#hazy mist mostly likely it’s a daily

[artcallednaturalviews]

Showed and right away, cringe face! Why, just a flower But slots a lots of folks do go to stomping Stop crushing go back to gambling To small to keep a conversation, oops Stop thinking while I’m talking Or ask me to slow down A confusion Always feels hopeless Talking about a flowered fungi Animals don’t eat Why a concern to humans Still eating from ground are we Just a flower Why crush

[inventedworld]

THE INFLUENCING MACHINE

Last month’s essay focused on the influence of filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard. Irascible, annoying, inventive, and vital, Godard changed the world. Critics and academics celebrate his rare brilliance, and expansive audiences in the middle 20th century, while perhaps not huge in number, recognized that someone bold had just rattled the pantheon.

That was last month.

Most of the time we don’t seek out fresh voices because fresh voices take work to take in. Most people these days aren’t going to stream an old chestnut from the French New Wave. More to the point, we are all inundated by information and the demands of increasingly complicated lives. Be honest: ordinary things are endlessly complex and often exhausting in the modern world. The inertia to shed previous skins and try  something new holds the vast majority of us locked in habituated place. There’s a reason so much of the country eats at McDonalds as frequently as they do. (Sad.)

I like spending my time with creative people. They’re usually the ones who see things anew, who hear sounds I haven’t heard, who think the rules of daily life are actually just a good list of suggestions. Most people I know, however, are not creative people. They may be creative some of the time; I may like and respect some them very much. But as a whole, most people don’t spend their lives propelled by acts of creation, exploration, and discovery. They order meals they already know from the drive-thru menu; they listen to the same music they listened to when they were teenagers; they mostly believe the world ought to behave in ways they’ve already experienced.

We are consumers of the problem, but as a collective we are also purveyors of the problem. Institutions are, remember, made of people like us. Institutions like governments, schools, corporations, and mainstream media simultaneously reflect the world as much as they shape the world. The great capitulation is that most of the time we’re all just so busy, so distracted, so damn tired, to notice that we have largely abdicated our own abilities to think for ourselves. We perpetuate big, lugubrious cycles, buying into institutionally pre-digested tropes which encourage institutionally obvious outcomes, thus reinforcing the cycle. To one degree or another we’re all served from an institutionalized menu that only occasionally manages to present us with something genuinely new. Even the versions of “edgy” and “fresh” that make us think we’re being daring and free are often safe bets that serve roles as highly curated niches capable of making us all feel like we can think for ourselves.

News flash: your life is largely not your own. The great discovery waiting for you in the hazy mists is that while you might not be able to fully escape this reality, it doesn’t need to be like this all the time.

It’s cited so often, and for good reason: George Orwell’s protean novel “1984” described so much more than just an authoritarian state. In it we read of the common brand of day to day products that people consume. “Victory Chocolate” and “Victory Coffee” sport their on-the-nose names as a means of endlessly reminding consumers about the greater goals of the novel’s hegemonic government (a big institution made of people like ourselves) while also weakly obfuscating the low quality of the products themselves. Even in the late 1940s, struggling to finish the book before tuberculosis pulled him into oblivion, Orwell already sensed that the options available to his fellow citizens were largely proscribed by nameless, faceless institutions.

It’s a tough treadmill to escape. I’m no Luddite and I do not imply here that we should all throw our shoes into the machinery. Like you, I live in the world, and for good and for ill I count on being able to navigate it amid the grinding gears and pulleys of modern life. But it’s also vital to acknowledge, like Orwell, that modernity is a trap. Why do most people work? Most people work to make money. Money, in turn, enables us to do things, but most of the things we do are really just means to enable—to even encourage—us to redouble our work efforts, often for purposes completely separated from humanitarian utility or aesthetic value.

Sometimes we indulge ourselves with a bit of real-world Victory Chocolate, believing we have seized a transitory pleasure and acted with a momentary burst of free-will. We take a day off. We buy a birthday present for a friend. We fancy a new car.

Artists are the anthesis of this behavior. That’s not to say that money doesn’t govern their lives, too: just ask any artist if he or she has adequate resources. Ask any artist why he or she waits tables at the corner cafe. Artists need to drive cars too, and also have friends with birthdays.  But artists often begin and end their days focused on different concerns. Artists live to create, and that independent self-propulsion is the antidote to nameless, faceless, relentless hegemony.

If you ever walk through a book store —remember books?—be sure to look at how many new books are essentially re-treads or new installments of familiar works. “Third in the series of….” or “The latest installment in a saga that….” We’ve been here before, which means we’ve come here again. Familiar things presents less inertia to the mind and body; we relax around what we already know. This is the malevolent cloud that soaks social media; this is the engine of capitalism that propels us toward acquisition rather than appreciation. This is the fallacy of free will. When faced with endless choices and voices, most people go with what they already know. In many ways, this is the genesis spark of racism.

Is it any wonder why fascism grows when people are weary or stressed? Authoritarianism soothes a deep need for so many people to feel like they can count on tomorrow looking like today. The reason artists are always considered enemies in a fascist state is precisely because artists ask people to consider new ideas every day the sun blooms anew against night’s dark horizon line. Artists seek out new sounds and new sights, which fundamentally means they seek out new ideas.  Fascism eschews new ideas because old ideas are simply easier for most people to understand.  Fascism suggests that the solution for a stable society springs from doing away with anything outside what’s already understood, which in turn paints artists as malevolent agitators. Fascism demands fealty. Fascism, as a result, burns books.

In the great Coen Brothers movie Barton Fink,  the head of a Golden Age movie studio effectively holds the eponymous screenwriter’s leash by contract. He excoriates Fink to deliver something commercial, something more in line with what the studio has seen before.

“You think you’re the only writer who can give me that Barton Fink feeling?” he shouts at the actual Barton Fink, sitting in front of him.

(I love that movie.)

The movie mogul embodies a fascist of industry. The creative soul at work—Barton Fink in this case and the majority of us in the real world—finds limited options except to acquiesce or rebel.

We are often faced with similar choices, no matter what we do with our lives. Acquiescence to authority threatens to make us all Winston Smith, referring to Orwell’s “1984” protagonist, but the danger here is that rebellion also makes us Winston Smith, albeit at a later stage in the novel. While it’s probably a truism that one cannot live successfully in the modern world without aspects of both, it bears consideration to wonder if there are third alternatives. I believe there are, and those alternatives always begin with a willingness to test ourselves with a new perspective, a new experience, or a new idea.

Superficially the source of danger in Barton Fink concerns an ax murderer on the loose in Los Angeles. What we come to realize, however, is how that pales in comparison to the real existential threat facing our hero, namely the killer of purpose and passion inherent in the grand machinery where most of us find ourselves each day. Fink writes fresh stories of the noble, ordinary worker, suffused with insights and observations. (Or, in the movie, at least he writes one.) The media machine pretends to respect that, but would much rather have more obvious retread stories that the audience already knows.

When you walk in the woods without your cell phone, or work in the tomato patch of your decidedly non-wired garden, ubiquitous yet abstruse institutional influences gently loosens their grip, even if just for a few minutes. You becomes subtly more aware of the world and perhaps even your small place in it. Light changes around you as clouds intermittently cover and reveal the sun, and leaves move on wings of shifting air, defying gravity.

You don’t even needs woods or gardens. You can absorb the rhythms of other lives as you walk observantly on city streets. You can stand in your cul-de-sac and vicariously marvel as your neighbor’s daughter tries to balance her two wheel bicycle.  You can sit on a shady bench by your bird feeder and watch finches grab seeds, hovering as if they can’t believe their good fortune.

In other words, you can shake loose from the influencing machine once in a while. There are new ideas to explore, new sights to see, new flavors to taste. Some days those explorations may require you to consciously shake free of what’s familiar, of what you already know. But if there’s one thing all artists know down to their bones, time is running out. Youthful years disappear; the rest of your years follow quickly; there are no negotiations.

You can acquiesce here, capitulate your free will in favor of institutionally pre-determined obligations and entertainments because—let’s face it— that’s often easier. You can, alternatively, rebel. A choice to fight the power, so to speak, means a life outside the mainstream, and often a life out of balance, out of sync, and frequently tired.

Or you can try to remain open. Doesn’t have to be always, doesn’t have to be extreme, but you can try to see things in ways that might make you a little uncomfortable once in a while. Then, suddenly: you have a new idea. You’ve experienced something you hadn’t considered before. Like it or dislike it isn’t the point; what matters is that it’s a thought you hadn’t considered before you gave it a whirl.

This is the third path. This is the one that propelled Godard (remember we started with Godard?) to take all that he know about cinema and shake it until it recombined into something that didn’t exist before he created it.

Even if it’s only for yourself in the smallest ways, there’s no reason that can’t be an aspect of your own life, too. Then consider how that might re-shape the relentless forces of fearful, moribund culture, if we developed a shared language of tolerance and thoughtful, expansive consideration.

But I suppose that’s just the artist in me, dreaming.

@michaelstarobin

facebook.com/1auglobalmedia.com

[ashxketchum]

Writer’s Month - 6

So this is a rewrite of a Pokeshipping Week entry I’d written some 3-4 years(?) ago. I try not to look at my older writing because it’s kinda silly, but today’s prompt was begging me to revisit this snippet, especially since I made some changes to my fankids hcs! 

Fandom/Pairing: Pokeani/Pokeshipping 

Prompt: Amnesia (Ash suffers memory loss after he loses Pikachu forever in a difficult battle, but the Ketchum family is managing to continue life as normal, because what is grief if not love persevering? 😏)

~

There were moments he remembered and moments he didn’t. Hazy memories constantly in and out of sight, never appearing in their full glory. Every day he would try to recognize the faces that came and sat in front of him, some of them similar to those in his memories, some not, talking about the time they had spent together, pleading with their silent eyes that he’d suddenly remember something. 

Remember. 

He heard that word countless times in a day, almost always coupled with me in a questioning tone. 

Remember me, Ash? 

Always the same questions, always the same answers, always the same tone… 

It had been going on for about a year now, and he was not sure for how much longer he could survive these daily visits, that mostly felt like interrogations. 

Ash Ketchum. 

That’s what his name was supposed to be, as he had been told when he had first opened his eyes after a long, peaceful slumber.

It was surprising that he didn’t remember his own name when he woke up that fateful day but he remembered the lifeless body of his dear friend, the one he hadn’t been able to save, the one who had saved him in exchange for his life, his best friend and first companion, his Pikachu. 

He’d  overheard the doctors tell his wife that the memory loss was just a coping mechanism he was subconsciously using to deal with the grief and the pain of losing his partner. He had laughed bitterly at that. If that was the case, then why couldn’t he just get rid of the image of Pikachu lying on the ground, completely still, lifeless… why was this the only piece of memory that he wasn’t subconsciously letting go of? 

“Daddy, how are you feeling today?” 

