#my mother asked me about my afternoon. i said i planted onions. and then I went away so i could cry because suddenly i want to --

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

I do generally go with the concept that Anakin genuinely liked and wanted to be jedi mostly but I can also fuck with the concept that he didn't quite. This guy has all this sunk cost shit in his character as Vader already.. Anakin can be the guy who isn't satisfied but can't walk away because he left his mother for this, he said he wanted this, Qui Gon wanted this for him, Obi Wan would be gutted if left, Obi Wan threatened to leave the order to get him this opportunity, he can't just. Throw that all away. Can he? He was supposed to want this. He wanted this. He can't betray his mother and Qui Gon and Obi Wan like that. He can't even admit he doesn't feel right.

[mega-aulover]

if u would be so kind to write a oneshot for me, could you perhaps write everlark doing a “first” after the rebellion. up to you what this first could be (romantic or platonic).

Dear Anon, thank you for the prompt. Everlark's first meal together after the war but before the epilogue.

Rated G...

Haymitch said Peeta was coming over. He said I couldn't hide. I wanted to hide. I wanted to make myself smaller than a speck of dust.

The last time I saw Peeta, I was a wreck. I hadn't bathed. My hair was - well a bird's nest is neater and cleaner. And I think I yelled at him.

Poor Peeta had been planting flowers for her. I still can't say her name. It hurts too much. But the flowers are thriving against the side of the house. The thing is the flowers are beautiful but they are out of place amongst the haunted house where the memories tortured me.

I don't leave the house often, I feel like a mouse scurrying from the inside of the house to the woods. I don't trust the outside world. I don't trust my own shadow. I don't trust Haymitch. Haymitch is here because I'm his ward. He is required to keep me breathing.

Though.

Him.

I trust Peeta. My heart beats erratically in my chest because he came back. He could have done what my mother and so many others did. Now he's coming to dinner.

I'm so nervous. I'm not sure why. But as I run my hands down my pants I check the stew. It's the first time I've cooked. I broke down several times because of the memories of her and my mother in the kitchen. I loath this house. There are too many ghosts and they appear like this afternoon while I was cutting the damned carrots. A food fight between me and...her...her laughter had me crying as if I had been cutting onions.

But as I sit on the sofa nervously tapping my foot against the carpeted floor I hope he won't abandon me too. I'm too flawed. Burnt. Unwanted.

There's a knock on the door.

I command my legs to move and they shake until somehow I drag myself to the door. And there he is.

His face was ruddy. His eyes don't have the usual sparkle but he gives me that trademark shy smile. "Hi."

"Hi," I say. I step to let him into the house.

"Haymitch said he couldn't come something about having to go into town for an emergency."

I stare at him, freaking out. What in the world were we going to speak about?

"Here I made bread." Peeta thrusts the bread at me.

The scent of the fresh bread breaks my inability for me to react.

"Do you want to sit and eat?" I hear myself blurting out.

"Sure." He nodded and stepped forward.

It was awkward walking to the table in the kitchen. Peeta looked around I tried not to look. Peeta asked me where I kept my knives four times before I reacted.

Somehow I served us two heaping bowls of hearty stew. Peeta put the bread on the table with the butter. It looked like a wall between our two bowls. But neither one of us sat down. We stood behind our respective chairs avoiding having to look at each other. Until Peeta blurted out. "I'm hungry."

My stomach did a weird grumbly sound.

We laughed until tears came out of our eyes. And when sat down and momentarily our eyes locked and that space I saw us. As we were, the boy and the girl who innocently clung together through the crucible of two Hunger Games. We were both weaponized but somehow we survived.

I smiled as I took in Peeta. His face was flushed, small laugh lines appeared around his eyes and mouth. His face was a reflection of the joy that I felt on the inside. We were going to be alright.

"Together?" He asked.

"Together," I repeated.

And that's what we did, we moved forward together.

[kaibacorpintern]

the wound

word count: ~2500

summary: kaiba has some pointed thoughts about yuugi’s recent cooking injury. platonic rivalshipping. post-DSOD

a/n: a woman has too many unfinished one-shots in her google drive so i’m making time to finish them instead of overthinking them (and never finishing them.) yes this is about cooking and yuugi and kaiba and depression. yes i have already written about this. whatever man. enjoy.

++++

Same time as usual. Two in the afternoon, on Saturdays. Same place as usual. The picnic table under the massive oak in the park, two blocks away from the Kame Game Shop and twenty minutes by subway from the station under the Kaiba Corp tower. Seto took the subway mostly out of scientific interest, taking a professional curiosity in the world Atem had wanted to live in, and because Atem had told him to enjoy it. What had he seen here, in the faded orange seats and bright pastel advertisements and the quiet scattering of human-not-Puzzle bodies? What had he felt, as the subway swayed around the curve in the tunnel, unseen in the darkness and known only by its momentum, making everyone sway with it? Hands curled around handrails and books. Fingers on phones. The train burst into daylight. The side of that girl’s head against the glass, watching Domino slide by with an equally glassy look in her eyes. Two layers between her and the city. Missing someone? Or just bored of life? 

He slunk off the subway, unnoticed and unknown, in an immaculate white hoodie and aviators, stainless steel water bottle dangling from one hand. Yuugi was waiting for him at the park entrance, as usual, wearing some kind of fashionable belted dark purple romper, with the usual tote bag full of games hanging from one hand. On the other hand, something unusual: his fingers stuck out from a half-formed mitten of gauze, giving his slender hand a clumsy, snub-nosed silhouette. He was having trouble holding his iced tea, thumb and fingers alligator-clamped around the lid. Someone had drawn a pair of flowers in pink marker across the back of the mitten, a bumper sticker of cheerful admonition: 🌺 BE CAREFUL! 🌺 Not Yuugi’s handwriting. 

“Hey,” Yuugi said. “How’re you doing? You sleeping better?”

Seto pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, over his bangs, crown-like. 

“On and off,” he said, which was true. His nights were now vast, tossing oceans of insomnia between shores of just good-enough sleep. Last night he’d simply given up trying to swim and instead, for the first time in years, read a book for amusement instead of education. Some sci-fi novel Yuugi had mentioned and Seto bought on a lark from the bookstore in the subway station. Most of his amusement came from correcting the bad science in the margins, until he woke up at dawn with his glasses bent and his bed linens blotted like calico cats with black ink. “What happened to your hand?”

“Oh, this?” Yuugi said, lifting his mitten-hand. “So, I was making a ceviche yesterday…”

He told the story as they walked through the park to the oak tree: the protagonist was a ripe avocado, its tough, disingenuous alligator hide concealing a soft, buttery-green flesh. The arc of the conflict: avocado against knife, a natural antagonist. The climax: the knife, ignorant of its own bluntness and made arrogant by the shine of its own steel, slid off its trajectory like a failing rocket and plunged at speed through plant skin and plant flesh straight into human skin and human flesh. The resolution: two identical cuts, a half-opened avocado and a half-opened hand. Man versus fruit. 

"There was so much blood Otogi almost fainted," Yuugi said, thumping the tote bag onto the wooden table and straddling the bench sideways. "So we went to the ER and they stitched me up, and then when we got back home I finished making the ceviche. What game? You pick."

"Hive," Seto said. He couldn’t stop looking at his bandaged hand. It drew his attention like a glitch on a screen, an inescapable aberration. “Does it bother you?”

“I mean, it hurts, but whatever, you know?” Yuugi said, digging into his tote bag for the drawstring bag of wooden tokens. He spilled them onto the table in a clattering cascade of wood against wood. They rapidly sorted them out. “It’s not my first cooking accident.”

Seto raised his eyebrows. It was a testament to the amount of time they’d been spending together lately - every Saturday afternoon for a handful of hours, until he made some excuse to leave, and Yuugi accepted it not because he was gullible but because he knew Seto had a battery and it ran low - that he didn’t even need to ask a question, and Yuugi simply provided an answer, with examples.

“So, here, I was frying onion rings for Jounouchi, and I splattered hot oil all over my arm,” Yuugi said, lifting his hand and pointing out a haphazard constellation of white scars over his forearm. “Then here - I was baking cookies for Shizuka’s birthday and touched the tray fresh out of the oven with my bare hand, like a moron, I dueled Jounouchi after and drawing my cards was like, ow - ” he waggled his fingertips - “and this one is another burn - ” a long white ink-stroke across his wrist - “from when I was making ramen for Anzu, ‘cause she was home from New York. And this one - ”

More interesting than how and what were who. This burn for Honda’s birthday barbecue, that cut for Otogi’s game night. A violent kiss between blade and fingers behind a frothy veil of soapy water, cleaning up after a movie night. Another spray of oil splatters, frying tempura for his mother. A lot of meals for her, his grandfather, Jounouchi. Every scar Yuugi showed him had a name attached, almost all of them below the elbows, as though collected there for easy reference. Seto frowned as Yuugi's fingers flew over this map of friendships and family, their routes landmarked by midnight breakfasts, lazy brunches, beautifully-wrapped bento boxes. Something about it tasted sour to him, his tongue held tight and bitten between his teeth. All of his own scars had only one name.

“You probably think I’m a klutz,” Yuugi said, with a sheepish smile, sliding one of the wooden tokens into place around their hive. 

“I told you to stop doing that,” Seto said briskly. “I’m not some dumpster for all your insecurities. You think you’re a klutz. You have no idea what I think.”

“I - ” Yuugi started, and huffed, with another smile, his chosen defense against causing offense. “Sorry, force of habit - ”

“Forget it. You don’t ever cook for yourself?”

“Duh. Of course I do. And I eat what I make with everyone else. It’s not like I make a pizza for all my friends and just sit there watching them while they eat it,” Yuugi said. “But I like cooking for people. I love... nourishing them. Knowing they’re not going to go to bed hungry or anything, and I can make something for them that makes them feel good.”

Seto tapped a wooden token on the table, under the guise of thinking about the game but really thinking about the kind of friends Yuugi made, and how he made them. Jounouchi. Honda. Atem. Himself.

“Did you ever cook for Atem?” he said, because he couldn’t help it, and braced against the soft look that came his way, with a default smile, a pre-emptive look, I'm fine. this didn’t hurt me smile.

“Yeah,” Yuugi said. “I did.”

Like what? Did he like it? Did he help cook or did he just watch? Just the two of you or with everyone else? Tell me. What did you nourish him with? What do you think he’s eating now? I ate pomegranates when I was there. Bread and honey and figs and garlic and beer. Nothing I ate makes me spend six months with the living and six months with the dead so instead I trade off day and night. Sometimes I leave for a few minutes, mid-afternoon, and I can hear my own name clattering through me as Mokuba calls me back. Seto kept all these comments to himself. There was only so greedy he could get with Yuugi’s grief; only so much he could share of his own.

He slid his wooden token into place around the honeycomb of pieces. Yuugi swiftly countered. Seto lapsed back into thought.

Yuugi took a quiet slurp of his iced tea, gave it a shake, rattling the ice until it settled, and took another, watching ducks paddle into the reeds at the edge of the pond and paddle out, a portrait of calm patience. It had taken him some time to get comfortable with Seto’s long silences. In concession, Seto made the effort to shorten them.

It was the kind of day where stepping into the shade made a difference. The air was darker and cooler under the trees and the flowering bushes that lined the park paths, while the rest of the earth baked in a cloudless dry heat. Seto made his move and pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows.

“How about I cook for you sometime?” Yuugi said brightly, nudging another wooden token against the others with a single fingertip. 

Seto scowled, not at the suggestion but at the way his thoughts splintered apart, like two halves of a wooden log split by an axe. He had no doubt Yuugi would pull out the stops for him, slave and sweat for hours over some seventeen-course feast of modern art finger foods. Or maybe something cozy that made him feel like he was just nineteen instead of nineteen and exhausted. Whatever it was, Yuugi would put in the effort. But.

“No,” he said, and made sure to clarify this refusal before the clouds finished gathering over Yuugi’s face in a dejected overcast grey: “I don’t need one of your scars named after me.”

“I - what?” Yuugi said, flashing him an uneven, sideways smile, and Seto felt a flicker of irritation. Atem would’ve understood immediately. But, in fairness to Yuugi, he was being a little obtuse.

“You have a way of suffering for your friends,” he explained. “And I think part of you likes it.”

Yuugi straightened up in his seat, suddenly electric. 

“What the hell? It’s just cooking,” he said, with a stormy flash of lightning in his violet eyes. “You’re reading into this way too much. I cook because it’s fun and artistic and I like feeding people, not because I like… self-flagellating or something. Seriously, you can’t just spout off - ”

“You misunderstand me,” Seto countered. “There’s no reason to… hurt yourself on my behalf. If you want to eat together, I’d rather go to that kitschy little ice cream place down the block and get a fucking waffle cone. I don’t want you unable to duel because you burned your hand trying to pan-fry a steak for me.”

Yuugi opened his mouth, brows furrowing together… and scoffed, a surprisingly affectionate sound.  He rolled his eyes around the park, his gaze swinging across the sunlit grass, and looked back at Seto. 

“Okay. First of all, I've mastered the art of the pan-fried steak, and you should try it,” he said. “Second of all, what makes you think you’re not someone worth suffering for?”

Seto snorted, masking his inwards flinch. Mokuba already suffered enough, thank you. And for what? A ghost of a brother. A black hole, a perpetual collapsing. Things went in and they crossed the event horizon and the pressure squeezed them for eternity without ever letting them reach the center and nothing ever came back out, as much as it wanted to. The scientific term for such distortion of effort, stretched to an immeasurable length without breaking, was spaghettification. Even a black hole needs to eat! 

He slid one of his tokens back and forth with his fingertip, short, scraping jerks of wood against wood, thinking. 

“Direct attack on my life points,” he muttered.

“Yeah, you also got me pretty good,” Yuugi chuffed. “Let’s call it even. But relax. It’s just cooking. I love the process, and I love the result, and I love doing stuff for my friends. It’s not some big… metaphorical… symbol of something. This - " he lifted his mittened hand - "doesn't mean anything except I mishandled a knife. It’s not like… you and Duel Disks.”

But Seto also loved the process and the result and more than once he'd injured himself, machining parts or fiddling with wires that, like all wild living things, bit back in fear of his touch. He splayed his hand over the table, watching blood drip onto his work station, knowing he should get up, clean it, bandage it. But it was only two in the morning and there was work to do.

“The Duel Disk is a symbol of Kaiba Corp’s future,” he said, closing his hand into a fist. "I know what you've done for your friends. I’ve seen it. Doesn't that merit the same... mythology?"

Yuugi gave him a funny look, half skeptical, half knowing.

"That’s nice of you, thank you," he said, and an uncomfortable blush crawled up Seto’s neck. Sometimes he did understand. “Are you sure you don't want me to cook for you?”

Seto opened his mouth, closed it, folded his arms on the table. He felt like he was trying to explain the feeling of the color blue, or the arguments for why numbers do or don’t exist, or what it was like to dream. Well, you see, the last time I saw Atem, he told me - correction: the last time as in the most recent link in a chain of time, not the last time as in the end of the line, because he also told me we’d see each other again - he told me to enjoy this, and you know me, I never do what I’m told. And I can’t do what he told me to do because he was my friend, and if friendship is just getting caught in a great sticky web of small cuts and large cuts and burns and bruises and tears and suffering because they’re here and suffering because they’re not, then just go ahead and let the spider drink me up and dump what’s left of me in the dirt. I am so sick and tired of pain. Mine. Yours. Ours.

But he did enjoy these afternoons. He was enjoying the process of making this: he had more with Yuugi now than he ever had before. He reached across the table and took Yuugi’s bandaged hand between his own hands, running his thumb carefully over the inked warning. Yuugi's hand relaxed in his. Yes, Yuugi was wrong. It was the same as Duel Disks. In any act of creation there was pain, there was power, and there was glory. What difference was there between a hologram of a dragon and a steaming bowl of soup? Both nourished something. Both were an answer to hunger. Discovering an emptiness and filling it.

“Okay,” he said, releasing Yuugi’s hand. “Alright. Cook for me.”

“Yeah?!” Yuugi said, with rising excitement, beaming. “What should I make? What do you like?”

“Make me a steak,” Seto said, smiling. It felt good to see Yuugi smile. His hypothesis neatly undermined. See? It’s not all damage. “No. Surprise me.”

[lala-ladybug]

Healing Hands: Chapter 7

Little bit of a filler, but we’ve got some fun shenanigans in store! >:)

Jasonette Sword Art Online AU

Read here on AO3

Chapter 7: Guys bein’ dudes indeed

Tag list: @iloontjeboontje

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Marinette was up early again. She found herself some breakfast, then went to the stables. The Order had made it back late last night, so they didn’t have time to groom the horses. She entered the first stall and started to brush the first horse. The routine motion let her mind drift, and she thought back to the events of the past few weeks.

Marinette, Kagami, and Luka embarked on their daily ritual of collecting the morning paper from town. It was the day after they’d beaten the first boss, which they had reported anonymously. Marinette and Adrien had agreed that taking the credit would only serve to draw unwanted attention towards their group, which could put them and the rest of their friends in danger.

But it apparently had another unforeseen advantage. As Marinette paid for the newspaper that highlighted their victory, she heard comments from other players around her.

“Are you serious? Some party went rogue and beat the first dungeon on their own?”

“Selfish assholes, can’t believe they got all that loot to themselves.”

“Well I think it’s good that we’re making progress!”

“Yeah, if you ignore the fact that they didn’t tell us what it was like at all, so now we haven’t got a clue how to face the next one.”

She shook her head in disbelief and glanced at her companions, who looked similarly concerned. They hadn’t even considered that the other people might not want them to take up the battle alone. Or that last comment, that they were actually hurting the other players by not giving them the chance to fight too.

The three remained quiet until they returned to Chloe’s house, or the manor, as they’d taken to calling it. By then, Adrien and Chloe were awake, and followed without question as Marinette ushered the two to join her, Kagami, and Luka out by the well.

She told them what the people in town had said, Luka and Kagami jumping in with additional comments they’d heard from passersby, and they talked it over. Maybe it was worth fighting with other groups. It would certainly beat the first boss.

They decided to try working with others for the next dungeon, but to lead the battle so that the civilians would stay as safe as possible. There were already groups in town recruiting for it and people exploring the second level, so it couldn’t be too long before they found the next fight. They’d be ready this time, they thought.

Less than two weeks passed before they were ready to take on the second dungeon. The Order had spent the whole time training and leveling up. There was hardly a moment where they weren’t fighting monsters or sparring with each other. They became almost more adept with their new weapons than they were with their ones from the real world. Those days of miraculous encounters seemed a lifetime ago.

The Order made preparations with other groups of players, determining strategy and planning to play to each others’ strengths. All the parties assembled at the dungeon and set up to fight the boss.

All things considered, it could have gone much worse. The support teams kept all the fighters’ HP high, and they had whatever cover they needed whenever they needed it. The battle was significantly shorter with around forty players there. But when the other players got hit....

Marinette could still hear the screams of the civilians as they went down. The blood oozing from their wounds was so very lifelike, and there was no cure to sew them shut. Or bring them back if they fell.

Kagami and Adrien were focused on taking what would have been killing blows if the boss had struck anyone but them. Chloe and Marinette drew fire away from the other players, and Luka used his mace and shield to defend his fellow healers. But Marinette saw the pained look on his face at being separated from the rest. She relived the moment Kagami and Adrien went down while fighting the first boss in frequent nightmares, and she knew Luka did too. The two of them had shared a few too many late-night cups of tea while avoiding sleep.

They won the battle, but there were so many wounded, so many close calls. One look at her Order and she knew they felt as lost as she did. Was it worth it? The thought seemed to echo through each of their movements as they returned to the manor.

“Marinette?” Alya’s call shook her out of her daze. She looked down at her hands and saw that she’d finished brushing the last of the horses. Putting the brush away, she returned to the main space in the downstairs of their home.

Home. She supposed that’s what it was now, but it didn’t feel like it. The design of it was very cozy, there was no doubt about that. But she saw it as little more than a place to eat and sleep. There were far more important things she could be doing, sitting down to relax was out of the question.

“There you are,” Alya grinned from the kitchen. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in days!” She carried a simple charcuterie board into the living/dining area and placed it on the table. Nino, Adrien, Lila, Alix, Nathaniel, and Luka were already sitting in the various couches and chairs gathered around it.

“We were just about to have a snack and play some cards,” Alya said over her shoulder as she used a poker to encourage a small fire in the hearth. “You should join us, girl!”

Marinette’s gut response was to refuse, and she waved her hands and made excuses but Luka and Adrien got up and marched her over to sit next to them. “C’mon Buginette, you need this,” Adrien said quietly in her ear. Luka just gave her a meaningful look.

