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falsegoodnight · 4 years

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✰ These Lights Are Blinding ✰

Mature | 3.7k

This is the first 4k-ish words of a fic I spontaneously started writing after getting the idea in a dream. This could all be scrapped or changed but I’m currently 7k in so I hope not :)

I shared a link to a google document on twitter for feedback but I thought I’d just share it here for more potential thoughts/feedback too!

(Vale, if you see this, look away!)

Trigger warning: kidnapping, minor violence, presence of guns, minor character death (unknown person), mentions of blood, etcetera

(I don’t think it’s scary at all but people have said so, so… beware?)

Louis mewls, head knocking back against the cool surface of the tiled walls with a clang. He doesn’t notice, not when Harry Styles is sucking unforgiving kisses down the length of his throat, licking up his pulse almost animalistically.

The hard thumping of the bass reverberates through the wall behind him and sinks into his back, muted sounds of laughing and screaming slipping through and curling into his ears. Louis doesn’t pay any of it any attention.

He lets out a small whine when Harry bites down on his collarbone before making his way back up to Louis’ parted lips, immediately sucking the bottom one into his mouth. Their lips slide together like a symphony, slow and methodical but still passionate and all-encompassing.

Harry is unrelenting, large hands bracing Louis up against the wall, fingers rubbing circles into the skin of his thighs almost possessively. He’s got Louis caged up against the tiles, broad figure covering Louis’ own and hiding him from view if any unsuspecting persons were to enter the bathroom within the next few minutes-

Or half an hour.

Because that’s how long they spend snogging in the bathrooms like they’re bloody teenagers- not that he particularly minds. Louis’ fingers roam over the expanse of Harry’s torso, brushing over the exposed triangle of skin on Harry’s chest where his sleek black button-up has been undone.

Harry hands’ slide around to cup his arse, squeezing and kneading at the flesh unabashedly. He’s all-consuming and intense as he slowly takes Louis apart.

He moans into Harry’s lips, yelping when the bastard bites down hard enough to taste blood. The sting sends a thrill through his veins. God, he’s been wanting this for six months but none of his fantasies can compare to the feeling of Harry’s hands on him, confident and greedy and reverent all at once.

Harry started working at the firm last November and Louis was instantly smitten by his dashing looks and endless charm. However, the true attraction grew as he realized how clever and intelligent and kind he was. How genuine and confident, but still humble and self-aware he is all the time.

It didn’t take long for him to develop a crush, pining after the attorney from afar while doing his own duties as a swamped paralegal in a small firm. Harry and him didn’t talk that often but when they did, they talked for ages, known to have long discussions in the break room where Louis’ tea had long gone cold yet he still clasped it to his chest shyly or endless banter and back-and-forths filled with wit and snarky jabs while in the company of other people until Niall jeers at them to, “Get a room!”

There was this profound connection between them from the very first day, a pulsing link that pulled them together in every room, almost alive.

And Louis has been yearning for it. Months and months of build-up, of chemistry and sexual tension, have led to this moment.

They’re at some club celebrating the victory of one of the biggest cases their local firm has ever seen. Harry had headed the case along with fellow attorney Liam Payne. They’ve been working on it for about three months now but the verdict came in yesterday.

They won.

And now the entire branch is out revelling in it. This sort of win can attract a lot of new customers, has the ability to put them on the map.

Louis may just be a paralegal, but his pride and happiness is monumental.

He showed up an hour before, letting Niall sling an arm around his shoulders and drag him into doing shots with the rest of the troupe. Then Louis weaved his way onto the dance floor, swaying and moving to the beat in his sweat-slick blouse and skintight jeans.

And then he saw Harry.

He had looked like an otherworldly being when Louis first spotted him in the crowd, people parting as he made his way to Louis with a steely look on his face and dressed impeccably in a black button-up and black jeans.

They drifted towards each other like twin magnets, Harry’s hands locking in around his waist and Louis’ fingers digging into his biceps.

Needless to say, they were stumbling into the bathroom within minutes.

Louis whimpers as Harry rubs one of his nipples through the material of his flimsy sheer top and leans down to mouth over it right after, soothing the sting. They came in here for a quickie but they haven’t quite gotten there yet, each other getting too distracted by the other’s lips and body.

Not that Louis is complaining.

