the wall in your chair, glancing over at the basket you'd prepared last night. It sits by the door, neatly packed with fresh bread, a few vegetables from your garden, and jars of homemade preserves. You’ve made it a habit to bring these goods to the village market as a small way to keep yourself busy and prevent the excess produce from spoiling. Cooking for one is no easy feat.

As you turn to the window again, you notice the sun has fully crested over the trees, casting long shadows down the strip of farmland in front of your home.

You stand up and stretch with a grunt, grabbing your cloak from the green-padded loveseat and tying the ribbon around your neck. You grab the basket, tie your boots neatly, and step out into the crisp morning air with a deep inhale. The bells hooked on your doorway jingle as you lock it behind you.

Lazure Prime’s climate is temperate, yet the mornings are notably chillier at this point of the solar cycle. It’s a good omen for the upcoming harvest, the farmers had always said; something about the condensation that makes the tartness decline. You’ve never been big on food science, but living in an agriculture-based town has illuminated many aspects of the topic over the years.

The walk to the village is unremarkable. Trees sway softly in the wind, their leaves dancing in the early daylight. You pass by familiar faces— fyrion melon farmers prepping the land for sowing and children making their daily hike to school. Each one of them flashes you a bright smile as you walk past, some calling out your name cheerfully.

Your eyes hover over the treeline again, watching the bark weave in and out of the lush greenery but… no metal. No ship. It’s the same as it’s always been. A part of you expects the visitor to be long gone, perhaps in a moment where nobody caught it.

As you near the market square, you catch the distant chatter of townsfolk. They weave in and out of the stalls, exchanging greetings and produce as a weekly ritual.

You skim through the stalls with your eyes and select one of the empty ones. You place your basket on top with a grunt, stunned at how robustly you managed to pack it this time around.

Your hands work quickly, unraveling the protective rag covering the inside and reaching for your produce. Four loaves of oat cakes, amber squash, a few bunches of carrots, and half a dozen jars of dew jam— a family recipe. Because it peddled so fast last time, you made sure to amp up the production this week to at least double the amount.

You hear your name be called, paired with a gentle touch on your arm. You turn around on your heel, gaze dropping to be met with the curious look of a young girl.

“Good morning Nissa,” you smile, giving the child a small wave. She beams at you, exposing a row of milk teeth, two of them missing. “Is your mom around?”

She shrugs half-heartedly, quick to dismiss your concern. “She’s here. Probably getting the stuff we need for dinner tonight— we’re making yak stew. You know yak stew, right?” she explains, eyes suddenly widening, “Oh, you have to come! I’ll tell mom about it, I— We’d love to have you over!”

You chuckle warmly at her excitement, reaching a hand behind you to grab a round, cloth-enveloped parcel and hiding it behind your back as you crouch down to meet the girl at eye level.

“Yeah, I know it. Yak stew sounds lovely. I’ll have to ask your mom if that’s alright with her, though,” you reply with an apologetic look, toying with the package behind your back. “You know how she feels about surprise visits.”

Nissa rolls her eyes, arms crossed. “Whatever, she’ll have to say yes!” she insists, extending her hands as if to make a point, “You have to come, okay? You promised to show me how to shoot a bow last time, you promised!”

“Nini, I said I’ll show you how it works,” you grimace slightly at your own mistake of giving a child the idea to learn of a weapon in the first place. What can you say, you got overly excited as usual and spoke too much, too soon. “I don’t think your mom would like us toying around with a weapon in her home. And yes, I asked her already. It’s not gonna happen.”

She blows a raspberry at your reprimanding, followed by a loud huff. And then there’s that stare, the kind that you’re sure makes her mother scowl at how effective it is. “We don’t need to be in the house. We can go to the garden, right? It’s not technically the house anymore.”

“Technically? Who taught you that?” you chuckle, praying it’s enough to distract her hyperactive mind from the bow-shooting idea.

“Um— you did? Mom says I spend too much time with you, by the way. She doesn’t like that I pick up on the things you say, because now I can _actually_ talk to her with adult words. But I like it. You should teach me more words like that,” She replies, going on a tangent. Works like clockwork.

You sigh, taking the parcel out from behind you and cupping it in front of the girl. “Hey, it’s not a good thing. We don’t want to upset her, right?” you reprimand gently, “Here. You told me you liked the oat cakes I made last week.”

Her mouth widens in profound excitement as she quickly grabs ahold of the wrapped gift. “No way, you baked an extra one just for me?”

“Yes— Hey, it’s for your family, alright? Make sure to share it with your brother, at least,” you wag your finger at her with a smile, your heart slowly warming at the raw reaction.

She nods, but you can tell she doesn’t catch a word you say. Her little fingers reach for the knot, ready to untie the morsel, but she’s stopped in her tracks at her name being called.

You peek behind her shoulder to see a woman striding towards you two with a hurried bounce in her step, a woven basket on her hip, and a young boy trailing behind her. She says your name as she approaches, and you can tell from the way her thick eyebrows stitch that Nissa is not supposed to be here alone.

“Morning!” she calls out, her voice carrying a pleasant, melodic lilt when she addresses you. “Ni, I told you to wait up. Help me out with this, will you?” she adds sternly, motioning to her basket with a tilt of her head.

The girl rolls her eyes but does as asked. She strains a little as her mother passes the basket over, a little grunt emitted from her mouth.

“I’m so sorry, she’s been talking about you all of breakfast,” the woman speaks, breath still heavy from prancing around the market. “Didn’t cause you any trouble, I hope?”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. You hope the bow idea doesn’t get a mention. “Not at all, Val. We had a nice little chat about your dinner plans tonight.”

Valerie smiles warmly, though there’s a hint of jest in her dark eyes. “Ah, yes, dinner. Kids this age eat for two, it feels like. Half of this moon’s pay went directly to grocery costs, can you believe it? This one’s got the stomach of a bantha,” she motions to her daughter, and you catch Nissa rolling her eyes again. You chuckle, and the woman shakes her head. “I’d love to have you over, but only if you’re free. It’d be nice to catch up, I feel like it’s been a century since we got to sit down over a meal and a nice spotchka.”

You stand up, stretching a little as you lean against your stall. “I’m free. And I’d love to join if it’s not a problem for you all,” you smile politely, “I’ll make sure to bring some dessert, too,” you add with a wink at Nissa who beams at your generous suggestion.

“That’s too kind of you, as usual. You know the kids love your baking, and so do I,” she says, placing a hand against her son’s back and gently pushing her forward. “Right, Ki?”

The boy tucks a stray brunette lock behind his ear, glancing up at you with a coy nod. You smile, giving him a little wave of encouragement.

“Of course. I’ll whip up something good for you guys,” you respond, turning around to start organizing your produce on the wooden boards. “Thank you for the invite, by the way. I’ve been home-stuck for way too long, and I feel like it’s finally getting to my head,” you add, turning around to flash your friend a cheeky smile. She responds with a similar one, a hand now stroking down her daughter’s plaits.

Nissa tugs on her mother’s sleeve, eyebrows knitted. “Mom, we were supposed to get spice rolls today. You promised Kivan you’d buy them for us,” she complains, and Valerie chuckles warmly.

“Right, I guess I did make that promise at some point,” she shrugs, giving a knowing smile that you return absentmindedly. “Excuse us, but priorities call. On this note, you should really try Mrs. Veska’s spice rolls, I hear it’s an original family recipe from Batuu. Which, by the way, did you even know she’s from Batuu? Maker, the things I still find out after living here my whole life.”

You laugh at her small rant, taking a step forward to place an affirming hand on her shoulder. “This town is a gift that keeps on giving, huh? I trust you have plenty of stories to share with me over that drink you suggested.”

“More than I care to admit,” she huffs, straightening out and adjusting the large messenger bag on her hip. “Anyway, I think we better scavenge this market before all the good stuff is wiped out. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“I’ll see you. Bye, kids!” you lean down, waving enthusiastically. Kivan gives you a coy nod, while Nissa waves back with a wide grin, the wrapped oat cake now sitting safely within the basket she’s carrying.

As you watch Valerie and the kids disappear into the bustling crowd, you exhale a small sigh of contentment. Dinner and some spotchka are exactly what you need after a long, lonesome week.

Your fingers resume their work, carefully arranging the last of your produce on the stall’s wooden boards. You lean back when you’re done, watching the colorful array with your hands on your hips and a satisfied smile painted across your face.

That’s when you feel it— an odd sense of stillness settling over the market as your back faces the crowd.

You wait a beat, breathing in the thick air. It’s as if the week-long tension had finally culminated in a moment of eternal stillness, hovering in the atmosphere like a prayer about to be spoken.

You turn around on your heel, the empty basket still clutched tightly in your hands. That’s when you spot it.

You watch a sleek figure cut through the bustling market crowd, tall frame draped in armor shining brilliantly under the rising daylight. You catch it immediately, something about him—it sends a surge of hushed attention through the townsfolk gathered around. The loud chatter slowly dampens, havoc turning into muted whispers as the figure strides through. People step aside as if instinctively, letting him pass through uninterrupted as Maker forbid a guy of his caliber gets interrupted.

Your fingers wrap still against the edge of the wooden stall, watching the stranger approach. But it’s the air of him that catches your attention—the way he moves, unbothered, like he’s always on the move yet leveled in some unstated purpose. A droid? No, he’s humanoid. A trooper?

He strides with intent, but not hurriedly by any means. A small, rounded pod floats beside him, gently humming as it hovers by his right hip.

Whoever this man is, he’s unlike any visitor your village had taken in before. There’s an unsettling sense of quiet power that seems to follow him as he struts along the stalls, his visor moving subtly, yet perceptibly, as he assumingly scans for what he’s looking for.

You catch glimpses of villagers giving him a wide berth, murmuring amongst themselves, uncertain whether to approach or keep their distance.

He draws nearer, and for a brief moment, his helmet—polished but tattered—turns in your direction. Your breath hitches. You meet the opaque visor, your reflection staring back at you, but you can’t spot the eyes beneath it, even as you try to squint.

There’s no nod, no words exchanged, just a brief moment where your gaze meets his; you can feel it boring into you even through the slim visor, the air around you stilling with his absurdly authoritative presence. Oddly, you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking as he stares into you.

The moment passes instantly as his helmet finally tilts away from you. He continues on, stout boots thudding lightly against the packed dirt of the village square. You blink twice, his gaze lingering on your silhouette for a second longer than it should. Your jaw unclenches, though you don’t remember tightening it in the first place. He seems… familiar.

You dig into the depths of your brain, clawing at the grey matter. Something about his armor, or perhaps the blaster tucked at his side, threatens to awaken a hidden memory within your half-awaken mind.

You don’t exactly know why you decide to take a step forward when you do.

Be it primal curiosity or the quiet tension that clings to him like a fleeting shadow; regardless of the reason, you feel compelled to approach him, basket in hand, steadily nearing the armored stranger.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself as you step forward and drop your emptied basket near the soil by your booth.

When you look up again, you see the armored figure ahead of you finally stop at one of the stalls. He stands silent and still, visor fixed on the selection of produce laid out before him. The stall owner, an older man with wiry hair and sun-weathered skin, toys nervously with the corner of his apron.

Suddenly, a familiar silhouette emerges out of the cantina’s wooden doorway. His broad shoulders sway rhythmically, eyes piercing and focused as he trots down the soil. His weathered hand rests firmly atop his hip, cradling the only blaster the town has ever owned. It’s not something you had ever caught before, but the weapon paired with a tattered chest plate makes him stand out from the rest of the townsfolk. He looks modern, metropolitan, like a big-town sheriff rather than a community-voted overseer.

“Morning, traveler,” he calls out in a deep, gravelly voice, coming to a stop a few paces from the armored figure. “First time seeing you around here. What brings you to Terrine?”

There’s a pause that lingers for a second too long. The stranger doesn’t respond right away, and you can feel the anticipation surging through the air as the marshal takes another step forward.

The marshal steps from foot to foot, the blaster on his hip gleaming in the sunlight as if purposefully making its presence known. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? Fine,”

The armored figure finally turns his head, the reflective visor of his helmet catching the morning sun. He doesn’t flinch or bristle at the marshal’s words—just stands there, towering and still. You feel unease mixing in your gut when you catch a glimpse of the stranger’s blaster resting in the holster on his hip, stagnantly, as his hand hovers nowhere near it.