He hadn’t noticed the door open and he was a little surprised to have company so early in the morning. Usually everyone in his house slept in late on Sundays, including him, and he was going to gloat over being the first one up today but it seemed that someone had already beaten him to it. A pair of brown eyes similar to his stared up at him expectantly, a huge smile covered every inch of his daughter’s face as she promptly sat herself down opposite him on the bed, “I helped with breakfast!” she exclaimed. 

“I’m feeling fine, Izzy.” He returned the smile, though not in the same proportion, “I’m looking forward to eating it then.” 

Unlike his daughter’s entry going unnoticed, Ash would never fail to notice the flash of orange hair which was still as bright as the day he had first met her, a memory he had only recently managed to recover. She came in carrying his breakfast, and immediately her eyes fell on their daughter. 

“Izzy, I thought I told you to go wake up your brother,” Misty said as she set the tray of food down in front of Ash and turned to frown at their daughter. 

“I tried, he didn’t budge,” Izzy pouted in reply, trying her best to sway her mother with her cocoa coloured eyes that eerily resembled his. 

“He has a very important training session at the Lab today, please go wake him up sweetheart,” Misty sighed as she nudged Ash to make space for her on his side of the bed. 

“Fine.” Izzy muttered dejectedly as she dragged her feet out of the room slowly, not wanting to see her brother so early in the morning. 

Ash inspected the tray of food lying in front of him as Misty rested her head on his shoulder, four pancakes and sliced fruits, simple and easy to eat just the way he liked it, “Wow, Izzy did all this?” he wondered aloud. 

Misty snorted in reply, “All she did was make that smiley face on the pancake with whipped cream and even that is lopsided.” 

“Tch, Mist,” Ash clicked his tongue as he began to dig in, “Always the perfectionist.” 

Misty didn’t reply, she closed her eyes and tried her best to etch this scene in her head for harder days ahead. The thin rays of sunlight creeping through the curtains on a warm December morning, Izzy’s faint voice floating through the halls as she attempted to wake up AJ, the sweet smell of maple syrup, Ash’s calm, rhythmic heartbeat and his content eyes. A sight she hadn’t gotten used to yet, his unfocused eyes and dazed face was something that had been haunting her in her nightmares since the day she’d cast her eyes upon it. 

She still wasn’t used to him being there. 

First he had gone missing for over three months, then he had been  in a coma for another two, then he had woken up not remembering his own name. 

It had been a difficult year and a half for all of them, but they were getting through it. She was going to get him through it, that’s what she had vowed when they had exchanged wedding rings some  sixteen years ago, that she would forever hold his hand and walk with him through fire if she had to. And while the past year had proven to be exactly that, her determination hadn’t wavered at all. 

Surprisingly, Ash hadn’t either. 

He accepted everything that had happened calmly, a little out of character for the man he used to be before the incident, but his composed attitude was what had managed to keep them afloat through these bad tidings. 

Ash understood that he wouldn’t recover immediately so he didn’t force himself to get better. He didn’t hide anything from her, she was aware of every single thing he felt, all his nightmares, all his pain, he shared everything with her. He didn’t refrain from asking for help, even from the kids. He was working the hardest to get better and not giving up, reminding her every day of the reason she had fallen in love with him in the first place. 

“How’d you know I was up? I thought you slept in the twins’ room last night.” Ash asked, very close to finishing the pancakes. 

“Turns out our daughter is a huge kicker, I barely got any sleep last night trying to avoid her feet,” Misty said, opening her eyes briefly, only to notice that the fruits were completely untouched, “Ash. You have to eat everything on the tray.” 

Ash groaned in reply, “How about we share?” 

“I already ate two hours ago,” she said, stifling a yawn. 

“Wow, you really didn’t sleep at all.” Ash muttered, picking up a tiny grape from the bowl and popping it in his mouth. 

“Uh huh. And I still have to get AJ to his session, so do you really want to put me in a bad mood right now?” Misty lifted her head to glance at Ash, a small smile playing on her lips. 

“For the sake of my son’s safety, I shall eat everything in this bowl,” Ash said, laughing lightly. 

Misty settled her head on his shoulder once more, replaying the sound of his laughter in her mind again and again as it was something she didn’t get to hear often these days. She didn’t realize when she drifted off to sleep, she was surrounded by so much warmth and everything smelled like Ash that she almost didn’t want to wake up. But remembering the big day ahead of her she forced her eyes to open only to see that afternoon had already settled in. 

She reached out her hands to find that the bed next to her was empty which made her sit up immediately. Ash liked to spend Sundays resting inside since that was the only day they didn’t have any visitors so it was a little concerning when he wasn’t in their room. Climbing out of all the blankets that she was sure was the work of her husband, she rushed down the stairs following the voice of her daughter’s laughter and ended up in the kitchen to find Ash and the little devils standing around the stove, inspecting something extremely black. 

Ash noticed her instantly, and put up an apologetic pout, “Misty, I can explain-“

“Dad wanted to cook lunch for you!” Izzy giggled, interrupting her father before he even had the chance to begin. 

“But he really sucks at it,” AJ added, snickering, and immediately Ash lightly smacked his head to get the boy to shut up, his face turning red as Misty just stood in the kitchen doorway, staring blankly at them. 

“I followed Mom’s recipe exactly the way it was written and it still ended up like this,” Ash started again, throwing a scowl in the direction of the pan filled with something that could only be described as stuff, “Honestly, I just wanted to do something nice for you beca-“ He didn’t get to finish again because within seconds Misty covered the distance between them and jumped into his arms, a little surprised he still managed to catch her wrapping his arms safely around her. She answered his confusion by pressing her lips to his and it didn’t take long for Ash to respond. She could hear her son shouting there are kids in this room in the background, but at that moment she decided that she had never been happier. 

[anjana-sen]

Sapphire Lodge - Quaint & Haunted with Fjord View

Sapphire Lodge - Quaint & Haunted with Fjord View

by Dr. Anjana Sen

I am staying at the Sapphire Lodge by the Mirage Valley overlooking the Mist Cavern in the outskirts of Magnolia fjord. The Lodge is halfway uphill, with 500-700 meter high cliff lines both at the back and frontside.

I wanted to stay by the onset of spring-time, before I make a decision to purchase (and thereby squander a fortune). Spring comes quite late here, and unusually late this year. The lodge seemed a bit atypical to me because of its combined stone-log structural built. I have a great fascination for stone-log cabins, particularly in the wilderness.

However, this is way far from being called a “cabin”. Idyllic, remote, secluded, rocky, rugged terrain with foggy cedar-birch forest, far away from 10th floor board meetings and financial district mayhem. But not just bleak emptiness.

What a coincidence,…..Silver and Sapphire. Magnolia and moon. These have long been the theme of my life. And weeping willows suit perfect with my solitary disposition.

I visited this place last autumn. The guards and caretakers keep this place securely locked up. That might have saved this classic treasure from vandals, paranormal-enthusiasts and explorers but upgraded very little in the renovation efforts.

The North-West part of the mansion was in relatively poor condition.

Conversely, the South-East wing of the mansion, “The Sapphire Lodge”, where I will be staying for now, is in much better shape and safer as well.

Last year when I took a very brief tour inside the mansion, I felt like verging on getting lost in a labyrinth. Its perplexing floor-plans seemed to be a complex series of countless doors after doors, rooms after rooms, lounges, parlours and salons, porticos and windows, galleries and libraries, lobbies, terraces, secret chambers, assembly halls, banquette halls, ballrooms, frequent staircases after staircases, endless corridors after corridors, covert tunnels and lavishly decorated ceilings and walls.

The North-West wing is mostly full of abandoned clutter, antique handicrafts, sculpture, art objects, ornate rugs, lamps, wall brackets, crockery, damaged paintings, ancient wood doors, windows, monographs, daily-life items, and more.

What distinctly mesmerized me was the wine-cellar with its exquisite wood-carvings, and the remarkable collection of vintage wine; now merely a dilapidated crawl-space almost obliterated by cobwebs.

“Tomorrow I am planning a whole day on a library ladder somewhere in this wing of the villa, devouring hardcover treatises from another century”, I promised to myself. I can hardly wait.

That time I spent half an hour at the most, and made a rushed assessment. The libraries and chandeliers in the mansion particularly attracted my attention, as always, and distracted me, to be honest. So I had to draw a rather vague floor plan in my head, which I noted down on paper ......back home.

The North-West wing is colossal and spread out in an L-shape. Considerably larger than the South-East part. I explored the North-West wing in the past, when it was in better condition, not as perilous as it is now.

This mansion is a hidden gem, architecture-wise, but nobody is interested to purchase it. It used to be frequented by hunter groups using it as a hunting lodge. Rumors of haunting and mysterious spooky incidents that go on in this villa have kept people away for decades. Now its glorious past is forgotten. It’s abandoned. Wild grove has taken over. Nobody stayed here last 15-20 years.

On my long drive here, a nebulous crescent moon in the background of hazy grey-peach sky on its way to the direction of the South-West was staring down at me. The location and timing indicates that it’s a waxing crescent.

I relished a spectacular sunset through the askew terrains and hills in nuances of dark olive and sepia, even though I heard on the radio about the quickly approaching bad weather in the late evening today.

I passed through wide uninhabited natural forest areas of 20-30 meter high nearly 200 year old murmuring cedar and birch trees, from the foothills all the way up to about 2000 meter altitude.

On arrival, a very familiar fragrance of high-quality cheroots, incense sticks, wild flowers and lime oil gave me a nostalgic feeling, and I almost heard a sort of hypnotizing whispers in my ears, as if the lodge is saying it’s my long-lost home. It wasn’t an uncanny feeling, but a mystifying ambience.

Large glass windows along with the sliding glass door from the ceiling to the floor are occupying the entire front-wall of the living room.

In front, far off on the remote shore, dense forest borders the landscape in conjunction with the cove on the right corner (South side), whereas, on the East side (left corner), the old lighthouse is not clearly visible at the moment because of the thick mist in the background of deep murky birch and spruce forest, under the gloomy sky, which is gradually turning into an appearance of smoked silver.

In the late afternoon, I settled down in an antique bamboo armchair by the fire. A light knitted blanket is loosely spread on my feet. The wood-burning fireplace is on its way to succumb to ashes, leaving a pleasant fragrance and more of a smokey shadowy surrounding.

On the corner table, an antique lantern of hazy glass lampshade is giving dim light from its quivering flame.

The heavy curtains were slightly open for me to look out to the dreary weather. Light sleet has started silently. To my dismay, this seemed to be utterly contrary to my plan and expectation!

I frowned, since I was really looking forward to gaze at a picturesque panorama view of starry night, a dreamy setting moon over the fishing boats, canopy of arctic willows, listening to cicadas. Well…..apparently not today.

I turned my attention from outdoor to the interior. Other than armchair, foot-rest and lantern, there are velvety sofas, low sofa-table of glass, heavy rugs, few faded oil-paintings depicting seascapes, lighthouses and hillside farmhouses, also wicker sideboard, bookcase, glass-cabinet and grandfather floor-clock, which must be the leftover that didn’t qualify for last year’s auction.