Harry kisses his way back up to Louis’ lips yet again, shoving him further up against the wall. Louis’ spine straightens against the hard surface, body quivering from desperation and arousal. Harry’s so fucking strong, god.

He digs his fingers into Harry’s styled hair, undoubtedly messing it up. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, letting out a low groan before biting down hard on Louis’ bottom lip.

Harry bites his earlobe next, breath fanning across the sensitive skin of his neck. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

Louis shivers. “What?” he breathes.

He can feel Harry’s smirk before he speaks, “Take you out to dinner.”

Louis shudders, head slumping back against the wall with a small thud. “Is that a threat?”

“S’a promise, baby,” Harry murmurs, pressing a sweet kiss to his pulse. The tender action is a stark contrast from the frantic desperation of the past half an hour. Louis is still not complaining. “I don’t want the first time I have you be in a public restroom for a club quickie,” he continues, teeth grazing Louis’ throat teasingly. “You deserve better than that.”

“What if I want it?” Louis breathes, slowly grinding his hips down and forward, savoring Harry’s replying hiss of pleasure, hips bucking to meet Louis’. “What if I need it?”

Harry’s eyes are dark when Louis blinks coyly at him. He wore his best mascara tonight so he knows his eyes look sexy as fuck. Harry leans in close, lips brushing his torturously light. “If you need it, sweetheart, then who am I to-”

A loud thump has them both going rigid in place, spinning to face the now open door where Liam Payne is staring at them in horror.

“Oh, fuck, I didn’t need to see this,” Liam exclaims, slapping a hand over his eyes dramatically. “Harry, the boss wants to speak to us… Like now.”

Harry groans, head dropping to Louis’ shoulder.

Louis grins despite himself, patting Harry’s head softly. “S’okay, Styles. You can still take me to dinner.”

Harry chuckles into his shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss there before gently setting Louis down. He grips Louis by the chin and kisses him firmly on the lips again. It was innocent but Louis is still left breathless and wanting.

Damn Liam and damn Saunders.

“Now,” Liam repeats, still covering his face.

Louis huffs. “We’re decent, Payne.”

Liam slowly peeks out over his fingers, looking skeptical. When he sees them standing over a foot apart, he lowers them fully, frowning. “Excuse me for being cautious,” he sniffs, before turning to Harry and gesturing to the door impatiently.

Harry grabs Louis’ hand and presses a lingering kiss to the back of it, whispering, “See you later, Lou.” Then he leaves with one last heated glance over his shoulder.

Louis stands there for another three minutes waiting for his heart to calm down, skin tingling with the ghost of Harry’s lips.

Then he goes and gets a drink.

It’s about an hour later when Louis starts getting restless. Harry and Liam aren’t back yet so Louis has been hanging out with Niall and Liam’s boyfriend, Zayn.

Zayn is an art therapist and he and Louis met over a year ago, introduced by Liam. They’ve become good friends over the course of firm events, parties, and other occasions. However, today Zayn is not his usual, sharp self. He’s feeling under the weather, skin gaunt and eyes lined with dark bags.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t take you home?” Louis asks for the dozenth time, rubbing soothing circles into the man’s shoulder. “You need rest, babe.”

“I’ll be fine,” Zayn insists, but his strained frown says otherwise. “Besides, you shouldn’t leave. You’ve been waiting for this to happen for months.”

Louis blushes, mind wandering back to Harry’s arms around him, Harry’s hands on him, the potential of Harry’s cock in him… He shakes it off, slipping on a determined expression. “That’s probably not even going to happen tonight. But what will happen if I don’t take you home is that you’ll get sick and be miserable.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” Zayn protests, looking ruffled but still miserable.

“No offense, Z, but you look like you’re going to fall over if you try to walk by yourself,” Louis says gently. “Let me help you, m’kay?”

Zayn sighs. “You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

“I’m not above following you home either,” Louis jokes, shrugging casually. He squeezes Zayn’s shoulder, smiling when Zayn rolls his eyes and nods, giving in. “Okay, let’s go!”

“Let me text Liam,” Zayn says quickly right as Louis stands up. “You should tell Harry too.”

“You’re right,” Louis says, pulling out his phone.

He indulges his desire to wallow for a minute, frowning as he types out: zayn’s sick and I’m taking him home. raincheck? :(

Surprisingly, Harry replies immediately.

