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ryan-world · 3 years

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I think they were afraid to come up to me. Afraid I might fall on them! I really did look like one of the balloons in the Thanksgiving Day parade! The morning went pretty well. I kept to myself and tried to hide in corners. It wasn’t easy to hide. But everyone left me alone. Until I stepped into Mr. Saur’s class. He was as sour as ever. And he embarrassed me in front of the whole class. “Greg, I don’t think you’ll fit into a chair,” he said, rolling his wooden pointer between his hands. “Why don’t you just stand by the window.” I didn’t say anything. I waddled over to the side of the room. The room fell silent. The other kids didn’t laugh. They could see that there was something seriously wrong with me. But Mr. Saur insisted on giving me a hard time. “Greg, forget the window,” he said. “If you stand there, I’m afraid you’ll block out all the sunlight.” Then he smiled. Again, no one laughed. I think the other kids felt sorry for me. Even Donny and Brian weren’t cracking jokes. “Greg, I want you to go see the nurse,” Mr. Saur ordered. “I want her to discuss the four food groups with you. I think you’ve been eating too much of all four!” I think that was supposed to be a cruel joke. But no one laughed. I turned my bulk around and stared at him. Was he serious? Was he really sending me to the nurse? “Get going,” he said, pointing to the door. I turned and shuffled heavily out of the classroom. I expected Donny to stick out his big foot and try to trip me, the way he always does. But he stared straight ahead, as silent and still as everyone else in the class. I was glad. If he tripped me, I knew I’d never be able to get up. I pulled myself down the hall, thinking angry thoughts about Mr. Saur. Why did he make fun of me in front of everyone? Why was he so cruel? I couldn’t answer my questions. Besides, I felt too angry to think clearly. I’ll pay him back some day. That’s what I told myself. I’ll do something mean to him. I’ll embarrass old Sourball in front of everyone. My angry thoughts followed me to the nurse’s office. But I instantly forgot them when I saw the girl huddled in the chair in the waiting room. I stopped outside the door and gaped at her in shock. Shari! It took me a few seconds to recognize her. Her jeans and T-shirt appeared to be about ten sizes too big! Her arms were as thin as toothpicks. Her face was pale and puckered. Her head had shrunk. It looked like a tiny lemon on her frail, noodlelike body. “Greg,” she whispered weakly. “Is that you in that big body?” “Shari!” I cried. “How much weight have you lost?” “I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “Look at me! I’m shrinking away. I’m so light. It took me hours to walk to school this morning because the wind kept pushing me back!” “Are you sick?” I cried. She frowned at me. “I’m not sick, and neither are you,” she replied in a tiny, frail voice. “I’m shrinking away, and you’re bloating up—and it’s because of those photos we took.” I sighed and lifted my huge stomach with both hands so that I could get through the doorway. “What are we going to do, Shari?” I whispered. “It’s those photos. You’re right. But what are we going to do?” 21 Dad picked me up after school. He had rented a van since I couldn’t fit into the car. Dad helped me squeeze through the door. My body took up the entire backseat. The seat belt wouldn’t stretch over my stomach. So we had to forget about it. “I’m sure Dr. Weiss will have you back to normal in no time,” Dad said. He was trying to be cheerful. But I could tell he was really upset and worried. He drove slowly to Dr. Weiss’ office across town. The van couldn’t pick up speed because of all the weight it carried—me! Dr. Weiss is a nice elderly man with bright blue eyes and a long mane of white hair. He talks to all the kids as if they’re two years old. He still gives me a lollipop after each visit, even though I’m twelve! But I didn’t think he’d give me a lollipop today. He tsk-tsked as I climbed on the scale. But he couldn’t get my weight. The scale didn’t go high enough! He had trouble listening to my heartbeat. His stethoscope got stuck in the folds of flab over my chest. He took all kinds of tests, his expression tense and thoughtful. “We’ll send the blood samples to the lab,” he told me. “We should have some answers in a few days.” He shook his head and frowned. His blue eyes appeared to fade. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Greg,” he said softly. “I’m completely stumped.” I wasn’t stumped. I knew exactly what the problem was. As soon as I got home, I lumbered to my room and grabbed the phone. It took all my strength to raise my huge, flabby arm and hold the receiver up to the bulging flesh of my face. I punched in Shari’s number. It took three tries. My finger was so fat, it kept hitting two numbers at once. She answered on the third ring. “Hello?” Her voice floated out so tiny and weak, I could barely hear her. “I’m coming over,” I announced. “And I’m bringing the camera.” “You don’t have to shout!” she squeaked. And then she added, “Hurry, Greg. I’ve lost five more pounds. I’m so light, I’m afraid I’m going to float away.” “I’ll be right there,” I told her. “We’ll figure out a way to save ourselves.” I hung up the phone. Then I carefully dug the camera out from its hiding place in my underwear drawer. I had to bend over to reach into the drawer. I was huffing and puffing, gasping for breath. If I get any fatter, I’ll explode, I thought unhappily. Carefully gripping the camera, I lowered my bulk down the stairs. “I’m going to Shari’s,” I called to my parents. They were in the den, discussing what Dr. Weiss had told Dad. “It started to rain,” Mom called. “Take an umbrella.” “I’m only going next door!” I shouted back. Besides, an umbrella wouldn’t cover all of me. I peeked outside. It was only drizzling. Not much of a rain at all. I tucked the camera under the folds of my arm, pulled open the front door, and started to step out. But I stopped when I saw the dark-haired boy walking up the driveway. Jon! “Oh, no!” I murmured. I knew why he had come. He wanted his camera back. But I couldn’t give it back. I needed it to save Shari and me. I watched him walking slowly, his head down because of the rain. What am I going to do? I asked myself. I can’t let him take back his camera. I can’t! I’ll duck back inside and hide, I decided. I tried to back up. Tried to back my heavy bulk into the house. Too late. Jon saw me. 22 He waved to me and started jogging toward the house. I had the camera in my hand. I carefully lowered it to the porch and stepped in front of it. I knew it would be hidden behind my enormous body. But what was I going to say to Jon? How could I convince him to let me keep the camera for a while longer? “Hi!” he called. “Hi,” I answered, my voice muffled by the thick folds of flab around my face. “I’m looking for a boy who lives around here,” Jon said, stepping up to the porch. “His name is Greg, and he’s blond, and he’s about my age. Do you know him? He has a camera of mine.” I stared at him. My mouth dropped open. I could feel my chins drop onto my chest. “What’s his name?” I choked out. “Greg,” Jon repeated. “I don’t know his last name. Does he live around here?” He doesn’t recognize me! I realized. I’m so hu ge, he doesn’t know that I’m me! “Uh… yeah. I think I know who you mean,” I told him. “There’s a kid named Greg who lives over there.” I pointed up the street. “Do you know which house?” Jon asked, turning to where I pointed. “It’s about four blocks that way,” I lied. “A big redbrick house. You can’t miss it. It’s the only brick house on the block.” “Hey, thanks,” Jon said. The rain started to come down harder. He turned quickly and jogged down the driveway. A close call, I thought. I felt bad about lying to Jon. But I had to lie. I couldn’t give him back the camera—ever. It was too dangerous. I watched him until he disappeared behind some hedges. Then, I reached my flabby hand down, picked up the camera, and bounced across the front yard to Shari’s house. Shari greeted me