“Bounty hunters and other scoundrels of your kind aren’t appreciated in these parts. I can see that weapon on your hip, don’t you find me foolish,” he motions to his blaster with a nod of his head, “What’s your business here?”

The question hangs in the air, the marketplace unnervingly still. You sense eyes from the nearby stalls watching the scene, everyone holding their breath as tension swells between the two men.

“You deaf under that helmet?” the marshal sneers, his tone sharp as he steps forward, shoving a hand against the stranger’s shoulder. The impact is solid as you can tell from the dull sound it makes, yet the figure barely flinches. “Huh?”

The crowd seems to hold its breath as the stranger pivots his stance ever so slightly, body shifting just enough to fully face the marshal. His hand moves slowly, almost deliberately, hovering near his blaster—just enough to be caught yet not enough to draw it— yet.

“You don’t want this,” he says, voice low, gravelly, and calm as ever, carrying a weight that cuts through your tense body. It’s heavily modulated, yet it’s soft bass draws a shiver down your spine.

The marshal pauses, his chest rising and falling rapidly, momentarily frozen in place as the air hangs heavy between them. You feel the tension peak, a bead of sweat forming on the marshal’s brow despite the cool morning breeze pouring into the market.

“I’m sick of you metal-clad fuckers causing mayhem where you don’t belong,” he suddenly hisses, sizing the stranger up as his hand slowly catches the handle of his blaster, “I’ve heard enough of your excuses for—” he draws it, and your heart drops.

A wave of adrenaline propels you forward, legs carrying you silently between the two men in a mindless, perhaps foolish, moment of clarity.

“Raan—” you call out desperately, cringing the way your voice shakes. “—Marshal.”

Both men turn their attention to you, but despite being shrouded by two deadly weapons, it’s the stranger’s unseen gaze that makes your stomach twist at that moment.

“Let’s not have this escalate,” you say, gaze soft yet determined as it connects with the marshal’s. Here we go. “We all know you’re just trying to maintain order and peace, but this man has done no harm.”

The marshal’s eyes lock onto yours, his expression a mix of frustration and reluctant acknowledgment. His grip tightens on his blaster, knuckles white, but you can see the battle waging behind his eyes.

“Peace?” the marshal spits, his voice rough. “It’s people like him that _disrupt_ the peace,”

The stranger remains eerily still, his helmet angled slightly towards you as if measuring your sincerity. The tension between the three of you feels almost tangible, and you can feel dozens of eyes boring into you expectantly. Briefly, you catch a glimpse of Valerie, her kids shielded behind the fabric of her dress.

“You know what kind of risk these types bring,” the marshal continues, voice rising slightly. “They come in, stir up trouble, then disappear without a trace. Worst damn case, they tell their little bounty-hunting friends about us so we can be plundered all over again. We don’t need that here, and you should know that better than anyone.”

Your eyes shoot wide open at his statement. The marshal's words sting with a quiet truth, yet you take a deep breath, steeling yourself against the personal attacks. You’re too deep to withdraw now, and somehow, the little voice in your head you call intuition tells you the armor-clad figure is no ordinary plunderer.

Your eyes flicker to his visor, and for the briefest moment, you swear you catch something mild in the way his helmet tilts in your direction. Call it stress-induced delusion, but if he didn’t appreciate your interference, why didn’t he try to stop you yet?

“Marshal, I understand your concerns,” you start again, voice steady but firm. “But we can’t jump to conclusions based on fear alone. Not everyone who wears armor or carries a blaster is out to cause trouble, and you should know that better than anyone.” you bite back subtly, a self-satisfied smirk threatening to emerge at the way his eyebrows furrow at your targeted remark.

His hands drop from his holster, snaking around to rest firmly against his belt. He exhales sharply, giving the stranger a once-over before returning to you with a seemingly dampened mood.

“Fine,” he states firmly, taking a step back. His shoulders relax just a fraction, though the tension still simmers in his eyes. “But I’m keeping an eye on this one. If anything goes awry, we’ll deal with it one way or another.”

The stranger remains silent, his posture relaxed but you catch his visor fixed on the marshal as he withdraws.

The man huffs, and for a brief moment, it seems like he’s about to get a last word in but finally decides against it. He murmurs something under his breath, turning on his heel and making his way back into the quiet cantina.

The silence following the encounter lingers for a beat, before murmurs from the surrounding villagers slowly start up again, the crowd beginning to disperse as the scene deescalates. When you breathe deeply to recalibrate, you can feel the weight of their stares, some curious, most wary.

When you finally turn to face the armored man, you catch his visor pinning you in place.

Your breath hitches, your neck craning to appease his height as your eyes flicker for a moment in search of his. You don’t spot them through the darkness, but it doesn’t stop you from imagining them through the metal, like placing two pins on a map.

You step forward, your voice steady but carrying a note of concern. “I’m sorry about him. We truly don’t get many visitors around here.”

The man doesn’t immediately respond. His visor remains locked on you, the helmet’s reflective surface making it impossible to gauge his opinion of your actions thus far.

“Thank you,” he finally says, and the flatness of his tone makes it hard to gauge at first but he seems… earnest. From what you can tell.

You give him a polite smile, feeling gratified by his small praise. “Keep browsing, if you like. We only hold this market once a week, so it’s a bit of a celebration every time.”

He tilts his head slightly, considering your offer, but keeps silent. After a brief pause, he turns his attention back to the stalls, visor scanning down a selection of sweet pastries from Mrs. Veska. Your eyes flicker over pastry labeled ‘spice rolls’, and make a quick mental note to swing by later, once the crowd clears up a bit.

As you turn to walk back to your stall, you feel a quick, firm grasp on your forearm. “Wait,” the modulated voice calls out, making your gaze flicker to his helmet.

You give him that same smile again, his lingering grip making your gaze flicker to his gloved hand. It wraps around your arm effortlessly, the pressure treading dangerously between comfortable and tight. As if on cue, he withdraws, hands resting at his sides when he addresses you. “Is there lodging here?”

Your eyebrows furrow at the question, your gaze flickering to the humming orb behind him. You catch a slit running along its length, and reason it must be some sort of… strangely extravagant basket.

“Lodging? You mean… rooms to spare?” you question back, and his shoulders seem to imperceptibly relax at that.

“Yes. Available housing,” he clarifies, and you hum in thought. You’re about to ask him about his ship but realize it might be a little personal, especially after the feud feels fresh in your mind.

“It’s hard for me to say at this moment. Like you’ve heard before, we don’t get many visitors or tourists here, so most homes are permanently occupied by native residents,” you explain, searching your mind for a solution. “You’d have to…”

You hesitate, realizing that the key to his problems might just blow up in his face if he tries it.

His helmet tilts slightly, as if urging you to continue despite your hesitation. You meet the inscrutable visor with your gaze, feeling a sudden surge of sympathy.

“You’d have to ask Marshal Raan about it. If there’s anything available, he’d be the one keeping track of such information,” you finally explain, gaze growing apologetic as he takes in the announcement.

The armored man nods, his posture remaining quiet and ordered. “Okay,” he replies, the flatness of his tone giving you little to go off.

“Listen, I… I know he came off pretty unfriendly back there, but he’s a good man. If you explain your situation to him, I’m sure he’ll oblige,” you say, yet your eyebrows furrow. You suddenly realize that you don’t know this stranger’s situation yourself, and you’re not exactly in the position to ask, either.

The man’s helmet tilts slightly as if considering your words. “Thank you for your help,” he says, voice steady and unyielding. You nod at him with a sympathetic smile.

Suddenly, you feel like you want to say something more; ask him a question, tell him about the town, anything to keep the conversation going despite it being long over. Then you realize.

You don’t even know his name.

Your lips hang slightly ajar as he nods at you in goodbye, turning to walk away. You can’t bring yourself to speak. His heavy boots make soft thuds against the packed dirt as you catch him mumbling something to one of the vendors.

You sigh, gaze lingering on him as you slowly withdraw towards your stall, the glint of armor disappearing between the crowd once you reach your produce.

You give them a once-over, a wave of tiredness washing over you out of nowhere. Your mind rushes to the stranger before you can tell it ‘no’, eyes glassy as you play over the feud over and over in your head… his figure clear when you picture it.

A full suit of armor, pristinely crafted to suit his body— one of his pauldrons harbored a strange symbol, the head of a horned animal you had never seen before.

You remember his low, stern voice addressing you with an indiscernible tone, something you can only compare to an unusual kindness. Perhaps it’s the dangerous nature of his supposed profession or the fact he stands out so drastically amongst simple townsfolk like you, but the truth is that your breath quickens as you think of his eyes on you through the slim, dark visor.

“Hey,” you hear, but the words seem muddled through your woolgathering.

You blink, the world around you snapping back into focus. The armored figure is standing right in front of your stall now, his imposing presence suddenly filling your bubble. You meet his gaze through the dim visor, the helmet almost intimate in its closeness.

“Hey,” he repeats, his voice modulated but softer now, gently waking you from your haze. “I need a favor.”

His request catches you off guard, your eyes widening slightly as you finally come fully to your senses. Your mind races, trying to moderate the intimidating figure.

“Favor?” you echo, frowning slightly. “Don’t tell me. He turned you down. Just… just come with me, I’ll try to talk some sense—”

“We didn’t talk,” he cuts you off, the initial softness disappearing from his voice. He shifts his weight slightly, arms crossed over his chest. “I… think I’ll manage without the lodging for a while.”

You give him a raised eyebrow but quickly muster up a sympathetic smile when he refuses to elaborate.

“Okay. What brings you to me, then?” you probe gently, watching him pull a pouch out of his messenger bag. It clinks softly as it rolls over his fingers.

“I need supplies,” he explains, tossing you the sack with a flick of his wrist. You yelp, straining to catch it mid-air. Once you feel the weight of it, you realize it’s a lot more than you bargained for. Your lip twitches.

“This is a small fortune,” you frown, withdrawing a singular coin from within. You pass it between your fingers, rubbing gently against the New Republic sigil engraved into the sleek metal. “I don’t have enough supplies to trade you for this large an amount.”

“I’ll take all you have,” he hums, helmet dropping slightly to glance at your small selection of produce. “And you can keep whatever coin is left.”

“What? No— I can’t,” you chuckle nervously, extending your palms with the coin pouch inside. “Why… why won’t you try the other vendors? Market’s open til noon, you’re granted some good cuts of meat and proper bread at least,”

He looks at you. As always, you can’t tell for certain, but you feel his gaze on yours, boring into your very being as he shifts from one leg to another.

“My presence sparks fear in your people,” he says quietly. “They refuse to do business with me.”

Your heart twists a bit at his words. ‘None of them?’ you want to ask, but the silence between you speaks louder than any words ever could. You nod slowly, understanding dawning on you as your arms withdraw under your cloak, the small pouch with them.

“Alright,” you say softly, taking a deep breath. “Alright… let me pack this up for you,”

He nods in acknowledgment, stepping away as you walk around your stall. You feel his presence by your side as your hands work at the jars, placing them gently within a patterned cloth. Next come the oat cakes, then the vegetables.

He watches you in silence, helmet tilted as you skillfully tie the parcel into a knot. You turn to him slowly, straining a bit at the weight in your hands as you present it to him with an encouraging smile.

“Thanks for single-handedly putting me out of business,” you muse, chuckling half-heartedly at your nervous attempt at a joke. The helmet peers at you, but keeps silent. ‘Tough crowd,’ you think.

His gloved fingers move to cup the parcel, your thumbs grazing as you pass it to him. You jerk on instinct and pray to Maker he doesn’t notice.

“Thanks,” he nods, turning to briefly gaze at the humming orb behind him. “Keep the rest—”

“Come with me,” you intercept, louder than planned. He turns to you, helmet tilting in question. You swallow thickly, hands at your hips as you elaborate. “…Come with me. I can’t let you give away all this coin, and I have nothing more to give you from this stall, so… I’m inviting you to my home. Let me cook for you, so we may call it even.”

Your body ripples with anxiety as the words leave your mouth. Part of you wants to retract your invite on the spot when you watch him take a step towards you, unnervingly silently, and— Maker, why does he have to be so damn silent?!

