#london bus driver who closed the doors on my sister while she was in the doorway on purpose

[von-karmas-a-bitch]

me, playing tgaa1: ok so this stronghart guy is obviously evil-

stronghart: london is the centre of the modern world. objectively best city. we have AAAAALL the cool technology you WISH you had our technology and public transport don't you ohhhh you wanna be a londoner so bad aren't you jealous of our trams

me, a rural english bitch and certified london hater: well now it's personal. it is on like donkey kong. i am going to have so much fun obliterating this man.

[saiilorstars]

Falling in Temptation

(Sequel to Stars Dance)

Ch. 1: Who Did It? // Story Masterlist

Fandom: Doctor Who

Pairing: 11th Doctor x Original Female Character

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Story Summary: It's not time to fall in love. In fact, the Doctor thinks it should be forbidden being who he is and what he attracts from the galaxies. He's dangerous (though Avalon knows it and likes it). However, Avalon is sought out by the Silence and knowing that she will suffer in the end, the Doctor intends on doing what he has to, to keep her safe...even if breaks his hearts.**Second in the Fairy-tale Memoirs**

Chapter summary: It’s been one year since Avalon and the Doctor started traveling together. Mysterious blue envelopes reunites Avalon with the Ponds, Lena Reynolds and River Song at Lake Silencio. They all witness the death of the Doctor at the hands of an astronaut and come to realize that something happens between the version of the Doctor whom Avalon was travelling with and the future version they meet at the lake. But...who was the astronaut? Who did it?

Fairy Tale Memoirs (Companion story)

Amy Pond and Rory Williams were setting grocery bags on the kitchen counter of their new flat, although Amy was more preoccupied with a book she was reading from, "At the personal intervention of the King, the unnamed Doctor was incarcerated without trial in the Tower Of London..." She'd found the book earlier in the day when she saw certain details of the history looking a bit distorted. She'd bought it and had read more than halfway through it by the afternoon, seeing at which points of history the Doctor was trying to get their attention from.

"OK, but it doesn't have to be him," Rory reminded his wife, "...is there anything about Ava?"

"No, she's staying out of trouble...for once," Amy had to admit that was slightly weird.

She didn't know exactly how long it had been for Avalon and the Doctor since they started traveling together, but she knew it had to have been quite some months now. However long it had been, though, they hadn't heard one situation in which Avalon had gotten into trouble. That...that was shocking news, honestly. For anyone who knew Avalon Reynolds, they could estimate just how long she would last before getting into trouble again. It seemed like the Doctor was actually being a good influence despite the situations he got himself into.

"Two nights later a magical sphere some 20 feet across was seen floating away from the tower, bearing the mysterious Doctor aloft," Amy had continued reading after putting away the groceries.

"Okay, it's him," Rory shrugged, "But as long as Ava isn't mention in any of those, I'm good."

"There's more!" Amy called with a smirk. It seemed like the Doctor had also gotten into some type of German jail and was trying to escape along with some other prisoners...only to get caught.

"Like I said, no Ava, no trouble," Rory strode into the living room after finishing up putting away the groceries.

"It's like he's being deliberately ridiculous, trying to attract our attention," Amy shook her head and followed him, "And aren't you a bit curious about Avalon? Why isn't she there with him?"

"I'm actually thanking the Gods she's not there with him," Rory got comfortable on the couch and turned on the television, his favorite movie on. He didn't even want to think about Avalon going to jail in historical times.

"Are you watching this again?" Amy looked at the television with a face as she closed her book.

"I've explained the jokes," Rory sighed. At the sound of the doorbell, Amy went to go answer, "So what are you saying? Do you really think he's back there trying to wave to us out of history books?" he called.

"Don't know, it's the sort of thing he'd do," she accepted the mail and shut the door.

"Yeah, but why?"

"He said he'd be in touch."

"Two months ago. Who knows how long it's been for him now," Rory shrugged.

"Two months is nothing. He's up to something, I know he is, I know him," Amy set the rest of the mail aside and held a TARDIS-blue colored envelope in her hands.

"What is it?" Rory noticed her go quiet, "Amy?"

"A date, a time, a map reference," Amy turned the envelope over for him to see, "I think it's an invitation."

"From who?"

"It's not signed. Look, TARDIS blue!" Amy waved the envelope around, "I'm gonna go call Lena!"

~ 0 ~

Another envelope landed on a bed, that of the cell of River Song, who picked up the letter and opened it up, smiling as she read the inside. She looked around with a smirk and began preparing for her departure.

~ 0 ~

"Lena! There's mail!" young Gavin Reynolds shouted as he ran towards the kitchen where Lena and their father, Ryland, were eating lunch.

"I got mail?" Lena reached for the blue-colored envelope, "Funny, Avalon usually sends postcards," she looked at her father with confusion.

"Open it up, sweetheart. Maybe this time she wrote something longer," Ryland encouraged her, curious and hopeful that his eldest daughter had finally written something more than just a couple sentences on a postcard. It had been two months (for him anyways) since he let Avalon run off with the Doctor to time travel. Unbeknownst to the others, he hoped that this would keep Avalon safe. He was just glad that she was with someone he could trust and who'd take good care of her.

"What is it, Lena?" Gavin peered over Lena shoulder, "What is it?"

"I think it's invitation from my big brother," Lena began smiling, "Oh, it's been long! I can't wait to see Avalon!"

~ 0 ~

"Miss Williams, this arrived for you," a young man entered a dressing room holding a blue-colored envelope in hand.

Avalon Reynolds looked up from the conversation she was in the middle of with...Mary Costa (the voice actress of Avalon's favorite movie - Sleeping Beauty). She'd dropped by for a visit at Mary's house about an hour ago and was in no hurry to leave her idol. Though when she saw the color of the envelope she knew it was probably time to go.

"Thank you," Avalon took the envelope from the servant.

"Who's it from?" Mary curiously asked as she watched Avalon opened the envelope up.

"Probably from the Doctor," Avalon took out the letter and read it, "Funny, he's given references for...Stormcage," she blinked.

"And that's...bad?" Mary made a face as if it were something negative. She barely understood the concept of 'time travel' but she tried her best for Avalon, seeing how close the two had gotten since Avalon had started her travels.

"No, just...peculiar, that's all," Avalon stood up and started putting in the coordinations for Stormcage at the exact time she'd been instructed to in her Vortex Manipulator, "Oh well, gotta run, Mary. Thanks for the lunch," she hugged the blonde woman.

"Anytime, dear," Mary waved and watched the flash of light take over as Avalon disappeared.

~ 0 ~

A yell school bus stopped in the middle of a plain road in Utah. Out of the bus came Rory, Lena and Amy, all carrying backpacks on their backs and dressed casually.

"Thanks!" Amy called to the driver and waved as the bus drove off, turning around with the others.

"Uh! This is it, yeah? The right place?" Lena looked around, "It's a stupid desert," she made a face.

"Nowhere, middle of? Yeah, this is it," Rory nodded, "Who else but the Doctor?"

"Howdy!" they heard from behind. The three turned around to find the Doctor lying on the hood of a 1960's, red, station wagon.

"Big brother!" Lena exclaimed and dashed to go greet him.

"Ha-ha! My baby sister!" the Doctor jumped off the car and hugged Lena, "Oh, and the Ponds! Pond One and Pond Two!" he moved on to hug Amy, "Hello, Ponds, come here!"

"So someone's been a busy boy then, eh?" Amy teased as she hugged him.

"Did you see me?"

"Of course! Stalker!"

"Flirt!"

"Husband," Rory waved a hand with a mock-offense expression.

"And Rory the Roman! Oh, come here!" the Doctor laughed and hugged him.

"Hey, nice hat, big brother," Lena remarked to the hat the Doctor wore on his head.

"I wear a Stetson now, Stetsons are cool," the Doctor smirked about to flick it into position when a gun was fired, making him wince forwards, and blew the hat right off his head.

"Sorry!" the group heard someone shout from across. Avalon quickly passed - or chucked - the gun back to River who stood beside her and was really trying her best not laugh right there and then.

"Avalon," the Doctor turned around, a new expression on his face when he saw her. It was a sad smile but...a smile nonetheless. He dashed for her, almost tripping from how fast he went. "Avalon!"

"I think I'm in trouble," Avalon whispered to River as she stepped forwards. She hadn't really meant to shoot the poor alien's hat. She just wanted to shoot beside the alien with a new blaster. But now she was sure to get a scolding from him, Rory and then Lena...

"Ava!" the Doctor surprised her instead by picking her up in a spinning hug.

"Oh, okay," Avalon quickly took the easier road and hugged back. "Nice to see you too," she laughed as she was set back on her feet.

"What's going on?" Lena came up beside them along with Amy and Rory, all finding the reactions of the Doctor slightly weird.

"And what is that?" Amy pointed at the manipulator Avalon wore on her wrist. It sat just above the Doctor's old watch which she had truly kept after winning it from their Christmas bet.

"Like?" Avalon waved her wrist, "Brand new, barely breaking it in."

"Why?" Lena frowned, "I thought you were traveling together..."

"We are," the Doctor nodded, "But I wanted to go to one place and Ava the other, so we compromised."

"By giving her a manipulator?" River raised an eyebrow, even she herself finding that strange for the 'early' days.

"Oh calm down, I've been responsible...ish," Avalon had to add that part after a moment, making the entire group sigh with resignation at their friend, all except the Doctor of course who just smiled at her.

~ 0 ~

The group had relocated to a diner not too far from where they'd been. The Doctor led them inside while being linked arms with Avalon. Lena went up to the counter, eyes already on the menu, "Oh, I want some dessert."

"Me too!" Avalon left the Doctor and hurried up beside her sister, "By the way, can I borrow some money?"

"You didn't bring any money, did you?" Lena turned to her, "Always counting that I'll have some."

"Not true," Avalon threw a thumb over her shoulder, "Rory always has money for me."

Lena scoffed and crossed her arms, "He is not gonna have any mo-"

'I got it," Rory came over with his wallet out, Lena's mouth hanging open in surprise.

"Really?"

"Ava's Ava," was the excuse Rory always used.

Avalon cheekily smiled, "Thanks Rory," she hugged him, "I promise I'll pay you back."

"This is a reward," Rory clarified, "Because you didn't get in trouble like someone..." he shot a look at the Doctor.

"Ha," Avalon stuck her tongue out at the alien.

"I could just tell them what you did in Milan," the Doctor warned as he crossed his arms, smirking when she went quiet.

"What happened in Milan?" Amy stepped over, curious to know what gimmick Avalon had come up with this time.

"Nothing!" Avalon quickly exclaimed, "Absolutely nothing. So, Rory, if you can get my favorite dessert, please? Strawberry-"

"Strawberry milkshake with whip cream, hold the cherry on top, though," the Doctor finished and garnered her attention.

"How did you know that?" she blinked.

"You told me," he shrugged and tugged her away towards one of the booths.

"I did?" Avalon thought for a moment while she slid into an open booth first then the Doctor. "Hm, it's been such a rush I can't even remember that."

"That's what happens when you steal from world-famous designers," River strolled over to them, wearing a smirk on her face as Avalon stiffened.

"How did you-"

"I saw the clothes on a runway...modeled by a one, extravagant ginger woman..." River took a seat in the booth across them, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands, "Global thing, newspapers and whatnot."

"You could've said something, then. I went to pick you up in a prison for God's sake! I could've been arrested," Avalon hit the Doctor on the arm, "Thanks for that, by the way. I've never been to an alien prison. Why'd you sent me to pick her up? No offense, River," she quickly glanced at the brunette with a smile.

"None taken," River chuckled..

"She had no manipulator, thought it might be easier on her," the Doctor shrugged, "But I'm more interested in knowing about those clothes you stole?"

"Oops?" Avalon looked at him with a sheepish smile, "I know you said to keep away from trouble but...it was Milan," she whispered so no one would hear, "Fashion capital! I was just dropping in for a discreet visit when, BAM! I met a model, accidentally got her locked in a closet--"

"Accidentally?" River raised an eyebrow.

"Shut up!" Avalon pointed at her, "And then somehow I get branded as a preppy woman-"

"Which you are," the Doctor and River cut in.

"Oi!" Avalon frowned, "Am not. But the designers said I could pass it off and so...voila," she gestured to her clothes.

She wore a light pink dress with white polka-dots, an open beige jacket with three-quarter sleeves and pink flats. She knew it was wrong to steal, especially things that were created by famous people but she hadn't really thought it through at the moment. After the fashion show had ended, she'd been caught by the actual model intended to use the outfit and so without thinking she'd activated her manipulator and flashed out, taking along the clothes with her.

"And after the show ended...you ran with the clothes," the Doctor assumed the last part of the story.

"I didn't run, I used the manipulator," she corrected quietly, "I promise I'll give it back...ish. I just really like it too."

"I think you look lovely," the Doctor smiled softly at her.

"You're not gonna reprimand me like the others?" Avalon blinked, genuinely shocked he wasn't even the least bit angry with her, "Are you feeling well?" she raised an eyebrow, "No alien fever or something?" she even pressed her hand over his forehead to make sure he was alright.

The Doctor laughed and pulled her hand off his face, keeping hold of it for a few extra seconds. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just...happy right now, very happy," his tone had softened like his smile, the latter seeming almost everlasting.

Avalon was momentarily taken aback but in the end she smiled back too. "I'm happy too," she agreed and there was another pause of smiles. "And I can't wait to get back to the TARDIS. Manipulators are fun but I like traveling with my Fairy Tale Man even more."

"Ava!" Rory called from the counter and motioned for her to go get her milkshake.

The Doctor slid out the booth and allowed Avalon to go for her dessert while he took her seat, noticing River's look which consisted of a big smirk, "What?" he frowned as he pulled out a small journal from inside his jacket.

"Can you be more obvious?" she tilted her head, "How far are you?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

River rolled her eyes and set her hands down on the table, "You're from the future," she announced with all certainty about it, "You've got to be, I mean...that--" she discreetly pointed at Avalon, "--was plain obvious. All you needed was to drool in front of her to let her know."

"Shut up," the Doctor rolled his eyes.

"How far are you?"

"...about 200 years," he spoke quietly in case the others returned suddenly, "Don't say a word about it."

"Fine but you may want to dial down the lovey-dovey eyes. Avalon's a smart woman, she'll figure it out and start questioning you," River warned, "And then she'll be freaked out."

"Once she learns what's coming for her she won't even think about some feelings," the Doctor countered. "Your letter didn't cover it accurately, you know."

"Letter?" River repeated with confusion. "I didn't write any letter."

The Doctor stared at her, wanting to figure out if she was lying or not. After everything, he still wasn't completely sure if that was true or not. It bothered him that near his end, he never figured out the secret behind that letter. He would never know who wrote it. Who wrote the letter knowing what was going to happen to Avalon?

"Ew, there's a cherry on my milkshake," Avalon grimaced at the bright, red fruit sitting at the top of the whip cream of her drink, "Rory!" she exclaimed.

"Thank you," Rory passed her and swiped off the cherry, dropping it into his mouth as he and Amy sat with River on one side of the booth and Avalon and Lena with the Doctor on the other.

"So what's happening, then?" Amy immediately questioned the Doctor, "Because you've been up to something."

"Getting into trouble," Lena added, "I saw it all, big brother. Shame on you," she wagged a finger, making the Doctor smile in amusement.

"I've been running...faster than I've ever run, and I've been running my whole life. Now it's time for me to stop," he looked at them all, though spent a bit more with Avalon, "And tonight I'm going to need you all with me."

"What did you have in mind?" Avalon raised an eyebrow as she took a sip of her drink.

"A picnic! And then a trip. Somewhere different, somewhere brand-new."

"Where?"

"Space...1969."

~ 0 ~

Later in the day, the group moved over to the Powell Lake of Utah (otherwise known as Lake Silencio), setting up a picnic like the Doctor had said. They sat on the edges of the blanket while munching on their snacks placed in the center.

"Salut!" the Doctor toasted with a glass of wine.

"Salut!" went the others.

"So it's actually been a year since you started travelling together, then?" Lena asked just to make sure she'd gotten it right. As far as she knew, Avalon had just joined the Doctor a couple months ago.

"Yup," Avalon grinned. "I'm finally 22 like you Lena!" the two sisters high-fived each other.

"So when are we going to 1969?" Rory wondered as he set his wine glass down.

"And since when do you drink wine?" Amy observed the Doctor as he lifted his glass to his mouth.

"He doesn't," Avalon shot him a look. She knew what would come next, but every time she told him he wouldn't listen.

"I'm 1,103 - I must have drunk it some time," he shrugged and drank the glass...only to spit it back out, "Oh, wine's horrid! I thought it would taste more like the gums."

"Wait a minute," Avalon set her glass down, "1,103? You were 909 before you gave me the manipulator. What? Was I that bad of a companion you left me for nearly 200 years?"

"Complicated," the Doctor tensed at his slip.

"Why?" she grew sadder, "Why was it..." her gaze had wandered up to the dunes where she saw a figure silhouetted against the sun, "...who's that?" she whispered.

"Who's who?" the Doctor began scowling, half-guessing what she was seeing.

"Sorry, what?" she looked at him with rapid blinking eyes, "What's going on?" she looked at the others who were staring at her with a bit of concern.

"You said you saw someone," River looked out where Avalon had been staring at.

"No, I didn't," Avalon playfully rolled her eyes and reached for a piece of grape, unaware of the grim look the Doctor was giving her from beside.

"Big brother, you mentioned the moon," Lena got his attention back.

"Right, the moon," the Doctor tore his gaze from Avalon and looked at the rest, "The moon, look at it! Of course, you lot did more than look, didn't you? Big silvery thing in the sky, you couldn't resist it. Quite right."

"The moon landing was in '69," Amy recalled, "Is that where we're going?"

"Oh, a lot more happens in '69 than anyone remembers. Human beings... I thought I'd never get done saving you."

A pickup truck pulled over behind them and an elderly man stepped out. The Doctor stood up waved with a hand, the older man giving a wave back.

"Who's he?" Lena looked over at the older man, assuming it had to be some other friend the Doctor had picked up in his past.

"Oh, my God!" River had jumped up to her feet at the sight of an astronaut standing in the lake, prompting the others to stand up as well.

"What's going on?" Avalon looked around, feeling like it was some sort of trap. But that couldn't be right, the Doctor was the one who sent the letters. He'd never bring them into a trap!

"You all need to stay back. Whatever happens now, you do not interfere," the Doctor instructed them all, "Clear?"

Avalon opened her mouth to refuse but saw the silhouette up at the dunes again, "Woah..." she blinked, "I...remember that, now. I-I think I've seen it before..."

The Doctor tore her gaze away from the figure, not even bothering to look at it himself, "Ava, you listen to me right now," he set his hands on her arms, "You have to be careful, okay? You should..." he swallowed hard, struggling to say his words, "...you should stay away from me."

"What?" she blinked, surprised at his urgency that had come out of no where. "Why would I do that?"

"Because it's the best thing you could've done," he whispered with genuine regret. "If I could change one thing it's this...you..." he gave her one last look before kissing her forehead and walked for the astronaut.

"What's going on?" Avalon moved after him but River kept her back. She felt something in the pit of her stomach, something warning her to bring the Doctor right back. "But we can't let him...I don't understand." She looked at the others who were on the same page.

"That's an astronaut. That's an Apollo astronaut in the lake," Rory stared in awe at the astronaut now standing on the sand beside the lake.

"Seems a little big, mind you," Lena remarked quietly as she looked.

The Doctor stood in front of the astronaut, solemnly eyeing it, "Hello. It's OK, I know it's you," he spoke quietly, watching the visor raise up, "I know the choices that brought you here...I figured it out."

"What's he doing?" Amy whispered to the others, all of them gathered up as they watched the astronaut raised its arm towards the Doctor.

Then it fired.

"Doctor!" Avalon shouted as he staggered back. She rushed for him again but River kept her back while Rory restrained Amy.

"Avalon, Amy! Stay back! The Doctor said stay back!" River reminded, "Lena, don't you dare move!" she warned the brunette who seemed frozen in horror anyways.

But the astronaut fired again and the Doctor fell to his knees on the floor.

"We have to help him!" Avalon fought River to no avail. "LET GO!"

"You have to stay back!"

"NO!"

The Doctor stood up, his hands glowing with his regenerative energy. He looked over at the group, "I'm sorry," he managed to say before he tilted his head back for the regeneration to begin. The astronaut shot him again and ended it, the Doctor collapsing on the ground without a flinch nor twitch.

River finally let Avalon go and hurried along with the others towards the Doctor, the astronaut making its way back into the lake. River pulled out a handheld device and checked for the alien's vitals.

"River, what's it saying?" Avalon knelt down beside the Doctor, "River?"

River put away the device after reading the device and took out her gun again. She was about to shoot when the gun was snatched off her hands by Avalon who then took to shooting at the astronaut herself, tears building up in her eyes and blurring her vision. Unfortunately, the gun ran out of ammunition and the astronaut was well inside the lake, slowly sinking back down.

"River, he can't be dead. This is impossible," Amy sobbed.

River took back the gun from Avalon and cautiously turned her away from the lake, but not before she caught site of the mysterious figure silhouetted, "What the hell is going on?" Avalon gritted her teeth.

"Whatever that was, it killed him in the middle of his regeneration cycle," River answered, thinking she was asking about the Doctor, "His body was already dead. He didn't make it to the next one."

"No, I meant..." Avalon had looked back at River, blinking rapidly as she forgot once again.

"Maybe he's a clone or a duplicate or something," Lena offered, swallowing hard.

The man from the truck had made his way down to the group holding a gas tank that he set down on the sand, "I believe I can save you some time. That most certainly is the Doctor, and he is most certainly dead. He said you'd need this," he pointed at the tank.

"Gasoline?" Rory studied the tank with confusion.

"A Time Lord's body is a miracle. Even a dead one. There are whole empires out there who'd rip this world apart for just one cell," River sighed, "We can't leave him here. Or anywhere."

"But he can't die," Avalon's tears strolled down her cheeks as she dropped to her knees beside the Doctor's body. "Not him too, he can't..." Her hands shook as she hesitated to touch him. What if he was already cold? Cold like...like he was actually dead. She breathed in heavily. "He's the Fairy Tale Man, he's not allowed to."

"We're his friends. We do what the Doctor's friends always do," River picked up the gas tank, "As we're told."

"There's a boat," Rory saw one at the other end of the lake, "If we're going to do this...let's do it properly."

When night fell, the group watched from the shore of the lake as the Doctor's body burned in the boat Rory had brought from the other side of the lake. The man who had brought the gas tank stayed to help and also watched, and at one point River turned to him in question, "Who are you? Why did you come?"

"Same reason as you," he pulled out a blue-colored envelope from his pocket for her to see. River pulled out her own and looked between them as the man handed her his envelope, "Dr Song, Avalon, Amy, Lena, Rory. I'm Canton Everett Delaware III. I won't be seeing you again. But...you'll be seeing me," he picked up the gas tank and headed back for his truck.

River watched him go for a minute before glancing down at the envelopes and turning to the group, "Four," she said.

"Sorry, what?" Rory blinked, that just came out of the no where.

"The Doctor numbered the envelopes," River held both envelopes for them to see.

~ 0 ~

The group had returned to the diner where River continued her explanation, or theories, about the envelopes, "You got five," she pointed at Amy and Rory, "Mr. Delaware was six, Lena was four, I was three and Avalon was two."

"So?" Lena had to ask, she was all for education and whatnot but not after a makeshift funeral of her big brother.

"So where's one?" River tried making them see the obvious of the envelope's patterns.

"You think he invited someone else?" Rory was beginning to catch on.

"Well, he must have. He planned all of this to the last detail."

"Will you shut up? It doesn't matter," Amy muttered, stopping at a booth as she sulked.

"He was up to something," Lena began to realize as well, "But what? Avalon?" she looked at Avalon who was slightly ahead, distant as was expected, "She's thinking of Mum," Lena whispered to the others.

Avalon could be as brave and bold as she wanted but the one thing that would always defeat her was the topic of death. Her mother's death had scarred her, consequences as big as losing her hope in everything else. She was always afraid of losing people like that because that was the way she'd lost her mother and was constantly afraid she would lose Lena too because of her chronic illness.

"Space 1969, what did he mean?" River relayed for them to think on it with her.

"You're still talking, but it doesn't matter," Amy snapped at them, irritated they were pondering over stupid numbers when their friend had just died.

"Hey," Lena turned to Amy, softly speaking, "If it mattered to my big brother, then it matters to us all."

"He's dead, Lena," Amy shook her head, "Focus on your sister instead of numbers."

"He still needs us, though," Lena looked back at Avalon, happening to catch sight of a blue paper on a nearby table by Avalon, "Look," she rushed for it, holding up another blue-colored envelope with the number '1' in front.

As River ran for Lena, Rory turned to the counter where an employee was, "Excuse me, who was sitting over there?"

"Some guy."

"The Doctor knew he was going to his death, so he sent out messages," River was putting the pieces together, "When you know it's the end, who do you call?"

"Your friends," Lena quickly answered.

"People you trust," Rory rejoined them.

"Number one. Who did the Doctor trust the most?"

As if on cue, the back door of the diner opened and in came the Doctor with a straw in his mouth. While the entire group stared, stunned, he grinned and pointed at them like he hadn't expected it.

"Fairy Tale Man?" Avalon stepped forwards, her face completely dumbfounded.

"Hey! I saw what you did at Milan," he pointed at her with a frown on his face. "That was wrong and you're taking those clothes back."

Avalon blinked. "Wait...what?" she shook her head, "You arm this whole fiasco, tell me stupid things and then...you give us this? What the hell!" She slapped him across the face with all her might.

"Ava!" he stumbled back with a hand over his cheek, "What I do!?"

Avalon was furious and felt like going ahead and giving him more, "You know what it was like to lose my Mum and yet you..." she couldn't even finish her words if she wanted to keep her tears inside. "...telling me to stay away from you..."

"Avalon," River tugged her away before she said something she shouldn't. Knowing the last the Doctor had been a future version allowed her to see much more than the rest of the group.

"How are you here?" Lena just had to ask, more than relieved to see him again but...he had just died and he didn't look anywhere near a ghost.