at her front door. I could see the shock in her eyes when she saw how huge I had become. I was shocked, too. I cried out in surprise. She was starting to look like a stick figure! As she led the way to her room, she kept tripping over the cuffs of her jeans, which sagged down over her feet. She had tied a knot in the belt around her tiny waist, an attempt to keep the jeans from falling off. “If I get any smaller, I’ll have to wear doll clothes!” she wailed. “Did your parents take you to a doctor?” I asked, huffing and puffing as I tried to drag my weight after her. “Of course,” she replied in her tiny, weak voice. “The doctor said to make me drink milk shakes five times a day!” “I wish my doctor said that.” I sighed. I lowered myself carefully onto her bed. I didn’t want the bed to collapse under me. But as soon as I sat down, I heard a crunching sound. The sound of wood splintering. And the bed crashed loudly to the floor. “Don’t worry about it,” Shari said softly. “I don’t have the strength to climb up to bed, anyway.” “If I get any bigger,” I moaned, “I won’t be able to get out of the house. I really won’t fit through the door.” She folded her hands in front of her. Her fingers were so skinny, they looked like bird claws. With her black hair hanging down from her tiny, round head, and her straight pole of a body, she looked more like a mop than a person! “What are we going to do?” she wailed. I patted the camera with a fat, spongy hand. “I brought this,” I said. “I thought maybe—” “What good will that stupid camera do?” Shari cried. “I wish I’d never seen it! Never! Never!” “I have an idea,” I told her. I flicked a fly off one of my chins. She hugged herself, wrapping her skinny arms around her toothpick body. “What kind of an idea?” “Let’s take new pictures of ourselves,” I said. “Maybe the new pictures will show us looking normal. Maybe the new pictures will change us back to the way we were before.” She raised her eyes to mine. I could see her thinking about it, thinking hard. “It’s kind of risky—isn’t it?” she said finally. “Do you have a better idea?” I asked. She thought hard again. Then she lowered her eyes to the camera. “Okay,” she agreed. “Let’s do it.” 23 I struggled to climb to my feet. But my arms and legs were barely strong enough to push up my huge body. Before I could move, Shari flew across the room. She grabbed the camera from my lap. “Oh!” she cried out as she nearly dropped it. “It feels so heavy!” “That’s because you’re so light,” I told her. I tried again to lift my bulk off the bed. And failed again. “Sit still,” Shari ordered. “I’ll take your picture first.” “Okay,” I agreed. “I hope the new photo shows me skinny.” I tried to cross my fingers. But they were too fat to cross! “Say cheese,” Shari said, aiming the camera at me. “Don’t be funny,” I snapped. “Just take the picture.” She stared through the viewfinder. Raised her finger over the shutter button. Then she lowered the camera with a sigh. “It—it’s too dangerous,” she stammered. “Shari—take my picture!” I insisted. “Look at us! We couldn’t be any worse off—could we?” She nodded in agreement. Then, with a sigh, she raised the camera to her eye again. It felt so heavy in her skinny arms, she had to hold it up with both hands. “Here goes,” she said softly. “I hope it shows you normal again, Greg.” She snapped the picture. The flash made me blink. A second later, the white square slid out from the front of the camera. She carried it over to the bed and dropped lightly down beside me. “Let’s see it!” I cried, eagerly grabbing for it. “Careful!” Shari warned. “If you fall over, you’ll crush me!” I gasped. She was right. Sitting next to me could be extremely dangerous. “Maybe you’d better stand up,” I suggested. She climbed to her feet, swaying because she wasn’t used to being so light. “It’s starting to develop,” she announced. She held the snapshot in front of me so we could both watch it. The yellow filled in first. I squinted to see if I could make out my face. Was it fat in the photo? Or back to normal? The yellow was too pale. I couldn’t see my face at all. Shari and I both were frozen there, staring at the small square. Not moving a muscle. Not blinking. Watching it darken. And suddenly, I could see myself. My huge blobby face. My round, balloon body. Still enormous. Still enormously fat. “Noooooooo!” I let out a long cry of horror. “Noooooooo! I want to be changed back!” Shari was shaking her tiny head sadly, still staring at the darkening photo. “What’s that on your face?” she cried. “Yuck!” I grabbed the snapshot from her and held it close. “Oh, no!” I groaned. “My skin—it’s all scaly. I look like an alligator or something!” Shari grabbed back the photo and studied it. “The scaly stuff is on your arms, too,” she said. “It looks like reptile skin or something.” And as she said that, I started to itch. I glanced down and saw red scales covering my arms. Itchy red patches. I started to scratch. But the scratching made the scales itch even more. My skin flaked off under my fingernails. “Oh, yuck!” I moaned. “It itches so bad!” I scratched my arms. Then I scratched my face. More dry skin peeled off as I scratched. Chunks of skin. Shari took a step back. She let the new photo fall to the carpet. “Oh, this is so horrible!” she declared. “You’re still huge—and now all your skin is cracking off!” “Ohh! My back itches so bad!” I wailed. “But I can’t reach it.” “I’m not going to scratch it for you!” Shari declared. “It—it’s too gross!” I pulled a chunk of scaly, red skin off the back of my hand. “Do you want me to take a new picture of you?” I asked Shari. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.” “No! No way!” she cried. She took another few steps back. “No new picture. It will only make things worse.” Her face twisted in disgust. She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Greg,” she choked out. “But you look so gross, I think I’m going to be sick.” I tried to scratch the back of my neck. But my arms were too fat. I couldn’t reach back there. I rubbed my forehead. A big chunk of skin dropped off and bounced on the carpet. “Let’s just rip up the photos!” Shari declared. “Huh?” I gaped at her. She bent to pick up the scaly new picture of me. “Let’s rip them all up,” she urged. “I’ll bet as soon as we rip them up, our bodies will return to normal.” I stopped my frantic scratchi ng for a moment. “Do you think so? Do you think that’s all we have to do?” “Maybe,” Shari replied. “It’s worth a try—don’t you think?” I pulled the first two photos from my pocket. The negative of Shari and the first fat photo of me. “I’ll rip these two up,” I said. “You tear that one. We’ll see what happens.” We both held the photos up. I started to tear mine—then stopped. “Maybe if we rip them up, we’ll disappear completely!” I exclaimed. Shari and I stared at each other. Our hands stayed in the air, ready to tear the snapshots to pieces. Should we do it? 24 “No!” Shari cried. “Don’t do it!” We both lowered the snapshots. “You’re right,” I said. My whole body was shaking. “It’s too dangerous.” “If we tear the photos to pieces, we might be torn to pieces, too,” Shari said. “Or we might disappear completely and never come back.” I shuddered. “Let’s not talk about what might happen to us,” I moaned. “Look at us. What could be worse?” “A lot of things,” Shari sighed. “We’ll think of something to save ourselves, Greg. We just have to think positive.” I stared at her. “What did you say?” “I said, think positive,” she repeated. Think positive. “Shari—you just gave me a really good idea!” I cried. * * * We carried the snapshots to Kramer’s, the photo store where my brother works. It wasn’t easy to walk there. I had to stop to catch my breath every few steps. And I had to scratch my scaly, peeling skin. And I had to hold on to Shari to keep the wind from blowing her away. The walk was only about eight blocks. But it took us more than an hour. When we finally stepped inside the store, my heart sank to my knees. I didn’t see Terry. “He’s in the developing lab,” Mr. Kramer told me. He kept staring at Shari and me. I guess we looked pretty weird. A stick figure and an elephant.