“Okay,” he speaks, voice stern yet laced with something unrecognizable. You glance up at him with wide eyes, visor pointed at you with a silent purpose.

You take a step back as the ghost of a smile crawls onto your shock-stricken face, your words echoing his. “Okay.”

92 notes · View notes

lynnhf · 1 year

Text

Personal Writing Challenge(2 Weeks) Day 1

Date: 9/5/23

Title: Noticed

Universe: Stargate Altantis

Pairing: Lorne/Oc(Nyla Brooks) If you squint

Part 1?

Nyla focused on her breathing. On the air entering through her nose, her chest rising, the tense muscles in her shoulders. Holding the air captive a moment, she paused, releasing it slowly. Willing her muscles to relax, her shoulders to drop, and her heart to slow. She could hear it, beating in her ears, beating against her. She repeated the process, beginning slowly till her thoughts were no longer drowned out.

“I can do this.” She whispered to no one but herself.

Releasing the steering wheel she opened her eyes and stared out into the black sea. Darkness, fought off only by the warm orange light produced by the imposing metal knights. It was far too early for anyone to be awake, well, she hoped it was. Regardless, it was far too early for anyone she knew of to be awake.

And that was the point.

Gathering her courage, Nyla opened her car door, slipping into the frigid air. She paused only a moment to wrap her sweater tighter around herself and then proceeded to gather her supplies. Crickets welcomed her and the stars seemed to smile in mirth as she walked up to the beach. The ocean's gentle waves called to her in greeting, it's still dark waters reflecting the star's laughter.

Letting out a breath she didn’t know she held, Nyla allowed a small smile to grace her. No one was here. Not a soul. They will come in waves, she knew, but for the time being, she was alone. Both a blessing and a curse.

She walked further into the beach, making sure to stay away from the tides so she could set up. Her easel was first, then her small foldable end table and chair. Next was the paint, jars, and brushes. Then finally, the large canvas she had prepped with a soft pastel blue.

Nyla sat down, making sure to place her bags at her feet, her eyes being pulled to the real object of attention. The Golden Gate Bridge. It sat there across the water, its majestic beauty enrapturing her. Even from here, she could see the traffic, people rushing to and fro.

Maybe some people were awake this early.

Ignoring her heart's demand for attention, Nyla bent down and retrieved her camera from her bag. She fiddled with it, changing the settings, not that she truly needed to. She merely did so to try and distract herself from the whispers within her mind. She really should have brought a book, or maybe her mp3.

She was so involved in her thoughts that she failed to notice his presence till he too placed down his own easel. The sound of the wood hitting itself startled her, causing her head to jerk in his direction. He was already looking at her, an apologetic smile adorning his face.

She couldn’t help the heat that rushed to her face, coloring it in a fine pink. Piercing her lips, she looked away just as quickly. Hoping he didn’t notice her embarrassment, her colored cheeks, and racing heart. His eyes were blue, a light blue, a beautiful blue. Gosh, that smile could make any girl swoon.

She was looking down at her lap, her own hair falling to cover for her as she listened to him. He wasn’t directly next to her, he was instead a few feet away from her. Far enough not to make things feel awkward, but close enough so they may speak with one another should they so desire to. Yet he wasn’t close enough to make her feel threatened by his presence. It almost seemed like they planned this. It might even look that way to outsiders.

Outsiders… She shuddered. The word was enough to remind her that the mysterious man next to her was in fact, a person. Not a person she knew, but he was someone she had been trying to avoid. She sighed and resumed fiddling with her camera. As long as she didn’t look at him, she should be fine.

As if it wished to save her from the growing awkwardness and traitorous thoughts, the sun started to rise. Regaining her attention and refocusing her, reminding her why she was there in the first place. Lifting her camera, Nyla patiently waited for the right shot. Allowing the colors the sun created with the clouds to drift and change. Til’ finally, she was permitted the chance to take a perfect picture.

She memorized it. Imprinting the colors, shapes, and feelings to memory. Nyla lifted her brush, and without truly looking at the canvas that was now visible in front of her, she painted.

And as she did, the world stopped.

She could no longer hear the ocean waves speaking to her, or the rise of the birds as they sang for the sun. She couldn’t hear the people walking behind her, commenting on how beautiful the weather was. In this world, there was no sound, no whispers to distract her, to torment her. There was no feeling either. No numbness in her rear from sitting for so long. No breeze to cool her as the sun rose higher in the sky, warming the world around her far too much. It was just her, and the painting in front of her.

That is, until her phone rang. It startled her badly, causing her to yank her hand back and away from her painting. The shrill noise coming from her bag felt like it was summoning the hoard of people's attention. Nyla could have sworn that a million eyes had turned their gaze to her as she frantically tried to pull out the screaming device.

Once successful, she took one look at the caller ID and froze. Why call her of all people? Against her better judgment, she let it ring till the caller received her voicemail. Her heart battled against her once again, and she struggled to covertly regain the air robbed from her.

Nyla looked up and surveyed her surroundings, wishing for a distraction. People laid out on the beach around her, playing with the sand, and splashing the children with water. Their laughter floated over to her, and while it was a joyful sound, she couldn’t bring herself to enjoy it. She was far too consumed by her own turmoil. The peace taken from her.

With speed she didn’t know she processed, Nyla gathered up her supplies, making sure not to touch the wet paint on the canvas. As she turned to leave, she noticed the man was still there, he was focused on his own painting, lost in his own world it seemed. Just like she had been.

The sight brought her a small sense of comfort as she walked away. A tiny smile having formed for just a moment. While they didn’t know each other, it had been nice to inadvertently paint with him. It had been a long time since she had someone to paint with and she realized now just how much she had missed it. Maybe she could find someone to paint with. If she did she wouldn’t be completely alone and maybe she wouldn’t feel as vulnerable when she painted out in public.

Maybe she should check out the local dog shelters.

#Stargate Atlantis #Stargate #Major Evan Lorne #Major Lorne #Lorne #Lorne/OC #OC #fanfiction #Writing #Writing Challenge #2 Week Writing Challenge #Personal Writing Challenge #@batsyforyou #LynnHF

5 notes · View notes

unfortunate-arrow · 1 year

Text

𝐎𝐰𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐊𝐚𝐝𝐞 | hpma minor character profile

warnings: discussions of death and cancer

✧ IDENTITY ✧

Full Name: Owen David MacKade

Nicknames: None

Name Meanings: Owen → Welsh, “young warrior ; well-born” ; David → Hebrew, “beloved” ; MacKade → Irish & Scottish, “from the wetlands.”

Date of Birth: June 3, 2003

Gender: Male ; he/him

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Blood Status: Muggleborn

Nationality: Irish

✧ APPEARANCE & VOICE ✧

Faceclaim: Noah Jupe

Height: 5’6”

Build: Average

Hair: Curly brown hair that’s length varies by the year

Eye Color: Brown

Defects & Modifications: He has a small scar on his left bicep.

Style: Jeans ; t-shirts ; sweatshirts ; plaid shirts ; trousers ; sweaters ; jackets ; hoodies ; sneakers

Voiceclaim: Noah Jupe

Accent: Irish

Dialect: General Irish English

✧ PERSONALITY ✧

MBTI Type: INFP — the mediator

⤷ A Mediator (INFP) is someone who possesses the Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Prospecting personality traits. These rare personality types tend to be quiet, open-minded, and imaginative, and they apply a caring and creative approach to everything they do.

Positive Traits: Integrity, dedicated, intelligent, curious, supportive, athletic

Neutral Traits: Idealistic, reserved, stubborn, quiet, imaginative

Negative Traits: Sensitive, impractical, easily stressed

Interests & Hobbies: Football/soccer, hurling, cricket, reading, video games, dancing, flying, painting, writing

✧ MAGIC ✧

Wand: Owen’s wand is made of elm wood with a unicorn tail hair core and is 9 ⅘ inches long with a supple flexibility.

⤷ Elm wands preferred owners with presence, magical dexterity and a certain native dignity. Of all wand woods, elm, in Ollivander's experience, produced the fewest accidents, the least foolish errors, and the most elegant charms and spells; these were sophisticated wands, capable of highly advanced magic in the right hands (which made it highly desirable to those who espoused the pure-blood philosophy).

Patronus: Elephant

Boggart: His brother’s dead body

Riddikulus: The body pops up and does the robot dance

Amortentia: Owen smells like soap, spearmint, cinnamon, and cedarwood.

✧ HOGWARTS ✧

House: Ravenclaw

Best Subjects: Charms, herbology, history of magic, potions

Worst Subjects: Transfiguration, defense against the dark arts

Extracurriculars: Frog choir, prefect, head boy

✧ EMPLOYMENT ✧

Affiliations: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Professions:

Age 18 to 25 - Magiovet in training

Age 25 to 96 - Magiovet

✧ RELATIONSHIPS ✧

Father: David Padraig MacKade [deceased. 1965-2006]

Owen doesn’t have many clear memories of his father, as he was four when David passed away. Those memories are stronger in Owen’s mind than his memories of his mother, but not by much. He misses the man a lot and as much as Owen adores his big brothers, he wishes that he could turn to his father for things.

Mother: Clare Siobhan MacKade née O’Brien [deceased, 1967-2004]

Owen doesn’t have any memories of his mother, as he was only one when she passed away. He wishes that he could have had any memories of her and there are a lot of moments where Owen wishes that he had her to turn to. He really misses her.

Brother: Finnian Joseph “Finn” MacKade

Born on December 30, 1996, Finn is six and a half years older than Owen. They have a close relationship and Owen is probably the closest to Finn. They don’t have that many arguments because of their age gap, except when Owen feels like Finn is being too protective over him. Owen loves his big brother a lot, though.

Faceclaim: Tom Holland

Brother: Nathaniel Brian “Nate” MacKade

Born on December 30, 1996, Nate is six and a half years older than Owen. Owen probably has the most distant relationship with Nate, but they’re still fairly close. They don’t have that much in common and Owen gravitates more towards Finn anyways. However, they love each other a lot and care about one another immensely.

Faceclaim: Tom Holland

Brother: Padraig Darragh “Paddy” MacKade

Born on April 16, 2000, Paddy is three years older than Owen. They have a close relationship, partially because Finn and Nate are often together and because their age gap is smaller. They get along pretty well, although they do fight. They have a lot in common and love each other a lot.

Faceclaim: Levi Miller

Grandmother: Jean Frances MacKade née Hughes

Owen has a good relationship with his grandmother. He has always had a good relationship with her and he really looks up to. He’s not as aware of how much she does, but as an adult, he really appreciates everything that she’s done for him and his brothers.

Faceclaim: Julie Andrews

Nephews: Wyatt Hartley MacKade ; Jonah David MacKade ; Ian David MacKade

Nieces: Zoey Vanessa MacKade ; Flora Elspeth MacKade

Sisters-In-Law: Nova Luisa Hartley (@gaygryffindorgal) ; Scotty Rosier (@drinkyoursoupbitch)

Pets: A labrador retriever named Lady

✧ HISTORY & BACKGROUND ✧

Hometown: Mullingar, County Westmeath, Ireland

Pre-Hogwarts Childhood:

Born on June 3, 2003, Owen David MacKade was the fourth and youngest child pof David and Clare MacKade. He joined older brothers, Finn (6), Nate (6), and Paddy (3). Owen’s childhood was disrupted by his mother’s cancer diagnosis and her subsequent death in late 2004, when he was one. Therefore, he doesn’t have very many memories of his mother. The next disruption came when Owen was three and his father died suddenly. Thankfully, Owen’s grandmother took him and his brothers in and gave them the very best childhood that she could. The next shock, which wasn’t nearly as traumatic or difficult, was when Finn and Nate received Hogwarts letters, with Paddy receiving one a few years later. Owen was very excited when his own letter came in 2014.

Hogwarts Years:

Upon starting Hogwarts, Owen was sorted into Ravenclaw with the hat barely touching his head. He was very happy to be sorted into Ravenclaw, as he had idolized the house due to the stories that his big brother, Finn, told. He also loved being in the same house as his big brother, who helped a lot whenever Owen was feeling homesick that first year. In addition, Owen was made a prefect in his fifth year and head boy in his seventh year.