"I was invited. Date, map reference," the Doctor pointed to his envelope River still held, his other hand still rubbing over his cheek from Avalon's slap. "Same as you lot, I assume, otherwise it's a hell of a coincidence."

"River, what's going on?" Amy sighed. She wanted to go and hug the Doctor as well but she also felt like Avalon in which he needed to be slapped for what he'd done.

"Ask him what age he is," River looked at Avalon, the most affected out of all should get the clarification straight to the face.

"Why?" she shook her head, "I just want to keep slapping him."

The Doctor took a cautious step back for the ginger had quite some strength and he wouldn't like to feel it on his face anymore.

"Just do it," River gave Avalon a sharp look.

She sighed and turned to the Doctor, "How old are you?"

"That's a bit personal..."

"Answer the damn question or I'll slap you again on both sides," Avalon pointed.

"909!"

"That's..." Avalon looked at the others with confusion, "...the same age I left him with 3 days ago."

"Meaning...?" River forced her to keep putting the pieces of it together.

"You're..." Avalon had returned her eyes to the Doctor, "...we've been separated for three days?"

"Yeah," he nodded cautiously, "And I'll take the manipulator back before you hop into the future and take something there too."

"It was an accident," she mumbled quietly as she looked down at her clothes, for some reason wishing he'd compliment the clothes instead of reprimanding her like she'd initially expected.

"So is anyone going to tell me what are we all doing here?" the Doctor looked at the others, seeing them all sharing expressions of concerns and confusion.

"We've been recruited. Something to do with space, 1969, and a man called Canton Everett Delaware III," River explained seeing as the others were still getting it together.

"Recruited by who?"

"Someone who trusts you more than anybody else in the universe."

"And who's that?"

"Spoilers," River sighed, glancing at the others who gave a mere nod.

~ 0 ~

Once the group had returned to the TARDIS and given as much details as possible (without giving any spoilers) to the Doctor, he started rambling on about the year they'd chosen, "969, that's an easy one. Funny how some years are easy. Now, 1482, full of glitches. Now then, Canton Everett Delaware III, that was his name, yeah?" Amy couldn't take it and left for the stairs that would lead under the console, Lena right behind her, "How many of those can there be? Well, three, I suppose," the Doctor continued but noticed River leaving as well. He made a face and looked at Avalon and Rory, "Is everybody cross with me for some reason?"

"I'll find out," Rory pointed and headed off.

Avalon shook her head and moved to follow him, "C'mon, Ava, not you too," the Doctor called after her. She turned around, solemnly staring at him, "What did I do?"

Avalon got to thinking of the last Doctor they'd just seen a couple hours ago and knew that he hadn't been anything but sweet and nice, not one banter ever arose. She wondered if that had been an effort he'd made knowing he'd die. What other explanation was there? If you were to die, you'd repent of everything you'd done, including forgiving the annoying, sarcastic ginger woman he'd allowed into his home. And the fact that he had told her to stay away from him didn't help either. He sounded like it was a warning...and whenever she thought of warnings her mind rushed to that letter she'd gotten a year ago at Amy's and Rory's wedding reception.

"Ava?" the Doctor tried again, not daring to walk closer to her in case she fired another of her deadly slaps.

Avalon walked up to him and surprised him by hugging him. "I'm sorry," came her apology a minute later. She'd been so used to having him around and bantering that she never stopped for a minute to wonder what it would be like to lose him as well, "I'm so sorry for all my remarks, my crimes, I'm sorry. I'm really, really, sorry."

"Where's all this coming from?" the Doctor hugged back, even more concerned for all his friends. "Did you get another letter?"

"No," Avalon pulled away but didn't let him go. "You know that I consider this place and you the safest place I could be at, right?"

A smug smile came to the Doctor's face, making Avalon roll her eyes. "I do try my best!"

"Would you ever ask me to stay away from you?"

"No..." the Doctor looked at her strangely for her words, "...unless you had a pear in your hands."

A chuckle came to Avalon. "Right," she let go of him and stepped back. "Well, I just wanted you to know that I feel safe here, with you. Safe with my Fairy Tale Man. Safe."

The Doctor gave her another look for her repetition. "Ava, you know can tell me anything, right? Cos you remember what happens when you bottle it up, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

"...no," she bit her lip, "I'm just reflecting, Fairy Tale Man. I know I have a poor attitude-"

"It's not bad, actually, it's a bit amusing..." the Doctor got to thinking and chuckled.

"I'm rude, though," she repeated what she always heard from everyone else.

"I see it more as you calling me out when I do stuff I'm not supposed to, or say things I'm not supposed to. I don't find that as a 'poor attitude'," but Avalon gave him a look for that, "Okay so maybe in the beginning I did think like that..." the Doctor corrected himself, "But that was before I got to know you better," he smiled, "Now I know that you like to take charge, you're very outspoken, and you do not like it when someone touches you hair."

"Someone's been paying attention," Avalon raised her eyebrows, though smiled in the end.

"Well, we have been traveling for about a year now," the Doctor shrugged, "It's only natural. But seriously, are you okay? Is there something else?" he took a step closer to her.

"No there isn't," she tried to argue and took a step back. She didn't want to somehow break and tell him everything she and the rest of the group had seen earlier.

"You are not a very good liar, do you know that?"

"I'm a very good liar, thank you very much," she made a mock-offended face.

"You're really not," the Doctor shook his head and moved up to her again, taking her head into his hands and looked her dead in the eye, "Because right now I can tell very easily that you cried, and I'd like to know why you're lying about it. What happened, Ava?"

"N-nothing..." she faltered under the Doctor's look.

"Avalon, pl-"

"Avalon," Lena finished coming up the stairs, startling them both, "Sorry...did I interrupt?" Lena sheepishly asked, noticing their closeness with intrigue.

"No, no, we were just talking," Avalon quickly turned to her sister, "What did you need?"

"Nothing," Lena eyed the troubled expression of the Doctor behind Avalon, "Nothing important anyways," she wasn't going to tell Avalon what River had explained to them a couple minutes ago...at least not in front of the Doctor, "So...1969?" she looked at the Doctor with a clean smile as the others began to come up the stairs behind her.

The Doctor turned to the console, seeing Avalon would keep her mouth shut about what ever troubled her and the others, "Time isn't a straight line, it's all bumpy-wumpy..." he began and made a round around the TARDIS, "There's loads of boring stuff, like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons. But now and then there are Saturdays, big temporal tipping points when anything's possible. The TARDIS can't resist them, she loves a party, so I give her 1969 and NASA, cos that's space in the '60s, and Canton Everett Delaware III, and this is where she's pointing," he pushed the scanner to the group and revealed a date.

"Washington DC, April 8th, 1969. So why haven't we landed?" Amy looked around as there had been no noise at all which meant the TARDIS had to be in flight at the moment.

"Because that's not where we're going," the Doctor shrugged.

"Where are we going, then?" Lena frowned, glancing back at River. The woman had made it clear that they should follow what the older Doctor had wanted to do, probably something truly important.

"Home! Well, you three are," the Doctor pointed to her and Amy and Rory, "I'm sure you father wants at least one of their daughter's home. You two," he looked at Amy and Rory, "Off you pop and make babies. Dr Song, back to prison," Me, I'm late for a biplane lesson in 1911, or it could be knitting. Knitting or biplanes, one or the other..." he flopped down on the chair and rubbed his forehead with irritation, "What? A mysterious summons? You think I'm just going to go? Who sent those messages? I know you know, I can see it in your faces," he stared at Avalon, " Don't play games with me. Don't ever, ever think you're capable of that."

Avalon frowned, "Don't you ever talk to me like that."

"You're going to have to trust us this time," River spoke before the two got into an argument of some sorts.

"Trust you?" the Doctor nearly laughed as he stood up and walked over to her, "But first of all, Dr Song, just one thing... Who are you? You're someone from my future, getting that, but who? OK... Why are you in prison? Who did you kill? Hmm? Now, I love a bad girl, me, but trust you? Seriously?" He hadn't forgotten the warning he'd received from Octavian against her. For all he knew, the reason River was in prison was because she murdered Avalon! That thought alone made him shudder. He would never let that happen. He'd rather die first!

"Trust us, then," Amy spoke up, putting an arm around Lena's shoulders.

"Okay," the Doctor turned for them.

"You have to do this, big brother, and you can't ask why," Lena swallowed hard.

"Are you being threatened?" the Doctor guessed as he looked between the two's faces, "Is someone making you say that?"

"No," they answered together.

"You're lying."

"They're not lying," Avalon sighed and cut in between them, "We promise, all of us."

"Swear to me, then," the Doctor challenged, "Swear to me on something that matters."

"La Belle au bois dormant," Avalon pronounced the title of her favorite fairytale - Sleeping Beauty - in perfect French contrary to her attempt the first time she'd heard it from him as a child, "By Charles Perrault."

The Doctor considered her very important story and nodded, "My life in your hands, Ava..."

"Thank you," she sincerely said, finally able to at least dimly smile.

"So, Canton Everett Delaware III!" the Doctor returned to the console to begin their research, "Who's he?"

As they started looking into the mysterious man, they began getting some small details of what could potentially be a problem. There was something about a private meeting Canton had with the president of the United States during 1969, Nixon, and it seemed all too interesting for a fired man to be called upon by the most powerful man in the world. The Doctor had resolved to bring the TARDIS somewhere near the meeting just to overhear some things and observe what was going on. Unfortunately for him, he stepped right in the middle of the Oval Office. It was a good thing he'd left the others inside the TARDIS, which was invisible and would keep them safe while he listened in on a very interesting phone call from a little girl pleading help to the president.

"Should we really allow him to go on his own out there?" Avalon stared hard at the shut doors of the TARDIS, "I mean, he's prone to get himself into trouble!"

"And we'll know," assured River who stood by the console, literally waiting for that to happen.

"I don't think it's right," Avalon declared and began pacing back and forth from the doorway to the console, "I mean, we just saw him die so we should do something to stop it and..."

"It's be a paradox, apparently," Amy rolled her eyes.

"I don't care!" Avalon exclaimed.

"What I said too," Amy nodded.

River shook her head, "We've been over this, and Avalon stop pacing, please. It's giving me a headache."

"I can't help it!"

"Ava, why not take a seat?" Rory offered, truthfully also tired of seeing her pace.

"I can't, I can't just sit down and pretend like I didn't see the Doctor die!" Avalon took a breath, her hand absently fiddling over the Doctor's watch on her wrist, "I can't do that, I don't want to..."

Lena hurried up to her twin and put her hands on Avalon's shoulders, "Breathe, Avalon, breathe. I know you're thinking of...Mum," she whispered the word, "But don't worry, okay? This isn't the same thing, it won't be," she assured, Avalon taking a moment to recollect herself.

After a moment, Avalon smiled, "Look at you, making me feel better. He's your 'big brother'."

Lena smiled back and took her hands, "And he's your Fairy Tale Man, important to both of us and the rest. Plus, I think it's about time I did something for you. You always made me feel better, and Gavin, when we were sad."

The moment was interrupted when the TARDIS took a great a shake, nearly knocking the entire group to the floor.

"What was that!?" Avalon rushed up to the console with Lena.

"Every time," River rolled her eyes as she connected some wires to the scanner.

"He said the scanner wouldn't work," Rory reminded with confusion as River worked.

"I know, bless!" she laughed as the scanner wires sparked and the screen came to life, showing the group how the Doctor was being tackled to the floor by the secret agents, his face pressed onto the carpet floor.

"Not that! Ow!" he cried, "River, have you got my scanner working yet?"

Oh, I hate him!" River shook her head.

"No, you don't!" called back the Doctor, probably assuming what the woman was going to say, "River, make her blue again!"

River went around the console flicking switches and pulling levers, succeeding in making the TARDIS visible outside, "Well, we better get out there before he does something else stupid," River headed for the doors with the others behind her.

As River was the first to step out of the TARDIS, she heard the Doctor coquettishly speaking to the agents, "...you think you can just shoot me?"

"They're Americans!" she reminded with a roll of her eyes, her hands in the air to show surrender.

As if that was the magical word, the Doctor stood up from the president's desk with his hands raised, "Don't shoot, definitely no shooting!"

"Don't shoot us either," Lena called as they walked out of the TARDIS, all their hands raised in surrender.

"Very much not in need of getting shot," Rory added and nodded to their raised hands, "Look, we've got our hands up."

"Who the hell are you?" President Nixon demanded while his agents kept him behind for 'safety'.

"Sir, you need to stay back," Canton Delaware instructed the man, but the mysterious group was just too much.

"But who, but who are they? What is that box?"

"It's a Police Box, can't you read?" the Doctor raised an eyebrow, "I'm your new undercover agent, on loan from Scotland Yard. Code name, the Doctor. These are my top operatives, the Singer, the Legs, the Innocent, the Nose, and Mrs Robinson.

"I hate you," River rolled her eyes, meaning it for that one.

"No, you don't!"

"Who are you?" Nixon repeated his question and frankly expected to be answered properly this time.

"Boring question. Who's phoning you, that's interesting," the Doctor pointed out, "'Cause Canton Three is right, that was definitely a girl's voice. There's only one place in America she can be phoning from."

"Where?" Canton challenged the man's supposed intelligence.

"Do not engage with the intruder, Mr Delaware," one of the agents, Peterson, cut in.

"You heard everything I heard, it's simple enough. Give me five minutes, I'll explain," the Doctor assured as he took a seat back on the desk, "On the other hand, lay a finger on me, or my friends, and you'll never, ever know."

"How'd you get it in here?" Canton glanced back at the TARDIS, not at all frightened nor paranoid like the others, "I mean, you didn't carry it."

"Clever, eh?" the Doctor started smirking.

"Love it," Canton smiled.

"Do not compliment the intruder," Peterson repeated and steadied his gun on the Doctor.

"Five minutes?" Canton looked at the Doctor, slightly more inclined to accept than the others.

"Five," the Doctor agreed.

"Mr President, that man is a clear and present danger," Peterson tried to argue when Canton cut him off.

"Mr President, that man walked in here with a big blue box and three of his friends and that's the man he walked past. One of them's worth listening to. What say we give him five minutes, see if he delivers."

"Thanks, Canton!" the Doctor held a thumbs-up to the man.

"If he doesn't, I'll shoot him myself," Canton threw him a warning look that wiped the Doctor's smile.

"Not so thanks..."

"Sir, I cannot recommend..."

"Shut up, Mr Peterson," Nixon looked at Canton, "All right."

"Five minutes," Canton gave the Doctor a go.

"I'm going to need a SWAT team ready to mobilize, street level maps covering all of Florida, a pot of coffee, 12 jammy dodgers and a fez," the Doctor pointed all around the room with utter excitement.

"Get him his maps!" Canton told the other agents.

Later, the entire room was covered in street maps of all sizes with everyone looking at least one of them. Canton and the Doctor stood to one side of the room where the Doctor had a large map on a table in front of them.

"Why Florida?" Canton asked the question of everyone in the room.

"That's where NASA is. She mentioned a space man. NASA's where the space men live," the Doctor paused, "Also... there's another lead I'm following."

"Space Man?" Amy looked at River, both of them and Avalon close by with their own maps, "Like the one we saw at the lake."

"Maybe, probably," River shrugged.

"Please give us a concrete answer," Avalon sighed and looked up, "I know you know what to do but for the sake of timelines you don't say a word about it."

"I'm sorry," was all River had to say about it and returned to her map.

"Thanks for the help," Avalon muttered and turned away, facing the doorway of the room where she saw the same creature on the dunes of the lake, "You..." she immediately gritted her teeth, recalling her theory of those blasted creatures having to do with the Doctor's help. "I saw you..."

"Avalon?" Amy noticed the woman beginning to walk for the doorway, of course then SHE noticed the creature at the doorway, 'Oh my god," she quickly stood up from her seat, "Avalon!" she exclaimed and startled Avalon, as well getting the attention of everyone else in the room.

"Huh?" Avalon turned away from the doorway, blinking rapidly, feeling slightly odd again.

"What's going on?" Lena called from her spot with Rory.

"N-nothing..." Amy shook her head, feeling like an idiot for making a scene with no reason behind, "...funny," she put a hand on her stomach as she started feeling weird.

"Amy, you okay?" Avalon went back to Amy's side.

"Amy, what's wrong?" Rory, concerned, rushed to the women.

"You all right?" the Doctor had to stop and look at the ginger who did seem a bit pale.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine, I'm just...feeling a little sick," Amy assured the others and took a breath.

"Maybe we should get you to a toilet," Avalon suggested and led Amy towards the doorway again, "Excuse me, is there a toilet, or something?" she asked the agent, Peterson.

"Sorry, ma'am, during this procedure, you must remain within the Oval Office."

"Shut up and take them to the restroom," Canton rolled his eyes and waved for them to do as told.

"This way," another agent led the gingers into the hallway.

~ 0 ~

Upon reaching the restroom, Avalon led Amy inside and shooed away the agent that had tried to follow them in for 'safety' reasons. As soon as they entered, though, they saw the creature once again inside the room.

"I keep forgetting," Avalon blinked, once again recalling her previous seeings.

"I saw you before," Amy remembered the office's doorway, "But then I forgot..."

"It does that, apparently," Avalon frowned, "I saw you at their wedding reception. But I forgot. Now it's a year later and you're still here, and you were at the lake - are you following me or...?" she stepped towards the creature.

"Are you serious" Amy looked at her with surprise.

"At your reception, it told me something weird. Then ig was at the lake...and it was looking at me," Avalon gritted her teeth, this time keeping her gaze locked on the creature, "The Doctor died, and it was there again...and it was looking at me. Why!?" she nearly shouted it.

They heard a toilet flush and a blonde woman came out of a stall and headed for the sink, never noticing the creature standing behind.

"Get back! Stay back from it!" Amy waved the woman come over and away from the creature.

The woman turned for the creature and screamed before laughing, "Oh, my God, what is that, is that a mask? Is that a Star Trek thing? Ben, is that you?"

"It's not a joke," Avalon snapped, "Get back from it, now!"

The woman turned around to them, forgetting the creature, "Back from what, honey?"

"That!" Amy pointed behind and made the woman look back again.

"Oh, my God, look at that. Is that a Star Trek mask? Ben, that's gotta be you. Hang on, did I just say all that?"

"Please, just get over here," Avalon motioned.

"Back, honey? Back from what?" the woman had turned around again, Avalon groaning with frustration. The lights began flickering and so the woman looked around, "Oh, those lights. They never fix them."

"Look behind you!" Amy exclaimed, also growing irritated but was more afraid than Avalon.

"Honey, there is nothing..."

The creature reached out for the woman with its arm and mouth open. As the woman turned to look at the creature only to be shot with electricity and disintegrate.

"What the hell was that for?" Avalon snapped, "It's not like she was going to say anything, she couldn't even remember you!"

"How does that work? We can only remember you, while we're seeing you, is that it?" Amy put the pieces together as she took out her camera-phone, "Why did you have to kill her?"

"Joy. Her name was Joy," the creature spoke for the first time.

"Good, you know the name, that makes it better," Avalon rolled her eyes, "Now you answer us, why are you following us?"

"Your name is Avalon." Avalon stepped back when the creature pointed at her, "We have found you again..."

"You said that the last time..." Avalon recalled and felt a new pang of fear course through her.

"And your name is Amelia," the creature then pointed at Amy, "You will tell the Doctor."

"Tell him what?" Amy swallowed hard, still stunned it knew hers and Avalon's identity apparently.

"What he must know. And what he must never know."

"How do you know about that?"

"Know about what?" Avalon frowned.

"Tell him," the creature ordered and Amy pulled Avalon out the restroom.

The agent awaiting on the other side noticed the frantic expressions on their faces, "Are you OK?"

Both gingers looked at each with confusion, Avalon noticing the phone Amy held, "What's that?" she pointed at it.

"It's my phone," Amy blinked, unsure why she had it out.

"Well no duh it's your phone," Avalon rolled her eyes, "I meant why'd you have it out?"

"I have to tell the Doctor," Amy mumbled, something pushing her to talk to him even more now.

"Tell him what, ma'am?" the agent eyed both women with confusion.

"Sorry. I don't know why I said that..." Amy put away her phone and shook her head.

"This way..." the agent motioned for them to follow him.

"I feel like..." Avalon tried to say, something niggling in her mind but couldn't quite place her finger on it. She shook her head and forgot all about it as she went to follow the agent with Amy.

As they returned to the office, they saw the president going over to answer the ringing phone on his desk, the Doctor excitedly babbling on about the map he had in front of him.

"You, sir, are a genius," Canton praised the alien with impression.

"It's a hobby," the Doctor accepted it.

"Oi, instead of being cocky, focus on the phone call," Avalon pointed to the president who was awaiting instructions by the phone.

"Mr President, answer the phone," Canton turned to the president.

Nixon held up the phone and took the call, "Hello. This is President Nixon."

"It's here! The Space Man's here. It's gonna get me. It's gonna eat me!" cried the terrified, little girl through the line.

The Doctor urgently grabbed his jacket and ushered the group towards the TARDIS, "There's no time for a SWAT team, let's go! Mr President, tell her help's on the way. Canton, on no account follow me into this box and close the door behind you."

"What the hell are you doing?" Canton called and rushed after them. As the doors shut behind him, he came to a complete halt when he saw the room inside.

The Doctor had already begun preparing them for de-materialization and was explaining to the group the whereabouts of the little girl, "Jefferson isn't a girl's name, or her name either. Jefferson Adams Hamilton...

Avalon blinked, not expecting to be called upon, "Um...surnames of three of America's founding fathers?"

"Lovely fellas, two of them fancied me," the Doctor tried to joke with her but she was too engulfed in trying to keep the thoughts of his death out of her head, "The President asked the child two questions. Where and who are you? She was answering where. Now where would you find three big historical names in a row like that?"

"Where?" Amy asked then gave Avalon a discreet look from the Doctor. That ginger needed to get herself together or the Doctor would figure it out!

"Here! Come on!" the Doctor ran for the doors and was stopped by Canton who was still taking the mysterious box in.

"It's er..."

"Are you taking care of this?" the Doctor looked over to Rory, figuring it was true as they were together. Without an answer, he continued out the doors with the others.

" Where are we?" Lena crinkled her nose as they stepped out into a warehouse of some sort. It was dirty and messy and quite frankly, it had a unique smell of some sort.

The Doctor had gone up to a desk and plopped down, picking up a small American flag, "About five miles from Cape Kennedy Space Centre. It's 1969, the year of the Moon. Interesting, don't you think?"

As Amy turned on a flashlight, Avalon took a couple steps away from them to look through the clutter, "Why would a girl be here?" she made a face at how dirty some of the things were.

"I don't know. Lost, maybe," the Doctor tried to guess, eyeing River picking up the phone on the side of the desk, "The President asked where she was and she did what any lost little girl would do. She looked out the window," he stood up and gestured to the window, peering through the blinds to see the three street names in sight.

"Streets," Amy realized, "Of course, street names!"

"The only place in Florida - probably all of America - with those three street names on the same junction, and, Ava, you've got that face on again."

"Hm, what face?" she turned from the table she'd been looking through.

"The 'he's hot when he's clever' face," he smirked.

"Oh, really?" Avalon raised an eyebrow, beginning to smirk back, "Well you've got that stunned face again cos I'm just too bloody gorgeous."

'What?' Amy mouthed to Lena and River, completely confused.

River just held up a hand to stop them from interrupting, a soft smile on her face as she looked over to the pair.

The two ended up laughing and the Doctor led Avalon away to explore. Over their travels, the people they'd met had started to assume they were a couple. To further the teases between each other they would make small remarks like that and would end up laughing like it was nothing.

"Egotistical Fairy Tale Man," Avalon playfully pushed him.

"Conceited singer," the Doctor countered.

River had went behind them and felt the need to point out an immediate danger. The last thing she wanted was for danger to harm them while they were distracted with their flirting, "You realize this is almost certainly a trap, of course."

"I noticed the phone, yes," the Doctor agreed.

"What about it?" Avalon looked back at River, curious what they knew.

"It was cut off. So how did the child phone from here?"

"OK. But why would anyone want to trap us?" Amy dreaded the answer as she knew it wouldn't be god at all.

"Don't know. Let's see if anyone tries to kill us, and work backwards," the Doctor declared and brought them into a new area of the warehouse where an operating table was located in.

"Now why would a little girl be here?" Lena blinked with horror, "What were they doing with her!?"

River moved up to the table and took a general observation of the instruments and components around, "It's non-terrestrial, definitely alien, probably not even from this time zone."

The Doctor was nearby some crates and was already rummaging through them, "Which is odd, because... look at this!"

"It's Earth tech, contemporary," River concluded.

"Very contemporary. Cutting edge. This is from the space program!"

"And aliens stole it?" Avalon guessed.

"Apparently," the Doctor popped on a space helmet over his head.

"Why? If you can make it to Earth, why steal technology that can barely make it to the moon?"

"Maybe cos it's cooler," the Doctor lofted the visor, ridiculously excited, "Look how cool this stuff is!"

Amy looked less than amused, "Cool aliens?"

"Well, what would you call me?"

"An alien," Avalon passively remarked as she moved for River.

"Oi!"

"That's not what your stories said," River nudged Avalon with a small smirk.

"Oh c'mon how did you read my stories?" Avalon ignored her blush and pouted. River just winked with a laugh and returned to her work. Avalon huffed, but discreetly cast a glance towards the Doctor while he went to greet Canton and Rory. She blushed deeper and quickly looked away, focusing on whatever was in front of her.

Amy took the distraction of the Doctor with Canton and Rory to get closer to River, "River..."

"I know what you're thinking," River cut her off without even looking at her.

"No, you don't."

"You're thinking if we can find the Space Man in 1969, and neutralize it, then it won't be around in 2011 to kill the Doctor."

"So why aren't we looking harder?" Lena had been watching River work around the operating table with reluctance ans found it strange seeing how much River always claims she loves the thrill and danger.

"Because it doesn't work like that, Lena," River looked up at her, "We came here because of what we saw in the future. If we try and prevent the future from happening, we create a paradox."

"Time can be rewritten," Avalon turned for them, joining the conversation.

"Believe me, there are just some things that can't be rewritten, no matter how much you'd like to," River took a long breath and sadly looked back at the table components.