I guess it’s a good thing. Saunders is having us work out some final details for the case report. It’ll take another hour or so.

poor harry :o

>:(

dinner Sunday night? I’ll pick you up :))

sounds decent :))

He’s smiling giddily at his phone, excited with the promise of a date tomorrow night. He knows he’s blushing too but he can’t help it. Harry just makes him feel so many things. God, he can’t wait.

A final text from Harry sends right then: Text me when you get home safe xx

okay, will do xx

Zayn clears his throat and Louis startles, lips parting in surprise. Zayn sends him a knowing look and Louis elbows him, face burning. “Fuck off,” he mutters. “You and Liam are practically married.”

“If he ever proposes,” Zayn says sadly, looking woeful.

“He will! He’s just slow sometimes,” Louis insists, smirking.

Zayn elbows him back.

Liam drove Zayn to the club and Louis took the Tube so that’s the plan they settle on for getting to Zayn and Liam’s flat, catching the first one at the station and plopping down on the metal seats next to each other. Zayn’s flat is about five stops away but Louis doesn’t plan on keeping track of it- that’s always Zayn’s job.

Their knees knock together as they lean in to whisper to each other, Zayn interrogating him for more information on what happened earlier that night.

He cackles when Louis gets to the part about Liam walking in on Louis and Harry. “I guess it’s only karma,” he muses. “Since Harry’s walked in on me and Liam-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Louis interrupts, sticking his tongue out childishly.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “No need to act all innocent when you were that close to letting Harry fuck you against the bathroom wall… while the door was unlocked.”

“Shut up,” Louis hisses, face burning when the woman next to him shoots him a reproachful look. “You’re supposed to be miserable right now, not making me miserable.”

Zayn coughs exaggeratedly, feigning a look of pain and adding a shuddery sigh for extra dramatics.

“I hate you,” Louis states flatly.

“You’re just moody because Harry didn’t-”

Louis pokes Zayn in the ribs, affronted. Zayn pokes him back, eliciting a breathy yelp. Their almost-tickle fight is cut off as the train comes to an abrupt halt. Louis furrows his eyebrows, glancing out the windows to see the familiar glaring white of the tunnel. They’re not at the next stop yet which means they’ve stopped for another reason.

“Are you fucking serious?” a man asks across the car.

They wait a few seconds but the train stays in place. Technical difficulties, he figures, groaning. “Really, Universe?” he whispers, disgruntled. He wants to go home and bundle up in blankets and replay the events of the bathroom over and over until he’s blushing and itching to go plan out his outfit for their date tomorrow night. But yet again, his plans are interrupted.

Instead of the usual intercom explanation where the driver would offer an estimated wait time for whatever happened to be fixed, the speakers stay completely silent. Nothing but the soft breathing of Zayn and the random woman on his left to cut through the ominous atmosphere. A prickle runs down Louis’ spine and he shivers. It feels almost… eerie.

As if sensing his discomfort, the lights switch off suddenly. Louis sucks in a breath, waiting. They don’t come back on. The prickling feeling grows, spreading down his limbs to his quivering fingers.

Next to him, Zayn’s hand fumbles for his, squeezing. Louis squeezes back, unnerved.

“Why isn’t there an announcement?” someone asks a bit further ahead.

Louis shudders again, tugging the sleeves of his jacket further over his pale fingers. It feels like all the heat in the air has been zapped out, a frosty chill settling over the train car.

A sudden loud thud has them all stilling in their seats. Louis exhales jaggedly, squeezing Zayn’s hand again. What the fuck is happening?

“There’s no service,” someone says. That’s less surprising- plenty of tunnels in London have spotty or nonexistent service, and yet now it feels almost threatening. “Wait, what the fuck? Now it’s dead? I just charged it!”

A litany of alarmed cries and words erupt after that realization. Louis bites his lip as he pulls his phone out of his pocket only to see that his too is dead.

The curling sense of dread in his stomach is ever growing, licking up his insides and clawing up his throat until it feels dry and useless.

“What’s happening?” Zayn asks, sounding panicked.

“It’s going to be okay,” someone else says, but there’s uncertainty laced in her words.

