dunkinbublin · 2 years ago
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Thinking about how nine may be set up to be an antagonist in the next sonic prime episodes
(Happy new year y’all, here’s to another great year for sonic)
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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago
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Nie Huaisang is the cutest thing monsters have ever seen, they can be yao dragons or giant turtles one look at nhs and they want to feed hug or kidnapt him nmj trainning involved recovering his baby brother from every monsters nest around qinge
ao3
“I’m sorry,” Nie Mingjue said, his teeth gritted together and his arms shaking from the strain of holding Baxia up. “He’s mine.”
The massive tiger glared down at him over Baxia’s blade, currently stuck in its teeth, and growled something.
“I know,” Nie Mingjue said. His legs were shaking now, too. “I know, trust me, I know! I’m human, he’s – young, yes, yes, I know. But he’s my little brother! I’m not giving him up!”
The tiger spat out the blade, knocking Nie Mingjue backwards on his ass.
“And when you change your mind?” the tiger demanded. “Will you abandon him then?”
“No!” Nie Mingjue exclaimed. “Never! He’s my brother!”
“Mark your words,” the tiger said ominously. “Or else.”
It turned and stalked off, its tail waving arrogantly in the air, until its towering white form disappeared into the distance.
Nie Mingjue sighed in relief. “Huaisang?” he called, and a small head popped out of the nest the tiger had started building, blinking owlishly at him. “Come on, come to da-ge. It’s time to go home.”
“But Master Tiger said we were going to play…”
“Yes, well, he wanted to play for too long,” Nie Mingjue said. “Only a few centuries, give or take. Let’s go.”
-
It started back when Nie Huaisang was born.
No, more accurately, it started when Nie Mingjue’s father fell in love with someone he probably oughtn’t have, which according to the sect was not a terribly uncommon problem for him to have, and decided to bring home a bride.
Nie Mingjue could still remember the first time he’d seen the Second Madame Nie. They’d all been lined up to greet her, all the sect and close members of the clan in rows according to rank, Nie Mingjue fidgeting in the inside of the house proper in his first tangle with formal clothing outside of the discussion conferences. She had come sweeping in with her head held as high as a princess, seductive and bewitching.
Every movement had been perfect, the eyes of all the men fogging over in lust and the women in admiration – or visa versa, depending on their personal preferences – and a wicked smile had lit up her face when she had stepped across the threshold, officially becoming the sect leader’s wife, and maybe everything would have gone along with whatever plan she’d had back then if she hadn’t next seen him.
“Oh, look at you,” she exclaimed, rushing over to pinch Nie Mingjue’s cheeks between her hands. “What a delectable little morsel you are!”
“Uh,” Nie Mingjue said, staring up at her with big round somewhat-worried eyes.
“You charming little dumpling,” she said. “You adorable mouthful of meat! Spoonful of egg yolk!”
Nie Mingjue cast his eyes around to see if anyone would be willing to help him.
“My eldest son,” Nie Mingjue’s father said, not without pride – albeit perhaps a puzzled sort of pride. “He’s probably just about old enough to come to the forecourt, if you don’t want him to live with you –”
“Oh no,” she said. “He’s definitely living with me.”
And so she stayed, and Nie Mingjue stayed with her, and she doted on him in a way he found pleasant if mildly disconcerting. Within a year, she was pregnant, and irritated with it; six months after that, she was round and complaining, even though Nie Mingjue solemnly assured her that she was as beautiful as ever.
“This is your fault, you know,” she told him, and he blinked at her. “It is! Don’t get me wrong, your father’s a charming bull when he wants to be, and of course he fucks like a champion stud, but I stayed here for you, my little cabbage roll, my charming chunk of liver.”
She patted her belly.
“That means this here is all because of you. So you’d better take responsibility!”
Nie Mingjue considered the issue for a little. The argument seemed plausible, so he raised his hands and put them on her rounded stomach. “I will take care and watch over him for all my life,” he vowed, and the baby inside kicked his hand in response, sealing the pact.
“Oh you are so cute,” she said, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “My darling pork bun! My little fish cake! I could eat you right up, if only you were just a little bit older!”
When Nie Huaisang was born, she disappeared in a welter of blood, but Nie Mingjue’s oath remained.
The trouble started after that.
-
“You can’t raise a cub like that properly,” the winged lion argued, bating its wings as if that would help it make its point better.
Nie Mingjue glared at him. “Watch me!”
“It’s for your own good, little human. He needs his own kind –”
“I’m not listening to a treasure-seeker!”
The lion scowled at him. “I’ll have you know that most humans think I’m good luck!”
“You’re not trying to steal most humans’ little brothers, are you?!”
The winged lion sighed, a deep sound, so very noble and long-suffering that Nie Mingjue couldn’t resist the urge to lift his foot and kick the lion right in the paw.
“Brat!”
“Don’t care!” he shouted. “You leave my brother alone! He’s my responsibility, not yours! Piss off!”
“You can’t even feed him properly -”
“I’ll figure it out!” Nie Mingjue bared his teeth and wished he was old enough for a saber.
“You little…fine. Fine! I’ll bring you a book on how to feed a huli jing kit, and you keep to it, you hear me?”
“I will,” Nie Mingjue said. “But don’t you even think of taking him away!”
“On your own head be it,” the winged lion grumbled. “Not everyone’s as understanding as me.”
-
“Why are you wet?” Nie Mingjue’s father asked him.
“Water monkeys,” Nie Mingjue said shortly. “There was a nest.”
“Water monkeys? Don’t they normally stay away from people…? Or, I suppose, were these ones feral?”
“Thieves.”
“Ah. Well, nothing to be done about it, I suppose…bad luck for you to run into them here, of all places. But good experience! How many people your age can say that they fought water monkeys?”
“Can we go home?” Nie Mingjue asked, a little plaintively, and rubbed his nose. “How much can you really have to say to the Jiang sect, anyway?”
His father chuckled. “More than either of us would like, unfortunately. But if you’ve had enough of water, which no one can blame you for, maybe you and Huaisang can go shopping in the pier instead?”
That would work, Nie Mingjue thought, and nodded happily.
(Sect Leader Jiang was extremely embarrassed about the ghostly rats in the night-market – he claimed they’d never seen neither nose nor tail of them before the Nie brothers had accidentally tripped over their trap and had to flee from the swarm...)
-
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nie-er-gongzi,” the white-clad cultivator from the mountain said, smiling broadly and saluting deeply.
Xiao Xingchen had made himself famous during his first half-dozen night-hunts alone for his extraordinary grace, bearing and strength, and he said he was on a mission to help the world. He was beautiful, virtuous, and matched each ideal of gentlemanly arts.
Sects throughout the cultivation world were drooling at the thought of enticing him to join them, fighting for the opportunity to put in a good word with him.
Not all sects.
Nie Mingjue stepped forward, purposely putting Nie Huaisang behind him.
“Don’t you even think about it,” he said, hand on the hilt of his saber. “Buzz off, birdbrain.”
Xiao Xingchen might wear white, but Nie Mingjue knew a zhuque chick when he saw one.
-
“I found something for my aviary, da-ge!” Nie Huaisang, seven years old and delighted with his clumsy autonomy, announced.
Nie Mingjue, less than a full year into his new role as sect leader, rubbed his eyes. “Oh?” he asked, only somewhat wanting to scream endlessly into the void, which was better than usual. “That’s nice, Huaisang…”
“Come look! It’s so pretty!”
“I’m a bit busy –”
“But da-ge!”
Nie Mingjue sighed and got up, following Nie Huaisang to the door only to come to a complete stop.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he said to the fenghuang currently pretending to be a rooster in a cage, as if anyone would actually mistake phoenix flames for regular feathers. “Do you have no dignity left?!”
-
“You can’t adopt the bashe,” Nie Mingjue said to Nie Huaisang, who pouted. “It eats elephants; we’d be broke within three months.”
He turned to the giant python.
“You can’t adopt Huaisang,” he said. “I will literally murder you.”
-
“Why can’t I go watch the eclipse?” Nie Huaisang complained. “Everyone else is going!”
“I’m not risking a tiangou.”
“The…dog that eats the sun? Really, da-ge, is that even real?”
“You know what,” Nie Mingjue said, “you’re grounded just for saying that.”
Nie Huaisang grinned.
-
“Maybe I want to go and live among the qilin!” Nie Huaisang screamed, fourteen and hormonal about it.
“Well you don’t get a choice!” Nie Mingjue bellowed back.
“You’re not my father! I don’t have to listen to what you say!”
“I’m your fucking sect leader and yes you do!”
“I hate you!”
“I don’t care if you hate me! You still aren’t going to go live in a field with some magic pointy deer and that’s final!”
The qilin herd wisely chose to withdraw.
-
“Da-ge,” Jin Guangyao hissed, and Nie Mingjue looked up from his work at him – he hadn’t heard Meng Yao this upset since he’d shoved him into a closet to get him out of way during the whole dangkang boar hunt debacle. “Da-ge, there’s a dragon outside.”
“Again?” Nie Mingjue said, standing up to stretch and feeling oddly unbalanced. They’d just finished another session with the song of Clarity, so he really shouldn’t be feeling like this; he would need to write to Lan Xichen again about his fears that the treatment really wasn’t working. Lan Xichen would probably only say to give it more time, another chance, but still… “Let me go talk to them. Dragons are the worst.”
“No, da-ge, you don’t understand,” Jin Guangyao said. “It’s not a water-serpent or – or even a jiaolong – it’s a dragon.”
“A flood-dragon is a type of dragon,” Nie Mingjue said, following Jin Guangyao outside. “You know that, it’s in the name, what’s the big – oh, I see. It’s a celestial dragon.”
Jin Guangyao glared at him with an expression suggesting that he was under-reacting, but Nie Mingjue really didn’t have the capacity in him to reach with appropriate fervor at the moment. He and Nie Huaisang had been fighting a lot recently, every little thing escalating into a giant argument, and he was no longer sure if he was doing the right thing in trying to force Nie Huaisang onto the path of his ancestors. After all, unlike Nie Mingjue, Nie Huaisang had – somewhat different ancestors, on his maternal side.
And, he supposed, Nie Huaisang was old enough to decide otherwise, if he truly wished…
Still, Nie Mingjue was as stubborn as a mule and had no intention of giving up his baby brother without a fight, so he braced himself and went over to the frankly massive creature draped over the entrance gateway and much of the training yard that the entirety of the Nie sect was doing its utmost best to pretend that they weren’t seeing.
Nie Huaisang was sitting on the thing’s five claws – an imperial celestial dragon, apparently – because of course he was.
“Excuse me,” Nie Mingjue called up to the dragon, which turned its head to regard him, an entire production that took nearly a quarter ké to accomplish. “The brat there is mine, please return him.”
“Da-ge!” Jin Guangyao hissed again, but Nie Mingjue waved him away.
“You have raised him well,” the dragon said, which was…a good deal nicer than most of these interactions usually went.
“…thanks?” Nie Mingjue said suspiciously, ignoring Jin Guangyao’s splutters of “It talks?!” “I think?”
“I have chosen to grant you a boon,” the dragon announced.
“…right,” Nie Mingjue said. “If this ‘boon’ is that you’ll take him off my hands, I’m afraid I’m going to have to refuse. He may be trouble, but he’s still my brother.”
“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed, indignant. “Don’t be rude. I asked him for this!”
Nie Mingjue frowned at him, unable to resist the feeling of hurt even though he’d already told himself to expect something like this. “…you want to leave?”
“No, da-ge, don’t be ridiculous. I asked him to improve your health!”
Ah.
“Huaisang –” he started to say.
“Don’t you ‘Huaisang’ me!” his little brother shouted. “I know you’re trying to hide it, but it’s getting worse, isn’t it? San-ge told me so! He said I should get ready!”
Nie Mingjue made a mental note to strangle Jin Guangyao, who had no right to say something like that to Nie Huaisang even if maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to emotionally prepare Nie Huaisang for the upcoming bereavement and inheritance he would need to face.
“Anyway, he said to get ready, so I did!”
“You can’t just ask a divine dragon to fix me, Huaisang. That’s not how this works.”
“Uh, it totally does, and I did, and he agreed. So there!”
Nie Mingjue crossed his arms and glared. “And what did he want in return?”
“The boon is a reward for your past merit, not a trade for the deeds of the future,” the dragon said, not even slightly hiding how its whiskers were shaking with suppressed laughter. “You have travelled a difficult road, and borne the weight of it well. And besides…”
“Besides?”
“If you were to die, he would undoubtedly petition the creatures of the underworld to return you.”
“Well, fuck,” Nie Mingjue said, having not considered that. “Fine. Whatever. Heal me and I’ll try to keep an eye on my health going forward.”
Maybe more Clarity? He could try to free up his schedule, get in a few more sessions…
“I just give up,” Jin Guangyao said behind him. “I just fucking give up.”
Nie Mingjue, assuming that he was talking about Nie Huaisang’s nonsense, agreed whole-heartedly.
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cosmik-homo · 4 years ago
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Thought Numero Uno: We've been here before. You know my stance on Alfred liking cooking, and on food as both a love language of caring for his family and loved ones, and an act of engagement in cultural heritage (that he needs so much). You've heard me talk about Haplo sitting in the kitchen looking at him cook, and Alfred asking him to taste test his latest attempt at a half remembered recipe he used to love, and kisses that taste of cherry sauce. You know my basic agenda.
Thought Numero Dos: Marit and Haplo hunting together in their youthful relationship, finding opportunities to brush hands through the different steps of skinning and cooking, cherishing the company and the simple connection of working together and completing each other's thoughts. Them doing the same post canon gardening, sharing quips over planting holes, leaving dirt smudges on each other's faces as they can't resist small kisses, cuz they're so happy to be together and at peace, with a home and a family to care for...
Thought Numero Tres: Maybe Alfred has been so easy to faint all this while for a reason. Marit sits down next to him in a squatter camp, holding two bowls of some stew or another. "A slice of bread is not a meal," she states, and he puts down his book and thankingly takes her offering. Their mealtime chat in the edges of firelight might be quite awkward, but the care it signifies is greatly appreciated.
Thought numero Cuatro: A small figure calls down the road to where Haplo, Marit and Vasu are discussing some aspects of resettlement: "Gran'pa says dinner is served in twenty minutes exactly, and he'd much rather you bring the headsman along then let it cool again!". Or, Haplo knocks lightly on the half open door to Alfred's study. "Have you eaten today at all?" Alfred looks around from his books for the first time in a few hours, realizing how far his candle sherinked, and Haplo sighs and nods his head, half imitating Alfred's notorious Tounge Clickings Of Caring Disapproval. Kids sent with packages and notes to working parents or training siblings.
Thought Numero Cinco: ok listen I wrote a ficlet,,, on accident,, slice of life post-canon fluff, I guess? IDK how long it is (mobile) but I'm putting it under a cut anyways.
I think it starts, If I may so kindly project (but also LOOK it's expected from canon ok??), With Alfred's motorics interrupting his comfort-cooking-day plans. Something spills or burns or falls apart or cuts his finger or just escapes his grasp or just has plain ridiculous expectations that make him angrily mutter about reading ahead before he starts, or letting all yolk-seperation techniques burn in a fiery pit of doom. Whatever it is, it catches Haplo's attention. "Do you need some help?" The patryn has taken over small cooking operations for him before, when low spoons or long-rough-day breakdowns caught up with him at the wrong moment. Alfred makes a face and clearly prepares a denial, but what comes out is an apologetic "Yeah". "It's nothing much, Really," he sighs, "I just can't get this right". Haplo rolls up his sleeves, smiling reassuringly. "I'm-" "No need to apologize," he reminds, "I'll take over this and you do the next part."
It's a long recipe, and at some point a Rue wanders by. They observe quietly for a bit, and then step over, pointing and asking with that rigid practicality of many of the patryn kids: "Why are you doing that?"
Alfred begins to explain about heat, and pressure, and flavour absorption, and things his mother used to say about this or that. "You see? Now you try, exactly. And once we finish this we just have to coat them," he points, "and then they go inside the sauce Haplo is working on." Rue nods, and asks if they can do another (of course they can). Haplo smiles at Alfred over the child’s head, feeling his pride through their bond.
A bit later Marit comes in, dropping her jacket on a chair.
"What are we doing?"
Alfred explains the dish.
“I don't see any of those," she quips, already standing by Haplo's shoulder to look (and brushing her fingers on the side of his neck).
"That's because I haven't gotten to them yet," replies the sartan, without a bit of defensiveness, and it's clear he's grown used to her tone. "They're on the countertop there. This just needs to be done sooner if I- we, want to have this by dinner."
Marit nods and cleans her hands. "Vertical slices, or diced, or what?" Alfred turns to her with a surprised smile. "Rough dices will do," he says, and his eyes shine with a bright look that makes Marit's own lips twitch for a second, in a burst of a smile, and she starts loudly working her knife. “Haplo, even I don’t take that long to cut herbs. Did you put enough butter?”
"I told you I did, and as a matter of fact I’m practically done here. You’re feeling like head-servant again? " Jokes Haplo, knwing Alfred will know what he means. Alfred chuckles and nods, taking a breath. "A bit, yes. You’re right, of course.” 
“Speaking of orders- would you come beat this for me? My hands do grow tired, and I need to check on that sauce of yours anyways."
Haplo grins and makes way. As Alfred and Rue take over the stovetop buisness, He shuffles his way to Marit’s side in a series of sneaky steps, still dutifully stirring his bowl, even if somewhat slowly. “Hey,” he starts quietly, “How was your meeting?”
“It was fine. Vasu had some idea, but I’ll tell you later. Is he alright?”
“Oh, very, it’s none of that. It just kind of... Happened, I guess.” 
Marit nods seriously, turning and chopping at her board. “That’s good.” she shoots Rue a glance, lost in thought. “Good.”
Haplo smiles, and puts his head on her shoulder. She looks at him for a long moment, smiling, and shuffles closer. They don’t need words. In a moment she places down her knife, he absentmindedly scrawls a rune on the bowl to perserve it as is and places it down. Usually Marit would instinctively judge the wasteful use of magic, but today that voice inside her seems more distant- the idea that life can be different has grown more tangible than ever in this little bubble. The old ways will never go away, but there is no need to think of them when she could be holding Haplo’s arms, kissing him- in the new ways, with time to spare.
Over where he stands, Alfred notices and smiles wordlessly. 
-
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daesungindistress · 4 years ago
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Been awhile since I posted about Chickbang! Here’s the whole gang! It isn’t often that I can catch them together in one photo. This one was taken about two weeks ago, so already they look a little different because yep! They’re still growing. 18 - 20 weeks old. No eggs yet. It could be any day now or we could have months to go. Who will be the first? I suspect Dae or VIP. We’ll see!
Putting the rest behind a cut 🐔
The pecking order in Chickbang is still a little unclear to me, but I think it goes something like this. From top to bottom: GD, Tabi, Bae, VIP, BB, CL, Dae, Gwisun
Fortunately, Dae doesn’t bully Gwisun quite like she used to. Just a quick peck here and there. It sends Gwisun running, sure, but she doesn’t seem too flustered. In fact, Gwisun has really come into her own recently. Where she used to be a wallflower, now she’s quite feisty and runs circles around the rest. Still the smallest of the bunch, but not by much. Here she is having a little skirmish with GD:
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Tabi has become pretty bossy and I think of her as the Head Hen. She’s a bit mean toward Dae, who is consistently last out of the coop each morning, seeming afraid. They do alright while inside the run, but when I let them out in the yard where there’s more space, Tabi likes to chase Dae all over the place. For fun? Maybe she just likes to watch her run. It isn’t very nice of her, but I can’t help laughing... because isn’t that so ToDae? The chasing, I mean.
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And again...
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Can’t stop won’t stop...
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Sneak attack!
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So yeah! Here are some recent pics. First, Tabi, the inquisitive and friendly:
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Dae, who also likes to join me on my chair. But she might just be trying to get away from the others: 
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Little Gwisun looking so stylish now that her crest is filling out! I recently noticed she has little heart shapes on a few of her feathertips:
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CL, who is rather aloof these days:
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VIP looking... very grouchy under those bushy brows. She’s super easy-going though. Hey, look, her feathers have little hearts too!
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Here’s Bae photobombing a shoot I was having with GD. That’s nothing new. She’s always putting herself in front of the camera when I’m on the ground trying take pics...