Amy was less than prone to believe all that, "Says who?"

"Who do you think?" River scoffed and followed a cable with her flashlight, coming up to a manhole cover, "What's this? Doctor! Look at this," she pushed the cover aside as the Doctor walked to her.

"So where does that go?" he watched her scan the hole.

"There's a network of tunnels running under here."

"Life signs?"

"No, nothing that's showing up," River put away her scanner and moved to climb down the hole.

"Those are the worst kind," the Doctor made a face, "Be careful."

"Careful?" River scoffed, "Tried that once, ever so dull."

"Maybe someone should come with you," Avalon offered, peering from the other side down to the darkness, "Never know what could be roaming there..."

"No!" River nearly yelled upon hearing the suggestion, managing to make Avalon jump on her spot, "You go search for there with Amy and Lena."

"But-"

"Go!"

Avalon blinked with surprise and anger, then headed off towards Amy and Lena, muttering certain things under hear breath. The Doctor watched her go with a sense of irritation, "You didn't have to be so rude about it," he scolded River, "She's already so..."

"She's not coming down here, you're supposed to be looking after her, remember?"

"How do you know about that?" the Doctor became suspicious.

"I'm from the future, how do I know about everything?" River rolled her eyes and laughed, resuming her climb down.

A while later, the Doctor had noticed the small incident and was about to go and talk to Avalon when River had popped out of the hole again, looking out of breath.

But just like that, she calmed, "All clear. Just tunnels, nothing down there I can see. Er, give me five minutes, I want to take another look round."

"Stupidly dangerous," the Doctor remarked to her.

"And your point would be...?" River smirked and went back down.

"Rory, would you mind going with her?" the Doctor turned to the human nearby.

Rory eyed the hole with distaste, "Yeah, a bit."

"Then I appreciate it all the more," the Doctor clapped Rory on the back and watched human sulky walk for the hole.

"Hang on, River, I'm coming too," poor Rory started climbing down the ladder.

Finally, the Doctor was able to go to the twins, deciding to start with Avalon on account of how strangely she was behaving today. While the ginger was sorting through a crate, he quietly moved closer to her from behind.

"If you try any of your little sneak-up-tactics on me I'll kick you right here and now," Avalon warned without looking back.

"How do you do that!?" the Doctor stood beside her with endless intrigue.

"Same way my mum caught me when I was kid," Avalon glanced at him, "I'm a woman, I've got eyes on the back of my head."

"Thinking a lot more of your mother today, you know," the Doctor tried to be casual about it, "Any...specific reasons..."

Avalon let go of what she was doing and turned to him, "It doesn't matter." She certainly wasn't going to tell him about the death she witnessed. "Just drop it, Doctor."

"I just want to help," the Doctor softly said, her snappish tone not at all offensive to him. It had been quite some time since she used that kind of tone with anyone. Something wasn't right and he needed to know in order to fix it and make her happy again.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry," Avalon returned to her rummage through crates, preferring to occupy her mind with anything that wasn't his death at the lake. "I get moody sometimes. Nothing you can do anything about it."

"Hey," he reached for her hand, stopping her from moving away, "I'm the fairy-tale man, I can do anything, remember?"

Avalon looked at him for a minute, though once again saw him dying at the lake and had to look away before she teared up, "Not this time," she whispered and took her hand away.

The Doctor didn't like her reaction and was going to keep insisting when they heard the little girl calling from another room, "Help me!" she cried, "Help! Help me!"

Canton pulled out his gun, "It's her!" he rushed after the calls of the girl.

Avalon took off as well in an attempt to avoid further questioning from the Doctor. As Amy and Lena went to follow, Amy stopped and doubled over in pain.

"Amy!" Lena stopped beside the ginger while the Doctor ran to them.

"Amy? What's wrong?"

Amy supported herself between Lena and the Doctor, "I need to tell you something!" she looked at the Doctor.

"Doctor!" they heard Canton call.

"It's important. It's really, really important," Amy insisted.

"Doctor! Quickly!"

"What, now?" the Doctor pulled both women towards the calls of Canton, slightly worried he hadn't heard anything from Avalon for a good while. He found Canton on the floor of another section of the warehouse, unconscious, "Canton! Canton, are you OK?"

"Is he all right?" Lena looked around for her missing sister, "Avalon!" she called.

"Just unconscious. Got a proper whack though," the Doctor observed.

"Doctor, I need to tell you something," Amy kept insisting, taking the opportunity that Lena had gone for Avalon, "I have to tell you now!"

"Not a great moment, Amy," the Doctor gave her a sharp look.

"No, it's important, it has to be now!"

"Help! Help me!" they heard the little girl getting closer, "Help me!"

"Doctor... I'm pregnant," Amy finally said, leaving the Doctor more than surprised.

"It's the astronaut!" Avalon came running through, completely out of breath, Lena behind her, "It's the..."

The Doctor stood just as the astronaut came to sight behind the twins, "Here, now!" he ordered the twins and they quickly ran over.

"That's it," Amy realized, "The astronaut!"

The astronaut raised its hand, making Amy think it would attack. She turned for Canton's gun and missed the astronaut lifting it's visor to reveal she was the little girl calling for help.

"Help me!" the girl cried.

"Get down!" Amy ordered as she stood up with the gun.

Avalon realized what Amy intended to do, "No, Amy!"

"What are you doing!?" the Doctor's eyes widened as Amy turned, ready to shoot.

"Saving your life!" and Amy fired the gun at the astronaut, only seeing it was a little girl after she'd fired.

[loptgangandi]

so! literally no one asked, but these last 3 weeks have been a hell of a ride let me TELL YOU 

so happy mun-day now you get to hear all about it!! (with pictures, I’m not a monster)

here’s the cliffnotes version: 

december week 1: simultaneously moved back into a place and took classes then moved out of that place while taking classes and planning a 2-day overland trip from sweden to madrid. took said trip. 

december week 2: attended the unfccc climate conference COP25 in madrid, got kicked out for protesting in solidarity with indigenous ppl & kids, got let back into COP the next day & proceeded to go to more panels and also protests. no i did not see greta thunberg but she was there. I did not see harrison ford either. I did shake al gore’s hand tho.

december week 3: week #1 with my mom’s new twin one-eyed cyclops kitties (yes both of them), spent the week frantically writing 2400 words of nonsense that hopefully resolved themselves into two coherent enough papers to snag me a nice grade then took a 36-hour trip up to london to see my sister perform at her bitchin new job.

elaboration under the cut.

Hell Week (or) Why You Sometimes Should Fly to Climate Conferences

So, after the nonsense with The Roommate From Hell (reddit rant here), I moved out of my room at her place and back into the dorms (where I still had a lease through the end of December). That required a fair bit of effort, but I moved things bit by bit over the course of about a week, and it was manageable. 

But I had to be out of the dorms and have the place clean by the time I left for the climate conference, which in itself was a whole lot of coordination. Wednesday the 4th of December was probably among the worst, most frustrating days I have ever had, and I desperately hope I never have to deal with that level of fuck this fuck you fuck me fuck everything for a very, very long time. Somehow -- by some miraculous act of the gods -- I pulled it out, and managed to get my stuff into my friend’s basement, my plants into another friend’s apartment, my bags packed, my room clean as a whistle, my self moved into my hostel, and to every damn class that week. My interrail tickets came the day I planned to leave -- it was a tight fit -- and I managed to book trains and busses from Uppsala to Madrid with half an hour to spare, and get on the first train (Uppsala to Stockholm) in good time.

The next 48 hours went like this:

Stockholm -> Copenhagen (by train): uneventful, but Copenhagen train station on a Friday night is a little dicey, especially when you’re dragging around a 45 lb suitcase and another 15 lbs on your back

Copenhagen -> Hamburg (by overnight FlixBus): Uneventful, and I was sitting by a window with no one sitting next to me, so I was able to doze a bit on the trip. 

Hamburg -> Basel (by high-speed rail): This one I should have booked. The website said that a reservation was recommended, and I understand why. If I’d had a quiet cabin -- or even just a consistent seat for the whole 7-hour journey -- I’d have been able to get a decent night’s sleep. Instead, I kept having to move to give people their reserved seats, and didn’t get more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep.

Basil -> Olten (train): this one was a mistake

Olten -> Brienz (train): where the fuck am I

Brienz -> Lausanne (train): oh right yes that’s the direction I want to go yes good get on that one

Lausanne -> Geneva (train): oh thank fuck, I 100% know where I am and am back on track. Sunglasses & 30 hours without sleep is a Look.

Geneva: Spend 3 hours with my mom, put a week’s worth of clothes into a considerably smaller suitcase, eat dinner. meet mom’s new kittens, Saga and Luna

Geneva -> Lyon (bus): Get confused about which bus to get on, get told off by the bus driver we were trying to convince to let us on his bus, realized mom had been trying to put me on the wrong bus. Get on the right bus. Go to Lyon with bus driver who speaks no French or English, only Spanish.

Lyon -> Barcelona (night bus): Hell. Just. Absolute Hell Bus. Wanted To Die all night. Assigned to aisle seat just before the very back next to a very, very tall man who was quite polite but had no room for his legs. Behind us were two men, one of whom was loudly chewing gum until he took off his shoes and fell asleep, the other of whom snored like a gd bulldozer. Aisle seat and wailing baby a few rows down meant that my chances of sleeping comfortably were 0. I did manage to doze off a bit, but only because I was so strung out from not sleeping the night before. Eventually made it to Barcelona alive and lent my phone to the very nice lady with the wailing baby (plus like 5 other family members, none of whom had cell service). 

Barcelona -> Madrid (train): Absolutely gorgeous train ride through the Spanish countryside that I really did want to stay awake to enjoy. Managed to do so until we got to an elevation where it was just thick, dense fog and I let myself fall asleep. 

Madrid: I arrived at my hostel groggy, dazed, and in pain from two bad nights in a row. I considered a nap, but also considered that I’d need to wake up early the next morning and would need to fall asleep. Opted to try to set up my COP25 blog instead. Failed due to aforementioned grogginess. Walked to the corner to get some food and tried to pay for it with Swedish kronor, which didn’t work. Apologized, explained to the amused man that it had been a long weekend, paid him in Euros instead. Used the hostel’s dry sauna (!!!!), took a shower, and went to bed. 

COP25 - The Old White Fuckening

So, listen, I’m not going to go into detail about COP. If you want to read about how much of a tonedeaf clusterfuck the negotiations were (as opposed to the really interesting, inspiring stuff happening in the side sessions), BBC has some good articles. 

If you want to listen to some of the press conferences and plenaries, here they are. I especially recommend the ones by the Women’s Earth and Climate Caucus, Fridays for Future, and as many of the Indigenous Peoples’ statements as you can (most of them are in Spanish and/or Portuguese. Because the COP was supposed to be held in Chile, many of the registered Indigenous participants were from Amazonas because it was supposed to not be far to travel). 

If you want to listen to some of the side events, the webcasts have been recorded here. Click the link, and then click “Join the event.” I again recommend the ones by Indigenous groups (if you can understand them -- we all had translation headphones in the sessions, but I don’t speak Spanish, so I can’t really go back and revisit them). Also, this "feminist attempt at connecting the dots” on “climate crisis, corporate power, and climate finance” and this one session from a Nigerian NGO and the government about One Health and the connection between climate change, disease, and other health risks -- and how badass Nigeria is at tackling them. 

On the subject of tonedeafness, some absolute bullshit went down on Wednesday, December 11th. 

Here is the article on BBC, but it’s a bit incomplete.

Here’s what happened.

COP25 2: The Old White Fuckeninger (Starring Military Police!)

So on Wednesday, December 11th, Greta Thunberg -- environmental wunderkind with truly glorious bitchface -- sat on a panel before a hall full of condescending adults in which she demanded accountability and immediate action from national leaders. 

At the end of her speech, the delegation of Fridays for Future -- Greta’s own youth movement, which has become a global phenomenon -- stormed the stage. Representatives of Fridays for Future admitted that they knew what they were doing was against the rules, and they were ready to face the consequences: having their admission badges taken away (being “debadged”), and not being blacklisted from future UNFCCC events. 

Neither of these things happened. Instead, UNFCCC praised the young activists, and let them keep their badges. 

A few hours later, another activist group in attendance -- not an Indigenous one, a point that was raised by a young Native American man during the Fridays for Future press conference -- staged a sit-in outside the main hall where a large plenary meeting was scheduled. Said meeting was full of gimmicks, including a live call to the International Space Station so an astronaut could talk about the view of climate change from space. 

I was going to attend the plenary. I joined the protest instead. 

Admittedly, the decision was partly made for me by security. After pushing, shoving, and jostling the (mostly adult, heavily Indigenous, mostly PoC, heavily female, heavily Queer) protesters, as well as violently snatching their badges off their lanyards, security started herding them -- as well as anyone in proximity -- out into the open docking area outside the hall. One woman nearby, who hadn’t meant to join the protest and who had just been filming, tried to duck out of the group and got sternly told by a security guard “No. Keep going forward. No turning back.” A similar thing had happened to me -- I hadn’t made up my mind about joining the protest, because I didn’t have all the information -- but security made the decision, and in the end, I’ll always prefer to be with the people facing the police rather than those they’re protecting. 

It was... furious. It was emotional. The leaders of the protest had us form a circle and turn our backs on security and the door. WoC -- many of whom were Indigenous -- led not just standard protest chants, but songs. Renewal songs, fight songs. The common theme was the intersection of environmental justice and femininity, queerness and suffering under colonization, anti-capitalism, anti-exploitation, and a call for colonizers to repay the colonized for all of the loss and damage already caused by climate change (climate reparations). 

Eventually, UNFCCC made a decision. They decided to close the door on us. Security “escorted” us to the docking bay entrance, and the military police took over. Fortunately, none of them started anything. Obviously, none of the protesters did either. We made it back to the venue entrance eventually, but only those with journalist/media badges were allowed back in; the rest of us were not. Even people with Observer badges (like mine) who hadn’t been part of the protest weren’t being allowed in. But some people who were panelists, delegates, etc. came out to stand in solidarity with us. 

Once it became clear that no more joint actions would be taking place, I went home, and waited to see whether the negotiators would be able to talk UNFCCC into letting us back in. 

They did. Can you imagine the headlines? “UNFCCC Kicks Out Protesters, Bars Civil Society Observers From Climate Talks.” 

Talk about going down like a lead balloon.

Which is about what the conference in general did. I was able to go back and get some more stuff out of it... including another big protest, this time led by Fridays for Future and sanctioned. It was so, so good. Many of the people from Wednesdays protest were also there, and while spirits weren’t exactly high, the emotions being expressed were more along the lines of determination and tenacity than fire and fury. Both are valid, and both have their place, and it was nice to have a balance -- especially at the end of the week, when we were all flat-out exhausted. 

The Aftermath

And then I just didn’t stop moving. Saturday and Sunday I spent exploring Madrid and staying out late, Monday I flew back to Geneva from Madrid (because absolutely fuck Spanish busses and also absolutely FUCK FRANCE’s weeks-long general strike that I’m sure was for something very important. I’m sure. Because France never strikes over trivial things). 

Tuesday-Friday was a takehome exam that I swear to god was more labor-intensive than my actual undergrad thesis, and Saturday-Sunday I flew to London to visit my sister at her new job as an actor in Shrek’s Adventure. Mom was supposed to go with me, but she has a slipped disk and sent me up alone. Which was nice -- my sister and I almost never hang out just the two of us. But that’s another thing I’ve been dealing with -- quite a bit of extra Stuff To Do that Mom Can’t Do because Back Hurty and there have been days when she literally could not move. 

But now I am here! I still have work to do, and it’s holidays so there’s Holiday Stuff happening, but I’m hoping to get back to writing here in the next few days. 

And if you’ve read all of this, you’re fucking incredible and I love u and here are some one-eyed black babie kitty gremlins for ur viewing pleasure.

<-Saga | Luna ->

They’ve got little bare patches on their tummies because bbies gotta be spayed

They got this tower two days ago and have learned to share, but the learning curve was steep

Saga doesn’t like cuddles but she likes pats and being in the vicinity of humans

Saga says hello

Pictured: Luna in my arms, Saga in Proximity

Luna stole my Spot!! >:C

If Saga steals something and then tells u to answer a riddle to get it back pls let me know. she does that sometimes. it’s very naughty.

[belphegor1982]

That blonde woman who was with Jonathan still waited his call for days and jonathan didn't know how tell her "sorry for not call you, my nephew was kidnapped by a mummy and you know"

I started writing a reply and it turned into a fic :3 (Thanks a LOT - again - to @thisstableground for the Britpick! And Em, I hope you don’t mind that I published it before you sent it back. I know you’re crazy busy, I just hope RL is being kind to you.)

Call Me (on AO3 / on FFnet)

To think the evening had begun so well.

Minnie – real name Winifred Cooper, but who used real names in this game – had found a suitable rich idiot, they’d had a few drinks, made attempts at conversation (not that she really listened to him; one rich twit was as good as another and the only thing rich twits were good for in the end was money), and after a bit of a snog he’d taken her home for more.

His ‘home’ looked like a manor. Minnie couldn’t believe her luck.

Unfortunately that was when the evening went from promising to just plain weird. And not the fun sort of weird, either.

Judging from the look on her toff’s face – Jonathan, he said his name was, and he did look like a Jonathan more than she did a Winifred – people with stormy looks on their faces barging into his room wasn’t part of his plans.

“Oh, sorry,” he said with a nervous grin, “we must be in the wrong house.”

Minnie’s smile froze. But he’d had the keys and everything…?

“I thought you said this was your house,” she said, eyeing thestrange men in red robes striding towards her and Jonathan. Wait, wasthat a knife in the bloke’s belt!?

One of the men roughly pulled her away. She had ample time to checkthat this was, indeed, a very long, very deadly-looking knife with ahilt that appeared to be made of ivory and looked quite valuable.

The pitch of Jonathan’s voice climbed several notches when heretorted, “No, I didn’t!”

Minnie was about to protest, but a quick mental review of the evening– even accounting for the fact that she had only listened to hisprattle with one ear – confirmed that he had never actually saidthe house was his. Now she thought of it, it was even doubtful thathe’d said he even lived there.

But he had said he was rich. Several times, in fact.

Minnie resisted the thug manhandling her for a couple of seconds tostick her head in the door and say, “Call me!” just in casebefore the red-robed stranger closed the door in her face.

The next minute she realised the futility of her request. Whoeverthose men were, whatever the reason for their presence – and shehad a hunch it was about money – Jonathan was undoubtedly notgetting out of the room in one piece. She had wasted an entireevening on a man who was probably neither rich nor a complete idiotand almost certainly going to meet a ghastly end. The best thing wasto discreetly retrieve her coat and bag from downstairs and leg itwhile she still could.

…The door to the corridor was locked.

Minnie’s grandfather had been a hansom cab driver, and the old dearhad taught her a number of colourful and very creative oaths. Sheexhumed half of them from her memory to curse the air blue.

And then screamed as gunfire erupted from the next room.

In a haze of terror she tried to break down the door, only to findthat the hinges were on the inside. She looked about wildly andspotted a large wardrobe.

Minnie didn’t stop to think. She flung herself among the clothesand slammed the door shut.

The gunfire continued, louder than the earlier thunderstorm. She madeherself as small as she could, flinching every two seconds, her eyesscrewed shut. It seemed to last a long, long time.

After what felt like hours, Minnie realised that silence had fallen.There was no sound at all except the creaks of the wood when sheshifted. Maybe it was safe to come out, after all – even thoughshe’d have to cross the next room to get out. Considering whatshe’d heard, she wasn’t that keen on it. There were probably goryremains splattered everywhere in that room.

At least she’d be out of this madhouse, though.

Her hand found the door of the wardrobe and she pushed.

And pushed.

And spewed the rest of her grandfather’s curses when the damn thingdidn’t open.

Minnie raged, she cried, she whimpered, she swore, but she remainedlocked inside the wardrobe. At some point she gave up and slumped onthe floor between the coats, trousers, and dresses, thoroughlymiserable.

Wait, dresses?

Either Jonathan was a little more unusual than she’d thought or thelittle weasel was married and had kept mum about it. She was usuallyso skilled at spotting the traces a ring left on a man’s finger,too.

She spent a long time wondering exactly when the evening had turnedinto such an unmitigated disaster and feeling sorry for herselfbefore she gave in to boredom and fell asleep.

.⅋.

Minnie was abruptly woken up by a footstep approaching her hidingplace and the door being yanked open.

She screamed.

Jonathan screamed.

He stopped first and clutched his chest dramatically.

“Good God, woman,” he gasped, “what the hell are you doinghere?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snapped, all too awareof the countless little kinks and aches in her body and the fact thather mascara must have painted black tracks on her cheeks. Jonathan,she noted, looked dishevelled and tired, but completely unharmed. Howon earth…?

Minnie made to clamber out of the wardrobe, her whole body stiff andawkward. He didn’t help her out, too busy goggling at her.

“The bloody door was locked,” she spat, trying to untangle herlegs. Her tight dress wasn’t helping any. “And I wasn’t aboutto intrude on your little party, was I? Especially not once peoplestarted shooting all over the place!”

As if on cue, a tall man in a blue shirt ran into the room, holding agun in each hand and pointing both of them at her and Jonathan.

She gave a high-pitched squeal, and Jonathan yelped.

“Who are you?” the man asked with an American accent, his eyesnarrowing at her. “No, wait, I don’t care. Jonathan, take care ofit – and when this whole thing is over you and me are gonna have achat. Remember, twenty minutes.”

And he was gone in the blink of an eye.

Minnie was too angry and frazzled to be surprised.

“What is wrong with you people!?” she cried. “Costumedfreaks! Machine guns! Bloody… cowboys! What the hell?!”

“Well,” said Jonathan with a weak attempt at a smile, “at leasta resurrected mummy didn’t try to kill you. I’d count that as awin.”

Minnie stared at him, still vibrating with anger and residual fright,and opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She pushed past him andstormed out, only stopping on the entrance steps of the house.

It had stopped raining, but humidity hung in the air and it wascolder than even an English June night had any right to be. Thecountryside might be less smoky and dirty than London, but it wasalways colder, stranger, always reminding her that she felt better inthe middle of bustling traffic and busy streets. She belatedlyremembered that the nearest train station must be at least ten milesaway and cast a forlorn glance at her shoes, knowing they would notlast nearly as long. Then it hit her that she had left her coat andbag somewhere inside the house, and she sank on the stone steps witha frustrated sigh.

After a while, she started badly when she felt something heavy andwarm drop on her shoulders. The familiar perfume registered beforeshe recognised the coat as the one she’d worn earlier tonight,before the madness started.

Jonathan handed her her bag and sat clumsily beside her, drawing ahip flask from a pocket. He had changed his clothes, and lookedmarginally less foolish without his wilted dinner jacket.

“I called you a taxi,” he said.

You’re the taxi,Minnie almost retorted. She curbed the automatic childish sarcasm andwiped her cheeks with the heels of her hands.

She really could have done with some of what must be in that hipflask.

“Sorry about that wardrobe. The door’s always been a bittroublesome.”

Oh, what the hell. Might as well make small talk.

“I thought you said it wasn’t your house,” she said in alow voice. Jonathan didn’t smile, but something twinkled in hiseyes. He took a mouthful from his flask and threw her a sidewayslook.

“I never said that.”

“Then what…?”

“It’s my family’s house. My sister lives here with her husbandand her son. Rick’s actually a good chap when you know him, he’sjust a little on edge – what with those blighters in the red takingEvy, then the whole nasty business with Imhotep and the mummies onthe bus, then Alex being kidnapped…”

Minnie watched him rattle off things that made absolutely no sense atall, wondering if she should actually wait for the taxi to come pickher up or get away from him as fast as she could. Curiosity overrodesense.

“So Alex is your nephew?”

“Hm-hm.”

“And he’s been kidnapped?”

“That’s right.”

Minnie usually considered herself a pretty good judge of when peoplewere lying or not – when she decided to pay attention, anyway.Jonathan’s voice sounded on the offhand side of neutral, but thelittle worry lines around his mouth and the deep crease between hiseyebrows told her that, of all the nonsense she had witnessedtonight, this at least was real and personal.

“How old is he?”

“Eight.”

Something tightened in the region of her chest. Toff or not, that wasan awful thing to happen to a kid so young.

“Eightyears, three months and, er,seventeendays old,Ibelieve.” Jonathan rubbeda hand over his face and let out a slightly shaky breath.

Compassionand anger were having a go at each other in Minnie’s mind. How darehe. How darehe make her feel sorry for him and the kid. Whoever had kidnapped thechild were probably after the kind of ransom you’d expect peopleliving in a stately home like this to pay: the familywould either call the police or pay a lot of money and everythingwould be right as rain.

That hipflask was looking more and more tempting by the minute.

Everything– the evening she’d had, the damp cold despite her coat, theawkwardness of the situation – rattledaroundher brain louder than a train clatteringalong its rails. Inthe racket she heard herself say, softer than she meant to, “I’msorry.”

Jonathan’shead jerked towards her, as though she had just reminded him she wasthere. His eyes followed her gaze to the hip flask he was stillholding between two fingers. He handed it to her wordlessly, and shetook it with a nod of thanks.

Thankgoodness for posh twits who carried silver hip flasks. Jonathandidn’t stint himself on booze. The whisky was top notch.

Minnie wasnot the sort of girl who went red and giggly after only a sip ofalcohol. She had learned the dangers of that early on. But shecouldn’t help a snort.

“Ijust wanted afun evening with a rich idiot, you know that? And you, sir, are justlousyat the rich idiot thing.”

Jonathanpocketed his hip flask and shrugged. “Well, Ionly wanted a fun evening. But it looks like neither of us is gettingwhat we want tonight, doesn’t it.” He tilted his head to the sideand looked at her. “Tell me something. When we started, er…talking…”

“Is thatwhat you call it?” Minnie slipped in slyly. Jonathan looked ratherput out.

“Yes,well, I’m quite aware I might not have been the most scintillatingconversationalist, but then again neither have you, so.”

Sheresented that remark. Or maybe resembled it.

The nerveof that man.

“Whatwere you looking for, really? A good time, or a mark?”