Over-protective mother hens.

She sighed and gave in. One afternoon of cards couldn’t hurt.

Nathaniel was on her other side. While Alya dealt out the cards, Marinette asked him, “How’s the garden coming along?”

His face lit up with a quiet joy. “It’s going great! I don’t know if the weather is going to change, but the onions are taking nicely!” She listened with a small smile on her face as he went on about the different crops he was planting in the garden. He’d really stepped up to grow the bulk of their food, and seemed to genuinely enjoy spending his days taking care of the plants.

She was glad that he could still talk freely to her, even in the game. They’d always been close and it was nice to see his artistic spirit was unbothered by... everything.

Adrien nudged her to play her turn, and she did so quickly. Across from her, Alix and Nino were laughing at something Lila had said, and Alya sat up proudly with a comment that made them laugh even harder.

On Adrien’s other side, Luka had his hands of cards facedown on his lap while he strummed a lute he’d bought the other day. The pleasant melody lifted her spirits and reminded her of happier times.

This is what she was fighting for, she realized. For Nathaniel to take pride in his art, for her dear friends to laugh, and for Luka to play his music. She blinked away the tears that rose in her eyes. This is what was worth fighting for.

Even if she couldn’t bring herself to sew, to create like she used to love doing. Here she just had to be Marinette the friend or Marinette the fighter. It was almost easier, having less to manage. And yet... she couldn’t feel that same joy for herself that she found so precious to her friends. Not until they were all home again. She couldn’t let herself.

* * *

Jason trudged into the base, pack digging into his shoulder with all the loot he’d recovered. He’d spent the past few days camping and level-grinding, which was apparently the correct term for it. He couldn’t even remember what Dick had said to set him off, but he needed to be on his own for a while. The woods were surprisingly peaceful, and he found the time spent by himself in nature to be refreshing.

“Hey.” Dick sounded pissed. The hell was his problem? Jason wasn’t even back long enough to do anything. Jason turned on his heel and raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Dick thrust a newspaper into his hands in response. He folded his arms, clearly expecting Jason to read it right then and there. Jason sighed loudly and slung his pack off. He turned his attention to the paper in his hand.

“Coalition of over forty players defeats second dungeon,” he read aloud. Shit.

“Just thought you should know,” Dick said in his I told you so voice. “When you went on your little adventure, you missed the next boss fight.”

Oh, now he remembered why he left! Because his “brother” is an asshole. “My little adventure was to get experience and level up,” he glared at Dick. “Which is still doing something more productive than just sitting on my fuckin’ hands.”

Dick’s nostrils flared. Good, he was itching for this conversation. “We are not doing nothing. We need more time to practice with the gameplay. Hell, Gar still tries to shift when we spar!” He threw up his hands in frustration. “We’re nowhere near ready yet, Jay.”

“You know, there’s more to this game than fuckin’ sparring.” Jason retorted.

Dicks brows shot up. “Oh, that’s rich coming from the guy who so desperately wants to get back to our lives that he runs off on his own.”

“I can’t stand being cooped up in this damn house all the time! Just because we’re stuck in this game doesn’t mean we have to stop living,” Jason shook his head. “We’ve already been in here for over a month, who’s to say how much longer it’ll be? We can’t just put our fuckin’ lives on hold the whole time.”

“Training to beat the game isn’t putting our lives on hold,” Dick rolled his eyes. “This place is a death trap in case you forgot. We need to train to get our lives back.”

This idiot just didn’t get it. “Oh sure, and in the meantime we can’t have any happiness or fun. Sounds pretty miserable to me.” He picked up his pack. “You can level up without training at all hours of the fuckin’ day, no matter what a certain black-haired, blue-eyed bastard says.”

Jason stormed out the door, bumping into Garfield on his way back outside. The kid stumbled backwards before pointing finger guns at him. “Nice alliteration!”

He ignored him and kept walking down the path that led into town.

“Hey, hey wait a minute!” Seriously kid? He heard that argument with Dick but still couldn’t take the fuckin’ hint.

Garfield caught up to him and said, “You know, for someone who was supposed to have a relaxing vacation, you sure look tense.”

“Fuckin’ excuse me?” Jason growled.

“Wh-what I mean is you’re probably looking for a way to burn off some steam!”

This was getting old. “Get to the point, kid.”

“On the third level, there’s a quest we can do to make our own guild!” Garfield bounced excitedly, keeping pace next to him. Well, a quest would certainly help get this new brotherly stress out of his system. “We want you to join us, pleeeeaaaase?”

“Hold up, who the hell is us?”

Garfield grinned at him. “Oh you know, just a couple of the guys.”

They’d reached a junction in the path that led to the main road. Waiting beneath the tree beside the signpost were Roy, Jaime, and Bart. The ex-speedster waved excitedly while Roy looked about as pleased to be here as Jason did. They got along swimmingly.

“Hey dudes, everyone cool if Jason joins us?” Garfield reached out to pat his back then hesitated as he thought better of it.

Jaime shrugged while Bart gave an enthusiastic thumbs up. Roy gave him a pitying look, like he’d been dragged into it too.

“Fine.” Jason muttered to no one in particular. “Are we heading out now?”

The other four got their things together. Jaime sent out party invites to everyone to better keep track of each other, which Roy and Jason reluctantly accepted. Garfield pulled up a pamphlet and started leafing through it. Jason spied the title, The Good Adventurer’s Guide to Guilds. Lovely.

“Alright,” Garfield snapped the papers shut and started walking down the path into town. “Let’s go to level three and get this bread!”

Roy narrowed his eyes. “The quest is to retrieve some bread?” He asked incredulously.

“Well, no but yes! But no. Man, we gotta teach you slang,” Bart slung an arm around Roy’s shoulders. The latter pushed him off and Jaime sped up his pace to plant himself as a buffer in between them as they walked.

Dumbasses.

The walk into town was easy, and they used the teleportation kiosk in the town square to get to the third level without a hitch.

The third level had some more interesting terrain than the plains of the first and second levels. Cliffs and quarries dotted the landscape in front of them. The main town itself was built onto a cliff, a gaping valley splayed out before them with minute details.

“Oh wow,” Garfield said. “This reminds me of that one town in France where--”

“Don’t care. Let’s move.” Roy cut him off and stalked down the winding road that would take them down into the valley. Jason smirked and followed suit.

Garfield made a face, then followed them along with the others. He pulled out his pamphlet again, then pointed them in the direction of the quest. Some quarry worker NPC wanted help collecting materials. If they got him everything on his list, he would apparently grant them the rights to start a guild? It made less and less sense as Gar read aloud from the paper.

They trekked on for a few hours, easily hacking apart the common monsters they came across. Between Jason and Roy, the others hardly had time to draw their weapons before the threats were gone.

“What’s better than this?” Garfield put an arm around Jason and Bart’s shoulders. Jaime grinned and put his arms around Bart and Roy. “Guys bein’ dudes!” He finished.

Roy, Bart, and Jason exchanged mystified glances. Roy and Jason had been out of the loop for roughly the same period of time, and Bart had told them before that not much of contemporary pop culture had survived into his future.

Guys bein’ dudes indeed.

Between the five of them, gathering the listed materials and getting them to the worker by sundown was easy. Well, it was easy for most of them.

“You look like a mess, ese!” Jaime exclaimed, seeing a very sticky and scratched-up Garfield. He groaned and replied, “Had to get tree sap. Trees fought back....”

Well, that served the little shrimp right, Jason thought to himself. He and Roy had been collecting gemstones, which could be mined out from the caves littered throughout the floor... or the infinitely more fun way of killing giant gemstone monsters. Take a wild fuckin’ guess which one they chose.

Jason was actually pretty content with the levels he’d gained from the quest. Not to mention getting his excess anger out from talking to Dick. It seemed like whenever he went to the house, there was always some type of disagreement between the two.

Damn. Maybe he should start saving for his own house.

His party currently stood in line at the guild registration office, also located on the third level. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the valley, highlighting the small clusters of houses dotting the countryside.

“Oh crap,” Garfield suddenly said. He danced nervously on his feet. “We did the whole quest, but I forgot the most important thing!”

Roy looked at him sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“We need a name for our guild!” Garfield wailed, clutching his hands to his head.

Seriously? Roy scoffed, “Why not just Justice League?”

Jaime rounded on him. “Are you nuts, ese? We can’t go around calling ourselves the Justice League. Secret identities and all that.”

Garfield paced in line, clearly thinking hard. “Hmm, justice. Juuuuustice. Just-ice. Just ice! Hey, we could do something with that!” He exclaimed.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah that’s great,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “How about On the Rocks.”

Bart put a hand on his chin, looking thoughtful. “Well, we should add a little pizzazz to it, don’t you think?”

“I’ve got it! Rocky Road!” Garfield threw his hands in the air triumphantly. God this kid was excessive.

Jaime and Bart, after the former had explained it to him, voiced their approval. Roy and Jason looked at each other and silently commiserated over their unfortunate situation.

Rocky Road it was.

* * *

“Ugh, that was way harder than it needed to be.” Alya slumped over her battle axe.

Marinette giggled and offered her friend some water. “Well, a ton of other people are starting guilds too! So I guess there are limited resources for a while.”

Nino took the water from Alya after she’d finished with it. He drained it and looked heartbroken until Adrien handed him a new bottle.

The four of them had decided to team up and do the quest to establish a guild. Not everyone in the guild needed to attend the quest to establish one. So when Alya and Nino had approached Marinette and Adrien, asking if the original friend group could be the ones to do it, they couldn’t say no.

“Well, I just wish Marinette had told us about the quest sooner. Then we could have had an easier time!” Lila simpered, sweet as ever. Oh yeah, Lila had invited herself to come along too.

“Weren’t you also a beta tester?” Adrien frowned innocently.

Lila blinked, looking startled. “Oh yes! But you know about my memory issues. I really wish I could remember all these things to help us out,” she sighed dramatically. Typical.

“So!” Marinette decided to move that conversation right along. “We need a name for our guild. Got any ideas?”

Nino rubbed his arm. “Actually dudes, I’ve been thinking of a name for a while.”

“Oh? Let’s hear it!” Adrien smiled and nudged his best friend’s arm.

“Well, I was thinking we could be called Miracle Workers,” Nino began. Marinette traded a look of alarm with Adrien. “You know, because Alya and I used to be miraculous holders? And I thought it’d be kinda nice to honor Chat Noir, Ladybug, and the other heroes. We could use some of their strength right about now.” Oh, that was actually really sweet of him. Marinette offered Adrien a soft smile.

Alya looked at him fondly. Adrien, with a slight nod of approval from Marinette, gave him a side hug and said, “I think that’s a wonderful name.”

Lila tapped her chin. “I don’t know, workers seems a little odd to me. We’re more like leaders or executives.”

“Well, I think Miracle Workers is perfect, babe.” Alya leaned in to peck Nino on the cheek. “Let’s go with that.”

First | Previous | Next

[mae-gi-writes]

The Fine Line | Juyeon (The Boyz Imagine)

Requested! Prince Juyeon! au x Royal Guard! Reader. 

In which you’re stuck with the most disorderly prince of Nuine, Juyeon. 

To anon: this fic took me so long to write and I am so sorry for being so late. BUT i hope that you like the end result and that I made your idea justice! Please do let me know :) <3 Stay safe and stay healthy <3 xx Thanks so much for requesting! 

Genre: fluff, crack-ish? Just all the good stuff. 

---------

"Your Highness ,no."

"Come on Y/N, don't you want to try a teeny tiny piece?"

"I said no."

"Ah come on! It's just a bite!"

"No."

Juyeon finally threw both hands in the air with exaggerated exasperation, "you're really no fun."

"I'm not on duty to have fun, if I might remind you," Y/N snapped, barely keeping hold of her neutral facade when the prince kept acting in such a foolish manner, definitely not like how royalty should behave and yet, the king had stuck her with their youngest son, Juyeon, who knew nothing of royal pride nor did he care about where his family came from.

That wasn't what unnerved her though. What did was the fact that Juyeon thought he was free to do as he pleased, whenever he pleased, and it didn't matter whether he was prince or not. That, in itself, was a motto than did not run smoothly in Y/N's mind.

She was a proud soldier, one that had climbed through the ranks at lightning speed because of her amazing dexterity and talent in wielding weapons as though they were water and she was mother nature.

But she hadn't signed up for this, a.k.a babysitting the most irresponsible royal family member of Nuine.

Except -- she kinda liked him.

And not just as a friend, or a mere man. 

She really liked him, and that only fuelled her hatred. Why would she like such an incompetent man in the first place? It must be the hormones! At least, that was what she had come to the conclusion, before realizing that there was much more to this little crush than she thought there was.

Juyeon sat on the ground of the royal garden, legs crossed as he observed her with alert eyes, "do you ever smile?"

Y/N didn't bother answering him. Though she had a huge urge to just roll her eyes.

"I don't get it. You were so happy and nice when we were young," his orbs were calculating, deep with thought as he surveyed her as though she was a book he couldn't quite decipher, "what happened to you?"

"Life happened. Not everyone gets to spend their days doing nothing like you."

The heat of his gaze did nothing to help, and she found strength in her feet to stop herself from squirming.

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his crossed knees, the prince tilted his head in curiosity, no trace of offence whatsoever on his face despite her harsh reply.

"What?" She barked.

“Did I do something to you?” 

“Huh?” 

Juyeon tilted his head to the other side, “what did I do for you to be so pissed that you have this permanent grudge against me?” 

“I don’t have a grudge,” she huffed. 

“Okay so, why then?” 

"Just because, Juyeon. Not everything I do needs to have a reason.” 

He puffed up his cheeks like a blowfish, “Jeez, you’re really mean Y/N. I just wanted to be friendly, make conversation you know?” 

It might have been true that during their childhood, Y/N and Juyeon had been very close, practically attached at the hip even. Because of her father being appointed head of the Royal Guards serving the Majesty of Nuine, Y/N was always around roaming the halls and lifting weapons much too heavy for her spaghetti arms. But her interest had been there since her young age, her passion for fighting and the natural talent that came with weapon wielding a skill that her family had recognized very early on. 

So it was no surprise that she got enrolled in the nearest soldier academy despite her mother’s protests, following right into her father’s footsteps and gladly acing all midterm tests with flying colours. 

Everything changed one dark night, when her father died.

After that, Y/N had never really been the same. Did she blame the Royal Family for his death? Not really, it was in their job description after all.

But did she resent Juyeon for having lived a sheltered life all his life? Maybe so. 

It was selfish of her. Though, it wasn’t like she could control herself. 

A few days later found the pair in the middle of Nuine's street food market, with Juyeon craning his neck in curiosity over the multitudes of heads inclined towards a stall in particular.

Y/N tugged on his shirt sleeve, "your majesty, I think we should go."

"Oh but wait, this is the best part," Juyeon insisted without peeling his eyes away from the said cook behind the stall. As if on cue, the cook flipped what seemed to be an omelette pancake in the air.

The crowd gasped as the pancake flipped twice on itself, before landing securely on an already-prepared plate.

"Wow!" People burst into applause almost immediately while the chef bowed and extended the pancake to his most recent order.

"Alright," Y/N was already turning, one hand gripping Juyeon's arm in warning, "we've seen enough--"

She was tugged back instead as the prince moved forward until he reached the front of the stall, a crooked grin dancing across his lips as he peered at the cook from underneath his cloak.

"Can I have an omelette please?" Juyeon asked while ignoring the dagger eyes coming from Y/N's direction.

"Tomatoes? Olives? Onions? Ham?" As the cook listed all his ingredients, Juyeon merely nodded along and Y/N let out a trepid sigh. Her foot started tapping on the ground, impatient.

"Juyeon, you know what your mother said about--"

"Oh it's fine, Y/N. Live a little."

"But--"

"If anything happens -- and it won't," he hurriedly added as she opened her mouth to protest, "then I'll take full responsibility."

"And I will lose my job," she couldn't help but mutter under her breath.

------

And of course, considering Juyeon's luck, something was bound to happen.

It was only mid-afternoon -- a few hours after they had returned to the Kingdom, that the prince doubled over due to a stomach ache, coiling so bad that sweat broke over his forehead and his mouth was a tense, thin line of pain.

"I told you so," Y/N tutted while helping him maneuver his way into the bathroom, head practically buried into her neck as he groaned in pain.

"Y/N really? Right now?" he all but groaned against her.

She was about to find a snarky comeback, only for the prince to lurch himself straight at the toilet bowl. Disgusting noises echoed through the room and Y/N turned away from the scene briefly, her own stomach twisting into tight knots. 

Y/N was strong, yes. But have someone throw up in front of her? Even smelling that? No way. She could live without that.

When he was done heaving twice more, now sprawled across the toilet bowl as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded, Y/N crossed her arms over her chest as she judged him with a smug look. 

“See, this would never have happened if you had only listened--” 

Juyeon held up a hand, silencing her, “not now, please.” 

He really did look awful. His usually tan skin was the colour of chalk, fingers holding so tightly over the toilet lid that his knuckles flushed white. As he tried lifting himself from his position, his knees buckled and he would’ve face planted on the ground if not for Y/N’s arms quickly holding him up against her. 

Silently, she moved him back to his bedroom before tucking him underneath his covers, all the while avoiding his gaze that seemed to poke through her countenance with an emotion she couldn’t quite explain.

And then, came the tiniest murmur, “sorry.” 

Y/N paused for a moment. Her eyes fluttered to his face. 

Juyeon gazed back, hooded eyes seemingly genuine to apologize, “I mean it. I’m sorry.” 

She quickly swallowed, “it’s fine.” 

There was a soft pause in which Juyeon’s heavy breaths filled the air. It was suddenly warm in his room, maybe because the thick curtains were now drawn against the slow-setting sunset off the coast of Nuine’s edge, the light a vibrant golden slithering through the wine-coloured drapes. Feeling suddenly vulnerable and out of place, Y/N stood up from her crouching position at his side, causing the man’s eyes to flutter up at her movement. 

“Where are you going?” He asked as she made to move towards the door. When she glanced back, she couldn’t help but notice the confusion on his face as he blinked up at her like an over-sized man child. 

“I thought you’d like to rest, your Highness,” she replied stiffly. 

Another pause. 

Then, in the smallest voice possible, Juyeon mumbled out: 

“Could you--stay? With me?” 

She blinked, “stay? With--” 

And then the words made sense in her head. 

“Uh--” her cheeks coloured instantly at the thought of being so close to a man. Or maybe it was because it was Juyeon, or it was the heat! Right! Totally made sense that it was the heat. Her mouth moved before her brain did: “Sure.” 

What in the name of Nuine are you doing? Her brain screamed at her the moment she sat herself down on the bed’s edge, Juyeon’s body instantly curling up against hers with his head resting upon her lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 “Uhm--” Y/N’s brain blanked out at the warmth of Juyeon’s head against her thigh, “what are you doing?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” as he spoke, his breath washed against her legs and goosebumps suddenly erupted along the skin there. She shifted uneasily, trying to force herself to stay still despite the fact that there was a full grown man lying down on her like a cat in need of affection.

“Can you pet me?”

His question threw her off guard. She blinked down at him, at the way his eyelashes were casting dark shadows over his cheeks, “What?” 

“My mom used to pet me whenever I was sick,” he murmured, one of his hands grabbing her own before placing it atop his own tuft of hair, “it used to calm me down, make me go sleep.”

“I’m your guard, Juyeon. Not your personal maid.” 

He let out a long sigh, then dropped her hand, “Fine then.” 

The silence that followed felt so thick and coated with an awkward kind of tension that she knew, without reading Juyeon’s expression, that he was currently mad at her. Trust him to be a little brat about it. Usually, Y/N wouldn’t even spare him a second glance. That kind of behaviour was one of a five year old child, one that she wasn’t going to tolerate.

But maybe it was the fact that he was being so dependent, maybe it was the closeness of their two physical bodies and the lack of distance between them. In any case, her heart melted slightly when she felt him shift in her lap and before she knew it, her hand had moved on its own to caress down the side of his skull.

The sight that left Juyeon’s mouth was laden with such satisfaction that it sent shivers running up her spine. He proceeded to nuzzle his nose right into her thighs, causing her to yelp slightly. 

His head snapped up, “what?” 

She recovered quickly though, snapping, “I want to make myself clear, Juyeon. I am not, and will not be, some kind of mistress that you bring to your quarters whenever you feel like it. I’m your Royal Guard.” 

“Jesus Y/N,” the prince turned so that he was facing upwards, gaze landing right onto hers without flinching, “Is that the image you have of me? That I take advantage of everything that moves?”

Suddenly embarrassed, she cleared her throat, “That’s not what I said. I just wanted to let you know.” 

“I know you’re not.” 