Adulthood:

After graduating from Hogwarts, Owen became a magiovet, fulfilling his fascination with magical creatures and his desire to help others. He also found himself being made the godfather of his niece, Zoey, and his niece, Flora. Like his brother Paddy, Owen took being a godfather very seriously and loved all of his various nieces and nephews.

Old Age & Death:

Owen passed away in his sleep at the age of 107.

✧ MISCELLANEOUS ✧

Trivia:

Owen’s middle name is in honor of his father.

Owen is a good listener and has a firm belief in the good of humanity, even when his beliefs aren’t always reinforced.

Owen is generally quite optimistic and is the most optimistic of the four MacKade brothers.

Owen really enjoys building with Legos, especially the more complex sets and he has a whole display of the smaller (and cheaper) architecture sets.

Owen’s great-great-great paternal grandparents were both squibs from wealthy and well-known families. They changed their surname to MacKade when they moved into the muggle world.

Important Links:

Owen’s tag [#owen mackade]

#owen mackade #hpma #magic awakened #hpma minor oc #hpma character profile #my character profile #my aesthetic #minor oc

3 notes · View notes

wil-is-done · 2 years

Text

When You’re A Mystery Kid - Chapter 17: Sparks

Summary: It all starts with a single spark.

Word Count: 2.221

IMPORTANT NOTE: This is a repost.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters featured here.

Mabel skipped down the hallway of the Shack while humming a cheerful little tune for herself. She didn’t quite remember where the tune was from - probably the opening theme to a sitcom or something - and while she can devote some time and thought to really remembering where it was from, that is not a thing that is on her mind at the moment. Maybe later, but not now. Now, the thing that is on her mind is where the heck exactly is that ghost-seeing sweetheart most commonly known as Norman, a.k.a. Normie, a.k.a. Norm, a.k.a. Hairspike McGhostface.

She’d already searched everywhere in the Shack, and by everywhere, she meant the three most likely places where you can usually find a Norman, which is in front of the television, the roof, or in the backyard near the woods, and she did not find a single Norman at all in any of those places. So, that left her heading off towards the fourth and last place where you can find yourself a Norman, which is the bedroom he shares with Neil while they’re here for the summer.

As her target comes into view and she got closer to said target, her skipping comes to a stop, because skipping makes a lot of loud noise, and loud noises are easier to hear, obviously. Instead, she switched on her sneaking mode, which produces the opposite of loud noises, and is therefore good for what she’s about to do. Reaching the door to his room, she paused for a bit, feeling the bundle tucked under her sweater - which is still there, safe and unharmed, thank goodness - before opening the door just an itty bitty teeny tiny little bit, and took a peek inside.

Inside, she can confirm that the room does contain a Norman, who is sitting in the middle of the room, cross-legged, hands joined together on his lap, and eyes closed in a relaxed manner. The room also seems to be filled with the sounds of hooting owls, cricketing crickets, and the soft crinkling of leaves as a breeze passed through them, and before she can come to the conclusion that there is a pocket dimension somewhere in Norman’s room, she spotted Norman’s phone placed beside Norman, which seems to be the source of all the sounds.

Taking a moment to mentally give herself a high five for getting it right after only four tries - high five! - she then did two quick knocks on the door.

“Hey, Norm.” Mabel whispered out.

Norman opened a single eye, and then opened another one when he realized who greeted him.

“Oh. Mabel.”

He reached down to grab his phone, stopping the ambient noises it’s making, took a moment to straighten out and stretch and rub his eyes, before he smiled gently up at Mabel.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

Mabel proceeded to fully enter the room, closing the door behind her, answering, “Oh, not much.”

“Oh! Are you here for that… drink?” Norman pointed to a nearby dresser, where Mabel can see there is indeed a ghost-and-zombie-decorated mug that she gave her this morning sitting on top of it.

Norman rubbed his arm, saying somewhat bashfully, “I… haven’t actually finished it yet. It’s been… interesting, drinking that. Sorry.”

“Nah, that drink’s old news.” Mabel shrugged. She sat down in front of Norman and leaned forward. “What’s new and hip is what the heckins have you been doing here? What’s all this about?”

“Oh, uh, this is, I’ve been…” Norman glanced about his room for a moment, “…meditating.”

Mabel’s eyes went wide. “Oooh, meditating?”

“Yeah.” Norman shrugged. “Raz and Lili recommended it to me, said it might help me with my… you know, thing.”

Mabel nodded, eyes full of awe. Norman’s ‘thing’ - she almost giggled over the fact that that’s how he wants to call it - is a truly awesome sight to behold, and if meditating can help it and him, that would be all kinds of absolutely awesome.

“So, yeah, since everyone went out to town, I thought I’d meditate for a bit. I’m actually surprised you came back so early.”

“Eh. Paz cancelled our date; her parents are being complete grumbletonians, so I went back.” She’s still really bummed that her plans for the night are ruined, but she supposed that’s the risk of dating someone whose parent are total fopdoodles.

Anyhow, she doesn’t want to linger on that anymore, so she leaned forward again. “So, did it work? Does meditating actually help you?”

“Umm…” Norman wondered for a moment before, and Mabel noticed, he deliberately forced his shoulder to slump and his face to fall. “I… don’t know. The reason Raz and Lili recommended it to me is because it helped them with their powers. They’re psychic, and I’m… me.”

“Even they’re not sure if it’ll help, but, I mean,” Norman shrugged, in a manner that Mabel guessed is meant to look helpless, “it’s better than nothing, I guess.”

Mabel briefly considered blurting out what a terrible liar Norman is right then and there, but she decided to hold her tongue for just a tiny bit. She wanted to see how this would go.

“Can you show me?”

Norman blinked, stammering, “Sh-show you…?”

“Yeah, show me what you can do.” Mabel said with a firm nod.

“Uh…” Norman hesitated, but surprisingly she didn’t have to pull out the puppy eyes before he said, “…sure. Okay.”

Mabel grinned, scooting back a few inches to give Norman some space. Norman took a few deep breaths, putting both of his hands in front of him.

He shot a nervous glance at Mabel. “I’m just telling you now, it’s not much, so don’t get too excited.”

“Oh, sure.” Mabel smiled knowingly.

Norman didn’t seem to notice as he is already too focused on preparing himself. He closed his eyes, taking in one more deep breath, two more deep breaths, three more, before his eyes opened, and they are glaring at his hands, the most intense look Mabel has ever seen him with. Moments passed in breathless silence with nothing happening, until Mabel noticed, almost impossible to see, a streak of yellow jumping from the tip of his right ring finger to the tip of his left middle finger. Another streak, bigger this time, from his left pinky to his right thumb, zipping by incredibly fast with a sound that almost sounds like a chitter of an angry hummingbird. After that, another streak jumped, then another, and another, and another, until the streaks stopped being streaks and became lines, ever-shifting lines of yellow that connected one finger tip to another. The lines grew in size and number, doubling, tripling, becoming a sparking, shifting, chittering network of, what Mabel now realized, electricity, right there between Norman’s fingers. The sight of it is… amazing.

The network continued to grow, fully enveloping Norman’s fingers, sometimes arcing down to his palm, or even further down to his wrist. However, Mabel also saw Norman’s breath quickening, his hands starting to shake, beads of sweat starting to roll down his forehead. As the network of electricity grew, Mabel even saw on Norman’s features, for the briefest moment, a look of fear.

Norman closed his eyes tight and clenched his hands into fists, and the electric network disappeared, as if nothing has ever happened. He slammed his fists into the wooden floor, slumping down where he sat, taking in long, deep breaths for a good thirty seconds. Eventually, he looked up, wearing a smile that is not convincing at all.

“And that was, uh… pretty much all that I can do. Told you it was not much.”

Mabel shook her head, amused, but her eyes still showed concern.

“You’re a terrible liar, Norman.”

Norman sighed, shoulders slumping, averting his gaze.

Mabel cocked her head to the side. “Wanna talk about it?”

Norman didn’t respond.

Mabel sighed, intentionally as dramatic as humanly possible. “Guess not. Too bad, I had something super cool I wanted to give to you.

Norman still said nothing, but, to Mabel’s joy, he did chance a glance at Mabel. She chose that time to pull out the bundle wrapped in newspaper from under her sweater.

“It’s pretty much the coolest thing ever, but you don’t want it, I guess.” Mabel made a show of inspecting the bundle in her hands.

This, to Mabel’s delight, brought a teeny tiny smile to Norman’s face.

“Alright. Alright.”

Mabel put the bundle in her lap and listened intently.

“I can do more.” Norman admitted. “I just don’t want to.”

Mabel was careful to keep her voice gentle. “Why not?”

“Because it hurts.” A grimace flashed across his face. A pained memory. “I know how much it can hurt. I don’t want anyone to feel that, especially not… people like you guys.”

Mabel couldn’t help but smile. That is just the most Norman way to answer that question. “Norman, you could never hurt us.”

“You don’t know that!” Norman suddenly snapped. “Letting it out is easy, but controlling it is… I can barely do it! And that was just for little sparks! What if it gets stronger?! Aggie, she-!”

Norman paused. Deep breaths to calm down. “I’m starting to think it’s the other way around. She didn’t get so powerful because she was filled with so much anger and hate; she was so powerful, that it… she lost control. A-and it even makes sense! Deep down, she didn’t really want to hurt people, but she still felt angry, and with how powerful she was… it felt good. It felt right.”

Norman’s clear blue eyes met Mabel’s hazel, and she sucked in a breath, taken aback by how scared he looked.

“I’m- I don’t want-”

Mabel quickly reached forward, taking Norman’s trembling hand in her own. Norman flinched back, his hands squirming trying to break free from Mabel’s grasp, but Mabel’s grip held firm.

“Norman, Norman, listen.” Mabel offered him a small, gentle smile. “No offense to Aggie, but even if, deep down, she doesn’t actually want to hurt people, on the outside she still wanted to, right?”

Norman slowly nodded.

“Do you want to hurt people?”

Norman’s eye widened, horrified.

“N-no!”

Mabel let go of Norman’s hand, leaning back, relaxing. “Then you got nothing to worry about.”

“See, how I see it, if feeling angry plus powers equals feeling angrier for Aggie, then for you, no anger plus your powers equals… just your powers.”

Norman was quiet for a while, considering the thought, but he eventually conceded with, “I guess…”

Mabel said nothing in reply; she simply sat quietly with a gentle smile still on her face. Norman eventually settled into a neutral expression after a little while. A silence washed over the two, but it’s a comfortable kind of silence, the kind of silence that says a lot more than words could express, which Mabel always thought was ironic.

Eventually, Mabel gauged enough time has passed for her to say, “Well, time for your reward.”

With practiced flourish, Mabel unwrapped the bundle in her lap. Norman took one look at the object underneath the wrapping, and laughed. “Wow.” was all he could say.

The object in question was a very peculiar doll of a zombified bunny rabbit, complete with a bloodied missing eye and bits of its skeleton sticking out, which, despite its horribly mangled form, still managed to look pretty gosh darn adorable. Props to the designers of the doll, really, for managing to do that.

“Where’d you find something like that?” Norman asked.

“I found him in some leftover stuff from Summerween. The store was practically giving them away, so I snatched Mr. Zombunny out of there.” Mabel rose to her feet and took a step closer to Norman. “And…” she plopped the doll right on top of Norman’s spiky hair, “boop.”

Mabel took a step back to admire the sight of Norman with a zombie bunny doll on top of his hair. It’s a great sight. Almost matches the sight of Norman’s powers, honestly.

“He loves it up there.” Mabel said.

Norman looked up. “Does he, now?”

“Yep.” Mabel grinned. “Oh, wait, oh no. He loves it too much. He’s never getting off. You’re stuck with him forever.”

“I think I can get used to him.” Norman said with a smile, but nonetheless he reached up to grab the bunny from his hair, and placed the doll on his lap.

“Look at him. Don’t you just wanna cherish and protect him forever?”

Norman stroked the bunny doll, chuckling. “Sure, yeah.”

Mabel placed a hand on Norman’s shoulder, and when he looked up, he was greeted with her kind, warm smile.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

This one’s a little more lighthearted compared to the last chapter, but still important nonetheless.

I always wanted to delve deeper into Norman’s powers and all the things he could do, so this was pretty fun to write for me. So, this has been the first chapter of another mini-arc, this one focusing on Norman and what he can do.