The wordsurprised her. Maybe he really wasn’t as wet as he looked.

Andmaybe pigs were flying in the night sky, aswell,because Winifred Cooper took a look at herself and answered honestly.

“…Both?”

Jonathanlooked at her, his expression inscrutable. Thenhe shrugged with a smile that had more than a touch of silliness.

“Youreally got short-changed on both, didn’t you? Your evening was anightmareand I’m flat broke.”

“What!?”Minnie’s eyes went round.

“Or nearenough, anyway. As it turns out, it’s a bad idea to trustuntrustworthy people.”

“Oh.”

Justhow gullible washe, really?

Thesound of anoncoming motor and wheels creaking on the gravel of the drivewayinterrupted her trainof thoughtand she looked up to see a taxistopping near the house. Jonathan stood up with a wince and held outhis hand.

“Lookslike your carriage hasarrived,Milady. Come on, up you get.”

Minnietook theprofferedhand, holdingher coat tightlyshut.Whenhe let go she almost had to quash a pang of regret. His hand had beenwarm.

Beforeshe closed the door of the taxi,something – temporary insanity,no doubt – made her call him back.

“Jonathan?”

Jonathanwas halfway up the steps to the house. He turned back to her with aslightlystartled expression.

“Look…Thisevening really has been, um…”

“Anunequivocal disaster?”

“Somethinglike that. Itwas fun, though, before… Well, before.” Not that Minnie wanted torepeat the experience. Maybe she should start chasing the broodyloners from now on. Quirky airheads were deceptively dangerous.“Aboutyour nephew… Could you give me a call when you get him back? Justso I know he’s safe.”

Immediatelyafter she mentally kicked herself. Nevergetting involved in any way wasn’t just a convenientdefencemechanism, it was a necessary one. Congratulations,you sap, now he thinks you care.

Shedefinitely didn’t. Not a jot. What was it to her, really. Manyother kids had it much worse every day.

Jonathanstared at her, looking taken aback. Then he smiled.

“I’lldo that, then. Thank you, Minnie.”

Thatwas when she realised that she would havetonever see him again. Batting her eyelashes to part fools andtheir money and fooling around for a good time was one thing; takingadvantage of a moment of vulnerability was too low, even for her.Minnie couldn’t in good conscience say that she wasa woman ofprinciple, but she did have standards. And she didn’t do personal.That way lay danger.

Shecouldn’t help turning back in her seat just before the taxileft the driveway for the road. The steps were deserted; Jonathan hadgone back inside the house.

Onecall, she told herself firmly. That’s it. Then it’sbusiness as usual.

No harmever came from making one single phone call, after all.

.⅋.

Notes:

I’mnot saying I had “Minnie the Moocher” in my head the whole time Iwas writing this, but… I kinda did :D ThisMinnie doesn’t have a “heart as big as a whale”, though. Maybea dogfish shark :3 Still,Iliked creating her. She’s a gold digger and owns up to it, but doeshave standards.

Hope you liked!

[honvoyagediary]

The Scramble Home

15th March 2020

We woke on the 15th March to a message from our Airbnb host in El Chalten, where we were due to travel to in the afternoon, telling us that Argentina had closed all of its national parks indefinitely due to Coronavirus. From what we we could see online, El Chalten is a town even smaller than El Calafate, where internet connection and phone coverage is poor. With the only activity to do in the town being trekking in the now closed national park and with rumors of an impending national quarantine looming, we decided we were better off staying put in El Calafate until we could get a 24 hour bus north to Bariloche, a city with better transport links and an easier route to Chile should we need it. It was also partly in keeping with our traveling plan - we had no intention of coming home at this point and booked the bus for Tuesday 17th.

Later that day Argentina announced it was closing its borders to all non-residents and canceling all flights from America and Europe, which would have a subsequent knock on effect on flights going in the other direction. The mood had changed in El Calafate and looking at the global reaction to Coronavirus we started conversations about potentially going home - these conversations centered around the fact that it was looking increasingly likely that travel would be disrupted and even if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be able to see and do the things we wanted to. After discussing with our parents Honor and I ultimately came to the decision that we should go home, although we were still unsure whether this was the right choice. We had found a new Airbnb earlier in the day and went to bed that night with the intention of arranging our route home in the morning.

16th March 2020

We spent the morning googling various options to get home, all via Chile as the last flight from Argentina to the UK was leaving from Buenos Aires in the afternoon. The quickest route appeared to be to head back the way we’d came as far as Punta Arenas, fly to Santiago and then to the UK. We calculated that we could be in Santiago by Thursday 19th and booked on a British Airways flight for Friday the 20th - a flight that would actually take us to São Paulo first (with LATAM) and then London. The first step of our plan was to get the bus from El Calafate to Puerto Natales back in Chile. There was a bus leaving in the evening so we booked on it and killed time in El Calafate.

We arrived at the bus station to 15-20 people who looked as though their travel plans had not gone smoothly - distressed faces and frantic phone checking/calls. We checked with our bus company to find out that because the company was based in Chile they were unable to get the coach across the border into Argentina and then take us back again. The woman told us that the bus was cancelled but that if we were quick we could book on a bus with the company next door who were Argentinian and should therefore have no issues with the border crossings - the next bus was first thing in the morning and we managaed to get tickets.

While this was ongoing we overheard an American group who were discussing the fact that their travel agencies had told them to “get out of Argentina as soon as possible”. The UK Government website was now stating the same so our decision to come home was starting to look like the right one. We also learned while at the bus station that Chile had announced it was going to close its borders on Wednesday 18th. With our bus being scheduled for the 17th we felt quietly confident we’d at least make it back to Chile in the morning.

17th March 2020

Arriving at the bus station at 6am we were greeted with about 30 people frantically checking their phones and looking far more distressed than yesterday - not a good sign. We checked with the bus company who confirmed to us that the bus was cancelled. The company had been called late in the night and told that the Chilean border was closing early, at midnight, and if they attempt to cross with the coach they will not be allowed to pass. They told us the situation may be different for lone travelers if we got a taxi to the border and refunded us our money.

Our options were now limited to either staying put in El Calafate or trying to get a flight to Buenos Aires and then to São Paulo to meet the British Airways flight we had booked. As it stood, Brazil was still operating normally but we had so far disregarded going to Buenos Aires and therefore staying longer in Argentina due to the threat of national quarantine, the lack of onward flights from Argentina, the constant threat of Argentinian transport cancellations and the fact that (in theory!) getting to Chile was an easy, well trodden route. We joined those frantically searching things on their phones and tried to book flights from the small airport in El Calafate to Buenos Aires. Unsurprisingly we failed to book these flights as the airline websites refused to accept payment.

We went back to our Airbnb and briefly, although seriously, considered a third option - traveling to the Chilean border by taxi and risking the border crossing. The taxi would have been two hours and over £100, with the propspect of leaving us desserted in the middle of nowhere if Chile did not let us in, so we dismissed it and opted to go the airport in the hope of booking a flight to Buenos Aires.

The airport was full of people trying to get home and we each joined different queues for different airlines. My queue traveled the quickest while Honors didn’t move at all, I reached the front and got told to join another queue, perfect. My second queue thankfully moved quickly and I eventually bought two tickets for a waiting list - we were to wait in the airport and hope that our names would be called out. Luckily for Honor, her name was read out as the next available flight was due to start bording. My name was omitted. We queried with one of the airport staff who investigated and returned with the news that there was room for me too - I’m sure Honor wouldn’t have deserted me!?

We landed in Buenos Aires and investigated onward flights to São Paulo. LATAM couldn’t change the ticket we had booked from Santiago as it was booked through British Airways so we had to purchase new tickets for the next morning - more money than we were comfortable spending but with the constant risk of cancelation we had to turn a blind eye to our flaming debit cards rather than wait for the cheaper options. The LATAM woman informed us she had sorted the flights “from here to São Paolo” and we arranged a nights stay at a nearby hotel.

18th March 2020

Another early start after about four hours sleep between us. We got a taxi back to the airport and hit our first snag of the day as we viewed the departures board - our flight wasn’t there. We checked with a LATAM employee who told us we were at the wrong airport. It turned out that when the woman last night said “from here” she meant Buenos Aries and not the specific airport. We quickly got a taxi and lucked out with the taxi driver who seemed to make it his own personal mission to get us there on time.

We checked in at the correct airport and waited in departures. People in masks were all around us, medical personnel were checking arrival flights in full personal protection equipment, we were tired and we were stressed. Thankfully the plane did not get canceled and although departure was a little late, we were just happy to have completed another step.

At the airport in São Paolo we went straight to the British Airways desk to see if we could update our flight to take us that evening rather than making us wait a day. A British couple told us that the desk was closed and we’d have to wait until midday for it to open. Despite the bad news it was at least nice to hear a British accent - we spent the next couple of hours in the queue chatting to our new friends.

The desk opened and the plane change went without issue or further charge. The tickets felt like gold dust and we quickly got through security. We ordered a couple of drinks in departures and managed to relax for the first time in a few days.

As a somewhat nervous flyer I had never been so happy to hear the words “welcome on board”, with the British accent making it all the better!

19th March 2020

The plane landed at Heathrow at about 6am and we confirmed to our parents that we’d made it. Our next step was to get to Leeds so we could pick up Honor’s car from Connie (Honor’s sister). The train journey went smoothly (rush hour in London was eerily quiet) and we picked up the car early in the afternoon.

We were treated that night to a room in the Timble Inn which had by far the comfiest bed of our two month journey and some very comforting food.

20th March 2020

The final leg! We filled up on full English breakfasts before setting off on the drive to Heysham to get the afternoon sailing home. We were hit with a strange range of emotions as we were sad that we’d had to finish our journey early but equally relieved to have made it home.

We checked in at Heysham and felt comforted by the sight of the boat waiting ready to take us home. Four and a bit hours later and we’d made it back onto Manx soil! We would love to finish our journey in hopefully the not too distant future, but right now, just like everybody else, we’re waiting for all this to blow over in self isolation.

- Ricky

After a somewhat gloomy post, here is my “1 Second Everyday” video - a one second clip from everyday of our journey, enjoy!

[lothiriel84]

Crossing the city's compactness pierced by the spokes of underground passages

A map of Esmeralda should include, marked in different coloured inks, all these routes, solid and liquid, evident and hidden. It is more difficult to fix on the map the routes of the swallows, who cut the air over the roofs, dropping long invisible parabolas with their still wings, darting to gulp a mosquito, spiralling upwards, grazing a pinnacle, dominating from every point of their airy paths all the points of the city.

- Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

Or, a pretty random account of my recent trip to London and Brighton. 

The thing about London is that you actually have plenty of different options when it comes to public transport. All you need to do is to get yourself an Oyster card, then you can travel across the city by Tube, Overground, bus, tram, train, boat, DLR - which the Train Driver from JFSP reminds me is an automated light metro system - and if my memory serves me right, even the Emirates Air Line.

That means it’s relatively easy to travel between any two points within the city, barring of course any disruption, traffic, delays, or whatever; the only downside is that, if you’re like me and rely entirely on Google Maps to calculate your route, you might end up discovering you haven’t the faintest idea where those points are located on an actual map. Travelling mainly by Tube, I invariably fail to figure out the relative positions of my starting point and my final destination, up to the point that I sometimes can’t even remember if a certain spot is located either in North or South London. And given how big London is, and how different from one another each of its areas are, you might have a hard time reconciling all the different images in one single picture - especially if you tend to visit different areas at different times.

The 'famous buildings and landmarks’ London is different from the Docklands London, which is in turn different from the Royal Parks London, and so on. And as I’ve already visited most of the classic tourist attractions, or simply don’t care about some of those, I find it far more interesting when I happen to find some less known spots, or even better, places that are somehow significant to one of my interests. (My favourite is quite obviously references, or even actual locations, from my favourite radio shows and podcasts. I once went all the way to London Bridge solely to stand on the exact spot where the bunker from The Bunker podcast is supposed to be located, and then all the way to Brixton in order to get a look at Electric Avenue. I’m not even sorry.)

As I tend to have a problem with planning my trips - as a result of a mix of being anxious, and trying to save myself any unnecessary disappointment if I end up not being able to go - I usually have to come up with new sightseeing locations on the spot, which is not the easiest thing of all, and mostly involves seeking inspiration in the most random of places. This time around, it was a Facebook post from one of those ‘visit London’ pages that prompted me to go to St Dunstan-in-the-East, which is a public garden within the ruins of a church; it might be small, but it makes for a great spot for picture taking, or attempting to, at any rate. After that, I simply fell back to one of my favourite haunts, which is Greenwich and its park; the cold wind surely didn’t help, nor did my lack of sleep from the night before, but still a lovely spot all the same.

All of this was last Wednesday, of course, after landing in Stansted and taking a train into London. On Thursday morning, I was once more on a train, only it was headed to Brighton this time around; and as I’ve done little else other than looking forward to John Finnemore’s Flying Visit for the past three months, you may easily guess my reasons for going there. I had already been in Brighton on a previous occasion - as Facebook’s mainly useless time hop function reminded me only a few days later, it was very close to precisely two years before - only that time around I had been so desperate to reach the Seven Sisters that I spent very little time in it, seeing basically nothing but the Pier and some random landmark as I walked there from the train station. This time I spent most of my day around the Royal Pavilion and the seafront next to the Pier, once again taking pictures - because that’s my actual idea of fun while being on a trip - until it was finally time to rush to the Brighton Dome Concert Hall for the show. (I am the kind of person who is perpetually late, no matter what. Still managed to get there ahead of the doors opening, which as far as I’m concerned is a major win.)

As for the show itself, you can find a longer and quite more rambly post here; however, please bear in mind that it contains plenty of spoilers, which might somewhat ruin your enjoyment of the show if you’re going to go yourself. For the purposes of this (horribly long, I’m afraid) account of my trip, suffices to say that it was a joy from start to finish, and that the cast seemed to be having at least as much of a fantastic time as the audience themselves. For all that I love their voice acting, seeing them on stage was miles better, and John’s new material was particularly clever and funny in places. And, well, don’t tell the man himself, but I somehow found it endearing when he fluffed the lyrics a bit as he was singing one of his solo songs - which is more than understandable, as I don’t have the faintest idea how any of them did manage the feat of memorising so much material in such a short span of time, not to mention the lines that are specifically tailored to each of the tour locations, which is definitely impressive.

After the show, I was one of the few people who successfully located the stage door, and was lucky enough to be able to say hi to a few of the members of the cast. (No idea why they kind of seem to expect that fans would only be interested in meeting John though.) I barely caught a glimpse of Margaret and Lawry, while Carrie was talking to a gentleman that apparently was a former children’s TV presenter of some sort - she sounded positively chuffed about meeting him, which was quite adorable. John, on the other hand, was more than happy to sign stuff for the handful of people gathered out there, and I can’t even remember what sort of idiotic things I must have told him, but as he’s one of the loveliest men alive, I am fairly confident he didn’t get offended or anything. Simon was also incredibly lovely, and took the time to chat for a bit; he looked like he was having a great time with the tour, which is brilliant. (I think I might even have been briefly introduced to David Tyler, as he was passing by. I probably just stood there gaping as a goldfish, woops.)

Given how I was staying in Brighton for the night, I decided to take the opportunity to go back to Birling Gap on the following day. It’s a beautiful spot, with the Seven Sisters stretching on both sides, and I actually managed to take a walk along one of the paths that stretch along the cliff edge. (Oh, and I didn’t risk missing the last bus and get stranded in the middle of nowhere this time around, so that was definitely a plus.) I should really try and plan a proper trip across the UK at some point, or at least one that doesn’t require me to stay overnight in London, because I love both the seaside and the countryside, and there are so many beautiful places I haven’t been able to see yet. Still, it was lovely to be able to go to Birling Gap once more, and I did go back to the Brighton Pier for a bit before finally taking a train back to London.

As it happened, Saturday was also the day of the omnipresent Royal Wedding - which I had completely failed to factor in when I was booking my trip - so I decided I might as well go somewhere quiet, yet not too difficult to reach by public transport. My original idea was Richmond Park, but a poster inside one of the Tube stations had kindly reminded me that Kew Gardens was also an option, and as I had only managed to see less than half of it on my previous visit, I decided I might as well go back there. It was a warm, sunny day, and I did enjoy wandering around its paths and several glasshouses, taking far more pictures of flowers that I know what to do with. But that’s what I always do, so nothing to see there.

That being said, I think I’ve finally reached the end of this unnecessarily long account, as I flew back home on Sunday morning, and that’s all there is to say about it. I may or may not be on tenterhooks already, waiting for my (paws crossed) upcoming trip to Edinburgh, but that’s a story for some other day.

[xmasimt]

I Gave You My Heart

“We were the bastard children of The Clash. We thought music could change the world.”

-Bono, on the recording of “Do They Know It’s Christmas”

Track One

“It’s Christmas time…

There’s no need to be afraid.

At Christmas time

We let in light and we banish shade…”

                 Christmas Eve was always special for George. Not only because of the anticipation of Christmas morning, or the time away from school and his family’s restaurant (it was the only time of year the restaurant closed), but because Christmas Eve was also his mother’s birthday. Nothing fancy—his mum never made a fuss and hated to be fussed over; just a nice dinner his father prepared—traditional Greek favorites and an English Christmas pudding, then a movie on T.V. George was allowed to stay up late, watching holiday favorites with his mum, happy to have her to himself after everyone else had gone to bed.

Since she passed away twenty years ago—was it really twenty years ago, he wondered in disbelief—Christmas and Christmas Eve were nearly unbearable.

 This Christmas Eve, people were singing one of his own songs just outside his window.

               God bless them.

               He waved and they cheered before marching on (“He looked like a ghost standing there looking out his window,” a neighbor told reporters later), down the lane they went with their candles and their carols, passing slowly along outside his beautiful little house. His favorite of the four homes he owned. Don’t feel too bad for me, he joked.

He was happy to be here. He was always happy to be here. People let him be here.

                 He had gone out and danced among the stars once. And, for a while, he even outshined them.

               Falling…

               Falling…

               Star.

 He was a star. For what it was worth. Not a flash-in-the-pan. Not just a teen idol. Here today, gone tomorrow.

He showed them, didn’t he? Didn’t he?

 He was a star!

It costs him nearly everything and he nearly threw it all away. For what? He couldn’t tell you now.

                 It was his own fault. There was no one to blame but himself. Maybe he wanted it. That’s what he told everyone anyway. Sometimes, he even convinced himself.

               His life was an open secret. Always had been, even from the early days. In the earliest days when they were still schoolboys, he told Andrew the truth and it did not matter. Andrew loved him. And still did, even now.

               But he could not—would never tell his parents. His mother lost a brother because he could not live with the truth. He could not do that to her again. And there was always the fear of death, especially in those days. He could not, would not, worry her needlessly.

               But now his mother was gone.

               Anselmo was gone.

               Kenny was gone.

 George (the other George) called him, “camp,” the night they famously sang that song together, the one the crowd sang for him tonight. It’s funny looking back on it (consider the source); but he wasn’t laughing then.

No matter now.

He watched the holiday lights twinkling on the tree. Looked out on the fading stars outside his window. Could still hear the carolers as they wandered the neighborhood as they did every Christmas Eve, singing. Some years he joined them, but not this year.

His heart hurt and he needed sleep.

Track Two through Five

“This is the year of the hungry man

Whose place is in the past…”

                 He went upstairs to bed. Turned on the T.V. and flipped through the channels (his mum used to let George choose the movie they watched even though it was her special day). He stopped when he saw “Last Christmas,” on one of the music channels. He didn’t normally watch himself on telly, but tonight, what difference did it make? What harm could it do now to look back?

               He turned on his laptop. Searched Youtube. Found himself there.  

               God, why didn’t anyone tell me? He laughed. My hair! That earring! He saw now, with hindsight, why it would be so distracting that the songs he sang were all but ignored, but at the time…

He tried to have a sense of humor about it all, even then. He put on a happy face and his dancing shoes. His tightest pants. Versace suits. That leather jacket he borrowed from the video’s director at the last minute. That damn jukebox.

He often felt like little more than a prop himself. James Dean for the MTV crowd. But he played his part and it paid the bills.

               Isn’t that what everyone does?

               “But some mistakes were built to last…”

               Right?

                 Listen now…

without prejudice.

Tracks Six Through Twelve

“My memory serves me far too well

The years will come and go

Some of us will change our lives

Some of us

Will still have nothing to show

Nothing, baby, but memories.”

 He never listened to his own music once the work was done or the show was over. He never read reviews. He never watched his own videos if he could avoid it (that one where he played the cab driver/stalker made him cringe. He hated that one. But whatever, it sold CD’s).

“Sometimes love can be mistaken for a crime…”

And didn’t he know it.

But the truth was always there…if you listened closely.

 Normally he would watch Coronation Street and doze off (where was Fadi, he wondered).

But tonight…

Damn the internet…

Damn Youtube…

All the ghosts were there...

 “Stop playing with that radio, George. I’m trying to get some sleep!”

His mum. God love her. She didn’t understand him, but she tried to be supportive. Especially when his father seemed cruel. His father was a Greek immigrant who worked his way up from waiting tables to owning a fish and chips shop in Kingsbury until finally he was able to open his own restaurant, Mr. Jack’s, where he and George’s mother, George and his two sisters worked the long, long hours that enabled Mr. Jack to move his family to Radlett and send his young son to a posh school that he could never have dreamed of getting anywhere near himself. His father was furious when George refused to darken the doorway of that place.

“You’ll never amount to anything,” his father said, frustrated with him; hurt that he would spurn such a grand opportunity, one that Jack, himself, had never had and had worked so hard to provide for his son.

So, George went to Bushey Mead Comprehensive at thirteen, partly out of shame, to please his father.

He worked in his father’s restaurant after school, bussing tables and washing dishes, and spent all his money buying records: Tom Jones, Aretha Franklin, the Supremes. Dancing around and singing in his room upstairs.

“My, my, my Delilah

Why, why, why Delilah.”

He imagined that he was David Cassidy, high atop the old LWT building in London, crowds of screaming fans below, adoring, but unable to ever reach him.

It was just a matter of time, he knew, and even his father would see what he saw in the mirror then.

“Sing?” his father scoffed after scolding him one too many times. “You barely speak!”

But his mother, who once upon a time had been a singer and a dancer herself (he never knew until years later when she mentioned it, off-hand, after he made his first record) indulged him. Maybe she just understood him better and was not surprised when he said that he dreamed of being a pop star. Even though he was always painfully quiet and shy; awkward and a bit funny looking with his glasses and curly hair. A pudgy Greek kid; his nickname was Yog (short for Georgious, his given name) and kids at his old school teased him by calling him “Yogurt.”

“Yogurt! Yogurt!” they taunted as he ran home and up the stairs, their voices fading behind him, then finally obliterated with the blare of the records he played.

He was happy, at least, to leave that behind when he went to his new school.

His mother tried to comfort and encourage him.

“You’ll make new friends there,” she promised, “You’ll see.”

And to his surprise, he did. On the first day, even.

“Students,” the teacher introduced him. “This is George. He’s new this year.”

His classmates all stared blankly at him.

“Who will volunteer to show him around?” she asked.

One boy raised his hand. He stepped forward from the back of the room where he sat and shook George’s hand. “I’m Andrew,” he smiled at George. “Stick with me,” he said.

“Alright, alright,” the teacher said, “Now that that’s settled, take your seats.”

George sat in front and Andrew returned to his seat at the back. When class was dismissed for lunch, Andrew sat with him. After school, they rode the bus together and Andrew walked him home.

“Would you like to come up?” George asked, certain Andrew would politely decline now that his duty was done.

“Sure, mate!” he said, to George’s surprise.

From that day on, for the next ten years, the two boys were rarely apart.

 It was Andrew who broke hearts back then. Young Yog just followed Andrew’s lead. He straightened his hair with his sister’s hot iron and stopped wearing his glasses. Dressed like Andrew in jeans and leather jacket. Learned to play guitar and started busking at Green Park Station. He made new friends, aside from Andrew, and snuck off with them to Bolts in Brighton where the boys would play their first live show a couple of years later. George worked in a cinema, selling tickets at the door, and saved his money to record some of the songs he had started writing up in his room and shared them with Andrew.

“Guilty feet?” Andrew laughed.

He once even wrote a song from a note that Andrew had left for his mum: “Wake me up, up before you go, go…”

It was at Monroe Studios, six months after leaving school, where the boys went to record their first demo tape of George’s songs, that they were heard by a record producer who took them right next door to the Hope Workers Café to sign them on the spot.

“Can you believe it, mate?” George asked, signing on the dotted line without a moment’s hesitation.

“Of course, I can,” Andrew smiled as he signed his name on the line beneath George’s.  

George had grown in confidence, at least when it came to his music, but even he was gobsmacked.

By September they were playing their first live gig, for drinks, at Bolts, a gay club in North London.

“Andrew only came down when they performed,” the DJ, Norman Scott, said later, “But George kept coming back and even came to Bolts in Brighton on our bus. People left him alone. Some asked if he and Andrew were a couple,” he laughed. “But really he just came because nobody bothered him there.”

“Looking for some education

I made my way into the night

All that bullshit conversation

Baby, can’t you read the signs…”

 Once, on New Year’s Eve, he and George shared a cab.

“Everything is gonna change soon,” Georgee said. “After we hit America.”

‘On to bigger things?” Norman asked.

George stared out the window; watched the snow fall; two men were walking down the icy sidewalk and one slipped and fell. The other one pulled him to his feet and for a moment the two men embraced then pulled apart when they saw George watching them and they walked on together as the cab drove on.

Two years later, on another New Year’s Eve, George returned, again, to let Norman play the boys’ new record—a song called, “Freedom.”

It was the last time Norman saw George at Bolts, dancing alone in the crowd of men on the dancefloor as his record played and his music filled the club and echoed out onto the snowy streets.

 Sold-out crowds. Girls screaming.

“Was it everything you dreamed it would be?” his sister asked.

“How could I have imagined all this?” he said.

He imagined that he was David Cassidy, high atop the old LWT building in London, crowds of screaming fans below, adoring, but unable to ever reach him. He didn’t imagine being mobbed and manhandled everywhere he went.