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handers-time · 7 years

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Day 3 - Judgement - Just One More

Title: Just One More

Author: eijentu

Prompt: Judgement

One more, Anders thought. Just one more. There was a song that went like that, wasn't there? Anders wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. Three days. Three days the Blind Auditions had been running now, and Anders had seen it all: the songbird nun in leather pants, the crooning Qunari with the eye-patch, the young guy who had been more hat than voice, in the end. And worse than that, Anders had heard it all now too: the soaring high notes, the clumsy rapping, the vocal gymnastics that, inevitably, fell as flat as the voices trying to produce them.

And there had been genuine talents too - the pub singer with the guitar, and, well, that nun had been rather good, actually; Isabela snapped her up with a smug grin for Team Bela - but after three days of it, Anders had had enough. It seemed as though every song ever penned in Thedas was jumbling about in his head. All the faces blurred together, all the voices melted into a single tuneless dirge. And now all Anders wanted was peace. A quiet room, a cup of tea, and his cat sprawled over his lap, purring her contentment while he read the music blogs online.

(A memory came back to him then, quick and unbidden, in that sly way memories do, of nights when he used to do just that; when music blogs were actual music papers that furled out over his legs - tangible in a way that things weren't anymore - and of strong warm hands kneading the soles of his feet. Karl used to do that quite often, Anders remembered: used to sit him down and rub his aching feet after hours of interviews and rehearsals and singing his heart out. Used to make him stop and just be for the first time all day.

"Look after your feet, they'll look after you," Karl had always said, laughing. Anders wasn't sure whether that was true, in the end.)