Suddenly through the corner of my eye, it appeared to me as if the glass-cabinet door is moving. Well,…it looked like an apparition standing in front of it and is trying to shake it open! As soon as I chuckled, “Here we go……..”, a knocking sound started behind the fireplace, but only a few times, then it stopped! What was that about?

By now I have realized, absolute tranquility that I was expecting does not exist. Incessant rounds of violent gusts are blowing through the dense forest, almost to the extent of harsh disruption. And the forest is waking up from its hibernation, responding back with a jarring sound, leaving a whispering echo, which I am listening to with my eyes half-closed.

I noticed now, the line of horizon distinguishing between the remote coast-line and the sky has started to disappear behind the grey mist, becoming more and more obscure, and soon invisible.

When I started to feel sort of a damp chill in the air, I shivered and pondered, should I bring more fire-woods and enjoy a little bit light reading or get ready for bed. I rummaged through the bookcase only to find old magazines, catalogues and news-reviews. I frowned, I feel like reading something else.

I turned to the rear side of the ground floor and stepped outside the drawing room area. After two dark corridors, right turn at a half-empty gallery and two small steps up, there comes ground floor’s large bedroom first, then kitchen and bathroom farther back. Staircase to the upper floors is located next to the kitchen, and at the side of the bathroom, a dark narrow hallway leading to the North-West wing of this villa. This passage is actually “blind”. In order to block direct access, it’s most certainly kept shut at the other end, even though that cannot be seen from here.

The ground floor bedroom looks charming but outdated, it has a large four-poster bed with silk brocade frills. Hmmm,………..I contemplated the choice of floor and choice of bedroom. I never liked the idea of ground floor bedrooms. This is something that has always made me uncomfortable for some unknown reasons. I took the stairs to inspect further upstairs. I can see it’s not an open staircase. The door at the top end of the staircase is locked with a padlock.

The floor plan drawings in my head are rather vague. This is unexpected, but anyway. I came back down to find the keys. The first place I would look is the top of the fireplace. And…yes! There it is. A large key ring of total…. 7 keys. After trying 4 keys, the fifth one opened the padlock. But I wasn’t ready for what was coming next.

As soon as I pulled open the door, I’m sure I heard a sort of a creaking sound, as if somebody is tiptoeing in there on the old wood floor. But nobody is supposed to be here,…..or anywhere in this villa at the moment. The staircase door was locked until now, and I just opened the lock 5 seconds ago !!! There is no other access route, as far as I know. I froze at the doorway and the sound stopped. Burglar? I had an eerie feeling, and it made me worried.

Oh no,…………I didn’t have my flashlight in my pocket. Should have brought the oil lamp from downstairs. But soon I noticed a dim ray of light as I stepped into a lounge area. The first floor in this section seemed to have an open lounge area with assorted dining furniture and glass walls on both South and East sides, opening to an attached covered terrace on the South-East corner.

Obviously there is nobody in here. I had no idea why the wood-floor made that creaking sound even before I stepped on it. Must be some other very familiar sounds caused by very common things, like the water-droplets trickling down the chimney, or the wind blowing into its top. I didn’t feel like thinking too much about that right now.

There are two additional bedrooms on either side of the first floor, one of them being relatively larger than the other. Another elegant bathroom at the rear side as well. The dim quivering light rays were actually coming from the corner room, which turned out to be a medium size library. Yes, I remember now.

I can see that, one bedroom has the view of the cavern in the fjord, and the other, the larger one is overlooking the lighthouse. Moreover, this larger bedroom overlooking the lighthouse also has a fireplace itself! “Superb!” I mumbled to myself. Then there is no point of staying by the fire downstairs. I will bring up some fire-woods upstairs, start this fireplace instead and sleep in this cozy bed.

OK perhaps I need the blanket from downstairs. First I wanted to check out the library. There is an antique oval center table and a similar lantern is sitting on top of it. Who lit this lamp in here, while this floor was locked?

All the walls are filled with large bookcases containing old hardcover classics. There are also some paperbacks and some handwritten manuscripts. “Hurrah!” I mumbled again. Surrounded by antique furniture and hardcover classics in a quaint mountain lodge and shopping at the farmer’s market would be paradise for me.

I quickly set down the large key-ring from my hand on the center table next to the burning lamp in the library, and went back downstairs to fetch the blanket, which was now hanging at the back of the sofa in the ground floor living room. Is this the way I left it? Hmmm…… I am getting confused again. OK, never mind.

When I went back to the bedroom upstairs with the blanket, I felt stupid. Only if I opened the small closet in this bedroom sooner. There are two thick soft quilts in there. Those I could use on the bed. There are extra pillows as well in a wicker chest in the other bedroom here.

Abruptly, I caught a glimpse of something white, and a faint scent. My eyes fell upon a small pile of gardenia flowers, which were lying on the small bed-side table !!! No, not artificial ones, they are real ones. Fresh and wet. I can swear they were not there when I first time came in to this bedroom a few minutes ago. And how would someone know about my fascination with gardenia?! How would someone even obtain those tropical beauties in this part of the globe?! Ok, whatever.

As I was closing the wardrobe in the bedroom, suddenly something caught my eyes through the bedroom window. The steady illumination from the lighthouse is still piercing through the bleak weather, as usual, but….what’s that over there?!! Some strange light out in the pitch-dark gravel path……almost like a group of fireflies. Not only that,…….a dark figure (a person?) was walking towards the lodge.

Who’s out there in this weather in this remote solitary region that does not even have a railroad or a post-office whatsoever? That eerie feeling is back again. One of the watchmen perhaps? No, not before the season starts. Even the lighthouse-keeper’s cottage is empty, and that’s a long walk from here.

It’s hard to see because of the tall dense foliage of the high hedges along the pebble-fence in the premises, and 10-20 meter high Rhododendrons, which are almost guarding or hiding this villa from the outsiders. I went down all the way to the ground floor living room, but by that time that obscure figure had disappeared or perhaps turned around the left corner.

The main entrance port is not really on the ground floor level, it’s located halfway below, on a semi-basement level, with a few stone-steps leading to a foyer, so that the real ground floor is elevated to a rather higher level, making me unable to see all the way down beyond the turns of the gravel path. I am absolutely certain that I locked the main port properly myself, and the port is considerably robust.

“Don’t worry about that”, I assured myself, “I was mistaken.” Now I need to go get some fire-woods from the utility-shed at the back of the lodge.

I pulled out my flashlight from my overnight-case, ran upstairs again to fetch the key-ring from the library table, opened the back-door of the ground floor, sauntered through a dark hall-way, took a few stone-steps, and arrived in front of the boiler-room-utility-room area at the end of the hallway. This annex area, built adjacent to the main structure, is not totally indoor, not totally outdoor either.

The drizzle was brutally whipping me. Thank god I didn’t have to go out for fire-woods. According to the weather report, this drizzle is going to turn into heavy downpour of hail after midnight. The dew drops at dawn are definitely going to form ice crystals.

Right behind starts a wide expanse of backwoods and plantation. I stood there for a while and fantasized about a perfect blend of North and South, Besalύ and Undredal.…..a backyard, pink-purple lupine and rhododendron, fragrance of lavender, gardenia, magnolia, …..blended with intoxicating smell of lime leaves, coriander, basil, eucalyptus, faint glow of moonbeam,……ahh.

Both utility-rooms were locked with padlocks. I unlocked the rooms, filled a large pale with fire-woods, checked that there is plenty of hot water for my night-time shower and then locked the rooms. On my way back through dark hall-way, just by chance my eyes suddenly looked up to the direction of the North-West wing, and my jaws dropped. There is a bright light in the attic room and a silhouette figure is standing there!!!

The South-East wing, where I am staying, does not have any attic room, but the middle part of the North-West wing is a colossal three-and-a-half floor building with that attic room on the top. The North-West wing is not safe to live in, and hence barricaded by the authority. All the rooms, corridors and access-tunnels have old-fashioned padlocks on. It’s practically impossible for outsiders or criminals to…..just barge in.

I looked again. That head, that build, form and shape of the body have a creepy likeness to something very familiar to me. Cannot figure out what at the moment. It was quite baffling, and I was apprehensive, but not really panic-stricken. Not yet anyway.

I shut the back-door carefully and went back upstairs feeling a little bit jumpy. What’s happening? I went into the bedroom to start fire in the fire-place. Suddenly a metal-glass clinking or rattling sound in this mute deserted villa startled me and made me look up, and I noticed that the chandelier is now swaying like a pendulum, as if mild earthquake is going on, or somebody smacked it. There was no reason for that kind of movement. I told to myself, “Who’s trying to scare me off ??” I went back to the library.

And I froze once again.

I can swear I saw the hurricane lantern of hazy glass lampshade was the only thing that was sitting on the oval center table, and I can swear I left the key-rings right next to it. Oh yeah, I also came second time to fetch the keys. But now,… there is something lying next to the lantern on the table. It looked like one of those hand-written manuscripts from the shelves over there by the East-side wall. And it’s lying open.

I am now leaning forward on the table. No, I am wrong! Not manuscript. It’s actually a sort of ancient diary. Sapphire colored soft cover with gold borders. Not turquoise, not aquamarine, Sapphire! And the ancient yellow-brown water-damaged pages of fibrous pulp. Moreover, as I notice now, the page that was open, is 30 April ! Today! 200 years ago!

My freezing cold trembling fingers hesitantly picked up the diary. Somebody has written in violet ink, which is mostly faded but legible, “The gardenia in the bedroom cheered me up today.” “I saw a dark shadowy figure in the attic. Then I discovered a dead-body lying in the South-East corner library floor.”

I felt my arms and knees starting to get severely debilitated and getting almost paralyzed. Reminiscence flashed in my eyes, and certain words started ringing in my ears, “my long-lost home”, the words first came to my mind the very moment I entered Sapphire Lodge !

I warily turned to the East wall, and now………there is no shelf anymore. The whole wall has now turned into some kind of glossy shiny plate, like a home-movie. An entity, sort of two-dimensional, is appearing, but my eyes failed to recognize what it is.

I came out of the library like a zombie, petrified and traumatized. On my last visit, I made sure to note down all access tunnel-routes / passage-ways in my head. And I am 200% sure, there was absolutely no access to this floor area from the other parts of the mansion. But….now….I can clearly see a pitch-dark tunnel has appeared on the right side of the staircase. And it’s connecting directly to the North-West wing. It didn’t even exist few minutes ago, when I carried the pale upstairs!

My blood has turned into ice. Right in front of my blurred eyes, I now see that dark shadowy entity is emerging from the North-West end of the tunnel and sauntering towards me!

Now there is no doubt why this physical structure in the attic looked so familiar to me, when I first saw it while carrying fire-woods. It’s me, no doubt. Only difference is, the face is upside down !!!