“Okay good. Just so that I make myself clear on where I stand.” 

“I wish you didn’t though,” his murmur was a low one, but still one that reached her ears and prompted her to ask, “What do you mean by that?”

Her question was only met with stubborn silence, which made sense, as she might see how Juyeon might have taken this as an offensive use of words. But she’d never been one to beat around the bush and had always been passive aggressive whenever Juyeon was concerned.

Once, she thought that she actually liked him.

And maybe she had. But instead of falling straight into that pool of romantic feeling, Y/N had just brushed it aside, already deciding for herself that it was never going to happen and that she shouldn’t keep her hopes up.

That was, in part, why she was used to being so cold and distant.

It was the only way she could protect herself, make the prince hate her.

She was about to let it go and change the subject, when his words pierced through the air like needles, “what is it about me that you can’t stand?” 

Her hand froze in mid-stroke, still entangled in his dark locks. 

His gaze was so intense she felt him burn holes through her skull.

Y/N cleared her throat. Looked away. 

“I--I don’t hate you,” she finally managed to whisper.

“I know you don’t,” Juyeon’s dark eyes were still surveying her every movement, “but can you be honest with me? What is it with me that you can’t stand? It’s almost like--I don’t know. You don’t even look at me when we talk. You barely acknowledge me sometimes, and you never try. With my brothers it’s like--it’s like you’re this completely different person. You talk to them, you laugh. Why don’t we have that? What did I do Y/N?” 

“You did nothing.” 

“If I did nothing, then why aren’t you looking at me?” 

It feels all too real suddenly; the heat radiating from Juyeon’s body, the intense emotion swimming through his dark brown swirls even though she couldn’t muster the courage to actually lock gazes with him, and the weight of his head on her lap as though they were blissfully in love and comfortable in each other’s presence. 

Her eyes quickly flitted to the golden descending rays dancing along the curtains, anything to keep her away from his probing stare, “I...” 

“What?” Juyeon pressed on, “tell me.” 

Pressing her lips into a thin line, she kept quiet. 

“Okay,” Juyeon sighed once more. Then without warning, he hoisted himself up before his face suddenly zoomed in on hers, so close that she couldn’t help but fall back against the headboard as he dipped his head down so that it was level with hers. 

Her heart speeding up, Y/N tried not to focus on the lack of distance between them. Though that was quite a hard feat, considering he was everywhere she looked.

Sitting there in Juyeon’s bed, with him trapping her from any sort of escape felt as though she was on the brink of a cliff being pressured to jump when she clearly had no intention to. But when she opened her mouth to protest, Juyeon’s eyes snapped up to hers in a way that told her words weren’t going to work, not anytime soon.

She swallowed thickly.

“It wouldn’t have bothered me if it was anyone else,” once he started, it was almost like the flow of words were suddenly too much for him to keep in. He kept on going, voice closing up with emotion, “but it’s you, Y/N. No matter how much I try not to think about it...I do. A lot. And I--I hate it, the way you don’t even seem to acknowledge my existence. I just--I just want to get along with you because I--” 

Before she knew what she was doing, one of her hands had shot out to yank his shirt, with him toppling over before she landed a kiss smack on his lips.

Juyeon stared, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, jaw slack in naked surprise. 

“Wh--What was that?” he stuttered, a red blushing mess that she would’ve made fun of, if she hadn’t been trying to stop herself from being just as red as he was.

“Look Juyeon, I might hold some feelings for you,” Y/N said it outright though her cheeks were flaming ablaze with heat, “but I just hated you so much, after my dad died. I--I couldn’t look at you without thinking of his death and I tried really hard to loathe your guts. But then...” she shook her head, bit down onto her bottom lip as she chewed on the words that were about to fall from her mouth, “but then, I just--couldn’t. Hate you, I mean.” 

“S-So you--you’re telling me that you-- that you might -- that--” he was gesturing so wildly she thought he might faint from shock. Breathing out softly and pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes shut for a moment, as if to regain his balance. Then, he opened them once more, “you like me. But you hate me.” 

“Tried to,” she corrected him.

“That--That doesn’t make any sense, Y/N.” 

“Yes it does! I liked you, then I hated you. And then I hated that I liked you because I just couldn’t hate you--”  His hands were suddenly at her hips, “Enough talk,” and no sooner had she tried figuring out what that meant that the young man was dragging her over to his lap before his mouth pressed down onto hers in a passionate kiss. 

Y/N tensed for a few seconds, before her body slowly melted in his embrace as his mouth moved slowly over her own, a sinuous dance of lower lip against her upper ones while his arms tightened their hold around her waist. She gasped softly at the feeling of his hard frame against her curves, causing the prince’s mouth to tilt up in a smirk as he progressed the intensity of his kisses. Mouth chasing her own with a hunger she had never been victim to, one of Juyeon’s hands didn’t hesitate to ghost up her arm, along the back of her neck, to mess up her tight ponytail so that her dark hair fell around her shoulders like a curtain. 

There was a soft throaty rumble that signalled his approval of this newfound hairstyle, before he slanted his lips even further by tilting his head. Kissed her deeper, with longer strokes and with his tongue slowly introducing itself into her mouth. It was almost like she was being consumed by his entire being, her breath being taken away every time she tried to as she drowned into Juyeon’s ocean of feelings that seemed to emanate in the form of every kiss, every touch, every line of his body that aligned with hers and set fire to her skin.

Only when her back met with the soft foam of the mattress that realization trickled through her mind like icy water. Unlatching their lips with a soft ‘pop’ and scrambling back against the headboard, she looked up, right into Juyeon’s hungry, predatory gaze, one that swam with full-fledged desire, a thirst that she had never seen on the young prince’s face before.

“Juyeon?” her whisper was breathless, and she felt like slapping herself for sounding so needy. 

“No,” he let out a soft growl, leaning over her body with his arms settling on either side of her head. HIs mouth started a slow, sensual path of kisses that trailed up her neck, leaving fireworks exploding behind her eyelids, “you’re not talking. You’re not telling me off, not now. Not tonight,” he nipped at a small patch of skin right under her jaw and the girl squirmed, desire rippling through her veins and shooting right down south. It didn’t help that every inch of his muscular frame was pressed against hers as though demanding her to beg for what he could give her.

“Please tell me you’re not playing around,” came Y/N’s soft spoken murmur. She hoped that he didn’t hear it. But it was Juyeon, and Juyeon heard everything that concerned him.

“I wouldn’t do this with anyone else, Y/N,” his eyes locked onto hers and she saw his gaze brimming with a vulnerability, a tenderness that shook her to her core and made her heart flip upside down, “you of all people should know that.” 

“So you like me?” she hated how squeaky her voice sounded. He only let out the softest of chuckles, before he leant down to peck her on the mouth, “yes. Yes Y/N. I kinda like you a whole damn lot.” 

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Help Wanted (chapter 3)

Huge thanks again to @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian who continue to be amazing beta readers!

Please consider leaving a comment on Ao3, it really helps

Chapters: 1, 2, 3

-----

Caduceus loved it when little kids would come into the Blooming Grove. It didn’t happen all that often, most of his customers were students from the academy or the nearby art school, coming in talking about their projects or dissertations, magic runes scrawled up their arms in biro and paint under their fingernails. But every so often, usually on sunny afternoons, parents would come in with strollers or tiny, pudgy hands held securely in their own, coming from the park or the fountain or the markets. The little ones would soon find themselves thoroughly spoiled, pressed with free cookies and cakes to go with their juice, the tall, nice man behind the counter always eager to listen to their nonsense and coo over whatever treasures they clutched. He kept a box of toys over in the corner for them to play with, picture books to read and there was always a napkin within reach when one was needed.

There were some skills you couldn’t shake, even if your siblings were miles away.

He was just helping a little drow toddler clean off some cookie crumbs before his mothers could notice when there was a yelp from behind the counter, accompanied by a loud hissing like some immense dragon.

“Caddy! Help! Emergency, Captain!”

“You don’t have to call me that!” Cad gave the little boy a pat on the head and went running over.

Fjord was being enveloped in bursts of steam that smelled like burnt coffee, belching from the ancient coffee brewer, coughing and waving his arms in an attempt to stave them off, “I told you, Caddy. Helga hates me.”

“She does not hate you,” Cad insisted, wading in and turning dials and pushing levers back up, slapping his palm against the sides in a particular rhythm.

Eventually it worked, the steam abating and the guttural hissing stuttering into silence. There was a final worrying rattle and a small tide of black, steaming, bitter sludge plopped from the dispenser into the waiting cup.

“Ew,” Cad’s ears flattened and his nose wrinkled, “Okay, maybe Helga does hate you. What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Fjord sounded indignant but clearly, like Cad, he was barely holding in laughter, “I tried to follow your instructions but I couldn’t remember them and I couldn’t find her manual…”

“She doesn’t have a manual, I bought her at a flea market,” Cad shook his head, slapping the immense bronze machine a few more times before nodding in a satisfied manner, “That should do it. What was the order?”

“Cinnamon coffee,” Fjord scratched at his jaw, still giving Helga a scandalised look.

“Right,” Cad moved to grab the right jars from the small, mismatched army of them that cluttered the bench, “Did you put the cinnamon in with the beans or did you add them separately?”

Fjord paused, eyes widening and jaw slackening in realisation, “Ah. The wrong one.”

Cad chuckled, nudging him lightly with a bony elbow, “Don’t worry. You’ll get it next time.”

For some reason, that seemed to make Fjord shrink a little, like he’d been expecting another step but his foot had found thin air instead. But only for a moment, then he was smiling again.

“Well, it’s my mess so I’m definitely cleaning Helga tonight.”

Cad let him have that, waving him back to work his usual magic with the customers so he could finish the drink. It had been a few months since he’d started working here and Fjord was clearly strongest when he was interacting with people, a relief seeing as conversation had never been Caduceus’ strong suit which he supposed came of growing up in the middle of the forest with only six other family members, talking to plants more than people.

In fact, Cad had learned a lot about Fjord, seeing him nearly every day, working elbow to elbow with him. He hummed while he worked. He didn’t like huge bits of onion in his food but if it was cut up small, he’d never notice. He’d gone to high school with Beau and Jester and become friends with Molly and Caleb and Veth through them. He’d been a sailor since he left school, speaking about the waves the same way Caduceus spoke about the forest. He always had a battered paperback in his bag, bought from a thrift store, even if there’d be no time in the day to read it. He woke up early and stayed up late, living on an amount of sleep that would have Cad wilting like a tulip in the heat. And he really needed a haircut but seemed in no hurry to get one.

Cad found himself filing away every new thing he learned, despite telling himself his crush had been a brief thing, just something silly his brain had spat up in amongst all the stress and change. Fjord was handsome, of course, but he was also becoming his friend on top of his employee which was way more important. He wasn’t going to put him in an awkward position by blushing like a teenager every time he opened his mouth. It wouldn’t be fair to him.

And besides, there was Avantika.

She was rarely in the cafe itself, which Caduceus couldn’t help but be grateful for, as selfish as he felt over it. Even so, her presence was felt almost every day, in the way Fjord would come in muttering under his breath, agitated and red faced, still reliving an argument he’d left behind. Or in the way he’d get calls sometimes that he would get anxious about taking, dropping whatever he was doing in the cafe to answer them coming back apologetic and shamefaced, with a tension in him that hadn’t been there before. Or the way clear up would run late- usually because the two of them were talking and laughing or Fjord was showing him a new song on the radio- and he’d sigh resignedly and head out for the bus stop rather than getting a lift from her. He never said anything directly about it but the pieces weren’t hard to put together. Fjord knew Cad would offer to drive him home and he also knew he wouldn’t be able to say no. And there would be something unacceptable about that, some rule broken by that action that he didn’t understand.

There seemed to be a lot of rules in Fjord’s...whatever he had with Avantika. One of them seemed to not be speaking about her at all, Cad had to base everything on what Fjord said with his muscles. He’d always been able to read that language better than anything, realising what people were trying not to say more than what they were actually saying. And he had learned shortly after that that people didn’t like it when you would state what it was out loud. He’d been working on that since coming to the city.

But no matter how many times he told himself it was none of his business one way or the other, that he needed to keep his broad, flat nose out of his new friend’s affairs, Caduceus did care. He did.

Fortunately, the rest of the Nein also cared and seemed determined to talk to him about it.

Beau and Caleb were in the cafe at the moment, as Caduceus tried to soothe Helga and get her back in working order by thumping his fist very carefully around her casing. They tended not to sit down when it was just the two of them, usually just on a pit stop in between class and a library session. They took different classes, of course, but they studied together which Cad found very strange, as they seemed to constantly bicker whenever they were within five meters of each other. Maybe they really didn’t know anyone else even remotely studious. Their significant others certainly wouldn’t qualify.

Fjord was taking orders, efficiently and smoothly, putting them together with barely a pause. He’d really been getting good at this, even in such a short space of time. Cad could see why he’d been so good on ships. Any task he was given, he threw himself into it fully until he’d mastered it and could move through it confidently. Cad barely ever had to show him something twice.

Thinking that he had this in hand- it was still an hour away from lunchtime, they were still in the ebb rather than the rush- Cad slipped over to Caleb and Beau, where they were leaning against the tall stools up against the counter, probably already arguing about something complicated to do with magic. Cad didn’t understand what there was for them to learn about magic for so many years. You just thought about it, asked nicely and it happened?

“Morning,” he rumbled congenially, setting their cups down in front of them. They came so often, he’d just started taking their own travel cups and filling them. Beau’s was scuffed and scratched from being shoved deep into her backpack with all her stuff, the logo of the Cobalt Soul still just about visible, clearly a freebie from her orientation nearly three years ago. Caleb’s was covered in cartoon kitty paw prints. Both were filled with black, incredibly strong study session grade coffee brew. Cad refused to sell them more than three cups a day, five cups a day during finals week.

“Hey, Cad,” Beau was bouncing on the balls of her feet, like she was shaking out all of her energy before having to stay still for an extended period of time.

“Good morning Caduceus,” Caleb had eyes only for his coffee, making grabby hands towards it before Cad had even passed it over.

“Only three, remember,” the firbolg warned him, not liking the look on his face, “I am keeping track.”

“I know,” Caleb said meekly, trying to look restrained and a little less like an addict, just taking one small sip before lowering the cup, as if to prove he could.

“Saw Fjord nearly send your coffee machine up in smoke,” Beau leaned a bandaged elbow on the counter, tipping her cup in the direction of the half orc, now chatting companionably with an elderly dragonborn woman as he put her granola bowl together.

“Easy mistake to make and no harm done,” Cad smiled in the same direction, just to himself, “He’s actually doing brilliantly. Starting to forget how I managed without him.”

Cad’s gaze was elsewhere, being much less subtle than he thought, so he missed the glance exchanged between Beau and Caleb.

“So, uh…” Beau leaned forward, bringing Cad’s eyes back her way, “You and Fjord, you get on well, huh?”

Cad was frowning over that, confused as to why she’d ask that when it was obvious, when they were both interrupted by a chime from Fjord’s apron pocket. The apron Cad had made him, done exactly to match his height, with waves stitched along the hem. He’d been delighted with it.

It went just as it always did. Fjord seemed to shrink in on himself a little, jaw tensing, teeth closing on his lower lip. He gave the woman her change quickly, eyes darting to Cad, gesturing apologetically and pointing at his pocket questioningly. Cad gave him a wave, there was no one else at the counter anyway.

Now Beau’s face was dark as thunder and even Caleb had a disapproving set to his jaw, like he’d swallowed something bitter other than his coffee.

“How many times a day does he get calls like that?” he asked, watching Fjord’s back disappear around the corner to the back room.

Cad shrugged, “A few. More some days than others. I’m not counting.” It wasn’t strictly a lie. He was trying not to count.

Beau muttered something into her cup that sounded unkind. When Caleb gave her a look she threw her hands in the air, nearly sloshing coffee on the wooden floor, “What? You know I’m right! She’s checking up on him like he’s a naughty kid!”

“I am aware,” Caleb sniffed, “And I don’t like it any more than you do. But we said we weren’t going to say that kind of stuff when he’s around.”

“Oh come on, he can’t hear us,” Beau rolled her eyes exaggeratedly.

Cad looked between the two of them anxiously, already feeling guilty but too curious to go and do something else, “So...you guys know about his girlfriend? Avantika?”

“Girlfriend is a strong word,” Caleb allowed, while Beau snorted derisively in the background, “More like...force of mutual destruction. Part time nemesis. Live in life ruiner.”

Caduceus wrinkled his nose, “Oh…”

“They’ve been like this since high school,” Beau’s lip curled, “They both got deep into this really dodgy patron, you know, how most people do at that age? Neither of them had a great childhood and it kind of just happens that way. Fjord started to have second thoughts once he became friends with us but she kept dragging him down into it. We all thought they were done when Fjord signed up with the Tide’s Breath, the ship he worked on? But now he’s home and they’ve just fallen right back into making each other miserable and making our lives shitty into the bargain!”

“That doesn’t sound...healthy…” Cad said slowly, taking his tail in his hands and wringing it anxiously.

“It’s not!” Beau slapped Caleb’s arm, “See! Cad gets it!”

“Ow! I’m on your side!” Caleb protested, rubbing his arm, “We all are!”

“You’re ridiculous, I barely touched you.”

Cad sucked in a breath, “People sometimes do things that don’t make sense because they don’t see that it’s hurting them. Or because something else is hurting them more and listening to someone else is easier. Even if what they’re telling you is bad.”

That got him an eerily twin set of concerned looks. Cad realised that maybe that should have been something he kept to himself, one of those things that made conversations awkward.

“We sort of get why he’s doing it,” Beau eventually said, slowly, “I mean, we’re basically Team Gone Through Bad Shit. Doesn’t mean we like it.”

“No one does,” Cad said quietly, eyes casting down to his tail, still clutched tight in his long fingers, “But saving people from themselves is difficult.”

“Hence why they’re still together,” Caleb murmured, “We know we can’t just go telling Fjord all of this without upsetting him and making things worse.” At that, he gave Beau a very significant look. She gave him the finger in return.

When Caleb ignored it, she sighed and hopped down from the stool, “We need to head out. Just...help us keep an eye on him?”

Cad glanced over. Fjord was back behind the counter, tapping his fingers restlessly on the wood, looking red faced and anxious. Clearly the conversation hadn’t been a pleasant one. Cad thought of all the times Fjord would look uncomfortable when he reassured him or instantly forgave an error or mistake. The way he’d get awkward about compliments, like he didn’t know how to hold them or where to put them. The way he needed to hold his overgrown hair back with a band but every day his tusks were freshly filed down, right to where it had to be painful, just so they wouldn’t be visible past his lip.

He couldn’t have a crush on him, it wouldn’t be fair. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t care about him. Far too late for that.

“Of course I will,” he said softly.

Caduceus was starting to enjoy closing up more than any other part of the day. Everything slowed down, there seemed to be more space to breathe and the whole evening stretched out in front of them, feeling like forever. And it would suddenly be just him and Fjord in the quiet, able to choose their favourite songs on the speakers and talk across the freshly wiped down tables and sing and joke.

It had started off tentative, back in the first few days. Neither of them were hugely eager to talk about the usual ice breaking questions like family, home, where they both were before now. Instead they’d talked in the present, about their interests. Cad had talked for hours about his rooftop beehive before realising he was rambling, except Fjord had still been listening intently, almost as if he didn’t care how much time had gone by. Fjord talked about how he was getting back into the battered old acoustic guitar he played, whatever book he was reading, whatever podcast he was listening to.

But, as it often went, talk about small things became talk about big things without really meaning to.

Tonight, Fjord was wiping down the tables and Cad was moving from plant to plant, watering contentedly. As he worked, the half orc was explaining some interesting historical magic experiments he’d been reading about in a book Caleb had lent him.

“...I used to think that kind of stuff was so interesting when I was younger. How people know what they know now, how all these big ideas became fact, y’know? Used to have all these daydreams about being at the academy and seeing the places all this big thinking happened…”

Cad looked over his shoulder, interested, “You want to apply to the academy?”

And then suddenly Fjord was tense, awkward, ducking his eyes to focus on the already clean mosaic table top, acting like he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

“I mean, I used to. When I was younger. A lot younger.”

Cad felt the urge to back off, the sensation that they were suddenly standing on some kind of line. But he couldn’t help but feel letting it go would be breaking the promise he’d made to Beau.

“You still could,” he said quietly, “They take students of all ages.”

Fjord still didn’t look up, “I, uh...I don’t think that’s the path for me anymore. I mean, when would I fit it in now? Not gonna be long before I’m back out on the ocean.”

Cad frowned delicately. He had mentioned that a few times, the fact that this was temporary, a stop gap until he found hire on another ship. But there was always something so rehearsed about the way he said it. Like he was copying someone else’s words.