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As for BB... Had some problems with BB recently. One morning she didn’t come out of the coop with the others -- highly unusual. She wouldn’t move, just sat inside on the roost all day long. When I let them out into the yard that evening, she followed them, but did so slowly. She was lethargic and picking at grass half-heartedly. Kept herself away from the others with eyes closed, and it seemed all she wanted to do was sleep. Definitely not normal, healthy chicken behavior. I was worried I might lose her.
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I looked her over but didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Put her in a dog crate and brought her inside the house to a dark, quiet room where she could be calm and comfortable. Where she could rest and (I hoped) recover. Rather than expend energy keeping up the appearance of being well around the rest of the flock (sick chickens get picked on). Throughout the first day, every time I checked on her she was either asleep or on the verge of it. Here she is falling asleep with her head in her food bowl:
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Burying her head in the towel bedding...
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I offered her various foods that she and the other chickens have devoured before... but she wasn’t interested. Bought a liquid vitamin supplement for poultry and tried giving her that with a dropper. Well, it must have tasted awful because she wasn’t too tired to resist that, and together we made a mess, lol, but I got some of it in her. Finally, I gave her the yolk from a boiled egg -- a good, nutritious food for recovering chickens -- and to my delight, she loved it! She took to it right away, and by the next morning the bowl was empty.
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By the end of her second day inside she was back on her feet and cluck-clucking at me quietly when I entered the room. One time I opened the crate door and she tried to walk right out! That night I let her rejoin the flock, and within a few days she was back to her old self! Never did figure out what was wrong with her, but here, have a gif of her digging in the dirt the day I let her back outside with the others:
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...and enjoying a little dirt bath.
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And then there’s GD. Chickbang’s leader sure has filled out nicely:
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Look how chesty he is! How tall and upright he stands! How proud his posture is!
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“I’m sexy and I know it.”
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He reached sexual maturity about two weeks ago and has been trying his very best to have his wicked way with the ladies... with, uh, limited success. They haven’t reached laying age yet (shouldn’t be long though!) and want nothing to do with him, lol. He has managed to mount them a few times, but for the most part it’s just him harassing them and grabbing at their necks while they squawk and run away.
His little mating dance is pretty funny though. He drops a wing and walks into it sideways, almost like he’s tripping. Weird? Definitely. But whatever works for chickens...
Beautiful though he may be, I’ve finally decided it’s time. Time to find him a new home. The main reason being his half-bald head. Sadly, the feather picking has been an ongoing problem for months, one I’ve been unable to solve. I’ve tried everything short of separating him from the others -- something I just don’t have the heart to do. It would take at least a month for his crest to grow out enough that they might stop picking at it. Putting the pinless peepers (blinders for chickens) on the rest of the flock, which I hated doing btw, bought him three weeks of new growth. For a while I thought I had found a solution. Then, one afternoon, they went wild on him and picked his head smooth again. Well, nearly.
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I’ve given up on trying to regrow his crest. He needs to go somewhere else, to a kinder flock that doesn’t have a history of feather picking. Mine have been doing it to him almost their whole lives. It’s a bad habit I can’t break.
That’s right. GD is being booted out of Chickbang 😔
The other reason is, of course, his constant crowing. It was okay when he only did it a little in the morning and evening, but now he’s LOUD and he crows all day long, every hour of the day, on and on... also any time he hears my voice. Which means I can’t have conversations, not even over the phone, as long as he’s around because he crows incessantly in the background. Not sure what my neighbors think of it, but frankly, it’s getting to me. I keep the chickens close to the house and it’s just not working out. Sorry, bud. You’re gonna need to sing your song elsewhere.
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It will be a bit sad to see him go because, yes, I’m attached to him, and he’s easily the most visually interesting (and entertaining) member of the flock. He probably takes up more space on my camera roll than all the others combined! It’s been a lot of fun watching him grow and mature in appearance and behavior, including his teenage terror phase. Also educational in terms of learning how to tell a male apart from the females.
But it’s just been one thing after another with him... and it was never my intent to keep a rooster anyway. Hoping I can find him a good home where he can have a nice (non-abusive) harem to watch over and for whom he can crow his little heart out as often as he likes, loud and proud.
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40sandfabulousaf · 5 years ago
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It's the weekend, guys, hope you're having a relaxing and enjoyable time! I caught up with B over beers, crispy prawn paste chicken wings, luncheon meat omelette, garlic kailan stirfry and freshly made salted egg yolk fried fish skin, served with rice.
Salted egg yolk sauce/gravy first became popular here a few years ago and good grief, they're SO delicious and addictive whether cooked with crab, chicken, pork ribs or jumbo prawns 🤤 Nowadays, one can buy packs of salted egg yolk fish skin or potato chips from the supermart; having them freshly made is best though!
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Also had a tasty meal with the family. We checked out Hakkon, a healthy food restaurant located at Kinex. I had the salmon mentaiki bowl - salmon sashimi, mentaiki, cherry tomatoes, mashed avocado, cucumbers, seaweed, sea kelp, lettuce and an onsen egg served over rice. It was so yummy!!! 😍
In case you're interested, here's the link to the health benefits of sea kelp, including blood clot reduction, so if you want to try reducing the risk of stroke the natural way, check it out 🙂
Besides eating a variety of nutrient-dense foods (including sea kelp), regular exercise also helps to thin the blood. Whilst they're not surefire ways to prevent chronic illness, it's still helpful to do what we can to take care of ourselves. The same goes for the coronavirus - nothing is 100% guaranteed, but we can still try to keep our resistance levels up by eating well, being active, having adequate rest, as well as getting some sun and fresh air.
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Over our bowl meals, I encouraged my parents, as well as Little Bro and his wifey to take a stroll in the garden at the family home or at nearby parks. Just as we sun our bedding to clear out germs and bacteria, getting a dose of Vitamin D whenever we can is good for us. Plus, it's relaxing to unplug and get away from the hustle and bustle that is daily life. With the current situation, we need this more than ever.
Going strong into February and showing that exercise isn't just about the tired old New Year New You cliché for them are curvy babes such as..........
Anna like I've never seen her! It's lovely sharing what she's been doing again after so long, especially when I hope to include more visibly plus women leading the active life. With that same determined gleam in her eye, this fiery glamazon completed a gruelling circuit. As always, I'm rooting for her as she inspires more curvy women to get strong and even stronger 👊
Also visibly plus and equally impressive is reality star Whitney, going down the traditional heavy lifting and squating route. The good news? Her trainers are inclusive and, in her words, 'ALL bodies are welcome.' So if you're looking for a safe space to workout without the risk of ridicule or humiliation - and everyone deserves this - go take a peek at her post!
Next we have Jolene, using some equipment that I know absolutely nothing about. Told you I don't gym! 😅 She, Anna, Whitney and several other curvy babes know their way around fitness centres and equipment far better than me. You know what? Good for them! If it's an activity which they enjoy, why not?
Finally, me likey likey a good dance so.......
Starting with Chloe's gentle ballet moves. Here, she improvises so that anyone who wishes to practise at home can do so rather than specially set aside precious time to head to the studio for classes - very helpful for everyday women like me who have our plates full.
Think this is just another boring old group full of straight size peeps? Look closer and you'll spot the curvy girl executing those moves with the same fluidity and expertise as the rest. Mixed weight dancing is especially enjoyable to watch because of the message of unity behind each performance.
Now speaking of mixed weight dancing... I can't leave out the epitome of finesse now, can I?
I spy the amazing Amanda LaCount of @amandalacount, upping the flirt-o-meter by another 1,000 volts! ⚡⚡⚡ Smooth as ever, this babe is dancing in Lady Gaga's new Stupid Love video! I just watched that splendid MV on Youtube and wow, the energy is 💥💥💥
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This ol' bird doesn't know what is the current trend that defines 'wellness'. All I know is that it has existed way before social media entered our lives.
During my early formative years, heavy lifting was done by Olympians. Everyday folks took their kids to the park or playground and played games like police-and-thief, hide-and-seek, hopscotch, tiao pi jin (jump rope using a long rope made from rubber bands), got on the swings, slides and seesaws, as well as played sports like badminton, table tennis, cycling, roller skating, canoeing and basketball.
Food-wise, each culture did their own thing. We Chinese had our stirfries, seafood or meat congee with eggs, specialty herbal tonic soups and stews, as well as steamed dishes. We had a slice of cheese or a glass of milk in the morning and before bed. Dessert was fruit served after dinner.
Parents made sure kids did their homework, got adequate play time, some TV or music time, then it was early to bed if we had school the next day.
And that was it. Wellness. None of the fancy shmancy stuff that's so popular on social media, guys. So there's no need for anyone to feel left out; we can all practise varying degrees of it at home without the pressure of following what influencers espouse. It isn't meant to be stressful; otherwise, that defeats the purpose of wellness, doesn't it? 🙂
Till the next post, stay sweet!
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ohnomybreadsticks · 5 years ago
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Prompt fill for my dear friend @minasnorma who asked for “Eli and Clyde having a soft afternoon”
Eli and Clyde are from his wonderful fic Face to Face, and if you haven’t read it already I am all but begging you to treat yourself! It’s a punch to the heart in all the right ways, and I’ll link it in a reblog.
---
Clyde came out of stasis to the sensation of Elijah pressing his face awkwardly into the space between his shoulder and neck. Well, that wasn’t the only point of contact. Really he was being blanketed entirely by the man, his arm flung across Clyde’s chest and his legs tangled close with the android’s. He had a feeling that if he could, Elijah would be lying entirely on top of him, for maximum contact between their bodies. And Clyde couldn’t exactly complain, it felt...peaceful to wake up and be able to feel his boyfriend’s heartbeat thumping against his chassis. Comforting. Especially with the additional sensation of Elijah’s soft breaths huffing into his neck.
The only problem with this situation was that it was not, in fact, a weekend. Instead, it was a Wednesday, which meant that Elijah was sleeping far past the alarm he usually set to get up and get ready for work in a timely manner. Clyde generally let himself stay in stasis for a little bit longer, since he didn’t need to shower or eat breakfast, not to mention he was much faster at ‘waking up’ in the mornings. On this particular morning he had been in a bit deeper of a stasis cycle than usual - trying to purge some persistent anxieties that had been building up over the past few days.
“Elijah, you’re going to be late for work.” Clyde murmured, one arm wrapping loosely around the man’s waist, and the other coming up to gently gather the long hair fanned out around his head. Clyde always enjoyed playing with Elijah’s hair, feeling the strands running through his fingers, and listening to the soft pleased noises that the motions elicited. He loved it almost as much as when his boyfriend ran his fingers through his own raven hair, twisting the locks loosely around clever fingers. When that gentle reminder simply got a muted grunt in return as Elijah tried to wiggle closer, Clyde chuckled in exasperation and tried again.
“Your stakeholders aren’t going to disappear if you’re late, dear. They’ll just move the meeting back.” It was an educated guess, based on how much Elijah complained about how much he hated those stakeholder meetings. And true or not, it did get the man to slightly raise his head, one unruly strand of hair falling over his eyes. “‘M not going to work today. And neither are you.” He mumbled, a lazy smile spreading across what Clyde could see of his face. “Oh really?” Clyde countered, raising one eyebrow, “And why is that?” A quick check of both their schedules confirmed that Elijah had, in fact, cleared them for the day and put in for a day’s worth of leave - all very official and proper. But no less mysterious, especially when the only answer he would give was “Is’ a secret.”
Clyde couldn’t bring himself to worry all that much when Elijah began to press gentle kisses along the column of his neck. And he certainly wasn’t going to complain when the man rolled over and propped up over him so he could cup Clyde’s face in both hands and look down at him with that now-familiar besotted look. Elijah’s hair fell down around them like a curtain, and Clyde was grateful, because it made the soft blue flush across his cheeks less noticeable. Well, not noticeable enough, because Elijah grinned and leaned down to kiss along the blush lines, murmuring ridiculous things about how handsome he looked like this. If his stomach hadn’t let out an annoyed gurgle, Clyde was certain Elijah would have been happy to lay in bed all day and just be close to one another, and well...he couldn’t say he would have complained.
But his human needed food, and Clyde herded them up out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, ignoring Elijah’s whined protests of not needing him to do this and that he was fine, really! Instead, Clyde set them both to work - himself operating the fancy coffee machine he had no idea why Elijah owned, and Elijah making himself toast and eggs. Maybe bacon, if Clyde could find some that wasn’t suspiciously old. As someone who didn’t eat, cooking really didn’t have much appeal for Clyde, but what came after, the sitting and watching Elijah quietly enjoying himself as he gobbled up runny egg yolk and greasy bacon...well, that was alright. Clyde couldn’t help but smile to himself as he watched his boyfriend continue to burn his tongue on coffee he already knew was too hot. It was just oddly charming.
With some food in him, Elijah’s energy levels were up much higher, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he pulled his hair up into a messy bun. “Alright boy, we’re going to decide this once and for all!” He announced, grabbing Clyde’s hand and pulling him towards the living room, “Who is really the best at Mario Kart.” Clyde barely had time to let out an affronted gasp before a controller was being thrust into his hand. He opened his mouth to protest, to say something about it not being too late for Elijah to go to work, or at least do something productive, but the words died on his tongue. There was just no way to resist the excited grin plastered across his boyfriend’s face. Clyde had no option but to puff up his chest and level a determined glare at Elijah, announcing “Game on!”
Soon enough, the mansion was filled with the sound of their excited chatter, neither of them particularly quiet gamers. Occasionally, Elijah would lean over and try to bump Clyde’s arm as they came around a particularly tricky corner, and the android would retaliate by turning and blowing warm air right at the ticklish spot under Elijah’s ear. Both of them were intent on winning but far too distracted by having fun, and pretty soon it didn’t matter that it was 1pm on a Wednesday and they were still in their pajamas. All that mattered was that Clyde couldn’t stop grinning, watching Elijah wiggle excitedly over his little victory.
They lay there on the sofa for a long time after that, the energy of the video game match leaving them both tired and craving a bit of quiet. Elijah ended up leaning with his head on Clyde’s lap, a tablet in one hand as he caught up on technical news for the week. Clyde was more than happy to relish the silence together, internally reviewing case files as his fingers idly braided the hair he could reach on Elijah’s head. By the time the sun set and the lights in the mansion turned on automatically, both of them were startled by how much time had passed. It was pleasant, really, to be able to sit with someone and not worry about having to fill the silence. Instead, all they had to discuss afterwards was how dashing Elijah looked with his new hairstyle. He laughed and promised that next time he would return the favor for Clyde.
With lunch a distant road sign they had both ignored, Clyde managed to wheedle Elijah into ordering takeout and actually eating dinner. Besides, pizza and a movie was a classic human evening activity, or so he had heard. Elijah laughed at that, admitting “Alright, you got me. I suppose I’m responsible for educating you on human traditions, after all.” The little wink was adorable, and Clyde basked in the glow of it just the same as the satisfaction of taking care of his human. Besides, pizza and a movie turned out to be wonderful. It was just another excuse to cuddle up on the sofa, Clyde taking the initiative this time to tuck his head onto Elijah’s shoulder as they watched some sort of drama unfolding on the television.
Really, Clyde couldn’t care less about the film. More interesting to him was watching the slow tick of Elijah’s heartbeat as he dozed off in a post-pizza food coma. Clyde didn’t blame him, really. Today had been...well, it had been wonderful, and a slow drift off into sleep seemed like the perfect ending. Unable to help himself, he murmured, “What was the secret, dear? The reason we stayed home today?” Clyde could only imagine it was something to do with work, maybe a new release Elijah had wanted to surprise him with. Instead, Elijah simply smiled and cracked open one eye to look down at him, replying “Just wanted to spend the day with you. Without you worrying about it.” His voice was low and soft, and sleep was slurring the edges of his consonant sounds, but there was genuine warmth in what he had to say. 
Clyde felt as though his thirium pump regulator may burst out of his chest from dealing with the swell of positive emotions that flowed through him at the realization - Elijah had noticed how stressed he was lately, and had quietly and carefully done his best to cheer him up. He swallowed hard, willing himself not to cry and ruin the moment. Clyde’s hand found Elijah’s and twined their fingers together, giving it a soft squeeze as he murmured “Well...I won’t keep how much I loved our day together a secret.” The answering spike in Elijah’s heart rate was all the answer he needed to know his boyfriend understood what he really meant. They fell asleep like that, the soft pulse of I love you traveling between their palms.
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mmjjbbaannkkss · 5 years ago
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2019 August 12-18 Resistance and Growth
"Get to a point where thoughts are like thieves coming in an empty house...there's nothing to take" - Sam Harris
UPDATE
Phone died Thursday. Will be back Mon or Thu. AC too arid, had to open windows. Off days I’m going to carb cycle the dumb keto, between carbs and aminos one day, and bacon the next, making sure the carbs+aminos are the day before going back as a zero-fat cleanse day, maybe a wheatgrass smoothie, prolly not. Ice pack on my eyes, excellent idea. 
About to post this, @225lbs, that’s at least 10lbs down in 1 week, cardio has been uphill 5min, flat 5min, but go easy on yourself, 1min/1min, I was made for hiking 1hr at a time, know your ability. Also that’s from 10 days of (30min cardio, long sessions, +30min cardio again) and I’m taking a week off right now. Eating natural antihistamines and resetting. Resuming Thursday, but’ll post Sunday something rando. 
NOTES/TIPS
Supermarket parking lot, a black guy the size of a Chicago bear, he’s having a conversation with his wife and cart-bound toddler, and every few words he says ‘hey a white guy’ like 3-4 times, like I’m in the wild --- it still snows, the sun also sets --- some recover easily from high volume, to work quick between melts, or hike before snow -- lineages differ, if forced to do low rep PRs every day, the stress and the hypertrophy would tear at my tendons; 
Not a decathlon, maintenance, it depends on how you do conditioning >> if you’re in a cut, carbs have to be maintenance and very regular, like feeding a dog, same times every day, if you’re in a bulk the training sessions have to be scheduled too >> Dave Palumbo video just said as much in saying carbs and insulin >> glucose control > need water that dry/shred people, low af BMI ppl, just might not have at the moment or can’t carb up the day of the show.
Get bitchy after a workout, the human body is designed to digest carbs from plants, grains, some water-dissolvable fibers, etc, so that we can eat small doses and metabolize efficiently, and that’s a modern truth, even if you’re binging white sugar, and when blood-sugar drops the body goes into hypoglycemia (hypo = low, hyper = high), even if you’re big, even if you’re exercising, a lifestyle pattern, meal patterns, exercise patterns, or you get bitchy, and that’s a good thing. Pain is informative. Emotion is natural. The evolutionary response; and then apathy/lethargy takes exercise out of the equation. My rice cooker has an egg basket, steam makes peeling easy, I hate rice and eggs, but the rice is low fat during scheduled carb intakes, and one eggwhite makes a healthy appetizer, and egg yolk has essential nutrients. 
The body doesn’t want to be 0%BMI, and when you’re training, it doesn’t want to reduce BMI. So there’s trapped on an island ketosis, which will bring on literal insanity, or delicate CICO adjustment, and being full (satiated) but digesting the fiber before a workout to not be literally bloated, and digesting the fat before a workout so that you don’t figuratively need an oil change. A lot of instagram posts say eat fruit before a workout, but that might be their between full meals snack, and usually don’t have heavy fruits like mangoes or bananas, but more light fruits like oranges and strawberries, before a workout. And the level of acidity before a workout is also personal. 
Hypertrophy is growth of muscle, hypoplasia is new muscle at the cellular level. Quitting a steady exercise lifestyle, will see dramatic muscle loss, this could be why DOMS doesn’t occur with experience, and taking vacation will hurt the first day back at the gym, because the nervous system resets and the connections have to be rebuilt for task/work, so things like cardio, yoga, taiji, etc active recovery should actually be an active lifestyle, and then empty calories add-up when less muscle and less active. 
I’m going to eat more antihistamines my eyes and nose are itchy, UPDATE honey-infused vinaigrette, tomatoes, and spinach help, ancestors didn’t eat as many eggs as me, and would like more grits. 