But now wasn't the time for that. In the years since he'd lost Karl, the raw grief of it had settled into something quieter, more muted; it was something Anders had learnt to live with, but it still came to the surface sometimes, and he really didn't want to risk his eyeliner just then. It was meant to be waterproof, of course, but Anders had heard that before. Waterproof meant nothing. He still remembered the paparazzi snaps after he'd sniffed that raw heirloom onion at a farmer's market in Lothering, face smeared with make-up as his eyes set to watering. Erratic Anders's breakdown over 'murdered vegetables', read the accompanying article. Some Kirkwall entertainment writer had outdone themselves there. Friends say the Grey Spaces singer, famous for his aggressive animal rights stance, has been a strict vegan for many years, but he has now taken things too far - by refusing to eat what he calls murdered vegetables. "Anders was in tears when he saw the onion," confided one long-time friend. Sources say the singer - who was fined 1,250 sovereigns for an anti-fur attack at Fereldan Fashion Week last Kingsway - bought the onion to "give it a decent burial".

Anders had, in fact, given the onion a decent burial in an eggplant bolognaise - but his trust in waterproof mascara had been shaken ever since.

All that aside, though, he just didn't have time. Not to stop and fix make-up, not to wallow in the warmth of times past. Three days. Three days of wobbly singing and forgotten lyrics and voices that stayed in tune until they didn't. Three days of achingly soft melodies and big, bold voices and sensitive arrangements that genuinely caught his attention. Three days, and Anders had almost a full team behind him now. But there was just one more space to fill. One more, he thought. Just one more.

Sadly, it wasn't to be the man on the stage before him now. Less sensitive arrangement, more bleach-blond Macklemore wannabe who thought that volume equalled goodness, that one. He'd belted out every note at the top of his voice, and even Merrill, who hadn't so much as flinched at the death metal grandfather (pure white dreadlocks and gravelly growl, that one) had twisted up her kind face in dismay at the din.

None of the other judges turned either, to Anders's complete lack of surprise. Merrill already had a full team, so she was out anyway - not that she'd been tempted, it seemed - but Isabela and Fenris shook their heads as well. Anders caught one last glimpse of the man's curiously noodlelike hair before the chairs swung back to their blind position.

'Shame,' said Isabela. 'He probably could have been a model, that one.'

Fenris grunted. 'Yes. If he'd had a different face, he probably could.'

Anders closed his eyes. He could hear the tap-tap of heels across the stage as the artist moved into position. A woman, then, or likely, at least. Anders didn't like to assume. One more, he thought. One more.

And then: a sweet, clear, pure sound. A little bit breathless around the edges: probably nerves, Anders thought, but it sort of worked for the voice too, gave it the kind of vulnerability that made you listen, drew you in.

His hand twitched towards the buzzer. The voice went on sweetly, staying mercifully in tune. Not much training, he'd say if he had to guess: she needed more control in places, but the right elements were there. He could work with this. If the artist would listen to him, he could work with this...

Merrill's chair creaked beside him. He opened his eyes and looked across: she was kneeling up in her seat to watch the singer, chin resting on her hands like a child. She was smiling hugely, and when she saw him looking, she flicked her eyes towards the stage, still smiling, and nodded enthusiastically.

'Kitten, how could you fraternise with the enemy?' Isabela laughed. Her strong, heavily-ringed hand came down on her buzzer, turning her chair, and that was enough to galvanise Anders as well; he pressed his own buzzer a split-second later and found himself staring at indisputable talent show gold: a pretty young woman with dark hair and eyes, cheeks pink with excitement as she brought her song to a close.

There was a moment of quiet as the remaining two judges - Merrill, with her full team and Fenris, with his complete lack of taste - turned their chairs to be part of the action.

'What's your name, sweet thing?' Isabela called in a velvety voice. Anders rolled his eyes. Isabela might be reigning queen, her artist having won last season, but Anders was having none of it; she wasn't going to steal this one away from him too.

Unfortunately, the girl looked rather awed at having Isabela address her. 'My name is Bethany Hawke,' she said, and there it was in her voice too, that slight natural breathiness. Isabela just about licked her chops. 'I'm 19 and I'm from Lothering, Ferelden.'

Isabela nodded. She leaned back in her chair and considered the girl a moment. Then, 'Well, you're very good, and I want you,' she said. Anders groaned. Bethany went a sudden blotchy red. 'Would that be alright, do you think? Could I have you?'

Bethany said, in a strangled sort of voice, 'Erm...'

'Er, just a moment!' Anders cut in. 'Don't let her fool you, sweetheart,' he said to Bethany. She did, at least, look pleased to be addressed by him as well, if less awed than she had been by Isabela. Anders went on, warming up his pitch. 'She's a cutthroat underneath all that, you know. A real pirate.'

A wave of laughter went through the arena. Quite a bit of it came from Isabela herself. Anders said, 'Listen, you've got a beautiful, vulnerable sort of quality to your voice,' and then Bethany looked at him, really looked at him, and he thought, I've still got a chance here. 'You've got a storyteller voice, a voice that draws people in, and that's exactly the kind of voice that interests me. I can help you develop that in your singing, help you connect with people through your music.'

'Bethany, I will teach you to connect like nobody else,' Isabela countered, and Bethany laughed, nervously. 'Total connection, I promise you that. I am available for my artists all hours, day or night.'

Isabela winked. Bethany reached up to play with her hair.

Damn it, Anders thought. It was all over, but he could have one last dig, at least. 'Bethany, can you trust a woman whose boots have caused more international incidents than Antivan diplomacy?' he said, his voice conspiratorially low.

Isabela laughed at that too. That was probably one of the reasons, Anders thought, he liked her so much. 'Oh, sweetheart. Can you trust a man who once posed naked for PETA with only a few strategically placed...roosters? Do we have a picture of that? Can someone find that?'

Anders said, 'That was for a bloody good cause and I'd do it again tomorrow,' but he was laughing now too and putting up his hands in defeat. The audience broke out into laughter and chatter; producers were moving about, directing cameras to move in for Bethany's close-ups and to nab family reaction shots, just out of sight at the edge of the stage. In a moment Bethany would accept Isabela's offer and then they'd all take a break while the crew set up for the next artist.