“Paths can change,” Cad allowed after a pause, “But sometimes you can think that way but old loves come back, ones you thought you’d outgrown. And they’re stronger than ever.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience?” The attempt to change the subject was obvious but Cad let him have it. He wasn’t looking to make him uncomfortable.

He smiled softly, fingers gently brushing the almost silky leaves of his yucca plant, “My whole family worships Melora, the Wildmother. Have you heard of her?”

“I don’t think so,” the bridge of his nose scrunched up adorably when he was thinking.

“Not many people have,” Cad reassured him, “She’s mostly for the quiet places, where nature’s grown over the scars in the earth. Places like where I grew up...she was practically another family member growing up, you could feel her everywhere. She’s soft and gentle and kind and there’s nothing she can’t heal.”

Fjord’s expression softened, “She sounds nice.”

“She is,” Cad chuckled wryly, “And I was raised to be her cleric from the moment I was born.”

“Really?” Fjord’s eyebrows shot up and Caduceus could understand why, even as he cringed internally. He’d never mentioned having any kind of magic, he never used it around the cafe except in ways too small to notice. It was quite deliberate. Every time he reached for the well of power inside himself, the quiet place where he could smell damp moss and fresh grass and feel it under his feet no matter where he was, he’d feel a tug of homesickness. Even with the long conversations he’d had with the Wildmother, one sided conversations where he was answered by breezes and bird calls, even with his certainty that he had her support, his magic had a bitter taste to it these days.

“Really,” Cad murmured, hoping Fjord wouldn’t press the matter, “And there was a good few years where I resented the hell out of it.”

“Oh,” Fjord’s eyes widened.

Cad smiled coyly, “I had a full teenage tantrum. Pouting, breaking things, yelling. No one in my family yells… I made a complete fool of myself. It was a week out from my cleric initiation and suddenly I was tired of having all of my decisions made for me and wanted the world to know it.”

“How old were you?” Fjord grinned.

“Thirty five. Just a kid.”

“Oh…so what happened?”

“One night, I got it in my head that I was going to run away,” Cad turned back to his plant, practically petting it, “I packed a bag, climbed out of my window in the middle of the night...I told myself I was never coming back, without so much as a goodbye.”

Fjord had abandoned his table entirely, looking at Caduceus with his full attention, “Really?”

“Yep,” the memory of his own stupidity still made the fur on his neck stand up, “And I would have done it, if I hadn’t taken a wrong turn. I’d lived in those woods all my life and somehow I took a wrong turn, tell me how that happens without divine intervention. But all of a sudden, I wasn’t on the path anymore. I was in this beautiful clearing, waterfall gently bubbling...the place I was meant to take my initiation in a few hours, the very thing I was supposed to be running away from. And it occured to me that I’d been feeling all of this anger and sadness and confusion, it had been tearing me up inside for longer than I’d even realised...and I’d never talked to anyone about it. I couldn’t tell my family, not when they’d had this image of me as their perfect, devoted son. So...maybe I could tell her.”

“And you did?” Fjord sounded a million miles away, Cad lost in his own memory.

“I did. I talked until my voice ran out, until the sun came up. I told her everything and afterwards I felt so...so clean. People had been telling me all my life to follow the Wildmother and I had, because they’d told me to. That night was the night I decided to follow her because I chose to. I took my oath then and there.”

“Wow,” Fjord murmured, “I can’t imagine feeling that way about...anything, really.”

Cad was about to ask how come Fjord had his own patron then, before realising he’d have to explain how he knew that. And then realising he probably wouldn’t like the answer.

Instead he smiled, “It’s always waiting for you, Fjord. For all of us.”

That brought a laugh, the kind he only did when he wasn’t thinking because it would show his filed tusks, “That’s a nice idea, Caddy.”

He grinned back, moving to the next plant, caring for each of them as devotedly as he could manage, each one a growing, green prayer, “It is. Even nicer for being true...the Wildmother helped me realise I wasn’t happy at home, years after that night, when I was actually ready to make that decision. She brought me here, to this cafe and to the life I have now. She helped me not feel so lost. And there’s something out there that will help you feel the same, Fjord. Maybe it’s the academy. Maybe it’s your next ship.”

Maybe it’s here.

The words were on his lips without thinking, desperate to be spoken, straining to tumble into the air between them.

Caduceus swallowed them back. It wouldn’t be fair. And there was no guarantee that saying it would make it true.

“Thanks, Caddy. For sharing that with me,” Fjord’s voice seemed different somehow, in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe he was just tired.

“You’re welcome… you know you can talk to me anytime, right? About whatever you want... doesn’t have to be work stuff or, um…I mean anything.” Cad winced at himself. How had he gone from being so articulate to tripping over his own feet when he wanted to ask a simple question?

Fjord seemed on the verge of his usual tension when help was offered but then he seemed to shake it off, like rainwater, “Thanks. That means a lot, Caddy.”

Cad resisted the urge to clap his hands. He’d done exactly as Beau asked and made Fjord smile into the bargain.

“Why don’t you clean out Helga? That might make her like you. I can finish up the plants and tables.”

Fjord seemed grateful for the chance to move, like just accepting help had filled him with restless energy, “Oh, I’ll do that! She’s going to end up loving me, I swear.”

“I’m sure,” Cad chuckled quietly as he jumped up and headed for the counter.

He’d make sure they were wrapped up in time for him to get a ride home. One personal leap a day was enough, he felt.

Cad moved to the next plant, a terrarium full of mushrooms he’d taken from the grove, already softly starting to glow as the light dimmed. Just for a moment, he placed his palms on the smooth curve of the glass, the green luminescence filtering through the gaps between his fingers like he held a heart in his hands.

And all he could smell was fresh grass, new fallen rain on green things. He felt his nerves alight with power he’d had inside himself since that promise he’d made. And it felt right.

Cad smiled, leaning close and whispering just in case, “I’m going to keep an eye on him...but maybe you could too?”

The mushrooms immediately grew brighter in his hands, far brighter than they should be for the time of day.

Caduceus took that as a yes.

[conceptua1f1amework-blog]

..There was one way to find out if she was as good at her task as she and Kyprioth hoped, and that was to pull off a war. “What’s a little thing like revolution between friends?” she wondered, and looked ahead. 

[...] ...”It’s all so much bigger than I could have imagined,” she murmured. They all waited for what she would say next. Finally Dove took a deep breath and asked, “Have we a symbol? Some ordinary thing, so the common people and the middle classes will know that our country is changing?” ...”Something more subtle. Something that looks like a message, that can be put in places where officials won’t notice it.” “Something to shake the regents up,” murmured Aly. “If the regents are shaken up,” Fesgao pointed out, “they will not take it kindly, I warn you.” “No, I suppose not,” Dove acknowledged. “But they’re already behaving stupidly....” ... “A symbol,” Dove told them. “Scratched into plaster, written on a proclamation that’s been nailed up, dug in the dirt, painted on a door or a shutter. Something easy-”

“An open shackle with a few links of chain attached,” suggested Chenaol eagerly. “For freedom.”

[...]

...Aly stumbled and nearly tripped when they passed through Nimegan Square. Someone had made changes to its fountain, one of the city’s attractions for its carvings of climbing monkeys on stone trees. Cut into the white marble a foot apart, the open shackle symbol lined the rim all the way around. 

[...]

“...Make sure everyone tells a different tale- if it’s always the same one-” “They’ll know it’s planted,” Atisa recited. It was a lesson Aly had taught often over the winter. “Do you want me to pass it to the rest of our pack?” Aly shook her head. “They’ll get their own rumors. We’ll ensure the regents and Topabaw have plenty to worry about here at home as well as in the outlying Isles.” “Will talk really bother them?” Atisa asked quietly, her black eyes serious. Aly patted her on the cheek. “It’s hard to ignore talk that’s just talk,” she said, and smiled. “It’s funny, though, how gossip can burrow under the skin. You can’t make it go away, and you can’t answer it. The target goes frantic, trying to find where it comes from.” “And frantic people make mistakes,” Atisa replied, once again quoting Aly. 

[...]

...As they wandered down a line of stalls, Aly noticed a thing or two: someone had carved the open shackle symbol into a doorpost....

[...]

...At some point during the afternoon, talking in strictest confidence with their new friends, all of them would pass on some bit of gossip that would sit ill with those who collected it for the palace. The rest of Aly’s pack, and more of the people they had recruited, were out performing the same service. Little of it would go straight to Topabaw or to Rubinyan’s spymaster. People who worried about the stability of the government chattered constantly, the threads of gossip twisting as they passed from one person to the next. By the time they reached those who were most interested in holding power, the strands would be so tangled that no one would be able to trace them back to a handful of sources.  Gossip was the realm’s lifeblood, Aly’s da had told her repeatedly. She intended to make this realm bleed with it. 

[...]

Something caught her eye. In the lowest right-hand pane in the corner [of the window], someone had scratched a design.... The emblem of the open shackle was cut into the window. More importantly, it had been done from inside. Someone working in the shop, perhaps [the owner] himself, supported the rebellion.

[...]

...Aly observed that one seller of garlic, leeks, and onions had hung a decoration at the corner of her booth. Four bulbs were braided together, connected to a broken circle of leeks tied to a wooden frame. It was a very subtle open shackle.

[...]

Passing a basketmaker’s booth on their way out of Market Town, Aly saw an ornament displayed on the edge of the awning. Palm fronds were woven into the shackle-and-chain design. They want to join, Aly thought, awed. Not just the raka. The merchant luarin. They want to rid themselves of the Rittevons. But will they fight? ”Trick,” she murmured, so quietly that only [it] might hear, “what has Peony to report from Grosbeak? Anything?” ...”Peony says woman called Lutestring come from palace for daily report from Grosbeak. She takes papers and what Grosbeak says. Grosbeak tells her mysterious new sign of four circles then broken circle appears in more places every day. He say half reports he gets say [the spymaster] is turning against the regents. He say other half say regents want to replace [the spymaster]. Grosbeak is shaking. Grosbeak does not tell Lutestring that he is taking all of his money out of money-changer accounts and packing a bag if he must run. He already send wife and children into country today.”

[...]

...More than anyone else, he kept glancing at the regents, his jaw muscles clenched. Topabaw was nervous, And he was nervous about his masters. 

[...]

...The shakier the regents looked, the more eager people would be to do things they would not dare if the Crown appeared strong. There was the personal gossip-...-and the more ominous news about what really happened at the fortresses. Rubinyan’s personal spymaster, Sevmire, had told him, ... that more than three hundred and twenty men had died at the fortresses, burned or poisoned. Rubinyan had ordered him to keep that number to himself. If Rubinyan heard that people knew the correct number of the dead, he might think Sevmire or his subordinates had been indiscreet. It could also be that by the time Rubinyan’s spies heard the city gossip, the number of dead soldiers would be vast, amplified by gossip as it passed from one person to the next.

[...]

Ulasim bowed. “Your Grace, my ladies, I...” He paused for a moment, so oddly for him that the ladies looked worried. Ulasim was the ideal manservant and never fumbled. “It’s Topabaw,” he said at last. “He’s-They made an Example of him. By the harbor mouth.” Nuritin jerked, dumping a bottle of ink on her desk and herself. As the maids rushed to stop the ink’s spread and to save the old woman’s dress, the duchess stared at him. “Ulasim, this is a very poor joke,” she whispered. He looked at her not as a servant looked at his mistress but as one human being looked at another. “Your Grace, I did not believe it either. I have just come from the harbor. I have seen it with my own eyes. Topabaw is dead. ...There is no proclamation of his crime, but the royal seal was placed on his chest. Burned into it, actually.” [...] “Whoever takes up his post won’t know everything he did.” Dove looked at her mother, then her great-aunt. “They won’t know his files. They won’t know his agents. And his agents won’t be sure if they aren’t next, or if the new man isn’t there to simply hand out more blame. His networks will be all chaos for a while.”

[...]

...She was about to look somewhere else when a detail caught her attention. An anonymous carver had made an addition to the statue’s belt line. A deep-cut open shackle shone brightly around the weathered bronze of the statue’s waist, above the dip of the sword belt.

[...]

They neared the intersection and checkpoint at Rittevon Square. The great bronze statue of the first Rittevon king was now covered with open shackle insignia, each showing gold through his weathered bronze skin and clothes. 

Trickster’s Queen, page 15, 45-46, 97, 107, 113, 122, 146, 173, 175, 216, 233, 236, 237, 303, 393, by T. Pierce

[myaekingheart]

33. Better than Instant Ramen

read the scarecrow and the bell on ao3

index | from the beginning | < previous | next >

Here's the video for the recipe Rei and Kakashi make together!

               Kakashi was determined to make this a perfect night. He and Rei had been busy with their work, so much so that they had hardly seen each other for weeks. Whenever he did catch sight of her, she looked absolutely exhausted. Her hair was even messier than usual, she dragged her feet, and there were dark circles under her eyes. He left a bag of pastries at her doorstep, per usual, with an invitation slapped on the bag: My apartment. Dinner. Friday night. 6pm. It was obviously an offer she couldn’t possibly refuse.

                He spent the entire afternoon preparing dinner, so that his apartment by now smelled incredible. He pulled back the curtains so that there was a stunning view of the stars overhead, and even cracked the window open to let in some fresh air. He lit a few candles, then began tidying the books on his shelf when she knocked on the door.

               She looked exhausted but had a huge grin on her face as she leapt into his arms and hugged him tightly. “God, I’ve missed you” she sighed into his chest. He hugged her back just as tightly, then ushered her inside. “It smells incredible in here” she commented, surveying the room. He was clearly aiming to achieve a romantic aura, and quite frankly she would say he succeeded. She kicked off her shoes and approached the kitchen, eager to peek in the oven and see what he was cooking. Before she could catch a glance, though, Kakashi slid in front of her and blocked her view.

               “Why would you want to go and ruin the surprise?” he asked. He placed his hands on her shoulders, spun her around, and guided her to the table. She sat in the nearest chair, looking up at him with a playful pout as if she was a child who was just reprimanded. “Relax. You look exhausted, so tonight I’m going to treat you.”

               “What about you?” she asked as he made his way back to the kitchen. “You’ve been working your ass off, too. Aren’t you tired?”

               “Yes” he answered, then added, “But I’ve been doing this far longer than you have. I’ve gotten used to it.” The timer dinged, and Rei attempted to take a peek at whatever Kakashi was pulling out of the oven but he effectively blocked her view. Defeated, she leaned back in her chair and sighed as she awaited dinner. After a few minutes, Kakashi set down two platters of fish and a bottle of sake. He gave Rei that signature masked smile as he sat down across from her, and with locked eyes they ceremoniously chanted Itadaakimasu.

               Rei closed her eyes and smiled as she took that first bite of food. She remembered Kakashi being a skilled chef as far back as their childhood, but it was starkly different experiencing the food firsthand after so many years. His skill had drastically improved. “This is so much better than instant ramen every night” she sighed.

               Kakashi swallowed his bite, then asked, “You eat instant ramen every night?” Rei shrugged a casual yes. “But don’t you cook at all?”

               “I mean, on days off sometimes I’ll make an omelet or rice or something if I care enough but most days…” she started, then groaned and shook her head. “Cooking is too much work. Why waste my energy when my microwave can literally give me dehydrated noodles in a cup in a matter of minutes?”

               “You know you can’t live off of instant ramen for the rest of your life, right?” Kakashi asked.

               Rei shrugged. “Lots of people do it. Like that little menace who always splatters paint on Hokage Rock. I’m sure he eats exclusively ramen. I see him at Ichiraku all the time.”

               “You see my point” Kakashi replied.

               “Okay, well what do you expect me to do?” Rei asked. “Actually cook?”

               “That’s what everyone else does” Kakashi countered.

               A sly smile touched Rei’s lips as she looked down at her plate and picked apart another piece of fish. “I mean, you could just cook for me for the rest of your life” she chuckled.

               “And what about when I’m gone?” he asked. “What are you going to do then?”

               Rei then raised her chopsticks high above her head in a terrible sense of triumph and shouted, “Instant ramen!”

               Kakashi rubbed his forehead in distress, but he was chuckling all the while. “You’re a lost cause, you know that?” he said. Rei simply shrugged and took another bite of her food, but deep down something within Kakashi was taking root. Hadn’t her parents taught her anything? Knowing Hana and Yuruganai, the chances were slim. As much as Hana yearned for her daughter to become a housewife and mother, she also yearned for her daughter to stay put for as long as possible. From what he had seen, he was certain she babied Rei in terms of housework for ages just to keep her trapped there. It was simply’s a mother desperation, even if it was harmful in the end. He hated to think he would have to teach her everything, but he knew there was at least one thing he could take the responsibility of.

               Come midnight, Rei decided she ought to head back to her apartment but not without a goodnight kiss first. “This was really great. We should definitely do this again” she sighed, foreheads pressed together. Kakashi smiled.

               “How about next week?” he offered. She furrowed her brow a moment, calculating what she knew so far of her work schedule, then grinned up at him and accepted the offer. He smiled back. “Then it’s a date.”

               Rei arrived right on time the following Friday night, exhausted and fully prepared to sit back and just enjoy another great meal with her boyfriend. When she entered his apartment, however, there was no incredible fragrance, and nothing in the oven. Rather, there was an array of raw food set out across the countertop and a frying pan on the stove. “Uh…are we having sushi or something?” Rei asked. Kakashi chuckled and shook his head.

               “Nope” he replied, guiding her into the kitchen.

               “I thought you were having me over for dinner” she said, trying to mask her disappointment.

               Kakashi grinned underneath his mask. “I am, but this time you’re cooking it!”

               Rei’s face fell. “K-Kakashi, but I don’t know how—” she stammered, but the copy ninja lifted a finger to quiet her and interrupted.

               “That’s why I’m going to teach you” he said.

               The redhead slumped her shoulders and groaned. “But why? This is so much work!”

               “Rei” he replied sternly, “Learning to cook is essential to living on your own. You’re going to have to learn sooner or later.”

               Crossing her arms, she pouted and averted her eyes from him, muttering, “I can’t believe you’d deceive me like this.”

               Kakashi, however, just chuckled and pulled her closer so that she was squarely in front of the counter. “Step one is preparation. I’m going to need you to cut up all of these vegetables” he explained, holding up a knife. Before her sat carrots, cabbage, and a large onion, most of which she couldn’t even begin to comprehend how to cut because they were all round. When Kakashi noticed the hesitance on her face, however, he wedged the knife into her hands and then slid in behind her so that he could guide her through the motions.

               Rei of course did her fair share of complaining the entire time, saying this was far too much work and asking why they couldn’t just go out to eat (“Restaurants are expensive, you can’t eat out every night” he’d argue, to which Rei would counter with “That’s why some nights there’s instant ramen!”), but Kakashi refused to let her quit. He guided her through all the steps, warned her about the stove dials and how she didn’t need to turn it up quite so high, and showed her how to mix everything in the pan so it would all cook evenly.

               By the time 8pm rolled around, Rei was so sick and tired of this. The kitchen was hot and she was tired and this was taking way too long. Kakashi watched from afar for a while, then stepped up and tested the food for completion. Once he was sure everything was cooked thoroughly, he smiled down at her and announced, “You’re all finished.” He flicked off the stove, moved the frying pan to a cool burner, and grabbed a bowl for each of them.

               “It’s probably going to taste like shit. It’s probably going to kill you. I wouldn’t even try it, honestly” Rei complained as Kakashi divided the portions among their bowls. He handed her a pair of chopsticks and followed her to the table. “You know, we should just get up and go to Ichiraku right now so we can avoid the food poisoning we’re definitely going to get.”

               “Don’t be so cynical” Kakashi told her. “I’m sure it’ll taste fine! Besides, I was right beside you the whole time. I wouldn’t let you feed me anything that would kill me.” Rei rolled her eyes and laughed mockingly, angrily grabbing a wad of pork and vegetables with her chopsticks and shoving it in her mouth. She paused a moment, and Kakashi looked at her anxiously. “Well?” he asked. She looked at him with wide eyes, as if she was taken aback, finished chewing and then swallowed. A smile tugged at his lips—he could tell she liked what she had made.

               Rei shrugged and poked at the rest of her food. “Well, I mean, it’s alright. It’s not, like, mind-blowingly delicious or anything, but like…it’s stir fry. It’s, you know…it’s fine” she replied nonchalantly. Kakashi could tell she was struggling to keep the smile off her face.

               Kakashi chuckled. “You like it, don’t you?” he asked. The redhead fed him a death glare as she angrily shoved another chopstick-full into her mouth.