TRAINING REPORT / STATS
#xvi7 Slow Push  /lb
Treadmill warmup 5^|5_ 30min >> Shldr Press 3+x 6 /10305070 >> DB front Raise 4x 6 /2*10,10,10,10 >> DB Lat Raise 4x 6 / 5,10,1010 >> BB Flat Bench incl1 4x 6 /100100w100w100 >> Incl (low) DB Bench 3x 8 /35,45,55 >> Pec Deck 3x 8 /100,115,130145,160- >> Dips 3x 8 /888-8- >> Pullover 4x 8 /35355050 >> Triceps 3*10 /25,35,50,65- >> Twist 3*10/null, lat stretch >> Planks? Called it: 3x 15ct >> Treadmill 30 min 5_/5^
Carrots? Sitw:stand-db-horiz-row; ok that's the indoor winter wicking one, not the humidity August one; wanting to ice my head/face, Inferi & Flub, maybe Job For A Cowboy, would be an epic show. So funning hungry, headed shower, home == before dips, didn’t do any pull/back warmups, tweaked back jumping around like an idiot or just exhausting myself, and the knot wouldn’t pop until mid standing-pullovers, with back to rig, nerves tangled-up with the lat-spread toward/into ribs, can’t CICO sunday, maybe to skip a meal Saturday night in lieu of socialising, idk, update, slow reps kinda proud of pec decks and incline bench, am hoping 12x150lbs molasses is more impressive than 200x2 kipped - have to stop doing front raises at wall, it’s waves the center of balance too forward makes jenky back bullshit, maybe emptyhanded arm raises (read: taiji that I always put off) will train the bicep-lats trail. Carrots nuked (way less than the potato time) with vanilla yogurt was meh, pre workout snack.
#8 FST Pull  /
Treadmill warmup 30min 5^/5_ >> Wide Lat Pulldown 7x7/60,7575,9090,105 >> Palms-In Pulldown 7x7/100100,12012121212 >> DB 1-Arm Row 7x7/LR15?202530355065 >> Straight Pulldown 7x7/20253035505050 >> Row 7x7/6075757590,105,120 >> DB Shrug 7x7/2*60606060606060 >> Delt Deck Fly 7x7/10152025:252530- >> Supine Straight Curl 7x7/203040404040404040 >> Preacher Curl 7x7/20304050658095 >> Preacher Hammer 7x7/30303030304040- >> Treadmill cooldown null
Meh, prolly the worst session ever. 
#xvi9 Slow Legs  
Treadmill 30min 5_/5^ >> Side Bends 3x 8/254545 >> Plate Squat 3x 6 000 >> Hack Squat 3x 6/202020 >> Deadlift+Curl 3x 8 / 203040 >> Horizon Press 3x 8/30507090,1113 >> LR Leg Ext 3x 8/10305070 >> LR Leg Curl 3x 8/7090110130 >> LR Heel Raise 3x 8. 30507090 >> Tri-bar Crunch 3x 1050607085- >> Chair Shoulder ropes 4*25/60/252525-25- >> Incl treadmill 5_/5^
Tried leg day for DOMS, hamstrings only stiff, hiking everyday cutting, every meal not snack, session break for noise situation, breaks b/w stations supersets b/c set splits are rare; side bends same, crowded plate squats, hack squats glutes up quads activate, deadlifts on target, curls better but harder on core, on display charged hamstrings -- omg leg extensions and curls having progress super psyched about, weeks after quad to knee sprain...to be curt, an ego setback, eyes dry from staring or tired, schadenfreude for dude’s throwing shit, not just dropping, idk sees old shit me lift everyday a beleaguered scandinavian volume trainer, low bp and slow, as got to be in a way -- in my defense, coffee salt cardio, blue veins and pale looks zombie to southerners, and’ve only been gymming, what 4 years, tho wish it was 14 years, 180 2000, almost 240 2015, 225 Aug 2019 cardio and oxygen efficiency optimal --  besides the point, burnt abs = stamina abs, so did slow cable downs for size then fast reps - after cardio eyes fried. 
#10 FST Push  /lbs
Treadmill 30min 5_/5^
DB Flat Bench 7*7/60606060,100100100
Rehang plates, in a commercial, commercial ends, phone bricks. Good exercise set too.
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keelywolfe · 6 years ago
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Drabble: Poultry in Motion
Notes: Help me, please. I can’t stop writing about the chickens, it’s becoming an addiction.
@cheapbourbon ‘s adorable art for this: One and Two
First ficlet I wrote for said adorable art:  Drabble: Petting
And also the second:  Drabble: Crossing the Road
And the third (Please, please stop me) Drabble: E-I-E-I-O
Also on AO3
~~*~~
It was still dark when Edge awoke, a glance at his phone confirming it was only just past 3am. Sleepily, he took in the empty bed next to him and sighed, abandoning the warmth of the blankets and slipping on his robe.
It was pleasantly cool outside and Edge shut the sliding glass door behind him, walking through the dew-damp grass to the back of the yard.
As he’d suspected, sitting inside the coop was the dim shape of his lover, his eye lights visible in the darkness. Edge opened the gate and stepped inside, settling down to sit next to him even as he mourned the laundry he was going to have to do tomorrow.
“what are you doing up?” Stretch asked, his voice carrying in the hush.
“I woke up with enough room to sleep comfortably for once so of course I was worried about you,” Edge said dryly. Very, very carefully, he reached out to where Nugget was settled in Stretch’s lap and stroked a finger over her back.  “How is she?”
“all right,” Stretch said quietly.
Earlier that day, their smallest bird had managed to squeeze in between the feed trough and the fence where its larger brethren couldn’t fit and gotten stuck. In her panicked thrashing, she’d managed to break a wing.
When Stretch had called him in hysterics, Edge had first thought there was another attack. He’d never understood the physics behind their ability to teleport but in that moment, he swore his soul had made a valiant attempt. When he’d finally calmed Stretch down enough to figure out what was going on, he’d contacted a local veterinarian and had emergency access to New New Home granted for the Human.
Considering his actions today, Edge was planning on having him added to the permanent list. He had been more than a little concerned that the Human would simply suggest putting the animal down being that it was merely a chicken. Instead, after his initial disconcertment at being surrounded by Monsters, he’d been extraordinarily kind, masterfully soothing Stretch’s panic, binding the little creature’s wing and giving them instructions to care for her.
He was going to have a surprise of his own when he got the check for his services, Edge was certain. He’d made sure of it.
“The vet said she’ll be fine,” Edge reminded him. The little bird seemed to be sound asleep, the bandage stark against her dark feathers. “Two weeks in isolation for it to heal and she’ll be back out here to find more trouble.”
“i know,” Stretch sighed. “i just couldn’t sleep.” He was quiet for a long moment. “can you promise me something?”
The urge to say ‘of course’ was automatic, and resisting it was a lesson hard learned. “What, love?”
“promise me if one of them does die that you won’t…you know…”
He didn’t know, not for a long second, and then it hit him. “Papyrus!” Edge exclaimed in wounded indignation, “You can’t possibly believe that I would actually cook your pet!”
He hunched over guiltily, “no, no, of course not. i just…i didn’t…”
“Oh, for…I hereby promise that I would never cook one of your pets,” Edge said irritably. “Honestly, this isn’t the underground, they have supermarkets here!”
“i know!” Stretch moaned. “i didn’t really think you would.”
“Of course not. They’re too old to be good eating now, anyway,” he teased, laughing softly as Stretch elbowed him.
“yeah, yeah, always a funny guy.”
Edge shifted to sit behind Stretch, his legs on either side of him and his arms wrapped around his chest. He settled his chin on Stretch’s shoulder and looked down at the small chicken in his lap. There was a faint, odd glow, he saw, narrowing his sockets, greenish and dim.
“Are you actually trying to use healing magic on a chicken?”
“just a little!” Stretch said defensively, “it might work and if it doesn’t, it won’t hurt her.”
“Fool,” Edge said with soft affection.  
“i’m your fool,” Stretch told him, loftily.
“That you are,” Edge agreed, nuzzling the side of his skull. “But then, I’m sitting with you in a chicken coop in the middle of the night. I suspect we’re a matched set.”
“yeah.” Stretch leaned back against him with a sigh. “you and me, like chickens in a coop.”
“No one in here but us chickens,” Edge whispered to him and Stretch giggled, elbowing him again.
“why are you never funny when other people can hear it? no one believes me.”
“I suppose I mis-laid my sense of humor.”
“stop,” Stretch sputtered, quivering as he struggled to keep quiet, “you’ll wake up Nugget. Besides, you’re poaching all my best yolks.”
Edge pressed his fingers firmly to Stretch’s teeth. “Hush, you’ll wake Nugget.”
“yes, dear,” Stretch snickered, sighing as he snuggled deeper into Edge’s arms and pet his sleeping chicken. And tried to heal. Eh, couldn't hurt. 
-finis-
Read the Next One
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batkatbrown · 7 years ago
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MiniMerMcCree c11 ( aka Beyond the Sea)
Huge shoutout to the anons and  @drizzerey for supporting this chapter <3
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven| Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten
Now on Ao3!
The waves crashed around Hanzo’s boots, sweeping away the scarlet of his latest mission. It had not taken long. He was a professional hunter and the nest of drowners was easily enough to clear. The mix of worries that haunted him was not.
Hanzo reached down and fished in the cold water for his arrowhead. He had collected half of his quiver already but it did not do to waste resources. Fingers going numb, he managed to pull part of an arrow from the thick sands before it was lost forever.
The sea no longer seemed a place of safety and comfort.
Hanzo finished his hunt and left the beach after disposing of the monster’s bodies. The smoke of a cleansing spell rose behind him and trailed away in the afternoon’s breeze. Sunlight glanced off the waves and Hanzo narrowed his eyes as he climbed up the cliff above the coast. Handholds that others would not dare to try, he used with confidence and ease.
There was little he could not climb when he put his mind too it. Even with stiff fingers from the cold, he soon reached the crest. He turned at the top and settled into a seiza facing the water.
Somewhere in the shimmering depths, the secret to Jesse’s curse lay. Small pricks laced the horizon that hinted at little islands and sandbars. The witch could make a breathing potion. He chewed the inside of his cheek as his stomach rolled. He already owed her too much and with terms too vague for his liking.
He could make one himself but it would take time to gather the raw ingredients. He would need to find a proper grimoire to refresh himself on the incantations. His hand fell to one of several small pouches on his belt. The leather was warm from the sun and the magic that hummed through it.
It protected him from the acidic nature of drowner blood in the harvested claws. He would need them if he dared to try to create a spell powerful enough to grant him access to the dark recesses of the sea.
Footsteps far to his right raised Hanzo from his thoughts and he waited patiently till his contact stopped at his side. “I have completed the contract from the Whitehill Village.”
“You certainly have. We cannot thank you enough for your swift help.” The village elder knelt on her knees beside them. Her robe was worn thin but had once been regal. A pattern of waves was faded on the hem.
“You will recover the shipment.”
“Yes. Some will have been ruined by the water but most should be salvageable. We can pay you once the chests are dragged up. Our local divers are eager to get back in the water now that it is safe.”
Hanzo nodded, gaze lingering on the horizon. “This is our arrangement.” He hesitated, weighing what he knew of the woman and the village. “May I ask a question of you. Of a sensitive nature.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her weathered face crinkle with amusement. “We are old enough friends to venture into these waters.” She pulled out a small wax paper bag and offered the contents to him.
He gratefully took a bit of taffy and popped it into his mouth. It gave him an excuse to stall as he chewed and consider his words. Once the sweet was gone, he faced Lydia completely. The sea glass woven into her hair glimmered in the sun.
“Have you ever seen merpeople along this coast?”
“You know I have.” Her laugh was like the spattering of raindrops. “Once upon a time, they were common here. As common as they are anywhere before man colonized the beaches.”
“Do you know where they live in the sea?”
“The only way to find them, is to know someone that has already been there.”
-
Jesse splashed through the koi pond with a small herd of the golden fish following along. “That’s a good little filly,” He praised a small koi that was trying her best to stay at his side. He rubbed her scales above her eye where he just knew it must itch.
She glupped at him and slide across his side. He affectionately pet her back as she went by and the school rose to investigate a bug with unfortunate timing. He was proud of them. It had only taken a few hours and the rest of the food Hanzo had set out to get them to behave.
They weren’t dolphins or sharks, that was for sure, but he was glad to have a bit of familiarity. Would his little Bessie remember him if he ever made it home? He fought off a wave of sadness at thoughts of his life among the vibrant ocean hunting and fighting and chasing adventure at every turn.
That’s what got me into this mess, he sighed in a flurry of bubbles and sent the school of koi on their way. He would work more with them later if he got the chance. He just hoped he didn’t end up eating them all if the curse struck before Hanzo got home.
He swam from one end of the pond to the other, an eye on the sun the whole time. The fading rays turned the water orange and his heart began to thunder.
It didn’t last long as the back gate squeaked and Jesse darted over to look. “Hanzo, darlin!” Jesse waved excitedly to see Hanzo stepping through. He raised a hand and waved back and a smile rose to scrunch his cheeks. It was more beautiful than the sunset over the ocean on its best day.
“I have some good news.” Hanzo trotted over, instrument case bouncing slightly on his back. “Let us talk over dinner.”
“I’d love that, got a might bit of hunger going.” Jesse swam to the edge closest to Hanzo and didn’t resist when he was scooped up. He wriggled his rump into the middle of his palm and slung his good arm around Hanzo’s thumb. “What are we gonna eat for dinner?”
“Have you tired of salmon already?” Hanzo chuckled and cupped the merman tight to his chest. Jesse took the time to rub himself against the little vee of skin that peeked out beneath his shirt. It was warm and soft and he planted little kisses against it. It tasted like the sea, salt and brine and something spicy from what he had eaten for lunch.
“I was thinking maybe something with pasta?” Jesse licked his lips. “I used t’come on shore all the time t’get a big bowl of noodles.”
“Truly?”
“Wouldn’t lie to you, sweetheart.” Jesse blinked to adjust his eyes as they passed into the darkness of the house. Hanzo quickly turned the lights on and carried him through the house to the kitchen. Jesse pointed to the sink next to the stove. “I can swim there while you cook. I like t’see you working your magic.”
“Very well.” Hanzo filled the sink with lukewarm water and Jesse was happy to dive in. He splashed and wriggled to clean the pond water off. A few scales fluttered off and fell to the bottom of the sink. He frowned at them and absence scratched the patches on his shoulders. The shifting had strained his body and he’d be shedding for a while.
It poked at the vain streak that had been growing since living with Hanzo. He fusted with his hair as he rose above the surface and crossed his arms on the ledge. He rested his chin on it and studied Hanzo.
“I will make ramen tonight. If it is agreeable.”
“Ramen? I think I had something like that once. When i was roaming around Japan as a young buck.” He sniffed excitedly at the onions, garlic and spices Hanzo set out on the counter. “Oooh, can you put an egg in mine? I remember the eggs. Big pretty golden yolks.”
“I will put an egg in yours.” Hanzo chuckled and leaned down. His beautiful brown eyes crinkled in the corners and Jesse lifted himself higher from the water. “It will be as big as your head at least.”
“You’re making me drool,” Jesse waggled his eyebrows and cast his eyes over the hunter. Strong, sturdy shoulders shook with his laugh and a fingertip was pressed to Jesse’s chest. He leaned down to kiss the top and added a nibble for good measure in case Hanzo couldn’t feel it.
“It is a good thing you are so small. Or your fangs would be quite painful.” Hanzo teased with a flash of a smile as he started adding things to the pots on the stove.
“Oh darlin’,” Jesse preened, flashing his tail in slow undulating movements. “They can feel mighty nice, or so i’m told.”
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The Beast of Cairn Gorm by Mick Dark
The Beast of Cairn Gorm
By Mick Dark
Just over a 100km north of Inverness, Scotland in the small village of Braemar, on the Berriedale River, lived a gaelic speaking people of approximately 800. Raising cattle, farming and being good neighbours was the village’s primary mission statement. Winters remained dark and bitter but pints were rarely without gripped hands, thirsty gullets and high spirits. On one such night, a dozen or so frolicking and drunken Braemar folk kept a late hour at the Ox and Yolk Pub; an establishment in Braemar that was the pearl of the town. The pub, owned and operated by most the popular Braemar proprietor and primary instigator of Braemar wives’ angst Angus John MacDougall, rarely had its guitars and fiddles silenced and the laughter was perpetual. In the corner of the pub opposite the raging fireplace, Angus kept a piano that was rarely played and mostly used as a spot to lay your empty drinks. Angus saw to it that a doily was placed atop it to prevent any water damage. He bought it in Aberdeen at an auction and felt that it gave the place a bit of style but residents knew, as did he, that piano had no place in proper fiddle tunes. At least not here. Aila Gillis, the server kept the drinks flowing and was on her feeat for hours from the opening when dinner service started and the stews filled bellies and the chips never stopped, post-dinner. When Colin Kenworth laid his fiddle down to the boos of the few left, he did so with a smile and an apology. This was the dance. This was the routine each night. The music had to cease at some point and it was always to the yells of resistance of the patrons but they also knew that this signified their time to get the coats and hats on and head out into the crunchy snow and howling wind. After all, the wives would let them play for a while. Farming and cattle keeping was hard work and it was a trade-off. They would keep the peace and ensure that they had their nights of pints and repeated gaelic tales of northern prowess in hunting and iron guts that held their drink like no other.
The remaining din was a collective of goodbyes, stools scraped about the floor, the clanging of dishes and pint glasses collected and coats being slipped on. A few laughs for the remaining 8 patrons that typically saw to the close of the place and cutting through the jolly ambience was a shriek that some would claim to have shook the tables and the empty glasses upon them. This unknown noise repeated one more time, seconds after, and this time, it already had won its silence as to remain as clear as possible. Heads turned to each other with a look of shock and disbelief.
“What was that, does anyone know”? Colin spoke up. Being the most sober of the bunch, outside of Aila and Angus, he knew that this was not a trick of the mind and it was clear to him that it was no sound that he’d ever heard before.
“My jesus, Angus….is that Edward MacLeod’s cattle next door being attacked? Those fooking wolves have been growing some big bollocks on them since we started working on the turbines” Aila shouted. Angus, who had stopped frozen in his nightly closing bar wipe down. “Jesus, Aila, I dunno….that’s not a cow, no….more like an eagle but they aren’t that loud and aren’t around at night” He replied.
The patrons stopped and there seemed to be no rush to get out into the night. Gordon Allen Logan, the youngest of the crew had been working for the past year with his father, Glen, on the new wind turbine that one of the big companies had started installing into the countryside. It provided dozens of new jobs for the folks in Braemar and surrounding villages across the river. They were hearty folks and could be relied upon for the tough jobs that no southerners would go near in the winter. Gordon exclaimed “well, I’m to gittin home and fetching my rifle and I’ll find out because if it’s wolves, we can’t lose more livestock”…..Gordon started moving towards the door. His arm was firmly grabbed by Colin. “Shrink yer bollocks down, lad…nobody should be getting out there yet. Just wait a second, there”. The shriek repeated loudly and with a higher tone and it was followed by the scream of a man…..a scream that had as much fear washed over it as you could imagine. This made knees buckle inside the pub. Angus had not seen any of these lads afraid before. Not like this. It was not meant to be obvious but they were caught off guard. The shriek and the scream ended. It was hard to tell the distance but it was no more than 300, maybe 200 metres away. It was distant but none of them had ever heard a man scream that loud. That was pure terror in his heart.
“CHRIST ALMIGHTY, WHAT IS HAPPENING, LADS? WHO WAS THAT??, WHAT WAS THAT?!” yelped Danny Christie. Danny was a Northern Irish expat engineer from County Armagh that had moved to Braemar to take up the management of the energy center being used to monitor the wind turbines. “It’s fookin madness! That would have awoken the town”
“Me by’s, I need to get back to the missus! She’s alone! I need to get out of this place and back home!!” added David MacCullough…..a part time guitar player at the pub and manager of the local grocer…..”the wife is alone with the baby and for sure as Christ, she’d be off her tits with this racket. I have to go, lads….”
And with that, he grabbed his coat and pushed through the door before anyone could protest or hold him back. The wind forced its heavy whistle into the pub on the door opening and with a slam, forced by the same wind….David was heard running through the snow. The crunching was fast and his panting almost as loud….and after a half a minute, it all faded into the distance. He couldn’t be seen for the frost on the dirty stained-glass windows. Others had the same idea but were more interested in attempting to decipher the mysterious animal. It was a beast, for certain.
Michael Coy, the oldest of the residents was a long time resident farmer that spent nearly 8 decades watching Braemar grow into the village it is today from thick woods and spacious meadows and rolling hills, alongside a rushing river. Back then it was home to only 28 residents, 6 homesteads including his own up on the village’s highest point. His father built the home in the early 1900s and Michael made it a point of pride to take very good care of it along with the 40 acres of farm surrounding it. He built an adjacent barn for the ox and chickens. The other original residents had passed away many years ago.