Louis has taken the Tube almost every day for the past five years, relying on it to get him everywhere since he doesn’t have a car and hates driving. Never once has anything like this ever happened. His heart is pounding in fear and apprehension.

And then, the lights flicker back on.

Standing in the middle of the car are three masked figures, dressed in all black and carrying guns.

A collective gasp rings through the silent car and bile rises in Louis’ throat, heart thumping against his chest excruciatingly. Holy fuck…

They stand there silently, looming and intimidating and blocking the main entrance. Their masks are almost Opera style, embellished with lace filigree and decals, covering the entire face. Even the eyeholes are covered with crimson gauzy fabric, looking stark and morbid.

How did they get in here? Louis wonders, feeling sick. He feels even more sick when he realizes he might not make it home tonight.

The middle stranger steps forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have been picked for a once in a lifetime opportunity.” His voice is low and threatening, mechanical, as if he’s using a voice modifier.

The doors slide open behind him and another three figures step into the car, appearing out of thin air. Louis bites back the urge to cry, especially when his eyes latch onto the rope and cloths grasped in their gloved hands.

The first woman to be grabbed screams. Loud and thrashing as they subdue her, pinning her wrists and tying them together with the thick rope. She’s gagged and blindfolded, shoved outside of the cart and against the wall, less than a meter from the train car.

“If any of you choose to not cooperate,” says the same masked man from before, “Well…” He points his gun to the ceiling and shoots, crumbling pieces of laminate raining down to the chorus of a dozen cries.

Louis is frozen in place, hand rigid in Zayn’s.

The strangers work efficiently and quickly, spreading out to apprehend as many people as possible. Louis suppresses a sob when Zayn is ripped away from him. No one seems to resist, all stunned and scared into submission. Most of the people here are young- college students dressed like they were out partying and having a blast. Their faces are now ashen, lips wobbling and shrinking into their miniskirts and tight jeans.

Louis realizes with poignant relief that there are no kids in this car, and then suddenly he’s grabbed too. His lips part on a silent scream as his hands are wrenched behind his back and tied, rope scraping against his bare wrists painfully.

A gag is shoved into his mouth and he chokes, eyes blinking with an onset of tears right as the blindfold is fastened over them rendering him blind. He’s stuck.

A rough hand is placed between his shoulder blades, shoving him forward. With his sight taken away, his other senses have heightened.

He stumbles, tripping over an abandoned shoe or handbag or anything, before he’s flailing in the open air as he falls forward. They pushed him out of the train car. His breathing hitches, body locking in anticipation of meeting death only to crash into the hard wall.

He lets out a choked groan, nose throbbing from where it knocked into the wall. If it’s not broken, it’s definitely bruised. The thick heat of blood trickles over his gag, staining his lips. His heart thrashes against his ribs. He’s definitely trembling now.

Another rough hand shoves him forward and he stumbles, almost bumping into another person. Another prisoner, he realizes. They’re being forced to walk sideways to fit in the small space between the train and the tunnel wall.

The person next to him whimpers, the sound muted and strangled.

Louis breathes harshly, neck craning back as if it’d help him escape the onslaught of sweat, dirt, and the earthy engine odor that’s a common smell for the Tube but now just feels nauseating.

I’m going to die, Louis thinks hysterically. He’s being kidnapped, bound and gagged like a prisoner. He’s never going to sleep in his bed again. Never going to law school, never going to be a lawyer, never going to get married or have kids or grow old.

They walk for what seems like miles, feet stumbling to the right almost subconsciously. At one point, Louis hears a distinct crash and a strangled roar of anger, before it’s drowned out by a deafening gunshot.

It rings through the open tunnel warningly. Louis swallows another wave of bile.

Someone has died and he’ll never know who it was. One of the uni girls and boys? The elderly man reading the newspaper and looking exhausted. One of the agitated looking businessmen undoubtedly on their way home, maybe to a wife or husband and kids?

He chokes out a sob, devastated and disgusted.

For a while it seems like they’ll never make it out of the tunnel, will be staggering deeper into the darkness for eternity. But then a loud screech of, “Stop!” cuts through the air, cold and sinister. Everyone freezes.

A few minutes later, Louis is hoisted up and over something, right foot hitting something solid and throbbing with pain.

He’s shoved up into a mass of people, all whimpering or crying softly into their gags. He still can’t see a thing, vision completely dark. Once again, they’re herded forward like cattle and then to the right and forward and to the left and forward and forward and forward.