               “Don’t expect me to make a habit of this!” she protested. “It’d be fine for a once in a while thing, I guess. You know, if I’m feeling energetic or whatever.” Smiling, Kakashi pulled down his mask and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. Rei’s face turned bright red. “What was that for?”

               “Nothing in particular” Kakashi replied. “I’m just proud of you. You did a good job for your first time.”

               “You really think so?” Rei asked.

               The copy ninja nodded. “I’m not dead, am I?” he joked.

               “Fair point” Rei replied. They sat together eating their stir fry in comfortable silence, watching the stars twinkle through the open window. A soft, cool breeze blew into the apartment, fluttering the curtains and brushing against their faces. A dog barked down the street. Everything was good.

[reading-time]

Sanmao’s “Stories of the Sahara”, 《撒哈拉的故事》, 芳邻 Good neighbour, Tâm Anh translated.

      My neighbours, from outside look, are all extremely filthy and messy Sahara people.

      Unclean clothing and odour make a wrong impression; often it is thought that they are of poverty-stricken people. In reality, residents in this neighbourhood, each and all not only receive assistance payment from the Spanish government, same time have decent job, added on they have their house for rent to Europeans, again raising a large flock of goats; some also open their own shops in downtown; income is very much stable and sizable.

　　Therefore, local people here often say, Sahara people who can afford to live in Al-ʿuyūn townlet are impossible those without a sound economic base.

　　Early last year during the first few months I was newly setting foot in the desert, because at that time not yet married, often I did not stay in town but travelled far into the great desert for sightseeing. Every time coming back from travel, I was with nothing left on me like experienced through a robbery. Poverty-stricken Sahara people in the desert have plucked away everything even nails out of my tent, no need to mention my carried-along belongings.

　　At beginning right after settled down living on this boulevard named Gold River, heard people say that, living in my neighbourhood are all desert households with money, I couldn’t help but heart-felt extraordinarily fortunate, imagining all kinds of advantages of living alongside wealthy neighbours.

　　Reality what occured later all say I was wrong.

　　The first time being invited to next-door neighbour’s home for tea, when getting back home, on Jose’s shoes and mine both had goat’s shits sticked on; my long dress was also salivated wet a large part by Handi (the land-lord)’s little kid. The following day, I started to teach Handi’s daughters to clean their floor with water and dry their mat. Of course, bucket, soap powder, mop, and water were all supplied by me.

　　It is because here neighbours are such very close to each other, my bucket and mop are often passed on, till dusk still not seen to my turn for own usage. This does not count anything yet, because these two things, anyway, are still returned to me after all.

　　Have been living on Gold River Boulevard for some time, although our home does not have door-plate, neighbours in the area soon all know our door.

　　Only when giving people medicines I would open our door to outside; normally I do not socialize with them, ‘Friendship between fine men, insipid as water’  [ *Translator’s note: Chinese idiom, from Zhuangzi 君子之交淡如水 ] this wisdom I very much hold to.

　　Living here for quite some time, my door unavoidably gets to be opened this time to another. Anytime we open, these women and kids are immediately pouring in; by that, our way of living and daily utensils are all shown, in every detail, to the eyes of our neighbours.

　　Because Jose and I both are not stingy people; in accommodating people we could be considered as nice and gentle; therefore neighbours gradually have learnt to fully take advantage of this our fault.

　　Every day from around 9 o’clock in the morning starting on and on, this home continuously has some little kid coming to ask for something.

　　“My brother said, need to borrow a light bulb.”

　　“My mother said, need some onion——”

　　“My father needs a bottle of gasoline.”

　　“We need cotton——”

　　“Give me the fan.”

　　“Your clothes iron lend to my sister.”

　　“I need some nails, also need some electric wires.”

　　Other things people come to ask for are in all forms it can be; so hateful it is that our home, undesirably, have all these things in wanted; not giving them then we feel unease, giving them then of course there’s no return.

　　“These annoying people, why not themselves go to town to buy.” Jose often says. However, whenever the kids come for things, still they are given.

　　Not knowing since when, kids of neighbours started to ask for money. When we went out of our door, immediately we were surrounded by kids, saying: “Give me 5 kuai, give me 5 kuai!” [ *Translator's note: kuai is local currency unit. ]

　　Among these kids asking for money, there of course also sons and daughters of next-door "East House” (land-lord).

       Giving money I absolutely rejected; however, kids persisted to come, that was very annoying. One day I told children of “East House” (land-lord): “Your father gives this broken house for rent to us, has taken 10,000 kuai; if again each day I give you 5 kuai, I would rather move out.”

　　From that day on, kids no longer ask for money, only ask for chewing gums, chewing gums I am happy to give.

　　I think, they do not like that I may move out, so their kids have stopped asking for money.

　　One day, little Lablai knocked on our door; I opened to see: The remains of as huge as a little mountain a camel was lying on the ground, red blood has been flowing all over the spot, looked very dreadful. “My mother said, this camel is to be put in your refrigerator. “

　　I turned my head to see my home refrigerator which is sized as a shoes cabinet, signed out a breath, squatted down telling Lablai: “Lab, go home tell your mother, if she puts your family’s big house to me for making it our sewing room, this camel can be put in my refrigerator.”　

      She immediately asked: “Where’s your sewing machine?”

　   Of course, camel was not put in refrigerator; however, Lablai’s mother shown long face for nearly a month. She only talked to me a word: “You reject me, hurt my pride.” Each and every Sahara person all has such a pride; I dare not often hurt, dare not reject lending them things either.

　　One day, there were several women coming to me asking for “Red-coloured antiseptic”, I insisted on not giving, only said: “If someone has skin torn, tell them to come get medicines applied on.” They, however, insisted on taking home self-applying.

       A few hours later, I heard noises and sounds then I went out to see, only then I discovered on our open-for-common-use rooftop, there those women with my red-coloured antiseptic all applied everywhere on their face and arms, they were wriggling dancing and singing, looked extremely happy. Seeing red-coloured antiseptic had such a peculiar usage, I could no longer be angry.

　　More a head-ache was a Sahara man living nearby who worked at the hospital as a medical assistant; because has learnt some civilized etiquette, he refused to eat with hands like his family people do; so everyday when it came to meal time, his son was knocking on our door: “My father is going to have meal now, I come to get knife and fork.” Every time exactly these words.

　　This kid came to borrow knife and fork every day, although returning them after, still I felt so much bothered, had better buy a set to give him, told him not allowed to come again. Really out of expectation, two days later, the kid again appeared at my door.

　　“Why come again? Where’s the set last time I gave you?”. With face stiffen I asked.

　“My mother said, that set is new, should be kept not use. Now my father is going to have meal——”

　　“Your father is going to have meal, to me no concern ——” I roared at him.

　 The kid curled himself up like a little bird; I didn’t have the heart to reject, but again had to lend him. After all, having meal is an important matter.  

     Houses in the desert, on rooftop often have an open-air space in the middle, not covered. Our home, having meals, sleeping, kids from neighbours could all, from that rooftop uncovered space, observe downwards.

　　There was one time when desert gust swept through, sand fell into house like rain. Living in this kind of weather, Jose and I would have no other choice in the drama to play, but “Sand Monk residing in the River of Flowing Sands”. [*Translator’s note: here author used homophones to make a witty comparison, 流沙河里住着的沙和尚 The Liusha River (Chinese: 流沙河), also translated into English as River of Flowing Sands, or Flowing-Sand River, is a fictional river from the Chinese classic novel Journey to the West, residing in that river was the novel one of the main characters then called Sha Monk (Chinese: 沙和尚) ]

　　Jose requested “East House” (land-lord) several times, “East House” (land-lord) was always hesitant to have the roof covered. So, we ourselves bought materials; Jose took three Sundays to work the roofing, finally managed to lay an yellow-colored frosted glass roof, sunlight could shine down to inside, very much beautiful and shiny. I put nine big pots of house-plants I had planted earlier, under the new roof, a whole freshly green corner. My living, thanks to this, had big improvement.

　　One day afternoon, I was in the kitchen with all my concentration put on reading recipe and making cake, same time listening to music. Suddenly, I heard some sound like someone was walking to and fro on the glass roof; I turned my head out to take a look: over my head clearly there was the shadow of a big goat. This hateful goat, was jumping over our sloping rooftop. I grasped the kitchen knife immediately ran upstairs to the roof tower. Still not up to the roof tower yet, I heard a sound like wooden branch cracking, continued by a world-shaking noise, woods, broken glass fell off like rain. Of course, that huge goat also from the sky fell off, landing into our little house. I was so panicked, quickly took the broom to cast the goat out, looked up above over the broken roof was the blue sky, I was frustrated.  

　　Rooftop was broken, though did not know who we could come to request a compensation, we could only ourselves buy materials to fix. “This time how about roofing with asbestos tiles?” I asked Jose.

　　“Can’t, this house has only one window facing the street, use asbestos tiles to cover the rooftop, there would be no light.” Jose was very troubled, because he did not like having to spend Sunday still on working the fix.　

       Not long after, the rooftop was fixed well with new, white-colored translucent plastic board. Jose also made a wall as high as half body, to divide our rooftop with neighbour’s. This wall was not only to prevent goat, but also to defend our rooftop from neighbour’s daughters, as they often walked onto our rooftop taking away my underpants that was hung dry there, not that they stole those items, because often some days later things were thrown back on the ground of rooftop, as if being blown off by the wind.  

　　Although the new roof was fixed with translucent plastic board, within half a year goat has still fallen off into our house four times. Till we could not bear anymore, told our neighbours, next time again passed through the rooftop into our house again goat would be killed to eat immediately, no more returning to them, so mind them close the gate of their goat pen properly not letting them out.

      Neighbours were all very smart people; we yelled and shouted, they said nothing, just held their goat, squinted at us and smiled.

　　“Flying goat falling into the well” (飞羊落井）this wonder although repeatedly occurred, Jose often was not at home, so had not had the opportunity to experience that scene to know how heart-moving it was.

　　One Sunday at dusk, a pack of crazy goats jumped over their fence, carelessly, again upran to our rooftop.

　　I yelled: “Jose, Jose, goats are coming ——.”

　　Jose threw off his magazine, rushed to the living room, too late, a huge goat had broken through the plastic board, heavily fell off on Jose’s head; the two lied down on the concrete floor moaning. Jose picked himself up, no voice, pulled out a rope, he tied the goat to the house pillar, then climbed up to rooftop to check which house had let the goat out. On the roof, there seen no one.

　　“All right, tomorrow we'll kill the goat to eat.” Jose gritted his teeth.

　　Till we climbed down from the roof, went to check the goat, this captive not only made no noise, but seemingly was smiling; I again enlowered to see: My Lord! My sweat-and-heart-in-one-year-growing-up nine pots of house plants, each and every leaf, all has been chewed up by the creature.  

　　Frightened, angry and heart-ached, I put my hands up; with all my strength I slapped the goat a big slap. I screamed at Jose: “You see! You see!——”, then rushed into the bathroom, gripped a large towel before teardrops one after another started to fall down. This was the first time life in the desert discouraged me to tears as such.

　　Goat, of course, was not killed.

　　Relationship with neighbours, still was kept on well in peace in daily routine of opening closing door for lending borrowing things.

　　One time, I had used up matches, ran to next-door “East House” (land-lord) to ask. “Not have, not have.” The lady of “East House” (land-lady) giggled and giggled.

　　I again went to another neighbour’s kitchen. “Give you three matches, we also have just a few left.” Hatie said to me, looked quite rigid.

　　“This box of matches that you have, is exactly what I gave you last week; all in all I gave you five boxes; how could you forget?” I got angry.

　　“That’s right, now only one box left, I could not give you more.” She turned unhappy.

　　“You hurt my pride.” I also learnt the women’s catchphrase, said to Hatie.

　　Taking the three matches back, all the way home I was thinking, really it was not easy to be a Schweitzer. [*Translator’s note: Schweitzer (史怀哲) Dr. Albert Schweitzer, a renowned medical missionary. Dr. Schweitzer became especially famous for giving benefit concerts and lectures in Europe as a means of fundraising for his hospital back in Africa. His philosophy, he often stated, was built upon the principle of a “reverence for life” and the religious and ethical imperatives of helping others. ]

　　We have been living here for one and a half year; in this neighbourhood, Jose has become an electrician, a carpenter, a construction worker—— me, has become a writer, a nurse, a teacher, a tailor——anyhow we were trained through practice by our neighbours.

　　Sahara young girls and women often have light coloured skin, most of them have very beautiful face; normally when being in front of fellow Sahara people they always wear veil over their face, however, when they are in our home they remove their veil.

　　Among them, there was Mina, very beautiful and sweet; she liked me, liked Jose even more; anytime when Jose was at home, she dressed up and made up very neatly, came sitting at our home. Later she discovered that sitting at our home was not at all interesting, so she found every reason to call Jose to her home.

　  Once, she also came, at our window calling: “Jose! Jose!”　

      We were having meal; I asked her: “Why do you look for Jose?”

　  She said: “The door of our home is broken, need Jose come to fix.”

　  Jose was thinking, put down his fork, about to stand up.

 　 “Not allowed to go, continue with your meal.” I took the food in my bowl one and another poured down in front of Jose, a big bowl.

　　Men here could get married to four wives; I however do not like four wives together share Jose’s paycheck.  

　　Mina did not go away; she stood at the window, Jose again took a glance at her.

　　“No need to look again, let’s consider she as a mirage.” [ *Translator’s note: a mirage is an optical illusion caused by atmospheric conditions, especially the appearance of a sheet of water in a desert or on a hot road caused by the refraction of light from the sky by heated air; something that appears real or possible but is not in fact so.]  I was stern. This beautiful “mirage” one day finally got married; I was very glad, sent her a large clothing as wedding gift.

　　Our daily water utility, is supplied by the town government, everyday water is supplied till the big tank is full then no more. So, if we want to have a shower, then no washing clothes that day, if washing clothes then no washing dishes or cleaning floor; these all require first to calculate carefully the remaining level in the water tank on rooftop. Water in the water tank on rooftop is very salty, cannot be used for drinking; normally drinking water is light water we buy from the shop. Water, here, is very precious. Last Sunday, to participate in the “camel race” organized in town, we from several miles away encamping travel in the great desert also rushed back.

　　That day there was strong wind of sand blowing. When we got back, from head to toe we were covered with sand, looked very terrible. Just arrived at home, I rushed into the bathroom to get cooled, hoping to get myself ready in a neat shape for the camel race, because reporter from Spanish television company has agreed to record for me some shoots to broadcast in the news. Till I had soap foam all over my body, there was no water coming, I quickly asked Jose to the rooftop to check water tank.  

　　“It’s empty, no water.” Jose said.

　　“Couldn’t be! We were not at home the last two days, did not use a drop.” I suddenly felt anxious.

　　Wrapped myself in a big towel, I barefoot ran up to the rooftop. Water tank was empty, like a nightmare. Again looked to our neighbour’s rooftop, a dozen of flour bags were hung dry there, I immediately understood, water turned out to be eaten up by these.

　　I wiped off soap foam on body with the towel, then went out with Jose to the camel race.

　　That afternoon, all my crazy and playful Spanish friends were happily riding on camels’ back in the race, what a spectacular scene! Only me was standing under the sun watching.

　  These race-people when riding close to my spot, even laughed: “Coward girl! Coward girl!”

　　How could I tell them, I could not participate in the race, reason was because I was afraid of exceedingly sweating, body would be not only itchy, but could possibly have bubbles of soap foam.

　　Among the neighbours, most amiable is Guka; she is a soft, again smart girl, very thoughtful. However, Guka has one small bad thing: the ideas she often comes up with are very much not close to what we do. In other words, her judgement often amazes me extremely.  

　　One evening, Jose and I were about to go join a cocktail party organized at the National Hotel. I ironed well the long-time-not-use evening black dress, also took out some pieces normally-do-not-wear pretty expensive accessories, put on well.

　　“What time the party?” Jose asked.

　　“Eight o’clock.” I checked my watch, already 7:45.

　　Just when I have well dressed, earings well put on, ready to put on shoes, I discovered the grain leather high-heeled shoes I normally put on the shelf are now seen nowhere, asked Jose, he said he did not touch it.

　　“You put on a random pair of these, that would be fine then?” Jose hates waiting the most. I looked onto the range of shoes on the shelf—— sneakers, wooden slippers, flat sandals, cloth shoes, long boots—— there was not one that can go with the long dress, I started to feel anxious, again looked, yí! What’s the hell it is! Since when it has come? What’s this?

　　On the shelf quietly lying a pair of black dirty pointed desert shoes; just the first look I could recognize it was Guka’s shoes.

　　Her shoes are on my shelf, then where possibly my shoes could be?

　　I immediately ran to Guka’s home, caught her with one hand, fiercely asked: “Where are my shoes? Where are my shoes? Why did you steal them away?”

        Again I yelled at her: “Find them to return to me, quick! You this bastard!”　

       At that time, Guka slowly went to look, inside the kitchen, under the mat, inside the goat stack, behind the door —— all looked, but nowhere seen.

　　“My little sister has worn them going out already, not seen at this moment.” She replied very calmly.　

       “Tomorrow I’ll come back to settle this thing with you.” I gritted my teeth walking back home.

 　For the cocktail party that evening, I had no choice but changed to cotton plain white clothes, a pair of sandals, mingled among the glamorous ladies of Jose’s bosses, extremely outstanding of the group. Jose’s colleagues saw it through the situation, they deliberately praised to me: “You are really good looking, this evening you look like a shepherdess, lack is only a cane.”

　　The following day early morning, Guka held the high-heeled shoes came to me to return; shoes were already made out of shape.

　　I stared at her, angrily grabbed back the shoes.  

　　“Humph! You got angry, angry; I have not been angry yet.” Guka’s face flushed up, very annoying.

　　“Your shoes are at my home, my shoes are though not at your home, I should be the one to be angrier than you.” She continued.

　　Hearing from her these ridiculous explanation, I could not help but laughing.

　  “Guka, you should go to stay in a mental asylum.”  I pointed at her forehead.

　  “What asylum?” She did not understand.

　　“Do not understand that’s fine. Guka, I first ask you, you then go to ask all other women in our neighbourhood: our home here, except for my ‘toothbrush’ and ‘husband’, is there anything you people have not been interested in, not come to borrow?”

　　Hearing that, she looked like just woke up, immediately asked: “Your toothbrush how does it look like?”　

     This got me on my nerve; I screamed: “Get out——Get out.”

　 Guka moved herself back while saying: “I just want to take a look at your toothbrush, I also do not ask for your husband, you really——”

　　Till I closed my door, still I heard Guka on the street loudly talked to another woman: “You see, you see, she hurt my pride.”

　　Thank you, my neighbours, you have made my days in the desert so colourful, never again know the taste of loneliness. 

[ End of story ]

Images below: Nowadays images taken by a tourist in front of Sanmao’s previous residing house in Morroco (摩洛哥), El Aaiún city /  al-ʿuyūn ( 阿尤恩 ),  Boulevard Mohamed AI Khallouqi ( 金河大道44号 )（门牌号22171）.   Source: https://www.airbnb.cn/content/stories

and the nowadays paranoma view of the area on the outskirts of Al-ʿuyūn ( 阿尤恩 ). Source: https://zhuanlan.zhihu.com

[unsettlingshortstories]

Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed

Ray Bradbury (1949)

The rocket's metal cooled in the meadow winds. Its lid gave a bulging pop. From its clock interior stepped a man, a woman, and three children. The other passengers whispered away across the Martian meadow, leaving the man alone among his family.

The man felt his hair flutter and the tissues of his body draw tight as if he were standing at the center of a vacuum. His wife, before him, trembled. The children, small seeds, might at any instant be sown to all the Martian climes.

 The children looked up at him. His face was cold. “What's wrong?” asked his wife.

“Let's get back on the rocket.” “Go back to Earth?”

“Yes! Listen!”

 The wind blew, whining. At any moment the Martian air might draw his soul from him, as marrow comes from a white bone.

He looked at Martian hills that time had worn with a crushing pressure of years. He saw the old cities, lost and lying like children's delicate bones among the blowing lakes of grass.

 “Chin up, Harry,” said his wife. “It's too late. We've come at least sixty-five million miles or more.”

 The children with their yellow hair hollered at the deep dome of Martian sky. There was no answer but the racing hiss of wind through the stiff grass.

He picked up the luggage in his cold hands. 'Here we go,' he said – a man standing on the edge of a sea, ready to wade in and be drowned.

They walked into town.

 Their name was Bittering. Harry and his wife Cora; Tim, Laura, and David. They built a small white cottage and ate good breakfast there, but the fear was never gone. It lay with Mr. Bittering and Mrs. Bittering, a third unbidden partner at every midnight talk, at every dawn awakening.