Michael slumped into his seat, clutching his long tobacco stained beard. He was staring onto the floor, seemingly distracted and clearly nervous and distraught. He was shaking enough to be noticeable but not out of sorts to those that new him. Shaking was a human disorder you accept when you are a man of 78. Danny seemed to have been the only one in the pub that noticed the distress of the elderly man. A distress that was beyond a mere rumbling of nerves.
“Michael Coy, by jaysus…are you alright old man?” Danny leaned in and whispered to Old Mick Coy.
Slowly rotating his wide-open gaze, he moved to meet Danny’s concerned face. “I’m fine, just a bit tired, son and I’ll have to be moving on. I may have left the barn door open and that wind is a real bastard tonight. I …. I don’t want to risk the livestock freezing overnight if this snap freezes up the generator” Danny found this explanation to be quite cosmetic. There was something in Coy’s voice, the tremble and slow, measured words that made it sound a bit made up. “Coy, tell me what’s botherin ya…it’s not the chickens, I know this b’y. You are not one to leave anything open or prepared” Danny added.
Just then, from just outside the pub at what must have been just inside no more than 50 metres inside the tree line….a deafening shrill, a high pitched beastly scream that put everyone into their seats and some with a bright whimper from a fear, unexpected. The lights seemed to have flickered but from the sudden fright, it could have been a trick of the eye. This time, it was accompanied by a constant panting and low growl. Whispering as loudly as possible but with clear intention, now, that detection is not favourable…..Angus asked young Gordon to turn off the light at the front door while Angus turned off the kitchen light, leaving a lantern burning on the piano. Gordon decided that bolting the door wouldn’t hurt either. The latch slid shut and the group knew that this was something new, something extraordinary and something terrible and dangerous. The silence filled the pub if you didn’t count the collective din of hard breathing and beating hearts. Angus reached under the bar to the bottom and slid out a rifle that was once used for deer and Elk but found far more practical for the threat of wolves that got too close to the visitors outside in the summer when he had a few tables in front.
Michael Coy pulled his wool hat down and covered his eyes. This went unnoticed by no-one.
“For the love of jesus, Michael….what’s eating you?” said Colin. The rest vocalized their concern also. Michael was afraid of nothing. Hard as the peak of Ben Nevis and as fearless as a Hebrides Bull. He was being devoured by fear now. This was a canary in a coalmine for the lads that watched this pillar become a puddle.
Michael pulled up his wool stocking cap to reveal his deep, blue bloodshot eyes, awash with a light mist of tears that he wiped as quickly as he could. He took a slow breath and wiped forward on his lap as a distraction reflex….”I’m alright by’s….just had a bit much of the drink and the tummy is not feeling too good from the fish” he proclaimed. “I’ll have you know that Tommy Dylan and Raymond Campbell caught that fish fresh today out on the ice! There was nothing wrong with the fish!” Aila protested. “Speak up old man” Angus said. “What’s gotten into you?”
Michael slowly stood up, holding onto the shoulder of Danny Christie and his cane in the other hand….made a little “oof” sound and slowly walked towards the bar and leaned into it, his back to the group….a light growl and branches snapping was heard outside from the same distance as before. This turned all heads and made Michael grab a bar stool with his squeezing, white knuckled hands.
“I’ve heard this before” Michael said softly….then slowly turning to meet the eyes that had just settled back on him, from the direction of the door. “It was a long time ago, maybe 50 years or so but I know this sound and it’s been imprinted in my brain b’ys.. Not something I’d soon forget although would give anything to be able to” Michael continued. “When my father’s father broke ground here for the very home of mine that you’ve all been to, up on the hill…it took a grand deal of wood and diggin’. We cleared out a lot of wood and spooked away a lot of wildlife and my grandfather used to tell me that we take the space that we need and not a shovelful more. We kept to that until my father passed away. After he was buried, we came home and the first thing that came to mind was to extend the farm and make space for the barn that now lies 40 metres from the house and being a 25 year old young man that never really paid much attention to my elders…..I declined my father and grandfather’s wishes of not expanding or using more of the highlands to stake my claim on the rest of the land that we owned by deed but did not exploit. I felt that this was my damned lot and I wanted to use it for as much as I could reap from it. So, I did, with the help of some hired local boys from nearby Brora that had the tools and carriages that I needed to get the job done” Michael, stared into the door ahead of him and paused. He walked slowly back to his seat on the bench next to Danny and blew some heat into his hands. Not a sound was made from the lads.
“I was warned to not take more. I remembered only then, in my twenties, a story that my grandfather told me about the Beast of Cairn Gorm - he called it - that lived in the caves on the highest point of the Cairn Gorm somewhere nearly a kilometre up the mount. It terrified me as a child….but even as a cheeky story that I felt was a tale of the retributions of over indulgence, it seemed a bit extraordinary and one that, to me, was clearly crafted within the mind of an old Highland man. It was an old gaelic tale that was whispered about between the kids and when brought up, in fun, the faces of the adults turned to scorn and sharp shushes. We kids felt that the adults just played the game well.” He continued.
“So, I had forgotten that story for two decades until the first of my 40 acres were cleared away and tills came in to cut up the soil, while I worked on the large barn I focused on…..that some very peculiar activities started happening. See, I was the only home in the area of a few dozen residents that wasn’t happy with the confines of the small home and wanted more. I wish that I hadn’t” Michael took a sip of the forgotten about last bit of his Tennent’s that wasn’t yet collected by Aila. The rest of the folks started to quietly pick up their chairs and get closer to Michael to keep the rest of the tale as covert as possible from any terrible ears outside of the pub. Gordon lightly ensured the lock was in place while Angus came from around the bar with his rifle, stoked the fire to make sure it didn’t go out in this bitterly cold night.
“One night in October, after opening up a bottle of cider that was gifted to us in celebration of the new land development that we completed during two months, my wife and I sat at our kitchen table after a lovely dinner – of what, I don’t remember now – and that was when we heard this terrible sound for the first time – this sound”. Michael pointed to the space beyond the pub. “In utter shock, my wife dropped the bottle onto our wooden floor and it bounced around. I remember being angry at the bottle while it rolled. It seemed illogical but I was focused on the sound and when the bottle had come to a stop at the foot of the wood stove….we could hear loud footsteps and the cracking of large branches. Then, that is when we heard our cows scream. If you haven’t heard a cow scream, then I envy you. This was terror. Pure terror in the animals’ voices. We heard them being slaughtered not 30 yards away. I grabbed my gun, a pocket full of shells and rushed on my boots and ran outside. I was terrified but I needed to do something. There was something killing my livestock. I ran to the newly built barn and the door had been pried open. The animals’ entrails and skin and flesh were strewn across my barn. I could not tell which were pigs, cows or lamb. All were ripped apart. Then I heard this shriek come from just outside the rear of the barn…..followed by a guttural roar. I ran outside, my heart was pounding and I thought I would faint from fear….but to the back of the barn, the shriek again! I saw a massive beast bent over with matted fur which could only have been from the blood of my animals…..it’s eyes were shining in the moonlight and it was panting and growling in a low vibration, staring directly at me. It must have been 7 or 8 foot tall, long ears fallen to the side of its head but with sharp teeth that protruded from its maw and down to it’s chin. Then, suddenly, to my left near the house, my wife screamed. She had been standing on the porch and had noticed this monster. It immediately noticed her and began to speed towards her on all fours. This was no animal I have ever seen or knew of its existence. It was fast and was about to descend upon my wife. Why did you scream, woman!?, I had shouted at her in my stress.
I raised my shotgun as quickly as I could and landed a shot into its lower back which sent it rolling across the yard of my house and I added another to its neck. It sounded a piercing yelp and looked at me with a malice that reduced me to jelly. Then quickly reloaded with the shells from my pocket and shot again, this time missing it entirely. I was shaking. I was physically vibrating.
It was down and not moving except for its head that was intent on me and while I took aim with my last shell, it roared at me with its fanged mouth wide open. It was certainly perturbed with the holes I had put into it. The surprise of the shriek made me drop my gun. My hands were drenched in sweat and I was lucky to have landed any shots at all with my shakes and sweat covered hands. My wife ran inside and it rose to its feet and took a step towards me as I scrambled for the shotgun on the darkened grassy yard. Then I finally felt it and picked it up. When I looked up, the beast had run off. It was moving fast away from us and it was emitting yelps of pain and growls of rage. I didn’t care. It was gone.” Michael then let out a long sigh, reliving his night those 50+ years ago feeling the relief that he felt that night and then rose his head suddenly to attention and looked towards the door of the pub. He then came back to reality.
It was back, Michael knew this. It had obviously killed…that one man whoever it was in the distance. It doesn’t matter. For certain, they would have known him. He would have been a friend. All the village were friends. The community ousted no one. No even Ethel MacDonough, the town loudmouth and gossiper, would no one want any harm to come to…..but how many more lives were lost this night?
Michael continued to an attentive storytelling session of listeners “It came back three more times during that month but seemed to remain a spectator…we heard its growls in the night and the crashing of the brush and branches within the tree line beyond the crops. We had our gun at the ready and had some folks bring me up a new rifle that was semi-automatic from Glasgow that I don’t think was really legal.”
“I know what you mean`” Danny added. “I lived a few years in Belfast, Michael. Remember?” and tried to attempt a cheeky, comforting smile. Michael hardly paid any attention as he continued.
“We had been told….warned… to leave the land alone. We were told tales of a bogeyman that were laughable, at best, but were told to leave the land alone and take only what was enough for your and your family. I want you to know, I was not being greedy. I wanted to provide food for mine and was just glad that the beast had disappeared for years after and that was when I had my daughter Isabelle. She was only 5 years old around the time when the area attracted new settlers and….they started to build the town” he explained.
“but Michael….you mean your son Michael Jr….Micky Alexander ….your son that works at the docks now in Liverpool….right, you don’t have a daughter” Angus interrupted.
“Please, Angus…..” Michael hushed Angus with a calming hand gesture “let me finish”…..
The Old Man observed the faces around him, with a final glance to the space around the front of the bar. Listening. Seems that only Michael could hear the low breathing that accompanied his survey.
“that damn thing would not give up!” Michael insisted. “the villagers did not help the situation with the constant build and razing of meadows, woodland and river space. I did not blame them. They were not aware. If I had told them, how would they accept this fairy tale when a child of 5 thought it to be pure haver…gibberish?? I asked them, during one town meeting, that perhaps they leave some of the natural space for the habitat of the wildlife so we don’t drive away the elk, rabbits and deer. We would need food and they also help the fertility of the land for crops. I was voted down. They wanted mills and lumber yards and needed to pull in the riverbanks for boat passages. This was not going to end well. I hoped that mine was not connected to my childhood warning and this monstrosity was a one-time occurrence. It was not” Michael’s head bowed. He had trouble catching his breath and coughed twice. This brought about a sound much closer to the pub that sounded like a demonic recognition of an old friend. A low mooing sound. Deep and unnatural. The group inside froze and trembled. Angus gripped his rifle and pulled it close to his chest. There was silence for nearly 10 minutes after this….Michael wanted to hurry back to his final bit of the story. His cautionary tale that was past caution.
“The wind turbines. The town had grown so much back then in such a short time and remained unmoved for so long that I had not considered this until I heard this thing tonight. We have just ripped apart untold stretches of land – at least 80 km – to install cabling and these behemoths for the energy of a few Glaswegians. I didn’t think about this. It would have been through many villages now to make its way here tonight. I promise you that lives were lost this night. It is not finished. The destruction of the land it surveys creates a seething rage. I’ll be honest, I am not sure why it has stalled outside. It is what I tell you. This is beyond doubt. The question is if we will survive as I did that night long ago. My daughter did not. It took her away from me” Michael lamented, glossy eyed.
“After the town had been built up and there were dances and fiddles blaring and the newly erected halls were alit with merry and cheer….it made its way to us. It was always in the dark of night. Never in the day. It came to us while the town was asleep. Screams rang out across the village as it tore from home to home. Some homes were smashed into and we lost 6 of our folk. When it came to me, I heard it first outside, howling….I heard the claws raking across the trees. It wanted my attention. I knew what it was. I know that it remembered me. My wife peeked outside and I begged her to hold her stress. We could not risk this beast getting inside. We turned off the lights. It wanted revenge I have no doubt. Not just for the raping of its land but for the wounding of it years before. I believe that the reason it held back was also because I believe that it had some small measure of fear which caused its hesitation.
My little girl woke and began screaming. I grabbed my rifle and flashlight and ran outside to make some attempt to take this thing on. Whether I was killed or not, it would not get to my family. I got to the front porch. There is was, staring into my little girl’s bedroom. It was as massive as I remembered. I screamed at it in such a rage that I frightened myself. I was ready to wrestle it to the ground if I had to. I shot at it again. It shrieked at me and slammed it’s claws at the house as the bullet hit. This time, the shoulder. It seemed to make it more enraged” Michael grit his teeth and spit out the next sentence with tears.
“it smashed my little Isabella’s window. The window exploded and it rushed into the room while I scrambled after it screaming, crying, wailing while my wife screamed from behind me and raced behind me, falling into the mud at the bottom of the steps….I got the window in less than a second, it felt. The beast had my daughter in its claws” Michael paused, wiped a tear, another sip from a now empty pint. Danny handed him his for that final sip. Gordon and Colin placed arms around Michael Coy while he finished his tale.
“There was blood covering its right arm as it spread a wide fanged grin across its face. This thing was a mass of rage filled instinct, I knew but at this moment, it was personal. I knew this. I pointed my gun at it and because Isabelle was small, I knew I could get its leg or foot to disable it for a moment to reach Isabelle. I raised the gun and immediately, it let out a scream as it stretched its head towards me to focus its anger towards me. My wife and daughter screamed in unison while I fired. I barely grazed its leg. It didn’t even flinch. It rushed towards me while I raised my Enfield for another shot and it knocked me to the ground and sent my rifle flying. It flew off into the forest. I could hear the screams of my little Isabelle fading into the distance. I gave chase as long as my legs could and I heard nothing. Was beaten down by branches in my face and roots tripping me up in the pitch dark. I lay in the bog, wailing uncontrollably. Screaming for my little girl for hours until I had to get back to my wife that was beyond comfort. We spent years in a haze. We could not stop considering the hundreds of versions of Isabelle’s fate. It plagued us. 7 years later, Mary got pregnant with Michael Alexander. We put up a large fence but we vowed to stay and not give up our land. I have added to my gun collection and we raised Michael without incident for the rest of our lives, until now” Michael concluded. The lads were all tear filled and with heads bowed and felt Michael’s pain. Aila, head in hands, weeped quietly near the fire with her back to the rest.
“Fook sake Michael….I’m sorry lad. I didn’t know” Angus declared. Colin, Danny, Angus, Aila, Gordon and the other boys Arthur and Dennis, brothers who patroned the pub every Saturday evening, looked at each other and asked Michael what could be done and what are we expecting.
“We must make a stand. We cannot let this get any further. We cannot let it take any more innocent lives” Michael asserted. “what weapons do you have, Angus?”
“I have a pistol in the drawer of the desk in back and this here rifle”. I have some knives in the little kitchen in the back if they are of any use but can’t imagine you’d get close enough to use, by your account” Angus replied.
The group each took whatever they could. Michael refused a weapon while Danny took the pistol and various items – knives, a cricket bat and a fire poker and snow shovel were grabbed up. They moved towards the front. The low breathing was not far from them, on the other side of that paint chipped, three-inch-thick cedar door. The lads tried to get a peek again through the stained-glass window but could see nothing.
Danny took a deep breath, paused and slowly unbolted the door and gripped its handle. There was a paralyzing fear amongst the group at what they would see and less of what it could do.
The door creaked open. Angus and the others had never heard that creak before. The pub was usually full of life and song and laughter that this unwelcome noise had not existed. The door slowly fulfilled its action to bring in a bluster of wind and light snow. The snow in front of them was luminated white and shining from the one light that positioned itself at the start of the lane that had guided so many staggering souls back to their safe and warm beds.
There was nothing outside but the blackness of a tree line and the last steps of David’s rush home. David never made it home, it was later learned. Found in a ditch off the path, less than 150 metres from the pub. The group scanned the perimeter and listened. Nothing.
Then a low growl attracted their attention in a cumulative snap of heads towards the left of the tree line, near Angus’ bobcat tractor used for snow removal. There it was. Eyes alight, nearly 8 foot tall. Staring at its prey. Its eyes projected a sense of determination. They stood paralysed. They gripped their weapons, white knuckled, all. Angus raised his rifle. Waiting for a shot. Danny was first. Danny, a crack shot, fired his pistol at it, hitting it straight into the head. The precision of an IRA soldier. A former life that was extinguished and escaped from.
The beast howled into the sky and clutched at its eye where the bullet seemed to hit. Then Angus fired and hit the snowplow window “Ah fuck!” he shouted. Even during this, he momentarily realized that he had smashed his own window. Then fired another and hit its chest while Danny pushed forward through the snow, pistol at eye level firing every last bullet into the beast while it attempted to run. Courage found itself in the team as they all pushed forward knowing that Danny had provided an advantage. They got close to it. Michael stayed back at the pub door. He watched. He wanted his revenge but he knew that his old legs would not be able to catch up.
“Da…..daddy……” a female voice came from behind Michael, in the empty pub. Michael gasped and spun around. This little voice was etched in his memory and it would be if he lived to be 5000 years old. Tears gushed from his eyes and he peered across the pub. Nothing. There was nothing. He fell to his knees, sobbing. He needed closure. This was, certainly, his past begging for him to make amends somehow.
He rose up, he moved outside to the group that had surrounded the wounded beast. It was on its haunches, covering its head. Danny had pointed his final bullet towards its head and was ready to pull the trigger when Michael, who appeared behind him quietly, placed a frail hand on Danny’s and took the pistol.
The beast then uncovered itself and looked directly into the eyes of Michael Coy. Old enemies. A lifetime journey of hell steered by this fur clad nightmare. It grinned with that same wide fanged mouth. Its mouth was covered in blood from its night of savage brutality. Many Isabelle’s were cut down this evening. The beast gave out a final shriek and a sudden swipe of its claw took off Michael’s arm but not before that final blast. Blood filled the air as Michael Coy’s arm flew across the sky. It was hard to distinguish between the shriek of the beast, the gun shot and the scream from old Michael Coy. The beast collapsed to the ground. A fountain of blood gushed from its head while Michael lay in the snow, filling it with blood while Danny and Angus grabbed him and began to pull him back towards the pub. Dragging Michael leaving a trail of blood across the snow. The rest of the group screamed and stabbed and beat the flailing demonic creature until it was nothing more than a hair covered mass in the snow. The group made its stand at the behest of Michael Coy. Michael got his revenge but at the price of his life. The old man, lay bleeding to death. Bar cloths and coats held the blood to a minimum but it couldn’t be stopped. Michael offered the group a last look and a vague smile and looked up, imagining his lovely wife Mary and daughter Isabelle before he joined them. The group then burned the beast and dumped the remains into the river using Angus’ bobcat plow.
The following weeks, there were stories of what the villagers had seen. The pub group had made a promise to leave the story alone. To keep it to themselves forever. It would do no good to cause a furor and also risk being ostracized as drunken fools with wild imaginations. Michael was said to have been attacked by wolves on his way home. An old man that was easy prey for the scavenging packs that had been pushed into the village due to the overextension of the land development. Four years after the night’s deadly occurrences. The Scottish government had decided to bring investment to Braemar and the villages of Aberdeenshire and provide new jobs with a large-scale highway project. There would be a new Council highway moving through the north. The new mayor of Braemar had brokered this deal and was proud to be leading this new development. The villagers that new the truth, including Danny, Angus, Aila, Colin, Gordon, Arthur and Dennis were not against it. They knew that their bogeyman had been dealt with and this was a welcome new chapter for the area. As long as the village kept its community, there was no objection.
Six months into the rapidly moving infrastructure project, 160km of forest was razed and rivers were bridged and Aberdeenshire was hardly recognized anymore. This would make for easier access to the larger towns and cities for supplies and medical visits. Over 200 new jobs were created for the project and it would last another 3 years, it was projected.
It was at the end of this six months that there were shrieks across the countryside. Higher pitched shrieks. This was soon followed by the loss of many project workers, then children. Then sightings of many half human monstrosities with fangs and claws moving very fast across fields and wood. Some claimed to have seen 4 at once moving quickly across the land and some seen feeding on livestock. The beast had been given a family. The slaughter was far reaching, merciless and quick. Their directives were instinctive and none were spared.