Perhaps the next one would be right. One more, Anders thought. One more.

And then, while Isabela was still calling for someone to find the poster to put up on the big screen, and Anders was still defending his roosters, Bethany said, quite suddenly, 'Oh, I know that one!' All eyes swivelled back towards her, but she was focused on Anders now, her pretty face lit up. Maybe I haven't lost this after all, he thought. Then, 'My brother has that poster; he used to kiss it every night before bed.'

The arena erupted. Anders could barely hear above the noise of the audience, screaming and laughter and hooting all blended into a glorious, deafening cacophony. Fenris was speaking, but his words were lost in the din. Merrill smiled, leaning up to shout in the ear of Isabela, who looked like her nameday and Satinalia had come all at once.

Anders couldn't hold back his smile either, try as he might. It was such a sweet, genuine sort of thing to say; exactly the kind of thing that someone like Bethany - and he didn't know her, but he felt he did somehow; he'd got a sense of her from the way she sang her song - would say. There was something lovely about it, though, the image of some young man kissing his poster faithfully night after night. It made Anders's heart flip over in a way...in a way that it hadn't for a while. Staggeringly touching, when he thought about it, the intimate, heartfelt ritual of it; and Bethany had been willing to share her brother's secret, not to flatter or embarrass anyone, but just to connect.

Anders tried not to think too hard about it. Waterproof counted for nothing, after all.

Embarrassment, however, was probably unavoidable for the brother, Anders thought. And evidently the producers had the same idea, because seconds later a trio appeared on the big screen: Bethany's family, waiting just out of sight off-stage. There was an older woman, presumably her mother, and two men who might be brothers. One was laughing, wiping his eyes from the effort of it, and the other...Anders swallowed. It was ridiculous, because he hadn't even had time to formulate what he might have expected, but this man, somehow, wasn't it: he was tall and beefy, with lines around his eyes and a nicely shaped beard. Anders's heart flipped over again, and then again.

The brother had, at that moment, the look of a nug caught in the headlights of a monster truck; red was creeping up his neck, into his ears, his cheeks. He was going to cover his face or walk away from the camera any minute, Anders realised, and he ignored the way his heart sank because that was just silly. He didn't know this brother. It was something the poor man had probably forgotten long ago. And so Anders ignored his lurching heart and started to think instead of something to say, some suitable quip to save face all round.

Then the brother smiled. It was a small smile, at first, uncertain - it made him look like his sister when Anders had first turned his chair - but then it bloomed across his face, bright and true. The lines around his eyes crinkled. The nicely shaped beard revealed a row of white teeth. He grinned into the camera and waved - almost casually, as though he couldn't be more at ease; but his face was fully red, brow shiny with perspiration, and it was the most charming thing Anders had seen in a very long time.

---------------------------------------------------

But peace did come for Anders, eventually. It came later, long after Isabela had clasped pretty young Bethany Hawke to her bosom - literally, in fact - and disappeared off-stage to bewitch her family as well. Anders caught one last glimpse of the brother as Isabela leaned in close to say something, then the big screen changed and they were lost. The show went on, the final buzzer sounded. The audience made their way out of the arena, filtering slowly to the car parks and streets beyond. The crew packed up the set, the dailies went to post-production. Anders went to his dressing room and asked a runner to bring him some tea. That, it seemed, had been that.

Just as well, Anders thought. Might've been messy.

His feet ached. He brought one of them up into his lap to rub at it, but it wasn't the same as when Karl used to do it, somehow; he gave up on it, let the foot fall again. It was eerily quiet in his dressing room, despite the whirl of activity he knew was still going on outside. His phone lit up, some message or reminder flashing across the screen, but he left it for now. This was his moment: the moment he'd been waiting for all day. To sit quietly and enjoy his tea: enjoy the absence of producers squawking in his ear or Fenris snarling in the other one or crestfallen looks from those who hadn't made the grade.

In theory, Anders loved the premise of the show: to judge artists based purely on their voices, without any other bullshit getting in the way. It was the kind of chance he would have given his soul for when he was a young queer artist, just starting out: a six-foot-two beanpole with eye shadow and a feather boa. Everyone told him he would never make it, that he needed to play by their rules, fit their moulds first; and if he did that, then one day, once he was famous enough, once he was respected enough...one day, perhaps he could actually be himself.

Anders had told them to fuck themselves; he'd carved out his career with his own nail-polished fingers, and now it was Dragon 42 and nobody blinked if a man wore eyeliner at the Grammys. That didn't mean there wasn't still a long way to go. Discrimination still ran rampant. Kids still got told they would never make it because they were too fat or too dark or too gay. It made Anders's blood boil. And so Thedas Voice might be just another cheap reality show in a sea of cheap television, but Anders believed in that part of it, at least; talent before image, opening doors to diversity.

He would drown the industry in blood to keep that dream safe.

And so the last thing he needed was a distraction, he thought. He looked around his dressing room, with his cooling cup of tea and flashing phone and his cold aching feet bare against the carpet, and he thought, Good. Quiet, simple. Exactly what I want.Because the last thing he needed was a tall, good-looking man with a nice beard and crinkly eyes having some sort of thing for him...

Anders bit down on that train of thought. Stuffed his feet back into his socks with more force than necessary.

Then: knock, knock.

Perhaps it was another runner, one who could bring him a nice hot refill of tea.

'Come in!' Anders called out. And then, a few seconds later, when the familiar owner of a nice beard stood in the doorway, he managed to say, 'Oh, it's you!'