I staggered back in to the library, stumbled and collapsed. Fragile yellow-brown pages turned into crisp beige, faded ink turned into bright violet, 200 years’ ignominious past disintegrated and vanished mercilessly in dismal emptiness, as deluge of hail started.  

[tonystarkficrecs]

Hello! Let me first start with how I absolutely love this blog!! This helps me find so many fics I haven't read yet, so thank you for that!! Also, do you perhaps know any fanfics where an avengers team from another universe who's actually a team go to mcu and meet mcu tony? I'm can say I'm a biased Team Tony Stark, still salty over Civil war. Thank you!!

I’m glad to hear you’ve enjoyed this blog!! I’ve read some fics with crossovers between the Marvel universes; I’m not sure if you were looking for post-CACW fics only or just any involving a Marvel crossover, but most of these are set after the Civil War (all but the first one) so hopefully they strike your fancy!

Amalgam by Dxmjunkie

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 55,251

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

Completed: Yes

So, Tony touched the shiny Asgardian necklace and now he’s popped on over to another dimension. 

Apparently this world’s Iron Man is some sort of psycho villain who blows stuff up on a daily basis in the bad kind of way. Other-Bruce’s whereabouts are unknown and he’s considered a national threat. Other-Natasha and Other-Clint are still exceptionally super scary spies, except now they both have a personal vendetta against Iron Man. Insult to injury- Thor is the only Avenger cool enough not to exist in multiple universes. Lucky bastard.

Did he mention that this Captain America hates his freaking guts? And that seeing Other-Steve glare at him like he’s repellent scum is sorta killing him on the inside?

Broken Mirrors by laireshi

★ ★ ★

Words: 3,485

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

Completed: Yes

“He hid some things from me,” Tony says, then shrugs. “It’s fine. I hid some things from him, too. Don’t you know this story?”

616 Steve meets MCU Tony.

Shifting Tides by TenSpencerRiedPlease

★ ★ ★

Words: 5,095

Pairing: Gen (background Avengers Assemble!Steve/Tony)

Completed: Yes

Original prompt: So, Tony from the MCU (after infinity war or ca:cw) gets sent to an alternate dimension where nothing ”that bad” happened to the avengers. They are all still together and are like a big family. Now, I just want them to take care of Tony from the MCU and make him feel loved! I would love a lot of angst, AND a lot of hurt&comfort in it!

Tony blinks himself awake and Steve is standing over him looking concerned. “Tony?” he asks softly, a little unsure.

It takes a moment for the memories to come back to him, hazy in the mist of what he’s sure is a head injury to add to the rest of his problems. “Fuck off,” he snaps, curling onto his side so he can push himself up in a way that mostly doesn’t aggravate his ribs.

Searching, Waiting for You by Iron_Eirlyssa (Eirlyssa)

★ ★ ★

Words: 4,823

Pairing: Avengers/Tony Stark (not polyamorous)

Completed: Yes

An artifact is found, an artifact with one goal and one goal only.

Tony Stark will be loved.

[queen-ofthe-pumpkinpatch]

The Reluctant Countess: Chapter Three

Also available to read on Fictionpress if you prefer that format.

Story Summary: When another plague outbreak arrives on the shores of the Black Sea in 1667, wealthy merchant’s daughter Rosalind is forced to flee her comfortable life for the relative safety of a remote village in the Carpathian Mountains. But she soon finds the humble village harbors a sinister secret and a haunted past.

A “Beauty and the Beast”-inspired vampire story, rated T for some violence. (The romance itself is going to be rated PG.)

<<Previous Chapter

         The interminable journey through the winding, narrow, craggy mountain roads culminated in an anticlimax. The village of Vseník appeared to be no more than a collection of farmsteads and muddy roads clustered in a hidden valley. It was still early in the day, and there was a hazy alpine mist descending from the tops of the pines. As their wagon slowly approached, Faruk tried to keep their spirits up.

          “At least your aunt and uncle’s house cannot be hard to find,” he said reasonably; “it must be one of those communities where everyone knows everyone else.”

          Rosalind sighed deeply. “I suppose. But that might also mean they’re not keen on outsiders.”

          “You are not an outsider. Your father was born here, and your only living relations are here.”

          She bit her lip, watching his serene profile with some apprehension. “It’s not me that I’m concerned about. They may see you as an enemy.”

          Faruk shrugged. “Yes, my nation has a history of invading these lands, but it has been decades since there has been any bloodshed between us. The Empire has established a treaty with the nobles of this region—autonomy in exchange for tribute. There will be no need for any unpleasantness.”

          “Small towns have long memories.”

          “Rosalind. Please do not worry about me. I am perfectly capable of tact and diplomacy in the face of rudeness. I strongly suggest that you follow my lead in that respect.”

          She absorbed this statement in sullen silence. It was difficult for her to passively accept ill treatment, for herself or for someone she considered a friend. But Faruk raised his eyebrows at her until she nodded with a grudging sigh.

          “I’ll try to follow your example, Faruk.”

          His dark eyes twinkled with amusement. “Patience will come with age,” he said, to which she rolled her eyes.

          As their wagon rolled into the village square—which consisted of a tiny marketplace, a cistern where women were washing laundry, and an incongruously immense church—the townsfolk froze and stared.

          Children gaped with open mouths. The butcher paused with a meat cleaver halfway to a leg of lamb. A turnip tumbled out of the grocer’s numb hand. The stooped, ancient priest squinted quizzically at the newcomers, unsure if he was seeing a supernatural phenomenon.

          Faruk broke the silence, and with it the trance they were all in. “Good morning, folks. Pardon the disturbance, but I wonder if you could give us some direction. We are looking for the blacksmith and his wife—”

          Before he could finish the rest of his genteel greeting, the small crowd jolted back to life. Mothers ushered their children away, hiding them behind their skirts. Storefronts and shutters were slammed shut.

          Rosalind noticed that on the heavy wooden doors of all the farmsteads and stores, strange amulets and charms were strung up—and, curiously enough, bulbs of garlic.

          Superstitious and fearful people, she thought, frowning.

          The only remaining citizen in the deserted village square was a vagabond in shabby clothes, who limped forward to speak to them. Even from several yards’ distance, Rosalind could smell stale beer on his breath.

          “You’ll be looking for the blacksmith?” he inquired of them. “He’s over yonder.”

          And then pointed to the churchyard.

          Rosalind’s heart sank. Her father had had no contact with his birthplace for decades and couldn’t have known that her uncle was already dead.

          “I would say, God rest his soul,” continued the man with an unpleasant chuckle, “but we all know it’s the devil that’s stuck with him now.”

          Rosalind jumped to her feet, indignant despite Faruk’s cautioning hand on her elbow. She had never met her aunt and uncle, but hearing her only family slandered struck a nerve. “That’s a horrible thing to say about a dead man.”

          The vagabond shrugged an apology. “I take it you didn’t know him personally, then. His wife still lives at the forge, last farmstead on the left.”

          Faruk gave Rosalind a warning glare and motioned for her to sit back down in the wagon. “Thank you, my good fellow,” he said in an artificially cheery tone. “We’ll be on our way.”

          “I would take care if I were you folks,” the vagabond called after them. “Our Lord and Master has a great distaste for outsiders. And He’s not a man I’d want to cross.”

          Rosalind tore her eyes away from his crooked grin and tried not to shudder.

          The mist was beginning to dissipate, like a veil being lifted, and she saw a dark shape solidifying to the west of them. Perched on the cliffside above the village was a castle of weathered stone. A steep, treacherous staircase carved into the face of the cliff zigzagged up to meet it—narrow and slippery enough to deter an invading army. Through the gloom she could make out tattered banners rippling from the battlements, and vacant eye-like windows peering down at them with disdain.

          She nudged Faruk. “Look. What a fortress to oversee such a tiny village. It doesn’t make much sense.”

          “Abandoned, I imagine,” he said. “A remnant of more prosperous times. You would be surprised how many glorious kingdoms have vanished through the ages because of war or famine.”

          Abandoned, yes. Rosalind shook herself. Surely no one could still live in such an unreachable place, in such grandeur and decay.

          It must have been an illusion, a reflection of the rising sun, but in the closest tower window she could have sworn she saw a pinprick of light.

          They came to a dark and dingy little farmstead with a thin ribbon of smoke rising from its chimney. Like all the buildings along the main road, there was a wreath of garlic bulbs hanging from the wooden door. Faruk brushed it aside to knock.

          A middle-aged woman peered around the door with narrow, suspicious eyes.

          “Yes? What do you want?”

          Faruk seemed to lose his nerve in the face of questioning. Rosalind stepped forward.

          “Aunt Ioana, my name is Rosalind. I am the daughter of your brother, Cezar. He sent us here from Constanta because you are the only family I have left now.”

          Ioana opened the door wider to study the strangers, stern and silent for a long moment.

          “He—he sent us with a letter that should explain the situation,” Faruk added, drawing out a folded piece of parchment from his cloak.

          “Hmm. It is Cezar’s handwriting,” Ioana muttered at first glance.

          As Ioana read the letter from her brother, Rosalind studied her aunt for the first time. The wispy strands of hair escaping from her kerchief were mostly gray, and her hands clutching the parchment were bony and red from lye. Rosalind looked for any family resemblance in her face, but it was difficult to tell with how worn and tired Ioana appeared—as if her features had been flattened and the colors drained away.

          But then Ioana’s eyes flicked back up with a shrewd, sharp intensity that Rosalind did recognize. She fidgeted under her aunt’s scrutiny, acutely conscious of her soft white hands that betrayed her lack of physical labor.

          “You’ve got his nose,” Ioana finally said in a flat voice, as if that settled things.

          “I do?” Unconsciously, Rosalind reached up to touch her slightly hooked nose.

          “I’m not one to turn away blood.” Ioana sighed. “You can stay.”

          Rosalind swallowed hard. “Thank you, Aunt Ioana.”

          The two women glanced sidelong at Faruk, who had been tactfully quiet for some minutes. Rosalind squirmed at the thought of how foreign and out of place he must seem to her aunt, with his saffron-colored turban and his moustaches that curled at the ends. His Romanian grammar and accent were, however, without reproach even to the most fastidious native speaker.

          “My good lady, I know you must have concerns about another mouth to feed,” he said in a sympathetic tone, “but I can make myself useful to you. These bones are not so old that they cannot chop wood or shear sheep or whatever must be done.”

          Ioana pursed her lips skeptically.

          “He knows how to make candles, too,” Rosalind threw in helpfully. She decided it would be fruitless to mention Faruk’s expertise as a scholar of the natural sciences.

          Ioana ushered the two of them inside the house with a terse gesture. “Well, there’s no sense in the three of us standing outside in the cold.”

          Rosalind and Faruk exchanged wordless shrugs behind her back as she shut the door behind them. Evidently this was the warmest welcome they could expect from her aunt, but at least she was giving them shelter, albeit grudgingly.

          The next day, her aunt shook her awake before dawn. Still groggy, and somewhat resentful of the birds already beginning to chirp, Rosalind fed the horse and the chickens while Ioana set a pot of porridge to simmer over the fire.