 “I feel like a salt crystal,” he often said, “in a mountain stream, being washed away. We don't belong here. We're Earth people. This is Mars. It was meant for Martians. For heaven's sake, Cora, let's buy tickets for home!”

 But she only shook her head. “One day the atom bomb will fix Earth. Then we'll be safe here.” “Safe and insane!”

Tick-tock, seven o'clock sang the voice clock; time to get up. And they did.

 Something made him check everything each morning – warm hearth, potted blood-geraniums - precisely as if he expected something to be amiss. The morning paper was toast-warm from the six a.m. Earth rocket. He broke its seal and tilted it at his breakfast plate. He forced himself to be convivial.

 “Colonial days all over again,” he declared. “Why, in another year there'll be a million Earthmen on Mars. Big cities, everything! They said we'd fail. Said the Martians would resent our invasion. But did we, find any Martians! Not a living soul! Oh, we found their empty cities, but no one in them. Right?”

 A river of wind submerged the house. When the windows ceased rattling, Mr. Bittering swallowed and looked at the children.

“I don't know,” said David. “Maybe there're Martians around we don't see. Sometimes nights I think I hear 'em. I hear the wind. The sand hits my window. I get scared. And I see those towns way up in the mountains where the Martians lived a long time ago. And I think I see things moving around those towns, Papa. And I wonder if those Martians mind us living here. I wonder if they won't do something to us for coming here.”

 “Nonsense!” Mr. Bittering looked out of the windows. “We're clean, decent people.” He looked at his children. “All dead cities have some kind of ghosts in them. Memories, I mean.” He stared at the hills. “You see a staircase and wonder what Martians looked like climbing it. You see Martian paintings and you wonder what the painter was like. You make a little ghost in your mind, a memory. It's quite natural. Imagination.” He stopped. “You haven't been prowling up in those ruins, have you?”

 “No, Papa.” David looked at his shoes.

 “See that you stay away from them. Pass the jam.” “Just the same,” said little David, “I bet something happens.”

Something happened that afternoon.

 Laura stumbled through the settlement, crying. She dashed blindly on to the porch.

 “Mother, Father - the war, Earth!” she sobbed. “A radio flash just came. Atom bombs hit New York! All the space rockets blown up. No more rockets to Mars, ever!”

 “Oh, Harry!” The mother held on to her husband and daughter. “Are you sure, Laura?” asked the father quietly.

Laura wept. “We're stranded on Mars, for ever and ever!”

 For a long time there was only the sound of the wind in the late afternoon.

 Alone, thought Bittering. Only a thousand of us here. No way back. No way. No way. Sweat poured from his face and his hands and his body; he was drenched in the hotness of his fear. He wanted to strike Laura, cry, “No, you're lying! The rockets will come back!” Instead, he stroked Laura's head against him and said, “The rockets will get through, some day.”

 “In five years maybe. It takes that long to build one. Father, Father, what will we do?”

 “Go about our business, of course. Raise crops and children. Wait. Keep things going until the war ends and the rockets come again.”

The two boys stepped out on to the porch.

 “Children,” he said, sitting there, looking beyond them, “I've something to tell you.” “We know,” they said.

Bittering wandered into the garden to stand alone in his fear. As long as the rockets had spun a silver web across space, he had been able to accept Mars. For he had always told himself: Tomorrow, if I want, I can buy a ticket and go back to Earth. But now: the web gone, the rockets lying in jigsaw heaps of molten girder and unsnaked wire. Earth people left to the strangeness of Mars, the cinnamon dusts and wine airs, to be baked like gingerbread shapes in Martian summers, put into harvested storage by Martian winters.

What would happen to him, the others? This was the moment Mars had waited for. Now it would eat them.

 He got down on his knees in the flower-bed, a spade in his nervous hands. Work, he thought, work and forget.

He glanced up from the garden to the Martian mountains. He thought of the proud old Martian names that had once been on those peaks. Earthmen, dropping from the sky, had gazed upon hills, rivers, Martian seas left nameless in spite of names. Once Martians had built cities, named cities; climbed mountains, named mountains; sailed seas, named seas. Mountains melted, seas drained, cities tumbled. In spite of this, the Earthmen had felt a silent guilt at putting new names to these ancient hills and valleys.

 Nevertheless, man lives by symbol and label. The names were given.

 Mr. Bittering felt very alone in his garden under the Martian sun, bent here, planting Earth flowers in a wild soil.

 Think. Keep thinking. Different things. Keep your mind free of Earth, the atom war, the lost rockets.

 He perspired. He glanced about. No one watching. He removed his tie. Pretty bold, he thought.

First your coat off, now your tie. He hung it neatly on a peach tree he had imported as a sapling from Massachusetts.

 He returned to his philosophy of names and mountains. The Earthmen had changed names. Now there were Hormel Valleys, Roosevelt Seas, Ford Hills, Vanderbilt Plateaus, Rockefeller Rivers, on Mars. It wasn't right. The American settlers had shown wisdom, using old Indian prairie names: Wisconsin, Minnesota, Idaho, Ohio, Utah, Milwaukee, Waukegan, Osseo. The old names, the old meanings.

 Staring at the mountains wildly he thought: Are you up there? All the dead ones, you Martians?

Well, here we are, alone, cut off! Come down, move us out! We're helpless!

 The wind blew a shower of peach blossoms.

 He put out his sun-browned hand, gave a small cry. He touched the blossoms, picked them up.

He turned them, he touched them again and again. Then he shouted for his wife.

“Cora!”

 She appeared at a window. He ran to her. “Cora, these blossoms!”

She handled them.

 “Do you see? They're different. They've changed! They're not peach blossoms anymore!” “Look all right to me,” she said.

“They're not. They're wrong! I can't tell how. An extra petal, a leaf, something, the color, the smell!”

 The children ran out in time to see their father hurrying about the garden, pulling up radishes, onions, and carrots from their beds.

 “Cora, come look!”

 They handled the onions, the radishes, the carrots among them. “Do they look like carrots?”

“Yes … No.” She hesitated. “I don't know.” “They're changed.”

“Perhaps. “

 “You know they have! Onions but not onions, carrots but not carrots. Taste the same but different. Smell: not like it used to be.” He felt his heart pounding, and he was afraid. He dug his fingers into the earth.

 “Cora, what's happening? What is it? We've got to get away from this.”

 He ran across the garden. Each tree felt his touch. “The roses. The roses. They're turning green!” And they stood looking at the green roses.

And two days later, Tim came running. “Come see the cow. I was milking her and I saw it. Come on!”

 They stood in the shed and looked at their one cow. It was growing a third horn.

And the lawn in front of their house very quietly and slowly was coloring itself, like spring violets. Seed from Earth but growing up a soft purple.

‘'We must get away,” said Bittering. “We'll eat this stuff and then we'll change -who knows to what. I can't let it happen. There's only one thing to do. Burn this food!”

 “It's not poisoned.”

 “But it is. Subtly, very subtly. A little bit. A very little bit. We mustn't touch it.”

 He looked with dismay at their house. “Even the house. The wind's done something to it. The air's burned it. The fog at night. The boards, all warped out of shape. It's not an Earthman's house anymore.”

 “Oh, your imagination!”

 He put on his coat and tie. “I'm going into town. We've got to do something now. I'll be back.” “Wait, Harry!” his wife cried.

But he was gone.

 In town, on the shadowy step of the grocery store, the men sat with their hands on their knees, conversing with great leisure and ease.

Mr. Bittering wanted to fire a pistol in the air.

 What are you doing, you fools! he thought. Sitting here! You've heard the news - we're stranded on this planet. Well, move! Aren't you frightened? Aren't you afraid? What are you going to do?

 “Hello, Harry,” said everyone.

 “Look,” he said to them. “You did hear the news, the other day, didn't you?” They nodded and laughed. “Sure. Sure, Harry.”

“What are you going to do about it?” “Do, Harry, do? What can we do?” “Build a rocket, that's what!”

“A rocket, Harry? To go back to all that trouble? Oh, Harry!”

 “Here you are, Harry.” Sam handed him a pocket mirror. “Take a look at yourself.” Mr. Bittering hesitated, and then raised the mirror to his face.

There were little, very dim flecks of new gold captured in the blue of his eyes.

 “Now look what you've done,” said Sam, a moment later. “You've broken my mirror.”

Harry Bittering moved into the metal shop and began to build the rocket. Men stood in the open door and talked and joked without raising their voices. Once in a while they gave him a hand on lifting something. But mostly they just idled and watched him with their yellowing eyes.

 “It's suppertime, Harry,” they said. His wife appeared with his supper in a wicker basket.

 “I won't touch it,” he said. “I'll eat only food from our deep-freeze. Food that came from Earth. Nothing from our garden.”

 His wife stood watching him. “You can't build a rocket.”

 “I worked in a shop once, when I was twenty. I know metal. Once I get it started, the others will help,” he said, not looking at her, laying out the blueprints.

 “Harry, Harry,” she said, helplessly.

 “We've got to get away, Cora. We've got to!”

 The nights were full of wind that blew down the empty moonlit sea-meadows past the little white chess cities lying for their twelve-thousandth year in the shallows. In the Earthmen's settlement, the Bittering house shook with a feeling of change.

 Lying abed, Mr. Bittering felt his bones shifted, shaped, melted like gold. His wife, lying beside him, was dark from many sunny afternoons. Dark she was, and golden, burnt almost black by the sun, sleeping, and the children metallic in their beds, and the wind roaring forlorn and changing through the old peach trees, the violet grass, shaking out green rose petals.

 The fear would not be stopped. It had his throat and heart. It dripped in a wetness of the arm and the temple and the trembling palm.

 A green star rose in the east.

 A strange word emerged from Mr. Bittering's lips. “Iorrt. Iorrt.” He repeated it.

It was a Martian word. He knew no Martian.

 In the middle of the night he arose and dialed a call through to Simpson, the archaeologist. “Simpson, what does the word ‘Iorrt’ mean?”

“Why that's the old Martian word for our planet Earth. Why?” “No special reason.”

The telephone slipped from his hand.

“Hello, hello, hello, hello,” it kept saying while he sat gazing out at the green star. “Bittering? Harry, are you there?”

 The days were full of metal sound. He laid the frame of the rocket with the reluctant help of three indifferent men. He grew very tired in an hour or so and had to sit down.

“The altitude,” laughed a man.

 “Are you eating, Harry?” asked another. “I'm eating,” he said, angrily.

“From your deep-freeze?” “Yes!”

“You're getting thinner, Harry.” “I'm not!”

“And taller.” “Liar!”

His wife took him aside a few days later. “Harry, I've used up all the food in the deep-freeze.

There's nothing left. I'll have to make sandwiches using food grown on Mars.” He sat down heavily.

“You must eat,” she said. “You're weak.” “Yes,” he said.

He took a sandwich, opened it, looked at it, and began to nibble at it.

 “And take the rest of the day off,” she said. “It's hot. The children want to swim in the canals and hike. Please come along.”

 “I can't waste time. This is a crisis!”

 “Just for an hour,” she urged. “A swim'll do you good.”

 He rose, sweating. “All right, all right. Leave me alone. I'll come.” “Good for you, Harry.”

The sun was hot, the day quiet. There was only an immense staring burn upon the land. They moved along the canal, the father, the mother, the racing children in their swimsuits. They stopped and ate meat sandwiches. He saw their skin baking brown. And he saw the yellow eyes of his wife and his children, their eyes that were never yellow before. A few tremblings shook him, but were carried off in waves of pleasant heat as he lay in the sun. He was too tired to be afraid.

 “Cora, how long have your eyes been yellow?” She was bewildered. “Always, I guess.”

“They didn't change from brown in the last three months?” She bit her lips. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind.” They sat there.

“The children's eyes,” he said. “They're yellow, too.” “Sometimes growing children's eyes change color.

“Maybe we're children, too. At least to Mars. That's a thought.” He laughed. “Think I'll swim.”

 They leaped into the canal water, and he let himself sink down and down to the bottom like a golden statue and lie there in green silence.

 All was water, quiet and deep, all was peace. He felt the steady, slow current drift him easily.

 If I lie here long enough, he thought, the water will work and eat away my flesh until the bones show like coral. Just my skeleton left. And then the water can build on that skeleton - green things, deep-water things, red things, yellow things. Change. Change. Slow, deep, silent change. And isn't that what it is up there?

 He saw the sky submerged above him, the sun made Martian by atmosphere and time and space.

Up there, a big river, he thought, a Martian river, all of us lying deep in it, in our pebble houses, in our sunken boulder houses, like crayfish hidden, and the water washing away our old bodies and lengthening the bones and -

He let himself drift up through the soft light.

 Tim sat on the edge of the canal, regarding his father seriously. “Utha,” he said.

“What?” asked his father.

The boy smiled. 'You know. Utha's the Martian word for "father".' “Where did you learn it?”

“I don't know. Around. Utha!” “What do you want?”

The boy hesitated. “I - I want to change my name.” “Change it?”

“Yes.”

 His mother swam over. “What's wrong with Tim for a name?”

 Tim fidgeted. “The other day you called Tim, Tim, Tim. I didn't even hear. I said to myself, That's not my name. I've a new name I want to use.”

Mr. Bittering held to the side of the canal, his body cold and his heart pounding slowly. “What is this new name?”

“Linnl. Isn't that a good name? Can I use it? Can I, please?”

 Mr. Bittering put his hand to his head. He thought of the rocket, himself working alone, himself alone even among his family, so alone.

 He heard his wife say, “Why not?”

 He heard himself say, “Yes, you can use it.” “Yaaa!” screamed the boy. “I'm Linnl, Linnl!”

Racing down the meadowlands, he danced and shouted. Mr. Bittering looked at his wife. “Why did we do that?”

“I don't know,” she said. “It just seemed like a good idea.”

 They walked into the hills. They strolled on old mosaic paths, beside still-pumping fountains. The paths were covered with a thin film of cool water all summer long. You kept your bare feet cool all the day, splashing as in a creek, wading.

They came to a small deserted Martian villa with a good view of the valley. It was on top of a hill.

Blue marble halls, large murals, a swimming pool. It was refreshing in this hot summertime. The Martians hadn't believed in large cities.

“How nice,” said Mrs. Bittering, “if you could move up here to this villa for the summer.”

“Come on,” he said. “We're going back to town. There's work to be done on the rocket.”

 But as he worked that night, the thought of the cool blue marble villa entered his mind. As the hours passed, the rocket seemed less important.

In the flow of days and weeks, the rocket receded and dwindled. The old fever was gone. It frightened him to think he had let it slip this way. But somehow the heat, the air, the working conditions-

 He heard the men murmuring on the porch of his metal shop. “Everyone's going. You heard?”

“All right. That's right.”

 Bittering came out. “Going where?” He saw a couple of trucks, loaded with children and furniture, drive down the dusty street.

“Up to the villa,” said the man.

 “Yeah, Harry. I'm going. So is Sam. Aren't you, Sam?” “That's right, Harry. What about you?”

“I've got work to do here.”

 “Work! You can finish that rocket in the autumn, when it's cooler.” He took a breath. “I got the frame all set up.”

“In the autumn is better.” Their voices were lazy in the heat. “Got to work,” he said.

“Autumn,” they reasoned. And they sounded so sensible, so right. “Autumn would be best,” he thought. “Plenty of time, then.”

No! cried part of himself, deep down, put away, locked tight, suffocating. No! No! “In the autumn,” he said.

“Come on, Harry,” they all said.

 “Yes,' he said, feeling his flesh melt in the hot liquid air. “Yes, in the autumn. I'll begin work again then.”

 “I got a villa near the Tirra Canal,” said someone.

“You mean the Roosevelt Canal, don't you?” “Tirra. The old Martian name.”

“But on the map – “

 “Forget the map. It's Tirra now. Now I found a place in the Pillan mountains – “ “You mean the Rockefeller range,” said Bittering.

“I mean the Pillan mountains,” said Sam.

 “Yes,” said Bittering, buried in the hot, swarming air. “The Pillan mountains.”

 Everyone worked at loading the truck in the hot, still afternoon of the next day. Laura, Tim, and David carried packages. Or, as they preferred to be known, Ttil, Linnl, and Werr carried packages.

The furniture was abandoned in the little white cottage.

 “It looked just fine in Boston,” said the mother. “And here in the cottage. But up at the villa? No.

We'll get it when we come back in the autumn. “ Bittering himself was quiet.

“I've some ideas on furniture for the villa,” he said, after a time. “Big, lazy furniture.” “What about your Encyclopedia? You're taking it along, surely?”

Mr. Bittering glanced away. 'I'll come and get it next week.”

 They turned to their daughter. “What about your New York dresses?” The bewildered girl stared. “Why, I don't want them anymore.”

They shut off the gas, the water, they locked the doors and walked away. Father peered into the truck.

 “Gosh, we're not taking much,” he said. “Considering all we brought to Mars, this is only a handful!”

 He started the truck.

 Looking at the small white cottage for a long moment, he was filled with a desire to rush to it, touch it, say goodbye to it, for he felt as if he were going away on a long journey, leaving something to which he could never quite return, never understand again.

“Where did they go?” he wondered. He glanced at his wife. She was golden and slender as his daughter. She looked at him, and he seemed almost as young as their eldest son.

“I don't know,” she said.

 “We'll go back to town maybe next year, or the year after, or the year after that,” he said, calmly. “Now - I'm warm. How about taking a swim?”

They turned their backs to the valley. Arm in arm they walked silently down a path of clear running spring water.

Five years later, a rocket fell out of the sky. It lay steaming in the valley. Men leaped out of it, shouting.

“We won the war on Earth! We're here to rescue you! Hey!”

 But the American-built town of cottages, peach trees, and theatres was silent. They found a flimsy rocket frame, rusting in an empty shop.

 The rocket men searched the hills. The captain established head-quarters in an abandoned bar.

His lieutenant came back to report.

 “The town's empty, but we found native life in the hills, Sir. Dark people. Yellow eyes. Martians.

Very friendly. We talked a bit, not much. They learn English fast. I'm sure our relations will be most friendly with them, Sir.”

 “Dark, eh?” mused the captain. “How many?”

 “Six, eight hundred, I'd say, living in those marble ruins in the hills, Sir. Tall, healthy. Beautiful women.”

“Did they tell you what became of the men and women who built this Earth settlement, Lieutenant?”

“They hadn't the foggiest notion of what happened to this town or its people.” “Strange. You think those Martians killed them?”

“They look surprisingly peaceful. Chances are a plague did this town in, sir.”

 “Perhaps. I suppose this is one of those mysteries we'll never solve. One of those mysteries you read about.”

The captain looked at the room, the dusty windows, the blue mountains rising beyond, the canals moving in the light, and he heard the soft wind in the air. He shivered. Then, recovering, he tapped a large fresh map he had thumb-tacked to the top of an empty table.

“Lots to be done, Lieutenant.” His voice droned on and quietly on as the sun sank behind the blue hills. “New settlements. Mining sites, minerals to be looked for. Bacteriological specimens taken.

The work, all the work. And the old records were lost. We'll have a job of remapping to do, renaming the mountains and rivers and such. Calls for a little imagination.”

“What do you think of naming those mountains the Lincoln Mountains, this canal the Washington Canal, those hills - we can name those hills for you, Lieutenant. Diplomacy. And you, for a favor, might name a town for me. Polishing the apple. And why not make this the Einstein Valley, and further over ... are you listening, Lieutenant?”

 The lieutenant snapped his gaze from the blue color and the quiet mist of the hills far beyond the town.

 “What? Oh, yes, Sir.”