'Um,' said the brother. He looked away down the hall, and then back at Anders. The little line deepened between his brows. 'It's me, yes. Yes. You're...not the toilet, though.'

And at that, Anders had to laugh, out loud, in fact, because it was either that or cry. Waterproof counted for nothing. He said, 'How sweet of you to say so. Not everyone shares your opinion, I'm afraid.'

The brother closed his eyes briefly. Then, 'Well. That probably wasn't the kind of first impression I was hoping to make. Perhaps I could go out and start again?'

Anders grinned. This really was too easy. 'Your sister made your first impression for you much earlier in the evening, I'm afraid,' he said, and watched as the man froze.

'Or perhaps I could go crawl under a mountain. Yes, that sounds like a much better idea.'

Oh, he's funny, Anders thought suddenly. For even as he watched the flush creeping up the man's neck, across his cheeks, he could see his twitching mouth. There was a twinkle in his eyes that hadn't been visible on the big screen.

He's got a nice voice as well, Anders thought.

'How about you come in and tell me your name instead?' Anders said out loud, and ignored the way his heart skipped at the naked joy on the other man's face.

'That's a very easy thing to say yes to,' the brother replied. As he came in, he made a quick gesture with the door, as it to say, open or closed?; there was something so endearing about that, so wonderfully unassuming, that Anders just stared at him for a moment before he gestured back, closed, and motioned at the other seat in the room.

The brother dragged it over and sat down. He smoothed his palms against his T-shirt - wiped them, more likely, Anders thought, but who cared? - and said, 'It's Hawke, by the way. Garrett, really.'

Anders said, 'I thought you were trying to tell me you were Hawke Hawke for a moment there. I was going to have to have a word with your parents.'

Garrett laughed at that. It was a light, easy sort of laugh, that matched his nice voice. Anders didn't mean to notice that. 'Not sure that's actually worse than Garrett, to be honest,' Garrett was saying. 'Bethany's alright, I suppose. My brother landed with Carver, though, so he's the worst off.'

Garrett's eyes twinkled. There was a funny, bubbly sort of feeling trying to work its way out of Anders's chest. He said, as casually as he could, 'I guess I should be glad hewasn't kissing my poster each night. He might've come in looking for the toilet with a chainsaw.'

Well, now the elephant in the room was well and truly awake. Anders expected Garrett to go red at that; to bluster and shut down, maybe edge back towards the door, but instead the man just nodded, a wry look on his face. 'Yes. For that and many other reasons, you should be glad it wasn't him, honestly.'

Garrett's eyes were still twinkling. Bloody hell, Anders thought.

Somehow, without meaning to, Anders found himself saying, 'Did you really do that?' His cheeks were starting to feel warm. 'Kiss the poster every night?'

'Yes. Bethany is appallingly honest, I'm afraid. I warn you now.'

Anders tucked a piece of hair back behind his ear. 'But you don't still do it?' he said lightly.

And that was a mistake, he realised immediately, because Garrett was shaking his head firmly no. 'I don't still do it.'

Oh. Oh.

At that, the small, hopeful feeling in Anders's chest flickered out, and it was silly, he knew he was being silly, but he felt...let down. His phone flashed again: he reached across and picked it up, scrolled through his notifications, and so he sounded completely unaffected - like he always did - when he said, 'Well, I don't look like that anymore, of course. Not a spring chicken anymore.'

It was his favourite joke to make about the rooster poster; somehow, this time, he didn't feel like laughing at it.

But, 'You're still super hot without the roosters, trust me,' Garrett said. Anders nearly dropped his phone. When he looked back at Garrett, the man shrugged. 'I mean, that's not why I stopped kissing the poster. Obviously.'

'Obviously,' Anders echoed.

'Just that I realised maybe it wasn't very respectful,' and for the first time, Garrett looked a bit sheepish. He stared down at his large hands; there were guitar calluses on his fingers, Anders noticed for the first time. 'But it wasn't just that.'

'Good,' said Anders, 'Because I don't mind about that at all. It's an authorised poster. What was it, then?'

Garrett smiled softly. He was still looking down at his hands, and he was going red again, but when he spoke, his voice was steady, certain. 'Because I realised I wanted to thank you every night instead.'

Anders's breath caught somewhere in his chest. 'For what?' he said.

'For being brave,' and now Garrett did look at him. He was grinning massively. Anders's heart gave another skip. 'For being out. For being who you are and telling me, when I was 17 that it was OK to be me as well. I used to play my dad's old Strat and dream of being a musician and I never thought it could happen.' Garrett made a vague sort of gesture with his hand. 'Because I could be that or I could be this. But I couldn't be both.' He shook his head. 'Then you came along. Not that much older than me. You were beautiful and insanely talented,' and here Garrett gulped, but he went on anyway, 'and you still are. So, thank you.'

It was difficult, Anders thought, to know what to say to that. He had a feeling he might be staring, though, because Garrett grinned, and looked away again, and laughed, and ran a hand through his hair.

It wasn't as though Anders hadn't heard that before; he was a rock star, he was a living legend; hell, even the trailer for Thedas Voice blew more wind up his arse than Garrett just had. But somehow...somehow...

Anders swallowed. 'But you're a musician now,' he said. Garrett nodded. 'Why didn't you audition, then? I could have you for Team Anders!'

'You've actually got a full team now,' Garrett reminded him dryly, 'but I'm not a singer; I stuck with the guitar. I'm a session musician now. Working to get my break. It's good. I love it.'

An idea began to take seed in Anders mind. He began to smile - he couldn't stop - and Garrett smiled back, though he didn't know about Anders's idea yet.

'How many of my songs do you know lead guitar for?' Anders said.