          “It’ll be done when we return from church,” she said. “Haven’t you got anything to cover your head?”

          Rosalind was too sleepy to protest that it was not a Sunday and she was not accustomed to daily mass, so she murmured drearily, “I packed my things in such haste, aunt, I’m sorry.”

          In the city, it was fashionable and perfectly acceptable for young women to wear their hair loose and flowing as she did, but in these more remote rural areas, it seemed to be frowned upon. Or perhaps it was simply impractical.

          Her aunt loaned her a scarf to tie back her dark, untamable curls and marched her along the stone path. The cool breeze and brisk walk made Rosalind alert enough to absorb her surroundings. A silvery mist lay over the valley, all of its buildings but silhouettes in the greyish pre-dawn light.

          “It seems rather a large church for such a small village,” she remarked. Indeed, the bell tower was the most prominent landmark for miles, and judging by its narrow Gothic windows and weather-stained bricks, it was hundreds of years old.

          “It wasn’t always a small village,” Ioana replied shortly.

          “How do you mean?”

          “I mean, it was a town once.”

          Rosalind squinted at the distant hills, still shrouded in mist and gloom, but couldn’t distinguish any ruins except the castle.

          “Really? What happened to it, then?”

          Her aunt, several paces ahead, whirled around and said sharply, “Lord, you’re full of questions this morning.”

          “I…I’m sorry, I was only curious.”

          “You’ll soon find that around these parts, folks learn only what they need to know, and seek no more than that. It’s all that fancy book-learning that’s turned your head, and mark my words, no good will come of it. It certainly won’t help you here.”

          Rosalind was not the sort to meekly bite her tongue, but she knew how foolish it would be to challenge or offend the relative she now depended upon. Still, the words nettled her. They walked the rest of the way to church in thorny silence.

          Inside, the congregation was taking their seats in a reverent hush. Perhaps the feeble candlelight casting harsh shadows did not help, but Rosalind was struck with how grim the church’s interior was.

          She was used to seeing images of the Four Evangelists behind the altar in a church, but the carved stone figures on horseback supporting the pillars of this church were far more grisly. They were not difficult to recognize. War carried a battered shield and battle-ax, Famine’s ribs protruded through his garments, Pestilence was covered in oozing sores, and Death grinned menacingly at the congregation, a scythe in his bony hand.

          She shivered at the apocalyptic imagery. Fear and death seemed to be a preoccupation for this community, even in their house of worship.

          The strange carvings, however, were nothing compared with the images on the stained glass windows.

          The most ornate windows drew her eye irresistibly to the west-facing wall, to a triptych of scenes. On the left, a nobleman in medieval armor held a sword aloft, a cross and a dragon emblazoned on his shield. His right hand was a bloody stump, evidently a battle wound. On the right, a noblewoman attended a poor sickbed, despite the patient’s unsightly pox. There were halos around the heads of these people, and Rosalind surmised they must be local patron saints.

          The center window, however, did not seem to belong in a church at all. It showed a crowd of peasants with outstretched, beseeching hands, approaching a shadowed figure with gleaming red eyes. The silhouette had no details, no face.

          Had these people turned to a dark, sinister power in a moment of desperation? It didn’t make sense to her.

          Her aunt nudged her to keep walking forward until they found an empty pew. Rosalind genuflected shakily. How did this congregation even concentrate on prayer with all this gruesome imagery surrounding them?

          Her mind wandered during the entirety of mass. She mumbled through the prayers and hymns, trying to keep her eyes off the statues and stained glass windows. It was not until she came forward for communion, and saw the serene faces gazing back from the pews, that it occurred to her that this village was mostly immune to the macabre. This was everyday life to them. It only bothered her because she wasn’t used to it.

          How am I ever going to get used to it? This is never going to feel like home to me, she thought bleakly.

          She met a few curious pairs of eyes as they filed out of the church. Strangers must be a rare sight to them indeed.

          On the way home, the awkward silence between Rosalind and her aunt remained unbroken, and they drifted apart on the path. The churchyard on her left was marked by a rotting wooden fence. Though it was only September, the trees in the field had mostly shed their brown leaves.

          Even after the crowd had dispersed, she still felt eyes on the back of her head. In her peripheral vision, she glimpsed a shadow passing over the churchyard.

          “Hello? Is someone there?” she called out. Her throat was dry and the words came out meeker than she intended. She shook herself and continued on her way. It was most likely a stray cat or a squirrel foraging among the weeds.

          She heard leaves crunching underfoot, even when her footsteps halted.

          It wasn’t just a vague feeling anymore: Rosalind was certain someone was watching her.

          “Who’s there?” she demanded. Her voice carried far in the still morning air. She took a few steps into the churchyard, toward the dark silhouette she had seen disappear among the graves. If it was a nosy neighbor, she would rather confront them and dispel the uncertainty.

          The headstones were very old here, overgrown with brambles and weeds. In the feeble light of the rising sun, she realized that the moss-covered headstones stretched on and on, over several hills in the distance. So many graves for such a small village—it was almost breathtaking.

          What happened here, she wondered? On many of the stones nearby, she could only make out the winged death’s-heads and the year: 1351.

          She heard a twig snap, a rustle behind a monument, and rushed toward it, eager to end this sneaking and secrecy but beginning to feel childishly unnerved. It was a heavy stone monument, presumably for a parishioner of wealth and influence, and she could only just make out the epitaph:

          Here lies the remains of Count Igor, Last of the house of Dragomir. Born 1324. Died 1352. Lord, show your favor upon your servant.

          She thought she heard a hoarse whisper—but no, it was only a faint breeze stirring the dead leaves on the stone. On the iron gate across the monument, spiked to deter grave-robbers, the bars were wrenched apart in the middle as if some unstoppable force inside had burst forth.

          She shook herself. There was surely a natural explanation. The way the iron had rusted and corroded over the centuries had probably only made it appear ghoulishly deliberate.

          Her aunt’s sharp voice cut suddenly through the silent churchyard.

          “Rosalind? What are you doing over there? Best not to linger in this place.”

          Rosalind had no trouble obeying. But as she left the darkened yard with a shudder, the sharp pains in her abdomen returned. For a moment, they were so acute that she couldn’t conceal it. She put a hand on the fence to steady herself and breathed as slowly as she could.

          It was strange, she thought, that even though she had felt the familiar pains for a week now, there was still no bleeding to show for it.           “Are you ill, Rosalind?” her aunt asked, keeping a wary distance.

          “No,” she said quickly, forcing herself to straighten and catch up with her aunt’s brisk strides. “I’m fine. Just my monthly courses.”

          “Well, you’ll get no holiday for that, I’m afraid.” The words themselves were dismissive, but her aunt’s hard face softened just a fraction, and she put a hand on Rosalind’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ll make you some willow bark tea when we get home. It can do wonders for the aches.”

          Rosalind managed a half-smile. She had never known her mother, had been cared for by male guardians all her life, and while they had done their best, she had to admit—it was unexpectedly nice, this understanding from another woman.

          Once inside the farmhouse, her aunt set a steaming cup of tea on the table between them. Rosalind cupped it with grateful, clammy hands. The first few sips spread the warmth through her limbs.

          “Thank you, Aunt Ioana.”

          Her aunt’s hard line of a mouth twitched ever so slightly at the corner. “I was lucky to go through the change early in life, but I still remember those pains, clear as day. The world of men doesn’t spare a thought for the pain of women. It’s just background noise to them.”

          There was a moment of silence between them, and for once it was neither tense nor cold. Rosalind was beginning to wonder if her aunt was just as eager for female sympathy as she was. After all, she’d had no daughters to teach and protect, no sisters to confide in. Perhaps Ioana was so guarded out of habit, out of necessity—perhaps they two could find some common ground one day.

          Ioana cleared her throat. “It’s good we have a moment alone together, Rosalind. I need to talk to you about something.”

          She frowned, troubled by the sudden mood shift. “What is it?”

          “I know what you must think of me, of Vseník,” Ioana began with a weary sigh. “You’re used to a much different life. You grew up in a big city, you’re educated, you’ve met people from all corners of the world.”

          She hesitated, and Rosalind felt her cheeks burning—her aunt was accusing her of snobbery, and she couldn’t entirely deny the justice in that.

          She mumbled, shamefaced, “Aunt Ioana, I don’t think less of—”

          “Listen to me. There are things you must know about living here if you will be staying indefinitely. No doubt our customs seem strange and even nonsensical to you, but we have our reasons, and I need you to respect them, even if you disagree.”

          Ioana’s tone was not angry, but there was a note of urgency in it which gave Rosalind pause.

          “Such as?” she asked carefully.

          “Poking around the cemetery before daylight is…unwise. I don’t want to see you in there again. Especially before the sun is up. The church is the safest place before the sun is up.”

          To Rosalind, it sounded like a morbid superstition arising from a community that was all too accustomed to death—but still, she suppressed a smile and conceded that this would be easy enough to follow. “Aunt, I’ve no intention of going there again. I only wandered in because I thought someone was watching us. I must have imagined it.”

          She tried to ignore the way her aunt’s eyebrows contracted with worry.

          “Is there anything else you’d like me to avoid?” Rosalind continued in an airy tone, as if they were merely discussing her list of chores.

          “Going into these woods without protection is also unwise. The Count has forbidden his subjects from setting foot in there, for our own protection.”

          Rosalind nodded. No doubt the nobility wanted to deter poachers on their land. “This would be the same Count who lives in that castle? It looks abandoned to me.”

          Ioana’s eyes flashed in annoyance. “It appears that way, but he inhabits it still. And we must respect his law, for he protects us from outside dangers.”

          Rosalind didn’t want to be rude, but she couldn’t entirely contain her skepticism.

          “How does he protect you without any guards or soldiers?” she asked. “How would he even know what’s going on in the valley when he’s tucked away in his castle?”

          In a voice so low that Rosalind strained to catch it, Ioana murmured, “The dead travel fast.”

          There was a pregnant pause.

          “I’m sorry?” Rosalind was nonplussed. Her aunt seemed an otherwise practical, sensible person; it was disheartening to see she had fallen prey to the superstitions and fears of her community all the same.

          Ioana’s gaze was sharp and steady, and she did not tremble with fear. To her, this was a practical matter of daily life, not the mystical folktale Rosalind heard it as.

          “The Count does not need soldiers or spies. He travels on the wings of the wind, watches from the shadows. He has guarded us from earthly invaders and the terrors of the night, and in return we keep our distance, as he commands. So as I said, wandering into a graveyard in darkness is…unwise.”

          These people all actually think their ruler is some kind of dark entity, Rosalind realized with sinking dread.

[words4bloghere]

Heyoo! I'm back with another paperhat request because...what else is there to do at 11pm? Sleep? Anyway, again of your still doing requests, maybe the time when they first had sex, but not like the actual smut (unless you want to, I just don't want to make you uncomfortable) like the events leading up to it. What caused this in the first place? Who cracked first? All that cliché crap. Doesn't even have to be in the Monsters universe if you don't want it to be. Ahh! This is long! Thank you!