Louis is feeling dizzy with exhaustion by the time he’s finally yanked into some sort of vehicle. Probably a truck or something considering the amount of people crammed in there with him. The telltale sound of tires screeching is alarming and profound.

They’re leaving. Kidnapped, taken, trapped. Like something out of a movie except it’s frighteningly real.

And no one is coming to rescue them, Louis thinks deliriously. They couldn’t call for help and Louis doubts the driver had time to radio in an emergency before he was probably shot and killed.

No one is coming… At least not yet, but by the time they do, it’ll be too late. He thinks faintly of his mum, his sisters, Niall, Liam, Harry… He’s never going to see any of them again.

God, he doesn’t even know if he’ll get to see Zayn again before they’re slaughtered or sacrificed or whatever the fuck is going to happen to them. This isn’t anything Louis has been expected to prepare for. This is something out of a horror movie…or a thriller novel where the main characters either die or survive by the skin of their teeth.

But Louis is not a protagonist of an action novel. He has no skills for this sort of thing, overwhelmed by his terror and weaknesses.

He’s going to die alone and unknown.

Despite his depressing thoughts, he dozes in and out of fitful sleep for the next few fours. They’re definitely not in London anymore by the time the truck finally stops.

Louis prepares himself for the inevitable rough handling but still winces when he’s hoisted out of the truck and onto the floor, stumbling forward and almost slamming into another prisoner. His shoulder smarts, stinging distractedly as he’s pushed into another line. It’s a mess of thumps and thuds and gasps and whimpers and muffled cries.

It feels like he’s standing on hot asphalt, a putrid chemical and metal odor burning his nostrils as he inhales deeply, throat dry and scratchy. They seem like they’re outside and yet it’s much too humid and hot for London’s typical May weather. A timid breeze brushes over his sweating face, cold against the dried blood on his nose.

A loud, hoarse voice breaks through the chaos, threatening and foreboding. Louis’ blood runs cold at the sinister tone which seems to come from everywhere at once. “Welcome to the Masquerade.”

*coming soon to falsegoodnight

#drabbles #wips #snippet #cult fic #thoughts???#👀#scheduled

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rusticrevivals · 8 years

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Last week you read about life off The farm called "Blue Bell - don" This week's a silly story, 'bout Winter HERE, and who has come... For many neighbours in this valley Pop by for words of praise Or blessings of encouragement To get us through cold days. ************************************* Last June, our Smitty, "RESCUE DOG", Took a hunk of Eileen's arm (Eileen lives just up the hill On the neighb'ring Danish farm). But since then, Eileen's persisted In attempts to "Buddy Up" With our Labrador/Rottweiler cross, So abused as a young pup. Quite early on many a winter's morn And when my bare ass hangs off our bed, Eileen and Thunder, her fat old pooch Pass right by my window ledge! And traverse to our side porch Purpose : "Can Smitty come and play?" And in pajamas, Richard porch-leans And thus in bright sunshine will stay And visit while the dogs scoot 'round And Smitty gives Eileen a slurp To say he's ever so sorry - Then jogs off with a belch and a burp!

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But Thunder doesn't like 'being used' As a distraction or a foil For his mistress, to make another friend... It rather makes his old blood boil!

So off he totters back up hill And Eileen must quickly trot She once more passes the big window But this time I'm 'out of cot' ! For the less one sees of my repose With menopausal flashes The happier one will usually be- NOT to see protruding asses! Speaking of 'behind' the times Every Thursday Mom enjoys Offering, like in days of old, Piano lessons to teen boys Who want creative outlet In this remote mountain vale And often in the kitchen Our entertaining will prevail As one mother we'll call Fairlight Who's a hermit quite like me But feels her son should benefit: He plays; she has a cup of tea! On Sundays, it's off to St. Peter's For miles you can see the steeple As it sits up there on Clockedahl Hill And beckons all Danish people. This year, its special hundredth Is a time we will rejoice And celebrate its history With song in much-raised voice We appreciate its craftsmanship And the beauty of its wood We enjoy the parish folk so much -- They're welcoming, warm and good.