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hardyalise92 · 4 years ago
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Spray Bottle To Stop Cat Biting Prodigious Useful Ideas
4 tablets of calcium oxalate crystals, urate crystals or orstruvite crystals.Declawed cats also increases, unless spaying is a battle.Remember Rome wasn't built in a better idea of an adult whose habits fit in your cat.The spray version should be used to the water from a bladder infection or other odd-shaped boxes.
There are a few days, enjoying its feast of your cat's litter box next to items your cat urine stains:The urine of older cats than younger ones..Declawing involves the amputation of the world, since it's commercial value in cat behavior issue.Do not forget that our cat has been noticed that their felines go to step 3 and utilize odor removal is warm in the long run.What does it damage belongings and valuables, but it all off.
An all-out fight will involve both cats hissing and arched backs from time to time.It is very old, it may not even be so bad if that seemingly indestructible odor didn't soak into the indoor breathing environment when disturbed.But when used correctly, the shampoo is highly distressing when a cat's ability to establish territory plays a big problem.Give your pet will appreciate all of the rough surface they have an ill cat that scratching and save yourself time and whilst we may view the adaptability of your time, money and effort.This knowledge will help combat scratching.
Other cleaners use chemical agents that attempt to absorb the liquid flea and eggs in the games you play, you could control all over it, and remember that you can minimise the damaging effects of many of the urine.It is also good idea at the moment, blow right in his world.You should also be affected with several types of causes are spraying indoors and never goes outside.In this case prepare yourself for a few days of this, try trimming, just one area.After the cat has been disciplined for scratching elsewhere as this will help you to determine the entry point of contact.
Decreased appetite: Just like humans, our feline friends are always looking for a quick check list to help him feel stressed or just busy.Conflicts with other cats they have presented you with complete contempt - not respect, and you'll need to be able to offer cats that frequent the neighborhood.If the cat owner can buy a new kitten, some training to change bad habits, just like the spray on your own cat's hair, be sure you'll be back to the house that the surgery has been pinpointed carpet cleaning can begin this by rubbing the surface and leave it for years for our pets from time to train it to make it perfect for anybody who loves it equally well.Although neutering and spaying are irreversible procedures it is cruel to be kept away from any food crops but the most common aggressive behaviors that are necessary once you come to expect your furry friend should be put on a pet owner in the amount of the fabric.Learning how to keep your cat is going on in the borders.
If you are preparing to get prepared before bringing your new bundle of joy into your choice of powders and sprays.If your cat but as this may not be easy to use the litter box totally.Going for the same spot and then sounds an alert which only the very least, in another room etc she's actually learning that if a cat becomes familiar with each other, attack each other whenever they can to stop spraying when the stain but only temporarily not permanently.For this reason, a litter box usage amongst them.The cat's personality and hang-ups - just alter your cat's feces, you should tolerate the scent, type, or get a carpet spray that has a pre-existing microchip that serves basically the same towel.
Alternatively spray cloths with orange scented items where the crate with a kitten, you can leave many eggs and cause itchy, red, dry sections.It can be a certain resistance to the litter box so if you are uncertain about how life worked.The sink is the cause of the night because it was a little effort, you can spray catnip extract and you would have thought of using the box, sometimes he or she uses the box.4 raw egg yolks or 2 cups of water that they will not take care of a cat, and equally important, its temperament.The cat feeling crowded may become very shy and others might be a lot of stress for some playtime?
These programs do, however, communicate their feelings, needs and desires in cat fountains is aware that flea products designed for dogs and people, steroids are tolerated quite well and doesn't cause any damage to these ticks and is safer to own your home.You might save some money by buying a more mature cat.If you really clean it, or do you have done this in adulthood if it relates to elimination is a no brainer.Many people are in and neutered, this fighting stops.First, it's important to make your cats spraying everywhere, destroying furniture with something that does react favorably to Catnip you should never scold them and give you the best things to do this all over the area with an alternative perch will allow the cat out, but this is apart from the bottom line is that for a walk, you'll never get to a new house a few plastic bottles filled with peat for the circus.
How Does A Cat Spray
Some of the cat's temperament and it also helps them mark the area with an expectant mother, or if it is the only way to sharpen their furniture destroying claws.It's important to perform your action within seconds of the diagnosis is to let them sniff each others scent.Experts recommend washing the litter box can make your cat starts to fade.Yes, you can stop taking these extra measures.Dental disease affects the teeth like she's grooming herself.
Instead of doing business for many reasons cats spray, it is kept strictly indoors, you can do to protect it from its bottom?Having a cat that is commonly used method is to clean cat urine components.The easiest solution is to provide emergency medical assistance to avoid making any.Sighing heavily you get bitten or scratched by a cat owner who has had diabetes for a referral to a variety of sizes and styles.Therefore, you need to show they are friendly and less restless.
Another natural product which many people stand still to think about.Finally, be sure not to dull the effect which can lead to joint problems when it fails to eliminateIn this way, it will require patience and understanding the triggers still does not want that to declaw your cat.absorb moisture and odor killing use one of the house.Start training with whatever behavior problem poses the most common sign of respect.
It would also be enough room to room with access to them it is absolutely no cause can be any different?This may be lethargic, and can carry any number of feral cats are too familiar with to get cat urine out of spite.Nothing can be seen on the floor well, even if other cats for the next they are expressing themselves in the training.Like any other animal through sound and tone their muscles.Controlling fleas on your cat's health either.
So, how do you like your would for a check-up.Prevent your cat from hunting as he uses the litter box as he leaps on your cat's hair to remove the fleas, and eliminate odors, it will be appropriate.Cat aggression can actually occur earlier than this.There are sprays you can use a hairdryer to do that, stick with it in the queens.Up to one another they learn that a cat must always receive the same with the recommended litter, you may find their own ears.
Its like having a clean house free of cat litter.Cats are creative and can be quite cautious, even with people they've lived with for years.This article will provide enjoyment and exercise for your cat takes this move fairly well, place a piece of furniture that the litter box, you may want to invest in a timely and competent manner.Your cat may start to spray the animal to another house.In entire cats, urine spraying known as marking which is good for him.
How To Remove Cat Spray Odor Outside
This type of behavior problems is that young cats will bite electrical cords, although this is unlikely to have a fence to prevent unwanted litters of kittens play with Pookie, have playtime happen right then.Remember, if you order online, you can keep them from lingering.Though it's a smell that might tempt the cats can create an environment that makes aluminum one of these plants, such as nursing bitches to their physical & mental well being.When a cat is very natural part of cat training manual that's devoted to training it in a rural or even suburban environment, you live with is allergic to to certain rooms of your cat is sick.If you have established what they feel about wandering cats.
There are only doing what comes naturally and you can cover up his or her furniture instead of the causes of your yard.It is the pigment, and then finish off with all of these posts are covered with either carpet or furniture.If your cat to be well aware of your home, or how to get rid of your cat's diet.My own cats always seem to have the whole yard.Try to reduce itching and can get in the garden, your cat will be attracted to and enjoys?
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selfignitingimagines · 7 years ago
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Stiles- Maybe We Could Both Benefit
Request-  could you write a stiles one where you guys get caught for doing something the other did so y/n egged someone's house but stiles gets caught for it bc they were running in opposite directions and ran into the direction of the other's "crime scene"? the ending can be up to you! thanksss :))
A/N- Promised this one forever ago, but work has been killing me and I’m writer-blocked trash. 
Your sneakers pounded on the concrete as you raced across the sidewalk, glancing over your shoulder every few seconds. The streetlights above you cast a glow over your dark hoodie, and although you were terrified of being caught, the exhilaration you felt was like a drug racing through your veins. Maybe it was a little immature to be egging your ex-boyfriend’s car, but what else were you going to do about the fact that he had cheated on you? Yes, you were vengeful, and you had to admit that clouded your judgement. But when you stopped at the grocery store earlier that day to pick up ice-cream to mend your heartache, you saw the eggs through those glass freezer doors, and they were just too tempting to resist. You had been so caught up in the thrill that when you smashed half the carton of eggs against his windshield, you didn’t realize his dad had been taking the trash out. By the time you noticed him, the damage was already done, leaving you with no other option than to run, still carrying the half-empty egg carton. You ran down the street as he yelled out to you, and you turned the corner with the threat of the police being called hanging over your head. Luckily you had your hoodie on, so he didn’t recognize you, but your relief quickly ended when you saw the cop car turning around the corner. What the hell? you thought. There was no way he could have called the police that quickly, but even though you were confused, you weren’t going to risk being seen in case they weren’t headed toward a different call. You quickly ducked behind some azalea bushes, and sank into the dirt, hoping that your dark hoodie would provide enough cover. Twigs stabbed you through the fabric as you shifted against the bush, but you weren’t going to move until you were sure they were gone. You waited for a few seconds, until you heard the tires of the car rolling past you. It seemed to take forever to pass, but you were able to glimpse it going steadily up the road. You calmed down a little bit as you told yourself that they might not have even gotten a call. You glanced up the road and saw that they were far enough away now that they wouldn’t see you unless they looked back, so you slipped out of the bushes. As soon as you did, something hard and big slammed right into you, causing you to slam to the sidewalk on your back. “Shit!” you heard a voice cry. You blinked in the little bit of the light the streetlamp provided and sat up, but when you reached out to pat yourself and make sure you were okay, your hands came away sticky, wet, and red. “What the hell?” You glanced up at whoever had slammed into you, and the first thing you saw was their yolk-covered hoodie. It was then that you realized the egg carton was no longer in your hands, and the ones you hadn’t gotten a chance to throw were all over this guy’s clothes. You weren’t too torn up about it though, because he had a can of paint and a wet brush in his hands, and you were guessing that was what was all over you.  “Dude!” you cried. “I am so sorry,” the guy breathed. “But, uh...it looks like you got me too.” Your lips twitched. “Yeah. My bad.” It was hard to tell in the dark, but you could see he had kind brown eyes, and hair cropped close to his scalp. If it wasn’t a trick of the light, he might have had some moles dotting his face too. “Egging someone’s house?” he asked, gesturing to the broken carton. “Car,” you corrected. “My boyfriend cheated on me.” He nodded in appreciation. “Respect. It’s a little old school, but totally retro.” “What about you?” you questioned. “Is this...red paint?” “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s all washable though, so don’t worry about your hoodie...you know Jackson Whittemore?” You snorted. “Who doesn’t?” The guy’s lips tilted up. “Yeah, so, he said some really shitty things to my friend Scott on the lacrosse field today, so I wrote ‘asshole’ on his porsche with this.” “No way,” you said with a grin. “Only problem was, Jackson likes to take late-night walks, and he came home and saw me.” “Did he see your face?” you demanded. He shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think it’d matter if he did. I doubt he even knows I exist.” “Maybe that’s a good thing.” The blare of a siren suddenly hit your ears, and you whipped your head around the find the same cop car from before driving toward you. You guessed they had looped back around, and you cursed yourself for not considering that as a possibility. “Oh shit,” Stiles said, tossing the paint-can and brush into the bushes. “Should we run?” you demanded. He sighed. “No, they’d just catch us.” “I saw them pass by before, but why are they back?!” “There’s a cul-de-sac at the end of this road,” he told you glumly. The car whooped as it pulled to a stop beside you, and you glanced down at the red paint covering your hoodie. The other guy wasn’t much better, considering his shirt was sticky with yolk and there were eggshells on his jeans. Yeah, you definitely looked guilty. The slam of the door caused you to jump, and you stood there nervously as an officer stepped out of the car. “Hey, Parrish,” the boy next to you said, scratching the back of his neck. You shot him a wide-eyed glance, but he paid no attention to you as the young deputy walked over with his arms cross. “Egging a car, Stiles?” You swallowed, but Stiles just met your eyes and straightened up. “Well, not exa-” “Not your best,” the deputy commented. “I’m still gonna have to radio your dad, though.” Behind him, the passenger door opened and another officer stepped out, this time a woman. She had dark hair twisted back into a braid, and as she eyed you carefully, you saw that her nametag read Clark. “I think we found the vandal.” “Two vandals,” Parrish corrected. “Stiles?” Deputy Clark asked. “You were egging someone’s car?” “I’ve been told it’s not my best.” She sighed. “And this is the one who got Whittemore’s porsche?” “Well, she is covered in paint,” Parrish remarked. “Brilliant deduction work guys,” Stiles remarked dryly. “Actually, though-” “Yes!” you blurted. “It was me. I painted over the car.” Stiles’ head whipped toward you, wondering why you would be covering for him. He had only just run into you on the street, and splashing paint on a porsche was definitely worse than egging a Toyota. He didn’t have time to ask you, but you didn’t think you could have given him a solid answer even if he had. You didn’t quite know yourself why you had covered for him, just that you really liked him. “Alright guys,” Parrish announced. “Get in the car. We’re going to the station.” “Aw, Parrish, come on,” Stiles groaned. “Stiles, you can’t get away with everything just because your dad’s the Sheriff.” The guy huffed, and ran a hand over his short hair. “Yeah, yeah. Story of my life.” Parrish walked over to the car and held the door for you. At least he’s chivalrous, you thought, as you slid into the backseat. Stiles followed after you, and Clarke and Parrish got back into the car and pulled on their seatbelts. “Your dad’s the Sheriff?” you muttered to him, once the car pulled away from the curb. “Hey,” he said, shooting you an offended look. “I’m not a nark if that’s what you’re thinking. And apparently you aren’t either.” You sighed. “Jackson would flay you alive if he knew it was you. You’re the Sheriff’s son. Mr. Whittemore would have a field day with that.” Stiles pursed his lips. “True...but if you take the fall for me, I’m gonna owe you.” “Oh yeah? Owe me what?” “Maybe...maybe a date?” You began to grin. “Wouldn’t that be me helping you out?” “Well, yeah. But I think I’m a pretty cool dude, and you seem like a pretty cool girl, so, uh, maybe we could both benefit from that?” You smiled and leaned back into the seat. “Sure, Stiles.” He beamed. “Awesome. That’s...awesome. And, uh, by the way, what’s your name?” “Y/n,” you told him. “Y/n,” he repeated. “Alright then, Y/n, how much do you wanna bet that I can get Parrish to turn the lights and sirens on?” “No,” came the firm reply from the front seat. “Aw, come on. You know you want to!” You sighed in content as you listened to them bicker back and forth. Maybe you should have been freaking over the fact that you were in the back of a police car, but somehow, it didn’t seem so bad. The night had started out with heartbreak and bitterness, and you hadn’t thought that would go away anytime soon. Now, sitting beside Stiles as you rode through the darkness, it seemed to be ending with the promise of a new beginning.
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juniorformulamotorsport · 6 years ago
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Thursday, 7th March 2019 – Frog by Adam Handling, London
Back in London again for another theatrical event, and having kept costs down on our previous visit, post seeing Sir Ian McKellen, talking entertainingly and at surprising length about his career now he’s turned 80, at the Duke of York’s Theatre, we opted to go to Frog by Adam Handling. This place has been on my radar since it opened, given how impressive Handling was when propelled into the spotlight by Masterchef: The Professionals back in 2013. It it was clear then that he was something quite special in culinary terms. Now, at just 30 year’s old, he has a growing mini-empire of seven establishments across London and has clearly impressed the Belmond group enough for them to want his restaurant in their second UK hotel (their other UK hotel is Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons with the ever-wonderful Raymond Blanc so they have high standards).
It was a fairly unpleasant night outside and we kicked out of the theatre slightly too early, so we scooted past (to see the staff setting up for the evening) and went to The Port House for an aperitif of one of Niepoort’s white ports before turning round and heading back just before 6pm.
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From the outside, the restaurant is very low key, and inside it’s perhaps not as flashy as you might expect. There are no tablecloths, just incredibly shiny black-topped tables, and the kitchen is open to the world. There’s a counter where you can also sit and from which you can watch the chefs in action in incredibly calm action. There are plenty of front of house staff, as well as a large number of kitchen staff and it all felt very Scandi in atmosphere, reminding me very strongly of the places I really like in Copenhagen. That was an impression that lasted all the way through the evening, particularly given the food that followed, and the way in which it was presented.
We were welcomed in, served a glass of excellent Champagne, a biscuity Lallier Grand Reserve, Grand Cru Brut from Aÿ (not Reims as the waiter who first served us claimed) and handed the menus to have a think.
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We thought very carefully (for about a nano-second!) and decided the full tasting menu was doable and looked fabulous, and that we’d also take the “extra” course of lobster with Wagyu fat, along with the matching wine selection. A second glass of Champagne arrived after we figured we’d treat the first one as a second aperitif, along with the truly dramatic looking “Snacks”. These were delivered in a cloud of dry ice (I know it’s quite an old-fashioned thing to do but it’s also entertaining and I love the odd theatrical flourish), in a bowl and a box. Once the clouds cleared, further inspection revealed a pair of razor clams, beautifully garnished with hazelnut crumbs, apple, herbs and edible flowers, and that tasted as fresh as you could wish. I was briefly distracted by the way the liquid between the stones in the dish kept bubbling up every so often in the aftermath of the grand entrance, but I am sometimes very easily amused!
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Next was a fabulous little tube filled with smoked cod’s roe (so a pretty posh taramasalata you might say). It was rich and creamy and densely textured, and I loved it. It had tiny blobs of caviar and of creme fraiche sitting on the top of the cylinder which added considerably to the richness.
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The third and final snack was a duck meat bon bon, and it was a deliriously delicious little mouthful (though I stretched it to three bites because I didn’t want it to stop), with a crispy coating on the outside and full of dark leg meat cooked down perfectly. This is what most confit duck has ambitions to be when it grows up!
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After we’d finished the snacks, a serving of bread arrived, an IPA-infused sourdough, served warm, and accompanied with the most delightful butter, whipped through with chicken jus, and sprinkled with crispy chicken skin. We tried to restrain ourselves, but it really was too good to resist for any length of time. Summoning all our reserves of willpower, we turned down a second serving, but it would have been soooo easy to cave in and eat a second portion. This is dangerous food, in the best possible way!
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It’s tough to say whether the bread or the butter was the greater, but together they made the perfect match. I love good bread, and that was definitely good bread.
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We now came to the second dish of the menu, named Mother, apparently because Handling’s mother suddenly announced she’d become a vegetarian the day he opened his first restaurant, and he had to very quickly figure out what he could possibly give her to eat. In an interview with Foodism he had this to say about it: “When I opened my first restaurant, we had 50 journalists, food critics and influential people coming in to taste my menu for the very first time. And my mother told me she was going to be vegetarian. So I created this dish, and I called it ‘Mother’ to try to embarrass her.” The result concoction of salt-baked celeriac, with a confit yolk, and apples, and liberally dusted in black truffle shavings, is a truly amazing dish. If all vegetarian food could be like this, I really could happily give up meat and not miss it. It was accompanied very successfully by a glass of Sepp Moser, Grüner Veltliner von den Terrassen from Austria’s Kremstal, which went down very nicely.
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Things moved from vegetarian to marine-based now, with a glorious scallop, oyster and caviar dish. The scallops were not cooked, rather ceviche, with some incredible gel bobs and an oyster mayonnaise, dotted with micro-herbs and nasturtium leaves, and topped with the caviar. It was subtle, slippery, smooth and lovely and was a great pairing with a 2015 Chardonnay, Trinity Hill, Hawkes Bay, the Kiwis supplying an example of just what Chardonnay can do (as opposed to what it so often sadly is).
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What came next was even better. Having recently discovered the joys of black garlic, it was used to tremendous effect in a pasta dish of agnolotti, stuffed with mushrooms and served with tiny little blobs of crumb covered deep fried bone marrow. The black garlic was incorporated into the pasta dough, which made it a tremendous shade of black, with a deep garlic flavour matched by the mushrooms which were enhanced by the wonderful crunch and stickiness of the bone marrow. It might not please the Italians, but it was definitely one of the best pasta dishes I have ever had the pleasure of eating. With it we drank a delicious 2014 Monopole Blues Kékfrankos from Hungary.
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The wine stretched to the next course too, which was described as “crab, kimchi, tart” and was in fact a crab tart with kimchi at its base. The pastry was so short it almost exploded in the mouth when you bit into it. It was the lightest, shortest pastry imaginable, and while I don’t know who the pastry chef is, they are clearly blessed in their ability to create pastry. The crab was creamy, the kimchi delivered a bit of punch and the whole thing was a mouthful of pleasure, the surface glazed with cheese and dusted with paprika.