I got close to the sex but bailed because I am a wuss. So, fluff and smut? Flut? Smuff? hehehehehehe Smuff. (slightly NSFW guyssssss)

It’s almost one and I’m tired. BUT THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING ME TWICE!!!!

Black Hat and Flug sat at the kitchen table as they did most mornings; Flug was facing sideways fiddling with a device while he waited for his coffee to brew, and Black Hat read the morning edition of the newspaper.

Flug did not understand the newspapers. He knew that Black Hat was aware of the internet, as it was a crucial part of his business. But still, every day save for Sunday there was the usual delivery for the morning and evening paper of Hatville News. Sunday was the Super Saver edition that came with a plastic envelope insert filled with coupons, and the cartoons were in color.

“Flug.” Black Hat’s gravelly voice eased across the table and Flug didn’t even look up. There wasn’t much that could make him react at all in the morning before he had ingested an unknown amount of caffeine. That amount changed daily so he usually just stayed on the safe side by downing a whole pot as quickly as possible.

“Yes Boss?” Flug replied idly. He had stripped a screw earlier when he had first put this thing together, and now was having a difficult time removing it for repairs.

“Explain prostitution to me.” Black Hat said. Now Flug did pause and look up, moving his head slowly around to face Black Hat. He had lowered the paper and stared at Flug, his monocle reflecting the overhead light.

“Prostitution is the act of selling one’s body to another for the sexual gratification of the buyer.” Flug answered, as dispassionately as possible.

“And people pay for this?” Black Hat asked, almost incredulous. Flug shrugged and returned to the device in his hands.

“Sure. Sometimes not much but they will. Sometimes that’s the point.” He said.

“What’s the point?”

“Hiring a person to have sex with. It’s like, buying them makes the buyer feel more powerful.” Flug said and frowned as he wrenched the magnetized screwdriver hard to the left.

“So what’s the illegal thing, buying the prostitute or the sex?” Black Hat pressed. The screw gave but Flug paused again, thinking.

“I mean, from what I understand, it’s only illegal whenever the buyer explicitly discusses exchanging money for actual sexual intercourse.” Flug continued to unscrew the backing of the device. “I mean, I guess it’s not illegal to hire a prostitute and have them just hang out.”

“This is similar to the politicians resigning after it’s found out they slept with an intern? They criminalize sex?” Black Hat asked.

“That is extremely socially conscious, sir.” Flug replied with no small amount of sarcasm.

“How much would you pay Flug?” Black Hat asked and the screwdriver skidded off the screw, flipping out of Flug’s hand. He looked up, feeling his pulse suddenly in his head.

“Sir?”

“For a night with me.” Black Hat paused just long enough for Flug’s heart to start seizing. “If it’s something we can monetize, it’s worth thinking about.”

“UHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” Flug felt his train of thought crash and it short circuited his other processes. Black Hat clasped his hands together, resting them on the table, and leaned forward with his wide grin filled with sharp teeth.

“Perhaps we could auction you off.” He said, his voice low. Flug suddenly felt very warm under the bag.

Behind him, on the counter, the coffeepot let out a loud, long gurgle, announcing it had finished brewing. Flug scrambled up and out of his seat, skidding to a stop next to it. He put both hands around his mug, one that had been gifted to him by Demencia, for Christmas, in April. It was simple, showing a minimalist airplane taking off and the words “Get High Every Day, Sleep With a Pilot.”

Not the right mug to have at the moment.

“I’ll expect to see that device working by this afternoon.” Black Hat said ad Flug heard him push away from the table. Flug took even breaths as he poured his coffee, counting the seconds he had estimated it took Black Hat to leave anywhere, since he was prone to dissipating instead of walking out like a normal person.

Dumping sugar into the coffee, Flug focused on the metallic ting the spoon made against the porcelain.

His pulse still hadn’t slowed.

When he did ultimately go up to Black Hat’s study, the device was mostly functional. If the device was spun, an internal connection would dislodge, cause a short circuit, and the device’s effects would become erratic. It would also catch fire.

But why would it be spun? No one would spin the device.

Flug clutched it to his chest as he knocked on the study door, praying that Black Hat hadn’t watched a western recently.

The door opened, and a small robot skittered away before Flug stepped into the room. He heard the clicking of it skittering back to shut the door once he stood before Black Hat’s desk.

It was a massive desk, and the chair behind it loomed over it like a throne. So it was always slightly disconcerting seeing Black Hat reclining, reading.

“I have the device ready Boss.” Flug said and Black Hat folded over his paper. He hadn’t dressed as he normally did, which Flug found odd.

“Set it down.” Black Hat stated and tossed the paper onto the desk as well. Flug set down the device and waited.

“Your kind has a, strange relationship with consent.” Black Hat said suddenly and Flug raised an eyebrow. Black Hat waved a hand, dismissing his confusion, and stood.

“A lot of things are illegal because it violates the agency of another. No one consents to robbery or murder.” Black Hat went on and walked around the desk. “But, when your people legally strip away a person’s agency, then there is no such thing as consent. So, a murderer can be put to death even against his wishes.” Black Hat stopped next to Flug and put his hands behind his back. “What is murder becomes justice.”

“Boss?” Flug asked but Black Hat only grinned down at the doctor.

“By purchasing someone, you can effectively remove their agency buy having them signing it over in exchange for something. Looking beyond your kind’s shameful obsession with slavery, we can look to Faustian deals.” Black Hat continued. “When you make a deal with the devil, you sign away your agency.”

Fear now, as Flug instantly recalled what it was Black Hat was referencing. That moment he became a Villainous employee, and he shook hands with his new employer.

“Sir.” Flug said, slowly backing away. Black Hat broke into cackling laughter and Flug hesitated.

“There’s nothing to be gained by violating your agency Flug, calm down.” Black Hat said and then leaned on the desk. “I am aware of sexual lust Flug. Demencia produces it as a by product of her mere existence. But we all know what drives me.” He wasn’t looking for an answer so Flug didn’t offer one. It was, as Black Hat stated, that obvious.

“So how about we perform an experiment, Doctor Flug.” Black Hat turned, his predator grin back on his face. “Can we make the greedy monster lust?”

“Boss-” Flug couldn’t find the rest of the sentence, but Black Hat just eyed him silently anyway. “What would be the benefit?” He heard himself say instead.

Black Hat grinned wider and advanced on him.

“The same thing that drives any of the sins,” Black Hat replied. “Pleasure.”

He said yes, he remembered saying yes.

He did not remember how he ended up on the floor.

Black Hat’s tongue ran a line up his throat and along his jaw while claws and tentacles ripped at clothing. A cold mist ran over his exposed skin and Flug shuddered, hard, and felt Black Hat smile against his shoulder.

“Let’s see your face.” Black Hat whispered and ripped the bag off, causing the goggles to skew wildly on his face. Feeling air against his face caused him to panic, for a moment, but he focused now on the teeth he felt graze his shoulder. Flug tried to put his hands on Black Hat, but found them restrained by semi-solid tentacles. He clenched his hands into fists and moaned as Black Hat moved down his body.

His vision impaired, Flug nonetheless tried to look at what his boss had become. Black Hat’s clothing was gone and he had become, hazy, but with his goggles fitted crookedly on his face, he couldn’t be sure.

Worse, he couldn’t tell if it was haze or a hat on Black Hat’s head.

“Distracted?” Black Hat asked and Flug felt something wrap around his dick. The shock was sudden and he arched his back with the surprise of it. It wasn’t a feeling Flug could place and again he strained his neck trying to look. Now, Black Hat covered him, catching Flug’s mouth in a kiss.

The inside of Black Hat’s mouth was warm, all of him, in fact, was warm. Flug relaxed back into the floor as hands ran up his sides, and Black Hat sucked on his lower lip.

“Now,” Black Hat said. “Explain every variable. Every place that can be tested.” Flug blinked, his vision still fractured and disorienting.

“Okay.” He said. And the ministrations began.

Almost at once, Flug felt multiple mouths and fingers all over his body. Sharp teeth pricked his earlobe while a phantom touch ran down his spine. He shivered, causing the mouth at his ear to tug, and he cried out. A finger rolled over a nipple while another mouth bit and sucked at his collarbone.

Bites and kisses dotted his stomach, while two hands drew down the line of his pelvis with light scratches.

All the while, the tentacle on his erection slid up and down slowly.

“There is something I want Flug.” Black Hat said and abruptly sat up. None of his limbs were removed, however, so Flug still writhed in his grasp.

“Y-y-yes?” Flug asked, breathy and having to force the word out from his chest.

“Yes what?” Black Hat demanded and the bonds on Flug tightened.

“Yes Boss!” He cried out and the bonds loosened, but continued to move on and over him.

“I would like your gratification.” Black Hat said and Flug could feel a gentle probing. His eyes widened but he started to pant.

“Please.” Flug whispered. He could see Black Hat grin.

And then he saw him descend.

[bravehardts]