Next chapter, we should be checking back on Lili and see how she’s doing. Hope y’all are looking forward to that.

Thanks for reading, and hope y’all have a good day.

#mystery kids #gravity falls #paranorman #mabel pines #norman babcock #When You're A Mystery Kid

2 notes · View notes

customknitfactory · 4 months

Text

youtube

private label sweater fleece coat Production factory,cashmere kaschmir pullover Processing factory

YS knitting sweater production factory https://customknitfactory.com

email: [email protected]

private label sweater fleece coat Production factory,cashmere kaschmir pullover Processing factory cardigan50k，oversized open cardigan manufacturer china，fleece artist，70% cotton / 30% polyester pullover unisex，sweater boston lobster，Women's sweater company，Young girls sueter，who knits， kids sweater，t shirt for men sweater，oem&odm men pullover sweater，summer sweater companies in chinese，embroidery pullover，french terry cotton sweater loose，camisola para mamas，yellow cardigan outfit，bloke sweaters，jumpers suite womens，sueter cobija，pullover dumbbell chest，custom knitted，sweater thick，7 for all mankind sweater，custom off shoulder knit sweater，pullover hoodies wholesale，Youngsters V-neck，jumper with stitching logo， para sueter de，yoga pullover，private label sweater fleece coat Production factory,cashmere kaschmir pullover Processing factory sweater graphic Producer https://customknitfactory.com/sweater-graphic-producer/ private label sweater fleece coat Production factory,cashmere kaschmir pullover Processing factory custom oem & odm boho crochet women's sweater， cachemire cricket sweater men Production ，pink holiday sweaters，men's long sleeve cardigan sweater，karol g sweater，men sweater zipper，Female's tracksuit top，esprit women's cardigans，designer sweater knitting patterns，women's varsity cardigan uk，panco triko takim，knit together Fleeces，open knit cardigan loose，long sleeve black color sweater for man，knitted blouse women casual top，adolescents Windcheater，hoodie sweater Firm，col roul enfant，i love new york sweater，fleece dachshund sweater，women long skirts，2sueteres，women's sweaters and cardigans，channel cardigans brand replica 11，young women Tunic，chompas a crochet en cuello v，private label sweater fleece coat Production factory,cashmere kaschmir pullover Processing factory sweater mill hours,sweater custom dog portrait https://customknitfactory.com/sweater-mill-hourssweater-custom-dog/ private label sweater fleece coat Production factory,cashmere kaschmir pullover Processing factory lady winter sweaters，luxury ribbed knitted wool mens，custom sweater jacquard， custom long，prettiest drees in the world for kids，max mara，ladies tops，custom merino wool sweater，Elderly people sweater-vest，wraps and Hoodies，sweaters wool prato，where i get my sweatshirts，orange cardigan for women，sweater women dress，high quality custom make male jacquard sweater，cropped knitwear，Attire Shrugs，check dog sweater，lace cardigan for women，hoodie sweater fuzzy，knitwear plus size，sweater and sweatshirt， ribbed knit，Toddler girls Tunics，pull homme hiver，faux mink men sweater，thick turtleneck high neck pullover sweater，sweater dress girls，how are knitted sweaters mass produced，private label sweater fleece coat Production factory,cashmere kaschmir pullover Processing factory oem&odm polo ralph lauren Processing factory https://customknitfactory.com/oemodm-polo-ralph-lauren-processing/ private label sweater fleece coat Production factory,cashmere kaschmir pullover Processing factory Aged people hoody，ombre jacquard sweater，honda city mirror sweaters 2022，women's cardigans clearance， sweater custom knit，plain sweater knit men，Little girl Guernsey，sweater shorts set，chandail coupe du monde Maker，sweater sport dress，cash only sweater streetwear，loose knit custom，women zipper cardigan short，maxi cosi， en laine sweater under oem&odm，burberry pullover，cute oversized sweater，sueter tejido con 3d，sueter de hilo，seniors trui，sweater for teenager，Suit Sweater，lv coat women，pattern knitwear women factory，sueter mujer a crochet，designer cotton sweaters，latest new style knit，christmas sweater cat，knitting machines for home use sweater，àcardigan，hoodzy hooded sweater blanket

#Youtube

0 notes

customsweaterproducer · 7 months

Text

youtube

sweater factory,children's clothing manufacturer

YS-SWEATER MANUFACTURING https://sweatermanufacturing.com

Email:[email protected]

sweater factory,children's clothing manufacturer ulla johnson，off white knitwear，ropa de mujer sueter，groothandel dames zomer kleding，wool sweater fair isle，knitwear finishing，nhs cardigan， merino wool boys custom sweater Bespoke，suéter weasley，cricket sweater winter colour，crop jumper tracksuit，erkek ince kazak，chompas para mujer cuerina，nike tech fleeces，sweater hoodie white，hooded sweater work，twgone sweaters for women casual irregular split，pullover verano，quince sweater，sueteres de mr beast，m'en pullover tiger，a sweeter place，types of jacquard knitting，sueter colores mujer，ferri da magliabordi in lana，kids girls woolen top，colorful sweater women，knitwear offers，sweater factory，children's clothing manufacturer jumper for customized factory https://sweatermanufacturing.com/jumper-for-customized-factory/ sweater factory，children's clothing manufacturer ebay cardigans for women，graphic sweater oem&odm china，sweater jumpsuit，militare maglione，ezcardinfo.com，pullover weiss winter damen，yo en tu sueter，2023 knitwear，jumper ukulele chords，pullover de cuello y manga larga para mujer，3d knitwear outfit，xc weather cardigan， sherpa fleece pullover，baby knit manufacturer in chinese，winter pullovers men，drop shoulder knit sweater，ropa formal para mujer juvenil，ustom vest knitted，sueter que se amarra al frente，hellblauer pullover，designer crop knit top skirt cardigan set，duwmeli kazak，knitwear women cardigan，logo custom plus size knit cardigan for women，swter de hombre，sweater factory，children's clothing manufacturer women’s sweaters Producer https://sweatermanufacturing.com/womens-sweaters-producer/ sweater factory，children's clothing manufacturer sweater 45，sueter anime，ladies knitted girls knit top cardigan sweater，tenue pliss， men winter，vineyard vines pullover，zara knit jacquard sweater，vetement enfant fille 2023 en gros，knitting patterns for women's cardigan sweaters，sweater with hearts，silvia panel sweater remix，women cardigan crochet，chandals azules，best women's cardigan amazon，90's fleece sweater，hooded sweater knit coat，peuter meisjes truien cotton，cardiganwelsh，quiksilver mens fleeces，sueter con cuello de tortuga de mujer，triko bere， custom cardigan custom，camisola 100seda pura， sweater with zipper，sweater hoodies womens，sweater fleece material，crew cardigan Production factory，knitted sleeveless sweater women casual vest，men's sweaters short pants，sweater factory，children's clothing manufacturer oem&odm v neck pullover https://sweatermanufacturing.com/oemodm-v-neck-pullover/ sweater factory，children's clothing manufacturer clothes women，sueter de moda para mujer cardigan tejido，elderly women's cardigans，sweater dresses for kids，sweater under blazer，sequined pullover poncho women shawls sweaters，sueter unam，oversized tye dye jumpers for women，hssliche autos， custom hoodies，womens high turtleneck Firm，women's 2xl cardigan，mohair and wool striped blanket，sweatshirt sizes，sweter dor boys，my favourite things knitwear sweater no 14，sweater coats for women，as turtle neck，chandail femme manche longue，cardiganvintage，hooded sweater vest

#fleeces womens thin cardigan Firm #mens woolen knitwear women long Firm #fleeces sweaters mujer company #woollen sweater oem Firm #merino wool cashmere knit companies #woollen plain black sweater company #merino wool bear sweater company #cachemire black sweaters companies #woollen mens cardigans navy companies #cashmere silk beaded sweater company #merino wool sweter matchin Firm #merino wool work sweater Firm #100 cashmere pull over pour homme companies #Youtube

0 notes

clubcolor · 1 year

Text

club colours

Since 1879 club colours has been specializing in producing sports club apparel including; club blazers, club ties and cricket sweaters. Our UK based tailors will produce quality garments to your design that will truly make your club members stand out from the crowd.If you have a design in mind, we can help you to become a reality. If you haven’t got a design in mind then our sports club clothing suppliers can liaise with you to help create your own unique customized sports clothing.We offer a choice of materials to suit every budget. contact our own team today.

Address:17, Brookhouse Bus Park, Hadleigh Road Ind Est, Ipswich IP2 0EF, UK

Telephone:+44 1473 231378

E-mail: [email protected]

Website: www.clubcolours.co.uk

0 notes

dead-fl13s · 2 years

Note

I'm OK! You know what this means?

All the honey will finally belong to the bees.

Now we won't have to work so hard all the time.

This is an unholy perversion of the balance of nature, Benson.

You'll regret this.

Barry, how much honey is out there?

All right. One at a time.

Barry, who are you wearing?

My sweater is Ralph Lauren, and I have no pants.

What if Montgomery's right?

What do you mean?

We've been living the bee way a long time, 27 million years.

Congratulations on your victory. What will you demand as a settlement?

First, we'll demand a complete shutdown of all bee work camps.

Then we want back the honey that was ours to begin with, every last drop.

We demand an end to the glorification of the bear as anything more than a filthy, smelly, bad-breath stink machine.

We're all aware of what they do in the woods.

Wait for my signal. Take him out.

He'll have nauseous for a few hours, then he'll be fine.

And we will no longer tolerate bee-negative nicknames...

But it's just a prance-about stage name!

...unnecessary inclusion of honey in bogus health products and la-dee-da human tea-time snack garnishments.

Can't breathe.

Bring it in, boys!

Hold it right there! Good.

Tap it.

Mr. Buzzwell, we just passed three cups and there's gallons more coming!

I think we need to shut down!

Shut down? We've never shut down.

Shut down honey production!

Stop making honey!

Turn your key, sir!

What do we do now?

Cannonball!

We're shutting honey production!

Mission abort.

Aborting pollination and nectar detail.

Returning to base.

Adam, you wouldn't believe how much honey was out there.

Oh, yeah?

What's going on? Where is everybody?

Are they out celebrating?

They're home.

They don't know what to do. Laying out, sleeping in.

I heard your Uncle Carl was on his way to San Antonio with a cricket.

At least we got our honey back.

Sometimes I think, so what if humans liked our honey? Who wouldn't?

It's the greatest thing in the world! I was excited to be part of making it.

This was my new desk. This was my new job. I wanted to do it really well. And now...

Now I can't.

I don't understand why they're not happy.

I thought their lives would be better!

They're doing nothing. It's amazing.

Honey really changes people.

You don't have any idea what's going on, do you?

What did you want to show me?

This.

What happened here?

That is not the half of it.

Oh, no. Oh, my.

They're all wilting.

Doesn't look very good, does it?

No.

And whose fault do you think that is?

You know, I'm gonna guess bees.

Bees?

Specifically, me.

I didn't think bees not needing to make honey would affect all these things.

It's not just flowers. Fruits, vegetables, they all need bees.

That's our whole SAT test right there.

Take away produce, that affects the entire animal kingdom.

And then, of course...

The human species?

So if there's no more pollination, it could all just go south here, couldn't it?

I know this is also partly my fault.

How about a suicide pact?

How do we do it?

I'll sting you, you step on me.

That just kills you twice.

Right, right.

Listen, Barry... sorry, but I gotta get going.

I had to open my mouth and talk.

Vanessa?

Vanessa? Why are you leaving?

Where are you going?

To the final Tournament of Roses parade in Pasadena.

They've moved it to this weekend because all the flowers are dying.

It's the Last Chance I'll ever have to see it.

Vanessa, I just wanna say I'm sorry.

I never meant it to turn out like this.

I know. Me neither.

Tournament of Roses.

Roses can't do sports.

Wait a minute. Roses. Roses?

Roses!

Vanessa!

Roses?!

Barry?

Roses are flowers!

Yes, they are.

Flowers, bees, pollen!

I know.

That's why this is the last parade.

Maybe not.

Could you ask him to slow down?

Could you slow down?

Barry!

OK, I made a huge mistake.

This is a total disaster, all my fault.

Yes, it kind of is.

I've ruined the planet. I wanted to help you with the flower shop. I've made it worse.