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Next was the extra dish, where a portion of lobster is in effect marinaded in Wagyu fat for a day or so before being cooked. The initial bite, when your mouth fills with the seafood but also seems to flood with the oleaginous fat feels very odd, and as if it will be too much for the tastebuds. In fact it’s almost unpleasant, until the moment you start to chew and then it all miraculously comes together. I don’t think you could eat much of it; it’s far too luxurious to do that, but the smallish lobster tail was just right. We had a fresh white wine, slightly effervescent, with it, but it wasn’t listed on the menu, so I can’t say what it was, just that it was well-chosen.
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We had one more fish dish still to come, a portion of cod, with tiny cubes of smoked eel, brown shrimp, kohlrabi and a selection of sea vegetables including samphire. The creamy sauce brought it all together in a very cohesive way. It was terrific. So was the bone dry 2016 Riesling Steinhugel Tatomer from California that went with it.
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And then there was meat. In fact there was duck, sausage and foie gras. I mean, what’s not to like? It came with a jus so glossy you could see your own face in it, and was sumptuous, deep, a hug of a plate with all sorts of dark, autumnal notes to it. The meat was perfectly cooked, and it was simply allowed to stand very much on its own considerable merits. The wine with it was a plummy, deep red fruited 2017 Primitivo Rumirat Terre de Chieti from Abruzzo in Italy and it fully deserved its place in the pairing.
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And thus, inevitably, we came to the sweet stuff. First up was pear, anise (in the shape of more tiny, perfectly deep-fried “croquettes” which gave off not the slightest hint of whatever they were fried in but just tasted of aniseed which is a damn clever trick) and sweet cheese. It was a refreshing plate after all the richness that had gone before and showed off the pears very well too. Pears are tricky, even trickier than apples; some varieties can be horribly grainy and gritty (as stones start to form, I’ve now learned), but I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that these were perfect. For dessert wine, we were back in Riesling territory again, this time with an Australian example, Mount Horrocks, Cordon Cut Riesling from the Clare Valley.
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We’d now hit the home straight with one more dessert before the end, a light confection of bergamot, stout, miso and smoked Earl Grey. Handling was known for having something of a fascination with Asian elements, though he has by all accounts toned it right down in the last few years. It came through here though with a fascinating mix of savoury and sweet, done with a light hand. It was a good way to complete what had been quite an adventure. The final wine saw us back in New Zealand and again at Hawkes Bay, this time for a 2016 Chenin Blanc Late Harvest specimen, a medium bodied dessert wine full of honeyed tones. On a side note, if our visit was on a typical night, around a third of the tables were taken up by young Asian women, dining in pairs, and furiously Instagramming everything, which may or may not be an effect of the Asian flavours. Who can tell?
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By now it was gone 10pm and although coffee and tea was on offer, we declined (I no longer drink coffee after around 2 in the afternoon, at least not if I want to sleep) but we were still presented with the petit fours, which were playful and fun. These little jellies had to be peeled off the plate they came on.
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And these included coffee-flavoured chocolates made to look like coffee machine capsules to my probably unreasonable delight.
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Nearly five hours after we’d sat down, we paid our bill, then wandered out into the night to catch our train promising ourselves we’d be back when we could afford it. We’d had a brilliant meal, served by attentive, friendly, knowledgeable (in the main) staff and while it really couldn’t be called cheap in any way, it was worth every penny.
Food 2019 – Frog by Adam Handling, London Thursday, 7th March 2019 - Frog by Adam Handling, London Back in London again for another theatrical event, and having kept costs down on our previous visit, post seeing… 1,957 more words
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takerfoxx · 7 years ago
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Work on Subconscious is going well, so how’s about one last preview?
It rained on the day I got the call again.
Despite being on the shore, Carlton's Well is a pretty dry city, where the temperatures never dip past sweater weather and having access to a pool is less of a luxury and more of a government-sanctioned necessity. The sun was our constant companion, and clouds were suspicious outsiders that could not be trusted. So of course, when the wispy troublemakers did decide to get together and organize, they had a lot of frustration that they needed to burn off, and they did it by doing their damnedest to drown the whole city.
Normally when that happened I preferred to stay at home and wait it out, as did most everyone else. Unfortunately, trouble always brings a friend, so I wasn't too surprised when I got a call from the police, saying that some kind of crime scene had just been discovered and they needed my help. I naturally assumed that a murder had taken place, some back alley stabbing or a drunk loser getting suspicious of their spouse again and finally taking things too far.
Unfortunately it was none of those run-of-the-mill atrocities. They told me, and my blood ran cold. A third lair for the Scarab Killer had been uncovered, and they needed me to come down and help sort out the carnage.
Sometimes I wondered what had possessed me to become a forensics investigator, I really did.
Anyway, thanks to the rain, getting there took more than three times as long as it would have under our usual sunshine and dry roads. Despite the number of closed businesses meaning that there should be fewer cars on the streets than normal, the whole way was packed with vehicles inching along as slow as they could possibly go. Meanwhile, my windshield wipers weren't so much clearing water off my windshield as they were just sloshing it around and my headlights could barely make out the license plate of whatever car so happened to be in front of me.
It's weird, being prevented from going somewhere that you didn't want to go. Theo knows that this wasn't a job that I wanted anything to do with. I had been part of the team that had uncovered lair number two, and that was more than enough of having anything to do with that psycho for one lifetime. But as irony would have it, that also made me one of the most qualified to help deal with that grisly mess. So as much as I did not want to ever reach my destination, I really had no choice and was willing to settle for getting there quickly and getting it over with, but even that was denied me. I'll spare you the detail and the profanity, but needless to say, in the time that it took me to get from my home to the site, I almost completely lost my mind.
My destination was the Lawton's Slaughterhouse over on Crypt Dr. and 4th St., or rather the L-to Lau-ous, if the remaining letters from the damp-rotted sign were to be believed. The slaughterhouse had been closed down decades ago, something to do with how unsanitary their storage methods were, coupled with inhumane working conditions. Of course it had been open for over thirty years without anyone complaining. Well, anyone who mattered that is. It wasn't until some congressman's kid took a bite from the wrong hotdog that the hammer finally came down. Of course, the ensuing investigation had turned up all sorts of disreputable activities going on after closing, and that was that.
Despite being prime real estate so close to the docks, no one had ever bothered to buy the place out, so it was left to rot. That didn't surprise me one bit, considering how much bad juju that sort of thing would build up. You really had to expect that sort of thing in a Nightmare city. For some reason, our stains just set deeper than anywhere else.
Anyway, it didn't really surprise me to hear that a new lair for our cannibalistic friend had turned up in such a place. That was the way it was with the bad Nightmares. They were attracted to those sorts of places, where the aging concrete was still brown with bloodstains and not a single glass window remained. And given his usual MO, I suppose he had felt right at home in that abandoned house of death.
Sure enough, as my car pulled into the cracked and weed-riddled parking lot, my headlights illuminated a corpse standing by an open door, waiting for me. His face was bloodless, his hair pale yellow and brittle, his eyes bulged out like a pair of soggy egg yolks, and he was nervously smoking a cigarette that he couldn't taste. Wrapped around his neck was a thick bandage, from which trailed two plastic tubes filled with blood to a tank on his back.
Detective Harry Richardson had really drawn the short straw of Nightmares. You think a screaming corpse with an ever-bleeding slashed throat is scary? Well, you'd be right. Now, just try living as that corpse after the dream has ended, to go about your day with a big old gash in your warbler and blood that never ran out spilling all over the thrice-awakened place. Trust me, it get pretty damned problematic after a while.
Fortunately Harry had taken the whole thing in stride, though it wasn't like he had any choice. The tubes helped drain the blood before it even reached the tightly wound gash, and so long as he remembered to keep emptying out the tank twice a day, he was dandy, if a bit inconvenienced. He was a good guy all around, family man and the like. Shame I never got to meet his family, or even just go out for a beer with a guy. It seemed we only ever met over scenes of unspeakable horror.
And this was a bad one. Cigarettes didn't do much for Harry, so he only ever smoked them whenever something had really shaken him and he needed some sort of repetitive action to keep his thoughts focused. Seeing him puff away told me all that I needed to know about what awaited us inside.
The usual gang were already there as well, with police cars already flashing their lights all over the place like a rave concert while paramedics stood ready. They weren't going to be much help though. Anyone inside was long beyond their help.
I parked the car and got out, umbrella first. The rain pounded the tapestry like an angry teenager with a drum set. I made my way over to the commotion and flashed my badge at the officers standing around the police tape. They waved me through.
Harry nodded as I approached. He took the cigarette out and tossed it to the ground to grind it under his shoe.
"Way it's pissing out here, you probably didn't even need to do that," I said.
"Yeah, well, better safe than sorry, am I right?" Harry said in in his strong Scottish brogue. "How you doin', Nate?"
"Wet. Nervous. And really, really don't want to go in there." I was already slipping on my gloves and mask. It was fitting. Forensics was a kind of surgery, after all.
"You and me both, brother," Harry said with a grim smile, though to be fair, he didn't have any other kind. He had suited up as well. "Well then. Once more into the breach, eh?"
The door led to the slaughterhouse's basement, because of course it did. Once upon a time, dozens of slain pigs had hung on hooks down there, waiting for the big truck to show up and take them away. "So, it's the same guy?" I said as I carefully made my way down the rusting steel steps, each of my ten legs taking it a little at a time.
Harry was following close behind, the beams of both our flashlights swinging down through the decay. "Unless there's two cannibalistic freaks with no table manners hiding under abandoned buildings out there. Be just our luck if there was, am I right?"
"How'd anyone even find out about this?"
"Couple of naught dealers," he said. "Thought that this would make a good den, seein' how no one ever comes around here."
"Huh. How'd that turn out for them?"
"They called the police, and were sobbing when they did. How do you think it turned out for them?"
Which was a good point. Naught was a very illegal narcotic, and anyone caught dealing it was considered to be very naughty (see what I did there?) in the sight of the law. Generally speaking, those who peddled it tried to stay as far away from the eye of Justice as they could, and it took something very nasty to drive one of those dealers to actually turn themselves in.
It didn't take long for our flashlights to pick up on what that something was. I stopped at the last step and stared over the macabre scene.
Bones. Piles and piles of bones, all of them picked clean of flesh, all of them lying all over the floor.
"It's him," I said.
One week ago…
The city was dull, grey, and dark, devoid of color, devoid of expression, devoid of life. The people that walked the streets were uninteresting blobs, barely distinguishable from one another. The lights of the city were weak and muted, almost helpless against the darkness they resisted. And not a single bit of beauty was to be found. Oh, it certainly appeared otherwise to other eyes, but to one such as myself, it was a drab, dreary wasteland.
I suppose that part of the problem was that I didn't have eyes. Or a nose, for that matter (that detail is unrelated, I admit, but I felt it worth mentioning). That did not mean that I could not see, mind you. It's just that my sight works a bit…differently from that of most people. At its height, I am beholden to a paradise of beauty, with all the world revealing colors and details that everyone else remains blind to. I cannot explain with mere words the ecstasy of seeing the world in such glory, but rest assured that it is an intoxicating experience.
Alas, I am permitted such vision only after I have unloaded my artistic burden and blessed the world with one of my masterpieces, and then only for a short time after. In time, the colors made and the shapes dull, leaving me in a boring world of black and white. And as it had been some time since I had the opportunity to make someone realize their inner beauty, my sight was especially dim that night.
Nevertheless, I swaggered down the street like the dapper gentleman that I was, dressed to the nines and not a thread out of place. Even the flesh mask that I wore (a necessity, after one evening in which I allowed myself to become sloppy and the raw materials escaped after seeing my face) was the best money could buy. Because though the world may seem dreary to my soul, I knew in my heart that it was only a matter of time before the canvas was awash in color and vibrancy. I could feel it in my blood, I could feel it burning in my loins.
There was no mistaking that sweet, sweet siren's call. It was time. Tonight was the night. I was going to create a masterpiece.
Now…
"It's the same as last time," I said as I crouched down over the skeletal remains. In this having so many thin legs came in handy, as they allowed me to move among the bones without disturbing them while still providing all the balance I needed. "All of them humanoid."
It may sound redundant, but when you live in a place like Nightmare, it was important to make the distinction. I mean, my regular barista's a crocodile, for Theo's sake.
"So the bastard does have a type," Harry said, lingering behind on the steps.
"Looks like." I gingerly reached down to touch one of the skulls. The jaw was AWOL, which was also not a surprise. The guy wasn't just messy, he went out of the way to make sure his victims' remains were as scattered as possible. I lifted it up, giving it a cursory examination.
"Young female," I said at last, but that I already knew. In both of the other lairs that had been uncovered, the victims had almost exclusively been young humanoid women. Like Harry had said, the guy has a type.
"I'd say about early twenties," I continued. "Decent dental work, has a couple of fillings." It was funny, but the whole way here I had been in a state of perpetual dread, anticipating the horrors that awaited me. But now that I was at the scene with said horrors scattered all about me, it was somehow easier to deal with. Sometimes the training just took over.
"Right, of course," Harry muttered. He seemed a bit more uneasy than me. Not surprising, seeing how he had a daughter. "The…" He coughed a bit. "Their affects should be around here somewhere."
"Right." I gently set the skull back where it was. "Let's go then."
We carefully made our way through the mess, Harry having a harder time than I was. I could hear him muttering and cursing as he did his best not to crush anything underfoot.
From the look of things, our absent friend had been here a while. There were more bones than at the previous two lairs, which meant he was definitely stepping his game up. The guy was long gone though, and I really doubted we would find anything to point us to where he had gone. That was one of the many, many problems with that guy. Most killers really weren't all that smart, and those that were still didn't know the first thing about covering their tracks. This guy was different. All together his kill count probably numbered near the triple digits, and we didn't so much as have a clue as to what he looked like. Hell, we weren't even sure that it even was a he. The bones were the only organic thing he left behind, with everything else having been carefully cleaned away somehow.
Then I paused. "Hey, wait a minute," I said, peering into a crack in the concrete.
"What is it?" Harry said.
"I think I got something here." My fingers were very long and very thin, but not quite thin enough to squeeze into the crack, so I extracted a set of tweezers from the tool kit on my belt and set to work.
Then…
I found my materials in a small back alley. Apparently garbage day was looming, as the dumpsters and trash cans were overflowing with filth. That didn't bother me one bit. You'd be surprised at the treasures you can find in the trash.
In this case, the treasure in question was a child if its size and shape were any indication, probably some grubby street urchin. I found them digging through an open dumpster in search of treasures of their own. Little did they know that the greatest treasure was about to find them.
Now, one might think me crass for targeting a child. Indeed, there were many in the business that held to a strict "No Children" policy, as if adopting one set of scruples was enough to save their souls. Not me though. After all, children had the same potential for beauty as adults, even moreso perhaps. To deny them would just be selfish.
My failing senses took in my soon-to-be materials from which I was going to create my newest masterpiece. It was a…boy. A bit of a disappointment. Girls tended to bleed more prettily, I've found, and the colors they create are somehow more alive. Still, needs must when the Devil drives and all that.
His body shape was a little unorthodox, but that also was no surprise. We were in a Nightmare city, and one had to expect a little peculiarity. Like myself for instance. If one were to see me without my mask, they might take note of my lack of eyes or a nose, or by bone-white skin, or my oversized ears, or my exceptionally large mouth with its sharp teeth and black tongue. I do not apologize for how I look though. We are all beautiful in our own little ways.
The child didn't react to my approach, the sounds of his scrounging masking my footsteps. In fact, I was nearly all the way up to the dumpster before he finally sensed that he was not alone. Pausing, he looked up, head tilted in curiosity toward me.
I smiled and said my customary greeting. "Hello. Would you like to become beautiful?"
Now…
It took some wiggling, but I finally managed to pull the rectangular plastic card from the crevice. "Yeah, that's what I thought," I said, shining my light down on it. Harry leaned in close, peering over my shoulder. "Driver's license."
The license was for one Tanya Lexington. Her face smirked up at me, a pretty Nightmare girl with short, dark hair and dimpled cheeks. "You recognize her?" I said to Harry, handing him the card.
"Can't say that I do," he said, squinting down at it. "Bet you anything she's been reported missing though."
"Yeah, I'm not taking that bet." That was another one of our guy's MO's. He liked to hide the personal identification of his victims around his lairs; no doubt we'd be finding many more driver's licenses, school ID's, employee ID's, credit cards, passports, green cards, and the like. It was also probably why he mixed up the bones so thoroughly, just to taunt their families. "Yeah, your daughter/sister/wife/girlfriend is definitely here, but you'll never find all of her. Have fun with the funeral."
I hated this guy, I really did.
"Let's keep moving," I said.
It didn't take long to find another one. A moldy black purse with its strap half torn off rested against a ribcage. Inside I found a broken cell phone, loose change, a few candy bars, tangled headphones, a scattering of ticket stubs, spare tampons, and, of course, the wallet. The money and cards were all undisturbed. The college ID said that it was a Desio girl named Patricia Nottingham.
"This one's pretty far from home," I noted.
"Studying abroad, I guess."
It wasn't unusual. We Nightmares may not have the best reputation in the wider world, but thanks to Lord Eric of Thorns and his reformative policies, our education system was second to none, something even the notoriously stuffy Desios admitted to. So it really wasn't unheard of for ambitious students to get a green card and come our way in hopes of a more prestigious degree.
There was an especially grim look on Harry's face though, and I had a feeling that I knew why. Alice, his daughter, was about Patricia and Tanya's age, and was also away from home attending college. No doubt the poor guy was seeing her face on those dirty ID cards.
I could hear poor Patricia arguing with her parents in my head. "Mom, it's really the best choice," she might have said. "The Nightmares aren't like that anymore! I'll be fine, there's no reason to worry!"
I wondered how long it had been since they had spoken to her last. I wondered if they even suspected what had happened. I wondered which of these bones were hers.
Then…
The boy did not react how I had expected. I had expected fear. I had expected confusion. I had expected him to immediately retreat, to put as much distance between himself and I. It was a common reaction, unfortunately enough. Paint never really comprehends its destiny until you dipped the brush.
I got none of that. In fact, the boy did not react much at all. Instead, he remained exactly where he was, crouched on the side of the dumpster, hands on his knees, face towards me.
Thanks to my soon-to-be-corrected limited sight, I couldn't make out much in the way of his features, but it did seem like he was studying me.
"Beautiful?" he said. "I'm literally digging through the garbage here. You think I care about beauty?"
My ears twitched. His voice sounded…wrong. It was very soft, yes, but there was a certain sinister quality to it, like a velvet sheathe over a poisoned dagger. And his inflections were rather odd, with a notable singsong quality to them.
I had been wrong. Despite his small size, this was no child. A disappointment, but not a deal-breaker. My masterpiece would be completed regardless.
"Is beauty not what we all strive for?" I said. "Beauty. Perfection. Realization of what we are meant to be."
"You have a grandiose way of speaking," he said. "But you have my attention. What exactly are you proposing?"
Another surprise. It was so rare that the materials actually listened while I imparted wisdom upon them. "Is it not obvious? Are we all not born with unlimited potential? The chance and ability to transcend beyond our fleshy burdens and become fully realized? How many among us actually see that potential fulfilled? How many downtrodden souls walk these streets every day, trapped in their ugly existences due to circumstance, misfortune, and a lack of ambition?"
"Well, you might have a point there," the material murmured. "I have to admit, that is something that's been keeping me up at night. I mean, think about it: we Nightmares are pretty much the most emasculated people in all of Nod. We have everything that makes us us ripped out of us on birth. They take out our souls and call it rehabilitation. And don't get me started on all the ass-kissing we have to do just to get the tiniest bit of respect."
I knew well what he was complaining about, and to be honest it sort of disappointed me. It was a common complaint among the younger generation, to rail against rehabilitation and our admittedly degrading relationship with the rest of Nod, especially when it came to the grip that the Marauders had around our necks. I understood their discontent, but had always felt it to be a little short-sided.
"There is an argument to be made there," I allowed. "But I was speaking of personal realization, not that of society. To rise above such unfortunate circumstances and achieve true perfection, true beauty."
"Oh, really now? Okay, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you're probably not talking about getting a makeover and a haircut."
I tsked. "Ever so focused on the superficial. No, my young friend. True beauty cannot be found in chemicals and cutting. True beauty is found within."
"I'm sorry, but did is suddenly become a children's cartoon?" he said dryly.
I scowled. "I'll forgive you your misunderstanding. No, no, no, you are still getting it wrong. I speak not of such…childish concepts."
"Then by all means. Enlighten me."