Day 15 - Roman Holiday

Waking up this morning, I looked outside at what I assumed was a cloudy day given the hazy light coming in the window. Instead I found that the courtyard was shrouded in a thick ethereal mist. Quickly heading outside, I snapped some surreal pictures--soon the mist burned away, but the experience verged on the supernatural, especially with the similarities to the horror film "The Others", which features a ghostly fog surrounding a British manor, not too different from our own. Happily, no ghosts here (that we know about). After breakfast, we headed into Bath for an appointment with ancient history at the Roman Baths. I had last visited this attraction 9 years ago and I remember being impressed--but seeing it again, we were all really amazed, not just by the historical significance, but also by how well the curators have crafted the experience. We first entered into a grand building and walked around an upper promenade--this is actually at ground level of the city, but the baths themselves are 4 meters underneath this, so you begin by circling the main bath from this elevated area-getting a great view, yet not quite experiencing it up close (this is on purpose). We began to learn about the history through our free audio tour, and Alex had his own "kid" version too, which stunningly kept him interested through the entire 1.5 hour self-guided tour. Heading downstairs, you don't go directly to the main bath (of course not!), but instead you learn a lot about Roman history through the artifacts found in the area--coins, columns, altars, and "curse" letters (apparently when Romans were robbed or sleighted, they would write little curse notes to the gods to smote the perpetrators--these were etched in tin, and many are still well preserved). There are great video "windows" around the area that show what it might have looked like in Roman times, with costumed characters going about their daily lives. Of course, the ruins themselves were mostly on the ground floor, but recreations of the rest of the buildings are seamless and give a sense of the scope. Where the construction could not adequately recreate the ancient Roman buildings, computer simulations displayed this even more accurately. Finally, after our brains were full with facts about Romans, we emerged into the primary bath area--the water is steaming and green with algae--you can walk fully around the bath and get a sense of what it would have been like 2000 years ago, enjoying a true historical sauna experience. Side rooms off the baths served different purposes--a cold water bathing room, changing rooms, gender specific baths--it was a full service experience apparently. And this city in Roman times wasn't even that big, population-wise. But they had a sweet natural spring hot tub. At the very end, you have a chance to taste and/or touch the water. I tasted it (hot, sulfurous water isn't that good, I learned). Alex touched it. Allison did neither. Anyway, the whole exhibit was a full success for all of us. Directly across from the baths sits Bath Abbey, a gorgeous cathedral, that we sped through. I could try to explain it in detail, but I won't because I think we are all burnt out on cathedrals and at this point, I couldn't tell the difference between this one and every other we saw. But it was grand, and we took many pictures. After the Abbey, we walked around a bit, found a shoe store and bought Alex a new pair of Converse (gold and black), and settled into a coffee shop for a quick lunch. Heading up a hill, we found the Circus--not the circus we know, but a large and completely circular intersection with a park in the middle and curved apartments in every direction. Turning west, we headed to the Royal Crescent--a much larger, semi-circular neighborhood, clearly related to the Circus, yet more impressive. Just south of this massive expanse of buildings is a green grassy park, where everyone goes to relax and take pictures. It is so large, that everyone snapping photos had to stand at the very back of the tree line just to capture the whole building. We took a few pictures ourselves and some boomerangs with Alex. Finding a cab back to our hotel was not as easy as we planned, but eventually we said goodbye to Bath and were back on the road. Arriving at Lucknam Park, we immediately changed into our workout clothes and took a family bike ride down the long entrance path. This day was absolutely gorgeous, with only a few clouds in the sky--by the time we had biked over to the soccer/football field, we were all sweaty, possibly for the first time this trip. We played a little one-on-two soccer/football (Alex and Allison versus me), and it was intense. The game ended with what I thought should have clearly been a red card on Allison, which ended in the winning goal. After review, the referee, Alex (also a player), made a really questionable call saying there was no penalty on the play (could have also been a flop on my part, to be honest), and that ended it. Hey at least nobody faked an injury. Next up was our tea time at the hotel. We intentionally had a light lunch knowing we were going to feast on sandwiches, scones, and desserts, at 3:30 in the afternoon, which just felt wrong (and yet it was so right). Our stomachs also felt a little guilty from all the mid-afternoon sugar and caffeine intake, but nonetheless it was a unique cultural experience. I still don't completely get it, but really no complaints here. Alex and I headed back to the pool for a bit of fun, then headed for dinner (we had a lot of meals today), which was delightful as usual. We ended up sitting next to a woman from South Korea with her 3 year old daughter. The mother was fluent in English and we chatted for a bit--her daughter knew a little bit but that didn't stop her and Alex from pretending to be dinosaurs, exchanging candy, and coloring together. Alex kept trying to explain how to play certain games in his little travel kit, but that didn't really go as planned--he didn't get frustrated but it was hilarious watching him try to communicate. And on another, totally effing random note, Allison spent an hour this afternoon in an online queue trying to book tickets for the "Museum of Ice Cream" exhibit which is coming to San Francisco this October. Along the way, she was telling me how quickly this thing was selling out its entire two month run--as in, it sold out completely during this one hour of ticket sales for the whole thing. So, at dinner, when we are talking to this random woman from SOUTH KOREA, she tells us her cousin just bought tickets for them all to the Museum of Ice Cream in San Francisco. WHAT IS GOING ON? It was crazy. It was random. It was crazy random. I guess this whole ice cream thing is catching on. Our evening ended with a heated game of Monopoly in the parlour, or was it the drawing room? It actually would have been better to play Clue in this building--as in playing clue for real, going from room to room, because this might as well be where the game takes place. It was the London version of Monopoly so all the properties were appropriate to this city (Leicester Square, Mayfair, etc.)--and it motivated us to try San Francisco-opoly when we get home, which is now in only two days time! Tomorrow we head into London to stay with a friend, and I get to attend the premiere of "Ruin Me", the feature film I shot in Michigan a couple of years ago. And that will be our last night of the trip!

[ohsobittle]

An Excerpt from Chapter One (Project not yet titled)

Kris woke up freezing.

It was always freezing now. Bainbridge Island wasn’t that far from Old Seattle; in fact, it also resided in the same climate pocket that kept the snow mostly confined to the mountains and hills in the east. It’s what meteorologists and botanists used to call a temperate climate. Kris scoffed; temperate climate his ass. For the past five years, exposure had been the biggest killer on Bainbridge from September to May, just the same as in the mountains. He shivered. He needed to get up and light the morning fires. It was his shift this morning, and even the medic couldn’t be exempt from the camp chore roster. Reluctantly, he pushed the covers off and began to dress himself for the cold March rains.

Outside, the camp was quiet. Mist hung heavy over the landscape, clinging to sodden trees and dew-soaked grass like an ephemeral blanket. The last of the night sentries exchanged their posts for the first of the morning’s, and Alex emerged from her own tent next to his, yawning, stretching, and then pausing to survey the camp as it began to stir. She nodded in greeting when she caught sight of Kris, gesturing at him pointedly with her empty tea mug. He nodded, heading for the woodpile; Alex needed her caffeine fix before taking the night sentries’ report.

He hurried through building the fires, allowing their leader to obtain her tea and begin her own daily tasks.

The rest of the morning passed quickly and without major incident. Andrew dropped in at the medical tent when Kris was taking inventory, apparently for the sole purpose of serenading his “beautiful flowing locks” and the “glory of the multiethnic experience.” Kris took this to mean that the still was up and running again.

Eventually, Andrew left to “continue his mission”, whatever that meant, and Kris got to continue in his work. One of the scouts sprained his ankle going down to the slip, and in the early afternoon a stretch of time was devoted to treating a nasty case of pneumonia in the captain of the scouts, Wren. They were ordinarily of a healthy and vigorous constitution, but they were unfortunately particularly sensitive to the cold, and the dampness of late winter was additionally unhelpful. They’d been in quarantine for several days, and the latest cold snap had only worsened their condition, which was worrying to Alex and the scouts at large. Kris was just writing down his recommendations and new instructions for Wren’s care – more blankets would have to be appropriated from healthier members of the camp, and an herbal tonic of his own brew would have to be taken three times daily to fight the infection – when Amy entered, demeanor urgent.

“Alex needs you in the command tent,” she announced. Kris silently held up one finger as he continued writing, but Amy would not wait. “Now.”

Kris looked up, then immediately dropped his pen to follow. Amy had been on the third night shift, and it was clear from her haggard appearance that she hadn’t slept since then. It was now about four in the afternoon: almost sixteen hours since her shift began. Anything to keep her up in Command that long had to be bad.

“What’s this about?” He asked, matching Amy’s half-jog with long, quick strides of his own.

“Can’t tell you. Not here. Alex will fill you in.”

Shit. It really was bad.

Amy pushed aside the tent flap and swept in rapidly, leaving Kris to catch the flap and duck in himself. The interior of the tent was hazy from lamp-smoke, afternoon light only seeping in from under the edges of the canvas. Alex was leaning heavily on the table in the center of the room, surrounded by scouts, members of the third shift, the advisory council, and the interim Chief Scout, June, whose long black hair was swept up in a hasty and messy ponytail. Alex’s tea mug rested on the corner of an old AAA map spread out on the table. The crowd parted without question as Kris approached the table, allowing him to stand opposite Alex and June.

“...so what you’re saying is, we’re trapped?” Alex was asking, fixing June in a weary stare.

“Not exactly...they haven’t come here yet, but...”

“Wait just a second,” Alex halted June mid-sentence. “Kris, there you are. Weigh in on this.”

“What’s going on?”

Alex gestured tiredly to June.

June straightened her shoulders and took a deep, invigorating breath.

“Last night, some of the scouts saw lights on the Sound...” There was a small outbreak of protests from the assembled crowd at this phrasing, and June raised her voice to be heard over them. “As you know, the Cops have been shooting anyone on the Sound at night for over a year. They own those waters now; no one else is crazy enough to use them openly.”

“We’re trying to determine if this new activity represents a threat,” Alex clarified.

The tent descended into bickering, Amy and June protesting that this was even a discussion, other advisors and members of the sentry arguing that there could be numerous other, benign, explanations for the lights. Alex dropped her head, rubbing at her temple.

“This has been going on all day,” She confided, looking at Kris from across the table. “Okay, everyone shut up!”

The tent fell silent.

“Thank you. Kris, what’s your take?” Alex asked. “June and the scouts say this is a threat, that the Cops are looking to expand, again, and that our home might not be safe anymore. Others,” She shot some of the naysayers a weary look, heading off the protests already building in their mouths. “are saying that we should do nothing. That we can’t move camp again on the ‘ghost’ of a threat. Frankly, we’re all too invested in this debate at this point to reach any clear conclusion, and we need fresh insight. I know I said I’d give you leave to focus purely on medical matters for the time being, but, well, here we are.”

           Kris paused, looking at the map on the table. (to be continued?) 

[ecotone99]

[HR] Mad's Mad

Madeline seethed. She could hear them five rows back, giggling and whispering like the little shits they were. High school had been hard on Madeline, but college, contrary to her mother’s gentle reassurances, was somehow worse.

At 19, Madeline had moved halfway across the country to find herself a fresh start in a fresh city. Denied entry to the dorms, she had been forced to find accommodation elsewhere. In the last week of August Madeline had moved into a room-share with six other strangers, only three of which were students, and only two of them were remotely close to her in age.

It was a 45-minute bus ride from campus to her little rundown, three-story in the suburbs; a ride in which Madeline had been taking twice daily, Monday to Friday, for the last month and a half.

Mornings weren’t so bad. At 6:35 AM, most of the bus was quiet with that post-sleep, early morning grog that afflicted most of the cities working class. Evenings were completely terrible. Madeline shared most of her classes with at least one member of an insidious, petulant crew of overgrown juveniles that made her life hell. She didn’t know what she’d done to first earn their ire. For a week or two, she’d been mostly invisible in her classes, her nose in her books and her earbuds drowning out the rest of the world.

Sometime in early October, beautiful Britany Carschell had stopped her in the hallway.

“Hey. Madeline, right?”

Madeline had nodded, brows raised, “Cool, so I missed NTEN on Thursday. Lend me your notes, okay? You’re always taking them.”

Surprised by the abruptness, Madeline replied with a jittery, hesitated jumble of, ‘what’ and ‘oh yeah’.

“What was that? Come on, Mads. Be cool,”

“Madeline.”

“What?”

“It’s Madeline. I don’t like ‘Mads’.”

“…O-kay?”

An awkward moment passed, and Madeline cringed openly. Britany watched her, armed crossed and brow raised expectantly.

“Well?”

“Oh, ah yeah. Sure. Just a sec.”

Madeline slipped a red-covered notebook from her binder. Britany grabbed it with a sing-songy: “Thanks, Mads!”, and was gone before Madeline could stammer out another word.