“I couldn’t believe that was my son up there on stage,” his father said the first time he saw the boys perform at Earl’s Court a year later. “But I couldn’t deny he’d gone out and proved me wrong, hadn’t he?”

Amazing what selling a few million records will do to change people’s minds, even his father.

But he was already so weary, and he wasn’t even twenty-one yet. They had conquered America. Japan. Returned home to England idolized and filthy rich.

 He watched now, all these years later, and tried to see what others saw then. There he was at the Concert of Hope, introduced by Bowie, whom he had loved as a boy; Princess Diana in the audience. There he was with Queen, singing for Anselmo. All the ghosts were there.

He turned off his computer. He’d had enough for one night. “Haunt me no more, spirits.”

He wanted to be famous…then, but he didn’t really care about the money. He never got used to it. He gave much of it away. The royalties from their own Christmas song, he donated to charity as he did many of the royalties from his songs. The song he wrote for Anselmo, years later, was given to a children’s fund. The duet with Elton, he gave to an AIDS hospice and eight other charities. Every Christmas he gave a free concert for the nurses who cared for his mother when she was sick.

He would miss it this year. Truly, he would miss it. He enjoyed it, maybe more than they did. But he just wasn’t strong enough.

Maybe next year.

He flipped the channels. Nothing but old movies. Bing Crosby, George C. Scott, Jimmy Stewart.

Sometimes, he wished that none of it had happened to him, too. But he was glad, in the end, that it had happened.

In the end, it was all worth it.

Track Thirteen through Sixteen

“Loving you takes such courage

Everyone’s got their eye on you.”

                 Even he sometimes forgot how young he was back then.

He was only eighteen the first time they were on Top of the Pops. They took the bus there and stayed in a cheap motel near the T.V. studio. “I was shocked,” he said later, “It was so tiny!” After the show, they rode the bus home. The next day he strutted around the streets, just waiting to be recognized only to be left utterly disregarded, the moment cheapened. “I thought, ‘This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,’” he laughed.

He was nineteen the first time they appeared on American Bandstand in America.

               He was twenty-one when he performed at Live Aid singing with Elton with literally the whole world watching.

               “Although I search myself

               It’s always someone else I see…”

               Who was that boy? He barely recognized him. He never recognized him. Even back then. This monster he created.

               “Choose Life,” his T-shirt read.

               Choose Life.

 In the 80’s and 90’s being gay was deadly.

And well he knew it.

In the 80’s and 90’s being gay was career suicide. Rock stars are heroes and there’s no such thing as a heroic poof.

It never occurred to him that he could be the one; the first.

 “You didn’t talk about it in those days,” his sister said, “Even if you knew—and I did—you pretended not to know, and life went on as normal. In fact,” she shrugged, “You pretended not to know what you knew so that life could go on as normal.”

That’s just the way it was then.

“It’s hard to be proud,” he told a reporter years later, “When loving is something you associate with shame,” he looked away wistfully for a moment, “When it’s something that you have to hide.”

Stealing looks at the boys while he danced with the girls. Popping E to get in the mood. It was the 80’s and 90’s and he partied like it was 1999, certain it would be over long before then.

Stealing looks at the boys while he danced with the girls just like a lot of boys back then…

But he wasn’t just any gay boy back then. He partied like a rock star because he was one. He could laugh about it now, but at the time it was, in fact, overwhelming. And the thing he hated most was that he was such a cliché.

“Be careful what you ask for…”

 Two years on the road pretending.

His album, Faith, was released in time for Christmas and spent two Christmas’s at number one.

Two years on the road.

Pretending.

There he was onstage doing “The Monkey,” for the cheering crowd.

It seems so funny now….

He brought his family with him—his sister, Melanie, and his cousin, Andros. With Andrew gone, he needed the support. Melanie did his hair and make-up and Andros…well, for a while he filled the space that Andrew’s absence left wanting. Andros brought his best friend with him and the three boys tore across America, three lads with the world by the balls. Or, at least, so it seemed. The truth was, George spent most nights alone in his hotel room, and later recounted the stories that Andros told him as if he had been there too.

And he had Kathy. Made famous in one of his videos, he bragged to Rolling Stone (no less) that she was his girlfriend. But those on the inside knew otherwise.

“They had adjoining rooms on the tour,” a gossip columnist confessed years later, “They went into his room together, but…. everybody knew.”

George wasn’t the only one hiding in those days.

 Everyone knew. Or, at least, suspected. Yet, somehow Andros was taken by surprise.

Andros went out with his best friend every night, “pulling birds,” unaware that his best friend snuck into George’s room when they returned.

Andros bragged to George about their conquests each morning.

“It was like you put a knife in my heart,” George told him, years later, when he told Andros the truth.

“Now you know how it feels,” Kathy said when George cried in her arms at night.

Track Seventeen through Twenty-one

“Turn a different corner and we never would have met…”

(“This song is dedicated to a memory”)

                 They met in a club in LA when George and Andrew were on tour in America.

               Brad was dancing with his friend, Kathy, when she saw George watching them.

               “Isn’t that…?” Kathy whispered.

               “I don’t think so,” Brad told her though he was certain that she was, in fact, right.

               It was him.

               That guy from England. That guy on MTV.

                 George asked Kathy to dance,

“Take me where their eyes can’t find us. Where their two eyes may as well just…”

She stood, took his hand and they danced together all that night, much to her surprise, while Andrew disappeared into the crowd.

“I always thought you were gay,” she confessed, giggling.

“What?” George responded. He seemed genuinely shocked

               “Are you going to introduce me?” Kathy’s roommate, Brad, asked once they came off the dancefloor.

               “This is Brad,” Kathy said, pissed to be interrupted.

               “Charmed,” George said, shaking his hand.

               “Are you?” Brad smiled

                 Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

               He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad.

               How did that happen?

               “Morning,” was all Brad said, “Tea?”

                 Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad night after night.

“My daddy says the Devil looks a lot like you…”

“Did you really think I didn’t know?” Kathy laughed. “Of course, I knew,” she said. “So what?”

 Brad was always the third wheel in public. Always the “unidentified friend.”

George marveled at how easy it was for Brad. He watched as Brad danced with other men. He heard them in Brad’s bedroom as he lay in bed with Kathy watching T.V. And when they were gone, he would sneak into Brad’s room and crawl into his bed with him.

“This just isn’t my thing,” Brad finally told him. “I’m not like…the others,” he said. “I duh‘wanna be a rock star’s wife. I don’t wanna be in your videos. And I damn sure don’t wanna be just one of your songs.”

“Too late,” George chuckled.

“What?”

George picked up his guitar and played “A Different Corner,” for him. “It’s about you,” he told him.

 “And if all that there is

Is this fear of being used

I should go back to being lonely and confused…”

                 Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

               He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad.

Kathy loved George;

“I know you think that you're safe Sister Harmless affection that keeps things this way…”

George loved Brad.

“I know you think that you're safe Mister Harmless deception That keeps love at bay…”

                 Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy. Too much of everything.

               He partied like a rock star because he was one.

                 But even he noticed the men dying all around him.

“You didn’t talk about it in those days,” his sister said, “Even if you knew—and I did—you pretended not to know, and life went on as normal. In fact,” she shrugged, “You pretended not to know what you knew so that life could go on as normal.”

               “Choose Life,” his T-shirt read.

               Choose Life.

               And he did, selfish as that may seem now.

               “I so scared

               Of this love…”

                 George changed the video he was watching on the computer.

               How could he?

If he had only known, then…

But back then he only knew…survival…not pride.

               Twenty-four seems so long ago now.

Thank God.

Track Twenty-two

“My mother had a brother…”

 “Who is this?” George asked his mother.

He was down in the basement, going through old boxes of books and clothes, when he found an old black and white photo, taken at Christmas, apparently—there was a tree and there were decorations; and people, some he even recognized—wasn’t that his grandfather—opening presents.

“That’s me,” his mum said brightly, hanging garland, “Could you lend me a hand, Yog?”

“But who is that?” George insisted, pointing to the young man beside her in the picture.

“That was your uncle, Colin,” she answered, simply, with her chin lowered and her eyes cast down.

 In 1963, the year that George was born, the year that photo was taken, to be a man like the man that George would become was a crime.

 George’s mother had a brother named Colin who was…like George.

“Same desire, different time…”

All that wasted time.

On the day George was born, Colin attempted suicide.

“…the empty spaces tortured him…”

According to records he was, “suffering from some sort of anxiety disorder,” and was hospitalized as an inpatient at Maudsley Hospital. He was let home on Christmas holiday when he took his own life shortly after the new year.

It was George’s mother who found Colin.

 As a boy, she feared for George—so like the brother she remembered. Over-sensitive and kind. She tried to protect him (his father could be so hard on the boy). But she worried, as his father did, that he was too soft. Like her brother.

“He wasn’t strong enough,” she said,

“My mother had a brother,” George sang years later,               “I thought I knew them all, I thought I knew              But she lied              I said, "Show me his face again, tell me again why he died."

 She worried for her boy. She worried that he would be like his uncle Colin.

There once was a waiter who worked at their family restaurant and who lived upstairs in a rented room.

“A poof,” George’s father scoffed.

George was forbidden to go upstairs when the man was there.

“She was so afraid that she had somehow passed this ‘gene,’ onto me,” George later said. “It was like she was afraid I could catch something. And that if this ‘gene’ was in me it would turn out the same way for me as it had for Colin.”

“Poor Mum,” he later said. “She spent years being so remorseful.”

Friends claimed George was haunted in later years by this uncle he never knew. He claimed to see his face in his dreams.

But this Christmas he couldn’t sleep, so there were no dreams to haunt him. No ghosts. Just that photograph which he still had and still held, now, in his hands.

“Mama will you tell him from your boy The times they changed I guess the world was getting warmer While we got stronger Mother will you tell him about my joy I live each day with him The sun came out, yeah, And I'm still breathing it in…”

Track Twenty-three through Thirty-one

“I knew you were waiting for me…”

                 George wasn’t sure he believed in love, much less love at first sight.

               But then…

 It was 1991.

It was at Rock in Rio.

His Royal Badness, Prince, opened the gig and George closed the next weekend, reuniting with Andrew for the encore on Sunday night. A surprise for the fans.

George was dressed all in black—tight black slacks, shirtless under a black leather vest. His hair cut short and dyed black, too; his long, blond hair long gone.  

Those days, he hoped, were over.

It was a hot night in Rio and the band was on fire. George bolted from one side of the stage to the other, his energy boundless, it seemed, but the truth was…

He was avoiding the right side of the stage…

There was a man there in the front, the most beautiful man George believed he had ever seen, and that man caught his eye even in the massive, swaying crowd.

But George did not want to be distracted while he was working. Putting on a show.

He was working. Dancing his ass off; singing his heart out.

Was that beautiful man watching?

Was he listening closely?

Listen…

 George, somehow, got to the end of the set. The big finale.

Was he still there? George bounded across the stage.

There he was.

“I knew you were waiting…

I knew you were waiting for me…”

George sang…to him.

George called Andrew out onstage and the crowd cheered. Andrew sat on a stool, center stage, with his guitar and strummed the opening chords of “Careless Whisper,” as George sang, standing behind him. The two hugged when the song ended, and the crowd erupted. After introducing the members of the band, Deon Estes, George’s bass player, played the thumping bassline that opened George and Andrew’s Wham! Song, “I’m Your Man.” George danced with Deon; then with Andrew and then sprinted across the stage, his face beaming.

And there he was. That beautiful man. Singing George’s song from the front row and singing the song back at George as he danced on stage.

“Baby,

I’m your man….”

Was he singing to him?

George sang back to the man dancing just below him…

“Don’t you know that…

Baby,

I’m your man…”

Back and forth before George danced across the stage and back again.

“One, two, three, go,” he yelled at the crowd

“If you’re gonna do it, do it right

Right, do it with me…

If you’re gonna do it, do it right

Right, do it with me…”

George ended his set, ironically, with his recent single, “Freedom 90,” dancing around with Andrew as he sang.

“Heaven knows we sure had some fun boy,

What a kick

Just a buddy and me-ee…”

George ran off stage after the song ended, glancing over to see if the man was still there, but he was gone.

 George waited for Andrew in the dressing room as he looked in the mirror and changed, putting the rock star away for the night. When Andrew walked in the room, the man from the crowd in the front row was with him.

“Mate,” Andrew said as they hugged again. “This is Anselmo,” he introduced the man beside him as he pulled back. “He designed this thing I got on,” Andrew stood back and turned, showing off the outfit he had worn onstage for their big reunion—a sharply cut fitted jacket and black slacks like the ones George wore.

“Nice to meet you,” Anselmo said. “I’m a huge fan.”

Oh God, George thought as he shook Anselmo’s hand.

Still, looking at Anselmo, he spoke to Andrew. “They’re throwing a party for us, but,” he blushed, realizing that he still held Anselmo’s hand. He let go, reluctantly. “I really don’t wanna go,” he said turning to Andrew at last. “Would you mind if we just went back to my hotel room?”

“No, it’s cool,” Andrew said. “Is that okay with you?“ he asked Anselmo.

“Oh I…” he stammered, suddenly shy and awkward.

“You’re coming,” George insisted because something told him (his heart was beating wildly) that he must insist.

“Okay,” Anselmo smiled at him. “If it’s what you want.”

George had never wanted anything—or anyone—more.

 Two years.

All of life in two short years.

George never spoke in detail about those two short years. Only that they were the happiest days of his life. Only that for the first time he loved someone without shame or disgrace and that it was Anselmo who taught him that he could love with pride because when you loved someone as he had loved Anselmo how could you hide it? He didn’t care—as he had before—who saw him with Anselmo. There was no sneaking in and out of his room; there were days on the beach or at home watching T.V; nights dancing in the clubs. George had danced among the other men back at Bolts as a teenager; but he danced with Anselmo now; held his hand when they went out to dinner or walked down the street. Was even photographed with him in public (George would have died if that had ever happened before).

How grateful he was for those photos now!

 It’s so easy to forget that the clock is ticking, that your days are numbered; that even the hairs on your head are counted, as the Bible says.

“Heaven sent.

And heaven stole.”

“Maybe we should all be praying for time…”

 Anselmo became ill with a flu that he could not shake. “The doctor says I should be tested,” he told George.

“Tested?” George asked. “for?” he asked, though he knew, had always known, had always dreaded this moment. Had always feared it was inevitable. It was, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what you get? He thought, then pushed the thought aside. Anselmo would need him now.

“For the virus,” Anselmo whispered, still holding George’s hand.

There was silence and then Anselmo stood to leave. George walked out to the patio. Stared out at the beach. Looked up at the clouds, numbed.

“Don’t you dare do this to me,” he begged, finally crying.

 “Maybe we should all be praying for time…”

 Anselmo went home to Rio later that year to finally have the test and George went home to be with his family. Normally Christmas, New Year’s and his mother’s birthday were a time of celebration—laughter and food and gifts. Late night watching old movies. Normally, the weeks before were hectic with preparations and giddy with anticipation.  But this year, of course, he was distraught: Was Anselmo sick? Was George sick?

“What’s wrong, Yog?” his mother asked.

“Nothing, Mum,” he promised, squeezing as she put her arms around him. “I’m just tired,” he said (and he was).

On the morning of November 24th his sister woke him.

“It’s someone wanting a comment from you,” his sister, Melanie, told him as she shook him awake, “Bloke insists it’s urgent.”

“George,” George’s press man, Martin, asked as soon as George picked up the phone, “George, have you seen the news?”

“You got me out of bed, Martin,” George replied. “And you wanna know if I’ve watched the news?”

“George,” Martin went on, “Freddie Mercury has died this morning. I’m afraid…We’ll need a comment for the papers, George. As soon as…”

George could not believe it. He was overwhelmed. First Anselmo…Anselmo might be…He might be…And now this. He burst into tears and simply sobbed into the phone. He wiped away his tears, gathered himself, gathered his thoughts. Said a few words he could not even remember once he hung up the phone. What had he said?

“Yog,” Melanie asked, “Yog, what happened?”

But, of course, he could not tell her. It might all come flooding out if he did and he didn’t want her to worry.

Let her find out about Freddie on the news.

George stayed in his bedroom the next few days as he had when he was a boy in the days when he dreamed that he was David Cassidy, safe above it all where nothing and no one could ever hurt him.

He lay in his room, avoiding even his mother, and waited for the worst.

 Four months later, in April, he was onstage at Wembley Stadium in front of 72,000 people, being broadcast around the world in seventy-six countries at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert with Anselmo in the audience as George sang Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” Anselmo—that beautiful man—looking up at him just as he did the night they met.

“I went out there,” George said later, “knowing that I had to do two things: I had to honor Freddie and I had to pray for Anselmo.”

 One more year was all that was left; though, thank God, they did not know it then.

George was home, signing charity copies of Live Five, the CD of his performance at Freddie’s concert, when the phone rang.

Anselmo insisted on being treated at home in Brazil. He could not risk that news would leak of his illness, that he was gay, that he was George Michael’s lover. His family was Catholic; his parents would never understand or forgive, he feared.

George was not the only one with secrets.

George respected his wishes. But now he wished he had not.

The phone rang again. George signed one last Live Five CD and picked up.

“Hello,”

“Is this George Michael?” a voice sked.

“Yes,” George answered. “You called my personal cell, so…”

“Sorry,” the man responded. “I’m so sorry.”

“Who is this?” George asked.

It was a friend close to Anselmo, the man explained. “We’ve known each other since we were boys,” he said. Was the man crying?

“What’s wrong?” George asked. “What’s happened?” he stood to his feet and walked out to the patio, looked out across the beach. The water coming in and rushing out again.

“It’s Anselmo,” the man said, “He’s…he’s had a brain hemorrhage,” the man said. “He’s…gone.”

               George dropped the phone in the sands below and glared up at the sun.

               “How could you?” he screamed. “How could you?”

                 He did his best to make sure that those last years were happy ones for the man he loved—despite the sickness and the pain.

“Take care my love, he said Don't think that god is dead Take care my love, he said You have been loved…”

Track Thirty-Two through Thirty-seven

 One last Christmas.

One last time.

 Three years had passed since Anselmo died. Three years and George had barely written any new music or performed, save for “Jesus to a Child,” his song for Anselmo written a year after he died and performed only once in November of 1994 on MTV Europe.

“So the words you could not say I'll sing them for you And the love we would have made I'll make it for two For every single memory Has become a part of me.”

               Three years passed and then George met Kenny.

They met at a posh Hollywood spa.

               “Not a gay spa,” Kenny said, “Just a regular…Hollywood spa”.

               George asked him out to dinner. Where did he find the nerve, even if he was George Michael, supposed rock star, George laughed later. He wasn’t even sure if Kenny was gay.

               But he was so handsome. A Texan. Southern drawl and all.

               Who could resist? Certainly, not George.

                 The next morning, George woke with Kenny still sleeping beside him. He got out of bed quietly and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. Tea? No, George thought. He’s an American and a Texan. Definitely, coffee, not tea.  

               He poured two steaming cups, placed them with sugar and milk on a tray and headed upstairs, anxious to surprise him.

               And then the phone rang.

               George put the tray down and picked up the phone. As he was standing, his back turned so that he as looking out at the ocean outside his window, Kenny watched and waited, uncertain what to do (George was on the phone but was not speaking, just listening), until George hung up the phone and turned to face him.

               There were tears in his eyes.

               “Darling, what’s wrong?” Kenny asked.

               George didn’t speak. He just stood there as Kenny held him. “Don’t go,” George finally pleaded, “Please don’t leave me.”

               “I’m not going anywhere,” Kenny promised him.

                 George’s mother was ill. Stage four cancer. Months, a year to live at best.

               George had just finished and released Older, his CD of songs for Anselmo. He was supposed to be going on tour. An MTV Unplugged performance was already scheduled for later that year. But now—as he had when Anselmo was sick, he called his manager and cancelled all plans indefinitely.

               “Will you come with me to England?” he asked Kenny. And to his surprise, Kenny said yes.

                 His mother was a fighter. Most days she was well and insisted that life go on as normal. No fuss. Never a fuss. Even when George or Melanie or George’s father took her for her treatments. For a while it seemed she might beat the odds even. She even insisted that George do the show for MTV in the fall.

               “I’m not leaving you,” he told her.

               “The we’ll come with you,” she said.

               And so, the show went on.

               Rehearsals went well, George was surprised to find (after all, it had been a long time).

               “You’ve never sounded better,” his mother told him as she watched.

               “You have to say that,” he teased, “You’re my mum.”

               The show went on. He opened with “Freedom 90.” Sang “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” for Brad. Sang “You Have Been Loved,” for Anselmo. He sang, “Praying for Time,” for his mother. He barely got through it. He started to cry right there on stage in front of everyone.

               “Hi, Mum,” he smiled, trying to hide the sorrow as he had done all his life.

               Finally, the show was over. They went back to the hotel so his mother could rest. The next morning, they flew home to London.

               “Did you enjoy yourself, Mum?” George asked.

               “I’ve never been more proud,” she told him.

                 They started making plans for the holidays.

               “George, Christmas is two months away,” his mother complained.

               “I know,” he said. “I know.”

               It might be her last Christmas, her last birthday, he feared, and he wanted it to be special. He made plans, so many plans; even wrote a new Christmas song. He wanted it to be perfect and straight out of Dickens (except for the ghosts), but by Christmas his mother had taken a turn for the worse and was in hospital.

               George slept in her room as she slipped in and out of consciousness, leaving the T.V. on all hours. He spoke with the nurses who tended to her (his father spoke to the doctors). One night, when he thought she was sleeping, he sang softly as he stared out the window at the blanket of snow that covered the ground below.

               “That’s pretty,” she said.

               He turned to her. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologized.

               She reached out and took his hand. “Finish it,” she said.

               “It’s not finished,” he laughed. “I’m still writing it.”

               “Finish it,” she said again, closing her eyes.

               He sang what he had of the song he had only just begun, humming to fill in the parts undone until she was sleeping soundly again.

               Thank God, he thought.

               That Christmas Eve, he called his band down to London, to the hospital, and they put on a show for the nurses who cared for his mother. George wanted to thank them—he could not thank them enough, he thought. He only sang Christmas songs—“Last Christmas,” and the new song, “December Song,”—his only nod to his own repertoire. One of the nurses even joined him when he sang the Pogues “Fairytale of New York.”

               “Thank you, Sir George Michael,” she beamed.

               “Elton is Sir, love,” he smiled. “I’m just George.”

                 They made it through the holidays—Christmas and the New Year, his mother growing weaker.

               She died in February and was laid to rest near George’s home so that he could (as he did) visit her grave each day.

And for a thousand days, I was lost I said, 'Heaven knows I'm ready to be found', Underground But I think I'm ready now So please send me someone to love

Please send me someone, someone to love As much as I loved you.

Finale (Tracks Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine)

George had plans for this Christmas.

Brunch with Geri and Martin and Fadi.

Where was he?

 They had a row over nothing. George couldn't even remember what is was now. And Fadi left. George didn't know it, but Fadi was just outside sleeping in his car. If George had known, he would have gone out to him. Said, "Come inside. Let's make a fire." But he didn't. For all he knew, Fadi, too, was long gone.

There was still so much to look forward to in the new year. A new film about Listen Without Prejudice; the re-release of that CD and the MTV Unplugged show together. New music that he was excited about. If he could only finish it after the holiday.

George turned off the T.V. and finally went to bed. He could see the sun coming up outside his window—the sky turned violet and blue.

His last Christmas morning.

Track List

 Ch I: Track One

Do They Know It's Christmas?

Ch II: Tracks Two through Five

Praying for Time

Last Christmas

Faith

Freedom 90

Ch III: Tracks Six through Twelve

Waiting for that Day

Father Figure

Round Here

Too Funky

Careless Whisper

Fast Love (Live)

Freedom

Ch IV: Track Thirteen through Sixteen

The Edge of Heaven

Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

Monkey

Ch V:  Tracks Seventeen Through Twenty-one

A Different Corner

Hard Day

Cowboys and Angels

Happy

Kissing a Fool

 Ch VI:   Track Twenty-two

My Mother Had a Brother

Ch VII:  Tracks Twenty-three through Thirty-one

I Knew You Were Waiting for Me

I'm Your Man

Freedom 90 (Live)

You Know I Want To

The Strangest Thing (Live)

My Baby Just Cares for Me

Something to Save

Safe

Somebody to Love (Live)

CH VIII:  Tracks Thirty-two through Thirty-five

Jesus to a Child

I Can't Make You Love Me (Live)

You Have Been Loved (Live)

Praying for Time (Live)

CH IX:  Tracks Thirty-six and Thirty-seven

December Song

Please Send Me Someone (Anselmo's Song)

Ch X:  Track Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine

Fantasy

This is How We Want You to Get High

[mnm-inc-miles]

OCTOBER 31, 2020

————

“It’s been 19 years since the last full moon on a Halloween night. What’s more amazing, it will be a blue moon which hasn’t happened on Halloween since 1944, that’s 76 years ago.” A woman with dark hair walked the length of the classroom. Her blue green eyes were sharp, aware of everything around her. Her face was covered by a mask but you could tell by her voice she was smiling. “Tomorrow we will have buckets of fun under the light of the moon.”

There was a small ruckus from the cuckoo clock that marked the end of today’s lessons. A hand went up as most of the kids cleaned their desks. “Ms. Bridget, will we get to dress up and go trick or treating?”

The teacher laughed, “We’ve arranged for a scavenger hunt at a local cabin I was lucky enough to rent out.”

All the children froze, the few who had made it out the door trickled back in. One of the smallest of the children, her voice tiny as a mouse, chirped, “You mean...we get to leave the orphanage?”

A lot of jaws dropped as they stared at their teacher, waiting. She was smiling and her eyes could not hide the truth. Yes, for the first time in a couple years, even before corona, the children would be allowed to leave. Bridget called it a vacation. She nodded and the children screamed with excitement. She had given them hope.

When she left for home that day her boss stopped her with a wave, “I heard the children today,” he smiled warmly. He was in charge of the children at the orphanage. “Bridge, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

“Dean, how are you. Yes, they were very excited to finally get the news. Thank you for allowing it to happen.”