Actually, it's completely closed down.

I thought maybe you were remodeling.

But I have another idea, and it's greater than my previous ideas combined.

I don't want to hear it!

All right, they have the roses, the roses have the pollen.

I know every bee, plant and flower bud in this park.

All we gotta do is get what they've got back here with what we've got.

Bees.

Park.

Pollen!

Flowers.

Repollination!

Across the nation!

Tournament of Roses, Pasadena, California.

They've got nothing but flowers, floats and cotton candy.

Security will be tight.

I have an idea.

Vanessa Bloome, FTD.

Official floral business. It's real.

Sorry, ma'am. Nice brooch.

Thank you. It was a gift.

Once inside, we just pick the right float.

How about The Princess and the Pea?

I could be the princess, and you could be the pea!

Yes, I got it.

Where should I sit?

What are you?

I believe I'm the pea.

The pea?

It goes under the mattresses.

Not in this fairy tale, sweetheart.

I'm getting the marshal.

You do that! This whole parade is a fiasco!

Let's see what this baby'll do.

Hey, what are you doing?!

Then all we do is blend in with traffic... without arousing suspicion.

Once at the airport, there's no stopping us.

Stop! Security.

You and your insect pack your float?

Yes.

Has it been in your possession the entire time?

Would you remove your shoes?

Remove your stinger.

It's part of me.

I know. Just having some fun.

Enjoy your flight.

Then if we're lucky, we'll have just enough pollen to do the job.

Can you believe how lucky we are? We have just enough pollen to do the job!

I think this is gonna work.

It's got to work.

Attention, passengers, this is Captain Scott. We have a bit of bad weather in New York. It looks like we'll experience a couple hours delay.

Barry, these are cut flowers with no water. They'll never make it.

I gotta get up there and talk to them.

Be careful.

Can I get help with the Sky Mall magazine? I'd like to order the talking inflatable nose and ear hair trimmer.

Captain, I'm in a real situation.

What'd you say, Hal?

Nothing.

Bee!

Don't freak out! My entire species...

What are you doing?

Wait a minute! I'm an attorney!

Who's an attorney?

Don't move.

Oh, Barry.

Good afternoon, passengers. This is your captain. Would a Miss Vanessa Bloome in 24B please report to the cockpit? And please hurry!

What happened here?

There was a DustBuster, a toupee, a life raft exploded.

One's bald, one's in a boat, they're both unconscious!

Is that another bee joke?

No!

No one's flying the plane!

This is JFK control tower, Flight 356. What's your status?

This is Vanessa Bloome. I'm a florist from New York.

Where's the pilot?

He's unconscious, and so is the copilot.

Not good. Does anyone onboard have flight experience?

As a matter of fact, there is.

Who's that?

Barry Benson.

From the honey trial?! Oh, great.

Vanessa, this is nothing more than a big metal bee.

It's got giant wings, huge engines.

I can't fly a plane.

Why not? Isn't John Travolta a pilot?

Yes.

How hard could it be?

Wait, Barry!

We're headed into some lightning.

This is Bob Bumble. We have some late-breaking news from JFK Airport, where a suspenseful scene is developing.

Barry Benson, fresh from his legal victory...

That's Barry!

...is attempting to land a plane, loaded with people, flowers and an incapacitated flight crew.

Flowers?!

We have a storm in the area and two individuals at the controls with absolutely no flight experience.

Just a minute. There's a bee on that plane.

I'm quite familiar with Mr. Benson and his no-account compadres.

They've done enough damage.

But isn't he your only hope?

Technically, a bee shouldn't be able to fly at all.

Their wings are too small... Haven't we heard this a million times?

"The surface area of the wings and body mass make no sense."

Get this on the air!

Got it.

Stand by.

We're going live.

The way we work may be a mystery to you. Making honey takes a lot of bees doing a lot of small jobs.

But let me tell you about a small job. If you do it well, it makes a big difference.

More than we realized. To us, to everyone.

That's why I want to get bees back to working together. That's the bee way! We're not made of Jell-O.

We get behind a fellow.

Black and yellow!

Hello!

Left, right, down, hover.

Hover?

Forget hover.

This isn't so hard.

Beep-beep! Beep-beep!

Barry, what happened?!

Wait, I think we were on autopilot the whole time.

That may have been helping me.

And now we're not!

So it turns out I cannot fly a plane.

All of you, let's get behind this fellow! Move it out!

Move out!

Our only chance is if I do what I'd do, you copy me with the wings of the plane!

Don't have to yell.

I'm not yelling! We're in a lot of trouble.

It's very hard to concentrate with that panicky tone in your voice!

It's not a tone. I'm panicking!

I can't do this!

Vanessa, pull yourself together. You have to snap out of it!

You snap out of it.

You snap out of it!

Hold it!

Why? Come on, it's my turn.

How is the plane flying?

I don't know.

Hello?

Benson, got any flowers for a happy occasion in there?

The Pollen Jocks!

They do get behind a fellow.

Black and yellow.

Hello.

All right, let's drop this tin can on the blacktop.

Where? I can't see anything. Can you?

No, nothing. It's all cloudy.

Come on. You got to think bee, Barry.

Thinking bee.

Thinking bee!

Thinking bee! Thinking bee!

Wait a minute. I think I'm feeling something.

What?

I don't know. It's strong, pulling me.

Like a 27-million-year-old instinct.

Bring the nose down.

Thinking bee!

Thinking bee! Thinking bee!

What in the world is on the tarmac?

Get some lights on that!

Thinking bee!

Thinking bee! Thinking bee!

Vanessa, aim for the flower.

OK.

Cut the engines. We're going in on bee power. Ready, boys?

Affirmative!

Good. Good. Easy, now. That's it.

Land on that flower!

Ready? Full reverse!

Spin it around!

Not that flower! The other one!

Which one?

That flower.

I'm aiming at the flower!

That's a fat guy in a flowered shirt.

I mean the giant pulsating flower made of millions of bees!

Pull forward. Nose down. Tail up.

Rotate around it.

This is insane, Barry!

This's the only way I know how to fly.

Am I koo-koo-kachoo, or is this plane flying in an insect-like pattern?

Get your nose in there. Don't be afraid. Smell it. Full reverse!

Just drop it. Be a part of it.

Aim for the center!

Now drop it in! Drop it in, woman!

Come on, already.

Barry, we did it! You taught me how to fly!

Yes. No high-five!

Right.

Barry, it worked!

Did you see the giant flower?

What giant flower? Where? Of course

I saw the flower! That was genius!

Thank you.

But we're not done yet.

Listen, everyone!

This runway is covered with the last pollen from the last flowers available anywhere on Earth.

That means this is our Last Chance. We're the only ones who make honey, pollinate flowers and dress like this.

If we're gonna survive as a species, this is our moment! What do you say?

Are we going to be bees, or just Museum of Natural History keychains?

We're bees!

Keychain!

Then follow me! Except Keychain.

Hold on, Barry. Here. You've earned this.

Yeah!

I'm a Pollen Jock! And it's a perfect fit. All I gotta do are the sleeves.

Oh, yeah.

That's our Barry.

Mom! The bees are back!

If anybody needs to make a call, now's the time. I got a feeling we'll be working late tonight!

Here's your change. Have a great afternoon! Can I help who's next?

Would you like some honey with that?

It is bee-approved. Don't forget these.

Milk, cream, cheese, it's all me. And I don't see a nickel!

Sometimes I just feel like a piece of meat!

I had no idea.

Barry, I'm sorry.

Have you got a moment?

Would you excuse me?

My mosquito associate will help you.

Sorry I'm late.

He's a lawyer too?

I was already a blood-sucking parasite. All I needed was a briefcase.

Have a great afternoon!

Barry, I just got this huge tulip order, and I can't get them anywhere.

No problem, Vannie. Just leave it to me.

You're a lifesaver, Barry. Can I help who's next?

All right, scramble, jocks! It's time to fly.

Thank you, Barry!

That bee is living my life!

Let it go, Kenny.

When will this nightmare end?!

Let it all go.

Beautiful day to fly.

Sure is.

Between you and me,

I was dying to get out of that office.

You have got to start thinking bee, my friend.

Thinking bee!

Me?

Hold it. Let's just stop for a second. Hold it.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, everyone. Can we stop here?

I'm not making a major life decision during a production number!

All right. Take ten, everybody. Wrap it up, guys.

I had virtually no rehearsal for that.

tell me a bedtime story

0 notes

outoftowninac · 2 years

Text

MARY’S ANKLE

1917

Mary’s Ankle is a farce by May Tully. It was originally produced by W.H. Woods.

A struggling young physician announces his marriage to a fictitious "Mary Jane Smith" in an effort to get his wealthy uncle to give him and his two friends, a lawyer and a broker, sufficient funds to get them out of financial difficulties. He then finds himself in a difficult position when an injured young woman is brought to his office proves to be Mary Jane Smith and his uncle assumes he’s met the bride. Mary consents to a temporary deception. Matters become complicated when the uncle insists on their accompanying him on a trip to Hawaii and informs them that he is to marry a woman who turns out to be Mary's aunt. An explanation results in forgiveness, and they make the trip a honeymoon by having the ship's captain marry them.

The play had its world premiere in New Haven CT on May 28, 1917. Three days later, it head to the Jersey Shore.

The play opened at Nixon’s Apollo Theatre on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City NJ on May 31, 1917.

After Atlantic City, the play headed north to Beantown, where its publicist had a great idea for a promotion!

Similar clever ads claimed that:

“Mary’s Ankle will be on view next Monday night at Ye Wilbur”

“Mary’s Ankle must be seen to be relished at Ye Wilbur”

“Mary’s Ankle will come up to all expectations next Monday night at Ye Wilbur”

“At Ye Wilbur tonight at 8:15, see if you care for Mary’s Ankle”

It opened at Boston’s Wilbur Theatre on June 5, 1917.

During the run, the show performed a benefit for war relief. “The Great War” (now known as World War One”) was then in its third year. A month later they did a benefit for the Red Cross.

After Boston, a split week was planned for the Jersey Shore, 3 days at the Savoy Asbury Park; 3 days at the Broadway in Long Branch. But when a Broadway theatre became available, those plans were scuttled.

The play opened on Broadway at August 6, 1917 at the Bijou Theatre, only the second production at the venue, which opened five months earlier with The Knife by Eugene Walter. Mary’s Ankle later transferred to the 39th Street Theatre where it finished its run of 80 performances.

The play was originally announced for the Booth, then Maxine Elliott’s Theatre where it would have supplanted The Eyes of Youth, giving rise to this punny mention.

“B[urns] Mantle, the drama critic, tells me of the new play ‘Mary’s Ankle’, which I deem a trashy title, yet it will attract New Yorkers.” ~ O.O. McINTYRE, BUFFALO ENQUIRER

DULCINEA GOES TO THEATRE

“Grayce dear, I had the grandest time at the theatre last night. It was "Mary's Ankle" - isn't that a perfectly awful title? I wouldn't have been Irene Fenwlck for worlds! But they had the cutest parrot, just as green as he could be. And there were a lot of funny lines. And you should have seen the first-nighters - all the ‘crickets’ and everything. But it made me kind of sad for I just can't laugh the way I used to. Ted is on a transport. I knitted him a sweater and he wrote back he was mighty glad to get it even if he couldn't wear it. Wasn't that sweet of him?” ~ Dulcy

A war wife whose husband is on a transport, tries to forget her worries at “Mary’s Ankle.”

After Broadway, the show moved to Binghamton and other New York State venues. The play continued to be popular in stock and regional theatres through 1920, when Hollywood got involved.

A film adaptation starring Doris May and Douglas McLean opened in Atlantic City in late March 1920 at the Virginia Theatre on the Boardwalk, not far from the Apollo, where the play began.