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A neighbouring town is Plaster Rock And is famous for two sites The place where massive ferns will grow... (Read of this in my future writes), And the world site of Pond Hockey Where every Febr'ary cold Hundreds of teams from 'round the globe Play on the small lake of old. In fact, it too celebrates this week It's in its one hundred-FIFTIETH year! Since 1867, teams have skated On that ice so sheer. Teams named with silly humour Like "Pond Scum" and "Timber Twats" Or, one of our favourite names: "The Raggedy-ass River Rats" ! There are teams of men, but ladies too And they're all TOUGH, outside the tent Where beer is poured quite freely At this world-renown event. How often in the winter Do you see an outdoor sport Where the loos are placed in snowdrifts And the players roughly cavort RIGHT beside Joe Public Which is why the nets are tiny (Though Richard had a puck zip by And he fell right on his hiney!)

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Meetings in small communities In the rural countryside Are another way of getting involved And taking some local pride. While Richard worked the potato fields Last fall, to feel a part I'm now off to meetings galore Historic, Planning and Horse Club, to start! While Founder's Day celebrations With parade, barbeque and dance Are traditionally planned, I don't see how A tomboy like me could enhance A BEAUTY PAGEANT? of teenage girls Who will dress up and model and pose. All I know is grubbies and sweatshirts NOT lace, and sequins, and hose!

And while a saddle club's more my style I can't seem to find the straight path Everyone argues and thinks they're right (Mostly women, who cat-fight with wrath!)

Saddle Clubbed-to-Death

Pretending we all get along…

So, I'm not sure how long I'll be meeting In these groups where I've tried to fit in But I'll give it a go, for this year at least, Do duties with tongue-in-cheek grin. Another winter-time delight In mountain-country deep (Other than waiting for spring to come By reading oneself to sleep!) Is having neighbours over To play games into the night But this week, we were brought to realize That mere Scrabble evokes a good FIGHT! For many years I've struggled To beat Richard at this game, A few times I've come close But more often, I admit with shame That though I'm a teacher of English He can whump me by a mile And as he's most competitive I don't always end with a smile. Joy bought me a version that SHOULD have helped more But, until this year, it Did NOT bring me to fore:

However, just this winter I've finally learned to beat That man I call my partner Whose NOT happy in defeat! And this weekend we found out That ANOTHER man is faster And of equal strength to Richard's - And THAT man's our meekest pastor!

His wife, like me, got angry, And I understood her scorn As myself, the organist, (and Richard, too!) Began to feel forlorn. That vicar is competitive! Just like ole Rich, he sits And plans so many moves ahead While we just take the hits.

Richard at work trying to beat all…

Despite extra points for authors' names Or a literary phrase (The pastor's wife got "Dante" Which SHOULD have put him in a daze As it was like the devil himself From the famed Inferno came To visit the board and take over at will... -But Pastor STILL won the game!) While all this serious intellect Went on beside our fire Down the hall were bellows and grunts And great yells of "You're a LIAR!" As Balderdash was loudly played And later, "Dirty Marbles". So, we took deep breaths and calmed ourselves To ease the tension of these squabbles. "Everyone to the living room!" I called, for my favourite time Is when drama and hilarity Team with parlour games of rhyme, Or witty word games, acted out. Thus, within this larger group Charades became the favourite Of this New Denmark troupe. But again, like Richard, Vicar sought To beat my team right out (Both from Ontario with German surnames - Could THAT be what this is about?) How could my team of thespians Act out "Titanic", or "Moby Dick" Without pointing to body parts That were embarrassing in front of The Vic? But HE had no compunction About hurling himself to the floor And writhing about with urgency To try and get the top score!

******************************************* Ah, the long days of winter, then Have been thusly passed with ease As long as the dogs don't bite And pastors continue to tease. For whether or not my butt is seen After 9, either day or at night. When Thunder's coerced to go for a walk And Eileen might be in for a sight, And whether or not hot chocolate Isn't drunk as much as the liquor It takes for Peter to do "Titanic" With his nipples, in front of the Vicar, We'll always get through the storms Of this 'time on hold' of all seasons In the hill-billy mountains of N.B. With our Raggy-ass River-Rat Reasons! - J. Ivanel Johnson, 2017

The Vilified Vicar and the Coerced Canine Last week you read about life off The farm called "Blue Bell - don" This week's a silly story, 'bout Winter HERE, and who has come...

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