“You’re the one who made it possible,” he smiled. “I try to do right by these kids. They’ve been through enough. But I can’t allow the group to leave unless they’re with someone I trust to care for them. The plan you laid out in my office...” he shook his head and laughed. “I may dress as Satan for Halloween, but I’d have to be the devil himself to say no to that.”

Bridge smiled, “It’s lovely talking Dean, but I must go. I’m headed to the cabin now to get it ready for tomorrow.”

“Bless your heart,” the man nodded and went back into the orphanage.

After decorating the cabin, Bridge settled into an armchair with a cup of tea and a crackling fire. She closed her eyes and took a sip, the warm spreading to all her joints and limbs. Soon she found herself drifting off to sleep.

A nightmare crept into her brain, though perhaps it was better described as a memory.

A young girl called out for her older sister. “Alexa,” she shouted.

The Chung household was stressful, despite the parents affection for their two children, they put enormous amounts of pressure on their success. Bridge was younger, and though she was adopted she only received slightly less slack than her older sister Alexa. What the Chung’s didn’t understand, was their daughter Alexa was fragile, almost broken.

The young girl, a glimpse at her blue green eyes reveal her identity, slowly pushed open the bathroom door. Inside was a scene from the stuff of nightmares. Her sister was floating with her head above the water, on her side, lifeless in a pool of blood. Her eyes, glazed over with a film of white.

Bridget snapped awake. Her breathe was fast and shallow as the image gnawed at the front of her mind. It was ever looming most days, but often tucked into the back of her thoughts. She took herself to bed where she would have a restless night.

She left the cabin and drove to pick up the school bus she would be renting for the day. The driver met her with a gruff voice but friendly eyes. She climbed on board and they proceeded to pick up the children. Bridge was excited to give them a night they wouldn’t soon forget.

—————

“Did you finish your wolfsbane,” Newt questioned, sincerely curious in his statement and not patronizing. Of course Remus remembered, the act of forgetting it was permanently trained out of him. He never wanted Levi to rewind time for his mistake again.

Remus nodded, “Yes, are you leaving soon to see Lucky?” Remus looked at the clock. It was just an hour before sunset.

Newt gave a nod. “Will you be okay? I know Sirius had to leave for a job last minute.”

“It’s okay, yeah...I’ll be fine. Plus you set up that nifty wolf-cam, so if something happens you can come...right?”

“Absolutely.” Newt made brief eye contact and offered an awkward smile. Eddie of course, was the one to set up the camera. He was more familiar with the technology, after all. There was one for Remus and one for Lucky, because Newt promised Dylan a camera to see her father. “Well, I must be going, I’ll keep an eye on you. Goodnight.”

As the sun set Remus began to pace, naturally his nerves worsened the closer to transformation he got. Sometimes tempered by the wolfsbane, though tonight his joints and muscles ached more than usual. He shut the curtains and curled up on the couch in a ball, as if these steps would help eliminate a transformation. It never worked.

His body began to twitch and he felt the terrible pangs of the wolf in him coming to the surface. He cried out in agony because despite growing up with the affliction, the transformation was generally painful, especially without wolfsbane. And as he felt the stretching of his bones and the pulling at his skin, he realized that something was wrong. The wolfsbane must not have been made right...and upon that realization he glanced in horror at his phone, followed by the wolf-cam, and then he was gone. In his place, a full fledged werewolf remained, howling in distress.

——————

This would be the third full moon that Newt would spend with Lucky. They normally started with the endless request for cuts of raw steak, and ended with the clutching of a photograph and sleep. Tonight when Newt came over, Lucky was eagerly awaiting the visit, he was becoming accustomed to their routine. He was also relieved that someone would be there when he changed into this darker version of himself. But the night wouldn’t last long this time.

While Lucky was eating Newt took a moment to check in on Remus but found the room empty. He was worried but didn’t panic until he checked less than an hour later and he was still gone. “Pardon but...I must be going.”

“What?” Lucky growled and reached for him, wrapping a tight hand around the others wrist. His nails were digging into Newt’s skin and he winced.

“Let go,” Newt demanded but Lucky did not. He pulled him closer and demanded he stay, feed him more and keep him company. At this point Newt watched as blood dripped from his arm where the other gripped him insistently. He sighed and pulled out his wand, “Petrificus Totalus,” then glanced at the camera knowing Dylan was likely watching. “Sorry...” and he disapperated and reappeared back in London at the house.

The door was knocked off its hinges and a few belongings in the house were displaced. Casting a spell, he watched swirls of gold materialize and follow traces of recent magical activity, the scene revealing itself. “Episkey,” he whispered as he watched the flecks of gold dance around the room. The small cuts in his arm healed and when the gold stopped Newt grabbed the shirt Remus has been wearing and pointed his wand, “Avenseguim.” The shirt began to float and whisked out the door. Newt quickly followed after.

—————

Bridge and the children sat around the crackling fire pit, roasting marshmallows and giggling about their evening. There were classic games like bobbing for apples and corn hole, plus the candy scavenger hunt. They played twister and wink murder too. As the festivities came to an end, they sat around the fire pit and told spooky stories while eating candy and s’mores.

A howling was heard in the distance and some of the younger kids got scared. “It’s a werewolf,” one little girl said.

“Sure is, and it’s gonna get ya...”

“That’s enough Brett,” Bridge spoke playfully. She glanced at the bus driver and smiled, “It’s getting late, do you mind sitting with the older kids while we tuck the little ones into bed?”

“Sure,” he gave a nod then bit into his s’more.

Nodding at her colleague, Dennis, the two gather up the handful of youngens and ushered them inside. Some were more willing than others, who protested through yawns that they were not tired.

The orphanage was small, that’s how Dean managed to provide such good care for the children. The ages ranged from five to seventeen. At the current time there were twenty kids total. Though Dean had as many as thirty in his care before. Of the twenty, nine of them were under 10, seven of them were between 10 and 13, and the rest were over 14. The four of the oldest got to sit outside with the bus driver while Bridge and Dennis put the little ones to bed.

Another howl was heard, and some of the children jumped. “Ms. Bridget...it sounded closer...are there really werewolves?”

“No darling, no. They’re just stories.”

“Then...what is it?”

“Just normal wolves I imagine,” Dennis spoke matter of factly.

Bridge rolled her eyes, “They live in the woods but don’t worry, they keep their distance.” Another howl and this time it was followed by a scream. “Dennis stay with the kids...” and Bridge bolted back down the stairs and out to the yard.

The bus driver stood in front of the children shouting to seem threatening. He was immensely overshadowed by a tall furry creature. Bridge froze for a moment, wondering if somehow she’d slipped into some nightmare. But another howl brought her back to reality as she watched the creature stalk closer to the children.

“Hey!” She suddenly screamed. “Get away from them...” she picked up a rock and threw it hard at the creatures head. Growling it turned and looked at her. Glancing at the larger crowd it deduced one person was easier to kill unharmed than a multitude of people. “Run, get the children inside, hurry!”

She waved her hands and beckoned the beast toward her. He came at her fast, leaping into the air and tackling her to the ground.

“Ms. Bridget!” some of the children cried out, but the bus driver urged them inside. A couple ran willingly, scared out of their minds, one was frozen in fear, and one wanted to help, picking up a stick and tossing it at the beast.

The werewolf didn’t flinch, instead it lowered its jaws and took a bite at Bridget’s neck, shaking to break it, then ripping free her vocal chords and devoured them. Screams echoed into the night when a loud clap happened and suddenly Newt was there watching the scene unfold.

He shot a jinx at the werewolf and knocked him off his feet, but the beast stood quickly and advanced on the frozen child who stood screaming in horror.

“Remus!” He shouted but the beast didn’t respond. Not even a hint of self awareness. He tried to petrify him but the werewolf was simply too strong. Suddenly a ring of fire wrapped around the child and the werewolf howled in pain from brushing the flames and backed away. The child fainted.

More screams were heard from within the house and the werewolf responded by following their cries. As he approached the window, Newt noticed he stood under a glass awning and begrudgingly had to act fast.

“Finestra,” he spoke and the glass shattered, raining down upon the werewolf’s head. It howled in pain and with every step, it’s feet fell upon more glass. It stumbled backward and turned its attention to the person it had already killed, feeling content to settle. Newt knocked the werewolf back with another charm but he was persistent. “Sorry...” Newt sadly huffed as he hurled one last spell at the beast, aiming for his arm. “Diffindo.” A large gash tore into his arm and the werewolf cried out in anguish. It turned, whimpering, and retreated to the woods.

Desperate to follow and provide him with aid, Newt knew there wasn’t much to be done while he was in his wolf form. So he focused on the dilemma at hand. There were a bunch of muggles who were just terrorized by a werewolf and likely to suffer intense trauma if he didn’t Obliviate them.

He cautiously approached the lifeless body on the ground, knelt down and checked for a pulse. He knew she was gone, but Eddie insisted. Newt noticed humans often insisted on physical proof when the evidence was clear enough already. Then he turned and doused the flames around the fainted child. Walking closer he pointed his wand and whispered the spell to erase the bad memories. Then he stood to address the others and saw once again, the body of the woman the wolf had slain.

‘What about her...’ Eddie asked him, his voice was trembling. ‘Surely the children...’ Newt sighed heavily and returned to the child and erased any memory they had of her too. ‘Newt...you can’t just...’ but the wizard interrupted him. “I’m going to have to ask you to restrain from comments right now, please...I...I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be.”

Then he walked inside and gathered all the frightened muggles into one room. It wasn’t hard since everyone wanted to know what was happening. Questions were hurled at him, and Newt felt very overwhelmed. His heart was racing and he felt himself beginning for freeze. Eddie asked to help and Newt relented.

“Please everyone,” Eddie spoke loudly. “Please just be quiet a moment. I know what happened just now is tragic, but if you’ll just take a moment to breathe...” the room grew quiet. Newt took over immediately and softly whispered, “Obliviate,” directing it at the entire room and erasing the bad memories of the night and taking any and all memories of the woman who was killed.

‘That’s not going to be enough...’ Eddie said to Newt. The wizard sighed. “I will call Albus to help...we will have to implant new memories instead...” Newt walked back outside to look at the slain body. Eddie continued, ‘and...all the other lives shes touched...her family...’ Newt gave a nod, “Albus will handle it...” and he proceeded to clean up the shattered glass, blood, and the body. People disappear, Newt thought, it happens all the time. Upon that note he could hear Eddie start to cry. So he busied himself with searching for Remus.

[elliewritesfanfics]

Phil Lester Everybody

Summary: What happens after Dan and Phil come off of the stage at the BONCAS (fluff happens)

Words: 1.7K

A/N: and I'm back hello. It's been so long since I've been back on this account so here's a fic I wrote while on the bus home, enjoy!

"Phil Lester Everybody!" Dan shouted as the London Palladium erupted into cheers and cried as the boys left the stage, grinning from ear to ear. Once away from the limelight on the stage, Dan lunged at Phil, picking him up and embracing him in a tight hug that almost knocked him off of his feet. Phil immediately reciprocated, wrapping his arms around the back of Dans neck and sighing contently into his boyfriends shoulder.

His final award hung loosely from his pale fingertips that were draped behind Dans back, the rest of the awards that they had received were sat on a table next to the nominee envelopes by the wall. The biggest award for Phil, however, was the engagement ring sat on Dans fourth finger that he had given him earlier in the year but they didn't need to focus on that, just the awards that they had collected over the night.

"I'm so proud of you." Dan whispered as he gently kissed Phil's cheek, Phil leaning back and pressing their foreheads together.

"I'm proud of you too. This entire year has been incredible and I'm glad I got to spend it with you." Dan leaned forwards and connected their lips in a slow, soft kiss. Their eyes fluttered shut and they became oblivious to the people around them, some cooing and others taking photos for later of the adorable couple stood in front of them. It had been a big year for both boys, the tour, the book, the film, their relationship, everything was bigger that year but everything was better than it ever had been so they were determined to make something out of it, thankfully, they year paying off for them.

Phil slowly pulled away and smiled at Dan as he unravelled his arms from the back of Dans neck, still willing to let his boyfriend keep a protective arm around his waist as they headed over to their awards table.

Phil was about to speak when he was quickly taken out of his boyfriends embrace and shooed over to get ready for pictures with no words in edgeways. Dan stood still for a few seconds as he watched Phil have a bit of makeup put onto his pale face before being taken by a man over to the photography section of the room to be photographed and then posted on the internet for their millions of fans to see and scream over.

Phil just let it go with the flow, being taken over from Dan to makeup and then to hair, finally being taken for photos after the process was done. He grinned like an idiot as he stood looking at the trophy in his hands next to him, thinking back to just before he won, linking hands with Dan on one side and his brother, Martyn, on the other side with ecstatic cheers as soon as Mamrie and Grace called his name out.

Once Phil had had his photo taken, he wove his way through backstage crew, them all congratulating him, to find Dan sat on a sofa towards the back of the room, playing on his phone. Phil collapsed onto the sofa next to his boyfriend and leaned his head on his shoulder as Dan wrapped an arm around his body, pulling him closer.

"Phil?" Dan whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"I love you too. After all this is over, can we order pizza to the house?"

"There's pizza here idiot." Dan chuckled lightly. "And it's free so it's better if you just eat the ones here."

"True, we can order some tomorrow instead."

"If that's what you want, then okay."  Dan turned his head and placed a kiss into Phil's hair as both boys smiled, sighing and relaxing slightly. They sat in a comfortable silence until celebrities started trickling into the after party room, until it was full with people chatting and eating and singing and dancing.

"I guess this is the time where we should actually socialise." Dan mumbled into Phil's ear as he started to pull himself up.

"Fine." Phil stood up and grabbed Dans hands, pulling him up to his feet as they slowly walked into the mayhem of people and music and slightly tipsy dancers.

"Phil!" A voice shouted from behind him a few metres away as he turned around to see PJ and Sophie heading towards them, letting PJ bring Phil into a brief hug. "I'm so proud of you bud!"

"Thank you. You really deserved this award though PJ."

"Shut up Phil, you've been doing this for 10 years and this is your recognition. Be proud of yourself."

"Thanks Peej. I'm gonna go get some food. See you later?"

"Yeah cool see you later!" Phil turned around to head to get food when he saw Dan chatting aimlessly to Dodie next to him.

"The strings made 'when' sound amazing. It was so moving." Dan spoke passionately, his eyes gleaming as Dodie smiled wider.

"Thank you so much. You have no idea how many times I've cried over my own song just listening to the strings version." She laughed as Dan joined in with her.

"Oh hey Phil! Congrats on British Creator."

"Thank you so much." He smiled. "You should have won it this year, everyone in the category was amazing."

"That's why you're called amazing Phil, silly. Trust me, you deserve this so much. I have to go because my little sister wanted me to stay with her and I was only meant to be coming over to get her some pizza so I'll catch up with you soon. Congrats on the awards boys!"

"Thank you!" Dan smiled as Dodie spun around and headed off to find Hedy.

"She's such a nice person." Dan smiled and Phil grinning up at him. Dan turned his head towards Phil to see him grinning. "What have I done now?" He asked as Phil just chuckled.

"Nothing dear, just happy to see you talking about music. And actually talking and interacting with people."

"Hey! I have social skills."

"I don't count as your social skills." He paused for a moment.

"I have minimal social skills." He laughed and Phil joined him until they stopped and somehow made it over to the food. "Well were at the food, let's stuff our faces and leave."

"So I'm guessing Mr Social Genius Daniel isn't coming to the party tonight then?" Phil asked as Dan shoved him lightly, leaning over to grab a slice of pizza.

"No he's at home because Mr Bully Phillip was mean to him so he left." "Hey I'm not a bully!" Phil pouted as he stuck out his bottom lip.

"I'm kidding Phillip." Dan grinned as he wrapped his arms around Phil's waist, pulling the older boy closer. "Can we just eat and go home?"

"Please."

"I'll call a taxi now." Phil gave him a quick peck on the lips before Dan wandered over to a quieter part of the room to take his call as Phil stayed and started lightly conversing with Hazel and Jack who were standing nearby.

-----

With their stomachs full of food and a small dosage of alcohol, Dan and Phil quickly snook out of the back door of the theatre into the cold, autumn night with their three awards in hand as they hurried over to their taxi that was waiting for them on the main road. Dan told the driver where to go and the boys collapsed, relaxing into the warm, leather seats and waiting for their journey to be over so that they could be back in their house again.

-----

Dan locked their door behind them as they plodded up the stairs towards their bedroom, stopping off in the lounge to place their awards on the coffee table. They went into Dans room, stripping down to their underwear and climbing under the duvet, merging their warm bodies together. They laid in silence for a while, finally enjoying their time alone together without cameras and friends and giant lights, casting down onto their pale skin that was lightly covered in makeup. Dan listened to Phil's steady breathing, watching the rise and fall of his chest and his rib cage open and close slightly with each breath he took.

"Phil?" Dan asked as he broke the silence.

"Yes love?"

"I'm so proud of you. You 100% deserve that award."

"Thank you. It would have been nice for you to win but it's done now and I'll take it gracefully. I love you." Phil whispered as his peppered Dans forehead and hair in kisses.

"I love you too."

"You know, I could have never done all this without you."

"Yes you could, I'm just here because I'm your biggest fan." Dan laughed and he tilted his head up slightly.

"Well true but you've helped me more than you think. Even thought you stalked me and latched yourself into me life like a leach..." Phil laughed as Dan shoved him slightly. "You've helped me grow as a person. We've travelled the world together, we have two number 1 best selling book, a world tour and a number 1 song in the charts. I can say anything to you and I know that most of them are weird but you'd help me with whatever I ask you too because I'd do the same for you because you love me. We have matching haircuts because we're losers who are basically the same person and we'd much rather sit together in bed watching anime instead of going out to socialise. We're no longer Dan Howell and Phil Lester as separate people, we're Dan and Phil, as one. And I can't thank you enough for being in my life to just let all this be possible."

Tears were leaking from both of their eyes as Dan grabbed his boyfriends face and pressed their lips together, smiling into it as Phil kissed back and Phil tightened his grip on Dans waist. I love you's were mumbled backwards and forwards and gentle kisses were placed on their lips from the two men as they slowly drifted off to sleep, their lips close to each other's, their legs tangled tangled under the duvet above and their hearts closer together.

[robokraft]

My Summer with Man Ray

I grew up in Princeton, New Jersey. My mother was a tennis teacher, and my father was a builder. Down the street from our house lived the architect who had been my father’s partner on his first housing development, David Savage, who was also a noted sculptor and painter. His wife was Naomi Savage, an accomplished and admired contemporary photographer…and the niece of the legendary Dadaist, Man Ray.

The myth of Man Ray was a central part of my growing up. Our family was very close to the Savage family (my mother was particularly close to Naomi), and my best friend throughout elementary school was their son, Michael Savage. There are photos of Michael and me sharing a crib when I was just a few weeks old, and he was 6 months. Little did I realize how profoundly this artistic household would alter my life.

Man Ray’s art was everywhere throughout their house. In Michael’s bedroom was Man’s legendary painting of a billiard table with multi-colored clouds overhead, as well as a framed sketch from Man Ray’s art school days, showing Man’s poorly-drawn rendering of a Native American warrior’s arm….corrected in the margin of the drawing by his drawing instructor.

There was a metronome with an eye on it in the living room (“Indestructible Object”), an old-fashioned iron with nails soldered to the iron’s base (“Le Cadeau”) on a bookshelf - both now in the Museum of Modern Art - and random photographs of poets and painters throughout the house…all epic works of 20th Century modernism that just happened to be by “Uncle Man.”

There were also semi-annual visits by Man Ray - the twinkly and compact artist, with his Brooklyn accent and his signature beret - and his friend, Marcel, a thin and dapper Frenchman who smoked little cigars and laughed as they sat around the pool in the Savage’s backyard. During these visits the kids were usually oblivious to “the adults”, but I was dimly aware that Man Ray and Marcel Duchamp were important guys, because their visits had a very special air to them. There is a great photo somewhere of Laurie Savage, Michael’s younger sister, hanging off a tree above Man and Marcel, as they lounged in chairs in the backyard. It was just that casual.

By the time I went to college, I was fully aware of who Man Ray was, and his subtle yet seminal influence on the history of modern art. And ironically, though I fully intended to study music in college, I received a much warmer welcome from the Art Department, where I ended up. Man Ray was a hero to my classmates, and they were amazed that I had hung out with him as a child.

As the summer break after my junior year approached– 1975 – I hatched a plan to work in Boston until July 1st , and then head off to Europe by myself. It was my sophomoric version of “On The Road: European Edition.” My plan was to burn through my Europass for a couple weeks, and then go find Man Ray in Paris. He had floated an invitation to visit “whenever you get to France”, and I intended to cash in that chip.

Naomi wrote her uncle to tell him my dates, and received a response instructing young Monsieur Kraft to arrive at his studio, “2 bis, Rue Ferou”, on the appointed day in mid-July. I imagined that I would spend the rest of my summer on the Left Bank, making tea for the Old Master, while hearing ribald stories of the Surrealists powering absinthe at Brasserie Lipp and Les Deux Magots.

For two weeks I took trains around Europe... from London to Bruges, to Vondelpark in Amsterdam where I learned the limit of my capacity for hash-laced cigarettes. Finally it was time to train to Paris’ Gare du Nord and start my summer with Man Ray. 

I arrived at 2 bis Rue Ferou, a quiet street just south of the Luxembourg Gardens, on a wonderfully sunny morning. I marveled at how the street perfectly reflected the iconic Man Ray painting, “The Enigma of Isidore Ducasse”, where a shadowy woman is wheeling an object down the narrow lane, next to an ominous wall. Here I was at the front door, the ominous wall in the Surrealist masterpiece stretching along to my right.

After several rings – and a mounting sense of anxiety – an older woman answered the door. This was definitely not Juliet Man Ray (as Man’s wife called herself), who I’d also known growing up, but a housekeeper who didn’t speak English. When I told her my name, she asked me to wait at the door, and returned with a small, folded piece of paper.

It was a note from Man Ray, telling me his plans had changed. He had been invited to spend the remainder of the summer at the home of his art dealer, who had a house in St Tropez. The dealer’s name was Luciano Anselmino, and I was enthusiastically invited to come and visit. There was a phone number, no address, and Man Ray’s familiar signature.

I had no idea where St Tropez was, or how to get there, or exactly what to do once I did get there - except to call that number. There used to be a bookstore on Paris’ Left Bank called “The Village Voice”, which carried all English-language books, and I walked there to do some research.

I spent one more night in Paris, at the Hotel Solferino ($6 a night including a fresh, warm croissant and coffee in the morning) and the next morning I boarded a train to Nice. At Nice, I located the bus that would take me west on the Grand Corniche, a road known for its soaring views and perilous hairpin turns high above the blue-green Mediterranean.

Disembarking in St Tropez, I crossed to a café where a black man holding a trumpet was leaning against a wall, talking loudly on a pay-phone mounted near the door.

“I’m gonna come home and fuck you silly” he was saying in perfect English. “I’m gonna fuck you to death. You just wait. My dick is hard just thinking about you.” I assumed he thought no one could understand him, so it was remarkable to hear this romantic conversation spoken so brazenly within earshot of the café tables.

I always loved the karma of meeting an African-American musician as my first friend on the Riviera. And his call was a fitting introduction to the debauchery ahead.

After chatting and ascertaining that he was part of a touring jazz band, and that he missed his girlfriend in New Jersey terribly (I guess so!), I approached the phone and dialed the number on my folded slip of paper. An Italian answered speaking no English – then momentarily put the phone down – and finally came back - and together we ascertained where my café was, and where I should wait to be picked up.

Had I been more sophisticated, I should have known by the car that picked me up – a late model convertible Alfa Romeo driven by a young Marcello Mastroianni stunt double – that my Riviera adventure was about to level up. And after racing up the hills of St Tropez, where each perilous curve providing an increasingly fabulous view of the sparkling Mediterranean further and further down below, the house that came into view was a good indication of what lay ahead.

The driveway featured two red Ferrari’s, a black Lamborghini, and several multi-colored Vespas. The house was white on white, enormous and regal – a millionaire’s mansion with a two-story glass entryway. And stepping inside, I could see straight through the house to the sloping green lawn and distant turquoise sea, shimmering beyond the grassy backyard and shaded pool ringed with striped umbrellas.

The driver took my backpack and led me out to the pool. This was a Fellini movie in full swing, with topless women sunning on chaises, men oiling lotion on each other, tan and shirtless attendants serving drinks, and an activity occurring on a raft in the center of the water that looked uncannily and profoundly illegal. It was a bright sunny Riviera afternoon, and I had just entered Bacchus’ Personal Pool Party.

A large man - 6 feet, 250 pounds and dressed in some kind of toga - approached me, accompanied by a smaller, thinner, younger blond boy. “Ciao, Robert! Welcome! I’m Luciano! Have a hit!” The blonde boy produced a small silver vial and held it up to my nose.

I knew about cocaine, which was just becoming fashionable, but I’d never had any. Within minutes I was lit up, staring at naked breasts and a blazing Rivera sun, fully entranced by my new membership in the international jet-set.

The afternoon blended into the evening, and by dinnertime I had been high all day. After a rollicking late dinner at an enormous banquet table, with conversation (and loud, drunken arguments) in French, English, and Italian, Juliet Man Ray came up to me to say “I’ll escort you to your room now. You’re sleeping in our wing of the house.“

Juliet and Man Ray had a completely separate area of the house for their bedroom and guest room, and my room shared a little hallway with theirs. Juliet - a famous dancer in her prime - was clearly concerned about my “safety“ in this crowd (and maybe also her responsibility to my mother’s friend, Naomi, back in Princeton). She indicated not so subtly that once she and Man went to bed, I was expected to remain in their portion of the house.

After making a somewhat dramatic showing of how tired I was after a long day of travel, I bid my surrogate grandparents-cum-chaperones good night, and dutifully checked into my room. My intention was to pretend I was asleep, and once it was clear they had gone to bed, to sneak out and check out the non-stop party that had kicked back into gear around the pool. However, Night Number One transpired uneventfully, as my first evening’s plans in St Tropez were trumped by my need for some deep and much-needed sleep.