[disparais]

dear ma-ma,

where do i even start?

i didn’t know it, but you are one of the most important people in my life - one of my constants that accompanied me from childhood through young adulthood. i know you will be with me for the rest of my life.

there are so many golden memories we have shared. i wish there had been someone to capture them all - your primness and fussiness, your faux annoyance, your doting smile.

you were here before my memories even began, holding chubby little me and looking at me like i was the most precious thing you had ever seen. i take pride in being able to squeeze a proper smile out of you on camera, because of the prim barely-there smiles you favour.

in my early childhood, you came over just about every other day. you’d drive your manual nissan sunny carefully, wearing your sunglasses and looking more chic than i could ever hope to. you always had fisherman’s peppermints and fox sweets in your handbag, and always slipped me a sweet treat before afternoon naps on my dreamy blue mattress. afternoons with you were the best, where you’d close the heavy curtains and turn on the air-conditioner, and pat-pat me to sleep.

i remember fighting with you over the channels on every single television available to us. you always wanted to watch teletext, astute investor that you were, and i always wanted to watch little bear (but also i just wanted to annoy you sometimes because it was hilarious getting you riled up). that’s how you became mama bear to me. (and yes, you more or less always gave in to me. i know you enjoyed these little fights too.)

yes, i also definitely deliberately aimed the fan at your hair occasionally, delighting in your ruffled feathers as you crossly patted your hair back into place.

thursday lunches with you and kong-kong were the best. i felt like a little princess going out with you both to the hotel, eating my favourite dim-sum and scampering around the hotel between courses. some days we’d eat at jack’s place too - it will always have a special place in my heart because of how much you enjoyed the experience of eating there.

whether at thursday lunches or sunday dinners, you always checked to make sure i was enjoying the food, and that i had eaten enough. you always advocated to order the dishes i really loved, and made sure to take note of what i liked so that you could remember to order it again the next time round. you always gave me the last coveted piece of food.

i definitely get my love for ice-cream and grocery shopping from you. perhaps my favourite memories are the golden afternoons where we’d share a 25-cent vanilla cone, then go to ntuc where i’d push your trolley around and take pride in carrying your groceries. i still do this for amy all the time, even though she complains that i’m too obsessive about keeping the trolley neat.

on the drives home, you’d always complain about everything under the sun. i have no idea why, but your complaining is the funniest thing ever and you’d always ask me faux-sternly what i was laughing at. i don’t know if you knew that sometimes i’d tell you a triggering detail just to provoke another mini-rant, just for my entertainment.

your home was more or less my second home. so many of my sun-tinged memories were forged here. i’d delight in digging up your tiny garden, only to hit the paving of gravel perhaps 20 centimeters into the ground. i certainly felt like a little adult, wielding the little trowel and thinking i was helping the plants flourish by “turning the soil”.

somehow, you’d allow me back into your spotless house (i always tell people i’d be willing to eat an entire meal off your floor, it was that clean), sternly instructing me to scrub my hands and feet clean before continuing to run amok.

you allowed me to drape a mattress and your comforter over the clothes rack in the spare room, where i loved to build my own blanket fort and hide out. even though you probably thought it was silly, you indulged me anyway, just like you did my soft toy show-and-tells. i am so glad some of my soft toys got to meet you; i loved shocking you with fog, and i am sure he will remember you always too. fatty will probably remember you, since he remembers anyone who calls him out for being fat.

perhaps the adult in my life who was the most supportive of my sweet tooth, you always offered me chocolates from your fridge. fearful of my mother’s reproach, i started to decline when i grew a bit older, but looking back, i wish i had accepted every one. it’s not like i didn’t sneak a truffle or two sometimes, when my cravings overcame my ability to resist.

you were always so happy when i slept over. only upon looking back that i realize your half-jokes about when i would sleep over again were not as much jokes as much as they were your way of expressing that you love and miss tiny me. i’m so sorry i didn’t realize before it was too late.

you’d complain that i was a “lazy pig” who was hard to rouse from bed and loved to nap, but you did so with a smile - and you were the one who would always turn your air-con on on full blast and ask me to sleep, you totally set me up! somehow, sharing a room with you, sleep was never far from me, even though the same cannot be said about the mosquitoes.

but my favourite memories of you have to be family dinners. not the sunday dinners, where i had to dress up in stiff frocks and be on my best behaviour as the littlest hotel heiress. just the regular dinners at your house, where you captured my heart with your food, which has always been and likely will always be the best home-cooked food to me. where dinner always started at 6pm, and being the playful kid that i was, it’d take multiple shouts to tear a reluctant little me away from my blanket fort and trot down the stairs.

i used to clamour to eat at your place all the time. i probably upset my mom because i said nowhere else had food like yours, especially the food at our own house which was way worse. (this is objective and i still stand by it - you’re the only person that consistently cooks vegetables so delicious you have me scrambling to finish the entire plate.) she commented that you probably added msg to your dishes, but i always believe you didn’t - your dishes were always delicious in a way that no artificial flavouring could achieve.

i promise i will learn the recipes that are close to our hearts. it is so fortunate that you passed a few on to my helpers - much as you disliked them, i know you wanted me to be able to enjoy the dishes i loved so much. i regret that you never got to try food i personally prepared, but i will always vividly remember the taste of your cooking, and strive to recreate our dinner classics. please excuse me while i list them:

- finely chopped chinese cabbage / phuay leng with sukiyaki beef stir-fry - phuay leng and garlic stir-fry - prawns in tomato sauce with white onions - sausage or scallion omelette - chicken abalone chinese cabbage button mushroom soup - crab meat ball and bamboo shoot soup

there is no price i would not pay to get to eat a dinner together one last time, and perhaps even be the one to cook it for you.

you are so inspirational. i do not know any other person who truly started with hardly anything, lived through the horrors of the japanese occupation, then turned their lives around to become so wildly successful. amy says during your first job as a cashier, you began dabbling in investments, and subsequently ended up fired because you were checking stock indices and planning investments on the job. she says you have the midas touch, and i definitely believe that - everything you touched is cast with a golden hue in the halls of my mind. you got to fall in love with kong-kong, and travel europe and america, and have two beautiful daughters who love and care for you like no other. i wonder how ruby feels about this loss - surely your broker had to be close to you in some way, given how often i saw you calling her.

despite starting with nothing, you worked and saved and invested to build up your reserves. you even kindly offered to sponsor my school fees, knowing that my brother is such a financial stressor on my family. i dearly wish you had been able to see me graduate - i wanted to tell my parents to give up one of their tickets to you at my graduation, because i know it was such a dream for you to see me become a fully-fledged doctor. i will study hard and strive to be a good doctor in the years to come. i will do my best by all my patients, and strive to have a heart for them and their family just like your doctors did for you and ours.

in spite of your family turmoil, you were the only one who had the heart to check in on aunty betty, calling her daily to engage her, even when her own children had disowned her because of what she had done to them. you made amends with your other remaining siblings in your later years, and i hope that was healing in some way.

you definitely have a place in the hearts of the old ladies in church, who always ask after you. even though church may not mean the same thing to you that it does to amy, pauline or even myself, i know it was special to you, because you made time for it - and you were never the kind to spend a moment frivolously (well, besides watching those awful channel 8 dramas. not that i will ever admit i would be riveted to the terrible acting whenever i was sprawled out on the sofa after dinner).

i have no idea how i missed all the signs that you were getting older. perhaps i didn’t want to see them.

when you fell in january 2019, i thought that might be the end of the road. i am so grateful to the surgeons for bringing you back from the brink that time. it was touch and go, but you were always such a fighter. i admire your zest for life and your willingness to cling on for dear life to any chance to survive. i am so thankful that you were able to get discharged last july/august, and that we had almost a full year more where we could still spend time with you, and bring food to you.

you fought so hard to get this second operation. i will always think of the what-ifs and wonder how long more you could have had with us, had you not gone - but deep down inside i know this is exactly what you wanted. you always were so bold and proactive about wanting to get the best out of life, and i know that given a second chance you would still have gotten the operation. you were hopeful almost all the way, and it breaks my heart that while you were still conscious at the end, you were aware that the surgical outcome was not as we had hoped for. it breaks my heart that your last days were spent in the hospital, not in the comfort of your warm and cosy home that you had worked so hard to maintain.

you are so loved. i’m so sorry i never had the courage to tell you this while you were still awake. i wish i had known that last weekend was the last time your eyes would be open. yesterday, i told you all the things i never dared to say while you were still awake. i wept over the seeming unfairness of it all, and how fast it all happened. i begged for another dinner together. i told you it was okay to let go; you had to be tired - if not in spirit, at least in body.

at the time, i wasn’t sure if you could hear me, but after steven and joel went, i am sure you were there. amy told me that your blood pressure was fluctuating but still holding up when gemma left 10 minutes prior to their arrival. by the time they entered the room, the blood pressure dropped to 50/30, and your heart rate had slowed from your usual tachycardic state to 55. joel said a prayer over you, and then amy watched as your vitals dropped to zero. amy said it took less than 5 minutes. the timing is nothing short of miraculous. i knew then that even when the time was up, you fought so hard to stay, just to say goodbye to steven and joel. your spirit and tenacity always astound me.

i miss you so much already. you loved me so much and so well and i’m so sorry i never made enough time to show you how much you mattered to me as well. but you have fought the good fight, and finished the race. you spent your whole life working and striving for a better life. you deserve eternal rest and peace.

i hope you are somewhere better now. somewhere where you get to eat everything you wanted to, somewhere sparkling clean and comfortable, somewhere nice and fancy, where the breeze is gentle and won’t mess up your hair. i hope you’re able to walk arm in arm with kong-kong again, and embrace eternity with him.

in time, i too will join you. one day we will have sunday dinners again. until then, safe travels and rest well. i love you.

love, isabel

p.s. don’t be a worrywart. we will be fine, i promise.

[souslejaune]

During the food shortage my sister... (Folio 1: Part 4)

iii

During the food shortage my sister and I spent our hours reading. In the rainbow world of the written word we found holes in which to hide from the reality of our existence. 

On the news we saw flickering images of flat bodies steamrollered by hunger. People dotted the city waiting for rations of flour and yellow corn. We had never seen yellow corn before the drought, but it was the colour of the corn the American government finally sent us as aid. Ronald Reagan’s yellow reaction to humanitarian pressure. The Americans didn't owe us anything but because the corn was yellow, our gratitude was measured. 

Kenkey, a national staple made from fermented corn: milled, rolled into balls, wrapped in corn husks and punctured in the middle to hold the husks in place and provide better heat transfer; changed its colour from white to yellow like a chameleon. No amount of boiling could make the shade fade. We could no longer identify with our food. 

Grandma’s chronic need to consume kenkey before she declared herself sated meant that she was never full during the drought. Yellow kenkey was a hollow statement. 

Men wandered around with bloodshot eyes seeking answers. The parched ground offered nothing. Even priests and witchdoctors queued for food. There was an air of persistent mourning. Richer families crossed the border to Togo or La Côte D’Ivoire to buy food that had been shipped in from France. The entire West African sub-region was hit by dry Sahelian winds that came to steal moisture from plants and render them barren. Across the region, breezes played a new kind of music – no longer did we hear the harmonious chorus of green shoots; instead a harsh rattle of brown stalks making sticks of themselves invaded the air, assaulting us, striking a frantic rhythm that left dancers spent. France supported its former colonies with vital food shipments. Although they remained hungry in those countries they thinned slower. 

My father drove out into the villages and farming communities where there was still some food, and brought sacks of food home. Plantain, cassava and yam. Tomatoes were scarce. Out of season, they festered like wounds across the nation. There was no infrastructure to process them and our people didn’t like sun-dried tomatoes. Our Uncles and Aunts heard about my father’s haul quickly. Faster than the sweep of bush fires across the farmlands. They came for their “share” of the spoils and later conveniently forgot about us when they managed to get a store of food. My mother told my father that he was too kind-hearted, even though her sister, Stella, was one of the Aunts that came to take our food away. 

All through the drama Naana and I read. We fought in the Spanish Civil War alongside Hemingway’s heroes Anselmo, Pablo, Pilar, Maria and the tragic Robert Johnson. We watched them plot and double cross and fall in love and die. We ached with them. We cried with them until the bell for our single meal tolled. 

In 1984 a Japanese philanthropist called Ryoichi Sasakawa brought food aid to Ghana and started to consult with West African governments on finding a lasting solution to our sensitivity to drought. I immediately read everything I could about Japan. It wasn't easy reading. While I admired them for Judo and for Walkmans, they had a terrifying history of violence; in Malaysia, in the Philippines, in China – even in Russia. They were just like the British in South Africa and India and Kenya. Still, I decried the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and got mad at the United States for putting over 100,000 Japanese Americans in captivity at the end of World War II. The anger came easily. We were still eating yellow kenkey and Grandma was developing a permanent look of hunger. 

That year – 1984 – was an especially difficult year for my sister Naana. She was studying for her A-levels and had to deal with hunger at the same time. Rations at her boarding school reduced dramatically. Her workload increased in an inverse relation to the rations. Predictably, her head appeared to grow ahead of the rest of her body. She looked like a stick drawing by a talented five-year-old. Still, Grandma said she couldn’t afford to weaken or stumble. The exam questions were oblivious to the question of hunger amongst the masses. Universities the world over would still rank us by the same criteria as everyone else, because modern society has no sensitivity to life. I tried to help. Anytime she was home, I read her notes to her when she started doing something that prevented her from reading herself. I read outside the bathroom door. I read in the kitchen and by the ironing table. She began to speak to me like a friend rather than a little brother. We talked about everything and made jokes about our hunger. 

“Don’t hold your finger too close to my face,” she’d say. “It looks too much like food and I might bite.” 

“If you bite, I might think you’re a big fish. Perfect for kenkey.” 

We’d laugh a pained laughter that involved as little motion as possible, although Naana’s head still shook involuntarily anytime she laughed. Every time I made a comparison with something from Great Expectations, which had become my habit after reading the full version that year, her head would shake silently. 

 We were as close as twins until our parents decided that GeeMaa – my father’s mother – should come and live with us, since living alone in hard times is doubly hard. Naana automatically lost her bedroom and had to share mine. I did my best to make it easy for her but I was very untidy, and I refused to move my mounted spider, which gave her the creeps. Sixteen is a terrible age to lose your privacy. Particularly if you are female. Hormones kick in. Unfamiliar cycles become bedmates. Changes occur almost daily. You need time and space to adapt. Apart from the obvious sexual differences, I was a curious boy with a penchant for reading. Her diaries, letters, notes and schoolbooks became targets. She had no inclination to share the soaked blood of her growing pains and concerns with me. I was too wide-eyed. My questions too detailed. We grew apart. 

Nevertheless I think I was good for her. I asked her endless questions about her schoolwork; asked until she could reel off answers without thinking. I also pestered her with information from my favourite information trove – the encyclopaedia – and what I had gleaned from old magazines. 

“Naana, did you know that Somoza Garcia’s dictatorship in Nicaragua was supported by the US?” 

 Impatiently, “No.” 

“Twenty years. Then his brother took over, then his son…” 

“Ebo, I’m trying to study.” 

“Oh, OK. What is it today? I didn’t understand the differentiation thing you explained yesterday.” 

“Ebo!” 

“OK. Just give me the book.” 

 She threw it at me. 

 When I wasn’t with her, I spoke to GeeMaa. 

GeeMaa liked to go for walks. We left our house in Tesano and strolled. Sometimes to the Industrial Area. Sometimes to North Kaneshie. She bought me groundnuts on the way when we could find some. The dusty roads had become dustier still. With fewer traders lining the banks of the open gutters along the roads, the city had become a faded monochrome of its former self. GeeMaa seemed impervious to the despair that clung to the city like grey blight on trees. She told me fantastic stories. Water maidens, sorcerers and the living dead. Being the student I was, turned on by basic science and its neat explanations, questioned her stories. She always smiled when I doubted her. “Mi bi, there are two sides to every story,” she would say. “More than two sometimes.” 

It was the same thing she said when I asked her about my grandfather, FatherGrandpa, whom I had only met twice. She said it with a tender smile. With the quiet assurance that Mr. Wemmick from Great Expectations had when saying “portable property.” The clear air of those who have tested the truth of their statements. On the way home she often recited her favourite poem

Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Alone at home with her one afternoon, I told her about my Dee Dee dreams. It was a Friday and I was helping her slice onions in the kitchen. I chopped onions so regularly that I no longer cried when I did. GeeMaa had taken over in the kitchen since she moved in with us. She insisted she had nothing else to do and she didn’t want to be waited on. Her intervention was well-timed. The drought had pushed prices up and, although the food situation was improving, prices showed no inclination of easing down. With GeeMaa living with us my mother didn’t need to be home as much so she went back to work as an accountant. Business was slow in my father’s hardware store; sales of farming implements had reduced to a trickle. He continued to sell cooking utensils and specialist items like laboratory equipment, but his income was not enough to support the family. Undeterred, he contemplated importing irrigation devices from China. He revealed this while we were cleaning his well-kept Datsun. 

“It will be the next big thing,” he announced with a smile. “The drought has taught everyone that rain is not a reliable servant.” 

 My father’s optimism always made me smile.

—–

continued >> here <<… | start from beginning? | current projects: The City Will Love You and a collection of poems, The Geez

[oddpeanut-blog]

Emma Loves Her Flowers!

Hiya! I’m Emma, I guess I caught your eye because of my friendly smile. Well, I love making new friends so I’d love for you to give me a cuddle!

When I grow up to be as tall as you, I really dream of being a florist. You know, a rag doll who arranges flowers in a lovely, little flower shop. Flowers are so beautiful that I’ve actually started keeping a little collection here on the window sill, do you want to see them? Oh dear, they look sad. I guess flowers don’t last forever, sigh. I hope I’ll get the chance to collect some more soon! Normally I just sit here on this window ledge and dream of going outdoors. Let me tell you about the time I went out with my owner Janie, and she showed me so many beautiful things!

It took me by surprise when Janie came running into the bedroom, closely followed by our basset hound. Janie and Tommy called him King Alfred because he always looks so grand. This morning he was very excited, he had heard his trigger word whispered by mother - W.A.L.K and he was ready to go crazy and let off some steam!

“Emma, we’re going on a trip! Mommy said I could choose one toy to bring with me!”

Janie picked me up and I found myself placed in the front pocket of her backpack. This was going to be brilliant, I’m in the perfect position to peak and see out!

It was a bumpy ride as she thundered down the stairs as mom waited at the door. King Alfred was still panting and barking from excitement.

“We’re going over the back fields and through the meadows.” Explained Mom. “I’ve packed us some sandwiches and treats so we can stop for a picnic!”

“Oh boy, I was hoping to get a taste of some of Mom’s baking.” I thought to myself, I’ve always just smelled her baking as it floats upstairs to the bedroom.

The sun was shining warm that morning and it was lighting up every pathway. After escaping from our little close of houses, Janie hopped over a fence into a wide and open field. When she jumped, I think she had forgotten me for a few seconds. What was to her a small hop over a fence, was to me a massive flying distance! I am just a little rag doll after all. The few moments of flying were enough to stay planted in my memory for many, many years.

Janie slid her backpack down onto one shoulder and I was so close that I could brush my fingers along the tips of the grass, the dew of the grass kissed my fingertips and it felt like electricity. I could smell summer for the first time ever, Janie kicked up the cut grass and the freshness was sweet. The feeling of the fresh air rushing through my cotton hair was beyond belief. I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything, being taken outdoors into this meadow was like heaven for me. As far as my eyes could see more and more buttercups seemed to appear. They are like little yellow buttons and that is why they are my favorite flowers! I also saw some flowers that had been planted by a gardener who looks after the area. Janie saw him and waved!

“Will you join us for a cup of tea?” asked Mom, she was so embarrassing! Nevertheless, the gardeners face lit up at the idea and he accepted the tea break keenly.

We reached a spot under a big oak tree and Janie and Mom shook open the large checked picnic mat. Oh my Goodness, it was nearly time to get Mom’s cake out and enjoy some tasty food. I knew that Janie would let me sip some imaginary tea, but this time, maybe I could get a crumb of cake as well! I was happy to come out of the front pocket and be propped up against the old tree trunk. Out came the food, and what a spread it was! Ginger nuts and sausage rolls, pineapple chunks and pickled onions, and many other delicious treats.

Mom and the gardener were chatting together and so Janie played with me, as King Edward was busying himself growling and digging a deep hole for one of the chicken bones. I was very interested in hearing the gardener talking so excitedly about all the different types of flowers that he liked working with. He pointed to his favorites and explained why turnips only grow in winter. He just loved planting seeds so small and letting them grow into something so marvelous.

“I’ve eaten so much I think I could burst!” exclaimed Janie.

“Come on Emma, let’s lie on the grass and look at the clouds.”

So we did. We lay there and stared as the clouds moved into their slow dance across the sky, morphing and shaping into new fluffy white beings. I could see horses and dolphins, and great mountains, kind old faces appeared and disappeared. I sure was a lucky rag doll.

I have to admit that the day trip to the meadow had made me feel quite sleepy, and I felt happy and cozy when Janie slid me back into the front pocket of her back pack and we headed back home as the afternoon drew to a close. So, now I’m happy to sit on the windowsill and look out, because I have fond memories of everything that goes on outdoors! But, let me tell you a secret… I’m waiting and hoping for another adventure soon! Will you explore with me? Maybe we could go in the car… I’ve always wanted to see inside one of those big machines!

_____________________________________________________________

As you can see a lot of fun awaits any little girl who loves dolls. She can’t wait to find a new home with you and be the best of friends!    

If you’re looking for a sweet baby doll, for your child, family member, friend, or any child in your care, then Zoe is the perfect option!

If you know of anyone who would enjoy her then please share her with others!

Much Love,

Crystal@oddpeanutshop

[kvmedia]

Superstition

I was going to die alone, all because of a parrot. 