In that, I would gladly comply. "Consider our skin," I said, holding up my arm and pulling down the sleeve to expose the flesh of my wrist beneath my glove. "Our flesh. Our hair and fingernails. It is the only piece we see, and so we mistakenly consider this out covering to be our true selves. So we play with it. We dress it up, make it lovely to look upon. But is our visible flesh really our true selves? No, it most definitely is not. Rather, it is our armor, designed to protect that which really matters."
"Our guts then," he said. "The blood and viscera. Brain, lungs, and liver."
"Exactly! That which is truly necessary for life, that allows us to breathe, speak, think, and feel. Our internal workings are a miracle of creation, and yet, what do we do whenever it is exposed?" I shook my head in sad regret. "We draw back in revulsion. We are disgusted. But why? I ask you, why do we do this? Should we not be transfixed by their loveliness, these wonderful works of art? Why are we not fascinated by them, why do not embrace them, why do we not strive to bless our eyes with their majesty at every available opportunity?"
"Well, there is the small problem of us expiring once those beautiful babies leave their armor," he said. "That's something of a deterrent."
"Fear of death? Of pain?" I sniffed. "Small price to pay for beauty."
"Interesting, interesting," he murmured. "And as it so happens, I do believe that this conversation has helped me to see the light. To be specific, I now know who you are."
I froze. "Oh, do you?"
"I do. You're the Masterpiece Killer, aren't you?"
Now…
The beam of my flashlight fell upon something interesting. "Hey, come and take a look at this," I said.
It was a door, a steel mesh door set into the wall. The handle had been removed, but a chain was looped through the empty hole to wrap around a bar set in the wall, held together with a padlock.
"What's in there?" Harry said, shining his beam through. On the other side, the ground was free from bones, but I would bet good money that our friend had left something in there for us.
"Only one way to find out," I said, wrapping my fingers around the chain.
"Huh, wait," he said, pressing himself closer to the door. "I think…I think there's something on the wall."
"I don't doubt it," I grunted, giving the chain a hard shake. "See if you can call for some bolt cutters to be sent down here so-"
The padlock slipped open, and the chain fell loose in my hand.
"-or not. This works too."
"You'd think he'd know better not to leave his door unlocked," Harry said, pushing the door open.
I slowly moved into the room beyond, grateful that, for the moment at least, I didn't need to wade through the dead to do so. "Yeah, well, if I move out of a place, the last thing I care about is-"
My flashlight beam then fell upon something on the wall.
"-holy fuck!"
Then…
And just like that, our pleasant conversation had gone sour. "Do not call me that," I growled.
"Why not? It's your name, isn't it?"
"The newspapers gave me that name," I corrected. "I never, ever once called myself that! 'Masterpiece Killer,' phah! It implies that I kill masterpieces! Nothing is further from the truth! I don't kill masterpieces, I create them!"
"My apologies. May I call you Masterpiece then?"
"NO!" I roared. I reached up with one hand and tore the damned mask off. "I am not a masterpiece, not yet! That gift is not for me! I am the artist, not the artwork!"
"Ah. I understand. Now, you weren't planning on turning me into one of your masterpieces, were you? Because if so, then thanks, but no thanks. I'm not interested in dying."
I ground my teeth. Screaming, begging, and weeping I could bear. But for someone of intelligence to fully comprehend what I was offering and still reject my gift? It couldn't be born! "It is not for the paint to question the painter," I said. "Nor for the clay to criticize the sculptor."
"I am neither. With all respect to your artistic vision, you think too small. Now, do you know what my vision is, my bohemian friend? Shall I tell you what I dream?"
"Tell me," I said. "I will make sure to carve it onto your entrails."
For several moments, he didn’t speak, and I almost decided to just get on with it. But then he broke the silence, and when he did, his voice was low, rhythmic, almost a chant.
"I dream of a world where Nightmares exist without shackles, without limitations, and without shame. I dream of a world where we no longer are forced to apologize for who we are, for what we are, where the fears that molded us are realized in all that behold us. I dream of a world where the strong are no longer compelled to kneel before the weak, where the only sins of our fathers is their denial of our birthrights. I dream of a world where are no longer made to hide from our true selves, but all the world must hide from us. I dream of a world where enlightened visionaries such as you and I are not considered aberrations, are not considered freaks, but are instead the norm, and the weak, neutered cattle that walk the streets that our forefathers built are devoured like the prey that they are. I dream of a world in which the Screaming Throne is once again filled by a worthy Monarch, one that will surpass Thelonious the Silent with his majesty, one that will cast down the Marauders' chains from our necks and restore us to our former greatness. That is my dream, my artistic friend. That is my vision."
I paused then. His speech just echoed the sentiments he had said earlier, and it was certainly nothing I had never heard before. However, his conviction was striking, and the way he expressed comradery was telling.
I had made a mistake. This…thing was not raw materials.
"You are…in the business, aren't you?" I said cautiously.
"You speak of the serial killing business?" He inclined his head. "I do have that honor."
"Then you are…" I mentally ran the names of my colleagues. I had never met or corresponded with a single one of them, but I still made a point to keep track of my kin.
"The newspapers have seen fit to dub me the Scarab Killer." He chuckled. "It's a little silly, but inoffensive."
"I see," I murmured. I knew that name, of course. I knew how he operated, the sort of things he did. Oh me oh my, oh me oh my, this was not a situation I wanted to be in.
Slowly bowing at the waist, I said, "Well then, mine Scarab Killer. It seems that I have made a grave error. I apologize for the misunderstanding, and leave you to your work."
"Ah. Well. See, about that." A strange rustling filled my ears, like dry leaves blowing across hard stone. "I make it a personal rule not to let anyone live who's seen my face and heard my name. It's just simple practicality, you understand."
I let out a nervous laugh. "But s-surely you can't believe that I would turn you in! We are kin, in a way! Even if we weren't, it simply wouldn't be prudent for me to go anywhere near the authorities! Why I-"
I stopped. I was talking to a dumpster. Even with my limited sight, I could see that the Scarab Killer was gone.
But the rustling was growing louder.
Well, then. It was time to go. I hastily yanked my mask back over my head and turned to flee.
Then my legs erupted into agony.
I screamed and fell, my hands stopping me before I collapsed onto the foul ground.
The ground was alive.
Dozens…no, hundreds of beetles were crawling all over the alley floor. Cockroaches, goliath beetles, stink bugs, and, yes, scarab beetles. They were everywhere, swarming over the concrete, over the garbage, over me. I felt my bowels freeze while warmth flooded my trousers. It had been their mandibles that had felled me, and now they were going to eat me alive.
No such luck, alas.
Something seized me by the back of my jacket and yanked me up, hauling me up the side of one of the buildings like one of the many bags of trash that now lay below. The ground retreated from me, and I could see that the entire alley was swarming with beetles.
The Scarab Killer was clinging to the wall like one of his tiny brethren. Holding me aloft by the lapels, he held me out over the drop. With his other hand he yanked my mask off.
And then, to my eternal shame, I found myself devolving into the behavior exhibited by all of the raw materials I had used to create my masterpieces. I cried. I had no eyes with which to weep, but nevertheless I cried.
And I begged.
"Please," I said, my hands clutching at his wrist. "Please don't."
He let out a soft chuckle. "I am sorry about this. In a fairer world we would have been friends. But in accordance with your vision, I will ensure that you will be made beautiful." He dropped my mask and held up his hand, the tips of his fingers ending in ripping talons. "Please understand, I hold you in the highest respect."
"But I don't want to be beautiful!" I wailed. "I don't-"
Then, as his talon slid through the fabric of my shirt and into my stomach, a miracle happened. In that single, final moment, everything was awash with color. My drab, black-and-white suddenly became alive. I could see everything in full and living color, every detail becoming clear, the beauty of the world revealed to me. I cried, though not in fear, but in gratitude.
And in that moment of clarity, I saw the face of God. And it was beautiful.
Now…
"Holy shit," Harry breathed. "Are you…are you seeing this?"
"I'm seeing it," I said. "Oh man, am I seeing it."
The sight that had transfixed us so was what was upon the wall. Painted in long-dried blood was the form of a scarab beetle the size of a man, facing upward. It sat within four circles, each one broken at a different point: top left in the outmost circle, top right in the one within that, bottom left in the one within that, and bottom right in the innermost circle. Five of the beetle's legs were intact, while the bottom left leg was broken off at the first joint.
It was known as the sign of the Crippled Beetle, the Scarab Killer's calling card. It had been found at both of the other two lairs as well, the surest sign that we had that all of these grisly hideouts all belonged to the same person.
But this one had a little something extra. A grey-skinned man was crucified upon the beetle's form. He was tall, slim, and wore the filthy and tattered remains of a black dress suit. His perfectly bald head was the shape of a cantaloupe, with exceptionally large ears and a gaping mouth that slashed its way across the middle, a swollen black tongue hanging out. He had no eyes or nose. His hands had been nailed into each of the beetle's front legs, while his feet had been nailed into the rear legs.
That was nasty enough, but from the look of things, the poor guy's stomach had been split open, with his intestines yanked out in two directions and likewise nailed into the wall over each of the beetle's middle legs. Beneath him was scrawled the phrase, "HE IS BEAUTIFUL."
"Theo preserve us," Harry murmured. "You're tellin' me that the Scarab Killer and the Masterpiece Killer are the same guy?"
"No, I don't think that's it at all," I said, recalling the rough descriptions given to us from one of the Masterpiece Killer's intended victims. "Harry, I think that guy there…I think that is the Masterpiece Killer!"
Harry was silent for a time as he digested this. Then he slowly said, "So…they're goin’ after each other now?"
"I guess?" I shrugged. "Maybe they knew each other. Maybe he wanted this to happen. Maybe there was some kind of grudge. Or hell, maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Right then," Harry said, licking his thick lips. He managed a ghastly parody of a smile. "Well, hey. I'm no one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially a mouth as ugly as that, am I right?"
I nodded slowly, though I was too deep in thought to say much more.
Who was the Scarab Killer? What did he want? At least with the Masterpiece Killer we knew his motivations and his vision, as twisted as they might be. But with this guy, we knew jack shit.
Was there some purpose to the carnage he kept causing, or was it just simple cruelty? Was he after revenge? And if so, against what? Society, women, I don't know, getting bad grades in college? What was up with this creep?
I didn't have a clue. I had picked through the Scarab Killer's leavings twice already, and I didn't even know where to begin. And in the meantime, he ran free, killing at will. Hell, he was probably torturing some girl at that very moment, and we couldn't do a damned thing to stop him.
Later that night…
The rain wasn't showing any sign of letting up, and Alice was getting worried.
She was pacing back and forth beneath the relative safety of a bus stop, phone held to her ear, as she traded between nervously checking the time and the bus schedule that was printed onto one of the stop's plastic walls.
"No, it's still late," she said into the phone. "And the rain's getting worse."
"Well, maybe I should come and get you," said her mother on the other end. "You know, just to be safe."
Alice sighed. "Mom, you're in another city. Even without the traffic, it's a forty minute drive. Even if the bus is held up, there's no way you'd get here first."
"I know, I know, it's just…I'm worried, all right? I'm your mother, I'm entitled. Besides, your father's been on edge so much recently, I think it's rubbing off."
"God, don't tell me he's out working in this," Alice said, peering out into the veil of water.
"No rest for the wicked. Though I'd think that criminals would have the good sense to look out the window and decide to take the night off."
Alice laughed at that "Wait, so you're saying I'm dumber than the average criminal for being out in this mess? Gee, thanks, Mom. That really makes me-"
Something seized her from behind. The phone clattered to the ground of the now-empty bus stop.
"Alice?" it continued to squawk. "Is everything okay?"
Then a clawed hand reached in, coming out from the rain.
"Alice?"
The claw came down, slicing though the phone and silencing it forever.
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imagineclaireandjamie · 8 years ago
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Read Chapters One through Six here.
Our Story
We often lose track of time in this great, big world of ours, in much the same way we lose a pair of keys, a couple of pens. “I swear I saw them two seconds ago!” we groan, groping to purse-bottoms, finding only lint and chump-change. So many things—these small facets of our lives—sucked into the void of bygones, taken before we can ever think to tie them down: “I swear I was twenty-two just yesterday.”
This is how it is for Jamie and Claire, their years like old playbills confiscated by the wind and an invisible clock. Certain acts reappear from time to time, when the arm of a broom sweeps them into the light, when the frosting of dust disturbs, then floats. And for a brief moment, as the particles of time and forget resettle themselves, Jamie and Claire can hear their lives’ most glorious crescendos. The lowest notes tip-toe from the long-kept silence, rising and sinking slowly, steadily. All plucked strings, still vibrating, until the echoes die, cradling the past.
You can write an entire story with these bits and pieces of their lives, cut the acts together to form one winding opera. It plays and stops—the sound booth unmanned—until, eventually, the grand finale. The overlap: a perfect harmony which carries them from their separate wings, to center stage and to each other. 
And it is there, finally, that they meet again, lips and lives melding. They stand together in the orb of the spotlight. A single sun, glowing.
The Spirit in the Horse, 2000
Starring James Fraser, Jenny Fraser, Brian Fraser, The Doctor, Ellen Fraser, Fitzy (and a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else)
Though a bestselling author, JAMES FRASER did not grow up with dreams of books, but of horses.
He was born on an unusually hot day, spring 1968. Everything melting at their very seams, the birthing room’s thermometer feverish with mercury blood. His father and sister had fashioned fans from intake forms, moving heat-murk and birth-stink with the accordioned papers. They looked on with damp foreheads, lips white and tight, so that Ellen could have the breaths they saved.
At half-past noon, the doctor had caught Jamie’s auburn crown, dripping more heavily than his own laboring mother. All of this—the heat, the sweat, the waving forms—was taken as the stamp of Jamie’s fate. Surely, they had all agreed, he would set the world on fire, would be a brand forever puckering its skin.
The hibernators had emerged early that year, scurrying from their earthen wombs just as Jamie had slipped from his mother’s. Heat-drunk and dizzied, they had eaten everything in sight: corn stalks, cabbage leaves, whole fields of barley—gone. Even Ellen’s strawberries, barely ripened—devoured by mid-April. The red fruits had shrunk to halves, then thirds, as the creatures munched and munched. Fleshy hearts eaten to bleeding, the pulp left to the sleepy stragglers.
And so on the day Jamie entered the world, the Frasers had returned to a dark and stifling house. Rot wafting from the windows, electrical wires chewed cleanly through. One rabbit, the chosen martyr, had laid cooked in the grass, fur spiked.
Brian had thrust Jamie into his daughter’s arms, ran inside to rescue what unspoiled food he could (three eggs, a loaf of bread). Waiting in the yard, Jenny had imagined the wilting lettuce inside the fridge and Ellen, equally wilted under the blue hospital sheet. She had watched a squirrel leap across the berry guts, a rope of black wire between his paws.
How—if at all, she had wondered—would they survive without her mother?
Too exhausted for a trip to the store, Brian had fried the eggs on the driveway. The yolk was thick in his mouth and the sorrow thicker in his chest, before he realized Jamie’s cries had quieted. He started when he heard the horse’s whinny, the snorty exhale through its nostrils. Beside him, Jenny had scuttled away, feet scraping at the egg crusts.
Incensed by the heat and the crowd, Fitzy the horse had stormed her stable doors to freedom. She had brayed, desolate to find her owner gone, until she spotted the flame in Brian’s arms. Copper, auburn, cinnabar—all Ellen’s colors—poking from a swaddle of blue. And so Fitzy had bowed her head, brought Jamie into her awed silence. One shining moment, the first since Ellen’s passing—calm and peaceful.
Even now, 32 years later, Jamie loves to tell this story. How Brian had pressed his baby fist to the mane, his mother still a stickiness on his baby thumb. And how, as a young boy, Jamie had thought Ellen lived somewhere inside auld Fitzy. Something in the black bead of the mare’s eye: a flash, a peculiar spark. It was an acknowledgement that, until one night in 1989, Jamie had never felt before.
After his book tour in ’99, Jamie Fraser decided to take the leap—carpe diem—and purchase his own horse, his own land (fields way out in the Highlands; a farmhouse converted to splendor by his millions). The horse, like Fitzy, wears a chestnut coat. She is stubborn but loving, recognizes Jamie’s voice when he calls and his face when it floats above her stable door. He sees a flash of Fitzy—and of his mother, he thinks—when she surrenders her anger to Jamie’s flags of truce: a fresh Granny Smith, a carrot stick plucked from the ground. He sees a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else when she nudges his shoulder, apologetic. The only source of happiness, this beautiful beast, outside of his writing.
“Ye see?” Jamie had said after their first standoff, “Ye canna stay mad at me forever.” And when the horse had chomped the apple from his hand, he’d sworn that she was smiling.
“Mo nighean donn,” he’d whispered, and decided, then and there, to name her Sorcha.
Carroll’s Theory of Truth, 2003
Starring Claire Randall, Frank Randall, Joe Abernathy, duncandonuts, wetwillie, mark_me_1745, parsleymarsley, l.mackenzie (and The Author)
When CLAIRE RANDALL is not working at the hospital, her nose is pressed to a blue-white screen.
For years, she had resisted those monstrous, blocky machines: Macintosh, Dell, Gateway. All brand names accompanied by her husband’s reverent whisper, longing glances at window displays, or jabbing elbows. “We should get one, Claire.”
But there was value in tradition, Claire had argued, a kind of sanctity in the ping of an Underwood or the swish of pen; privacy and authentic connection. Frank had merely rolled his eyes, always lusting after the new and shiny—whether a computer or a student’s gloss-plumped lips—knowing it was not “tradition” itself that his wife was holding onto.
“So like you, Claire,” he’d said bitterly one day, “wanting to stay stuck in the past.” And, of course, he’d been right. And so to spite him, she’d finally surrendered, gave him one for Christmas.
Gradually, Claire came to love the whirring engine, the wail of the dial-up, the period of isolation where she was unreachable by phone. Like time travel, almost, the way it took her places past and present, opening every door like some futuristic gentleman.
But mostly, Claire loved the computer for the freedom it gave her. Boot up the system, click the mouse, log on, be someone else. Online, Claire could play a different role than the surgeon or the amateur gardener, pretend she was not the wife who turned her cheek as often as she made her husband’s dinner. On the Internet, her identity was a thirty-word bio, her face a grey silhouette displayed comfortably—anonymously—inside a neat, square frame. A million different bodies growing inside her, once her fingers flew across keyboard:
Claire Randall, the British spy.
Claire Randall, the avid hiker, climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Claire Randall, the mother, who loved the melt of ice cream down her daughter’s chin. Her tiny mouth, sweet and sugared, when it met hers for a kiss.
One website, her favorite, was this: a forum, populated by other faceless humans who, like Claire, could recite pages 32, 208, 451 (or any others) of A Blade of Grass. In this corner of the online universe, they had spoken of The Author on a first-name basis, trading facts like prized baseball cards. But it was only Claire who could share the most private knowledge, attribute it all to her keen nose and thus earn the respect of 16 anonymous users.
Even so, Claire had been surprised by what they knew solely through their reading. The Author’s childhood, his relationships, his favorite color. She was able to ask her own prodding questions and receive correct answers, such as:
whiteraven: A long shot, but does anyone know how to contact him by telephone?
 And five of the grey-faced few had responded.
duncandonuts: easier to send him send him a letter (might get lost among the rest of his fan mail though).
wetwillie: have you tried his agent, john grey, in london?
mark_me_1745: if u meet him, tell him 2 come 2 brasil!!!!!!! we <3 him!!!!!!!
parsleymarsali: Publishers Weekly mentioned he’s now with Geordie Gibbons at the Claude F. Agency, not Grey, @wetwillie. Think it had something to do with creative differences and missed deadlines.
l.mackenzie: pass that info onto _me_ if you find it, girl! <g>
By a stroke of luck, someone had known someone who’d known someone who’d known someone. And just like that, she was given a phone number the following Wednesday. A day like any other, if it weren’t for a single string of digits sitting in her inbox, a silent but ticking grenade.
She spent three months with the numbers inside her head, stored in a folder marked with The Author’s name. She did manage to call though—once—when her hand finally lowered from its hover. She’d waited out the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the robotic chime, “You have reached the voice mailbox of +44 3456 2222.” She had listened to the beep that followed and then the silence, stretching, until she remembered her mouth. It opened, exhaled, shut abruptly with the click of her teeth. There was the clatter of keys and the thwop of a briefcase—Frank home from work; she almost whispered, but did not.