The next day was absolutely gorgeous. Luciano‘s house sat on a magnificent hill overlooking all of St. Tropez, and the beautiful sloping lawn had several wonderful sitting areas for conversation, reading, and sunbathing.

After coffee and breakfast, I wandered outside to reflect on my good fortune. I didn’t see Juliet or Man Ray anywhere, but sitting alone halfway down the hill was a woman I had noticed at dinner the night before. She was very attractive, an “older” woman who had spoken occasionally in Italian, while looking at me playfully throughout the meal. She seem to be in her mid-30’s - which to me was way above my pay-grade - so I didn’t pay much attention to her.

Spotting her sitting on the lawn, I realized she was beckoning to me to come join her in the empty chair across from where she sat. I walked over, seated myself, and said the only word in Italian I knew, “Ciao”.

In broken English, she said “give me your hand“. I extended my hand to her, and she turned it palm up to begin examining the lines in my palm and fingers. As she traced the lifelines, she murmured and looked soulfully into my eyes. After several minutes of delicate touching, she uttered the words I have long remembered, “You are a pilgrim.”

I was embarrassed, and also excited. I realized she was not only flirting with me, but having pulled her chair closer to face me for the palm reading, she had hiked up her flowing transparent white caftan, to reveal tan, shapely legs. As she leaned back in her chair to laugh, I caught the unmistakable view of a woman spreading her legs with nothing underneath. She smiled at me, knowing that I had just seen exactly what she intended to reveal.

I was 19 years old. Although I had had a few girlfriends in high school, and a couple clumsy collegiate skirmishes, I was definitely under-prepared for this moment. What was the appropriate response? Should I ask “Do you come here often? “Or “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?“ I had no game, and I had even less experience. Plus, I couldn’t speak a word of Italian, so any chance of idle, disarming chitchat was a non-starter.

After a few more heart-pounding moments of meaningful deep stares and sheepish smiles, she took my hand and led me back towards the house. The phrase that kept running through my head was, “When in Rome…”

Thus began my daytime affair with the surrealist painter, Carolrama. Avoiding the watchful gaze of Juliet Man Ray, I would steal moments to catch a sign across a swimming pool or a lunch table, and then slip back into her tiny bedroom for lessons in lovemaking.

This was not the awkward collegiate fumbling that comprised the full extent of my romantic skill-set at that moment. This was adult education, patient instruction, and sensual direction that was both surprising and tender. The most difficult part was figuring out if I should be saying something afterwards, like “Hey, thanks” or “Grazie mille, bella”. I also couldn’t figure out if all the other Italians knew what was happening, though their smiles indicated that this was not our secret alone.

At the same time, I had discovered that the dinner chef had a culinary assistant whose main purpose was to serve the meal and then do the dishes afterwards. This girl, probably all of 18 years old, was a young Sophia Loren, busting out of her waitress uniform, the buttons straining to close over an ample bosom that was often smeared with gravy or tomato-sauce dripping down her chest.

Glistening with perspiration, anxious about balancing the plates in front of the raucous diners, I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she would circle the table, serving the guests. After dinner, I would find an excuse to go into the kitchen where she would be washing dishes, and try to make conversation with her, using a combination of English and hand gestures. She refused to acknowledge my presence beyond a cursory nod of the head, because the chef - an effeminate, overbearing taskmaster - would circle through the kitchen endlessly, giving orders and expressing exasperation.

It would be several nights until I found my moment. After a particularly drunken dinner, while she was washing dishes, I came up behind her to put something in the sink and “accidentally” brush against her voluptuous backside. By now, after almost a week in the Carolrama Graduate School of Seduction, I thought I was James Bond, and I was intent upon sharing the benefits and results of my daytime trysts.

As I leaned over the sink, I detected something I didn’t expect: with the boss nowhere in sight, she pushed back against me and didn’t pull away. We stayed there for a moment too long, communicating wordlessly. It was clear that our dance had begun.

Thus began my late nights with Claudia, complete with furtive meetings after dinner, sneaking behind the house once she finished cleaning up. We would stand or crouch in the bushes near the garage, kissing and touching passionately.

I was convinced that I had a new girlfriend. She was fired by the end of the second week. I had no phone number, no last name, and nothing left but the memory of a beautiful, young, tan, Italian girl with passionate intensity and the body of a Playboy pin-up.

In the middle of all of these non-stop erotic escapades, my primary focus every day was spending the afternoons sitting with Man Ray. He was older and much more frail than my memories of him from childhood. He liked to spend the late afternoon in a chaise on the lawn, partially covered with a blanket, thumbing through art books, or shuffling the bundle of mail that arrived for him every day.

He made it clear that I was welcome to sit with him, and I made it clear that I was available anytime he wanted company. I think he found Luciano’s mania and the jet-set’s never-ending shenanigans amusing, predictable, and maybe even slightly boring. 

Man Ray had already lived that life in Paris, and experienced the greatest moments of 20th-Century bacchanalia with the likes of Picasso, Dali, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway and virtually every “celebrity” of the epic era between the wars (many of whom he photographed). His liaisons were legendary, including his famous affair with the courtesan, Kiki of Montparnasse, memorialized in the photograph, ”Le Violon d’Ingres”. Onto a beautifully lit photo, he drew two acoustic F-holes just above Kiki’s naked hindquarters, making her bare back look like a human cello.

In the fading afternoon light, I would sit silently with Man gazing out over the Mediterranean, listening to the distant walla of the party around the pool, and joyfully providing a particular and unique service to my favorite artist.

Each day, Man Ray would hand me a pile of mail, and ask me to read it to him. It was an outstanding collection of correspondence. Among the cards and letters were notes from the world’s most famous filmmakers, painters, gallery-owners, publishers, authors, and intellectuals. I wasn’t familiar with many of the names, but Man Ray would laughingly describe who all of these people were, and how he knew them.

It was an education in the history and cultural life of the 20th century, and also an insight into Man Ray’s wicked sense of humor. I’d finish reading some letter and tell him who had sent it, and more often than not, he’d roll his eyes, and then wink at me with an all-knowing smile, as if to say “Oy. What a pain in the ass.” Although Man Ray was an ex-pat who had made Paris his home for more than 50 years, there was still a lot of Emmanuel Radnitzky in him, the disenfranchised immigrant Jew born in Philadelphia and raised in Brooklyn.

My very favorite correspondence was a letter buried in one day’s mail with the return address clearly marked, “Tufts University.“ As a Harvard student, I was obviously aware of Tufts, the neighboring college in Medford, Massachusetts, and I was very interested to see what someone from that college would be writing to Man Ray.

Inside the envelope was a lovely handwritten note on personal stationery, sent by a young lady who introduced herself as “a sophomore in the Tufts Fine Arts Department”. She was planning to write a term-paper on Man Ray, and wondered if he wouldn’t mind inscribing his autograph on the enclosed 3 x 5 card in the envelope.

If there was ever a moment that I felt a bond between myself and the titan of Dada, it was this. We both laughed at the audacity, the innocence, and the chutzpah of the student’s request. For a moment I wondered if he would indulge the girl, and I handed him the card and the pen. He looked at me with that twinkle I knew so well, shrugged, shook his head, and said conspiratorially, “Non, merci.” Man Ray was not going to break the spell of a golden afternoon by engaging with a random request from a stranger. And I totally understood. 

He was a living mystery, a legend, a spirit, and an inspiration. And above all, he was an Artist. Long before the ideas of “branding” and commodification had taken our culture hostage, Man Ray was showing his resistance to sharing himself, his identity, or his fame. That girl from Tufts must still wonder if her letter ever reached its’ intended recipient.

Within a few weeks, it became clear that the party was nearing its end. Man and Juliet were making plans to return to Paris, while Luciano Anselmino had been spending more and more time away from the house and the endless stream of house-guests, going back to Rome, (or so he said) to attend to business.

There was an afternoon where Man Ray’s chaise was empty, the scene by the pool was remarkably quiet, and the clouds of autumn had started to dot the sky. Carolrama had disappeared (without any goodbye or notice) and suddenly I felt an overwhelming urge to go back to Cambridge.

On my last night , I had a quiet dinner with just Juliet and Man Ray. Man was mostly silent, and Juliet attended to him in a motherly way. I tried to express my deepest gratitude for the summer, but I wasn’t sure if there was any way I could acknowledge the great gift I had been given.

I returned that fall to my senior year at Harvard, and upon graduation in June I moved to New York to start my career as a songwriter. On a crisp November day, after a summer trying unsuccessfully to teach music, I boarded a bus heading down Fifth Avenue, intent upon finding a real job to support myself while I pursued my lifelong aspiration to be a musician. As I disembarked at 55th Street, I noticed the Rizzoli Bookstore directly in front of my bus stop, and spontaneously decided to walk in to see if there was a position available.

I found the floor manager and must have talked convincingly, because 20 minutes later I was being interviewed for the job of book-clerk on the main floor. In the course of the conversation, I mentioned how much I loved Rizzoli Books, and as a huge fan of modern art, I found them to be invaluable. I shared that I knew a fair amount about modern art, and had even spent some time with the legendary Dadaist, Man Ray.

The manager who was interviewing me paused and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry for you. He was a great artist.” I didn’t know until that moment that Man Ray had died that morning, November 18th, 1976, at the age of 86 years old.

I got the job at Rizzoli, and believe to this day that one of the greatest artists of the modern era was somehow responsible for my good fortune, who at that moment was winking at me with an all-knowing smile.

Robert Kraft

Los Angeles

May 2018

[ramialkarmi]

A 24-year old got a mysterious disease where her body attacked her brain — and scientists are learning it's more common than they thought

When she was 24 years old, Caroline Walsh started having disturbing symptoms, like forgetfulness and sudden behavior changes.

Doctors incorrectly diagnosed her several times before she was properly diagnosed with autoimmune encephalitis, a disease in which the body attacks itself and targets the brain.

New research suggests the disease may affect up to 90,000 people each year.

There's a blank year in 26-year-old Caroline Walsh's once-spotless memory.

She's pieced parts together from stories her friends have told her and a collection of photos on Facebook. But she cannot remember the day it all began — when her father found her in the middle of a seizure, her body writhing on the floor. She also can't remember waking up with her hands tied to a hospital bed, begging her sister to help her escape, or the next day when she proclaimed she was the Zac Brown Band.

Instead, Walsh's first recollection of that time is of a recovery room filled with family and flowers. By then, her doctors had diagnosed her with a mysterious disease called autoimmune encephalitis, or AE. While there's lot we still don't know about the condition, experts believe it's part of a larger class of illnesses in which the body turns on itself. A new study from Mayo Clinic researchers suggests it's a lot more common that previously thought. In fact, AE may occur just as frequently as cases of regular encephalitis, the brain swelling caused by viral infections. If that's the case, it could be impacting roughly 90,000 people around the world every year.

In Walsh's case, the disease attacked her brain, setting off a chain reaction of symptoms that mimicked those of other mental illnesses like depression and schizophrenia. If treated properly and early enough, people with AE can make a near-complete recovery. But if they go undiagnosed or land in a psychiatric ward, they can die.

Something brewing

A stroll down a real street called Memory Lane in London leads you to the London Institute of Psychiatry, where J.A.N. "Nick" Corsellis sliced into the brains of three corpses and found the first evidence of AE.

Deep in the dense part of the brain called the limbic system, the normally lithe network of rubbery-smooth tissue had become puffy and inflamed. It was as if something had attacked it from within.

Most of the people these brains once belonged to had been diagnosed with cancer, then seemed to make a full recovery. But their personalities began to change. A partner or friend was usually the first to notice an odd shift in their behavior — usually a progressive increase in forgetfulness, though others experienced a sudden bout of mania or depression. A 58-year old bus driver found himself waking up most days not knowing where he was.

Corsellis saw inflammation in parts of the brain linked with memory and mood, but he couldn't explain what had caused the swelling that triggered the symptoms.

"The first question to arise ... is whether the assertion of a connection between carcinoma [cancer] and 'limbic encephalitis' is now justified, even if it cannot be explained,” he wrote in a 1968 paper in the journal Brain. It was first time the condition was mentioned in a scientific journal.

Walsh's symptoms became noticeable one day at work when she started repeating herself. She joked with a co-worker that she was coming down with early-onset Alzheimer's.

"I was just getting very confused all the time,” Walsh said.

The next week, more mysterious problems cropped up — Walsh had a knack for remembering names, but one day when she met up with some new friends, she introduced herself half a dozen times and struggled to commit anyone's name to memory.

"They'd say it and then a couple minutes later I'd have no clue what their name was or what we were even talking about," she said.

At the office the next day, things got worse. "My personality was just off. I thought it was work. I pulled my boss aside into a conference room and I started to cry, which was just not me," she said. When she wasn't feeling stressed and anxious, she felt depressed.

"Something was just brewing, I could feel it," she said.

When the body attacks itself

Our immune system is our body's defense against the outside world.

Most of the action is coordinated by white blood cells, which direct the lines of attack like football coaches, churning out antibodies that target the opponent for destruction.

But sometimes the process can go awry. In generating an immune response against a virus or other disease, the body can wind up up attacking itself — such issues are known as autoimmune diseases.

It's as if "some wires get crossed," Brenden Kelley, a neuroradiologist at Henry Ford hospital in Detroit who's part of the small community researching autoimmune encephalitis, told Business Insider last year.

Sometimes, this abnormal response can be caused by a virus like the flu or a bacterial infection. Other times, certain types of cancer appear to be the source.

"In picking targets that match the cancer, the body may also pick targets that match places in your body that don't have cancer," Kelley said.

The Mayo Clinic's new study, published in February in the journal Annals of Neurology, suggests that cases of autoimmune encephalitis aren't nearly as rare as researchers once believed. By drawing on data from the Rochester Epidemiology Project, a medical records database in Olmsted County, Minnesota, the researchers were able to estimate that roughly 1 million people across the globe had autoimmune encephalitis at some point in their life. Each year, roughly 90,000 people may develop AE, they estimated.

"No prior studies evaluated this," Eoin Flanagan, the lead author on the paper and an autoimmune neurology specialist at the Mayo Clinic, said in a statement.

Kelley, who is working on his own forthcoming study of the frequency of AE in young people, said his work echoes Flanagan's findings.

"You can’t diagnose something you don’t know about, or that you don’t recognize," Kelley told Business Insider.

Last summer, he published a study in the American Journal of Radiology to help radiologists like himself better diagnose and understand diseases like AE.

Knee deep in the water

Three months after Walsh first started noticing changes in her personality, she relocated to her childhood home outside of Boston, and saw two doctors who both incorrectly diagnosed her with the flu.

Then one morning around 4 a.m., as her dad got ready for work, he heard a loud crash. He found his daughter on the ground, her limbs thrashing. He screamed her name, but she didn't respond.

The most common cause of the type of seizure that Walsh had — known as a grand mal seizure (literally "great sickness" in French) — is epilepsy. Other causes can include extremely low blood sugar, high fever, and stroke.

At the hospital, Walsh's doctors tested her extensively. But even lumbar punctures or "spinal taps" — how doctors first spot autoimmune encephalitis in many cases — didn't show enough characteristic markers of inflammation to draw a definite conclusion.

When Walsh's sister Alana arrived at the hospital, Caroline was lying motionless on her hospital bed under the harsh lighting. Her hands had been encased in heavily padded mitts that looked like boxing gloves, and were fastened to the railings on her bed to keep her from pulling out the IV tubes keeping her hydrated. She asked Alana to come closer so she could whisper something into her ear.

"You have to fight 'em, you have to get me out of here," Caroline said, motioning her head towards the nurses as she eyed them suspiciously.

When Alana asked her sister what she was talking about, Caroline explained that she'd been abducted while she was asleep and was now being held hostage at the hospital.

A few hours later, after drifting into the sleepy, dazed state she was in for much of her hospital stay, she woke with a jolt and proclaimed she was the country singer the Zac Brown Band. She started belting out her favorite song of his, a catchy tune about taking a break from reality called "Knee Deep."

"Gonna put the world away for a minute," she sang, getting louder with every verse. "Pretend I don't live in it."

When her family couldn't stop Caroline's crooning, Alana got up and closed the doors to her room in an attempt to keep her from waking up everyone on the ward. Caroline continued.

"Mind on a permanent vacation, the ocean is my only medication, wishin' my condition ain't ever gonna go away."

Over the next week, Walsh proceeded to seize more than a hundred times. Alana recalls that nearly every time she sat down to talk with her, Caroline would seize half a dozen times. They weren't massive seizures like the one that had landed her in the hospital, but small, barely perceptible ones.

"You'd know because her eyes would drift away and she'd stare in one spot, she was having little ones almost every minute," Alana said. "She was very shaky and confused; her heart rate was extremely high, and the doctors just seemed so confused by everything every time we talked to them."

Eventually, the doctors decided to put Walsh in a medically-induced coma.

Smoke from the fire

In children, infections like strep throat appear to be a trigger of AE. Susan Schulman, a pediatrician in New York, told Business Insider last year that she had seen hundreds of cases of a related condition, called PANS (pediatric acute-onset neuropsychiatric syndrome), in her patients. Her first case, in 1998, was a five-year old girl from Brooklyn who flew into a panic about keeping special holiday clothes separate from her regular clothes.

"She was driving her mother crazy," Schulman said last year. At first, she believed the girl had childhood obsessive-compulsive disorder, but medication made the child's symptoms worse. She later returned to Schulman's office with a nasty case of strep throat and strangely, after Schulman treated the strep with antibiotics, the OCD symptoms vanished.

"I said you know what, that's odd," Schulman said.

Around the same time, an NIH pediatrician named Susan Swedo published an article in the American Journal of Psychiatry describing 50 cases of a phenomenon she called "pediatric autoimmune neuropsychiatric disorders associated with streptococcal infections." Schulman realized that the sudden psychiatric symptoms she had observed in her young patients — which ranged from OCD to rage and paranoia — were likely connected to their infections.

"I see infection as the match that lights the autoimmune reaction. The inflammation is the fire; the symptoms you see is the smoke coming out of the fire," Schulman said.

Autoimmune conditions that affect the brain only represent a fraction of all autoimmune diseases. Scientists have identified as many as 80 others, which range from type 1 diabetes, which develops when the body attacks its insulin-producing cells, to multiple sclerosis, psoriasis, and rheumatoid arthritis. More are being recognized each year.

Through his research, Kelley hopes to find out what autoimmune diseases that affect the brain have in common so the team can figure out what causes them.

"A lot of these conditions are variants on the same theme," he said.

In Walsh's case, "these are people who tend to not have a lot of other medical problems and then all of a sudden they feel like they're going crazy, they're losing themselves," Kelley said. "It tends to be very clear that something's not right, but precisely what's going on can be difficult to piece together."

Putting the pieces together

When Walsh woke up in her hospital room, she wasn't sure why she was there.

"I was like why are all these people in my room? Why is it decorated with all of these flowers?," she recalled.

A day or so before, a specialist had diagnosed Walsh with autoimmune encephalitis and started her on a regimen of powerful steroids, now considered one of the best treatments for the disease. The drugs began to reduce the inflammation in her brain. The affected area was Walsh's hippocampus, the region responsible for making and storing memories.

"I just remember I kept asking, 'What?' you know, 'Wait, why am I here?' and they would tell me, but I kept forgetting," she said.

The treatment for autoimmune encephalitis can vary based on the trigger, but timing is always key. If doctors treat whatever is triggering the condition, many people with the disease can go on to lead fairly normal, full lives.

"It's a race against time in a way," Kelley said.

In patients whose autoimmune encephalitis seems to be triggered by cancer (as opposed to Walsh’s, which may have been set off by the flu), the treatment focuses on treating or removing the cancer first. “When you remove the cancer, you remove the stimulus," Kelley said.

As Walsh began to regain her ability to remember, she realized she'd have to re-learn a lot of basic things.

"I remember going to get up to use the bathroom, and one of the nurses went to bring me a wheelchair and I was like, ‘Oh no I don't need that,'" Walsh said. "So then I just thought about standing and suddenly I just had no idea, I couldn't function to walk."

She regained those skills over the next 10 days at Spaulding Rehabilitation Center, the same place the survivors of the Boston Marathon bombing were brought after the attack. There, Walsh re-learned how to put one foot in front of the other and how to hold a spoon.

She now works part-time as a nanny and volunteers with Spaulding and the Boston Boys and Girls Club. Instead of going back to sales, she plans to work with children in some capacity. She recently attended a Spaulding fundraising event with her sister, Alana, where she bumped into the physical therapist who helped her walk in a straight line for the first time.

"We were in our dresses and we were both dancing together," Walsh said, "and Alana was like, 'You know she taught you to walk again?'"

  This story was originally published in May 2017, and has been updated to include recent findings on the prevalence of autoimmune encephalitis.

SEE ALSO: A mysterious syndrome in which marijuana users get violently ill is starting to worry researchers

Join the conversation about this story »

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[travelling-trooper-blog]

We arrived in Dublin after a bit of an arduous and frustrating commute. It was all Uri’s fault though. The fool didn’t realize that our connecting flight in London departed from a different airport than the one we landed in! We landed in London City Airport, but we were to fly to Dublin from Heathrow! We didn’t even realize this until we were checking in at the airport in Venice!

Thankfully, we had 6 hours between flights, but between picking up our bags, schlepping to Heathrow, and then checking in again, we ended up needing almost all 6 hours.

After picking up our bags, we checked the local transit authority’s website for directions to get between airports. It said we’d have to take a bus, then two trains. No problem. Except when we tried to get on the bus, the driver said we had to buy our ticket inside. “Buses don’t accept money anymore. No buses accept money.” He said it like we were a couple of stupid children.

So we went back inside to look for where to buy our tickets. Even airport staff weren’t sure. One guy finally helped us out and said to walk through the doors and go to the counter on the right.

Oh, you mean the counter that’s closed? That counter? Okay.

There were machines available, but they were only for refilling your transit card, not for getting new ones. After asking somebody, we found out you have to take a train to the next station to get a new card. So I have to spend money just to go somewhere else to buy a ticket for where I actually want to go?

Not happening.

We turned to Google, and apparently Google knew better than the local transit authority, because it offered directions using three different trains. Train tickets could be purchased from the machines.

This whole process took damn near 40 minutes, and the whole time I’m thinking, “This is all Uri’s fault.”

The last train was an express train to Heathrow. It cost 15€. That meant that just getting from one airport to another, we’d spent 20€. We hadn’t seen anything in London and we’d already spent 20€. London really is expensive!

In the end, everything worked out–as it always does–and we found ourselves on a bus from Dublin Airport into the city.

Our friend Rodrigo in Verona had been kind enough to put us in touch with a friend of his in Dublin. Her name was Iva. We’d been messaging on Whatsapp in Spanish since then. Uri and I got to the bar where we agreed to meet up, and we immediately spotted each other. The gigantic backpacks must have been a dead giveaway. The first thing she asked was, “Hablas Inglés?” to which Uri replied, “YEEESSSS!” They were both so relieved that they both burst out laughing. This whole time they’d been texting in Spanish, thinking the other person didn’t speak English. “I kept using Google Translate to check how to spell a word!” he shouted, and Iva laughed even louder. “Me toooo!” She cried out. We were officially the bestest of friends.

We walked inside of the bar, which was called Bernard Shaw, and went to find her friend, Fatima. The place was PACKED. Walking through with two huge backpacks was no easy feat. Once we were seated, Iva helped us hunt down some food. Bernard Shaw is known for their pizza. If you think that after ten days in Italy we’d be sick of pizza, then you are very wrong. It was still just as delicious.

Iva was a lively and proud Serbian girl who actually manages to laugh at everything just as much as Uri does. I didn’t think that could be possible! Their cheeks must constantly be so sore.

Fatima was a sweet and thoughtful girl from South Africa. She works for the Google! The Google! We were in perfect company.

The Shaw, as I’ve decided to call it, was rather over packed and uncomfortably loud, so Fatima offered to take us all back to her place. It was a short walk away.

Once there, the plan was to drop off our bags, maybe have a quick drink or shot, and then set off in search of a quieter pub.

That never happened. We all immediately made ourselves comfy and enjoyed some delicious Soplica–a smooth Polish vodka. (Apologies to Fatima’s absent roommate, as the bottle belonged to her, and we ended up downing the whole bottle.

As the laughs continued, Fatima suggested we play an African strategy game called Awele. Really, she was just craving fresh meat. Most of her friends refuse to play with her anymore because she’s just too damn good. It looked ing, so we agreed to give it a go.

The rules are as follows: There are 12 circles. Six on my side, and six on yours. Each circle holds four counters. To make a move, you select any circle on your side and take all the counters out. You then place one counter in each subsequent circle immediately following the circle you took the counters from. That is the end of your turn. If you place the last bean of your turn in a circle that only has one or two other counters already in it, you get to take all of the counters in that circle. And if the hole previous to the last hole also had one or two counters in it, you can also take those counters. The goal of the game is to have more than half the counters.

Fatima smoked Uri the first time around. He managed to capture a whopping 4 counters. After honing his skills in a round with Iva, though, made a valiant effort in a rematch against Fatima. He actually had her against the ropes for a while. But alas, he fell short.

Afterwards, Uri and I introduced the ladies to a MUCH simpler game that was more at our level: Dobble. Basically, you deal out all the cards and flip the last one face up. Every card features a dozen random images on it–a snowman, fire, a dinosaur, a turtle, etc. Every card also features one image that it has in common with every other card. Your job is to lift up the top card in your pile and find the image that it has in common with the card on the table as fast as you can. Throw your card on top, shout out what the image is, and pick up your next card. Your goal is to run through your pile first.

It’s such a simple game, but it can be extremely frustrating at the same time, as is evident in Fatima’s face in the picture below.

Uri was destroying the girls at first, but after half a dozen rounds, they’d quickly caught on, and he could no longer keep up. He was losing yet again.

In no time, it was time for bed. Uri and I had to be up early to pick up his sister, Doris, in the morning. He was extemely excited. We were also getting a set of wheels in the morning! I was excited for that!

  New Friends in Dublin We arrived in Dublin after a bit of an arduous and frustrating commute. It was all Uri's fault though.