#Mary's Ankle #May Tully #Farce #Broadway Play #Broadway #Nixon's Apollo Theatre #Virginia Theatre #Boardwalk #Atlantic City #1917 #Bijou Theatre #39th Street Theatre #W.H. Woods

2 notes · View notes

sweaterproducer · 5 months

Text

youtube

customized crochet cardigan,iconic knitwear sale,knitwear enterprises karachi

sweater maker https://sweaterchina.net

Email: [email protected]

customized crochet cardigan,iconic knitwear sale,knitwear enterprises karachi infants vests，infant's Vests，infants V-neck，infant's V-neck，infants waistcoats，infants waistcoats and vests，infant's waistcoats and vests，infants Windcheater，infant's Windcheater，infants wrap，infant's wrap，infants Wraps，infant's wraps，infants yoke，inflatable bounce house kids jumper bouncer combo，inflatable disco dome jumper for sale，inflatable jumper bounces house，inflatable jumpers commercial bouncer，inglish wireless dance mat，inglish wireless usb dance mat，ingrosso maglieria made in napoli，innen pullover weiss winter damen，innen pullover winter damen，inner mogolian cashmere sweater women，inner mongolia 100% cashmere throw blanket，inner mongolia cashmere 100，inner mongolia cashmere sweater women，customized crochet cardigan,iconic knitwear sale,knitwear enterprises karachi Linen long cardigan slit sweater factory custom manufacturing https://sweaterchina.net/product/linen-long-cardigan-slit-sweater-factory-custom-manufacturing/ customized crochet cardigan,iconic knitwear sale,knitwear enterprises karachi inner mongolia cashmere sweaters，inner mongolia sunnyflare cashmere co ltd，inner mongolian cashmere sweater，inner sweater companies，inner sweater manufacturer，intarsia cashmere sweater，intarsia graphic knit jumper sweater for men，intarsia knit cotton cardigan，intarsia knit Producer in chinese，intarsia knit production，intarsia knit sweater anime，intarsia knit sweater custom，intarsia knitting machine，intarsia merino wool sweater，intarsia pattern knitted jacquard sweater men，intarsia sweater company，intarsia sweater computer knitted，intarsia sweater Firm，intarsia sweater manufacturers，intarsia sweaters manufacturers，intarsia v neck button cardigans mujer sweater，intarsia women sweater company，customized crochet cardigan,iconic knitwear sale,knitwear enterprises karachi Long ribbed solid color thin cardigan sweater processing custom https://sweaterchina.net/product/long-ribbed-solid-color-thin-cardigan-sweater-processing-custom/ customized crochet cardigan,iconic knitwear sale,knitwear enterprises karachi international cricket sweaters，international sweater brands，international-cricket-sweaters，invisible mending knitwear，iota phi lambda sorority sweaters，irelands eye knitwear sale，irish aran knitwear 100% irish merino wool，irish aran knitwear merino wool cardigan，irish aran knitwear merino wool cardigan for men，irish cardigan sweaters for men，irish sweater companies，irish wool cardigan women，irish wool sweaters company，irish wool sweaters Factory complex，iron on transfer sweater weather，irregular symmetry wrap cardigan，is a puddle jumper a life jacket，is a pullover a sweatshirt，is a turtleneck a sweater，is cardigan about harry styles，is dumbbell pullover for chest，is fleece good for winter，is fleece sweatshirt material，customized crochet cardigan,iconic knitwear sale,knitwear enterprises karachi Striped hollow knit sweater production custom https://sweaterchina.net/product/striped-hollow-knit-sweater-production-custom/ customized crochet cardigan,iconic knitwear sale,knitwear enterprises karachi is it christmas jumper day，is it easy to crochet a cardigan，is jersey knit hard to sew，is knitting a sweater difficult，is polyester good for sweaters，is pullover a back exercise，is pullover a chest exercise，isaac liev womens maxi cardigan，issey miakye pleated pants，issey miyake pleated pants，istarsia custom cashmere sweater，it christmas jumper customized，italia en moda cuero chompas，italian cashmere sweater manufacturers，italian cashmere sweaters，italian design turtle neck customized womens，italian knitwear Firm in chinese，italian knitwear manufacturers，italian sweater Producer，italian womens sweater manufacturer，italian-cashmere sweater with polo collar designer，italiano sueter customized，italy cashmere sweater wholesale，italy knitwear manufacturer，italy sweater factory，ivan b sweaters instrumental，ivory cardigan sweaters for women

#sweater hooded Production #sweater large Manufacturing enterprise #sweater black Manufacturing facility #Youtube

0 notes

insomniac-dot-ink · 5 years

Text

Lost Time

It was half past eight on a Monday and I was running late. I was known for being late as well as scatter-minded and it was an image I had been trying to combat since I was a young girl.

However, that didn’t change the fact that I had already missed the 8:30 train and the 8:20 one before that. I stood on the platform with the usual suspects of businessmen in charcoal dark suits, middle-aged moms on their way to the market with overly large floral-print tote bags, and a few highschoolers who looked just as late I was with a bruised-eyed emptiness about them.

I bounced on my heels as I waited and checked my watch every few minutes. I had been given several warnings so far about tardiness at my office job and while I wasn’t exactly thrilled about quality control work I was less thrilled about the prospect of being fired.

I texted my workplace friend about covering for me and then I checked my watch again.

For not the first time I missed university and the ideal of sleeping through whatever classes I didn’t care for and sneaking in a few minutes late to any lectures I actually did. My older sister kept insisting I was lucky I had gotten a job right out of college at all, but there was no helping it. It all sort of sucked.

The monotony was almost as bad as the knowledge that monotony was my future: pure predictable, clockwork knowledge of what I might be doing a month from now. And then a year from now. And the year after that.

I bounced on my heels and checked my watch for the third time. It was a leather watch with a round handsome face and a worn strap- my father had given it to me right before the Alzheimer's set in when I was around seventeen.

We hadn’t “lost” him, but we did lose the man I grew up with.

That was how I remembered that morning: thinking about Monday and work and my father’s watch which kept ticking much slower than I would have liked it to.

Maybe things would have been different if my work friend had texted me back faster or if I had woken up earlier or if I hadn’t bothered to wake up and go to work at all that morning.

I bounced in place and just as I was about to look down at my watch again a hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. “Ah,” I jumped and swung around to start shouting at whoever it was or the very least pull away from the stranger manhandling me on a public platform.

I hesitated when an old woman looked back at me. She was small, and had neat grey hair swept back into a tidy bun and a hunched back with wide, heavyset shoulders. She was lined with deep wrinkles and had clear blue eyes that struck me as somehow attractive and open.

She smiled mildly at me and her cool hand was still wrapped around my wrist as I faced her. I wrinkled my nose slightly as the scent of something like chlorine hit me over the head. It was a saturated sharp kind of chemical smell.

“Excuse me,” the old woman spoke in the same tidy manner as her look. “May I borrow some of your time?” I frowned deeply as I suspected she was about to break out a bible and start a pitch for either Jesus Christ or some new age church of cardinals or weed or paying them money or whatever.

I drew back, “I’m sorry.” I tried to glance at my watch but it was still in her grip. “I gotta get to work.” “It won’t take long at all. No trouble for you, I promise.” She said and her voice was similarly friendly, high-pitched, and reminded me somewhat of a cricket.

The chemical smell funneled through my system and I tried to politely hold my breath. “Sorry. The train is about to come and I really can’t miss it.” “We have time.” She said slowly. “It will only be for a bit and won’t cost you a cent.” I sighed heavily and looked around to check if anyone there noticed me being accosted by the elderly, but no one even batted an eye in our direction. “Are you selling something?” “No.” She said suredly. “I know this sounds a little forward, but I’m trying to find someone and I could use some help.” “Huh.” I blinked a couple times and chewed on my bottom lip; I weighed my options carefully for just a moment more and then met her syrupy blue gaze. “Just looking for someone, yeah?” I exhaled slowly. “Alright. Sure.” Her smile grew wide and candied sweet. She released my wrist and I swore a popping sound erupted through the air and sent a shiver down my spine.

“But I really can’t do it right n-” I didn’t finish my sentence as the train whooshed onto the platform and I stumbled backward. When I turned to tell the old lady I would have to help her later, she was gone.

I sniffed loudly and rubbed at my wrist before hurrying aboard my morning train and trying not to get stuck on any of the details. It was Boston, sometimes weird people talked to you.

And you tried to forget them. At least, at the time I hoped to forget her and get to work without being noticed or reprimanded again.

--------------------

It was two months into December and I had a head cold like nobody's business. I hadn’t been able to breath out of my left nostril since the day before and I missed her dearly, as you would a best friend or lover.

Cold sheets of rain had been coming down in slushy torrents for days now and I had spent hours the week before helping move my roommate out. She had finally decided to go all the way with her questionable boyfriend and move in with him despite the old pizza crust smell and missing fire escapes in his neighborhood. But he had both a car and a netflix account.

I was happy for her up until I helped her move a couch in the pouring ice-rain and woke up the next day with the feeling of a balloon inflating in my sinuses.

I went to work all the same in an effort to make management get off my back about the number of days I had missed. The world was a slow motion mess of dayquil and painkillers by the time I was finally able to head home in a daze. I produced kleenex after kleenex out of my purse as I traveled, like a magic trick where no one was impressed.

I was rocking gently back and forth in the train when my head pounded slightly and my nose cleared up for just a moment. I would have hit the air with my fist right then in victory if not for the sharp scent of chlorine that washed over me.

The uncomfortable sterile smell that reminded me of storms and sucking on copper pennies.

My eyes darted left and right to check if anyone had noticed, but the train was filled with pencil-skirt ladies on their phones typing away, school children with ipads out, and a homeless man softly snoring in one of the seats.

I massaged the bridge of my nose and hurried the rest of the way home with more kleenexes produced and thoughts of nyquil on my mind. I was surely too sick to be cogent I figured and becoming slightly delirious.

I slipped into my now one-person apartment, ate canned noodle soup, and tucked myself to sleep in my thickest sweatpants and sweater. It should have been over then, but it wasn’t.

I had dreams, and not the type of dreams I had ever had before. Dark shadows shifted and oozed under me, bright neon colors popped in my vision, stars exploded left and right and nonsense voices babbled in the distance.

It was like the confusing scene in Dumbo with the pink elephants singing except I didn’t even get to be drunk for it. And then the scent of chemicals came wafting through my head space and I exhaled from somewhere deep inside of me and everything went as blank as a canvas.

There was no proper way to describe it except the unclenching of every muscle in my body after a long day or letting go of a kite and watching it sail away with the wind. I let go of thousands of jumbled images and sounds and then I blinked again and I was staring at the night sky.

It was hard to process for a long hard second and harder to come to grips with the cold air against my flushed cheeks and the crevice moon up above. My muscles complained at me dully, but besides that my body was limber and I noticed I could breathe again.

I inhaled through both nostrils and when I sat up I realized I was in some sort of barren field. I gawked at the empty rows and dirt on my hands and the fact I could barely make out any city lights in the distance.

I hadn’t left Boston in months and I didn’t remember getting off my couch that night. Or driving. Or walking. Or bundling myself up in my heavy pink coat and lying down in a field.

I flexed slightly and noticed a tingling in my fingers and dirt on my knees and palms. I had been doing something as well.

I searched my person for a moment and was relieved to find no injuries, but also no clues. My coat pockets were completely empty and my only guiding source of information was that I was in a field and I wasn’t sick anymore.

I even sniffed the air for chlorine, but there was nothing but faint winter chill.

I took a deep breath and stood up after a few minutes and began to walk toward the city lights. It was a long walk and I went back and forth in my head on whether to take myself to the hospital and ask about sleep walking disorders.

On the other hand I remembered my father’s long struggle with in-patient care, his empty gaze as more nurses talked to him in gentle tones, and wheeled him around the blank white halls. I remembered the tears as he seemed to lose my face and then my mom’s face and birthdays and places and names like party balloons being popped. The hospital smell made me nauseous just thinking about and it had only been one night.

Just one night didn’t mean anything.

I ended up finding change in the back pocket of my jeans and taking the 6am bus home from Northampton all the way to my apartment. I didn’t sleep well for days after that.

--------------------- I chalked the first time up to a weird combination of flu medicine, stress at work, and maybe even losing my roommate that week. And for awhile it seemed like a dream that someone else had.

For awhile.

It was February when the feeling crept back in. I couldn’t explain it, but I started checking hallways before I turned the corner and examining strangers faces twice if they sat next to me. I put bowls of water by my door so I might step in them and wake myself if I started sleep walking again.

Or perhaps someone else would step in them on their way in. I tried not to dwell on that last thought- no matter how many times it nagged at me.