It took two weeks and numerous awkward reminders before one of Britany’s posse finally returned the now crumpled and coffee-stained notebook. The bullying started soon after.

It was subtle at first. Whispers behind her back, giggles as she walked passed, pointed, hinting comments left on the course message board.

Britney and her rotating gang of goons often caught the 5:45 bus after class, same as Madeline.

Sometimes they ignored her. Today they didn’t, and Madeline seethed.

They sat three seats back and they whispered and giggled and chittered away like the little shits they were, and Madeline gripped the edge of her seat in white-knuckled rage.

“Mads mad.” she heard over the din of public transportation, “Ohhh, Mads mad!”

Another wave of giggles, followed by a wet, cold splat just beneath her right ear. She swiped away at her neck instinctively and drew away a blob of paper and saliva.

A spitball. How perfectly juvenile.

It was 6:12 when Madeline fled from the bus, five stops before her usual hop off, her face and neck crimson in shame.

She had stood, turned, and shouted, “What the hell is wrong with you?!”, and the din of the bus had abruptly stopped. Dozens of strangers watched her as her tormentors, grinning and shrugging, responded with silent, feigned confusion.

Cripplingly aware of her new spot at the center of attention, Madeline’s rage broke and she slinked back, her shoulders drawn up to her ears and her eyes hazy with blooming tears.

The bell chimed, the bus stopped, and Madeline stumbled off into the biting, October dark.

She broke as the bus pulled away, and sobbed audibly into the night. There were a few bored pedestrians waiting at the stop, watching her with that general sort of half-concealed curiosity reserved for the strangeness of the city, and Madeline shrunk away further.

Turning on her heel, shoulders slumped and hands shoved into her jackets shallow pockets, Madeline fled down the adjacent street and out into unknown territory. She walked for a good thirty minutes before the sobbing ceased and that cold little ball of post-misery numbness hardened in her chest.

Exhaling away her frustrations, Madeline finally slowed. It was drizzling a cold, sleety October mist, and she shivered a little, before finally taking in her surroundings.

She was on a street like any other city street, surrounded by three and four-story brick and cement buildings, with closed up shop windows at street level, and offices and apartments, and who knows what else up top. Cars passed at the end of a nearby street, three blocks down, but Madeline found herself utterly alone on this particular quiet stretch of road.

Wiping her face on her forearm, Madeline turned back the way she had come and began the trek towards her bus stop. She’d not veered off this road in her near-blind and mindless march, and so guessed she’d only have to backtrack a block or three before finding Communal Drive.

Two lights and one four-way later, Madeline stopped.

’34th and West Henderson,’

Madeline didn’t know that one.

A low black car sped through the intersection a block behind her. She pulled out her phone and typed in her current address. The map loaded, and loaded, but never materialized. She opened a browser, and it loaded and loaded.

Madeline frowned, and put her phone back into her jacket pocket. She walked two more blocks down, before doubling back, scanning each intersection for any sign of the corner of Communal Drive.

’61st and Rosemead Ln’,

’13th and Georgia’,

It took her returning to ’34th’ to notice that the numbers made no sense. She took out her phone again and it loaded and loaded and loaded. The street remained dark and deserted, the storefronts closed and the upper floor windows dim behind thickly drawn blinds.

A light changed two blocks down West Henderson, and a stream of cars passed. Suddenly, overwhelmingly uncomfortable, Madeline darted across the road and half-jogged down the block towards the lively intersection.

It was deserted when she arrived on ‘108st and West Henderson’. 108st. She repeated the number in her head as the last of the distant tail-lights disappeared around some indistinct corner.

Inhale, and exhale, inhale, and exhale. She let the stinging cold fill her lungs, revitalizing her. Her phone, gripped tightly in her left hand, continued to load impotently.

Calm and cold, Madeline took stock of her surroundings. The intersection of 108th and — no. 108st. 108st.

She frowned, eyes on the misspelled road sign.

‘108st and West Hentingson.’

Was it always Hentingson? It must have been. But 108st?

She dropped her gaze to the street and inhaled. Above her, the light on the corner changed from green to yellow to red.

The intersection of…108st and West Hentingson was a perfectly, unremarkably normal street. There was a small Tandori joint on one corner and a 24-hour convenience store on the other. The restaurant was dark, but the convenience store glowed with sterile, phosphorescent salvation.

Madeline crossed the road and tried the door.

It was locked. She peered inside the metal barred, glass-fronted entrance at the deserted store inside. The sign at eye-level read ’24 HR / 7 DAY’ in stark white on black font.

She tried the door again. Still locked. Plastered on the window beside the door was a large poster advertising a calorie-wise sweet-tea drink. A flawless white woman with a wide, laughing smile held the drink in hand.

‘Life's Sweet!’ the advert read, ‘We’re Sweeter!’

Bitterly, Madeline turned her back on the store and prowled further down the street. Life's sweet. Lifes shit. This is shit. her inner monolog raged.

Two streets down a light turned green two and a lone truck puttered passed, crossing the otherwise deserted road. Madeline quickened her pace, passing another laughing, smiling billboard with another laughing, smiling woman, advertising some laughing, smiling piece of shit.

When she made it to ‘212nd and West Henderson’ it was deserted again. There was a newspaper box on the corner beside the light. The front page read, ‘Lifes a Breeze! Smile!’

She blinked. There was no subtext, no cover photo, no ads or articles or bylines. Just those words in clean, crisp newsprint.

Swallowing dryly, Madeline looked back to her phone. She opened the map. It loaded. The browser. Loaded. Nothing materialized. She opened her messages and fired off a text to her sister,

‘hey so dont laugh but im sort of lost’

Message sent

‘i got off the bus at the wrong stop and i no its stupid but i dont no this area’ Message sent

‘dont tell mom and dont think im dumb but can you send me how to get to communal drive from’

She looked up at the street signed and blinked,

‘121nd West Henderson.’

She knew it had been Henderson. She knew it.

Typing the address, Madeline clicked send and pocketed her phone again. The light changed, and Madeline crossed the road. A door in an alcove led to a brightly lit stairwell. A bench boasted another laughing advert with another laughing woman. A car alarm blurted out somewhere the next street over.

Squaring her shoulders, Madeline stormed down West Henderson, towards the next intersection.

212nd and West Henderson. The light changed. She crossed, checked her phone, and texted,

‘u there’

Message sent. Phone pocketed.

The light a block down turned green and two cars passed. Two cars and a trio of pedestrians. Madeline’s breath caught. She took off in a sprint that slowed to a jog when she realized how strange she must look, running towards these strangers.

The trio had crossed and were about to disappear around the corner of a glass-walled insurance office.

“Excuse me!” Madeline called out after them, “Please, hey. Excuse me!”

The trio rounded the corner, and Madeline hustled after them, “Hey, excuse me!”

The street was deserted. Guts twisting, Madeline walked a few steps down 71st Street, then stopped. It looked the same as any other street, except it was deserted in the 6 o’clock rush. The stores were shut up tight, the offices locked for the night, and the apartments dim behind heavy blinds.

Madeline turned back to the corner and waited, her hands at her side and her brow furrowed. She felt stupid; like she wasn’t privy to some joke the rest of the class knew, and she ‘d been left trying to piece together the punchline.

The light changed, and Madeline crossed. There was another newsstand and another billboard ad with another laughing woman.

‘Enjoy your fucking joke,’ Madeline thought, her mouth dry and her teeth clamped tightly shut.

In her left pocket, her phone buzzed and Madeline let out an involuntary, excited little squeak.

Fumbling the phone from her pocket, Madeline swiped the screen and read a little blue message box with a little orange exclamation symbol and the words, “Battery at 7%”

Shutting her eyes tightly, Madeline inhaled, the cool October mist tickling her throat. She reread her messages quickly and then called her sister.

It rang, and rang, and rang, and then went to voicemail.

“Meggy, answer your phone. Or read your texts. Whatever. I just need your help. Please hurry,”

She ended the call and checked the time.

6:17PM. Thrus. Oct 17. 2018.

Another light changed, and another gaggle of chattering, laughing, suit-wearing strangers crossed a block away. This time Madalin ran, legs pumping and eyes wide and scared, down the street towards them.

And just like before, they were gone by the time she arrived.

Gripping her arms, Madeline peered owl-eyed down the empty, quiet street. It was the same as any other city street – lights and doorways, adverts and notices, street signs and mailboxes.

One mailbox at her feet read, ‘Homecoming!’ and nothing more. Madeline released her bruising grip on her arms and fumbled her phone from her pocket, checking the time, but the screen remained dark and dead.

She bit down hard on her lower lip and stared and stared, as the cold night sept deeper down through her clothes and skin and meat.

Above her the light changed, and Madeline looked up. In front of her the newspaper in the box read; “Mads Mad.”

With a guttural, choked yowl, Madeline kicked the glass of the paper box. She felt the impact up her leg and stumbled back. The glass was cracked a little, and a deep, throbbing pain settled itself in her knee.

Sitting down on a cold bench, Madeline started to sob.

“Real fucking funny,” her voice was jittery and breathy and frantic, “Real ha ha fucking funny.”

On the bench behind her, faded and vandalized, a woman posed in front of a ‘FOR SALE’ sign and smiled and laughed. ‘Forever Homes! Forever Patterage Realities!’

She inhaled, she exhaled. She inhaled. The light changed, and Madeline rose to unsteady feet and limped across the street. There was another woman shilling another product on another large poster in another window of another dark and empty shop.

Some kitschy little slogan offered some kitschy little dream, while that woman with her shit-eating grin laughed and laughed and laughed at her.

Three more lights on three more corners, before Madeline finally left West Henderson…Huntington…Herrington…

“Real fucking funny,” she spat and stalked down 11th for two blocks, the cold settling deep into her joints. The sweater under her light autumn coat was cold with sweat and her feet ached from toe to heel.

11th was as unremarkable as the last eighty streets she’d wondered. Signs and ads and windows and dim lights behind thick blinds. Strangers passed at distant corners and disappeared when Madeline, panting and aching and alone, raced to meet them.

Finally, Madalin stopped, her knee screaming and her feet numb. The light was red, the street was empty, and the beautiful, flawless women in the kitschy, ugly ads smiled their shit smiles and laughed their shit laughs.

There were lights on in the apartments on the second and third stories and Madeline craned her neck and peered in for any sign of light. A shadow moved behind a blind, and Madeline screamed,

“Hey! Hello! Help! Please! Somebody!” and some variation of until her throat croaked, raw and aching. When she finally stopped, she fell, panting, to the frosty, muddy sidewalk. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She simply looked up to the dimly lit windows, tracing them with cloudy, tear-welled eyes, down one side of the street to the next intersection, across the road, passed the waiting cars and chattering, indistinct pedestrians, down the length of the opposite street, until at last resting on the road sign marking the intersection above her.

‘Mads gone Mad’ the sign read.

Mads gone mad.

submitted by /u/MySpookySkeleton [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2MzQhAm