[followmyfernweh]

Stonehenge, Bath, and Contiki Family

The next morning I woke up more excited than I had been this entire trip. The night before was awful. I know this might sound trivial, but the people that I originally traveled with, were no better. I was packing up my things, getting ready for the next day, when I realized that I didn’t want to carry around a coffee mug I purchased with me for the rest of my month in Europe. I don’t ever buy myself souvenirs,  but this mug from Hampton Court covered in gorgeous insects, was my only token I took from my time in London. I rushed to their room, and asked if they could take the mug home with them for me so I don’t break it. They refused, saying they didn’t have enough room in their luggage. I don’t think it was the fact that they wouldn’t take the mug for me that upset me the most, it was the build up of frustration I had with them the entire trip. They were so selfish this entire time, only doing things for themselves and worrying about shopping (which is why they ran out of room btw, too many new items and had to buy an entirely new suitcase). I was so beside myself that they couldn’t do this one thing for me, and I just ran back to my room and cried. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. They had completely ruined this first leg of the trip for me and I couldn’t understand how they could be so selfish. I remember Vanessa walked back into the room because she forgot her umbrella and it was so awkward, but she sat and listened and let me vent. She was so kind. I wish I would have added her on facebook so I could have kept in touch. Stupid LO. 

The next morning came, and I was ready to move on from that part of the trip with them, but first, Bath! We arrived early in the morning, getting a nice little tour around the town, and we promptly arrived at the old Roman Baths. They were so lovely. I kept to myself, not really entertaining their conversations to me. I was over their attitudes. When you get to the baths, you start up top and make your way through this museum area, with lots of artifacts and information they have collected over the years, and make your way downstairs to the actual area where the people bathed. The water looked disgusting honestly, but it was just so ethereal. Something so other-worldy about being there, taking such a large step back in time in an instant. I loved it. 

Soon after we went to Stonehenge. You thought Bath was taking a step back in time LO? Think again. These stones were MASSIVE. It’s funny how you see images of such an iconic structure your entire life, and when you finally get there, it’s just completely different. I was just silent the entire time. That is how I usually react. When I finally experience what I’ve dreamed of, just awe. I walked around the stones twice, taking in every inch and angle I could. I listened to the electronic tour guide and learned as much about the stones that I could (not that I remember any of it lol), and let the wind tangle my hair. We rode the little bus back to the main gates, got some food, and hopped back on the coach. It was my last ride with this lovely group of old geezers I came to know in a short few days. I was going to miss that funny Aussie guy and his dad, not that I can remember their names, I’m just writing this so I don’t ever forget about them. We finally arrived back in London. I couldn’t get off the coach fast enough. I said my quick goodbyes to Emma, Vanessa, and the other two travelers I came with. I grabbed my bag, hopped in a black cab, and headed off to my next destination: A. A had just arrived in London that day and was waiting for me at the hotel near our Contiki meet up and the Contiki Basement. This began the start of the trip that would change my life forever, in so many amazing ways. Yet, the best thing that came out of this entire trip, was my friendship with A. We weren’t really close at all before this. I knew him for years, worked for his dad and picked him and his sister up from school. We weren’t strangers at all either, and he was obviously comfortable enough with me, to agree to coming on this trip with me. It was different though,and it is SO different now. I can’t imagine my life without him. I don’t think he even realizes how much he means to me now, but after going through what we were about to go through together, experiencing those sights and moments together, there is no way he couldn’t. That isn’t what this is about though. I got off track. Back to my trip.

I rush to the hotel and A is waiting for me in the room. I plopped down on my bed, exhausted, and realized that the bed was shit. Serious downgrade from the Insight tour rooms, but it didn’t matter. I was so happy to be away from those two. A and I caught up, I asked how his flight and tube ride was, and we both decided to relax until it was time for us to check in to our trip. When that time came, we walked a few blocks down to the Contiki Basement and waited for our tour manager to arrive. A few minutes later, some of the people we had been talking to for months arrived. It was so nice to finally meet these people I’d grown to call my friends over Facebook from all over the world. Once the majority of us arrived, Jake, our tour manager from Australia introduced himself, as well as Rasto, our bus driver. We got these little stickers that we had to put on our shirts, and were told to go to the bar upstairs to mingle with other travelers and get to know one another. We headed to the pub, grabbed some beers, and got to know each other. A had his first legal beer, since he was 18. Grabbed some pub food, and had a great time. Soon after, we said goodnight to our new friends and headed back to our hotel. Once we got back though, A realized that he really hadn’t seen much of London. Out of a blast of adrenaline from excitement, we decided that we wanted to do a late night bus tour of London, looked online for one, and booked it. We only had a short amount of time to get there, so we grabbed our jackets and ran out the door. In the elevator, we bumped into two girls who also had those little contiki stickers on. We mentioned what we were doing and they asked if they could tag along, so why not?! We hopped on the tube, and off we went. 

Man did I wish that I had brought a warmer jacket. A did too, he was freezing. We wanted to sit on top of the bus without the roof so we could get nicer pictures, and we did….for a little while. I took a picture of A up there, it’s still my favorite of him to this day. The lights were so gorgeous at night, and let me tell you LO, this one evening revived your love for London. That sour taste you had from those two before washed away with the laughter that rang out from that bus that night. Huddled in the warmth of the interior of the bus, you found the love you wanted for that city. The London night lights stole your heart. 

Those two girls were not on our trip, so once the night was over, we said our final goodbye, and headed off to bed. We had to be up at the ass crack of dawn the next morning to check in our luggage for the coach, and then we were heading off to Amsterdam. This first day of my Contiki trip, little did I know, was the start of the best experience I would ever have. 

I can’t wait to reflect on this amazing time some more. I should have done this a long time ago.

-traveLO-

[ramialkarmi]

A 24-year old got a mysterious disease where her body attacked her brain — and everyone thought it was in her mind

There's a blank year in 25-year-old Caroline Walsh's once-spotless memory.

She's pieced parts together from stories her friends have told her and a collection of photos on Facebook. But she cannot remember the day it all began — when her father found her in the middle of a seizure, her body writhing on the floor. She also can't remember waking up with her hands tied to a hospital bed, begging her sister to help her escape, or the next day when she proclaimed she was the Zac Brown Band.

Instead, Walsh's first recollection of that time is of a recovery room filled with family and flowers. By then, her doctors had diagnosed her with a mysterious disease called autoimmune encephalitis, or AE for short. While there's lot we still don't know about the condition, experts believe it's part of a larger class of illnesses in which the body turns on itself.

In Walsh's case, the disease attacked her brain, setting off a chain reaction of symptoms that mimicked those of other mental illnesses like depression and schizophrenia. If treated properly and early enough, people with AE can make a near-complete recovery. But if they go undiagnosed or land in a psychiatric ward, they can die.

Something brewing

A stroll down a real street called Memory Lane in London leads you to the London Institute of Psychiatry, where J.A.N. "Nick" Corsellis sliced into the brains of three corpses and found the first evidence of AE.

Deep in the dense part of the brain called the limbic system, the normally lithe network of rubbery-smooth tissue had become puffy and inflamed. It was as if something had attacked it from within.

Most of the people these brains once belonged to had been diagnosed with cancer, then seemed to make a full recovery. But their personalities began to change. A partner or friend was usually the first to notice an odd shift in their behavior — usually a progressive increase in forgetfulness, though others experienced a sudden bout of mania or depression. A 58-year old bus driver found himself waking up most days not knowing where he was.

Corsellis saw inflammation in parts of the brain linked with memory and mood, but he couldn't explain what had caused the swelling that triggered the symptoms.

"The first question to arise ... is whether the assertion of a connection between carcinoma [cancer] and 'limbic encephalitis' is now justified, even if it cannot be explained,” he wrote in a 1968 paper in the journal Brain. It was first time the condition was mentioned in a scientific journal.

Walsh's symptoms became noticeable one day at work when she started repeating herself. She joked with a co-worker that she was coming down with early-onset Alzheimer's.

"I was just getting very confused all the time,” Walsh says.

The next week, more mysterious problems cropped up — Walsh had a knack for remembering names, but one day when she met up with some new friends, she introduced herself half a dozen times and struggled to commit anyone's name to memory.

"They'd say it and then a couple minutes later I'd have no clue what their name was or what we were even talking about," she says.

At the office the next day, things got worse. "My personality was just off. I thought it was work. I pulled my boss aside into a conference room and I started to cry, which was just not me," she says. When she wasn't feeling stressed and anxious, she felt depressed.

"Something was just brewing, I could feel it," she says.

When the body attacks itself

Our immune system is our body's defense against the outside world.

Most of the action is coordinated by white blood cells, which direct the lines of attack like football coaches, churning out antibodies that target the opponent for destruction.

But sometimes the process can go awry. In generating an immune response against a virus or other disease, the body can wind up up attacking itself — a larger class of illnesses known as autoimmune diseases.

It's as if "some wires get crossed," says Brenden Kelley, a neuroradiologist at Henry Ford hospital in Detroit who's part of the small community researching autoimmune encephalitis.

Sometimes, this abnormal response can be caused by a virus like the flu or a bacterial infection. Other times, certain types of cancer appear to be the source.

"In picking targets that match the cancer, the body may also pick targets that match places in your body that don't have cancer," says Kelley.

Knee deep in the water

Three months later, Walsh relocated to her childhood home outside of Boston, and saw two doctors who both incorrectly diagnosed her with the flu.

Then one morning around 4 a.m., as her dad, a Boston police officer, got ready for work, he heard a loud crash. He found his daughter on the ground, her limbs thrashing. He screamed her name, but she didn't respond.

The most common cause of the type of seizure that Walsh had that day — known as a grand mal seizure (literally "great sickness" in French) — is epilepsy. Other causes can include extremely low blood sugar, high fever, and stroke.

At the hospital, Walsh's doctors tested her extensively, doing multiple lumbar punctures or "spinal taps," a painful, dangerous procedure that involves collecting and analyzing the protective fluid surrounding her brain and spinal cord. In most cases, this is where doctors will first spot autoimmune encephalitis, Kelley says.

But sometimes, as in Walsh's case, the characteristic markers of inflammation are too subtle to draw a definite conclusion.

When Caroline's sister Alana arrived at the hospital, Caroline was lying motionless on her hospital bed under the harsh lighting. Her hands had been encased in heavily padded mitts that looked like boxing gloves, and were fastened to the railings on her bed to keep her from pulling out the IV tubes keeping her hydrated. She asked Alana to come closer so she could whisper something into her ear.

"You have to fight 'em, you have to get me out of here," said Caroline, motioning her head towards the nurses as she eyed them suspiciously.

When Alana asked her sister what she was talking about, Caroline explained that she'd been abducted while she was asleep and was now being held hostage at the hospital.

A few hours later, after drifting into the sleepy, dazed state she was in for much of her hospital stay, she woke with a jolt and proclaimed she was the country singer the Zac Brown Band. She started belting out her favorite song of his, a catchy tune about taking a break from reality called "Knee Deep."

"Gonna put the world away for a minute," she sang, getting louder with every verse. "Pretend I don't live in it."

When her family couldn't stop Caroline's crooning, Alana got up and closed the doors to her room in an attempt to keep her from waking up everyone on the ward. Caroline continued.

"Mind on a permanent vacation, the ocean is my only medication, wishin' my condition ain't ever gonna go away."

Over the next week, Walsh proceeded to seize more than a hundred times. Alana recalls that nearly every time she sat down to talk with her, Caroline would seize half a dozen times. They weren't massive seizures like the one that had landed her in the hospital, but small, barely perceptible ones.

"You'd know because her eyes would drift away and she'd stare in one spot, she was having little ones almost every minute," says Alana. "She was very shaky and confused; her heart rate was extremely high, and the doctors just seemed so confused by everything every time we talked to them, they were like she can't be going into these seizures all the time, it's just too much."

Eventually, the doctors decided to put her in a medically-induced coma.

Smoke from the fire

In children, infections like strep throat appear to be a trigger of AE. Susan Schulman, a pediatrician in New York, says she's seen hundreds of cases of a related condition, called PANS (pediatric acute-onset neuropsychiatric syndrome), in her patients. Her first case, in 1998, was a five-year old girl from Brooklyn who flew into a panic about keeping the clothes she wore on the Jewish holiday of Shabbat separate from her regular clothes.

"She was driving her mother crazy," Schulman says. At first, she believed the girl had childhood obsessive-compulsive disorder, but medication made the child's symptoms worse, and she returned to Schulman's office with more intense OCD symptoms and a nasty case of strep throat. Strangely, after Schulman treated the strep with antibiotics, the OCD symptoms vanished.

"I said you know what, that's odd," Schulman says.

Around the same time, an NIH pediatrician named Susan Swedo published an article in the American Journal of Psychiatry describing 50 cases of a phenomenon she called "pediatric autoimmune neuropsychiatric disorders associated with streptococcal infections." Schulman realized that the sudden psychiatric symptoms she had observed in her young patients — which ranged from OCD to rage and paranoia — were likely connected to their infections.

"I see infection as the match that lights the autoimmune reaction. The inflammation is the fire; the symptoms you see is the smoke coming out of the fire," Schulman says.

Autoimmune conditions that affect the brain only represent a fraction of all autoimmune diseases. Scientists have identified as many as 80 others, which range from type 1 diabetes, which develops when the body attacks its insulin-producing cells, to multiple sclerosis, psoriasis, and rheumatoid arthritis. More are being recognized each year.

Kelley and others at Henry Ford are currently researching autoimmune diseases that affect the brain. By working with scientists who specialize in the brain and the immune system, Kelley hopes to find out what these conditions have in common so the team can eventually figure out what causes them.

"A lot of these conditions are variants on the same theme," he says. 

In Walsh's case, "these are people who tend to not have a lot of other medical problems and then all of a sudden they feel like they're going crazy, they're losing themselves," Kelley says. "It tends to be very clear that something's not right, but precisely what's going on can be difficult to piece together."

Putting the pieces together

When Walsh woke up in her hospital room, she wasn't sure why she was there.

"I was like why are all these people in my room? Why is it decorated with all of these flowers?," she recalls.

A day or so before, a specialist had diagnosed Walsh with autoimmune encephalitis and started her on a regimen of powerful steroids, now considered one of the best treatments for the disease. The drugs began to reduce the inflammation in her brain. In Walsh's case, the affected area was her hippocampus, the region responsible for making and storing memories.

"I just remember I kept asking, 'What?' you know, 'Wait, why am I here?' and they would tell me, but I kept forgetting," she says.

In patients whose autoimmune encephalitis seems to be triggered by cancer (as opposed to Walsh’s, which may have been set off by the flu), the treatment focuses on treating or removing the cancer first. “When you remove the cancer, you remove the stimulus," Kelley says.

The treatment for autoimmune encephalitis can vary based on the trigger, but timing is always key. If doctors treat whatever is triggering the condition, many people with the disease can go on to lead fairly normal, full lives.

"It's a race against time in a way," Kelley says.

As Walsh began to regain her ability to remember, she realized she'd have to re-learn a lot of basic things.

"I remember going to get up to use the bathroom, and one of the nurses went to bring me a wheelchair and I was like, ‘Oh no I don't need that,'" says Walsh. "So then I just thought about standing and suddenly I just had no idea, I couldn't function to walk."

She regained those skills over the next 10 days at Spaulding Rehabilitation Center, the same place the survivors of the Boston Marathon bombing were brought after the attack. There, Walsh re-learned how to put one foot in front of the other and how to hold a spoon.

Walsh now works part-time as a nanny and volunteers with Spaulding and the Boston Boys and Girls Club. Instead of going back to sales, she plans to work with children in some capacity. She recently attended a Spaulding fundraising event with her sister, Alana, where she bumped into the physical therapist who helped her walk in a straight line for the first time.

"We were in our dresses and we were both dancing together," Walsh says, "and Alana was like, 'You know she taught you to walk again?'"

SEE ALSO: Why psychedelics like magic mushrooms kill the ego and fundamentally transform the brain

Join the conversation about this story »

NOW WATCH: The ‘alien megastructure’ star is acting weird, again, and it’s exactly what astronomers have been waiting for

[ramialkarmi]

A 24-year old got a mysterious disease where her body attacked her brain — and everyone thought it was in her mind

There's a blank year in 25-year-old Caroline Walsh's once-spotless memory.

She's pieced parts together from stories her friends have told her and a collection of photos on Facebook. But she cannot remember the day it all began — when her father found her in the middle of a seizure, her body writhing on the floor. She also can't remember waking up with her hands tied to a hospital bed, begging her sister to help her escape, or the next day when she proclaimed she was the Zac Brown Band.

Instead, Walsh's first recollection of that time is of a recovery room filled with family and flowers. By then, her doctors had diagnosed her with a mysterious disease called autoimmune encephalitis, or AE for short. While there's lot we still don't know about the condition, experts believe it's part of a larger class of illnesses in which the body turns on itself.

In Walsh's case, the disease attacked her brain, setting off a chain reaction of symptoms that mimicked those of other mental illnesses like depression and schizophrenia. If treated properly and early enough, people with AE can make a near-complete recovery. But if they go undiagnosed or land in a psychiatric ward, they can die.

Something brewing

A stroll down a real street called Memory Lane in London leads you to the London Institute of Psychiatry, where J.A.N. "Nick" Corsellis sliced into the brains of three corpses and found the first evidence of AE.

Deep in the dense part of the brain called the limbic system, the normally lithe network of rubbery-smooth tissue had become puffy and inflamed. It was as if something had attacked it from within.

Most of the people these brains once belonged to had been diagnosed with cancer, then seemed to make a full recovery. But their personalities began to change. A partner or friend was usually the first to notice an odd shift in their behavior — usually a progressive increase in forgetfulness, though others experienced a sudden bout of mania or depression. A 58-year old bus driver found himself waking up most days not knowing where he was.

Corsellis saw inflammation in parts of the brain linked with memory and mood, but he couldn't explain what had caused the swelling that triggered the symptoms.

"The first question to arise ... is whether the assertion of a connection between carcinoma [cancer] and 'limbic encephalitis' is now justified, even if it cannot be explained,” he wrote in a 1968 paper in the journal Brain. It was first time the condition was mentioned in a scientific journal.

Walsh's symptoms became noticeable one day at work when she started repeating herself. She joked with a co-worker that she was coming down with early-onset Alzheimer's.

"I was just getting very confused all the time,” Walsh says.

The next week, more mysterious problems cropped up — Walsh had a knack for remembering names, but one day when she met up with some new friends, she introduced herself half a dozen times and struggled to commit anyone's name to memory.

"They'd say it and then a couple minutes later I'd have no clue what their name was or what we were even talking about," she says.

At the office the next day, things got worse. "My personality was just off. I thought it was work. I pulled my boss aside into a conference room and I started to cry, which was just not me," she says. When she wasn't feeling stressed and anxious, she felt depressed.

"Something was just brewing, I could feel it," she says.

When the body attacks itself

Our immune system is our body's defense against the outside world.

Most of the action is coordinated by white blood cells, which direct the lines of attack like football coaches, churning out antibodies that target the opponent for destruction.

But sometimes the process can go awry. In generating an immune response against a virus or other disease, the body can wind up up attacking itself — a larger class of illnesses known as autoimmune diseases.

It's as if "some wires get crossed," says Brenden Kelley, a neuroradiologist at Henry Ford hospital in Detroit who's part of the small community researching autoimmune encephalitis.

Sometimes, this abnormal response can be caused by a virus like the flu or a bacterial infection. Other times, certain types of cancer appear to be the source.

"In picking targets that match the cancer, the body may also pick targets that match places in your body that don't have cancer," says Kelley.

Knee deep in the water

Three months later, Walsh relocated to her childhood home outside of Boston, and saw two doctors who both incorrectly diagnosed her with the flu.

Then one morning around 4 a.m., as her dad, a Boston police officer, got ready for work, he heard a loud crash. He found his daughter on the ground, her limbs thrashing. He screamed her name, but she didn't respond.

The most common cause of the type of seizure that Walsh had that day — known as a grand mal seizure (literally "great sickness" in French) — is epilepsy. Other causes can include extremely low blood sugar, high fever, and stroke.

At the hospital, Walsh's doctors tested her extensively, doing multiple lumbar punctures or "spinal taps," a painful, dangerous procedure that involves collecting and analyzing the protective fluid surrounding her brain and spinal cord. In most cases, this is where doctors will first spot autoimmune encephalitis, Kelley says.

But sometimes, as in Walsh's case, the characteristic markers of inflammation are too subtle to draw a definite conclusion.

When Caroline's sister Alana arrived at the hospital, Caroline was lying motionless on her hospital bed under the harsh lighting. Her hands had been encased in heavily padded mitts that looked like boxing gloves, and were fastened to the railings on her bed to keep her from pulling out the IV tubes keeping her hydrated. She asked Alana to come closer so she could whisper something into her ear.

"You have to fight 'em, you have to get me out of here," said Caroline, motioning her head towards the nurses as she eyed them suspiciously.

When Alana asked her sister what she was talking about, Caroline explained that she'd been abducted while she was asleep and was now being held hostage at the hospital.

A few hours later, after drifting into the sleepy, dazed state she was in for much of her hospital stay, she woke with a jolt and proclaimed she was the country singer the Zac Brown Band. She started belting out her favorite song of his, a catchy tune about taking a break from reality called "Knee Deep."

"Gonna put the world away for a minute," she sang, getting louder with every verse. "Pretend I don't live in it."

When her family couldn't stop Caroline's crooning, Alana got up and closed the doors to her room in an attempt to keep her from waking up everyone on the ward. Caroline continued.

"Mind on a permanent vacation, the ocean is my only medication, wishin' my condition ain't ever gonna go away."

Over the next week, Walsh proceeded to seize more than a hundred times. Alana recalls that nearly every time she sat down to talk with her, Caroline would seize half a dozen times. They weren't massive seizures like the one that had landed her in the hospital, but small, barely perceptible ones.

"You'd know because her eyes would drift away and she'd stare in one spot, she was having little ones almost every minute," says Alana. "She was very shaky and confused; her heart rate was extremely high, and the doctors just seemed so confused by everything every time we talked to them, they were like she can't be going into these seizures all the time, it's just too much."

Eventually, the doctors decided to put her in a medically-induced coma.

Smoke from the fire

In children, infections like strep throat appear to be a trigger of AE. Susan Schulman, a pediatrician in New York, says she's seen hundreds of cases of a related condition, called PANS (pediatric acute-onset neuropsychiatric syndrome), in her patients. Her first case, in 1998, was a five-year old girl from Brooklyn who flew into a panic about keeping the clothes she wore on the Jewish holiday of Shabbat separate from her regular clothes.

"She was driving her mother crazy," Schulman says. At first, she believed the girl had childhood obsessive-compulsive disorder, but medication made the child's symptoms worse, and she returned to Schulman's office with more intense OCD symptoms and a nasty case of strep throat. Strangely, after Schulman treated the strep with antibiotics, the OCD symptoms vanished.

"I said you know what, that's odd," Schulman says.

Around the same time, an NIH pediatrician named Susan Swedo published an article in the American Journal of Psychiatry describing 50 cases of a phenomenon she called "pediatric autoimmune neuropsychiatric disorders associated with streptococcal infections." Schulman realized that the sudden psychiatric symptoms she had observed in her young patients — which ranged from OCD to rage and paranoia — were likely connected to their infections.

"I see infection as the match that lights the autoimmune reaction. The inflammation is the fire; the symptoms you see is the smoke coming out of the fire," Schulman says.

Autoimmune conditions that affect the brain only represent a fraction of all autoimmune diseases. Scientists have identified as many as 80 others, which range from type 1 diabetes, which develops when the body attacks its insulin-producing cells, to multiple sclerosis, psoriasis, and rheumatoid arthritis. More are being recognized each year.

Kelley and others at Henry Ford are currently researching autoimmune diseases that affect the brain. By working with scientists who specialize in the brain and the immune system, Kelley hopes to find out what these conditions have in common so the team can eventually figure out what causes them.

"A lot of these conditions are variants on the same theme," he says. 

In Walsh's case, "these are people who tend to not have a lot of other medical problems and then all of a sudden they feel like they're going crazy, they're losing themselves," Kelley says. "It tends to be very clear that something's not right, but precisely what's going on can be difficult to piece together."

Putting the pieces together

When Walsh woke up in her hospital room, she wasn't sure why she was there.

"I was like why are all these people in my room? Why is it decorated with all of these flowers?," she recalls.

A day or so before, a specialist had diagnosed Walsh with autoimmune encephalitis and started her on a regimen of powerful steroids, now considered one of the best treatments for the disease. The drugs began to reduce the inflammation in her brain. In Walsh's case, the affected area was her hippocampus, the region responsible for making and storing memories.

"I just remember I kept asking, 'What?' you know, 'Wait, why am I here?' and they would tell me, but I kept forgetting," she says.

In patients whose autoimmune encephalitis seems to be triggered by cancer (as opposed to Walsh’s, which may have been set off by the flu), the treatment focuses on treating or removing the cancer first. “When you remove the cancer, you remove the stimulus," Kelley says.

The treatment for autoimmune encephalitis can vary based on the trigger, but timing is always key. If doctors treat whatever is triggering the condition, many people with the disease can go on to lead fairly normal, full lives.

"It's a race against time in a way," Kelley says.

As Walsh began to regain her ability to remember, she realized she'd have to re-learn a lot of basic things.

"I remember going to get up to use the bathroom, and one of the nurses went to bring me a wheelchair and I was like, ‘Oh no I don't need that,'" says Walsh. "So then I just thought about standing and suddenly I just had no idea, I couldn't function to walk."

She regained those skills over the next 10 days at Spaulding Rehabilitation Center, the same place the survivors of the Boston Marathon bombing were brought after the attack. There, Walsh re-learned how to put one foot in front of the other and how to hold a spoon.

Walsh now works part-time as a nanny and volunteers with Spaulding and the Boston Boys and Girls Club. Instead of going back to sales, she plans to work with children in some capacity. She recently attended a Spaulding fundraising event with her sister, Alana, where she bumped into the physical therapist who helped her walk in a straight line for the first time.

"We were in our dresses and we were both dancing together," Walsh says, "and Alana was like, 'You know she taught you to walk again?'"

SEE ALSO: Why psychedelics like magic mushrooms kill the ego and fundamentally transform the brain

Join the conversation about this story »

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