There was a sensation of sickness in my gut and I couldn’t get rid of it. It was February and I was sitting on my couch watching some nothing TV show my mom recommended to me and just like before, something unclenched.

The kite was released and I blinked and there was an absolute nothingness so fine that I could have drowned in it. Been eaten by it, been destroyed by it.

And I blinked once and I was standing in the grocery store holding an egg carton and practically gagging on chlorine stench lodged in my mouth. “Ack.” I dropped the eggs to the floor and they splattered like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

I started breathing heavily and clutching at my chest, several concerned shoppers stopped and looked my way as I leaned on my cart for support. The cart was completely filled with cartons of eggs.

I ran outside only to find I was just a few blocks from my apartment building. I sprinted home and when I tripped my way up my stairs, wheezing and eyes streaming, there was a single spilled bowl of water on the floor.

I melted into the carpet and shook slightly as I looked at it. Something had been in my apartment. Or else I had kicked it myself during the weird trance.

But it didn’t matter either way. I couldn’t remember.

---------------------

I finally went to the doctor with a complaint of memory problems and we met with a neurologist with iron-grey hair and a busy tie. He checked my pupil dilation and ability to track objects with my eyes. He tested my reflexes and had me remember colors and numbers in certain orders.

My mom came with me for the appointment and glanced at me every few minutes. She didn’t say anything, but I could read the thoughts on her face: it’s already got her too.

Maybe my mom thought she was cursed. But when all of my tests came back negative for any brain abnormalities she exhaled and I didn’t.

It got worse from there. I would wake up blocks from my house holding an umbrella I didn’t own, wake up with leaves and sticks in my hair, be walking down the street one second and then be in a completely different part of town on a park swing the next.

I started putting more bowls of water around my house and added bells and stacks of books and even a few stray mouse traps around the windows (one of which actually caught a mouse). Most nights there was nothing but gnawing silence and I waited and waited for the smell of ozone.

The smell of storms and pools and airplanes right when you get off.

I blinked up at my dark ceiling and waited. It only happened once; I heard the bell: the chiming silver bell with all of my worst fears and highest anxieties pressed to it. I turned over in bed to grasp for my phone or a baseball bat or anything at all.

But then I unclenched. The world popped and the nothingness took hold with a profound sudden swallowing sensation.

And I blinked again and I was standing on the very top of a hotel building with cars honking down below and a fire exit open behind me. I looked down and I was holding a TV antenna in one hand and a spoon in the other.

“Goddammit!” I threw both of the items down on the ground and started pulling on my hair. “You can’t keep doing this to me!” I screamed at nothing, “I have a life! I never agreed to this.”

But somehow, I remembered I had.

---------------

I quit my job. I hated the endless spreadsheets and conference calls and management deadlines, so it wasn’t much of a loss. But everyone I knew asked “what’s next?” with big eager smiles and I stopped returning their calls after a while.

I stopped sleeping. I started prowling the streets like a cramped zoo animal with nowhere to go. It was late spring by then and the city was stinking with hot bodies and burning trash and my own simmering violent questions brewing under the surface.

What’s happening to me? I wanted to scream at someone, but didn’t want to have to return to the hospital. Why me?

There were no answers, only the endless strips of pavement and my red converse slapping against them. Fifth street: two young boys biking with matching helmets and noisily chewing gum that they blew into fat pink bubbles. Washington Street: cop pulling over a teacher with thick glasses and a hard look on her face as she got out of her vehicle.

South End: a busy farmers market with women in overalls selling backyard kimchi and a man with a beard almost down to his waist selling gourmet chocolates and homemade beer. Noisy, busy, yelling, laughing people that streamed past me and barely stopped to look at my blood-shot eyes and trembling hands.

I was well past the farmer’s market and on the seventh day of my trek when I heard it. A high, cricket voice that carried over the buzz of construction work nearby.

“No, no, not like that.” She spoke into a phone briskly. I turned on my heels and everything moved in slow motion and jerky fast images all at once. One second I was staring at an old woman with pleasing blue eyes and then I had her pinned up against the nearest wall with my forearm.

“Police!” She shouted without hesitation or even looking at me. “Police! Someone!”

I hissed through my clenched teeth. “Take it back.” I growled lowly. “Make it normal again.” Her lips peeled into a snarl and she leaned her head against the wall. “That’s not how it works.” And then the smell of chlorine slithered through me and I started to cough.

“No!” I held on with all my might- clenching and gripping and grasping for something I couldn’t name. “Not now! I need-” I gasped, “I need.” The old woman looked blankly at me, but with something that I might have classified as pity. Or despair. “Give it to someone else.” She said in a soft voice. “Pass it off.”

-----------------------

My hair was falling out in thin clumps and I kept wiggling one of my back teeth as it had seemed to have come loose. I had no idea what I had been doing for days by then and no matter how many traps I set it was always the same: crashing bowls and ringing bells and then nothing. Expansive, hungry nothing.

I stood at the train station platform and looked at my watch. I had forgotten to wind it and it had stopped ticking. I looked at it and I bounced on my heels and a young man in his very early twenties stood next to me.

He smelled strongly of aftershave and his suit seemed to swim around him despite being obviously tailored. He had coiffed golden hair and frantic eyes that darted back and forth over the platform.

He looked down at his watch.

I shot my hand out and took his wrist. “Excuse me,” I croaked and tried to get him to look me in the eye. “Can I borrow some of your time?”

#supernatural #original story #supernatural story #horror story #writing #short story #creepy story #my work

1K notes · View notes

withastolenlantern · 3 years

Text

Yokota exited Ebisu Station and crossed over the narrow canal before turning left up the Meiji-Dori toward Shibuya. As he approached the Hikawanomori Park, a series of traffic cones blocked the skinny streets surrounding the temple area, with large holo displays listing the festival hours and attractions to the passing foot and car traffic passing along the larger city thoroughfare. He found Misato standing under one of the signs, staring passively at her mobile; her face was ablaze with dancing neon shadows from the holos. She was wearing black leggings and a cream wool sweater with a light jacket pulled tight against the light November breeze.

“Hey dad,” she said as she approached, hugging him gently.

“Where’s Chiyoko?” he asked.

“She and Kenji are inside already. Couldn’t wait.”

He followed his daughter into the temple complex proper, a small park nestled at the busy boundary between Ebisu and Shibuya proper. The temple Hosenji sat atop a small, gentle hill looking down across the park, a green, peaceful oasis amidst the cacophony of metropolitan life surrounding it. He’d walked with his daughter and grand-daughter here many times when Chiyoko was just a baby confined to a stroller, but the park was different now: smaller, with the greenery receding each year as the city encroached further. Banners and ribbons had been hung from many of the branches, and traditional paper lanterns, backlit now by solar LEDs instead of tallow candles, lit the shady forest paths through the park.

“How was your trip?” Misato asked.

“Uneventful,” he lied. Only Midori had any idea why he’d really left in such a hurry. He’d told his family he was going to provide a last-minute conference lecture on some of his research after another speaker had pulled out suddenly. “Wales is very beautiful, but cold.”

They followed the forest path that led up the shallow hill toward the temple, and as they approached they saw the elaborate mikoshi palanquin holding Hosenji’s kami, one of the few times of the year it would be moved or displayed outside the temple. The kami was shrouded in a hand-carved wooden veranda capped by a gold-plated roof with hanging tassels and bronze-sculpted pheasants at the corners. It was supported on long wooden poles that were currently propped up on a stone pedestal at the entrance to the park, where it would remain for the length of the festival. An army of monks in traditional attire had paraded it through the streets earlier in the day, and some now surrounded it in a vigilant vanguard, smiling and waving to those who passed. Yokota had never been particularly religious, but he enjoyed the pageantry of the old ways. He and his daughter both paused and bowed in reverence and made a quiet prayer to the kami for good health and a prosperous harvest.

Ahead, the path was lined with stalls and pop-up shops selling all sorts of cheap souvenirs, street food and games. Crowds of children, small families, and young couples on dates lined the path in each direction, many in traditional kimonos and zori sandals despite the cool early November cloud cover. Somewhere in the distance he heard the rhythm and thrum of a taiko demonstration reverberating through the trees.

They finally came upon Chiyoko and his son-in-law at one of the stalls. The girl was dressed in a small kimono that was tied off with an oba with softball-shaped tassels. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her cheeks a vibrant red with blush. She was intently guiding a plastic pole over a small make-shift pond full of holographic koi, trying to lure one of the virtual fish onto the bobber. She got a bite, and squealed with delight as she struggled to reel the creature into a net at the other end of the pond. The fish wriggled and squirmed but so did she until she rangled it into the pen, upon which a holo of congratulatory fireworks exploded across the pond in celebration. The station attendant applauded and handed the girl a plush toy facsimile, which she held aloft in victory as she returned to her family.

Her father slapped her hand in excitement. “You got one!”

“Yeah,” she said, the excitement quickly waning from her voice. “I wish it was a real one though, like when you were a kid.” Yokota recalled a similar scene, years prior, when his daughter had been roughly the same age., as he remembered her pulling a real live fish from the pond and proudly carrying it home in a plastic bag. It had died three weeks later and his wife discreetly flushed it down the sink when they found it belly-up in its small tank. Since then the rising pH and runoff toxicity made the rivers and streams too inhospitable for the once-ubiquitous fish, and they could only be found in the manicured ponds and canals of the larger and better-funded religious gardens.

“I know,” her mother said, consoling her. “I’m hungry. Who wants okonomiyaki?”

“Me!” his grand-daughter cheered, suddenly recovered from her fish-related melancholy.

“Dad?”

“I’d split one with you,” Yokota offered.

“Come help me pick out fillings,” she said, prying the girl from him. Together they walked off to find one of the pancake stalls.

His son-in-law remained behind, half-resting on a raised rock wall along the path. He was quietly sipping at a draught beer in a disposable Suntory cup, and holding a brown paper sack from which he produced some fresh red bean cookies. He offered it to the doctor, who took one and cupped it in his hands.

“Good trip?” Kenji asked in between bites of pastry.

“Mmm,” the old man replied, leaning up against the wall next to him. The cookie was still warm from the fryer, and he breathed deep the earthy sweet scent, letting the aromatic nostalgia take him back to years previous when he’d stood in nearly this same place. It was the first time they’d been here since his wife had left them for a watery grave; in years past he likely would not have had the resolve to be here without her. When they’d found her body washed up on the shore, he’d been devastated. But recent events had given the old doctor a strength he’d long forgotten, and a determination to carry forward in the face of odds that may seem insurmountable.

“Kenji,” he said, softly. “I need you to stop.”

“Stop what?” his son-in-law asked, confused, as he sipped at his beer.

“I know about the drugs.”

The man’s face turned ashen white in terror, and he dropped the bag of pastries to the stone path. “The wha… how?”

“I found the vial in your briefcase. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I’ve looked into it. It’s dangerous. Very dangerous, moreso than you think,” Yokota explained.

“Have you told…?”

“No. And I don’t plan to.” He patted his son-in-law on the shoulder, a gesture of extreme intimacy for their relationship. “I know what you’re going through, what it’s like. To feel that pressure to provide for your family in a world so determined to take everything, to prosper in a time of hardship. I’ve been there, and so have many of my younger colleagues. I do not judge, normally. It is a struggle to be a man, now, far more than before. But find some other way, some other vice. This stuff is not… I’ve seen what it does to people. I flew half-way around the world to find out why. You must stop.”

Kenji hung his head in shame. “I know, it’s just been…” he turned to face the doctor, his jaw clenched. “I will.”

“I need you to be there for my daughter, and for my grand-daughter, when I am gone. They need you, while you are still here.”

Misato returned cradling two plastic containers of warm food. She noticed immediately the solemn mood of the mean. “Everything okay?”

Yokota nodded, then knelt down before the girl. “I have something for you, child,” Yokota said. He reached into his pocket and removed a red leather cricket ball emblazoned with the Glamorgan County Cricket emblem, a bright yellow daffodil. His grand-daughter’s eyes lit up instantly, and she tossed the stuffed fish to her father as she took the ball. “You remembered!” she beamed, launching herself into his legs, wrapping them tightly in an embrace.

“Of course I did, koinu-chan.” He squeezed her back tightly. “I will always remember.”

#70k words #write what you know i guess #the world ocean

4 notes · View notes