My father wanted a son, but he settled for me and a bird instead. It was exotic, clever, and obedient “like the perfect woman!” he’d say. Every day he kissed his little emerald jewel, fed him rice and sang to him. Soon enough, the bird sang the words right back, bobbing its head up and down as it climbed across our shoulders. We didn’t clip its wings, so it crapped everywhere. It left stains on our couch, on my mother’s wedding portraits, on the carpet, on the kitchen sink. It’d sit on our small television and squawk, “amor, amor, amor”  the chorus of an Angeles Azules song, for hours on end. I used to believe my mother took pleasure in startling it away from wherever it perched just to watch it fly off in a panic.

   A parrot in a household of women is bad news. It’s superstition, just one of the many ancient oral histories that stitch the women in my family together. The stories are mystic heirlooms you revisit when logical explanations for life’s absurdities aren’t enough. I was ten when I first heard the ending of the parrot story. My grandma and my mother were in the kitchen chatting as I had an afternoon snack at the dinner table.

   “Grace will never find a husband with this parrot here,” my grandma said. The bird was sitting on the back of a chair, gnawing at the wood. My mother smiled shyly in response.“You should be more worried! My granddaughter’s going to be a spinster and you’re chopping onions!”

   “Relax.” She said, wiping her brow. “I’m making it into a stew for Fèlix to eat!” Suddenly, the parrot flew away into the living room and their laughter spilled onto the pots and pans. “It heard you!” my grandma squealed.

   The parrot story completely defined my childhood. I was obsessed with marriage. I played house, imitating my mother. My stuffed tiger was me and my wooden horse was my father. “The car broke down. I think Grace is sick! Why do you come home so late, I told you I need more money!”  I cleaned, swore, and served the horse a plate of food. My father walked in on me one day and I froze. His bellowing voice startled me and I winced, waiting for contact. He walked over and playfully yanked at my ponytail.“Teresa, come look at your daughter!” He laughed and planted a kiss on my head. At ease, I looked up at him and felt important. At parties, relatives asked, “what does Mámi say?” and the entire room would break into hysterics when I repeated my game. 

   When I grew to truly understand the myth, I wasn’t upset about my fate. I was more startled by how long parrots live. It remained my father’s beloved companion for fifteen years. I tried to set it free once but when I stuck my hand into its cage, it bit me. Blood peeked out of my forefinger and formed a small red bead. When it finally died, my father buried it in our backyard. I came home from work on a hot summer day and found my father staring at the ground.

   “Is he okay?” I asked my mother.

   “Who knows?” she shrugged.

   Now I had no excuse... Years went by. At thirty I felt like a cactus, prickly and unapproachable. “A real man will see how pretty you are,” my mother said. But my entire family mocked me. Aunts, uncles, and cousins claimed my clock was ticking. Their advice suffocated me. “You should get a cat, they’re good luck. Go dancing! What about a dating website? My friend’s neighbor is cute, I can look into it? TEA LEAVES! Let’s brew some tea and look at your future, Grace!” Their endless chatter was like the bird’s, squawking “amor, amor, amor.” One cold afternoon in October, my grandmother and I were sitting in the living room. She reached behind the couch and handed me a colorful hand woven bag with something heavy inside.

  “Y esto?” I asked. She smiled and motioned for me to look inside. I pulled out a very ornate statue of St. Anthony of Padua. He was frowning and held a chubby baby Jesus close to his chest. I rubbed my thumb over the statue’s creases. “Para que es?” I asked. My grandma chuckled deep in her throat and winked. “Ask your mother, she’ll know what to do.”

   Later, I went into the kitchen and found my mother mopping the floor. I showed her the statue. She chirped and the mop fell with a sudden thwack! I placed the statue on the kitchen table and she frantically took my face into her wrinkly, cold hands.“Of course... how could I forget?” She scanned my face as if seeing something in me she hadn’t before. She let go of my face and pointed at St. Anthony. “Grace, he’s very miraculous. He’ll bring you-” “Oh, no! Enough!” I said. I was done with rituals. I was done with the ways the women of my family went about getting what they wanted. It always involved waiting.

   “But Grace, he’ll bring you a husband!” She said, smiling. She put St. Anthony on the windowsill above the sink, flipping him on his head. Now it looked like he was holding Jesus from his fat toes, about to drop him to his death. I pointed. “That’s going to work?!” I asked. “Parece, brujeria!” My father strolled into the kitchen, grabbing some leftovers from the fridge. “Teresa, leave her alone. It’s too late.” “Félix, go away!” she yelled, swatting at him with a rag. He laughed and scurried back into the living room. “Grace, It’s easy.” My mother lowered her voice. She picked up the mop and resumed. “You flip him over, pray to him, offer 13 silver coins and then circle him 13 times.”

   “Que ridiculo, ma.” I wasn’t convinced. 

   She hit me playfully with the mop, “Shh! Don’t say that! This worked for my cousin and your aunt Silvia! It works for all women in need.” “What about actual women in need? Like the ones dying of cancer?” I flipped St. Anthony upright. My mother smacked her gums and glared at me. “I hope God didn’t hear you, Graciela.” She put the mop in a bucket and placed a hand on her hip. “Why can’t you be a normal girl?!”

   I couldn’t sleep that night.  I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, but then decided on a beer. I walked to the refrigerator in the darkness. When I opened the door, the light of the bulb illuminated the kitchen sink and I saw St. Anthony holding baby Jesus in mid-air. I took a sip and then turned him upright again. “This... is... stupid.” I whispered. I sat at the kitchen table staring at St. Anthony, running my finger over his frown. The kitchen clock was ticking...3am.

   I never even wanted to get married, but my family made it sound like an epic romance, like a dance I shouldn’t sit out on. I thought of my mother’s wedding photos, of my memories of us going out together. They built a home. They built a life, for me. After another Modelo, I completed the ritual just like my mother instructed. I sat there afterwards, holding my breath in the dark. I knew it was superstition, but this time it felt like faith.

[jamesnovakwinchester]

SBLW - Day 1

Benny

Despite the fact that it was Sam’s idea to invite Benny to move into the bunker after they returned from Purgatory together, things are still chilly between the two of them, to say the least. Not that Benny didn’t make an effort to thaw the ice. 

After a year in the trenches with him, he knows how Dean can be and he knows he’s heard nothing but good things about Sam from him. So he’s willing to overlook the original animosity between himself and Sam. After all, Sam and Dean are a rare kind of hunter to let a vampire live, let alone be making room for him in their home. So he made himself right at home in the bunker’s kitchen, whipping up the rich Cajun foods his mamma used to make and baking pies in every flavor in hope of one of them striking Sam’s fancy. 

He tried not to feel disheartened when Sam only picked at the food he cooked and never went for dessert. Benny knows he’s a good cook. He hasn’t eaten real food in a cool century, but judging by the pornographic sounds Dean makes as he eats his third helping, Benny thinks it’s safe to say he hasn’t lost his touch. 

It isn’t until Dean finally takes pity on Benny and tells him how his little brother prefers “rabbit food” to the heart attack inducing meals that Dean would reminisce about when they were in Purgatory together that Benny thinks he can start making some headway with the little Winchester. He knows it’s absurd to think of Sam Winchester as little, but still recovering from the toll of the trials, he is no longer the intimidating figure Benny thought of him as after their first meeting. 

Benny asks Sam to take him to the farmer’s market the next day. He feigns ignorance about where to find one and even pretends he can’t understand how to use the GPS on his confangled new cell phone with the too small buttons that Dean insisted he get. Sam looks a little suspicious, but he’s never been outright rude to Benny so he gives in. 

Benny’s attempts at making conversation on the drive there are met with grunts and one word answers. Sam seems lost in thought so eventually Benny gives up and they lapse into heavy silence.

Sam

Sam knows he’s being a bit irrational. He’s never been the type of hunter to overlook the existence of good in monsters. Dean is the one who usually sees things in black and white. Things have just felt so… upside down since he got back from Hell. After the demon blood, after being soulless, he just wanted to do good, to be good. To be worthy of Dean’s love. To not fuck up again. But it seems that’s all Sam does. 

Things are so tangled up in Sam’s head these days, like his mind is still fatigued from the trials, that it’s hard to tell what hunter morality he’s supposed to follow now. Trying to work out whether he should trust Benny to have his back on a hunt or whether he should bar his bedroom door at night seems like a Herculean task. Benny used to kill to feed, but now he doesn’t. If killing people means Benny should die, does that mean Sam should, too? The answer to that should be easy, but it’s not anymore. There are things… The things Dean said to him. Benny has been more of a brother to me this past year than you’ve ever been. And then there are the trials and everything they meant. You’re a monster, Sam– a vampire. And there is Amy, always Amy. No matter how hard you try, you are what you are. You will kill again. And the constant fear in the back of Sam’s mind that none of this is real. You gotta believe me. You’ve gotta make it stone number one and build on it. And Amy who didn’t ask to be a monster, and Jacob who didn’t deserve to lose his mother. You can be pissed all you want, but quit being a bitch. And, and… It doesn’t matter, in the end. Keeping his distance from Benny, from everyone really, is for the best anyway. Lucifer is probably playing a trick on him and any minute now he’ll wake up and–

“Sam, Sam, SAM!!!” He comes to to Benny shaking his shoulder, horns blaring behind them as the light they are standing at has turned green. Face burning in embarrassment, Sam drives the rest of the way to the farmer’s market under Benny’s watchful gaze. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, cher?” Benny asks for the fifth time. The term of endearment makes Sam’s cheeks burn for a different reason, although he can’t say what that is. 

“Yeah, Benny, I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“You always start hyperventilating when you’re lost in thought?” Sam doesn’t have an answer for that, but considering he could’ve gotten them both killed, he decides to be nice to Benny for the rest of the day.

Instead of going off and doing his own thing, Sam dutifully follows Benny around the farmer’s market as he purchases red onions, various kinds of peppers, mushrooms, beets, spinach, clementines, and fresh goat cheese from the vendors Sam recommends.

Against his better judgment, Sam finds it cute that a big bear of a man can be so serious about picking mushrooms that are the perfect ripeness. 

Dean

The last thing Dean expects to see when he comes to the kitchen for his pre-dinner refreshment is Benny cooking something that smells delicious on the stove. Wait, no, he sees that a lot these days and he loves it. But seeing his brother in there with the vampire is a surprise. 

Sam’s at the table chopping stuff up and hmming along to a story Benny is telling from his vampirate days about his coven taking over a Caribbean rum-running boat during Prohibition. He’s not saying much, but Dean can tell the history geek inside Sam is giddy at getting to hear a firsthand account. 

Seeing Sammy hunched over a cutting board, that cute line of concentration between his brows as he carefully chops beets (beets?) reminds Dean of the serious look on Sam’s face when he used to do his physics homework as a kid. Cooking has never been Sam’s forte, but he’s making an effort. For Benny. 

Dean feels a pang of jealousy at the thought of his friend cozying up to his brother, but he beats it down with a stick before it can turn into something ugly. Sam deserves better than that from him and Sam deserves a friend. So does Benny, but Sam will always come first because, y’know, soulmates or whatever. Without letting his presence be known, Dean quietly heads back to his room to give them more time to get to know each other.

When Sam comes and gets him for dinner, Dean’s pleasantly surprised to see his little brother eat more than his usual few bites of the vegetarian quiche and spinach and beets (beets!) salad Sam and Benny made together that afternoon. And he’s even more pleased that he doesn’t have to eat that shit because Benny made him country fried steak and mashed potatoes.

Sam and Benny being in a room together for longer than fifteen minutes starts to become a regular occurrence. Sam starts trusting Benny to watch his back on hunts. When Sam and Dean are shooting the shit and having a beer, Benny starts joining them with a blood bag of his own.  When Dean and Benny are making magic happen in the kitchen, Sam shyly asks them what he can do to help. Seeing how well the three of them work as a unit eases the last of the wariness Dean had about Sam and Benny’s growing friendship. And seeing Sam come to life again after the trials makes Dean want to nurture their relationship.

A few weeks after their first trip to the farmer’s market, Sam comes up with the idea to start their own herb garden, saying it’ll be helpful for not only spells, but also cooking. Dean refuses to participate in anything that requires digging in the goddamn dirt like a dog, but he can’t deny it’d be useful. The bunker is so off the beaten path, it takes a good thirty minutes of driving to get to a grocery store, which is a pain in the ass in a pinch.

When Sam and Benny come inside after a few hours of planting their newly purchased seeds, sweaty and covered in soil, Dean can’t help but quip, “You lovebirds have fun getting down and dirty?” Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean doesn’t miss how his cheeks pink up. 

Benny, on the other hand, rises to the bait. “A gentleman never tells, brother.” And he fucking winks at Dean, like that’s a totally okay thing for him to do. 

Dean doesn’t think much of it, however, until a few days later when he comes back to the bunker after a night with a gorgeous brunette with a fantastic rack that he met on Tinder. (“Shut up, Sam, my profile picture fucking rocks.”) On his way to the shower, Dean makes a pit stop in the kitchen for a post-breakfast snack. This time, when he sees Sam and Benny in the kitchen together, locked in a deep kiss, Dean has no qualms about making his presence known.

“All right, all right, keep it in your pants when I’m around, kids. Sammy, go put on a shirt, you’re indecent!” Sam smacks him in the shoulder and starts lecturing him about privacy, Dean, ever heard of it? while Benny grins, cheeky and proud, with his arm around Sam’s waist, and Dean knows they’re gonna be okay. 

-SBLW anon

[bluebird167]

Marinette: The Fairest One of All

Prologue

Once upon a time in a peaceful kingdom, there lived a young king and queen called Tom and Sabine who lacked but one blessing. A child to share their love with, then one happy day the good lord in heaven granted their wish and the queen became with child.

One winter’s night as she sat by her open window sewing a little blanket for her baby, she pricked her finger on the needle. Three drops of blood fell upon the snow of her window sil. She noticed how lovely the red and white colors looked together and how beautiful the night sky was. She also noticed the blue belle flower she had embroidered on to the little pink blanket. Seeing such beauty she began to think.

“If only the child I were about to bring into this world had pretty blue belle eyes, lips red as blood, hair dark as night, and skin white as snow then I would be the happiest woman in the entire kingdom.” She sighed.

Then one day Queen Sabine gave birth to a daughter with pretty blue belle eyes, lips red as blood, hair dark as night, and skin white as snow. The kingdom cheered at how lovely the newborn princess was but unfortunately the birth had been great struggle on the queen and she had such a weak heart that it would soon be time to say goodbye.

“My love.” Tom said kneeling at the bedside of his wife.

“Tom.” She breathed. “Our little one?”

“She’s perfectly healthy and the kingdom loves her already.”

She gently placed her hand over his.

“I’m dying.”

“No.” He said tearfully.

“She will need a mother.” She said weakly. “You must remarry. Please, I know it will be hard but you must for our child.”

“I…I will try.” He sobbed.

She turned to the servants. “Let me see her.”

The nurse walked in carrying a pink bundle and placed it in Sabine’s arms. She pulled back the blanket to reveal a tiny baby girl with short dark hair, sleeping soundly in her mother’s arms. Sabine smiled weakly and planted a kiss on her daughter’s soft head.

“Call her Marinette.” Then her arm fell limp and her eyes fluttered closed as she breathed her last breath. Tom burst into tears and wept bitterly.

The entire kingdom was grief stricken over the death of their beloved queen and after many months of mourning, the king finally decided to honor his wife’s dying wish to find a suitable mother for Marinette.

During his search he traveled through the forest and found an old man wondering.

“Food.” He croaked. “Food for a poor old beggar?” He approached the Tom. “You’re majesty forgive me for bothering you but could you be kind enough to spare a crust of bread for a starving old man?”

He looked at that man, he was skinny, frail, and feeble. About fall over and kick the bucket.

“Merely a crust?” He said. “My friend, a man in your condition deserves a feast. Come back with me to my castle and I will see to it that some meat is put on those old bones.”

So King Tom welcomed the old man as a guest in the castle. He served a hearty meal which satisfied his hunger and appetite greatly.

“Feeling better?” He asked.

“My lord you are too kind.” The old man spoke. “Allow me to reward you, you see I am no ordinary old man I am a wizard of great power. Call me Master Fu.”

“I have been told of such wizards.”

“Now tell me you’re highness what is it you wish the most.”

“All I want is my wife back. She died so our daughter could live, if you could bring her back I would give you all the riches in my kingdom.”

“Alas good king, I cannot raise dead.” He sighed. “But I can find you a new queen.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.”

Master Fu then left and travelled to an old tavern where there lived Lila, an ragged and filthy serving wench. She spent almost everyday serving beer, feeding pigs, and making slop.

“Good day Lila.” Master Fu said.

“What’s so good about it?” She asked as she chopped onions for the slop. “Another day working and being abused by those barbarians!”

“Hey Lila! Where’s my beer!” A man called.

“You’ll have your beer you drunk brute!” She screamed back.

“Lila what if I told you I could give you the life you always dreamed of?”

“Ha-ha. So funny.”

“I mean it. Remember that day you gave me shelter from the rain? Well on that day I vowed I’d find a way to repay you and this is it.”

“And how exactly do you plan to repay me?”

“With this.” He waved his hands making a large mirror appear.

“Take it away!” She cried turning her head. “I hate mirrors! I hate my reflection!”

“It’s magic. It will answer any question truthfully and it will give you what you’ve always wanted.”

“Like I believe that!”

“Just say what you want, more than anything in the world. Say it out loud.”

“Alright I want…I want to be the most beautiful woman in the land.”

“Lila.”

“What?”

“Look at yourself.”

“No!”

“Look.”

“Oh! Fine!” She turned to look at her reflection in the mirror but instead of seeing her usually dirty and muddy self she saw a lovely woman with rich chestnut hair, olive green eyes, and a slender tan body. “Is this a trick?”

“Not at all.”

“So I really look like this.”

“Yes.”

“If it’s true. How can I ever repay you?”

“No need. Just know that this mirror will grant you beauty and knowledge. But remember right now your Beauty is only an illusion for it to become true beauty you must have a good heart.”

“That should not be a problem. Look at me! I’m magnificent.”

“There’s more to your good fortune.” Fu said. “There is a young king who has lost his wife and wants to find a new mother for the child she left behind. Would you be interested?”

“You mean became queen? Is he handsome?”

“Yes in his twenties I believe and he is a kind, fair, and just man.”

“Then I will gladly wed him.”

“Excellent. He is expecting you tomorrow afternoon.”

So the next day King Tom and Lila were married. The kingdom was amazed by the beauty of their new queen and it would seem that all would be well. But as seven years went by, Lila became a selfish and vain woman only finding pleasure in knowing that she and only she was the fairest in all the land. This disappointed Tom greatly, the light of his life was his little daughter Marinette who was such a sweet and loving child.

“Can’t catch me Papa!” The little girl giggled as her father chased her around the castle gardens.

“I bet I can.” He argued playfully.

The handmaidens smiled as they watched the king and princess play.

“Isn’t she just the sweetest little thing?” One asked.

“A dear, full of grace just like her mother.” The other said.

“Gotcha!” Tom scooped up Marinette and tickled her.

“No fair Papa!” She laughed.

“Oh my little Marinette.” He said hugging her. “You are my everything, I don’t know how I could live without you.”

“I love you Papa.”

“I love you too.”

“Papa, why must you go to that horrible war tomorrow?”

“I am the king I must lead my men into battle.”

“But I don’t want you to leave.”

“Now, now, I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He left the next morning. For six months he and his men fought a dreadful war and though it ended in victory for the kingdom it cost them a great sacrifice.

“Papa’s home.” Marinette cried happily running downstairs. She hurried to greet him at the castle doors only to find Lila and the royal staff gathered around in sorrow.

“What’s wrong?” She asked. “Where is Papa?”

“Oh Marinette.” The nurse said.

“Your father is dead child.” Lila said coldly. “He was killed on the battlefield.”

“But he said he would come back.” Tears filled her eyes. “He promised.”

The nurse hugged Marinette while she sobbed.

“There, there Marinette.” She said comfortingly. “Your father’s in heaven now with your mother. He’s very happy now and no one will hurt him ever again.”

Though her words were kind and true it did not stop the tears of the little heartbroken princess.

“Such a pity.” A guard said. “To lose both mother and father at a young age.”

“You’re all she has left my queen.” Another said to Lila. “No doubt you will take good care of our lovely princess.”

“Yes.” Lila said looking at the child. “She is lovely isn’t she? Captain.”

“Yes?”

“Have a room made in the servant’s quarters.”

“What for?”

“We’ll be getting a new scullery maid soon.”

And that sad day would soon mark the beginning of Marinette’s new life.