Garrett gave another little shrug. 'Hard to say. Is 'a lot' a number?'

Anders picked up his phone again. 'It's a very good number,' he said. He opened up a new contact page and passed it over to Garrett, who looked down at the phone and then back up, his eyes wide. 'Perhaps you could give me another good number. One I could call you on about a band audition? My band, just to be clear.'

Garrett looked back down at the phone. Anders could see the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the pink of his tongue as he licked his lips. Wordlessly, he entered his information and handed the thing back to Anders.

And then, 'Just about rehearsals? Or about other things as well.'

Anders raised his eyebrows. It probably would have looked convincing if he wasn't still smiling uncontrollably. 'Other things?'

Garrett was smiling uncontrollably too. So it was probably alright. 'Other things,' he said. 'Like coffee. And...roosters.'

~the end.

How did I do? Rate me!

If you’re not sure how to quantify your thoughts, try this handy rubrick: 1) How well did this fic fit the prompt? 2) How original was this fic? 3) How much did you enjoy this fic?

Leave your vote for Day 3: Judgment here!

#eijentu #2017 handers olympics #modern au #hawke/anders #contest fic #submission #dragon age 2

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soniclozdplove · 7 years

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A Timeless Meeting

This is mainly what happened when I stayed up too late. To be fair however, I had felt it was very odd that Mickey wasn’t around in the Timeless River level of Kingdom Hearts II. They could spare the budget to add Pete’s original design into the level but not Mickey? So I decided to have Sora sneaking back into the Timeless River and meeting Mickey… and added Oswald because Ozzy is awesome!!!

“I gotta hurry before the guys realize I’m gone…” the teenage Keyblader muttered to himself as he slipped through the door, the familiar feeling of his body magically adjusting it’s properties to better fit in other worlds washing over him. The first time Sora had felt such a thing had been when he first visited Atlantica… the shock of appearing in the world and slight pain as his body’s anatomy changed had been overwhelming at first to thepoint of him driving himself into the wall his first attempt to swim.

Now however, he was used to such a change, and he was most certainly not changing into a fish! No what happened first is his color faded, until his pallete consisted of various shades of black and white. Then his limbs stretched, becoming a more noodlelike, and if he had a mirror he would of noticed his eyes becoming larger while his nose shrank and mouth lost its detail. Sora was becoming a toon, one that would fit in nicely in the monochromatic world of the Timeless River.

After their battle against the Heartless whom had somehow managed to penetrate Disney Castle, he and his friends had decided to rest at the Castle for a time. He himself was exhausted after the battle while Donald and Goofy wished to visit their family and ensure they remained safe and sound.

After speaking to Queen Minnie about the strange world they had to travel to in oder to save the Cornerstone of Light, it became clear that what made it so special wasn’t because it was another world, but rather a version of Disney Castle’s world that took place in the distant past… before royalty, Keyblades, or the war againt Heartless and Nobodies had anything to do with the denizens of his traveling companions’ home.

Obviously he was going to be curious about what his friends’ lives were like back when their world was still too innocent to fight any wars, so when the castle was asleep he chose to sneak out so he might visit the Timeless River and explore a bit. So long as he was careful, he shouldn’t affect the timeline too badly and a little curiosity never hurt anyone!

And so that was why he now stood, blinking into the gray sunlight as he watched various toons go about their day. With a small wave to Clarabelle, he trotted off to see what there was to see. On the way he’d have strange looks pointed his way, many still remembered him from when the mysterious appearance of the older, more cruel Pete occurred and how he beat the, assumed, imposter back with the help of the ‘real’ Pete.

Opting to ignore the stares, he chose instead to explore the town. It looked as though many were preparing for a festival of sorts, though now that he was paying attention to the town and not the Heartless he was noticing that the place seemed a lot more chaotic than before… and violent, if the raging curses of various toons were to be believed.

Dodging past an angry mob that seemed determined to chase after a mismatching figure he couldn’t get a decent look at he, he stared in awe at the how casually people would lose their temper around here. This was where the King, Donald and Goofy grew up!? With Donald’s temper he might understand… but Goofy is one of the most calm minded individuals he’d ever met! And the King, what few times he’d been able to speak to him, had always seem so serious and levelheaded!

Unknown to him, the figure, or rather figures, the mob was chasing had given the ol’ run around and decided to lead them back where they came from. Which the only path to was incidentally being blocked by Sora.

“HEY FELLA! WATCH OUT WILL YA!?” The eldest of the figures, a rabbit with a scowl upon his face, called out as he carried his younger, and more danger prone, brother up on his shoulders.

“Wha-?” Sora was unfortunate, or perhaps fortunate depending on your few, enough not to react in time and found himself being stomped upon by said rabbit who, incidentally, lost his hold upon said younger brother as he ran past. Leaving his poor sibling to blink at his dust trail as the mob continued their chase, trampling poor Sora in the process.

POV CHANGE

A certain mouse was forced to stand in slight confusion as his brother left him and the mob, too busy bein’ a mob to notice that one of the targets of their ire was left behind, rushed past. The confusion however, did not last for he was a clever mouse, one as small and curious as he had to be, especially with his unfortunate penchant for causing trouble. There was a new guy getting up from being trampled next to him, someone he’d never seen before!

But this fella looked really different, just like that weirdo Yen Sid that kept on staring at him for some reason. He had a theory that the old man was from another world or something, so did that mean this new guy was from another world too? He must have been terrible at blending in though, because if he weren’t he’d of just dodged the mob and kept walking. So naturally, the mouse had to correct him on his mistake!