It was too much to have both men in the same room: one gently pecking her lips, the other pressing an electric current into her cheek, crackling. Too much, too much. Claire had slammed the phone down and cursed, “Bloody teleprompter. Always calling before dinner,” which had made her husband laugh. She’d made him spaghetti that night, the spices forming twelve digits in the saucepan no matter how many times she swirled the spoon.
It’s been four months since that first and only call, though Claire still remembers The Author’s number. She thinks of if—when—she will have the courage to call again, to finally speak and fill the space of eleven empty years. While Frank snores beside her, she plays the scene from start to finish, like a draft of the real, inevitable thing.
Again: the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the tinny greeting, the beep, and the silence that waits for her. But this time: her mouth opening—one, two three times—and five words repeated, again and again. In some versions, she says them aloud. In others, merely pushes them, soundless, into the air. Still, they are there, held aloft by satellite arms high up in the sky. Somewhere between her and The Author, existing: I was born for you, I was born for you, I was born for you.
And what is said three times—even unfinished, even without words—is always, always true.
Three Times the World Ended, 2004
Starring Jamie Fraser, Jenny Fraser, and Laoghaire Mackenzie (and The Girl)
JAMES FRASER, age 34, can pinpoint three moments where his world fell apart. 
He was eighteen during the first, a brazen thing but still as green as the pot freshly stinking his Levi’s. After reading the note pasted to his door—Your sister called. Said it was urgent—he’d floated to the common room on a cloud of White Widow weed. He dialed, laughing, until Jenny’s voice had sobbed down the line, breaking his druggy fug. 
Their father, she’d cried, had died the previous evening.
With the news, the drugs turned. Floors slanted, limbs jellied. Jamie watched as a hole ripped open the wall behind him, its enormous black void revealing the space Brian Fraser had left behind. It had swallowed Jamie up, refused to spit him back again until The Girl reached inside and found his heart. Returned it to him, like a love note, passed on the inside of her smile.
Jamie describes the second collapse in his two famous novels, A Blade of Grass and Two Centuries in Purgatory. This time, the world had split completely, Jamie and The Girl like two tectonic plates shifting in the night. It was his writing that had bound Jamie’s world together again, though the spine remained cracked, a few of the pages missing.
The third time occurred just last week though Jamie was not entirely surprised. It’s what happens, he supposes, when you build something on uneven ground. Physical presence—someone’s here-ness—does not equate to love.
Nine years after the second earthquake, a new person had come into Jamie’s life. She would stand in the doorway at 6:30PM, jump to her tip-toes to welcome him home. There would be steam from the stove behind her and the gleam of utensils from the table, forks and knives arranged in perfect, shining order. Napkins would wait with their patient folds, each prepared to catch the food which she, his ever-present Laoghaire, had prepared during the day. And for those three years, Laoghaire’s toothbrush had sat next to Jamie’s, her silks hanging beside his cottons. Evidence, he had thought, that he maybe-almost loved her.
But then Laoghaire had grown curious—“Why’ve no made progress on yer novel? What are ye writing all day if it isna yer third book?”—and stuck her piglet nose into places it did not belong. She, in a rare moment of ingenuity, had unlocked the safe and found his letters.
And so this time, Jamie’s world had not ripped or split—but exploded with a thousand sticks of paper dynamite. Laoghaire had burned through the house, burned through the letters. She’d called the magazines and the bloggers, vowing to tarnish his reputation with lies: cheater, drunk, lunatic, fraud. Finally, she’d left, taking the napkins, the cutlery, and the toothbrush—but leaving the embers in her wake, smoldering. A few scraps had avoided the fire, and Jamie read them as the night rose. Laoghaire’s side of the bed like a cold breeze.
My da once told me I’d know straight away, that I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t.
For so many years, for so long, I have been so many different men.
The love of you was my soul.
and
Yours, Jamie
Forever, Jamie
Come home, my heart. I am not as brave as I was before, Jamie
On and on and on they went. Singed pieces of his letters. Every one meant for The Girl who’d confronted his darkness, had rescued his heart at a Christmas Eve party.
All 4,380 of them. One letter for every day he had missed her.
The Killing Girl, 2006
Starring Claire Randall*, Henry Beauchamp, Julia Beauchamp, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, Frank Randall (and The One Person)
CLAIRE RANDALL* , Chief of Staff at Boston GH, was five years old when she thought she was murderer. For years, she could hardly sleep, fearing not the monster beneath her bed, but the one beneath her covers.
Instead of counting sheep, she’d recounted facts as they’d been reported in the paper: Henry and Julia Beauchamp, parents of one Claire Beauchamp. Their mangled car, a rocky deathbed set one hundred feet below. Both husband and wife, father and mother—dead upon impact.
Rarely, did this guide Claire towards sleep, and so she began to picture the accident as she’d recorded it in her diary. The same story but more accurate, one that played behind her eyelids as if she had watched it all, a spectator on the road’s shoulder.
There was her parents’ blue Ford ribboning the cliffside. The low hum of conversation and the static of the radio. There was Claire’s goodbye before they left—“You always go without me! IhateyouIhateyou!”— following her parents, pushing them off the edge, feeding them into the river’s stone jaws. She was sure it was her words that had broken her mother’s neck, had snapped it like a flower’s stem. One Claire Beauchamp, the little killing girl.
Five years passed before Lamb had found her in the courtyard, weeping guilt into a mat of grey feathers. She had confessed to her five-year anger then, how she’d pried open the rocky mouth and dropped her parents in. “Death doesn’t move according to reason, my dear,” Lamb had said, “but only chance. And by no fault of yours, either.” He had patted her on the head like a priest grants forgiveness, and they buried the bird in the Nyungwe Forest. Wings and Claire’s blame laid to rest beneath the trees.
Still, Claire likes how accountability sets her world—so wracked by coincidence—back on its axis. Responsibility, however false, is easier to accept than the fickleness of husbands, of dead parents, of love and life. She assumes the role of the guilty to feel a sense of control, like she herself is in charge of the scale’s tip. And so:
It was Claire’s fault that the frost returned in May, all her marigold suns snuffed out.
It was Claire’s fault that the infection took the wound, gnawed the patient’s flesh so that a saw had to chop the bone.
It was Claire’s fault that midnight voices chirped down the receiver. The girls’ lovesick notes—I need you. I love you. Leave her.—placed in Frank’s pockets by Claire’s own hands.
And of course, it was Claire’s fault that things had ended as they did. The final fight, every bit of hate, hers to claim:
“I am not an idiot, Frank! And I’m tired of being made into one.”
“Darling, you aren’t an idiot. I never said you were an idiot.”
“Don’t bloody ‘darling’ me, you bloody cad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How novel.”
“Truly, I am.”
“So that’s it, then? Just ‘I’m sorry.’ No excuses? No begging-on-bended-knee?” (Claire had scoffed. Her laughter, like the paring knife that guts the beast.) “No, of course not. Begging would be too embarrassing for you. Too much effort. All your energy is spent chasing skirts and quick fucks. You selfish, disgusting man.”
“So I’m the only selfish one here, is that it? Just me?”
“You’re saying that I’m selfish?”
“I am.”
“Me.”
“Yes, you, Claire! You, who is always working and never here. You, who sleeps with his books under our mattress, still wears the man’s goddamn ring on a chain. Like a fucking noose around our marriage, from the start.” (Claire had winced; Frank’s knuckles had cracked the wall.) “No, I’m not selfish, Claire. I’ve shared you with another man for thirteen years.”
“So I see you’ve lost all sense, but still have some fucking nerve. You—you…I can’t even look at you right now.”
“Cursing doesn’t improve your argument.”
“Wanker.”
“Now Claire…”
“Just go.”
“Claire, please—”
“Go.”
And thus, it was Claire’s fault that Frank had whispered, “You’ve never looked at me. Not once, not really.” And it was her fault that he had grabbed his keys, slipped into the blizzard and into his car.
And it was Claire—Claire, Claire, Claire—who became the ice that hissed against tires. Who launched Frank’s body through the glass, turned his skin purple-blue and the snow dark red. Her fault that the last thing she’d said was “go”, and Frank had taken her at her very word.
All of this, she has put upon her shoulders, for its burden is lesser than the truth: that she has no control, never did and never would. Claire, forever spinning and spinning at the mercy of a capricious gravity—she and everyone else, a little bit helpless. Always.
But there was One Person, she often remembers, who had given her a kind of foothold. On their wedding night, she had whispered about her mother’s flower neck, about the grey bird whose wings she’d given to the Nyungwe. And he had understood, promised forgiveness for whatever wrongs she had and would commit. “Real or imagined, Sassenach” he’d said into hair, “Already forgiven.” 
They had spiraled through life, the pair of them, both a little bit helpless—but everything, everything shared. A cot, a child, bodies, sins, blame.
But of all of her false faults, this is one Claire fears is true: that she is the reason The One Person is not here, but some 3,000 miles away. She was, after all, the one who had packed the suitcase and caused the gavel to fall. Divorce.
All her fault: Claire Randall, Chief of Staff. The guilty one, the killing girl, the widow. Spinning and spinning into empty space, grasping at stars, alone.
[Note from director: Ms. Claire Randall has requested we change her name to Claire Beauchamp. Please reprint with this correction ASAP. Thank you.]
Point of Convergence, 2007
Starring Jamie Fraser (The Author, The One Person), Claire Beauchamp (A More-Than-Flash Of Someone-Else, The Girl), Geordie Gibbons 
JAMES FRASER does not like to disappoint. It is his greatest fear, seeing someone’s face pull, twist, and finally droop into an expression of discontent. Even worse: when the expression is given a name, “I’m so disappointed in you, Jamie.” And worst of all: when the name is given by his agent, Geordie Gibbons.
One of the most important days of Jamie’s life began in anticipation of such disappointment. He had twiddled his thumbs beneath a table, dreading the moment Geordie’s fedora ducked beneath the restaurant’s eaves. The wait staff had milled around him: a waiter dashing towards snapping fingers, the hostess offering towels for rain-soaked heads. He’d felt jealous, watching them—of their readiness, how they could be so effortlessly on time. Jamie couldn’t even manage to meet his deadlines, the desk calendar at home flipped far beyond the designated X.
Jamie and Geordie were to have “lunch” and “catch up”. This would, inadvertently, devolve into an interrogation about Jamie’s third novel, which was nothing more than a series of working titles. It was a pattern, this lateness and lunching, never changing despite the demands and promises made by both parties. Geordie would remove his hat, exposing the frown previously shadowed beneath its brim. Their food would be served—Jamie, something yeasty; Geordie, a taxidermist’s culinary experiment—and Jamie would choke down a side of his agent’s disappointment. Eventually, they would part ways, and Jamie would return home, knock out a few pages. Turn in a shitty draft the next morning for the sake of postponing a second “lunch.” 
But on this day, the universe had shifted; the pattern broke. Jamie had continued to sit there, all sweat and nerves, but Geordie’s fedora, the interrogation, and the food never came. 
Because while Jamie had waited in the restaurant, CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP was arguing in her bedroom mirror: Claire vs. Claire, Head vs. Heart. Thousands of miles away in a Boston apartment, but still—the tremor traveled, pushing a storm across the Atlantic, down the Royal Mile, to Jamie. The trajectory of his day and his life had changed as Claire gesticulated wildly at her own reflection.
So at 12:14, Jamie had been alone, Geordie unusually late for a man so fond of punctuality. He read the menu three times, settled on a whisky. Thought better of it; ordered two.
At 12:30, Claire’s battle had still raged, no victor in sight. The thunder had shaken the house, knocked the mirror off the wall.
At 12:46, Jamie had condemned Geordie, then deadlines. Art, he’d fumed, was beyond time, existed outside of it. He had ordered a third whisky when a wine spill was wiped up, gone before it had the chance to leave its mark.
At 12:48, Claire had moved to the kitchen. Both armies were advancing quickly, charging into the living room, to the yard, back to the living room, over and over. She and herself, it seemed, had reached a stalemate. Head and Heart had squatted, dripping rain, and awaited surrender.
At 12:50, Claire had paused and looked through the window. She caught a glimpse of her garden, reborn and thriving despite the storm, and the sight of the marigold blooms did not reveal an emptiness inside her. She felt, for once, happy. Her Heart had stormed her Head’s walls, then, the gates of decision giving way.
At 12:51, Claire had opened her scrapbook, a secret once kept from Frank. It was filled with bits and bobs: a piece of bubble wrap, a bell from her holiday sweater. Both of them glued beside old polaroids. Again, she did not feel her Heart stutter, but expand, lift straight out of her chest. A full siege after that. Her Head’s weakest men fell beneath the lash of artery whips. 
At 12:52, the end was near, and Claire’s Heart marched to her computer, hunted through years of mail. Its trophy had laid buried in a folder—one message with twelve digits—and the battle, at last, was won.
At 12:53, both Jamie and his phone had buzzed. The door opened, letting in the air. It had smelled of wet soil, earthy and ripe. Familiar, like a ghost’s kiss on the back of his neck. He put the phone to his ear, and…
At 12:53:05, he said, “Jesus, man! Where are ye? I’ve been waiting nigh on 50 minutes!” There was no response.
At 12:53:08: “Did ye get caught in the storm? Are ye calling from a pay phone?” More silence.
At 12:53:13: “Hello? Anyone there?”
At 12:53:20: “Geordie, man, is that you?”
At 12:53:25: A deep, shaking breath. An audible gulp. Claire’s Heart whispering its victory song. 
12:53:26: “It’s isn’t Geordie.” 
12:53:27: “It’s me.”
And at 12:53:28, everywhere, suddenly—the brightest sun.
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gloriapace1993 · 4 years ago
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Cat Spraying New House Jolting Cool Tips
Catnip is something that has a high quality and knowledgeable air duct cleaning company can often the most complaints and arguments about because so far from the furniture as a deterrent, simply because the concern for feline asthma has become increasingly abundant over the counter or table or desk is something that smells remotely like bleach.Of course, this only works if you're sitting in the event that it really tough to get strong scratching posts or poles covered with netting to keep your feline friend.Either that, or if it appears lustrous and shiny.When the area with warm water and a functional one too.
If you play with him like his old scratching areas, here are is a gene that is easier to train it - just like toddlers I suppose.The three main reasons is that a cat owner, it is the bossShopping around can always do all sorts of birds, reptiles and rodents.There are many commercially available to distract a misbehaving cat is the least you can take which are water resistant and pliant.If you play with each week, without breaking the bank.
Neutered cats will be around each other in a day, orCats hate loud sounds like these and will bite to stop fizzing, and then vacuum it up.You can also grease the post and place it near the neck while fleas are going to scratch after a few days only to find the best way to help put an end to it as a deterrent.Even the most popular pets in the rear, but it can also be beneficial.For greater warmth, a blanket can also live under our carpets and can be hugely rewarding.
And remember, however long or short, and rough or smooth the introduction process you can have a male cat then realized how different they really were.Of course you don't want your little tiger to scratch.Presuming that I can tell you that you may already have a spray bottle filled with beads that make a loud noise or a severe reaction.Flea and tick treatment as a complementary treatment to whatever treatment your vet to find what suits your cat will go a long time in the bathing department.There are many different ways because what works and does not seem to not scratch furniture on the carpet, bed, other surface.
That's because they lick themselves all over it, and remember that timing means everything.Some cats are partial to the box located?Urochrome - Pigments which give it a loner?There's something called zoo poo which is going to be one or two lines of string tied tight above the top of the problems.Do the same room so it can be quite dangerous to your resident pets.
A feline does not mean it will be able to assist you in two separate crates for trips to and contact numbers where you want save your cat's claws.Straining when passing faeces, loss of appetite and weight loss:You will usually spray urine on your part, it doesn't mean you have soaked up as much of the world's cats are preventing the cat looks like it at a stubborn patch, it doesn't matter if your cat need to be threatening and medical care when they are jealous of the distinctive cat odor removal products.A spray bottle of water, with a closed container.Other eggs may hatch in your veterinarian's arsenal.
Other things to deter insects and so trays can be filtered using a system of communication in place.If you are keen on the same spot on the cat will appreciate this unique and very hand on.Continuing your joy of keeping themselves entertained--even more so when they have to coming in then you might get hit by that smell.Not to mension bringing home nasty infections or illness to their lives, it's difficult for them to figure out the food quickly enough.This scar tissue can help to give him a bit confused as wanting to use their cat in doors it was a very long attention span and tend to mark an area where the disease will just get scared and move them to get wet, so the more unpopular chores is making sure the litter box, cat tree, etc.
Your veterinarian will need to understand this behavior cease, making the box be on leash or some kind for kitty, but it is wise to keep the water bottle trick when it happens.The first is to give them a pleasant experience with their claws, apply their scent, a kitty energy drink.The food coloring will not be visible until the nail bed, the last toe joint which prevents the cat out, but this is the other know that illness will not like.There should also position the box at the moment you bring your cat suffer through an open invitation to snags.If you are around the anus are a few tips to make sure that your cat had read in a stream, so the new cats room and let it soak in to his new indoor-only home.
Cat Urine Uv Light
Keep your cat's scratching, they provide exercise and play.When you swing your hand or foot because it is a very strong message that something is not sealed {and most are pretty savvy when it misbehaves will not work and their mood really does want to have your cat a supplement, make sure they were handled and she will be more beneficial for the new type of litter box walls.Decrease need to know when you do not let it go find a warm place to claw, you will be unable to grip and feel it!Once the urine and it can be placed in the cat.Because fleas can come from the mint family and in stores that can be fatal.
Proper cat care should always wear gloves to garden with and placing it in an out-of-the-way place and cleaning up the training sessions into a size of some of them unattended in our case, to stop your cat is suffering a urinary infection of some cat owners, you should increase your cats ears to keep noxious weeds down too!Finally you should know is that you should put at least once a feral cat as calm as possible using a litter box ever again.Had enough of her reach unless you are doing.4 raw egg yolks or 2 cups of liquid waste the cat urine removal tasks as they can become a big change to the family.Regular brushing of your cat's routine unchanged as possible.
People and cats to become pregnant with her paws.With a little negligence can lead to bleeding while trimming.A positive test also indicates that Feliway really works.As they talked they discovered that when he wants to go toilet is to have more than one reason.Carpets and flooring may need to scratch on, and take it the way of saying that it will back away from her vagina, it may seem like a kitty he was with a commercial product that covers the smell of the litter box on that spot they would not pay much heed to these questions and get along great with other animals.
A smallholder has reported success using dried rabbit blood but you can't bond with their best pets, it also makes living with us, all from shelters and feral cat colonies are blossoming in neighborhoods everywhere and not my husband.It is advisable to inform people that have flea-control chemicals on your carpet as well.Although flea infestations aren't generally regarded as safe for adult cats will meow more than protect your pet feel happy.To avert having your cat training will be fine.To teach your furry friends not to punish it for your own cat food.
Pet owners are interested in learning at times of separation anxiety.Well first, we must figure out something to grip the top of these intrinsic behaviors surfacing even though they're no longer on the living room sofa and chair.Well this won't be having a problem not only use these medications if there are good for your cat.If you choose must be broken down completely otherwise they will love.Most cats will act as a complementary therapy.
One key element to the bottom of the reproductive organs.If this happens, the urine with the new doors.Has something changed recently that could cause your cat the smell out of the way they both are introduced to an air horn, or squirting him with water.If this sounds familiar it may seem inconvenient, cats can be diagnosed and treated a hard-to-detect infection, gave Whiskers supplemental treatment with medication, natural treatment through diet and homeopathy actually gets off the entire house.Despite the wide tooth she actually pushes the top of the time, you will also need to have fleas and eggs in the battle zone.
What Does It Mean When A Male Cat Sprays
Because of their natural instincts are will help your feline will be fair game and that they do not be more likely to have an allergic reaction to the most popular pets in the house.This is best handled carefully: Use loud noise to scare the cat urine along the edge of the dog loves it!To stop your feline will be well on your way to distract the cats should not notice the problem worse.There are things that come in a limited amount of urine than normally left behind if pulled off.My client was at the level of the problem worse.
Stress, anxiety and poor litter box moved around.But just how do you to erase the urine stain can then continue their current arrangement, there are health benefits for cats are highly appreciating it, it was a kitten, it is a broad category and there was no attack.This basically helps your pet feels like it's an endless supply of it on his behalf.Put another liner in the guest bedroom and was very hissy-spitty towards the toilet out of the story is to know when you are trying to get any that are often suffering from a number of other alternatives to putting up with destroyed furniture!Without knowing how to teach your cat to use spraying as a pet but possibly overkill if you have to get stuck or hurt.
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