“Y'know… most other toons woulda just kept walkin’… or joined in the mob.” He stated, casual as could be about the idea of an angry mob chasing him, and why not? It happens almost every day!

“Uh, well I don’t see how I could! It’s not every day you get trampled by a- wait… the King?” The guy did a turnabout, looking ridiculous with his eyes all bugged out. Did he only just notice he was there?

“King? What are ya talkin’ about. There ain’t no king! At least, not yet… maybe when they finish that castle.” Now he was really curious, and confused. What was this yahoo going on about kings for? Everyone knew the king of the castle was gonna be picked when there was a castle! He must of been hit in the head a little too hard when Ozzy jumped on him.

“Uh right… sorry. Um, I’m Sora! And you are?” The guy quickly corrected himself, as if the mouse hadn’t already noticed the slip of the tongue. Said mouse was tempted to raise his brow, but if the guy wanted to pretend it never happened who was he to stop him.

“Nice ta meetcha Sora! Everyone jus’ calls me Mickey Mouse! ” He grinned brightly, signature laugh and pose at the ready.

#kingdom hearts 2 #mickey mouse #king mickey #sora #timeless river #oswald the lucky rabbit #whoo fix it #not really #it's somewhat incomplete #fanfic #my fics

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jodybouchard9 · 7 years

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How to Clean a Shag Rug: Tips From Carpet Gurus

RichLegg/iStock

One of my first grown-up purchases was a real Moroccan Boucherouite rug. It’s colorful and shaggy and I love it, even though every time I vacuum it (which, given the amount of crumbs in my house, is very often) I feel like maybe I’m not getting it fully clean.

When dirt gets into a shag rug, normal foot traffic grinds the dirt against the fibers and damages the rug. The longer the dirt stays in the rug, the deeper it gets ground in, doing more damage over time.

After investing in a one-of-a-kind shag rug, keeping it in tiptop shape is a priority, so I turned to the experts to find out how to clean a shag rug.

How to clean a shag rug: The traditional method

My first stop was the blog on Anou, a website that allows Moroccan artisan collectives to sell their wares directly to consumers; it’s also the place I bought my rug. The blog’s advice, from the people who have been making and using these rugs for centuries, was to take the rug outside, shake it, rinse it off in the river, then set it over a shrub to dry. Unfortunately, my backyard is short on rivers and shrubs. But the blog’s Plan B for city dwellers is to shake the rug out at least once a week, vacuum with a canister vacuum in between, and get it professionally washed every few years.

A traditional Boucherouite rug

Anou

The importance and challenges of deep-cleaning shag

For more details, I spoke with Lisa Wagner, aka Rug Chick, a certified rug specialist.

“Shag is one of the toughest rugs out there to clean and maintain,” she says. “Those of us who remember shag carpeting installed in homes in the 1970s also can remember why it quickly fell out of favor.”

Shag is beautiful and fun, she says, but nearly impossible to always keep clean.

“At our rug-cleaning facility we often charge more to clean shag rugs per square foot than we do to clean much more valuable silk rugs,” Wagner explains. “That’s because there is a lot of additional handwork needed to try to clean what gets embedded in the fibers of these rugs.”

According to Wagner, the way you clean your shag rug depends on what material your rug is made of.

Wool

Wool shag rugs come in a variety of styles, from sheepskin-looking flokati rugs to big, thick noodlelike fibers to silky soft shag. One thing to notice is how well the fibers are attached to the backing. If they’re easy to pull out, you’ll have to be extra-gentle. Some rugs can be cleaned with a canister vacuum or an upholstery attachment. Try it on a small area to make sure it doesn’t pull the fibers out, and then go row by row, cleaning down to the backing as best you can.

Wagner also recommends giving your shag a regular beating. Take the rug outside, flip it upside down, and flex the rug up and down to let the dirt fall out. After that, a wet-dry vac or even a leaf blower can help remove the bits of things from the strands. Small rugs can be fluffed in the dryer with no heat. Flokati rugs can be combed with a wide-toothed dog brush to keep them looking fluffy and clean.

Ultimately, though, you’re going to have to have your shag rug professionally washed. It’s just too heavy and thick for most people to clean on their own. You’ll want to take it to the cleaner every 18 to 24 months, or up to 30 months if you are vigilant about dirt removal. As you probably expect, it’s going to be expensive.

“If the cleaning price is more than the price of the rug,” she says, “you might just plan to buy a new one every two or so years.”

Acrylic

Cheaper shag rugs are probably going to be made of acrylic, but be careful—these are a huge fire danger. Wagner has seen two instances of acrylic shag rugs igniting and quickly going up in flames.

“I would not even allow one into my home,” she says. The downsides of a wool rug (expensive to maintain) versus an acrylic rug (highly flammable) don’t even compare. If you do have an acrylic rug, do yourself a favor and replace it.

Viscose, nylon, and polyester

These synthetic fibers can be treated the same way as wool, as long as you are careful about not pulling them out. Vacuum the rug with a canister vacuum or upholstery attachment, and shake it out as often as possible. The good news about this kind of rug is that it can be steam-cleaned, so the cost to have it professionally washed will not be as high.

Leather strips

Leather rugs are very hard to clean and—truthfully—not practical for anyone with kids or pets. The cotton backing absorbs spills and is very hard to clean, and the leather loses its perkiness with wear. To clean yours, Wagner says, you can try leather cleaner at home, but a professional wash is probably your best bet.

Ultimately, a shag rug is a pretty expensive decoration to have on your floor. If you’re not willing to dedicate the time and money to properly cleaning your rug (or replacing it every few years), it’s probably in your best interest to wait out this trend.

The post How to Clean a Shag Rug: Tips From Carpet Gurus appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

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